August 5, 2012
Let me preface this entire post by stating two slightly embarrassing but also slightly awesome facts.
1. I'm a history nerd.
2. I really enjoy a well-researched and well-executed walking tour.
So, knowing this, you can imagine how excited I was this morning, waiting for the walking tour of San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter to begin. You can also imagine my disappointment when a pastel wrapped grandma hobbled over to our group, binder in hand.
Of course, I wanted to give this lovely lady a fair chance to prove herself. However, after the first fifteen verbal disfluencies within the first five minutes, I was growing skeptical. (Having been forced into taking a public speaking class, I'm probably extra picky about other's communication skills.) Coupling this with her constant referring back to the fact-packed binder, further upsetting the flow of her speech, I was less than thrilled. When it comes to learning history, I expect to be told a story, and I expect to be told it like an eager child sitting in front of the fireside in awe of her storyteller. I've been spoiled by amazing history teachers and past walking tours, so I'm sure that, to someone with lesser expectations, it was a fine walking tour. For me, the picky bitch, it just wasn't enough.
My family's last walking tour was in Napa Valley. Our guide was a kindly old gentleman, dressed smartly in a circa 1900 suit complete with cane and top hat. (I was sold on the outfit alone.) Beyond his appearance, he was entertaining, knowledgable, and just simply...wonderful. Not only did he operate in a binder-free environment, but he really loved his job. This woman, bless her heart, did her best to hold our interest but no one really wants a sweet old lady divulging the dirty history of the red light district.
And a sweet old lady doesn't really know how. Drinking, gambling, and prostitution were the defining characteristics of the early Gaslamp Quarter, and the dirty details were pleasantly glossed over. The poor woman could not even bring herself to say the word "whorehouse." Sure, there were kids in the crowd, but there was also a nineteen year old scholar who wanted to hear the good, the bad, and (especially) the ugly. What I heard instead was "bordello," "brothel," and "ladies of the night." It took all I had not to shout "strumpet" helpfully when she was searching for another euphemism. It took even more not to shout "slut factory" when she was doing just fine on her own.
(A side note: I just used thesaurus.com to look up synonyms for both whore and whorehouse, and let me just say that there is a lot. There is no reason why she should have been stumbling around for kiddy-appropriate replacement words. Awkwardly enough, this is kind of what I'm talking about when I say that tour guides should do their research. I'm just saying.)
Overall, the walking tour was a nice, if not perfect, way to spend the morning. And besides, my family is going on another walking tour of the Hotel del Coronado on Tuesday. Southern California has one more chance to prove itself and its walking tours against Northern California. The gauntlet has been thrown down, and, surprisingly, the harlot couldn't "get it up." We'll see if Elisha Babcock, the hotel's founder, has any better luck.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
#LINVASION Cali Style -- Clang Clang Ffft Went the Trolley
August 4, 2012
It was a scene right out of the Princess Diaries. Despite the fact that we weren't in San Francisco and no sixteen year old Genovian heiress in her baby blue mustang was anywhere to be seen, the comparison was inescapable. I would like to think that what actually happened was just as thematically entertaining. My family's scenic trolley broke down right in the middle of a busy San Diego street. NBD, right?
While the driver, Doc, communicated with his supervisor up front, I helped direct traffic around the stationary streetcar. (I was sitting in the back row; it was the least I could do.) The situation was quickly resolved, and a replacement trolley was on its way. However, in the meantime, Doc said, "Anyone know any good jokes?" Some smart aleck, who shall remain nameless, responded, "This."
Okay, so obviously, I was the punk who said that. Surprisingly, my remark was greeted with a great amount of laughter from all the other passengers and Doc himself. Truthfully though, I really didn't mean to say it. The situation was just so in accordance with the joke that is my life that my response was automatic. I'm so used to saying "(insert semi-random and non-normal situation here). That's the joke." that the reverse statement came naturally. Apparently, I really don't think before I speak; I like to be just as surprised as everyone else by what comes out of my mouth.
At any rate, the replacement trolley showed up in about ten minutes and we were back to touring the beautiful city of San Diego. And I, in perhaps my most altruistic act to date, left the comedy to our new driver's scripted, corny, but well-intentioned jokes.
