October is Here!

This past weekend I was in Pismo Beach with my girlfriends. It was probably the most fun weekend ever, but the photos and stories are not to be shared here in the blogging world . It did serve as a great ending to the summer!

But seriously, where did the summer go? This year especially I blinked and it was over. Not cool real world, not cool.

The thing about October is, I love it. I love all things Halloween, pumpkin flavored anything, black and orange are by far my favorite colors (another reason I was meant to be a Giants fan) my brother’s birthday is in October, as is my uncle and my husbands (on the same day no less!). The weather is just crisp enough to justify sitting on the couch on a Sunday in sweatpants all cozy and warm.

Basically I love October because I get my fall and cold weather fix and then come November I am beyond ready for it to be over and turn into summer again.

This October I’m already stressed out because I don’t have a Halloween costume yet (ideas anyone?)

Victor denied my idea to go as sexy big bird:

Big Bird + hooker heels = Halloween masterpiece

And now I am completely out of ideas and totally open to suggestions. Simple criteria – can’t be slutty and needs to be creative. Which, obviously slutty + creative is a win for little miss Big Bird, but I’m not really into the Halloween as “dress like a whore in public day” idea as you may think. Last year I went as a Jedi – and I totes bought it in the little boys department.

See? Creative.

Unfortunately I have ZERO pictures of myself in that costume… goes to show how seriously I take Halloween.

So tonight while I make pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, drink pumpkin ale and lounge in my sweats, I’ll be scouring the internet for an amazing Halloween costume.

Suggestions encouraged!

Dorm Stories: The Manic-Depressive and the Psychopath

Junior year of college I roomed with a good friend (who remains my friend to this day!) and two people we did not know very well. We got a great draw number, and decided to room with the two girls we didn’t really know because they were moving out at semester to study abroad. We were planning on swapping them out with our two friends (Ashley, studying in Italy, and Chelsea) when they returned. It was an idea situation – we picked a huge apartment on a bluff overlooking the ocean, a huge kitchen and dining room, huge living room, large bathroom and two large bedrooms.

See the picture from my bedroom window:

sunset from my bedroom, nbd

Yep, that’s an actual photo from my room in that very apartment. Jealous much?

Seemingly ideal. In fact, even though I was wary about living with the two new girls, it started out just fine. We got along, chatted into the night, and I was starting to feel like this was going to be the greatest year ever. And oh, so quickly how that changed.

The first roommate quickly showed that she was a manic-depressive. She would go on these crazy bouts of highs – where she wanted to be bff and braid my hair and go out all night and everything was super fun and awesome! We would laugh and talk and sing, make plans, and then one day I came home and it was all different. She was dark, moody, crying in her room – I assumed she was just going through a tough time, tried to be nice, but then again I didn’t know her super well. Then she stopped cleaning up after herself – leaving piles of dishes and cups and whatnot in the living room and kitchen. She taped black and white photographs to the walls in the hallway, and left her laundry all over the couches in the living room.

Then one day I came home and she had transformed the living room into her bedroom. She was lying down face first on the couch, in the dark, on a school day (did I mention she didn’t have a job and I hardly ever saw her go to class?) she sighed audibly and announced that she had no friends – her grades sucked, and she didn’t see the point in ever leaving the living room. Which was awesome for those of us trying to share that space (sensing my sarcasm?).

Did I mention there was a cat? Fluffy was a little white bitch of a cat that the psychopath roommate brought home one day. Without asking any of us, of course, to live in our apartment. With her litter box in the bathroom. That the psychopath determined we should all share responsibility for cleaning. Now, not to be a total bitch about it, but I didn’t ask for a cat, didn’t want it around and sure as hell wasn’t going to clean up its poop from the bathroom.

However, it wasn’t the cat that was the ultimate issue that caused people to scream, cry and eventually move out – it was flowers.

In retrospect, I probably didn’t handle the situation very well – and have since learned to control my temper a bit. I am not proud of what transpired, but I can’t change the past.

