Anyone who has or does wait tables has their own stories to tell about their ridiculous, rude, or endearing customers. Here are a few of mine.
THE BLT
(lady looking at the menu, I, the waitress, posed with my writing pad to take her order)
LADY: what's a BLT?
ME: A bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.
LADY: What all comes on that?
Me: Bacon... lettuce... and tomato. We also put a little mayonnaise on it.
LADY: Okay, I'll take one of those.
(after the food has been cooked, I take it out to her table. She opens the bread, looks inside, and then looks back up at me.)
LADY: Where's the meat?
ME: I'm sorry? Did they not put the bacon on it?
LADY: I thought it was supposed to come with chicken.
Seriously... this really happened.
THE BREAD BOWL
For a brief period of time, my restaurant offered soup in a bread bowl. This conversation really happened.
MAN: I'll take the potato soup in a bread bowl, please.
HIS WIFE: Bread bowl? Can you eat that?
No, ma'am, we rinse them out and serve them again.
Seriously.
COFFEE
MAN: I'll take a black coffee.
(coffee is served)
MAN: Excuse me, may I have some cream?
On one final note: Please don't make any jokes about not wanting to pay your bill. I've heard them all, and they're never funny. I make $2.30 per hour. If you don't tip, I don't eat that night. Therefore, making a joke about how cheap you are does not make me like you at all.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Why I Hate Science
In order to graduate from any university, you are required to take a certain number of credits in all fields of study. Before I go any further, let me tell you that I am a secondary english education major. I have had to take one math course, one anthropology course, one Bible course, a Spanish course, and one astronomy course so far in order to satisfy my general education requirements. Almost. I still have to take one more science course and a corresponding lab. Maybe it's just me, but this seems a little out of balance. One math course and two and a half science courses? Really?
Well, just to get it over with, I've enrolled in a science course and a lab for six weeks out of my summer. I decided to go with a Geography 107 course where I'll learn about earth formations and why they are where they are. Sounds pretty easy.
Within the first three pages of the text book, I was informed that there are two north poles. The north magnetic pole and the north rotational pole.
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR SANTA?!?!!?!?!?!
Clearly science and my fantasy worlds cannot intermingle. Had I been able to stop after my first science course, I would still be able to pretend to believe in the jolly, seasonal symbol of the holidays.
I hate science because in order to believe in science, one must believe in a reason for everything. I much prefer to believe in the arcane and mysterious forces at work in the world. Science may have killed Santa, but science will never kill fairies or hobgoblins. This I swear.
Well, just to get it over with, I've enrolled in a science course and a lab for six weeks out of my summer. I decided to go with a Geography 107 course where I'll learn about earth formations and why they are where they are. Sounds pretty easy.
Within the first three pages of the text book, I was informed that there are two north poles. The north magnetic pole and the north rotational pole.
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR SANTA?!?!!?!?!?!
Clearly science and my fantasy worlds cannot intermingle. Had I been able to stop after my first science course, I would still be able to pretend to believe in the jolly, seasonal symbol of the holidays.
I hate science because in order to believe in science, one must believe in a reason for everything. I much prefer to believe in the arcane and mysterious forces at work in the world. Science may have killed Santa, but science will never kill fairies or hobgoblins. This I swear.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
A Christmas Portrait
I was seven months old; it was my first Christmas. My mother had already filled three albums with pictures of me from the day I was born, but she wanted something professional for first baby’s first Christmas. She dressed me in a blue velvet dress with a white, lacey collar in the front. The edges were similarly trimmed with a white lace, and the sleeves had princess-style puffs. I had on black, shiny Mary Jane shoes with a brass buckle and starch white socks folded down so the lace brushed the tops of the shoes. She’d bought the dress specifically for the occasion; she thought the blue would bring out my huge baby eyes.
Once in the studio, a young photographer sat me on a cloth-covered table and flipped through a variety of backgrounds until he found the one with the Christmas tree surrounded by presents. Reaching for the studio light, he adjusted the angle until I was bathed in a soft glow. As he stood behind the camera, focusing on my fuzzy red hair and double chin, he began a funny song and dance routine with puppets in an attempt to make me smile. He knew mothers will pay more for happy babies. What he failed to realize that being choked with white, itchy lace is enough to make even the most agreeable of people a little edgy.
