It's raining, which I enjoy.
I saw this bush outside my window.
Its leaves get hit by raindrops one by one.
So the overall effect is a shivering bush.
It looks cold.
I pity it.
There are so many other things in the world.
Important things. Horrible things.
My attention was held by this.
Is this poetry?
Jun 30, 2009
Jun 26, 2009
Jellyfish, Teeth Whitening Strips, and My Ass
I watched Globe Trekker on PBS last night. The host went to Micronesia for this episode and got to swim in a place called Jellyfish Lake in Palau.
A Video from inside Jellyfish Lake (click)
It's this amazing lake closed off from the ocean where the different kinds of jellyfish don't encounter any predators so their population just flourishes and there are millions of them in there! Because they have no predators, they don't develop really strong stings so humans can swim in there and be OK, which, in the program, was just so beautiful. I put swimming in Jellyfish Lake on my list of things to do before I die.
I bought Listerine Teeth Whitening strips because I saw a cool commercial for them and wanted to try them out. They're fun and work well and dissolve in my mouth, which is technologically amazing to me. They're like little minty rice papers.
My ass seems considerably larger than it was at the beginning of summer, which I attribute to my fried food intake at work. Honestly...I've never been more excited. I mentally put Venus Hottentot type bodies on a pedestal, perhaps because my mother constantly pushes food on me because she grew up in a developing country where fat still is a symbol of wealth, luxury, and happiness. It led me to respect the whole "put-some-meat-on-your-bones" concept, even in backwards Western culture where fat suggests excess, lack of self-control, and arguably poverty. That, combined with two serious past boyfriends being "ass men" and the song "Baby Got Back," put this recent development in happy light.
The Feminist in me raises the red flag at that thought...do I actually determine my happiness and self-worth at least partly by what other people value, specifically males? How disturbing. The Vulcan in me refutes that disturbance, determining the previous boyfriends' affinity to The Ass as positive reinforcement from potential breeding mates, whose opinion matters on simple grounds of survival by biological reproduction and happiness by sheer attraction. How logical. The Zen Muffin in me finds both arguments enough of an acceptable balance of Yin and Yang to continue eating the food that contributes to my factually larger derriere. How delicious. The Journalist in me finds the fact that I just blogged about my butt quite shameful, because apparently I can't comment intelligently on anything else in the world. How embarrassing.
The Couch on which I sit thinks my butt is big. Sweet.
In an attempt to sound apologetic and less pleased with my body, because that is the unfortunate paradigm of the female figure set by historic precedent and reinforced by popular culture, the upper half of my body is still waiting on puberty. You got this far so you officially care...I'll keep you posted.
A Video from inside Jellyfish Lake (click)
It's this amazing lake closed off from the ocean where the different kinds of jellyfish don't encounter any predators so their population just flourishes and there are millions of them in there! Because they have no predators, they don't develop really strong stings so humans can swim in there and be OK, which, in the program, was just so beautiful. I put swimming in Jellyfish Lake on my list of things to do before I die.
I bought Listerine Teeth Whitening strips because I saw a cool commercial for them and wanted to try them out. They're fun and work well and dissolve in my mouth, which is technologically amazing to me. They're like little minty rice papers.
My ass seems considerably larger than it was at the beginning of summer, which I attribute to my fried food intake at work. Honestly...I've never been more excited. I mentally put Venus Hottentot type bodies on a pedestal, perhaps because my mother constantly pushes food on me because she grew up in a developing country where fat still is a symbol of wealth, luxury, and happiness. It led me to respect the whole "put-some-meat-on-your-bones" concept, even in backwards Western culture where fat suggests excess, lack of self-control, and arguably poverty. That, combined with two serious past boyfriends being "ass men" and the song "Baby Got Back," put this recent development in happy light.
The Feminist in me raises the red flag at that thought...do I actually determine my happiness and self-worth at least partly by what other people value, specifically males? How disturbing. The Vulcan in me refutes that disturbance, determining the previous boyfriends' affinity to The Ass as positive reinforcement from potential breeding mates, whose opinion matters on simple grounds of survival by biological reproduction and happiness by sheer attraction. How logical. The Zen Muffin in me finds both arguments enough of an acceptable balance of Yin and Yang to continue eating the food that contributes to my factually larger derriere. How delicious. The Journalist in me finds the fact that I just blogged about my butt quite shameful, because apparently I can't comment intelligently on anything else in the world. How embarrassing.
