la vie en basil

How I failed to fail at a Waffle House interview.

2008-11-24T09:48:00.004-05:00

I'm still unemployed, though it isn't for lack of trying. None of the seven hotels within walking distance are hiring; most of the businesses in the industrial park nearby are government-contracted, which thus renders applying to them confusing. The Italian restaurant isn't hiring and the sub shop where my brother worked abruptly shut down last week. (He also tutors math and science at his college, though, so it isn't as though he's destitute. Also, he got to bring home jars of banana peppers and 50-packs of sliced provolone and 3-gallon tubs of ice cream.) Even the freaking Denny's isn't hiring; the manager there told me he's had to cut hours. Shit's for real when even Denny's has to cut hours.

The one place that gave me an interview? Waffle House.

Obviously this is not my idea of a lucrative, satisfying job. But it is a job, and it pays. I'll fully admit to crying my eyes out this weekend - well, after about five Black Russians and a bong hit - at the idea of having to become an employee of a roadside establishment whose claim to fame is hash browns with chili on top. My friends tried to console me, but at that point I was too wasted and instead fell off my chair and then demanded to watch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Let me tell y'all something: do not ever drink straight-up Black Russians starting at 7 PM and not stopping until 1 AM, because you will feel like a semi ran you over the next day.

Anyway. I just came back from the interview. It is literally impossible to fail an interview at this place. Lord knows I tried.

Manager: So what brings you here?
Me: I need a job.
Manager: No, I mean, why do you want to work for us?
Me: I have student loan bills to pay and I need money.
Manager: Fair enough. So when does that boot thing come off your foot?
Me: Well, I see the doctor on December 9th. I can walk and everything. This is more, like, for support.
Manager: Here's the thing. I want to get rid of four or five of my servers because they're honestly thieves. I can't do that just yet because it's the holiday, and I need to have people ready to replace them.
Me: I'm not into the thievery bit. Not my scene.
Manager: Can you work nights?
Me: I'd really prefer not to. I mean, if you need me to work at night I will, but I'm not crazy about doing it. [Let me insert here that they just got robbed two weeks ago. At night.] Hey, wait, what are you hiring for anyway?
Manager: Would you rather cook? I mean, when servers do really well and they want to learn to cook I train them in that.
Me: Nope. I'd rather just wait tables. I'm sorta tired of cooking right now. I mean, not like I might not change my mind after a while but right now I'm good with waiting tables.
Manager: Okay then. My big thing is honesty. If you're short on your rent or something, I'd rather you came to me instead of dipping into the till.
Me: Oh, I'm definitely honest.

He doesn't know the half of it.

Despite my clear lack of enthusiasm, wearing yesterday's jeans which smell rather herbaceous, and yawning through the whole thing, I've been given a second interview with the manager's boss on Wednesday morning. They must be desperate to find a waitress who doesn't steal from the drawer to support her meth habit.

My coffee is rather liberally dosed with anisette this morning.

This is what I do when I'm unemployed.

2008-10-24T10:49:00.003-04:00

It's 10:49 in the morning and I am sitting on a dining-room chair dragged in here as a makeshift desk chair, listening to Nirvana to keep the silence at bay. My room is dark even with the curtains yanked as wide open as I could reach; the afternoon sun hasn't hit this side of the house yet, and won't anyway because there's no sun to be had today. I'm drinking lukewarm coffee out of a travel mug already reheated once. I had to grab the used napkin from a plate on my dresser to blot a drop of coffee from my front. It smells like strawberries. I usually don't eat in my room, much less leave dishes overnight. But I went to sleep and nobody took it for me. I can't carry a plate on crutches, so I'm leaving it. This one had half a slice of cheesecake on it. I'm careful, but the mug is designed stupidly and I always drip on my front no matter what I do.

It irritates me particularly because the sweater I'm wearing isn't mine. It once belonged to my father, a cream-colored scratchy cable-knit wool cardigan from the western coast of Ireland. I don't know where he got it. I remember him wearing this a lot when I was small and he was still young and had a wiry runner's build and his hair was all-dark, and when he'd scoop me up his mustache would tickle my face. He shaved it off when I was seven and I begged him to put it back. The sweater hangs in my closet now, because I am always cold. Suddenly I'm very affronted by the audacity of this coffee beading up on top of the wool.

I slide the top all the way closed and shove the mug away.

I'm writing this while the narcotics kick in.

2008-10-05T01:17:00.000-04:00

I had to have the surgery, which was this previous Wednesday. It went just fine; I'm put back together with a metal plate and about six screws, or so I'm told. The doctor is great, and I'm glad I ended up with him instead of someone else. He's good at explaining things in a way that isn't overly technical but doesn't condescend. I was absolutely scared shitless, but I think I handled it pretty well. At least the day of, I did, cracking jokes with the nurses and only squealing minimally as the anesthesiologist took 35 minutes prodding the back of my knee to inject the block and waking up in the recovery room to ask for my glasses and put in all my earrings without a mirror, then proceeding to go home and haul my sorry ass upstairs to tear into a chicken caesar wrap. I'm glad for the splint and the Ace bandage covering it all, though, because I nearly faint when I see that five-inch-long incision held together with staples and oozing whatever it is that giant wounds ooze.

Hey, I'm a cook, not a Rotten.com editor. And I'm goofily delighted by the big foam wedge I was given by the hospital. It's enormous and yellow and looks like a piece of radioactive cheese, with a channel cut out for my leg. I like it a lot more than the body pillow I was using to prop up my leg, because my foot doesn't sink into it. I'm also stuck wearing a compression stocking on the good leg for the next two weeks. It's ugly and itchy and I hate the fucking thing, but better that than the possibility of deep-vein thrombosis.

It's now, after the fact, that I'm starting to have the major freak-out. I suppose it's had time to sink in and all that. Every morning I pore over the classified ads in the county newspaper, sift through all the scams on Craigslist, send out e-mail inquiries and record voice tests. Anything to find a job I can do from my bedroom, because bills don't stop coming just because my car's in the junkyard and I can't walk to any of the businesses that would conceivably pay me to do work for them. I know I shouldn't be discouraged, but it's getting frustrating. I don't like being so god damned useless. And I can't do much cooking, either. I have to sit at the kitchen table and have stuff handed to me. Which is better than not being able to hop out to the kitchen at all, I suppose, but when I've dedicated the last two years of my life to this and now suddenly can't stand at the stove daydreaming over beurre blanc if I damned well please, I think it's understandable that I now wish to throw things. I can only get a shower every few days because it's a fairly big undertaking - my mother helps me, and I have gotten over my embarrassment at her seeing me naked for the first time in twenty years because I pretty much have no other choice if I ever want to bathe. So in between I have to make do with hooker baths and no-rinse shampoo, which does a good job, actually. This, however, does hurt my pride because I am one of those people who prefers a nice long hot shower every single evening, and I have a pathological fear of smelling bad.

I don't know what I'd do without my friends - one sent me a care package last week and another wants to send me one too; I've gotten a million texts and e-mails and IMs and phone calls from them. But it's not the same as knowing I could just go drive to someone's house if I felt like it, which I can't, obviously. JD is going to drive up next weekend if I'm up to it, presumably to get me out of the house for a belated birthday celebration. Most of the time, I'm pretty much left to my own devices. I can't really carry stuff unless it fits in the little bag I bought to snap around the hand-grip of my crutch, so my parents pack a little cooler of ice with drinks and food and leave it in my room so I don't hurt myself trying to fix lunch. Even with everyone being so nice - and honestly, I'm fucking floored by the concern I've been shown - it's still a pretty damn lonely existence, and every day I don't have a job is another day to be made acutely aware of it.

The pain itself has gotten worse since surgery. Before, it was more of a general grinding ache, and didn't bother me so much unless I'd been doing a lot of hopping around. Now it's sharp, and acute, and the muscles of my bad leg have atrophied and twitch violently whenever they damn well please and makes me shriek hysterically in pain. I hate when that happens, because the shriek is inevitably followed by crying, which never fails to quickly turn itself into hyperventilating and hysterical sobbing. And it scares me, because I'm wholly unused to losing control of myself like that. Yesterday it took me until dinner time to get me to stop it entirely, and actually I'm grateful to have been left alone for most of the day. I can't stand anyone seeing me a total wreck, even if I write about it publicly.

I don't know if anyone reads this blog, much less cares about some chick they've likely never met and don't give a shit about. But it feels good to write. Writing gives me something to do and takes my mind off how soul-crushingly numb I've become. But then, losing everything you've worked so hard for will do that.

I have no hope left for humanity. None.

2008-09-20T00:28:00.002-04:00

I met Graham through my best friend JD. He's funny and smart and a fantastic writer. He also has cerebral palsy, which means he's confined to a motorized wheelchair. Unfortunately, this means that despite the fact that he's practically a human encyclopedia of music, he does not get a lot of girls. (I'd date him in a heartbeat if I swung that way.) He spends a lot of time not just listening to music and writing about it, but going to shows. Graham is well known at the various venues all over The City, and as he is impossible not to like, he's quite friendly with all the security guards, who set up little roped-off areas for those in wheelchairs so they won't get crushed by mosh pits and the like.

Well, he posted a blog about what happened at a show last night.

Some drunk fuck would not leave the wheelchair area, despite being told by a few security guards to move. The guy got in Graham's face, and Graham, being a non-confrontational sort of guy, ignored him. This tactic did not work, and Graham told said drunk fuck to leave him alone. Dude flipped him off, so Graham did the same and went about his business, trying to listen to the band. Guy went away, and Graham was able to enjoy the concert in peace.

Until this piece of shit, halfway through the last song, crept up behind Graham, and punched him in the face. The asshole was immediately taken down by security and a couple of nice guys helped Graham grab his stuff and get the hell out of there. Nothing was broken, thankfully, and Graham's dad - a lawyer - came down and they decided to press charges. To which I say, good. Get him for all he's got.

Now. Let me put this into perspective for you all.

This piece of fucking slimy shit from the bottom of an outhouse is six feet tall and weighs twice what I do.

Graham is five feet tall and weighs 85 pounds.

Takes a real man to punch somebody in a fucking wheelchair from behind, doesn't it?

My life as a gimp, Act One.

2008-09-16T19:17:00.001-04:00

My ankle is broken.

It is so badly broken - the word used was "shattered", actually - and in such a weird way that the orthopedic surgeon refused to treat it, and instead punted me to a foot/ankle specialist. I'm having a CAT scan on Friday, so as to determine if surgery is needed - and thus all the plates and screws and bolts to hold my tibia together - or if they can just pop a cast on it. Obviously I would prefer the latter, as I am terrified of surgery. Also, if they don't have to do it, I'd rather not. I've never had surgery before, and I don't know how I react to anesthesia.

Either way, I'm going to have massive arthritis in a few years' time, so that essentially cuts out any career where I must stand. Even though it won't show up for a while, standing constantly day in and day out only aggravates and accelerates it. Meaning, I will probably never become a chef. If this were Reader's Digest, in five years I'd be writing that I'm a millionaire or something, in one of those inspirational stories they love to print. The only thing I'm inspired to do right now is fume and rage as I try to putter around the top floor of my house and not fall over and land on my ankle as I already did once this evening, thus causing hysterical screaming on my end and abject horror at my agony on my father's end.

What is making this bearable is the prescription for 55 Percocets I've been given to tide me over until we find out what's going on with the CAT scan/possible surgery/whatever. My chest and shoulders and neck hurt too, which makes it harder for me to move around anyway, because I'm basically drained of all strength.

My father has been amazing about this. He's the entire reason I was able to get out of the house at all, or make it into the podiatrist's office and out again, and then back into the house. I'm lucky that he's so physically strong, or I'd still be collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, crying. My mother, too, has been amazing, getting water for me and bringing a TV tray into my room so I can type and eat more comfortably. My brother is trying to get into nursing school, so I suppose I'll let him practice on me. I promised not to let him see my ass.

But I cannot be bitter, for I am not alone. The nurses were wonderful and compassionate and gave me a pair of crutches they actually shouldn't have, but knew I couldn't afford to buy a pair myself. The podiatrist was gentle and kind and tried not to yank my foot around as he examined it. The pharmacist filled my prescription as fast as he could because he knew what kind of pain I was in. My parents and brother have kept me from doing more damage to myself by helping drag me around the house. My friends have called and texted and e-mailed me with commands to let them help in any way possible. One, in particular, is helping me to look for jobs I can do from home, as I'll be knocked out of commission for only the gods know how long.

I've already filled out one application, so I'll see what happens. For now I'm going to have a gyro and another Percocet, as the one I took three hours ago is beginning to wear off, and gimp myself into my parents' bedroom to watch the season premiere of House. I don't think I'll be going downstairs again for a long, long while. Good way to get myself to stop drinking soda.

My bad week trumps your bad week.

2008-09-15T19:56:00.002-04:00

This week could only get worse if I were diagnosed with AIDS.

Returning from the bank after picking up my last paycheck from the Brewery, I took the turn into my street too sharply and plowed into a ditch.

I have contusions and abrasions from the seatbelt digging into my chest. I had to bend my ankh pendant back into shape from where it bent. There are scrapes and cuts in the shape of the Tiffany chain my parents gave me last year. And my right ankle...I can't walk on it. At all. Every time I try I nearly faint from the pain. I can still move it and all so I don't think it's broken. Been soaking it in ice water on and off for the past two hours. My brother and mother had to help me into the house and eventually to get up the stairs to the hallway I had to drag myself on my ass. Which, incidentally is how I got from the bathroom to my room just now. Mom found a cane downstairs but that doesn't do me any good.

I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to have my ankle looked at. My father is paying for the visit, which is nice considering that when I ended up in his pharmacy (long story) he screamed at me until a customer came to the counter. Apparently everything I do turns to shit and could I at least please try not to be such a fuck-up? His technician looked disgusted, but said nothing.

I didn't break down, at least not totally, until I got back home and was trying to get inside. Landed on the bad foot accidentally and screamed. Then I lost it and started crying so hard I couldn't breathe. But I had to make myself stop because I had to get inside. I don't know how I'm going to get outside and to Dad's car tomorrow. Maybe it'll feel better then, I don't know.

My car...it's totaled.

I have no job. No car. No way to get to another job.

Yeah. I'm royally fucked.

Reality hits.

2008-09-13T14:04:00.003-04:00

I was scheduled to work 8-4 today. Currently it is 2:00, and I am sitting at home in civilian clothes. No, I didn't finish early.

I got fired for dropping a roasting pan of cooked rib racks.

The two managers on duty treated me like I was the worst piece of shit slacker know-nothing who ever walked into that kitchen, as if I never came in on days off or came in early or stayed late or volunteered my time when the dishwasher called out sick. It was utterly humiliating. I don't think that's even the best phrasing for it, but I don't know what words I could use. The worst part is, this morning I was told by one of the managers on duty that I'm very talented and have a lot of potential, and if I keep working on my timing then I'll be even better.

I've never been fired before in my life. I have no idea what I'm going to say to my parents when they get home from work. They're going to be so fucking disappointed. Not half as much as I am, though. At least I managed to get to my car and shut the door before I started crying. I wouldn't give anyone the fucking satisfaction of seeing me like that. I just shrugged and said, "Well, I'm sorry too. I really enjoyed working here. Hope it works out for you guys," handed my employee card back, and walked out - through the front door, with my head held high.

No. Let them think I don't give a fuck. It's better than being remembered as that weak little girl just out of school who only lasted three months and then fell apart and made a scene when she got the boot.

I guess I know how I'll be spending Monday.

Kitchen managers are magnificent bastards.

2008-09-11T07:32:00.002-04:00

I knew I was back at work when I heard the following exchange:

Manager: Hey, dude, did you hear about that guy who threw up all over himself yesterday at the beer festival?

A cook: No, but I bet it was gross.

Manager: Oh, it was totally gross. I watched it happen. Best part was, the drunk moron was ten feet from a door. I watched him turn green for like, three minutes. He had plenty of time to get outside and barf in the bushes.

Cook: So who cleaned it up?

Manager: Oh, I made some asshole from [the] Falls [location] do it.

Cook: Nice.

When I find out who gave it to me, I'm drop-kicking them into the ocean.

2008-09-05T13:41:00.003-04:00

My first thought this morning as I blinked the excess saline out of my eyes and let the contact lenses settle was that I look as if I have been very ill for quite some time.

This would be, of course, because I've been out of commission since Labor Day with the nastiest, most vicious bout of viral gastroenteritis I've ever had. I'm lucky to be young and relatively healthy overall, and my illnesses usually limit themselves to sinus infections and colds. I know how to handle those - I just drink a lot of orange juice, watch reruns on the Game Show Network, bitch and whine to my friends via text messaging, and keep myself stoned on Nyquil and cough syrup. This kind of bug, though? Knocked me for a loop. It's evidently making the rounds in my state, and I'm evidently lucky, as others have been incapacitated by it for a week or even ten days. I was symptomatic for four of them. I was scheduled off for only one day of this, which will tell you how many days' worth of pay I've lost and just why I'm so goddamned annoyed at having been ill.

Doesn't still mean I didn't end up slumped in front of the toilet praying for death, though. I've never been so sick in my life. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. We're all trying to figure out how the hell I contracted this thing, considering I worked Saturday, was off Sunday, and woke up Monday feeling gross. (I went into work anyway, however, because I figured I was just hungover.) We had company on Sunday, but they were my parents' friends and while I am a gracious hostess, I am not overly effusive - I don't touch people I don't know. And considering the husband is a cop and the wife is a CPA, I doubt they went around licking the banisters.

But because my doctor is amazing and understands that I neither have health insurance nor the sixty-two dollars required for a visit, wrote a letter clearing me to go back to work on Sunday without even seeing me. If he weren't married, I'd hump his brains out for that.

2008-08-30T21:47:00.002-04:00

It's really been a while, hasn't it? Since I last wrote, I bought a car. It's an ugly piece of shit, older than a good many of my friends, but it runs beautifully and it is mine. Makes things a hell of a lot easier, actually. I like having my own car, even though it's not pretty or shiny or new. I'll be paying it off over the next year, in small increments, to our mechanic who sold it to me. Better than blowing every last bit of savings all at once, leaving me with no way to pay other bills or have emergency funding. Today I drove it on the freeway, scared to death, but pleased with the way I handled it. I've become a much better driver over the past three months - I think because I have been forced. Best way to make me do anything.

Watched a movie during dinner that made me want to throw things. No Reservations sucked. A lot. Now, even though I work in the industry portrayed, I do have the ability to suspend my disbelief for the two hours it takes to watch a movie. However, I couldn't help but be annoyed by almost everything about the film, not to say the least about the irritating characters and weak-ass plot. It perpetuates all kinds of myths about restaurants, and thus the expectations of an average diner.

One - the walk-in fridge was dark, constantly. You need to be able to see what the fuck you're doing in it.

Two - no swearing in the kitchen. Give me a break. You drop something or screw it up, you bet you're gonna hear a string of X-rated words.

Three - the kitchen was too quiet. Not only was there no music, but there was hardly any noise at all aside from some background rattling of saute pans for ambiance.

Four - everyone's apron and chef coat were totally spotless. Trust me, not gonna happen, not even with the best and most efficient of us. It's the reason we wear such things.

Five - food cooked to order every single time. Nope. Sorry. Doesn't happen either. Not even if we lie and say it is. There's always a degree of prep for everything.

Six - an executive chef actively cooking every night. Executive chefs usually come down from their offices to the kitchen only when they want to play with a few pots and pans. Then they go back to their paperwork.

