I don’t know, just randomness.

Ethan Embry (his real name is Cory) came through my line the other night, and I looked at him and chuckled a bit, then said, “You know, I still refer to you as Ethan Embry, even now…every time you come through my line, that’s what I’m thinking.”

Ethan Embry is a guy who looks remarkably like the actor and whom I pointed this out to early last year.  Like, the second or third time I ever saw him, at which point he said to me that he’d heard that like twice already.

He smiled and said, “Yeah, just the other day, somebody else came up to me and asked if I was that guy from Empire Records.”  Because Ethan Embry himself is going to UNF.  Uh-huh.  I laughed.

I was watching this old relic of film noir—Laura–on Netflix, and as we were watching it, my dad asked me who the leading lady was.  “Is that Veronica…something?” he said.  Having forgotten myself, I picked up the box and said, “No, it’s…Dana Andrews.”

“Dana Andrews?  No; that’s the detective.”

“Oh,” I said, grinning sheepishly, “well, I don’t suppose Gene Tierney is female?”

Turns out, she was.  If her name had been spelled the normal female way—Jean—I probably would have recognized Dana right away as being male.  But I can’t help it if the only Dana I’ve ever actually known is female.

I can’t think of anything else to talk about tonight, so…I’ll end there.


From the Annals of a Scatterbrain

I’m horrible at critiquing other people’s writing, so I just did a totally half-assed job of it.  L’Owen’s going to bite my head off in class tomorrow.

I did a—well, not even a half-assed essay for my history class last night.  I guess I just don’t feel much like doing homework these days.  I blame it all on work.

I can’t really remember what I dreamed last night—something about sewing this really cute skirt “by hand”—meaning, with nothing, not even a needle.  So…magic, then.  And I did something else the same way.  Then I woke up with “I’ve Got No Strings On Me” stuck in my head.  I know it was somehow related to the dream, but I can’t remember in what way.

Wal-Mart refuses to sell black jeans that I like, and I wore out the pair I got from them when they were cool.  I’ve got to go to the mall to find more.  They will be expensive, because Wal-Mart’s the only one with decently-priced jeans.

I’ve been so busy half-assing my way through homework I haven’t seen the new Once Upon A Time yet, so I have no idea if it’s good or not.

Sorry for my scatterbraininess tonight; I feel sort of unfocused after my homework.

Last night we had that weird chicken cordon-bleu again—the kind that’s just fried chicken with a slice of ham and melted cheese on top.  Everyone always stares at it like, “What the bloody hell is that?”  As I said to Sandra, it’s like how Superman wears his underwear on the outside—it’s backwards.  I’m going to start calling it Superman cordon-bleu.

Then we ran out of fried chicken, so Bob started bringing out this skinless stuff, and I said, “And look, now Superman is naked.”  Sandra could not stop laughing for a very long time.


Current Guy Issues

Last night I went to see Blade Runner.  And Milo came with me.  Just the two of us.  He didn’t call anybody–or if he did, nobody else showed up.  So yeah…just us two.

When it was over, we walked out to the parking lot, where I reminded him he had mail, so I went digging through my purse for…The Letter.  Because this is how I had decided to do it at last.  When I finally found it, I said, matter-of-factly, “I’ve had this for about two years; it’s sort of irrelevant now, but you need to have it, not me,” and handed it to him; then I took out the mail and things and explained the rest in the same random and matter-of-fact way.  Without missing a beat, really.  It was great.

Right, so…current guy issues.  On Friday, I asked the dishwasher out.  He said no.  I’m serious!  I totally wasn’t expecting it, either; it took me completely by surprise.

I approached him, all serious because I really wanted to know, and said, “Hey…do you want to go out with me?”

He looked at me, also very serious, and said, “No.”  Then, looking all around as if he actually expected somebody to be standing nearby, he said, “Who told you that!?”

“No, nobody…I was just asking, would you like to?”

“Oh.”  There was silence for a moment.  I had to say something.

“I’ve only got one day off a week,” I said.

“What day is that?”


Another silence.  Then, “I think I’m hanging out with my friend Chad tomorrow….”

“Oh, no that’s fine, I’m doing something tomorrow, anyway.”

Yet another silence.  Finally I said, “Well, if you’re interested…let me know,” and walked away.

I’ve got a date next week, anyway.  With John.  Here’s the problem (there is always a problem, of course).  I know he likes me, and yes, I do like him, but….  And that’s just it.  Whenever I try to explain this, I say that I like him, but…and never know how to finish the sentence.  So obviously there’s something.  I don’t know what.  I just know there was never a “but” when I used to talk about Milo.

