The University of Spilled Cheesecake Crumbles

So I live and work in Downtown Los Angeles now.  Let me tell you, if there is one thing it has taught me, it is that the students of the University of Southern California are quite possibly the least intellectually curious, least creative, most self-centered, most ironed-haired/buzz cutted I've ever seen.

Yes, I've heard the old clever play on words, "The University of Spoiled Children."  Hell it's such a common phrase that even John McCain used it during his campaign (I mean he probably did).  But I'm not even going to go down that road.  I'm not going to call them spoiled.  Now, certainly, some (all) of them may(definitely) be (are) spoiled, wealthy, Audi/Beamer driving turds.  But maybe it's not the spoiling that made them turds.  Maybe it's something in the water, or in the air, or in the frozen yogurt at Yogurtland that makes them this way.  

Okay, yeah, long way to go for me to get to the real story: Yogurtland.  I hate USC students almost exclusively based on the behavior I've witnessed at Yogurtland.  Now, I can hear you saying, "Well how do you know they go to USC?"  Well, because they're all wearing sweatshirts that say USC.  "Well maybe they don't go there, they just have a sweatshirt from there."  Okay, fine, maybe they don't go there, but they are still one hundred percent complicit!  Wearing a sweatshirt, especially if you don't go somewhere means the following: 1. You have a child/brother/cousin/lousy friend who goes there. 2. You like the school for some other reason and by wearing the sweatshirt condone the practices of their student body and advertise for free 3. You got it for a few bucks at the Goodwill or a church yard sale and never intended to wear it out, but then your house burned down in an electrical accident and you barely made it out alive and the only things left were the clothes on your back, in this case, your USC sweatshirt and a pair of boxers.  If 3. was your answer, then read no further, this post is not about you.

This post is about USC kids, though, because I do really effing hate them.  I hate them so much that I went on a paragraph long rant just about their sweatshirts when I already said this post was supposed to be about Yogurtland.  And it is.  We're here now.  We've arrived at the Yogurtland part of the story, thanks for sticking with me.

After working a double at the job I just quit, I wanted some frozen yogurt.  Yogurtland is only a block from work, and only half a block in the wrong (not towards home) way.  So, I walked on over, opened the door, and was immediately blocked by about thirty eighteen year-olds with rosy cheeks and pin straight ponytails.  Did I mention they were giggling?  Thirty, no FIFTY giggling eighteen year-olds, all wearing USC sweatshirts or tee shirts or swinging those weird lanyard things you get at orientation for your keys.  It was a nightmare.  I just wanted yogurt.  Was it worth it?  Was braving the sea of brats worth it? I was conflicted.  On one hand, I could just leave, turn around, not fill myself to the brim with bile and hatred.  Or I could stay, listen to conversations like, "I can't believe that you got that text?" and "Remember last week when I got like so much yogurt and almost barfed in the car on the way home?  Only six ounces this time."

I decided to stay.  And it was a mistake.  A huge effing mistake.  But not for the reasons you're thinking.  Not because some little sorority girl with that same silver Tiffany's heart bracelet and skinny headband and spray tan knocked over my yogurt and not because someone's Ugg boot stepped on my foot.  No, the reason it was awful was because I was introduced to a new kind of USC student: The Creative Theatre/Studio Art one.  That's right!  I hated the new type over the old type!  The Alterna-SC girl was worse than the Blonde Bunny!  Why?  Because she was more insidious!  Because she may or may not have liked some of the same things I like, and she may or may not have liked the same type of jewelry, and she may or may not have had on a nice scarf!  When someone is a shrieking spoiled brat who obviously does nothing other than drink herself stupid and suck the dicks of pre-meds, it's one thing.  But when someone is a shrieking spoiled brat who obviously is part of GLBT and SA groups and probably spends most of her time in her studio or lens or going to comedy shows, then it's really insidious.  It's really wrong.  Because that means we are more alike than we are different.

