Nod again!

It happened again. It is a horrible feeling and it totally throws my life for a loop. All the plans I had are now set back and new decisions need to be made. It might be costly depending on whether you can find a good place for transition. You go to sleep thinking you will be home soon and everything will be ok, but then you wake up to a horrible voice saying "Next stop: Northeastern University" Dammit. Third time this week I got on the E line at Science Park and nodded off before I could switch trains at Park St.

Dammit Dammit Dammit.

Dear MBTA: Take that additional $1.70 (x3) and use it to add more C and D lines to the Lechmere stop. Or take it and shove it like you do with the rest of the money you recieve.

aka - Christmas

Here is how St Patty's Day is done.




Wake up, game face on. Pack your bag with all the green clothing you own. Wear a green scarf at work, it shows your coworker that you are not a Debbie Downer around the holidays. However, don't be the guy who shows up in head to toe in all different shades of green. You are not a leprechaun or amusing.



Go to your 9 to 5 and only eat a salad for lunch.

Instead of making your daily required phone calls, spend your day texting everyone you know to meet you at such and such a bar. But remember to change the location of which bar at least once every fifteen minutes, pissing everyone off.

Watch the clock for the rest of the day.

5:30 on the dot and you are out of your fancy clothes and putting on your green eye liner and attire.

Get to the finally decided already incredibly packed bar (at 6pm.) and instantly order a shot of whiskey and 2 bud light drafts, to start.


Since you only ate lettuce all day, the smell from the whiskey should already get you tipsy. Get hit on by the lonely bar creeper and the married man, but still make playful eye contact with the boy you will never have the nerve to talk to.



The beers have now taken their effect.
Raise the volume of your voice and laugh at everything that is not funny.



Try to create a dance floor out of the space between the bar area and the dinning room. You will most likely have no success in getting others to join you. However, you are of course the greatest dancer in all of Boston, so you are ok with owning the floor in your one man show.

A boy will now try to impress you and offer to buy you a drink. You'll accept and ask for a whiskey ginger. He will return with a bud light dollar draft. You will not be shocked, this is Boston and most guys are tools. Drink 'free' beer, and get ready for him to tell you that the next round is on your tab. Run away.




Steal any type of clothing (leprechaun hats, glasses, beads, etc.) from the next person who approaches you. Leave the bar before they can take it back.



Head toward Fanieul Hall. Find a random boy to have a heel clapping contest with you. Own it. Then continue to the next bar.





Cut the line. And when that doesnt work, allow one of your friends to kindly shell out $130 to the bouncer to get the group into the bar.





It's now time to unleash the St. Pattys stickers you had hidden in your wallet. It's a known fact: Everyone loves stickers. You have now made yourself a few new friends. One of which is very unwanted. Relocate to new area in the bar. Create another dance floor. Own it.

Check time. 9:30.

Continue to text everyone you know to come meet you at the new bar but disregard the fact that the line to get in is over an hour long. Minor Details.

Where are all your roommates? One is lost out on Mission Hill, pants shitting drunk, probably crying over chapstick. One is already home cuddled up to a half eaten bag of tortilla chips at her bed side. More importantly, where is your leprechaun hat ? ! ?!

Your time to call it a night is approaching fast. Bring this to the attention of your last man standing friend and she trys to convince you to head to the Fenway area. However, you have had all the green beer you can drink and more phone calls to make at 9AM. You seriously contemplate following her to the next bar with the oh so popular "you only live once" motto.

Convince your self that you believe in reincarnation and promise the next 'you' that you will continue to rage on St. Patricks Day. Proceed to Hynes and wah lah! The C line pulls up right away. You are about to find a nice quiet seat alone to put on you head phones and mellow out to Justin Beiber when your name is called out by bar regulars from your other job.

You have no excuse but to talk to them so you take the opportunity to get into a drunken ramble as to why they should never eat/drink at this place of employment because it is over priced and zero fun sir. They will just nod their heads in amusement, and will not take your bitter advice.

Jump off the T right as they are closing the doors to your stop. You are 'that guy'. Race home, Rape kitchen. Egg white with half a bottle of ketchup, two week old pizza, and lucky charms (keeping the st patricks theme alive til the very end) become the reason for your horrible stomach ache in about 7 hours.

