Archive for the ‘My Thoughts For The Day’ Category
No matter what it is I’m writing, big/small/long/short/fiction/non, I always have trouble with the beginning of it. Every goddamn time. Should it be a question, an opinion, a drunk sloppy slur trickling off the tongue that has absolutely no meaning to anyone but myself? A combination of the three? (“More beer, more beer, more beer!”) It’s such an insignificant thing to struggle over this. Stupid. Just write, why can’t I just tell you what I want to tell you? I think school did this to me. All the rubrics, all the graded opening statements. Essays, paragraphs, sentences, past tense, present, future. Gahhhhh. There’s always that want to please. The traditional conformation to an imaginary English teacher perched on a floating cloud above me. But why tho? Why not please myself? Why should I structure my creative jizz to add flicker to another’s eye? I don’t wanna learn in a classroom for this reason. I wanna travel and talk to people and eat the food they eat and laugh with them and do the shit they do and learn that way. I wanna better myself as I go, gathering knowledge just for the sake of satisfaction and not be rigorously tested on it. No strings, no harnesses – freedom. I don’t wanna lose passion for the things that I love because of the worry of exams. And deadlines, ugly ugly deadlines. Haha, fuck that. Just read and I will write.
It’s 7:19am. Thursday. I’m currently swiveling in my swively chair in a small ticket booth outside the Spokane airport. Some days that’s the best part of this job. That the chair spins. Hah! I haven’t even been here twenty minutes and already boredom’s setting in. The morning sun is warm, beautiful and comforting and feels wonderful as it makes its way across my skin. My body is tired and my contacts are sticky as all hell. They get blurry if there’s any more than a 5 second interval between blinks. I can fall asleep in here within minutes if I allow myself to. Done it more times than I’d like to admit really. (Shhh!) They need a little cord that connects to a bell that connects to my window, like twenty feet away so when I do nod off, it’ll jangle and wake me and I’ll have ample time to stretch and yawn and there won’t be anymore sudden jerks in front of a carload of disgusted people. You know what I’m talking about tho? Like when you fall asleep during a scary movie and the scene changes to something REALLY FUCKING LOUD and it startles you and you forget who you are, where you are, what you’re wearing and how much time has passed during those first few seconds. That’s me. Usually I’ll conk with sunglasses on so it’s not too obvious, but some days not a single fuck is given. People are cool for the most part, understanding folk. They’ll share a laugh with me, I’ll scan their ticket, and then we’ll part. 2 hours down, 6 to go. Back to nap number fourteen. Haa.
Thursdays are my Mondays. The crabgrass on the lawn of life. I currently work day shift 2 days a week out here as a parking attendant for the Spokane Airport. Thursday mornings and Sunday mornings; 7am-3:30pm. My main gig, a mail clerk for the post office (the factory, not the stations where you go to mail your letters and packages), consists of a killer graveyard that starts at 8:30pm and ends around 5/5:30/6am or whenever we get the mail done and ready for the mailman who comes to your door that afternoon. With the recent closing of the Pasco annex, I currently work 6 days a week with a free Saturday night. So Sunday morning airport is easy, but Thursdays…fuuuuuuck Thursdays. I’ll work my 8 hours at the post office, get off at say 5:30am, drive home, get there around 5:50ish, eat, pack a lunch, maybe shower, leave around 6:30ish, complete my 8 hours at the airport, get home at 4pm, sleep for maybe 3 hours and go back to work at 8:30pm. It kicks my ass. It kicks my ass so stinkin’ bad.
Did I mention I have a third job as well? I’m an event porter for the Spokane Arena/Convention Center/INB. Which pretty much means I’ll help set up chairs/tables/bars/lights/stages or whatever needs to be done before a big convention/event. I am the pre-show before the show. That’s what I like to tell people at least. Sounds cool. Haa. I’ll only work on average, one 8 hour shift a week here, but it’s fun and every day is a new day. Something different happening each time I step through those doors. I love this idea. For example, last Saturday I worked that Bill O’Reilly speech at the INB (shoot me) but this Saturday I get to help with a rooftop wedding at the convention center. Pretty stoked for it, despite the fact that that was my only night off this week and now it’s filled. Which I should be used to by now, but I never am.
