...When you get drunk on a beach, go to the Sleven, and people-watch. Enjoy.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Just another weekend in the 'myrna
It seems like my generation gets a bad rap. We’re addicted to conversations via text, we thrive on reality TV, and we’ll probably legalize marijuana in another 10 years. Maybe it’s all of the change that happens in our twenties, but I feel that the one true glimmer of hope that we embrace is that we love tradition. When I interviewed people for my December installment of ‘Spill It’ for Drink Magazine, I asked people what was their reason to drink during the holidays. Everyone said the same thing- their families. But they all said it with a smile, and they had fun reminiscing examples of family feuds and flaws. We also love the food. It feels like the one thing I can always count on- the hash brown casserole my Nana makes, the cranberry sauce that always has the shape of the can, the green bean casserole that I’ve taken the responsibility over, and eating a third of the fried onions before they even make it into the dish.
It’s also been a tradition in my family that it’s a small gathering: Mom and Dad, Nana and Poppy, and my great Aunt Pauline and Uncle Johnny. It’s been that way for the 13 years we’ve lived in New Smyrna Beach, and though we always had a lot more family in West Palm, I always saw them. You can imagine my shock when I found out that my beloved Aunt Pauline would still be in hospice, my Uncle Johnny being consoled by his children and grandchildren, and my own Nana and Poppy running off and not letting us know where for a ‘vacation’. Determined not to let the holiday go to waste, I offered to finally take the feast under my watch. After all, it’s not that hard to open a few cans of food, dump them into a casserole dish, and pop it in the oven.
Much to my disappointment, my parents firmly declined my offer and said we’d be going out to eat. That’s my Thanksgiving in a nutshell.
Now my 4-day Thanksgiving holiday was quickly turning just another long weekend involving driving out to New Smyrna and avoiding my parents by getting drunk on a beach with my childhood friends, talking about all the poor souls that aren’t doing as well as we like to pretend that we are. It also, sadly, involves me dropping all good senses and spotting some tattooed mess that probably has multiple DUI’s and a few knocked up girlfriends at the local Flagler Avenue watering hole and giving him my number. Fortunately, other noteworthy shenanigans involved Tartuffe jokes and shots with Mike Herdegen, sex talks with Cassie, wandering around beachside with Courtney, running into friends I haven’t seen in a few years like Mike Lints, and yet another party until the wee hours of the morning at the beachside Preston household with none other than friendboys Casey and Eric. I’ve also been told that I got into heated conversations with a girl about the necessity of carrying a taser in New Smyrna Beach. But really… Who needs one??
And what weekend with my parents would be complete without the steady stream of nonsense coming from my mom’s mouth?
“Hey Heather, since you like to write so much, why don’t you get a job working as an advice columnist for a financial magazine?” “…Because I think it’s a well-established fact that I am the last person that anyone should ask for financial advice?” She obviously was flipping through the movie channels and spotted Confessions of a Shopaholic. Besides, I know bars in Orlando. That’s why I write for Drink. Sorry it’s not as respectable as Money, but I get to write words like ‘shitfaced’, and that has more of a ring to me at this moment than words like ‘investment planning’.
And then there was: “I’m really disappointed in you Heather. I can’t believe how you’ve just let your car go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that a big, fat slob lived in your car.” I really couldn’t rebuttal this one. I could tell her that some of the mess was from hauling a bunch of guys (one dressed as Batman) around Gainesville a few weeks ago in which a gallon jug of water was accidentally trampled in the heat of the moment and, yes, I’m too lazy to care. I could also tell her that I’m disappointed in how she’s let herself go- packing on a good 80 pounds the last 3 years from her steady diet of bagels, cream cheese and Fat Boy ice cream sandwiches, developing type 2 diabetes, and sitting around in pajamas for days on end.
This argument felt best left un-fought. I got into my pigsty of a car and took off for Daytona Beach to pick up my friend Poopie, who needed a ride to Orlando to join the last few tour dates as a tech for Breathe Carolina. One of the other things my mom told me was that, after patiently counting down the days, my Aunt Pauline had passed away on Thanksgiving Day.
She waited until the next day to tell me this.
So I blew off reality. Poopie and I drove out to the House of Blues to meet up with Breathe Carolina and the rest of their crew. I guess it was the usual tour bus scenario- red solo cups and bottles of cheap whiskey and two barely-legal Ke$ha look-alikes (who oddly enough proudly proclaimed that they in fact hated Ke$ha, and that she stole their lives and was making money off of them. I told them they should sue her for intellectual property infringement.) More hilarious than their desperate half-assed acts of lesbianism was the fact that not a single guy- not even the lowliest of roadies- was paying them a bit of attention. I was sitting there, like I do, taking in all of the action and occasionally chatting it up with a drum tech or even Kyle and David from the band. David was a riot, and Kyle kept on thanking me for ‘just chilling’. He remembered us chatting at Warped Tour and my ‘Mullet Shirt’, and kindly told me to make myself at home.
Later he explained that it’s nice to just have some ‘normal’ people around. He has a girlfriend back home, as do many of the other guys, and it gets really old really fast when girls are getting trashed and throwing themselves all over the bus. I needed a break from Ke$ha Lookalike #1 asking me my name, then asking me to dance, then telling me she loved me, and what my name was again, and Kyle needed to head up to the venue. Desperately seeking fresh air, we trekked from the bus up to the venue where a long line was already forming. “Wow… That’s not the line for us, is it,” he asked in amazement. Then a few girls came running up and asked for pictures. Then a few more kids. Then a few more kids, until about two dozen teens in skinny jeans and Wayfarers were clamoring for pictures to be taken and shirts to be signed. Kyle shook hands, said thank you to every person, gave hugs, and signed every last ticket stub with a smile. We walked a few more steps to the venue, and said goodbye. I had to get back to New Smyrna and he had a show to put on, so we gave each other a big hug and parted ways. I hung out on the bus a little longer with the crowd, but I wasn’t drinking since I knew I had to get home soon. The crew said they wish I could have stayed, but I grabbed my keys and bid everyone- except the Ke$has- a good show and great rest of the tour.
A few hours later, I was back in routine at Courtney’s. We were planning on popping by Flagler Avenue again so I could meet up with the guy I gave my number to. He had me add him to my phone as ‘Danimal’, so I knew I was in for a treat. Courtney came as my wingwoman, and I almost didn’t think I needed her until Danimal decided to woo me with his extensive abilities smoke his way through an eight of grass a day, and he was a true gentleman when he invited me back to his truck to do whippets and listen to dubstep. Granted he never mentioned any DUI’s or illegitimate children, he was a barback at a famous strip club. Courtney asked me, “Do you want to go see my mom’s new bathroom?” I shook my head enthusiastically.
I was too exhausted to put up with bar shenanigans. I was too exhausted to deal with my mom at home. So I curled up in a recliner in Courtney’s living room with a plate of leftovers while she caught up on the latest episode of The Walking Dead. I hadn’t allowed myself to be so still for at least a week.
In between dozing off and nibbling on potato salad, I started to wonder when it would hit me- when I’d finally allow myself to miss my Aunt Pauline. Looking down at my plate of leftovers, I saw I had a piece of pecan and pumpkin pie left. A few years ago, Aunt Pauline brought a ‘holiday pie’- some Paula Dean recipe that combined the two pies into something nothing short of spectacular, and because I liked it so much she made it a point to make one every year thereafter. I smooshed my pieces of pie together. I thought that next year will go back to normal. We’ll have casseroles and debates between the generations. We might even have holiday pie. We’ll just be short one.
Some traditions you just can’t keep.
It’s also been a tradition in my family that it’s a small gathering: Mom and Dad, Nana and Poppy, and my great Aunt Pauline and Uncle Johnny. It’s been that way for the 13 years we’ve lived in New Smyrna Beach, and though we always had a lot more family in West Palm, I always saw them. You can imagine my shock when I found out that my beloved Aunt Pauline would still be in hospice, my Uncle Johnny being consoled by his children and grandchildren, and my own Nana and Poppy running off and not letting us know where for a ‘vacation’. Determined not to let the holiday go to waste, I offered to finally take the feast under my watch. After all, it’s not that hard to open a few cans of food, dump them into a casserole dish, and pop it in the oven.
Much to my disappointment, my parents firmly declined my offer and said we’d be going out to eat. That’s my Thanksgiving in a nutshell.
Now my 4-day Thanksgiving holiday was quickly turning just another long weekend involving driving out to New Smyrna and avoiding my parents by getting drunk on a beach with my childhood friends, talking about all the poor souls that aren’t doing as well as we like to pretend that we are. It also, sadly, involves me dropping all good senses and spotting some tattooed mess that probably has multiple DUI’s and a few knocked up girlfriends at the local Flagler Avenue watering hole and giving him my number. Fortunately, other noteworthy shenanigans involved Tartuffe jokes and shots with Mike Herdegen, sex talks with Cassie, wandering around beachside with Courtney, running into friends I haven’t seen in a few years like Mike Lints, and yet another party until the wee hours of the morning at the beachside Preston household with none other than friendboys Casey and Eric. I’ve also been told that I got into heated conversations with a girl about the necessity of carrying a taser in New Smyrna Beach. But really… Who needs one??
And what weekend with my parents would be complete without the steady stream of nonsense coming from my mom’s mouth?
“Hey Heather, since you like to write so much, why don’t you get a job working as an advice columnist for a financial magazine?” “…Because I think it’s a well-established fact that I am the last person that anyone should ask for financial advice?” She obviously was flipping through the movie channels and spotted Confessions of a Shopaholic. Besides, I know bars in Orlando. That’s why I write for Drink. Sorry it’s not as respectable as Money, but I get to write words like ‘shitfaced’, and that has more of a ring to me at this moment than words like ‘investment planning’.
And then there was: “I’m really disappointed in you Heather. I can’t believe how you’ve just let your car go. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that a big, fat slob lived in your car.” I really couldn’t rebuttal this one. I could tell her that some of the mess was from hauling a bunch of guys (one dressed as Batman) around Gainesville a few weeks ago in which a gallon jug of water was accidentally trampled in the heat of the moment and, yes, I’m too lazy to care. I could also tell her that I’m disappointed in how she’s let herself go- packing on a good 80 pounds the last 3 years from her steady diet of bagels, cream cheese and Fat Boy ice cream sandwiches, developing type 2 diabetes, and sitting around in pajamas for days on end.
This argument felt best left un-fought. I got into my pigsty of a car and took off for Daytona Beach to pick up my friend Poopie, who needed a ride to Orlando to join the last few tour dates as a tech for Breathe Carolina. One of the other things my mom told me was that, after patiently counting down the days, my Aunt Pauline had passed away on Thanksgiving Day.
She waited until the next day to tell me this.
So I blew off reality. Poopie and I drove out to the House of Blues to meet up with Breathe Carolina and the rest of their crew. I guess it was the usual tour bus scenario- red solo cups and bottles of cheap whiskey and two barely-legal Ke$ha look-alikes (who oddly enough proudly proclaimed that they in fact hated Ke$ha, and that she stole their lives and was making money off of them. I told them they should sue her for intellectual property infringement.) More hilarious than their desperate half-assed acts of lesbianism was the fact that not a single guy- not even the lowliest of roadies- was paying them a bit of attention. I was sitting there, like I do, taking in all of the action and occasionally chatting it up with a drum tech or even Kyle and David from the band. David was a riot, and Kyle kept on thanking me for ‘just chilling’. He remembered us chatting at Warped Tour and my ‘Mullet Shirt’, and kindly told me to make myself at home.
Later he explained that it’s nice to just have some ‘normal’ people around. He has a girlfriend back home, as do many of the other guys, and it gets really old really fast when girls are getting trashed and throwing themselves all over the bus. I needed a break from Ke$ha Lookalike #1 asking me my name, then asking me to dance, then telling me she loved me, and what my name was again, and Kyle needed to head up to the venue. Desperately seeking fresh air, we trekked from the bus up to the venue where a long line was already forming. “Wow… That’s not the line for us, is it,” he asked in amazement. Then a few girls came running up and asked for pictures. Then a few more kids. Then a few more kids, until about two dozen teens in skinny jeans and Wayfarers were clamoring for pictures to be taken and shirts to be signed. Kyle shook hands, said thank you to every person, gave hugs, and signed every last ticket stub with a smile. We walked a few more steps to the venue, and said goodbye. I had to get back to New Smyrna and he had a show to put on, so we gave each other a big hug and parted ways. I hung out on the bus a little longer with the crowd, but I wasn’t drinking since I knew I had to get home soon. The crew said they wish I could have stayed, but I grabbed my keys and bid everyone- except the Ke$has- a good show and great rest of the tour.
A few hours later, I was back in routine at Courtney’s. We were planning on popping by Flagler Avenue again so I could meet up with the guy I gave my number to. He had me add him to my phone as ‘Danimal’, so I knew I was in for a treat. Courtney came as my wingwoman, and I almost didn’t think I needed her until Danimal decided to woo me with his extensive abilities smoke his way through an eight of grass a day, and he was a true gentleman when he invited me back to his truck to do whippets and listen to dubstep. Granted he never mentioned any DUI’s or illegitimate children, he was a barback at a famous strip club. Courtney asked me, “Do you want to go see my mom’s new bathroom?” I shook my head enthusiastically.
I was too exhausted to put up with bar shenanigans. I was too exhausted to deal with my mom at home. So I curled up in a recliner in Courtney’s living room with a plate of leftovers while she caught up on the latest episode of The Walking Dead. I hadn’t allowed myself to be so still for at least a week.
In between dozing off and nibbling on potato salad, I started to wonder when it would hit me- when I’d finally allow myself to miss my Aunt Pauline. Looking down at my plate of leftovers, I saw I had a piece of pecan and pumpkin pie left. A few years ago, Aunt Pauline brought a ‘holiday pie’- some Paula Dean recipe that combined the two pies into something nothing short of spectacular, and because I liked it so much she made it a point to make one every year thereafter. I smooshed my pieces of pie together. I thought that next year will go back to normal. We’ll have casseroles and debates between the generations. We might even have holiday pie. We’ll just be short one.
Some traditions you just can’t keep.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Here's where I rant some more...
