To Be My Sunshine After The Rain

It began yesterday. My mother came home from Colorado for the last time. Meaning, the next time she or anyone from my family visits, they will not be going "home." They'll go to my place, or Robb and Amy's. But not home.

The entire place looks gutted. When my family left in December, they took themselves. That is what broke off the house then. But they left behind the furniture and the things they didn't need, which is of course the stuff that means the most to me.

This week, whatever I don't save gets thrown away. It's like, the ultimate challenge to my eternal anthropromorphizing packrat self.

"Do you want this, Judith?" my mother asked me of dishes that I've known since I was seven. Of course I do. How could I say goodbye to those dishes?

"Do you want this bookcase?"

"Do you want this picture?"

Do I want this, do I want that. Notebooks and scattered pieces of looseleaf, filled with bubble letters and "i"s dotted with hearts. Books I haven't seen in 20 years that I once could not put down. Record albums that were in constant rotation back in my formative years.

The house looks like a garage sale of my life. Because I had very little of my own growing up, I always made the most of what I had to work with. So when I see something of my parents that underscored my entire childhood, sitting in the garbage, my heart just breaks.

Which means that my heart breaks pretty much every minute I'm in my house. But I guess it's been breaking since I moved back home. Hopes constantly dangling, then falling to the ground with unceremonious thuds. But more on that later. I have to go meet my mother and brother for dinner, so my mother can find out "what (I) want, and what (she) should just get rid of."

I want all of it. But I can't take all of it. If it were a game of "Survivor," I'd know. Take the fire; leave the heavy crates. Take the protein; leave the soda.

Here, in real life, I have no idea.






©2008

Glug, Glug, Gag!

So I've been feeling extremely off, and I don't know if it's the weather, the stress of moving AGAIN, or what. So I decided to hit the health food store. While in GNC, I thought of getting some detox tea, or anything saying "detox." Since I'm quitting smoking soon. And because I'm sure I need some detoxification. But all of that stuff was like, 10 thousand dollars, and I only had 22.

I resigned myself to being riddled with toxins until I could acquire more money. But then at the register, they had a mini-green-stuff packet. And apparently, that is all very important stuff to consume when you quit smoking. So I picked up a packet with fear and trepidation. Even the cashier was like, "That stuff tastes pretty terrible. The berry flavor is better, but we don't carry them individually."

I'm not gonna lie. I am terrified to drink this stuff. My dad drinks it every morning, and basically it looks like the results of that "Creepshow" meteor, in a glass. Horrible. But potentially helpful. And I am the MASTER of drinking gross things. Here's a highlight reel!


Pickle juice
I didn't really mind the pickle juice all that much. One of my old Boulder Creek managers, Dave, was fascinated by my willingness to drink random things when dared and/or offered rewards. And we had run out of pickles, so decided to divvy up the remaining juice. Some were braver than others. I was the only one who wasn't completely grossed out by it, though I will admit that its warmth and neon-urine appearance was a tad unsettling.


Drawn butter
This was a for-profit dare drink. Aforementioned manager Dave got the bright idea to see if I'd drink this cup of drawn butter that was just sitting out for hours. And sorry to burst anyone's bubble, but it's not real butter. It's just oil. That was separating, both color- and texture-wise, in a very dramatic way. I told Dave I'd do it for a no-back-of-the-house card, which gets you out of sidework. And I hate sidework. But he was way too excited for me to do this, so I negotiated a first-cut card too. And then I drank the fat, totally making Ross Gellar my bitch. And yeah, it was really pretty gross. Drinking oil = weirder than it sounds.


Cayenne pepper juice of some nature
Maxi from Red Lobster alerted me to this magical Jamaican juice that I really need to find again. It is just something else, like I can't even explain how seemingly innocuous it appears. Like maybe Dr. Pepper, with a kick. In actuality, it tastes like if you mixed Robitussin, horseradish, and the hottest hot sauce there is. Amazing. Tastes terrible, but in an invigorating way. And the most fun thing about it is getting unsuspecting people to try it. Totally worth the meanness to see their horrified reactions.


Aloe vera gel
I thought I was supposed to get the juice. But all I saw was the gel. "How different could it be?" I wondered. Well let's just say that when you mix something with orange juice, stir it rapidly with a fork, and still find yourself drinking gelatinous chunks? Well, you can better understand my Winter of '96. Because that jug cost like 30 dollars and I figured if Steve could do it, so could I. Later on I found out indeed, I was supposed to get the juice. He was amazed that I drank so much of the gel, and frankly, so was I. And still remain.


A bottle of barbecue sauce
We'd all gone to lunch -- Dan, Bonnie, Shannon, and me. First we got food from ShopRite, then brought it to the park. Dan had gotten chicken nuggets and bought a bottle of barbecue sauce for them, of which he consumed the tiniest bit. After lunch, he jokingly offered Bonnie 20 dollars to drink the bottle. Bonnie was not interested, but I was! And just to get him to follow through, I offered to do it in three minutes or less. So I chugged that stuff, man. The taste wasn't bad, but it was really pretty thick. And kind of spicy. My body went from hot to cold and so on and so forth and basically I felt like Angel in "The Dark Age" when they send Giles's EZ-Bake Demon into Angel to battle it out. But I got the 20 dollars!



TRIUMPH!


Breast milk
Other drink challenges took longer, hurt my stomach more, and were just all around grosser. But the breast milk may have been my least favorite of all. Why did I drink breast milk, you may ask? Well…because it was there! Not in *that* way. My friend was defrosting some, and my girlfriends and I decided, what a wonderful and funny way to bond! So we all poured a shot, promising that any time one of us had a kid, we'd all send up a toast and drink the milk. The initial taste, not bad, the "cantaloupe juice" comparison from (once again!) "Friends" is pretty apt, though I don't know if I'd so much say "juice" as "vaguely thin film of slime." It just kind of stuck around, the aftertaste, the after feel. Though I will keep my word and cheers it up if Shannon, Ruth or I ever become With Child.