Seven - children being allowed and even encouraged in the kitchen. Children are not welcome under any circumstance. Not only is it a professional setting; it is also quite dangerous, as my scarred-up hands will demonstrate. I hate when corporate has their kids in, even for a few minutes, because it means more sidestepping to avoid dumping boiling pots of penne on their heads by accident.

Eight - each cook/chef plating and garnishing each dish. We have expediters for that sort of thing. When you're slammed, you don't lovingly arrange each tomato slice on the salad plate. You scream for the fucking expo to move their asses already and get this shit out of your sight to make room for the other eight dishes you have to cram into the window.

I had more annoyances, but it was generally to do with the the idea that children should be accommodated with different food solely on virtue of their ages, and if you cannot induce them to try new dishes, then just give them fish-sticks to shut up. Notions like these are the reason so many children grow up thinking that anything different from chicken nuggets and applesauce is weird and gross. Notions like these are the reason so many children never come to think about what they eat - much less enjoy the food they are eating. Notions like these are the reason so many children are obese, frankly. They never learn that such things as fruits and vegetables can be just as much fun, and just as delicious, as the packaged frozen crap mommy throws onto a sheet tray in sheer exasperation.

Ramblings of a kitchen bitch.

2008-07-21T10:59:00.001-04:00

I was supposed to work today, but got called off. I don't mind, particularly, since two weeks ago I worked fifty hours, and in my mind that makes up for having the day off. I'm sitting on my bed, still wearing my nightie, and sipping on a cup of jasmine tea. I only wish Manager Charlie hadn't called my house at 6:40 in the morning to tell me. I mean, I appreciate that he did call me early - I was to have been in at 8:00 - but I wish he'd called my cell phone because then everyone else in my house woke up and went, "What the fuck, Yerba?" But I figure if that's the worst thing a manager ever does to me at this job, I have it pretty god damned good.

I've been at it for a month now, working prep at The Brewery. Funny how four weeks can manage to change your entire outlook on life, and even your appearance. My hair is no longer falling out; the lines under my eyes have disappeared; I've even lost some weight. (I find it inordinately hilarious that I've managed to drop ten pounds working with food.) I've lost that sense of hopeless desperation that followed me for so long as I worked dreary nights filled with cranky old farts, drunken military, and whiny vacationing families. I honestly did jack-shit all night when I worked at the Hotel del Infierno. I never had anything to look forward to when I got to work, and I would spend my days off brooding about how much it sucked that I would have to go back.

Now I truly love what I do, even though it can be smelly and painful and tedious and mundane at times. It's not just a job anymore; the paycheck isn't all I care about. I love that when I go to work I do something that matters, even if it's just dropping parmesan-romano chicken into the deep fryer so that another person can stagger into the restaurant at the end of her shift in need of a beer and something good to eat, and enjoy it immensely, and hopefully forget about whatever was bugging her at work or at home that day. Just making black-bean chili or cooking off rib racks or slicing tomatoes makes me happy. I come home exhausted at the end of the day, but never in a bad mood.

I know this is what I was meant to do. Cooking is like playing a song; it's what you don't taste that makes all the difference, just as in music it's the notes left unheard that tell you the most about who's playing it. The knife hitting the cutting board, butter sizzling in a skillet, a whisk scraping the sides of a bowl...it's all such a beautiful symphony to me. I wouldn't trade this, my love, for anything else in the world - even though I know it won't ever bring me fame or glory. I'm not that good. And it's okay. I don't care if anyone ever knows how much of my soul goes into composing. I'm not much of an artist anyway.

You know, this is the first time I've ever worked in such a male-dominated environment. Sure, a few of the managers are women, and most of the servers too. But primarily, I deal with and take orders from men on a daily basis. I don't mind, as I've discovered the secret to doing well and even being liked - act like a man.

I don't mean I change who I am for the purpose of fitting in at work, and it has nothing to do with being a lesbian. I just don't let my more traditionally female attributes show; there's no makeup or perfume or manicures, no squealing over raw chicken (which I truly do hate), no frivolity. I stir, scrape, whisk, saute, deep-fry, and bake furiously along with everyone else; I lift and carry heavy stock pots and bags of onions; I only rarely ask anyone to help me reach something or carry it for me. Usually if I can't do it, there's a cart lying around somewhere. I sweat, I curse, I don't yelp when I burn or cut myself. I go in with last night's hair scrunched underneath my baseball cap and I drink Mountain Dew more than anyone else. The line cooks love to fuck with me and I love to fuck with them. I couldn't care less if the servers talk to me or not; they don't affect anything I do in my job at The Brewery. And most of them don't, at least the female ones who come prancing in at 10:00 smelling of cheap body spray and wearing impossibly huge earrings, giggling over how wasted they got the night before. I'm just the lowly prep cook to them, a non-entity until they need a drip cup filled with honey mustard. That's fine. I'll take hanging with the guys any day.

Part of all this is that I do feel I have something to prove, but it's more to do with my being a neophyte kitchen pirate than being a woman. There's no room for weakness, and they watch for it more closely when they know you're just out of school and have never done this before. I think I'm doing okay, though. Nobody's cussed me out yet, or not given me help when I ask for it. And for once, I feel like I belong to something special. There's not much glamor to sweating your ass off over the stove, but you know when it's what you should be doing.

I read Kitchen Confidential during my first semester at culinary school. Rather than scaring me off, it made me want this even more. There's a part that sticks with me, particularly, about Bourdain's hands, how when he first started out in the business, he determined that he wanted to have scars and calluses the way all the other cooks did. At the time, I thought it was a bit odd. Now I understand, though. On Thursday I burned the everloving fuck out of myself dragging sheet trays of chicken wings out of the oven. My mother was horrified when I came home looking like someone had tortured me with a hot cattle-brand, but even as in as much pain as I was, I was okay with it. I feel like at least now I don't look like such an obvious newbie. My main concern is keeping two of the burns I received that day - one on each arm - clean and covered so they won't get infected. My right arm is merely blistered, and should go away if I keep the blister covered and not pop it; my left arm is worse because I accidentally scraped the fresh second-degree burn and some skin came off. I lied and said I would buy some Vitamin E capsules to break open and rub on everything when it's all healed.

I have no intention of doing so. I've got my own way of dealing with it - take a shot of vodka before changing out the bandages.

I think I'm going to MacGuyver myself some lunch. Swiss cheese slices, bacon, onions, wild rice, eggs, and various condiments of the Asian variety are about all we've got in the fridge at the moment. I should come up with something relatively edible.

2008-06-06T04:23:00.001-04:00

So! I'll make this as short as possible. It's been over a month since I last posted, and I doubt anyone gives a shit. But I should write a little update just on the off-chance anyone actually has been wondering what the fuck happened to me. Here's the nutshell version.

On May 9, I took the driver's test in pouring rain and miraculously passed it, despite the fact I was nervous to the point of vomiting before I left the house that morning.

On May 10, I sat through a long and boring graduation ceremony involving the mayor of The City, bagpipe players, annoyed chefs, and a terrible rendition of "I Hope You Dance". The Hippie was next to me, as she is directly after me in alphabetical terms, and we very nearly got ourselves into trouble while attempting to entertain one another. However, lunch afterwards, plus the massive partying that came later that night, more than made up for it.

Wednesday I got a call from a local microbrewery/restaurant I applied to last week, asking if I could come for an interview at 3:00 this afternoon. I, of course, jumped at the chance. The Brewery hired me on the spot for full-time prep work during the day. Naturally, I've already handed in my two weeks' notice at the Hotel del Infierno and just could not be happier about that.

Tomorrow I'm going to the bank with my mother to see about getting a car loan. My parents' mechanic is selling his wife's car, and it's small and gas-efficient. Luckily for me, The Brewery is only six miles away, a straight shot up Route 18. But I still require a car, because I only have my brother's car until the end of the summer, when he resumes college.

All in all I'm quite pleased. It's nice to know that sometimes hard work does pay off.

Soon I'll write about the other night when I had to call the cops on a pair of drunken Marines, only to find out in the meantime waiting for the blue-and-whites to show, one had stabbed the other. Oh, ghetto hotel. I will not miss you.

Alarm systems are the devil.

2008-04-23T01:22:00.000-04:00

Right. So it seems I've been gone a while. I'm sure you missed me. [/sarcasm] I've been too busy with mundane stuff that isn't very interesting to post about, so I haven't bothered lately. It's the same old shit, different day. And until something truly amusing happens, I'm not going to bitch about my job. Actually, one very strange thing did happen at work two weeks ago, but I don't have the ability to write it coherently. When I can figure out how to articulate it, I'll tell you all about how I accidentally got myself hired by a bizarre Air Force colonel. Clearly, I managed to get out of it. Bitch crazy.

So I'll riff on this post by Wide Lawns. It made me laugh, because we've had an alarm system in my house for as long as I can remember and it's made for some pretty good stories.

When I was fourteen, there was a serial killer on the loose in my state. They thought he was in my area for a time, and we were all totally insane with fear. Of course that night the speculative news broke that he might be near us, our alarm went off at four A.M. And then at four-fifteen. And then at four-thirty. Two very frightened state troopers showed up with their guns drawn, despite the fact that my father had assured the alarm company we were all okay. The serial killer wasn't hiding in our backyard - he was in another county and had been there for a week or so, as it turned out a few days later when he was shot in a police stand-off. It turned out the alarm had kept going off because the doors to our stand-alone shed weren't anchored together in the middle, and the wind was causing them to swing just enough that it was tripping the sensor. I was the only person who got to sleep again because I had a sinus infection and a prescription for codeine cough syrup. Watching my mom run around the house with a butcher knife was pretty fucking funny, though.

More recently, the alarm went off in the middle of the day. It was a Friday afternoon about two months ago, and I was at home just off night shift, making dinner. My brother had gone to work for the day, and my father was off. My mother ended up being off from school (she's a teacher) because of the freezing rain that had been falling all morning. My parents went off to Home Depot to buy Dad's early birthday present of an outdoor single burner - he wants to do more wok cooking - so I was by myself.

So there I was in the kitchen, stirring together crushed homemade meatballs, and skim ricotta, and my tomato sauce for a baked rigatoni dish, when all of a sudden the alarm goes off. If you've ever had one, you know how loud they are. Startled, I jumped a mile off the floor, shrieked, grabbed the cordless, and went out to the deck in my moccasins with holes in the leather bottoms. I figured it was some kind of glitch, and was prepared to tell the alarm-system rep as much, and give him or her the secret code. All was fine, until the lady on the other end of the line told me it was the downstairs smoke detector.

I have a phobia of fire. We have a fireplace in the finished basement of our split-level, and whenever we burn in the winter I triple-check to ensure the doors are shut and locked before I go to bed. Sometimes I get up out of bed and quadruple-check. I don't know where this phobia came from, because I've never seen a house on fire or anything like that. But, like zombies, fire freaks me the holy motherfuck out. So I went to the landing where our alarm-system panel is, and sure enough it said "Downstairs Fire".

I'm not pretty when I panic, folks. And believe me, I did panic. I've never felt such wild fear before in my entire life, not even when JD and a few of our friends and I came really close to being caught trespassing on the grounds of an abandoned mental institution, all of us underaged and drunk. With the cordless still to my ear, I went flying down the stairs. I'm sure Alarm Lady appreciated my wail of, "OH FUCK NO!" as I hit the bottom step.

The entire downstairs was completely filled with smoke. I fully expected to see the carpet on fire, the walls in flames, every last bit of my nightmares come to life. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, and Alarm Lady asked if I wanted the fire department. I managed to gibber something along the lines of "Yes - no - I DON'T KNOW, FUCK."

My parents came home at the moment I came hurtling back up the stairs and outside into the freezing rain. I threw the phone at my dad and screamed "MOM SMOKE DOWNSTAIRS SMOKE FIRE OH GOD."

My mother, fortunately, is not as terrified of fire as I am, and went downstairs to assess the situation. While my poor father was trying to figure out what the fuck was going on, she discovered the source of it all: my brother had left something on top of the ash bucket, which had still been smoldering when he cleaned out the fireplace that morning. It created ideal conditions for smoke, evidently. She lugged the bucket outside and ordered me to bring her pitchers of water, as the garden hose was frozen. I suspect this was not so much as to put out the embers as it was to give me something to do to calm myself down.

The fire department showed up. Included in the company of geared-up volunteers was Nettie's son Daniel, who found the entire thing incredibly funny, but was nice enough to help pump all the smoke out of our basement as I stood outside in the freezing rain, shaking and trying to get my heart to stop making its attempt to escape through my chest wall.

You know we called my brother at work and teased him mercilessly about it. After I stopped freaking out, I thought about how hilarious I probably looked running around the house screaming like an imbecile. I'm clearly not a person you want around in the event of a real fire. Anything else, I'm good. And I left a smear of spaghetti sauce on the wall by the control panel, because I had grabbed onto the wall for support when I was trying to get the alarm to go off. Shit, I'm lucky I didn't drop the entire casserole dish on my foot!

Now, the SWAT team didn't show up at my house like they did to Wide Lawns' parents. But I can sympathize even as I laugh at her post about it. I made a voice post to my Livejournal about the situation later that day, and it got a lot of laughs. It's probably less funny written down, without my mall-chick-on-speed voice narrating the saga of The Time The Boy Nearly Caught the House on Fire.

And oh yeah. We still give him shit about it.

Fucking fundies. They're everywhere.

2008-03-25T08:17:00.001-04:00

I hate the trainee. Hear me? I motherfucking HATE her.

We got to talking last night and I started thinking she was an okay person. But no. She's outed herself as a fundamentalist Christian, and in the process has managed to lower herself several rungs in my eyes. I presented myself as a Catholic, as I grew up Catholic and am fairly well-versed in Church stance and whatnot. I figured explaining Kemetic Orthodoxy to her would have broken her not-too-bright-to-begin-with brain.

I offhandedly said in regards to something, "Oh, kids are fine, I just don't want any."

You'd have thought I murdered her puppy. She let out this loud, horrified gasp. "Don't say that! You'll change your mind."

Politely I demurred. "No, I'm pretty sure I don't want to have any. And if I did, I'd adopt. Lots of kids need homes before I need to be adding to that number."

"But...but your husband! What about if he wants a baby?"

"Then we'd adopt a baby."

"Mm mm mm. You'll feel differently soon. I was sure about it too, and then I had my son."

When the subject of evolution came up, she of course flat-out denied it.

"Well," said I. "My mother is a Catholic and a science teacher. She taught me that you can believe in both - that God created the world to naturally evolve. And we're evolving as humans now, see? A hundred years ago we didn't have the intellectual capacity to invent computers or cell phones."

"Yeah but I don't believe we came from monkeys. I know God created us from clay because the Bible says so. We're created in his image."

I fixed her with my best 'oh really?' stare. "And being formed out of common dirt is any more plausible than evolving from primates?"

It shut her up for a minute, but then she moved on to something else. Then she started telling me about how these two guys came in Friday night and she was sure they were gay, and ewww.

"I don't believe it's natural! A man and a man, or a woman and a woman. God made us to have a man and a woman together."

At this point I decided that informing her of my homosexuality was probably not a great idea if I wanted to get the dumb bitch trained enough so I can take my goddamn sick days. So I said, "Well, I have a lot of gay and lesbian friends, and one time some woman came in saying all kinds of ignorant stuff about gay people out of nowhere. She didn't know me, who I am or who I know, any more than I knew her. And I didn't appreciate her shoving her beliefs down my throat."

"Well, I just don't AGREE with it."

"Mm. You do those credit card receipts yet?"

I could have killed her, I swear. I do realize that if I'd blown her mind by informing her of my pro-choice, homosexual, pagan status she'd probably complain to the GM and get put on another shift and I'd never see her again, or she'd outright quit in protest. Dammit, but I'm stupid. I should have told her all that shit!

And new girl's son? She had him four years ago when she was nineteen, by a boyfriend who she's no longer seeing. And she actually uses the term "babydaddy" without a trace of irony. But, you know. She's "saved". Although I'm pretty sure most Christian denominations have a lot to say about having kids outside of marriage. So that makes it A-OK to be an ignorant moron, people.

"He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her." -John 8:7

Read that part of the fucking Bible and then tell me how wrong I am, you ignorant bitch.

R-E-V-E-N-G-E.

2008-03-21T06:48:00.000-04:00

Imagine that sung with a Tammy Wynette twang and you're on the right track.

Well, readers - all three of you - it's been an interesting two weeks in Yerba Buena Land. Since then I've found out why The Girlfriend (now The Ex, or if I'm in a foul mood, The Lying Whore of Brownsville) dumped me - it wasn't that she was upset over the small spat we'd had a week before; I practically had to drag the real reason out of her. It was that she didn't love me and never had.

Predictably, I went a wee bit ballistic. Considering we dated for eight months and she had been telling me how much she loved me on a pretty damn regular basis, it came as something of a shock. I don't like being lied to, to put it mildly. I'll spare you all the gory details because really, who wants to hear the trivial details of some stranger's conversation anyway? It mostly just consisted of me coming up with very creative cussing and her tearful reaffirmations. You know, I think I'd rather she'd cheated on me. I could understand that. You go to college, you get your first bit of real freedom, you have some drunken dorm parties, maybe you have too much and mess around with someone. A mistake. I could forgive that. I could forgive even not telling me that because of guilt and fear of hurting me. But what I cannot forgive is that she lied to me from the first time she ever said "I love you."

Over the course of our conversation two Saturdays ago, I requested that she send back the two books I had let her borrow, as well as the silver claddagh ring I bought her for Valentine's Day. And yes, I know it's tacky to ask for gifts back. Really, I do. I've never done this with any other girlfriend, but I honestly do not think The Ex is worthy of keeping an expensive gift I gave to her under the pretext of love. My other girlfriends didn't lie to me for months on end, so they get to keep the stuff I gave them. I'm actually still friends with four of them. So I told her to mail my shit back because I don't ever want her anywhere near my house again. She agreed to do so.

That was two weeks ago, as I said. As of this morning, the two books and ring still have not appeared on my doorstep. I e-mailed her my full home address that same day. Last Friday, I e-mailed her to ask where my stuff was and to please send it as soon as possible. I never got a response to either e-mail, and when I woke up this afternoon I was so pissed that my property had yet to be returned to me that I decided to make a little phone call.

The White Pages really are a marvelous invention; that they are accessible online is still better. It also helps that I'm quite angry with The Ex. Not because of the dumping or how she did it (over the phone) or why she did it - although I'd be lying, myself, if I said I wasn't bothered by it at all - but because she didn't even have the common fucking decency to send me a short e-mail to tell me that my things were on their way to my home.

The Ex's House Phone: Ring.
The Ex's Father: Hello?
Me: Hi, I was wondering if The Ex was there?
The Ex's Father: No, she's not in yet. May I ask who's calling, please?
Me: Could you please tell her the girl she dumped two weeks ago would like to have her things back?
The Ex's Father: -taken aback- Uh...the girl she dumped?
Me: -cheerfully- Yeah, she ditched me pretty unceremoniously two weeks ago and promised to mail me back the stuff I gave her, and it has yet to show up on my doorstep so if you could tell her I would really like to have it back, I'd appreciate it. Thank you!
The Ex's Father: -confused- Okay.
Phone: Click.

Okay. I'll admit I took a huge amount of glee in having done that. I normally don't have the balls for that sort of thing, but I had had enough. I really do want my stuff back, but it felt so wonderful to get her in massive amounts of hot water. See, on Valentine's Day or thereabouts she told her parents we'd gone on one or two dates. But to have given her enough stuff to want it back after being dumped, we'd logically have to have been dating longer than that, because generally people don't give gifts on the first or second date. Busted! Had the conversation with her father gone on longer I would have told him the truth about how long we dated, where we met, and just exactly what she did to precipitate the dumping.

