I have never avoided anything so much as I am currently avoiding studying for Russian. I finished reading all of the books I have on me (I just reread the Hitchhiker's Guide series, and read SOME of "Lady Chatterley's Lover." So, instead of studying for Russian at night when I usually read, I studied for the LSAT. Which I won't be taking until October. I'm avoiding Russian THAT much.
In other new, it is unacceptable to tip your waitress 12% because she rejected your underage son with creepy facial hair. Who tried to get you to bring him booze.
Going to Port Saint Lucie tomorrow to a. hang out with Andrew, and b. avoid studying for Russian. Seriously, I need to get on that.
Also, men are idiots.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Haven't missed much...
As the title says, you haven't missed much in my life. Just working 4 days a week, and beginning to hate people as a result of constant exposure to them. I have yet to actually study for Russian, but, hey, I have 3 more weeks. I was planning on going to the pool with a friend of mine today, but I had my hair did last night ("mahogany with caramel highlights," per Sophia, the co-worker who did it) and decided chlorine is not the BEST of ideas. I might take part in a time-honored Homestead tradition of bridge-jumping/canal swimming. Waiting for the green light from my hair dresser for that.
The only other news is that I am stuck in the middle of yet another poorly-advised crush. Poorly-advised because I guarantee anyone reading this would say I'm a nutjob. I even know its a bad idea. But such is life.
The only other news is that I am stuck in the middle of yet another poorly-advised crush. Poorly-advised because I guarantee anyone reading this would say I'm a nutjob. I even know its a bad idea. But such is life.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Glee, and Why I Love My Job
Many of those reading this, I will assume, have worked in the restaurant industry. I base this on the assumption that most of you have a. been to college, or b. been to high school in a state that allows high schoolers to wait tables (not Florida). So I will assume y'all will know what I'm talking about here.
I really, really, really love my job. We are currently in the middle of the busy season ("season") here in SoFla. Many areas have a busier season... From what I've been told, its the months of March and April in the Panhandle, where they are hit by Springbreakers. In South Florida, season is the only "real" season we have. Climatic seasons are winter (the last two weeks in December), and summer (the other fifty weeks). So "season" season for us is what is winter to the rest of the country... the period from January through Marchish, when all the snowbirds and tourists come down to winter away from winter up north.
One of the things that amuses me the most is that a restaurant in the heat of its busy season is the only place outside of the porn industry in which "you ready for the gang bang?" is a suitable morning greeting. I also love my job because every day I get to look out at the water, feel an ocean breeze, maybe see a manatee or two. I don't know why I enjoy this so much. Maybe because office jobs make me feel closed in... like I can't escape. I'm not a big ocean person. Largely because it involves one of my most dreaded specific fears: sand. I am terrified of sand, insects, children and milk, specifically. In general, I am afraid of dying (in the general sense... obviously), dying alone, dying poor, and dying painfully. Although I guess I'm also afraid of living in those conditions, as well.
I also make more money doing what I'm doing than I would in an office. I won't tell you what I make, but its more than most 19 year old high school grads with some college experience. Its not polite to talk about money, plus its something I don't want the world knowing. Like my natural hair color.
So, onto Glee. I have never liked Glee. I first encountered Glee in Leith, Scotland. I was flipping through channels after the idiocy of "Britain's Got Talent" and "Disgusting Bodies" pissed me off. For those of you (read: all) who are not familiar with these gems of programs...
Britain's Got Talent: The same as the American equivalent, but with lower standards. I mean like having sex with Octomom low standards. In the episode I watched, a pig made it to the second round. A pig. A potbellied pig, who wore a little sequined bow tie, and chewed, chewed to the beat of Michael Jackson songs. Primarily because his handler fed him treats to the beat of Michael Jackson songs. The British considered this lip-syncing I am not making this up.
Disgusting Bodies: Sheer and utter lunacy. People go and talk to a team of "specialists" (read: attractive tv personalities) about their embarrassing body malfunctions. The cases I recall were a woman who had a strong odor of fish eminating from her pores her entire life, a man with severe scrotum pain, and a teenager with a concave chest. The "specialists" did a quick google search of their symptoms (because apparently these people are too dumb to do it themselves) to explain the simple and usually treatable illness causing this. For example. the fishy woman had a chemical imbalance, and just needed some vitamins. After the google search, the team would then tell them "so, you should have that checked out by a doctor..." I don't understand why these people would go on a show called DISGUSTING BODIES to have their strange odors/pains discussed on tv instead of seeing a doctor first.
