SHOCKblog

My First Burlesque

2011-08-07T21:56:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I contacted a local(ish) burlesque troupe to inquire about getting involved with this sexy, classic, sinful, underground art form. Involved, as in participating. Yes, that would be me, down to my knickers, possibly less (have you seen the pasties??) up on stage for all the world to see. Yes, I know I was shy in high school and yes, I know, I know...I know! But, I think I'm up for it. At least, I wanted the chance to see.

The troupe is called Purrrlesque, and, true to what they say on their website, they were open to accepting inquisitive, would-be starlets. The fabulously flirtatious Tiger Roxxx corresponded with me back and forth a few times, offering to let me "kitten," a show, which is, essentially, playing the roll of cute stage hand for the evening, getting acquainted with the down-and-dirty side of burlesque. It ain't all glamour and sequins, gals!!

So, off to the lingerie boutique I went, searching for the perfect outfit. I found what I thought was a corset, but what someone with more, ahem, experience, shall we say? recognized pretty instantly as a "merry widow," (that is, a corset with garter attached) and a tiny, poofy tutu, which I completed with a pair of thigh-high stockings and ballet flats (I would've worn heels, but it was pretty clear that I'd be doing a fair amount of running around, picking up "peels," which are the (mostly cute, frilly) clothes that the girls shed during their skits.)

(This was my outfit.)

I was so nervous about getting there on time, and being ready once I got there, that I put on my corset, stockings, and Victoria's Secret Outrageously Expensive Black Lace Cheeker Panties (more about those later), and wore those for the two hour drive to Greensboro. M drove. I left off the black tutu (didn't want to crush it), and wore a pair of gym shorts over my stockings, and a flannel over my corset. Because we don't have a Red Robin here in Hell, and I love it so much, and there's one very near Greensboro, we stopped over at Red Robin on the way to the venue - I walked in, sat down, and ate a bacon cheeseburger and fries in a corset. I still had my gym shorts on over top, and, so M wouldn't be embarrassed, I put a pair of jeans over that. I was literally stuffed, several layers of me and of my clothes in fact, not just the fatty layer, into my jeans. I'd had greasy food. I was on my way to a Very Nervous Event.

We arrived at the location at 7pm, and there was just the bartender and the band setting up. Finally, a few girls came in that looked like the belonged with the troupe. I greeted them and they were so welcoming, and beautiful, even before putting on their Burlesque Face (I was full cat eyes and lip gloss - I'd even retouched after the bacon cheeseburger...brought my Whole Damn Bag with me). Before I knew it, I'd gotten a copy of the set list (more up to date than the one I'd printed), I'd met the other kitten for the evening, and we were going around to the members of the troupe and the guest performers for that evening, collecting their cues and directions - things like "chair center stage," and what small props they wanted, etc. I was nervous, but starting to feel more comfortable in that "I think I can do this, I think I won't make too big of a boob of myself" sort of way.

We were in a sort of gang-bang harem of a dressing room where the performers were gathering and dispersing, in various levels of dress and undress, putting on make-up and preparing for the show. One performer, the delectable and delicious Just Jingles, called out "So, who wants to rape me?" Before I knew it, I acted on instinct, held up my hand and said, "Right here."

She went on to explain that she was going to be performing to the song "Roxanne," (the version from Moulin Rouge) and that she would need someone to stand behind a screen and, at a certain cue in the music, wave money from behind the screen, beckoning her toward them, then, when she went behind the screen, make loving, sexy movements toward her at first and then, when she resisted, fight her. Essentially, I was to play the roll of a John.

Okay. I can do that.

So, rather late, the burlesque part of the show got started, and I was diving for strips of clothing, breathing as best I could, relishing the moments, returning clothes to their erstwhile wearers, wondering if my Outrageously Expensive Cheeker Panties were showing when I bent over on stage (and hoping that they were), and, generally, enjoying myself all to hell. I could definitely do this. I could definitely, definitely do this.

The performers were all amazing. One of the guest performers was a drag king, which I was surprised and delighted to see. Just seeing the girls in their outfits - the care and skill and time they took to prepare for, not just this show, but for all their shows, for the entire Thing of Burlesque, was fascinating and inspiring and got me really excited to be a part of it. The theatrics (one of the troupe members had described the group as "a bunch of theater kids"), the humour, all of it was just great. I could see that it was all just outside of my comfort zone in a challenging way that is not a No Way, I'm Not Jumping Out of This Plane sort of way, but in a, Yeah, I Think I Could Do This With A Few Deep Breaths kind of way.

I was anticipating the skit with Jingles, excited but also nervous. I got up on stage behind the screen, struck a pose that I thought I could manage to keep during the two minutes before my interaction with her started. I wasn't sure how clear of a silhouette the audience was getting. I heard my cue in the music, I took out a dollar bill from my front right breast pocket (like, literal breast pocket - it was a pocket made of my breast and the merry widow), held it out from the screen, and started waving it in a (I hoped) seductive way. I waved the bill for about thirty seconds, then suddenly there was Just Jingles, live, in the flesh, dazzling and glittering and oh, boy here we go, show is really on.

I started touching the side of her face, then let my hand go down her chest. There were hoots and hollers from the audience. I was supposed to improv with her, which, honestly, was better than if we had planned every move, because, if we had, I think I would've been nervous about making a mistake, even more so than having it be improv'ed. In improv, mistakes are quickly turned into part of the act. If you make a mistake with a planned move, it tends to throw you off. But anyway, there she is, and I'm looking her in the eyes and touching her behind a screen to the hoots and hollers of the audience. Then she starts fighting, and I grab her arms, start flinging her arms this way and that, trying to keep in mind that we are behind a screen, and I don't know how much of a silhouette they are getting, so I'm trying to make exaggerated movements so the audience gets the idea. If you'd seen it from our side, it just looked like silly play fighting.

This is Jingles' show, I am essentially another prop, though a live one, so I'm trying to follow her unspoken lead. She turns around and hits all fours, then I am on the floor too, and there's her rear, and well, I work with what I'm given. (I had asked her beforehand if it was okay if I grab her ass during the skit. She graciously allowed it. You know, for show business.) So, there she is on her knees with her bum toward me, and I'm supposed to be the John grabbing at her, so that's what I did, I grabbed at her butt, tried to pull her toward me, and she kept moving away. I wasn't grabbing so much as massaging at one point, because, well, I was trying to make it look like I was grabbing her without being really rough with her, and again, I wasn't sure how much of a clear silhouette the audience was getting. That part was a bit weird, but then she crawled out from behind the screen to perform the rest of her skit, and I stood, the now jilted, paying lover behind the curtain.

You know. I don't remember what happened to that dollar I beckoned her with. Huh. Seriously. Did I put it back in my breast pocket? I think I did, because, I remember, I gave it to her in the harem dressing room after the skit.

Soon after our skit, there was an intermission. I said good-bye to a friend who had come, but couldn't stay for the second act (the show really did get started rather late). I got M to buy me a drink (Midori Sour), took a few sips, then got back to my duties and tasks as a kitten. This included collecting tips from the audience, along with peeled-off clothing (that from the dancers only, not the audience....well....and also.....you'll see).

At the end of the show, we all went on stage. It was lovely.

After the show, as I was gathering my own clothing and M to leave, a woman walked up and asked me if I was wearing panties. Horrified, intrigued, I said, "Yes, barely." She then informed me that her friend wanted my panties. She explained that her friend was going to Aruba, and it was some sort of "Sisterhood of the Traveling Panties" scenario. I asked her if said friend would take a picture of my panties, in Aruba, and send it to me, and agreed to shed my underpants if so. She went tripping and giggling over to her friend, brought her friend back over, and then the woman and her friend stood, excited, elated, and begging to take them off of me themselves.

That was a little too far, and I said as much, so they stood there, nearly squealing, I have to say, while I stood in the middle of the place and quickly shimmied out of my panties with my little tutu as an ass-cover. M, ever the practical voice of reason, handed me my gym shorts to cover my shame.

It really was a fun evening. The bug has bitten.

(That's me on the far right.)

Thanks to M for buying my false eyelashes, driving, and taking pictures during the show. Also, for the Midori Sour. ;-)

Waitressing Recap

2011-07-31T15:06:00.000-04:00

Here, in no particular order, are entertaining tidbits I share with you in a segment I'll call

Events from the Blur of the Previous Few Days:

(and, let me just say, these events were so strenuous, and I worked so hard (and for so long) that the monumental has finally occured - * I broke my work shoe (the strap that holds it on):

)

Now, on to the Events...

We Interrupt This Conversation to Bring You Your Server:

This is an every day occurance, of course; I approach a table in mid-conversation and, instead of finishing the remark at hand and giving me their attention so that I can get their drink order and disappear from their lives again like the miserable, insignficant servant I am, they attempt to finish their entire conversation before giving me the grace of their time. Because, really, what else have I got to do? So, I stand there, pen poised, incredulous, eager, anticipating, breathing, waiting (ah! so that's where it comes from!) for them to acknowledge my presence - the apparently totally inconspicuous, 5'7", 145 lb (or thereabouts) grown, human woman standing within inches of their elbows.

When this particular group did get to ordering, I still wasn't allowed to do my job, because Mr. Man took over the whole damn show. He apparently was so damn excited about our sweet goddamn potato that he had to force it on the woman across from him, interrupting my order-taking (you know, the questions, the prompts for a side order, etc.) in order to give her his testimonial on the SGP (sweet goddamn potato).

Also, for this particular incident, when the women finally ordered, she was in such a hurry to order and be done and get down to the real point of being in a restaurant (which is, apparently, not the eating), she answered with a wave of her hand, "Oh, you know, whatever.." in response to one of my more pertinenant questions (I forget, but, along the lines of "What would you like on your sandwich?"). And I thought,

Lady...Really? Whatever? Do you really mean to say that? Because do you have ANY idea what atrocity from the back I could bring to the table and make manifest before you in response to "Oh, whatever..."? Do you have any idea what's growing on the shelves back there? In my present mood, what with the ignoring and the interrupting and the hand waving, "Whatever..." is NOT a safe bet for you with me right now.

Next, we have...

Failure to Recognize Awesome Service:

Again, this is a constant, but, for this particular incident, was on a much more acute basis so as to be examplary of my general experience as a server.

I went to a table of gentlemen, guys that look like they perform hard labor in a harsh climate (it's been real hot outside lately), and got their order. I'd already gotten their drinks, some rolls, and now I had their order so the next step was to go to the computer and put it in. As I'm standing at the computer, I hear, from behind me, the sucking sound of a straw meeting an ice cube without the buffer of liquid. It was a sad, sad sound, and it had essentially the same affect on me that a wailing child has on a new mother with her breasts full of milk. My ears pricked, and as I tapped the last notes of their order, I made a mental note to go back by the table with a full glass of Coke before running off to the back to perform my next essential task.

Now, let it be noted, I had *just* sat that previous class of Coke down. He hadn't had it three seconds before he'd finished it like a slave on a pirate ship, or a whore with her top unbuttoned, or...

whatever.

So, I go back by the table, fresh glass of Coke, and I sit it down, and, I admit, I'm proud of myself, I'm feeling a bit like the Bionic Waitress with, like, maybe a special chip in my head that detects empty glasses, and, this is what I get:

No, not a thank you. Snort. Ha. I get, from the guy across from empty-Coke-glass guy, in an irritated fashion, like I'm some sort of slack-ass server, "Can we get some more rolls??"

I was stunned. I just brought your table it's second Coke in five seconds, I literally responded to the sound of an empty glass within seconds, a glass that was emptied in, like, seconds, and you're giving me attitude for more rolls? You haven't been here TWO GOD DAMN MINUTES!

Next...

The Revoking

So, the other day, we had a party scheduled, but no particular server scheduled to wait the party. There were only two servers on the floor, the opening server and me, and guess who got shit on?

The one holding the "shit here" cup, that's who.

(Me.)

It was a group of 17 people, and even though we have a rule (suggestion? lip-service?) somewhere that says that two servers should have taken that party, there weren't two servers, there was just me, again, the one holding the "shit here" cup.

I did pretty well, and I'll skip over some of the other specifics to get to the really gnarly part at the end.

The party was separate checks (Jesus. with 17 people?), with gratuity included. Now, when you make a reservation, you are given the OPTION of having gratuity included. Therefore, when people come in for a reservation, it is assumed that the party is aware of whether or not their gratuity has been included. If the person who made the reservation doesn't inform the separately paying members of their party that they chose for gratuity to be included, statement of this fact is printed ON THE BILL. So, everybody should know.

This ain't necessarily so, though.

Case in point, after cashing the party out, receiving bits of cash here and there in addition to the included gratuity, I went up to the mess left behind and started bussing dishes off the table. There was a small group remaining, chatting, and out of this small group, one of the men, who I'd actually given particular attention to that day because he was one of the more personable members of the party, called me over by "MISS?"

Let me just say that, nothing good ever comes from "Miss?"

I approached the man, and he informed me that he wanted to "revoke" one dollar of what he gave me in cash because he "wasn't aware that gratuity was included."

"Oh, yes sir!" I say, and take out my little server wallet, open it, asking how much he gave me. I intend on returning the entire amount of ill-gotten gain.

"Three, but, I just need back one."

Ahhhhhh so, asshole. You want to make a point. I see.

Wait. What's the point again? That you didn't read your bill? That the host of your lunch didn't inform you that gratuity was included? I'm sorry. I'm not getting what your point is here. That you need that dollar later? The snack machine back at the office, perhaps? You didn't get dessert. Or perhaps there's a g-string later tonight or this weekend that needs some attending to?

Whatever. Here's your dollar back. Choke on it. Shit weeds.

"I was kidding."

Approach table. Get drink orders. Things go smoothly. Seat one, a gentleman, orders two drinks - a water and an unsweet tea - and kinda chuckles. Okay. Kinda odd. But whatever. I do odd on a regular basis, working here. I go get the drinks, including the one extra for Apparently Really Thirsty and, Also, Divided, Man who Chuckles. I set the drinks down on the table, seat one first. Water. Unsweet tea. I go on to set the rest of the drinks down, noting that Chuckles is no longer chuckling, but has furrowed his brow and is moving the unsweet tea to various spots around the table - toward the woman in front of him, who shakes her head, and then the next woman, who does the same.

Determined to out the problem, and, already knowing what it is, I say, "Sir? I thought you wanted an unsweet tea and a water."

"Oh," he blinks up at me,

"I was just kidding."

Clearly, people do not recognize the kind of Real Shit we deal with, including multiple drink orders for one person, and ridiculous, snow-flake syndrome requests such as "lime" or "orange slice" for the otherwise ordinariness of unsweet tea and diet cokes. Just take the damn lemon. It's citrus. Get over it. Also, drink one drink at a time.

And, finally...

Sex Over 50, also Old Ladies Drinking

We've had a rash of Old People Drinking Beer lately. Which is fine. I'd rather that than cups of coffee, but, they also tend to be the demanding types who leave two dollars for a group of five. Actually, the coffee drinkers do that, too. Actually, I think it's just an old woman thing. I'm thinking of my grandmother now. I'm pretty sure she fucked her waitresses, too. Not in lesbian way, I haven't been able to determine any pedigree for my condition, but more in a fucked over, kind of way and, no, not bent over, fucked over, like...

You know what I mean.

So, these old ladies were celebrating a birthday, and they had beer. Birthday girl, in particular, didn't care which kind, just beer, so I brought her what her comrades both were having - Heiniken.

Ha! I loved it.

And, last night, a group of Old People came up and sat down after vacating the bar, fresh brews in hand. There was a birthday there, too, and they bought him a gift, a book, and he unwrapped it at the table, and just as I was bringing the bottles of ketchup and steak sauce, and it was a really rather lovely book really, it was,

"Sex After 50"

Right there, in big red lettering (so that someone "after 50" could read it, you know, large print, and flashy, I guess like maybe they forgot their glasses while they were trying to have sex), it was on the front cover, and there I am with my eyeballs all over the place, setting down the ketchup, and one of the Old Ladies I think saw me see it and I think I saw out of the corner of one of my eyeballs that wasn't reading the title of the book (I mean, who couldn't? It was *HUGE* and in red-lettering), I think I saw her smile it that sort of self-satisfied, the-waitress-just-saw-what-feisty-freaky-over-fifty-Old-People-we-are sort of way, which is exactly the way I would/will be if I were/when I am

over fifty.

* It should be noted, I plan on having some sort of ceremony for my shoes - I'm not going to just toss them. I wanted fire to be involved, but I don't think they'll let me get away with that. I'm thinking maybe I'll just gather my coworkers on a slow day out back near the dumpsters, say a few words, and toss them as dramatically as I can (hopefully they'll catch the sun as they fly through the air) into the dumpster, which, really, is the only fitting place for a pair of work shoes.

Master, I've Come to Serve You

2011-07-24T19:28:00.001-04:00

So, last night I feel I pretty much secured my seat in hell.

In fact, last night, I spent a few hours there.

I picked up a Saturday night shift, which I have repeatedly, weakly, and fooling noone claimed that not even a direct request from the Holy Ghost himself could make happen. I've held my ground for a long, long time, ignoring pleas from several members of management and even a few of my co-workers with a sly, silvery smile on my face. Let them suffer. I'm out of this bitch when the real shit starts.

But, just like everyone else in this whole wide world, a whore gets broke sometimes, and you do what you have to do.

So, like I said, last night I picked up a Saturday night shift after a long, long hiatus from such....such.....absolute, stinking Hell.

It wasn't twenty minutes into my shift before I was offering sexual favors in exchange for trinket notions of help. I told one of the hosts, a young guy who isn't yet even old enough to legally embibe alcohol (I don't think, unless he's had another birthday without my notice), that I would do "nasty, nasty" things to him if he would go flag a table for me.

Bustling around in the kitchen, constantly wiping my brow and commiting atrocities like dipping the glasses into the ice instead of holding them in one hand and scooping ice into them with the other, I came up with a new phrase for swearing:

"Sperm count of the savior..."

As in, "Sperm count of the savior, it's hot as a two-titty fuck in here. Why don't we clear all that meat-flesh off the grill and go have ourselves a drink? Fuck these customers. Let them go home. I'm sweating and I need to wring out my bra."

Winker, the new guy (hey, Walter...are you reading? I know you are, you drug addict.), really busted a belly laugh at the blasphemy, but, I slithered off, the gaping gates of Hell opening in my mind's eye. Satan was leaning up against it, arms folded, grinning, "Well done, faithful servant."

Later, I approached the hot mouth where they stuff the yeast rolls for a brief period before we servers come clutch and grab them with tongs, and there (as usual) was a line. I walked up and spoke to them, "My mouth is so dry I couldn't spit on _____'s dick right now." _______ was standing right there, so was Lady Manager, grabbing rolls, I couldn't tell if she heard it, and so was my ol' friend Tip, who I just love to death and haven't seen in a long, long time and it kinda made waiting tables in the bowels of Hell on a Saturday night worth it. You follow her ass around a restaurant for a night, and you've really done something. You've lived. You'd just have to see her ass. Believe me.

She and I shared side work, which I didn't even hardly notice until nearly the end because I was delirious.

I sweated some more, sweated over people's food, sweated over their iced tea, their water, their Coke, sweated over their silverware as I rolled it, then sweated like the last piggy wee, wee, wee all the way home.

I slept like a hog with an apple trapped in its mouth, spinning slowly on a spit over a hot, hot fire pit.

Things My Mother Doesn't Want Me To Do

2011-07-20T22:39:00.002-04:00

This blog post is long overdue, but I've been sleepy...and, processing.

Last weekend I joined my ex-girlfriend roommate and her new friends for a trip to a gay club in Raleigh to see a drag show (my first!). But, we couldn't even meet up with our friends without incident.

I was driving, which right there you know things aren't gonna go smoothly. We were rootin' around the bad part of our town (I say "the" as if there's only one), and realizing that we were on the wrong road to find our friends' house, unless they live in a sketchy warehouse building. M was calling the friends, and I was maneuvering the vehicle to the best of my abilities (which, is to say, not very well). I came to a four-way stop, and the car across from me flashed their lights for me to go ahead.

That turned out to be a police officer.

He pulled me over 'round about right after I swerved and came to an abrupt pause just before ~~turning~~ careening onto another street. I started looking for my licence, registration, proof of car insurance, and Mag is letting our friend - a police officer - know that we've just been pulled over by one of her colleagues.

The officer approaches and I'm ready with my brightest smile, widest eyes, and the window rolled down. Before he can really get anything out, I'm saying "We're lost!" like its something I should get a cookie for. He tells me that I have a headlight out. I say, "I do?" or "Really?" or something of the like to make it sound like I haven't had that headlight out for months.

Just then, M leans up and announces loudly, slowly and clearly, "We're trying to get to Officer C____'s house."

"Oh yeah?"

And what happens next is remarkable. Truly.

The officer looks over my information, decides I don't look like a hooker, a heroine addict, or a liar, and decides to give us an escort over to our friends' house. He gets in his car (I think they call it a cruiser? Is that what the police call their cars?) and, after making the same damn mistake we did (not to mention a slightly less-than-kosher 3-point turn), arrives safely at our friends' house, M and I in tow behind him.

I go bouncing into their house, all smiles, talking about the cute officer that got us there. Also, I may or may not have mentioned that I might keep the headlight out if it meant another pull-over from that particular officer. He was rather cute, in an if-I-were straight sort of way. And nice. Nice always gets me.

So then, we're on our way, and my feet are already hurting and I'm not even standing, or moving much at all really other than to keep the car accelerating toward the gay club in Raleigh at a rate of approximately slightly-above-speed-limit-an-hour.

That's because I'm wearing these:

We arrive at the club, pay our $8 to join the festivities, and suddenly I feel like the Oldest Woman in the World. At 31. Lord.

But, never mind, we're there and the show's about to start. Everyone orders drinks from the shirtless (!) bartender with the crew cut and hard, hard blonde nipples, then we move to the room where the show will be.

I kinda knew what to expect, I mean, I have access to the internets, but let me tell you what I didn't know about.

These bitches come out and just harvest.

They take the stage, in all their glory, pop music pumping loud like blood through the veins after a work-out. The smell of sweat is the same, too, and the testosterone, and the bacchian excitement. They stretch their arms and wink their heavy-lashed eye, their ostentatiously sculpted cheek rising to execute the gesture. They pout and quiver their lips, lip-sync a few lines, give out a little glory, and I mean, before they've even really taken the stage, the money is in the air.

That, I didn't know.

And there I am, a wide-eyed waitress with the corns on my pinky toes stuffed into these $20 shoes, my mouth agape, losing its lipgloss, watching this big, powdered brute of a woman-thing walk out and into the audience, taking money from their hands like...like...

I don't even know.

And she didn't even have to get them a honey mustard, or more rolls, or endless, endless, CEASELESS, JESUS fucking glasses of sweet iced tea.

Clearly, I am in the wrong profession, wearing the wrong costume.

All these bitches are just handing up money for the pleasure of gawking at her glory. And she's not apologizing, she's taking their money like they're all just poor puppies. She's winking, and maybe she has a muscle spasm in her cheek a few hours later from all the winking, and she's pouting her lips, but, really, there's not so much as a verbal thank-you, she's really just walking unabashedly around the darkly-lit room, in the spotlight, taking dollar bills out of men's and women's hands.

It was incredible.

And suddenly one of our friends we've come here with is handing me a dollar bill and holy jesus do I get to hand it to her? Will she see me? Will she pout her lips at me? I'm just a court jester with corns on my toes and maybe a funny little hat with bells on the end, hell, I don't know and she's, by God, a fucking Queen. A fucking, fucking Drag Queen, bow at her mercy.

So I hand her the dollar bill, and she takes it, and for one instant I was that woman-queen's whole world.

It was incredible.

Like I said, I'm in the wrong profession.

Later, I surmised that the money they collected that night probably paid for one eyelash, but hell - what a rush.

We hung around a little later, moseying through the complex maze of the sprawling club. We went to a dance area, where people weren't so much dancing as lazily flinging their elbows, asses, and breasts around in a slow way to fast music, looking bored but thinking they looked sexy. We stood off to the side and watched, for the most part, horrified. These were bodies out of control. At least, I was horrified. Also, I kinda wanted to go out there and show them up a little. But, I had my pocketbook, and I didn't think M would hold it for me.

To my right, there was a young man sitting on some steps that led to one of those little caged perches where the women who are particularly whores, and like attention, grab maybe a more shy but impressionable whore-friend and dance with each other in rowdy ways. He looked utterly forlorn. He looked like he was contemplating jumping off a bridge, and slightly confused to be sitting on the ground. I kept an eye on him, and I kept wanting to say something to him, help him or recognize him in some way. The only interaction he got from anyone was when a few people scooted by him to get to the caged platform area. He moved his legs out of the way, forlornly. He looked utterly, utterly alone and pitiful. He really did look like he might slit his wrists at any moment. He looked like he had been lured there, served a weak drink, then dumped, in public, so he wouldn't cause a scene, then left there to figure himself out. When M and friends decided to go check out another area of the club because the dance area was too hot, I took a few steps after them, then called after M, went up to her, handed her my pocketbook, asked her to hold on a sec.

Now, for this next part, let me tell you that I was completely sober. A few hours ago I'd had a few sips of water, and that was it.

I walked back over to the guy, unsure how I was going to pull this off, but sure that I would. I walked up, opened my arms, asked with my face, "Can I hug you?" and, though he had this "Do you want me to move out of the way? What is going on here?" look on his face, leaned down and hugged him. I held on for a good 10 to 15 seconds (count that out - it's a long time!), even rubbed and patted his back a little. Then I stood up, turned, and walked off.

It was incredible.

The guy probably thought I was drunk, or crazy, or both. Worst case scenario, I made him feel horrible because even drunk crazy girl pitied him, and besides, nothing was really wrong. At best, it was just what he needed. Somewhere in between, he has a great story to tell about his night at the club that night.

We moved on to a courtyard area where, essentially, there were a bunch of homos in skinny jeans (if they could get away with it) (and even if they couldn't) milling around. They were smoking and mingling and, at one point, I leaned over to one of our friends and said, "I'm kind of wondering what drama is going on here, all the little stories and relationships and cat fights we have no idea about just from watching." There was a man with long, long lotioned legs in a mini-skirt and high heels. I leaned over to the same friend and said, "That's not fair." There was a bear standing proudly up above the crowd with is shirt off. Again, I leaned over to the friend and said, "My body hair is starting to grow just looking at that guy." He was like a walking full moon.

We were people-watching, talking, and probably just about to go when this guy comes up, boisterous and loud and telling the friend with whom I had been leaning and talking that she was beautiful. She thanked him, sincerely, which made her even more beautiful, but then this guy hung around. He was drunk and lisping and alternating accents. He kept calling each of us in turn "nasty" and telling us which sexual acts we should peform on each other, and for how long. He thought our friends were sisters, even though they are a couple, but even after he got it straight (well...) he kept mixing the four of us up in bed. When he found out that M and I are ex's, he started pleading with me to give M another shot, and for M to take it. He said that M just "needs 20 minutes," to which I responded with the quip, "Yeah, but I need thirty." That was much enjoyed by all, except maybe Maggie. I know I was proud of myself, though. I always love a good quip. He kept saying the same things over and over again, but with a different accent, and we started to get more and more nervous, but my strategy was to just keep laughing so he wouldn't go bitchy on us, as some do. His friend (boyfriend?), the hairy walking-full-moon bear, came over and sat on his lap, and they made uncomfortable comments about each other's asses and touched each other. Then the bear got up to go find someone, presumably for a threesome, though, when he left, the lisping, accent-switch drunk gay said horrible things about the size of his penis, so we don't know.

He did say, though, and I like to think this was the least-drunk and most complementary part of him that said it, that I looked like that "girl in Legends of the Fall...with Brad Pitt" (just because of the curly hair, I think, but I'll take it).

We left soon after the lisper finally left us, and came back home.

The next day, I found out that our city is teeming with cute police officers because I was taking a walk around our neighborhood when another pulled up along side me, rolled down his window and asked if I'd seen "a guy in a green shirt...kinda shaggy." I said no, slowly leaned back, gave him a kind of look with a raised eyebrow and asked, "Should I go back home?"

He said, "Nah. Narcotics." and pulled away.

It's too much, really, for an innocent like me. I see why mama never wanted me going off to bars and out for walks in the neighborhood.

Buttholes and Whores

2011-07-12T23:11:00.001-04:00

Buttholes,

When you intend to leave the excess funds as a tip for your server, DON'T MAKE HER BRING YOU CHANGE. Especially do not let her come to the table, inform you that she's going to have to make a trip to the bar with your Three Separate Checks, then walk off to hunt down someone to break your ten dollar bills so that she can bring you your one dollar damn bills and coins that you're going to just leave on the fucking table like a giant "Fuck you!" you fucking dick heads I wish I could shoot those damn dimes into your mother fucking ears and squeeze your nose 'til they squirt back out your eye sockets.

