Christmas has come and gone, dearest readers, and I am left in the remnants of the holiday; the rich spices of the holiday candles linger in the apartment, the least tempting of the Christmas cookies sit in Tupperware on the counter in hopes of consumption, though the candidates up for the job are nearly sick on the copious sugar of the season. The mound of shredded wrapping paper has been cleared and thrown away, but the gifts received loiter about awkwardly like frightened children in a new school, waiting to be told where to go.
This Christmas was nice, if unfamiliar. Three days before Christmas Bryan and I sat in my car as I sobbed with Christmas blues; it didn’t feel like Christmas, and in the token ways, as I can now clarify in retrospect, it never did: Cincinnati lacked more than snow- the temperature was moderate and it felt like early autumn- and Bryan and I experienced some difficulty while trying to whip up the Christmas spirit. It wasn’t until sometime last week that we finally got the ornaments up, and we (well, I) furiously shopped for last minute baubles until the stores closed early Christmas Eve. I very much feared for the holiday before hand because this was the first year I felt frustrated with and hurried by Christmas; I had spent so much time worrying about my procrastination, and then had rushed through the horror of doing everything last-minute so hurriedly that I had done little to enjoy the season. I felt as if Christmas had pounced upon me without any of the delightful precursors. Once the shopping was finished, however, and the ornaments charmingly danced above the apartment we shacked up as the world around us shut down for a day. We baked delicious sugar cookies and mediocre gingerbread, watched and listened to Christmas programming, opened presents and sipped sapphire martinis. The house was warm and filled with the traditions that Bryan and I were beginning- such as our martinis, though I suspect that we’ll be drinking those quite often- and I am very happy with the Christmas I was lucky enough to enjoy.
Christmas has now passed, I’m afraid, and the world has resumed its unnerving pace. I returned to work last night, and five hours of the bistro’s stressful bustle was enough to make the entire season seem over and long gone. I made good money; I was stuck in a crappy three-table section that had endless problems, but due to the overwhelming volume of guests I still managed to walk with $72 (which couldn’t be more welcome at this point in time; Christmas has left me with $50 in my savings account and, well, nothing in my checking. A parking ticket has added additional stress to my financial strains- seriously, what type of heartless hard-ass gives a parking ticket a day after Christmas? There was no one downtown. WTF- and car insurance is due on the fourth). Making money is good, especially now, and I am ready to leave the joy and stress of the holiday behind and move on to 2007.
Perhaps lingering December excitement provides me with such content closure. Bryan received an unexpected bonus check a couple of days before Christmas, which allows us to execute the many decorating plans we’ve been stewing up for the apartment. Yesterday he ordered a corbu three-seater from Stendmar, a fantastic California company we were lucky to find, and we hope to have built a bookcase and a credenza by the time it is scheduled to arrive on the 12th. At that time we will have acquired the staples of the apartment, sans the hanging screens we plan to build, and we will begin the enjoyable, satisfying process of collecting the items that will complete the space: rugs, plants, vases, accent chairs, etc. The loft will be breathtaking. Due to our lack of funds we’ve had months upon months to devise and sketch, and now that we have the means to act upon half a year’s worth of brainstorming the space will be thought-out and well designed. We already have a couple of excellent items that will make the loft truly brilliant, and soon we will be that polished, fabulous couple that is normally restricted to supporting roles of idealized romantic comedies; we, the martini-sipping designers, with a WWII first aid tin to hold our pepto bismal and 1961 Gense salt shakers to pepper our meat, our Mac book sitting coyly in a clever, darling 1970s Air France flight bag, all found for dirt-cheap prices by our creative, brilliant frugality, and we’re in love to boot.
