Weird dream

Lis and I were doing some sort of nature walk with a big group of people in a national park somewhere. Sort of a swamp/marsh/pond kind of area. We came up to a whole bunch of ducks, including many adorable little ducklings, which, surprisingly, could fly, if not well, even though their wings weren't fully developed. There was a pair of swans right beyond the ducks, which we gave wide berth to, because swans are nasty.

Then we heard very loud helicopters and sonic booms and stuff, and military helicopters and jets and stuff started streaking overhead towards a nearby city. Including a couple weird-looking aircraft with UN markings that looked like they were trailing giant tarps with parachutes behind them. I had no idea what those were for, but I wondered if there hadn't been a terrorist attack with chemical weapons of some sort, and the giant tarps were something to contain it.

We got back to the main area of the national park -- we weren't particularly scared, because, well, whathever had happened had happened, and, most likely, being in the middle of a national park was probably as safe as anywhere -- and we saw a park ranger talking to someone, apparently about what was happening. So I went up to him and asked him if it had been a terrorist attack or what.

He said that, no it wasn't a terrorist chemical attack -- it was an invasion. By aliens from outside the solar system. A really incompetent one. That they'd managed to land a couple ships just on surprise, since we weren't expecting it, but that all our fighters had scrambled before the next ships came in, and they attacked really incompetently, and we'd won pretty easily.

That surprised me, because, well, I figured that, if the aliens had interstellar drives, they'd have better technology than humans would, but, apparently, our weapons were more advanced than theirs. I said that I'd read science fiction which postulated that humanity was somewhat retarded in spacedrive technology, but somewhat advanced in weapons and tactics, and that, apparently, that was true.

Then I woke up.

My day.

So, Mondays are the day that I set up stuff for the week at the bar -- making all fresh garnishes, and stuff like that. Saturday nights, I throw out all the old stuff, Monday mornings, I set up all new stuff.

It's not really that bad, generally.

Then there was a phone call. One of the waitressess was sick, and couldn't come in for the evening shift. Not a big problem, there were three people scheduled, and, besides, that's the EVENING shift, so it wouldn't be my problem, anyway. And two people could handle it just fine.

Then the second person called in sick.

Okay. It just wouldn't be fair to stick one person by herself for the entire room, so they tried to figure out how to get at LEAST one more person in.

"Hey, Ian -- can you stay late?"

Um. Okay.

"It's okay -- we only need you for the dinner rush, and then you can go home as soon at it eases off, and Sam can hold the room for the rest of the night. After 7:30 or so, it'll be quiet, and you can go home."

Um. Okay. I got there at 10:30 in the morning, and I was going to stay until 7:30 or so. Must call Lis and let her know not to expect me. Gee, it would be a good idea to sometime LEARN Lis's phone number at work. Hmm. I wonder if anyone around here has AOL Instant Messenger, which is how I usually call Lis at work.

Oh. As long as I'm here, see if I can't get time off for Boskone this weekend, since we already bought memberships and all.

Hmm. They actually are UNDERSTAFFED for Saturday night. And can't spare me. Oh. And they need me Friday night, too. And Thursday night.

Hmm. I've got a membership to a weekend con, and I'm working Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday morning. Hmm.

Maybe I'll just leave a message on our home phone to let Lis know that I'm not going to be home.

No problem.

Anyway, Monday nights are always pretty quiet, so it should be just fine that it's just Samantha and me working tonight -- Sam's a good worker, anyway. (This, of course, is a DIFFERENT Samantha than the one who lives upstairs from us. Just in case you were wondering. I'm sure marquisedea in particular will be glad to have this cleared up.) So it won't be a problem.

Someone comes in and wants to know if I can make a milkshake. I think about this. There's ice cream in the kitchen, I have milk, Hershey's syrup, milk, and a blender. It comes out well. Of course, there's no "chocolate milkshake" in the computer. So I have to make up a price. I charge $3.25 for it.

Hmm. I seem to have ripped my finger open on a door. That's annoying. It's actually just a scratch, but I need a bandaid. Not a problem, but it does mean that I'm now wearing a bandaid for the rest of the night.

Four o'clock rolls around, I hand over the bar to Louis, and become a waiter. I've never actually waited tables before, but, okay.

The first couple hours are as slow as expected. Then. . .

Hmm. These four people are celebrating a birthday. And they want the four meals split among two checks, and one of them has a card for a free birthday meal, and he likes the idea of the pasta special, but could the chef make something completely different? I ask. Yes, in fact, the chef can, and she doesn't particularly mind.

See, that's 'cause it's EARLY in the evening. The FIRST special order isn't a problem.

Then we get into the Blurry Times. I don't remember all of it. But I do remember bringing cookies and coffee up to a different floor. Which was for those people with the birthday.

Oh.

And then there was That Table.

A mother and a father and a daughter having a Discussion about their wedding. I am almost CERTAIN that we didn't do that to Lis's parents. I mean, I'm pretty sure that the words "But WHY do we have to invite family to the wedding?" never crossed my lips. Or brain.

Right.

So, the mother asks if she can have the halibut puttinesca without anchovies or black olives. I do NOT say, what part of "puttinesca" was unclear. Instead, I ask the chef, who says that, sure, she could do a halibut marinara instead.

The daughter orders the schrod. Which, considering what the parents were ordering, went a long way towards redeeming her in my mind -- although I'm still glad not to be related to her.

Her father says, "Can I have just some endive with tuna fish on top of it, and some mayonaise on the side, and maybe some cucumbers?"

At least, that's what I wrote down that he said. When I brought it, he said he'd asked for hearts of romaine. So I started to take it back, but he said he was hungry, so could I just bring a bowl of romaine hearts? Which we don't have. So I brought romaine lettuce, which he wanted put into a bigger bowl, so I put it into a bigger bowl, which he wanted put into a bigger bowl, so he wanted more tuna fish.

At no time during the evening did I shove a steak knife into his nostrils even a little bit.

There was the person who ordered the crab casserole, and, when I brought it to her, her face just fell. She'd actually wanted the crab timbale which was taken off the menu last month. I actually did feel sorry for her, because she really looked close to tears about not getting the dish she'd been thinking about for days.

And we did get to eat the crab casserole that she sent back.

She ended up getting shimp tempura instead.

One person was ordering things like, "just one macaroon" and "a bowl of blueberries, with a dish of skim milk on the side, and another dish of honey." Again, not particularly difficult to put together. But not terribly simple to do when it's busy, either. . . .

Anyway. I look up. It's 9:30. The kitchen is closing. I go around to the people that are still there, and ask them if there's anything else I can get them before I go home, and I go home.