I'll let you know how the "Creepshow" stuff compares! I have a feeling it may win. *Shudder.*


How about you! What is the grossest thing you've ever drunk?





©2008

LOST: "Orientation"

Seeing as we still have a week to go before new "LOST" episodes, and seeing as my brain is stuck in quicksand, I thought I'd share with you the recap of "Orientation" that I wrote for Shannon when she missed the episode! Shannon my friend, not Shannon the character. 'Cause that would be pretty weird. Keep in mind that I'd just started watching "LOST" and, pre-Netflix, had to rely on people returning their Blockbuster DVDs and had not seen the preceding five episodes.



Down The Hatch!


It starts out with Jack wandering around the sewers, but I guess that is the hatch? And the Scottish Dude has a gun to Locke's head and Locke is doing that crazy thing with his eyes where one stares forward and one goes to the side, and he is awesome.

And Sawyer, Michael, and Jin are captured by native looking people and get put in a dirt hole with bamboo or something crisscrossing over the top. And some Latina looking chick is there, all pouty and mysterious.

And meanwhile, I am wondering where Charlie is.

And there's some back and forth going on in the sewers and yelling, and then they watch a movie with an Asian man who is not speaking Korean, but rather English, and I don't know what he's talking about. And Jack looks constipated, and Locke clenches his jaw, and Scottish Dude crazies about.

And pretty, pretty Sawyer and the gang are still in the hole (owwww!) and Mysterious Latina Chick is all, "I'm from Flight 815" and then you really freak out because she was in the back! HOW FREAKING SCARY! And then you think, "Maybe Rose's husband IS alive, although Rose might not be," since you haven't seen her since the time she yelled at Charlie to stop feeling sorry for himself even though all she did for the first 7 episodes was stare at the sea and clutch her cross necklace. But then you, or rather, I, think maybe she is actually dead, 'cause I haven't seen the last 5 episodes, and if they killed Boone, God's Friggin Gift To Humanity ™Shannon, TWoP then why not Rose? But then you think maybe they wouldn't kill off the only black woman on the island because their casting diversity is bad enough as it is.

And then there is much talk of numbers, and there is some scoreboard on the wall of the sewers, and Jack, Scottish Dude, and Locke yell about numbers, and faith and blah blah blah, Jack's science, Locke's mysticism, let's move on...

...to a flashback! And it's the best kind, 'cause it's Locke, and Terry O'Quinn rules. So you see him at some meeting of sad people, and some bad actress is complaining how she wants her 30 dollars back, and Locke is all, "DUDE I WANT MY KIDNEY BACK SO QUIT YER WHININ" and then Peg Bundy is there, and she's hitting on Locke.

And I really am worried about Charlie.

And then Michael asks Mysterious Latina Chick if she's seen Walt, and she says no, and I wonder if Vincent is also missing again, as he is wont to do.

And Locke is getting dressed in Peg Bundy's apartment, who is known here as Helen, who you'll remember Locke invited her or a Helen to his walkabout, or wheelabout, in Sydney but she said no. And Peg Bundy is all, "where are you going" and Locke is all, "I can't sleep here, sawry sawry, I like you, I'll call." And Peg Bundy looks sad, but also in deep thought.

As does Kate, 'cause that's how she always looks, and she is in the sewer and may have been there all along, but no one cares. And Jack, Scottish Dude, and Locke argue some more, but I really don't understand what's going on.

And it turns out that Locke goes to sit outside his kidney-stealing dad's house every night and his dad is all, "Dude." And he is a bastard, and we hate him, and Locke cries, and it's so sad.

And but what is this! Turns out Mysterious Latina Chick was in cahoots with the native people, and was pumping Sawyer, Michael, and Jin, well not so much Jin, for information!

And Jack storms off and finds a pantry full of food.

And Peg Bundy and Locke are out to dinner, and she gives him a key to her place, but first making him promise that he'll stop creepily spying on his dad, and Locke agrees, and it's very sweet, and you wish that Peg Bundy was on the island especially now that his boyfriend Boone, God's Friggin Gift To Humanity™, has since passed on.

And turns out, Scottish Dude saw Jack in L.A. and something about a skull, and his wife Sarah, and Jack starts crying.

And Sawyer, Michael and Jin are all sweaty and like, oh dear.

And somehow, Hurley and Sayid end up in the sewer, and there is this big thing about a code for the scoreboard, and they are inputting that lottery number, and Hurley's all NO NO NO, but then Jack has one of his last-minute changes of heart, and comes back and is like, "It's not 32, it's 42. (Scottish Dude) told me." And that works? And then Locke is all, "It has to be us!" And they argue for 25 years about faith versus reason, but finally Jack pushes the button and it resets to 108, and he does that thing where he stares ahead and looks like he isn't breathing, and Locke looks all sagelike. And I really didn't get what any of that was about, but I think it was important.

And now here is Peg Bundy, catching Locke spying on his dad again, and she's all :( and Locke is all :o


THE END






©2005

Oh, Captain, My Captain :'(

So as many of you know, I was a cheerleader for six years. Yet I was not a bitch, and I stayed a virgin, just to dispel any (valid) assumptions. But more on that another day. Today I would like to discuss one of the days that I completely validated a cheerleading stereotype.

It was my senior year, and I'd been voted co-captain by the rest of the squad. Yay! This meant I got to start cheers with Michelle, the captain. We didn't do the whole "Ready, okay!" thing; the captains began a cheer by stepping in front of the squad and doing a part of the cheer. At a pre-designated time, the cheerleaders would join in and the captains would re-join the line.

The thing was, our basketball team was terrible. I mean really, truly dreadful. We had some good players, but…a lot of bad ones. South Shore Christian School was very small, and while we did turn away cheerleaders who didn't make the cut so don't go getting any ideas, basically if you had a Y chromosome and could breathe, you could be on our basketball team.