All I do is work. That’s pretty much WHAT I do. What my life as a 22 year old consists of. It sucks. Trying to balance three jobs and still have time for friends, sleep, writing, food, summer…me. It’s overwhelming and at times, impossible. I ask myself everyday why I do what I do. How I do what I do. If it’s worth it. Why I sacrifice all my ‘me’ time for a check every Friday and some extra cash in my pocket. Everybody wants to know why. And to be completely honest with you, I, myself, still do not know. To this day, and it’s been, what, almost a year now? I’m greedy I suppose. I like fun money. And I enjoy and won’t hesitate in spending it. I struggle to hold back a snicker when people complain about their 40 hour week. Shiiiiit…I hit my 40 hour mid-Wednesday bro, you got jokes. Haha. I speak the truth tho. My current average week is between a 60-66 hour. Which if I think about it, is fucking ridiculous. I don’t NEED to work as many hours as I do. I could pay the bills just fine with that post office gig. Naw, I CHOOSE to work as much as I do. For a few main reasons.
A. I bought my ’05 Civic on the 1st of January, used from Appleway Honda for $11,559. I’ve got it down to $8,410 with seven months under my belt. My goal is to have it paid off by October 2014. I will accomplish this goal, mark my words, it will happen.
B. I will have completed one year at the airport, September 4th. Post office one year on November 17th. ISS I’m going on a year and 8 months. Doing all of these at the same time? This looks damn good on a resume and I know I’m not the only one who thinks so.
C. I hate being broke. I will never BE broke. There will always be a back-up fund and I pride myself in keeping it that way. Money, by all means, does not equal happiness for me, but I’d much rather reside in a mansion than on a street corner.
D. I like getting paid in experience. Meeting new faces, co-workers, bosses, getting introduced to opportunities, parties, bars, getting OUT, doing shit, filling your time, staying busy, taking that risk, finding inspiration, quitting this job for that one. I like that shit. I’m weary about change, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid of it and willing to jump to the occasion when I wanna jump.
Now for the cons of it all:
A. I’m constantly tired with no energy to do the things I wanna do and when I do get a day/night off (once in a blue moon – I’m currently on 12 days without a full day off which looks like it’ll turn into a 16 at this point), I catch up on sleep.
B. My nightlife is shot, I haven’t experienced a good night downtown since like a month ago. Fuck me.
C. My anxiety flares up at random times throughout my day because I don’t get enough sleep to suppress it.
D. My summer diet goes to shit because I eat constantly for fuel and don’t exercise to compensate for it.
E. I basically have no life. I make no time for myself, which really messes with my well-being after awhile.
Weighing the pros and cons of this job dilemma is constantly in my head. If you were somehow able to access a piece of my mind, you would be amazed at just how much it consumes me on an hourly basis. More thought has been given to it in the past month than the last like six put together. I wanna quit the airport after I complete my year there, but then I don’t. But if I quit, should I replace it with something new? What if I can’t find something new? Should I think about getting rid of the graveyards at the post office? Transfer to a day job somehow? Enroll in some college? Pfft, with this schedule? What about the car payment? Insurance? Rent? I’m never gonna find something that pays as well. Or will I? Why am I so afraid to step out of this comfort zone? Have I just not looked hard enough? Am I being a pessimistic bitch? Why is this so fucking harrrrd?
This is what I do tho. I over think just about EVERYTHING. This destroys me. I’ll be going on 26 hours with no sleep and finally get a chance for a good night’s rest and won’t be able to because I fail to locate the ‘OFF’ switch. I’ll toss and turn and sweat. Get up to turn the fan on. Stumble to the kitchen for some ice water. Check my Facebook. Check my Twitter. Check my Tumblr. Check my Pinterest. Flip the pillow ‘to the cool side’. Cuss out the blankets because they’re too hot, but they feel good against my skin so I continue to want them. So I sweat some more. And then finally, I just give up and lay there. Just fucking lay there. Do you know how long the darkness lasts when you cannot close your eyes to it?
