Loose Change

I'd put in a full work week last week at my brand new place of employ, the one that I had been hired back in 1867, near the building's conception, though then it was mostly used for the purposes of distilling rye whiskey. If they were still making the brown elixir and I was hired to taste it, making sure it wasn't poison for all those destined to consume, consume, consume (forgive me, I just watched Bill Hicks' Revelations again), that would have been one thing. My life's trajectory, however, is not on that path. Sigh.

Last week nearly killed me.

Clad in black from tip to mangled toes, I, Employee #562, grounded by the top 10 worst pair of uncomfortable shoes known to bartenderkind, found myself after each long shift with spine and enlisted uniform empacted and sullied, respectively. By Saturday night, incidentally the worst work night I've experienced in memory, I indeed felt the kind of violation one feels by being forced into a 90˙angle while having the clenched fist of an unlikely green superhero repeatedly pounding my ass sans lubricazione.

As a concept, I like the idea of working communism: everyone working together towards a common goal; everyone leaving with the same amount in their pockets; everyone downing exactly 4 pints to deal with what had happened in the 8-10 hours prior. In many work situations I'd both engaged in and encouraged a pooling scenario. We'd stuff our individual dough into a collective and at the end of the night, feet burning, asses violated, we'd divvy the pot. As an idea, this is sound. In practice it is often not.

There are approximately 12 bartenders scheduled for 6 bars. All of us pool. One bar could yield $800 in tips. Another could garner $100. No matter what bar a bartender's working, everyone takes solace in the knowledge that everyone will make the same as everyone else.

Of the 5 days I worked last week, 4 out of the 5 nights were on the same bar, incidentally the busiest, performing the same set of duties: essentially waitering with the disadvantage of having to make one's own drinks. It was a role not one other bartender wanted to perform; too taxing. It involved serving the section beyond the bar, where 2' of wood is non-existent, except on dining tables for two where one guest looks lovingly (or disgustingly) across 2' of wood. To serve these tables properly knowledge of food, wine, timing and computer skills are needed as the basic skill set. I was once told that the job of a waiter was more mentally taxing than that of a brain surgeon. Constant juggling including the updating of our priorities list every minute we're working is pretty much the name of the game.

The roles of the other bartenders vary. Some work the service bar, servicing the waiters. Others work the wood; the bar proper. Still others had the duty of just pouring draft beer all night. That, to me, would be the ultimate in cushy. No matter what was done, no matter who performed these duties, and for however long the duties were performed, everyone was taken care of equally in the end.

I suspect this is why communism or many other isms don't work. It breeds resentment.

There was a girl who had worked on a very slow bar, who got moved onto our busy bar and all she did on our busy bar, as I was running around like a headless chicken trying to stay afloat and barely succeeding, was polish glasses. Slowly. With a poisoned look on her face. Though my bunions are exactly twice their size as they'd been last week, the Poisoned Polisher maintained a matte complexion and never once complained about any pained body part.

My question, posed to 2 different managers was: What's the point?

It's not to say I am the only one who breaks a sweat there. I'm not. My favourite work comrade is Antony, the bar manager. Born the same year as the Comrade, aussi a Monkey, 13 days my junior, he too has been in the industry for eons. He's a secret writer, also an actor. We have much in common. His work ethic is nothing short of inspirational. Anything that needs to be done is done. He is the first to help and the first to offer unsolicited assistance, dropping anything he might have on his very full plate to aid in any way he can.

The problem with Antony is he cares too much, something that happens to me as well. Over this past weekend we were immersed in Jazz Festival Hell. It was busy non-stop. There were no union breaks. There was no pre nor post work bingeing of any denomination. We were left exhausted, hungry and thirsty for any sort of induced state other than feeling raped and pillaged. Tony was spun so tight over the weekend he hadn't taken a crap for 2 days. I remember him mentioning he was turtling back on Friday.

Turtle peaks out.
Turtle touches cloth.
Turtle gets scared and goes back inside his warm shell.
Turtle gets hard and stinky after a couple of days.

Friday night seemed as good a night as any to marry ill compensation for work performed with a last call at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, my once a week night of employ which allows this young lady a deep discount on imbibements. My Fatty and I pounded tequilla shots and pints of organic lager until the resonation of the final gong of the last call bell was no longer audible to canines. Stumbling home, we picked up late night take out fried chicken that looked twice its number by way of blurred double vision. I gobbled quickly then lay down on my new IKEA carousel bed. Wait a minute. I didn't buy a carousel bed. I've never even seen a carousel bed. It was at this point I decided it had been too long since I'd worshipped last.

Lifting a seated lid, planting two hands on either side of the porcelain goddess, I donated the bounty of offerings, the portion of me which had been consumed within the last hour. Luckily I wasn't too attached to anything I'd injested.

Fatty came into the bathroom after the final flush, as I was rinsing out regurgitated poultry fragments which had lodged behind my last molar. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my back. Later he affirmed my dislike of having someone hold my hair as I'm hurling. I've never understood those that care for it. He came in at exactly the right moment.

Ack had said to me the other day that he didn't think I could do better than Fatty.

Last week I received a handwritten letter from my new upstairs neighbours, Chris and Marty. Brothers. Tall, fair and lovely, Marty tips the hot scale. Chris looks sort of like Marty, I suppose a family resemblance, but with eyes that look like he's done a fair bit of hating in his life. Marty is missing this feature. The handwritten letter announced they would be having a School Girl themed party over the long weekend. They invited me to this party, but also added it would be great if I was out of town! Considering the state of mind post work and the fact that I have not owned a plaid kilt for 20 years, I opted not to attend.

After the horror of my Saturday night at work, I came home to a fridge with the remnants of 5 different partially eaten meals and zero beers. Fatty had finished the last Grolsch. In my weakened condition I was looking at him as a liability. The soundtrack to my increasing misery was the loudest, most mundane, soulless 4/4 tempo of really, really bad house music coming through my ceiling, my walls, my doors. The Brothers Hot and Hater had rented professional commercial speakers for their shindig.

Get the knife. The really big one.

Years ago I had purchased a cache of bright, orange earplugs. They cut out the greater percentage of noise, but it didn't stop the bass pulsation which penetrates my chest cavity, misfiring my heartrate. I have an irregular heartbeat as it is. House music gives me heart palpitations.

