I found how to do this completely by accident. It was something I’d always wanted to do when this blog was still on Moveable Type but never got around to asking Tim to install the plugin for.
To Write a Post and Schedule it for Time Delay Posting:
1. Compose your post.
2. Select “Advanced Editing” from the menu below the text box.
3. Select “Edit Timestamp” and edit the date and time for when you want the post to appear.
4. Select “Publish” from the ‘post status’ options (it usually defaults to ‘draft’)
5. Click “Save” under the text box.
6. Go to the “Dashboard” menu. If done properly, you will see your entry listed under “Scheduled Entries” along with a notice of how long until the entry posts.
This entry was written at 2:05pm. I have used Time Delay Posting, and am currently at work.
I mentioned a few days ago I was interested in getting a group together to go see Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire opening night. So, here are the preliminary details …
The showing we will be attending is the 10:35pm at the Regal Hunt Valley Mall Stadium. This should (hopefully) mean the theater will be clear of younger children. The plan is to meet at my apartment in Timonium at about 8:00, and either chill there or head out for dinner — Padonia Station is a good bet for a bite and a beer before hand.
If you’re interested, drop me an e-mail or leave a comment. I think it’s probably a good idea to buy tickets beforehand, so if you’re certain you’re coming, let me know and I’ll see what I can do on that end.
#1 — The clutch pedal must be pressed when you try to turn the key … or the car won’t turn on.
#2 — Man, this steering wheel is thick.
#3 — Damn, this car is low.
#4 — Shift into neutral when stopping, that’ll prevent you from stalling, moron.
#5 — Flick the stalk back to flash brights, press it forward to leave ‘em on.
#6 — The parking brake is on the left side of the center console.
#7 — Speaking of things on the left side, unlike the Neon, the gas cap is on the left.
#8 — The interior lights aren’t controlled by either stalk.
#9 — Easy to use and clearly marked environmental controls! I love the Japanese.
#10 — I’d forgotten about the “check engine” light …
#11 — Holy Shit! There’s a CD player!
Long story short, walking into work Thursday afternoon at the franchise, Greg sat me down for a talk. Zebulon was in one of his ‘moods’ — seems E.G. wrote a nasty letter to Greg about the state of the store Sunday morning, and referenced my blog post on the same matter. Whereas Zebulon doesn’t care what I wrote on the blog, E.G. using what I wrote as evidence in some Machivellian scheme angered Greg. This apparently was the final straw for Greg, (he called me the Terrell Owens of his store) he had the decency to do three things — first, apologize for backing off on his own policy regarding my blog (”I don’t care”), two, asking me to work the night (which he said would, should future circumstances allow, provide me the opportunity to remain eligible for rehire … plus, Paul had an emergency and wasn’t able to come in), and three offer me a cash severence pay of $250 — certainly not required, and much appreciated — it’ll help tide me over until I find new employment.
I was pissed about the situation, and its a good thing E.G. had already left the store. Essentially, I was “let go” for him being a busy-body and bringing my blog posts in to create a mess (whereas I never point coworkers to my blog directly, they found it elseways and had an issue with posts I never intended to show them).
The night was pretty busy, and I’m glad I worked. I took seventeen runs and made pretty decent tips. I’m actually happy about how things worked out — I’ve needed a motivating kick in the ass and I got it. I was the closing driver, and Greg was unusually helpful — he set the makeline back up and mopped half the store for me. I guess he was afraid I was going to pocket the money and run without doing my chores. Who, me? Naaah.
The phone rang three minutes before we closed, for a delivery order. I not wanting to come back to the store, and Greg not wanting to stay later waiting for me to return (or, not return), we did the trusty “take it on your way” trick, which is the closing driver assigns the delivery, checks back in, then gets checked out by the manager, paying for the last delivery out of personal cash (tips). Upon delivering the food, the customer’s payment reimburses for the driver’s out-of-pocket expense. I was hoping they would pay in cash, as otherwise I’d have to stop back in at some point to exchange a check for cash.
Better yet, the delivery actually was on my way home, as opposed to being at the north end of the delivery area. I bagged up the run and Greg and I had our last conversation as employee/employer, which amounted to “You don’t return that hot bag, you don’t get your last pay check” and my response “Suck a log.” Then we actually said some nice things about each other, I left the stupid car top in the store for the last time, and I was gone.
I got to the customer’s house a few minutes later. I turned off my car, left the keys in the ignition, and ran up to the door. I knocked, it opened, and I was greeted by a “Oh, it’s you!”
