Working with children younger than two is great if you are having a bad day: there is an extremely high chance that at least one ankle-biter will take a spill and need to be held and comforted (which is very soothing on the teacher's end too). On the other hand they relieve themselves in diapers. There was a poopy one the other day that completely defeated me. I undid the velcro and immediately gagged (and I have changed some messes that resembled a diabolical practical joke involving chili and brimstone) and had to ask someone else to do it. It was humiliating.
The 2's classroom (children between 2 and almost 3 are in there) goes outside to the play area before the toddler classroom does (children who walk and eat solid food but aren't two yet). Both classroom doors open onto this playground, so one of the 2's teachers, B, frequently will fling open the door and flirt with the cutest toddlers and chat with the toddler teachers. Today B opened the door and shouted:
"Be careful, we're missing a turd."
"?" said the toddler teachers.
Apparently (I heard this second hand) they found the "mess" but not the turd. B never explained HOW they lost a turd, or if they ever found it again, but the toddler teachers spent a good half hour scouring the playground for stray turds. They never found it. Luckily, the children haven't found it either.
Friday 6 November 2009
Monday 26 October 2009
On Focus and Practice and Hobbies
I can sew.
If you had asked me before today:
"Hey Emily, can you sew?"
I'd have responded like so:
"Um, kind of?"
But I realized today that I can sew! I can sew mildly sophisticated things (poorly) like curves and I know what in ironing ham is and how to press seams and why you use pinking shears and what cotton batting is! All of those damn sewing classes have lodged themselves in my brain and though I am unpracticed I can do it.
Which made me realize that I am somewhat of a Jane of All Trades. I have gone to volleyball camp, and church and church camp and church youth group, and backpacking in rural Alaska, and homestays in Poland and France, and being a barmaid in a pub in England, and I have gone to cooking camp, and horseback riding camp, and circus camp, and I have taken a calligraphy class, and myriad sewing classes, and nature camp, soccer camp, swimming lessons, swim team, intramural soccer, intramural softball, flute lessons, piano lessons, choir, wind ensemble, duets and trios and quartets, I have baby-sat and taught private tutorials in math and phonics and Spanish, I have hosted in a restaurant, served food in a restaurant...
I am unfocused and running out of things to try. It's depressing and I am going to bed.
But I have decided that I seriously want a sewing machine
If you had asked me before today:
"Hey Emily, can you sew?"
I'd have responded like so:
"Um, kind of?"
But I realized today that I can sew! I can sew mildly sophisticated things (poorly) like curves and I know what in ironing ham is and how to press seams and why you use pinking shears and what cotton batting is! All of those damn sewing classes have lodged themselves in my brain and though I am unpracticed I can do it.
Which made me realize that I am somewhat of a Jane of All Trades. I have gone to volleyball camp, and church and church camp and church youth group, and backpacking in rural Alaska, and homestays in Poland and France, and being a barmaid in a pub in England, and I have gone to cooking camp, and horseback riding camp, and circus camp, and I have taken a calligraphy class, and myriad sewing classes, and nature camp, soccer camp, swimming lessons, swim team, intramural soccer, intramural softball, flute lessons, piano lessons, choir, wind ensemble, duets and trios and quartets, I have baby-sat and taught private tutorials in math and phonics and Spanish, I have hosted in a restaurant, served food in a restaurant...
I am unfocused and running out of things to try. It's depressing and I am going to bed.
But I have decided that I seriously want a sewing machine
Thursday 1 October 2009
Notes on Random Things
In preschools all over the country, teachers don't read the classics like "Where the Wild Things Are." Instead, they read similar versions like "The Little Engine That Could; Joe Get Your Finger Out of Your Nose" and "Clifford the Big Red Dog; Sure You're a Princess, Joan."
Preschool age children are little mimics. I play a game with the kids called "Sleeping Bunnies" in which I sing a song about bunnies sleeping, and then waking up. The kids lie down and pretend to sleep and then "wake up" and hop around like bunnies. During one round two children proceeded to pat the back of another child who was pretending to sleep, exactly the way the teachers pat backs to get children to sleep during naptime.
If you are having troubles with your marriage, your children will know and pass that fact along to their teachers. We don't want to know.
Customers will always sit at the dirty table, even when there are clean, better tables available.
Women will give you more crap and be pickier than men. This is to women and men servers/bartenders. After realizing this I went into a mini tailspin, worrying that I was (underneath it all) a misogynist. Or possibly that women have to work harder to get the service that men get. Or maybe some women just feel that other people, other places, are always getting better service than they are. I promise you, people of the world, not everyone is trying to screw you over.
Chances are likely that shit has been talked about you in the kitchen if you have ever gone to a restaurant.
