A Rant in One Act

This is my one week off.  It’s the week when I can stay up until 5 or 6:00 in the morning reading and then sleep all day if I want to, and damn the consequences (because there aren’t any).  I should be able to enjoy this.

I should not be woken up at 11:15 by a call from Psychobrat asking me to please come by the high school with a pair of jeans for her.

Of course, being not entirely coherent, I didn’t realize at the time that I could say no, that there probably wasn’t that much pleading in her voice because Mom or Dad had told her to call me so they wouldn’t have to leave work, that it was probably there because she didn’t want to have to go to them.  No, I didn’t think about that.  At first.

As time went on, of course, and I tried to work out how I could sleep a little bit longer, I became more awake.

“And when do I have to be out there, exactly?”

“Like…now.”

“I can’t get there now.”

“Well how soon can you get here?”

“Whenever I can.  I’m sleeping.  I have the day off.”

“But I need you to be here now.”

A voice from the background.

“You can just bring them to the main off–”

“I have to go inside?  Well, of course I do, they won’t exactly let you walk out to the car to meet me.  Well that puts a whole new spin on things.  I’ve got to get dressed, I’ve got to get a shower–”

“No you don’t, you can just come in the way you are, it doesn’t matter.”

Basically, I had two options:  a) I could get up from my comfortable bed where I had been in the middle of a very pleasant dream about a certain person, drive all the way out to the school and back in the heat, when I’m trying to save on gas because everybody here is broke, and actually walk into the school, where I shall be treated very rudely because that’s just how they operate over there, if they even let me into the building in the first place….

Or b) I could let the selfish bitch suffer the consequences for being too damned stupid to care about the dress code on the second bloody day of school.

Right.  Option ‘b’ it is, then.  I went back to sleep.

Of course, I didn’t stay there for very long, in case she called my dad who would force me to go out there.  But as she was still waiting for my call (I’d asked what would happen if I didn’t show up, she’d said she would get I.S.S.P., I said I’d think about it, she said she’d pay me $10, I said if I showed up, I expected to be paid, she said she didn’t have the money on her, I said, “Right, see you later, then” and that’s when I hung up)…anyway, as she was still waiting for my call, I decided to call my mom first.  I explained the situation and asked if I was obligated to go out there.  She said no.  I went back to sleep for two minutes but by then was wide awake and had to get up, anyway.  Wonder what she’s doing now, if she’s still sitting there waiting for me to call or if they just went ahead and gave her I.S.S.P.  (Why is it called I.S.S.P., anyhow?  That makes no sense to me.  In Virginia it was I.S.S., because it’s “in-school suspension”.  When did “sus” and “pension” become two separate words?)

I never broke dress code, not once; I don’t know why she should have such a problem with it.  Everywhere she goes—school, soccer practice (where all the mothers on the team complain that her shorts are too short, but she doesn’t understand what the problem is)…no, I think it’s high time she understood.  At least take a pair of jeans herself if she knows she’s going to be stupid, so nobody else has to drive out there.  So effing selfish.  If it hadn’t been my day off, one of my parents would have had to take off from work to do it instead, but she wouldn’t care, because that’s how she is.

Fin.

Meat, Liver, and Chicken Paste

We had chicken and dumplings for dinner tonight.

All day long, I was under the impression that we would be having chicken livers and vegetables for dinner.  I was…a bit creeped out by the livers idea, and was just going to skip that and have a bagel or something.

But then I decided to interrogate my mom to find out just how different chicken livers are to the parts of the chicken we usually eat.  How were the flavors and textures different?  For that matter, what part of the chicken did we usually eat, anyway?

“Mom, what part of the chicken is the meat?”

“…It’s…the meat.  What do you mean?”

“Yeah, I know, but what part is it?  Is it muscle?”

“No, it’s not muscle.”

“Well, is it like liver?”

“Liver is an organ.”

“So meat doesn’t come from organs?”

“No.”

“Well, so what’s meat?  What exactly is a chicken leg?  I mean, it’s not muscle, and it’s not skin….”

“No…it’s meat.”

“But what is meat?  What is a chicken leg?  Is ‘meat’ the scientific term for it?”

“I don’t know what the scientific term is; but it’s just like with every other animal.  We always eat the meat—cows, chickens, sheep….”

