in which it's really not funny if it's happening to you

the bar that i work at has been under construction for the past 2 weeks.
we were completely closed for four days, but since then, we've been working in the half of the restaurant which is at least somewhat functional, while we wait for the bar side to be finished.

(here, finished = anything that doesn't involve the walls being painted. because the walls are mostly finished. not completely, mind you. but, you know. mostly)

here is what the 'bar' we've been working from for the past week looks like.



um, yeah.

you might think that's pretty bad.
but that's only because i haven't told you that i'm at work as we speak, managing (managing = babysitting the restaurant to make sure it doesn't burn down or something because neither one of my bosses could be here today), and one of my bosses just called to tell me to make sure our 'real' bar was open tonight.
this is what our 'real' bar currently looks like.



he asked me to set two long pieces of wood on top of the bar's frame, so people could sit there and drink tonight.

sitting on bar stools that sit on a torn up, nails sticking out of, full of holes and sawdust and other disgusting stuff floor.

he didn't say what i should do with that kid in the yellow shirt, who was about to start trying to tile the floor.

nor did he throw out any ideas about what i could do with that big table saw, or any of the other eleventy hundred thousand tools and whatnots that are lying around.


i'm going to go do a shot now.

have a good weekend, everyone!

the random voicemail of mysterious weirdness

saturday afternoon, my cell phone rang.
i did not recognize the number on the caller i.d.
i did not answer the call.

the caller left a voicemail.
i listened to it immediately, as i cannot stand even the most mild of suspenseful situations (me: omg! i don't know that number! who was it? i must know noooooooow.).

sadly, checking my voicemail only increased the suspensefulness of the situation.

here is what i heard:

tiffany...it's me, bobby. just givin' you a call to see what's goin' on. (pause)
last i seen, i thought your name was tara, though.
uh. give me a call back. talk to you later. bye.



um?
does anyone else find that mysterious and weird?

here's the thing.
i do, in fact, know someone named bobby. this was not the same person. because bobby has been my friend for a very long time--i know his voice, and he most certainly knows that my name is not tara.

secondly, i have not given my phone number to anyone lately. it is true that sometimes i get very drunk and may--allegedly--not remember some of my actions as they actually occurred. still, even when very drunk, the chances of me giving my phone number to someone who would say something like 'last i seen..' are pretty slim.*

and, really?
if you called a number expecting to talk to a girl named tara, but then got a voicemail recording that said 'hi, it's tiffany...'

wouldn't you just hang up?

i simply cannot solve the mystery of this voicemail.
both my roommate and my sister have been known to give my phone number to boys they meet at bars and other random locations, when they don't feel like giving out their own numbers. but this just doesn't seem to fit.*


mainly because neither one of them is named tara.


so, anyway.
bobby?
are you out there?

please never call me again.
thanks.

*i do not mean to sound like a heartlessly uppity bitch. i am not generally a heartless uppity bitch. mostly. but i am at least somewhat heartless and uppity about certain things, and blatant misuse of the word 'seen' is one of them. it's a huge pet peeve of mine--my dad used to do it all the time, and has steadfastly refused for the past twenty years to consider my feelings on the issue. but he pays my car insurance, and calls me about once a week for no other reason than to tell me he loves me. so, you know, he can stay. bobby, however, cannot.

**this, by the way, is not a fun game. sometimes these boys actually call, and i have to explain to them that you, for some reason, did not find them worthy of your actual phone number. this is not something that they are generally very happy to hear, just so you know.

zero

zero is a number that can be used to describe all kinds of crazy things that are going on in my life right now.

for example:

how many dollars have i made at work this week?

zero.

how much cable/internet access do i have available at my home?

zero, because the zero dollars have made it difficult to pay the cable bill.


sadly, despite the zero dollars i have made, i cannot say that i have worked zero hours.
oh, no.
ever since sunday night, i have been furiously scrubbing, priming, and painting the (actually quite huge) bar and restaurant where i normally make my money.

at the moment, the bar is closed, and is being completely remodeled.

which soon will equal amazing money goodness.
but which, for now equals all kinds of zero.

i'm not really sure if i'm going to get paid for all this painting, or not. still, i must do it, because it is in my best interest that the bar re-open as soon as possible.
my mom has even come in to help us out, because she is very smart, and she realizes that both of her daughters making zero dollars for too long equals her paying far more rent/bills than she would care to.

