Last night I was a human trash can. When I told friend Anne this, she said, "You mean like you ate a lot?" Ordinarily that would make sense, but that's not what I meant regarding last night.
No, I was literally a human trash can. I worked at a catering event and my job was to carry around a tray so that people could put their trash on it. I smiled and actually said "you're welcome" to the 4 people who thanked me. Actually, even worse, I thanked people when they picked something off of their cocktail table for me and then put it on the tray. I said thank you. THANK YOU for the gnawed stems of your chocolate dipped strawberries. THANK YOU for your little plate covered in sauce with a balled up napkin stuck to it. I fought the urge to curtsey sarcastically. I mentally made people drop dead. I don't know if you've ever done this (and I hope that you have so I don't feel like a psychopath), but I do this thing where I glare in someone's direction and picture invisible laser beams shooting from my eyes and making them fall to the ground and have seizures. And to the party planner who yelled at me for carrying a tray of food off of the buffet table and back to the kitchen, even though I was just doing what my boss told me to do, I want you to know that mentally I set your hair on fire.
About 5 minutes into the event, and before I'd been assigned to the human trash can task, I'd already text messaged Anne "I can't do this anymore." And I really can't. It's exhausting and holding trays all night makes my shoulders and wrists hurt. And it's like embarrassing. Look, I don't know how I got to be this way, but I'm really prideful. (Although anyone who came to my last birthday dinner and watched me drunkenly mash my hands into the ice cream cake would probably question such a statement.)
Also, it' really hard to work with some of the other servers. I mean, I'm sure that they are just like me and are nice and fun in most circumstances, but showing up at these events just sucks the life out of them and turns them into assholes. Ok, I'm actually only talking about one girl in particular here because everyone else is pleasant most of the time, and I've even started to like the bosses (Stockholm syndrome?), but this one girl...jeesh. High strung. Snippy. Weird.
Actual conversation overheard with her and another server.
Her: So are you an actor too like everyone else.
Him: Yep. I am. Are you?
Her: No.
Him: Wow, yeah it seems like almost everyone is at this gig.
Her: I'm actually doing something really cool, maybe you should ask me about it.
Who says that to someone they just met?
Also, we are hired to work a minimum of 5 hours. This means we are paid for 5 hours, even if we only work for 2. It also means, like last night, that they try to get you to work for as long as possible to fill out the 5 hours and get their money's worth. This means standing around trying to load things into a truck until 12:30 am, when I'm freezing and my feet hurt, and it's obvious that I don't have the arm strength required to lift all that crap and so I'm pretty much useless so they should just let me go home.
But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. And this girl's gotta stop being broke. So I press on.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Vegas Is For Losers (Says my mom)
Well, the verdict is in. I'm an old lady. In case my affinity for whisky sours, black licorice, and staying in on weekends hadn't already made my senior citizen status evident to you all, I can now support my case by telling you about my weekend in Vegas. Basically, it involved a lot of conservative betting on the penny slot machines, two hours playing bingo, dressing up about as sexy as I dress for work, being in bed before 2am, and tsk-tsking at the sight of drunk, slutty girls.
I want to lie to myself and say that the reason for my acting three times my age was because I was on this trip with my parents. But there were plenty of opportunities for me to catch up to the groups of shouting, staggering drunk people wearing funny hats and sipping from tropical drinks in 4 foot long glasses, and I turned them all down. I have been to Vegas before sans parents and I was just as depressing that time too.
But I had plenty of fun in my old lady way. I actually won $100 playing the big-spender quarter slots. That was exciting! Of course, that money has since been spent on plenty of other things (more slots), but that was the first time I'd ever won any considerable sum.
The fam, the boyfriend, and I stayed at the Gold Coast. Heard of it? I hadn't either. It's across the street from the Palms and next to the Rio. It's affordable/full of old people. We spend the weekend calling it the Gold Post or the Goal Post or the Old Post or the Cold Toast. My favorite thing about it was the 24/7 special on Coronas in the casino- just $2 a bottle!
On Saturday we played bingo from 1pm to 4pm. My aunt suggested it and at first I was really excited about it because I find it fun to pass my time in ironic ways. At 12:55, I strolled into the enormous bingo hall at the Gold Coast. The room was filled with old white-haired ladies. All had apparently come alone. And most were smoking long cigarettes. "HaHA" I chuckled to myself. "They don't even know what's about to hit em! There's a new player in town." I'm young(ish) and (marginally) fit! And (probably) I can react faster when the numbers are called out.
My confidence immediately plummeted as I approached the window to buy my cards. 1 pack of blue for $4. Or a pack of red for $8. And then the special black box at game #8 was $1 per extra card. And the power-ball number was $1 and your card had to be verified. It doesn't take much to overwhelm me, and this was like melting my face. My sister asked the couple in line in front of us for an explanation. They gave one. I still didn't get it. So then I asked the woman at the counter and, with saintly patience, she again explained everything. I still didn't get it, but now I had what looked like a big pad of paper. On each sheet was 6 little squares of numbers. And then I had to buy one of those bingo daubers (the ink things) out of the vending machines in the back of the hall (or, about 3 miles away). As I was picking out my dauber color and with no warning, the first game started. We all rushed to our seats and tried to catch up. And for like the next three games I kept asking, "Wait, what?" and craning my neck around to see what card the old ladies were playing on.
Here's the thing: much like poker, with bingo there are all sorts of special terms and rules and no one tells you what they are. There are phrases like "bingo the hard way" (sounds sexy, no?) which means getting bingo without the free space. NO FREE SPACE! Why don't you just rip the heart right out of my chest? And when they switch to a new game, sometimes you have to change cards and sometimes you stay on the same one and go for double bingo. But they barely tell you which way they're going. They announcer mumbles it at the same time that papers are shuffling around and drowning it all out, while simultaneously sending telepathic instructions to the old ladies so that they're always on top of it.
The experts weed out the novices by surveying the room to see who's sweating and panicked and laughing at themselves and who's cooly sipping a diet coke while manning 240 bingo cards at once.