It was a scene right out of the Princess Diaries. Despite the fact that we weren't in San Francisco and no sixteen year old Genovian heiress in her baby blue mustang was anywhere to be seen, the comparison was inescapable. I would like to think that what actually happened was just as thematically entertaining. My family's scenic trolley broke down right in the middle of a busy San Diego street. NBD, right?
While the driver, Doc, communicated with his supervisor up front, I helped direct traffic around the stationary streetcar. (I was sitting in the back row; it was the least I could do.) The situation was quickly resolved, and a replacement trolley was on its way. However, in the meantime, Doc said, "Anyone know any good jokes?" Some smart aleck, who shall remain nameless, responded, "This."
Okay, so obviously, I was the punk who said that. Surprisingly, my remark was greeted with a great amount of laughter from all the other passengers and Doc himself. Truthfully though, I really didn't mean to say it. The situation was just so in accordance with the joke that is my life that my response was automatic. I'm so used to saying "(insert semi-random and non-normal situation here). That's the joke." that the reverse statement came naturally. Apparently, I really don't think before I speak; I like to be just as surprised as everyone else by what comes out of my mouth.
At any rate, the replacement trolley showed up in about ten minutes and we were back to touring the beautiful city of San Diego. And I, in perhaps my most altruistic act to date, left the comedy to our new driver's scripted, corny, but well-intentioned jokes.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- I am my own Worst Guest
August 3, 2012
I've been trying to think of a clever introduction for this post, but I'm coming up empty. So without further ado, the best (and by best I mean only) first sentence I could think of:
I would hate serving myself. I honestly believe that I am every server's worst nightmare, especially my own. I made this discovery while on vacation in San Diego with my family, as I was served at restaurants far nicer than the one at which I work. I would like to sincerely apologize to all of my past, present, and future servers. I know that you don't deserve the likes of me clogging up one of your precious tables because trust me, I wouldn't want to serve me either.
What makes me such a horrible guest? I don't complain or ever have anything sent back to the kitchen, but I also don't cut my servers any breaks either. First of all, the only drink I EVER order is water. I do this because basically every other beverage, besides hot tea, scares me. (I'm a health freak weirdo, I know.) Not only that, but I drink at least one full glass of water before my food even comes. If I'm really hungry, it's more like two or three. This means I've got my server running back and forth to keep me gratuitously hydrated. To add insult to injury (from all the speed walking), their effort doesn't even equate to dollars. I know firsthand how much that just...sucks.
Besides that, I usually always order a salad or some other healthy/lighter fare, which means my entree costs less as well. Besides that, if the salad comes laden with meat and dressing, I ask for the former omitted and the latter on the side. These are small modifications, but they do require extra attention. I feel bad burdening my waitress by demanding special treatment because I know how annoying it is to worry about an order coming out perfectly. My kitchen has messed up on me enough times to know that special orders are nothing but trouble for a server. Guests don't usually understand that servers have no control over the actual food, just acting as human airplanes. All we can do is take an order, make a memo, and pray that the cooks haven't left their reading glasses at home.
Besides my actual ordering limitations, now that I've become a server, I feel like I have free reign to analyze anyone and everyone who serves me. Of course, no matter how I think my server measures up to every other server I know, I always overtip. I know how bad shifts can be, how tedious side-work can become, and (especially) how difficult customers can be. I get it. So I try to make every server's day just a little bit better by throwing in an extra dollar or two. So maybe I'm not the worst guest in the entire world; because even though I know that I'd hate serving myself, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't mind receiving my own tip.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
I've been trying to think of a clever introduction for this post, but I'm coming up empty. So without further ado, the best (and by best I mean only) first sentence I could think of:
I would hate serving myself. I honestly believe that I am every server's worst nightmare, especially my own. I made this discovery while on vacation in San Diego with my family, as I was served at restaurants far nicer than the one at which I work. I would like to sincerely apologize to all of my past, present, and future servers. I know that you don't deserve the likes of me clogging up one of your precious tables because trust me, I wouldn't want to serve me either.
