Tag Archives: awkward moment

The Dysfunctional Diners

18 May

Sometimes at work, I like to wait on dysfunctional families. And when I say “I like to wait on dysfunctional families” what I mean is “I really hate waiting on dysfunctional families in most circumstances, but when it is literally SO SLOW that I’m lucky to make 35 dollars, I like waiting on dysfunctional families because it gives me a source of entertainment.” Yesterday was one such day.

Outside of the bar area of the steakhouse, there is this little antique phone hanging on the wall above two chairs and a small cocktail table. Most people walk by the phone and don’t even acknowledge its existence. Sometimes people will say “Oh what a cute little phone!” and that’s the end of it. And then sometimes, but ONLY sometimes, will a family of four walk into the bar, only to have the younger of the two sons break away and say, “LOOK AT THAT PHONE MOM! ITS ANCIENT!” and the mom will screech and get out her iPad to take a photo of the kid climbing onto the chairs and putting his shoes on the table just to reach the phone, yank it off of the wall, and take a picture.

Already I knew… this was it. This family was going to be my source of entertainment for the night.

Now in order to fully let you understand what I was dealing with, I need to describe these people.

Over-Worked Father: Dressed in an Ohio State T-shirt with a receding hairline and a forehead that looked like it was made of turtle skin. (Tight, yet very wrinkly and malleable.) He looked like he had been forced to listen to the My Little Pony theme song (the 80’s version, not today’s version) on repeat for six years prior to entering this upscale steakhouse. He looked angry. He looked aggressive. He looked defeated.
Enabling Mother: Wearing a t-shirt covered by what I could only imagine was a jacket made from llama shavings. She had puffy blonde hair, but her inch-and-a-half roots were black and growing out. She was not excited to be in the steakhouse. She reminded me of the mom on American Beauty…. smiling, trying desperately to keep everyone together when everyone would much rather be three states apart in each direction. Seeing her smile actually made me sad.
Satan: Satan is the older of the two brothers. Wearing swim trunks and a gray t shirt, Satan literally did not smile ONCE in the two hours he was seated at this steakhouse. Literally, Not. Once.
Sid: I have named the younger of the brothers Sid because he literally was Sid from Toy Story.


Literally. This face. That voice.

So after Sid climbs onto the cocktail table to violently claim the antique phone, and after Enabling Mother takes the picture, the four of them sit down at a table. Already I can hear the muffled anger coming from their direction. Satan throwing his arms into the air and violently sighing, pushing so much air out of his lungs that Enabling Mother’s fluffy hair actually billows a bit from sitting across from him.

My coworker Lucas looks at the table, then looks at me.

Lucas: Have fun.
Me: Jesus take the wheel.

I grab four beverage napkins, and approach the table. I start to give myself a pep talk… I am smiling! I am happy! Maybe I can help this family stop fighting and make their meal really awesome, so they’ll leave happier than when they came in! I am an amazing employee and I can do this! There is a reason our company calls their employees “Stars!” AND I AM THAT REASON!!!

I inhale to greet them, and-
Enabling Mother: Will you two just SIT DOWN?
Satan: (Speak-yelling at Over-Worked Father in such a disrespectful tone I was surprised that no one physically assaulted him) YOU TOLD ME I COULDN’T BRING MY HEADPHONES TO DINNER AND NOW HE HAS HIS! (motions to Sid)
Sid: (Headphones in, playing a game on his smartphone that is larger and more high tech than my own phone. He is 8. He is not only completely unaware of this conversation, but also of me standing there beside him, beaming.)
Over-Worked Father: What were you going to use them for, anyway? Hm?
Satan: I ALREADY TOLD YOU. I was gonna watch YOUTUBE VIDEOS.
Over-Worked Father: And you? (looks at Sid) Hey!
Over-Worked Father: HEY!
Over-Worked Father: (gestures) SID!
Sid: (Looks up only because Over-Worked Father waved his arms)
Sid: (Takes out one, ONE, of the ear buds. He sighs.) I’m playing a game. DOY!
(Heightened silence while Over-Worked Father seems to be deciding which sound he hates more. Game VS YouTube. Finally he looks at Sid with eyebrows raised.)
Over-Worked Father: Sid? (As if to say… C’mon, Give your brother the headphones.)
Sid: (Already has the earbud back in and is playing his game. He is unaware of everything.)

Keep in mind I am STILL standing at the table, smiling, just watching all of this. Beaming. Smiling like this is the sweetest conversation I have ever heard in my entire life, as if this earbud saga is the most heartwarming tale of selfless love to ever touch my little cocktail waitress heart.

Enabling Mother: (Looks up at me with a huge smile.) Well… We aren’t spoiled, ARE WE? Ha ha ha HAHA! …Ha… um.

Silence. I am still standing there smiling, waiting to see if there will be ay other protests or interruptions before I speak. There are none.

Me: SO! How IS everyone today? Just wonderful? Fantastic! My name is Carolyn and I’ll be serving you today!
Family: Blank stares from everyone except for Sid, who is playing his game and not looking at anyone. Satan is giving me a look of pure evil and hatred.
Enabling mother puts her hands over her eyes. Over-Worked Father stares at a crumb on the floor.
Me: GREAT! May I start you all off with something to drink? Maybe some beer? (I shoot this at Over-Worked Father. He looks at me like I am his only key to salvation.)
Over-Worked Father: I’ll take a Sam Adams.
Enabling Mother: I need wine. A nice, dry red wine.
Me: But of course. And for you sir? (Talking to Satan)
Satan still has his arms crossed and is giving me the look of poison.
Satan: (Jaw drops to reveal uneven bottom teeth.)
Enabling Mother: Just a round of waters for them.
Me: Of course! I’ll be right back!

I can’t handle this. I can’t do it. I have never wanted to punch a child so much in my entire life. If I go back over to that table and Satan is still giving me that look, I will be FORCED to asked if there is ANYTHING I can do to make his dining experience more to his liking… I will ask him why he is so angry, and I WILL do it with a smile, and I WILL do everything in my power to make him stop looking like such a miserable little garbage can.

I deliver the waters, making sure to smile at Satan the entire time.
Me: So, does anyone have any questions about the menu?
Silence. Dead, still, silence. For a moment I wonder if I’m invisible. I wonder if I actually asked the question out loud, or if I just thought I did… Maybe I’M the awkward one here, just showing up to their table not saying anything at all…
Over-Worked Father: (To Satan) NO, actually I am POSITIVE that a potato is a vegetable.
Over-Worked Father: Yes. It is.
Satan: NO. It ISN’T.
Enabling Mother: It’s a starch.
(Over-Worked Father looks at his wife as if she is literally the dumbest person in the world. In just one look, I can tell that he is so disgusted at how his life has played out- that he has actually CHOSEN this woman to be his life partner, that he CHOSE to procreate with her above literally EVERYONE ELSE in the whole world, that his next words erupt from his mouth with such resentment and hatred I’m afraid the next topic of conversation will be custody rights. Custody Rights where both parents fight about who HAS to keep them.)
Over-Worked Father: Just because it is a starch doesn’t mean it isn’t a vegetable.
Me: (Beaming!)
Enabling Mother: Whatever. Either way, you need to eat healthier.
Over-Worked Father: I am on vacation, I will eat however I please.
Enabling Mother: (Finishing a gulp of wine) Oh, you’re on vacation? You’re at a work function. Please.

