It's Been a Hard Day's Night

Things I learned today:

-That when the air-raid/tornado sirens across the street wake me up in a panic the world is not ending nor is it being overtaken by zombies. Apparently the system is checked the first Wednesday of every month, although this morning was the first time I have ever heard in the year I've lived here. My heart didn't stop its rapid palpitations for an hour.

-That I should check the labels more closely when I peruse the sales rack at Target. I tried a dress on and thought "Ugh, this dress makes me look pregnant, no wonder it's on sale." As I took it off with slightly lowered self-esteem I saw the tag, "Liza Lang Maternity"

-That employees who drink on their lunch break will often leave a more generous tip in an effort to displace their guilt.

-That taking a two hour nap at 10:30 at night is never helpful nor productive.

Omni-riffic

Me: "I don't really eat much meat, huh?"

Ben: "That's why you poop like a deer."

These are the conversations Ben and I have.

In April of this year, Ben and I tried the pescetarian lifestyle for a month. We both had always been curious about living as vegetarians but realized after some cursory research the commitment was far to involved for our quick jaunt. The life of a vegetarian, I learned, requires carefully planned meals and constant vigilance to maintain a healthy vitamin and minerals levels. I gained respect for those that maintain the sans-meat lifestyle; it is one serious commitment. I also learned that vegans, who I have always found unnatural (how they think a slice of soy protein processed American "Cheese" is better for you than fresh, milky mozzarella is BEYOND me), have an even harder time maintaining their health; their life expectancy is the same as those with meat-centric diets. (Apparently, they just die from different things at the same rate.)

I had and have no political/humanitarian reason to stop eating meat and would certainly miss the occasional burger, but if I were to delineate my favorite foods, meat is nearly vacant from the list. See:

-Warm brie on a crisp granny smith apple or the latter with cream peanut butter and the former with really crusty, chewy bread.
-Caprese salad with firm, heirloom tomatoes and tangy balsamic vinegar.
-Dark chocolate with bits of orange rind mixed in.
-Red beans and rice, my mom's recipe of course with lots of added spice. Though it contains sausage my mom can testify that even when I was young I asked for my portion to not have any meat.
-Vegetarian chili without any of that tofu crumble nonsense. Really just the antithesis of Texas chili with lots of beans and vegetables.
-Spinach. Raw, steamed, boiled, sauteed I will eat it any way it can be cooked. Favorites include sauteed with garlic and spinach enchiladas.
-Ahi tuna, either raw with sushi or barely seared. And on that note, really any fish, raw or cooked I'll eat. I'm slightly obsessed.

So I like seafood too much and can never be a vegetarian. I share a diet similar to bears, Giant Pandas and hedgehogs... and I'm okay with that.

I Caught a Ride on the Dreamland Express

Since I was a child I have always been obsessed with dreams. I often make my friends listen with feigned patience as I try to recall the salient details of each one the next day. However, per usual, I get distracted halfway through the story and drift off into a blank stare. It happens. Out the myriad of dreams I have been visited with over my lifetime, the ones that have stuck with me the most, those whose details remain sharp and emotions acute, are my nightmares. As I got older my nightmares began to change. Instead of being chased by dinosaurs who could breathe fire and travel through time (scary, right?), I was shoved on stage and told that "Duh, Courtney. Didn't you know you were in this scene?" even though I was certain I was just the spot operator. I didn't know terror, however, until the waitmares started.

I am certain everyone has some sort of perpetual nightmare concerning his or her occupation, but I will venture to suggest that the nightmares associated with the waiting profession are among the worst. The general theme of these nighttime illusions usually coincides with something I have been frustrated with at work. While working at Carinos, I would dream that large parties kept coming in and, despite my best efforts, I could not surpass the velocity of molasses. No matter how fast I tried to make drinks and take entrees out, there was always more people at the table than I was able to help. When I started bartending, the dreams evolved. Never-ending waves of drinks would spew out of my printer and I couldn't find any liquors or wines I needed. In fact in one variation, each time someone ordered wine I had to climb up a ladder behind the bar and get the bottles from the roof. (There have been ones with zombies too, but I refuse to dwell on those. Eek.)