There I was, for twenty minutes, constantly getting rubbed by Alterna-Brat's big, boho leather purse and tapped by OG-Brat's tiny, Coach clutch.  There was nowhere to go.  Which is precisely when one of the OG Brats dropped a spoonful of cheesecake crumbles on the floor, giggled, and left it there.  And it dawned on me, like the angel's singing in unison: The University of Spilled Cheesecake crumbles!  Ahahahahah. I was so proud of myself that I took out my notebook and began writing down all the ones I could think of, and here are the fruits of that exercise:

The University of Spoiled Crackers (the food)

The University of Spoiled Crackers (the whites)

The University of Sweat-suited Cunts (the velour kind...of cunt I mean)

The University of Supersweet 16 Coordinators (you know they watch it)

The University of Super Crabs (the STI)

The University of So-gay-I Cringe (you can't talk about the move Nine all the time)

The University of Soft Chumps (soft meaning fat)

The University of So-homophobic I Crush-you (dude, nice hat- no homo, though)

The University of Sucking Cocks (too obvious?)

And that's all she wrote, folks.  Until next week, au revoir.

-Mrs. G to the O-D

Diary Movies

Dear Diary,

Why is it when people write in their diaries in the movies, or when said diary is used as a framework to tell the story in that movie, why is it that the diaries are so well kept and with profound insight?  For example, a few weeks ago I finally saw "Benjamin Button" (yeah, late, I know).  Now, aside from the modern context given to that story (Hurrican Katrina) they give the story another context, and use Benjamin's diaries to tell the story of his life and all the people he met who died.  Okay maybe that's kind of reductive but that basically is the movie.  I'm not wrong.  He met so and so, they were old and died.  He met so and so who cut his hair, she was old and she died.  He went to war, all the people he knew there, died too.  And so on and so forth, ad infinitum.  Anyway, in each diary entry, he is able to speak with great perspective, hindsight, and foresight, even though we are to assume that the way people write diaries are in fact the opposite of that.  

Por ejemplo, when I write in my diary, I say something like this:  

Dear Diario, I had a crazy dream.  In it my sister was a pig and she was wearing a real fur jacket and my mother was telling her to get into the car otherwise we would never make it to lunch on time.  We lived by central park in this dream and the reason my sister was dilly dallying was because she was performing beautiful choreographed kung fu numbers in the trees on 82nd and Central Park West.  Oh yes and in this dream we were rich and my mother was white.  Weird.  Oh and also I can't get enough of Jeff Goldblum.  He is not replacing Steve Martin in terms of fuckability but I'd say they are more on an even keel these days because I saw a picture of Steve Martin in Malibu on the beach and brother is looking a bit saggy in the gut.  Til tomorrow, Love, Mrs. God.

My diary, as evidenced by above, is nothing like the diaries of films, which go like this:

Dear Diary, as I enter into these final years of my life I think it's important that I write something

that pretty much sums it all up. First off, I was born on a hot summer day when the wind was

so heavy you could have worn it as a blanket. And although my father died when I was just a 

kid, I could always hear him singing me to sleep. And then for a number of years I was young and 

banging lots of hot chicks. You should be able to glean this from the montage of me walking into 

fancy hotels and eating caviar with a lot of lovely ladies, but I'd like to reiterate that that is what 

happened. But of course a man tires of such things and so I married the prettiest girl in the town 

who may not have been pretty by Hollywood standards** but boy could she make a mean cherry pie. 

And So on and So forth.

So do you see what I mean? Why do diaries exist at all in movies? I guess they need to exist to catch

serial killers and child molesters and other socially unacceptable characters who keep very detailed accounts

of their devious behavior, but other than that, why on earth would someone's diary matter? With all

of the manuscripts in my home (thousands of pages, I'm sure) there are probably only five, coherent and

well thought out paragraphs.

In fact, when I have a child, I'm going to tell it to never keep a diary, and I'm also going to tell it to

burn all of mine. The last thing I want is for someone to make a biopic using only my diaries. God, can

can you imagine? A movie made entirely of thirty second dream sequences in which my sister (who

doesn't exist) has different animal heads and other dream sequences in which Jeff Goldblum and I drink

tea at the Huntington Gardens and discuss P.G. Wodehouse. Then again, maybe they should make that movie.

