Actually, it's The Exact Opposite of Home Cooking

As I am currently recovering from a very pleasant, somewhat blurry camping weekend in Jersey, wherein the phrase "bone-nourishing nut-fruit" was burned irrevocably into my brain, I suppose I don't really mind that no one wanted pizza today. Probably everyone has had thier fill of party food, after all the barbecues and decadent Monday-off languishing. I mean, for all I know, these families have been eating ice cream and microwaved taquitos for three days in a row, because they could; because fuck it, I'm not going to work tomorrow or the next day or the next day!! What makes you think I'm gonna cook for you, suckas?? After such an extravagant junk food free-for-all bonanza, these families do not want pizza. They want something lovingly cooked by a caring husband, wife, parent, or state-appointed guardian. I'm thinking Hamburger Helper with peas or some such.

Anyway, I spent most of my seven-hour shift coloring pretty pictures with my manager's four year-old. There was also some throwing of pepperoni at co-workers. Somewhere in there, I made five whole deliveries. I celibrated this fury of tip-gathering by blowing most of my pathetic wad on some home cooking, myself:



Sushi and Rita's. Together at last.

Ass, Ass, Titty, Pizza

So, I've been a pizza delivery person for a little over a week now. I've delivered to a guy in his underwear, I've delivered to a teenager wearing Homer-head slippers and not much else, I've delivered the same sandwich to little Eddy over on Woodly Ave four days in a row. (So, um, Ed...can I call you Ed?...I see you opted for the Italian Grilled sub with no peppers and Caesar dressing. Mixing it up today. Good for you. How's the dog? Did that new food give him less gas, or more?)

Anyway, today I delivered somewhere special. Today I walked back in from another delivery, and was informed that my fellow drivers had unanimously volunteered me for the job they didn't want. I'll give you two hints:
a.) it was on the seedy side of town
b.) I was paid with 27 ones



....



If you guessed the Pumphouse Tavern in Spring City, you were right! If you didn't guess the Pumphouse Tavern in Spring City, you must not be from around here. Or if you are, you are not a frequenter of titty bars with the word "pump" and "house" on the sign out front.

I'm not sure from whence the girl pulled all of those ones, because there is no way she had any pockets. None whatsoever.

I'm not going to say that I've now seen it all, but today, I definitely got an eyefull.

Guilt Dishes

I was scheduled for about eight hours today. I was bored out of my gourd for half of it and driving like a headless chicken for the other half. (Damn headless chicken drivers! *shakes fist*) As per the policy, I had my cell phone on "silent" while I was at work. Consequently, I missed a few calls from Carl, and didn't get the messages til I was almost done. His daughter did get ahold of me at some point, asking a favor, but she failed to: a.) put her dad on the phone, and b.) mention that her dad was laid out on the couch, back all out of allignment, unable to do much but flick listlessly through the world of crap that is Monday night television.

I called him back later, around eight, and learned about this, along with the fact that he had been trying to call me to ask if I'd come over after work and maybe bring dinner. But since I didn't call right after work, he'd been laying there for many hours, with no one but himself for company, and his daughter had to scrounge up some pretzels and a hard-boiled egg for dinner. Now, on the messages, he sounded fine. He did say he was hurting, but he sounded fine. I didn't realize it was that bad. When I talked to him, he sounded like he couldn't quite concentrate on what I was saying, because the Jolly Green Giant was standing right behind him, giggling maniacally and twisting his vertebrae upside-down with a rusty pair of pliers, one by one. After a while, he had to get off the phone in search of pain-killers.

Ok, I feel like such a jerk. I am the worst girlfriend ever.

In an act of self-flagelation, I agreed to go back in to work from nine til midnight when the closing driver called out. I didn't do much driving, but I did do a metric fuck-ton of dishes. Which were gross. And made my nice nails all raggedy. And did not tip very well.

Drowning my guilt in greasy dish water didn't really work; I still feel bad.
:-(

Something That is Both Awesome and True and You Wish You Were Here

I will be doing this tonight.

Whoop, there it is.

Things I Wish Weren't True But Are

When I told Carl that I couldn't be at his house at 3 this afternoon when his daughter would be getting off the bus, he asked why. I told him he didn't need to know, which proceeded to become a minor, amusing point of contension for the next 24 hours.
"I'm sure gonna miss you...."
"Oh yeah? Where am I going?"
"I don't know! *glare of consternation* You won't tell me!"
I did not refuse to tell him because I'm embarrassed to be this town's newest hot wing-slinging pie jockey. I mean, pizza girls can be hot. As per a conversation with R, I have seriously considered growing some dreds, slashing my competition's tires, and becoming a street racer after-no...during work hours. I will take no shit and hustle pies on these mean (ok, suburban) streets faster and with more sass than any of the grizzled vets. I'll start a pizza-driver gang and we'll call ourselves Chicks With Breadsticks, or Hot Pie.

...maybe not Hot Pie, but you get me. I know you get me. You are thinking Angelina Jolie in Gone in Sixty Seconds just like I am.

I didn't tell him because this might be the dumbest idea I've had since H & R Block. And the only thing worse than being totally wrong or failing miserably is failing miserably at something incredibly stupid. Which would be embarrassing.

