A Day in the Life

Kids,

I moved to California this past Saturday. The last day I worked was exactly one week ago, on Wednesday, September 7, 2011. A full week without work? I never thought it possible, but in fact, it is.

Everybody seems extremely concerned about this. I am not excluding myself here. So far, I've received two questions about my move to Monterey.

Q1: Are you near the beach?

A1: Yes. I'm one block away. But it's only 62 degrees outside right now and kind of misty. So while I can go hang out on the beach (and might later) I will not be swimming.

Q2: What are you doing for work?

A2: Uhh, I don't know.

This answer seems to be freaking people the frick out. And I get it. I'm not working 60+ hours a week in a bar or restaurant? Do I even have an identity?!

I do, actually. And it's kind of nice not to be working. Though you need not worry, I am looking. I am also enjoying a vacation-like period of time while I search.

I'm also a house sister.

House sister? What's that. It's a house wife with a sister instead of a husband. Basically I hang around the house most of the day and do chores and drink diet shakes. No, really. Want to know what a day in the life of a house sister looks like? Great! You're in for a treat.

3:30 a.m. Wake up from where I fell asleep reading on the couch to hear my sister on the phone talking about going into work early.

4 a.m. At the prompting of sister, move my sleeping ass up to the bed so she can get ready for work.

4-7:15 a.m. Have nightmares about work. This is not a lie. I had dreams about Marathon and Cantina in these fitful hours of sleep.

7:15 a.m. Wake up. Pace around the house. Decide not to go for a run because it's ass cold outside.

7:15-8:15 a.m. Watch "Keeping up with the Kardashians", drink a Slim Fast shake (it's delicious) and chat on Facebook with people who are on the East Coast... aka most everybody I know

8:15-10:15 a.m. Clean. Do the dishes from last night's dinner (noodles with butter? this house sister can cook!). Organize my entire life into a tiny collapsable closet with a tiny collapsable shoe stand.

Lots of clothes. Litttttttle tiny bit of space.

10:15 a.m. Make some tea. It's delicious.

10:30-11:45 a.m. Watch some more of those damn Kardashians (Bruce pierced his ears and cut his hair, whaaaaaaat?). Work hard on getting the cheetah print Sally Hanson nail jawn off of my fingernails. Yes, it took me over an hour. No, it is not all off.

(fricking nail jawn.)

11:45 a.m. Make some more tea. As I'm pouring tea, sister calls to say she is on the way home. Spill hot water all over the place while trying to multi-task. Make a mad dash around the house to put on clothing and NOT look like I'm still in my pajamas (which is not really that embarrassing because I've been cleaning all day). Right as I get ready to go to the bathroom, sister arrives, tell me car is still running, and let's go.

12 p.m. Get in car. Have to pee. Cross legs.

12:15 p.m. Arrive at McDonalds where my vegetarian options are slim. Opt for french fries and apple dippers. Don't get the caramel for apple dippers. Eat apples naked. Wish I had just gotten a fresh apple from Trader Joe's.

12:45 p.m. After dropping sister off at school, go to Trader Joe's. Get all sorts of vegetarian shit that will make sister protest and maybe yell. Chuckle under breath at all of my house sister power. You shall eat arugula!!

1:15 p.m. Arrive home. Rush to bathroom.

1:15 p.m. Neglect to put fresh groceries away. Instead start to blog and watch HGTV. Think about going for a jog. Decide against it. Think about getting motivated for yoga. Decide against it. Wonder how long it will take before groceries spoil. Panic slightly, then get over it.

(Did I mention that our "refrigerator" is actually a wine cooler?

The rest of my day? I'll put the groceries away. I'll try to get the rest of this g-damned nail polish off. I'll consider going to the post office (and I'll probably decide against it). I'll sweep the floor. Maybe I'll take a shower, but again, I'll probably decide against it. I'll go get the sister from school. The sister will go to physical therapy. I will probably drink more tea. We'll get Indian food for dinner. I'll read more about cancer.

Caroline seems especially worried that I'm sitting around the house bored all day and I will quickly go stir-crazy and hate my life here.

Kids, I'm not bored. Being a house sister is a full-time job.

Ace of Spades

Kids,

When I was in high school, I fancied myself a real sophisticate. In my own defense, I'll say that it's not hard to fancy yourself this way when you're living in a beautiful city on your parents dime, and working for fun.

Working for fun. The concept now is almost laughable in a weird bitter half-laugh, half-choking kind of way. But in high school, that's what I did. I worked so I would have money to go on school trips to Europe, so I would have money to buy swanky homecoming dresses, so I would have money to spend at the Lilley Pulitzer store.

But my most prized possession from those years of work was my Kate Spade wallet.

Can I even begin to outline the wonders of Kate Spade? So clean and classic and beautiful. I don't know that I've ever looked at a Kate Spade wallet or handbag and NOT wanted to run my fingertips over it, open the snaps, unzip the zippers, and take in every detail.