The other week, my boss asked me to take on a pretty heady task indeed: Resolve an issue between a vendor and a manager that I work with. It was a pretty scary ordeal for me, since this was an issue where I had done everything by the book. As the project manager, I proofread multiple times, had all of the emails showing correspondence, and had all of the proper documents signed. That’s basically it in a nutshell, and as much detail as I wish to divulge. Either way, I wasn’t sure what else to do with a situation that I thought was at a stalemate but my boss told me to handle it and that I’d end up learning a very good lesson from it all.
And then towards the end of resolving the whole thing, said lesson was learned: Sometimes you can do everything by the book, and something will still go wrong. Simple enough.
Between all of that drama and working a ton with other stuff, I really needed a break. I made it up to The Fest in Gainesville, Florida from Saturday through Monday to indulge in lots of PBR (which I never drink ordinarily) and even more punk rock. I was pretty worried about things going awry, since my dad has been drilling it into my head that if I travel more than 30 miles my car will fall apart. Of course, trips to New Smyrna Beach are always encouraged, because we all know that those do not put wear and tear on my car and my parents can seem to find Kissimmee and Lake Okeechobee but they can’t seem to find my place in downtown Orlando… But I, as usual, digress.
Well, just my luck my automatic window’s button stopped working, thus keeping my window in the downward position as Casey and I were about to go catch Bomb the Music Industry at The Venue. We couldn’t very well leave the car in downtown Gainesville, so we drove back to the place we were staying to drop off the car and hopefully have some friends take a look at it. We summed things up to the motor being burnt out, and the glass unable to be pulled upward, so we drove off and left the car in the parking lot as well as God’s good graces.
The next morning the car was gone. Luckily it was just towed, since I had parked it in a residential spot versus visitor’s spot and somehow the four or five of us didn’t manage to see the lack of ‘V’ painted on the ground. Hey, I work in advertising- I’m pretty used to having something proofed by multiple eyes and a typo still happening. No judgment here. My friend Eric took me to get my car, and I not only had to break the unfortunate news to my dad that not only had I spent the weekend crowdsurfing and getting hit in the nose by a fellow stagediver so hard it popped some cartilage in Gainesville, but now I had a towed car with a broken window. Fantastic.
Trying to make the most of a bad situation, I told my dad that it was probably better that my car was towed so at least it was locked up with the window down rather than in a parking lot where someone could have driven off with it. Not exactly thrilled at how my vacation days taken from work were about to be spent shelling out money that I don’t have to fix my car and being reprimanded for taking a few days to do something remotely similar to a ‘vacation’. I loaded up my bags and hit the road for Orlando, music as loud as I could comfortably stand it. Out of habit I went to roll my window up, and much to my surprise it worked! I was pretty happy to call up my dad to let him know that he wouldn’t have to front me the couple of hundred dollars it was going to take to fix the window.
I should have known better, but on came the lecture. First I get lectured over running toll booths. A piece of paper from the Department of Whoever Manages the Toll Roads sent it to my parents’ house. In the photo of the license plate, you can’t make out the numbers.
“But it looks like your car, Heather.”
“Yeah. My car that is registered in my name, with my Orlando address.”
“What is going on in your life to where you need to be running tolls?”
“Dad, I think you’re missing the point.”
So when it finally seems to click with him that any letters regarding my car are sent to my address, he decides to pick on me regarding my lack of ‘trying hard enough’. Pretty funny, since Eric had asked me earlier if my dad would give me a hard time about having to ask him to front me the money for the car repair. The law student who has always been good at analyzing people probably knew I was lying when I told him no.
I used all of the lines from prior arguments. I can’t help that the economy is bad. I went to a really good school and got a degree- wasn’t that the step that most parents wanted for their kids? I have a freelance job on the side. I’ve sent out my resume, even though I have a job and am getting by. At least I don’t have a drug problem and I’ve never called home from jail.
I had no idea that I was such a problem for my parents.
After rebutting every suggestion he had for me, I finally said, “Well, sometimes you do everything by the book and things still go wrong.” And he was quiet. “I don’t know what else to do, and if you have a suggestion of something that hasn’t already been done, please tell me.”
I guess I should have stayed in New Smyrna, got knocked up just in time to drop out of community college, and started working as a waitress serving all those weekenders from Orlando. Obviously that was the better of my two choices presented to me in life.
And then towards the end of resolving the whole thing, said lesson was learned: Sometimes you can do everything by the book, and something will still go wrong. Simple enough.
Between all of that drama and working a ton with other stuff, I really needed a break. I made it up to The Fest in Gainesville, Florida from Saturday through Monday to indulge in lots of PBR (which I never drink ordinarily) and even more punk rock. I was pretty worried about things going awry, since my dad has been drilling it into my head that if I travel more than 30 miles my car will fall apart. Of course, trips to New Smyrna Beach are always encouraged, because we all know that those do not put wear and tear on my car and my parents can seem to find Kissimmee and Lake Okeechobee but they can’t seem to find my place in downtown Orlando… But I, as usual, digress.
Well, just my luck my automatic window’s button stopped working, thus keeping my window in the downward position as Casey and I were about to go catch Bomb the Music Industry at The Venue. We couldn’t very well leave the car in downtown Gainesville, so we drove back to the place we were staying to drop off the car and hopefully have some friends take a look at it. We summed things up to the motor being burnt out, and the glass unable to be pulled upward, so we drove off and left the car in the parking lot as well as God’s good graces.
The next morning the car was gone. Luckily it was just towed, since I had parked it in a residential spot versus visitor’s spot and somehow the four or five of us didn’t manage to see the lack of ‘V’ painted on the ground. Hey, I work in advertising- I’m pretty used to having something proofed by multiple eyes and a typo still happening. No judgment here. My friend Eric took me to get my car, and I not only had to break the unfortunate news to my dad that not only had I spent the weekend crowdsurfing and getting hit in the nose by a fellow stagediver so hard it popped some cartilage in Gainesville, but now I had a towed car with a broken window. Fantastic.
Trying to make the most of a bad situation, I told my dad that it was probably better that my car was towed so at least it was locked up with the window down rather than in a parking lot where someone could have driven off with it. Not exactly thrilled at how my vacation days taken from work were about to be spent shelling out money that I don’t have to fix my car and being reprimanded for taking a few days to do something remotely similar to a ‘vacation’. I loaded up my bags and hit the road for Orlando, music as loud as I could comfortably stand it. Out of habit I went to roll my window up, and much to my surprise it worked! I was pretty happy to call up my dad to let him know that he wouldn’t have to front me the couple of hundred dollars it was going to take to fix the window.
I should have known better, but on came the lecture. First I get lectured over running toll booths. A piece of paper from the Department of Whoever Manages the Toll Roads sent it to my parents’ house. In the photo of the license plate, you can’t make out the numbers.
“But it looks like your car, Heather.”
“Yeah. My car that is registered in my name, with my Orlando address.”
“What is going on in your life to where you need to be running tolls?”
“Dad, I think you’re missing the point.”
So when it finally seems to click with him that any letters regarding my car are sent to my address, he decides to pick on me regarding my lack of ‘trying hard enough’. Pretty funny, since Eric had asked me earlier if my dad would give me a hard time about having to ask him to front me the money for the car repair. The law student who has always been good at analyzing people probably knew I was lying when I told him no.
I used all of the lines from prior arguments. I can’t help that the economy is bad. I went to a really good school and got a degree- wasn’t that the step that most parents wanted for their kids? I have a freelance job on the side. I’ve sent out my resume, even though I have a job and am getting by. At least I don’t have a drug problem and I’ve never called home from jail.
I had no idea that I was such a problem for my parents.
After rebutting every suggestion he had for me, I finally said, “Well, sometimes you do everything by the book and things still go wrong.” And he was quiet. “I don’t know what else to do, and if you have a suggestion of something that hasn’t already been done, please tell me.”
I guess I should have stayed in New Smyrna, got knocked up just in time to drop out of community college, and started working as a waitress serving all those weekenders from Orlando. Obviously that was the better of my two choices presented to me in life.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
And the Award Goes To...
It looks like I’m up for the World’s Shittiest Friend award, and I’m afraid to say that I’ve rightfully earned it. So here is my apology to everyone that I may have slighted in the last two or three weeks- Really, I never meant to be so selfish.
I guess it all started when I came down with that nasty sinus infection that kept me home from work and thoroughly under the weather for the last 14 days. Well, in hindsight I guess I was just bitching out. I mean, waking up on and off every night because you’re choking on a post-nasal drip isn’t that bad after all. I could have taken my four or five broken hours of sleep and pumped myself full of Starbucks and ibuprophen at work like a champ. Real people don’t need sleep.
Aside from being sick, which now I look back and realize maybe it was just a slight headache, I had been working nearly 50 hours a week for the last 2 or 3 weeks. We’re in the midst of football season at UCF, which means that nearly every Saturday I now get to stand in the afternoon heat with a smile on my face and deal with drunken people yelling at me over their choice of free gifts, since the company I work for is a sponsor for the school’s athletic programs. I also had a deadline for Drink Magazine. But with all of the expenses that I have coming up- gas and food money for an upcoming trip to Gainesville, roller derby gear, and a few epic concerts- I shouldn’t be working 7 days a week to make up the difference in my bank account. No- I should just ask my dad for a handout.
And for roller derby- I really shouldn’t be exerting what’s left of my energy supply on that! Physical fitness and accomplishing something that I’ve always wanted to do really shouldn’t be a top priority. If I want cardio training, I can just go find a dance floor. Dropping it like it’s hot counts as squats, right? Psh. Who needs 4-5 hours a week of intense boot camp-style exercise and skating, followed by another 2-3 hours of practicing on your own because you want to pass a skills test in 2 months?
But the real indiscretion was this last weekend. I should have gone out dancing not only on Friday night, but Saturday night as well, and stay out until the houselights came on. The last place I should have been was thoroughly buzzed on wine, a great meal, and stimulating conversation at my home. No- I should have been behind the wheel of a car getting myself to a club at midnight after being told that it was OK that I stayed in. Silly Heather. Silly, silly Heather.
Next time I won’t be so selfish. I’ll paint on a happy face, I’ll be there to prevent the fights that almost happen between my friends and complete strangers, and more importantly, I’ll read in between the lines of those text messages. How stupid of me to ever take things for face value in this world.
I’ll be a better friend the next time, I swear.
I guess it all started when I came down with that nasty sinus infection that kept me home from work and thoroughly under the weather for the last 14 days. Well, in hindsight I guess I was just bitching out. I mean, waking up on and off every night because you’re choking on a post-nasal drip isn’t that bad after all. I could have taken my four or five broken hours of sleep and pumped myself full of Starbucks and ibuprophen at work like a champ. Real people don’t need sleep.
Aside from being sick, which now I look back and realize maybe it was just a slight headache, I had been working nearly 50 hours a week for the last 2 or 3 weeks. We’re in the midst of football season at UCF, which means that nearly every Saturday I now get to stand in the afternoon heat with a smile on my face and deal with drunken people yelling at me over their choice of free gifts, since the company I work for is a sponsor for the school’s athletic programs. I also had a deadline for Drink Magazine. But with all of the expenses that I have coming up- gas and food money for an upcoming trip to Gainesville, roller derby gear, and a few epic concerts- I shouldn’t be working 7 days a week to make up the difference in my bank account. No- I should just ask my dad for a handout.
And for roller derby- I really shouldn’t be exerting what’s left of my energy supply on that! Physical fitness and accomplishing something that I’ve always wanted to do really shouldn’t be a top priority. If I want cardio training, I can just go find a dance floor. Dropping it like it’s hot counts as squats, right? Psh. Who needs 4-5 hours a week of intense boot camp-style exercise and skating, followed by another 2-3 hours of practicing on your own because you want to pass a skills test in 2 months?
But the real indiscretion was this last weekend. I should have gone out dancing not only on Friday night, but Saturday night as well, and stay out until the houselights came on. The last place I should have been was thoroughly buzzed on wine, a great meal, and stimulating conversation at my home. No- I should have been behind the wheel of a car getting myself to a club at midnight after being told that it was OK that I stayed in. Silly Heather. Silly, silly Heather.
Next time I won’t be so selfish. I’ll paint on a happy face, I’ll be there to prevent the fights that almost happen between my friends and complete strangers, and more importantly, I’ll read in between the lines of those text messages. How stupid of me to ever take things for face value in this world.
I’ll be a better friend the next time, I swear.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Coworker Etiquette
I was looking forward to going to bed early tonight. After all, I’ve been battling a sinus infection for just shy of a week, and as I’m feeling better during the day my nights have fallen prey to the incessant coughing as my lungs try to rid themselves of every last glob of mucus. Tasty, I know. However, I can’t go to bed without ridding this from my chest as well.
There is etiquette to working with others. As I’m feeling the weight of constantly being critiqued, I would think that those who are doing the judging would know this and just leave me be. It leaves me to wonder if anyone ever truly feels that they belong to an organization where they work. I know that I’m the youngest in my office. As a matter of fact, pretty much everyone that I work with is old enough to either be my parent or grandparent. Maybe 2 or 3 people in the entire building that I work in could be considered siblings, and I was the child that mom decided to pop out as a last hurrah before menopause. Still, I don’t need to be babysat and I feel that is exactly what is happening. Every time someone walks past my cubical, I feel like someone is peering over my shoulder. What is she working on? What’s on her computer screen? Why is she not taking a note down or moving her mouse? Why does she have her iPod out? What is she doing holding her cell phone?
And I know that they are tattling to my boss. A few weeks ago, I had to work an outdoor sporting event since the company I work for was a sponsor. It was approved by my boss that we could wear what we were wearing to the game to the office, since we had to be there right after office hours. While he was out at some of the stores in which we manage the marketing for, my coworkers from other departments felt the need to remind me that I was wearing shorts. Gosh- I was unaware that it was nontraditional to wear shorts in a professional setting. The last 2 years that I’ve worked there, I always just felt like wearing dress pants and heels. And it wasn’t even the snide remarks about how short they were or why I was wearing them (“Aren’t you cold?” “Are you a cheerleader today for the game?” “Your manager approved those? Sure he did.”) What bothered me the most was that people actually thought that I didn’t know any better.
