Monthly Archives: February 2005

The Classic Bully

February 1, 2005 Filled under Shorts
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I’m sometimes a mean person. I know that. And I act really misanthropic, too, although that’s not really the real me. And I usually have a bad attitude, so I’m told.

Here’s the truth: I openly admit that all of my hostility and crankiness and superior attitude is really just one big act. It’s simply a preemptive strike to try to conceal how utterly insecure I am and how consistently fragile I feel inside.

Progress is something I can always work on tomorrow

February 2, 2005 Filled under Blog
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I’m a procrastinator. It sucks, but as a result I’ve learned that I work far, far better under pressure. If I have too much time to do something, I will tinker with it and tinker with it and eventually all the original charm of it will have worn off it now it’s just too perfect and sterile to be worth anything. If I’m short on time — on deadline, say, I will work my fingers off.

I received this training in college, and by “received,” I mean I trained my own mind and body to act this way because I was usually goofing off ‘til the last minute anyway.

I encounter this a lot at work too. All day long, when I’m supposed to be writing about how the fire department at Pleasantville is short half their staff because all those men have taken up the cause to fight in Iraq or how there’s a ribbon cutting at the local olde icee creme shoppe later this afternoon, I’m surfing the Internet. All. Day. Long. I get nothing done.

I mean, I get a little done. As my pal Dr. Pants would say, there are short bursts of extreme productivity surrounded by long periods of goofing off. It possibly could be caused by my OCD, because it usually proceeds like this: write a paragraph here, check my e-mail, check the newspaper, check my e-mail again, check my favorite blogs, write another paragraph, check my e-mail again in case someone sent something to me in the past three minutes.

The whole purpose of this post is simply to say that, for the past few days, I’ve been working on a computer without Internet access, and I’ve got a lot of writing done. I’ve possibly done more work in the past three days than I did in the entire month of December.

I mean, just look at how long this post is. 328 words, when all I really should have written was the was the previous paragraph.

Two stinkers

February 5, 2005 Filled under Shorts
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Do not try to blame your farts on the dog. The dog does not try to blame his farts on you.

Some cheese with my wine

February 14, 2005 Filled under Blog
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We entertained this weekend. C, being the ultimate host, wanted to have friends over for drinks to celebrate The Official Unveiling of The Bamboo Bar, which is a little late considering he installed The Bamboo Bar, like, six months ago.

Still, as a Happy Bamboo Bar gift, some friends of ours presented us with a bottle of red wine. “It goes good with food that is really spicy,” I was told, so now I am guzzling it while eating pepper jack cheese and Triscuits.

There is nothing better than red wine to really get me in the mood for writing. Okay, that made me sound really artsy-fartsy and pretentious. But it’s true. Hard liquor clouds my thoughts too much, but wine gives me just the right amount of euphoria and creative-stupid ideas without any of that pesky “mean drunk” behavior that runs in my family.

Anyway, I was recently exposed to the most arbitrary occasion of spousal nagging I have ever witnessed. I won’t go into detail here, but suffice it to say the verbal scolding left the poor guy with the same sort of bewildered look Gus gets on his face when I catch him in the middle of doing something he doesn’t know is wrong.

I try really, really hard to fight my natural wiring (or training, depending on your perspective) and not nag my boyfriend for anything, because I know what happens when men and women get together, and the women move into the men’s houses, and then they take over all the space in the closet, and then the women suddenly begin to treat their men like five year olds, and then the men get together at the bars and talk about this, and then the men collectively decide that the women are trying to change them, and I don’t want my wonderful boyfriend to change, because I fell in love with the him that he was before he met me, not the him the he becomes after I verbally neuter him by harassing him to death.

So it took a lot of self-control today when he sends me an e-mail titled “Drivers who talk on cell phones kill thousands.” In the text of the e-mail, he had written, simply, “Please read.” Below those cold, cold words was a link to some news story about some stupid research that backed up this claim. No other comment from him, nothing.

I resisted all urge to send him a reply explaining that I felt the headline was a little over-exaggerated — it could just as easily have read “Drivers kill thousands,” which is also true. I also resisted sending him a reply extolling the dangers of, say, smoking a pipe and cigars, eating ground meat cooked rare and sending personal e-mails on company time.

See, I resisted, because I know talking on the cell phone while driving is dangerous.

The problem is that I have what I like to refer to as a couple of quirky character flaws.

I am extremely independent, and therefore, extremely stubborn. I have always done things my way, and my way works just fine for me, thank you. In addition, sometimes I feel like behaving like a reckless teenager.

