Caroline Proctor

So, it's been a pretty decent week at work, over all.

Nice shifts, for the most part, and... well, this is me just in from a finish today, and it's only just after 1am. Fastest finish EVER.

Had one batty old woman get shitty with me because her card wouldn't go through our machines (which is our fault how?) and in a brief, futile, and ultimately foolish attempt to be helpful, I pointed her towards the cash machine by the door. The one about... 12 feet from the bar. She makes this 'choh' noise, rolls her eyes, and goes to the machine, muttering to herself. Fair enough, so I serve the next woman along while waiting for her to return (because I'm good at my job, and -- gasp! -- don't need to type two pints of Tennents into the till to know it comes to 3.98), she comes back and glares at me because I'm serving somebody else. Dude! Queue! You bimble off to the machine, I pour two pints, you come back, I serve you. It isn't rocket science! But no, she came back and glared, then made some snarky comment about how she thought it was rude not to pay attention to the customer you're serving. I shouldn't have, but I pointed out that I was currently serving this next customer, and if she could give me ten seconds I'd be right back with her. Another 'choh', another eyeroll.

Now, if there's one thing that really winds me up it's customers who roll their eyes at me. Well, that and the ones who WHISTLE to try to get your attention. I can see you. I am serving somebody else. Whistling for me, or calling 'when you have a minute, could I have X Y and Z' is not helpful. I am not a dog, and I have my mind full of the order I'm currently serving. Adding yours on top means I have to go back to confirm the original one, and you'll wait longer. A note to all pubgoers out there - just wait your turn, it isn't hard. Even schoolkids manage this things called a 'queue'.

Anyway, back to shitty customer number 1, when I then go to her and repeat the price, she looks ta me like I'm mad, then finally digs into her purse for about 2 minutes for the money, which, I'll remind you, SHE ONLY JUST GOT OUT OF THE MACHINE. While waiting, therefore, I turn to the next customer and tell them I'll just be a moment, as they're starting to get antsy, and customer number 1 threw an absolute fit. It was a sight to behold. The pub went silent as she yelled at me, saying it was a disgrace that I wasn't paying attention to her, and she's the customer, and she shouldn't have to wait, and what sort of pub is this that doesn't accept cards anyhow, and I want a manager, and I want one now!

She got one, and I was absolutely raging. Usually I'm fine, and they can scream, shout, take off all their clothes, throw up, whatever, but this one really got to me. No idea why. I had to excuse myself for five minutes so I didn't turn round and tell her precisely where she could stick her attention.

I'm not kidding!

I asked for Mon-Wed off of next week so I could head out to see my mummy, figuring as I usually get Mondays, and pretty often Tuesdays off, this wouldn't be too bad.

Looked at the schedule, which went up today, and I'm down as H O L I D A Y across the week. So, holiday pay it is (woohoo!), and 7 days off.

Thursday-Sunday (and possibly Monday/Tuesday next week) I'm free, then.

Looking for suggestions how to spend my unexpected free time.

So, so tired.

Last week I worked 52.75 hours. No, let's get this right, I got PAID for 52.75 hours. My breaks get taken off that, and I'm always about half an hour short on a close. Bastards at work like to put the hours in before we actually finish, with a 'oh, you'll be done by 1am'. Yes, we're done by 1, if you don't mind the floors still being dirty, cutlery not done, and glasses still to wash. Morons. And I swear in my contract it insists 'you will be paid until you finish'. As if. I've never been home before 2am on a close, and that's the quiet ones.

Clearly I'm ranting.

But, to make up for it, last weekend was an absolute blast. Finished work on Sunday, nipped home to shower, then headed out to pick Gaynor up for the Girly Night (tm). Went out for a Thai (and some wine), shopped for booze (mead, vodka, juice, beer), then came back to Fi's got absolutely steaming, and 'watched' 3 movies - Shall We Dance, Cutting Edge 2, and Dirty Dancing. I say 'watched', because most of it was chatting and drinking and occasionally looking at the telly. Until Dirty Dancing, of course, where we all sang along, and attempted to dance. Badly.

