I been framed.

Manager-dude has, in only two months, made countless (ok, but I've counted them anyway: 23) mistakes on the schedule, some of which were not caught in time to fix them. Just to give you an idea, Whitney used to do the schedule and, in four years, made only three (3) mistakes. You get the picture. It's a pain to work around everyone's busy lives and make sure all positions are filled and that the staff is well balanced, but it ain't rocket science. After writing his first schedule, he brought it to me and asked me to look it over for errors - I found about three or four that week and pointed them out to him. For the next couple of weeks, I continued to point out errors to him...the last thing I wanted was to have a busser not show up because manager-dude had neglected to schedule one for the evening. It was in the best interest of everyone that I continue to try to assist manager-dude in mastering that muthah. And with each progressive week, he would get more and more edgy and defensive with me and then start whining about how needy everyone is with requesting certain days off. Sorry, dude, it's a restaurant, not a school/police station/doctor's office/hospital/etc. For most folks working the front of the house, this is not a career, but an end to a means. And so we have other plans.

Like me, for example. Tonight.

It was my lovely wife, J's, birthday and I had planned to wine and dine her at one of my new favorite restaurants in Portland, Nuestra Cocina (sooooo delicious!). En route to dinner, my cell phone rings, indicating that I have a new voicemail. It's Whitney and she's calling from work and wondering where I am since, according to the schedule, I was due in at 5:30pm.

What the hell?

When manager-dude posted that schedule about a week or so ago, I specifically remember him telling me that he scheduled me for only three days, as I'd requested (last week he had me scheduled for five days, which I'd specifically told him I would not be able to do once school started) and I also would have noticed if he'd scheduled me on this date since it was J's birthday and we had plans to celebrate together. I am 100% certain that I was scheduled off for Oct. 18 when that schedule was posted.

How can this be, you ask?

To my credit, this sort of thing has happened before. Manager-dude discovers errors on the schedule and fixes them on the computer, putting the updated version where the old one was posted and discarding the old one. Does he tell the people whose schedules are impacted by his changes? No he does not. He somehow magically expects us to know that, not only should we check and write down our schedule when it is posted, but we should also check it every day thereafter in the event that it has changed.

I don't think so!

That's the most crazymaking expectation I've ever heard. Is he nuts? Does he really truly believe that it is my fault that I missed my shift tonight? Let's look at the facts:

Number of times bad kitty has (in four years) missed a shift at work (including tonight): 1

Number of times (in two months) manager-dude has made mistakes on the schedule (including tonight): 24

I rest my case.

Je suis le mental case, part 1

I'm mildly agoraphobic.

I mean, I am not fearful of actual marketplaces per se, but I don't do so well in crowds or around folks who take up a great deal of emotional space. With elevators, I'm great as long as I'm the sole rider (or if I am amongst family or friends); otherwise, 'tis freaky for moi.

So I guess it's not so much the open spaces that prove alarming for me, but the people in the open spaces that I have a hard time with. Is that still agoraphobia?

Sadly, none of my phobias seem to have names and all of the phobias that DO have names don't seem so applicable to me.

Arachnophobia - nope
Xenophobia - nope
Homophobia - absolutely not
Acrophobia - no
Claustrophobia - oh, definitely. ok, nevermind.

Here are some of the other things I have a hard time with - are there names for any of these phobias?

loud noises
flourescent light/direct (non-natural) light
abandonment
dental work
fire (pyrophobia?)
change

Looking at the bright side, I should consider myself fortunate to be living in an era in which I can fearlessly blog about my phobias and not during a time in which I might have been burned at the stake or put away in a mental institution.

Yay 2006!

our restaurant customers say the darndest dumbest things

and here are some examples of them:

1. Customers, after entering the restaurant through the front door, ask the host(ess), who has been in the air-c0nditioned restaurant since the start of her shift, "What's the weather like on the patio?" Some of our hosts are savvy enough to inform the customer that the weather on the patio is not unlike the weather outside the front of the building, which the customer should be quite well acquainted with, seeing as how they just came from there.
   
   
2. "Is that real ice?" This is a frequently heard query regarding ice sculptures as well as a large glass sink of crushed ice holding martini glasses (which exists in the bar where I currently work)...to which I frequently can't help but reply, "Why wouldn't it be?"
   
   
3. "Do you know where the restroom is at?" OK, I hate the whole preposition at the end of a sentence, but give me a break. Of course I know where the restroom is located - I work there! C'mon, folks, don't be so silly. Ask me where it is, don't ask me if I know where it is! And please don't tack an 'at' on the end of the sentence! KThnx.
   
   
4. When they have finished their dinner and their dessert, I always ask if there is anything else I can get for them, hoping that perhaps they will order a glass of port or a nip of scotch to end their evening. At least once a month, however, someone will reply with, "a winning lottery ticket?" and the entire table will burst into laughter as if that is the funniest thing they've ever heard. I refrain from informing them that I could likely retire if I'd had a dollar for every time I'd heard that one.
   
   
5. Folks call on the phone and will ask "How busy will you be at 7 o'clock?" Gee, I dunno, let me pull out my crystal ball and check! I know, on the weekends especially, it is relatively easy to determine that we WILL be busy, just not HOW BUSY. Sure, we can look and see if there are alot of reservations, but sometimes there are a lot of walk-ins as well and sometimes not. C'mon folks, really, how we would be able to give an accurate response to that?
   
   
6. Cutomers will ask me a question about an item on the menu or whether or not we carry a certain item. After responding (with confidence!), some will look at me and say, "are you sure?" Please. If I wasn't certain, I'd say so - or I'd excuse myself to go and make certain. If you ask a question, please just accept the answer that you are given. If someone asks you a question at your job and you answer them promptly and with confidence, how would you feel if they came back with "are you sure?"
   

une petite update

By the way, our floors look fanfuckingtastic! Hooray for Pergo! The bad kitties have been forgiven, although we will be garnishing their allowances until the beauteous new floors are paid off.

who's the bad kitty now?

Last day of vacation and we're pretty ready to be home. We're tired, we're hot, we're grouchy and we all want to sleep in our own beds, for a change.

Nevermind that we ALMOST RAN OUT OF GAS on our last leg of the roadtrip...

