Some Holiday Cheer
Some notes I've gathered in the past few weeks while writing papers, working, and wrapping Christmas presents:
- Most recently, Johnny Damon went to the Yankees. I can't write anything about Johnny Damon since this was the subject that sparked the whole censorship controversy. All I'll say is that I'm disappointed that he went to the Yankees and I don't know how much I believe people who say that he won't be the same having to be all professional in New York with the hair and personality (though I can - and do - hope they're right). I think it comes down to change. It's hard to accept that all things change, and nothing - especially things that are great - can stay the same. Nothing's going to repeat the 2004 team, no matter how many superstars they get or even how many championships they win. October 2004 was the best month for the Red Sox, with the best team, and as all the guys from that team seem to move on, it's tough to cut ties. What can I say.
(Peace out, Michelle! Best of luck with the YES Network!)
- Have you noticed that when you go out to eat, to waitress/waiter sometimes says, after taking your order, "My name's Ashley, if you need anything." You know what gets me? Am I really going to get up at my table and shout across the place, "ASHLEY! SALT!" No. I don't really need the name. I don't know if it's to form a personal connection or what, but I don't get it and if I don't get it, I don't really care for it.
Also, what's with the trend of not writing the orders down? This makes me annoyed when they screw up what I asked for. I'm not offended by a pen or paper. I don't expect Ashley to be able to remember everyone's order. I don't want to remember her name. It's okay.
A few days ago, my friends and I were at a restaurant and the waitress came back to tell us, "I think there was a miscommunication. When I asked if you wanted dessert and you said you were all set, did that mean you wanted dessert or that you were set?" Huh. That doesn't sound like a miscommuniction to me, hon. That's a definite non-communication, your side.
- Quickly family story: last Sunday, I went to eat with my dad, sister, brother, grandmother, and Saul. I've written about issues with deciding where to go to eat several times, and this time, I was prepared. I had the restaurant picked out. We went. I was stressed the whole time about whether people would like the food. So the food comes and everyone seems happy. Finally, my dad asks my grandmother if she'd come back. "I don't know," was her response.
"Was the food good?" my dad asked her.
"Yes."
"So, what was the problem then?"
"I like a sald with my meal."
"Okay."
"They didn't have the dressings I like. And I like a salad with my meal. You know, a salad. While I wait for the food to come, that's something to do, eat my salad."
Apparently, TALKING WITH YOUR FAMILY doesn't count as "something to do" while waiting for food.
Enjoy eating at Spud's for the 23490814891 time.
- My brother got a huge blister on the bottom of his foot because he ran on the treadmill in socks. WTF, I come from a family of geniuses.
- Speaking of my brother's intellect, listen to this: on Sunday, my dad stopped at a few Hess stations to get his girlfriend one of those collector Hess trucks. (By the way, I've told this story to several people, and apparently, everyone knows about these trucks and every single person has someone in their family buying them. And people think they'll be worth something someday. Uhh, ebay freaks? EVERYONE will be trying to sell theirs in 2050, too. Better off collecting Beanie Babies again.) Anyway, he goes in and comes back empty-handed. They were sold out, he tells us.
A few hours later, we ride by another station, so my dad goes in. This time, after my dad got out of the car, my brother told me how upset he was that my dad was buying the truck. "This is so unfair!" he yelled. "Dad won't buy me a car, and he's getting his girlfriend a truck?! How is that FAIR?!"
"You should tell Dad how you feel," I said. I seriously was choking back tears.
My dad came back, and my brother said to him, "Dad! It's so unfair how you buy her a truck! Why can't she buy her own car! You won't buy me a car!" My brother went ballistic.
"You're joking, right?" my dad asked. "You're not being serious. He's not being serious. He's not that dumb."
"Oh no," I told my dad. "He thinks you're buying her a REAL truck."
"Michael," my father said, turning around to face him, "they're miniature. Collector cars. They're, like, 20 bucks."
"Oh."
This might be equivalent to my sister buying a size medium kid's jacket for herself. This is my brother's pantheon moment. Seriously, what was he thinking? He took a fair verbal beating for it: "Umm, who buys a real car from a gas station?" "How'd you think Dad was going to get it home? Tie it to the trunk?" "Do you really think dad just goes in and negotiates with the clerk who sells loterry tickets and cigarettes?"
Holy crap, I'm laughing at/pitying the kid just writing about it.
- I work with this guy who everybody else thinks should be in charge of the world. I tell him I'm Queen Elizabeth and he's Tony Blair. Basically, I'm ceremonial and serve no real purpose and everyone goes to Tony for any important matter. This goes on every single day. I've literally had someone say to me, "Oh, hey, can you help m... oh, wait, nevermind, Doug's here." YEAH. The last straw was last week when I walked into the office and found that our phone now has been changed to have his name appear when anyone calls out. If that ain't a message, I don't know what it is.
I have a message of my own for all of these people.
If you think I'm putting it in writing, you are out of your mind.
