July 1st

July 1, 2010

It’s been a little more than a year since our arrival in New Orleans. Just before our first anniversary I spent 2 weeks in Mexico with my closest friend. Fully renewed --I desperately needed a break from my job, my man, my life and, as it turns out the city-- I returned with gusto. I was fully committed to look at things with fresh eyes, with high spirits and a positive attitude. That lasted about an hour. Literally.

A day later I had lost my job and fell back into depression. Try as I might my so-called world seemed to have a negative slant. Even the weight loss was sure to have experienced had actually been weight gain. I felt like shit all over again. I was a giant piece of depressing shit that was without a job or a clue. I did none of the things I said I would do. I did not write in my blog, read more books nor did I commit myself to an exercise regimen. Instead, I started smoking after quitting successfully for a year (the one thing I had been proud of myself for doing) and I drank as much or more than I had been.

I still struggle with the city --with my life-- but I suppose all of that is natural as a “middle aged” woman in a new city. Not long ago I was a young, thin, over-achieving professional with a thriving career . . . or so I thought. Maybe I gave up. Maybe I was pursuing something that I no longer felt challenged by. Maybe I wasn’t even doing the things that I should have been. Maybe I didn’t know what I wanted so I picked up impulsively, like I had some 17 years prior, and relocated somewhere new. Better or worse, it was new.

Recently, I’ve been taking it in better stride but that is only in great part due to the fact I have been virtually free of burden. Sure, I still have to pay the bills, cook most the meals, and do all of the laundry house work and domestic administrative work but I was doing that anyway while working 45 hours a week at a job that made me want to cut my throat – or yours. Whomever it seemed more convenient to take my rage out against. I will have to continue all of those things and I will eventually, sooner rather than later, have to find gainful (and hopefully meaningful) employment. But I feel more like things will come together – at least I feel more like they will more than I feel like they won’t. Here I am today doing my laundry across the street and for a change I felt like yelling at the nasty woman speaking down to the laundry assistant instead of the assistant herself. Note: I still felt like yelling at someone. But that too is improving.

I walk a little lighter these days (not literally as the weight loss still seems illusive) and occasionally with a smile on my face. I’m surprised when I notice it, (when I am smiling) because for the last few years I seem to do that only when I am in Mexico. I started wearing make-up and fixing my hair but often here in the heat, humidity, and heavy rain it is an exercise in futility. I suppose it is meaningful that I try.

I have cooked a lot this last year. That has been fun if not detrimental to my non-existent waist line. I still laugh at my sense of outrage when I feel my knowledge of food or its preparation is minimized by someone one – whether they are more or less knowing than I. And then I remind myself my scope is actually relatively small – my error numerous. (I can’t even begin to tell you how bad my hash browns were yesterday --HASHBROWNS for god sake-- all because I totally forgot to wash the starch free of the shreds and didn’t remember until it turned into a glutinous mucky mess. ) I still get embarrassed when I realize I have grown less smart and my vocabulary more narrow – especially after insisting to my friends that I am smart and vocabulary diverse. I still wish there were more hours in the day and that I was more motivated. I did, after all, spend tan entire day this last weekend in bed doing nothing more than eating and watching tv after having had a 3 day bender.
Sure, yesterday I had a grilled cheese sandwich made with fake cheese singles and too much ketchup for lunch. I smoked one cigarette (hey, only one today!) and I am going to go make myself a margarita in a few short minutes but, hey, I feel okay with it. Because, like I said, I am taking things in greater stride these days. I feel more like things will get better more than I feel like they could get worse.

Burning Down the House and Other Fat Tuesday Happenings.

While the air hung thick with Mardi Gras jubilation the last 2 weeks – that is to say it reeked of piss, puke, stale beer, and cigarettes – I was busy working my ass off. Mandated overtime at a rate of pay not even at half the rate of Federal minimum wage I was over Mardi Gras by the time I got my one day off. Fat Tuesday was a bust. I wasn’t feeling it; I was over it before it began.

The boyfriend had worked more hours than I with a job that actually had expectations and responsibilities so it was really a feat that he rose before I and made breakfast and bloodies to rouse me from slumber. We weren’t up late nor had we drunk exuberant amounts of alcohol but I just ain’t a morning person. I roared and growled and shushed him into submission – LEAVE ME BE. I finally got up and going around 9:30. Bloody in hand we headed to Canal to see if we could catch what would be our only real parade of the season for our very first Mardi Gras – on the very last day of the celebration.

The streets we already filled with drunken costumed belligerents who didn’t notice that they were bumping into me at every pass. They got in my pictures, stood in my way, blew smoke in my face. I hated them. Round one corner and on to Canal (finally) and there was dancing, grills on the sidewalk, and excited adults and children alike. I was tired, my feet hurt; I just wanted to find a place to park but I hadn’t found it yet. There was to be an intersection of 2 parades but where was it? We walked on.

When the sea of people went from white to black it was obvious we’d hit the crossroads of the two big parades of the day: Rex (the Klan-looking parade that has, since 1872, introducing the King & Queen of Carnival) and Zulu (the more festive and laid black counterpoint). We were there to watch Zulu. We wandered a bit farther looking for a place with a view.

As we walked on, I watched a crowd of coordinated peeps doing the electric slide in perfect harmony and I knew M, my bff, would have loved it. I was warming up to the idea of Mardi Gras but as I was not yet there. I drank my drink, I felt the warmth of the sun through my many layers and waited for the parade to commence.

It’s been years since I had seen a parade and it was strikingly different than those I’d attended up north as a kid. Parades there were no longer permitted to throw candy or toys and they were never for the amusement of adults. Here, on the other hand, the festivities were clearly enjoyed by all. We met tons of locals who had been in attendance for years if not decades and others whom had traveled short and long distances to partake. It was decided: It is the tourist who celebrated Mardi Gras all year long but it is the local who really (so it seemed to me) participates fully in the festivities in the weeks between the 12th day and Fat Tuesday.

The coveted token for today’s parade was the elusive coconut. Some seemed to have acquired ½ a dozen while others, like myself, received none. This parade stuff was serious shit. You had to be aggressive. There were strategies. There were bags and bags of shit to be caught and the crowds weren’t scared to bowl you over for it. While I found all of this amusing it wasn’t until the later part of the parade that I finally raised my hands and joined in, “throw me something mister.”

My bag and neck swelled with booty; my camera filled with images; but the one moment that would stick with me was this one little boy that sat on the shoulders of his father. He was adorable and probably no more than 4 years old. He was so excited as he and his extended family stood ready on the curb. As the parade began, his family and others that surrounded him would pass him a token: a necklace, a stuffed animal, a football. His arms out reached, he was smiling and having fun but his face lit up in a whole new way when he caught his very own necklace. I am moved to tears now just thinking of it – it was such a genuine and bright moment. This kid was so proud and so grateful. The sincerity in his voice when he thanked the thrower was unbelievable. It is difficult to explain just how moving this moment was. Words do no justice but in that instant, I got it. That was my highlight, my token, my golden coconut; I didn’t need anything else.