There have only been a few times in life that I have ever had a stressful enough shift for it to be called a living waitmare. The most recent, and the worst, was my shift Saturday night at Snookies. The fates, with their obviously ironic sense of humor, ordained an epic catastrophe. Usually on Saturdays we're slow until the late night crowd stumbles in, so to keep the employees happy and making money our mangers decided to stagger waiter arrival times. I was the first; I came in at five and had two tables until six when the second person came in. Since the Tech/OU game was on at 7 and we are generally slow during games due to our proximity to the gaybourhood, I found the crossword and settled in for an uneventful few hours. Then it happened. I had four tables when our POS system crashed. It was more of an annoyance than a hindrance at the time. Everyone was cool. It's happens every now and again and takes fifteen minutes to reboot. But the system never came back up. And I got eight more tables. At the same time. And the bartender went MIA, apparently he was upstairs to try to fix the computers, while I was left searching for Amstel Light in one of our six coolers using a broken pen light. Because the computers were down, I had to not only hand write every order for the kitchen but recall the exact specifications of my prior tables orders (whose average tab was 50 bucks of 3 dollar drinks) so I could calculate tax on an old 9 key and slide credit cards on the knuckbuster. On one trip back to the kitchen, I saw my manager pounding numbers into the calculator screaming "You have GOT to be kidding me! WE KNOW PRIMO!!!! WE KNOW!" while the cook slammed his fist on the bell to signify the growing number of burgers drying out under the heat lamps and watch my co-worker Erin fumble with a tray on the verge of tears saying "Why do they need water! They already have Diet Cokes!"

Thankfully the chaos was relatively short-lived and normalcy was returned. However, I'm still drained. Though I enjoy the flexible lifestyle I'm allowed by waiting tables (i.e. tutoring part-time at Huntington), it's nights like Saturday spur me to search even harder for a "real" job. I'm tired of smelling like french fries and vodka and getting home at 2:30 AM every Saturday and Sunday.

With A Rebel Yell

Today officially marks my move DFW. I have been a resident of Dallas County for one whole year now. Ben and I drove in from Austin late last night. We spent the weekend at FunFunFunFest, which was really a FunDustyAntBiteI'msurroundingbykidsthatlooklikeRuffioFest. A good time for sure, but a very disparate festival. Of course, going to any festival hosting an electronica, comedy/experimental, punk/hardcore, and alternative-esque stages, we shouldn't have expected anything less. It was odd, however, that the plastic 80s sunglasses count was the same as the studded jean jacket with an old t-shirt on the back count. Just to allay any doubt of the bizarro characters at the festival, take a gander at this Billy Idol look-a-like getting down to Toxic Avenger:


I have a video of this dude dancing that is even better, but my stupid computer isn't cooperating. You'll just have to imagine him pumping his arms like he's swimming the breaststroke to techno music. Also while in Austin I went to the Capital for the first time with Malinda. I missed out on so much Texas history by moving here in the seventh grade; I've had to spend the last twelve years catching up. While in the Capital I found some floor art that would have been even more fun to find as a fourth grader on tour with my classmates. I mean, I know it's Austin, but how could have someone overlooked that. Really.


Coming home the to sprawling metroplex is still surreal. When I was in college I swore I would NEVER live here, just like how I swore I would NEVER be a teacher when I was in high school. Lesson learned. There are actually quite a myriad of things I thought I would NEVER do and my year in Dallas has proven me wrong.

-I NEVER thought I would learn how to negotiate a rush hour without crying or crashing into a median/other cars.
-I NEVER thought Texas would be significant enough in ANY type of election, let alone the Democratic Primary, to justify candidates speaking within a one mile radius of where I watch Jon Stewart make fun of them.
-I NEVER thought I could be a sassy enough waitress to get called a smartass and get tipped extra for it.

I swear I had more but all the mud/snot that is in my sinus cavities must be hampering my didactic impulses. Hopefully some sleep will help expunge the funfunfundust. Thanks for reading Malinda, I had fun this weekend. COME VISIT ME. (And to conclude, some belated Barack and Roll Election Night celebration pictures)

Tell me anything you want, any old lie will do

I wrote a review of a Fleet Foxes show for Silence Magazine (nepotism at its finest) and here it is...

http://asilenceproduction.com/wp/?p=296

Eight Days a Week

Things I have done/experienced in the last week, none of which I deem enthralling enough to carry the weight of an entire post:

1) Realize that the 24 hour Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market around the corner locks its cash registrars between 11:45 and 12:00 to "count inventory" and a growing line of 20 people trying to buy beer/wine before the midnight cut-off can turn riotous.

2) Laugh because the "Eiffel Tower" in Paris, TX, has a sign asking patrons to not climb on it in English and Spanish, mais pas francais!

3) Succumb to the fact that after weeks of scorching heat vicious enough to inflict a sunburn on my left forearm because I drive north to work around 5 (true story), I need a jacket when the temperature drops to a chilly 84 degrees.

4) Discover, to my amazement, that "speed-walking" is a legitimate Olympic sport and that it can hold my attention for an hour and a half.

5) Learn the difference between "shift" and "shag" in Irish vernacular.