Like I said. I'm not generally this vindictive or spiteful, and it did serve a purpose because twenty minutes later I received this e-mail from her: "Your things are coming, Yerba. I couldn't afford the postage before, but I just got paid."

Now, was that really so hard? What a coward. It took me having to call her father to make her acknowledge the two messages I sent over the past two weeks asking for my stuff back. Guess she really is just a scared little girl after all.

But hey, I warned her not to fuck with me.

Same shit, different month.

2008-03-07T06:11:00.000-05:00

Okay. I may not be posting much for the next few weeks due to a myriad of reasons.

1. I am really tired. Really, really tired. The under-eye cream isn't helping. Actually, I think I look worse than I did a couple of months ago when I first started using that shit. I didn't think I could get that pale, but hey, never say never.

2. I am training New Girl, who on her second day already wants to do everything, but has never worked in a hotel before and needs to learn the ins and outs of making reservations and answering phones first, before I can let her do anything else. Also she cannot take a hint that I'd like half an hour to myself, because she refuses to go on break. Luckily she forgot her glasses and I can complain about her without her knowledge.

3. The Girlfriend dumped me last night, which came as a shock because for once I didn't actually deserve it. Am still not sure as to actual reason for it, as the one she gave me reeks of bovine feces. Have not helped my under-eye situation much, as I have been crying on-and-off for nearly twelve hours.

Unhappily,
~Yerba Buena

A short post for once.

2008-03-06T17:46:00.001-05:00

Oh. I am so very amused at the moment.

I went to The College's website to check on something - I'm heading down there tomorrow to make use of the alumni career center before I meet up with a relative for lunch - and out of sheer masochistic compulsion, clicked on the "Ireland" sidebar.

Ireland is now a required trip for all students. Sure, why not just give that opportunity to everyone instead of making people work for it? Oh wait - because in today's society, dominated by child worship, everyone's a winner! Nevermind that anyone who went before had to work their asses off to go, because they wanted to go. Just raise the tuition by a couple thousand and ship a new batch of fresh cheap labor over to Dublin Airport every five weeks whether they earned it or not.

I still want to know where the fuck they're going to put all those people! The dorms are fit for neither man nor beast (trust me, I know, I've seen them, and it's why the Managing Director wouldn't let us stay in the dorms) and there's only room for about 14 students total. Generally by the time you hit fourth semester there's about 15-20 students in each lab class per five weeks. I guess they'll have to sleep on the golf course, because The College isn't going to want to put students in cottages like MD did with us. It cuts into the revenue of rooms you could rent.

Now they're also doing "fellowships", which is basically a euphemism for, "Come work for us illegally in the Republic of Ireland for 3-6 months and we'll give you room, board, and moneys!" I love that something that they begged a former classmate of mine (he graduated early) to come over and help with has turned into a "fellowship". They asked Bob to come for three or four months, if not longer, to work in the pastry kitchen while the American bureaucrats looked for replacements for the various chefs. And they asked the four of us to stay an extra month or two, and to name the amount we needed to continue making car payments, rent, insurance, food, etc. All four of us refused, not wanting to spend another minute with the Americans and being very uncomfortable with the idea of working there not as students but as paid employees. If found out, we could have been deported and possibly even banned from the country. Yes, they are paying Bob - as far as I know, he's still in Ireland.

I think the European Union might have something to say about that.

There was also the personal choice on my part to not become a paid employee of The College: I didn't want to become beholden to those people as a paid employee. As a student I could say, "Fuck off, I'm ill." (Although when I did say that - in not so many words - I still got dragged into the kitchen for eleven and twelve hours a day anyway.) Students are ostensibly protected, but as an employee I could be treated any old way they saw fit because I would need the cash. And I wasn't about to do it, not for any amount of money.

Legally yours,
~Yerba Buena

Work-related miscellany.

2008-03-05T06:23:00.000-05:00

First, our keycard machine is broken. We actually have two, but the good one had to be sent to Canada for repairs. My GM took it over to the administrative offices over a week ago and told them, "This has got to be overnighted to the facility and overnighted back here. The other keycard machine is not good to use for more than a day or two."

Naturally, they took three days to send it. By regular US mail. We should get it back in approximately four years, I'd estimate. Needless to say, GM was not happy. And neither are we, because the machine we're stuck with sucks. It might take your individual authorization key (instituted by GM so dumbfuck coworkers can be caught right quick if they make keys to let their little friends in rooms without paying for them) but it takes about forty tries to just make one key. That's not an exaggeration.

Sunday it gave up entirely, and we had to send people across the street to our sister hotels. It was supposedly fixed as of yesterday, at least temporarily, but I still had a bit of trouble. Even last night I had to apologize to a guy who came for a room, and as the stupid thing had previously been working I made the mistake of selling him a room and then finding that none of the new authorization keys worked.

Yes, this is completely as frustrating and pointless as it sounds. We could have had the good machine back by now, if not for lazy-ass admin. But you know corporations. I doubt this one will be fixed by the time I come back in tonight.

They've hired a new part-time auditor for backup. I haven't met her yet, so I'll make up a nickname for her after spending a few days with her. I don't know anything about her other than her real first name, but the Front Office Manager said she seems to be mature and a quick learner. Which is good, because I don't have the damn patience anymore to train a dumbass teenager. Tonight I did take the time during a lull to type up a little audit procedures cheat sheet for her, just so she has a point of reference when she's on her own. I know the first few nights I was on my own, I freaked out thinking I would forget something important.

On one hand, it's great to know that within two or three weeks, someone will be available to cover for me if I get sick or want to take a personal day, or something. On the other hand, I feel a little like Anne Boleyn. Former Weekday Auditor did this job for about a million years, and I was brought in as a part-time auditor, to be backup during her vacations and illnesses. Of course, I ended up taking her position. I wonder if New Part-Time Auditor is going to be my Jane Seymour. Not that I care - by June or July I ought to have an entirely new job, one actually in the culinary industry. It all hinges on my ability to get a car loan, so I can go looking elsewhere, farther away.

Nettie is also getting way the hell on my nerves lately. She calls me all hours of the fucking day and night, on my cell phone and my house phone and work phone. And for stupid shit! It's never for anything really super-important like, "FYI, the hotel is on fire," or "The GM had a heart attack and keeled over while dealing with the exterminator." I've taken to simply putting my cell phone on silent during the day, because nothing pisses me off more than being woken up by a phone call. It sucks, because otherwise I might miss an actually important call from one of my parents or brother or JD, but it's a chance I've got to take if I want to get any sleep.

Nettie also loves to forward e-mails to me. I've taken to deleting them without even reading, because they're always filled with sticky-sweet bullshit little parables purporting to be true stories (Snopes refers to them as "glurge"), invitations to Republican events, "I love Jesus and you should too, you heathen" screeds, and/or hyper-patriotic "Support the troops, you dirty commie pinko liberal" crap. I'm pretty moderate when it comes to politics, and despite my religious beliefs I'm skeptical of most everything else. I know she can't really help it; Nettie was raised Baptist, she barely graduated from high school, and her husband is in the Army. (Not that he actually does anything in the Army. He's just in it.) But it really drives me completely cuckoo-fucking-bananas when I see her sweep into the hotel at 6:50 AM and turn the lobby television from CNN to Fox News. Every. Single. Morning.

I said one day, "You know, I think it's supposed to stay on CNN."

"Pfft," said Nettie through a mouthful of banana swiped from the breakfast bar. "CNN ain't nothin'."

"Yeah, but Fox News isn't what's supposed to be on the TV. It's supposed to be CNN."

"Let me tell you somethin'! Fox News is the only cable news channel that supports the troops!"

"Um..."

"Uh-huh, yes it does! Nobody else on TV supports the troops but those people! Nobody else has any respect for our men in Iraq."

I let it go, but I was thinking, I'm pretty sure MSNBC and CNN don't exactly have a "Fuck the troops!" policy.

There's not really any arguing with Nettie. She called me at 2 AM this shift to yammer at me because she couldn't sleep. Great. I love being someone's cure for insomnia. I did try to tell her that the thunderstorm that had just rolled through fried Workstation 2 with lightning (our owner is too cheap for a surge protector, apparently) but she started going on and on about the server. And then she argued with me about the server status. I nearly drove my head through the desk trying to tell her that no, if it's at 7 or 14 it's fine. Finally she shut up and went to bed after fifteen minutes of her "I'm so tired but let me continue to be as nonsensical and repetitive as possible" shtick.

I'm fleeing this place like a motherfucker at 7:00 AM. I usually stay a bit, but it's wet and disgusting outside and I really just want to go home and away from this mess I call a job.

Choices.

2008-02-22T06:06:00.000-05:00

Celebrities urged to get tested for Hepatitis A after birthday party.

It doesn't surprise me. They're only making a huge deal out of this because Famous People Are Involved. It happens way more than you think. Remember how the last week of my internship I was violently ill, and got dragged into the kitchen for ten and eleven hours a day anyway? Yeah. Prime example. I wasn't contagious, thankfully, but if I had been I could have made a lot of people sick.

But remember - cooks, waiters, waitresses, bussers, dishwashers, and bartenders don't get up ~~at noon~~ in the morning and think, "Gee, I don't feel so great, let me go to work and infect a bunch of people!"

I know I sure as hell didn't. What I was thinking was more like, "I feel like dead dogshit, but if I don't drag my sorry ass down to the kitchen right now, I'm going to get it handed to me by the chef." If I were a regular employee and had tried to call out, I'd have been suspended or fired.

Besides, who was going to do my job if I wasn't there? Most kitchens on any given night are short-handed. Someone's always called out because couldn't get daycare for their kid, or someone hasn't shown up due to a raging hangover, or someone's busy doing lines in the bathroom - and it's up to you to pick up the slack, even if you've got a fever of 102 and the room is spinning. You can wash your hands every five minutes until they're chapped so badly they bleed, but it still isn't a guarantee that you might not make a customer ill.

Should you, as a food industry employee, go to work when you're feeling sick? No. Do people find that they have to? More often than you'd hope. It's all about the choices we have to make, and they aren't easy.

Sometimes it comes down to, "Can I live through eight hours on the line, or do I forgo this month's car payment? Can I make it through a double shift on the floor, or do I get fired?"

I don't know about the rest of you, but I choose not defaulting on a loan or being able to pay my rent over the possibility of giving someone's grandma the flu.

I'm not your free brochure, lady.

2008-02-18T05:19:00.005-05:00

It's 1:15 in the morning - not a time when I generally answer the phone to do anything but record wake-up calls or transfer outside callers to various rooms. Being that I've been a regular desk clerk sent to rooms for often annoying purposes, I do know pretty much everything about the hotel. But seriously. It's 1:15 in the morning, and the call comes from the 718 area code. Also, it's Sunday night. Shouldn't these people be in bed? I was seriously caught off guard by having to go through the spiel, which I haven't had to do in months.

Phone: Ring.
Me: -picks it up-
Lady: -talks to someone else in background. endlessly.-
Me: -waits for her to shut the fuck up so I can greet her properly- Hotel del Infierno, can I help you?
Lady: I'm looking to see if you have rooms available.
Me: For which night, ma'am?
Lady: Oh, tomorrow night. Non-smoking double bed.
Me: Yes, ma'am, we do have availability and our rooms are $74.00 plus tax.
Lady: Oh. So tell me about your hotel.
Me: Er. What would you like to know?
Lady: How far are you from Washington?
Me: 45 minutes to an hour south.
Lady: So you're just past it?
Me: Yes. South.
Lady: What kind of amenities do you offer?
Me: Iron and ironing board, in-room safe, microwave and refrigerator, hair dryer. We also offer complimentary continental breakfast, complimentary USA Today newspapers, and complimentary wireless internet.
Lady: DVD players?
Me: No, ma'am.
Lady: Any we can borrow?
Me: No, ma'am, we don't have any.
Lady: What about the other hotels?
Me: The other Hotels del Infierno?
Lady: Yeah, the other Hotels del Infierno.
Me: I'm sure some of them do, ma'am, but I don't know which ones would have DVD players. Because I am a fount of knowledge of the 2000+ Hotels del Infierno properties in the world, apparently.
Lady: Oh. Do you have an indoor pool?
Me: No, we have an outdoor pool. It's closed for the season.
Lady: You didn't mention cable TV.
Me: No, you have to suffer with public access, moron. Even the shittiest Bates motel knock-off in Detroit offers cable. Well, yeah, we have cable TV with HBO. Anything else I can help you wi--
Phone: Click.
Me: Goddamn it, bitch.

To sleep, perchance to dream...

2008-02-08T17:22:00.000-05:00

...of bashing my fucking coworker's head in with the industrial-sized stapler.

I was going to sleep from about 8 until 1 today, which would leave me not completely dead but would enable me to sleep normally tonight. However, that turned into from 9 until 1, because a certain coworker of mine would not stop fucking calling me.

At 8:30 she called the house phone. Everyone was still in bed and no one left a message so we didn't bother answering. (And my father was pissed when he saw on the ID that she'd called.) So instead she called my cell phone. I wasn't quite asleep so I picked it up. The ringer was loud enough to bring me out of my doze anyway. No big deal, just something she forgot to ask me about. Rolled over and finally managed to conk out around nine. My mistake was leaving my cell phone on.

Around eleven, my phone rang again, jolting me awake. I reached over and hit the little button to silence. Two minutes later, it rang a third time. I wailed in frustration and threw the stupid fucking thing at the wall, then jammed my head under my pillow. When I dragged my sorry ass out of bed two hours later, I listened to the voice mails. The first one was wanting to know where I put the Amtrak sign-out sheet. Uh. In the Amtrak folder, maybe? (Considering that I'm not one to randomly stick papers wherever I feel like putting them, unlike 3-11 shift.) The second one was telling me oops, she found it. Well, no shit. If you'd just looked there in the first place, you wouldn't have felt the need to wake me from my dream about Ray Stevenson and a bottle of chocolate syrup.

Swear to fucking Sekhmet. Seriously. I tell her every single morning that when I go home I'm going to sleep. What part of "I'm asleep" does she not understand? But three mornings out of five I get a call. Usually I'm lucky enough to sleep through it or I remember to put the phone on vibrate. But still. Don't fucking call me unless it's an absolute, real emergency, like the hotel caught fire or money went missing or something. If you need to talk to me, call me after three o'clock LIKE I TELL EVERYONE ELSE TO DO.

She's the only one who doesn't do what I ask in this regard; my parents and brother do, my friends do, The Girlfriend does, even my freaking managers do. Look. Human beings are diurnal creatures. We're meant to sleep at night. But I work at night, and if I don't go to bed when I get home, the sun hits my bedroom window full force no matter how many blankets I drape over the curtain rod, and I can't get to sleep. I've explained this to her a million times. For some reason, though, she's rendered completely incapable of following this one simple request.

If I'm tired because my sleep keeps getting interrupted, I make stupid mistakes on the paperwork. I don't catch everyone else's mistakes. I can't do my job correctly (just like I can't do it correctly when I'm sick) and I don't think she understands just how important it is to me. I might hate this job, but I'd at least like to do it properly. Just because she's always doing her best to make up excuses to do this or that in order to not actually stay at the desk while she's on the clock doesn't mean I do. I don't have the luxury of managers to cover the desk when I want to eat or go to the bathroom. I come in, I do my job, I go home in the morning, and all I want to do at 7 AM is put on my pajamas, have breakfast, and conk the fuck out.

I'm going to start turning my cell phone off completely when I'm asleep. Maybe I'll take the upstairs phone off the ringer, too. I'm getting tired of this.

Now I'm about to drink beer and watch the History Channel. Because that's how I roll on the weekends.

Exhaustedly,
~Yerba Buena

You want your free Continental breakfast? Suck it.

2008-02-06T05:41:00.000-05:00

It is 5:39 in the morning and I have just completed a breakdown. And it's all the Continental breakfast's fault.

It started when Frances, our breakfast attendant, called me at 4:10. She sounded awful and apologized that she wouldn't be able to make it to work today, and asked if I minded putting out breakfast. I've done it a few times before with Former Weekday Auditor and Weekend Auditor, and knew where everything was located and how it should be set up, so I said sure, hope you feel better.

I should have called Brain-Damaged Housekeeper (he fell off a moving garbage truck fifteen years ago) to come in early and do it instead, because this morning the gods decided that I would not have an easy time of this.

I unlocked the two cages where the dry goods are kept, no problem. Grabbed the butter and cream-cheese urns out of the staff fridge, no problem. Then I tried to unlock the giant fridge devoted to breakfast. No dice. I must have stood there for ten minutes solid trying every single key on the ring to open that fucking refrigerator. Finally, out of sheer frustration, I threw my hands in the air in exasperation and went to put out the stuff I did have. Unlocked the juice machine just fine, and then I went to unlock the milk machine to see if it needed replaced. Well, it didn't, and the milk machine decided to not cooperate.

Instead, it decided to spew milk fucking everywhere. All over the counter, all over the floor, all over my newly-washed uniform shirt sleeves as I screamed in sheer panic and tried to pinch the stupid spout shut. It took me another ten minutes just to jerry-rig the damn thing so it wouldn't empty itself all over the place. Anyone who wants milk before Nettie or the housekeeping supervisor gets here is going to be shit out of luck.

By the point I came back into the housekeeping area (it's connected to the front desk) and discovered that my second attempt at opening the refrigerator was not working at all, I completely fucking lost it. I started kicking the fridge door and screaming things like "FUCK YOU, FRIDGE," and "I HATE THIS FUCKING HOTEL," and sobbing hysterically. I know. Mature and professional. Fortunately I was all the way in the back where nobody could have heard me. I took a deep breath and tried a third time.

And wouldn't you know it, the fucking goddamn refrigerator unlocked. I ran the trays of waffles and bagels and doughnuts out to the back of the lobby where the breakfast bar is and started setting up quickly so I could clean up the mess of all that milk on the counter. Naturally, I was interrupted by some douchebag who was slated to stay here for another month, but when I didn't jump the second he started banging on the counter (I couldn't see him where I was anyway) he freaked out and ran back to where I was and whined, "Caaaaaaaaaan I check ouuuuuuut nowwww?"

He was surprised when all I said was "Sign here," as I shoved the receipt at him.

I think my freak-out had more to do with the fact that I know this job is easy. Brain-Damaged Housekeeper does it whenever Frances goes on vacation! I know how to set things up and where everything is. I felt like a fucking idiot, to tell the truth, that I couldn't even managed to set up breakfast without screwing it up worse than even the senile old woman who used to do it.

I hope Frances feels better tomorrow, is all I can say.

We're not in Heathers, people. It's okay to like the popular stuff.

2008-02-04T00:21:00.000-05:00

I was going to write about why I hate vegans (mainly, because they always turn out to be assholes), but I've changed my mind. I'm sick and tired of the goddamn bitching that always happens every year when the Super Bowl comes around.

I like the Super Bowl. This is because I like football. I also like beer, silly commercials, and ridiculous amounts of hype. It's the one sporting event that I really do care about. So, please tell me...why is it such a heinous crime to talk about the Super Bowl? Many people like baseball, which doesn't particularly interest me, but I'm not moaning over the World Series every October.

What makes geeking out over the Super Bowl any different from geeking out over Lord of the Rings? I have to listen to everyone on the internet freak whenever an episode of Doctor Who airs. Super Bowl's a major media event. People are going to write about it. All you have to do is just skip over what doesn't interest you. I do it all the time.