My roommate, the psychopath with the cat, was given flowers. She put them in a pretty vase on the kitchen table, and they were gorgeous until they died. And she left them there. And left them there. Annoyed, I asked her politely to throw them out and wash the vase. She assured me she would. And yet, another week went by. Do you happen to know what happens to flowers when they die? They leave a wretched stench. After asking her again and again, I put the flowers into a paper bag and left them by the door for her to take to the dumpster. But she of course, did not. Even when I asked repeatedly.

One afternoon I came home and the manic-depressive was face first in the couch, there were dishes everywhere, cat litter all over the bathroom and the damn flowers were still by the door. At that point, I lost it. I put the flowers into her empty bedroom (in the bag of course) and closed the door.

Later that evening, she called a roommate meeting. Here is what went down:

Her: We need to talk about the cleaning.

Me: Yep. You need to clean up after the cat.

Her: We should take turns.

Me: It’s not my cat. I’m not cleaning up its shit.

Her: Well, we should address the flowers. I feel that your behavior was violent, and frankly I feel threatened for my life.

Me: Over flowers?

Her: You are a very violent person.

Me: You are a fucking psychopath.

At that point, she got up went to her room and slammed the door. Fuming, I stewed in my rage in the living room, my roommate and the manic-depressive were too freaked out to move. Ten minutes later she emerged with a tiny rolling pink suitcase dragging behind her. She paused, flipped her hair and exclaimed in the EXACT tone of a soap opera actress, “I’m going home!”

To which I responded, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!”

Again, I didn’t say I was proud of my actions. Either way I was happy to see them go – the next semester was far more of an adventure.

Brooklyn, Part 7

If you are new to the Brooklyn saga, or just want to catch up and remind yourself what I was bitching about in Part 6, click here to familiarize yourself. Or simply click on the “Brooklyn” link in the tag cloud to your right for all of the past Brooklyn sagas.

What I learned next is something I struggled with often in my time in New York. I missed the mall.

GASP. I know, I shouldn’t have even said it! New York City has some of the best shopping in the whole world! Which is perfectly true if you can afford it, and I was unemployed, so do that math people. I’m a small town girl at heart and I needed something very specific. This is the time a pair of black pants and a black shirt. Easy enough, right?

Nope.

Rather, I spent the majority of my afternoon scouring Union Square – only to find a black top at Filene’s Basement and black pants that didn’t look totally horrible at American Eagle. Had I been at a mall I could have had exactly what I needed in 10 minutes or less. Don’t get me wrong, my favorite items of my clothing are definitely from my NYC days, I just longed for a traditional mall right about then.

Nonetheless, I had what I needed in two hours or so and spent the next hour showering, making sure I looked as cute as I could in head to toe black. A uniform I found, much later, to be a go to in my life in the city. Hair was straightened, makeup done subtly but not too over the top as it was still extremely hot outside. I walked the four short blocks from my house to the restaurant, nervous. My stomach was fluttering , for no real reason except the unknown. What if this didn’t work out? How much money will I make? Will the people like me?

I saw the yellow canopies with red stripes and the restaurant’s name scrawled across the front in red script before I saw the front door. The outdoor cafe was set, and at 4pm, it was still rather busy. I walked in the strange double doors, one glass door leading to a vestibule just large enough to fit one person (a necessity in NYC to keep the snow out or the air conditioning in) and entered the restaurant. Upon entrance the first thing that any customer sees is a large Mahogany bar with exactly twelve bar chairs. The bar is lit like any typical place – clear shelves and mirrored backing to make it look like the bar is more stocked than it actually is. The bar was empty, save for a bartender who greeted me upon arrival with a warm smile and extended hand.

“You must be the new server. I’m Dan.” He had kind eyes, and seemed quite genuine, donned glasses and long-ish hair fastened into a ponytail that didn’t look at all sketchy, rather as something that he would simply look silly without. It suited him.

