Retarded....er.

Is the word my coworker used to describe the act of being stoned.

Anyone who has smoked pot knows this is a rather apt description.

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I was talking to a friend of mine last night, who every time I talk to her one of us winds up peeing from laughing so hard (such gems as "Cute girls don't eat pussy!" are the culprits), and she came up with a statement that made me choke from laughing.

I told her about how sometimes I find myself saying and/or doing things (usually at work and out of frustration--story to follow) that I know are wildly inappropriate, but I just can't stop myself.

Her response?

"Most people call that being drunk."

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So I was at work, and it was slow. Really, really slow. Like, I haven't had a table in hours kind of slow.

Two middle aged women come in, and sit down. I give them menus, water, and silverware. Take drink orders. Deliver accordingly.

Enough time passes that it is appropriate for me to ask them if they were ready to order, which they were. Sorta.

One woman points to an item on the menu, which has the word "Chicken" in the title. She points to it, and says, "This doesn't have meat in it, does it?", to which I responded, "Chicken."

"No! No, see? Here underneath (she points to the description portion of the menu), it doesn't say anything about meat."

"Chicken, ma'am. There's chicken in the Chicken Appetizer."

She argues some more, totally unwilling to admit and/or notice that she is using the word "chicken" while talking to me.

Suddenly, I explode.

"CHICKEN!", I bark. "THERE'S CHICKEN IN THE CHICKEN APPETIZER!"

The two women look at me like I have just admitted to being a Nazi sympathizer.

I realize my error. I know I need to do something to cover my ass.

I laugh. A forced, half maniacal laugh.

They laugh with me. And order the chicken appetizer.

Note to the public as a whole:

When eating in a restuarant.....

READ THE FUCKING MENU! This isn't a MENSA exam! Third grade reading level required! Please! Your server will begin to bleed in her brain if she has to explain something WRITTEN IN FRONT OF YOU again, and again, and again, and again......

Got Wood? Or, Reasons I Wish I Was a Dude

I am cheap. Hopelessly, tirelessly cheap. I loves me a bargain.....almost to my own detriment. I will go without something seemingly necessary to the rest of the planet to save myself a dime (and yet I smoke....Hrm, there's $100 a month or so I could be saving) and will not complain.

I have electric baseboard heat here at Chez Laundry. This was acceptable when my father was alive, as he required instant, constant heat. Damn the expense, as he would say. We had a wood burning stove as back up for when the power went out (All freaking winter here) and for 'ambiance'.

Since my father has died, I have fully embraced the "fuck the electric company" attitude. I sit in the dark more often than not, and run only necessary equipment all the time. Computer, refrigerator, water heater. Things like this.

I purchased 1/2 a cord of wood from a coworkers husband a few days ago, and had it delivered.

Side bar! I am well versed in wood. When I was living in close proximity to my mother, every freaking weekend my buddy and I would go out in thigh deep snow and cut down trees, then cut them into rounds, then haul the rounds, then split and stack the rounds, then burn them, and then the next weekend.....you see a pattern forming here. I have pretty much nothing but resentment in my heart for cutting firewood, and the idea of having it delivered, ready to stack, to my home, seemed like an extravagance.

So the wood is delivered. I am tickled beyond belief. My coworkers husband? Not so much. See, there is a flight of stairs that needs to be traversed to get to my "wood stacking area", also known as the empty spot by my front door/exterior closet. (used by my neighbors as a patio/storage for barbecue. Fuck that noise! Wood, baby!) I see no problem hauling wood up a flight of stairs to fill a closet. Granted, I had spent that entire morning emptying the closet of last years remnants of wood, stacking and sorting it...without gloves. (I'm so fucking brilliant sometimes. Really. I went to get gloves before J arrived with more wood, however. Logic.)

Anyway, J devises a plan involving planks of wood, pieces of kindling and a wheelbarrow with a hole in it for the wood movement. It works, and I am doubly tickled. (It doesn't take much, you see.)

So we haul. We stack. We carry. I absolutely destroy my fake nails. DESTROY. It was Black-Metal screaming DESTRUCTION. Seriously.

At about the half way mark, I have to pee. I inform J of this, and leave him outside with a cup of coffee and a promise that I will be right back.

I go into the bathroom, admire my destroyed hands, and pee.

And realize that I have started my period. And all the supplies as such are in the other bathroom. With much swearing, I get up, go to the other bathroom, obtain the materials, change my underwear, take care of business.

Walk back outside to J, who is kind of staring off into space. I'm sure he thought I was vomiting or had my intestines fall out because I was gone for so long.

We finish.

J leaves.

I go back inside, after admiring my beautiful wood pile and GINORMOUS pile of cedar kindling (oh, cedar kindling, how I would marry you if I could), and wash my mangled hands.

Then I began thinking.....

