October 2—If you want to get lost in a crowd in Texas, don't wear a beret.
Today I went to Hole in the Wall to hear Melissa play her guitar again. While there, I unfortunately saw Jersey Shore guy. I moved from the bar to a table on the far side of the room and slouched low in my seat, removing my beret since it tends to draw attention. Luckily, it was only the black one—my red beret really attracts attention. Anyway, I lurked in the shadows throughout Melissa's set, and the second it was over, I bailed after first checking with her to see if she wanted me to stick around in case Jersey Shore guy got obnoxious. She thanked me but said her dad was there, so she'd probably be fine. Fair enough. I got the hell out and hauled ass back to the car, making a note to check the building for Jersey Shore guy next time and reconsider attending the show if he were there. Or at least, I should keep the beret in my purse until making sure he's not there.
October 3—In some parts of the world, bug tea may be considered a delicacy. This is not one of them.
In the wee hours of this morning, I sat in front of my laptop with a cup of tea. A small gnat buzzed around the room, persistently in front of the screen. Annoyed, I clapped my hands together repeatedly trying to squash it, always missing. Finally, I caught it, and it fell through the air and landed in my tea. Brilliant. Next time I'll just let it buzz in front of my screen until it wears itself out.
October 4—Mole. It's a sauce, not a rodent, you peasants.
I made mole early this morning. It was quite a productive morning: Knowing that I have a week of long days coming up, I washed my sheets and did all my laundry; then I cleaned the kitchen and cooked banana nut bread (the bananas were spoiling anyway) and a large batch of mole and chicken to go with it.
The mole, of course, was where today's incident occurred. Mole tends to splatter a bit (my kitchen ceiling has mole stains on it, though not from today), and while simmering it, it splattered a bit onto my wrist.
"Ow! Goddammit! This better be a goddam delicious mole!" I shrieked. Luckily, it was. I may never make another kind of mole again.
Later, of course, there was another incident. I ate my mole poblano with a bit of chicken while sitting in front of my computer, and I spilled it everywhere. I somehow managed to even get it on my headphones. I went to the linen closet to grab a small cloth to clean it up, and that was when I realized that one of my only white socks (out of a collection of entirely black socks) somehow wound up in the linen closet with the dust rags, and that was what I grabbed with my mole fingers. So now I have three white socks and one white sock with a few rusty stains. *sigh*
October 5—Day One at the Convention Center: I nearly commit homicide.
Well, not really, but it would have been justified.
I worked at the convention center today, mostly building ugly tack boards for a show there later this week. I worked with the laziest son of a bitch ever. He infuriated me so much I have now violated my policy of not voicing unprofessional opinions in public.
Lazy Coworker, another coworker, and I were building tack boards—or rather, the other coworker and I built the tack boards; Lazy Coworker watched us, leaning against either the cart they were on or the tack boards as we built them. Once we had the tack boards upright and lined them up, we had to space them ten feet apart. I had a twenty-five foot tape measure on me, so I would hold out the tape measure ten feet so they could line up the tack boards, and he wouldn't even look down at the tape measure—I guess he thought I was holding it out for my own amusement. Several times I had to scramble off the floor, walk over to his end of the tack board, and heave it over to the tape measure myself, while snapping "It goes here (jackass)." That of course was when Lazy Coworker even moved the tack boards; the rest of the time I or somebody else had to help the other guy working with us move them. Lazy Coworker would either stand off to one side or disappear altogether. I briefly wondered where he kept disappearing to; then I recalled how a different coworker once told me that Lazy Coworker didn't get called back by this particular client anymore because they caught him sleeping—twice—in a storage closet. I strongly suspected that was where he kept disappearing to.
Finally, frustrated by Lazy Coworker's uselessness, my other coworker asked, in all seriousness,
"Do you huff paint or something?"
"What? Why?" asked Lazy Coworker.
"Because you're a pain in the ass. You don't work."
"I don't work?"
At that point, I abandoned civility and threw my hat into the ring.
"You're not fucking shitting me!" I cried. "You haven't done a single damn thing all day! You just stood there and watched us build all those tack boards, and you won't even look at the tape measure!" which was true. I mean, look. Look. See how hard it was to read that one-word sentence? That's how hard checking a tape measure is.