In conclusion, I do not need another set of parents.

Now, in his defense, I know that all this nagging, gentle coercion, he calls it, is really in my best interest. He does it because he loves me and he doesn’t want to see me get hurt or lose me. But come on.

A few weeks ago, we were getting ready to go out for the evening to celebrate my suddenly-free weekends, and we got into an discussion because I was going to wear white go-go boots and a mini skirt, even if I planned on riding the scooter, because I want to, and nobody is going to tell me I can’t.

“But Brit,” he pleaded. “You never know when the gears might slip or you might hit a wet patch on the road and go skidding across the pavement.”

Still, I persisted in my stubbornness, and I looked cute on that scooter, too. NOW STOP HARASSING ME.

We got to the bar where we were supposed to meet our friends, and I was on the verge of parking my scooter when…

Let me explain a few things about vintage Vespas. Scooters, unlike motorcycles, shift via hand. Both the clutch lever and the gear selector are on the left-hand side, so that you engage the clutch by pulling it in and then roll the gear selector to, you know, select. A gear.

Because they are old, they come with a lot of quirks. My particular scooter, the one I’ve only owned since October, has had 26 years of love, and the result is that it is occasionally possible to change gears without even touching the clutch at all. And boy is this fun when you’re cruising down the street at 45 miles an hour and the scooter suddenly and miraculously downshifts into second. Wheee…

So I was trying to park my scooter by using all my weight to pull it back and up, rocking it onto the center stand, when, all of a sudden, it shifted. Into first gear. And took off. With me on it.

First lesson learned: always turn off ignition before trying to park scoot.

Actually, it didn’t take off immediately. Instead, I did a wheelie for a few seconds, spinning my back wheel while desperately trying to figure out in my head exactly what the hell had gone wrong here.

Then the scooter, with me on it, was basically catapulted over the curb of the parking lot and directly, at a right angle to the flow of traffic, into the street.

Second lesson: in an emergency, engage the clutch. It immediately kills all power to the engine and makes you look less like a bumbling fool who’s about to wreck her perfect, red vintage scooter.

Finally, anticlimactically, I found the break, and the engine, without the aid of the clutch, died. The scooter, me on it, mini-skirt and all, toppled right over into the gutter of the street. Realizing that I no longer looked so cute, I jumped to my feet, announced to my boyfriend that I was alright, and did a quick damage assessment. The scooter was okay, nothing a rubber mallet couldn’t fix, and I had just barely scraped my knees. My friend Steven laughed for minutes after, in all earnestness, I exclaimed, “I didn’t even scuff my boots!”

There goes this saying that there are two types of motorcycle (or in our case, scooter) riders — those who have wrecked, and those who haven’t yet. Now that I’ve had my first wreck, I must say I’m glad I got it over with.

I spent the rest of the night telling C how right he was but that he should be happy I was okay. Just a couple of scrapes and bruises. OH MY EGO!

C, master of self control, never once uttered the words “I told you so.”

But here is the biggest lesson I learned: when C, during an argument, says that there is the slightest possible percentage that something even remotely minor might happen, it WILL happen. THAT VERY SAME NIGHT.

Seoul survivor

February 15, 2005 Filled under Blog
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A couple of days ago Lance sent me this e-mail:

Subject: license to il..
n. korea has the bomb now, yikes! dont forget to pack your sunglasses and geiger counter. i got you a going away gift as well…”How to Survive In a Postapocalyptic Wasteland for Dummies

This same friend, my dear Lance, also called me at work the other day to find out when C and I were going to be leaving for South Korea. All panicky, as if we weren’t going to tell him.

“This sucks,” he said. “When you and C move to Korea, that means half of all my friends will live in Korea.”

We likely won’t officially move until summer, and then we’ll be gone for three years. But suddenly all of our usually flaky friends want to spend as much time with us as possible.

I was talking to my Mom the other day and she started crying uncontrollably. “I don’t want you to go,” she sobbed.

“But why, Mom? I’m happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“Yeehehehesss,” she replied. “But you’ll – be – so – far – away – from – mehehe.”

Two years ago, after years of false starts, I finally moved out of Oklahoma. Moving to Houston was the best decision I have ever made — not because Houston is that great of a place or because Oklahoma is that horrible, but because I am in a better place. People always say you can’t run from your problems, but I did it and it worked pretty good for me.