Back when I thought I was a sophisticate, the first thing I wanted to do with my cash was to buy a Kate Spade wallet in which I could store those babysitting bucks in style.

So I went for the classic pink nylon wallet. Not overly pretentious for a nerdy highschooler driving her parents old mini-van. But it matched my ambition: I wasn't gonna be a nerdy highschooler forever, after all...

(The original gangster looked a lot like this when I bought it.)

Fast forward eight years. I have gone from a nerdy teen to a nerdy adult. But I've traded in my polos and pearls for a more relaxed lifestyle. I haven't lost my ambition, but I think it's fair to say I've lost my delusions of grandeur.

And I am a-okay with that. I still love nice things. Oh baby, do I love nice things. But I work to live these days. I work because it pays my rent and keeps my electricity on and feeds my caffeine habit. I work because I am 24 years old and making it on my own, dammit! (Cue some cheesy life-affirming theme song here a la Mary Tyler Moore.)

But back to my Kate Spade wallet. I loved it. And I kept it. And it was dirty. So dirty and so dingy and I kept thinking, "Oh, I need a new wallet!"

But I never got one. Because I loved my original.

(My darling Kate toward the end of her life.)

Then came last Friday when my wallet was unceremoniously forced to part from its loving owner. To the lady who took it, I am not above throwing punches if I ever see you again... But I think I can rely on karma for now.

Just last night, I got a new credit card in the mail. Oh, the empowerment! I could order a new driver's license. I could access the funds collecting dust in my bank (that's what money does when you don't spend it, right?). I could buy a new wallet.

I think we all know where this is going. How could I not get a Kate Spade again? The last one was a part of me. I don't expect to spend eight years with my new wallet, but I wouldn't mind it.

To theft do us part, Kate the First. Thanks for being there through everything. I will miss you. But I trust your replacement will care for my cards and cash in a way befitting your shared name.

Let us usher in the reign of Kate II with much joy and merrymaking.

But Where's My Phone

Kids,

Maybe by the time you read this, we'll all realize that Apple was actually a cover for some Commie bastards and we were being tracked and followed the whole time. Or, more frighteningly, Apple was a cover for some Capitalist assholes and they just wanted to watch us spend our money over and over on shit that kept us all in line (this... is actually kind of scary).

WHATEVER.

What I'm here to say, kids, is that I've lost my phone. But I kind of haven't.

A few months ago, I lost my phone in the way that I couldn't find it for real. It happened to be hiding right between my bed and my wall on the floor.

As I freaked out about my phone's whereabouts, a simple (and most awful) trick was played on me.

I sat in the office flipping out and miraculously Radam pulled my phone out and said, "It's right here."

It wasn't my phone. It was his phone. We have the same phone. He chuckled. I cursed the heavens. But... he did tell me about the app that I was supposed to have. The one that would track your phone and tell you where it was.

Okay, I get it, guys, big brother is watching. Ummmmm, okay! Big brother can tell me where my frickin' phone is, if he's gonna be all up in my shit.

I signed up for big brother. I tested it out in the safety of my own apartment. Yes, it would actually play that noise for two minutes. Yes, it would actually displays texts to whomever had it. Cool.

Useless. Until today. Today I am watching my phone as it travels across the city.

This is karma. I have done something wrong.

It is now 5 in the morning and my phone is two blocks away from my house.

Thanks to Dave Ryan, I have the cabbie's number and he said to call him tomorrow. But really, dude? You're TWO BLOCKS AWAY!!!!

May I please have it? Now? Not tomorrow? Too much to ask? Okay. I'm gonna have to pay a fortune to get this shit back? Okay.

So sad.

The Gift of the Maxi

Kids,

This post is not an ode to feminine sanitary products. Sick.

This post is about the maxi dress. Maxi dresses are this girl's savior during warm summer months. And I appreciate them so much that I'm going to dedicate an entire blog to it.

First of all, what is the maxi dress? According to Wikipedia, the maxi dress is a woman's dress that is lengthy and can be formal or informal. That's essentially how I'd sum it up, too. A long dress that is kinda loose and fun and free and usually made of some swishy fabric.

The maxi dress made a big splash on the summer fashion scene a few years ago. And I resisted it. Oh, how did I resist it! I mean, it does kind of look like you're wearing a g.d. nightgown around town all the time.

This is a maxi dress you can find at Anthropologie this season. It's called the Summer Ballad Maxi should you want to go back in time and buy it...

But do you know what I've come to recognize about the maxi dress? It makes summer accessible to the rest of us! And by the rest of us, I mean the big girls. I mean, I'm not exactly going in for lap band surgery, but girlfriend ain't a size 0. And do you know what exacerbates a fat girl's dilemma more than anything else? Summertime fashion.