Even after this interlude, Lazy Coworker kept disappearing on us. I approached the steward and asked if he had seen him. I complained of my suspicions that Lazy Coworker was likely sleeping in a closet, which the steward did not appear to take too seriously—at least, not until everyone else complained about him too, all at once, in overwhelming fervor. Perhaps furor would be better.
I sincerely hope Lazy Coworker is not there tomorrow; if so, I shall have to make a concerted effort to avoid him.
One way or another, I can't wait to tell Freefall (the real Freefall; not the cat); he hates Lazy Coworker. And rightly so.
October 6—I didn't kill anyone. My feet hurt too much.
Today I was back at the Convention Center. Luckily, Lazy Coworker wasn't there today, but even if he had been, I would likely not have been able to follow through with my planned homicide since my feet hurt so much. I don't know why the concrete floor at the Convention Center hurts so much—the floors at the Erwin Center, Bass Concert Hall, etc. don't bother me at all. I can walk around the neighborhood and the UT campus just fine, but just a couple of hours at the Convention Center is a nightmare, and it always takes a couple of days to reset after working there. Today was especially bad since I had to stand on tiptoe a lot: I spent a couple of hours doing nothing but hang signs on the tack boards we put up yesterday. It was a tall person's gig, so, naturally, they gave it to me (at five foot three) and another guy who was about average height. They didn't have a step stool for me to stand on, though that may have been just as well since it would have been just one more thing to carry around. They did offer me a rolling cart to stand on, but, fearing disaster in the form of tack boards collapsing like dominoes and six thousand pushpins finding their way into my skin, I declined and stood on tip toe to work. That tore all hell out of my feet, and I limped with both feet back to the bus stop. I soaked my feet in Epsom salts when I got home, but I rather fear working at the Erwin Center tomorrow is going to be quite painful.
October 7—Pickles and Business Degrees
I worked a show at the Erwin Center today, which was, as I suspected, fairly painful after the last two days at the Convention Center. I was on lighting, which is my least favorite gig, but no matter. It was an easy show that went together well, plus it was a small call. Most of the local stagehands were working the Austin City Limits festival, including my coworker who doesn't like me much. It may be just as well he wasn't there since 1.) I complained a lot about my feet hurting, as did the others who were at the Convention Center the previous couple of days, and 2.) I made an astoundingly socially inappropriate remark.
That is today's incident.
One of the other electricians and I were running cable across the truss to the motor when the roadie asked us to hook it up to the power for the motor. The power for the motor is a hand held device consisting of little more than an on/off switch, and it's called a pickle.
"Why is it called a pickle?" I asked my coworker. "It doesn't look anything like a pickle; it looks like a sex toy." My coworker immediately burst into hysterical laughter and agreed with me. I turned an unflattering shade of purple as I realized that I really should not have said that at work, but then I reflected that at least my coworker who doesn't like me didn't hear that and think even worse of me than he already does.
Naturally, it didn't end there.
At the load out that night, the same coworker from earlier and I were loading truss onto the truck when I said something to which she took exception. She teased me and said,
"My mommy always told me, 'I'm rubber and you're glue—'" The half dozen people standing behind her immediately cracked up, and, realizing that she had an audience, she was about as embarrassed as I had been earlier. "Time to get that business degree," she said to me, "since I apparently no longer work here." I shall have to steal that for myself.
October 8—This is why a good night's sleep matters.
Today I worked the load in for Curious George at the Erwin Center. After working the load out last night, I only got about an hour and a half of sleep, plus my feet were still killing me, so it did not go well. I didn't do anything out of the ordinary for most of the load in until we were rolling out marley on the stage. We were most of the way done with it when I inevitably tripped and face planted.
"Are you all right?" somebody asked after the laughter died down.
"Well, my pride could use a little mouth to mouth," I said, which triggered a fresh chorus of laughter.
The load in ended without further incident, and I went home and told my dad that we needed to go to the grocery store since I didn't have anything for lunch the next day. I was due back at the Convention Center the next day at one, so I wanted to make sure I had something to eat. I sat down on the couch to wait while my dad took a shower and promptly fell asleep, not waking up till nine the next morning. Oops.
October 9—I may never use a pushpin again in my life.
