This totally could have happened to my sister! She had been abused by many people in her time as a serving wench at the Middletown Chuck E. Cheese. She tells tales of kids kicking and punching her while she wore the dreaded Humiliation Suit. She dealt with demanding parents and the unfair decree that there should be no tipping of employees and servers. Honestly, any problems she might be exhibiting today—from the lack of social graces to the slightly “off” look in her eyes when she sees a red visor or a Whack-a-Mole game—can all be traced back to that job, in my humble opinion. The girl was terrorized. This was NOT a job for the weak. (I was safely ensconced over at the local pharmacy, where I had to sell lottery tickets and hand prescription bags over to wheezy old guys named Murray; traumatic yes, but not nearly as degrading.)

Hate to be an alarmist or anything, but I have a nagging feeling that something is wrong right now. Not sure what, totally. I have been trying to decipher if I am getting generalized feelings of woe and terror, but I think it’s something with me, personally. Something’s not right. I don’t think I mean my health… I should be fine there for a long time yet. (I even stopped drinking caffeine altogether and haven’t even had a headache once in about 7 days) I think there’s a possibility that it might be my job. I love working at the company I am at right now, but I think that I might not be perceived as the right person for the particular job I am doing right now, and only because of the style of my writing. Not because I did something wrong. I just feel weird lately, and like I should be aware of something coming. I don’t know. I feel vague. I feel hazy. Whoa. Because then again, it could be something bigger than my 5’4” corner of the universe that I am picking up on. I hate when I get these feelings! About 8 times out of 10, they are right. Not all the time, by any stretch. But by some margin, they are. Damn it!

I am reading “Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven” by Sherman Alexie right now. I read a few pages on every lunch break. I am enjoying it, and Alexie’s narrative voice sounds so unique. I am a huge sucker for unique narratives. Also, this is the basis of one of my favorite movies starring Indians, “Smoke Signals.” Awesome movie. Thomas is one of the best characters ever written.

At any rate, I think this book affected my dream on Saturday night. I had a very hazy dream that I was part of this caravan of people, going somewhere to do some sort of mission… maybe a “Lord of the Rings” type mission, to fight evil or some shit like that. Anyway. The interesting part was that I was an Indian in the dream. I remember looking down as I rode on a horse and seeing my legs in that brown, Indiany-looking leather-ish suede stuff and some beads were hanging down off my shirt or something. I was a woman, which was cool, because I was an Indian woman in pants--very liberated-- invited along on the mission. I wasn’t the only Indian; there was this guy there who some White people were saying was my brother, but I think I was thinking of him as my boyfriend. I know, it sounds a little iffy, but to be honest, I think it was the White People misunderstanding the term “My Brother” when used in Indian-talk. (“They were like brothers to me. Not like real brothers, but the way Black people mean it. Which is more, I think, meaningful” –Derek Zoolander)

At one point we were all taking a break from getting to the mission, so we pulled the horses over. Me and my Indian dude walk away quickly and he pulls out a long pipe, and I take out a tiny little bowl. We sit down under some trees and start schmokin’ up. It was kind bud. We were having a blast laughing at clouds UNTIL Grand Supreme White Bitch Lady came over and yelled at me. Sure, she left the Indian dude alone, but messed with me. I found out I was getting kicked off the big mission for smoking weed, and I made some big noble speech about how they were so gonna get lost and fucked over because they were losing one of their two valuable Indians. The Bitch Lady’s response was very racist. She said, “We don’t need TWO Indians!” So I left, all in a huff.

That was my dream. When I say Indians, I mean Native Americans, OK? Just so we’re clear on that.

So I found out I am prone to migraines. I was sick on Sunday and into Monday; went to the doctor and she told me that I had a migraine. I stayed home on Monday, nursing my sore ol’ head and sleeping. What was funny was during the exam, the doctor held up a finger and asked me to follow it with my eyes to make sure my brain worked OK. But she said, “Follow my finger with your nose.” I was confused for a second, but started leaning my face after her finger anyway. She started laughing because she meant to say “follow my finger as I touch your nose.” HMO Hijinks Galore! And I felt like crying.

