Sunday, April 06, 2008
Working through the evenings Friday and Saturday led me to reflect people in America should stay at home and cook their own dinners, because I weary of serving it to them. Last night a well-attired man, perhaps fifty-two-or-three-ish, stood at the counter after he had received his order for no other purpose than to harass me and the person on grill (who happens to be the manager, though not in uniform designating him as such when he works in the back), because his food came out after that of a larger group of people, who had allowed him to cut in line so that he and his attractive wife could receive their meal the faster, as they were "in a hurry". Not so time-behaggled were they, though, that "Bartholomew" (the name on the ticket, the etymology for which must consist of two base elements, those for "ass" and "hole") could not resist a return to the pick-up counter to request swiss cheese on his burger in a "you incompetent serving-wench" tone [Bartholomew's ticket contained no reference whatsoever to swiss cheese, nor had he ordered a burger that comes con queso] and then to demand an explanation as to the reason for our over-efficiency in getting a larger order out before his. As I fixed the other tickets and struggled to keep a neutral-but-pleasantly-helpful expression on my face, I considered asking whether a blow job might be the thing to appease him, since my usual sincere apology and a free chocolate chip or white chocolate macadamia nut cookie apparently would not serve to assuage this customer's ire. As he continued berating the guy on grill, I walked away for more cookies, in anticipation of the event that the new cashier might continue to misring orders.
I hope Bartholomew has a girlfriend he sees on the sly, who will give him syphilis. His wife seemed gracious enough.
Labels: cookies, customer service, food, Fuddruckers, grilling, patience, sandwiches, Swiss cheese, syphilis, waiting, working
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 7:16 PM]
Bob Dylan Is Not A Crazy Old Man
Thursday, March 27, 2008
In an advising session with Dr. Lavigne this afternoon, he mentioned, after I decide which graduate school to attend, he would take me aside for a "send-off". I worry this means he's going to break a liquor bottle across my side. I would almost rather have a sex talk with my dad. Normally, the "send-off" occurs between Dr. Larmour and the graduate students who are leaving the University for a PhD program somewhere. Being yet an undergrad, I get Avril, but I might put in a request that Dr. Larmour be present.
The shifts I work at Fuddruckers only last between three and six hours, nights, which makes this the cakewalk job I had hoped it would be. A tire blowing out on my tank, however, complicates transportation from (I catch the bus to) Fuddruckers to The Lair, which is about four miles away. The walk takes forever, but I still arrive at The Lair with time enough to work for a little bit before bedtime.
Labels: advising, Bob Dylan, car, Fuddruckers, grad school, senility, The Lauree Lair, transportation, walking, working
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 2:43 PM]
Fond, But Not In Love
Friday, March 21, 2008
I began work at Fuddruckers. With a few exceptions, I am older than everyone else, including the manager who drove me home last night (for my tank is still kaputt). I intend to bus tables for the next several months to pay off a credit card or two.
For the next two weeks, I am going to sit by my mailbox, awaiting financial aid decisions from three of the Classics programs that have accepted me. I have my books (ever so many books), and the weather has begun to warm.
I realize, of course, that my plans may be thrown awry from the small fact that I have not attended so many algebra classes this semester... but it should be offered again via correspondence over the summer. The end still is near.
For all the reading I do, one would think I could connect written and spoken sentences at least through punctuation, if not actual logic, but it seems my inability to sit still for more than three minutes at a time at a desk or before a computer inhibits lengthy transitional expression (present sentence perhaps excluded). Fore in my mind at the moment is the anticipation of my outing to the grocery store this evening for milk and oranges. I might forget about the oranges when I get there.
Labels: errands, financial aid, Fuddruckers, grad school, milk, oranges, Radiohead, working
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 4:47 PM]
Ich Weiß Nur, Daß Ich Nichts Weiß
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The right rear tire on the tank in which I drive when errand-running blew out after I interviewed for a position at Fuddruckers this afternoon. I rode on the rims for quite a distance before pulling into a Shell. I called for a tow, but cancelled the dispatch upon realization that I am broke. Oh, well. Over the next day I shall scrape up some cash.
I fixed a glorious peanut butter pickle sandwich für Abendessen. Jetzt lese ich vier Bücher; jedes hat umgefähr dreisig übrigen Seiten. Ach. Ich kann nichts beenden.
Labels: books, car, dinner, errands, Fuddruckers, job searching, sandwiches, Shell station, tires, towing
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 4:14 PM]