Monday, October 29, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
I came across this quotation in an online news article, and I was instantly furious. "White House deputy press secretary Scott Stanzel said in an e-mail that President Bush called Schwarzenegger to make sure the state is getting the help it needs."
I'm so glad that, when rich white fucks--many of whom refused to evacuate when ordered to do so--are losing their ridiculously expensive houses to a sort of natural disaster, President Bush makes personal phone calls to the governor to make sure the governor's all set. But when it's poor folks on the Gulf Coast, ah, let 'em swim. He'll blame the governor for anything that goes wrong.
Fuck you, Bush. Fuck. You.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Why, dredge the pickle slices in a bit of flour and breadcrumbs and fry the crap out of them directly. Top with cheese. Mmmmmm.
Seriously. I am that much of a bachelor that I don't have any non-moldy bread.
Except, do bachelors keep breadcrumbs around?
Thursday, October 4, 2007
How do these kids even know what it looks like? I don't know, but it's seriously disturbing. Go watch it.
And it takes a long time to download the .exe updater file, and then it takes a long time to install it, and all I even fucking wanted to do was to see if I already had some Styx song. But if I don't get the new version, then I start to worry that there's some vulnerability, and then I start to obsess about how my version will soon be obsolete, and oh man this laptop is getting old, and if it dies I totally won't have the money to replace it, and then where will I be, because I have this DSL contract and I won't even have a computer, and holy Moses, I don't know how to get around without GoogleMaps, and anyway I must have the newest latest iTunes, but wait a minute, I hate iTunes, yes, I do, because updating tags takes so freakin' long and and because the data fields are limited and unwieldy and because somehow my playlists always get erased and because it takes a long time to load and uses a lot of RAM or whatever, and wowza, I really don't know that much about computers and wouldn't it be nice to have a Mac again, and do they even call them Macs anymore or is it just Apple whatevers?, and, well, regardless, I would like to have one except for the whole touchpad clicker thing, you have to actually push the little bar to click on something, and that always irritates me because it's rather inefficient, and there's nothing I like more than efficiency, which is funny because I am possibly one of the least efficient, or shall I say most inefficient, people around but what can you expect, my mother is a German teacher, after all, and if there's one thing German people are, it's efficient, and for FUCK'S SAKE hasn't this updater finished downloading yet?
Friday, September 14, 2007
Anyway, I called my complex today and asked about the deposit, and the woman told me that the deposits are mailed on the 45th day. I laughed and said that wasn't really in compliance with the law, but ok, I just wanted to make sure I was getting my money. She got all shitty with me and said, "That is the law in Indiana, we have to mail it back to you within 45 days," blah blah blah, and I wanted to call her a stupid bitch. But I didn't.
But seriously, aside from this, their policy is to keep my $1000 as long as they legally can, for no fucking good reason? Fuck them. When I moved out, my apartment was cleaner than it had been when I moved in--for sure. I remember that my mom and I spent two days cleaning that thing (and killing spiders), and that's after we had the management send over their cleaning lady to at least clean the bathroom, since there was a humongous crusty shit stain in the toilet. Clearly the apartment had not been cleaned, as the management asserted. Anyway, the woman who did my walk through at move-out said a couple times, "I wish all the apartments looked like this when people moved out!" My move-out sheet said everything was in the same--or better--condition than it was when I moved in. And I know they had someone moving in the next morning at 7:30 a.m. Clearly my apartment was in good shape, and there is no legal basis for any deductions--the statute is pretty tight. So it's not like they're hanging on to that money because they're using it for repairs. I just think it's shitty to keep the money as long as possible. Assholes.
So you can bet that I will be getting some Lexis access if I get that deposit back and there is anything deducted. Because FUCK. THEM.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
That was such a special time in my life, and it's just... over. I feel sometimes like I have had many fragmented lives, like all the different parts of my life are separate and almost mutually exclusive, and I just ache to return to some of those times occasionally. I miss the people from those periods, I miss the parts of my life that I fear I'll never have again. I'm afraid I'll never again work with a small group of people who know me almost as intimately as one can be know--and who still want to get drunk with me after work. I'm afraid I'll never feel the closeness I felt with the people at the restaurant or the people who sang with me in choirs or the girls in my boarding school dorm. I'm afraid I'll never feel like an important part of a group, a team, again. I'm afraid no one will ever depend on me to really come through for them again.