What makes me such a horrible guest? I don't complain or ever have anything sent back to the kitchen, but I also don't cut my servers any breaks either. First of all, the only drink I EVER order is water. I do this because basically every other beverage, besides hot tea, scares me. (I'm a health freak weirdo, I know.) Not only that, but I drink at least one full glass of water before my food even comes. If I'm really hungry, it's more like two or three. This means I've got my server running back and forth to keep me gratuitously hydrated. To add insult to injury (from all the speed walking), their effort doesn't even equate to dollars. I know firsthand how much that just...sucks.
Besides that, I usually always order a salad or some other healthy/lighter fare, which means my entree costs less as well. Besides that, if the salad comes laden with meat and dressing, I ask for the former omitted and the latter on the side. These are small modifications, but they do require extra attention. I feel bad burdening my waitress by demanding special treatment because I know how annoying it is to worry about an order coming out perfectly. My kitchen has messed up on me enough times to know that special orders are nothing but trouble for a server. Guests don't usually understand that servers have no control over the actual food, just acting as human airplanes. All we can do is take an order, make a memo, and pray that the cooks haven't left their reading glasses at home.
Besides my actual ordering limitations, now that I've become a server, I feel like I have free reign to analyze anyone and everyone who serves me. Of course, no matter how I think my server measures up to every other server I know, I always overtip. I know how bad shifts can be, how tedious side-work can become, and (especially) how difficult customers can be. I get it. So I try to make every server's day just a little bit better by throwing in an extra dollar or two. So maybe I'm not the worst guest in the entire world; because even though I know that I'd hate serving myself, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't mind receiving my own tip.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Thursday, August 2, 2012
#firstworkpains -- Combatting Gender Stereotypes, One Sticker at a Time
August 1, 2012
When I'm not dazzling the world with my ineptness at serving quality burgers and fries, I do clerical work at a local vet clinic. Specifically, I work in their allergy lab, which makes and sends allergy vaccines to other animal hospitals across the Northeast. Part of this glamorous job is putting labels and stickers on boxes that will eventually hold the liquified fruits of my supervisor's labor.
When I first began working there, back in May, my supervisor told me that we put stickers on each of the boxes because it adds sincerity to an otherwise anonymous creation. The stickers give each box a personality, showing that we understand that each individual pet has a personality as well. (My internal bullshit meter was off the charts, but...arts and crafts!) I nodded to the reasoning behind the only semi-creative part of my job, ready to get paid to relive my childhood. However, before letting me have free reign over my adhesive minions, she mentioned that because it was spring/summer and all the stickers were flowers I should try to give blue, green, and yellow flowers to the male dogs and pink, purple, and red flowers to the female dogs. For a while, I adhered to her directions as I adhered each sticker. I seriously took an extra minute to remind myself of the pet's sex and choose a flower accordingly.
Of course, it took less than a day for me to realize the ridiculousness of this ritual. Dogs didn't have the same cultural constructions of reality as humans did, if they had any at all. Dogs had sexes, but they didn't have genders. Furthermore, they did not use colors as a way to symbolize gender. I noted the irony on my first day, but, for some reason, I could not stick it to the (wo)man. I complied with the idea of gender symbolism and stereotypes for weeks before I finally took a stand. I put a pink flower on the box for "Chief." He was not only a male dog with a hyper-masculine name, but also a hyper-masculine breed-- a pit bull.
I realize the insignificance of this peaceful protest. Choosing a "non-traditional"color for the arbitrary sticker on a random allergy vaccine box was not groundbreaking. The floor stayed firmly in place after I pressed the sticker down. The world kept spinning as I put blue stickers onto the boxes of the dozens of "Mollies," "Bellas," and "Princesses" as well. Still, I felt like I was making a real difference; if not to anyone else, at least to me. I succeeded in getting one person to think differently about gender roles and expectations, and even though she's still got a lot to learn...about everything, she's proud of herself for starting the small, silent cause of sticker equality. Sure, she's not Gloria Steinem (nor does she want to be), but she's not just another office assistant either.
When I'm not dazzling the world with my ineptness at serving quality burgers and fries, I do clerical work at a local vet clinic. Specifically, I work in their allergy lab, which makes and sends allergy vaccines to other animal hospitals across the Northeast. Part of this glamorous job is putting labels and stickers on boxes that will eventually hold the liquified fruits of my supervisor's labor.