The weekend then continued, as on Monday we headed into Edinburgh for a few pints and a bit of shopping. Not so much shopping, but a Starbucks, Subway, looking at the cows (www.cowparade-edinburgh.co.uk) and a few laughs. Picked up a fringe brochure, too, and there's a load of things I want to see, including THE GOODIES! (without Bill Oddie, though).

Followed by the rugby. Incidentally, Fi, when you read this, which you probably will, do pass my number on to Struan (is that how you spell it?) and tell him to give me a call some time. Good times.

And now, on Monday, I'm off to Portugal to see my mummy for a couple of days. Should be fun! Back on Wednesday night, for anyone who'll miss me ;)

Thank you to everyone who made my birthday yesterday such a good time.

Fi, Andy, Neil, Ronnie, thank you for the game, even if my army did get half wiped out in the first round, then the rest all ran away in terror. Damn those puny humans!

Thank you for dinner, drinks, ice cream, and thank you for the evening out at the rugby.

My shoulders ache.

I know, you warned me, but man, that was so much fun. I'm totally up for coming again next week, even if I'm bloody useless and can't even steer in a straight line.

Sunday for the girly night in?

Last night was, for the uninitiated amongst you, Eurovision Night. An evening of spectacular costume and musical talent, or lack thereof, demonstrating the cheesiest odes to composition since some guy left his milk out in the sun too long in Cheddar then decided to eat it (presumably for a dare), singing Piff Paff Poof.

Eurovision is more than just the song contest itself, however cheesy and awful that is. The whole Eurovision experience is indescribable, and yet to make the perfect evening, every factor must be in place. Not only do we listen to the worst songs since 'My Lovely Horse'. Not only do we watch Terry Wogan ripping the piss out of every country in Europe. Not only, even, do we sit in awe of the semi-traditional costumes (usually ripped off half way through the number, to reveal a skimpy - and often sequined - lacy number). We do this all WHILE DRESSED UP as our respective assigned countries, while eating food from the countries in question, drinking beer, and trying to decide which of the males on stage are in or out of the closet.

Last night's extravaganza, if I might call it that, involved the following:

Fi - as Iceland - dressed as... well... in... Iceland shopping bags! Yes, a dress made entirely from poly bags, and yes, she was sweating like a marine in a maths test before the first three countries had even finished.

Andy - as Greece - dressed as... John Travolta! Complete with photograph of Olivia Newton John.

Gaynor - as Israel - she insisted she was 'too short to be a tranny' so was instead Moses. Only we couldn't find the cotton wool for her beard, so she ended up doing that on in eyeliner, whereupon she looked like a cross between George Michael and Jesus.

and me - as Belgium - dressed as Poirot. To be fair, after much thought, we did manage to come up with almost a dozen things that come from Belgium. But Poirot was the easiest costume, with hat and moustache.

Several drinks later (cherry beer, wine of all varieties, Hoegaarden) and several pizzas, we all finally crashed out and slept, happy in the knowledge that if Lithuania somehow(!) failed to win with their self-affacing and cryptic song 'We are the winners! Of Eurovision!', at least the title had gone to the most bizarrely costumed group to ever grace the Eurovision stage, representing Finland. And possibly representing goblinkind the world over.

So that was Eurovision. Fi has photos. Fear.

However, to extend the weekend out a little, today we went out to the pictures - grabbed a curry, then off to see The DaVinci Code. Very much enjoyed it, even if it was, in my opinion, horribly miscast. Parts were cut, but for the most part it was a pretty seamless job, and a good story. Complete bollocks - Dan Brown is not exactly a genius at research - but enjoyable nonetheless. But soooo long. My arse still hurts, and we had the comfy seats.

Still nuts.

Must find a doc in Livingston to re-prescribe pills.

The end.

Apart from a really weird dream about an 18 inch bright blue seahorse which floated in the beer garden, then bit me. And then I decided I ought to go to the hospital in case it had rabies, but first I had to find it again so I could put up yellow police tape in a 6ft radius around it so it didn't get out and bite any customers and they'd sue us. Yellow police tape apparently has this power. Don't ask.