Dan pointed me in the direction of the other all black clad servers, crowded around the staff booth. The interior of the restaurant was unusual. It was hardly lit – but I couldn’t quite tell if it was trying to be trendy or a diner. All of the tables were set with cloth napkins and bread and butter dishes, but no white table cloths so it didn’t seem unassuming. However, the far back wall was lined with vinyl cushioned booths – still set the same, but it sort of looked like the place was trying to decide if it was trendy, a diner, or a family restaurant and couldn’t make up its mind. The place was colored in muted oranges, yellows and browns – with trendy brass light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. There was a blonde hostess standing at a server station at the furthest corner of the bar, facing the front door – so the patrons could wait to be seated, and two more server stations with computers, one with a cash till and one without. There were thus three clear server sections: tables lining the bar + tables outside, and a split of the inside/ first two rows outside.

I was introduced to a spunky blonde girl named Casey who was assigned to train me, and we were instant friends. She was possibly more in love with Disney than I was (which I had thought was impossible) and we chatted the entire evening. She was super well put together, her black on black was accessorized with bright jewelry and a cute headband. She was an actress and had been living in the city for the past year. She was funny and friendly, and kind of quirky, which instantly set me at ease. I breathed a sigh of relief as she handed me an apron, pen, and server book and started to show me the ropes.

The set up of the restaurant was pretty typical. I had been a server at a bar/restaurant for three years previous, so it was old news. The difference was that we had a food runner, and a busser for each section. The bartender handled all drinks, so really my job was to get the orders correct, make sure that the appetizers were served first and that I fired the main course so they didn’t have to wait too long, cash out the customers and keep track of the table numbers – which was definitely a challenge. Casey was extremely encouraging, giving me my own few tables right off the bat and answering my stupid questions without judgement.  I worked on introducing myself to the three bussers, all from Mexico, and the runner, from India. They were friendly enough, though the food runner sort of looked miserable all the time. I was a little afraid of him to be honest.

At the end of the night, we pooled the tips, filled out the money sheet, and tipped out the bussers, runner and bartender. There was no hourly wage, just a shift pay of $14 + tips after tip out. We got the cash in our pockets that night. Except for me. Since I was training I didn’t get paid, just got to take home dinner, and was asked to come back for training the next day.

I dragged my tired butt home that night after 11pm, exhausted and kind of irritated, but hopeful that by the end of the week I’d get to take home a nice pile of cash. My takeout bag billowed in the slight breeze off of the East River, and I stopped on the Promenade to look out at Manhattan. I marveled at the city, still slightly shocked that I actually lived there, and this time, just a little more hopeful that things may just work out.

Dorm Stories: The Burrow

I know I have been lacking on the dorm stories, but in all reality, it’s simply because I have a lot to live up to. My brother’s awesome guest post on my blog (found here!) generated more hits and page views than ever in my whole entire history of blogging (since 2008). So thanks bro, for proving what I already knew – you’re an amazingly hilarious writer and storyteller.

So, my sophomore year of college continued, and second semester my roommates moved out and I had a lovely room all to myself, with a shared bathroom with Ashley. Our rooms were tiny, but I loved having the space to myself. It was so freeing. I know a lot of people hate to be alone, but I may be one of those freaks who loves it. I loved having my own space, watching whatever I wanted on TV, practicing my guitar without having to worry about waking someone up. To this day I still love to spend time alone. In New York one of my favorite activities was walking the streets of the city. I could go an entire day in the most populated city and not speak to a soul. It’s kind of magical.

All right, enough of the whimsical shit. My four best friends at the time lived together in an apartment approximately 100 feet from the door of my building. Their complex was old and run down, but they were thrilled because they were sophomores who got the luck of the draw and ended up in a full apartment. Didn’t matter that their oven didn’t work properly, or their carpet smelled like summer camp, they had it made in the shade. I got to be their unofficial 5^th roommate. Mostly because they tolerated my personality and let me cook food in their kitchen.