And as far as the dishwasher goes, well that’s just what I get for trying to get involved with a younger guy.  Shame!  Never again, I swear.  I don’t know what that was.

And in another plot twist no one saw coming…

Apparently, the dishwasher quit the night I asked him out.  Nobody really knows why, but by all means, presume what you will.

Griping and Boy Dilemmas

Dean tells me that he and I are on L’Owen’s list of 6 strongest writers in the class.  Kick arse!  I honestly never would have expected that, but it’s cool.

So I finally found this book that I’d been looking for for yearsThe Experiment, by John Darnton.  My dad got it on tape for us to listen to on a trip to South Florida my 9th grade year, but, not being a very great listener, I decided to stop listening (despite being way into it) and check it out later instead.

Well, not knowing the author’s name, it took me a lot longer than expected to find it, and when I finally did, then it was a matter of the book being there when I was and me remembering to look for it.  I finally did, and I really enjoyed it.

Work is driving me insane.  I think I mean that literally.  I have this habit of, when one aspect of something is annoying me, finding all these other things about it that always irritate me.  That’s what’s happening at work—they won’t give me a second day off, and so every little thing is driving me up the wall.  Like the fact that we have taco night three times a week, and every single person coming through my line pisses me off just for being there.  I want to scream obscenities at them all, and am quietly doing it, too, under my breath.  A couple of times I’ve come very close to actually swearing at a customer.  I feel like having to stand there for another two hours really takes something from me, and must keep repressing the urge to get up and just walk out.

Scot (one of the bosses) came through the line tonight, asked for jalapenos, and I gave him quite a few, and he said, “Are you trying to kill me?”  I said, “Yes.”

I won’t smile at people anymore.  They piss me off too much.

I really feel like the weight of the hopelessness is driving me down—like, physically, even—I’ll stand there and feel like I’m totally going to pass out because I cannot handle it.

I swear, everything would be fine again if they’d just give me the damned day off!

Maybe things will get better.  Maybe the dishwasher will actually like me back.  That’d be something, a light through all the hopelessness.  A secret tryst that nobody else would really care about, but which would make me feel like I was somehow rebelling against the establishment.

Dishwasher!  I need a life!  Help!

Duuuude!  Just as I was about to post this, my first date ever texted me out of the blue!

And after the conversation we had, I’m thinking, “Hey…I still kinda like this guy,” and he still likes me, too…so…right.  I like Patrick, too.  And now I don’t know what the hell to do.  Obviously, I guess, get to know both of them a bit better, and find out what happens.  At any rate, two Saturdays from now I am going on my first second date ever with…my first first ever.

I’ve got to go to bed.

The Dishwasher Story

I have a few work stories.  Mostly about the dishwashers.

First of all, Baggins.  Real name Jimmy (I think?).  I kept walking past him thinking that for some reason, he reminded me of Lord of the Rings, when suddenly it hit me—he looks like Bilbo Baggins from the freaking cartoon.  I told him so, too, after I clarified that it wasn’t just me.  Both Adrianna and Sandra, when I pointed it out to them, said, “Wow, I’ve been trying to figure out who he looked like that I knew—but you’re right!”  And several others agreed.  I can’t call him Hobbit, obviously, though, because I had a Hobbit last year (the guy who resembled Dominic Monaghan).  So he is Baggins.  I enjoy walking past him and Wraithing, “Shhhhhhiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrre…Baaaaaggiiiiiiinnnnnnsssss….”  Strangely, I don’t think he really enjoys it.

Michelle and I decided that all the dishwashers have dishwasheritis—there’s something wrong with all of them.  So we were going to start ranking them 1-10, 10 being the absolute worst.  John, we decided, was #3, and this is his nickname—#3.

Then we have Druggie.  Self-explanatory.  And Druggie’s friend, who has no nickname as of yet.  And A.J.  But that’s his real name; we haven’t given him a nickname, either.  Actually, besides Druggie and his friend, I quite like all of the dishwashers, and especially the Cute One—Patrick.  (The one who kept turning red and trying to make me smile the other night.)

I was freaking out earlier this week because, while I usually come right out and tell a guy when I like him, I found myself unable to even speak to Patrick.  I couldn’t figure out what was wrong.

But after complaining about this to several people, I realized it was something I had to do, and therefore it was going to be done.  I went into work last night resolved, and I was (I think) rewarded for it.  (I could be wrong.  But I don’t think I am.)

I arrived, and #3 was the only dishwasher there, to my disappointment, and he said, “I don’t think any of the other dishwashers are going to show up today, so I’m going to go insane.”

Me too!” I said.  I would have, too.

But I didn’t have long to wait—about five minutes before we opened, Patrick appeared.

