LaDeDah + Fire = BAD STUFF

As the afternoon sun faded on this glorious day I puttered around the dining room at my latest future former place of employment lighting candles on the table tops and making conversation with the guests. As I neared one particular table the woman at it caught my eye and touched the candle holder in a gesture fraught with "please sir may I have some light". I rushed forward to oblige. (have I mentioned that I am terrified of fire and use a foot long grill lighter for this?)

Suddenly she was waving at me and saying, "NO, No! The oxygen!"

It turns out that her elderly husband was attached to a traveling oxygen tank and in my fervor I almost blew him up. Woops.

Who's the Pet Here?

My cat falls into the "special" category. He is 3 pounds of satanic arms and legs with teeth. Today I went to target and bought kitten repellent (so he stops eating the couch) and fresh toys (a package of furry mice and one of fuzzy mice). When I came home I dropped the bag and ladedah'd off to organize the kitchen cabinets (no I'm not lying I really did). The next thing I know I look up and he is dragging the full shopping bag across the floor.  

"WHAT are you doing?" I schreeked at him.

On closer inspection I say that he had one of the furry mice in his mouth, but couldn't disengage it from the wrapper so was taking the whole kit n' caboodle. I showed him the new toys and he sniffed each mouse in turn before biting a camo fuzzy mouse to let me know he had made up his mind. 

He took off with the mouse and for the rest of the night has been growling and hissing at me when I get too close. He lost the thing under the fridge and yowled and screamed until I fished it out for him, then hissed at me because I was messing with his toy. 

It occurred to me then, as it does from time to time, that I am the pet and Benny Whiskers (aka Benny the Brat, Benny the Bat, Benny Big Balls, Kittenzilla, and Fucker) is the master. 

In Bloom

In a moment of girly weakness I found myself seated at a jewelry counter with my mother and sister. We gazed hungrily down at the rows of engagement rings shining like the crown of jesus himself. I asked the woman to pull first one then another diamond from the case. I slid a 1.5 karat marquis cut diamond onto my finger and held it up to show my mother.

"It's on the wrong hand!" She shreiked. 

I looked down and thought, "Who cares."

"The left hand rocks the cradle while the right hand rules the world," I said.  

The market sells roses for 50 cents a piece and I buy myself fresh flowers every few weeks. At first I thought, "I'll show mr. Onion, I'll buy MYSELF flowers." but what was originally a ploy to shame my boyfriend became a practice in self indulgence. The fact is, I like having fresh flowers in the house, so why not treat myself to them? Why do I have to wait around for Mr. Onion to be in the doghouse before I can get some blooms?

Likewise, if a woman likes diamonds, why does she have to wait for a man to buy it for her? It seems to me that if women wait for men to indulge them they may never be fullfilled. Its like the woman who believes the man is in charge of giving her an orgasm. Most of the time she ends up pulling a when Harry met Sally so she can catch her beauty sleep. 

I wanted to tell my mother right then and there, wether it's flowers, rings, or orgasms I'm alright giving them to myself and in the end I can't help but feel like that little fact makes me a better candidate for gifting ( lest someone think I would be an unwilling recipient of any of the above).   

Jobless Island

Greetings from Jobless Island, where entire days can pass in a cheesecake induced haze. 

I finally had enough of the bartending gig... It sucked and I am just so not good at hiding my displeasure. I walked up to the annoying pretty boy owner and said, "I'm sorry, this isn't working out." and he said, "No." Those of you that know me know this one important thing about me, I dont take no well. Mr.Onion encouraged me to quit by carrying the 15 cases of wine that I was required to carry up into the attic weekly and instead carry it to the middle of the parking lot, tell them to fuck themselves and then leave. In that instant I was wondering why I insisted on doing the honorable thing. I was thinking, "NO?! NO! you stupid limp dick prick. I am quitting. The whole point is that YOU dont get to tell me what to do, so I can finish my shift and go on with our lives, or I can stab you with a fork and leave now." What I did was smile sweetly and say, "No, I'm not happy here and I need to be done." I think he must have seen that crazed look in my eye, because mr. I'm gonna bully you into staying backed down awfully quick. And I got on with the sleeping late and cheesecake consumption. Life's fine, thanks for asking. 

what I Saw

The coastal fog was thick this morning as I climbed aboard a bus bound for boston. From my seat against the window I watched as a crowd of people descended on the platform. In their center was a man younger than I by about 5 years, he was maybe 20, dressed in new age military fatigues (you know, pixelized camo). Several people hefted heavy bags, which they set at the soldiers feet as they gathered near the side of the bus. He gathered with first one group and then another for pictures. Last boarding call for logan, south station....

