Let's not, but say we....didn't?

I nearly sobbed, openly, at work today.

Apparently, due to the fuckup of my old boss, I am not eligible for health insurance for another 6 months.

In what world is it normal to have to wait 18 months, minimum, for insurance? Not this one.

I can't be mad with the current management. I can, however, be irate with the previous.

I can also be irate with one of my coworkers, who, as far as I'm concerned, can go straight to fucking hell. That statement is not enough for the rage I am feeling at the moment.

The White Death Comes From Above

It's snowing. A lot. I know that some of my readers (Brian) are currently undergoing far, far worse snow/weather craziness than we are out here....but shit, man! It doesn't snow here--like, ever. And if it does, its melty. It doesn't stick, really, for more than a day or two--and if it does the world comes to a screeching and abrupt halt. People out here are wildly unprepared for snow driving. It's common sense! (In my mind, anyway.But I lived in a snow covered state for a number of years.)

Out here, this is the thought process when driving in the snow.

"It's snowing! I better park my car on the side of the freeway and walk and then be surprised when my car is impounded/smashed to bits!"

"It's snowing! I better just drive like I normally do (80 mph) and then be surprised to find myself in the ditch!

"It's snowing! I better slam on my brakes every four feet!"

Sigh.

My coworkers who live in another county are shacking up with me. It's kind of nice to see them outside of work, but also kind of weird to see them in their jammies/underpants. I slept on my couch last night, and when a buddy of mine (Hi!) woke me up to tell me he was leaving.....things didn't go so well. I was dead, I mean, DEAD asleep, and apparently we had a really interesting conversation.

"Hey, I'm taking off, so you can go sleep in the bed if you want, ok?"

"Hrmphwahrslnslhg. Ishernshalsnbts. Yeahsleepwalithczhwlr."

I woke up a few hours later totally confused as to why I was not in my bed. Also with a completely dead arm, which is always nice to wake up to.

Anyway, if I don't post for a while, or email, or anything, it's because my cable/power is out. Not dead, just cold and cut off from society.

But I got my car. And I love it. LOVE.



And so on.

"It's like being in college again!"

I went to my company's 401(k) meeting today.

One hour.

One hour filled with a barrage of financial information--a power point presentation, a packet of paperwork, and the sudden need to know how to do something.

It was very confusing.

It was like being in college again, only I was being paid to be there.

Seriously--I walked into the meeting room, (set classroom style, of course) sat down, looked over my packet and was suddenly blasted into the "I really need to pay attention to this but my god is it boring" frame of mind. You would look away from the presenters for what seemed to be a millisecond, to readjust your spot in your seat, get a different piece of paper from the packet, something--and suddenly, you are no longer on the same page as the rest of the 'class'. They've switched topics! I missed the lead-in! I'm confused!

It was funny, in a "my financial future is riding on this" sort of way.

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

I am tired. So what else is new.

All I want to do is sleep, read, eat things that will make me fat. This is not a good thing.

Anyway.....yeah. I think I am off to bed, to worry about my financial future. (But I have a 401(k) now! I are a grow-ed up!)

Your Space

I, along with the rest of America, have a myspace profile.

I started this profile when I moved back to this part of the country--and good things have come of it. For instance:

I met T again.

I was reconnected with A, who I then introduced to F, and now they are married. (Hooray!)

I have unending amounts of gossip and/or updates about coworkers, exboyfriends, exfriends and the like.

I also have a way of showing the aforementioned group (in a very passive aggressive way, mind) that I am doing better than they are, so there. (aside from the coworkers. They know everything about me anyway.)

Anyway.

Sometime early this morning, my site was 'phished'. Typically, you have to give out your password for this to happen,and I have no recollection of doing this, but whatever. (maybe I have taken to sleepdrinking again. who knows.)

So I woke up this morning, lit a cigarette, made coffee. Checked my email, then wandered over to myspace.

There was a sub-sonic BOOM as I did so.

Messages from almost all of my friends--mostly telling me that I had been phished and had been hurling spam comments at them since the early hours. (I even attempted to comment on my own page, apparently, which is something I'm rather proud of as I didn't know it was possible.)

Also, there were a few replies to a bulletin "I" had posted, with the title, "I'm easy! Let's hook up tonight!" Most of these were to inform me I had been phished.

Several, however, were not.

It would seem that there are people I know that like that idea--When told I was easy and would love to hook up with all 50-some odd people I know, they took this as the gospel and basically just wanted to know when.

As flattered as I am, I had to send replies to these messages and inform them that, well, I'm not that easy.

