How Not to be a Rockstar September 14, 2009

…  Jeff’s proposed title of the compelling bestseller he proposes I write. Not a bad idea, really, for a girl who spent a good 6 years pursuing a career in music, only to realize the pursuit had made her into something she was not. Into someone she did not envy or admire. And thus, she walked away from it all.

Not to say I was anywhere close to infamy. But those years did produce some pretty great stories of experiences both hysterical and terrible, both bittersweet and just plain bitter. SO maybe this is the new direction of my masters thesis… for the grad program I haven’t been accepted to yet…. because I’m still working on the application…. and because I can’t decided if it’s the right thing to do.

Which brings me to my next point.

Today is one of those thankfully rare days when, never mind all the a##-busting and name-taking you’ve been doing, you feel like you’re just not doing enough with your life. In fact, you can’t figure out what exactly you are doing, and why any of it hasn’t gotten you somewhere beyond serving shrimp teriyaki to college kids.

((Oh- great story – today, an elderly woman of questionable sanity walks in and tells the hostess that a friend recommended our sushi restaurant to her. For seafood. She is also allergic to shellfish. So when we settle on the seafood tempura, with only red snapper and salmon, I think it might just work out. I even bring her ketchup in lieu of cocktail sauce (Cocktail sauce. In an Asian restaurant. Seriously?). She looks pleased, but when I glance over a while later, she’s calling me over. “Honey… I’m sorry, but I just don’t taste any fee-ish in theya anywaya,” she says. She has eaten all the salmon, but the red snapper is there untouched. “I know it’s hard to see it with the batter, but these are the white fish,” I explain, pointing out all the fish she hasn’t eaten. “Well, I know forah fact they’s onions theya,” she says, pointing to the one white thing on her plate that, true, is not fish. Soon, I convince her to open up one of the “potatoes” so that she’ll see it is, in fact fish. She puts a small piece in her mouth. “Well that don’t taste like no fee-ish I evah had; try it,” she adds, actually offering me a piece of fish. I tell her that’s really okay, that I believe that she is unsatisfied with the fish and will see what I can do. I’m able to comp half of the price of her meal, tell her so, hand her the bill and get back to my other tables. Moments later, the hostess comes walks over and tells me the woman is at the front desk trying to get her bill decreased. I take a huge breath, trying to summon whatever patience I might have left. And to not drop my tray and run screaming for the hills. (Did I mention there is NO MANAGER ON DUTY??) Once again, I try to explain to her that we’ve already given her a huge discount on her meal. Somehow (and I’m a little foggy on the details here; I may have blacked out in order to save my head from exploding), I get her to pay 7 of the $7.51 she owed me. Victory? I’m still not sure.))

Clearly, my life is not glamorous.

But I don’t need it to be. The years in which I sought musical stardom (in one form or another) were some of my most exciting but undeniably my loneliest as well. I’ve traded it all in order to be true to myself, and was rewarded by meeting a most amazing partner. Together we traveled to a more happy latitude, and finally I live by the sea.

It’s like working on a puzzle, and your down to your last few missing pieces. But as soon as you find one that fits, you realize another has gone missing, and this continues until you feel like you’ll never get the damn thing together.

But if history repeats itself (and clearly it does) I know the feeling of being completely overwhelmed will only last so long, that tomorrow I’ll wake up with a renewed sense of purpose and optimism. Happens every time.

‘Til then I’m summoning my patience, not running for the hills.

Apology September 9, 2009

Dear Guy at Table 26,

I wanted to take this opportunity to express my deepest regrets for your family’s experience at my restaurant the other night (in case the five times I apologized to you that evening were not enough). But first, please make yourself comfortable – this could take a while.

I’m sorry, for starters, that on the Sunday before Labor Day (which might as well be a Saturday), I was one of only two servers scheduled.

I’m sorry that you happened to arrive along with four other families and a couple of two-tops, so that when the server assigned to you failed to notice you and was too overwhelmed to take your table, I stepped in to make sure you didn’t wait any longer.

