For Anonymous, Thanks

I got a call from an old friend the other day. Well, not really an old friend, but one I've known more than a couple years. And there's so few these days that go way back.

She was in O-town over Thanksgiving, stopped by a bar. (I did this last year, Xmas. Left the family to go to some scuzzy, small town place to watch my Canadian-turned friend vomit in the bathroom. I still wonder why people choose to celebrate holidays in bars. Ask me again when I'm sixty, alone, with too many cats.) She called to confess. She made out with this guy who graduated with us. The guy who had a kid with the pretty one who could have been a pop star if she hadn't gotten knocked up. He was a teenage dad. She's a teenage mom, twice. I told her to be careful, they're both obviously furtile.

She told me they went back to Jon's house, this other guy I sort of knew by association in high school. These were the guys who would technically be a part of my high school clan, but were cooler than me. Most people were. They were in a band, played at First Ave., smoked pot on the weekends, and the weeknights, had beer suppliers. They were friends with my boyfriend, the one I had just out of high school, the one who wouldn't date me in high school, the guy who broke my underdeveloped teenage heart. Twice.

She told me he was there too. His brother was there. All these people I haven't seen in years were all there, at his parents' home, reliving old days. Her story made me a little nostaligic. I used to be skinnier back then. I found a picture the other day. Me, Randi, and the H.S. boyfriend standing outdoors. I was wearing pants that were too big for me. Pants that would be snug these days. And a tank top. I could wear tank tops in those days without worrying about the excessive amount of underarm, a trait I inherited from my mother's mother. From my father's mother I got my temper, my stubbornness. It must have been a hot day. I wore more oversized Nine Inch Nails t-shirts than I did tank tops in those days.

I miss being able to go into any restaurant in town and coming out with armfuls of free food. Dave got me choco tacos as Taco John's. At DQ Cory would score me a Blizzard. There was always someone at Perkins to hook me up with extra mac and cheese or breadsticks.

I miss walking to David's house at lunch. I'd pack a can of tuna. He'd insist I pour the juice into a glass, he'd drink it. Or, if he skipped that day, I'd sit in Marshall's room and play Snood, watch Jenny Jones. Or see who was outside, join a game of seipa. I was always pretty good "for a girl." Josie was the first to get a car. To save me from riding the bus in the morning. We'd stop at Kwik Trip and pick up 32 ounce cappucinos before class. We'd listen to Sarah, Jim's Big Ego, and Tank Girl soundtracks. Everyone would stay at her house on the weekends. We'd drink too much coffee, make music videos of old Tori Amos songs, kiss boys while playing hide and seek.

"Golden Showers" or "Stinging in the Rain"

(while in bed, two weeks ago...)
The boy (from now on referred to as "TB"): Sometimes when we're in the shower together, I want to pee on you.
Me: What?! Don't pee on me in the shower.
TB: Just a little bit?
Me: No.
TB: But what if you were stung by a jellyfish? Could I pee on you then?
Me: Yes. *pause* But only on the spot where I was stung.
TB: What if you were stung by a jellyfish in the shower? You just said not to pee on you in the shower.
Me: I suppose if I was stung by a jellyfish in the shower, you could pee on me in the shower. But I highly doubt there will be any jellyfish in our shower.
TB: It's possible. Because they coud be picked up in nearby waterspouts and shot up in the clouds and rain down into the sewer systems and come out our shower. And then sting you, thus forcing me to pee on you in the shower.
Me: Um, yeah. Don't pee on me in the shower.

Sidenote: This conversation seriously went on for about twenty minutes.

Met with thesis advisor. Told to have my intro, lit review, and first body chapter revised over the weekend. Halfway there with an achievable amount to finish. Thesis advisor told me to have second body chapter finished by next weekend. Again, a goal I am capable of completing. Advisor said do these things and I'll get a definite "B" on thesis, but not to worry cuz you only need an "A" if you're going into Ph D work. "Hmm," I say. "Oh shit," advisor says. "An 'A' would take you months. Just take the 'B.'" But really, give me any other professor in the department who would really give someone a "B" if their paper is finished and at least halfway decent (I like to think of my as brilliantly fantastic)? I call bullshit. But at this point why would I complain? Finishing means I can apply to teach, that I can get a real job instead of pissing away my 20s at a wing joint with bad tippers.

