Catching Up

I finally took the flattened boxes from my March move-in down to the curb.

I returned my library books (though I didn't pay the fines).

I put my Netflix account on hold and returned the movies I had (only one of which I've actually watched).

I went to Target to buy a flashlight (and ended up buying two when I found the same one I'd purchased at The Sports Authority for less than half the price--yay 90 day return policy!), and replace the bath mat that Kitty Dearest chose to piddle on last night.

I leave for 5 weeks of Camp tomorrow morning and I still need to...

... clean house for my house/cat sitter (no small task, let me tell you!)
... do laundry
... PACK

But...

My dearest wegrit reprimanded me this morning for leaving you all in the lurch for 10 days, and I have no idea how frequently (if at all) I'll be able to blog while at camp, so I thought I'd take a moment before tackling the Herculean tasks outlined above and try to get you all caught up.

With sub-headings.

The Boy
There have been two more dates since last I wrote, the first of which I am not entirely certain counts as a "date," per se, as it consisted predominately of sex. I am pleased to announce that make-out chemistry, for once, translated to naked chemistry. About bloody time.

The second consisted of near disaster as I went to meet him in Park Slope, which took me NEARLY TWO FRAKKIN' HOURS because the R train is, I believe, evil incarnate. I was to call him when I got above ground, which I did, and got his voicemail, several times. I was growing increasingly more and more irritated (flakitude is just about my biggest pet peeve of all time, particularly in masculine form), when he finally appeared from across the street, looking about as harried as I was annoyed, and asked "Did you get my note?"

Er... Note?

Turns out he'd left his phone at work, had been waiting for me outside the station but the whole reason we were in Park Slope was that he was cat sitting for a friend's cat that needed medication so had to leave to take care of the kitty, and therefore bought markers and tape and left a note for me on a mailbox outside the station... which I had missed, because a creepy guy was leaning on said mailbox.

He showed me the note, I laughed, he kissed me a little too intently considering that a couple of girls were standing perhaps a foot from us (gonna have to address the PDA issue--i.e., my complete aversion thereto--sometime in the future, if this thing pans out), and then he bought me dinner.

I also met one of his roommates who, as it turns out, a few years ago ran a fundraiser to help build the dance school that I later worked with in Uganda! Small world!

Oh, and he bought me a book to read while I'm at camp, which was nice.

So, to summarize... I like him, though exactly how much seems to swing like a pendulum at any given time, and I can't figure out if that has anything to do with him, or if it's just my commitment-phobia triggering my flight reflex. So far, other than the forgotten-phone incident, he hasn't put a foot wrong... which seems... creepy. Anyhow, I'm about to take off to Maine for five weeks, so really, there's no use getting myself all worked up about it.

Though I do wonder if I should RSVP to my friend's wedding in September as having a date. Probably not. Counting my chickens and all...

Speaking of which:

Bridal Shower/Bachelorette Festivities
It is now my firm belief that ALL bachelorette parties should take place in a gay bar.

The original plan was to go to Sisters, a lesbian club in Philly (because this wedding has two brides... and no groom), but when we got there we learned that the dance floor was closed on Sundays, so after a few shots and some beer pong with the regulars--and my best friend nearly getting her ass kicked when she asked if the bartender knew how to make a muff diver (the bartender thought she was just being inappropriate)--we made our way down the street to the neighboring gay bar, Woodys, which came complete with a dance floor, DJ, and, er, gay porn being shown on the big screens. I was, it seems, the only one not traumatized by this.

A gay man repeatedly told me I was the most beautiful girl in the club... only to follow up by telling me I looked like his mom. I'm pretty sure he meant that as a compliment, but still...

And cheese steaks at 2am after dancing your ass off for several hours nonstop? Best. Idea. EVER.

So is realizing that you met some of the greatest friends you'll ever have when you were 9-12 years old. I love my girls, and feel incredibly blessed to have such amazing women in my life.

Work
Job still sucks. Hours still suck. Recently learned that they're raping us in the money department even more severely (and potentially illegally) than we were previously aware, and am feeling very ambivalent about potentially coming back in the Fall. If I do, it likely will not be for long.

However... fourth time is the charm, and after I missed him THREE TIMES, everyone's favourite Twilight actor FINALLY came into the restaurant while I was working. I delivered his salad. Yes, he is hot. He was also, however, in a very obvious "please leave me the hell alone" state (hat pulled low, jacket collar up, hunched down in seat) so I suppressed the urge to behave like a slavering fangirl and did just that. So... sorry. No photos.

Miscellaneous
Seeing a woman in a full burka pushing a stroller is a little creepy. It's like the Angel of Death has taken up babysitting to bring in some extra cash.


And that, my darlings... is all I got.

I hope you feel less neglected after this massive update, and as such, I hope you can weather the upcoming semi-hiatus with grace and no ill will. I'll update when I can, should I have anything update-worthy to share, and I hope you all have a lovely summer.