I just miss some shit so friggin' acutely. I miss it so hard it hurts in my gut and in the middle of my chest. I miss it enough to not be able to breathe sometimes. I miss the old restaurant--I really loved that place (minus my fucking bitch boss). I loved how it looked and how we all sat around together on rainy late fall days when it was gray outside and gray inside and no one was coming in for dinner and all we had to do was sit in the lounge* and look outside or at each other. It was so peaceful, and contemplative, and not at all lonely. We were all in it together. I loved the restaurant as we all trickled in to start our sidework before we opened, when some of the lights weren't on yet so we slid the silverware out from under the napkins which had covered them for the night and righted the upside-down water glasses and set out wine glasses and B&Bs in the muted light from the skylights** and the windows, and everything was quiet and still. I loved the restaurant late at night, after all the guests had gone home and the kitchen had been cleaned so we had to stay out of it for fear of leaving footprints on the floor and thus incurring Sam's wrath and the lights in the back were off and and going to the bathroom was a little scary because what if the restaurant really was haunted and the bar*** lights were low so that everything just kind of glowed and we were all hunched over the bar in our own worlds quietly sipping our shift drinks and calculating our tipouts and completing our [OMG I can't remember what our reports were called, they had a funny name] and then we began griping individually about the shitty tables we'd had and then as a group about the fucking mistake one of us had made and then suddenly we were giggling and pulling out the journal and memorializing the event for us to laugh at later and then we were laughing ourselves out of our chairs, and it was dark, and we were together, and it was wonderful.
I miss those people so much, I miss that feeling of togetherness, of oneness, of belongingness. I'm so afraid I'll never have that kind of experience again. I really truly loved my co-workers, they were my family. And I miss them all so much. Some of us have moved, and some of us have just moved on, and it's so painful to remember and to so desperately miss and to know that I'll never have it again.
* The lounge:
** The view from the ramp: tables 31 - 35 (and 40 and part of 41), the hostess stand, bar, the lounge. Sunlight. It looks like this picture was taken in early afternoon, which was earlier than we would've usually been there. We had to be there at 5 MI time (4 IN time), when the sun was a little lower and a little more golden, and the patches of light were more diffused. It was so peaceful.
*** The bar. I spent many, many hours laughing and occasionally crying here.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Then I realized that the little silver drain catcher thingy was just in the wrong side of the sink and that the garbage disposal side was actually the one stinking to high heaven. So I poured baking soda and vinegar down there. It still stank. Bleach. Still stanky. I scrubbed out the sink with Comet and scrubbed the rubber seal (the top of it at least). Still stanky. Boiling water. Still stanky.
I went online and did a couple quick searches and saw that people recommended throwing some ice cubes* in the disposal and turning it on, which would help dislodge any gunk that was stuck on the blades or maybe on the underside of the rubber seal--everyone seemed to agree that the gunk was the cause of most disposal stink. That made sense, but too bad my couple of ice trays probably wouldn't be full of ice since I had no idea where they were.
Wait. I have an automatic icemaker now. W00t!
So I packed the disposal with ice--I wanted to get it really full in case the gunk was on the underside of the rubber thing--and flipped the switch.
HOLY. CRAP. All this brown sludge was suddenly seething right below the drain opening. Sick. I seriously gagged--no wonder the disposal had been smelling. So gross.
I turned the water on once it sounded like the ice was mostly crushed. Aaaaaand brown water started backing up into the sink a little. (Which, if you'll remember, I had just cleaned and disinfected. Sigh.) So, I turned off the disposal and the water, feeling a little panicky. The water sat there. I thought for a minute, shrugged, and turned the water and the disposal back on. Brown water splashed out onto my previously-clean sink and counter. Nice.
But then I heard the disposal clear and the water slurped back down the drain! So I repeated the whole process with the rest of the available ice, and then I poured a bunch of hot water down the drain and stuck my head in the sink and sniffed. No funk! It worked!
I poured a bunch more baking soda and the rest of my vinegar down there, just to clean it a little more, but I fixed it! I fixed it! Triumph!
* I also read a tip suggesting that you freeze some vinegar into ice cubes and use those in conjunction with baking powder when you clean the disposal with ice--I think that's such a brilliant idea.
P.S. I really love to clean with vinegar and baking soda. They're non-toxic and really effective.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
I rang about $300 in sales on 2 tables for him tonight, and he didn't give me a fucking penny. "He" rang $1400 in sales, and I made minimum wage. I made him at least $50. I made about $35--all night.
And then he ate most of the $50 worth of food that I get to order each night of training, so although I got to taste it all, I didn't get to take any home.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
In other news, I got a waitressing job today so I can pay the bills while I wait for my real job/life to apparate. Getting hired on the spot does wonders for one's self-confidence.
Now.... Accio real job!
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Three days ago, I bought a venti (the largest) iced coffee from Starbuck's. I drank it, yum yum, and then a while later felt a little shaky.
Today, I bought a venti iced coffee from Starbuck's. I drank it, yum yum, and.... nothing.
Awesome, I'm addicted.
And here's how the 8:30 a.m. exchange at Starbuck's went this morning:
[At the drive-through speaker:]
Me: May I have a venti iced chai with a little cream, light ice, and 2 packets of the blue sweetener stuff?
Starbuck's employee: Uhh.... let's see, now, uhh, ok, that was a venti iced chai with what now? Cream and....
Me: Oh my God, wow, I'm sorry, no, I'm so tired. That's gross, what I just ordered.
