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Free to be You and Me. As Long as I Like the You that You Are.

My friend Matt over at Inside the Nice Guy posted a link to an interesting article a couple of days ago.  Interesting, because it’s written by a man for a women’s magazine (aptly named Woman’s Day) and claims to debunk the 10 biggest myths [women believe] about men.

Now, you know me.  I don’t tend to delve into relationship issues too often on this blog, for the main reason that I have no clue what I’m doing most of the time.  And really, who am I to dispense with the unfounded wisdom?  I tried it once, when I went on some extra caffeinated-induced rant about an article about romantic comedies.  And it didn’t really make me feel better.

But now I’m trying again.  Because apparently I can’t learn my lesson.  But before you get all crazy on me, keep in mind this is all in fun.  We all have our flaws – it’s just more fun analyzing the flaws of others.

Initially, there was something about this man myth article that rubbed me the wrong way.  Maybe it’s the unspoken implication that women must think men are mindless, emotionless, inhuman robots, and thank god for articles like this that remind us that men are, in fact, people too.  Or maybe it’s the way the author follows every explanation with a note of what women can do to play into these special male personality quirks like it’s our job to pull men out of their protective, emotionally unbalanced cocoons so they can emerge as the butterflies they were always meant to be.

Because women, why wouldn’t you always say yes to sex, even if you really do have a headache or a yeast infection or haven’t shaved your legs in 4 days?

And men, who doesn’t love a woman who continuously encourages you to reveal your true feelings because she understands that you’re not “fine” even though you say you are?

But eventually I got over my indignant self, and I came to understand the intent of the article.  The author, Brendan Tapley, really  is just trying to get women to understand why we [women] might have certain misconceptions  about what’s going on inside the heads of our sexy-yet-irritatingly-stubborn counterparts.

That didn’t, however, stop me from making just a few comments.  Because I’m a girl.  And that’s what we do.  But bear with me, guys – I’m going to have a question for you at the end of this.

For example – myth #2, sex is what matters the most. Tapley thinks this myth exists because men rely on sex to achieve a “bonded feeling” of solidarity with their partners.  In other words, sex makes the relationship real.  It means we’re on the same team.  The problem?  Women usually need to be at least somewhat emotionally invested to get the most pleasure out of sex.  And even if the emotion wasn’t there before the sex, it definitely tends to creep in after.  In fact, some studies show that this is a physiological probability.  We can’t help it.

So I’m not really buying Tapley’s argument.  I mean, if sex made men feel bonded too, then it would be nearly impossible for them to have “meaningless” sex.  And I’ve known enough women who never received the promised post-sex phone call to be fairly certain that many times to men, sex is just sex.  I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.  That’s just how it is.

“But honey, sex makes me feel like we’re truly bonded!”


The first man myth addressed by the article is the myth that men are not emotional.  Tapley counters this by explaining that not only are men emotional, but they might even be more emotional than women!  Now this I believe.  Ladies, how many of you have said something you thought was completely innocuous to a guy and he just completely shut down?  Turns out (at least according to Tapley) that this shutting down doesn’t reflect a lack of emotion as we lead ourselves to believe, but instead a complete emotion overload.  But because he doesn’t know how to deal with said emotion, he just shuts off.  Huh.

So maybe this explains the sex thing.  He’s so overwrought with raw emotion after you have sex that he doesn’t know how to deal with it.  And that’s why he doesn’t call.


I think this ties in nicely with myth #6: guys don’t communicate. Well.  Tapley doesn’t really have a good argument for this.  He says that men do like to talk, but they often censor themselves from talking about anything deep or meaningful because they’re worried women might find them less masculine.  Sooo… this really doesn’t debunk the myth.  Men really don’t communicate.

And we all knows what happens now.  A woman says something that ticks a man off.  He experiences an emotional overload and shuts down, refusing to tell her what’s chapping his ass because doesn’t want to look like a crybaby pussy.  So the woman gets frustrated because she’s a “fixer” and can’t fix a problem when she doesn’t know what’s wrong, so she ends up going into crazy bitch mode, constantly writing or calling or texting because she’s sure that if she just does what Tapley says and encourages the man to be open about his feelings, all will be right with the world.