I kind of miss the dull dreams of washing up.

Update on the hand front - the bandage and dressing are off, hand's still a bit red, but no more blistering (yay), and the pain is down to the sort of dull sunburn-y throb that I can cope with merrily.

And I can even type. Whee!

Long story short, I burninated my hand at work. It hurts a lot.

Longer version - I was pouring a flask of boiling water, it overflowed (I admit, I wasn't wholly paying attention at that time in the morning - a 10am start after a 4am finish the night before? Mrph) all over my left hand. Did the sensible thing and left my hand in a pint glass of iced water for the next 2 hours, and when it was still burning after that to the point where removal from the ice for longer than 7-8 seconds resulted in enough pain to bring me to tears, I figured it was time to head off to hospital.

Taxi to hospital, kindly paid for by work, how kind, then a 2 hour wait in A&E, during which time the small bag of ice I'd wangled to take with me from work had all melted and I was again in agony, then I got seen by a nurse for a dressing. 3 days off work (as I can't pull pints one handed) on sick pay, then I'm due to have the dressing off tomorrow morning. As long as it hasn't blistered any more, it should be good to go.

Anyhow, top 10 list of things it's bloody hard to do with 1 hand:

1) Button flies.
Urgh... I didn't even think about it, then, needing a pee, into the loo and... eek! Can't get my damn trousers undone! Eventually managed it, but I'm pleased I wasn't bursting!

2) Bra hooks.
Undoing is relatively easy, but putting my bra on this morning? Mutter.

3) Washing your hair.
I was doing well in the shower. One hand up all the time in a sort of nazi salute to keep it dry. Then came washing the hair - wet it, fine - getting the shampoo from the bottle... not so fine. Squeezed it onto my head in the end, with some effect - then rinsing with one hand... I think the left hand side of my head is still soapy.

4) Drying your hair.
I gave up. Dried in air. Tough.

5) Putting hair in a ponytail.
Yes, my hair has to be back for work - working with food and all. You try it one handed. Dare you.

6) Putting toothpaste on my (round) electric toothbrush.
Gave up, used a smaller manual toothbrush, held it in my teeth and squeezed toothpaste.

7) Opening crisps.
Gave up and asked Ronnie.

8) Standing up from kneeling.
I never even noticed that you use your hands so much. Until I automatically leaned forward on my hand to push myself up and almost screamed.

9) Eating.
If it isn't bite sized (curry!) it's just not happening.

10) Putting in/taking out contact lenses.
I gave up today and wore glasses. Taking my contacts out last night, though, was problematic. Took about half an hour, and I think I scratched my eye. But I didn't realise I'd only have one hand to take them out when I'd put them in that morning!

So... what's new with the world?

Well, I'm working at Wetherspoons in Livingston, which is nice. Taking on as many hours as I can, working, pulling pints, running food, and generally enjoying myself.

One of my customers turned round to me the other day and commented that I always smiled as though it was the best job in the world, and serving whichever customer it is at the time was a lifelong ambition of mine. And I got to thinking... actually? It really is a good job.

I like working behind a bar.

1. You get to know your regulars.
2. You get to chat to people, laugh, joke and generally enjoy yourself while pulling pints.
3. People are happy in pubs!
4. The shifts change around so you don't get stuck with early mornings every day.
5. I'm bloody good at it. There's a certain satisfaction to knowing just how long each pint takes to pour, and being able to run a Guinness, cider, lager, and coffee all at once, reaching each pump or T-bar just in time to cut the flow off.

And, of course, you get the customers asking for your phone number, which is always a good self-esteem boost ;)

So a bunch of people asked me about this, so I finally got hold of it.

A public information film for Gold Dragon women!

------------------------------------------------------------------

WOMEN - Know your place!


[int. dining room. England. An old-style 30's dinner party (in b/w) is going on. The men are laughing, and the women are tittering.]

Voice over: An ordinary dinner party. The sort of occasion we all enjoy. The men are exchanging witty stories. And look at the women - aren't they pretty? Look at how they laugh - aren't they delightful? But now the conversation turns to more serious matters...

