So for the last two months I've been working graveyard shifts at one of the casinos here in Vancouver. 11pm until 7am, dealing Blackjack, Baccarat and a bunch of little poker games that seem to specialize in extracting cash from people's purses [I'll dedicate a full post to cranky punters later]. Well tonight was going to be a shift, so I spent most of the day sleeping, trying in vain not to feel like shit on a stick by 5.30 in the morning the next day [Edit: Completely coincidentally, it's now just after 5:30 in the morning and I do in fact feel like shit on a stick]. I was just about to head off to bed for one final two hour nap when the phone rings. Now at the moment I live in a house with three roommates, all who have people that call them regularly - if the phone rings, it's never for me. Since there are only two of us home though, I decide to check the caller ID.
"RIVER ROCK CASINO" it says.
"Fuck..." I say, followed quickly by:
"Hello?" as I hit the Talk button on the phone.
The ensuing 30 seconds involve someone from the casino telling me that my shift has been cancelled due to the snow that has been dumping down all day. Apparently cranky old Chinese guys are even more cranky when they can't drive to the casino without getting bogged in two feet of snow. Now this wouldn't normally bother me, but the fact is that on the most recent schedule I only have three shifts over the next fortnight anyway. THREE! And one of them just got cancelled on their whim. So after hanging up I spend the next minute or so stomping around the house, swearing, slamming doors and generally making a nuisance of myself, all the while cursing the casino and everyone who ever entered it.
It was at this point that I realized I was complaining about not getting to spend my Sunday night [a time when most people sleep apparently], dealing Baccarat to a bunch of angry desperados, gambling the equivalent of two months rent for me, losing it, then blaming me for something they have as much control over as I do. All for minimum wage. Needless to say, once I realized this fact, I found it much easier to deal with.
So now I've found myself back on topic. Seeing as I spent all day sleeping, it gets to 3am and I'm still wide awake. I'm just sitting on the computer, chatting to my G-town connection, Amy, about how I should be starting a blog and how there's nothing on TV anymore. Just as I'm typing that and channel surfing at the same time [multi-skilled I know], I stumble across a program called "Caribbean Workout". Usually I would just skip straight past this, but since just about every other channel falls under the categories of Paid Programming or Televangelism, I decide to give it a look...
What appears before me is pretty much what I expected. Two women in Barbados, stepping on the spot, holding a swiss ball each. Just as I'm about to switch channels I notice a certain look of lust in the eyes of the instructors when they look at each other, couple that with the possibility of assisted stretching later and I decide it's in my interest to stop to listen to the dialogue for a moment.
"Just in case you were wondering why we have balls in our hands..."
Before I can rationalize it, the word "Stunning" has left my mouth and I burst into a fit of giggles, far too loud for 3am when all my roommates are asleep before work on Monday. Once the fit has subsided I relate the story to Amy who tells me that at times like these, you just need porn - "at least that way you can guarantee some action" - I can always count on Amy to call it down the line.
I tell her that I can't afford the $15 for porn through the Video On Demand channel and the computer is made of sticks so it refuses to play videos. So the underlying sapphic tension between the aerobics instructors will have to do for now. Even if one of them looks a little iron-deficient and the other looks a little food-deficient, they're still sort of hot in a pre-menopausal but still in shape kind of way. They're a little too skinny, their skin is a little too leathery and their abs are a little too ripple-y. But to see them work those swiss balls... Well, never you mind the details.
So the moral of the story? If you can come away from this extended stream of consciousness with a single message, it would be this:
You don't always need Jenna Jameson when a couple of early-forty-somethings in lycra can get the job done.
Deep, right? It's a metaphor, think about it. It might change your life... But probably not.
Until next time.
It was at this point that I realized I was complaining about not getting to spend my Sunday night [a time when most people sleep apparently], dealing Baccarat to a bunch of angry desperados, gambling the equivalent of two months rent for me, losing it, then blaming me for something they have as much control over as I do. All for minimum wage. Needless to say, once I realized this fact, I found it much easier to deal with.
So now I've found myself back on topic. Seeing as I spent all day sleeping, it gets to 3am and I'm still wide awake. I'm just sitting on the computer, chatting to my G-town connection, Amy, about how I should be starting a blog and how there's nothing on TV anymore. Just as I'm typing that and channel surfing at the same time [multi-skilled I know], I stumble across a program called "Caribbean Workout". Usually I would just skip straight past this, but since just about every other channel falls under the categories of Paid Programming or Televangelism, I decide to give it a look...
What appears before me is pretty much what I expected. Two women in Barbados, stepping on the spot, holding a swiss ball each. Just as I'm about to switch channels I notice a certain look of lust in the eyes of the instructors when they look at each other, couple that with the possibility of assisted stretching later and I decide it's in my interest to stop to listen to the dialogue for a moment.
"Just in case you were wondering why we have balls in our hands..."
Before I can rationalize it, the word "Stunning" has left my mouth and I burst into a fit of giggles, far too loud for 3am when all my roommates are asleep before work on Monday. Once the fit has subsided I relate the story to Amy who tells me that at times like these, you just need porn - "at least that way you can guarantee some action" - I can always count on Amy to call it down the line.
I tell her that I can't afford the $15 for porn through the Video On Demand channel and the computer is made of sticks so it refuses to play videos. So the underlying sapphic tension between the aerobics instructors will have to do for now. Even if one of them looks a little iron-deficient and the other looks a little food-deficient, they're still sort of hot in a pre-menopausal but still in shape kind of way. They're a little too skinny, their skin is a little too leathery and their abs are a little too ripple-y. But to see them work those swiss balls... Well, never you mind the details.
So the moral of the story? If you can come away from this extended stream of consciousness with a single message, it would be this:
You don't always need Jenna Jameson when a couple of early-forty-somethings in lycra can get the job done.
Deep, right? It's a metaphor, think about it. It might change your life... But probably not.
Until next time.
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