Well, It has been decided for me. I will marry an Italian.

Yes, I happen to be playing off false stereotypes and misconceptions birthed by the media and loved-crazed idealists. So? I see nothing wrong with that. As long as I can land myself an Italian that's tall, dark, handsome, and knows a thing or two about architecture, I'm afraid that's who I'm going to marry. It's not my fault; I've been exposed to this idea that Italians symbolize love and intimacy in every way, shape, and form. It's natural I long to push a couple against a wall.

I just finished the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun". Complete garbage, I know. The main character is supposed to be a writer and her narration throughout the movie is a sappy joke. Yeah, I know. But beautiful Italian men! Come one now, that has to count for something! That's the only good thing about the movie, but that's all I need in a film; a pseudo-plot and great angles of beautiful men (preferably Italian or French). I'm afraid this movie meets all of the tough criteria above, so I liked it. At least it persuaded me to move to a gorgeous Italian Villa and make love to even more gorgeous Italian men (which wasn't too hard, I'll admit I've never need TOO much persuasion for something like that).

Anyway, now that I've wiped the drool off of my keyboard and chin, I'll tell you about my oh-so-eventful day at work. The job of a hostess is never boring, you see. Right when you think it's become dull, BAM! You've got something new and exciting to do, like seat another table! Whoopee!

I was upstairs in the restaurant, which is preferable. It's easy to fill up and never has any annoying parties of, say, 75 people. (We had two of those yesterday. TWO!) It is, however, hard to seat the balcony, which has been appropriately named "the skinny". 20 of the tiniest tables and chairs have been crammed on the sides of an isle that, if it weren't for the 100 people dining on either side, would be considered pretty wide. But, since the builders of this fine establishment thought that this isle would make a great dining room, few people want to work up there. I myself happen to like it. If you chat and laugh with the customers all the way to the table, smile widely as you give them their menus then run away, they usually stay there, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.

I started the movie before I went to work, so I had Italy on my mind tonight. Ironically enough, I sat a party of 6 Italians right after I started working. I was a bit disappointed, I'll admit. They were old and fat, and seemed to prefer grunting to talking, which they apparently thought was very clever and appropriate. I seat them, and the lead man proceeds to violently jerk his head in a gesture that bears a faint resemblance to a nod. Is that how those in the service profession are thanked in Italy? Well, not today, Bucko; I'm afraid I have your menus. So I'm waiting for them to sit down at their table while the leader continues to perform this motion, and I start to worry. If he's unhappy now, which is what I'm going to assume he's feeling upon observing his mini-spasms, what state will he be in when he discovers what an insult our food is to Italian culture? After pondering this, I decide to pull my favorite maneuver; I drop the menus, mumble that their server will be there in a couple minutes, and flee. Let the server deal with them, I thought, I'm the one who's ridiculously underpaid. I wonder how well they tipped...

I work 11 hours tomorrow. Not too excited. In fact, I'm debating whether or not I should force myself to stay up all night watching infomercials so that they night might seem longer. That's never the best of signs; perhaps I wasn't cut out to suck up to spag-consuming imbeciles. Most elitists aren't, what can I say? My manager said I was getting a raise, so where the crap is it? $6.50 and hour is nothing less than exploitation in my book; just because the managers aren't the typical life-sucking wenches one usually sees in the world is no justification of theft. And that's what this is- robbery, pure and simple.

At least I find consolation in the fact that any time I feel bitter about my suckey job or Utah education, I can always turn to horrid, implausible chick-flicks. The world makes sense again! I did, actually, hear a great quote during this film that I don't think I'll be forgetting anytime soon:

"Why all the paperwork? You're buying a house, not a vespa."

classic. With a few lines like that and beautiful faces, it makes total sense that TV is America's hi-resolution deity. That’s not depressing at all, trust me.