I’m better now and I am just chillin’ out here at work again. I went to this place called Port of Subs for lunch today, and was amazed at the weird requests this one lady was making as I listened to her order her sandwich. Here’s the transcription, as best as I can recall it:

“Yes, I would like an 8 inch turkey sub on white. No. Wheat. (Pause) I’m sorry, could you go back to white again? Thanks. (Pause) Oh, I would like lettuce and tomato and pickles… no, no pickles on the sandwich part. Just put it in the paper next to it if that’s OK and I’ll add them later. A little mustard and pepper… please keep the pepper on the bread, though. Thanks.”

How the hell, once you close the sandwich, does one keep the pepper on the bread? I always assumed that the laws of gravity would force those dear little pepper nubs down onto the other sandwich ingredients. But heck, she said “thanks” so I guess the dude behind the counter knew some serious shit. Sandwich ordering is an interesting thing sometimes. I totally flip the hell out when I get stuck in line at Subway behind someone who is ordering for the whole goddamn office. And every sandwich has 8,000 special requests. And then they are trying to pick chips and shit for everyone on their little list and holding everyone up. They always send some lady that looks like her name is Cheryl and she shops at JCPenny. I hate those people. I never offer to pick lunch up for ANYONE. It’s my policy. I don’t want to be bothered with all the specifics and the what-nots. I am way too busy for the what-nots, and especially for the what-have-you’s. What I do for lunch everyday is grab my purse and bolt out the door before anyone can ask me where I am going. At my old job, my co-worker would see me come back in with the Subway cup or something and say all wistfully, “Ohhhh… you went to Subway? Wish I’d known; I would have had you pick up a BLAHBLAH BLAH!” Whatever, fatty. Whatever. I’d feign hard-of-hearing-ness and keep on working. That dude could totally have used a walk down to the parking garage to drive his large ass to the Subway himself.

The other day on my lunch hour, I was exploring an area I will be moving to in a few months when I get my own apartment. As I was driving, I got a little lost. But luckily, I had some water in the car and I knew I wasn’t going to perish.
What’s interesting about this lost-on-my-lunch hour story? Well, actually… nothing. I guess I would say my point is: I made it back. And I didn’t get dehydrated. The end.

Lesson learned: When you are purchasing a 36 inch TV from someone, bring extra strong guys along with you so you can unload the monstrously big TV from the bed of the pickup truck without too much trouble. Also, know what you are getting into when you buy a massive TV — for instance, try to fully comprehend just how “big” it will be, beforehand. There is nothing funny about two relatively weak people, in Arizona heat, working their damnedest to unload the thing from a truck on a side street while neighbors stare and cars slow down to watch.
I hate and love my new TV. It lives in the garage right now.

I never thought I would see the phrase, "Dirndles for the bitches" in a news story. But today, THIS changed everything!!

Dirn*dl (durn'del) A full-skirted dress with a gathered waistband.

Also, I just found out that "bitchery" is a real noun. So feel free to say, "Mother, I will not listen to your bitchery for a moment longer!" at dinner tonight, kids.

I love NY teachers so much. It's totally retarded that they are mad at the teacher who washed a kid's mouth out with soap when he yelled some foul shit to one of his classmates. That's right; the little sonofawhores need to be cleaned up! Seriously, if parents aren't doing crap except calling and voting for American Idol winners and eating chalupas on their way to the titty bars, that leaves no one but the teachers to tell the kids what's right and what's wrong.

I was threatened with a soapy punishment once. Don't want to talk about it.

Soap tastes funny. I got so curious because my Mom would say that whole "I'll wash that mouth out with soap" thing whenever I said a bad word (I thought "jerk" was the WORST WORD EVER when I was little, and wouldn't say the line in "Twas the Night Before Christmas" where they talk about Santa turning with a jerk. I don't have time to type the whole thing here, just imagine him turning. With a jerk.), that one day I had to taste it. I tasted some Irish Spring. Because when that dude in the cable knit sweater was slicing it in the commercial, to me it looked like oh-so-delicious cheese. And cheese rocks! But nope, didn't taste like cheese. It didn't taste lime-y, either, which was my other assumption, given the green coloration.