I marvel at how much happier I am here. I had gone through a series of devastating relationships, all my friends had moved away, and I felt like college had been the peak of my life, the top of my performance, and there was no place to go but down. You can only be an overachiever for so long before it gets old.

When I moved to Houston, my mom was not very happy. I did so desperately, with very little planning and only $500 in my pocket, a car full of clothes, and a Boston terrier.

The best decision ever. Almost immediately I made some wonderful friends whom I love dearly. I only wish I would have known before how easy it was going to be to transplant myself, because I would have done it much, much earlier.

Now I am planning to leave all this too.

My Mom and Grandma call randomly. They don’t really have anything to say to me, they just want to know if I know when we’re leaving yet.

And our poor friends. They act as though C is just going to steal me away under cover of night, whisking me off to Korea, where I’ll live as his kept woman, writing my memoirs and eating kimchi.

Which I will. But don’t worry. We won’t leave without letting you throw us a going-away party first.

Aaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhh

February 17, 2005 Filled under Shorts
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The worst thing in the world is trying to keep a secret about something you want to scream out to the whole wide world. *Huff.*

Thoroughly Modern Brittanie

February 18, 2005 Filled under Blog
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This weekend marks one whole month since I was freed from the bondage of indentured servitude. (Throw that image around in your head a bit, you dirty, naughty reader).

Thanks to the utter generosity and complete support of my wonderful, understanding boyfriend, I quit my second job slingin’ Singapores at a local college bar.

A few weeks ago, when we had company at the house, C was giving them the grand tour, except for our house is really just a big loft-style condo, so the “tour” basically consists of him leading our guests around a big circle pointing out all his Polynesian kitsch.

On this particular tour, when he got to the “bedroom,” which is basically just our bed, pushed up against the wall, he said, “And this… this is where the magic happens. Or as Brittanie calls it, ‘rent.’”

Very funny. I think it’s safe to say I have never asked him for much, so the fact that he allowed me to move all of my things into his house, and all of my dog’s things as well, makes him a pretty remarkable man. I especially recognize this sacrifice, considering he is an only child who has lived alone as an animal-free bachelor for a better part of the last decade.

When I first moved to Houston, I had no money in the bank, no job and no permanent place to stay. I decided that the best kind of job to get would be a job where I made tips, since I wouldn’t have to wait for a paycheck.

I moved on a Sunday, went job hunting on Monday, and was hired by the first place I applied to. They asked me to start the following weekend. Score!

I should have known it would be drama from the start. Here are a couple of the warning signs I chose to ignore:

  • For one, I may have fibbed a bit on my resume. I said I’d worked as a cocktail waitress, when in truth, all I’d ever done was serve over-priced fried seafood (in Oklahoma, nonetheless. NEVER eat seafood when you’re no place near the sea.) at a hokey themed restaurant that required me to wear a fishing vest complete with tackle as part of my uniform.
  • They called me in for three, count ‘em, one — two – three, interviews. For a job as a bartender. At a college bar. I mean, who do they think they are, the Playboy Mansion?
  • During my third interview, one of the managers (how many managers do you need in a place with five bartenders, anyway?) actually tried to hit on me. I like to refer to him as “Soul Patch,” only because no one pushing 40 can really carry that off, no matter how hip they once were. None of his questions had anything whatsoever to do with bars, bartending, my resume, the job, booze or beer. I later found out that Soul Patch was a Serial Employee Dater, having sexed up no less than three of my five coworkers, plus some that were no longer there.

But you know, I digress. I was broke and they were willing to hire me right away. And to tell you the truth, if you take away the Emotionally Manipulative Boss, the Boss Who is So Obsessive Compulsive The She Labels Everything with a Brother™ Label Maker, The Boss That Wants To Get Into Your Undies, the drunken frat boys, the snooty sorority girls, the cheapskates, the jocks, The Guy That Hits On The Bartender Immediately After She Overhears Him Getting Rejected By The Girl That’s Sitting Right Next To Him, the drunk girl who hangs her panties from the longhorns every Saturday night I DON’T WANT TO CLEAN UP YOUR PANTIES ANYMORE!, the “It’s My Birthday, Whaddo I Get For Free” types, the “How Much Is…” types, the “Do You Have Any Specials…” types, the non-tippers, the 25-cents-on-a-five-dollar-tab tippers, the cigar smokers, the angries (Why are you so angry?), and the hungries (“Uh, can I, like, have some chips or something?”) and The People That Just Won’t Leave At 2 a.m. Alreadies, bartending was pretty fun. I liked almost all of my coworkers, I got to wear whatever I wanted, I got to say whatever I wanted — so long as it was out of earshot from the owner — the money was real good, and I loved my regulars.