Oh, and I don't even *know* what heights the number in my Google Reader has reached. I am abolishing my self-guilting tendencies and marking all as read when I return in September. Clean slate! Fresh start! Fingers crossed that I can suck a little less on my return.

Lovies!
XOXO
-FP-

De-Brief, In Brief

Pros:
Cuter, and ever-so-slightly taller, than I remembered.
Chose the scenic walk to the restaurant.
Made me laugh.
Paid for dinner.
Still an excellent kisser.

Cons:
Will be shorter than me if I'm wearing heels.
Poor lighting didn't let me see if he's a good tipper.
Blew his nose in cloth napkin at restaurant.

Verdict:
Although I actually managed to behave myself (for once in my bloody life) and decline the invitation to go home with him, there is definitely some chemistry there that merits exploring before I leave for five weeks. Does it go beyond chemistry? Jury is still out.

Hey, it was a first date. And it wasn't a disaster.

That, in and of itself, is an accomplishment.

Grammar Lesson: Not Only / But Also

Not only did I meet (and make-out with) a boy on the Fourth of July, but I also gave that boy my number.

Not only did I give that boy my number, but he also utilized it within less than 24 hours.

Not only did he utilize that number, but he also asked me out to dinner.

Not only did he ask me out to dinner, but I also said yes.

And we're going out tonight.

I...

... had a crazy intense make-out session with a boy on a rooftop this evening.

That was unexpected.

Not that I'm complaining.

Happy Fourth of July y'all!

Oh. My. Holy. Jesus.

I had just reached that particular point in tiredness when one says "to hell with the second half of that 40 in my fridge, it's time for bed!"

I'd taken off my glasses and gone to use the bathroom and, as I was coming out of the door, I happened to glance up toward the ceiling of the livingroom and I thought to myself, "Hmmm... what is that dark spot up there on my wall?"

I put on my glasses.

This... was a bad idea.

For the dark spot lurking on my wall just below the ceiling... was the biggest motherfucking cockroach I have ever seen.

Black as midnight and larger than some of the mice my cat has slaughtered, I watched, awestruck, as it slowly made its way along the wall to the corner, and then began to descend.

My first instinct was, of course, to grab my camera from the coffee table and attempt to photograph this minion of Satan, lest the world at large think I was exaggerating.

Unfortunately, due to exhaustion (and the first half of that 40 of Budweiser, now happily at rest in my stomach), I failed in this endeavor, and as my unwelcome guest came closer to disappearing behind the cabinet of my secretary desk (and allowing my imagination to relegate it to such locations as, oh, let's just say, my face), I realized that something had to be done.

Go ahead and substitute "thrown" for "done" and you can imagine what happened next.

I searched frantically for a launchable item that could thwart my enemy without damaging my walls or, more importantly, the glass-fronted cabinet of my desk (really, my own foresight in the presence of such menace amazes me). After discarding both a J. Crew flip-flop and a Nike Air-Rift sneaker as being too bulky, I settled on an American Eagle ballet flat (though let it be known that mine was pink), and took aim at my foe.

To my credit, considering that a.) I'm exhausted and tipsy, and b.) my hand-eye coordination, when it comes to projectiles, is lousy, I came remarkably close to exploding that roach with a single act of footwear.

Unfortunately, I was about an inch shy of my target, the shoe now lies atop my cabinet (where it will most likely remain until I move), and the roach has tumbled to god knows where, and at this moment is most likely making himself at home in one of my sneakers.

Rest assured, no shoe will be donned unchecked for a very, very long time.

In the mean time, my day-off plans for tomorrow, which previously included only "loaf on couch like vegetable," and "wash aprons," have now been amended to include "get lazy ass to hardware store and buy screens for damned windows to insure that this ballet of fuckery never happens again."

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to chug the rest of that 40, jump at the tiniest flicker of every shadow, and have nightmares about roaches the size of my face wielding ballet slippers before holding my cat hostage and demanding reparations.

Damnit. I never had this problem in Brooklyn.

Perspective.

17 YEAR OLD COWORKER

I hope it's not busy tonight.

ME

I hope it is. Me and my bank account need it to be busy.

17 Y/O

Right.

(Beat)

So are you saving for anything in particular? Or just because?

ME

(Pause)
Um... my rent?

17 Y/O

Oh.

ME

My $100,000 in student loans for grad school... my credit card debt...

17 Y/O

Uh huh.

ME

Yeah.

(Pause)

Getting old sucks.

(Beat)

So... you going to college in the Fall?



----
To those using readers, sorry about the blank post. Clearly, I am a wee bit tired.

Really Universe? REALLY??

I.

Am.

So.

Motherfucking.

ANGRY.

Irate. Upset. Apoplectic.

The word Homicidal comes to mind.