When you are a server, you are seriously working for tips. The house gives you a salary purely to have something from which to pull your taxes. This means that if service was adequate, you tip AT LEAST 15%. It also means if the kitchen messes up or is slow (but your food is hot), don't take it out on your server (this comes with the caveat that kitchens don't mess up that often).
If you ever become a server/bartender: call the patron "sweetie" or "sugar" or "honey." Even if they are older than you. It puts them neatly in their place: you are a mother-like figure there to competently take care of them in a no-nonsense, no frills fashion.
Preschool age children are little mimics. I play a game with the kids called "Sleeping Bunnies" in which I sing a song about bunnies sleeping, and then waking up. The kids lie down and pretend to sleep and then "wake up" and hop around like bunnies. During one round two children proceeded to pat the back of another child who was pretending to sleep, exactly the way the teachers pat backs to get children to sleep during naptime.
If you are having troubles with your marriage, your children will know and pass that fact along to their teachers. We don't want to know.
Customers will always sit at the dirty table, even when there are clean, better tables available.
Women will give you more crap and be pickier than men. This is to women and men servers/bartenders. After realizing this I went into a mini tailspin, worrying that I was (underneath it all) a misogynist. Or possibly that women have to work harder to get the service that men get. Or maybe some women just feel that other people, other places, are always getting better service than they are. I promise you, people of the world, not everyone is trying to screw you over.
Chances are likely that shit has been talked about you in the kitchen if you have ever gone to a restaurant.
When you are a server, you are seriously working for tips. The house gives you a salary purely to have something from which to pull your taxes. This means that if service was adequate, you tip AT LEAST 15%. It also means if the kitchen messes up or is slow (but your food is hot), don't take it out on your server (this comes with the caveat that kitchens don't mess up that often).
If you ever become a server/bartender: call the patron "sweetie" or "sugar" or "honey." Even if they are older than you. It puts them neatly in their place: you are a mother-like figure there to competently take care of them in a no-nonsense, no frills fashion.
Friday 25 September 2009
In Summation
I would like to collect all of the blog posts that folks write and publish while they are having trouble sleeping and bind it into a book. Such a book would be a thousand pages long.
Hm, actually I don't want to read such things because I am interested only in the insomnia-posts of people that I care about, so, scratch that (metaphorically, because if you are reading this, you can clearly see that I haven't literally scratched that).
But then, insomnia could be a great reason to post, and be rather inspiring as insomnia is caused by being unable to turn off your brain and letting all thoughts roll around and around your head picking up momentum and mass (like a snowball) until the pressure is too much and you either pass out or get up and go to work as if you actually did go to sleep.
I suppose for you readers that I should sum up the last 5? 6? months. I was a hostess and a server for 6 months, and then I added preschool teacher to that list of jobs, until about 3 weeks ago, when I quit the restaurant and became a full time preschool teacher. I teach 4 year-olds their letters, basic math principles, and Spanish.
Have I mentioned that I do not know any Spanish (beyond yo quiero taco bell, salsa verde, and various naughty words that Ana taught me)? But, the children that I teach cannot read, and therefore I can think/read ahead of them. Also, they don't know Spanish, therefore I can make up and stall as much as I like. My biggest fear is that some excited and well-meaning parent will say "oh, you're the Spanish teacher? I spent every summer growing up in Argentina!" and then spew Spanish at me while I smile awkwardly and panic inwardly. Ultimately, though, I feel that it reflects worse on my employer than on me, because it's not completely my fault that I am better equipped to teach French, but it's their fault they were willing to hire me to teach Spanish. And thus the blame is neatly shifted upwards.
I work for a gigantic, world wide daycare corporation. Which means that I get screwed whenever the company decides that they need to tighten their belts. The execs make a decision based on charts and graphs and reds and blacks and bottom lines and that decision gets shifted (as quickly as possible) down the chain of command and the next thing I know, there is my perky boss on the phone telling me to go ahead and take Monday off, to, you know, get so R and R. But, I can't afford to take a load off.
I am never working for a big corporation again, everyone's all disconnected. Each level looks at the one above it and the one below it as a group out to get them or screw them over. There are a lot of "they"s thrown around, when shouldn't all of us be on the same team? But no, those of us on the bottom rung feel unrepresented and unheard, and therefore as cogs of an anonymous machine, we do our best to either screw the company over or to take advantage of it.
If you're employees aren't on your side, they will steal from you and feel perfectly justified in doing so.
"You freeze my raise this year? Fine, I am stealing $50 worth of cleaning supplies and toilet paper from you each month for the next year."
"You insist on selling your employees drinks at the price you charge customers? Well, it's true I will therefore not drink in your bar. But I will manage to liberate a few bottles of wine from your cellar."
