Happy Birthoween, Craven

Don't hate just because your nails ain't healthy!

Sooo, with some shame, I now publicly acknowledge that I have returned to Leona's after three weeks of having "quit." I figure, I have six weeks until I go home for Christmas break. That's fourteen shifts of servitude (including yesterday and the day before), with projected total earnings of $1000. Is it worth prostituting fourteen Friday and Saturday nights for $1000? I say yes. Also, I felt guilty because I kinda didn't tell anyone I was quitting before and they kept scheduling me and everybody was really mad at me. But I informed my beloved boss Jay that I will NOT be coming back after I return to Chicago in January, and he took the news stonefacedly. And so, in six weeks I will be FREE! FREE! FREE! to pursue my apparent future path of wan, pasty office worker.

Of course, last night was like showcase night for everything I hate about Leona's. First, only five servers showed up, because one had gotten sick and another had gotten fired for bringing out a beer to a table without punching it into the computer first (No, I am not joking.). We were perpetually waiting for the kitchen to get us bread and salads, and right before I got in, an evil and rambunctious party had sat in my section, so I didn't have to serve them at least, but getting to any of my tables was like hopscotching through an obstacle course. When I arrived a coworker who had been there for a few hours pronounced it Two Dollar Tip Night, and I totally didn't believe her, but oh, was I ever wrong. My tips averaged to 10% for providing what I considered a satisfactory, if not overly enthusiastic, dining experience.

The only amusing part of the night was when Bev, the aforementioned coworker, had a table that completely flipped out because they felt their food had taken too long. Bev is a great server, but, as she ranted to me afterwards, she gets very touchy and defensive when she feels her "work" is being criticized (except she said this with a lot more obscenities.). Apparently the table wasn't even upset with her, at least until they overheard her calling them "fat bitches" and "tip whores" to the manager. Oops! They got their meal free.

Then another coworker, Melissa, came in totally decked out in a Wonder Woman costume, and invited everyone to her birthday party at Jimmy's Woodlawn Tap. "I know you don't drink, Danielle," she said, "but please, please, please stop by." I said I'd think about it. THEN, another coworker, Meaghan, came in with a friend of hers named, er, Josh?, and sat down to have some drinks at the bar. Later on, she cornered me.

Meaghan: You're going to the party, right? Because I'm going and so is [Josh]. Don't you think [Josh] is cute?
Me: Are you trying to set me up with your friend [Josh]?
Meaghan: Yeah, pretty much. Not gonna lie. So, are you coming?
Me: Eh. I'll think about it.
Meaghan: Well, just so you know, I'm very very protective of him and I've never, ever tried to set him up with ANYONE before because I don't think ANYONE is good enough for him but I think you are and he's an engineer and makes a ton of money and he's my best friend in the world so are you coming?
Me: Hmm. I'll think about it.

In the end, I coerced Chris the Bartender and another coworker, Mariella, into accompanying me to this party at Jimmy's Woodlawn Tap. But first we stopped at Walgreens so that Chris could buy a sandwich and I could buy four-dollar cat ears, because nothing lures in the men like a little feline finery, rrrrowl! This party turned out to be about what you would expect of a party held at Jimmy's Woodlawn Tap. First of all, Meaghan and her friend had already left. Second of all, we were surrounded by scantily clad white girls who had drank just enough to convince themselves that they were sexy go-go dancers and that Jimmy's was the Funky Buddha Lounge. It's only the second time I'd been there, so I don't know if that's a common occurence, but it was hilarious.

ON THE OTHER HAND, and this was my favorite part of the night, I got to witness this exchange between Chris the Bartender and Drunk Carlos, yet another Leona's coworker.

CtB: Dude. You put fucking nail polish on your nails.
DC: I did not! Shut the fuck up!
CtB: Yes you did, I can see it!
DC: I did not put nail polish on my fucking nails!
CtB: ...
DC: ...And if I DID, it's CLEAR POLISH, and that's okay for men!

Whoaaa. This here's a long post. Well, perhaps long-winded recaps are the only things that will keep me from one day beating a customer over the head with a bread board, so get used to it.