Sometimes I feel like you're supposed to be stupid if you like something that is popular - Wicked, or John Grisham, or Thomas Kinkaide. Who gets to decide what's cool to hate or what's cool to love? I love some incredibly obscure crap, and I love some very popular stuff. Sure, there are some bestselling books that make me scratch my head because they're truly awful. I think Kinkaide's a crap artist, too. Science fiction and fantasy bore the shit out of me, but a lot of my friends love it - and if they love it because it's entertaining, then why should I take that away from them? I'll freely admit I'm a bit of a snob in some respects and subscribe, at least partially, to the prevailing thought that "Weird shit the mainstream hasn't heard of is cool!" But I don't feel as though it's my place to tell the general populace what they can or cannot enjoy, or that they're idiots for it.

Sometimes, we need that shit. Sometimes I want to come home from work and read part of a crappy generic "spunky 'unattractive' (even though she always is) girl with quirky sidekick and cop sort-of boyfriend solves mysteries!" book before I go to sleep. Sometimes I want to dance around to the Spice Girls. Sometimes I want to watch Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. And sometimes, I really, really want to curl up with a Harry Potter book when I'm unhappy and lose myself in a world where good always prevails.

Speaking of the Potter hate. I don't get that, either. Okay, so you don't like the books because they don't entertain you specifically. So tell me, what makes it okay to dump on the people who are entertained by it? What gives anyone the right to do that? I guess the Potter books aren't serious or obscure enough for some people, and they're certainly much too popular. It's just not cool to like them, at least not in most internet communities. (Mind you, I don't go so far as to dress up for movie premieres or post obsessively on message boards devoted to the subject, but seriously.) I know I have my own knee-jerk reactions to certain things. However, I draw the line here, when it comes to dumping on stuff that a lot of people really enjoy.

Really...not everything has to be serious, or have some kind of artistic merit, or have any kind of fucking deeper meaning at all. It might be crap, but then again...who decides if it's crap or not?

So just sit back, relax, and shut the fuck up to let the masses enjoy themselves. Better they do it with a Webber musical or a Dan Brown novel than with a semi-automatic or homemade bomb.

In which I whine, complain, and moan. As usual.

2008-01-30T04:57:00.000-05:00

So, I'm sick. A-fucking-gain. For the third time in two months. Evidently I have the immune system of Howard Hughes with full-blown AIDS. I think I'm more miserable than I would ordinarily be because I have no health insurance, which means no doctor visits, which means no prescriptions, which means no getting better if I've actually got some kind of nasty bacterial infection. My money's on the flu - I've never had a cold before that involved a 102-degree fever, chills, dizziness, lack of appetite, monster headache, and coughing until I puke.

Oh, yeah. That was fun. The highlight of my walk to work this evening was having to stop every twenty feet or so to vomit because I had started coughing so hard, while a truckload of construction workers laughed at me. Why, thanks, guys - I'm so glad my illness is so amusing to you. Please, by all means, catch Ebola and die. It's not like it was, you know, humiliating to puke on the street (while sober) or anything, to begin with.

My friends have been asking me why the fuck I keep going to work when I feel like this. The answer is two-pronged yet simple. One, I need the money. Two, there is no back-up auditor. And because my friends have absolutely zero attention span, they've totally managed to forget why we don't have a back-up auditor so I can stay home and bask in my misery with a cup of tea: because I was it, and then they promoted me while booting out Misanthropic Cookie-Baking Weekday Auditor. (Who I think may possibly have given up and quit outright, as there is no time card for her this week.) So I've armed myself with a bag of Ricola cough drops, several packets of Cup a' Soup's chicken noodle flavor, the water cooler, and pilfered Dayquil caplets from our in-house mini mart. Oh, and three, I hope I can infect as many of my idiot customers as I can so they will get sick, go home, and let me be.

I haven't bothered wearing makeup for the past few days, either. I always wear makeup when I'm in public, but right now I honestly don't give a rat's ass if anyone sees me in my chapped lips, red-nosed, pasty glory. Now, I don't bother putting on any when I'm going to the gym or supermarket, but if I'm going to work or taking The Girlfriend to dinner, you can bet I'll be putting on at least a little mascara, cover-up on the spots that need it, oil-free powder to even things out, and a swipe of lip gloss. It has nothing to do with wanting to look good for other people - I wear it because I like the way I look when my skin's evened out and my rabbity eyelashes are a little longer and darker. But yeah. Currently I look as sick as I am, and I don't give two shits. Saves me from having to wash my face before I go to bed.

I can't wait to go home and take some NyQuil so I can sleep. It worked like a charm yesterday. Had to buy it myself, though - even though my father is a pharmacist, he doesn't believe in having basic stuff like NyQuil or Mucinex or Tylenol in the house. Unless he needs it. And then it's his. Well, this Original Green Death Flavor NyQuil (tm Denis Leary) is mine, dammit.

NyQuil, NyQuil, NyQuil, we love you, you big fucking Q!

Cup a' Soup isn't so bad after your fourth packet in a row,
~Yerba Buena

Miscellany.

2008-01-23T05:18:00.000-05:00

So we finally got someone to come fix our dishwasher today. The repairman was supposed to come between 8 AM and 12 PM, as my father informed Sears that he had an appointment at the eye doctor that absolutely could not be missed. (True. It's either that or go to the DMV, and we all know how trips to the DMV end.) So, naturally, the repairman came at 1:00 PM...when my father was sitting in a chair trying to read an eye chart with his pupils dilated like Lindsay Lohan on a bender. I was asleep, having worked night shift, and missed absolutely everything. My mother had to race home from school to be there while the repairman put the new motor into our dishwasher.

Mom was pissed, Dad was pissed, and I said, "...why didn't either of you just call me to wake me up so I could let the guy in? I was right here."

Clearly, logic is not my family's strong suit.

But the stupid fucking thing is fixed and my parents are probably consulting a Voodoo for Dummies book to plot revenge on the entire Customer Service department of Sears.

In work news, I am now the full-time auditor, from Sunday through Thursday. I like this, because it's quiet and I can lock the doors and drink rooibos tea (which is ambrosia of the gods) and nobody bothers me too much. Actually, the quiet gets kind of unnerving, mainly because I watched a movie a few months ago with Ewan MacGregor where he was a night guard at the city morgue and all kinds of scary stuff started happening when it was quiet. So now I bring CDs with me because otherwise I start thinking I'm hearing stuff that I know I can't possibly be hearing. Again, logic does not run in my family.

What happened to Cookie-Baking Misanthropic Weekday Night Auditor, you ask?

Well, you see...it happened like this.

Last Tuesday, when I got to work for a bullshit 3-11 shift, the managers pulled me into the office. I must have looked terrified, because I always associate being yanked into the office at the start of a shift with being screamed at. (Thanks for that lingering paranoia, old management!) But no, actually, what they told me was kind of even more terrifying when I realized what the fallout would be.

The owner of the hotel group is pissed that the weekday auditor is making so many mistakes and complaining so much. So they told me they are demoting her and putting me on her shift. While I'm pleased to get a steady 40 hours and have weekends off, I am not pleased that a whole lot of shit has started because of it. I really had nothing to do with this decision, but I have to tell you that it was very hard for me to behave as though I knew nothing when I worked with her last Thursday. I'm a very good actress when I want to be, but I hate lying. The GM got in right at 7:00, so after about five more minutes of behaving naturally, when he pulled her into his office I fucking split. Nettie told me later it did not go well. Weekday Auditor left in tears, Nettie cried, and the GM was so upset he left early to have a drink or ten.

The GM and FOM assured me that I wasn't hired specifically as a replacement, but more as a back-up for personal time and sick days and vacation. They've offered her the position of Conference Center Coordinator, which makes her a manager and gives her higher pay and daytime hours, Monday through Friday. The GM gave her this week as vacation time to think it over. I think she'll quit outright, frankly. The woman's in her late seventies and has been talking about retirement anyway. I still feel a little guilty about the whole mess. She was here ten years, and I'm just some snotnosed kid in comparison.

Okay, well. I don't feel that guilty. I just hate confrontation and I desperately hope that I can avoid most of it. Which I doubt. We're having a front desk meeting on Thursday and I sincerely hope she doesn't come. I don't think I'll be able to look her in the eye.

Stupid residual Catholic guilt.

One more, before I quit writing. We all know by now that Heath Ledger died yesterday in New York. Normally I don't comment on celebrity crap, but I'm kind of sad about this. I'll confess that I've loved him ever since I was a teenager and saw Ten Things I Hate About You, and that I've seen The Patriot about eight times just because he was in it. I was really looking forward to his turn as the Joker in The Dark Knight, as I saw the extended trailer and realized it wasn't going to suck. From what I've been reading, he was having a lot of trouble sleeping the past few months. Can you imagine just trying to get a good night's sleep for once and accidentally overdosing? He dies, and Amy Winehouse's skinny junkie ass hasn't kicked the bucket yet?

As for Amy...I love her music. I think she has a fantastic voice. It's a shame she's letting it go to waste, though. Something tells me either she'll be dead within a year, or she'll just go on to live forever and join Keith Richards with the cockroaches after nuclear apocalypse.

Fuck Sears.

2008-01-19T16:25:00.000-05:00

So, after my dad made a call to the national phone line on Thursday after having spent two hours on the phone and having made a trip , they agreed to come out today.

Between 8:00 AM and 5:00 PM. My mother had to stay home all day long and wait for them. She even called out from her other job at the public library to do this, so my brother and I went out and ran errands for her in the meantime.

It is now 4:30 and nobody has shown up. My mother called to see if the technician was still coming.

She was told that our ticket was pulled at 11:28 this morning and that nobody was coming today.

She said, "So nobody is coming, and nobody called us, and I just wasted a whole day." The guy she talked to gave her some other number to call and she is now on the phone being very pissed off at a customer service rep.

At this point I'm about to Google independent repairmen who actually might come to our house and fix our fucking dishwasher, Sears warranty or no Sears warranty.

I just heard her yell, "You're telling me February 6th is the next available date? Oh, no no no NO. That's not even when anyone is home. You are getting a technician out here RIGHT NOW."

Oh, god. Apparently they think we have two dishwashers. When I heard my mother repeat that in her best "What the fucking hell?" voice, I cracked up.

And now Mom's just asked for a supervisor. This is going to be awesome.

60-minute meals, from Yerba.

2008-01-17T15:43:00.000-05:00

Remember how I said 30-minute meals aren't good enough?

Well, they aren't. Like I said before, good food doesn't magically happen from opening a few cans and throwing the contents into an oven. Any idiot can do that in 30 minutes or less. But if you take just one hour out of your day, you can come up with some pretty good stuff, and in the words of Wide Lawns, not eat like a fucking asshole.

Consider today. I could have spent an hour after lunch watching Mad TV reruns on Comedy Central. But instead, I took advantage of that time to create an entree, side dish, and dessert - all equally delicious, and all equally not terrible for you. Well, if you don't take huge portions, they're not terrible for you. But taking huge, oversized portions is also part of eating like a fucking asshole. In moderate amounts, anything is okay to eat, really. When I say it took an hour to do all this, I mean prep time. All I have to do when we eat tonight is just broil the cheese croutons, ladle the soup, wash and rip up lettuce leaves, and scoop frozen yogurt. See? Easy.

I'll share my recipes as best I can, because I don't tend to measure anything. The first and last recipes serve eight, but leftovers are nifty.

French Onion Soup
-2 white or yellow onions
-1 red onion
-4 tablespoons butter
-2 teaspoons white sugar
-1/2 cup cheap dry white wine (not cooking wine - it's too salty)
-7 cups beef stock, preferably homemade (I used homemade, but low-sodium high-quality canned/boxed stuff is okay.)
-10 stalks fresh thyme, tied together with butcher's string
-Salt and pepper to taste
-One baguette
-1/4 pound Gruyere or Swiss cheese, grated

Slice the onions in half from pole to pole, then slice into strips about half an inch across. Any thinner and they'll fall apart during simmering. Melt the butter in a small stockpot, then add in the onions and sugar. Cook on high heat until translucent and just getting brown around the edges. (The sugar helps speed up caramelization.) Then add the white wine, beef stock, and the thyme bundle. Allow to come to a boil uncovered, then cover and simmer for an hour. Add salt and pepper to your liking.

Before serving, turn on your broiler; then take the baguette and slice eight inch-thick pieces from it. Place on a baking sheet, and portion one ounce of the shredded Gruyere/Swiss on top. Broil until the cheese is melted and the bread is crunchy around the edges, then place in the bottom of soup bowls and ladle soup on top.

Serves 8.

Salad with Basil-Mustard Vinaigrette
-1/2 cup fresh basil
-2 tablespoons dijon mustard
-1/4 cup white wine vinegar
-1/2 teaspoon anchovy paste
-1 tablespoon honey
-Salt and pepper to taste
-3/4 cup olive oil
-2 hearts of romaine

Combine basil, mustard, vinegar, anchovy paste, honey, salt, and pepper in a blender until thoroughly...uh, combined. While the blender is on, slowly drizzle in the olive oil.

Cut off the stems of the romaine hearts and discard, along with the outermost very dark-green leaves. Wash the lettuce thoroughly and pat dry with a clean kitchen towel, then rip into bite-sized pieces. Divide into salad bowls and drizzle a few tablespoons of the vinaigrette on top. Put the rest of the vinaigrette in the fridge for another day.

Serves 4.

Blueberry-Peach Cobbler
This is not your typical cobbler - I use a streusel topping because I hate making biscuits. And, clearly, I really like to make use of my spice rack. It's ridiculously easy.

Fruit filling:
-4 pints blueberries, washed and picked through for stems
-3 peaches, peeled and diced
-1 cup orange juice
-1/2 cup flour
-1/2 cup white sugar
-2 tablespoons dried lemon peel
-2 tablespoons dried orange peel
-1 tablespoon ground nutmeg
-1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
-1 teaspoon ground mace
-1 teaspoon ground cloves
-1 teaspoon ground ginger

Streusel topping:
-1 cup flour
-1/2 cup white sugar
-1/2 cup dark brown sugar
-1 packet maple and brown sugar oatmeal (yes, like you eat for breakfast)
-1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
-1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
-4 tablespoons melted butter

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. While it's preheating, combine the fruit filling ingredients in a bowl, mixing thoroughly, and then put it into a deep baking dish. Then combine the streusel ingredients in another bowl, and sprinkle it on top of the fruit filling. Bake in the oven for an hour, and then let it cool. When you want to eat some, take a spoonful and microwave it until it's warm again, and then eat it with a scoop of vanilla nonfat frozen yogurt.

Serves 8.

Enjoy, readers. I know I'm going to in about three hours.

Somebody had better pay for my dishpan hands.

2008-01-17T11:02:00.000-05:00

I know what company I'm not going to use when I have my own house: Sears.

Two years ago, my parents decided it was time to upgrade our stove, microwave, refrigerator, and dishwasher. We'd had all the same appliances since the eighties, and they frankly worked just fine, but they wanted something more modern. (I actually cried when they took the old fridge away. I loved that damn ugly thing.) So off Mom and Dad went to Sears to pick out shiny new appliances. They purchased, they got the repair policies to go with everything, Sears delivered and installed the new stuff, everything was awesome.

Until the fridge stopped making ice. So my parents took advantage of the policy to have a repairman come out and look at it. Since then, we have had the fridge replaced three times, we're on our third microwave (which needs a new part again), and now our dishwasher is broken. We've been washing dishes every day for the past two weeks, and today, a technician was supposed to come install the new motor that was delivered directly to our house to avoid any fuck-ups.

When I dragged myself out of my bedroom to get a cup of coffee and read the paper, I found my father on the telephone with Sears. Said technician never came. Dad was calling to find out why. Apparently there was a routing fuck-up...and he was told we would have to wait until February 5th to have anyone come out to fix it.

I think this morning was the first time I've ever heard my father swear at a customer service representative. He's never done that before - sometimes if he's frustrated he might raise his voice a little, but he never swears and never yells. Not on the phone, at least. But I don't blame him for saying, "What is wrong with you people? How fucking hard is it to get a fucking repairman out here to install a MOTOR in a DISHWASHER, for Christ's sake?" because he had been on hold and transferred to five different people in an hour and a half. Meanwhile, I sighed and pulled everything out of the dishwasher (which we'd loaded up to make sure it worked after the new motor was installed) and started making with the cleaning.

In the end, the fifth person told him we just have to wait until February 5th if we wanted our dishwasher fixed, period. Three more weeks of waking up to last night's plates and utensils. Fortunately, I am skilled in the art of dishwashing, after four semesters of it in culinary school, two years of dorm living, and five weeks in a cottage in Ireland that provided us with a sponge, a bottle of Fairy soap, and a dish rack. I still fucking hate it, though. My mother hates it, too, after years of doing it as a kid because her mother worked two jobs and her siblings were lazy; my father hates it because his parents bought a dishwasher in 1966 and he hasn't lived without one in over forty years; my brother hates it because he works in a sub shop and always gets stuck with dishwasher duty. We're not lazy - but as I just wrote, we have our reasons.

So after my father slammed the phone back into the cradle out of sheer fury, he threw on a coat over his sweats and grabbed his car keys.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Going up to the goddamn Sears at the mall and making them tell me who the hell can fix our shit."

I fear for those sales people. You really, really don't want to tell my father that we can't have something we paid for. He's pissed as hell, and I don't blame him.

But seriously, fuck Sears. If we wanted stuff that didn't work, we could have just gone to Goodwill in the first place and picked up secondhand shit.

A post about food, for once.

2008-01-12T16:39:00.000-05:00

This lady is absolutely fucking 100% correct.

As I mentioned in my very first post, I am from a family that loves to cook. Even more than we love to cook, we love to eat. Luckily, we do not have issues with diabetes (which I first accidentally typed as "diabeetus" because Anti-David and I have a running Wilford Brimley gag) or obesity or anything like that. We're not skinny people due to our Italian-German background, but we're fairly healthy and get plenty of exercise.

I grew up in an environment that encouraged milk or water over juice and soda, fresh fruit over candy and cakes, homemade over processed. To this day I'd rather eat a pint of fresh cherries or a peach than an éclair. I'd rather have a cup of rooibos tea than a Mountain Dew. I'd rather dig a serving of Mom's shepherd's pie from the freezer than make a box of macaroni and cheese. While I do enjoy things that are bad for me, (Who doesn't?) I tend to naturally choose the healthier option. My biggest weakness is salt. I love salt. The worst thing to do while I'm PMSing is to dangle a bag of salt and vinegar kettle-cooked chips in front of me. I will fucking inhale that shit. My father is the same way; neither of us are really big on sweets and would rather have the caloric intake from some venison jerky than from a piece of pie. Meanwhile, my brother would unthinkingly scarf half a chocolate cake at once if we let him.

Going to culinary school both excited and infuriated me. On one hand, I was learning to do interesting things like make stock and consommé from scratch; on the other hand, we did things like roll out frozen puff pastry for appetizers. My baking classes had us make puff pastry and brownies and danishes by hand, which was good, but really - some of the stuff we did was just so entirely lazy. I did learn some really nifty tricks during my internship in Ireland, like using a broiler to make grilled cheese, and an immersion blender to add salt, pepper, melted butter, and cream to riced hot potatoes to mash them together more effectively. We did get pre-peeled potatoes from the vendor, but that's not laziness, in my opinion - do you have any idea how many a restaurant goes through in a day? None of the things we served were processed or bought elsewhere. That was my favorite part of culinary school. I know full well that certain chain restaurants serve food that has been pulled out of a box and heated. I was delighted that we did not, and respected the chefs a lot more for it.