So you can see that this is where I disagree with Tapley.  And this is where I have a question for the men:

What’s a girl to do??  If we pester you about what’s wrong, we end up in crazy bitch mode.  But if we back off and let you work it out yourself, we run the huge risk of you thinking we don’t care (which, I can assure you, we do), and worse, we never understand the heart of the problem and risk a repeat of the situation – something neither of us wants.

Unless you’re into the suspense and the drama and the (usually) fantastic make-up sex.

But that can’t be healthy on a regular basis.

Or can it?


Tips From the Pros: How to Satiate Those Late-Night Cravings

EDIT:  It has been brought to my attention that it might not be easy to pick up on my intended sarcastic tone in the following post.  Therefore, this is your notice that if there were such a thing as a “sarcasm font,” this post would surely be written with it.  Thank you.

Just when I thought I was in a heap of trouble and started to become desperate because I’ve finally, officially, gotten sick and tired of trying to figure out what to make for dinner night after night*, the ultimate foodie guru Rachael Ray has come to my rescue.

*Note:  It’s not the physical act of cooking I can no longer stand – it’s the pouring over recipes online looking for something new and interesting and not eight-five thousand calories and doesn’t contain crazy-expensive ingredients and doesn’t make more than enough to feed 8 people and why isn’t there a cookbook out there called, Katie, This is the Cookbook You Need.  Buy Me and You Will Never Have to Search for Another Recipe Again?

So last night I got home late.  With this new job at the bar, I’ve gotten used to feeling awake as though I’ve drunk 3 cups of coffee in the middle of the night; the ghostly darkened roads with blinking lights devoid of traffic; and the dark, quiet house where even the dogs don’t want to wake up to greet me.

But what I can’t, for the life of me, seem to adjust to is the feeling that I am absolutely starving at 2 o’clock in the morning.  I might eat dinner at 4 to get to the bar by 5, and then, before I know it, 9 hours have passed and I’ve barely had time to take a few sips of water, let alone snag some bar food from the kitchen.

So.  All I have to say is, thank God for Rachel Ray.  She has seriously saved me with this recipe:

Late Night Bacon.

Photo source

Now, I realize it sounds a bit complicated, but bear with me.  You will need 8 slices of bacon, 4 sheets of paper towel, and a microwave-safe plate.  Oh, and a microwave.  Place 2 of the paper towels on the plate, and place the bacon on top of that.  Do not, for the love of all that is holy, let your bacon slices overlap.

Now here’s where it gets tricky:  You will need to take the remaining 2 sheets of paper towel and place them over the bacon.  Then place the plate in the microwave on high for 4-6 minutes.

Like I said, it’s a bit complicated, but I’m so thankful to have access to someone like Rachel Ray on the Food Network website to walk me through it.  I mean… microwaving bacon instead of pan-frying?  Genius.  Because we all know I shouldn’t be messing with the stove at 2 a.m.  And writing this high-calorie recipe specifically to be consumed late at night?  When my metabolism is probably at its all-time lowest?  Well.  I feel like she wrote it just for me.

And here are some of my favorite reviews from the site, because it’s always helpful to learn from the mistakes of others:

“The recipe didn’t say anything about removing my hand from the bacon, so I ended up microwaving my hand with the bacon and paper towels. I passed out twice from the pain, but once I awoke, the bacon, the paper towels and my hand had all melded into one yumm-o baconey flavored blob, which really was crispy and delicious. I’ve got one hand left, and oh yeah, I’m making this again tonight!”


Wow, thanks for the tip, latenightbaconman!  I probably would’ve done the same thing – I mean, I need my directions to be explicit – so thanks for saving me the headache.  I mean handache.

“Hey Ray Ray! I loved the recipe, but thought it needed something to be a late night meal. Could you please post your recipe for toast? I’d like a recipe for a glass of milk as well, but I don’t think I could do all that in one night.”


