would it be too much to ask of you what you're doing to me

To-day was a bit on the stressful side.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened to make it stressful. I'm starting to think things are finally back to normal with a co-worker who was displeased with me for awhile. None of my customers were particularly crabby or stingy or overly needy. I was glad to be in a section on the floor I rarely get. I even almost won free lunch (almost being the key word. Curse you, Becky, for selling faster than me! I shall defeat you next time, MARK MY WORDS). Then, I got all riled up in a discussion with fellow co-workers about the crap that is the servers' schedule. There is so much drama surrounding this schedule, it might as well have its own show on Lifetime. For reals: if you want to strike up a conversation with a server who isn't being particularly chatty, mention the schedule and prepare for the floodgates to wash away. Everyone is displeased with the way the scheduling manager is handling the organization and distribution of shifts (disclaimer: the previous manager who dealt with scheduling DID NOT have this kind of trouble. It helped that she didn't copy and paste every week's schedule from the previous one, just to save herself time on account of being RIDICULOUSLY LAZY. Rant over). I was having yet another complain-y session with a few co-workers, addressing my quandary of never getting night shifts when I was clearly not hired to simply work during the day and make $5 a shift, when I realized that A. all my constant bitching and moaning was not helping my personal, emotional health, B. I hadn't done anything to try to address the situation except hedge and joke about how I want more night shifts with the scheduling manager, and C. the co-worker I was having trouble with, BECAUSE OF SCHEDULING CONFLICTS - who I recently started getting along with better - was RIGHT THERE while I was complaining about the very situation that led to our drama. OY. And also, could I BE any less tactful?

That was probably a rather confusing and way-over-explained tangent, but it lends to the portrait I'm trying to paint here. I was stressed out at work. I was exhausted. I had just worked a very long day after two days of doubles and another night shift (I picked it up, because HEAVEN KNOWS I don't get scheduled to work nights!), so I was completely drained, both physically and mentally. I texted my family to see what they were doing for dinner and secured an invitation to join them for my mum's homemade chicken tortilla soup.

Next scene: go to parents' house for dinner. They aren't eating, they're putzing around upstairs (they're in the process of redoing the upstairs bathroom. It's going to look gorgeous when they're finished, but in true Dado fashion, it's taking bloody forever). Wells is clingy and wanting me to help her study for government - hello, a subject I hated in high school. Also, I'm done with school, babes. Like I want to pick up a textbook when my brain is fried on a Sunday night. I start reading a catalogue they received in the mail from my alma mater (Go UD!), and my mum keeps interrupting me with inane, detailed questions while I'm trying to read. All things considered, I'm not in the pleasantest of dispositions, and I'm sort of taking it out on my family, snapping and being all short-tempered and crankypants and whatnot.

We finally sit down to dinner, and my beautiful little sibling proceeds to make my night by making it her personal goal to cheer me up. This is the same kid who, not so very long ago, would have snapped right back at me just because that was the age she was at, to prove she's just as snarky as I, to win the upper hand. Ever since I once again moved out of the house and we started working together at the 'bee's, she's been so incredibly starved for my attention that she literally clings to me when I'm trying to leave my parents' house and begs me to stay just a little while longer. It breaks my heart every time. My adorable, grown-up-way-too-fast baby sister is seventeen years old and will hug me tightly for five full minutes as she tries to convince me to hang out with her more frequently.

Photo from this summer. I ADORE this little girl.
People say we look alike, but we just don't see it.

At dinner, Wellie is at her most insanely random best, pulling out all the stops in her attempts to make me laugh. Mum and Dado are, of course, wonderful as well; Mum cooks some Philly chestnuts after dinner as a treat, and Dado randomly places a single M&M in front of me every time he walks by - dark chocolate, of course. Finally, after we've been finished for awhile and are reclining in our chairs chatting, Wellie gets up an whispers something in Dado's ear. They get up and do "the dance" in a wildly successful attempt to make me laugh uncontrollably. I wish I had a video to post of the hilarity, but I shall have to resort to humble words to describe the insanity. "The dance" is something Wellie performed out of nowhere a few months ago - nay, longer than that, I'll say a year or so - in celebration of something or other. Basically, she stands with her feet evenly spaced apart and slowly swivels her hips back and forth while holding her arms at powerwalking-esque ninety degree angles and swiveling them the opposite way.

