-No. Stay outside.
Aw, come on. Please?
-I said no! Stay out there.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Dianna, I said I want to come in.
-Too bad. Stay out.
I'll come through the window, then.
-I'm closing it. You're not coming in.
I can damn well try.
-Try all you like. You're staying out.
I think I'll come in the door when you let the cat in.
-No you won't!
Fine. How about the wall, then?
-What about it? It's a wall. You can't come through it.
No, of course not. Did I say wall? My mistake. Pay no attention.
-Wait, what are you doing? Stay away from that wall.
Oh, I'm not (seep) doing (seep) anything (seep). Don't mind (seep) me.
-Stop it! Stop it! Get out of my wall, you bastard!
Sure, sure. No problem.
-Look, will you just leave me alone? Go in someone else's house.
Oh, don't worry, I am.
-For the last time. This is my house and I don't want you in here. LEAVE ME ALONE!
Who, me? I'm not doing anything much. What do you have against me?
-I just want you to stay out there. Please?
Oh, fine, fine (drumdrumdrumdrumdrum). Have it (drumdrumdrumdrumdrum) your way.
-Really? You'll leave me alone?
Yep (drumdrumdrumdrum). See how nice (drumdrumdrumdrumdrumdrum) I'm being?
-Wait, what's that noise?
What (drumdrumdrumdrum) noise?
-That one. That drumming.
Oh, you mean this?
-STOP THAT! GET AWAY FROM MY ROOF!
Talking to the rain is all well and good for spring showers, but today it's not being a very nice conversational partner. It's a little like having a sneaky hitman hanging around outside your house looking for an opportunity to come in and do some dirty work.
Who's got her first bartending gig tonight?
Dianna's got her first bartending gig tonight. I'm the replacement bartender for someone's small but liquor-rich holiday party, so all I have to do is show up looking relatively respectable and make martinis for 4 hours.
Whose time is now worth $25 an hour?
My time is now worth $25 an hour. That's the rate suggested by my esteemed bartending school, which was the source of this last-minute opportunity. I am profoundly indebted to them both for calling me and saying "go bartend for these people", and for the quote. $25/hour for a complete beginner at liquor-slinging? I never would have dreamed. I was worth $10.58 at my last job after 3.5 years and one promotion.
I think I'm going to take my $100 in filthy lucre and go get tattooed as an offering of gratitude to the gods of career changes.
It's kind of fun putting together a resume for something in which you have no useful experience. It means whoever's reading it will be bored to tears by a detailed description of your duties as a library employee, so you take out your nice formatted bullet-point list and replace it with "occasional patron assistance, sorting and reshelving books, receiving and processing daily shipments, updating library records, and general problem-solving".
I'm loathe to give up my eloquent and somewhat defensive paragraph under the heading of "education", explaining my incredible breadth and dedication as a student at UC Berkeley and the tragic, tragic financial and administrative woes that have forced my withdrawal from classes at this time HOWEVER! I remain dedicated to the pursuit of my degree and the education it signifies and I may be withdrawn, but madam, I am not beaten.
But given that it comes immediately after "35-hour intensive practical training including drink recipes, pouring techniques, operating cash registers and point-of-sale systems, customer service and server etiquette, and general knowledge of liquor and spirits".... it perhaps may not be the most relevant thing on the page, nor the foremost concern in the mind of the reader. I suppose the time has come for it to step aside and be replaced by "4 years undergraduate education in a variety of subjects; currently withdrawn for financial reasons".
But by god I'm still going to tell them about that gold star I got in third grade. Some things are important.
It's done... it's all official. As of yesterday at 4:00 pm, I'm no longer a library employee. As of yesterday at 9:30 pm, I'm qualified to be a bartender. I cleaned out my desk and went to take my final bartending test.
Along the way I baked two loaves of banana bread (from the same delicious recipe as the banana muffins that came to musical filming) and told my co-workers to gorge themselves. They did gorge. They ate giant pieces, moaned orgasmically, went back for more, and demanded that I leave the recipe. Not one person said, "Ew, it's vegan."
At bartending class I was tested on making 12 randomly selected drinks in 5 minutes, and listing the ingredients in 10 more drinks on a written test. I passed with colors that were pretty well airborne and with time to spare. I have a fancy certificate with my name on it, and instructions to come in next week for help with my resume and job placement.
The high point of the day, though? My boss of the last 3.5 years gave me a going-away present. What sort of going-away present does one expect when one leaves a job? A pen? A coffee mug. A cheesy t-shirt maybe? Something with the employer's name on it? Something, in short, that will make you appreciate the sentiment but maybe not the gift itself.
Not for Willyce Kim, these mediocre going-away gifts. Not for her longtime employee and fellow music-and-tattoo-lover. No, in such a case the only possible going-away present is... a Sleater-fucking-Kinney album? HOT GODDAMN!
May I someday have such a cool boss again. That's my most sincere hope.
Last night my bartending classmates and I were chatting as we filled up our fake-alcohol bottles in preparation for our usual 30 minutes of high-speed drink drills at the end of class. Someone suggested that we should all have "bartending names" borrowed from the names of the liquors we're learning to mix. I was dubious, but to my surprise people started expressing enthusiasm for being called Drambuie and Curacao. Far be it from me to spoil their party.
"So, Dianna, what's your name?" I thought for a second and said, "Midori."
And that was that, and Midori is what I shall be called. But I admit I'm a little disappointed that no one asked why.
I just got home from day one of my two-week intensive course in getting people drunk. Yee fucking ha! Here's the recipe.
Three hours into my glamorous liquor-slinging career and I've already covered the most important bases of all: pouring two-fisted with steady ease from bottles with fancy tops, tossing in cocktail straws with one hand while spritzing soda with the other, nonchalantly picking up a full martini glass with two fingers, and the elegant yet casual swoosh that deposits mere drops--no more-- of vermouth onto the sacrificial olive.
I'm grinning from ear to ear. If actual bartending is half as much fun as this class, I'll be in heaven.