Today I was doing some vacuuming and accidentally vacuumed up Bolie's favorite catnip mouse. It was too big to get sucked up, luckily; it just jammed in the bottom of the vacuum with a loud, grating noise. I fished it out and replaced it in the cat toy basket. Bolie didn't seem to notice that his mouse smelled any different.
May 3—Next time I'll just wait till daylight and walk indoors.
I went to the bank tonight. As it was well after hours, I used the drive up lane to deposit two paychecks. I pulled up to the ATM, put the car in park, killed the engine, unbuckled my seatbelt, rolled down the window, and then realized that I had failed to pull up far enough. I grumbled a bit to myself as I restarted the car to pull forward a bit, naturally overcompensating. It turned into a small battle with me inching back and forth and trying, all the while, to maintain exactly the same distance between the ATM and the side of the car so I wouldn't have to overreach like I did last time I went to an ATM late at night. I hope the security guard enjoys watching the tape.
May 4—No work and all play makes Lauren a poor girl.
When I did the load out for Van Morrison, I heard that I might be getting the call to do a load in at another theatre today. By yesterday evening, I still hadn't heard anything, so I figured I hadn't got the call and forgot about it. This morning, though, at seven thirty—an hour and a half after the call time—my phone rang. It turned out that one of the people who had the six o'clock call had not shown up, and they wanted me to replace him. I debated for a moment, wanting the money, but realized I couldn't reach the theatre in time. It was seven thirty a.m., meaning I'd have to sit through rush hour traffic, deal with trying to park downtown on a weekday morning, and I wasn't even dressed or fed yet. Besides, I didn't feel like spending more time driving than working. I probably could have avoided the awkward conversation and self-kicking had I called the hiring hall on Sunday instead of Monday, thereby getting put on the call sooner . . . oh well.
This morning, I sat in front of the TV, reading something online on my laptop. I shifted in my Papasan chair at just the wrong moment, causing my laptop to slide off my lap. I seized it before it could drop to the floor (though why I'm worried about that when this laptop has hit the deck at Mozart's without damage), and it slammed into my wrist. I put ice on it so as to prevent a fair-sized knot from forming. I had to throw away the first baggie of ice I made for myself since the ice inexplicably smelled of fish, and I didn't want that smell on me. Probably it's because there are a couple of frozen halibut fillets immediately beneath the icebox in my freezer.
Today, I share yet another story detailing my astounding lack of social grace.
In the wee hours of this morning, I checked my OK Cupid e-mail and saw that I had received the following:
you misspelled recieve
Of course, that is not the correct spelling of "receive." I know that my spelling and grammar are nigh-perfect, and I would have none of this would-be correcting from someone who can't even operate a shift key correctly. In a fit of something equating guilt, I reasoned that he might have meant well, so I decided not to unleash the snark just yet. I replied:
Google it, genius.
Of course, he failed to do so, and he emailed me again (still without bothering to use any punctuation).
never heard of the i before e rule, huh?
I grew annoyed. I would not be corrected by someone lacking an elementary school education, and I began to let my temper show.
I have. In fact, I heard the complete rule instead of only the first half. It's i before e except after c.
Incidentally, you missed more than that lesson; you also missed lessons on capitalization, punctuation, and when to use the word "and."
Naturally, he still wasn't done.
lol next time you respond trying to correct someone's grammar, make sure you put the period at the end of the sentence.
it should be "and".
Naturally, he was still wrong, which I pointed out.
No, it shouldn't. Periods and commas always go inside quotation marks. All other punctuation marks go outside the quotation marks unless they are part of the quote.
Next time you try to correct someone's grammar, make sure you know what you're talking about first.
At this point, he changed his tactics, abandoning trying to correct me. He tried backpedaling instead, which of course didn't work.
i've been kidding since my first message
it's nice to meet you =]
My response summed up what I'd been thinking all along.
Yeah, right.
I've been serious, and I still am when I tell you that you are a tool.
I blocked him. Even in the highly unlikely event that he actually did know his grammar, which I doubted since he hadn't bothered to use any of it, it was still an idiotic move to make. Who starts a conversation by picking on somebody's already-perfect grammar? As many, many people have observed, you do not pick a grammar fight with me, because you will not win.
I told a friend about this incident later, and he said, "You ate a moron for breakfast." I pointed out that it could have been worse since I wanted to go through his entire profile and point out every single mistake, which would have been well-deserved, but it would have been too time-consuming.
