The screaming stigma of “Single Mom working as a lowly waitress” is mine all mine. I should just wear a sign on my back and reap the benefits of sympathy tips. I enjoy waitressing for one reason. I can try to pretend I am a happy person who is grateful to be able to serve your fat ass coffee. It is like acting – except I don’t have an expecting audience. I have a naive audience who has the notion that I enjoy making 2.15 an hour while watching older people slop food all over themselves. (“Here you are M’am, Here is another napkin – “Yes we have pie and yes I will bring you some with your decaf coffee after your done slobbering all over yourself”)
I wish I really could go into character everyday. One day slip into wardrobe and be Ophelia and screw up orders while singing and throwing flowers around the restaurant then storm out and try and drown myself in the muddle puddle in the back parking lot. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t even need to be some Shakespearian character. I could play modern day roles as well, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (pre hanging out and hooking up with Richard Geer) or dawn a French accent and play up the innocent Ameli and have this propensity to run my hands with love and admiration through the potato salad every time I pass by the lunch buffet.
I used to work in a restaurant where I could have probably pulled these brilliant dramatics off. Utopia (que wistful sigh) was the grease spoon hangout of my past that was a beacon for freaks, hippies, homosexuals, pseudo philosophers, and a few almost talented (but passionate) theatre folk. I didn’t mind the disgraceful status of waitress then. Because then I could discuss the new Bijork album while flipping through Zen and the art of Motorcycle Maintenance and wondering if the new movie based on a Philip K. Dick book was any good. Those were the bohemian non-real world days. Oh, how I miss them and the inspiration that flooded the smoke filled air.
Sunday, August 8
Saturday, August 7
Chewing tobacco 101
My weekend job at the Country Club was a bit more interesting today. The old guys were a bit more rowdy than usual. A funky 60 year old member whose nick name is Coon Dog (I call him Mr. Coonie and/or Mr. Asshole depending on the situation) has been giving me a guilt trip about smoking. I had only 3 cigarettes today and had told him so, but he didn't want to here it. My boss stopped our arguing by giving me this genius solution. I should take up chewing tobacco. I had never really learned how to spit properly so I had to ask a handful of questions about spitting before I was told that you don't need to actually spit if you chew, some people just do. (my Boss said I would look more 'tough' if I did) Anyway, He opened a can of some kind of tobacco and inside where little mushy pouches of brown gunk that had the stench of Listerine and handed it to me with this devious little grin of his. He told me to try it. I said no. He waited a little bit and said to try it again. I said piss off. Finally the entire bar wanted to see me try chewing tobacco. *sigh* Peer pressure won. I knew they all wanted me to do so they could get a good laugh. What the hell, happy patrons meant happy tips, right? I stuck the little pouch in the top of mouth for about 30 seconds. Then ran and spit it out in the trash can. The bar went up in a roar of laughter. I am so glad I can amuse my patrons. Tip to those who have never tried chewing tobacco. It makes your mouth and throat numb and the intensity of the taste makes your eyes water and your stomach turn. Happy Chewing :) I honestly believe my boss's sole enjoyment out of life is to plan and implement sarcastic jokes on me. Every weekend there brings new surprises. Really, I love those old guys. I am the youngest person there by 20 years so I sort of feel like an adopted daughter that serves them beer and listens to their crap.
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Jess, I know your first reaction to my template change will be this: boring. But, I am tired of having a lot of things on my background...I am going for simplicity here.
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Jess, I know your first reaction to my template change will be this: boring. But, I am tired of having a lot of things on my background...I am going for simplicity here.
Friday, August 6
Hospital Hysteria
I always feel so uncomfortable/terrified at hospitals. From seeing an old man drooling on himself then hacking away in the room down the hall, from trying to talk to a cross eyed nurse and not knowing what eye to make eye contact with, or trying not to be that girl who goes to bitch at the nurses for not taking proper care of her mother that just had surgery. What is even more difficult for me is getting stuck in an elevator with someone on a gurney. One can not help but stare at the patient lying beneath the white sheets and wonder why they are there and if they will die any time soon from the cause of it. And all the while there is a very uncomfortable silence among the stench of iodine, starched linen and urine. That is why I will forever take the stairs. You are supposed to anyway for exercise, but for me it is to avoid facing the sight of decaying bodies.
