...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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
