Entries from December 2003 ↓

The only thing worse than spilling a glass full of red wine all over the table, floor and rug of your new place, is, while cleaning up the first, spilling a second full glass of red wine all over your newest sweater and jeans.

And to think I was a bartender…

Why I adore a certain 6-year-old:

Me: Guess what! I don’t have a job!

A certain 6-year-old: Well, I don’t have pierced nipples!

Without any prospects for a new one, and after weeks of consideration capped by a small emotional meltdown, I have quit my job.

No notice, no reason. Just called and told them I wouldn’t be coming in today, or any other day.

And I swear to God, I feel about 100 pounds lighter.

Having never shaken your hand, I’d like to say I hate you for the way you dress and your practiced penmanship and your bohemian oils and organic groceries, because let’s face it, the best I can muster is Old Navy and capital ‘R’s and vanilla musk. But I can’t.

The next motherfucker that addresses me by singing “Hey Brittney” (like Madonna does in that Britney Spears single) is getting a fist in the throat.

I’m moving in three days. I’ve packed nothing. Gifts for tomorow sit unwrapped in bags I brought them home in.

Two trash bags sit full in the can, one teetering atop the other. A small pizza box is propped up on the floor. I am staring at a dead camera, a dusty lamp, a days-old cup of take-out coffee and about 18 post-its with story and essay ideas.

And I’ve got writer’s block. Something awful.

I’m hoping it’s seasonal. I’ve got the stress of an upcoming move, work is out of control presently (in terms of how busy we are, as well as my hatred for it), I’ve been broke thanks to my GETTING BENT on the primo shifts. But now I’m sort of not broke, though I’m still just sort of hanging in there. I’ve had this jaw problem–this thing with my TMJ muscle where my fucking face bones rub together in the most excruciating way you can imagine. I’m all out of muscle relaxants. My jaw clicks when I talk or eat. By the end of the day the left side of my face is hot and swollen-feeling on the inside. I should add face doctor to the dental, gyno, optical and stylist appointments I need to make. Oh, and I’ve been doing what people in therapy call “work,” wherein I cry a whole bunch and think about how fucked up that shit I called “growing up” was. I am just discovering how utterly sad I am. Not depressed, sad. I’ve been finding it hard to get it up to laugh, even.

So. I am thinking the writing thing is temporary. Writing about not being able to write is about as retarded as it gets. But before I sat down to write this entry the thought of even a single sentence seemed impossible.

This is at least fifteen or so.

Purchased at Neighborhoodies, which I discovered over at Vera’s.

Yesterday the following things were said to me and I think perhaps one has to do with the other:

This one girl- “You are going to get mad at me, but Brittney, you remind me of Christina Aguilera. I don’t know, it’s just your attitude. I guess it’s beacuse you’re dirrty–with two ‘r’s.”

This other guy- “I had a dream you died last night. You and someone I didn’t know. Someone just said, ‘Sorry about your friend Brittney dying.’ It was fucked up. But don’t worry, my dreams never come true.”

I think both these things are too bizarre to be coincidence.
Must determine Xtina/dream death connection.

I’m having Snow Monkey Plum black tea during the first snow of the winter.

I’ve opened my window so it’s snowing inside.

I waited tables last night* and it never ceases to amaze me how amazing people are. I’ve been doing this for over 6 years and to this very day people blow my fucking mind. Here’s what I mean:

GUEST #1: She sat down at my booth all red-eyed and wild-eyed. She sat her two ten dollar gift certificates on the edge of the table proudly. When I approached I saw her Diet Pepsi in a plastic bottle (we carry Coke products) and I tried not to let it bother me. When people bring in their own beverages or dressings I can’t help but think one thing: “You picky, uncompromising cheap-ass freak.” I know it’s irrational, but most of these people are enormous assholes. Generally, speaking.

Anyway, I greeted her, introduced myself and began engaging her about the menu. She sternly told me she was ready to order and began her succinct lecture. Wagging her boney finger in my face she demanded what she wanted. She wanted the rack of lamb [finger wag] , medium rare [finger wag], do NOT [finger wag] cut it into chops, do NOT [finger wag] put any seasoning on it, make me a salad with NO [finger wag] croutons, NO [finger wag] onions, NO [finger wag] tomatoes, EXTRA bacon, EXTRA cheese and EXTRA cucumbers, EXTRA [finger wag] 1,000 Island dressing, and I want a baked potato with everything but green onions, you all shouldn’t be serving those anyway [finger wag]. (We don’t.)

I shook my finger right back at her, “YES MA’AM! [finger wag]** and sprinted off to fill her order.

GUEST #2: This totally weirdo guy who looked at me suspiciously and frankly, reminded me of someone who lives at home with their mom at 33 and has dirty nails and beats off to Everquest or whatever. He wanted a glass of milk and a beer. Don’t tell me this buttfuck isn’t SuperWeird. Anyway, he’s all greasy and dorky, but who cares? After I brought him his milk he asked me for some paper napkins, because, he divulged, he had to blow his nose. I seriously almost threw up in my mouth a little bit. When he left I noticed a small lightning bolt tattoo on his shaved scalp.

GUESTS #3, #4, #5, #6, #7, #8, #9 and #10 (aka Ladies Night): All. Seperate. Checks. Know how you can tell? All women. I’m one of them. Proudly, I am woman. But oh my Jesus God, ladies, enough with the seperate checks. Use your pretty little heads to do a bit of rough math. That, mixed with a bit of NOT BEING SUCH A CHEAP ASS would maybe make you all a little less tense in general. And what the fuck, women? Why, oh why do you never have anything smaller than a twenty? Servers have no tills to work from, they carry just enough change to get them by, and with all your seperate fucking checks you usually have your server screaming in the kitchen, “ANYBODY HAVE CHANGE FOR SEVEN TWENTIES?” It’s a nightmare. It makes you late for your candle party at 8.

That said, these ladies were the exception. They all had seperate checks, because that is standard procedure from which few women deviate, but otherwise they were kind and patient and only three of the seven of them even needed any change (even if it was all twenties). They tipped the full 15% and where I’m from, it’s tough to complain about that.

*In fact, I’ve had nothing but scheduled wait shifts lately. Guess I’m in trouble.

**It felt so good.