I grew tired of the crowd and the weight of our newly acquired junk so we headed home scavenging the now vacant streets for left over goods. We were still strikingly sober when we crossed paths with our neighbor. My failure to feel the festivities were still palpable (I was so tired and so sober) and D, my next door neighbor, eagerly fetched me a drink. He was a New Orleanian and was bound and determined to make the most of our day. We would intermittently hang out throughout the rest of the day and night as we watched ticker tape parades from our stoop, refilled our drinks, and danced at clubs down the street.

After a handful of cocktails I was starting to have fun. I guess alcohol is what one needs to “feel” the mood (and ignore the pain of my feet) and alcohol is what I had in great quantities. By 9 or 10 my alcohol induced whirl wind led me astray as I seemed to have lost my group. Lost or abandoned, I had headed out alone – and this was a bad idea. It is easy to get carried away here and literally as I would discover.

I pieced together the remainder of the night through pictures, hazy recollections, videos, news reports, and the feedback from of my drunken friends and boyfriend after a litany of questions. Here seems to be how the night concluded:

My neighbors and friends headed down Bourbon to partake in the fun on the street and in the clubs. I didn’t need any more booze but everyone seemed so eager to keep my glass full. And by everyone I mean any old friend or stranger who brought me a glass of anything. What did I care? I was having fun and keeping warm now that I was bundled up in my gorilla suit. (Hey, I finally wanted to dress up too!) Along with my suit I drug along several cameras and a large vintage blonde doll. I was so clever, I thought, I was King Kong. But I kept saying Godzilla because apparently King Kong was too difficult to remember. Now here is where it gets really fuzzy.

I’m not sure if I grew confused as to the location of my friends or if I just decided to head out on my own but I wandered off farther down the street. I was in a club – a gay club if I recall correctly – and while I danced with the crowd I seemed to have found a new friend. An unattractive 40-something man who had taken a liking to me. I distinctly remember trying to lose him in the club but there he was by my side on the street. I wasn’t sick but everything was whirling. Sights and sounds were twisting into one continuous blaze of color and noise – I knew I needed to get home. Again, I tried to ditch this guy but we were on Bourbon and I lived on Bourbon. Did I mention I was drunk? There weren’t a lot of clever tactics at this juncture.

I made it to my front stoop but couldn’t seem to find my keys. When I was found (thank god for the boyfriend who had gone looking for me shortly after my departure) I was drunkenly propped up against my fence with this man hovering above me. The boyfriend told him to scram. (I later discovered this dude’s number written on a piece of cardboard with my junk and he reportedly showed up at my work looking for me a couple of time later that week.) I was tucked into bed. End of Mardi Gras – and it should have been, but it wasn’t.

While I lay passed out inside, my next door neighbor’s house caught fire. A two alarm fire that took more than 20 minutes for cops or firemen to respond to. Delays were, in part, due to the festivities themselves but also thanks to some illegally parked cop cars blocking off Bourbon Street. A crowd grew as did the fire so my boyfriend and another neighbor took out garden hoses and began watering down the houses (ours and the neighbors). Neighbors were being called and doors were being kicked in as the entire block was being evacuated.

The boyfriend, playing the neighborhood hero, left me inside because, “I couldn’t wake you up.” He had left the side gate open and that is how the cops and gained entrance into my home. When he saw them going in, he quickly followed which led him to witness them reach for their guns as I sat up right in bed flipping them off with both hands yelling “fuck you assholes.” You see, I thought it was a joke – or a dream. Either way I had no idea what was going on. “Gentlemen,” he explained, “she’s loaded. Let me get her up.” Disgruntled, they let him give it a go and this time he was successful. I think they would have been happier cuffing and booking me as they did others in the area.

I was dragged outside and left with the other on-lookers. Others, as I mentioned, were getting arrested for one bullshit reason or another. Some snacked on late-night munchies from the Quarter Master. I was confused and crying as I thought MY house was on fire and the cold realization sunk in that I had grabbed nothing. I took nothing with me as we evacuated our home. Not a single fucking thing. In fact, I don’t think I even had shoes on.

You always think you know what you would grab but it hadn’t even crossed our minds. It did now. Oh fuck, I thought. I have no insurance. All my cash was inside. My computer, my things, my crap; all inside. I compiled a list in my head and when I saw the boyfriend again I told him to go get these things. I demanded, loudly in fact. When he refused and told me to shut up about the cash (because, hey, even the cops were likely to go in and steal it) I demanded that he give me his phone. Hysterically, I called my best friend and my sister. Fortunately, the later answered and talked me down.

If not for the fact that the fire occurred in a brick house the many wood houses that surrounded it surely would have caught flame too. In fact, coals had fallen on our roof which would later explain why I thought our house had caught fire (of course being engulfed in smoke while 2 cops roused me from a drunken slumber might have added to the confusion).

The neighbors and gawkers stood on the corner as the neighborhood filled with sirens and smoke. Drunk party-goers video-taped and commented much to the dislike of those of us that lived here (@ the conclusion of the video you can see my other next door neighbor yelling at the cameraman. Josh and Sam moved out less than a week later – they were done with the Quarter.) They extinguished the fire but not until the newly restored home had been completely gutted by the fire. We were eventually permitted back on the block. I didn’t go home. I was still freaking out and my friends tried to sooth me as I was tucked into their bed. They stayed up later still drinking; too adrenaline ridden to sleep. I slept there until about 5 am when I rose, finally remembering where I was and what had happened and went home. On the short walk my sinuses ached as they filled with the air that now hung heavy with the distinct smell of a fire: smoke, chard tinder, campfire and chemicals. The smell of Mardi Gras was no more.

Maybe next year I won’t drink so much. Maybe next year I will don a costume before a sun sets. . . . maybe next year my feet won’t hurt, the air won’t stink and I won’t wait until the last day to celebrate. Maybe next year a house won’t burn down.

April 14, 2004

I was reading an old notebook (I almost always carry one around) and I came across this note:

Jo –

You are (underlined) funny. (I’m guessing I was declaring that I was in fact funny after what was probably a poorly executed joke or saying something I found clever and none laughed.) Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. But, - you can tell Edward that I think he’s cute.

Don’t get me wrong – I think you’re (underlined) cute – and funny and . . . yes. .. you’re boobs are big and I do appreciate that but . . . well . . . you’re cute – Edward’s cute and I’m fairly cute so there it is . . . we’re all cute. Life is just fantastic – isn’t it? Enjoy!!

Written my someone named JP 4/13/04 at the Eagles Club (FYI – 3 for ones and a big gay bar)

On the next page I had another one of my lists.

Minnesota Things To Do:

1. Boundary Waters – International Falls
2. Gooseberry Falls
3. Duluth
4. Spam Museum
5. Wineries
6. Madeoline Island – Bayfield, WI

On the next page I had another list.

New Orleans, Louisiana

Pro:
1. Mardi Gras
2. Speak fucked-up French
3. Good temperature all year round
4. H20
5. Old City!/History
6. Food
7. Diversity of Culture
8. Cultural Attractions

Con:
1. Mardi Gras
2. Hurricanes – Humidity
3. High Crime (Potential)
4. Expensive?
5.