Starbuck's employee: [laughs, relieved]
Me: Ok, how about an iced coffee instead of an iced chai... that makes more sense, doesn't it?
Starbuck's employee: [more laughter]
Me: Wow, gross.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
- Make a (1) (one) flashcard.
- Check email (both accounts); check Facebook page (if received an email notification); check celebrity gossip website; check Yahoo for new news items; think about posting a new sentence on blog.
- Make a (1) (one) flashcard.
- Eat 7 (seven) cookies.
- Repeat internet ritual.
- Make a (1) (one) flashcard.
- Stare blankly at BarBri book.
- Brainstorm possible non-legal careers which would be lucrative enough to pay student loans; come up with diddly squat.
- Eat another cookie.
- Repeat steps 1- 9.
It bugs me when they screw up other idioms, too, but I can't think of any typical ones right now. This one will have to suffice.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
So I'm at least trying to come up with some amusing, and therefore memorable, acronyms to help my remember certain lists of factors. Sometimes I also have to come up with a related phrase to cement the acronym to the subject--because random acronyms are really not that helpful.
Example: the acronym for a list of the common bases for non-resident submission to personal jurisdiction: M.C. BIIIRDS--homie's flyin' to court!
Guaranteed I will be cracking myself up--and pissing off people like Shusher--all through the essay half-day!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I've been doing a lot of comment reading on passiveaggressivenotes.com lately--anything to procrastinate from doing more studying for the bar. There's this controversial dumb convention in the comments--and by dumb I mean totally juvenile and entertaining--to create a Team name and impliedly place yourself on the team. Usually the team is related to the subject of the post, though not always. For instance, one of the posts was a picture of a crazy letter that a babysitter had written to the dad of two of her little charges, basically telling him to go to hell for asking her to fill out a short form about what happened with the kids each day. In the comments, people started allying themselves with Team Babysitter or Team Dad. I don't usually go in for the easy Teams like that, I like to get on the funny Teams, but whatever, you get the picture.
Ok, so there are always some people who are incensed over this Team convention, and they piss and moan in the comments about how stupid it is, blah blah blah, and then the Teamers and anti-Teamers have a little comment smackdown. Occasionally it's entertaining, but it ends up mostly devolving into "you suck!" "no, YOU suck!" "you suck more!" etc. Every once in a while, though, someone writes something that is unintentionally hilarious. Take this one, for instance--from an anti-Teamer:
And yes, the “team” shit is lame, and typical of Bush’s
Um? Simplistic judgment about others, what? Come again?
So, cross that one off the list. I guess everyone's "good feelings" were wrong. :(
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
So I figured I'd just call and change the installation date, no problem, right? It's not much money a month, so having it on a couple weeks early isn't a big deal, and it'll make everything easier.
Welp! Perhaps AT&T waives the connection fees (if you initiate service online) because they *don't actually order connection*. They send you an email with an order confirmation number, but they don't actually put the order in their system! Hahahaha! Whoopsie!
Yeah, so I called, and the first person I talked to had no clue what I was talking about, so she transferred me to someone else "who would be able to help me." That guy asked for my confirmation number. I started to read it to him: "JV22..." and he said, "Wait. WAIT. Your confirmation number starts with a J?"
"Yes. It starts with a J. JV, in fact."
"It DOESN'T start with an N?"
"No. No, it doesn't. It starts with a J."
"Let me get this straight. Your confirmation number doesn't start with an N. It starts with a J?"
So, yeah, AT&T had absolutely no record of my order, so I had to start all over again on the phone. Blah blah blah, can you hold, yes I can, hello I'm back, can you hold again, yes I can, hello thank you for holding, sorry can you hold one more time, yes no problem, thank you for holding, oh sorry can you hold one more time, and then, then: "Ok, that's going to be $47 in connection fees...."
Oh no, my friend, no it will NOT be.
I reminded the guy that I had already (ostensibly) ordered service online, where the connection fees were waived, and I suggested that I should not have to pay the fees because, even though I was now ordering on the phone, I was only doing so because AT&T HAD NEVER ENTERED MY ONLINE ORDER EVEN THOUGH THEY SENT ME AN EMAIL CONFIRMING MY ORDER WITH A CONFIRMATION NUMBER. Thankfully, he rapidly agreed and waived the charges.
So, an HOUR later, I finally had an order for my phone service connection and an order for my DSL transfer. Aaaaand the guy guaranteed my phone number, so I can go wild and give it out to whomever I choose!
Good thing I needed to change my order date. Otherwise I might've scheduled my DSL transfer, which then would have failed because I had no phone service, which in turn would cause AT&T (I have my internet with them, too) to charge me an early termination fee of $150, because I have a 1-yr DSL contract. Oh, yes, and they'd also back-charge me $15/month for each month of service I'd had, which would total probably almost another $150. And it would take probably 3 or 4 hours on the phone to straighten it all out, and multiple explanations to people who are testy with me because they don't understand me, because they're not really listening to me, all for something that was AT&T's fault anyway.
