Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Where we discover that Captain Rigatoni is Nostradamus!!

Meetings at the Captain's are irregular and disjointed. Some days there are no meetings, not even so much as a "today's specials are" and on other cursed days there are many.... We are all rounded up from doing whatever menial tasks we might be attending to and herded into the kitchen where we are then berated for many hours.

On a very special Friday night Captain Rigatoni decided to give us about forty minutes on his world views. At first I felt that this was a fairly major time suck, and that I would much prefer to be out polishing the floor with my toothbrush. He droned on and on for quite some time, with a few outbursts of frustration at the usual situations (INCOMPETENT!! CLOWNS!! BAH HUMBUG!) but for the most part I was struggling to pay attention due to the high level of booooring.

That was.... Until I realized that he was letting the cat out of the bag! He was letting all of us lucky people have a view of what it is really like to be as big and important as Captain Rigatoni! And what a responsibility it must be, because he is a prophet! "I knew that the bottom was going to fall out of the economy!" He declared, making me wonder if that is really possible. The economy does not really have a bottom- but those are his genius words and not the plain, dumb monosyllables of a MAW. "I SAW this coming" he said, steely eyed as he strode around the room sternly, looking each and every one of us in the eye. "I knew that it was all going to fall to pieces, LAST YEAR!! BWA-HA-HA!!" My thoughts came to a screeching halt as I digested his latest ridonkulous declaration. Last year? As in 2008? Dear Captain, I am sorry to disagree with you but the Economy has been on a downward spiral of doom since very early in 2007, if not slightly before. Looking around the room at my sheep-el coworkers all nodding in rapture I peeked over at one of the "humans" that I'm lucky to work with and gave the side-eye. Which I got right back in return, making me feel glad that there was some sanity in the room on this particular evening. At this point the Capt had really reached full throttle and was giving us a passion filled declaration about his keen Spidey-sense on how everything in the world works. "I know how it IS" he bellowed "I know how BUSINESS works, I know how STUFF runs and I know what PEOPLE are thinking!!" Thinking fast I filled my head with a large number of sarcastic thoughts to see if he would use his psychic powers to pick up on them. He did not, which really shocked me since he is a superhero and everything... Running out of time before the restaurant opened for dinner he made a dramatic conclusion to his inspirational speech "Things are going to get worse before they get better, all of yous.... You might ask how I know this? Well, I just do because I know these things. I knew that times were going to get hard and I can tell ALL of YOUS that it is going to be AT LEAST another year, or maybe two, or even THREE, or very possibly FOUR OR FIVE before things get BETTER!!" (good to cover all bases with a span of 5 years, right?) All of my coworkers, with the exception of one or two humans dropped at his feet salivating heavily. "Oh Captain Rigatoni" they panted eagerly "We are not worthy of your greatness! We are all blessed to have Nostradamus in our midst! Please, please let us lick your toe cheese and be your servants for life!!" As much as Capt Rig loves to be told how great he is he had grown weary of hanging about with his minions. Also, he had to go find the cooks and give then their daily beatings, question the wisdom of paying them and ask them why the F*** they had the audacity to use the wrong mop on the floor. Shaking his head in profound disgust at the horrible, horrible things he had to put up with he kicked aside several of the waitstaff who were still bowing at his feet, and ran off to lay down the law. Gazing after his retreating bulk with unreserved admiration the staff all murmured how lucky we were to be blessed to work with such a great and wonderful prophet. How was it that we, a bunch of renegade slackers could possibly have such a tremendous opportunity! Gosh, WE should pay to work for HIM!!!

The very best and most magical part of this story is that somehow, over the 9 hour course of that evening Cap Rig forgot that he had had this meeting with us. At 11:25 PM he demanded that we all come to the kitchen AT ONCE!!!! Where he proceeded to give a carbon copy of the same meeting... I was hoping that perhaps he would give us some alarming new thought on the future of the world, or make startling predictions for 2012 but alas... Rerun!

Monday, December 21, 2009

In which our heroine slacks off completely.

I do not tend to be the kind of employee that shirks away from an extra bit of work. Good thing, since working at Captain Rig's is like indentured servitude times a million! I tucker myself right out at work, I (try) to be the hero who runs the food out of the kitchen at breakneck speed, I (attempt) to excel at being the master of the glassware and silver and I (halfheartedly) bag up to-go orders. Oh, and in my spare point two seconds of extra time I wait on tables too... Hmmmm?!

