The Babysitter

There were days, okay weeks and months, where I begged God to release me from school and send me into the work force permanently. I was positive that my talents of cramming an 8 page paper in two hours would be better spent asking servers to run hot food and not dwell on the 10% tip they just got. I was a grade A, index finger with the thumb forming a capital L on the forehead, fool.

Really when I stopped going to school, I signed on to be a professional babysitter. It's not that I don't love each one of my "kids," but just like real kids, they drive me insane. "Kristin, can you take the salad off Table 41, he actually wanted soup...," "Kristin, my table 51 says it is too hot in here...," "Kristin I rang in the wrong steak, what do I do?" Never have I heard my name said so much in a couple minutes span. Well, if I did it wasn't in a public place and there wasn't 6 different people saying it. The best part is that now I control their schedules as well. Preparing this would be easier if I wasn't concerned with when they deserve some time for milk and cookies and maybe a nap or two. My favorites are the, "I need this day off because...," "I can't work Saturdays because...," "I changed my school schedule (for the 4th time), will it be changed for next week?"

Hey I changed my school schedule too. I stopped going so I could make your life hell. That's right, I am forsaking my education to ensure that you get scheduled on days you need off and making sure you work 4 doubles in a row to make up for it. In all reality I spend a few hours on my day OFF to make 36 people "happy." Then I get calls from my boss because I fucked something up. Probably because you changed your schedule 1/2 way through last week or you told me you could work this night, etc. You make me look like an idiot, I make him look like an idiot, which makes him more mad. But when I see you tomorrow, I will smile, ask you how your school day was and probably pull some candy out of my pocket and pat you on the head. In return, I will be shunned by my boss, loaded up with disappointment, and pop another Xanax. You didn't think that smile was all on my own did you?

Final Words: I need a hair cut, the ends are dieing again.

The Men

You want to know why women pounce on men and talk about marriage and babies after a third date? Because finding a respectable man is like finding out your not pregnant, complete relief and utter joy. (For you man readers-it's like finding out your not the baby daddy, complete relief and utter joy.) The following are examples of why women perceive men to be inconsiderate assholes in general. (Yes, I know there are good guys out there but you have to admit, there are a lot of classless jerks lurking all over the place, ready to destroy women's confidence and brag to their male friends about how "she wasn't that hot anyway"). And these are not based on bitter dating experiences. These are men just running around pissing me off.
1. Last night a party of three sits at the bar top. There is a couple with a perceived single man (this becomes apparent why he would be single later). They are all around their late 40's to early 50's. I get their first round of drinks out and hand them a menu. When they request an appetizer I put it in for them. The couple is familiar, I know I have seen them before and they seem nice. The single man loudly announces he will handle the bill tonight, so make sure to give it to him. Sign one that he is a tool. Wow, you're going to buy a dinner? How amazing of you, your mom must be proud. The night progresses, they order salads, dinner, and have a continuous flow of drinks being brought to them. Single man feels the need to order his male friend's beer for him every time I bring him a drink as well. This is starting to annoy me because the friend is only half way through his beer and I can tell single man is under the assumption that I am a bad bartender. At the end of the night, single man decides he needs one more drink for the road (oh yes older women love DUI's). So he shakes his glass at me and says "I'll have another one (exaggerated pause to make sure I know,) crown and water." Oh really? No shit asshole, this is your sixth drink and they have all been the same, thanks for the update. After issuing him the check, he puts cash down on the counter and I hear the couple ask, "Are you sure you got this?" He chuckles like he is some fucking Bill Gates millionaire and says, "Oh yeah."
The dick left me $120 to pay his $113.80 tab. Impressive, maybe now you can go take your Match.com date to dinner and ask her to pay the bill because that would make you look like less of a loser than leaving a bartender less than 10% of a tip.
2. As I am driving to pick my dad up to take him out for his birthday lunch today, I pass through a shopping strip. I am going 8-10 mph but being cautious to look for walkers. I hate when cars don't stop to let people pass. You are sitting on your ass, would you mind waiting two seconds while I cross the street. So on the left is Big Lots, on the right the parking lot. This man comes bolting out of the store with a cart. Literally he is running with an empty cart to the parking lot. i have two choices, slam on my brakes and still be past the point of letting him cross, or keep going. I keep going because I am already too far to let him go since he decided to run towards me. He slows up and yells, "Oh don't let me get in your way. Fucking asshole." No joke the guy said this to me. My window was down and like I said I wasn't going fast. As I slammed on the brake, I again confronted a dilemma. Do I reverse and show him what would happen if he had gotten in my way or do I jump out of the car and ask him if his mother ever taught him not to run in parking lots? I guess being outside of Big Lots, I should expect this but let me tell you something, I know women can be bad drivers and I have cut people off or done stupid driving things before, this man was wrong and he was a tool. Does it make you feel better to yell at a 5'2'' 22 year old? Well I hope so because you looked like a moron.
3. This one is brief. I went to the gym on Monday and as I walked up to the door, an older man was reaching the door about 20 feet before I was. It was an awkward distance, he would have to stand there and wait in order to hold the door, but not long, maybe 5-6 seconds. As he reaches the door, he looks back at me and honestly, barely opens the door and squeezes his beer gut in. I am not kidding. What the hell is the matter with you men? I'm not asking you to carry me to the front door or even say hello, just OPEN THE DOOR. You have two hands that can do more than console you after you've been rejected by another woman (probably because you had no manners).
Final Words: I am going to my first NHL game tonight. I am debating if I should color a tooth out and purchase a WWE wrestle mania shirt to better fit in.