I am feeling cranky and rather ready to move on. But, I like to kids. They are such odd little critters. I like ages 1 through 4 the best. They are completely different beings. Any older and I can't forgive them for not being adults (frankly, I can't forgive many grown-ups for not being adults) and I try to leave them alone.
There is one small boy who makes messes for the sheer joy of cleaning them up. His newest favorite thing to do is to stack chairs. He only seems interested in stacking them at appropriate times, like just before I mop. He gets a little gleam in his eye whenever I wheel the bucket into the room.
Then there's the little boy who dances a perfect robot. It's amazing.
More later.
Hm, actually I don't want to read such things because I am interested only in the insomnia-posts of people that I care about, so, scratch that (metaphorically, because if you are reading this, you can clearly see that I haven't literally scratched that).
But then, insomnia could be a great reason to post, and be rather inspiring as insomnia is caused by being unable to turn off your brain and letting all thoughts roll around and around your head picking up momentum and mass (like a snowball) until the pressure is too much and you either pass out or get up and go to work as if you actually did go to sleep.
I suppose for you readers that I should sum up the last 5? 6? months. I was a hostess and a server for 6 months, and then I added preschool teacher to that list of jobs, until about 3 weeks ago, when I quit the restaurant and became a full time preschool teacher. I teach 4 year-olds their letters, basic math principles, and Spanish.
Have I mentioned that I do not know any Spanish (beyond yo quiero taco bell, salsa verde, and various naughty words that Ana taught me)? But, the children that I teach cannot read, and therefore I can think/read ahead of them. Also, they don't know Spanish, therefore I can make up and stall as much as I like. My biggest fear is that some excited and well-meaning parent will say "oh, you're the Spanish teacher? I spent every summer growing up in Argentina!" and then spew Spanish at me while I smile awkwardly and panic inwardly. Ultimately, though, I feel that it reflects worse on my employer than on me, because it's not completely my fault that I am better equipped to teach French, but it's their fault they were willing to hire me to teach Spanish. And thus the blame is neatly shifted upwards.
I work for a gigantic, world wide daycare corporation. Which means that I get screwed whenever the company decides that they need to tighten their belts. The execs make a decision based on charts and graphs and reds and blacks and bottom lines and that decision gets shifted (as quickly as possible) down the chain of command and the next thing I know, there is my perky boss on the phone telling me to go ahead and take Monday off, to, you know, get so R and R. But, I can't afford to take a load off.
I am never working for a big corporation again, everyone's all disconnected. Each level looks at the one above it and the one below it as a group out to get them or screw them over. There are a lot of "they"s thrown around, when shouldn't all of us be on the same team? But no, those of us on the bottom rung feel unrepresented and unheard, and therefore as cogs of an anonymous machine, we do our best to either screw the company over or to take advantage of it.
If you're employees aren't on your side, they will steal from you and feel perfectly justified in doing so.
"You freeze my raise this year? Fine, I am stealing $50 worth of cleaning supplies and toilet paper from you each month for the next year."
"You insist on selling your employees drinks at the price you charge customers? Well, it's true I will therefore not drink in your bar. But I will manage to liberate a few bottles of wine from your cellar."
I am feeling cranky and rather ready to move on. But, I like to kids. They are such odd little critters. I like ages 1 through 4 the best. They are completely different beings. Any older and I can't forgive them for not being adults (frankly, I can't forgive many grown-ups for not being adults) and I try to leave them alone.
There is one small boy who makes messes for the sheer joy of cleaning them up. His newest favorite thing to do is to stack chairs. He only seems interested in stacking them at appropriate times, like just before I mop. He gets a little gleam in his eye whenever I wheel the bucket into the room.
Then there's the little boy who dances a perfect robot. It's amazing.
More later.
Tuesday 17 March 2009
Bits and Pieces. Nothing Terribly Thought Out.
I am now somewhat employed! Which is great! I say somewhat because the gig is part time, and I can't even come close to supporting myself with one, part-time job. I like the job though, I am a hostess at a neighborhood restaurant/bar in Berkeley. Berkeley, as in a neighborhood of Northwest Denver not The Peoples Republic of Berkeley, CA. It's ridiculously easy because I am only there when it's busy and so I shoot people to the only open tables and tell them to wait at the bar if there are no open tables at that moment. Though, I am supposed to chat people up and be friendly, which complicates things a little, but not too much. My co-workers are very friendly but I don't talk to them much because I stay right at the door and they stay away from the door. The people who frequent B.I. (the restaurant) are generally yuppies, in the classic sense of the word (Young Urban Professionals. Think graphic designers and such) because Berkeley is a neighborhood that for the most part has up and come.