When the screaming in the kitchen reached a glass shattering level last weekend I decided it was time for a change. Since I AVOID slacking this was the perfect time to see if I could manage to do as little as humanely possible, without getting caught, and while lavishing attention on my tables of guests and making fistfuls of cash. Hooray for the lazies!

It turned out to be a pretty slow night which made this experiment fully possible. I found that as long as I stayed in motion and "looked" busy nobody thought otherwise. I doted upon my tables with the kind of attention that I normally would not have time to give. I helped out one of my fellow coworkers who got quadruple sat and was looking a bit frazzled. (knowing that since this was one of the "humans" that works there the gesture would most likely be reciprocated!) I toddled along in a state of calm, occasionally pausing to twiddle a fork around to dry in order to not appear to be a complete sloth but for the most part I dodged all forms of work.

My tables enjoyed the attention and tipped well. My coworkers were completely oblivions to my day of rest, and I fully enjoyed an evening of calm and zen like relaxation (if only!!)

The verdict: WIN!! WIN!! However, not only is slacking off daily against everything I stand for but eventually (sooner rather than later) I'll get busted. So we'll leave that as a one day-vacay that had results that were enjoyed by all. Or at least ME!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

In which our Heroine learns that she will never be able to cheat a lie detector test...

Crossing the threshold of my own personal hell the other evening (aka: the kitchen entrance of Captain Rigatoni's) I could hear the hollerin' coming from the back room in a big way! Realizing that this was sure to be yet another heart warming evening of cheerful pep talks, and loving pats on the back I concluded that it was the perfect opportunity to continue my social experimentation on the Captain's dime.

Before I could reflect any further on what my bold mission might be I was captured by Dan, and in a whirlwind of speed was whisked away to the dark recesses of the walk in cooler. My reaction was something of the "HEY! YO! WTH??" kind, as I do not particularly enjoy any kind of sudden kidnapping. Surrounded by buckets of pasta, "homemade" desserts and carrots, Dan delivered a stern lecture. "We have an audit going on today" he said in his very best waiting-to-be-upper-management voice "and we need to go over a few things." I was confused, and was picturing some sort of tax evasion taking place and could not see how I could possibly have any part in such a thing. Continuing on, and carefully annunciating his words lest I be confused by the weight of my mission Dan said "They are going to be asking all of us some questions today about how this restaurant is run, how you get paid and what some of our policies are." "Reeeeaaaaly?" I said, as it dawned on my that this was the Labor peeps and not the Tax goons "What's the deal?" I inquired. "Well, there are a few things that need to be said by ALL" was his firm, and clearly pronounced reply. By this time it was becoming painfully clear to me what was going on: We were going to be told to lie. And if there is something that this middle aged waitress AVOIDS it is lying. It is well known in my circle of friends that my lying skills are on par with my coordination skills meaning, NOT good. Not only is lying something that I am (somewhat) morally opposed too but I just can't be smooth about it. I tend to stammer a bit, get overly exaggerated in my hand gestures and facial expressions and get all red faced and sweaty palmed. I just can't pull it off, period! This was NOT the kind of challenging social experimantation that I was intersted in. Clearly pressed for time Dan continued with his lecture on deceit "When he asks about our tip-out policy you should know that we DO NOT nor have we EVER tipped out any staff in this restaurant besides the service bar." "You don't say" I replied with great sarcasm "Because some little part of my memory remembers something entirely different..." "Well that part of your memory needs to be turned off right now" was his sensible thought on that matter. "Also, you have NOT nor have you EVER been required to pay for anything you have broken, screwed up on or damaged." Remembering that there was a small portion of my medulla oblongata (or similar?) that needed to learn to shut it's mouth I shut mine too... "Also" he droned on "it is not our policy to ask you to pay for a "walk-out" but we do reserve the right to terminate you if you have multiple people leaving without paying." "So the other day" I mused in my out-loud voice "when my work friend was let go for one walk out.... That never happened? Am I right?" Delighted with my quick learning skills Dan exclaimed that I WAS right and that I HAD it and could scurry right along and talk to Mr. Department of Lies.