I’m sorry that at that point I had 5 other tables, one with a special needs child who had tipped over a full bowl of soup that nearly ended up in his mother’s lap (consequently, she was thanking me profusely just before you told me what a horrible job I was doing).

I’m sorry that under pressure, I failed to enter two of your sushi rolls. I’m also sorry that when I tried to correct the error, the sushi chefs (who are still working on their English) could not understand my request.

I’m sorry that you brought three small children to a sushi restaurant, and that your two young girls were squirmy. And that your son was screaming and had to be taken outside at one point. And that you and your wife do not appear to be on the best of terms. (Or even in love anymore).

I’m sorry that you decided to cancel the rolls as they were being made. They looked good. Reee-aly good.

And I’m sorry that you had to tell your server how to do her job. “Maybe if you just slowed down and listened, things like this wouldn’t happen.” You’re probably right – or I’d have five other tables also upset with me for not moving fast enough. But whatever. At least YOU would have been happy, and that’s what we’re really concerned about here.

Most of all, sir, I am sorry that you probably treat other people this way. Some of us have learned to roll with the punches, and even so it stings a little. Other people are not so lucky.

I can only hope that you now feel like a bigger man (because no one else who’s heard this story so far seems to see it that way), having put your waitress in her place.

My sincerest regrets,

~a

Brought to You by the Letter ‘S’ April 23, 2009

Today’s subject:

Simplification.

I have to call it a subject and not a lesson, because anyone who knows me realizes I’m the LAST person to espouse on the wonders of a simple life. No, I’m the girl who’s dug herself into one of the most complicated situations you can imagine:

-I live with a musician/friend and her boyfriend in a little house that, until yesterday, has been under construction since the day I moved in (and I knew it would be this way going into it, but somehow thought that band saws running at odd hours and having to plug the microwave in on the couch would be okay??)

-I inherited a dog. Not just ANY dog, mind you. A little powerhouse jack russell with anxiety issues and a Napoleon complex. Thus, serious, continual training ensued.

-I work an 8-5 job that involves little of what I love to do (i.e. being creative, writing, editing, interacting with people), and leaves me with even less time to pursue those things outside of work.

-And still… I managed to get into some extracurricular activities. Namely the musical, which, as we near the show dates, takes up increasing chunks of my post-work time so that my days go something like this: Up at 7, at work around 8, use lunch break to run errands and take Gabe out, actually eat lunch at work, leave work at 5, go home and feed Gabe and take him out, grab something that resembles dinner, get to rehearsal by 6, rehearse until 10, home by 10:15, tend to Gabe, in bed by 11 (or 12). Repeat. 4 days in a row.

-Granted, I only live a couple of miles from J, but we still live in separate house, which means packing night bags, running home before work in the morning to let Gabe out, constantly shuttling between the two locations and perpetually leaving things at his house. (My forgetfulness rivals that of someone fifty years my senior).

-I move, on average, once a year. This does not help the situation any. Being in and out of boxes and in and out of spaces, the constant address changes, the job switching (if the move is out of town), the process of moving itself. And yet, I love a change of scene. I start to itch when I’ve remained still for too long in one place. (Masochism?)

As you can see, life is not exactly streamlined. I’ve been taking a long, hard look at things lately and have realized that changes need to be made or my sanity will pay the price. J apparently must have realized this as well, because one of my birthday gifts from him this year was a subscription to Real Simple magazine. I’ve read this publication from time to time, and for someone who lives in mass chaos, I sure do have a fetish for organization and simplification that Real Simple seems to satisfy. The problem is, until now, I’ve been doping on the doctrine without actually living it.