Also, the experts are apparently the only people that win. The same people just won repeatedly. No one in my fam won. And only once did I see a non-aged person win, and he didn't even bat an eyelash. No smiles. No high-fives. This was like $500 he just raked in and he didn't even care. Wasted on a lousy winner.
And $500 was like the second highest prize they gave out. Most of the time the jack pot was a measly $50...which was often split between three winners. There was one game for $46,000. You had to cover your whole card after 4 numbers were called, or something equally impossible. Nobody won that, thank god. I may have run across the room in a jealous rage and punched the winner right in her face.
And so after 2 hours of bingo, and after the many $2 coronas, we went out for over-priced, not-as-good-as-L.A. (but I'm a snob) sushi. Then, we happened upon this out door tent with a live band and a dozen guys, apparently a bachelor party?, wearing customized hockey jerseys with names across the back like "Johnny Wad," "Ass-assin," "McLovin" (eye roll), and my personal favorite, "Captain Stabby." After about a half hour of watching the worst dance moves I've ever seen in my life coming out of the audience, the 3 worst people in the world stumbled in. The 3 worst people were: 1. Some guy with gelled hair, intentional stubble, and an Ed Hardy blazer over a pink shirt. 2. His brunette girlfriend in clear plastic platform shoes, a black dress about as long as a sports bra, and some serious hair extensions. 3. His blond girlfriend, same deal, but shorter. They all had apparently just snorted their weight in coke, which sounds drastic, but this was probably only about 67 pounds for each of the girlfriends. After making out individually with the guy, the two girls then made out with each other, and then the three of them made out together in one big mouth mess. Now, had I seen this spectacle under most circumstances, I would have just watched on with an odd curiosity and a tempered annoyance. But watching this while in the presence of my parents pretty much made me want to throw up and then die.
I suppose at least they were having the sort of Vegas experience that the "What Happens In Vegas" ad people would like us to think we should all be having. But they didn't get to have scrambled eggs, cheese enchiladas, and lo-mein for breakfast at the Gold Coast all-you can eat brunch buffet. Twice.
I want to lie to myself and say that the reason for my acting three times my age was because I was on this trip with my parents. But there were plenty of opportunities for me to catch up to the groups of shouting, staggering drunk people wearing funny hats and sipping from tropical drinks in 4 foot long glasses, and I turned them all down. I have been to Vegas before sans parents and I was just as depressing that time too.
But I had plenty of fun in my old lady way. I actually won $100 playing the big-spender quarter slots. That was exciting! Of course, that money has since been spent on plenty of other things (more slots), but that was the first time I'd ever won any considerable sum.
The fam, the boyfriend, and I stayed at the Gold Coast. Heard of it? I hadn't either. It's across the street from the Palms and next to the Rio. It's affordable/full of old people. We spend the weekend calling it the Gold Post or the Goal Post or the Old Post or the Cold Toast. My favorite thing about it was the 24/7 special on Coronas in the casino- just $2 a bottle!
On Saturday we played bingo from 1pm to 4pm. My aunt suggested it and at first I was really excited about it because I find it fun to pass my time in ironic ways. At 12:55, I strolled into the enormous bingo hall at the Gold Coast. The room was filled with old white-haired ladies. All had apparently come alone. And most were smoking long cigarettes. "HaHA" I chuckled to myself. "They don't even know what's about to hit em! There's a new player in town." I'm young(ish) and (marginally) fit! And (probably) I can react faster when the numbers are called out.
My confidence immediately plummeted as I approached the window to buy my cards. 1 pack of blue for $4. Or a pack of red for $8. And then the special black box at game #8 was $1 per extra card. And the power-ball number was $1 and your card had to be verified. It doesn't take much to overwhelm me, and this was like melting my face. My sister asked the couple in line in front of us for an explanation. They gave one. I still didn't get it. So then I asked the woman at the counter and, with saintly patience, she again explained everything. I still didn't get it, but now I had what looked like a big pad of paper. On each sheet was 6 little squares of numbers. And then I had to buy one of those bingo daubers (the ink things) out of the vending machines in the back of the hall (or, about 3 miles away). As I was picking out my dauber color and with no warning, the first game started. We all rushed to our seats and tried to catch up. And for like the next three games I kept asking, "Wait, what?" and craning my neck around to see what card the old ladies were playing on.
Here's the thing: much like poker, with bingo there are all sorts of special terms and rules and no one tells you what they are. There are phrases like "bingo the hard way" (sounds sexy, no?) which means getting bingo without the free space. NO FREE SPACE! Why don't you just rip the heart right out of my chest? And when they switch to a new game, sometimes you have to change cards and sometimes you stay on the same one and go for double bingo. But they barely tell you which way they're going. They announcer mumbles it at the same time that papers are shuffling around and drowning it all out, while simultaneously sending telepathic instructions to the old ladies so that they're always on top of it.
The experts weed out the novices by surveying the room to see who's sweating and panicked and laughing at themselves and who's cooly sipping a diet coke while manning 240 bingo cards at once.
Also, the experts are apparently the only people that win. The same people just won repeatedly. No one in my fam won. And only once did I see a non-aged person win, and he didn't even bat an eyelash. No smiles. No high-fives. This was like $500 he just raked in and he didn't even care. Wasted on a lousy winner.
And $500 was like the second highest prize they gave out. Most of the time the jack pot was a measly $50...which was often split between three winners. There was one game for $46,000. You had to cover your whole card after 4 numbers were called, or something equally impossible. Nobody won that, thank god. I may have run across the room in a jealous rage and punched the winner right in her face.