I woke up at nine this morning in a disgusting position on the couch. I'd crashed hard last night, and I only woke up when my phone rang. It was the local's business agent calling to tell me to be at the Convention Center this afternoon at one for the load out. I groaned inwardly but reflected that I needed the money too much to say no. My dad woke up right then, so we went to the grocery store quickly, and I left for work as soon as we got back. I bought some sushi at the store and ate it when I arrived at work—an hour early. The call didn't start till one thirty, but I arrived at twelve thirty, expecting a one o'clock call. No matter. I had plenty of time to eat, at least.
Like almost everyone, I was assigned to rolling up carpet almost immediately. I hung back so as not to be stuck working with the four dumbest people on the call, and my plan worked. I rolled up carpet with two other people, one of whom got reassigned shortly. Then one of the guys in charge asked me to pick somebody else to join us, which somewhat surprised me—I usually don't get a choice. Since I've worked for this particular client several times, though, they've apparently decided they like me and opted to delegate a small amount of responsibility to me. I looked at the crew and despaired; most of the good hands were working ACL, so I was spoiled for choice. I selected the guy who'd been building tack boards with me the other day and teased him about it as soon as we were out of earshot.
"You'd better be thanking me for getting you off that crew," I said.
"Yeah, I owe you a drink," he agreed. The three of us rolled up some more carpet, and then the two of them got assigned to something else. I got stuck with the dreaded pushpins again. It was a seemingly easy gig, but there were two hundred eighty-three tack boards. Each board had at least ten pushpins per side, meaning I had to pull at least five thousand, six hundred sixty pushpins. The steward helped me pull some of them, but it was mainly me. I started at one end of the room and worked my way all the way across while everyone else was rolling up carpet and picking up tables and chairs. The pushpins were so boring I nearly envied the people on carpet.
Then it happened. I stabbed myself with a pushpin.
It was only a single drop of blood, but I went to put a bandage on it just to keep it from getting dirty. Naturally, the bandage fell off within seconds. Oh well.
When I finally finished pulling pushpins out of tack boards (and picking up the ones I dropped . . . ), I rolled up some more carpet and finally left. When I got back to the car, discovered a parking ticket on my windshield. Crap. Oh well; with the Saturday rate, my paycheck should be fat enough to cover it easily.
October 10—Bad Taste in My Mouth
I worked the load out for Curious George at the Erwin Center tonight. I showed up early and sat down in the office, spying a bag of chips on the table. I popped one into my mouth and tasted garlic. Blech. I only like garlic mixed with other stuff; I can't stand the aftertaste. I forced it down and immediately fished some gum out of my bag. Nobody said anything, but judging from the looks on my coworkers' faces, they all guessed correctly that I did not like what I ate.
October 13—Let's hope they were minding their own business.
Today I went to the dentist. I meant to go at least six weeks ago, but between their schedule and mine, today was the earliest I could go. Actually, I really should have gone several months ago, but I didn't have the cash. I still don't, really, but I was worried about my problem tooth. Anyway, my visit to the dentist was not fraught with drooling, bleeding, or socially inappropriate remarks as it might have been, but I did manage to drop my shawl in the parking lot as I left, bending over at an awkward angle to pick it up—right in front of the office window, of course.
October 16—I'll use a straw next time.
I went to Hole in the Wall this afternoon to hear Melissa play. After an epic battle with parallel parking which concluded with me saying "Fuck it" and leaving my car almost two feet off the curb, I walked in and purchased a Lone Star, which the bartender slightly overfilled and sloshed on the counter. She did that the last two times I saw her; I hope the guy who's usually there is there next time since he's a bit more careful. Of course, right as I was grousing internally about that, I set the glass down and spilled it over my hand. I went back to the bar and grabbed a napkin, which I left in a crumpled mess on the table throughout the show. I don't think I managed to get Lone Star on the arm warmer I was knitting for a coworker's daughter, but I shall have to make sure I wash it before giving them to him just the same.
October 17—I'll have to get something with a screw-on cap.
I sat at my laptop this afternoon when I reached into a drawer for a mechanical pencil to work out some math on a bit of scratch paper. I pulled the pencil out and heard a soft clattering noise, and I looked down at the desk and blinked as I saw sticks of lead everywhere. I had somehow knocked the top of the pencil off, causing all the lead to scatter across the desk and probably carpet. I looked around the floor but didn't see anymore lead, and then of course I had to look for the cap of the pencil, which had somehow bounced across the floor and landed under the Kurzweil.