The girl who answered the door was named Jenna. She used to go to Towson, we had some classes together (she was a freshman and I was jumping back to grab some neccessary course-work to fill my art and science requirements) and we talked on occasion during the semesters I worked in Linthicum Hall’s computer lab, I was pushin’ Van Wilder back then. She played soccer and was always showing me some new scrape on her legs or arms. She once sported a black eye from a poorly executed attempt at head-butting a soccer ball. She transfered to Arizona State the same semester I put my degree on hold, and I hadn’t seen her since. Coincidentally, she’d worked for Greg while I was working across the street at another pizza franchise for a scumbag named Tony. I delivered to her on occasion, as she babysat for several folks who lived in the area — we would joke about how neither of us could escape school since we kept bumping into each other. She’d already been gone for Arizona when I began working for Greg, and I did so in large part because of how highly she spoke of him, and he really was one of the better people I’ve ever worked for.
So we got to talking, and Jenna admitted that she’d been in to visit Greg earlier and he’d told her it was going to be my last day. She invited me in and we had some of her dad’s Rolling Rock. I haven’t had that shit since I was living in Towson, and it still tastes like muddy water. The hours ticked past, she finished the pizza (I had a rice cake), and we continued to drink. Anyone who knows me knows I’ve got little tolerance for alcohol, it’s just not something I drink on a regular basis. I’d be falling on my ass but for sitting on her sofa, meanwhile she’s sober as a lark and had twice as many beers as I had.
She mentioned she was living at home only until her parents returned from their vacation — she could never get used to living under the same roof, particularly after the freedoms she’d enjoyed living on her own. She’s got a place in Baltimore but she can’t afford to move in until her roomate arrives from Arizona at the beginning of December, so like it or not, she’s going to have to live with her folks for a couple of weeks. Made me think of my sister — she’s moving back at the end of the school year, frustrated with Hawaii’s problems — and wants to live rent-free with my parents for a while. (They, in turn, want to charge her bookoo rent).
It’s true what they say about students who go to Arizona State — they really do take partying to a whole new level.
Her parents have an awesomely stocked liquor cabinet, and on my drunken claim “I can make the best buttery nipple ever!” she took me up on that. There was no Bailey’s Cream, nor Butterschnaps, but there was a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of root beer schnaps, so, I don’t know what that shot is called, but it was actually pretty disgusting — I nearly gagged all over her. There was also, I think, goldschlager? Flecks of gold floating around? I had some of those from the same shotglass I’d had the whiskey/root-beer-schnaps from, but I wasn’t guzzling the Cap’n Morgan like she was (it might’ve been Jack Daniels, I was pretty woozy by this point — heck, it could’ve been a bottle of sprite).
The next thing I know, we’re in her bedroom, she’s on top of me, and instead of a pillow, my head is resting on an oversized bear, and as we’re, well you know, she’s telling me about how some jock from ASU won the bear for her as a prize (does anyone else have conversations about whatever during sex?). Flash forward a few hours and I wake up and her alarm is blaring and it’s too-fucking-early-o’clock on her clock radio and she’s trying to pull me on top of her with one hand and swatting at the clock with the other and I don’t really remember what happened next except Sarah was on 98-Rock, I’m alone in the bed, it’s really bright out, and I can smell sausage and eggs and bacon. Not that I want to brag or anything, but of course I’ve got a huge grin on my face because I just had a night of unforgettable intimacy with the hottest girl I think I’ve ever met (or at least, ever slept with).
I found most of my clothes (I left the franchise’s uniform shirt) and went downstairs. She was in the kitchen wearing an oversized t-shirt and mannin’ the oven. She kissed me on the cheek, and told me to sit at the counter where she set in front of me a plate overflowing with scrambled eggs, toast, sausage, and a strip of bacon. I didn’t need much encouragement to eat (plus, boy had I worked up an appetite), so I did. As I finished, she brought over a dollar bill and handed it to me. “That’s for you, too.”
I had the oddest thought looking at that dollar with my hungover brain. Was she paying me for last night? Because, really, I wouldn’t even be upset if she hadn’t paid for the order before she invited me in (I thought about giving her the money back, but didn’t want to offend her “What, I’m a whore?” *slap!*) “Was this for last night?” I asked her. I was a little insulted — only a dollar? And if I was that bad, why make me breakfast?
“Well, I asked Daddy what I should get you, for being your last day and all. And he said ‘fuck him, give him a buck’.” Then she smiled and added: “Breakfast was my idea.”
I guess its true what they say about students who go to Arizona State — they really are stupid, amazingly so. I think I’m in love.
Anyway — who would of thunk my best night at work (EVER!!!!) would also be the night I got myself fired? Woohoo!
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