I suppose it was more the other guy's lack of social grace than mine, but whatever. I wanted to share that story.
May 7—I'll just let the sushi lady at HEB do it next time I want sushi.
This morning I made sushi. Not having made it before, I had no idea what the hell I was doing, but I reasoned it couldn't really be that difficult since all I actually had to do was cook the rice and slice the vegetables. Of course, in typical ugly American fashion, I failed to comprehend the delicate subtleties of sushi rolling, a problem compounded by my lack of a bamboo sushi rolling mat.
Despite using the amount of rice and vinegar called for, I had too much rice with too much vinegar. I shrugged, thinking 'What the hell.' This was not the most appropriate thought for the occasion. Then, of course, I didn't slice the cucumber or avocado thinly enough, so when it came time for me to roll the sushi, I wound up with a giant roll that almost wouldn't close. Ah well; it tasted fine.
May 10—Next time I'll go downstairs for the stepladder.
This morning I decided to rearrange a few things in my room. Specifically, I wanted to move a few baskets around in my closet so I could fit one more basket onto the top shelf. Being five feet three inches, I can't reach the top shelf without something to stand on. I didn't feel like retrieving the stepladder from the garage, so I just moved the bed step from the side of my bed to stand on instead. No sooner had I set it down then I walked straight into it, leaving a fair-sized knot on my left shin.
May 11—"Did you marinate this?" "Well, kinda; I spilled beer on it."
Tomorrow I'm working a fair-sized call at the Erwin Center, and, in a rare feeling of camaraderie with my fellow stagehands, I decided to bring some baklava to work. I like showing off my culinary skills, especially with stuff that looks complicated, so I opted to make baklava. The easiest thing in the world to make, all you have to do is layer buttered phyllo dough sheets with a filling made of nuts, sugar, and cinnamon. Then it goes in the oven, after which you pour a sauce made of water, sugar, and honey over it. It looks incredibly complex, yet it is ridiculously simple. Perfect.
Except.
The recipe called for four cups of ground almonds, and after I'd ground up every almond in the house, I still barely had two cups. I had to go to the store to get more, which turned into a complete trip rather than a simple errand. Then I returned home, ate dinner, popped open a Guinness, and got cooking. All went well until I nearly tipped over my Guinness, straight into the baklava pan. Mercifully, I caught it the instant the beer reached the neck of the bottle, so nothing happened. I moved the bottle to the other side of the sink after that.
While the baklava baked, I made the honey sauce to drizzle over it. I made it according to the recipe, which called for lemon juice. I tasted the finished sauce and decided I didn't like the lemon juice since it made it taste like cough syrup. There's a classic cough remedy consisting of hot whiskey, lemon juice, and honey; only I don't like lemon juice, so when I make it, there's never any lemon involved. Actually, there isn't that much honey involved either. Whatever. Anyway, I tossed that sauce and remade it without the lemon juice, which was much tastier. I poured the sauce over the baklava and let it sit for a bit, and then I wrapped up all the pieces. Being very sticky, I double wrapped each piece in plastic wrap. Then I sought a bag in which to carry the baklava, and—of course—the one bag I had on hand was a large, bright red one with the Frederick's of Hollywood logo in giant letters across it.
Of course, the following morning, I very nearly left the house without the baklava. I was rushing out the door when I had to run back and grab it from the fridge, nearly spilling the whole thing onto the floor.
May 12—At least my shins match now.
Following my high-speed career out of the house this morning (and high-speed return to pick up the forgotten baklava), I was a few miles from the house when I realized I had left my hairbrush at home. Not wanting to turn around and head back, I stopped at the nearest Walgreen's to pick up a new hairbrush. Then I headed to work, arriving early and arranging the baklava on the table in the crew room and quickly throwing away the Frederick's bag before anyone commented on it. To my distress, there were twice as many people on the call as there were pieces of baklava, so not everyone got one. Oh well.
I was on the audio crew, so I had a good day. Until it came time to move the stage, that is. All the stagehands moved under the stage, which, in case you couldn't guess, was dark. Naturally, I walked straight into a stage brace and whacked the shit out of my right shin.