SIGH. Moving is such a pain in the asshole.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The other day, I made a suggestion via an online suggestion box on Indy's city web page. I'd been searching for some info about utilities and other relocation stuff, and I didn't really find anything obviously related on the Indy page. I thought that seemed a little strange, so I submitted the following suggestion:
"A section geared toward people who are moving to the Indy area would be really helpful. You could include: - a list of utility companies w/contact info, phone company, TV services, etc. - information about different areas/neighborhoods of the city - etc."
Today, I got the following email response:
Such content is handled by the Indianapolis Convention and Visitor’s Bureau (a non-profit that is independent of the City) which is prominently linked to from our “Visiting” page. The direct URL to that site is: http://www.indy.org/
Look under the Relocation section.
Webmaster of Indianapolis
Information Services Agency (Northrop Grumman)
City of Indianapolis/Marion County
Yes, I see. The *Visitor's* Bureau page is "prominently" linked. Like I am an asshole. Like I am a stupid asshole. This is the description that accompanies that "prominent" link:
"Indianapolis Convention & Visitors Association: ICVA's site, www.indy.org, provides current and official visitor information including attractions, sightseeing, arts, hotels, restaurants, shopping, transportation and destination highlights."
Hmm, let's see, I didn't want information about attractions, sightseeing, arts, hotels, restaurants, shopping, transportation, or destination highlights.... Come to think of it, I didn't really want VISITOR information... I wanted RESIDENT information! Why the fuck would I go look at that website?!?!?!? It doesn't sound anything like what I want!
So, instead of writing back something like,
You are a fucking asshole. Why in the fuck would I look at a page that you've described as having information about hotels and shopping, when I want to know who to call to get my utilities turned on? Fuck you, you mothereffing douche.
I wrote and thanked him for the redirect, explained why I did not think the "prominent" web site would be applicable (without using "prominent"), and requested that he amend my suggestion so that it read more like "I suggest you amend the description of the Visitor's Bureau site so that it notes that relocation information is included!"
Am I just overthinking it? Or does it seem really stupid to expect people to go search a page about temporarily visiting a city in order to find information about permanently relocating?
The bar is making me CRANKY!
*Edited for typography and clarity.
**P.S. And ALSO, the stupid page that supposedly has relocation information? Yeah, it doesn't have any information about a gas (utility) company. And with a name like "Citizen's Coke and Gas," I would like to have an official link, please. I mean, I love coke and gas as much as the next person, but I am trying to pass the bar here.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Is it the bar? Is my body reacting to the stress by discoloring itself? WTF?
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
(n.b.: photo adjusted slightly to compensate for weird lighting that didn't show the "bruise" in its full glory.)
At first I assumed it was a bruise, but (1) it doesn't hurt, at all; (2) it hasn't changed color since I first noticed it--no yellowing or greening or purpling or anything, just liver-spot brown; and (3) it's been a full four days! Wouldn't you think that a 4-day old painless bruise would have disappeared by now, or at least changed color a little bit? Do I have a huge liver spot? Some weird disease? The hiv?
Please note that there are more beer bottles than Diet Coke bottles. Yes, this is how my bar study has been going.
* See http://www.cnn.com/TECH/tomorrow_today/9603/sponges/index.html and http://www.webmd.com/news/20070625/top-spots-for-bacteria-at-home
** Use a clean dish cloth for each batch of dishes. Wash all kitchen linens separately from other laundry (oh my GOD washing dish cloths with socks and underwear is just GROSS). Use hot water and bleach, always.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
I would've KILLED for one of these things when I was waiting tables! (Although it wouldn't help with people who want their bills to be split up 800 different ways.)
But even more than that, I wanted some sort of handheld, PDA-like thing where you could input the orders table-side (or at least nearby) and transmit them remotely back to the kitchen or bar. That would've saved so much time... all that time spent waiting for one of the two computers when I was stuck, again, behind the server who (a) didn't work often enough to not need to look at and read the touch screen, like the rest of us who could put in an order without even thinking, literally; (b) often wrote her orders down wrong or couldn't read her notes without her glasses, which she'd usually forgotten; and (b) liked to chat with customers, the bartender, other servers, or sometimes just herself as she put her order into the computer. Meanwhile someone else is putting in an order from the 12-top at the other computer, and I had three to five tables who had questions, were waiting on drinks, wanted cappuccinos (*$#%*!!!!), or were ready to order, in addition to the table whose order I was waiting, waiting, waiting to put in!