Whores,

You bitches are so scandalous. I can't believe how ya'll just poured all over the sweaty FedEx man when he came in to deliver a har-har PACKAGE, the both of you with your repeatedly offering him something to drink while he stood there and sweated like a manly man-man. If the kitchen manager had caught you, he would've blown up to holy hell but you bitches didn't care, did you? No the hell you did not. Dirty, dirty bitches. Your asses couldn't trip over to the drink station fast enough to get him a soda. I bet you wrote your phone number somewhere on the cup, didn't you? Whores.

Praise Jesus, Yankees in Suspenders

2011-07-09T16:41:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was waiting for customers to show up, which I do a lot of lately. Cue three fat bastards walking through the door. They had beards, and one had a straw hat, and suspenders. They were smiling and waddling and I think they thought they were rolling in for Wednesday, our all-you-can-eat day for ribs.

And they were mine. All mine.

I approached the table, spoke a few words, and one of them immediately picked up on "my" accent, which I think is just the Proper Way to Talk, but they seem to think is an "accent." One of them mocked me; he repeated "like" the way I say it, which is heavy and long on the vowel. They seemed the jovial sort though, so I didn't send them straight to the bowels of hell or, you know, suck on a piece of ice before I plopped it into their drink. (You like the words coming out of my mouth? Here. Try this.)

I was taking their order, and one of them remarked on my curly hair. He said, "You hair sure is curly." I said, "Yes, sir. It is." (What the fuck do you say? It was a statement of fact, not a compliment, so I couldn't very well say thank you, but I had to acknowledge it somehow.) Anyway, another one of them takes his hands off the menu (they were all gripping the menus like the Dead Sea Scrolls version of the Word of God, which, honestly, for these men, I can see that this was probably close to the case) and starts rubbing his head, saying "Yeah, I had curly hair!" (there was barely any left), and me, being the quick cookie that I am (and quickly judging the table for openness to this sort of thing) said, "Oh? So does that makes this one Larry and this one Moe?" pointing to the other two men in turn.

They loved it. My work was done.

They commented that I wasn't old enough to know "The Stooges," started throwing out numbers like "21" and "22" and I said "Add ten years." and they made a big deal over not believing it and I turned red because they'd already mentioned my curly hair and were now on to my age, and I can't be talked about or, generally, noticed in public without turning red.

I did crack one more joke when it looked like I was going to hit a server in the head with my tray. One of the guys tried to get me to miss her, which I did, and was going to anyway, because I know how to wield a tray, but I said, "Oh, don't worry, it won't do any more damage than's already been done."

They loved that too.

They loved pretty much anything I had to say, as long as I drew the vowel out and kept their drinks filled and smiled. They were nice and friendly and jovial and they were yankees in suspenders.

They left me $20. That's $20 for three easy-peasy yankee-ass men.

When's the next boat to the Bronx?

Fuck-Ass Musical Chair Bastard

2011-07-05T17:38:00.001-04:00

First, allow me to briefly mention the woman with the crazy-ass teased lion hair. I mean, she looked like one of those animals from mythology that was a blend of two (or more) animals, so, she was a human woman blended with something that had hair-wings, also a crest on the top of her head. Her hair screamed at me every time I went to the table. It said, "The last time I had any fun was in the 1980's." Her hair and I could've had a conversation about it, maybe I could've helped her, but I didn't have time, or the kind of balls it would take to call a woman on that sort of thing without a reality show to back me up on it.

Now, on to the next:

Dear Old Man,

I'm sorry that you are an old man. I'm sorry that you are in here with your lady friend who is at least ten years younger than you and that you want to impress by being tall and manly, if not verile. (By the way, if you wanted to impress her, maybe you should've shown up on time instead of making her wait. That's sort of a lady thing to do, anyway.) I'm sorry that the booths at our tables have been sat in so much, and by such large guests, that they sink down when you sit in them. I'm sorry that the booth that our hostess took you to sank down, and I'm sorry that the next booth over that you got up and tried with your flat, wrinkly (probably, I certainly didn't look) geriatric ass did the same damn thing. I tried to offer you a table, but instead you wanted to try another booth that wasn't cleaned off yet. Please don't do that. It bothers us. It bothers us as much as feeling small in front of your lady friend bothers you, probably. If a table isn't cleaned off, it's because I haven't had time and, really, I barely have time for you at all, especially after all this ass-plopping musical chairs shit. I'm glad I finally got you sat down, though, so I could get your damn order, attend to my other guests (did you notice those? maybe not, they were sunk down in their seats), and get you the fuck out of my restaurant.

Sincerely,

Your Much-Perturbed Waitress.

And next,

Dear Less-Old Lady,

I see that you are here with an Old Man. That's lovely. I hope you enjoy your lunch. I'm here to make this as pleasant and fast (mostly fast) as possible, so please do cooperate. As your relationship with Old Man grows and you come to maybe have more influence on him, please try to dissuade him from trying his ass in every booth in the damned restaurant. If anyone can do it, you can, and I thank you. Now, on to the things that pissed me off about you.
You noticed, clearly, that we have lamps hanging over each table. Those are so you can see. Sometimes the guests like to see the menu. Perhaps you also notice that these lamps did not have a switch, or a nob, or a chain or anything else that you could use to turn the lamp off. That's because we turn them off using the switches behind a little curtain we have. That means we do it, not you. We operate the lights. We like to do that. It's our restaurant. I mean, you're here for a while, and apparently that entitles you to reach up and unscrew the lightbulb so that you can sit in darkened ambiance with your old man and not so much hold as fondle his hands across the table and gross out your waitress, but please, please don't do that. It makes me go around to all of my co-workers and talk about you - the annoying old people at C-2 (C-2 is the name of your table). Also, that little bit where you asked me to go back and get you something every time I came to the table to see if things were okay? Not cute.
Finally, along the lines of any future influence you may have with Old Man, please at some point gently clue him in to the fact that his tips are not quite at the twenty percent mark, and if he hopes to keep ass-hopping around all the booths in all the restaurants in the county, he might want to raise the bar in that arena or else he may one day come across someone that doesn't put up with his shit.
He really was a lovely man, though. Really. You should be proud.

Sincerely,

I think I was Even More Perturbed with You

You know, I'll probably be old one day. and bitter.

Ha! I sprinkle salt on you and you shrivel like snail.

2011-07-03T13:33:00.000-04:00

So, yesterday. Yesterday I was too tired to talk about yesterday, but today is my day off and I've slept a little, so here you go.

When I go into work, I have my pocketbook in one hand, my apron in the other, and lately I'm wearing my lesbian sunglasses (…lesbian sunglasses because they were seven dollars and fourteen cents at Old Navy, on sale, and the second I put them on I knew that my invisibility as a Total Dyke was gone and I was immediately transformed into Super Queer, apparent for all the world to see. They’re sort of like Uma Thurman’s police officer glasses from Kill Bill, which is an extra added bonus, because half the time I do feel like killing a bunch of people. I don't know what the price of the glasses has to do with it except maybe I have some idea that lesbians tend to be thrifty. Shifty, yes, but also very, very thrifty...).

When I went into work yesterday specifically, Lady Manager was standing right there at the bar, and when she saw me she told me to put my (aforementioned) stuff down so she could take my hands, she needed to take my hands, and she looked toward the bar where the bartender sets the drinks for us to pick up as a place to put my (aforementioned) stuff and even held out her hands, ready to receive mine. She was serious.

Friends, this is not what you want to happen immediately upon arriving at work. She had Something To Tell Me, and it wasn’t good. I put my stuff on the (sticky, ughh, *shudder*) bar and gave her my hands, which was very awkward, I must say, to be standing there holding hands with your Lady Manager, even though I’m a lesbian (even though I’d taken the glasses off at that point) it’s not like we’re just thrilled to be touching all women all the time. I mean, really. It’s not like that. Watch something other than the Playboy channel. This was an awkward situation.

Here I should tell you that my nickname around work is Squirrel. This is because I’m nervous and fast and have a bushy (pony)tail but mostly because I’m nervous. People expect me to twitch and shakily hold acorns up to my mouth then run away to go have a nervous bowel movement at any second. (Side note – have you ever seen a squirrel turd? Like, anywhere? Any evidence of any sort of squirrel poopings? I mean, we see bird turds, and all manner of scat all over the place, but not a single dropping from a squirrel. They are truly, truly nervous and shy little animals after my own heart.) So, anyway, people tend to try to take care of me and my nervousness all the time just to keep me useful.

In that vein, Lady Manager has me by the hands and is explaining to me with Serious Face, like she’s my therapist and also someone who just so happens to have a pair of big lady grown-up panties folded up in her pocketbook if I’d like to try them on, that a large group of little league baseball players and their families are in the area and, if anything like last night happens, they will be descending upon the restaurant, our very place of business, at some point today during my shift.

She’s still holding my hands, and I started to tighten my grip a little.

Then, Lady Manager says, “I need you to administer salt. Just sprinkle it all around and get ready.”

As you may know, salt (like sage, and chocolate, and other things) is good for keeping away evil. It’s just sort of a good thing. We throw it over our shoulder for good luck, we eat it in mass quantities in conjunction with sweets for PMS, we take a little bit of it in the form of Lithium for bipolar. For me, salt is particularly good for my low blood pressure and tachycardia issues. My cardiologist tells me I’m the opposite of everything he tells everyone else.

Soon after I started working at this restaurant, I started sprinkling salt around if things went to shit. I would walk by a bad table and drop salt, or salt an entire section that had been having trouble the night before, or even do a preemptive salting for the whole restaurant in anticipation of a Friday or Saturday night during a certain season of the year, or when certain conferences were in town. Coworkers started asking me to sprinkle (or “administer,” like it’s a rite) salt for them, and Lady Manager got right on board with the salting soon after a woman showed up to the restaurant one evening in her pedicure shoes, complaining and trying to get her food for free.

Salt sprinkling is really all we have, so when things like little league teams descending happens, that’s what you do. I went to the back and got the cylinder container of it, the one with the umbrella girl, and marched myself to the front doors, exited, and drew a big line in the sand, as it were, right in front of the restaurant. Also, because I’ve watched those paranormal investigator reality shows, I sent out a little message, silently, from my heart to the Universe and whatever else was listening:

“I do not welcome you. I do not welcome you evil spirits of the children baseball players and their families, their moms who are tired and angry and little sisters who put macaroni up their noses, and their loud dads with the baseball caps who empty glass after glass of sweet tea, and their uncles who order beers and Jack-and-Coke’s and embarrass everyone. I do not offer safe space to you to come eat chicken tenders in this restaurant. I am not receptive to your ideations of a 12 oz cut of meat cooked to a well-done status of oblivion within 10 minutes. I reject your crayons on the floor and your high chairs. I do this rejection with salt. Hear me, ye children baseball players and their families, and turn away!”

And it worked. I had to sprinkle two more times, but it worked. They didn’t come.

What did come my way was a small party of six. All adults, but, at the end, they started to act like children. I had a trainee yesterday, and at that point I was forcing her to start greeting and handling the tables rather than just shadowing me, so, regrettably (but good, it has to happen some time) she had to be involved and help me handle this:

Everything went fine until at one point I went to the table and a guy announced his steak was “awful.” Not “undercooked” or “tasteless,” but AWFUL. So, not asking any questions regarding the awfulness of the steak, I removed the offending item from the table and tried, repeatedly, to offer him something else instead. He didn’t want anything else, just his baked potato, and to repeat over and over again that the steak was “awful.” When I took the steak, I smelled a little something sour, and when I presented the steak to Lady Manager, I told her as much, and she smelled it and she took the meal off of his bill. She went out to the table, and things were okay. The next time I went back to the table, though, things were not-okay again. Two of the men had stepped away from the table, were sort of standing around as if the table, and their wives at the table, incidentally, were lepers.

At this point, things really got kind of ridiculous. Almost, well, depending on your level of sensitivities, kind of abusive, if you believe that wait staff can be treated abusively at all.

Another man, other than the original Awful Steak Man, announced that Awful Steak Man’s steak was so awful, that it smelled so bad, that he couldn’t stay at the table to eat his own meal, and had to get up. This man did not have any sleeves to his shirt. I looked over and noticed that his shrimp were gone. The steak, though, the steak was still there.

At this point, Awful Steak Man approached with a fork, a fork that had a bit of meat attached to the end of it, jousted it toward my face, and demanded rather than suggested (I mean, the fork with the meat was already in my face) that I smell it.

I sniffed (fuck, I mean what do you do? I’m a waitress. I have no power of refusal here.) and went back to Lady Manager to update her as to the increased level of dissatisfaction on the part of our guests. Hesitantly, she removed Sleeveless’s meal from the bill as well. I went back out to inform him of the good news and, at that, Sleeveless, now bolstered by his power and deciding to act as a kind of spokesman for the group (he was dressed up, after all), applied the rhetoric that “All the tickets ought to be tore up.” Not just one, the one with the bad steak, and not just his, but everybody’s, including the people who were completely satisfied with their meals as evidenced by the fact that their meals were now gone from their plates.

So, I went back for a third time to Lady Manager, all the way outside where she and Friends were smoking out near the dumpsters in the 1000 degree heat, and gave her the bad news. I reminded her that the gentleman didn’t have sleeves. She said, “Fine.”

It was after that that I sprinkled the second dousing of salt. I nearly emptied the container. I sprinkled a third round just before I left, out of mercy and compassion for the comrades I left behind in the battle of Good and Evil known as Food Service.

Fuckarama

2011-06-30T21:39:00.002-04:00

So, I put my tampon in and went to work this morning thinking it would be an ordinary Thursday - busier than Tuesday, but not too terrible. We only had four people on the floor, which could either be just perfect or a potential for fuckarama. Well, if you read this blog, you already know which is gonna happen here today. Close to noon o'clock, I had a couple tables going and nothing particularly upsetting was happening, aside from the fact that I am a waitress with a writer complex in a po-dunk town. I'm walking toward the kitchen when several people start filing through the doors. Scratch that, a little more than several. Several is five to seven, this ended up being a dozen people. So, a carton of eggs walked through the door. How do I know this? How do I know how many people? Did I stand there and count them as they walked in? Ha! Like I care. No.

I know how many people were in that party because while I was in the back, innocently....doing something, I can't remember what, Lady Manager came up with the Wide-Eyes and Big Face and announced, "I need you to get this 12-top that's coming in."

Greeeeeat. Wait. Wh-what? No. Did you...you know I already have tables right?

Wider Eyes, Bigger Face. Oh yeah, and they're from corporate. District Manager and what not.

"I need you. I need you. I love you."

Oh, fuck me.

So, with two tables on the other side of the damned restaurant, I walked into a little room we have in the back near the bar, flashed my biggest deep-breath-holy-fuck-me smile and said, "So will this be a quick lunch or a leisurely lunch today?" which got a big laugh from everyone as an inside joke the way that any scripted line that corporate asks us to use is an inside joke (or, just a plain joke to the wait staff).

I commenced getting drink orders and dealing with a party of corporate people. It wasn't so bad, was hardly anything, really, except stressful because that's what I do, I stress. Especially with two other tables on the other side of the restaurant. My co-workers couldn't really help because they were busy with an influx of traffic coming in for lunch. Everything worked out fine, though, and I was planning on using my "You owe me" button with Lady Manager (especially after, later, at the sink washing my hands, I gave her The Eye and she countered, "But you do everything perfect. I need you. I love you.") to scoot on out of there after I wrapped up the party, but Lady Manager scooted herself right on out of there and went to the bank to drop the deposit. Also, I suspect, to Starbucks, and Target, maybe over to K-mart if Target didn't work out, plus she probably had to get gas, which means she had to go in to get her daily two quarts of ~~blood~~ Mountain Dew. But whatever, who knows what she was doing, but she was gone a long time while I stood waiting, waiting, waiting, but not on any people, with my back hurting, trying to mentally feel for whether or not I had used all of my tampon and was now bleeding onto that little rope that's attached to the end.

Eventually, I did get to go home, and got a message from M saying that she was over at the apartment complex where she is performing pet-sitting duties, and she was at the pool they have and I was invited to come over if I would like. So then I took my happy ass right over to Target to pick up a swimsuit. I ended up at Old Navy because Target didn't have any tops that matched their bottoms, but Old Navy did, they had a top and a bottom that matched and fit. Separate tops and bottoms are a good move - we get to pay more, but we also get a better fit upstairs and downstairs, so everybody is happy, and everybody has given a little, which is what they say you have to do in any good deal.

Sadness, though =
bikini top: size small
bikini bottom: size large

That is the equation of my body, in case you wanted to know.

Happiness is...

2011-06-13T12:06:00.001-04:00

Folded, organized underwear makes me so happy.

Dear High School Gym Coach

2011-06-08T20:27:00.003-04:00

Dear High School Gym Coach,

You were very, very fat. You had a lazy eye. I can't remember your name. I'm sorry that I can't remember your name. You got mad at me because I wouldn't dress out or participate, but you didn't push the issue.

I kinda wish you had pushed the issue. I want to tell you now that I didn't dress out or particpate because I was too self-conscious. I was awkward and, furthermore, mortified by my own awkwardness. Some teenagers are like that, you know. There was a little group of us. We were all girls.

Physical Education as a subject - your class - was a literal exercise in horrorifciation for me. Sitting on the bleachers in my jeans and sweater, taking my failing grade each day, was difficult for a student who always wanted to please, always wanted to try her best, but the humiliation I faced attempting any sort of vigorous physical activity in front of my peers outweighed my usual teacher's pet attitude; besides, I knew that there wasn't any chance I'd ever be able to sparkle or please or even function in the gym or on the field.

Case in point, one day when I did dress out (I had to dress out and participate at least a certain number of times in order to pass the class. This standard was exceptionally low.) we worked in the weight room and I had to lay down on the bench thing with everyone looking up my shorts and I couldn't even lift the bar without any weights on it and you were openly disgusted.

Today, I'm still unhappy with my body and what it can and cannot do. I'm still awkward. I regret that I didn't participate in gym, or in sports, or in anything physical when I was younger. I regret that you, that someone, didn't intervene in my life in a gentle, positive, affirming way regarding the importance and joys of establishing and maintaining physical health. I regret that this is still happening in our schools today.

I wonder if you are dead. Not in a vindictive way, just wondering.

Amber

If This, Then That

2011-05-16T14:31:00.004-04:00

Because I have a kidney stone floating around in my bladder, and am generally miserable in that ever-increasing wrist-slitting inner-dialogue kind of way, and also because the cats are actually lesbian whores who will not let me so much as sit down to watch a little tv without coming up to show me their assholes and lay down next to me, rubbing their horny little lesbian cat faces on my arm and trying to get in my lap, I decided to get out of the house and go see a movie yesterday. Also, I had Legitimate Work and Things To Do that I needed to avoid.

So, I hit up Little Caesars for their cheese pizza and crazy bread, took that home for a few bites, checked movie times, then headed on over to the Most Ghetto Theater to see Something Borrowed because it has John Krasinski, who is lovely in The Office with his shirt sleeves perpetually rolled up on his forearms to just below his elbows, and because it was a romantic comedy and, I figured, why not torture myself?

I'm supposed to be drinking lots and lots of water to encourage the kidney stone to come out, which is something I don't actually want to happen but hear that it is necessary, so, water it is. I took a bottle of water with me in my purse to sneak into the movie theater, which I didn't feel one bit bad about because I did intend on making a purchase of their highly overpriced snack items: popcorn and a box of Goobers.

Ah, Goobers are lovely.

But anyway, I get to the theater, and I realize I didn't get the cap on my water screwed on very well and my pocket book is drenched with water. I get my ticket and head to the bathroom, where, of course, it being the Ladies', there is a line. I scrunch into the corner to wait my turn. Some older ladies come in and have no idea of my existence, as I am scrunched over in the corner. They get in line ahead of me. They joke about there being a line in the Ladies' room. I seethe.

In the bathroom, I leave behind my water bottle and throw into the little metal trash (Do boys know we have those in our bathrooms? Do they have them in their bathrooms? If so, what for?) the unused sanitary pad I had in my pocket book that is now ruined.

I've never been to the Most Ghetto Theater on a Sunday. I picked Sunday because I'm hoping that nobody will shoot me there on the Lord's Day. I didn't realize that everybody else in this city would be out for a (hopefully safe(er)) movie viewing as well. So, after going to the bathroom, there was no time to get my popcorn or my Goobers because the line for overpriced snacks was so long.

No water bottle, no popcorn, no Goobers. But I still have John Krasinski to look forward to.

A word about the bathroom first. I hate using the bathroom with other people in there because of my shy bladder/bowel but also because of the peer pressure to wash your hands afterwards. They don't know what you were doing in there, and I don't like the assumptions. I could've been pulling out a wedgie (without going down my pants), or twisting my bra to a greater level of comfort, or flushing drugs, or who knows but you don't always have to wash your hands when coming out of the stall but OH no, HELL no, you gotta wash your damn hands because it is expected because everybody is such a damn smarty pants they assume what you are doing in there. Like it's gotta be one of two or three things. And, furthermore, I highly suspect I'm picking up more germs by washing my hands and touching the faucet knobs where other people who've been touching their genitalia have touched rather than, say, wiping my own damn genitalia whose bacteria I know and am perfectly comfortable with and flushing with my foot, but whatever. I do what I have to do to keep everybody's comfort levels in tact. That's what's important.

So, anyway, to the movie theater with my kidney stone and wet pocketbook, the contents of which I promptly dumped out onto the theater floor when I tried to retrieve my cell phone in order to turn the volume on it down. Everybody's comfort levels in tact.

The movie was good, I identified with the smart, shy, take-the-back-seat-kind-of-girl character with the mousy brown hair who was not Goldie Hawn's daughter. And the girl, the shy one, gets the guy she wants in the end. Good for her, but here's the thing:

Besides not appearing in the movie as much as I had wanted, John Krasinski's character, a writer named Ethan (ie a total nerd-girl heart throb) totally gets shafted.

Sorry if that's a spoiler for you, but he doesn't get the mousy brown-haired shy girl that it turns out he loved, not just friend-loved but loved-loved all along. And it sucks. It sucks bad. The movie just completely leaves him in a lurch as mousy brown-haired shy girl struts off into the sunset with GQ guy who, quite rightly, chooses her, and she is just thrilled to pieces but FUCKING ETHAN WHO ALWAYS FUCKING LOVED HER and fought for her and was there for her giving her really brilliant, quotable advice that could only come from someone who really loves you is stuck in London to be a writer and get drunk and fuck all the London girls who he wishes were mousy brown-haired shy girls like the one he loves. And maybe that's not so bad for him, but still, this RomCom really fucked him - I mean his character - the fuck over.

Fucking romantic comedy bitches.

Still, a good movie. 4 stars. Not 5 just because it is a romantic comedy and I can't bring myself. I'm an elitist snob, yes, I know.

No Make-Up - The Freedom and Honesty of Being Butch

2011-05-06T23:00:00.000-04:00

So, without getting into defining what it means to be butch, or coming up with some Butch Scale of 1 - 10 with "1" being Rosie O'Donnell and "10" being George W. Bush, let's just lay a blanket down and assume that butch women don't wear make-up.

Ya'll just wear ya'll's bald face right on out there and to me, a femme, that is just fucking horrifying. For me, that is. I am horrified at the prospect of not wearing make-up on my face, not by butch women who don't wear make-up.

Butches are sexy and debonair and hot and attractive and.....did I say sexy? And (most of you) don't wear one stitch of make-up! So not fair! Ya'll are sexy in a butch way, and that affords you certain freedoms. Freedom from wearing make-up, which, let's face it girls, is a bitch in and of itself sometimes (allergies, anyone? mascara wand poked in the eyeball ever, anyone?). Also, freedom from the fear of not wearing make-up, freedom from the fear of showing your bare face.

I'm sure that I'm still femme without the make-up - the long hair and well, just the girly attitude, I'm pretty damn girly all around, make up (har har) for the lack of eyeliner and blush and lipgloss - but I just don't feel very pretty at all without make-up, and feeling pretty - again, without getting into a discussion of the definition of femme - is a pretty (har har, again) important part of femme-ininity.

So, to a certain degree, femme, though it is part of my identity, is something that I go through a bit of a process to attain.

But a butch is a butch when she rolls out of bed in the morning - just as sexy, just as tough. Ya'll don't really have to go do anything, at least not on a regular, daily basis, to be butch (do you?).

I really envy that freedom.

I also envy the honesty of it. When someone sees me without my face on (I love that phrase), the gig is up! The ugly is out of the closet! It can be - depending on where I am in my menstrual cycle, whether or not I've maintained plucking my eyebrows and, just as a random example, whether or not I have a terrible, nasty cold - very horrifying. I really do feel, well, like I don't have my face on! Or like I have an entirely different face on instead. And my face without make-up is the one that feels like a mask! It just doesn't feel like me, or at least not like the me I want to be. I'm uncomforable and embarrassed when people see me without make-up on. I wish I were one of those girls that had the beautiful skin and long eyelashes without any cover-up or help.

But, of course, its usually the butches that are blessed with that - the clear skin and long eyelashes.

Both femme and butch are both intrinsic and extrinsic, but femme seems to be a little more unfairly extrensic than the other so far as the work we have to put in to physically creating our identities on a daily basis.

I'm sure there are femmes that don't have to wear make-up and are entirely femme, but I just can't/don't have the features (see above - clear skin, long eyelashes, also add pouty lips) to get away without that shit and, honestly, if you're one of those girls who can/do, I don't want to hear from you, I'm just not that far along in my development as a human being.

Anyway, it's not fair that butches get to be sexy without make-up. Why can't I be sexy when I roll out of the bed in the morning? with a cold? while I'm having my period?

Me, most of my make-up rubbed off, but just enough still on to keep from looking dreadful, also, the hair helps - I was having a good hair day. Plus, the camera angle and lighting were nice (this is in my bathroom).

I Know Exactly Where I Got It, Too.

2011-05-04T18:51:00.001-04:00

Several days ago I had an older couple come in and sit in my section, the woman was obviously suffering with some sort of infectious disease of the common cold variety.

Despite the amount of times I wash my hands in any given day, this past Sunday night I started to get a sore throat. Monday brought the I've-apparently-swallowed-razor-blades-and-chased-them-with-fire feeling along with the fatigue and aches. Great way to spend my days off.

I'm out of work so much due to various (often self-induced, like with the almonds) injuries and illnesses that I felt really, really bad about calling in over a cold. I mean, I felt like crap, don't get me wrong, but moreso I felt that unspoken societal pressure to be superwoman, to power through sickness, and drag my ass to work anyway because that's what we reward/admire/expect in modern American society.

So, I tried to do the strong thing and I dragged myself in to work. It was as much as I could do to put on my uniform, tie on my apron and stuff some kleenex in my pocket. I combed my hair back into a pony tail, put my pocketbook on my shoulder, and that was it. No make-up, not even mascara or lipstick. I walked up in that bitch looking like a barf bag and I know it.

I didn't say anything, didn't feel like saying anything, just got to work doing my usual stuff, in my usual way. Except I had to stop every five or so seconds to wipe, blow, dig my nose. I went through my little packet of kleenex in half an hour's time.

Sweet Pea had been warned the day before on a phone call, but everybody else that came across me did a double take. I know I looked like death. The embarassing thing is, once somebody sees you like that, you're forever changed in their mind, I'm sure. It's like seeing a train wreck or a car accident or something else that's really, really bad-awful. You can't unsee that shit. And my poor co-workers more than likely can't unsee what they saw of me on Tuesday, May the 3rd in the year of our Lord 2011. I'm not a very pretty girl, but I've certainly come down a few pegs now, probably to somewhere around floor level, or perhaps even basement, and it doesn't matter how much make-up I put on now they're going to have flashbacks of me without it - my hair kinda stringy, my eyes puffy and all bald-looking without the mascara to give me eyelashes, my nose swollen and pink, my lips dried out and chapped to hell, and my skin, well, let's just call it "patchy" to be nice.

But oh well, I felt like shit. I waited two tables, one of which - ha, their lucky day - regularly complains about Speed-of- ~~Suckage~~ Service. I did my best. Our Nice Lady Manager, horrified, phased me off the floor and I went about rolling silverware and sweeping under the tables. My tips were pretty good. For my service, not for the silverware or sweeping.

I called in sick for today. I felt a little better but still achy, tired, congested. I needed another day to rest, especially considering my underlying health condition with POTS/dysautonomia. I'm hoping I feel a lot better tomorrow because I plan on going back in. Hopefully none of the dry skin on my inflamed, red nostrils flakes off into anybody's dish. Anyway, I don't think they'll notice if it does.

Hey, Republican Party - aren't you glad we don't have a livable minimum wage and universal healthcare? Come on in to my restaurant tomorrow! I'll treat ya right!

Oh yeah, and am I the only one that makes little nasal tampons out of their kleenex?

Wherein DQDBBHKM Employs Psychological Warfare

2011-04-23T22:48:00.002-04:00

UPDATE, containing an explanation of the acronym in the title of this post: The Drama Queen Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager formerly known as, simply, Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager, shall now heretofore be known as the ever increasingly complex yet nevertheless asshole-ish Drama Queen Dirty Bastard Butt Hole Kitchen Manager. I reserve the right to shorten this title from time to time for expediency's sake, to retain it for accuracy, and to lengthen it for dramatic effect.