Not only did I think that it is hilarious that some 6 years later I’m basically the same person doing the same shit (which I think is funny shit by the way) but that I am actually able to make a plan – No, that I’m actually able to make things happen for myself. (That is, not that I even recalled having considered NOLA as a place to move prior to my impromptu decision last year.) I did 4 of the 6 MN things to do list (Spam museum and International Falls I’ve not yet visited) and I did move to NOLA.

So there you have it: you choose to be happy, you choose to do things for yourself and you choose the life you will lead even if you choose only tiny little things.

My current NOLA list is way different than that one (which reminds me to add “no water” on the "hate" side of my list) so I’ll get around to posting that one of these days too.

Turns out life really is kind of fantastic. Isn't it?

Hate This Job

Hate is a bit strong but I cannot understate the amount of disdain I have about most of the folks that I work with; selfish, self-absorbed bunch of queens and fag-hags. I haven’t been there for like 8 or 9 days now (except for when I went in 4 days ago to talk to a manager about being sick) and their first response when I approach the family meal table: Are you still sick?

Wait, I didn’t explain that correctly. They weren’t inquiring in a way that was like, “oh, you poor thing, are you still ill?” No, it was this: they leaned away from me and they covered themselves – if they acknowledged me at all. They weren’t joking or trying to be funny. Most of them just went about chatting amongst themselves.

I- in my still terribly horse voice- tried to make a joke like, “Hey, this is what happens when you ignore your sickness.” And in response to their self-serving inquiry I said, “Yes, I am still sick but I am not contagious – just riddled with infection.” I stood there not knowing how to even take their response (or lack thereof). Not a one of them wished me well or, “hope you feel better.” So I just walked out.

I hate my fucking job and the people I work with. No assurance, however, that it’ll be any better anywhere else. But for the record . . .

Get That Gorilla Off My Back

Oh shit, another year has passed and I’m lying in bed sick. Part of it self induced and, in part, due to my having ignored allergens and sickness to the point of no recovery; compound that with a lot of bad (by which I mean good) eating, a lot of drinking, in addition to a rapid suction of over-drinking while good, good friends were in town .. . Well, there ya go, sickness.



If you know me you know I don’t have a monkey on my back but a gorilla. Seriously (literally), a gorilla (suit) and on this fine weekend I had two. (If you are not familiar with the gorilla shenanigans, your loss for sure.) Although I promised I’d spend this self-induced sick time looking for a new job, I lied (just a little). I’m mixing my meds with a bloody (just one I swear!) and working on my cookbook round up for the year. So, I’m gonna hunker down and review my notes, ask around a little, reflect on my purchases and, if I get around to it, maybe take a peek at Craigslist.


Missing my M like chickens!

P.S. I don't know (not me!) who to blame for the blurry shot but that would be me and my bff with 2 of the cheffie types at the Bourbon House. It is not the first time this kitchen has seen the gorilla, but a first for the two.

All Super 6's Are Not Created Equal

Everything you ever needed to know about getting a cheap hotel room on a road trip

• Location is key but a dump is a dump is a dump – no matter how close to your attraction.

• Check on line: I found a differences of more than 100$ between the hotel’s site versus a discount (not to mention the crap prices they quote you in person). You can sometimes negotiate for web prices in person but not always.

• Amenity differences: Super 8's has a Kleenex dispenser by the sink and Motel 6, a bottle opener.

• Seriously, move away from the highway. If you’re forced to get a place cuz you’re gonna crash if you don’t at least request a room on the other side of the road or as far away from it as possible (and babies, and pools, and anyone likely to be hooking). Just a suggestion.

• Request to see a room before giving them any money. Make sure it’s actually the room you’ll be sleeping in. There are such things as decoy rooms.

• Would you like a diet cherry Fontana? Check out the vendi situation before you settle in for the night.

• Wi-Fi: if they don’t know what it is chances are they don’t have it. (In the case of Motel 6 they only certain rooms offer it and they may or may not require that you purchase a card for $3.99; if you stay at a few chances are the first one you bought will actually still work at the others).

• All confidence is lost when the GM of the hotel gives you the key to someone else’s room.

• Don’t look too closely – yes, I found a wall booger.

• Flip Flops – highly suggested!

• The check-out times are negotiable, especially if you’re checking in later. Have yet to talk someone into 5 o’clock but we did manage 3 o’clock once.

• Bring your own pillow.

• All Super 6’s are not created equally.

• Cleanliness is subjective.

• Mold, optional.

• Ditto on “non-smoking.” One non-smoking room came complete with ashtray and cigarette burns on the comforter. The topper: we had to sign an agreement that assesses a $175 fine if they decreed the room to have been smoked in.

• Alarm clocks grow scarcer the farther south you go.

• What about “DO NOT DISTURB” do you not understand?

• Even bad coffee (either in your room or in the lobby) can be better than no coffee. Never knew it but coffee houses can be scarce.

• Who cares if they offer free continental breakfast (cereal, stale donuts, canned fruit. . .) if you don’t rise before 10?

• Guess what, if you actually tip your housekeeper the room does get cleaner and they’re less likely to steal something from you. I’m just saying.



OK, it's not everything you need to know but it is a good primer.

Otherwise Known as Useless

Although it did my soul a world of good catching up with my BFF over the phone it nearly killed the rest of me. I couldn't tell you exactly how I got that drunk (OK, that's kind of obvious) or why I stayed up so long but come rising time I was a wreck.

I figured it was Monday and despite being stuck on a double it would be slow and my walking-dead status would go barely noticed. Au contraire, we were under staffed and very busy. We ran out of glasses, of silverware... 30 minute ticket times for burgers, I had a new serving partner - who is an idiot - and 35 covers all at the same time glaring at me in that way that says "where is my food you dumb bitch?" Compounded by the fact that was simultaneously still drunk and hung-over, I was doing lunch the hard way.

I managed to run into every corner, knock into every chair, pour wine onto the table instead of the glass, dump whole loaves of bread on the floor and drop a tray onto another server's head (don't ask I don't even know how I managed that one). After 5 hours of hell I walked with a measly 67 dollars. My head still hurt. I was starving and now terribly craving a burger - of which I sold probably 15 of the previous shift - go figure.

My meager hour and half break was spent with the in-law, my man, and my neighbor. Instead of that burger I got the left overs from their boring ham, brie and apple panini but - god help me - my man made me a spicy bloody mary. I was feeling better already. (The glass and half of wine helped too).

I literally ran back to work (damn, I gotta start doing some cardio!) to do it all over again. Dinner was really no easier than lunch and karma has a way of sneaking back up on you.. . Or, rather, a way of sending someone else to hit you in the face with a large tray of food. (Thanks, Evan).

6 and a half hours (and 25 dollars) later I took myself out for a burger and a bloody. Both were delicious.

Today I may have crossed the threshold from being a functional drunk to alcoholic. Oh well, I guess all there is to do is poor myself another drink. Which I did promptly.

