Category: Uncategorized

>23 days 17 hours 29 minutes.

>So the powers that be at my place of employment have decided to have these mandatory training sessions on French service, mise en place, modified American service, product knowledge, et cetera et cetera. I have been a fine dining server for three years now, in an undisclosed establishment as to not incriminate myself (a la MM) and love my job. I feel that I am good at it, and acknowledge that there is always room for improvement in refining my technique. Unfortunately these sessions are scheduled on Tuesdays. Mondays and Tuesdays are my days off. Bollocks. My objection to these meetings are not rooted in any logical form, however. I have a problem with my own personal set of principles. I determine what constitutes a principle. As in, “yes these meetings are very educational and informative and no, it’s not that much of an inconvenience as I live 2 minutes away and yes, the meetings are only an hour, but it’s the principle!

My husband mocks me in regards to my principles.

To add insult to injury, they had set up a Krispy Kreme buffet to soften the blow and make the meeting more appealing.

I shall hence explain why this is problematic.

About a week ago, I had what I call a not-quite-cancer-scare. I was having…well, female problems, and went to the doc to check it out. Upon examination, several small masses were found. A biopsy was taken. An a week passed before the results came back. When you’re waiting on biopsy results, a week turns into a long-ass time. And during that week, I masqueraded my fear with humor. Joked about it, convinced myself and everyone that it was no big deal, and that if it was cancer, oh well, better start looking for some kick-ass wigs.

This week also gave me ample time to re-evaluate my attitudes about my health. I have not always been the healthiest eater, nor the most physically active, nor the best at taking any supplements to ensure I am consuming the nutrients necessary for health and vitality. It finally occurred to me that poor health habits and disease tend to go hand in hand, and I was the only one who could do anything about it. I was going to take charge of my health and live a long, healthy and happy life.

The results came back negative, just some benign bumps that could easily be removed. This strengthened my resolve to adopt a healthy attitude.

I’ve been doing well. My exercise routine isn’t quite up to par yet, but I have been doing great with my diet and taking multivitamins, Omega-3’s etc etc. It is not difficult as I keep no tempting foods in my home.

Then this damn meeting.

I find it ironic that a training session on fine dining would offer up Krispy Kremes as refreshment. We stress well-prepared healthy cuisine, and they’re serving us a heart attack in a box. Funny.

Despite the insane temptation, I was successful in resisting the decadent little rings of saturated fat and sugar. I just sipped my pomegranate juice and payed attention to the lesson. And felt fabulous about it when I got home. Heart disease is the number one killer of women, and I’m not going to engage in dietary habits that will contribute to that statistic. After all…don’t you know? I’m invincible!

voulez-voulez-vous invincible

>So. Thanks to miss Naiah for getting this idea swimming through my head…and as a tribute I offer up a sort of co-post

Now…I am going to discuss something that has proven controversial in the past and has always been received with a certain amount of skepticism as to its sincerity.

I am about to criticize women. But not all. Only a small but noticeable percentage of them.

And if one, and I mean one, person attributes this to jealousy, low self-esteem or cattiness I swear to God I will find you. Oh yes, I will find you. And it will not be pleasant. I will bring an iPod teeming with Barry Manliow if pressed.

So. It seems to me that the aim of a great number of girls in their early twenties and a select sad few in their mid 30’s is to base their entire concept of self-worth on how they look. I will grant you that yes, in high school, I spent a great deal of thought worried about how I looked. I would look in windows as I walked by, checking to make sure my hair was in order and my lip gloss intact. I based my self image on how many boys looked at me. As I hit my twenties, it waned, but it was still there. Thankfully I grew out of it. And this was ten, fifteen years ago; things were not a great deal different, but just enough to matter.
I got married, and now have a wonderful husband who tells me constantly how beautiful he thinks I am…and it means so much to me that he does. Because I know that even when I’m 80, or if I were to have some disfiguring accident (knock on wood), he would still feel the exact same way. Because now I know that it is not of the outside he speaks, but of me, the person…who beyond the face is funny, caring, kind, intelligent, talented, witty, loving and nurturing. And after several years, I can understand and acknowledge that. But I am lucky. I have changed my priorities such that I am able to develop myself as a person, internally. Some women realize this as well.