I am really enjoying it because I miss knowing regulars. At the P there were tons, and by the time I left we were all mildly acquainted, which was nice. So I am (slooowly) getting to know the BI regulars. So far I have really only met E, who(m?) I have dubbed one of the "lonesome guys." Men who come to restaurants/bars/pubs by themselves. Either because they refuse to cook for themselves, or they're lonely, or for reasons that completely elude me, and so I am forced to make them up.
For example, at the P there was a very careful guy who would come in when the pub was mostly empty and sit in the seat closest to the bar and nurse a pint of sprite for almost an hour. Then he would carefully count out the change for another pint of soda. His hair was slightly overgrown, but carefully brushed out of his way, and his clean but faded t-shirts would always be carefully tucked into his carefully belted jeans. I would ask him questions ("how was your day?" "Oof, how about that snow!") he would look mildly frightened and either grunt, nod, or (if he was feeling feisty) give me a one word one syllable answer.
Since he would never open up enough (or at all) to tell me what his story was, I decided that he had severe agoraphobia and that his therapist told him to just go out and exist in pubs. I imagined that he roamed from pub to pub, sipping a pint of a different soda in each place.
I haven't figured out/made up E's story yet. He probably just doesn't cook.
This weekend I dragged the roommates to a bar just down the street from us. I applied for a job there twice, and never heard back from them, and I was curious about the place. It was also intriguing because they offer a menu of American classics (hamburgers, etc) and Vietnamese food. A trucker bar in Wheat Ridge that serves burger s and pho definitely deserves a look. So on Saturday I loaded Cas and Nate into the car and drove them down there. I didn't know it, but we stumbled into ladies night, so Cas and I each got a free beer (it was buy one get one free). 2 pints of Coors for $2.50 and tip isn't bad at all, the catch is that you're limited to either Coors or PBR. The kitchen was closed so we didn't see the menu (and we forgot) but we drank our beers and started to leave, and as we were going out the door I noticed that there was one of those games in which you use a joystick to maneuver a claw to grab a stuffed animal or candy or something. But in this game you grabbed lobsters. REAL LIVE lobsters, lurking in water in the well usually filled with stuffed bears and sweet tarts. I saw it first and was so surprised that I couldn't articulate my findings and had to grab the back of Cas' jacket and physically propel her in front of the machine (I heard snickers behind my back as I did this, but Cas and I agree that it was totally worth it). Next time, we are going to the bar that is walking distance from our house. It frequently has a dusty, yellow corvette parked out front in the early afternoon.
This weekend Cas and I had breakfast at a diner (I live in the land of diners) called Davies Chuck Wagon. It was great. Apparently someone ordered it from New Jersey in the late fifties and it arrived fully equipped and exactly as you can see it now on a train. It's tiny and is all worn formica and smudged chrome. Cas and I have decided to (slowly) try all of the diners around. I love diners, and so I am very excited.
Also on the dining front, I looked back at my previous posts, and saw that Marge, of Large Marge's Philly Cheese steaks, read my blog and commented, and offered me lunch. I haven't done it yet.
But Marge, I'm coming for my lunch and a chat about living in the Bay Area: and I have never, ever had a philly cheese steak.
I am really enjoying it because I miss knowing regulars. At the P there were tons, and by the time I left we were all mildly acquainted, which was nice. So I am (slooowly) getting to know the BI regulars. So far I have really only met E, who(m?) I have dubbed one of the "lonesome guys." Men who come to restaurants/bars/pubs by themselves. Either because they refuse to cook for themselves, or they're lonely, or for reasons that completely elude me, and so I am forced to make them up.
For example, at the P there was a very careful guy who would come in when the pub was mostly empty and sit in the seat closest to the bar and nurse a pint of sprite for almost an hour. Then he would carefully count out the change for another pint of soda. His hair was slightly overgrown, but carefully brushed out of his way, and his clean but faded t-shirts would always be carefully tucked into his carefully belted jeans. I would ask him questions ("how was your day?" "Oof, how about that snow!") he would look mildly frightened and either grunt, nod, or (if he was feeling feisty) give me a one word one syllable answer.
Since he would never open up enough (or at all) to tell me what his story was, I decided that he had severe agoraphobia and that his therapist told him to just go out and exist in pubs. I imagined that he roamed from pub to pub, sipping a pint of a different soda in each place.
I haven't figured out/made up E's story yet. He probably just doesn't cook.