- Since when, by the way, is it okay to make a reservation for 6:30, be told that if you'r enot there at 6:30 SHARP your table will be given away, show up at 6:25 SHARP, and then have to wait 30 minutes to be seated AND be given the royal attitude when you ask when you'll be seated? I guess it's okay since... FOREVER, because when I tell people the story they're all like, "Oh, well, yeah, it's a busy place." BUSY PLACE?! BUSY PLACE?!? That's why I made the reservation in the first place.
I have a real issue with restaurants and their high horse reservation systems. Take P.F. Chang's, for example. A few weeks ago, my friend and I tried to make a reservation for a party, but they were booked. Fine. So we decided to go about 45 minutes early, put our name in, and then when people show up, they'll only have to wait about 10-15 minutes. Well, this wasn't okay. You have to have your entire party to be there. Not just to be seated. Not just to put your name on the list. But just to get a HYPOTHETICAL wait time. Nobody will tell you. I was like, "Okay, so hypothetically, if my entire party were here, how long would it be?"
"I cannot disclose that information."
DISCLOSE! WTF. These people like power.
The Cheesecake Factory is also obnoxious with their no-reservation policy. And then they make you wait after having waited. Your buzzer goes off, you're the proud winner of a spot at the back of the NEXT line. But you know who's more ridiculous that all the Cheesecake honchos? The lardfaces who insist on waiting 3492849184 hours for a table.
And last, I am boycotting the local restaurant next door because they are not friendly people and they make you clear your own tray and separate th forks knives spoons chopsticks AND AND AND scrape off the excess food into the garbage can. I should charge THEM to eat there.
- I'm bronzing this skirt I wore last week. It brought me much happiness and quite franly, I don't think it could do any better. Just how parents bronze their kids' first shoes or some crap like that, this skirt is being dipped in the finest bronze and mounted on a wall somewhere. Maybe I'll start a bronzing business. I'm gonna think about it.
- Stress is but a distant cousin who knows not to knock on my door. Yup, that was created the night after I finished my 22-page Faulkner OPUS.
- Someday, if I am ever a famous writer (admittedly doubtful after the previous note), I really do hope people read these postings and analyze them in English courses so that they try to figure out what I meant. Can you picture it? "Roomus 101" "The Early Work: The Roomus Files." God, I am so egotistical sometimes. The truth is though, I don't mean anything significant by any of them (you're thinking: duh. Or, I hope not.) But really, sometimes I sit in class and think, "I bet William Shakespeare would be like, look, I just wrote this story about this guy who is inane and this girl who's hot and look what can happen. It's a cautionary tale." Or I think about James Joyce finally admitting, "I wrote Ulysses when I was trashed."
That's all I got. Merry Christmas.
- Most recently, Johnny Damon went to the Yankees. I can't write anything about Johnny Damon since this was the subject that sparked the whole censorship controversy. All I'll say is that I'm disappointed that he went to the Yankees and I don't know how much I believe people who say that he won't be the same having to be all professional in New York with the hair and personality (though I can - and do - hope they're right). I think it comes down to change. It's hard to accept that all things change, and nothing - especially things that are great - can stay the same. Nothing's going to repeat the 2004 team, no matter how many superstars they get or even how many championships they win. October 2004 was the best month for the Red Sox, with the best team, and as all the guys from that team seem to move on, it's tough to cut ties. What can I say.
(Peace out, Michelle! Best of luck with the YES Network!)
- Have you noticed that when you go out to eat, to waitress/waiter sometimes says, after taking your order, "My name's Ashley, if you need anything." You know what gets me? Am I really going to get up at my table and shout across the place, "ASHLEY! SALT!" No. I don't really need the name. I don't know if it's to form a personal connection or what, but I don't get it and if I don't get it, I don't really care for it.
Also, what's with the trend of not writing the orders down? This makes me annoyed when they screw up what I asked for. I'm not offended by a pen or paper. I don't expect Ashley to be able to remember everyone's order. I don't want to remember her name. It's okay.
A few days ago, my friends and I were at a restaurant and the waitress came back to tell us, "I think there was a miscommunication. When I asked if you wanted dessert and you said you were all set, did that mean you wanted dessert or that you were set?" Huh. That doesn't sound like a miscommuniction to me, hon. That's a definite non-communication, your side.
- Quickly family story: last Sunday, I went to eat with my dad, sister, brother, grandmother, and Saul. I've written about issues with deciding where to go to eat several times, and this time, I was prepared. I had the restaurant picked out. We went. I was stressed the whole time about whether people would like the food. So the food comes and everyone seems happy. Finally, my dad asks my grandmother if she'd come back. "I don't know," was her response.
"Was the food good?" my dad asked her.
"Yes."
"So, what was the problem then?"
"I like a sald with my meal."
"Okay."
"They didn't have the dressings I like. And I like a salad with my meal. You know, a salad. While I wait for the food to come, that's something to do, eat my salad."
Apparently, TALKING WITH YOUR FAMILY doesn't count as "something to do" while waiting for food.
Enjoy eating at Spud's for the 23490814891 time.
- My brother got a huge blister on the bottom of his foot because he ran on the treadmill in socks. WTF, I come from a family of geniuses.
