muh

[dragonlady7]

Sundays are very tiring, I must say. it's a big adjustment, from my sitting in the Club and being zen and getting a shit-ton of writing done. I think I only did about 1.5 hours of overtime this week, and it was relatively calm for the last two hours or so. But still. Again approaching a thousand in sales today, so it's not just that the location I worked last week was exceptional. Normal Sundays are busy days in airport bars.

I'm attemtping to have some sort of redeeming merit to this post, so I'm not going to whine about how Evan opened Torture Bar's door onto my favorite big right toe (mine). (it's almost better already anyway.) Instead I'll cheerfully tell a little tale to illustrate just how ditzy I get when tired.

Busy, busy, busy, am running around between half a dozen tables, making drinks, taking food orders, handing out food as it arrives, handling money, giving change, etc. A couple sits down. "I'll be right with you!" I assure them. I hand out some hot food, give drinks to a table and take their orders, check up on a table, take the check from another to ring up the credit card, refill some drinks, put in another food order, etc., etc., etc.
Finally the man from the couple that had sat down gets up and comes over to me, where I'm standing beside the bar retrieving pens from my hair and wondering what it is I'm forgetting. He politely places his drink and food order, and, horrified, I realize that I'd told him I'd be right with him.
So I pour his beer and come dashing over with it. "Oh gosh," I say, "I'm so sorry! I said I'd be right with you! But, see, there was this really keen bit of tinfoil and it was so shiny and I got so distracted looking at it. You know how shiny things are."
They laughed. Incredibly, they left me a 20% tip.

Another amusing, non-work-related anecdote. Dave, as I've mentioned, is writing a Gmail notifier. He and I both have gmail accounts.

"You get a lot of mail," he says to me out of the blue.
I haven't been using the notifier yet, so I give him an odd look. "I get a bit," I say. "Mostly auto-notifiers of comments and mailing lists and the like."
"I know," he says.
Turns out he's been using my Gmail account all along to help him test his notifier. "Well, I know your password," he says.
It's true. He does. I told it to him three years ago so he could fix my computer. I know his; he told me so I could use his laptop. When he sets me up new accounts, like on the server, he automatically puts in my usual password. (Although, by coincidence, that is not my LJ password. I reset that one to an alternate one I've told him but I don't think he remembers. So there.)
We also know each other's PINs for our ATM cards. I've even e-mailed him my credit card number with the expiration date and the confirmation number on the back so he could buy himself something.
"I didn't read any of the mail," he offers.
"I trust you," I sigh.
"It's easier," he explains, "to have two active accounts going, that have mail in them already, so I don't have to test twice with the same one, or set up a test one and send fake email to it, and..."
"I know," I say.

I almost wish I were having a secret affair, though, so it could be all soap-opera-y and paranoid. Sadly, I have no secrets. I feel like I ought to be offended, except I know that, had he asked, I would've told him to go ahead, and I know he knows that, so I can't really be upset that he didn't ask, given that I wasn't there to ask. And we both know I wouldn't mind. Because, I am:
BOR-RINNNG.

I did learn not all that many years ago, to my surprise, that my mother to this day won't open mail that's addressed to my father. Nor will she forge his signature, nor he hers. But they share an e-mail account.

Comments

[kkatowll.livejournal.com]

Trevor and I not only know each other's passwords, but we both use the SAME passwords. Because we're both so impressed--see, both passwords are unusually cool. So Trevor's really neato one we both use for anything secure, like our joint ebay account, because it's got letters and numbers and is, I think, 27 characters long. Or so. And mine, which is shorter and actually a neat word in another language that doesn't use our alphabet, which I then transcribed to similar letters in our alphabet but made one deliberate mistake just in case someone was guessing words from that language, we both use for things like hotmail.
He knows my pin (or at least, I mentioned it once; he may not remember) but although he's told me his, I can't remember it. He told me his so that I could use his card one day when he was waiting in a long line at the movie theater, and I needed money to go buy snacks. I was sure it wouldn't work, but the cashier didn't seem to notice that the name on the card was not veen the same gender as me.

[gyen-gaoltosing.livejournal.com]

My boyfriend and I are still in a weird limbo on the mail thing. We recently got him on my health insurance, and since he's had some trouble with his knee recently, many of the insurance bills coming in are for him. But because the envelopes all have my name on them, he won't open them until I get home. I'm like, "What's the big deal?! Why didn't you just open this??" In spite of a teensy bit of exasperation, I have to say that I do appreciate him being so respectful.

But email--forget it. We don't even know each other's passwords on our computers.