This weekend I dragged the roommates to a bar just down the street from us. I applied for a job there twice, and never heard back from them, and I was curious about the place. It was also intriguing because they offer a menu of American classics (hamburgers, etc) and Vietnamese food. A trucker bar in Wheat Ridge that serves burger s and pho definitely deserves a look. So on Saturday I loaded Cas and Nate into the car and drove them down there. I didn't know it, but we stumbled into ladies night, so Cas and I each got a free beer (it was buy one get one free). 2 pints of Coors for $2.50 and tip isn't bad at all, the catch is that you're limited to either Coors or PBR. The kitchen was closed so we didn't see the menu (and we forgot) but we drank our beers and started to leave, and as we were going out the door I noticed that there was one of those games in which you use a joystick to maneuver a claw to grab a stuffed animal or candy or something. But in this game you grabbed lobsters. REAL LIVE lobsters, lurking in water in the well usually filled with stuffed bears and sweet tarts. I saw it first and was so surprised that I couldn't articulate my findings and had to grab the back of Cas' jacket and physically propel her in front of the machine (I heard snickers behind my back as I did this, but Cas and I agree that it was totally worth it). Next time, we are going to the bar that is walking distance from our house. It frequently has a dusty, yellow corvette parked out front in the early afternoon.
This weekend Cas and I had breakfast at a diner (I live in the land of diners) called Davies Chuck Wagon. It was great. Apparently someone ordered it from New Jersey in the late fifties and it arrived fully equipped and exactly as you can see it now on a train. It's tiny and is all worn formica and smudged chrome. Cas and I have decided to (slowly) try all of the diners around. I love diners, and so I am very excited.
Also on the dining front, I looked back at my previous posts, and saw that Marge, of Large Marge's Philly Cheese steaks, read my blog and commented, and offered me lunch. I haven't done it yet.
But Marge, I'm coming for my lunch and a chat about living in the Bay Area: and I have never, ever had a philly cheese steak.
Thursday 29 January 2009
Zubrowka!
Yesterday I went to a job fair held to fill positions in a vast new Irish pub and restaurant opening in February. You walked into the hotel, filled out an application and walked into a room for a 2 minute interview. I did somewhere between neutral and great. BUT there was one question that I dropped the ball on:
Interviewer in a snappy, pin stripe 3-piece suit: So, do you know anything about Irish culture?
Our Hero: (what? it's a pub in goddamn Denver, what kind of specialized knowledge do you need to serve someone a pint of Murphys?) Oh, um, no.
What should have happened:
Iiasps3-ps: So, do you know anything about Irish culture?
OH: [laugh gaily, smile wide] oh, I have a somewhat skewed idea of Irish culture. [insert cute, quirky anecdote, like:] A branch of my mother's family is Irish (even though I'm not) and we once went to one of there reunions. I vaguely remember clog dancing, nuns, and a de-frocked priest being there as part of the family.
[or]
I met a lot of Irish people while backpacking through Europe this summer, man do they drink a LOT. I remember [insert tinkling laugh] one of them offering me vodka and orange out of an old, cleaned out chamber pot at one hostel in Prague! (ok, maybe not THAT story)
[or]
Potatoes! Red hair! Leprechauns! Guinness! Shamrocks! Don't pinch me I'm wearing green! HIRE MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
I need to find a Polish bar, because that's really the only culture I know much about. I could tell them about trying bimber (which is Polish moonshine, it comes in different colors and burns allllllll the way down to your stomach) and impress them with my correct pronunciation of the Polish word for bison and my knowledge (and pronunciation) of bison grass as a flavoring for vodka.
On another tangent, people show up to these things in all states of dressed-up and dressed-down. I showed up (I was interviewing for a bartending position, did I tell you that? well now you know) in gray pin-striped dress pants and a nice blue top and necklaces and blow-dried hair and lipstick. There was a guy there in a tux, but then there were people there in jeans and tee-shirts wearing hiking boots etc. Maybe Denver is leagues more laid-back when it comes to dressing up than CA is. But, the interviewers were wearing 3 piece, wool suits in dapper shades of charcoal and heather, so I dunno.
Interviewer in a snappy, pin stripe 3-piece suit: So, do you know anything about Irish culture?
Our Hero: (what? it's a pub in goddamn Denver, what kind of specialized knowledge do you need to serve someone a pint of Murphys?) Oh, um, no.
What should have happened:
Iiasps3-ps: So, do you know anything about Irish culture?
OH: [laugh gaily, smile wide] oh, I have a somewhat skewed idea of Irish culture. [insert cute, quirky anecdote, like:] A branch of my mother's family is Irish (even though I'm not) and we once went to one of there reunions. I vaguely remember clog dancing, nuns, and a de-frocked priest being there as part of the family.
