So anyway, here I am, digesting a couple of peanut butter and bacon sandwiches (they were pretty much the only food we have left - we desperately need to go food shopping), waiting for Nurse Pam, and bored enough to blog a bit.
There wasn't a whole lot going on this week, but there are a few isolated events I could wax poetic about, I guess. Let's mix it up a little bit today and type this crap out of chronological order. Because, honestly, aren't you getting bored reading this blog every week, where one paragraph starts with "On Monday, we..." and the next paragraph says "On Tuesday, we..."? It bores me to write it. Let's have some fun.
Wednesday, May 2nd, 10:15 A.M.
"A representative will be right with you."
Pam and I were beating the system. Some sucker was going to try to get us to buy a time share, and regardless of what we said ("No" or "No" or maybe even "No"), the company this guy worked for was going to give us two free nights in a city of our choosing, plus a $100 dinner gift certificate. A squat but genial man approached us. "So I see you're here to look at some time shares. In my experience, those people who are here for the gifts will always say no, no matter what I do. So even though it may be a fruitless endeavor, let's see if we can change your mind." He couldn't.
Thursday, May 3rd, 7:20 P.M.
"You are six dollars short. Two more beers?"
So much for $100 of free dining dollars. We were sitting in a booth at the Harley Davidson Cafe on the Strip, using $25 out of the hundred, watching the Flyers lose in overtime and watching our diets lose in overtime after a delicious BBQ pulled pork sandwich each.
Why only $25 out of the $100, you ask? When Pam went to print out the gift certificate for the restaurant of our choosing (and really, what else would we choose besides barbecue?), there in fine print, size 4 font, italics, was the footnote: "Must spend a minimum of $50 when using $25 in dining dollars." On one hand, we were jipped. Cheated. Bamboozled by those bastardly businessmen. "Come to hear us talk about how you'll never be able to afford these fantastically beautiful resorts along the coasts of the Carribean," they claimed, "and we'll make you rich! $100 worth of food for free!"
On the other hand, we did only drop twenty-five plus tip on a fifty dollar check, so the promise of gifts for the time share nonsense wasn't all a complete charade.
Saturday, May 5th, 4:00 P.M.
"You have reserved Site 29, which is a tent-only campsite."
That's right, we're hitching up and ditching town next weekend to explore Mother Nature's masterpiece, the Grand Canyon. Just made the reservations today for our campsite. Ah yes, we're enjoying nature the way God intended, in a tent. I guess the next step is buying a tent.
Come to think of it, we don't have much of any camping equipment whatsoever. I guess I know where my paycheck is going this week. I'm sure there'll be plenty to say about this much anticipated road trip as the week progresses.
Wednesday, 11:00 A.M.
"Okay, so, we're looking at a down payment of $6000, and then about $250 monthly for the next seven years. Does this sound reasonable?"
"Ummm... Not really. We're really sorry, but financial, there's no way we can do that."
"So money is the only reason then?"
"Well, yea, kind of. I mean, I'm paying off car payments and paying rent, and he just got out of school a year ago and doesn't even have a full time job. We wouldn't be able to handle this."
"Let's get Gerald over here. Hey Gerald!"
"Alrighty then, mates, I shouldn't even be telling you blokes this, but I can offer ya my special Locals Discount. See, since you live here, we can [do this and that and the other for you], and see, here ya go, can ya handle this one, ya smarmy chums?"
"No, I'm sorry, not doable [and please tone down your British, it's overwhelming]."
"There's one last thing we can offer. We can [make one last move of desperation because gosh darn you just came here for the gifts didn't you] and there you go, what do you think about that?"
"We're really, really sorry, but it's just not going to happen at this time. Maybe in a few years..."
"... It has to happen now, we won't invite you back after this."
"Well then no, I'm sorry, not today."
"...."
"...."
"...."
"Please step around the corner for your gifts."
Wednesday, 11:00 P.M.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
It was the perfect night for ice cream. Except, you know how people say that nothing ever closes in Las Vegas? Well, apparently that's only true for anything that isn't an ice cream shop. Nothing in the general vicinity was open at 11 at night, not a Dairy Queen nor a Baskin-Robbins. Finally, we found a Ben & Jerry's open late-for-a-Wednesday nestled in the corner of Treasure Island. Nothing quite tastes as good as a strawberry cheesecake in a waffle cone with my Pammy (except maybe a Rita's gelati with my Pammy don't think about home don't think about home don't think about home).
Friday, May 4th, 3:00 P.M.
"Okay, then, how do you usually get your hair done?"
I have no idea how to describe my typical hairstyle. Isn't there some kind of number system that describes hair lengths or something? What the heck does "squaring up" mean? Do I usually have equal lengths on the top and side, god I can't even remember now. Usually when I walk into Jerry's at the corner of Rhawn and Pine, I just say "The Usual," because he's been giving me the same hair cut for like six year now. So when the rockabilly youngster asked me how I wanted it done, I was speechless. I had no idea. The best I could come up with was "Urmmm, ughhh.... short, but not to the scalp?"
I guess that was good enough to work with, because my hair cut came out pretty decently. The only snag was that I told him "Yes" when he asked me, "Do you usually square it up?" I guess I assumed that meant just that the bottom would be flat, but apparently that means the hair on the back goes up to your ears, which is waaay higher than I'm used to. I anticipate this looking absolutely ridiculous as it starts to grow back in. Luckily, I have a good sense of humor about my many off-putting physical traits, so a weird haircut can easily just fall into that.