I couldn't leave the line to deal with all the other demands, because (1) I'd just have to rejoin it again at some point for that same order, and that doesn't make any sense; (2) I would probably forget that I hadn't actually put the order in, and that is no good at all; or (3) I would end up having a bunch of tables' orders to put in all at once, which would in turn earn me (a) really shitty looks from nearly every guy in the kitchen* the next time I walked in; (b) continuous insults--lobbed at me in English, Spanish, and kitchen Spanish--for the rest of the night; (c) increased "flirting" (a.k.a. eye-fucking and half-hearted attempts to grab me as I sliced bread or made espressos in the servers' station), apparently as a measure of comfort, from Marcial, the head dishwasher; (d) increased getting-in-my-way-ness from Marcial, who thought it was high-larious to put away dishes reaaaalllllly slowly when we were all losing our shit**; (e) an angry lecture from Sam, the chef, about the evils of improper table timing, either yelled at me during some particularly frustrated moment when he was in the weeds and blaming it all on me (and when I was likely just as in the weeds as him..) or tersely directed at me, via "reminder" to all front-of-the-house staff, the next day in our pre-service meeting; (f) some serious eye-rolling, under-the-breath table-side (!) insults***, and undisguised hostility from Eddie, the food runner (who was amazing at his highly underrated job and who I did not want to piss off, because he stepped in to save me when I was getting my ass handed to me on a platter--unless I had fucked up timing my tables, in which case I was on. my. own.); AND (yes the sentence continues) (g) the joy of getting triple-sat all night long, either because my tables would simply all clear out--and thus become available--at once because they'd all been timed to get their orders at about the same time (thank you, me), or because my fucking bitch boss was hostessing and took pleasure in seeing me run, sweat, and plead for help, so she'd purposely try to sink me.
*The dishwashers, line cooks, sous chef, chef de cuisine--they ALL got in on the stinkeye action. Only the salad/dessert guy returned my gaze with sympathy. I thought at the time it was because he had a thing for me--turns out he was just closeted and knew I was ok with the gay.
** Then when we finally snapped at him, he would halfheartedly slam a stack of plates down, throw his hands in the air, and stalk back to dish with clenched fists, shaking his head and muttering to himself in Spanish. I was never sure whether he was joking or not--five minutes later he'd be back to grabbing me by my waist, calling me bonita, and asking me about blowjobs (in Spanish, of course--he was delighted that I could understand him). Crazy Mexican. I loved that guy. I'm not sure why.
*** He'd actually insult me while I was answering a diner's question! He had an uncanny ability to speak in a really low voice that was completely audible, but only to the server, while he did not move his lips. He would take off the top plate covers with a grand flourish, and the diners would crane their necks to see all that marvelous Eddie had brought out for them and would ooh and ahh about all that delicious food--at the same time expecting me to finish completely and satisfactorily answering their inane questions/tests that usually showed how little they actually knew about food or wine. And the whole time Eddie is standing there grinning at them, he's telling me what a shitty server I am! Asshole. I really miss him, actually. He's hilarious.
After about a year of this--NIGHTLY--I finally figured out that I just had to make a couple tables wait. They just had to wait. They would get their food when I said they could, and that was all there was to it. Although I definitely pissed a few tables off, I grew pretty adept at intuiting which tables wouldn't even notice. As I got better at timing my tables, Eddie started to respect me more (which is to say, some), and his wife, who was the hostess when my fucking bitch boss wasn't at the door, started cutting me some slack and sliding me some regulars, who often liked to sit and show off more than eat--in other words, the longer their food took, the happier they were, as long as I kept the martinis coming.
I got to know all the regulars' quirks and dutifully accommodated them as if it were my job--oh wait--and in turn the regulars began to request me every time they came in. In a joint like that, you want the regulars--they're almost always heavily invested in appearing to be regulars, which means they tip well so you remember them and their quirks, and then all their sycophant friends think they're fantastic because the girl who makes her living by remembering what kind of olives they like, in what kind of gin, shaken for how long, just brought everyone their favorite drinks before they even got their napkins on their laps. You want regulars because then all you have to do is look at the reservation book and you know exactly how your night's going to play out. There's no waiting around, wondering if your 10-top is going to make your night or if it's going to be a no-show no-call and totally bend you over. There's no small talk with new tables, trying to figure out what kind of people they are and what kind of dining experience they like, trying to help them enjoy themselves so much they come back the next night and spend $400 in your section.
Best of all, there are no fucking two tops. That shitty table in your section can sit empty all night and you won't care, you don't need it, because you're flush with four- and six- tops, everyone's drinking, everyone's getting three or four courses and dessert. No fucking two tops, except for your favorite regulars, the couple who lives in the area and has a boatload of money and gets the same wine every time and is quiet and unassuming and totally lovely and quick. They ask for--and take--your sincere recommendations, they drink their two glasses of wine each, and they go home. And you're free to tend to the rest of your obnoxious, demanding section without running back and forth to the kitchen because they decided they do want cream with their coffee, and could my wife please have a refill, but with half decaf and half regular? And, oh, yeah, could we actually have Irish coffees? And, ooh ooh, how about some Sambuca to finish up--don't forget the three beans, ha ha ha! Oh, and maybe a dessert to go? What was the name of that wine we had three hours ago (the cheapest one on the menu), again? Could you write that down for us? Oh, and how are your cappuccinos? We'll have two. [To the table next to them:] Yes, doesn't that sound delicious? Everyone in the restaurant should have one! Where should we go see a movie tomorrow? How do you get to the theater in Three Oaks? Wanna hear a funny joke?