After a while, though, I figured that I should put my degree to use and get a real job. Sadly, however, my degree, which equals roughly $40,000 in solid education, nets me a career in which I make only about half that much a year, pre-tax. I reconcile this in my head by saying that being a starving writer gives me so much more street cred, but apparently the company that financed my car could care less about my street cred.

I’ve done this before, moonlighting. In fact, I’ve done it my whole life. Ever since I was 16 I’ve had a job, sometimes two. I worked all the way through college, full-time, and still managed a 3.8 GPA. And as soon as I was out of college and in my first REAL job, I had to get a second job because my REAL job didn’t pay my REAL bills.

So my second job, bartending, made it possible to do my first job, writing. Without one, I could never have afforded to do the other and, you know, have a roof over my head.

But my part-time job was getting more and more stressful. Four shifts at the bar a week equaled about 40 hours, on top of my REAL 40-hour job. I was getting about 4 hours of sleep a night, getting to work at 9 a.m., working until 6 p.m., getting to my other work at about 7 p.m., getting home at about 3:30 a.m., over and over and over again. The only full day I had off was Saturday, and most of that time I was sleeping. Plus, suddenly, my bosses started to get medievally neurotic, making those late nights even less pleasant.

Still, I stayed at the bar. It was like a bad relationship you just can’t leave. Anyone who has ever worked for tips can understand this — you get addicted to the lifestyle. You always have money in your pocket, usually two to three hundred dollars, after a shift. If you are broke or need some quick cash, you just pick up a shift and bam!, cash money ho. No waiting two weeks for your paycheck, no credit cards, no waiting for checks to clear. Soon you wonder how you ever lived without all that money, and you laugh in that face of anyone who doesn’t carry at least three Benjamin’s in their wallet at all times. I, personally, am all about the Benjamin’s.

My bosses were getting worse and worse. Yelling at us for stupid things, like not putting enough ice in a drink, or then, putting too much ice in one. ONLY HIRING WOMEN (isn’t that illegal?) Don’t pour the Guinness like that. Don’t pick up the tips immediately. Smile more and don’t yell at the customers. Make more small talk. Quit talking already, customers are waiting. Why didn’t you talk to that person?!?

As I got more fed up with it, I started apologizing to my coworkers. “On the day I decide to quit,” I’d tell them, “I’m going to pick the busiest day, and just not show up. It’s supposed to be a big Up-Yours to The Man, but I know you guys are the ones who are really going to suffer, so I’m sorry.”

Poor C was sick of it too. He never got to see me, and when he did, I was always exhausted or cranky or both. I have lived in Houston for more than a year and have never been to any restaurants or bars, because I was always at work. So finally, we decided I should move in, that way I could live on just one job. That, so far, was the best day of my life.

In spite of what I’d told my barmates, I gave my bosses a three-week notice, just to be nice. Two weeks passed, they hadn’t even tried to hire someone. Three weeks passed, no replacement. On the night before what was supposed to be my last night, Soul Patch pulled me aside and said, “Yeah, umm, when do you plan on your last day being?”

“I dunno,” I told him.

“Well, you know, uhh, that when we hire the new person, we’re gonna want you to, like, stick around a week or so until she gets trained.”

“Umm, oh.. okay.”

And then I did it! One Friday last month, after I came home from my REAL job, I just didn’t go to work. I just didn’t show up. It was awesome, liberating, redemptive. That same night, another bartender called in sick, so they had half the staff they should have had, and the bar ended up having one of the busiest nights they’d ever had. They were screwed, but they screwed themselves. I had given my notice.

One of the best things about that job was the overwhelming amount of gossip I was exposed to. Part of what made my last few weeks there so stressful was this new barback we hired. Steve annoyed the wits outta me, especially while I watched him talk on his cell phone instead of washing dishes and sit on a barstool smoking a cigarette while the other barback mopped the floor. When I called him on it, he’d mutter expletives at me under his breath. Luckily, the owners were on the verge of firing Steve when he gave his two-week notice. Perceptive little jerk, huh?

Anyway, I called an old coworker the other day to get an update on the gossip, and she told me that a week after Steve gave his two-week notice, he asked to rescind it. Fool! How you gonna take back a two week notice?