I burst into tears right when I entered those damn carousel doors. Even if the reason why I was there was not something of a dire emergency. When I went and asked what room my mom is in, the receptionist gave me this “You poor dear” look, I felt better because she probably thought my mom was dying and I would be forever traumatized by this hospital visit. When in all reality - that is not the case at all. I am just a wimp and can’t stand to be in a place where death runs rampid. I can’t help it. These rooms and floors are filled with bad news, death, sickness, blood, disease, and unhappy patients who want more morphine but stingy doctors do not give it to them. Each floor has it’s own tragic purpose filled with tragic stories of people and their hardships. A floor for heart patients, a floor for intensive care (that is usually littered with single elderly men or women that are waiting to see if their husband or wife will make it this time around) a floor for sleep studies and narcolepsy, a floor for x-rays and MRIs, and everyone loves the floor for delivery but then again you can also find the neonatal unit there with babies weighing less than 2 pounds because of the rising number of premature births. I don’t go see the newborn babies anymore. I used to before I had my son. I enjoyed watching the new babies, wondering what their lives where going to be like and trying to imagine who each one would become. No more though. I don’t want to jinx them. They are new to this world. They do not need my shadow peering at them through a window, deciphering which one is going to be the troublemaker, doctor, or schoolteacher. I will just let them figure it all out themselves.
I love nurses that smoke. It is funny. I love the ice machines that are strategically placed on every floor. I enjoy going to get cups of that infamous hospital ice to sit and chomp on while waiting for unnecessary hours in the recovery waiting room. They have fancy coffee cups but crappy coffee. They offer nice flowers but shitty vases to put them in.
The chapel has always made me curious. I don’t dare go in there. What if I go in and there is a mother kneeling down begging to God to save her daughter? What could I do if I were to walk in on that type of situation? Go up to her and tell her better luck next time in her next life? Lie and tell her that her daughter is going to be just fine? Hmmmph. Best to avoid these types of instances.
It was no surprise to me today that I had nightmares all night. It was no surprise to me that I had a panic attack because I misplaced my car keys. It was no surprise that I yelled at my son because I couldn’t find said car keys. OF course it was no surpise at all to beg my step mother for a Xanax. I went to try and turn this negative energy into something productive. I TRIED to mow the lawn. But the push mower wouldn’t start. That’s ok, the Xanax is kind of making me dazed, so I probably would have chopped off a limb anyway.
Ms. Becky a new friend of mine is coming to see me on Sunday. We are having a 6 am coffee break. She is amazing and I am happy to have met such a inspiring old soul. She is careful with the words she says to me but rather blunt in coming out to say them. I love her for that. Everyone needs someone to always be brutally honest with them. Everyone should have a friend that will never bullshit you.
I always feel so uncomfortable/terrified at hospitals. From seeing an old man drooling on himself then hacking away in the room down the hall, from trying to talk to a cross eyed nurse and not knowing what eye to make eye contact with, or trying not to be that girl who goes to bitch at the nurses for not taking proper care of her mother that just had surgery. What is even more difficult for me is getting stuck in an elevator with someone on a gurney. One can not help but stare at the patient lying beneath the white sheets and wonder why they are there and if they will die any time soon from the cause of it. And all the while there is a very uncomfortable silence among the stench of iodine, starched linen and urine. That is why I will forever take the stairs. You are supposed to anyway for exercise, but for me it is to avoid facing the sight of decaying bodies.