This meant that plotting out which cheers to do when required good strategy. Most cheers are positive, you see. Rah rah sis boom bah, woo team, we're awesome we're awesome that's what we are! But um, our window of time for these cheers was very tiny, within a game. By the time halftime rolled around it became rather embarrassing, talking about how quick with our hands and fast! with! our! feet! our team was, but at least we had our awesome mound to distract the three people in the audience. And now I realize I should probably clarify that "mound" in this case means one of those things in the middle of the floor that's like a pyramid, but not a pyramid. You know?

So anyway, it was bad enough having to brag about our team at halftime; we had to make good and sure to really hoard away all of our "you can do it" cheers. So straight off the bat, all of the positive cheers were milked for all they were worth. Before the audience and opposing school realized we were lying through our pom-poms.

This game was no exception. The team had fallen behind pretty quickly, so we decided to do our "Beat oh beat" cheer. Perfect for this doomed-yet-we-can-still-pretend-there's-hope moment. We felt very triumphant about this clever choice.

The cheer went like this, and I will use Sunnydale in honor of "Buffy" as the opposing team's name:

Beat, oh beat!
Beat, oh beat!
Who ya gonna beat?
Sunnydale!
Who ya gonna beat?
Sunnydale!
Louder!
Sunnydale!
Louder!
Sunnydale!

And this was all very exciting for me, because the italicized lines were done by the captains, and the responses were done by the rest of the squad. This was my first time doing the cheer as a captain, and it was like going from the chorus to getting a solo! Or at least a duet. The rest of the cheer went like this, in unison:

I can't HEAR you!
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
WHAT?
What what what what what what what!

And let's just say that second section involved very exaggerated pantomime. Because it did.

And let's just say that we were, that day, playing a deaf school. Because we were.

Oopsy daisy.






©2008

Ladies! Let's perpetuate our own negative stereotypes!

I got a text from Javier last week ranting about how I need to write a blog about how Long Island women can't drive. Which sounds offensive, but in actuality? True. Meanwhile I've been reading from an alarming number of women who think guys have no right to turn down sex, and if he is, he is "gay." Gross. But it got me thinking, these women seem very confident in how awesome they are. Maybe they're right. And if we don't know their secrets, how in the world can we lure in the hotties at Mulcahey's and Mirage? Answer: We can't. So I figured I'd help out, and got some undercover tips on…



How To Be A Socially Acceptable Woman


Drive badly.
Chat animatedly on your cell phone, don't use your turn signal, and in general act a fool. It will be cute. While you're at it, get a vanity plate so everyone can know for a fact, yes you are a bimbo who thinks of her car as an accessory as opposed to a potential weapon. There was this lady a week or so ago who totally should be here to teach this seminar. Zig zagging all around, cutting people off – her license plate said "Ms Phone."


Get an SUV you don't know how to handle.
Three. THREE parking spots this black SUV was taking up in the Waldbaum's parking lot, which is hurting for parking already. Good job, "SoRaven."<-- not making that plate up.


Be on your cell phone at all times.
Talking while driving your SUV is a fantastic start, but it's far from enough. You should ideally be on the phone every time you set foot into a supermarket, Target, or 7-11. Talk loudly; the more inconsequential the subject matter, the better. While on line, disregard the cashier as a human being and treat him or her like another annoyance in your life there to interfere with your important day. And it should go without saying that you must be on your phone the entire time you ride the LIRR. The only exception to this is if you are with a girlfriend, and then you must learn to talk loudly to them AND people on your phone, while she does the same.


Don't vote.
Then complain about the outcome. If you must vote, vote for the cutest candidate, or the one who makes you feel super-duper happy, or another woman regardless of her platform because oh hey girl power yayyyy!


Say the word "empowered" a lot.
It is SO empowering, isn't it? Mmm, yes, so empowering. There's nothing like empowering empowerment to make you feel empowered.


Be a restaurant hellion.
I'll probably give you further instructions in a future blog, but for the time being, memorize the following: "On the side," "water with lemon," and "We're gonna split that." Use those phrases to replace "Please," "Thank you," and "Hello." Then sit there for many hours. And remember, the longer you stay and the more difficult you are, the less you should tip.


Say "ew" as much as you can.
Nothing's classier than a woman who looks down her nose at everyone and everything outside her comfort zone.


Talk about your diet.
All the time. All day. No, more. MORE, DAMMIT! I want all the info – calories, fat, this diet, that diet. Complain about how bad you are on your diet. Whatever you do, just don't leave it alone. Once you've got that covered, you will be ready for Step Two: telling other people why their diets are wrong.


Use sex as a weapon.
First you have to pretend to like sex, especially giving blow jobs. Then once you've lassoed in your lucky dude, stop. Only have sex when he begs you, and then, only here and there. Then, be in old lady pajamas. Under no circumstances should you wear lingerie. This is quite possibly the most important advice I can give you. When you learn to channel the power of your vagina, there is absolutely no need to work out your brain. Once you've landed your man and get married, stop having sex altogether except to get pregnant.


Read a lot of "women's" magazines.
They're helpful, realistic, and informative. Plus they give really great sex advice that has everything to do with how guys think. They also are the best places to find out which lime-green bag you should currently be spending thousands of dollars on. Furthermore, you get to read from other very intelligent women in the "Letters to the Editor" section. You might want to bring a highlighter and a dictionary.


Demand jewelry.
But the twist is that you have to dislike the jewelry you are given. Good phrases to know: Oh wait, I don't know any. Something with carats, and cuts. When in doubt, bandy about the word "platinum." And how you can't stand yellow gold. Women should no longer like yellow gold – not sure why, but I don't make the rules.


Know everything there is to know about celebrities.
They are what's important. They are what matter. Learn it, live it, love it. This way you will be the first to know when a celebrity's looks have taken a turn for the worse, making you all of a sudden much hotter.


Get a tattoo.
But only in an acceptable place: back - upper or lower, hip (at which point you must immediately begin lamenting over what will happen when you have kids one day), ankle, or…no, that's it. This way you can have the cool factor AND an excuse to lift up your shirt/pull down your pants in public, but you don't have to be one of those gross girls with, like, visible tattoos. You don't want guys thinking you're tough or they might stop giving you piggyback rides, which always make you look adorable.