I couldn't and decided not to call the cops during the peak of this, and I use this term very loosely, music. It is only appreciated after taking a communion of Ecstacy. The brothers covered their asses with the handscribed Apology-in-advance. So, with neon plugs stuffed into each modified Fergengi erogenous zone, I tried my best to fall into slumber with a very bitchy Fatty prone at my side...

...who had excellent recommendations, I might add.

One of my favourite songs, which resides firmly on my Top 20 songs of all time, is Going the Distance from the Rocky soundtrack. It's the victorious theme found firmly at the end of Act III, replete with a superb disco bass rhythm, full orchestra and church bells. Fatty loves this song as well. Sometimes Fatty and I hang out in my apartment, a place he's starting to call home and yet doesn't freak me out too much when he does (which is weird), with monklike robes on. His idea was to attach a 100' extension cord to my portable stereo, a burned mp3 queued up. Donning hooded robes, we'd go upstairs, boom box on Fatty's shoulder. I'd cut the power cord from their stereo as we'd crank the theme to the Italian Stallion's victory. Va fangule, fratelli!

The other recommendation he had was that we streak the party.

Sadly I wasn't in the mood to do either.

By 12:30 the next day the music was still going. The level was slightly reduced from that which was sounding 6 hours prior, but it was inescapable. Fatty was lying in bed threatening to kick their doped up asses. This was my fight. My turf. I needed to go speak to them. The letter stiplulated noise from Saturday night until Sunday morning. It was Sunday afternoon.

The Comrade: I'm just going to have a coffee and smoke first before I go upstairs. I'm liable to lose it otherwise.
Fatty: Go now! Go now!

Fatty loves it when I lose it, but only when it's not directed at him.
I compromised.
I made a coffee, lit a cigarette and walked up a set of grey carpeted stairs made filthy by way of cigarette ash, tipped imported beer bottles and general raver filth, heading to the source of 4/4 tempo induced aural hemorraging. Because neurotransmitters and electrolytes were off kilter, delicate balancing act was to be engaged. I couldn't spill a drop of precious coffee.

Though there was no one inside the apartment, the professional speakers - 8 visible - were all pointing towards the center of the empty bachelor's vacuum. Looking out onto the deck I noticed that all bodies were outside enjoying the lovely weather, half sunburnt with the biggest collection of dilated pupils I've ever seen. School Girl party indeed.

Stepping out into the sun, hoping my 60 SPF sunblock had kicked in to stave off any potential Billy Dee Williamisms, I said 8 hellos in succession while eyeing an empty resin chair. I plopped into it with the familiarity of having done so every day of my life, though I'd never seen it before. As I was congenially smiling at either half baked eyes or plain gaping mouths perched under Arnet sunglasses, 8 heads tried to register exactly who the hell I was.

The Comrade: I'm the neighbour! From downstairs! Hi!
Collective Group Hepped Up on Goofballs: [thinking... thinking] ... oh... hey... neighbour...
The Comrade: I just came up to have a smoke and my morning coffee.
One of the Collective Group with the Goofball Action: [thinking...] Yeah... that's cool! Yeah, the neighbour!
The Comrade: Yeah, the neighbour! This is the thing, though. Myself and my boyfriend, who incidentally is still trying to sleep after having been kept up all night... by all of... this, have had to put up with this music that A) we can't seem to escape from no matter where we go in the apartment. God knows I've tried and B) I have to say, this music? ... I really fucking hate it. Now it would be one thing if I had taken E, but I haven't.
One of the Collective with the weirdest Eyes I've Ever Seen: [big smile on his face] We could fix that.
The Comrade: Well, this is the other thing. Thank you! But I have to work later today. I'm kind of hoping for a tiny bit of peace before I have to face my wrath.
Another of the Collective: So...
The Comrade: So, I'm looking for a little sound reduction, if you don't mind.

One of the party, I suspect a newbie, my only tip off being his rational behaviour, immediately turned the music way down. I took both unfinished cigarette and my coffee, which was made lighter by only one sip, back downstairs to a newly quiet apartment, thankful I wasn't prone to chemical addiction which leads to an appreciation of really bad music.

The music was barely detected for a while, but after an hour they stepped it up a bit. Little Ravers like having their emotions dictated by disk spinners. They peak when they're told to. I was just short of a peak myself, though was earnestly trying to stifle it. I didn't want to lose it on Fatty. I was dreading going into work, which was coming up in 2 short hours. Putting on my make-up I had to force myself to not follow my natural brow line while applying a powdered brown arch. I would have created Anger Brow otherwise.

Something had to be done. Sunday was proving to be a day to deal with irritations. One down. One to go.

At work, after being handed an envelope containing my tip portion from the night prior:
The Comrade: Can I talk to you when you have a second?
Antony: Done. What's on your mind?
The Comrade: I really feel for you. I really want to help, but I don't think I can do this anymore. I'm so, so sorry. I absolutely adore you, but last night nearly killed me. This [underscoring the handprinted total on the envelope with my finger] isn't worth it to me.
Antony: I totally understand. If the General Manager wasn't my brother-in-law I wouldn't be here either. This place is fucked.

My respect for him, born out of appreciation for familial love and responsibility, grew.

Antony: What do you want?
The Comrade: I think I'd like to move to the floor. Just waiter.
Antony: I'll take care of it. And if they don't give it to you, I'll quit.
The Comrade: [giggling] I know you're not going to do that, but you're very sweet.
Antony: Could you do me a big favour?
The Comrade: Anything.
Antony: Could you finish up next week?
The Comrade: Sure.
Antony: I'm really sorry this didn't work out. You're a perfect fit for this place.

As soon as I told him a huge weight had lifted. Initially I had felt like I was giving up; that the challenge was too much. That wasn't the case though. Not every place is a fit for everyone involved. Work, as I will maintain for the rest of my life, should not feel like work. There are moments, of course. But generally work should be something you look forward to going to. It cuts away at least a third of one's life.

One amazing thing about working really hard is the advent of the first day off. God, it was glorious.

Fatty woke me up with a pressing of lips to forehead. He made coffee, french toast, a watercress salad with a poached egg on top. Previously perceived liability turned asset. Ack found the new patio for the summer. It's off the beaten track, overlooking the lake. Doves flew overhead. I imagined they were once touring with a magician. They have delicious Stella on tap. They draw an excellent crowd. We met a couple to laugh with who had left their kids in the car (which was visible from their vantage point and also had windows cracked). The food is decent. And on the stereo they played Stars and Nick Drake.