The Couch on which I sit thinks my butt is big. Sweet.
In an attempt to sound apologetic and less pleased with my body, because that is the unfortunate paradigm of the female figure set by historic precedent and reinforced by popular culture, the upper half of my body is still waiting on puberty. You got this far so you officially care...I'll keep you posted.
Jun 21, 2009
Jun 20, 2009
Can't Stop Reading About It, Talking About It, Thinking About It
Source: http://tehranbureau.com/2009/06/20/iran-updates/
And the worst part is, I feel like I can't do anything more than make my Twitter avatar green.
And the worst part is, I feel like I can't do anything more than make my Twitter avatar green.
Jun 19, 2009
Paradox on Hiatus
I just found out one of my closest and longest friends is pro-life. When the conversation came up, I realized two things.
1. I had never asked and she had never asked and our friendship and conversation has never delved into politics or ideology. In fact, we had never really talked about “grownup stuff” until we hung out together this particular night. Apparently we’ve only ever conversed in witty banter and boy talk. For six years.
2. I wasn’t strong explaining my own beliefs. I was taken aback by what she said and when it was my turn to share, I found myself explaining my pro-choice views with a very apologetic tone. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop. I often find myself being intolerant of people who don’t think other people should have a choice, or who use their religion to solidify their political views (nshe didn't), but in this case, I was trying very hard to make her be OK with me, so hard that I painted my view as the bad one. As if I should say sorry for being pro-choice.
I was incredibly annoyed with myself, as you can imagine. Especially because her response was so chill, as ever, “That’s cool,” which is why I love her in the first place. She didn't care we had different views on something I've always considered a heated subject, although she looked a little amused at my scrambling to explain. And I’m the moron who nearly pissed myself making a big deal about political ideology.
The thing is, I didn’t do it because I’m iffy with my beliefs, I did it because of my need to comfort people. I put a lot of value on hospitality, and trying to make people comfortable and happy, which really clashes with the fact I love speaking my mind. I hate imposing upon people, but I love standing up for what I believe in. In this case, I didn’t impose, but she wasn’t challenging me. She was asking me. So I found myself questioning (again) what’s more important to me.
Really, I’m a confused girl. There’s one thing I know for sure about myself - I like change for the hell of it. I was that kid in high school that dressed preppy one day and goth the next, not because I didn’t know who I was, but because I knew exactly who I was: someone extremely interested in breaking limits, fucking with expectations, blurring the line from one stereotype to the next, and surprising people. The biggest compliment someone could pay me would be something along the lines of, I don’t get you. I think escaping the limits of categorization is important to lead a happy, exciting lifestyle. I don’t know why I’m like that, but I’m sure it’s a whole other blog post. Maybe psych thesis material.
But that's why I’m uncomfortable explaining my views. Or calling myself a liberal. A feminist. An atheist. Because while I am those things, in the most basic of terms, a label like “pro-choice” doesn’t even begin to describe my views. I don’t like putting myself in groups when I think I have too many qualities that contradict.
It’s just easier on paper.
In my Writing Fiction class, I came across a really intriguing author named Paul Lisicky who kept being asked in interviews whether his work was fiction, memoir, or poetry. No one could peg it down and he would never tell anyone. He said, “I’m really interested in slipping in the spaces between genres…most of my friends were poets at Iowa (his school), but I think I’m one of those artists who isn’t terribly comfortable being categorized.” That really spoke to me.
I’ve been searching for a proper term to define this…motivation behind my daily life, I suppose, but that fight is, in itself, an effort in futility. But I'm extraordinarily happy to be thinking about it.
1. I had never asked and she had never asked and our friendship and conversation has never delved into politics or ideology. In fact, we had never really talked about “grownup stuff” until we hung out together this particular night. Apparently we’ve only ever conversed in witty banter and boy talk. For six years.