We pull up in front of our still newish-to-us townhouse and we're all delighted to see our Edward Scissorhands-ish abode. J was talking about how much she missed our kitties and how she was looking forward to seeing them. She jumped out of the car and ran to our front door. I tried to grab a couple of random items, figuring it'd be less to lug in later.

The smiles of excitement on our faces, as our key was unlocking our front door, turned to utter disgust as we stepped into our home and took a big whiff of the hot, muggy, cat-urine infested air.

What the fuh...?

Our cats had sitters and were well fed and paid attention to while we were away but, somehow, this was not sufficient for them and they were angry. They were pissed. They pissed!

All over our dining room carpet.

And our living room carpet.

And our kitchen wood laminate flooring.

It was utterly disgusting. They'd never done this before.

We busted out the Nature's Miracle. We lit scented candles. We opened the windows and turned up the fans. After a few hours of cleaning and wiping down surfaces, our home smelled like Pineapple Cilantro candle. AND cat pee.

We'd been considering tearing up our carpet and installing wood laminate flooring on the entire downstairs living area, but that was to be next year's home improvement project. Should we consider doing that now? Or just borrow a friend's carpet shampooer? Or call a professional cleaner for the carpets?

We opted for the latter and selected a gay-friendly, environmentally-conscious carpet cleaning service to do the job. Karen found the concept of gay-friendly carpet cleaning to be a hoot, but hey, I don't want negative angry energy directed at me in my home, so we use gay-friendly services whenever possible. Besides, this way the money that we pay them won't later be used against us politically.

Well, the carpet cleaners came yesterday and -even though it smelled 100% better when our carpets were saturated with their nontoxic chemicals- the smell came back as soon as the carpets dried. Turns out that the angry urine invasion was pretty pervasive, plummetting deep below the carpet surface and through the pad underneath, then onto (into?) the sub-floor. This is a larger problem, we are told. This will require a tearing up of the carpet, discarding the pad beneath it, painting the affected area with a product called "KILLZ" (something every aspiring Buddhist should use, no doubt), then re-covering the floor. It looks like our wood laminate remodel will be happening much sooner than we'd originally intended.

In the meantime, the enviro-friendly carpet folks gave me some volcanic ash to sprinkle around and then vacuum up after several hours. Yes, volcanic ash. Who knows if this will help rid our home of the odor in the meantime. I do not understand at all how volcanic ash of all things will be plucking each and every odor particle from the air and taking it away forever.

We shall see.

insomniacs anonymous

I have insomnia.

Fierce, vicious insomnia.

I've had it on and off for years since high school (so, about 25 years) and, for the most part, I've learned to live with it. During the school year, I make the most of it and typically get a LOT of studying done between the hours of midnight and 4am. Sometimes people think I'm crazy. Which is fine, I guess, but the insomnia has become so normalized for me by now.

Sometimes I am completely incapable of making sleep happen until 6 or 7 am.

When I embark upon a group project at school, I have made it a habit of letting my groupmates know that they ought not be alarmed if they receive email from me at three in the morning or so. I learned the hard way that that sort of thing tends to freak some people out a little.

Here is a list of things I have tried in an attempt to rid myself of said insomnia (either permanently or temporarily - ya gotta take what you can get):

• warm bath
• hot tea, milk, and other warm beverages (without alcohol)
• alcohol (in varying quantities and temperatures)
• Chammomile
• Lavender
• Melatonin
• Valerian
• St. John's Wort
• reading
• thinking about something peaceful
• thinking about something boring
• several over-the-counter sleep aids, none of which worked
• Trazedone (kinda works, but takes too long to kick in)
• Ellavil (did not work AT ALL)
• one other lame Rx that did nothing Restoril
• Sonata (worked well most of the time)
• Valium (kinda worked)
• Ambien (got me to sleep, just didn't keep me there)
• Morphine (this worked!)

So, you see the problem. And even though I go to my doc and say that I wanna try this Lunestra stuff that I see advertised in my New Yorker or that I did okay with Sonata, or alternating Sonata and Ambien, they tell me no and write me a prescription for Trazedone. When I first picked this prescription up from the pharmacy, the pharmacist told me that I should be really careful if I get up in the middle of the night because this drug will make me so drowsy that it'll be dangerous for me to be at large! In my own home even!!!

This was so exciting for me to hear, I cannot even begin to describe. Hooray! Finally a drug that will conk me out completely so that I can have a peaceful night's sleep like the normal people do! I simply could not wait for evening to fall so that I could battle my insomnia - kapow, right in the kisser!

The kind pharmacist even suggested that I cut the pill in half and begin with a mere half dosage! It's that powerful, he tells me! I consider the possibilities. I so cannot wait to try this and I'm gonna take a whole one because I have a high tolerance and I hate cutting pills in half - they never divide perfectly evenly and this drives me crazy. I do not tell the pharmacist any of this, though. It is my own little secret.

I was nearly giddy with joy when I popped my first Trazedone at around 11pm. I crawled into bed and found a somewhat comfortable position while I waited for the magic drug to whisk me away into a wondrous sleep.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

Some grueling two hours later, sleep finally remembered me and claimed me as one of her own. I did not feel like crap the next day and for that I am grateful. In two and a half weeks, I see my new doctor. Perhaps she will agree with me that perhaps a different, better, more effective sleeping pill is in my best interest.

I don't understand why they won't just give me Morphine to take for insomnia. The motherfucker works. And how.

Sleater-Kinney...it's not just a freeway exit in Olympia, Washington - it's a phenomena

A week or two ago, I got word that Sleater-Kinney, my fave girl punk rock band and one that has been my solace during a hardship or two, is breaking up and that their present tour would be their last. This saddened me enormously, but I totally get that these things happen. At the time that their breakup was announced, there were no plans for a farewell show in Portland, but we all knew that they would have to schedule one.

And they did.

But tickets sold out in less than ten minutes and many local fans, myself included, were left high and dry. And ticketless. I couldn't believe it. For all of their previous shows, I'd been able to get tickets the day they went on sale and never had any trouble whatsoever. Their shows would typically sell out, but not usually right away.

In no time flat, tickets were available on eBay for upwards of $300. Scalper websites had them available for between $90 and $135 per ticket. These are tickets that originally sold for $12, plus a $1 service charge. In the past, we'd paid around $20 or so for their shows, but clearly they weren't looking to make any money on this show, they just wanted to give back to their very loyal fanbase.