The other day, after I added some days to my request off, there was a series of events (read: name-calling) amongst myself and Dirty Bastard Butt Hole that resulted in my, ultimately, giving Dirty Bastard Butt Hole the finger (as in, the finger, the middle one). This is not to imply in any way that I was so beat as to be at a loss for words, rather, I simply no longer cared enough to come up with any words, yet wanted to show my contempt nonetheless, so felt that a gesture was not so much necessary as it was convenient and most accurately reflected both my continued hatred mixed with my growing apathy at engaging in conversation over or verbal display of the matter of my hatred (Mutually expressed - He has, I would like to note, on several occasions in the past, called me a slut and a whore. Not lately, but still.) for Drama Queen Dirty Bastard Butt Hole Kitchen Manager.

Anyway, I flipped him the bird, to which he responded that I had stubby little fingers.

So, though I hate to admit it, I was slightly affected by said comment, thus, a survey:

Do I have stubby fingers?

Please note: I'm not really that concerned, I just thought this would be a funny way to relate the story, so please do not feel the need to address any psychological issues I may or may not have.

Jesus Loves Me, Not You

2011-04-17T19:02:00.009-04:00

Because beauty is what it's all about when worshiping Jesus, the Risen Savior:

"Did you get Daddy to take a picture of you? You were the prettiest girl in church today!" - Random Woman, member of a party of around eight sitting down to eat at a local steakhouse (the same one where I work - I was there to roll silverware since I high-tailed it out of there the night before when the tornadoes were touching down in surrounding counties, not wanting to die at my place of employ but, rather, at home in the closet like any decent homosexual).

(in)fantasizing women

2011-04-10T19:42:00.001-04:00

Has anyone ever really looked at the pajama section in Wal-mart? It is sick. I mean, there are neon-colored, cartoon-character bedecked jammies, then there are flower-patterned nightgowns. Those are the options. It's pre-pubescent to granny, with no in-between.

I'm talking actual sleepwear, not lingerie. Something for a grown woman to wear when she closes her eyes and drifts off into dreamland. There is nothing!

There is: tweety bird, betty boop, tazmanian devil. There is tinkerbell and mickey mouse. Half of them have slogans touting the questionable sanity of the wearer.

So then, not only are we immature, we're also insane.

Why do women participate in this? Why do we buy that crap? What have we bought in to?

That immaturity, childishness is sexy? spunky? cool? liberating? smart?

Where is the fucking pedophile patrol?

In fact, is it because so many of us lost our girlhoods that we try to practice girlishness in our adult lives? Is it even conscious, or is it a given (given to us by whom?)

And what about the crazy label? Why the fuck are we brandishing that like a badge? I'm not talking about Mad Pride as it formally exists, but this generic, $5 night shirt brand that is simply oppressive and mocking. Forget the pajamas! - Any given slogan on any given shirt in any given Wal-mart is just as atrocious.

I'm really sick of it. Where are the clothes for women? Wal-mart's feeble answer seems to be conservative business attire with their "George" line. So then, we're either 8-year-olds, or sarcastic teenagers, or mental-patient moms, or...Republicans.

I guess I shouldn't hold my breath for Wal-mart to roll out appropriate fashion for witty, sexy, lesbian poets, should I?

Prophesy, or Observation?

2011-04-02T07:45:00.000-04:00

"Folks in Rocky Mount is gettin' to where they don't care what they do." - local Wal-Mart worker, loudly, to himself (or to the general public around him? hard to say.), after reading the front page of the local newspaper.

DQDBKM

2011-03-30T19:57:00.000-04:00

The dirty bastard kitchen manager formerly known as DBKM shall now be referred to as his new moniker, DQDBKM - Drama Queen Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager. Here's why:

Today started off pretty well. I stopped by a fast food place for breakfast, and thought to call the restaurant beforehand to see if anyone already there wanted some breakfast, and I let it be my treat when I delivered, so I was feeling good about that, and there was general good will all around. We were joking around, having a good time, picking at each other. At one point I ran squealing away like a piglet because I picked at somebody so good they were throwing ice at me. Love that! I even picked at the cook when I caught him looking, rather lascivously, at the hostess's rear-end.

Everybody was still pretty much in a good mood when, despite the rain and general rather dreary weather, folks started to come in to eat at a pretty good pace. My customers were all good, no assholes, no problems, I had four tables that had been sat pretty evenly, and I was handling it okay, however, I knew that I was at my limit because one of those tables was a group of police officers who were there for the all-you-can-eat ribs and apparently 2,000,178,309 fluid ounces of tea/coke/water. Because of the reorders on the ribs and the constant refilling of glasses, this table of 5 behaved like a larger party, or like two or three tables. Also, I had another table, a couple of old ladies who were, again, nice enough, but needing stuff. Then there was the table of four, my first table of the morning, that I was keeping an eye on about needing to cash out their bill. Add on to this my most recent table, a couple of gentlemen, perfectly pleasant, but whom I had not visited with in several minutes, ever since I had taken their order, in fact. They didn't look like they needed anything, but I wasn't comfortable just ignoring them. I needed to get over there and give them some attention, just after I refilled glasses again, asked again if the old ladies wanted some dessert, and cashed out that first table I mentioned. So I was juggling all this, doing okay, but NOT ready to handle another table, when I walk out to see that that is exactly what has happened.

Because nobody happened to ask about my delicate, fine balance, or how adding another table to this ecology could take an okay situation to a very not-okay situation where nobody ends up getting good service because I'm spread too thin. And where I end up getting screwed on the tip.

So I ask the hostess, passively, who would be picking up that table. Bad news: me. I say, simply, "No." because that is exactly what came into my brain and, honestly, that's all I had time to get out because I was on the way to handle those four other tables. The hostess let me know that I was the only person downstairs to get tables, which was news to me. I, sarcastically, asked her to then let DBKM know that he had a table. There's only so much I can do.

And here's where DBKM turns into DQDBKM, and shall ever remain.

The next thing I know, DQDBKM is calling out to me that I'm cut. That is to say, not taking any more tables. That is to say, Go home, You're done.

This is because I was "refusing" to take tables. I very briefly tried to argue the intricacies of the difference between "refusing" and "being unable to" by saying, as I walked by, to wait on my tables - namely the police officers still ordering round after round of ribs and sucking down tea like it was the life-blood of the Lamb - "I couldn't," but I knew it was pointless.

The only thing I could do was finish up my work and leave. Ah, and, of course, come home and write this. Oh, and - despite the comraderie I feel for the other waitresses up there - pray that every man, child and farm animal in the tri-county area descended upon the place demanding quarts of tea and high stacks of pig-meat and fries, making DQDBKM rue the day that he so flippantly cut me off the floor, but I doubt that happened on account of the weather.

So then, all there is to do is add/correct the moniker. Which I think I have sufficently done. Until next time - we'll see what happens next. I may very well end up using every letter in the alphabet for the acronym.

We Have a Tampon-Eater.

2011-03-27T11:39:00.000-04:00

It's not like we don't feed them...

But apparently one of them was still struck with a craving to chew on tampons...

Life Diet, Also: Yeah? Well, you stink of scalp and pee-pee.

2011-03-17T23:00:00.001-04:00

So, regarding the actual diet diet of the Life Diet I mentioned in my previous post, there are some hurdles. I am, as it is known, a waitress (in part). What you may not know about waitresses is that, unlike in other minimum wage job, they work their entire shift without a break. Yes. Yes, they do. No, I'm not kidding. Yes, apparently it is allowed. I don't know how, but, let me assure you, never has one word along the lines of "Its been 5 hours, have you had a 15 minute break yet?" been mentioned. "These guests have been waiting 15 minutes for their food, get that roll out of your mouth and run this NOW" has been mentioned, or something to that effect, quite a few times. Thus, the idea of eating every 2 - 3 hours in order to stimulate metabolism, keep blood sugar even, and stave off starvation so that you don't eat like a damn whale when you get home is thrown out the window like so many givings from a medieval bed pan.

When you've had a long, shit day as a waitress (more about that later) and you haven't eaten (or sat, or vacated your bladder) in many hours, God help you, but you stop by the damn Burger King on the way home. You just do. You hog down a Whopper, and then about 3 to 30 minutes later you scarf down a handful of cookies. You wait a few hours, during which your irritable bowel releases several times over, and then around 9pm, just when it is a no-no to eat, you get hungry again. It's all about high calorie, because the expanse of time that you go without eating is, it turns out, sufficient time for your primal extincts against starvation to tie up your will power and start screaming "FEED ME!"

Makes it very difficult to break the addiction of fatty, sugary food. (I don't worry about salt content because of my POTS - that's one vice I'm allowed, actually encouraged, to have, and whoo! hoo!) I tell you, if someone walked up to me as I was leaving my shift and handed me a bouquet of broccoli, I would gut them and trample off, dragging their limbs behind me, to find their children and dine upon their not-yet-ripe entrails. I would. Really.

I guess I could do that whole dedicated, organized, planning thing where you pick one day a week to cook your meals in advance, freezing them until you are ready to come home from a hard day at work and dethaw/reheat - simple as that, good as a cheeseburger. I guess I could do that, but, I'm sorry, to me, any kind of left over, refrigerated poultry just smells like an old man's farts. Am I the only one who thinks this?

So, I'm a hungry, single-income waitress that detests most leftover food situations. What am I to do to eat healthy and cheaply?

Now, regarding the "also." Today I had a doctor's appointment for follow-up on my progress with dysautonomia/POTS, so I wanted to get out of work early. Cue a two-top that turns into a four-top just as the initial two guests' food was coming out of the kitchen. One of the initial guests ordered drinks for the new two. When the new two got there, one of them said, to me, in just the bitchiest voice you could believe, "I wanted WATER with LIME." (Her friend had ordered her unsweet tea with lemon.)

Let me interject here to say that I have yet to wait on any given person that ordered any type of drink with a lime that turned out to be a nice, courteous, decent human being. They all are just shitty, miserable, bitchy types of people. They are I-am-special people. They are I-am-ahead-of-the-curve people. They are make-a-special-trip-for-me people.

This woman was no less.

And I knew it, if not from the lime, from the attitude. She acted as if I had purposely gotten the wrong drink. Her friend (friend?) piped up and let her know that she had ordered the tea for her. When I brought the water with lime, I double checked to make sure she wanted me to take the tea away, maybe she wanted to keep it, have both. I didn't want to get my head chewed off for taking it away but, should've known!, that would happen anyway. I got another attitude-slathered response, "Yeah." (It's all in the tone; this tone was one of an incredulous "Yeah, dumb bitch, I don't want it, idiot." I think she may have even rolled her eyes a little.)

Finally, when I went to take her order, she - without speaking - held up a stubby, meaty finger at me to hold me in my place until she was ready. She kept the stubby, meaty little finger up in the air at me, while she considered, before she finally graced me with her order. That, thankfully, was the last interaction I had with her. I asked the closer to take the table for me because I really wanted to at least change out of my work clothes before I went to the doctor's office, and also I had had enough.

Oh, and I forgot to mention - stubby finger lady smelled of a mix of scalp and urine. Pleasant.

On Ownership, Consumerism and Broccoli

2011-03-17T09:37:00.000-04:00

So, I've decided to steer away from flat out book reviews. They've become a chore rather than a pleasure, and I honestly don't think anyone enjoys reading them. Instead, I'm going to fold them more organically into my blogging; if a book I am reading happens to affect my life so much that it gets mentioned in a blog post, it will appear in that way, not directly. I'll keep the "book" tag, for occassions when I do mention any given book in any given post.

Also, I want to start blogging more, because it is a form of writing, which, generally, I want to do more of. I'm hoping I'm going to start doing more of the things that make me fulfilled, proud, happy in the long(er) term, rather than, say, watching t.v., which I do for approximately 19 hours a day, including while I'm sleeping, or fuck around on-line (er, this doesn't include blogging, obviously), or shop.

There's a lot of crap that I do that doesn't make me happy so much as it does pacified. I find that I must be pacified a lot. I'm nervous a lot, anxious. It is my general mode of being. I turn on the t.v., not because there is something in particular on that I want to watch but, literally, because I am too anxious without the white noise, I cannot sit or really do anything in silence, and I need something to attach my brain to so that the voices in my head will shut up: I think too much, too hard, too loudly. But, you know, so does my t.v.

Days off can be hell. I don't have work to pacify/distract me/take up my time. On days off, I usually go shopping. This is ridiculous because I am a waitress and do not, I assure you, make the kind of money to afford the sort of lifestyle you can purchase at Old Navy or Target, or hell, even Wal-Mart. Maybe the Dollar Tree, but that's pushing it. I have, however, received a rather sizeable sum in back pay due to my disability, and instead of putting that money into savings, or paying more medical bills than I have so far, I take it out shopping. I really have a problem(s). No, I mean really. It is a frantic, worrisome, anxious-ridden thing. It is a guilt-inducing thing. It's like eating a Whopper with fries, which I also do a lot of.

I am a shopping bulimic. I buy a thing, get it home, try it, it inevitably doesn't make me happy/beautiful/successful/more, I find some small thing wrong with it, then, the next day off, I repeat the cycle of returning said item(s), yet also purchasing more items. Ever seen somebody step away from customer service with a fistful of money and walk directly out into the same store to buy more stuff? Yeah, that's me.

And, honestly, I don't have a whole hell of a lot of stuff. I don't have nearly as many clothes as, well, anyone else I know, or shoes, or....anything. I'm poor, so I certainly don't have big-ticket items such as furniture or electronics, etc. I live with a roommate who has all that stuff. I spend some money, legitimately, on household items such as curtains, an ironing board, etc. But mostly, I spend my money on small things, and mostly beautifying products: make-up, hair gels, lotion, lingerie, perfume, some clothes. You can tell where my insecurities lie.

Wow, look at that. Insecurities lie.

Every now and then, I go through and purge a lot of my stuff. I admit that I don't like it, don't want it, don't need it, and get rid of it en masse. I have a breakthrough and decide that I want to live more simply. I realize that Loreal's latest eyeliner is not making me any more noticeably prettier. But, inevitably, I buy more stuff. It is a total binge and purge cycle that I am caught up in, pacifying myself with stuff, but ultimately unhappy.

It's called Consumerism, and some of us have it worse than others. Mostly the weaker, less satisfied ones with low self-esteem, which exactly what the Consumerism likes to feed on.

I just finished reading this book about a man who did a purge down to 100 things, that is, he reduced the amount of his own, personal items down to just 100 things, and kept it that way for a year. It's called The 100 Thing Challenge: How I Got Rid of Amost Everything, Remade My Life and Regained My Soul by Dave Bruno, and I'm sure you can find all sorts of links to/about it if you do your own search, so I'm not going to do that here. It's inspired me in the midst of another one of my purges. I think if I could just purge and leave it that way, like this guy did - like, not shop, at all, for a long, long time, I would get some other, more important things done. I think I would feel better about myself, realize a few things.

As I said, I'm already in the middle of one of my stuff-purges, but I realize that I would sort of like to go on a total life diet. I comsume so much crap. I need to trim the fat. I need a little nutritional value in my life. This pertains to everything from what I eat, to what I purchase, to what I watch. I really think that it is all an addiction. I think I'm trying to comfort myself, reward myself, etc. with fatty, sugary foods, junk television, and endless quests for lipgloss. Please make me pretty, make me laugh, let me taste something sweet. Nothing wrong with any of that, unless it is taking up a more sizeable portion of your plate, or even all of your plate, and there is no broccoli.

I honestly need more broccoli in my life. We all do.

Are You My Guru?: How Medicine, Meditation and Madonna Saved My Life by Wendy Shanker

2011-02-01T17:58:00.000-05:00

I did not like this one as much as I liked Shanker's first, The Fat Girl's Guide to Life, which I think was actually my first book review here. Fat Girl was smart, empowering and encouraging; Guru was whiny, aimless, annoying. I really hate to say that, given that the topic of the book was Shanker's handling of a terrible autoimmune disease. I mean, how can you be so heartless as to call someone dealing with an illness "whiny," but I'm sorry, that's how it came off. And it was frustrating, because I really wanted to like this book, because for the past couple of years I've been dealing with my own chronic illness. I really wanted that take-no-bullshit, pull-your-big-girl-panties on, big, bold, funny voice from Fat Girl, but what I got was, well, fat girl rolled up in a little ball of "Help me, please Help me."

And I totally excuse her for that. Not that she even needs an excuse, but what I'm saying is that I understand.

I think the problem for me, and this tends to generally be a problem for me, was the clueless elitism that came across as Shanker tripped along to various alternative therapies and treatments at will and at random while thousands (millions) of, not only Americans, but people around the world cannot afford access to basic health care.

Yep, I think that was a big part of it.

I found it very difficult to access my normally high level of compassion and empathy for others, specifically Shanker in this case, while she was commiserating her miserable, unhealthy fate...lying on a table full of acupuncture needles...while how many people die for lack of a single dose of any given drug because they don't have the money to purchase it, or the insurance to pay the people to purchase it for them?

Honestly, I was really confused as to how Shanker could afford her quest for treatment(s) (s) (s). I couldn't keep up with whether or not or even how she was employed.

By the end, I found myself finishing the book out of I've-already-read-so-much-of-it obligation. Disappointing. - 1 star, because there were some funny parts

Voluntary Madness by Norah Vincent

2011-01-27T19:10:00.001-05:00

* I haven't been writing reviews lately, though I have been reading. I've got a list of books to review, but I don't think I will. I think I'm just going to pick up reviewing again from here. There's just too many to go back and do.

Basic premise here is that a woman voluntarily commits herself to a sampling of psychiatric institutions in order to take notes and later write a report. It's Harriet the Spy, only with more guts. I was interested in the book, obviously, due to my own personal experience with a psychiatric hospital. Initially, I thought this non-fiction book would be a sort of embedded journalism meets empiralistic experiment meets personal memoir ala Barbara Ehrenrich's Nickel and Dimed read, and it was, at first. Actually, it was for a good portion, however somewhere a little over half-way through, the detached, objective journalism voice jumped right off the bridge as Vincent became in actuality what she had only come to perform as a higher-order ruse. That is to say, a mental patient.

But not the knee-hugging, rocking, drooling, finger-pointing kind. None of the characters/subects here were in fact, but still, Vincent definitly became more personally involved than perhaps she had intended.

It helped that she has a history of mental - what do I call it? issues? illness seems harsh - and refers to herself and others like her as "depressives" throughout.

I don't hold the switch against her. I was interested in a more detached, journalistic take, an expose of the system if you will and, to many (that've never spent any time in the bin), it still will be just that, but I was also okay that it turned into more of a personally reflective memoir. I found it very brave that she went ahead and wrote it.

It helps that Vincent recognizes and acknowledges that she lost objectivity and did not, perhaps, meet the goal she had at the onset of writing the book: "This book turned inward more and more as it went along, for the most part, relinquishing even the vaguest objectivity. And it did so, not only because I was overwhelmed by the private emotional struggles that led me to pursue this project in the first place, but also because, philosophically, I began to feel that the point of interest, the point of healing, and the target of rebuke was less the institution, or the world as it is, than the individual."

Interesting that Vincent uses the word "rebuke" referring to the individual, which, I can only assume, to be herself, because, if therapy is about anything, it is about accepting yourself and making gentle, well-considered changes in your life only where necessary or wanted. For Vincent, though, a female writer who lived for a year and a half as a man for her first book of the same embedded-journalist vein, I also worry that readers (critics) might rebuke her turn from objective journalist to clearly subjective (weakened?) memoirist, that the typical implications/accusations regarding the gender of the journalist (objective journalist = strong male; weakened, subjective, sentimental memoirist/confessionalist = female) might come up.

But I would challenge anyone to do the same thing she has done here and not have something similar happen, on some scale. Because we all have...what do I call it? issues?

And as Vincent points out, there's nothing like going to the looney bin to make you absolutely completely fucking crazy. I should know. Norah Vincent and I. - 3 stars

They Want Us To Smile

2011-01-26T20:28:00.000-05:00

So, Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager mosies up to us this morning to tell us that a customer had complained that their server wasn't smiling, so we should make sure that we're "You know, smiling and being nice and friendly, and stuff. Being friendly and, you know, sincere, and all."

So even though I'm not speaking to Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager right now due to an unrelated incident that I won't discuss here, I put down my parsley-chopping knife and ask him, rhetorically, "Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager, do you want us to be friendly or sincere? Which is it?" Another server standing behind me sort of breathe-snorts. DBKM asks, "Can't you be both?" I say "No." The conversation ends there because Sweet Pea comes to tell me that I've been sat, so I'm off to practice being sincerely friendly to these bastard-ass guests.

And this is what happens, I shit you not:

Me, walking up to the table, smiling: "Hey. How're ya'll doing today?"

Old dude with oxygen tank, which, from all appearances, he traded his teeth to purchase: "I'm doing as many women as I can! You wanna be next???"

Me, not smiling: "No sir. I do not. What can I get you to drink?"

I rest my fucking case. On the floor. Actually, I bury it under the ground, that's how much it is rested. My case rests in peace. RIP, case.

And the day just coasted right on down the hill to hell from there. We didn't have enough servers scheduled to begin with, and one of the servers scheduled didn't show up. We had a couple parties going on, and I just got my ass slammed. Then we ran out of ice - of ICE! We ran out of ice. (The ice maker has been broken for a while - see previous post where I mention the manager giving it an enema to try and make it work.) Very essential, is ice. (I wouldn't work, by the way, if I had been given an enema. I would protest.)

I got crappy tips because I wasn't giving my tables much attention. I wasn't giving any one table much attention because I had too many tables all together. It was all I could do just to get their orders in.

It was just a shitty day. Ass-slamming enema jokes aside.

Day From Hell

2011-01-07T19:06:00.003-05:00

Fuck this day.

Let's not talk about the fact that our ice machine was broken this morning and General Manager had to give it a hot water enema to get it working again. Let's not talk about the table that smiled and acted like everything was fine, I mean they were really nice even though it took their appetizer a while to come out, and then left me $2 off of a nearly $50 ticket.

Let's get right to it. Let's talk about a group of Old Bitches with an old-poop man. BAB (Bad Ass Bartender) took them to their seats, and she comes at me with "Good luck, Amber." which is exactly what you want to hear just before you approach a table.

I have to say, before I start things off, that, generally, they were nice. They weren't crotchety or anything, but, well, just let me tell you:

First things first, they wanted to let me know before they even ordered to be sure to give them their military discount, plus an old person discount (their words) plus any other discount I could give them. Great. They put in their drink orders, one of the old ladies orders coffee. I didn't even bother to warn them that it would be coming out in a french press, and that it would be costing them $2.99. I figured I was going to be dealing with hell anyway, so why put in any effort to avoid a tiny bit of hell? This was definitly an effort-to-avoid-hell-is-futile sort of table. Before I leave the table to put in their appetizer order and get their drinks, they have a question. They ask me about two million ways to sideways how to share a 9 oz. ribeye and still get a salad and potato. For both. And pay as little as possble. They keep asking, over and over again, "Does a salad come with it?" No. "Does a potato come with it?" No. "Can I get a salad with it, does that come with the steak?" No. "So a salad doesn't come with it?" No. "But a potato comes with it?" No.

Now, you have to understand, that in between each of these little exchanges, I didn't just say "No." I mean, I'm a woman of few words at a table, but I did explain to them, repeatedly, that each entree comes with a choice of side. We don't force a salad or a potato on you; if you want one, you can order it. You get one side for free, then you can add on as many sides as you want for two dollars each.

Anyway, so they order their steak and potato to share, along with two salads. The two other ladies order their entrees, I forget what, who cares.

Then they become total freaks about having dishes on their table. They want their appetizer platter gone. NOW. They want the little plates they use to eat their rolls gone, NOW. They keep shoving stuff at me when I come by. Admittedly, it is part of my duties as their server to do what we call "pre-bus" their table of extra debris, however I like to wrap one thing up before I start another, and I had another table that had left earlier and still had dishes sitting on it. I was going to bus that table completely "down to wood" and then start pre-busing the Old Bitches. They acted as if they thought that if they had any plates on their table from their appetizer that the food, the real food, wouldn't come.

So I was standing at the table that had left, trying to strategize how to carry the dishes to the back with minimal likelihood of dropping any, when the old geezer dude leans back, shoves a side dish (a small little side dish! what the fuck? you can't handle that on your table? really? for five damn seconds???) at me, and makes some sort of gutteral noise.

I was about to blow it, I really was.

Of course they did the other things, like questioning whether or not they have dressing on their salads, which isn't all the way their fault, because since they've started putting the dressing directly on the salads instead of in a ramekin on the side, everyone has been doing that. They also asked for napkins. I have no idea why having people ask me for napkins pisses me off so much - it's an honest and valid request - but it does.

Their entrees come out, and they eat. About 3/4 of the way through the meal, when I go to ask if they want dessert (please no, just get the hell out of here so I can leave), I can't get the question out of my mouth because one of the Old Bitches wants to complain about her steak, which is not, in fact, a ribeye, as she ordered - it's a sirloin. She Knows. She thought she was going to fuss at me because she thought I had put in an order for the wrong steak. She asked me what I put in, and when I told her I had put in for a ribeye, that's when she decided to question the honesty and integrity of the piece of meat on her plate instead of my own honesty and integrity (also sanity and lack of general idiocy) as a waitress. I offered to have them cook another steak for her, which she declined, so I told her I would get the manager, which is waitress speak, in case you don't know, for "Shut the hell up- I don't want to deal with you anymore now and I'm going to pass you along to my superior."

For a final fuck, they left me $4. Total. A buck a bitch.

Crappy Customers: Business Class

2011-01-05T22:55:00.001-05:00

Our business class customers have, it turns out, no class what-so-ever. They come in confident, with folders or laptops tucked under their arms, wearing their suits and ties - or, the women, in pantsuits - talking loudly, smiling big (like sharks), shaking hands and cracking (stupid "har-har" type) jokes.

This group, possibly more than any other, finds it totally suitable to completely ignore me. They are so busy setting up shop in our restaurant, taking out their papers for their business lunch, figuring out the politics of who sits where, that the fact that I am standing there, their waitress, in a restaurant (coincidentally the fact that they are in a restaurant) doesn't even register on their radar. Usually, one of the more conscious souls will notice me, and tell me what they want to drink, then poke the person next to them to get things started, and sweet relief washes over me because otherwise sometimes it becomes ridiculous, and I find myself standing there, my pen held up, leaning forward, my lips parted slightly, saying this (in my head):

"Excuse me? Hi. Yes. I am actually NOT attempting to attend your meeting. See this apron? Yeah. And the little notepad I have here? That's to take your order. I'm your server. Your waitress. Uh-huh, yeah, well, you're gonna have to eat if you're in here 'cause, well, it's sort of a restaurant. I mean, I see that you have the table covered there with your papers and everything, and I'm not sure where you want me to put your drinks when I come back with them, if you ever order them - I'm sure you won't move the papers because it seems, well, in my experience, most people, once they sit down at a table in a restaurant lose the use of their arms or hands, but, you know, whatever, I can just sit it on top of your flow chart there, I see that it's in color - somebody must've worked real hard on that, right? Printed out from a Power Point presentation, huh? Yeah, I did those when I was in college. But, um, anyway, what do you want to fucking drink you fucking lunatics? Let's get this show on the road so I can get ya'll the hell out of here."

My restaurant believes in silent service - the customer shouldn't have to ask to receive, say, a refill of their drink, or rolls, extra napkins if they need them, etc. Waitresses are trained to use their eyeballs and also recognize social cues that allow much of this to come into fruition as anticipated by the guest. However, there is a necessary minimum of conversation. There is pertinent information I need to collect from you such as which of the food items you would like to consume this visit, whether you would like an appetizer, a dessert, a to-go box, the ticket separated or together. I am not a deaf-mute, and I hardly think that you would want that for your dining experience. Maybe you would want a robot, in which case, may I direct you to the closest thing, which is the drive-thru speaker at the McDonald's next door. Or perhaps the convenient vending machine at the location of your office - they probably have board rooms where you can spread your papers ALL OVER THE PLACE!

As it is, I don't even bother introducing myself to this set anymore. It is the best I can do to get them to tell me what the hell they want to drink, much less listen to me tell them something as irrelavent to their business as my name.

Okay, so, second part of it is that this set always arrives in drips. First one or two come in, but they always have a couple more meeting them there. They never want to order until everyone is there. The rest of them never get there until my next table has been sat, which creates a situation wherein it feels as if I have been double sat because I have two tables ready to place their orders at the same time.

Finally, businessmen tend to either be arrogant pricks or flirts. Flirts are better than pricks, but you can only fake-laugh so much before that feminine, lilting tone to your ha-ha starts to sound, well, fake and gets caught in your throat. I think trying to keep my eyes from rolling does it, like maybe my eye-ball chords are linked to my vocal chords somehow and the strain from keeping my eyeballs in place keeps me from taking it a step forward and doing the obligatory you're-so-funny-(give-me-a-big-tip) waitress giggle. The Arrogant Pricks, though, really piss me off. In a recent case, I was trying to introduce the french press coffee to one "gentleman" who had asked for coffee and I guess I must have embarrassed him in front of his friends because he snapped at me, "I don't need to be familiar with it." ("Are you familiar with our french press coffee?" is how I open the $3.00-for-a-tiny-little-pot-of-(fresh)-coffee can of worms with our guests, so as to avoid pouring it down the drain as I've mentioned in a previous post.) He made a big point of noting that he was indeed familiar with the coffee press when it came to the table and he recognized it. Lord, ego.

