152 Czech Waitresses
I think I might have finally recovered from last week. Though this wondrous tale of woe technically starts a week and a half ago. So after spending Wednesday night fighting off the hordes of ex-cons number munchers (i.e. inventory), I discovered that it was my co-“workers” that were the bigger threat to my health and sanity. They had dicked over my schedule, then had the nerve to play Joey-Bag-of-Doughnuts when I arrived.
Boss-Man: “Where’s your team!?!”
ShenaniMe: “Fucking right here dumbass, Did you think I was joking when I warned you about this on Monday? Shut the fuck up.”
Instead of wandering around for hours sneaking photos of poorly tattooed wanna-be carnies, I was stuck at a table in the front of the store, with a printer, piles of UPC-less merchandise, and a (larger) pile of papers sporting numbers for said mystery items. That’s how I spent a good five hours Wednesday night to Thursday morning (10-3).
Thursday brought my sick sounding car sounding like it didn’t have long for this world. Each start-up was weaker, with more gurgles audible. The fates were kind, they waited until after I made it from work on Friday to give up the ghost. Made all the worse ‘cuz I passed the mechanic’s shop on the way home, and debated whether or not to stop then and there. You know, take all the blows in one day, leaving myself free to heal over the weekend.
It’s funny how you never really want to leave your home until you can’t, at which point your inability causes horrendous frustration. Most days I hope I don’t have to leave. Here I was pulling my hair out ‘cuz I couldn’t. Damn sick friends and those who love them…
I can’t complain though, since the stuttering tow truck driver was awfully nice.
Tow Truck Driver: “Do you mind if I stop for a soda?
S/M: “Uh, we’re just going three miles down the road. Buy your (fucking) soda afterwards. I’m paying for your time right now.”
He pointed out that I was REAL lucky; as his boss didn’t usually accept checks. Politeness strangled the laugh trying to leap from my throat. There’s a recession/depression going on, and literally three pages of tow truck companies listed in the phone book.
I’m the lucky one? Hey, tell your boss, he’s welcome.
It turns out my car’s engine had taken the time, over the years, to tie itself into a Gordian knot. The starter was dead, which was great, ‘cuz I had just replaced it last August, meaning it was still under warranty. Dead from drowning from all the oil my leaky valve covers were spewing.
Returning on Monday to finish the valve cover work, it was discovered that the timing belt had about as long as it takes you to read this sentence to last. (And they couldn’t find the valve covers anywhere in Tampa; doubling that cost.) So Wednesday was also spent at the mechanics too.
“Wow, you’re just going to be here every day aren’t you?,” is not something you want to be greeted with when entering a shop.
The silver lining to all this depressiveness is I found twenty bucks in the ATM at the gas station next to the shop. Meaning, naturally, after the car was running again I ran across the street to Sound Exchange! Finding this piece of epic-ness:
Seasons One and Two of Super Sweet 16! Just what every grown adult needs, *psuedo”-documentarian proof of others’ leasurely lives. Spending half a million dollars on a birthday party? No problem!
Some of my friends have the nerve to question my taste in viewing materials, some even going so far as to use that always trite comment, “I liked MTV better when they actually played videos.”
Clearly they don’t remember those videos. Which were (and still are on a more limited scale) as bad as the songs they were advertising. The Tim Version have a song (the Natural Light Theory) where they sing, “I don’t want to see everything that I listen to.” It’s good advice.
It’s practically our job as the mythical “less fortunate” to watch what the rich do from afar. Not to judge them, for who are we to condemn what they do? We have no frame of reference by which to judge them. We live in a world were a organization that refuses to pay taxes on the grounds that it uses its profits to “help” people, curtail said profits into funds to keep child molesters above the law. And these are (your) God’s representatives!
So how can I pass judgement on some rich kid who couldn’t possibly know any better?
Not to mention the priceless episode where the father takes his son down to New York City to audition strippers (called “dancers” here) for his party! It’s brilliant! Especially when this boy receives his just comeuppance; having scheduled his birthday party at the same time as the school dance, everyone shows up after the dance is over! Totally, and literally, “schooled!” Really, you have to be quite unpopular for your $200,000 private party (with strippers!) to come second to a school dance. It wasn’t even homecoming or prom!
I think I just fell in love all over again…