First of all, you have to listen to the skinny minnies bitch. Yes, I understand skinny girls, it's so hard to be you. As a child people called you chicken legs! That must have stuuuuuuung. (Sorry, I'm really not trying to attack you, here. Good for you, I mean that.)

But really. Listening to somebody talk about how they usually wear a size 0, but their bathing suit is a size 2 and can you see their love handles? And do they need to get a tan before even going out in the sun?

A chubby girl with lily white skin has trouble listening to that.

Add to that the fact that shorts are actually supposed to be an acceptable form of fashionwear for women. Can somebody tell me why this happened? Why am I supposed to put my thighs in display, and not even in a skirt, but in something that chokes each individual leg so tightly you'd think the shorts were parasitic and couldn't survive without the substantial girth and warmth of my thigh. I went shopping with my sister two days ago and came across a pair of shorts I found adorable. I picked them up, saw that they were my size (I always opt for a size larger than pants in shorts), and then put them back on the rack saying with disgust, "Ugh, I can't wear shorts!"

My sister looked over at me and said, "You sure talked yourself out of that pretty quickly."

Hell yes, sister. I suuuuuure did. Because shorts are evil. They are just another way to make us feel unpretty during the summer. Skinny girls wearing shorts is like a dagger through my ice cold heart.

But I've digressed so badly! I meant not to gripe but to glorify in this post. I meant to exalt the beautiful maxi, not to denigrate the already degenerate shorts. And of course, I really didn't mean to be mean about skinny people... It's not their fault that I don't live a healthy and active lifestyle.

Anyway. On to maxi dresses...

Here's why they rock.

They're long. They allow you to keep those pale, over-worked, bike-crashed, mosquito-bitten legs hidden from the rest of the world.

They're comfortable. I've taken to wearing the maxi dress to work a lot lately and I keep getting the same remark. "You looks so comfortable in your long, flowy dress." You know what, fellow co-workers? I am so comfortable in my long, flowy dress.

They breathe. This is why the maxi dress really is magical. Because it affords a certain amount of modesty while not drowning you in a blanket of sweat and self-loathing, because who feels pretty when their face is falling off? You can get a nice breeze and you can always pull it up just a little bit (just a little, mind you, I'm no strumpet).

They're cute. Wait, hold on. They're "cute". I still have to get used to the idea of the maxi dress as a fashionable thing. I mean, come on, guys. It's like a beach cover up and a nighty had an illicit affair and are trying to pawn their bastard child off as the fashion savior of the summer. Yeah, the illegitimate little bastard sure is lovely, but is it really fashionable? I'll give it "cute" and functional and leave it at that.

Oh maxi dress, I offer the heartiest thanks and praise to you. I shall put you on a pedestal and wear you day in and day out. I shall blog of your greatness and brag of your wearability. Oh maxi, my maxi, how well you have served me.

Oh! Here are some things I've learned about the maxi, by the by...

1) A lot of maxis are super low-cut either because the women wearing them are perceived to be as loose as their flowing hemlines or because they're just "cuter" that way. One of those awesome bandeau bras from American Apparel (or a cheaper one from H&M) is your best friend here. I mean, sure, a little cleavage is great, but if your breasts are literally falling out, just give them a little help.

2) The idea of the maxi being "lengthy" is sometimes taken to extremes by designers. This is especially true if you're of the "petite" variety, as am I. Belts, ladies. Get a belt. Make a belt. Use a rope as a belt, a la Little Mermaid. Cinch that bad boy around your waist, pull the fabric through a bit, and you've created an almost Grecian look (almost...) and saved yourself from tripping all the time.

3) Don't get something that's completely sheer unless you plan on wearing it to the beach or to the Barbary. The maxi dress is frequently made of light, loose fabric. This can mean maxi-mum exposure to your goody bits if you're not careful. And if you're using the maxi as a big girl summer savior, the point is to not put everything on display. Use a slip or skip the dress all together. Trust me on this one.

4) Rotate the maxi. I've literally taken to wearing a maxi every day. How boring of me. Rotate the style and maybe nobody will catch on. They probably will, but at least put some effort into it. Wear different cuts, different styles, different colors. Use your different accessories with different dresses. Mix and match, bitches! It's fun.

Is anybody else almost completely disgusted by the fact that I've said such things as "Oh maxi, my maxi" and "Rotate the maxi" in this post? It's a dress. Just a dress.

A Like-Minded Individual

Kids,

The guy who wrote this missed connection is near and dear to my heart (though I have no idea who he is). Mostly because I know a lot of people who get drunk and act like jackasses to those they love the most. I can be that person. One day you'll have a father who can see through it. Until then, I'll rely on dudes like this to make Craigslist posts with mass appeal.

http://philadelphia.craigslist.org/mis/2354317425.html

Shenanigans

Kids,

Not every post has to be about how I'm questioning my life and where I'm going. While I devote a lot of my blog to that purpose, a very marginal amount of my life is spent tossing and turning over things.