Fortunately for me, a long line of liars had formed at that point so I had a bit of time to muse over my options. I saw this as a perfect, heaven sent opportunity to expose the shady work place principles that were applied at Capt Rig's. I saw this as a delightful opportunity to avenge my fallen and unjustly fired friend. I worked myself up into a fine state of indignation over the fact that people thought that they could order me to lie and expect me too! Seeing Dan run by to polish the halo that Captain Rigatoni had given him I asked a quick question "So Dan, why is it that you had to catch us one by one and tell us what was going on? Why did we not have a meeting to talk about this? It wouldn't be becasue "management" didn't want to be (ahem) involved? You know, in case we get asked if we were told by our "bosses" to say certain things?" "Ahhh" he said, clearly agitated by my quick thinking and perception "that might be... close to correct..." As he left the kitchen he turned and semi-shouted "AND it's a BEAUTIFUL thing!!" with more than a touch of sarcasm, which led me to believe that despite all the mumbo-jumbo he was still at least partially human. With my suspicions confirmed I went to the front of the line to get down to the dirty business of exposing the corrupt state of affairs going on in the kitchen. My imagination was having a delightful time picturing the way I would describe to Mr. Labor how I had been told to lie, how we did in fact have to tip out everybody and their brother, and how we most certainly had to pay for breakage and mistakes. I was going to be a champion of the masses, a freedom fighter on the level of Gandhi, and a patriot for waitstaff everywhere. That was the case, until I saw where it was that we were going to be having out "private meeting." In the office: NO. In a nice private area of the dining room: NO. Where, you might ask... Where would we have the opportunity to have a heart to heart chat with somebody who might be able to save us from doom and slavery (and the loss of tons of our own dollars, paying for busted up plates?!?) Dead front and center, under the close surveillance of several video cameras and right next to the hostess station, where Bobbi was conveniently located. Although I'm sure that she was keeping a responsible eye on things, not eavesdropping or anything. (See! I can lie!)

My head was in a terrible state at this point and I knew that if I did not lie, as soon as I went back to the kitchen I would be shoved out the back door and kicked like a junk yard dog. I reflected upon the sorry state of my bank account, the pile of bills on my kitchen table and the lack of available jobs in my town (or any town.) I knew at that point, that there was no choice in the matter. I would HAVE to do one of the top things that I AVOID. I was going to have to lie like a rug.... And there was no way that I was going to be able to pull it off because as soon as I sat down my blood pressure went up to 180/240 and clearly a stroke was imminent. "Hello, I'm Mr. Labor" said Mr. Labor, standing to shake my clammy hand, and not reacting well to the fact that my hands felt like the hands of a LIAR!! Wiping his hands on his pants (sorry) we got on with things. "What are your tipping policies here?" he asked sternly "Do you have to tip anyone at the end of the night?" "Um, yeah, um" I said smoothly, and calmly "We have to tip the bartender and ummmm. that's it. yeah, just them" (shut up!! I shouted at myself! Stop talking!) "So just the bar?" he asked again, looking at me with a firm expression "nobody else? Not a bus person? A hostess" THE KITCHEN??" I was in full blown freak out at this time, I could see Bobbi peering at me with slanted eyes and taking notes, I could see that I was directly in the line of the cameras. I wanted to jump up and scream like a freak, and then run out the front door like a crazy person. Gathering my thoughts as best I could I stammered that no, we didn't tip anyone else, and that it was just the bar, and that yes as far as I knew it WAS mandatory to tip the bartender because I had never been told otherwise. I jambled on and on. I could not shut up the word vomit pouring from my mouth. I was red faced and sweaty like a mass murderer under the spotlight of interrogation.. The interview went on for several minutes more, I continued to stammer like a guilty convict, Bobbi continued to give me the stank eye and Mr. Labor clearly did not believe a word I had said. And then it was over, I was allowed to run like a track star back to the relative safety of the kitchen. Where, oddly enough I found most of the staff chirping in indignation about the unjust questions that had been presented to them. At that point they all believed the lies that they had been told to tell (whoa- stop the crazy train right here please so that I can get the hell OFF!)

By far, the best part of the whole adventure was to learn that some of the staff who are supposed to be on the receiving end of out tip-outs at the end of the night had never seen any of that cash. Not a dime, not once! Good to know that we are lining the pockets of management with our hard earned money- really flipping awesome.

The result of this social experiment: OK, so this one was forced upon me and was not my choice! I don't think that I would choose lying as a way to spend my evening. Anyway: EPIC fail. I am a terrible liar and also clearly have no moral fiber since I made the choice to lie (my justification that I HAD no choice is BS- you always have a choice. And I choose to keep my craptastic job.) I'm clearly going to be getting coal in my stocking this year!