I apologize to all of you for not posting last week. Last week I really needed to drink a lot of whiskey

and fancy cocktails on Monday and when I returned I needed to feel queasy and nap instead of blogging.

But forevermore, there will be no excuses. I promise.

Love and Virgen Candles,

Mrs. God

**Don't think I forgot: this character will be played by Mary Stuart Masterson or Jennifer Jason Leigh.

Open Letter Re: Good Movies

This is an open letter to a professor of mine that shall remain nameless.  Well, then again, since I am almost positive you will never read this, and since you can't technically punish me grade-wise for (respectfully (?)) disagreeing with you, then I'll go with first name only.

Dear Harry,

The Dark Knight was the most perfect movie ever.  That thing you said in class about it being bad, that was wrong.  You were totally wrong.  I won't even really go into the reasons why it was so good, because everyone in the world agrees with me except for you and probably a handful of your shitty artsy friends.  That's right, I'm assuming you have shitty friends.  You see, I have this totally infallible system of superficial judgment, and judging by that system, you have friends that have let you make some bad decisions.  Among but not limited to these bad decisions are the following:

1. they let you wear baseball caps of football teams

2. they let you wear those caps slightly upward, askew and the forward way. If you are doing it sincerely, you're a class A dickerd, and if you're doing it ironically to make fun of some totally "pedestrian" Ashton Kutcher-esque style, then you are a class A dickerd in an advanced placement program.

3. they let you hate the Dark Knight, and when you said you didn't like it, they didn't press you about it, they probably applauded you for thinking that, because it was so effing unique of you.

Okay, but enough of this digression about your presumably shitty social circle and back to how wrong you were about the Dark Knight.  I guess I should write my grievances with your grievances in the order that you expressed them, chronologically.  

So....You said that you didn't like the Joker.  And you didn't even specify whether or not you meant the character or the portrayal.  Now if you didn't like the portrayal, there is something seriously wrong.  What are you, made of stone?  Is your heart dead and cold?  Did you kill Heath Ledger?  And if you didn't like the character or this particular incarnation of it, then you're equally as mixed up.  You claimed his lack of origin story made him boring, not compelling.  Did we see the same movie?  There is anything but a lack of origin story.  In fact, there is a plethora of origin stories.  He cut is face doing blank, his father cut his face cause of blank, he cut his face cause of you don't know because Batman starts kicking his ass before he can finish the story.  It's called mystery.  You know? Mystery, like on Masterpiece Theatre or in Agatha Chrystie books or on Murder, She Wrote, etc etc.  

But then again, maybe I'm wasting my breath, because halfway through writing most of this rant in my notebook (faithfully transcribed, very little clean-up) during class, you admit that you haven't even seen the whole movie.  You walked out!  Who walks out of the Dark Knight?  At what point did you feel it was a good time?  I know a person (not me, okay maybe me) who got a urinary tract infection from holding her pee because she was so riveted.  It's called non-stop action for a reason.  Additionally, how many people saw the dark knight and disagreed with you?  Oh, that's right: everybody...except your shitty friends.

Who knows, maybe next week I'll walk out of your class.  And when you ask me why I'm leaving with all of my notebooks and bags, I'll just say, "Oh, don't worry, it's just that I hate your lack of origin story."  Then I'll high five everybody, fart on my way out, lock the door from the outside, and go watch it on blu-ray.

Sincerely (suck it),

Mrs. God

p.s. please don't fail me.  I do the reading every week.