I have an incurable obsession for freshness, begun at home and ignited into full flame in Ireland. Joke all you want about potatoes and Guinness. The Irish really know where it's at when it comes to freshness of food. The fruits and vegetables were absolutely gorgeous in their early-autumn peak; the lamb, pork, and beef tasted incredibly clean; the butter and cream and milk were luxuriously rich. And do you know why? Because the food wasn't all imported from fucking Mexico! It actually came from Ireland. If we could stop this nonsense about eating apples and asparagus out of season, maybe we'd learn to rely on and learn to enjoy the seasonal offerings instead of going out of our way and paying exorbitant prices for stuff that doesn't even taste very good anyway. It's not like the U.S. doesn't have enough small farms around that couldn't supply the restaurants and markets with what's on hand during any given season.

I grew up eating romaine lettuce on a daily basis at a time when all anyone ever used it for was Caesar salad on special occasions. I was bringing leftover shish kebab and couscous to school with me for lunch. I could bang out a huge batch of meatballs and homemade tomato sauce in an hour flat by the time I was nine. Most of my classmates were too busy snarfing Spaghetti-Os and iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing and PB&Js, and thought I was just plain weird for a long time. It wasn't until I got to high school and the Food Network really caught on that anyone thought I was anything but strange for packing sushi in my lunch box. I was confused the first time a girl told me that my family must be gourmet cooks because of all the cool things I brought for lunch or talked about making on Mondays. It took me a long time to get over that confusion. I just couldn't figure out that most people didn't take as much pleasure in making meals from scratch as I do. To me, lobster savannah wasn't gourmet - it was just what we had for dinner last Sunday. As I got older, I realized that most people were also too busy - or too lazy - to bother doing the things I do.

Can you survive on eating crap? Sure you can. I spent a whole year at The University subsisting on ramen, bagels, salads from the dining hall, Diet Pepsi, and cigarettes. Did I live? Sure. It got me through midterms and finals and boring-ass science classes. Could I have done better than that, even on a limited budget? Definitely. The fact is, I got too damn lazy to go to the supermarket and pick up a few things that would have enabled me to eat properly, and enjoy it. I got too damn lazy to walk a flight of stairs to the dorm's kitchen and bother making anything from scratch. But oh, did that ever change when I came home. Suddenly, I was not only eating to survive, but eating because it was pleasurable. Cooking became fun again. (To this day I still cannot eat ramen. It makes me gag.) And I love it. I love making pizza dough and rolling it out. I love baking focaccia and having the smell of sea salt and rosemary throughout the house. I love throwing a few simple ingredients into the food processor and ending up with perfect mayonnaise. I love roasting garlic for Caesar dressing. I love rolling up basil into a cylinder and taking a knife to it to make ribbons for caprese. I love scooping out avocados for guacamole. I love running pasta dough through the hand-cranked machine that fixes to the end of a table.

It's those little things that do take some time, but which require patience and love in order to make something of quality. Quality, when speaking of food, is always more desirable than quantity. You just can't get the same quality out of a package of Thai peanut noodles from Superfresh that you can when you do it yourself. I know it's been said a million times, but I honestly don't think it can be said enough.

Stop being lazy. Stop fooling yourself into thinking you don't have enough time to cook. Take that time you spend in front of the television and cook something. I don't care if it's just a quick alfredo sauce of butter, cream, and Parmesan cheese over Buitoni fettucine. It's still better for you than that shit from a jar. Trust me.

Don't listen to Sandra Lee and Rachael Ray when they tell you that semi-homemade or 30-minute meals are acceptable. The convenience products from the grocery store they advocate are worse for you than anything you could ever come up with from the ingredients in your kitchen. Besides, do you want to be acceptable? Do you want food that's just okay? Don't you want food that tastes great? Great food doesn't necessarily have to take all day - but it sure as hell doesn't start with Kraft.

Proof I'm not a complete bitch.

2008-01-09T10:18:00.000-05:00

It always bothers me when guests get treated like dirt by front desk and housekeeping. I might inwardly loathe 99% of my customers, but outwardly I am cheerful and polite. I am paid to behave as such, at least when I'm stuck working the 3-11. I'm not terribly sympathetic to someone's sob story about how they've been driving all night; however, I will go out of my way for someone who is genuinely having a hard time.

We've had this older couple in-house for a little while now, staying courtesy of the Red Cross. They're a little white-trashy, heavy smokers and wear flannel and talk with a typical flat mid-Atlantic accent. But they're also very nice people, incredibly polite every time I've dealt with them. Last night the wife called and asked if she came down with her cell phone could someone please help her, because she's having a hard time with it. Being that I was doing fuck-all at the time, I said sure. I figured it was probably nothing too complicated.

They have Virgin Mobile and just needed to top it up with a phone card. I was able to get it done in about a minute or so. You'd have thought I built them a brand-new house from their reactions. They couldn't thank me enough for being so nice, and not treating them like dirt like some of the other workers around here, just because their house burned down and they've got to stay here instead of getting to be with their labrador puppy. The wife was nearly crying as she grabbed my hand in both of hers and thanked me again and again. She tried to give me a tip, but as always I refused - why should I get extra money for doing something that took all of a minute to do and helped someone else? Isn't that my job?

Hey. Accidents happen, right? Things happen every day that you can't control because that's the way things are. In particular, they mentioned the Jehovah's Witness breakfast-bar woman (who already ratted me out to Nettie for my return to smoking) who is just plain nasty to them. What a bitch. I hope she never has to go around with only one arm and walking with aid of a cane like the husband. Isn't there something in the Bible about doing unto others as they do unto you? Hm. Should leave that quote for her in the box of bananas. Or maybe tucked into the jelly packets. I'm sure Nettie's not too nice to them either, but then, the way she treats guests is directly related to whatever disease she thinks she's got on any given morning.

It just bothers me so much that people think it's okay to fucking rip on people who are caught in unusual circumstances that weren't of their own doing. And to do it as a customer service employee is just reprehensible, in my opinion. Like, fuck. Have a little compassion, you morons. Or at least do what you're getting paid to do. Which is to HELP people.

I'm actually here again on my day off, because Nettie had a family emergency. Because I am not a total cunt and figured the last thing she needed to worry about was her shift being covered, I volunteered to come in at 7. I'm exhausted and ready to kick the next dumbass who calls me looking for a reservation for the fucking Lions Club jamboree or whatever...not that anyone would ever know it, as I'm displaying my best customer service skills today.

A twofer.

2008-01-06T05:19:00.000-05:00

#1. Dumbfuck ghetto coworker has managed to piss me off quite royally. Again. Here goes:

Last night a guy came in around 2:00 AM. I gave him the rate of $84, and he didn't argue or ask for a discount or I'd have knocked it back to our regular rack rate. He paid me cash, I gave him a receipt and room keys and he went on his merry way. We were both happy: me, because I managed to give a small boost to our night's revenue; and him, because he got a place to sleep. So tonight Weekend Night Auditor was going through our bucket (basically a little metal box where we file the day's registration cards - the thing they make you sign when you check in) and noticed that someone's rate had been cut from $84 last night to $62 tonight.

I checked the computer and immediately flew into a rage when I saw who it was. My happy traveler had decided to stay over another night.

"Paul!" I shrieked. "Look what that dumbass did!"

"Which one?" he asked, stifling a yawn. (I normally let Paul sleep through most of the shift, as this is his third job and it seems rather mean to force him to stand all night.)

"Dumbfuck Ghetto Coworker," I snarled. "What the HELL was she doing?"

"Dunno. I wish she'd stop messing with the rates, though."

"WHAT THE HELL, PAUL." And somewhere within a five-mile radius, at least one dog cringed and whimpered at the pitch of my voice. "I bet her stupid ass told him, 'Oh, you paid too much, but I can give it to you for $62!' She KNOWS we're not supposed to give out that fucking rate! We're at 31% occupancy. It's not exactly a revenue crisis we're dealing with!"

He shrugged and yawned again. "Can't do anything about it now. He already paid up."

"God DAMN it."

She and a few others have been giving out that rock-bottom rate so much that the GM put a note in the log book that said, "This rate is not to be used unless we are nearly empty and someone is about to walk out the door - also, use discretion and let them know you are going out on a limb by doing it , or they'll think they can get it all the time."

Clearly, nobody has paid attention to this except night audit. I never give anyone that rate when I'm stuck on second shift, either. (For which I hate Front Office Manager. If I wanted to work that shift I'd volunteer, numbnuts.) Weekday Night Auditor would rather commit seppuku than allow anyone to stay here for $62 because she's mean like that, and Weekend Night Auditor, when he isn't dozing on the lobby sofa, actually does care if the business generates income. Me, I just plain hate the idea of giving someone a rate because they think they're a special snowflake, as I delineated in my previous post.

So I wrote a nasty note myself. "Is there a reason that rock bottom rates are constantly being given to stayovers? We're not exactly empty and needing to reel people into staying another night."

Whatever. I know nobody'll read it. They'll skim and initial the entry as though they read it. But I know they won't bother to follow through. Nobody ever does at this fucking hotel. I might as well just be talking to air.

On to the second part of tonight's entry, because I'd rather not make two in a row.

#2. I recently discovered that I am far more shallow and vain than I ever thought before. Up until the past month, I always laughed at women who got plastic surgery. I never thought boobs were something that should be messed with, because to me, all boobs are awesome. And the very idea of injecting a strain of botulism toxin into my face to smooth out any wrinkles was actually pretty horrifying.

Well, it was, until I looked in the mirror a few evenings ago as I was applying mascara, and noticed something odd. I actually dropped the wand when I realized exactly what was wrong.

"OH MY GOD," I gasped. Then I mumbled, "Shit," and grabbed a kleenex to wipe the black gunk of death out of our brand-new sink.

"What now?" my mother called from the living room. Smart woman. She's gotten used to my sudden shrieks of annoyance or pain or dropping things, and at this point if anything did actually happen to me, she'd probably continue reading a Lisa Scottoline novel while riding next to me in an ambulance.

"Mom! There are LINES. Under my EYES."

"So?"

"Mom, do you even realize what that MEANS?"

"...the natural aging process is catching up with you?"

"I'm too young for this!"

"You're in your twenties. It happens."

"Argh! Mom! You aren't helping!"

"That's why I'm your mother. You bitch about stuff and I tell you the opposite of what you want to hear."

I went out the next day and bought anti-wrinkle eye cream at the supermarket. It was fourteen bucks, which seemed expensive until I saw other brands which were running at thirty and up. I shudder to imagine what a department store would charge for this crap. This stuff I've got is supposed to work pretty well in a week if I apply it twice a day. It's even supposed to get rid of the bags under my eyes. Haven't noticed anything with the lines, but at least I don't look hungover all the time.

If it doesn't work, hand me a syringe and a can of dented string beans.

Pet Peeve #3

2007-12-30T05:06:00.000-05:00

Hotel guests who think that they can name any rate they want, no matter how ridiculously low, are one of my biggest pet peeves. I don't even know if this qualifies as a peeve, but it sure as shit pisses me off. I'm finished my shift work, and I've been thinking about it, so I figured I might just type this up while waiting for seven o'clock to hit.

A touristy-looking guy came in close to 1 AM. "You have a room?"

"Yes. The rate is $84 plus tax." (It's actually $74; I start with $84 and knock it down to that.)

He winced. "Can it be fifty?"

"...no."

The guy left and I was then free to answer the phone so that I could answer yet another moronic question from a local guest. You'd think that since so many locals are repeats, they'd know how this place works by now. But I digress.

After midnight I'm not much inclined to sell rooms anyway. I'll do it, but I'll also make it a little more difficult for people to do so - I tend to get locals after midnight, and the harder I make it for them to get a room, the less work housekeeping has to do after we finally drag their cash-paying asses out sometime after noon. One thing I cannot do, however, is sell rooms between 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning. That's when I run the audit programs and fill out all the necessary paperwork, and make copies, and fax stuff, and file stuff. Most of the time it takes me until 4:30 because of all the excessive crap I'm forced to fill out. While my programs are running on the computer, I physically cannot enter the system in order to do anything. So when a guest comes to the night window and asks me for a room during that hour, I have to tell them I can't give them a room and they need to come back later.

Sometimes it's locals, but on more than a few occasions it's been out-of-towners. Look, it's not my fault that you waited this long to look for a hotel room because you wanted to try and make better time on whatever stupid trip you're on (usually between New England and Florida). You chose to wait. I am doing my job, which, incidentally, is not to wait on customers but to keep the business running and make sure all the numbers are kosher. Part of being the night auditor is to have minimal contact with guests. I'll accommodate you if I can (read: if you're not an asshole to me), but if I fucking can't help you because I'm running the damn audit, I can't fucking help you. I'm polite when I tell you the reason I can't give you a room, so when you throw a fit it makes me hate you more.

And of course, these late-night guests, more than any I've gotten on day or evening shift, invariably wish to name their own price, or obtain some kind of discount. These people are often not members of AAA or AARP (since when does driving a car or being old entitle you to discounts, anyway?); they are often not government workers with proper ID. They believe that because they are them, they are perfectly justified in trying to get me to hook them up with some kind of special uber-low rate. Or worse, they attempt, as the tourist at the beginning of this entry did, to name a rate and hope I'll give it to them.

Yerba don't play that. You are not a special fucking snowflake, no matter what your momma told you.

While I understand there is a degree of flexibility to hotel room rates - and have in the past given breaks to exceptionally nice guests - hotels are a business, the same as Wal-Mart or Target or Sears or even fucking McDonald's. Our primary objective is to make money.

Let me put it this way, in the form of a hypothetical situation. I go into McDonald's because I've decided I should stop and get something to eat in between all the errands I'm running. I know I want a cheeseburger and small fry, with a medium Coke. So I inquire as to whether Mickey D's does indeed have what I'm looking for. When confirmed that yes, they can give me a cheeseburger and small fry with a medium Coke, I tell the cashier that I would like to have that.

Imagine that when she tells me the total price, I inform her that it's much too high and I want to pay half that.

Now, imagine her laughing in my face and telling me if I don't come up with the cash, I don't eat.

So I whine, "I can't afford that much! Can't you help me out?"

"The prices are what they are, and I'm not authorized to change them," says the hypothetical (and in my mind, articulate) McDonald's cashier.

"Come onnnnn. Can't you give me a break? Pleeeeeeeeeeease?"

"It's a business, not a charity," the cashier tells me.

See what I mean? I go through this on a nightly fucking basis, only the meal is a hotel room. Do you understand how utterly ridiculous it is to behave like that in a business establishment, if I put it like this?

My managers would have had me give that tourist a room for fifty bucks, because their philosophy is that a hugely discounted room with an occupant is better than no occupant at all. I find this philosophy to be completely erroneous. (Also, it's plain stupid. Can you imagine if the locals figured this out? We've already got our fair share of drug deals and prostitution going on here.) But I didn't, because it was the principle of the thing. I might be a bit lazy and loathe this job with the fire of a thousand burning suns, but I don't believe in letting customers trample all over a business of which I'm a part.

Wow. That ate up an entire...half hour. Two more to go and then I'm free to go home, have breakfast, and crash.

Crankily yours,
~Yerba Buena

Yerba vs. Christmas

2007-12-23T08:07:00.000-05:00

Yeah, it's after 8 AM and I am awake. Not early. As in, still awake from working the graveyard. Now that I've gotten used to the hours themselves, it's not so bad. However, even I can only go without sunlight for so long, and I'm thoroughly grateful for today and tomorrow off. Front Office Manager has me working 7 PM to 11 PM on Christmas Day, which does not bother me because A) it's going to be fucking dead in terms of guests, B) I only have to work four hours, and C) I get paid time and a half. Sadly, I won't get to watch my parents falling asleep in their chairs due to the Christmas wine, after the annual Christmas Day argument over which horror movie to watch.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, of course. I will not be repeating last Christmas Eve, when my father and I got incredibly drunk on homemade limoncello and I called my friend Suzy in Australia on Skype, where it was Christmas Day. It was our first time on the "phone", no less, and I don't think my inebriation helped her comprehend my already bizarre East Coast speech patterns. (I manage to flatten and pinch my vowels. While talking at a rate that would put the Micro Machines guy to shame. And I slur when I'm sober.) At one point her dad walked in the room to ask to whom Suzy was speaking.

Suzy: "Oh, that's Yerba, Dad."
Suzy's Dad: "...is she drunk? It's only three in the bloody afternoon!"
Suzy: "She's in America. It's eleven-something on Christmas Eve."
Suzy's Dad: "Oh. Okay. Cheers, Yerba!"
Me: "Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeers. Whee."

And then I fell out of my computer chair.

I was also working 7 AM to 11 AM that morning. I think I actually came into work still drunk, though I don't remember much about that morning except drinking coffee and wondering which of my hapless male relatives was going to lug the KitchenAid mixer upstairs for me so I could make some bread with it, and how I could get out of my grandmother's Christmas party that Friday.

I did get out of said party by conveniently having to work "for someone who couldn't make it in". This year I have no such excuse, as it is being held during hours when I am not at work or sleeping. Which means I'll endure approximately 2893189271876 ridiculously stupid questions about The College and cooking from my relatives, who don't really give a shit anyway but who never see me except for at this party. I do guarantee I'll hear some variation on, "You'll make your husband so happy, being a professional cook!" (And in the event that my cousin, who Facebook-friended me and has figured out I'm gay, decides to blow things wide open...I have pictures from his Facebook that involve his underage jock ass drinking pitchers of beer. Rule #1 of underage drinking, from Yerba: Don't take pictures and post them online, dummy.) Good thing there will be free beer in the fridge, because it might actually keep me from caring if my creepy Uncle Clay starts fondling my thigh. Again. Partly the reason I avoid those parties; the last time I went to one he kept squeezing my leg in a decidedly un-uncle way.

Actually, a few beers and I'll probably scream as loud as I can and hit him with a lamp.

Maybe not a good idea.

In other news, I broke my promise to myself about actually buying the Sweeney Todd soundtrack instead of downloading it illegally. In a few megabytes it will be mine. That movie fucking ruled, by the way. I'll admit I'm sort of a Johnny Depp fangirl, and have seen the majority of his films a number of times. However, the whole thing was so deliciously evil and gory and hilarious that I think it trumped Chicago as my favorite mean-spirited musical of all time.

And mean-spirited musicals...well, what other kind is there?

Confession.

2007-12-13T19:10:00.000-05:00

I would like to confess that I am a complete and utter snob when it comes to the English language. Does it mean that I am always perfect when I write or speak? No, of course not. But I do pride myself on being at least educated enough to understand its mechanics. Even my own standards are grossly debased from those of a century ago; the Victorians would be appalled by them.

I place a high emphasis on the English language because my teachers did, even when I was in middle school. They believed it important that we be able to put together coherent essays, letters, research papers, and even résumés. Maybe things have changed since then, because I've noticed an abundance of teenagers who cannot tell the difference between "they're", "their", and "there", and who have no concept of MLA format; nor do they seem to care at all. (And yes, the comma is outside the quote marks, as I was taught British-style in that respect.) I cannot take anyone seriously if they don't display their knowledge of the very basics of grammar. Am I supposed to care about another's opinion if it is grossly misspelled and lacks punctuation?

I don't find it wrong to demand more out of those who are clearly capable of doing things correctly. I do find it wrong to "just let it go", because "they're just kids, they'll learn". No, they won't learn, if nobody ever attempts to correct them.

And if this makes me "mean", to correct these people, or to complain about them? Then so be it.

I don't care if it isn't my place to do so. I will not see the language of Shakespeare, Eliot, and Shaw end up in the gutter.

A letter.

2007-12-08T00:21:00.000-05:00

Dear 18-year-old ghetto coworker:

Please, when you are posting items to our passerby feature because people have bought things from our in-house mini-mart, do not write "SODAS YO" and "MILKIES" in the fucking supplement. Other people see these reports - as in, admin. Also, do not put room 186 in our Out of Order listing as "TUB GETTIN FIXED, YO!" You're not cute and you aren't funny.