There are some embarrassed people in the world right now, my friends. Embarrassed.

I am quietly giggling to myself. (does that make me a bad person?)

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

Let's talk about Thanksgiving.

We all know my feelings on the holidays. We all know my feelings on the general public as a whole. With that in mind....

It was less of a clusterfuck than I thought it would be. It was not as easy as I had hoped.

Basically, I have a question.

If you decide to eat out on Thanksgiving, which I understand (no cooking, no dishes), one would think that you would understand/expect that you are not going to get the private, intimate family dinner that you normally would at home. Right?

We had some pissed off people. Pissed off that they were eating in a room with 20 strangers. Pissed off that the stuffing had mushrooms, not sausage, which is how their mother made it. Pissed off that the party of 30 was being noisy, pissed off that the four course meal did not include macaroni and cheese.

I'm sorry, America, but I am not a member of your family. I don't know your grandmother's stuffing recipe--and neither does the chef. I don't know, or care, about your family dynamic, and won't readjust restaurant seating so you aren't within ten feet of your sister. What I do know is this:

You elected to come to a restaurant for a special holiday meal. I will do everything in my power to ensure that it is enjoyable for you, within reason. I know that I am tired, hot, starving, and in dire need of a bathroom break. I will take pictures of your family, I will refill your martini 14 times, I will smile and nod and laugh at your jokes. I am a server, and this is my job.

My job, however, is not to babysit your children or drunk aunt. It is not to pass messages between you and whichever family member you are not speaking to. Sorry.

I had a woman ask me why I was working on thanksgiving. I told her that, well, in the restaurant business, that's how things go sometimes. She then said to me...And I'm serious, here, "What, you would rather make money than be with your family?"

I looked at her and said, "Ma'am, I don't have any family. It's this or sit at home in my apartment."

(Now, this is a lie. I have family. I have friends. I had about 5 places I could have gone to eat dinner. But I was working. But she doesn't need to know that.)

Could she just leave it there? No.

"No family! But you're so young! No one?"

"Well, the family I do have lives far away and we are pretty much estranged." (true.)

"No wonder you became a waitress, then."

I really, really love my job sometimes.

Hooray!

It's my 100th Post!

I bought a car!

For real this time, I hope. I pick it up Saturday.

And I am officially BROKE. Like, BROKEBROKE.

It's going to be a lean christmas.

But here it is!



It has such low mileage and was so amazingly taken care of...its still under warranty for 2 years or 35,000 miles and still has the new car smell.

I. Love. It.

So, to all those close to me.....

I'm sorry. It's going to be a lean, lean christmas, mostly because I bought myself a really great present.

I hope you understand. Please wish me luck! (I'm terrified of this not working out. Terrified. But I do love to second guess myself.)

Round the Table

Every year at thanksgiving dinner, my mother would force the practice of telling everyone what you are/were thankful for the previous year to everyone else.

I hated this.

I really, really hated this when I was about 13-17 years of age. I'm sure you can all understand.

But now that I am an adult, and facing the first thanksgiving without the opportunity to see my family (there have been t-days in the past where I CHOSE to not see them, this time there is no choice involved, as I am working all day tomorrow, which causes me a sort of irritation and mental crabbiness that I can't really articulate--but at least I don't have to cook. And I am thankful for that, baby), I have been thinking about what I am thankful for.

In attempts to keep this post from being some trite piece of crap that babbles on about how much I love my family and friends, how thankful I am to have a home, and heat, and food and shoes and all that--Well, all that stuff is true, but I'm not going there. (But I am very thankful for those things.)

I am thankful for large parties in my restaurant that don't want separate checks.

I am thankful for polar fleece sheets, and which ever genius that invented them.

I am thankful for the opportunities that I have in this day and age.

I am thankful for the fact that I live somewhere where it is NOT SNOWING RIGHT NOW.

I am thankful for coffee, shokinag drinking chocolate, splenda and cool whip.

I am thankful for hydrogen peroxide.

I am thankful for people that know when to listen, know when to speak up, and know when to just pretend.

I am thankful for my ability to lose 50 pounds this year (F and A--Twenty since you wed! 20! We need to digitally re-touch your wedding photos!)

Mostly, I am thankful that every morning I wake up, and know, (no matter how horrible I'm feeling) that someone in my life is thinking of me and hopes that I am happy today. Someone. May be the strange man that comes into the restaurant and just eats oyster crackers and watches women's volleyball, but still.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

*Insert Sexual Purring Sound Here*

Welcome, Googlers. It gives me great pleasure to have titles and/or content that I know will bring forth the strangest google-search results, like, ever.

