Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Things have been... difficult lately. I feel like I'm standing in the eye of a storm, watching my thoughts and dreams lifted by the ferocious wind to encircle me. I almost have no time to think before I can reach out and grab just one. And I'm not sure if even that is good enough. Not anymore. I've never really found my place in Southern California. I mean, I love it and it's beautiful and everything. There is just something missing. It's when I'm on the road that I'm the most alive. Europe is just six months away, but I know that isn't permanent. The memories will be, but is that enough?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
"Occasionally, The Bitchy Waiter gets to go to a restaurant and have someone fuck up his order for a change. After nearly a score of waiting tables, (as in four score and seven years ago...), the dining experience for me is almost always uncomfortable. I want to help the server; I stack my plates, I never complain, I over tip and God forbid I go out with a large group of people who want to push tables together and all be on separate checks. When I eat out, I spend the whole time overcompensating. Waiting tables has ruined the experience for me. But I went out to dinner a few nights ago.
There was a craving for Chinese food in the homestead so I Googled, Zagated, and CitySearched until I found a place that was highly recommended. The reviews for Hunan Park were good and the price was right, read cheap. It was little bit out of the way but I was feeling adventurous. Why not? Off to the Upper West Side I shall go! With address in hand and salivating for some good orange chicken, my dining partner (none of your beeswax, busy bodies) head to Columbus Avenue and 70th Street. When we get there, we go back and forth on the supposed block and see nothing that serves egg rolls. Every other ethnic restaurant is on that block but not one fucking Chinese place. We look up the address and realize we are standing in front of it, but it is now some lame ass deli that I applied for a job at about three weeks ago. What the fuck? Did Hunan Park up and leave? Never fear, there is another location on 91st Street, only twenty blocks up. We trudged ahead. At 91st street, nuthin'. A grocery store, a post office and a homeless lady who may or may not have been Chinese. We call the mysterious Hunan Park and they say "No! No! Ninety-fifth Street. Five Five!" Four more blocks and we finally behold the wonder that is Hunan Park; the magical mystical Far East heaven that has made me travel all the way from Queens to a neighborhood I didn't even know the name of. Hunan Park was a dump.
"Well, Zagat gave it a 9 for decor but a 19 for food. It must be good. There's no one here though, that's weird." As we ignored every red flag that was waving before us, we stepped into a place that may as well have been next door to me in Queens. Zagat can not lead us astray, could they? There was an old man sitting at a table with headphones on and a pile of food in front of him. He looked like he could be a close personal friend to the homeless lady at 91st Street. The only other people eating were employees on this fine Friday night. We sat "anywhere" and a waitress threw some water glasses and some chips with duck sauce at us. She looked like she was in a real hurry, like she must have been in the middle of giving a manicure to someone else at the same time. She came back about ten seconds later and said "you ready?" We politely asked for more time so she moved about two feet away from us and stood there staring at us. No pressure or anything, Fawn Lawn Young. It was only 9:30 and they didn't close until 11:00 so I don't know what her fucking hurry was. Maybe it was Chinese New Year or something and she needed to go build a dragon mask. We ordered an egg roll (greasy and possibly frozen) and vegetable dumplings (I didn't try them because they were green and I don't like green food) for our appetizers. I then ordered pineapple chicken because they didn't have orange chicken. It came out as some doughy fried chicken with about six cubes of canned pineapple next to it. And a huge bowl of sauce that may as well have been called High Fructose Corn Syrup with MSG. Across from me, my dining companion had a plate of Moo Shoo Chicken that was said to taste like dish soap. Again, I didn't taste it because I don't like food that tastes like dish soap. The only decent thing we had were the two bottles of Tsing Tao beer. Perfectly prepared, they were.
The check came along with an orange slice (fancy!) and fortune cookies. I wrapped up my chicken because even though it was horrible, gummy, disgusting and I thought it tasted like shit, a homeless person might want it. We put down $43 dollars and left. No one else came in the whole time we were there except for a group of three who walked in, looked around and left. And another couple who picked up some food to go. Zagat was wrong. They lied to me and owe me $43. How long will it be before I am ready to again venture to the other side of the menu? Days? Weeks? Hunan Park and Zagat just made this bitchy waiter a little bit bitchier."
