Blogs that think they’re on MySpace and play annoying music without being prompted. Gah. When the music starts playing I’m clicking on the “x” (MySpace, fortunatly, has a setting to disable music for those who like listening to their WinAmp).

A few weeks ago I got hooked on a marathon of “Top Chef” episodes, and last night Geisha came over (she doesn’t have cable) to watch the newest episode. For the challenge, the chefs had to prepare a seven course meal with each course representing one of the seven deadly sins. The woman who got “sloth” was kicked off at the end of the night, and — I’m sure unrelatedly — I’ve been feeling very tired today.

I think its a combination of things: first, my minimester course is more intense than I expected it to be. Second, if I’m not in class, I’m generally working.

Anyway, like I said: slothy. As in, on occasion, I gave up deliveries I could’ve taken. “Do you want to take this with that? I’ll just take this as a single.” Stuff like that. I avoided the slicer with a passion because I just wanted to do the dishes and depart. Fortunatly, giving the boss your old cellphone because his is falling apart is a good way to curry brownie points and I was out and enroute home a little before two. I somehow found the energy to start a load of laundry, and now the only question is, will I be able to get everything folded? I go to my other job at five. Tonight won’t be fun …

… but I know I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight, and if there’s any good news to working this much — work, school, other work — it’s that I sleep like a fucking log, even with my neighbor’s (illegal) dog barking up a storm across the hall.

(Top Chef: I hate Marcel. I’m for Sam, Cliff, or Mike).

A couple of my coworkers are Italian. Generally, this doesn’t actually matter to anyone except one of them, who constantly talks about his dad’s job as a loan shark, and playing up his supposed mafia connections. The other day this individual was talking with another coworker about a truck load of TVs that had “fallen” off the back of a truck. He was heading up north to get a few, at $500 a pop. “I’ll take one,” the other coworker said.

I expressed interest, at which point I was shot down, promptly and quickly. “You ain’t Eye-talian,” my coworker snorted, as if being Eye-talian was all about playing up supposed mob connections rather than an accident of one’s birth. I half-remembered a Tony Soprano rant where he goes off at the stereotypical view of Italians as mobbed-up gangsters, explaining that Italian-Americans are productive members of society. For the most part, I agree, I don’t buy the myth that every Italian in the country is part of the mob, unfortunatly, it is the ones who are — or who pretend to be — who actively spread this myth.

I nearly lost it today, proceeding to make a right-hand turn at an intersection for which I had a green light. Unfortunatly, the mass of traffic making its own left-hand turns didn’t want to let me in — y’know, despite my right of way! — and much honking and finger waving ensued. Window rolled up, I was screaming, “I’VE GOT THE RIGHT OF WAY YOU BLIND MOTHER FUCKERS!” but they didn’t hear me, or seem to care. I was tempted to slam on my brakes and lecture them, but they’re yuppie fuckwads who don’t seem to understand BASIC DRIVING RULES.

When I’m Dictator of the World, failing to respect other people’s “right of way” will be a death penalty offense.

If you’re hungry at work, and you notice that “Joan” has received a large pizza and sub order, and you decide to place your own order from that delivery shop, don’t fall into the trap of saying, “Oh, just send it from Joan’s order,” because what’s going to happen is this:

Me: “I’ve got an order from Joan.”

Receptionist: “Joan already ordered.”

Me: “This is separate. Maybe she placed an addition.”

Receptionist: “Um. I don’t think so. Hold on.” *Dials Joan. Joan arrives carrying large bag of subs. Goes through them.*

Joan: “No, everything is here. Whose name is on the bag?”

Me: “Um. Yours.”

Joan: “It’s not mine. Receptionist, make a page.”

Receptionist: “Will whoever ordered from Indy Pizza Shop and who gave their name as Joan but who isn’t Joan please come to the front to get their order that has been up here for five minutes because you were too stupid to give your real name, please come to the front.”

Okay, so she didn’t actually say that, but she should’ve. And eventually the employee came out of the cubicle maze, and Joan had this expression on her face like, “who the fuck are you?” But it didn’t matter because I got paid and was happily – happily! – on my way.

But I could’ve been on my way a lot faster, so, listen, if you ever order from a company: give your name and your extension number. I’d love to say that pizza delivery guys are psychic and all knowing and all that jazz, but the truth is we ain’t.

One of the neat things about the local blogging community is that a lot of us like to get the drinky-drinky on together. So, that said, the last happy hour was back in November, and the next one is Wednesday the 24th at the Wharf Rat in Fell’s Point, say, 6pm?

Where: The Wharf Rat, Fell’s Point
When: Wednesday, January 24th, 6:00pm
Why: Drinky drinky … ?
Hosted By: Me Danielle and Zenchick.

Pass the word.

UPDATE:

I originally posted the link to the Camden Yard’s Wharf Rat, a mistake by omission (I didn’t know there were two). The link has been updated.

For a two hour and twenty-minute class, it is amazing how quickly “Shakespeare” goes by. I’m finding myself revising my opinion of the Prof. We have two take-home quiz assignments to turn in Monday: the first is a hand-drawn map of England marking locations mentioned in Richard II. The second is a character analysis of Sir John of Gaunt, Richard’s uncle. Here’s one thing I can say about the character - the man could turn a neat phrase:

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth

Without doubt the best part of yesterday’s class was the Prof realizing that about a quarter of the class had no version of Richard II, prompting a lecture detailing the shortened nature of the minimester courses, the hardwork of taxpayers to underwrite both our education and his salary, and how failing to bring books to class — “Because you can’t understand what we’re talking about without the text!” — was a personal slight towards him.

I might’ve felt different if I didn’t have a book, but I did, so I didn’t.