“I know that, but what is the meat?  Do I have meat on me?  Is it attached to the skin?”  Here I attempted to pull the skin on my leg away from the bone and prodded around looking for the “meat”.

“Yes, you have meat, just a little bit.”

I knew I must; otherwise, what the hell do cannibals eat?

“But what is—[I interrupted myself and changed tactics]—if I showed you a picture of the human body, could you point out the meat?”

This question induced laughter from my mother, who never was able to explain the concept of meat.  So I decided to find out more about liver.

“It’s squishy,” she said, “and you can mash it up to make liverwurst.”

“That’s what liverwurst is?  Mashed liver?”

“What did you think it was?”

“I thought it was just some weird German word that randomly had the word ‘liver’ stuck to the beginning!  I didn’t know it was…mashed liver…yuck.  So it tastes different?”

“Yes, it tastes darker.”

“Is it really bloody?”

“No, it’s not bloody.”

“Is there any blood in it at all?”

“No blood.”

“Is it what McNuggets are made of?”

“No.”

“Are there bits of it in McNuggets?”

“Well, probably.”

“Does it have urine in it, or is that kidneys?”

“That’s the bladder.”

“Oh…right.  Well…I don’t think I want to eat any…chicken paste.”

So then, when everything was cooked at last, my mom went and got a bowl, and I looked grudgingly at her bowl and said, “All right, I’ll taste the chicken paste,” and she held out her fork so I could try it, and I said, “But it looks just like regular chicken!”

Turns out, it was regular chicken; my dad hadn’t cooked the liver yet.

New Pans and New Partners

We have these new pans at work.  They’re smaller than those old things, and they sit on top of the…um…I never know what they’re called…the things with the steam, haha, with that black heat thing over top of them that Maggie used to use down her end on nights when she had differently-shaped pans.  (I never know what to call any of that stuff.  Anyway.)  They’re pretty and all, but they’re really, really small.  Each one of them will hold about a dozen servings.  So when the semester starts up, and we get busy again, somebody is going to have to constantly be running back and forth to refill them.  Constantly.

So today Maggie was interrogating Dave (one of the bosses) about how exactly that’s going to work.  She asked him if they’d be hiring new people, as we currently have two chefs, one server, and no dishwashers.  He told her he’d hired two new chefs, so she could be okay (even though two new ones brings her back up to the same amount we had during the school year, it doesn’t make up for the new work that will have to be done) but that he hadn’t hired any new servers, because he was “pretty sure” Teshura would be coming back.

All this time, I’ve been counting on them getting me some new servers so it wouldn’t be just me during the school year, and they’ve been holding off on hiring them because they’re “…um…pretty sure Teshura is coming back”!?  Tinny, who told them all several times when she left that she would not be returning?  Tinny, who moved to freaking NEW YORK!?  (This is not your fault, Tinny.  I don’t blame you.)

So guess who my new partner’s going to be?  Katy.  Katy, the clueless bimbo, who never wants to do anything at all because she doesn’t know how, and doesn’t really care to learn, either.  Katy, who constantly wants to run her mouth, but all she wants to talk about is which guys are hot and what a dick her ex-boyfriend is.  Nobody likes her.  If it were down to a vote, she would have been fired by a unanimous ruling of her peers.  The one time she served with me, that week when we had 1200+ people, she just kept running her mouth about this guy and that guy and her ex—she didn’t want to do anything.  She’d lean against the counter, and I’d shove a plate into her hands so she’d be forced to do something, but then she’d just lean back again, despite the fact that there were 500 people in line!  Over and over again, so it would really have been easier for me to just do the damned job myself instead of constantly trying to get the plate into her hands.

Most likely, she’ll be fired very soon.  Then they’ll have to hire me a new freaking partner.  Bastards.

Lots of weird stuff in my dream last night, too….

Had a dream last night for the first time, I think, since the last time I updated.

We took a school bus to the Paris Opera House, which was in a setting I’d seen before in my dreams, more than once, and which I think is actually London, but my subconscious said it was supposed to be Paris.  And once inside, I was wandering around with a small group, and then all of a sudden I wasn’t, I was alone, in a bathroom, washing my hands, when, in the mirror, I suddenly noticed somebody standing behind me.  (Obviously, we already know I’m afraid of mirrors, so I guess it’s not surprising that this happened in a dream.)