The Groceries

Maria never ceases to amaze me. I just got back from grocery shopping with her. I am a faithful Safeway shopper. Once I find a store, I stick to it. I even hate changing locations because I like to know where everything is. Do you really like having to ask the 15 year old bagger boy who just got an erection when you looked his way where the tampons are? I prefer to just know where to go. When they move shit around to make it more "appealing" for customers I want to scream. You know what appeals to me? Everything staying where it used to be. Do the bananas really need to be up in the front of the store because they're on sale this week? Apparently Dole is seeking to pay its child labor $.50 an hour instead of $.25 so they can keep all the pseudo-liberal "I want to save the children" marijuana freaks happy. Back to Maria.
So we are shopping. I am purchasing, she is pushing the cart commenting on every item I buy. When I shop I look at the Nutrition Guide on every item. I like to know what I am putting in my temple. Every time I mention how many calories or salt or sugar is in an item, Maria talks about Chips Ahoy, Cheetos, or ice cream (brand is unidentifiable because she will eat any of them). Up and down the aisles we go, the further we go the more she is craving cakes, cookies, and ice cream even though I have purchased nothing but healthy, smart options. By the time we get to yogurt, we started on veggies which is on the complete opposite side of the store, I am ready to tear into the bakery like a crack addict showing up at Amy Winehouse's digs. As I debate between Key Lime yogurt and Kiwi Lime, Maria asks, "What is the difference anyway? What's a key?" I nearly died trying not to insult her too much after I rolled around the floor, told 3 other customers in the aisle, and pointed at her with gasping breaths from laughing so hard.
After making it make to my car, we decide to hit Yogurtland. One of those new fancy frozen yogurt items where you pick how much you want, add your own toppings and pay based on how much it weighs. I love this. First, they give you cups that could fit a small child in it, so you feel forced to fill it up more. Then they put out 300 toppings. I love watching people head up to the counter with their coconut-reeses peanut butter cup-strawberry-kiwi-chocolate chip-caramel sauce-vanilla wafers with a dab of yogurt under there somewhere. The weight groans because you now successfully created more calories in one sitting than Kirstie Alley could ever dream of. Congratulations fat ass. Now talk to your slightly chubby friend who got only fruit on hers, about how it doesn't matter because the yogurt is "fat free." Maria is not one to claim any of her food is fat free but she sure makes it hard to eat right. Tonight her toppings included: chocolate chips, brownie bites, vanilla wafers, and gummi bears. Being 5 years old again must be fun. As we head home she begs me to stop by McDonald's. I am not kidding. The bitch wants more. So she gets medium fries and chicken nuggets. Now don't get me wrong this is the same Maria from before and she's not fat. How does she do it? You know Jersey Shore? Girls with the giant hair? Maria's is three times that size. And now I know why.
Final Words: You want to know why the economy is still in an economic crisis? Because the U.S. Census Bureau sends out 5,000 different letters to every living space to make sure you're "counted." What a joke. Do me a favor, save the postage and do something useful, like I don't know, say, saving some of the thousands of public libraries across the nation that are shutting down. But hey kids don't need to read, I am sure there is an app for that.