Some do not. I think it’s a curse upon girls who are ‘potentially pretty’ as they feel it is their social obligation to look perfect all of the time. The thought that someone would look at them and not acknowledge their attractiveness is terrifying.
The difference between 10 years ago and now is that when I was in high school, not one girl I knew had breast implants or plastic surgery. I knew of no one who had an eating disorder or a hair stylist. No one even had cell phones. (At that time they were still the size of a shoebox). What I have noticed is these girls are having a hard time growing out of this phase. I work with a relatively young group of people. I work in a restaurant, so most of the employees are young with a diploma as their highest level of education. The boys seem relatively average; they party a lot and smoke too much weed, but they’re in their late teens/early twenties. They do that. But the girls are the ones I worry about.

The first group I’ve noticed are the ones who have fanatically low self esteem, which is pretty typical at that age, but they think the cure is external. I see them drool over the ribcages of Victoria’s Secret models. I see them get breast implants, when they were perfect just the way they were. They spend hours in tanning beds, with no consideration for the damage they are doing to their skin nor contemplating the threat of skin cancer. I know some of these girls personally, and it’s hard to hear them speak about a pimple as if it were a permanent scar and a pound as if it were the kiss of death. They put themselves through both physical and mental torture all because they have assigned their appearance as their identity. “The pretty one”. Pretty is fleeting. Some day, some person somewhere might say, “ah…she used to be the pretty one”. And then? Their obsession with their looks is a mask for their turmoil, because for whatever reason, they have no self-worth. And it breaks my heart. Because that could have been me.

The second group I’ve noticed are the ones that get on my nerves and the ones ‘normal’ women loathe and are thereby deemed as catty. They’re the ones who don’t grow out of it when they hit their 30’s. They’re the ones who dolly themselves up not so much for self esteem, but to be noticed. They want to be desired by men and envied by women. They are constantly trying to out-do each other. They spend their free time shopping or getting their hair bleached while discussing what they need to get from Macy’s. (This is true; I’ve seen it when I was getting my hair trimmed). They have an attitude that the other group does not. They have an arrogance about them. They look upon the homely with pity. They strut. They are constantly fussing with their hair. They travel in packs, I’ve noticed. I’ve had them at my tables at work. They have the biggest rocks on their French-manicured fingers and flash them whilst sipping their champagne. They have inane conversations. The blather on about how munch money they spend on shoes and how their husbands are never home. They tend to be condescending to me even though in 15 years they will realize how much happier I am than they. They wear so much makeup, you can almost see their skin screaming underneath. Women are competitive by nature. Obsessively. You see them staring each other down, looking for some flaw, some imperfection that they themselves don’t have. The type of place I live in is littered with this type of women. I see them at the coffee shop with their Tommy Hilfiger-clad toddlers in their $500 stroller chatting with other women and their designer babies. What are they teaching their children? They always have to have bigger, better, more. They’re insanely trendy. One has it, then two, then it’s a plague. Why do women have to make being women so damned difficult? Why can’t they just have the same attitude that men do? You hang out, chat up your buddies, go to sporting events, laugh at each other’s balding hair and high-five ’em when something awesome happens. Men have it made. They know how to have a good time; they’re not threatened by their own gender.

Please keep in mind that this entire entry is only based upon my own personal acquaintances and observations. I do not speak of all women. There are those of us who think Mac’s are the shiznit and the Spurs are the best damn team in the NBA. We kick back with a beer and some great conversation. These are the kind of women I am friends with. We enjoy each other’s company; we can spend an evening hanging out without mentally contemplating the cost of each other’s Lois Vuitton. Hell, I don’t even have any friends with Louis Vuitton. They’re all tote bags and backpacks. They know how to live. How good we have it. We kick ass.

I will tell you this: there is one very important piece of evidence that proves Type 2 women buy into trendiness:

Velour jogging suits.

’nuff said.

Voulez-voulez-vous velour.

Yes, this is my greyhound. Yes, she is bubble-wrapped. I saw bubble wrap. I saw dog. Bryan was busy installing his surround sound. She kinda hung out like that for about 15 minutes when my husband realized what I had done to our dog. I told him I didn’t feel as if I had to explain my art to him.

I don’t have a topic in mind. None. I’m gonna drone on about nothing for a while here so if you don’t wanna read about nuthin’ I suggest you go knit a few burgundy afghans. Three trophies for The Cheat.

I don’t have any trophies. Not even a pizza trophy.

My bamboo needs water again. I’m not mature enough for this level of responsibility. After working all day the last thing I wanna do is water bamboo. I talked to Bryan before we got the bamboo. I told him that our lives were going to change and we were now responsible for something greater than ourselves. He agreed that we were gong to share in the caring and nurturing of the bamboo. Then guess what? I work all day, come home, and where is he? At a Seahawks game! Football?!?!?. He’s off with his buddies having a good ole time with beer and garlic fries while I’m left at home to tend to the bamboo alone. If I wanted to be a single parent I would have bought some bamboo before I knew him. This is bullshit.