i would like to tell you something like:
never fear! despite the non-existent internet access at my house, i will not forsake you! i will find a way to blog about my adventures in the land of zero-ness!*

but that would probably be a lie.
mostly because of what happened today.

setting:
me, downstairs in the office of the place where i 'work' (read, paint all day long for no pay) checking my email while i wait for the thing my boss asked me to print to be done printing.

my boss: (walking into the office) hey, how're you enjoying the free internet access.

me: well, it's a lot better than the no internet access that i have at home, since my cable just got shut off.

my boss: oh, and i guess that's my fault?

me: um, well. actually. yeah, it kinda is. because when you close the restaurant for a week without warning anyone, we knd of run out of money.**


*i say this as if you would care. i forsake you all the time, and you're doing fine.
**i did not actually say this out loud.

because bartending is not the most fun we can have while working at the bar

As tiffany has stories that are- while excellent- not meant for public
consumption, this blog entry has been ghost written by yours truly,
the mad blogging poet, what poeticizes at midnight. As such, you
shall have to forgive me this minor divergence from the everyday realm
of tiffany and into something a bit more askew... at least until i
ramble onto something more concrete.

In the meanwhile, i am tempted to spend the next thousand words musing
on the possibilty of the hokey pokey *really* being what it's all
about, but i think it may be better to relay the various things that i
do to burn time while i'm at work.
Thing number the first:

Wikipedia. A dangerous and addictive habit of mine is cruising on
wikipedia and looking one thing after another. The beauty of it? If
you pull up an article on Ligers, for instance, you will notice that
there are other wikipedia links to Tigons, genetics, cross breeding,
etc. Hence, you can search virtually forever.

Phone chess. The second nerdy habit is playing chess on my phone,
which is great because it takes lots of time, but infuriating if i
lose. It is, however nice because all you need is a phone, rather
than a computer.

3. A little game i like to call: searching myspace for people i've
slept with. This game is lots of fun, especially because girls love
putting pictures of themselves on myspace, and they tend to be
pictures of them in their most pampered form, which always makes for
interesting comparisons.

4. Prank calling Realseafood company. This is another fine game that
i am able to partake in while the peasants think that i am on the
phone with an important and bussinesstype person. In reality,
however, i'm trying to find out of they are able to make me a dozen
carryout orders of something that is "good, but not too fishy or
slimy, but still really tasty " I like this one at least once a week
because all you need is a phone and the knowledge that the unlisted
restaurant number is 769-7738.*

Thing the last:
There are also many things that i do with tiffany. In effort to best
use our massive combined intellect, we often tackle some of the tough
issues of the world. For instance:
Who first was like: We should drink some milk from that goat.
Is chinese foot binding really any different from breast implants?
Why don't you have to refrigerate bailey's?
How long do you have to buy ice before buying an ice maker becomes a good idea?
Is the appropriate time to cut of andy when he is no longer able to
say the name of a shot, or when he is no longer able to walk from a
table to the bar to get it?**

So i'm glad this was fun for you all, i had a rather good time. Also,
i have learned that my life is not nearly interesting enough to
sustain anything more than blog ghostwriter status.

Good day then.

*Company policy dictates that they must answer the phone within 3
rings, so an interesting alternate to this game is simply hanging up
until the person on the other end becomes obviously flustered, and
then asking if you can make a reservation for the night.
**And which comes first?

are you ready for the show?

i don't really have anything funny to tell you today.
so, instead, i give you this little video, which has been causing me to laugh my ass off for the past two weeks.




seriously, i just watched it for the 87th time, and i nearly peed my pants again.

tiffany and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

i had to work this morning.
from 10:30 til 6.

i woke up at 8:30 am, and turned on the weather channel, because it has been Hotter Than Balls here lately, and i just wanted to know how pointless taking a shower was going to be before i got out of bed.

but!
i looked at the screen, and saw a big map of the mid-west, and it was all red.
it said, Severe. Thunder. Storms. (!!!!!)
and more importantly, it said that the high was going to be 80 degrees. (!!!!!!!!)

but.
then i noticed that i was looking at thursday's forecast.
damnit.

and so i took a shower, and attempted to make myself pretty, only to end up at work looking like this:



the terrible, horrible no-goodness was complicated by the fact that the air conditioning at our bar doesn't really work that well.
see below.