And so after 2 hours of bingo, and after the many $2 coronas, we went out for over-priced, not-as-good-as-L.A. (but I'm a snob) sushi. Then, we happened upon this out door tent with a live band and a dozen guys, apparently a bachelor party?, wearing customized hockey jerseys with names across the back like "Johnny Wad," "Ass-assin," "McLovin" (eye roll), and my personal favorite, "Captain Stabby." After about a half hour of watching the worst dance moves I've ever seen in my life coming out of the audience, the 3 worst people in the world stumbled in. The 3 worst people were: 1. Some guy with gelled hair, intentional stubble, and an Ed Hardy blazer over a pink shirt. 2. His brunette girlfriend in clear plastic platform shoes, a black dress about as long as a sports bra, and some serious hair extensions. 3. His blond girlfriend, same deal, but shorter. They all had apparently just snorted their weight in coke, which sounds drastic, but this was probably only about 67 pounds for each of the girlfriends. After making out individually with the guy, the two girls then made out with each other, and then the three of them made out together in one big mouth mess. Now, had I seen this spectacle under most circumstances, I would have just watched on with an odd curiosity and a tempered annoyance. But watching this while in the presence of my parents pretty much made me want to throw up and then die.
I suppose at least they were having the sort of Vegas experience that the "What Happens In Vegas" ad people would like us to think we should all be having. But they didn't get to have scrambled eggs, cheese enchiladas, and lo-mein for breakfast at the Gold Coast all-you can eat brunch buffet. Twice.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way.
Yesterday afternoon, I took a late, slightly drawn out lunch break to shop at Marshalls for a few new things to wear for my trip this weekend. By the time I was returning to the street where I work, I was all red faced and sweaty from the heat (like 85!) and also kinda, sorta really late. I parked my car on the street because our parking lot is really sketchy and I suspect that ne'er-do-wells lurk under the cars, holding knives in their teeth like Captain Hook's pirates.
So I'm half-running back to the office, when I see this kid walking in the middle of the street up ahead. I slow down, for some reason. And then he starts to walk toward me. He must be like 6 and he's carrying this little wooden box. Oh dear. He's going to try to sell me something. Oh I can't say no! (Also I'm sort of hoping he's peddling bags of peanut m&ms because those would hit the spot right about now.)
"Would you like to buy an Easter card for charity?" he mumbles shyly. Well isn't he just precious. And when is Easter, btw? I have no idea. Maybe I should buy a card. "It's one dollar," he says.
"Uh. Sure." And I beging rummaging in my purse for a dollar bill. Seeing as I have cash on me about .2% percent of the time, I wasn't surprised when I couldn't find a single freakin' bill in my wallet. But I had lots of change floating around in there and so I dug up four quarters. (And parting with quarters in these paying for laundry times is a grand gesture, let me tell you...)
By the time I had all of the quarters in my hand and looked back down at him, he was holding out the card for me. It was homemade. All white, with the face of a dog drawn on it with black marker and a little speech bubble coming out of its mouth saying "Happy Easter."
Sigh.
So part of me was like, "Cute! He's making his own cards and selling them. How productive and artistic."
And then, honestly, part of me wanted to revoke my offer and lecture him about making false claims about charities. But of course, I didn't. I'm not a jerk. I get that it's better to support his efforts. I bought his little card and we went our separate ways.
When I told a coworker about this encounter (because I feel the need to tell everybody everything that happens to me in order to share my wondrous life with the world), he suggested that perhaps the kid was only earning 10 cents on that dollar and forced to give the rest to some drug lord. So, apparently, the reality of the situation is some combination of these three things:
1. I am tragically naive.
2. The world is worse off than I'd originally suspected.
3. My coworker grew up on The Wrong Side Of The Tracks.
And this whole experience got me thinking about the way we as adults react to kids selling things. I can recall my sister and I, sitting at the end of our driveway when we were like 8 and 6, selling snow cones made from our Snoopy snow cone maker. And nobody bought them. Or when we painted rocks that we'd collected from Myrtle Beach and tried to sell them --considering them works of art on imported stone-- and nobody bought them. And then as I got older and had the ability to grow bitter, I'd walk from door to door selling candy to raise money for marching band, and one neighbor after the next would say no and I'd wonder why they couldn't find it in their hearts to buy some stupid candy just to save me from having to walk away from their house feeling bad about myself. Seriously, you give me one lousy dollar and you get to enjoy a king size pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. That's 4 cups. You can eat them all now, or eat them later. You can put half of them in your freezer. You can give them to your grandkids for snack time and then they will love you even more. Just buy my fucking candy you assholes!
In fact, the only time I didn't have a hard time in sales was when I was a girl scout. Everyone wanted to buy cookies. They'd order themselves 20 boxes. "I freeze them so I can eat them year round," they'd say. Hoarding food like bears preparing for hibernation. And so they throw their money at the girl scouts. Devoted customers year after year even though the price per box consistently increases and even though they keep changing the names of things and even though they sometimes get rid of the good cookies and replace them with weird lowfat ones that are always lemon flavored. Who the fuck craves lemon? Have you ever heard a woman say, "God, I have my period this week. I seriously need some lemon heads." No. You haven't. Which is why they need to make more chocolate flavored cookies. But they don't care what YOU want.
You know who does care? The other kids who are selling m&ms and kit kats and crunch bars. But your dollars are too good for them. You're saving up for the girl scout cookie feast.
Anyway, my point is: Give a kid a fucking break and buy something once in a while. It's good for their work ethic. Maybe if more people had bought stuff from me when I was a kid (and maybe if I drank less these days) I wouldn't have lost my desire to work hard.
Also, would anyone like an Easter card? I've got to give this thing to someone to get my money's worth.
UPDATE: My sister Katie requested to see the card. Here it is. Not bad, eh? Better than my artwork.
So I'm half-running back to the office, when I see this kid walking in the middle of the street up ahead. I slow down, for some reason. And then he starts to walk toward me. He must be like 6 and he's carrying this little wooden box. Oh dear. He's going to try to sell me something. Oh I can't say no! (Also I'm sort of hoping he's peddling bags of peanut m&ms because those would hit the spot right about now.)
"Would you like to buy an Easter card for charity?" he mumbles shyly. Well isn't he just precious. And when is Easter, btw? I have no idea. Maybe I should buy a card. "It's one dollar," he says.
