Alphabet Pony

Too tired, lazy, and ignoring the fact that I need to go on a run/organize my life/brush my teeth. Today will be in lists, blogged from the convenience of my bed, where I am currently residing, sipping a homemade bloody mary (Monarch + V8). Let's not analyze this too much.

1. The Kills. Great. Amazing. Why I am just discovering them now? Probably because I do things like sit inside drunk blogging at noon.

2. Thomas Street Bistro. Good. Mysterious. Confusing. Pretty delicious. My boyfriend and I went there last night, because I had always wanted to go. Also the owner comes into my work all the time and tells me to come visit him. Also I had one of those weird internet coupons that I bought one night when I was drinking a bottle of white wine and 'online window shopping.' It happens.

3. Stitches. Badass. Annoying. Over it. I ran out of bandages and wraps so I currently have a piece of floral fabric tied festively to my wrist (NOT sanitary, I know). I also keep forgetting its there and poking myself in my wound.

4. Moving to New York City. Yes and yes. My boyfriend and I have been planning on moving to New York for about a year or so. I know, I know. But we're really going to move. We have a place now (sort of) and a time frame (ditto on the sort of). Also money. Not really sort of.

5. This Bloody Mary. Not that good.




P.S. SO GOOD

Story Of My Life

I have the worst luck ever.

No, I am not even kidding. So, last night. Natalie asked me to take her back room hosting shift, so I went in at 4:30 to begin a long Saturday night of refilling water bottles, buffing silverware, seating guests and stacking glasses. Not the best shift, but I was totally in Good Attitude Worker Mode (I didn't even take a shot before work!). Feeling particularly positive after two hours of work in which I had rearranged the reservation seating chart (could have been a disaster!), got the server station extra stocked up and sparkling clean, AND had time to make myself a chai tea, I decided to do one more extra task to make sure that the servers were fully equipped to attend to their customers.

Big Mistake.

I went to the dish pit and grabbed a stack of short glasses. I even set down some of the glassware when I realized that my stack might be too tall to carry safely. Feeling smart about the decision, I carried a foot-tall stack of glasses to the back service station and carefully set the stack down.

Unbeknownst to me, one of the glasses in the middle of the stack was slightly cracked. When I gingerly set the stack down, the crack in the glass crumbled under the weight, making half the stack of glassware explode, and sent a giant dagger of glass straight into my wrist.

I had no idea that blood could squirt out that that, or that it was that dark. After my shocked co-workers rushed me into the kitchen to wrap my wrist in towels, I shakily called my boyfriend. He came and collected me (I apologized to my co-workers for leaving early, and they waved away my concerns as they mopped up bits of glass and blood) and thus began our Harborview Emergency Room adventure.

Harborview. Oh. My. God. What is happening there?! Why do you have to wait for four hours while various sketchy people mill about the waiting room? What is going on the the single person bathroom?! Why is the television set constantly tuned to SPIKE TV and 'America's Worst Accidents'? AND WHO IN GOD'S NAME IS EXPLOSIVELY PROJECTILE VOMITING (I can hear it but I can't see where it's coming from)?!

Part Two of Bad/Weird Luck: I finally hear my name being called. I get up (and my wonderful boyfriend follows, toting my purse, jacket and several snacks from the vending machine) and walk towards the voice. A male nurse turns around and my jaw drops. Its Memphis. What. The. Hell.

So, back when I was at SPU, there was this RA (except that at SPU we called them Peer Advisors for some reason) who was to rich, blond Christian women how Justin Beiber is to most twenty five-year-old lesbians. Every girl in Ashton Hall was obsessed. Like, insane. Maybe it was the fact that this college was made up of about 2200 rich, blond, sexually repressed women (and about 900 equally sexually repressed men), or maybe the fact that Ashton Hall was three floors male and nine floors female, or maybe it comes down to the amount of men who came out as gay post-graduation, but a seemingly straight, single man was in hot demand in those days. Gross, I know.

Anyways, that's not why I turned beet red when Memphis came up and awkwardly "Christian-Side Hugged*" me. I was more embarrassed, because the last time I saw this guy was around 4am, on some Tuesday night back in 2006. I was running around the dorms as a 19-year-old and decided it would be hilarious to strip down to nothing in the dorm elevator (it was 4am, it was the women's side of the dorm and let's face it, everyone was in bed at SPU). I was also singing. Loudly.

Unfortunately I forgot about the fact that every single one of the RAs has 'nightly rounds' that they make during the wee hours of the night (to make sure no good SPU girls are losing their V-cards or drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade). And unfortunately, that night was Memphis' turn for duty. And, yes, of course he was standing on the other side of those elevator doors.

I'm pretty sure those were the first boobs he ever saw.