Guys don't have to worry about shit like that! They don't have to think about breaking their nails while out in the nature! Don't have to have tampons in their trucks, just in case!

I am such a tomboy in some ways. I resent my period in ways I can't really articulate. But how fitting is it that my tomboy ass would have to hit the pause button while stacking firewood to go deal with her period. Sigh.

TMI? Probably.

I went and had my nails fixed today. I look like a porn star again. (at least my hands do--my tits aren't big enough for porn.) (Welcome, porn googlers!) I told my friend of my wood tribulations, and he said, straight faced, of course, "Too bad the little asian ladies at the salon can't fix your period for you too, huh?"

I thought it was funny. And I love my ladies at the salon. But I would love them more if they could do that, too.

The Smell of Unwashed Human

My hours have been slashed at work. SLASHED. This is a nice reprieve from the 60+ hours I was working any given week a month ago, but it's slightly confusing to have all this time all of a sudden. And no money.

Typically, when I have days off and I am a busy person, my days off are spent filled with just as much hustle and bustle as the rest of the time.

Not so at the moment. I lay on my couch, watching Ninja Warrior on G4 (have you seen this show? So, so rediculous. Cheaters is another favorite.), drinking coffee and....not bathing. Just laying around. After running my ass off for so long making sure that everything was taken care of for everyone else, to have time to myself....It means that not a whole hell of a lot is getting done. Eating, bathing, cleaning, laundry, nothing. A lot of loafing.

Kind of embarrassing when people come over, however.

I made jambalaya last night, with great success. Considering I had never made it before and didn't really have a recipe, I doubt that any cajuns would approve, but us yankees liked it quite a bit. Gets filed under the "There's five pounds of meat in this. Not counting the shrimp. Eat Hearty.".

Well, Super Troopers is calling from the other room.

Father Logic

I have switched to menthol cigarettes.

My father always told me that if it is hot outside or you are sick, you switch to menthols. Don't quit, for chrissakes, just menthol it.

Anyone that knew my father knows that this is dad logic. This is the same man that came up with "It's 5pm in England. Screw the tea, I want some bourbon!" (we live on the west coast. You do the time zone math.) Anyway, so menthols it is.

I'm really getting tired of being sick. I know that I have been sick for so long (like, oh, since dad died!) because of emotional and physical exhaustion...I get the hint. I'm over it. Really. Now I am coughing like my mother (I'm sure the menthols aren't contributing to that at all) and my throat hurts. Most of the people that I know that have this cold have had it for about a month. It just.....hangs.....on. I don't love it.

I hate it when the people whose blogs I read don't repost often enough for my reading pleasure. And yet I do the same thing. Sorry, everyone. Double standards for everyone! Hooray!

I slept last night without Ambien. Apparently drinking a pot of coffee does the same thing to my body as a sleeping pill. (I am SO NORMAL.)

Work is fine. Not making crap for money, as it has been totally slow. Aggravating as usual, however, what with all the in talking and back stabbing and dramadramadrama. This job makes me feel SO OLD. But the money is so, so worth it. I'm not making crap at the moment, like, a third of what I was three months ago, and it's still the best paying job I have ever had. Oh, yes, baby.

The F&B Christmas party is being planned. My manager was telling me about one that she planned for another company, where she had people sign up for karaoke months in advance, so that the "I don't want to go first!" fear didn't matter--it became a game of one-up-man-ship. When the fateful day came, everyone got totally wasted and they began randomly calling people from the list--but there was a surprise.

They did it Gong Show Style. Kitchen staff were drunkenly Gonging the executive chef, waitstaff gonging the accounting department--everyone wasted and nobody caring.

This can only end in tragedy in my company, but it is hilarious to imagine. Especially if you know the people I work with/for.

Pandemic

Everyone I work with is sick. Including me.

We all have the same bug. The head cold. Who knew shoving 12 people into a box for 60 hours a week at least would lead to germ spreading? Surprised I am not.

However, considering everyone who has eaten at our restaurant in the last week has had their food handled by at least three people with a cold, well....You do the math. We are vigorous hand washers and glove wearers.....but things happen. We aren't making out with eachother or the customers, but germs, well, are germs.

Kinda makes me giggle that homecoming weekend just passed. The local HS students can thank us later.

Anyway, I am currently trying to become addicted to my late fathers sleeping pills. It seems to be working.

Exhaustion

I hate working banquets.

See, they are good, because you make serious, serious money. Big, huge, fabulous money.

But they are bad, because something always goes terribly, terribly wrong. There always comes a point where you are either screaming into a telephone, screaming into the kitchen, running your ass off, or all three. (sometimes simultaneously.)

Tonight.....sucked. Worst banquet I have worked in months. (this is saying something. I worked one last week with a fever, and one the week before that is in at least the top five--I'll tell you about it sometime.)