Sound complicated? Trust me, it's not. My dad and brother? CANNOT DO IT TO SAVE THEIR LIVES. Pretty much the funniest evening EVER occurred this past year sometime when we realized that all the women in our family can do it and the men cannot. We immediately chalked it up to genetics and the fact that girls are cooler than boys. Any time someone in our family busts out "the dance," we all lose it. It's so simple and ridiculous and not even the slightest bit cool, but it works for us. And when my dad and sister went for "the dance" tonight, I couldn't help but laugh out the irritability that had been poisoning my demeanor. I love my family so much it hurts sometimes, to think that someday I won't be able to have these moments with them. I want to capture every one while I can.

images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes

Extremely random thoughts for you on a blustery Sunday evening in Indiana...

Presently watching The Holiday for the hundredth time and desperately wishing I could move to England.

Also loving England because of three hours spent with my dad this afternoon browsing England vacation websites.

The smell of campfire makes me want to stand outside and breathe deeply for hours, until my toes go completely numb and I can't feel my ears.

Waiting to hear back from a local, slightly upscale restaurant for a serving job... perhaps a step up from the 'bee's and a more profitable second job in the near future?

Thinking a lot lately about the future; Dan asked me where I see myself in May, and I didn't have an answer.

Getting tired of my intense paranoia concerning germs and illness.

So very over all the ridiculous, immature, childish drama at my lovely restaurant of employment.

Totally at a loss as to what to wear over my impending weekend spent out of town.

I hate living in what I consider to be an untidy sty of occasional filth, but haven't any time to properly tidy it.

Really tired of always paying bills and not saving any money for my future.

Wishing I had time to learn to cook properly, and perhaps sew, and definitely read more books.

Rather chagrined that I'm always complaining in these posts.

I definitely enjoyed my long weekend without a roomie, but I have to admit I'm rather pleased she's back (just helped her carry bags in).

Slightly concerned for my health, what with my roomie and bf suspecting an iron deficiency and a general feeling of being "off" for the past few weeks.

Dreaming dreams and wishing wishes, without fully realizing any of them.


At risk of sounding cliche or girly or whatev, yet not caring if you think that because it's true, I am completely crazy about this guy:

I know, I know. Go ahead and make fun of me. Here's to hoping.

there's no time for fussing and fighting, my friend

Sunday morning, I agreed to close the bar for JH on Wednesday so he could go to the Miss Gay Indiana pageant in Indianapolis, I think. He does a drag show and was trying to make some more contacts so he can start making money from this relatively new venture, and I was more than happy to work his nighttime bar shift for him. This story is not about that.

Wednesday evening, we really weren't that busy. I was trained as a bartendress (as I like to call myself) in March of this year, if I remember correctly. As far as bartending goes, I'm still quite new at this whole game, especially considering I am not a heavy drinker and had little to no familiarity with most of the liquors behind the bar before I started serving them. To work a nighttime bar shift, and have to balance both rail guests and servers' drinks from the well, is both overwhelming and an exciting challenge. I love moving quickly and attempting to make the drinks as fast as I can, while still building rapport with my guests so as to boost my tips. All in all, I was rather proud of my performance this particular evening.

