Numbers vs. Numeros

Curious what it's like inside my mind sometimes?

This occurred to me when I woke up this morning.

When you say them in English, I feel like the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9 & 10 are in the equivalent of a bicycle gang. 

One's the leader, of course. Two's the sidekick. Three is the kind, lanky kid. Four and Five are fraternal twins; one wears glasses and the other has terrible handwriting. But they both play soccer. Six is the hot chick. Eight is her bff, who's pretty and sweet, but doesn't talk as much. Nine is the smart kid. And Ten is the muscle.

But Seven is out of the loop. Seven is the outcast. Less Allison Reynolds and more John Bender-- but not as cool. Seven also talks to himself and doesn't wash his hair. Maybe he's really not a bad dude-- but the other numbers just won't give him the time of day. Dirty looks abound. Because he's different. I'd even go as far as to say that Seven is Six's little brother. But he's a liability. An annoyance. A yawning pothole in the middle of an interstate. 

But in Spanish? Different story entirely. Uno, Dos are twin boys of the Weasley variety. Amusing troublemakers.  Tres, Seis & Diez are the pretty girls who go everywhere together and laugh all the time.  Quatro, Cinco & Ocho drive fast cars and play cards, gambling their lunch money away. Siete & Nueve are artistic. They write poetry. And they probably smoke.

None of the Spanish numbers are lonely though. They might not be bff's, but they can all stand to be around each other. They're more balanced. They get along and accept that they all make each other more interesting. They don't leave anyone hanging out to dry.

I think that I've unconsciously felt this way my whole life.  

Or at least since I learned how to count in Spanish.

How did I reach these conclusions? 

I unconsciously organize numbers by how many syllables are in their names.

Does that make sense?

No wonder I suck at math.

Shoofly Shenanigans

Two weeks ago I waited on a party of two Southern ladies, aged near 50, who wanted a bottle of wine with dinner.

Well, they thought they did.

We had some summer wines on clearance for really cheap, so after they asked me what we had in terms of white zinfandel, I directed them to the clearance list. More specifically, I directed them toward a lovely, slightly sweet Australian white blend called Shoofly Buzzcut. $13 a bottle, you can't go wrong.

They went for it.  So I bring them the bottle, do my wine service thing and pour a taste for the hostess. Despite their love of *PDW, these ladies appeared to be fairly sweet and respectable and filled with common sense. Which is why I was understandably startled when upon tasting the wine, the hostess uttered, "Well, it's not really very sweet, but we could just put some sweetener in it." 

She was grinning at me... 

Surely you jest, lady. SURELY. You jest.

I laughed it off.

Please tell me why 10 minutes later, this woman has the AUDACITY to flag down one of the other servers and ask for a sugar caddy.

I caught her right in the act, inches from the Sweet & Low and took the caddy right out of MaryKate (the other server)'s hand.

"Ma'am," I began, as Disgusted, Wildly Amused and Bewildered waged a full scale war in my head, "I can bring you a big glass of Sprite and some ice cubes and make a spritzer for you, but this will absolutely ruin your wine."

"Oh... okay, that'll be nice. That's fine."

*smile* "Mmhmm."

I brought them a huge glass of Sprite and another of ice and mixed drinks right at the table. They still barely touched them, throughout dinner. At the end of the meal, they asked to take the rest of the bottle home-- probably to do horrible, ungodly things to the contents.

Never. In my life.

I am NO wine snob.

But NEVER in my life.

And hopefully never again.

Though it is a damn funny story.  :)

*PDW- Pink Disco Wine. Saffire's bar abbreviation for White Zinfandel.

When Did I Become Grown Up Enough To...

... have friends in jail?

... decide to buy organic bread and vegetables?

... owe $80,000?!?!?

... worry about how much gasoline costs?

... call an exterminator?

... say cuss words in appropriate context?

... have two married exes and friends with children?

... stay on a budget?

... be given charge over a friend's important personal business while he is away?

... see my Grandmother begin to forget?

... be a bridesmaid?

... buy a plane ticket and fly across the country by myself?

... not come home until 2 in the morning?

... babysit drunk people?

... know, love and or work alongside a bunch of gypsies, tramps and thieves?

... vote?

... realize that I don't really want to vote... but know that I should anyway?

Things That Make Me Lame

(Thanks, Brandi.)

I can't ever watch Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey without crying.

I have written fanfiction. More than once.

*I'm currently collaborating with a very talented artist on an original comic book/graphic novel.

I love dressing up. Not in nice clothes, in costumes. I would do it all the time if I could. I get really disappointed when people don't want to be anything for Halloween.

Every now and then, in my car (or my house) I conduct along with film scores so intensely that you'd think I composed the piece myself.

Despite my general apathy toward the "series"-- I really think I want to see High School Musical 3 in the theater. Because somehow, I understand the hype and the madness. Completely. And I'm pretty sure that if I was 14, I'd have a wild, mad obsession with Zac Efron.

*This only makes me SEEM lame to some people. Anyone with sense understands that because the story is such a good idea, this actually makes me awesome.

