say anything

filling in the blanks: last night when michael and i were out, i asked him a little about tuesday night.

me: so i remember getting to longbranch ...
michael: which time?
me: which time? i left and went back?
michael: yeah. you said you were done and left, then a little bit later, you showed back up and said that you weren't done.
me: ...

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start the week off wrong: i only have four shifts at work this week. my shift on monday started out ... not so greatly. my first delivery was quick, but then it was about an hour until my next delivery, which is where things took a turn for the worse. it was at a certain phillie-cheesesteak place that always takes for-fucking-ever. i understand that their e-mail sucks, but i factor that in. so whenever the dispatcher sends the e-mail order to them, i wait about 15 minutes and then head over, or if i have other pickups, i do those first. but no. i waited my 15 minutes, i get there, they still hadn't gotten it. fine. so i went outside and smoked two cigarettes. i went back in. it wasn't ready yet. fine. i sat down and pretended to watch whatever was on tv.

order was done. it was a salad and a cheesesteak (with extra meat; this factors in later). while the cheesesteak got it's own paper bag (also factors in later), the salad was on it's own. normally, they would put them both in a larger, plastic bag, but they were apparently out of those. fine. whatever. i was already running late.

the order was going to this horribly pretentious place at the end of rainey street. i hate making deliveries there because i can't just go up to the apartment. i have to deal with the concierge. (at least i think he's a concierge. he could just be an overdressed doorman. or a majordomo. it's the kind of place where his title is probably concierge or majordomo. oy.) it's always a horrible experience just going there, seeing how the other side lives and such.

ok, back to the story, i pull up to said pretentious complex, i open my door, i grab the salad in my left hand, the bag with the cheesesteak in my right, keys in my mouth, phone in my pocket, and close my car door with my ass. (now that's multitasking.) i take a few steps, and i hear this weird dropping sound. i look down. there's a whole in the bag and chips are falling out of it. as i pull it up to try and stop the leakage, the bottom the bag gives out, the cheesesteak rolls out and unravels down my right leg and plops (plops!) on the street. that's when my phone rings. it's my dispatcher wondering how the delivery is going.

let's sit back and try and take in that scenery. me, standing in a street across from a fancy schmancy place, salad in one hand, empty, torn bag in the other, cheesesteak all over my right leg, and the dregs on the street by my right foot, with a ringing phone in my pocket.

yeah. i answered the phone and told my dispatcher the situation. he said he was going to call the customer and see what they wanted to do. i just kinda stood there, in shock, my leg cheesesteaked. now, normally, i probably would be mad at the situation of getting food on my clothes, but i was especially mad that night, because i had just fucking done laundry sunday night. these were freshly washed pants, and now, they were covered in shitty cheesesteak.

my dispatcher called me back. he said the number the customer gave wasn't correct and to go ahead and deliver the salad and tell her what happened and have them call him. so i did that. i walked into the fancy, pretentious complex, with cheesesteak all over my right leg, walked up to the front desk, told the concierge that i had a delivery for such and such room, he called up, whoever answered confirmed the delivery, then he walked me over to the elevator (because delivery people cannot be trusted to be unescorted to the elevator).

standing at the elevator, i run into a woman, and she asks me if that delivery is for such and such room. i say yes. she says that's her, and that there was supposed to be a cheesesteak, too. i tell her what happened. she doesn't even bother to look down at my pants. i show her the order slip and tell her my dispatcher was trying to call her, but the number given was wrong. she sees the order slip, sees the number and says "oh yeah, that's not right." i tell her to give the dispatcher a call. she says she will. (she never does.)

i call my dispatcher back and tell him the sitch. and that i'm gonna make a quick trip home to change. so i hurry home, put my pants to soak in the sink, and head back to work. and i never want to see a fucking cheesesteak ever fucking again.

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platonic: michael and i finally saw persepolis last night. such. a. great. movie. i want to see it again and again. so wonderful. it made a lot of sense that we saw it last night, too, because we've both been on catherine deneuve kicks.

he got there right as the movie was going to start. i was a little worried that he was having car problems, as he has been having car problems quite a bit of late. i found out after the movie that it wasn't in fact car problems, but parking problems.

after persepolis, we went to the bark and quack for some fish and chips and a couple of newcastles. we talked about the previous night (as mentioned above), and our usual conversation topics of movies and books. we ventured into childhood traumas (he had a very horror-movie experience with wasps, which beats my stories of bees getting stuck in my long hair and stinging my scalp or waking up to find roaches crawling all over me) and talked about how we both ended up in austin. it was a good time, and we were both surprised we had never really talked about how we ended up in austin and some other conversation topics.

it was a nice little platonic date. i like those the most. while i like being in a small group of friends, groups tend to frown upon the one-on-one time.

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overactive imagination: one of my deliveries on monday was weird. well, not too weird. whoever it was ordered a lot of gatorade. and a lot of egg sandwiches from dirty martin's. and a lot of hot pockets. and one bag of chips. and on the order instructions, they said if no one answers the door, we can leave the food at the door. this struck me as odd, so i started thinking about what could be going on behind that closed door that would require all this food and gatorade. i settled on a poorly catered orgy. because seriously, what kind of orgy has gatorade, egg sandwiches, and hot pockets? these college kids know nothing. not that i know a whole lot about catering an orgy. really, i don't.

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too much?: because i'm lazy, i've been watching and rewatching a lot of how i met your mother lately. to the point that, when i'm around people (read: friends), i keep my ear open, hoping that someone will say something like "major disappoinment", so i can repeat it and salute ala robin and ted. it hasn't happened yet. it probably never will. or when it finally does, i'll forget to do my schtick. sigh.