Starting August 5th, the airport is changing my shift from a Thursday+Sunday ~ 7am-3:30pm to a Monday+Tuesday+Wednesday ~ 6am-12:30pm. I’m not sure what to think of this yet. It’s not a full 8, which is fine, better for me really, but also, it’s three days. In a row. Which will hibernate me into eat-sleep-work mode for the first half of the week. However, my weekends will be the most freed up they’ve ever been since like forever ago. No more hungover Sundays! Oh my god YES! You really have no idea how exciting this is for me. Waking up feeling (and smelling) like death at the ass crack of dawn after a good long night of drinks and friends and having to deal with the public like that?! Rough. Fucking rough man.
Gahhh, I ramble a lot. Too much. It’s bad. Subject blends to subject blends to sub-subject blends to I-don’t-even-know-what. I’m simply stirred tho, not shaken. Restless. The getting of life is hard. I’ve come to realize this over the past year. Karma, commitment, sacrifice, friendship, love, heartbreak, money, success, failure. It’s all confusing as fuck really. I don’t know where I’m going with this entry today. I just felt like writing. It’s been too long. February 26th, 2013. Almost 6 months to the exact day too long. Damn. Sooo, see you in six months then? Haa.
This will be my first Halloween without a pumpkin, a costume, or a plan. Well maybe the second. Or the third. Or the fourth. (Who keeps track of these things?!) I’m not very good at planning shit, so it’s one of those events that just kinda comes as it goes. A day on the calendar that adds enough excitement to make an October interesting, but at the same time, isn’t heavily missed when it’s over. Take Martin Luther King Day for a relevant example.
A. – I’m not in any form of school anymore, so three day weekends are an endangered species, seeing as I always end up working them anyways.
B. – I’m not black.
C. – I hate history.
I think I’ll just be the same thing as last year. Pretty sure I’ve been the ‘same thing as last year’ 3 times now. (Mainly because I’m lazy and usually choose to sit on my creativity rather than embrace it. Which will eventually be the death of me.) Last year consisted of black fishnets, a pair of slutty stilettos, and a fancy little red bra with lace outlining the straps and back section. I was the naughty nurse!
I honestly love being the naughty nurse. The attention received when I stand 6’3 with not much more than a few pieces of lingerie on is so fucking energizing. Especially when my best friend (Megon Witter, you have been tagged!) is not much shorter than I am and we go paint the town red together. All the shifty eyes, the nervous weight distribution shifts, the free drinks in the process of being mixed, purchased, and consumed. It’s such a trip. I love the nightlife. I love it all.
I actually won the costume from an online sweepstakes via Torrid.com. Now, if you haven’t heard of these guys, they’re a clothing store (there’s one in Northtown Mall, I believe) who specialize in sexy lingerie, denim, accessories, blah blah blah. Catch: They specialize in all those things…for plus-size women. I wasn’t aware of this at the time, so you can imagine my surprise when I open my prize to find a 40DD bra and what looks like a little red hammock. Which, under more thorough examination, turns out to be a thong. A gigantic red thong. (When I put it on, it looks like I’ve broken my arm because it’s pristine size for a sling, no fucking joke. Haha!) The box also came with an assortment of other nurse related paraphenilia that were one-size-fits-all tho, so there were definitely enough goodies to work with to piece a costume together. With the purchase of a new bra and panties, of course. Check and check.
The only downfall to my get-up is how damn cold it gets on the night of the 31st. And the lack of clothing on my body drops my tolerance level of temperature (which never really consisted of much to begin with) to a borderline unbearable. Unless of course I’m liquored up. In which case it could dip below zero and you’d still find me with a smile on my face, despite the fact that I’m drunk, naked, and making snow angels in the neighbors’ yards. (“Merry Christmaaaaas!!!” As I recycle my empty Heineken bottle to form Frosty’s nose.)
I can’t even remember where we ended up last Halloween, honestly. Or for that matter, where we started. (Obviously I must have been minus a camera because I’m usually pretty good at documenting shit like that.) This year I wanna find a hoppin’ house party with good people, good music, and a fridge full of good beer. Simple as that. I was actually giving thought to walking up and down EWU or Gonzaga’s campuses. But that would almost be too easy. My handicap of not having a vehicle may come into play here, considering I work 7am Thursday morning, but then again I wouldn’t have to cross that bridge ’til I got to it. (Which would probably be puffy-eyed and dehydrated on a stranger’s couch, 1o minutes before my scheduled clock-in time.) There’s always alternative methods of transportation when you’re dedicated enough tho. STA (the city bus) is effective. As are legs. As are friends with cars; they are the best kind.