To wrap this up, I'll just note that very recently, one of these businessmen, half-way through one of these business lunches, asked me if he could borrow one of my pens - his had run out. I gave him my pen, and I never saw it again. I went to the table after they had left to collect server books, credit card slips, and MY DAMN PEN and it wasn't there. It wasn't on the floor, it wasn't in a glass, it wasn't hiding under a plate or in one of the server books, it was. gone.

Crappy Customers - The Illiterati

2010-12-19T21:02:00.012-05:00

The Illiterati -

I honestly don't know if these people can't read or simply cannot be bothered to read the menu. Either way, it pisses me the hell off. I mean, unless you can't actually see the menu because the restaurant is too dim (a possibility, in fact a problem my guests have had on a regular basis), or you are old(er) and forgot your reading glasses. Or perhaps you didn't have enough time to read the menu because I was so fast getting your drinks and rolls to the table (breathes on knuckles, wipes them on chest), because I'm just that good. In that case, your response to the question I always ask, "Are ya'll ready to order?" should be something along the lines of, "No, not yet. You were so incredibly fast getting us our drinks and rolls that we didn't have a chance to look at the menu. Please go do one of the myriad other things you have to do; we know you'll be back shortly because we can tell already that you are an awesome waitress with a pleasant personality." Or, another likely and appropriate response, "No, not yet. We were so busy gossiping about our co-worker's fat ass and also that strange man with the caesar dressing in his beard sitting across from us that we haven't looked at the menu yet. Can you come back when you hear us stop giggling?"

But ohhhhhh no. 'Course not. The illiterati say that they are ready to order, but those are lies (lies!) because after I take out my pen, open my little server book and get ready to write down what they want, it always goes one of three ways:

The completely illiterati -

These fuckers don't even know what the hell is going on. They don't know where they are or what they are doing. The menu may or may not even be open. These are the ones that I suspect are in fact illiterate, which is kind of sad because, as a former teacher in the public schools, I can *totally* see how that could happen. As a result, these guests are completely reliant on me to recall and help them order whatever food we might have available to them, which is a very uncomfortable position for me to be in as I don't. know. them. and I resent it very much. What, do they want me to recite the whole menu or just pick out a few of the highlights and let them choose from there? Asking what I recommend is one thing, and it embarrasses me because I have to say something juvenile (and true) like "I always get the chicken tenders" or else something obvious and facetious like "The filet mignon is excellent." But laying your entire dining experience at my feet is just too much responsibility. READ the damn menu and make up your own. damn. mind!

The semi-illiterati -

These people are half-way there, but no less annoying. They say that they want "a steak" or "a burger," which I can only assume in good faith that they've read or seen on the menu, but beyond that, they have no idea. They don't know, for example, that we serve steaks in different sizes. Or they are completely aghast when I ask them what they'll have for their side(s). They get the wide-eyeballs and look across the table at the person, whomever is there with them, and ask to verify, "a side?" as if I've just told them that their 7 oz. sirloin comes with a glass slipper. Yes, dumbilina, a side. A side! Can you imagine? And then, I swear, I could mimic their next statement as if it were a line from a movie I had watched a thousand times,

"What are your sides???"

Now, sometimes, bless them, they do this while they are fumbling through the menu - obviously, they missed the list. Others, though, ask this question while they continue to stare at me, blinking expectantly. Sometimes I point out the sides to them so they can read them for themselves because I am simply too tired and/or aggravated and have another table who is actually ready to order and is shooting poisoned arrows into my back with their eyeballs. Other times, I do my best to list off as many sides as I can remember at that moment. Mostly, we have varieties on the potato.

The semi-'tudi-lliterati -

Ignorance I can tolerate, but ignorance with attitude I cannot. I keep saying to myself that the next time someone comes in and does this, just orders "the cheeseburger," and dismissively shoves the menu back toward me without telling me what they want for the side - because I've interrupted their conversation or their day or their lives to bother them with taking their order - I'm just going to give them a side of sauteed mushrooms, or steamed broccoli or something yucky like that, whichever I think they most resemble. Usually the broccoli. Rude people tend to look like broccoli.

The lost-erati -

I'm not sure these people even fit in this set, but otherwise they would go under the set "Nuts," which you will notice I have not yet created because it is just too damn inclusive for the people that walk through the doors of my particular little steakhouse in my particular little part of North Carolina. In any case, they belong here because they have most clearly NOT read the menu. ("I want the vegetable platter.") Or the sign on the door. ("I'll have the chic-fil-a.")

Ani DiFranco Unplugged: A Billboard Exclusive

2010-11-21T21:48:00.001-05:00

I just happened to look up Ani on YouTube and here she goes, singin' my song again...

A Day Off

2010-11-21T18:48:00.002-05:00

Today I had a Day Off. Today I had a Day Off after working ee-leh-ven days straight in a row. I only worked a few hours each day, but still. A bitch gets tired.

Before customers started arriving yesterday, a co-worker's father showed up for a salad and this was weird because I was under the general impression that she had hatched from an egg because she is just one of those mythical types of creatures to me who is always laughing and never seems to get really irritated with the customers and has the Holy Glow about her that I don't know if it is laughing gas (seriously, she laughs all the time) or marijuana or because she goes to Church.

Anyhoot, you would think that would be a good omen, but oh no, we had to have a butthole issue over some broccoli.

So, this dude comes in wearing a black leather jacket, smelling of pachooli (only not that bad) with an accent like maybe he's from Australia. Cool. He's by himself and he orders a whopping 15 OZ RIBEYE which is just unheard of in these parts of ghetto-ass getchye-self a chicken tenderville. So, double cool. He orders it well done (eh, not so cool) with broccoli and I forget what else.

I wait the forever-and-a-day it takes to cook a 15 OZ RIBEYE well done, and when it's finally ready, the broccoli that the kitchen has heaped onto the plate is yellow and wilty and just looks nasty. It looked like broccoli that had eaten itself then got sick and puked on itself. I ask the kitchen about it, and they blame it on Dirty Bastard, the kitchen manager. I overheard Dirty Bastard recently claim that he was moving up in the company as the ~~nazi~~ guy who goes around to all the restaurants and helps them with their "gap," which is to say loss of product. He is good at this because he doesn't throw anything away. If it is shit, he will still use it. He will send the shittiest looking stuff out, which is easy for him because he's not the one who has to carry it out there and set it on the fucking table with your face turning red because you're embarrassed for what you've just had to sit on the table. But anyway, I digress.

So I travel, plate of 15OZ RIBEYE in hand, back to the office, to show our general manager, who takes one look and tells me to get them some new damn broccoli, although she doesn't say damn broccoli, that's me using poetic license to make the story more interesting. So I go to the kitchen to get some more broccoli and then, since I've got to wait on the broccoli, I take those extra minutes that are cutting into my Speed of Service that the company is always bitching about to go have a word of prayer with Dirty Bastard.

I confront Dirty Bastard as he is cutting into a cow carcass, and he claims that it wasn't him. Shyeah right. So I go back to kitchen again, and now Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager and Kitchen are pointing at each other like a couple of two year olds but I know that Dirty Bastard was the one behind it, if not directly, indirectly because he is a Dirty Bastard Kitchen Manager Nazi. 15 OZ RIBEYE is being dressed with new broccoli at this point and the general manager comes out to handle Dirty Bastard while I take Pachooli Australian Leather Coat Guy his damn steak with his damn broccoli that he has waited forever to get. The guy left me $10.00 off of a $20-something-dollar check. Bless him.

Also, I had another table yesterday leave me $7.00 off of a $20-something-dollar check. Those kinds of tips make up for the shit tips, let me tell you. Bless those people! They are more than pulling their weight in this thing we call humanity/civilization.

Later, this woman comes in with her two kids. They order a plate of chicken tenders to share. Lord. I bring the chicken tenders out with the requested dressings, but the woman's daughter gets all bent out of shape because apparently she wanted a different sauce. She's obviously mad about it, but when her mom asks her if she wants a different sauce, she snaps back, rolling her eyes, "It doesn't MATTER." Me being the waitress, and me being the type of waitress I am, I try asking the girl myself, "Do you want me to get you something else, sug?" (Short for "sugar," pronounced "shuug," I've started talking like a 64-year-old woman with blue eyeshadow and varicose veins since I've started waiting tables at this restaurant - I think it's something that just happens without your control.) and the little bitch turns on ME, rolls her eyes at ME, and calls out, arms crossed across her chest, "It doesn't MATTER."

Well! Fine, then. Shug.

Then. THEN, the mom secretly points out a coupon to me. It's a coupon for a fucking dessert. Excuse me? You're going to get that rude little snot a reward for bitching out the waitress? Nice.

I shouldn't expect any less though - the woman had been ordering me around like a pro from the moment her ass hit the booth. It took all I could muster from the depths of my soul to fake any sort of waitressly (pleasant, subservient) demeanor when I sat that dessert down on the table in front of them, I'll tell you that.

Later, the general manager caught me leaning on a ledge, working my pen across my tablet.

She says (in her chipper way) - "Are ya doodlin'?"

I say (in my way) - "I'm trying to go to my happy place."

Did I mention that it was DAY ELEVEN without a day off?

There's an incident with a trash can that happens later, but I'll save that for another post.

10 Things I Love Lately

2010-10-18T10:14:00.001-04:00

Diane Sylvan, over at her blog, directed her readers to go to their blogs and list 10 things they love, and I am apparently in the mood to do whatever I am told, so:

10 Things I Love

1) Going for a walk every morning and the associated chilly-weather work-out wear that I have for these walks.

2) The fact that I have been both inspired and disciplined enough to write every day, or nearly every day, for the past couple of months. I've entered two writing contests! One was a flash-fiction contest from NPR, the other a fiction contest from the Indiana Review!

3) The fact that I'm working on my next story.

4) NBC's The Office: Ensemble cast performs ridiculous situational humor with sarcasm, irreverance and satire. Brilliance of Seinfeld, but completely different. New, fresh, different. Bold, honest, funny and fun. Brought to us, like all good things, by the British. Love it, love it, love it. Why wasn't I watching sooner?

5) My new black lacy push-up bra.

6) Lysol dual action disinfectant wipes.

7) My job. (Really!)

8) My bamboo plant.

9) Sarah Bareilles's new song King of Anything

10) Me, now.

Crappy Customers - Bitches

2010-10-17T21:54:00.003-04:00

Bitches -

Again, this is pretty self-explanatory.

Old bitches -

These bitches always order coffee. The trouble with that is that we sell fancy french press coffee, which takes a longer time to prepare than a regular cup of coffee, so when I bring it to the table, the old bitches are a) pissed off that it has taken so long and b) (mostly unpleasantly) surprised to see this foreign contraption arrive at the table when all they ordered was a damn cup of coffee. This indicates another server issue; people don't read the menus. Even if they are illiterate there is no excuse in this case because there is a picture. More than half the time they send the coffee back. After the previously mentioned longer time it took to prepare the coffee, it is highly piss-offable to me when I have to then go pour it down the sink. When we switched to the french press coffee, we were asked to point out to our guests the fact that their coffee would be arriving to the table in a tiny little miniature coffee press and give them instruction as to how to operate it. We weren't encouraged to point out the price of the coffee. Both the work entailed and the price of the coffee pisses off the old ladies, and only on a rare occasion to guests a) give the french press coffee a chance and b) become charmed by the french press coffee.

Old bitches order coffee because they are old and frail and skinny and they have tiny, hollow little bird bones and they need something to keep them warm, which leads me to my list of disadvantages associated with waiting on old bitches: in addition to complaining about the coffee, they complain about the cold. Also, they sit and sit and sit for a long time, not doing anything but making me nervous about whether or not they want me to keep filling their drinks or just leave them the hell alone to talk about their husbands' dandruff or appendectomies or grave markers. Finally, and I hope you will notice a theme starting, the worst disadvantage of waiting on old bitches is that they leave shit tips.

Young, pretty bitches -

I don't have much to say here because this one is generally self-explanatory as well, although I will give a few more descriptive details. These women are skinny, well-(overly?)-groomed, with large nostrils that they often flare in indignation, expect you to read their minds, expect their food to be the best in all the restaurant, prepared fresh by Jesus Christ himself. They drink water with lemon. They order salads. They leave. shit. tips.

Crappy Customers - The Youth

2010-10-17T20:43:00.002-04:00

Young Couples -

This is fairly self-explanatory, is it not?

Munchies -

"Munchies" is the term I have given customers who come in smelling vaguely of a blend of marijuana and cheap men's cologne. It is generally a subset of the "young couples" set. I have yet to wait on munchies over the age of 35, and if I ever come across any I would think them even more pathetic than the munchies I have come across so far. Typical behavior for munchies is to initially sit across from each other but, when I return with the drinks, to have moved, one of them, to sit beside each other on the same booth seat. I suspect that this is due both to romantic feelings and the need to be propped up. Munchies usually mumble their order, which is rather extensive and includes heaps of cheese fries - double cheese, double bacon, double fries. Perks of waiting on these customers include the fact that they are generally pretty mellow, laid back, and too stoned to argue over the rather sizable bill that they run up. Disadvantages of waiting on these customers is that they are incredibly annoying, will camp out at the table until the pot haze has somewhat worn off, and spend a great deal of their time in the restaurant looking at each other like they want to trade bodily fluids and/or actually trading bodily fluids. The female of the pair is sometimes insecure and, if that is the case, will glare at me for the duration of every interaction I have with the male munchie, even if it is as innocuous and basic to my purpose as taking his order. Final disadvantage is that they tip worth shit.

Pooped

2010-10-15T20:33:00.006-04:00

Here is the conversation my body had with itself at the end of my shift today:

Stomach: "I'm hungry."

Bladder: "Oh hell no you don't, I've got to be emptied. Now."

Feet: "Look - whichever involves sitting down the fastest, I'm all for it."

Lower Back: "I think I need to be taken to the hospital."

Today we had five servers on the floor and a shit load of guests streaming in. Very busy, but didn't seem as hectic as it could have because at least there weren't a bunch of us in the kitchen bumping in to each other and fighting for the rolls/the ice/the tea/the etc. I had a party of 11 that turned into a party of 13 (lucky! woot!). They had ever so graciously called thirty minutes in advance to let us know they were coming. With two other reserved (as in greater that 24 hours' notice) parties, this extra party's little heads up was like a mother-in-law calling from your drive-way to say that she was stopping by for a visit.

All the other tables are a blur to me now, but the party I do remember because I generally remember spontaneous, large groups of people that I have to serve. It was some sort of celebration, at first I thought a birthday because a gentleman brought flowers, which he tucked under the table, but not far enough under the table because I stepped on them with my weapons-of-mass-destruction bam-bam feet, but later I overheard some of the conversation and realized that they were celebrating a job promotion.

We interrupt this program to bring you just a couple, wee little rules for not making your server's shift miserably difficult, if you care:

1) If you spontaneously arrive in a group of 13 people, try to get everyone to keep the drink orders basic and homogeneous, for example sweet tea and water, NOT: sweet tea, water, sweet tea with lemon, water without lemon, Arnold Palmer (sweet tea mixed with lemonade), Sprite, Coke, Diet Coke, Diet Coke with lemon, etc..

2) If you spontaneously arrive in a group of 13 people, don't ask for 13 different, separate checks. Period. At all. I see that you are all, each of you, unique individuals, as shown by your tastes, choices and preferences in your different drinks, but pool your damn money, do what you have to do, I don't care, just don't do the separate check thing - separate as in 13 individual checks - with that many people.

Okay, back to the program.

Actually, the party went off without a hitch. It went very smoothly - no food returned to the kitchen to be redone, no arguing over the prices when the bills came - except for the part where one of the women announced very loudly, and repeatedly, that there was a fly in the restaurant. She announced this as if she were heralding the arrival of Armageddon's chariots in the distance. She swatted at it and kept repeating that there was a fly. She pointed at it, her finger moving rather rapidly in a left-to-right motion, I guess hoping that I would see it and, I don't know, open my mouth and swallow it for her so she wouldn't have to deal with it. I don't know what these people expect. I am, despite appearances, not a goddess who can perform outrageous feats of strength and beauty. At least not all the time. Especially not when I'm dressed as a waitress.

Still, I do my best, which for the past week apparently hasn't been good enough because tips have been shit. I'm talking about I can't break the 15% glass ceiling here. I'm talking often less than 10%. The Christmas season is approaching and people are saving up to buy the latest gadget for the Wii-god by royally screwing me up the ass because I'm just their waitress, not their screaming, puke-gut spawn.

Let me tell you something: 10% is NOT adequate compensation for my pleasant, pains-taking service to you and your family/business partner/mistress. Furthermore, "You're a sweetheart," is not an acceptable alternative to adequate compensation for my pleasant, pains-taking service to you and your family/business partner/mistress. Thank you.

Right now I am absolutely pooped, still in my work clothes. I haven't had the energy to take them off, not even my shoes. I realized a couple hours ago that I've missed my medicine for the past two days, which is concerning. I can definitely feel it with the palpitations. I don't know if I should take it now and mess up my dosing schedule or wait until tomorrow.

I'm still a little bit floating on the energy from actually finishing my story and sending it off to the Indiana Review 2010 Fiction Contest this morning - today was the postmark deadline. I was up until nearly 1:00am finishing it, and I was nearly delirious for the last bit of writing, but we'll see! I used the contest as motivation; I don't expect to win. I've met my goal, at this point, just by entering.

Good Morning, again

2010-10-14T07:00:00.002-04:00

Dear What Have You Ever Done To Hurt Us,

Going for a walk again this morning?

We peed on your shoes.

Sincerely,

We Obviously Hate You

Go, Teacher, Go!

2010-10-12T22:14:00.001-04:00

This morning I turned on the television just in time to catch Harry Smith with his gorgeously bald head reporting on the most recent "teacher tirade."

Apparently, this guy, a broken-looking man with 20 years of teaching experience, finally *nutted up and started throwing shit around the room.

Might I say......

Brava.

He didn't hurt anybody and, eventually, once he started picking up and hauling larger objects, actually managed to scare the little shits.

The report focused on the teacher of course, on the fact that he is now in a hospital (you know, that kind), and his remorse for what happened, as expressed through his sister's statement to the media. Prompted by said statement, there was the obligatory, open-ended questions towards the end of the report as to the greater societal significance of the event, but sadly CBS's The Early Show did not, at least immediately, parlay their report into a true discussion or analysis of the greater issue, which in my opinion is not the sensationalism of a teacher misbehaving, but the consistent, soul-wearying misbehavior and disrespect from the students that can lead to a teacher's breakdown/crack-up.

In a sort of flip of Donal Brian Wood's situation, approximately one year after exiting a hospital (you know, that kind), I had recovered to the point (and needed money/a vocation to the point) that I began teaching (the gig at the movie theater didn't work out), even though I had decided a few years previously, during my teaching internship, that I did not want to teach, that it was just too much hardship trying to get teenagers to do anything with their brains besides eat, sleep and wreak havoc.

Teaching was horrible. Horrific. I'm glad I'm a waitress.

And why? Because the students were terrible. Not all of them, but a majority. I would say 98%, and that was my experience because the odds were stacked against me as a new teacher. They give the most challenging classes, with the most behaviorally challenged students, to the newest teachers. This is the equivilant, to put it in terms for those outside of the teaching profession, of taking a new employee, one with really long arms, introducing him to the meat grinder that's been acting up for weeks now, and telling him to have at it - after all, he read the manual, right?

I failed at teaching not because I was a nut, and not because I wasn't a kind, smart, well-educated, charasmatic, earnest, devoted person, because I am those things, including the nut part, but I failed at teaching, in part, because I couldn't control the students.

So the next time you hear about or see a clip of a teacher who has lost control, well, think of the students. They were probably out of control long before he was. The teacher hasn't just all of a sudden lost control of himself, he lost control, or never had, control of the students.

It's a difficult thing to do, controlling students. And it shouldn't be so difficult.

That's all I'm saying.

I know that teenagers, generally, are shits. That's the nature of the beast, and a lot of factors contribute, but it's not all of them, it's not all of the students, and those students are proof positive that well-behaved, mostly well-mannered offspring is possible.

Parents need to give us students that will show us respect, and will have a willingness to learn. And if they can't? Well, then they need to just keep them at home.

(Wow, I just realized that I used the word "us" back there, referring to teachers. I guess it's kind of like being in the military - once a Marine, always a Marine.....School, after all, is a war zone. )

*Thank you to Tara for the phrase "nutted up;" ever since you introduced it, I have fully adopted it into my vernacular and use it on an almost daily basis and think of you well when I do.

El Wal-Marto

2010-10-10T19:33:00.000-04:00

Before I start, I just thought of a question. If the term "Wal-Mart" had originated from within a latin language, would it be male or female? would it end in an "a" or an "o"?

Now.

Today there was a proliferation of people of hispanic decent in the Wal-Mart.

It started in customer service, where I was returning some work-out pants in hopes of finding some less baggy work-out pants instead (and I did; my ass looks entirely less caucasian now - I can re-christen my ass the S.S. Chaka Khan. Almost. Okay, not even slightly, but still, it's better.) The gentleman was trying to return a dvd, or rather a dvd case which he claimed was empty when he got it home. The customer service reps were suspicious. It's very difficult to return any electronics item at Wal-Mart. Apparently that department is full of total bad-asses. One of the customer service reps made contact with management over the phone, and when she described the situation, she made a point of noting that the man was hispanic. She sounded very much like police dispatch: "Hispanic male, blah blah blah....". The manager told her to tell him that he could exchange for the same item, but not return for cash. The customer service rep asked the manager how to say "sorry" in Spanish. (Which happens to be "lo siento," I know because Take No Shit, our Day Bartender, uses it on occasion. I'm disappointed in myself that I don't know it because of the fact that I took three years of Spanish in school).

Fast forward to the end of my trip, where I am standing in line (20 items or less, which fucking assholes completely ignore, but don't get me started on that right now), flanked by very short, dark latin american men. And I am a tall-ish, very white woman. The one in front of me was buying, among other items, some Garnier Fructice hair gel, which I suspect is a daily occurrence for him because I can only assume from the looks of it that he had squirted half of his previous bottle of the stuff on his head earlier that morning. He made small, broken-English talk with the cashier, managed to get her name and give her his. Score for Pedro! At least that's what his name sounded like, I'm not exactly sure. The cashier was friendly.

Finally, on my way out of Wal-Mart, I am waddling my way out, and there are a bunch of hispanic guys walking out in front of me. They are being approached and accosted and well, my god, followed for a few steps by a volunteer wearing a yellow reflector vest and asking for donations for Some Sort of Organization, I don't know which one, but apparently one that gives out tootsie rolls in exchange for your money, because the woman was nearly shouting, speaking very loudly, saying what sounded like "Un tootsie roll! Un tootsie roll?" and holding out what I can only guess, or hope, was a tootsie roll. I don't know if the guys had made a donation and she was only trying to give to them their spoils, or if she was trying to solicit a donation with her temptings, but anyway I moved very quickly because passing by volunteer donation collectors, like passing by any other people or interacting with society or the public in general at all can be somewhat stressful for me because I am shy. I mean, I can do it, obviously, but it makes me nervous.

And, again, with Christmas season approaching I am screwed because the damned volunteer donation collectors are going to be everywhere.

I better start walking around with a small keg of change for this purpose.

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho

2010-10-10T12:17:00.001-04:00

This past week my dad took his vacation and invited me down to Myrtle Beach with him. It was a 4-hour drive, and for a solid half-hour I kept passing billboards for a gentleman's club (I'm not even going to discuss the irony) called "Cafe Risque." The female silhouettes on the billboards had no arms. No, really - no arms. I didn't know if this was supposed to be appealing or avaunt guard or if they just ran out of space, but the women had no arms.

I almost wanted to stop by to check on the actual women at the club, to see if they had arms or not, but I didn't. Okay, not entirely for that reason did I want to stop by - I am generally drawn to anything of a sexual and/or seedy nature, meaning strip clubs and sex shops and such.

But anyway, I got down to Myrtle Beach and was immediately surrounded by hoards of yankees. It was like I had driven too far down and ended up in Florida. They were all elderly and/or aging yankees who did things like attend live variety shows and eat at K&W cafeteria, which is also what my father and I did. It was his vacation.

The variety show, with the unlikely moniker of, "One - The Show," held at the world not-so-famous Alabama Theater, the namesake of the semi-famous country band, was actually pretty good. I would have to say it was entertaining. The comedian was top-notch and his character reminded me of someone I know, a Southerner with a very pronounced "country" accent (in this region, "country" meaning that of the poor, hill (Appalachia) people as opposed to that of the more wealthy, coastal dwellers; I am of the same persuasion) who likes to tell hysterical stories made hysterical mostly by her reactions to the events she is relating more so than the actual events themselves (Hello, Tara, if you're reading, which you're probably not - better chance Laura is reading, in which case she can alert you to this blog post. Thanks.).

They took variety seriously at the Alabama Theater, and the very same dancers that wore Michael Jackson gloves and grabbed their crotches for vigorous upward thrusts graced the stage later in their choir robes. I don't think that the robes were representative of any particular denomination, but resembled, in a generic fashion, that of any AME Zion church. The entire cast, with one lone exception, was white.

I stayed over night, and it was back to work this past Thursday.

Yesterday was Saturday, my last day before my Day Off (Today), and it reminded me to tell you why I don't like Saturdays:

1) Saturday lunch can be slow to steady, but picks up towards the end and charges right on in to Saturday dinner (which is ridiculous - I don't work at night on Saturdays anymore because it is so ridiculous).

2) I get shit on.

Here's what happens:

Usually 4 or 5 servers, including myself, are scheduled for a Saturday lunch. Two or three of those are "doubles" which means they will have to come back to also work the dinner shift (get it? - two shifts - double.), which means that at least one of them will begin immediately bitching to leave because they're "a double" and need a break before they come back and, really, because they aren't making any money at lunch anyway. Another is a "volume," which means a person who is screwed every which way to sideways but will make a lot of money, which means they will work the whole damn day right into the night without going home for a break (they may let them sit down and eat at some point while I take tables by myself), from the moment they come in up until either it is really slow and they let them go or the place shuts down for the night, usually closer to the latter. Sometimes doubles can actually turn into something closer to a volume if we are really busy and they end up staying at lunch so long that there isn't really any sense in leaving the restaurant for their break. Incidentally, I am there for my entire shift, usually close to 7 hours, without any breaks or eatings, except for the peanuts I eat from the bar. I try to stay away from the rolls because I'm trying to lose Fat Gut, but sometimes I give in.

I am "the closer" at lunch, which means I come in early (10am - an hour before we open) to set up and am on the floor taking tables until the first person for dinner shift comes in, usually around 4pm. I have to sign for the other servers, meaning I have to make sure they do the stuff they're supposed to do before they stick their tips in their bras and leave, stuff like cleaning their tables, rolling silverware, pouring huge vats of honey mustard into smaller, more manageable containers of honey mustard. They come to me when they've done their stuff and I check it and initial their little roll of paper that prints out with all their statistics, the most immediately important of which is how much they owe the restaurant in cash. I do this for all the servers on the shift except for the person working the volume, because she will be there longer than me - night shift closers will have to check her.

Being the closer has both its perks and disadvantages.  One perk, for example, is that the closer doesn't have to roll silverware; she gets her server-minion-friends to do it, and she signs for them, so she doesn't have to do it. This usually works out during the week, but not on Saturdays.

On Saturdays, I end up rolling a shit-load of silverware. This is a disadvantage.

The "doubles" get "phased" (meaning they don't take anymore tables and start doing their work, called "sidework," for me to check off) roll their tiny-to-medium amount of silverware and then get the hell out of there.

And then all hell breaks loose. And then we, me and the person who is working a volume, get slammed with people. People who eat off of silverware. Silverware that must be cleaned and rolled for the next people to come eat off of.

So, at the end of my shift on Saturdays, I have to roll silverware or else we won't have any for dinner. Again, tons of it. Tons of silverware. Shit. Loads.

A while back ago I got written up because the manager thought I had failed to get the other servers to roll silverware. Dinner started and there wasn't any silverware. It wasn't that I hadn't gotten the other servers to roll, it's just that I didn't get them to roll enough silverware, and after they rolled what they rolled, it was all used up again before dinner shift started.   This can also be complicated by the fact that the previous dinner shift may have left behind clean silverware for us that they should have rolled, or there may have been dirty silverware from our lunch shift that wasn't washed yet, neither of which lunch shift servers typically want to roll.

Yesterday at the end of my shift I inquired to the GM about what kind of sexual favors I would have to perform to get out of rolling the massive amounts of End-of-Saturday-Lunch Silverware this time. She took a bribe instead.  I was just so tired and my last table had been, well:

There is apparently something very disorienting about walking into our restaurant.