I jumped and turned around, and it was Moaning Myrtle, sobbing softly as she stared at me.  And then, sure enough, I noticed that the scenery looked very much like that bathroom we see in Chamber of Secrets (but I don’t think I was aware of it in my dream; that’s just what I realized when I woke up), and Moaning Myrtle was upset at the moment because she was in love with someone, and although she followed him all over the opera (he lived there, you see) he never seemed to want to pay any attention to her, because he was only interested in me.  I didn’t really know what she was talking about.

Myrtle, however, said, “You know Erik…couldn’t you tell him about me?…I know he’d love me, too, if he’d only notice me…we would have lots in common…he even calls himself the ‘Opera Ghost’”.

I’m not exactly sure what it amounted to, but I refused, because of course he is my Erik, he doesn’t belong to some annoying ghost, so I said no (probably quite rudely, I’m ashamed to say, but it was my dream) and she flew off, crying harder than ever.

So then I went and sat in the theatre, which was dark, and I’m not sure whether any other people were around, but I think the audience must have been full, because I had come with a group, whoever they were, and then I heard what sounded like a muted trumpet, and it was–some guy up onstage was playing it.  And he was dressed like a mime.

Then, to the right side, I heard something else, and there was a spotlight all of a sudden on a man playing a tenor sax—and it was John Cleese.  (John Cleese, so far as I know, does not play tenor sax, but in my dream, he was surprisingly good—really good.)  He was just wearing black and white, and then, from Stage Left, another spotlight came up on a guy with another tenor sax, and he’s shouting at John, “You’re not supposed to wear the tux; I am!  That’s my trademark!  Yours is this!”  So he holds up this clown suit.  It looks sort of like Roberto Benigni’s Pinnochio costume.  (At any rate, it would have given Cortney nightmares, let’s put it that way.)

John plays calmly, and finally says, “My trademark is whatever I want it to be,” and this little guy (little compared to John, at least!) appeared with another coat hanger, holding a black jacket to go with the rest of his ensemble.  He puts it on casually and then just keeps playing, so the other guy storms off.

So then I’m at the café.  It looks nothing like the café, though…I think it’s actually another part of the supposed Paris Opera House, and we’re cleaning stuff up, but it’s not normal sort of cleaning we’re doing; we’re cleaning grass, and we’re taking huge pieces of machinery and things out to various people’s pickup trucks, because suddenly everybody I work with is driving one.

And I’m headed out one of the back doors, and somebody’s holding the door for me, and it’s Terry Jones, so, wanting to appear that I already know him (I don’t know, something like that), I said, “Oh, thank you, Jonesy” very casually.

He turned back for a second, startled, and looked at me, trying to figure out who I was, then seemed to assume that I was just a stranger who was obsessed with all things Python, and he sort of glowered and said, “I don’t like being called Jonesy.”

I said, “But everybody calls you Jonesy!”  (This really isn’t true; I’ve only heard a few.  But it seems natural to call him such.)

He said, “I wish they wouldn’t.  It’s only a nickname.  I don’t like it.”

So I said, “Well, I’m sorry, but what else can I call you?  Terry?  Well then you’re hardly distinguishable from Terry Gilliam, are you?  I mean, how’s anyone supposed to know which of you I’m talking about?”

Well, of course, by now, I’ve got him in conversation—argument, at least—so he’s not keen to leave my side now, and we head out to some pickup truck, and there’s somebody in the back of it, just standing there, very still, in that Pinnochio costume, with lots of makeup, and I know it’s a Python, but I can’t figure out which, and I’m just staring at him, until finally I determine that it’s Terry Gilliam.  So I exclaim, “Little Gilliam!”

…‘Little Gilliam’!?  I have never referred to him this way in my life, but that’s what came out of my mouth.  And I insisted that I always called him this.  (I’ll just add here that they were all in costume, but I can’t now remember what the others were.)

So then, inside (and I had to get something from inside the theatre to take outside), I ran into Michael, who was most friendly from the start, and whose hand I kept trying to hold, but he kept refusing because, “I’m married!  I have a wife!” he’d say.  (Damn it!  So typical—every time they appear in my dreams, he’s always resisting my advances because he’s married.  I mean, sure, that’s admirable, and I would expect nothing less if I actually were to meet him—but it’s a dream, damn it all! I mean…come on…please?  Just once?  Okay, fine, be that way.  …I love you, anyway!)

