So I've been crazy busy.

And as a result I've neglected you. But fear not, for I have returned. And I have returned with stories in tow.


STORY ONE

I was walking to work on Friday, March 3rd. It was between 9:30 and 10:00AM, and I was feeling good. All of my midterm papers were done. All of my classes had met. I was home free. All I had to do was go to work for a few hours, then I could be headed home for spring break.

As I was happily walking down the sidewalk by the Math/Science Building, a big white Cadillac SUV pulled up. Three good-looking gentlemen inside. Passenger rolled down the window and said, "Excuse me. Do you have a lighter?"

I was smoking a cigarette. Of course I had a lighter.

"Yes."

"Can I use it?"

Now you all know how I feel about smokers. We're like one big outcast community. If we won't stick together and share lighters, who will look out for us?

"Sure."

So I walked up to the SUV--which, mind you, was now pretty much blocking the entire road due to its placement--and handed the young man my lighter. He proceeded to pull out a rillo and pre-light the end. (For those of you less involved in the illegal drug culture, a rillo is pretty much a marijuana cigar. And you generally have to burn the end of the rillo (or joint or blunt) before you can actually light it.)

The look on my face said it all. Roughly translated it would have been, "I can't laugh right now because I don't want to get shot, but this is really fucking hilarious. People have no shame. Not even 10AM and they're already rollin' down the street borrowing strangers' lighters to get their smoke on. . ."

After seeing this look, the gentleman lighting the rillo decided to strike up a conversation. After all, a casual (translate: weird as hell) situation deserves a casual (translate: awkward as hell) conversation. "How's your day goin'? Goin' good? That's good."

Momentarily, he was inhaling his first puff of potty goodness and handing back the lighter. "You have a great day. And thank you."

With that, they were off. I put the lighter back in my pocket and proceeded to walk to work with a huge, stupid grin on my face.

Bizarreness abounds.


STORY TWO

IMPACT went to Chicago a week and a half ago. We saw three plays, a movie, and the release of the butterflies at a museum. But the real adventure took place in the hotel.

Bethamini and I had a suite to ourselves. It was beautiful. Everything our dorm rooms should be. Really. Not kidding. Universities, go visit the Marriot Suites at Chicago O'Hare. (Now!)

So anyway, we were staying in this wonderfully decorated room (with the exception of that damn red lamp). A couple of feet from our room was a door marked "Employees Only." Every time we walked by the door, we would hear the weirdest sounds.

I'm not talking about your typical hotel sounds: snoring, television, alarm clocks, showers, fucking like there's no tomorrow, fucking like your wife has no idea what you're doing, fucking like your wife still thinks you're straight, etc.

These sounds were more similar to. . . hmm. . . it's hard to describe. It was a combination of chainsaws, whips cracking, horses neighing, fucking while being handcuffed to a pipe, and making your own mayonnaise in the blender.

Then we started seeing things when we walked by. First it was a silk scarf tied to the doorknob. Then it was a spatula on the floor, partially under the door. Next it was an ice bucket full of egg whites. And on and on it went, iPod earbuds, barbeque lighter fluid, kitchen shears, and I don't even know what.

(We walked by the door a lot.)

Well, once when I went out there, the curiosity was just too much. As my fingers took hold of the doorknob and I prepared to peer inside, Bethamini came rushing out of our room (call it woman's intuition that her timing was that good) and grabbed me by the arm.

"Allison! What do you think you're doing?! That sign says 'Employees Only.' You can't violate the rules. You might get in trouble."

And with that my plans for adventure were foiled. Bethamini and her rule-abiding ways kept me from ever know what was behind that door. From ever discovering why someone would need silk scarves and an ice bucket of egg whites at the same time. From ever knowing why hotel employees would play with chainsaws on the tenth floor, with guests staying next door. Perhaps most importantly, I will never understand why I decided while staying in the hotel that I was going to make up an adventure about that door simply for the purpose of recording it in this, my humble blog.


STORY THREE

I've worked three times since my arrival home for break. All three times, I have been called in when the business volume does not warrant my presence. It is extremely frustrating to go into work and just stand around being bored, and then leave four hours later with fifteen dollars in my pocket. It just sucks.

So the other day we decided to play a game. It's our favorite game. It's the sexual harrassment game. Here's how it works: you make unwanted sexual advances toward your coworkers--these can be verbal or physical--and if you are on the receiving end of these advances, you play along by flirting back. The payoff? Cooperation when you get busy and need help doing your job. (Remember the time I made only two shakes on a Saturday night? Yeah.)

Anyway, the game. My manager decided that it would be the running joke that he and I were going home together and that we were going to have a fling. I quickly informed him that he was too young (he got a kick out of that because he's four years older than I am) and that I would only hurt him. From there, we turned to the more physical aspect of the game.

Here's how it went down.

"Hey, Jackson. . . I have to go back to dry stock in a minute. . ."

"Oh?"

"Oh."

I walked back to dry stock to retrieve coffee for the service station, and before I knew it, my manager was walking back toward dry stock. As he approached he pulled two chairs in front of the door to dry stock, closed the door, and pushed another chair against the door. Then, he walked up and stood in front me, trapping me in between two shelves.

"So. . ."

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing after work tonight?"

"What are you doing right now?"

"What the hell are you guys doing back there!?" Another employee had approached and was most confused. Apparently he didn't understand the game.

"Jackson, what are you doing? Why did you put those chairs there? Do I need to file a sexual harrassment suit?"

"You know you would never do that to me."

A few more provocative glances and we were back to work.

Restaurants would never survive without the power of sexual harrassment. Employees wouldn't know how to communicate.

Seriously.