Wednesday night, I was closing the bar, performing various cleaning tasks and whatnot, and I dragged my garbage can out to the back docks, where a few of the cooks were sitting on boxes and empty kegs taking a brief smoke break. One in particular, C, sports dark hair and a lip ring, and shares my sarcastic sense of humour to the point that we get along quite well. At least, as well as I can gather from the brief chats we've shared here and there during the times our shifts overlap. He's one of those co-workers I genuinely enjoy talking to, because he's funny, always kind to me, and never lashes out against the other cooks or the servers like so many back-of-house associates tend to do. I appreciate a strong yet controlled personality. We could use more of those at the 'bee's. Anyway, I dragged my garbage out back and C was out there smoking. Now, I don't smoke, and actually abhor the habit for a variety of reasons (I know people who have had emphysema/lung cancer as a result of being around heavy smokers, secondhand smoke gives me a horrid headache, etc.), but I do like to chat with people when I can, and unfortunately, a lot of the chatting and getting-to-know people happens when they bond over their cigarettes on the back dock. I chatted with C and the other cooks for a few minutes and C mentioned that he and D, one of the closing servers, were going out to get a drink after work, and invited me to join.

Wednesday night, I faced a quandary. I have been invited out multiple times by people I work with. One clique in particular has invited me to join them at various low-rate bars and/or clubs numerous time, but I have yet to join those particular shenanigans. I did accompany them to BW3's one night, which helped secure my "cool" status, but considering they don't really invite me out much anymore, I'm guessing I'm not enough of a drinker for them. Also, the conversation they pursued during our time out was both vulgar and somewhat out of my sheltered little comfort zone at times. Therefore, I am usually relatively wary when invited to chillax by 'bee's people. However, C seems like a nice guy, and D is a very pleasant sort as well, having been nothing but sweet to me, so I seriously considered it.

Wednesday night, I had almost decided not to join my co-workers, when D approached me in an excited frenzy (she's rather high-energy), shrieking that she heard I was going out with them and ohmygodthatissoawesomewearegoingtohavesomuchfun!!!!!111. "Self," I declared, "You really do need a drink. And you like these particular co-workers of yours. Let's do this."

Wednesday night, C and D and I went to a new-ish bar that C knew because it was a renovated version of an older place he used to go to regularly. To make a long story short, we three immediately bonded over the experience of attempting to defer the affections of two seriously creepy drunkards - one of which wanted me to leave the other two so he could tell me a secret, and the other which asked D to kiss him now multiple times. C was a splendid male companion to two young females (that made us sound really young or something; we're all pretty much the same age), refilling our drinks for us from the pitcher we split, telling the creepy guys that we were both his and he doesn't like to share, holding us one on each arm as we left so no one would get any ideas. After this somewhat unnerving experience, we went to a much friendlier pub and laughed about it over a bucket of beers. Normally I'm not a beer person, so C collaborated with the bartender at this pub (who he knows well) to pick a beer for me to sample. To my surprise, they were successful, and I enjoyed a rather tasty Honey Brown.

Wednesday night, I enjoyed myself enormously until three-thirty in the morning, talking and laughing and bonding with C and D. D had to go home relatively early, since she lives forty-five minutes away, so C and I continued chatting for awhile, played a game of pool, and called it a night. I got two new contacts in my phone from my new 'bee's friends, and realized that I miss having a variety of people to hang out with. Don't get me wrong, I love my roommate and my significant other very much. I haven't seen my roommate in two days and I have a number of stories to tell her. If I don't see my guy for a few days I actually miss him; which yes, sounds lame, but what can I say, I'm a passionate person. When I got in my car after the night o'random shenanigans with co-workers, I realized I had a huge grin on my face because I had so much fun and it was just so REFRESHING to know it's possible to have other friends. My roommate has a number of other people she makes plans with, and I'm not always invited because I don't really know her other friends very well and it's not like you have to be attached to someone at the hip just because you share an apartment. In a way, it's nice to know I might have a few friends of my own - REAL friends, not just random alcoholic buddies like the other clique at the 'bee's. We actually talked about ourselves and personal lives and real things, and they both told me multiple times that they really enjoyed hanging out with me and we are SO doing it again soon.