- Speaking of my brother's intellect, listen to this: on Sunday, my dad stopped at a few Hess stations to get his girlfriend one of those collector Hess trucks. (By the way, I've told this story to several people, and apparently, everyone knows about these trucks and every single person has someone in their family buying them. And people think they'll be worth something someday. Uhh, ebay freaks? EVERYONE will be trying to sell theirs in 2050, too. Better off collecting Beanie Babies again.) Anyway, he goes in and comes back empty-handed. They were sold out, he tells us.
A few hours later, we ride by another station, so my dad goes in. This time, after my dad got out of the car, my brother told me how upset he was that my dad was buying the truck. "This is so unfair!" he yelled. "Dad won't buy me a car, and he's getting his girlfriend a truck?! How is that FAIR?!"
"You should tell Dad how you feel," I said. I seriously was choking back tears.
My dad came back, and my brother said to him, "Dad! It's so unfair how you buy her a truck! Why can't she buy her own car! You won't buy me a car!" My brother went ballistic.
"You're joking, right?" my dad asked. "You're not being serious. He's not being serious. He's not that dumb."
"Oh no," I told my dad. "He thinks you're buying her a REAL truck."
"Michael," my father said, turning around to face him, "they're miniature. Collector cars. They're, like, 20 bucks."
"Oh."
This might be equivalent to my sister buying a size medium kid's jacket for herself. This is my brother's pantheon moment. Seriously, what was he thinking? He took a fair verbal beating for it: "Umm, who buys a real car from a gas station?" "How'd you think Dad was going to get it home? Tie it to the trunk?" "Do you really think dad just goes in and negotiates with the clerk who sells loterry tickets and cigarettes?"
Holy crap, I'm laughing at/pitying the kid just writing about it.
- I work with this guy who everybody else thinks should be in charge of the world. I tell him I'm Queen Elizabeth and he's Tony Blair. Basically, I'm ceremonial and serve no real purpose and everyone goes to Tony for any important matter. This goes on every single day. I've literally had someone say to me, "Oh, hey, can you help m... oh, wait, nevermind, Doug's here." YEAH. The last straw was last week when I walked into the office and found that our phone now has been changed to have his name appear when anyone calls out. If that ain't a message, I don't know what it is.
I have a message of my own for all of these people.
If you think I'm putting it in writing, you are out of your mind.
- Since when, by the way, is it okay to make a reservation for 6:30, be told that if you'r enot there at 6:30 SHARP your table will be given away, show up at 6:25 SHARP, and then have to wait 30 minutes to be seated AND be given the royal attitude when you ask when you'll be seated? I guess it's okay since... FOREVER, because when I tell people the story they're all like, "Oh, well, yeah, it's a busy place." BUSY PLACE?! BUSY PLACE?!? That's why I made the reservation in the first place.
I have a real issue with restaurants and their high horse reservation systems. Take P.F. Chang's, for example. A few weeks ago, my friend and I tried to make a reservation for a party, but they were booked. Fine. So we decided to go about 45 minutes early, put our name in, and then when people show up, they'll only have to wait about 10-15 minutes. Well, this wasn't okay. You have to have your entire party to be there. Not just to be seated. Not just to put your name on the list. But just to get a HYPOTHETICAL wait time. Nobody will tell you. I was like, "Okay, so hypothetically, if my entire party were here, how long would it be?"
"I cannot disclose that information."
DISCLOSE! WTF. These people like power.
The Cheesecake Factory is also obnoxious with their no-reservation policy. And then they make you wait after having waited. Your buzzer goes off, you're the proud winner of a spot at the back of the NEXT line. But you know who's more ridiculous that all the Cheesecake honchos? The lardfaces who insist on waiting 3492849184 hours for a table.
And last, I am boycotting the local restaurant next door because they are not friendly people and they make you clear your own tray and separate th forks knives spoons chopsticks AND AND AND scrape off the excess food into the garbage can. I should charge THEM to eat there.
- I'm bronzing this skirt I wore last week. It brought me much happiness and quite franly, I don't think it could do any better. Just how parents bronze their kids' first shoes or some crap like that, this skirt is being dipped in the finest bronze and mounted on a wall somewhere. Maybe I'll start a bronzing business. I'm gonna think about it.
- Stress is but a distant cousin who knows not to knock on my door. Yup, that was created the night after I finished my 22-page Faulkner OPUS.
- Someday, if I am ever a famous writer (admittedly doubtful after the previous note), I really do hope people read these postings and analyze them in English courses so that they try to figure out what I meant. Can you picture it? "Roomus 101" "The Early Work: The Roomus Files." God, I am so egotistical sometimes. The truth is though, I don't mean anything significant by any of them (you're thinking: duh. Or, I hope not.) But really, sometimes I sit in class and think, "I bet William Shakespeare would be like, look, I just wrote this story about this guy who is inane and this girl who's hot and look what can happen. It's a cautionary tale." Or I think about James Joyce finally admitting, "I wrote Ulysses when I was trashed."
That's all I got. Merry Christmas.
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