When I'm not having quarter-life-crises, I'm really enjoying being 24 and single and in Philadelphia.

Yesterday we did a lovely event called "Flavors of the Avenue". All you need to know is that I spent two hours setting up, one hour cleaning up, and five hours in between slinging margaritas. And I mean slinging. My hands got so sticky from the copious amounts of sugary-sweet mix and guava puree that they were getting stuck to the pitchers and every time I took my hand off to pop in a lime or give a straw, a little piece of my skin stayed on the pitcher. I had raw hands by the end, but it was frickin' fun.

Afterward, we got wind of another event. Broad Street was completely shut down for a festival and it was free and, oh yeah, Sharon Jones was performing. And boy, was Sharon Jones performing. Bitch is bad ass. Don't know how else to say it.

Look at all of those people!

We shoved a dozen Tecates in our purses and slammed them on the street while enjoying the gorgeous weather and the company of friends.

Ash and Mike are beautiful, no?

What to do?

Kids,

Do you know what you want to do with your life?

I decidedly do not.

I mean, I really do not know what I want to do with my life. Or rather, what I should do with my life. There are a ton of things I want to do, actually. But which is right?

I'm a waffler.

This goes for small decisions as well as large ones. Ask anybody I know. Oftentimes, I know I want to go to dinner, but I don't know where. I rely on whomever I've roped into dining with me to make a decision. I think that the only reason I may actually have friendships is because I need people to make decisions for me.

But not the big ones, kids. The big ones I insist on making (or not making, as the case may be) for myself. And I do not take advice. Ask any of my oldest friends. I have a new life plan every week. And it's not because I'm flaky, it's because I am undecided and confused and mostly really scared.

I know a lot of people who seem to know what they want to do with their lives. I use the word "seem" here because I think they're full of donkey piss. Really? At the age of 21-28, you know what you want to do forever? Do you? Some of you I believe. Some of you have this outrageous talent and/or passion and/or drive.

I'm not an unintelligent person. But I think my waffling and inability to decide what I want to do with my life makes me out to be one. I know how it sounds when I have a new life plan every week for my friends. I'm at lunch with Krystina and I tell her my latest plans and she nods like a good friend and offers advice like a good friend, but I can also tell that she's taking that extra sip of wine to wash down the grain of salt with which she is listening to my rantings and ravings.

Rantings and ravings may be a bit of an understatement.

In fact, my plans are usually pretty well thought out. For the librarian gig that I decided most recently I wanted to accomplish, I made a five year plan. It included saving money, doing research, possibly moving, going back to school, and finally finding a job.

The very end of my plan, in five years, was "be happy" with a smiley face drawn next to it. I don't even like smiley faces. But lately I've found that the bit of optimism expressed by that tiny little creepy drawing eclipses the waning optimism I have in my own life.

And this is not to say that my life is bad or even that I dislike my current job. As a matter of fact, I really like my current job. I like the company I work for, the people I work with, and the things I get to do. I like that I get to spend some time running around the floor like a crazy person, some time doing paperwork (I LOVE working with money), some time updating facebook, some time buying things, some time working on events.

Mostly, what I love about my job is the fact that it doesn't tie me down to any one thing. I get to put on a lot of hats and do a lot of different things. I get to be a jack (jackie?) of all trades while learning to master them all. Plus, as I mentioned earlier, I really do love the company I work for and the people I work with. It's refreshing to work with professionals (yes, there is such thing as a professional in the restaurant industry, though it is frequently likened to a mermaid or other mythological creature).

But what will I do forever? Forever is such an extremely long time. I guess I should say, what will I do for a long, long time? What will be my "vocation"?

Okay. I am ranting now. I hate ranting.

Kids, there is a long list of career possibilities I'm considering right this moment. If you should meet me down the road and I've settled on one of these, give me a big hug and congratulations. It has come only through much weeping and gnashing of teeth, I'm sure. If I've settled on something else, I still want a frickin' cookie or a gold star or something. Because dammit, if at some point in my life I've made it past aging and into adulthood, I want you to know that it has been with a LOT of work. And if you should ever find yourself a confused 20-something not quite sure where to go from here... Know that I was there, too. And if future me acts like a smug asshole because I've figured my life out and you haven't, then feel free to remind me about my closet-sized apartment that I paid way too much for and that one time I fell and knocked my teeth out of my skull. It'll shut me up, I promise.

(For your convenience, photographic proof of "that one time I fell and knocked my teeth out of my skull". You're welcome, you spoiled brats.)

Look, I'm just gonna stream them all along in one paragraph so you can really get the sense of confusion and stream-of-consciousness that goes into my future planning at the moment.