Listen to terrible music.
Danity Kane, Pussycat Dolls, and anything played on Z100 is acceptable.


Don't drink beer.
Ideally you should drink appletinis, but anything with a cherry will work. Then you can talk about being able to tie the stem into a knot with your tongue. Which is really important when it comes to landing guys using aforementioned limited-time-offer blow jobs because it paves the way for clever banter about what else can you do with your tongue, ho ho ho. No pun intended.


Prove Freud right.
There is no need for actual debate skills if you can memorize this phrase: "I feel." After all, how can anyone argue with your feelings, and furthermore, what do thoughts and reason have to do with strong debate? Nothing, is what. Name call, cry – whatever it takes to wear your opponent down. Then you can say you outsmarted them. I feel this is a great way to show how empowered we are.






©2008

Jeans & Genes

Did I ever tell you that I refused to wear pants when I was a kid? True story. Not that I was a nudist, though I really didn't prefer clothes and in the ultimate of ironies, I threw a FIT whenever my mother would try to get me to wear an undershirt. Dude, the lace! The lace! The stupid itchy bows! Why would I choose to put something like that against my skin?

And as is my strength and my downfall, I don't like to do things that don't make sense to me. So the concept of wearing pants was ridiculous. Shorts were fine, but dresses and skirts were my favorite. Why wouldn't they be? I hate being hot, and I hate being constricted. Win-win. Plus, skirts and dresses are pretty! My anti-pants stance took place pre-Ramona; the stars of my literary world were Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy, Laura, Mary, and Nellie. Bad enough that my hair was not flowing and curly and down to my waist. Wearing pants was unacceptable to this method actress.

Every now and then my mother would take a stand and insist I wear pants that day. My response: "No." I vividly remember a day when I was four. That day, my mother was particularly feisty and was all, fine, you are staying in your room until you wear pants! Only it wasn't my room, it was the one bedroom in our one-bedroom apartment. Which was fine with me because that's where all the comics were. Only she caught on to me and took them away. Then I was pissed. But I didn't break. I stayed in that room all day long, free from pants. At one point, I peeked out to see why the apartment was dark. Had I entered into a "Home Alone" situation, ten years early? No. My mother was watching "Star Trek," oblivious to the fact that I was watching along with her. I'd never seen it before. And it was mad boring. I went back in the room.

My mother did not break me that day, because my refusal to wear pants was definitely in full effect that day in first grade where I learned one drawback to skirts. Apparently, it was a mockable offense to sit with your legs crossed and let your underwear show. That made NO sense to me whatsoever. If your underwear was awesome like my Wonder Woman Underoos, why wouldn't I want to show it off? But everyone made fun of me so I stopped doing that. Sad.

What my family's obsession was with getting me to wear pants, I don't know, but my grandmother got in on the action when I was seven. My mother's mother. And whereas my dad's parents were the mushy sweet la la la best little girl in the world (me (I KNOW!)), Nanny Collins was no-nonsense. I was pissing off my mother by refusing to wear pants, not minding my place as a child? Oh, HECK no! Off to the mall we went.

You know those days when you feel like you're underwater, and may as well be totally drunk, for all you remember? Well all I remember is staring at an escalator in A&S, or Stern's, or one of those stores my mom liked that closed down one by one like Alexander's. Poor Mom, having to resort to the wonderful horrors of TJ Maxx now.

Anyway, I remember standing there, making up games in my head as I was and am wont to do. Imagining that the escalator at any moment would magically fly me away from the horror of pants-buying. But it did not.

Finally, my grandmother emerged triumphant, and really seemed pleased with her choice. And you know how sometimes when you're in a bad mood, something picked out by someone else is so insultingly awful when it's not what you were expecting? And you can get really mean about it? Or is that just me. I try not to do it; I always feel bad about it, like the time my high school boyfriend Jon gave me a second-hand Atari and I was upset because it was so unromantic and would rather have jewelry. Very quickly I realized I was being a jerk, and worked to mend my ways, as an Atari is obviously an awesome present.

Back in 1982, when Ataris were firsthand and only a dream I knew would never come true for me, I had not yet mastered masking my disappointment. These were the ugliest jeans I'd ever seen in my life. They were dark blue and boxy and for kids. The back pockets were on the front and had lollipops and the word "LOLLIPOPS" embroidered into them.

Horrible!

I told my mother and grandmother angrily that the jeans were hideous, and I would never wear them. NEVER! At which point my grandmother told me I was being very disrespectful and would SO wear the jeans because I was the child in this relationship, and would do what I was told.

I don't remember the moment that I put on the jeans. All I remember is refusing to take them off. Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with them. They were the most comfortable things in the entire world. And how cool, to have lollipops all over your pants! I wore them until they were covered with holes. Then I still wore them. To the point where my second grade teacher Miss Markey asked me to please not wear "those pants" to school anymore and my mother was very embarrassed.

Yup, I'm a royal pain in the butt who revels in unintentional irony.


Happy birthday, Nanny. I miss you every day. Thank you for buying me the Lollipop pants. You were an awesome grandmother and I love you.



©2008

Who…Ware…What???

One thing led to another in my last blog, and Marc commented that in today’s screwy world, I could be accused of sexual harassment, based on a hypothetical revenge situation. But you see, I’ve already been down that road.

What I need you to do is take everything you know about working in a restaurant, tear it up, stomp on it, set it on fire, and throw it out the window into a pool of gasoline. Wait, I should clarify that I don’t mean this literally, lest I be accused of inciting mayhem on top of sexual harassment. But figuratively speaking, do all that, and you can mentally approximate a Saturday night in Red Lobster Carle Place.

Red Lobster was…wow. It was something else on a grand epic scale. Restaurants are always pretty intense, but Red Lobster took things to a whole other level. First of all, they made the restaurant bigger but they only moved the headstones, because the kitchen itself was never expanded. So you had X amount of tables in "The New Room," which incidentally was 40 miles from the kitchen, and therefore more servers, more guests, etc. But the kitchen was the same size – way too small now!