Let me paint a picture of the apartment. It was dark, halfway underground, with blue carpet and red furniture. There was a kitchen with laminate floors that were probably once white and now stained yellow. There was a bathroom (same floor) and two boxy bedrooms. Courtney had some sort of great hookup where she had two chairs, a couch and a massive TV entertainment system that was added to the apartment, and I think it just made the place feel more like home. Though I can’t even imagine how un-fun it was to move that in and out every year.  Each bedroom had a window almost at the ceiling that gave the picture perfect view of the ground above. Including the feet of students rushing to class, and the squirrels.

This apartment had an infestation problem when it came to squirrels. They were found in the kitchen, Gaby’s bed, the air vent and the bathroom. I’m pretty sure public safety on campus thought they were lying, because upon being called about a squirrel in the vent, they immediately asked, “have you ladies been smoking marijuana?” Gaby having to point out squirrel poop as evidence was a little much.

The best part about that place was the people. They even had a holiday card that year, from “The Burrow.” (We were cool kids, I swear). We had several parties, pre-parties, a rave, dinners, cryfests, but most of all I am pretty positive I never laughed more in my whole life than at The Burrow. Like, run to the bathroom because you may pee your pants kind of laughing. They lived in that place for three years – some roommates changed, but for the most part, my favorite memories from college are in that fantastic apartment.

Puppy Private School

Conversation between myself and a co-worker on Friday:

Co-Worker: What are you up to this weekend?

Me: Layla has an interview at a great Day Care on Saturday, I’m really nervous about her getting in since we have been on the waiting list for a year now. And Sunday we are going to the Giants game.

To any outside observer, this is not an abnormal conversation in the Silicon Valley. Except that Layla is not a person, she’s a dog. And I’m desperate to get her accepted into a good daycare/boarding center. Why? Because I don’t have children. Also because stupid chain places like PetSmart and the Pets Hotels, etc charge a ridiculous amount of money to put your dog into a kennel and feed them twice a day. I’d rather pay a little less to have her play with other dogs and not freak out and bark 13 hours per day. When we went away Labor Day weekend, she literally lost her voice from barking so much. I didn’t even know that was possible for a dog. So really I’m trying to get her accepted somewhere where I can get my money’s worth in boarding her when I have to go away. Stop judging, I know what I sound like.

Her interview, however, did not go well.

Saturday morning came and I scrambled to finish her application (yes, application – it was 3 pages long!) and attach all of her forms and files from the vet before taking her on an hour-long walk trying to get her nice and tired before the interview. Layla is special in that she’s high energy, but also a rescue dog. Her behavioral issues are a constant work in progress, and more often than not I look like a clueless girl trying to walk a 22lb Tasmanian devil on a leash.

Sensing my stress I’m sure, we headed to our interview and tour of the facility at 11am. The place was perfect. We met with the trainer, and another prospective family. A doctor and her engineer husband and their 4-year-old lab mix, possibly the most docile dog I’ve ever seen. Already the odds were not in our favor. Though we have great jobs, I’m not a surgeon and Vic is not a computer programmer. Needless to say, I was stressed.

The people were perfectly nice, and Layla was surprisingly calm and curious as we toured the “sleeping quarters” – you have a choice of group sleep on futon/beds/couches or private suites with big TV’s and couches – and the play areas, and then it came time for the evaluation. We were instructed to wait for Layla in the other room while they evaluated her skills with other dogs and people in the back.

Sweating bullets, I waited on an old leather couch anxious that my damn little dog was going to screw it all up with one of her odd quirks. 15 minutes later, she was led out, excited to see us, and we were escorted to another room for the final evaluation. Here we learned that she exhibits, “Very fun and appropriate play attitudes with other dogs. She’s engaging, happy, and not aggressive at all.” But we also learned that she lunged and barked at the head trainer. Of course. They want to make sure that they can “handle” her, and though I assured them that even if she’s barking her head off you can pick her up no problem, she’s ALL talk, they still maintained that they are “concerned” for her behavior with the handlers.

