Corn Dogs and Relationship Maintenance

I realized today that love and I have been apart for quite some time.

I'm ok. I'm not sad.

I just feel bad for love sometimes.

It's been so long since we've even spoken. I haven't written. I haven't called. Love was never much for texting, but I really haven't even thought to do that in quite some time. I just don't think about it much. I know, I'm a jerk. I still see it every now and then, in passing. Occasionally I pass it in the hallways at the university, catch its eye at work, or see it sitting all alone in the food court, eating a corn dog--a touch of mustard waiting to be dabbed from its cheek with a napkin, and no one to dab.

I know it wouldn't take much. I'm sure love just wants to talk every now and then--you know, catch up and spend some time together just talking about what's been going on in our lives. It's not like it hasn't tried. It wouldn't even need to be a romantic thing really. Love has always been like that. It just enjoys spending time together. I mean, we could probably just grab chinese food and a movie from redbox. Sure, we get kind of lazy together, so it would probably end up as ritz crackers and the discovery channel, but that's not what's important, right?

I've just been so busy. I mean, life is crazy, you know? Stuff happens, you lose focus... things that seemed less important become more so, and vise versa.

I should give love a call. Do you think it's been too long? I mean, what if it's moved on? What if it hates me now? What if it got back together with whats-its-face? It's got so much going for it, there's no way it could have waited for me all this time.

Oh what a fool I've been! We had something good, once upon a time. Maybe there's still time. Maybe there's still hope for us. I've gotta believe that. I just have to.

But I've still gotta play it smart. Fools rush in, right? No, if I come running back it'll think I'm desperate. Right there--Boom! game over. No... no, I can't risk that. I've still gotta play it smooth. I can do that.

Afterall, I don't really miss love. I've been this long without it, and I'm ok. I don't really need it. I'm ok. I'm not sad. I just feel bad for love, that's all.

Dill Pickles and West Nile

I live near Utah Lake. Aside from being one of the most polluted, disease-ridden cesspools I've ever had the pleasure of living near, it's also home to enormous populations of mosquitoes.

I hate mosquitoes.

Apparently, I have "sweet blood." That's a lot nicer way of framing the harsh truth that I'm only slightly luckier than the guy who got an extra ear on his forehead from mother nature's wonderful genetic lottery. To say that I attract mosquitoes would be a gross understatement. Forget bug repellent--take me with you into the woods and you are invisible. I am the sun eclipsing your small candle.

I woke up this morning after putting forth a truly commendable effort to deny the sun's existence. Grudgingly, I opened my eyes and turned onto my side, feeling the air from my fan blowing gently across me--singing it's siren song of continued comfort and rest--pleading with me to forsake all thoughts of work and duty and surrender to another snooze-button's worth of blissful denial. I was strong.

I opened my eyes and saw a pillow, thrown aside and positioned about where you would expect to find the head of a second occupant. As I was looking at the pillow a rather large mosquito landed gently, almost casually upon it's surface. Knowing that this mosquito had likely been feasting on me all night long, watching it sit on the pillow, unmoving, unafraid--it seemed to be asking me, "Was it good for you too?"

I killed the mosquito.

I got a free cinnamon roll tonight. That made me happy. Renae made it for me. Apparently, Renae is pregnant. I think she made them for a baby shower... or something. I don't know Renae, but a mutual acquaintance didn't want her neatly packaged, very appetizing cinnamon roll. Always willing to save a delicious treat from Almost-Certainly-Going-To-Be-Eaten-By-Somebody-That's-Not-Me Doom, I decided it was time to take action and volunteer my digestive services to the poor wayward cinnamon roll. It was packaged in plastic kitchen wrap and tied at the top with some string and a note (how craftsy-cute!). The note read, "Thanks! from Renae's bun-in-the-oven!" At first I thought this was sickeningly cute--then after a moment's pause I realized that for the first time in my twenty three years of existence, I was just thanked by a fetus.