I'm Writing A Movie

Stop what you're doing. If you are at the movies, stop watching. If you are watching television, look away from it. If you are reading, mark your place-- no, use a real bookmark, don't just fold the page over-- great. Now, get ready to hear the best idea for a movie since you heard about "Blart: Mall Cop." Are you ready? Here it is: "Lois and Blart: The New Adventures of Mall Cop." See what I did there?
I know, I know. You're thinking, this can't possibly be as good as Wild Hogs. But guess what? It's going to be at least as good as Wild Hogs, maybe even funnier and have a lot less old man balls in it. To be fair, I'm not totally certain that there are old man balls in it, but then again, no I am certain, because I've seen the poster for it. It's a shot of ten or so old dudes in leather jackets and big ass choppers with their balls hanging out.
But seriously, lets get back to Lois and Blart. I'll start off by giving you a log line: A fat, pathetic mall cop discovers that a pretty mall employee is really an undercover reporter. They spend one insane night together. This is that night.
Not convinced? Let me get more in depth: A fat, pathetic mall cop, Peter Blart, gets trapped in a mall overnight ala A Night at the Museum (book, not movie). After a few hours of drinking Orange Juliuses, he decides to raid the cosmetics section at the Nordstrom's and make himself up like he's at a sleepover. While at the Clinique counter, he finds an employee's notebook and discovers she isn't just a shy, mild-mannered make-up lady, but a reporter, for the Daily Planet, doing an exposee on anti-wrinkle cream. Shocked at his discovery, he uses the Clinique company directory, calls her home number, and tells her he knows her secret. This is an awkward time for him to call her home. It is awkard because she in the middle of fighting with Superman, because he doesn't really approve of her working in such sub-human, anti-feminist conditions even for a story and even more than that he doesn't like it when people call during their private time. But it is awkard for another reason: Blart does not specify which secret he knows. Lois thinks that Blart knows that she is married to Superman. This really flips Lois out. She gets so angry at him that she tells him that if he is trying to blackmail her family it won't work because her husband will kick his ass. Blart is confused and not totally unworried, and even though he tries to explain that it was more like a prank call and that he won't ruin her story or blow her cover, Lois hangs up. Now, Superman is really peeved because before this call, it was a rather quiet night in Metropolis. After begrudgingly putting his suit and cape on, he flies Lois down to the mall so they can give this Blart character a piece of their mind. Blart, who was somewhat distressed, had gone back to the food court to drink more Orange Juliuses, and when Superman bursts through the skylight with Lois in his arms, he pees and vomits an orange frothy liquid all over himself. Lois and Superman laugh their beautiful asses off at this, but don't forget that they're about to kick some serious mall cop ass. A chase ensues. Well, it starts off with Blart just running toward the bathroom to clean up, but when he notices that Lois and Superman are floating after him, he picks up the pace. The whole time he is running he keeps yelling, "I won't tell anyone you're not really a cosmetologist." But this only makes Superman more angry, because he is reminded of Lois working there in that little apron and all that stupid pancake make-up. "You're going to regret that, Barf." This bring Blart to the point of tears, because he is still so embarrassed about throwing up, but he still manages to correct Supes. "It's Blart." And boy oh boy was that a mistake, because Superman just comes back with, "Oh yeah, well that's not what your name tag, it says, Barf." A close up reveals that Blart's name tag is indeed covered in vomit, obscuring the right amount of letters so it indeed reads "Barf." Superman is laughing so hard it looks like his abs are going to rip through his spandex, and at this point, Lois doesn't even care that they came there originally to rough this guy up. But then, just as you think it's going to end in good hearted fun and they're all going to go home (except for Blart, who is locked in there, remember?), Blart picks up a bottle of anti-wrinkle cream and hurls it at Superman. The bottle shatters, Superman falls in an amazing play and replay Matrix style shot. It turns out, the secret ingredient that Lois was trying to expose in the Clinique formula was kryptonite. Although Superman isn't dead, it looks like he's going to have a shiner in the morning and welts on his face from the reaction to the lotion. Blart thinks he's the strongest man alive, and begins to celebrate, taking off his soggy vomity clothes and running around the aisles. But then Lois cleans off her hubby with some toner, he is pretty much a-okay, and proceeds to rip apart Blart limb from limb. It ends on a shot of Lois and Superman crashing through another skylight on their way out of the mall. The tag is the two of them on vacation at the fortress of solitude, laughing about that guy they brutally murdered and sipping Chandon.
That's pretty much it. I'm thinking that vomit shot will be great for the under forty crowd, just because it's so slapstick, plus the Orange Julius people will be over the moon with how much product placement they're getting, so I think we can count on them for some serious dough. Besides, who would ever have thought to team up Teri Hatcher and Kevin James. Also, this is totally Dean Cain's year for a comeback.