Beer and Scooting in Las Vegas

February 21, 2005 Filled under Blog
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Update: Don’t try to going to Rolling Stone.com for any useful information on Hunter Thompson. Since, you know, he got his career started there and everything. Sure, there’s plenty of information on Cristina Aguilara and Green Day, but as for a real cultural icon, nothing. I hate that rag.

I had originally planned on writing this post, since it is the one-year anniversary of the weekend where my life flashed before my eyes. But when I woke up this morning and learned that Hunter Thompson had pulled a Maude over the weekend, I decided why not just kill two birds (ha!) with one stone and dedicate this post to Dr. Gonzo as well.

(My Grandad looks a bit like Hunter Thompson in this picture, but without the love of firearms and acerbic wit.)

This past weekend my friends were in Las Vegas for a scooter rally. They flew, which is a much better decision than the decision we made last year, which was to drive all the way from Houston, Texas, to Las Vegas, Nevada. We decided to drive so that we could tow our scooters with us, and it was a bad idea. Las Vegas is not a very fun place to try to ride a scooter, unless you’re going way, way out of town and into the desert, away from traffic, both on foot and four wheels.

New Orleans is a much better place to take a scooter, but then you’ve got the bumpy streets and the power-hungry police officers.

Anyway, last year, over Valentine’s Day weekend, me, C, and our friends Steven and Lance drove to Las Vegas. The trip took 24 hours straight, and just to illustrate how large Taxes is, when driving from Houston, Texas took up half of the trip. Twelve hours. El Paso was halfway to Las Vegas.

We left at night, towing four scooters with us in a one-ton passenger van that Steven’s band used to tour in. The van was barely still living, and Steven had only purchased a month of insurance to simply get us through the trip.

We made it to El Paso at about 8 a.m. the next morning, and it was snowing. In the desert. There is nothing prettier than snow on a Saguaro cactus. We got to Las Vegas that night, exhausted from living in a van for 24 hours, but ready to party nonetheless.

But this story isn’t really about the trip. This story is about the trip home.

I’m seeing a recurring theme in my posts, and that theme is this: I shoulda known better when…

  • The van needed some work to begin with.
  • I realized Steven had probably done the nasty with someone in that van over the course of touring with his band. Ewww.
  • As we were passing by Hoover Dam on the way home, the brakes in the van were locking up and popping as they unlocked. We had to pull over and let the brakes cool for, like, an hour.

Still, the trip home was uneventful, until we reached San Antonio, about two and a half hours from home. Then our trip came to a screeching, crashing halt, as our breaks failed and we plowed into the back of a small coupe that then plowed into the back of a semi truck.

C, the perfect driver, the man who had never even had a speeding ticket in his life, much less had an accident, was driving. The rest of us were asleep, which is lucky, because none of us had on our seatbelts, and had we been able to react, stiffening up our bodies, we likely would have been even more injured.

I was lying on the bench seat behind C, and I woke up to the sound of the brakes popping. When we hit the semi, my head hit the back of the driver’s seat, and I sat up, spitting out a piece of my molar.

Within 30 minutes of the accident, I also had a huge bump on my noggin about the size of a golfball. But my injuries, luckily, were the worst of everyone involved. The car in front of us, a tiny white coupe, was driven by a guy who was deaf and couldn’t speak very well. But until we figured that out, we all thought the accident had knocked him silly, impairing his ability to communicate.

I had no health insurance at the time, but the car insurance afforded me about $5000 to get my tooth mended and to see a chiropractor, something that I’d never done before. In fact, I was surprised that the insurance would pay for the chiropractor, because it was always something I considered a little quackish.

I found the fanciest chiropractor I could, which wasn’t hard, because in the suburban utopia where I work, people love to throw their money away on that sort of stuff. My neck hurt real bad, and my arms were so sore I was having trouble pulling shirts over my head and shaking drinks at the bar. I just wanted to feel better.

On my first visit, the doctor explained to me that my body could be healed through a combination of Eastern and Western techniques, but he’d have to see me a couple of times a week to really make any difference. On his walls were charts that described some technique similar to reflexology, which made use of the body’s different chakras to cure various ailments.

On my second visit, he hooked me up to a machine that sent electronic pulses throughout my muscles, as seen on TV, to tense them and relax them. He’d hook me up to it for about half an hour, them cover me with wet towels, and leave me alone. Every few minutes he’d come back in and crank up the “Shocker,” and when my time was up, the machine would let out this annoying electronic wail of an alarm.

Sometimes, the good ol’ doc would double book his appointments, and the stupid alarm would continue to sound over and over again, while I lay on my stomach, shirtless and with wires coming off me. Only after another half hour would his secretary come in and unhook me, and then I’d leave without even seeing the doctor again.