I return to university in six days. I am ready and excited; the success of last quarter has boosted my confidence in my ability to perform this quarter. I did my research before registering, picked easy teachers for my art history and English classes, and know exactly what to expect in my studio classes. I’m sure I’ll ace this quarter as I aced the last, and scholarships now feel within reach. The holidays are over but winter has just begun, yet soon, after the drudgery of January and February the sun will warm the city and beckon spring, and soon summer will follow, and I will look forward to the holidays once again.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Behold the reason I haven't posted in months:
Student Name: Rachael Ashleigh Stefanussen
College: College of Design, Architecture, Art and Planning
Major: Industrial Design
Class: Sophomore
College Area Course Section Course Title Grade Credit
15 ENGL 102 006 ENGLISH COMP II A 3.00 12.0000
15 HIST 559 001 FASCISM IN EUROPE A 3.00 12.0000
23 FDST 101 009 FOUND STUDIO COLOR A 3.00 12.0000
23 FDST 121 009 FOUND DESIGN DRAW A- 3.00 11.0001
23 FDST 131 002 DIGITAL DES FUND A 1.00 4.0000
* * * DEAN'S LIST 3.923 * * *
Current Credit Hrs. Carried Credit Hrs. Earned Quality Points Quality Point Average Pass Hours Progress Hours Advanced Standing Total Hours
Quarter 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 13.00
College 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 13.00
University 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 0.00 60.00 73.00
Student Name: Rachael Ashleigh Stefanussen
College: College of Design, Architecture, Art and Planning
Major: Industrial Design
Class: Sophomore
College Area Course Section Course Title Grade Credit
15 ENGL 102 006 ENGLISH COMP II A 3.00 12.0000
15 HIST 559 001 FASCISM IN EUROPE A 3.00 12.0000
23 FDST 101 009 FOUND STUDIO COLOR A 3.00 12.0000
23 FDST 121 009 FOUND DESIGN DRAW A- 3.00 11.0001
23 FDST 131 002 DIGITAL DES FUND A 1.00 4.0000
* * * DEAN'S LIST 3.923 * * *
Current Credit Hrs. Carried Credit Hrs. Earned Quality Points Quality Point Average Pass Hours Progress Hours Advanced Standing Total Hours
Quarter 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 13.00
College 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 13.00
University 13.00 13.00 51.0001 3.923 0.00 0.00 60.00 73.00
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Perhaps this is why running away from one's problems is a solution recommended by very few; I am referring to what today's repetitive, monotonous media would term “a lack of closure”, a phrase so bromidic that I hesitate to use it, yet for the sake of concision I shall employ such lackluster tools. That is what this is, as are all our personal experiences: despite the importance this situation holds in my life, despite the emotions it commands, it is always, in retrospect and upon examination, summed up and narrowed down to the general, given to all to see, touch, and to make their own, despite its personal nature. The blade that soars down upon me is truly two-sided; I am always so offended and disillusioned to see the conventionality of the things so dear to my heart, yet the experience of such situations, and the consequent comprehension of the concepts that birth our society's cliches make me feel awfully distinguished and wise. At these times I feel as if I am now one of those “older” people, the people who forcibly drag you away from self-pity with sloppy “been there, done that” remarks that, through the apathy instilled in them, negates the very real, very painful dilemma of whatever it is one is suffering. Do these remarks reflect the pain of the past? Does one ever distance oneself enough to carelessly reminisce, or is there a sadness behind every “been there, done that” remark? Perhaps even the “been there, done that, and I did it before you did, so stop sobbing about it, bitches” remarks blush with a tint of misery that can only be quelled by feigned nonchalance. Either way, both facets of any given ordeal- both the defeated acknowledgment of the plebeian and the satisfaction one gleams from an understanding of the plebeian- are exasperating when one has yet to come to terms with what has happened or successfully resolve what has happened. There is no consolation prize, no red ribbon to applaud your failed endeavors, only a hazy question mark that rises from the dust of the rubble, insulting your intelligence, your efforts, and your fatally wounded pride.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Today, a crisp day, kin to the autumn days of last week which were the first days of autumn, was the day I began school. My preparation for school was not substantial enough to prevent me from stumbling about the campus without a clue as to direction or purpose, nor did it allow me any reassurance in regards my class schedule, yet any further effort would have proven pointless. The campus is huge, complex, and impossible to understand, thereby quite comfortable. I am terrified, but I am here; my classes are set though I have yet to clear my mind and realize the work ahead of me, and I know where I am supposed to be, though still somewhat bewildered. I have a while to situate myself. This will be my second home, after all, for the next five years.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Waiting tables- or if I'm to be intransigently precise and politically correct: serving tables- is an astronomically sordid affair from which I've learned quite a bit. Though I have only marked the ranks of servers around the world for three months, I feel very much a part of the disconsolate lot; three months is more than enough to consider yourself a true, blue server, after all, given the rapid turnover and the nature of the work. I have worked in the service industry for years, but it wasn't until I actually started waiting tables that the industry and its various characteristics made sense to me- those being the cynical demeanor and fatalistic disillusionment that waiters and waitresses share to such an alarming, undiversified degree that it appears to be part of their uniform, the substance abuse, rampant binge drinking, that weathered, almost invincible appearance, self hatred and self destruction in general- and I now see what the rest of the individuals that share my job description see: what I do is darkly, sadly, yet indisputably hilarious.