Suddenly, however, the idea of simplification has become a new mantra. Granted, it will take some time before I can jump on the wagon, but at least I’ve started chasing it. While it will involve not one, but TWO moves, J and I will finally be consolidating our resources and living under one roof. Our aim is to rent a house where we’ll be the only tenants, thus taking control of our living situation. I’ve just started a profile on a money management website to conquer my spending and credit card debt. I’m working towards a job that either involves my talents more earnestly or offers me enough free time to pursue writing and other creative work on the side. Also, in the new place, we’ll be able to control use of space and organization. We’re both interested in growing herbs and vegetables and learning to cook at home more.

And that’s just for starters. I never believed it whole-heartedly before, but they may have been on to something with the “Gift to be Simple” thing, because with increased simplicity comes increased serenity. It’s not to say we shouldn’t be driven in our pursuits, which sometimes can be stressful, but we do need to choose our battles wisely and streamline everything else.

That’s where I’m at. The chaos will necessarily continue until the summer, but at least I have a light at the end of the tunnel.

And Real Simple in the meantime.

~a

(Need more inspriation to get simple? Check out this story: http://lifestyle.msn.com/your-life/bigger-picture/articleoprah.aspx?cp-documentid=19216974&gt1=32001. Yes it’s from Oprah’s magazine; whatever. I feel better having read it.)

It’s the Little Things… February 10, 2009

As the weather in Columbus finally eeked into the 60’s today, I decided it was necessary to get outside for a while in the afternoon. If the only way to make that happen on a day so busy I missed my lunch break was to run some office errands around downtown, then so be it. So I was on my way back from the post office, headed to the bank, when a little ways ahead of me I spotted two tiny children walking toward me with their mother.

Both children carried long, spiraled lollipops which must have just been purchased for them as a special treat during their downtown visit. The bright yellows and shiny pinks swirled into the candy were a stark contrast to the overcast day and the kids’ own drab coats. They family was dressed warmly enough, but it was apparent they were of no great means.

As I came closer, the little boy (he could’ve been no more than three or four) dropped his lollipop onto the sidewalk. The look on his tiny face was first of horror, then misery as he began to cry. “Oh, baby,” his mom said, squatting next to him, putting one hand on his shoulder and scooping up the candy quickly. I had every expectation that she would next toss it in the nearby trashcan and tell the child something to the effect of, “You should’ve been more careful. No more.” Instead, without a thought, she put the candy in her mouth and effectively cleaned off any dirt that might’ve gotten on it in the few seconds it had been on the ground.

It was a bit surprising, but then again, with this single, selfless act, she had just shown her child protection and love. Yes, she took a little dirt (literally), but it won’t kill her.

This brief event on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday afternoon has been seared into my mind, for some reason. I can’t figure why it means so much to me, but I may keep it up there forever, and may even be able to drag it out again someday when I have my own children. I can only hope.

~a

Make Room in Your Heart for The Steamroller** December 24, 2008

I love the way this guy’s mind works. (And no one draws a more emotive stick figure. No one). Anyway, in the timeless words of Jimmy Stewart (running through the snow-covered streets, elated to be alive), “Hey – Merry Christmas Everybody! MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

**I-Chat discussion, December 24th, 2008, 9:45am:

(S is playing Christmas music on the office speakers)

a: Not gonna lie, S. There will always be a special place in my little, jaded heart for A Manheim Steamroller Christmas.

S: a, I would hope that everyone makes a little room in their heart for The Steamroller.

(Song changes to something awful by Michael Bolton)

a: Ahem. This no talent a## clown on the other hand……

S: Oh come on….

a: No way. G can have him.

(At the office Christmas party, I picked out a signed headshot of  Michael Bolton – with two Subway gift cards attached – in the White Elephant exchange, which was immediately stolen from me by a coworker)

S: Do I sense some bitterness?

(Long Pause….)

a: It hurts.

S: But it’s Christmas. Now’s the time to find it in your heart to forgive him.

a: Yeah, I know. These things just take time to heal.

THE END

In Which I Time Travel (The Only Possible Explanation) December 10, 2008

So I’ve been awake now for, oh, 3 and a half hours, and, up until about 5 minutes ago, seriously believed with all my heart that today was Thursday.