Basically, she plays well with others, but tries to hit the teacher and I’m sure would be the kid that eats paste. Not an ideal candidate for school.

So rather than rejecting us outright, they are letting us have a trial day on Wednesday. I’m hoping it goes well. If this is any indication for what our future holds – I’m terrified. We just want her to have a bright future:

 

A Weekend Away

Apologies for not posting sooner – but it’s been a very stressful few weeks at work and when I get home I find myself just wanting to zone out and go to sleep, which last night I did at about 10pm. I don’t think I’ve been that tired in a long, long time.

However, it was totally worth it! Victor and I took last weekend (Labor Day) to be very long, and left on Thursday night for a long drive to our favorite place on earth….

DISNEYLAND.

I found a really great hotel deal on travelzoo.com and we stayed at a hotel that was a short 7 minute walk to the park, so we were able to fall fast asleep on Thursday night for a full Friday of Disney fun!  We woke up early on Friday for park opening, grabbing some coffee on the way to stand in line. We were beyond excited for the day for several reasons. Though we went to DisneyWorld this past February (stop judging, you’re jealous) we have actually not been to Disneyland since Vic’s 22nd birthday. Do the math, that’s almost exactly 4 years ago. Needless to say, we were pumped because we got to ride the new Star Tours that had just opened a few months before. Anecdotally, I was so happy Vic was excited about Star Tours – as a kid I have great memories of my parents dragging my siblings and I to early park opening and running to Star Tours. It was a huge family favorite. I’m pretty sure that my brother could ride that all day long and not complain at all. Pretty positive I would join him in it too

SO, we got in line for the park early, and had a thought out strategy - get a fast pass for the ride later in the day, and THEN ride the ride for the first time. So that would guarantee us at least two rides, since the line is usually pretty bad and the Fast passes sell out quickly. Turns out the plan worked perfectly, and we were able to get on the ride for the first time in about 15 minutes. And yes, it is totally worth a long line – it was so much fun!

Immediately following Star Tours we hit up Indiana Jones (my favorite ride of all time) and then Space Mountain. Again, priorities. We were pretty blown away at the difference between Space Mountain in D-Land vs. World, and I’m inclined to vote that D-Land is far better. Also, side note, DisneyWorld does not have the Mad Hatter shop in Fantasyland. Disneyland does. Call me old school, but that place is an institution and I love it dearly.

Perhaps the best part of the day was our buttons. We got our tickets at the booth, and the lovely woman asked if we were celebrating. Given a pretty busy summer, Vic jumped in and told her we were celebrating our 1 year wedding anniversary. She immediately responded that our marriage was basically brand new, and we deserved “Just Married” buttons. Which of course we donned proudly all day! The people were SO nice congratulating us all day long – we even got to go to the front of the line on the Peter Pan ride!

We hung out a lot more in California Adventure this time around, going on Tower of Terror and the California Screamin’ Rollercoaster - please note Victor’s face in this picture:

He claims it was genuine, that he tried to make a silly face and then we started dropping.

I made dinner reservations that night for a restaurant in California Adventure called Ariel’s Grotto, overlooking the Rollercoaster and Ferris Wheel, and the food was delish!

We also got a lot of free wine from our waiter for being newlyweds. Another score for the buttons.

That's a Disney Double-Fist

Slightly drunk and excited, we moseyed over to the new World Of Color Show later that night, and I was completely blown away. It was like the best mixture of water show, fireworks, Fantasmic and music I have ever seen. It truly was amazing. Of course I was over emotional and started crying half way through – I really really was blown away.

The next day we drove up to Hermosa to visit with Courtney and Mark, newly engaged and living in an adorable house a stones throw away from our alma mater. It was great seeing them, it had been almost a year but really felt like I had just seen them a day or two ago. I’m so pumped for them to get married – it’s going to be a great wedding for sure!