Man 1: I wonder if the government should return to the Gold Standard?

Man 2: I think it should.

Man 1: Good. Then we're all agreed.

Voice Over: But - oh, dear - what's this? One of the women is about to embarrass us all...

Woman: I think the government should stay off the Gold Standard, so that the Pound can reach a level that would keep our exports competitive.

Voice Over: The lady's foolishly attempted to join the conversation with a wild and dangerous opinion of her own. What half-baked drivel!

[The men are regarding the woman with utmost distaste. Man 2's top lip curls up. The Woman starts crying, softly, and dabs at her eyes with her napkin]

Voice Over: See how the men look at her with utter contempt...

Man 1: We're going home.

[Man 1 grabs Woman by the arm, and roughly drags the poor unfortunate off. A caption appears, and is helpfully read out for us...]

Voice Over: WOMEN: KNOW YOUR LIMITS!

----

[Cut-away diagram of a man's head. The information "rains" in evenly, slowly starting to fill it.]

Voice Over: Look at the effect of education on a man and a woman's mind. Education passes into the mind of a man - see how the information is evenly and tidily stored?

[We then see a cut-away diagram of a woman's head. The information "rains" into it as before, but stops about a quarter of the way up...]

Voice Over: Now see the same thing on a woman. At first, we see a similar result. But now look - still at a reasonably low level of education, her brain suddenly overloads...

[The "rain" is replaced by a frantic squiggle, and klaxons start hooting...]

Voice Over: She cannot take in complicated information. She becomes frantically and absurdly deranged.

[We then see four sad cases dressed in hospital gowns. Three of the aged women are fat, the fourth rakish. All four have wildly tousled hair and look completely vacant, staring directly at the camera]

Voice Over: Look at these venomous harridans... they went to university. Hard to believe they're all under twenty-five. Yes, over-education leads to ugliness, premature aging, and beard growth.

[Cut back to a restart of the dinner-party]

Voice Over: Now let's see the proper way...

Man 1: Good. So, we're all agreed. We should return to the Gold Standard.

Woman: Oh, I don't know anything about the Gold Standard, I'm afraid - but I do love little kittens. They're so soft, and furry.

[A fawning Man 1 takes Woman's hand]

Man 1: What a delightful thought - you dear, sweet, fragile little thing. I adore you.

Voice Over: Women - know your limits. In thought, be plain and simple - and ...English.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

'With France threatened by famine due to the failure of the harvest and the anarchy accompanying the Revolution, the government had purchased a large supply of grain in the United States, which was sympathetic to its onetime ally.'

So...

Flights are booked, buses are (mostly) booked, tickets are winging their merry way over to Jeanne's place.
Ronnie's all set and knows I'm arriving, Steph and Adam know I'm coming, Jeanne knows I'm coming, Syl knows I'm leaving.

Itinerary thus far:

Sat 21st Jan
------------
Quickshuttle from Main St Vancouver to Seattle.
dep: 11.00
arr: 15.55

(Stay with Jeanne. Visit restaurants. Be silly. Meet the dog.)

Wed 1st Feb
-----------
Flight AA6897 from SEA to ORD (Chicago, apparently).
dep: 11.05
arr: 17.06
Flight AA1730 from ORD to DCA (Washington)
dep: 18.10
arr: 20.56

(Stay with Adam and Steph. Get drunk with people in Baltimore. Leave them in peace for Steph's birthday.)

Tue 7th Feb
-----------
Flight AA4754 from DCA to JFK (New York)
dep: 17.47
arr: 19.02
Flight AA104 from JFK to LHR (London)
dep: 19.45

Wed 8th Feb
-----------
arr: 07.40
National Express FK210 from LHR to Birmingham
dep: 10.40
arr: 13.00
National Express 539 from Birmingham to Glasgow Buchanan St
dep: 13.45
arr: 19.55

Pick up from Glasgow, courtesy of Andy/Fiona, to Livingston.

Sleep.

... the walrus said...

Which was a really fucking weird thing for a walrus to say. I mean, usually they just... actually, I don't know. Do they make the sort of seal-like barking noises? Do they grunt? Squeal? Sing?