I just got a call from the egg donation clinic. The results of my pap are back and I have motherfucking HPV... again.

I had it for four years. I had lots and lots of sections of my cervix painfully removed in a process called a colposcopy. It finally went away and I've been clean for the past 2 years. And now, one of the two men I've slept with since my last exam (neither of whom rated above "average" in the sack) has given me the gift that keeps on giving... in the form of painful and expensive testing, and even more delays in the donation process which now pretty much DEFINITELY won't be happening until after camp, even though I really need that fucking money NOW because my job sucks and we're barely scraping out $100 a day in tips after working 14 hour days, and we're not even getting that money until our paychecks which means it will really be about $75 after taxes which is way less than I was making sitting around on my ass on unemployment and REMIND ME WHY THE FUCK I WENT AND GOT A JOB AGAIN BECAUSE REALLY IT'S NOT SEEMING LIKE SUCH A GREAT IDEA RIGHT ABOUT NOW?!??

So now I get to spend tomorrow--my one day off this week that won't be spent in a cloud of exhaustion--going down to the Egg Donation clinic to sign a release for my charts, then going to the sliding scale clinic they recommend and signing up for a card, then going to their gyno department to make an appointment for the colpo (so I can spend another day off getting chunks removed from my cervix as opposed to doing something I'll enjoy).

And since there is no HPV test for men--apparently, we are the only ones who get to suffer--I don't even get the pleasure of calling The Contender and saying "Go get tested, Asshole!"

I would really REALLY like some good news right about now.

Battered

Holy hell am I tired.

It seems that, lately, the universe has been conspiring to make me a bad blogger. First, there was the whole hospital thing. Now, there is The Job That Ate My Life... to say nothing of my feet, knees, and hips. Ow.

Everything hurts. I've tried three different pairs of shoes, but after walking around on a hard tile floor for 14 hours straight, shoes don't make a lick of difference. My new Earth Shoes left my feet feelings lightly less battered, but the strap happens to rub directly across the spot where I cut my foot open on the bar refrigerator, so until that heals, they are temporarily shelved.

Today I am off, and while mentally I really want to go downtown to meet a friend and her husband at the Big Apple BBQ street fair and gorge myself on assorted sauce-drenched meats, physically I just want to glue myself to the couch, order take-out, pay someone else to do my laundry, and watch CSI: Miami until I go cross-eyed. So which do I appease, body or soul? Considering that the BBQ will involve lots of walking around, not to mention standing in lines, it seems that the desires of the two are mutually exclusive.

I'm off tomorrow as well, but I have to get up mildly early to go do my hours at the Rep Co, which I shifted to an earlier time slot so I can go join my friend at the Ballet in the afternoon. This also means that anything productive (laundry, washing my cat-hair-laden bedding) should probably happen today.

Something's gotta give, and soon. Granted, this job is only temporary until camp--and if I come back to them afterward it will most definitely be on a part-time basis--but can I really stick it out through July 22nd with this brutal four-double-shifts-per-week schedule? If the restaurant keeps getting busier and we start pulling in $300+ per day, I'll be able to convince myself that the financial aspect makes it worth it... but right now, when I'm making more or less the same amount of money as I was getting from unemployment? It makes me want to kick puppies.

If, you know, I could lift my leg.

Working Gal's Blues

Working for restaurant owners who themselves have never worked in a restaurant is a mind-boggling experience.

They wander aimlessly across the floor, completely oblivious to the fact that, directly behind them in the narrow pathway between tables, is a server with about 30 things to do, who desperately needs to get around them.

They choose the most inconvenient places imaginable to stop and have a conversation with contractors/friends/fellow-owners. In the only doorway to the kitchen, for example. Or directly in front of the service bar.

They'll try to hand a glass bottle of water to one of those friends, reaching across the open doorway, and after three servers burst through the gap between them, laden with trays of food, they still haven't quite figured out that it is not a good place to hang out.

They ask you to get them sodas in the middle of a rush.

They decide to hold your credit card tips until your paycheck, utterly oblivious to the fact that the chief reason anyone gets into this line of work in the first place is money. Caah-in-hand, unseen by the IRS, MONEY.

They spring this information on you unexpectedly a few days into the first week of business, allowing you no time to budget for the fact that you won't see more than a few random dollars for two weeks, because in a neighborhood filled with high-rise office buildings, everybody pays on credit cards.

Chances are, having opened a restaurant for the hell of it, being able to afford to do so, and therefore being entirely unfamiliar with the concept of getting by day to day, paycheck to paycheck, they don't have the slightest idea of the financial crunch this move puts on all of their employees.

The employees without whom, it must be said, their business would be entirely unable to function. Because the idea of these individuals donning an apron and carting around trays of french fries is laughable.

Not to mention working four double-shifts, currently clocking in around 14 hours each, per week.

