there are places I remember all my life

I remember having all the cousins sleep on the floor in the living room, lining up our sleeping bags from wall to wall and giggling into the night. I remember making jewelry with cousins one summer and hiding under the picnic table with Anthony when it started to rain, as we still attempted to hawk our wares at the unsuspecting barber shop customers who bought from us just because we were cute. I remember receiving packages in the mail and imagining Grandmom and Grandpop lovingly crafting each one; Grandmom with her hot glue gun, asking Grandpop to sign stacks of cards she placed in front of him. I remember when Grandmom and Grandpop came out for graduations, summer trips, birthday surprises, arriving by plane or car, bringing lots of hugs, Tastykakes, and that certain perfume scent Grandmom carries with her. I remember Uncle Tom encouraging us to build bigger chocolate ice cream sundaes, with chocolate syrup and jimmies, laughing because there was no way we would ever finish them. I remember making Yum Yum and sitting out on the porches behind Gparents and U.Tom/A.Mary's houses, eating until our fingers got sticky and then running to the iron swingset in the yard. I remember wondering what was in the shed by the swingset, and examining the neat little rows of tomatoes in the garden, always helping to decide if they were ripe enough to pick. I remember sleeping in the attic, with the dark corners full of boxes and contact-paper-covered shelves lined with books and cooking magazines from years and years before I knew how to read. I remember the sliding glass door on the shower and Gmom and Gpop's, and how there was always a little book of word searches above the toilet, and how sometimes I would go in the bathroom just because I liked to look out the window into the parking lot and watch the world go by. I remember visiting the barbershop just to say hi to Grandpop and Uncle Tom, stealing pretzels out of the wooden pretzel box and sucking on the salt until my lips stung. I remember the Jersey shore, only vaguely, hot sand between tiny toes and matching puffy-paint t-shirts to be worn for years to come on the floor on Grandmom and Grandpop's house at those cousin-filled sleepovers. I remember "down the house," and how there was always a little bowl of black olives for me, and the basement was scary and the armchairs were uncomfortable, but there were huge bowls of pasta and lots of laughter to make up for it. I remember tasting wine at holiday dinners and actually liking it. I remember playing dress-up with cousins in the basement of U. Tom and A. Mary's house, swathing ourselves in crinoline, playing Ace of Base over and over whilst choreographing elaborate routines we would then perform for our poor mothers and fathers. I remember sitting on the steps at Grandmom and Grandpop's house, watching everyone sit around comfortably in those high-back wooden dining room chairs, talking easily after the bowls of pasta and homemade sauce were gone and put away, breathing in the comforting, familiar smell that always emanated from the carpet there. I remember making cookies and pasta and salad dressing and everything under the sun with Grandmom, her wrinkled hands still as sure as they ever were in the kitchen, guiding her grandchildren to learn the art of cooking as she once did. I remember playing Solitaire with Grandpop in the sunroom in Indiana and on the coffee table at their house in Lansdale and in hotel rooms and anywhere else we could find a flat surface and a deck of cards; we wouldn't even have to talk very much, we just played Solitaire over and over again in a soothing repetition. I remember sitting on the porch swing, and discovering the doors I always used at their houses were in fact the back doors, and the front ones faced the street and apparently never opened. I remember Pollyanna gift exchanges and endless photographs where Anthony wasn't smiling or Genevieve blinked or Noelle wouldn't stop wiggling because she was so small, so the parents lined up the old-fashioned film cameras and flashed away until someone decided there had to be a good one in there somewhere. I remember always saying good-bye, climbing into the back of the car or van, walking onto the plane, looking back every two seconds until I could no longer see them standing there waving tearfully. When my grandmother asked me to write down what I remembered from times with the family, I didn't think I could come up with anything but a few scattered stories, but apparently I can remember, and hold dearly, quite a bit more than I realized.

would it be too much to ask of you what you're doing to me

To-day was a bit on the stressful side.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened to make it stressful. I'm starting to think things are finally back to normal with a co-worker who was displeased with me for awhile. None of my customers were particularly crabby or stingy or overly needy. I was glad to be in a section on the floor I rarely get. I even almost won free lunch (almost being the key word. Curse you, Becky, for selling faster than me! I shall defeat you next time, MARK MY WORDS). Then, I got all riled up in a discussion with fellow co-workers about the crap that is the servers' schedule. There is so much drama surrounding this schedule, it might as well have its own show on Lifetime. For reals: if you want to strike up a conversation with a server who isn't being particularly chatty, mention the schedule and prepare for the floodgates to wash away. Everyone is displeased with the way the scheduling manager is handling the organization and distribution of shifts (disclaimer: the previous manager who dealt with scheduling DID NOT have this kind of trouble. It helped that she didn't copy and paste every week's schedule from the previous one, just to save herself time on account of being RIDICULOUSLY LAZY. Rant over). I was having yet another complain-y session with a few co-workers, addressing my quandary of never getting night shifts when I was clearly not hired to simply work during the day and make $5 a shift, when I realized that A. all my constant bitching and moaning was not helping my personal, emotional health, B. I hadn't done anything to try to address the situation except hedge and joke about how I want more night shifts with the scheduling manager, and C. the co-worker I was having trouble with, BECAUSE OF SCHEDULING CONFLICTS - who I recently started getting along with better - was RIGHT THERE while I was complaining about the very situation that led to our drama. OY. And also, could I BE any less tactful?

That was probably a rather confusing and way-over-explained tangent, but it lends to the portrait I'm trying to paint here. I was stressed out at work. I was exhausted. I had just worked a very long day after two days of doubles and another night shift (I picked it up, because HEAVEN KNOWS I don't get scheduled to work nights!), so I was completely drained, both physically and mentally. I texted my family to see what they were doing for dinner and secured an invitation to join them for my mum's homemade chicken tortilla soup.

Next scene: go to parents' house for dinner. They aren't eating, they're putzing around upstairs (they're in the process of redoing the upstairs bathroom. It's going to look gorgeous when they're finished, but in true Dado fashion, it's taking bloody forever). Wells is clingy and wanting me to help her study for government - hello, a subject I hated in high school. Also, I'm done with school, babes. Like I want to pick up a textbook when my brain is fried on a Sunday night. I start reading a catalogue they received in the mail from my alma mater (Go UD!), and my mum keeps interrupting me with inane, detailed questions while I'm trying to read. All things considered, I'm not in the pleasantest of dispositions, and I'm sort of taking it out on my family, snapping and being all short-tempered and crankypants and whatnot.

We finally sit down to dinner, and my beautiful little sibling proceeds to make my night by making it her personal goal to cheer me up. This is the same kid who, not so very long ago, would have snapped right back at me just because that was the age she was at, to prove she's just as snarky as I, to win the upper hand. Ever since I once again moved out of the house and we started working together at the 'bee's, she's been so incredibly starved for my attention that she literally clings to me when I'm trying to leave my parents' house and begs me to stay just a little while longer. It breaks my heart every time. My adorable, grown-up-way-too-fast baby sister is seventeen years old and will hug me tightly for five full minutes as she tries to convince me to hang out with her more frequently.

Photo from this summer. I ADORE this little girl.
People say we look alike, but we just don't see it.

At dinner, Wellie is at her most insanely random best, pulling out all the stops in her attempts to make me laugh. Mum and Dado are, of course, wonderful as well; Mum cooks some Philly chestnuts after dinner as a treat, and Dado randomly places a single M&M in front of me every time he walks by - dark chocolate, of course. Finally, after we've been finished for awhile and are reclining in our chairs chatting, Wellie gets up an whispers something in Dado's ear. They get up and do "the dance" in a wildly successful attempt to make me laugh uncontrollably. I wish I had a video to post of the hilarity, but I shall have to resort to humble words to describe the insanity. "The dance" is something Wellie performed out of nowhere a few months ago - nay, longer than that, I'll say a year or so - in celebration of something or other. Basically, she stands with her feet evenly spaced apart and slowly swivels her hips back and forth while holding her arms at powerwalking-esque ninety degree angles and swiveling them the opposite way.

