Monday morning, always a rough one, isn’t it? I remember what a rough Monday I had on January the 29th. Our dishwasher, Rex, had the same kind of Monday. The details are sketchy but it appears as though a fire started in he and his wife’s mobile home (rental) around 2:30 this morning. They were alerted in enough time to put it out but left the residence to stay with her mother. At 7:15, our Assistant Manager, who is also Rex’s wife’s cousin, drove by to see if they needed anything but no one was home and everything looked okay. By 9:00, it was a shell and ash. They lost everything and they didn’t have renters insurance.
Luckily for Rex, he works with the best group of folks anyone could ask for and some wise sage once said that perhaps one day I would be the one showing the way out of the dark, or smoke, as it may be.
Jay looked at me and said, “Okay, Nanner, you’ve been through this. What’s the best thing to say? What’s the best thing to do?” I told him to imagine walking into an apartment with nothing in it but kitchen appliances, then in his mind imagine everything he would need to fill it up, from toothbrushes to bed sheets, spices to soap, frying pans to trashcans, food and towels, a place to lay your head, and so much more.
Rex is a great guy and I know we’ll take care of him as best we can. Just happy he and his wife are okay. Send some good thoughts and prayers his way. Thanks.
Big Papa said that about me last week. Yeah, you could say that, right?
I saw a shooting star last week too. Then I saw where it was time for the Leonid meteor shower. Since it was so early in the evening, that sucker must have been a real doozy! The trail was intense. Yes, I wished upon the shooting star. It had to do with love. I should have asked for money. Love and I don’t get along very well.
Last Saturday at work was insane. It probably would have been okay had we not had one section closed down for cleaning and then Whiny and I got confused about who was waiting on what table in one section. It was a fucocktomy. We almost came to blows. Not really at each other, well, okay, at each other, but also just out of sheer frustration until they opened my regular side up again. That was accomplished after our owner and executive chef moved all of the tables.
Poor Owner. He’s never worked with me and Whiny before. He thought we were really going to duke it out. The Assistant Manager had to tell him that we were fine and to just, well, leave us alone. I’m sure when I see him tomorrow he’ll ask about it. I’ll make sure he knows that if we ever come to blows we’ll do it in the employee parking lot.
I read Nikki Sixx’s book, “The Heroine Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star.” Anyone not knowing who Nikki Sixx is, he’s the bassist and a founding member of Motley Crue. (If you don’t know who Motley Crue is, then I don’t know what to tell ya.) Wow. Just wow. The reason I’ve never been a hardcore addict, other than smoking and beading, is because at a very young age, right after I discovered I liked drinking too much, I was well aware that if I ever tried the hardcore drugs, I’d like them way too much as well. I’ve drank a lot, smoked a little pot, but kept a healthy distance and aversion to anything more.
But, that doesn’t mean that what Nikki talks about in his book doesn’t apply to me. I chose not to become an addict but I loved the addict. The same feelings he was trying to run from in a coke/heroine/alcohol haze were the same feelings I had, and after the fact, we came to the same conclusions about the situations that were the root of the feelings.
Reading his book helped me. It made me laugh, especially when he talks about Gene Simmons, it disgusted me (I mean, gah! He injected heroine through his DICK!), it gave me insight into some of the bands that I followed and bought albums from in the 80’s, but most of all, I didn’t feel so alone, especially in a time when I have felt very alone. I also read an interview on his MySpace page and I was especially interested in how he talks to his children who are 16, 13, 12, and 6. I found this especially interesting –
“They say that alcoholism is a disease, and that it gets passed on from generation to generation. Trust me, I’ve told my kids about that: ‘You’ve got the crazy gene in you, guys. When it comes time to kick back with the buddies, drink a beer, and watch a football game, just realize that there will be a day when that thing turns on you. So you better keep an eye on it.'”
I just read that to Nate. I talk to him a lot about alcoholism and drugs. I’ve talked to him about Nikki’s book and I think he may be getting old enough to read it. Nikki also said in a speech from Capitol Hill – paraphrasing – “When they talk about painkillers, I ask, what pain are they trying to kill?” I understand that. I get that.