Then again, at least they're actually paying us, which is more than I can say for the last restaurant by which I was "employed." (Can you call it "employment" if they're not paying you?)

All I can say is: business had better pick up, and the money had better get exponentially better, and SOON. Because now that I've taken a job, I can't go back on unemployment (because restaurants never "downsize"). If this place bombs, I am screwed.

S.C.R.E.W.E.D.

And that's a terrifying thought.

Older and... Wiser?

I'm not as young as I once was, in more ways than one, and not all of them bad.

I am off work today, thank goodness, after working two VERY long days at the new restaurant for our soft opening--where we have a limited number of "invite only" guests eating free food while we practice not launching french fries at people, and the kitchen tries to get their shit together. Now, a 13+ hour day is long by anybody's standards, but DAMN have I been feeling it... in my muscles, my bones, and especially my feet.

In essence, my body HURTS. And that makes me feel old.

On the other hand, watching some of the young girls (21, 22) that we're working with, I am damned grateful for the maturity that experience and life in general have given me. There are downsides to an all-female floor staff, such as the tendency to gossip and create drama at every opportunity, but what really gets me are the freakin' tears.

One of the women training us is French, so let's call her Elle, and all of these children have decided that she is rude and evil and they bitch about her behind her back every second they can, simply because she doesn't pat them on the head and tell them they're pretty every time she offers some constructive criticism.

Something that became particularly apparent to me during my studies abroad last Summer is that, as a whole, Americans expect to be coddled. We want our hands held and our asses wiped and god forbid you offer us any sort of criticism without softening the blow with a compliment (or twelve).

So when Elle corrects someone's service technique, or tries to show them a more efficient way of doing something... they cry. Or bitch about it and petulantly not do what they were told. Let's forget the fact that she is a.) just doing her job, b.) from an entirely different culture that has an entirely different approach to interpersonal relations, and c.) speaking a language that is not her native tongue. None of that matters in the slightest. She isn't treating me like a delicate flower and therefore she is a bitch.

It's really ridiculous.

Now, don't get me wrong, she rubbed me the wrong way for a day or two as well, but then again, EVERYTHING was rubbing me the wrong way. And in the end? I got over it. And now I think she's lovely. That may have something to do with the fact that she clearly likes me as well--most likely because I'm not incompetent--but that's beside the point. It's a fucking job people. Not high school. Or day care. We're not here to make friends, we are here to get paid. Period.

Fortunately there is another "old hand" on the staff, with whom I instantly bonded, who also takes all of the lunacy in stride. I'm sure a day will come for each of us when we totally lose our shit--because it's the service industry and that's just how it goes--but until that point in time, I'm just going to keep my ass out of the drama... and hope my feet don't fall off.

Nom Nom Nom

Happy Weekend my lovelies!

Yesterday I spent my afternoon basking in the sun in a park in Brooklyn, picnicking with some absolutely lovely people. I can't think of a better way to spend such a gorgeous, sunny afternoon.

As it happens, several people at the picnic asked for the recipe for the dessert I brought, which, incidentally, looked like this:

Heavenly, right? I know. I'm awesome.

It's a pudding, but in the British sense of the word, which means that under that lovely, crusty top it is a creamy colour and has a consistency somewhere between sponge cake and flan. Difficult to describe if you've never had it, but very, very tasty. And since I just spent a few minutes typing up the recipe to send to one of my fellow picnickers, I thought I'd share it with you all as well!


Lemon Surprise Pudding

Ingredients:
1/2 cup caster (superfine) sugar *
1/2 cup self raising flour **
1/4 cup butter
1 1/4 cups milk
2 eggs, separated
Grated rind and juice of 2 lemons

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 375°F (190°C, Gas 5). Use a little butter to grease a 5 cup (.5 litre, 2 pint) baking dish.

2. Beat the lemon rind, butter and sugar in a bowl until pale and fluffy. Add the egg yolks and flour and beat together well. Gradually whisk in the lemon juice, then milk (the mixture will curdle, but this is supposed to happen).

3. Fold the egg whites lightly into the lemon mixture using a metal spoon, then pour into the prepared baking dish.

4. Place the dish in a roasting pan and pour in hot water to come halfway up the side of the dish. Bake for 45 minutes until golden. Serve immediately.


NOTES & HINTS:
* Superfine sugar is NOT confectioner sugar, it is granulated sugar that is ground, well, superfinely. I only had a little left so I went halfsies with regular granulated sugar and it didn't pose a problem. If you use regular, just spend a little extra time beating together with the butter & lemon rind.

** If you don't have self-raising flour, you can just add 1/2 tsp baking powder at the same time as the flour.

I used an electric juicer to juice my lemon which gives a LOT of juice, so when it came time to fold in the egg whites my mixture was very liquid and the heavy egg whites weren't blending with the batter. I ended up using the electric mixer on low to beat them in, just for a few seconds. Didn't seem to cause any problems.