A Love Letter to the Minneapolis Food Scene

Earlier this week we actually had some good ethnic food; a giant bowl of phở that warmed my heart as much as it did my belly. We also had a gloriously scented jasmine tea and a ho-hum bánh mì sandwich but it was the best Asian food we’d had in months in a kitchen other than our own. In a place where a firm percentage of the population is Vietnamese you’d think it not be the challenge that it is to have good, honest food prepared simply with the fresh ingredients that I know must be here. Alas, they seem to focus more on the sale of Sysco based GI-Chinese food that has failed us at every try.

With the success of our bowl of phở I was reminded of the many ethnic haunts we so regularly visited in Minneapolis. Never more than a bike ride away my craving for Thai or the like was quick to be satiated. Sadly, these days, there’s a lot of risk involved (Will this place be any good? Oh please let this place be good!) in addition to a journey that requires the commitment of time, a ferry or long winding bridge to somewhere unknown – typically, the trip requires all three.

Never were the (hunger) pangs of home sickness greater than today when I received my issue of Metro’s food issue. Although small in size, the food scene in Minneapolis is large in heart and diversity. I miss it deeply.

Having moved to a city whose culinary identity is vastly cliché and often poorly executed, I miss the authenticity and commitment to good food done well. I miss the fine food and friends I had come to take for granted in Minneapolis and St. Paul.

You’re in my heart, Twin Cities, but –unfortunately for me – not in my stomach.

What do you tell a woman with 2 black eyes?

… Nothing you haven’t told her twice before.

I have been walking around as the punch line to this joke for 5 days now and no one has said one word to me. Not one. Not my managers, nor my co-workers, nor anyone on the street. Not a single soul.

If I were in the Midwest dozens of people would have inquired; asked what happened, suggested I move into a shelter, offered me a place to stay with the assumption someone was beating me . . .

For the record: a freak baking accident where I dropped a heavy ball jar on my own nose. But still, not one inquiry?

Why Can’t You Get Along with Anyone?

I’ve been called “difficult” several times since our arrival here, particularly by real estate agents. It is not to say others haven’t thought the same elsewhere but the term “difficult” seems to be the term they fancy instead of calling someone a bitch. Additionally, I guess their idea of “reasonable” is different than mine and for that matter their idea of “move-in ready” is significantly different than our idea up north too but that’s hardly where the differences stop and start, but I digress.

After having looked at some 80 or so properties we finally decided on where we currently live. Our decision was in great part out of pure exhaustion: tired of looking, of negotiating, of having phone calls not returned… so here we were signing a lease with a pinched real estate agent that owned our soon to be home on Bourbon street. We were later warned she too was “difficult” but we’ve since found that out for ourselves.

2 weeks back we had a cold spell so we turned on the heater, discovering that it didn’t work properly. She argued with the Mr. about its working condition and why we would even have our heater on yet to which he replied, “I pay for it, what business is it of yours when I turn it on.” After much debate she finally agreed to have a repairman come take a look.

Upon her arrival her judgment and disdain was palpable although it wasn’t until after the heater repairman concluded their diagnostic that the disagreement ensued. (Fortunately, they had figured out the issue; according to Brigitte, there was no problem, in her opinion the heater was turning off because the apartment was up to temperature. There was no explaining to her that the apartment was 60 degrees and the heater was cranked to 85 …)

In her departure I brought up 2 other issues: the motor on the fan in the bathroom stopped working and the rosemary in the backyard was dying. It was then she begun lecturing and chastising me. For anyone who knows me they know I don’t take kindly to be talked at and I have a particular disdain for a demeaning tone.

Although I had agreed to care for the yard (grooming) despite receiving no compensation I concured with her statement that I had expressed an interest in maintaining the yard. (On our last chat however she had lectured me on watering the yard so which was it, am I to care for the yard or not?. Anyway, I stated very clearly that there was no way I was going to pay for soil replenishment, fertilizer or anything else that required out of pocket expenses on my end for her plants in a shared courtyard. Period. So, in punishment, she’s going to send in “her lady” who will severely cut back all of the plants. She does this twice a year and does nothing more to condition the plants, nor does she provide any on-going yard maintenance. She just whacks it down twice a year. So be it. Then there was the issue of the bathroom fan seizing up.

Instead of repairing it she askd, “Can’t you just open a window?”

“Brigitte, with it getting cold out I would prefer NOT to open the window.” I mean, really, the window is in the shower and the bathroom is all of 3 square feet, would you want to open the window?

I guess since she saw her side of the “conversation” as a lose-lose so she thought it an opportune time to discuss the "fact" that we're using the middle room as "storage." I told her it was none of her business what we did with the house…that I'm busy and haven't had a chance to figure it all out/decorate... she wanted (demanded numerous times in fact) to know what our "plan" was (Were we going to open a restaurant, rent a storage facility...?) and I told her it was none of her business and then told her she wasn't my mother so back off. My plan was, as I explained to her, to return her property to her in the same --if not better-- condition than we received it. She was concerned we were ruining the floor. . . How you stupid cow-pig? How would we being ruining the floor by having things on it?

"Do we not pay our rent?" I asked. "Do we not pay it in a timely fashion every month?" To both she responded yes yet was quick with a “but…” Then she berated me for the volume I was listening to PUBLIC FUCKING RADIO on the computer while I was doing my housework. She said she could hear it next door and "if someone was there..."

"Well, there isn’t anyone there now is there?" I added, "have you received any complaints? You see, we have wonderful relationships with our neighbors so I'm sure if there were a problem they'd say something to us."

I offered that if she were unhappy with our tenancy she could sever the lease and we'll move on. No, she said, she didn't want that but then complained that we were taking up more space than we should - with the Vespa and pots outside, etc. "All things," I pointed out "you, pre-approved prior to our tenancy."

Oh I hate the bitch and I thought the Mr. was gonna be mad at me but his only response was this: “Why can’t you get along with anyone?” That’s great, I thought, I stand up for myself and I’m the difficult one. Story of my fucking life. And then there was today . . .

I’d like to say it ended all sweet and she apologized but she came with her guns a blazing – actually more like quivery face and finger a waggin’. It’s not that I was likely to apologize (because I wouldn’t – I did nothing wrong) but I didn’t even have a chance to play nice, she just started right in. She literally came inside and started in on me; she was within 12 inches of my face with her finger in my in my eyeball telling me off and threatening to give us 30 days to move. I told her she needed to back up out of my face and step outside. I demanded it 3 or 4 times before she finally did.

I told her, "I’m standing here gargling in my residence minding my own business, how dare you come in here at speak to me like that. Now, step back and go outside where we can continue the conversation in a civilized manner as soon as (the Mr.) gets here.” She continued to try and argue with me even as she backed out. I shut the door on her not saying another word until my man arrived.

When he arrived she says, “I just had another lovely conversation with your wife.”