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Flash back: Part Two

"Sigh" I said "The thing I miss about working in a smaller restaurant in an even smaller town is the regulars..." "Regulars" chirped my eager coworkers, scurrying over like cockroaches "what ever are those! We have never heard of such a phenomenon!" "Gather round my friends" I declared grandly "and I will tell you the story of some of the rare oddities of smaller establishments, the over zealous, very eccentric and somewhat wealthy REGULAR!!"

(and now we flash back, several years to another time and place.)

After working in the same place in a small community for several years you learn who is going to come in on a daily, weekly or monthly basis. You quickly learn who tips well, who chooses to tip in poorly timed advice and who is just trying out their worst pickup lines on you. (whoo-hoo! snap shizzle!) And occasionally, your patience gets tried by freakazoids who are convinced that they are wealthy and wise, magnanimous and fab. Vom-dot-com....

A couple in their more senior years were regulars on the local restaurant circuit in the village that I used to work in. They would make their presence known every two weeks or so, and would wreak havoc on the order of our system. The reason for this? They would randomly pick a few favorite, and hand out bills of a certain denomination (which, if you were basically willing to bend over to their bizarreness would be worth it.)This would inevitable lead to massive gridlock at their table as employees tried to get a chunk o' change, and would essentially slow down the inner workings of the whole place. They had a few blessed favs that they would hunt down and pay off regardless of their level of suck-up-edness but for the rest of us (them) it was a contest of epic proportions. Who could entertain them the best?!? Regale them with fine fairy tales?!? Do back flips and cartwheels while lit on fire!! You get the picture, the whole staff would rush to their table to parade around their finest party trick. Being that I am a somewhat sarcastic and slightly acidic SOB I refused to take any part in this ass kissing madness and just did my mofo of a job. However, these peeps were tricky buggers and decided on one fine evening to put my mad skills to the test.

These people were a strange study of contrasts. They were old. Yes, I said it- perhaps it's not PC but they were!! The female member of this jaunty pair would regularly wear jeans built for a 16 year old nymph with her stomach support granny panties clearly showing above the waistline, by a subtle 6 to 8 inches. Sexxxxxxy. The gentleman of the relationship would always wear a dapper little suit, and would skeeve over the young male members of the staff. (I've got something in my front pocket for yoouuuuu, why don't you reach in my front pocket and see what it IS!!) So yes, married but gay-ish, old but dressed young: A very fine pair all around wouldn't you say?

On my day of reckoning with them I went thru our usual banter; Mr. Creeper: "Oh little Danny isn't in tonight! What a shaaaaame, I had a little something for him!" Me: "No he has the night off and is spending it at the female strip club." (in my in the head voice.) On this particular evening Ms Control Undies had a very important question for me. "Where ever is that glorious painting" she inquired in her faux brit accent breathy little girl voice "Do you know the one?" she stage whispered , looking at me with her bright blue lined, mascara running weepy eyes. Looking around the room I saw all the paintings in their homes, looking the same as they had for lo those many years. "I don't know what painting you mean" I said "Perhaps you could describe it for me?" "Hmmmmm" she trilled vacantly "It was a lovely little picture, full of pretty ponies and precious monkeys!!" Thinking that this painting was depicting my worst nightmare I said that I simply didn't know where it was. Irked, that his dead sexy 17 year old bus boy wasn't there to play hide the banana with him Mr. Creeper gave me the side-eye. "No??" he said thru his nose "You reaaally don't know that poppish little painting....?? It has been hiding in this wee little room for soooooo many years..." **sigh** I said "Let me ask the manager!" Who, obviously did not know what on earth they were talking about but scampered like a meth addict over to their table to try to get her cut of the daily payout. At this point a line had formed at the table and while I admired my fellow coworkers bringing their A games to table 28 I reflected that perhaps the couple might forget about the lost art. No such luck, 240 years later when I finally made my way back to their table they had both whipped themselves into a frenetic state about the crisis of the painting. Near tears, Ms Control Briefs had one more desperate plea "Are you sure you don't know where it is" she implored "It would so warm my heart to see it again (sniffle) it was so merry, with the monkies PRAHN-CING and DAHN-CING all about!!" "Prancing and dancing monkys?" I said in my super helpful-est voice "merry circus ponies? Nope, have never seen it and don't know where it is." "Hmmmmmm" faux-britted Mr. Creeper "It would mean a nice bitty-wittie bonus for you if you could find it!!" I looked at him. He looked at me. Keep in mind, that at this moment I had 6 other tables who all wanted my attention just as much as they did. Keep in mind, that he thought that he could BUY me and my fracking SOUL!! Calmly, I replied as only one who has never seen credit-card debt can: "No, I have never, ever seen a painting such as that in here." DUM, DUM, DUMMMMM!!! And off I went. Later that evening when they took their leave Mr. Creeper sneakily passed me a rolled up bill. Shocked that despite my Braveheart style declaration of freedom I had still made it into the million dollar club I unrolled the bill. To find a sweet $5 spot.... Awesome. I was so cheesed off my the whole incident that I promptly gave it to the bus kid to go and buy herself some candy with. The charming couple would continue to grace us with their presence on a regular basis until the time of my departure some years later. Although they always tipped well, I never did make the millionaires club- nor did I want to.