He had a box of toys he used as props, and selected a grubby, white dog with a misshapen nose, which he began to dance around in a way that is supposed to make babies giggle. My eyes narrowed as I followed that dancing dog with my eyes.
I wanted it.
I began the negotiations by thrusting my hand in his direction, my pudgy, outstretched fingers signaling that I was interesting in the product he was offering. He knew he had my attention, so began to add a sing-song chant to the dog’s dance, encoded to entice me to smile for the happy dog who liked happy, smiling girls. Won’t you smile for the happy, smiling dog?
Negotiations were obviously turning sour, so I implemented my next tactical advantage. My chin began to quiver. Half a second later, the dog still was not in my hand, so I threw all my cards on the table. I squinted my eyes and scrunched up my face as I turned my lungs up to full throttle. I screamed and cried to the fullest extent of my power, which, I am told, was quite impressive for someone not even two feet tall.
His eyes widened in terror as they darted between me, the dog, and my mother. His eyebrows furrowed as he brought out more and more toys from his box. Soon the dancing dog was joined by his friends Teddy Bear and Calico Cat. I, however, had my eye on the prize, and continued to wail, flexing my hand open and closed in the direction of the dog.
Finally getting the message, he took a few timid steps in my direction, the dog as a peace offering between us. I grabbed its ear and pulled it onto my lap, its nose buried in the folds of my dress. Eager to return to the safety offered behind the camera lens, he hastily snapped the picture.
Flipping through first few pages of my fourth album of baby photos, you’ll find a 3X5 Christmas print from labeled “Rachel’s First Christmas”. The picture shows a small, red-headed baby with a white, stuffed dog firmly clutched in her tiny, chubby fist, her lip curled upward in an ugly sneer.
Once in the studio, a young photographer sat me on a cloth-covered table and flipped through a variety of backgrounds until he found the one with the Christmas tree surrounded by presents. Reaching for the studio light, he adjusted the angle until I was bathed in a soft glow. As he stood behind the camera, focusing on my fuzzy red hair and double chin, he began a funny song and dance routine with puppets in an attempt to make me smile. He knew mothers will pay more for happy babies. What he failed to realize that being choked with white, itchy lace is enough to make even the most agreeable of people a little edgy.
He had a box of toys he used as props, and selected a grubby, white dog with a misshapen nose, which he began to dance around in a way that is supposed to make babies giggle. My eyes narrowed as I followed that dancing dog with my eyes.
I wanted it.
I began the negotiations by thrusting my hand in his direction, my pudgy, outstretched fingers signaling that I was interesting in the product he was offering. He knew he had my attention, so began to add a sing-song chant to the dog’s dance, encoded to entice me to smile for the happy dog who liked happy, smiling girls. Won’t you smile for the happy, smiling dog?
Negotiations were obviously turning sour, so I implemented my next tactical advantage. My chin began to quiver. Half a second later, the dog still was not in my hand, so I threw all my cards on the table. I squinted my eyes and scrunched up my face as I turned my lungs up to full throttle. I screamed and cried to the fullest extent of my power, which, I am told, was quite impressive for someone not even two feet tall.
His eyes widened in terror as they darted between me, the dog, and my mother. His eyebrows furrowed as he brought out more and more toys from his box. Soon the dancing dog was joined by his friends Teddy Bear and Calico Cat. I, however, had my eye on the prize, and continued to wail, flexing my hand open and closed in the direction of the dog.
Finally getting the message, he took a few timid steps in my direction, the dog as a peace offering between us. I grabbed its ear and pulled it onto my lap, its nose buried in the folds of my dress. Eager to return to the safety offered behind the camera lens, he hastily snapped the picture.
Flipping through first few pages of my fourth album of baby photos, you’ll find a 3X5 Christmas print from labeled “Rachel’s First Christmas”. The picture shows a small, red-headed baby with a white, stuffed dog firmly clutched in her tiny, chubby fist, her lip curled upward in an ugly sneer.