We tit and tat about some bullshit with the pots and some plants – petty bullshit really – but clearly she went home yesterday all worked up and tried to find something “legit” for her to berate me about. I again reiterated, this time directing it to the Mr. that I was not going to have someone in my face yelling at me. I re-enacted how she was behaving. The Mr. broke us up with a “now, ladies…” and I marched back inside. I didn’t slam a single door or blare my blasted public radio but I was seething. Once again I was being vilified for not tolerating someone else’s bad behavior. I guess I really infuriate people when they can’t win an argument with me. Maybe I am a little combative (OK, I am) but I will not be belittled and talked down to. Maybe I’m a little full of it, maybe I can’t get along with anyone?

She was kinder with the Mr. but still difficult – still argumentative and mentioned giving us 60 days to move. Good man that he is, my man made it clear that if SHE wanted us to move it would not be at our financial expense – if we moved she would be severing the lease and the penalties/losses would be hers and not ours. She then reconsidered, “can we be friends?”

“I don’t know, can we?” he joked. They shook hands and agreed that she and I would never again speak.

To pee or not to pee

As you can tell from my recent posts, after months of active searching, I finally secured a position. Finally. Don’t get too excited –I’m not—it’s as a fucking server. What I haven’t told you is how I ended up at this joint.

Le restaurant (not so cleverly) is really Le Meritage. After several interviews (see Another One Bites the Dust I & II) the chef offers me a spot on the team much to the chagrin of the cunt-faced manager who clearly disliked me. Come to think of it, I wasn’t so much offered the job but welcomed aboard as if there weren’t options (or a choice) on my part. In kind of a whirl wind I was shuffled to a terminal in a hallway to fill out an online application then into the HR manager’s office to sign away my life in the way of a background check and drug screening.

Although I’m a pretty good girl all considering, I find both a background checks (and some check your credit too – WTF!) and drug tests extremely intrusive. As a former manager I don’t frankly care what people do off the clock. On the clock is a different story but do you think, for example, the occasional marijuana consumption would actually impact someone’s ability to wait tables, cook a steak, or wash a dish? That’s right folks, all this hoop-jumping is for the great pleasure of severing food on a plate. Give me a fucking break. During my 2-hour stint at the clinic there were a handful of actually druggies and problem consumers parading in and out of the place. Here was one conversation:

Random 20-something black dude, "Hey, can I ask you a question."

Me, "Sure, shoot."

"Uh, I had a couple of drinks before work will they be able to tell?"

Me, "depends on what they're testing for."

him, "awe, shit."

Me, "awe shit maybe."

(Background conversation: breathalyzer test)

Me, "Dude, you're having a breath test?"

"Fuck, I dunno. What's that mean?"

Me, "Did you have an accident?"

"Fuck no!" "Well, it wasn't my fault."

There were a few other actual druggies that came in for regular screenings, a cold frigin’ nurse who practically ignored everyone and then there was the dude who nearly mislabeled the “tamper proof” containers that contained my blessed pee. So if the question is to pee or not to pee well I guess my answer was to pee cuz’ hey, I needed the job.

During my stay waiting to pee it was sunny our while I was trapped in one of a dozen of versions of hell. This one: a boring room with intermittently retards and druggies coming by to also piss in a cup and a blaring television parked on Fox news (more retards). I’d like to ad the folks that worked there weren’t all that bright either (hence the whole labeling near-snafu)). 2 hours and 2 liters of water the sun went behind dark clouds, I peed and I spent the next 30 minutes riding my bike home in the pouring rain. Totally fitting. In the meantime I was offered a position where I am currently at.

Having already gone to the trouble of peeing in the cup and all – and I actually preferred Meritage as the surroundings, food and wine were -hell, I might have actually learned something- I told my current employer I had another offer and needed a few days to consider. What I also needed was what kind of hours I’d be scheduled and at what pay; thus far they had been extremely elusive. And then I waited for 5 days.

At 4:45 on the 5th day the HR gal from Le Meritage left a message that declared I had passed on all counts and to give her a call by 5 or during business hours the next day. As it was 5:15 by the time I got the message I called the following day, and the next, and the next. I also tried to call the manager. No message was returned. As a last attempt I e-mailed the chef. He was, after all, my first point of contact and he is the man in charge of the entire food & beverage program. Here’s what I wrote:


Chef Farrell:

Good afternoon. I read your review last week; congratulations to you and your staff.

I trust you are very busy so I'll get to the point: I have been unable to touch base with Ms. Smith regarding orientation, training and scheduling. Cindy has received confirmation on my background check and screening but I do not yet have a start date nor have my scheduling inquiries been addressed.

While I understand the protocol of the training regimen and that shifts may change due to the demands of business, the number of "scheduled shifts" for a typical work week has not been clearly outlined. I am certainly eager to join your team; however, for my own financial stability it is necessary that I have some comprehension of the base hourly commitment. Since last we spoke, I have been offered a position that guarantees 7-8 shifts per week and, while it is my preference to be a part of your organization, I need to move forward in my decision for employment.

Thank you for your time.



Again, there was no response. After waiting one more day I contacted the GM from the other place and accepted the position. It took several months and more than a dozen interviews to land this gig so I figured, despite my apprehension (rightly deserved by the way), I oughtta get back to work and finally start making some money.

P.S. In case you were wondering, I hate my job.

The Job, Day 2:

So I punch in for my 6:15 shift and my trainer is nowhere to be found. Sometime after the scheduled in-time she’s on the floor but not yet changed into uniform. She’s busy venting about the boyfriend. She proceeds to tell me it’s an awful day for me to be working with her because she’s not in a good mood, not in the mood for it, and they have a party so I won’t even learn anything. Well she was right about me not learning anything.

In retrospect maybe I did learn something. Let’s review:
• My trainer speaks Italian (because she lived there), some French and a little German so she likes to talk to foreigners to practice.
• My trainer is an awesome beverage sales person, if she says so herself.
• My trainer doesn’t follow most of the rules – but I should. Whatever those rules happen to be; I wouldn’t know because she and her partner actually exhibited very few of the standard protocols.
• My trainer used to manage there.
• My trainer can eat bread all night there but apparently eating butter with that bread is a fire-able offense.
• The chef is a yeller.
• The manager is a greasy haired slovenly dressed woman who also likes to yell.
• We’re not supposed to leave a tray on the tray jack; that’s one of the MOD’s pet peeves. I learned that when she snapped at me, otherwise known as the first time she talked to me.
• My co-workers are nice but are both LAZY and sloppy.
• Latin dishwashers are all the same – everywhere.
• I hate my job.

Truthfully, it took everything in me to not walk out. It was simply the most unprofessional rag-tag bullshit I’ve experienced in decades. It is the worst training program I’ve ever gone through. The “team” does whatever they want whenever they want to and unless you are un-liked it’s mostly tolerated. I will likely be un-liked by the cool kids because I didn’t hit it off with my trainer. She’s nice but if she put even as much energy into actually training me as she put into telling me how badly she did train me (“but I swear, I’m usually a really good trainer; I used to be the training manager here.”) I might have actually learned something. The bad experience was not reserved just for today; it was not just a fluke.