When I first began working there, back in May, my supervisor told me that we put stickers on each of the boxes because it adds sincerity to an otherwise anonymous creation. The stickers give each box a personality, showing that we understand that each individual pet has a personality as well. (My internal bullshit meter was off the charts, but...arts and crafts!) I nodded to the reasoning behind the only semi-creative part of my job, ready to get paid to relive my childhood. However, before letting me have free reign over my adhesive minions, she mentioned that because it was spring/summer and all the stickers were flowers I should try to give blue, green, and yellow flowers to the male dogs and pink, purple, and red flowers to the female dogs. For a while, I adhered to her directions as I adhered each sticker. I seriously took an extra minute to remind myself of the pet's sex and choose a flower accordingly.
Of course, it took less than a day for me to realize the ridiculousness of this ritual. Dogs didn't have the same cultural constructions of reality as humans did, if they had any at all. Dogs had sexes, but they didn't have genders. Furthermore, they did not use colors as a way to symbolize gender. I noted the irony on my first day, but, for some reason, I could not stick it to the (wo)man. I complied with the idea of gender symbolism and stereotypes for weeks before I finally took a stand. I put a pink flower on the box for "Chief." He was not only a male dog with a hyper-masculine name, but also a hyper-masculine breed-- a pit bull.
I realize the insignificance of this peaceful protest. Choosing a "non-traditional"color for the arbitrary sticker on a random allergy vaccine box was not groundbreaking. The floor stayed firmly in place after I pressed the sticker down. The world kept spinning as I put blue stickers onto the boxes of the dozens of "Mollies," "Bellas," and "Princesses" as well. Still, I felt like I was making a real difference; if not to anyone else, at least to me. I succeeded in getting one person to think differently about gender roles and expectations, and even though she's still got a lot to learn...about everything, she's proud of herself for starting the small, silent cause of sticker equality. Sure, she's not Gloria Steinem (nor does she want to be), but she's not just another office assistant either.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- What a Cock(tail) Tease
July 20, 2012
"Hi, I'm Lindsay, and I just got back from the war. How are you guys doing tonight?" I don't usually greet my tables like this, but when I do, I hope to God that they get my joke. Luckily, my guests had had enough time to survey my appearance to understand why I was making such a bold (and probably inappropriate) statement. There were splashes of red something all over my face, hair, and blue polo, making it seem like a grenade had been thrown in my general direction. The real story wasn't that far off.
When the restaurant opened at nine a.m. that Saturday morning, someone had forgotten to turn on the cooler for the salad bar. Fast forward to nine p.m. later that night when I was on salad bar duty and the oversight was discovered. My manager charged me with the duty of dumping and replacing all of the dressings that had become too warm. This was a tedious but very simple task, and I did not mind doing it. That is, until I noticed the absence of the cocktail sauce. It was not stocked in the walk-in refrigerator with the rest of the dressings, which meant that I had to open a giant can of the red stuff and put it into a stainless steel container myself. I carried the large can into the prep area and began looking for a can opener. Assuming that we didn't actually have one, I asked one of the bussers who walked by what I should do. He said just to stab it with a knife and work to get it open that way. Not trusting myself with a knife, I asked one of the cooks to do it for me. After the initial stabbing, he asked me why I wanted to open a can that way. I replied, naively, that there wasn't any can opener and that's what the other guy had told me to do. The cook looked at the busser in disbelief, and the busser said, "What? I'm from the ghetto. That's how we do things there." We laughed, and then the cook brought me the elusive can opener.
I then proceeded to open this can with the worst can opener in the entire world. I got the can three-fourths of the way open, but the remaining one-fourth was spread out between all the open parts. This meant that I couldn't really do anything but stare at the can and hope that my telekinetic powers were finally kicking in. One of my fellow servers walked by and noticed the problem I was having with the cocktail sauce, the can opener, and the rabbi. She offered to get her boyfriend (who was a cook) to help me. I gratefully accepted.