Actually, I’m not resentful that he’s at the game. I’m resentful that I’m not.

To Hades with the bamboo.

So I just realized that I myself am thirsty. That means I have to get up. On my feet. Feet don’t work so well. After traipsing back and forth nonstop for 12 hours they’re kinda pissed.

I’m torn between my dislike for dehydration and my feet’s dislike of me.

I’m even too tired to use any creative wording or random vocabulary. What the hell am I doing here? I am not in the right state of mind for this nonsense. Armadilla armadilla.

Voulez-voulez-vous armadilla.

 

>27 days, 13 hours, 51 minutes.

>So, I will now confess that I have a problem with breeders. I’m sorry if you are one, but that’s just my opinion. Having one or two kids, fine. Five and six is just excessive and indulgent. The human race is not dying out. Quite the opposite. There are too many of us. 10,000 years ago the earth’s population ranged from 1-10 million people. There are now over 6 billion people. The numbers continue to increase logarithmically — so that there will be 8 billion by 2020. There is an upper limit to the carrying capacity of humans on earth — of the numbers that agriculture can support — and that number is usually estimated at between 13-15 billion. The more people, the more agriculture required to sustain such a population, hence the less land devoted to naturally existing ecosystems, and ultimately accelerating the process of extinction. That may sound a wee bit dramatic, but we as people are causing our own demise by our inability to don a rubber or pop a damn pill. I don’t want to hear the “I can’t afford The Pill” crap. Planned Parenthood gave me The Pill for $10 a month when I was in college. No problem. And I was damn broke when I was in college.
I can personally attest to the fact that there are too many people by the large number of people that successfully piss me off and hence make me aware of their existence.

According to Wikipedia (I love that site!):

The world’s current agricultural production, if it were distributed evenly, would be sufficient to feed everyone living on the Earth today. However, many critics hold that, in the absence of other measures, simply feeding the world’s population well would only make matters worse, natural growth will cause the population to grow to unsustainable levels, and will directly result in famines and deforestation and indirectly in pandemic disease and war.
Some other characteristics of overpopulation:

-Child poverty
-Birth rate is high
-Life expectancy is low
-Low level of literacy
-High rate of unemployment in urban areas (leading to social problems)
-Rural people are not gainfully employed (caught in cycle of poverty)
-Insufficient arable land
-Little surplus food
-Poor diet with ill health and diet-deficiency diseases (e.g. rickets)
-GDP per capita is low (under US$765 per annum)
-Many live in unhygienic conditions
-Government is stretched economically
-High crime from people who steal resources to survive
-Mass extinctions of plants and animals as habitat is used for farming and human settlements

Okay, so, “blah blah blah Jenn what the hell is the point of all this I was not in the mood for a social studies lesson…”

Well, I covered the topic of overpopulation as a preface to this news story I saw on MSNBC and became promptly irritated:

This woman from Arkansas just had her sixteenth child. Sixteenth. Why? And I don’t want to hear this “Gift from God ” and “Well of Souls” business. Have your religious beliefs, that’s fine. But not at the expense of the current poverty and famine rates of the planet. For Pete’s sake. They have their own documentary on the Discovery Health channel and another one planned for the Learning Channel. Yes, lets encourage their senseless breeding by rewarding them with the notoriety that comes from cable channels and news broadcasts. The python that tried to swallow an alligator in Florida and lost, that’s interesting news. But this kind of nonsense just pisses me off. In the process of my husband and I researching adoption from China, I discovered that there are hundreds of thousands of children in orphanages worldwide. Abandoned and unwanted, with substandard care, they need homes and parents and dogs and goldfish and birthday parties; they deserve to have healthy, happy lives, to be loved and cared for. But these people, in only what I can dub as an extraordinarily selfish act, have bred 16 times, and, according to the article, are planning to have more. Whaddahell. I hate to make statements like “some people should be sterilized”, but, seriously, some people should be sterilized. Damn, I am irritated. In case you didn’t know.

If you don’t agree with me on this, that’s cool, you’re entitled to your opinion. If you disagree and I have successfully pissed you off, too bad. It’s my blog.

voulez-voulez-vous breeders

> Ba da ba ba, ba da ba ba…Ba da ba ba, ba da ba ba…Ba da ba ba, ba da dee da dee da…

I had the world’s shortest work day today (6am – 9am) which afforded me the opportunity to carve my pumpkin. I’m not so sure the pumpkin had all that good of a time, but I know Duke did. It appears he is quite fond of pumpkin seeds. I named the former pumpkin KooFodder. I just need to keep reminding Koo that it is indeed no longer fodder, it is festive autumn decor. He is having problems with that idea. We’re working on it.