Anyways, end of story, I poked and prodded and x-rayed and had four separate doctors come in to unwrap the gauze and pronounce it stitches-worthy and finally I got stitched up and sent home. And by home, I mean I went back to my work to sit at the bar and have a stiff drink.

*Appendix:

Christian Side Hug: Because, you know, when you hug "full frontal" it immediately leads to sex, gayness, babies, AIDS and drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade.


Courtesy of fuckyeahnouns.com

Out Of Mind

In eleven days and some amount of minutes and hours that I do not know, I will get on a plane and fly to Dallas, Texas and embark upon a really idiotic vacation.

Let me explain.

My friend Dennis collects old vintage care, motorcycles, etc. When the opportunity for him to buy a retired 1970's Greyhound bus arose, he went for it. Problem is, the bus is currently in Dallas, Texas. Dennis and our good friend Josh (of Emery fame, if anyone was a Christian Punk Rocker back in 2002) decided buy one-way tickets, fly down to Texas and drive the vehicle back to Seattle.

But who wants to drive an empty bus 3000 miles?

AKA Why not invite thirty friends? And put couches in the bus instead of seats? And all non-drivers indulge in California's (and some of the other states') open container laws? And bring a video camera to document it all?

AKA Me buying a one-way ticket to Dallas, Texas while drunk at the Unicorn last week.

Gorgonzola Salad

Just went on a jog, listened to Lady Gaga on my iPod, stopped by my boyfriend's coffee shop to share a vegan sandwich and a spinach, cranberry and Gorgonzola salad, separated the recyclable containers and compostable spoons (and went on to recycle and compost the items, of course) and finished the morning by buying a gift certificate for an independent women's spa for my boyfriend's sister's birthday present.

GORGONZOLA SALAD. Help me.

Night Work

I am making a couple of New Year resolutions (and yes, I know, it's March) and I intend to keep them. One is that I go running three times a week (ha, we'll see on this) and two, that I keep writing this damn blog.

The other resolution/goal thing was saving money to move to New York, but I've pretty much blown most of my savings on this laptop. You know, so I can write. Yeah, I don't know either.

I have been working a lot lately, so maybe that third goal is not entirely hopeless. It's weird, working late at night. I wake up at noon, putz around the house, maybe run an errand or two, and then go to work. Work is... saying the same things over and over to customers, feeling like a robot, trying not to turn into a ball of bitterness and hanging out near the "self-serve" wine station and doing shots of white wine late at night. Classy lady.

In between working, I've had an endless stream of family obligations. My cousin got married on Saturday and I figured, what the hell, let's just throw my boyfriend into the deep end of the whole "meeting the extended family" pool. Luckily, I didn't let the situation melt me into a pile of anxiety, and luckily there was alcohol at the wedding. Also, (I shouldn't have been surprised), my family loved him. Including my 80-year-old Grandma Dietzel. Okay, it sort of seemed like she was trying to hit on my boyfriend. A little weird, but whatever.

Speaking of weird, here's 'Invisible Light' off the new Scissor Sisters album "Night Work."



Yeah.

Fun, Fun, Fun

I forgot, here's that idiotic music video by Rebecca Black. Watch at your own risk.



I just got back from my cousin's wedding up in Mukilteo, where, among other things, my 80-year-old Grandma started hitting on my boyfriend. More on that later.

Saving Yourself

I just watched that Rebecca Black 'Friday' music video and now I have an endless loop of "Fun, Fun, Fun, Fun" stuck in my head. That's exactly how this weekend felt. Like an auto tuned thirteen year old singing about partying and dancing. So disturbing but you can't help but watch the damn music video for it.

I started off the weekend (sort of) with aforementioned corned beef and cabbage fest, followed by a corned beef and cabbage hangover. Friday ("Friday, Friday, Friday...") involved eating more corned beef for breakfast (why) and then realizing that my I had a bridal shower to go to in two hours.

Not just any bridal shower. Back story. I went to SPU. As in, dry campus, "cross your legs for Jesus," Christian university. Believe me, I had no idea what I was getting into went I signed on there. Anyways, almost seven years after freshmen year, my first college roommate is getting married. As in, "saved herself for twenty-five years and has no clue" getting married. Eeek.

I arrive at the bridal shower (way up in North Seattle, in a quaint little three bedroom house shared by three twenty-something Christian girls) and survey my surroundings. There are metal folding chairs arranged in a subservient little circle in the living room. A "love seat" that my grandma would have thrown out ten years ago and two stiff backed velvet chairs sit in the corner, daring someone to sit on them. Doilies. Coasters. Paintings of pastel flower petals. A magazine rack with Readers' Digest. A candy dish. Yeah.