Whatever, I thought. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt and perhaps, if I thought positive thoughts, it would work.

My doctor was aggressive. They would never let me leave without booking another appointment, which was difficult, since I had, you know, a job to attend to each day as well. Soon, I began to feel like I was on a bad date that would never end. The secretary would call me at home and try to get me to come in. They’d keep me there for hours hooked up to that machine. At each successive appointment, when I’d complain that I was still in the same amount of pain, it only encouraged them to crank the machine higher.

Then I realized what I had to do. I had to break up with my chiropractor.

At first, I tried to book fewer appointments. But then I got lectured. “You’re never going to get better if you only come in once a week.”

Then I tried to skip appointments, claiming I had to work late, but they charged me for no-shows anyway.

How could I explain that the shocker machine wasn’t working? I knew they’d turn it back around on me and tell me that I didn’t believe enough, I didn’t show up enough. And my argument, that if it really did make a difference I would still be coming, would make no sense to them.

It was getting high pressure. Finally, when I didn’t show up for a week, the secretary called my house, wondering where I’d been. I lied, saying that my insurance funds had run out, and while I would have like to continue “getting better,” you know, I’m just not into you.

Besides, I’ve had enough problems with getting electrocuted anyway.

A Mrs. Understanding

February 22, 2005 Filled under Blog
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Finally, this weekend, we worked up the nerve to call the parents and give them the good news. We actually wanted to wait and tell them until we had a few more details straightened out, you know, like the date for instance, but we were dying to tell our friends, and so we figured the parents should know first.

C is an only child, and that, in combination with the fact that he’s never been married means that his parents are, like, totally dying for him to settle down and make babies already. I’d like to think that they really adore me, but as Lance put it when we told him, “All you are is a baby factory.”

We called them first, and we had them on speaker phone. C talked for a while, just a normal conversation as if, yeah, you know, nothing new is really going on. All the while I was sweating like a pig at a BBQ, I was so freakin’ nervous for some reason. Telling my parents would be a breeze but it was his parents that were intimidating.

Suddenly, C stops the casual flow of the conversation by saying, “Well, there is some news. We’re going to be adding a new member to the family.”

His dad laughed, but the comment set off his mom’s What Alarm. You know, that long, sustained, confused and surprised “Whaaaaaaaatttttt?!”

“Well,” C started to explain, “On Wednesday, when I asked Brit to marry me, she said she’d like to take my last name.”

The conversation progressed, while we explained to them that even though we hadn’t planned out anything, we knew we just wanted the whole event to be as simple as possible. They were so excited, and I didn’t really realize that the conversation had taken a wrong turn until his mom asked, “Have you put your hand on her tummy to see if you can feel it yet?”

“No!!!!” I shouted into the phone, while C just laughed and laughed at his own mischief. “He meant me! I’m the new member of the family!”

You know what’s totally not cool…?

February 22, 2005 Filled under Blog
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Using other people’s pictures to post to your completely unoriginal Web site without even taking the time to ask for their consent.

It’s also not okay to create several “anonymous” comments on your own Web site, which are really just posts obviously written by you, stroking your own ego and trying to make it look like anyone even looks at your site to begin with.

And while I may be out of line a little bit in saying this, I might also add that it’s also so not cool to talk trash about other people on your Web site.

Doctor, do you mind if I lay down for this?

February 23, 2005 Filled under Blog
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One week into being engaged and my family is already reminding me why I used to say I would never get married.

It’s not that I don’t believe in the sanctity of marriage, it’s just that in my family, divorce is like a pastime, nothing is permanent and no responsibility is too great to eventually shirk.

I spent most of last night crying myself to sleep. I can’t figure out why I’m so emotional lately — if it’s because C is supposed to leave for Korea in a week or if it’s because I don’t know how in the world anyone could be so unconditionally giving or if its because I have my own issues to get over.

Left and right, members of my family that I have barely spoken to in the last two years have already started inviting themselves to a wedding I haven’t even planned yet. I owe it to them, they say, and they deserve to be there after everything they’ve done for me. Who cares that it’s my wedding, and unlike most everyone else in my family, IT’S THE ONLY ONE I PLAN ON HAVING.

Over the past week, I’ve continued, in passing, to refer to C as my boyfriend. Someone pointed out yesterday that I can’t call him that anymore.