I have just been informed otherwise.

I swear I’m 27 going on 77 sometimes.

Didn’t help that I awoke late and rushed out of J’s house to be greeted in the face by fat drops of 33-degree rain and gusting winds (which generally are blinding when you have very long hair).

Which gets me thinking – I don’t know about you, but the winter in the state I live in goes a little something like this: Mid-November the chilly rains set in. By December, the odds of having more than 2 sunny days in a row match those of winning the lottery. Temperatures will undulate just above and far below freezing for months, resulting in alternating rain and snow. This may end, if we’re lucky, by April. (Although, I distinctly recall moving out of my dorm in May one year of college in an endless frigid rain).

Must we bend to this inevitable nasty weather, hang our heads like drooping flowers and give in to hibernation and lethargy for 5 months?? Easy as it would be to give in to temptation and live in sweatpants and pajamas and watch marathon sessions of The Office until May, I have to believe I can do better, that my curiosity and joie de vivre can thrive even when my world is a popsicle.

I feel like we’ve been doing a good job so far…. but it’s only Month 1. If we look at this as a 5k, we’re just getting warmed-up. So, here are some ideas we’ve done, and some still to attempt. Granted, some of them are specific to my neck of the woods, but feel free to swipe them for your own, and to offer additions, too:

When the weather is chilly, but not too precipitous:

1) Take a road trip to a nearby shopping destination (I’m NOT talking outlet malls. Think more along the lines of tiny, quaint and/or eccentric locales with town squares or main drags dense with little shops and eateries – if you look hard enough, they’re everywhere). A dusting of snow generally triples or quadruples the nostalgia-factor.

2) Take in a play. Chances are, you definitely don’t do this enough when the weather’s grand (although, here we have a Shakespeare in the Park company that puts on relatively entertaining outdoor shows), so take this opportunity to discover a community theater or local company. Some of the small, fringe ones put on the most intriguing stuff, so if you’re not exactly up for another rendition of “The Sound of Music” or “Death of a Salesman,” try one of these instead. (They also tend to be much more affordable than traveling Broadway series-type shows).

3) Local music. I cannot toot my effing horn loud enough on this one:) Having been on the stage-side of the music scene for so long, I know the winter months are bleak for musicians. Do them (and yourself) a huge favor: cozy up in a warm, little venue (I’m not saying you must go to some piece of shite dive bar only to have your eardrums blown out by an uberloud punk band – unless you like that sort of thing), grab a beer or a glass of wine, and be serenaded by an acoustic duo or a bluegrass band… or a girl who maybe rocks the piano a little too hard My roommate’s doing a holiday show in which she will front the band whilst tap dancing. Always ridiculously entertaining.

4) Go to the zoo. No. Seriously. I know it’s cold, but our zoo, and many others across the country, deck themselves in trillions of lights each holiday season, and usually offer features like ice skating, hot chocolate/cider stands and pics with The Claus’. Animals? Lights? Animals AND lights?? What’s not to love?

5) Go to the art museum. Yet another trip we don’t take nearly enough in the warm months, because, let’s face it, who wants to spend two or three hours indoors when it’s 78 degrees and blue-skied outside? Now, however, escaping into a brightly-lit, heated building sounds like a treat. Evil Twin and I have been known to hit up art museums whenever and wherever we can. One time we took the audio-tour of an Egyptian exhibit (with headphones that know which piece you’re standing in front of and give you details accordingly) and I can’t remember why the narrator was so hysterical (I think maybe he just sounded like a pretentious windbag, but who knows?), but Evil Twin and I couldn’t stop laughing at him, and because we had headphones on, our laughter was the only sound in the cavernous rooms and we kept getting dirty looks from the elderly volunteer woman. Awesome.