Finally, it took my pudding about an hour to bake, versus 45 minutes, which may be because, as I said, the mixture was really liquid. Either way, just go by the colour on top. When it's nice and golden brown, it's ready.



And there you have it! I've got a whole slew of Food Porn on my harddrive just waiting to be shared (chicken & snow peas, several pizzas, and my first attempt at homemade ravioli, just to name a few), but I'll save those for another time.

Perhaps I should just turn this into a food blog and call it a day. But then, where would I go to bitch about stupid people on the subway, or my love life (if, you know, I ever happen to develop one)?

Yup, better to keep it as it is--and much like my diet--a little bit of everything.

Bon Appetit!

Tidbit

I just received a lengthy mass email from High School Nemesis Who Has Now Found God And Is Therefore, Apparently, No Longer An Asshole. While the first portion of the email was at least an educated and well-written brief (with citations!) on his own religious struggle (he has a Masters in Theology...from Yale, no less), the second half was one of those forwarded-to-death, tug-at-your-heartstrings, isn't-god-great-etc-etc emails.

After the schmaltzy story [insert close-up of single tear], there was this:

"When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully and let go, only 1 of 2 things will happen, either He'll catch you when you fall, or He'll teach you how to fly!"

Being one to frequently equate organized religion with the behavior of lemmings, I couldn't help but find this ironic.

Rut Rut Rut

I am in a serious rut.

As non-thrilled as I am at the prospect of waitressing again, at least once the restaurant opens and I start working a regular schedule I'll be doing something.

You see, the chief difficulty that I've found with being unemployed is that, when you have such an extensive amount of free time in which to do things, it becomes exceedingly difficult to do anything at all.

Laundry, for example. If you work 9-5, Monday thru Friday, you either do your laundry at the weekend, or drop it off after work one day and pick it up the next (another bonus of being gainfully employed: the option of paying someone else to do your laundry for you). When unemployed, however, there is no pressure to get your laundry, or anything else, done today, because your schedule for the next day is equally open.

I am running dangerously low on clean underwear.

This constant availability begets a very vicious cycle that winds up with me sitting on my couch in my pajamas, frittering away the day on the internet, bookmarking job postings but never actually getting around to applying for them because, naturally, I can always do that tomorrow. There are two colleges within the five boroughs that are looking to expand their adjunct staff. All I need to do is write a cover letter, double check with my usual references that they don't mind being referenced, and then send off the letter with my CV.

Have I done it yet?

Give a guess.

I seem to fall into ruts like this fairly frequently, and I wish I could figure out how to break the cycle. I am, in general, an active person. When I'm sitting here on my couch ignoring my ever-expanding Google Reader (I promise I still love all of you, really I do) and opting instead to refresh my Facebook home page every 5 minutes to see who's updated their status and whether there are any new quizzes for me to take, there is a part of me that is edgy, restless, and irritated, wishing I was doing something productive with my time.

Which is usually when I get up and bake something. We're not even going to talk about how much weight I've gained in the past few months.

Maybe it's the weather. Last week when it was beautiful all I did was sit in the park for hours at a time and read, which is not technically productive, yet I felt good about it. Felt that I had accomplished something.

Why is it that laziness out of doors promotes a sense of active engagement, whereas laziness on the couch promotes a sense of sloth? Other than Vitamin D intake, what is the actual difference?

I have no conclusion for this post. Bitching about my irritation with myself did not bring me to any startling resolution--not that I thought it would, mind, but it would have been nice.

I'm sick of feeling dissatisfied. I just wish I knew what to do about it.

I Can Hardly Believe It But...

... I joined Twitter.

http://twitter.com/LovelyLlama

Leave no mental stone unturned.

Gotcha!

I am convinced that Insomnia is the Universe's way of paying me back for some indiscretion that I have yet to commit--and I can only hope that, when I do, it is fucking worth it.

So, rather than letting the Universe sit smugly by while I get increasingly more irritated at my own inability to achieve a REM state, I will instead relate an entertaining conversation that took place earlier today.

I was at the new job, sitting around with a few other waitresses shooting the shit whilst waiting our turn to practice some special method of scooping ice cream. As often happens when a large number of people are all embarking on a new path of employment, we began swapping tales of previous jobs and the shit we'd had to endure while employed thereby.

The subject, predictably enough, turned to lecherous bosses.

"So I was temping at this hedge fund, right around the corner actually..." I began.

"Oh, which one?" Asked one of the other girls. We've all worked pretty much every job known to man.

"Brentwood Advisors, over on 66th." **

"Oh, okay, go on," she said, and I proceeded to share the story of a going away party that took place when I'd only been working there for a few weeks, where I happened to get far drunker than advisable with some of the younger guys from the firm, and how one of them, when he walked me down to get a taxi when I realized I was tanked, proceeded to stick his tongue down my throat. Twice. Meanwhile he had a girlfriend, who called him, like, 5 times a day, which I knew, because it was my job to answer his damned phones.