But, so far, so good. In four hours I made about as much money in tips as I made by cashing in six months of saved change. And that's with being totally late to half of the deliveries, having to actually call one customer and get directions to her house, and only really delivering things for three and a half hours. I was sort of wishing that this would suck and totally not be worth my time, and I could just turn down the job offer and no one would ever know of my stupid stuuupid venture into the world of food delivery, but it actually seems kind of fun, so would anyone like breadsticks with that?

I also wish that it wasn't true that I watched the full hour of Britney and Kevin: Chaotic last night and found myself entirely mesmerized by the prospect of Britney Spears and her breasts boinking that skinny little punk like a coked-up rabbit in heat, but it is.

Five Things I Did Today

• I toddled out to my porch and found a that a magical pair of red mary janes had magically appeared on my doorstep. And magically, they were in my size! Just what I've always wanted! Thank you, oh mysterious bringer of shoes! Thank you ever so! (pretending that there is a shoe fairy helps aleviate my guilt about spending money. Its fun. Try it: "I was driving along, delivering Meals on Wheels, and all of the sudden, there was a new pair of jeans and new boots in my back seat!" "There I was, reading for the blind, and I turned to pick up my glasses. When I turned back, I was just wearing this bracelette! I don't know what happened!" "First there was no yarn, then I was just sitting in a pile of it! How did all of this get here??? Maybe it's because I'm a good, good person.")
  
• I turned this bottle of metal

into this

modest pile of paper.

• I took that modest pile and put it in the bank. All 46 clams. Rollin in it, baby. Oh yeah.
• I sat in the parking lot of Genaurdi's, reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance, contemplating the definition of Quality and how it interacts with the archetypal modes through which we define ourselves.
• I filled out an application at Donatos so that I can finally say, "Yes, I have an English degree. Your two pizzas come to $23.49."

Considering all the nothing I did yesterday, today was awesome and productive. Gosh, life is swell.

My Dearest, cont.

Dear eBay,

Ummm....What is this?

hmmm??

What is it? I thought we had a talk about this. I thought I explained my position on things like this

pretty thoroughly. I thought I got through to you. I thought-*sigh*

Never mind what I thought. $1.99? Well....that's not that bad. Ok, you are forgiven. This time.

Dear eBay salespersons,

Where's my stuff? Is it here now?
*runs to check mailbox*
......
How bout now?
*checks again*
......
*sigh* You've had my money for days now. Don't you know that I have nothing better to do all day than to wait for the mail?? That my entire week will now revolve around the possibility of shoes or yarn magically appearing on my doorstep? What could you possibly be doing with yourselves aside from getting your kiesters to the post office and mailing me my stuff? What!?

Dear Mo,

Get a job, you ass.

Love,
Mo

CO trip; Misc.

Hark! Mountainous beauty, with pillar!


Behold! Mo rides the pony all by her ittle!


But Soft! Representin' MU down at SPC, y'all. (You can barely see it, but the plaque says "South Park." What was that? Christmas cards with Mo and Mr. Hankey this year? Surely not!)

My Dearest,

Dearest Nephew of Mine,

I love love love your 8 1/2-month-old sense of humor. The sly look on your face after a dramatic fit of fake coughing is To Die For. You grin at all of us larger humans and sneak looks out of the corner of your eye as if to say, "I am charming beyond all reason. Bow to my cuteness now and I may punish you less in, oh, say 8 years, when my idea of humor may involve cats, fire, and a bound and gagged younger sibling." I heart you when you screw with us.

Dearest H & R Block,

No, I do not want your stupid life insurance policy. You'd probably find a way to kill me and cash it in yourselves. I quit you. I don't want to talk to you any more. No, I don't think we can work this out. Stop calling me, you asshole.

Dearest eBay.

Look. You and I have to stop meeting like this. I know that this




will be really really fun to knit and support women's shelters in Nepal. You don't have to remind me again that these



are totally cute and only cost $6.83 (that's only $6.83 for red Steve Madden mary janes in my size). None of that really matters. Yes, we are both very cool and we get along great and neither of us has anything to do during the day, but honestly. I don't have a job, and you are taking advantage of me at a very volnurable time. You know how much better shopping makes me feel in the heat of the moment, and who gets to feel guilty afterwards? Certainly not you. You get to stroll away, happy as a clam, on to your next conquest. Seriously. We need to call this off. Or at least go on a break until I'm in a better place, you know, emotionally. Do you understand?

Dearest Taste-of-Thai peanut sauce,

You were delicious last night. I brought the chicken, pasta, and sugar-snap peas, you brought the love. I will be having you again as soon as humanly possible.

Love,
Mo

Spring, She has Sprung

It's not even April any more. It's May. That means the petals have already mostly dropped off of this:




It also means that Sunday will be full of the promise of summer, one whiff of the light breeze bringing to mind barbecues and water ice and inappropriately skimpy speedos on inordinately misshapen beachgoers. And then Monday will arrive chilly and wet and leave one feeling really stupid about joyfully cramming all of one's sweaters and cozy socks into one's underbed storage. Happy Monday, everybody.

But let us not dwell on the depressing gray skies. Let us rejoice at the receiving of tax returns, small as those checks might be for some of us. Let us rejoice at the prospect of viewing those scantilly clad beach studs in all their resplendent glory of rolls. For it is they who shall make us feel great about whatever "Winter weight" we might have put on. I mean, what is five, ten, or twenty little pounds, compared to the wooly mammoth in the rubber band? And finally, let us rejoice at the return of Ritas and her delicious, delicious gelatti.


Bethany's flowers are wicked bad, non?