So getting through the Red Lobster kitchen on a Saturday night was the equivalent of maneuvering your way through a packed club, only here you didn’t have alcohol, were probably in a screaming fight with another server, and had to somehow manage to get your drink from Garfield who always looked *surprised* to get drink tickets. I remedied this by tipping him 10 dollars each night. Worth every penny, as those around me were mystified at my drinks’ being ready within the hour.

Getting the food was also a tough order of business. Not unlike Boulder Creek last summer when cold side went on strike, at Red Lobster, you could not get your appetizers. No. Every now and then if he felt magnanimous, Duckie could get motivated to throw some zucchini or mozzarella sticks in the fryer, but anything else and you were shit out of luck. Lobster stuffed mushrooms either came out in 2 minutes and looked beautiful, or, after much weeping and gnashing of teeth, they’d arrive half an hour later, tiny little burnt balls swimming in a pool of grease. Not yours to decide. And God help you if you were a new server and Red Lobster was making one of its balls-of-steel attempts to sell Lobster Pizza appetizers. Awesome in theory. And every now and then on a slow Wednesday afternoon when Eulyses was cooking, you’d see a golden-brown stack of lobstery goodness waiting for you in the window within 20 minutes and breathe a deep sigh of relief, because try as you might, you could not talk your guests out of ordering it. That’s something you learn during your first week of training: Whatever you do, do NOT sell the lobster pizza. Because for every 20-minute pizza of perfection, you had 14 charred messes that began falling apart the second you got them an hour after crying to Maxi that you needed your appetizer because the dinners were up, and HELP, and good Lord, those pizzas were a nightmare.

The conundrum was, you had to kind of hope that your guests would order appetizers despite the hassle, because the Cheddar Bay biscuits were never ready and you literally had to elbow others out of the way in order to grab from the fresh, half-raw/burnt-to-a-crisp batch. So if guests didn’t order an appetizer, they’d be sitting there with no food for an hour while the kitchen ran out of tartar sauce, cocktail sauce, drawn butter, and blue cheese dressing all at once, then collapsed on itself like a dying star ™Jan. Every now and then the A.C. (expo, FQI, same thing FYI har har) would have a moment of clarity and get a meal or two out into the dining room with minimal errors, and if Sandy was A.C., the ball would stay rolling and that was totally worth getting called a "dirty server" all night long.

But more often than not, the night was pure, unadulterated chaos. The word "clusterfuck" seems too jolly. We need a new word just for Red Lobster Saturdays. Feel free to brainstorm.

One Saturday night of aforementioned wordlessness, the place was particularly packed. Back then, there were few booths, so if you worked on the lower level of the main dining room, getting across the floor was like a battle scene. Duck, cover, weave, ignore the glares all around you as guests wondered where their food was. Just get to the other side, and get out alive.

You know how sometimes in restaurants, different groups of workers go through phases of rebelliousness? Like the previously mentioned Cold Side Strike ’07, or "Hair ties? We don’t need no stinking hair ties!" Take-Back-the-Night Rally currently taking place at Boulder. Well, in this case, the hosts had been playing "Hide the Silverware" for a good month at this point. You see, the hosts are supposed to seat guests with silverware, because that just makes sense in the grand scheme of things, efficiency-wise. On a Saturday night, having to get silverware as a server with the place being so packed threw quite the wrench into your barely maintained sanity.

I don’t really need a wrench, you know?

After my 27th trip to the podium that night, I tried to be whimsical, but my panic was palpable.

"Who do I need to sleep with around here to get silverware on my tables???" I cried in desperation.

Everyone laughed, but I’d been *noticed.* They saw me. They being two of my male managers, who could barely keep from cracking up as they pulled me aside later that night. As the restaurant emptied and the former battlefield was littered with long-forgotten crab shells and other assorted filth, because no, we had no busboys. Being a server was very stressful.

So the last thing I needed at the end of the night was to get counseled about sexual harassment and why I shouldn’t do it. But that’s where I found myself, being laughed at by one manager who was just mad cool, and another who was cool but had a crush on me and complained that I never beeped him.

See, we’d had a meeting that very day about the severity of sexual harassment. A meeting that was beautifully mocked even as it went on, with Steve saying that he only worked there for the sexual harassment, and Lo getting up, shaking her body, and declaring that "All of this, is for him," about another coworker.

You can see why I wouldn’t expect to be the one getting in trouble for such a thing, but there I was. My managers told me they had to say they talked to me just to cover their own backs, because I offered to exchange sex for stainless steel in front of a lot of people who could claim being unfairly singled out, should they get in trouble in the future.

Whatever the reason, once my face finally went from beet-red to bright pink, I was already realizing just how awesome it was that I of all people, Miss Judi Freaking Sunshine, at Red Lobster, where only the strongest survive, was being singled out as a potential threat, even if it was just a formality. Especially when both my managers said that they’d always have silverware for me wink wink, and I knew the Natural Order Of Inappropriateness had been restored.






©2008

Ask The Waitress!: An Evening Of One Acts

Question: By having breasts, are you trying to sleep with your guests?
Answer: No. Asshole.

Ladies: I don't want to sleep with your charming boyfriend who wears his baseball cap backwards inside a restaurant, hasn't showered in a few days, and won't stop staring at my chest. If you choose to date such a disrespectful lowlife, that is your choice and your problem. Stop treating me like I'm going to pounce on him the second you deign to look up at me instead of muttering into your menu.

Gentlemen: You are not in a strip club. You are not even in Hooters. I am not bartending in a tube top, where I choose my outfit. I'm wearing a freaking polo shirt, and yeah whatever I have big boobs. If you look once because whoa, unexpected! Fine. If you at least try to check them out while I'm not looking, well first of all, a lot of you really suck at being sneaky although you obviously don't realize this. But at least that shows effort. If you, however, direct your entire order to my breasts while leering and giving me a knowing smile? You are an unequivocal misogynistic asshole, and I feel sorry for whatever girl who's dumb enough to sleep with you. Breasts are sexual, but if they're not fake, they're not on purpose. They don't make me more likely to tear your clothes off and have my way with you at table 45. So cut it out before I have an "accident" with your food.



