The Worst

Last night my boss at the restaurant tried to interfere when the cook and I were discussing a food order. She just made it more confusing because she came half-way into the conversation, and how she does stuff is different from how I do it and the cook does it, and then both of them were talking at the same time, and then she thought I was making up different sizes and half-portions that aren't on the menu, and then when I tried to do it better according to her the second time it was even more confusing and i could have dealt with it in about five seconds if she'd just me talk to the cook.
But the worst, worst part is that in the end, when all you want to do is say, "All right already! I get it" and get the hell away from there, you have to say, "I'm sorry." No matter that she was the one that pulled things out of her butt that I never said. No, it's "I'm sorry. I was confused. Now I understand and I will do better next time." Screw that. I am not groveling to her anymore.

Inside the Malibu Dream House

Last night, after completely forgetting for the third night in a row about soccer at Grant Park, my dad and I went for a drive to Home Depot. (Personally, I think this is my brain's way of sabotaging any attempt of mine to exercise, or in particular run--especially after a recent stunning victory in that department). Now Home Depot is not, let's say, a particular favourite of mine. Actually, I don't think I've ever been inside one, except perhaps as a kid when my memory was even less functional than it is now. I pictured Wall-Mart but grungier. Instead, although still fluorescent-lit and grey, it was like I stepped into a giant dollhouse. It was all very surreal. Huge walls with shiny silver things streching up until they lost all detail. Washers and dryers in big bunches. We had to look at tubs, and they had individual little "bathrooms" set up like sets for a movie, with only two walls, in all different decorating tastes. French countryside? Clean and simple? Deep red walls with a jetted whirpool? there was even one where the walls looked like the outside of a stone cathedral, the medieval feel even stronger because the top of the shower door was level with my head, which is only five and a half feet.
Then the tubs in stock were displayed vertically, set in the wall, three or four high. Like an eagle's eye view of cards laid on a table. Holy crap. Clever and dwarfing.
The little bathroom set-ups made me feel like Barbie in a seriously screwed-up Malibu Dream House. Further on there were the showers, also displayed and built vertically on top of each other. I could just imagine what it would be like to have the run of the place after closing time. Screw sneaking into Wall-Mart--Home Depot was the place to be! You could climb up the showers and tubs one by one until you could be comfortably nestled into a shiny, closed-off niche twenty feet off the ground, survey your kingdom and hopefully be cocooned with someone that makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

Mini-Poppins

Last Monday I had my first day back babysitting after what I thought was going to be goodbye forever. Damn those kids, though: as soon as you think you've had enough of them, they're fun and sweet and addictive. So we went to the park even though it was windy and cold, but hten I didn't have to constantly tell them to be quiet, so I didn't care. Besides, I adore wind. If people and elements could marry I'd be sending out the invitations. The twins thought this called for umbrellas so we (quietly) dug some out.
Now I haven't held an umbrella for about three years--not because I hate them or any particular allergic reaction, but just because I like rain better. (Or am caught unawares). So I got a gigantic Hagrid-sized red and white umbrella, and the twins got a frog and a rather plain blue one which was constantly turning inside out. Originally they wanted to steal mine, but then they abandoned that plan when they realized it was too heavy for them to actually hold up.
Of course it didn't rain at all while we had the umbrellas. But instead we were all morphed into Mary Poppins (and miniature versions) and marched, paraded, whistled and sang our way to the park. We twirled the life out of those umbrellas. THen at the park we decided to jump around and let the wind catch us and "fly".
The pretty twin decided she needed to jump off a high place to really fly, so I suggested one of the red stepping-stones. The next thing I know I turn around and she's crouching at the top platform of the play structure and before I could yell she casually leaps off, umbrella outstreched to catch the wind, and lands cross-legged in the gravel.
I just gaped. I don't know how high it was but she's six, and it was about twice her height. THat's like me casually jumping off of an eleven-foot platform, which for particular daredevils may seem like nothing but that would terrify me. Of course she just turned to me really excited and said, "I flew for a minute!" and got up to do it again. What else could I do? So I laughed and said, "Definitely."
The ugly twin (well, not that ugly really) got mad at me when I told her she couldn't jump off an even higher but different part of the playground. She stalked off and sat underneath her umbrella for a while, then yelled at me, "My dog died!"
Well, I'd definitely swatted him before I left so I was confused. She continued "before I was born!" and then she told me (pretty much out of nowhere) that her grandpa had died before she even got to know him and loads of other people did, too. That's why she was so angry.
I admire her for feeling that cheated. Or at least for being creative. But she's so strange.
We proceeded to make forts with the umbrellas and eventually, twirling them in front of us, paraded on home.

Strange Preconceptions

So yesterday, while doing some emergency last-minute Mother's Day shopping, I found two CDs I really wanted both for $ 9.99 each, which makes any day a success. One was the newest Regina Spektor, because really, it was going to happen sooner or later. The other was a Lily Allen album, which I had kind of had my eye out for because her songs were so funny on my latest birthday mix. But based on the three songs of hers I knew, I had a very clear mental image of her before that was not what she looks like at all. Basically I had imagined someone tall and Keira Knightly-looking, except with long blonde hair. She had a deep red and silver background. Instead she's this short chick with black hair on a motorcycle, but wearing a pretty skirt, with a kind of comic-book punk style to it. It's very cool, but so different. And wierd to adjust.
When I first heard Feist, I also imagined a round, cat-eyed girl with sandy-coloured hair with a bit of an attitude, like this girl who once did a poetry reading at Dregs Cafe. And then Leslie Feist looks obviously completely different. It's strange how this affects how you hear music, like the song can actually sound totally different. Also, why does my brain seem to think everyone is blonde? Not in a Duff way, but it's still perverse.
I also just downloaded a ton of Louis and Ella together, and I got some CDs on hold at the library. I love the pursuit of music. It's so productive. And I feel like a rounder person with every new song I find! woot.

Hahahahahahaha ah but it's not cold outside...!

11 Hours

So on Tuesday I started my new job at an Inn, so basically I am living my life in sync with Lorelai Gilmore. It's very beautiful and I learnt how to do hospital corners. Fitted sheets are just so indulgent. But honestly, I really like it there and I enjoy being in a smaller place where I pretty much use my head and do what I think needs to be done, even if I can't remember whether the pink or black sheets go on the bottom.
HOWEVER, other work is not so satisfactory. As I was told to do, I got a day job so I can work in the restaurant in the evenings. Then this week I get only two day time shifts (aka little business, few hours, no tips). And my boss wants to know my Inn schedule so she can continue to do this, since the Inn is only two or three days a week. Um, excuse me, that's not what we agreed. Now I look at the schedule for next week and oh, goodie! One shift. One. Uno. None other than. It's a Saturday so at least it'll be busy, but honestly. What, you just don't have to courage to freakin lay me off? God. So next week between two jobs I'm working about a grand total of 10 or 11 hours. That's just fantastic.
Do they not realize that to cut down my hours there because I got a second job somewhere else ENTIRELY DEFEATS THE PURPOSE????
I am frustrated. And I just know! if I get a third job the restaurant will give me even fewer hours, because that's how they work. I want to just not tell them, but I guess it wouldn't look very good to my newest employers if I told them they weren't allowed to talk to my boss.