Monday, July 29, 2013

Poop cake.

I made this. It is not pretty. I can't even eat it either, or taste it. I'm gluten and dairy free but the husband isn't. Why should I subject the others to my lame dietary restrictions. I didn't lick the spoon, bowl, spatula or the beaters. That's the secret treat of baking, tasting the batter. So sad. I hope it's good!!

Sunday, July 28, 2013


Holy hell Craigslist ads. All caps must mean they are serious, stop yelling at me! I'm not even your employee and already I'm in trouble and being yelled at. What is with all the unnecessary **, **, **. Stop, they look like misunderstood emoticons.
 Dynamic! (insert whip like noise) Every single ad overuses the poor word. 131 postings used that word and that's just under the food/hospitality/sell your soul/customer service heading.

"We are looking for a dynamic, organized, multi-tasker with a fine dining background."

 "This organization is looking for a dynamic, intelligent individual with an amazing understanding of hospitality and guest first service."

"We are looking for a full-time dynamic individual who has the ability to multi-task and has a great and serious passion for the food and wine industry."

"Can you handle the heat in the kitchen? Hooters of West Covina is searching for dynamic and experienced kitchen employees."

That last one is for Hooters, a cook at Hooters! How dynamic do you need to be to drop some wings into the fat vat. Dynamic enough to raise your eyes away from the servers chest as they run out their orders clad in hot pants and yesteryear's skating tights. Dynamic literally means fast, an efficient incentive. It's a noun and an adjective, yay! Expressing action not a state of being. My state of being is sad and broke. I don't know if I can muster up enough dynamic to land a job.

I broke my damn foot and it took over two months to heal. I am no longer dynamic (insert sad whah wah noise). Last I checked you can't wait tables or bar tend in a cast. What is the opposite of dynamic? I am now out of a cast but still limping along. I can just imagine slowly walking in to a fine establishment feeling less than stellar in my flats, and being greeted by a dynamic host who gets the dynamic manager. I will ask for water as I'm already out of breath and in need of an ibuprofen. I'll want to elevate my leg and ice it. I will not be dynamic while sweating like a pigdog asking to work for minimum wage plus tips.

Above I am pictured being dynamic, or not, at my friends wedding. That was the longest weekend of my life! There was no way the bride was going to let me off the hook as a bridesmaid. We've seen too many horrors together. We worked at  T.G.I Fridays in the late 90's in Torrance. We had to pack in so much dynamic energy that our stores are depleted. We had to wear flair, with gusto! We knew no less than 10 freaking birthday songs.

 As a general rule no one tells their server that there's a birthday at the table at any restaurant ever. It's not a complete strangers responsibility to wish you a happy birthday with song and a free sundae. It's your friends and families responsibility to sing off key while you sit there uncomfortably trying to figure out what to do while they tell you they love you in song. Don't do it.

I quit Fridays after moving from night shifts to days because of the rampant sexual harassment received from the guests and the general belief by our clientele that tips were not even an option. We had at one point metal detectors, security guards and devices to scan I.D.'s. Yet my car still got vandalized on Christmas Day along with a few others. I despise restaurants that stay open on major holidays. I want to stay home with my family not serve  those that don't celebrate a nationally recognized holiday based on giving!
Working in fine dining after that level of year and a  half hell was a breath of fresh air. No more birthday songs or even free dessert! Yet still, usually the older generation, would expect a song and I would politely decline claiming that a voice that sounded like a cat in heat wasn't what they wanted to hear. I would back away and enjoy the looks shared of confusion and horror. I win!

Tomorrow is my husbands 38th birthday. There will be a small backyard BBQ, no singing, no candles and everyone will have a great time. A cake will be made by hand and brought out by me after dinner and we'll have a few too many glasses of wine and  he'll be made fun of for aging and I'll say something inappropriate. It will be nice.

Happy Birthday Dane! Love your unemployed, non dynamic, slightly gimpy, but loves you so much, wife.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Corn Mayo

Todays first mistake was having corn mayo for a snack. I love corn! I love mayo! Put that shit together. Needless to say it lacked. It lacked flavor and dignity. So I added some Pthttttttt. That stuff will fix any vegetable. It's a chili lime sprinkle you can accidentally overdose on. The best part about Pthttttttt is the warning on the cap. "This is not a candy" While that statement alone is confusing I gave it some thought. Visions of the cinnamon test ran through my head. Seriously, people mostly teens are choking themselves by swallowing spoonfuls of cinnamon much to the delight of onlookers. The Pthtttttt reminded me of Pico a powdered Mexican candy that's both spicy and sweet. You dump it straight into your mouth. Usually the white kids couldn't handle it so they stayed with the saltier ones like Limoncho. It's like pixi stix from south of the border. Thanks Mexico!!

As a kid we would buy these salty hypertension treats from the Pels truck. They also had the best fucking lemonade in the whole world. If you had lunch money you starved to blow it all on lemonade and salt you dump in your mouth that makes you thirsty, oh look a lemonade truck. Genius. This was the desert treat. The last time I had one of their amazing lemonades was with my mother Kathy and her boyfriend Bob. This was long after high school and I was fiending for one on a visit to her. I had in my hand the largest they offered. My hand was slick with the quickly evaporating condensation. In my right hand I opened the drivers side door and that fucker flung open and obliterated my frozen lemonade. That shit flew the fuck everywhere. It was a literal golden shower of stickiness and grief. I wept. My left hand hurt. The car was a trillion degrees inside and I had no damn lemonade to cool me.

Whenever I bring up the desert an onslaught of nostalgia comes forth. My childhood was not normal or even pleasant. In fact it sucked. So many things went wrong. So many things were out of my control. I was raised by two women who both passed within months of each other this past year. Neither should have reared children. My paternal grandmother was physically abusive and my mom was a junkie. Not a parental bone in either of their bodies yet I was left in their care with my two siblings. My next entry will elaborate on them. As for now I just wish I had a lemonade.