Question: Should I read the menu's actual words?
Answer: Yes, that would be awesome.

People. I don't expect you to memorize the menu the way I have, but it's really annoying when the details of what you are getting into are clearly laid out before you and you don't bother to look at them. If you order your steak and then I ask about your sides and you are all "Oh I get a side dish with that" about things with the same level of shock as if I'd just told you that you are the father of my child? Well, that is really annoying.

You know what's even more annoying than my having to recite words that are right in front of you? Having to repeat it 27 times for all the veddy veddy important people at the table who cannot be arsed to pipe down while the server is reciting things for them. If other people have ordered before you, yet you find the words "Baked potato, sweet potato, garlic roasted mashed potatoes, French fries, rice, or vegetable?" directed at you? Well, three things: 1) You don't GET to hear about the mushrooms and onions. 2) I hate you. 3) If I didn't hate you, I wouldn't have told you about the vegetable.

And finally. I CANNOT BRING YOU A BLOOMIN' ONION!!! STOP POINTING AT THE MENU AND ASKING FOR A BLOOMIN' ONION!!! FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!!

(It's called the Boulder Blossom and I understand that may be nitpicky, but it just makes you look really dumb to point to words and say completely different ones. Plus, people say "Bloomin' Onion" like they're comedians all of a sudden.)



Question: Is the food ready?
Answer: Yes, yes it is, I just thought it would be really funny to hide it from you.

When your food is ready, it will be brought to your table. If you feel that it is taking too long, especially if you have to be somewhere eventually which I must stress does NOT include having to be somewhere in like seven minutes, because we are not McDonald's despite all evidence to the contrary as provided by spineless parents who bring outside food to their tables so their precious darlings get their proper daily supply of deadly chemicals all the better to fatten up their kids but that is another blog for another day. In the meantime. If you think you have waited more than a reasonable length of time for your meals? Tell me. Don't ask if the food's ready. Don't make "jokes" about having to catch the fish or wrangle the cattle. And finally, don't expect your meals to be ready in nine minutes on a packed Saturday night. I mean, please, go to Red Lobster, where you are lucky to get your food in 45 minutes! Then you'll know what waiting REALLY feels like!

Also, something I didn't know about but was discussing with a hostess last night. Using diabetes to cut the line is really gross. I care a lot about diabetics, between Stacey McGill, my highschool boyfriend Jon, and Shelby. Seriously though. I know what it's like. Jon had juvenile onset too, way scarier than type II. But you know what? He was aware of his condition, and prepared accordingly. We never slept together so we went to a lot of restaurants. Never once did he use his medical condition to get preferential treatment. He traveled with supplies and was careful with his insulin, and if worse came to worst, got juice from the bar. To use diabetes as a means to cut the line on a busy Saturday night is just insulting to all the people managing the disease maturely and responsibly.






©2008

It's Amazing

And she began to see: how we cling to fragile walls...
this first home/body pounded and grown out of necessity,
love. Biting love. Survival love.

~ Ishle Yi Park


Spring 2004 was the worst season of my entire life. I'd moved down from Oneonta, away from my then-husband. Only I hadn't left him. The plan was that he'd come down after graduating in a month, visiting a lot in the meantime, and I would get us set up for life together on Long Island. Long story short, it never happened. March was spent by me in a daze of angst, confusion, and Tylenol PM, as I tried desperately to make excuses for why he wasn't calling. Why he wasn't visiting when he said he would. Why I was living my married life in a solitary existence.

I was staying at my family's house in what used to be the den, with my two kittens on the third floor. The room was small, and every moment I looked at Willow and Doc broke my heart. They didn't understand what was happening and neither did I. Every night, I would read before commencing with sleep futility. It was a book called The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters. It was about an L.A. bigshot woman who was trying to produce a movie version of Don Quixote. While dealing with the nightmare that is Hollywood, her beloved younger sister was struck with fatal leukemia. While dealing with this, her boyfriend was unsupportive, so that relationship ended. She had to get through this, somehow managing to not fall apart. Managing to at least try to dream the impossible dream even as her world fell down around her. Some days, some nights, I would read the book and be comforted. But never really focus on more than a page or two at a time, I mean, my brain moves like a locomotive on a good day; when I'm upset it spins like the Gravitron. So without my go-to comfort of distraction, all I could do was to keep going and try to make the best of it.

I got a temp job in the city, working as an administrative assistant in a small yet important office. I was filled with confusion and fear over what was happening, but kept going. After all, we needed the money. And as I walked to work every day from Penn Station, I listened to "Stripped" on my Discman. I remembered walking to work just two years earlier, when all I had was a Walkman and the only tape I could still locate was "Get a Grip." I missed blissing out in my city walk, happy to be there, surrounded by such amazing energy. But in 2004, "Stripped" helped get my spirit up in order to just get through the day, encouraging me to be sassy yet stalwart as I became increasingly alone.

Marlboro Light after Marlboro Light, interrupted by the occasional American Spirit from a city bodega until I remembered that I didn't like American Spirits so much anymore, but at least it broke up the monotony. My nerves were completely shot. Smoking was just about the only thing keeping me from losing my mind, and I certainly couldn't get through one of my pleading, pathetic voicemails without chain smoking. Out of the question. When I think of that time, I can smell almost nothing but that desperate smell of so many cigarettes at once, just to cope.

Finally then-husband came home and acted like everything was totally normal, and I tried to play along, terrified that if he could see the hell I'd been in, he'd run straight for the door. But he did that anyway, disappearing that very night. All day Saturday I tried to reach him...nothing. Any fears that were temporarily washed away by his presence were now numbed by the sheer what the fuckness of it all. My body shut down and all I could feel was a numb buzzing in my brain, as he finally told me that he didn't think he could be with me anymore, but he wasn't sure, and "not to give up hope."

