re: people to read
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
8th grade was my lilac sweater/skirt combo from K-Mart that skimmed by budding curves in a way that made the young twenty-something crossing guard smile at me in a way that I was embarrassed of, but often thought about in my room late at night, staring into the box fan. 8th grade was playing Nintendo in my room, Tetris probably, and the paralyzation that took over as the DJ cut off Paula Abdul to announce that we were now officially at war with Iraq. 8th grade was 4-page letters, front and back, to a boy who wore Polo cologne and once hit me with a chair. 8th grade was Latin class with the 6-foot tall teacher who carried a stick, a huge cane that was wrapped in black duct tape that she threatened the students with jokingly. She was funny and irreverant and stole the heart of the Mr. Snook, the shop teacher who was married with two girls. He once told me he hand built one of them a make-up mirror.
8th grade was trading clothes with Karah, who was blowing up popularity-wise, since her being featured in Teen magazine's model search. She was chosen as one of the ten finalists, then went on to be a Nexxus girl, then later a hostess at a popular Nashville eatery. At the time I thought wearing her denim skirt brought me closer to the cool. 8th grade was my first kiss during a basement game of spin the bottle, with Bryan Dwyer, a sweetheart of a kid who happened to suffer from Tourette's. True story. That kiss remains, to this day, the longest kiss I've ever engaged in. Not literally, mind you, but my mom was out in the car, blowing the horn, the entire party was watching, and Bryan twitched and licked my teeth for what felt like fucking monnths. I was glad for us both he didn't curse.
8th grade was awkward, hush-hush fumblings with a girl in her room while listening to Bryan Adams, looped, on her pastel boombox and deciding for sure while she slept that boys were more my style. 8th grade was tears spilled over B+ tests and pretending to read Tale of Two Cities to impress my English teacher. 8th grade was red clay suntans from the softball field, where I learned how to throw a ball really, really hard. 8th grade was hot summer nights beneath screenless, opened windows and the sound of crickets and dreams of true romance. 8th grade was winning the Student of the Year award at semester's end, a plaque I could not accept as I was in In School suspension for french kissing before History class.
8th grade was before the wrinkles, before the loss, before me that is now, hardened and disillusioned. 8th grade is a collage of moments, a foggy, ancient yesterday, a place I'll be happy never to return.
Monday, February 17, 2003
Ariel and her boyfriend are doing this raw food cleanse, wherein she gets to sip glop shakes, rid her bowels of something called mucoid plaque and nosh on nothing but natural, saltless fruits and vegetables. She'll have apples, dry salads, avocadoes, strawberries and zuccini. Hummus is considered a "cheat food." She's been keeping a fairly detailed food journal; just the sort of thing I never thought would be interesting, but yes, it is. I look forward to how Ms. Ariel has prepared her rawage that day, and hope like hell maybe she'll break down and pig out on pizza.
This chick makes me feel like such a enormous fatty with her baba ganoush breakfasts and her almond milk desserts. And this has got nothing to do with the fact that my supper last night consisted of corn chips and Reese's Cups, no sir. This girl's dedication to her cleanse is steadfast, even when visiting friends wave fish tacos in her ever-thinning face.
From now on, I'm gonna call my bagel and butter or pancakes and bacon or whatever I eat for my pre-lunch meal a Juicy Excuse for Breakfast, because it's too cute and that is what she calls it (JEFB for those in the know). Aunt Jemima's can be considered a juicy excuse for breakfast, right?
My sister, Mus, popped in for a visit
Mus: Oh, it's nice.
Me: Are you kidding?
Mus: I haven't decided yet.
#18 - "twin beer tap tits"
#5 - "big asses"
#16 - "panties etc"
I considered blogger, briefly, but wasn't as keen on the usability (pitas spells it out in a pleasant, yet elementary manner I find condusive to posting).
However, I do take great interest in Google's recent purchase of Blogger. Or rather, with the story itself. News broke fast, as it often does, at metafilter, and as some people have suggested, this could be the ultimate newsmeme, what with every Blogger blogger blogging who their newest daddy be.
I'll be interested in the changes, perhaps positive ones, that may occur in the time to come.
She smoothed her blouse over her bra and fingered a curl near her ear.
