And so it is that all good things must come to an end. This is the tone for this last piece of Bougie on a Budget. If you have a hard time with goodbyes, better do a Google search for something a little more your speed.
Ricky Diamond has left the building. He moved back to Gloucester, Massachusetts just 2 weeks ago. He told me the news a few weeks back, on a trip to get fried chicken from Church’s in Paramore, just like old times. The talk of the move was nestled somewhere between comments on how we missed the grits at Pom Pom’s Teahouse and Nancy Grace’s head exploding from the acquittal of Casey Anthony. I quickly segwayed the conversation to reliving the night a light bulb exploded inside of Church’s and sounded like a gunshot, and to our surprise nobody flinched.
I’m glad that Ricky went off in search to make a better life. Orlando couldn’t handle the kooky antics of this performer, and now that he and Danny have created Diamond Dolls he has some real potential. He just needs to find a more open audience and the right person to get their hands on the demo. Unlike so many other people who are not around these days, either by intense falling outs, mental illness, or simply losing touch, Ricky Diamond will always be more than a misunderstood artist with good intentions, one of the major contributors to my life here in Orlando, and a best friend named Paul.
And he will be back, so I won’t remorse too much here.
The following weekend after Paul’s departure, Collin and I actually made it out to Independent Bar downtown- the scene of so many memories and even a few of these posts. My childhood friend Courtney was celebrating her 25th birthday, and since I ended up blacked out during my own I will grace this blog with a recount of hers. I knew things would be different, since I rarely make it out here anymore, but I didn’t know how shell-shocked the whole night would make me. I was prepared to show my ID to some new kid working the door now that I had dropped my Regular status. The dancefloor wasn’t quite as filled as it used to be, and I chuckled as I told Collin that the soundtrack was comfortingly the same. But then I took a sip of the whiskey and cranberry I ordered at the bar and grimaced as a flavor that I predominantly remember in my vomit filled my mouth. Kids that looked at least 8 years younger bumped and shoved past me. I recognized the faces, but none of them recognized me. As I tried to manage another sip I thought, “I’m not drunk enough for this shit.”
We found Courtney and her friends that came with her from New Smyrna Beach by the front bar. It was endearing how overdressed they were in strapless dresses and longsleeve shirts amongst a sea of boys wearing girls’ jeans and ballet flats that have walked the streets too many nights. Courtney was ecstatic, and we eagerly bellied up to the bar for a few rounds of birthday shots. Then I saw Johnny, a face I had come to count on seeing wherever there was good music and ecstasy. We embraced in a full-force hug, and I immediately knew something was different: Johnny was sober. He looked great, perfectly coiffed as usual. He said he had graduated school and was moving to Brooklyn in a few weeks. He looked like he had never been happier.
A few minutes later, I ran into Marvin, a breakdancer that I became friends with when I started hanging out at parties like Crush and I Like it Raw before Fusian Sushi shut down. We chatted long enough for me to find out that he was doing great, and was moving in to his own place in a few weeks. He slipped off into the crowd the way he always did after just a few sentences; a lanky, nearly 7-foot-tall figure cloaked in black much like a shadow, and I rejoined my group out on the dancefloor.
The typical shenanigans ensued. Songs that we recognized came on and we’d stay on the floor. Songs that we were hearing for the first time came on and we weren’t feeling pushed us off it and up to the bar. A random kid kept on creeping up to either Courtney or myself- whomever was closer- and would try to make a pass despite seeing me holding Collin’s hand, Courtney dancing with the guy she has been seeing, and me flat out telling him that she and I were with someone and not interested. I even tried to tell him I was too old for him, since I spotted black X’s on his hands, but to no avail. Courtney’s date Cliff eventually went up to the kid, kissed him on the cheek, and said that was the most action he would be seeing all night.
At some point later on I headed to a bathroom I once had become far too familiar with. As I washed my hands, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. For once the person staring back was in focus. No makeup bleeding under my eyes, my hair still looking somewhat like it did when I left the house. My black tunic held to my more toned frame, and I sipped the gin and tonic I was partial to. I smiled, said, “I’m too old for this shit,” and walked out.
My friend Dave was on my way back to the dancefloor, his mass of curly blond hair pulled back into a tight bun high atop his head. Not too long after he and I became friends, he started working at IBar as a bouncer. The usual conversation of how we were doing commenced, and I found out he was working at the Y as a swim instructor for children on top of his night job, which was no surprise given his background as a youth camp counselor. Dave is one of those rare guys that you find in this world who doesn’t get his kicks from partying- he’s high on life and a night out dancing, he has a good outlook on life, and he genuinely enjoys giving back to the world. If you’re ever at IBar, find him and strike up a conversation.
I told him about my own few highlights, namely how I was giving up the condo downtown to move in with the boyfriend. His eyes widened and he smiled as he took in the seriousness of Collin and I’s relationship. I found myself rambling, “Remember that night you and I went out to Backbooth? My friend Megan came, and she brought him, and we all hung out? It was a Saturday night, and afterwards we went back to Megan’s after, and we thought we saw the ghost in the room next door, and Megan and Collin didn’t see it! Then you and I went back to my place and we stayed up till 4 or 5 in the morning chatting on my couch… Yeah… That was the first night I met him.” Dave smiled, gave me a hug, and said he had to make his rounds. I looked at my shuffling feet, smiling, and realized I was making the right move.