Oh, Shanon.  I feel  your pain.  I do.  I mean, it’s late night bacon.  Who has the energy to make an entire glass of milk?  Hopefully Ray Ray will respond with a solution to this problem, pronto.

“Personally, I think this recipe could be improved by the addition of a bit more bacon and a bit less paper towel. The taste of the towel was pretty good with all that bacon grease on it, but the texture was *awful*. I’ve tried this preparation a few times for my guests, and they always leave the towels behind. Sometimes slightly gnawed, but it’s clear they don’t enjoy them.”


Ooh, nice suggestion, BaconMan.  I can really see how reducing the amount of paper towel might improve the overall flavor of this recipe.  Or maybe you could try what yet another reviewer suggested and marinade the sheets in Pam first?  It’s worth a shot…

Photo source

How to Grow a Muscle and Other Motivational Tools

So I just finished my workout with Jillian for today, and I’m writing this post while still sitting in a puddle of my own sweat because I’m suddenly, inexplicably motivated.  And these days motivation seems hard to come by, so I grab it when I can.

You know how it is when life just doesn’t seem to be going the direction you want, so you find yourself in a bit of a slump, and it gets harder and harder to pull yourself out of the slump over time?  To use an over-used analogy, it’s like quicksand.  The harder you struggle, the deeper you get, and eventually you just want to give up.  Lethargy becomes second nature.  Even the idea of picking a recipe for dinner and going to the grocery store for the ingredients seems like too much work, because didn’t I just do that two days ago?  And what’s the point if it’s just going to be the same thing, day after day?

If you’ve never known that feeling, then I envy you.  Truly.  But if you have, I’m here to tell you that you can’t let it hold you down.  In fact, all you can do is keep struggling against the quicksand, and eventually you’ll see progress.*

*Actually that’s not true – if you’re literally stuck in quicksand, I’ve heard you shouldn’t struggle because you will get pulled under.  So wow… what a f*cked up analogy.

For the time-being, I’m doing little things that have started improving my opinion of my own self-worth.

1.  This blog.  Sure, it’s mostly just a bunch of introspective rambling and random recipes and an overall log of some (but definitely not all) of my most notable life experiences, but it’s my blog.  It’s my thing that I do when I need an outlet.  Some people journal, some people play guitar, some people paint.  I blog.

Photo source:  Me

2.  Found a job.  Okay, so waiting tables at a bar isn’t exactly the dream job I hoped I might find when I quit the cubicle all those months ago.  But in a way, at least for right now, it fits my personality so much better.  No one looks at me funny when I randomly start singing, because I’m just singing with the night’s performer and everyone else is doing the same thing.  And I’m no longer getting strange looks for taking running leaps down the hallway or pretending I’m on an escalator behind someone’s cubicle glass, because I don’t have excess energy to expend at this job and therefore don’t act quite so entirely nutty.  I’m always moving.

So while I still do aspire to do something more meaningful to me, this definitely works for now.

Photo source

3.  Working out.  This isn’t a New Year’s resolution for me.  In fact, you know my resolution is to be worthy of a holiday letter, so working out really has nothing to do with it.  (Unless I end up saving someone’s life by lifting an SUV off of someone who’s crushed underneath it because I’ve been working out and am now obviously strong enough to walk around town lifting SUVs off of people.  Now that would be letter-worthy.)

I’ve never been one of those people who gets a high from working out.  In fact, it usually leaves me feeling sweaty and exhausted and there’s only one type of scenario I can think of that leaves me in the same condition and I feel really good afterwards instead of tired and disgusting.  And working out with Jillian Michaels ain’t it.

But I do it because I know it’s good for me.  Like flossing and not consuming a diet exclusively comprised of cheese.  And today, after I was finished, I noticed an actual muscle!

And yes, I took a picture.

And yes, I’m about to show it to you.

So don’t laugh.

For me, this is BIG.

Woohoo!  Maybe this is the workout high people are talking about – that point where you finally notice some progress.