So when my fiancé and I started to get really serious, about a year ago, I just couldn’t fathom that someone would be so loving and giving without expecting something from me in return. It makes me feel vulnerable to open up to him because I’m so used to having the ball drop, to having things go bad or to having other people take advantage of my own emotions and just leave me out in the cold.

Part of my coping mechanism is to always be in control. It’s like the old saying — if you want something done right, do it yourself. In trying to separate myself from my family, I was forced to become real independent real fast. Now, suddenly feeling so dependent on someone else has really taken me for a ride.

This summer, after we get married and we move to Korea, I’ll quit my job and just live on his money. I’m already living in his house for free and eating his food for free and using his utilities for free. And so is my dog. Considering that I saw man after man after man do this to my mother, and that I vowed to never let myself become dependent on anyone, this development is a serious kink in the plans I made when I was a 19-year-old feminist.

It’s been, so far, one of the hardest things for me to deal with, but also one of the biggest blessings of my life.

Sometimes, people do really just love you and don’t expect anything in return. Relationships can be nurturing and healthy, and that you don’t have to give up any part of yourself in order to deserve that.

After years of taking care of other people, and falling into that spiral where they start to SUCK YOU DRY, and then struggling to look after just myself, its wonderful and relieving to have someone who suddenly wants to take care of me.

The ‘C’ Word

February 24, 2005 Filled under Blog
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On Richmond Ave. between Montrose and Shepherd, there is this place called The C Store. It’s a little convenience store in a strip center that I drive past when I’m taking Gus to the dog park. Without fail, everything I pass it, I snicker like a 12-year-old.

I think the ‘c’ word is probably the dirtiest, most derogatory word in the English language. Still, when I drive past The C Store I think of the ‘c’ word and I giggle, wondering if the people who own the store have any idea of what everyone else in the rest of the world is thinking when they pass by.

The ‘c’ word is the worst thing I can think of to call someone, anyone — man woman child or creature. And I can be pretty acidic with my insults, especially when surrounded by four other exhausted bartenders who are sick of putting up with the attitude that emanates from drunken 22-year-old boys and their drunken girlfriends who think they’re better than you.

Working in the service industry taught me many things, the biggest of which is that being a bartender is a damn hard job that not everybody is cut out for. In addition to having to deal with horrible customers, bartending is also serious manual labor that involves a lot of standing, rushing around, heavy lifting, yelling and sweating.

C used to have this neighbor, Jan, who was a flight attendant for Continental. Jan’s route took her to South America on a weekly basis, and C absolutely loved her because, in addition to the fact that she had a swimming pool, she would also bring him back bottles of rum from whatever country she happened to be laid over in.

Perhaps the only job harder in the world than being a female bartender is being a flight attendant. I’m not sure how she does it.

One time, right before Jan got married and moved, we were sitting on her back porch, sipping a pitcher of punch, and she was telling us this story about one of her coworkers, and instead of saying the ‘c’ word, she said this instead:

“She’s a real See You Next Tuesday.”

It took a full 30 seconds before Christopher and I figured out exactly what she was saying, and another full five minutes before we could stop laughing.

When I first started working at Under The Volcano, I was so happy to have a continual revenue flow that I smiled at every customer and always said thank you, even if the tip was just a quarter, and went out of my way to make even the most ridiculous of drink requests.

“You want a Duck Fart? Sure, I know how to make that. It’s, umm, Jager and… something else. Right?”

But after a year of unruly and rude customers, I found it was much easier to just act normal, which sometimes meant I wasn’t grinning maniacally and rushing to pour that pint of Guinness already.

Apparently, acting anything less that overwhelmingly enthused about serving someone can really piss them off, because I have pissed off more than my share of customers.

I happen to have an underdeveloped dense of smell, which C loves. It means he can fart in bed and rub all up against me sweaty-like after we go running and try to kiss me after drinking coffee, and I don’t mind, or even notice for that matter. But it also means that I can’t tell when the dog needs a bath or when I’m burning my grilled cheese on the stove or when the house catches on fire.

Mother Nature, obviously feeling guilty for robbing me of the sense most frequently associated with memory, made up for it by rewarding me with supersonic hearing. This is handy in my chosen career, where I essentially get paid to eavesdrop, and has also served me well in other aspects of my life.

Right before I quit my job at the bar, I had particularly annoying customer. He tried to order from me a Michelob Ultra while simultaneously standing next to a sign that said “We do not sell Michelob Ultra, Smirnoff Ice or Red Bull.”