People become deaf, dumb, blind and unable to read their menus, unable even to answer simple questions such as "how are you?" or pick up on implied social cues or directions such as "I'll get that menu out of your way for you." (Move your damn elbows, please. No, no! We mustn't move our elbows! What horrible thing you are asking us to do!) They also become very irritable. It is as if they have had traumatic brain injury or stroke or both.

They are very sensitive, very easily offended. Offended, for example, by my asking if they would like a potato. Or a salad. They would like not to be bothered by my not being able to read their minds as to the desired dressings and/or added acruements associated with said salad and/or potato. They would like very much for me to tell them what they would like to drink, also what exactly a drink is.

That is if they are even able to ascertain that I am standing at the table, that I have in fact spoken to them and am awaiting either an answer or any sort of recognition whatsoever that I exist.

If they are able to see that I exist, they latch on to me as the person to blame and give a hard time about the fact that we charge $7.00 for a crab cake. Seven dollars for ONE DAMN CRAB. CAKE.

Hey, buddy. I agree with you. But I can't do anything about it, so let's not play this little game, alright? Do you want the fucking seven-dollar-crab-cake or what? What? Is it good? How the hell should I know? I'm not paying seven dollars for a crab cake! I don't even think I like crab cakes. Do you want to give me 7 dollars?

Anyway, my last table yesterday got pissed off for some reason and left me two dollars, that's tooo doll-ahs off of a close to fifty dollar bill.

Fucking fuckity-fuck fuck bastards.

All of you!

You can tell it's getting close to the Holiday/Thanksgiving/Christmas season, the season during which we celebrate family, peace on Earth and the birth of Christ/Menorah/Africa, because people are getting stingy with their tips so that they can roll on the floor at Wal-Mart with another parent, win, and buy their little Brat McFattyCakes-Prissy the new XBox/Video Game/Morbidly Stuffed Doll That Talks and Walks and Pisses Water.

Thanks for my 13 percent of it all yesterday, you cows!

Good Morning

2010-10-04T07:16:00.001-04:00

Human,

Do not be so arrogant as to think that your simple brain can understand us. We chose to pee on the Xena Warrior Princess gym bag and that is all you need to know. Yes, it was a mess for you to clean up, and yes it spilled onto the floor (you saw the floor first - you thought that was all there was - ha! - that would've been logical, right? For us to just pee on the floor? Nay!) and even some of it onto one of the plates from which we eat our pate every morning, which we understand is befuddling for you - why would we pee on or even near our own plate? - and maybe it's even a slap in the face considering how quickly you feed us every morning, we know its the very first thing you do after getting dressed and putting your hair in a ponytail. We sent Ophelia to the top of the stairs this morning to stare at you while you were doing that last bit. Usually she only meets you half-way up to start meow-screaming.

Look. It may have had something to do with Xena, but then again maybe not.

You don't even know which one of us it was.

Ha!,

The Superior Beings Living in the House

The Tale of the Flowered Moo-moo

2010-09-26T15:19:00.001-04:00

I swear to God if you want to become a writer or a storyteller of any kind all you have to do is go to Wal-Mart and observe.

Wal-Mart is full of fodder. It is fecund.

Every time I go there I find myself surrounded by a random and diverse set of subjects, inspiration for character sketches that I make mentally, trying to commit descriptive details to memory so that I can write them down later, or else I am so struck that I take out a scrap of paper and write it down then and there, hoping that someone doesn't see what I am writing because when I am forced to quickly describe a stranger, forgive me, but I am not kind, not even politically correct. At all. There is no time for euphemism or hyphenation, for example, mentally-challenged. I wrote retard. Laugh, until you realize that the woman was quite literally retarded in the former fashion of the word, before it was abused too much and became faux-pas.

Today I was standing in line at customer service to return a tension rod. (It was too long; I couldn't be bothered to measure.) The tension rod isn't the point. The point is that there was an older woman with a poodle perm and benjamin franklin glasses, wearing a brightly colored, flower-print (of course, what other print is there for moo-moo's?) moo-moo. She was returning piles of fabric along with some other decorative items: two magnolia-themed topiaries and some rather garish, pink bedazzlesque adornments. There were also some other beads and who knows what all else she was unhappy with. She had several receipts, and the customer service helper couldn't find one of the items in particular on any of the receipts and I have no idea how long she had been there, the moo-moo lady, but it took several more minutes before the woman was refunded, in cash, an amount exceeding ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for her spoils and sent on her moo-moo way.

Waiting in front of me was a younger girl with dark skin and sparkly, pink toenails. I noticed the toenail polish first. She had on black flip-flops with sparkly adornments in the shape of hearts, and she was wearing tight jeans and a tight pink top through which you could see her bra. I think it was purple. She had writing on her hand that had been rubbed or washed at least once. She had her hair in a ponytail, pulled over to the side, plus a headband to hold back stray hairs except for the ones she had purposefully pulled forward. She had fine, dark hair all over her upper back and arms. She was impatient. She kept looking behind her, not at me, but as if looking for another worker to come up and save us from the horrible waiting-for-moo-moo-lady. Eventually she took out her phone and punched in something with her thumb, letters or numbers I don't know, held it up to her ear for a brief second, then put it back in her pocket.

These were just two people. At Wal-Mart.

Later, on my way to the grocery section of the Super Wal-Mart (do any of us really believe that Wal-Mart is super, in any respect?) (I mean, really. Even if it had a cape.) I spotted Moo-Moo lady in the craft section at the back of the store, eyeing some wreaths or river rocks or something. She needs an intervention.

I just want to note that I love the moo-moo lady.

Headway

2010-09-25T08:41:00.000-04:00

After a certain point, I find it very difficult to make headway in any given story, and thereby very difficult to finish any given story.

I write a sizeable chunk, then I re-work that chunk over and over again -  re-reading, editing, perfecting.

I love re-reading, editing, perfecting. Reading over what I've written gives me the confidence that I'm a good writer, that I can write. I like what I read, and it validates for me that I should keep going. Editing and perfecting do the same.  Recognizing the weaknesses and fixing them myself reassures me that I have self-awareness as a writer. Plus, it's fun. Plus, perfectionism is very closely related to who I am as a soul. When I show up at heaven's gate I very much expect God to be standing there, shuffling back and forth on his feet, then grabbing me by the wrist as soon as I get close, dragging me in and saying "Come on, you've got a lot of work to do in here. Things are a mess. You brought your broom, right?"

Editing and perfecting come fairly easily for me because I have a good eye for it. A very good eye. Two, too (?) good eyes.

I can go over and over what I've written and it gives me a sense of accomplishment but, again, I make little headway so far as adding on to the story goes.   Because, past that initial burst of inspiration when it is all going down onto the paper fast and furious straight from Muse's lips and she'll be damned if she'll let up even for a second for you to shake out your hand because there's too much great stuff to get down, I find it difficult to add onto the story because everything must be perfect and my editing brain pushes backspace on two thirds of what I type out. Every now and then Muse dings me on the head with an idea to move me forward but

I'll be damned if she'll give me the exact words.

I know that many writers and writers' guides estow the virtues of turning off the internal editor and just Write, Damn It, Write - Anne Lamott, for example, who's Bird by Bird I'm reading now, believes very firmly in "shitty first drafts," but I find myself unable to just put-something-down.

Even this post, this post!, this miserable little blog post that nobody will read took me two days to write. Not continuously two days, I showered and went to work and ate, but I didn't just sit down here and type this thing out. You wouldn't believe the typing and considering and backspacing that went into it.

So, anyway, I plod on.

New Letter

2010-09-23T09:04:00.000-04:00

Dear Caregiver,

I know that you are a neurotic hypochondriac who believes that evil death cancer rays shoot from the microwave when its running.

But picking me up and moving me from in front of it when I was trying to sniff the bag of bread and the banana that's about to go bad? And doing this in front of the others?

Not cool, lady. Not cool.

Just wait,

Juice

Stuff, Inc.

2010-09-08T08:18:00.007-04:00

If I asked you to place the words "unbeatable" and "maximum" within an appropriate context, which would you choose?: a) sports article describing a top-notch soccer team? b) a white house memo describing the nation's economy? or would you choose, for example, c) the back of a can of shaving cream?

That's right! Those words are from the back of a can of shaving cream. Admitedly, it was the most obviously ridiculous choice of the three, but there you have it: shaving cream.

So, I was taking a shower the other day, as I am prone to do, and I was reading the back of the can of shaving cream I have there. I guess I was bored during my shower. But the back of the can of shaving cream was talking up the "unbeatable protection" and "maximum comfort" of the shaving cream inside (my shaving cream is also "special" and "unique," I went on to read) and it just struck me how ridiculous and desperate that sounded. The overuse of very melodramatic adjectives was comical.

But we have this overuse of adjectives, and often the same (melodramatic) adjectives ("special" and "unique" aren't so special or unique, afterall), EVERYWHERE - all over any given product in our homes.

Go ahead. Check it out. Just for a laugh. Have yourself a little scavenger hunt.

Or not. Just assume it, like I am. I mean, tell me you don't think you could go upstairs right now to your box of tampons and find "unbeatable protection" and "maximum comfort" all over the back of the box, in big bold letters. Or "unbeatable protection" and "maximum comfort" on the back of your box of condoms? Or "unbeatable protection" and "maximum comfort" on the box that your most recent pair of shoes came in?

And it's because the marketers who write this crap have done their research (on us) and found that those are the words that get us. They wouldn't be using those words if those words weren't working. And by "working" I mean making us buy their stuff. And not just their stuff, but stuff in general. A certain mentality is created.

Hell, marketers won't even let authors title their own books anymore.

Reading the back of that can of shaving cream just got me thinking, again, about capitalism and consumerism and what lab-rat-drone-cattle we all are to it. Most of us. Except those of us with beards who live "off the grid," which has become a popular term that I don't quite understand but what I take to mean something like living in a cabin in the woods without any help from the government or mainstream society or Duke Energy like David Koresh or some other cults, mostly the ones whose women wear long pioneer dresses and make funny hair-do's without the help of Bump-its.

I buy it because I buy into it. Honestly, I truly believe, with all hope, that that lipstick or hair conditioner is going to turn me into a beauty.

Again, a certain mentality is created. It's about not being happy with what you have. It's about wanting more stuff. It's about wanting better stuff. Better stuff than the stuff you have now. If only you had better stuff, then you would be prettier/smarter/more organized/accomplish more/achieve your dreams.

By the way, my popular brand of shaving cream was made by the same company that makes a popular brand of batteries. "Special" and "unique" shaving cream, I bet!

I'm not blameing all of this on the marketing department. I suspect that a large part of it has to do with the Human Condition. But those fuckers are certainly tapping into it hard core.

So here's this piece of advice: Open your brain. Read the back of your can of shaving cream. Have a good laugh. Get over yourself. Get over stuff. It's not just about money, it's about true (mental) health and happiness.

Oh, and have a look at this article.

Shall I tattle? and, What are cats?

2010-08-27T08:04:00.004-04:00

First, let it be known that I've started up again with getting up really early in the morning (7am today) and going on walks. There is what I'm going to call a cul-de-sac, by which I mean a loop of road off to the side of a main road (I'm not sure what a cul-de-sac really is, but perhaps I've used the right term), which I take to extend my walk, and I am quite proud of myself both for the extra distance and figuring out the loop.

It is a lovely loop because it loops around (a loop's not a loop without an object of the loop, afterall, however direct or indirect (bit of grammar humor there, with a double parenthesis contained therein!) a giant pond/lake/something, again, I am unsure of the exact term - small body of water.

There is also a pool, which I have fantasized about breaking into in the middle of the night for skinny-dipping. It appears, however, to be impenetrable.

On that note, in and around the pond there are beautiful things like scum and geese shit and actual geese to go along with the geese shit and ducks (which I like much better than geese), and the other day and today these amazing, breath-taking crane creatures have appeared. I say crane creatures because I'm not sure that they are cranes. The one I saw the other day was white and tall with long, skinny legs and a long beak. Main idea here is very large, tall, skinny. Today I saw another large, gray bird fly overhead that looked like the white one from yesterday only gray and I thought, But can cranes fly?, also Can cranes be gray? then I came to the pond and there were two of them, flying low over the pond. They were beautiful and it was amazing, no matter what they were, cranes or not, but I think they were cranes and I will look it up as soon as I am done with this post or maybe right now.

Okay, pretty sure they were cranes.

But, the point is, this is a private pond meant only for my walking around it and for whoever else lives on the ~~cul-de-sac~~ loop (looked that one up, too). In the pond, there are signs sticking up that say "No trespassing" and "No fishing," particularly the "No fishing" part is important because every morning when I go for my walk there are MEN FISHING. One of them pulls his town car up to the side of the pond and fishes. Two others this morning arrived on bicycles. A duck was traveling up to the town car guy today either to tell him off or beg for some bread, I couldn't tell which. The cranes didn't stick around. It made me mad.

So I would like to tattle. But whom to tattle to? I don't think the police want to be bothered; it's not an emergency. They aren't drunk and belligerent fishing, just fishing where they're not supposed to be fishing.

Isn't there some kind of local state department of hunting and fishing commission with ranger deputies that can receive an anonymous tip and come find them and hand out fines?

But then there are questions.

Don't the people living on the ~~cul-de-sac~~ loop know about this? Why aren't they doing something about it? Is there some unspoken agreement that I don't know about, some sort of delicately balanced treaty that has brought peace to the neighborhood after hundreds of years of civil war that I could be destroying with one phone call?

What if the fishers are actually helping? What if they are keeping the ecology in balance by taking what would be extra fish out of the pond that would otherwise die and rot and make the pond a rotting, stinking mess? What if what the rednecks (my relatives) say about overrun deer populations (they'll starve if we don't dress up in varying shades of green and khaki and go out and kill them) is true of fish in this illegal-t0-fish-in pond?

But then (side question), why would anyone make a pond illegal to fish in if some sort of horrible stinking ecological breakdown could happen as a result?

Couldn't the cranes eat the extra fish?

Do cranes eat fish? They have to, right? I don't think they would be vegetarians, would they?

Are any birds vegetarians?

Are cranes birds? Are ostriches birds? Was Big Bird a bird? Was Big Bird an ostrich?

Large cats (lions, what not) are still cats, so large birds are birds too, right?

But are they felines, the large cats? What are felines - just the small house cats? Is feline a species? Is cat a genus or a family of animal?

What are cats?

I don't know if I'm going to tell on these people or not, but they sure do piss me off. Just on the principal of the thing. I mean, town car man is fishing right in front of the "No fishing" sign! And I am, as ever, enraged by nonconformity.

In some situations. Sometimes. In this situation. I think. I would need all the information (see previous questions).

I'll tell you this - if I tell on them for trespass fishing I probably can't turn around and go break into that pool for midnight skinny-dipping.

Although we clearly see which is higher on the morality scale.

Frustration: I never have good aim.

2010-08-02T23:02:00.006-04:00

I spilt a tray full of drinks on a woman today. And this totally wasn't one of those people I walk around fantasizing about spilling drinks on. I hadn't even gotten a chance to get a good impression of her yet (some are just assholes right off the bat, but others don't show their true colors until the food comes out, or the bill, or etc.)

So anyway, I was humiliated and horrified but also finding it difficult not to laugh in the crazy way that you really want to laugh when you've just spilt drinks all over someone and your life depends on not laughing but you have to laugh.

Ha. Ha.

Also, hives have been rampant lately. I went to Walgreens for some hydrocortisone, but this stuff doesn't come in big, lather-yourself-in-lotion bottles, though that is exactly what I need to do.

Now the television station that shows The Office (favorite tv show) from 11:05 - 11:35 pm so that I can drift off to sleep to the sound of salesman Jim Halpert being incredibly sweet and tortured and secretly in love with receptionist Pam Beesley (it's better than Jane Austen, I swear to goodness) is freaking out so that I can only see the program in brief spurts. I'm looking over the computer screen right now and glaring at it.

Thus, I will briefly direct my attention and energy to creating this:

Scratch, scratch. Itch, itch. I wonder what relief there is. (That's a parody of the old alka seltzer ad for those that didn't get it).

Oh, I'm frustrated. What the hell is wrong with this stupid tv station? Andy is chaffing his nipples and I'm missing it. I love a good nipple chafe.

I Am A Casuality of War a Child's Anger

2010-07-29T18:52:00.008-04:00

Somebody pissed this kid off.

I don't know exactly how or when it happened, but some time between taking their drink orders and bringing the drinks back to the table, somebody, somehow, pissed this kid off so royally that it was unable to contain itself (they seldom do, after all), and while I was sitting its drink down in front of it, it stuck out it's tongue and rapid-spit-fire pllllttttt all over the side of my arm.

Then it sat there in front of its chicken tenders (which it had to share with its sister - maybe that was the whole thing) with this bomb-building look on its face.

Lord.

It's times like that that you try, try, try to remember to surgeon-style wash your hands and arms as soon as you get back to the kitchen.

Nasty little bastards.

If I've said it once, I've said it a Thousand Times...

2010-07-28T20:13:00.006-04:00

Fashion is the most important thing...

"Where the *bleep* did you get them
*bleep* *bleep* drawers?"

- Random Scorned Woman on the relationship-focused, investigative reporting reality show Cheaters, upon discovering her boyfriend/husband in a hotel room with another woman

Ways to Behave Toward Your Waitress - Example 1

2010-07-25T12:05:00.003-04:00

Your Waitress: "Hi! How are you doing today?"
Inappropriate response: "Sweet tea, no lemon."
Appropriate response: "I'm well, how are you?"

Fruit Loopy

2010-02-24T09:32:00.002-05:00

Did you know that if you get a fruit loop - doesn't matter which color - a little damp with milk and then drop it on the floor and then don't pick it up (for a long time) that it actually forms a elemental, chemical bond with the kitchen floor and is very difficult to get up off the floor?

Kids, try this at home.

Open Letter to Our Humans - Part 2

2010-02-21T08:56:00.002-05:00

To Whom It May Concern:

We noticed that you've started closing the bathroom door so we can't get in there and shit in the tub.

That's fine.

How do you like putting your make-up on in the morning in the freezing cold because there's no heat getting into the bathroom? Fun, isn't it? Or sitting on the freezing cold toilet?

Speaking of, we very much enjoyed rushing into the bathroom two at a time this morning when you opened the door to start getting ready for work. We were very thirsty, and thank goodness you left the toilet seat up and before you could even think about it we were standing up there with our dirty litter paws, leaning down into the toilet and drinking nice, cool (cold, freezing cold) water directly from your toilet!

We think we shall make this a daily practice. Turns out there's no water like toilet water. It's flushed and refreshed at least twice a day! If you could please, wipe our paw prints off the toilet for next time, as you know how we like things clean so we can make them dirty again.

Thanks,

The Cats

Snowman's Sleepy Hollow

2010-02-04T17:00:00.003-05:00

It's a little eerie how sometimes things intersect in my life.

A few days ago, I watched Sleepy Hollow (with the delicious Johnny Depp and delightful Christina Ricci). A few days after that, I went for a long overdue walk in the neighborhood. I passed a few snowmen and enjoyed them immensely (we had around 5 - 6 inches of snow fall last weekend - not since I was a wee young one, during the last freak snow storm of my life, have I been around this much snow). I went for a walk again today after work. I forgot about the snowmen until I came across them again.

This time, they had no heads.

The first one, I came up on it and saw the headlessness. It was sort of funny in a "oh, that isn't a real human being so I can laugh" sort of way, in a "kids are going to cry when they see it but I'm an adult and I think its funny-looking and therefore funny" sort of way. Then, as I continued to pass it, I noticed something disconcerting. This wasn't just a head having melted off with warmer tempatures - the head was laying on the ground at the feet of the snowman, which led me to suspect foul play.

You may think I'm crazy. Any number of things could have happened. It could have melted a little and rolled off. It could have, but I submit this to you:

There was another snowman, a few houses down, missing its head. That head, too, was on the ground at its feet.

Obviously, we have a serial snowman slayer in our neighborhood.

Consider the facts:

The heads are off.

The heads are both on the ground.

Clincher - the heads are both on the right side of the snowman.

Even if both heads melted and rolled off, would they really both hit the ground at the same trajectory?

Is trajectory the right word? Did I spell that right?

I really need the sexy one from Criminal Minds - no, not that one, the one with the longish, curly-ish hair and photographic memory, brown eyes - to come do an "unsub" profile, but I'll try to do my best.

Unsub is a young male or group of young males living in the neighborhood. Unsub is comfortable with his surroundings and has potentially even been in the houses of the victims or come over to their yards to play. Unsub fears no retribution as his victim is a snowman and not a real person. Also and however, unsub is a future psychopath who may move on to human victims soon. Unsub has a mean streak, may not get along with siblings very well - may, for example, pinch or hit them during church. Unsub makes bad grades in school except for when teachers get tired of him and pass him on. Unsub had tantrums as a child and often a vein sticks out of his neck or forehead when he gets mad, which is often. Unsub has an evil laugh, if you notice it. Unsub's teeth did not come in straight. Unsub picks on fat kids and is generally a bully. Unsub wears a brown coat in the winters and short sleeves in the summer. Unsub has sandy brown hair but is otherwise non-descript.

Please be on the look-out.

Open Letter to Our Humans

2010-01-30T09:54:00.003-05:00

To Whom it May Concern:

I am speaking on behalf of myself and my colleagues, from this point forward referred to as "we," "us," "our," and/or "the Cats."

We would like to submit a formal protest to the use of the upstairs bath tub for human body cleansing. It is most clearly a secondary litter box.

To wit, we would require that Our Humans cease and desist the allowance of any water into the tub as we do not like to get our feet wet.

We would also like to state that filling the tub with litter is not necessary - we graciously acknowledge that there are three or four other litter boxes that our humans keep filled, and in these hard economic times we recognize the burden that filling an entire bath with litter might become. Besides, we are obviously fine to use the tub as is. The tilt of the tub creates a draining system that is quite sufficient; we only request that our humans remove solid waste promptly and keep the tub as clean and welcoming as possible.

For example, when one of our humans spent approximately twenty minutes yesterday scrubing out the tub with a mild bleach abrasive and a scrub pad, that created the perfect environment for those of us with higher standards to use the tub for its intended purpose, i.e. a litter box, at some point during the night or early this morning while our humans were asleep. We would very much like for this standard to be maintained.

We also would like to claim our right to continue to make use of the carpet at whim.

Sincerely,

Guess Who Shit in the Tub

She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy

2010-01-14T12:59:00.004-05:00

God bless you, Kenny Chesney. God bless you. For you have made one of the greatest songs in human history, as I was reminded today on my way to the doctor.

Also, at one point, I was driving through one of those extended zones where two radio stations battle back and forth, along with a little static. It was Miley Cyrus's "Party in the U.S.A." versus unknown old man singing a hymn. It was like Jesus was beating down Miley Cyrus. It was blissfully perfect.

At the doctor's office, they have this odd little procedure where you are moved from one waiting room to another when it gets closer to the time when you will actually get called in to see the doctor. Today I was a little miffed because I thought I had left the waiting room with the Reader's Digest for the waiting room with the shit magazines like "Economics Today," but I found one I could enjoy, I forget what it was. In any case, I hadn't been bold/brave enough to transport the Reader's Digest with me into the next level waiting room. I would also like to say that the next-level waiting room procedure makes the waiting a lot easier - it breaks up the monotany and frustration of waiting; it gives you hope.

On the way back - which went much easier this time because I followed the directions I got from MapQuest instead of disputing them, substituting my own better judgement and common sense, which got me two hours lost - when I got very close to home, my stomach decided that it wanted to empty itself. Immediately. Apparently, this is what happens to me at the end of a travel of more than 10 miles now. It happened last week on the way back from L's baby shower.

Again, this time, I found myself thinking: This is it. This is really it. I've come close so many times before, but this is the time, the real time, that I doodie on myself in the car.

I weaved through traffic, accelerated through red lights, paused - briefly and barely - for the black man in the brown leather coat and trucker hat to cross the road (he was already half way across and his will was apparently much stronger than mine, though he didn't seem in a rush to doodie or anything like that), then turned onto the last two-mile stretch. I was driving rather recklessly (65 in a 45, a two-lane road), trying to decide whether or not I would really be able to say to the officer that I had been rushing home to doodie, realizing that I probably would have pooped on myself by the time he sauntered up to the side of the car.

Anyway, then I remembered that there is ~~destruction~~ construction going on at the point where I turn into my neighborhood, so the last 100 yards toward home I began to muster up the emotional detachment required to mow down a man with an orange vest and a stop sign.

I made it home.

Update: Later this afternoon I went over to get some of the canned cat food on sale at Petco and went to Red Lobster with M for lunch where I had chicken tenders and shrimp with a side of run-to-the-bathroom doodie.

Gilad

2010-01-06T10:28:00.003-05:00

Okay, so maybe in his "Bodies in Motion" series he's wearing L.A. Gear sneakers (I'm pretty sure it was filmed in the '80's), and maybe he's a liar because he'll say "8 more" then he'll count up to 8 using halves and quarters (7 and a quarter....7 and a haaalf...7 and threeeee quarters), and maybe I do cuss at him in the middle of, say, a strenuous bun-lifting exercise, but

I LOVE Gilad!

Help me, but there's something mildly arousing about him when he looks directly into the camera with his big thick ethnic eyebrows and says "Yes." or "Just like that." or "Do it." or especially "You've got to really want these next 8." Whew. Am I wrong?

I'm about to (try to) graduate from "Bodies in Motion" to "Total Sculpt." Gilad looks a little older, but no worse for the wear. His muscles are even bigger, I think. Also, he has an updated outfit, which we all know is the most important thing.

Commence Random Weeping

2009-12-17T14:21:00.003-05:00

After a few hours sleep, hopelessly awake at 5:30 am, I spent much of this morning under the effect of television paralysis, then went to take a shower for work. Somewhere in there I managed to clean up dried cat doodies and vomit from the floor.

I went to take a shower for work, that "you stupid, stupid girl" voice off and on. The ill feelings have gone from a generalized absence-of-God sort of feeling, as described in a recently previous post, to that clawing, agitated demon feeling.

I can't settle on anything - not a chore, not a song, not a thought, not a television station. I flip back and forth and all over the place.

I drove to work, arrived to a full parking lot with a stone in my gut. I was supposed to work a party today, along with another waitress, someone who has been there a while (longer than me) and that I trust to be of significant help for the event, so, I wasn't worried about it at all. When I came in, I found out that it was only supposed to be a "twelve top," which means, if you are an outsider to the profession and would have to guess, we were having twelve people (not a hard guess, is it?). My colleague - again, an experienced "server" (snooty name for "waitress" that we're supposed to use) - felt she could handle it herself (she could, in fact, and I probably could've as well - there was no need for the both of us) and was upset that she had to share it (and the tips), no offense to me (none taken).

I was so down in the dumps (what a ridiculous phrase for the mammoth beast), thinking things like how insane it is that people are going in to steakhouses and feeding their fat selves when there are people starving in the world (which is true, whether you are depressed or not; everyone should think about that now and then), and there was Christmas music playing and...I ended up in the office with another random weep.

The bartender came in at one point and told me that I looked the type to blow the place up and to let her know so she could leave before I did anything. I think she was just trying to cheer me up with some humor. It worked a little.

The manager came in and hugged me and told me to go home and to call my psychiatrist and then to call her later and let her know I'm okay, meaning not-dead, I think. I don't think she expects okay as in okay-okay.

So I came home and immediately felt like a fuck up for losing my shift.

It's not like I don't want to be at work - this isn't like teaching, I really do like my line of work. It suits me very well. I come home and bitch about stuff, but I like this so much better than teaching. We live in an area of high poverty, so tips aren't great; it should pay better, and I shouldn't have to work so many hours for so little money, but - the work, I like.

Fuck.

Mood Waves

2009-12-16T19:19:00.002-05:00

So yesterday was a depressed day, again, full on with Random Weeping. I had a double yesterday, which means I had two shifts; I was there for lunch then back again for dinner.

I arrived for my first shift only to find the front doors locked. Instead of going around to the back or even the side where I could surely go in, I went and sat on a bench in the cold and cried.

Returning for my dinner shift, I went to a long back room used for large parties and cried. That was a real weeping session.

The way I would have put it, if anyone had asked, was that it felt like God had gone behind a cloud.

And there were just suckish events yesterday which spurred me on in the direction of general life loathing, such as standing up and banging my head. Little things like that which you tally up when you're depressed.

Then today I popped up quite normal. Today has been just fine and I'm sure the new manager who inquired as to my state of mind yesterday might be a little confused as he continues to acclimate to his new staff, which includes me.

Things Fall Apart (not a book review)

2009-12-14T19:24:00.004-05:00

First, random pet note: Some people like to think outside the box; some pets like to doodie outside the box.