2. I wasn’t strong explaining my own beliefs. I was taken aback by what she said and when it was my turn to share, I found myself explaining my pro-choice views with a very apologetic tone. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop. I often find myself being intolerant of people who don’t think other people should have a choice, or who use their religion to solidify their political views (nshe didn't), but in this case, I was trying very hard to make her be OK with me, so hard that I painted my view as the bad one. As if I should say sorry for being pro-choice.
I was incredibly annoyed with myself, as you can imagine. Especially because her response was so chill, as ever, “That’s cool,” which is why I love her in the first place. She didn't care we had different views on something I've always considered a heated subject, although she looked a little amused at my scrambling to explain. And I’m the moron who nearly pissed myself making a big deal about political ideology.
The thing is, I didn’t do it because I’m iffy with my beliefs, I did it because of my need to comfort people. I put a lot of value on hospitality, and trying to make people comfortable and happy, which really clashes with the fact I love speaking my mind. I hate imposing upon people, but I love standing up for what I believe in. In this case, I didn’t impose, but she wasn’t challenging me. She was asking me. So I found myself questioning (again) what’s more important to me.
Really, I’m a confused girl. There’s one thing I know for sure about myself - I like change for the hell of it. I was that kid in high school that dressed preppy one day and goth the next, not because I didn’t know who I was, but because I knew exactly who I was: someone extremely interested in breaking limits, fucking with expectations, blurring the line from one stereotype to the next, and surprising people. The biggest compliment someone could pay me would be something along the lines of, I don’t get you. I think escaping the limits of categorization is important to lead a happy, exciting lifestyle. I don’t know why I’m like that, but I’m sure it’s a whole other blog post. Maybe psych thesis material.
But that's why I’m uncomfortable explaining my views. Or calling myself a liberal. A feminist. An atheist. Because while I am those things, in the most basic of terms, a label like “pro-choice” doesn’t even begin to describe my views. I don’t like putting myself in groups when I think I have too many qualities that contradict.
It’s just easier on paper.
In my Writing Fiction class, I came across a really intriguing author named Paul Lisicky who kept being asked in interviews whether his work was fiction, memoir, or poetry. No one could peg it down and he would never tell anyone. He said, “I’m really interested in slipping in the spaces between genres…most of my friends were poets at Iowa (his school), but I think I’m one of those artists who isn’t terribly comfortable being categorized.” That really spoke to me.
I’ve been searching for a proper term to define this…motivation behind my daily life, I suppose, but that fight is, in itself, an effort in futility. But I'm extraordinarily happy to be thinking about it.
Jun 17, 2009
BUFFY'S BACK
Joss Whedon is tied to a project to produce Buffy, The Animated Series. I nearly pissed myself with excitement. They better do this well and I really hope the original actors return to do voices. SMG did the voice of April in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so it's not like it's anything new for her. Oh my god, I'm so excited.
Jun 14, 2009
Of Note
1. I wish I could be in Tehran right now. I mean, I'd probably get shot for being too outspoken, because I think their election was completely rigged and all the news reports are good and unbiased and implicative like this, from TehranBureau,
"The polling stations had been closed a little over two hours. Although we were told that results likely wouldn’t come in until late Saturday or even Sunday, a landslide victory was declared for President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad not long after midnight. No one, however, besides perhaps his staunchest supporters seem to trust the numbers. 'What happened?' people started to ask one another as a general feeling of confusion took over."
(above, women lined up to vote) And I only wish I could be that eloquent: well...it's all very suspicious...NO. IT WAS FUCKING RIGGED. It was a huge voter turnout and Iranian people care so beautifully much about their vote and it was just stolen from so many of them. I wish someone would just say it.
The police stopped foreign reporters and anyone trying to tape the protests, but low-quality home videos taken by people at the scene proved the violence of the police officials against Mousavi demonstators. International editor and reporter Lindsey Hilsum from Live Tehran 4 asked one citizen what he thought of the election and he responded, "Better not to think, better to close your eyes, and shut off all senses." Hilsum's cameraman was arrested during her report and their camera, confiscated.
Breaks my heart.
Mousavi, above
The protests, below
Pictures from time.com.
2. In other news, I changed my Facebook Name to Trina Tulloch because it sounds newscasterish and oh man, I just freakin' love alliteration.