i know that's a bad picture, so in case you can't tell what's going on, the air is set at 72 degrees, while the actual temperature reads 81 degrees. it is always at least 5 degrees warmer than that behind the bar. you know, in the place where the bartenders need to hang out.

oh, and this picture was taken before the air conditioning BROKE COMPLETELY.

but, at least it's not like i have to work there for the next three days.*

the terrible horrible no-goodness was further complicated by this one crazy woman who came in for lunch.

here is how our exchanges went:

~hi, is it hot enough for you, are you ready to order, blah, blah blah, an also blah.~

her: how much would it cost for one chicken strip?

me: *stares blankly*

her: you know, just one chicken strip off the ala carte menu.

me: well, we don't have an ala carte menu, so i'll have to ask if it's ok. but, i'd have to guess it would be about 75 cents or a dollar. if you give me a second, i'll go and make sure for you.

her: no, i'm in a hurry. i'll take the beef nachos with no tomato, no guacamole, and no halla-pee-nose.** and i know i 'm just going to keep craving a chicken strip if i don't get one, so go ahead and order one for me if it's okay--with a side of bbq.

~time passes. i order the food and bring it out, and whatnot. a few minutes pass, and i go back to make sure the lady is doing ok. as i approach the table, i notice that she is scraping the dollop of sour cream off the top of her nachos.~

me: is everything going ok over here?

her: actually, i need a side of sour cream.

~here, we all remember that she is AT THAT VERY MOMENT SCRAPING THE SOUR CREAM OFF OF HER PLATE.~

me: (without the intention of being bitchy, but, alas, very confused) what are you going to do with that sour cream?

her: i guess i'll just put it right here.

~ she taps the sour cream off her fork, onto the table. yes, the table. no, i am not kidding.~

me:



~that's right. speechless. although, i do bring her a new side of sour cream. i do not, however, bother to clean the rejected sour cream off the table. i mean, she put it there. maybe she felt the table was lacking a center piece?~

~more time passes. i bring the bill. she notices that she has been charged for her nachos, plus an additional $1.50.~

her: excuse me. i'm a little confused. EXACTLY why am i being charged an extra $1.50?

me: the extra $1.50 is for your chicken strip, and the bbq sauce.

her: you told me it was only going to be 75 cents.

me: actually, i said i thought it would be 75 cents, or a dollar. i wasn't sure, and you said you didn't want to wait for me to go find out for you.

her: well, i guess i just thought that you would have known what you were talking about. next time i'll know better.

me:


~again, speechless. because, yeah. my bad that i didn't know the price of something THAT DOESN'T EXIST ON OUR MENU.~

so blah, blah blah and blah, she pays the bill on her credit card, and...

well, she left me a 75 cent tip, on a credit card. and that story would have been a lot funnier if blogger wasn't being a lazy whore, refusing to upload the picture that i took of her credit card slip.

i guess the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day isn't quite over yet.

* i totally have to work every day for the next three days.
**yes, i know how to spell jalepeno. i just wanted you to know how she said it.

p.s.
just to site further evidence that this has, in fact, been a terrible horrible no good very bad day--i'm still awake, even though it's almost 4 am and i have to wake up at 8 am, and my roommate just called to say that she won't be home soon (she was closing our bar tonight) because she had to drive one of out other best friends--you remember hippie sarah with the tits?--to the emergency room where her boyfriend was just taken by ambulance for some reason as of yet unbeknownst to us.

so, yeah.
terrible.
horrible.
no good.
and also, very bad.

a story, which is definitely at least R rated.

once upon a time there was a girl who had some friends over for dinner at her parent's house.
some of her friend's parents were there as well.

every one was drinking wine (or vodka) and eating food and having a very enjoyable time, telling stories and making each other laugh.

then one of the father figures in the group decided that he had a story to tell.

the story started like this:

"once, when i was 18 years old, i passed out at a party and when i woke up there was a guy trying to s**k my d**k."*


the girl and all of her friends immediately looked up and locked eyes with each other, in a strange way of eye-locking that can only happen between 5 people after such a bizarre statement has been spoken.

the gaze of each person seemed to beg the question:

wait. did we all just hallucinate that at the same time?

but, no. it was not a hallucination.

the girl shot a desparate look at her mother, who looked at her and said:

what? you haven't heard this story before?

but, no. the girl had not heard the story before.
but now, she and all her closest friends had heard it.