It was a perfect day.

I have another job interview today. On College Street. It's farther away. It will take me longer than 7 minutes to get there, but it's a small place, something I've grown to love.

Photosynthesis Sensitivity

I think I've had at least 20 different employers in my short lifetime. Interesting to note, a goodly percentage which usurps the very high percentile of employers who have fired me for reasons of insubordination have accidentally lost my resumé post Comrade hire. Unless I lodged a call back to them, there was no way of getting in contact with me. Nowhere was there physical evidence remaining that an interview had taken place. It happened again.

The story I was given was the General Manager had taken all curriculum vitae home with him by reason of alleged construction that was going on at the restaurant. Somewhere between the restaurant, passage to his car, then up the steps leading to what I imagine as his sub-luxury manor located in sunny sub-urban modified farmland, my 8.5 x 11" employment calling card replete with the disappearing act of 6 work years could be listed on the back of a milk carton. Of course this is hyperbole as here in Canada the only thing on the back of milk cartons is the federal list of nutritional values. They were counting on everyone they hired, back in 1867 - the era of horsedrawn buggies and damned fine experimental beer, to call them back. Typical. After approximately 14 phone calls, my first day turned out to be on Tuesday last. Short shift. The kind I really like. A little "Come in at 5:00 to get an orientation." I left by 8:30 to have cocktails with my main dudes. Loverboy once said, "Everybody's working for the weekend." I work for the beer carrot at the end of the night. But then I learned there is no drinking at the end of the night. Strike one. Of course this adds to the mounting dubiousness I feel about the place. The word on the street is the place is mismanaged, everyone is unhappy working there and half the kitchen staff has pulled up bootstraps and walked or are on the brink of walking out because of the new Operations Manager.

OM...
OM...
OM...

Liz = Operations Manager

During the 3 1/2 hour orientation, I was given a brief tour by the poor soul assigned to show me the house ropes. I ran into about a half dozen people on staff whom I've either worked with or served before. One of them happened to be Liz, the Operations Manager.

I met Liz at my previous employ, the one where I was ousted because I write a blog that once upon a time was printed out and left in plain view of a certain person which I had written rather unflattering factoids about. Liz was a patron at the bar when I was bartending there. She is a friendly, outgoing lesbian who took quite a shine to the Comrade. Liz once left a little hand scribed note which had her name, her phone number and a little scribble which looked dangerously like "Let's paint the town." I'm not sure whether she assigned a colour scheme to the paint schedule, as I had tossed that piece of paper away as hastily as I'd read it. Currently, the Comrade gets freaked out by any advances by either sex. It's a new thing I'm trying out.

Pros: The restaurant is beautiful. And huge. Perfect for those who love running around. I fall into this category. I like space. It's not quite the final frontier for me, but it's a welcome place to do a few Wonder Woman spins. I don't spin into the perfect haired, perfect breasted Linda Carter, though. I'm more like a female version of Jerry Lewis who develops an acute sense of nausea tinged with vertigo. There are tonnes of people on staff.

Cons: They've staffed way too many people. And now I think I'm too old to bartend. I don't need 2' of wood between me and them like I used to. I don't like being the first one in and the last to leave. As much as I embrace the ideal of communism, I don't think it's right that all the bartenders throughout the entire building pool their tips. If I didn't once break a sweat, I don't think it's right that I pillage from the others who did. And to top it off there was a $76 shortage that my bar received tonight, incidentally a bar which sold only $200. How this happens, I do not know. If they expect me to pony up, I'm afraid I'll have to saddle up. Rawhide.

But enough about work. It's only designed to pay for a recently planned beer tour to Amsterdam and Belgium in the fall and a little facelift to my back deck.

Ever since I've moved into my beautiful apartment I'd made a pact with myself that I was not going to spend obscene amounts of any resource on the decor. Typically, inordinate amounts of time, effort and money have been spent (wasted) on rental units where I'd find myself packed and paying movers 2 years later. The older I get the more I've embraced minimalism. Minimalism, in this case, has turned into Barren-ism by way of scant weed plants, airborn refuse and the occasional raccoon plop found in not so secret locations throughout my second floor wooden oasis of promise. The plan is to create a Hello Sailor! nautical inspired cabana look for the deck. This involves 20 yards of white nylon fabric which I'm sewing into sails and creating a canopy overhead. This will hopefully help to curb my slight fear of the sun's rays. Fatty and I have unique sun sensitivities where the giant flaming orb treats us only a couple of degrees kinder than lepers. He's blessed with rosacea. As for me...

A few years ago Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend and I went to Cuba for a sun/ snorkeling/ drinking extravaganza. If I had all the money in the world I would take off every month to swim with the fishes. Whoops. There were some mob ramifications in that last statement. Please indulge an amendment: Swimming, with a snorkel, alongside colourful tropical fish. I say snorkel specifically because it is possible to scream with a snorkel in your mouth if one finds herself A) in the direct path of a jellyfish or B) stared down and slowly pursued by a barracuda. Both scenarios have happened to me. B) happened twice.

Historically, I've been a don't-bother-with-the-damned-SPF-I-like-to-connect-with-my-African-roots type of girl. It all pretty much changed on one fateful Cuban evening while getting ready for the all-inclusive dinner. I was dressing in front of the mirror and stepped a little closer to the reflective surface, examining my face.

The Comrade: Ack... is it me or does it look like I've got a moustache?
Ack: [barely looking] Oh, you girls!

Which reminds me of the time I was given a prescription for penicillin and discovered I was highly allergic to it. With grossly enlarged glands in my neck, Freddie Kruger clawing my gut from the inside and itchy hives all over my body that felt like a thousand flies swarming me, I asked:

The Comrade: Ack, do I look different to you?
Ack: Oh, you girls!

I walked to dinner arm in arm with Ack, a swishy summer skirt skimming my knees, a plunging neckline and Billy Dee Williams above my lip.

The Comrade: Everybody's looking at me strangely! Are you sure I don't look like I've got a moustache?
Ack: No! You're nuts!

In addition to having (to me) a darkened hyperpigmented area on the worst place on a girl's visage to have a symmetrical 2.5" marking, I had developed a weird mole-looking thing on my cheek that wasn't there hours before. It was a flat, darkened area that sent up a sort of red flag, but I didn't really react too much to it as Ack was thinking I was being a Big Crazy Girl about the whole thing and we all have a tendency to have the slightest physical variances magnified under our own scruntiny.