The DVD

It has come to my attention that Jillian Michaels the devil's trainer. I mean he has to be in pretty good shape to think he can battle God right? Seriously the bitch is crazy. I am in the middle of one of her work out DVD's screaming at her for "encouraging" me when it hits me. I don't actually have to do what she says. In fact I can turn her off I wanted. Oh if only I didn't desire to fit in my skinny jeans without sucking it in all night. It gets annoying when you try to do shots. What? You try holding your abs tight when you're slinging back tequila. Instead, I trudge on like a fat camp kid, going through the work out but dreaming of the extra piece of pie I am going to reward myself with for being so awesome. As I finish do I celebrate and congratulate myself for pushing through it? No. I think about how I will never have washboard abs because BevMo had a one cent wine sale and there is no way I can let that go to waste. But I am proud of the fact that I didn't throw the DVD out.
So why, you ask, am I home on a Friday night writing a blog at 9:18? I am blaming it on the fact that all the non practicing Catholics decided they would participate in Good Friday rituals and not eat meat tonight. Yeah, that's it buddy, you're going to Heaven because you gave up a steak and instead opted for lobster. I don't think I have ever seen the bar that empty before. You know the typical cricket chirps? I could hear the crickets thinking. (Hey! Hey! Look at this cool noise I can make! Hellllloooo, can you hear this?) A lot of our regulars showed up which was cool. Got to love people that insist on being made fun of by me because their lives are that devoid of interesting people. I love those people. I mean, how much more awesome can my job get? People give me money as I insult their slow drinking and comment on their graying hair. And yet they all love me. What I don't like are the people that show up and believe they are regulars, when really I have never seen them before in my life. Scenario:
Me: Hello Sir, what can I get you started to drink with?
Douchebag wanna-be VIP: Oh I'll have what I had last time, a MILLER LITE (emphasis on this as if he was saying, hey idiot, it's what I always get).
Well you know what, I do remember people that come in here. I know what it is like to be ignored (see The Bartender). But just because you wear a sports jacket with a bright colored button up shirt because you're not afraid of your "feminine side" with your ray bans on (by the way it is so dark in the restaurant that you need a flashlight to properly see the menu), does not make you better than your surrounding drinkers. You're in Mesa buddy, this isn't Scottsdale where only plastic parts get attention. Plus, you ordered a Miller Lite, there is nothing special about you or your drink; you mine as well have ordered a dirty water. The best part is when they leave me a $1 tip on $15. Wow, yeah I am really going to remember you the next time you come in - as the shitty tipper who will now never be a VIP. In fact from here on out, I will purposely pretend like I don't recognize you so you can scream Miller Lite at me and feel better about yourself.
Final Words: One of my regulars looked at me today and said, "Oh hey, that girl with the crazy hair actually brushed her hair. It's probably the second time I have seen it brushed...Looks nice." Pretty sure I peed my pants a little.

The Library

The last time I checked the library was supposed to be a place with books where craggy old women with their hair in a bun whispered SHHHH! when you coughed after catching wind of her White Diamonds perfume. (For those of you who are too young for my references, this is a popular perfume sponsored by Elizabeth Taylor. Google her, it will make sense and be funny I promise). In movies, such as Legally Blonde, students gathered together in groups and whispered about Plato and other law bull shit while being outfitted in their Harvard gear. At ASU, the scene is similar but much more befitting of the Arizona lifestyle. Hoards of students gather to talk about how hot they are and how soon they can start wearing bikinis to class. Instead of ASU gear, girls wear Victoria's Secret, the official sponsor for university whores and whore-wanna be's everywhere. (You know what I am talking about too, it is one thing to dash out the house in sweatpants because you overslept, it's a whole other level when their hair is curled and make-up done but are still wearing sweatpants but because it is VS, it is acceptable. Whatever, you still look like trash.) Whispers of Plato? How about shouts about where the next Frat party is being hosted. Yes, please, this is the atmosphere I was looking for when I decided to study about the Holocaust. People were murdered by the millions in a torturous, inhumane way, but hey! I would much rather listen to how your friend humped a dog last night. I can also take my mind off it by looking at the girl's computer next to me. Whoa, I missed another naked night of beer pong apparently. I am no Elle Woods, but IT IS A LIBRARY. Why are you meeting here to look up funny youTube videos and hang out with friends? It is called a Starbucks. They are located on every corner and allow you to be obnoxious as you want (unless you go to one with all the hip underage smoker kids who are just like, so beyond their years man). The best are the people who sit at the computers than talk on their cell phones for two hours, aimlessly clicking, pretending like they came here to work. Either you are trying to fool your parents or your latest significant other is only good for sex and being with them before bed time is similar to the way I feel about your existence invading my study time.
The greatest part about my library experience? I have to park in a structure that I pay for because it is the closest to the library, which is still a good 1/3 of a mile away. Not far, but when you charge me $12 to park there, I am pretty sure that I deserve an escort service and a fresh baked chocolate chip cookie. Economic recovery fee you say? (This is a new $400 add on to tuition for every semester in case you didn't know) Where the hell is all that parking money going? What maintenance does a concrete building need? Last time I checked we were located in Tempe, I don't need a 65 year old, over weight man riding around on his golf cart all day "protecting" my car. What are you going to do if you catch someone anyway? Rev that engine up to 3 mph? My Grandma can outrun that with her broken hip. Next time ASU needs some financial advising, maybe they should just ask me instead of sending me a "survey" about how I feel about the rising tuition costs. Wait, where's the opting for FUCKING BULL SHIT?
Final Words: These new frozen yogurt places are awesome. Fat free yogurt with multiple flavors-how healthy! I am assuming the fact that the toppings aren't labeled with nutrition facts means I can eat as much of that too as I want. Fat Americans, making excuses to sue others for making us fat, now that's food for thought.

