Hello, Blog! Oh, who am I kidding. I'm not feeling all that cheery. Work has been hellish (I'll explain), Ray's pool house is drafty and freezing, and Beef just keeps giving me the most useless Christmas lists imaginable.
The first item of business is Beef's Christmas list (my, that looks official in bold! I could be a gossip journalist!). I know he's from a pretty broken home, but to ask for "a breakfast of steak and eggs, cooked only one time, if you want, and at your convenience" is hardly getting the spirit of things. I asked him to add to it and he wrote at the bottom, "I will do the dishes afterwards, you don't got to clean up." Jesus, what am I supposed to get him? He already has a laptop, and that's about the only other thing on the planet he's interested in besides the protein that enables him to use it.
The pool house is drafty. The only thing colder than our toilet seat at night is Beef's nose when he kisses me as I get back in bed, so I have a treat waiting for me at both ends of the journey. I'm going to talk to Ray about turning the heat on, because Beef refuses to.
The situation with Napoli. Shortly after Butte's head chef Piyaugh got sacked, Mr. Del Vecchio (okay, this bolding thing is getting annoying), the restaurant's principal investor, started to get a little nutsy around the edges. He renamed it after his birthplace, and had the whole interior done up with these big drapey velvet curtains (even the bathroom stalls had thick drapey curtains across the front). He put pictures of his mother over every booth, and during service he sat at the bar and doodled spirals and doors all over his cocktail napkins. Eventually he stopped coming in at all and one day we learned he'd "gone to rest in the country for the winter." Then last night an old guy apparently had a heart attack and died while smoking in a bathroom stall and the whole place went up in flames, which means I'm out of work again. The fishy thing is, I don't remember any old guy. We had only three tables at the time the fire started: a dad and his college-age daughter (Glenlivet 12, house Chardonnay), five blue-hairs who ordered a round of Sambuca, and a young couple on a date who were way out of their price range (tap). Best not to stick my nose into the whole situation, I figure. Maybe I'll get a job at Starbucks while I look for something in a different field.