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Day the first

I am out of practice.  I'd forgotten how "fun" it is to put away a truck with a SIX PAGE manifest.

Yup...first day at the new job.  And when I say I am starting from the ground up, I mean it.  Today, I:

*helped put up the aforementioned truck
*assembled furniture for the dining room
*set up the dining room...then rearranged it four times for better flow
*looked over the POS and realized some things needed to be changed (they were entered incorrectly.  No, we will NOT be selling a "build your own [fill in the blank] for $1)
*filled salt and pepper shakers


I'm getting my very own label maker on Wednesday!  When K (the BOH guy.  He's my age, has been in the biz as long as I have, and likes Rick and Morty) and I were asked what other supplies we needed, I immediately said label maker...and, once we get things set up, I want schematics for the salad and sandwich stations, so everything goes WHERE IT BELONGS.  He just pointed to me and said "What she said.  And we need one with labels that can be used in the walk-in and freezer.  Because if someone comes in and messes with our system, I have a chefs knife and am not afraid to use it."

I like him.  I think we'll make a good team.

We're off tomorrow, then Wednesday, we are going through the menu item by item and preparing it.  That's too much food for 3 people, so I suggested taking samples over to the tienda next door (okay, I am working somewhere where I pass a tienda, a thrift store, and a specialty oil and vinegar store.  How much money am I actually going to make?).  Good food makes good neighbors.  And, let's face it...if we run out of, say, garlic or paper towels or any of the myriad things a place can run out of, it is gonna be cheaper and faster than trekking a block and a half to Whole Paycheck.

I think I'm gonna like it here.

Pride goeth before a...well, y'all know

Didn't get the job.  At the LAST FUCKING MINUTE, they hired someone from housekeeping who wanted to move to the kitchen.

Internal hiring.  Gotta love it...unless you don't benefit from it.

I managed to not cry on the phone, which is impressive when you consider that I was on the phone with W for over half an hour.  He was babbling apologies.  I was asked if I would be interested in doing banquet work when needed (well, duh!).

As luck would have it, I applied to a new place opening up....from one of the original founders of McAlister's.  He actually ran the store I worked at (before I started).  He hired me in as a shift manager and I start tomorrow.  I'm actually going to be on the ground floor of opening a restaurant!  He wants my input on menu development. dress code....but, lest it sounds too fancy, tomorrow I will be assembling tables and figuring out the best way to set up the dining room.  He wants the place open by Friday, so I think this week is gonna be hell.  I've helped open restaurants befor, and it is brutal.  Because this isn't corporate (although he has an eye into turning it into a chain), we are going to be *assembling furniture*!  I actually had a stress dream last night that all the tables and chairs were from IKEA.

Wish me luck, y'all.

Holy fuck. I think I did it.

Got a call from Hiring Manager.  Now I just have tp talk to Owner, but it was implied that this is just a formality.

Apparently, they do a staff meeting to see if a potential new hire will fit.  Gold stars all the way 'round...aside from the fact that I need to work on my egg skills. (I don't eat eggs, so I can't grouse about that)

Back in the kitchen.  At 45.  And a woman.  At a 4 star hotel.

Watch this space, y'all.  I'm about to fucking SOAR!!!!!
"Breakfasts are easy," they said.  "Very chill," they said.  "Ten, fifteen covers," they said.

They lied.

Double that, and add on an event for 45 people.  Yeah, talk about being thrown in the deep end without floaties.

I feel pretty good about today, though.  Okay, I made Chef the world's ugliest omlette (when I was obsessing over eggs, why didn't I think about omlettes?  Arrrgh!), but he said it had good flavor. And he showed me the way they do it, which is WAY easier.  By the end of the shift, I was handling some of the tickets on my own.  AND I stayed late to help with prep for lunch service for the event, which I think earned me brownie points.

Although, if I ever see a fucking foil wrapped butter packet again, it will be too soon.  We have to UNWRAP them and place them on chilled plates, five to a plate, for event service.  Do you know how long it takes to unwrap 100 of those fuckers?  Wearing gloves?  A LONG DAMN TIME.

Hey, I'm the rookie.  Of course I get the shit jobs (cleaning the grits pan that pretty much killed a brand new steel wool scrubbie?  Fun, fun, fun).  But, unlike other kitchens I've worked in, this is gentle hazing, which is nice.