Yesterday, I personally witnessed 14 customers walk out the door because of the hosts’ attitude. They couldn’t be bothered to invite them in to the bar for a drink while they waited for the table. The standard response was “it’ll be 30 minutes for a table,” when really it was more like 10 – tables just needed to be reset. I haven’t seen one real professional there in any capacity. Every pork chop was burned (the chime was totally blackened presumably because it was too much work to cover the bone with a little foil), every plate had slop and finger prints all over it. The asparagus was sprayed with baking spray and what the menu merchandised as “wood fire grilled” is totally gas; the sauces were squiggled from a squeeze bottle, and every single plate presentation was circa 1980 – at best. Menus were dirty, the staff was greasy, decorative shit on the wall were broken, and the kitchen was filthy.

Today I almost . . .

Today I almost became a bartender. After heavy consideration I thought it a bad idea - a really bad idea. For a grand sum of $8-8.50/hr the responsibility of supervising far more experienced and tenured high-volume bartenders seemed a joke. Why bother humiliating myself? I should mention my man works at the same place so why risk humiliating him too? To be kind, I wouldn’t make for a good high-volume bartender and this place does 500 – 1000 covers a day in season. I really hope I don't close the door for good by passing on the position (they were "just trying" to get me into the organization to see how we jived and maybe –just maybe—it would turn into something else) but I think I would have only made myself look like a fool. I haven’t bartended for like a decade and I was only OK at it then. (My motto was if you didn’t know what went in your drink than you shouldn’t be drinking it; aka: I wore a tight t-shirt and sold a lot of beer, vodka tonics, etc.) I can't remember what goes into cocktails and I don't even like making my own drinks - I like having them made for me. I sucked it up though and made one pre-work drink while I wrote a draft of my refusal e-mail. This sucks.


My life sucks.


I hope your life is going better.

Cheers to that.

Well my orientation and first training shift are officially over. I’ll have to pause a moment because I need a drink. A big tall double-strong drink before I go any further.

OK, much better.

It was neither my worst nor best experience but let’s just say train wreck bears a striking resemblance to their training program and their whole way of doing things. For down south I presume its status quo. Well that’s what happens when the owner promotes his little girl to AGM. You know like, she’s like worked practically like every position and, ya know, like worked her way up…she’s been managing 1 year now ( of her whole 25 years of life) and she couldn’t even tell you what the training wage (aka minimum wage) is. She’s like, ya know, dumb.

It sucks to be treated like a subordinate (Oh, that’s right, I AM a subordinate) when you know you are more talented, more qualified than your superiors. But that’s neither here nor there. I am what I am. For now.

The staff was really pretty nice a great deal of them are new and barely knew more than us (there’s Tommy, the 21 one year old dudette from Florida that I’m training with). I can see why they’re at a loss from their training program. As a training specialist it was silently killing me. That said, I should totally know everything, right? Well, I have no retention for liquor and wine info. We’ll see how that goes. Then there’s the computer system; 9 times out of ten they’re programmed in some dumb way so that’s always a struggle too. I’ll just have to work through it. That’s what servers do. UHG!

I have an interview of sorts tomorrow. We’ll see what comes of that. Maybe I’ll get a chance to be something else. Cheers to that.

What am I?

So I got a damn job and let me tell you I ain’t all that happy about it. I found out yesterday. About 2 hours before Walmart closed (yes, they close here – not the 24 hour gig they got up north) which is where I ran to buy my work pants. Let’s just say it’s where the big girls shop and I ain’t all too happy about that either. I was writing about how I ended up at this job when I got bored with it and decided to rant about the last few days. The new gig starts today at 3. I’m ever so NOT happy about it but that story is for another day.

Let’s see, hmmm… I’ve been reading this book “Everything I want to do is Illegal” by Joel Salatin which has really been making my head spin. Farm policy, what a mess.. I thought I was a libertarian for a few days. The author presents things so logically, so passionately that you can’t help but find yourself taking his point of view on for yourself, but the last few chapters (I’m on like chapter 24 for now - I’m finally nearing the end, thank Joel’s god!) he’s been on this anti-pro-choice pro- god kick that is really irritating me. The whole fucking book is really interesting (as nutty as he can be) and highlights the profoundly ridiculous legislation on farming policy not to mention how fucked up the USDA is but his penchant for the Lincoln-Douglas debate style has him leaning on one radical example after another to prove his point. In hind sight, I realized it’s easy to use the periphery the skew the view but it’s the totality of the situation that OUGHT to be considered but I digress. While I’ll concede to wanting less government I can’t say what the fuck I am. But I thought I might be a libertarian for a few days there, I really thought I might be; he was making so much sense; it seemed logical to jump to some radical conclusions. Not that he is a libertarian, I don’t know what the fuck he is, but I just thought maybe I was leaning in that direction. Sleep deprivation has its way with you sometimes; it made for a few interesting conversations on facebook so there you go. The libertarian bullshit aside, I became more committed to our food ideas but somehow ended up buying a rib-eye and some bakers at Walmart last night. Poverty and convenience has its way with you too.

We both knew better but 2 gut aches and 1 flavorless meal later we were reminded about how important it is to know where your food source is, how it is cared for and where/how it is processed. Despite some fucking dumb-ass article I read about New Orleans being the most “local” in its food (WHAT A FUCKING JOKE – with Sysco calling the shots in a majority of the restaurants, shit like Chinese crawfish, and hit restaurants like Stella sourcing nothing but the shrimp from the area – GIVE ME A BREAK) sourcing clean and local is a real struggle we’ve been having here. The New Orlineans have good propaganda though, I’ll give them that.

Anyway, we’ve really been having a hard time sourcing but we keep trying. Yesterday’s effort landed us at a “butcher” that was smack dab in the middle of a ghetto convenient store that sold more Mad Dog 20/20 than anyone should (it was kind of prettily displayed in all its colorful glory right alongside the pickled hogs feet and car oil). There was actually a sizeable meat counter tucked in the back corner right behind a Crispy Crunch fried chicken chain and they had decent prices but all of the meat was frozen and clearly poorly handled. My favorite family value pack included pickled parts and 2 gallons of fruit punch among the other offerings – hilarious and sad all in one. It was frightening. Boy do I miss our Clancy’s meat market. We really took for granted our nice little local food scene. J had a good blog title idea yesterday: My Blog, A Tale of Two Cities. ‘Cuz folks, I’m here to tell you Minneapolis and New Orleans could not be more different.


What else? Well, our new friend/neighbor is a closeted gay man with a real (and by real I mean HUGE) penchant for the drink. Now, don’t get me wrong there’s nothing wrong with that in my book unless your life starts interfering with my life but it also turns out he’s a raging racist. How one persecuted minority group can talk such hate about another is beyond me but I’ve really had it with his use of “darkies.” If he keeps this up I might just have to steal all his booze and show up on his door step with every person of color I know just to making him palpably nervous. Jesus Christ, he’s been living in Chicago for the last 17 years didn’t he acclimate at all?

Other highlights of my week include: hanging out with my homeless friend who was gonna play me ‘cuz he thought I was some tourist from New York, being asked out for drinks by an old man who was so drunk he could barely keep his eyes open (note: he was wearing overalls, was missing most of his teeth, and had those icky white chalky spiddles in the corner of his mouth.), an entire day of non-adventure while trying to “make something happen,” mysteriously losing the first job offer that was made to me, making shitty-ass ravioli and making a proclamation to attach everything I own to the walls because it isn’t gonna fit anywhere else.