6) If it has snowed, but the temperature is tolerable, bundle the hell out of yourself, and go for a walk. Do it up right: slide around on the ice (J and I successfully redefined “ice dancing”),  stop to make snow angels in a fresh patch, nail each other with snow balls. Walk to a restaurant or coffee shop where you can warm up and drink something warm before heading home.

When it is just too effing cold to leave the house:

Before you resort to flipping on the television, please consult the following list:

1) READ!!! For the love of god, do not watch t.v. when there’s a good book around. (Check my reading list if you need suggestions)

2) Um. Blog? If you’ve got one, this is a good time to fatten it up a little.

3) Cook or Bake. Warm the house up by putting your oven to use. Now’s a great time to try out recipes you didn’t have time for before. AND you end up with something warm and gooey (and potentially chocolate??) to eat when done.  (Bonus if you make something that allows everyone to lick the bowl).NOTE: If you take the aforementioned dessert or meal and sit in front of the t.v. with it, you lose major points. Sit in front of the fire, or light some candles at the kitchen table, and chow down on whatever you’ve created while you watch the snow fall outside instead.

4) Clean the house. I know this sounds lame, but while Spring Cleaning gets all the glory, there’s something to be said for using all this time cooped up indoors to perk up your prison cell

5) I don’t know how to put this….. um…..”Quality Time” with your S.O., if you have one. And by “Quality Time” I mean whatever that means to you and yours. I put intimacy WAY before Lost reruns.

6) Get your friends together for Rock Band. Or find out which one of your friends has Rock Band and/or MarioKart capabilities, and organize a winter concert and/or tournament at their place. I used to be adamantly anti-video game, but with the advent of the Wii, these things are much more valuable – not only can I actually play them (due to the more obvious controls), but they require interaction and can be great social activities.

7) Devote some time to your inner artist. Whether you play music, draw, paint, sculpt, craft or write (or anything else I left out), spend some time doing a little art for art’s sake. No pressure. No deadline. Just your imagination and a couple of hours to give it some exercise.

8 ) Speaking of which, just because you can’t make it to the gym, doesn’t mean you can’t get a workout at your place. Plenty of free downloadable workout videos exist on the internet, or, if you have an animal like Gabe, give that sucker the attention he craves, and I guarantee you will both get a workout.

Right, well, my stomach has just informed me via strange noises that it is beginning to consume itself, so time for lunch. Promise I’ll be back to fill this list out a bit. At its current length, you’ll be out of ideas by New Year’s Day. While I scarf, please enjoy the following xkcd comic, entitled “No One Must Know“:

~a

It’s Called Black for a Reason December 1, 2008

Courtesy of Exploding Dog

Oh, Mondays. How brilliantly you find ways to rub in my face the beginning of the work week. How early you startle me from my sleep with blaring classic rock. (This choice of genre is not masochism, it is assurance that the music will NOT lull me back to sleep, nor will I be able to let it play for more than 5 seconds before getting up to turn it off. Have you ever tried listening to 5 seconds of Magic Carpet Ride?? It hurts.) How brutally your  chill attacks my pajamas as I wait for Gabe to wrap up his morning business. And then there’s the uncooperative hair, the trudge from the parking lot down what is essentially a massive wind tunnel, an office kitchen dishwasher that needs unloaded as evidenced by the dishes in the sink including a mug that is growing something akin to those multi-colored aquarium crystal kits, and an e-mail box stuffed with online shopping ads and Things That Need Done Before Nine O’ Clock. It is 8:45.

But…. I am alive. Which is more than at least two Black Friday victims can say. Can I get a “What the F@#k?” What has the world come to when one man, just doing his job at a big box discount store, gets TRAMPLED TO DEATH by his fellow human beings. Why? Because they needed things. NOW. And, by god, they were going to get them by any means necessary. And when they announced, at this particular Wal-Mart, that the store would be closing due to the death of this employee and the crowd needed to exit the building, how do you suppose said crowd responded?

With horror and sadness at what had occurred?

With shock and guilt for a death that some of them had directly caused?