Of course, it didn't end there; I also managed to completely fail to talk to one of the other stagehands in whose good graces I would like to be. Ever since I first met him when working with him at AC/DC, he has disliked me, despite my best (read: shy, fumbling, and totally botched) attempts at getting along with him. If he were some idiot, I wouldn't care, but he isn't. It really bothers me that one of my favorite coworkers hates my guts. I suppose if he had had a piece of baklava, it might have helped make amends, but I don't think he heard about it. Then again, he probably would have refused a piece anyway. Alas.
This evening, I went into my dad's computer room to ask him something, and I spied a clothespin on his desk. I asked what it was for, and he said it was a C47 (film industry speak for clothespin). I picked it up and pinched it to open it, at which point it flew apart in my hands, scattering its individual pieces across the floor, which I could not piece back together. At that point I made my excuses and left.
May 16—I've apparently bought everything in town that fits me.
Today I went to Goodwill in search of new pants. A couple of my pairs of jeans don't fit very well, so I've decided to donate them back to from whence they came. I went to four Goodwills, one WalMart, and two Salvation Army stores; all in all, it was a bust. Exhausted, I went home and tried eBay, finding, at first search, a pair of jeans identical to my favorite pair.
Planning a trip to the grocery store within the next day or so, I decided I wanted to make some fish. I went through the kitchen drawers searching for the filleting knife, but I could not locate it. Great, a nine-inch filleting knife; that's a hell of a thing to misplace. I went to the computer to research where to buy the best filleting knife for the price.
While online, my friend Cody instant messaged me.
"Haven't talked to you in a while; what's up?" he asked. I replied with a brief explanation of my obsessive worry about the coworker who hates me, ending with,
"[My coworker] hates me. Fuck that noise. By the way, do you know where I can buy a filleting knife?"
There was an awkward silence on Cody's end of the chat, and then he said,
"I'm not helping you bury the body."
Realizing the enormity of what I had just said, I hastily explained that I wanted to cook some fish but had lost my knife. I then quickly made my excuses and left to purchase a new one.
May 19—One Under the Table, None Under the Host
This evening, I met a stranger off the Internet. Realizing how skeazy that sounded, I carried my pocket knife and pepper spray with me, and I didn't bother to empty the wrenches out of my bag. The meeting went well enough, but if he were hoping to impress me and date me, he failed. In the middle of our conversation, I caught him texting under the table. It wasn't throughout the conversation; it was an over-in-a-second thing, just like his chances. Still. I realize I'm not that fascinating, but come on. You have to at least pretend to find me interesting. I tried to conceal my annoyance but only really wound up babbling instead, thereby justifying his apparent boredom.
(On a side note, I nearly did not post the above story because I knew he might read it, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to be that bitchy. I wrung my hands about it to my friend Bobby, who offered me a solution: "He texted under the table." Thusly, I have posted this story.)
Then I went home and discovered that my dad had cooked some sausages. I went to put two on my plate, and one of them rocketed into the sink and bulls eyed down the garbage disposal. I once lost a hair dryer that way too . . .
May 20—A good craftsman never blames his tools. Fortunately, I am not a good craftsman.
I was designing a shirt knitting pattern this afternoon and discussing it on instant messenger with a couple of friends. I decided to knit the shirt with white Lion Brand Microspun, so I went to the stacking wire drawers I bought at Ikea last December in which to house my yarn stash. I overly enthusiastically opened the drawer to remove the yarn in question. A few seconds later, I found myself typing bitchily, "Okay, Ikea officially sucks now—I just opened the wire drawer that has my white yarn in it and it fell out and all my white yarn is all over the floor. brb."
May 21—I don't have the legs for shorts that short, but not in the way you might think.
My dad and I went to the grocery store this afternoon. I didn't bother to change clothes before I left, meaning I walked around HEB in my Daisy Duke shorts with my skinny white legs showing. I didn't think too much of the funny glances at first other than 'You hypocritical bitches wouldn't be staring if I had dark skin'; then I realized that my heavily bruised shins were showing. My left shin still has a bruise from the tenth; my right shin has a large knot from the twelfth.
May 22—I suppose the filleting knife would have been better than pepper spray.
I have quite a long entry for today as I had multiple incidents, starting with grooming Freefall this morning after I noticed that he had a number of mats in his coat. I took him outside to brush him off, and then I realized the mats weren't going to come out, so I returned to the house for scissors. I groomed Freefall a bit more outside, but he kept walking away to sniff at plants and things, so I carried him into the bathroom indoors to finish. He had other ideas, though, and kept crawling behind the toilet. At length he gave up and lay still on the bathmat, resigned to letting me do my thing. At one point I tugged a mat of fur a bit too hard, and he opened his mouth and blew gently at me. That's a warning; his hiss that means business is only ever heard by the vet. I was as gentle as I could be, but due to the large number of mats and me not knowing what the hell I was doing, Freefall still ended up with a bald patch on his side. Oh well. I finished grooming him, and he nibbled gently on my knuckles. All was forgiven.