Then it was just creepy.

Politics and Parasites

These are difficult times for America. We face very tough and complex issues both now and in the coming months and years. Inflation is up, the economy is down... way down, wars rage overseas, super-viruses threaten all mankind, and mullets still roam free and unchecked within our borders.

And so it is in these times of economic and fashion-related uncertainty that we face the issues and prepare to select a new leader for our beloved country. Many candidates have been scrutinized and found wanting, leaving only two men to continue the race to the end and a wake of broken and defeated hopefuls behind them. The lines have been drawn and the final showdown is commencing.

We have explored and continue to explore each candidate very carefully. We want to know where they stand on key issues and what their plans are to make our country great and keep gas from hitting $34 a gallon. We want to know where these candidates stand on the war in Iraq, on immigration, and health care. And yet, I feel that in the midst of all the rhetoric and debating there is an issue which has been grossly overlooked. An issue which I feel is very important to all Americans and on which we should all place great emphasis. I want a President who will crack down on public breastfeeding.

I'm not proposing anything drastic. A small fine or maybe public humiliation would be good enough for me. I just don't want to see it. Honestly, who does? ...never mind that... I don't want to know. It's awkward!!!

To recap: I work in a restaurant. It's not a super amazingly high-class place, but it's nice. It rides the line between upper casual and fine dining. I can't tell you how many times I've seen women pull out that little blanket and throw it over their shoulders. Yes - thank you for using a blanket, but you've just created a swirling cloud of awkwardness around you and everyone near you in what's supposed to be a nice relaxing atmosphere.

I mean, what do you say to that? Nothing, obviously... I guess. It's just one of those situations that, from a waiter's perspective, you're not quite sure how to handle. Do you ignore it? Make a joke out if it?

"Oh hey looks like you picked up a parasite."
"Yeah I've heard that leeches are great for reducing swelling."
"So I'm not certain about this but I think there's something under that blanket that's eating you alive."

Most of the time you just don't even want to acknowledge what's going on. I've seen even the most outgoing people run from feeding mothers like frightened cattle. You don't even want to look near it, afraid that the mother will suddenly bare her teeth and growl to protect her young. "What do I do?" "Ummm.... ummm.... tune it out! Pretend like everything is fine and it will go away! It senses motion - just don't move and it won't know you're there!"

Yes, nature is beautiful - but it has it's place. Outside. With the hippies.

That is why I feel that this election year we should all be looking for a candidate who takes a strong stand on the issue of public breastfeeding.

We may be divided in many ways, but I think I speak for a unified America when I say, "Candidates, we want lower gas prices, a strong economy, and we want tough policies against mullets, public breastfeeding, and France."

Sticky Hands and Mind Bullets

I love popsicles.

Since when?

Since now.

What's not to love about popsicles? They're cold and sweet and they taste like childhood. Simply delicious.

I wonder why I ate so many more popsicles as a child than I do now. I certainly don't eat less sweets; that's just preposterous. Are popsicles less refined? Have my taste buds become too good for popsicles?

I hope not.

Maybe it's the mess. Or rather, maybe it's the fear of making a mess. I do have a lot of childhood memories of half-eaten popsicles falling off the stick, oftentimes onto my shirt or hands... or just into the dirt. I'm not sure which of those made me the saddest. Probably the dirt. Clothes can be cleaned and hands can be washed, but a good popsicle can only be replaced by an uncharacteristically kind parent (usually I got a "I told you you should/shouldn't have _____, and now you've lost your popsicle.")

Good times. Maybe I can attribute my cavity free childhood to half eaten popsicles. Nah, I'll give that one to my superior genetic make-up. If only my superior genetic make-up had also given me telekinesis.

Then I could have saved my popsicles.

Brimstone and Benjamins

I've decided that there must be a special place in Hell for bad tippers.

