Entries Tagged 'Virgin Territory' ↓

This is my sister’s new puppy. It is her first ever dog. The Mus has been assimilated.

So, do you think the Whole Foods CEO might go to jail for anonymously attempting to influence the price of Wild Oats’ stock, only to later buy the company?

“As W. C. Fields would say, I’d rather be here than Philadelphia.”  -Special Agent Dale Cooper

I decided to move. You’re welcome to visit as often as you’d like.

I just did.

Holy cat crap on a cracker! And I thought people were mean to me on the internets. Check out the venom this woman is currently getting. And I’m sure I’ve only scratched the surface of the hate out there for Heather.

I wonder when I will become less affected by the insults I receive from time to time. Then I read stuff like that and realize I’ve got it pretty good. Makes me want to close right up and never utter another confession on here that can be used against me. I wish, in a way, that I could still tell good stories like I used to. Like about the night I went to Amanda Not Wage’s birthday party and drank entirely too much sangria on a belly full of nothing but a couple hors d’oeuvres, but didn’t know it til I stood up to go home. Waiting for the elevator in their apartment building I said, I am told, quite loudly, "NICE PARTY." At which time the boyfriend suggested I pipe down. So I repeated it again, this time screaming at the nearest apartment’s front door: "NICE PARTY!"

I do not remember doing this. In fact, pretty much everything from the time we left the party had to be recounted to me the following day by the boyfriend who was none to pleased to have to relive it. Apparently after we made it outside I was again asked to hush up due to their being two or three men in blue standing mere feet away. His request was met with a beligerent "Fuck you. I’ll do what I want!" Then I, evidently, walked the wrong way toward the car down first avenue, blitzed beyond belief, stomping in my lime green heels pissed as hell. About what I do not know. Usually if I have one too many I get somewhat amorous. Then sleepy. That’s it. That’s all that ever happens. This time was different, though.

Once back at the car the boyfriend had to wrestle my keys from me. Apparently I let him and everyone in the parking lot know that I could drive! Thank God he’s bigger than me. I made it home in one piece thanks to the man I was slurringly swearing.

The next morning I woke up, but every second of it hurt. I had never felt so hungover in my entire 28 years. How did that happen? It was just a little some brandy, red wine, sugar and fruit juice. It wasn’t as if I did Jagerbombs all night like I was 22 again. I lay there motionless on the bed, hating to breathe, wondering what the hell happened. Why was I in bed alone? What had we fought about? Why could I not peel my lips from one another? If I fall back to sleep will this nightmare disappear?

I had to know what had happened.

I woke him up from his slumber on the couch, and he gave me a squinted stare. I knew I’d fucked up. I sat and cried as he told me about the sloppy verbal blows I tried to land in my inebriated state. It wasn’t that I was mean, he said, it was that I was trying so hard to be.

I don’t know why that happened. I have never been an angry drunk. Never once have I even gone on a belligerent rant. Where did the anger come from, and how long had I been supressing it?

I mostly feel guilty because I don’t remember anything. I was horrid and nasty, and I don’t remember. The things I think I said are probably worse than the words I actually said, but maybe I’ll never know. I am just so sorry.

I felt like such a loser. What kind of nearly-thirty-year-old behaves in such a manner? How could I allow myself to become so out of control? I was going to drive?! That is how powerful the alcohol was that evening. I would have never made it home alive.

It’s such a terribly scary thought. All because I didn’t stand up enough or eat enough at a birthday party. I think, because I am crazy, that I am in control enough to survive and do well in this world, but it turns out I’m a plastic cup of sangria away from killing myself and probably others.

See? That’s a damn good story, the drunken cussin’. But now I’m scared to death I’m going to be secretly judged by a co-worker or chastised by a superior. Or even worse I fear that this confessional information will be used against me in some way by some psycho with plenty of time and a serious grudge. Because when you expose yourself and, in the parlance of Heather Armstrong "write about your feelings," they can find ways to use it against you. Ways you never imagined.

