Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Early Morning

I went for a run this morning with Jess. She met me at my house at 8 and we proceeded to jog throughout the expanse of forest behind Shawn's house, into the tree-covered trails of the Watershed. We were going for about 50 minutes, and for the last fifteen I felt like my legs were actually starting to malfunction--like my knees were popping out of their joints and like my feet would snap like old rusted metal. But I made it, and though my lower body has been throbbing all day throughout my lunch shift at the restaurant, I seriously haven't felt better in such a long time. I guess nature is pretty rad and inspiring sometimes.

Oh, and don't see The Love Guru. It was lame and not funny. Not even Austin Powers funny...it was THAT bad.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

But Beatrice, I just want to stay home and relax.

Father's Day seems to me to be the worst holiday that society has ever drudge up enough self-indulgence to create and continue to celebrate. Let's look at it juxtaposed to Mother's Day. Basically the same holiday in concept, but the simple difference of the gender of those being celebrated really seems to alter the overall atmosphere of the day. My main unscientific basis for this judgement comes from my experience at the restaurant. Mother's Day is long anticipated and feared by me and my fellow peers in the food industry as being the pinnacle of business all year. I relate it to a slow and agonizing death (like being caught in a bear trap or other primitively horrifying contraption) where you are not only bleeding to death but bugs are prematurely attempting to decompose your body, the whole while you must pretend to enjoy the entire situation and smile like a goon.

Everyone loves mothers, and mothers love (as a whole) to be pampered. And they should, considering they have had to push each and every one of us out of their own bodies (a feat I'm sure most men would rather just not think about than try to empathize with). A nice expensive brunch at $35 a person or, if you really love your mother, $75 a head for dinner, seem to many to be the proper way to say "Hey Ma, you're alright." The reservation book begins to look like a high school textbook scribbled over with little notes and specifications and names and numbers. It's quite daunting, but not as much as the mob of foolish would-be patrons that storm through the front door thinking that a walk-in table for six should be readily available just because they have approached the host stand holding onto a cryptic old woman wearing a "World's Best Mom" stapled to her blouse. God's speed to whoever the host is on that day, for they will receive many a disappointed scowl but also a possible death threat or two.

But that's Mother's Day. I've worked it and raked in $250 in tips which is some pretty hefty pocket change. On the opposite end of the holiday spectrum is Father's Day. I am driving to work on this day, last Sunday. I see families out about the town. Dads holding hands with young daughters. Mothers walking babies in carriages while linking arms with their terrified young husbands. Old men are everywhere, while middle-aged women attempt to shuffle them about the entire town like a parade of the progression of the male body over decades of aging. But throughout all of this, very few seem to enter the two to three restaurants that line main street. And why is that?

Fathers do not mind the early morning walks or the canoodling with their loved ones under the shade of trees or even the countless number of store-bought cards that are thrust in their direction depicting mutts dressed up in shirts and ties with goofy little sayings like "You're a dog-gone great dad!" But after the early morning celebrations calm down, most fathers would like to spend their days doing something they usually don't do. Nothing. Or at least that's how the dinner shift I worked made it seem. I mean, yes, we were reasonably busy considering there were only two servers, and those fathers that were kidnapped from in front of their televisions came with not only their wives and children but also their entire extended family of twenty-odd people. Strewn about the restaurant were roughly six huge parties of seven or more chock full of screaming children and disgruntled glances from husbands to wives and back again.

Some instances of genuine sweetness did permeate the madness, as a family who I know recently went through a nasty divorce came in and the father spent some quality time with his three children. Moments like that were touching and made me not completely feel irritated with the progression of the night.

Several fathers seemed thrilled to be spending this quality time at our establishment with their families, while others look about as interested in our goat cheese and onion tarts as they would be in a lecture on menopause or menstruation or any of those other terrifying "lady words" that I don't know the meaning of.

By the end of the night I had received three comment cards, all of which were insanely positive, with one of them claiming that their server was "well-trained". I took that compliment with the acceptance that it insinuates me being some sort of circus animal. Under a credit card receipt I found a business card left by one of my patrons from the local radio station. Not aware that I had a celebrity in my mitts, I looked at the card and looked back up in disbelief not sure if the card was for me or for the restaurant or if he just accidentally dropped it in the heat of paying the bill. I looked out the front window of the restaurant to see the man and his wife walking away from the front door. The woman turned to me, noticed my investigation of the card, smiled and then waved. Perplexed as to whether this is a sign I should call the number on the card and say "give me a job", or just hold onto it as a nostalgic memory of some of the crazy shit that happens while being a server, I sighed and went to clean their table.