Back in Toronto, I returned to work the next day. Micheal Coy, Her Highness, the old queen head waiter, the one who reasoned that the distinct smell of old people came from a combination of Depends undergarments and decay, was examining the strange new mole-looking discolouration.

Michael: Hmmmm.
The Comrade: Hmmmmm?
Michael: I'd check that out if I were you.
The Comrade: Really? Does it look serious?
Michael: It doesn't look like cancer... exactly...
The Comrade: WHAT?!
He shrugged.
Michael: Just check it out.

Michael was the skin cancer specialist; he had a scare a couple of years prior.

I went to the bar to go pick up drinks. One very large one for me personally. The Venezuelan bartender Patrizia, with thick hair and thicker latina accent was tending.

Patrizia: I've jost got one question to ask chu?
The Comrade: Yes?
Patrizia: [with shaking neck] What is wit cho moustache?

For the love of God...
In my head I was cursing Ack who let me cross the border and go to work looking like Magnum P.I.

The Comrade: Oh my God! It does, doesn't it? It totally looks like I have a moustache!
Michael: Well, I didn't want to say anything after looking at that... other... thing.

My current morning ritual: wash face, brush teeth, apply 60 SPF while trying to push the image of Burt Reynolds out of the mirror.

To be a vampire. I don't have an irrational fear of stakes, crosses or garlic. If I didn't think my head would explode from hanging upside down for too long, if I actually had a taste for blood, and if I didn't get tired late at night I'd probably do it. Vanity sucks.

Billy Dee signing out. I've got a long work-week coming up. It is time to start playing the lottery.

And Then She Had an Anxiety Attack...

I had to do this on Monday night in the alley behind my one night a week engagement at the Cheer's Equivalent:
"Don't worry. All this anxiety soon will pass." (x 10)
Breathe, breathe, breathe (every second, of course, but this was more heightened and staccato).
"Fuck I hate this! (x Tourettes)
Deep haul(s) off the Dunhill which under normal conditions takes 7 minutes to finish (each took 3 minutes).

Welcome to The Comrade's Anxiety Attack
It happens.

In me it feels like what seems to be a 2 legged feral creature swallowed up inside, running on the spot. Its hairy, stumpy legs ending in Frodo-like feet are kicking like a skinhead somewhere in the region of my belly. Its head is firmly lodged in the space between my lungs. It's cut holes into each, sent accordian hoses into every organ and with megaphone attachment has started screaming so loud my mind and all organic matter have turned to a steaming pile of bovine feed. I feel like I'm going mad.

And then I re-engage the steps I took in the first paragraph. Which helps to a degree.
And then I have to go back inside to work where I am expected to maintain peace, a certain liquidity level in each customer's personal vessel and relative sanity. At least on the outside.

Walking home I barely noticed a thing. I didn't pay attention to anyone who crossed my path. I looked blankly into storefront windows seeing nothing but faceless, undressed mannequins. I listened intently to the mad creature that was lodged in my midsection. I felt so desperate and I didn't know what to do.

Of course there was a reason. There were about 9 reasons, actually. Reasons like I was about to start a new job that might or might not be worth it in the end. This lady of relative leisure was going to be very, very busy very, very soon. I have a full on boyfriend who adores me but in my weakened condition I keep thinking the ball's going to drop at any second. I'm creating dramas that don't need to be there. I'm creating obstacles for him to prove his love. I couldn't write a thing in this realm or any other for about a week or so. My deck needs to be done. I'm creating a cabana feel out back which is aimed at making the deck more inviting that it had been last summer. Last year it had only really been used 3 times. I had to write something real for others. A short screenplay.

It was the last one that really sent me over the edge.

Writing this blog is a pleasurable activity for me. I write for myself and only myself. Historically there have been reminder nuggets attached to different parts of my brain by industrial velcro, aimed at protecting certain others, but mostly I chose the route of honesty, in the best of my ability, as my driving force. I couldn't write this blog at all last week. I have a series of failed attempts in my dashboard. The Little Creature Who Screams took over, leaving me with half stabs and full-on impotence.

This thing needed to be annihilated.

This is what I did: I had a conversation with myself within a word processing document. I asked myself what was bothering me. Really bothering me. And I answered myself honestly. I was scared I was going to fuck up the screenplay I've been asked to co-author. Now that I've been hired on full time, I didn't think I was going to have as much time with my darling Fatty anymore. I didn't think I was going to have as much time to myself. I didn't think I was able to write any decent thing ever again. But I held my own hand, talked softly and calmly to myself and systematically shot down every jet propelled fear I had inside. I told myself it wasn't going to be easy. I promised myself the process would not be perfect. And it only took 36 years for me to consider this to be okay.

God, baby steps are a bitch.

Epilogue to the Swine

Here's a doll, Janie. Can you show us where the bad man touched you?
He touched me in my Danger Zone!

Caterpiller to butterfly
The contents of a homeless person's styrofoam cup
An alteration of leopard's spots

Change.
Possible?

The Comrade: What you want, darling?
Kissy: I want the money that I would have made had I not had to leave prematurely. I want him to admit what he did. I want him to think about it and maybe he'll think twice before doing it again. I don't want to go to court, but I will if I must.

I received a phone call yesterday morning from the lovely Kissy, my old work comrade who several months ago had given notice at my old place of employ. She found herself unable and unwilling to finish her 2 weeks notice having had her Danger Zone grabbed by a Disgusting Pig of a Man. For the gory reenactment please click ici.

Last we heard Kissy solo-strolled to Police Precinct 55 Division to perform video testimony with no enhanced CGI, no Hans Zimmer score, nor emotion-infused Spielberg-esque editing. She had one rehearsal before a live uniformed audience. The tape, which included testimony guaranteeing not only a witness, but another victim, was then sent to the defendant's attorney where both went over the statement with a lice comb, more than likely followed by a dozen rounds of Molson Brewery's most esteemed export after the show.

"What do you mean this is costing me $300? I took you out for coffee... and paid for it. It was a 15 minute conversation."
~Paraphrased excerpt from American Psycho, by Brett Easton Ellis

$300 coffee breaks can easily amount to $50,000 legal bills by first quarter's end.

Time
Money
Freedom

Those are the Big Three.