In Other News

So, I am yet again the victim of bicycle theft. I blame myself for having a cable lock, but not as much as I blame the fucker who left the front door of my apartment building open all night so that somebody could walk right in, enter the basement, clip the lock, and wheel the bike right out. FUCK. Tonight I am going to put up an ANGRY SIGN written in ALL CAPS with a RED SHARPIE and lots of EXCLAMATION POINTS, DEMANDING that the door be kept closed, OR ELSE.

But, of course, most of all, I blame the punk(s) who actually stole the bike. Assholes. All day Friday I fantasized about seeing some kid wheeling my bike around, marching up to him, and pointing out my name written in black marker in some secret spot on the bike's underside, proving that it was mine. Then I'd punch him in his fucking face. This will never happen, as it was a very generic Target bike and I didn't actually write my name on it, but still, it was cathartic to dream.

Randomly, right after I discovered my bike was stolen and was preparing myself for the twelve-block hike to Walgreens, my old friend Scary Eric came up behind me and offered me a ride. Even though we live in the same building, it was the first time I'd seen him since my cat ran into his apartment four months ago. Apparently he's leaving for Iraq in January. Scary. Scary, scary Eric. He also called me neurotic. Surprisingly, I think it was the first time anyone has ever called me that.

I'm currently reading this thread on Ask Metafilter and I'm scurred as fucc. I just called my sister to read her some of the stories, and also because I'm alone in my apartment and I'm sure I'm surrounded by ghosts and needed to hear a friendly voice. She told me that her boyfriend's uncle (I know, I know) told her that when he lived alone, he'd hear these "click click, click-click click" sounds under his bed while he was falling asleep, but when he'd look, nothing was there. So one time, when the clicks started, he said aloud, "Click click" and the thing answered "click click," and then he said, "Click click click," and the thing repeated it and this went on for awhile. Apparently. Also, he lived next to a graveyard.

WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?? At least my cat is sleeping beside me peacefully. If he starts acting strange then I'll really start to worry. They say that animals can sense evil, you know.

I Will Pounce on You

The current roster for the SAN FRANCISCO BOARD-GAME-ATHON December 2005, and also a list of the people who will be staying in BurcuandCarlos's one-bedroom apartment:

1. Burcu
2. Carlos
3. Me
4. Kirsten
5. Burcu's sister
6. Carlos's best friend
7. Carlos's sister
8. Carlos's sister's best friend

Anyone remember the book Millions of Cats? Who do you think will be the last surviving kitten? I think Carlos.

(Registration is still open, so act now while we still have t-shirts!)

More importantly, a big birthday shoutout to my girl from the hood, Loreal. When I first met our heroine, she was fourteen, with bleached blond hair, knee socks, and attitude. Aside from the knee socks, not much has changed in eight years. Loreal, in the wise words of Miss Jessica Simpson: "No, 23 is old. It's almost 25, and, like, that's almost mid-twenties!"

The 9 AM start time at my library job finds me wearing all manner of fashion mistakes to work, usually the pajama pants I wore the night before with whatever shirt is sort of warm and sort of matching.

But today I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and reader, I have hit a new low. I look like I'm wearing a space suit. Made out of fleece.

Yesterday, as I was rambling around the nighttime Loop (a new favorite pastime), a tearful heavyset black man with binocular glasses and a wooden cross necklace approached me and launched into a garbled mess of a story about how he'd just had open-heart surgery and he was a deacon and he had to get bus fare to Indiana and how he had already tried to sell his clothes and was sweating and didn't mean to cry but couldn't I please help him. I've heard variations on that story so many times. It's pretty ingenious, because it's geared specifically towards getting money rather than food. I hate it. Each time, you must choose: are you a sucker, or are you an asshole? Yesterday, I chose sucker. I gave him $5.

I remember the first time I heard that story. A woman approached Burcu and me at the Red Line stop and asked if we could please help her out with bus fare, because she had to get home to her kids and she was hungry and so on and so forth, and I totally fell for it but Burcu didn't, and I gave her $2, for bus fare and a transfer. She thanked me and walked away, and then I saw her approach some other people on the next block, even though presumably I'd just given her all the money she needed to get home. How simple it makes life when one goal becomes so compelling that moral obstacles vanish in the pursuit of it.

Whoa! 2.0

Following up on this post, here are more examples of the rough lives of former Blossom cast members.