Having the blog job has changed this place so, so much. Part of me mourns what is lost. I have so much to say, but by the end of the day I am spent. Thoroughly through. I cannot so much as muster an email, much less anything eloquent. I no longer puke up rambling passages about what is inhabiting my head, so it just compiles there and molds. And stinks. I don’t know how to rectify it.

In my head this entry was only going to be four lines long. Looks like I’ve been pent up for a while. This vacation should be damned therapeutic. Get some popcorn, it should be an interesting week.

What unnerves me most is trying to gauge their mood. Sometimes they
smile when I circle back to check on them. Sometimes they glare.

In addition to dexterity, poise and a good memory, a server apparently needs to be able to read minds.

A New York Times restaurant critic spends a week waiting tables. It’s a terrific read, and a spot on look at what it takes to make it as a server.

I’m getting a leg up on the job blog and compiling the most extensive list of regularly updated websites in Nashville that I possibly can. I’m going to need a pretty deep database of blogs and publications and stuff to keep Nashville is Talking diverse and interesting. (URL to the new site coming soon.)

This is where you come in. If you think there is a REGULARLY UPDATED website in Nashville that I need to know about, please email me at brittneyg@[NO SPAM]gmail.com. Please don’t send me a link to the livejournal you update once a month. Also, no band sites please unless there is some sort of frequently updated blog or newsletter there. This is Nashville after all and that could get out of hand.

I’ve got all the standards: The Tennessean, the Rage, the Scene, the news stations, the radio stations, the college newspapers. I’m mainly looking for independently run web sites. If your blog isn’t listed at right AND YOU LIVE IN NASHVILLE please leave your name and URL in the comments. If you know of a great local web zine or art project or photoblog that updates a lot, send those on, too.

Thanks in advance for your recommendations. Oh, and don’t forget to clock out before going home.

I can’t believe I’m actually about to type this, but if the last couple of kinks are worked out successfully I will wait my last table on May 1, 2005. That Sunday morning I will ask for the last time if you want something to drink. In a week and a half I may never tie on an apron again. Starting in just nine days I’m going to come home from work and not smell like food. Instead I’m going to smell like a blog.

WKRN News2, the station that aired that story on bloggers in which I was included, has asked me to join their team as a full-time blogger. My actual title is still to be determined, but Monday through Friday from 8 to 5 I’ll be blogging directly from the station’s news room just behind the anchors and weather desk and lights and camera and action. I’ll be responsible for writing and editing the content of WKRN’s newest website, a blog called Nashville is Talking. The blog will be an extention of the News2 broadcasts as well as a general news/gossip/happenings site that will revolve around all things Music City. Local blogs will be aggregated at the right of the page, but the left side will be produced solely by yours truly. The aim of the site is to create discussion and dialogue about local events and topics–a subjective narrative with feedback from Nashville readers. Of course, those outside of Tennessee are welcome to comment, but the blog will be very Nashville-centric.

AND THEY WANT ME TO RUN IT!

There is just one tiny snag to wrinkle out and then it’s a done deal: Professional. Blogger. Who the fuck woulda thunk it? Seriously, yay me.

Can you have seperate checks? More lemon? Extra grilled vegetables? NO YOU CAN’T, CAUSE I’M BUSY BLOGGIN’ AND GETTIN’ PAID FOR IT. COMMENT ON THAT, FOOLS.

If your physician suggests an anti-depressant for your mild depression, addiction and MAJOR ANXIETY and she even tells you that it might make you more nervous, you might want to question that decision. Because you wouldn’t want to spend the next 48 hours FREAKING RIGHT THE FUCK OUT having panic attacks at Taste of India when there is delicious palak paneer and daal fry to be had. (Mmmm, and mint chutney.) You wouldn’t want to spend a perfectly beautiful Saturday or Sunday night balled up in the floor trying to breathe normally and not fly right out of the skin you’d rather claw off than exist within. You wouldn’t want to feel like running yet be totally incapable of getting off the couch.

You know you wouldn’t want that. You’ve been warned.