Day-By-Day Play-By-Play

Today, I spent my entire morning doing silly grown up things; Rearranging bank accounts, cutting off water service, changing my address on things, tending to my vile student loans, figuring out where to get my oil changed and emailing people who are supposed to give me writing work.

As I made my way through the tyranny of forms and deadlines, I listened to the baby triceratopses thundering about. (apparently there are 2 of them. male. both 18. and a mother as well who works at the police station. Last night, we waited, shrouded in hoodies and frustration, and confronted her when she finished walking the dog. She was surprisingly not surprised to hear the complaint and promised she'd get onto them for being noisy when they play their video games... AT 3AM.) But they're rather silent tonight, thank the Lord.

*"WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?!?!"

(*This is Holly's new catchphrase. She rolls down her window and yells it at teenagers who are in her way while she's driving. I mean, sometimes they're not even in the way... but it's still really funny.)

After the grown up things... well, really before them, I read a book. Sold by Patricia McCormick. Very realistic and relevant YA Fic Lit. It's about a 13 year old Nepalese girl who is sold by her stepfather into the sex trade in India. The whole heartbreaking story is written from her perspective, in tiny chapters that are more like diary entries. I knocked it out in about two hours. Excellent book, very well written and story captivatingly told. I hope they're actually reading it in schools and talking about it, making kids aware that people their own age are living across the world, going through unimaginable horrors.

Finishing the book made me late in finishing my writing, which made me late getting ready for work, but... oh well! It was worth it.

Got to work at 4 and before shift started, Stephen made a pasta that I wasn't super keen to try because it was wicked spicy. But he brought it up to the bar where I was, and when I inquired what it was, he nudged it toward me. "No, it's okay..." I said. He nudged it closer. "Try it," he says "I'd push it with my nose, but that could get messy... and there aren't any meatballs in it anyway."

Outwardly, I grinned. Inwardly, I melted. Just a little.  :) Oh, and the pasta was good. But spicy.

Tonight was the weekly wine tasting and it went well. Holly brought part of her cast from the ship and they had a good time. The wines were meh but the company was good.

THEN, after snagging some Wendy's on the way home, I walked into my darkened room, turned the light on, walked around for 10 minutes before coming face to face with the biggest cricket/grasshopper hybrid abomination I have ever seen. I usually have an eye for stuff like that, but this thing was perched on my wall for at least ten minutes before I noticed him. With his legs all spread out and his giant antennae all tweeched, he would barely have fit inside a Livestrong bracelet. Freaking huge nasty thing.

I'm really girly about bugs, y'all. I do NOT play. [Bugs--] Do not come in my house and force me to deal with you, it will be SO ugly for both of us.

I don't mind creeping bugs as much as I mind jumping/flying bugs that could zoom into your face if you try to sneak up and smash them. It's the not knowing that freaks me out! You cannot anticipate which way they'll dart or fly into your mouth or jump onto you and bite you or taint you or have babies on your skin.

Y'all. I spent 15 minutes. Staring at this bug. For part of the time, I had a Converse in one hand and a flip flop in the other. The rest of the time, (when I decided that smashing would be far too messy and scary) I had a plastic tupperware container and a hardback book, ready to deal with this creature somewhat humanely.

But then... I couldn't get close to it. And I knew if it jumped I would scream and wake up Jo... so I figured it'd be okay to go and wake her up anyway. She'd only been sleeping for like... maybe an hour?

:) "It's okay." I told myself. "You need her. She'll understand."

I crept over to her door.

"Jo?" I said quietly. 

"Jo!" I whispered sharply. 

"Mmmf."

"Jo?!"

No reply.

I opened the door. Jo is mostly passed out. At least an hour's drive through dreamland.

"Jo... there's a giant bug in my room. I'm going to kill it, but I'm probably going to make a lot of noise so... I'm sorry."

"What?!"

I repeated myself... and Jo, like the fabulous roommate she is, rolled out of bed and tromped down to my room to be moral support. She laughed at my tupperware and my book and my shoes and told me to just catch the thing and put it outside.

Ooo, I was scared. But I did it! Sort of.

I covered the bug with the tupperware. I did. But as soon as I did, he jumped-- and I thought I'd missed him and therefore thought he was gonna get ON me and so promptly shrieked and dropped the entire operation on the ground, freeing the abomination. It cozied up next to my printer cable on the ground.

My whole back hurt for a second from the adrenaline release. Not kidding.

(I've been laughing out loud as I'm writing this, just so you know. I'm aware of the fact that I'm ridiculous.)

But this actually created a fairly advantageous situation for me. I poked the bug with a coat hanger until it moved far enough away from the cables for me to spray it with Raid. Yup! "I fogged his Yeti ass!" Sure did! :) Then the cleanup. My other least favorite part. I hate seeing the freshly dead bug and I hate if I have to feel it crunch between my fingers. No sir. So forcing myself to look at his little corpse, I finally scooped him up on a piece of cardboard, and carried him gingerly to a swirly watery grave. 

And this whole process? Half an hour. Easy.

Hope YOUR day is awesome.  :)