Oh, and did I mention free food (up to $10) on your shift?  I was too busy for a break today, but was able to snag a most excellent cranberry orange muffin on my way out.  :)

Tomorrow I go in at 6 (today was 5).  I get to sleep in, and will be sharing a cab with the spousebeast instead of walking.  Woo-hoo!  I'm so spoiled.

I want this gig so, so, SO much.

LJI Week Six: Not my first rodeo

Six schools in nine months.

Navy blue knee socks.  Or green.  Sometimes black.

Saddle shoes or Keds or Mary janes.

Is the Wednesday Mass Latin or Spanish or English?

Can girls be altar servers or do we have to let the boys do it?  Regardless, thanks Vatican Two.

He drank it  all away. Priest, father, cousin.

Same as it ever was.  Save you as it should have never been..

It's hard to remember.   Kelly green socks are my favorite.  It's hard to remember why it was okay when you pressed the issue.

But I leaned...and learned...and learned.

LJI: Such a nice girl

"I knew you'd do it.  You're so...nice."

Okay, yeah.  I fell for it.  Little Ms. Bambi Eyes has a sorority function and a bachellorette party and just CAN'T work the weekend.  Can I cover for her, even though it's my first weekend off in almost two months?

"Sure.  No problem."

I start laying out the reasons why I did (she's young.  I have no plans.  It's extra money.  Did I mention the Bambi eyes and the promise she'd cover for me when I needed it which we both know is a blatant lie?)

The boss watches her walk off, carefree and says "Ya know, I should have thought when she was looking for coverage.  I mentioned that you'd probably give up your weekend.  Because....And that's not fair"

"Because I'm nice.  I get it."

I'm so fucking nice it's exhausting.

On my way to the bus stop, I remember a song from a long ago place.  My first ever Broadway show.  Into the Woods.  Bernadette Peters owned that stage as the Witch.

"You're so nice.
You're not good, you're not bad.
You're just nice.
I'm not good; I'm not nice.
I'm just right
I'm the witch.  You're the world"

Suddenly my clothes seemed too tight.  I couldn't breathe right.  I wanted to scream "But I AM nice!  I AM!"

Then slow, insidious fingers crept inside me.  I'm nice.  Right?  And that's the way I am supposed to be.

It stays with me.  Always the good best friend.  Teachers pet.  Friends with everyone, even the girls who pick at my imperfections to help me at endless, vapid sleepovers.

I dance at parties and let hands of sticky breathed creeps wander all over me...just far enough to give them a thrill...but not TOO far.  I'm a nice girl, after all.

The nice girl.  The perfect babysitter.  She won't have boys over while watching your precious pet...but might have a nip or two of vodka from the cabinet before Mr' Collins drives me home and puts his hand on my thigh while giving me a sweaty 20 and asking if I want to earn a little more.

Because I'm so nice.

It's exhausting.

I'm still nice.  On the outside.  Because that's my job.  That is the role I have been cast in;  the hand I've been dealt.

But with every quiet "Excuse me" when you run into me because you are too busy texting to look up...there is a small wish that you trip over the next loose paving stone and your phone shatters.  Maybe it works.

Every "accidental" grab of my ass on the bus?  I wouldn't call it a curse, but if you can't get it up tonight...well, maybe you should think twice where you put your hands.

I'll be the one you come to with your dirty little secret and swear not to tell.  Amd I won't, because they are currency, and a secret guarded is worth more than a secret told.

I am so nice.  That is the role you want.  And I play it well.  It's exhausting.

Because I'm the witch.  You're the world.
Anyone?  Bueller?

I am very clear:  the wearliest I can come in M-F is 7:30.  9 on Saturday.  sundays are a no-go, because I am not shelling out $30 to take a cab both ways.

Yeah...guess who was sceduled for 8 on Saturday on 9-5 on Sunday?  yeah...no.

So I only have three shifts this week.  Charming.

C'mon, Nov. 19.  Or, rather 15th, because I am giving myself the day of the Peter Yarrow concert and the weekend before orientation to reset my internal alarm clock.  I know it will take longer than that, but it's a start.

They're starting to pull the same shit on Kent.  Now, to be full time, corporate insists on open availability.  Never mind he's been there almost a year.  It's ridiculous.

They've given him 30 days to decide if he wants to let them fuck with his schedule at will or go on part time.