A friend of mine boasted that he'd scored tickets and I have to admit that I was a little jealous. They just had to add another show. They just had to.

Then a couple of weeks ago, my daughter (K) came home from hanging out downtown with her pals and reported that her friend, Hannah, had claimed that a second show was already on the books with tickets to go on sale the following Saturday at noon. Tickets would be available at the venue box office for one hour before they would be released for online and telephone sales. J and K and I all looked at one another.

We all had the same thought.

We would go downtown very early Saturday morning and queue up at the Crystal Ballroom. This time we would not miss out on obtaining tickets to the last Sleater-Kinney show ever. We confirmed on the Crystal Ballroom website that our information was, indeed, correct and then set our alarms for 5am Saturday.

By 5:45am, we claimed our spaces as 10th, 11th, and 12th in line, joining the other bleary-eyed fans who'd come before us. I ran down to VooDoo Doughnuts and bought a dozen, which we shared with the other fans in line near us. We brought blankets, a newspaper, snacks and our senses of humor as we did our best to get comfortable on the urban sidewalk. It got colder before it got warmer and we spent a fair amount of time shooting the shit with Amy, who was just in front of us in line.

When fatigue (and sugar crash) set in, we tried laying down and sleeping on the sidewalk - I'll just say that the residentially challenged folks make it look easy and comfortable sometimes, but trust me, it's so not. Other folks were spending the next several hours until the box office opened reading (I saw two copies of The Devil Wears Prada), knitting, playing cards, etc.

About an hour before the box office opened, we noticed a fellow with a large and very official-looking video cam scanning the crowded line and we, at first, thought that perhaps we'd be on the evening news. 'Twas not the case. Turns out he was making a documentary for the band! We gave K our money and let her buy our tickets so that she could be filmed for the documentary.

I'm really sad about Sleater-Kinney breaking up. Their music means a lot to me and the women in the band are smart and very articulate. I hope they continue making music separately and I'm sure I'll get used to the idea eventually.

I don't do so well with change.

Californiacation

While standing in line for the Pacific Spin at Soak City, the little boy who got his swim trunks pocket torn off by his dad was goofing off with (presumably) his brother while waiting the 45 minutes to get to the start of the ride. During that time, we overheard this fellow (who had maybe 6 or 7 years under his belt) proclaim, "You know, most people don't survive this ride."

We all laughed out loud at this and the young fellow was none the wiser. But, did he really think he might die on the ride? And, if so, what did he suppose they did with all of the dead bodies? And how did they procure so many repeat riders wanting more? I suppose it's possible that he meant something different by this, but what?

Then, while in line for a different ride, about ten kids from a summer camp were separating me from J and K, who'd seen them coming and ran ahead. No worries, though, as the line for this ride went pretty quickly and it was enjoyed on an individual basis. While waiting, a cute African-American girl strikes up a conversation with me.

"Do you have any sons or daughters?"

"Yes, I have one daughter who is ahead of us in line, the blond girl with the orange swimsuit," I tell her. I then add that I wasn't fast enough to get in line with my family before the kids from the summer camp came over and that is why we aren't standing in line together.

She checks K out, then asks me, " Have you ever been on that ride?" she says, pointing to the Pacific Spin.

I tell her that I was in line for that ride, but didn't get to go on it because they didn't like how my swim trunks were. I wasn't sure if she followed or not, but then she says, "I was wondering why you were wearing your boxer shorts."

I explain to her that I find the shorts more comfortable than a swimsuit like hers. I refrain from adding anything about "when you get to be my age" or from using the phrase "fucking fat-phobic Southern Californians thinking that anyone over size 8 is obese" and she seems cool, yet perplexed by my response.

Her friend asks me if the ride we're waiting for is scary and I tell her that it isn't. I then feel compelled to qualify my statement since I don't find very many rides "scary" and these girls are about 8 years old. I explain to them that it's dark for a little bit and then light and that it goes pretty fast and that water dumps on your head. The friend admits that she's somewhat afraid of the dark and I assure her that it won't be dark for very long. The African-American girl then poses a serious question to me.

"Do you bond with your daughter?"

Holy crap. Did I hear this kid correctly? What an odd question. Perhaps she said something else or means something different by it.

"What do you mean?" I asked her.

"You know, how moms and dads bond with their daughters?" Yowsa, did she learn about this at summer camp?

"Do you mean, like, hanging out with her and doing special things together with her?" I ask for clarification.

"Yeah, like that."

"Oh, sure, we bond."

Where on earth do kids get this stuff?

Other observations from California

1. WAY too much use of styrofoam. Unbelievable.
2. Drove past a shop in Oxnard, CA, called "Retarded Persons Thrift Store"
3. "Gum Alley" in San Luis Obispo is a little bit cool and punk rock and a little bit just plain gross

Super-Soak Me

Today (day 4 of my family summer road trip), we decided to spend the day at a water-park to cool our hot selves off. I'd only been to one water-park before (Raging Waters in San Dimas) and I remember it being very fun, so I was looking forward to spending the day at Soak City, a subsidiary of Knott's Berry Farm.

The park had just recently opened the Pacific Spin - a ride in which 2-4 people, on an inner-tube-type-of-flotation-device that is shaped like a Honey Comb cereal, are situated into a small wading pool at the top of a tower (in which said people have climbed about four flights of steps, carrying the giant Honey Comb) and, after being instructed by a 17 year-old O.C. kid, pushes off into a large, dark tube that is flowing with running cold water. The tube twists, spins and turns in complete darkness for a minute or so and then there is a sudden 20+ foot drop. Happy screams ensue while the tube is speedily dumped into the large end of a giant funnel-like contraption, complete with showers of running water in both directions. The Honey Comb then slides rapidly along the large curve of the funnel, and back again toward the original direction, continuing back and forth until the Honey Comb loses momentum and is coerced by the water into a small opening where riders are treated to one last splash via a waterfall raining down on their heads before they are finally dumped into the finishing pool and hurriedly ushered along by the no-longer-thrilled-with-their-jobs teen lifeguards.

Sounds like fun, huh?