The reason behind this amusement, I've decided, is the inherent pettiness of the work; while other individuals have more substantial careers and save their worries for million-dollar deals, million-dollar properties, the lives of the young or the old, brilliant design, the education of our children, or the contentment of the international market, the end all, be all of my line of work is a side of cauliflower cooked with extra butter with absolutely no parsley on the plate, around the plate, or within the vicinity of said cauliflower's preparation. In other fields one turns one's coworkers into enemies by stealing clients or preventing a 20,000 dollar raise. In the restaurant business, however, stealing a pen is call for fully-armed tribal warfare, and hoarding checkbooks is a treachery that would be attended to by a guillotine if the state would allow it. I panic while trying to remember that seat three at table 406 wants her water without ice and her eggs scrambled with swiss cheese. I strain to present the check exactly between the couple so as to not offend the independent woman or suggest that the traditional woman should offer to pay. The critical challenge in my career as a server is not a matter of consequential brilliance or cleverness, but rather the moment in which I stealthily slip the bread basket onto table 313 without inspiring the shriveled, ancient prune of a man at 315 to inquire as to why he never received a basket as well. I deal in the business of tending to the world's most absurdly pointless details that no normal, sane human being cares the slightest bit about.
Yet I care, and I must care; my bread and butter, sadly enough, is the bread and butter on table 313. I go to work knowing that my mind, body, and soul is there to be engaged in a flurry of exhausting nothingness and pointless abuse, just so that I might pay the insurance on the car that serves the sole purpose of taking me to work and back. The tasks I face are trivial, yet how grave the horror, how miserable the dread, how gut-wrenching is the fear that floods me when I see the parsley that sits atop my side of cauliflower. It is my job to panic if the baked onion soup going out to 110 has croûtons in it, or if the meat is overcooked or undercooked, or if any given guest has finally found something to complain about; this ridiculous concern is the mark of a good server. I have accepted this and strive to be the best server I possibly can be- I'll dance for my tip until I'm blue in the face, after all; I'm there to make money, not to moan about lost dignity- but it is still quite saddening to think about the fact that my job is to fret about croûtons. Luckily enough, that fact is amusing in a dry yet intense way, and the amusement just barely overpowers the dismal nuances of a job in the restaurant business. Lost dignity isn't really something to bemoan, especially when it can be so damn funny.
Misery aside, however, it is what I do. Serving tables is what I will be doing for the next five years. There are times when I take pride in my work and others when I just don't care, and most of this depends on the institution in which I am housed- if you want my gravy, pepper my ragu, and all that jazz- and the restaurants that have made work an enjoyable experience receive a cheerful server in a crisp, clean shirt. Unless, that is, I've deemed the garlic butter stain on the right sleeve unnoticeable (everyone together on three: Huzzah for dimly lit restaurants!). You get what you give, with the exception of the horrendous individuals who refuse to tip regardless of the service, and worry not: karma will prevail and their grandchildren shall have birth defects and I shall laugh. There is a strange camaraderie amongst those who have experienced the pain and the amusement of serving. I think I will always be happy to have been a part of it.
The reason behind this amusement, I've decided, is the inherent pettiness of the work; while other individuals have more substantial careers and save their worries for million-dollar deals, million-dollar properties, the lives of the young or the old, brilliant design, the education of our children, or the contentment of the international market, the end all, be all of my line of work is a side of cauliflower cooked with extra butter with absolutely no parsley on the plate, around the plate, or within the vicinity of said cauliflower's preparation. In other fields one turns one's coworkers into enemies by stealing clients or preventing a 20,000 dollar raise. In the restaurant business, however, stealing a pen is call for fully-armed tribal warfare, and hoarding checkbooks is a treachery that would be attended to by a guillotine if the state would allow it. I panic while trying to remember that seat three at table 406 wants her water without ice and her eggs scrambled with swiss cheese. I strain to present the check exactly between the couple so as to not offend the independent woman or suggest that the traditional woman should offer to pay. The critical challenge in my career as a server is not a matter of consequential brilliance or cleverness, but rather the moment in which I stealthily slip the bread basket onto table 313 without inspiring the shriveled, ancient prune of a man at 315 to inquire as to why he never received a basket as well. I deal in the business of tending to the world's most absurdly pointless details that no normal, sane human being cares the slightest bit about.
Yet I care, and I must care; my bread and butter, sadly enough, is the bread and butter on table 313. I go to work knowing that my mind, body, and soul is there to be engaged in a flurry of exhausting nothingness and pointless abuse, just so that I might pay the insurance on the car that serves the sole purpose of taking me to work and back. The tasks I face are trivial, yet how grave the horror, how miserable the dread, how gut-wrenching is the fear that floods me when I see the parsley that sits atop my side of cauliflower. It is my job to panic if the baked onion soup going out to 110 has croûtons in it, or if the meat is overcooked or undercooked, or if any given guest has finally found something to complain about; this ridiculous concern is the mark of a good server. I have accepted this and strive to be the best server I possibly can be- I'll dance for my tip until I'm blue in the face, after all; I'm there to make money, not to moan about lost dignity- but it is still quite saddening to think about the fact that my job is to fret about croûtons. Luckily enough, that fact is amusing in a dry yet intense way, and the amusement just barely overpowers the dismal nuances of a job in the restaurant business. Lost dignity isn't really something to bemoan, especially when it can be so damn funny.