Sound complicated? Trust me, it's not. My dad and brother? CANNOT DO IT TO SAVE THEIR LIVES. Pretty much the funniest evening EVER occurred this past year sometime when we realized that all the women in our family can do it and the men cannot. We immediately chalked it up to genetics and the fact that girls are cooler than boys. Any time someone in our family busts out "the dance," we all lose it. It's so simple and ridiculous and not even the slightest bit cool, but it works for us. And when my dad and sister went for "the dance" tonight, I couldn't help but laugh out the irritability that had been poisoning my demeanor. I love my family so much it hurts sometimes, to think that someday I won't be able to have these moments with them. I want to capture every one while I can.

don't care to hear 'em play a tango, I'm in the mood to gear a mambo

I'm feeling energetic tonight. I hung out with Daniel for a bit, which was lovely as always. Then he left to be all fabulously academic, and my original plans involved changing into pjs, doing multiple loads of laundry, and either watching Back to the Future or yet more episodes of Friends. [Sidenote: I have been on a ROLL lately with the Friends-watching. For serious. I'm rocking through season three presently, watching such gems as The One with the Jam ("Remember when your mom used to drop you off at the movies with a big spoon and a jar of jam?" and The One with the Race Car Bed ("Do I have a middle name? Okay... Monica... Faloola... Gellar.").
GLORIOUS.] Then, I realized I had energy. Possibly enough to go out with co-workers. And look cute. For serious. I'm rocking the autumnal style of a short skirt (not TOO short. I'm not a hussy, people. Nor quite that bold.) with tights and hott heels. This is going-out type clothing, people!

You know, I was always staunchly anti-tights. Up until this very autumn, the fall of my twenty-third year, I hadn't worn tights of any variety since I was possibly about six years old and my mother made me. My mother is the sort of woman that declares once it is chilly outside, you wear hose with a skirt. Or just wear pants. Every other woman in attendance at a winter function could be wearing a skirt and my mother would bust out the black slacks because hey, they're dressy. She went to my cousin's wedding a month or so ago and called me practically two times a day during the weeks leading up to this event with countless fashion inquiries.

To put this in context: I am my mother's only source of fashion information. Her seventeen-year-old daughter chooses to deck herself out in textbook Hollister (not the slutty stuff) and Aeropostale (without all the corduroy). My mother has no close friends. No, really. I'm not exaggerating or being mean or anything. She keeps in touch with her one good friend from high school, who still lives in PA. She has a terrible relationship with her one sister, who also lives in PA. Her best friend is my Dad, who similarly, only has her for a friend. They are there for each other more than one hundred percent, and that is all they need. I've always found this to be both admirable and a little sad. My friends in high school would always talk about how they had to stay home and watch their siblings because their parents were going out to dinner with their friends, or going to such-and-such's soirée, or meeting so-and-so for a movie. My parents never did that. I believe they hung out with my little sister's best friend's parents once. And I don't really know why they were invited, because it was an evening centered on playing cards, and my parents don't play euchre (I know. They've lived in the Midwest for thirteen years and DON'T PLAY EUCHRE?!? O THE TRAGEDY!). We don't have any close family within a twelve-hour drive. So we were each other's friends. We kids, of course, found circles of fellow kids to chillax with, but my parents were always totally fine with just having each other. That astounds me.

I love spending time with my guy. He's incredibly good to me and we get along swimmingly, probably because we laugh at each other's insane sense of humour. However, I have absolutely NO PROBLEM AT ALL when he's all "Hey, I have ish to do tonight, so I'll catch you tomorrow," or, "Hey, Taylor and I are hanging out tonight and we haven't chatted in awhile so is that cool?" He never has to make excuses as to why he isn't hanging out with ME ME ME ALL THE TIME OMG PICK ME. Never. Busy tonight? Sweet! I can watch a guilty pleasure movie like The Secret Garden and not feel silly! [Sidenote: he has totally watched this with me. Now THAT's a keeper, ladies.] I can browse blogs on the internet and suddenly realize three hours have passed! I can read Agatha Christie and get visibly excited when Hercule Poirot is close to nabbing the murderer! [Yet another sidenote: he's totally seen me get nerdy with books, so this probably doesn't count either. Hmm.] Similarly, he knows he can call me to say hi and I'll say, "Hi I love you but I'm hanging out with work people tonight so I'll talk to you later." See? We can have friends AND still see each other pretty much every day.

NEW TANGENT THAT IS VAGUELY RELATED BUT ALSO SORT OF NOT, AND ALSO, MY GOSH I'M A.D.D. TO-DAY: Practically every serious couple I've known has gone from perfectly normal, sociable individuals to the glued-at-the-hip, incapable-of-going-anywhere-without-the-other type once they found "that special someone." I have ALWAYS been highly displeased with this type of behaviour. I HATED that my friend would just disappear or become someone else, just because they had found a boyfriend or girlfriend. I always thought that your significant other should complement you (different from "compliment," people) and help you to become the best version of yourself - YOURSELF - and not dramatically change you in any way. He or she should accept you for who you are. I have known many people who were a vibrant, sparkling, unusual personality that, once attached to The Significant Other Unit, became a much stifled, quieter version of him or herself. Does that make sense?

Now, people have tried to tell me, "But Holly, it's called MATURING. They were SO CHILDISH before. Now that he or she is in an adult relationship, it ALL CHANGES." To which I say: HELL NO. Just because we're "adults" doesn't mean we can't have fun and be random and a little crazy at times and ridiculous when we feel like it. People can still have fun even when they're fifty-five years old and have gray hair and reading glasses and three children (yes I did just describe my father, who is a quiet, reserved sort of individual in social situations, but has one of the most playful spirits I've ever known, a joy that only reveals itself when he's with my mum and sibs). Story example: the other week, Wellie (the Little Sib) was taking photographs outside for her photography class. Her assignment was to take photos of "letters" she found in nature/ordinary objects/creative ways to invoke the alphabet/etc. She was struggling a bit, and I joked that she should just write a letter on a piece of paper and photograph that. So my dad immediately found some post-it notes, drew random letters on five or six, and proceeded to sneak out back and post them all over the porch for Wells to find. My mum, dad, and I hid in the sunroom, giggling at ourselves, watching Wellie creepily from the glass doors as she came around the side of the house and indignantly noticed my dad's trickery. SEE?! BE OLD(er), STILL HAVE FUN AND BE WEIRD AND EMBRACE YOUR INNER CHILD. These are the things I will remember about my dad when he's gone, not what he got me for my birthday or how nice our house looked.

That tangent got way out of control. I should have warned you at the onset of this post that I was in a random sort of mood.

I still have energy. I still rather want to go out with chums tonight, but now it's coming on eleven and I have to work tomorrow night and I still haven't done any of my four loads of laundry I know need to be done and I should probably be responsible and go to bed early for once in my bloody life. But I still look cute.

images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes

Extremely random thoughts for you on a blustery Sunday evening in Indiana...

Presently watching The Holiday for the hundredth time and desperately wishing I could move to England.

Also loving England because of three hours spent with my dad this afternoon browsing England vacation websites.

The smell of campfire makes me want to stand outside and breathe deeply for hours, until my toes go completely numb and I can't feel my ears.

Waiting to hear back from a local, slightly upscale restaurant for a serving job... perhaps a step up from the 'bee's and a more profitable second job in the near future?

Thinking a lot lately about the future; Dan asked me where I see myself in May, and I didn't have an answer.

Getting tired of my intense paranoia concerning germs and illness.

So very over all the ridiculous, immature, childish drama at my lovely restaurant of employment.

Totally at a loss as to what to wear over my impending weekend spent out of town.

I hate living in what I consider to be an untidy sty of occasional filth, but haven't any time to properly tidy it.

Really tired of always paying bills and not saving any money for my future.

Wishing I had time to learn to cook properly, and perhaps sew, and definitely read more books.

Rather chagrined that I'm always complaining in these posts.

I definitely enjoyed my long weekend without a roomie, but I have to admit I'm rather pleased she's back (just helped her carry bags in).

Slightly concerned for my health, what with my roomie and bf suspecting an iron deficiency and a general feeling of being "off" for the past few weeks.

Dreaming dreams and wishing wishes, without fully realizing any of them.