I should point out that most people have not heard Patrick speak.  He’s very quiet.  So the fact that he speaks to me, in my opinion, is saying something.

So he appeared right in front of me.  And he turned and saw me, and the corners of his mouth went up ever-so-slightly, and he came around to where I could hear him and said, “What are you looking at me for, huh?  What’s that all about?”

I said, with a coy smile to match his own, “You were right in my line of vision!  I couldn’t help it!”  And he walked away laughing.

A few minutes later, he was putting these big tray things away, and he came up acting all like he was gonna throw them at me, and again walked away grinning, so I was grinning when Bob came out to check on the food, and I said, “Bob…I like the dishwasher.”

He stared at me blankly for a moment until he realized what I was talking about, and then his face broke into a smile, too, and he said, “Well, you have to talk to him!  He’s so quiet, he’s never going to speak to you first!”

“I’ve got it under control, Bob,” I said.  “Don’t worry.”

“Well, you’ve both got something in common,” he said.  “You both can’t mop.”  I thought that was cute, and told him so.

A bit later, I was standing alone, when I heard this drumming sound, and somebody approached and nudged my arm.  I assumed it was Bob, replacing a tray, but when I looked, it was Patrick.  He was drumming on a pot.  And singing.

“Serrrrrving food in the cafeteria…..” he sang.  I swear.  And I laughed.  And he did, too, and walked away again.

Bob was coming in as he was leaving and said, grinning broadly, “Wow, making progress, huh?”

And then, of course, I ran to the other end to tell the girls, but Adrianna had already seen it, and before I could say anything, had said, “Oh my gosh, Ginny, I saw that!  Oh my gosh!”

I was just happy.  I was smiling genuinely.

So later, I found as many excuses to go back and dump trays and stuff out as possible, and one of these times, he was singing very loudly and obnoxiously (but intentionally so, not like some other guys I’ve met who think they can sing but can’t) along with some 80s song on the radio, I can’t remember which one—something about, “I want to take you home with me” or “go home with you”, or…I can’t remember.  And I looked up at him seriously and said, “You’re a music major, aren’t you?”

He looked slightly surprised and was starting to say seriously, “No, I’m—” and then he saw my eyes, and said, “Hey, shut up!” and I walked away laughing that time.

When I returned a minute later, #3, who was putting things into the dishwasher (er—the machine one) caught my eye as he was talking to Patrick, who had moved out of my vision to talk to him.

#3 said, “Dude, do you like her!?”

I could neither see nor hear the response to this.

“Do you want to make out with her!?” #3 continued.

Still, I couldn’t see or hear anything.

“Well, why don’t you just tell her how you feel??” #3 demanded.

I couldn’t hide, of course.  He knew I’d been listening.  So I just went back, scared the hell out of Patrick, and said, “I heard that.”

“Well, don’t you want him to tell you, Ginny?  Wouldn’t you want to know!?”

I just smiled and returned to the line.  I didn’t make eye contact with him that time—that was quite awkward.

But when I went out again, Del—one of the chefs—was singing and jumping up and down, and Patrick leaned over, grinning, nudged me and said, “He’s on crack.”

“I know!” I said.  “Like, literally, he is—I know!” and we just laughed, and…that was the last thing I said to him last night, I think.

I should also mention the cheese.  We had excess pizza cheese and made pictures in it—like, a swan, a canoe with a person in it, a beach scene complete with palm tree, cloud, sun, and boat, and the Magic Lamp with Genie emerging from it.  We kept having Tyler guess at stuff—he was really enjoying it.

Then we decided we should make Jesus, melt it, and sell it on eBay.  Michelle got to work.  She made a cross and covered it with sausages as the body, and then little bits of ham for blood, and we ran to get Tyler, who laughed really hard and said, “That’s my favorite one!”

A little while later, Bob was putting things away, saw the cheese, did a double-take, and grinned up at me.  “What is that!?” he said.  Michelle and I were just laughing, and he picked it up, carried it into the kitchen, and called, “Del!  Del, where are you, you’ve gotta see this!”

Del never appeared, so Bob said conspiratorially, “Hey, Ginny, why don’t you take this back to the dishwasher?”

“Of course, Bob,” I said seriously.

Patrick took the tray, did a double-take, too, and said, with an expression of mingled horror and amusement, “Who did that!?”

After I stopped laughing, I said, “Michelle, she’s the artistic one!” And he showed it to #3, and that was the last I saw of it.

I think he likes me.  I really do.  Unless I’m misreading things.