He turned the music off downstairs. She raised her chin, decided on yes, and made her way back down into the thunder.
a public thank-you
sprint sort of sucks
To Jenny. My dear, sweet Jennifer from Alabama, who knows how to have a ridiculous amount of fun and drink her weight in whiskey. Jenny is a girl who will come dressed as, not just a booger for Halloween, but a Protesting Booger who feels her boogery rights have been compromised. She was a picked-on booger. I mentioned she wore this costume while waiting tables, right? Right.
So, Jenny is in the floor, in a long, flowy skirt and she chooses dare, and my stoned ass goes: "I dare you to put both legs behind your head."
Never one to turn down a challenge, Jenny turned away from the nine or so of us crowded in the apartment den to be sure she didn't expose herself, lady like, then with great gusto swung a leg toward her shoulder with astounding force, causing a sound much like, but distinctly different from, a fart.
Many months later we all stopped laughing long enough to swear we'd never tell this story, though as much as a year later when Jenny closed the restuarant, instead of her name it would say Queefer Sutherland on the dry-erase board.
today's to-do list
and the winner is...your mom
But this year, after browsing the list to see that it looks the same as last year's list and the year before that, I grew immediately disheartened. "The Hours," "Chicago," "Gangs of New York," I could have told you who they'd be weeks in advance, if only you'd asked.
My commentary is as such. For the first time ever, I could give a rat's ass. I may not even watch. (That was a lie.)
These snatches of textual conversation that take place there are a constant source of amusement for this easily amused individual.
Tell me, how can lines like "We have an incredibly high ratio of 'third nipplers.'" and "A naked man with a Garden Weasel will mark your days deathward." and "Face first into the clusterfuck." go unshared?
*big, stupid grin*
on the way
You'll get email from me then.
are you good, bad or maybe offensive?
foiled ad campaign
"I am fucking over Subway. Ever since that first commercial, I haven't eaten there since. Jared and that Clay Henry can take their six inches and shove it."
This thread, you guys, has got it all. A lot of logistical thinking went into these answers, and here are a few funny best:
-"If it's really gettin' in the way, i'll tell her ass to move it. Then, just keep hittin'..."
-"I still couldn't do it if it was tied up and shit... I'd just be like... lets have a titty fuck and get out of here. i mean, she still would have her tits, right?"
-"If the dick was on her back or her leg, I'd do it."
-"why not just chop it off?"
-"I'd tie a rubber band around it so tight that no blood would get to it, therefor it wouldnt get hard. Then i'd tap."
I swear, these are just a few. I'd go on, but I want to leave you some gooders to find on your own.
Now, to come full circle, would you?
Travis-Anne: So, my friend Heath took some old jeans and cut them off really short, into Daisy Dukes. And I'm sitting there, at the party, and one of my nuts was hanging out!
me: Wait, wait, wait. You were wearing denim Daisy Dukes?
Travis-Anne: Oh my, yes, girl. When it is my birthday I wear what I want.
But I think I may love my sister more than anybody in the whole world. I love her like I love my mother and father, yet we are also peers, and have a kinship so natural and complementary that she often feels like an other me--in our unnoticed similarities in speech and actions. We have exactly the same nose and both laugh just like our mom. I'll catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and remember just how very alike we are.
Physically, we are like night and day. People say they'd never guess us for sisters. Until they see us sit beside one another and nod, and grin and comment: "You two act just alike."
Anyway, I wrote all that because I ran across this picture.
It always has been and always will be my favorite picture of the two of us. I'll wager those who know us would take one look at that photo and agree it perfectly captures the Gilbert Girls--a prime example of our yin and yang.
I'm not usually all mushy, but I fucking love this picture. And her. A whole bunch.
you don't know me
Best to remedy these situations by confronting the offending person and let them know. Here are some things I do that bother the fuck out of me:
Why won't I get up when the alarm goes off? I set three alarms. I wake up for none of them. Ever. I turn off all three alarms and sleep another 30 or 45 minutes before waking up in a confused frenzy.
Why do I habitually sit on my legs? I should put my two feet on the floor in front of me, not have them crossed or folded up under my butt. This is terrible for my posture and my circulation and it isn't helping those ever-increasing broken veins I find popping up around my calves and ankles. Yet, unless I'm in a position where one or both feet eventually fall asleep, I am not fully comfortable.
I have lost the battle with nail-biting. I wish I would get over that fact.
I hate how I avoid the telephone. Just answer it already. They aren't going to yell at me. No one is after my ass. Just pick it up. Could be someone on the other end to offer me gooey hot doughnuts or even sex.