Thursday night, I was hanging out with JK, another co-worker, with whom I share a deep and loyal love of "The Office." We had made plans weeks ago to watch the season five premiere together, and began the evening with dinner at-where else?-Chili's. My sister joined us. The conversation evolved into JK sharing various tidbits of gossip she heard around the 'bee's (my sister is a hostess at the 'bee's, so she knew all the people JK was referring to), some of which was highly implausible. She shared one extremely far-fetched instance that she claimed involved C and D; I wisely refrained from mentioning I hung out with them the night before.

Friday afternoon, I was once more working the 'bee's, and found myself in a conversation with M and A, both servers who are a bit younger than me, but have been part of the 'bee's culture for either as long as me or a bit longer. We discussed the insane gossip mill present in our workplace, and A remarked that she had been a victim of the rumour-mongering a few times in the past. In addition, she has told me numerous times about how she doesn't get along well with D, and a manager actually spoke to her about it, stating that D heard all kinds of stories about things A said about her. Can we say DRAMA?! Basically, the point of this entire long, drawn-out story I'm sketching for you, is that I am constantly astonished at the force and power of the gossip/rumour mill at the 'bee's. Is any other workplace like this? People's names are constantly dragged through the mud for various reasons. There's a never-ending cycle of whispers declaring who slept with who and who is secretly gay and who cheated on their boyfriend with that manager. It's impossible to keep up with and quite frankly, a rather tiring task I don't care to participate in. I didn't tell any of my co-workers for six months that I was seriously dating my guy because heaven knows what they would do with that information. And it's true - once they started finding out, I was teased a few times through inappropriate comments. Nothing mean-spirited, just not particularly in line with my moral system. It just astounds me that people are so immature to talk about people constantly behind their backs, to stoop to child-like methods of deceit and bickering, and that no one is exempt from this vicious game, not even managers or the youngest, most innocent of hostesses.

Saturday morning, I wrote a ridiculously long post about my recent workplace musings, and wondered whether other workplaces shared this madness.

take these broken wings and learn to fly

I'm discouraged.

I've been trying really hard to not let this become a place for personal rants or whining or whatnot, and more an outlet for expressive depictions of both random thoughts and day-to-day anecdotes, but I have to be cathartic to-day, and for that I apologize. I also apologize for the length of that sentence; it definitely borders on run-on status.

I was just rejected for a job.

It's just a lovely way to wake up in the morning to your phone ringing, seeing an unknown number - which I kind of love, by the way; unknown numbers spell intrigue! adventure! etc! - making sure you answer in a semi-coherent way, and have a nice lady tell you that your availability just isn't going to work. Let's back up a minute so I can fully explain why one tiny rejection is making me so upset.

As previously stated on this blog, I work at an Applebee's, and I love it there. I do. I enjoy the people, the fast-paced nature, the job itself. I enjoy it thoroughly. That said, it's been a long, slow, summer, and unless things start picking up soon, I will have to give up eating food just so I can pay my bills and still save a little bit every month. I must. save. money. So I can move to a big city and pursue my dream of working in publishing.

Okay. So you know I work at the 'bee's. Unfortunately, that's a sporadic income. I never know how much I'm going to make from day to day, aside from the $2.13 an hour I make serving or the $3.25 an hour I make bartending. My second job has been at the local branch of a large midwestern university, as an administrative assistant, and then as the editor of the newsletter for one of the colleges. However, that has also turned out to be sporadic income, because the Dean of the college seems to find joy in putting off his tasks as long as humanly possible, thus delaying the project and preventing me from EVER LEAVING. Let's review: like Applebee's, sporadic income. Dislike college, but pays more, but has also become sporadic income. Can we say SUCKS.

I began a search for a new second job awhile ago. I applied everywhere, citing that I need decent wages. That's probably why I haven't gotten any calls. Limited availability and staunch refusal to work minimum wage. I have a freaking college degree and I just got rejected for a job at KOHL'S. The CLOTHING STORE. Because I'm not willing to work Friday nights, since I'm keeping Applebee's on those nights so I actually have a chance to make more than $20 a shift. The sad part? Out of all the places I applied, Kohl's was my BACKUP. The pretty-much-guaranteed-shoo-in job.