Sure, perhaps the shorts were a little on the short side to be wearing to work. On the other hand, I’ve worn them to all other times I’ve worked at one of the sporting events- my manager has seen them. And not to play the ‘You’re Just Jealous’ card, but I will say that the only ones complaining to my boss and HR were of the 40 Plus variety. Yes, they did send numerous emails to my boss asking if he had seen what I was wearing. We laughed later on about how everyone had nothing better to do than gossip about what I was wearing.
By the end of that day, I was at my wits end and starting to get snippy with anyone who dared made eye contact with my choice in clothing. It wasn’t until today, though, that I finally lost my temper. I’ve been volunteering to help out with inventory in the stores that I help manage the marketing efforts for. It’s all automotive, so it involves me being at the dealership-level and working with people that I usually have no face time with whatsoever. It doesn’t bother me that they don’t know who I am or what my role is. It does bother me that when they find out which department I work in, all they can do is point out the negatives. “Who wrote that God-awful song that plays while people are on-hold?” “Ugh, can you guys stop running that one commercial when so-and-so does this-and-that? It’s terrible!” “Why aren’t we advertising on this station? You know, the demographic I think would better suit who we’re trying to sell to.” Marketing is subjective. Everyone is an expert in it.
Most of the time I just smile, nod, sit back and think to myself that some people just have no tact. “Hi, what’s your name? Oh, you work in marketing? You’re ideas suck! It must really blow to be you!”
I don’t meet these people and say, “God, your sales numbers were really low this month! Why can’t you guys sell more? It can’t possibly be that hard- I mean, even I could do it!” All the while I just sit there and take their expert opinions, and all I can do in the end is try to explain to them that a lot of what they are complaining about is either preaching to the choir or that they are preaching to the wrong person. I don’t call the shots on anything- the owner of the company does. I’d personally love to see them tell all of this to the man who signs their paychecks.
Maybe it was the sinus infection wearing my mental capabilities thin, or maybe it was that I’m a day or two from menstruation, but in an obnoxiously sarcastic voice I said, “You know, it really feels great to come from the office and be told that I fucking suck at my job!”
Loudly.
Perhaps too loudly.
And people stared and jaws hung and they stammered, “Well, no, that’s not what I meant…” I think I nearly gave one of the older women a heart attack. For a split second I felt a wave not of relief but of embarrassment. I entertained the thought of apologizing. I knew that this was going to make great fodder for the gossip already going around about me. Perhaps it would get to my boss and I’d have a stern talking to about being professional amongst others and setting a good example. The truth hurts, and it cuts the person hearing it just as much as the person calling it out. Now as I look back, I feel that it came out because it was supposed to.
Maybe that’s what we all needed to hear.
There is etiquette to working with others. As I’m feeling the weight of constantly being critiqued, I would think that those who are doing the judging would know this and just leave me be. It leaves me to wonder if anyone ever truly feels that they belong to an organization where they work. I know that I’m the youngest in my office. As a matter of fact, pretty much everyone that I work with is old enough to either be my parent or grandparent. Maybe 2 or 3 people in the entire building that I work in could be considered siblings, and I was the child that mom decided to pop out as a last hurrah before menopause. Still, I don’t need to be babysat and I feel that is exactly what is happening. Every time someone walks past my cubical, I feel like someone is peering over my shoulder. What is she working on? What’s on her computer screen? Why is she not taking a note down or moving her mouse? Why does she have her iPod out? What is she doing holding her cell phone?
And I know that they are tattling to my boss. A few weeks ago, I had to work an outdoor sporting event since the company I work for was a sponsor. It was approved by my boss that we could wear what we were wearing to the game to the office, since we had to be there right after office hours. While he was out at some of the stores in which we manage the marketing for, my coworkers from other departments felt the need to remind me that I was wearing shorts. Gosh- I was unaware that it was nontraditional to wear shorts in a professional setting. The last 2 years that I’ve worked there, I always just felt like wearing dress pants and heels. And it wasn’t even the snide remarks about how short they were or why I was wearing them (“Aren’t you cold?” “Are you a cheerleader today for the game?” “Your manager approved those? Sure he did.”) What bothered me the most was that people actually thought that I didn’t know any better.
Sure, perhaps the shorts were a little on the short side to be wearing to work. On the other hand, I’ve worn them to all other times I’ve worked at one of the sporting events- my manager has seen them. And not to play the ‘You’re Just Jealous’ card, but I will say that the only ones complaining to my boss and HR were of the 40 Plus variety. Yes, they did send numerous emails to my boss asking if he had seen what I was wearing. We laughed later on about how everyone had nothing better to do than gossip about what I was wearing.
By the end of that day, I was at my wits end and starting to get snippy with anyone who dared made eye contact with my choice in clothing. It wasn’t until today, though, that I finally lost my temper. I’ve been volunteering to help out with inventory in the stores that I help manage the marketing efforts for. It’s all automotive, so it involves me being at the dealership-level and working with people that I usually have no face time with whatsoever. It doesn’t bother me that they don’t know who I am or what my role is. It does bother me that when they find out which department I work in, all they can do is point out the negatives. “Who wrote that God-awful song that plays while people are on-hold?” “Ugh, can you guys stop running that one commercial when so-and-so does this-and-that? It’s terrible!” “Why aren’t we advertising on this station? You know, the demographic I think would better suit who we’re trying to sell to.” Marketing is subjective. Everyone is an expert in it.
Most of the time I just smile, nod, sit back and think to myself that some people just have no tact. “Hi, what’s your name? Oh, you work in marketing? You’re ideas suck! It must really blow to be you!”
I don’t meet these people and say, “God, your sales numbers were really low this month! Why can’t you guys sell more? It can’t possibly be that hard- I mean, even I could do it!” All the while I just sit there and take their expert opinions, and all I can do in the end is try to explain to them that a lot of what they are complaining about is either preaching to the choir or that they are preaching to the wrong person. I don’t call the shots on anything- the owner of the company does. I’d personally love to see them tell all of this to the man who signs their paychecks.
Maybe it was the sinus infection wearing my mental capabilities thin, or maybe it was that I’m a day or two from menstruation, but in an obnoxiously sarcastic voice I said, “You know, it really feels great to come from the office and be told that I fucking suck at my job!”
Loudly.
Perhaps too loudly.
And people stared and jaws hung and they stammered, “Well, no, that’s not what I meant…” I think I nearly gave one of the older women a heart attack. For a split second I felt a wave not of relief but of embarrassment. I entertained the thought of apologizing. I knew that this was going to make great fodder for the gossip already going around about me. Perhaps it would get to my boss and I’d have a stern talking to about being professional amongst others and setting a good example. The truth hurts, and it cuts the person hearing it just as much as the person calling it out. Now as I look back, I feel that it came out because it was supposed to.
Maybe that’s what we all needed to hear.
Monday, October 18, 2010
How awesome is your best friend Savannah?
My best friend Savannah is AMAZING! So amazing that it took me 10 months to log back in to Formspring and answer this question...
Monday, October 11, 2010
Bucket (List) of Blood
Ah, October is upon us! And how to start everyone's favorite month to dress up as a slut or act like a pervert than with some monsters and mayhem! Last Saturday (see the prior post) turned out to be quite the spontaneous adventure…
I had the opportunity to catch Gwar performing at Club Firestone- a place I usually avoid at all costs unless it's a band that I like playing (usually 3 times a year). Since I am a huge fan of any hard rock genre, Gwar is a band that I've known for years even though I've never really listened to their stuff. They just happen to be one of those bands that makes your bucket list- their shows are legendary, and even if they don't ever make it to your iPod they are still a band you know you have to see at some point in your life. I made arrangements with a friend that was offering some free tickets, grabbed an old white t-shirt, and met up with my photographer friend Megan Schutz. She was all kinds of excited when she heard what we were doing before catching Night of the Living Dead at the Enzian Theater later.
Within the first 3 minutes of the band taking the stage, I was frozen in place with my ja
w agape and my eyelids glued to my forehead. I couldn’t turn away! The split second that I did, a man either was decapitated by someone else or at his own expense, and by the time I looked back to the stage he was already spurting blood from his carotid artery onto the masses. Damn it. After I told Megan a few times that I couldn’t tell if I was genuinely scared (I wasn’t sober at the time) or if I was entertained, I grabbed her hand and we meandered around the side of the crowd and snuck into the front. There we were sprayed by the headless man, followed by something that looked like a mutant pig fetus.
I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, so even when Oderus Urungus was proclaiming that an on-stage Sarah Palin shouldn't be in politics, but rather his own personal fucktoy, I couldn't really be offended. I knew what I was getting myself into when I went to this show; it would be as ludicrous to be upset over seeing Marilyn Manson tear a Bible up on stage- you know it's bound to happen! Even though I'm a firm believer in gender equality and I'm not a fan of Palin whatsoever, I kept my cheers (and jeers) to myself and watched in stunned amusement. This is why you go to this show to begin with, right? He then went on to chainsaw her in half, rip her severed hips and legs away from her spinal column, and she gushed blood all over the delighted audience.
Fortunately, I don't think that the people at a Gwar show are taking themselves too seriously. Most people who are watching a bunch of men pushing 50 wearing ripped fishnet stockings and spraying an overzealous crowd with faux bodily fluids aren't- if they were, they'd be running for the nearest free clinic. And if there are still people that are going to these shows and taking music-or anything- in its literal sense, then they are more impressionable than originally thought, and should be avoided at all costs. That’s how we could have avoided such events in history like Jonestown, duh.
Sadly, we had to leave about 30 minutes into the show to make it to the Enzian in time. This was the aftermath.
It ended up not being Night of the Living Dead that stuck with me the longest. The ride to work was nearly as entertaining as the concert. I thought maybe it would have been funnier to see a Kardashian ripped apart since a few years ago they killed off Paris Hilton, and then I started to think of all of the other catchy celebs that Gwar could mutilate on stage... That chick that can’t act from Twilight? Ke$ha? The entire cast of Jersey Shore? And then I found myself at work muttering to myself every time I hit the Send button on another email, "Now there's someone I would have liked to see get chainsawed in half on stage." Even better was when something went awry in the office and my initial solution to the problem was to rip someone’s head off and spray blood everywhere.
Run.
I had the opportunity to catch Gwar performing at Club Firestone- a place I usually avoid at all costs unless it's a band that I like playing (usually 3 times a year). Since I am a huge fan of any hard rock genre, Gwar is a band that I've known for years even though I've never really listened to their stuff. They just happen to be one of those bands that makes your bucket list- their shows are legendary, and even if they don't ever make it to your iPod they are still a band you know you have to see at some point in your life. I made arrangements with a friend that was offering some free tickets, grabbed an old white t-shirt, and met up with my photographer friend Megan Schutz. She was all kinds of excited when she heard what we were doing before catching Night of the Living Dead at the Enzian Theater later.
Within the first 3 minutes of the band taking the stage, I was frozen in place with my ja
w agape and my eyelids glued to my forehead. I couldn’t turn away! The split second that I did, a man either was decapitated by someone else or at his own expense, and by the time I looked back to the stage he was already spurting blood from his carotid artery onto the masses. Damn it. After I told Megan a few times that I couldn’t tell if I was genuinely scared (I wasn’t sober at the time) or if I was entertained, I grabbed her hand and we meandered around the side of the crowd and snuck into the front. There we were sprayed by the headless man, followed by something that looked like a mutant pig fetus.I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, so even when Oderus Urungus was proclaiming that an on-stage Sarah Palin shouldn't be in politics, but rather his own personal fucktoy, I couldn't really be offended. I knew what I was getting myself into when I went to this show; it would be as ludicrous to be upset over seeing Marilyn Manson tear a Bible up on stage- you know it's bound to happen! Even though I'm a firm believer in gender equality and I'm not a fan of Palin whatsoever, I kept my cheers (and jeers) to myself and watched in stunned amusement. This is why you go to this show to begin with, right? He then went on to chainsaw her in half, rip her severed hips and legs away from her spinal column, and she gushed blood all over the delighted audience.
Fortunately, I don't think that the people at a Gwar show are taking themselves too seriously. Most people who are watching a bunch of men pushing 50 wearing ripped fishnet stockings and spraying an overzealous crowd with faux bodily fluids aren't- if they were, they'd be running for the nearest free clinic. And if there are still people that are going to these shows and taking music-or anything- in its literal sense, then they are more impressionable than originally thought, and should be avoided at all costs. That’s how we could have avoided such events in history like Jonestown, duh.
Sadly, we had to leave about 30 minutes into the show to make it to the Enzian in time. This was the aftermath.
It ended up not being Night of the Living Dead that stuck with me the longest. The ride to work was nearly as entertaining as the concert. I thought maybe it would have been funnier to see a Kardashian ripped apart since a few years ago they killed off Paris Hilton, and then I started to think of all of the other catchy celebs that Gwar could mutilate on stage... That chick that can’t act from Twilight? Ke$ha? The entire cast of Jersey Shore? And then I found myself at work muttering to myself every time I hit the Send button on another email, "Now there's someone I would have liked to see get chainsawed in half on stage." Even better was when something went awry in the office and my initial solution to the problem was to rip someone’s head off and spray blood everywhere.
Run.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
They're Coming to Get You, Heather!!
Its that’s special time of the year here in central Florida: that time where nature can’t decide to take the plunge from sweltering hot to what us Floridians call ‘freezing’. Mother Nature is a child teetering on the edge of a pool, dipping their toe into the water before building up the courage to commit. Someone needs to walk by and push this bitch in.
Right now it’s a comfortable upper-sixties-something, and I have the A/C off and the windows open. Soon it will be back to the lower 80’s this afternoon, and my friends will start seeing who wants to carpool to the beach. 80-degree weather and pumpkin-flavored everything? Gotta love Florida in October! However, I should have gone home to New Smyrna Beach to take advantage of this last weekend I’ve got free of any predetermined plans but I’ve been running back there nearly every weekend for the last 5 or 6 weeks. I can’t remember the last time I went to Backbooth for Midnight Mass. The last time I went to Independent Bar with the usual group was probably around the last time I actually folded the laundry after getting it out of the dryer…
Either way, the fact that it is already well into October has me slightly freaked out. Everything has been going by so fast, as it does when you’re completely swamped with work and plans. No complaints here: it’s been a journey nothing short of amazing and I can’t get over all that I’m accomplishing here in the last 2 or so months. I recently started writing for Drink Magazine, published by Orlando Weekly (2nd biggest newspaper here in central Florida). I’m really excited about it as a side gig, and I’ve been in the September issue for covering a few great drinks at a few great bars as well as the one for October. It’s on newsstands now, so go pick up a copy and see what my friends and I think the most overplayed Halloween costumes are before you make a costume faux pas, because NO ONE wants to do that on Halloween… But really, I hope you read and have a chuckle. All of my friends have asked how I got involved with it. I just tell them that I went to enough of the monthly launch parties hosted by Drink, and found myself telling editor Meghan that I really, really, really, really wanted to be involved. After 3 or 6 free cocktails, you can find yourself confessing any desire to anyone, as we all know.
