On my way to work today, I saw a girl outside of Florafino’s on Maple watering the plants. I thought to myself… “If I was dating/married to/stalking a person who worked at a florist, would she want to receive flowers? Or would she be sick of them? I work in a kitchen and I don’t mind getting food from anyone as long as it’s decent. But food and flowers aren’t the same. Everyone needs food, no one actually needs flowers.” So, any thoughts on that, reader?

At work, a vendor came in, and I can tell he was a vendor because kitchen people have a sixth sense about them. The laptop was a give-away too. Kitchen people are among the large list of professions that look down on vendors as a sub-species. I made it a priority to mess with vendors while I was in school all the time, making them go on and on about the products they were supposed to be pushing for the month, getting them all worked up about a sale (why I was put in charge of ordering ever is still beyond me), and then tell them that I didn’t want any. So this guy looks nervous and he asks where Vince is. The proper thing to do would be to lead him down into the dark basement to Vince’s office. But vendor’s aren’t proper people. So I told him he was downstairs … that way … at the end of the hall … on the right. Making sure to give pause in between statements just so long as for him to realize I wasn’t going to say anything more, but not long enough for him to ask for clarity. This also assured that he wouldn’t ask for directions navigating the basement. The office isn’t obviously apparent in regards to it’s location from the bottom of the steps. Maria’s basement is like a normal person’s basement in a home built before the 1960’s and cluttered with things that could be called “antiques” if they weren’t decrepit. So, I hope he was terrified.

Today, the Michael’s delivery guy showed up in a rental truck instead of the normal blue one. He told me it was because Michael’s doesn’t have enough trucks with (and I believe he said) “reefers”. This guy is the sort that reminds you of John Coffey in the Green Mile. He’s gigantic and super nice. Small people? They don’t really have a lot of valid options when it comes to personality. Mean people who are small don’t live long and if they do, they don’t make it far. Big people? An aggressive attitude has more validity, but this fellow chose not to pursue that option. I really like that guy.

At one point during work, I discovered a plastic bear filled with honey. I’ve seen these before. As I looked at it I thought, “It’d be a crappy job to be the guy who paints on the eyes and noses on these things… Hrm, I wonder if they’re on the outside or the inside,” so I sort of scraped at the eye with my thumbnail and asked Tom. Tom took the bear and scraped at the eye with his fingernail. I lost interest and walked off to wash my hands. When I came back Tom was trying to scrape at the eye from the inside with a paring knife. Honey was running out of the top onto the line. Here is a picture of him discovering that the eyes are painted on the outside and as proof that he understand this he transforms a normal honey filled plastic bear into a normal honey filled plastic bear/pirate.

(Edit: Picture missing)

During my lunch break, I went to Cohort’s. He had my lock picks and I spent two hours picking locks. I’m getting proficient. Back at work, I made the mistake of showing the lock pick kit to the bartender in front of Terra. She seemed concerned and worried. I bet this will come back on me. Also it was a poor choice to try and demonstrate the lock picks on the bar register. That was my bad. While out back at work, I saw Stanley standing by the side door smoking before he came in to go on the clock, I went up to talk to him. We chatted about some stuff.

Stanley: Haha, yeah that’s funny.
Me: Not as funny as what your about to do.
Stanley: What?
Me: [shouting to jailbait across Orchard Street]Hey, baby!
(at this point I darted inside the door to hear his reply)
Stanley: Oh, man.
Jailbait: [shouted reply]You got a car?

This reply confused me. Greatly. I instantly thought “prostitute” from that reply, but she was like fourteen, maybe fifteen, sixteen at the very most. Maybe she wanted a ride somewhere from Stanley? Maybe at that age the desirability of a boyfriend with a car is very high, considering the importance put on the ownership of a car and the license to operate it. Who’s to say, but I thought about that all night and so far I’ve been unable to come up with a solution to why she gave that reply.

At home, while my dad was telling me about a woman who was killed in a car crash when a car going the opposite direction hit a deer, which was sent airborne and then into that woman’s windshield, then subsequently into her. He wasn’t sure if the deer-driver collision was fatal, but the car then hit a utility pole. While he was telling me about this, I noticed a mostly-dead June bug on the floor of the kitchen. In a house with a brave schnauzer this is opportunity knocking. Beetle + dog = hilarity. Either the wings were tickling the Doop’s face or it was pinching him, but he’s bite and then toss his head sending the beetle flying, then I’d point it out to him again and he’d repeat. That was hilarious.

First thing tomorrow I head for Cincinnati to help Katie haul back all of her furniture. See ya’ll in a couple days.