Giuseppe, the ex-boss whom I adored, once said, wrote and I stuck on the cappuccino maker:
No Freedom Left

I suppose the idea of freedom is up to the individual. I have the choice to drink distilled water, even though my tap water is clean, if not riddled with fluoride (that secret ingredient that doesn't necessarily prevent tooth decay, but is really a device for promoting docility and mass numbness, curbing any political upheavals which should have arisen right after the discovery that the US President Simian stole the first election. Fluoride and its Prozacian companions are the one plausible explanation for his second term). I like that I can walk outside of my house with only a pack a smokes, a lighter, my wallet and my sunglasses. I don't have to ask Fatty, "Have you seen my gun? Shit. Okay... retracing my steps... The last time I saw it, it was in the bathroom." I don't live like this, but there are many in the world who do. Sure I get ticked off because my image is, through surveillance or satellite systems, photographed daily and stored in massive databanks. Apparently the average Briton gets his image taken God, his image... taken 300 times during the course of a day. Not having to present a passport, hell, not being mandated to carry a passport around with me wherever I go, not having to carry weaponry in order to defend myself if my car breaks down in the middle of the night, not fearing talking on the phone (just in case), not having to live in subhuman conditions:

This is freedom to me.
I fully realise how Canada is the best place in the whole world to live.

I'd kiss the ground right now, had I not walked all over the mainspace with my damned planter's wart.

So, no freedom left? I say we're lucky we have more than a modicum.

But sometimes people do stupid things that promote a reversal of freedom. Even though a person had spent his entire career grabbing Danger Zones on women in his employ, something he thought was his right I suppose, some of which he received crude asphalt etchings applied by special law enforcers whose only badges were invisible, stamped with the single word "Dad" on it, sometimes they don't learn. The Universe wears a cheeky grin each time it presents the same equation over and over until we get it right.
For months he said:
She's lying.
I didn't do it. I didn't do it. I didn't do it. I didn't do it. I didn't do it.

But the albatross was done up like a Windsor knot.

What will happen to me?
Do I try to clear my name?
Do I admit what I've done?
What's the worst they can do?
They say the truth shall set you free.

He finally plead guilty.


Beyond his admission to guilt, he is required to write a statement of apology to Kissy.
Beyond the statement, he is going to receive a permanent stain on his personal record.
Beyond the stain, he is required to pay the sum she would have made in tips had she finished her tenure as planned.
His sentence is yet to be determined. It could be time served, but that's not very likely. More than likely is community service work. Sensitivity training.
And it doesn't have to go to trial.

Miss Kiss got everything she wished for.

The Guilty Party had dinner with a male companion at a neighbouring restaurant the other night. His companion was overheard by a server to have made inappropriate, lascivious statements at another lovely buxom server.

The Guilty Party: [through gritted teeth] You can't do that!
The Guilty Party's Associate: You're only saying that because you're fucked.

Ah, the removal of freedom as catalyst and incentive enough for change and reformation.

She Never Said, "I Gave You Life and I Can Take it Away"

It's Mother's Day here in the s l o w l y warming thumbtack puncture of 79° W and 43° N. My thoughts turn to those creatures who for the better part of a year gave up all the lovely things they liked to do and for the rest of their lives gave up freedom as they'd known it before. Well, for most both equations are true. In some cases it's only true in part.

I was being debriefed on a distinguished looking gentleman sitting at the bar last Monday at my one night a week engagement at the Cheer's Equivalent. He'd owned a handful of unrelated businesses, quite successfully. He and his wife were want for much of nothing, though he really wanted to have children. It was his wife who couldn't wrap her head around giving up the drinking and the smoking for 9 months+.

Ladies and gentlemen... it is time to enlist the Compromise.

[one lone sitar player strums his first chord which slowly rises in tempo and fervor]
simultaneously
[a shaky jetliner departs, shooting twin streams of white exhaust]
... Destination Kazakhstan
A close up of 2 hands lovingly caressing an English/ Cyrillic dictionary, the secret decoder ring. A lighter pocketbook, a fair exchange for a brand new bundle of joy, cradled in a new father's arms.

"Welcome to your new home, Baby Botagos (Camel’s eyes) Berger," the New Dadda whispers into the blue bundle as he tearfully and tenderly leans over to kiss his wife who has now ordered a double scotch and is tapping an unlit cigarette on her fold-down tray; seat in the upright position, waiting for the damned plane to land again.

This is an ode and preface to the fact that I love my mother. She who can't drink 2 sips of wine without looking like she might pass out. She who could never understand my smoking habit even though she tried... several times. She who still tells me to wear something warm at night because the temperature changes so much. It is out of love for me that she drives me insane 1 out of 10 times that I see or talk to her.

Trying to get a reservation on Mother's Day in any restaurant is like going to church on Christmas Eve or Easter. Standing room only. Extremely low blood sugar. Bitchy boys and bitchier girls wait. And wait. And wait. Something that Fatty knows, and I'm quite pleased that he does, is I would rather spend one on one time with others. There's too much unfocused attention spread out when there are too many people invited to an event. Mother's Day is no exception. You'd think that because of the day, honouring the person who gave you life, the onus would be on that person.

Hey Ma! Remember when the placenta broke? Yeah... that was good times.

Well, that doesn't happen in my family. What happens is everyone vies for individual oneupmanship while only listening for any indication of someone else having more than they. My plan was to bypass that entire scenario, taking the old girl out on my own, prior to the day. Thursday!

Unfortunately we had the worst pho soup in the city: Pho Hung, N. of Dundas, W. side of Spadina. In a word... ah, I can't do it in a word. They brought the wrong item(s). And the broth was as cold as the chilly tea they slammed on the table. And all the wait staff feigned English not even as a third language when mildly interrogated.

Off to the wrong start.
Crap.

My mother and I mostly speak Chinglish, a mix of Chinese and English.

Many times I will ask my mother whether she understands what I've just said. I've learned to distinguish when she's merely humouring me.

Mom: [exasperated] Agh! It's like a chicken talking to a duck.

When a chicken speaks to a duck, words sound familiar, but there is something lost in the translation. My quacks sound more like bocks. Balks.
Q: Why would they give wings to a creature who can't fly?

My mother speaks a phrase in Chinese and asks for the English equivalent.

The Comrade: When someone is looked down on for his/her actions.
Mom: Don't you think that happens when a woman has too many husbands and boyfriends in her lifetime?