Fucking stop it already. It's incredibly unprofessional and speaks volumes about your character...what little you have, that is. I realize that you are deeply, incredibly stupid; I know this because I spend an hour every night just fixing your mistakes. However, you might do well to not give me any more ammunition against you. Oh yeah...and copies of each of your little stunts tonight went into the front office manager's box. Eat me, you little twit.

Please quit soon because otherwise I might strangle you,
~Yerba Buena

The weather outside is fright---cold as a mother.

2007-12-06T01:30:00.000-05:00

Yep, it snowed today while I was sleeping. A lot. I dragged myself upright just long enough to leave the following message on The College's counselor's voice mail:

"Yeah, hi, Virginia, it's Yerba. Look, it's snowing, I live in Hick County, and I only have one class. I'm not coming."

Then I went back to sleep, and bummed around for another five hours before it was time to go to work. I've noticed that since I've begun working the night shift, I've grown extemely lazy. I need to stop it immediately. Just because I'm on different hours doesn't mean I still don't have things to do when I'm home. My bathroom is in dire need of cleaning, and I really should dust once in a while.

Actually, being at the Hotel del Infierno isn't so bad. As I said in my previous post, working the 11 PM to 7 AM shift means that we get to lock both lobby doors, turn off the lights, and mainly do our paperwork in peace while drinking soda and eating Weekday Night Auditor's delicious lemon cupcakes. The only problem is that we waste a lot of time fixing the day and evening shift's mistakes.

See, we have all high school kids working those hours. And if they aren't still IN high school, they're just out of it. Not to knock everyone who's 17/18, because I have worked with some competent kids before. But these are just stupid teenagers more interested in eating and playing around than in paying attention to the stuff they do. They're always giving random discounts and refunds for no apparent reason, and fucking up credit card charges and reversals.

And I do love the morning-shift woman; we've been friends for a few years and she's a good, warm, generous person...however, she drives me absolutely crazy with how much she gets herself involved with the guests. I don't mean sexually, but she's always doing extra shit for guests who aren't even particularly nice or deserving.

Case in point, we have this family in-house who has been a real pain in the ass. Nettie feels sorry for them, because they don't have any money and their credit is ruined. So she lets them take extra food and milk because there's a baby up there, and lets them monopolize the computer center in the lobby. She wanted to get her minister to help them, but Weekday Night Auditor told her, "Nettie, the first thing he's going to ask is 'Do you have God in your life?' and when they say no, he's going to hightail it right on out of there!" I'm inclined to agree. Besides, if they ruined their credit, how is this anyone else's problem? It's not my fault. And I don't care. But Nettie does. She always manages to get too friendly with guests because she ends up feeling sorry for them.

I had a man yank on the locked front door for a good five minutes tonight while we ignored him because he was too stupid to read the "Please come to the night window" sign. When he finally figured it out, he then tried to whine, cajole, and plead with me to give him a room for fifty bucks.

"Miss, I could sleep in my car, but I don't really want to do that, you know, I might get a hundred-dollar ticket from the police, or towed, and I'm just looking for a place to sleep, can't you help me?"

"Sorry, afraid I can't. I'm not authorized to give discounts like that." (I am, because new management is desperate to fill rooms during the slow season, but he was annoying me.)

"Well, d'you know who can?"

"Your best bet is the Days Inn across the street."

"I don't want to drive anymore. Can't you help me? I mean, fifty dollars is a lot of money to some people."

"No. I can't. The Days Inn is right behind the Holiday Inn. I'm sure they could help you."

"Oh. Where is it again?"

"Across. The. Street." I pointed to the big fucking sign that said DAYS INN.

"...thank you." And he finally left my night window.

He must be an idiot if he thinks I was going to be suckered in by that. I might look like a sweet, gullible lady - but I'm most decidedly not. I don't cater to whining or pleading. Sob stories don't work on me anymore, because I've literally heard them all by this point. Nettie calls me and Weekday Night Auditor "coldhearted" because we don't bother going the extra mile for jerks, and says that WNA has turned me mean since I got back. Yeah, fuck that. I'm not mean, merely practical, and I've grown a spine since I was here last. Our job is to keep the business running and profitable, not to play bleeding-heart ministers to the downtrodden.

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

2007-12-04T22:11:00.002-05:00

It's supposed to snow off and on tomorrow. And if it does, I refuse to leave my house. It's not driving in the snow that worries me, particularly, but the other drivers on the road. People in my state are notorious for panicking whenever a few flurries appear, regardless of whether or not they stick. And I prefer to...well, not die trying to get down the interstate for one lousy class. I'm typing this up before I head to work.

Yeah. I know it's late for anyone to be heading off to work, but due to my health insurance running out at the end of the month, I had to go back to the Hotel del Infierno, which is now under new management and does offer benefits. I miss the fuck out of the Hotel del Cielo, but sometimes you have to leave a job you really like to go to one you hate. But at least I don't deal with too many of the mouthbreathing public, as I work graveyard shift from 11-7.

Weekday Night Auditor is a cranky woman in her seventies who bakes delicious cookies and writes mean notes in the staff log book. I like her, because she takes no shit from guests or management and thinks everyone who does not work 11-7 is a complete idiot. (She's right on that - I could go into a detailed account of the day and evening shift workers, but it would take too long.) Weekend Night Auditor is in his late fifties and is quite laid-back, which is basically what you might expect from someone who works two other jobs and falls asleep at this one a lot. The amount of paperwork is absolutely insane, however. I know our job is basically to reconcile the computer accounts with our own accounts, which does involve paperwork, but there's so much stuff to wade through that it's ridiculous. Other than wasting my time faxing Trucker's Report sheets to admin and fixing moron day shifters' (repeated) mistakes, it's not bad, though, all things considered.

Believe it or not, I wasn't always so outspoken and cynical. A long time ago, I was really quite shy.

I was the teacher's kid for nine years, in a small Catholic school of maybe 300 kids total. You ended in 8th grade with the same 29 other kids you started out with in kindergarten. I was incredibly shy even though I was always the one with my hand waving in the air to answer teacher's questions, and I never got invited to anything beyond fourth grade...between kindergarten and 3rd grade if you hand out invitations in school you HAVE to give them to the whole class, so I only got invited to parties because of that. So because I was never included in anything except by force on the school's part, I spent a lot of time by myself with my nose in a book, pretending I was there with Tom Sawyer or Johnny Tremain instead of avoiding recess. Luckily I didn't have to worry about the clothes, because we all wore uniforms...except I still looked like the dorky one anyway. Until 7th grade I wore huge-framed thick bifocals, and I was a skinny little thing with chicken legs until I hit puberty.

When I hit puberty I became even more of a laughingstock than before, because I hit it when I was 10 and was one of the first girls in the class to get my period in early 6th grade, when I was 11. It's hard to be the first girl to NEED a bra. I just got more and more miserable the more my body filled out, and I never got tall like all the other girls. I just expanded outwards, even though I wasn't eating more than usual and still ran around my backyard like a crazy person in the summertime. I looked at all the other girls who were getting taller and developing, but they stayed beautifully thin and shapely, and there I was, this short fat blob with bad hair and acne. I got contact lenses in 7th grade and thought that would make me look better, and it did - but then I was miserable because I had nothing to hide behind. And my uniforms were always stupid looking because my mom just cut the top off the little kids' jumper for a grown-up skirt in 6th grade instead of buying me the real skirt and then in 8th grade I got the maroon kilt which nobody else bought, and by that point nothing was hanging right on my body. I still get the shakes if I have to go back there, to bring my mother her cell phone or something (she's always forgetting it).

I got to high school and thought I'd be different, that I could melt away. but no...I went to a Catholic high school with 500 girls in it. I was lucky enough to meet JD, and by proxy a few other girls, but I was still never quite...right. I still didn't get any taller, I didn't get any thinner (though I look at pictures of myself then in bewilderment that I ever thought I was fat, because I wasn't, I was really quite nice looking) and I never found a clique where I felt comfortable. I'm so grateful I had JD, because she started doing things to pull me out of my shell...but I wasn't weird enough to be one of the goth weirdoes, I wasn't funny enough to be in drama club, I'm not and have never been an athlete, and I was never pretty enough for the popular girls to like me. I did start dyeing my hair freshman year, though, to get away from the ash-blond that looked gray - when I hit puberty, my beautiful blond hair went away - and I found out later that everyone made fun of me and called me "Grandma" because of my natural hair color.

The one thing that really did a lot to build up my confidence was the internet. I discovered it when I was 12, the first year my mother took over as school librarian, and we had AOL on the library's one computer. I did normal 12 year-old things, all totally innocent. But at that time I was heavily into the show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and started fooling around looking for fan websites about the show. I fell in with a group called the Spike Girls, who had devoted themselves to the character Spike, and in them I found some interesting, new people. Three of them are still my close friends today; I even met one three years ago when she visited the city for an anime convention. I immersed myself deep into online friendships during my middle and high school years, because it was only there I was able to stop being so shy (though I admit that I still have horrible panic attacks whenever I'm facing a new situation) and I found my voice.

Online I found that I could write just well enough that people might find me funny and clever and interesting...it was there where I first felt like maybe I wasn't this big loser. That was only online, though...offline I was still a dork and a dweeb. Now...I MAKE myself be the way I am because if I don't talk loud and swear a lot and wave my hands around, I'll just melt into the corner with a beer and not talk to anyone ever. I still get really scared if I have to give presentations at school, even if I know every other student in the room. I gave one yesterday in my Irish History class, and I know it was awful; I rushed through the talking part out of sheer terror.

So, if the two people on the internet who might actually read this blog didn't know...that's who I was. It's who I still see when I look in that mirror. But if I hadn't been that shy little girl, I never could have grown and changed into the person I am now.

She would never have written about herself so honestly.

I'm not saying my experience is special or unique; the majority of the people on this planet went through painful adolescence. I'm just writing this so...well, you know where a lot of this comes from. That's all.

Need to put on my ugly uniform.
~Yerba Buena

I don't have a funny title for this post. Deal.

2007-11-19T13:49:00.000-05:00

I wonder if HP's two-year protection plan also includes the phrase "can of Coke exploded in my backpack".

Evidently I picked the wrong fucking month to quit smoking.

Crankily yours,
-Yerba Buena

With liberty and justice for...oh, forget it.

2007-11-17T15:10:00.000-05:00

So Thanksgiving is next Thursday.

And I couldn't care less, except that for the first time in three years I don't have to work, and am freed to go to my grandparents' house on the coast. I hate turkey and I'm not especially fond of jellied cranberry sauce, but hey - the food is free. I've never been one to buy into the Hallmark Pilgrims-and-Indians-sitting-down-to-eat-together image that's been force-fed to me since I was a preschooler...but I do look forward to the beer-drinking contest, in which I will be the lone female participant.

One year, when I was in my early teens, my grandmother forced our entire family to stand on the beach at sunrise Thanksgiving morning and read the Mayflower Compact. Do you have any idea how fucking cold that was? I think my cousin fell asleep standing up, the lucky bastard.

Grandma was not terribly amused when my smart ass piped up, "Are we going to read about the Trail of Tears and how we gave the Indians smallpox-infested blankets, too?"

Around this time of year, you get soppy sentimental bastards writing lists of what they're thankful for. You just can't escape it, and by the time Christmas rolls around you just want to scream, "ENOUGH ALREADY WITH THE GOODWILL." It only happens one day a year, which pisses me off. If you want to be thankful for the things you've got - then be thankful for them all year round, not just when you're bloated and complacent from lumpy mashed potatoes and store-bought pumpkin pie.

So instead you're all getting my list of things I wish I had:

-A vintage Bentley
-A free ride through my master's degree
-A million dollars
-A job description that included the phrase "telling customers to fuck themselves with a rusted chainsaw"
-A really, really big swimming pool filled with lime Jello and whipped cream
-My very own avocado farm
-Rhinoplasty
-A blonde personal trainer named something perky like Mindy or Cindy
-An entire set of Le Creuset cookware
-The power to make Gordon Ramsay weep like a little bitch
-Control over who wins the 2008 presidential elections
-Neil Gaiman
-The ability to actually finish a story I begin writing
-Lifetime supply of Captain Morgan
-A remote control with a setting to "mute" loud children in public
-A soundproof canopy around my bed
-Batteries that never run out when I'm in the middle of pleasuring myself
-Bill Gates' soul

I get back up and I do it again.

2007-11-14T19:29:00.000-05:00

This is about to be a fairly disjointed post, but I have some things to say and I'm trying to make it short, so here goes.

Right, so. I finally got to the doctor yesterday, and he prescribed me antibiotics and a cough syrup that tastes like the piss of obscure Mesopotamian demons, but which has codeine in it and consequently makes me a very pleasant person to be around. It turned out that I did indeed have a sinus infection, but due to lack of treatment it moved into my chest and was about this close to becoming pneumonia. Joy.

Unfortunately, I won't be able to stay at the Hotel del Cielo for much longer, as I'm faced with the fact that I must put off getting a bachelor's degree for a few years, and now require a job that offers benefits. After December, since I won't be a student, I'm kicked off my father's insurance. I really don't want to leave the Hotel del Cielo, but it looks like if I want to be able to afford my allergy medicine and doctor's visits, then I'm going to have to. I have a few options, so tomorrow before I head off to work a swing shift, I'm making my rounds with my resume and reference list.

First, I just read a journal entry one of my friends made last night that related something really rather sad. At least, it made me sad when I read it. My friend was standing on a platform waiting for the subway when some random guy looked at her, leaned towards her, and said, "Ew. Ugly."

My friend went home and cried all night.

When I saw that journal entry from her, I was at first horrified, then saddened. But now I'm just angry. What prompted him to make a comment designed to hurt and destroy? What gave that douche the fucking right to say anything to her, let alone something so cruel? I'm always fucking pissed off when someone decides to be nasty for no apparent reason to someone they've never met before. He doesn't know anything about my friend, or what she's been through, or what that could have potentially triggered. And it really upset me that someone would just be so fucking heartless. Lord knows I've been mean enough to people in the past, when they didn't really deserve it...but to a stranger? Never.

I'd like to say that had it been me, I'd have sneered, "Ew. Small dick," and stomped on his foot. But I give myself too much credit - I probably would have stared at him in shock and gone home to cry all night too. It's that something like that is unexpected, I guess, which makes it hurt all the more, which makes you think, "Well, if someone who's never met me thinks I'm ugly, I must really be awful."

Another thing happened within the past two days since I've been home that bothered me too. My mother, as I mentioned in an early post, is a Catholic school teacher. It's a small school, and I actually attended it for nine miserable years. Lately they have been having a lot of problems with Myspace at her school, with girls representing themselves as 19 or 20. I'm not too clear on the details, but I think as an example of how public things can really be, my mother pulled my Myspace page up (yes, I have one - mostly to annoy my real-life friends) and clearly visible was a banner for LGBT rights. Well, it evidently set the students to giggling, as my sexual orientation is also clearly displayed. My mother relayed this to me, clearly disheartened that her daughter has become the school joke because everyone now knows I'm a lesbian. I'm not ashamed of myself, of who I am and who I love. But I am ashamed that she has to endure snide remarks and giggles from her own students, not to mention the parents of those overprotected soft little bastards. My mother doesn't deserve that. She's a really good teacher.

And I feel fucking terrible that I've embarrassed her. She's not really thrilled that I'm not going to marry a man and have kids, but she's done a remarkable job in the past year or so of accepting it and reconciling her personal beliefs with it...but I don't want her to be ashamed of me, and I think she is now because of a couple of stupid thirteen year-olds who think it's funny that their teacher's grown daughter is gay. Out of humiliation and sadness, I've made my profile private, so those little assholes can't get their paws on my life. I've never felt the pressure to hide myself like that before now.

Getting up to wash down cough syrup with some Malibu,
-Yerba Buena

Come closer so I can cough on you.

2007-11-10T09:20:00.000-05:00

So, long story short - I'm sick.

I have seasonal allergies, and I get sniffly from time to time, or I'll get a cold every so often. I deal with it by shutting the fuck up and getting on with my life. However, I've come down with what I'm fairly sure is a sinus infection, and it's made me absolutely miserable. I don't just feel miserable; I'm also miserable to deal with, and I know it. At least my roommate Jim cares - he managed to dig up some Mucinex and aspirin from his luggage, and he bought me a carton of orange juice out of sheer pity for my sick, broke ass.

The bureaucrats from The College arrived Monday, when I was in Belfast visiting some friends. By the time I returned on Wednesday evening, I felt like dead dogshit. Thursday I spent nine hours in the kitchen, and yesterday I spent eleven hours in the kitchen, all the while hanging onto work tables as I coughed my fucking brains out. The hot water machine has become my new best friend, and at the moment I think there's actually tea running through my veins. I look bad, I feel bad, and I'm just not at the top of my game. Ordinarily I can run through my prep list pretty quickly, and now that I'm completely familiarized with the menu I can bang out appetizers in no time flat. However, I've spent the last two days just staring blankly at Chef Douche and Chef Bag because I literally cannot comprehend someone the first time he or she speaks to me. My brains are just that scrambled right now.

The College bureaucrats don't fucking care. Now, if I were in the comparable class back at The College, the chef in charge would have sent me home on Thursday and ordered me to not return until I wasn't turning purple every time I hacked up a lung. And these two chefs fucking well know it. But I'm just there to make Greek salads and run for more snow peas and microwave vegetable side plates. And Chefs Douche and Bag have decided to create more work than is necessary, so I almost don't have enough time to get done the things I normally need to do for my station.

And then there's the issue of our hours. When Chefs Molly and Arthur were here, they didn't create unnecessary bullshit busywork, so we were to come in at 2:00 PM every day we were scheduled. And we were able to finish all our stuff in plenty of time. Well, Thursday and Friday, Chefs Douche and Bag have had Jim and me come in at noon. Today we were summoned at 11:00 in the morning. The kitchen doesn't close until 9:30. You get the picture. And not to mention the other two students doing desserts - those poor fuckers were in that pastry kitchen at 9:30 this morning.

I don't care if that's the industry standard. My point is that the two American chefs who have come in (after forcing out the managing director, who is the most awesome person in the history of the universe) and decided to change everything, should fucking know better. I'm still a student. If I were an employee and being paid to do this, that would be one thing. But right now my temper is shorter than usual - and anyone who knows me also knows that it's dangerous to provoke me when I'm ill.

Because not only am I ill, I'm also PMSing (and trust me, this isn't a "Hur hur, lookit da silly wummin, ain't that funny" joke), and I've quit smoking. Yesterday I nearly threw a plate at Idiot Part-Time Cook for making me sweep up his mess. So even though my patience is pretty much worn out, and I've been coughing up blood in the mornings, I've been sweet and self-effacing, because really - how else can I act that won't make me look like a whiny student bitch, or an over-emotional little woman? The kitchen is still a man's world and nothing less than a shrug and a grin will fly.

Chef Bag actually sent me home after the weekend breakfast chef (the only other woman there aside from myself) expressed her horror that I was being made to work in my condition.

...I have to be back in two and a half hours for dinner service.

If you happened to be sitting in a dining room, within earshot of the kitchen, how comfortable would you be hearing a succession of strangled hacks and coughs coming from there? I'm very likely not contagious, but am I really the person you want making a mozzarella-citrus salad, or ladling soup into a bowl? Think about it.

Leaving on a jet plane (on Monday),
~Yerba Buena

What a week.

2007-11-01T14:59:00.000-04:00

A lot's happened that I really can't talk about out of fear someone might actually read this thing and deduce my identity. Ha, right. Nobody reads this stupid blog, least not when I'm being so boring. But it's better to cover all bases. When I'm home I'll write all about the dumb shit that's been happening.