You're Welcome,
Mrs. God

My Visit to Blow Job City

So last friday night, I saw a few comedians say some funny things.  Overall it was pretty okay, but there was one phrase that really stuck with me: "Blow Job City."  Now if you're a boy, I'd say that sounds pretty special.  Now the context of the joke I don't quite remember.  Nor does it matter, really.  The beauty is in the concept itself.  It's funny, vulgar, and actually quite layered.  At first, it seems like a city with a very specific nomenclature.  But when you really think it over, it could mean several different things.  Perhaps it's a city known for it's toothless whores, and it's not really the town's real name but a sort of colloquial nickname, like "City of Lights," or "City of Dogs," or "Children of Men."  Or maybe that is the real title of the city and it's formally known as the capital of blow jobs, where it is mandated that each resident, upon reaching the age of consent, receives one.  Or maybe the city is just a mythical wondrous place, like Valhalla or Mount Olympus or Jurassic Park.

Needless to say, I experienced something today that made me rethink the location of Blow Job City.  Today, much like every monday, I go to the dentist.  Why? My teeth have a weak constitution.  No backbone, no integrity.  They're like the Ollie North of my face.  So, at my weekly meeting with the dentist, I received an adjustment on a crown (it had been leaking cement, who knew that was a thing?).  Then I received the beginnings of another crown.  Both of these procedures took in the neighborhood of two hours.  Two hours in that chair, my mouth agape, the left side of my face numb from my adams apple to my eye, and that tease of a white light shining (am I dying? If I do die do I have to haunt the dentist office?  Would I have to smell that stale cold metal for eternity?)  At the end of it all, after the last few impressions of the inside of my mouth were taken, I was able to sit up.  I was given a cup of mouthwash for rinsing and a tissue for the white flecks of cement that had stuck to my chin and lips.  

Like a shelf of books trapping me in an earthquake, it hit me.  This is Blow Job City.  The dentist's office, or DDS City.  Just like the theory that Gotham is Metropolis at night, BJC is just the DDS' darker, more Tim Burton-y brother.  In DDS City, there is a Superman (the dentist) with whom rests your fate.  You believe in him and hope that he will be there when it counts.  In BJC, there is no Superman, but a dark, troubled vigilante who wears a bat suit and tries to stop the criminal powers that be from ruling the city with iron dicks.  In BJC, it is mandated that everyone give blow jobs, not receive them.  It's not paradise, but hell on earth.  Neither city is a good place to be.  No sir.  In both, your mouths stays open for hours at a time while someone else has their run of the place, clinking your teeth and playing your uvula like it's a tambourine.  The residents of both have sore mouths and locked jaws, sticky faces and a compulsive need for chapstick.  If they ever escape from either DDSC or BJC, they still have sensitive gums and a combined sense of relief and shame.  Even if you escape, you still know that it was your fault you ended up there; you were in some way neglectful.

So there it is, folks. I've cracked the code, or solved the case, or been a gumshoe and then iced it and cracked it off.  There is no mystery behind the dentist.  Not anymore.  Now when I go, I will expect that bittersweet feeling.  I will expect to feel exhausted, and hungry, and in need of a shower.

Tune in next week, when I will discuss the many film ideas being bandied about in my domestic world.  Among them are the following titles: Scream Play, Diagnoses Merger, P and P3 (which are the prequel and the sequel to P2, respectively).

Until then, have a week.

-Mrs. God

p.s. I promise I won't be as blue next time.  Sorry if that term is too in for you, but "blue" means "dirty," as in "he told blue jokes," or "that dress is the color of the blue around an asshole"...now I'm done being blue.

Missed Connections in the Supermarket

Last night, after getting home from work, I opened my fridge.  What to eat.  Now of course, the daily will power struggle continues (a moment on the lips, forever on the hips-- boy was Nana right), and I am trying to eat healthfully.  But the ingredients in my fridge were as follows: baby carrots, piece of leftover chocolate cake, lemon juice.  Here are the ones in my cabinet: ginger bread mix (requires eggs, so that's a no), sea salt, half a bar of dark chocolate, a half full bottle of whiskey.  I may be desperate to lose the weight for the Oscars, but a woman can't live off of carrot soup and hot toddy alone.  Well, it would do for the night.