Today I had a day off. M had to work, so I was by myself, which could be a good thing, to have some alone time to myself, but for me it wasn't. It seems like when I have any time alone, which I have a lot of lately because M and I are on different schedules, I am paralyzed. Things I want to do, from chores to errands to phone calls to friends don't get done. I do a few things - a load of laundry, a trip to the grocery store - but am not nearly as productive as I would want to be, or would think I should be able to be, as I have time to be. How do I explain this nothing? It's not just rest, actually it's more like restlessness. I wander around the house, picking up random things to take upstairs or back downstairs. I stand and brush my hair, I take a long shower, all the while painfully conscious of my own thoughts, sometimes repeating a nonsense tail end of a thought over and over in my head, or a fraction of a song lyric, different ones throughout the day, over and over (there's the butter, there's the butter, there's the butter). A skipping record is a more than accurate metaphor. A voice, my own?, comes out of nowhere at moments throughout the day calling me names - stupid, fat, etc. I walk around angry, depressed, lost. My mind is scattered and obsessively focused at the same time. I'm easily distracted, impatient and twitchy. I can't just sit at a red light, I have to fiddle with something. Today a car tooted me because I was fiddling with something in the car and didn't realize the light had turned.

I watched tv even though there was nothing on and I didn't really want to watch it. Again, the paralysis. I went to the library, sat down with a stack of books for a while, then went to put them back on the shelves, walked around for 5 - 10 minutes without realizing that I had left my open pocketbook and keys at the seat. I'm hyper-aware of everything else around me - a woman scratching her head, a man with a cough - and my brain takes those moments and holds them and I write tiny little stories about them in my head.

I went to a bookstore and saw a rather interesting selection in the comic book (or graphic novel) section. It was a fully illustrated version of the entire Holy Bible, in comic book form. Most notably, there was a parental advisory on the front cover - adult supervision suggested for minors. I quickly picked it up, much interested in how they were going to handle all those "begets," but aside from some truly exaggerated breasts on Eve, there wasn't much.

I called M to see where she was with her day, then went and got a cookie, sat on a bench in the mall and waited for her to call back. What else was there to do with myself?

I don't care about anything and at the same time I'm bothered by everything. It's a lonely feeling that I carry around and don't say to anybody (I don't want to be a problem, and I don't know of there's a cure). That isn't entirely deception, because as soon as I'm around other people, I pep up at least a little. Problem is, there are some things I would like to get done that require me to be alone. They would also require me to be more functional and clear-headed when I'm alone.

I'm scared and paranoid all the time, from the realistic to the hysterical. I went upstairs to change clothes this evening, and could tell that the lamp was on in the bedroom. I knew I had turned the lamp on earlier, but thought I had turned it back off. My mind went to the idea that someone, a person that might murder me, perhaps, could have broken in to the house and was waiting for me upstairs. Then my mind went to the para(anti)normally horror-ble - I imagined a rotting corpse lying on the bed waiting for me.

What the hell? Someone help me. As I said, all this seems to float away, for the most part, when I'm around people. Then I can just focus obsessively on what they think of me.

Hello. Thank you.

Iodine by Haven Kimmel

2009-11-25T13:46:00.003-05:00

In this novel, Haven Kimmel again (as with The Solace...) deals with trauma, only this time in a more direct way.

In this case, the reader views the world through the eyes of Trace Pennington, a young woman with a traumatic past, as she works her way through her senior year of college. Brilliant, but also slightly psychotic (an after-effect of trauma, as I well know), Kimmel's narrator falls under the category of "unreliable," but the reader will become immmediately engaged with her and will go along for the ride. The narrator isn't unreliable in any malicious way, and is in fact unreliable even to herself.

The novel can be a bit disjointed, but I see it as a strength rather than weakness, certainly a display of the writer's talent rather than the text's short-coming.

In order to escape her horrific past, Trace, incredibly intelligent, having educated herself to the point that she has actually surpassed her professors, lives a sparce life, a life of scant circumstances, which shows a power of will and whatever-it-takes power of will I wish I had. She goes to school, returning after class to an abandoned farm with no heat or electricity, hangs out with people she could barely call friends, walks around the poor (dangerous?) part of town, all on the periphery of the priviledged, exclusive world of academia. Like her sister character from The Solace..., she (devastatingly to the reader) takes up with a professor in a torrid romance.

The story is familiar and achingly real in that the narrator's life is told in such a non-chalant way, the way many survivors of abuse live their lives and tell their stories - Kimmel's writing style is direct and to the point. This woman is healing in the way that real healing takes place - incompletely, and with scars. There is no deep breath and a sunset on the beach at the end of or anywhere within this novel. It is worth the read. Warning: Real becomes fiction becomes real. - 5 stars

The Solace of Leaving Early by Haven Kimmel

2009-11-25T12:26:00.003-05:00

Haven Kimmel is my new favorite author. There, that's said - let's just get that out of the way. I want to read all of her books and my library only has a few of them.

This is the first of her's that I read.

The main female character, Langston, is a grad-school drop-out (like myself!), a bitter, selfish, intellectual snob (like myself!) who has just returned home after a life-breaking affair with a professor. She hates everything about her small town and, if hand sanitizer warded off small-town-itus, she would be one of those carrying around a bottle of it in her purse. She is melodramatic and highly unlikeable, even though I found myself relating to her in some (truly honest) ways (see above).

Langston's mother, who is a salt-of-the-earth kind of woman whom Langston finds unbearable, has become an admirer of a local minister, Amos. Immediately, and more than likely upon principal of the thing, Langston hates him.

The impetus for the story comes when Langston's best friend from childhood dies in a domestic dispute (how small-town redneck, right?) (p.s. - I am a sarcastic person, and sometimes people don't pick up on it; I'm well aware that domestic violence occurs outside of any socio-economic status barrier), leaving two small, young terrorized and traumatized girls, both dressed in matching, ironic costumes, without a viable, long-term home.

Langston and Amos enter into a battle against each other, both believing that they have the girls' best interests at heart. The reader finds herself switching back and forth between sides, at once surprised by Langston's eventual and apparent isolated selflessness when it comes to the girls, and rooting for the best conclusion, though you don't know what exactly that is or how in the world it would happen. Yay for Haven Kimmel! I'm so glad I discovered her. - 5 stars

Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson

2009-11-25T11:53:00.006-05:00

If there were an official lesbian canon of literature (and I don't know that there isn't), Jeannette Winterson would be at the top of the list. Her writing just has that sort of air to it. I remember reading her Oranges Aren't the Only Fruit when I was first considering becoming a lesbian; the narrative seemed to me experimental in an intelligent, Faulkner (whose The Sound and the Fury I am struggling with now) sort of way. Really, I felt I could barely grasp it. I should probably give it a second reading.

Anyway, on toward the matter at hand, which is Jeanette's novel Lighthousekeeping. You wouldn't be surprised to hear that it is about a lighthouse, but also, and really, it is about the inhabitants of that lighthouse, an old man and a young girl. This novel is written in the same intelligent voice as the other that I described in the above paragraph. I'll have to study on exactly how she creates this voice, because it could probably do a lot of good if I applied it to some of my own writing.

The little girl in the novel is immediately, or almost-immediately abandoned by her mother, then passed along to a stern woman (a librarian or something, I can't remember, I've been hoarding/procrastinating book reviews for months now - I'm visiting my mom, which means I have some time off and am not sitting in a house I have to clean, so while mom's at work I'm finally doing this), who then passes her off to the old man in the lighthouse. The old man is a typical old man in that his wife has died (I think he was married, I think that's what happened) and now he needs someone to take care of him. He is blind, doesn't have any source of light in, oddly enough, the lighthouse, and the little girl (also her little dog, must adhere to this sort of situation.

The novel does go back and forth betwixt two (or more?) generations, and it gets confusing. The jist and focus of the novel is a) the relationship between the little girl and the old man and b) the little girl's coming-of-age.

There is also a poignant point made about the (negative) effect "progress," (or abandonment of tradition) has upon individual lives - as a result of man-free, mechanic lighthouses, the little girl is ultimately abandoned by the old man and, finally, must abandon the lighthouse.

As you can see, abandonment is a major theme (even of the subplot, which I will leave to you to read without my description here).

This is a good novel that will make you, due to Winterson's knack for it, feel like a very high-caliber reader - a suggested read. - 4 stars

p.s. - The quote for my blog comes from this novel - just an example of the sort of profound statements you can read from Winterson.

Squawk! Attack!

2009-11-09T16:06:00.004-05:00

I decided to make a tuna fish sandwich for lunch today and, generous momma that I am, I squeezed the tuna juice out of the can and onto a plate for whatever cat was available.

We have a new kitten who can't jump up on counters, so I went and got her and set her on the counter so she could have a chance. The plan was to keep an eye on her while I made my sandwich and put her back down when I left the kitchen.

This is what happened:

Ziggy, one of our birds (the big, colorful, loud one of the two), transferred himself from the cage to the counter, walked over to Ophelia (the working title for the kitten), his little bird talons making clicking sounds on the counter. At that point, Ziggy did what Ziggy does with cats.

He attacked her.

He jumped onto Ophelia - a little kitten, mind you - flapping his wings and riding her like a farm animal. Poor Ophelia. She escaped, leaping down from the counter with her short little midget kitten legs.

She was absolutely stunned.

I petted her and checked her eyeballs the best I could; I think she's fine.

Let Them Eat Cake! (off the floor!)

2009-11-08T22:51:00.009-05:00

Tonight Manager assigned me to help Colleague with his party. There were approximately 25 people celebrating a birthday. The birthday girl, actually a grown woman, was the one in the tiara with the balloons tied to her chair.

Everyone was drinking either water, tea or Coke, so that was easy enough. A few people had margaritas. I went around refilling everyone's drinks, took a few orders, took out a few salads and a couple plates of tilapia and shrimp, went back and forth getting extra honey mustard or napkins as ~~demanded~~ requested.

I kept asking Colleague what he needed, trying to be a good helper. Near the end of the event, Colleague instructed me to retrieve the guests' cake from the cooler, take off the plastic top, and present it to the party. Dutifully, I went back to the cooler and found the cake. It was one of those grocery store get-ups with the fancy-ish icing decoration, dedicated in swoopy pink lettering to the another-year-older. I picked up the cake and, holding it in one hand, attempted to take off the lid before taking it out to the guests.

You can imagine what happens next, can't you? I mean, really - what do you know of me so far from this blog? (For extra help: Go down to the bottom and note the tag for this post.)

Yes, indeed. Splat. Cake tipped over and all over the floor. It did one loop-dee-loop - just sort of sighed and flung itself haphazardly. It was as if it knew who had come to get it. I was horrified, affirmed and humored all in one.

Now I had to go out and tell someone.

I went up to the manager, tugged on his sleeve. I was going to try to get his attention, then advise him inconspicuously of the emergency. He was otherwise involved, but I was sure that my event superceded all others - unless someone somewhere in the restaurant had collapsed - so I started shouting,

"I dropped the cake! I dropped the cake!"

Manager informed me that I had not dropped the cake, and I kindly informed him back that yes, I had.

A little train formed on the way to the cooler: Assistant Manager, Manager, Colleague, Random Other Colleague (I think she was going simply for spectator purposes) and myself as the caboose. For me, it was like a death march.

We got back there, and the cake was where I had left it, that is to say, on the floor.

There was a pause, a silence. There was a very absurd discussion of possibly trying to repair the cake. That hope was abandoned, barely, when I iterated that the cake itself had indeed touched the floor.

In much the manner of describing a car accident, I recounted how the cake flipped over (one and a half revolutions), hit the floor face down, then somehow tilted back to land in the upright position in which it currently presented itself.

The managers felt that they could heal the situation by offering brownies.

Still horrified and embarrassed, I ran out of the cooler, clocked out, ran to my car and drove as fast as I could to the nearest grocery store, about a mile or so away. I hit every red light on the way there.

I ran into the store, accosted the manager, who flung his arm in the direction of the deli. I came upon the cakes, eyeballing resurrection, and approached the woman behind the counter for help.

This woman was not interested in helping me. She informed me that the deli had in fact closed a previous two minutes ago. Sorry.

I went over to the manager and begged him to help. I laid it all out on the line, exactly what had happened, as was evident by the pink icing all over the front of my shirt. He went over to the deli and forced the woman to help me.

She was not thrilled. While she was making out the cake, I noted a tattoo on her arm. I'm sorry, it looked like she had gotten it in prison.

Anyway, she gave me the cake, I paid for it and ran out of the store until I envisioned myself dropping yet another cake, at which point I walked at a more conservative pace.

I drove back to the restaurant, again catching all the reds, walked into the bar, presented the cake to my manager, who took the cake into the party, who had already received brownies and were just as pleased as punch - they had thought it was funny that I had dropped the cake.

Extract the Essence

2009-11-08T14:25:00.019-05:00

Consumerist society has gone bat shit crazy over anything - oil or essence - it can dig up or squeeze out of nature, and I've gone right along with it.

For instance, my current body wash has "bamboo essence" - it says so right there on the front of the bottle. What do I know about bamboo essence? It could shrivel your titties for all I know. (And how exactly do you get a bamboo's essence out of it? Don't pandas eat bamboo? Doesn't that mean they need it more than we do?)

I think there's also some bamboo essence in Garnier Nutrisse shampoo. I think I remember them saying something about that in the commercial where the girl was wrapping her hair around a hammer or something and tugging it.

I don't need to wrap my hair around a hammer. I don't need to wrap my titties around a hammer, either.

I'm not against nature. I think we're going in the right direction. But I also think that, first of all, we're going all hog wild for what is, really, just a small bit of progress.

It may still have a whole host of chemicals whose names we can't pronounce (and if you look carefully, it usually does), but if it has one dab of almond oil, we'll ride that train straight to hell.

Also, I believe that going outright totally hog wild over anything isn't such a good idea. You can always have too much of a good thing, as I learned from the Great Almond Incident.

Besides, you know what else is natural?? You know what's really nature? Monkey boogers. That's natural. But you won't find me smearing those on my face any time soon.

Unless it shows up labeled on the front of a bottle of face wash.

Give me my preservatives, give me my chemicals (and/or give me death?). Give me food stuffs and artificial flavors.

I have the palate of a three year old. You know what I want, what I really (really) want? I want a can of spaghetti-o's that I can sit on a shelf and leave there until I'm good and ready for it or until kingdom comes, one or the other.

I know that stuff isn't really good for me but, again - what do we (the Consumers, the Regular people, the laywomen - not the Scientests) really know about bamboo essence?

Not much? Okay, so then why are we buying it?

The fact that we are buying it - and the fact that now you can't help but buy something with an essence or oil of something else in it - clearly indicates to me that there's some pretty fancy footwork afloat here from the Marketers in the Marketing Department, as always. Me thinks those Marketers and those Scientests have been going out on dates, as always. They find a product or concept (usually the most expensive one available), research it, decide to turn it into something so fabulous as to barely be fathomed, then subliminally (or not so subliminally, but you get the point), through the various Viral Media Outlets, introduce us to and drug us all with the knowledge of this secret-unknown-yet-used-by-ancient-tribes-in-Egypt-for-thousands-of-years-and-right-up-under-our-noses-the-whole-time product's infathomable fabulousness, sending us and our money all out into the world riding high on our own personal Superior Knowledge of the Beneficial Properties of the Freckle of a Blueberry when formed with Oatmeal's Nuts in a Compound we call Blue Nut Morning Meal and feed you for breakfast to make your skin and your poops smoother.

Take a look back through the history of commercials and consumerism, and you'll see some pretty whack individuals selling some pretty crazy shit (Sham-wow excluded, that's just an awesome product and I would love to get my hands on it), all backed up by the latest and greatest scientific discoveries.

Again, I'm not saying that natural is bad - nobody's picking on blueberries or oatmeal here - and I'm all for progress, but I'm just saying that sometimes its funny how we'll, literally, buy into something without a whole hell of a lot of real knowledge.

Listen to your tv's kids, its good for you.

Ever ponder about how the public is ~~educated~~ produced?

That's Sick

2009-10-31T16:54:00.007-04:00

After I had barricaded us all in on this All Hallow's Eve, I said to everyone (everyone meaning the cats), "Nobody's coming in, nobody's going out, and ya'll can just suck it." That was because the cats don't like being trapped in the house for any period of time. They don't like it very much at all. I think it's a control thing.

M has to work tonight, I was supposed to work but I'm sick (more on that later), so I'm alone with the animals and the tricker treaters. I don't feel like getting up and down to answer the door, so I put a note on the back porch instructing them to go to the mail box, where I stuffed a bunch of candy and another note admonishing them not to take more than their share. If someone comes by and is a total scrooge hoarder about it, I cannot be responsible - I have fulfilled my duty to Halloween in the spirit of Good Will. I hope they will leave me alone. I'm scared to be myself and I hope M will be home not too long after dark, which is coming earlier now, and even earlier than that after Sunday.

Anyway, I was aggravated while I was setting up the candy because cats that I had checked off of my list as contained (there's a literal list - that's how many we have) were escaping out the door. I knew I should have locked them up somewhere while I retrieved the others. I called Grendel a bastard. Anyway, everybody was finally in and they had a second can of wet food to boot. Whatever. I do what I have to.

I started feeling tired this past Tuesday evening and woke up Wednesday sick. I was hoping it would be quick, but I had to call in Thursday and lose a shift. Anticipating missing my shift Friday night, I went to the doctor to make sure I didn't have the flu or an infection and to get a note for work.

When I called to make the appointment they told me that because of my symptoms they requested that I use the station at the front door to sanitize my hands and put on a face mask. When I went to check in, the lady at the computer instructed me to fan the mask out - it was like an accordian - to cover my mouth and my nose. Then I had to go sit in the sick area of the large waiting room. I felt like a total conspicuous, self-conscious walking (or sitting) disease. Soon enough a nurse came to get me, she was wearing a mask as well.

The long and short of it is that a young female doctor who reminded me very much of Elizabeth Hasselback (sp?) from The View, checked every orafice from my neck up and prescribed an antibiotic as I had an infection in my ears. She said that I should try to use an allergy medicine such as Claritin or Zyrtec to clear up the fluid and mucus since I am unable to use Sudafed or other such cold medicines due to the Heart Problem.

I continue to feel like total crap and am waiting to feel better because I love that euphoric feeling you get after you start to feel better after feeling sick. I'm still sweaty and feel feverish and weak, not like walking around or doing a whole lot, which is distressing because there are messes to be cleaned, and as I sit I have toilet paper tampons stuffed up both nostrils, which M says is sexy, she told me so.

Crafty

2009-10-15T18:12:00.003-04:00

My fingers are coated with super glue. They feel like super-duper fingers. I could touch flames.

Ah - You Again.

2009-10-02T16:03:00.007-04:00

For the past few weeks, I've been walking around wondering if I were depressed or if life just sucked lately. I think it may be a little of both, probably at a ratio of 65:35 (is that how ratio is expressed, math geeks out there? am I even wanting a ratio to describe the proportions in this case?)

Anyway, the old familiar friends are back: the irritability, fatigue, anger, perfectionism, frustration, hating myself and nearly everything around me, the feeling of wanting to get away, to get in a car and hit the road, head off into the sunset, to escape my life and create a new one as a complete stranger in some other place, then move on again once I get tired of that - a longing for nomadism, for solitude.

I count up the small disasters - stepping in shit, an asshole customer, a lousy tip, things that happen at home, things people want of me that I am too tired and frustrated to give, the thousand syncronicities of fruitless, frustrating events that seem to be arranged by Malevolence Himself.

I hate my body, I hate who I am. I hate others for who they are and at the same time long to be like them. I forget my allegiance to kindness and decide that being rude and arrogant is the only way to get what you want in this world.

At the same time, everything seems meaningful, everything is a Sign and my creativity is heightened. Instead of the typically reported greying of life, visually my world is more colorful, more intense. A breeze is a respit, the smell of grass like opium.

Mania? Mixed state? What is this?

As I've mentioned, I've been diagnosed with nearly every mental disease there is. Nearly. I am fine with that, except that I have to find a psychiatrist in my town, and how do you walk into an office and explain the whole complexity? How do you walk into a new psychiatrist's office and convince her or him that even though you are currently taking an anti-psychotic, and have been on and off one anti-psychotic or another for the past few years, you are in fact not psychotic, and furthermore you doubt that you suffer from bipolar disorder, only that you from time to time struggle with what you think of as a special kind of hell not yet realized and recognized by the medical community, you could probably guess that your family, your own ancestral history has indeed created a new strain of depression, you're pretty sure of that because they are nearly all nuts and it wouldn't be surprising. You just want to sleep at night and feel a little better.

Maybe reducing the Seroquel has finally caught up with me. I want off the Seroquel. I want the hungry, sugar-lust werewolf that appears forty minutes into the drug to disappear. If I continued on the Seroquel, I feel that, in order to keep from feeding, I would need to lock myself in a room until I fell asleep.

No Need

2009-09-23T15:01:00.007-04:00

There is no need for gays and lesbians to fight for the right to marry. We already have that right, and, just so you know, we do exercise that right. Just ask the gay couples who have gotten dressed up, stood in front of a bunch of people and, with the guidance of an open-minded member of clergy, be he/she pastor or pagan, professed some level of commitment to each other.

I think it denegrates us to ask for the right to marry. I think we ought to be telling the government and the world to recognize our marriages, to show that they already exist - not civil-unioned, not commitment-ceremonied, but married.

We don't need permission. We need recognition and the same priviledges, protections and laws that apply to married heterosexual couples.

Or else, and even better (why aren't single people given specials from the government...are they?), completely separate the two, separate marriage and state.

Why is any American accepting or entertaining for one second the religious arguments from politicians regarding the government's sanction of marriage? Why aren't those politicans, and those arguments, called down upon the basis of separation of church and state? Why do we continue to accept the marriage of church and state in this country?

Oh wait, because that marriage exists too.

In any case,

Dear Government,

Either accept us all - jew, christian, muslim, gay, straight, married, single, etc. -and give us all pedicures or get the hell out of it completely.

Truly,

Amber

El Dio de Los Goober

2009-09-18T15:11:00.003-04:00

The night before last I delayed getting my Seroquel refilled and laid wide awake most of the night. I finally drifted off around 4 a.m., then woke up again a little after 6 a.m. because M got up to go on a business overnight. Because M was gone last night, I didn't sleep very well, even with the S.

So, I am discouraged about my little plan to get off the S. I'm clearly going to need a replacement, which I knew - I cannot sleep without a drug, as was proven again last night and several hellish times before that - call it rebound insomnia from stopping Seroquel or whatever you want to call it, the last time I went for a period without sleep I ended up in the looney. Lack of sleep is not good for the mentally ill, double that for someone suffering from a dysfunctional autonomic nervous system.

So yesterday I felt like shit warmed over, with hot flashes and weakness and nausea and sweating and shaking hands on and off all day. I lost my lunch shift, and even though it was reportedly completely dead at the restaurant, I did not need to lose that shift.

Today, commence with the feeling of shit-ness, plus my cognitive functioning was disturbed beyond its normal. I showed up to the wrong location to work today (I work two restaurants within the same company). Then I forgot that I hadn't gotten gas yesterday, so, already late, I had to stop and get gas first, except I didn't have any cash, so I had to use my debit card which I am trying not to use. I'm trying not to use the bank at all except for necessities because I am clearly not financially savvy enough to use it (see previous post concerning late fees). I have created an envelop labeled "Amber's bank" wherein I keep my money, with records of deposits and withdrawals on the envelope. Seems stupid, but, for me, it is much more simplified and I am a lot less likely to overdraft and get charged with late fees, as I doubt I will charge myself with late fees, besides you can't overdraft cash. Hey, it worked for a time during the Depression Era, when I am told that they kept their money under their mattresses. Anyway, I left my Envelope Bank of Amber's Cash at home and had to use my card.

After I arrived at the restaurant, cognitive dysfuntion continued, and I made several (small) stupid mistakes, including taking the wrong ticket to a table. The customer signed the ticket and left. The manager said she would fix it, and I gave up my tip due to the mistake. The lady's bill was actually around twenty dollars more than the ticket she signed. I figure she's not going to be happy with that, so I didn't want to push it with the tip. She should have looked at the ticket more closely, though - doesn't everyone check their ticket?, not just blindly sign it?, then again she might have thought that that relatively small amount of money for that large amount of food - there were three people - was a pretty good deal, so she signed the damn thing and left. I would like to think that she didn't do this on purpose - that she didn't just realize the mistake and, instead of being honest, decide to take advantage of it. I hope that she was just very trusting of me to give her the right ticket and charge the correct amount and/or didn't care what the charge was, or was having similar cognitive dysfuntion to myself.

I have to go eat and go in for my second shift. Blah.

Oh, but I got another "WOW!" button today over at the other steakhouse and they said that they wish they had more employees like me.

Even with all my gooberness.

But that's because I'm a damned hard worker, also I am nice.

I wish I wasn't a goober, though. I'm trying to work on that.

Actually, I'm quite smart.

We'll discuss the topic of idiot savant later.

Toilet Training

2009-09-12T14:14:00.002-04:00

I've learned to live with a fair amount of gastrointestinal troubles the same way I've learned to deal with other facets of dysautonomia. GERD (basically, chronic acid reflux) is one part of it, also running to the bathroom in the middle of a meal. Generally, I have to be careful with my stomach which, generally, I am not.

After sugar sickness yesterday morning, I decided to have a better breakfast of eggs (protein!), bacon and grits. I realize that isn't exactly a veggie omelet with whole wheat toast, but it's something.

Shortly after that, I spent what I estimate is - several trips totaled up - over an hour in the bathroom. I thought it was the butter on my grits, possibly the grease from the bacon, but I realized it probably also had something to do with the (again, estimating) 40 or so almonds, most likely more, that I consumed yesterday, most of that before bed during the nightly Seroquel Munchies Episode. Turns out almonds are useful in the relief of constipation. Imagine the affect of a super dose of almonds on a person who is not necessarily constipated.

Let me tell you that there is no toilet paper soft enough.

I started to go to work, but when I got there I went straight to the bathroom and it was there that I decided that this, also I, wasn't going to work. I went back home.

After several more trips to the porcelain god, and laying on my side in between, I started to feel better a couple hours later, but it was pointless to go to work at that point because more than likely business was slowing down to a crawl and they were phasing people off the floor - I wouldn't've really made any money - also I go in for my dinner shift in a few hours anyway.

So to fill my time I've been doing some housework, ironed my work shirts (I never do that; I'm supposed to), listened to a little NPR. I should've also worked on my short story, my novel, gone to the library, but I didn't quite have enough time for that.

I'm frustrated and worried because I can't really afford to lose a shift, I can't afford it at all, in fact, but this will teach me. I've got to be more careful with my stomach. I've got to be more careful with my body in general because I'm essentially living with an ongoing setback in that respect.

It makes me want to throw out all my junk food, anything with sugar or fat. As I was laying down willing my bottom to feel better (TMI? Too bad.) I watched a couple ride by on their bicycles in my neighborhood (beautiful weather outside, cool and sunshine), with their fancy sporty bicyle-rider Lance Armstrong outfits (essentially, tight spandex) that say they are serious about it. It inspired me for a brief moment and I had visions of myself completing dedicated half-mile sprints every morning, eating a vegetarian diet and achieving and keeping for the rest of my life a flat stomach and overall greatly (outstandingly) improved physical and mental health. Willpower, where are you? Initiative, where are you? Motivation?

Almonds aren't bad, I was trying, but obviously I over did it. I find it fascinating that, just yesterday, there was a woman on Tyra (a doctor or something, she had written a book) that was warning us with the adage of how too much of a good thing (green tea, orange juice were examples from the audience) can be a bad thing.

Messages from the Universe are coming in droves lately.

Oh, wait - I have to use the bathroom.

Modern Aesthetics

2009-09-09T13:11:00.002-04:00

"If your vagina doesn't have a camel toe, then it's butt-ass ugly." - Kourtney Kardashian, stated within the context of the reality tv show that she shares with her sister.

Facts About Me

2009-09-01T11:12:00.008-04:00

1. I don't drink coffee at all or alcohol very often because I think they both taste horrible. I have to have a whole hell of a lot of sugar in my alcohol in order to get it down. My ears start burning after one drink.

2. I don't like even numbers and cannot leave either the television or the radio volume set on an even number.

3. Even if I find a song I like on the radio, I check through all the other stations to make sure there isn't a song I like better playing.

4. I have at one point or another been diagnosed with nearly every psychiatric condition with the distinct exception of schizophrenia and have been at one point or another prescribed nearly every psychotropic drug or at least nearly every psychotropic drug class on the market.

5. I am often lost in my own thoughts and daydreams to the point that I misplace things, stumble into things and am generally incompetent.

6. I am an introvert.

7. I am physically weakened more by emotional stress than I am by physical labor.

8. My favorite weather is cloudy, cool and damp.

9. I love the smell of burning leaves.

10. I can not, can. not. sleep with any two items of cover (for example, sheet and blanket on top of that) at the same time - I detest layering of any sort, which is probably why I also loathe both underwear (bras and panties) as well as outer-wear (coats, jackets, etc.).

11. I love most entertainment news, trashy television and "reality" shows.

12. I have a lot of back and neck pain.

13. Despite the effect of total openness that my often "TMI" honesty here and elsewhere portrays, I actually share very few of my thoughts, and my inner-world is often very different from the personality that others know me by.