So, I was flipping through the channels, and who should I spy but NEIL PATRICK HARRIS. SINGING. This was my first experience with Glee. Since, I had seen 2-3 episodes, and my opinion has largely been that it has a predictable and ridiculous plot, albeit with some pretty decent music. Well, one of my very good friends made me watch a large chunk of the first season with her, and, after watching NEIL PATRICK HARRIS sing "Piano Man," and after her explaining to me countless times that it is INTENTIONALLY campy, I have decided I like the show. As long as I can make fun of the characters for being dumb, and the dialogue for being predictable. For example, in the final episode of the first Season, when the Glee kids are preparing to go onstage for regionals...
Rachel (Glee) We can do this! We have something they don't!
Rachel (me) Bumpits!
(under my breath, sarcasm-laden) Heart
Rachel (Glee) Heart!
This is just a huge digression which I embarked on to discuss men. Throughout this learning experience, my friend had been swooning over... Thistle or something. It rhymed with the pregnant chicks name... one sec, google...Finn. I personally think this character is dumb and lurchlike. I prefer the teacher. And Kurt. Or NEIL PATRICK HARRIS. My friend explained that while she found other characters cuter, she would end up with a Finn-like guy in real life. Which made me think of which of the characters I would date in real life...
Well, dating a teacher is illegal in most states, or at least strongly frowned upon. Also, Mr. Shu cries too much. Granted, all of the characters do. I want to hit them with fly swatters and tell them to man the fuck up. So, while I always end up with older men in real life, I would have to stay I would definitely end up with Kurt or NEIL PATRICK HARRIS. Which has one very, very obvious problem...
I happen to believe the character of Kurt, at least in the first season before he gets all whiny and nice and less awesome and bitchy, is based entirely off a friend of mine. Those of you at Stetson know who I am talking about. His epic clothing choices, his witty comebacks... I feel like the producers of Glee hid cameras in the Stetson apartment showers. So yes, considering I have realized since I have been back home that I have more gay best friends than I think there are gay people in my entire hometown... I am a fag hag. I'm sure there's a more current, more politically-correct term for it. Ok, thank you google... fruit fly. And this is ok with me. Because I would rather not have to take my boyfriend shopping, I need other friends to go with me. I only need straight men for two things, and one of those things is buying me stuff. The other is not procreation... as soon as we get the robot prototypes off the ground, we won't need children anymore. Children are just a useless black hole into which we throw our resources, banking on the idea that someday we will need to pay them to mow our yard and do all the things we don't want to, or can't do anymore. Yep, get the robots a-going, and we can all live our lives happy for once, and die in peace, safe in the knowledge that we left Earth to those who deserve it... the microbes.
This whole post probably made no sense, and was one giant, although I hope amusing, digression. I was on my feet for 12 hours today. Its 2 am. Pound sand.
I really, really, really love my job. We are currently in the middle of the busy season ("season") here in SoFla. Many areas have a busier season... From what I've been told, its the months of March and April in the Panhandle, where they are hit by Springbreakers. In South Florida, season is the only "real" season we have. Climatic seasons are winter (the last two weeks in December), and summer (the other fifty weeks). So "season" season for us is what is winter to the rest of the country... the period from January through Marchish, when all the snowbirds and tourists come down to winter away from winter up north.
One of the things that amuses me the most is that a restaurant in the heat of its busy season is the only place outside of the porn industry in which "you ready for the gang bang?" is a suitable morning greeting. I also love my job because every day I get to look out at the water, feel an ocean breeze, maybe see a manatee or two. I don't know why I enjoy this so much. Maybe because office jobs make me feel closed in... like I can't escape. I'm not a big ocean person. Largely because it involves one of my most dreaded specific fears: sand. I am terrified of sand, insects, children and milk, specifically. In general, I am afraid of dying (in the general sense... obviously), dying alone, dying poor, and dying painfully. Although I guess I'm also afraid of living in those conditions, as well.
I also make more money doing what I'm doing than I would in an office. I won't tell you what I make, but its more than most 19 year old high school grads with some college experience. Its not polite to talk about money, plus its something I don't want the world knowing. Like my natural hair color.
So, onto Glee. I have never liked Glee. I first encountered Glee in Leith, Scotland. I was flipping through channels after the idiocy of "Britain's Got Talent" and "Disgusting Bodies" pissed me off. For those of you (read: all) who are not familiar with these gems of programs...