Why no. They were mad as hell and not going anywhere. They had WAITED IN LINE, damnit! For hours and hours. Camped out for the opportunity to stampede into a tacky, low-end warehouse for the chance to be the first to get their hands on tacky, low-end goods. They didn’t care who had died, they weren’t going anywhere!

People. Are we savages? (Clearly some of us are)

In another story, a man was shot to death in a dispute over a toy in the parking lot of a Toys-R-Us.

It’s enough to make a girl want to collectively grab the population of the United States and give them a good, solid smack across the face.

Since that’s not necessarily possible, I’d like to call for the death of Black Friday. This product of idiot mob mentality is the perfect symbol of all that is wrong with our country right now. Our priorities are out of wack. Our greed and self-absorption are out of control. I’ve boycotted this silly little event every year, and now I will most certainly lobby for others to do the same. (A link to the Wal-Mart story for anyone who hasn’t seen this yet: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/29/business/29walmart.html )

Ok. Stepping down from the soap box.

In other news, the band had a show the Saturday after Thanksgiving at a local theater. The theater is a converted garage downtown, a clever use of space, and a much different type of venue than I’m accustomed to. For one thing, there was an audience. And they sat. And listened. And didn’t talk.

Strange, it’s what we always want, but when we finally have it, it’s so bizarre it becomes a little unnerving. But they were gracious and supportive, even when my stupid shoes (did I used to love shoes? Because I hate them now) and their ridiculous tall heals and slippery soles caused me to lose the pedal during the most epic of songs (can we say train wreck?). As soon as the song was over (we actually did get through it),  I stopped, unlaced my shoe, through it to the side, and continued the show with one foot bare. Problem solved.

Sadly, though, I fear an oncoming burnout. And unless I want it to be swift and complete, I feel the need for a break. The pressure needs to come off, the stress taken out of the music, before these are so intertwined that I hate the latter. (Not that I think I could, but you never know). I need to be able to give my keyboard a more permanent home in my living room, rather than slogging it around from bar to bar with little quality time in between. Playing out has become a duty. I need to need it again.

And I need time to pursue the many other things on my Want To Do list.

I think this decision took so long to arrive at, because I was worried about letting people down. But when the reality of it hit me, that the only person I would really let down was myself, I felt relief. Because I don’t feel let down at all. I accomplished more than I set out to do, even if I didn’t achieve All That Was Possible. I’ve got other possibilities to pursue to that end. So I’m good with this.

For now

~a

The Good with the Bad November 12, 2008

It’s only fair to warn you that my job has just become a JOB, nay, a potential CAREER. It has just been discovered by, well, the entire office now, that I’m quite the talented copyeditor and writer, and they now intend to make the most of these talents. I’ve just been made Chief of the Writing and Style Police Department, so all written materials must now pass through me before seeing the light of day (that is, being read outside of our sparkly, homey, modern office). And there aren’t any laws yet established for the police to uphold, so I have to establish and document a sort of writing constitution for my department to enforce. In short – I now have massive work (work that interests me, that I’m even excited about!) to do. No longer a glorified secretary, I just lost my ability to write the next Great American Novel at work. So – don’t be surprised if you see less frequent NaNo additions; I may not win, but I’ll finish it this winter. Promise. Now – a comic, in hopes that you’ll forgive me. (Is this like rewarding your neglected children with expensive toys? I feel like it must be )

~a

NaNoWriMo – Day Who-Knows… November 7, 2008

Starting to feel a minuscule bit better about all this. The onslaught of chilly rain today is keeping me parked at my desk (no walk for fresh air around Capitol Square, so sneaking off to the cafe across the street for lattes or fruit&nut bars), so more time to write and, more importantly, figure out where this damn thing is going. Possibly, I’m cheating. In an attempt to get this thing moving and settle on a general “This novel is about…” mission statement, I’ve moved even closer to home as far as the main character’s personal experience. It’s becoming this bizarre just-off-the-truth conglomeration of bits and pieces of my life. Put together, however, in a way that is still fiction for sure. At least I feel hopeful that there is now a plot and the possibility of completion by the month’s end.