Restaurant Manager. PR Person. Events Coordinator. HR/Payroll Person. Librarian. Lawyer. Wedding Planner. Florist. Bookstore Owner. Journalist. Children's Book Author. Adult Novel Author. Screenplay writer. Kindergarten Teacher. Special Education Teacher. Professor of Literature. Mormon Mommy Blogger (SERIOUSLY!). Food Writer. Baker. Crafter. Retail Buyer. Editor. Critic. Museum curator. Social worker. Person who works with children with disabilities/adults with disabilities/basically any sort of bleeding-heart-non-profit job that will make me cry every night but will leave me feeling really fulfilled. Assistant to some rich dude. Person who asks for money for museums or performing arts centers or galleries or the like. Gardener. Stationery maker. Really on-the-ball housewife. Stylist. Caregiver to my grandparents as they age.

There's more. There's always more. To my kids, we'll see where it ends up. To my peers in the here and now, am I the only one?

Also, special thanks to Cathy and my dad and my sisters and my friends. But mostly my dad and Cathy, because they do have their lives figured out (as far as I can tell) and instead of being smug assholes, they're being really supportive. Possibly very concerned, but still really supportive.

Slamming Doors

Kids,

Everybody comes from somewhere. You came from me and whomever your father is. We'll get to that later. I came from David and Mary Kay Phillips. Unfortunately, you'll never get to meet your grandmother, and that breaks my heart. But luckily we've all been blessed with memories and pictures and tidbits of information to pass down through generations.

This next bit is an excerpt about how my father met my mother. In my father's words:

For background, I met Mary Kay in the spring of 1977. I had spent 2 years at University of Richmond and had transferred to VCU so I was a rising junior at VCU. At the same time I moved from home and into an apartment in the fan with 2 other guys. About a week later Mary Kay and Melody moved into the apartment above us – being college guys we sat on our balcony and watched as these good looking new girls moved in with the help of their boyfriends – this apartment living was looking pretty good. Mary Kay caught my eye right away but, of course she left for Florida right away to spend some time with POGs and take care of her Aunt Rose. She came back in early summer and Jim and Melody, who were now dating, decided to throw a party, one in each apartment. At some point in the party, at the request of Melody, I went upstairs to get something from their apartment. Being a gentleman I knocked, you mom opened the door, I said hi and she closed the door – well there was a fine “how do you do”. So that was our introduction – I am pretty sure it was the first time I ever spoke to Mary Kay. Of course you all know how charming I am and it wasn’t too long before she dumped her boyfriend and we started dating.

One day I hope that you close the door in the right person's face. And I hope that you tell your kids about it.

Coasting

Kids,

I went out with my friend Jill the other night. Jill is a friend I met at Marathon, and she is amazing. You know how they say that big things come in little packages? Jill is a very big thing in a very little package. There are just so many wonderful things I could say about her and I've missed her since changing work venues.

So it was nice catching up. We went to Black Sheep and got a few drinks and, I think, absolutely appalled the poor couple next to us with our no-holds-barred conversation. Jill is one of those friends that you can tell everything to and then trust that she'll tell you everything right back. And frankly, at the age of 24, we frequently sound pretty degenerate when we say it all out loud all at once.

But it's fun. And it's cathartic. And I value the time that we get to spend together, especially now that it is less and less frequent.

There was one downside: the coasters. Coasters are, of course, a given in any bar. Most places have Smithwicks or Miller Lite or personalized coasters. And I'm fine with those coasters. They are useful, disposable, and not overly tacky.

The coasters at Black Sheep on Friday night were tacky.

Exhibit A:

Yeah, I know, my Photobooth skills leave something to be desired. But I'll recap the letters of the backwards coaster that I just posted. To be honest, the coaster just doesn't deserve the dignity of being captured in a higher quality, or even flipped on my computer so you can read the writing.

Here's what it says:

Genius Tips For Picking Up Chicks!

1. Naked is as naked does.

2. If at first you don't succeed, try again, and again, and again. All it takes is one to say yes.

3. Look for women with an ugly friend. Then surprise them by hitting on the ugly friend.

4. Borrow someone's baby and bring it to the bar. Ladies love babies.

5. Lower your standards. Really low.

Yeah. That's really what it says.

And I know, I know, it's supposed to be funny in an ironic sort of way. Of course these aren't meant to be real ways to pick up chicks: they're just funny! I mean, who would REALLY bring a baby to a bar- haha!

But it's just not really funny at all. It's annoying and frankly, kind of creepy. I especially dislike the second one. Through some drunk dude's beer goggles that sounds like a recipe for date rape. I mean, I know I'm over analyzing it here, but I'm just annoyed. If you're going to take your marketing campaign to the bar... make it useful!

Market booze at the bar. Everybody loves those trashy chicks who pour Jaeger all over the place, even if they don't like Jaeger.

Market sex at the bar. Because, let's be honest, alcohol fuels bad decisions. And people frequently make bad decisions in regard to sex.