If Hell is a hotel I hope the elevator is busted and they get a room on the kabillionth floor. Right next to the ice machine. With busted AC. Oh and I hope that someone's annoying little brat pulls the fire alarm sometime between two and five every morning.

If you believe in karma then I hope that they spend their next lives as Port-O-Johns.

Extreme? Maybe.

This happens to be a subject that I feel rather strongly about, so allow me to enlighten my devoted readers on the subject of proper dining etiquette and tipping practices.

First off, there's a couple things that the general public does not usually know about the people who wait on them.

1. In some states (Utah is one) waiters are paid $2.13 an hour.

This isn't only at some restaurants. This is almost every restaurant. Yes, even the Super-Ritzy one that serves eighty-kabillion-dollar bottles of wine where they have someone called a Maiter D' and they regard children in the same way that they look upon guide dogs for the blind (we'll tolerate it as long as it shuts up and doesn't pee on anything).

This means that if you don't pay your waiter for their service, he/she is making little more than a third of minimum wage. Unless your waiter intentionally poisons you, you will tip at least 10%. If your waiter was decent, but not good, you tip 15%. If your waiter was friendly and made good recommendations and few, if any, mistakes were quickly and graciously corrected, you tip 20%. If you're like me, then you also have a minimum tip that you will give when you are eating in a cheaper restaurant like IHOP where 20% of your bill is still pretty measly.

But if the service was horrible why can't I tip nothing?

You can, but it would have to be absolutely ridiculously horrible and it would have to be all the waiter's fault. Here's why.

2. Waiters must tip anywhere from 3-10% of their gross sales (the money their customers spend) to other employees of the restaurant, depending on the specific restaurant. They pay bussers, expediters, bartenders, etc. for their part of the service.

In order to better explain what this means, allow me to paint a picture for you. Cue the muzak.

You are in a very nice restaurant. The table in front of you is a solid slab of petrified wood taken from the ruins of an ancient civilization whose cuisine is the centerpiece of the evening's dining experience. There are rose petals in your drink and fragrant candles flicker atop polished golden candlesticks handcrafted by the last known descendant of Michelangelo. On a whim, you order a bottle of wine that dates back farther than you can trace your ancestry for a mere $3000. The wine is excellent. You, however believe that it would be absurd to tip your waiter 20%, or $600, and instead decide that a generous tip would be $50. For simply fetching the bottle and opening it, that seems like a very good amount of money. What you don't know is that the waiter, from your $3000 must tip out, altogether, 6% to his busser, expediter, and somalier, which comes to a total of $180. For the service that your waiter has rendered, your waiter is now $130 in debt.

Though most waiters deal with money in smaller amounts, the concept is the same. What it means is that if I have a table tip me less than 3% (the percentage at my restaurant), not only have I not made money, I've lost money! I've paid money to work! And it happens, folks.

3. Sometimes the service is sub-par because the server is overloaded with customers, which can happen for any number of reasons. Management didn't schedule enough servers, servers called in sick at the last minute, or you just happened to show up at an unexpected rush. It happens. You may not be able to see the entire restaurant from where you're sitting, but even though there's only fifteen tables they've been split between two servers or your server's table of fifteen just asked for seperate checks and they're all paying with cash. In a nicer restaurant, any of these situations are more likely to occur than just having bad service because your server decided to celebrate Mediocre Day.

Ok, ok. But some take issue with the tipping system altogether. Why must we pay money to compensate others for taking a job that pays less than minimum wage? Why should we have to make up for the fact that restaurants pay their employees jack squat?

Capitalism, my friends. The free market economy. You want paid waiters? Go to Europe. I lived there. Service is a middle finger and a smile. Often without the smile. It's all about motivation, and money motivates. It's that simple. And you tip percentage because nicer restaurants hire servers that are more experienced, more competent, and more knowledgeable - which boils down to more expensive.

Oh and if you're happy with the service then you should tip well. I know that sounds redundant, but a sincere thank you and a smile doesn't make my car payment or put gas in my tank. You're a nice person but I don't come to work to make lots of friends.