The Cheese

You want to know the best birth control ever? Come in to the restaurant I work at on Sunday's. Imagine "Kid's Eat Free" promos combined with the fact that we are conveniently located near Mesa and Gilbert. Do any married women in that area have any other tasks to do than prepare dinner for their husbands then bang repeatedly until their 9th child is conceived? By that time I imagine kids just start walking out of the birth canal. But I am getting ahead of myself. Picture a "typical" American family. Mom, Dad, Brother, Sister, and maybe one "accident" child. I would love to believe that really is a typical sized family. Instead add about 5 more brother and sisters all eating mac and cheese, wiping their slimy fingers over everything, including each others' hair, and you have my typical Sunday. I don't understand the promotion, why do we want to ENCOURAGE this type of behavior? It's like, "hey! have more kids, we will pay for them!" (Wait, do I smell a Democrat behind this?) So we put a restriction: one kid's meal for every adult entree purchased. Well the cheap bastards have this figured out too. (Apparently the mom's do have time for something else: planning ways to screw over childless servers). Yes kid's meals can be split. Granted one portion can be something such as a half pound of macaroni, but when I split your children's FREE ice cream sundae, don't come bitching to me about how they need more. They can eat more macaroni or hey, maybe you can order them a side of french fries. Although that would mean spending $2.29 on your child. Less money for you to get your nails done and you know your husband isn't going to give you any more allowance money that week.
I'm not saying all kids are bad and I hate them, but I strongly believe that people should test dogs before they move on to a baby. Or if they believe that breeding like rabbits is going to be their lifestyle, they should invest in shock collars. The thing is kids wouldn't be so bad if their parents actually parented them. Sorry dear but when you decided to push a human being out of your vagina, you signed up for more than a cute accessory. Just because Angelina Jolie has 80 kids it doesn't make you socially cooler than your friends without kids. I'll let you in on a secret moms and dads, allowing your kids to do whatever they want when they're 5 years old means when they are 15 and stealing the minivan to smoke weed it in with their friends, it is completely your fault. Save your money, Dr. Phil can't help you. Your kid wasn't molested when they were young and are acting out because of repressed memories, no you were a fucking lazy parent! Remember when you let them smear mac and cheese sauce all over the table and drop the other half of it on the floor? Well I do, so I hope enjoy your future weed smoking, pregnant teen drama in a few years.
Final Words: Lemon flavored anything is my new obsession. I crave its' taste and smell and can't get enough. Maybe I'm pregnant...right, maybe I'm the next Virgin Mary. (Yeah try not to spit out whatever you were drinking when you read that ya jerk).

The Bartender

You know that friend you have that is pretty, dresses nice, and is fun but she isn't drop dead gorgeous or the life of the party so you can bare to be friends with her? I am that friend.
I can say with reasonable confidence that I am decent looking. I mean, I shower daily and partake in grooming rituals on a daily basis. I do know that a red shirt and purple shorts do not go together (no, not even for you Ms. "I'm so trendy because I mismatch bright colored lycra clothes from American Apparel"), and I retired my mystical dreamy colored horse shirts a long time ago (it's all about plastering Miley Cyrus gear all over yourself now). I am funny and witty but that is only if you understand my dry, and sometimes dark sense of humor. Although the people who don't get it only fuel my fire to persistently pick on their shortcomings, such as last night - "look at that girl's dress - hey hunny this is a public place, no one wants to see the nightgown grandma knitted for you last Christmas (it was a white, long, cotton dress that was flowy and had a lace collar)."
[Preface: I am in no way, jealous of Maria. I simply ask for acknowledgment. The way guys act towards her is rude and unattractive. This is, by the way, why she never goes home with you.]
But anyway, for the most part I am there for the ride, good for a few chuckles, and perfect as a drinking partner (I still manage to throw up in bathrooms and not all over bar tops.) My friend "Maria" is more the limelight character. She has huge hair, a big ass with a small waist, and cleavage that appears from no where. Seriously the girl goes from a 13 year old pre-teen to breast-enhanced model on the cover of Cosmo with the change of a shirt. I have become used to the staring (at her, not me), the comments on her hair, and the repeated cold shoulder tactic so I can fend her from "just-turned-21-year-old-male-alpha-dog-who-is-going-to-prove-to-his- friends-he-can-get-a-girl-to-go-home-with-him." What I can't seem to grasp is that our favorite bar, the one where half my life savings has gone to, continually produces ass hole bartenders who focus on Maria and neglect to acknowledge my thirst. Gentleman I will let you know something right now: If you want to get with the hot girl, you better be damn sure you take care of her best friend too. First of all, hot girl will never be alone at the bar, conveniently waiting for you to swoop down and take her home with a purse full of sex toys and a naughty nurse outfit under her jacket. Meaning, you have to get past me first. The only way that's happening is if you give me another fucking drink. Last night bartender, Tim, walks up to Maria and says "What's up Maria? Ketel and Cran?" She laughs says yes and then he looks at me, "Uh something for ya?" Oh hey genius, I have an idea, how about the same damn drink I have been ordering for a year??? And by the way I have a name. I know, crazy, but they forced my parents to write something down at gun point.
This is why I like Trevor. Trevor is our bartender normally. He puts my drink in front of me WITHOUT asking. And knows my name. He also likes Harry Potter and asked a male friend of ours one time to come over and play some Harry Potter card game that he was really excited about. Winner, winner chicken dinner.
Final Words: At least role playing as Hermione would allow me to use a wand and shout random magic words.