I actually witness Over-Worked Father picking and choosing his battles. He looks at the menu. And I am still standing there, waiting for someone to answer my question.

Over-Worked Father: Satan? What do you want to eat?
Satan: I already TOLD YOU, I want WINGS.
Over-Worked Father: (Death stare. I suddenly realize where Satan has learned his facial expressions.) They don’t have those here. Get the kids fillet. It’ll be the best thing you ever eat.
Satan: I don’t WANT IT.
Enabling Mother: Okay, you know what? They don’t have wings! Okay, fine, nothing. He will have nothing. I am going to have the french onion soup and the wedge salad.
Me: Very good!
Enabling Mother: Sid?
Sid: (Playing his game)
Me: (Beaming at Sid)
Enabling Mother: (Punches him on the arm.) HEY! Mac n’ cheese?
Sid: (Barely responds. I think I may have heard him say “Mm.”)
Enabling Mother: Mac N’ Cheese for him.
Over-Worked Father: I am going to have the Salmon. GOD I’m at a steakhouse and I’m getting SALMON.
Me: Actually our salmon is phenomenal. You won’t be disappointed.
Enabling Mother: (Ignoring me) Make sure you ask for the lentils on the side. I won’t eat those.
Over-Worked Father: Whatever, they’re big. I’ll move them away, it’s not a big deal.
Me: (Thinking “Our lentils are actually tiny, but I’m not going to say that for fear of getting stabbed.”)
Enabling Mother: (suddenly sweeter than ever) Satan? Honey, are you’re sure you don’t want anything?
Satan: (Stares at her. Pouting. Mutters-) …Ids Illay.
Enabling Mother: What was that!?
Satan: (Yelling) KIDS FILLET.
Me: (Looking directly at Satan himself) And how would you like that prepared, young sir?!?!
Satan: (Pure evil. Poison is leaking from his eyes.)
Enabling Mother: Medium well.
Me: Fantastic! I’ll get that right in for you, and I’ll also bring some fresh bread and butter for the table.
Me: (Wanting desperately to say “Wait- you can hear me! You can SEE me!?” I walk away.)

When I bring the bread to the table, Sid hulks out. He RIPS the earbuds out of his head and lunges for the bread, as if he hasn’t eaten in six weeks. With every inhale it sounds like he’s slurping something- which is quite a miraculous feat because he is ingesting BREAD, and with every exhale there is an audible vocalization of “Mmmm.” It’s a rather disturbing cycle, but no one addresses it. Meanwhile, Satan is sitting in his chair like a frog. The bottoms of his shoes are actually on the seat of the chair, and any time he wants to drink his water, he literally springs up, puts his hands on the table, and bends over to put his mouth on the straw… instead of just picking up the glass and bringing it to his mouth like any other normal person on the planet. No one addresses this either.

When their food finally does come, I watch intently to see what happens. I watch to see if Satan does, indeed, like his KIDS FILLET. He does. Obviously, you’re gonna like the kids fillet, you ungrateful, unwanted, rat-faced collection of disappointments and broken dreams. You’re at one of the best steakhouses in Orlando and you’re eating a 5 oz fillet! And even if it IS prepared medium well, thanks to your insane to the membrane mother, it’s going to be the best thing you eat all week.

So, that’s basically the end of the story. Once the food came everyone kind of shut up and ate, and the only thing that was semi-amusing about them at this point was when Sid grabbed the black dish that held their side item, and screamed, in the EXACT voice of Sid from Toy Story, “IS THIS MADE OUT OF IRON????” Over-Worked Father tipped 20 percent and they all decided to GTFO. I think he was appreciative that I didn’t announce that we had dessert options… instead, I discreetly handed him the dessert menu out of view of his spawn and said, quietly, “In case you’re interested…”

It’s sad, but I’ve come to realize the importance of alcohol mixed with some good food when it comes to dysfunctional families. Usually by the end of the meal I can have people laughing and actually interacting with each other without arguing anymore. And yet, with this family, I was just happy that no one got slapped… by me. I hope the rest of their business trip/vacation(???) fared better than that atrocious meal, but I won’t hold my breath. I bet Sid is still sitting somewhere right now playing his game and slurp-breathing, and Satan is watching YouTube with that disgusted look on his face, Enabling Mother is looking through a magazine at the body and life she’ll never have, and Over-Worked Father is answering emails and wondering where his life went wrong. It’s really sad to think about these families like this once they’re gone, so I try not to. I just bring them their check, and hope for the best. I have to pay my bills, you know.


The Most Jellicle, The Most Live

25 May

When we were young, my sister and I took many lessons of varying activities. I, being the animal lover, went through a horseback riding phase that I admittedly have not completely grown out of. Caitlyn, being a fairy tale princess, took ballet from the moment she could stand in first position. I eventually started to take dance lessons, too, as well as gymnastics, cheerleading, and a sad, pathetic fifth grade attempt at playing basketball.  (I scored four glorious points the entire season- two foul shots, and one basket that I think went into the basket because the ball bounced off of my flailing arm, and my teammates were nice enough to allow me the credit of making said basket.)

When we were about 13 and 15, my sister and I were taking dance lessons at a local dance studio. Now, when I say “taking dance lessons at a local dance studio,” what I mean to say is that sometimes on random Saturdays we would show up to the dance studio and learn sporadic 8 counts of choreography, and not return for a few weeks due to our busy schedules. The problem was, if you wanted to take dance classes with this studio, you had to keep your entire Saturday open. We were enrolled in jazz, lyrical, ballet, pointe, and tap. Five hours of straight dance with hour breaks here and there. If anything else conflicted- family reunions, gymnastics meets, cheerleading competitions, community productions of The Music Man, having a social life- you’d miss all of your classes for that week. It wasn’t like “Oh I can’t make it to jazz on Satruday, but at least I’ll make it to ballet on Monday!” No. If you missed one class, you usually missed them all.

Here’s the thing: I’m not saying that missing class was the right thing to do. It was actually the complete wrong thing to do. Now that I’m older, I can only imagine my instructor’s frustration while trying to choreograph 50+ teenage girls into some sort of physical product that didn’t resemble a chaotic frenzy of developing breasts, hips, and acne. ESPECIALLY when those 50+ girls had other activities to attend, and couldn’t even show up to class. She had made it easy for us- ONE day of the week you get to attend ALL of your classes, and be done with it for the rest of the week. How hard can that be, huh? To just make sure your schedule is clear for ONE day of the week? I mean seriously. How can you choreograph and teach people dances if they’re not in the room? You can’t. AND! Now that I’m older, I realize that my instructor was not only in charge of our dance educations, but she was ALSO in charge of putting on the end of the year recital, in which all of her hard work would be showcased on a stage for all of the people PAYING her to do the impossible task of teaching their absent children how to dance.

So I assume my instructor finally got so fed up with the whole ordeal that she finally just said “Forget you little whores. This year we’re doing it my way.” And at the beginning of that year, the infamous year, she made an announcement:

“Listen. If you’re in class, you’ll be in the recital. If you’re not in class, you won’t be. Each week, whatever we learn- if you’re here to learn it, you’ll perform those 8 counts in the recital. If you’re not here, you won’t be in the 8 counts we learned. If you happen to miss a week where we learn a BIG section of the dance, or if we manage to learn ALL of the dance, you simply won’t be on stage for it. This is how we’re doing it this year.” She then took a big swig from her water bottle. Looking back now, her water bottles were never clear. She always had a plastic jug that she brought from home. I now wonder what she was drinking…Well played, Miss Dance Instructor. Well played.