I'm working on a bottle of wine currently, so I can talk about something. Which is, mainly, that I've been having a blast. I had my fun on Sunday at the fancy-dress party in town, wherein I nearly got crushed to death in the bathroom line. But I enjoyed the rest of it. Last night I stayed in and watched bad Irish television and ate leftover risotto.

On that note, why the FUCK does Eurospar not offer boullion cubes or canned stock? I had to water down beef consommé for my risotto, and I didn't want beef, I wanted chicken, but there was none to be had. It tasted all right but due to my lack of Saran Wrap I had to throw the rest of the rice out today.

Damn it. I seem to have the hiccups. I'll bow out as gracefully as possible now, as really, seven PM is just a bit too early to get drunk.

Party at the waitress's house later. Rock on.

Sex, drugs, and mise en place,
-Yerba Buena

Even during an internship I'm stuck catering to the annoying whims of hotel guests.

2007-10-21T22:41:00.000-04:00

Dear two residents of The Hotel:

Thanks ever so much for forcing me to drop the massive amount of prep work I was doing for the second lunch rush so that I could make you FUCKING SANDWICHES. Seriously, what the fuck. Why did the Chef tell you it was okay to order something like that? I hope you burn in hell for not just going down to the supermarket and getting bread, chicken, and ham and doing it yourself. Because of you, I nearly didn't finish getting a mountain of fruit sliced and fanned and arranged for appetizer platters. Which we ended up needing.

Signed,
The prep/appetizers/soup/sandwich cook who did nearly 200 covers today in one eight-hour shift between breakfast and both lunch rushes.

I've been insanely busy between internship work and side trips here and there; hence, I haven't been posting at all lately. Really, despite the fact that I've been busting my ass in the kitchen, this is damn near a vacation for me. At home I work two jobs and go to school; here I work eight or nine-hour shifts four days a week, with actual free time to myself in between. It's awesome. Tomorrow we're going to London for a few days, which probably means I should start packing now. But I won't until tomorrow; my laundry plans got sidetracked so I'll have to make do. The three guys I'm with insist that all I need is an overnight bag.

They fail to realize that I am a girl. And while I'm not one to pack ridiculous amounts of anything, I'd rather be overprepared than underprepared. Also, none of them need anything except a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and deodorant. Whereas to make my hair do anything but lie unattractively flat and limp on my head, or to maintain my contact lenses (one of which, er, sort of got lost on Thursday during an extremely drunken party with the hot Polish waitresses, but it's cool, I've got a backup set), or ensure that my makeup isn't all fubar, I do need to bring a few things extra with me.

So the smaller suitcase it is. Honestly, jeans are bulky. And I refuse to wear the same pair three days in a row, not with all the walking and stuff I know we'll be doing. But it'll be under 15 kilograms, whatever that means. Aside from two pairs of jeans, three shirts, a sweater, pajamas, underwear, socks, and a couple of bras...that's really it. I just bring the basics on makeup with me anyway: mascara, powder, cover-up, and lip gloss. As for hair product, it's a small tube. Ditto on deodorant and saline solution and that. I'm one of those women who can, in fact, pack for a week in ten minutes.

Oh, and my clothes never wrinkle. They wouldn't dream of it.

But it just can't fit into that carry-on. Fuck, they saw on the plane over here how it managed to barely contain my Laptop Of Evil And Freddie Mercury But Not Always Intersecting (lovingly named Crowley after the character in Good Omens, and shut up, I know I'm a dork) and a paperback.

Argh. Men.

And I'm living with one who decided he just had to buy a guitar. While he's good, and I enjoy his playing and singing, I can only listen to his Grateful Dead demonstration so many times before I want to put on Cyndi Lauper at full volume.

Weird things I've seen so far in my one day in Ireland.

2007-10-09T11:58:00.000-04:00

-A game show called "Countdown" that makes American game shows look even dumber than they really are. Even the losing contestant was about 129871872615 times smarter than a Jeopardy winner.

-Something called WKD Original Vodka Blue, which tastes like a melted Freeze Pop (the kind that come in those long plastic tubes) and makes me feel entirely too girly, but I didn't want to bother dragging a six-pack back with me. Way too sweet. Am dragging six-pack of Harp back next time.

-A pub advertising, "Beer - Wine - Spirits - Hangovers".

-A combination funeral home and pub.

-Ham in the supermarket that when cut into HAD A CLOWN FACE ON IT.

-Thai sweet chili and lemongrass Pringles. Which I bought.

Pet Peeve #2: Cowboy science fiction.

2007-10-06T11:47:00.000-04:00

Plans for 'Serenity 2' may be in the works.

I'm not a fan of science fiction, generally speaking. I do like the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series by Douglas Adams, but only because it makes me laugh out of its sheer absurdity. It's really the only sci-fi I've ever liked. I'm a self-professed geek, but not the kind that male geeks go for. I've never been into Star Trek or Star Wars or anything like that. I don't know how to program a computer. I don't care for video games. I'm not a Tolkien fanatic, though I did enjoy the Lord of the Rings movies immensely. I don't dress up to go to Harry Potter movies or book premieres. (But I do have to say, what the hell was up with that epilogue?) I've never in my life gone to a convention of any sort.

My brand of geekery lies, mainly, in literature. My bookshelf from Ikea is double-stacked with authors from Stephen King to Anne Rice to Oscar Wilde to Julius Caesar to Dante Alighieri to Jon Stewart to Margaret Mitchell to the Marquis de Sade. I have books on the Vietnam War, books on the history of rock music, books of Jim Morrison's poetry, books on Egyptian mythology, various cookbooks, books of lesbian pulp fiction from the 1950s and 1960s. I love to read, and I credit my mother with that. As soon as I was old enough to carry a stack of books, she immersed me in the world of the library. In the summertime, you could find me in the library every single day, picking out new and exciting authors. When I was twelve, I threw myself into Steinbeck and Faulkner and Fitzgerald; when I was fourteen I gave Ginsberg and Kerouac a try; when I was sixteen it was Rimbaud and Wilde who caught my attention. I consider myself well-read, and will always choose a book - any book, even a generic women's mystery novel - over just about anything else.

The one genre that has never caught my attention is that of science fiction and/or fantasy. Neil Gaiman is as close as I get to either, and the only Terry Pratchett book I've ever read and enjoyed was Good Omens, a collaboration with Gaiman.

So all this brings me to my pet peeve #2. My friends, for whatever reason, fucking adore Joss Whedon. I did too...when I was fifteen, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel were the only watchable shows on Tuesday nights. (Now I'm all about House, M.D.) I tried to watch Firefly, I really did. But it just annoyed the living shit out of me. I can't stand it. The dialogue was silly and filled with folksy, overly whimsical speech; there were no Asian actors despite the obsession with all things Chinese; the pairings bored me; the characters were all stock.

And my friends are in love with this show. Do we actually need a second Serenity movie?

Drives me crazy.

But it could be worse...I could have to hear about Doctor fucking Who ad nauseam. For now, I'll just take my copy of The Iliad and sit in the corner.

Impossible to please,
-Yerba Buena

My friends always end up with asswipes.

2007-10-04T22:21:00.000-04:00

I leave for my externship in Ireland on Monday. I have never been on a plane before, as I've never gone anywhere that warranted it, but I'm still nervous. I'm really more anxious about getting through security (though I have nothing to hide) and making sure I've got absolutely everything I need with me. I've been away from home for much longer than five weeks - my first year at The University I didn't go home until Thanksgiving - but I'm going to be overseas, which does worry me more than I'm trying to let on to anyone.

So much for being a tough bitch.

The last post I made on The Hippie was lighthearted and meant to amuse. That, actually, is the goal of my blog, even if nobody ever reads this thing. My life always sounds much more entertaining when I write it in this slightly detached style than it does when I complain about it in my LiveJournal, which is simultaneously the best and the worst invention of the technological age.

However, this post is going to be short and to the point, and not amusing in the slightest.

To be blunt, I'm worried for The Hippie. To elaborate, she recently dumped her boyfriend of six months - and for good reason: he's a lying, cheating son of a bitch and she can do a million times better.

The Hippie went home for the summer semester. I stayed on just to get things over with more quickly, as did quite a few of my friends and acquaintances. In mid-summer, her boyfriend, who will henceforth be known as Fuckhead, was out for over a week. I found out Monday morning from a girl who lived in the dorms that Fuckhead's four-year-old daughter had died in a car crash back in Oregon, where his ex-girlfriend lived with her new boyfriend. New boyfriend was allegedly driving the car, drunk, and the little girl was not restrained by a seatbelt.

Everyone felt sorry for Fuckhead. Word gets around fast in The College, and he was already well-known for various unsavory reasons. You wouldn't believe the amount of slack the various chef and academic instructors cut him. He flew back to Oregon for the funeral, and returned to much sympathy from everyone at The College.

Flash-forward to three weeks ago. Fuckhead gave The Hippie the password to his Myspace, asking her to change something for him, as he doesn't have a computer. She did, and of course found a new message from Fuckhead's ex-girlfriend. They had evidently been communicating for some time...about his daughter's entrance into kindergarten.

For some reason, she didn't dump him, though when I found out from a classmate last week, I was livid. I wanted his head on a stick. But what really made The Hippie ditch Fuckhead was the fact that she found out two days ago that he'd been cheating on her all summer long. And everyone in the dorms knew about it, too, but didn't bother telling The Hippie until just now. Which pissed me off quite royally; had I known any of this I would have gone to her straightaway. As far as his daughter being "dead" - the same classmate told me that he'd actually SEEN Fuckhead downtown, on the phone, telling The Hippie that he was in the limo on the way to the cemetery.

I was glad when she told me she'd broken up with him. She's a smart, pretty, very talented woman who deserves - and could get in a heartbeat - so much better than Fuckhead. And I told her so, in about as many words.

Now that I've thought about it, though, I'm starting to get scared. See, the reason Fuckhead is so well known at The College is because he's a notorious drunk. More accurately, he's a notoriously violent drunk. I don't think he would actually be stupid enough to come to the dorms and beat the fuck out of her (or worse), but anything can happen.

And I don't want my friend hurt. If anything happens to her, I'll kill him myself.

No witty sign-off,
-Yerba Buena

Pet Peeve #1

2007-09-29T11:16:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. I haven't posted in over a week. Not that anyone reads this thing, but I thought I should mention that I have been insanely busy between work and my two jobs, plus friend and relationship drama. Because of all that, I've been spending my free time either sleeping or at the gym.

Which brings me to today's post.

In January, my mother and I signed up to go to a certain gym for a year. I'm sure you're all familiar with this particular business, which caters solely to women and tends to use an awful lot of purple in their campaign. I really love it. I've gained muscle and lost about twenty inches overall, and I feel a lot better about myself. I'll never be a size four, but I do my best to eat healthy and get enough exercise.

I cannot stand going to the gym - which is where I go to get away from things - and having to dodge children. I don't hate children. I just don't want them running around my gym, which has lots of very enthusiastic and sweaty ladies operating heavy equipment.

And, no, Clueless Grandma, I did not find it cute that you allowed your three-year-old granddaughter to keep running up to you to show you the pictures she'd been drawing at the table in the back while a tech was attempting to sign up a new member at said table. I did not laugh when she pulled down a huge sign, because it was not amusing to me. I did not smile at her precious shrieks of "GRAMMA!" every five seconds.

Just because you find her the most adorable thing in the universe does not mean that I do. The gym is an adult space. I would prefer to keep it that way. And I resent that you imposed this not just on me, but also on the other women who were trying to have some time for themselves. Half an hour three times a week is all a lot of us get.

Next time, either leave the kid with someone else, or just don't come at all. Don't ruin it for the rest of us.

The health department will love this one.

2007-09-18T13:36:00.000-04:00

Remember Cletus? Well, he's at it again.

On Friday, Chef refused to put out Cletus' castle on the grounds that (and I quote directly) "it's an abomination and looks like shit." So in a huff, Cletus left and didn't bother to stick around to see the experimental new Friday lunch set-up the chefs all decided on. It was cute watching one group of freshmen attempt to make omelets to order, and the other set of freshmen attempt to make Caesar salad to order. Our mirrors looked pretty great, and a surprising amount of students took the food we had put out on them - which I have to admit, looked weird to those unschooled in the art of hors d'oeuvres.

This brings us to today, at the end of class. My group is the designated chefs du jour, and today we put out roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Not terribly adventurous, I'll grant you, but we made sure it tasted as good as it looked. I was pleased, and I think I'm still full from the potatoes.

You know the three-compartment sinks that can be found in any establishment from as basic as McDonald's to a restaurant as high-end as Les Halles in NYC? Washing station, rinsing station, and sanitizing station?

All three compartments in that sink are meant to be used.

That fucking moron Cletus decided that he wanted to get out of lab early so he could go play ping-pong over at the main building, so he started washing dishes like a dervish. Fine by me, because he hadn't done shit all day except mash potatoes with a giant whisk. (Which Other Girl and I actually cooked and put together and seasoned.) I went over to the sink to start grabbing stuff off the rack after it had been sanitized, and realized that Cletus was washing the dishes, but not bothering to rinse them before literally flinging them into the sanitizer sink. Hello, dirty soap scum.

I started off politely. "Dude, you need to rinse those."

"They're fine!"

"That soap water has bits of raw pork and chicken in it."

"The sanitizer gets it!"

"Not when there are ALSO bits of raw pork and chicken in the sanitizer sink."

"It's fine!"

"I know you want to get out of here, but you can do it fast or you can do it right."

"I AM doing it right!"

I knew I wasn't getting anywhere, and I was already pissed as hell because my entire right hand is covered in steam burns (nothing serious, just annoying) and I had been talked to all day by one group member like I'm afflicted with something chromosomal.

"Okay. You know what? YOU do it. If someone gets sick, we'll know who to blame." And then I walked off to get my stuff.

I think I hate this guy.

P.S. Good luck, V. I'm going to try something similar with Loritab and cheap rum to get rid of this headache.

Well, at least I write fluent English?

2007-09-13T20:18:00.000-04:00

A friend tipped me off to this website. I already work two jobs - one at the Hotel del Cielo, and one in my college's computer lab as a work-study. However, now that we are starting on the slow season at the Hotel del Cielo, I will be exceedingly bored at work, and with access to a laptop and free internet.

Yes. I just applied to become a sex chat operator.

Eh, what the hell. It's money, isn't it? Direct deposit would be even better so I don't have to explain the presence of a few extra bucks to the parents.

This is all contingent on if I'm actually hired. I'll see how it goes - or more accurately, I'll see if they hire my friend first. It can't really be all that hard. It just can't. I've been a pro at dirty talking since I was thirteen, for Christ's sake. I'm sort of hoping they take me. I'm a fast and accurate typist with a huge imagination. I could do well.

And besides, who doesn't want "sex chat operator" on his or her resume?

And you wonder why I drink.

2007-09-13T16:01:00.000-04:00

Currently I'm taking a break from making a dessert which is delicious when finished and plated on top of a doily, but which is a metric ton of pain-in-the-ass to make. I'm so covered in chocolate that I look like a refugee Oompa Loompa. I'm hoping there's a cocktail somewhere in all this when I finish, because I'm not doing this for nothing. (My parents are going to a party on Sunday and asked if I would concoct said dessert; like an idiot I said yes.) I seriously look forward to getting out of here so I can take my aggressions out at the gym. But I can't make myself get off the couch just yet.

In my Garde Manger class, we are divided into four groups. One group does the cooking so we can all consume something edible and not have to eat the freshman efforts at lunchtime. the other three work on their mirrors all week. One group does a galantine, another does a terrine, and the third does a pate. We're doing pate again this week.

It would figure that as we close the second week of a five-week rotation, I am already ready to commit homicide.

People say I talk a lot. It's true that I'm a bit of a motormouth. But Cletus? (Cletus is more appropriate than his real name.) He makes me look like fuckin' Silent Bob. I have never heard ANYONE talk so much in my entire life. He literally just vomits out words so he can hear the sound of his own voice. He'll make a joke, and it will be funny the first three times, but not the next three hundred. He's been rhyming the words "pate" and "shitty" for a week SOLID now, and will not stop singing the first lines of the chorus to the Who's "Baba O'Riley." He's a lazy sonofabitch and doesn't do a fucking thing except yak on and on and on and bother the teacher's assistant, who told him today to shut the fuck up. Repeatedly. The poor girl's trying to do very delicate work with aspic and truffle paste and carving and arranging for her own private project, and he won't leave her alone.

Finally I had such a headache this morning I told Cletus, "If you don't shut your goddamn mouth I will stab you."

"Yeah, well, I'm black, so it might not be a good idea." Evidently he thought I was joking.

I wasn't, and I stared him right in the face with what I hoped to be a sufficiently unpredictable expression as I toyed with my very sharp three-inch paring knife, leaning in close. "And I'm fucking crazy. You wanna take that chance?"

He shut up for about five minutes, which is the longest he's ever gone without speaking. And don't tell me to ignore him, because that just makes it worse. Chef notices, though. Mainly because Cletus, as I said, doesn't do anything. He took three days to finally get around to making his salt-dough castle sculpture. He whined and begged for everyone's help yesterday, so finally the other girl in my group helped him, while the other two men and I (who get along fabulously) ignored him as we put the final touches on our own already dry, already painted sculptures. He scrapped Other Girl's help anyway. I'm no artist, but if I had made a castle I don't think it would look like a box full of dildoes, painted all sorts of unnatural non-castley colors.

At least I'm not the only person who has issues with the moron. Today the Guy Who Never Says Anything yelled from the back of the room when Chef wasn't around, "Shut the fuck up, you idiot." A friend of mine, who is also in the class, expressed a desire to beat him unconscious with a rolling pin.

"But that's not really a permanent solution," I said. "What if we broke his jaw? By the time he got out of the hospital, lab would be over with."

Then we all agreed we should just knock his teeth out instead. Dentures are expensive, so there's a good chance he'd be out of commission until he could scrape up the money to get a set.

-Yerba Buena

I swear I wasn't even on drugs.

2007-09-09T07:29:00.000-04:00

I've mentioned the Hippie before, and now is as good a time as any to devote a post to her, seeing as how I am stuck at work doing yet another back-to-back shift. (Which is not the same as a double; a back-to-back means working swing the night before and returning for morning shift eight hours later.) I might as well at least take some action to keep myself awake, considering there is only one guest in the lobby having breakfast, and he's rather entranced by Fox News at the moment.

I met the Hippie during our first semester at The College, where we were forced to take a College Success class. This class mostly consisted of our insane professor who didn't actually teach us anything, but who told us stories about his even more insane white-trash family. We managed to make it through the class by sitting in the front row with her best friend Stoner Babe, who entertained us greatly with her spaced-out ruminations. Hippie and I found ourselves in the same Introduction to Baking class the next semester, and this precipitated our reputations with that chef as complete and utter idiots.

The Hippie is an extremely intelligent woman, and so am I. However, this meant absolutely jack shit when we ended up in the same group within the class, as put together, our IQs combined to approximate the girl versions of Charlie Gordon. We were fucking stupid. Everything made us laugh, and I do mean everything. We spent entire lab classes speaking entirely in Mitch Hedberg quotes. We sang Lynyrd Skynyrd. We stuck masking tape all over each other.

The second day of class, Hippie gigglingly called me over to the cylinder of baguette dough she was rolling out and said, "[Yerba], look!"

"What?"

Melodramatically, and nearly unable to speak from suppressing laughter, she whispered, "My baguette looks like a penis."