At risk of sounding cliche or girly or whatev, yet not caring if you think that because it's true, I am completely crazy about this guy:

I know, I know. Go ahead and make fun of me. Here's to hoping.

wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door

I was inspired by my dear friend Ashley over at Our Little Apartment to highlight something I discovered lately to be rather useful. Don't fret, Ash, I'm not stealing your "Worth It Wednesday" feature; in fact, I don't yet blog regularly enough to necessitate any sort of "regular" feature. However, I enjoy reusing and recycling a great deal, and felt this was just cool enough to be mentioned on my little corner of the blogosphere.

Lo! The substance you don't often reach for, and in fact was a total mystery to the Kroger employee we questioned as to its whereabouts:


That's right, chums, cheesecloth! It says right on the label: Many Uses! They list things like straining, steaming, basting, cleaning, and polishing. I say...


Spicing! That happy little pile of cloves, allspice, and cinnamon - all bound up neatly in their cheesecloth bag - helped our hot wassail become as delicious as it did.

In addition, they kid you not when listing "cleaning" as an option. At work, we use coffee filters as an alternative to paper towels for cleaning the windows (since our coffee distributor gives us more filters than we could ever use). As for cheesecloth, 100% lint-free cotton means...


Fabulously streak-free shine. Also, meet Phoebette, my plant. You'll get the full story behind her later. It's quite a tragic saga. Woody Allen is rumoured to direct the heartfelt, yet quirky tale.

These are only a few uses I've highlighted. There are so many more. For example, I use bar soap in the shower, and always reach a point where the soap is too tiny or oddly-shaped to be easily maneuvered in any way, but I feel wasteful tossing those smallish pieces of soap. There's still soap there! I'm just too clumsy! The other day, an epiphany: Holly! Place those wee soapy bits into a square of cheesecloth to create a quasi-loofah! I promptly congratulated myself for being both inventive and environmentally conscious (a combination I love, by the way).

ALL THIS for the low, low price of $3.49! And that was just the Kroger price. Methinks you could snag some cheesecloth for even cheaper, depending where you choose to purchase your grocery-goods. Heck, it's not like it goes bad. Splurge the four dollars and keep it on the cupboard. I guarantee you'll come up with uses.

On an unrelated note, I felt very fall-esque to-day, so I tried the self-photographed-what-I-wore-to-day thing:


Uh, yeah. Please keep in mind that I have a rather crappy camera that is at least eight years old. Wait, maybe six. Anyway, blame it on the technology. And I look weird because I'm holding my scarf instead of wearing it. Let's go for take two:


Well, it's better, at least (apparently I really like holding my scarf). I'll work on it. I'm hoping to get a new camera sometime in the not-too-distant future; to expedite that matter, please tell everyone presently living in northeast Indiana to come eat at Applebee's and tip their server/bartender liberally if she has curly hair and blue spectacles. Thank you very much.

Ah, Thursday eve. Pilfered chicken tortilla soup (from my mother), The Big Bang Theory on DVD with my sister, and a new episode of The Office. Enjoy yours, friends.

and these mem'ries lose their meaning

I left work to-day and got in my car and listened quietly to music on the ride home. I didn't accelerate aggressively or get upset with other drivers on the road like I usually do. I didn't call anyone to chat or complain to about my day. When I got home, I walked slowly up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, unlocked the door, and dropped my stuff on the floor. Realized I had no full water bottles, refilled them, placed the Brita pitcher back in the fridge. I looked at the full sink of dishes, remembered I should wash them, and walked away. Changed into lounging clothes, dropped my uniform on the floor, and recalled I had planned on doing laundry this whole weekend and still had yet to do so. Walked away. Quietly. Oh so quietly.

Have you ever felt unsatisfied?

I don't mean displeased with the price of gas, frustrated over a lost piece of mail, or peeved by a minor spat with a roommate or friend.

I suppose I should ask, have you ever felt empty?

Don't misunderstand me. I am not depressed. I have a good life, with a loving family, a few close friends and people who care about me a great deal. I work hard at my job, I am recognized for it, and I am proud of that. I don't hate my crooked teeth or my small stature or how I'm forced to wear spectacles to see properly; on the contrary, I appreciate my physical quirks as reflections of my personality. I love my sense of humour and that I have those in my life that also enjoy it.

All that said, to-day I left work and realized how empty I felt. I barely made any money during a shift that usually makes me more than the rest of my week's shifts combined. People in general were impolite and stingy this afternoon. It's another absolutely gorgeous autumn day, unseasonally warm and sunny, and I had to spend the whole day inside, apologizing to tables because a fly landed on their glass and the steak wasn't cooked to their exact specifications and she needs more raspberry tea even though her glass is three-quarters full.

I just want more.

Not more money, although it would help to not have to worry about it obsessively. Not more friends, although I do appreciate that I have made a few new friends at work recently. Not more recognition or prestige or high-fives.

I want MORE. I KNOW I can do more with my life. I'm settling for living in the same town my family's lived in for thirteen years, working as a waitress for $2.13 an hour. I have a bachelor's degree in English, a deep passion for books and the written word, a burning desire to travel and see the world and indulge my gypsy spirit and I am doing NOTHING about it.

I spoke to an old college friend yesterday for the first time in quite awhile. She asked how I was doing, I updated her on my job situation - or lack thereof - and informed her that I had recently decided on my five-year plan. When I told her - in complete and utter seriousness, mind you - that I planned on moving abroad in five years or less, she laughed. I know it's not her fault to think I'm joking around, because I've been joking about moving to England for years, but still. I told my mum the other day that my goal is to move to England, and she just keeps talking about when I move to Chicago. I seriously want to do this, and no one is taking me seriously. The fact that people might honestly think I can't do it is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is my dream. If I had the money to move tomorrow I would pack my suitcase, buy a plane ticket, and leave. I would seriously miss my close friends, my wonderful guy, and my family. But I would go because I know I need to. I really, really don't want to sound proud or conceited or anything when I say this, but I'm meant for so much more than what I'm doing.

I should get started on the evening's tasks. Just so this post isn't quite so dark and somber, I conclude with a visual depiction of yesterday evening's activities:

Hot, essence-of-fall wassail and his dorky grin.


The main event: pumpkin carving! Note how focused I am on my art.


He's pleased because his pumpkin is PERFECT. [No really, it is.]
I'm peeved because mine is choppy and mangled. I'm such an amateur.


O the carnage!


His perfect punkin on the ground, next to the tiny punkin friend I got for 59 well-spent cents.
My YAR! pirate punkin is elevated to illustrate the awesomeness.

Splendid fall evening to you, friends.

there's no time for fussing and fighting, my friend

Sunday morning, I agreed to close the bar for JH on Wednesday so he could go to the Miss Gay Indiana pageant in Indianapolis, I think. He does a drag show and was trying to make some more contacts so he can start making money from this relatively new venture, and I was more than happy to work his nighttime bar shift for him. This story is not about that.

Wednesday evening, we really weren't that busy. I was trained as a bartendress (as I like to call myself) in March of this year, if I remember correctly. As far as bartending goes, I'm still quite new at this whole game, especially considering I am not a heavy drinker and had little to no familiarity with most of the liquors behind the bar before I started serving them. To work a nighttime bar shift, and have to balance both rail guests and servers' drinks from the well, is both overwhelming and an exciting challenge. I love moving quickly and attempting to make the drinks as fast as I can, while still building rapport with my guests so as to boost my tips. All in all, I was rather proud of my performance this particular evening.

Wednesday night, I was closing the bar, performing various cleaning tasks and whatnot, and I dragged my garbage can out to the back docks, where a few of the cooks were sitting on boxes and empty kegs taking a brief smoke break. One in particular, C, sports dark hair and a lip ring, and shares my sarcastic sense of humour to the point that we get along quite well. At least, as well as I can gather from the brief chats we've shared here and there during the times our shifts overlap. He's one of those co-workers I genuinely enjoy talking to, because he's funny, always kind to me, and never lashes out against the other cooks or the servers like so many back-of-house associates tend to do. I appreciate a strong yet controlled personality. We could use more of those at the 'bee's. Anyway, I dragged my garbage out back and C was out there smoking. Now, I don't smoke, and actually abhor the habit for a variety of reasons (I know people who have had emphysema/lung cancer as a result of being around heavy smokers, secondhand smoke gives me a horrid headache, etc.), but I do like to chat with people when I can, and unfortunately, a lot of the chatting and getting-to-know people happens when they bond over their cigarettes on the back dock. I chatted with C and the other cooks for a few minutes and C mentioned that he and D, one of the closing servers, were going out to get a drink after work, and invited me to join.