I wrote a letter to him. Been a long time since I’ve written a letter to a rock star. Hell, it may be the first, but after reading his book, he’s just another single parent trying to do the right thing and wondering if everything he’s learned will rub off on his kids. I didn’t send it out, not sure I will, but it made me feel better.
This is my only day off this week and I’m trying to: get clothes together for washing, get dishes stacked in the dishwasher, and then decide who gets to use the water first, clean the living room, decide where to put the Yule Tree I don’t own yet, hang Yule lights without the benefit of an extension cord since my wonderful contractors took the only one that survived the fire (bastards!), clean the rest of my house, change litter boxes, wash what dishes I can’t put in the dishwasher, put something in the crock pot for dinner, love on Nate, and love on the kitties. Those last two prevent me from doing the other things, which doesn’t hurt my feelings a bit.
My birthday will never be on Thankgiving, however, this does not mean I don’t think the turkey and trimmings are all for me.
What I did on my birthday:
No, there aren’t any antlers on that deer, but still a worthy kill. She weighed about 84 lbs. field dressed and we’ll get about 50 lbs. of meat from her.
I spent time with my family… all of them. Then I went to work and they all spoiled me with food and drinks. And more drinks… and some more.
Then I went back to my parents’ place today and hunted (after temps dropped 30*-40*) but didn’t see much. Ate turkey. Spent time with family. Came home and soaked in a hot bath. Now, I’m ready for bed.
I’m working tomorrow and we’re anticipating a big crowd. I hope so. I could use it.
I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Now, on with the leftovers.
of milk. I’ve been bingeing on milk. Since drinking too much milk to me is the equivalent of taking Ex-Lax, you could say I’ve been spending a lot of time in the bathroom. You see, I can’t eat cake without drinking milk and since I’ve eaten half a dozen cupcakes, sans icing, and an entire 9 inch cake by myself in the past two or three days, safe to say it didn’t have much time to make me fat since it found its way out as quickly as it found its way in.
It makes me sick when I drink too much, not as sick as eggnog makes me, but sick enough I wish I hadn’t done it the next morning. Gah!
Kevin has been dead a year and I didn’t get a chance to go to the cemetery. I guess its enough that I remembered although I wondered if anyone else did. I didn’t talk to anyone from the gang until today and I didn’t mention it. I don’t know why, maybe because I was afraid they hadn’t remembered. Although I’m also reminded that remembering how Kevin lived versus how he died is the most important thing. He was such a goof.
It dawned on me today that I haven’t heard from AZ and then I remembered I’m not supposed to. And I remember why.
I’m very numb and I can’t really remember the last time I felt anything other than irritation and sadness. New Orleans, I guess. I really felt alive there. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. It was over too quick but possibly one of the most orgasmic trips I’ve ever taken. 41 hours of orgasm. Still not enough.
I’d do anything for a Wellbutrin.
I keep a running list of things I can’t wait to do when this money situation is finally figured out. The house still needs painted and the metal around the windows fixed. It still looks like there was a fire here and I’m ready to erase all visual reminders. I want the porch enclosed and a curio cabinet for my swans and my antique stoneware that survived. Maybe even that wood stove, a TV stand, a bookcase. A pair of work pants that fit.
But, I want that Wellbutrin more. I want to stop walking around numb.
Jay really hurt my feelings on Monday. He said I must be a lesbian since I was fast approaching 37 and have never been married. I told him he was just jealous that I could satisfy him and his girlfriend. I didn’t feel it was any of his business that I could be married anytime I wish and I could have been married years ago, but although I may live in numb misery, I’m smart enough not to settle.
Hell, Jeff just told me last week to marry him again. I said, “No.” Then I threw up a little in my mouth.
I also didn’t feel as though it was any of his business that I spent the better part of 15 years loving the wrong man. Okay, wrong men. But, for the most part, one man.