October 18—I'll have to start reading on the bus instead.
Today I worked at the Long Center, which was somewhat unpleasant since I mostly did electrics. I do not like electrics. Nor does it like me. I didn't suffer any overtly clumsy mishaps at work, though. Rather, my token awkward moment of the day occurred on the bus ride home.
I sat on the 101 on the ride up South Congress to the North Lamar Transit Center, listening to something on my iPod with my earbuds in. I mostly bought the iPod so I wouldn't have to listen to people's stupid conversations on buses or in stores, and for the most part it works like a charm; I miss a lot of drama and creepy guys. However, some people miss the obvious and insist on trying to communicate.
As I was saying, I was sitting on the bus with my iPod on, knitting an arm warmer for a coworker's daughter. I smelled something unpleasantly strong and chemical-y, like nail polish. I had to wonder what kind of idiot would attempt the delicate operation of nail painting on a bouncing bus, not to mention wonder what kind of inconsiderate jackass would stink up the bus like that. I looked around and spied the culprit, a middle-aged woman with straggly hair across the aisle from me. I glared in her general direction and went back to knitting.
I was quite sorry I looked up, for the movement caught her eye, and she looked over at me. I stolidly ignored her and focused fiercely on the yarn. I thought I heard something, but I ignored it and knitted on.
A moment later, everyone in the bus turned around and stared at me like the ending scene of The Graduate. I looked up, blinking, and realized that the nail polish woman had spoken to me, or rather, shouted so as to be heard over my iPod. I flinched, removed an earbud, and asked, "What?"
"Whatcha makin'?" she asked.
"Arm warmers," I replied.
"Huh?!"
I rolled my eyes a little.
"They . . . keep your arms warm. Like mini sleeves." Without waiting for a reply, I replaced my earbud. I changed the song to "For Those About to Rock" by AC/DC since it's quite loud, turned up the volume, and refused to look up until my bus reached its stop.
October 19—Tinking and Tinkering with Toys
I had today off and took the opportunity to do some knitting and tidying up. I finished the arm warmers for my coworker's daughter and put them in the wash, and then I sat down to work on the autumn leaves tunic. Said tunic features a cabled yoke, but, as with most cabled patterns, it was not as elaborate as it looked, and I figured out and memorized the pattern fairly quickly. However, I did not take into account my own clumsiness, and I utterly demolished one pattern repeat and had to rip out two rounds to repair it. After I repaired the damage and redid the rounds, I set the sweater aside and went to clean and do laundry. I imprudently put all my nightgowns and robes in the wash at once, meaning I had nothing to wear when I got out of the shower, so I donned my AC/DC local crew shirt and nothing else. That figures into the latter half of today's story.
In the process of tidying my room, I decided I wanted to move my toy box. It rested on the floor under the window, and I wanted to place it at the foot of my bed. My room being as small as it is, I would only be moving the toy box about six inches, but, again due to aforementioned smallness of the room, I had to move the toy box into the hall to get it turned around. In the process, I had to rearrange several small articles in the room, plus I bumped the box into an urn in the hallway. Through it all, my dad sat at his computer in the next room with the door open, only turning around to see what the commotion was about when I started moving things into his computer room to make room in the hall for the toy box. Thank God he didn't offer to help me; that could only have ended in disaster involving either him lifting the lid of the toy box (which I had not bothered to empty) or some mishap involving my shirt riding up.
October 20—Unsweeping the Stage
Today I worked a show at the Long Center. Aside from the usual stumbling and dropping of anything I picked up, nothing particularly noteworthy happened. However, toward the end of the call, we had to sweep the stage, and my dust mop was so filthy I believe it tracked more dirt onto the stage than off. Then I forgot to shake it out properly before hanging it up, not that it mattered since it was so nasty anyway.
October 22—Icing on the (Cup)cake
Today I worked a show at the Erwin Center, which was mostly painless apart from getting stuck on lighting. I spoke to the coworker I believe dislikes me, which was stilted yet better than I expected.