Wednesday night, I faced a quandary. I have been invited out multiple times by people I work with. One clique in particular has invited me to join them at various low-rate bars and/or clubs numerous time, but I have yet to join those particular shenanigans. I did accompany them to BW3's one night, which helped secure my "cool" status, but considering they don't really invite me out much anymore, I'm guessing I'm not enough of a drinker for them. Also, the conversation they pursued during our time out was both vulgar and somewhat out of my sheltered little comfort zone at times. Therefore, I am usually relatively wary when invited to chillax by 'bee's people. However, C seems like a nice guy, and D is a very pleasant sort as well, having been nothing but sweet to me, so I seriously considered it.

Wednesday night, I had almost decided not to join my co-workers, when D approached me in an excited frenzy (she's rather high-energy), shrieking that she heard I was going out with them and ohmygodthatissoawesomewearegoingtohavesomuchfun!!!!!111. "Self," I declared, "You really do need a drink. And you like these particular co-workers of yours. Let's do this."

Wednesday night, C and D and I went to a new-ish bar that C knew because it was a renovated version of an older place he used to go to regularly. To make a long story short, we three immediately bonded over the experience of attempting to defer the affections of two seriously creepy drunkards - one of which wanted me to leave the other two so he could tell me a secret, and the other which asked D to kiss him now multiple times. C was a splendid male companion to two young females (that made us sound really young or something; we're all pretty much the same age), refilling our drinks for us from the pitcher we split, telling the creepy guys that we were both his and he doesn't like to share, holding us one on each arm as we left so no one would get any ideas. After this somewhat unnerving experience, we went to a much friendlier pub and laughed about it over a bucket of beers. Normally I'm not a beer person, so C collaborated with the bartender at this pub (who he knows well) to pick a beer for me to sample. To my surprise, they were successful, and I enjoyed a rather tasty Honey Brown.

Wednesday night, I enjoyed myself enormously until three-thirty in the morning, talking and laughing and bonding with C and D. D had to go home relatively early, since she lives forty-five minutes away, so C and I continued chatting for awhile, played a game of pool, and called it a night. I got two new contacts in my phone from my new 'bee's friends, and realized that I miss having a variety of people to hang out with. Don't get me wrong, I love my roommate and my significant other very much. I haven't seen my roommate in two days and I have a number of stories to tell her. If I don't see my guy for a few days I actually miss him; which yes, sounds lame, but what can I say, I'm a passionate person. When I got in my car after the night o'random shenanigans with co-workers, I realized I had a huge grin on my face because I had so much fun and it was just so REFRESHING to know it's possible to have other friends. My roommate has a number of other people she makes plans with, and I'm not always invited because I don't really know her other friends very well and it's not like you have to be attached to someone at the hip just because you share an apartment. In a way, it's nice to know I might have a few friends of my own - REAL friends, not just random alcoholic buddies like the other clique at the 'bee's. We actually talked about ourselves and personal lives and real things, and they both told me multiple times that they really enjoyed hanging out with me and we are SO doing it again soon.

Thursday night, I was hanging out with JK, another co-worker, with whom I share a deep and loyal love of "The Office." We had made plans weeks ago to watch the season five premiere together, and began the evening with dinner at-where else?-Chili's. My sister joined us. The conversation evolved into JK sharing various tidbits of gossip she heard around the 'bee's (my sister is a hostess at the 'bee's, so she knew all the people JK was referring to), some of which was highly implausible. She shared one extremely far-fetched instance that she claimed involved C and D; I wisely refrained from mentioning I hung out with them the night before.

Friday afternoon, I was once more working the 'bee's, and found myself in a conversation with M and A, both servers who are a bit younger than me, but have been part of the 'bee's culture for either as long as me or a bit longer. We discussed the insane gossip mill present in our workplace, and A remarked that she had been a victim of the rumour-mongering a few times in the past. In addition, she has told me numerous times about how she doesn't get along well with D, and a manager actually spoke to her about it, stating that D heard all kinds of stories about things A said about her. Can we say DRAMA?! Basically, the point of this entire long, drawn-out story I'm sketching for you, is that I am constantly astonished at the force and power of the gossip/rumour mill at the 'bee's. Is any other workplace like this? People's names are constantly dragged through the mud for various reasons. There's a never-ending cycle of whispers declaring who slept with who and who is secretly gay and who cheated on their boyfriend with that manager. It's impossible to keep up with and quite frankly, a rather tiring task I don't care to participate in. I didn't tell any of my co-workers for six months that I was seriously dating my guy because heaven knows what they would do with that information. And it's true - once they started finding out, I was teased a few times through inappropriate comments. Nothing mean-spirited, just not particularly in line with my moral system. It just astounds me that people are so immature to talk about people constantly behind their backs, to stoop to child-like methods of deceit and bickering, and that no one is exempt from this vicious game, not even managers or the youngest, most innocent of hostesses.

Saturday morning, I wrote a ridiculously long post about my recent workplace musings, and wondered whether other workplaces shared this madness.

treat me like you did the night before

I'm a common courtesy contradiction.

The other day I was leaving my apartment building, and was astounded by a simple action. I live on the third floor, so I have to descend a few flights of indoor stairs to get to the door that leads out to the parking lot. I locked my door and started down the steps, moving at my usual brisk pace. When I came around the final corner, I saw that an elderly gentleman was holding the door for me.

When I say elderly, I mean ELDERLY. Thinning silver hair, deep-set wrinkles, hunched shoulders, outdated-and-ill-fitting mustard yellow suit, leaning heavily on a scratched wooden cane. He was OLD and practically HANDICAPPED and he heard someone coming, so he held the door for them. I was the only one around at the time, so he wasn't just holding it for his wife or someone he saw coming in from the parking lot. He heard footsteps from upstairs, which can only mean a person descending to exit the building, so he held the door. It's practically melodramatic for me to be writing about such a small event, and I'm sure he thought nothing of it, but I was just thinking about common courtesy the other day, only to be blown away by this tiny old man who took the extra time to hold the door, when it was probably going to take him ten more minutes to hobble to his comfy armchair and put the cane down for the day.

Now, when I say I am a common courtesy contradiction, I believe I share the affliction of being a hypocrite with the vast majority of the population. I will hold doors for people, and make eye contact, and smile at strangers, and wait for people at crosswalks, and say "please" and "thank you" quite frequently when at a restaurant or somesuch. However, I also tend to tailgate if you're driving ten under the speed limit and I'm late for work, because lord knows that makes me personally want to speed up, when someone is so close it's like they're driving in my bloody trunk [this is when we all laugh and point fingers at Holly and say things like "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, CONTROL YOUR ROAD RAGE!"].

I went to a friend's wedding this weekend, which was beautiful and perfect and basically gobs of fun. Upon leaving the reception, Daniel and I were walking out into the beautiful night - my feet were killing me, of course, from the fabulous peep-toe heels I was sporting all night - and we passed a woman talking loudly to someone in a van pulled up to the sidewalk. They were having some trouble coordinating how to load some boxes of glassware into the van when the cart kept trying to roll away on rickety wheels. I took in the situation in a glance and was all set to keep walking, when Daniel released his loose grip on my hand and immediately went over to the woman, asking if she needed assistance. It was quite apparent that this woman was taken aback by such a kind offer from a random stranger.