That night, I went home and just lay there on my couch and stared at the ceiling, feeling nothing. Then I went up to my parents' room and just lay on the bed while my mom did her best to try to find words to help me. I appreciated her efforts, but could only say with a terrifying yet undeliberate lack of affect, "Mom I'm sorry. I know you want me to agree with you that everything will be okay, but I can't. For the first time in my entire life, I am completely devoid of hope."

Mom knew that was a huge deal for me. Hope is my all-time favorite word and for as emotional and dramatically sensitive as I can be, I had never once lost my hope. But then my mother did the best thing ever.

She didn't try to change my mind. She got very serious, looked me straight in the eye and said, "All right then, Judith. I understand. I can't even imagine how much pain you must be in to feel that way. But I want you to know that even if you don't have hope, I do. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are going to be okay, and that eventually this will all work out, no matter how that happens. I have enough hope for the both of us. Don't feel like you have to feel your own hope right now. You can borrow my hope as long as you need."

I remained blessedly numb for the rest of the night, aided by my mother's comfort and also the Clonidin she gave me, which helps you relax for sleep as opposed to just knocking you out. The next month or so? Not so numb. Not so very numb at all. The next month was a haze of misery, desperation, alcohol, and cigarettes, Healthy? No. Necessary? Well let's just say I could never judge myself for that, because I literally cannot imagine having to deal with that kind of grief through abandonment again. So I'll leave those past reactions in the past. But I wanted to feel nothing, and like in my paralysis dreams, I think I was just doing a life version of throwing myself off the bed just in order to wake up.

I didn't wake up, but I did stabilize a bit. Developed an acceptable routine. I'd get dropped off at the train station, and spend my trip to the city doing the crossword and drinking a coffee. For the first time ever, I figured out Cryptoquotes just to keep my brain occupied. I'd go to work, spend way too much money at H&M, and go home. On the way home, I'd alternate between reading my book and staring out the window, comforted by watching things whiz by, grateful that time was passing.

One Friday before I went home, I bought a Miller Lite from the cart in Penn Station. I didn't open it for a long time though, because for some reason, I was able to focus on the book that day. I read like I hadn't in years, my brain absorbing the story ferociously, experiencing catharsis that is a reader's equivalent to a runner's high.

For the first time since I'd gone numbish, I was able to cry. But not one of those awkward crying jags where all the pain comes to the surface at once. My pain was always pretty at the surface, for better or for worse. But this day, I cried over a story besides my own. My grief was put into perspective by reading of others' grief. Something inside of me was ready for something, and I wasn't sure what. At that moment I was just happy to be sad about something other than myself.

When I stepped out onto the platform and into my hometown, something happened. I was supremely aware of everything beautiful around me. It was my First Spring Day, in May. To paraphrase a line from the album of happier days, that moment came where I knew I'd be all right. The sun was shining for what seemed to be the first time in months. The air was warm and smelled amazing. My Miller Lite that I'd unprecedentedly forgotten about until just now, tasted like that first sip of beer when beer still felt magical. A moment that I still remember because I made sure to write it down. It was the moment I got my hope back. And I've never been more grateful for anything in my life.





©2008

Stuff I Have Raring To Go As Soon As I Get Rich

A Lotion Line
It would be like if Cetaphil had all different levels of lotion. Extremely gentle and creamy, but set up like milk bottles – skim, lowfat, whole, and half and half. The higher the "fat content," the richer the lotion. The colors would coordinate with regular milk colors (blue, yellow, red, pink/purple). There would also be a little heavy cream that was for night time. And there would be a brown cocoa-scented one for chocolate milk!


A Drive-In Movie Theater
Because the fact that there are none left around me is utter bullshit, and I never got to partake in any backseat festivities. Not a fair thing to do to a girl who grew up reading Sweet Valley High, Cheerleaders, and like, every book written in the fifties. My theater would show older movies. That way, you get the people who want nostalgia and to be reminded of their youth, and less pressure for stellar quality, which would ruin the ambience anyway. Basically also, I just want the power to put "Poltergeist" on a big screen.


Jude’s®
Jude’s is my coffeehouse/bar. Think The Bronze from "Buffy" meets Panna II in Manhattan, minus the Indian food (sadly). It would have the coziness and artistic appeal of a coffeehouse, only difference being that you have alcohol to help you deal with coffeehouse types. It stinks that everything is either a non-drinking activity or a bar. Sometimes you don’t necessarily want to drink (or so I’m assuming, I heard this happens to people) but you want to just chill. Not get all hopped up on caffeine and have to snap for open mic night, but not go to a bar and not drink, because that sucks. Jude’s would be the ultimate alternative and the different tables would have boards from board games as the table tops, and inside would be the pieces. Because obviously the tables need to open like school desks. Plus I would have a sick jukebox that all my musician friends could put their CDs in. Eventually when Jude’s became a mega-hit, I’ll expand it to have a really nice stage to house bands, karaoke, open mic (shudder), and plays written and performed by independent artists, as well as "The Real Live Just the 10 of Us," a la "The Real Live Brady Bunch," which I am still mad I missed out on.


The Playground
Fine. I give up, okay? If the dumbass parents of today want to ruin their children’s lives with their bullshit playgrounds because God forbid Little Johnny skin a knee or Precious Ashley burn her legs on a hot slide, then I can’t stop them. I will save this rant about how much I hate the parents of today and how the abuse of children via food and non-exercise is an accepted form of child abuse another day. For now I will leave it at this: today’s playgrounds suck. A lot. And I’m pissed not just on a sociological level, but on a personal level, because I love playgrounds! So I will open a playground for adults! Slides, swings, trapezes, Discovery Zone stuff – it will all be there. And it will be awesome. Because at the end of the day, the world really needs a Golf ’n Stuff type of place. I can’t get the insurance for go-karts yet, though.


A Lingerie Store
It’s pretty stupid that you have to wait for Halloween to get good lingerie. Either stores are worthless (Victoria’s Secret), awesome but pretty standard (Frederick’s), or just too creepy (most "adult" stores). I want to open a lingerie store that’s all costumes and novelty lingerie, combined with the comfiness of a VS store (the stores are beautiful, just the underwear sucks and good luck finding a single thing if you have boobs). Because let’s face it, sometimes when you’re shopping for something fun, the sight of giant dildos everywhere can make the whole experience more unsettling than anything. This way it’s all out on the table and you don’t have to deal with creepy dudes at the Halloween store asking if that costume is for Halloween.