This was supposed to be a cakewalk. it was a buffet, which is so, so nice, and I had a partner, which was going to make it even easier.

Not so.

They arrived, promptly, and we began to run cocktails for them. We asked them to take a seat at the appointed time--all the food was ready to go--and so they did.

Only, well, the guest count was off.

By seven.

They had seven more people than we thought they were going to--because someone had not taken into account the fact that there were children in the group. Nope, the "Twenty six adults and seven children" translated to paper as "Twenty six adults...hey, look at that big shiny thing over there....what?".

So now we have to scramble around and see if there is a way to fit seven more people into this room. No room for another table, no room for more chairs.....

While my partner and I were looking for a solution, the guests moved their own tables. Made their own way. This, as much as it makes things easier for us, is unacceptable. it opens us up for a lawsuit....

Anyway, the food comes out, after sitting in the hot box for thirty minutes (sweet!), and they eat.

Dessert time.

Out comes the dessert platter. We are then informed that they ordered a cake, special, from us. And this is also information that we didn't have.

So I go screaming up to the other restaurant in the golf cart (only the best for us!) in the middle of a freaking windstorm to steal some cake from them, to try and patch it together with the cake we have, to make it look like the cake they ordered.

There is another banquet going on at the same time, as well as normal restaurant business, so I got to put my pastry skills to work and decorate the damn thing, with only whipped cream. I take it out....

And they tell me that the cake they ordered was supposed to feed 30.

Fuck. Me.

But they were happy.

also, an aside:

All parents of small children under the age of 10--Corral your kids. Please. I poured a cup of boiling water on my chest to stop it from splashing your toddler in the face when he ran full bore into me, while you smiled and laughed. I was hit in the head with at least 4 paper airplanes while delivering coffee, while you smiled and laughed. Guests in the restaurant complained because your children were playing football in the hallway and lobby of the hotel, while you were no where to be found.

I don't get paid for that.

Anyway, I actually made it home before one am, so that is something to be celebrated.

I just may get some sleep.

"You totally had a mullet, didn't you?"

Question asked to one of my coworkers a few weeks ago, to which he responded with "Well....yeah. Is it that obvious?"

I thought it was funny. But then again, I know these people.

Hey, did you know that being horribly depressed but trying to mask it while working, especially while sleep deprived and stressed out can cause you to to really strange things?

Like, oh, sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of the bar you work in because there is an ASPCA commerical on the big screen TV, featuring the song "Angel" by Sarah McLaughlin as its soundtrack. Potentially unloved animals+Sappy chick music=I have to run from the restaurant floor, audibly crying.

Also:

Getting into a battle of wits with the Coast Guard. (Good fun, actually.)

Also:

Falling asleep in the breakroom.

Perhaps.....I should sleep more. Try and do my crying at home.

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Moving on.

You know when you were a kid, and your parents would tell you that eating dessert before dinner is not an option, one pound candy bars cannot be eaten in one sitting, rolling in the mud in your Sunday best is not a good idea, and keeping your pants on in public is really a good idea?

At some point in your childhood, you answered, "When I'm a grown up, I'm going to {insert forbidden act here} all the time!", to which your parents would agree, and tell you that yes, as an adult you can take off your pants in the grocery store, stay up until 3am watching scary movies, and eat 9 pounds of chocolate, whenever you want. But not now.

I was reminded of this today, when I got home from work, threw a Lean Cuisine in the microwave, and proceeded to eat a diet ice cream sandwich while watching the plastic tray revolve. Dessert first.

I have a sweet tooth. Huge, huge sweet tooth. I can't eat a lot of candy, because my teeth are so sensitive, which is probably a blessing and the only thing keeping me from having to be lifted out of my house by a crane. But I loves me some dessert.

But I loves me some dessert BEFORE the meal. Granted, I have strange eating habits anyway (I can only eat one thing at a time. Like, on a plate full of food--the protein, starch and veggie--I will eat all the veggie, then all the starch, then the protein. No mixing, no trying all three things separately, always the veggie, starch and protein, that order, even if I don't like one of the items. I didn't know that I did this until I was eating out with a friend of mine who commented on it. I do it with casseroles and shit too--will pick out the veggies, eat them, then the starch, and so on. It's like I get mouth-sensory-overload if I don't do this--panic attack, almost. Weird.) but somehow, my tummy and mouth are happier if I start with sweet rather than end with it. Almost like my taste buds prefer the transition from sweet to savory than savory to sweet.

Anyway, so while I stood in my kitchen, clad in a bathrobe, eating ice cream and waiting for my lean cuisine, (all I need is a herd of cats to complete the equation, right?)I thought back to when I was a kid, and this was forbidden.

Now I'm a grown up, and, goddamnit, I will eat my ice cream first! Take that, Mom!

And sob hysterically at commericals while waiting tables. Ah, freedom.