I never thought of myself as an inconsiderate person before. I always say "Oh, I'm sorry!" or "Excuse me, sir" if someone bumps into me in a public place - even if it was their fault, not mine. I cannot fathom those who just bump into others and say nothing or ignore people who serve them in such positions as drive-through fast food attendants, or waitresses, or bank tellers, and refuse to say thank you to those working such menial jobs. I became more and more aware of the overwhelming rudeness present in our society when I started waitressing. People who don't say those magic words you learn as a little kid, who just hold out their glass and give you a look when they want a refill, who leave ten percent tip or less because lord knows the person serving them doesn't have bills to pay or children to support whilst working eight hour shifts for $2.13 an hour. I'm not trying to turn this into a rant at all; I'm just wondering where the concept of common courtesy has gone. I had a table on Sunday consisting of parents and four kids, between the ages of about ten and fifteen, I would say, and they were the most well-mannered group of that age children I have ever waited on. They all spoke to me clearly when ordering or asking for refills, smiled genuinely, and thanked me sincerely. It was just so refreshing to see that some parents still attempt to instill such values in their offspring.

Don't lose hope in the manners of humanity yet. There are still random acts of kindness out there.

On that note, I shall now phone in an order of delicious sesame chicken to prepare for the season premiere of The Big Bang Theory tonight on CBS. If you haven't seen it and appreciate smart humour and dorky guys in awkward situations, then I highly recommend it.

I've tried to telephone, they said you were not home, that's a lie

Still no reply from the job hunt.

I plan on sending angry emails this week. Okay, irate emails. Fine, not even irate; polite inquiries, really. They can't get upset at me for politely inquiring how the process is going, right? RIGHT?

If I don't hear back from any of this most recent round of jobs, then I believe that clinches it. I'm moving away. I don't even know where yet. I do know that I will wait until after the holidays, since business is finally starting to pick up at the 'bee's, slowly yet surely, so once I make it through the madness that is the holiday rush, then I will have sufficient funding - or at the very least, just enough so I can move away and not die for a month or two. Wise advice has helped me see that that's all I need.

With that sort of ambition, maybe I'll make all my dreams come true at once and move to England.... yes...

Ahem. Moving on, I picked up another shift tonight. Carside again. I really don't mind it, as long as people tip me. Which, most of the time, they don't. But every now and then it's a nice change to work carside. Don't have to deal with the constant interaction of bartending, always playing the listener or the entertainer. Don't have to worry about harassing one's tables repeatedly with drink refills or pushy dessert inquiries. Nope, just answer the phone, take the order, and take it to the car when they arrive. If I'm lucky, they see me for a minute, minute and a half, tops, and maybe reward me with a dollar or two for my efforts.

On a completely unrelated note (my, aren't we scattered to-day, mentally speaking), I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people. Truly. I've moved and changed schools so many times in my life, I'm used to just leaving it all behind and picking up in a new place, meeting new people, creating a new routine. After college, it was so strange to move back to a city I knew, with familiar locations and faces and phone numbers that weren't long distance for once. For once, I don't want to forget the people I left behind, those who made my four years of college so much more than tolerable, yet I'm falling back into the same pattern of forgetfulness. My best and dearest friend to me in the world and I have lost touch. We used to be able to talk for hours, exchanging random stories and oh yeah that reminds me of this that happened but wait I was telling a story and if I don't finish I'll forget and then we'll get on another tangent that leads to four more stories and meanwhile we can't stop quoting movies/TV shows we love to watch together and have to take a break to laugh until we can't breathe. Now, we're lucky if we talk once a week. I understand that's how life works and people grow up and reach the point where they have luncheons every now and then to catch up with "old college buddies" or whatnot, but I've never been the sort of carry that kind of friendship off very well. And I miss my best friend.




Why is it that you break twenty-one years of age, and suddenly realize that adult life is very different than you always imagined it, back when you were writing short stories as if all that was troublesome in the world resolved itself at age twenty-four? If that were the case, apparently I'm due to have all my worries resolved in the next year. If only it worked like my twelve-year-old self always dreamed...

These ramblings don't seem to make a great deal of sense, even as I glance back through them. I probably shouldn't even post this, but sometimes it's helpful to purge the mind of all those disconnected thoughts, just for housecleaning's sake, I suppose. Who know, you might even understand a little bit of where I'm coming from.

take these broken wings and learn to fly

I'm discouraged.

I've been trying really hard to not let this become a place for personal rants or whining or whatnot, and more an outlet for expressive depictions of both random thoughts and day-to-day anecdotes, but I have to be cathartic to-day, and for that I apologize. I also apologize for the length of that sentence; it definitely borders on run-on status.

I was just rejected for a job.

It's just a lovely way to wake up in the morning to your phone ringing, seeing an unknown number - which I kind of love, by the way; unknown numbers spell intrigue! adventure! etc! - making sure you answer in a semi-coherent way, and have a nice lady tell you that your availability just isn't going to work. Let's back up a minute so I can fully explain why one tiny rejection is making me so upset.

As previously stated on this blog, I work at an Applebee's, and I love it there. I do. I enjoy the people, the fast-paced nature, the job itself. I enjoy it thoroughly. That said, it's been a long, slow, summer, and unless things start picking up soon, I will have to give up eating food just so I can pay my bills and still save a little bit every month. I must. save. money. So I can move to a big city and pursue my dream of working in publishing.

Okay. So you know I work at the 'bee's. Unfortunately, that's a sporadic income. I never know how much I'm going to make from day to day, aside from the $2.13 an hour I make serving or the $3.25 an hour I make bartending. My second job has been at the local branch of a large midwestern university, as an administrative assistant, and then as the editor of the newsletter for one of the colleges. However, that has also turned out to be sporadic income, because the Dean of the college seems to find joy in putting off his tasks as long as humanly possible, thus delaying the project and preventing me from EVER LEAVING. Let's review: like Applebee's, sporadic income. Dislike college, but pays more, but has also become sporadic income. Can we say SUCKS.

I began a search for a new second job awhile ago. I applied everywhere, citing that I need decent wages. That's probably why I haven't gotten any calls. Limited availability and staunch refusal to work minimum wage. I have a freaking college degree and I just got rejected for a job at KOHL'S. The CLOTHING STORE. Because I'm not willing to work Friday nights, since I'm keeping Applebee's on those nights so I actually have a chance to make more than $20 a shift. The sad part? Out of all the places I applied, Kohl's was my BACKUP. The pretty-much-guaranteed-shoo-in job.

I just don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I've been sending out resumes to publishing groups and working so hard for the past year at these stupid menial jobs to save money so I can make my dream happen and I'm just looking in the mirror and seeing a life as a waitress in Fort Wayne. Having been a waitress, I can say that it's really hard work, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a waitress full-time to make ends meet, but I have such bigger aspirations. I just thought I was going to do something after graduation, and the real world has slapped me over and over as I attempt to climb out of this hole of the Midwest.

Final thoughts. Last night I went to my sister's back-to-school night, since my mum is out of town at a funeral and my dad wasn't feeling well. I played surrogate parent; which, admittedly, was kind of fun. I saw one of my old teachers, MA,whom I adored in high school, and we had a conversation that really prompted me to think about my job search. Her daughter is working in Chicago right now, and struggled just as I am with finding a position, especially from a distance as I am attempting to do (Chicago and New York aren't exactly a jaunt away. Well, Chicago isn't bad at all; New York is another story). My teacher told me that her daughter tried searching from afar and eventually just moved to the city jobless. Within six weeks, she had a position. Granted, she's not in publishing, she's in finance, but STILL. That REALLY makes me want to just pick up and move. REALLY. BADLY. I'm so tired of being rejected and not getting answers and being told that I'm not good enough to sell clothing to haggard soccer moms and run a register like I did for four years in high school and fold t-shirts like I've been doing since I was eight.

I need to take action. Do something to combat this negativity and this discouragement. Stop whining to the internet and GET OUT THERE.

is there anybody going to listen to my story

A few weeks ago, I was taking a walk with the significant other around my apartment neighborhood, and it was rather muggy outside, and I was sporting an old college t-shirt and shorts with my $2 Old Navy flip-flops that I usually only wear when putzing around the apt. or after a long shift at the 'bee's. It was nearing dusk, and the street lamps were buzzing with an orange fluorescent glow. We were walking slowly, alternating between avid conversation and comfortable silence, fingers loosely linked, when I noticed him looking at me intently and I gave him a questioning glance. He answered by simply saying: "You're beautiful."