I put up with her rough timetable of These Are the Things You Should Have By Now:
A House
Tonnes of money
Only one name change since birth

When I told Fatty he said, "She'd rather you be unhappy and still married to your first husband for appearance sake?"
Affirmative.

Nearly every conversation we have there is at one point a sad realisation that her family isn't as tightly knit as she would like. She rolls it over her mind like a master baker trying to make something edible out of pre-Cambrian rock.

What reason do we have?

I told her that I find it difficult, at best, to accept the condemnation and the interminable judgment received by bodies who provided no measure of help nor guidance beyond that of providing basic provisions until adolescent weening had occurred. I told her she and the others had no right, really. I tell her this calmly... rationally. I hope she understood.

It doesn't change how I feel about her, though. Because of the childlike tittering she does, because of the sense of adventure I know she has, because she knows the transit system better than most who work for the company, because she loves me to the best of her ability, and because she taught me that even though someone drives you crazy, it's still possible to love them. I wouldn't trade her for any other mother in the world.

Whose Reality?

I grew up watching John Hughes films. The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller's Day Off. During this small window during the 80's I really think Hughes captured the essence of what it was like growing up during that time. For everyone I've asked, it's been true. He was genius. The only film I've come across lately that depicts anything remotely plausible for kids is Garden State. And they're not even really kids. I'm 36, so it's all relative.

Years ago, the Screen Actor's Guild (SAG), the union which protects the rights of American actors, went on strike for greater protection. Well, let's be honest: more money. There was a halt to all US productions, including commercials. Historically, they have flocked to Canada to receive slashed prices in talent in addition to increased incentives in production values. ACTRA, the Canadian equivalent union, and its members were warned of doing any US productions during this strike. Threats included blacklisting from any future productions after negotiations and suitable results had been reached. The already starved little actors were very scared and heeded the warning.

I once did a voice-over which said, "Welcome to the 500 channel universe."
The foundation of commerce is supply meeting demand.
No actors = No programming

But networks still needed to make money by way of advertising. Advertisers still needed to hock wares that no one needs, creating as much frenzy as possible within the populace to own. Seismic shift sometimes means stepping several rungs down the evolutionary ladder.

Random Producer: I know! Let's make programmes that show real people doing real things!

This doesn't happen.
By the mere act of observation, the subject is changed.

I have watched one reality show through its entirety. The first season of Survivor. I got sucked in. I rooted for people. I put myself in their shoes. And in the end, when that disgusting, manipulative asshole won all I thought was, "Is that how a person gets ahead in this world? Fucking people over? Is that the lesson?"

Click.
Fade to black.

From reality shows all I get off them is this sense of survival. Everyone is the enemy. Trust no one. They're just going to fuck you in the end. But maybe that is the reality. I don't know.

I don't want to live like that.
I don't know how others live like that on a daily basis.
But they do.
I read things like American Psycho to try to understand different brains. Thus far it's explained a fraction of my family.

Riding my bike the other day, I'd recounted to Fatty that I received only one terse moron accusation. I was waiting for my turn at a light along the bike path on Lakeshore Drive. My light had turned green. The cavalcade of full ton pick-ups and SUVs were arcing their left hand turns. Unindicated. Illegally. They were moving on a full vermillion impediment. To a point. Cars were backed up ahead, after the turn. Stopped. I thought, "Screw it, I'm crossing."

Full ton pick-up driver: [rolling down passengerside window] You MORON!

It always astonishes me how quickly and easily words like "cocksucker", "totally illegal" and "fucking asshole" can hurl out of my mouth. Equally as astonishing is how difficult phrases like "Yes, sir" get stuck in a niche in my larynx. I'm not sure whether there is a direct correlation between that and the fact that I have been fired from more jobs than anyone I know.


A while back I was at a party hosted by Josh, my favourite ex-work comrade. In attendance was:
1. Eric, Josh's roommate. He had lost 30lbs on a protein diet.
2. Eric's sister. She buys interesting gifts like the fishnet stocking leg floorlamp from the movie A Christmas Story. She has the most beautiful hair I've ever seen, the framing for having the mouth of a trucker, one specifically on the road alone, eating nothing but acid reflux inducing fast food. I don't mean dialogue, I mean she delivers the kind of belches that make my stomach do Nadia Comaneci backflips with no gold medal at the end.
3. Eastern European Girl. She wears a white, mid-level mob, ill fitting track suit. She loves sausages... of all denominations.
4. Fiddy Cent Whore. Wife and mother of one; looks like Betty Paige; skirts barely graze her snatch. She likes to bend over a lot. She does leg extentions holding one ankle above her head, showing off a new red thong. Her necklines always plunge, revealing luscious cleavage. She gets drunk and very friendly. To everyone.
5. Killer. A small framed young man, handsome but with a terrible haircut. He has 2 black belts in different martial arts and has promised to kick the ass of any person I draw his attention to.

After a 7 month "relationship" with Eastern European Girl, as soon as he caught wind of Josh's break-up with Claire, Version 6.0 (Josh has a tendency to only have Claires as girlfriends for some reason), Eric asked for absolute confirmation that it was final. No going back? You're sure? Really? You're not going to change your mind? For sure, now?

Josh: No going back.

Eric broke up with the Eastern European 7 monther, sausage lover.

The Comrade: Why?
Eric: Because this is a bachelor's pad and Josh is the Man to hook me up.

Josh is very cute, very charming and often has female stalkers waiting for him in his bed.

The Comrade: Didn't you love her?
Eric: I didn't even like her.

3 open mouthed blinks issued out of me.

The Comrade: Are you capable of love?
Eric: Yes, but that all changed 6 years ago. Now I'm trying to get as many women as I can to fall in love with me. Once they do, I dump them.

Why do I think of The Boy with Kaleidescope Eyes?

It was at this point the Eastern European 7 Monther was trying to entice Eric by doing the Condiment Dripping Sausage dance in his lap.

But he looked disgusted.
Until he took a bite.
And then enthusiasm waned as quickly as he finished masticating.
She needed another tactic.

Could someone please explain this new phenomena to me?
1. A) Chicks making out with other chicks in front of guys that broke up with them, but still want to fuck.
1. B) Chicks sexually exploiting other chicks specifically in front of guys that broke with them, and still want to fuck.

This confounds me.

Everyone in attendance was most excited about a reality show that was to be aired at 8:00pm. Plans were altered to fit the programming into their irregularly scheduled lives.