Throughout this entire episode, I had been going back and forth between the prep area and the actual restaurant to make sure that I had not been given any new tables to serve. By this time of night, the flow of people had slowed down considerably so I had been table-less for the past fifteen minutes. When the girl's boyfriend came back, he immediately took control of the situation and the blunt side of a large knife. It came down on the top of the can swiftly and sloppily. The original problem was solved, but a new one emerged as I emerged covered in cocktail sauce. Some had even gotten into my eye, necessitating a trip to the closest paper towel dispenser. On my way over, I was greeted by laughs from my ever so lovely server peers. (I became the joke of the night, and everyone bonded over my unfortunate experience. I'm a giver.)
To add inconvenience to injury, I had only now gotten a table. Because my restaurant has a thirty second greet policy, I had no time to run to the bathroom to clean myself off before approaching them. Hence my unconventional introduction, which, thankfully, was a hit. After getting their drinks, I did have time to wipe myself off in the bathroom. My shirt was still stained, but at least I no longer looked like I was bleeding from the head.
Now that I was busy with a table, I had no time nor desire to see the cocktail sauce debacle through to the end. There was another girl on salad bar duty, whose job it was to stock the walk-in refrigerator anyway. Seeing that all she had to do was pour the contents of that infamous can into the stainless steel container, I didn't feel too bad pawning that part of the work on her. Meanwhile, I served my table, smelling of the sea and pretending that I didn't hate my life. As soon as I got home, I threw my shirt into the wash, because it needed to be clean for when this all started again-- bright and early the next morning.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Why I Became a Vegetarian (and Why I'm Going Vegan)
Originally Published in This Dish is Vegetarian
I kind of hate the reason why I became a vegetarian. I wish I could say that I became a vegetarian because I inherently knew that there was something wrong with eating meat. I would like to claim that I had an epiphany, brought on by deep contemplation and introspection, that a plant-based diet was the more wholesome and health conscious lifestyle. Unfortunately, I owe my vegetarianism to a film.
I am that stereotypical kid who, in her freshman year of high school, watched a film about animal cruelty in the food industry and decided to become a vegetarian as a result. Of course, after becoming a vegetarian, I still had to transcend from being a “bad” vegetarian to a “good” vegetarian.
For the first year or two of my vegetarianism, I ate a ton of processed vegetarian food like fake chicken nuggets and imitation lunch meats. Of course, I was incorporating more fruits and veggies into my diet, but I still was not feeding my body properly. Now, I eat as many whole and fresh legumes as I can get my hands on.
Of course, some processed sugar still finds its way into my mouth and stomach, but, because of my vegetarianism, I've come to appreciate and enjoy natural sugars a whole lot more. My body reminds me daily that becoming a vegetarian was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and it's why I am currently easing myself into veganism.
I kind of hate the reason why I'm becoming a vegan too. Surprise, surprise: it was also because of a film. At least I can say I'm consistent. The film in question was Forks Over Knives, a resource I was using for another TDIV article and a movie I had been meaning to watch for some time anyway.
What I learned about the Western diet and our unnecessary (and unhealthy) dependence on animal by-products convinced me that I needed to get milk and eggs out of my system. So far, I've been making small changes—switching to soy milk, neglecting cheese, avoiding omelets.
The only thing that is stopping me from quitting cold turkey is my impending trip to Europe. Being a vegetarian while traveling in Europe is difficult enough; being a vegan would be nearly, if not completely, impossible. Plus, if I'm honest, I do have some last cannolis and croissants with whom I would like to get acquainted before I disown dairy for good.
As with my decision to go vegetarian, my decision to go vegan was not entirely my own. A movie got me. I want to say that I'm going vegan because I looked deep inside my soul and a bright light showed me the divine path to dietary Nirvana. However, if there was any bright light in my “epiphany,” it was from the Netflix logo on my computer screen. I am that girl -- that stereotypical bandwagon girl who makes life -- changing decisions after only an hour and a half of glowing pictures.
So, I won't say that my reasons for going vegetarian and now vegan are ground-breaking or inspiring, because they're not. Still, no matter how inane or insignificant my reason, I became a vegetarian, and I have enjoyed every day, and every food industry based film, since.
I kind of hate the reason why I became a vegetarian. I wish I could say that I became a vegetarian because I inherently knew that there was something wrong with eating meat. I would like to claim that I had an epiphany, brought on by deep contemplation and introspection, that a plant-based diet was the more wholesome and health conscious lifestyle. Unfortunately, I owe my vegetarianism to a film.