3. I also requested information from several grad schools:
Newhouse School of Journalism at Syracuse
Emerson College, School of Journalism
Columbia University, Graduate School of Journalism
Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern
Berkeley Graduate J-School
CUNY Graduate J-School
U of Missouri J-School
Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio
And I requested it all under Trina Tulloch. And loved it. I'm tired of being associated with hurricanes.
"The polling stations had been closed a little over two hours. Although we were told that results likely wouldn’t come in until late Saturday or even Sunday, a landslide victory was declared for President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad not long after midnight. No one, however, besides perhaps his staunchest supporters seem to trust the numbers. 'What happened?' people started to ask one another as a general feeling of confusion took over."
(above, women lined up to vote) And I only wish I could be that eloquent: well...it's all very suspicious...NO. IT WAS FUCKING RIGGED. It was a huge voter turnout and Iranian people care so beautifully much about their vote and it was just stolen from so many of them. I wish someone would just say it.
The police stopped foreign reporters and anyone trying to tape the protests, but low-quality home videos taken by people at the scene proved the violence of the police officials against Mousavi demonstators. International editor and reporter Lindsey Hilsum from Live Tehran 4 asked one citizen what he thought of the election and he responded, "Better not to think, better to close your eyes, and shut off all senses." Hilsum's cameraman was arrested during her report and their camera, confiscated.
Breaks my heart.
Mousavi, above
The protests, below
Pictures from time.com.
2. In other news, I changed my Facebook Name to Trina Tulloch because it sounds newscasterish and oh man, I just freakin' love alliteration.
3. I also requested information from several grad schools:
Newhouse School of Journalism at Syracuse
Emerson College, School of Journalism
Columbia University, Graduate School of Journalism
Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern
Berkeley Graduate J-School
CUNY Graduate J-School
U of Missouri J-School
Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio
And I requested it all under Trina Tulloch. And loved it. I'm tired of being associated with hurricanes.
Jun 11, 2009
This Isn't A Food Blog, But...
I visited two amazing restaurants in the last week and just have to share. Like art, restaurants are another thing I would tally on my hypothetical death bed (refer to previous post). I'm fascinated with Starbucks as a corporation, but am an independent-cafe-o-phile at heart.
On Monday, I went to Peaches Cafe in Stuyvesant Plaza, formerly known as Peaches 'n' Creme in the nineties, so says my mom. I guess it's an ice cream parlor/bakery-turned-bistro (probably when Cold Stone came in, those bastards, oh wait, I worked for 
them for four years).
Anyway, I was delighted to have some of the best French Onion Soup in my life, with a tasty portobello and swiss on focaccia and side of fresh pasta salad with pesto. Ughhh so good.
Last night, I went to Provence and it was a dinner of many firsts for me...
1. First time drinking wine out with the
parents. I expected that would be after my 21st birthday, because my parents are rrrrulll straight-edge, but they probably forgot how old I was. My Uncle Bill, for whatever reason, bought two bottles of Chateau Corton Grancy wine, which is, idk, $100 a bottle.
!?
We're not rich people. I was psyched.
2. First time trying escargot! My only knowledge of this luxurious and mysterious food item is that it's snails and that it tastes like a balloon, according to Mary-Kate Olsen, in a childhood movie favorite, It Takes Two.
It's a SLUG. And I ATE it. It was chewy, and soft
and didn't taste like chicken. It tasted like slug.
At first, I thought they would be breaded in their little pods (strangely similar to the pods in Dollhouse) but the bread was actually like a little hat on top of the totally exposed slugosity. Like I really can't stop talking about the experience because it was truly bizarre and while I wouldn't call escargot delicious, it's certainly something I plan to try everywhere because I bet they do lots of different things with it. I didn't expect the little bread hats, but damn were they cute. It had a pesto sauce and olive oil too.
^ That's my dessert there.
Decadent layers of white and dark chocolate mousse.
Really, this is just me being a whore for food and photography.