Dad handed the heavy bags to the attendent. THe round mother, her sloppy hair twisted into a bun, twiddled her fingers and then suddenly clutched her son. 

"I love you, mom." He said, burying his face in her shoulder as she sobbed. 

He hugged each of his well wishers furiously in turn. I love you was repeated a dozen times. 

"We'll blow something up when I get back," he promised a younger brother.

Again he clutched his tearful mother and father, and then boarded the bus saying, "oh jeez, oh jeez," plaintively under his breath.

I realized that I too was crying; giant tears of sorrow and fear. Oh, the gruesome cost of war, I am thankful and ashamed. He serves for me, Matt serves for me, Stanley died for me. Yet, I rarely give this a second thought. Truely shameful.  

A Golden Geyser

"Can I have a large Bud Lite please?"

I raise the ice covered mug to the silver draft and slide the lever forward. There are two glorious seconds where the golden brew flows then there is a sputter and a cough of foam splatters beer up my arm. "F%&@, the keg is out."

For all of you that don't know I have been sentenced to spend my summer faithfully preforming my duties as the world's worst bartender. Okay, maybe I'm not that bad and I am perhaps less than faithful, but you get the idea. The kegs are in a double door cooler just big enough for the three of them. Non-alcoholic beer (pointless shit) and the wine chillers are crammed in around them. These are the steps for changing a keg: 

1. find pubescent dish boy with spaghetti arms 

2. together wrestle keg onto dolly 

3. both jump on handle until dolly tips and dish boy is able to cart it out of the walk in and into the bar

4. hastily pile non-alcoholic beer (pointless shit) and wine chillers in the corner

5. discover that the bud lite is the middle keg, which means in order to remove the empty I must first lift a full keg of Bud (regular) over the lip of the door and far enough away from the opening that I can get the empty out the door. 

6.yank miserably on keg of bud whilst muttering obscenities under my breath, dish boy joins in, then a waitress who really needs her drink order. 

7. fucker won't move

At this point cranky restaurant owner storms into the bar. Spaghetti arm dish boy, needy waitress, and I (inept bartender?) freeze. He scatters us like gulls at the beach, grabs the freaking, stubborn keg of Bud and yanks it free. He disconnects the empty keg and hands it to dish boy, glaring as if to say, see? see how easy? He pulls the fresh keg to the cooler door and begins to attach the hose.

I stare in horror. 

In his pissed off hurry, he is connecting it wrong. I knows this because I have received several lectures on proper keg attachment procedure. Mostly from cranky restaurant owner. There's a hurricane a commin'...

He breaks the seal and a geyser of foaming beer-y goodness shoots into the air, directly into the face of cranky restaurant owner. The air is sucked from the bar and silence descends. He growls, manages to catch the seal threads, shoves both kegs back into the cooler, and storms out without a word.   

Dish boy stares at me, his face white, and slowly the corners of his little mouth turn up. "Holy...." He breaths. 

My sentiments exactly.  

Mr. Onion Loses His Mind

I finally managed to convince Mr.Onion that there was something missing form our lives... an entertainment center. Yesterday we drove to Walmart and chose a real whopper. Mr. Onion strongarmed it into the car and we were off. Once home it quickly became apparent that this was going to be fun. Not because I so love putting things together as much as the fact that Mr. Onion can rebuild engines but when faced with the complicated details of particle board and slot A meets notch B he loses his freaking mind. 

Even with Benny lending a paw Mr. Onion had about reached his boiling point by step 4 of the instructions. After that I demoted him to entertainer of the kitten whilst I put together the entertainment center (enlisting Onion to tighten screws etc along the way). THEN, I made the mistake of suggesting he put together the drawer while I nail the backing on the unit. I was about 5 nails in when I had to stop hammering or risk losing a finger I was laughing so hard. Mr. Onion had put one of the pieces in backwards and was talking dirty to the drawer as he pulled it apart. Then he flipped it over and hammered it back in swearing up a storm  only to discover that it STILL wasn't in right. I staggered, I clutched my stomach, and Mr. Onion glared. 

In the future I feel certain in the knowledge that this will be one of the defining moments of our relationship. Mr. Onion quit amidst my peels of laughter and resumed his post as screw tightener while I fixed the drawer, finished the entertainment center, and fell exhausted into bed.  Lesson learned: taunt your help, build by your onesies.