Britain's Got Talent: The same as the American equivalent, but with lower standards. I mean like having sex with Octomom low standards. In the episode I watched, a pig made it to the second round. A pig. A potbellied pig, who wore a little sequined bow tie, and chewed, chewed to the beat of Michael Jackson songs. Primarily because his handler fed him treats to the beat of Michael Jackson songs. The British considered this lip-syncing I am not making this up.
Disgusting Bodies: Sheer and utter lunacy. People go and talk to a team of "specialists" (read: attractive tv personalities) about their embarrassing body malfunctions. The cases I recall were a woman who had a strong odor of fish eminating from her pores her entire life, a man with severe scrotum pain, and a teenager with a concave chest. The "specialists" did a quick google search of their symptoms (because apparently these people are too dumb to do it themselves) to explain the simple and usually treatable illness causing this. For example. the fishy woman had a chemical imbalance, and just needed some vitamins. After the google search, the team would then tell them "so, you should have that checked out by a doctor..." I don't understand why these people would go on a show called DISGUSTING BODIES to have their strange odors/pains discussed on tv instead of seeing a doctor first.
So, I was flipping through the channels, and who should I spy but NEIL PATRICK HARRIS. SINGING. This was my first experience with Glee. Since, I had seen 2-3 episodes, and my opinion has largely been that it has a predictable and ridiculous plot, albeit with some pretty decent music. Well, one of my very good friends made me watch a large chunk of the first season with her, and, after watching NEIL PATRICK HARRIS sing "Piano Man," and after her explaining to me countless times that it is INTENTIONALLY campy, I have decided I like the show. As long as I can make fun of the characters for being dumb, and the dialogue for being predictable. For example, in the final episode of the first Season, when the Glee kids are preparing to go onstage for regionals...
Rachel (Glee) We can do this! We have something they don't!
Rachel (me) Bumpits!
(under my breath, sarcasm-laden) Heart
Rachel (Glee) Heart!
This is just a huge digression which I embarked on to discuss men. Throughout this learning experience, my friend had been swooning over... Thistle or something. It rhymed with the pregnant chicks name... one sec, google...Finn. I personally think this character is dumb and lurchlike. I prefer the teacher. And Kurt. Or NEIL PATRICK HARRIS. My friend explained that while she found other characters cuter, she would end up with a Finn-like guy in real life. Which made me think of which of the characters I would date in real life...
Well, dating a teacher is illegal in most states, or at least strongly frowned upon. Also, Mr. Shu cries too much. Granted, all of the characters do. I want to hit them with fly swatters and tell them to man the fuck up. So, while I always end up with older men in real life, I would have to stay I would definitely end up with Kurt or NEIL PATRICK HARRIS. Which has one very, very obvious problem...
I happen to believe the character of Kurt, at least in the first season before he gets all whiny and nice and less awesome and bitchy, is based entirely off a friend of mine. Those of you at Stetson know who I am talking about. His epic clothing choices, his witty comebacks... I feel like the producers of Glee hid cameras in the Stetson apartment showers. So yes, considering I have realized since I have been back home that I have more gay best friends than I think there are gay people in my entire hometown... I am a fag hag. I'm sure there's a more current, more politically-correct term for it. Ok, thank you google... fruit fly. And this is ok with me. Because I would rather not have to take my boyfriend shopping, I need other friends to go with me. I only need straight men for two things, and one of those things is buying me stuff. The other is not procreation... as soon as we get the robot prototypes off the ground, we won't need children anymore. Children are just a useless black hole into which we throw our resources, banking on the idea that someday we will need to pay them to mow our yard and do all the things we don't want to, or can't do anymore. Yep, get the robots a-going, and we can all live our lives happy for once, and die in peace, safe in the knowledge that we left Earth to those who deserve it... the microbes.
This whole post probably made no sense, and was one giant, although I hope amusing, digression. I was on my feet for 12 hours today. Its 2 am. Pound sand.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Preparations, part три
So, I received a lovely luggage set for my trip as my Christmas gift. Now, in the coming weeks, I plan on paying Air Berlin for the extra luggage, as there is no way in hell I can survive 5 months with only 50 pounds of clothing.
My new coat
I am trying very hard to get used cold before I leave. Work today was in the 60's, with 23 mph wind. On the water. Oh, yeah. This Florida girl is slowly becoming a hardass.
Perhaps the most exciting news is that I ordered a wonderful muskrat fur coat. Hopefully this will keep me warm. The final purchases (socks, a few more thermals, and a nice raincoat) will hopefully be made this coming week. I also need to pick up my cashmere peacoat (for *warmer* Moscow weather) from the tailors, where it is being taken in. I bought it large so that it would be longer in the arms and sweep, and I could layer under it!