I’m also writing for NotNorthNews.org, a site that focuses on the Florida music scene. I’m stoked about this one because, like hitting up bars around Orlando, this gig fits my lifestyle perfectly. I have a ton of things that I need to be writing for the site. I’ve done 2 short pieces so far, and I have an album review, a few interviews, and maybe an editorial on the way. Halloween weekend I’ll be up in Gainesville for The Fest 9 covering it as press, if you will, and though I’ve never been I can safely chalk it up to nonstop PBR-fueled punk rock mayhem running amok in the streets of the city.
I. Can’t. Wait.
So besides being a total workaholic and having too much housework to catch up on, I’ve found another reason to keep me in Orlando this weekend- The Enzian Theater in Winter Park is showing a midnight double-feature of King of the Zombies, followed by my favorite horror flick ever Night of the Living Dead. Both are being shown in 16mm film. What a rad way to kick off the Halloween season! Some friends are all going to be at Spooky Empire with its celebs and whatnot, but I figure by the time I’m doing all that needs getting done around here it will be midnight and thus perfect timing to catch George Romero’s debut. A little pumpkin pie gelati from Jeremiah’s right down the street, a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks, or a pumpkin beer would make this night nearly perfect.
Decisions, decisions!
Right now it’s a comfortable upper-sixties-something, and I have the A/C off and the windows open. Soon it will be back to the lower 80’s this afternoon, and my friends will start seeing who wants to carpool to the beach. 80-degree weather and pumpkin-flavored everything? Gotta love Florida in October! However, I should have gone home to New Smyrna Beach to take advantage of this last weekend I’ve got free of any predetermined plans but I’ve been running back there nearly every weekend for the last 5 or 6 weeks. I can’t remember the last time I went to Backbooth for Midnight Mass. The last time I went to Independent Bar with the usual group was probably around the last time I actually folded the laundry after getting it out of the dryer…
Either way, the fact that it is already well into October has me slightly freaked out. Everything has been going by so fast, as it does when you’re completely swamped with work and plans. No complaints here: it’s been a journey nothing short of amazing and I can’t get over all that I’m accomplishing here in the last 2 or so months. I recently started writing for Drink Magazine, published by Orlando Weekly (2nd biggest newspaper here in central Florida). I’m really excited about it as a side gig, and I’ve been in the September issue for covering a few great drinks at a few great bars as well as the one for October. It’s on newsstands now, so go pick up a copy and see what my friends and I think the most overplayed Halloween costumes are before you make a costume faux pas, because NO ONE wants to do that on Halloween… But really, I hope you read and have a chuckle. All of my friends have asked how I got involved with it. I just tell them that I went to enough of the monthly launch parties hosted by Drink, and found myself telling editor Meghan that I really, really, really, really wanted to be involved. After 3 or 6 free cocktails, you can find yourself confessing any desire to anyone, as we all know.
I’m also writing for NotNorthNews.org, a site that focuses on the Florida music scene. I’m stoked about this one because, like hitting up bars around Orlando, this gig fits my lifestyle perfectly. I have a ton of things that I need to be writing for the site. I’ve done 2 short pieces so far, and I have an album review, a few interviews, and maybe an editorial on the way. Halloween weekend I’ll be up in Gainesville for The Fest 9 covering it as press, if you will, and though I’ve never been I can safely chalk it up to nonstop PBR-fueled punk rock mayhem running amok in the streets of the city.
I. Can’t. Wait.
So besides being a total workaholic and having too much housework to catch up on, I’ve found another reason to keep me in Orlando this weekend- The Enzian Theater in Winter Park is showing a midnight double-feature of King of the Zombies, followed by my favorite horror flick ever Night of the Living Dead. Both are being shown in 16mm film. What a rad way to kick off the Halloween season! Some friends are all going to be at Spooky Empire with its celebs and whatnot, but I figure by the time I’m doing all that needs getting done around here it will be midnight and thus perfect timing to catch George Romero’s debut. A little pumpkin pie gelati from Jeremiah’s right down the street, a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks, or a pumpkin beer would make this night nearly perfect.
Decisions, decisions!
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Died and Gone to Heaven
Lately I’ve been finding myself going back to my roots as I do from time to time. The last month has been full of hanging with old friends back in New Smyrna Beach, NOFX and Pennywise, and now a trip to the local record store to indulge in second-hand delights and rock and roll nostalgia. When I was in my early teens and figuring out what I was shaping who I was to become, I immersed myself in the past. My favorite subject in school was history, and I really gained an interest in cultural history. Every Friday I would go to the public library and take out books on the sixties and seventies and movies like Nosferatu, Rear Window, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I had pictures of Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford on my folders right next to my Pump Up the Valuum sticker and clippings of Slipknot from that month’s Guitar World. At night I’d light incense and get high on the poetry of Jim Morrison and Allen Ginsberg, and on weekends my best friend Kayla and I would be driven around town by her mom to the vintage shops in town.
Today I hung out with my new pal Lisa- an Orlando transplant hailing from Austin, Texas. We decided at some point in the day to hit up Twisted Bliss over on Ivanhoe Row. My favorite thing to get there is the chocolate brownie and peanut butter Italian ices, and since the weather is amazing now that we’re into October we hung out on the patio and ate our treats. Across the street is Rock & Roll Heaven, a place I’ve heard a ton about and always only end up driving past and saying, “Man, I need to go there soon!” Being the complete music junkie that I am, I knew that it would be a good afternoon adventure if I could ever find an afternoon to dedicate to flipping through all of the used records that I wish I had a player for.
As soon as I stepped inside, I knew why the store was named such. Everything you could think of was there- back issues of magazines, original-packaged toys and memorabilia, posters, and of course crates and crates of CDs and records. I strolled each aisle, sometimes twice, lovingly looking upon all of the records and wondering if they were original pressings. I saw so many things that made me smile! I spotted a Victory Records sticker on a glass case, which sparked brief conversation between one of the store clerks and I. There was Punk-O-Rama and Vol. 3- Punk-O-Rama Vol. 2 was actually my first taste of many of the bands I got into later on.
Though I didn’t walk away with them, I did get a few sticks of patchouli incense, The Way We Were on VHS, The Definitive Collection: Etta James on CD, and a free Victory Records sticker. Had I more disposable income that day, I would have walked away with the 2 Elliott Smith records I saw, the Dead Kennedys record buried deep in a stack in the Punk/Hardcore section, The Rocky Horror Picture Show on VHS, and the Me First and the Gimme Gimmes record I would have picked up for good measure to play on a second-hand record player.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
What I Do
A lot of people ask me what I do for a living. I work in marketing and advertising. I am a copywriter, and I have been lucky enough to have commercials on radio and TV running for about a year and a half now, as well as publish a lot of web content for a variety of companies. I also got to help manage and implement a huge rebranding campaign for a well-known business in Orlando.
This video pretty much sums up that campaign, as well as many of the day-to-day things that I (and all of 'creatives') face in the workplace. Cheers!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I Still Love this Song
This song is, word for word, my life in a nutshell. Well, a decent chunk of it. Its amazing. And since this is way early Against Me! and Tom Gabel was still doing the punk voice, I'll post the words below so you can really understand their beauty.
I Still Love You Julie
Last night,
A room full, drunk,
Sang along to the songs I never had
The courage to write.
Given the chance
I'd stay in this chorus forever,
Where everything ugly in this world
Is sadly beautiful
In our desperate memories.
No, we're not
Gonna call everyone on their shit tonight,
Even though the half of you won't even smile
The next time we pass on the street.
Maybe somehow
This scam will still save us all...
Still save us all...
Then I saw you
Dancing at a punk rock show
And for a moment
We walked the streets that everyone else
Had given up to 4 AM,
'Cause promises
And spray paint marking
Everywhere we went
And every direction
Only going as far
As we let it.
There's so many things
We try to do truthfully.
By the time it's through with us,
It all falls apart.
Maybe somehow
This scam will still save us all.
Still save us all...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Bieber Fever
Its been far, far too long since I’ve posted on here! Times when I am inspired to write about the observations in my life paired with the time to actually sit down and think them into something worthy for you all to read are far and few in between. However, I was paired with such occurrences tonight, so here I sit with my laptop open and a Steak N Shake meal to my side. For the win!
Today at work was a nightmare. The manager of the IT department at work, my beloved friend boy (although it should be friend man, because he is probably a good 15 or so years older) Tom commandeered my computer to try to fix it. Perhaps it was all of the Justin Bieber that Tom and my coworker Pattie were trying to get me to listen to, but my computer wouldn’t work properly for the rest of the day- thus rendering me helpless as I scrambled to claim co-op advertising dollars and send out updated radio copy to stations in town. I personally take pride in the fact that, like Jersey Shore, I have never been exposed to any bit of a Justin Bieber song in its entirety. Maybe a minute or two, but once I wise up and realize that its not that Natasha Bedingfield chick, I quickly plug my ears with my fingers as if I were in the second grade and chant, “Lalalalalalalala!” Sexy, I know. Needless to say, my computer caught a case of Bieber Fever and quickly became useless and all I could do was mutter, "That kid sounds like Natasha Bedingfield..."
The only thing keeping me sane was my extracurricular activities that I had planned for after 5p. Though I was craving a dirty martini and a fatal head wound at this point, I still rounded up my friends Jamesson and Anthony to go roller skating at the local rink. Upon hearing my amazingly br00t4l metal voice that I’ve cultivated with Ricky Diamond, Anthony has become the Jonny Craig to my Jon Mess. Together we belted out some Dance Gavin Dance while Jamesson used my headphones to listen to his preferences.
What sparked this sudden interest in roller skating you ask? One of the things I’ve always wanted to do was join a roller derby team. What better way to practice for recruitment than to hit up the local skating rink on budget night where for $4 you can dodge little kids that keep falling down and get whizzed past by people who probably skate better than they walk. Isn’t that roller derby in a nutshell?
The three of us hadn’t been on roller skates in close to a decade. Jamesson was by the far the most graceful- we are blaming it on the PBRs and whiskey that he downed before we got into the car. Anthony gave it a fair run, having only fallen down 4 times. Surprisingly enough, I made a clean sweep tonight. That’s not to say that I didn’t take down a small child when I lost my balance at one point, however.
The music was a happy mix of retro hip hop circa 1993 as well as some newer stuff. I’m not sure why, but they kept on playing what sounded like Natasha Bedingfield. When I took a breather with Anthony, we took note that all of the women were starting to act… Strangely. They were getting excited, with a wild look in their eyes, and their lips forming the words Oh, My, and Gosh. The boys seemed unphased. Anthony
quickly deducted that we had fallen subject to a Justin Bieber attack. All hope had been lost. I was going down, but not without a fight. “You mean this isn’t Natasha Bedingfield,” I shrieked in horror. “But I have a record to maintain! Never have I heard a full song of his! I can’t get out of here fast enough!” Quickly, and in what could be considered my most br00t4l metal voice rendition yet, I looked at Anthony and howled, “BIEBER FEVER!”
Anthony followed suit, and then we skated up to the railing of the rink and roared it as Jamesson skating by. Jamesson just looked at us with a blank, transparent stare as he rolled away. Later I skated up to him, and he asked what it was we were saying. “I don’t subscribe to that agro bullshit you listen to,” he said as we skated along to the sounds of Bieber.
Then he added, “Wait, that wasn’t Natasha Bedingfield?”
Today at work was a nightmare. The manager of the IT department at work, my beloved friend boy (although it should be friend man, because he is probably a good 15 or so years older) Tom commandeered my computer to try to fix it. Perhaps it was all of the Justin Bieber that Tom and my coworker Pattie were trying to get me to listen to, but my computer wouldn’t work properly for the rest of the day- thus rendering me helpless as I scrambled to claim co-op advertising dollars and send out updated radio copy to stations in town. I personally take pride in the fact that, like Jersey Shore, I have never been exposed to any bit of a Justin Bieber song in its entirety. Maybe a minute or two, but once I wise up and realize that its not that Natasha Bedingfield chick, I quickly plug my ears with my fingers as if I were in the second grade and chant, “Lalalalalalalala!” Sexy, I know. Needless to say, my computer caught a case of Bieber Fever and quickly became useless and all I could do was mutter, "That kid sounds like Natasha Bedingfield..."
The only thing keeping me sane was my extracurricular activities that I had planned for after 5p. Though I was craving a dirty martini and a fatal head wound at this point, I still rounded up my friends Jamesson and Anthony to go roller skating at the local rink. Upon hearing my amazingly br00t4l metal voice that I’ve cultivated with Ricky Diamond, Anthony has become the Jonny Craig to my Jon Mess. Together we belted out some Dance Gavin Dance while Jamesson used my headphones to listen to his preferences.
What sparked this sudden interest in roller skating you ask? One of the things I’ve always wanted to do was join a roller derby team. What better way to practice for recruitment than to hit up the local skating rink on budget night where for $4 you can dodge little kids that keep falling down and get whizzed past by people who probably skate better than they walk. Isn’t that roller derby in a nutshell?
The three of us hadn’t been on roller skates in close to a decade. Jamesson was by the far the most graceful- we are blaming it on the PBRs and whiskey that he downed before we got into the car. Anthony gave it a fair run, having only fallen down 4 times. Surprisingly enough, I made a clean sweep tonight. That’s not to say that I didn’t take down a small child when I lost my balance at one point, however.
