This week at work was torture. Torture, I tell you! But somehow I made it through, and now here I am, sitting at home on a rainy Saturday with nothing to do. Absolutely nothing. Not that that’s a bad thing.

I’m actually considering hopping the bus downtown and enjoying a pitcher at Dan Kelly’s. But then, I don’t want to be the kind of person that goes to a bar alone.

March was a decent month at work, production-wise. I exceeded my room night goal by almost four hundred percent, which at this point means nothing because my incentive plan is still being worked out. Do you know when the first payout comes? After the first quarter. Do you know what today is? The last day of the first quarter. I almost don’t feel bad for thinking “Will Determine” was a real person.

Tomorrow is April 1, when Missy and I agreed we were going to be on our way out. So much for that. I am already planning on when I will put in my two weeks if I am offered the job that I interviewed for on Monday. I’m sure by doing this I am completely cursing myself and there is no way I will actually be offered a job, but a girl’s got to dream. So, in my dreams, do I want to take one week off between jobs? Two weeks? I’m not sure what I can afford, considering when I move to Duluth I am going to have nothing but a bookcase, a shower curtain, a set of knives and a laptop in my new place.

Okay, maybe nothing to do is a bad thing. It’s not even 10am and already I am so bored. I wish I had a chorus line of little people to entertain me.

Weekends like the one I just experienced are setting pretty high standards for Duluth. When I move there, it certainly won’t be this wonderful every weekend, every week, every day. I just need to keep reminding myself of that.

I should have known it was going to be a good weekend when, on the walk from work the Greyhound station, a very thuggish negro type told Darren, “You better watch out or I’m gonna steal that white bitch from you,” then apparently yelled obscene things about fucking me with a broomstick. And then when I reached the Hound station, I was sent to the wrong gate and nearly boarded a bus bound for Fargo. Here’s to you, downtown Minneapolis.

On Saturday I found my ability to walk severely retarded by one very fucked up big toe, which was especially discouraging because Angie and I had planned on taking a nice, long walk to fully enjoy the beautiful spring day. We did some shopping and I sprung for another pair of sunglasses, which has already lasted longer than the last pair, and once I had mastered walking on the side of my foot, we set off on our walk. I only fell once on our walk, but I fell again today, ripped my jeans and drew blood to make up for it. I would like to point out that I didn’t fall at all while drunk this weekend. I think it’s clear what state my body functions best in.

After the walking came the booze. Angie and I decided to go the fruity route this weekend and were soon turned off by the heartburn and tooth rot that accompanies too much Boones and Smirnoff Twisted. However, we stayed on her deck and ate tender white popcorn and tipped back alcoholic Kool-Aid until we could see our breath. Abby joined us just in time to hit the bars and hit them we did.

We found friends at the Radisson, as we do. Nigel, the Scot; Jim, the Alabamian; and Dave, the guy who didn’t talk. They all seemed very nice, which they were, but we realized Nigel had ulterior motives when he attempted to lick the insides of our mouths, groped our rears, and gave us creepy hugs accompanied by a very noticeable erection. I’m sure glad we gave THAT GUY our cards!

We also saw Angie’s stalker and Hatchet when we were out. They’re both pretty good kids, but the one we truly love is Jason, the new former Pioneer bartender. Catch that? On the note of Angie’s stalker (not to mention Nigel), how in God’s name do guys think that getting on me will make Angie jealous? Hint, guys: if she’s not making out with you, she doesn’t want to make out with you. The girl gets what she wants and if it’s you, you’ll know. If it’s not, well, why don’t you just shut up and buy her drinks? I’ll take one too, thanks.

Pops joined us yesterday and I was glad that I dodged a hangover, though Angie may have gotten hit double for my miss. Hanging out with dad in Duluth is always a pleasant experience, though considerably more pleasant when not overhung.

Today I had an interview for a new job and they are hiring for 10 open positions. If that doesn’t help my odds, I’m not sure what does. I will know on April 15 if I will be hired – two years and one day after my first day at the hotel. AND I took my permit test again and passed, though I almost failed the seeing portion. Who needs eyesight anyway? But do you know what a having new photo ID will mean? I won’t have to present my passport at bars for at least a year.