So right now I’m feeling pretty good.  I wrote a blog post, I grew a muscle, and I might make a little money tonight.  Motivation is creeping back into my life.  And I wanted you to know, even though my posts have been a bit emo as of late, that I’m not just sitting here, all pitiful and lethargic day after day.  (Well I’m literally sitting here now, in a puddle of my own sweat, no less, but my point is that I’m not just a couch-drooling zombie.)

What I want to know is, what do you do to pull yourself out of it when you’re feeling a little slumpy?

Chicken Salsa Biscuit Things

As I sit here drinking a cerveza, thinking about what to write on this thing that some people are actually reading, and contemplating life in general, I’m starting to think I was too harsh in my assessment of drunk-in-public people from last night.  I mean… if someone wants to hit on me regardless of whether I can understand what he’s saying between hiccups and slurs (something about my ponytail and my nice smile, but that’s all I could make out)… or if someone wants to literally attack my manager and rip her shirt because she thinks she’s hitting on her boyfriend… or if someone wants to vomit all over the floor in the ladies’ restroom… who am I to judge?

*One of those 3 things has not happened (yet) at my place of employment – anyone care to guess which one?

I mean, if you’re someone who’s never done something remotely stupid or regrettable in your life, then I probably don’t know you.  Because you probably don’t exist.

And while there are surely many negative aspects of getting stupidly drunk, one of the inarguable positives is that you gain the uncanny ability to eat the crappiest of foods completely guilt-free.

Which brings me to my recipe for tonight.  A recipe that, coincidentally, I’ve never made or eaten while intoxicated.  Which proves I’m horrible at segues.  But it is one of those things you might look at and think, Umm, no.  I will not be making that for dinner.  Ever.  It’s juvenile and you can eat it with your fingers and for crying out loud, what IS it with you and those damn tubes of biscuits that scare the panties off me when they pop open??!!?

But the thing is, sometimes we need food like this.  Sometimes we crave it.  Something simple and fun and tastes really really great with a beer.  Or a soda.  Or a big glass of milk.

I used to make these for my favorite guy friends and they went down quicker than Courtney Love when courted with Heart Shaped Box.

I call them Chicken Salsa Biscuit Things.  And the original recipe is found here.  They’re basically like homemade hot pockets, but So. Much. Better.  And you can customize them any way you want.  Like more filling?  Add some mushrooms, or shrimp, or bell peppers.  Like more flavor?  Add some cilantro, minced garlic, or red pepper flakes.  Like more heat?  Add your favorite hot sauce.  The sky’s the limit!

But here’s what you need to make ’em my way, usually in their most basic form (I like to keep it simple):

  • 3 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves (I actually usually only use 2 if they’re pretty big)
  • 1 chopped onion (I actually skip this sometimes when I’m feeling particularly lazy… I use a chunky salsa to make up for it)
  • 1 cup salsa (I use Pace mild thick ‘n chunky – or something along those lines)
  • 2 cups shredded cheddar cheese (I try to freshly grate cheese to avoid all the extra additives and preservatives and gunk they put in the pre-shredded stuff in the bag, but again, this is a lazy recipe.  Sometimes I do what I gotta do.  And the recipe uses refrigerated biscuit dough – who are we kidding?)
  • 1 (12 oz.) can refrigerated biscuit dough  (NOT the flaky stuff – just regular, original biscuits.  Or the buttermilk kind.  Whatever floats your boat.)

1.  Preheat your oven to 350-degrees F.  Set your tube of biscuits on the counter (I find they’re a bit easier to work with if they’re less chilly).

2.  Start off by boiling some chicken.  Just get a pot of water boiling, add your chicken breasts, and cook them for around 15-20 minutes until they’re no longer pink and the juices run clear.  When they’re done cooking, remove them to a plate and shred them with a couple of forks – or a fork and a knife, depending on how dangerous you feel.

*My little photo disclaimer still stands – I am still sans my favorite lens AND Photoshop, so I’m doing the best I can.  Please don’t judge me by these images.  Thank you.