Monday, March 2, 2009
How to Show Off Your Legs
“Anger, pass me the ball! To your left, look out!” Ashley yelled at one of the boys on our dodge ball team during fifth period gym class. She’d given most everyone in the class a nickname: Anger, China, Curly, Bruce Almighty, etc... It was bonding and amicable and made her irritatingly popular. I envied Ashley and her bronzed, flawless skin, shiny brown hair, and perfect ease with boys. In comparison, I felt the insecurity of my sloppy ponytail and skin so pale I could glow in the dark. What made matters worse was the fact that I had put off taking a gym class for so long that by the time I absolutely had to take it, I was the only Junior in a class of Freshmen and Sophomores. I was ashamed that I, the oldest, should be so cowed by students who, according to typical high school ranking, should have been “beneath” me on the pyramid of high school hierarchy. I watched from afar as teasing boys would pick her up and spin her around, while she playfully giggled and squealed to be put down. I told myself that popularity contests were beneath me, that I didn’t want the attention of these “immature” sophomore boys.
Even though I just knew no one was looking at me, because, after all, I was nothing to look at, I felt as if there was a neon sign above my head reading, “Look and Laugh at the Awkward Girl!” as I ran around the court trying to avoid being plastered with the soft dodge balls. I was all too aware of my short stature, skinny thighs, and tattered Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Boys sought girls who had shape, and I felt mine was too small to be of any consequence.
Worse than laboring over what athletic clothes to choose for the daily dodge ball or volleyball game was the swimming unit of the class, when it came time to forego normal clothing altogether in favor of the bathing suit.
Coming out of the locker rooms, the boys and the girls mingled in the hallway waiting for the teacher to unlock the door to the pool area. It was hard to find Ashley, surrounded as she was by her vast following of admirers. Girls laughed and playfully shoved the boys, who returned the gesture with light nudge with their elbows - anything to have some kind of physical contact with the skin that was suddenly everywhere. It was a veritable sea of necks, shoulders, chests, thighs, and calves. I stood off to the side with a towel wrapped around my legs, which I kept firmly in position until the last possible moment when I had to take it off and slip into the cold, chlorinated water.
Getting out of the pool an hour later and walking back to the locker room was both a relief and a hurdle. Dripping wet and covered in goose bumps, I was forced to wrap my towel around my shoulders instead of my waist as I took the seemingly endless walk back to the safety of the locker room where my jeans and sweatshirt awaited me. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windows surrounding the pool, and all I could see were skinny, shapeless legs. It was no wonder I was so unpopular.
*
It’s been over four years since I escaped that gym class. It wasn’t just the gym class I escaped though; it was myself. My body hasn’t changed since then, but I’ve learned who I am and that “popular” people are not the ones who have the best hair or the best legs, but are the ones who best express themselves. People like people who like themselves.
It’s the almost summertime again, and I can’t wait to get my shorts out of the closet so I can show off my legs.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tolerance
I would like to take this time to advocate tolerance for all people.
We should all promote tolerance, acceptance, and equality for people of different races, sizes, sexual orientations, economic class, intelligence, handicaps, retardations, deformations, sex, etc.
There is one exception to this idea of mutual acceptance:
If you stink, you have no excuse, so be prepared to be treated differently.
We should all promote tolerance, acceptance, and equality for people of different races, sizes, sexual orientations, economic class, intelligence, handicaps, retardations, deformations, sex, etc.
There is one exception to this idea of mutual acceptance:
If you stink, you have no excuse, so be prepared to be treated differently.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Size 1 Jeans
America is the world's fattest nation. Let's just face it. We hear about it all the time in the media, in our daily lives, in the products available to us. It's easier in America to be heavy than it is to be thin. However, for those of us who are comfortable with our bodies or, heaven forbid!, are skinny, a lot of heat is actually directed at us.
Let me give you a couple examples:
My mother and I are not only skinny, but short, so we look extra petite. We were shopping one day, as is quite often our habit, in Kohl's. Another mother/daughter pair was shopping in the same section. The mother turned to her daughter and said, "Ooo I wish I could fit into some of these clothes. Not everyone can be skinny like them." I kid you not, there was accusation in her tone. She was angry with us for being skinny. Angry! We pretended we didn't hear and moved on, though griped about it to each other later.
Every time anyone sees me eat ice cream or cookies or anything with sugar, I hear, "Must be nice to be able to eat whatever you want. Some people are just lucky."
