Laura lives between me and the restaurant. This is no observation. I’ve known it since I moved. But yesterday, when she showed up, she informed me that she saw me walk past that morning. She informed me that if I had just looked to my right, I woulda seen her ‘doing some good hard screwing’ in the living room window. From now on, I’m gonna hafta walk a different way in. Pick a whole new route. Just to be on the safe side. That’s the observation.

Absolut Peach and tonic ain’t a bad drink. It ain’t a bad drink at all.

We’re donating food and prizes to this Catholic charity raffle thing. Good cause, helping out others, all that crap. But the organizers have taken to coming in every Thursday for their planning sessions. (How much planning there must be for Bingo Night’s kinda beyond me, but … what do I know.) There’s like ten or twelve of them who come in. None of them eat. Half only drink water, the other half has a single coke, bottle of beer or glass of wine. Twenty bucks, tops. Then they hog two tables for an hour and a half. Something tells me we’re not donating to them again next year. That something is me.

Alan’s bedhead is a thing to behold. Honestly. It’s tufty, high and tight to begin with. Add a few flings in the back and on one side, it becomes a wonder of the world. He remains none the wiser. Sometimes, I gotta be honest with you, I wish I was as unself-conscious as Alan.

For a few weeks now, ‘That’s why god made Rudy’ has been my favorite sentence to get outta doing some pain in the ass thing I don’t wanna do. Unclog a toilet. Change the paper towel in the dish room. Haul up another chair from downstairs cause some guy’s so fat he doesn’t fit on one chair. Sadly, the sentence doesn’t work on Rudy’s off nights (Tuesday and Thursday). However, what I discovered last night is the phrase works with any name! Just insert whichever name you want! Last night, it was ‘That’s why god made Oscar.’ Tomorrow night, it’ll be ‘That’s why god made Hugo.’ I can’t tell you how pleased I am by this discovery. I might be able to get through an entire day without having to do a single pain in the ass thing!

Jason’s favorite (squirrel) story is the time in grade school when I was eating pizza and got a big bit of sausage stuck at the back of my nose. I had to blow my nose over and over and over to dislodge the thing. My eyes were tearing. The free nostril was running. It was a friend’s birthday party and they were all laughing. What made Jason love this story first time he heard it is, when he asked me how it felt, I said ‘Burned so bad.’ That’s the punchline and that’s the part he can’t wait for me to get to when he has me recount the whole adventure.

Which I realized last night, I don’t mind recounting, as long as he pours me an Absolut Peach and tonic.

J. Crew’s shirts are indeed as comfortable and soft as they claim. Jimmy ordered a buncha shit from them last week, ties, socks, pants, more ties, a keychain with a beagle on it. As a lark, I had him throw in a shirt for me. I was feeling … frisky. He did. The box arrived yesterday. A light blue shirt for your truly. I rubbed the sleeve on my cheek, just to see. Shit, that shirt’s comfortable and soft. That is one comfortable shirt. And soft.

Settling up with the credit people is way more difficult than you’d think or than it should be. They do not wanna settle up with you in a timely fashion. Not without putting up one helluva fight, they don’t. It was an hour on the phone ordeal that forced me into a second and third Absolut Peach and tonic. I didn’t wanna hafta drink ‘em. I didn’t. The credit people’s extreme, feet-dragging reluctance to settle Wednesday night on Thursday afternoon instead of Wednesday night when we were sposed to settle but didn’t cause Reggie forgot is what made me hafta drink ‘em.

A woman named Jeri used to work for us. She came in to see if she could pick up a shift or two. Now that she’s no longer working for us, I can say: I don’t like Jeri, never did. She’s a snob for no good reason, with this sense of entitlement that’s … fucked, quite frankly, it’s fucked. So anyway, she came in, sniffing around, and it gave me great pleasure to shoot her down. She proceeded to talk bout how much money she made in New York doing some play somewhere and the only reason she’s back in Chicago is cause Steppenwolf or Goodman got on its knees and begged her. I can’t stand Jeri.

Herman and George have developed quite the affinity for Stella Artois and Franziskaner. Which means we gotta start really tracking the Stella Artois and Franziskaner.

There’s a sushi place just round the corner with its own parking lot. The lot has a violators’ll get towed sign. These guys came in, got a table. Few minutes later, the sushi place owner popped over to inform them they were about to get towed. This was a courtesy he did not hafta extend to them. The guys ran over to save their cars, then returned, complaining bout ‘that goddamn chink.’ What I realized was, I hear all the slurs, more often than I’d like. But the one I hear most is chink. (There’s an old woman that one day I will tell you bout. She was sitting at the next table, and she told ‘em to shut the hell up with that kinda talk. And that Japanese aren’t chinks. Chinese are chinks. So if you’re gonna slur someone, use the right slur.)

I used to think nothing was more unfunny than a Carrot Top routine. Not even a Dane Cook routine. I was wrong. There is something more unfunny. That something is a Carrot Top routine delivered by someone who just saw Carrot Top in Vegas and thought it was the funniest show of all time, then delivered her favorite routine only she couldn’t get half of it out cause she was laughing so hard. She had to keep starting over, then she forgot bits, and she paraphrased, then capped it all off with ‘You totally had to be there. It was totally worth seventy bucks. You totally gotta go next time you’re in Vegas.’

When mom calls right before she nods off for the night, it’s a quick chat and telling her how many dinners we did that night so she feels better bout the state of things is de riguer.

Cheryl enjoys a good swear word or two. She also gets harried rather easily. She has a quick temper. And lastly, however tall you hafta be to not be a midget, Cheryl only beats it by an inch or two. She’s real short. After Jeri left, Cheryl hustled over, all arms and legs chugging like real short people do, and wagged a finger in my face. ‘If you fucking dare give that fucking bitch a shift with me, you can fucking kiss my fucking ass good fucking bye cause I’m fucking outta here, cause I hate that piece of shit shitty waitress.’ After a brief pause, Jason said, ‘Tell us how you really feel, lollipop guild.’