"What was his name?" The girl asked.

"Errr... Jason.... something. I don't remember his last name." I finished up my tale, describing the incredibly irate drunken email that I sent (to his work email address) when I got home, and the retracting email I sent the following morning saying that, in light of keeping things professional, perhaps it was best that we just forget the whole thing.

As the tale of awkwardness wound down, the girl who'd been asking all the questions smiled and said,

"I am now going to blow your mind with what a small world this is... His name is Jason Smith, and his girlfriend's name is Stacy. I know, because I worked there too."

Well let me tell you, my head damned near exploded as I struggled to control the surge of laughter that overtook me (not to mention the relief because for a moment I thought she was going to turn out to be either the girlfriend, or a close friend thereof).

As I got myself back under control, she proceeded to tell me that, when she'd first started temping there (a few years after me), she'd been shocked to see him because several years before that she'd answered his Causal Encounters ad on Craigslist (once again while he was with the same girlfriend, to whom he is now, incidentally, married)!

I must own that I was relieved to learn that the guy was simply a sleaze, and that I had done nothing to encourage him to molest my tonsils while I was hammered.

There is, however, a moral to be learned, which is this: Be careful what stories you tell in New York City, because no matter how big you think it is, everybody knows everybody.

It's like high school.

With cocaine.

Scary.

________________
** Names and locations have been changed to protect the guilty. And what passes for my reputation.

Recap

I was supposed to go to a picnic yesterday, but was deterred by the 90 minute travel time (each way) and the imminent threat of a drum circle. Instead, I opted to loaf around the house for a few hours and then pack up my stuff and hike up the giant hill to hang out in the (much more crowded than usual) park.

As I lay on my back, absorbed in my 80th re-reading of "Pride and Prejudice," I was startled from my reverie of Darcy-lust by a frisbee which winged unexpectedly across my field of vision, knocking the book from my hands and sending it flying across the grass.

Now, had this been a romantic comedy, perhaps starring Amanda Peet as the anything-but-ingenue female lead, the perpetrator of this act--played by a Ryan Reynolds, or perhaps even an on-break-from-Fringe Joshua Jackson--would have loped easily to my side, grinning charmingly. Witty banter would ensue and, before the sun had set, we would be well on our way to purchasing a duplex in New Jersey or, at the very least, have made plans to meet later for dinner/drinks/raunchy sex.

Instead, the man who ran over (whether he was the thrower or failed-catcher, I could not say) was of only average-ish attractiveness, and while he did retrieve my book and inquired after my general well-being, offered only a profuse apology (no banter or other demonstration) before he returned to his game, and I to my book.

My life, clearly, is not a chick flick.

While the remainder of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough, I did discover one down-side to going to the park alone: nobody to watch your things should you need to go in search of the bathroom. (See, again! If this were a movie, the Ryan/Joshua frisbee thrower/misser would have offered to watch my things as repayment for hitting me, and then perhaps left some cute message in my notebook, or programmed his number into my phone, during my absence.) Rather than leave the park--almost immediately upon arrival--I decided instead to hold it... for two hours. And then stop by the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few things for dinner.

Needless to say, by the time I finally mounted the last of the 5 flights of stairs leading to my apartment, I was in a considerable state of discomfort. All in all, however, it was not enough to tarnish the overall pleasantness of the day.

On the whole, my long weekend was relatively uneventful. Went out with friends (and spent far too much money) for a friend's birthday on Saturday night--rolling home around 5am to discover that, when totally schmammered, the 24-HR McDonald's is every bit as irresistible as I'd imagined it would be--and paid for it (though not as dearly as expected, owing, most likely, to the afore-mentioned McDonald's) on Sunday morning. There was a bit of work scattered throughout as well, but really, nobody wants to hear about that.

And there you have it.

Not, perhaps, the plot of a Summer Blockbuster--or even a Lifetime Movie of the Week--but enough to keep me from feeling like a total loser.

Works for me.

Mental Chiropractics

I need a serious attitude adjustment.

In an hour or so, I'll be heading downtown for my third day of training for Waitressing Job. Today we're learning the Bar, and I'm already annoyed because they've told us we'll be pouring with a jigger. I know how to free-pour properly, and I find jiggers slow, tedious, and messy, particularly if one is in a rush. Thus, I am pissed off before I even get to work, a pattern that has been in effect for, oh, years... particularly when related to the service industry.

It is, in fact, the reason I got out of the industry in the first place.

[tangent]
Holy shit, there is an aeronotical insect ballet taking place in my livingroom. I really need to get screens for my windows. Right, back to the issue at hand.
[/tangent]

I stopped waiting tables 4 years ago because it made me miserable, made me not only see the worst in people, but expect it, which is an attitude that is so very much not in line with my usual outlook on life. So I quit... and went on to be a personal assistant--definitely NOT the way to go when trying to restore one's faith in humanity. But I digress.