I wish I hadn’t chosen the code word “Jay” for my sous chef. I have a friend named Jay and now I’m having trouble finding a name for the real Jay. I call him Big Papa Jay, so I’ll just call him Big Papa. Anyway, Big Papa is trying to quit smoking so he’s not allowed to drink for two weeks while he starts the “stop smoking” drug. His triglycerides were also quite a bit too high so he’s going on this health kick. Ya know, I don’t call him Big Papa for nothin’. So, he’s offered to be my designated driver this weekend. I have to find the trouble and he’ll help me get into it.
I’ve become shitty at commenting, shitty at reading, and even shitty at responding to my own comments. I know I have to keep writing or I’ll just go insane completely. Truth is, I should have been mainlining antidepressants since January 29th, if not before. Maybe something will give soon… very soon.
Here I am again. I was sitting on the porch today wondering if there was something I should be writing about and I can’t think of a thing. At least, nothing I feel like delving into with both feet.
I will tell you all that Sean Dustman, from Doc in the Box, is being featured in the History Channel documentary, “Band of Bloggers,” which explores the blogging medium regarding raw and immediate information of the Iraq War from those fighting it. It is on again tomorrow (November 12th) at Noon and 6 p.m. EST. It was a pretty decent documentary although I was a bit miffed that it didn’t mention the blogs nor screen names of any of the men and woman they featured.
I keep subscribing to the notion that good things come to people who wait… and wait… and wait… I’ve kicked that notion to the curb. I finally got my insurance to pay out the final amount of money due me from the fire after a three month wait. Since the check was supposed to have been cut on the 2nd of November and mailed the same day from KY, I expected said paltry, yet important, sum to reach my doorstep no later than Tuesday.
I e-mailed my contact again and inquired as to where the check had been sent. 48 hours later and with crickets still in my mailbox, I was informed the check had been sent to the address which I have not lived at in over five months. I suppose it is too much to ask that they remember where my residence is since this has been the center-point of the whole deal to start with. My fire, remember? Remember me moving home at the end of May?
I sent back an e-mail that should have read: Dear Fucktard: How the hell could you have forgotten my home address? I think you’re passive-aggressive and need immediate intervention. Do not ever think KY is so far away that I won’t track your ass down and beat the shit out of you. You are a stupid, fucking idiot and it amazes me that you keep your job. Further, had you realized it was YOUR fault that the receipts had not been processed and giving me lip service only increases my ire, then perhaps I wouldn’t have sent that last e-mail regarding my payment, in which I also attempted to keep a civil tongue on the page and not tell you what a lying moron you are. To send my check to my TEMPORARY address is beyond stupid. Honestly, it IS passive-aggressive behavior because I called you to the mat over taking so long to process my receipts – through NO FAULT of my own.
Bite my ass, bitch. I loathe you. If given the chance, I will fuck with you, hard. Except I’ll do you the pleasure of informing you that it is I who is doing so and why.
Further, I’m also faced with another fucktard that can’t get her shit together. This also involves MY MONEY. Why do people think that your money is their money and they must protect it at every cost? No people, my 401(k) is not YOUR MONEY. That is MY MONEY that you are mishandling and I will not stop until I have wrenched every dime of it from your scum sucking, bad investing hands.
Telling me that it isn’t anyone’s fault but it’s your “workload” is insufficient and incompetent. You’ve know for FIVE MONTHS that I wished to take my money off of your hands. FIVE MONTHS. This is not insufficient notice. I believe that to be more than enough time to print out some paperwork for me to sign. Yes, I know all about the penalties. If you get me my motherfuckin’ money, all of those penalties will be offset from the tax break I’ll get because of the fire, numbnuts. That is, IF you are capable of disbursing my money before the end of the year.
No, I don’t have any sympathy for you nor your “workload.” If 50 people walk through the door of my restaurant, I can’t look at my boss and say, “I just can’t handle the workload.” I would be fired or severely reprimanded. If my “workload” is more than I can handle sufficiently, I ask for, and receive, help. Perhaps you could learn a bit from my work environment. Also, I may point out, that my former boss, the man who you have to have sign my forms as well, would not tolerate a “too heavy workload” excuse from me and I certainly don’t expect to hear it again. Again lady, not five hour or five days, but FIVE MONTHS. Get off your ass.