On Monday, I went to Peaches Cafe in Stuyvesant Plaza, formerly known as Peaches 'n' Creme in the nineties, so says my mom. I guess it's an ice cream parlor/bakery-turned-bistro (probably when Cold Stone came in, those bastards, oh wait, I worked for 
them for four years).Anyway, I was delighted to have some of the best French Onion Soup in my life, with a tasty portobello and swiss on focaccia and side of fresh pasta salad with pesto. Ughhh so good.
Last night, I went to Provence and it was a dinner of many firsts for me...1. First time drinking wine out with the
parents. I expected that would be after my 21st birthday, because my parents are rrrrulll straight-edge, but they probably forgot how old I was. My Uncle Bill, for whatever reason, bought two bottles of Chateau Corton Grancy wine, which is, idk, $100 a bottle.
!?
We're not rich people. I was psyched.
2. First time trying escargot! My only knowledge of this luxurious and mysterious food item is that it's snails and that it tastes like a balloon, according to Mary-Kate Olsen, in a childhood movie favorite, It Takes Two.
It's a SLUG. And I ATE it. It was chewy, and soft
and didn't taste like chicken. It tasted like slug.
At first, I thought they would be breaded in their little pods (strangely similar to the pods in Dollhouse) but the bread was actually like a little hat on top of the totally exposed slugosity. Like I really can't stop talking about the experience because it was truly bizarre and while I wouldn't call escargot delicious, it's certainly something I plan to try everywhere because I bet they do lots of different things with it. I didn't expect the little bread hats, but damn were they cute. It had a pesto sauce and olive oil too.
^ That's my dessert there. Decadent layers of white and dark chocolate mousse.
Really, this is just me being a whore for food and photography.
Jun 7, 2009
Art and Confessions
I really do love to paint. It's one of those things where I'll be on my death bed and instead of happy, educated children or # of charity organizations to which I regularly donated, I'll be like, how many paintings did I do?! I need to calculate my success!! Actually, I have a real list of things to do before I die - none of which are important to the progression of society but literally to check off on my death bed (I have this death bed visual) or else I'll flip out about lost opportunities and induce my own heart attack.
A simple sampling:
#58 Open an independent business, preferably a cafe or bakery
#22 Sell a piece of my own art
#3 Make homemade cheese and give to a friend
Anyway, art means a lot to me, even though I really have no talent with it. I can't do cool effects or realistic portraits, but I have a pretty steady hand, so I like to think that makes up for everything else. And last year, when I joined my sorority, I got a cool position as the Junior Panhellenic Delegate. This was only a few weeks after I became a pledge so it was this whole big deal for me, my first leadership position in college. And that night I went back to my dorm all bouncy and inspired and spent hours painting a plaque, of sorts, for myself, because yes, I am that solipsistic.
Hah, you can see Delta Delta Delta didn't even exist at our college yet, I had to add them in as a cornerstone afterthought. Cornerstone Afterthought would be a great name for my future kid.
I meant to pass this down to the next Junior Panhel Delegate with a piece of chocolate, because I really want the girl who gets the first position in her pledge class every year to feel as proud of herself as I did. Like a cute little motivational token. I'm just having some trouble letting go of it. The current JPD is Emily Benner. I'll give it to her...soon.
#22 on my list of things to do before I die will so never happen.
It's like...painting something, no matter what it is, is such a romantic, intimate thing for me. It's just me, no makeup or attempts at interesting conversation, sitting in my room or wherever, with music playing. Spending hours with only canvas and paint and water. That's really romantic. Not for myself. I sound like I'm in love with myself haha. It's just mean, it's something very private and happy and lonely but in a great way. So that's why it's so hard to give up the products of experiences like that, which I think are so rare to have at all.
Selfish painter, reporting for duty.
A simple sampling:
#58 Open an independent business, preferably a cafe or bakery
#22 Sell a piece of my own art
#3 Make homemade cheese and give to a friend
Anyway, art means a lot to me, even though I really have no talent with it. I can't do cool effects or realistic portraits, but I have a pretty steady hand, so I like to think that makes up for everything else. And last year, when I joined my sorority, I got a cool position as the Junior Panhellenic Delegate. This was only a few weeks after I became a pledge so it was this whole big deal for me, my first leadership position in college. And that night I went back to my dorm all bouncy and inspired and spent hours painting a plaque, of sorts, for myself, because yes, I am that solipsistic.
