Entries from October 2003 ↓
October 31st, 2003 — Photography
I snapped a few photos at last week’s Great American Pumpkin Carve and am building the birthday photo album later today.
Sans tiara, fuck-me boots and red magic marker. Sadly, 50 Cent did not make an appearance. Instead I got my period, a rejection letter for that job I interviewed for and someone (accidentally) spilled sweetened tea* in my lap. On my new birthday jeans. There was, however, beer and tequila and I think I hummed some Lil Kim in my head so, I guess I’m only sort of not that kind of girl. Pictures in a bit.
ADDENDUM: Birthday photos are finally up, as is another gallery of pictures I took Halloween afternoon.
*A pre-emptive note to the VCB: Get your own blog fuckwit.
October 28th, 2003 — Lists
October 27th, 2003 — Assorted
If I was that kind of girl I would tell you that tomorrow is my birthday. The birthday that will make me closer to 30 than 20. Halfway to 52. The kind of birthday where I spend all day watching videos, then drink beer and sip tequila at night and dance to 50 Cent and/or Lil Kim in my apartment wearing nothing but a birthday tiara, fuck-me boots and red marker denoting me QUEEN B.
But I’m so not that kind of girl.
October 26th, 2003 — Sick/Twisted
Sometimes at work children too big to sit in those nasty highchairs [Parents: If you think those highchairs are even remotely clean you are sort of not at all smart. Bring some sort of cleansing wipe and use it before you let your infant lick on it.] relegated to the end of the table instead get to sit next to the grown-ups in the booth. The booths where I work are wooden, with removable padding for posteriors. Those are easiest to clean and more easily replaceable.
Anyway kids, usually toddlers in booster seats, will sit next to their Moms and Pops and pull all the sweetener out of the caddies and try to hand me saliva-soaked bits of bread and chew the tabletop while banging furiously their tiny fists in anticipation of Honey Mustard-soaked, frozen then fried Chicken Tenders.
Sometimes, in the throes of a tearful fit, a kid will throw back his head with all the might and velocity of a…well, a really hungry fucking toddler. And, assuming the booth behind him is also padded, cracks his skull against the wooden panelling with a thunderous clap.
I secretly love it when that happens.
October 23rd, 2003 — Dream Life
This morning I awoke to remember a single thing about the night’s dreams. It was an angrily hissed insult that tickled me immensly once I pushed into consciousness: “Why don’t you go suck a cock. Slowly.”
October 21st, 2003 — Work Related
I have a job interview tomorrow.
It isn’t for a fancy newspaper writing gig or a copy writing position or anything remotely creative at all. I thought for a long time if I took a new job after graduation it had best be in my field or what the fuck did I go to school for? I thought a non-creative position would be admitting defeat or settling somehow. I opted for a creative degree against my family’s slight discouragment in full confidence that the reason for my post-high school education was not to secure a high-paying job, but to become a rounder, more knowledgeable person. Which I totally did. I wanted to major in something I wanted to do, not something that would get me a climate-controlled SUV and a big screen. My favorite journlism teacher told me that newspaper writing is a calling, not a career. Still, I wanted to write, as I do still today.
The beautiful thing about writing is, no one has to pay you to do it. It totally fucking rules when they do, but I wasn’t getting paid to pen plays in day care, so why should I expect money for it now.
The point is, I’ve finally come to my breaking point. With the service industry that is. When I come home from work I smell like greasy fried onions. It disgusts me. I fucking hate everything about it. I make a lot of money, most of it tax-free, and have a very lax schedule, but every time I pull into that parking lot I want to cry. I am mean to the people I work with. I am bitingly sarcastic and short with my guests if they so much as look at me oddly. Someone asked me the other day what we would be broadcasting on the televisions while I was particularly busy in the servers’ well and I was terribly abrupt. He was surprised and claimed he “was only wondering,” in response to which I gave him the world’s most hollow, non-genuine, exaggerated smile I could manage. In order to express how much I totally loathed him, of course.
I’d say it’s time I get out.
That guy didn’t deserve that. The servers I bitch out on a nightly basis for being totally retarded (no really, they are) don’t deserve that. My managers don’t deserve the utter disrespect that sits brimming just beneath my versed veneer. I can fake a smile in an instant, but lately I cannot hide my underlying contempt. Most importantly, I don’t deserve that. Lots of people bitch about their jobs. My new place of employ might suck out loud. But at least it will suck differently. It won’t be that same janky, broke-ass margarita machine. It won’t be the minimum seven pieces of flair rule.
Yes, it’s finally time for me to go.
I’m confident I am more than qualified for the position I am interviewing for tomorrow, and suspect I’ll be starting a new line of work within one month.
One day soon I will never wear a uniform to work again.
October 17th, 2003 — Work Related
Bartending is an art form. I totally believe that. And I don’t mean the show-offy bottle tossing, super-fancy pouring so often played up in television and movies. What I am talking about is precision. Intuition. A steady, practiced hand. The ability to build a drink that is nuanced and delicate or powerful and complex. Bartending is something done best by those who wholely love it.
I, however, do not.
Because bartending is so much more than mixing cocktails. It requires a fondness for people I can’t quite muster. It requires one move fast and think fast and talk fast. You are not only the beer-pourer you are the buddy, the sports expert, the hot little number. And you have to pretend to enjoy it all.
Continue reading →
October 16th, 2003 — Sick/Twisted
Me: I never realized my jealousy might be out of fear, which I saw today on Oprah, which totally makes me hate me.
The VCB: Sometimes the universe is trying to send you a message. And sometimes the universe is trying to send you a message… and Oprah’s on.
October 14th, 2003 — Uncategorized
I finally saw Lost in Translation ten-thousand years after everyone else, and like everyone else thought it was brilliant. Few movies suck me fully into them, but this one not only ensnared me, it left me a puddle for the rest of the evening.
Movies like that make me want to write movies.
Before the movie the VCB and I had a shit-ton of sushi. We took some pictures. And since I have gotten requests for photos of the illustrious VCB, I thought I’d oblige.
Let’s just hope after this he doesn’t go breaking up with me.
See them here:
October 13th, 2003 — Assorted
Last night, while I was working behind the bar:
Commish, a banker: I am going to celebrate Columbus Day tomorrow by getting up from the bed and aiming for the couch. And ending up at the dryer.
Me: Once you get there maim and kill everything you find in it.