Let Them Eat Everything

The Seattle Minutes part 2

November 24
12:40 am arrive at Steph and Ryan's apartment
12:41 Kyle and I tour apartment
12:41 tour ends
12:44 Ryan thoughtfully picks up wine bottle
12:45 somehow find ourselves sitting on the kitchen floor, passing wine bottle and chatting
12:55 finish first bottle
1:20 finish second bottle
1:40 finish third bottle
1:42 make white russians
1:55 experiment with Canadian whisky
1:56 decide that wasn't a good idea
2:10 finish white russians
2:15 we all flop down on enormous sofa-bed to watch Family Guy
2:16 Kyle reminds me that it's actually 5 am our time
2:17 Ryan asks, "what jerk decided to start passing around a bottle of wine?"

12:30 pm grogily eat aspirins
12:45 eat delicious frosted cinnimon rolls

3:30 get cranky while making green bean caserole

4:45 arrive at Samantha's house, meet the other "misfit Thanksgiving" guests
4:46 ogle spread of side-dishes
4:47 drool at spread of side-dishes
4:48 consider volunteering to test out side-dishes, in case of poison
4:49 omg won't someone please carve the turkey? We've been here for like, FOUR minutes!
4:52 Ryan will!
5:05-6:00 ravenous hoovering of Thanksgiving. It was everything I knew it could be and more.
6-9 sipping of various wines, discussing of the local music scene, admiring of the view from the veranda. Am simultaneously impressed, jealous, and suspicious of this heady, metropolitan lifestyle.
9:00 sophistocated metro people make hand turkeys. Ah, the great equalizer.
10-12 play complicated drinking game, pick at carcass. Spoon leftover sides into gullet.
12-1 Twister: drunks vs. sobers. Take amusing pictures of each other in comprimising positions, go home.

November 25
12 noon lets never eat again.
2:00 late lunch at the 5 spot. Consume "Aunt Em's" potato pancakes, pork chops and eggs in down-home midwestern-themed diner/bar.
5:30 feast of cheeses, crackers, beer and apples. Delicious.

November 26
10 am Steph and I arrive at Starbucks to meet her friends for knitting.
10:02 I cannot efficiently pronounce either "Grande Caramel Machiatto" or "Pumpkin Cream Cheese Muffin" in a timely fashion. I am obviously from some po-dunk town where they don't have Starbuckses. Everyone shakes their heads in dismay. They pity this ignorant buck-toothed country specimen before them. Oh, the shame.
10:45-11:30 Unpronounceable muffin is awesome. Two other knitting friends arrive. Discuss Thanksgiving dinner at the home of one of their SO's family: "These people don't even know what organic food is." "How is that even possible?" "Most traditional dinner ever. I mean, they actually had Stovetop stuffing." "NO!" "Yes." and so forth. I am amused.
12:00 Steph and I treat ourselves to her lucious yarn store.

4:30 warm-up happy hour at Dragon Fish. Sushi, sake, beer. How can life get any better than this?
6-8 wander around Barnes & Noble and the mall. acquire samples of candy and apple cider.
8:00 dinner at Morraccan resteraunt. Meet Samantha and Manuel (one of the Twister crew) for "5-course feast," including lentil soup, salad, strange sugared meat pie, an entree, and desert with tea. All eaten with our hands.
9:00 belly dancer appears
9:10 people start putting dollars in her belly chain. I am very disturbed by this.

10:00 pay bill, wander around street, find coffee shop with a sign outside that says "Bauhau's! Where it's slightly less cold than where you are right now!" This is not a very ambitious campaign for our business. Amusing gay barista inside makes up for this.
10:05 really. A coffee shop in Seattle. I know.

November 27
4:00 pm dinner at Bucca de Beppo's. Family-style feasting.
5:00 Oh, my god. Why did we eat so much?
5:30 food induced coma prevents further activity. ever.

See Mo fly. Fly, Mo, fly.

The Seattle Minutes, part 1

November 23
5:30 arrive at PHL 1 1/2 hours early so as to avoid throngs of Thanksgiving travelers
5:33 complete e-tix check-in, obtain boarding pass from convenient, easy-to use machine
5:35 smuggle knitting needles, pen, and car keys through security
5:41 arrive at gate

6:40 board plane, sit between Nebraska-bound Harvard student who laughs every two minutes and perfect black woman from the 70's, complete with sexy poncho and fro. Wish to take both home with me.
6:45-7:31 sit on tarmac, waiting. Discouraged from rioting with Willy Wonka.
7:32 take off
7:45 obtain cup of tea, continue watching weird Johnny Depp interpretation. Eat tiny bag of pretzels, lament the passing away of airplane peanuts.
7:52 legs fall asleep
8:45 (Chicago time) land in Chicago

8:55 emerge victorious upon land, pee at nearest receptical
8:57 obtain overpriced Starbucks comfort fluid
9:05 travel underground conveyor-belt walkway; barraged by frentetic neon lighting along the walls and ceiling; feel like factory item assembled on acid
9:09 arrive at gate to SEA, sit against wall
9:10 text everyone I know so as not to feel alone in an exotic land
9:11 notice that everyone arround me is working on a paper. I have found the place where college kids go when they are not starring in my version of Felicity. Miss college. Do not miss Felicity.
9:12 lust after girl's scarf; wonder if she made it. Wonder if I could make it for me.
9:13 reply to reply texts; I am loved.
9:14 notice sweater coat on different girl; more lust
9:15 hate waiting
9:16 hate waiting
9:17 waiting I hate

9:40 board plane aquire window seat in row all to myself. Hahahahahaha. Mine mine mine.
9:55 take off 15 min late
9:56 notice how much wing wobbles upon take-off; recall that airplanes are mostly glued, not bolted together. Use the force to keep wings on plane. Save throngs of holliday travelers. Am hailed as a hero and showered with roses and yarn and gift certificates to Victoria's Secret.
10:20 try to watch Willy Wonka again. Try watching in Spanish. Still annoying. Give up.
10:21 read that the initials for the Charlotte Dougless Int. Airport are CLT. Will never forget this.