Instant coffee tastes like death. I loved the smell of my Mom's coffee when I was little (Taster's Choice!) so one time--and the sensory memory is super clear on this one-- I was watching "Solid Gold" on a Saturday afternoon and for some reason, had the hankerin' for some coffee granules. So I scooped a full teaspoon out of the bottle and jammed it in my five year old mouth. Whoa, Nelly, that was the time I think I vomited on my shoes. Or my Mom's shoes. Someone's shoes. Or the toilet.

Another gross taste? Bad walnuts. It just takes one bad walnut to ruin an otherwise awesome brownie. Walnuts are shifty. I find I need to keep a tight rein on the walnuts.

From a phone call I just shared with my Grandmother:
Oma: "So how about this crazy weather in the middle of the country?"

Me: "Oh... yeah, it's pretty bad."

Oma: "You know we have such crazy weather anymore. And I think it really, REALLY has to have something to do with the war."

Me: "You mean, the war over in Iraq?"

Oma: "Oh definitely, all those bombs. And when those bombs go off, and it is released into the atmosphere, where does all that stuff go? I think it really affects the weather patterns and then we end up with earthquakes and tornados."

Me: "Hmmmm. I guess we'll never know..."

Oma: "And then they go and sink these old subway cars down into the ocean. You've heard about that right? Well, they sink these old subway cars down and I just don't know about that." (Worried sigh) "I think, now that has got to displace a lot of water. Where is all that water going? I think it's affecting the world and the weather; it HAS to be."

Me: "Well, I really don't think that the amount of water displaced is really significant, Oma. Think about how big the ocean--"

Oma: (cuts me off, like usual) "Oh, sure there will be more FISH, because the fish have been disappearing off the East Coast for awhile now, and now they will live in the subway trains and that's good, but as soon as those boats go back out there to fish for them, they'll be polluting again, and we don't need that."

Me: (silent for a moment) "Okay, Oma."

That look on Monique's face? I have had that look.  

I had a nice birthday. I went to dinner with my Mom and sister at this place called Monti's, which made me think of some George Carlin routine where he was making fun of contestants on a 70s game show and he does this voice that goes, "Oh, Monty, Monty Monty!" Sorry I don't have more specifics... guess you just have to be in my head to know what it is I am talking about here.

Kane made me a photoshop card with an old man and 10,000 dead Indians on the lawn; it is a work of art! We have this joke about 10,000 dead Indians being on someone's lawn... again, you have to be there I suppose. But picture, if you will, a PSA with an old, wizened Indian guy's voice saying something to the effect of, "Every year, 10,000 Indians die of alcohol poisoning, and most of them end up on this man's front lawn." Comedy gold.

Trish also made me a photoshopped card, which is even harder to explain here because it involved a baby with a "sour face" named Frances and a wacky cat he hates, named Stroganoff. Heck, it made me laugh.

I am thinking tonight about where I can move to. I am very close to going to this awesome apartment complex about five minutes from my new job-- it's right on a nature preserve, which means the javelinas and scorpions are ripe for the pettin'. Hot damn. But it's very beautiful there. On the other hand, it would be cool to still live somewhere with a yard, so perhaps a condo or something would be the way to go. Lots to think about, oh yes.

I have to stop and admit something-- I was watching "Real World San Diego" before. I saw that girl with the enormous jugs running drunk after some guy and then crying in a cab. Then people got in a hot tub, and there were lots of Abercrombie-model type shots. Speaking of Abercrombie, Trish and I noticed how fucking lame that place is when we were at the mall the other day. The clothes suck, which we always knew anyway, but no one was in there shopping. This is what happens when FITCH just stops putting in his share of the work. He ain't pulling his weight; Fitch is off banging hookers and arm wrestling fat chicks during poker games behind the K-Mart. Fitch is a fucking asshole, leaving Abercrombie holding the proverbial bag like that, while young toughs like Hollister come blowing into town and stealing all the young white folk. Shit, right? Shit!

Fitch is a stupid word and I hate saying it.

I meant to share two other things about the widly popular GAY GUY I dated-- you know, wrestling the dude and crying in the tub guy from a few posts back? Warning: one of these stories is a little, shall I say, RACY, so get that kid off your teat before you read this-- kids shouldn't be seeing this and eight year olds shouldn't be sucking on your chest, either.