14. I wish I went outside of my routine and ate more of the things that I actually do, technically, like but don't include in my diet very often, such as cherries or spinach, instead of cheeseburgers and chicken tenders all the time.

15. I've gone through several phases of voluntary immersion in different literatures, including, first, that of the Medieval Period (Chaucer, Arthurian Legend, etc.) (that was in high school), then 19th century British Literature (Bronte, Dickens) (shortly after high school and into college) and am now rather heavily involved with contemporary American fiction.

16. I have a broad sense of humor and will laugh, loudly, at almost anything.

17. I think other people's fingers look weird.

18. Though considered a negative result of trauma, I remember being able to randomly disassociate from my body when I was little, and I miss it.

19. I love flowers.

20. I am an insomniac.

21. I like to go for walks. This is often my only form of movement/exercise. I also like to go hiking in the mountains, but haven't in a long, long time.

22. I'm from the Southern region of the United States, ie "The South."

23. I was in my mid-twenties before I realized that boys don't ever, ever behave like they do in romantic comedies.

No Faggots Here, I'm Afraid

2009-08-27T17:28:00.004-04:00

M and I went to the beach yesterday on our day off together. I'd been looking forward to it since M first mentioned it.

The last time we went to the beach was great, and we said we would keep going on our days off as long as the weather allowed, but we haven't for one reason or another.

This time, it felt like wearing a shirt that didn't fit. We got up and going about an hour later than we did last time, and the beach we chose ended up taking longer to get to. Once there, we couldn't find free public parking, and M had to dig up change to buy us a few hours at a meter.

When we got to the beach, because of the position of the sun, our umbrella cast shade only on one side, so we had to huddle up together under that, M sitting in front and me behind her - we couldn't sit side by side.

And then there was the faggot man.

He was this big, broad-shouldered bulk of a guy, tanned to leather. He came barreling down the beach, and as he got closer we realized he was shouting something about faggots. I mean, he was really raving. He seemed almost excited about it, as if he had walked into a room of faggots and was calling them all towards him.

I wasn't so much scared as I was awe-struck. The only offense I took to the term faggot was the fact that, if he were indeed using it to refer to us, he was completely using the wrong term to designate the female of the humanus homosexualus species. We are not faggots, we are dykes. I would have much preferred that, and would have later - once it had been ascertained that no danger was at hand - smiled at the idea that perhaps I contributed to giving off a dyke identity for M and I, as for the most part I fly under the radar very incognito and most people have no idea so I have to keep coming out all over the place, receiving the same shocked response again and again. I apparently have about me no dyke energy whatsoever which is really rather disappointing and frustrating.

I am a dyke! I am a dyke! No really, you should've seen me in college in my short hair and hairy-legged phase. I wore a lot of clothing of the khaki variety and was most decidedly either a lesbian or a communist. I had bumper stickers. It was fun.

Anyway, back to the beach, there weren't really seagulls this time but instead there were these raggedy, black little birds that looked like worn out crows and which I thought were perfect for the occasions and mood of that day.

On our way out of town, we couldn't find a restaurant - M doesn't like to eat at chain restaurants on trips - but we finally settled on a Ruby Tuesday that I chose after a little over an hour of giving up and driving toward home.

We got home and M went to bed and I got up this morning and went to work.

Tra la la.

Little Girls

2009-08-24T14:41:00.003-04:00

I was listening to a story on NPR today, and the woman's voice reminded me of my friend Liz (I love you Liz!) because it was so sweet and soft and optimistic. Ironically enough, the woman was discussing her father's death.

I remember riding with Liz in my little car that was falling apart (her falling-apart car was awesome - it was green and had many bumper stickers) and we went over a bridge at the same moment that a train went under the bridge and blew its horn. Scared us half to death. On that same drive, we passed some old ladies and I came up with this ditty:

Little old ladies walking two by two,
little old ladies wearing orthopedic shoes.

Little old ladies
sportin' blue hair-do's,

little old ladies walking two by two.

(Do you remember the tune Liz?)

Today I saw a troop of little girls (not so little, probably 10 or 11) carrying pocketbooks (what's with the 13-going-on-30 phenomenon amongst the young girls here? or is that everywhere and I haven't been noticing until now?) and walking with the mother figure for that day. They were going into the dollar store. Two of them were holding hands and it was so sweet and old-fashioned that it nearly broke my heart for a minute.

I don't think they were gay, if that even needs to be said. If they were (here, I consider the question of whether children would know by the time they were 10 if they were gay, but then again, that is a socially conditioned response - we don't often ask heterosexuals when they realized that they were straight because that is the sexual orientation majority and is generally assumed, whereas homosexuality has to be realized or discovered because it is so oppressed), I don't think they would've been holding hands out in the world for their friends and everyone in the parking lot of the dollar store to see, not in this small town of North Carolina.

But this brings up the issue that, for some reason, girls - even young women - are given the priviledge of holding hands without others suspecting that they are lesbians. I think that this is because women are allowed a closeness of friendship that most men are not. We are allowed to protect, defend, care for and follow each other to the bathroom. We, myself included, are allowed to call each other "girlfriend" with a connotation that isn't sexual, though, in certain situations (i.e., within the lesbian community), I have to iterate that I mean platonic female friends or else everyone might think that I am a) a whore and b) have a tremendous talent for maintaining open multiple relationships.

I have had to remove Juice from the computer chair twice because I have been going back and forth writing this post and sneaking a pick at a documentary of the "Equality Riders" on LOGO.

I go to work in two and a half hours.

I've been ignoring my cell phone all day.

Except for the alarm to take my medicine.

Wal-Mart

2009-08-12T14:07:00.004-04:00

You can always count on coming across some interesting characters at Wal-Mart.

Today I went in to return a shirt I had bought for work a couple months ago but didn't really like (I wore one of my denim skirts even though M doesn't like them - apparently she associates anything denim with the 1980's thus deems it outdated. I wore the short one.) If I'm going to spend money on something, especially lately, I'd better really like it. It had puffy sleeves with elastic around the bottom to make frills. Not my style. At the time when I got it, I was looking for any white, button up top that would do. It no longer does. So, back it goes. Remaining, I have one short-sleeve shirt with a big rip in the back (it is currently retired, awaiting repair), a long-sleeve with a button missing (also awaiting repair) and, finally, one long-sleeve which is still, and will hopefully remain, in commission.

I found a decent parking place and started walking in. There was a family walking out which included an elderly woman riding on one of those Wal-Mart scooters with the attached shopping baskets in front. The basket was so full of bags that you couldn't see the woman behind them and, I realize as I'm typing this, I suppose she couldn't see me or anything else in front of her really, and I guess her escorts were helping her navigate the parking lot as I don't know how else she could have done it.

Waiting in line at customer service, there was a mother with three young children all of whom had very light-as-to-be-almost-imperceptible eyebrows, and all of whom were wearing crocks in varying states of deterioration and filth. The children, though, all looked reasonably clean. The youngest girl was already mimicking the concept of a (young) adult woman as best as her imagination could, carried a pocketbook, seemed very mature - despite the missing teeth - and took very well to giving her (older) brother threatening looks and generally bossing him around in much the same way I would rather suspect an eldest sibling would do. (Really, I guess she was just defending herself. The older brother was picking on her a bit.) She was very intent on relaying to her mother the sensation that some Burt's Bees preparation had caused on her face, i.e. that of a "mask." She was smiling, though, as she described it. Another win for Revlon.

Also in line there was another elderly woman bound to a scooter. She, though, could see everything around her and at one point slapped the hell out of her grandchild - I don't know what the girl was doing, but clearly the woman (I'm assuming the grandmother) disapproved. Very quick reflexes, this woman. She lashed out like a whip. The girl quickly removed herself from being within striking distance of the woman, who several times demanded that the girl "fix" her face (the girl was pouting). It's never been within my reasoning to understand why one would expect anyone not to show emotion after they've just been slapped or scolded, in public no less. It's very embarrassing, in case you've never experienced it and, within this context, I think pouting was an appropriate response, less it had been slapping the old woman right back.

Yes, this is obviously a break from my normally very austere approach to youth.

Well, Duh

2009-08-12T13:19:00.006-04:00

"I figured that out." - Unknown Woman appearing on Cops, upon notification that she was being placed under arrest.

Overdrafted - a Follow-Up

2009-08-06T12:01:00.005-04:00

As I mentioned in my next-to-last post, I recently spent more money than I had. My mistake? My responsibility? Yes, absolutely, sure. BB&T (what I call Bibbit) kindly picked up the tab. To do so, they charged me $35.00.

I would've rather declined the favor, but Bibbit doesn't give you that option.

So really, they wanted to do me a solid more so than a favor.

That "solid," as most people who've did-the-dance with overdraft charges know, kicked off a snowball effect resulting in four more charges of equal value to the first.

Do the math.

As I've said, I take responsibility for my actions, but $35.00?

Read this article - Overdraft Fees: A $17.5 Billion Dollar Industry

That's What You Get

2009-08-05T12:42:00.001-04:00

"Excuse me, I just hit you in the back of the head. I'm sorry." - Jerry Springer to audience member

"Errands," Wherein I Indiscriminately Use Hyphens, Commas, Capitalization, Italics and Generally Abuse All Novelties of Grammar and Formatting...

2009-08-03T13:17:00.013-04:00

(and finds out that there is a limit to the length of a post title on Blogger)

First of all, I have not shaved my armpits in over a week, which M was all too happy to point out last night after I had noticed her looking-but-not-saying-anything at least twice. It should be said that she was provoked.

Anyhoot, moving on.

Today I went to the bank to make a deposit out of which The Bank will promptly remove at least half in order to serve their own selfish means in the form of outrageously high overdraft fees. I understand overdraft fees - you can't expect the bank to pay your bills, after all - but I submit that $35.00 is excessive.

Anyway, standing in line at the bank I thought that someone around me had to be a heavy smoker from the smell of it and I also noticed the feet of this elderly lady which fit perfectly into her crock/flip-flop hybrids. I mean perfectly. This whole revelation about how the toes and feet are supposed to be shaped (with a downward curve toward the pinky toe) as opposed to how my feet and toes are shaped (straight across) continues to make me marvel. Anyway, one of her heels had this sort of bulbous formation to it which is a foot condition I am not familiar with and could not name, if it even is a recognized condition, which it probably is, there is a Condition for everything, but in any case I was thinking very clearly that I am not, among the many things that I am, a foot fetishist. I find them remarkable and very telling, but I simply do not like them in that way.

Next, it was on to the library where I tried to look up and find a book that I had checked out and re-checked out for a grand total of four weeks occupancy yet had regretfully returned un-read because I was still struggling with that damn book for which I wrote the last review appearing here and also over at 5-squared. According to Library Guy, of whom I inquired, someone else has apparently got it, but - never mind - I checked out a good many other books and I'm sure the book I scorned and set aside shall pop up available eventually, at which time I will take it out to brunch and try to reconcile. I signed up for e-mail notification.

Of a more interesting note at the library, I paused to let a little troop of church children pass in front of me on their way out. At the tail end of the group was a large authority figure, a smaller, younger authority figure, and an even smaller figure, of no authority whatsoever. As you can imagine, that last one, he was crying. I felt so bad for him, especially because he was made to walk along stride with his offender whilst the eldest authority figure counseled the younger authority figure (the offender) (she was around 10 or 11, the littlest soul, the poor little boy, was around 7), that "sometimes they cry," if the situation exists wherein they are chastised too vigorously. On the way home I imagined that the younger, female authority figure had the makings of a bossy older sister and, ultimately, a teacher in our public schools, whereas the boy probably quite possibly had a future as a serial killer after this damaging event.

I tend to be optimistic.

Next it was off to the other bank where things went off without a hitch, and then to the pharmacy where I inquired as to what I might take to avoid my hair falling out on the Lamictal (I believe I've discussed Lamictal here previously, but if you are interested in Mental Illness drugs or drugs in general have a go at this, also The Wonderful CrazyMeds), even though I had some idea, I wanted to know if the pharmacist had any other tricks up her sleeve.

Which prompts me to tell of the fact that, in further Mental Illness Adventures which I have chronicled here, Dr. Psychiatrist was only semi-constructive in getting me off of the Seroquel because he was willing to taper but wanted to switch me to a traditional anti-psychotic instead which I do not want because I don't think I'm psychotic, just a little sleepless, but who knows as I've been on one AP (that doesn't mean "Associated Press," try to keep up with the context clues in this paragraph to decipher my acronym) or another for years now. The urgency with which Dr. Psychiatrist communicated his opinion that I was in crucial need of an anti-psychotic really made me feel awful. He us utterly convinced that I suffer from bipolar disorder, and I've actually half-convinced myself of it to the point that I have participated in the whole microcosm that is the obsessive labeling and categorizing of all of nut-dom that is out there, in other words further helped convince my doctors of it.

I will agree that I am a traumatized little worm of a mess.

Bikini Wax!

2009-07-23T19:39:00.006-04:00

Remember, you're in control of your bikini wax.

Random Discouragements and Disasters

2009-07-22T19:48:00.003-04:00

Today I went to pick up my check from Steakhouse and, riding in the car with M, distracted, without all 4 cylinders and 5 brain cells concentrating fully on the task at hand, I ended up absent-mindedly ripping off and balling up in a smallish ball and throwing behind the driver's (M's) seat the portion of the check that gives all the data regarding how much money the government has sucked out of my paycheck.

I like to keep that part, just for my records.

When I realized (relatively quickly) what I had done, I picked up the little ball of very informative paper and unfurled it.

Later, I put it in between two paper towels and turned on the iron intent to iron it something close to its former glory and flat perfection.

Maggie thought this was some kind of big deal, apparently, and looked at me like I was crazy.

Funny, the iron doesn't have a setting for "paper." Just cotton and linen and silk.

Preparing to make my Bank Deposit, I came across a penny with a picture of Abe Lincoln sitting on a log reading a book on the back of it instead of whatever the hell else is usually on the back of the penny. I figure it's Abe Lincoln reading the book (also, there's a mallet-looking thing sitting there which is sort of scary and weird and threatening) because it's Abe Lincoln on the front (isn't it?) and I don't think they'd have one president on the front and another on the back. Two sides to every coin and everything, but that would just be too two-faced.

Anyway, I thought I sat the penny aside, because I like to keep things like that (I've got two two-dollar bills under a magnet on the refrigerator that I got as a tip one night. M thinks there's plenty of them and wanted me to just deposit them with the rest of my tips, but I think they're special. Plus, these ones were very crisp.).

When I got to the bank, though, and was putting my money up on the counter, I noticed that the Special Penny was in with the coins I was giving over to the Money Lords, so I immediately grabbed it back, which meant that I was one penny short of what I had written on my deposit, but, really, who's going to fret over one penny?

The Bank, that's who.

So the teller fretted over one little penny, and I had to go back out to my car to get it.

Then, THEN, in the commotion over the penny, I failed to get the $37.00 "cash received" that I signed for back from my deposit.

Cash was not received.

So I had to turn around and drive back to the bank.

Luckily, Honest-Abe-down-to-the-penny lady bank teller at the bank believed me or had it on record or just remembered that I had not received my $37.00 and gave it to me no problem.

Later, M and I had to walk out into another one of those torrential downpours they seem to have around here or else be trapped in Wal-Mart indefinitly with the other shoppers who were wrapping plastic bags around their heads. (Not in a baby-suffocating way, it wasn't that bad of a downpour, but just in a protect their hair from melting way.)

Family Values

2009-07-20T12:02:00.005-04:00

A while back it dawned on me while watching several successive episodes of the show "Wife Swap" - wherein families essentially trade places via their matriarchs - that parenting comes as close to brainwashing as anything I've ever seen.

When there was a Rastafarian couple on the show, you saw that their offspring followed the same path. When there was a couple who were into recreating Medieval fanfare in their daily lives, their children were going right along with it. And not just half-heartedly, not just until they turned 18 when they got the hell out of there and away from their freakish parents. Mostly, the children of any given family held the same values, proclivities and general weirdness (it was reality entertainment, after all) as did their parents, from excessive stick-up-your-ass cleanliness, to hard rockin' head banging, to a penchant for alligator meat (that family was from Louisiana). That said, I know that there is a black sheep deviant in every family.

I guess the idea that as the parents do so the children do likewise is just "duh," on my part, but, I mean, I knew, theoretically, that the whole point of parenting is to pass along your genes, your speech patterns, and your values, but watching that show made me realize just how arbitrary the whole thing seems, how arbitrary our Faith and, thus, our Fate. Unless some highly persuasive missionary comes along (and here, the Evangelists' argument), you believe what you are exposed to (and the first thing you are exposed to is your parents), and everything else is foreign.

I've known this on a larger level for a while now - part of my current state of affairs regarding my religion, or lack there of, is due to my realization of how arbitrary it seems, how geography and culture impact faith more than anything else, and how everyone thinks they have the right god just as fervently as the other, and just as fervently rejects the other believers for their beliefs (see also my last book review). I remember very vividly sitting at the kitchen table of friends, stating that if you live in South Carolina you believe in Jesus, and if you live somewhere in Africa you believe in Ra'mak-tuc 'En-Sun (approximate recreation of what I said).

It is just interesting to me how we humans go about forming our beliefs, and how that is influenced by, for most of us, our very narrow level of experience on this earth - from the greater expanse of our particular geography and culture, to the more minute influence of our parents.

I think we would all like to think that our choices are made on a more autonomous, individual basis, or that God reached down and saved us in particular and Brought Us To Him, to the True Faith, but, for the most part, from what I see, The (smaller) Powers That Be in our lives - geography, culture, parents, etc. - determine to a great degree our Higher Power.

Anyway, this post was inspired by an article, Kids' Camp for Nonbelievers in The Seattle Times, wherein children of atheist parents attend a "free thinking" summer camp.

Free thinking? I don't know if there is any such thing.

Crud

2009-07-17T15:24:00.004-04:00

On top of financial issues, couple of unfortunate events today.

I let Ziggy out to stand on the door of his cage and squawk his head off. I took Jinx out of his cage and put him in Ziggy's to let them hang out together. They've stayed separated for a while. Not for any particular reason, just haven't been giving the birds a whole lot of attention lately, so I thought I would let them visit. Usually, I can put Jinx in Ziggy's cage and leave the door open because he'll stay in there and Ziggy will just do his thing.

Today, I was at the right place at the right time because I was in the kitchen when I heard a commotion in the dining room. I ran over to the dining room and Molly had Jinx on the floor. I screamed and ran over, scooped up Jinx and put him back in his cage and Closed. The. Door. He was okay. I grabbed Molly to put her outside. I wanted to spank her, but she got hit by the car last year and I didn't want to do any more damage to her hind quarters. Plus, I try not to abuse the cats. Plus, the whole thing was my fault.

I went upstairs to sweep the bathroom floor, just took the little brush and dustpan because the bathroom isn't big enough for a full-out broom. I went to sit on the edge of the tub to brush up some pine bedding flakes from when Mr. Gibbles was in there and, because the rim of the tub is so thin, not nearly large enough for my ass to balance, I fell backwards into the tub. At least there wasn't any water in it. I would've dunk-style baptized my ass. Although...I don't think you can call it a baptism if you're cursing.

Ay, Dios.

addendum: Showered, dressed, ready to go to work. Cue torrential downpour.

Witchcrafting: A Spiritual Guide to Making Magic by Phyllis Curott

2009-07-14T11:30:00.005-04:00

I am doing a no-no. I'm reviewing this book before I've finished it. I'm less than 70 pages away from the end, but I just can't continue without getting my gripes out. It's hindering my reading.

First, I should say that if you know me you know that I am very open to the ideas and beliefs of any religion, at least any that I have encountered so far, with the exception of full out devil-worship (I haven't come across that religion specifically, or anyone who has claimed it, but have come across some who have practiced it without knowing it). Anyway, I very much apply the "live and let live" concept in this respect.

However, I am bothered by what seems to be the fact that the only thing that all religions have in common is that, if you listen to many of the practitioners, each one seems to hold the other in disdain.

Phyllis Curott is no different. Though she tries to seem to do it in a kinder, gentler no-I-really-do-accept-everyone way, you can read between the lines that she is putting down traditional, patriarchal religions (Christianity, primarily) in favor of her Wiccan path.

I am sure that each person prefers their own religion, that's why they picked it after all, but why can't our beliefs be stated without the snootiness of negating other beliefs? Why can't we make positive statements about our own beliefs without making overtly negative statements about others'? I very much believe in comparison and contrast, but it can be done in an objective way that doesn't hold your nose against everyone who doesn't agree with you.

As for myself, I am an active agnostic. What that means to me is that I definitely believe there is a God, and I have my own personal ways of dealing with that, only I don't believe that any of us, any one religion, is really right, perhaps because of the fact that they are all so segregated. Maybe all of us are all right, in which case we all have a lot to learn from each other. Each religion, and practitioner, needs to take a more humble attitude, in my opinion. Look at all of the Gods and Goddesses we have (we have created?), from the beginning of time on. The plurality of our Gods - even, for some religions, the personalities of our Gods - reflect the plurality and diversity of ourselves as humans.

In any case, from the very beginning of this book, I was disappointed with Curott's self-righteous attitude as "Wiccan High Priestess," as she names herself, not only in respect to her own religion, but even in her own practice of her religion as opposed to other practitioners of her same religion. It put a chip on my shoulder, which made the book difficult to read.

Now on to some more specifics of the book.

From the title on, this book purports to be a more spiritual guide rather than a recipe book of spells. Curott herself makes this point plain throughout. However, if you just flip through it, you can see very readily that she does indeed include various "exercises" and "practices," complete with instructions and suggested scripts, labeled for "basic" to "advanced." Again with the hierarchy. Again with the idea that one person could possibly know God more than another person, could be more advanced, and that any of us has the right to instruct anyone else in this regard. Instead of the more humble act of sharing beliefs and thoughts and rituals, we are confined and narrowed down to this religious hierarchy. Plus, Curott just does the complete opposite of what she said she wanted to do by providing recipes and scripts and labeling them "exercises" and "practices."

Maybe I'm just a buck-the-religious-system kind of person, but I do not like recipes, or spells, or what have you. Plus, what if I don't have 4 white candles and 2 green? What if I don't feel like going diosel or windershins, or window chickens, or whatever the hell? What if I want to do what I feel led to do, for me? I'm okay with the concept of ritual, I believe the need for ritual is universal, and is a beautiful and creative expression of our back and forth communication with God, and I don't need anyone to tell me how to do that. I'm open to suggestion, to study of the ancient beliefs, religions and rituals - I think we have a lot to learn from our religious history and would very much be open to applying that to my own (for example, I do like the charts that Curott provides which list oracles, tools, correspondences (pg. 78) and other information rather than instruction)), but I don't like the idea that if I turn the wrong way I'm opening myself up to the Wrath of the Ages. I simply don't believe that's true. I believe that, ultimately, and primarily, God, or Spirit, or Divine is of Grace, and that we will receive grace and blessings even if we don't lay down on a mat and face East. Now, if that's how you feel closer to God, fine, but, for me, it might just hurt my knees. I don't care how "advanced" you consider yourself to be, or how "basic" you consider me to be, I have the right to form my own rituals and human ways of connecting to God, and they will "work" just as well as yours. I don't think the human need for power and our weak little struggles for self-esteem wrapped up in the better-than-you, I'm-a-Shaman-Highest-Priestess-to-the-Millionth-Degree syndrome should enter into our relationship with the Higher Power(s). In fact, I think that that is the last place it should enter in. You may know more incantations and have more candles, but my beliefs are led by the heart, and are just as good as yours. I don't like Pentagrams. Big whoop.

Another thing about recipes/incantations/chants/spells: I don't like the word "spell" because, again, it opens us up to the idea that any person can be more powerful than another person. I much prefer the word "ritual," because it connotes something that any of us can do, on a level plane, which is really the way I think things work. None of us has any more power than the other, but we are all powerful in our own respect at equal levels, when we connect with, listen, and try to act accordingly to what our God/s/esses tell us.

Spells connote something we do to affect something outside of ourselves, ritual connotes something we do to affect something inside ourselves, which is what I believe has to take place for anything outside of ourselves to happen. When we connect with the spiritual and are therefore affected ourselves, that is when we have true power to change or affect anything else. I don't believe that spells have any affect on anyone or anything other than yourself, allowing you not to "make" magic, but to go out into the world and be the magic.

In addition to the charts, here is another part I like, my favorite paragraph in the book, interestingly enough in italics, so it must be important to Curott too:

"My own perspective is that spells and rituals are a gorgeous form of spiritual expression and, when done from the right heart space, they are charged with divinity and creativity. A spell or ritual is a process of discovering and expressing the deepest truths about the world, and yourself, through the highest human faculties - our aesthetic and devine sensibilities. It is the art of transforming ourselves and the world into something sacred."

If a "high priestess" in your "coven" who has her periods in sync with the full moon casts a spell for "Prosperity" and she strikes the lottery the next day, and you do the same and the guy who clears the tables at your restaurant steals your tips, that doesn't mean that you're a less-advanced or less "powerful" witch (I don't like the term "witch" either, for the same power connotation as "spell"). It simply means that you work with a son-of-a-bitch. Go do a ritual and meditate on how God/s/esses want you to deal with it.

Finally, I just have to say that I do not like the concept of "working" within any religious context Wiccan/witch/Pagan or otherwise. Christianity purports that man is not saved "by works alone," in fact is not saved at all but by Christ. Supposedly we need not to anything other than accept Christ, and then we will be given Grace (after which you are expected to work to produce "Fruits of the Spirit" in order to prove to ourselves and others that Christ-is-in-our-lives, and in order to receive more grace in our daily lives rather than just after-life insurance, but they don't get into that until the second Sunday school class). But, as Bishop Katherine Jefferts Schori (thank you, Raekan!) points out, taking the words right out of my brain, accepting Christ is a work. So, ultimately, Christians have a script to repeat, an incantation, too (Believe me, in my past lives as a Lutheran, a Baptist, etc., I've seen it in black and white form many times. You probably have too. Also, Catholics use incense and have those little stand-up-and-down-in-unison things and repeat-after-me-from-this-book-of-scripts thing, and the monks chant and plus some other stuff they integrated into their celebrations that they stole from...hey Wiccans - any of this sounding a little bit like anything else???). In any case, I do not believe that we need to work in any respect to receive anything from God/s/esses. I think blessings are freely given, and that we receive both good and bad to grow us as humans into people that are closer to God/s/esses, our only truly righteous Guide, and that any ritual we perform, spell we cast, chant we say or prayer should all just be each of our own ways to connect to that God/s/esses and know that blessings are true, that both blessings and trials are coming (they always are), and that we are/will be okay.

All in Our Heads?

2009-07-06T16:54:00.002-04:00

I wanted to share a link to this book review: Doctoring the Mind by Richard Bentall. I have not read the book (thus no review from me posted here), but am very interested just from what the reviewer revealed in her article. For example, did you know that several researchers once checked themselves into hospitals, faking mental illness at intake and, despite showing no further displays of psychosis while they were there, were diagnosed with schizophrenia? One was kept for treatment for 52 days. He must've really had something wrong with him. Oy.

This book goes on my list of to-reads, which is really a rather long list by now. Might drive me crazy.

Peas and Weenies

2009-07-04T16:39:00.007-04:00

This past Wednesday M and I took off to the beach. We ended up on Pea Island, which is not at all in the shape of a pea. It was nearly deserted - was pretty much like having a private beach to ourselves. I was bored. We packed up and went over to Nag's Head, where there were more people to watch and make up stories about in my head. Of note, there were a few younger couples who took their open beers out into the ocean, holding them up as the waves hit them. Salty ocean water beer? Doesn't sound appealing. I don't like beer at all, much less salty ocean water contaminated beer.

M tried and failed to get me to venture out more than 3 feet into the ocean. I shall not go out into the ocean any length that is longer than my body unless and until some sort of safety device such as a life jacket is attached to my person. Maybe not even then. I'm scared of everything, but this fear is amplified by an Event that took place last summer wherein I was sucked into the very bowels of the ocean by a massive wave, only to come to shore gagging and coughing and snorting after literally seeing light from under water and willing myself toward it. So, no. No waves for me, thank you.

On the way over to the beach, it should also be duly noted that I had a Revelation. I shall speak of it now. Over the years, man has seen much progress. In general, when we make progress, we tend to go along with that progress - well, at least those of us that are not attached to a religious group that is scared of it and thinks it the work of the Devil go along with it. To wit, I question modern man's tactic of making bonafide, enjoyable progress an option for us to select and participate in on a buffet basis. I'm talking about something in particular that is of major convenience and so obviously not of the Devil as to possibly be thought of as very nearly perhaps brought down by God him/herself.

I submit to you the bun-length weenie.

Now that we have developed the bun-length weenie, why is there any other weenie on the market? WHO, tell me WHO wants two soft lumps of bread left over after eating their hot dog? Please tell me who. Yes, we have pets, and it's lovely to be able to give them leftovers, and perhaps the makers of the continuing "regular" weenies have a case in that regard, but, please, regular weenies are completely out of date at this point. They are laughable and ridiculous in the face of bun-length weenies and, really, to keep them going is an affront not only to progress but to the regular weenie's memory. Maybe we could bring them back on a bicentennial basis to celebrate the good ol' days, but, other than that, I think we should be through with them. It's only fair to the future. Retire the regular weenie. It is the only way to honor the weenie in general, both regular size and long weenies alike.