That's what we thought, too. So J, K and I decided to make the Pacific Spin our first ride of the day. The line seemed to be on the short side for such a new thrill ride, but we'd gotten there just when the park opened, and we thought it an excellent place to start. The short-ish line turned out to be about 45 minutes long but, judging by the faces of those exiting the ride, as well as the screams of joy heard from nearly every rider, we figured it'd be worth it.

Now, here, I must digress for a moment.

Being something of a dork, I managed to pack my swimsuit top, but no bottoms/board shorts. I realized this by the time we arrived in Long Beach and figured it was no big deal, as I didn't think we had plans to swim and I was content going into the ocean in my cargo shorts and swimsuit top. But then we decided to go to a water-park and, since they're super particular about what one may and may not wear on their water slides, I thought it best to treat myself to a new pair of board shorts. Every other pair I own had been purchased at Target or the Gap and since I was in a major surfing Mecca (Huntington Beach), I thought I'd score some fine authentic surfer board shorts. After trying on a gazillion pairs that were rejected for various valid reasons, I found myself sporting a pair of Reef shorts sporting a green East-Asian inspired design. I loved them and didn't mind being $50 poorer in order to own them. Swimsuit dilemma solved, I was ready for the water-park.

Being somewhat organized, J decided to check the website for the Soak City prior to our departure for the park. In doing so, J noticed a warning about attire stating that swimwear may not have any metal or plastic accessory or be jeweled in any way. Crap. My bikini top had these metal dealies joining the strings and the top of the bra-ish part. We ruled out the bikini top and I just wore one of J's yoga tops with my board shorts.

So here we all are at the top of the Pacific Spin and it's finally our turn, after waiting about 45 minutes. We'd watched as the group before us, comprised of a dad and his two sons, and one of the sons had "illegal grommets" on his shorts back pocket. The ride operator said that the kid couldn't ride with the grommets on his pocket, so dad just rips the whole damn pocket off. Um, problem solved. J, K and I are frantically checking for anything that may prevent us from riding and J determines that a rubber tab on the edge of my pocket flap may not be ok and that I'll have to tuck it in. I do this and, convinced that we are ready to take the plunge on this fantabulous ride, I help plunk our Honey Comb into the wading pool and am asked by the ride attendant to spin around. I happily do so, convinced that I will pass this inspection with flying colors.

"Ma'am, I can't let you ride with those grommets on your back pocket," the tan ride attendant firmly tells me.

"Huh? Grommets? What grommets?" I ask her, as I turn my head in order to look at my left ass cheek, which holds the offending pocket. They're there alright, but we hadn't even seen them because they were the exact same color as the fabric. But eagle-eyes tan lifeguard chick saw 'em and busted me. She tells us that we can step aside and determine what we'd like to do. She offered me the options of: pulling them out or putting my swim trunks on inside-out. J suggested we just pull them out, as many before us had clearly done already, judging by the sprinkling of grommets on the ground at the top of the ride.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

J just looked at me.

"I just paid fifty bucks for these and they're nice shorts and I love them. I'm not about to rip them up just to ride a water-slide that will last all of 3 minutes."

"Well, what do you think we should do," J asks.

I tell her that she and K should go ahead without me and I'll go back down to the fitting room and look into the possibility of turning my shorts inside-out. I meet them at the bottom of the ride and both J and K accompany my to the changing room. J asks if I want her to turn her shorts inside-out in solidarity. It's an incredibly sweet gesture, but I'm not in the right space to appreciate it properly. There's no mirror in the changing room (which is probably just as well) and I feel utterly ridiculous. Oh well, I figure, it's still quite early in the day and I figure that by noon or so, at least 20% of those wearing board shorts will have them on inside-out. Sure, some folks will just tear the grommets out, some will choose to ride the few rides that don't hold this requirement (basically this rules out all of the tubes), and some others will choose inside-out, right?

Wrong.

Total number of parkgoers sporting inside-out board shorts (including me): 1

Total number of parkgoers sporting board shorts with ass pocket grommets and riding the fun rides (where said grommets are supposedly banned): 7+

Time I began seeking other inside-outers: approx. 10:35am

Time I began counting grommet rebels running free: approx. 2pm

Time we left Soak City: 3:05pm

Getting caught checking out the booties of the other park patrons (all ages, genders and races) in order to conduct this survey: priceless

Amount of fun I had, despite this wardrobe malfunction: lots

Funnest ride: Pacific Spin, natch

Greetings from supah-sunny Caul-eeee-fawrn-ya!!

Yep, I'm on another vacation. Nope, it's not fair, seeing as how I just took a mini-vaca only a mere three weeks ago. Deal with it, firefighter.

This time it is the family roadtrip down the coast of Oregon and all the way down to San Diego, with stops in the bay area, Long Beach and the Redwoods along the way. Internet connections are few and far between and, even though I brought le laptop along, I'm reporting from a borrowed machine currently.

Highlights, observations and oddities seen thus far include:

• a Toyota (yay! a palindrome!)-ish SUV pulling a trailer holding a(n) historical military cannon (circa Civil War, ours)...we photographed this as we passed it by, as the driver proudly beamed (dude, we were amused and mortified, not impressed, get over yourself)
• a senior-citizen biker gang, some avec bitches and some not (on Harleys, for reals)...this was far more impressive than the dude with the scary cannon
• waaaaay too much roadkill (quite the variety, though)
• stopping in a farmer's market/produce stand/store in Gilroy, CA (garlic capital of the world) and watching J bust a move to The Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited" to the shock and surprise of onlookers
• K, intending to join J and I across the street at the relative's home, walks into the wrong house (which, incidentally, was right next door to where she needed to be) and calls out a "hello?" to J and I (who are, of course, in the correct house) and, upon receiving no response, proceeds to walk through the home looking in the rooms and hoping to find us there...eventually, she realizes that she might be in the wrong house and comes next door
• conversation overheard in a boutique selling women's surf-inspired clothing:

Salesclerk: "What size is she?"

Grandma (to sales clerk): "She's pretty big."

Salesclerk: "So, like a 10 or a 12?"

Grandma (mortified): "No, she's an 8!!!"