Well, this sent a shock through us all. She couldn’t do that! Could she? Would this mean that we wouldn’t be able to miss a SINGLE DANCE CLASS if we wanted to be in the whole dance at the end of the year?!?!

Being a virgo, someone who is a naturally organized person, I found my 13 year old self wondering… “So, wait… say someone misses a class. But they were here the week before that class, and the week after… does that mean they’re just going to have to RUN off of the stage while the rest of the group does the part that they missed… and then run BACK on as soon as they know the choreography again? That doesn’t seem very organized…”

And yes. Yes, that is exactly what that meant, and no, it was not organized. At all.

It also didn’t help that this year was the year that my sister and I would be missing the most dance classes of our entire lives. I don’t really remember why we were missing so much class… it really doesn’t matter for the story’s sake… the point is, we missed a shit ton of class. When we would finally show up to early morning Saturday dance, our friends would greet us like we were their long-lost family members from ancient times.

Prepubescent Girl: Do you still take class here? Or are you just visiting?
Other Girls: Wow! Your hair got longer! It’s good to see you! Carolyn, you got taller since the last time I saw you! Etc…

I can only imagine my instructor’s frustration when we finally DID show up for class. Now she had two extra bodies to put into this mess, and those two bodies knew none of the dance at all.

Every year, in community dance studios around the nation, small recitals are put on. Each year, these recitals usually have “themes.” Such as, “God Bless America”; “Five, Six, Seven, GREAT!” ; “Over the Rainbow”; and “STARPOWER.” This year, the infamous year of the changing eights, our theme was THE STARS OF BROADWAY. Each dance was choreographed to old Broadway hits, or songs that talked a lot about New York City. I vaguely remember the “advanced adult tap class” kick ball changing their way through Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.” I also remember a beautiful lyrical solo done by a girl in a flowwy white costume to Billy Joel’s “New York State Of Mind.”

The one day that we came to class, we learned that our “advanced jazz class” was opening the entire recital with a tribute to one of Broadway’s longest running musicals, “CATS!” While we joined the group and started to learn the choreography, I started to realize something…

Caitlyn and I would be portraying cats. We would actually embody animals on stage, and people would be watching us, and no one would call us weird or “too old to be acting like an animal.”  I felt like my entire life had been leading me up to this moment. Years of making “nests” behind the couch and filling them with my beanie babies… crawling around on the floor like a psychotic lunatic while carrying aforementioned beanie babies in my mouth… watching The Animal Planet and perfecting my cougar call… all of these activities had led me to this SPECIFIC moment. I WAS a cat. I was a feline, and I was fabulous.

Needless to say, my freak show little self was extremely excited. Caitlyn, on the other hand, was more worried about her costume than the actual portrayal of a believable cat. You see, sometimes in these things, parents and their “talented” offspring are forced to order, buy, and sometimes even MAKE their own costumes. This time was no different. We were told we would need to order body suits and decorate them however we saw fit. During one Saturday, before anyone ordered their body suits, we were forced to write our names down under the colors that we wished to be. This was done in hopes of avoiding 27 black cats and only 3 yellow cats on stage.

I approached the list… I knew what color I wanted to be… I was hoping that there wouldn’t be too many names under that color already… but because I had missed so much class, I knew I wouldn’t be first to write my name down on the paper. My more punctual peers certainly wouldn’t let me have first cat color choice privileges. I had to wait my turn…. patiently…

With every girl that approached the list and wrote her name down, I knew I would have to settle for something STUPID like… brown. Or gray. I kept my fingers crossed, and prayed that there would be at least one space left for my name…

When I finally did get to see the list, these were the options I saw:
ORANGE:        BLACK:       GRAY:             YELLOW:       BROWN:


What. No, seriously… what!?

No where, not anywhere, was the “Siamese” option. Who were these people? What the hell were they thinking? You can’t have a production of CATS without proper cat colors!

I was so disappointed, I didn’t even care where my name went anymore. I saw that there weren’t many orange cats, so I scribbled my name down and went back to my place on the floor.

A month later, we received a package in the mail. At this point, I think all three of us- my mother, my sister, and I- had forgotten that we had ordered anything. When we finally opened the package and looked inside, my mom pulled out a brown body suit and an orange body suit.

Mom: Oh. Here are your cat costumes, girls.
Caitlyn: Oh yeah! We’re doing CATS. I almost forgot.
Me: (Holding up the limp carcass of my orange body suit) This is the literally the color of a construction cone.

My mom promised that she would help me make my costume not look as crazy-orange as it already did. We went to the craft store and bought a few boas for our tails, and, upon my instruction, grabbed a package of black feathers and some glue.

Mom: Carolyn, we should really just use paint to give you stripes.
Me: Paint is going to look two dimensional! I want the stripes to look like FUR. Okay!? That’s why we’re going to glue feathers onto me.
Mom: But honey, if you put glue on a costume that is supposed to stretch-
Me: I WANT IT TO LOOK LIKE FUR FROM OFF STAGE. If I can’t even be a Siamese cat, at least I can look like like I have fur!
Mom: Okay. Whatever.

That night I slaved over my costume, gluing feathers in all the right places to make me look like an orange tabby cat. It took hours of painstakingly accurate applications, but once it was completed, I was satisfied. Everyone else would be using markers for their costumes. Not me! Oh no. I was going to be different.

Finally the night of the recital arrived. Caitlyn and I rushed into the backstage area and started to get ready. The “costumers” (AKA a few selfless and good hearted parent volunteers) had printed out templates of cat makeup from the actual Broadway show that they were letting us go through and choose. Caitlyn and I chose our makeup maps, and proceeded to apply our feline faces.

I looked at my sister. Her eyebrows were drawn in along her nose and back out under her eyes- almost like she had purposely drawn raccoon eyes on herself, but then stopped and changed her mind midway through. She had painted stripes back along her cheeks with different colored lip pencils, and colored in her entire top lip with gray eyeliner. On the left side of her face was a patch of gray makeup, a patch that to us looked like distinctive feline markings, but to anyone else would appear to be physical proof of domestic violence.

I, on the other hand, had colored my eyebrows in the opposite direction- I had made them fan up and back, bleeding back into my hairline. I colored the bottom of my nose with a black eye pencil and drew a very prominent line down my upper lip, which then connected to another colored-in black triangle below my bottom lip. Every other inch of my face was painted white like a geisha.

I looked at Caitlyn. She looked at me. We stared at each other for a moment. There was silence. And then-

Me: You look FANTASTIC.
Caitlyn: Wow. We look great!
Me: Here, let me help you with your collar.

Finally, it was time to put on our body suits. Caitlyn slid into hers like butter melts into a pan. It stretched and clung to her like an athletic body suit should. Mine, on the other hand…

Me: Uh, Caitlyn?
Caitlyn: Yeah?
Me: Mine… mine isn’t stretching.
Caitlyn: What do you mean? It’s a body suit.
Me: Well, where I used the glue to glue on the feathers?
Caitlyn: Yeah?
Me: Well… it’s not stretching. In those places.