Finishing my tale I surveyed my awestruck coworkers who were gathered around me like fat kids around cake. "Tell us more, tell us more" they all cried expectantly. "No my friends" I declared "I must save more tales from normal times for another day, but remember..... No amount of money is worth the price of your SOUL!!!!"

And if you really believe that I ever told my current coworkers any kind of story than y'all are a buncha suckahs....

Monday, December 14, 2009

Many excellent adventures

Obviously the best way to spread the Holiday cheer is to violently scream obscenities at your employees at 10 minute intervals. I mean, DUH everyone knows THAT!

The stress of the Holidays has been taking a toll on Capt Rig, although it appears to have left his vocal cords intact. What a shame, what a shame.

To keep my sanity intact I embarked upon a stealthy adventure to amuse myself. OH EMM GEE people, hang onto your hats!

Adventure number one: I avoid boring my coworkers to death with stories of my life. They do not do the same for me, and due to the fact that I am an excellent listener regularly regale me with cringeworthy stories of their boot-knocking escapades, yawn-inducing tales of their children's school work and tedious tales from the front lines of post divorce dating. Yaaaaawn, yo, YAWN! Anywhoo, I decided it would be profoundly amusing to prattle on endlessly about my fav pet and his recent bout of disease. Complete with pics of the grossness and detailed descriptions of the whole situation. Rock on with my bad self!!

Conclusion of this experiment: Nobody is interested in hearing about other peeps business and I am a much better listener than most. Maybe I have to stop that? As soon as my story reached the really boring parts people just walked on off. Which empowers me to do the same the next time I'm stuck in a corner hearing about things that make me want to puke all down my front. HAH!

Adventure number two: I avoid talking about the middle aged huz at work. Everybody knows that I am part of an uber magical union and therefore am strictly off limits. Everybody else really loves to yap on and on about their ex-husbands, their current boyfriends, or their episodes of ultra creepy stalking. Awesome! Time to join in on the fun and expose the huz as the rascally renegade that he is. Wha-ha-ha!

The conversation one evening turned towards the general incompetence of men in general, something that all of us smokin' hot ladies can certainly relate to. I was all ready to raise my fists and man bash when my conscience caught up to me, and I got all guilty feeling in my heart. Listening to the hair raising chlamydia chaos talk that my coworkers were bringing to the table I realized that I had nothin'. They all turned to me expectantly and I said (weakly) that the huz is really, really bad at doing laundry and also quite poor at putting dishes in the dishwasher. BAD HIM! They all looked at me like I had two heads, and since I had pretty much taken the hate out of the convo we all dispersed.

Conclusion of this experiment: I'll bitch with my bitches, and not with my coworkers. Epic FAIL!

So as long as the Captain continues on in his full on asshat rage, I will continue to conduct odd social experiments on his dime.

Got to do something to save the sanity, no?

Sunday, December 13, 2009

One strike! You're OUTTA HERE!

Upon my arrival to work the other evening I quickly noticed an absence in our midst. Where was my work friend, the female youth of America?

I went on a manhunt (lady hunt? missing waitress hunt? poisonous person hunt? whatev!) I looked in the cooler and by the gelato freezer, I looked in the wait station and by the bar, I looked out the window and under a chair (I looked FREAKING EVERYWHERE!) So I looked at the schedule and it was as thought she had never been born. No sign of her anywhere! DOOM!