Condemned Like Prometheus

So there were these twins who used to annoy Tinny and me every time they came in, and they always wore black sweaters–always.  Well, one of them works at the cafe now.  Yesterday was her first day.  Her name’s Katrina, and she’s so quiet.  Everything she says, I’m like, “What???” and I have to lean in like two inches from her face to hear her.  I am not exaggerating.

I was waiting for her twin to walk in, and when she finally did…she came right up to Katrina and they practically put their noses together–again, not exaggerating–probably in order to hear each other, and they were way far away from me, but they looked all excited, and they put their hands on each other’s shoulders and bounced a little.  And then they’re just standing there squeaking to each other (I’m serious, they squeak) and the one who just came in sort of rolled up on her tippy toes and came back down, and then the other one did the same thing, and then the other one did that again, so it looked like a see-saw.

In Creative Writing today, we were all sitting down, and Know-It-All said, “I really hope we don’t go over what we turned in on Wednesday, because mine is shit….”

The Third Wilson Brother (that’s it, I’ve got his new nickname–L’Owen) was sitting at his desk working on something, with every appearance of not listening—of course, he always is listening, whether he appears to be or not.  So he said, “We will be going over those short stories we read over the weekend.”

In a chorus, all four of us in our group said, “Ohhh shit.”

He said, “Well, the short stories we were supposed to read over the weekend.”

Then we were asked to get into our groups and take out one sheet of paper for the four of us, and we were going to answer some questions for a reading quiz.  “This is a creative writing class, dammit!” I said.  “We can make up the answers.”

So we did.  We had a lot of fun with it, too.  L’Owen was giving us looks every now and then—hee.  Like…one of the questions was how a certain character referred to another character—he was “condemned like (insert character from mythology here)”.  We put “Prometheus”.  (Of course, it was Sisyphus.)  And then there was another where we had to name what two items a character had for breakfast.  (The answer was dry toast and black coffee, but we put “eggs benedict and coffee”.)

There was another question where we had to say how many potholders a certain character had—we guessed 126.  The answer, incredibly, was 120.  And another one, Corey said, “I swear to God, I saw it in there.  The answer is ‘Stargazer’” and we actually got it right!

So later, we’re working on a new assignment, and L’Owen is checking everyone’s answers, and he calls out into the silence in this sarcastic voice, “Prometheus” and gives us this look of scornful amusement.  Then a second later he said, “Eggs benedict” in the same voice.  Ahahaha.  Well…we certainly enjoyed it.

I’ve been trying to talk to Dann for a few days now about getting Fridays off (Michelle’s going to take Sundays).  I don’t think it’s going to happen, though.  The problem is (not that we really need one, because these are the slowest days of the week) they don’t have another server to replace us.  And they aren’t going to hire one when they have us.  And we can’t stop working those days until they hire somebody new.  Basically, we’re stuck working six days a week until we leave this job.  And that is why I am planning to find a new job if they won’t give me Fridays off.  I can’t believe it would have to come to that, but I need a freaking life.  And they don’t want me to have one.  I’m serious, it’s the only complaint I have about that job.  It’s fine apart from that; I just wish they’d stop being so unreasonable.

Calls From the Stalker and Density

The stalker called tonight at 9:15, right on schedule.  And, of course, he explained (in his message—I never intend to answer the phone to him again) that he hasn’t been able to call for the past few days because he’s been working.

It was interesting tonight—I think he’s finally getting the message (sort of).  First of all, when he said, “Hey Ginny, this is Mark” as he always does, he then added, almost as an afterthought, “…Mark, from Ruby Tuesdays”, as if I’d forgotten.

Mark from Ruby Tuesdays explained that he no longer cares if we go out again or if I even speak to him again afterward, but that he wants to have a phone conversation to explain that he’s not the horrible player I’m making him out to be.

Then he asked me to call him back and left his number!

Well, for a moment or so, I actually felt bad and thought, “Maybe I should let the guy explain”—before I reminded myself that I never thought he was a player, just a bad date—I had to remind myself that I set him up.  The point was for me to look psychotic enough to discourage him and send him on his way; therefore, I will not call back.  There won’t be another conversation with this guy.

So at the end of class yesterday, The Third Wilson Brother put us in groups so we can write this short story thing at the beginning of class tomorrow.  Our group is totally the coolest.  Me, Know-It-All, Corey, and this other guy named Dean who is probably the only other person in the class apart from us who isn’t a total weirdo.

I find it ironic that nowadays I consider a group with Know-It-All in it cool.  Have I been brainwashed!?

Work is…well, it’s not bad.  I still work six days a week and have no idea when the hell that’s going to change.

I can’t think of anything else to say at this moment, and as I’m really into this book anyway, I’m going to go read.