… to go for a hike on the NCR trail this week, if I have a day off, but my brakes were squealin’ all funkalicious sometimes tonight, so I think an early morning drop-off at the car shop might be in order, with a nice hefty bill to top it off. It’d be easy to get depressed over that, but the car’s the livelyhood, and it runs well and reliably. What more might I ask for?

I need to be more conscious of the fact that just because I’m not hungry, it doesn’t follow that I don’t need to eat.

Today I worked from ten until two at the Indy. We had a busy spurt, and 11 until one was hectic. Being more conscious of the need to stick to my diet, I didn’t snack on slices or make myself a sandwich. When I got out, I went home, bummed around on the internet, then went into the franchise, all without having a single bite to eat.

And then about seven o’clock — woah. Y’know, I can’t think of the word to describe it, except I started feeling weak-kneed and a lack of energy as my body used up, what, the sugar?, and started draining my reserves. Anyway, I dropped off two runs then stopped by a convenience store for two bags of salted peanuts. I haven’t had peanuts since I started the diet. Mmmmh they were gooood.

I’m going to the grocery store tomorrow — or, that’s the plan anyway. I think I’m going to start carrying some “trail mix” with me at work so I’m not stuck relying on pizza or convenience store purchases for a quick “pick me up.” I haven’t decided if I’ll stick with “store made” trailmix or just buy some M&Ms, peanuts, cereal and pretzels and mix it up myself.

The thunderstorm outside my window is going flash-flash-flash. I enjoy thunderstorms when I don’t have to be out in them. This reminds me that I need a new pair of sneakers. The ones I’ve been wearing are three years old and are completely ruined — it’s amazing the soles haven’t fallen out.

Warning: This Post Contains Graphic Imagery (and should only be viewed by heterosexual men and homosexual women over the ages of eighteen).

(more…)

Zap got all the weird stupid calls today. The dude who wanted to order ten pizzas with different toppings but didn’t know what those toppings were supposed to be. The guy who wanted a Greek pizza minus all the toppings. The lady who insisted on an order of lasagna and a side of onion rings (neither of which we sell). The oddest was certainly the woman who called in a sub order, yet was apparently clueless that when ordering something for delivery, an address has to be provided.

South Padonia? There is no South Padonia, whore!

So I worked inside at the Indy today. About one, Silent Bob and Zappy were both out on deliveries and more were waiting on the oven. Gary assigned me a double into the Hunt Valley Industrial Park, so I grabbed a bank, the pies, and hurried out the door. I went south on York and made a right hand turn onto Wight Avenue. Because of the construction on York, traffic waiting to turn onto that road was backed up to the post office.

Each of Wight Avenue’s lanes (two, one in each direction) is wide enough to accomodate two cars side by side. Anyway, I’m heading west when I notice that a car in my lane actually seems to get bigger. And, gosh, those are bright brake lights, aren’t they? So I start to slow, yet the other car keeps getting closer and closer. Wait — is that a windshield? Yes it is. Dickhead fucktard, apparently too important to wait in traffic, decided to jump over to my lane. As I realize I’ve got a car heading right for me, he starts flashing his lights and swerving in an attempt to get me to move over.

If I was really as full of road rage as some people think I am, I would’ve cut my wheel so that my car blocked the road, then thrown the fountain soda from my cupholder across his hood before driving slowly around him, making sure to give him a nice long look at my nice middle finger all the while screaming about what a mentally brain dead retarded fucking dipcock he must be.

Instead, I swerved over as far to the right as I could and didn’t even think to honk my horn.

If I had my dream job, I’d've written him tickets for reckless endangerment, reckless operation of a motor vehicle, reckless disregard for the “rules of the road”, illegal operation of a motor vehicle, and my personal favorite, operation of a motor vehicle while braindead.

I’m working inside at the Indy today.

The pro, of course, is that I won’t be out in the murderous wreckage of Hunt Valley’s Friday traffic witnessing brain-defying acts of traffic incompotence, rudeness, rage, inconsideration and plain old stupidness. None of this is helped by the construction on York Road, or of course, the absolute and complete lack of presence of the Baltimore County Police Department, whose officers apparently displaying an incredible sense of what it takes to survive, hide in parking garages and shudder at the mess that is northern Baltimore County. Myself, I think the nuclear option is the best course of action.