The bottom line is: I was skeptical when I took this job, but I need a job. Specifically, a job that pays more than Unemployment, which this one hopefully will. It is an act of necessity, but does necessity dictate that I must be miserable for the next few months?

Yet there I sit in training, the restaurant won't even open for business until the end of next week, and I can practically feel the negativity oozing from every pore.

Is there such a thing as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for New York City waitresses?

This restaurant is very, shall we say, "High Concept." It has an extremely limited menu and a very specific way of doing things. On one hand, this is fabulous. It makes my job that much easier not having to memorize 5,000 appetizers, or worry about swapping out sides and holding the mayo/onions/etc. Yet every time a new piece of information is introduced, I immediately find myself imagining the customer who is going to raise an enormous stink over the fact that we don't have ketchup, and therefore refuse to tip me.

It's very similar to a few years ago when the shit was hitting the fan with The Evil Ex Roommate. She flew off the handle and treated me so horribly at the slightest provocation that no matter what I did or did not do, or before she had knowledge of either, I would imagine and steel myself for the tirade to come.

I took so much abuse--from my roommate, my customers, and even my former employers--that I've come to expect it. Which is, um, bad.

Or perhaps it's less an issue of PWSD (Post Waitressing Stress Disorder), and more the fact that I am essentially bitter that, after spending 4 semesters and nearly $100k on a Masters Degree, I'm right back where I was 4 years ago: waiting tables and struggling to keep financially afloat--which is essentially a gigantic kick in the ass and an indicator that, perhaps, I've been wasting my time (not to mention my credit rating).

Regardless of the cause, what I need to figure out is: is there any way I can turn this attitude around, give the service industry (and myself) a clean slate and start over with, if not exactly a positive, then at least a neutral outlook?

Or have I simply made my bed, as they say? ...And now I have to work in it.

Little Lessons

I haven't officially begun training for Avon (psssst! Have you donated yet? You totally should! All the cool kids are doing it! Here, check it out!), but since the weather has been fine, and my fat ass* needs to lose some weight, I went on a 2 hour walk both yesterday and today. Yesterday I tackled Fort Tryon Park (even more beautiful now that everything is green!) and Inwood Hill Park (only natural forest left in Manhattan!), and today I walked from 52nd St & Lex to 125th & St. Nicholas via a very circuitous route through Central Park.

Here are a few things I learned along the way.

1. There is NO easy way up the hill into Fort Tryon Park.

2. Even if there was, it would NOT be the stairs.

3. Inwood Hill Park is very aptly named.

4. Black Squirrels! Who knew?

5. Central Park is, in fact, even bigger than it looks on the map.

6. That being said, walking from South-East to North-West corner, it takes about an hour and a half to get across, but you could easily spend a day there and not see everything.

7. If you're walking on the gravel paths in CP, the gravel WILL get into your shoes.

8. The Rambles are paved. Boo.

9. Groundhogs! In Manhattan! Who knew?

10. Googling "fragrant purple flowers" will not help you figure out what those amazing flowers in the Heather Garden are.**

11. It is possible to be out and about in Manhattan and not see another human being for over an hour.

12. If you get deep enough into Inwood Hill Park, you can't hear the cars anymore.

13. When 10 and 11 happen simultaneously, you may or may not start imagining Axe Murderers lurking in the underbrush. I blame over-exposure to Law and Order.


________________
* Before you all go postal on me, yes, yes, I am aware that my definition of "fat ass" probably varies greatly from some of your definitions... which doesn't change the fact that I've eaten nothing but crap for the last month and my waistline has suffered accordingly. So nyeh.

** I'll give a dollar, or maybe just a cool web badge, to anyone who can re-write that sentence without the dangling preposition and NOT sound like a pompous ass. I tried. It's not easy.

Food Porn

I don't own a scale, a fact for which I am currently exceptionally grateful, as I'm fairly certain that I've gained about 10 lbs in the past six weeks, due to my erratic eating schedule, the high-calorie count of the take-out food available close to the hospital, and my friend's constant craving for cupcakes.

So what do I do now that she's gone away?

I cook.

A lot.

What can I say? Cooking is like therapy to me... if only my hips and belly felt the same way.

What I really need to do is go on a cleansing fast to rid myself of the desire to eat crap--which is at an all-time high right about now--but at the moment I'm a bit too stressed out to deal with a liquid diet, so until I can find an appropriate week in which to rectify my wretched eating habits, I give you...

Food Porn.

#1 Fresh Pasta
Before setting off on his cross-country move to Texas, my friend K had to deal with the frightening aspect of packing up his, um, shall we say cluttered, apartment.