This morning, however, I awoke with a sense of urgency.  That "something's gotta give" feeling (not the movie! sheesh-- have you seen it?  Okay here we go again on a quick aside about the movie "Something's Gotta Give."  That's the one with Diane Lane and Keanu Reeves and they have three daughters played by Mandy Moore and Lindsay Lohan and John Krasinski.  Moore looks like a fucking cadillac in lingerie, and Lohan seems unsure of where she is, but Krasinski charms as the transgender with the heart of gold, channeling Swayze in "To Wong Foo..." anyway it's about the daughters' struggle for love during the pro-sex feminist movement of the 80s and they all find love by placing ads in the paper saying "must love dogs."  Or some shit.  My cousin really liked that movie, she made me watch it.)  So I woke up with a sense of urgency, felt that something had to give, realized it was my hunger, rode my bike to get tacos, felt full, took a nap, dicked around on the internet, etc etc.  It was then and only then, after the etc., that I was finally ready to admit I needed to go the grocery store.

It was there, at the market, that I may have met the love of my life.  So now, without any further silliness, I will address an open letter to him.

Dear Missed Connection at the Ralph's:

You: wearing navy.  Ah, navy, the color that only fascinating people can wear because the color itself is so boring.  Anyway, you were wearing it.  Head to toe.  Navy sweatshirt, dark navy washed jeans, and navy and gray walking/hiking hybrid shoes.  You said, "Sorry, can you move?  I can't quite see the Twinings."

Me: ghetto fab meets geek chic, nice sneakers and thick frames, ya heard?  I was standing in front of the tea because I wanted some, not because I'm one of those worthless pieces of shit that stands in the aisle because they don't have jack to do.  And even though I had every right to be there in front of the Irish Breakfast and I knew it, I still moved over.  I wheeled my cart into the hot cocoa section and burned the death stare into the back of your head.  

But then you spoke: "Ah, yes, yes. That's it.  Now I can survey.  See it all.  Yep (kneeling down) oooh, my back, ooh, okay there, okay.  Ah, yep, that's the one I wanted, great.  Great.  Now what else do I need..."  

Two options: 1. You have Aspergers.  2. You are the real life Dr. Ian Malcom (ha- second reference of the year, folks!)  If 2. is true, then proceed to contact me via this blog, and we will be happily married.  If 1. is true, continue leading your life as a chemist or library scientist until you one day meet a waitress at a truck stop in Amarillo, Texas and marry her.  If neither one is true: You're just an utterly impatient person who couldn't wait the five seconds while I chose my Twinings.  You had to have yours right then!  If this third, wildcard option is true, then you open the door only to find that there is a pack of wolves waiting for you: you are attacked by them and die.  I really do hope you get attacked by wolves, you deserve it, dick wad.

 

As usual, thanks for reading...and for all you homemakers who wanted that carrot soup recipe: here it is:

Sad as Fuck Cause I'm Poor and Ain't Got a Man Soup:

bag of baby carrots (week old-- you've got to be able to see the white dryness)

hot water

salt and pep and/or tears

lemon juice (to taste)

Have a week.

-Senora Dios

JOB DESCRIPTION: WINDEX

Okay, so in an effort to promote my loathing of humanity and to make good on a new years resolution, I am posting again.  In the new year, I am hoping to post at least once a week and lose some weight.  I'd actually like to go back to my birth weight, if possible.  One post a week and 90 pounds less; I'm not asking for much here.

Topic for this week?  Windex.  What are its uses?  If you work where I work, it is primarily used for cleaning windows (both sides), cleaning tables, and condescension.  That's right.  Whodda thunk it?  Not this unsuspecting server.  But apparently, in the restaurant business, windex can indeed be used to personally degrade your workers.