Misery aside, however, it is what I do. Serving tables is what I will be doing for the next five years. There are times when I take pride in my work and others when I just don't care, and most of this depends on the institution in which I am housed- if you want my gravy, pepper my ragu, and all that jazz- and the restaurants that have made work an enjoyable experience receive a cheerful server in a crisp, clean shirt. Unless, that is, I've deemed the garlic butter stain on the right sleeve unnoticeable (everyone together on three: Huzzah for dimly lit restaurants!). You get what you give, with the exception of the horrendous individuals who refuse to tip regardless of the service, and worry not: karma will prevail and their grandchildren shall have birth defects and I shall laugh. There is a strange camaraderie amongst those who have experienced the pain and the amusement of serving. I think I will always be happy to have been a part of it.
How delicate, how frivolous this world is when it is at the mercy of our perception. It is so awkward coming back to this place- much more so then when discovering new cities or spaces- and recognizing the change it has undergone yet experiencing a feeling of unease, knowing I've been here before, suspiciously questioning why it feels as if I never left. The sun is brighter than I remember it, though; I don't ever recall the harsh sunlight being this unbearable. The inhabitants affected by this heat, however, respond in the way I remember; excitement for the day disintegrates into grainy lethargy, and I remember the unpalatable task of seeking shade just to pine for activity once resting. It's amusing coming back, going back, leaving, returning, doing all the things we do in a lifetime: discovering new places, growing around them, leaving and remembering them not as they were but as we thought them to be, as we wished them to exist in memory. My warped memory has not changed Salt Lake; the city has not molded to my various memories, after all, and I return to a place independent of the emotional associations I once thought so important. It's quite comfortable here, actually.
Today Rob took me to an organ recital on Temple Square. He has turned into such a hospitable gentleman; yesterday, late in the evening when Mum, Will and I returned from the airport, at a time I thought everyone was asleep, Rob and Rick kindly greeted me and immediately rushed me off for a late dinner at Denny's (Rob treated; I just bought a pricey computer and can't spend a dime). It is edifying to speak with my darling brothers, to talk maturely to them about whatever currently consumes them and still be silly and absurd. I feel as if I have found a friend that our incessant, childish bickering hid from me before. I have high hopes for this visit- and perhaps that's my first mistake- but I honestly think this will be a delightful holiday, and I don't think I'll find myself quibbling with my brothers or mum. The house looks lovely, and I'm currently sitting outside on the charming patio, typing on Rob's laptop. I am protected from the brutal sunlight, a gentle breeze creeps up onto porch to cool me, and occasionally I look up to see a biker whizzing down the winding road. As I said: it's quite comfortable here, though that's not exactly the way I remember it.
Today Rob took me to an organ recital on Temple Square. He has turned into such a hospitable gentleman; yesterday, late in the evening when Mum, Will and I returned from the airport, at a time I thought everyone was asleep, Rob and Rick kindly greeted me and immediately rushed me off for a late dinner at Denny's (Rob treated; I just bought a pricey computer and can't spend a dime). It is edifying to speak with my darling brothers, to talk maturely to them about whatever currently consumes them and still be silly and absurd. I feel as if I have found a friend that our incessant, childish bickering hid from me before. I have high hopes for this visit- and perhaps that's my first mistake- but I honestly think this will be a delightful holiday, and I don't think I'll find myself quibbling with my brothers or mum. The house looks lovely, and I'm currently sitting outside on the charming patio, typing on Rob's laptop. I am protected from the brutal sunlight, a gentle breeze creeps up onto porch to cool me, and occasionally I look up to see a biker whizzing down the winding road. As I said: it's quite comfortable here, though that's not exactly the way I remember it.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The various deadlines that have cowered above my livelihood are slowly descending upon me. Throughout the summer their distance warranted limitless neglect and indifference on my part; those shapeless, formless little beasts simply weren't near enough to be seen clearly, and thus the imprecision of the threat gave me plenty of room to breathe and be merry. No worry, though, my darlings, no worry: I'm plowing through the bureaucracy of the UC to register, and I'm working five doubles a week to buy the computer I need. I'll make it, but barely, as I always do. I live by an effort/return ratio, after all, and there is but one sin that summons my penitence: working too hard. I studied just enough to just barely pass the written driving test last week when I transferred my license, and good lord, did it show; I was a question away from failing. I'll slave and slave and slave away for a 90% but not a bit more. When it comes to deadlines and various ordeals that need tending, I've adopted General Prescott's methods: I shan't shoot 'till I see the whites of their eyes.