Anyway, today's main story features cupcakes. I brought cupcakes in the morning, which was where most of my clumsiness occurred. I brought two dozen—one dozen chocolate and one dozen plain—with green icing on the chocolate ones and orange icing on the plain ones. I also supplied sprinkles in a kit from the craft store called a "Creepy Sprinkles Lab": Four different kinds of Halloween-themed sprinkles, each in a plastic test tube with a screw-on lid. I figured I'd let people decide on their own kinds of sprinkle, less because I figured they'd like it and more because I knew if I tried to sprinkle the cupcakes it'd be a goddam disaster.
Naturally, my cupcake carrier did not work all that well, and my carefully piped swirls lost their shape; some smudged a bit against the plastic cover. I knew better than to trust the plastic handle on the carrier's snap on lid, so I carried it from underneath as I exited the parking garage. The second I left the shelter of the garage, it began to drizzle. I swore, set the cupcakes down on the sidewalk, and fished my umbrella out of my backpack. I made the rest of the trip to the Erwin Center with an umbrella in one hand and a cupcake carrier precariously balanced in the other. I have no idea how I made it without the whole thing dropping to the sidewalk in a disgusting mess.
October 30—The Rally to Restore Sanity
I went to the Austin Satellite Rally to Restore Sanity this morning, which was Austin's version of Jon Stewart's rally in Washington, DC. Knowing that today was a UT game day and parking would be a nightmare, I left the house two hours before the rally was scheduled to begin. I stopped at a Whataburger to get a bite to eat en route—I didn't really want fast food, but I did want bacon and hash browns, and I didn't have time to cook either at home. I ate my greasy breakfast in the car as I drove downtown, planning to park on the UT campus and walk the rest of the way since it's a nice walk. In retrospect, I should have parked at the North Lamar Transit Center and taken the bus. Every single parking garage on campus was either full, reserved for football attendees only, or else they had jacked the prices upwards of twenty dollars. I rolled my eyes and drove closer to the Capitol, reasoning that the garages downtown would likely be less crowded.
I located a garage at San Jacinto and 13th, only a block or so away from the Capitol, and pulled in. Immediately, an attendant rushed to my car. Noting the sign reading "7 DOLLARS," I produced my debit card. The attendant smiled sweetly, revealing gold rimmed teeth, and shook his head.
"I'm sorry, I don't have any cash," I said.
The attendant smiled and shook his head again.
"Don't I need a ticket?" I asked, indicating the handful of tickets labeled "place on dash" he held. He shook his head again.
"Lo siento," he informed me. ("Lo siento" meaning "I'm sorry.")
What? Couldn't I park?
"Um."
"Lo siento."
"Fuck it." I drove into the garage and parked, carefully far away from the attendant. Nevertheless, I figured I should attempt to converse with the attendant once more so as to ensure my car not getting towed. I walked down the stairs to the entrance where he still stood.
"Excuse me," I began, "but don't I need a ticket?"
"Lo siento." Christ, not again. I racked my brains for something useful. Damn it, I'd taken four years of Spanish; where was the necessary phrase? Siete dolares. No, we'd covered that; it wouldn't help. I needed to ask if I needed to pay him. I remembered vague words but not the correct grammatical construct. Pagaste por eso pero te dan aquello. No no. The sentiment was ironically fitting, but a song lyric was utterly useless. I resigned myself to charades. I pointed to my car.
"Do I pay you now or later?"
"Lo siento." I wished irritably that he had spent the money for his gold rimmed teeth on some English lessons. "English," he said, holding up two fingers a millimeter apart, shaking his head ruefully. Yeah, no shit. I was beginning to understand those signs from raving tea party lunatics demanding we make English the official language. It occurred to me that he may not have been an actual employee at all—after all, who would hire somebody who couldn't answer even the most basic questions?—but was merely a scam artist bent on stealing cars.
I considered my options, shrugged, and left.
As I walked away, a car pulled up to the entrance. The driver rolled down his window and asked the attendant,
"Excuse me; I was told I needed to park here for work today?"
"Lo siento."
"Good luck, man," I called over my shoulder as I walked down the sidewalk to the Capitol.
Almost immediately, I ran into a couple of coworkers, and shortly afterwards, I bumped into two exes—who knew each other, although only one of them knew I'd dated both. Luckily, I did not see them at the same time.
The rally was uneventful apart from me dodging a bee in horror and panicking the people behind me. I returned the garage and was pleased (kind of) to note that my car was still there. I got in and drove to the exit, which had no gate but which was blocked off with a single traffic cone. I drove around the traffic cone and went home.
