Was this funny to you?

My father outdid himself and threw a surprise birthday party for my mother. I took this poem.

The Honey and I heard this poem a few weeks before,and I thought it was perfect for my mom. We thought it was funny. Apparently,we really needed Billy Collins to read it to them, because no one else did. They thought it was deep, or touching, or even somber. I usually hate poetry, but I like funny. huh.

I'm glad the Honey liked it, too, at any rate.

sigh.

I'm also really hoping my mother snorts at "Dress your Family in Corduroy and Denim" on CD. Nobody had "Me Talk Pretty One Day" in stock. When your parents HAVE everything they need or want, gifts are a challenge. ESPECIALLY given that there isn't anything that I could buy for her, I thought the poem was perfect. I looked for a lanyard kit to whip one up for her, too, but no luck. Probably for the best given how well the poem went over. I'd have been cross-eyed from braiding the damned thing and not gotten the laugh.

Sigh.

I was told by someone at work that for someone who cooks, I eat out a hell of a lot.

She knows this because she eats out a hell of a lot, too--and sees ME out.

Maybe I am just statistically more likely to hit the Shitty service lottery because I buy more tickets, or because I was a manager whose whole thing, spiel, schtick--whatever you want to call it--was Good Customer Service.

Let me tell you, I have gone to Marie Callendar's since I was a kid. We had to stop at the MC on Sunrise in Sacramento at least twice a year so my dad could have chili and cornbread. I think my father swooned when they opened one on Hilltop in Redding.

The Honey? Not so fond of it, but an open faced turkey sandwich has broken him on more than one occasion. During the Olympics, he was weak. Little O was overjoyed.

We walked in and I requested a table for four--you can tell the economy is feeling the pinch when there's no waiting at MC. The Honey asked, as she gathered our menus, if we could sit in the bar side so we could watch the Olympics.

Biotch did NOT roll her eyes and huff--I am sure that was NOT what I just saw.

Oh, yes it was, because I'll be damned if she did not take us to the only table in the room that was actually BEHIND every TV. If the Honey sat on the corner, he could look sideways at the big screen. Have we talked about the Honey's temper? I immediately told him we could leave as his eyes got big and slightly crazed. Stupid cow didn't help when she sniffed,

"you can move the table--a little."

A little? REALLY?

We were gathering our stuff back up to go when the Honey looked over and saw Little O with teary eyes. He just caved at that point--resigned himself to not watching the Olympics, and opened his menu.

So the manager comes over to ask if everything is okay, and here's the thing:

The Honey was settled back down, and he is a firm believer that you do NOT complain while any of your food is still in the kitchen.

I told the manager we were fine.

Our waitress was fabulous, and almost made up for the hostess, and the food was fine. After our meal, I asked to speak to the manager. I thougth he ought to know about the eye rolling, huffing, and surly little bitch that had seated us. Did I call her that? No. I simply explained what had happened and that I thought he should be aware.

Fucking unbelievable, because his first response was NOT I am so sorry, or I'll speak to her, it was

"I ASKED you, and you SAID everything was fine."

Pop rocks, people. Pop rocks exploding in my brain. I could hear them fizzing and hissing. I wasn't asking for a discount on my meal, I was not hitting him up for a free pie. I had started by telling him how great our waitress was. I thought he ought to know about his hostess, but it turns out he must have been the one who trained her! He worked up to a half hearted I'm sorry you feel that way, but added that we could have sat anywhere, there were tables open that faced the TV. Um, yeah, that was kind of my point, asshole.

ANYWAY, I wrote a letter to Marie's website, and it was almost completely grown up. I may have used the term stink eye when the Honey asked for bar seating. It was much more rational than my open letter to Chili's and/or Border's.

I have no expectation of anything but a form letter from Marie's, but I felt soooo much better having written it to corporate.

Did I ever tell you about my mother and the feedback form at Italian Cottage?
My roommate Kat, the Bad Boyfriend and I went to IC to meet my folks for dinner, and we got there before my folks. Waitress Paula was a complete cow to us--almost THREW Kat's coffee on her. As soon as my folks showed up she was sweet as pie. We were stunned at the turn about, and told my parents about it.
In place of the hefty tip my parents usually left, my mother wrote on the back of the check:

"We hope that when Paula gets back to her kennel, her mother growls and snaps at her."

My mom rocks.

I have a new boyfriend.

My sister-in-law started it.

 

She introduced us to Steve.

 

Steve does things our husbands won't--things the Honey wouldn't DREAM of.

 

My mother called me one day giggling and told me about Sam. 

 

Then she sent Sven to me.

 

Ah, those Scooba brothers.  They are to die for.

More.Fucking.Fish.

I didn't kill it this time.

Little O got 2 as her "goody bowl" for a birthday party. I guess it's good they gave us a back up, because one jumped out on the way home. The Honey and I were in separate cars, and I got the Kid, he got the fish. He stuck 'em in one big cup to take home, looked down about halfway home, and only one was in the cup. He found the other one on the floor board but didn't know when it started sucking air. He threw it back in the cup and kept driving. Yeah, you know the rest of the story. We're calling the survivor Lucky.


********************

My mama-san comes to visit me tomorrow--yay!

My house is a mess--boo!

Little O wanted to give them a present--aaawww...

She carefully washed her snail shell collection tonight--I cannot wait to see my mom's face. Is there a snail shell anniversary?