Market sports/music/art at the bar. And yes, television is a sort of entertainment in the same category as these things. But the thing here is that the marketing needs to be bar specific. If you're a sports bar, play the Sixer's game. If you're a jazz cafe, market toward the pretentious people who want to feel erudite (same goes for art here).

If you're just an average sort of bar, sure you can advertise for television shows. But advertise for good shows! Advertise for "How I Met Your Mother" or "Teen Mom" (ha!) or anything with Denis Leary.

But don't advertise for this stupid show with this stupid coaster! CBS, you can do better! Black Sheep, you can do better! Whoever got paid whatever insane amount I'm sure they got paid for making this coaster: you can NOT do better. You've really outdone yourself by getting this little baby onto the market and since I'm guessing you're a one trick pony, you ought to just get out of the game while you can.

Maybe this whole thing just bothers me so much because people tend to lump "Big Bang Theory" together with "How I Met Your Mother" and they're so different. One is funny!

Kids, there is no reason why a coaster should ever bother you enough to go home and write a blog about it. Don't grow up to be like me. Please.

A Long Way Off

Kids,

If there was one week in my entire life that I would almost guarantee that I did not meet your father, it will be the week that just passed.

Now dear, dear, future children: I do not condone getting incredibly intoxicated and acting like a fool. Several things suffer when you do this. Your dignity, your sanity, your security, your ___ity. It all goes right down the tubes when you start drinking more than you're thinking. But kids, I want you to know that if you, when you're in your twenties, have days or weeks where you just really lose control, I won't feel like you're failures.

Because, kids, it happens.

And it happened to me this past week. This blog is not a testament to my bad mistakes nor is it a beacon of hope for the degenerate woman that I can sometimes be. It is just the truth. And the truth is that I've had better days.

But I am still me at the end of the week. Smarter for the mistakes I have made. And really, a more amusing person, too. Because while I may have done some really stupid things, I've done some really funny things, too. Maybe that's not an even trade-off, but I'm still young enough that I don't feel too ashamed.

But kids. Don't get super annihilated at work or at work functions. It's just really bad form. And while I won't judge you for it in the future, I will wish that my progeny didn't make the same mistakes as I did.

So while I can assure you that your father is out there somewhere, I can assure you that he may not have loved the woman I was this past week. Then again, I could be wrong. Mysterious ways, my dears.

Silent Judgment

Kids,

There are a lot of things I should be doing right now. I should be studying my Cantina menu so I go into work a veritable bastion of Tequila and Mexican food knowledge. I should be studying logic puzzles and how to solve them so I go into my LSAT (in two weeks!) a lean-mean-test-taking-machine. I should be at Ikea buying furniture for my naked apartment, or at Krystina's collecting the last of my things hanging around and taking up space.

But I'm not. Instead I'm sitting in Starbucks dicking around on the Internet. Not even using the World Wide Web as a study guide or shopping tool. Instead I'm perusing Craigslist and Facebook and writing blogs about all the things I should be doing. You know, I am the picture of productivity.

Mostly, what I'm doing is judging, though. I love to judge. I also love to scream, "Don't judge me!" It's a bit of a catch phrase.

Now before you get all uppity and think about what a mean-spirited person I am, slow your roll. I'm not. And the judgments I make, because they are snap judgments and purely superficial, are really not that destructive.

The judgments I make mostly regard complete strangers that I see walking by. And yes, they can be rude.

Just a few minutes ago I saw a woman walking by without a coat on and it's only 30-ish outside. So I thought, why doesn't she have a coat on? Then I realized that she had a ginormous rack. Then I realized that she was, overall, kinda large. And I wondered to myself, does her body mass keep her warm? And I judged.

But then I felt bad. And that's the thing about my judgments. I always feel so badly about them afterward. I think what a mean and terrible person I must be. Then I think that the woman with no coat might simply be warm because she is full of love and positive energy and sunshine (I mean, that's taking it a little far, but you get the picture). I think that she might have a thyroid problem. If I'm honest with myself, I really have to admit that I'm not exactly a stick figure. Then I send my apologies for judging into the cosmos and find new people to watch as they pass by.

What prompted this blog was a snap judgment I made about a man walking by. He had on green corduroy pants. The kind that have little terriers or sail boats or bow ties embroidered on them.

And boy, did I judge.

I thought to myself, "UCK! I will never marry a man who wears those ridiculous pants! I will never let a dude like that produce children with me! Douche!"

It was a quick judgment, but an especially harsh one.

Then I thought. Yes, I do find those pants kind of offensive. But I actually know a lot of guys who own them (Charleston via Annapolis, remember?). And the pants do not make the man. And maybe I will marry a man who owns those pants and wears them when he's feeling extra quirky. I don't find it likely, but I suppose that stranger things have happened.

Then I looked at my own outfit. I am wearing a tee-shirt and shiny leggings tucked into UGG boots.