Later in the day, I made some salmon. I'm not actually all that crazy about salmon, but I wanted to make salmon quenelles with raspberry vinaigrette and guacamole. I got the idea, disturbingly, from American Psycho: Near the beginning of the book, Patrick Bateman and his snobby, materialistic compadres go out to eat at a ridiculously overpriced, luxurious restaurant. Most of the food described sounded pretty good, but the only even remotely affordable item was the salmon. I purchased an astronomically expensive hunk of salmon from the fish counter at HEB and used my new filleting knife to mangle the salmon beyond recognition. Luckily, the whole thing went in the food processor anyway, so it didn't matter. Then I made the raspberry vinaigrette, only I decided to add some olive oil to it, which ruined it, and I had to throw it away and start over. Finally, I made the guacamole, which went well enough apart from me dribbling small pieces of avocado onto the counter and the screen of my iPod. Still, the combined results of my efforts made for one of the tastiest meals I've had in a long time.
After eating, I got ready to head to my friend Dom's show. I nearly didn't because I wasn't sure what kind of show it would be, which, considering whom I'm talking about, is saying something. Dom is a sweetheart and I love him to death, but, well . . .
. . . his shows can get out of hand.
Thus it was with only the slightest nagging trepidations that I read the Facebook invitation to his show in town. I saw the location was at a studio somewhere downtown, which sounded cool, and I began looking forward to it. Then I read the additional information regarding the party, and read with horror the ominous portent of doom that the show was a "fraternity/sorority party."
Oh noes.
If you have to have it explained to you why this was a problem, get the hell off this website.
I commented on the page, "Is it seriously a fraternity party? I'm not going if it is." Knowing Dom, I realized it was very unlikely that it really would be a frat party, but you never can tell. Much as I love Dom, I won't attend a frat party for love or money. As one friend pointed out, "Hey, it's a frat party, so you'll have a good chance of getting laid, whether you want to or not." Precisely. I debated attending and finally decided, 'I'll go, but I'm carrying a set of vice grips in my purse. And if I hear the word "dibs" shouted in my general direction at any point, I'm leaving.'
Luckily, Dom set my fears at ease by replying to my query with, "I will be there - so - NO!" Relieved, I made a note to leave the vice grips at home, and I set about researching the studio's location. Upon viewing the image of the place on Google Maps, I decided to carry not only the vice grips but pepper spray as well.
I arrived at the venue at nine on the dot, the time the show was set to start, only to find absolutely nobody there except the band that was setting up. I recognized a couple of Dom's fellow musicians, though, so I stuck around until I found out that Dom was running late and wouldn't go on until closer to midnight. I left and went home, changing into more weather-appropriate gear since it had sprinkled on me a bit on the way down there, and I had on sandals and a skirt that blew up in the wind. I came back at eleven with sneakers and a trench coat.
Before too long, Dom arrived, and we shouted hellos before he went to set up. His show was, of course, the best set of the evening. I hung around till the end, by which point only about four people were left. Dom himself left in the middle of the set but returned. I went to say goodbye to him and hugged him goodbye.
"Oh, no, I'm all sweaty," he said.
"That's okay. People have hugged me after work before, and that's worse," I reminded him, with which he had to agree. I made to leave.
"Be careful," he told me. I smiled and thanked him—I told you he was sweet—and figured he had a point and dug my pepper spray out of my purse. I was relieved I did, because the walk back to the car was a little scary. Nothing happened other than a truck driver honking at me until I held up the pepper spray in my hand with my finger on the button, at which point the honking immediately ceased. About ten feet from my car, some guy offered me a ride, which I declined, again with the pepper spray visible. I returned home without event and showered immediately to to get the smoke out of my hair. Even though it was indoors, people smoked anyway. What a nasty habit. So I thoroughly washed my hair, ate some leftover salmon, and fell asleep on the couch.
May 23—Garbadge Man (Yes, with a "d." It's a song.)
In a continuation from yesterday, I was still asleep on the couch when Meet the Press aired earlier today. I woke up as it was ending, went back to sleep, and slept through the rerun two hours later.