Sweet mama.

Dear Diary,

I forgot to mention that I got an interview in Duluth! It's a week from Monday. Also, I'm going to learn how to drive. I hope my guardian angel wakes the hell up and starts keeping an eye out for me. Aren't you happy for me, Diary? You're my BFF.

XOXO,
Amanda

Growing up, I was a reserved child. I was one of the final few chosen when teams were picked in gym class (though that may be because, in addition to being reserved, I was also fat, slow and uncoordinated), I was scared of new things, and I was wary about meeting new people. All in all, I was terrified of rejection, being laughed at, being the center of attention…basically, being noticed. I just wanted to fade into the background.

Sounds just like me, right? Right.

When I was in second or third grade, there was a school assembly important enough that my sister’s class, two years ahead of me, as well as my brother’s class, four years ahead of me, attended. What could be so important to bring together such an expanse of children onto our rickety, undeniably unsafe bleachers in our poorly painted gymnasium? The paralyzed guy that tried to shoot himself but just ended up in a wheelchair? The MLK Day remembrance program? The drug dog with the perma-boner? Some eye-opening program exposing us to non-white, non-Christian, non-alcoholic individuals (or as we on the Range like to refer to them as – “the others”)?

No sir. It was a clown that brought us all together. A stupid clown with his stupid clown clothes and stupid clown make-up and other stupid clown stupidness. Now, I know there are a lot of people out there who dislike – nay, are terrified of – clowns. That’s all well and good, but I bet a good majority of them have not had a real-life clown trauma situation. However, I also understand clowns are like rabid monkeys or serial rapists – you don’t have to run into them in a dark alley to realize you’d prefer not to run into them in a dark alley.

I only remember the sketchy details of that day. My fragile child mind must have repressed the rest. In any event, at one point the clown asked for a volunteer. Dozens and dozens of hands shot up (I would love to say hundreds of hands shot up, but that would have to have been the entire school, kindergarten through 12th grade with their hands in the air, and that just wasn’t the case), but mine was notably not one of them. Go down onto the gym floor with the clown in front of the whole elementary school, a good majority of which consisted of my elders? Dream on, clown. I sat on my hands and averted my eyes.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

Stupid clown walked right on up to me and escorted me down onto the gym floor. In front of everyone, including the boy in my brother’s class that I was pretty sure I was going to marry (who is now married to some slooze that has two kids with her cousin [or maybe it was her brother, we’re not sure]). And what did the clown ask my chubby little seven-year-old self? “Have you been standing out in the rain?” I wish now that I could go back in time and say, “Do I look wet, jackass?”, kick him in his clown nuts, and walk out. But no. I was terrified. I just shook my head and felt the tears welling up in my eyes. “Well,” he said, “your head sure looks rusty!” I don’t remember exactly what happened after that, but I know I was the center of attention, I was laughed at heartily by all the cool kids, and I cried. God, did I cry. Damn it, clown, seven-year-olds don’t choose their hair color!

The only saving grace was that the boy in my brother’s class who I was going to marry but who is now married to a slooze that has babies with her family members said he felt bad for me and what the clown did was uncalled for. Sixth graders are so deep.

I think the clown incident was the point in my life that I realized if I laugh first, loudest and longest at my misfortune, then I won’t be able to hear anyone else’s side-splitting guffaws. I think this was how I coped the time my legs seized up and I was temporarily paralyzed in front of the entire boy’s baseball team, and the time during one of my thirty thousand hours working at the Soudan Store that my hand got stuck in the lottery machine and I couldn’t wait on customers, and the time I fell down the mini-flight of stairs in the Skyway. It is also the reason why every time I board the dreadful city bus and I tip over like a drunk straight off the merry-go-round before I get the chance to plop my ass in a seat, I always have a smile on my face.

This weekend didn’t kill me, but I fear today might. Yesterday I was so tired that I was having honest-to-goodness hallucinations. Who needs drugs when sleep deprivation can do so much? Also, who knew the best way to offset the hour loss of sleep on Sunday would be to not sleep at all? And by not sleeping, I also avoided a hangover. Unless, of course, the hallucinations were partially alcohol-induced.