I was also able to unload the dishwasher. Not quite as much fun as the pumpkin carving.

I also picked at my ‘pain in the ass’ painting.

I’ve been working on this damn thing one dollop of paint at a time for 11 months. I just keep looking at it as this insurmountable task that looms over me while I’m at my desk. Will I ever finish it? Dunno. I got a dollop done today though. Graphite gray dollop. Graphite gray kicks ass. My doodle painting is coming along also; been picking at that while I watch TV in the evenings.

The doodle is one single line. I kid you not. It is a tricky doodle. When it’s completed the entire background will be black. It’s also a tedious doodle. Although there is no graphite gray in the doodle painting. Mars black and titanium white are in the doodle painting. That’s it. It’s only 24′ x 24′, so much less picking time involved. The cathedral painting is 32″ x 70″, so quite a lot more picking is involved. Doodle painting would look like a bad acid trip on a canvas 32″ x 70″. I would also probably look like a bad acid trip after painting a doodle painting on a 32″ x 70″ canvas. No grand-scale doodle paintings for me. Well, maybe not yet. I just like saying ‘doodle’. Doodle doodle doodle doodle. Doodle.

I’m thinking if there are any other pictures I can bust out in this thing. This is a very photo-intensive blog. Fun to load up. Who still has dial-up, anyway? Egads.

Voulez-voulez-vous doodle.

Doodle.

>I am getting really bad at keeping up with this.

Prolly cuz I’ve got a lot of sh*t going on in my life and in my head with the new season of ‘Lost” starting, I am booked solid.

My husband and I had back-to-back doctor’s appointments, so to save time, we just thought we’d go tandem. Our doc was a bit busy today, so she appreciated it a great deal, only we had to wait a good while for our turn. So as we waited for 20 minutes in the examination room (he was there to get a clearance form signed by our doc for his new fitness program, I was on a biopsy follow-up), we started droning out the line from ‘Forget Paris’: “you asked for it…you got it…Toyoooota…”. in very gritty and nasally sounding voices. I was tempted to get Bryan up on the table and into the stirrups (our doc has an awesome sense of humor), but he opted not. I found the cool new thermometer-thing that they drag along your forehead to take your temp, but mine was only 74 degrees Fahrenheit, so I theorized I must be dead. I had obviously forgotten to stop moving about.

I inflated several latex gloves and re-arranged the magazine selection. We had fun volley-ing the glove-balloons about for a while. I was trying to find a speculum to pinch Bry’s nose with, but was unsuccessful. I drew some jack-o-lantern on the paper sheet they lay atop the exam table. Doc appreciated the festive gesture.

You don’t want to leave me in an examination room too long. I find ways to amuse myself.

So, we came home and fed the dogs, took them out just in time for it to start raining. And now we sit, me here, dogs on the couch, Bry on the sofa, all three of them watching “Superman”. They seem to be having a good time.

I’m going to go take a bath before ‘Lost’ comes on. I’m such a TV junkie.

Voulez-voulez-vous junkie.

>alien vs. predator was one kick-ass movie. Except for the whole mountain-climbing-girl-teams-up-with-predator thing. That was lame.

>So, thanks be to the damn emulator my husband brought home. Saturday became the Legend of Zelda day. I think I’d played this game maybe once or twice in my lifetime. From what I understand, the premise goes something like this: this chick named Zelda gets herself kidnapped, (stupid-ass), thereby requiring me to risk life and limb to free her from the evil clutches of some wizard-dude named Arghhraghhh, or something like that. So, I’m trottin’ around, can’t find a sword, nor anything else useful, I’m caught in the damn rain, and everyone I talk to is a bunch of rude sonsobeeyatches who tell me to go away. So, as far as I am concerned, ole Zelda can go fuck herself. I’m just going to have fun throwing shrubberies around and collecting random treasures I find underneath. I mean, come on…I’d be willing to sacrifice an arm or leg if the reward was a nice piece of ass. But with my luck, I’d get there, Stockholm syndrome in effect, and she and ole Arrgghhhggrr would have hooked up and he thusly places a curse on my ass. So I opted for the psycho-gardener scenario until it got close to Alien vs. Predator time, at which point I would use my blog as a vehicle for my frustration then promptly bail. Which I have done.

Voulez-voulez-vous bail.