Yes, I'm officially in Southern California, now. Where a size 8 is considered pretty big and the size of the brain appears to be irrelevant (please, no hate mail about how faboo SoCal is - I lived here for five years and I know that there are some folks here who are smart and not superficial and all that...I'm just talking about the prevailing idea of what = beautiful here and that it bugs me a little...I actually love a lot of things about this place - super-duper multicultural, great food and better year-round produce, the cultural arts and music options for those who love them, you can buy booze in the supermarket - I just HATE the whole beauty contest that nobody's gonna win that is so everpresent).

I'm neither super grande, nor am I tres petite, but I just hate the whole skinniest girl contest and all the icky judgment that goes along with it. There's nothing good that comes of it and it makes a lot of chicks feel crappy about themselves. That's no bueno, to be sure.

Today, after a late breakfast enjoyed while shouting out the answers to questions from Who Wants to be a Millionaire and The Price is Right, we went body boarding at Seal Beach and then hung out at Huntington Beach for awhile. The people-watching was fan-fucking-tastic.

More to come, on an as-able basis.

Kids Say the Darndest Things - Preschool Edition

I was recently reminded of a time when my mother was frequently babysitting my wonderful daughter, K, many years ago when I was working on my Bachelor's Degree and sometimes worked in the evenings.

My mother would continuously attempt to pump K for information of any sort that she could get. I was in my mid/late-twenties at the time, but my mother seemed to still be under the impression that I was under her charge.

I remember when I dyed my hair a luscious shade of maroonish pink (which looked fabulous, by the way) and K (then 4 years old) decided that she, too, wanted pink hair. I couldn't see any reason why not, so I promptly dyed her blond bob pink, albeit a slightly lighter shade than my own. Pink hair became all the rage at K's preschool and Olivia, a 4 year-old with long blond locks decided that she also wanted pink hair. Olivia's parents sorta ended up kinda hating me as a result.

I should also mention that K's bob was a result of my mother thinking K's hair "too messy" and not liking my attempts at growing out K's bangs. One time, while babysitting for me, my mother brought K to my sister's home (sis is a beauty school dropout) and had sis cut K's hair into a very tidy bob, complete with bangs. I was not happy about this.

Anyway, the lovely K with her pink-haired bob is at my mom's and is making some teasing reference to imposing some sort of preschool evil upon mom's husband, Papa. My mother then says to K, "be careful that you don't upset Papa - or he might call you bad names."

K thinks about this.

"My mom calls people bad names when she's driving," K says, volunteering this info to my mother, who was continually attempting to catch me at less-than-stellar parenting.

"What sorts of bad names?" my mother asks, obviously trying to trap K into dropping an F-bomb so she can confront me about swearing in front of my daughter.

"Gramps," K says, revealing my insult for the drivers in front of me who seem to subtract 15 at every Speed Limit sign.

"And Idiot," K continues, clearly with no sense of loyalty whatsoever.

"And Clown," K finishes, making sure my mother has them all down.

"Oh, those are bad names," my mother assures K, "are there any others?"

K thinks on this another moment and then, fortunately and miraculously, tells my mother no.

What Kind of Fool am I? Or am I?

I recently learned that a friend of ours has a crush on my lovely wife, J. Let's just call this friend Gertrude. J was also unaware of the affections Gertrude held for her until just the other day.

Can open. Worms freakin' everywhere.

Interestingly, J and I met Gertrude through mutual friends, the Shapiros, another lesbian couple we hang out with frequently. At the time we met her, Gertrude was dating a cute and funny gal from New York, who I'll call Len, and upon meeting them both, J and I both found Len quite charming and fun to be around, but agreed that Gertrude seemed less approachable and that something about her caused us to see some red flags...although neither of us could put our finger on it.

Gertrude is an amazing singer, though, and if American Idol had been around ten years ago, she coulda been a contender. J and I both appreciate music pretty enormously and gave Gert many kudos on her fine set of pipes.

But, when I later learned that Gert had once made out with my boss (um, eww) many years ago and that she'd dated a friend of Alison's and stalked him after they broke up a few years back, the red flags started to make a little sense.

I'm not that good at having really casual friends. Amongst the friends that I do have, there are far more things that I like about them than things that I don't like. When the reverse is true, I just feel that it's not worth my time or effort to maintain the connection. J is different than I am in that respect and is great at hanging out with most people, even if she doesn't have that much in common with them or they don't interest her that much. I admire that about her, but it could never work for me.

When I had to work last Sunday night and we realized I wouldn't be able to attend the soccer game for which we hold season tickets, J decided to call Gertrude, as she enjoys soccer also. Gertrude, of course, wanted to go to the game with J, and then they hung out afterward and Gert decided she wanted to get her first tattoo and asked J to come with her. I later learned that J held a frightened Gert's hand as the needle pumped ink in and out of her skin. No big deal, though, as J would do that for most anyone and has excellent calming skills when others are freaking out. At the time, J had no idea that Gert had a thing for her, nor that Gert was under the impression that it was reciprocal. No doubt the nurturing, comforting and hand-holding fueled that impression.

So when C. Shapiro called J on Wednesday morning to discuss their (the Shapiros, J, Gertrude) camping trip this weekend, she felt it was time to let J know how Gert was feeling. Why was this important? Because, even though I was originally invited on the camping trip, I couldn't get any of my shifts covered and had to stay home. I'd encouraged J to go anyway, since she loves camping and C. Shapiro's birthday would be celebrated on the trip. Problem is, J gets a little bit frightened of "the woods" (I think she watched too many horror flicks as a kid - that or her older brothers convinced her that the woods were scary). I grew up in Oregon and think that trees are lovely - the more the merrier...I have no problem whatsoever with being in "the woods" and the fewer other campers there are around, the better.

A week or so ago, when we realized that I wouldn't be able to be a part of this trip, J asked if I'd have any problem with her sharing a tent with Gertrude, so that it wouldn't be as frightening for her.

"Nope, I don't have a problem with that," I told her.

And then I thought nothing more of it...until C. Shapiro called with her revelation and suggested that maybe J might want to bring her own tent, after all. C. Shapiro also warned J that Gert is convinced that J feels likewise about her - is it because she was selected to use our extra soccer ticket and received nurturing support during her first tattoo (during which, I later learned, she freaked out extensively)? is it because she perceives J's kindness, charm and enthusiasm as being directed at her personally? is it because she perceives unrest between J and I, since J shows up to a lot of parties and group events alone (since I am ususally at work)? or is it just wishful thinking on her behalf?