Whatever. I’m pretty sure I’m dying and that’s my point.

But the weekend! The weekend was absolutely lovely. My thoughtful mother is kind enough to call me every Saturday and Sunday morning when I stay in Duluth to ensure that my sister and I are still alive and not in jail. She’s sweet like that. One of these times we just might surprise her, though I don't know how surprised she would really be.

Tuna and I hooked up Friday afternoon to make the excursion up to Duluth. Once we got there, there was Grandma’s, the four-beer, four-bar tour of Duluth, reacquainting of Yvonne, harassing of Ethan, and mourning of the loss of the Pioneer. Needless to say, it was a busy night. Somehow we were still able to be in bed by 3am and we felt well enough Saturday morning to enjoy Thai food, shopping and bowling. (Tuna bowled a record 100!) A dream come true, right? You know what’s even better? I bought four pairs of shoes when we were shopping. Who does that? I also bought a pair of sunglasses that I lost that night. Go me. I’m glad I got to wear them outside that once.

Saturday night, I’m not sure what the hell happened. I remember making it to four bars again but I also know I didn’t stop at just one beer at each of them. We met a woman named (crazy) Jane at Heroes (this name change is going to take some time getting used to) and the new owner popped 14 credits into the jukebox and gave us free reign. I didn’t let Tuna and Angie pick a single song and every time a song came on, I would get all excited because I loved it. Then I would realize, der, I picked it out.

I have come to enjoy RT’s immensely (a possible Pioneer replacement), but I still can’t figure out why my pinkie hurts so bad. We got to spend some quality time with Angie's stalker and he still likes her even though she caught crabs in the back of Tuna's ride. And yes, he uses binoculars to watch my sister walk to and from work. If you are wondering how we know, it's because he told us. How can he not already have a woman? The highlight of the weekend may have been when the Thai restaurant server/host/busser told Angie, "Good job!" when he came over to "fetch" her empty plate.

It has been an extremely difficult day at work, but it was made a bit better when Sam came rolling in at noon and Missy asked how his weekend in Lutsen was. His response was, “Oh, it was good. We had a fire extinguisher go off on us on Saturday though.” Missy said, “Seriously? An extinguisher?” and Sam replied with, “Yeah, well, we did it.” I don’t know how I can have such strong feelings of loving some of these people so much but wanting to get the hell away from them as soon as possible.

In all seriousness, leaving Duluth yesterday killed me. It felt like leaving home. Hopefully two months from now, leaving Duluth will mean leaving home.

Check out the pictures, if you feel so inclined.

LOVE

THESE

SOCKS

On the ride home this afternoon, I realized that I have spent right around 500 hours on the bus in the past two years. FIVE HUNDRED HOURS. I could have spent that time cleaning or masturbating or pulling on the cat’s appendages to see at which point his screeching breaks glass.

Today, my favorite sales manager took a director of sales position at a new hotel. Talk about lighting a fire under my wide ass to get the hell out of that place. Oh, but wait. It gets better. Today, MY director of sales encouraged me to apply for the departing sales manager’s position and made it sound as though she really won’t take “no” as an answer. I can’t tell her I am looking for positions out of town for fear that I will be graciously released from the hospitality clutches. Well golly gee, isn’t the red one up shit creek. My answer for this, as for most things? Avoid the topic. Make sure I’m in the bathroom every time my boss walks by my desk. Busy myself making copies every time she tries calling me.

My very favorite part of the day, however, was when the departing sales manager told Missy and me that she would like to hear honest feedback about the way things are run so she can make sure she doesn’t make the same mistakes. Oh thank GOD, finally an authority figure requests to hear everything we hate about our jobs. I have started an outline so I don’t miss a thing, but I think the most important thing is BE CAREFUL WHO YOU HIRE OR YOU’LL LOSE YOUR ENTIRE STAFF.

PS – Duluth, please hire me. I love you. I promise to be good to you, baby. Not like before. I swear I’ve changed.