Bottom line: if you can't afford to tip well you can't afford to eat well, or you just might spend your next life as a toilet.

Sunshine and Ravioli

Yesterday I rode my motorcycle for the first time in months. The weather was great. It must've been, like, fifty degrees or something. I know. I was just happy to get "back in the saddle again" so to speak and was looking for any excuse to do it. The warm... okay, warm-ish weather proved a good one as it removed all the killer ice from the roads and made it bearable to ride for short distances.

One such short distance was from home to work, where I had to take some paperwork.

I work at an Italian restaurant named La Vigna. It's pronounced "lah Veenyah." Either we're incredibly ethnically and culturally ignorant (a likely scenario in Utah), or - more likely - people just pretend to be clueless so they have an excuse to giggle like a twelve year old. Get over it people. I know you were paying attention to this part of your anatomy class and there's not enough letters.

While the weather was beautiful yesterday, it was even better today. Today we were treated to a crazy sideways-blowing this-is-what-a-snow-hurricane-would-look-like yet nonetheless rather short-lived blizzard. It was great. I love bad weather. No, that's an understatement. I love potentially lethal almost apocalyptic displays of nature's unbridled wrath. I've never really been in any such situation, so watching from the sidelines in a warm dry place with a roof over my head is just a blast.

Come to think of it, I think one of my favorite memories from Maryland was sitting out on the back deck one summer afternoon with my dad playing chicken with a gigantic looming thunderstorm. We knew we should get inside. Usually we watched the thunderstorms (the really good ones anyways) from inside the house or the garage. This time we wanted a front row seat.

About fifteen minutes before the storm was on top of us we could see it's ominous figure approaching in the distance. It was coming quick. It seemed like only five minutes ago the sky was clear. As it got closer the trees began to shake in the wind as clippings from freshly mown lawns and dandelion seeds started pelting us from all directions. Anticipation was almost tangible as we counted mississippis from distant flashes of light. It's kinda funny, at the back of your mind there's this nagging instinct to go find shelter. It's as if this most natural phenomenon is so very unnatural that despite the knowledge that the chances are very much in your favor for survival, there's some part of you that just feels the energy in the air and it's begging you not to stay outside - and yet you find that it is in the very act of defying this instinct that you feel more alive than ever. Lightning began ripping through the sky closer and closer and sheets of water began cascading down from the heavens. I don't know how long we stayed outside and I can't remember who chickened out first, but it doesn't really matter. The raw power of nature rode into that lazy summer afternoon like a conquering hero. It was majestic. It was beautiful. It was freakin' sweet.

I set out tonight to write more about work, and particularly about tipping, but I kinda got sidetracked down memory lane. ... I wonder if there's a Memory Ln. somewhere in America. I'm sure there is. There's probably a bunch, actually. Sorry, I get easily sidetracked. I'll write more about that later. Promise. Scout's honor. Cross my heart and hope to.... mmm no, not that strong of a promise.

Irony and Brainingitis

Eye luv Inglesh. Reeli, its thu gratest langwedge in thu werld. Itz kwite pawsiblee thee ownlee langwedge in thu werld that, azz a rool, brakes awl thu roolz.

Pherst uv awl, wii hav sew menny wheys uv righting ehvry sownd inn hour langwedge that itt izz aymayzing aniwon kan spel korektli at awl! Thair arr no roolz phour spelling! Wii mite sae thair arr, butt wii brake themm sew ophten azz two meighk thoze roolz kumpleetly unyoozabel. And thenne, wii hav such crayzi gramatikal rools that Eye amn uhtterlly konvinssed inn thugh theery uv evvulooshunn, beekuzz ownli munkeys kood havv creeayted Inglesh. Uh klassik ekzample is two kumpair thu wirdz "awks" and "boks" - thu plerralz biing "awksen" and "bokses". Aux and bawks arr vary simmyler inn thu singyoolar fourm, sew wye arr theigh sew diphrent inn thu plerral fourm? It duzzent meighk enny cents.

