NOTE: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH NEW BLOGGER. I DID NOT COMPOSE THIS IN ONE LONG, STUPID, UNREADABLE PARAGRAPH, BUT THAT'S HOW IT IS PUBLISHING. IF ANYONE CAN HELP ME, I WOULD BE MUCH OBLIGED. Our friends from The Business were here last week. They played a show on Sunday night in Montreal and then had two days off before a show in Northampton, Mass., so they stopped and spent a night with us. I wanted very badly to see them in Montreal, but as usual I had no one to go with me and the b.h. doesn't actually get weekends, ever, so I stayed home and cleaned the entire house instead. I'm actually lucky, because the house was less than sanitary, and as you all know nothing forces a scrub down like impending house guests. One of the charming/alarming things about our hundred-plus year-old house is that it leans. It leans forward a lot and to the right (stage right, if you're facing it from the front) very slightly. Thus, if you drop or spill something on the floor, it generally races to one corner of the room. Our toilet seat is also a victim of the lean, and we always warn male guests not to lift the seat because it has a tendency to close itself unexpectedly (and yet the lid stays up- do not ask me how or why), and we don't want any... injuries. When the guys arrived, they were accompanied by C, their usual merch guy, as well as A, who is a professional photographer. Our house is approximately 800 square feet, so six house guests is pretty amusing, to say the least. Luckily the dogs are quite fond of them. The b.h. had made a big meal and I grabbed a twelve pack on my way home, so we all sat around eating, drinking, and catching up for a bit and then headed down to the b.h.'s bar. As we were getting ready to leave, Kilgore went over to S, the drummer, and lifted his leg as if to pee. I didn't see it immediately, so when I shouted at him I didn't know if he had already done it, and I was alarmed. S was unfazed. "Did he just pee on you?!" "If he did I probably deserved it." He didn't even look down, and I wasn't sure if that was a definite yes or a definite no, so I pulled Kilgore closer to me and kept trying to look without S noticing. We walked down the very precarious hill, R's boots slapping the pavement as he attempted to slow himself down. "I could drive some of us," I offered. "Then I can shuttle everyone in two groups on the way home." He said he was fine and joked about walking like a girl in her first pair of high heels. The bar was busy, but there were enough seats for most of us. The b.h.'s boss came over and talked for a few minutes, in the slightly too loud and slightly too cheerful manner of a man who has just finished a twelve hour shift. S has only recently discovered Truck Nuts(Lorry Bollocks for my British readers), a phenomenon which the rest of the country has been aware of for at least several years now, and he was eager to discuss said product with the guys. That subject, combined with his volume and enthusiasm, was weird bordering on creepy. He must have realized it, because he made an abrupt exit a few minutes later. I was relaying the story about Kilgore possibly peeing on S, and R shook his head, laughing. "He is just not very aware. You can say to him, "Hey S, watch out for this thing right here. Don't touch it because it's really fragile, okay?" And like, five minutes later you hear a crash and he's standing there in front of a pile of broken glass going, 'What? I didn't know!'" I felt better. I ended up getting a ride back to the house from our neighbor and going back to shuttle everyone to the top of the hill. I used them as an excuse, but really I didn't feel up to walking it either. We watched the end of the (crappy and disappointing) Blackhawks game, and then set about finding space for everyone to sleep in. They had air mattresses, and we have a guest bed and two couches, so we made it work. The b.h. was filling everyone in on the shower (another part of our house that is a bit finicky and dangerous), and I reminded him about the toilet seat. "We've been through that," he said. "I made sure to tell them about it as soon as they got here." "Yes, we don't want anyone slamming their dick in the seat," I laughed.

I had to be at work at 8am, so I turned in. Exhausted, I immediately fell sound asleep. I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of the toilet seat and the strangled cry of a drummer.

Why has Blogger gone and changed again? I hate this new system. I liked that before I could start a draft and regardless how long it took me to finish, the date would be the start date. This whole "publish date" nonsense is putting things out of whack. This will be of no use to me as a journal if I can't have proper dates. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap.

Life at the Local Grocery has been irritating since I returned. Don't get me wrong- I am more enthusiastic than ever about wine, and I think my customers are responding. Sales have been great, tastings well-attended, and I have been feeling very good about my job and the future of the department.

My co-workers, though, have been really wearing on me. The constant whining and negativity is exhausting. It's like I work in a middle school, or an asylum. Ugh. There is a very entitled attitude from many of them, and many of our customers as well, and the combination isn't good.

I was able to attend a very nice dinner with a local couple who makes mead, though, and that was interesting. We first toured the meadery. It was my friend C and me (the b.h. had to work so he couldn't make it), and some people from another local winery. The Mead Makers had invited us because we all sell their mead and they wanted to thank us for being good customers. The Winemaker from the other winery interrupted the mead guy every third sentence to tell us how *he* did things differently in the winery. I wanted to punch him in the mouth at the three minute mark. Needless to say, dinner was long. I placed myself carefully at the opposite end of the table at the restaurant. Mead Guy and I had a fascinating conversation about how he and his wife sold all of their belongings, joined the Peace Corps, and wound up in South America, where they learned beekeeping. Honey led to mead, and now they have a pretty little shop in the middle of nowhere in Vermont, and they make mead and ice cream (in the summer) and have a great life. The Winemaker inserted himself into the conversation whenever possible, and actually tried to start an argument with me about Demeter certification, which was silly since I had just returned from Austria and was fairly well-versed on the subject. His wife was oblivious, but the two people who worked for him were clearly uncomfortable. I somehow managed to gracefully side-step his arguments, even though he was wrong on many levels and I would have loved to tell him what a twat he is. The best part? I carry his wines, I have always thought that they were mostly crap, and now I have even less motivation to recommend them. Bravo, sir. On that note, The Local Winemaker from Hell, whom you may remember from last year- you know, the guy that demanded that I carry all of his products and display them at eye level because he is the most local? Yeah. Charming, that one. So he came in and made a complete ass of himself again, this time not abusing me (thankfully, or I would likely be typing this from a jail cell)but rather several of my co-workers. I immediately pulled all of his product from the shelf and sent an e-mail to his distributor asking them to pick it up. Quite satisfying, that was. I can't wait to see what happens when he notices.