As if it wasn't bad enough that I am now way beyond the ideal age range for an early 30s bachelor ("Must be 18 to 25"), I've been targeted by this fellow on MySpace to sign up for his specialty website.
Quote of the evening, overheard at table #1: "Nacho Libre is one of the funniest films ever!" Sarcasm was not detected in her tone -- nor did she seem mentally capable of a deadpan delivery. Maybe I'm just being a snob -- I haven't even seen the movie. Or maybe I'm a wee miffed that she tipped $14 on $170.
Highlight of the evening: In response to my offer to check his coat, the man at table #6 asked me whether I could also relieve him of his life's burdens.
Lowlight of the evening: The cougars at table #7, after finishing their chicken dinners (gosh they're adventurous!), chose not to order dessert. Instead, they picked each other's bacne. Right there. On the banquette.
A good morning kiss, coffee and cuddles on the couch, a leisurely stroll along Queen West, a well-spent hour in a vintage store on Ossington, a last-minute decision to clean up the eyebrows, the latest issue of Fine Cooking waiting for me at home: I was so glad that I'd had a full day to relax before the impending two-week shitfest, also known as Winterlicious.
Health-wise, I'd had an early morning visit yesterday from the Green Apple Splatters. Cold sweats, explosive discomfort and an unanswered plea for a very sharp knife. My hell. The monster had come and gone in less than an hour. I was relieved that the pain did not last too long -- but boy was I naive to assume that the monster had left for good. :(
I was packed and ready to head out for the gym (yeah, you heard me -- the gym!) this afternoon when I thought "Hmm... I'm feeling a little peckish. I've got some time to kill before catching the streetcar. How about some yogurt?" Yes, creamy yogurt.
The monster didn't really leave yesterday. He'd spent the next 30 hours hiding in my colon, waiting for me to do something careless. Like eat yogurt. I should have known that his appearances always happened in pairs, if not trios. He's never gone until all the purging is done. And purge my colon, I did.
In terms of squirting brown, I am pretty sure that I won't be having any more episodes for the next little while. That would be extremely unfortunate should it happen right in the middle of service over the next few weeks. Our reservation book is so packed with 905ers and people who love dining in groups of six or more, that I will not have a chance to run down to the crapper any time between 6:30 and 10:30. Even if I were to wear diapers, I'd rather not have to think about squidging around in gravy while serving Bengali Chicken curry. Stinky times. No amount of burnt cinammon could ever cover that up.
So I never made it to the gym because I was waylaid by the trots. The visit, though quick (but extremely painful), made me miss my 6pm class. Just to be on the safe side, I ate grapes for dinner. I am so very very hungry right now.
A long time ago, I dreamed of little brown Timbits decked in white gloves and sneakers, spiralling down my intestinal slide, arms upraised and "wheeeeeeee"-ing with glee as they dropped into the porcelain chasm.
It is comforting to know that there are others out there who have shared similar visions. I should definitely consider moving to Japan, where people are less likely to find me weird and/or gross.
I suppose the advantage of knowing that you did not get the job before they inform you is that it gives you a little time to let the rejection sink in, so that when they finally contact you, you will be able to thank them graciously without a lump in your throat. Thanks for hugging back, M.
The search continues.
Things aren't too bad right now. Between spending 20-something hours a week at the restaurant and two nights a week in the suburbs, I have watched many many episodes of Jerry Bruckheimer awesomeness, fallen in giddy like with the Venture Brothers and earned my SmartServe certification. Eating out has mainly been reserved for the Saturday brekkie and I have grown comfortable with my Saturday screenings at Jackman. I started to make an effort to eat fruits and vegetables, but gave that up after a few days.
"So what do you do for a living?" I have stopped justifying why I am a waitress. When I simply say "I am a server," people often lean in, expecting some kind of explanation. If they want to assume that it's just a part-time thing while I finish my undergrad, so be it. I kind of miss my EI days and that feeling of smug satisfaction when I could honestly respond with "What do I do? Dick all."
I am making enough at the restaurant to get by and I can sleep in/lounge about in my underwear as late as I want (except on Sundays). I have my days free to hang out with T (when she's not in class) and I don't have to line up for the washer and dryer. Retail store hours coincide (conveniently) with my free time. The trade-off is that my already irregular eating habits and patterns are further messed up by this crazy schedule; just the other night my dinner consisted of a bowl of sausages and a bottle of Yop. I have also added the ever-so-tasty and creamy (I can't believe it's lactose-free!) Ensure to my diet. (It would break my parents' hearts to read this posting). Moreover, I never get to see my dear Chateauvians, since I get home when they're asleep and wake up when they're gone.
Meanwhile, I am relying (a little too heavily) on retail therapy to keep my spirits up. As difficult as it was to justify the purchase of a belt which cost more than a pair of pants, I must admit that the girl at Banana Republic is fabulous at her job. Equally fabulous is the lighting in the changeroom.
Som is trying to convince me that I'd look great in this suit. Gorgeous and stunning. At $30, it's quite the steal.