I abhor that I'm absolutely addicted to a site I can't even talk about.
I can't do yoga at home for thinking about checking my email. Weak of mind, weak of soul.
I hate that I operate better in a pile of disorganization than a clean, tidy space. I can't stand the mess, yet, I can also not avoid it.
I update my blog rather than balance my checkbook.
sneek a peak
(P.S. Updated the about page.)
allusion or obsession?
*That is all the occurs, just as quickly as it begins, the scene ends. It seemingly serves no other purpose.
winners, all of you
Congratulations, and thanks to all who played. It was fun.
throw away the oar *Recent emotional duress.
*Recent emotional duress.
forever and ever, amen
for this instant
Oh. Oh dear.
And if you haven't clicked it already, and are still here reading this, and not reading that--which is the most vidid and fantastically horrid story ever told (okay, so maybe not)--then you have at least been properly warned. Read at your own risk.
Then come on back here and let's discuss.
Dr. Blake: Hey, how ya doin', Brittney? You should be about graduated by now.*
me: Actually, I graduated in May.
Dr. Blake: Oh, right. You are out of there. So, what are you up to? Please tell me you aren't waiting tables.
*It's a huge school.
i got one of three
a Saturday night in the life
2:50 - run inside convenience store before work to look for Slim-Fast for later when it's 11 and I'm famished. No meal shakes at the gas station, so I run out to avoid Indian man at the counter with the cocaine pinky nail and the gold chains and the wild-eyed leer. Barely escape with a "I'm late! See ya!"
3 - arrive to work
3:20 - small mouse runs into the restaurant as the hostess opens the doors for incoming guests. People remain oddly calm. Patrick, a server, grabs the mouse up by the tail and takes off. Patrick disappears. He comes back to inform everyone he flushed it down the toilet.
4:15 - a man at my table orders LOC water. In my seven years of waitressing, and now bartending, this is a first. It's water with a lemon slice, and orange slice and a slice of cucumber. She'll have one, too.
5:25 - Took this from the window.
6:30 - Jenny W. falls down.
7:15 - I grab Sam's ass for about the dozenth time.
7:25 - I start my period.
8:05 - Seated with a party of six. After I sense their neediness and secure a drink order, one of the women follows me to the kitchen to inform me of a birthday at the table. She follows that up by informing me the other guy, the one drinking whiskey, he's just learned he's dying of cancer. So let's get them two desserts and just say, "to two special people."
8:25 - Chick at my other table begins crying. Seperate and unrelated to the cancer.
8:40 - Annoy my co-workers by quoting a prank phone call they've never heard. Again.
8:55 - Had the guy from the birthday/cancer table yell "HEY, ANOTHER BEER!" from a solid 30 feet.
9:05 - Woman from birthday/cancer table comes over to my other table, where I am sitting with them, taking their order and interrupts without so much as an "Excuse me.," to order herself another beer.
9:06 - I roll my eyes in disgust.
10:00 - The high-maintenance birthday/cancer people left me 20 dollars on a 171.96 dollar tab. I tip out 3% of that.
10:05 - Bussers arrange my table for a party of ten.
10:06-10:09 - I moan and bitch and make empty threats.
10:20 - Party finally arrives, and I beg, bribe and pay David, the closer, to take it. He did.
11 - I leave, feeling guilty and nauseated.
Of note: The times are all, frankly, made-up. It is safe to say they are nearly approximate. The rest is true, even if not especially thrilling.
Also, Folger's is really only good until the last ten or so sips.
yay or nay
A co-worker just rang and wants to know if he can have my shift. Naturally, I want not to work, but I've promised myself to keep up 6 days a week (in efforts to save for The Big Move) and I've already had my day off this week.
I'd use the coin toss to decide, but I opted for green tea anyway, so I can't be fucking trusted.
It's up to you. I have to call him back in 30 minutes. In 30 minutes, I'll tally the votes and go with what I've got.
So, tell me--should I give up my bartending shift tonight and go see a double-feature and take some photographs and further delve into that freelance piece I am writing, or go in and sling beer and sweat and come home 70 dollars richer?
soon as she's 18 she says she's headed to Hollywood
runway*, the hostess: (standing at the hostess stand near front door) It is cold up here, but hot in the kitchen, I don't understand.
sam: I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that it's because the winter air from outside is coming in through those doors right there.
runway: Oh, Sammy, (giggling) why do you have to be so realistic?