Jenna von Oy

Mayim Bialik...oh man

Cat Post

After three years, I still can't believe that my cat likes me. I'm always amazed when he runs to the door as soon as he hears my keys jangle, that he follows me down the hall when I go to the kitchen, that he bats at my doorknob when I've gone into my room without him. I wish I could get inside his head. I couldn't call it "love" exactly, but how do cats feel affection? Fondness? Is it just safety? Instinctual attempts to preserve his meal ticket? I hope not. When we're in California and he's outside and it's nighttime and I call his name, he'll come out from wherever he is and run to me, his collar-bell jingling. Last winter I would sit in the sunroom and write in my journal every morning and he'd always curl up in my lap while I did. Today I was lying on the couch watching TV and he jumped onto my stomach and fell asleep. We figured out how to work the heat in the apartment, so he couldn't have just been looking for a warm body, right? Maybe he really does like me. I still can't believe it. How amazing, that he actually likes me, and I like him.

While on the subject of creating new words (and regionalisms (thanks Whet!), and so forth - who the fuck calls a grocery bag a poke???), I'd like to reveal that earlier this afternoon I encountered a witty comeback of some sort, and instead of thinking "Zing!" or "Burn!" or "Oh, snap!" the word that popped into my head was "Zoom!"

Zoom!

I'm a genius.

You Won't Be Happy Anyway

Today I walked into the kitchen at 1:30 PM and announced to my roommate that i had overslept and was thus feeling "gummy." She stared at me awkwardly and repeated, "...gummy?"

"Yeah, you know - gummy," I replied.

She shook her head slightly.

"You know, like, out of it from sleeping too much..." I said.

"Oh, okay, I know what you mean," she said. "But I totally had no idea what you meant by 'gummy.'"

That's strange because gummy is one of my more commonly used words. Now I'm wondering if I've sort of created my own language and nobody understands anything that I say and she's just the first person who's bothered to tell me.

P.S. If you haven't watched the trailer for Shining yet, you're a chump.
("But now...sometimes...")

Must-See

You simply must watch the trailer for the movie Shining, a new feel-good romance in the vein of About a Boy. Trust me, it's good. I've watched it twice already. Oh, just click the link.

View it here!

So! Yesterday it was bright and sunny and warm, and today it was bright and sunny and frickin' freezing! I love this weather, even if my crazy layers make me look like Lady Puff-n-Stuff. I wish I had a life to report on, but I don't. I've just been working a lot. Tomorrow I'll put in eight hours at the library and then seven hours at Leona's. But Saturday - O! Glorious Saturday! - is the first day of the Co-Op Used Book Sale, and I plan to be there stomping my foot and snorting like a mad bull when they open the gates at 9 AM.

Also, as alluded to in the comments, I have fallen into the pit of hell and spent fifteen hours in three days watching the first twenty episodes of The O.C. I think I've burned myself out, though. I will concede that the dialogue is surprisingly good (and funny!), but I am allergic to contrived plot twists. Good dialogue carried me through the stupid drama of Sex and the City (sacrilege!), but the seasons and individual episodes were a lot shorter than those of The O.C. Not that I'm not going to finish this season. Not that I'm not going to watch the next season in its entirety. I'm just going to roll my eyes a lot and squirm around and cringe and groan loudly. I am a very dramatic television-watcher. Especially when watching alone.

Important Announcement

I'm getting really tired of adultery as a theme in literature and movies. It's been way overdone and over-explored. It's lost its flavor, its significance, its shock value. There's nothing more to say about it. It's a colorless, wrung-dry rag hanging over a dirty kitchen sink.

It's time to focus on a NEW controversial issue. I nominate hot gay man love (and it looks like I'm right in time!) but I'm open to suggestions.

I just got back from the circus. It was amazing. The atmosphere was joyous. It didn't hurt that I went with my friends Ariel and Pete, who are kindness and wonderfulness personified. It wasn't a Barnum & Bailey-type extravaganza, but then, at Barnum & Bailey you don't get a Soul Train line to "Got to Be Real" by Cheryl Lynn.

Now I'm loading up my Netflix queue, as apropos of nothing, I feel like there's no better time than now for an Adventures of Pete & Pete marathon.