THAT's the beauty of serving regulars: it's steady, it's predictable, and they don't want to talk to you. They don't want you to exist except to make them look witty and generous. Even when you've got a regular party that is a royal pain in the ass--special-order everything, and I'm not talking "no tomatoes" or "no croutons," I'm talking "not too much salt, but not no salt, you know how I like it," or "whip up that special Bernaise sauce I always get," or "bring me that steak that's not on the menu" or "let's stay for two hours past when everyone else in the restaurant has left, including the kitchen staff"--you can plan your evening, you know what's coming, you know exactly what they'll ask for. You don't have to ask them anything about themselves--they're too busy pontificating to their friends. You don't have to really listen to what they say, either: you know to order their lamb mid-rare when they request medium because they have no fucking clue what medium actually is and they'll be horrified when they actually get what they've asked for, the chef knows what all their vague requests mean and won't send you back to question them further, you know that they say they eat low-carb but actually want the croutons and the not-low-carb veggies and oh yeah dessert, you know that they want parmesan cheese with their bread and cracked pepper in their olive oil even though they've never actually asked for either, you know that they don't want you to even offer them bread, you know that they want to try each of your drink features, you know that they don't even want to hear about the drink specials. You don't have to figure anything out, you just have to do it like you did it before. And then you make some fat cash. (Or credit card tips, which you won't receive for another 3-5 weeks, if ever, but that's a whoooole 'nother story.)
Why am I writing about waiting tables when I should be studying for the bar, you ask? Welp, aside from the obvious procrastination factor, I have a sinking feeling that I may be waiting tables again soon....
Saturday, July 7, 2007
For the first few topics, the ratios were, erm, BAD. Definitely worse than the overall average of where people who are "on track" should be. The strange thing, though, is that my overall score was higher than that "on track" average. So I wondered, what the hell is going on?
Oh, I see. Apparently I kick crim law's ASS. (I wish Bradley had thought so...)
Dude, I tested at 75% right. That's effing crazy. I don't know JACK about crim law!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
I read every major "bird flu found in crazy 3rd world village; some poor teenage girl who played with chickens dies" kind of article. I haven't seen any in a while, but here's one!
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Sunday, July 1, 2007
And the fact that I have at least 5 bestest friends--and actually quite a few more, I just didn't get to talk to them tonight--whose advice and conversation I really cherish... I just feel so incredibly blessed. I don't use that word often, because I'm, for whatever reason, a little uncomfortable with the God implications (and that's another post for another day), but it's nights like tonight and friends like these that make me thankful and joyful to be alive. I certainly have had many hours, days, weeks, this year when I wasn't so thrilled to be vibrantly, painfully alive, and remembering how all of these friends have rallied behind me in my darkest, smallest moments as well as in the most shining, glorious moments literally brings tears to my eyes.
Thank you, guys. I love you so, so much. I am thrilled to have you all in my life, and to be part of yours, and to be facing this new chapter of our lives all together.
* This reminds me of about the only joke I can ever fully remember. One woman (in the spirit of the horrific MBE simulation (hahaha) we took today, let's call her A) is talking to another woman (call her B) she's just met, and she says, "So, where are you from?" And B says, looking down her nose, "I'm from a place where they don't end sentences with prepositions." A pauses, and then she says, "Oh, yes. Please excuse me. I meant to say, where are you from... BITCH?"
And that in turn prompts me to tell you of the latest bar review Shusher drama.... today, a few of us in the troublemaking row came back early from our scheduled hour lunch so that we could get a headstart on the second section of the test, so that we could leave early. We were diligently working away (after an extended session of silliness as we started) when the rest of the class started to stream in, about 15 minutes before class was to start again. People realized that we were trying to work but continued to talk, as they certainly had the right to do. That didn't upset me. But, that they seemed to get louder as they realized we were already working... that upset me. So, I kept a diligent eye on the countdown clock on the video screen, expecting that that woman with the awful Minnesotan accent would pop back up and tell us to get started again, but desperately hoping that the lunch countdown would just switch over to the test countdown so that I could turn the shushing tables. And, praise be, it DID. And I DID.
And it was fabulous.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Here's a sampling of the gems, all supposedly from a book called "Disorder in the Courts," which is supposedly a collection of real courtroom exchanges.
ATTORNEY: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all?
ATTORNEY: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
WITNESS: I forget.
ATTORNEY: You forget? Can you give us an example of something you forgot?
ATTORNEY: Now doctor, isn't it true that when a
person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it
until the next morning?
WITNESS: Did you actually pass the bar exam?
ATTORNEY: The youngest son, the twenty-one-year-old,
how old is he?