Shredded Chicken

3.  If you’re using an onion, dice it and sauté it in a sauce pan until it’s soft.  The recipe doesn’t say this, but you’ll probably want to use a little butter or oil.  Like I said before, I tend to skip the onion since I use a chunky salsa.  Add your cup of salsa to the pan and let it heat up for a minute or two.  Then add the 2 cups of shredded cheese and let it kinda sorta melt.  I usually remove the pan from the heat just before adding the cheese.  It’s okay if it doesn’t melt all the way because you’ll be cooking these babies in the oven.  Finally, add the shredded chicken.

Chunky salsa.  Mmmm.

Stir, stir, stir.

Add shredded chicken.

4.  Open that crazy tube of biscuits (why are they so scary???) and flatten them out with your fingers on an ungreased cookie sheet.  Fill them with your chicken/salsa mixture and fold up the biscuits to form these nice little pockets.

Flatten dough.

Fill biscuit.

Fold dough.

5.  Bake at 350 until the biscuits are golden and cooked.  Pay attention because in my oven, these often take less time.

I’ll have you know that these have a tendency to pop open while they bake.  And if they happen to pop open on you, it in no way means you are an inferior human being.

They are warm and cheesy and delicious.

And they happen to be excellent to grab for quick lunches or to gobble down in the back kitchen before you go wait tables at  your favorite local pub.

Just sayin’.


While I’m In-Between

Well, shit.

Some of you think I swear too much on this blog.  You’re all like:  I mean, people read this, you know.  Decent people.  What if your grandmother saw what you write?

Well rest assured, she does.  She reads my blog regularly.  And I get the swearing from her.

Hi, Grandma!!

I’m writing this post because it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and I feel almost obligated to let you know how this whole employment situation is working out.  But it’s important to me for you to know that I’m writing this under the influence of half a glass of wine (it doesn’t take much these days) and the cotton ball state of mind that stems from sheer emotional and physical exhaustion.

So try not to judge.

You think it’s tiring drinking at the bar until last call?  Try staying at the bar for an hour after that to to wipe, sweep, mop, scrub, and basically clean up the mess you made while you were there, and oh yeah you’re doing this completely sober while getting paid $2.13 an hour if you’re lucky.  We won’t even speak of those dimwitted enough to agree to do this under the table for tips only.

Although, that might be nice come 2012 tax season because I can already tell you that this job will be but a short blip on the radar.  And I hate to admit it, but this really isn’t unusual for me.  One year I filed taxes for 7 jobs in 3 different states.  So really, I’m right on par with my record, discounting the past 3 years I spent in a cubicle-induced coma while attempting to be a grown-up.

But unfortunately, I’m also figuring out that I’m not a kid anymore.  While the job is certainly fun, I’d forgotten what it was like to have sore feet, an aching back, and slamming your thumb in a cooler door.  I forgot what it was like to give someone everything you have and they leave you a thirty-four cent tip like they’re doing you a favor.

Keep the change, honey.  Wink.


And let me tell you something you might not realize:

Drunk people are gross.

And since I often am the drunk people, I feel like I can say that.

They slur and slobber and act like you’re their best friend just because you keep bringing them more of what’s making them disgusting, and you might be okay with pretending that’s true for a bit, just to see if they tip you like you’re their best friend.  Many times they don’t, but here’s the kicker – They think they did.

I’m not knocking drinking.  That would pretty much make me the biggest hypocrite in the entire known universe, but I’m just sayin’ – slovenly drunkenness is best achieved in the comfort and safety of a small group of intimate friends, preferably at a personal apartment or home.

So right now I’m feeling like Britney Spears in that song that goes, I’m not a girl…. not yet a woman.  Except I think she probably sang that when she was like 18 which only makes me a decade late on this whole thing.  And I’m pretty convinced that I am, in fact, a woman by now.  A woman stuck in a girl’s job.  So maybe it’s not like that song at all.