Since J and C. Shapiro are pretty good friends, I'm certain that C. Shapiro's motivations in telling J about Gert's feelings are purely to avoid any awkward situations that may arise from sharing a tent. I appreciate C. Shapiro for this and am glad that she was forthcoming about this as well.

I've teased J a little about this and planted a few conversations with a little bit of bad kitty propaganda...not that it was necessary or vital to keep J honest, but just to make light of what will likely become an awkward situation in the very near future. Plus, it didn't hurt matters to make sure I look fabulous, smart, witty and studly by comparison.

Furthermore, though, this revelation explains some of Gert's frequent phone calls and text messages to J, including asking to borrow a sleeping bag and an early morning call (these I do not like - from anyone) today to our house to see "how things were going."

Should be an interesting camping trip.

I trust J enormously and don't worry in the least that she will betray me. I know that she loves me and don't worry that she's at all attracted to Gertrude. I guess it bugs me a little that Gert has been pining away for J for some time (despite C. Shapiro's attempts to dissuade her) and would love nothing more than for me to be out of the picture. If I were a sucky partner, that wouldn't bug me so much...but I'm not, so it does.

Of course, what bothers me more than anything about this whole scenario is the flashbacks it conjures up of The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup.

Hotter.

Through the course of my mucho double shiftage this past week, I ended up working some lunch waitshifts – something I pretty much never do. The lunch crowd is a different breed than the dinner crowd in many ways and the lunch regulars are in an alien class all their own. Those amongst our servers who work lunches regularly have all cataloged the various peculiarities of these regulars and are able to administer individualized service to them sans verbalized requests. Ironically, my four-year tenure at the restaurant was invisible to these lunch regulars who have never seen me before and, on more than one occasion, I was asked “are you new here?”

The three little biddies on table 14 didn’t bother asking if I was a newbie and my fellow lunch workers, Drew (who infamously dodged the butter bitch) and Sherry, who sat them there, knew that these wrinkly, diamond-deckered women were not exactly low-maintenance – they just didn’t bother to tell me so.

Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive arrived before WAY-Too-Tan, but didn’t want anything but water while they waited for their friend to arrive. A few minutes after WAY-Too-Tan arrived, I stopped by the table to see if she would like a beverage.

“She just got here! Give her a chance to look at the menu!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive ordered, almost in unison.

I told them that this was no problem and that I’d check back in a few minutes. Later, while I was inputting their order of three identical appetizers and one Caesar salad to share, I learned from Drew that this is the same thing they order every time.

Although I have excellent balance and strong arms, I can only carry three large-sized plates at a time. I’d asked the women if they wanted their salad to be served first and they said no, that they wanted it all at the same time. So I deliberately refrained from placing the salad first, so they wouldn’t think that I was disregarding their wish to have all the food simultaneously. As I’m placing an appetizer plate before each one of them, Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick pipes up, “you forgot our salad.”

“Actually, ladies, I’ll be right back with your salad – I can only carry three plates at a time.”

They said nothing and the look on Mini-Beehive’s face told me that they may or may not have believed that I really didn’t forget about their salad. I returned immediately with a solitary Caesar salad, as well as additional plates and freshly ground pepper. At this point, Mini-Beehive requests a cup of coffee black and asks me to microwave it for 15 seconds so it’ll be hot enough. As this is a frequent request of several of our elderly regulars, I often pre-heat the mug with boiling hot water before pouring the coffee in and decide that I will do this for Mini-Beehive instead of subjecting her coffee to the myriad other flavors roaming around the microwave. All of my other customers have been content with the pre-heated mugs. But not Mini-Beehive. She consumes about one-third of the coffee in the mug and when I offered a refill, she asked that I take her existing coffee and microwave it for another 15 seconds. When Drew and Sherry see me at the microwave, they laugh and remark that they forgot to warn me about her.

“Thanks guys,” I tell them, as they continue chuckling at me.

“At least they’re decent tippers,” Drew advises.

I deposit the freshly nuked coffee in front of Mini-Beehive. A minute later, I return to ensure that her coffee temperature is to her liking.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. I don’t know if that means that it’s okay, meaning just right, or if she means that it’s not what she wants and is tired of me trying to get it right and failing miserably. My guess is that it’s the latter, but also figure that if she wanted me to do something about it, she’d say so. I decide to just leave it at that. As I’m walking away from the table, I hear Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick say to Mini-Beehive, “is your coffee okay?”

“No, it’s not hot enough,” Mini-Beehive confides to her cronies. I make an about-face and return to the table.

“Would you like me to re-warm your coffee?”

“She heard you!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick proclaims, clearly mortified.

Mini-Beehive allows me to take her coffee away for another 15 second treatment and I return moments later with a cup that is steaming so much, you’d think it was on fire.

When I check back a moment later, Mini-Beehive frowns at me and tells me that her coffee is fine. Again, as I’m walking away from the table, I get the real scoop.

“It’s too hot now,” Mini-Beehive complains.

“Send it back,” WAY-Too-Tan advises.

I decide not to return to the table and hope that the natural cooling-off process will suffice for Mini-Beehive and her coffee. After clearing away all of their plates, I return with their bill.

WAY-Too-Tan attempts to hand me her credit card, but Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick reaches across the table with an interception. She slaps WAY-Too-Tan’s card out of my hand and tries to give me her credit card instead. Mini-Beehive speaks up, “no, I’m paying…take my card.”

It should go without saying that I really hate it when people fight over the check – particularly when it involves physical contact with my hands (which have been slapped and grabbed before under similar circumstances). If you genuinely want to buy someone’s meal, do it without a production: slip your credit card to your waiter when you have excused yourself from the table to go to the loo (this is what the people with class do). People who make a show of picking up the tab and who grab me/the bill/the other person’s credit card do not impress anyone – they create a situation that is uncomfortable and embarrassing for all. If you don’t see me wearing a shirt with black and white vertical stripes, then it is not part of my job to referee disputes over the bill and I have no grounds on which to determine whose credit card I should accept. A couple of times, I thought I had the perfect solution of taking all of the cards being offered to me and splitting the check, but nobody was happy when I did this – especially me when they left me crappy tips for not doing it the way they wanted.

