My sister just called — she found my MySpace page, and by extension, my blog.

Fuckity fuck.

On the bright side, as a result, I’ve found not only her MySpace page (sorry parents, don’t ask I ain’t tellin’), but also both of my cousins’ pages.

What typically happens when the pizza shop you work in is located right next to a laundry shop is that, frequently, some ditzy moron will wander in with their clothes in their arms, realize they’re in the wrong place, and walk back out.

Tuesday, as Zap, me, Silent Bob, and James stood around the box table yammering away (our “rush” started at eleven o’clock and ended at eleven oh three), a woman resembling (fat) Anna Nicole Smith pulled into the parking lot. She was driving an SUV that makes Tony Soprano’s Suburban look like a midsize. She made repeated efforts to get into the parking space, and wound up straddling two spaces, with her driver’s front tire atop the concrete stopper at the very front of the space.

Inside, we were discussing how today was “Don’t Bother Parking Properly at The Indy” day, because two other morons — one of ‘em a blond surfer dude — had totally taken up multiple spots with their cars. Impressive in surfer dude’s case, since he was driving, if memory serves, a Toyota Echo, which is about two and a half feet long.

Meanwhile, (fat) Anna Nicole is rummaging through the back of her truck, finally emerging with a stack of clothes. She lumbers to the sidewalk, and then right through our open front door, where, without noticing she’s in a pizza shop, she dumps this assorted laundry onto the front counter.

Saddly — for those of us behind the counter — the clothes contained, shall we say, her “intimate” apparel, which is to say, bras and panties of the baggy variety.

“Uh, excuse me?” Zap ventured. Generally, folks with dry-cleaning recognize their mistake before they dump their dirty fucking laundry all over our counter.

(fat) Anna, meanwhile, had turned herself around and was wobbling towards the front door. Come to think of it, she reminded me a lot of Ogre. In any case, at Zap’s inquiry, (fat) Anna simply replied, “No starch. I’ll be back Saturday.”

“We’re not the dry cleaners!” James shouted.

Either she didn’t hear us, or she chose not to believe us. I don’t know how she could miss the fact that our front counter is five times deeper in the store than the dry-cleaner’s, or that our walls are painted green as opposed to white, or the fact that our shop smells like, uh, pizza, as opposed to laundry detergent, but indeed, (fat) Anna was opening the door.

Now, the fact of the matter is, that very few of us at the Indy ever need to take advantage of the dry cleaners’ services. I get my pants and shirts pressed there, but as I only “dress up” for interviews and funerals, I’m there maybe once a month. However, the dry cleaners come down to us almost every day, they’re great strip-mall neighbors, and even though we have communication problems (they’re not, shall we say, English-speaking), we don’t want them to take the rap for this woman’s missing clothing when she really gets to the dry cleaners and finds out that the pizza shop threw all her shit into the fucking dumpster.

There was only one answer.

With no regard for our personal safety, we grabbed her clothes, including her nasties, and as she was trying to get back into her tank, we dumped them on her hood.

I think she got the message.

Particularly as she didn’t come back into the pizza shop insisting on no starch.

I can’t stop crackin’ up.

What’s more amusing than a redneck in a battered company pick-up truck (y’know, taped up back window) knocking over a dozen orange cones on his zig-zaggin’ way across Shawan and down York Road as he cuts off cars, and dodges in and out of northbound traffic as he heads south?

Watching him rear-end a county police car and get his ass beat by a pissed off petite blonde cop.

(I wish that entire last sentence happened).

Oddly, it was the creaking of the bed frame through the wall from the WTs’ apartment that sort of smacked this home to me. I won’t describe the occupants of the WT apartment in any greater detail than I have before, except that there are, as best as I can tell, six people in the apartment — a dude, my age, who drives a Dodge Neon with a tailpipe bigger than the Death Star; an older woman, presumeably his momma; a young blonde woman, presumeably who he’s making the bed creak with every night (both she and the momma work at the McD’s); and two black kids (so maybe I should call it the W&BT apartment). Okay, so that makes five, not six, shoot me.

Anyway, so it’s not like my walls are paper thin. It isn’t easy to listen to whats going on in their apartment, I have to put a glass up to the wall to magnify the sounds. I’m kidding. But sometimes, lying in bed waiting for sleep to overtake me (or, watching tv), I can hear the faint creak of bedsprings, a faint ‘thuk thuk’ as the bed thwaks the wall, a low moaning from one or both (and presumeably no more than both) of the participants.

There’s an episode of Scrubs where J.D. is getting trashed for his relationship with TCW (Tasty Coma Wife), who he’s starting to date. He’s getting trashed by his buddies ‘cuz her hubby’s in a bed in the hospital. Anyway, the lesson he narrates to himself at the end of the episode — and I wonder if he really types these up Doogie Howser style — is that a person can be surrounded by people, and still be lonely.

On the plus side, I generally work so much I don’t notice I’m lonely. And I know that once I’m back in school this coming semester (and I’m looking forward to this more than I care to admit), I won’t have much free time at all, so it’s probably for the best, y’know, to be single.

Still sucks.

(The cats don’t count. They’re lousy at snugglin’).