In other news, I’m seriously contemplating purchasing a wood stove, should I have ever have sufficient funds to do so. Wood is free. My parents just bought 9 acres of land that needs to be cleared. They have an additional 500 or so acres of woodland where they live now. Its rather stupid of me not to have a wood burning stove in my house regardless of how I feel about burning wood in my house. Much cheaper and if the power goes out, oh well, I’ll be warm and toasty.
The way I figure it, the stove would cost about $500. Gas to bring wood to the house would be about $160 a year. I haven’t gotten my new electric and gas bills since its gotten really cold, but my bet is, I’d save a boatload of cash. And, the cost of utilities will continue to rise and my wood will continue to be free. So, there we are.
Guess I had more to write about than I thought. A bunch of complaining that doesn’t help anything.
Have you ever met someone and they give you such an attitude you wonder if you’ve met them before, wronged them in some egregious way, and just not remembered it? I had a guest like that today. The majority of my guests were absolutely fantastic today as we were slammin’ busy and none of them gave me a hard time about it. This particular lady didn’t either but I literally wanted to put the tray down and say, “What?”
Dirty looks, good Goddess! Look lady, it is totally not my fault you’re ugly. Bad genes, I guess, and that shirt you were wearing didn’t do much for you either. I still believe that attitude accounts for at least 50% of attraction. Trust me, I didn’t get laid last weekend either and I’m hot, friendly, and had a date for sex… and still didn’t get any. Gah!
One of my lawyer bosses once said, “Ugly chicks should be friendly because they have nothing else going for them. Hot chicks like you can get by with being bitchy simply because you’re hot and beautiful but ugly chicks… naw, they almost have to be nice.” I punched him in the arm, hard. Although in our society, he has a point.
Enough of that. Jack got his balls cut off today. He’s still in his crate as he’s still woozy and he’s not allowed out until tomorrow. I hate that but really, have you smelled male cat piss? *Gag* Poor Jack.
Nate asked me how they were going to do it and I told him they would make two small cuts below Jack’s scrotum, pop his little balls out, and slice them off. Nate made a face and said, “Ugh, I’m sure am glad you don’t have to do that to me.” LOL! I said, “Yeah, really. It was bad enough having you circumcised.”
Oh yeah, I walked right into that one. Blond to the bone.
Ah, the frank discussions between a mother and her son, especially when I had trouble remembering the term, “foreskin.” How could I? However, Nate now knows that he used to have foreskin and now he doesn’t and he doesn’t remember anything about it being removed. He also knows that all Jewish men are circumcised but some other men aren’t.
Jeff’s mother calls this, “TMI.” I call this, “Things he needs to know.”
Well, that was cringe worthy.
Did I mention I stepped on a piece of glass this morning and sliced a hole in my foot? It hurt and there was a trail of little (sometimes big) blood droplets from the bedroom to the bathroom to the computer room. Actually, I broke a pane of glass that was to go over one of my BSC collages, but I guess the cats knocked it over and when I got up to turn off the alarm, “Good Mornnnnnning, Vietnaaaam!” It hurt worse when I got in the shower. It’s hurting right now. Oh, well. So long as I don’t develop MRSA we be aiight.
One of our regulars saw me at the bar on Monday. I spoke to him by name. All I do when I walk up to his table is say hello, fill his water glass, ask if it will be one or two calamari, and his and his companion’s regular. The answer is normally yes. That would be water, keep it coming because he drinks a lot of it, two orders of calamari, two steak salads (mid rare for him and medium for his friend), drop check immediately after serving, and cash him out.
He asked, “What is your name?” I told him and he said, “Good, I want to be able to ask for you when I come in.” He had been served by Whiny that day. Don’t know what happened there. I don’t think she’s waited on him enough to know what his regular meal is and how much he hates being chatted with.
The State Supreme Court Justice who comes in likes a lot of lemon with his water and his steak (salad) should be well done, no pink. Sometimes he eats bread, sometimes not. And he always, always, always makes a freakin’ mess of the sugar caddy. Or you’ll find the empty sweetener packets on the floor along with some other trash. I think he empties his pockets when he sits down… I dunno.