Sorry, but I'm not going to apologize for taking good care of my body. What most people don't know about me is that on both sides of my family, I would appear to be genetically destined for an average body size. I suppose arguably both of my parents are fit, so that looks like genetics, but I'm more convinced that it's lifestyle, not genetics, that play the largest factor in weight. I won't deny that I have a lot of sugar in my diet, but I also have a lot of fruits and vegetables. Not just that, but I'm constantly eating small quantities of food; this means that my metabolism is constantly working. Did you know that if you go more than 6 hours without eating, your metablism slows down? True fact. That's not to say I never eat meals, but the meals I do eat are very small, and I am very adament about usually leaving at least one bite on my plate. I also try to do 25 sit ups every day, 10 push ups, and maybe go running for 30 minutes a couple times a week.
I've told that to several people who try to make me feel guilty for being in shape, and they've always been surprised. Suddenly it's like they can't legitimately blame me for having won some kind of genetic lottery.
So for the record, if you're happy with your shape, no matter what size you are, more power to you! If not, not my problem if you don't do anything about it.
Let me give you a couple examples:
My mother and I are not only skinny, but short, so we look extra petite. We were shopping one day, as is quite often our habit, in Kohl's. Another mother/daughter pair was shopping in the same section. The mother turned to her daughter and said, "Ooo I wish I could fit into some of these clothes. Not everyone can be skinny like them." I kid you not, there was accusation in her tone. She was angry with us for being skinny. Angry! We pretended we didn't hear and moved on, though griped about it to each other later.
Every time anyone sees me eat ice cream or cookies or anything with sugar, I hear, "Must be nice to be able to eat whatever you want. Some people are just lucky."
Sorry, but I'm not going to apologize for taking good care of my body. What most people don't know about me is that on both sides of my family, I would appear to be genetically destined for an average body size. I suppose arguably both of my parents are fit, so that looks like genetics, but I'm more convinced that it's lifestyle, not genetics, that play the largest factor in weight. I won't deny that I have a lot of sugar in my diet, but I also have a lot of fruits and vegetables. Not just that, but I'm constantly eating small quantities of food; this means that my metabolism is constantly working. Did you know that if you go more than 6 hours without eating, your metablism slows down? True fact. That's not to say I never eat meals, but the meals I do eat are very small, and I am very adament about usually leaving at least one bite on my plate. I also try to do 25 sit ups every day, 10 push ups, and maybe go running for 30 minutes a couple times a week.
I've told that to several people who try to make me feel guilty for being in shape, and they've always been surprised. Suddenly it's like they can't legitimately blame me for having won some kind of genetic lottery.
So for the record, if you're happy with your shape, no matter what size you are, more power to you! If not, not my problem if you don't do anything about it.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Bless You!
Maybe it's just me, but I always thought that after someone sneezes, it's good manners to say, "Bless you."
You know.
"Achoo!"
"Bless you!"
"Thanks."
I always thought this wasn't just a ritual; it was manners. Like 'please' and 'thank you.' Apparently not everyone feels the same way.
You know.
"Achoo!"
"Bless you!"
"Thanks."
I always thought this wasn't just a ritual; it was manners. Like 'please' and 'thank you.' Apparently not everyone feels the same way.
On Waiting Tables
I've got about ten minutes before I have to head off to work for the day. For the record, I love my job. My coworkers make every day a good day to be at work, customers are, for the most part, very pleasant, and of course the food is delicious. What I'd like to talk about though is my qualifying statement "for the most part."
It takes a whole lot to get under my skin. I'm very easygoing and few people have really seen my angry. That being said, I would like to tell you how absolutely livid I was last night. It was a pretty typical Friday night: the restaurant was full, everyone had something to do. In short, we were rather busy. One table, table number 112, had just sat down and I'd brought their drinks out, put in their order, and everything seemed to be going smoothly. Yet for some reason the man (it was an older couple) was very short and irritated with me. When you've worked in a restaurant long enough, you come to accept the fact that some people go out to eat expecting the service to be poor. Annoying, yes, but just something we all deal with.
Okay, granted, I did forget their straws when I brought their drinks out and had to make an extra trip.
After I apologized and brought their straws to the table, I went to one of my other tables and started my usual speech, "Hi, how are you two doing tonight? I'm Rachel, and I'm going to be taking care of you. Can I get you started with something to drink?"
However, before I'd gotten to their drink order, this other table, table 112, whistled at me to get my attention. The same kind of whistle dog owners use to command their dogs. Shocked, I looked over at them and the guy motioned with his finger for me to come over.