And I can’t really remember…it seems like Eric (with the c, not the k) and John were moving stuff around in the theatre, like set or something, and were helping to carry it out to random pickups, too.  I don’t know.  It’s all so muddled, and since when did I work in the Paris Opera House, anyway?  …Damn it, if that dream had gone on much longer, Erik would have probably killed the entirety of Monty Python right there in front of me.  I just thought of that.  And Moaning Myrtle would have laughed….

A Potterish Dream

I got kicked out of my classes because I hadn’t paid for them yet…I really hope that check gets here soon, because otherwise I won’t be able to freaking pay for these, either.  I re-registered for three of them, but the philosophy class was full, so I replaced it with Western Civ. 1589-Present with the only teacher who ever made history interesting for me, so that’s cool.  Now I’m taking three of my favorite teachers again.  But I have to get them paid for!  My dad has been insisting since I graduated high school that I should just take a semester off and work, but…um…no.  I don’t want to do that.  If I start doing that, I’ll never finish.

Okay, so I had this dream.  We had just come from a Harry Potter party, and so we’re all in our Hogwarts stuff and everything, and then we go and get on a train.  And then Cort and Nicole sort of…fade away, so it’s just me on this train, in HP stuff, and I’m strolling around (and it seems like the train goes in more directions than just back and forth–like there were actual rooms and hallways like a building or something), and run into some young parents with a 2-year-old daughter named Hannah.  (I sadly cannot now remember her last name.)

Hannah’s got red hair and she’s wearing this long green dress, and she’s supposed to be dressed as “the baby Weasley,” who doesn’t actually exist.  And she’d won a costume contest and all.  So she was wearing a ribbon on her dress.

Anyway, so I ran into them and recognized them from the party (as it had just passed a few minutes before), and the parents acted all snobby and said they didn’t remember me, as the party had been two years before.  The train had gone through like a time warp or something.  Okay.

It was then that I decided to look out the windows.  There’s nothing there.  I mean…nothing.  We’re sort of  hurtling along through this black void—creepy stuff, I’m telling you.

So I’m walking around, and eventually I run into Jasper, who is the only person on the train not dressed in HP stuff.  Jasper’s got a lightsaber.  And I say, “Jasper!  Good to see a familiar face!” and he says, “Yeah…Andrew’s here, too, somewhere.”  So I’m like, “Oh, I’m going to go find him and invite him to tea in our compartment.”  (Tea?  I grow increasingly more British in my dreams all the time.  Not, of course, that I mind.)

But Jasper says, “No, wait!  He’s killing people.”

I stopped suddenly.  “He…what?”

Jasper explains, “He already killed this one whole family, and he’s looking for this little two-year-old named Hannah, and he wants to kill her, too.”

I said, “I know Hannah….”

So Jasper told me that I had to protect Hannah, and if it came down to it, I had to kill Andrew, too.

Okay.  So I ran.  And I didn’t stop running until I found Hannah and her parents.  Hannah’s just sitting in the middle of the floor reading a stack of little kid’s books—maybe not reading, she might have been coloring in them or something—and the parents looked at me and were kinda like, “You again?  Go away.”

I attempted to explain to them that somebody wanted to kill their daughter, but they started shouting at me, and they thought I was crazy, and they wanted to take Hannah away, and I refused.  I told them she had to stay with me.

And then I just happened to glance down at the end of the corridor, through the window at the door, and it’s all dark, but I can just barely see Andrew standing there, staring at Hannah.

So I picked her up, and the parents are shouting at me, and Andrew opens the door at the end, and I take out my wand and start running with Hannah, who’s just holding a couple of books, and I’m still in HP stuff so my robe’s all billowy behind me and stuff—LOL—and they’re still shouting, and he Avada Kedavra’d them, and he’s running after us, so finally we got to one compartment where there appeared to be a closet of sorts in the side, and I sort of threw her and her books in there and shouted, “Stay there; don’t come out!” and whirled around to face Andrew, wand ready…

…And my sister started banging on the front door like a crazed lunatic and woke me up.  Yes, I hate when these things happen, but, as I explained to Andrew, if I hadn’t woken up then, I probably would have killed him, and then I would have woken up all traumatized.