Though preparations for the fall obviously haven't whipped me into a frenzy, it depresses me a bit all the same; I feel as if the first leaves have fallen, so to speak, and the summer's warmth will succumb to a blustery autumn any moment. My summer has been pleasant and much has been accomplished, but the laziness of summers past is nowhere to be found upon recollection. Gone are the days of exploring gullies and building nations in the backyard, gone forever. Money and its various complications are now permanent fixtures in my life, and their arrival marks the departure of young carelessness- or at least the forgiving carelessness that youth affords, for carelessness waxes as strong as ever in certain aspects of my life- and has chased away those lazy summer days. No worry, though, my darlings, no worry: this is all part of growing up, I suppose.
I feel all too grown-up, however, when I realize that I, a fellow multiple-job holder, have fallen into the cesspool of wide-spread employee dissatisfaction that is a strip mall. Granted, it's a brand-new, upscale strip mall, but all the same: the joy of shopping melts away when the employees helping you are not faceless, as they should be, but rather coworkers from either your first job or your second; they are not wall fixtures, they are people, and upon this sick realization the whole outing becomes dispiriting. I toss a glance through their uniforms and I see their wispy, withered soul; they do not come to work to help me and their fate is my own; I am them, I will see them at Lonestar when I go to work at six. Thus it is nothing more than an gross extension of my working hours, and the pleasure I once basked in is sadly no more. At least I have found a blessing amongst the scattered rubble, that being a money pouch generally left untouched by shopping, and in a couple of weeks I will be able to purchase my pretty new computer. I also give Lonestar my two weeks notice next week, and leave for a trip to Salt Lake in three. See, dearest readers: though I mourn the season's end, I recognize the welcome changes it heralds.
Though preparations for the fall obviously haven't whipped me into a frenzy, it depresses me a bit all the same; I feel as if the first leaves have fallen, so to speak, and the summer's warmth will succumb to a blustery autumn any moment. My summer has been pleasant and much has been accomplished, but the laziness of summers past is nowhere to be found upon recollection. Gone are the days of exploring gullies and building nations in the backyard, gone forever. Money and its various complications are now permanent fixtures in my life, and their arrival marks the departure of young carelessness- or at least the forgiving carelessness that youth affords, for carelessness waxes as strong as ever in certain aspects of my life- and has chased away those lazy summer days. No worry, though, my darlings, no worry: this is all part of growing up, I suppose.
I feel all too grown-up, however, when I realize that I, a fellow multiple-job holder, have fallen into the cesspool of wide-spread employee dissatisfaction that is a strip mall. Granted, it's a brand-new, upscale strip mall, but all the same: the joy of shopping melts away when the employees helping you are not faceless, as they should be, but rather coworkers from either your first job or your second; they are not wall fixtures, they are people, and upon this sick realization the whole outing becomes dispiriting. I toss a glance through their uniforms and I see their wispy, withered soul; they do not come to work to help me and their fate is my own; I am them, I will see them at Lonestar when I go to work at six. Thus it is nothing more than an gross extension of my working hours, and the pleasure I once basked in is sadly no more. At least I have found a blessing amongst the scattered rubble, that being a money pouch generally left untouched by shopping, and in a couple of weeks I will be able to purchase my pretty new computer. I also give Lonestar my two weeks notice next week, and leave for a trip to Salt Lake in three. See, dearest readers: though I mourn the season's end, I recognize the welcome changes it heralds.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Yesterday was my birthday- details of the fabulous day will follow in a day or two- and this is what Bryan gave me: a fully-functioning L.C Smith & Corona Standard typewriter made in 1932. It is lovely, as you can see, and types beautifully...
And fits, quite conveniently...
Into this dandy little travel case. And a mere 18 lbs at that! Needless to say, I am thrilled.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Rapidly comes the end of asking others to run my drinks for me. Come this Saturday- a mere three days away, might I add- I turn nineteen and can officially serve alcohol in the mighty boozed-up state of Ohio. Oh happy day!
