The Grand Finale, or I'm Too Old for This Shit

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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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 jaw 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.

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!

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.

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!

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...

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?”

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.

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...

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.

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