[insert inartiukate screaming here]

I'm having a hard time walking the line between being supportive (because it really DOES seem like they've been trying to squeeze him out since that new manager started a few months back.  And I'm not sure how he manages to work around someone who calls him "Buddy."  In all fairness, I probably would have snapped by now) and wanting to grab him by the shoulders and hiss "You are going NOWHERE until after the holidays.  There are two holidays coming up where you get a 30% discount and YOU WILL NOT GET CHEATED OUT OF YOUR CHRISTMAS BONUS!"

*ahem*  Hey, it's a percentage of what he made for the year.  That would be a nice way to ring in the new year.

Anyway, I got to go on a bus adventure today.  Don't ask me why the closest place to give a pre-employment urine sample is in flippin' Durham, but it is.  FOUR FUCKING HOURS ROUNDTRIP for about ten minutes of paperwork and the aforementioned cup.  And it was wet and rainy as well.  NOT the way to spend a Monday off.  I did get a lot of work done on the MiL's shawl on the way back.  I'm falling in love with half granny square shawls out of Lion Brand Homespun.  It works up so quick is all soft and squishy, and I have a ton of it in my stash.

Yup, the weather has definitely started settling in to Fall.  All I want to do is cook, crochet, and read.  And sleep.   Lots and lots of sleep.

Nov. 1st, 2018

Ah, Halloween in Chapel Hill.  I was woken up this morning by the cops.  There was a drunk Spiderman on the lawn, playing bongos.  The bongos didn't wake me up, but the ensuing altercation did.  Go figure.

Sadly, we didn't have a single trick or treater, so no one was able to admire my vintage S*bucks barista costume.  Oddly enough, while I was searching for black pants, I found an old apron AND my shift manager shirt from when I worked for the company *mumble* years ago (give y'all a hint:  I was in one of the test markets for the PSL).

That's how i broke the news to Kent.  It took him a minute, because he stayed late at work (they are STILL re-stocking and dealing with the equiptment failures after Michael.  Apparently, corporate has lifted the limits on OT through the first of the year).  Finally, I said "Ya know...I don't think we can make it on my hours at Hamburger Hell.  You're going to have to go ask for a raise, get paid what you're worth.  And tell [redacted] that you're really going to need it to boost your manly ego when I start making [redacted] more an hour than you next month."

And then there was much rejoicing in Mudville.

What sucks is that I want to start RIGHT NOW.  But I've got to wade through state AND corporate paperwork, then wait for the next orientation (Nov 19).  Which means I'm stuck for two weeks.  I can endure anything for two weeks but...ugh.  Godess grant me strength to NOT go with my gut reaction towards the first person who asks for a McLatte today.

And away I go!  And I'm working with Odious (soon to be former) Co-irker.  Wish me luck.

Oct. 31st, 2018

Blessed Samhain and Happy Halloween, y'all!

You know that old chestnut about how it's easier to find a job when you have a job?  Turns out to be true, at least in this case.

I can white knuckle it in Hamburger Hell for a couple more weeks...BECAUSE I START THE STARBUCKS GIG AT UNC HOSPITAL ON NOVEMBER 19!!!!!!

Full time, benefits, 401(k), PTO, sick leave, tuition reimbursement (and that's even if I just see something that looks cool at UNC that I want to take just 'cuz.  Which I think would make me a student, and eligible for all the student discounts that entails), and shift differential after 3pm, which means an additional 10% hourly.  The whole state job meets corporate gig shebang.

And since i'll be working 2:30 to 10pm, y'all do the math....;)

I will be making more per hour than I EVER have...and more than Kent is currently.  *cue evil laugh*  Not that it makes a difference, really, because everything goes into the kitty...but we are *very* competitive.

I am so excited!  Back to the barista mines!
I swear I'm not just all LJ Idol, all the time these days.  I've started a new (odious...and, no, I don't want to talk about it after that last shift) job.  Suffice to say, I have doubled down on applications.  They say it's always easier to find a job when you have a job, so let's see if the omnipotent They are right.  Bleh.  But money coming in is better than no money

Quite happy to be off today and have the day to myself.  Yeah, I had a lot of days to myself when I was unemployed, but it feels different when you know it's your last taste of freedom before going back to the daily grind.  Or maybe that's just me.