Rant-O-Rama

I returned from my lovely vacation earlier this week to be confronted with the following:

*a teen daughter needing four teeth extracted (a three-hour process, it turns out) and, subsequently, a diet of pablum - essentially.

*an employee at work who unexpectedly had an internship turn into a full-time position and put in her two weeks' notice, but stating that she was going to get as many of her shifts covered as possible...not such a big deal, except that she didn't get ANY of her shifts covered and then no-showed, thus putting a managerial schmuck like myself in the position of begging some of our otherwise overworked souls to pick up yet another extra shift and the ones I couldn't fill fell into my schedule. This meant double shifts for me this past week. Yes, plural.

*a partner who was enrolled in a week-long graduate course covering a quarter's worth of information; suffice to say, I got to do everything she typically does around the house, in addition to what I typically do, in addition to the double shifts and the healing daughter relegated to only consume pureed nourishment.

I've barely had two minutes for myself, save for some downtime spent working crossword and sudoku puzzles in between shifts at work. But I did have an opportunity to laugh this week.

I was pulling out of a parking structure downtown into rush-hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Well, trying to anyway. Despite inching out bit by bit, nobody would let me in. Grrr. I rolled my window down and smiled at the oncoming traffic, as sometimes this actually works (usually with men). Finally, a friendly-looking businessman slows down and gestures me over. I wave to him as a thanks and pull in behind one of the many cars that did not allow me to exit the garage. Then I noticed the bumper sticker on the back of this car. It said "Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty." Apparently this does not include allowing the occasional vehicle to go ahead of you. I had to laugh. Then it occurred to me, perhaps my laughter during an otherwise cranky day/week was the senseless act of beauty they were bestowing upon me.

Nah, probably not.

Out of Office Reply

I am out of the blogosphere until Monday, June 26, 2006 next week. If you have urgent matters that must be tended to, please email somebody and hopefully they will give a crap enough to email you back. Nobody will be blogging in my absence.

Thanks! Have a great weekend!

just the facts, ma'am

Some random facts about my blog:

1. All stories here are true (so far)
2. Some of the names have been changed and for various reasons, usually to cover my own ass or prevent someone from possibly getting into some sort of trouble
3. When I do use real names, I usually ask first
4. Sometimes when I blog about people (and even when I change their names), they inadvertently find my blog and leave a most surprising comment (like here)
5. I try to stay anonymous and don't post bonafide pictures of myself mostly for future employment reasons
6. This started as a school assignment (see this post)
7. All opinions are mine and are subject to change
8. I try to avoid saying anything I might later regret
9. I am not Japanese, despite my URL...it's actually an homage to two of my longtime favorite folks, Hello Kitty and David Bowie (not in that order) (as HK is a cat from Japan and DB sings about a cat from Japan in Ziggy Stardust, hence the plural); for the record, my predominant family heritage is Scottish and Native American - a very funky combo

Ya Gotta Have Style

It was my first term of graduate school and I’m working on a research paper and want to do it up right. I learn that my program requires the use of the APA (American Psychological Association) Style Manual, rather than the MLA (Modern Language Association) Style Manual, which is what I used as an undergrad and in my previous grad program.

While I try to wrestle with my confusion as to why the librarians would use the APA over the MLA, I make peace with the fact that it doesn’t make sense to me and that the bottom line is that I need to get myself a new style manual. Stat!

As it turns out, J owns a copy of the APA Style Manual, but it’s an older edition and does not address how to cite web articles in my bibliography, so I decide to purchase a new style manual altogether. I recall that I have a gift certificate for Borders, so I head there instead of my usual stomping grounds, Powell’s Books. And, besides, I’ve always had some respect for the Borders.

Allow me to digress…

At the onset of my final year as an undergraduate, a new Borders store was about to open in Portland and my friend, David, and I decided that it was time to ditch restaurant work altogether and use our noodles helping people decide what to read! We were literary! We were smart! Together, we chose to attend the Borders Job (un)Fair.

After receiving a stamp of approval from our first round of interviews, both David and I were corralled into an area where we were administered a super fun test (which I understand Borders no longer uses in hiring). We had to tackle several literature-related questions (“Who wrote 1984?” “Name a novel written by Virginia Woolf,” etc.) as well as several questions about where to locate certain types of things in the bookstore (such as Feng Shui and I.M. Pei). For a geek like me, this was CANDY!!

During my second round of interviews, I was told by Shane, who was going to be the Café Manager, that I obtained a perfect score on the test (Yay! I’m gonna work in a bookstore! I’m gonna work in a bookstore!). After our first two interviews and testing, both David and I were advanced to meet with the General Manager of the store-to-be and were interviewed briefly by her. We both left the job fair with the impression that we’d be hearing from Borders soon. We were going to work in a bookstore together and, because we were also roommates, we’d carpool to our bookstore jobs!

We were going to fight illiteracy and save the environment! Together!

But then David was offered a job and all I got was a form letter, but it wasn’t even a letter – it was a post card, so a form post card telling me that there were many fine applicants and it was so hard to decide and blahblahblah I wasn’t one of ‘em. I was crushed. Absolutely crushed. Since I’d done so well on the test they’d administered at the job fair, I could only conclude that something had gone very very wrong. That something was very wrong with me.

Some time after this horrible blow to my ego, I learned through my spy, David, as well as through another friend I later realized knew the GM of that store, that this particular Borders was only looking to hire full-time employees – no part-timers allowed here. Although there was some relief in learning this, I still found it enormously ironic that what prevented me from getting a job at the bookstore was my status as a full-time student – majoring in English – at the local university. I then somehow arrived at the conclusion that if I couldn’t get a job at the Borders and I clearly knew a lot about books, then the folks who did get the jobs must be even smarter and more knowledgeable about books than I.

So, about that style manual.

Not wanting to be distracted by things I didn’t know I wanted, I head straight to the information desk of the Borders store, gift certificate in hand. This is not my typical modus operandi, as I am typically rather reluctant to request help finding something until I have exhausted my own possibilities within the search. I enjoy the search and appreciate serendipitously stumbling upon things I didn’t even know existed and wouldn’t have learned about if I always let other people find stuff for me. A young, intelligent-looking fellow seemed eager to assist me.