If I were to see me walking down the street, I would no doubt go, "UCK! Welcome back to 2001, you pudgy little brunette Lindsay Lohan wannabe midget! I would never dress like that!"

But sometimes I do. UGG boots are warm, leggings are comfortable, and I've nobody to impress in this Starbucks on the corner of 13th and Chestnut. (I would probably judge myself for being at Starbucks instead of a smaller, local coffee shop, too.)

So I guess what I'm saying, kids, is that judging people is okay. It's natural. It's gonna happen. But snap judgments are like coffee cake in Starbucks: they feel so good on your tongue but so bad in your belly. The judgments you need to hold on to are merely careful observations about people's character. "This person is nice to me" or "This person is inconsiderate with the feelings of others."

If your father were to walk past me right now, he'd probably judge that I have nerdy glasses and frizzy hair. But the judgments I hope he'll hold on to are "She's really good at Scrabble" or "She likes to make other people happy" or at the very least "She has a killer rack."

I do, for posterity, have a nice rack. This might not be so obvious after a few children, so I think I ought to record it now.

You're going to law school?!

Kids,

The question of the week has been "you're going to law school?!" Everybody gives me these weird sideways glances and I can see the wheels turning. Twenty four year old restaurant manager with short attention span, short temper, short height... Basically short. You're going to law school?

The simple answer to this question is, no. To elaborate, not yet. Maybe not ever. But dammit, I'm gonna try.

And here's why:

In talking to the various people in my life about all the "CHANGE" I have going on, I realized that I'm moving forward, but maybe not quite fast enough... I've gotten a new, more promising job. I've gotten a new apartment where I am free to do just whatever I want whenever I want and wearing as little, or as much, clothing as my little heart desires (sorry, kids).

But come on, I'm twenty four. Not quite greying yet, but it's coming up. My life is moving so quickly. Even when I'm at work, the hours are zooming by. And I've realized that I can't keep waiting for things. I can't keep waiting for the opportunity to meet my children's future father or the opportunity to get a job that I want to work permanently.

I was talking with Anthony the other day and he asked (about restaurant management), "Is this what you want to do for the rest of your life?" And I said, "No." And we both knew I meant it and that I had never intended on doing it forever. And I've said it before. But as I looked down the track, that's where I'm headed. I'm headed to a better management job, but still a management job. And I know a lot of people who are really frickin' good restaurant managers. But I'm not. I'm good enough, but I don't know that I'll ever be great.

As I talked with Caroline, I threw out the obvious, "Maybe I need to go back to school."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Why don't you just get your J.D.? You've been talking about it forever."

And I have been talking about it forever. I mean, at least ten years. When I was in middle school, I used to tell my father that one day I was going to be a doctor, lawyer, and photographer. And right now I'm not any of those things. And not only that, but I haven't tried in earnest to achieve any of these goals.

So I'm gonna try. And if it doesn't work out, at least I can say that I gave it my best.

So here I am, in the world's noisiest coffee shop, trying to study. And by trying to study, I mean studying a few pages and then taking breaks to blog, to write thank you letters on my brand new Vera Wang stationery (your mom loves nice things, kids), or to bemoan how loud the coffee shop is on facebook/blogger.

By the by, I've only given myself one month to study for the LSAT, and it's recommended by the Internet sources I've accessed that each person give him or her self at least two months and up to four.

So, if you're reading this and your mother is an attorney at law, you can be awfully proud of her for doing such a good job cramming for her LSAT and making it through law school. If you're reading this and she isn't an attorney at law, she's probably doing just fine anyway.

Weekend Roundup

Kids,

I know I promised to write earlier. But let's face it, I'm not the most reliable blogger. And there's been a lot going on in the past week.

Remember how I said that I hated New Year's Eve? Well, you know what I didn't hate this year? New Year's Day. It was amazing. Seriously. Even though I walked into one of the biggest poop-storms I've ever seen at work, I had enjoyed such a lovely morning with Krystina and a work friend of hers that I didn't even mind. Plus I got a $25 gift certificate to Percy St. Barbeque and a free shot of Bulleit (kids, when you come of the age to buy alcohol, remember that a good way to your mother's heart can always be found through a delicious bourbon).

So anyway, the past week:

I got a new apartment right in Center City. It's small and has ugly gray carpet and linoleum and the radiator is always on the verge of burning the flesh right off your fingertips. But it is, at least until September 1, 2011, my ugly gray carpet and linoleum and firestarter radiator. The move in process has gone quite slowly, to say the least. All I can truly boast to have completed is this: I've hung a picture of Richie Tenenbaum that Krystina bought me, hung a shower curtain and laid down a bathmat, and bought plates. That's pretty much it.

While I planned to move in on Wednesday, I ended up spending 6 hours at work- Moving thwarted.

While I planned to move in yesterday, I got a certain amount of things done before realizing that my best-friend-slash-helper Krystina had to go to work and I had to get ready for work- Moving semi-thwarted.