"Uh. Sure." And I beging rummaging in my purse for a dollar bill. Seeing as I have cash on me about .2% percent of the time, I wasn't surprised when I couldn't find a single freakin' bill in my wallet. But I had lots of change floating around in there and so I dug up four quarters. (And parting with quarters in these paying for laundry times is a grand gesture, let me tell you...)
By the time I had all of the quarters in my hand and looked back down at him, he was holding out the card for me. It was homemade. All white, with the face of a dog drawn on it with black marker and a little speech bubble coming out of its mouth saying "Happy Easter."
Sigh.
So part of me was like, "Cute! He's making his own cards and selling them. How productive and artistic."
And then, honestly, part of me wanted to revoke my offer and lecture him about making false claims about charities. But of course, I didn't. I'm not a jerk. I get that it's better to support his efforts. I bought his little card and we went our separate ways.
When I told a coworker about this encounter (because I feel the need to tell everybody everything that happens to me in order to share my wondrous life with the world), he suggested that perhaps the kid was only earning 10 cents on that dollar and forced to give the rest to some drug lord. So, apparently, the reality of the situation is some combination of these three things:
1. I am tragically naive.
2. The world is worse off than I'd originally suspected.
3. My coworker grew up on The Wrong Side Of The Tracks.
And this whole experience got me thinking about the way we as adults react to kids selling things. I can recall my sister and I, sitting at the end of our driveway when we were like 8 and 6, selling snow cones made from our Snoopy snow cone maker. And nobody bought them. Or when we painted rocks that we'd collected from Myrtle Beach and tried to sell them --considering them works of art on imported stone-- and nobody bought them. And then as I got older and had the ability to grow bitter, I'd walk from door to door selling candy to raise money for marching band, and one neighbor after the next would say no and I'd wonder why they couldn't find it in their hearts to buy some stupid candy just to save me from having to walk away from their house feeling bad about myself. Seriously, you give me one lousy dollar and you get to enjoy a king size pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. That's 4 cups. You can eat them all now, or eat them later. You can put half of them in your freezer. You can give them to your grandkids for snack time and then they will love you even more. Just buy my fucking candy you assholes!
In fact, the only time I didn't have a hard time in sales was when I was a girl scout. Everyone wanted to buy cookies. They'd order themselves 20 boxes. "I freeze them so I can eat them year round," they'd say. Hoarding food like bears preparing for hibernation. And so they throw their money at the girl scouts. Devoted customers year after year even though the price per box consistently increases and even though they keep changing the names of things and even though they sometimes get rid of the good cookies and replace them with weird lowfat ones that are always lemon flavored. Who the fuck craves lemon? Have you ever heard a woman say, "God, I have my period this week. I seriously need some lemon heads." No. You haven't. Which is why they need to make more chocolate flavored cookies. But they don't care what YOU want.
You know who does care? The other kids who are selling m&ms and kit kats and crunch bars. But your dollars are too good for them. You're saving up for the girl scout cookie feast.
Anyway, my point is: Give a kid a fucking break and buy something once in a while. It's good for their work ethic. Maybe if more people had bought stuff from me when I was a kid (and maybe if I drank less these days) I wouldn't have lost my desire to work hard.
Also, would anyone like an Easter card? I've got to give this thing to someone to get my money's worth.
UPDATE: My sister Katie requested to see the card. Here it is. Not bad, eh? Better than my artwork.
Monday, March 10, 2008
"A Poorly Outlined and Disconnected Post If There Ever Was One" or "Hideous Portraits, Handsome Pups, and Impending Obesity" or "A Weekend Wrap Up"
There will be many pictures and few words.
Part I, pUpdates: I've promised to get you some pictures of Seamus. Here he is, sitting with us outside.
As you can see, he has a bum eye. We're working on it. In fact, there are a few kinks we're still trying to work out. He is a bit growly and bitey with strangers, which is nerve-wracking and embarrassing. I think he was hit while he was in the bad house before he was rescued, because he reacts very poorly when someone sneaks up on him or touches the top of his head without letting him sniff them out first.
Also, he chewed up one of my flip flops as well as my glasses.
Part II, Drawings
On Friday, I left work and headed for Timmy Nolan's to meet my sister and our friend Kes. When I walked into the place, I spotted them at a table by the front window, completely cracking up about something. "What's so funny?"
My sister shows me this:
A picture of her, drawn on a coaster, by one of the two men sitting in the corner booth. Apparently they'd been drawing monstrous sketches of people from across the bar, writing "This is you" at the top of the illustration, and then handing it to the unsuspecting patron, who'd laugh and act in good spirits while also doubting their appearance.
I looked over in the artists' direction and saw two men hunched over, with charcoal, and markers, and coasters scattered all over their table. Periodically they would glance up at their targets. I think my sister was one of their favorite subjects, for there came a second drawing.
And then in an attempt to seek vengence, she started to sketch caricatures of the two artists. But before she could finish her art project, they drew one of her drawing them.
I had my back to the artists, and so I thought perhaps I'd be safe. Then again, I was curious to see their rendering of me as an ugly human. I was sure the second they put pen to paper, they'd find it impossible to capture me as anything less than stunning. Maybe the sketch they handed over would look like Jessica Rabbit or one of those ridiculously proportioned anime porn chicks with huge boobs, and long eyelashes and a heart-shaped mouth.
Instead, there was this:
Sort of like that comic book character Cathy, no? When the guy handed it over I was like, is this ME? And he, because he was apparently mute or something, points aimlessly over toward the bar. "Someone over there?" I ask and start looking for a fat woman with terrible hair...I didn't see one. "Wait, so this IS me?" I ask him again, but by now he'd moved on and was looking down at his next work-in-progress.
Part III, A new entry in my food journal.
Foods I Apparently Felt Were Absolutely Necessary To Shove Into My Fat Face This Weekend
I could go down the entire list here, and you'd be impressed to find that it includes 3 different varieties of corn chips, but I wanted to focus on my two main concerns- chocolate frosted mini donuts and tater tots. Who eats this shit?! Who?! The last time I recall eating either of these items in such gargantuan quantities was in 8th grade when both were available daily in the cafeteria.