The con, however, is that we will no doubt be busy, and I will be working in a pizza shop around a variety of hot ovens, hot holding units, hot pizzas, and a lobby full of customers, wiping sweat from my face away onto my hat or the back of my hand, peeling my sweat-laden shirt away from my skin only to shiver when it touches back again, and best of all, doing all of this in a place whose only air conditioning comes from propping open the front and back doors.

It’s like those commercials on television, for the odd coupling of businesses? Like you see the fishing trawler advertising manicures? Gary and I were joking the other day that he could put out a sign out front: “PIZZAS & SAUNA.” Hey, truth in advertising, right?

**

So they’re doing this construction on York Road, right? And yesterday they had two lanes shut down, one in each direction. Anyway, so I’m heading north to work in the right hand lane. I’m behind a white pickup truck with a company logo faded on the tailgate. Behind me is some ass in a BMW screaming into a cell phone. Past Valley View Farms, the left-hand lane is closed. It’s marked off with orange cones and a few trucks.

The pickup truck pulls between the orange cones. And when the cones start out, they’re kind of spaced far apart, so I figure he thought the lane opened up. But, no, the truck comes to a stop and a bunch of guys in jeans and t-shirts and reflective safety vests and hard-hats start disembarking from the pickup truck.

Unfortunatly, dipstick in the BMW just wanted to get around me, because he pulled into the left hand lane behind the pickup truck, and as I look into my rearview mirror, I can see the front of his car manuevering to point him back towards oncoming traffic. I can imagine him screaming, but really, all I can offer is some pretty simple advice. “Pay. Attention.”

Or, “Masturbate more.”

Personally, I think he could probably benefit from both.

EotM — Employee of the Month.

As demonstrated by the pick of the May Employee of the Month, the Franchise’s program is nothing but a political back-slap ass-kissing contest designed to reward the most sycophantic brown noser in Greg’s employ. It does not in any way, shape, or form, reward those employees who arrive for work on time, in proper uniform, and who help out at all stations when the phones start to ring and the pizzas start to pile up on the makeline screen.

Which is to say that I am the employee of the month for May. This actually fell into my lap without much politicizing on my part, although I did promise to forego my “right” to an embroidered uniform shirt. I’ve already got one, for the last time I was EotM, back in December. I think I wore it once.

I did, however, successfully succeed in my ongoing campaign for a raise. See, a month or so ago, Maryland raised minimum wage to $6.15. This blew because when this occured, I’d already been making $5.75, sixty-cents over minimum. So one day I’m making sixty-cents over minimum, and the next I’m a minimum wage employee? At the very least, it gave me an excuse to not volunteer for shit.

Set the scene: I’m in the back, reclining in a chair, feet up on some bundles of unfolded boxes. I’ve got a book in my hand. Some management lackey comes back. For the duration of the conversation, my attention remains focused on the book.

“Snay, why don’t you fold those boxes?”

“Nah, I’m a minimum-wage-paid slave, and I already did all my chores today.”

“Er. But yesterday you did extra stuff?”

“Yesterday I made more than minimum wage.”

“But you make more today than you did yesterday!”

“And yet today I make minimum wage, which, when you consider, is less than what I made when I was paid sixty-cents an hour over minimum wage.”

“…i hate you…”

Anyway, Greg and Steve have agreed to give me a nice little pay boost. I’m not making sixty cents over minimum wage (yet), but a victory is a victory.

So I get home.

Check e-mail. Check my blog’s dashboard. Check Blogtimore. Watch Six Feet Under (”Nate, will you be my wife?”*).

Get bad feeling. Go back and run through all regular internet sites again.

Bad feeling persists.

Check online banking.

$70. Cool.

Bad feeling … why?

Scroll down to May 2nd. What happened May 2nd?

Wait. Stop. Rethink. Not what happened May 2nd, but what happens on the 2nd or 3rd of every month, weekends and holidays excluded?

Insurance. Automated withdrawl.

Tomorrow.

$132. Withdrawn. Automatically.

$70 in the bank.

Shiiiiiit.

*That’s a quote from the episode I watched, and shouldn’t be taken as an indicator that I find Peter Krause in any way attractive. I’m all over Rachel Griffith (in MY dreams!)