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.