And in health related news...

2009-06-29T12:47:00.004-04:00

I made the dreaded phone call to my car loan people today and had a full rectal exam. Twice. After that, they were kind enough to inform me that I was "past the one payment option" and that even though I made a payment (which would bring me up to two months behind instead of three), they would still continue along the process of taking "action." I love the little phrases they come up with to thinly veil threats with politeness and social grace. I tried to go online and pay, but I got a notice in little red letters telling me that I was a worthless, no-good whore, actually, no, I wasn't a whore, but that they wish I were a whore so that then maybe I could make a payment, and that, furthermore, I could no longer take advantage of the privilege of making a payment online but was expected to contact a member-of-customer-service immediately. I love how minions of corporate service are called, quite conversely, members of customer service. It cost me $10 extra on my payment to call a minion and make a payment by (mobile) phone.

I also called MOSCO, the maker of ONE STEP Corn Remover Pads and told them that I had religiously applied the pads for two whole days and that the corns, fueled on dramatically by my new job as a waitress, had done nothing but turn white and that that had freaked me out even more so than the corns. The kind lady told me that the turning white "meant that it was working" and to keep using the product until the corn fell off (fell off??). Safe, Easy, Effective. Actually, it is an entire double set of pinky toes that have grown off of the sides of my old, original pinky toes like some sort of hardened, parasitic leeches or evil, painful Siamese twins.

Quick Post on Writing and Such

2009-06-24T16:00:00.005-04:00

The girls and I walked without incident today. It was kind of boring.

I finally got down to writing, one of my daily goals for writing 500 words a day. I took that down from 1,000 because 1,000 just seemed to daunting. I put 500 words and exercising on my list of daily goals and I don't think I've done either since posting that list on the refrigerator several days ago. Today I finally did some writing, though I didn't exercise, unless the short walk with the dogs counts, which...I'm gonna say it did.

It's a funny thing about writing. I really, really want to write, but apparently I also really, really don't because I will put it off and procrastinate. I'll organize everything there is to organize then go find something else to organize just before I take the notion to sit down and write. Today was good, though. The pressure was off because it was just 500 words, and I got it done. One other thing I do when I go to write is that I end up going back over and editing and tend to delay any new progress that way. It's amazing what you can realize when going back to a piece with the fresh pair of eyes that develops after a good amount of time away. Today, I found my narrative voice to be very overbearing. The highlighted note I put in my text was "too narrator-y." Also, I found a good deal of melodrama, and held flowery, fancy words responsible. I find that I like a more stark, get-to-it ("it" being action) style. This doesn't mean "fast-paced," to which I tend to turn my nose up, but just bare bowns writing, which makes me think of Natalie Goldberg's writing guide "Writing Down the Bones," which I have yet to read but think I still have somewhere, hopefully. In any case, I am thinking more and more that I need to go back and re-read Ron McLarty's The Memory of Running because it is one of the few books I read a long while ago that has stuck with me, and I remember thinking over and over again while reading that this was such a good book and he was exactly who I wanted to write something like.

Anyway, I've gotta go put my pressed white shirt and dark jeans and black belt and waitress apron on and go to work. I'm wearing the same bra and undershirt that I wore yesterday - they're all I have right now - and they have stains from spilt tea or something on them.

Guard Cat

2009-06-23T14:36:00.006-04:00

Paladar did another two-bagger today. I actually took up the two bags and placed them within a third just to be sure not to get any on my hands. Luna followed us for a little while, but when I looked back just before I turned onto the next road, she wasn't behind us, so I can only assume that she stayed close to home.

Luna wasn't the problem this time though.

Like I said, I picked up a two-bagger mush doodie out of someone's lawn. I got up as much of it as I could and moved on. I did look back, I don't know why, it must've been some sort of primal, inner tiddlywinks telling me that danger was near because when I did look back, there was a cat sitting on the lawn, laying down in attack mode like they do. It was gray, white paws with blue eyes and its ears were in the antennae position of evil vengeance. It looked like the kind of cat that would belong to a Malevolent Mastermind a la Austin Powers' Dr. Evil or Darth Vader or any of the antagonistic characters in any cartoon that ran during the 1980's.

And it did not like us.

That much was clear. It stared us down the whole way that we walked until I turned back around to face forwards at the point at which I felt it couldn't fly through the air and pounce on us. It was sort of like judging the target radius capabilities of a nuclear firearm.

Blogger Note: Blogger actually recognized "tiddlywinks" as a word and helped me spell it. Now I've got to go look it up and see if I'm using it correctly; I'm probably not. Blogger also listed "turtlenecks" as an alternate spelling.

Making a Literary Life by Carolyn See

2009-06-23T12:51:00.003-04:00

Because I read Stephen Koch's The Modern Library Writer's Workshop: A Guide to the Craft of Fiction first, my initial instinct when writing this review for Making a Literary Life by Carolyn See was to compare and contrast the two. Before I do that, let me say that See's submission to the many guides on the subject of writing is a good book, with clear, practical advice and any beginning writer would do well to read it.

That said, when I thought to compare these two guides against each other, I was suddenly disappointed with Carolyn See's style. I realized that her text represents the stereotypical woman's voice - less dense, less authoritative than that of Stephen Koch. However, Carolyn See's style has merits that Stephen Koch does not. She is witty, warm and conversational. She is a woman you would like, a woman you would take advice from, because she comes across as a best friend. Sadly, as with many women's work, this voice could prevent writers from giving her due attention. "Serious" writers are looking for a more self-assured professor type who displays a breadth and depth of knowledge of literature and writing, which Koch certainly does. Even the titles - "Literary Life" and "Writer's Workshop" are revealing in their opposing styles, their contrast according to gender.

To be clear, both writers, both published - thus, in my eyes, successful - have sound advice to offer any person learning their craft. I don't know if I think women should write more like men. I don't know if Carolyn See should have, if possible, written more like Stephen Koch. Part of me says no. But I can easily see how Koch's book may be taken more seriously because of both his style and his content. My leaning is to say that Koch's instructions were more and better than See's. My preference for Koch and my guilt for that preference, my confusion about my reasons for that preference and the merits of those reasons makes this a difficult review to write, wherein I talk more about the writing styles of the book(s) than I do about the content about the one book I am reviewing, which...

I guess is appropriate for a review of a book about...writing.

I'm writing about the writing in a book(s) about writing.

One thing that Carolyn See does that Koch neglects to do is go beyond the writing process in and of it self as she delves into the process of publishing - in a good portion of the latter part of the book, written in what is obviously the writer's personal hindsight, we are given warnings, instructions and encouragement for publishing our work(s). Though I felt a section on what to do during the publishing process was a bit presumptious (my novel could be published? yeah, right) I enjoyed reading the advice and having my eyes opened as to the dark world that is the Publishing Business, even more so than my pessimism had already suspected/expected, yet I was also provided with the notion that perhaps publication was/is possible. - 4 stars

Bullshit Bill Follow-Up

2009-06-22T17:18:00.006-04:00

As a follow-up to the article I posted in this blog post, nytimes.com published this article:

Lobbying Intensifies, but Fate of Sex Abuse Bill Is Up in the Air

As I indicated in the previous post, this bill is not enough, but it is something. Adding a few more years to the statute of limitations is one teeny, tiny baby step toward progress.

And "the Catholic Church and some Orthodox Jewish organizations" have successfully lobbied to hold it off thus far.

I can understand that these two groups are shaking in their booties about the prospect of an onslaught of legal action against them, tarnishing their "good" name, especially if some of that legal pursuit is from an unspoken but implied group of false accusations.

But this is the kind of issue where the egregious actions of a few, or several, or even thousands, should not deter the justice of even any one person.

Bravo, Archbishop Phillip Aspinall

2009-06-22T16:56:00.003-04:00

"'Uniform approach' needed to abuse issue" from The Sydney Morning Herald:

Thumbs up, Archbishop Phillip Aspinall of the Anglican Church...Thumbs down, Queensland Government of Austrailia.

Mixed

2009-06-22T16:15:00.006-04:00

From nytimes.com comes this article: Connecticut School District That Clung to Tracking is Letting Go: "No Longer Letting Scores Separate Pupils."

My first year of teaching, I was assigned "tech" classes. For those of you that don't know - first year, beginning, less experienced teachers are given the most difficult students.

ALL of the students in my classes were literally failures. They were in my class because, at some point, they had failed an English class. They had records of previous poor behavior, came from families that neglected to show either supportive concern for their education or proper discipline. They were in gangs, doing drugs, and pregnant just a few years into puberty. They fed off of each other, girding each other on in disrupting class, repeating destructive behaviors and failing to make progress. Incidentally, most of these students were black. No child left behind? These children were completely abandoned. I was abandoned by administration. I was little more than a babysitter. I often felt that I was the only sane person in the room. It was 21 against 1, and I was the odd one out. It was a set up for (continued) failure, for both me as a new teacher and for the students, who weren't new to failure at all. If these students - students who had generated a defense mechanism and friends that actually rewarded them for failing - didn't cooperate, it was because I wasn't charismatic, authoritative or interesting enough. As a teacher, at least for me, your self-esteem gets wrapped up in your ability and performance as a teacher; this situation resulted in desolation for me that only further drained my ability to handle these students. Believe me, it's not as easy as it looks in "Dangerous Minds."

The next year, I entered into the "Freshman Academy" program that my school was starting. That second year was the best year of my (brief) career as a teacher. I experienced the mixed-ability classroom that this article discusses. I had students of all "levels" - "tech," "college prep" and students who might be candidates for honors classes in the near future. I wasn't overwhelmed. Although I would never put the responsibility for one student's behavior or another, I felt like I had some help in the room via peer pressure. The higher achieving students kept the lower achieving students in check through peer pressure and by example. Did I still struggle with the worst students? Of course. But, again, was I overwhelmed? No. Did I have hope? Yes. I was allowed the opportunity to experience what other teachers were experiencing - students that were interested and active in learning. Not even gold is more precious to a teacher.

When you mix students of varying abilities in a classroom, everyone and everything improves. Of course, in the article, the snotty honors childrens' parents put up a fuss. They don't want the gene pool tainted with those dirty, poor, black, ne'er-do-well students.

From the article:

"But Joshua P. Starr, the Stamford superintendent, said the tracking system has failed to prepare children in the lower levels for high school and college. 'There are certainly people who want to maintain the status quo because some people have benefited from the status quo,' he said. 'I know that we cannot afford that anymore. It’s not fair to too many kids.'"

Bravo, Mr. Starr, Bravo.

Still, for those snotty parents, here's a list of ways your little snots can benefit from mixed ability classes:

1) Leadership - Students will be able to actually lead and mentor their peers. This will provide them the instant gratification of earned self-esteem. It will also be of use later in their lives. Furthermore, research suggests that information is best learned and retained when the learner teaches another. Most importantly to snotty parents, it looks good on their college application.

2) Compassion - Instead of looking down upon and judging their lower-achieving peers like their snotty parents, students may actually develop, if not empathy, compassion for their peers that may lead to benevolent action, instead of sympathy which only leads to a greeting card, which, again, may come into play later on in their lives. Of most importance to snotty parents, it looks good on their college application.

3) Reality - Instead of walking around in their own little sheltered, privileged world like their snotty parents, higher-achieving students may actually get a glimpse at what poverty means. They may actually have some vague idea of what it is like to be a less fortunate, disadvantaged person living in the United States. Now, this one might not go on their college application, but - stay with me here - it will certainly help them not to look like complete assholes, if you snotty parents care about that at all, which you probably don't.

So - Parents, administrators, school districts across the country, please consider really changing classes into mixed-ability classrooms (instead of simply providing lip service and semi-change which seems to really be the status quo in education) because I believe, through experience, that it could not only be a change for good, but a change for excellence all around.

Living at Night by Mariana Romo-Carmona

2009-06-20T10:37:00.004-04:00

Living at Night is a novel that I read for my now defunct Lesbian Book Club.

When selecting this book, I was suggestively promised an intelligent novel that dealt with race, class and disability from a lesbian point of view. Romo-Carmona writes about a young latina woman who works in a facility for the mentally retarded and disabled. On the side, she has some relationship issues. She also has a great deal of car trouble.

Either of these plot lines could become intriguing stories, but unfortunately neither does. We simply don't get to know the characters - from the protagonist, to her ex, to her best friend, to her patients - well enough to care. It is all too vague, superficial, and becomes more of a day-in-the-life account with very little plot. Protagonist goes to work, leaves work, thinks about her ex, talks with her best friend, repeat cycle. We, as a reader's group, were all disappointed in what was done with the concepts involved when contrasted with what could have been done. We felt that we simply weren't given very much. One member of my group noted that she couldn't create a picture in her mind of what the characters look like, though there were descriptions of the characters; I remember very specifically because they were so dry.

One issue for sure is that there were so many possibilities that didn't come to fruition - several candidates for romance were passed over, and several opportunities to create profound, meaningful characters out of the patients at the hospital were passed over in preference to simply skimming over all of them.

I think that would be my review in summary - the potential of this novel simply didn't come to fruition. The major issues at hand (race, class, disability) weren't really explored in depth, nor the relationships. Thus, instead of an intelligent rendering of a latina lesbian working with disabled women and resolving her previous romantic relationship, we got what sounded more like the diary of a bored teenager. - 2 stars

Crack UP is more like it

2009-06-19T15:09:00.004-04:00

From my very own upstate of South Carolina comes this:

Crack down: Student behavior code change in Oconee

The "crack down" involves classifying behaviors into categories "1" and "2." I cannot really tell without a closer read which category is supposed to be worse than the other.

Parents, if you want to know what is going on in the schools, consult a list of what the school says students cannot do. It is very telling. If you have to specifically tell someone not to sexually harrass another, you can bet that at least one incident has already taken place. It's kind of like a tornado warning - the warning doesn't go out until a twister's already been spotted.

Here's a lengthy list of no-no's from the same article on upstatetoday.com:

"...included are harassment; hazing; cutting school; truancy; excessive tardiness; and early dismissals; profanity/obscene gestures; possession of a lighter or matches; participation in gangs or gang-related activity; possession of fireworks, live ammunition or other incendiary devices; missing detention; dress code violations; violation of parking regulations; any behavior or act that interferes with the safe operation of a school bus; possession of radios, tape players and electronic entertainment devices; excessive noise; violation of a behavior contract; theft of school or personal property where value is less than $50; theft of school or personal property where value is $50 or more; and vandalism of school or personal."

And what do the schools intend to do about it?

Why, they're going to counsel them and give them time-outs. That outta teach 'em.

And teach them it will. It will teach them that the behaviors listed above are acceptable.

I should say that suspension and expulsion are both on the table as well, but as any teacher knows, the school has to be very nearly burned to the ground in order for that to happen.

Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle

2009-06-19T12:07:00.004-04:00

I actually have been reading for the past few months, I just haven't been doing book reviews...

I read this book for my local library book club. As I've moved, that library isn't local anymore, so I am between book clubs at the moment.

I have never heard of the phrase "tortilla curtain;" I don't know if it is a common phrase or simply an apropos title for this book, but it sounds like it could be a popular phrase along the line of "glass ceiling."

In this novel, the reader follows two lives - that of a hippy writer kept by his uppity realtor wife and a Mexican couple seeking work on the U.S. side of the border. The contrast between these two American families could not be more clear, and what is most poignant is the reality that, outside of the book, these differences are not exaggerated. When these two lives intersect after a traffic incident, we read Dylaney's primarily inner conflict when liberalism faces racism and Candido's struggle when hope confronts disaster after disaster.

The petty obstacles present in Delaney's easy existence are manifest in his concerns with dinner parties and acceptance within his social circle, his wife Kyra's conflict over the sale of a massive property she covets for herself, while in contrast Candido faces poverty to the point of starvation and his wife, ironically named America (supposedly a land of hope and prosperity), is raped and beaten by - again, ironically - two other immigrants.

Converse to the families' differences, one point that stands out to me as I write this review is the similarity of the distance between the man and woman of both couples as each couple faces essentially the same struggle, one against an entire race of people, the other against racism.

Rich with symbolism and painfully engaging, Boyle's novel, though originally published over ten years ago, is a timely social statement about our attitudes and actions as a nation still mired in xenophobia, be it against people just over the border or somewhere in the Middle East. This is thoughtfully and thoroughly written, making for a read that will make you think thoroughly about your own position regarding peoples outside of your own culture. - 4 stars

Facts

2009-06-16T15:59:00.003-04:00

1.) I do not like cleaning bathrooms.

2.) I almost walked out of the store with the plastic grocery basket at Food Lion today.

3.) As I was leaving the Food Lion shopping center, I saw a woman standing outside the cheap-o hair salon with hair dye on her hair, smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone. I didn't know you could do that.

4.) On the way home, I circled around the neighborhood so I could hear the rest of Destiny Child's "Survivor." (Did you know that they are contractually obligated to put out one more album as a group?)

5.) A few weeks ago I took some nail polish back to Rite Aid after I decided I didn't like the color. I'm still wearing the polish on my toes from when I tried it out.

Hello, Neighbors

2009-06-09T11:47:00.006-04:00

Today I took the dogs for a walk - M discovered a circular voyage around the neighborhood which would very easily take us a distance sufficient enough for Paladar to be so inclined as to move her bowels and which would very conveniently bring us back home without my having to remember how to get there. I've completed the course before, but today was a little different.

Today, I walked two dogs and one cat. Luna decided to come along. She wasn't leashed.

She followed us for a good distance, looking behind her every so often then picking up a good trot to keep up with the girls - Paladar, Harley - and me. It was fun, at first - I talked to her, deciding whether or not to encourage her to go with us or go back home. At some point, a mail truck joined the troops as well, and that freaked Luna out. We got past that by waiting for the mail truck to pass us and I found that when you're walking two dogs and one cat that's not on a leash the mail truck actually goes a lot faster than you, even with the stops.

At some point between the mail truck and the water drain I knew we were in it to win it - we had gone far enough from home that Luna was going to have to come with us until we got back home or else I worried she might be lost. I don't know - I don't know how far cats can go from home and still find their way back; I don't know if they're like Lassie and shit. I probably should have turned around before we got that far.

We went along another little bit when we came up to the water drain, which doesn't have a grate. Turns out Luna was the perfect fit and went directly down into it of course, dropping down to a distance I couldn't determine, like it was a little hobbit escape hole she knew well. At this point I was really worried because I didn't know if she could get back out, and I certainly didn't know if there was an underground sewage tunnel she could follow and come out at a drain closer to home, perhaps, hopefully? instead of into a rather large pond full of sewage.

I went to the drain and started calling her; she gave out those helpless little cat mews that they give when they are stuck up a tree or, as it so happens, in the opposite case where they are stuck in a below-ground drain. I still couldn't see how far down she was. Luckily, after a few moments, she crawled back out just as expertly as she had ducked down into it.

It was very shortly after this point that I realized that not only did Luna have to come with us, but also that we were a little past the half-way point. Now it would take longer to turn around and go back than to keep going - we would have to go forward, which is to say, around.

I was leading the expedition as best I could, and had almost lost track of the dogs completely because I was concentrating on the cat so much. I had no idea whether or not Paladar had dumped one in the street or in someone's unfortunate lawn. But I'm generally a good neighbor, and I know I've been doing the right thing with the blue poop baggies so far, and I was obviously struggling, so hopefully they would be forgiving.

The water drain incident behind us, Luna started seeking shade. It became increasingly difficult to spur her on with high-pitched, coaxing female cat-lover voice. She found the shade and she wanted to stay in the shade and do that disconcerting yet funny panting thing they do when they're in the car and on the way to the vet's office or, say, in the car for three and a half hours during the drive moving everyone to an undisclosed location about an hour away from Raleigh. I didn't know they did it in other circumstances, such as taking a walk around the neighborhood when it's hot outside. Should've figured. I very much felt like a member of a hiking group wherein one other member, despite lack of visible injury, had simply sat down, declaring exhaustion, refusing to go further, and pulled a candy bar out of their knapsack. I had to go on to more than one neighbor's lawn and drag her from under a bush or a car or a truck. I didn't know which they would less appreciate - me coming up onto their lawn to retrieve the cat, or leaving the cat there, possibly forever. I would pick her up and carry her for a ways until she started squirming, then I would let her go and encourage her to come along until she found another piece of shade and sat down. Repeat cycle.

I was carrying her when Paladar stepped on to a lawn to poop. I sat Luna down while I pulled out a bag. Luna waited patiently under a shade spot while I picked up a two-bagger. She followed along until, again, shade, so I had to pick her up again. For those of you who can't keep count, let me paint this picture - myself, carrying Luna, two dogs on a leash, and now the two bags of soft-serve, warm doodie. We walked through the neighborhood like this until a car went by, at which point I had learned to set her down to the side on the edge of a lawn, hold her gently until the car passed, then pick her up and keep going.

We were pretty close to home when my nose started itching, so I leaned down and held Luna up to scratch my nose with her shoulder blade. That didn't do too much good, just deposited a bit of fur on my nose, but fur was pretty much covering nearly the rest of me by now anyway, especially my hands. I let her go about three houses away from home, I figured we were in the safe zone, and she ran from shady spot to shady spot, mouth open and panting with a wild look on her face. There was a neighbor weed whacking the edge of her lawn who introduced herself as we approached home, but I've already forgotten her name.

It's hot outside, the girls are in the kitchen cooling down, I imagine Luna is somewhere in a shady spot outside, and I've gotta go study for my waitressing test.

Note: M, who is logical beyond reason, will probably read this and, knowing more about cats, will say that I could've just left her and she would have found her way home, or else that if I was worried I could have just turned around and come back home, or else that I could have completed the walk then gone out to find Luna and bring her back home afterwards, or else she'll come up with a solution more logical than all three of these I have offered so far.

But then where would have been the adventure in that.

Blogger note: Spell check doesn't recognize "doodie" as a word.

Bill is Bullshit

2009-06-07T13:12:00.005-04:00

The New York Times posted this article: Bill on Childhood Sexual Abuse Suits Is Amended to Add an Age Limit .

While I have always remembered my trauma from the moment it happened on, many victims of sexual abuse store their abuse in some locked portion of their brain until it comes out later. While there has been debate over whether or not these sort of coming-out-of-the-sexual-abuse closet reports are founded in fact, I do believe that many self-reported victims are sincere and warrant investigation. As Rich Cerick is quoted in the article, "There is either justice for all or there is no justice."

Which is why "Ms. Markey’s" bill is bullshit. Apparently it is a New York bill that would allow older victims of (long) past sexual child abuse to pursue their predators under the law. Sounds great, right? But wait! First, the bill is "temporary," meant to last for a period of twelve months while permanent change takes place: Currently, victims have 5 short years after their 18th birthday to report their abuse; that would be increased to ten.

The temporary bill, with the new amendment, would allow a grace period of one year for victims up to the age of 53 to report their abuse. After that, if you're over 28, you're shit out of luck.

Why the fuck is the bill temporary? Why the fuck can't we do the right thing, right away? Why are there these ridiculously extended transition periods for just change? For another example, as I learned during orientation for my steakhouse waitress job, a ban on smoking law that recently passed in North Carolina won't go into effect until December.

And why the hell is the age limit set at the arbitrary age of 53? I didn't understand some finer points of the article, but it seems as if the bill is in response to victims who had filed claims and were denied. I think the bill is giving those specific victims the chance to have their claim heard.

For those political pundits out there, please note that, while the bill sucks, it is something, at least for a little while, and the Republicans have been opposing it.

Why? Because, in general, they are old, male, white-haired little pricks? Well, no, I mean, that too, but also because "Religious Organizations" think the bill is unfair and well lead to an onslaught of accusations that could be "financially devastating" to them.

the FUCK? Really, Pope? You'd rather protect your money than your people?

In response, the bill was amended by "adding provisions overriding protections enjoyed by public entities, and making them equally liable." I didn't know "public entities" had those enjoyable "protections," but apparently the Pope's piping up did a good thing - now victims can go the hell after those suckers too.

But only for a limited time.

For that, predator's lawyers are thankful, glad that the age limitation will wipe out an estimated third of the suits they have to deal with. But hey predator lawyers - wouldn't that wipe out the money you could make defending these fuckers?

Recently I read an article concerning the upcoming Pride season in the GLBT community and encouraging us to not be satisfied with the liberties we have been tossed so far, but to demand total equality with our heterosexual peers. In the same way, though this bill, like a magical door in a fairytale, opens up the opportunity for justice until it disappears, sexual abuse victims should not be satisfied, should not be anywhere near satisfied, until society and lawmakers catch up to what victims, therapists, social workers have known for years, and allow the full-out pursuit of justice for any and all victims, regardless of the time that has passed since the crime has taken place.

Don't be ignorant - sexual abuse alters and affects a life for the rest of that life. Though that may sound incredibly damning and rooted in victimization, it is simply true. Even if after a lot of hard work victims are able to free themselves from many of the effects of sexual abuse, I dare say that, if you ask any victim, of any age, they would still say that there remains some affect on who they are as a person, good and/or bad. I hate the phrase "takes away their innocence," somehow indicating that once the child grows to the point that their innocence would have naturally vanished, they should be fine, recovered from their abuse.

I hope that eventually society and lawmakers will change their ideas about sexual abuse and truly treat it for the horrific crime that it is. "Tough on crime" lip service that lets a child molester out of prison as long as he doesn't give out candy on Halloween is perpetuating the slaughter of children's spirits. Even one child is too many, but, believe me, believe the statistics and multiply them while you're at it, sexual abuse at its current rate is a massacre.

Desperate Housedyke

2009-06-07T12:33:00.007-04:00

Help. I am lonely and bored to fucking tears. M is at work and I have the whole day off (I started a job as a waitress at a mid-priced steakhouse last week). I am alone with only housework, possibly walking the dogs, going to the park, (forcing myself to write? that would be good), and taking my not-so-slip-resistant shoes back to Wal-Mart to occupy my time. I'm assuming having children around would make this a little bit better? Amanda?

I have a constant inner-dialogue running through my head as I vaccum, mostly about blogging how bored and lonely I am, and it is driving me crazy. I suppose I could scare up some superficial human contact (Wal-mart, McDonald's?), but really, that's just a tease. The idea of calling in to the steakhouse and asking if I could come in for a few hours and run food like I did last night crossed my mind. But they would probably think I'm crazy, and not in any good way.

M and I are away from friends, with just ourselves to talk to each other, and that's nice, it really is, but the isolation and claustrophobia is eventually going to drive me bonkers, I think. We, I, need friends.

Post Subtitle: Small Town Lesbian Oasis....or Twilight Zone?

Incredibly, M and I are seeing lesbians all over the place here, which is an undisclosed location about an hour away from Raleigh, NC. Some have come in to M's store; I've run in to them at various spots around town. The other day I orbited around a lesbian couple at the Food Lion. I actually approached them at their car as they were leaving (they were directly behind me at check-out) and tried to talk to them, telling them my girlfriend and I were new in the neighborhood and hadn't met any friends yet. The butch one was friendly, but the femme quickly marched herself around and into the car.

So, they are all around us, but I don't know how to go about establishing, again, more than superficial contact. It's like trying to contact fucking aliens. We know they're there, because we've seen them, at least we think we've seen them, parking at Food Lion in their little UFO's, rolling down the window and letting the dog (a German Shephard) wait behind, but I'm not beeping or screeching at the right frequency to establish on-going communication.

Okay, I'm gonna go talk to the dogs and see if they'll at least do that thing where they crook their head to the side and look at me like they're trying to figure out what I'm saying.

Teacher Assessment

2009-05-30T18:39:00.003-04:00

Throughout my job search, I have been subject to several potential employee assessments meant to determine whether I would make a fitting servant. The questions are along the line of "Do you think that it is ever okay to take home company supplies such as pens or a stapler?"

As a result, I have thoughtfully come up with a Teacher Assessment meant to determine whether you have the chops to teach. Here it is:

1.) Are you a masochist?

2.) Do you consider yourself to be an authoritative person, i.e. a bossy pants?

3.) Are you willing for children to absolutely hate your evil guts?

4.) Do you feel like you know and understand young people - their actions (such as keying your car after school) and attitudes (such as arrogant and sarcastic)?

5.) Do you consider yourself to be a leader, i.e. bossy pants?

6.) Do you have a lot of confidence in yourself, i.e. think you are always right no matter what?

7.) Have you ever worked as a manager at a store or company? Would that be something you would like to do, i.e. boss people around?

8.) Are you willing to stay after school so late that you are already there the next morning?

9.) Are you willing to have red, green, blue, whatever-color-the-overhead-pen-was-that-day fingers?

10.) Are you willing to burn out and have a nervous breakdown between 3 - 10 years into your career?

11.) Is your bladder at least twice the size of that of a normal person?

Thank you for completeing this assessment. If your level of delusion meets our needs, we will be in contact with you.