And Like That

by

The week gets filled up.

I rather knew this would happen and I am grateful for it and also a little, let’s err on the caution side of things here, I don’t want to get too out of hand doing stuffs.

But fuck it.

I won’t always get down time and I don’t always allow myself to fill said down time with things I want to do.

I have a full week now.

Two extra shifts of work, including an unexpected seven hour pop tomorrow back in Cole Valley and a four-hour, it’s enough to get me over the bridge and I have plans on Saturday anyway, so yes to working a short shift in the city late Saturday morning.

I got a chill out with my friend Calvin hang out at the Brazilian restaurant in Hayes Valley nobody ever seems to go to but has really good food.

Food that works with my shit to.

Speaking of which…

30 days!

Yes.

Abstinence it is so nice to make your acquaintance again.

Thank God.

Never want to do that again and to insure such, will be meeting up with the folks that do the thing and then go to the other place and do some more things, you know, on Thursday.

Then Friday, time to get to playa bicycle–the saddle is in, the pennant is in, the basket should be in by the end of the week–because two weeks from Friday I am playa bound.

Holy crap man.

It’s actually happening.

Saturday the aforementioned nanny gig in Cole Valley from 9:30a.m. to 1:30p.m. then a bicycle ride through the park and a date with my friend Beth to go to the Academy of Sciences.

It’s not my first choice, but it is fun, and she has never been.

Plus, it’s so close to work that it’s not going to be a stretch to get there and it will be fun touring Beth around it.  I used to go there all the time with I was taking care of Reno and the Junebug.

Speaking of which!

Princess Bride in the park!

“Anybody got a peanut?”

I am going to meet up with Juni and her mama and watch the penultimate book to movie story ever told.  This has got to be the best adaptation of a book to film that I have ever seen.

The closest I can come to thinking any other film version of a book, “Out of Africa” based on Isaak Dinesen’s work, that works as well.

But The Princess Bride?

Oh, yeah.

Plus, it’s of my generation.  I saw it in a movie theater.  I fell in love Farm Boy.

Wesley why did you have to go get that horrid mustache?

I know, I know, the Dread Pirate Roberts needs to look fierce, but that opening scene with the hank of blonde hair over his face and those lips.

Swoon.

Plus all my friends from Wisconsin give me crap about it.

Friends from highschool.

Friends from the Angelic.

I was standing in the hot lunch line at DeForest High School when Mister Stewart, my forensics coach for four years, my debate coach of four years, and my teacher for two courses, strode up to me to ask me something about an upcoming event.

“Carmen MARTINEZ,” he said in a loud blustery voice.

I stomped my foot, really?

Come on now, four years.

Four fucking years as your student and still you cannot pronounce my name correctly?

I piped up, “My name is Carmen Regina Martines,”

And my friend Dana who happened to be sitting behind me at a table full of my girl friends including Stacey, Arlene, MaryEllen, (yeah I grew up in farm country Wisconsin) and Carrie, piped up in a piercing voice,

“You killed her father, prepare to die!”

Cue massive titters from behind me, Mister Stewart blushing brick-red, and me mumbling something about yes I can do switch sides for the debate tournament if I need to this weekend.

Ah.

Friends.

A few years later, I don’t know why or how or when or even if I had mentioned this story to my set of friends at the Angelic, but I must have.

I mean I can’t believe that I channel Inigo Montoya that well, but maybe.

I am about to go on break.

I have my sandwich, I can remember it distinctly, it was a Friday night and it was fish fry and I was having my Friday regular (and you wonder how it is possible that I hit 282 lbs at my heaviest weight, eh?) dinner:

A fried fish, beer battered, cod sandwich on a split bun with melted cheddar cheese over the top, lettuce, tomato, pickles, a cup of tartar sauce on the side to dip said monstrosity in, a pile of french fries, with a side of, oh yes, sour cream, to dunk them in, and my beverages, a pint glass of cold milk and a liter of Coca Cola–wash down the cigarette or two I was going to have after my meal.

Jesus I am surprised I am not dead just reading that sentence.

(And a very sick part of me wouldn’t mind going back there and tucking into that plate of food again.  I said I was a sick person, shut up.)

I liked a cold glass of milk with my meal.

Really washes it all down.

I had a kind of ritual to the whole thing and it was about the only time I wasn’t on my feet running the bar.

I was about to sit and an employee came and asked me to comp something on a ticket.

I sighed, pushed away from my meal, and went out to the back computer.

I came back and my milk was gone.

Some ass hat had drunk it.

What the fuck?

I am miffed, slightly wonder if maybe I hadn’t drunk it myself, and then shrugged, went back out, refilled glass of milk.

This happens three fucking times.

I sit down to eat and get called away to fix something, comp something, make change for a bar till, check an id, who the hell knows.

Every time I get back, empty glass of milk.

By the fourth time I am over the top and say something asinine, like “for the love of God, who is depraved enough to drink all my milk?”

Ron the bartender, who has been patiently waiting for me to check out his till loses it, snorts laughter, and in hindsight I am surprised he did not vomit it all out at that moment, out his nose.

Turns beet read and says, “for the love of humanity!?”

“That’s not what I said,” I say flustered.

Ron is in convulsions and can barely get it out of his mouth, “I did it.  I drank your milk.”

“Gah,” and starts heaving between his knees.

Beth, a cocktail waitress, and Ron’s then girlfriend, comes over and listens to the story and pipes up, “Hello!  My name is Carmen Regina Martines, you drank my milk, prepare to die!”

So yeah, I am going to see the Princess Bride in the park on Saturday.

I may still swoon for Wesley.

But I promise I won’t drink your milk.

 

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