WITNESS: Uh, he's twenty-one.
ATTORNEY: Were you present when your picture was taken?
WITNESS: Are you kidding me?
ATTORNEY: How was your first marriage terminated?
WITNESS: By death.
ATTORNEY: And by whose death was it terminated?
WITNESS: Now whose death do you suppose terminated it?
ATTORNEY: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
WITNESS: The autopsy started around 8:30 p.m.
ATTORNEY: And Mr. Denton was dead at the time?
WITNESS: No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy on him!
--- And the best for last: ---
ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?
ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?
ATTORNEY: Did you check for breathing?
ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY: I see, but could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?
WITNESS: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law. _____________________________________________
My whole life, my dad was not supportive of my receiving a good education. He fought with my mom about allowing me to take summer enrichment classes. He didn't think I should be in the gifted & talented class. He thought I read too much. He fought with my mom because he didn't think I should get to go to boarding school--not because he thought we couldn't afford it, but because he just didn't think I should get to go. He didn't think I should get to go to a private college--he said that there was no reason IU wasn't good enough for me. My mom always told me that he was just jealous of the opportunities that were available to me, because he'd never had any support or any educational opportunities, and that he was insecure about his own intelligence, because although he is very smart, he's not book-smart. And I never really knew what to make of that--I guess it made some sense, but I just didn't see how my own father could be such a douchebag that he'd deny me opportunities that would enrich my entire life just because he hadn't had the same kind of opportunities.
I don't know, maybe I'm just being too sensitive. But I smell whiffs of that old, I don't know what to call it, oppression? in his sending these stupid emails. I don't understand why else he would send them, I just don't. I mean, the only jokes he ever sends me are ones in which the lawyer is ridiculously dumb--like, on the verge of retarded--and I just have to wonder what point he is trying to get across. Does he really think (a) the jokes are funny, and (b) that I will find them funny? (Am I just being obtuse? Are they funny? Do other lawyers find them funny? Do non-lawyers of reasonable intelligence find them funny?) Why would I find them funny? It might be one thing if they were fictional, and story-telling, in that really good set-up joke kind of way. You know, clever. A joke. But these are ostensibly real-life occurences. These are things that real lawyers have supposedly said in open court, which I admit is both bogus and sad. They are not jokes, in the sense that they display some sort of play on words, or some sort of irony, or some other amusing literary-sort of device that happens to be high-larious. They don't involve farts, or poop, or some other totally infantile and funny subject. No. They only reason these jokes might be funny--and they're not--is because they're so outrageous. They're funny in the "can you believe that Debra Opri actually has clients, because she doesn't know enough not to put her client's money in her own bank account?" way. Like, can you believe that this person is a lawyer? A monkey in a suit could do a better job! Har har har, imagine, a monkey in a suit! In a court room! Isn't that funny!
No. It isn't. Fuck off, and fuck you.
I just don't get why he thinks it's cool to send me jokes denigrating my chosen profession. I don't make fun of him or what he does, and I never, ever have. I don't think it's something to be made fun of. And I certainly would never dream of sending him "jokes" about all the stupid shit that patternmakers might do--look, Dad, what great company you keep! Look at the blazing intelligence and capability of the people who make up your field! Everyone laughs at them! They can't do anything right! A monkey in a mask could do a better job! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
So, at the next break, I went to the gas station and purchased a big, crackly, crunchy bag of Doritos. I wasn't hungry. I didn't want to eat the Doritos. But I needed a weapon.
I waited to open the bag until class started again, so that I could take advantage of the stillness of the room. As soon as I did, the Shusher started shaking her head, apparently in disbelief at my gall (hello, we had just come back from break! people eat!). She turned and looked at someone like "can you believe the nerve of some of these people? I know! Awful!" Kept shaking her head and jiggling her knee for a while.
I waited until the video professor paused, so the room was nice and still, and then I CRUNCHed. I know that things always sound louder to me when I'm eating than to other people, because the noise is inside my own head, but dude, this was LOUD. My troublemaking row lost it. J's head went down, N turned sideways and was shaking with laughter, S and M (ooh, that sounds dirty) were giggling madly (but silently! silently!), and I had to turn around to calm myself so that I didn't inhale Dorito fragments. I tried really hard not to laugh audibly, because that would just give away that I was doing it to be an asshole, rather than doing it and just being an asshole incidentally.
Anyway, I kept crunching my way through the bag, trying to wait each time until the professor had paused so that my crunch was extra loud--because, just in case Shusher confronted me, I wanted to be able to bat my eyelashes innocently and protest that I had been trying to make sure that no one missed any part of the lecture because of my crunching.
I made that damn bag last for a whole hour. Hahahahaha!