But honestly?  I’ve had fun.  The people I work with are amazing.  I’ve been out of the game for a while, but I’ve reaffirmed the fact that the restaurant/bar biz is pretty much the same anywhere you go.  The surly cook, the angry waitress, the chill bartender – all the same characters, just with different faces and names.  And I love them.  I can honestly say that.  It’s a camaraderie I’ve never experienced in any other type of job.  But that, my friends, is because working in this business is a shitstorm unlike any you could imagine in any other type of job.  Extreme highs, lows, punches and blows.  It’ll make you happier than you’ve ever been and then send you a shot to the stomach that’ll knock the wind right out of you and then, because you kind of have to and you kind of want to, you go right back in for more.

It’s sick.

So, needless to say, I’m going to continue sprucing up the resume in case something a bit more… boring comes along.

The irony of all of this is that you need the least amount of education to work in the lowest paying, most challenging job I know.  Because frankly, I’d be hard-pressed to believe anything else exists that demands a more exasperating combination of physical labor, personality, perseverance, and yes, brains, than working in a bar.

We have a love/hate relationship, the bar and me.  And I’ve never been good at those.

But we’re content to use each other until something better comes along.

These Shoes

Let me just tell you something.

I got the job.

Oh yes, I got the job.

In fact, my interview tonight really wasn’t another interview.  It was a chance to meet the other manager and pick up some menus to study (there are only four!!) and learn the dress code and find out that I’m shadowing someone tomorrow night and then I’m on my own starting Friday.

Seriously?  Do they know me?!  What about me screams ready-to-jump-into-the-fire-after-only-4-hours-of-practice?? I’m supposed to be dipping my toes, dammit!

And oh god, tomorrow morning I have to go out and buy waitress shoes. You know – those fugly black things that are comfortable but also attempt to be somewhat fashionable.  And I’m not talking comfortable enough to walk around the mall for a bit – I’m talking comfortable enough to pound, fast-paced and confidently, back and forth across the floor of a busy bar for multiple hours without rest.  I threw my old pair out a couple of years ago thinking I’d never need to own anything so hideous ever again, but turns out I was mistaken.

Not Katie’s actual shoes.

These boots, without a doubt, need to be made for walking – not for looking cute.  And if I’m going to be honest, I don’t want them to look cute anyway because I don’t want to cry when I spill balsamic vinaigrette or a Sicilian Sunrise martini all over them and they get that distinct, gritty, restaurant smell.

If you’ve worked in food service, you know what I’m talking about.

So anyway.  I’m nervous.  When it comes to the technicalities – hand-writing the orders, counting the change, remembering which tables are mine – I’m really only so-so.  Maybe not even that anymore.

But the people?  That’s where I’m good.  There will be live music, wine, a coffee bar… and did I mention live music?  It’s exactly where I’d want to be if I weren’t… you know… working.

Katie’s actual new place of employment.

And that could be good or bad.

But hopefully good.  At least for now.  Needless to say, this won’t put me on the fast-track to becoming holiday letter-worthy.  But it’s something.  And that’s probably all I really need right now.

Interviews Bite.

Open the champagne – I survived my interview.

I don’t want to hold off celebrating until after I find out whether I got hired, because there’s a possibility that I didn’t get hired and then we’d feel weird drinking the champagne.  Well, I wouldn’t feel weird – I hardly ever do.  But you might feel awkward drinking a celebratory type drink around a failure of a human being, and I’d really like to spare you the embarrassment.

But you know, the fact that I made it through my first job interview since early 2008 without falling on my face or sporting massive pit stains really is a feat in itself.  And I’ll tell you what – after over 6 years of holding salary positions and living in cubicle land, interviewing for a part-time  waitress/bartending job was cake.

I just plopped myself down at the bar, filled out the application, and had a quick chat with the manager.  Nope, no 3 hour interviews here!

(Though I’d be lying if I said she didn’t express a tiny bit of disbelief when she read my past three employers were Plexus Logistics International, CDM, and the Civil Engineer Squadron at Moody Air Force Base.  I told her she could call any of them – our breakups were amicable.  So Jason, if you’re reading this, please be nice to Nancy or Danielle if one of them calls. Oh, and please don’t tell them about this blog!)