You may take this to be cliche, or trite, or even fake, but if you heard the way in which it was uttered, you would reconsider your cynical take. Normally such a simple compliment would not lead me to a contemplative discourse on intimacy, yet the utter sincerity with which he said it made it something entirely different from an offhand comment. Don't get me wrong, he has complimented me before, but this was so unexpected, especially when it was given in a moment when I felt at best rather tired and sweaty. I was, of course, not wearing any makeup, my hair was back in my typical sloppy ponytail, and yet he was looking at me so carefully, so delicately, as if to admire me was to break me in some way. He simply looked with an openness and honesty and told me very matter-of-factly that I was beautiful. He even admitted that he didn't know why, but just said that I "glowed."

He's good to me, that one.

On a related note, this is something I've been pondering for awhile. For the duration of my young life thus far, I have had an unnatural dislike for the term "boyfriend." Let me explain. "Girlfriend" is an entirely acceptable term. I have no problem with tossing it around. I rather enjoy it when Daniel refers to me as his girlfriend. However, once people see me with my gentleman and inquire, "Ohh, Holly, is that your BOYFRIEND?!" I get a strange feeling of discomfort. Don't get all Freudian on me and declare it simply must be related to my inability to commit and whatnot. I have had serious relationships in my life. I am a powerfully loyal individual. That said, what is up with my aversion to this term? Has anyone else had this issue? I think it might be related to my love for words and specific letters, and the way words look and sound when seen and uttered, respectively, and that I appreciate "girl" as a word better than "boy," thus leading to a strange preference for one term over the other. However, I can't help but wonder... fellow wordsmiths, do you copy? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Also, a question to you married folk out there. I know it's been asked by every prepubescent child that's ever had a crush, and by those my age who struggle to find their vocation in life, but I'll ask it again, just to see if anyone out there in the blogosphere cares to aid my internal quandary. How did you KNOW that the person you married was the one for you? If you don't have any advice beyond, "It was just a feeling, I just KNEW" - that's okay. I want as many opinions on this as possible. Being a twenty-something, I have so many friends getting married/already married/starting families that I can't help but wonder how people younger than me seemed to figure it out before I did, with "it" of course being the answer to that ultimate question posed above. What's a free-spirited, mostly-independent, happily-committed-to-a-sweet-gentleman twenty-something to do?

Don't fret, dear reader [s, if you do indeed exist in plural form]. I will not be tying the knot anytime soon. My current significant other has made it very clear he isn't even thinking about marriage (to anyone, not just in reference to me) until after he has his degree, which won't be until this May, so that's awhile yet. Also, I have so many career-and-general-adventure-oriented goals I wish to accomplish before settling down that I know I need many more years of singledom ahead of me before I'm ready for that step. I just... need to know. It's been a question on my heart a lot lately, and I would love for even the smallest bit of direction. If you or someone you know may have a few words of wisdom to impart, I would love to hear it. All contributions are welcome.

Finally, my apologies for my absence this past month. It's not exactly a triumphant return to blogging if I post for a few months and then take a month-long sabbatical, but there it is. I'm sure a post is coming that will address further what has been percolating in the mind and heart of your resident wordsmith.

but I found a driver and that's a start

My impromptu trip to Chicago, in photographic form.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
[Apologies in advance for any bizarre spacing or formatting here. It's my first post involving extensive photographs on Blogger. I used to post pics on Xanga pretty regularly, but this site is slightly different to operate, as I'm sure some of you know. And when I say some of you, I mean my lone reader. Irrelevant tangent over: on with the show!]

Chillaxing in Fort Wayne "International" Airport. Blogging it up. Note how the hair actually looks decent at this early point in the day.

Reading all the hotel literature. I have to admit, I LOVE hotel amenities. I steal the pens and paper from every hotel room I've ever stayed in. And my family is really into traveling... so that rather makes for a lot of hotel pens. But they always write so well... [that makes it okay, says KleptoHolly. You all agree, right?]

What I love about my trip: I went with absolutely no idea what I was going to do upon my arrival in the city. I browsed some of the touristy literature available in the hotel lobby; that, combined with my memories of my fifth-grade field trip to Chi-town led to choose Navy Pier as my evening destination. The front desk clerk was extremely helpful and called a cab for me and everything. I adore people-watching.

I took this for my dad. Well, my whole family, really. We're really into cycling as a sport; my family recorded every single day's full coverage of the Tour de France on Versus. My dad and sister created fantasy teams [it's a real contest online during the Tour, they're not just insane] to compare to the winners, and we made predictions each day. We've been doing it for years. The commentators are bloody brilliant. I did immediately think of my dad when taking this photograph though; this is a bike rental shop, and they have a veritable HORDE of Treks! Those are REALLY EXPENSIVE BIKES! No wonder renting them is pricey, too.

I found a place to eat at the rail of Charlie's Ale House, inside the Pavilion at Navy Pier. It was a small, but bustling restaurant (I think it had a much larger outside patio, but I didn't really look that closely, I must admit. Too much fodder for observation indoors). The bartenders were both Hispanic, and the one that waited on me in particular was Francisco and spoke at approximately ninety miles an hour. He moved about that quickly, too. Very thorough, though, and quite funny as well. I struck up a conversation with a woman who inquired what I was eating and ordered the same thing for takeaway. She informed me there were fireworks that night at nine-thirty; naturally, I had to stay for the show, mainly because I love fireworks. And also Strongbow. If you haven't had it before, it's hard cider from England, and is TASTY. Best on draft, second best in a bottle, worst in a can. Unfortunately, it's rather hard to come by here in the States. Trust me, though, it's worth the effort.

I realize it's blurry, but I have to admit, after staring at it for awhile, I realized this photograph is perfect the way it is. This is exactly what it was like on the Pier. I was strolling along, basically letting the crowd shunt me along as people flew by in all directions. I love how the woman in white in the left foreground looks like she's just flying. It's amazing how a place that's meant for entertainment and, presumably, a good time, turns into such an occasion for stress and hurry for some people. It's definitely enjoyable to watch the hustle and bustle whilst meandering along, letting the cool breeze off the lake play with my skirt. Beautiful.

Snarky self-portraint on my way out of the hotel the next morning. I have a really crappy camera and shiny skin, okay? Step off. Seriously, though, I've been meaning to get a new camera for years. Mine is ancient and bulky and slow. But I do desperately love that jacket I'm sporting. Mmm. Nice and cheap, too! I've had it for months and haven't really had an occasion to wear it, so I'm glad I finally got to.

I'm quite confident I have one more post coming out of this random adventure of mine, but I did want to experiment with posting a series of photos, so I'll go ahead and let this one end nicely. Also, I've been watching "Friends," and the disc ended, so I have to switch it out for a fresh one. I work a double tomorrow at the 'bee's, so that'll be a fun one. Oy. Back to the real world, I suppose.

nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time

I woke up this morning dissatisfied with my lot in life, and by the time I got Starbucks, had decided to leave town for twenty-four hours. That's right, this self-declared spontaneous gypsy is finally living up to her name. I felt a strong pull to get out, to just up and leave, pack a small bag and hit the road. I've felt restless before, but never in such a tangible way. It suddenly occurred to me that I can really do this. It's Wednesday morning and I don't have to be at work at the 'bee's until Friday morning, and the work I have to do for the office can be done in a hotel room or on a plane or wherever the hell I want, and the possibility of just up and leaving like I so desperately desire to do is a VERY REAL ONE.

So I did it.

I'm writing this in the Fort Wayne International Airport, which is kind of hilarious for those from around this area, simply because "international" refers to a flight to Canada that's available approximately once every few weeks. There are only eight gates; four downstairs, next to the single convenience store/deli/bar, and four upstairs, near the "museum" consisting of about twelve framed photographs stuck on mobile display cases. When you fly in to Fort Wayne and head to the baggage claim, a trio of old ladies greets you with individually wrapped sugar cookies. When you depart, you are probably the only person in line for security, and the employee who helps you find your ring after you drop it [apparently the metal detectors are so sensitive these days, a freaking underwire bra might set them off. That could get awkward.] strikes up a conversation about how women should remove bracelets when going through the metal detectors, but rings are usually okay, because he wears his wedding ring every day when he goes through and is almost always fine.

I can't believe I did it.