We then proceeded to RIP my costume apart and MAKE it fit onto my body. Feathers were flying everywhere. Caitlyn was laughing, I was hyperventilating, and all the while we were hearing the stage manager (Aka another selfless parent volunteer) yell down “TEN MINUTES TILL PLACES!”

Caitlyn: There! It’s on! Just leave it!
Me: But look at the feathers! They’re falling off! COMPLETELY! I look horrible!

Now, at this moment I suspect my sister knew exactly what she was doing… she then says to me…

Caitlyn: Well… we’re supposed to be ally cats, right?
Me: Yeah…
Caitlyn: Well you’ll just look a little more, forlorn.
Me: Huh?!
Caitlyn: Like… LIKE you’re one of those really aggressive cats that doesn’t take any crap from any other cats!
Me: But… that’s not the type of cat I rehearsed! I rehearsed being a very friendly cat, who actually gets along well with other cats, as long as the other cats aren’t trying to mate with me or steal my territory!
Caitlyn: Well… maybe you can just be a different type of cat. Come on, we have to get into places.

And while we climbed the steps to emerge onto the stage and start the preshow section, I was trying desperately to think about how I could possibly change my cat character to justify my haggard appearance. Could my docile original cat character have just gotten into a fight… and lost? NO! My cat character would NEVER lose a fight… Could I have mange? NO! My cat character cleans herself daily! No matter which way I looked at it, it was unavoidable. I was going to have to become… AN AGGRESSIVE CAT.

The lights came up. The music started. I did my usual lick the paw and pat my ear choreography that I had planned, but now I felt stupid- I was in my head, second-guessing everything I was doing…

Angry Me: Now come on. What kind of a cat tries to clean themselves NOW?
Nervous Me: I can’t help it! My costume fell apart!

I stretched my arms out in a child’s pose and arched my back.

Angry Me: OH so we just woke up from a nap now, huh!? IS THE KITTY CAT TIRED!?!?!
Nervous Me: I’m just doing the choreography… the way we rehearsed…
Angry Me: Your stretching is CRAP. This entire production is CRAP, so long as YOU’RE in it! Do you even KNOW the dance?!?!

And I think it was at that moment that I realized… I really didn’t know any of the dance. I mean I knew where I was supposed to be on the stage. I knew, vaguely, where I was supposed to enter and exit. But other than that? I was screwed. I realized, in that heightened moment of self loathing and hyperventilation, that I had been relying solely on the mirrors in our studio to watch and follow the other girls. And now that we were actually on the stage without any mirrors, I literally had no idea which 8 count came where, and where I was supposed to be.

It was every performer’s nightmare. Being onstage with a costume that is falling apart, only to realize you don’t know your part. I quickly looked over at Caitlyn. Surprisingly, she was already looking right back at me. And get this- she had the EXACT same, petrified, “Oh-My-Gosh-I-Literally-Have-No-Idea-What-Comes-Next” look on her face that I did.

And I believe it was at that moment where the term “Doing it live” comes from. Most people think it’s from the internet sensation of Bill O’Riley going nuts and screaming “WE’LL DO IT LIVE” at the news crew for having a faulty teleprompter. But no. No, friends, see… “Do it live” actually started with two teenage sisters attempting to dance in a small studio’s tribute to the award winning Broadway musical “CATS.”

So there we were. On a stage. Running around, trying not to bump into anyone else, mouthing the words, but we didn’t really know the words…

Yes we’re Jellicle cats
as Jellicle, do…?
Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats!
Jellicle songs for Jellicle cats!
I’m a cat, And I’m Jellicle too?…

Kicking! Running! Leaping! Pivoting! Pirouetting! All a half second behind everyone else on the stage. We looked like two genuine ass holes up there. At one point I even considered just jazz running off stage and staying there until the whole thing was over… Which, now that I think about it, I SHOULD have been doing during the parts that I didn’t know… I just didn’t know when to exit and when to come back on.

The only silver lining was that Caitlyn and I had been strategically placed in the back of every formation, so that even if we messed up, we’d be mostly hidden by the other girls on stage who had attended more dance classes than we.

Now this continued on for what felt like a century. But then! Lo and behold, at one point Caitlyn and I finally realized that the part of the dance happening was the ONE part that we had been in class to learn! Suddenly we weren’t following anyone because we actually knew the choreography! And let me tell you what… those four eight counts were the most on point, committed, and memorable eight counts of the entire CATS production. Why, you ask? Well, because for those four eight counts, every dancer on the stage was doing the same movements at the exact same time. I could just see our dance instructor in the audience, beaming with pride… sure, we were a little shaky to start. But we’ve got it now! WE’VE GOT THIS!

And then, just as soon as it had started, it ended- The beautiful part of the dance that we knew was now over, and we were back to square one.

Please, I heard myself pleading with God, please let this be over soon, and I swear I’ll never miss a dance class again…

Suddenly everyone in the entire company artistically collapsed down to the floor and rolled, and Caitlyn and I were left, for a split second, staring at the audience point blank. Just standing there. Two casual cats, staring blankly at the audience. We IMMEDIATELY dove down to be on the same level as the other girls… and then, something in my brain clicked, and for one more glorious second, I realized I KNEW THE CHOREOGRAPHY! I KNEW this eight count! I knew, deep in my bones, that on count EIGHT was a move where we shot our feet out in front of us, leaned back on one arm, and stretched our other arm up to display a jazz hand. It was kind of an awkward move, where you’re hitched between your hand and your heels, sort of showing your crotch to the audience… But it didn’t matter. The awkward body suit crotch move came on count eight! AND I KNEW IT!

And so, I did it. Five, six, seven…. EIGHT!

And as my crotch was displayed proudly for the entire audience to enjoy, and my arm shot up to display a perfect, triumphant jazz hand, I realized it wasn’t the only jazz hand! Caitlyn’s triumphant jazz hand shot up, too! The only problem was…

No body else’s hands shot up. Not one other crotch that wasn’t related to mine was being displayed for the audience’s enjoyment.

Later that night after the recital ended, my mother insisted that she grab a picture of Caitlyn and I in our cat costumes. And you know what? I’m glad she did. Because at the time, the LAST thing I wanted to do at the end of my recital was put my cat costume back on. But now that she has, I get to share this photograph with the rest of the world. Enjoy.

Sole Patch, the Aggressive Cat sits proudly next to Jellicle Slutter Baum.

Sole Patch, the Aggressive Cat sits proudly next to Jellicle Slutter Baum.


I think our little an-jellicle faces really just say it all.


A Conversation With My Sister.

16 Feb

Caitlyn: Why don’t you audition for Star Wars Weekends with me? You could stand next to me so they could see our similarities.
Me: Yeah… I mean why not? It’s not like I’d have anything to lose.
Caitlyn: Exactly.
Me: But I couldn’t be Slave Leia.
Caitlyn: Probs not. They’d be like “Well… here’s the bikini from last year. Why don’t you try this on.”
Me: And I’d be all, “And here’s my cellulite from THIS year!” (Big cheesy smile and thumbs-up sign while sticking butt out)
Caitlyn: (Laughter)
Me: No seriously, who else could I possibly play, besides Jabba?
Caitlyn: Um.. Maybe you could be Zam Wesell.
Me: Who in the world is “Zam Wesell?”
Caitlyn: The bounty hunter! She’s the one who wears the sexy purple body suit, remember? She’d also wears that cloth thing that basically covers her entire face…
Me: Can you imagine!?
Caitlyn: Hey! At least it would cover your nose!
Me: (Imitating the audition) “Mm, yes, Caitlyn looking good as always… and… Oh? We see you brought your… sister. Carolyn, is it? Okay, Carolyn if you could… just… Yeah, take your hand… that’s right. Take your hand and just… (Puts hand over bottom half of face.) Right, yes… and now, with the other one…? (Takes the other hand and covers forehead so now all that is showing are my eyes.) Yes… hm… Steph, could we work with that?”
Caitlyn: Oh stop! She’s really sexy, she wears purple!
Me: And her entire face is covered! It’ll cover the Crow Nose!
Caitlyn: HAHAHAHA!!!
Me: Caitlyn if I didn’t get considered for something that covers my entire face I think… I think I’d probably just jump off  our balcony.