The next five hours of my life (I had no way out of there, it was a half hour drive from my apartment, I had gotten a ride with someone and there were no buses that ran anywhere within a mile) were spent in this circle of metal folding chairs, playing "ice-breaker" games with women that I didn't really want to get to know. When it came time to open presents, the bride-to-be carefully unfolded pale pastel packages of pajama sets and knee-length slips from Nordstrom ("Every girl needs some decent slips" everyone nodded). A few of her closest friends felt comfortable enough to giggle and hand her some sort of present with "lingerie" inside (a stiff, cheaply made disaster of black lace and straps, probably purchased from "Lover's"), although these present were considered gag gifts. I myself had actually found an incredibly beautiful, well-made Betsey Johnson nightgown in dark purple (it was on sale, and only one left, and I could barely let myself give it away) but the bachelorette simply put it in the pile of gag gifts and didn't say a word.

After the presents we sat around, not knowing what to do. There didn't seem to be any devices for playing music in the house, and our awkward coughs bounced painfully off the bare walls. One of the women, who seemed to be magically tipsy on sparkling grape juice (the one bottle of champagne had been politely sipped away among 12 women, much to my dismay, who at this point was frantically texting my friend "THERE IS NO ALCOHOL LEFT GET ME OUT"), suddenly leaned in towards the guest of honor and smiled with an all-knowing grimace, "So, nervous for your wedding night?"

If the bride wasn't nervous at least the other ten unwed, virginal girls were. Everyone stopped fidgeting and leaned forward, hoping to catch some sort of advice. The woman who had asked the question had already been marked in my brain. She was the one who had demanded that we "ice-break," earlier, had this loud, all-knowing voice that you just couldn't drown out, and now, with an aggressive flash of her wedding ring hand, she decided to let everyone know that she was married, not a virgin and thus, the Expert On All Things Sexual.

The discussion that ensued made me want to laugh, cry and vomit all simultaneously. It was the worst sex advice I had ever heard, and I grew up in the Wisconsin Public School system where they make you watch three explicit home videos of teenagers explosively birthing out babies while screaming and crying as the main component of their abstinence-only program.

I finally managed to escape around 11:30. I headed straight for my favorite bar, where my sweet, wonderful "living-in-sin" boyfriend was waiting for me with a large beer. Now that's true love.

That Person

Just got done with a run, a quick shopping trip at QFC, followed by a stop by Pagliacci Pizza. One step forward, two lazy, fatty steps back.

So, you know those self-checkout machines at the grocery store, right? And how they start to notice what you buy and note the patterns and then spit out automatic coupons for stuff they think you might be interested in? It's like Google ads; creepy but right on.

Lately the only coupons that the machines spit out are for cat food and tampons. I'm turning into THAT PERSON.

100%

Happy post-Patty's day, and good luck with that hangover. I suggest a Olympia-and-V8 (sounds awful but it works), a sleeve of saltines and a giant bottle of Gatorade for your morning breakfast. You'll be fine.

I started my drinking early, and was snoring in bed by 11. Not so bad. After going into work for an entire hour and a half (had to cover the end of someones shift), I kindly sat down at the bar to collect my shift drink. The daytime bartender, Charlie, greeted me with a rare burst of St. Patrick's Day enthusiasm in the form of a boozy concoction aptly named a "Dirty Leprechaun."

Two hours later I find myself at Big Marios, doing shots with a couple of co-workers. My boyfriend calls ("Where are you?! We're supposed to be at my dad's house for dinner!"), and I jump on the bus to head over to his father's annual Jameson and Corned Beef fest. Oh boy.

By 9pm, we are filled to the brim with beef, potatoes, cabbage and guinness. We stumble home, where I sit around contemplating my life, and where I'm going with it. I'm sick of school, but I should go to grad school. I want to make money, but I want to keep not caring about money. I want to travel, but I want to feel settled down. I don't know. Maybe I should pick one thing and stick with it.

Look at this guy. He knows exactly what he wants to do and he does it 100%. It may just be that he has made a career of being an 'extra," but at least he's not doing a half-assed job of it.



He just got an award, too!

Impending Crisis

I am sitting on my couch, fully dressed in my running gear, trying to ignore the loud, lazy snores of my boyfriend and my cat. The two guys are curled up in the bed, not in the least bit worried about how their thighs are starting to look or the fact that the pair of jeans from high school that have ALWAYS fit can no longer be zipped or how you feel like you are turning into a lazy pile of UNACCOMPLISHED.

Welcome to your quarter life.

Instead of running (I'll get up in a minute, I swear!), I'm going to share with you my useless information of the day. I wish there was an awesome acronym for that but there isn't, so get over it.


Creepy Shamrock Shake commercial!

Happy St. Patty's Day! Alright I'm seriously going to get up and go running now. This will definitely be the only healthy activity I engage in today.