I just don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I've been sending out resumes to publishing groups and working so hard for the past year at these stupid menial jobs to save money so I can make my dream happen and I'm just looking in the mirror and seeing a life as a waitress in Fort Wayne. Having been a waitress, I can say that it's really hard work, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a waitress full-time to make ends meet, but I have such bigger aspirations. I just thought I was going to do something after graduation, and the real world has slapped me over and over as I attempt to climb out of this hole of the Midwest.

Final thoughts. Last night I went to my sister's back-to-school night, since my mum is out of town at a funeral and my dad wasn't feeling well. I played surrogate parent; which, admittedly, was kind of fun. I saw one of my old teachers, MA,whom I adored in high school, and we had a conversation that really prompted me to think about my job search. Her daughter is working in Chicago right now, and struggled just as I am with finding a position, especially from a distance as I am attempting to do (Chicago and New York aren't exactly a jaunt away. Well, Chicago isn't bad at all; New York is another story). My teacher told me that her daughter tried searching from afar and eventually just moved to the city jobless. Within six weeks, she had a position. Granted, she's not in publishing, she's in finance, but STILL. That REALLY makes me want to just pick up and move. REALLY. BADLY. I'm so tired of being rejected and not getting answers and being told that I'm not good enough to sell clothing to haggard soccer moms and run a register like I did for four years in high school and fold t-shirts like I've been doing since I was eight.

I need to take action. Do something to combat this negativity and this discouragement. Stop whining to the internet and GET OUT THERE.

I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping

At work we have a series of two or three CDs that are constantly playing on repeat during work hours. Because of how often I am present at work, I know all the words to a large number of both mid-90's and recent pop/soft rock Top 40 hits. In addition, I have come to loathe more than a few of said hits. I don't know the names or artists of half the songs we play, but I DO know I harbor a deep, unnatural hatred towards them. There's one song in particular that I think they play ON PURPOSE once I walk in the door, as it is ALWAYS ON when I'm opening the bar, and proceeds to get stuck in my head for the remainder of the day. Say it with me now: ARGH.

The whole point of this story is that to-day, the quintessential Abba song, "Dancing Queen," came on the soundtrack, and it was during a slower time in the afternoon, so they had the music turned up in the back so the cooks could be entertained whilst preparing the typical daytime lunch combos and half-size salads. The mid cook, J, immediately perked up when Abba started wailing, and loudly asked the kitchen manager to turn it up. Keep in mind, the kitchen manager is a young, bald guy who was drinking black coffee out of a Harley Davidson mug whilst working expo all day, and promptly gave J a look and a half that read something along the lines of: "Hi, are you a man? ABBA? REALLY?" J tried to defend himself by declaring that everyone is permitted a secret, guilty pleasure when it comes to music.

Which brings me to my main point. Is this true for all, both male and female? Presently, in my car, I have a number of CDs in the glove compartment (I know, I know. My dad keeps telling me this is a break-in waiting to happen. Especially since I have a new car. New Car + CDs Not-So-Subtly Stowed Away in Glove Compartment = Obvious Heist Target). Including in said compartment are Colbie Caillat [gift from Jaime K], The Beatles Blue Album (1967-1970) [self-purchased], Sara Bareilles [gift from Kathryn], Counting Crows [self-purchased], Linkin Park [stolen from my sister], the soundtrack to the Beatles rock-musical Across the Universe [self-purchased; also a freaking AWESOME movie if you like the Beatles and know some of their history/trivia], and Anberlin [also stolen from my sister]. Just to name a few. Oh yeah, and Natalie Grant. Self-purchased. I think that's a somewhat random mix. Any guilty pleasures in there? Not really. I have no shame in admitting to the kinds of music I like. Is it only a guilty pleasure if you are afraid to admit it, no matter what company you may be partaking of at the moment?