I am that stereotypical kid who, in her freshman year of high school, watched a film about animal cruelty in the food industry and decided to become a vegetarian as a result. Of course, after becoming a vegetarian, I still had to transcend from being a “bad” vegetarian to a “good” vegetarian.
For the first year or two of my vegetarianism, I ate a ton of processed vegetarian food like fake chicken nuggets and imitation lunch meats. Of course, I was incorporating more fruits and veggies into my diet, but I still was not feeding my body properly. Now, I eat as many whole and fresh legumes as I can get my hands on.
Of course, some processed sugar still finds its way into my mouth and stomach, but, because of my vegetarianism, I've come to appreciate and enjoy natural sugars a whole lot more. My body reminds me daily that becoming a vegetarian was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and it's why I am currently easing myself into veganism.
I kind of hate the reason why I'm becoming a vegan too. Surprise, surprise: it was also because of a film. At least I can say I'm consistent. The film in question was Forks Over Knives, a resource I was using for another TDIV article and a movie I had been meaning to watch for some time anyway.
What I learned about the Western diet and our unnecessary (and unhealthy) dependence on animal by-products convinced me that I needed to get milk and eggs out of my system. So far, I've been making small changes—switching to soy milk, neglecting cheese, avoiding omelets.
The only thing that is stopping me from quitting cold turkey is my impending trip to Europe. Being a vegetarian while traveling in Europe is difficult enough; being a vegan would be nearly, if not completely, impossible. Plus, if I'm honest, I do have some last cannolis and croissants with whom I would like to get acquainted before I disown dairy for good.
As with my decision to go vegetarian, my decision to go vegan was not entirely my own. A movie got me. I want to say that I'm going vegan because I looked deep inside my soul and a bright light showed me the divine path to dietary Nirvana. However, if there was any bright light in my “epiphany,” it was from the Netflix logo on my computer screen. I am that girl -- that stereotypical bandwagon girl who makes life -- changing decisions after only an hour and a half of glowing pictures.
So, I won't say that my reasons for going vegetarian and now vegan are ground-breaking or inspiring, because they're not. Still, no matter how inane or insignificant my reason, I became a vegetarian, and I have enjoyed every day, and every food industry based film, since.
Friday, July 20, 2012
#LINVASION - Day 2
Continued from #LINVASION- Day 1...
The note was a nice touch. Among other helpful instructions, it told me to call Z as soon as I woke up. I did, and she informed me that her and Beast were downstairs and that I should join them. After changing into a new bathing suit, jean shorts, and a tank top, I walked down to the well furnished basement. Then, we all sat and reminisced about the previous night while we waited for Matt for wake up so we could go out to breakfast. While reliving last's night former glory/filling me in on what I had missed, Z somehow convinced me to try to change my flight so that I could stay another day. (Okay, so it didn't take much convincing...but still.) I had to be back at work by four p.m. on Sunday, which unfortunately limited my flight selection. Furthermore, I couldn't get a refund if I cancelled my flight. After half an hour of online searching and comparing, Delta Airlines had bested me. Of course, this just gave us greater incentive to make my last day in Wisconsin legen (wait for it) dary.
By eleven a.m., Matt had emerged from his bedroom. Slowly but surely, we all gathered up the courage to begin physical preparations to be seen in public. We left the lake house by eleven-thirty and arrived at the "ghetto but really delicious" pancake house by noon. Once our food was placed on the table and the waitress' hands were safely back at her sides, I ate EVERYTHING. I had ordered a spinach omelet with a side of chocolate chip pancakes, and Z and I had decided to split an order of breakfast potatoes. I didn't actually eat ALL of this, but I definitely ate way more than a little girl like myself should. (The peanut butter sandwiches from last night had lacked staying power, and we had basically skipped breakfast so I can't really be held responsible for my actions.)
Then, Z and I accompanied Matt and Beast on their expedition to a giant hardware store. They were buying PVC pipes to make a wake board rack and quizzing the two writers about what PVC stood for. (It's Poly...something...Chloride. I can't remember.) While they focused on their project, we dreamt and discussed all the amenities of our future apartment. I learned that Z doesn't like shower curtains, and she learned that I don't like glass shower doors. So I guess we'll just have to compromise on a clawfoot tub.
