Sunday, September 30, 2007

No rules must mean no reservations

This will be short. Can someone tell me, please, what the hell is the difference between a regular reservation and what Outback calls it - "call ahead"? They do not take reservations. I'm sorry but if I call a restaurant to make reservations I give them my name, how many people in my party and what time I want to come and when I get there, my table is ready.


Unless it's a case of what happened a week ago. A week ago, I put hubby in charge of calling P.F. Chang's in the Westchester mall. When we got there after a long evening of shoe shopping, they said our reservation didn't exist. We waited a while, eventually sat down and ate and came home. That is when my darling realized he made the reservations for Woodbury, New York and not Westchester.

But this past Friday I wanted Outback. Friday and Outback are never a good mix. That place is always busy. However, I used their call ahead system and when we got there, we were escorted past waiting diners and right to our seat.

Again, I ask, what is the difference between this stupid call ahead and a reservation. Just call it what it is. I'm sure they want to reserve the right to bump a party of two for a party of six but that's not good business practices. When my Mother-in-Law and I were planning the boy's surprise 30th birthday there, they wouldn't even guarantee me a table for 15 so it really can't be for the sake of the bump that they don't take reservations.

Thursday, September 20, 2007


Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the most bitter of them all?

You are Beefer-ella, you are.

Damn skippy. Beyotch.

So. I got suckered into a responsibility at work because I lacked the common sense to share something with my co-workers. I mistakenly shared the fact that I have half a brain. Now I am being punished for it. I got roped into being the "go-to" person for the software we use. Being that there's 30 or so computers in the building that use this software, I don't get a moment's rest. It's my fault really. I mean, I can turn a computer off and on so I was an obvious mark to take on this thankless duty. I figured it would give me some kind of job security and then I realized with a state job, there is no such thing. It's all about tenure. Technically all i have to do is show up every day and try not to fuck up too much and so long as people come in after me, I will slowly move up the ladder. So, taking on the additional responsbilities is an exercise in futility. I used to do nice things until I saw that I was being taken advantage of. And by being taken advantage of, i mean people were asking me to fix their personal computer and software issues and asking me to email the helpdesk when they were perfectly capable of such duties.

I used to pop down to the mailroom and get the mail if I had nothing to do. I had another motive as I was always hoping there would be a check for me. Even if there wasn't, I would still bring all the mail up and distribute it. Now, i go down, sift through it and if there is no check for me, I leave it. I leave it even if there is a check for me.

So, yesterday I was ready to beef as soon as I got in. I tend to walk in at 9 to a desk full of bullshit notes. I wouldn't mind so much if a good chunk of these issues were not someone simply forgetting to turn on a switch or not knowing where the master volume on the computer is. Honestly, i don't know any more about computers than the next person but I am not afraid of pressing buttons to figure out what the issue is. I know that the way our techs have the computers set up, it's virtually impossible to change a setting so much that a good old fashion restart couldn't cure it. Our administrative duties on the computers are very limited.

Needless to say, it is virtually impossible for me to get any work done during my two fifteen minute breaks a day and one hour lunch. So, while the helpless are taking their lunches or smoking outside I am working. Constantly. I've taken to making up imaginary doctors appointments just so I have to leave the building for lunch. I used to sit at my desk and get some typing done but now I dread going back to the office because I know as soon as I walk through that door I am going to get inundated with BS. Like I said, I wouldn't mind if 95 percent of the issues didn't make me want to smack them on the forehead and say, "Uh-duh!"

The feeling of swimming in a pool of dopes continued after work. On may way home I happene dto get in front of a driver who was paying no attention whatsoever to the road. I only noticed this because he looked familiar and I thought he was one of my mom's friends' husband. I am not sure what he was doing. It appeared that he was reading a book, newspaper or trying to dial a cellphone but when I stopped at a red light, he would roll to a stop behind me. There was a lot of traffic so I had to wait at a light for more than two rounds before passing. Each time I moved up, he was digging into another chapter and would let a space the size ofa football field come between us before rolling slowly while reading. I kept looking at him in my rearview mirror. I could care less if i recognized him, his complete lack of attention while driving was pissing me off.


Of course.