I even went shopping for candy this year. For the (non-existent) trick or treaters who trick or treat apartment complexes, of course! Yea okay, so I gave in to my vice and bought a ten dollar bag of Milky Ways and Snickers. For myself. (I was in need of some Halloween spirit. That’s the excuse I tell myself at least.) Which I later regretted and realized I didn’t need any of in the first place. Self-control doesn’t kick in for me until I’m like three chocolates from the bottom of the bag. On a 30-count bag. I know this. I’ve always known this. My sweettooth’s kicked my ass on multiple occasions, but I continue to allow it to. (This goes for alcohol as well. I can’t help but be concerned for my health after I take my lost shot four times.)
My worst transgression has got to be caramels. Actually, pretty much anything chewy. Milk Duds, Air Heads, Starbursts, Mamba, Hot Tamales, Cinnamon Bears, Bit-O-Honey, Big Hunk. The list goes on forever. I’ve resorted to single-serving sizes because there’s way too much guilt associated with these the next day. The next hour. Whatever. Haha.
Enough about Halloween, I’m stoked for tonight! October 25th, 2012 equals…Zella’s 21st birthday! I saw a wonderful cake idea on Tumblr a long time ago and it was the funniest shit ever. I bookmarked it because I had to do it. So I did.
I can’t cook or bake for shit, so I bought a basic white cake from Rosauers. An undecorated one. Well, I guess it had a frilly border and a little bit of added color on the corners, but that was fine. I did the writing first, in pink frosting it reads: “HAPPY 21ST BITCH!” Then I added the toilet, which is actually a funny story.
I must have went to 10+ thrift/secondhand stores, on numerous occasions mind you, in search of a damn toilet that would be somewhat size proportional to a Barbie doll. I was cool with an independent mission at first, this’ll be easy, Goodwill’s got shitloads of old Happy Meal toys and such, right? Fuck. I was up and down that aisle more times than the unsupervised five year olds who practically lived there. No luck! It got to the point where I was a few days away from my deadline so I would scout out the store associates for assistance. Do you know how awkward (hilarious really) it is to ask for help when the goal object of your search is a goddamn Barbie toilet?! Very fucking. Haha! But even then, I just could not find one!
The day before Zella’s big day, I visited Boo Radley’s and sure as shit, they have a ‘toilet shot glass’ sitting on the shelf. Boom! All I needed now was a Barbie, a ‘2’, a ‘1’, some candles, and a canister of colorful sprinkles, which were all conveniently checked off my list via the Dollar Tree on 29th Avenue. Woo hoo!
It actually turned out better than expected. Maybe it’s because I compare myself to the doll’s condition and get a good laugh, knowing damn well I was in a similar state on my 21st. (Props to Barbie for finding the toilet tho, I wasn’t quite that lucky. Haha!) Damn good times. A spectator for tonight’s little outing shouldn’t be too painful tho. Really, really, really looking forward to it actually.
Driving has always been a struggle for me. Not so much skill-wise, but more of a faulty equipment-wise battle. I love my car, don’t get me wrong. First car, convertible, decent gas mileage, 134,000 current miles, nice AUX radio for the Ipad. It’s just…broken. And I think it always will be. Anytime I get ahead of the game and manage to go without an inconvenience for a few months, something huge goes down to make up for it. It never fails.
For example, last year’s July was a motherfucking motherfucker. One day, I walk out of the apartment to find the contents of MY ENTIRE oil tank in a massive black puddle under my car. New oil sending unit – 100 bucks. Not even a week later, my power steering cuts out, my radiator fluid’s leaking, and my car overheats for no apparent reason. “I did nothing to deserve this! Why?!” (I ask myself this often, but always end up with mixed results. Karma’s a confusing bitch sometimes man.) Despite my frustration, I signed shit and got it fixed. A good grand, just POOF, out of my bank account.
I’ve had a lot of shit happen between now and then. I made a snazzy little list (below) covering just the key mechanical issues (there’s a bunch not there, believe me) I’ve had to get worked on since I bought my Lebaron back in August of 2010.