After our return from the land of PVC and plenty, the boys got down to work and we got down to float. Around three, Z's dad, known as Doc, arrived and asked us if we wanted to go tubing. I thought that this meant lounging in an inner tube attached to the Kuester family boat. (Oh, you poor, innocent child.) Instead, I got the work out of my life. These tubes were actually large floating circles to which I held on for dear life. I want to say that I was able to withstand twenty minutes of tubing before my first fall, but I have never trusted my sense of time. For all I know, it might have only been thirty seconds. The final tally of my falls were six, while Z had only been thrown once. I'm just going to chalk it all up to experience and the "lime infused water" Doc had made and served us while we were tubing. (A side note: The right side of my chest is still sore from this endeavor.)
When we arrived back at the dock, the rest of the Kuester clan and friends were waiting for us. This included Z's mom, Cam, who greeted me with the most lovely of hugs. Do you know how good it feels to be immediately accepted by your best friend's mother? It felt like a unicorn shitting sparkly butterflies (made of actual butter) right onto your clear, poreless face. It felt great. Then, everyone piled into the boat, and I witnessed another wake boarding/ water skiing session. It was less professional than the first one, but way more entertaining since I actually knew these aquatic athletes. Doc went first with his water skis. From watching him, I learned that you are, indeed, supposed to lose one water ski shortly after beginning your run. I thought he had done it on accident the first time, but apparently, that is just what you do. Next up was Z on her wake board, for whom I cheered like a crazy stage mom. (Incidentally, this is an accurate way to describe our relationship. Okay, it isn't, except when my little girl tries her hand at cooking. Like she did here. Shameless plug #2.) Matt rounded off the Kuester trio of water acrobats, and he wasn't half bad.
All the while, Z and I had one of our most beautiful and deep talks about something so important and integral to both of us-- writing. We discussed our hopes and our insecurities in relation to our craft, each encouraging the other that her future was nothing but bright. I think that what characterized this talk (and what characterizes our friendship) was that there was no competitiveness between us. We both acknowledged our own talents and shortcomings, and we both were (are) focused on simply trying to become the best writer each of us could be. We're different people, different writers, and we respect and encourage each other for that. What I'm trying to say is: it was a good talk.
By the time we got back to the lakehouse, it was about seven p.m. More of Matt's friends had arrived, and an interesting night was beginning to take shape. Z and I attempted to help Cam make dinner, but almost immediately, we became distracted by our own little worlds. We succeeded in slicing hamburger buns, but not much else. I was consumed by a recent cellular incident, and Z was consumed in helping me navigate through it. (Oh, the trials and tribulations of our young, female lives.) I will say, however, that the text which drew my attention away from the kitchen was an...interesting one.
After we decided to give up on our pursuits to be the Next Food Network Star, we joined Matt, Beast, and all their twenty-something friends and girlfriends in the basement. Everyone was sitting around drinking "root beer," and somehow Z's lake house guide wormed its way into the conversation. Everyone, knowing that they had been mentioned in the guide, was curious about its exact contents. Z and I refused to give away its secrets, mostly because we were both pretty badly implicated in the guide ourselves. (When we know so much about each other, it's hard not to.) Z also happened to mention the existence of her "Brothers" powerpoint. This was a powerpoint sent to me and other prospective lake house guests briefly explaining each of Z's "brothers," including but not limited to her actual biological brother, Matt. Once this entered the conversation, all the brothers demanded that they be shown this mysterious powerpoint. Z promised to do a viewing session later when she would be more "agreeable," but this showing never (thank goodness) actually happened.
Not wanting to waste the lovely Wisconsin evening, there was a mass exodus to the Kuester's deck. The equipment for a game of "Bags" was already set up and waiting to be utilized. Z had explained "Bags" to me in her lake house guide, and I was very excited to get a chance to actually play it. Z and I played on the same team against Beast and one of Matt's other friends. The game consisted of one player from each team throwing beanbags onto a wooden platform with a whole in the middle. A person scored one point for each bag that landed on the platform and three for any that went into the hole. If the opposing team also landed on the platform or in the hole, the points cancelled out. The throwing continued until one team reached twenty-one points. It was a long and hard game, but Z and I emerged victorious.