Despite my boundless sarcasm and cynicism, I am jubilant at the idea of a birthday. The various factors that have spawned such excitement are not what they used to be: though in past years and the time of early youth one waited with breath none more bated than that held for gifts, I'm simply happy to have cause to celebrate. It feels appropriate that the slightly monotonous summer should come to an end with my brother's visit, a vacation of my own, and finally, my birthday. This weekend's plans have been carved up with all sorts of delights: accompanying Bryan to a work party that, unlike previous, wretched work ordeals, includes half of a theme park and alcohol, a celebratory sushi outing with papa, and a small celebration between Bryan and I on Sunday. He's been teasing me with hints as to what his gift is ( we've code-named the gift “pear bucket” so as to make reference a little easier and more endearing). I look forward to the weekend.
It is a good thing I have this time to look forward to; I've returned to work with three delightful little doubles in a row (if you are going to accuse me of sarcasm and my usual loathsome bitterness, now would be the time to do so). Fortunately yesterday was an incredibly lucrative day- and has broken my record for the most ever made at Lonestar in one evening- but lunch today was not. I hope the misfortune of the lunch crowd will remain in isolation and not prove ominous for tonight's spoils. The air feels apocalyptic, I'm afraid, and I'm already a bit crestfallen because of the tragic finale of HBO's Rome's first season. Thus I would not be surprised if the evening returned me to my home with less than a twenty in my ragged pockets. Honestly, why on earth did they kill off Julius so quickly? All within one season Caesar is already dead? And Niobe as well? How necessary was that? Good lord, within three new episodes we'll already see Augustus' mistrust of Marc Antony begin to boil. Bah, I say.
I digress. I don't mean to drag you into this messy HBO business; I'm just so bummed. If they kill off James Purefoy anytime soon, however- I'll admit that it is an unlikely conspiracy, given that he plays Marc Antony- they will be receiving a very angry letter from a certain someone immediately.
Work beckons me, so off I go. Cheers, my darlings, and hopefully your evenings prove fairer than my own.
Despite my boundless sarcasm and cynicism, I am jubilant at the idea of a birthday. The various factors that have spawned such excitement are not what they used to be: though in past years and the time of early youth one waited with breath none more bated than that held for gifts, I'm simply happy to have cause to celebrate. It feels appropriate that the slightly monotonous summer should come to an end with my brother's visit, a vacation of my own, and finally, my birthday. This weekend's plans have been carved up with all sorts of delights: accompanying Bryan to a work party that, unlike previous, wretched work ordeals, includes half of a theme park and alcohol, a celebratory sushi outing with papa, and a small celebration between Bryan and I on Sunday. He's been teasing me with hints as to what his gift is ( we've code-named the gift “pear bucket” so as to make reference a little easier and more endearing). I look forward to the weekend.
It is a good thing I have this time to look forward to; I've returned to work with three delightful little doubles in a row (if you are going to accuse me of sarcasm and my usual loathsome bitterness, now would be the time to do so). Fortunately yesterday was an incredibly lucrative day- and has broken my record for the most ever made at Lonestar in one evening- but lunch today was not. I hope the misfortune of the lunch crowd will remain in isolation and not prove ominous for tonight's spoils. The air feels apocalyptic, I'm afraid, and I'm already a bit crestfallen because of the tragic finale of HBO's Rome's first season. Thus I would not be surprised if the evening returned me to my home with less than a twenty in my ragged pockets. Honestly, why on earth did they kill off Julius so quickly? All within one season Caesar is already dead? And Niobe as well? How necessary was that? Good lord, within three new episodes we'll already see Augustus' mistrust of Marc Antony begin to boil. Bah, I say.
I digress. I don't mean to drag you into this messy HBO business; I'm just so bummed. If they kill off James Purefoy anytime soon, however- I'll admit that it is an unlikely conspiracy, given that he plays Marc Antony- they will be receiving a very angry letter from a certain someone immediately.
Work beckons me, so off I go. Cheers, my darlings, and hopefully your evenings prove fairer than my own.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Saturday marked my return from holiday, which Bryan and I spent upwards in lovely Vancouver, and which was five marvelous days in duration. We stayed in a hostel downtown close to the water. In some ways it was relaxing, in some not; we had the whole city to see in those five days, after all, and the majority of our time was spent on the move from one district to the next. Though we did indulge in a couple of activities befitting and expected of us as tourists, we probably fooled half the locals. My favorite part was the food: our meals were extravagant, the drinking age is merciful, and the restaurant selection downtown phenomenal. Dining is a much better experience when a chic glass of shiraz is in hand. Pictures will soon be posted.
One of the best parts of the trip, however, was the layover in Salt Lake; the day-long ordeal gave me time to surprise mum and spend five or so hours with her. I miss her terribly, and the visit reminded me of this. I will try to visit Salt Lake in the next month or so prior to the beginning of school.