the story concluded with the story teller describing how he noticed that the perpetrator of the unwanted sex act seemed to have a particular substance dripping out of his mouth.**

now, one can only imagine how one might feel if one were at the dinner table when one was told a story such as this.
and then one would be glad that one had friends of the sort that this particular girl had, because...

friend one immediately asked:
well, did you say thank you?

while friend two followed up by saying:
i don't see the problem. that sounds like my every friday night.

meanwhile, the girl had to excuse herself, to take a moment to collect herself, inside the house where the rest of the vodka was. but, in a brilliant stroke of (hopeful) revenge, as she walked by the storyteller/father-type figure, she said:

you know, i didn't know we were allowed to tell those kind of stories. but if it's that kind of dinner, i have a great story to tell you about the time i got c*m in my hair.***

*the fact that the person in question was 18 in 1969 does not necessarily excuse the story as an appropriate dinner table discussion.
**i really didn't want to tell you that, at all. but i tried telling the story without it, and it didn't work.
***he ignored her.

and now for something completely different

sorry, friends.
this is not the post you've been waiting for. or, dreading, as the case may be.

why not, you ask?

well, because, after all of yesterday's soul searching and self-empowerment, i have surrendered my will to write to my mother, who said:

like hell you are going to tell that story.*

and i said:
oh yes i am going to tell that story.

and then i sat down at my computer, logged into blogger, looked at the blank screen and cursed my mother's name, because i am still scared of her, and she said don't write it, and so now i'm not going to.

damnit.

*which, really?
should cause one to think for a moment.
i mean, my mother has clearly heard the story. in fact, she was sitting right next to me when i first heard the story, which was told last sunday at the dinner table, in mixed company.but, enough.

in which i attempt to explain my non-bloggingness.

dear pretty white trash and pete, who have recently called me out for not saying anything interesting of late:

yeah, yeah.
yawn.
i'm working on it.

love,
tiffany

p.s.
in reality, of course, i am completely ecstatic that Two! Whole! People! actually read my blog and notice when i slip into complete and total slacker-dom.

p.s.#2.
it may even be a fact that after i read your comments, i walked into the living room and told my roommate that Two! Whole! People! had noticed that i wasn't writing anything. however, this story is unsubstantiated. or something.


anyway.
so, yeah.

clearly, i have been neglecting my blog. badly.
i guess you could say that i've been having a sort-of crisis of faith about the whole blogging issue.

i needed to take a minute to decide what my boundaries are. i had to figure out, for myself, what it is--and is not--appropriate to share with the blogging public.

the issue came to a head last week, when a Really Freaking Hysterical thing happened to me.
as soon as it was over, i looked at my roommate and said:
but, you know what? i'm glad that happened. because i'm totally going to blog about that tomorrow, and it's going to be Really Freaking Hysterical.

but when it came time to write about it, i filled myself with doubt. i began to worry about some people who i know read my blog who might be--disappointed, or even disgusted with me for writing about things that take place in the story in question.

i worried about it so much, that i just couldn't write anything at all.

i told the story in question to different people--co-workers and regulars--at my bar. they all thought it was Really Freaking Hysterical.
but when i asked them if they thought it was ok for me to blog about it, i got mixed responses.
there was an interesting thing about these responses, though.

the only people who said that they wouldn't write the story said they wouldn't do it for fear of offending anyone, not because the story is itself completely heinous.

and that's how i came to my decision.

while i do not now, nor have i ever, written this blog with the intent of offending anyone, i don't see how there's any point in writing at all if we scare ourselves into the act of self-censorship.
in other words, when it comes to my blog, it is up to me to tell the story and up to you to decide if you like it or not.
the minute that one attempts to determine taste before the word is written, the word loses its integrity--at least in my mind.

long story short--i'm over it.
tomorrow i'm going to tell you the story.
some of you are going to laugh your asses off.
some of you are going to disappointed and disgusted.*

so, i do apologize in advance to the people who fall into that group.
if you are one of those people, i think you can see--by reading the neurotic mess that is this entry--that i did think of you.
i did worry.

but, in the end, this is what i know:
i'm not good at much, but i'm good at telling stories. usually.
so, that's what i'm going to do.

really, it's what i have to do.

*i would like to note that if you are someone who ever comments on this blog, you are not the person(s) who caused me to think about all this craziness. while i'm sure there are a few of you good commenting-type people who will, in fact, find my story disgusting, it was not you who caused me to be doubt-filled.