Jump into bed and turn on your 6 favorite F.R.I.E.N.D.S. from New York and remind yourself how cool it is that you bought all ten seasons for $11 in Vietnam. Never gets old, to you at least.

Pass out after 3 minutes, dream of random people you havent seen in years and how they became magicians and live in a studio apartment on Beacon Hill that also turns into the stage on American Idol.

Hit snooze 5 times before waking up. Do a head count in the apartment. Once everyone is accounted for, continue the day as normal.

Spend the T ride to work going through all the text messages from last night, and give yourself a pat on the back if there are no inappropriate ones in the bunch.

Deep breath. You survived.
Now spend the next 48 hours preparing for the parade on Sunday . . .

FEMA

Japan and I have a lot in common these days, besides our 'to the minute' countdown to Comic-Con.


So Japan might have gone and got hit with a chuck of natural disasters, but I went ahead and decided to graduate college. Both life shattering and not an easy clean up.

No 5-minute has remained the same over the past, oh say, 120 hours. That's 5 days for all you mathematically challenged folk, like myself, who needed to use a calculator.

My life is a sand castle. Every time I make a perfectly sculpted tower, an unsupervised child comes running down the beach and kicks it.
I need to start making my castles out of cement.

But I can't do that. Because for me, making decisions is like dribbling a football. Near impossible.

Examples:
- I change my outfit at least 4-6 times before going out, and by going out I mean take out the trash.
- When I go to the movies, I spend at least a half hour standing in the candy aisle at Shaw's, having a battle over Sour Patch Kids or Charleston Chews. You know who wins? ChexMix. And now I have missed the previews.
- One time, I made the lady at Boloco completely remake a burrito because in the 3 minute time span from ordering, I decided that I was no longer in the mood for teriyaki. Or a burrito. Smoothie it is!
- Pen or pencil? Pen or pencil?!

So imagine the tug-o-war game that is being played in my brain with my future career choices and life styles.


Where can I send my resume to apply for a job as 'Hannah Montana' so I can get the best of both worlds...

Ya, I hate your life too.

For the past two weeks, I have been working as a temp at a law office in Downtown Crossings. I have learned a few things in my time here, such as how to make double sided document copies, how to FedEx super confidential paper work, and how to keep my turkey sandwich fresh until lunch time.

All very valuable knowledge, but there is one major life lesson that I will take with me at the end of the week: I am so not cut out for the corporate, suit wearing, stick up my ass world of work.
And that's OK. I can deal with the fact that I will never be rich, I will never be classy, and I will never hate my life.

Last night you (the over worked suits wearing people) were probably enjoying your prime rib dinner at Morton's, while I was happily enjoying my Lucky Charms dinner, which I ate straight from the box walking through Coolidge Corner at 11pm.

You probably went to law school right after college.
I serve burgers and spend my free time watching The Kardashians, or writing about sucker like you.

You might spend your summer weekend sailing on your yacht in the vineyard. Up until 5 minutes ago, I didn't even know how to spell the word 'yacht', so that lets that out.

On the down side, you are probably 40 years old and I feel the need to take an iron to your stressed mess of a face. I have more hair on my left eyebrow (but not my right one) than you have on your head. And when your wife calls, she is an angry little fire breathing dragon.

So maybe I won't get the view of the Boston skyline out an office window. That's ok with me.

For now, I will continue to be your copy bitch and search for my future non-life sucking job on your dime. And blog, about you, on your dime. And if you don't like that, sue me. Your forehead can use another wrinkle.

Please 86 Me!

I feel like I am trying to piece my life together with that dried up piece of shit paste that they would give you in elementary school. You know, the one that smelled like toothpaste. And tasted like it too (so maybe I was one of those kids that eats glue, explains a lot.)

Every move I make in my plans to move back to Connecticut just seems so unstable.

I have discontinued my membership at the gym. They will stop billing me April 1st. That is about the only thing set in stone. I just really hope to see one of the old lady's croak on the treadmill before I leave. It's not cruel, it's inevitable.

I have found a suitable sublet, but no papers have been signed because she is not 'suitable' at the moment for the other girls (girl) currently living in the apartment.