Now. Where were we?

**********************

I pushed my way out of the front rows, ignoring the offended glares of two, formidable Smurfettes and various others to get beyond the boundaries of the crowd.  Strangely enough (or serendipitously, I thought) I ended up at the end of a short line for the wine tent. Apparently everyone favored beer that night. We’d been out for a while at this point, and I’d made a point to stop drinking a good half hour before this. But here was salvation, and, deciding it was meant to be, I unzipped my boot until I could see the bright orange of my drink tickets. Well – mine and Tasha’s and Brian’s. But I couldn’t imagine them minding too much if I dipped into their stash. My heart was freshly broken. They would understand.

When it was my turn to order, I talked the guy into letting me buy two plastic cups of red wine at once. Proud of my persuasive abilities, I was nonetheless without a plan beyond obtaining large amounts of alcohol and consuming it too rapidly. This, I should mention, was not my standard M.O., but rather a solution I’d seen in too many movies or books and suddenly, tonight, I felt the situation clearly called for such drastic measures. I took a swig of the tart, chalky liquid and headed back to Masquerade’s epicenter.

With nowhere in particular to go, I wandered through the crowd, people-watching and hiding under my newfound wavy, raven locks, confident that even if I were to run face-first into Etsio, he would never recognize me. I dumped the first plastic cup after quickly draining it.

“Whoa, Captain! Pound it!” I don’t remember what this guy was supposed to be dressed as. My guess is even if I’d been sober he would’ve been unidentifiable. He thought he was hysterical and swatted at my skirt, far too close to my ass, and that pissed me off. I do remember that. I may have thrown the remains of my wine in his face. I’m pretty sure I did. At any rate, he took advantage of the crowded confusion to give me a hard shove as I turned to walk away. This was more than enough to knock my drunk self down to the asphalt. I landed hard on my knee and palms. “Fucking bitch,” I heard from behind me, but by the time the shock of impact wore off and I gathered myself and turned around, he was gone.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m sober and fall (like, say, on an icy sidewalk in the winter), I try my damndest to be up and walking like nothing ever happened, and hope nobody was watching. Inebriated, however, I made it up to my knees and decided that, at least for a moment, that was as far as I wanted to go. Mind you, I don’t recall my line of thinking at this point. The final thing I do recall is this: the Tin Man helped me up.

He asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine, shook him off my arm and staggered off.

What terrifies me now is that your guess about the remainder of the evening is as good as mine. It could’ve been minutes or hours still before I decided that little alcove by the furniture store was a brilliant place to sleep it off.

“Jesus, Julie, where were the cops? Shouldn’t someone have detained you? You know, put you in the drunk tank for a while?” This is Tasha, concerned in her own special way. “At least youd’ve been protected.”

“Thanks, Tash, that’s nice,” I laugh, popping one last bite of brownie into my mouth.

“Seriously, though, I can’t believe that asshole pushed you. You know if I’d been there I would’ve taken him out, right?” she says, for the seventh or eighth time.

“If you’d been there we would’ve gotten in so much more trouble,” I say, struggling up from my spot on the couch. It’s oversized with ridiculous cushions that will swallow you whole if you sit for too long. Kip is at the sink now, scrubbing chocolate remains from a baking pan. “You know you can leave that for the morning?”

“No, you can leave it for the morning. I will lay awake all night knowing there’s unfinished business in my kitchen,” he says. Kip is a few years older than me, about to turn thirty. He’s like having a combination big brother/mom in the house. His thoroughly masculine voice belies his soft compassion. When Etsio moved out, the house grew three sizes too big. I’d lived alone for four years before he came along, but suddenly I was sleeping with the lights on. It was at the dinner after Andre’s funeral that Kip decided to abandon their home and come share mine. Unorthodox? Maybe. But it’s perfect. I feel safe again.