Spent a good chunk of today puttering around the kitchen.  Since the weather finally dipped beneath 70F, the spousebeast and I have been doing a lot of cooking, which means a lot of dishes.  He did most of them while I was doing the shift from hell on Satuday...then we both proceeded to spend a good chunk of Sunday Making All the Things (tm).  The man hauled home *30+ heads of garlic* from the dump cart at work, so there has been much roasting and pickling and various other processes.  I made lobster stock (checked in on Santa Pete, who is still under the weather, but has reached the "fluff my pillows and grocery shop for me and listen to me whine...then roll a joint for me and put on some Animaniacs" stage of recovery.  But he had a HUGE bag of lobster shells he takes from all the fancy dinners he goes to so...yay!).  He did stuff I don't care to know about with the mushrooms he got from work.  So, yeah..today was kitchen cleanup and other random stuff.  I think I committed a major culinary crime for watching Julia Child reruns while making boxed brownies.

And I totally lost my thought of train, so...have great week, everyone!

LJI, week 3: Tsundoku

"You.  Don't  Touch.  My.  Books!"

I am crazed and bitchy in the way only a 12 year old girl  who is having her life uprooted and moving cross-country for the third time in three years can be.  And now--NOW!--those horrible people I am supposed to call parents (they get called Mr. & Mrs. Asshole in my journal.  Mom and dad is too good for them) have hired movers for the first time.  And I am supposed to let these strangers in my room?  The dolls I still cling to like the last shreds of what little childhood I had are here.  My first three notebooks where I write my hopes and dreams are in here.  And my books--my beloved escape--are here.

I whisper a quiet apology to Juliette--the twin of Juliet, one of the porcelain dolls Grandpa would bring back from yard sales and flea markets.  I loved them, but one had to go--and she crashes to the floor.  Cue the tears, and running for Mrs. Asshole (who is suddenly, conveniently, now "Mommy").  "They broke my Juliette!  I want them out of my room!  I can pack by myself!"

I sweep a few bits of porcelain into my hand and put them in a small satin bag Mr. Asshole brought me back from Okinawa.  They fit in neatly next to the shards of the china tea set he bought me and then broke for...some reason.  I've given up searching for reasons why grownups do what they do.

I put them both in the small box that hold my secret, my journals.  They sacrificed to keep my words safe.

And to keep my books safe.  I may never read them all...but they guard the words for me.  They dream the words for me.

With these precious shards and my words and these books, I find comfort.  And I might just survive.


LJI: My Mount Rushmore

The shades of black, white, and grey on the screen looks weird to this kid raised on Hanna-Barbara's and Sid and Marty Kroft's psychadelic Saturday morning color palatte, but I can't look away.  I'm tall "for a girl" (a phrase I hate), but she is simply TALL.  A giantess in the kitchen.  I want her pearls.  More importantly, I want to mess something up and be able to shrug it off and keep going.

Julia Child.  I sit, transfixed, by reruns of The French Chef when I can convince the grownups that it is my turn to pick out the Saturday morning shows my sister and I watch.  The foods are so familiar--potatoes, onions, carrots, chicken--but prepared in such a different way than I see when I am standing on a stool in the kitchen  next to Grandma.  But I insist on talking in a funny accent while I scrub carrots and potatoes, learn to cut onions under her watchful eye...and happily let her deal with the chicken, because it grosses me out a little.

One day, I promise myself, I will be brave like Julia and touch that icky, cold, pink thing.  But i'm little yet, and can flee the kitchen any time I want.

Years come and go.  I graduate from vegetables to making fruit salad all by myself ("be careful with the can opener, kitten, and just drain all of the juice in the glass so you can drink it with your snack.  Let me know when you need the marshmellows") to rolls to, yes, finally touching that icky, cold, pink thing.  Look at me, Julia!

While I'm graduating to making meals for the family all by myself, the Saturday reruns have moved and the debate between Scooby snacks and coq au vin has vanished.  I'm a little affronted by the fact that my giantess in the kitchen is in color now.  It seems weird.  In black and white, it was just the two of us, laughing over potato disasters and chicken that seems to have a mind of its own.  I'm not happy, but I dutifully jot down recipes in a 3 section, 5 by 8 spiral notebook, just like Great Grandma and Granma do.

I learn how to make French onion soup, but I'm not happy about it.  And you can just forget about me learning how to debone a duck, Julia.  Chicken is one thing, but that looks PURPLE and has webbed feet.  Nope.  Not gonna happen.