The music was a happy mix of retro hip hop circa 1993 as well as some newer stuff. I’m not sure why, but they kept on playing what sounded like Natasha Bedingfield. When I took a breather with Anthony, we took note that all of the women were starting to act… Strangely. They were getting excited, with a wild look in their eyes, and their lips forming the words Oh, My, and Gosh. The boys seemed unphased. Anthony
quickly deducted that we had fallen subject to a Justin Bieber attack. All hope had been lost. I was going down, but not without a fight. “You mean this isn’t Natasha Bedingfield,” I shrieked in horror. “But I have a record to maintain! Never have I heard a full song of his! I can’t get out of here fast enough!” Quickly, and in what could be considered my most br00t4l metal voice rendition yet, I looked at Anthony and howled, “BIEBER FEVER!”Anthony followed suit, and then we skated up to the railing of the rink and roared it as Jamesson skating by. Jamesson just looked at us with a blank, transparent stare as he rolled away. Later I skated up to him, and he asked what it was we were saying. “I don’t subscribe to that agro bullshit you listen to,” he said as we skated along to the sounds of Bieber.
Then he added, “Wait, that wasn’t Natasha Bedingfield?”
Monday, July 5, 2010
America- FUCKYEAHHHH!
Nothing says America more than Ed Hardy tattoos and pickles. Well, according to my good friends Cindy and Tiffany. After thoroughly enjoying the first 2 nights out on the town with my friends to kick off the 3-day holiday weekend, we all decided to take the 4th and keep it low key. Tiffany was gracious enough to host a few of us over provided that we all brought a multicultural dish. I was glad that I didn’t have to put much thought into it. Tiffany asked me to bring hummus and crackers, and I easily said, “Done!”
Since I didn’t get up and moving about until 1:30p (gross, I know), I didn’t really have much time to make anything. I needed a shower, to get my stomach under control because I mixed liquor and beer the night prior, and to make it to another house party beforehand with Jamesson. Fortunately, I’m a fan of always keeping a few staples on-hand for time when you’re in a pinch. I generally always have garlic, lemon, rosemary, olive oil, and a can or two of white beans in the pantry. When you blend them all together, they happen to make one of the best dips in existence. Not quite hummus, but close enough.
The spread at our potluck was quite… Interesting. We had wine from Chile, pineapple to embody Brazil, and Cindy’s signature queso dip to round out south-of-the-border representation for Mexico. For European influence, we had cheese and crackers for France alongside bread with sides of marinara and alfredo sauce for Italy. Although my white bean dip was more Italian (I did snag the recipe from Giada di Laurentiis), we decided to give a random shout-out to India.
And what for America? When I got to Tiffany’s and saw the spread, I just saw a random jar of pickles. Upon further examination, I saw some stick-on tattoos haphazardly lying next to it. “Hmmm,” I said. “Ed Hardy tats. Nothing more American than that… But I’m pretty sure that pickles come from Europe.” After a few cocktails, I decided that there was actually nothing more American than bad tattoos in even worse places. Enid got a black widow and barbed wire tattoo around her arm, a la Pamela Anderson. Cindy got one down her inner thigh. Tiffany and I got them on our boobs.
Then there was karaoke. After watching the fireworks display over Lake Eola from Tiffany’s balcony, we all thought it was a grand idea to go to Cindy and Chaz’s favorite haunt Big Daddy’s for some singing. Doesn’t get more American.
P.S. I finally did lose my karaoke virginity… The girls and I sang along to Vanilla Ice’s ‘Ice Ice Baby’, which happens to be the song that I sang to keep my mind off of the pain when I broke my ankle skateboarding.
Since I didn’t get up and moving about until 1:30p (gross, I know), I didn’t really have much time to make anything. I needed a shower, to get my stomach under control because I mixed liquor and beer the night prior, and to make it to another house party beforehand with Jamesson. Fortunately, I’m a fan of always keeping a few staples on-hand for time when you’re in a pinch. I generally always have garlic, lemon, rosemary, olive oil, and a can or two of white beans in the pantry. When you blend them all together, they happen to make one of the best dips in existence. Not quite hummus, but close enough.
The spread at our potluck was quite… Interesting. We had wine from Chile, pineapple to embody Brazil, and Cindy’s signature queso dip to round out south-of-the-border representation for Mexico. For European influence, we had cheese and crackers for France alongside bread with sides of marinara and alfredo sauce for Italy. Although my white bean dip was more Italian (I did snag the recipe from Giada di Laurentiis), we decided to give a random shout-out to India.
And what for America? When I got to Tiffany’s and saw the spread, I just saw a random jar of pickles. Upon further examination, I saw some stick-on tattoos haphazardly lying next to it. “Hmmm,” I said. “Ed Hardy tats. Nothing more American than that… But I’m pretty sure that pickles come from Europe.” After a few cocktails, I decided that there was actually nothing more American than bad tattoos in even worse places. Enid got a black widow and barbed wire tattoo around her arm, a la Pamela Anderson. Cindy got one down her inner thigh. Tiffany and I got them on our boobs.
Then there was karaoke. After watching the fireworks display over Lake Eola from Tiffany’s balcony, we all thought it was a grand idea to go to Cindy and Chaz’s favorite haunt Big Daddy’s for some singing. Doesn’t get more American.
P.S. I finally did lose my karaoke virginity… The girls and I sang along to Vanilla Ice’s ‘Ice Ice Baby’, which happens to be the song that I sang to keep my mind off of the pain when I broke my ankle skateboarding.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Sing Along
You don't need to be in a break-up to think of someone you'd like to say over half of these lyrics to. I can name about half a dozen ;-)
Happy Friday! Let's sing along...
Happy Friday! Let's sing along...
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Little Ms. Popular
About three weeks ago was trying to find the time to write a posting on how I was starting to feel like one of those bad parents that you see in the movies. You know the ones that are always calling up the kid on their birthday (right when they are about to blow out the candles on their cake) and telling them, “Sorry honey. Mommy can’t make it to your birthday party because work/forgetfulness/drug addiction came up.” That was me. Except I was telling friends that I couldn’t make it to their event that they were promoting, their concert, or their poetry reading because I was tied up with something else.
I was always running late! Either I was jetting from one event to another, or being held up by a friend before I could even get out the door. All the while I would be scrambling to make it before the guest list cut off. However, it’s dreadfully tacky at the same time to be furiously texting your host as you stomp down Orange Ave. begging them to make sure you can still get in for free at 11:40p when the list stops at 11:30p. It’s also shameful to tell your host that you can’t make it at all since you missed the cut-off. I try to do both as little as possible.
Events aside, I feel as though I’ve also been the crutch for my friends as well. Maybe something is in the water here, but it seems as though everyone is going through some major issues, and they all seem to want to resolve them downtown. I’m pulled in a million directions via texts and Facebook status updates that I’ve been tagged in. I’ve looked at my notifications to see that apparently I’m slated to be at Independent Bar on a Tuesday night for Grits and Gravy, even though I have work the next morning and Diana Ross makes me want to slit my wrists. As much as I’d like to say no thanks, it’s a little hard to do so when you’ve got five people who have already started posting comments that they can’t wait to see you out… Even though I just saw many of them the night before, and the night before that one, and have already had two conversations via text with them that same day. And then there is my favorite line: “It’s not like you have to drive 45 minutes home anymore. You live downtown now!”
I’ve never been the ‘popular’ girl my entire life. It’s quite flattering to me that someone thinks that my presence will make or break their night out on the town. It’s fun to walk up to a group of people and hear one of them squeal, “Bougie’s here!” But here is the true reason why it’s all irritating me so: Surprise, surprise- I’m going through a lot, too. I’m trying to tackle issues that come with being an adult- bills, work, and attempting something called ‘dating’ but I have long since given up on that. I live in a shell of an apartment that I’ve barely felt connected to since I moved in nearly two months ago, because guess what? I’m never here. When I’m out, I’m not allowed to have feelings either. I’m not allowed to just sit back and take in the scenery with a water in my hand. Someone is always coming up to me shoving a drink to my lips, or asking me why I look melancholy. Yet before I can answer, I’m being told that I’m not allowed to be- not tonight, because Bougie is needed.
All I’ve wanted to do for the last few weeks is go home (wherever that is), throw on my NOFX t-shirt and a pair of boxers, crank the Greeley Estates on my iPod and relax on the couch after I organize more of the things I need to unpack around the apartment. I just want to be Heather.
Tonight I hit up Shari’s sushi happy hour (try saying that one five times fast) in Thornton Park with my good friend Dru. Over $3.75 cocktails and sushi rolls, I described how two weekends ago I lost my iPhone at Back Booth. I’ve broken down into tears over it several times since then, as well as nearly pulling a Naomi Campbell by smashing my previous BlackBerry into a million pieces because it won’t receive text messages or show me calls I’ve missed. Although my perfectionism is numero uno on the list of why I’m so distraught over losing my phone (I’ve never lost a phone- ever- let alone anything worth more than a few dollars) , the second reason I’ve been so torn up is because I feel completely disconnected from the world. When I’m bored at work, I can’t just shoot a text to my friend Lauren and have some of her wit hold me over for a few more hours. I can’t catch up with people via Facebook chat while I’m walking down Central Boulevard. I can’t watch a movie and IMDB it when I have an inquiry.
My friends have treaded lightly around this topic with me, but all have stated clearly that this is a good thing for me. They, as well as any guy that I’ve attempted to have a relationship with in the last 2 years, will say that I was always on my phone. Always. By now I’ve finally gotten over most of the anxiety associated with me losing it, and I’m agreeing and seeing this as one of those funny coincidences that makes you scratch your head and trust that things really do happen for a reason. Its funny how when you're least connected to everyone around you, it makes shutting the world down so much easier. Fancy that.
So here I sit, wearing my Devil Wears Prada t-shirt and A Day to Remember on the iPod, typing away from my favorite spot on the couch. I feel like I have finally come back to my center. Heather finally feels at home.
Oh, and my closet looks fabulous now that it’s not filled with random bags.
I was always running late! Either I was jetting from one event to another, or being held up by a friend before I could even get out the door. All the while I would be scrambling to make it before the guest list cut off. However, it’s dreadfully tacky at the same time to be furiously texting your host as you stomp down Orange Ave. begging them to make sure you can still get in for free at 11:40p when the list stops at 11:30p. It’s also shameful to tell your host that you can’t make it at all since you missed the cut-off. I try to do both as little as possible.
Events aside, I feel as though I’ve also been the crutch for my friends as well. Maybe something is in the water here, but it seems as though everyone is going through some major issues, and they all seem to want to resolve them downtown. I’m pulled in a million directions via texts and Facebook status updates that I’ve been tagged in. I’ve looked at my notifications to see that apparently I’m slated to be at Independent Bar on a Tuesday night for Grits and Gravy, even though I have work the next morning and Diana Ross makes me want to slit my wrists. As much as I’d like to say no thanks, it’s a little hard to do so when you’ve got five people who have already started posting comments that they can’t wait to see you out… Even though I just saw many of them the night before, and the night before that one, and have already had two conversations via text with them that same day. And then there is my favorite line: “It’s not like you have to drive 45 minutes home anymore. You live downtown now!”
I’ve never been the ‘popular’ girl my entire life. It’s quite flattering to me that someone thinks that my presence will make or break their night out on the town. It’s fun to walk up to a group of people and hear one of them squeal, “Bougie’s here!” But here is the true reason why it’s all irritating me so: Surprise, surprise- I’m going through a lot, too. I’m trying to tackle issues that come with being an adult- bills, work, and attempting something called ‘dating’ but I have long since given up on that. I live in a shell of an apartment that I’ve barely felt connected to since I moved in nearly two months ago, because guess what? I’m never here. When I’m out, I’m not allowed to have feelings either. I’m not allowed to just sit back and take in the scenery with a water in my hand. Someone is always coming up to me shoving a drink to my lips, or asking me why I look melancholy. Yet before I can answer, I’m being told that I’m not allowed to be- not tonight, because Bougie is needed.
All I’ve wanted to do for the last few weeks is go home (wherever that is), throw on my NOFX t-shirt and a pair of boxers, crank the Greeley Estates on my iPod and relax on the couch after I organize more of the things I need to unpack around the apartment. I just want to be Heather.
Tonight I hit up Shari’s sushi happy hour (try saying that one five times fast) in Thornton Park with my good friend Dru. Over $3.75 cocktails and sushi rolls, I described how two weekends ago I lost my iPhone at Back Booth. I’ve broken down into tears over it several times since then, as well as nearly pulling a Naomi Campbell by smashing my previous BlackBerry into a million pieces because it won’t receive text messages or show me calls I’ve missed. Although my perfectionism is numero uno on the list of why I’m so distraught over losing my phone (I’ve never lost a phone- ever- let alone anything worth more than a few dollars) , the second reason I’ve been so torn up is because I feel completely disconnected from the world. When I’m bored at work, I can’t just shoot a text to my friend Lauren and have some of her wit hold me over for a few more hours. I can’t catch up with people via Facebook chat while I’m walking down Central Boulevard. I can’t watch a movie and IMDB it when I have an inquiry.
My friends have treaded lightly around this topic with me, but all have stated clearly that this is a good thing for me. They, as well as any guy that I’ve attempted to have a relationship with in the last 2 years, will say that I was always on my phone. Always. By now I’ve finally gotten over most of the anxiety associated with me losing it, and I’m agreeing and seeing this as one of those funny coincidences that makes you scratch your head and trust that things really do happen for a reason. Its funny how when you're least connected to everyone around you, it makes shutting the world down so much easier. Fancy that.
So here I sit, wearing my Devil Wears Prada t-shirt and A Day to Remember on the iPod, typing away from my favorite spot on the couch. I feel like I have finally come back to my center. Heather finally feels at home.
Oh, and my closet looks fabulous now that it’s not filled with random bags.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Like what you see?
Then please, Please, PLEASE vote for me for Best Local Blog (and vote for 14 other categories!) for Orlando Weekly's Best of Orlando edition!! I don't expect to take 1st, but they do a Top 3 which I'd like to crack into.
Thanks guys and gals for the support! Keep reading, laughing, and commenting :-)
P.S. If you really want to go out on a limb, you can vote for me for Best Local Writer, but I can name so many others!
Thanks guys and gals for the support! Keep reading, laughing, and commenting :-)
P.S. If you really want to go out on a limb, you can vote for me for Best Local Writer, but I can name so many others!