Who knows, and more to the point, who cares.

So... I'm moving back to the UK. Looking at flights at the moment. Looking like Seattle->Baltimore on the 31st Jan, then Baltimore to Heathrow on the 7th Feb.

This of course means I want a bus down to Seattle on the 21st or thereabouts, which in turn means I need to be all cleared out and ready to go. So I can't work any later than the 17th to give me time to pack and clean. Oh god, why is moving so bloody stressful? Aaarrgghh! Why can't it all just organise itself?!

Then National Express up to Glasgow on the 7th.

Stuff to do, then.

1) Transfer wads of CDN into GBP - at the bank - Tuesday.
2) Buy flights - online - when the money goes through into GBP? Next week?
3) Give notice at work - at work, duh - Tuesday.
4) Warn Ronnie I'll be there on the 7th - online - NOW!
5) Book National Express ticket - online - when the money goes through into GBP?
6) Start pawning anything I'm not taking with me - at home - by the 16th.
7) Clean and pack - at home - by the 21st.
8) Get a bus down to Seattle and face the scary customs men, armed with my plane ticket to say I realy will leave again! - 21st.
9) Buy presents for Steph & Adam for putting me up in Baltimore.
10) Buy crap for Rachel because she needs crap. And for putting me up in Seattle.
11) Say goodbye to Vancouver - by the 21st.

( Read more... )

Saturday. Salsa night. I really don't want to be there, but on the other hand, it's cash in hand, and when I wasn't working the fact that I had this job kept my head above water. I owe it to them to be there.

But I still don't want to be.

Meh.

Oh, well.

And here's my eyes. Apparently. Sarcastic? Who knew.


BUTTERFLY EYES

You have Butterfly
Eyes!
Positive Traits: Thoughtful,
Intelligent, Humble, Clever, Open
Minded
Negative Traits: Elitist,
Conceited, Apathetic, Cold, Sarcastic


Your eyes are the windows to your soul. What type of eyes do you have?
brought to you by Quizilla

So, I've been sat here all day, in a miserable mood. All I want is pie (scotch pie) and chips, and I don't want to go to work, and all these damn fireworks and people in silly costumes and blah blah blah...

And then...

Up pops rainbowbinky. And she's got power back after a week of living on a generator, after the hurricane.

And I stop and think.

Screw pie. Thank god for everything I have and take for granted.

Thank you, seattlesparks. Thank you so much.

I now have the dalek dalek fuzzy dalek, dalek dalek truck, stuck in my head. And I think it's going to drive me insane. Even 'Big Spender' can't get it out of my head, and usually Big Spender can clear anything.

I shall go to work and attempt not to sing it.

Or I might just say screw it, and answer the phone, and tell them all about how the dalek emperor stole my DNA. They'll either laugh, or phone somebody else. I can claim switchboard problems. New phone system, and nobody knows how to use it, which has had some amusing results.

The Wild Rose Random Brutal Love Dreamer (RBLDf) Colorful, but unpicked. You are The Wild Rose. Prone to bouts of cynicism, sarcasm, and thorns, you excite a certain kind of man. Hoping to gather you up, he flirts and winks and asks you out, ultimately professing his love. Then you make him bleed. Why? Because you're the rare, independent, self-sufficient kind of woman who does want love, but not from a weakling. You don't seem to take yourself too seriously, and that's refreshing. You aren't uptight; you don't over-plan. Romance-wise, sex isn't a top priority--a true relationship would be preferable. For your age, you haven't had a lot of bonafide love experience, though, and this kind of gets to core of the issue. You're very selective. Your exact opposite: The Dirty Little Secret Deliberate Gentle Sex Master The problem is them, not you, right? You have lofty standards that few measure up to. You're out there all right, but not to be picked up by just anyone. "You're never truly single as long as you have yourself." ALWAYS AVOID: The Bachelor CONSIDER: The Vapor Trail. Link: The 32-Type Dating Test

I stole this. I'm a baaad person. Oh well. Tea?

Caggles took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Strives for a life rich in activity and experience..." Click here to read the rest of the results.