My most recent dilemma was Saturday evening on my way home from work. I’m climbing up High Drive and suddenly, I’m shaking. Like a violent side-to-side wobble, specifically on my front end. This scares the shit out of me so I immediately pull over to the curb.
I’ve felt this feeling before when my back brakes went out last winter and my driver’s rear tire came loose, rolling beside me as sparks were flying from the pavement/axle contact. Having one of your tires come off while driving is the scariest fucking thing ever. I shit you not. Anything remotely close to a weird sound now and I’m paranoid. Music knob goes counter-clockwise, every single dashboard icon is scanned for even a hint of light. This feeling sucks and will always be in the back of my mind without me being able to help it.
Anywho, back to Saturday, I get out of the car, nervous as fuck and do a walk around. Obviously, I don’t find anything. I really don’t know what I’m looking for in the first place to be honest. Haha. I get back in. Get back on the road. 10-20-30. More wobbles. I notice right around 35 is where the trigger point is, and anything under, I’m perfectly fine. WTF!!! At this point, I’m thinking, hey atleast we live a block down from Les Schwab. Which is of course where I’m headed. Which is of course closed on Saturdays after 5. (It was 5:11 pm when I pulled into their parking lot.) Fuck my life.
Long story short, I brought it in today (Sundays are closed as well, so I had to wait two looong days for a diagnosis) to a guy named Isiah. Nice dude! Totally thorough in explaining to me what he found in ‘non-mechanical’ terms because I am by far the most mechanically backward person you’ll meet. He told me my front brakes were almost metal to metal and that the driver’s side axle was leaking grease at a rapid rate and had been for quite some time. He also said I was close to rubbing the driver’s tire raw because of the lack of grease, which would have resulted in it coming loose. Flashbacks. Nasty, nasty flashbacks.
A paycheck later, my car is once again temporarily ‘fixed’. Fuck this shit tho, I absolutely hate sinking my money into something I know is a lost cause in the end. So therefore, I’m forcing myself to look for a new rig. Preferably one I’d make payments on. Off a lot. Which scares me because the whole idea of debt scares me. But it must be done. My advice to you; DO NOT RESPOND TO A CRAIGSLIST AD WITH PICTURES OF A RED 95′ CHRYSLER LEBARON. I’m saving you thousands of dollars, trust me.
MY RAP SHEET (STARTING WITH THE LATEST MESS)
6/25/2012 – $558.76 – Front Brakes (Rotors, Calipers, Disc Pads, Axle)
5/8/2012 – $47.10 – Oil Change
11/22/2011 – $24.62 – Oil Change
8/22/2011 – $265.01 – Cooling Fan Motor & Relay
7/11/2011 – $746.84 – Timing Belt, Water Pump, & Upper Radiator Hose
7/6/2011 – $236.84 – Power Steering Pressure & Switch
7/2/2011 – $100.75 – Oil Sending Unit
4/18/2011 – $31.29 – Oil Change
3/29/2011 – $260.60 – Snow Tires & Install
1/26/2011 – $54.57 – Oil Change & Flat Repair
1/6/2011 – $990.43 – Rear Brakes (Drums, Bearings, Rotors, Spindles, Hubs)
12/8/2010 – $135.87 – Driver’s Window Replacement
Total Expenses – $3,452.68
Good god, it’s almost been a year since I’ve put pen to paper. Too long.
I think I’m gonna be more of a blogger’s blogger now tho. My urge to write hasn’t been quite as strong as I’d like to have it. So to make up for it, there shall be more pictures, more videos, more pictures, more links, more of my incomplete thoughts and babblings. More variety. Share my world with the rest of the world. Maybe that urge will return if I sink more time into this blog. Which I’m planning to of course. Outlining to. (“Plans” should not be a word in the dictionary. They are outlines and that’s all they will ever be unless they’ve been completed, in which case they are now memories.)
Last night was a goooood motherfuckin’ night. Our Wednesday’s consist of one destination. A sushi restaurant in the heart of downtown Spokane called The Wave. They bring two or three DJ’s who call their parties T.A.S.T.Y., making themselves the only legit 18+ club. For one night a week…haha. It’s good for me tho because my three best friends are all underage. (And I can’t explain how frustrating it is to have them that way. “Let’s go get druuu- oh wait.” In good time tho. As seen below.)