You see, we were hosting a bbq on Saturday and so went to the grocery store that morning to buy supplies. The donuts were an impulse purchase, spotted in the bakery aisle when I was seeking hamburger and hot dog buns. I walked over to them and then back to the cart, and then over to them, and then back to the cart. And then stood halfway between them, shifting weight from foot to foot until I decided that I will buy them, eat a few, and leave the rest out with the lunch spread so that everyone else would finish them off. Instead, I think I ate approximately 20 of them over the course of the weekend. I'm not kidding.
The tater tots were Devin's idea. While at the grocery store we wound up in the bulk frozen foods aisle some how. And in one swift, fluid motion he spotted them in the freezer, made the decision we must have them, grabbed them and put them in the cart. We didn't even stop walking. And so we have about 10 pounds of tots. I ate them on 7 different occasions this weekend.
And so I may have gained 5 pounds of tot and donut, but I begin this Monday with high hopes to deflate a bit before my trip to Vegas this weekend (although, that place is full of fat tourists so I'll blend right in).
This is going to be a busy week for me at work, so apologies in advance if I don't have many updates.
xo
HS
Part I, pUpdates: I've promised to get you some pictures of Seamus. Here he is, sitting with us outside.
As you can see, he has a bum eye. We're working on it. In fact, there are a few kinks we're still trying to work out. He is a bit growly and bitey with strangers, which is nerve-wracking and embarrassing. I think he was hit while he was in the bad house before he was rescued, because he reacts very poorly when someone sneaks up on him or touches the top of his head without letting him sniff them out first.
Also, he chewed up one of my flip flops as well as my glasses.
Part II, Drawings
On Friday, I left work and headed for Timmy Nolan's to meet my sister and our friend Kes. When I walked into the place, I spotted them at a table by the front window, completely cracking up about something. "What's so funny?"
My sister shows me this:
A picture of her, drawn on a coaster, by one of the two men sitting in the corner booth. Apparently they'd been drawing monstrous sketches of people from across the bar, writing "This is you" at the top of the illustration, and then handing it to the unsuspecting patron, who'd laugh and act in good spirits while also doubting their appearance.
I looked over in the artists' direction and saw two men hunched over, with charcoal, and markers, and coasters scattered all over their table. Periodically they would glance up at their targets. I think my sister was one of their favorite subjects, for there came a second drawing.
And then in an attempt to seek vengence, she started to sketch caricatures of the two artists. But before she could finish her art project, they drew one of her drawing them.
I had my back to the artists, and so I thought perhaps I'd be safe. Then again, I was curious to see their rendering of me as an ugly human. I was sure the second they put pen to paper, they'd find it impossible to capture me as anything less than stunning. Maybe the sketch they handed over would look like Jessica Rabbit or one of those ridiculously proportioned anime porn chicks with huge boobs, and long eyelashes and a heart-shaped mouth.
Instead, there was this:
Sort of like that comic book character Cathy, no? When the guy handed it over I was like, is this ME? And he, because he was apparently mute or something, points aimlessly over toward the bar. "Someone over there?" I ask and start looking for a fat woman with terrible hair...I didn't see one. "Wait, so this IS me?" I ask him again, but by now he'd moved on and was looking down at his next work-in-progress.
Part III, A new entry in my food journal.
Foods I Apparently Felt Were Absolutely Necessary To Shove Into My Fat Face This Weekend
I could go down the entire list here, and you'd be impressed to find that it includes 3 different varieties of corn chips, but I wanted to focus on my two main concerns- chocolate frosted mini donuts and tater tots. Who eats this shit?! Who?! The last time I recall eating either of these items in such gargantuan quantities was in 8th grade when both were available daily in the cafeteria.
You see, we were hosting a bbq on Saturday and so went to the grocery store that morning to buy supplies. The donuts were an impulse purchase, spotted in the bakery aisle when I was seeking hamburger and hot dog buns. I walked over to them and then back to the cart, and then over to them, and then back to the cart. And then stood halfway between them, shifting weight from foot to foot until I decided that I will buy them, eat a few, and leave the rest out with the lunch spread so that everyone else would finish them off. Instead, I think I ate approximately 20 of them over the course of the weekend. I'm not kidding.
The tater tots were Devin's idea. While at the grocery store we wound up in the bulk frozen foods aisle some how. And in one swift, fluid motion he spotted them in the freezer, made the decision we must have them, grabbed them and put them in the cart. We didn't even stop walking. And so we have about 10 pounds of tots. I ate them on 7 different occasions this weekend.
And so I may have gained 5 pounds of tot and donut, but I begin this Monday with high hopes to deflate a bit before my trip to Vegas this weekend (although, that place is full of fat tourists so I'll blend right in).
This is going to be a busy week for me at work, so apologies in advance if I don't have many updates.
xo
HS
Friday, March 7, 2008
"The Time I Watched A Penis Get Pierced" or "My First Summer Internship"
From the time I started touring colleges during that summer between junior and senior years of high school, and all through my freshman year, I was told over and over how important it was that I get an internship during the summer breaks. I needed "real world" "hands on" experience. And I was told that I needed to apply early because everyone would compete for all the good positions. And I understood what they meant, I really did. I just didn't feel like applying until late, late April.
What I ended up with was a position in the marketing department of a local radio station. I did not have any interest working in radio nor in marketing, so clearly this internship was just perfect for me. Oh, and the station was one of those Top 40 formats. I learned this means they literally have 40 songs that they play. I spent the summer drowning in Eminem and "Lady Marmalade." But I'm getting way ahead of myself here.
The first few times I reported for duty I "shadowed" the marketing director. This meant sitting next to her while she typed emails and talked to her boyfriend on the phone. And while I liked my appointed mentor as a person, she was not such a super leader, or teacher, or delegator of responsibility. Often, I would sit in her office for hours while she went to meetings or went to lunch or forgot I was there and took a half day. During these times, I would stare at this one No Doubt poster hanging in there and peruse the stacks of throwaway crappy CDs --she said I could take any I wanted. I wanted zero of them. Oh, and remember that Peanut Butter Jelly Time song with the dancing banana? Apparently that was an actual song made by two rapper kids that are like Kris Kross for the new millennium.