I was so relieved on my walk back to the car, awed by the difference between this experience and an interview for a job I had back in 2007.  We had just moved to North Carolina, and I was eager to work in a real office building with a lobby and an elevator and key card access and clacking heels and pencil skirts and people bustling through the halls with rolled up maps and plans.

It seemed so grown up.

A couple of days before the highly anticipated interview, I noticed a small, unobtrusive-yet-slightly-odd bump on the back of my leg just below my bum.  Don’t ask how I noticed it.  I just did.  I didn’t think about it again until the next day when it was distinctively larger and sore. It had an elliptical red shape surrounding it, and all I could think after living in this strange and exotic land of the Sandhills for only a couple of months, was this. is. not. right.

Not at all.

So I did what any American 20-something with a computer and internet access would do.  I Googled it.  And the results were terrifying.

I found myself inundated with photos of spider bites.  More specifically, spider bites of the Brown Recluse.  I will spare you the photos here, but if you haven’t heard of the Brown Recluse, do yourself a favor and forget I ever mentioned it.  Do not, under any circumstances, Google it.  You have been warned.

Of course I ran off for an emergency visit to my doctor who, after his idiotic intern who should have spent more time studying her med books and less time applying lipstick determined it was a pimple, verified that it was, in fact, a spider bite but NOT that of the recluse.  He wrote me a prescription, told me it was going to get worse before it got better, and sent me on my merry way.

The day of the interview arrived.  Sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience and interest in the company is not a comfortable situation.  Now imagine sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience, and interest in the company when sitting is the most profoundly physically painful thing anyone has ever asked you to do.


Oh, and you just spent an hour-and-a-half driving to get to the interview.

My bum was on fire.  And I was afraid to stand to relieve it between interviewers lest I burst into tears and run crying from the building and for ever after be remembered as the candidate who cried because her butt hurt.  Oh no.  I was stronger than that.

So why was I telling this story?

Oh yeah.  The interview yesterday was easy.  Too easy.  I’m a little worried.  But I’m going back tonight to meet with the other manager.  Apparently a second opinion is in order.

I can’t say I blame them because I am a sketchy character.

Here’s hoping they don’t figure that out until after I’m hired.

I Call Mulligan

Well, it’s official.

Today I’ve committed myself.  And no, I’m not currently surrounded by men in clean white coats who are coming to take me away.

I’ve committed myself to applying for a job.  Not a job job, but just a job.  You know, something that will get me out of the house and interacting with creatures who walk on less than 4 legs and don’t lick my face by way of greeting.

It’s the kind of job I’ve done before – back when I was still going to school and thought I was working towards something better.

Turns out that “better” is a state of mind.

If only I’d known that before all those student loans, huh?

There are several things I plan on doing before I muster the nerve to go out and let someone tell me whether or not I’m good enough.  I still need to finish this blog post, work out, shower, start some laundry, and make myself somewhat presentable for immersion in the outside world.  It’s been awhile, but I’m pretty sure I remember that the outside world doesn’t appreciate bare feet, outdated glasses, and dog hair covered peacoats.  So these things I need to remedy before I leave.

And while I’m doing these things, I know the fear will start to creep into my system.  I’m a fairly confident person.  I’m not easily shaken.  But what if – what if – this is the time when they finally tell me to grow up?  They don’t want me for this job?  I have too much experience?  Why on earth would you want to come back to this when you’ve had some of that?

I won’t know what to say.  Maybe for the first time ever.

And that scares the hell out of me.

So please wish me luck.  For the sake of mulligans.  Do-overs.  New beginnings.  Whatever you want to call it.  This isn’t something I want to do forever.  I’m just dipping my toes.  But apparently I’m dipping them with my socks on because, like I said, the outside world – especially the food service industry – doesn’t appreciate bare feet.

Holy crap, what am I doing?


So apparently this is what happens when I’m dumb enough to leave piles of clean, folded laundry on the sofa.

And apparently Capone must think he’s part bird since he created himself a little nest.