Fiddy Cent was mock fighting with Killer who was blocking drunk punches and looking to me for emotional support. I tried to convey a sense of:
You're a good boy.
Try to keep her from showing her underwear too much.
Even though she's relentless in trying to punch your face, continue to be a good sport about the whole thing.

It works to a certain degree.

The Vulture/7 monther/ Eastern European Girl slithers over to Fiddy Cent, mid Van Damme kick to poor Killer's head, gently grabs a tuft of her hair and starts making out with her in front of Eric -30lbs of fat, +30 lbs of nilihism. Eric is enjoying the show. And then the commercial was finished. Eyes flick back to screen.

The Comrade: Okay, maybe you want to put your leg down.

The Vulture wants to take Fiddy Cent to an area outside of the party's sightline.
Fiddy Cent is really, really drunk.

Vulture: Kom, Erique! Now!

Eric is glued to one of 6 televisions in their condo.

Vulture: ERIQUE!
After a moment's glare...
The Comrade: She stays.
Josh backs me up.
The glare continues until the Vulture relents.
Vulture: (to me) I vasn't goingk to do anythink.

I make it a point to have my back facing television screens. They are bright, shiny objects that demand attention while distracting others from seeing predators trying to drag unsuspecting victims off to dens of perversion. I wrapped Fatty's sweater, the chosen wrap of the evening, around me tighter and breathed his recalled image in. Sanity Vision #1. I looked at the eyes which surrounded me and the only pair that weren't black vortexes were Josh's. Sanity Vision #2.

After putting Fiddy Cent into a cab, with a highly protective Killer...

The Comrade: I've got to go.
Josh: I'm sorry... I don't know what...
The Comrade: Don't be, dude.

I ride home on my bicycle and I know the only sight and sounds I'll hear is a gorgeous yelling cat saying, "You left me for that?

I sigh, because he's right.
And then we play tiddilywinks.
He's very good at that game.

Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come For You?

Monday is the night I have my weekly engagement at the Cheer's Equivalent, tending bar, explaining classic French and Alsatian dishes inspired by the new chef, formerly known as Cartman sounding Mike, because wow does he ever sound like Cartman, now lovingly referred to as Cupcake.

All the cooks in the Cheer's Equivalent kitchen that feed many, including myself quite often and quite satisfactorily, are straight men. Who hork, scratch their balls, gossip, tell disgusting stories, and act quite gay around each other. I love kitchen staff. They're my favourite. Cartman sounding Mike is the newest chef, replacing a fellow who lost interest because cooking was at best his second love, maybe closer to his ex-wife whom he has to pay alimony to. His first love was aimed at a musical career, though it didn't really take off the way he envisioned. The old chef became embittered and the product he produced nightly was uninspired. He was released, only moderately kicking and screaming, with a fair and decent package. His name was removed from the menu.

Yau See [the fella who married a girl from China not for love, but for a tidy sum, who works alongside Cartman sounding Mike]: (lisping) Ssssooo... what are we going to call you?
Cartman sounding Mike: What do you mean?
Yau See: Well, you have to put your name at the bottom of the menu now. You're the new chef!
Cartman sounding Mike: No, I don't, dude.
The Comrade: Maybe you could use a moniker.
Yau See: (still lisping) I think you're cute. How about Cupcake?

On the chalk written sandwich board out front, enticing people to come in, the Comrade scribed:

Someone in the kitchen's called Cupcake

Though I only work there once a week, it stayed on until I returned the following Monday.
I found out a week later that hoardes of handsome gay men had approached the open window in the kitchen vying to say hello to Cupcake.

The Comrade: What's wrong, Cupcake? Not enough sprinkles?
Cupcake is none too pleased with the Comrade.

Kitchens tend to be testosterone breeding grounds. It is unglamourous work that is extremely hot, dangerous by way of potential burns, stabbings, immersions into deep fryers. God, that happened once. Not to anyone I know, but relayed to me by one of my old bosses.

A clean kitchen is a refined kitchen. Beyond that, it is one way of getting one's restaurant approved by the Health Inspector. The hood is located above all cooking areas that require heat and produce exhaust. Grill, griddle, salamander, ovens, deep fryer. The hood gets covered in grease nightly. It is something that needs to be cleaned regularly or a fine dusting of particles which include dirt, sloughed off skin, moon dust and french fry fragments adhere to it. Then more grilling, more griddling, more deep frying and more broiling happens. The hood becomes a grease layer cake. Once that cake is in effect, hours can be spent trying to remove inch thick grimy residue that has a tendency to drip onto food that you or I could order on any given night.

Hoods are located high up on walls which means whomever the lucky sod who is chosen to clean the thing has to stand precariously on a ladder, or sometimes directly on cooking surfaces to reach all aspects of the smoke sucker. It is very important to turn off all cooking equipment prior to embarking on a spring clean. Don't forget the deep fryer. Even if there are a couple of cookie sheets shielding any greasy run-off, it really should be turned off, or better yet, emptied.

Once upon a time, during one of these hoodwashes, someone had lost balance, tipping the cookie sheet shielding the fry oil which was kept at a constant 350˚F. An entire leg was submerged into the vat. Shock set in, then unconsciousness nearly immediately afterwards. The leg remained. Crispy deep fried tibia, cooked to the bone was invented, yet vetoed as the evening's special.


Last Monday was a bad day for many men for some reasons I'm aware of, some I am not. At 12:30am, my darling friend Dirty walked in for a nightcap and a bit of work respite to find 2 men crying, 1 man sitting alone blurringly staring at his vodka and soda with not a modicum of interest, and one man sighing both from physical exhaustion by way of a full day of deck building and being emotionally abandoned by his girlfriend, the Doyenne.

Dirty: Am I in the right place?
The Comrade: Oh yeah. Care for a smoke?

I'd spent the last 1/2 hour, preceding Dirty's entrance, gently rubbing backs, dispensing "there there's" and giving out hugs to the ones who were crying.

Outside while debriefing the known causes of the upsets in the sorrowful men's lives, Dirty and I were sharing visual space with Titties.

Weeks ago, while setting up the restaurant, Cupcake had spied a pair of C-cups at the front door from the open window kitchen.

Cupcake: Oh my God! Look at those!
Cupcake doesn't rouse easily. He was noticably excited.

Standing outside, trying to unlock the glass door which leads to the small apartments upstairs was a young, heavy set man, slightly dishevelled, with a full alabaster rack.

Cupcake: Those aren't just man breasts! They're full on titties!

