This morning Tom had another one of his TMI moments. He told me he was fighting stomach problems and diarrhea. Ryan and me talk about #2s pretty much every shift we work together, but there is a subtly to it. A way of keeping the conversation from being downright disgusting. Gross, is fine. Informative is always good. Also, the first hand understanding of the highly vicious product that Tom’s body can produce seriously compounds the mental imagery. A half hour after Tom told me this, I felt the need to step up to bat… If you know what I mean. “I’ll have the pepper jack melt. Extra peppers, please.” These are the words that reassure me every week that I’m a certifiable moron. I’ve read that peppers, even the very spicy ones, are rather good for a person. I’ve also felt that some parts of a person are traumatized by these same peppers that are saving me from a cancerous death. The whole time in the bathroom I was terrified that Tom’s problem would come into play and he’d burst into the bathroom ready to do battle with his lower intestinal tract and I’d be occupying the only outlet for his troubles. I’m not sure what I’d do in that situation, and as much as I thought about it, I couldn’t come up with a suitable answer. Am I strange for considering the etiquette in such a situation?
Take out Terra
Some days have problems, other days, not so much. Today was a day that the problems for me, were other people, who were having problems, that were imagined. The knowledge that their problems were fictitious only served to aggravate my own. Sometime around eleven, there was a large take out order. A tray of lasagna and a big crab and spinach salad. Not a big deal really. The lasagna goes in the oven for a couple of hours, we let it rest for a bit, and I cut it into smaller pieces. The salad, on the other hand, also is simple, but became a headache. Ryan, the night before, had cut various vegetables and pork products into small pieces and had them at the ready to assemble into this to-go salad. So far, so good, right? Terra comes into play, our antagonistic wild card. The night before, she had told “someone” to put a 400 pan into the walk in cooler so the salad would go into it and be cold. Let’s face it, five minutes in a freezer is just as good as a whole week in a refrigerator, so it never got done. This is the “failure” of the kitchen that tamped the powder.
Terra talks to me when she wants something done, not Tom. I’m a bit better at communicating. Not a slander towards Tom at all, he’s better at things than me. Communicating is just not one of those things. Tom knows where all this salad stuff that Ryan had prepared is; I do not know where it is. Terra is talking to me, and in this situation I’m a complete idiot. I have no idea about what had been done the night before and where it’s at. Because I’m the one who she looks to for a semblance of control in the kitchen, and I’m clueless at the moment, she seems to think that the whole system has broken down and that this take out order is full f!@#ed.
It got done, it went out, everyone forgot about it. Such a big deal for something that no one is going to remember in a couple of days. But that’s our lives, right reader? So worked up over things that don’t really matter. The struggle between ultimate futility and meaningful purpose, brought down to the degree of a half hour of frustration about a stupid salad.
The break between shifts I spent at Jason’s. On the way there, and the way back, I noticed a baguette laying on the road on the bridge. I’ve seem some pretty strange items laying on the bridge, but this one stuck in my brain as something pretty bizarre. A simple, crusty, French baguette.
Dinner shift on the line was Ryan and I. We talked about Star Wars more than anything else. He ordered that lightsaber. Yes, I said that lightsaber, like I’m a naggy girlfriend that can’t believe her boyfriend just pissed away a hundred some dollars on something she thinks is dumb. Well, the idea of having a sweet lightsaber is cool, but dropping that much money on it, isn’t to me. Ryan’s got more money than me, so it’s cool. But, hey, sooner or later I’m going to burn better part of a grand on a stormtroper costume. I know I am. So who the heck am I to talk?
He also told me that … man … I can’t remember her name… I spent a bunch of time hitting on her and now I can’t even remember her first name. I feel kind of crappy now. Anyway, the girl he was seeing gave him the “we should just be friends”, and I felt bad for him. I thought that they had something good going on and I’m sure he thought so even more so. If I can recall, I think I was only around the both of them once recently, and she seemed to be totally in to him. There is no way I can really know all the variables at play here, but dating young people seems to be a dice game. I guess I can’t really talk from first hand experience, considering the majority of relationships I’ve had contained at least one element that disqualified it from the cut and dry “Normal” category, but young people… So fickle… So easily spooked… So… Idealistic. I’m doing what I can to shed the hardwired boundaries I have on what a relationship should be. Apart from “monogamous” and “dedicated”, what other qualities must a relationship have? Sure, there are lots and lots of things that I want them to have, but what else must be there? I’m getting in on a bit of a rant, I know. Idealism in relationships has been a bit of a tricky one for me in the past year or two, so I lost my train of thought, I suppose. Stressors for prior relationships originated from my ideals of what that relationship should be. Yeah, there are good elements to relationships we all want, and need… But the problems arise not when we try to enforce what is good for the relationships, but enforce what we want, when in reality, those wants are unnecessary. So, I’m getting tired of this little tirade of mine already. I know some of you readers detest my various rants about things… I’m starting to as well.
So back to summarize my thoughts on Ryan and… dang… What is her name? I feel embarrassed now. I’m sorry to see that things came apart. I thought things were good. I’m going to find some food and maybe do something. I felt pretty darn tired before, but now I’m feeling a bit more perky.
As a sort of pathetic closing note… I’m listening to the Gorillaz, yes the animated band from a couple years back that had the popular hit Clint Eastwood. Yeah, you know them… It reminds me of Grace. We had a time we sat in her car and I picked that out to listen too. This isn’t a trip down memory lane, but a staging ground for the point I’m about to make. I’ve come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, an emotional doormat. Remember that long post a week back or so? The one spilling out how pissed off I was about Grace? I spent a fair amount of time this weekend, while on the road, trying to be angry about it. I just can’t do it. My mind just drifted back to positivity. “I hope she’s doing ok,” “I hope I didn’t shake her up too bad,” “Blah blah blah”. If she called back today, I’d … well I suppose I can’t theorize really, since it’s beyond a point of emotional singularity, but I think I’d be friendly… maybe even happy to hear from her. This is because I’m a doormat. I am a door mat. I am a door mat.