Example Two: my older brother was aptly born in the early 80's. He loves Metallica, Pink Floyd, Tool, Bush, Pearl Jam, and Live. However, he also loves "medieval rock" (no really, they take 16th-century tunes and vamp them up. It's both completely insane and strangely fascinating. Try it out, he recommends this band to get a feel for the genre), the Beatles, Phil Collins, and Billy Joel. One would think a hardcore Metallica fan, who has seen them in concert and loudly declares his devotion to ROCK, would not be willing to admit love for Phil Collins and Billy Joel. Nay, HE DOES. Maybe it's just my family.... totally didn't consider that angle. Hmm. This changes everything...

Guilty pleasure tunes? Anyone?


In other news, I cleaned my bathroom to-day, and immediately started disinfecting all the common surfaces in the APT. My roomie has been ill all week with a "throat infection and respiratory infection." This is a woman who is constantly sick, but never with ordinary ailments. All things require some form of medical attention, and she always knows exactly what will make her feel better. I admire her moxie. I fear all germs, illness, medical buildings/personnel, etc. And my sister wants to be a doctor. I will never understand her. This is just one more example of how I'm harboring Monk-ish tendencies. Which brings us to the main event of the evening... the SEASON PREMIERE of Monk and Psych. Two quality television programs that you should start watching immediately, if you don't already. If you have a sense of humour and enjoy a good detective/mystery story, then you will love them. Scout's honour. And I was never a Scout of any kind, so you know my word is gold.

Happy Friday!

picture yourself in a boat on a river

I love waking up in the morning hours and hearing the birds chirp as the world comes to life. This is quite a paradox, considering I am the very antithesis of a morning person. I. Need. Sleep. If I could sleep in with no alarm clock interrupting my beautiful slumber every day I totally would. Alarms are evil little devices, possibly invented by a masochistic cult. NAY, DEFINITELY invented by a masochistic cult. You never know.

I have to get ready for work soon, but all you working people will appreciate a slight feeling of apprehension I have due to a missed social engagement with some co-workers. Social interaction with one's co-workers can be a rather sticky conundrum, for sure. In this particular instance, a guy I rather enjoy working with - extremely good at his job, always willing to help me learn more about bartending, horrid gossip, not always exactly in line with authority, flamboyantly homosexual - was having his first cross-dressing dance performance at his favorite club downtown last night. I suppose that's a drag show. Hello, I'm naive! Nice to meet you.

Anyway, he made up these fancy invitations with a somewhat frightening photograph and all the details, and then sent out text messages reminding everyone yesterday, and wrote about it in the bar book at work, and basically was extremely excited. Understandable, there's a certain rush that comes from performing in front of a group of people. It helps to have a lot of friendly faces in the audience. Although for some that makes it more nerve-wracking. I replied to his text message last night with the cop out, "I hope to make it! Have fun!" And he came back with, "You will make it, everyone will be there!"

Enter the conundrum. In order to really, truly be part of the clique or the "in" crowd or whatever the hell you want to call it that exists at the 'bee's, you have to A. Drink like a bloody fish pretty much every night of the week, and/or B. Attend every single social event you are invited to that is remotely work-related. Meaning, another fellow bartendress had a 5th of July party at her humble domicile last Saturday. It started at 6. I didn't get off work until 8. Had I gone, I would have seen a few people from work, but since I lacked anyone to attend said shindig with me, there would have been extreme awkwardness.

Don't get me wrong. I've gone out with work people a few times before. Just a few weeks ago, after closing on a Monday night, I went out with J, S, and J's friend, later to be joined by three/four more 'bee's workers and a whole slew of bar regulars. I had a margarita. A rather strong beverage, I might point out. And then J bought a round of shots for "his Applebee's bitches." Rather sweet of him, actually. That got pretty pricey. I took one. Then drove to Daniel's house and proceeded to get REALLY LOOPY. Kind of fun, not gonna lie.