A married couple comes in and he always gets the tuna appetizer first, then a bowl of the French onion soup, and tea. She gets tea and the chicken club salad. Lots of bread. Give him a tea to-go.
I call one of my regulars, “Sherbert,” and he and his wife call me, get this, “Peach.” This all started over a mango/peach/apricot shirt he was wearing one day. It was quite snazzy and I told him he should order the mango-lemongrass sorbet we have to go with it and I mentioned that some of my friends call me Peach. We had a great time and I was quite pleased that they asked me to wait on them the following evening (when I worked the 14 hour shift, yeah, it was their fault *wink*).
I really do love my job. And now that we’ve come full circle, I bid you, “Good night and good luck.”
Remember how I said I was going to try and blog more? Well, I am blogging, just in my mind. Finding time this past week to put it “on paper” has been daunting. First, there’s Nate. Yeah, the little shitter has been in a big heap o’ trouble. Let’s see… school. At the age of 11, and having informed him numerous times of what is expected of him, I gave him enough rope to hang himself and damned if he didn’t. I’m tired of chasing after him to do what’s expected of him. I let him fall and then I grounded his little ass for eternity or until his grades and his behavior improve.
Now, for some reason, Jeff didn’t see it the same way that I do. He thinks I should spend every moment that I’m not at work policing Nate. I think it is well past time for Nate to feel the consequences of his actions and those consequences had better hurt or we’re just not doing our jobs as parents. We’ve since worked that out, I think. I’m sure its not over, it never is.
Between Friday and Saturday I worked 27 hours, helped T-Bird move a chair, which entailed having to go to my former nabes house (at 7:45 a.m. no less, after having gotten off work at midnight) and pick up their truck, which is a POS with a bad transmission, driving to another city, picking up said chair, bringing said chair back to T-Bird’s unloading said chair, and then T-Bird and I returning the truck because it took both of us to put the damn thing in gear, and today, my only day off of the week, I helped Jeff load a trailer load of wood at my parents’ place and walked him all over the farm.
I tarred, ya’ll.
After Jeff had his little blow up about Nate and his grades and what a poor pitiful mother I am yada, yada, yada (and I hung up on him), he called back, because being hung up once just never does it for him. However, he apologized for bringing up the past and blah, blah, and I could pretty well tell the next part of the conversation wasn’t going to have much to do with Nate. Jeff wasn’t drunk, but he had taken his medication which makes him really loopy and philosophical and lovey. Did you throw up in your mouth a little? I did.
Honestly, if it wasn’t so damned entertaining I wouldn’t waste my time. Besides, sweeping the leaves off the sidewalk and the porch needs a little spice. However, something he said showed an amazing amount of insight into who I am.
He’s asked me before why I’ve never been married and such things but this time he said, “Ya know, you hold your cards so close to you. If you have a royal flush, you might show the 10, then maybe the jack, hell, maybe even a queen, but it takes a hell of a lot to see that king and that ace, and I doubt anyone has ever seen that ace. Well… then again. I didn’t know, I didn’t know AZ got married. Nate told me and I know that must have been hard.” Thank you, Nate, and why the hell does everyone think I’m falling apart, crying in my bed every night, ready to slit my wrists, and drown in my own sorrow over the fact AZ got married?
I don’t think I’ve even come down on it that hard on my blog and the only people I confide in about AZ in my “real” world are T-Bird and Li-Li and they would never say anything to anyone because they know I’d slit their wrists. And furthermore, I have absolutely no reason to confide in Jeff about anything. He’s like a mean, angry elephant, he’s mean and angry and he forgets nothing and if he can use it against you in the future, he will.
He’s also absolutely right. I am extremely cautious about who I share my feelings with. Odd, considering I publish my journal online for the whole world to read, however, I am totally in control of what you read as I am totally in control of the editing process. I don’t lie to you, but I doubt you ever truly get the full story.
I call that – my ace in the hole.