My new coatAnd, at some point in the near future... I will ACTUALLY study. I PROMISE I PROMISE I PROMISE I PROMISE
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Frustrated
My sincerest apologies to those of you who subscribed to (or those of you who aren't real friends and don't subscribe to but casually read *evil glare*) my blog expecting amusing tales of my misadventures in Russia. Until I leave in February, it will largely be an outlet for my bitching about life, my second favorite pastime (next to eating. maybe napping, but I don't think that is a legitimate pastime, so its not on the count). Don't get too disheartened, as it will still be amusing, if not in the sophisticated witty way I aspire for it to be, then at least in the schadenfreude sort. Eh, its my damn blog, I'll write what I want.
I ask this completely rhetorical question:
On what planet is it alright to confess you undying love for a girl who left you, several years ago, after you had acted like a complete jerk to her for the year previous (following two rather content years of togetherness) via a text message sent at 5am? Especially after that girl had been ever-so-politely ignoring the innuendo-filled 3am text messages you had been sending the week prior?
Incidents like this are why, at age nineteen, I have forsaken exclusive relationships until such a time as I am ready to consider matrimony. That way, I can't look back and think, "Why did I ever date such a bonehead?
Oh, yeah. Free food.
Sorry to break your hearts boys, but the only reason we pretend to be interested in you is the food you provide us. Really good acting on our part also often leads to shinier gifts. In that respect, girls are like raccoons. Or piranha. Way to a girl's heart? Pasta and Yurman.
Additionally, failure to engage in serious relationships will also prevent this scenario from popping up. I am in the habit of being a really good girlfriend... I fry things, I don't really care if men go to strip clubs, I'm not a feminist, and I mix a stiff drink. It stands to reason that men tend to want me back after I leave them. But, generally, I left them for a reason, and it serves only to annoy me. Cutting the boyfriend problem out of my life also frees up the ex-boyfriend problem.
I ask this completely rhetorical question:
On what planet is it alright to confess you undying love for a girl who left you, several years ago, after you had acted like a complete jerk to her for the year previous (following two rather content years of togetherness) via a text message sent at 5am? Especially after that girl had been ever-so-politely ignoring the innuendo-filled 3am text messages you had been sending the week prior?
Incidents like this are why, at age nineteen, I have forsaken exclusive relationships until such a time as I am ready to consider matrimony. That way, I can't look back and think, "Why did I ever date such a bonehead?
Oh, yeah. Free food.
Sorry to break your hearts boys, but the only reason we pretend to be interested in you is the food you provide us. Really good acting on our part also often leads to shinier gifts. In that respect, girls are like raccoons. Or piranha. Way to a girl's heart? Pasta and Yurman.
Additionally, failure to engage in serious relationships will also prevent this scenario from popping up. I am in the habit of being a really good girlfriend... I fry things, I don't really care if men go to strip clubs, I'm not a feminist, and I mix a stiff drink. It stands to reason that men tend to want me back after I leave them. But, generally, I left them for a reason, and it serves only to annoy me. Cutting the boyfriend problem out of my life also frees up the ex-boyfriend problem.
*Disclaimer* Some of this post are in jest. Others are written in frustration. Try not to ever take me too seriously. For example, many women prefer Tiffany to Yurman, and others are more Godiva girls or are on low-carb diets.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Almost not dead...
For those of you waiting with baited breath for news of whether or not this single girl will even survive long enough to die in Moscow... well, I'm not dead. Yet. I had an adventure at the pharmacy yesterday, when the pharmacist put in two of my prescriptions correctly, and one under "Cheryl," who, by the way, has a birthday completely different than mine. So I had to fight for an hour to get my antibiotics. Which won't help me get better; they just prevent the infection from spreading to my lungs.
The good news is, I am currently fever-free, and can almost swallow solid food. If soup is a solid food. I'm just pissed that, after all this starvation and feverishness, I've not lost more weight. Yes, ok, I'm a little vain. So shoot me.
The good news is, I am currently fever-free, and can almost swallow solid food. If soup is a solid food. I'm just pissed that, after all this starvation and feverishness, I've not lost more weight. Yes, ok, I'm a little vain. So shoot me.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Dying
I am dying. Flu, or some sort of flesh-eating virus. Later on today, I'll be heading to the doctor's... or the cemetery...
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