"Mommie Dearest": The Musical!
Apparently there’s some thing on YouTube, but dammit, I had the idea first! And either way, mine will be a full-scale production at the red level of ridiculousness. Also it will be interactive like "Rocky Horror." Also you can go see it at Jude’s.


As a final note, a Harry Potter Theme Park was totally on the list. I wanted the Islands of Adventure people to do it, because it’s like, seriously this would be the best thing ever. But as it turns out, they’re already doing it! And it’s going to be at Islands of Adventure!!! BEST PLACE EVER!!! I’m so excited!!!

Here it is!


What ideas do you have, if only someone would pony up the cash?





©2008

10 Things That Are Currently Pissing Me Off

1. Single people in SUVs. Especially women. Yes, I did so just say that.

2. Stupid, stupid designer sunglasses. Like, so you buy Dolce & Gabbana or worse yet a fake knockoff just to wear the ugly sunglasses that make you look like you have money, and that’s why I don’t feel bad about saying number one. We do it to ourselves, as a gender, with our ridiculousness. Can’t we all just stop trying to impress each other with meaningless stuff and focus on being interesting?

3. Flavored coffee. Am I the only one who thinks drinking this is like drinking cologne? A little dab’ll do ya, but an entire cup is just disgusting.

4. The new Poland Spring bottle. I’m sick of environmentalists in general (WHAT? I don’t hate the environment itself!), and the Poland Spring bottle is another dumb passive way for people to feel like they’re doing good for humanity without actually doing anything. Even Cher did actual work for the Pismo Beach Disaster relief. The new Poland Spring bottle is weak and way too noisy and just not the same.

5. The fact that I haven’t been on vacation in years and am getting The Itch, but have no money to scratch it with.

6. Bloggers who do whatever to keep their old blogs up top on the subscription list. I have new stuff I want to read by people who wait their turn like good little boys and girls. I shouldn’t have to sift through stuff I’ve already read and commented on (with the subject line of course in ALL CAPS which is also some bullshit), just to get to the stuff I want to read for the first time.

7. People who say "I’m not racist, but..." then say something racist. Saying you’re not a racist does not make it so.

8. "Survivor." I have watched exactly one episode of this season. Never in my life has a show fallen so hard in terms of inability to get over itself and do what it does best. The casting is deplorable, and stop trying to tell us all how much we love James, because I think he is overrated like crazy, and misogynistic to the nth degree, AND either way, anyone who likes Parvati has to have some screws loose. I can’t believe they wouldn’t give me a call, but fucking Parvati gets to be on the show twice. Gross.

9. The Winter That Would Not End.


I am leaving it at nine, and we will see whether I have a late-night freakout over the non-OCDness in my bed, a la Monica. But now the blog is open for any and all bitching you’d like to do about life.




©2008


One more thing -- if you’ve never listened to the album below, you really, really should. It was a phenomenal debut and the later stuff wasn’t as consistent, but this album is impeccable. Even if chick music isn’t your "thing," the music itself is apparently really complex according to Jim my musician friend, and the lyrics are incredible. To this day, 13 years after my first of many listens, and having memorized every word on the album long ago? I still get blown away by certain lines that I didn’t fully grasp before. Truly an amazing album.

Tails!

The World Without Shrimp

"May I have everyone in the kitchen!" my manager Greg said. We all followed suit, because Greg was the no-nonsense GM at Red Lobster, and many of us feared him.

"We have run out of shrimp," Greg said. "We are 86 shrimp."

It fucking figured. You don’t even understand the chaos that was Red Lobster. Mad intense at all times. They were big into "saving labor," which meant that at any given time on a weekday afternoon, there would be no host, no bartender, nobody baking bread, no manager to be found, no cook to be found, and like, one server with 12 tables. Craziness, always.

So the fact that we had run out of shrimp didn’t surprise me, just pissed me off.

"What kind of shrimp?" someone asked Greg. "Butterflied or regular?"

"Both," Greg regretfully responded.

"What about the cocktail shrimp?" someone else wanted to know.

"All the shrimp. We have no shrimp in the restaurant. We’ve run out."


Filled with indignant rage, I cautiously approached my new table out in the dining room. And now the thing you need to understand is that despite the "Lobster" in its name, most of the place’s guests get something involving shrimp. Heck, I always get something involving shrimp.

Sure enough, my guests wanted shrimp! I spent quite awhile convincing them that we really, truly didn’t have any while trying to sound sympathetic and also hide my frustration with the whole ridiculous situation. Finally, finally, we were able to figure out new meals for them, which was tough for me to do objectively, because goodness knows the fresh fish was a total crapshoot. Sometimes our salmon filets looked gorgeous and huge and triangular, but more often than not they looked like one of those pictures on a shampoo bottle where they show x-rays of split ends, only in this case, tiny, burnt, and orangish black.

But I think my guests decided on crab or something. They still wanted to speak to a manager though, since they did come after all, for the Unlimited Shrimp Fest.

I informed Greg of this, and he stared at me so I stared back all, what is the problem? I hadn’t even fought with anyone in like, 20 minutes. I was a model waitress that day!

"You told them we were out of shrimp?!"

"!!!"

"???"

And then he began cracking up and wouldn’t stop, and everyone else started laughing too and I was NOT IN THE MOOD FOR THIS.

"We have shrimp!"

"What???"

"Did you not see what day it was?" and he pointed to the board.

"April 1st..."

"..."

"...I hate you."

Everyone laughed some more, then Greg looked worried. "I should probably go explain to your table."

I never did learn how everyone else seemed to understand that this anger-inducing 86 was just a joke. But that’s pretty par for the course, for me. Often times, I’m being laughed at for reasons I don’t understand. It’s awesome.


What was the most memorable April Fool’s joke you’ve experienced, either as the player or the playee?




©2008