At some point, I'm going to learn to quit drawing that line in the culinary sand with Julia.  It's just pointless.

Being 30 and having an existential crisis that eventually ends in a wildly popular blog, a book deal, and a film is one thing.  Being 30, in the middle of a nasty divorce, moving in with your grandparents, and having what little contents of your kitchen that you were allowed to take is quite another.  However, the wise librarian who has known me since I was spending the summers in the free air conditioning, copying recipes out of cookbooks right next to Grandma, suggests a book.  "We just got this in.  I think it would be a fun read for you."

Holy fuck!  There is someone as neurotic and Julia obsessed as I am!  And she survived her dark night of the soul by the power of Julia. (And got a book contract out of it, damnit)  Seester!  Time to unpack the tiny box of kitchen supplies, cook the pain out, and convince grandma that shallots aren't evil.  Julie, Julia, and me...we got this.

Of all the things I need in life, a terra cotta vegetable roaster is probably not one.  Nor is the cute owl print bag or the tiny purple dragon who shall be named Puff.  Might as well swing by the dvds and see how much more damage I can do.  That's what thrift stores are for, right?

The French Chef Collection 1.  The French Chef Collection 2.

Forty years.  I am in the best place I have ever been.  And here she is, waiting for me.  Again.  Like always.

busy, busy, busy

Had a nice break between filling out applications, going on job interviews, and attempting to (still!) put the kitchen back together...only to have the kitchen sink go kerflooey.

The great thing about FB memories:  apparently, I spend one week this time of year waiting for maintenance to fix my sink about every three years.  Yippee.  I want to cook all the things, and I'm washing dishes in the bathroom sink..:(

At least it went tits up AFTER I went all gonzo and spent a day making turkey pot pie, a weird mash up between Danish apple pie and a crumble, devilled eggs for the spousebeast, and spicy Sriacha coleslaw (I know it seems random, but I am cleaning out the fridge and HATE waste.  With Kent bringing home produce from the dump cart nearly every day, I am processing veggies nigh constantly).  Thank the gods I was able to get THAT round of dishes done!

Monday's non-interview was a total wash.  An hour round trip on the bus, only to be told the manager (whom I did not meet)  was on a conference call and he would reschedule?  Not if I would wait, no apology for my time, zip.  I emailed to let him know I would be out of town, but available Thursday and Friday and looking forward to the interview.

I have not heard a peep back.  Call me paranoid, but I suspect this might have something to do with the fact that, despite my *years* of experience in front and back of the house, Mr. I'm So Hip Dude took one look, snuck in the back, and said "Pssst!  She's old!"  Given the location of the restaurant, Kent agreed with me, and speculated that that might have actually BEEN the manager and he was pre-screening.

Maybe he's humoring me, but it IS NOT easy getting a front of house job in towns like this unless you look like a UNC student.  I wouldn't be surprised if I was pre-screened that way.  Ah, well...fuck 'em.  I don't want to work in an environment like that.  I probably wouldn't make it through the first week without punching someone.

Tuesday and Wednesday were a much needed break from reality.  We did a speed run to and from Charlotte to see Kent's BFF, Chirp and go to see Alice Cooper.  We took the train to and from, and those hours were pure gold.  I love travelling by train.  I'm still goofy enough that it seems romantic.

The Alice concert was AMAZING.  Almost 2 hours, no intermission...and he still has the voice AND the moves.  I *did* have to explain to Chirp that I was actually enjoying myself;  I just don't headbang all that much.  Kent explained on the way home:  Alicia *absorbs* experiences like this.  If she is sitting very still and you're worried that she's stopped breathing, she's having the time of her life."

He's not wrong.  It used to freak him out, too.

It was a wonderful night.  I also got to see Chirp's HS scrapbooks, which had many a picture that Kent wishes I had never seen (he used to be blonde.  I knew he was as a kid, but apparently that lasted well into his 20s.  It's...weird).

Went on two interviews today and got soaked.  The other two asked if phone was okay, thank the gods.  Two more tomorrow, and two walk-ins, weather permitting.  And a grocery run.

Needless to say, I am not doing SQUAT over the weekend.
Pete is 29.  Well, he is in his head.  I'm his girlfriend, even though I'm young enough to be his daughter.  Again, in his head.  I call him my platonic geriatric boyfriend.