Speaking of weddings, did I mention that’s the whole reason we were in SoCal to being with? We headed to Woodland Hills that afternoon to begin celebrating our dear friends wedding, joining them for the rehearsal dinner the night before at their lovely home – everything was outside, the weather was perfect, and we were exhausted. We went to bed early that night and the next morning went on an adventure to Malibu:

So beautiful. We walked the beach, talked, took in the sights, admired the homes, it was really lovely and relaxing. We had plenty of time to lay by the pool before the wedding, enjoying the 100 degree heat

The wedding was amazing, just look at the setting:

Every detail was beautiful and carefully picked, it totally reflected them as a couple. I could not have been happier for the couple – they are so beyond perfect for each other

Even if my amazing shoes were ruined:

I nearly lost a toe to the hora

Yes, that is my blood – my toe was injured in a tragic stiletto/hora dancing accident. Luckily I was prepared with flats in my bag!

And that’s my horribly boring life update – just wanted to get back into the swing of blogging – I’ll be back to the regular routine this weekend!

Fringe: and Other Life Changes

I’ve been lacking on the posts lately, I know. But in my defense it’s simply because I have been so incredibly social lately. I’m just too popular to be blogging all the time anymore.

No but really. Last week was crazy. On top of being so stressed at work I may cry (I often forget that this is the time of the year that bathroom stress crying happens. A lot. I’m working on it I swear.) So here’s the recap:

Monday: Dinner with an old friend, Jenny who recently made the move from La La land to the bay area. We had delicious tapas and re-lived college stories. It was so great to see her in my hood and I’m totally stokked to have her around!

Tuesday: My first San Francisco Giants Game!

Such a beautiful stadium!

 

Please excuse the poor quality cell phone photo. I’ve been pretty terrible about bringing my camera lately. Either way the game was a total blast. We sat behind home plate, and I was completely shocked at the vast amount of people who were actually decked out in Giants gear! I felt extremely out-of-place in my jeans and t-shirt. The stadium was also FULL on a Tuesday night, even though the team was losing. I really had an amazing time. I cannot wait to go to my next game in that stadium.

Sidenote – this game was immediately following the SF 49ers vs. Oakland Raiders game the previous weekend. I attended that with Joanna. While there we witnessed 3 major fistfights in the stadium, 1 in the parking lot, someone walking over the top of the car, (while Joanna was driving!) and the two shootings (which luckily we did not see). Thus, I like the Giants so far. Less likely to get stabbed, thus a more pleasant experience.

Wednesday evening I had dinner with coworkers at a new restaurant in my neighborhood, Scratch. The location is amazing, the food was okay, and the wine was phenomenal. They had a very extensive wine list of reasonably priced California wines, and I definitely was digging the ambiance. I’ll probably go back, but this time just for the wine

Friday I went to my very first country music concert. As it turns out my friend from college, Gaby was visiting the area, and all my girlfriends got tickets to this concert. I pitched a fit because I wasn’t initially invited – simply because my friends know me well and assumed that I would have been offended at the offer to go to a country concert – but either way I bought a ticket and decided that it was worth it to spend time with good friends. We saw Sugarland:

And they were awesome. In all honestly it was probably the least “country” of any country band I could have imagined. There was no twang, no banjo, no cowboy hat or plaid shirt. They were great live performers and I bought their album on iTunes as soon as I got home. Though I’m not quite converted to country music, I did have a great time and will not hesitate as much next time I’m invited (or invite myself to) a country music concert. The people watching alone is worth it!

Saturday I got my hair did. And then I cried. The lady gave me bangs without asking if I wanted them, and I sort of hate them a lot. I can’t get used to constantly having my hair in my face:

Ugh. Please excuse the awful photo taken at BevMo while waiting to pick up a keg for Saturday night’s party. Classy lady, I know.