After I got Starbucks, I returned to my apartment and immediately started texting the BFF, who, in true KM fashion, encouraged me wholeheartedly to DO IT, JUST GO. I decided on Chicago as a destination rather quickly, due to proximity/travel time/excitement and whatnot, and immediately started Googling like a fiend - hotels near the airport, flights out of Fort Wayne, the balance of my bank account. I have to admit, after the initial rush of ohmygosh this could actually happen, doubts settled in, as they are wont to do. However, justification crept in right afterward... my roommate is out of town... she won't be fretting about me [she lives to fret]... the bf [look for another post in the future regarding why I hate the term "boyfriend," but that's what he is, bless his heart] is seriously sleep-deprived/working really hard on multiple projects/seemed kind of put off that I wanted to hang out with him so much last night that I went over to his place at bloody twelve-thirty in the morning/and therefore could probably use a break from such an insane girlfriend. It's perfect timing.

For the past few years I have felt a call to travel. I spontaneously decided to study abroad in London, and I loved it. It was exactly what I needed at the time; although I was also using it as an excuse to run away from all that was troubling me at that time. As a result, it helped, but it didn't. Paradoxical, I know. In the end, it was an incredible, worthwhile, culturally enriching experience, but only served to increase my thirst for travel and adventure and spontaneity. Ever since then, I have claimed to love spontaneity, to be a gypsy at heart, to live for the thrill of the chase of adventure - but I have done nothing to live up to those titles. Last fall, a friend I was getting close to at the time constantly retorted that I couldn't be random at heart, as I insisted I was - I didn't do anything but work, and go home, and read, and consume the occasional glass of wine. He declared that he was more random than I, due mostly to his impulsive desire to learn a musical instrument, upon which he purchased a ridiculously expensive bass and proceeded to teach himself a song way out of his talent margin.

Who's random now, bitch?

I'll keep you posted on my adventures. I hear my hotel has free internet tonight... gotta love this technologically savvy world we live - and travel - in these days.

she's got a ticket to ride, but she don't care

[This post was written two days ago whilst chillaxing on a bench at a park near my apartment. It started with a memory and evolved into something like introspective wordplay. Not quite sure how the final result appears. You decide...]


I'm sitting on a bench in my apartment's neighborhood and out of nowhere, I can smell the ocean. I live in northeastern Indiana, so it's not like I'm anywhere near a significant body of water. I was dreaming about the ocean just the other day; perhaps this sensual anomaly is an answer to my prayers. I can almost taste the sea spray, hear the constant call of seabirds and children shrieking as they splash joyfully in the surf.

I miss traveling. The thrill that accompanies walking into an airport and inhaling the stale scent of leather luggage, constantly recycled air, and countless intermingled fast food restaurants. It is the scent of new books and magazines, freshly purchased for whatever journey their owner may be taking them on, combined with a million accompanying sounds -- countless backpacks and pocket-books and laptop cases zipping and unzipping in a neverending quest to retrieve boarding passes and passports and itineraries, bottle after bottle of overpriced soda releasing its carbonation in one swift burst; and of course, hundreds of voices chattering in excitement or questioning destinations in hushed tones or assuaging young fears. The cacophony of such a place has always been soothing to me, a gypsy at heart.

I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping

At work we have a series of two or three CDs that are constantly playing on repeat during work hours. Because of how often I am present at work, I know all the words to a large number of both mid-90's and recent pop/soft rock Top 40 hits. In addition, I have come to loathe more than a few of said hits. I don't know the names or artists of half the songs we play, but I DO know I harbor a deep, unnatural hatred towards them. There's one song in particular that I think they play ON PURPOSE once I walk in the door, as it is ALWAYS ON when I'm opening the bar, and proceeds to get stuck in my head for the remainder of the day. Say it with me now: ARGH.

The whole point of this story is that to-day, the quintessential Abba song, "Dancing Queen," came on the soundtrack, and it was during a slower time in the afternoon, so they had the music turned up in the back so the cooks could be entertained whilst preparing the typical daytime lunch combos and half-size salads. The mid cook, J, immediately perked up when Abba started wailing, and loudly asked the kitchen manager to turn it up. Keep in mind, the kitchen manager is a young, bald guy who was drinking black coffee out of a Harley Davidson mug whilst working expo all day, and promptly gave J a look and a half that read something along the lines of: "Hi, are you a man? ABBA? REALLY?" J tried to defend himself by declaring that everyone is permitted a secret, guilty pleasure when it comes to music.

Which brings me to my main point. Is this true for all, both male and female? Presently, in my car, I have a number of CDs in the glove compartment (I know, I know. My dad keeps telling me this is a break-in waiting to happen. Especially since I have a new car. New Car + CDs Not-So-Subtly Stowed Away in Glove Compartment = Obvious Heist Target). Including in said compartment are Colbie Caillat [gift from Jaime K], The Beatles Blue Album (1967-1970) [self-purchased], Sara Bareilles [gift from Kathryn], Counting Crows [self-purchased], Linkin Park [stolen from my sister], the soundtrack to the Beatles rock-musical Across the Universe [self-purchased; also a freaking AWESOME movie if you like the Beatles and know some of their history/trivia], and Anberlin [also stolen from my sister]. Just to name a few. Oh yeah, and Natalie Grant. Self-purchased. I think that's a somewhat random mix. Any guilty pleasures in there? Not really. I have no shame in admitting to the kinds of music I like. Is it only a guilty pleasure if you are afraid to admit it, no matter what company you may be partaking of at the moment?

Example Two: my older brother was aptly born in the early 80's. He loves Metallica, Pink Floyd, Tool, Bush, Pearl Jam, and Live. However, he also loves "medieval rock" (no really, they take 16th-century tunes and vamp them up. It's both completely insane and strangely fascinating. Try it out, he recommends this band to get a feel for the genre), the Beatles, Phil Collins, and Billy Joel. One would think a hardcore Metallica fan, who has seen them in concert and loudly declares his devotion to ROCK, would not be willing to admit love for Phil Collins and Billy Joel. Nay, HE DOES. Maybe it's just my family.... totally didn't consider that angle. Hmm. This changes everything...

Guilty pleasure tunes? Anyone?


In other news, I cleaned my bathroom to-day, and immediately started disinfecting all the common surfaces in the APT. My roomie has been ill all week with a "throat infection and respiratory infection." This is a woman who is constantly sick, but never with ordinary ailments. All things require some form of medical attention, and she always knows exactly what will make her feel better. I admire her moxie. I fear all germs, illness, medical buildings/personnel, etc. And my sister wants to be a doctor. I will never understand her. This is just one more example of how I'm harboring Monk-ish tendencies. Which brings us to the main event of the evening... the SEASON PREMIERE of Monk and Psych. Two quality television programs that you should start watching immediately, if you don't already. If you have a sense of humour and enjoy a good detective/mystery story, then you will love them. Scout's honour. And I was never a Scout of any kind, so you know my word is gold.

Happy Friday!

picture yourself in a boat on a river

I love waking up in the morning hours and hearing the birds chirp as the world comes to life. This is quite a paradox, considering I am the very antithesis of a morning person. I. Need. Sleep. If I could sleep in with no alarm clock interrupting my beautiful slumber every day I totally would. Alarms are evil little devices, possibly invented by a masochistic cult. NAY, DEFINITELY invented by a masochistic cult. You never know.

I have to get ready for work soon, but all you working people will appreciate a slight feeling of apprehension I have due to a missed social engagement with some co-workers. Social interaction with one's co-workers can be a rather sticky conundrum, for sure. In this particular instance, a guy I rather enjoy working with - extremely good at his job, always willing to help me learn more about bartending, horrid gossip, not always exactly in line with authority, flamboyantly homosexual - was having his first cross-dressing dance performance at his favorite club downtown last night. I suppose that's a drag show. Hello, I'm naive! Nice to meet you.

Anyway, he made up these fancy invitations with a somewhat frightening photograph and all the details, and then sent out text messages reminding everyone yesterday, and wrote about it in the bar book at work, and basically was extremely excited. Understandable, there's a certain rush that comes from performing in front of a group of people. It helps to have a lot of friendly faces in the audience. Although for some that makes it more nerve-wracking. I replied to his text message last night with the cop out, "I hope to make it! Have fun!" And he came back with, "You will make it, everyone will be there!"