Once at home, I cooked some flautas—burning my fingers first on serranos, then on hot oil, and then on tortillas as I desperately tried to stop them from unrolling themselves in the pan—and then I got ready for the hockey game.
The Houston Aeros were playing at the Cedar Park Center, five minutes from my house, so I didn't leave the house till about twenty minutes before the game. I arrived and saw attendants—mercifully English-speaking this time—guiding cars into spaces. All of them held signs reading "$10 CASH." Crap; I should have gone to the bank. Oh well. I rolled down my window.
"I'm sorry, but do you take debit cards?" I asked an attendant.
"Sure, just pull in over there," she replied.
I pulled into the designated area, gathered my things, and got out of the car. I approached the two attendants on duty and tried to offer my debit card. One attendant kept his back to me; the other was absorbed with texting. I shrugged, sighed, replaced my debit card, and entered the building.
I located my seat without too much difficulty and sat down. Noticing that no one was sitting in front of me, I gleefully put my feet up, causing the row of connected folding chairs to shift positions. I guiltily removed my feet and glanced around. Nobody had seen.
The Aeros won, 3-1, which pleased me all the more since the huge crowd of Stars fans was pretty obnoxious. It's only a damn game, people; save that energy for politics or something else that actually matters. At the very least, shut the hell up.
When I got home, I checked my email on Facebook. I had emailed the coworker who doesn't like me to tell him to call the stage manager at Bass Concert Hall to ask about work. I didn't expect said coworker to reply to me, but to my surprise, he not only replied, but he sent me a friend request. We've been on better terms than usual lately, but I'm still sure he dislikes me, so I don't really know what to make of that. We'll see.
October 31—My Favorite Holiday
Actually, Halloween is more than my favorite holiday; it's the only holiday I really like. I was determined to do something nice this year for Halloween since the last few have sucked: In 2007, I hung out with my old roommate and a few of his friends, but I couldn't make the show they all attended since it was sold out. In 2008, I was at work; and last year, I attended a party (dressed as a Playboy Bunny in a failed attempt at mockery of women dressing like sluts for Halloween, which was extremely embarrassing) and came down with the flu in the middle of it. So this year I resolved that there would be no slutty costumes and no fucking Sixth Street. I browsed the local events, looking for something quiet but fun, and I settled on Cauldron Tales, a storytelling of Celtic tales of horror. It took place at Café Caffeine, whose tea, I regret to say, was no more impressive than the venue's name. Nevertheless, I enjoyed listening to Lorene Stilwell, the storyteller, as I sipped my tea.
The tea at first confused me since it wasn't served as tea usually is here, as a tea bag hanging limply inside a mug of tepid water. Instead, it came in one of those "tea for one" things with what looks like a mini teapot nesting atop a mug. I nearly couldn't figure out how to work the damn thing in the dimly lit café and spilled it all over the counter when I tried to squirt honey from a rock hard bottle into it. Then I sat down to listen to the Cauldron Tales, sipping my tea with increasingly less enthusiasm as it grew tepid. I went to pour the remaining tea from the top of the tea for one thing, and I set it down at the wrong angle in the dark, and the ceramic and my spoon clattered with a deafening jangle through the quite café. People turned and stared. Luckily, 1.) The storyteller ignored it, and 2.) Seconds later, a guy about fifteen feet in front of me dropped a glass on the floor, which didn't break but rather bounced around seemingly indefinitely as he tried to figure out where it was rolling in the dark.
After the Cauldron Tales ended, I got in the car and headed tentatively to Sixth Street to see if the Halloween party at Maggie Mae's (a pub) were still on. Oh dear God. Sixth Street on any night of the week is pretty busy, but Halloween is especially crowded. I sat through the light at Sixth and Congress at least three times before finally making my turn, spending the whole time crouched in my seat and desperately wishing for tinted windows since every damn drunken frat boy who walked past leered and catcalled me through the glass. Thank God I wasn't wearing the Playboy Bunny costume of last year. I abandoned Sixth, got the hell out, and returned home for a quiet evening of feasting and horror movies.
From here on, the story is best told as a series of photographs.
Incidentally, my culinary experimentation with the sweet potatoes was not a disaster. The recipe is posted here.