I absolutely love going out. I do, I do, I do. With my girls, my guys, with anybody down for a good time really. It gives me such an awesome sense of appreciation for my life. Everything’s alive, everybody’s moving, the lights are crazy, the music is happy. Each night is so unique, too. You never get the same thing. And I think that’s why I love it as much as I do. I’m constantly looking for something new, something different, to stimulate that creative side of me. I’m always down for an alternate method of thinking, yu know? And when I find it, I can’t get enough of it.
Definitely a confident one. There’s nothing sexier than a person who refuses to give a fuck. Male, female, gay, straight, old, young. I don’t care what you are, it’s gotta be there. Anything you do in life, big or small, having belief in yerself makes other people believe in you. You could be completely wrong about something, but if you go strong with it, people follow.
This coincides with humor as well. I wanna be able to laugh at the mistakes I make. To not be embarrassed or judged by all the stupid shit I do. To just be real with it. Know that I fucked up now, but hey, I’ll get that shit next time fer sure.
Money and looks have never been that significant to me. I see them as more of an added bonus to the overall package. Something that should never be a deciding factor in the future of a relationship. Sure, having a six figure bank account makes life easy as fuck, but living check by check forces you to be that much stronger of a person.
Almost missed the bus this morning. Drove the whole three blocks to the South Hill Park & Ride, got there, parked in the front row, and realized I was minus my Iphone. FAIL. Key player in these gas-is-three-fuckin’-fifty-a-gallon-so-let’s-hop-a-bus days. Sooo, I haul booty back to the apartment, grab the goods, and haul booty forward again. Luckily, I made it. But not without sprinting madly from the ass-end of the parking lot because apparently I was too slow for the front spot I had held less than two minutes ago.
Grrr. God, I hate doing that. I hate rushing my life. Waving my hands up in the air, stuff in both of ’em, running abnormally because my damn sack pack distributes weight unevenly across my back. Knowing that every single person sitting on that bus is staring at the retard stumbling towards them. Haha! Okay, maybe that’s a bit drastic, but still, I’m a much bigger fan of taking my time as compared to rushing it. Obviously.
Last night, I hung out with one of my best friends growing up. Megon Witter. This girl is totally unique. Nothing you’d expect by simply looking at her. She’s one of those people born with a lisp. But instead of it being on her lips, it’s inside her head. But I mean that in the nicest possible way. Haha. Honestly tho. She doesn’t think about stuff the same as you or me. Like, the whole picture is there, but when you get down to the specifics, you gotta wonder what thought process led her to thinking what she just thought. It’s cool shit. Haha.
Anyways, it was fun. We didn’t really do much, just talked and caught up on shit. Which is awesome. I like the chill atmosphere that comes with that. No having to impress anybody, no having to defend yer opinions. Just straight…chillin’. Groovyness. Mmmhmm.
It’s hot. Even with the windows open, it’s gotta be 80 somethin’ degrees in here. Eleven o’clock at night and I’m lying in bed with my Gonzaga boxers and a gray sports bra. And I’m sweating. Not the oh-it’s-rather-warm-in-here-sweaty. More like droplets-of-bodily-fluids-are-forming-kiddie-pools-in-the-crack-of-my-ass-sweaty. It’s yucky. Sticky nights being one of the ugliers of summer livin’. I’m in desperate need of a fan at this point, but too lazy and hot to get up and go get one. I wish my little space heater was capable of spitting out warm air and cold. And included a mini-mister inside of it. So not only would I be cool, but also misty. And unsweaty. Thad be nice.
Sis and I went to the air show at Fairchild AFB today. Skyfest 2010. It was awesome. Always is. The Thunderbirds never fail to amaze me. Flying that close to each other’s planes in perfect formation more than a thousand feet up in the air is mind-blowing. (It was incredibly hot out on the tarmac though. I believe the high of the day was 95 degrees. I’m burnt all down my shoulders and across my forehead. Suppose I don’t really mind much, so long as I’m getting some kind of color besides white.) All the flyboys look so damn attractive in their uniforms. All tan and clean and tall and fit. And tan. I mean, to be wearing a faded green jumpsuit with one long zipper on the front of it, and still be able to pull off sexy? God bless the military.
