new low faux paux

I got markedly intoxicated over the three day Thanksgiving holiday period. Not for the entire time, but at certain points--and again, markedly. Also embarrassingly.



Though there were other moments of glory, to lazily sum this up in one anecdote: after about ten minutes of talking with a family friend and former babysitter, who I haven't seen since I was ten, I remarked that I recognize her so well, "because of all of the moles on [her] face." She sort of smiled and nodded. I got another drink.



The beauty of this comment was later increased when my sister informed me that the woman has had her major moles removed for cosmetic reasons.



Oh, if only I could liquefy and bottle these completely unnecessary, drunken comments to so-and-so's about their self-conscious such-and-suches; I would save them for a cold winter's night and then bathe in their sweet, self-respect deleting deliciousness.

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jingle jangle jingle

Today I had a sweet, sweet memory cross my mind. It was from a time in the not-so-distant past, though I am a world away from there right now. I'm not sure what made me think of it, but the memory was of me, at my last job, a paralegal at a law firm.

It lasted for about a week and a half. The crazy old clients, who called me incessantly about filling out one simple legal form or another, kept saying that my phone was broken. They would call and call and also call, but would barely ever get through to me. Aside from the complaining--typical of the old ones--the phenomenon also came to my attention because I was receiving an incredibly relaxing dearth of calls during the day.

All around me phones rang and pariahs legaled, but I just kicked it in the cube, filling out crossword puzzles which brought the simultaneous rewards of brain stimulationo, and an exorbitant/fully wasted $19 an hour.

As tech services usually only addresses problems that they are aware of, the phone troubles went unrepaired. My coworkers soon picked up on it, suggested fixing it numerous times, and sent me emails with tone that explained that they were receiving calls from my clients.

But it had allowed me to decend to a new level of slacking, and was truly a glorious gift.

In the end, the receptionist got hip to my flimflamery due to the repeated incidents of her imploring me, via loud-speaker, to pick up calls that she was unsuccessfully attempting to forward me. But you know what? It is better to have loafed and lost, than to never have had your soul dangled in front of your eyes for a fleeting second before it's recrushed by the job that you always dreamed of never having.

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oh how i flatter myself

So last night I was at work right? Yes, right. And among the comers and goers of patronage was a strangely-matched couple of diners. The man: in his late fifties, driving cherry Jaguar, weird. The gal: in her earlier twenties, wearing Sketchers, permed.

We spotted them after they had finished their dinner. They walked out the front door to explain to me and my colleague of carparkology that they were going to go take some pictures in the garden, and would come back to get their car in a few minutes.

At this point, I turned to my homie and said "So, do you think that's his daughter or his girlfriend?" Homie responded, "Jamie, I think that's his prostitute."

This was subtly confirmed by our observation of their photo-sesh in the garden. When most people do this, they have their picture taken standing together by asking the waitstaff or yours truly to photograf. In this case, the man was taking snap shots of the girl all alone. Furthermore, most people don't take pictures of their daughter, or even girlfriend, while she holds plant branches in suggestive positions over her chest, or posed with her backside to the camera while petting the restaurant's cat.

As weird as that was to witness, upon their return the chips of weirdness were really splashed on the pot. The suspected woman of the night came up to me first and said, while staring intently, "So, are you, like, American?"
"Yes, yes I am."
"Huh, that's so uncommon to find here."
"Uh, in America? I guess so."

Then I proceeded to try to get their keys out the key cabinet, asking her politely if she could move so I could do so. She did this weird sort of shifting weight and twisting her hair thing, and barely moved, so I was forced to awkwardly reach around her. Creepy. And lonstorshor, she proceed to try to talk to me before and after I retrieved the Jag, bringing the creep levels to new highs.

Feeling a need to vent about this bizarre incident, I text-messaged Pete: "Just got hit-on by a prostitute, what up wit you?" To which I received no response, until I awoke this morning and read a note he left for me that ended like this:

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holy ham grail

So get this, last night I get home from valeting [not sic] and what do I find in the fridge but a veritable stockpile of Taylor Ham. Pork roll that is...pink gold...jersey jambon...mmmmm.

Yes, it was purchased by Pete. And yes, the great quantity was due to Pete's valid fear that the Food Bazaar (our supermarket) might sell out of it, and fail to restock, as the Bazaar is a never-satisfying mistress.

Pete's excitement upon spotting the pork roll in the market's meat troughs was also pretty legit, as this rare delicacy is typically only found in New Jersey and the dingier regions of Pennsylvania.

At any rate, Pork roll, for the lay eater, is a delectable amalgamation of select portions of the lesser-edible scraps found on the floor of a pig butchery. It's a little like a bologna-sized hotdog, but less nutritious. Yea, and if you think about it, Taylor is a pretty progressive company, so they probably aren't all close-minded about which animals make it into the roll, or what the squares call "meat quality standards."

Though some would be put-off by such a description; on Pete's guarantee, one taste will have you hooked and buying such stockpiles for ages to come. Yum.

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