The Loner

I know I complain about a lot of things on this blog. So for this entry, I am going to do the same thing. Why stop a good trend?
Recently in a newspaper article a report done by some researchers from some university did some study that looked at some people's conversations throughout some amount of time. Yes, this really must be something. Anyway, they found that people were happier when they had "meaningful conversations" over idle chit-chat. Their example of a meaningful conversation was, "What do you think is the best way to transport kids to school" and the person responds on opinions they have heard. This is opposed to chit chat: "Oh that ice cream looks good, what flavor is it?" and the person responds "vanilla" and moves on. Hm. Who are these people? They have nothing better to do than talk about getting their kids to school? Oh wait, I get it. They researched stay at home moms because who else has the time to be researched for a year straight? And any stay at home mom will naturally be happier when she gets to talk to a person who is over the age of 10. And I have had plentiful meaningful conversations about ice cream. That is an important topic. Flavor, toppings, which brand, syrups? Hellllllo, if you don't think that's serious business then you have your priorities mismanaged. The report goes on to conclude that people who spend time alone and only engage in chit-chat are not as happy as people who spend more time with friends talking about real conversations...I wish I could call these people and ask them to follow me for a week. You know when I am happy? When Barbie (see previous post) keeps her mouth shut so I can enjoy my wine. When I get to read the paper and enjoy coffee before little 3 year old Joe-Joe shows up with his grandparents and his entire playroom. (This is not Gymboree people!) When I am in class and I can take notes without you texting your best friend about the picture that Molly posted of her and Joe making out in a hot tub -o.m.g., what a whore!, and then you lean in to ask me if I think that it is sanitary for people to do that in a hot tub? Sorry, while I am trying to learn about how the media is warping my brain (must. check. facebook...), I decided you would be a topic on my blog because you're so annoying.
Final Words: Bacardi. Diet. Lemon.

The Editor

I like to write. Blog style that is. Translation: fuck commas and using "40" instead of "forty." I distinctly remember in 8th grade when we did the grammar packets. As you passed each one, it moved on to a different section of grammar. So first it was spelling, then like words (to, too, two), then commas, etc. If you didn't pass the packet you had to stay behind and work on extra packets in that area till you passed. Two weeks later I am still pondering the "use a comma when you need to take a breath" rule (which by the way, people take breaths at different spots when they talk), while my classmates moved on to Romeo and Juliet (I missed the naked butt in the movie for commas!). That is why I have friends like Amanda who completely dashed all hopes of me believing I am actually competent when it comes to the English language (aside from commas naturally). After marking up my resume with so much ink I wasn't sure if the original text ever existed, I realized I needed a lot of help when it came to sounding professional. Apparently "type like a motha fucka" is not appealing to future employers. I blame this mainly on the fact that every job I have had has required me to walk in the door...and well, start working. I am pretty sure when I handed my bosses my resume, they just tossed it to the side and asked me if I could work weekends and drive my own car. Thanks for preparing me for my future interviews and life in general guys.
Now, I have basically a new resume to rewrite. This is why I hate "real" writing. Have you ever heard the phrase "hit it and quit it"? I like to apply that philosophy to my papers. Once I've done it, I don't want to think about it anymore. So drafts, second drafts, final drafts, final papers have no meaning to me. Is it because I don't like to criticize my own work as much as I do others? Heck yeah. Hand me Billy's second grade report on his summer break and I'll rip that piece of garbage to shreds. Professor Tom wants me to look at his thesis? I may not know the words but I'll red ink the shit out of his philosophy on why zippers are more effective than buttons (and they are). Basically editing makes me feel good because I lack effective ways of transmitting my own ideas so I chose to destroy others. I do what I can to keep people in check.
Last Words: If you go to lunch with one of your lesser intelligent friends, do everyone a favor and sit in a corner, far, far away from those of us that have fully functioning brains. It is hard for me to enjoy my wine when Bimbo Barbie wants to know all about Happy Hour because heaven forbid she actually spare the last two brain cells she has. However I got a second glass of wine for free so maybe the karma of me not stabbing her with my chopsticks paid off.