On Friday, before meeting with thesis advisor, I took the typing test at MSU so that I may be called up to do secretarial work. I like to think I'd be better than certain department secretarys because I a) know basic grammar b) would not give a shit about who has what remotes in their possession and 3) would give Smith all the manila envelopes she desired. There were five other women in the room. From looks alone I would guess I was the only one who wasn't a smoker, hadn't divorced in the last five years, and didn't believe a secretarial job at MSU would be a dream job. I scored EXCELLENT on the typing test and grammar test. I barely broke 70% on the math test. And I got to use a calculator. But to be fair, there were fraction questions. Give me a word problem over a fraction any day.

Waitress turned babysitter

I'm never working another Saturday shift. Never. Not even if I can't find a good reason to say no when my boss comes up to me at the end of a Friday afternoon shift. Nope. I don't need my four hours of minimum wage and shitty tips that badly. An extra hour of sleep would have been so much better.

I had four tables in my section. Four. Because someone felt it necessary to schedule fifteen servers today. And yet it was still a clusterfuck at 11am when we opened. Guys sat down, no server was around. I was there first, at 10. I took the table. Even when the server came to reclaim her section, I told her it was too late. They were mine now. Which was great because they drank a lot and tipped well. That was the one table not in my section.

In my section I had three groups all day. One had people trickle in and order drinks and wings one order at a time. The other was three ladies and four little girls. They took up two of the tables in my section. The girls looked like they were recovering from a slumber party. Each asked for a kiddie cocktail, which meant me getting sticky grenadine all over myself. They spilled it all over the table. The women were rude--snapping fingers to signal their need for refills. The girls shouted. Not talked in loud voices, but shouted. I made an oath that I would not bring my kids to sit down restaurants. Ever. Or, at the very least, I would allow my children to scream and run around the restaurant. Crayons were on the floor, along with half the girls' meals. At my other table, a baby managed to drop half a box of Cheerios on the floor. But I'm sure they believed their 7% tip made it worth my time to crawl around the table to pick up each O. At one point I met a comrade at the soda machine, a fellow weekday gal like myself. We rolled our eyes, a silent agreement that we would stick to the men in business suits and old ladies who share meals and complain that there are no senior discounts or soup.

Last night, after a couple glasses of wine, I subjected the boy to old nonfiction pieces I wrote over the summer. So many unfinished paragraphs, stopped mid-sentence in a few. He laughed at one description, and hmmed over another. Then he declared that I was good, that I should be writing everyday, that I should be publishing. And maybe that doesn't mean a lot coming from Mr. Fantasy Novel, but he made me feel good for a little while. Maybe I'll even have something prepared for the net writer's bloc?

Their are to many stoopid people in this world

and I work for them for minimum wage. A stapled packet was forced into my face this afternoon. I packet I was supposed to read and sign. Two directions: 1. Read and 2. Sign. I read it, I mocked it, I circled all the grammatical errors (wrong "their", comma splices, using "than" when she meant "then") and then I begrudgingly signed their (not THEY'RE) list of server conduct. I am to greet the table within one minute of being seated (fine, unless I am in the middle of taking an order for my table of 10). I am to suggest appetizers, by name, as well as drinks, particularly expensive brands (fine, except at 11:30am few people are drinking). I am to suggest cheese and bacon on potato wedges and extra sides of ranch and bleu cheese and celery. I am to suggest two desserts, by name.

Somewhere in that packet I believe I signed away my soul to corporate America and in return I get all the free pop I can handle. Except when I'm working, because we can't have drinks while we're working.

There's a whiteboard in the backroom. Every day a new rule is written, then erased, then typed and tacked into the corkboard. Signs that tell us days we cannot request off. Days like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. I didn't think about requesting these off early. I didn't think I'd still be there by the time there was snow on the ground. I really believed this.

I also believed I might somehow luck out if I showed up at MSU in a suit coat with a resume and a cover letter that honestly describes the happiness I derive from teaching composition. Maybe there was need for one more adjunct. Someone to teach a less desirable course in New Ulm, or worse.

I hoped this customized training for SCC would lead to full time possibilities. So far I have researched and designed and met with Mr. Coordinator and graded grammar exams, but I can only wait and hope people will sign up for my three hour course.

What good is knowing the difference between "there" and "their" and "they're" if you can't use that knowledge? So what if I am two years older than my manager who spends his mornings over electronic word games? Games where I see the words faster than him when I look up from wiping down tables? What good is knowing there are better things out there if I can't ever have them?

I'm tired. Of being dumb and disposable. Of signing grammatically incorrect memos telling me to upsell shitty food. Of explaining to other servers that "yes, Rosa Parks did die" and to others, when they question her importance, who Rosa Parks was. I'm ready to be smart again; I think my brain has missed me.