Thursday wanderings...

May I just say that Pakistan continues to scare the ever loving bejeebus out of me?

 

RIP, Ms. Bhutto, I think you were our best shot at a little stability over there.

 

***************

 

Did you all have a deeelightful Christmas?

 

My sweet Sister-in Law, my brother's wife, has started a war. 

 

She gave Little O a pink and black tackle box full of make up.

 

In response to that volley, I told her that she left me no choice but to  buy my gorgeous seventeen year old niece a fake ID.

 

Because the make up is, in fact, damn near invisible, I conceded that we will make sure it's a one name ID a-la-McLovin.

 

McLovely makes her sound like a Grey's Anatomy cast member.

 

*******************

 

My weird mother-issues continue. 

 

I have had an ice cream maker on my Christmas list for the last three years, ever since my brother and sister in law started making ice cream.  When my mom came through just before my birthday, I spied an ice cream ball in her back seat.  I was sure I was getting one for my birthday or maybe Christmas. 

 

Nope. 

 

She gave an Ice Cream ball to my brother and his family (who already make ice cream with his ice cream maker and started me on this whole kick) and she either gave one to SIL's cousin (who is a fabulous guy and I certainly do not begrudge him a flipping ice cream ball), or maybe balls to each of the kids?  I dunno, there were two floating around, and not one for me!  Still nothing for my birthday.  I am becoming obsessive and a little crazy about the whole birthday thing.  I feel like golem. 

 

My buuuuuurthdayyyyyyyy....

 

It's a little black speck on my shiny green soul.   (Do you see your soul as colored?  I envision it as granny smith green.)

 

 

Here's one for ya...

the scandal of the starving baby
Originally uploaded by Djuliet.

File this under super-dorkfession, agonizing admission of my own idiocy, or AW CRAP. (Okay that may have been funnier with the original typo of aw carp)

Several months ago the link on my blog to Locus Magazine, the alpha and omega of sci-fi book news, geek central, was advertising for an administrative assistant. You must understand that books used to be my life. My life's work. I quit school because working in the bookstore was so much fun. I was lured away from books by filthy lucre (and not much, at that), and I have pined for books ever since. To have even a slight chance to work at a magazine dealing with (presumably) articulate and thinking beings, and have a job that did not involve a panic button and a plexiglass spit shield was too much to pass up. I did not care that it involved a commute to the bay area and, by extension, less money than I make now (how is that possible without a paper hat and a nametag?). They asked for a cover letter describing your interest in sci-fi. I think I tasted honey.

I agonized over that cover letter. It couldn't just be a list of books, but how to narrow it down? Who did they want me to like? What if I mentioned the author they hated? Should I 'fess up that I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't geek out if Raymond Feist or George R. R. Martin called? I finally got my letter down to the basic loves of my sci fi reading. I confessed, not my fear of hyperventilation faced with certain authors, but rather my absolute disinterest in Manga or old-school hard sci-fi. I thought they should know. If they hired me, it would become evident that certain names made my eyes roll back in my head.

I fretted over e-mailing it to them, worrying that I'd screw it up somehow, and reveal my dorkiness. I bit the bullet and I pressed the send button, and gave them every one of my e-mails so they could choose where to reply. Can you see it coming?

I got brave and told my mother that I had taken this huge daring step (for me) in applying for a dream job. I know I tell you all how close my mom and I are, and how I adore my parents and we have this perfect relationship. Let me now reveal that she is still my mother, and we have a very real relationship. Her response was, and I quote,

"Jenny, that's just stupid. Why would you apply for a job in the bay area. It can't pay very much, and you think you could commute?" blah blah blah. Fill in with more of the same. Thanks, mama-san. sigh.

But I faithfully checked my email accounts, and listened to the crickets chirp. I used the canned air on my keyboard so I would be ready to reply. In my cover letter I acknowledged that I might be too far away to commute, but that I'd like to discuss the possibility--damn! I shot myself down! I would like to thank Bre for listening patiently while I agonized back and forth about what I might have done wrong. She's very patient anyway, but that stuff HAD to get old.

Then it happened. The ad was taken down. My dream was over.

Life goes on. At least until you remember a thing called the answering machine, something gathering dust in the corner because it's always full of mortgage re-fi pitches that chap my renter's hide. Every once in a while I clear out the messages to make room for more re-fi con men, but it's a pain in the ass because you have to listen to each message. There are also a ton from my ex, telling Big O to pick up. Annoying to listen to him in person, let alone in memorex. Oh, and a message from Locus Magazine asking me to give them a call.

They called. I never checked my machine, it never occurred to me that they would CALL, when everything had been via computer up to that point. They.Called.Me.
And they hired someone else, without ever knowing that I was the one they really wanted and needed.

There is my deep dark Saturday Dorkfession. I will be a little old lady rocking myself in a corner, slapping my forehead, saying "Check your messages." Maybe I'll get the golden trash can award for a life's work in garbage. Maybe I'll snap and threaten to dump MY garbage on THEIR porch if they don't shut the hell up and listen to me. Locus Magazine called me and I was too dorky to check my messages. LOCUS MAGAZINE. Worst part? I can't tell my mom they called, 'cause then I'd have to fess up the rest.

I'm off to beat the concept into my children that they WILL go to college, they WILL NOT quit for a shite paycheck in a fun retail job.