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.