1) Closet Gay Dude invites me to a fancy party that was held right on the Navesink River, in one of those really pretty, super-expensive homes on a very nice spring evening. It is a scholarship party of some sort, as his dad was on a committee for some scholarship thing, so his son was invited and I was his date. Or, so I thought...
So anyway, I dress up in this nice dress and heels--and I don't like heels-- and think this could be a fun night, being that it was so nice out and the place was so pretty. By this point, I DID have waning feelings for CGD because of all the other stuff I already talked about-- I was beginning to get the picture. But we get there to this party, and as I am walking in and being introduced to people, this lady taps me. I turn around, and she hands me a fucking tray and says, "Just walk around and collect empties from people, and bring them back here to the kitchen, and later you can take the cheese tray around." What the crap! I ended up being THE HELP at this stupid richy-rich party while asshole CGD pranced around like an anemic Fabio at the party, leaving me with the kitchen staff. I was so angry and insulted I was in tears. Hey it's not like I am a snob or something; I definitely am not above a little customer service here and there. But not on a night I thought I was a guest at a party.

2) HERE IT IS-- the piece de resistance. Literally, I guess. So I have to say it-- we were making out one night. I had a strict rule of abstaining from the full deed (sure glad I did that in this case) so he had to 'arrive' in another fashion. He was getting all grossly aroused and then he reaches over to his drum kit. Because he played the drums. He grabs the drumsticks. Holds them in front of me with one hand while grabbing, I kid you not, a bottle of Lubriderm. He says, AND I QUOTE: "Will you put these in my ass?"

Now COME ON. I know you are thinking I am just making this up. I am not. Also, you might be thinking this was a little too personal to share on the ole Blog, but I gave it some thought and the comedic value overruled the rest of it. Besides, this was not a good night for Old Closet Gay Dude, because I did not comply because I started to giggle and "ruined the mood." No sticks in the anus that night. Poor guy, huh?

Hope you have all enjoyed reading my tale. Have a pleasant weekend, frolicking and breathing in the sun-dappled sunshiney air! Spring is a horny mistress.

Last night I stopped at Subway and then went over to Trish's house so we could watch the new DVDs of Season One of "Northern Exposure." Anyway, as I pulled into a visitor spot at her apartment complex, an old man was in a covered spot a few spaces away, waxing his car with Turtle Wax. He started walking over to my car, smiling broadly and waving. When I got out, he told me how much he liked my car and the color of it. Yes, my car is so cute. It's dark blue with a purplish tint to it; I have always loved it.

Then the guy says something about how he is waxing his car. We started chatting very easily and next thing you know, I am telling him that I used to work for a carwash/ detailing magazine and "I know a thing or two about waxing." He says, "Well, come here, maybe you can help me with something."

I follow him over to the side of his car and (GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER) he showed me some swirlmarks on the side, and I told him the correct way to apply pressure when handwaxing. I took the sponge and showed him how to evenly apply the wax. He tried it, and he did great. Then he shows me a spot on his bumper that is cracked and asked for my advice there. I recommended calling DentPro, which is affiliated with AAA. I was like this car-savvy chick, helping this old dude out in the parking lot while holding my veggie sub and soda in the other hand. This guy was cool; he told me he had been in the Air Force (he was covered in tattoos on his arms) and now he only drives to the supermarket and the doctor. We were chatting it up for at least 10 minutes or so before I finally went up to Trish's. It was so trippy to be helping an old man wax his car and giving advice. Usually it's the other way around. Not that old men usually wax my car (imagine if there was an epidemic, and I had to chase them away from my car in the morning with the hose), but they do give advice, often unsolicited. It was nice.

Gosh, Northern Exposure is great. We watched two episodes-- and early one called "Soapy Sanderson" that was good, but it was so underdeveloped. The writers hadn't found their voices yet. But then we saw "Aurora Borealis" and we were just grinning The Gleeful Look throughout because it was so good. I totally love Bernard and Chris' relationship, and the way Adam yells at Joel. I have to buy this set for myself. And I will. Because today is my birthday and I can give myself anything I want.

I better go to my desk now (I am on the breakroom computer) and go to work. I just wanted to blog and say hello, and of course share my tale of waxing and old men.