duck-shaped pain

Got my tickets in the mail. Holding them in my hand feels very strange. It's the first concrete proof I have that I really am going to go to Thailand. Then I made it official: I went out and bought a guidebook and a map. I've been perusing guidebooks from the library, but that's nothing like actually owning one. Having a book you can write in, crack the spine of and smear things on feels so much better.

I also got my test results back from the other day's blood tests. Nothing. I suppose I should be glad, and I'm relieved that I don't have any dread disease, but it doesn't bring me any closer to finding out what's wrong with me. So, back to square one, I guess.

There was nothing to do today at work. I showed up and no one else was there and there were no phones ringing, so I decided to beat it before something happened to keep me there. There was also nothing to do today here in town -- strange how those things often coincide -- so I decided to drive to Glenwood and go swimming. It's been an extremely stressful week, both good and bad, so I figured I needed to relax

Nothing out of the ordinary. Only new thing this time is that I actually paid to rent a lounge chair, instead of waiting around for someone to vacate theirs and then snatching it. I swam and swam, actually doing about 7 or 8 laps total (a new personal record) along with just paddling and floating and messing around.

Two shifts -- from 1 to 4 p.m., and then again from 7 to 8:30 p.m. The afternoon was busier, obviously, with lots of children and families hanging out and shrieking together. I thought a weekday would be less busy than a weekend (or I would have gone Sunday or something), but I have never been so wrong. The evening was nice and peaceful, and the cement perimeter of the pool wasn't so hot, but it was also serious Couple Time. I don't really understand swimming around clinging to each other (even when I've been part of a couple, it never crossed my mind to do this), but I was surrounded by them.

Then there was a lot of yelling. I looked down at the other end of the pool and thought, Great, here comes an entire boatload [1] of assholes. A whole gaggle of 17-year-old boys [2] coming down the stretch, pushing people into the pool.

Once in the water, they started to wrestle around, smacking and dunking each other. It's like when they get together and actually see each other without shirts, they have to punch each other very hard, just to show everyone that they are not gay. They try to make it very, very obvious, just in case people out there might be confused or something.

Between pool times, I walked around Glenwood. I went to the bookstore, looking for the new issue of The Wire, which they did not have (every time I'm in this store, I start thinking that Glenwood would be an okay place to live, but then I remember how expensive it is to live there, and I start to wonder about myself. Shit, when did I get so easily impressed? Many other places have bookstores that carry magazines that I actually want to read. I need to move). Looking around for something else to buy, I nearly walked out of there with a copy of Guy Debord's Society of the Spectacle, something I've been wanting to read forever. Then I read through it and it made my sun-addled brain hurt. Maybe some other day, some day in the winter when my mind works better.

I wanted a reuben, and the brewpub in town makes an excellent example of the genre. I sat in the bar, and the waiter came over to me all excited, or, in his parlance, "pumped up."

"Great shirt, man!" I was wearing my Johnny Cash shirt, which usually gets a few odd looks. "I'm totally into him."

He got me a beer, and when he returned, I had opened up my brand-new copy of The Rough Guide to Thailand. "Are you going there? A friend of mine lived there for two years and he always talks about going back. Nice food, he says. Nice poontang. [3] It's a good place to be."

Then he took off. I wanted to order at this point, but I was just going to have to wait.

A few minutes later, he returned. "Uh, are you here by yourself?" he asked.

There was one menu. One water glass. One beer. One set of utensils. One diner, sitting in a chair. "Yes I am."

"Oh, okay." A very uncomfortable silence followed. "Are you just going to have the beer?"

"Actually, I was hoping I could have a reuben."

I ordered. It came, and I ate it. It was as good as ever. Waiter Guy was non-existent, though. He sort of approached the table as if I were a rattlesnake, clearly preferring to wait on the table of teen girls next to me or the other table, ordering their fourth and then fifth pitcher of beer. [4] Water refills were scarce. Ketchup never came. I paid my bill and then left, disheartened.

When you're eating by yourself, the attitude of the waiter/waitress can totally make or break the meal. If you get an enthusiastic one, or a nice one who knows when to show up and when to leave you alone, it makes the food taste better, really. But if you get one who acts weird around you or blows you off entirely, it doesn't matter how good the food is. Because the waiter is your only human contact during the meal, and you don't have anyone with you who you can commiserate about the waiter with.

Walked around a bit after that, digesting the reuben. They go down hard. The only coffee shop around that was open that time of night (6 p.m. - not late, really) was in a mountaineering shop -- a combination I had never seen before. A good hint that any gear in there (not like I would know, really) might be sort of expensive.

I ordered an espresso con panna [5] and sat down by the window to write in the paper journal. I sort of got into it, although I've been having difficulties connecting with it lately. After I write in here, I'm all worn out. I alternated between concentration and idle glances at the street outside. Lots of passersby. Many, many excellent dogs. The people in Glenwood are generally pretty nice, but the town really excels when it comes to dogs.

I sense someone behind me. It's a blonde girl, holding a bowl of ice cream. "Excuse me," she said. "I wasn't reading what you wrote, but I just wanted to tell you that you have really beautiful handwriting."

There's not much you can say here except thank you. How long had she been watching me? I wondered about that and then I wondered why I was wondering about it. When someone compliments you, just accept it.

[1] Not actually in a boat.

[2] I don't have anything against 17-year-old boys in general, but this bunch just annoyed me.

[3] Today marks the first time I have ever heard someone say this word. What a sheltered life I lead.

[4] I tried to think of things I did to annoy or scare this guy away, but I couldn't think of any. Even a social retard like me can be nice to waiters. The only thing that I could think of is that I was a single diner sitting at a table for four, and friends of mine who have been waiters have told me that a situation like that tends to piss off waitstaff. Less tip potential, you know. But there were no smaller tables at this restaurant -- it's not like there were some small tables that were filled and I got sat at a larger one because of that, it's that there were no smaller tables period, anywhere in the restaurant. Some other people were there alone, and they all got sat at these enormous tables, too. So I have no idea what this guy's problem was.

[5] Only three weeks in to my espresso con panna kick, so I don't have a basis on which to really compare prices. But $4.50 for two shots of espresso and some whipped cream seemed like a bit much.

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