I did see Johnny again at one point. He and one of his hipster friends that I remember him paling around with were on the dancefloor. He sauntered over just as “Skeleton Boy” by Friendly Fires came on- the song that Paul and I danced to the first night we ran into each other at IBar. Every time I hear it, I think of him, me, and the sense that I finally had made a friend in Orlando. It wasn’t the last song I heard that night, but it will always stick with me the soundtrack of the beginning and now the end. Just listen to the lyrics. What a song to close with.
The end.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Date Night
I love my new job. Really, I do. Although I’m starting to find that, much like my monthly cycle, the stress builds up and comes in waves once a month. I’ve been walking on eggshells at work much like one would around their PMSing girlfriend. Quite frankly, I’m frazzled this week. I’m sipping a glass of wine at the Eden Bar, though I use the word ‘sipping’ loosely. More or less, I’m sloshing it past my tongue the second the glass hits my lips and hoping that the few patrons that have trickled in aren’t thinking that I’m really as unrefined as I look. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a date night with myself.
I shot a text to the boyfriend, telling him that we should grab dinner and a movie here one night. The outdoor Eden Bar has a great happy hour for being the sidekick to the Enzian Theater. Though they might be attached, their offerings of $2 Miller Light and $5 glasses of wine are too good to pass up before catching your swanky indie flick, which is precisely what brings me here. Tonight’s feature is Blue Valentine, a film that has gotten rave reviews by critics as well as my peers for really capturing the essence of a breakup. This is what brings me here alone.
As mentioned before, I haven’t spent much time to myself. Not that I mind the current state that I’m in- hell, if you would have told me three months ago that I would be blowing off late nights at concerts in lieu of early nights in snuggled up on the couch with a guy that digs me as much as I do him, I would have promptly laughed and called you a silly bitch. But with working, roller derby, and the boyfriend taking up the last of my time, there is barely a crumb of it left to take care of household duties and (the most important thing of them all) myself. This week has made it all too obvious.
To be honest, I don’t think I could have picked a better place or time. It was a pleasant surprise to know that I get a discounted ticket because of my new title at Full Sail. However, there are even more pressing perks. There is a soft, cool breeze pushing through the droopy clumps of Spanish moss, a fountain churns the gentle sound bubbling water to mix with the classic rock coming over the speakers. The service is friendly, the bar is slowly starting to fill, and the six o’clock hour could not be more perfect.
What’s even more enchanting is the fact that here I sit at an outdoor café table dreamily hitting the keys of a laptop- something that I don’t find myself doing too much anymore these days as well. I can’t blame a lack of inspiration. Rather, any time I find myself near a computer, a tablet of paper, or even eager to punch away at my iPhone screen, I’m preoccupied. I’m swept away by the next text message, the next project at work, the next alluring look in my boyfriend’s eyes. Usually I’m composed and planned out yet lately I’ve been flighty.
The most comforting part is that I’ve not been beating myself up over living in the moment just a little bit more.
And after all, I really shouldn’t have to.
I shot a text to the boyfriend, telling him that we should grab dinner and a movie here one night. The outdoor Eden Bar has a great happy hour for being the sidekick to the Enzian Theater. Though they might be attached, their offerings of $2 Miller Light and $5 glasses of wine are too good to pass up before catching your swanky indie flick, which is precisely what brings me here. Tonight’s feature is Blue Valentine, a film that has gotten rave reviews by critics as well as my peers for really capturing the essence of a breakup. This is what brings me here alone.
As mentioned before, I haven’t spent much time to myself. Not that I mind the current state that I’m in- hell, if you would have told me three months ago that I would be blowing off late nights at concerts in lieu of early nights in snuggled up on the couch with a guy that digs me as much as I do him, I would have promptly laughed and called you a silly bitch. But with working, roller derby, and the boyfriend taking up the last of my time, there is barely a crumb of it left to take care of household duties and (the most important thing of them all) myself. This week has made it all too obvious.
To be honest, I don’t think I could have picked a better place or time. It was a pleasant surprise to know that I get a discounted ticket because of my new title at Full Sail. However, there are even more pressing perks. There is a soft, cool breeze pushing through the droopy clumps of Spanish moss, a fountain churns the gentle sound bubbling water to mix with the classic rock coming over the speakers. The service is friendly, the bar is slowly starting to fill, and the six o’clock hour could not be more perfect.
What’s even more enchanting is the fact that here I sit at an outdoor café table dreamily hitting the keys of a laptop- something that I don’t find myself doing too much anymore these days as well. I can’t blame a lack of inspiration. Rather, any time I find myself near a computer, a tablet of paper, or even eager to punch away at my iPhone screen, I’m preoccupied. I’m swept away by the next text message, the next project at work, the next alluring look in my boyfriend’s eyes. Usually I’m composed and planned out yet lately I’ve been flighty.
The most comforting part is that I’ve not been beating myself up over living in the moment just a little bit more.
And after all, I really shouldn’t have to.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
This is what happens...
...When you get drunk on a beach, go to the Sleven, and people-watch. Enjoy.
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.
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