Apologies for the schizophrenic blog post, and I promise to resume to the normal stuff sometime this week, or perhaps next week after I return from DISNEYLAND!

 

Brooklyn, Part 6

Brooklyn, Part 6

For those of you new to my blog or the Brooklyn story, please feel free to catch yourselves up with the last Brooklyn post by clicking here

After that long sweltering walk home, unemployed, shamed, sweaty, distressed and oh so over it all, I decided it was time to tell the boyfriend that I was unemployed. Not like he was faring much better, working part-time as a consultant and going to grad school. We were about to be up shit creek in our newly furnished apartment. Luckily, upon finding out what I was actually expected to do at the new job, he was quite supportive. You see, it was summer 2008, I had a college degree, I was in New York – it was time to hit the virtual pavement.

Which is what I did. I pulled in my resources, re-vamped my resume and cover letter, and started applying to everything I was qualified for.

And then September came. And the world went to shit. Less than a mile from my house the world economy fell apart.

At the time I really didn’t understand what the “recession” was – I just knew that it was bad and it was making the job market effectively collapse. Which was pretty damn bad for this new college grad, chalk full of hopes and dreams for my future.

So 165 entry-level job applications later, I was unemployed, and like a massive percent of the population of the United States, unemployable. There was no such thing as an entry-level job anymore. I was, as you say, fucked.

One night just before Labor Day, Vic (who managed to keep his consulting job) and I went on a walk down Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights. We couldn’t afford to eat anywhere – literally anywhere – especially the places with the white tablecloths. Definitely couldn’t afford to eat there, but damn it looked good. While walking down the street I saw a packed café with outdoor seating, all the walls were glass and opened up on the quiet street to the outdoor patio, it had cute burgundy awnings with yellow stripes, cute round tables outside with cute American food adorning the tables lit with tiny candles. There was a super cool waitress in all black, rocking hot Christian Dior glasses and a funky red bob was waiting tables, she looked utterly swamped. The place was packed, with a line out the door.

I realized then and there if I wanted to make money fast while looking for a real job, I would utilize my former college waitressing skills.

The next day at 11:50am, I walked over to the restaurant, resume in hand, ready to sell my soul again, but only for a few months I promised myself. Knowing the restaurant biz well, I knew there was a high likelihood of a manager being present around opening, 12:00pm. Luckily, the manager was out – but one of the owners was in. He was warm and nice, invited me to sit at the bar, took a look at my resume and asked if I could come in that night at 4:30 to train for the dinner shift as a server.

I was elated! I had a job! Income! Money! Tax free money that I could take home that night! As I bounded toward the door thanking him profusely for the job, he smiled and said, “Please wear all black. Black pants, shoes and shirt. No sneakers.”

“Great! Got it! Thanks!” I said as I walked out the door and realized I owned zero articles of black clothing and had to immediately go shopping. So my credit card took yet another hit, but it was okay because I had a job!

Dorm Stories: The Sleep Screamer

Sophomore year of college I lived in a suite style dorm with three girls. There were two dorm rooms connected by a large bathroom that we all shared. My roommate was Violet*, and in the other room were Ashley* and Stacy.* Ashley and I went to high school together, and she knew Violet from work – when it came to finding a group to live with, we decided it could be fun to live together, and it totally was.

If you overlooked the fact that our rooms were tiny, and situated right above the “diner” themed cafeteria, (our room and all of our belongings had a deep smell of fried food) it was actually quite cute. However, to this day the smell of onion rings makes me gag. I now understand what people who work at fast food restaurants must feel like on a regular basis.

But back to the roommates: Violet and Stacy were possibly the most beautiful people on the planet. Tall, thin, beautiful skin, beautiful hair, they looked like they walked off of a runway and into our classroom. It simply wasn’t fair. However, while watching America’s Next Top Model one night, I lent Violet a pair of my heels and told her to walk down the hall as a “runway.” In the first three seconds I was about to launch an online campaign to get her onto the show, her foot shook, and then wobbled, and then she tripped and feel so horrendously hard on her face I was certain that I was going to be arrested for being the worst roommate in the history of the world. Luckily, she was laughing just as hard as I was. Despite her I’m sure, broken ankle.