I think we've all felt this way about Orlando at one point...
Ricky Diamond got me listening to this song last night... And yes, I spent the better part of my morning dancing in my underwear while getting ready for work to it.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Name That Tune: Kareoke
I knew it was a matter of time before I wound up in a lone dive bar in Orlando.
The one that took my Orlando Dive Bar Virginity just so happened to be (in what felt like) a remote part of Winter Park, and is appropriately named Big Daddy’s. Yes, I am aware of the oxymoron that I’ve just presented you with: there is, in fact, a dive bar in Winter Park. But it isn’t as divey as one might imagine. Rather, it is Winter Park Divey, meaning you can lean up against the bar without feeling like you’re going to catch shingles. See also Burton’s, which is how Thornton Park does a dive bar.
Tonight’s cast of characters is a motley crew indeed. We have my beloved songbird Jamesson, one of his roommates Chaz, and our token club promoter friend of the night Myk. Then there is Jamesson’s karaoke queen friend (whose name has slipped my memory- blame it on the cigarette smoke constricting oxygen to my brain). I’ve brought my pal and favorite Stardust bartender Mike to entertain me while I furiously bouncing back and forth between texting and jotting down broken bits of conversation to later use as fodder in these blog postings.
Apparently this is the place to be with this group. One can let down their hair, fill it with bar stench, and belt out the classics. I still have yet to get on a stage armed with a microphone in one hand and a stiff cocktail in the other, and as anticipated I opt to just sit on the edge of my seat and think of all of the great songs I could possibly lose my dignity to. The entire bar had been singing country standards that we’ve all either grown up listening or singing along at the bar to. Growing up with parents who immersed me in redneck culture (although it obviously didn’t stick), I knew many Garth Brooks songs- even if the lyrics were a little fuzzy. Thanks to karaoke, I finally understood what the hell was going down in the song “Papa Loved Mama”.
“So you’re telling me that he drove the truck into the f*cking motel?? And he killed the bitch?? I wouldn’t wanna be a trucker’s wife. He’d kill me for sure...And for the record, country music is not wholesome! Its all about violence and sex! The music I listen to is more wholesome, and you can’t even understand the lyrics!”
At this point Chaz was climbing the stage to do our group’s first number (and to break the country cycle)- “We Are All On Drugs” by Weezer. As he’s doing this, Jamesson informs me that he and I will, in fact, be hitting the stage tonight. The song of choice? A personal favorite- and one that I would prefer to lose my V-Card to- “Ice Ice Baby”.
For the win!
While I anxiously wait for our names to be called, Jamesson and I sit back and watch everyone else. There was a trio doing a gospel song, some hillbilly duo (including a guy that was transformed to ‘sexy and mysterious’ by donning a pair of Wayfarers) that does “Jenny (867-5309)”, and another Asian fellow that is so good that he does not even need the words on the screen. He proves this by the monitor being a blank blue and he still hits every word with the precision of a Chuck Norris round house kick to the face.
The real treat of the evening, however, was Myk. Dressed as a virtual clone of Elvis Costello, he boldly strutted the stage and in a throaty tone recited Genuine’s masterpiece “Pony”. There more than a few shifts of the eyes towards the persons sitting next to them, but I think that the crowd overall enjoyed it.
Of course there were some ‘real treats’ of the evening, but who are we to judge?? One guy was up there, giving it about 53%, and it took me a while to figure out what he was signing.
Chaz: What is this song??
Me: ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’
Chaz: What?? Really??
Me: Yeah!
Chaz: Wow… That’s uncanny. I’m amazed that it’s the same song! Good job!
Me: Its like we’re playing a hip new drinking game… Name that tune!
…And what of me? Where is the part where I say that Jamesson and I tore up the song, as well as my karaoke V-Card? Sadly, that didn’t happen. Being of the 9-5 Crowd, I had to leave shortly after midnight. They were nowhere near pulling our names out of the basket filled with paper slips and reluctantly I bid my partner in singing crimes adieu. I walked out of the bar with my head held high, and virginity and dignity both intact.
The one that took my Orlando Dive Bar Virginity just so happened to be (in what felt like) a remote part of Winter Park, and is appropriately named Big Daddy’s. Yes, I am aware of the oxymoron that I’ve just presented you with: there is, in fact, a dive bar in Winter Park. But it isn’t as divey as one might imagine. Rather, it is Winter Park Divey, meaning you can lean up against the bar without feeling like you’re going to catch shingles. See also Burton’s, which is how Thornton Park does a dive bar.
Tonight’s cast of characters is a motley crew indeed. We have my beloved songbird Jamesson, one of his roommates Chaz, and our token club promoter friend of the night Myk. Then there is Jamesson’s karaoke queen friend (whose name has slipped my memory- blame it on the cigarette smoke constricting oxygen to my brain). I’ve brought my pal and favorite Stardust bartender Mike to entertain me while I furiously bouncing back and forth between texting and jotting down broken bits of conversation to later use as fodder in these blog postings.
Apparently this is the place to be with this group. One can let down their hair, fill it with bar stench, and belt out the classics. I still have yet to get on a stage armed with a microphone in one hand and a stiff cocktail in the other, and as anticipated I opt to just sit on the edge of my seat and think of all of the great songs I could possibly lose my dignity to. The entire bar had been singing country standards that we’ve all either grown up listening or singing along at the bar to. Growing up with parents who immersed me in redneck culture (although it obviously didn’t stick), I knew many Garth Brooks songs- even if the lyrics were a little fuzzy. Thanks to karaoke, I finally understood what the hell was going down in the song “Papa Loved Mama”.
“So you’re telling me that he drove the truck into the f*cking motel?? And he killed the bitch?? I wouldn’t wanna be a trucker’s wife. He’d kill me for sure...And for the record, country music is not wholesome! Its all about violence and sex! The music I listen to is more wholesome, and you can’t even understand the lyrics!”
At this point Chaz was climbing the stage to do our group’s first number (and to break the country cycle)- “We Are All On Drugs” by Weezer. As he’s doing this, Jamesson informs me that he and I will, in fact, be hitting the stage tonight. The song of choice? A personal favorite- and one that I would prefer to lose my V-Card to- “Ice Ice Baby”.
For the win!
While I anxiously wait for our names to be called, Jamesson and I sit back and watch everyone else. There was a trio doing a gospel song, some hillbilly duo (including a guy that was transformed to ‘sexy and mysterious’ by donning a pair of Wayfarers) that does “Jenny (867-5309)”, and another Asian fellow that is so good that he does not even need the words on the screen. He proves this by the monitor being a blank blue and he still hits every word with the precision of a Chuck Norris round house kick to the face.
The real treat of the evening, however, was Myk. Dressed as a virtual clone of Elvis Costello, he boldly strutted the stage and in a throaty tone recited Genuine’s masterpiece “Pony”. There more than a few shifts of the eyes towards the persons sitting next to them, but I think that the crowd overall enjoyed it.
Of course there were some ‘real treats’ of the evening, but who are we to judge?? One guy was up there, giving it about 53%, and it took me a while to figure out what he was signing.
Chaz: What is this song??
Me: ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’
Chaz: What?? Really??
Me: Yeah!
Chaz: Wow… That’s uncanny. I’m amazed that it’s the same song! Good job!
Me: Its like we’re playing a hip new drinking game… Name that tune!
…And what of me? Where is the part where I say that Jamesson and I tore up the song, as well as my karaoke V-Card? Sadly, that didn’t happen. Being of the 9-5 Crowd, I had to leave shortly after midnight. They were nowhere near pulling our names out of the basket filled with paper slips and reluctantly I bid my partner in singing crimes adieu. I walked out of the bar with my head held high, and virginity and dignity both intact.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Downtown University
I’m still in utter shock that its late May, and I’m able to sit here out on the balcony of my new place and enjoy the sounds of the city and the breeze that I’m sure is coming off of the cars whizzing by on I4. Downtown has been good to me these past 3 weeks I’ve been living here! Not only is it a 5-minute drive to work now, but I can have Pom Poms whenever I’d like! Their grits have finally become a staple in my diet, and not just at 3:30a after Jamesson and I shut down Midnight Mass at Backbooth. I can proudly say that I’ve taken a half a dozen Pom Poms virginities in the past 2 months. And I’d better stop thinking about it because I’m starting to crave a Fu Manchu like its nobody’s business. The high rises are the dorms of downtown. You hear someone say that they live in the Paramount, View, Solaire, or Waverly and you instantly know that they must be an upperclassman or a very lucky freshman who’s dad was able to pull a few strings with Housing. You ask your friend if they lofted their bed and put the desk under it, or about the odd smells, when they tell you they live in the St. Regis. I even caught myself responding to my friends with, “I have a single,” when they asked if I had a roommate or not.
And what is the full college experience without the fraternities and sororities? The bars themselves do a pretty damn good job at filling that void. I hear girls walking by on the street saying in their bubble gum voices, “I’m a Bliss!” Wall Street is a random mixture of everyone, because they carpet bid. And, of course, the Animal House of Downtown Orlando: BBQ Bar, for sure, is the equivalent. But picking out which bar you’re going to rush is a pretty big decision- those letters are going to follow you and shape your social habits for the next few years until you move on to the next phase of your life. Choose wisely, and enjoy the next four years here (or however long it takes you to graduate).
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Whorelando
I love my good friends to pieces. Sometimes that means that we do things that we ordinarily wouldn’t do. Some would call this peer pressure.
I knew inevitably there would be the day where I would have to trek down Wall Street with Lauren and Rachel in order to keep friendship alive. After all, Lauren went to Independent Bar with me once, which led to a dance floor clothes swap between me and a friend (no, he is not missing teeth- he had something in his mouth... I don't remember what though), driving to find me an IHOP so I could e
at pancakes in a drunken stupor but only making it to Steak N Shake, and me leading Lauren to the Winter Park Chamber of Commerce instead of my apartment… Which is by UCF. To this day, if I dare mutter the words, “Just trust me, I’ve got this,” I think Lauren will rip out my vocal chords. There are many more details to this story but that, children, is for another time.
Wall Street can be summed up in the repetitious “Ass and Titties” that I hear blasting over and over on the speakers. With jams like these, how can one not get laid in a place like this? No wonder so many people flock. Its the Orange Blossom Trail of Downtown Orlando. Demographically speaking, I would fit in here with the majority of post-college professionals. But my nights out don’t revolve around reliving Spring Break 2002, so I feel a little out of place as I try to order a drink. I see a bachelorette party scamper past, followed by a smaller group of guys. Its something that I notice here: larger groups of girls, and guys with a few wingmen at their side. After all, when going for a pack of margarita-filled corporate-world women its best to hunt like a lion.
I’m feeling spunky in my fresh threads from Dechoes that I bought earlier: a Ramones t-shirt that I got giddy over because in all of my years of loving punk I had somehow managed to never own a Ramones t-shirt. Pair it up with the skinny jeans and Converses I wore to work, and it’s a fun way to spice things up amongst a crowd of aging frat and sorority members that call Wall St home. My friend Kevin tells me he’s sure that the shirt will get me lots of ass, but I laugh it off. And just when I think I have thwarted the boys from lion-hunting me from my pack of ladies, I feel a hand on my shoulder and see Lauren’s Look of Uh-Oh.
Enter Mucho. Mucho is a boy I had a very brief fling with. He happens to work at Mucho, so for anonymity’s sake we shall call him as such. I try to keep my love life (or lack thereof) out of this site… But since we are talking about bars that will get you laid, it seems only fitting. Of course Mucho and I cover all of the topics: How Have You Been, I Haven’t Seen You Around, and of course Do You Still Have My Number. We talk for a few more minutes after making sure we have a way to contact each other, and he says he’s heading over to Finnhenry’s. He says to call him later, with the cute twinkle in his eye that a few months prior made me desperately want to hand over my panties.
I feel like I get an A+ in Running into an Ex Fling 101, but when I look at my phone I realize that I must have slept through Handling Texts from Unknown Numbers Workshop. I see the number and the little “Hey :-)” that goes along with it… And I have a feeling this is from someone that I used to know and deleted their number for very good reasons. I send the obligatory Sorry-New-Phone-Who-Is-This text and wait for a reply. Its Jason. And since he has no roots here in Orlando, so I have no other way to describe him, he shall remain as such. And his number did get deleted from my phone because when you mix alcohol with feelings stemming from a guy falling off the face of the Earth after you had some great times together, the outcome is generally disappointing. He’s hanging out with friends. I say I am too. He doesn’t disclose where. I do. He says that he doesn’t know how long its been since he’s been there, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Lauren diverts my attention from my text messages and we belly up to the bar for a second round, which takes about 5 tries since we find a bar, can’t get in, find a bar, can’t get served in a timely fashion, etc. Some nice boys make room for us at The Other Bar, and this naturally leads to conversation. But I soon realize that these are wingmen. And they, with help from a wingwoman, are introducing me to the bachelor in question. He likes my Ramones shirt. He looks like an accountant type and says he’s from Winter Park, which means I don’t see him as a threat when he follows the R-A-M-O-N-E-S across my clavicle with his finger. He is fairly tipsy, says he has a crush on me, and asks what bar I’ll be at later. I’m sure I won’t run into him again, and I feel a tinge of sadness as Lauren takes my hand.
Lauren leads me away back to the crowd that we left behind, and as we find Rachel and her 2 friends from Rollins I hear “Shake That Ass” by 2 Live Crew coming from Slingapours. Instantly, memories of Fall Semester 2005 overcome me and I’m hunting for a stage to dance on. Slingapours does not disappoint. And after I tell my story of how I got 2nd place in an ass-shaking competition at Mako’s back in the day, I feel a wave of somber wash over me as I start counting how many years ago that was. Before I get too worked up over how I’m not a co-ed anymore and how I’ve packed on about 30 pounds since then, Rachel saves the day and comes over with several Jager Bombs- the perfect drink, since we’re surrounded by men not too unlike those found in My New Haircut.
We still have an hour or so to kill, so we spend our time dancing to more sex-driven top 40 rap and finding bathrooms. I’m finally to the point where Lauren has since stopped questioning me if I’m having a good time, and I close out my bar tab to keep me from drinking anything else before I have to take the wheel. The texts from Jason have longer and longer pauses between them until they stop coming all together. I send out a friendly ‘How’s Finnhenry’s?’ text to Mucho, but I don’t really care when I don’t hear back from him and I don’t beat myself up over the fact that I shouldn’t have texted him to begin with. As the high of Wall St wears off, I feel sobriety- and myself- come back.