Titties moved into the building a few weeks ago. Since his tenancy he has misplaced his keys at least 3 times. Maybe he put the key in his shirt and left it somewhere? Hard to say. When Dirty and I were outside engaged in subdued chatter and enjoying a little fumez bien, Titties had been sulking the block and loitering outside the building for the better part of 3 hours.

At first he was silent. Then he started exhaling heavily. It is frustrating not being able to get into one's apartment. He pressed on the buzzers of all the building's occupants. No avail. Apparently the first time Titties had misplaced his keys, the landlord was out of town. One of the other tenants had cut a new key for the poor mammoried fellow... which got lost again.

The mild temperatures have dropped again, so Titties has been covering up. His styling is second hand army surplus. His self administered haircut, more than likely shorn by way of dull knife blade, resembled not quite bedhead, but perhaps auburn parkbenchhead, the last place he would have received a 10 minute power nap. When he walks, he lumbers. He skulks. He peers. Jeepers Creepers.

Intermittently is heard a series of kicks to a glass door, followed by a moan.

The sorrowful men had left leaving the bar full of women at the end of the night. The Doyenne was bone tired from working excessively and dealing with the aftermath of having her principal restaurant, the Cheer's Equivalent Sister Restaurant, ripped away from her. The Comrade sensed her need to leave quickly, visions of sugarplum fairies already forming in her hypothalamus. Engaged was the tactful statement which effectively promotes immediate vacancy:

Skanks... be gone!

Each of the women exiting gave a wide berth to the sulking Titties still huffing and puffing outside. After the last paying body left, the Doyenne and the Comrade were engaged in a brief debrief of the evening. Until the door opened. And a backlit Titties walked 2 steps into the bar.

I really thought the door was locked.

The Comrade: Sorry, we're closed.
Titties [head slightly tilted back, body in profile, eyes cast down, talking... very... slowly]: I'm... locked... out... of... my... apartment.
The Comrade: That sucks, dude. Listen, is there someone you could call, maybe the landlord? Maybe he could let you in.
Titties: No. Do... you... have... a... rock...?
The Comrade: Um... no.
Titties: I... don't... need... a... rock... anyway.... I'm... better... than... a... rock.

Years ago I'd taken a sales seminar. The most important lesson in a sales transaction is to bring things to a close.

The Comrade: Well, good luck with that. I really hope you get in, dude. Try to have a good night. Goodbye.

And gratefully he leaves.

The Doyenne and I make for the door quickly and bolt the deadlock. I pick up the cordless phone and dial 911.

The Doyenne: Are you calling 911?
The Comrade: Yes.
The Doyenne: Don't you think that's a bit excessive?
The Comrade: Would you like to look through the phone book for 51 Division's direct line?
The Doyenne: Carry on. Carry on.

The first time I tried calling they dropped my connection.

The Comrade: What the fuck? I could be getting hacked to death, here.
I am currently reading American Psycho, so hacking and slashing are at the forefront of my mind.

Attempt #2:
911: Do you require ambulance, fire department or police?
The Comrade: Police, please.
911: Okie dokey.

The 911 dispatcher has the Canadian accented version of my future mother-in-law, Fatty's British mom, who incidentally, as I found out the other night, straight from the horse's mouth adores the Comrade.
It's helpful.

I state the problem. She remains sunny throughout. I give her as much information as I can.

911: So he's locked out?
The Comrade: Yes.
911: And he's threatening to smash the window with a rock?
The Comrade: Or use brute strength.
911: Right. Does he seem like he's been drinking tonight?
The Comrade: [tenatively] No.
911: Pills?
The Comrade: Oh yeah.
911: What's your name?

I tell her. She thanks me and promises that a cruiser will come forthwith. Hasta pronto. Post haste.
5 minutes later the usually unanimated Tittied Pill Popper begins yelling his head off. The cruiser is parked a block away. No cherries are spinning.

[phone rings]

The Doyenne and I look at each other.

Police: Hello! This is the Police.
The Comrade: Hello Police!
Police: We've sent some officers to the scene. Would you mind greeting them?
The Comrade: No, not at all.

I step to the front glass window where I notice Pill Popping Tits first. I am apprehensive in approaching closer. In the foreground is Officer #1, a black male officer. In the background is Officer #2, an Asian male officer. Both are in their late 20's to early 30's. Asian male officer takes one look at Asian bartender lodging complaint and it looks as if there are too many of one flavour. He goes back to the cruiser, which has now pulled up in front of the bar.

Officer #1: Do you know this man?
The Comrade: [looking at Tits who is simultaneously looking very scared and very scary] Yes, he lives upstairs. And he can't get into his apartment. Hey! Maybe these nice officers can help!

I am trying my best to not seem like someone who has just called the cops on someone very scary.

Officer #1 tries pushing the buzzer on one of 4 apartments. No dice.

The Comrade: [trying to be helpful] My boss just informed me she may have the phone number to the landlord. We could try the number.
Officer #1: That would be very helpful. Thank you. And could you write the name and number down for me as well?
The Comrade: Sure.

The Doyenne leaves a very civil message to someone I think is a greedy bastard for accepting a tenancy by someone obviously disturbed looking. I return back to the front door with the new information.

The Comrade: He's not picking up his phone, but we left a message.
Officer #1: [to Scary Tits] You can't bust down this door, so if we can't get ahold of your landlord you're going to have to stay at the hospital tonight.
Scary Tits: I... don't... want... to... go... to the hospital!

I step back a little.

Officer #1: [to me, in front of Tits] Well, thanks for calling us. What's your name again?

GREAT
My name is I Might As Well Be Dead Now

To serve and protect?

The Doyenne had found out by the gossiping Cupcake that Pill Popping Tits didn't physically apply for the apartment upstairs. It was his mother who came from the suburb Oshawa who was interviewed by the previously accused greedy Scumlord. More than likely she had told the landlord that her son was too busy to come down to see it himself. She provided first and last month's rent, just like any standard rental procedure. She probably used a lot of concealer make-up for the meeting. Tits was living with his mother in Oshawa prior to his new, sometimes accessible, mostly inaccessible digs. The reason she was looking for a roost of his own was apparently the young breasted man has brain issues. There were moments when he would forget who the woman was who gave birth to him. In his lapses of memory his recourse was to beat the living snot out of her.

I am currently banking on the memory lapses wishing to keep all of my own snot.