I’m always shocked at how many fat people show up to things like Skyfest. I guess they’re everywhere, but public events make it painfully obvious as to how overweight America really is. Obesity is almost a disease. Everywhere you look, there’s pregnant men. I had to restrain myself from asking a younger dude who was inhaling the massive burger he’d just ordered if it was a boy or a girl. This guy was prolly just shy of 30 and at least 400 pounds. At least. He had this tight black wife beater on with a pair of even tighter jean shorts. Way too tight for a figure like his. Apparently, appearance didn’t seem like too high of a priority for him. That, along with health.
When yer that big, sympathy can only get you so far in my book. I may not know the reason behind yer present health condition or what type of diabetes you currently have or how stressful yer personal living is. But I sure as shit know that ordering the largest burger on the menu with the largest basket of fries and a 32 oz. Coke isn’t listed on the “Steps To A Better Life” checklist. Especially when that food is gone in under five minutes flat.
Seriously, have you ever watched a fat person eat? It’s like witnessing a lion having its first meal after three days of not having one. (Maybe lion is too flattering here. Boar, or maybe, walrus might be more in the ballpark.) Lift, bite, swallow, repeat. Chewing is overrated when hunger strikes this hard. It’s disgusting. And quite sad. And half the time, I don’t think they realize how poor they’re eating habits are. A Grand Slam here, pretzel at noon, two hot dogs for lunch, a couple leftover doughnuts from breakfast for dessert, buffet time an hour later, a bag of Doritos before bed. And so on and so forth. (That may be a bit of an exaggerated example, but it’s for the sake of making a point.) Eventually that shit’s gonna catch up. And when it does, it’s gonna be a lot harder to get off than it was to put on. And a lot less fun too.
Well, enough with the fat people topic. I am now officially a hostess for a fine dining restaurant at a casino/hotel. Masselow’s inside the Northern Quest Casino And Resort. I like it. It’s good. I’m considered an ‘ununiformed team member’, meaning I get to come to work in my own clothes with the only requirement being black shoes. Which is pretty sweet. The people I work with are awesome, along with all the happy customers that come in. On an average night (4pm-10), twenty to thirty people usually walk in. Include the reservations (if any), and yer up to thirty to forty. However, I’ve noticed we’re very inconsistent with this customer count number. Last Monday was miserable with a grand total of sixteen people, while Thursday was almost fifty plus without a single reservation.
I wish I got tipped though. Every other hostess in all eight restaurants of the casino has a dip in the tip pool. I’m not sure why Masselow’s doesn’t include themselves in this, but they don’t. It sucks because I know for a fact my servers are walkin’ out of there with 100+ bucks in their pocket. If not more. I haven’t figured out yet if making $8.89 without any extra incentive (besides the free meal) is worth sticking around for.
Boredom without the ability to sit down is what absolutely kills me. I’ll stand at my little podium for eight hours straight (minus a half hour lunch break) and by the time I get done, my heels are almost unbearable to walk on. It sucks. I even bought some of those gel sole thingys, the nice ones too, the Dr. Scholl’s kind. (My feet still bug me, but it does help considerably.) Usually I’ll doodle or read or surrender to newspaper sudoku. That shit’s addicting and does a damn good job of making the time go by fast. Plus, it keeps my mind off my feet.
I think the worst part of my job, worse than the boredom, worse than the sore feet, worse than not getting tipped, is the amount of ass I hafta kiss. All the big wigs come in with all their big wig buddies and look at me like I’m retarded when I put their napkins on their laps. It’s part of my job; it’s what I’m required to do. Usually the guys will do it themselves. And sometimes they don’t.
I had a businessman the other morning; all dressed up in a nice pinstriped suit and polished shoes. He pulled out his chair and set his napkin down before I had a chance to do either. “Yer doin’ my job for me, I like it!” I said this is in the friendliest way possible. I really did. He shifts his weight to the side and gives me a pity laugh before rudely saying “I wouldn’t want YER job.” It made me smile as I walked back up to the podium. Because I’m thinkin’ to myself in all honesty….likewise buddy, likewise.