My job search has ended in Boston and I have put all my efforts into employment in Connecticut. I had a phone interview with a travel agency and I have my family and friends opening their eyes to any career opportunities that would fit my clusterfuck of a life.

That stuff is all just the easy part of this transition.

So, what is the one thing holding me back from jumping an Amtrak and soaring down the east coast back to New Haven...

Money? No. I have enough saved to hold me over for a significant amount of time.

Boyfriend? Lets be serious. The last boy who took the time to talk to me was the exchange student from Montreal at the 7eleven when we were both waiting for the 66 bus. He had just moved here for grad school in computer science. His first question to me? "So how do you like living in Boston?" Not the time buddy. Next question, "So what do you do, work/school wise?" (after telling me how he is in training and will probably end up working for Google or any major search engine) SERIOUSLY BUDDY. NOT THE TIME.

My friends? Those hoes are there through thick and thin, and through high anxiety life altering decisions that I now and will forever make throughout my life.

The thing that has my feet nailed to the floor and ripping apart my stomach every time I think about it is quitting my soul sucking waitressing job at the Clubhouse. I am up to my ears in food named after sport figures and managers that think it a privilege to wake up at 8am every Saturday and Sunday. I am almost at my year mark from graduating college and I still find my self asking people "Would you like fries with that sir?"

NOT OK. It's time to grow up. And I'm not talking about me anymore. You are jealous because I am getting my life together and your lives are as pathetic as someone who orders a fried chicken sandwich, extra cheese and bacon, and a 'diet coke'.

If I want to quit, don't scream at me and don't make future plans to piss on my grave.

A) I don't ever plan on dying.

B) Not my problem that you think it takes 3 fucking weeks to train another monkey to serve a burger and clean a table.

C) unts.

"Oh my god. The new girl forgot to put out tongs for the fries and stock celery. What a complete and total waste of a human being."

The only thing that is stopping me from completely jumping ship and making a run for the back door in the basement is the fact that the other girls I work with will be stuck picking up after my mess of a decision. Although, I kind of feel like their anger toward me will only last for a minute. I hope to think that they will sit back and smile and say "She got out. She is one of the lucky ones"

It's all so sad that I work at a restaurant that can be held in complete comparison to concentration camp. Sad, and ironic, because the owner is a Jew.

Monday Funday

Week two in 'Fake Big Girl World' began with a case of the Monday's straight from the real work week.

Sunday Fundays are no longer allowed to begin at 7pm when a 6am wake up call is going to smack you in the faster than you can chase that shot of Jim Bean with a $7 pitcher.

Woke up, hung over (still drunk?).
Took a shower, in the dark. Went back to bed, in my towel, because 'umm duhh' those extra 7 minutes will make a difference in my day.

Ran out the door 15 minutes behind schedule and got to Longwood as the T was pulling away. Whatever.

A small child sneezed and licked the glob snot from her nose as though it was ice cream. Thanks for that, I think I'm now going to throw up. Hey small child, would you like to eat that too?

The T arrived just as mommy dearest was using an article of clothing to clean up small childs face.

Please be a seat, please be a seat . . . !?

No seat. Just the usual squeeze on the staircase, but today was special.
For today, I got to share that staircase with not one, but TWO homeless transvestites.

Oh, and it was raining.

Hang on, I'm Singing to Nelson

The other night, I'm sitting at Coogan's having some after work beverages (because I am a fake career woman these days) and our conversation was interrupted by a dead-serious rendition of 'If it Makes you Happy'

There is name for misguided people like you . . . Asian.
At least they are kind enough to do it in a private sound proof room.

Ever look in the mirror and think that you are lookin good and skinny these days? Karaoke is a lot like moments like that. You might think you look good, but to everyone else, that shirt does not do anything for your beer gut. You might think you sound like Whitney, but you sound like Bobby.

Karaoke should never ever be taken seriously, or sober. Same goes for funerals...

And so, it starts.

Timone. A man of wise words.

So, a blog about my life. How original.
However, since my travel blog was 'such' a success, I have decided to keep up with my writting and create a 'Girl meets REAL world' blog.

Basically, I'm using it as a huge status update, or tweet...although I don't tweet as is.

Anywho,
Enjoy.