I still have the card in my wallet, but have yet to do anything about it. Whether or not I try to contact this guy or not, I guess I should say "Thank you Dad."

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Kittens are my absolute fav

No, seriously, there is nothing cuter ever. Don't tell me there is, because you are wrong. Not babies, not puppies, not flowers, not love, not childhood innocence...NOTHING. Nothing is cuter than these kittens.



Beautiful Hermanita playing with my foot.




Mowgli relaxing under my bed...




...and checking out the window fan.





Being lazy bums. But they're adorable and cute so it's allowed.




Curious.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Tired in PA

I'm sitting in Kevin's room in New Hope right now. He came back from Kentucky last night and it's good that he's back. We got dirty hot dogs from Wawa last night and I still have this uncomfortable pretzel as well (tastes more like wet bread than anything else). I'm tired and not sure why I am up. I work tonight and don't want to. The windows are open right now and every car that drives by reverberates and sounds like a tsunami overtaking the house. Geez...don't people know that I'm tired and don't want to be drowned in their waves of slumber-didisturbing racket? Some people are so inconsiderate. Ok, I am out for now.


Oh...and I'm realy starting to dig Paramore...that's just like me, always being a month or two behind the trend, Whatevs, they're good and the lead singer is un poca bonita.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Like an acid bullet to my stomach.

So I went to Verizon yesterday to drop off all the cable boxes and routers and other shit that we had to have installed at our old house. And of course the closest office that collects the old equipment is in South Brunswick, like 40 minutes away. Boo...Well, actually it's only like 25 minutes away from where I currently live, but I drive mad slow so it was about 40. Anyway, it was on Route 1 which was easy enough to manage, but I still had no clue where the hell it was and the girl that I called on the phone was slightly rude in her explanation ("Turn onto Wynwood! WYNWOOD!"). Then I got there and who I guess was the same witch that verbally accosted me on the phone for not knowing where their office is was the one who helped me. After not returning my "Hello, how are you?" greeting, she typed on the computer for like three minutes and then grabs all my equipment and says I can leave.

Whatevs...then I drove home, seated in a pool of my own stinking sweat (I tend to be spending a lot of time lately slothing around with sloppy sweat stains and my usually buoyant bangs plastered to my forehead). Before I got home though, I bought a derrrrrrricious lemonade Rita's water ice. When that didn't quell my irritation at how the day was progressing, I stopped by Burger King and bought some disgusting multi-layered burger thing. I used the drive-thru since I hate dealing directly with people, and this cute little note was taped on the crackling voice box: Sorry, we have no tomatoes today due to a recall. A little uncomfortable but it didn't deter me from ordering.

I got home and tried to hide my greasy lunch from Shawn and Emily who were in the kitchen and would have probably heaved if they saw that I had caved in and bought such an artery-clogging meal. Whatevs. To quote Brendad Ickson: Grease calms me down. I shoveled the fries into my gob, gulped down my now deluded-due-to-melting-ice orange soda and force-fed myself the Double Stacker that was now thoroughly soaked through and through (bun and all) with some odd tangy BBQ sauce.

Here's a picture of the burger I took:





Watched hours upon hours of Nip/Tuck and slept for a long time. It then started to storm like WHOA and being as I was the only one in the house, I found myself startled by the littlest door squeak. Blah blah...I carried a knife around with me throughout the house and forced our kittens to keep me company, since if there was a killer out to get me, little Hermanita and Mowgli would be able to defend me.

As always, I'm on my break from work. With nothing more to say as of now, I shall bounce and sit in front of the air conditioner and read. Adios putas.

Monday, June 9, 2008

My own little igloo

Sitting in the Hopewell library. It's hotter than a July BBQ on the sun outside and I am more than a little pleased to have my ass seated in front of this rickety air conditioner. I fell asleep last night around 11 and I awoke to Emily rattling at my door asking if I was alright. My first response was some sort of garbled moan followed by a meek "yes". Looking to my digital clock next to my bed to see why she'd be concerned about me at this hour of night I noticed that not only was the display blank but that my desk fan which I had propped on a chair aimed towards my bed, was also off. Now, I wouldn't know until this morning that a tree had fallen on their property and tore down the power lines, so last night I forced myself to swelter in my own sweaty filth, attempting to drift off into dreams of igloos and delicious frozen fruit beach drinks.