I help him go grocery shopping.  Help him move when the landlord can't ignore the pervasive smell of weed coming from an old hippie's apartment.  I make suppers for his Friday supper club because his idea of a meal is opening a jar of pickled herring and washing it down with a bottle of Coke (always the small ones, and always glass).

He plays Santa Claus during December.  Private parties, stores, the children's hospital.  He's the original Jewish Santa...and I am frequently his sidekick as the world's tallest elf.  He is the first person I call when I have done something stupid (like quit my job) or have some joy to share.

And sometimes we go on dates.

Last Saturday, we went to see Joan Baez's farewell tour.  He called to ask me what I was wearing.  I reminded him he needed to bring his cane, because there is still a lot of walking.  He showed up very dapper with his eagle-headed cane and vintage Stetson.  We were quite the stunning couple.

We held hands and cried through most of the show.  She was my first concert at 13.  He roadied for her back in the day.

The there was the finale.  And, as the audience stood, Jimi Hendrix's "Star Spangled Banner" started to wash over the crowd.

Joan took a knee.  Her ensemble followed.  And, one by one, the people I'd seen in the lobby--many using canes and walkers--took a knee.  I'd watched Pete struggle to stand and sit through various ovations and whispered," I've got this for us."

He said no.

The man who can barely walk any more.  Whose legs have been shattered by war and youthful stupidity and age...took a knee.  Right next to me.

I had to help him up.  I have never been so honored.

Of course, he kissed me on the lips when we said goodnight.

The man never gives up.  About anything.
So...my modem decided to die Saturday.  That was fun.  It was brought to my attention (by Scott from Ohio who I SWEAR I could tell was wearing khakis and a light blue button down oxford shirt just by his voice) that ten years is a pretty good run, all told.

That doesn't change that we were without net access until this afternoon.  Need I tell you how charming that made the spousebeast?  Yeah...no.   I can function without the 'net (I made myself a shawl!  I've been wanting to do that forever.  I took some of the random yarn I have around and the vague memory of a tutorial I watched and--boom!--a shawl in a day.  And it looks very Molly Weasley, so I am happy).  He gets...cranky.  Blergh.

Thankfully, I had my hot date with Santa Pete Saturday afternoon.  But first, I promised the spousebeast I'd make the beer run.  Cue our heroine trudging along the gravel, eyes cast down, because I ALWAYS trip over something.

Oooh!  Money!  I pocketed it.  There was no one in the lot.  No one in the store.  I asked the owner about it, and he looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

I thought it was a fiver.  Turns out it was FIFTY!

I figured the Universe had gifted me with a Joan Baez concert tshirt.  Which it would have, had she had a merch table.  *grumble*

So, I don't have a tshirt.  :(  But it dawned on me that this would pay for something I wouldn't get to go to otherwise.

Guess who is going to see Peter Yarrow in November?  I have the ticket sitting in front of me, and I still get a little breathless looking at it.  The venue is TINY and the artists almost always come out to meet the audience.  This is where I met Dar Wiliams, Tret Fure, Dianne Davidson, Dierdre McCalla, Jamie Anderson...you get the picture.

I may get to meet the man.  And even if I don't....holy fuck, y'all.

And speaking of holy fuck...JOAN!!!!!!!  She was my first concert.  And her voice is still as amazing as it was in San Diego 33 years ago.  She can still hit THOSE NOTES and drag your soul right straiight the fuck out of you.

When the audience sang the chorus to "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" I'm surprised that the White House didn't implode.  There was so much power.  It was so raw.  It was strength and pain and anger and lifted up in  a single voice.

Her son plays percussion for her (and he plays ALL THE THINGS).  He's a consummate professional, but every time she sings a song that references him, you can FEEL him thinking "Mom, would you NOT?"  I'm gueessing that's why she didn't do the one I wanted to hear so bad.  Sorry, Gabriel.  Mothers are embarrassing.

The most amazing moment in a million amazing moments was the curtain call (before TWO encores).  Jimi Hendrix's version of The Str Spangled Banner played...and Joan and all of her ensemble took a knee.

And so did much of the audience.  Which is impressive, considering how many were relying on canes, walkers, or wheelchairs.  (I had to help Santa Pete and the lady on the other side of me down and up, but they insisted.  My time at Happy Acres was good for something.)