I was feeling extremely charitable that day, since I had recently made up my mind that I was going to stop coming to work, so I resisted the urge to answer his question by silently pointing to the sign, and instead told him simply, “Sorry, we do not sell Michelob Ultra.”

I also handed him a menu, which detailed the roughly 30 other beers that we did sell, most of which taste marginally better than diet beer anyway.

Then he ordered a Curse Laht. Instead of telling him that we had neither Curse Laht nor Coors Light, I again answered him with a “We don’t have that either. Why don’t you take a look at the menu.” I took a few steps away to try to help the customer standing next to him.

Then he ordered a Bud Laht in a bottle. “Sorry,” I replied. “Draft only.” I return to helping other people so as to allow this guy ample time to make yet another decision.

Now, I know that it was not my fault that my employer only chose to carry certain products, but it is typically no use trying to use such logic on someone who has already consumed a large amount of alcohol. At this point, the guy was getting really huffy.

“Come ONNNN,” he started to yell. “Can’t you just give me a Bud Laht in a bottle!”

Other customers around him were starting to get impatient, as was I. They wanted to be served too, and I wanted this guy to get lost already.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked him. “We. Don’t. Have. It.”

“GAWWWDDD!” he yelled, slapping his money on the bar. “Just give me a draft Bud Laht.”

I served him his beer and change, which he promptly snatched away from me in a matter that was really, really intended to hurt my feelings. Ouch. But then, as he turned around and started to walk off, he muttered, “See you next Tuesday!”

The look on his face was less fright and more pure astonishment when I replied, “WHAT DID YOU SAY!?” He looked confused, like he really couldn’t believe that I had actually heard him.

“NO YOU WON’T SEE ME NEXT TUESDAY!” I yelled as I threw a drink in his face.

And that’s exactly how it happened.

Letter to a coworker

February 25, 2005 Filled under Blog
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Some people are just too damn hip for their own good. Personally, I don’t have the time to keep up with all the “fashionable” music, clothes, bars, trends and other superficialities some people seem to dedicate their whole life to. It’s all about complex social organization, who knows who and who is cooler than who and who has the most dirt on who. It’s worse than Friendster — it’s real life.

That’s part of the reason I left Oklahoma. Even Oklahoma City, the capitol, is so cliquish, it’s like living in a small town. I thought Houston, the fourth largest city in the United States, would be better, but Houston is the biggest small town in the world. EVERYBODY is all up in everybody else’s business, and I can’t stand it. I think the problem is that Houston is so large and populous that people must form smaller groups in order to have any sort of life. And those smaller groups are so incestuous, I just can’t stand it.

You are no longer allowed to complain about me blowing you off to our former boss and your ex-boyfriend, when I went out of my way last night to say hello to you and you did the very same thing.

Also, massive boob jobs as a rule look really horrible.

My friends are funnier than I am

February 25, 2005 Filled under Blog
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My friend Lance will be having the very first public showing of his photography starting this weekend. He sent me this e-mail about it the other day:

yo im putting ten or twelve photos on display at the king bizkit bar and grill on white oak, rich people hang out there so hopefully ill sell something… im hanging them friday afternoon, they gave me good space behind the bar with spotlights. congrats on the impending nuptuals, if jesus doesnt call me home to glory before then ill take the photos. that will be my gift (no refunds). its unreal, all of the things that are happening to you and C. if you told me you had been chosen to be the first blonde on Pluto i wouldnt blink.”

Lance doesn’t really spell that horribly. He does take awesome pictures, though, and I’m more than honored to have him memorialize the only wedding I’ll ever have. Lance and a handful of other people make up the group that I like to refer to as my Houston family, a family that is just as dysfunctional and crazy as my real family, but I love them anyway. Often, when we’re intoxicated and it’s Christmas Eve and the world seems full of possibilities, Lance and I talk about working on a book together — him taking the photos and me writing the text.

So basically this is a shameless plug for anybody who can to go see Lance’s artwork. He even plans to put a photo he took of me in New Orleans on display. I may go, if I have time, but I have to pack my bags and get ready for my upcoming trip to Pluto.

You know what’s weird…

February 25, 2005 Filled under Shorts
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When you are the only person in a bathroom with three stalls, and you’re in one of the stalls, doing your business, and when you’re done, right as you exit the stall, someone else walks into the bathroom, and seeing you exit that stall, precedes to enter the exact same stall, completely ignoring the other two previously unoccupied stalls, knowing full well that you just had your naked behind on the same porcelain seat they’re getting ready to set their naked behind on.