At the end of class, our video professor was just reading to us the last couple of pages (just a sample exam problem and answer). He was not adding anything new. He was reading to us, verbatim, straight from the page. People started putting things away and murmuring. The Shusher shushed us. I turned to N and we shared a "are you kidding me?!?" kind of look. Then, when I turned back, I realized that the Shusher didn't even have her book open. She shushed the class so that she could hear the professor read directly from a book that she had already closed. Effing a-hole.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Friggin' kids are out jacking around in front of my apartment, driving Puck (and me!) crazy, kicking rocks, getting perilously close to my amazing, priceless Honda....
Update: the cops actually came out! Two cars! They've got flashlights! They caught the kids! They scolded the mom! Awesome! I heard the mom ask, "Is everything ok now?" and the cop said, "As long they stay inside. And as I don't have to come back--if I have to come back, I'm gonna...." and then I missed the rest. I like to imagine he said, "I'm gonna rip their arms off and beat you with them." That would be fantastic.
Oh, and of course, the kids apparently live in the upstairs apartment next to mine--the one with the woman who has that yappy little shit-for-brains white dog--the one she refuses to keep on a leash; the one she lets out to go to the bathroom while she leans over the railing, occasionally says "Mischa! Shush!", and otherwise lets it zip around the parking lot yapping at 2 a.m.; the one that attacked Puck 3 different times while Puck was leashed (and bit him! he yelped! and tried to get away! and couldn't! because he was on a leash!); the one I had to kick to get it off of Puck. I hate that dog, and I HATE THAT WOMAN.
And those jerkoff kids.
On a recent grocery buying binge, I randomly thought, "hmm, a smoothie sounds good." So, with doubt, I purchased some ingredients: yogurt, apple juice, various fruits--even peaches, which I normally kinda detest, but which looked really yummy when N was eating them recently in class.
Today I finally decided to make a smoothie, to go along with my complicated dinner recipe of peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I busted out the blender (oh I hate cleaning that blasted thing...perhaps that's why I hate smoothies?), chopped some fruit up, dumped a couple globs of yogurt in, and topped it off with a little juice. Whirrrrrr, and ta-da! Smoothie delight. I decided to pour the colorful mixture into a colorful glass, because I need a little cheering up, and then I sampled it. After a few sips/glugs, I thought, "this needs some cinnamon." So I sprinkled a little spicy goodness in, tasted the smoothie again--and lo and behold, that cinnamon was FANTASTIC.
The chunkiness still weirds me out a little, but man, it's really tasty.
P.S. Those peaches were f-ing delicious.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I've been working with Puck on the "stay" command for the last few weeks, as it's always been the one he doesn't give two hoots about. Every time I feed him, I make him sit and stay for a period of time--I started with just a few seconds, while I was right next to him, and then gradually moved away and lengthened the amount of time--and then say his release word so he can go eat. That way I don't have to give him tons of extra treats, which is handy since I'm trying to slim him down a little. :)
ANYWAY, I got him to sit about a foot from a full food bowl tonight while I left the room and puttered around in the kitchen for a minute. He's such a good boy.
Isn't this blog exciting? Aren't you glad you're reading it? Oh yeah.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
Wapehani Hills has been experiencing a high amount of damage to buildings and to our property by children. We as management must insist that your child/children stay around your unit and parking lot to help control this matter. Also, we can no longer have children roaming the property day and night unattended. Children hanging out and riding bikes out on the main roads is dangerous and drivers are becoming very concerned. We will be patrolling the site regularly. We appreciate your help and cooperation in this matter.
Ok, this is so awesome I can't even stand it. It's fantastic that they're at least saying something about these friggin' night children--although whether they actually do anything is another story. I have called the cops on these kids, who run around, scream (literally, scream), bounce basketballs, ride their skateboards, ride their bikes, etc. as late as 2 a.m. I am not kidding. 2 a.m. And these are not teenagers--I'm talking 6-year olds. 2 a.m. In the parking lot right behind my bedroom. In the middle of the week.
I hate them.
They ride their bikes in the middle of the street and play chicken with cars. I win, though, so that doesn't really bother me. A) I'm in a car. B) I will hit you. C) I do a great "I will hit you" staredown. D) I'm in a car, and I will hit you. E) Alternatively, I will long horn you, and you will be scared. But please do not soil those Hot Topic pants--that's just awkward.
They ding-dong-ditched my apartment the other night, banging on my door loud so loud I called 911. My apartment shook. Puck barked for a good five minutes. Steadily. It scared the bejeesus out of me. The next night, I called the cops (non-emergency line this time) with a noise complaint for the rugrats in the parking lot behind me. A-holes. Two days later, I came outside to find "my dick" written on the sidewalk in front of my apartment in chalk. Lovely little children. Then this past Friday night a whole passel of them went screaming by my apartment at about 12:45. Screaming. And then back. And then back again.
So, yes, I think this letter is great. Except, "we will be patrolling the site regularly"? Really? Somehow I doubt that my landlords are gonna haul their lazy butts into their fat white Escalade and come rolling around the 'hood in the middle of the night. But it's sweet of them to offer.