[or]
I met a lot of Irish people while backpacking through Europe this summer, man do they drink a LOT. I remember [insert tinkling laugh] one of them offering me vodka and orange out of an old, cleaned out chamber pot at one hostel in Prague! (ok, maybe not THAT story)
[or]
Potatoes! Red hair! Leprechauns! Guinness! Shamrocks! Don't pinch me I'm wearing green! HIRE MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
I need to find a Polish bar, because that's really the only culture I know much about. I could tell them about trying bimber (which is Polish moonshine, it comes in different colors and burns allllllll the way down to your stomach) and impress them with my correct pronunciation of the Polish word for bison and my knowledge (and pronunciation) of bison grass as a flavoring for vodka.
On another tangent, people show up to these things in all states of dressed-up and dressed-down. I showed up (I was interviewing for a bartending position, did I tell you that? well now you know) in gray pin-striped dress pants and a nice blue top and necklaces and blow-dried hair and lipstick. There was a guy there in a tux, but then there were people there in jeans and tee-shirts wearing hiking boots etc. Maybe Denver is leagues more laid-back when it comes to dressing up than CA is. But, the interviewers were wearing 3 piece, wool suits in dapper shades of charcoal and heather, so I dunno.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Emily and the Carwash
Last Monday it snowed something like 6 inches by the time I had to leave for my first bartending class. Yes, I took a bartending class, it was discounted and promised to help me find a job later.
Anyways, the first time that it snowed, I had somewhere to be and therefore HAD to drive in it. And I did. Very very veeeerrry slowly.
So, I took that bartending class. It was taught by a guy, M, from San Jose. I didn't click with any of the kids in my class, which was too bad. It made me very very homesick. In the class there was one woman who came all the way from Rapid City, South Dakota because this was the closest place that she could take a bartending class.
I passed that class with flying colors (100.5% on the written and then I made 12 "drinks" out of colored water in 5 minutes. Not the best, but not the worst).
C and N (who are exactly who you think they are, Ari) got a dog on Saturday, which has been really exciting. She's part Manchester Terrier and part something else. She looks like a mini-doberman pinscher but she has a white patch with black spots on her chest, one of her ears is droopy, and the other is alert. She's about 10 pounds and 9 months old. Her name is Penny and she does everything 110%: running until she hits walls, jumping into things, and passing out. It's very cute but obnoxious at the end of a leash. We spend a lot of time together these days, as I am unemployed and she is a dog. We play fetch and she sits in my lap if I am sitting down, it's like having a dog/cat combo.
Today, I went to the carwash to wash my car. It was filthy and covered with chemicals that they spray on big highways to keep them from being too slippery. As I was filling it up with gas before I went through the wash, I realized that only once in my life had I ever been in a car that went through a carwash. During that one time that I went through the car wash, the driver had driven the car through the washer as it was hit with 6 foot tall scrubbers and the like.
I drove into the opening, and a sign saying "drive forward" and so I did. Then a sign saying "stop" and other saying "back up to start cycle" lit up. So I did. Then the first sign lit up, and I drove forward. Then the second signs lit up and I backed up. I repeated this cycle again and again, sometimes varying how far forward I went. Farther, less far, and each time the "stop" and back-up signs lit up. This happened about 10 times. THEN I realized that the rubber well that I kept driving over was where I was supposed to stop my front wheel, because the squirt-y mechanisms were on a track that went over the car as it stayed still. All of this would have been just frustrating and obnoxious had I been alone, but there was a woman waiting closely behind me who witnessed me drive forward, stop, and back up. Drive forward, stop, and back up. I can only imagine her in her car saying to herself "what kind of California idiot is this?" (I still have CA plates). But, now I have a squeaky clean car with a special rain-repelling coat of something on it, because I opted for the "super dog wash!" instead a wash called something along the lines of the "Joe Schmoe" because it cleaned the undercarriage and sprayed the rain-repellant.
But I have conquered the carwash. I am a better woman for it.
Anyways, the first time that it snowed, I had somewhere to be and therefore HAD to drive in it. And I did. Very very veeeerrry slowly.
So, I took that bartending class. It was taught by a guy, M, from San Jose. I didn't click with any of the kids in my class, which was too bad. It made me very very homesick. In the class there was one woman who came all the way from Rapid City, South Dakota because this was the closest place that she could take a bartending class.
I passed that class with flying colors (100.5% on the written and then I made 12 "drinks" out of colored water in 5 minutes. Not the best, but not the worst).
C and N (who are exactly who you think they are, Ari) got a dog on Saturday, which has been really exciting. She's part Manchester Terrier and part something else. She looks like a mini-doberman pinscher but she has a white patch with black spots on her chest, one of her ears is droopy, and the other is alert. She's about 10 pounds and 9 months old. Her name is Penny and she does everything 110%: running until she hits walls, jumping into things, and passing out. It's very cute but obnoxious at the end of a leash. We spend a lot of time together these days, as I am unemployed and she is a dog. We play fetch and she sits in my lap if I am sitting down, it's like having a dog/cat combo.