And apparently the nice, *cough*expensive*cough* dog beds I bought them just aren’t good enough.  Which I don’t understand, because I have fallen asleep on those things.  I’m not kidding.

And if that’s not sexy, I don’t know what is.

Maybe this:

(Photo taken with my camera phone.  Sorry for the blur!)

Oh yeah.

Need a closer look?

(Photo taken with my camera phone.  Sorry for the blur!)

All I can say is, if there were such thing as a Playbitch magazine, I’d be rolling in it.

What? Friends Listen to Endless Love in the Dark…

The title of this post has nothing to do with the post itself, but I’m bad at titles so we’re just going to go with this.  Fifty points to the first person who names that movie.  (I’m not sure what the points are good for, but I’ll work that out eventually.  We’re all in this together.)

Today I’m going to tell you something, but first I want you to promise not to give me that look when I say it.

You know which look I’m talking about.  That look.  The look that effortlessly rolls from surprise to horror to pity in approximately .8 second.

I see that look every time I tell somebody this something.  And even though I can’t see you through the internet (wouldn’t that be creepy), I’m absolutely certain that I would be able to feel that look as all 9 of you read my words and simultaneously send it through your screens and across the wires and through my fingers and straight into my soul.

It’s that powerful.

And in return, I promise you that this something I’m going to share really doesn’t warrant the look.  It doesn’t.  It’s not that bad, and it certainly doesn’t deserve your pity, for crying out loud.

So here it is.








There.  I said it.

Did that make you feel icky?

It seems to make people feel icky.  Like they don’t know how to react.  Like I just told them I have 3 nipples.  Which I DON’T.

(But if I did, maybe I would’ve had a better shot at going to prom, eh?)

Okay, maybe not.

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t go around just spouting out this tasty tidbit to anyone willing to listen.  I’m only telling you now because I want you to know me, and in order for that to happen, we need to just put everything out on the table.

My divulgence of this information usually follows one of those let’s-reminisce-about-high-school conversations, which inevitably leads to talk of school dances and eventually the ultimate school dance experience, which just so happens to be p-r-o-m.  And the person with whom I’m having the high school reminiscing conversation will tell me about how he rented an orange tux with tails and a top hat ala Dumb and Dumber or how she almost lost her virginity in the limo on the way to the post prom party and oh-boy-I-will-never-drink-Jäger-again-because-you-wouldn’t-believe-the-things-it-made-me-do and all of this sucks because just when the stories are getting good, they look at me all expectantly because they know that I, of all people, must have some crazy story to tell and of course I have to ruin it all by saying, “I never went to prom.”

And then I get the look.

And of course, the look is quickly followed by an exasperated, “Why?!”

Well, because I wasn’t asked.  And I didn’t really see the need to go out and buy a gown and have my hair done just so my mom could take pictures of me with some friends in front of the fireplace and then drive the Bonneville to a dance where I’d sip peppermint schnapps from a flask and watch people grope each other under the seductive vocal influence of K-Ci & JoJo.

It just wasn’t in the cards.

If it makes you feel any better, I did go to homecoming all 4 years (twice with a date and twice without), and I managed to have a decent time – even senior year when my date (who didn’t even go to my school) had to have his jaw wired shut the day before due to a flag football playing injury.  Flag football.  So we had to write notes back and forth on a cocktail napkin all night and I was the girl with the hot-but-oddly-quiet date who really didn’t have much to say, but by God was he nice to look at.

And I will say this, even though it might make some of you uncomfortable:  I don’t regret not going.  I don’t!  I’m hoping this life will bring me plenty of other amazing experiences (and it has so far), so I don’t need to dwell on the fact that I didn’t complete an apparent high school rite of passage.

I still got the diploma, didn’t I?

And I honestly don’t think it’s affected my overall success as an adult.

That said, I’ve decided I need to find a part-time job this coming week because I’m getting a little stir-crazy and I’m tired of not making any money and Libras are social creatures, but I’m having a hard time deciding:

Should try to find something in retail, or should just suck it up and go back to waiting tables?