The Rumor

Need I make some witty remark about how I took a three month break from blogging? No. But I will. I realized I kept having all these moments where I would think, "I need to use THIS for my blog," but after walking around campus all day trying to figure out where all the girl's pants went, (seriously have you seen these girls wearing only shirts and tights? it is called a dress hunny, Hanes cotton tees are t-shirts, just because your ass is covered in bright purple lycra doesn't mean there shouldn't be some other layer of fabric shielding me from your ass crack) and then babysitting ten or so 20 year olds at work, blogging became an activity only for kids that had mommy and daddy's wallets in their clutches.
So what else have I been up to besides staring at bright colored asses and coddling 27 year old servers because they got another bad tip? There is a point in every woman's life where friends feel the need to intervene in their single friend's life and "assist" them in finding Mr. Right. Usually this occurs around mid 30's. To a woman that gained the freshman 15 five times already and prefers staying at home with her four cats instead of going to another bar as the third wheel. However, I am 22. The person that set me up started a rumor six months earlier that I made out with a manager in our office at work. The prey was a cop. I mean really? Apparently I believed that by being set up now, I could avoid cat lady syndrome in the future (which is quite depressing considering I am allergic to my future housemates). After a couple dates, various texts, and phone calls, I question the man about his return from a trip home to visit family. All I request is that we make plans when he arrives home. He readily agrees and apologizes for being so busy before his trip. It is five weeks later. That must be one big family he had to visit.
Final Words: Every time I drink a bottle of wine I get really down on myself and eat way too much. This has become an emotional nightmare. I guess I should start drinking two.

The Notebook

There are many quirks that I harbor in order to stand out from the rest of the crowd. I have a fear of ketchup. It smells terrible and looks horrendous. Place it near me and I am bound to cower and shriek until it is removed from my presence. I hate baths. I only shower. The drain in the bathtub is disgusting. I can never ever ever touch it. You know what goes down there? All your filth. When I think of a drain being close to me because I am unfamiliar with the shower I am in, the song from Halloween plays when I realize I am a toe away from grazing it. There is a list but I would like to save it for other posts so let's focus on why this was brought about. On my break today I decided to be prepared for school by purchasing a notebook. No, not an Apple notebook, a spiral bound notebook with actual paper in it. I am old school and stay true to taking notes in class by hand. I, unlike everyone in my classes, will avoid computer tan from the constant glow. Plus I know what I would do on a laptop, not take notes, hell no - I am stalking people on face book checking to see what child the high school quarterback is on and what ambitious career the slut who slept with the gym teacher decided to take on. So as I walk through Target there is one, and only one, notebook that I can have. It has a black cover and there are 4 subjects within divided by different colors on the edges of the paper. As I shift through Hello Kitty, Batman, and various dots and glitter, I spot the last one. I sigh with relief and return to the check stand.

"Your total is $8.61."

For a friggin notebook?? I mean it is the coolest one alive and the only thing I will use but it is PAPER. Last time I checked you can buy a spiral bound notebook for $.89. Or wait, am I just getting old? Omg man, now I am just depressed.

Final Words: All the people at Target this evening were actually super helpful and nice. Shocking.

The Spot

There is a new concept I would like to introduce to people who visit or live at apartment complexes. There are white lines that separate the black tar into little boxes for parking conveniances. You place the car between these two lines so that there is order and stability within this crazy mess of a world. More importantly, at many complexes they have metal roofs that cover some of these white lines. This is referred to as COVERED PARKING. It is like a garage for a house but not as nice and definitely not private (found that out when I needed to change my shirt in the car and a seven year old walks out with his three year old sister...nice I just became a creeper). The point of this covered parking is that because I pay the complex money, I deserve to have my vehicle protected from sun, rain, and snow. To know which spot is yours they paint little numbers on it. Numbers signify ownership here in America. Kinda like that 10 digit number that you dial when calling Grandma. That 10 digit number will only dial Grandma. It is not like one day you will dial that 10 digit number and George Clooney will pick up the phone (unless your Grandma is a hot piece of meat). So when you go to these complexes and you see 39 in between the two white lines with a tin roof over it, it is NOT yours. You did not earn a parking space in between the time you left your parent's basement to the time you arrived at your internet date's apartment. So unless you pay $600+ to live here, please know that you only get the white lines with no number and no tin roof.
And if you are paying to live here, you should know the rules so don't even pretend like you are just running in to change the kitty litter for Princess Fluffy.
Final Words: Maybe Charleston's should invest in flair. And damn it feels good to be a gangster.