10:22 anticipate drink cart, cannot decide what I want. pepsi, tea, apple juce. tea. tomato juice, a screwdriver, tea. tomato juice. screwdriver. tomato juice screwdriver tomato juice screwdriver tomatoscrew. screwmatodriver.
10:26 spill drops of tomato juice on book.

11:04 use W.C. and extraordinarily unabsorbant T.P.
11:05 wish to punch chatty flight attendant in the boob. She is chatty. And annoying. And needs a punch in the boob.
11:07 spray water all over self with unexpectedly pressurized water bottle.

11:09-2:01 lay down on bed of sharp seatbelts and pillow of plastic armrest for delicious, restful nap, punctuated only nine or eleven times with moments of discomfort

12:02 (Seattle time) awakened by soothing sounds of pilot; look out window and down into the hills of Seattle, shrouded in a layer of mist that is all lighted from beneath like under-water explosions, frozen in time
12: 11 land in a sea of fog

An Email Exchange

R-Spot: That's just silly. (Link to the Amazon.com listing for the entire Buffy DVD set)

Mo: dude, I'm good for a ten-spot or two. But I want her on weekends and some holidays. And maybe take her on a Disney cruise next summer. Just me and Buffy on a Disney cruise...only the best for my little DVD set...

R-Spot: That's fine. I have no use for her anyway... The holes in the DVDs are just too small...


Sick, dude.

And ouch.

Goody Hoff had it coming.

Today I am twenty-four. Which is definitely mid-twenties, which is definitely almost thirty. I am so. grown. up.

But, she doesn't have one baby yet! She's not even married! What an unfortunate burden on her family she has become. I frankly feel sorry for the puir dear. Lord in Heaven, what man would have her now? Any minute her tits are going to fall down and her face is going to dry up...I mean, she is pushing thirty and all. It's not even safe to have babies at her age!

Does any one else have a Medeival village of rabble rousers living in their head? Cause I don't.

Stone her! I saw her put a pox on Goody-

Goddamnit. Shut up, you!

Sorry.

Ok then. You know, I have a feeling that I will always feel like I'm too young or too inexperienced or too unqualified to do whatever it is that I'm doing. I will be forty and have a doctorate and a big house and six kinds of insurance, and I'll still feel like I'm not ready to have a real job or real kids or be responsible for anything of consequence. Like I don't know something that all authentic, certified grown-ups know, and any minute I am going to be found out for the fraud that I am. I bet a lot of people go through their whole lives with the nagging sensation that they don't know what they are doing. I guess I'd better accept that now.

So today there will be Harry Potter and Olive Garden with loved ones, brought to me by Carl. I'm wearing something cute, the sun is shining, my dad called me on the right day, and my tenure as a pizza slave has all but ended. Next week, I will fly out to Seattle, whereupon we will tear it up; wine, cheese, crackers, the whole shebang. Everything is right with the world. Happy Birthday to me.

I've Got Your Flare Right Here.

Douchy Imported Manager In Training: (approaching me doing the "cowboy guns" bang-bang thing with fingers) Hey hey! There she is! Miss Doesn't-Wear-A-Name-Tag! Miss, gee I don't know, Wears-A-Hat.

Miss Wears-A-Hat: Um. No.

D.I.M.I.T: No? No what?

M.W.A.H.: No, I do not wear name tags.

D.I.M.I.T.: (overexagerated pouty face) you dooon't? You do know it's part of the dress code? (taps own tag knowingly)

M.W.A.H.: I am way too cool to wear something so douchy. Way.

Other Delivery Guy: (dies in a puddle of laughter behind D.I.M.I.T.)

Fin.

Monday night was a night of pizza delivery in which every single pizza was at least an hour late. This was influenced by both Monday night football and every single schmo in the greater RoFo area stuck at home handing out candy to trick-or-treaters, and the fact that there was only one other driver besides myself. Afterward, I sat down and wrote my place of employment a little note. I wonder if they were able to read the subtext. I'll spell it out to you here, just in case.

10/31/05

Dear ::Pizza Hell:: Management Team,

It is with a heavy heart (fuck you) and deep regret (fuck you) that I must offer my resignation (fuck you). Let this missive (fuck you) serve as my two week's notice (fuck you).

My last date of available employment at this fine establishment (fuck. you.) will be Thursday, November 17. Thanks for all the good times (fuck yooou). These memories will last a lifetime (no, no, fuck you).

With much regard (and fucking of you),

Morgen :-)

What do you think? Too subtle?

---

On Tuesday, the only sane member of the management team approached me, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, and said "Ok, ok. I'll let you quit if you agree to stay on the schedule for a few days a week. How's that?"

Um....what?