Dateline Last Tuesday: I walk into work, notice that the windows are smudgy, and grab the windex.  I'm not a huge lady, by any means (still 90 pounds overweight though, shit).  However, I have a good set of gangly arms with which to wash windows.  So I began.  I cleaned the two front windows and the two front doors.  Then I went about doing the rest of my side work (sorry for the restaurant jargon- it means work you do when you're trying to look busy).  But not a  minute into restocking the salt packets and napkins, my boss approached me with a disapproving expression on his face.

"Mrs. God?" He said.

"Yes?"

"Can you make another pass at the front windows? They're still really streaky."

"Sure, no problem."

I made another pass at the windows.  While I was doing so, he said "try and put some elbow grease into it."

Sure.  No problem.  I finished up the first window, and stepped aside to check the glare.  I wasn't about to do them a third time.

Then my bosses voice boomed behind me: "You know looking at them isn't going to make them clean."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you know, you really gotta put some back into it."  Then he grabbed the Windex out of my hand and a paper towel.  Then, I was treated to a twenty minute tutorial on how to clean his windows.  

"You see how I'm really not afraid to use a lot of windex?"

"Yes."

"You see how I'm really using the full extension of my hand?"

"Yes."

"I've been doing my windows for two years."

Cue the record scratch or angel choir or whatever signifies an epiphany.  Two years?  Wait a second: Two years?  Oh, two years!  Holy shit.  If he'd told me he'd been cleaning windows for two whole years, then I would have backed the eff up and given him full respect.  I bet he never used Windex in his life before opening up this restaurant.  Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he never got the chance to clean up after himself let alone anyone else.  But finally, at the age of thirty, he's doing it.  And guess what?  He's good at it.  Real good.  Those two years have really paid off.  That's America for you.  Only in the good old US of A could you put your mind to a menial task and get good at it.  And if you do it long enough, you can tell other people how to do it.  And if you do it even longer than that, then you can chide people for not doing it up to your standards and condescend as much as you like.  But don't get ahead of yourselves.  That last one comes only after you put in the full two years. 

So after the first Windex debacle, I've come to work prepared to hear something even more unbelievably condescending than that the last thing I was told.  And guess what? It never fails.  Just yesterday, after cleaning the windows (I'm telling you they're my Goliath), my boss proceeds to go clean them himself.  He re-cleans the outside.  He re-cleans the inside.  He does it all, and with such aplomb that I can't help but think to myself: That's me...in two years, maybe.

Then I get a tap on the shoulder.  "Uh, Mrs. God."

"Yes."  I turn around.  It's him, the boss, Windex in hand.

"Do you see how those two windows on the left look? I just re-did those.  Now I'm gonna need them to look like that every single time."

"Got it."  I turn back around.

"You know," he smiles charitably, "If  you need to use the step ladder to get the leverage, please do."

Oh, for heaven's sake!  The step ladder.  Yet another thing I would never have thought of.  Not without two years under my belt, anyway.  I'm so naive.  Even that afternoon, when I went back to do the windows for my second (and their third) time, I knew it was going to be different.  

But lugging that step ladder outside just to scrub those pesky hard-to-reach corners made me think: Isn't this a job?  Window washing is still a thing, right?  Maybe I could paid for doing just this?  Or better yet, do chimney sweeps still exist?  Chim chim cheroo- count me in.  I'm not typically one to complain about a job.  Okay, well I am.   Everyone is.  Jobs are horrible, mostly.  And even if you happen to have a good one, the people you deal with are horrible.  It's just how it is.  But all I ask, and I think it's a small thing, is that job descriptions be  more accurate.  For example, the job I have now should not say: server/ cashier.  It should say: Windex.

So thanks for reading my Windex rant.  Tune in next week to listen to me discuss restaurateurs who wear so much gold jewelry and fancy denim they could be Boss Tweed.  I mean what are we serving, kebabs or corruption (Tammany Hall jokes, anybody?)  Just kidding.  Next time I'm going to talk about how hard it is to get those pesky last fifty pounds off and how to do it.  Or maybe I'll just talk about a tall drink of water.

valle con moi, 

Mrs. God