Anyway, my supervisor kept assuring me that things would pick up once the summer really started and then I would go on location.
So June hit and I got to be an official member of the Street Crew. This meant that I was outfitted in a t-shirt with the station's hideous logo (available in XXL only and dug out of the storage closet) and sat in the back of a van with the other interns, while one of the part-time employees drove us to various awesome, exciting locations, where I would stand in the smothering humidity and summer heat, handing out bumper stickers to people who could give a flying fuck.
Oh, and in case you didn't know, when you listen to the radio and you hear a DJ say he's live on location, this doesn't mean that somewhere there is a set up with turn tables and giant speakers. It means that there is a foldy table with a boombox playing Top 40 hits at a reasonable volume, and that the DJ shows up for 15 minutes, just long enough to call in from his cellphone and say "Hey everyone, we're hanging out at the grand opening of the new Cingular Wireless store..."
Some of my on-location moments:
- Inside a custom car detailing store, sitting in the corner, being glared at by various "tough guys" and "gangstas."
- By the check out aisles of P&C supermarket on a Tuesday afternoon, where we were surprised to find very few members of our target audience of 14 year old girls.
- Outside of a cell phone store, where we competed for attention with another table --girl scouts, selling not only their signature cookies, but also HOT DOGS.
- Sitting by the side of the road --we'd forgotten the foldy table that day-- handing out bumper stickers at the entrance to Balloon Fest.
- At the finish line of a 10k charity race, attempting to get the attention of any runners who may want to head for the free bumper sticker table instead of the free water and protein bar table.
-In the dairy aisle of a small family grocery store. Actual line from the DJ during his call in "Hey come check us out, we're right by the butter."
- A donut eating contest, during which one contestant vomited all over the floor.
And then there was the time we went to the grand opening of a piercing place/smoke shop. All day long I manned the stupid foldy table, right between the bong display and Tool t-shirts, congratulating myself on outgrowing the alternative phase in 10th grade. Eventually the DJ for the day strolled in. This guy was a total douche, but sort of in a lovable way. He was like 40 but acted 20 and had a serious case of big-fish-in-small-pond complex.
He'd never really communicated with me the whole summer, so I was intrigued when he told me he needed me to come help him with something. So he leads me to the back of the store, where a man is sitting in a chair with his pants around his ankles, and a woman I presume to be his girlfriend is leaning against the wall. In the corner, a store employee has his back to me. The DJ says, "I need you to watch this for me. I can't look and I have to give a prize to most outrageous piercing." I look at the man in the chair, then at his penis, then at his girlfriend who narrows her eyes at me, and then at the employee at the table just as he turns around, holding the biggest fucking needle I've ever seen in my life.
"K thanks," says the DJ as he darts off.
So I stood there, my face frozen in a pained expression, watching this astonishingly calm man. "Do you mind that I'm here watching you?" I ask him.
"I'm not paying much attention to anything else right now" he says, gesturing towards his penis, giant fucking needle half-way through. Ah, point taken.
About 4 minutes later, they let me go home.
Oh, and btw, there was no Most Outrageous Piercing contest.
What I ended up with was a position in the marketing department of a local radio station. I did not have any interest working in radio nor in marketing, so clearly this internship was just perfect for me. Oh, and the station was one of those Top 40 formats. I learned this means they literally have 40 songs that they play. I spent the summer drowning in Eminem and "Lady Marmalade." But I'm getting way ahead of myself here.
The first few times I reported for duty I "shadowed" the marketing director. This meant sitting next to her while she typed emails and talked to her boyfriend on the phone. And while I liked my appointed mentor as a person, she was not such a super leader, or teacher, or delegator of responsibility. Often, I would sit in her office for hours while she went to meetings or went to lunch or forgot I was there and took a half day. During these times, I would stare at this one No Doubt poster hanging in there and peruse the stacks of throwaway crappy CDs --she said I could take any I wanted. I wanted zero of them. Oh, and remember that Peanut Butter Jelly Time song with the dancing banana? Apparently that was an actual song made by two rapper kids that are like Kris Kross for the new millennium.
Anyway, my supervisor kept assuring me that things would pick up once the summer really started and then I would go on location.
So June hit and I got to be an official member of the Street Crew. This meant that I was outfitted in a t-shirt with the station's hideous logo (available in XXL only and dug out of the storage closet) and sat in the back of a van with the other interns, while one of the part-time employees drove us to various awesome, exciting locations, where I would stand in the smothering humidity and summer heat, handing out bumper stickers to people who could give a flying fuck.
Oh, and in case you didn't know, when you listen to the radio and you hear a DJ say he's live on location, this doesn't mean that somewhere there is a set up with turn tables and giant speakers. It means that there is a foldy table with a boombox playing Top 40 hits at a reasonable volume, and that the DJ shows up for 15 minutes, just long enough to call in from his cellphone and say "Hey everyone, we're hanging out at the grand opening of the new Cingular Wireless store..."
Some of my on-location moments:
- Inside a custom car detailing store, sitting in the corner, being glared at by various "tough guys" and "gangstas."
- By the check out aisles of P&C supermarket on a Tuesday afternoon, where we were surprised to find very few members of our target audience of 14 year old girls.
- Outside of a cell phone store, where we competed for attention with another table --girl scouts, selling not only their signature cookies, but also HOT DOGS.
- Sitting by the side of the road --we'd forgotten the foldy table that day-- handing out bumper stickers at the entrance to Balloon Fest.
- At the finish line of a 10k charity race, attempting to get the attention of any runners who may want to head for the free bumper sticker table instead of the free water and protein bar table.
-In the dairy aisle of a small family grocery store. Actual line from the DJ during his call in "Hey come check us out, we're right by the butter."
- A donut eating contest, during which one contestant vomited all over the floor.