That’s all for now, I guess.  We’re really, really busy at work these days; I won’t be getting off in the evenings until probably around 10:30.

Oh…and my dad wants to impose time limits on the computer, because every time he comes home from work late, I’m on it.  Never mind the fact that Psychobrat is on it all day every day—it’s just that I have it for a couple of hours each night, and that pisses him off.

Oh yeah…and now we have to pay $380 for that car window my brother shot out, not just $250.  And I don’t know if we’re paying any damages on the other car he shot.  I didn’t really hear what happened with that except the guy driving it wanted to beat the crap out of my brother, and wouldn’t back off until the cop physically held him off.

Fun stuff.

Just A Brief, Random Dream

I had a dream this morning.  It wasn’t really all that remarkable except for the fact that I think I was engaged to Cross.  I was…I was eating breakfast somewhere with him and my mom, in this little cafe, and I think I had a sandwich, and then Cross had to go to a hearing or something, because he was a…lawyer?  Mmkay.

I’m not sure why I followed him.  It seems that I didn’t know what he had to do upstairs (there were at least three stories–a restaurant on the bottom, a church on the second, and a courtroom on the third), so once I got up there, and all these men in suits and white wigs were filing in (like we were in England or something–not, of course, that I minded) I said, “Oh, you know, I think I’d rather go downstairs and sit with my mom, then,” so I tried to find the stairs….

It was really weird.  They had four different flights of stairs going the same places.  They had men’s stairs and women’s stairs.  And then they had the up stairs and the down stairs, all of which were noted with little triangle signs, pointing up or down, and containing those little bathroom symbols.  So just as I’ve spotted the women’s down stairs, this attractive woman with wavy blonde hair comes and pulls me by my shoulders and says, “No, you’re late to Sunday school; come this way,” in this sweet-but-firm voice, and pulls me into a classroom.

Damn it if it wasn’t The Cult (what I am calling the collective whole of that stupid religion class).  Fortunately, the woman wasn’t Stephanie, but while she didn’t look anything like her, she acted exactly like her.

I stood at the door for a second and said, “Um…I can’t stay, I’m supposed to be either downstairs with my mother or upstairs with my–uh–husband.”

I knew we weren’t married yet, but it sounded a lot more respectable to say “husband” than to say “fiance”, like they could argue with one, but not with the other.

Well, The entire Cult was staring at me, and the teacher was staring at me with this patronizing smile on her face, and she said in that sweet, honeyed voice, “Now, don’t be a nasty little liar; we don’t want nasty little liars in our Sunday class.”

I stared at her, enraged because–well, maybe I was lying, but she didn’t know that!  She just wanted me to stay in her stupid class!  So I said, coldly and haughtily, “And if I’m not lying?” wondering what she could possibly say to that….

She said, always in the same voice, “Oh, but you are.”

“No,” I almost shouted, “I’m not!  My mother is downstairs and my husband is upstairs!  They’re both waiting for me!”

The class hissed–they actually hissed!  And the teacher said, “We don’t want to hear nasty little stories about your love life here–”

I interrupted, definitely shouting now.  “Oh, so marriage is illegal now, is it, marriage is somehow immoral–”

And at that moment, my cell phone rang and I woke up.

Veal Surprise

We had veal tonight at work.

Tell me, how was that a good idea?  I was staring at it, thinking, “Veal?  How the hell am I going to explain veal to all these foreigners?  They didn’t go to English school and learn veal.  Hell, half the native-English-speakers who come through my line don’t even know what veal is!”

And I was right, of course.  You try explaining “baby cow” to 200 people who only know basic words in English; it’s not easy.

There was one older guy who thought he knew:  He held up his hands behind his head to signify antlers, and another older guy next to him nodded his understanding:  “Ah, Bambi, Bambi, yes!”  I just let them think it.  As long as it tastes okay, they’re not gonna know the difference.

So…yeah…I have to go to work tomorrow.  I was never really going to get out of it, I guess.

 

Maggie has said that she might walk out tomorrow.  I hope not.  That would suck a lot.