The funny thing:  while waiting in line for drinks they played "The Boxer."  I told Santa Pete that a line from the song had been a prompt once and that I'd signed up for the new round.  He winced and said "Tell Kent I'll be bringing weed and hoagies when yu approach a deadline."  I thought hearing that line was a good luck sign.

Know what else is a good luck sign?  Joan FUCKING Baez sang that song!

Oh, and I have to shout out to the DPAC concessions.  Beer still comes in an open cup.  Wine comes in a cup with a lid.  Hard plastic, dishwasher safe, and a lid.

It's a fucking adult sippy cup.  I hope whoever came up with this gets a Nobel Prize.

Standing on line to get to the bathroom after the show the entire conversation was "Oh, I am taking mine home."  "I should have gotten another wine so I would have a pair"   "I can drink a screwdriver while walking the dogs and everyone will think I'm just drinking orange juice and being healthy."

Once you get to a certain age, there is no shame in your game.  I think I am at that age.
Okay, it's with my geritric, platonic boyfriend Santa Pete (that's him in the icon.  And, yes, that's me dressed as an elf.  We do several gigs a year: stores, private parties, the children's hospital, shelters), but when I rang him up, he sounded like the prettiest girl in school asked him to prom.  <3

We're going to see Joan Baez tomorrow night!  *boingboingboing*  The spousebeast was going to go, but got the dates screwed up and is working a double.  I tried to sell the ticket, then had a "well, DUH!" moment.  Pete roadied for here a billion years ago (he roadied for everyone, and has the pics and backstage passes to prove it), and was beyond thrilled.  Since I won't let him pay for the ticket, he's taking me to dinner beforehand.  And, honestly, it just wouldn't be a concert at the DPAC without garlic fries (and the two subsequent days of garlic sweats) at Tyler's first.

I really need this after this week.  I am, like many survivors, one long, raw nerve, alternately chained to the television and turning it off, consumed with guilt that there is only so much I can take.  No nightmares reliving the assaults (yes, that's plural), strangely enough, but have one doozy that Kent was leaving me that had me crying in my sleep.

Abandonment issues much, Al?

I can honestly say this is the only healthy romantic relationship I've ever had with a man (okay, the only one with a man who wasn't gay).  I know I'm deserving of love, and all the wonders of our life together...but my subconscious clearly thinks I'm damaged goods and it's only a matter of time before he wises up and leaves.

Phooey.  Fie on you, brain weasels!

I gave myself the afternoon off and turned off the television.  The political world will continue turning without me for a few hours (of course it will.  I'm a queer, working class woman, after all).  So, I'm cranking up the Joan (it's pre-gaming!) and slowly putting my poor, beleagured kitchen back together after round 2 with the exterminator.  Olivia and I agree that the guy upstairs has GOT to go, because that has GOT to be where they're coming from.  (Plus, he's creepy as fuck)

I've decided just to take a deep breath and consider it an opportunity to get the kitchen organized for all of the cooking I inevitably do in the fall/winter.

Here we go again...

I  signed up for LJ Idol.  AND I had to make an effing DW account to do it.  The things I do for my craft...

another funfilled day in Hormoneville

Pick a lane and stay in it, Body!  Either cramps or hotflashes, and what the FUCK is up with the zit on the end of the nose?  I got through puberty with perfectly clear skin.  I call bullshit!

I told the spousebeast this morning that I was staying in bed because I couldn't get anything on my to-do list done before 9am and I hurt like hell.  He brought me water and ibuphrofen and was just his usual loving self.

He left for work, fretting about leaving me alone (trust me, when I'm unwell, just let me stay in bed and pray for death)  Cue the hot flashes, and not even being able to hold down water until fucking noon.  I didn't get put of bed until 2:30pm, which is NOT like me.  Needless to say, I didn't get shit accomplished like I'd planned.

Kent came home with good news and bad news.  One of the people he rides to work with is the GM at a taco joint, and is looking for morning prep people who can also work the front of the house in a pinch.  Back in the kitchen?  Yes, please!  He told he that I am disgustinglu punctual, don't take smoke breaks, and don't dick around on a cell phone all day (hell, I still haven't figured out how to make mine work half the time).  She almost fell over.

The bad news is he has to work a double tomorrow.  Phooey.  At least his boss is giving him a ride home, so he doesn't have to take cabs coming and going.

On the upside, I can make tuna noodle glop (kinda like tuna cassarole, only made on the op the stove) without hearing commentary about having to smell it.  This coming from the dude who does unspeakable things to ramen that have been so funky smelling it has woken me up from a sound sleep with the door closed.