6) Decide that after his role in "Pineapple Express" and "Tropic Thunder," I will seriously consider seeing any movie with Danny McBride. Thug life.

7) Watch so many funny animals videos on Ben's account that when he logs on it recommends such gems as "<3LOL!! FUNNY KITTY! ;)."

Taco No Beuno

I've been a die hard Taco Beuno fan since the moment a warm, pillowly muchaco touched my lips in the seventh grade. However, my idolatry of this institution ended today.

I stood rocking back and forth on my heels three feet away from the cashier like always. Per usual, my head was cocked upwards, reading the menu I already know by heart, entertaining the fleeting thought of changing my regular order in favor of some new menu rollout item. Strolling up to the counter I recited the order I know by rote, "A Number Three, please, with a Dr. Pepper." After picking up my order I first noticed a change. Tortilla chips, which didn't appear to be fried , littered my Mexi Dips and Chips. I get it. Baked Lays are all the rage. Bureaucrats are banning trans fats and bed wetting left and right. It's posche. But they tasted like shaved cardboard. However, I tried to look on the bright side. Ultimately, they are only a vehicle for the Mexi Dips and their lack of taste is easily ignorable. Also, I knew I woudn't miss the occasionaly order whose chips still had a chunk of gelintious lard attached. I could have handled that. Then I took a bite out of my muchaco. Instead of cheddar, thick, clumsy wisps of American processed cheese sat inside, not melting but rather turning back into the vegatable oil from whence they came. Bleck.

I'm no food critic but I can taste the difference Beuno, and it is SO NOT COOL.

Bad Blood

I miss the X-Files in its glory days. I've already expunged my frustration with the most recent addition to Chris Carter's franchise enough so I won't worry anyone's patience with a review...

I feel like a huge firecracker who instead of igniting the instant my twisting fuse reaches me, I pause, contemplating whether or not to accept the flame only to pause too long and instead of exploding into a million glittering pieces, fall over on my side and groan a pathetic "Pfffssssssss" before being doused with cold water to prevent any further combustion. I've been told, by more than one person, that I am the epitome of contentment. I realizing now that if there is not some seed of malaise bubbling under my breast there is no hope for change, trivial or otherwise. I only moved to Dallas after a year of "contentment" in Abilene. I still wait tables, I job I don't really despise, but just happen to do. I don't need someone to light a fire under my ass. I need a scorching apocalyptic bonfire.

I'll believe in anything, and you'll believe in anything.

The hazy byproduct of Parliament Lights and hash burned my eyes as the blue and red lights spiraled towards the audience. Next to me, a ratty haired girl flayed fervently as though this was a Baptist tent revival. Her limp arms writhed above her head like tentacles. The cigarette precariously clasped between her fingers swished in figure eights next to the flammable heads of her neighbors. When her bouncing head lost the rhythm she turned to her partner and with her hands on his shoulders slowly steadied herself before bursting out on her own again. I stood inconspicuously in the dense crowd of fillets and distressed tees and tried to look melancholy enough to fit in. This, I thought to myself, is what I missed out on growing up in small towns, unable to go to concerts. The gaping chasm in my youth was caused by the unavailability of ANY venues for me to frequent other than Beltway Baptist that hosted Christ-centered musicians. Let me put this into perspective for you.

It's a balmy Sunday evening in 1993, and my mother is fighting with my sister and me because we want to wear shorts, not jeans. Mom says it would be simply too immodest to show mine nine year-old knees in the church, even if it's not Sunday morning. I say it's hot outside and the preacher's daughter gets to wear shorts. Mom rolls her eyes, a sure indicator that has lost patience in pretending I had any say in the matter to begin with. An hour later I am sitting on a pew in Seventh and Beech Church of Christ surrounded by scabby kneecaps. The auditorium has been rearranged since this morning. The preacher's podium and communion table are pushed against the wall and the plastic greenery that usually adorns the baptismal tank is missing. In their place are microphones with coils of black wire snaked unused on the floor. The youth pastor says a few words of introduction not bothering with a microphone since the pews are only 25 deep. Accapella then rises from the front pew and begins my first concert. Not even the rousing rendition of "Roll That Stone Away" moves the sober church members to clap. The display of such emotion in this Church of Christ would be met with only disapproval and at the time I was no trend setter.

So that was it: no dimmed lightbeams highlighted by an overactive fog machine, no eardrum piercing shrieks of joy from the girl I didn't know was right behind me, no hyperactive fan trying singlehandedly to start a clapping rhythm, and no sore calves from standing on my toes to see over the multitude of tall people gathered in front of me. I'm slowly adjusting my new concert ventures.