There was nobody to ask because they were all out back chugging on their hatorade, so I rustled around feeling confused. After a time I tracked down Marissa and said WTF? In hushed tones over the roar of the salad spinner she explained to me that there had been a MAJOR problem the previous Saturday. Evidently my WF had been the maker of the worst thing in the world: A MISTAKE. She had had a very particular couple of guests and had problems with several parts of their order. Bottom line, it was a situation that could happen to anyone at any time. Despite her best efforts she was unable to make them feel ok about the situation and they left in a very unhappy huff. She came in for work the following day to find that without notice, a warning or phone call she had been taken off the schedule (but oddly enough, only for 2 days.) After her 2 days were up, and after many unsuccessful attempts to schedule a meeting of the minds with Bobbi the Boss she went back on in. To make a very long story short she was fired- but had to literally drag it out of them that that was the case..... Good to know that it's one strike and you're out around here!

Thursday, December 10, 2009

A blast from the past. Well, like 5 years ago.

I found this is the archives. It's an oldie but goodie.

Seriously, I have been schlepping food for 5 years and grow exhausted from it. I am tired of food, I am tired of watching people eat, I am tired of the constant noise in restaurants (clinking, clanking, yelling, breaking glass and exhaust fans- which I seriously think are rendering me partially deaf...)

I can quite often come up with humerous stories from the food service front lines- but today I'm telling the tale of the Harpie.

The Harpie is a 70+ year old lady who comes in most Sunday nights with her brow beaten husband. I will attempt to meet them at the door and am ususlly (no kidding) pushed aside by her as she charges in to her favorite table. God forbid that table 7 is occupied- God Forbid. I tried to offer them a different table one night and she grabbed my arm, dug in with her nails and shrieked "We're SITTING THEEEERE." Right you are, off you go. After they are seated I politely introduce myself and offer up a tasty beverage. This is met with "WE ARE NOT DEAF. DO NOT SPEAK IN THAT TONE." Okaay. I lower my voice to a hushed whisper, explain the specials and excuse myself. Every Sunday the Harpie orders sirloin, medium with a baked potato and a salad with bleu cheese. One time, long long ago she got a steak that was closer to medium rare. She has never forgotten that fateful day,despite the fact that she has consumed 2,300 steaks cooked to a perfect medium since then. I go to the table and inquire in my most silent whisper what they would like to have for dinner then I jump back (you'll see why.) "Sirloin" she barks, "Cooked MEDIUM." "Come closer" she says (as I cringe) and like a flash she reaches out and grabs my arm, nails digging in. "It must be done the way I LIKE it" she snarls "OR" (and at this point her beady little eyes narrow to slits and her voice lowers to a hiss) "I will send it back, I will NOT PAY and I won't come back" Oh, if only I could be so lucky I think to myself as I break free and dash to the other side of the table to take the husbands order. I put the order in and run to the kitchen and beg them to please, please send the steak out the second it reaches the right temp. Then I examine my war wounds and contemplate what sort of workplace compensation I can get for nasty-nail scratches. Typically at this point everything goes well, the steak is good, she temporarily forgets that she harbors an unprecedented level of hate for me and I am granted a moments peace. Until that is, the check has to come out...... Always, always without fail there is an item on the check that the Harpie has an issue with. My reflexes at this time have quickened to the point of being able to avoid her freakishly fast arm grabbing routine but I am usually subjected to a verbal beat down. I offer to get the manager, the husband at this point interjects, looks at the bill and reminds Harpie that she did in fact order, eat and enjoy the SIRLOIN and therefore must pay for it. GAHHHHHD, I think as I flee the scene of the disaster about $1 richer for all my troubles.

There are plenty of perfectly nice people who come in to make up for this wretched little woman, but it's the bad ones that you remember to avoid.

My word of wisdom for today is to treat your server nicely, we work very hard and are smart people (much to the dismay of many!!) So be nice people, please and thank you. XXOO MAW

Thursday, December 3, 2009

In which our heroine has a wonderful dream....

I had the best dream ever last night. I wish that I could have plugged a USB into my brain and had the whole thing magically appear on here before it started to fade into the dark passages of my brain. Anyway, here is what I remember.
For one reason or another Captain Rig had been forced out of business. My dream-brain told me that it was becasue he was such a meanie, and also becasue karma is a beeyotch. He had been forced to take up a new and somewhat less illustrious career selling italian food out of the back of a truck at fairs. So in a nutshell, he was a carnie. Along with Mama Rigatoni and Bobbi Rigatoni. It might have been the best dream I have ever had (and it was way cooler in my head than it is here. You all know how that goes.)