Life has returned to normal, with the exception of school registration, which reminds me that university begins in a month or so. I cannot wait; I tire of the summer and my lurid employment. Granted, a very expensive computer waits to be purchased within the month, and my savings are, well... what's a good euphemism for under three hundred dollars? Can't think of any? Bother, neither can I. Regardless, the thought of no longer working at lonestar brings tears to my destitute eyes.
Speaking of work and my long-lost mother, however: I work at six and plan to drop mum a ring before then. I must dash, darlings. Cheers.
One of the best parts of the trip, however, was the layover in Salt Lake; the day-long ordeal gave me time to surprise mum and spend five or so hours with her. I miss her terribly, and the visit reminded me of this. I will try to visit Salt Lake in the next month or so prior to the beginning of school.
Life has returned to normal, with the exception of school registration, which reminds me that university begins in a month or so. I cannot wait; I tire of the summer and my lurid employment. Granted, a very expensive computer waits to be purchased within the month, and my savings are, well... what's a good euphemism for under three hundred dollars? Can't think of any? Bother, neither can I. Regardless, the thought of no longer working at lonestar brings tears to my destitute eyes.
Speaking of work and my long-lost mother, however: I work at six and plan to drop mum a ring before then. I must dash, darlings. Cheers.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
The sun hung high and steady with a stubborn permanence and burned a hole in the sky as if a smoldering cigarette had been pressed to ash there moments before; the contrast of the blue and the gold and the green of the ground seemed cartoonish, ideal, and around four in the afternoon we stepped outside into the stifling heat of the mid-east. It wasn't the same deck of the summers of our past, of course- Ricky had only been to the new house once before, and for only a couple of days- but how very familiar this was. Humidity changes everything when it reigns at such an extreme. The iconic water swells within the air, stands between you and the world with such an exhausting density that it slows your movements to a sweet, lazy ballet, and reminds you that you are in the south, or at least close to it. One can't afford to hold on to anything other than what is actually there when in such oppressive heat; there is no energy for pretenses. We have grown; Ricky is six feet tall and speaks in a booming, low voice, and I am millions of miles away from what I once was, yet here we are, children again, in the same thick, Cincinnati heat that we played in years ago. Our attempts to catch the Frisbee we are tossing about blindly grow more and more careless and slow. Our attention begins to wane even more rapidly now; we are barely aware of the other, completely indifferent yet seamlessly comfortable in each other's presence. My brothers and I grew up together and possess the understanding and the comfort that consequently follows. Regardless of the differences between us, regardless of where we go and what we strive for and what we eventually become, we will always share this.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
In an hour I have an appointment with the doctor- yet another- to investigate an abdominal pain I’ve been feeling for a couple of days. 5 days ago I thought I had a stomach ache, but since then the pain has remained steady and my right side has become swollen and tender to the touch. After investigating the symptoms Bryan and I decided I might be suffering from a gall stone some other unfortunate ailment. The pain is not debilitating- it is simply a throbbing burning that is fairly easy to ignore- but a visit to the doctor will be in order this afternoon regardless.
I hope this doesn’t interfere with the boys’ visit. Rob and Ricky fly in early tomorrow morning and I can’t wait to see them both. Rob’s been quite busy with his job and undoubtedly needs a rest, so dad and I will fight diligently to keep him away from his work, which can be accessed via internet. We have some fun things planned: two days at King’s Island, excellent seats to the reds game this Sunday, a trip to the Omnimax, and breakfast at Mimi’s the day they arrive. We’ll spend the majority of their week here lounging and enjoying one another’s company. I’m excited for the bustle that’s about to fill the house.
Other than that, though, it is business as usual; my training at Mimi’s ends tomorrow and work at Lonestar is as usual. I’m off to the doctor’s, darlings. Cheers.
I hope this doesn’t interfere with the boys’ visit. Rob and Ricky fly in early tomorrow morning and I can’t wait to see them both. Rob’s been quite busy with his job and undoubtedly needs a rest, so dad and I will fight diligently to keep him away from his work, which can be accessed via internet. We have some fun things planned: two days at King’s Island, excellent seats to the reds game this Sunday, a trip to the Omnimax, and breakfast at Mimi’s the day they arrive. We’ll spend the majority of their week here lounging and enjoying one another’s company. I’m excited for the bustle that’s about to fill the house.
Other than that, though, it is business as usual; my training at Mimi’s ends tomorrow and work at Lonestar is as usual. I’m off to the doctor’s, darlings. Cheers.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I walk in and out of the library's isle and listen to the rain of the outdoors softly resound through the building. The thick walls and layers of cement strip the sound of any definition; the soft tapping resembles the crackling of an old record player much more than drops of rain. The floor to ceiling glass that encases the library, however, offers any lost description needed to aid any potential confusion. One look in any direction: south, northeast, southwest, west, any direction one could prefer would display a window, long, thick and yellowed, set in heavy panels around the building, ready to reveal the mystery of that strange clicking, ready to rob one of his or her silly suspicions and tell you the truth: it is raining outside.