Enter the conundrum. In order to really, truly be part of the clique or the "in" crowd or whatever the hell you want to call it that exists at the 'bee's, you have to A. Drink like a bloody fish pretty much every night of the week, and/or B. Attend every single social event you are invited to that is remotely work-related. Meaning, another fellow bartendress had a 5th of July party at her humble domicile last Saturday. It started at 6. I didn't get off work until 8. Had I gone, I would have seen a few people from work, but since I lacked anyone to attend said shindig with me, there would have been extreme awkwardness.

Don't get me wrong. I've gone out with work people a few times before. Just a few weeks ago, after closing on a Monday night, I went out with J, S, and J's friend, later to be joined by three/four more 'bee's workers and a whole slew of bar regulars. I had a margarita. A rather strong beverage, I might point out. And then J bought a round of shots for "his Applebee's bitches." Rather sweet of him, actually. That got pretty pricey. I took one. Then drove to Daniel's house and proceeded to get REALLY LOOPY. Kind of fun, not gonna lie.

The point of all of this is not my poorly worded sentences or strange social agenda. I am not opposed to drinking alcohol. I like it. I have had multiple glasses of wine this week. I have an enormous container of margarita mix made with Jose Cuervo in the fridge right now. It's GLORIOUS. The point is that in order to really feel included by my co-workers, I would have to basically become an alcoholic, or sacrifice any semblance of a sleep schedule in order to come in to work hung over and exhausted every day, and I can't do that. I have a life that consists of much healthier social options than such bar-hopping and excessive boozing. I go out to Bdubs and have a margarita while my roommate and brother both have beers and we have a few laughs and go home and drink a bit more before cashing out NOT in the wee hours of the morning. It's possible to have responsible fun without turning into a complete lush.

I sound like a complete and total fogey now, don't I? Maybe I should've just gone to the drag show. Even though I was hanging out with my roommate and her sister last night. And was tired. And I have no idea where the club downtown is located. It's really not important to be "included" that much at work, right? I get along very well with 99% of my co-workers, and if someone isn't overly friendly to me, it's not because of any drama I stirred up.

My sister had an interview at the 'bee's yesterday. Do I really want to submit my sibling to this madness?

writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear

To conclude my previous post, as delayed a conclusion that might be, my guest informed me that I was an extremely talented server, and that it really takes skill to perform my tasks as well as I did. In addition, she asked me what I ultimately wanted to do with my life, and when I informed her I wished to pursue a career in publishing, she declared to her dining companion, "Oh yes, she'll go far. You'll succeed. I can tell. It'll happen." Even though this woman's interaction with me spanned a total of about forty minutes, it gave me a wee little boost of confidence to hear such encouragement. I wish I had asked her name. It would have made the encounter seem more personal.

It's an absolutely gorgeous day, and I am troubled in heart. A recent conversation, completed in snippets over the Interwebs, left me feeling both belittled and guilty. I felt attacked, and when I reciprocated in what I thought was a diplomatic way, I was only brought further down. This from a person who I used to be rather close to, albeit for a short while. Apparently being careful and gentle with my words no longer pays off. I was met with sarcasm and derison. And it hurt.

No one appreciates or deserves to have possible insecurities or real inadequacies thrown in their face. No one. I wouldn't tell F, R, or J, guys I work with at the 'bee's, that they are inappropriate and vulgar and have poor hygiene, respectively. I wouldn't tell them that. This isn't me being passive. I have told people off before. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a temper. But if someone has been nothing but civil and/or cordial to me, and I have no reason whatsoever to point out their flaws, and doing so would only cause hurt, then I wouldn't. It's. Not. Kind.

I feel these sentiments hold especially true for someone you used to know well. You can tell your best friend when he or she is annoying you or really needs to shower or should probably lay off the liquor because wow that was a seriously offensive joke. However, there is a very murky, gray area in which lies "previously quasi-close friends/acquaintances," to whom social niceties should still be shown.

Not everyone shares my feelings in this matter.

Am I completely off here? Or is this whole post too vague to invite comment?

Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun

As any reader of this blog worth his or her salt shall soon learn via my endless storytelling, I am a server/bartender at Applebee's, a well-known casual dining establishment. Working in the restaurant business is incredibly challenging and truly eye-opening [a topic I will be covering in a future post... stay tuned. You know you're intrigued], and I can honestly say that not everyone is cut out to do it. You can't stick an incredibly shy, modest, introverted person into a typical casual restaurant and expect him or her to succeed. Not possible. Trust me. We learned from the train wreck that was Patty. Or was it Patsy? No, it was Patty. Man, she was strange. Might get a story or two there later.

Meanwhile, let's return to the point at hand. One of my both favorite and least favorite things about working in a restaurant is the constant interaction with so many different kinds of people. There are some WEIRD PEOPLE in this world, folks. You would think that an ordinary, run-of-the-mill casual dining establishment in the Midwest wouldn't attract such a colorful crowd of critters, but ALAS. That is not the case.

Tonight, I had a fascinating table. I was seated at table #25 with two women, both getting on in years, one more noticeably so than the other. [Completely unrelated sidenote: my computer/browser/keyboard?!?! keeps freezing after every other word I type, forcing me to pause until the letters catch up. It's really cramping my style. I think it has to do with the fact that I have approximately thirteen different webpages open at the same time. Note to self: give computer a break every now and then. It will then love you more. Sidenote over.] The woman on the left showed her age through the lines carved into her face, her unevenly spaced teeth, her sharp, bony knuckles. Woman on Right proudly sported frizzy greyish-white hair and wrists boasting no body fat whatsoever. Quickly after approaching the table, I discovered that Woman on Right smiled a lot and needed assistance from Loud Lefty to both read the menu and decide what she wanted to eat. Loud Lefty is thus named due to her tendency to raise her voice when speaking emphatically or to another person.

After taking table #25's order, I got sat [important clarification: I realize this phrase may lead you to question my grammatical prowess. However, I only use this phrase as the 'restaurant biz' term, referring somewhat obviously to the fact that one of the tables in my designated section had become occupied by guests to our humble neighborhood bar & grill.] at table #15, so I turned from #25 to greet the new table, and stopped by #24 on my way back to the kitchen to check if they needed anything. Gathered a request or two from them before prancing on my way and continuing my personal quest to be the world's most charming server. I know, aspirations are astronomically overblown. Upon my return to #25 to check on their salads, after completing all my previously mentioned tasks, Loud Lefty called me back using my name - which, I'm not going to lie to you, dear readers, occasionally weirds me out. I understand that I introduce myself to a table, and that I wear a nametag, and both of these things seem to indicate that I have no problem with my customers knowing who I am.

Whoa. I totally just fell asleep sitting up at my computer. It's tiring waiting for my face to dry so I can safely apply acne medication without burning my skin off. This post is to be continued on the morrow, especially since I just fell asleep AGAIN. DAMN. AND AGAIN. Eyelids... so... heavy... zzzzzzzzzzn

hello, goodbye

I recently discovered a few well-written blogs which inspired me. Perhaps one day I'll inform said blogs of their inspirational force. I've been toying with the idea for awhile, though... a former roommate once suggested that I should create a blog almost as a form of practice for my writing, or perhaps as a method for my voice to be heard. In whatever tiny corner of the Interwebs that may end up being.

So goodnight, dear void. [Kudos, and also a few gold stars! to you if you catch the movie reference.] In the next day or two, I plan on learning a bit about this blogspot thing. I had a blogspot way back in the day (which shan't be linked to here, due to its embarrassing emphasis on lengthy, personal rants. How a person can age in a few short years, eh?), after which I made the switch to Xanga, which was quite pleasant indeed, but again, not quite the blogging situation I had in mind. Therefore, I'm back, and hopefully motivated enough to persist this time. Lord knows my writing needs constant tweaking/practice/constructive criticism.

Ah, tis late. Must get up to work on the morrow. Until later, nonexistent readership. Perhaps sometime in the not-so-distant future, a pleasant blogger or two will accidentally find their way to my words and have a thing or two to say about them.