I Love My Weekends (And Want Them To Die)
...with love, of course. Lots of fully automatic, high caliber love.
This past Saturday, there was a disturbance in the Force. And it mostly involved an army of squeeing pubescent girls. Turns out that at the Boathouse store across from us, an up-and-coming Canadian band was doing an autograph signing and acoustic performance: the Stereos. And many of you say, "Yay!"
The rest of you, like me, probably said, "Ya...who?"
I have to admit I'm rather thrilled with my ambivalence to the band, since there is no way in any of the nine levels of hell I would have been able to get up & close to them. I arrived at the mall at 9am; there were already over a dozen girls lined up waiting for the Stereos. Please bear in mind that the band wasn't due to arrive until 1pm. Over the next 4 hours, the line started to grow...and grow...and grow.
By the time noon rolled around, the line was easily three to four people wide, and stretched from Boathouse down the mall corridor, and around the corner. The line stayed like this for a solid 2-3 hours, even as the crowd moved forward to get their autographs. Now to be honest, I think mall security had it worse than me as they attempted to wrangle crowd control. Even then, the noise they generated was incredibly deafening. We had our radio on in the back of the store...and we couldn't hear it over the din. In a word: ...what did you say?
Okay, so that was four words. But the point still stands.
Mel, on the other hand, enjoyed her last day at the jewelry kiosk of unnamable madness. The only reason she took the Saturday shift was out of pity for her manager; had she not volunteered to take the shift, her (now former) manager would have been forced to work it and miss seeing
Jersey Boys, which was a gift from her husband.
Naturally, we celebrated the last day of her job with pizza and some sparkling white wine. Now while I needed to work the following Sunday, Mel had the entire day off to enjoy herself. And how did she spend her first day no longer working at the kiosk? By getting called into the kiosk.
Yeah, figure that one out. You're probably making the same expression I did when Mel showed up at the mall shortly after everything opened, and gave me that response to my natural question: "What the hell are you doing here when you could be sleeping in?" Turns out there were 3 people from the kiosk who had keys: the manager (still out of town for the weekend), the new assistant manager (who apparently wasn't called, for some bizarre reason other than the probable fact that the universe likes to torment people) and Mel, who was originally supposed to turn in her keys on Monday.
Thankfully, a friend gave her a quick ride back home, whereupon she was able to curl up in bed with a book and napped for the afternoon. That, and also recovering from slight dehydration from drinking a whole bottle of sparkling white wine the night before.
To summarize: Saturday had far too much squeeing, and Sunday had too much "I'm not even supposed to be here today!" I hold high hopes that next weekend will not be a repeat...unless David Bowie's doing a signing, in which case I'll be out-squeeing the teenage girls. And that may not be too hard, since I fear too few teens know who Bowie is (aside from his crotch stealing the spotlight in Labyrinth).
Labels: the kiosk will never let you go (and watches you when you sleep), the rabid fangirls will kill us all with their squeeing
posted by Phillip at 7:04 PM