While walking Lauren to the bathroom, I see a woman stumble out, dressed to get laid with her short dress and heels. I see she brought a friend with her from the bathroom- a 3-square trail of toilet paper attached to her additional 4 inches. I smile to myself and let her keep walking.
I knew inevitably there would be the day where I would have to trek down Wall Street with Lauren and Rachel in order to keep friendship alive. After all, Lauren went to Independent Bar with me once, which led to a dance floor clothes swap between me and a friend (no, he is not missing teeth- he had something in his mouth... I don't remember what though), driving to find me an IHOP so I could e
at pancakes in a drunken stupor but only making it to Steak N Shake, and me leading Lauren to the Winter Park Chamber of Commerce instead of my apartment… Which is by UCF. To this day, if I dare mutter the words, “Just trust me, I’ve got this,” I think Lauren will rip out my vocal chords. There are many more details to this story but that, children, is for another time.Wall Street can be summed up in the repetitious “Ass and Titties” that I hear blasting over and over on the speakers. With jams like these, how can one not get laid in a place like this? No wonder so many people flock. Its the Orange Blossom Trail of Downtown Orlando. Demographically speaking, I would fit in here with the majority of post-college professionals. But my nights out don’t revolve around reliving Spring Break 2002, so I feel a little out of place as I try to order a drink. I see a bachelorette party scamper past, followed by a smaller group of guys. Its something that I notice here: larger groups of girls, and guys with a few wingmen at their side. After all, when going for a pack of margarita-filled corporate-world women its best to hunt like a lion.
I’m feeling spunky in my fresh threads from Dechoes that I bought earlier: a Ramones t-shirt that I got giddy over because in all of my years of loving punk I had somehow managed to never own a Ramones t-shirt. Pair it up with the skinny jeans and Converses I wore to work, and it’s a fun way to spice things up amongst a crowd of aging frat and sorority members that call Wall St home. My friend Kevin tells me he’s sure that the shirt will get me lots of ass, but I laugh it off. And just when I think I have thwarted the boys from lion-hunting me from my pack of ladies, I feel a hand on my shoulder and see Lauren’s Look of Uh-Oh.
Enter Mucho. Mucho is a boy I had a very brief fling with. He happens to work at Mucho, so for anonymity’s sake we shall call him as such. I try to keep my love life (or lack thereof) out of this site… But since we are talking about bars that will get you laid, it seems only fitting. Of course Mucho and I cover all of the topics: How Have You Been, I Haven’t Seen You Around, and of course Do You Still Have My Number. We talk for a few more minutes after making sure we have a way to contact each other, and he says he’s heading over to Finnhenry’s. He says to call him later, with the cute twinkle in his eye that a few months prior made me desperately want to hand over my panties.
I feel like I get an A+ in Running into an Ex Fling 101, but when I look at my phone I realize that I must have slept through Handling Texts from Unknown Numbers Workshop. I see the number and the little “Hey :-)” that goes along with it… And I have a feeling this is from someone that I used to know and deleted their number for very good reasons. I send the obligatory Sorry-New-Phone-Who-Is-This text and wait for a reply. Its Jason. And since he has no roots here in Orlando, so I have no other way to describe him, he shall remain as such. And his number did get deleted from my phone because when you mix alcohol with feelings stemming from a guy falling off the face of the Earth after you had some great times together, the outcome is generally disappointing. He’s hanging out with friends. I say I am too. He doesn’t disclose where. I do. He says that he doesn’t know how long its been since he’s been there, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Lauren diverts my attention from my text messages and we belly up to the bar for a second round, which takes about 5 tries since we find a bar, can’t get in, find a bar, can’t get served in a timely fashion, etc. Some nice boys make room for us at The Other Bar, and this naturally leads to conversation. But I soon realize that these are wingmen. And they, with help from a wingwoman, are introducing me to the bachelor in question. He likes my Ramones shirt. He looks like an accountant type and says he’s from Winter Park, which means I don’t see him as a threat when he follows the R-A-M-O-N-E-S across my clavicle with his finger. He is fairly tipsy, says he has a crush on me, and asks what bar I’ll be at later. I’m sure I won’t run into him again, and I feel a tinge of sadness as Lauren takes my hand.
Lauren leads me away back to the crowd that we left behind, and as we find Rachel and her 2 friends from Rollins I hear “Shake That Ass” by 2 Live Crew coming from Slingapours. Instantly, memories of Fall Semester 2005 overcome me and I’m hunting for a stage to dance on. Slingapours does not disappoint. And after I tell my story of how I got 2nd place in an ass-shaking competition at Mako’s back in the day, I feel a wave of somber wash over me as I start counting how many years ago that was. Before I get too worked up over how I’m not a co-ed anymore and how I’ve packed on about 30 pounds since then, Rachel saves the day and comes over with several Jager Bombs- the perfect drink, since we’re surrounded by men not too unlike those found in My New Haircut.
We still have an hour or so to kill, so we spend our time dancing to more sex-driven top 40 rap and finding bathrooms. I’m finally to the point where Lauren has since stopped questioning me if I’m having a good time, and I close out my bar tab to keep me from drinking anything else before I have to take the wheel. The texts from Jason have longer and longer pauses between them until they stop coming all together. I send out a friendly ‘How’s Finnhenry’s?’ text to Mucho, but I don’t really care when I don’t hear back from him and I don’t beat myself up over the fact that I shouldn’t have texted him to begin with. As the high of Wall St wears off, I feel sobriety- and myself- come back.
While walking Lauren to the bathroom, I see a woman stumble out, dressed to get laid with her short dress and heels. I see she brought a friend with her from the bathroom- a 3-square trail of toilet paper attached to her additional 4 inches. I smile to myself and let her keep walking.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Moving Time!
So if you’ve been around me in the past few weeks, you’ve heard me talking about my newest project. Yep, its that time of the year again: MOVING TIME! That’s right… Time to move, yet again.
Only this time I’m opting to do it differently for sure! Last summer when I had to pack up and trudge everything down and then back up three flights of stairs, I had the help of some fantastic friends. Even though I had I had a lot of help it was still a really stressful experience that was haphazardly thrown together. I’d really rather nor have to go through all of the stress again, so I’m starting my research early and looking to hire a moving company.
I did come across one website that I’m going to check out. They mostly seem to be promoting New York movers and movers the tri-state area, but they did have movers listed in most states. The site is www.CityMove.com, and its using a concept that is becoming more and more popular- people who are looking for a service will post what their budget is, and the service providers bid on the job. It’s a real win situation for the consumer, since they can get a great deal and not have to do a bunch of the leg work by contacting a bunch of people. Its also a win for the providers, since rather than turning down potential clients they can try to work with them better on the price and fill up their schedule books. And if you’re sketched out by having random people handling your possessions like I am, there is a section on the site where reviews are posted by customers so you can do a little research before you pick a mover.
I’m probably moving in the next 2-3 months, or as soon as I find someone to take over my current lease I have with my roommate Chris. I currently don’t see any movers in the Orlando area on CityMove.com, but I’m hoping that might change in the next few weeks. Fingers crossed!!
Oh, and where am I moving you might ask? I’m finally giving in to both my desire and practically and finally moving downtown! I’m completely stoked, not only because I work and play in the area but I can stop spending my money of gas and start spending it on fun things… Like brunch at HUE!
Only this time I’m opting to do it differently for sure! Last summer when I had to pack up and trudge everything down and then back up three flights of stairs, I had the help of some fantastic friends. Even though I had I had a lot of help it was still a really stressful experience that was haphazardly thrown together. I’d really rather nor have to go through all of the stress again, so I’m starting my research early and looking to hire a moving company.
I did come across one website that I’m going to check out. They mostly seem to be promoting New York movers and movers the tri-state area, but they did have movers listed in most states. The site is www.CityMove.com, and its using a concept that is becoming more and more popular- people who are looking for a service will post what their budget is, and the service providers bid on the job. It’s a real win situation for the consumer, since they can get a great deal and not have to do a bunch of the leg work by contacting a bunch of people. Its also a win for the providers, since rather than turning down potential clients they can try to work with them better on the price and fill up their schedule books. And if you’re sketched out by having random people handling your possessions like I am, there is a section on the site where reviews are posted by customers so you can do a little research before you pick a mover.
I’m probably moving in the next 2-3 months, or as soon as I find someone to take over my current lease I have with my roommate Chris. I currently don’t see any movers in the Orlando area on CityMove.com, but I’m hoping that might change in the next few weeks. Fingers crossed!!
Oh, and where am I moving you might ask? I’m finally giving in to both my desire and practically and finally moving downtown! I’m completely stoked, not only because I work and play in the area but I can stop spending my money of gas and start spending it on fun things… Like brunch at HUE!
Monday, March 1, 2010
A Real Pep Talk from Lauren Dz
The real deal, via Lauren Dz:
Myself: I'm scared to see the pics from Takeovr... Mostly because I always look like crap, and mostly because he's so cute and now I forever have to deal with it.
Lauren Dz: Wait what? Who am I even talking to?????? WHO IS THIS? My friend Heather does NOT always look like crap. She always looks HOT. Maybe you haven't met her yet... I really should introduce you... Also, this "cute" and "forever" stuff? It may not be over yet. Just take it easy. Even if it is-you have a lot going for you to just let some guy make you think this way. Jesus Christ, you bad bad bitch! Get it together!!!!!!
Myself: I'm scared to see the pics from Takeovr... Mostly because I always look like crap, and mostly because he's so cute and now I forever have to deal with it.
Lauren Dz: Wait what? Who am I even talking to?????? WHO IS THIS? My friend Heather does NOT always look like crap. She always looks HOT. Maybe you haven't met her yet... I really should introduce you... Also, this "cute" and "forever" stuff? It may not be over yet. Just take it easy. Even if it is-you have a lot going for you to just let some guy make you think this way. Jesus Christ, you bad bad bitch! Get it together!!!!!!
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Pep Talks
I think we all could agree: sometimes your friends come up with the most inventive ways to explain a situation. These Pep Talks only become keener with the addition of alcohol. The lovely Lauren Dz was in town this weekend from Tallahassee. Lauren luckily comes as part of a two-some: her sister Rachel is just as witty and a blast to hang out with. It was Rachel’s birthday, and since Lauren and I like to spend the Saturdays that she’s in town at the more-bang-for-your-buck establishment Big Belly Brewery on Church Street for Power Hour, it seemed like a win-win. Who doesn’t like 3-4-1’s?
Little did we know that Chillers offered 3-4-1’s until 10:30p, which is when Power Hour starts at Big Belly. I can’t get over how much the bar at Chillers smells like a used diaper. If I could, I’d hand a gold medal to each and every bartender that works there for their enduring efforts. But I don’t, so I opt to hand an extra dollar to my bartender when she brings me the round I’m splitting with Lauren and Rachel. I also couldn’t get over what a sausage fest it seemed to be. We felt badly for the guys, but in our favor the majority of the crowd looked good enough for us to at least entertain the thought of hooking up with some of them.
Scanning the pack, we comment on who we find appealing. “That guy is not your type,” Lauren says when I ask about a fellow propped against the opposite end of the bar from us. Rachel concurs on the basis that he’s not bad-ass enough for me. “You like guys that have facial hair and look like they’d beat the shit out of a guy for ordering anything but Gentleman Jack.” I nod. I do tend to go for colored folk (a.k.a boys with tattoos), and attitude problems. “Hey, if they look like might have just been released from the Pen and won’t call after we sleep together, that pretty much puts him in the Keeper category for me!”
I do find one guy who is standing remarkably close to me to be somewhat of a fox. We’re about 3 inches apart, though there is no need for it, and he has his back only slightly turned to me so he can get a good view of the basketball that is on the TV above. He’s with a disproportionate group of guys to girls, so my chances of talking to him are very good. “If its not the Pistons, I don’t care,” Lauren says while I make glances at the TV, the guy, and back to the TV. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, so I can’t see if he’s sporting ink. He looks clean-cut but his build hints at fisticuffs. He looks like a cross between John Cena and a young Brett Favre.
We hear one of the three girls amongst the John Favre group get a birthday shout out, and me being the person who always likes to make situations uncomfortable for others, I get the bright idea to run up to the DJ booth. Obviously, the 2 rounds the girls and I have split by now are kicking in. I’m beaming with delight as I make my way back from upstairs. Oh, sneaky-sneaky… (Not really.)
After numerous attempts to get the cahones to “bump” into him or strike up a conversation about the basketball, I see him chatting with Birthday Girl. I’m reading far too deeply into the body language, and I express my dismay as I interpret that they are getting familiar. Cue the Pep Talk. Rachel kicks things into gear with the standard opener, “You are so much prettier than her!” Lauren, with her unabashed sarcasm, sums up the girl in four words: “She’s hot in Iowa.” Rachel and I nearly spit out our drinks and wait with bated breath for Lauren to elaborate. “I mean, look at her. She’s wearing a jacket that I wore in 8th grade for Christ’s sake! She has Midwest written all over her!” I’m feeling my confidence growing with each and every word and sip from my vodka and tonic. “Besides, they totally are having a conversation about being exes and how it’s not going to be weird for them to hang out with the same group of people at the same bar.”
The MC booms over the Top 40 bar music. “We’ve got another birthday shout out! This one goes out to Lauren, from her two bad ass friends! GIVE IT UP FOR LAUREN!”
I’m excited as the bar erupts with cheers and woos. I have the same look on my face as George Dubya when he heard Saddam was caught. Lauren and Rachel look at me, choking back their laughter. “Heather, did you pregame before we came out,” Rachel giggles. “Seriously, dude, what drugs are you on?!” Realizing what I had done, I scramble for a witty way to twist the situation. “I just got so excited that we were all together! I drew a blank from all of the endorphins!” I didn’t have to wait long before the MC came over and corrected the situation for me. “Free shots for the birthday girl! Which one is it?” Rachel reaches for a shot and explains, “Its mine, but my name is Rachel.”