The rain has subsided but has left the air damp, damp and solid, and even from the massive, air-conditioned indoors of this monmouth building can I feel the moisture. I am steeling time, as always, and as I wait for Cindy's niece (my cousin?) to finish browsing I am writing. The informational, omnipresent windows remind me continually that today has been an overcast, gray day, and that it has treated me well. Work at mimi's was pleasant and uplifting due to my discovery of the fair amount of money I'll be making. The work was fine and I have the evening off, during which Bryan and I have plans to visit the cinema, and this seemingly dark day has been remarkably happy. This stormy weather and the silly complaints it has inspired please me quite a bit, and in this rusted city a murky sky is appropriate in the most indescribable of ways. The city is fresh and ready to meet me, ready to provoke my curiosity and occupy a manic mind. This mood will cling to me for a day or two and sit atop my shoulder, accompany my exploits and my observation, even though my contentment lies only in the remembrance of recent rain.
The rain has subsided but has left the air damp, damp and solid, and even from the massive, air-conditioned indoors of this monmouth building can I feel the moisture. I am steeling time, as always, and as I wait for Cindy's niece (my cousin?) to finish browsing I am writing. The informational, omnipresent windows remind me continually that today has been an overcast, gray day, and that it has treated me well. Work at mimi's was pleasant and uplifting due to my discovery of the fair amount of money I'll be making. The work was fine and I have the evening off, during which Bryan and I have plans to visit the cinema, and this seemingly dark day has been remarkably happy. This stormy weather and the silly complaints it has inspired please me quite a bit, and in this rusted city a murky sky is appropriate in the most indescribable of ways. The city is fresh and ready to meet me, ready to provoke my curiosity and occupy a manic mind. This mood will cling to me for a day or two and sit atop my shoulder, accompany my exploits and my observation, even though my contentment lies only in the remembrance of recent rain.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
I encountered a plethora of pleasant surprises today: due to a kind heart and honest character- two characteristics I've never really understood- the man that came to fix a small crack in my car's windshield didn't charge me the fifty dollars I was expecting to pay, and I received my first check which was much larger than expected. Also, I walked with thirty-two dollars today, which isn't bad. I've decided against mowing down every employee and guest at lonestar with an assault riffle at any rate, so in a way decent tippers have preserved my humanity. Hopefully the preservation will hold strong through the night and bless the second half of my double shift with success via beautiful, beautiful money. Huzzah, I say: bills shall be paid.
That is where the elation ends, however, because my eating habits today have been as licentious as ever, marked by random steak fries I skillfully embezzled and devoured during lunch as well as three too many tortillas I ate afterward. I am not hungrier than usual, I simply haven't felt satiated as of late. I have constructed a conspiracy theory to explain this, though it's somewhat of a stupid one. To wit: on Saturday Bryan and I went out for Mexican food and my stomach subsequently stretched thrice its normal size- god, I ate so much food, SO MUCH food; him and I both passed out the moment we came home in a desperate attempt to recover- and the days following have left me feeling hungrier than usual. Therefore, it is all Bryan's fault. Curses on his head!
*shakes a coiled fist at the sky*
Hopefully this period of gluttonous excess will pass soon and I can continue looking tiny. It doesn't help that I work in a restaurant where a fry bin the size of a small house is continually at the ready. I must summon the deep inner strength I've never managed to locate. Surely it is within me somewhere.
That is where the elation ends, however, because my eating habits today have been as licentious as ever, marked by random steak fries I skillfully embezzled and devoured during lunch as well as three too many tortillas I ate afterward. I am not hungrier than usual, I simply haven't felt satiated as of late. I have constructed a conspiracy theory to explain this, though it's somewhat of a stupid one. To wit: on Saturday Bryan and I went out for Mexican food and my stomach subsequently stretched thrice its normal size- god, I ate so much food, SO MUCH food; him and I both passed out the moment we came home in a desperate attempt to recover- and the days following have left me feeling hungrier than usual. Therefore, it is all Bryan's fault. Curses on his head!
*shakes a coiled fist at the sky*
Hopefully this period of gluttonous excess will pass soon and I can continue looking tiny. It doesn't help that I work in a restaurant where a fry bin the size of a small house is continually at the ready. I must summon the deep inner strength I've never managed to locate. Surely it is within me somewhere.
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