I can also catch up on AHS: Apocalypse.  One episode, and I'm already hopelessly hooked.

Okay, I'm going to try to find something appealing but bland and attempt actual solid food.  With me luck!

Aunt Flo is in town

Sorry, couldn't resist.  We're fairly far inland AND on high ground, so my biggest worry are the trees on the hill behind the house.  Our genius property manager had ALL of the undergrowth ripped out earlier this summer, so we have lots of very tall trees with exposed root systems.

I'll keep y'all posted.  Now, I am going to enjoy the fact that the spousebeast is home, and the guy who brought him here needed to run by the liquor store first.  Cheers!

Sep. 8th, 2018

Okay, playing single girl has been fun.  Can I have the spousebeast back now?

I am such a wimp. (Also, I'm horny)  We're doing emails twice a day, so I know what shenanigans are going on.  He found the lizard I put in his swim shorts first thing and, unfortunately, yelled "Damnit, Alicia!"  Which meant everyone came to see what I'd done to him this year.

Achievement unlocked.  Even better, his roommate informed him that, while he is the former standup comic, I have his ass beat at prop comedy.


Yesterday was fabulous.  I braved  the obscenely hot weather and went to Carrboro.  Treated myself to a Cap'n Crunch donut at Rise (needless to say, I don't need any extra sugar in my life for the next week.  It was SO GOOD, but I also felt a little like the time that Grandpa let me have all the cotton candy I wanted at the county fair).  Had some serious thrifting wins (FINALLY found the terra cotta chicken roaster that I have missed from my childhood.  I can't wait to use it).  Got called into Krave by my favorite kava bartender for "product testing" and discovered that kratom doesn't taste like it has been strained through a dirty sweat sock if mixed with chocolate almond milk.  That led to a couple of hours listening to Cat Stevens and idly chatting with him and a UNC philosophy prof.  I had a magical encounter on the bus

Copying and pasting because I am lazy:

It's still ridiculously hot here, and the buses are like meat lockers, so I wear a fabulous sun hat and carry a cardigan. I was having a "me" day, which means thrifting, volunteering, and flirting with a guy who is young enough to be my kid over a cup of kava. On my way home, I had the aforementioned hat AND sweater on when I was on the bus.

Cue cute little kid. Mommy, she looks like grandma if grandma was a witch!

Cue mommy wanting to crawl under the seat.

I simply said "I'm not a grandma yet, but I am a witch. You're very perceptive."

Kid: I'm in the special classes at school. Some people think I'm stupid, but I have MAGIC in my brain! I know things other people don't.

Me: I believe that. Hey...between us...do you want this feather from my hat? I have too many. Maybe you could put it in your bookbag for when you need a little extra magic.

Kid: Cool! I'll use it when the kids get mean!

We got to the stop, and his mom grabbed my shoulder. She was weepy. He's been having a rough time at school She's scared that, when he gets older, he might harm himself due to bullying.

He's bouncing around, singing "I've got a magic feather!"

We exchanged info, and I suggested getting together to do crafts or something. She looked relieved. I think she needs a break.

They walked off. He was waving the feather. "Bye, new friend!"

Thankfully, I was standing in front of Weaver St. Market an could get a strong cider and go sit on the patio and cry a little bit

My new friend's name is Adam.  :)

I also did a volunteer shift at the St. Joe's food mission for the first time in forever.  It was so great to see everyone.  I need to quit letting inertia (and the weather) get the best of me.  I am not a church go-er, but there is something so...comforting?....about getting hugs and being called Sister Alicia.  Maybe I am missing community?

Since it was Friday, after everyone was served, the volunteers got to take the perishables.  Woo-hoo!  My grocery list for next week has been whittled down to coffee, sugar, and barley.  Last night, I got to have lemon pepper cod, roasted baby Yukon gold potatoes, and spinach salad.  Dined like a queen and it didn't cost me a dime.  <3

Today is household-y type things: laundry so no one goes to work naked this week, cleaning out the fridge, maaaaaaybe doing the floors, and changing the sheets on the bed.  After that, it's books, Food Network, and working on my shawl.  Maybe seeing Santa Pete at suppertime (he's shameless.  I mentioned tuna noodle casserole and he said "When?")

Happy Saturday, y'all!