Butt thats Inglesh four ewe. Itz just eyeronnik that thee langwedge thu hole werld izz treyeing two lern happinz two bee thu won that izz leest sooted two thu tasc. Phiggers.

Undrstandiblee, spel chek izz havving a feeld dey with thiss, and mie breighn kynda hertz frum righting thiss whey. Eye theenk eye amn goeing two lye doun phour a wyle.

Bagpipes and Parking Tickets

I was talking to my sister and somehow we got on the topic of being/becoming evil. It was decided that she was clearly not evil enough and I, having mastered the art many years ago, offered her my help and expertise in the form of my helpful guide "How To Become An Evil Genius In 12 Easy Steps."

The guide is intended for those who have very little experience, so it is designed to gently and gradually lead the user to increasing levels of evil. Here now, I present it for all of my faithful readers to enjoy.

How To Become An Evil Genius In 12 Easy Steps

1. Call in sick for work. (note: only works if you are not actually sick)
2. Don't pay a parking ticket. (Step 1.9: Park in a handicapped space - no, two handicapped spaces at the same time)
3. Say a dirty word to someone you dislike.
4. Forward tons of chain emails to everyone you know. Repeat daily.
5. Learn to play the bagpipes, poorly.
6. Get a scar on your face.
7. Scowl at everybody, all the time.
8. Buy some kittens and some thick-soled leather boots. You know what to do.
9. Devise a plan for world domination.
10. Punch a baby.
11. Design and build a Doomsday Device.
12. Go to law school.

Skid Marks and Egg McMuffins

I like to drive.

I like road trips too. As a kid I hated them. Road trips meant having to sit still for long periods of time without being able to go to the bathroom or stretch your legs and being crammed next to your siblings who you were forced to get along with or dad would "turn this car right around!".

My first memory of road trips is of me puking up a Egg McMuffin all over the front seat of my parents' old white Carolla. To this day I refuse to eat Egg McMuffins. I avoid McDonalds like the plague anyways, but that's another topic.

Road trips were always so boring. Kids have no perception of the outside world. As kids we think that the entire world is contained within backyards and schoolyards, stuffy classrooms and candy shops. We could be driving through canyons carved thousands of years ago by colossal glaciers and we were concentrating on crushing each other around corners or that stupid little patch of light coming through the window that kept making your arm uncomfortably hot.

Now I enjoy road trips. Maybe I'm just more easily amused. I've been on a few with friends and that's always fun, but I've even done a couple by myself that I've enjoyed. I just throw on some Audioslave, pop the sunroof open and cruise. It gives you a lot of time to think and enjoy the scenery. I see a lot of places and think "I bet there's a great view from that mountain." Or I stop and grab a bite to eat in a little podunk truck stop town and think about how I'm glad I didn't grow up there, destined to flip burgers for the rest of my life wondering about the outside world that I would probably never see.

The only thing that really gets to me on road trips--the only thing that consistently interrupts my driving zen, is other drivers. Despite the fact that I enjoy the scenery and the time to think to myself, I still like to get wherever I'm going fast. I'd say my average speed on road trips is 90mph. It's ok. I've got skills: police detection skills, pothole avoidance skills, etc. What bothers me is people that don't know how to drive on a four lane highway. Naturally, I pass a lot of people. Not everybody can appreciate the gratification that comes from knocking out a five hour drive in three and a half.

I get frustrated though. I think I can comfortably say that bad drivers are a pet peeve of mine. People that stay in the left lane even though they can see you coming up on them for miles and they still don't get over to let you pass. That bugs me.