When I first wrote this it was 3 am. I was wide awake and dreading tomorrow (today) with every ounce of my being ‘cuz I am for damn sure not happy about where things are headed. I have a Walmart steak in my gut, I share a wall with a racist and while not a libertarian I am not one step further in defining who I really am and how I’m gonna live the life I want to be living. But I guess, starting today, I am a server and a 36 year old one at that.

Desperate Times call for Desperate Measures

Desperate times call for desperate measures, sure, but I seem to lack the momentum to really push – push hard to open all doors. Currently I’ve only managed to nudge open a few windows –actually little doggie doors seems more like it-- to wait tables and those prospects seem luke-warm at best (hey it could be worse, I could be working at Bubba Gumps. Mr. Mister, on the other hand, has had a full-fledge resurgence of renewed strength and has done a few courageous things that are worth noting. To be honest, my man has approached this whole employment fiasco with much more aplomb than myself but that, however, may not land him a job either. Regardless, his gusto should be applauded and a few of his braver recent moments are shared here.

#1: Putting aside all ego the Mr. decided to discover for himself why he had not been called back by Bacco restaurant. He’d applied on more than one occasion (there had been a few Craigslist posts) but had not heard from anyone. This being a common occurrence I was quick to write it off; The Mr., on the other hand, got a burr up his bum and marched in there between services and requested to speak to the chef. As it turned out, the chef had not seen his resume (instead the HR gal had riffled through them and decided for herself which ones the chef should review). He interviewed very well and was asked to perform a stage the next day (working interview). Again, he performed another non-paying 13 hour shift. He also staged at a sister restaurant—providing 2 more 12 hour free shifts for which he was offered a poorly paid non-management position—but has not since heard back from either establishment. In fact, unlike any other stage, he was rushed out the door by the chef de cuisine at Bacco with a forced 20 in his hand. OK, so I guess I lied about the not being paid part but, seriously, he’s never seen a dime before and the twenty , he said, felt more like a bribe to never, ever come back.

#2: When we first moved here we met this guy from the Chicago area who was a chef (is a “chef” actually, but more of a paper pusher short as of current). Anyway, this guy was very nice and suggested he and the Mr. go for a drink one of these days . . . the Mr. staged there for two nights a few months back (yup, 2 more of those non-paying gigs) but wasn’t even so much as offered a job because: 1. He was over qualified, 2. “a different caliber of cook” and 3. too expensive; not that money was even discussed. Anyway, following the outing a few weeks back an interesting, albeit vague, proposition emerged. A nice hourly compensation was finally negotiated but no real impetus as to what either party would be getting out of it nor any time-line for assessment, promotion, etc. Hmmmm, it was a bold ego humbling move and a strong negotiation, but for what? That is still to be determined but the Mr. made one courageous move that will remain an infamous story in our collective history.

#3: My BFF graciously purchased the new John Besh cookbook for my birthday. It’s a pretty sexy little number but what I hadn’t realized (besides the fact that the delivery dudes here are morons and chuck all packages over the 12 foot gateway into the alley) was that we were in receipt of an early addition.
Since we had recently begun the tradition of collecting autographs in our cook and food-related books my man suggested that I have Besh autograph my book. Although I love the idea of a signature I HATE succumbing to the “celebrity chefs” of the world and participating in the fodder that swells their already massive egos. Since I had just read about Besh’s appearance-to-be at the coming weekend’s seafood festival I was quick to throw the ball back in my man’s court.

“You,” I asserted, “should go down and solicit the autograph and use it as an excuse to present your resume to him directly.”

Wait. Let me back up. The Mr. staged for August way back in like August. Yeah, that was it, I remember thinking it was cute or ironic that he was interviewing for August in August. Anyway, it all went well until his 26 year-old chef de cuisine and/or his 22 year-old sous chefs cock-blocked him (or whatever who can really tell what happened because nothing, thus far, has made any sense to me in our employment pursuits down here). My Mr. really wanted to work there so, initially, he was crushed. He went from being warmly received to being coldly dismissed. No explanation, no follow up just a “don’t call us we’ll call you” blasé blasé e-mail after following up with the director of operations; whom he’d met and had had many correspondence with prior. He went from being cherry-plucked from 300 applicants to not so much as even being considered for ANY of the dozens of positions open in the quickly proliferating Besh group—mind you my man has 23 years experience. Restaurant politics can suck it.

Any hoo, Mr was able to set that aside (don’t know if I could) and decided without so much as a flinch that he would do it; he would present his resume to the man himself. He’d heard, after all, that Chef Besh liked dynamic people. That was dynamic, right?

“What time is he on?” the Mr. asked. (We both thought it was sometime on Saturday, the following day.)

“Oh, I don’t remember. Let me look.” And I did, kind of lackadaisically. “Oh, hell, he was on like 15 minutes ago.” Without skipping a beat, the man grabbed his helmet, his resume, a kiss and headed out the door.

While I didn’t attend (I was still in my jammies), this is what was reported:

The Mr. scooted down to the festival sight not knowing exactly where the festival nor where the demonstration sight was. He headed toward Harrah’s casino knowing it was in that general area. Since he was on the Vespa –and this is the beauty of the thing—he just started darting in and out of the place looking for some sign of where the big-shot chef might be. Lo and behold chef Besh wasn’t even on yet; in fact, he saw him outside drinking a beer with one of his subordinates. Excited, he forgot to even turn off the damn Vespa before heading over (and then he realized and went and grabbed the damn keys).

He approached, introduced himself and asked if he (Besh) might do him a favor.

“I’m a big fan and I wondered if you might sign this for me.”

A look of shock came over Besh’s face, “Where’d you get this . . . it’s not been released yet.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way. Actually, a friend sent it to me in the mail.”

“Huh, you must have good friends.”

“Yes, I do.”

Besh went to open the book to where an author might typically autograph it (one of his first autographs we later thought). “Awwe, what’s that?” My man playfully asked, “Oh my, my resume. Hmmm, how’d that get there? What blatant self promotion. Tisk, tisk; shame on me. (A few smiles, a little chuckle.) Well, since it’s already in your hand you might aas well keep that copy for yourself.”

“So, where’d you come from?”

“Minneapolis.”

“Yeah? Who’d you work for?”

“Jean Georges.”

A tiny bell of familiarity appeared to strike him. “Didn’t you interview or…”

“Yeah, I did …” My man gave a brief yeah I did, not sure what happened, would really like to work for you, heard you like out-going individuals, etc, etc. And then he shook his hand, tossed the book in his backpack and left almost as quickly as he’d arrived. He didn’t want to appear as if he were stalking the guy or anything but he’d done what he’d set out to do and I was proud of him for having done it.

My Northern Order

When I lived up north we were always hankering for some fried chicken. Now that we have it whenever the mood strikes us there are plenty of things we wish we had while down here. I've been thinking about this for awhile now.