While I planned to finish moving in today, it started to snow and now it's starting to rain. Moving thwarted and Moira motivated to buy a new computer (from which I write this post -- and yeah, I'm realllllllllllly excited).

Now, back to the work thing. Kids, I might not be writing a lot in the next few days. You see, while I love the people at Marathon Grill, I think I'm ready for new things. And I really do love the people at Marathon. A lot. It's made me feel a lot of feelings that I accepted another position with another company. And Lord knows I hate feeling feelings.

But I've accepted a position with Cantina los Caballitos, a cute little bar with awesome food and drinks and benefits and promising changes in store for me.

So for the next week and a half, I'm working two jobs, trying to finish moving, trying to keep up with my blog, trying to fight the killer head cold that is going around the entire city of Philadelphia, and trying not to lose my mind while doing so.

And, yet, I'm feeling strangely optimistic. Tired, yes. Nose running off my face, yes. Debit card declined in the Apple store because my bank thought I was being robbed because I've been spending so much frickin' money these past few days, yes. But happy? Yes, yes, and yes.

And all we want is a little bit of happiness.

New Year's Eve and Smoking

Kids,

There are a couple of topics I'll talk about in here that they talk about in the actual t.v. show, "How I Met Your Mother." This can't be helped. The show is frickin' genius and addresses a lot of things that happen in real life. The issues I want to discuss right now are just such things.

First of all. New Year's Eve sucks. There's no other way around it, kiddos. When it comes to stupid holidays on which people drink too much, it comes in number one- though Halloween gives it a run for its money. Seriously, though. People even dress worse on New Year's Eve than they do on Halloween. As I walked out of work last night, I sent Alex two text messages. One said that there were a lot of stupid drunks out. The second said that I was seeing a lot of cottage cheese. "As in on peoples thighs?" she responded like the innocent that she is. Uh, yes, Alex, on peoples gross nasty pale fat and way-too-visible thighs. Seriously, women of Philadelphia, what are you thinking? It's cold outside! Not just a little nip in the air, but, oh, I don't know- dead of winter cold! Frickin' morons.

I really just don't know what to do with the New Year. It's what we lushes like to call an "amateur night". Those who don't know how to drink their weight in bourbon decide to try it out just for this one night and those who are quite skilled in this routine generally sit idly by at work watching said idiots yell at each other, cry, and throw up. As I walked out of work at 12:40 last night, I watched a couple stand on a street corner, she in a mini-skirt, he in some douchey tie, and the two of them fighting while she cried. Seriously, homegirl, you're having a meltdown outside of Marathon: what a terribly depressing way to start the new year.

As for me, I met a few work cronies out at Oscar's (the classiest establishment in Center City Philadelphia, I can assure you). After that it was out to the Pen and Pencil where I watched people shoot dice (even classier, y'all). No, it was not an exciting New Year's Eve. Yes, I did ring in the New Year at work doing paperwork on Aloha. Yes, I will spend tonight there, too. No, I am not excited. But a part of me doesn't care-- New Year's is kinda lame. Except for the Mummers. I would like to go down to 2 Street with the Mummers.

Now, on a somewhat similar vein is New Year's resolutions. I consider them to be dumb. If you're gonna quit something or start something or keep on doing something, do it. Don't resolve to do it just because it's a new calendar. I mean, come on people, it's just a new calendar. And the marker of one year until the apocalypse: 2012, what?! But seriously, resolutions are dumb. They don't get followed and it's annoying to listen to people talk about things they won't do. I know that I can be one of those people who just says I'm going to do something, so I think that I am particularly sensitive to this issue. Not to be a negative nancy, but I almost feel like resolutions set people up for failure. Too much hype.

Which is why my decision to quit smoking is not a resolution. Really, it's not. It's all actually inspired by my co-worker Dan. Dan is... of questionable age. But I'll say somewhere in his mid- to late-forties? The world may never know. Anyhow, Dan quit smoking on his 24th birthday. And he likes to always say that it was the best gift he ever gave himself. So, I'm gonna quit smoking, too. Today. Because today is my 24th birthday. Is it gonna work? Ehhhhh, probably not. I've quit smoking a lot of times before. But who the hell cares, it's at least a goal to work toward without being a resolution. Adios, cigarettes, you've burnt my lungs and sullied the smell of my clothing for too long now! I bid you farewell! (Only to meet again the next time I get really stressed out at work or really drunk.)

Oh, right. Kids, don't ever smoke. It's awful. I forgot that this blog needs to be a sort of PSA because it's supposed to be for my intended progeny. Seriously, by the time you guys can read, smoking will be so passe that you'd be a fool to do it. Oh, it's bad for your health, too. Just don't do it. Dammit.

Stay tuned. Tomorrow we talk about the reason why your mother can't be dated.