I burst into tears right when I entered those damn carousel doors. Even if the reason why I was there was not something of a dire emergency. When I went and asked what room my mom is in, the receptionist gave me this “You poor dear” look, I felt better because she probably thought my mom was dying and I would be forever traumatized by this hospital visit. When in all reality - that is not the case at all. I am just a wimp and can’t stand to be in a place where death runs rampid. I can’t help it. These rooms and floors are filled with bad news, death, sickness, blood, disease, and unhappy patients who want more morphine but stingy doctors do not give it to them. Each floor has it’s own tragic purpose filled with tragic stories of people and their hardships. A floor for heart patients, a floor for intensive care (that is usually littered with single elderly men or women that are waiting to see if their husband or wife will make it this time around) a floor for sleep studies and narcolepsy, a floor for x-rays and MRIs, and everyone loves the floor for delivery but then again you can also find the neonatal unit there with babies weighing less than 2 pounds because of the rising number of premature births. I don’t go see the newborn babies anymore. I used to before I had my son. I enjoyed watching the new babies, wondering what their lives where going to be like and trying to imagine who each one would become. No more though. I don’t want to jinx them. They are new to this world. They do not need my shadow peering at them through a window, deciphering which one is going to be the troublemaker, doctor, or schoolteacher. I will just let them figure it all out themselves.
I love nurses that smoke. It is funny. I love the ice machines that are strategically placed on every floor. I enjoy going to get cups of that infamous hospital ice to sit and chomp on while waiting for unnecessary hours in the recovery waiting room. They have fancy coffee cups but crappy coffee. They offer nice flowers but shitty vases to put them in.
The chapel has always made me curious. I don’t dare go in there. What if I go in and there is a mother kneeling down begging to God to save her daughter? What could I do if I were to walk in on that type of situation? Go up to her and tell her better luck next time in her next life? Lie and tell her that her daughter is going to be just fine? Hmmmph. Best to avoid these types of instances.
It was no surprise to me today that I had nightmares all night. It was no surprise to me that I had a panic attack because I misplaced my car keys. It was no surprise that I yelled at my son because I couldn’t find said car keys. OF course it was no surpise at all to beg my step mother for a Xanax. I went to try and turn this negative energy into something productive. I TRIED to mow the lawn. But the push mower wouldn’t start. That’s ok, the Xanax is kind of making me dazed, so I probably would have chopped off a limb anyway.
Ms. Becky a new friend of mine is coming to see me on Sunday. We are having a 6 am coffee break. She is amazing and I am happy to have met such a inspiring old soul. She is careful with the words she says to me but rather blunt in coming out to say them. I love her for that. Everyone needs someone to always be brutally honest with them. Everyone should have a friend that will never bullshit you.
Wednesday, August 4
black heart
It is a terrible thing to have panic attacks through out your day/life. One little thing that doesn't go in the way that I had preconcieved it to be, and I am gone. Lost in a mania that brings anger and impatience to light. Sometimes it is very little things - like losing my checkbook. Sometimes it is larger things - when my dad and grandmother criticize me and corner me to no end and with such irony - call me crazy.
Today, I woke up with one. Before my slumber I was frozen in fear for 3 or 4 hours. Fear of what - I really don't know. Fear of Ben coming back to try and rape me, Fear of a ghost that I probably imagined is in my house, Fear of something or someone hiding waiting for me to fall asleep. I slept with the living room light, the tv, the porch, and kitchen light on. I am 22 years old and sometimes find it petrifying to be home alone. What does this mean boys and girls? - Fuck if I know.
A panic attack is a nice little experience all it's own. It takes control of your body physically and mentally. Your body gets ovwhelmed with emotion and starts to sweat and sometimes start to tremble. Tears flow freely from a never ending ocean of confussion and anger. One's head pounds with the angony of trying to rationalize another damn action or movement or even breath. Your throat closes up like someone has an iron grip around your neck. Your breathing is shallow....as if you really were dying. This is what i fight daily, hourly, every minute.
You love my happy posts.
It is a terrible thing to have panic attacks through out your day/life. One little thing that doesn't go in the way that I had preconcieved it to be, and I am gone. Lost in a mania that brings anger and impatience to light. Sometimes it is very little things - like losing my checkbook. Sometimes it is larger things - when my dad and grandmother criticize me and corner me to no end and with such irony - call me crazy.