And then there was the time we went to the grand opening of a piercing place/smoke shop. All day long I manned the stupid foldy table, right between the bong display and Tool t-shirts, congratulating myself on outgrowing the alternative phase in 10th grade. Eventually the DJ for the day strolled in. This guy was a total douche, but sort of in a lovable way. He was like 40 but acted 20 and had a serious case of big-fish-in-small-pond complex.
He'd never really communicated with me the whole summer, so I was intrigued when he told me he needed me to come help him with something. So he leads me to the back of the store, where a man is sitting in a chair with his pants around his ankles, and a woman I presume to be his girlfriend is leaning against the wall. In the corner, a store employee has his back to me. The DJ says, "I need you to watch this for me. I can't look and I have to give a prize to most outrageous piercing." I look at the man in the chair, then at his penis, then at his girlfriend who narrows her eyes at me, and then at the employee at the table just as he turns around, holding the biggest fucking needle I've ever seen in my life.
"K thanks," says the DJ as he darts off.
So I stood there, my face frozen in a pained expression, watching this astonishingly calm man. "Do you mind that I'm here watching you?" I ask him.
"I'm not paying much attention to anything else right now" he says, gesturing towards his penis, giant fucking needle half-way through. Ah, point taken.
About 4 minutes later, they let me go home.
Oh, and btw, there was no Most Outrageous Piercing contest.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
There appears to be something living in my car and it keeps opening the hatchback door.
I first noticed this phenomenon a few months ago. I was driving to Santa Monica to meet my friend Shannon for lunch (and many beers). Shortly after I got onto the 405, I began hearing a noise coming from the back of my car. It sounded like someone was shaking a plastic grocery bag. I put up my windows and turned off the radio. Scratch scratch. Rustle rustle. What the fuck?
I'm a nervous driver under the best of circumstances, and a have-a-fucking-heart-attack driver while on the freeway, so I did not appreciate this extra source of panic in the form of a mysterious, small creature. But I needed to stay focused on the road, so I stopped paying attention to it, turned my radio back up, and hoped it was not a car gremlin that eats brains.
And then, there was a beeeeeep. And a dash board light. Does this make anyone else immediately freak out even if it's just alerting you that you're low on gas? Anyway, I look down and see that it's telling me that one of my doors is open. Knowing that I hadn't opened my door or the passenger door since I got in the car, I realized the light must be indicating that the hatchback door was open. But how? Why? The creature!
I had 1.5 miles until the next exit, where I could get off and address this matter. I drove that stretch while clenching every muscle in my body --an action I did not do consciously, but which I must have thought would hold the door closed so I didn't spill the contents of my trunk across 4 lanes of traffic.
I exited the freeway and drove a little ways into Brentwood before pulling onto a side street to inspect my car. Before opening the hatchback door, I wondered if I should arm myself in case of attack. What I needed was I big frying pan. What I had was the car manual sitting in my glove compartment.
Let me be clear on this for a second: I'm not actually insane. I didn't really think I would find a gremlin, or a troll, or a gnome, or a tiny unicorn in the trunk of my car. (Although, how much would THAT rule?) I was expecting maybe a wayward bird. Or giant wasp. Or a rat. I saw this episode of Pimp My Ride ages ago where the west coast customs guys found a rat and like 6 pounds of rat poop under the car seats of this old Nissan Stanza.
Yeah so there was nothing in the trunk. At least, nothing that I could find. So I gave up, closed the door, and made my way back onto the 405.
I drove passed 2 more exits on the freeway when there was that beeeep again. The "open door" alert. No fucking way! So I pulled off at the next exit, near Westwood. Again, no creature. Then I took a weird wrong turn and ended up at the VA hospital, which has an eternal span of parking lot, apparently, for I got very lost and couldn't seem to find my way back to the freeway. Over time, however, I stumbled onto a street I recognized and was able to make my way to lunch only like 45 minutes late.
After this day, there was no similar incident for about a week. But then I was driving to Target one afternoon and I heard a rustling. Then, like magic, my hatchback door unlocked. Since then, I've been on high alert. There have been many mornings when I'm driving to work and hear the little monster shuffling around in the back. I can only assume, since I haven't been attacked, that this creature comes in peace. Also, that it is invisible. And also, that it subsists on the discarded taco bell receipts and gum wrappers it finds under my seats.
I'm a nervous driver under the best of circumstances, and a have-a-fucking-heart-attack driver while on the freeway, so I did not appreciate this extra source of panic in the form of a mysterious, small creature. But I needed to stay focused on the road, so I stopped paying attention to it, turned my radio back up, and hoped it was not a car gremlin that eats brains.
And then, there was a beeeeeep. And a dash board light. Does this make anyone else immediately freak out even if it's just alerting you that you're low on gas? Anyway, I look down and see that it's telling me that one of my doors is open. Knowing that I hadn't opened my door or the passenger door since I got in the car, I realized the light must be indicating that the hatchback door was open. But how? Why? The creature!
I had 1.5 miles until the next exit, where I could get off and address this matter. I drove that stretch while clenching every muscle in my body --an action I did not do consciously, but which I must have thought would hold the door closed so I didn't spill the contents of my trunk across 4 lanes of traffic.
I exited the freeway and drove a little ways into Brentwood before pulling onto a side street to inspect my car. Before opening the hatchback door, I wondered if I should arm myself in case of attack. What I needed was I big frying pan. What I had was the car manual sitting in my glove compartment.
Let me be clear on this for a second: I'm not actually insane. I didn't really think I would find a gremlin, or a troll, or a gnome, or a tiny unicorn in the trunk of my car. (Although, how much would THAT rule?) I was expecting maybe a wayward bird. Or giant wasp. Or a rat. I saw this episode of Pimp My Ride ages ago where the west coast customs guys found a rat and like 6 pounds of rat poop under the car seats of this old Nissan Stanza.
Yeah so there was nothing in the trunk. At least, nothing that I could find. So I gave up, closed the door, and made my way back onto the 405.