They wanted their cornbread out before the meal.
For the record, I have been that angry on very few occasions. For one, whistling to get my attention is unacceptable. For two, it is especially unacceptable to interrupt a server who is talking to another table.
I didn't spit in their food, but darn it I was tempted to.
It takes a whole lot to get under my skin. I'm very easygoing and few people have really seen my angry. That being said, I would like to tell you how absolutely livid I was last night. It was a pretty typical Friday night: the restaurant was full, everyone had something to do. In short, we were rather busy. One table, table number 112, had just sat down and I'd brought their drinks out, put in their order, and everything seemed to be going smoothly. Yet for some reason the man (it was an older couple) was very short and irritated with me. When you've worked in a restaurant long enough, you come to accept the fact that some people go out to eat expecting the service to be poor. Annoying, yes, but just something we all deal with.
Okay, granted, I did forget their straws when I brought their drinks out and had to make an extra trip.
After I apologized and brought their straws to the table, I went to one of my other tables and started my usual speech, "Hi, how are you two doing tonight? I'm Rachel, and I'm going to be taking care of you. Can I get you started with something to drink?"
However, before I'd gotten to their drink order, this other table, table 112, whistled at me to get my attention. The same kind of whistle dog owners use to command their dogs. Shocked, I looked over at them and the guy motioned with his finger for me to come over.
They wanted their cornbread out before the meal.
For the record, I have been that angry on very few occasions. For one, whistling to get my attention is unacceptable. For two, it is especially unacceptable to interrupt a server who is talking to another table.
I didn't spit in their food, but darn it I was tempted to.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Observations on Mid-Life Crises, Babies, and Sportscars
Last year my dad came home and announced he'd bought a Mustang. My mother rolled her eyes and mouthed the words "mid life crisis" at me from across the room. After a statement like that, of course neither of us could refrain from laughing. My dad, suddenly defensive, told us that, "It is NOT a mid life crisis. I bought this car with Thomas in mind." Right, he bought a gas-guzzling muscle car for my brother, who was not yet sixteen at the time, because that is of course COMPLETELY PRACTICAL. However, Dad kept insisting that this was Thomas's car and that it had not ever crossed his mind once that it was a Mustang and he would like to own one because he never had before. Especially despite the fact that his twin brother has had Mustangs for years.
We at first pretended to believe him. That is, we pretended to believe him until it came time for my car and my mother's car to need oil changes. To his credit, Dad is great with cars. If he had the desire to, he could easily be a car mechanic and has saved our family thousands of dollars by working on cars himself instead of taking them into shops. So naturally Mom and I assumed he would be the one changing our oil and that it would take precedence over other projects.
Apparently though, installing an expensive radio in "Thomas's" Mustang was more important than our humble cars' oil changes. Mom ended up taking hers to the shop, and my car's oil was changed after I continued to bother Dad about it 1000 miles after the required 3000 mile oil change.
I would now like to change directions and say a bit in my Dad's behalf. he and my mom have done a tremendous job as parents. Even when Dad was out of work, we never really were hurting. They have always been very money conscious and frugal, putting their children before themselves. So by the time Thomas and I both had jobs, the house was paid off, and they were both working full time, Dad was in his mid-forties. Had he really ever had a chance to buy a Mustang before? He did have a sports car when he started driving, which he had saved up for and bought himself.
Therefore, is it really fair to call it a mid-life crisis? If he'd bought the car twenty years ago, no one would have said a word. The radio insident not withstanding, he can't help that he's in his mid-life before he could really buy whatever car he wanted. And even still, now that my brother is sixteen, he is the primary driver of the car. I would say that this same principal applies to the majority of men going through their "mid life crises." Had they not had children, they would have been able to afford their toy cars much earlier in life. So the next time you judge a man pulling up to a stop light in an expensive sports car, maybe cut him a little slack.
And that's why my family will consist of dogs and sports cars BEFORE the babies.
We at first pretended to believe him. That is, we pretended to believe him until it came time for my car and my mother's car to need oil changes. To his credit, Dad is great with cars. If he had the desire to, he could easily be a car mechanic and has saved our family thousands of dollars by working on cars himself instead of taking them into shops. So naturally Mom and I assumed he would be the one changing our oil and that it would take precedence over other projects.