Which is how I ended up with a pasta maker. Score!

Granted, I had to take the whole thing apart to clean it, which took about 2 hours, and then again after I jammed it up with my first attempt... but once I got the hang of it?

So very worth it!

Exhibit A. Fresh Linguini

Exhibit B. Fresh Spaghetti

Exhibit C. Linguini with Red Sauce

Exhibit D. Spinach Spaghetti with Red Sauce & Olives

There was also some Spinach Spaghetti with Pesto, which was, in fact, excellent... but try as I might I couldn't find a photo that made it appear appetizing.



#2 Back to Bread
Since moving to my new apartment, my devotion to home-made bread has fallen by the way-side. Doing it properly can be a time-consuming process--lots of waiting around for dough to proof--and all I wanted to do when I got home from the hospital was watch a few episodes on the DVR and pass out.

No more! The other night I dove back in to my favourite food-related pass time with a batch of olive-oil dough... only, being out of olive oil, I used avocado oil instead, which made a nice substitute. The results...?

Exhibit A. White Pesto Pizza with Olives, Oven-Dried Tomatoes, and Asparagus

There are not words to express how much I love fresh asparagus! This would have been better had I stretched the dough a bit thinner, but I was hungry and impatient. Bad Frog!


Exhibit B. Oven-Dried Tomato & Pesto Bread

Kindly ignore the detritus in the background (my apartment is seven different shades of disaster right now) and feast your eyes on the gorgeousness of these loaves! The original recipe calls for the tomatoes, whole cloves of carmelized garlic, and fresh basil... but the basil always dried out in the oven so I decided to try Pesto instead. I actually haven't tried it yet, so I'll have to let you know how that experiment turned out!


#3 Cookies!!!
There happens to be a Borders bookstore en route to the hospital where my friend was staying, so I made quite a few visits in the past month and a half. During that time, they had a HUGE selection of cookbooks on super-sale ($3-$6 each), all lined up right next to the check-out, and, well, I couldn't help myself.

One of the first that I bought was "The Cookie and Biscuit Bible." These were on the cover, and I'd been dying to make them ever since I bought the book.

Exhibit A. Honey Crunch Creams

They're supposed to be made with Greek Honey, which I couldn't find anywhere, so I used Orange Blossom instead,and Oh... My... God! Wish I'd made a full recipe instead of just a half. My hips, however, are probably thanking me.

That stuff in the middle? Is Honey Buttercream. Yeah. Heaven.



In addition the all of the above, there was also some freaking fabulous Chicken and Snow Peas from my new stir fry cookbook, but I didn't get any photos. I will next time, I promise!

So there you have it.

Anybody else feeling hungry?

Back from the Abyss

Well, it's my 400th post, and I'm here to say... Sorry for disappearing on y'all like that, really I am. The past 6 weeks have been exhausting. The days more or less blurred together after awhile, and I figured that simply falling off the grid for a bit was better than filling your readers with a bunch of semi-comatose "Today at the hospital we..." posts.

But as of Tuesday my friend was released, and as I type this she is winging her way towards Idaho with her mother, where she'll spend the next few months rehabbing and getting her strength back. (Baby, if you're well enough to be reading this, you know I love you! Keep up the hard work!!).

And here I am, trying to get my life back to some semblance of normalcy--or whatever it is that passes for normal in these parts. Which means lots of cooking, so one of my trademark Food Porn posts is imminent.

In the mean time, I had an interview for a job I really wanted that I thought went well, but I didn't get the job. I took a job as a waitress that I don't really want but thought it might be nice to get off unemployment... so long as this place takes off. If I end up making LESS than I am on unemployment, well, I'm gonna be pissed. Either way, training starts next week. In about an hour I have to leave for an audition for a show that I'm not entirely sure I want to do after having read the sides the director sent for the audition, but I already signed up so I'd might as well go. I'm hoping the UPS man gets here before I leave because I really want the shoes he's delivering (some kick-ass old school Vans that I got for a ridiculously low price, fingers crossed that they fit!). I'm halfway to my fundraising goal for Avon, so if you haven't donated yet, go do it now!!! Every little bit helps, and a donation of $10 or more enters you into my raffle with sweet, handmade prizes! Come on, who doesn't like prizes? Oh, and Chemistry.com tried to hook me up with a 26 year old World of Warcraft fan who lives with his parents, which pretty much sums up how well *that* little venture is going...

And I think that's pretty much it. My apartment is still not remotely unpacked and completely filthy. The other day I spotted a roach in my dishwasher, which left me less than pleased, and yes, I ran the entire load again.

Bottom line: I am exhausted. I slept late today (miraculously, my cat allowed me to do so!) and still I feel wiped out. I feel like I need to sleep for a week, but unfortunately, I don't think that's in the cards just yet.

So here I am. I am back. In spirit if not in energy. Thanks for waiting :)