A few seconds after thinking this. I watched the asshole slowly roll right into me. There was no damage. he was rolling so slowly, I knew he was just going to bounce off my spare tire anyway. But, he didn't even look phased except for a momentary look of guilt on his face and then he went right back into being a clueless ignoring-the-road asshole. I was going to get out but I was so pissed off all i would have done was yell at him and ended up in jail. However, i did take his license plate number down in case there was damage. I know it's harder to prove later but I figured if anything I would have my dad run his plates and crank call him at 3 a.m.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Good luck? What kind of a shitty thing is that to say?

Sundays are lonely for me now that football has started. The boy usually takes off to sit with his friends watching the game in some lousy bar with lousy service and lousy food that I have to hear an incessant amount of bitching about when he comes home. Meanwhile I'm trapped in the house most of the day (because I equate going out with spending money and now that I am married I seem to have no money) with a TV that I can't work because there are way too many remotes and I have no clue which is which.

This past Sunday the boy was feeling guilty for working an overnight on Friday and losing Saturday night to a family gathering so he decided he would stay home Sunday and spend some time with me. Here's how spending time with each other goes these days. I play Sims in one corner of the living room while he sits behind me and watched football.

But, we're together, right?

I began dropping hints around 2:30 that I was starving. So, he did what any football fan would do whose wife said she was starving more than 6 times in 10 minutes. He took me to a bar he knew would have food AND TVs. I don't mind, I actually happen to like this place and frequent it at least 2 times a week during every season, not just football. I ordered the usual, a salad pizza and some wings. Now, for those of you not familiar with a salad pizza, it's pretty much thin crust with cheese melted on top and layer of cold tossed greens with vinegar. I particularly love dousing it in grated cheese, crushed pepper and salt. Actually, sad to say, I smuggle this in in my purse.

Try it and seasoning will never be the same.

So, anyway, where was I?

We're sitting there munching on wings and the bartender brings over the salad pizza.

Two men to right remark, "I've never seen that before."

I didn't think they were saying anything to us so I continued my ritual of grated cheese and Hot Rocks.

Again, the man says, "I've never seen that before. What is it?"

I looked up and he was pointing at our pizza. I said, "It's salad pizza." And the man asked again what it is because apparently he never heard of a salad and a pizza. DUH! I explained (fighting the urge to speak slowly, loudly and use small words), "It's a salad on a pizza. It's good."

"Interesting," he says, "Good luck."

Good luck?

I thought it was the strangest thing I ever heard. The last time someone saw my salad pizza they ordered it and quickly became fans. But "good luck"? Exactly what did that mean? I thought about it for my entire meal. The only thing I could think of was the guy thought I was on a diet hence why I ordered salad on a pizza and he was wishing me luck on my diet.

This upset me for a couple of reasons. I know I put on a few pounds since the wedding but I reigned myself in with 135 grams of protein a day and under 50 carbs. So, this was my splurge day. Actually, despite the fact I was eating a salad, I was still being bad because my salad was on a crust. That rationale led me to think the man thought I was fat and SHOULD be on a diet so I got really self-conscious. But, hello, he just saw me shovel some wings down my gullet and I was pouring grated cheese on it thus canceling all the good out of it being a salad. Hmm . . . Maybe he meant good luck because I was OBVIOUSLY failing at my diet by doing this.

I wanted to ask Stew what the guy meant. Sometimes I think Stew can translate guy-ese better because he's a guy and therefore he must know what men are thinking all the time. However, with the guy sitting so close I couldn't ask Stew. So, I waited the whole meal (which felt like forfuckingever) and when Stew and I were safely in the car (okay, so it was really right when the door to the bar closed behind me), I asked Stew what the guy meant by saying good luck. Of course, Stew being a guy, forgot the whole event even transpired and I had to give him a play-by-play of something that happened twenty minutes ago. Ignorance is bliss. I wish i was a guy and forgot about shit like that so easy.

This was Stew's explanation.

"Maybe he doesn't like vegetables so he was wishing you good luck eating it." Like I was eating something exotic you'd find on a menu in some foreign country. Good luck with that plate of live worms and side of fried locusts.

"You know, Lulu, some men just don't like vegetables."

I patted Stew's sweet face. I think his baseball hat was too tight and cutting off circulation to his brain with that explanation. "Well, I guess I'm lucky to have found the only guy out there who will eat vegetables with me."

He made the face. You know the face. The face that almost looks pained because he is only doing something because I want to do it but he doesn't have the heart to tell me. "It's different," he explained, "those vegetables are sitting on cheese and crust so they're okay."

So, it's official. The guy at the bar thought I was fat and should be on a diet. However, he wishes me all the luck in the world.