“I need to find the most recent printing of the APA Style Manual, please,” I tell the clerk. I know it’s likely somewhere in the reference section, but if I go at it myself, I’ll go home with an armload of dictionaries and books about writing that I have no time to devour.

“Hmmmmm,” the clerk looks super-perplexed and I do my best to be patient with him as he taps away on his computer. Since the APA manual is so commonly used and this particular Borders is within walking distance of a university, I’m surprised they don’t have a surplus stack under the counter, that these things aren’t flying out the door. I can’t figure out what is taking a seemingly inordinate amount of time to locate the APA Style Manual and, after a few minutes and resisting the urge to tap on the counter with my fingers, I jump to (what seems to me) the only logical conclusion for his apparent confusion.

“Are you out of stock?”

“Well, no,” he responds, looking more bewildered than ever, “We have an APA Style Manual, but I’m afraid it has nothing to do with fashion.”

“Well I should hope not!!!” I can barely contain my laughter at this point. Particularly considering what I was wearing (cargo shorts and a tank top, with old Jack Purcell’s)! Poor guy thought I wanted the most recent update of that kind of style manual!

perhaps I watch too much of The Sopranos

I think that our new neighbors (who just purchased the similar-to-ours townhouse next door for about 40K more than we paid in the fall - yippee!!!) may be in the Witness Protection Program. Since I work in the evenings, I'm home a lot during the day and, due to our many windows, I see a lot of the goings-on in my neighborhood. It's amazing how much you can find out about folks without even trying!

But the jury's still out on these new folks next door. I first noticed them while they were interacting with their home inspector one morning while I was making my coffee. They appeared to be amiable and attentive and I found myself hoping that they would follow through with the sale, as they seemed like they'd make okay neighbors.

Well, they've since moved in and, quite curiously, I have yet to see a U-Haul, or any such moving vehicle, filled with various and sundry belongings. I have noticed, however, five six separate large trucks delivering different pieces of furniture. They seem to have purchased a lot of new stuff, as if they are starting fresh, new. This wouldn't seem so odd to me if they also seemed to have boxes of belongings that most folks have when they move...you know: books, linens, dishes, music, clothing, that sort of thing. And I suppose they could have snuck this stuff into the house at night, while I'm at work, but you'd think I'd catch a little residual of the movings of belongings. But no. I've seen them pull up in their practically brand-new Lexus and have nothing to unload - no boxes, no clothing on hangers, no groceries, nada.

And a brand-new Lexus in this neighborhood??? That's odd.

Furthermore, J was noticing -with amusement- last night that the female counterpart of the new neighbors was having an enormously difficult time parallel parking her car, despite at least 10-15 feet of additional space beyond the length of her car between the two already-parked cars. Perhaps she's not a city gal. Or perhaps she's not accustomed to driving herself around.

And then there's the insipid black sedan that cruises slowly down our street every now and then. I never noticed it before and, now, I've seen it several times. It never stops, either...just slowly drives by.

So, let's recap:

• lots of new furniture
• seemingly, no prior belongings
• no groceries
• can't parallel park
• apparent willingness to oblige
• upper-middle class car in a lower-middle class neighborhood
• the sudden appearance of a mysterious black sedan

All evidence points to the Witness Protection Program, as far as I can see.

Unless, maybe they are aliens!

Listmaker, Listmaker, Make Me a List...

My supah-cool friend and schoolmate, Heather (not to be confused with my sister, Heather), turned me on to the website/blog 5ives and I'm having much fun devouring the archives, starting at the very beginning, of course! So far, this is my favorite list of 5ives. You know it's good when you LOL for reals.

Thus, in the spirit of listmaking and as an homage to 5ives, I present for you...Five Lists of Five Things:

Five Creepy People I Have Known

1. My Dad's best friend from pharmacy school
2. The football player from high school with the silver front tooth
3. The Special-Ed teacher at my daughter's school
4. My former boss' bookie
5. My neighbor, Arnie

Five Films I Loved as a Teen

1. The Hunger
2. Harold and Maude
3. Rear Window
4. Valley Girl
5. Breakfast at Tiffany's

Five Stupid Things That Annoy Me More Than They Should

1. When people write 12 p.m. to indicate midnight
2. Misplaced and missing commas & apostrophes
   
3. When police cars turn on their lights just so they can go through a red light and then turn them off once they are through the intersection
4. When the telephone rings before 8 a.m.
5. Prepositions at the end of sentences (i.e. "Where are you at?" Answer: "I'm at the preposition Lost & Found")

Five Delicious Snacks

1. Dried mango
2. Chocolate-chip cookies fresh from the oven
3. Tuna carpaccio
4. Strawberries dipped in sour cream, then dipped in brown sugar
5. Popcorn topped with Penzey's Brady Street Cheese Sprinkle

Five Charming People I've Met

1. Alfonso Cuaron
2. Nancy Pearl
3. David Sedaris
4. Joaquin Phoenix
5. Suzan-Lori Parks

Six Six Six

I remember when I was living in LA, in the Silverlake area, and the phone number I was assigned had a 666 prefix. I found this amusing and took no issue with it whatsoever.

Other folks varied in their reactions. Some would laugh, some would say "seriously?" and some got a little bent out of shape over it.

One woman, in particular, got a lot bent out of shape. She asked for my phone number and in LA you have to give the area code first because there are several of them down there (it's like that here in Portland now, but I don't know about the rest of the states - are there still states in the U.S. in which you give out your number without the area code first or is that a thing of the past altogether?). So I give her my area code, which was 213, and she writes that down.

I then continue, "666" and she just stands there, but says or does nothing. So I repeat myself.

"666..."

She looks up at me and asks if that is really my phone number. Yep, I tell her, and wait for her to write down.

"That's horrible," she says, "why didn't you request a different number?"

"It doesn't bother me," I tell her, "it's just a number."

She then looks at me as if I were Adolf Hitler himself and had just said that human skin lampshades make the best lampshades EVAH. I look back at her and shrug, just wanting to move things along.

"I can't write that," she tells me.

Okaaaaaay, I don't know if she was super religious or super superstitious or a debilitating combination of both. Now what?

"Do you want me to write it for you?" I offer.

She considers this and says that she doesn't want to look at it. She tells me she'll be right back and I'm left standing there. A different woman returns to continue filling out my form.