The Run

It occurred to me today that I am out of shape. I don't mean I am 500 pounds but I definitely cannot handle chasing after the ice cream man for my triple scoop chocolate cookie dough ice cream cone without taking a few breathers. How did this happen to an all star high school athlete? College. That's what happened. I met boys, new friends, and in particular, alcohol. Alcohol and I became close when I turned 19. He became a close associate of mine that I regretted, but just like a bad one night stand that keeps repeating itself, I returned again and again. Therefore, alcohol has predetermined the kind of athlete I am. You think I don't do exercises? Let me give you a break down of an exercise routine for me:
Beer weighs about 16 to 20 oz. Every time I lift that to my lips I am doing arm curls.
When I lay down on the bar and then sit up to do a shot between my legs, I am doing crunches.
When I chase after the bartender because I need another drink, I just completed another rep in short distance running.
And then when I run after my car because it is being towed away, I am practicing my endurance.

All kidding aside, I didn't drink and drive tonight because I value my life outside of the slammer. I want to lose weight but I would rather do it in a safe environment instead of one where I feel like the water is unsanitary. Is there a pun to this unfunny story? No, I am drunk, all of this is funny to me.
Final Words: Taking your best friend motorcycle shopping is only acceptable when the salesman is good looking...check.

The Pedicure

Being a girl I indulge in luxury items like fake nails and pedicures. There is nothing quite like paying to get your toes picked at and being amazed at all the fuzzies you can hide in the cracks of your nail beds. Today I decided it was time to return to this glorious festivity and as I entered the salon I sighed with relief that it was practically empty. No five year old screaming at her mom that she wanted purple GLITTER toes not green and pink flowers; No 35 year old single woman who decided to focus on her career instead of popping out 8 babies screaming into her cell phone at her mother who wishes her daughter would find a "nice man" (not because she wants grandkids as much as she wants her daughter to stop bitching at HER.) Ahhh life would be good and quiet today at the salon. Fear not lovely readers, I have good news for you: this relaxing spa day was not to be. The two girls that were there decided to put on a spin off show from Alice in Wonderland featuring Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb. Dee was 20 years old and Dumb was 18. Both worked at an Italian restaurant as servers and Dee also was a licensed hairdresser. Dumb was telling Dee all about her latest boyfriend.

Dumb: Besides his pot smoking, he is the most perfect boyfriend ever.
Dee: Does he take you out?
Silence. (ahh 5 seconds of bliss!)
Dumb: Well no...but he just gets me ya know? He just listens to me and tells me I am pretty. I don't care if he spends money on me, ya know?
Dee: Silence. Oh.
Some worthless chatter ensues, but wait pot smoking loser boyfriend reappears!
Dumb: When he is high he pays so much attention to me. He tells me he loves me all the time and how pretty I am. He always wants to kiss me. He is exactly how I want him to be but I can't tell him that ya know?
Dee: Yeah probably not.

Apparently a pothead IS a good boyfriend to have. If only I had known that...Needless to say the talking never ceased except when Dee couldn't comprehend her friends' obsession with a boy that does NOT spend money on her. When they left the ringing in my ears prevented me from having to listen to any other useless chatter the rest of the day so maybe there was an upside.
Last Words: I can do most of my own plumbing in the bathroom and kitchen. I can haul Christmas trees by myself. I will do all the cleaning in my house and I know how to detail a car. But don't fucking ask me to kill a scorpion. There are lots of men in this world, they must be useful for something.

The Coupon

Working in any industry that involves interaction with other human beings usually leads to a lot of stupid questions that one must deal with. At the restaurant industry it is common for us to expect that once guests enter the building, they usually have left their brains in the car (if they even had them in the first place). So I guess tonight should not have surprised me, but alas a fellow earthling of mine proves me wrong.
As I take a couple's order this evening, the man suddenly dons a face of excitement and quickly shuffles through his wallet. As I await for him to announce to his woman friend that he actually DID bring a condom tonight, he instead pulls out a Charleston's coupon for a free appetizer. He looks at me and says, "ever seen one of these before?" with a bemused look on his face as if he was showing me a rare diamond. "Well sir, it IS a Charleston's coupon and I just happen to work at Charleston's. So yes, I have seen these coupons for 2 damn years. So keep in mind that when I take the $10 off your check that I still had to bring it to you which means it needs to be accounted for in the tip." Of course none of this happened and I got 15% on the final bill. Next time I will bring you the free spinach dip and you don't even need a coupon for it...it comes in a bowl but you can't see it. Just imagine it is there like I imagine putting a rope around your neck because I made $7 in one shift.
Final Words: When a couple breaks up it should be noted that the separate parties are to go to their original bars and stay away from the ex's. You can start dating a Victoria's Secret Supermodel or Mother Theresa but don't hang out in MY bar. I drank many a night to earn my status there so don't ruin all those nights I blacked out to prove you can get another girlfriend. I get it, I am proud of you, now go drink somewhere else.

