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.