Hah, you can see Delta Delta Delta didn't even exist at our college yet, I had to add them in as a cornerstone afterthought. Cornerstone Afterthought would be a great name for my future kid.I meant to pass this down to the next Junior Panhel Delegate with a piece of chocolate, because I really want the girl who gets the first position in her pledge class every year to feel as proud of herself as I did. Like a cute little motivational token. I'm just having some trouble letting go of it. The current JPD is Emily Benner. I'll give it to her...soon.
#22 on my list of things to do before I die will so never happen.
It's like...painting something, no matter what it is, is such a romantic, intimate thing for me. It's just me, no makeup or attempts at interesting conversation, sitting in my room or wherever, with music playing. Spending hours with only canvas and paint and water. That's really romantic. Not for myself. I sound like I'm in love with myself haha. It's just mean, it's something very private and happy and lonely but in a great way. So that's why it's so hard to give up the products of experiences like that, which I think are so rare to have at all.
Selfish painter, reporting for duty.
Jun 2, 2009
New Job & Microwaveable Habits
Yesterday was my first day of work!
Not because I was tired and about to crash, no, I could hold my own, baby. But there was cooking breakfast EVERYWHERE and it smelled so good and was complete torture. Also, I was duo-trained with another chick, an 18-year-old BRIGHTLY blonde haired, SUPER blue eyed HVCC student with tons of clumpy mascara named Ciana. I liked her a lot. But she didn't have breakfast either, and we starved and moaned about being hungry together.
And then my manager came along to give us paperwork to fill out. My manager, Jessica, has this insanely red hair. I could so visualize my life right then, the blonde, the brunette, and a redhead, and almost hear the porno music pounding in the background.
No really, it was friendly girl chatter. Jessica brought us to the back room where Ciana and I watched these horribly corny but produced in 2009 DVDs on service, cleaning, ice cream, and fire safety. Ciana and I just cracked up at the little kids trying to remember their script, “It’s my…uh…birthday!”
Jess also had the really exciting news that all of the tips we make are totally ours, none of that namby-pamby tip pooling. This is non-equality in the work place of which I absolutely approve and was so relieved to hear. If one waitress gets $100 a night and another one gets $50, Waitress #2 can suck it and start being a better waitress.
Then, Ciana and I took the official tour. We saw the backroom with all the candy, the fridge, the freezer, the cleaning supplies, the COFFEE MAKER named Ralph, the salad bar, the fryer, the cook (he was making buffalo wings and Ciana and I nearly died), the registers, and the ice cream fountain. Dude, Friendly’s has like fifty different ice cream flavors in their fountain. I worked at Cold Stone and they seriously had sixteen, tops. SWEET DEAL.
I’m scheduled to work on Saturday, though, which, if you’ve been keeping up with your East Coast news coverage, is the annual Free Ice Cream Day. Jessica was like, “You and I are gonna have a fun day.” Noon-5p.m. Free Ice Cream. She said I won’t have to scoop though, that I’ll be out there with her talking to kids in the lines. That’s really awesome, I like talking to kids, especially for $9/hr., bitches! Training wages were surprisingly good. People kept warning me about waitressing pay and the bad economy, I was freaking out. Dude, what’s the worry?
So far, so good. I love my job. Check back on that fact in a month.
But that food, oh my god. I better get seriously great buffalo wings on my breaks or I'm not gonna make it there.
I’m in my kitchen typing this right now and my leg is on the counter because I'm making toast.
I have this thing where sometimes I feel badly about my body. Which is normal and stupid but normal and regular. It's such a mean commentary in my head though, when this happens.
At the beginning of the summer, I started a really weird thing whenever I go down to the kitchen and heat up something to eat, I do some ridiculous yoga position until it's done. I do a backbend down the fridge or one of those keep your leg at a 90 degree angle to tone your abs until the toast is done toasting or the popcorn popped in the microwave. So I would just hold this position, feel the burn, and, in my head, it balances out the crap I plan to eat seconds later. It’s ridiculous and not a real workout regimen but it’s what I do, and so my mom comes into the kitchen when I’m, like, on the floor in a pseudo-split while my coffee is brewing and she’s like wtf are you doing?! Try explaining that shit to your mother.