People that don't use cruise control but have some inexplicable need to be the fastest car on the road. That one really bugs me. It's just dumb. You get over to the right hand lane to let them pass, and then after they pass you they slow down after you've already gotten into the left lane again so you have to put on your brakes and interrupt the cruise control to avoid hitting them. Then you pass them in the right hand lane (because of course they won't move over) and as you're passing them they realize they've slowed down so they speed up again and pass you. Rinse and repeat.

The really bad ones are the ones that only realize that they need to move over as you're already moving over to pass them on the right side. They start moving over as you're partway in the other lane and then you both swerve left and right until you end up in different lanes. Then the other driver gives you a dirty look because fast drivers punch babies when they're not driving.

Then there's trucks.

First there's the eighteen-wheelers. Most of the time those are actually pretty courteous drivers. Occasionally, however, you get a situation where one truck tries to overtake and pass another tuck, but the difference in their speeds is like .2 mph and they're both eighty kajillion feet long and invariably this happens near the base of a long hill, so halfway through the passing process the passing truck slows down to the same speed as the other truck. By now I'm shouting encouraging words at the passing truck and hoping he blows a tire and runs off a cliff.

Next there's the guys driving these huge lifted pickups. I'm not a truck guy. Never will be. It's stupid. Trucks are stupid, especially for road trips. They get like three miles to the gallon. Even as a daily driver it's ridiculous. How often do you really haul a trailer? How often do you carry eighty cords of wood? Save some money and rent one for a day when you need it! They kill you on gas, not to mention they're already ungodly expensive to buy. When it comes to driving though, this is the one stereotype that I absolutely believe in and wholeheartedly endorse. People that drive trucks are jerks. Every single one of them. Just because your truck can run over my car doesn't mean you get to demonstrate. My car is faster than your truck but I'm not going to rub that in your face. I'll just punch your baby.

Then I'll go to McDonalds for a delicous Egg McMuffin.

Flannel and Sheep Guts

I discovered today that it is decidedly difficult to take someone seriously who is wearing pajama pants. Yes, I was the one wearing pajama pants. But that really shouldn't change anything because there aren't many people left that still take me seriously, and they will learn.

I love my pajama pants. I have a few pairs, actually. I think my favorites are my red plaid pajama pants, then the ones that have moosen (in the woodsen) all over them, and then my blue plaid/pinstripe.

It's really a strange thing, though. You can take any normal outfit that would be suitable for casual wear and just substitute pajama bottoms for regular pants and suddenly you are brazenly and insultingly casual. I went to visit some friends tonight and I decided to wear pajama bottoms. It's Sunday. They're good friends. I was comfortable. Still, upon opening the door my friend immediately looked at my pajamas and gave me one of those "oh boy" looks. I thought, "Come on! They're still pants! You should be happy I'm wearing any at all!"

There are two major types of pajama decoration. One is to have small cute furry animals or dump trucks or dump trucks running over cute furry animals, and the other is plaid. It's like, either way they have to loudly declare "Hey! We're not real pants!" Just in case you were wondering. That way people can immediately identify you as a slob from across the grocery store and scowl at you while shielding their young.

I blame the Scottish. Bear with me here. Have you ever noticed that a strikingly large percentage of pajama bottoms are plaid? It's true! Scottish people must be lazy slobs. They have to be. Why else would pajama pants be so closely tied with the image of laziness? If you want further proof just remember--they invented golf--statistically the number one enemy of corporate efficiency. And who else could have made haggis?

"What's fer dinner, lassie?"

"Uhh, sheep guts.... and oatmeal."

"All out'uh supplies 'an too tired t'go t'market again?"

"Aye."

Then again, I think some people just have pajama envy. They look at you and long for comfortable pajamas and a steaming cup of hot cocoa. The realization that such comfort is so far from reach is a slap in the face and makes them so agitated that they have no choice but to take it out on you. I know. The world can be so cruel sometimes. Just remember: Love is a highway, baby.

Oh and just in case anyone is taking me even remotely seriously right now, you should know: I'm wearing pajamas.