It did, and we both had to hold on to the work table for support. For some reason, our emotional intelligence dipped to twelve years old whenever we were together, and damn, was it funny to us. This isn't to say that we were slackers - we regularly produced more in two hours than the other two girls in our group produced in two days. But we were silly, and we knew it.

Another time the idiocy was my doing. It was infinitely more stupid than Hippie's penis joke. Oh, no, this involved making myself look like a complete retard in front of the chef, who now facepalms every time he sees me in the hallway.

We were putting together challah bread, which calls for egg yolks. Now, in most commercial operations, there isn't time to sit around separating eggs, so The College had provided us with cartons of liquid pasteurized egg yolks. This carton had been passed around the room already, and we were the last to get it. We ended up short by an ounce, and debated whether or not to just crack an egg or get another carton from somewhere, as the class would need it the next day anyway.

Asking the chef was the worst decision we ever made.

Hippie: "Chef, we're out of the liquid yolks, and we're wondering what's better, to crack an egg or find a carton from another lab."

Chef: "How short are you?"

Me: -blurting out- "I'm five foot one, why?"

Chef: -stares at me, clearly struggling not to reach out and put his hands around my neck- "Eggs. How short are you on eggs."

Hippie: -has fallen to the floor in hysterics-

Me: "Uh. Yeah. An ounce."

Chef: "Just crack an egg."

Me: "Okay."

Chef: -walks away, muttering about his fool students-

Hippie: -between gasps for air, still laughing- "Jeez, [Yerba]. You really blew that one."

The entire exchange earned me the nickname "Five foot one" with the Hippie, who nearly knocked me over last Tuesday when she saw me. We hadn't seen each other since the end of the spring semester, as she went home to the Midwest and I stayed to get another semester over with. The freshmen looked rather alarmed when I slung off my backpack and knife kit, narrowly avoiding hitting anyone with them, just before she tackled me.

Heh, freshmen. I hope one of them does something even dumber than I did so Chef might be able to forget the whole thing. Something tells me that he had to drink heavily at night when we were in his class.

Coffee is my back-to-back crack,
-Yerba Buena

Garde Manger...

2007-09-05T18:10:00.000-04:00

...or how I learned that a duck and a witch do not, in fact, weigh the same.

Yesterday I began a five-week course on Garde Manger. Our chef instructor is older than dirt and could very possibly stroke out on us at any moment, faceplanting right into a fresh batch of salt dough. However, this also means that he knows his shit. Fortunately, Chef does possess a sense of humor, which I also greatly appreciate. I firmly believe that to do well in the kitchen, a person must - above having raw talent, or a lot of book learning, or a title sewn onto your chef's whites for everyone to see - have a sense of humor.

You need to. Whether you're a sous chef, a saucier, or a prep cook and you fuck up - which happens way more than you think it does - you can't get angry. (Well, you can, but there is such a thing as healthy anger and needing an angioplasty after a mere six hours on the clock.) You also can't run to the walk-in freezer and have yourself a cry, either. The kitchen ain't for wussies, that's for damn sure.

Shit happens, and your only options are as follows, more or less in this order:
1) Correct the problem
2) Make a joke about it
3) Take a shot of your preferred fermented beverage
4) Move on to the next cover

In short, I really like this Chef. I've liked about half of them over the past four semesters. I was fortunate enough to have the same chef for both Introduction to Cooking and for Introduction to Baking. Unfortunately for him, my IQ dropped a good fifty points every time I was in his classroom. I'm also pretty sure I am never allowed to bake with Hippie (I will elaborate in a later post, because it's too funny not to write about) ever again due to our combined lack of intelligence, though separately we're quite intelligent. The chef I was unlucky enough to have during Advanced Cooking taught me literally nothing, and relegated me to side dishes, salads, and soups the entire time. I've learned more from watching Julia Child break down a chicken than I ever learned from him. For F&B Purchasing I had a good instructor, who wasn't a chef, but who understood that the class was basically bullshit. She let us go home when we'd gotten all the morning's work done. Then was last semester with Classical Pastries and Desserts. I guess that chef was pretty good, and she did know her shit. However, she was also a flake of the highest order and played favorites, eventually siding with a woman who was the laziest human being I've ever seen and who kept stealing the tools I had worked so hard at Hotel del Infierno to earn the money to buy.

Garde Manger interests me because even though I have very little real artistic ability (my friends make fun of my stick figures, for Chrissakes) or a desire to ever arrange platters for fancy-schmancy buffets, it gives me a lot of freedom. Never before in a lab class have I been instructed to come up with my own ideas. Sure, there was the Pastries "signature dessert" project, but I hate baking and I will now confess I just changed two ingredients out of a Cookin' in Brooklyn recipe (sorry, Alan) and handed it in along with my plated product.

Every Friday, each group must produce a mirror showpiecing their insanely complicated entree of the week. This week, my group has been assigned duck parfait, which is a fancier version of plain old pate. On this mirror will be arranged said parfait along with eight individual portions of a vegetable and a starch. There will be eight portions each of vegetable and starch, and it will be served cold, and each portion will weigh two ounces. Each item will look identical in both size and quality. In addition, there will be no smudges, no water droplet marks, no streaking, and no finger prints.

God, I love a challenge. We're thinking about doing taro root for the veg and stuffed grape leaves for the starch. I'll post about that - and the duck parfait - tomorrow, because by then it will be mostly finished and not quite so nebulous.

Off to consume nachos,
-Yerba Buena

If you ask me about the newspapers one more time...

2007-09-02T08:01:00.000-04:00

...I will make you eat them.

See that, there, on the table next to the lobby television? That, my little cabbages, is a stack of USA Today newspapers. I cannot fathom why on earth you would possibly want to read it, as truthfully it is the New York Times as put together by a special-education arts and crafts class at day camp. But it's free - oh, excuse me, "complimentary," as hotel parlance dictates - and we all know how much you love anything gratis. But this stack of brightly-colored charts and graphs and very large photographs is in plain view from where you are sitting in the breakfast area stuffing your face with cinnamon rolls.

Why, yes, I am currently working the morning shift after having staggered home from the swing shift approximately eight hours ago, why do you ask?

In truth, it's not so bad here. Even if I did just get interrupted writing this post by some woman calling to ask how many rooms people had reserved for her wedding next month. Honestly, it's eight o'clock in the morning on a Sunday. Shouldn't you be asleep? I have no way of knowing who's with your group and who isn't.

Ex-Coworker from the Hotel del Infierno amused me greatly with a tidbit of information this past week. You see, they fired the General Manager about a month ago, and the Front Office Manager decided to quit. Ex-Coworker says I would love the new General Manager, but I don't see it that way. Frankly, I am glad that I quit. I was there for two years, and that was two years too goddamned long. But due to all the laudatory things Ex-Coworker and Sales Director have apparently been saying about me, New GM has gotten it into his mind that he wants to try and hire me back.

Not for twenty dollars an hour, bub. Not no way, not no how.

It wasn't just the bad management there that I wanted to get away from; it was the guests. I'm not one of those customer service drones who bitches about having to actually do my job. But let me put the Hotel del Infierno into context. It's generally patronized by people on a budget: the military, truckers, the elderly, young families, and every desk clerk's nightmare: the Little Leaguers. And the Hotel del Infierno is also constructed in a way in which the corridors are outside, meaning that the desk cannot monitor anything that goes on unless they physically patrol the area - which, most times, is not at all possible because of the fact that the management frequently scheduled only one person to work per swing shift. One person cannot handle that much at once, especially not with all the paperwork we were forced to do during an eight-hour shift.

And then...there were the locals. Locals loved the Hotel del Infierno. It was fairly inexpensive, and even more so if you were savvy enough to grab a coupon book from the gas station nearby. You could pay with cash and not have to leave any sort of deposit. And due to its layout and the aforementioned outdoor corridors, you could pretty much get away with damn near anything. So we would have to rent rooms to crackheads, drunks, junkies, hookers, and teenagers who wanted to party. As long as you had a valid ID and enough cash to cover the room, we would have to rent to you - management wanted us to sell, sell, sell...even if it meant that housekeeping would have to spend two days cleaning a room after the locals got done with it. If they didn't have one of those godforsaken coupons, I would quote outrageous prices just to see if they would pay up. It got to the point where I could spot a local the second they drove up.

In comparison, the hotel where I work now is a fucking paradise. Renting to locals is highly discouraged, and the rates are kept high. Not obscenely high, but too high for a junkie who gets the notion into his head that he wants a suite, and we are not allowed to sell to anyone who is under the age of 21. Our primary clientele is comprised of business people, who generally stay during the week (when I don't work thanks to my school schedule) and who are repeat customers. We also get some military, plus government contractors. On the weekends it's a crapshoot, but usually it's older retired couples or families. At the Hotel del Infierno, I used to inwardly groan whenever I saw either coming, as I knew they would be cheap, rude, and impossibly demanding. But we seem to get a different sort here.

Of course, I've had my share of rude and irritating guests here, as that happens anywhere you work. (I'll save The Stoner in 233 for another time.) But the difference is, management will back me up 100%. They actually are in full possession of their backbones. And that's the reason I stay here instead of trying to find a restaurant job. It's not the higher pay, or that they let me goof around on my laptop when it's slow, or are very generous in granting requests off...it's that I know if I do something correctly and a guest decides to act like an asshole, management will quickly disabuse him or her of the notion that it is acceptable behavior, and reinforce whatever policy is being disputed.

Now...if I can just get it through housekeeping's head that we don't start until nine on Sundays, just like I have to do every single Sunday morning I work, everything will be gravy.

-Yerba Buena

2007-08-24T10:17:00.000-04:00

One good thing that has come out of The College's dickery is that I will be able to visit The Girlfriend before I leave for my externship. Yesterday I put in for a request off. I figure the weekend of the 21st might be good for that. It's easy enough to hop on a local-service Amtrak train and ride out to her own college, with a layover in D.C. It's cheap, too - I guess the Student Advantage card I purchased four years ago before I went off all excited to The University has come in handy.

I was talking about to my friend, whom I will call Anti-David, because while my friend writes for gay-themed publications, he does not in any way, shape, or form resemble David Sedaris, and would cheerfully dismantle your eyeballs with his red Sharpie if you made the comparison.

Anyway, I was talking to Anti-David about how odd it is that I'm so much older than The Girlfriend, and that all her friends want to meet me. (Lord only knows how much lying she's done to make me sound appealing.) I had a momentary freak-out due to a sudden mental image I had of my sitting on the floor of The Girlfriend's dorm room surrounded by bright-eyed idealistic freshmen, because seriously...at this point in my life, I'm pretty firmly anti-PC. I've already been there and done that with the 'hopes and dreams' route, and I find I have low tolerance for it in anyone these days.

I thought about it for a moment, these kids who now embody my worst nightmare, (Except for zombies. I hate zombies.) and then I had an epiphany.

"Man, do you realize what this means?" I asked Anti-David.

He didn't respond, mostly because I didn't give him the chance.

"I GET TO CRUSH THEIR SPIRITS," I announced gleefully.

-Yerba Buena

2007-08-23T15:04:00.000-04:00

Well. The College has decided that due to "issues", I will not be leaving for my externship until October 8, instead of the planned date of September 4.

I am supremely irritated by this. I suppose it wouldn't bother me quite as much if I hadn't already given my job at The Hotel del Cielo notice that I would be gone for the coming month and a week - spurring them to scramble to find a replacement desk clerk who can cover my absence. They've hired one already, but she won't start until next Saturday. I suppose now I will be able to train her. I must also rearrange my class schedule so that I can take Garde Manger during the first five weeks of this coming fall semester. This means that I will have to take an entire day to go downtown to The College and do it.

What a waste of a trip. A forty-minute drive into the city to sit in the registrar's office for five minutes. But perhaps I can give Financial Aid a kick in the ass while I'm at it.

I suppose what bothers me the most about this whole thing is that it doesn't just affect me. Two of my comrades from The College were supposed to have gone at the same time as I was, and they too have had to rearrange their lives, only to be told less than two weeks before the scheduled departure date, "Sorry! You have to wait!"

I just took in another application for the front desk as I was standing here writing this. The applicant's name is Velvetde. The great goddess Aset help us all.

And finally, a short note.

Dear Elderly Couple:

It's okay if our rates are too high for you. I understand that we are a bit more expensive than you are used to paying down south. However, muttering "I wanted to rent the room, not buy it," as you walk out does not endear you to me in the slightest. Had you not said that, I would cheerfully have directed you to a nearby hotel with lower rates. But you'll just have to drive around until you find something else, now won't you?

Sincerely,
Yerba Buena

Might as well start this thing off.

2007-08-21T01:05:00.000-04:00

I was inspired by my friend Xanath from Livejournal to start a blog. I haven't had one in nearly four years, but I've experienced a lot since then and I hope to be much less boring.

I was a teenager then, and let's face it - their blogs are usually about one thing: how hard their lives are. This blog is not about that. It may have the occasional rant, and it will probably be offensive to some at times due to my extreme inability to not voice an opinion, but it is not a space for me to whine and moan and bitch. I reserve that for my LJ, with its custom filters and friends-lock. What can I say? I don't like to expose my weaknesses if I can help it.

So I might begin by talking a bit about myself. I promise to be as concise as possible, but I think it won't happen.

I am in my early twenties and have lived on the Eastern Seaboard my whole life; the mid-Atlantic region is my home, aside from a brief stint in New York City during an attempt to attend college like a normal person. I wanted to be a journalist - which clearly, I am not - but it wasn't meant to be. I came home, diddy-bopped around for a while working full-time at a hotel with the world's most evil General Manager and Front Office Manager, (oh, the stories to come...) and tried to get my shit together.

My family life has always been centered around food. I don't mean that we are obese or overeat, but we love to prepare good, fresh, home cooked food, and we love to eat it (together, if possible). My father refused to get cable when I was a child, so I didn't have the Food Network. I had Julia Child, Jeff Smith, Martin Yan, Jacques Pepin, and Jacques Torres on PBS. As a child, I loved Sundays, aside from the church part, because it was the only day we were all home from work and school. We'd take the week to plan what we wanted to cook, buy the ingredients, consult recipes, and discuss it, and on Sunday after lunch, we would gather in the kitchen with country music playing on the radio to prepare everything. After we had finished as much as we could ahead of time, we would all go downstairs and watch these cooking shows, my brother and me with diet sodas and my parents with a glass of red wine. For as long as I can remember, our shelves have been crammed with cookbooks from around the world. One thing my parents are not and have never encouraged my brother or me to be is unadventurous.

What's the point of that little tableau I just clumsily depicted in the previous paragraph? It played a major part in my decision to attend culinary school. January 2006, having had enough of working for The Hotel del Infierno, I got to thinking about it. I've always loved to cook, and I'm told my cooking is pretty damned good. It's hard work, but it's the one place where my hands feel right. (They always have to be moving, which is in part why I am on the computer quite a bit, because I manage to keep busy typing.) I thought it over, and online, the application fee was waived - so I figured, what did I have to lose? I was accepted, and began working on my associate's degree in September of last year. I'll have it by December, in Professional Cooking and Baking. Sounds impressive, but I don't want to be a line cook for the rest of my life. Ultimately, I would love to write for Gourmet or Saveur, but I'll settle for at least running the show for a while. So after December, I'll be working on my bachelor's of science degree in Culinary Management.

One thing that appealed to me about this particular college was that if I kept a cumulative GPA of 3.5 or higher, I would be eligible to apply for an honors externship program on the Ireland campus in my fourth semester. I immediately made it my goal to bust my ass and earn a place in that program, I suppose to prove to myself and my extended relatives, who had all decided I was a complete loser for dropping out of college the first go round, and who had spent much of the year telling my mother what a wretched parent she was for allowing me to do so. I found out two weeks ago (because I am insane and attended full-time during summer semester while working two part-time jobs) that I had been accepted. I am not particularly articulate in real life - a friend of mine once called me "Dr. Reid in chef's whites" due to my tendency to babble like a moron at warp speed - and was sure I had blown the interview, I was so nervous.

I will be leaving in two weeks' time, and thankfully the State Department got their heads out of their collective asses and managed to send me my passport. I will do my best to post occasionally while I am in Ireland, but don't bet on it being anything other than photos and gushing about whatever side trip I'll be taking that week. I will be gone for five weeks, returning in mid-October to regular school life.

Okay. I went through the basics: food, school, location, and approximate age. Next I guess I'll talk a little more personally.

I smoke. Not anywhere near a pack a day, but face it, I'm not doing myself any favors, really. I have set a goal date of January 1, 2008 to quit. No nicotine patches or gum or support groups (especially not a support group, ugh); I'm just quitting. End of story. I also drink. Generally not often - I might have a beer or glass of wine with dinner, or a martini beforehand once or twice a week - but when I drink to get drunk, I get it done.

I have a girlfriend, whom I have been dating for two and a half months, and who will rather unoriginally be referred to henceforth as "The Girlfriend". The Girlfriend has just begun her first year of college and is adorably naive and liberal. I can forgive this because she's really, really cute. And also because she's the first girlfriend I've ever had who takes interest in me aside from my wallet and overwhelmingly stupid sense of generosity. I'm estimating it'll take about five semesters before she's just as cynical and intolerant of excessive political correctness as I am. But for now, I'm greatly enjoying her sweet nature. It's nice to be dating a chick who isn't massively fucked-up.

I have a best friend, who will be referred to as JD, because she drinks too much Tennessee whiskey for her own good. We've been best friends since our freshman year of high school. JD dates The Gnome, who is very short and an excellent lead guitarist for a very good band, even if the arrogant douchebag of a singer in his band is a complete tool who looks like Hot Topic's clearance bin exploded all over him. More on JD later; she warrants many of her own posts.

I work part-time for The Hotel del Cielo, named as such because it is a dream job. My managers are laid back, don't cuss you out for making mistakes, are great about granting days-off requests, and more often than not will join you for a smoke break outside. It is an easy job with very little paperwork, and really all that is required of me is to be polite and helpful. Otherwise, I basically get paid to watch television, take numerous smoke breaks, and fuck around on my laptop. Do I want to work there forever? Of course not. But in the three months I've been there I have not once had a stress-induced migraine, very much unlike The Hotel del Infierno.

I read. A lot. I'll read any book that I see laying around the house, and I will read it whether it's great, mediocre, or shit. My favorite authors include Oscar Wilde, Stephen King, Arthur Rimbaud, Dante Alighieri, Sarah Strohmeyer, Anthony Bourdain (a hero of mine for myriad reasons), and Neil Gaiman. I am eternally jealous that The Girlfriend has met the latter, and told her the next time she brings it up I will beat her like Ike beat Tina.

I practice an informal version of Kemetic Paganism, which is the worship of the ancient Egyptian pantheon. I am currently debating converting fully to Kemetic Orthodox, which would provide me with a sort of support network. As I am a recovering Catholic, this appeals to me greatly. I like ritual and structure and being made to study theology. I haven't begun following the gods and goddesses (particularly Aset, known commonly as Isis) out of a juvenile desire to be "different" or "edgy." It's been quite a personal revelation for me and I will not be discussing the intimate (and boring for most people) details of it. Never fear; I refuse to subject anyone reading this blog to long-winded, boring-ass details about whatever ritual I performed last night. There's plenty of that on the internet, thank you.

I think that's quite enough, considering it is now nearly 2:00 in the morning and I need to get up so I can go downtown to have the school make a copy of my passport and give me my plane tickets and last-minute shit. I know this was nowhere near concise, but I did try to give only the relevant background. My following posts should be far more entertaining.

If you read through all this...I'd say have a cookie, but those are only Mondays through Thursdays on second shift, and we only bake 36 of them. You missed it by a long shot, buddy - they were gone by 7:00.

-Yerba Buena