*We call her runway because when she is seating guests she fucking owns the aisleway. She carries the rolled silverware across her forearm like a sceptor and struts that shit. She also says things like, "Tell him I'm a model--guys love to hear I'm a model." (She's 5'5".) I learned tonight she knows her name is runway. And, you betcha, she likes it.
I say I don't know any person more apt than you, wry reader, to give this guy what he wants. Needs. What he needs. And besides, it looks like he needs all the help he can get.
have you heard?
Country girls taste like chicken.
Once more, and I would have punched him on his girlfriend's birthday.
turtleneck-wearing man: What are your soups tonight?
am I a clown for you?
I snap back to reality upon visions of a spinning, discoball face and grab only the white pencil. On my way to the register I stumble upon make-up boxes and bags. The place where the make-up lives.
Well, some women are lucky enough to have drawers. My bathroom is the size of a standard closet and the sink just juts out of the wall. I keep my cosmetics in a clear bag on the back of the toilet.
I did, anyway, until I bought a purple make-up case, retro-style (ladies, it's a Caboodle), at just four little dollars. Mine is the smallest version, though, since my makeup consists mostly of various eyeliners and mascaras, hence it's petite price. I needed something new since as I mentioned before, make-up is messy.
Once you get the stuff home, and pack it into the makeup bag with the others, things start to go awry. The lid to the lipstick cracks and never seals correctly after that. When digging for the concealer (that, more than the rest, loves to play hide-and-seek when I'm five minutes late already and have to get gas) the lipstick top wiggles off and begins painting the place red. The hinge to the lid of the powder snaps in two and snows mauve all over everything. Reaching in for a tube of mascara calls for a thorough handwashing, lest you blend your eyeshadow with your fingers and accidentally paint on a third eyebrow.
So I got a new makeup container, and I begin the rinsing and reassigning of cosmetics to their new space, when I pop open my purple Caboodle to find a free gift.
Mary-Kate and Ashley shimmer powder and shimmer lotion in blue and lighter blue! I shouldn't be this excited, but I have now a new Caboodle and two matching tubes of pubsecent, billion-dollar estate sheen--one for when I want to part my hair on the side, the other for when I part it in the middle.
what it's like
Let's see your spritz do that.
On accident. Naturally. I had been given a tan, not faceless biege, but Tan Mercury Lynx, which, if you'll throw back a good decade is a notch down from a Ford Escort. Same car maker, even shittier economy car. And that shit was old,too. Had over one hundred thousand miles on it when I got it, I think, and one had to master a laborious and intricate series of foot movements in order to get the damn thing in gear. I can now drive anything, my father rationalized, and he's right, I guess, if anything is junker, hatchback compact cars. Junker, hatchback cars are my bitches, 'tis true.
My 15-year-old sister who later became far too cool (what with her sneaking out to smoke cigarettes all the time with a confused homosexual and an adult woman with two kids and a house full of truly repugnant-smelling pets) to ride up in the Lynx of Love. Yet her ass didn't want to be seen near a school bus, so she begged rides from me. I think maybe there was a clause wherein I was forced to drive my sister home. Regardless, we both hated every minute, she hiding in the backseat, embarrassed and ashamed of the Little Tan Van.
This incident was pre-that, when she was still thrilled not to have to ride the cheese wagon to classes. It was winter and the windows were icy and the girl volunteered to scrape the ice from the windsheild, all excited about it and shit. So she was out there getting her scrape on and I'm blaring Little Earthquakes at top fucking volume because "so you can make me cum, that doesn't make you Jesus," and all the sudden bitch is rapping on the windsheild with the scraper and I think she might even crack it, so I scream back assorted profanities, but the windsheild is still icy so I can't see that she is in intense pain.
Apparently, the Lynx slipped into neutral and parked on Amy's foot. I cringe, still, when I think of how much that must have hurt. Once I turned the CD off to ask her "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" I realize what I've done. Paniced, I put the car in reverse and back up, at which time the tires roll forward off Amy's now purpleing foot and back over it. She hops, I believe, inside the house where she whines and cries and acts like I fucking ran over her with a car or something.
Amy got balloons from me, a pair of crutches, a shitload of sympathy from my mother, a day off school and maybe even a few covered chores. I got a lifetime of, "That's nothing, Brittney ran over me once with her piece of shit car."
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