I drove passed 2 more exits on the freeway when there was that beeeep again. The "open door" alert. No fucking way! So I pulled off at the next exit, near Westwood. Again, no creature. Then I took a weird wrong turn and ended up at the VA hospital, which has an eternal span of parking lot, apparently, for I got very lost and couldn't seem to find my way back to the freeway. Over time, however, I stumbled onto a street I recognized and was able to make my way to lunch only like 45 minutes late.
After this day, there was no similar incident for about a week. But then I was driving to Target one afternoon and I heard a rustling. Then, like magic, my hatchback door unlocked. Since then, I've been on high alert. There have been many mornings when I'm driving to work and hear the little monster shuffling around in the back. I can only assume, since I haven't been attacked, that this creature comes in peace. Also, that it is invisible. And also, that it subsists on the discarded taco bell receipts and gum wrappers it finds under my seats.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
And so they named him Seamus
The dog's name is Seamus. Pronounced Shay-mus, of course. I've had to correct a few people so far who think we've named the dog something that sounds like semen. Doesn't everyone read Gaelic?
He has a Seamus face. It suits him.
Oh, and that picture I had to go on? Inaccurate. Don't get me wrong, he's still devastatingly handsome, but he is about 3 times the size of the dog in that picture. He is like a grown up already. When I got home on Friday night, eager to meet him, I could hear Devin saying "Mommy's home!" as I approached the door. I expected to see a clumsy pup come bounding into the living room, perhaps slipping a bit on the hardwood floor. Instead, this tank rounds the corner in the hallway and nearly gives me a heart attack.
Why don't I have a new picture to show you? I tried. Believe me. I know this whole thing would be better with one. I spent the morning chasing Seamus around the apartment, but he's dark and kept going into shadowy spaces, and he just wouldn't sit still. I was late to work because of this endeavor. Do you see what I do for you people?
Devin is completely enamored with Seamus already. He is very attentive to his sleeping/eating/crapping needs. And he plays with him and talks to him and brings him everywhere. I wasn't present when Devin and Seamus first met, but I imagine the moment to be reminiscent of the scene in Raising Arizona where Nicolas Cage has just kidnapped the baby and he hands it over to Holly Hunter, who clutches it to her, and immediately begins sobbing uncontrollably, wailing, "I love him so mu-u-u-u-uch!" Yeah, it was like that.
And while the two of them have bonded, I'm still getting there. Seamus is undeniably a sweet little guy. And he really seems to like me a whole lot. The other morning he hung out with me in the bathroom while I did my hair and makeup. And yesterday when I got home, he was really excited to see me. Yes, it's safe to say he is winning me over. But I don't really know how to pet dogs. This sounds dumb, I know. See, I'm very used to cats. You just scoop them up and then rub the sides of their tiny little faces while you hold them. Or you pet the length of their sides while they stretch out and lie on the floor. But Seamus comes up and I just tentatively pet his side. And then he immediately turns and starts licking my hand. So I retract it and try to pat his head, thinking his tongue won't be able to reach me up there. Of course, that's not the case. Also, he smells like dog, and so then I end up smelling like dog. I'm just not exactly used to him.
Nor are the cats, who I think will take a very long time to warm to him. Sarge has been living under the bed for the past few days. This morning he ventured out, mistakenly thinking Seamus was out for a walk with Devin. Poor thing got quite a scare. And Midge the Cat just hates him. When he first walked into the apartment she gave him a good punch in the face. She's one tough old broad.
So a few growing pains, but lucky for Seamus, I am a serious animal lover. Also, he is really stinkin cute. Did I mention that?
He has a Seamus face. It suits him.
Oh, and that picture I had to go on? Inaccurate. Don't get me wrong, he's still devastatingly handsome, but he is about 3 times the size of the dog in that picture. He is like a grown up already. When I got home on Friday night, eager to meet him, I could hear Devin saying "Mommy's home!" as I approached the door. I expected to see a clumsy pup come bounding into the living room, perhaps slipping a bit on the hardwood floor. Instead, this tank rounds the corner in the hallway and nearly gives me a heart attack.
Why don't I have a new picture to show you? I tried. Believe me. I know this whole thing would be better with one. I spent the morning chasing Seamus around the apartment, but he's dark and kept going into shadowy spaces, and he just wouldn't sit still. I was late to work because of this endeavor. Do you see what I do for you people?
Devin is completely enamored with Seamus already. He is very attentive to his sleeping/eating/crapping needs. And he plays with him and talks to him and brings him everywhere. I wasn't present when Devin and Seamus first met, but I imagine the moment to be reminiscent of the scene in Raising Arizona where Nicolas Cage has just kidnapped the baby and he hands it over to Holly Hunter, who clutches it to her, and immediately begins sobbing uncontrollably, wailing, "I love him so mu-u-u-u-uch!" Yeah, it was like that.
And while the two of them have bonded, I'm still getting there. Seamus is undeniably a sweet little guy. And he really seems to like me a whole lot. The other morning he hung out with me in the bathroom while I did my hair and makeup. And yesterday when I got home, he was really excited to see me. Yes, it's safe to say he is winning me over. But I don't really know how to pet dogs. This sounds dumb, I know. See, I'm very used to cats. You just scoop them up and then rub the sides of their tiny little faces while you hold them. Or you pet the length of their sides while they stretch out and lie on the floor. But Seamus comes up and I just tentatively pet his side. And then he immediately turns and starts licking my hand. So I retract it and try to pat his head, thinking his tongue won't be able to reach me up there. Of course, that's not the case. Also, he smells like dog, and so then I end up smelling like dog. I'm just not exactly used to him.
Nor are the cats, who I think will take a very long time to warm to him. Sarge has been living under the bed for the past few days. This morning he ventured out, mistakenly thinking Seamus was out for a walk with Devin. Poor thing got quite a scare. And Midge the Cat just hates him. When he first walked into the apartment she gave him a good punch in the face. She's one tough old broad.
So a few growing pains, but lucky for Seamus, I am a serious animal lover. Also, he is really stinkin cute. Did I mention that?
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