Annnnnnd for those of you who don’t know Star Wars, here is a picture of Zam Wesell. The girl I’d want (?) to play:


And, here is a picture of the character I would most likely play:



105_2294Maybe I’ll just use this picture as my headshot for the audition.

Fantastic Muggles and Where To Find Them

31 Jan

A few weeks ago, I was talking to my witch friend who will now forever be known as “Jade.” Jade, who is a real witch, tells me stories about her days working in Hogsmeade Village. Sometimes I can’t believe what she tells me, but that’s probably because I’m a just a silly muggle…. But that’s just it! Sometimes, I can’t believe the stories she tells me about my fellow muggles! For example…

A few weeks ago, Jade was dealing with the general confusion of dimes, nickles, and dollars (what she calls “the muggle currency”) while working the cash register. She noticed a young boy approaching with a wand. He timidly placed the open wand box on the counter while his elderly father patted him on the back proudly. Feeling a sense of pride for all parties involved, Jade spoke.

Jade: And is this your very first wand, young man?
Young Boy: (Grabbing the wand out of the box very suddenly, and pointing it directly between Jade’s eyes.) AVADA KEDAVRA!!!!!!

Now. For those of you who are not familiar with the literature of Jade’s history, this is the most unforgivable of the three Unforgivable Curses, as it is the “Killing Curse.”

Jade simply did not know what to do. She looked down at the boy, then up to the father, who was standing there looking positively pleased with himself and his murderer son.

Jade: (Face still rather shocked and blank.) Oh… my. You must be a Slytherin.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, “Crucio” is another Unforgivable Curse. While it will not kill the attacker’s opponent, it will, however, cause pain so severe that the victim will eventually become mentally incapable of normal interaction with other human beings. So, essentially, this young boy was now attempting to torture Jade into insanity before finishing the job.

Jade: (Becoming very serious, leaning down to get on his level) Do you know what spell that is?
Young Boy: Yeah! VOLDEMORT uses it!
Jade: …Yes. Voldemort, the most evil dark wizard in all of history, even above Grindlewald, used that curse constantly. And do you know why?
Young Boy: (I-just-pooped-a-little-bit-and-don’t-understand-why-any-of-this-is-happening-to-me expression.)
Jade: Because that’s the killing curse. That is the spell used to kill people. (Jade looks expectantly at his muggle father, who is now sadly staring off into space while absentmindedly flicking his credit card between his fingers.)
Young Boy: (Giggling) YEAH! (Points wand at the back of a Mexican child across the room.) AVADA KEDAVRA! Ha ha ha ha! (Young Boy runs off waving the wand like a sword and making light saber sounds effects.)
Jade: Well… your total comes to 34 dollars even.
Father: (Handing over his credit card, defeated.) Here… just, take it.

Jade then proceeded to tell me about a very large muggle man who wanted to purchase his first wand. He entered the shop with his bulging chest puffed out like a randy pigeon, his rebel flag hat worn backwards and his cut-off T-shirt sticking gloriously to underside his beer belly. He was holding a beer. Not a butterbeer, mind you. Just like, a regular beer. He waddled up to the wand wall, scratched his silver-grey stubble, and stared confusedly at the wall of many different colored boxes. Jade, thinking she would be helpful, asked the man if he had any questions.

Entitled Rebel: Well, the wand has to choose ME, don’t it?
Jade: (Very surprised, and mentally telling herself to never judge a book by its cover.) That’s right! Very good, sir. So, do any of these wands seem to speak to you?
Entitled Rebel: Well… maybe if you’d let me listen, maybe I could tell you.
(Literal fifteen second pause where Entitled Rebel looks from wand box to wand box. His sweating mate and their antsy offspring are all looking at Entitled Rebel with the utmost respect, waiting on the edge of their metaphorical seats for any sign of communication. Then, quite suddenly-)

Entitled Rebel: (Pointing at the entire wall) THAT ONE.
Jade: (Guessing the general direction of his finger) …This one?
Entitled Rebel: No, down one. (Jade moves down one.) To the left. (She moves her finger one spot to the left.) To the left. (Once more, to the left.) YOUR OTHER LEFT. (…to the right?) Yes, to the left. (Once more to the right.) Keep going. Up one. Another one. THAT ONE. THAT ONE RIGHT THERE.

At this point, Jade pulls the small green box out of the masses. She knows, immediately, that this wand was surely not “speaking” to this large man. For this wand, the wand of Willow, is the smallest, lightest, wispiest wand available. It’s a top seller for little girls dressed as princesses ages 3 to 7.

Jade: (Opening the box cautiously) This! This is a wand… of Willow. Now, this wand is one of our shorter wands, a bit light-
Entitled Rebel: NO!
(Everyone in the room stops and stares.)
Entitled Rebel: No, no NO that is NOT the right wand. That is NOT speaking to me!
Jade: Okay! Okay, I’ll just put this one back, then-
Entitled Rebel: THAT ONE!
Jade: Wha-
Entitled Rebel: THAT ONE. That one over there. No, down. Down further. One more down. Yes. That one.
Jade: (Pulling out the wand, hoping, praying…) This! Oh, this is a very nice wand. One of our more natural models, it’s the wand of Elder, NOT to be confused with THE Elder Wand, however… (Opens the box to reveal a jagged looking wand with a skull on the handle.)

There was a moment of complete still silence. Sweating Mate and Antsy Offspring seemed to be holding their breath, waiting… wishing.. Entitled Rebel rubbed his hands along the body of the wand, and all seemed right… until-

Entitled Rebel: (Almost spilling his beer.) NO! NO THIS ISN’T IT!
Jade: Okay, okay, I’ll just put it back-
Entitled Rebel: (Voice lowering, becoming very still, and serious.) That one. Right there, I know that is the one.
Jade: (pulling the box from the wall) Oh, a very good choice. The Wand of Reed-
Entitled Rebel: (Grabs the box, doesn’t even look inside, and begins to walk away.) This is it.
Sweating Mate: That’s the one?
Entitled Rebel: Yep.
Sweating Mate: Well are you gunna look at it?
Entitled Rebel: C’mon.
(They all exit, never opening the box. While they exit-)
Jade: … Congratulations on the wand choosing you! (They don’t look back.) And, as always, have a magical day, here at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter…

And I Ask Myself Again: What Is My Life?

7 Jan

If you thought me selling a product called “Mr. Sticky” at a store called “B.J.’s” was bad, much like I did, apparently you were, much like myself, unaware that I could soon be selling a product called the “Microfiber Cleaning Cloth” at a store called “Kmart.”

