thank god i’m moving

It occurs to me that lately I’ve been reading about life more than I’ve been living it. I sit on the green couch, motley, and read Vanity Fair – marveling at the fashions I can’t carry off and the politics I do not affect – and I can’t wait until I change.

I re-read this little internet diary and I have to say: I am disappointed in myself. All I write about is my job. And it’s not even a career – it is just a job, and I have allowed myself to become defined by it. The other day at work Roy asked me if it was true that I am leaving, and when I told him I was, he replied that while I was a good waitress, that was what is to be expected… The management cannot expect people to serve forever. And I don’t intend to.

There are people I don’t talk to anymore because we no longer have any common ground (this is alright, I think) because they settled into their lives early. I have gone out of my way to create personal struggle for myself, and what can I say to someone who in their mid-twenties has reached a holding pattern? Not much.

Not that I look down on those people… I realize my last few statements may seem condescending, but they’re not. In a way, I wish I would have taken other routes. Sometimes I dream what it would be like if I were just done, right now, and living my life. What if I had a steady rhythm and not just a constant fluctuation of flaming crescendo and crashing dissonance? Wouldn’t that be comfortable, like days spent wearing pajamas and watching movies and drinking coffee with lots of cream? Languid and sweet?

Only those days tend to disappointing. I like to think I love relaxation like everyone else, but does everyone else feel a sense of guilt and disappointment when the sun goes down and nothing has been accomplished?

I need more than life can offer me in San Luis Obispo I think. Thank God I’m moving.

moving parentals

So, my little sister is freaking out because the parents have decided (and by decided I mean signed Very Important Paperwork) to move to a nice, albeit oldish, house in Madera. Ok, I know my perspective on this transition is skewed, because I don’t live with my parents and never will again (God willing), but it does seem like everyone freaking out a little more than necessary. After all, Whitney’s only going to live with mom and dad for – what, 18 more months, tops? It seems to me that it’s rather extreme for her to assume that her (still relatively short and easy) commute should factor that much into their living equation.

I, personally, am much relieved. I have been so scared this entire past year that I’m going to try and call my immediate family only to discover that all the phone lines have been disconnected. I do not like the idea of my parents camping without electricity because the bill is $1,200 a month… even if they are camping in a lovely ’stepford’ homestead. Plus, I don’t think it would be a bad idea to remove Andrew from his current environment a little bit. Maybe a move into a more rural area will make him “focus.” Let’s all cross our fingers.

Plus, the house is not bad. It’s an old valley house (read: neighborhood without sidewalks), that’s the truth, but it’s a big floorplan and a massive fenced yard. The place is in good repair, and with little more than some thoughtful paint and decorating, it could be really great. Plus, it’s solar equipped, and the PG&E should run them less than $100 a month. A. Mazing.

Not to mention less money in rent. I realize it’s a big change and the decision was made on the fly… But since when isn’t three days enough time to make a life-altering choice? That’s how this family rolls.

Not that I’m not a little sad. But what can you do? Spilled milk is spilled milk.

a very long day

The last few days have been difficult to write about, mostly since I’ve found myself passing out after dinner and sleeping like the dead until morning. I pity Ryan.

I think the ‘dead sleep’ is a side effect of my knee. Why my knee, you ask? Well, to be honest, it’s been bothering me for weeks now, mostly on days I work. I’m not totally sure what I did to it, besides use it the way it’s meant to be used, so I’m chalking the pain up to irritation of old injuries. Oh, and I hiked Bishop’s Peak.

Yeah, so Saturday was our quarterly Big Cleaning at work, and besides not getting any rest the night before, and getting up at 7 am, I replied to Ana across the table at our traditional breakfast of bloody marys and cowboy benedict, “Sure, a hike sounds fun!” My knee was feeling better for the first time in weeks, the day was beautiful, and I haven’t hiked Bishop’s since I was thirteen… So I did.

At first it was no big deal, just that minor gnawing pain that comes and goes. Then, as the trail steepened, the plaintive voice of my knee became audible. It was saying, “what the fucking hell?!” I didn’t answer. I wanted to have fun with the group (Jake and Erin also hiked) and I have always had a fairly condescending view of the people who give up mid-hike and sit on rocks. I would not be one of those people.

Until we reached the 3/4 mark. Then I was totally ready to be one of those sitting people. I was also more than a little concerned that I wouldn’t be any good at work for later that Saturday night, and we need money very badly right now, a lot more than I need fully functional leg parts. I thanked God that I was scheduled for a downstairs shift.

I did make it to the summit, for better or worse, and at that point we ended up smoking a few bowls, which helped my whole body feel much improved, and then we tripped down to level ground.

It was a great day. I couldn’t stop saying things like: “Today! Is great!”

And then I went to work. And the shit hit the fan.

My high wore off, my knee hurt, and I was completely exhausted. Additionally, it was so incredibly slow that I only sold $285 between 4 and 8 ‘o’ clock (yikes). And one more thing… With one great exception, the customers were asshats. Not whilst I served them, nay, it was in the tips.

There is just something really awful about saying, “The food was delicious and the service was great,” when I say my final “thanks for coming by,” and then tipping 10%. What the hell? I can say, without a doubt, that the service was excellent across the board. Partly because we were so slow (I was focused on my one at a time tables, to say the least), but also because I’m so freaking poor right now that desperation has put me on my A-game. Look, I realize that we’re in an economic recession, and things are tight all around, but when people decide to go out to eat they should realize that there are costs related to that decision, and one of them is tipping. Also, I am not demanding even 20%, insofar as I’m concerned, 15% is fine, and anything more is a compliment. I’m also smart enough to consider, if I do get a crap tip, that maybe it was somehow related to the service. I’ll go over it in my head… What might have gone wrong? But when someone states that they had an enjoyable evening, and still doesn’t tip well, then I think: “you shithead.”

That happened to me twice over the course of Saturday night. One time with an older couple (inflation, anyone?) and another time with a table of bikers, all wearing the cliche head scarves and jackets with ripped off sleeves. The bikers stayed for two hours, during which they ordered appetizers and a lot of drinks, and they were never without. I made a conscious effort to not hover, but I was watching them the entire time (one of the perks of table three), and if anyone had the slightest desire, I was right there. After they paid, and left me a very measly tip, I did my cash out. I almost asked if there was a problem with the service, but by the time I had screwed up my courage they had disappeared. I hope with all my heart they got DUIs.

Then I went home (got a ride from Jake, because walking would have killed me) and passed out.