Today, I went to the carwash to wash my car. It was filthy and covered with chemicals that they spray on big highways to keep them from being too slippery. As I was filling it up with gas before I went through the wash, I realized that only once in my life had I ever been in a car that went through a carwash. During that one time that I went through the car wash, the driver had driven the car through the washer as it was hit with 6 foot tall scrubbers and the like.
I drove into the opening, and a sign saying "drive forward" and so I did. Then a sign saying "stop" and other saying "back up to start cycle" lit up. So I did. Then the first sign lit up, and I drove forward. Then the second signs lit up and I backed up. I repeated this cycle again and again, sometimes varying how far forward I went. Farther, less far, and each time the "stop" and back-up signs lit up. This happened about 10 times. THEN I realized that the rubber well that I kept driving over was where I was supposed to stop my front wheel, because the squirt-y mechanisms were on a track that went over the car as it stayed still. All of this would have been just frustrating and obnoxious had I been alone, but there was a woman waiting closely behind me who witnessed me drive forward, stop, and back up. Drive forward, stop, and back up. I can only imagine her in her car saying to herself "what kind of California idiot is this?" (I still have CA plates). But, now I have a squeaky clean car with a special rain-repelling coat of something on it, because I opted for the "super dog wash!" instead a wash called something along the lines of the "Joe Schmoe" because it cleaned the undercarriage and sprayed the rain-repellant.
But I have conquered the carwash. I am a better woman for it.
Friday 9 January 2009
Large Marge's Philly Cheesesteaks!
Hello there friends, family, and various Googlers.
A lot has happened (kind of) since I last posted. I have moved to lovely Wheat Ridge, Colorado. It's a suburb of Denver, though Denver itself is rather like a suburb. Wheat Ridge is kind of like Oakland, if you built Oakland on a sheet of balloon material and then streeeetched it out. And decorated it with wagon wheels. And took the style-factor down 10 or so notches.
By that, I mean that I have lived no where like this before. It's true what I said about the ratio and placement of houses to businesses. I assumed that it would be a bedroom community heaven, but it isn't.
But still, we ain't in California any more, Todo. For example, it is difficult to walk anywhere because everything is so spread out. But, it is also difficult to drive (despite the wide streets and easy parking) because there are so many damned parking lots. I can never tell when I am turning onto another street or into a parking lot. For example, while looking for the closest supermarket, I turned left at a stoplight at what I thought was a street (because there was a stoplight) instead, I found myself in the parking lot for an "adult" store (the only sign-age said "adult" and "XXX" I think that you get the picture). I peeled out of there pretty quickly.
It is also a land of snow. Not because it really snows that much, but because the snow, the potential of snow, and the after affects of a snow are obstacles. It is impossible to see the parking lines painted on the parking lots because the snow has helped to wear it away. Every other sign is telling you your speed, or informing you that when the lights above the sign are flashing, you have to decrease your speed by 10 MPH, or telling you that the bridge may be icy when the road looks dry. CO also requires every single type of footwear. Snow boots, less wet but cold boots, rain boots, tennis shoes, sandals, etc because it throws everything at you. In the past 5 days that I have been here it has snowed and been freeze-y cold but today it was so warm I went out without even a sweater. The only consistency is that it's dry dry dry dry. My cuticles have desiccated, detached from my nail, and frilled into a little fringe of dead skin at the base of each of my nails. I have started to painstakingly work lotion into them every night before I go to bed.
Most of the buildings here were built after 1965. They were also all built for utility, not beauty. Rarely is a building more than one story tall, and they are all painted the same dingy buff. It makes it difficult to see beyond the SuperTargets and Wal-Marts, but once you get the hang of it you see some truly unique and non-Californian things. Abners Meats, which advertises venison. And then there's Charles Chuck Wagon Diner (I am not kidding) or (and I am dead serious about this, sooooo not San Francisco Bay Area) Large Marge's Philly Cheesesteak House. In the East Bay one would say that in jest, never half-seriously like they do here. It is definitely possible that I don't understand it all, but to my eyes it's all worthy of note. Actually, I am pretty thrilled to be here. I never really realized how twee the Bay Area can get. Don't get me wrong, I still love it.
I am living with C, a friend from college, and her boyfriend N in a peppermint pink, 1970's duplex. It's 50 feet from the first Wheat Ridge Post Office, a sod house, a log cabin, and someone's early frontier house. These buildings have been turned into a museum, that unfortunately isn't open right now. We are also located within walking distance of 3 bars: Stan's Caravan, which boasts Texas Hold 'em; Rambling Roses Bar and Cafe which denies entrance to children after 9 pm, and promises free shots every time the Denver Broncos score a touchdown; and the Rockette Tavern, which has a sign in the shape of a rocket. The best thing that I can walk to easily from my house is a used bookstore. It's pretty big and has a good selection in all genres. The shelves are homemade and the books are stacked horizontally, rather than perpendicularly, to the shelves.