The Nap

When I take a nap, I expect perfect conditions so that I can maximize the short amount of time I have to catch up from lack of sleep from the previous night (me and Bed sometimes take too long talking about our days). What are these perfect conditions you ask?
1. The temperature must be just right so that I can use a blanket still. I don't like laying out there without a blanket, it reminds me of what a person looks like in an open casket.
2. I need the right blanket. I don't want a freaking down comforter but I want more than a sheet. Sheets are for dressing up for toga parties, not for napping.
3. I need one big fluffy pillow or two medium size pillows. My head needs support. Enough said.
So needless to say when I decided to visit my parents today, I expected to pack in a quick nap on their amazing comfy, worn in leather couch. But my very kind (but pestering) mother supplied me with THREE blankets so I would be "comfortable." I didn't have the heart to tell her I was sweating like a 500 pound man after he walks across the living room. Then they put the fireplace on to make it "cozy." I don't get this. Fire, in case you are not aware, is not cozy. You want to cuddle fire? Be my guest, I on the other hand enjoy the bliss of electric heat because it won't burn through my skin sending me to the hospital looking like a naked mole rat. So for an hour I tossed and turned in my own sweat leaving me restless, soaked, and unsatisfied. Hey kinda sounds like...never mind.
Final Words: Arriba's Mexican food has the most delightful pancakes. Who would have though Mexicans knew how to make fluffy pancakes?

The Game

I have a secret for you Eagles players - the fucking goal is to get the football in the end zone. When the other team has the football, you FUCKING TACKLE them. Not trip them, not touch them, bring them down to the ground. When you are losing 27-7 at the half, you are beyond terrible. I could fly down there and play the last quarter and complete more passes than Donovan McNabb. Hell I will play for $100,000, I do not even need millions. And one last thing when I picture the Devil tempting me in my daily life I picture Jerry Jones sitting on my shoulder telling me I need to curse at the little old lady at work who is on her 180th iced tea refill.
Final Words: When I have a heart attack, guaranteed it will be during an Eagles game.

The Application

What is it with new computers and not having Microsoft Office already installed? I mean you shell out hundreds of dollars to have a calculator and a notepad. I have those two things already thank you (non computer style which is okay by me because who wants to log on to a laptop to use a calculator?). Tackling my future has therefore become extremely difficult. I can only upload my resumes and personal statements but cannot edit them. Hey thanks you tease! Let me see my document but then gray out all the tools so all I can do is bang wildly on my keyboard praying for the "key" to unlock Word.
Instead I have taken to wandering around my 400 square foot apartment admiring the items and furniture I have collected or received. I LOVE my apartment and am not ashamed to admit it. I have a friend who, every time he sees me, asks if I like living by myself because he just HATES it. He has actually started driving 20 minutes to his parents' house to spend the night there because he finds it lonely. I have other friends that swear they could never live by themselves. I, on the other hand, have spent hours and hours relishing in the fact that this 400 square feet is mine and I like not sharing it. Apparently a 3 year old attitude still dwells within me. Live on childish spirit! Without you I could never rationalize the amount of rent I pay every month.
Final Words: A pet peeve I have is when people say they "could never do xyz." Actually physically and emotionally you CAN do it, you just chose not to. The correct wording is "I would never want to do xyz." (I hear this a lot when I mention I am a vegetarian.)

The Burial

A crowning moment of my adult life occurred today. I put white sheets and a white blanket on my bed. This is compared to my preferred black satin sheets with black blanket. I never thought I could pull off the all white but it looks pretty good. Fear not mounds of black clothes, I am not ready to trade you in. The wardrobe stays dark. I will attempt to keep these sheets white even though I refuse to separate whites and colors in the laundry. I may be an adult but I still cling to college aged methods of washing the laundry.
But what inspired this change? The death of King Richard I (my late Christmas tree) spurred me into a cleaning frenzy. Plus I know he wouldn't want me to mourn, so hello bright white room!
Last words: Putting away Christmas gifts and cleaning made me appreciate the following three things: keurig's one cup coffee maker (greatest invention for coffee addicts yet), a dishwasher that works well so i don't have to wrinkle my fingers, and a bed that I think I am starting to develop a cute crush on. He stood in my room for so long unnoticed like the boy next door and just recently I began to appreciate his ever constant attention and loyalty to me. Thanks Bed, tonight we will cuddle.