The point of all of this is not my poorly worded sentences or strange social agenda. I am not opposed to drinking alcohol. I like it. I have had multiple glasses of wine this week. I have an enormous container of margarita mix made with Jose Cuervo in the fridge right now. It's GLORIOUS. The point is that in order to really feel included by my co-workers, I would have to basically become an alcoholic, or sacrifice any semblance of a sleep schedule in order to come in to work hung over and exhausted every day, and I can't do that. I have a life that consists of much healthier social options than such bar-hopping and excessive boozing. I go out to Bdubs and have a margarita while my roommate and brother both have beers and we have a few laughs and go home and drink a bit more before cashing out NOT in the wee hours of the morning. It's possible to have responsible fun without turning into a complete lush.

I sound like a complete and total fogey now, don't I? Maybe I should've just gone to the drag show. Even though I was hanging out with my roommate and her sister last night. And was tired. And I have no idea where the club downtown is located. It's really not important to be "included" that much at work, right? I get along very well with 99% of my co-workers, and if someone isn't overly friendly to me, it's not because of any drama I stirred up.

My sister had an interview at the 'bee's yesterday. Do I really want to submit my sibling to this madness?

Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun

As any reader of this blog worth his or her salt shall soon learn via my endless storytelling, I am a server/bartender at Applebee's, a well-known casual dining establishment. Working in the restaurant business is incredibly challenging and truly eye-opening [a topic I will be covering in a future post... stay tuned. You know you're intrigued], and I can honestly say that not everyone is cut out to do it. You can't stick an incredibly shy, modest, introverted person into a typical casual restaurant and expect him or her to succeed. Not possible. Trust me. We learned from the train wreck that was Patty. Or was it Patsy? No, it was Patty. Man, she was strange. Might get a story or two there later.

Meanwhile, let's return to the point at hand. One of my both favorite and least favorite things about working in a restaurant is the constant interaction with so many different kinds of people. There are some WEIRD PEOPLE in this world, folks. You would think that an ordinary, run-of-the-mill casual dining establishment in the Midwest wouldn't attract such a colorful crowd of critters, but ALAS. That is not the case.

Tonight, I had a fascinating table. I was seated at table #25 with two women, both getting on in years, one more noticeably so than the other. [Completely unrelated sidenote: my computer/browser/keyboard?!?! keeps freezing after every other word I type, forcing me to pause until the letters catch up. It's really cramping my style. I think it has to do with the fact that I have approximately thirteen different webpages open at the same time. Note to self: give computer a break every now and then. It will then love you more. Sidenote over.] The woman on the left showed her age through the lines carved into her face, her unevenly spaced teeth, her sharp, bony knuckles. Woman on Right proudly sported frizzy greyish-white hair and wrists boasting no body fat whatsoever. Quickly after approaching the table, I discovered that Woman on Right smiled a lot and needed assistance from Loud Lefty to both read the menu and decide what she wanted to eat. Loud Lefty is thus named due to her tendency to raise her voice when speaking emphatically or to another person.

After taking table #25's order, I got sat [important clarification: I realize this phrase may lead you to question my grammatical prowess. However, I only use this phrase as the 'restaurant biz' term, referring somewhat obviously to the fact that one of the tables in my designated section had become occupied by guests to our humble neighborhood bar & grill.] at table #15, so I turned from #25 to greet the new table, and stopped by #24 on my way back to the kitchen to check if they needed anything. Gathered a request or two from them before prancing on my way and continuing my personal quest to be the world's most charming server. I know, aspirations are astronomically overblown. Upon my return to #25 to check on their salads, after completing all my previously mentioned tasks, Loud Lefty called me back using my name - which, I'm not going to lie to you, dear readers, occasionally weirds me out. I understand that I introduce myself to a table, and that I wear a nametag, and both of these things seem to indicate that I have no problem with my customers knowing who I am.

Whoa. I totally just fell asleep sitting up at my computer. It's tiring waiting for my face to dry so I can safely apply acne medication without burning my skin off. This post is to be continued on the morrow, especially since I just fell asleep AGAIN. DAMN. AND AGAIN. Eyelids... so... heavy... zzzzzzzzzzn