I woke up that first day of training feeling pretty nervous. I wasn’t as nearly as prepared as I should have been. My script wasn’t memorized, like I had been for Mr. Sticky. All I knew was that Jennifer would be training me again, so at least that was good. I knew she’d help me through it.

Thankfully, the Kmart was only about 20 minutes away from my house, which may sound a little far, but when compared to the other locations which range from an hour and a half to two hours away, this felt like five minutes. I arrived at Kmart. As I emerged from my car and shut the door, I saw a Hispanic woman physically disciplining her young son outside by the neon blue 1 cent pony ride. I also stepped over a puddle which was filled with a bloody, used condom.

My spidey senses told me it was going to be a lucrative day.

As I approached the Kmart, I could see what waited for me inside through the automatic doors: Neon clearance signs. Tween T-shirts that say things like “Daddy’s Little Girl” over cartoon monkeys holding ice cream cones on skateboards. Awkward, unknown brand named trail mixes unceremoniously shoved in the shoe department.

I let out a sigh.

The best part about the day is finding the booth where we will be selling our products. This always proves to be an adventure. You see, the booth is set up before we even get there. So, if you’ve never been to that particular location before, right from the get go you’re automatically forced to search for the place of your sure-to-be failure.

Now that I think about it, it’s kind of cruel… in an unavoidable, deal-with-it sort of way.

I walked the entire perimeter of the Kmart, witnessing more physical disciplining, misplaced items, and general chaos. For a moment I was afraid I had arrived at the incorrect Kmart. And then, I saw it.

The "Booth."

The “Booth.”

Okay… first of all, can we just… Just take a moment. Just look at that. Soak it in. Really look at what is going on here.

Okay. So, the “Booth” is actually a legitimate STAGE, and we have lovingly been positioned between the Christmas Clearance, patio furniture, and the Pharmacy. Humans are running around the “booth,” yelling, cursing, screaming. There is a woman who is actually faster than The Flash who seems to be rushing towards the Pharmacy, God bless her.

Now, what you can’t really see from this picture is the backdrop that Jennifer and I would soon refer to as “The Pretentious Waterfall.” See that black square in the background that has the EuroClean logo on it? Yeah, well, that’s actually a waterfall. It’s a fountain. In the middle of a Kmart, attached to the back of a portable mop selling stage. Note how the little girl is looking longingly at its calming, tranquil ripples.

I then looked to the left of the stage. This is what I saw:


And, just in case you couldn’t get the full aesthetic beauty of the Christmas clearance section partially hidden behind the giant wheelie cart full of general garbage, here:


I’m used to a modest, slightly elevated booth where I sell Mr. Sticky. I’m used to standing in said little booth, talking to little old ladies in department stores about their grandchildren and Cocker Spaniels. I was absolutely not ready for the harsh class difference realities of this Orlando Kmart.

“Okay,” I thought to myself. “Okay. You can do this.”

Soon it was time for our first pitch. Now, before every pitch, we must make a few announcements that let the valued, loyal customers of Kmart know that we will be giving away “free advertising gifts.” This is called “The Bally.” As in, “Come on, Carolyn, it’s time for us to go Bally.” This attracts people to the booth I mean the pretentious waterfall mop selling stage. Unfamiliar with the protocol of this establishment, I followed Jennifer into the toy section in search of the phone.

“Now, this Kmart doesn’t have speakers that work over here,” Jennifer told me over her shoulder. “So when we Bally, we have to basically scream so that this side of the store can hear us.”

We turn the corner, and I look at the phone.



Call me, beep me, if you wanna kill me.

We get into position.

Jennifer: Well… here goes nothing.

She picks up the phone. She dials the number, and inhales to speak… Suddenly, we hear something that sounds like a mixture between a car screeching to a halt and a cat being murdered with a spatula coming from the aisle to our right.

Old Mother Pushover: It’s OKAY, honey, we’ll find it!
Satanic Offspring: YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIII DONT WANT THAT ONE I WANNA, I WANNA (gasp, sob, screech, sob) THAT ONE!!!!
Old Mother Pushover: Well, honey, I promise we’ll find what you wanted! Here, here! (sounds of rummaging and adjusting) Is THIS the one?
Satanic Offspring: NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!! (sounds of boxes being thrown from the shelves.) NNNNNEEEEEOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Suddenly, a deep African American man’s voice can be heard from the aisle to our right…

Old Man River: I KNOW, Gloria, I am IN the toy section. I am TELLING YOU, it ISN’T HERE! They don’t have the one she WANTS! … WELL I’VE BEEN SEARCHING ALL MORNING!
Old Man River: F*ck this sh*t, Gloria! Why couldn’t YOU have just gotten this ******* thing when YOU were here last, huh!?!?! Leave everything up to ME!?
Jennifer: (holds the phone, frozen.)
Me: (Whispered) This is not real life.
Jennifer: (Inhales again… Literally screaming as if she were on the other side of Ellis Island trying to round up her tour group) LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE!

My heart literally stops, because I cannot hear Jennifer’s voice on ANY of the speakers. She is literally SCREAMING into this phone, and I’m almost positive that she cannot be heard.

Me: Uh, Jennifer?
Satanic Offspring: (one aisle over) I DONT WANT THAT ONE!!!!
Old Mother Pushover: Okay, honey, I promise we’ll find the one that we had earlier…
Satanic Offspring: YYYEEAAAA….. NO no NO no NO no NOOO!!!!
Old Mother Pushover: Now if you don’t start behaving… we’re not going to get ANY toys…
Old Man River: What?!
Old Man River: I CAN’T HEAR YOU, YOU’RE- aw hell no- YOU’RE BREAKING UP! Stupid ass phone-
Jennifer: IN THIS STORE.
(Cue: Explosion of boxes to our left.)
Old Mother Pushover: NO! Oh, goodness, no. Now, that wasn’t very nice!
Old Man River: WHHAATTT!!?!?!?!

Now, keep in mind, during all of this, I am in the toy aisle, surrounded by this:


And this:


And, God help us all… This:


Who in the the name of all that is pop is (Singing) Cody Simpson?!? Now, not only am I forced to literally annihilate the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing at the social atrocity unfolding around us, but now I’m also being forced to recognize how old I’m becoming…. I don’t even know the childhood pop stars anymore!

And there, right then, in the middle of Jennifer’s attempted Bally, Old Man River’s vulgar cell phone argument, and Satanic Offspring’s literal emotional breakdown, I stare at Cody Singing Simpson and ask myself the age-old question that has been haunting me every day since graduation:

What. Is… My life?


  • I am in a Kmart. (Do Kmart’s even EXIST anymore!?!?)
  • The speakers in the back section of this Kmart do not work.
  • There is a waterfall on the mop selling stage.
  • Our mop selling stage has been set up between the Christmas clearance section, and the patio furniture. Sensible choices, all around.
  • Someone deserves a medal.
  • I am standing in the toy aisle.
  • I am staring at the mocking faces of FurReal Friends and tween pop stars who have been turned into barbie dolls that look nothing like them; A true mark of success and fame.
  • I am literally attempting to sell microfiber mops, to people who just want a friggen free gift.
  • That’s it. That’s all they want.
  • My parents paid for four years of an intensive BFA college degree, and I am currently selling mops to humans.
  • False. I’m not even SELLING them yet. I’m just learning how to sell them.
  • I’m hungry.
  • I have 4 loads of laundry waiting for me when I get home.
  • Jennifer is absentmindedly playing with the “Try Me! I wag my tail for you!” sensors on a puppy dog FurReal friend while in the middle of the Bally.
  • Her deadpan detachment from everything going on around her is a reflection of my own life, in this moment.