She always thinks I'm doing something outrageously horrible to myself. Today, though, I pushed my toast too far into the toaster that it got stuck in the toaster wiring so I waited for it to cool down and then stuck my hand into the toaster, trying to pull it out. My mom came in just then and thought I was trying to burn myself. She absolutely freaked, but I was just trying to get the bread out.
Not because I was tired and about to crash, no, I could hold my own, baby. But there was cooking breakfast EVERYWHERE and it smelled so good and was complete torture. Also, I was duo-trained with another chick, an 18-year-old BRIGHTLY blonde haired, SUPER blue eyed HVCC student with tons of clumpy mascara named Ciana. I liked her a lot. But she didn't have breakfast either, and we starved and moaned about being hungry together.
And then my manager came along to give us paperwork to fill out. My manager, Jessica, has this insanely red hair. I could so visualize my life right then, the blonde, the brunette, and a redhead, and almost hear the porno music pounding in the background.
“If you both really want this job, you’re going to have to do me a little favor…”
bow chicka wow wow
No really, it was friendly girl chatter. Jessica brought us to the back room where Ciana and I watched these horribly corny but produced in 2009 DVDs on service, cleaning, ice cream, and fire safety. Ciana and I just cracked up at the little kids trying to remember their script, “It’s my…uh…birthday!”
Jess also had the really exciting news that all of the tips we make are totally ours, none of that namby-pamby tip pooling. This is non-equality in the work place of which I absolutely approve and was so relieved to hear. If one waitress gets $100 a night and another one gets $50, Waitress #2 can suck it and start being a better waitress.
Then, Ciana and I took the official tour. We saw the backroom with all the candy, the fridge, the freezer, the cleaning supplies, the COFFEE MAKER named Ralph, the salad bar, the fryer, the cook (he was making buffalo wings and Ciana and I nearly died), the registers, and the ice cream fountain. Dude, Friendly’s has like fifty different ice cream flavors in their fountain. I worked at Cold Stone and they seriously had sixteen, tops. SWEET DEAL.
I’m scheduled to work on Saturday, though, which, if you’ve been keeping up with your East Coast news coverage, is the annual Free Ice Cream Day. Jessica was like, “You and I are gonna have a fun day.” Noon-5p.m. Free Ice Cream. She said I won’t have to scoop though, that I’ll be out there with her talking to kids in the lines. That’s really awesome, I like talking to kids, especially for $9/hr., bitches! Training wages were surprisingly good. People kept warning me about waitressing pay and the bad economy, I was freaking out. Dude, what’s the worry?
So far, so good. I love my job. Check back on that fact in a month.
But that food, oh my god. I better get seriously great buffalo wings on my breaks or I'm not gonna make it there.
I’m in my kitchen typing this right now and my leg is on the counter because I'm making toast.
I should explain that better.
I have this thing where sometimes I feel badly about my body. Which is normal and stupid but normal and regular. It's such a mean commentary in my head though, when this happens.
Hey, Failure, why the hell aren’t your tits as big as everyone else’s?
Fix your tummy.
You are a mess.
Grow, tits, GROW.
Fix your tummy.
You are a mess.
Grow, tits, GROW.
At the beginning of the summer, I started a really weird thing whenever I go down to the kitchen and heat up something to eat, I do some ridiculous yoga position until it's done. I do a backbend down the fridge or one of those keep your leg at a 90 degree angle to tone your abs until the toast is done toasting or the popcorn popped in the microwave. So I would just hold this position, feel the burn, and, in my head, it balances out the crap I plan to eat seconds later. It’s ridiculous and not a real workout regimen but it’s what I do, and so my mom comes into the kitchen when I’m, like, on the floor in a pseudo-split while my coffee is brewing and she’s like wtf are you doing?! Try explaining that shit to your mother.
"Oh, nothing."
She always thinks I'm doing something outrageously horrible to myself. Today, though, I pushed my toast too far into the toaster that it got stuck in the toaster wiring so I waited for it to cool down and then stuck my hand into the toaster, trying to pull it out. My mom came in just then and thought I was trying to burn myself. She absolutely freaked, but I was just trying to get the bread out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