So far, the thrifting here is outrageous. Cheap and good. Wheat Ridge (or even Denver possibly) doesn't seem to have the second-hand culture that CA has. The stores are filled to the brim with great stuff. I bought a pair of barely worn, black, ankle-strap shoes that fit beautifully for less than $4. In CA they'd have been bought and re-sold to CrossRoads before they even hit the shelf. C told me to be careful who I told that I got something at the Salvy, because they may insist on buying me a hot, filling lunch and offering me a bed for the night.
more later, I am tired and overwhelmed.
A lot has happened (kind of) since I last posted. I have moved to lovely Wheat Ridge, Colorado. It's a suburb of Denver, though Denver itself is rather like a suburb. Wheat Ridge is kind of like Oakland, if you built Oakland on a sheet of balloon material and then streeeetched it out. And decorated it with wagon wheels. And took the style-factor down 10 or so notches.
By that, I mean that I have lived no where like this before. It's true what I said about the ratio and placement of houses to businesses. I assumed that it would be a bedroom community heaven, but it isn't.
But still, we ain't in California any more, Todo. For example, it is difficult to walk anywhere because everything is so spread out. But, it is also difficult to drive (despite the wide streets and easy parking) because there are so many damned parking lots. I can never tell when I am turning onto another street or into a parking lot. For example, while looking for the closest supermarket, I turned left at a stoplight at what I thought was a street (because there was a stoplight) instead, I found myself in the parking lot for an "adult" store (the only sign-age said "adult" and "XXX" I think that you get the picture). I peeled out of there pretty quickly.
It is also a land of snow. Not because it really snows that much, but because the snow, the potential of snow, and the after affects of a snow are obstacles. It is impossible to see the parking lines painted on the parking lots because the snow has helped to wear it away. Every other sign is telling you your speed, or informing you that when the lights above the sign are flashing, you have to decrease your speed by 10 MPH, or telling you that the bridge may be icy when the road looks dry. CO also requires every single type of footwear. Snow boots, less wet but cold boots, rain boots, tennis shoes, sandals, etc because it throws everything at you. In the past 5 days that I have been here it has snowed and been freeze-y cold but today it was so warm I went out without even a sweater. The only consistency is that it's dry dry dry dry. My cuticles have desiccated, detached from my nail, and frilled into a little fringe of dead skin at the base of each of my nails. I have started to painstakingly work lotion into them every night before I go to bed.
Most of the buildings here were built after 1965. They were also all built for utility, not beauty. Rarely is a building more than one story tall, and they are all painted the same dingy buff. It makes it difficult to see beyond the SuperTargets and Wal-Marts, but once you get the hang of it you see some truly unique and non-Californian things. Abners Meats, which advertises venison. And then there's Charles Chuck Wagon Diner (I am not kidding) or (and I am dead serious about this, sooooo not San Francisco Bay Area) Large Marge's Philly Cheesesteak House. In the East Bay one would say that in jest, never half-seriously like they do here. It is definitely possible that I don't understand it all, but to my eyes it's all worthy of note. Actually, I am pretty thrilled to be here. I never really realized how twee the Bay Area can get. Don't get me wrong, I still love it.
I am living with C, a friend from college, and her boyfriend N in a peppermint pink, 1970's duplex. It's 50 feet from the first Wheat Ridge Post Office, a sod house, a log cabin, and someone's early frontier house. These buildings have been turned into a museum, that unfortunately isn't open right now. We are also located within walking distance of 3 bars: Stan's Caravan, which boasts Texas Hold 'em; Rambling Roses Bar and Cafe which denies entrance to children after 9 pm, and promises free shots every time the Denver Broncos score a touchdown; and the Rockette Tavern, which has a sign in the shape of a rocket. The best thing that I can walk to easily from my house is a used bookstore. It's pretty big and has a good selection in all genres. The shelves are homemade and the books are stacked horizontally, rather than perpendicularly, to the shelves.
So far, the thrifting here is outrageous. Cheap and good. Wheat Ridge (or even Denver possibly) doesn't seem to have the second-hand culture that CA has. The stores are filled to the brim with great stuff. I bought a pair of barely worn, black, ankle-strap shoes that fit beautifully for less than $4. In CA they'd have been bought and re-sold to CrossRoads before they even hit the shelf. C told me to be careful who I told that I got something at the Salvy, because they may insist on buying me a hot, filling lunch and offering me a bed for the night.
more later, I am tired and overwhelmed.
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