Later, I polished off the salmon quenelles and threw away a few spoiled things from the fridge. Naturally, I did so after I'd run a lemon wedge down the garbage disposal to make it smell nice, so the clean fresh scent was canceled out by the smell of spoiled orange juice. Then I took out the trash and the recycling, accidentally dropping some paper on the driveway and then skidding in a puddle when I bent to pick it up.
May 24—It's not compulsive. Definitely compulsory.
As I sat at my computer working on the knitting pattern for the Darwin fish shirt this evening, I heard a loud thump behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw that a stack of books had fallen over. I shrugged and got back to work. A little while later, I went downstairs to make some tea, and when I returned, I looked at the floor and thought 'This place looks like a hurricane hit it.' I Googled "dirty apartment" and was horrified at the first return. It was an apartment in north Houston that had apparently been abandoned after Hurricane Ike hit. The thing was . . . the apartment hadn't been touched by Ike; it had only ever been touched by the I can only imagine foul beast who lived there. Some middle aged woman had been effectively living in a Dumpster. The place was full of empty fast food bags and drink cups, empty pizza and donut boxes, and mountains of cigarette butts everywhere. As for the bathroom . . . 
I fail to comprehend how anyone could possibly live like that. I wouldn't set foot in that apartment without a biohazard suit on. The tenant must have had a mental disorder, not to mention she must have been the size of a hippopotamus. As for the smell, of either the apartment or the inhabitant, one can only imagine (hint: Don't.).
Needless to say, the images fucked over my whole evening. I had to stop talking to my friend Robert online.
"Excuse me while I go and clean frantically," I told him. I promptly spent the next three hours mopping the kitchen floor and dusting. Granted, the worst I really had to worry about was a collapsed stack of about a dozen books and a few pieces of sheet music on the floor, but still. Yowza. Fearful of my house even remotely resembling that woman's place, I swept and then thoroughly wiped down every surface in the kitchen and then mopped, using up the last of the Mop & Glo. I pulled the fridge out from the wall to clean behind it. (I found a spoon, but nothing else.) I removed the decorative leaves from the wall over the fireplace and dusted them individually. I put two glasses that were in the sink in the dishwasher and ran it. I started laundry. I took out the half-full recycling. I moved all my dad's tools and crap into the farthest corner of the living room. Tomorrow I will be sorting books and putting them all in the closet. Logic dictates that will be impossible since I have too damn many books, but it must be done.
. . . On a side note, before anyone calls me a compulsive cleaner, I would like to point out that I did only basic chores that everyone should do, just that I did them all at once, motivated by fear and loathing. On a further note, I would like to point out that you should keep your house presentable, if not for yourself (and your health), you should want it to look nice in case anyone comes over. I can't remember the number of times I've been over to a guy's place for the first and last time because I stepped inside, looked around, saw that he lived in squalor, and left as quickly as possible. Nobody wants to clean up after a pig. It doesn't say anything too great about you if you live like that. I remember College Pothead had a terrible apartment. Nothing on the scale of the sheer horror described above, but it was bad. I distinctly remember the thick layer of dust on every horizontal surface, the dirty dishes stacked quite literally to the ceiling, and the fifty-five gallon drum he and his roommate used as a trash can, which was overflowing onto the floor. Then again, considering that CP used the phrase "titties all over the place" on the second date, smoked copious quantities of weed, and currently works for Alex Jones, I suppose it stood to reason that he would live like that.
I thought CP was bad; then I moved in with a couple of guys, one of whom put CP to shame. One of the guys apparently failed to realize that he was no longer in high school, and he never did his dishes or laundry. When told to wash his dishes, he would pour bleach over them. Instead of doing his laundry, he would just buy new clothes, meaning that when I inevitably caved and did the thirty loads of laundry that had collected on the floor of his room (no exaggeration), I filled two closets and two chests of drawers with his stuff. The dirty laundry had caked to the floor in places with his dog's urine. He also had empty fast food cups and the like littering the floor of his room, but as it was overwhelmingly laundry and not too much else, it wasn't as bad as the horror of the woman described above.
In other words, guys, if you want to get a date, make sure your damn house is clean.
May 25—That slinky little light pink translucent top won't be quite as light now.
I started my laundry today, including washing my towels. I tossed them all in the wash and then realized I had one more towel than hand towels and washcloths. It was then that I realized I had scooped the clean towel I had just hung out in with the dirty towels. Oh well.
