Tonight is an open house at the cooking school that has become the focus of my career-shift strategy. Classes would start in January and run for six months, with one of those being in Avignon, France. Since I have virtually no restaurant experience outside a brief tenure as a pizzeria dishwasher in high school, I'm probably going to follow the advice of a local dessert house owner who suggested I take whatever entry-level job I can find to test the water. First, a month or so of vacation (it's been about four years since my last month-long stretch of vacation or unemployment), then we'll see what my attitude is. I'm trying to separate bad feelings about the current job from the generally dreary prospect for a lifetime in the current career.

So let's hope I don't spill wine on my shirt and make a general oaf of myself. Then it's off to the Modest Mouse concert, or rather the concert the Wife talked me into going with her to see with the promise of Modest Mouse being there. Should be one of those nights that makes me wistful and nostalgic for the days when I had the energy to go to work on Friday and still go out afterwards. My liver will be less wistful.

And now, at the request of one of Fiendish Plot's faithful readers, a fictional post. See if you can guess 1) the subject; and 2) how quick this will lead to my permissions being yanked.

Grrrr. I had to chase out two different groups of burglars from the house today when I got home from the movie (a triple feature of Lord of the Rings, Spiderman, then Lord of the Rings again). They had the nerve to show me the contract they had with each other, where one bunch got the stuff in the living room and the other got the bedroom. And they told me to buy a better TV. I called the cops, and they sent over a couple of undercover vice guys. They were here right away, which I appreciate; turns out they were working a sting at the crackhouse across the street.

Warning: I feel a rant coming on.

Why is it that the Taste of Chicago is so crowded? I just wanted to get some pizza, and then there's like ten billion people wandering around Grant Park! I tried to get some help on answering that question, to no avail.

sjerslix: Hey, why is the Taste of Chicago so crowded?
{ex-boyfriend #1}: wh---? what's going on? why did you call me and wake me up and tell me to get on irc?
sjerslix: I'm so pissed! I didn't get my pizza!
xbf1: sarah, it's 4am here. you do remember i'm in denmark, right?
sjerslix: Hold on, I'll ask {ex-boyfriend #2}, too
sjerslix: Good, you're there. Why is Taste of Chicago so crowded?
xbf2: Um, I dunno Sarah. I've never been to Chicago, remember?
xbf1: can i go back to bed now, please...
Coworker that I've dated a couple of times but was never really a boyfriend: What? What's the emergency Sarah?
sjerslix: There were 30 people in line for fried smelt dung. Don't even ask about the pizza booth!
cw: Um, okay...
xbf2:Can I go now?
xbf1: zzzzzzz....

No help at all.

Now it's off to the unemployment office. They weren't real amused last week when I asked them if they could wire my benefits to the Rome Cavalieri Hilton for the next month. Bastards.

People have been asking if it was a big relief to put in my notice at work, and I've been describing at as a mixture of relief and awkwardness, kind of like breaking up with someone that you know is wrong for you but that you still feel some fondness for. But when you break up with someone, you rarely (or, at least, I rarely) give them a two-week wind-down period. So I'm amending my analogy to say that it's like breaking up with someone on the first day of a two-week vacation, with no option of going home early.

Or, more succinctly, I do not think I'll be enjoying these last several days very much.

About those boaters' asses. Seems that anyone that isn't actually working for the railroad is compelled to moon the passing train. Our route followed a river for several miles, and we probably saw a dozen different bare behinds. As a veteran mooner myself, I have no problem with it. My only confusion is on how well-coordinated the efforts were. I guess it's just a powerful word-of-mouth campaign. Next time I'm in a boat on that river, I'll know to drop trou and slap cheeks.

The other reaction to our train was the waving from just about all the railroad workers along the track --- as well as from some of the better-mannered boat riders. That struck me early on in the trip (when the train was still on time and I was still relaxed and pro-rail-travel) as to how cool that was, that the universal reaction was a friendly one. Just call it a promising sign for the future of the human race. Next time a passenger train comes through your town, give 'em a wave from me.

First of all, let me apologize for the brief absence. The hotel was fated not to have easy internet access, and in the interest of domestic tranquility, I opted not to bring along the laptop. It was an anniversary weekend where the gap between "doesn't taking the train sound romantic" and "this train ride is so romantic" was the sum total of a two-hour late arrival (making the trip take twice that of the same one by car) and the aforementioned Cliff Clavin of the rails.

But let me save the discussion of the train experience --- and don't worry, it's not all bitching --- for later. The trip was in danger of being overwhelmed by my tension at having put in my two weeks notice at work. I've been there a few years now, and seen it grow from six employees when I started, to more than twice that in the good times, and now back down to nine after recent layoffs. The first round of downsizery began at the beginning of the year; the last round concluded a couple of months ago.

My actual resignation turned out to be really poorly timed. When I got in that morning, a coworker (the one that I assumed would be groomed to be my replacement, and who was the overwhelming favorite to be the next to be let go) asked my opinion of the angry letter he had sent to the boss. My initial opinion was, "You really couldn't have picked a worse time to do that," but I put it more diplomatically. Anyway, that kicked off the day with some personnel tumult, and my quitting almost cost this other guy his job in the ensuing anger.

Then Friday was a vacation day, so I was really dreading going in today. It looked like I was going to get the silent treatment for my remaining time, but then after lunch the boss (who, let's just say, is not good in face-to-face communication) stopped by to ask a friendly-toned question, and that kind of broke the ice. Now my job is to train the almost-fired guy to do what I do, which is unfortunate, because I'm afraid that a lot of what I do is at a more instinctual level than I'll be able to teach. We'll see.

In future installments, watch your less-than-completely faithful (to wit, the largish gap in entries over the weekend) diarist mull over his options. Hear him wax affectionate for railroad workers, and for boaters' bare asses. See an uncharacteristic sympathy for the People Trapped Down the Well story.... Until then, as James McMurtry once told me, be good.

Person #32 That You Don't Want To Sit Near On the Train: Cliff Clavin and his uncle, especially not when Cliff has brought along an atlas and spends every minute of the seven hour ride giving the name, elevation, GPS coordinates, and any other trivia he can dredge up about the train's current location to the uncle, who then goes on a Grampa-Simpsonesque ramble about how that reminds him of a story about what Abraham Lincoln said to General Grant on the eve of the Battle of Shiloh....