Tasha jumps up in the other room, talking to herself about how late it is and something about getting to work early. She teaches English classes at the community college, her first one starting at eleven in the morning. And she wonders why I have a hard time taking her complaints about “early mornings” seriously. I give Kip a sort of side-squeeze, and say goodnight.

Tasha’s gathered up her bag and coat and I walk her to the door. “Is it weird that I’m kind of proud of you?” she asks.

“Proud?” I have no idea what she’s talking about. In the past 24 hours I’ve been irresponsible, pathetic, rude and asleep. I can’t fathom what there is to be proud of.

“Ok, maybe proud’s the wrong word. But you did something completely reckless last night.” She sees I’m not following. “You, the girl who plans every minute of the day…”

“I do not,” I protest.

“Shut up, you do,” she says, kindly enough. Anyway, she’s right. “You think you know exactly where you’re going and every step of the way is already calculated in your head, and I can tell you right now that nothing will happen like you think it’s going to.” This has become a big sis talk. Tash, who is also older-but-not-that-much-older, likes to believe she has become wise through experience, meaning she has done so many stupid things in her life that surely she can tell wisdom from stupidity. There may be some truth to this. “You’re working so hard on all these different things that you think will eventually pay off and make you happy, but what if you could be happy right now?” She pauses, I assume for dramatic effect. She reads too much. “I’m just saying you might want to ditch your road map, Jules.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I say giving her small frame a hug, my chin resting on her shoulder for a moment next to her fantastic ginger curls.

I watch her click down the sidewalk to her car. I watch her drive off. Then I stand there behind the storm door until the cold starts seeping through. Damn it, she’s right.

I’ve known it, like suppressed-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach known it, for a long time. I’m 27 years old and still waiting table for a living. Granted, I serve in a fine-dining establishment, which lets me make a fine income working only four days a week. Mondays I pick up some extra cash working at an Austrian pastry counter in an indoor market. I worked this job one summer on a break from college and got along so swimmingly with the little Iranian man who owned it that I’ve never been able to quit it completely. He pays me well, and I bring home leftovers, so there is never a shortage of petit fours and marzipan peaches in our house. What’s not to love? The rest of my time I devote to my band. Yes – I’m 27 years old and still trying to break into the music industry.

This had been my way of life for a couple of years now. Etsio had hated it. He wanted to be able to go out in the evenings, especially on weekends. He loved to tell his friends I was a rockstar, but hated to mention to anyone (his parents, who still lived in Rome and I never met in person, included) that my true living was made in a restaurant.

Dirty Deeds. Not So Cheap. October 21, 2008

Bobtoberfest:

A festive, sylvan gathering of co-workers and clients involving live music, entirely too much food, pyromaniac children and the merry drinking of cordials, sipping of seasonal spirits, right, so, the swilling of much alcohol.

I’m happy to report that not a single attendee rolled into the bonfire, and the boss was spot-on in his fronting of an AC/DC cover (as spot-on as Bon Scott ever was anyway). Aside from the presence of the creepy electrician who spent the majority of the night alternately stoking the inferno and following people to the port-o-potties, it was a cozy evening. (I mean, chatting fireside with friends as the sound of music spills down from the hill and small children launch into the blaze anything they can get their pudgy, little hands on – plastic cups, salt packets, utensils… the boss’s cat – what more can you ask for?)

The kegerator truck was a hit, as was the case of fine gin supplied by one of our clients. (Note to self: it is best not to prepare mixed drinks in the dark of night. Such things lead to nursing a headache and tasting like a pine cone the morning after).

Next year: full-armored jousting.

Or at least a giant, inflatable moonwalk. I think everyone would’ve agreed it was the only thing missing.

But this was only a fraction of my Saturday, a few hours serving as a brief time-out from the larger event-at-hand:

J’s college homecoming.

(To be continued…)

Derrty deeds and dare dun dert cheeeep!

Throw another stump on the barbie...