Violet also had a hilarious habit of screaming talking in her sleep. I did not know this right away. It happened one night while I was sound asleep, and it went a little like this:

Violet: Hey!

Me: Rolling over confused. Harummmpshh?

Violet: (louder) Hey!

Me: What?! It’s 3am!

Violet: (now screaming) YOU FORGOT TO TURN LEFT! YOU NEED TO TURN LEFT!

At this point I realized she was talking in her sleep, something my little sister, that I shared a room with as a child, did fairly often. So I did what I used to do with her.

Me: Violet, you’re sleeping. Shut up.

And it totally worked. Turns out, it would work again, and again. Very regularly. I found it was almost like sleep talking for me, constantly telling Violet to shut up. God forbid someone bad came into my room and started talking before they got all rape/murder city up in my dorm. I’d probably just tell them to shut up and go back to bed. Luckily, no rapists or murderers were too excited to meander into the fast food restaurant that had become our dorm. Luckily.

But hey, it was college. Who needed to sleep?

What about you? Did you have roommates who did odd things in their sleep? What about roommates with bizarre habits?

Nothing Tastes Better Than Skinny Feels

Whoever said that is a total bitch. A total bitch who had never tasted red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting before.

Excuse my language, but no really. BITCH. Recently my grandmother made a passing comment to me about my weight, commenting, “you look a little heavy.” And it hit me kind of hard. Since then I have been working out and trying to eat better and of course, obsessing. All because of that one comment, which made me reflect a little about why I was so bothered.

I’ve always struggled with self-esteem, since I graduated from high school really. I spent four years in high school swimming at a national and state level. That meant working out twice a day every day and swimming up to 6,000 yards per day. Needless to say I could eat whatever I wanted and wear a size zero with utter ease. After I finished high school I discovered what happens when I continued to eat whatever I wanted and didn’t work out at all. I also developed a lovely skin condition that was the icing on the cake. Acne at 18 was really depressing. I quickly ballooned to a size 8 in my first semester. None of my clothes fit, and I was miserable. So I did something about it. I’ve always been pretty active, I just needed that kick in the pants to keep me going.

Needless to say I’ve fluctuated somewhere around a size 6 ever since, and thanks to the gift of accutane I finally have clear skin (7 years later…) but I still struggle with self-image constantly. Mostly because I freaking love food. All food. I love everything from escargot to chicken nuggets, mouse to doughnuts. I love cheese and bread and cake and ice cream. I have an unhealthy obsession with cupcakes, and I truly believe that dessert is essential to making for a happy day. A life without carbs? I’d rather die.

So when someone told me recently. “Nothing tastes better than skinny feels,” as I stuffed my face with yet another whoopie pie (my second that day) I could have punched them. I know I’ve got curves, but frankly, I was pissed. I’m a size 6, not 26. So shut the fuck up. I know if I denied myself the goodness in life I could be a size 2. But I’d also be a cranky bitch. I also know that I will never be able to work out 3 hours a day. I also know that I love ice cream too much to be skinny.

So I let the fat kid inside me eat. And I still look in the mirror all the time and hate what I see. I can’t help it. And yes, it’s true that I tend to feel better when I’m a little smaller, and yes it’s true I stare at the skinny people and secretly hate them. But I also know that I have boobs. And a butt. And I look like a woman, not a little boy. Which is kind of nice. So I’m working on it, and it’s a daily struggle, but I think I’ll get there. I currently don’t own a scale, which is totally liberating. I’m going with how I feel, rather than a stupid number, so I feel like it’s a baby step in the right direction – and it’s totally working.

What about you? How do you balance eating tasty food and working out? How do you feel when you look in the mirror?