Today, I woke up with one. Before my slumber I was frozen in fear for 3 or 4 hours. Fear of what - I really don't know. Fear of Ben coming back to try and rape me, Fear of a ghost that I probably imagined is in my house, Fear of something or someone hiding waiting for me to fall asleep. I slept with the living room light, the tv, the porch, and kitchen light on. I am 22 years old and sometimes find it petrifying to be home alone. What does this mean boys and girls? - Fuck if I know.
A panic attack is a nice little experience all it's own. It takes control of your body physically and mentally. Your body gets ovwhelmed with emotion and starts to sweat and sometimes start to tremble. Tears flow freely from a never ending ocean of confussion and anger. One's head pounds with the angony of trying to rationalize another damn action or movement or even breath. Your throat closes up like someone has an iron grip around your neck. Your breathing is shallow....as if you really were dying. This is what i fight daily, hourly, every minute.
You love my happy posts.
Sunday, August 1
blog politics and ego strokers
The political standings of blogdom can sometimes be quite confusing and just like every kind of political congestion once you do understand it becomes very repugnant. You have your informative blogs, shopping blogs, picture blogs, I love me blogs, here is my fat cat blog, i hate you blog, etc. But the latest trend over at live journal (another free 'blog' type of community) is making me uneasy. After browsing a very cliquey friends list I have come to a (perhaps rash) conclusion. The blogs that have the most readership (however, not so loyal) are the blogs that are filled to the brim with crap.
This is not surprising but I still thought this issue deserved to posted.
The "I am a feminist/hard ass/dominatrix but still whine about how my boyfriend hates me and my life sucks" syndrome runs rampant with in these journals. Daily posts consist of pictures of nothing but "This is me in my bra with my betty page bangs" and " this is me with my boobs squished together so you won't notice how chubby I really am " Perhaps once in awhile you will run across an illegitimate child picture, stuck as a thumbnail in a bio or somewhere out of easy clicking access. But posted none the less, so the author can repeatedly say how much she loves her little angel when she starts to feel bad about how bad of a mother she really is. When it is MORE than obvious she really loves herself. It is funny to me because every one of those pictures you can bet are digitally altered using photoshop or something of the like. These women take pictures of theselves with a web cam or what have you , spend hours making them look decent , and then post them. There you go 'ta da' a wave of absolute ego for the day - ready and waiting.
What surprises me (although it shouldn't) The readers will repeatedly tell these women every day, that they are beautiful and they want them and blah fucking blah. *gag*
Ooops. there I went off on a rant about women I don't even know. I just thought about erasing this whole post so i wouldn't seem like such a hypocritical bitch, but oh well.
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The political standings of blogdom can sometimes be quite confusing and just like every kind of political congestion once you do understand it becomes very repugnant. You have your informative blogs, shopping blogs, picture blogs, I love me blogs, here is my fat cat blog, i hate you blog, etc. But the latest trend over at live journal (another free 'blog' type of community) is making me uneasy. After browsing a very cliquey friends list I have come to a (perhaps rash) conclusion. The blogs that have the most readership (however, not so loyal) are the blogs that are filled to the brim with crap.
This is not surprising but I still thought this issue deserved to posted.
The "I am a feminist/hard ass/dominatrix but still whine about how my boyfriend hates me and my life sucks" syndrome runs rampant with in these journals. Daily posts consist of pictures of nothing but "This is me in my bra with my betty page bangs" and " this is me with my boobs squished together so you won't notice how chubby I really am " Perhaps once in awhile you will run across an illegitimate child picture, stuck as a thumbnail in a bio or somewhere out of easy clicking access. But posted none the less, so the author can repeatedly say how much she loves her little angel when she starts to feel bad about how bad of a mother she really is. When it is MORE than obvious she really loves herself. It is funny to me because every one of those pictures you can bet are digitally altered using photoshop or something of the like. These women take pictures of theselves with a web cam or what have you , spend hours making them look decent , and then post them. There you go 'ta da' a wave of absolute ego for the day - ready and waiting.
What surprises me (although it shouldn't) The readers will repeatedly tell these women every day, that they are beautiful and they want them and blah fucking blah. *gag*
Ooops. there I went off on a rant about women I don't even know. I just thought about erasing this whole post so i wouldn't seem like such a hypocritical bitch, but oh well.
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