Apparently though, installing an expensive radio in "Thomas's" Mustang was more important than our humble cars' oil changes. Mom ended up taking hers to the shop, and my car's oil was changed after I continued to bother Dad about it 1000 miles after the required 3000 mile oil change.
I would now like to change directions and say a bit in my Dad's behalf. he and my mom have done a tremendous job as parents. Even when Dad was out of work, we never really were hurting. They have always been very money conscious and frugal, putting their children before themselves. So by the time Thomas and I both had jobs, the house was paid off, and they were both working full time, Dad was in his mid-forties. Had he really ever had a chance to buy a Mustang before? He did have a sports car when he started driving, which he had saved up for and bought himself.
Therefore, is it really fair to call it a mid-life crisis? If he'd bought the car twenty years ago, no one would have said a word. The radio insident not withstanding, he can't help that he's in his mid-life before he could really buy whatever car he wanted. And even still, now that my brother is sixteen, he is the primary driver of the car. I would say that this same principal applies to the majority of men going through their "mid life crises." Had they not had children, they would have been able to afford their toy cars much earlier in life. So the next time you judge a man pulling up to a stop light in an expensive sports car, maybe cut him a little slack.
And that's why my family will consist of dogs and sports cars BEFORE the babies.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
On Writer's Block
Here I am, a writer, using the cliche fallback of penning a piece concerning the terrible state of not quite knowing what to write about. When I had the idea for this blog as I was sipping my classic coffee frappuccino from Starbucks (with whipped cream on top, of course), I very clearly remember having something specific to write about. It was witty and insightful and was definitely something everyone would enjoy reading. However, interruptions to the train of thought do take their toll. It's hard to decide though whether I really would have given up my "interruptions" in favor of simply remember what it was I was going to write about.
After I had sucked dry the last delicious bits of my coffee confection, I headed to the library to take up my proverbial pen-in-keyboard-form to spell out my grand thoughts. As soon as I sat down, but before I could log into my computer, "Love Story" by Taylor Swift cut through the calm, library atmosphere announcing that my boyfriend was trying to get my attention. I, of course, answered immediately and, though I didn't realize it at the time, blew a farewell kiss to whatever great idea I had fabricated, for which the world so desperately needed my commentary on.
Here's the rub: I could lament the loss of my great idea, or I could lament the loss of time spent with the man I'm in love with. Arguably, good ideas may come only once. Then again, how often does true love come around? Well for me, I come home to true love every night, wake up to true love every morning, and frequently communicate with true love throughout the day. One might go so far as to say I am an addict. But is it really fruitful for us to weigh productiveness against happiness? I could have ignored true love's (quite literal) call and penned my semi-great work of art, or I could (and did) enjoy a brief respite from the toils of daily life by escaping briefly with true love. We didn't do much, in all honesty, walked around a bit, bought new computer parts since his died rather dramatically this morning, and generally just enjoyed one another's company.
So farewell to my captivating literary work, aborted before it could be born. Good ideas come and go, but time stands still for no man.
After I had sucked dry the last delicious bits of my coffee confection, I headed to the library to take up my proverbial pen-in-keyboard-form to spell out my grand thoughts. As soon as I sat down, but before I could log into my computer, "Love Story" by Taylor Swift cut through the calm, library atmosphere announcing that my boyfriend was trying to get my attention. I, of course, answered immediately and, though I didn't realize it at the time, blew a farewell kiss to whatever great idea I had fabricated, for which the world so desperately needed my commentary on.
Here's the rub: I could lament the loss of my great idea, or I could lament the loss of time spent with the man I'm in love with. Arguably, good ideas may come only once. Then again, how often does true love come around? Well for me, I come home to true love every night, wake up to true love every morning, and frequently communicate with true love throughout the day. One might go so far as to say I am an addict. But is it really fruitful for us to weigh productiveness against happiness? I could have ignored true love's (quite literal) call and penned my semi-great work of art, or I could (and did) enjoy a brief respite from the toils of daily life by escaping briefly with true love. We didn't do much, in all honesty, walked around a bit, bought new computer parts since his died rather dramatically this morning, and generally just enjoyed one another's company.
So farewell to my captivating literary work, aborted before it could be born. Good ideas come and go, but time stands still for no man.
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