Awakening several times I finally mustered the strength to stumble in the pitch darkness to the kitchen to find water or something to keep my insides from evolving into a cracking desert. Our kittens of course hear noise in the kitchen and assume that it means food for their thirsty little gobs. They came bolting towards my feet in the darkness. They must have suspected that my toes were made out of sausages because they both started nibbling at my feet until I stomped on the tile floor which sent them running. One water, one Fla-Vor-Ice and one more trip back up to my room in complete darkness in only my underoos later and I was back in my bed, or should I now say, shallow pool.

No more complaining...let me just say that I woke up covered in a layer of translucent sweat-based film that I remedied with the coldest shower in the history of my twenty-two year life.

Shawn and Emily suggested us heading to the swimming quarry down the street from the house, but since it has gone under private ownership two years ago the price of admission has skyrocketed. So fuck it. I am fine drinking a mixed berry smoothie and reclining in this little red shoebox of a library on main street Hopewell.

I just finished The Rum Diary today. Very very good. I actually enjoyed it more than I thought I would and I am eager to read some more of Hunter Thompson's work. I have read some of his pieces that were included in The Great Shark Hunt and he seems to be pretty much one of the raddest people ever, so I have to get on reading more of his Gonzo-deluxe.

So now the only book I have to finish is Wicked by Gregory Maguire which I started over winter break. After that I can finally start the mountain of other books that loom over me like a giraffe on a mouse.

I'm done for now and must attempt to drink the entire contents of the water cooler without the librarians chastising me or chasing me out waving threateningly heavy copies of James Joyce novels.

Friday, June 6, 2008

...and sort of comfortably detached.

I wish I was famous. I know it's vain and pseudo-trivial and self-servicing, but fuck it. I can be such a (make believe) diva sometimes.

I woke up at 10 and read 50 pages of Hunter Thompson's The Rum Diary and I love it. He can be such an unapologetically drunk prick sometimes, and it is priceless. Then I took a nap (hey, reading can be exhausting) and when I awoke I started listening to some CDs I have to review for Hybrid Magazine. I just wrote a review of the new Death Cab album yesterday and with school finally being over with I can get back to the mountain of discs they've been sending me. Ivoryline and The A.K.A.s (Are Everywhere!) are what I am starting off with and they seem to be pretty standard alternative pop-punk rock. Decent, but I really haven't been paying that close attention to them yet.

Work tonight = lame
Double tomorrow = even more lame

I just ate a Pink Lady apple and may I say that they are absolutely delicious. Good job nature. A+.

I finished In Cold Blood yesterday. I enjoyed the book very much, though the last half was much more drawn out than the first half. And I couldn't help but juxtapose the ending with that of No Country For Old Men. Now, granted I only saw the movie and have yet to read the book, the reflective behavior of the two police officers at the end of each story was striking in its similarity. Of course they both are different in the context of their endings, but still...

I think I might apply for a real job tomorrow. My friend Xtina sent me this job posting online for a publishing house and if I swallow down my inhibitions and fear of the future I may very well apply. Go me!


That's it for now.



from outside my windows


Guess I really do live in the middle of the woods.


Thursday, June 5, 2008

Hey Moon, don't you go down.


Why you at the bar if you ain't poppin' the bottles?
What good is all the fame if you ain't fuckin' the models?



On a break from work. In the tiny red shoebox library down the street from the restaurant. Mad slow so I bolted early and let the other server take all of the tables.

I saw The Strangers last night and it was quite disappointing. It featured all the jumpy tension that cat-and-mouse movies of this genre are supposed to have, but with poor character exposition and one of the most anticlimactic endings I have ever seen, I would say it was quite a disappointment. Liv Tyler is pretty though, so I can be a little forgiving. And those masks? Not that scary, and after seeing the previews and all the movie posters where they are blatantly shown, there was no surprise or unexpected fear upon finally seeing them. My favorite part was whenever Liv Tyler was crying and my least favorite part was any other scene.

Anyway...I'm the only person in the world not to see Sex and the City and I am fine with that. And if one more person comes up to me yapping about how unnecessary Jennifer Hudson was in the film, I will literally puke. Well, not literally, cuz that is a little extreme, but I will be annoyed. I am a devoted American Idol fan and being that J-Hud was a god to me third season, I couldn't care less if her role as a token sassy sidekick was stupid or not. Loves her!

Oh, listen to "Northern Downpour" by Panic! At the Disco. It's good. And I still include the "!" in their name because I'm just difficult like that.



Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Trouble Sundays

I am alive in the woods and for the first time in two years I can go to sleep in pitch blackness instead of the glowing dim street lights and ever changing reds and greens and yellows of the stop light at the corner I used to live near. This house is absolutely euphoric.

Yesterday I had to suffer through quite possibly the most torturous two shifts of the entire week at the restaurant...Sunday brunch and Sunday dinner. Not to come across as ignorant or judgemental, but some of the monsters that sloth their way through the front door are absolutely horrendous. Their pastor sprinkled their dusty church clothes and dreadful hairdos with some goofy nonsense about a God they only believe in to make themselves feel better about their own shameful lives, they march themselves right to my empty tables and, with crucifix necklaces poised just oh so delicately under their necks, proceed to make my life a living hell. "Excuse me ma'am, your special order strawberry-instead-of-blueberry pancakes will be ready in just another minute. Yes, I'm sorry it's taking so long...mmhmmm, I know and agree, even though every other table in the restaurant is filled and you see me running a frenzy over every square inch of this hell on Earth, you should be everyone's number one priority...I mean, God would hate for you to have to wait another three minutes for your omlette. Oh, and ma'am, get that shit-eating grin off your face, or at least floss...God doesn't appreciate seeing his crap all smeared up on your puffy mug out in public."

After the shift, I went to New Hope, and thanks to God (he's always got my back), I made it to New Hope without crying or killing anyone and only visciously and painfully maiming on three of my fingers. Yeah, I hate driving and so does my anxiety. I try to do it as little as possible and oftentimes lie to friends and say that my car isn't working just because I would be a nervous wreck to drive. Anywho, I made it to New Hope and saw Kevin who to my deepest regrets left early this morning to go to Nebraska for some goofy something-something-blah-blah-marmalade-meeting. Gone for ten days and I already am missing him a beat. I'm listening to This Day & Age which he turned me onto, thusly making me more sad and even more thusly making me self-loathe (my favorite pasttime).

I got antibiotics for whatever fuck disease was ruining my throat and after just four days I am already feeling better. My room is a mess and there is no way that I will be able to clear off my bed by the time I plan on hitting the hay. So tired...if sleeping was an Olympic sport, I'd get the bronze, just because I don't think that pompously of myself.

Oh, last night Shawn and Emily's kittens were being the cutest things in existance and they were fighting. The one cat was actually gnawing at the other feline's neck and it was awkward to see. However, the chomping turned into delicate licking (kissing) which shattered my heart in how cute it was.

Done for now. Pictures soon to come (or not...I'm a liar, I could be lying to you right now).

With my sister next to me, laughing hysterically...

Watching America's Funniest Home Videos at my parent's house. Since I moved out when I was a junior in college, I've begun to notice how much I miss that protective warmth that just being around them can bring. Like, all of us rebellious youths want nothing more than to escape from the restrictive (or so with think so at the time) bonds of our guardians, but there are sometimes it's the one thing that I really need to get me feeling my groove, and when I leave I won't lie that I feel slightly remorseful. I wouldn't want to move back in...I like that I feel more or less mature enough to exist outside of their care not only while in school but in life in general, but I do miss them.

Ok..cut the sappy slush right now. My room is almost completely set up now. My furniture is in place, as is my computer and all my books and such, but it's the little things that become the real problem with moving. You pay so much attention to making sure that all your bulky furniture gets settled and that your twisted knots of electronics and wires gets untangled, that you fail to realize the floor of your room is slowly becoming an ankle-deep mess of knick-knacks and other assorted crap that you empty out of boxes with the repeated mantra that you'll "deal with it later". Then when later finally comes, you end up spending roughly four to five hours rummaging through this garbage dump of old nostalgic nonsense that a good part of you wants to just throw out all together...well that's where I am now and I am sufficiently satisfied with the option of bagging up all those tickets and receipts and old cards and little notes from people I barely remember and sending it airborne out of my window and hope that it doesn't get stuck in a tree or hit a car on the road...but knowing me and my overly sentimental demeanor that I will just deal with it.

Oh wow...an advertisement for some movie that no one will ever watch on ABC just came on called The Circuit. And it's starring Michelle Tractenburg?! I pretty much forgot she existed. I don't know about the rest of the world, but the fact that she never won an Emmy for her riveting role as adolescent wise-cracker Nona F. Mecklenburg on Nickelodeon's The Adventures of Pete and Pete is quite shameful. And Harriet the Spy? Oscar worthy. No doubt about it.