As my Pep Talk falls flat on its face, the MC pauses with a look of confusion so Lauren can finish up with, “Our friend here told the DJ the wrong name.” I’m turning about at red as the cranberry and vodka in Lauren’s hand and I’m trying to laugh off the situation. Assessing the situation in his head, he then says into the microphone, “Since your friend is a bit of a flake, here’s what we’re gonna do!” He hands me a shot in a test tube, and while still on the mic he instructs me to nestle it down into my cleavage. “Lower. Lower. A little lower. OK! Now Rachel! GO GET THAT SHOT!”
Before I can wipe the look of remorse for not only what I did but also what was about to happen, out of the corner of my eye I see John Favre watch with light amusement as Rachel takes a shot from my cleavage. Lauren snaps a photo, catching my penitence. We head up to Big Belly Brewery, where every round washes down my embarrassment.
Little did we know that Chillers offered 3-4-1’s until 10:30p, which is when Power Hour starts at Big Belly. I can’t get over how much the bar at Chillers smells like a used diaper. If I could, I’d hand a gold medal to each and every bartender that works there for their enduring efforts. But I don’t, so I opt to hand an extra dollar to my bartender when she brings me the round I’m splitting with Lauren and Rachel. I also couldn’t get over what a sausage fest it seemed to be. We felt badly for the guys, but in our favor the majority of the crowd looked good enough for us to at least entertain the thought of hooking up with some of them.
Scanning the pack, we comment on who we find appealing. “That guy is not your type,” Lauren says when I ask about a fellow propped against the opposite end of the bar from us. Rachel concurs on the basis that he’s not bad-ass enough for me. “You like guys that have facial hair and look like they’d beat the shit out of a guy for ordering anything but Gentleman Jack.” I nod. I do tend to go for colored folk (a.k.a boys with tattoos), and attitude problems. “Hey, if they look like might have just been released from the Pen and won’t call after we sleep together, that pretty much puts him in the Keeper category for me!”
I do find one guy who is standing remarkably close to me to be somewhat of a fox. We’re about 3 inches apart, though there is no need for it, and he has his back only slightly turned to me so he can get a good view of the basketball that is on the TV above. He’s with a disproportionate group of guys to girls, so my chances of talking to him are very good. “If its not the Pistons, I don’t care,” Lauren says while I make glances at the TV, the guy, and back to the TV. He’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt, so I can’t see if he’s sporting ink. He looks clean-cut but his build hints at fisticuffs. He looks like a cross between John Cena and a young Brett Favre.
We hear one of the three girls amongst the John Favre group get a birthday shout out, and me being the person who always likes to make situations uncomfortable for others, I get the bright idea to run up to the DJ booth. Obviously, the 2 rounds the girls and I have split by now are kicking in. I’m beaming with delight as I make my way back from upstairs. Oh, sneaky-sneaky… (Not really.)
After numerous attempts to get the cahones to “bump” into him or strike up a conversation about the basketball, I see him chatting with Birthday Girl. I’m reading far too deeply into the body language, and I express my dismay as I interpret that they are getting familiar. Cue the Pep Talk. Rachel kicks things into gear with the standard opener, “You are so much prettier than her!” Lauren, with her unabashed sarcasm, sums up the girl in four words: “She’s hot in Iowa.” Rachel and I nearly spit out our drinks and wait with bated breath for Lauren to elaborate. “I mean, look at her. She’s wearing a jacket that I wore in 8th grade for Christ’s sake! She has Midwest written all over her!” I’m feeling my confidence growing with each and every word and sip from my vodka and tonic. “Besides, they totally are having a conversation about being exes and how it’s not going to be weird for them to hang out with the same group of people at the same bar.”
The MC booms over the Top 40 bar music. “We’ve got another birthday shout out! This one goes out to Lauren, from her two bad ass friends! GIVE IT UP FOR LAUREN!”
I’m excited as the bar erupts with cheers and woos. I have the same look on my face as George Dubya when he heard Saddam was caught. Lauren and Rachel look at me, choking back their laughter. “Heather, did you pregame before we came out,” Rachel giggles. “Seriously, dude, what drugs are you on?!” Realizing what I had done, I scramble for a witty way to twist the situation. “I just got so excited that we were all together! I drew a blank from all of the endorphins!” I didn’t have to wait long before the MC came over and corrected the situation for me. “Free shots for the birthday girl! Which one is it?” Rachel reaches for a shot and explains, “Its mine, but my name is Rachel.”
As my Pep Talk falls flat on its face, the MC pauses with a look of confusion so Lauren can finish up with, “Our friend here told the DJ the wrong name.” I’m turning about at red as the cranberry and vodka in Lauren’s hand and I’m trying to laugh off the situation. Assessing the situation in his head, he then says into the microphone, “Since your friend is a bit of a flake, here’s what we’re gonna do!” He hands me a shot in a test tube, and while still on the mic he instructs me to nestle it down into my cleavage. “Lower. Lower. A little lower. OK! Now Rachel! GO GET THAT SHOT!”
Before I can wipe the look of remorse for not only what I did but also what was about to happen, out of the corner of my eye I see John Favre watch with light amusement as Rachel takes a shot from my cleavage. Lauren snaps a photo, catching my penitence. We head up to Big Belly Brewery, where every round washes down my embarrassment.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Karma
I’m a firm believer in karma. Unfortunately, it always seems to bite you in the ass at the bar. Last night was no exception.
I made it out to BBQ Bar and its crowd of Indie Rock Boys and the Top 40 Girls who love them. It’s also the only place I've been to where you can hear Black Eyed Peas mashed with Rage Against the Machine... And it actually sounds good. Every now and then I feel the need to dance to some mainstream pop. Rather than go to a classy establishment like Tabu and risk getting some tool looking like he’s screwing me from behind on the dance floor, I’ll go where you never know if you’re going to skank to ‘Bro Hymn’ or get low to it.
Although I love the Ke$ha diluted enough for me to enjoy, the real reason we’re here (like many other people) is for the $2 Narragansett tallboys that Ricky Diamond will be double-fisting all night. I'll stick to my gin and tonics, only to be called out by the lone and hapless Jersey Shore lookalike that obviously wound up here as a cruel and tasteless joke. At some point in the night he must have asked the wrong person, “Where's a good bar around here?” Instantly I ask if he's from out of town and he plays it off with the line, “Oh I live here, I…um…Just don't get out too often.” I try to shake him with talk of getting back to my boyfriend on the dance floor. Hopefully he doesn't follow me because my ‘boyfriend’ is wearing a fuschia and turquoise Addidas track jacket, and a turquoise visor with matching faux alligator shoes all the while contorting his torso to a remix of MGMT. Dead give away? Yes, but this Jersey Shore kid looks like he needs to be let down softly. He had such hope in his eyes, and such eagerness in the hand that he place on the small of my back before I deftly stepped to the side 1.3 seconds later.
Perhaps I should have been a little more friendly towards Jersey Shore. Much like Independent Bar is to my gay friends on a Friday night, BBQ Bar is to my previous hookups on a Saturday night: all stored neatly in one location where I'm sure to find them passing by the dance floor. Great for if I'm looking for someone to chat with while looking for my friend that went AWOL, and awkward for the same reasons. Exit Ricky, enter Previous Hookup. We’ve all used the same awkward lines: “Yeah, thought that was you.” “Recognized the tattoo.” Last night’s was, “So how was the tour?” We were having the We-Haven’t-Spoken-In-2-Months conversation where we stood in the same place where we confessed we had mutual attraction a few months prior. And though I’m playing it off well and it went smoothly, I found myself furiously scanning the crowd for Ricky as I heard Previous Hookup say the he was going back to the front bar to meet up with his bandmate.
I end up finding Ricky chatting it up with a friend and we finish off the night dancing while I let my buzz wear off. I tally up the nights wins and losses to see if I at least broke even, and as I leaned against the DJ booth I looked down to see some wasted guy in his Express button down bent over in front of me, fist-pumping with fervor to 2 Live Crew and his rear end sloppily knocking me in the crotch with the bass line. Ricky Diamond looked over at me, two tallboys in hand, and said in for-the-win style, “Look! It’s your chance to f*ck a guy in the ass!”
I made it out to BBQ Bar and its crowd of Indie Rock Boys and the Top 40 Girls who love them. It’s also the only place I've been to where you can hear Black Eyed Peas mashed with Rage Against the Machine... And it actually sounds good. Every now and then I feel the need to dance to some mainstream pop. Rather than go to a classy establishment like Tabu and risk getting some tool looking like he’s screwing me from behind on the dance floor, I’ll go where you never know if you’re going to skank to ‘Bro Hymn’ or get low to it.
Although I love the Ke$ha diluted enough for me to enjoy, the real reason we’re here (like many other people) is for the $2 Narragansett tallboys that Ricky Diamond will be double-fisting all night. I'll stick to my gin and tonics, only to be called out by the lone and hapless Jersey Shore lookalike that obviously wound up here as a cruel and tasteless joke. At some point in the night he must have asked the wrong person, “Where's a good bar around here?” Instantly I ask if he's from out of town and he plays it off with the line, “Oh I live here, I…um…Just don't get out too often.” I try to shake him with talk of getting back to my boyfriend on the dance floor. Hopefully he doesn't follow me because my ‘boyfriend’ is wearing a fuschia and turquoise Addidas track jacket, and a turquoise visor with matching faux alligator shoes all the while contorting his torso to a remix of MGMT. Dead give away? Yes, but this Jersey Shore kid looks like he needs to be let down softly. He had such hope in his eyes, and such eagerness in the hand that he place on the small of my back before I deftly stepped to the side 1.3 seconds later.
Perhaps I should have been a little more friendly towards Jersey Shore. Much like Independent Bar is to my gay friends on a Friday night, BBQ Bar is to my previous hookups on a Saturday night: all stored neatly in one location where I'm sure to find them passing by the dance floor. Great for if I'm looking for someone to chat with while looking for my friend that went AWOL, and awkward for the same reasons. Exit Ricky, enter Previous Hookup. We’ve all used the same awkward lines: “Yeah, thought that was you.” “Recognized the tattoo.” Last night’s was, “So how was the tour?” We were having the We-Haven’t-Spoken-In-2-Months conversation where we stood in the same place where we confessed we had mutual attraction a few months prior. And though I’m playing it off well and it went smoothly, I found myself furiously scanning the crowd for Ricky as I heard Previous Hookup say the he was going back to the front bar to meet up with his bandmate.
I end up finding Ricky chatting it up with a friend and we finish off the night dancing while I let my buzz wear off. I tally up the nights wins and losses to see if I at least broke even, and as I leaned against the DJ booth I looked down to see some wasted guy in his Express button down bent over in front of me, fist-pumping with fervor to 2 Live Crew and his rear end sloppily knocking me in the crotch with the bass line. Ricky Diamond looked over at me, two tallboys in hand, and said in for-the-win style, “Look! It’s your chance to f*ck a guy in the ass!”
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Fresh Ink
In college, I took German as a way to reconnect with my mom. I always knew bits and pieces since her side of the family is from Germany. She even spent the better part of her childhood growing up there. She still speaks it fairly well, and once you start speaking it with her she picks it up and runs with it. A few months ago, I asked my mom to write ‘Ich Liebe Dich’ a few times on a piece of paper and send it to me in the mail. It’s something she always says to me before she hangs up the phone. 
I’m one of those people who believe that ink should be personal and should always have a story behind it. And no, not to sound pretentious or anything, the story shouldn’t start with, “Well, me and my friends were in Panama City for Spring Break…” Mom once asked me why I didn’t get a Tinkerbell instead of the ‘Tinkerbell’ I have written on my skin. It’s because it’s not about character Tinkerbell, but rather something that Nana has called me ever since I was a little girl. I proceeded to explain to my mom that butterflies and ‘faeries’ and initials are all things that will never find a permanent home on my body. 
The first tattoo I ever got was the ‘Tinkerbell’ that sits below my hip bone. I had it placed there because I was 20 at the time and I didn’t want the parents to see it. It was sketched out by hand after the artist got a feel for my personality after a few minutes of chatter. It’s not exactly how I imagined it would be, but I loved it as soon as I saw it and gave him the green light to hike my pants down a few inches and carve a needle through my skin.
My second tattoo was something that I had been thinking about for a few years, as I did the Tinkerbell one. I’m a big believe in karma and the whole ‘do unto others’, so I went with ‘One reaps what one sows’ around my wrist (you reap with your hands, after all). I wasn’t prepared for all of the oh-wow-what-does-that-say’s that I’d get at the bar. And it’s in German, so people tend to grab me and pull my extremities into uncomfortable positions so they can better read it. I love how they just say, “Man,” then pause for a second, and switch to, “Is that in another language or something?” Sometimes if I’ve been drinking Vodka I’ll say, “You know, the closer you get the better it translates.” If I’ve been drinking gin and the person is particularly douchey I’ll say, “Even if I told you what it says, you still wouldn’t understand.” My ex Eric particularly loved the reaction of one person when I said that. My favorite question hands-down has to be, “Did that hurt?” It felt like I placed my wrist in front of a chainsaw, personally, but if I’m in a particularly fiery mood I’ll tell you that I orgasmed as soon as the ink hit my flesh.
The guy that branded me was a sketchy fellow at your stereotypical strip mall ink shop, since my first artist went AWOL. He wasn’t very personable, and I think he might have been on meth. Quite possibly not the best person to do the job, but I was feeling compulsive. Plus, there was a great little pizzeria that had the only garlic knots in Orlando that taste like the ones from a little pizza joint in New Smyrna Beach that I love. Eric and I stopped in there afterwards for a slice and conversation with the people that ran it.
Daniel Coverstone, however, is my artist of choice from now on. Introduced to me through a college friend of mine, I’ve let him imprint my mom’s handwriting behind my ear. Dan’s studio is at his place, and is far nicer than 95% of the shops I’ve ever walked into. He told me stories about the people he’s learned from, how he would change the industry, and why he likes his home studio better than any shop. He was meticulous with the project- something that the last artist wasn’t and I regret it now. Dan will be commissioned to fix my wrist, actually. The whole project took a good hour and a half between sizing the writing sample and placing it, with the actual tattoo being done in about 15 minutes.
No, it didn’t hurt. And you know what? It’s exactly how I always wanted it.
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