Anyway.

Thanksgiving.

It's this week, as we all know. I, thankfully, am working all the live long day, and therefore get to miss any strangeness that my family has to offer.

This will be the first holiday celebrated without my father being alive. This will be the first holiday ever spent without either of my parents in attendance. I'm kind of glad to be spending it with a bunch of people that are too lazy or rich to cook for themselves, lest I fall into a deep, introspective depression.

As you all may remember from my Christmas post from last year (Go look it up yourselves. Sorry.), my family is not well known for their "sharing of the love", come the holidays. Thanksgiving usually involves me doing a whole lot of cooking, followed by 13 minutes of eating, and then an argument about dishes. Oh, and we mustn't forget the back seat driving.

Back Seat Driving is a familial trait on my father's side that runs rampant like freaking wildfire through all of us. It applies to any or all activities usually done alone. Driving, of course, but solitaire, crossword puzzles,jigsaw puzzles, cooking, cleaning, knitting, reading,.....anything is game. Someone attempts to do one of the aforementioned activities in the same city block as any member of my family, and suddenly.....You have an audience. Just, well, just standing there. Periodically offering a grunt, point of a finger, or sigh of direction. It annoys everyone to NO END--but we all do it. I like to think that long, long ago, in the home country, someone did this, and out of revenge, it was done back, and back again. And the retaliation continued, across the mighty Atlantic, through the generations. We are teaching it to the younger generations now--Not because it's annoying, but because we take pride in our heritage!

My father was Grand Freaking Master of the Back Seat Drive. (I would love to see the sash that comes with that title.) From the very earliest dregs of memory I have, he was doing this, and far, far better than the rest of us.

My mother, an overly opinionated woman herself, was a complete stranger to the BSD. My father did this to her nearly daily twenty years ago, and she still, STILL talks about it.

And here is a little example.

My father loved Rachel Ray. Loved her. Watched her three times a week while he was at dialysis, owned her cookbooks, and demanded that I make her recipes on a regular basis. Sure.

He decided that after watching a particularly enthralling episode of "Thirty Minute Meals", wherein Ms.Ray creates Moroccan Lamb with Cous Cous that I would reenact this meal for him in our own kitchen.

(Aside:Whoever designed the kitchen in my house was an idiot who had never cooked a meal or done a dish in their lives. It is the smallest, most strangely laid out kitchen I have ever had in my life. You can't get to the garbage if the dishwasher is open, can't get to the sink if the fridge is open, can't get to the cabinets if anyone else is even considering being in the kitchen at all--This is truly, truly a one-butt kitchen. And therefore, prime BSD real estate. Not only are you driving the person mad simply with your presence, you are COMPLETELY IN THE FREAKING WAY AT ALL TIMES. Oh yes.)

So I take a leg of lamb, and am preparing to debone it. This isn't a big deal to me, as I lived in a state where you kill your food or starve, and have dressed out and butchered and packaged plenty of animals. Deboning a lamb leg is nothing.

I get the knives out, the bowl for the cubes of meat I will finish with, the plastic cutting board. The Lamb.

I make the first cut. Suddenly, my father is standing over my shoulder. (For an old guy, he was quick there till the very end. Especially if he needed to be.) I peer back at him, he declines to make eye contact. (This is an important part of the BSD. If you make eye contact, you are opening yourself up to being asked to leave. If you pretend you just happened to be passing through, and aren't conscious of what you are doing as horribly, horribly annoying, you're free.)

The deboning continues. I make a small pile of detritus next to the cutting board, continue to add cubes of lamb to the bowl.

I finish.

My father suddenly claps a hand on my shoulder, nearly causing me to stab myself. "Good job, Babe! Well done!", he says.

"Thanks, dad. I appreciate the help."

(This is something you must always say at the end of a particularly long BSD. You are passive-aggressively acknowledging the annoyance factor, and letting the person know that you are ready for them to GET THE HELL AWAY FROM YOU!)

This particular BSD is very important. This was the first, and only, time my father took part in a BSD and kept his mouth shut. Didn't grunt, offer advice, sigh, cough, or groan. Nothing. He just stood behind me and watched me debone the lamb.

I was annoyed then. Kind of tickled when he told me I had done well, as he was a man sparse with compliments.

As much as now I wish I could have him stand behind me and berate me, even, just to have him back, I know I cannot. He lives on through the memories, and the sharing of the stories I have about him.

But how hilariously wonderful would it be for me to serve a thanksgiving dinner and then BSD the table? Family Pride, baby. Family Pride.