Thursday, 8:30 P.M.
"[lyrics from the Elton John song they played]"
After checking out another Bellagio Water Fountain Show - this stuff never gets old - we decided to check out the actual Bellagio, if only to see how the fancy folk live. It was indeed fancy, and it smelled wonderful. The pleasant aroma was most likely due to the crazy flower set-up they had in the main foyer. Here's a cute pic.
Looks like she's standing in front of a green screen, doesn't it? Nope, unlike the photo opportunity presented to us at the Harley Davidson Cafe where you could sit on a motorcycle, this is a completely real photo. That huge swan and the equally huge duckling next to the bridge are obviously real.
Wednesday, 2:55 P.M.
"There's going to be a change in your schedules."
I like my job a lot, but that's mainly because I'm an optimistic guy, and can find joy even in calling cranky Miami residents or old cranky U.S. Naval Academy graduates. But sometimes this job can be just plain silly with its scheduling.
True, it does say in our handbooks that we signed that "shift times are able to be changed at the will of the boss." Still, I didn't think it was going to get this absurd. When I started - just over two months ago, mind you - I'd work from 2:45 until 6. Then they changed it to 2:45-6:30. Now, oh boy, now starting on Monday, I'll be there from 3 until 8.
That's five uninterrupted hours of trying to convince unemployed citizens of northeastern Pennsylvania to give what little cash they have to a hospital that already charges their family thousands each month for the cancer treatment they inevitably tell me about. Spoiler Alert: No one wants to donate money.
Morning shifts are extended by two hours as well, and of course this was the first schedule I signed up for a couple morning shifts. So it looks like I'll be at the ol' call center from 9-8 on Tuesdays.
Hey, it gives me something to do while Pammers is at work. And the paycheck will be like double now. A paycheck double the size is always good to have in a town that takes your money twice as quickly.
Wednesday, 12:15 P.M.
"All that naysaying made me hungry."
You usually don't have to go far for good food around here, and the Bluegreen Club 36 Resort, where we declined to buy a time share, was no exception. Just fifty feet away was a nifty burger joint called Grind Burger. We chose it for two reasons:
1) The waiter doesn't take your order. Instead, you filled out a questionaire about how you would like to build your burger. The meats and toppings and sauces seemed infinite, and there was no way the cook was going to screw it up, because there it was, filled out by the customer himself.
2) Pat, our agent who unsuccessfully made a bid at our money, told us about how much he loved Grind Burger. "Every inch of this massive beer belly was earned at that place." Indeed, he had a massive beer belly. Huge. Hey, I can make fun of him, because I have one too! It's like only blondes can make Blonde Jokes, right? Anyway, he seemed genuinely happy to have cultivated a monstrous stomach at Grind Burger, so we figured it had to be good.
And it was good. And we were full. And I hit the gym to even out that weight gain so as to not become a Pat.
Friday, 12:35 P.M.
"BARBER SHOP TOPIC TODAY: WHO WAS/IS WORSE "RON ARTEST METTA WORLD PEACE" OR DENNIS RODMAN?? LET ME KNOW WHAT YA'LL THINK..."
It was time to get a hair cut. I had been putting it off for too long. It was to the point where I just looked stupid. Luckily, I had seen a barber shop just up the street, about a 15-20 minute walk from the Can. No sweat. That was my goal for Friday.
Except, I'm really protective of my hair. I'm not the Fonz or anything, but I just really strongly prefer not to have a really bad hair cut, or worse, a hair cut that isn't "Joe Kain" enough. Think of it this way: in general, a fade hair cut isn't necessarily a bad hair cut. Like, when the guido get their shape ups, they look like D-bags, but that's how they are supposed to look. The cut fits them.
Along those same lines, if I were to get a fade or a fohawk or something, I would look horrendous. That's not me. To be stuck with a haircut that makes me seem like something I'm not scares me a little bit.
So please understand my actions when I walked up to the barber shop I had my eye on for a while and realized what the name of that barber shop was. Upon closer inspection, the title above the door read "Fade 'Em All University." I kept walking. This was not my barber shop. I chickened out.
But, sometimes the stars align and things work out the way they are supposed to. By chance, in my travels to put distance in between myself and that esteemed place of higher hair education, I met a coworker from the call center, who happened to have lived in the area for the better part of a decade, and who happened to know exactly where to go. Just right up the street, apparently, was a true barber shop, one with a candy-striped pole outside and everything. And it would be just what this dorky white boy needed.
So I started the walk. Turns out my buddy had greatly underestimated the distance I needed to travel to get to the barber shop.
And that was the day I walked five miles to get a hair cut.
Wednesday, 10:45 A.M.
"And here is the presidential master suite that could be yours."
"...!"
"As you can see, it can easily hold 16 people comfortably. It would be ideal, with its wet bar and table for eight and three bathrooms and huge multimedia center, for a party of some sort."
"This is incredible."
"It is, isn't it? Just the perfect place to vacation. And it can be yours for only...."
"WE'LL TAKE IT!"
"...Pam shut up....."
"I mean, we'll take... another look at it."
"And over here...."
Saturday, 8 P.M.
"Let me tell you about this patient I had..."
Time to pop the champagne, Pam is home! Happy Cinco de Mayo, everyone!
No comments:
Post a Comment