My next load of laundry was my darks, which I washed without event, and then I washed my lights. I put them all in the washing machine and then found a soiled sock on the floor that should have gone in with the darks. I debated the wisdom in mixing my lights and darks, shrugged, and tossed the dark sock in with my lights.
This evening I made trout amandine. I made it a few weeks ago from the recipe but decided I didn't like the batter, so I decided to improvise this time around and make my own recipe. It wasn't a disaster—in fact it was quite good—but it was peppered all the way with minor mishaps.
First, I wasn't sure if the fish were still good. I bought it on Friday, and as it is now Wednesday and fish wastes no time in spoiling, I wasn't sure how good it might be. It was fine. Then I coated it in flour, salt, and pepper, having to add more salt and pepper later. When flipping the fish, I accidentally flaked one fillet in half. Etc. It was tasty, though.
After I ate, I updated this section of the site and then got up to make a cup of tea. I started to stand up, remembered I had my ear buds plugged into the laptop, and removed them from my ears. I congratulated myself on not walking off and having them pop out of my ears and stood up to put the laptop on a footstool while I went into the kitchen. It was then that the battery charger ripped itself out of the side of my laptop. *sigh*
. . . I might have remembered the battery charger was plugged in, really; I had to wrestle with the lamp chord and a cobweb I missed while dusting in order to make the cord reach the plug on the wall behind the book case. Thankfully, I'm skinny, so my arm was able to fit between the bookcase and the wall. Less thankfully, there was a small orange spark when I plugged it in. Maybe this laptop wasn't such a good idea after all. Still, it's got to be better than Windows Vista, which runs on my desktop, whose fan is wearing out and probably going to cause an epic crash any day now, which is why I have moved all key files to this machine. At least I can congratulate myself on something.
Today I worked the WWE show at the Erwin Center. I showed up around six thirty a.m. for my seven o'clock call, mistakenly signed in for eight o'clock and illegibly scratched it out, and then sat on the couch to knit (dropping a stitch but repairing it) until it was time to work. I unloaded trucks for an hour, and then I moved to the video crew. I worked with three other people putting up projectors in the house. Nobody turned on the house lights for us for some reason, so we of course had trouble seeing what we were doing. One large case in particular we had to turn several times in an effort to locate its butterfly latches, provoking me to ask, "Does this case even open?" Obviously, it did, and we set up the projectors without mishap. Then we stood around for half an hour before going on break, where I ate a somewhat soggy donut that left my fingers sticky.
On my way to wash my hands after the donut incident, I passed two coworkers running cable and said good morning to them. The first one cheerily replied; the other was my coworker from AC/DC who does not like me and did not return my greeting. I pretended he hadn't heard me and got back to work with the video crew building LED walls. We put the LED panels on the stage, shifted them around, and stacked them, after which we moved the empty carts out to the ramp. The roadie told us to put them in numerical order with the lowest number on the bottom of the ramp so that we could remove them in that order at the out. I said they should be put in reverse order, but of course no one listened. Remember that for later.
After we finished the LED walls, we went to lunch, where I put a bit of everything on my plate and wound up not eating the meat. I felt guilty for being wasteful, but sooner that than overstuffed, I suppose. Even without that, I still did not enjoy lunch as I might have because of the moron who sat next to me and tried to hit on me, ignoring my monosyllabic responses and lack of eye contact. Then he stole blueberries right off my plate, ignoring my "Get off my plate; get your own!" Then he got up to borrow the stage manager's phone, and his end of the conversation seemed to consist entirely of profanity, and he hung up and walked out of the room, still swearing, which unsettled everyone present. I made a note to redouble my efforts at avoiding him.
After lunch, we built crappy little tents backstage for the wrestlers to walk through before reaching the stage. Around this time, the wrestlers began showing up, some of them in costume. I saw one wrestler walk by in his skintight black and gold costume, and I burst out laughing. Luckily, he did not hear me.
Most of the crew got cut at three o'clock, but I was one of about fourteen people (other than the show call people) who were asked to stay till six thirty. I joined two other guys by the wrestling ring to help steam the wrinkles out of some hanging cloth with advertising printed on it. Predictably, I spilled hot water everywhere. Even more predictably, I caught the coworker who doesn't like me watching.