Friday, October 16, 2009
With the economy continuing to sag and business dropping, the fearless leaders (managers and possibly corporate) have decided to step in and boost sales with merch.. i mean "souvenirs." Unfortunately, I suck at it. I can't even sell a Hooters brand lighter for peat's sake. I'm just not a sales person. I feel bad trying to get families that can barely tip me to splurge on shirts for the whole crew. I can't help it. I just feel silly doing it. So now, to motivate us, management has decided that our schedules will reflect our merch... i mean "souvenir" sales. One of my buddies who happens to be one of the "merch queens" told me she actually brings the shirts up to the table during her pitch. Evil, but genius. Does anybody have any advice for me? I like my sweet set of hours that coincides perfectly with school, and I don't want to lose them.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I wash my hands and clean my nails, pulling any dirt out from under them.
The oily make up remover melts off the mascara and the cleanser polishes. A little stream of blue toner disappears into the cotton ball and I can feel my skin tighten just slightly. Next comes the anti-aging moisturizer and the night-time eye cream.
Because you’re never too young to start.
My skin is soft and pretty. The freckles are barely visible but they’re there. My naked lips are the perfect pink and my cheeks are bronzed from the sun. My hair is pulled back into a tight pony tail and the baby hairs framing my face are pale and delicate. My green eyes smile back at me. The aqua and yellow flecks are brought out by the deep blue ringing my irises. I smile back and the creases in my cheeks look happy.
And I love myself. And I think I’m beautiful, just the way I am in my naked skin.
For the first time in my life.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Everybody has them. They're the friends that see you as a stepping stool; a kind of emotional lift, if you will. They're the friends that call you to ask how your weekend was only to interject halfway through your first sentence in a pathetic attempt at bragging of their own, rather mundane, existence. They're the friends that will use you as their own personal sounding board, and you'll sit there a silent agreement as they pour their sad and "unfixable" stories upon you. But god-forbid you should propose the sticking idea that they just may be the root of the problem. Still, they feel no reason to hold back regarding your feelings. Hmm. Why do you keep those friends...
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The table was in sight and I could see that another friend had joined them. As I approached the table and was beginning to think to myself that I needed to ask her what she would like to drink, the tallest man in the party decided to jump OUT of the booth and into the isle way, which was, unfortunately, exactly where I was standing.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
He works downtown. I work at Hooters.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
I am lucky enough to be able to live within walking distance of a (man made) lake where I may run the 6 mile course around it, picnic beside it, canoe through it, or visit one of the many softball/baseball games going on at the ball fields next to it. As a college student, I've learned that every penny counts (for example, that caramel frap at the bux is worth 30 minutes of my hourly wage), so in place of a trendy gym I prefer to make use of the many outdoor "playgrounds" San Diego has to offer. Elle and I used to frequent the lake a few years ago, waking up before my classes to get in a little morning cardio. Unfortunately, directly adjacent to the lake is a golf course. I say "unfortunately" because golfers are some of the worse people I've ever met. I use the term "met" very loosely, and I'm sure they're not all like that, but every morning we were cat-called and harassed by these golfers. It got to the point where we'd rather endure the scorching heat in sweats and long tees just to avoid feeling horribly objectified for that mile we were forced to be within their range of vision. Normally, I don't prefer to run with an Ipod when I have a running buddy, but that too became a necessity. Eventually we stopped running the lake in the morning and took to the nearby mountain trails instead. (They're much more invigorating anyways.)
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
It was all you can eat wing night and I was breaker. My favorite blog reader came in to visit me again, but unfortunately was unable to sit in my section since I didn't have one, and I didn't get to break her section before she and her bunch of friends she brought in left. D: Maybe next Tuesday!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Is it asking too much when a person feels that they deserve someone that can understand and appreciate them? Like, really understand. And not push me when I'm down at my lowest. Why do I feel like I'm slipping, like I'm becoming a dull and lifeless being? When it's good it's great. Don't get me wrong. When things are good it can be such a great feeling. But is it worth it when the bad is so miserable? Or should I listen and believe that it's my fault that I feel this way, as if I have some sort of disorder. That I'm dramatic. So, expressing myself is dramatic. Explaining that I'm upset is dramatic. I've never been one for scenes. I'll wait until I'm home to cry. I'll wait for a private setting to argue. I've never thrown a heavy object at a male. Or any object for that matter without intending them to catch it. I've never screamed, yelled, or been physically abusive. Since when did expressing feelings in an adult manner become dramatic? I'm honestly curious at this point. I don't even want to begin on the double standards that occur weekly. Maybe I'll go back to the Apple store.