There isn’t an appropriate way to end this, so I’ll leave you with these images:



Old Mother Pushover and Satanic Offspring search for the elusive Item of Desire.


I saw this and I thought to myself, “I wonder what’s going to happen to that 70% off Christmas Eeyore. Absolutely no one is going to buy him.”


Clearly, I was mistaken.


Proudly serving the loyal patrons of Kmart, bringing chemical-free cleaning to a home near you.



Away In A Manger No Crib for His… Hold Up. Where He At?

30 Dec

I was on Facebook a few days before Christmas, and I stumbled upon this link. Someone from my home town of Moundsville, West Virginia had posted this, and I couldn’t just not share it with all of you. It’s just that prime.

Now, you have to click on this link and read the entire article (It will probably take you 5 minutes, tops, if you’re a slow reader.)


Four Honest Questions I Have In Response To This Article:

1. Why? But like… just, why? First of all, let’s just review what that article told us: Someone is stealing the baby Jesus from various nativity scenes throughout the Ohio Valley. Okay. As tempted as I am to make some sort of “Well, that’s West Virginia for you!” crack, I won’t. Because I’m not outraged that someone is stealing the baby Jesus from various nativity scenes throughout the Ohio Valley. (I mean, I AM.  That’s a pretty terrible thing to do.) But anyone, anywhere can steal a baby Jesus from a nativity, not just in Moundsville, West Virginia. And I bet they have! I bet a bunch of people have stolen baby Jesuses (The plural of Jesus? How does that work… there’s only ONE Jesus…Jes-i?) But no, I’m not offended. And the reason I’m not offended is because I think I’m just too confused about this whole ordeal. My astounded confusion immediately trumps any outraged emotion I could possibly feel.

So… let’s break this down. We have a Jesus-napper here in Linkin Park. He’s climbing up your windows, snatchin’ your Jesus up. Ya’ll need to hide yo nativities, hide yo mangers, cuz they’re nappin’ erry Jesus up hurr.

I think what offends me most is the article itself. I mean, writing an ENTIRE article about this??? Is this what the town paper has to offer it’s loyal readers for weekly news? Is this truly one of the most exciting and important stories to report to the public?

2. Was the picture of the Jesus-less nativity really necessary? Once again, let’s review what has happened: The authors of this article actually took a picture of a Jesus-less nativity, and used it in the article. 

In case you missed it, or you were one of those lazy people who didn’t take the time to read the article or click the link, let’s just take a look at this.


I mean, as if it weren’t bad enough that three whole nativities were without the most important part of the scene, they actually photographed it, and then went on to DESCRIBE IT in the article: “Mary and Joseph remain where they were set up, looking down on an empty spot where Jesus should lay.” It’s like, yeah… we get it. We knew what it must look like when you told us “Someone stole Jesus.” And then, as if that’s not bad enough, you PHOTOGRAPH IT and then DESCRIBE what the photograph is.

I mean, why don’t we just caption it, “Mary and Joseph look pretty fricken dumb staring at a pile of hay, don’t they? This just sucks. Whoever did this sucks.”

3.) It just wouldn’t be the same without a grammar error, would it? “Every year, people go around and steal other people’s holiday decorations,” Moundsville Police Chief Tom Mitchell said Tuesday, noting it seems like a sort of annual holiday prank. “This time of year, we have a lot of incidents of thefts.”

…Really? This time of year, they have a lot of incidents of THEFTS? Plural thefts? Okay, so, it’s one thing to speak with incorrect grammar. It’s another to publish it, actually document it, and show it proudly to the world, as if to say, “HERE WORLD. HERE IS WHAT MOUNDSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA HAS TO OFFER YOU.  WE STEAL THE BABY JESUS FROM NO LESS THAN THREE DIFFERENT NATIVITY SCENES, AND!!!! WE SPEAK AND WRITE WITH INCORRECT GRAMMAR. TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT!”

Something tells me that the world would, in fact, “leave it.”

4.) Why would anyone cut the baby Jesus from the nativity if he were WIRED to it? More importantly, WHO would use wire to shackle the infant savior to his makeshift crib?

“I know he (Baby Jesus) was wired down,” Higginson said. “They couldn’t just pick him up. They had to cut him loose.”

So, I guess people have tried to take Jesus before, which is pretty sad, so someone had to take drastic action. Someone took it upon themselves to use metal wire to imprison Baby Jesus to his crib. It was a precautionary measure, and I understand it…

And yet… Isn’t this almost WORSE than cutting Jesus free? I mean, someone was like, “LOOK JESUS. You’re a pretty cool dude for most of the year, with the whole teaching everybody how to act through leading by Jesus-y example… but during December? YOU’RE A BABY. Okay? An infant, helpless baby who represents all of the good and promise in the world! And you WILL sit here in this crib for the entirety of the month, come rain or come shine, and YOU WILL LIKE IT! Joseph, hold your stick. Mary, stop staring.”

Guys, seriously, I get it that for a small town, this kind of thing could be news. Okay? I get it. Small town America and all of that. And I’m in no way trying to offend anyone by writing this. I guess this whole thing just struck me as incredibly funny. And yet, knowing that I openly laughed at this article kind of makes a part of me ashamed. I don’t want to laugh at this. I don’t want to think this is funny! If someone stole the baby Jesus from my nativity scene, I would not be laughing. And they’re right! Especially with everything going on right now, it’s really not funny.

And yet… another part of me, a slightly louder part of me,  is like, “Why are you ashamed? This shit’s hilarious!”

It just reminds me of the Ball State Ass Slapper.

In case you don’t know what or who that is, that’s when Ball State University sent out an Emergency Alert to every single student and faculty member when two girls were slapped on the ass by some anonymous random passing dude on a bike.

Sure, it’s offensive. It’s not cool to just go around slapping unsuspecting girls on the butt when you ride by on your bike, no matter how tempting their derrieres may be. But the fact that they sent out an Emergency Alert to EVERYONE was positively laughable. It wasn’t a toxic gas leak… People weren’t dying…  It was some guy on a bike who yelled “WOO!” when he drove by and slapped two girls on their butts. (I’ve often pondered how me managed to do that without falling over and completely wiping out… He must have been one of those stoic bad asses who could ride his bike with no hands, which would then leave them free to ass slap, which I think is pretty bad… ass. See what I did there?

And sure, stealing baby Jesus isn’t cool, but is it important enough to write an entire news article about and take pictures of Jesus-less nativities and post them?

In conclusion: I’m just glad I’m not a small town news reporter.


These Are The Days of Our Lives

18 Dec

First off and most importantly, let me start this blog post by saying “I’m sorry for not writing more often” to the four people who I know read this blog on a daily basis… Hi Mom.

I could try to bore you with the traditional excuses of “Oh life has been so busy I’m so important to everyone I’m in such high demand I can’t possibly find the time to write because I’m so important doing important things hum hum mc hummerson” speech… but I won’t. Life has been busy, sure, but I’m not super important. I’m just poor and trying to work enough hours to pay my bills so my sister can stop feeling like a single mom. I’d also like to be able to afford a loaf of bread, orange juice, and shampoo all in one trip.