Here is my northern order which includes all the things I can't get and am desperately missing (in no particular order):

• 1 case of Gazella – OK, 6 cases just to tide me over for a bit. In my opinion, the wine selection here kind of sucks with but a few (if any) vino verde offerings. Like many things, the shit they have is outdated.

• Dorthy Lynch – made in Nebraska this sweet western-style dressing is nowhere to be found.

• That f#@!n’ lavosh sandwich from Holly Land – the special ones that white people have to convince them that it is in fact the actual sandwich they want!

• Lu’s sour pork bahn mi. Make that a dozen to go.

• The Hmong market – especially the delightfully spicy papaya salad with purple sticky rice and their ribs. I really miss those. They’ve never heard of Hmong people down here let alone their distinctive cuisine. Hell, they think the Vietnamese here are Chinese and the Hondurans are Mexican.

• King and I’s #34 – Cashew Chicken in hot pepper sauce (and their calamari with extra dipping sauce!) I seriously have loved this dish for like a decade and I’m super fond of the coconut, tomato, shrimp soup too. Mmmmm, it is so delicious and perfect for cold weather. Not that we have any cold weather here thus far – HAHAHAHAHAH

• Lamb bacon BLT. That mo fo Sameh ought to f#@%! Over night us some – or the damn recipe at least! For that matter his peeps oughtta friggin inundate the market here with their hummus and stuff cuz the ready-made shit here is crap-olla! And there’s like only one Middle-Eastern grocery retailer and it’s half-ass at best. Can we import a Holy Land for the southern market, please?

• Uh, how about a friggin’ co-op. Seriously, they don’t exist here and I’d take even MN’s crappiest. But the Wedge or that shiny fancy one you worked out would do nicely.

• A REAL farmer’s market. You have no idea what you’re missing once you’re missing it. OK, I knew it was great but I actually (naively) thought it would be better here. NOT!!!

• Just one will do but I did oh so love that croquet madame at Vincent.

• 5$ Pho. The stuff exists here but it over priced and not quite as good.

• The Chef Shack should certainly do a tour of the south too. I’m just saying.

• Minnesota sweet corn. That 1$ an ear, Texas bi-color corn is nothing compared to our sweet, sweet Mn.

• Lenny Russo should so come down here and kick some sense(I was gonna say kick some teeth out but many a folk here are already without) into these peeps about local, seasonal, sustainable. Really. Are you fucking kidding me with the canned Sycso shit? OK, Brenda or Lucia would do nicely too but I always appreciate Lenny’s totally articulate bereavement.

OK, I quit now. I’m sure there is more so consider this part one of my order.

Welcome to my life, a quick recap

Since my last posting there have been a few incident of note but I’ve been too busy to share them here. Although I will certainly recant those experiences (some good some not so good) let me just give you a quick recap of my month so far:

• We’ve received 2 tickets and the car was towed; one ticket was rescinded (after 2 visits to the court house, a video, a letter, and pictures) saving us 40$ we didn’t have.

• We’ve been audited; now owing an additional 200 bucks in one month’s time.

• I’ve had 2 serious financial meltdowns after performing minor clerical errors with our multiple checking and credit card accounts.

• We have walked out of no fewer than 5 restaurants because of the service.

• I’ve applied to 23 more jobs and have had 6 interviews; Mr. Man has serendipitously donated another 36 + hours of free labor for jobs he’ll likely never get and/or accept due to poor wage compensation.

• I was offered one serving position at le restaurant. I have already submitted to the background check and will comply with the mandatory drug test this afternoon. For the record: I consider both huge invasions of privacy. Let’s remember folks, this is a serving position. * At the age of 30 I quit what I would have referred to as my last serving job because I “didn’t want to be a 30-year-old server.” Maybe at 40 I can revisit that notion.

• I’ve been hit on by a late forty-something goober on the street (invited me to breakfast some day), a toothless half-in-the-bag “professional painter” at the Laundromat, and a 66 year old gypsy who’s just returned to the states after 2 heart attacks. Although he still had his teeth, they were grayed by a 3 pack, bottle of whisky a day habit (which is, according to him, his medicine). Let’s not forget the giant, greasy red neck who stopped his car to ogle and proclaim “you look good” (infer hillbilly dipshit accent and gapping mouth) and the twenty-something boy I thought had been flirting with me. He, I might add, turned out to be gay and is more likely to hit on my man than on myself.

• I visited a convent.

These, my friends, are the moments of my life in the few weeks following my 36th birthday. Happy fucking birthday to me indeed.

Another One Bites the Dust - Part Two

After two reschedules I make it back into –let’s call it le restaurant—to meet with the chef (who is the man in charge there) and little miss sweater set.

I opted to play down the interview attire (like my resume) knowing full well that if I show up in a suit I would be far better dressed than le manager who already doesn’t like me. A simple purple wrap dress will do.

I check in with the front desk and I have to wait 20 minutes before she arrives. I am escorted back to the private dining room where I had my first two interviews. She informs me we’ll have to reschedule again. She already rescheduled twice over the phone but was apparently too important to do me the courtesy of calling me that day. I’m told the chef is out with the flu and, per Doctor’s orders, is not permitted to return to work for a week. But then states she’d like me to meet with him and herself on Thursday – not of next week but 2 days from now (today). Huh? How’s that work? She further notes that they would like me to start ASAP but that I have to meet with them again and then with the GM and then a drug test.

Time out. I have already met with her and the chef. I could have totally met with GM Tuesday, the day she had me come in for the non-interview. I can take the stupid drug test when ever. I’ll pee in her hand right now if that would suffice. But why the fuck is she wasting my time?

Before I leave she adds that there are a few ”snarky” (or something like that) college kids that work there. Would I be OK working with them she asks. I try to make light of it; I add that I like to think I'm mature enough to be above it. What I really think is that if they’re “difficult” or “miss behaved” shouldn’t she, as the manager, take action? I don’t know, shouldn’t she manage her people? Damn, I wish I could remember exactly how she put it. It was ridiculous and just like I didn’t know why I was there I didn’t know what her point was.

Now it’s Thursday, the day we were to have met. She still hasn’t called. I haven’t heard a word from le restaurant.

Bye Bye Beth

I’m dying. Literally. My belly burns and my head is throbbing. I slept on the floor. I’m sure I said something stupid.

We had our first friend visit. Beth and her man came through last night and she was generous beyond belief. I hadn’t drunk for a few days and by a few I mean 3. 3 sober days. We started late, around 11, and I couldn’t tell you when we stopped or when I got home. You do that here, loose time. We ended up at the Tiki Bar. They pour ‘em short but they pour them strong.

Beth played golf in the street. My man chatted it up with a local loon. I drank. I drank too much. I’m dying. Now I’m at home, alone. The man is working for free, again. I hope I didn’t keep him out too late. I hope he didn’t tie one on too. I wouldn’t know because we’re not speaking. I’m sure I said something stupid. Why else would I sleep on the floor?

Beth is now gone. It was fun. It went too fast. It was nice to have a friend here. Even for a minute.