I returned to the crew room and sat around until six thirty, when I got cut and went home. I took a quick shower, changed clothes, made some coffee, and heated some leftover grilled chicken in Oaxacan red mole to bring back to work. I had promised one of my coworkers some mole, so I reheated some and got out a plastic container in which to store it. Then I decided I wanted some for myself, so I packed two plastic containers and put them in my lunch box. I went to put the lid back on the main mole container and somehow managed to dunk its corner into the mole. I rinsed it off, shoved it into the fridge, and left.
Once at work, I stood on the dock with everyone else, almost getting backed into by a limousine as I fished through my backpack for something or other. I squealed and leaped sideways, scattering my bag, water bottle, and gloves across the dock. Luckily, nothing—and no one—got run over, although I did almost get left behind by my coworkers when I went inside to drop my stuff off in the crew room. I caught up with them and got to work. I saw the coworker who doesn't like me and said hello to him. He ignored me, as usual. *sigh*
Now. Remember those video carts that we stacked on the ramp earlier? Half the video crew, myself included, went to retrieve them. We braced the carts toward the top of the ramp while fighting to force the bottom ones free. As you might expect, this only worked about once. Disaster struck on the second trip. As we struggled to force a cart from the bottom out from the stack, half a dozen remaining carts from the top of the ramp broke free and began barreling downhill toward the arena where all the other stagehands were.
"Heads up! Heads up!" I yelled. Seeing at least one coworker making a futile grab at two escaping carts, I yelled, "Don't try to stop it! Heads up!" The whole fucking arena heard me . . . which was kind of the point. It's not like the people at the bottom of the ramp couldn't hear the noise, but if they weren't looking in that direction, they couldn't know there was no one behind the carts, and I didn't want anyone getting slammed into by an out of control cart. I had a word with one or two coworkers later regarding the importance of saving yourself, not the cart, because carts are replaceable; we aren't.
Luckily, the rest of the night passed without mayhem, though I did bruise my knee on the floor as we removed the video panels from the truss. I was one of only three or four video hands who had a wrench, so I helped loosen the nuts and bolts, which regrettably involved kneeling on the floor and scooting down the length of the truss as I worked on each video panel. It would have been fine had my jeans not had a hole in the knee, but alas, I kept scraping it on the floor. To make up for that, though, the lighting roadie used me as an example; I heard her say "She's kicking ass!" to the other hands.
Speaking of kicking ass, after we got the video panels loose, I called out one guy for being an idiot. It was the same idiot who'd sat next to me at lunch. He was climbing around on top of video carts—not the same ones that had gone out of control down the hill earlier, but some six foot high ones that had the panels stacked on shelves inside them. Anyway, he was on top of one cart and jumped from one to the next, which was several feet away. By the way, the carts are on wheels, which made his move doubly stupid. The second or third time he jumped from cart to cart, I went up to him and said, "Do not jump from one cart to another like that. It's a six foot drop, and if you miss, you could break your skull on that concrete floor. If you need to get from one cart to the next, you climb down and climb up the next one, but don't jump. If [the stage manager] sees you doing that, you're out of here." I half expected him to ignore me, which frankly would have been a relief since then I could have reported him and gotten rid of him, but I scared some sense into him. Obviously, it's a futile exercise since he'll just fuck something up next time, but no matter. So long as he only hurts himself and nobody else, I don't mind too much.
Finally, at the end of the night, I returned to the parking garage where I had parked earlier. It being a holiday, the gates to the parking garage were up when I parked. When I returned at the end of the night, though, they were down. Shit. I approached the window at the pay station, but no one was there, and there was a sign in the window that said the attendant was in a different garage. No indication of when he might return. I dialed the number for assistance on the sign and explained my situation to the woman who answered the phone ("He's not there?" No, of course not; why else would I have dialed this number?). I hoped they would let me out for free, but no such luck. I paid for my parking by phone, and she gave me a code to punch in at the exit gate. I thanked her, hung up, and got in the car. I drove to the double exit gate and got in the right hand lane, only to find that there was no keypad in which to enter the exit code. I reversed and got into the left hand lane, which did have a keypad, which did not work. I phoned the assistance number again (she answered the phone with "The number didn't work?"), and she gave me a second code, which also did not work. Then she opened the gate remotely, only of course the gate that she opened was the gate for the right hand exit, which closed before I could reverse and get into that lane, and she had to go through the whole process again. At least I was able to escape and go home. This day was far too long for my liking.