Secondly, I’d like to take this moment to let everyone know, going into this post, that I have literally no idea where it is going to go. The “title” section is completely blank. I don’t know what I’m writing. I’m kind of just making myself write something so that I can dig my way out of this dry spell ditch. I miss writing.

I guess I’ll try to fill you in with what’s been going on in my life. I guess. I don’t know. I hate writing without a purpose. I feel so lost. Like, I have no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. It makes me feel like a naked, drunk, recently divorced woman who just lost her job to a much younger, more attractive and financially and emotionally successful woman, stumbling down the street while taking shots of tequila and chasing them with Samoas while wearing a shirt that says “Hip Hop Master” with a picture of Thumper the rabbit or something. I don’t know what any of that meant.

Anyway. So I made this new friend, and she’s a witch. It’s pretty cool because she’s a real witch. She wears the robes, takes care of the owls, sells the wands, the works. She tells me stories about the muggles who she deals with, and it’s pretty funny. Take today, for example. She told me that all she wanted to do was have a nice, quiet lunch to herself and then return to work. Sadly, that did not happen. Upon her arrival back into Hogsmeade, she was attacked by muggles.


Foreign Muggle: Lady!
Witch: …Yes?
Foreign Muggle: ‘Arry Potter?!?
Foreign Muggle: ‘Arry POTTER!?!?!
Witch: Um… Harry Potter?
Foreign Muggle: (Nods enthusiastically)
Witch: Well, you are currently in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Foreign Muggle: (Nods even more enthusiastically at the words “Harry Potter.”)
Witch: The only place you can see Harry himself is inside the castle.
Foreign Muggle: (Confused) Cast-le?
Witch: Hogwarts. …Yes. Just, go up this path, you literally. Cannot miss it.
Foreign Muggle: ‘Arry Potter!


Father Muggle: Yes! Ma’am! YOU THERE!
Witch: Hello!
Witch: You… are?
Witch: Well, the only food available in the wizarding world is at the Three Broomsticks. I’m not sure of their exact menu, but you can find it outside of the restaurant or ask that wizard right there.
Indian Muggles:
Witch: … Oooor, you could… make your way to Jurassic Park? There is a pizza and hamburger place that way? Just, go up the path towards the castle, and-


Witch: Um, okay…
(Witch attempts to return to work, when suddenly-)


African American Muggle Man: WASH ROOMS! WHERE ARE THE WASH ROOMS!!?!?!
Witch: (Slightly stunned at his use of the term “wash rooms.”) Right behind me.
African American Muggle Man: OH!! Oh, THANK YOU! THANK you so MUCH!!!!!


(The Witch tries, at this point, to walk faster, but then-)


Jaded Mother Muggle: EXCUSE ME!
Witch: Hello there!
Jaded Mother Muggle: Yeah whatever. Where is the exit?
Witch: (Looking ten feet away.) The exit is right over there, between those two giant stone pillars and the archway.
Jaded Mother Muggle: Come ON, guys!


(Witch proceeds to try to get back to work by hiding her face with her hand, almost as if covering her face will deter some of the endless questions. Where is her invisibility cloak when she needs it!? She finally gets about two feet away from the door to her destination, when suddenly-)

Disintegrating Old Man: YOU THERE!!! EXCUSE ME!!!
Witch: (Painfully turning around with a smile.) Yes?
Disintegrating Old Man: WELL now, who are YOU supposed to be!? (Animatedly waving over his reluctant muggle family of much younger muggles) GUYS! Guys come over here! Look at this!!! There’s a girl here, and she’s… well, she’s… WHO are you supposed to be?
Witch: Well… I’m a witch.
Disintegrating Old Man: ARE you?
Witch: Yes.
Disintegrating Old Man: REEEally? You don’t seem like a witch. You’re too SWEET! PAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHAAH!!!!
Witch: …Do you want a picture with me?


Disintegrating Old Man: (Grabbing the witch around her waist.) C’mere, sweetie! (JACOB THE EMBARRASSED 8 YEAR OLD MUGGLE can audibly be heard groaning in mortification.)

The witch told me it was like a movie, these crazy people just attacking her while she attempted to cross a 7 foot path. Literally, one right after the other EXCUSE ME, YOU THERE, MA’AM! before she even knew what hit her. But she says it’s all worth it, because she loves her job in Hogsmeade. She loves helping kids find the perfect wand. She loves helping little girls adopt their new owls.  Even if it only pays her 8 muggle dollars an hour. She can deal with that.

So, other than making friends with an actual witch, my life has been pretty boring. I went out with some friends the other night to some swanky wine bar in downtown Orlando. That was really fun, until a tipsy 46 year old motorcycle driver told attempted to buy me a drink after insulting me for 5 minutes about my drink choice. It went a little like this:

Motorcycle Creep: What are you girls drinking tonight?!?!?!
Me: Well, I’m trying to decide.
Motorcycle Creep: On what?
Me: Wine, or my drink of choice.
Motorcycle Creep: (Accusatory) Which is?
Me: … Um. Whiskey. Whiskey and sprite.
Motorcycle Creep: Whiskey… and SPRITE?
Me: Yeah. I really like it.
Motorcycle Creep: (Lets out an exhale that basically says, “Wow, what a dumb young b*tch”)
Me: What?
Motorcycle Creep: We gotta get you a nice big shot of some really GOOD whiskey.
Me: I don’t want a shot.
Motorcycle Creep: Sure you do.
Me: No. Actually, I don’t. I want to enjoy a drink.
Motorcycle Creep: (Exhales again.) Sure. Okay. HEY! Bartender! Get this girl a shot!
Me: No! No, don’t, I don’t want one. Thank you. Just a whiskey and sprite.
Motorcycle Creep: (Exhales) Whiskey and sprite…
(Bartender delivers the whiskey and sprite and holds out his hand to take my card. I hand it to him before Motorcycle Creep can protest. There is another exhale of frustration when Motorcycle Creep realizes he will not be paying for my drink, nor will he be escorting me home.)
Motorcycle Creep: (Under his breath) Whatever.
Me: Excuse me?
Motorcycle Creep: (acting like he’s yelling over the music) What did you say?
Me: Did you just say something?
Motorcycle Creep: Sorry, you’ll have to speak up. I lost my hearing in this ear after a motorcycle accident.
Me: Oh. Wow. I’m… I’m so sorry about that.
Motorcycle Creep: No you’re not.
Me: … What?
Motorcycle Creep: You’re not really sorry.
Me: Yeeeeah I’m gonna go. Nice meeting you.
Motorcycle Creep: Was it?
Me: What?
Motorcycle Creep: Was it REALLY nice to meet me?
Me: Well… do you want me to be honest?
Motorcycle Creep: What?
Motorcycle Creep: Sure.
Me: You’re really abrasive. It’s like, I don’t know… you’re trying to get to know me while insulting me and challenging everything I say. You’re a very closed off person and it’s unnerving. You can’t expect people to let their guard down with you if your guard is constantly up.
Motorcycle Creep: (Scowl fades. Eyes soften.)
Me: Well… I, uh… I hope you find what you’re looking for after much self-growth and understanding.

And that was that.

So, back to what I should call this blog post… Here are a few options:
1. I am still poor, I met a real witch, and I once got hit on at a bar.
2. These are the days of our lives.

…Yeah I’m not even going to go on. That’s the title.