By this time, dinner was ready. We all took a brief sojourn inside to grab the delicacies of Cam and Doc, and although I can't speak for anyone else, I certainly was not disappointed by the quality or the selection. The vegetarian was fully satisfied.
After dinner, we all went back outside to play some more games. This time, we started off with "Smack Cup," which is one of the funnest games I have ever played. About thirty cups were pushed together in the center of a big table, each one filled with a small amount of "root beer." The goal of this game was similar to "Nickels" but with ping pong balls instead of nickels and cups instead of "film canisters." This game was very similar to "Slap Cup," but again, playing that would have been an inappropriate and unworthy use of our underaged time. Z and I both ended up drinking the most amount of "root beer" because we each got caught between people who were in the zone, passing the cup back and forth. (I don't even want to think about the calories we each consumed in those few minutes.) Eventually though, we each were able to get our ping pong ball in the cup, and resurfaced. Once this game was over, Z and I both decided to sit out the next round because we know who we are and who we don't want to be. Later, Z and I joined in on a couple more games and had a jolly good time.
I have no idea what time the suggestion to go out to the boat came up. In retrospect, I'm guessing about three a.m. None of us had our phones on us for fear of them falling into the lake, so time had progressed strangely the entire day. At any rate, those of us who were still awake (which did include me this time!) clamored onto the boat. We sailed to the sandbar, and I got to experience it for the first time. Unlike the rocks and pebbles that lined the bottom of most of the lake, the sandbar's floor was soft and white. The water was waist-high and warm. It was a truly lovely place. However, we only stayed for half an hour because it was four a.m. by this time, and people were dropping like flies. On the ride back, Beast took over stirring for Matt, and he came back and sat with me. We had a nice chat about Chinese hookers and cultural constructions of reality. (This is what I do to people. I don't mean to do it, but it happens.) It was a good talk.
By the time we got back from the sandbar, it was five a.m. No one knew how it had gotten so late, but here was the sun. I was so exhausted by this point that I just decided to crash in Matt's room... because it was closest to the basement. The poor guy, having to share his room with a young woman. I really put (him) out.
The next four hours passed quickly, filled with a deep but too short sleep. Z and I both had to wake up at nine a.m. so that we would have enough time to get me to the airport by eleven. Luckily, the majority of my stuff was in Z's room so it was a quick round up. We drank some pomegranate juice to revive us in our sleep deprived states, and then we were off.
The next hour and a half was one of my favorites. Just me and my best friend sitting together, reminiscing about last night. If only her car had been the Emerson College dining hall, it would have been just like old times. We had a great time, until we inevitably reached the airport. I didn't want to return to my pseudo real life in If You Lived Here You'd Probably Kill Yourself, Pennsylvania. However, I had already paid for my ticket, and my parents would have thought I was the victim of the Wisconsin version of Taken had I done anything but say goodbye to my best friend, close the car door, and walk through the revolving doors.
My only solace was that this wasn't "goodbye," this was "see you later." In fact, this was "see you in three weeks." I've been waiting for our second reunion ever since, and if it's anything like the first, I know that I won't do it any justice when I write about it.
The note was a nice touch. Among other helpful instructions, it told me to call Z as soon as I woke up. I did, and she informed me that her and Beast were downstairs and that I should join them. After changing into a new bathing suit, jean shorts, and a tank top, I walked down to the well furnished basement. Then, we all sat and reminisced about the previous night while we waited for Matt for wake up so we could go out to breakfast. While reliving last's night former glory/filling me in on what I had missed, Z somehow convinced me to try to change my flight so that I could stay another day. (Okay, so it didn't take much convincing...but still.) I had to be back at work by four p.m. on Sunday, which unfortunately limited my flight selection. Furthermore, I couldn't get a refund if I cancelled my flight. After half an hour of online searching and comparing, Delta Airlines had bested me. Of course, this just gave us greater incentive to make my last day in Wisconsin legen (wait for it) dary.
By eleven a.m., Matt had emerged from his bedroom. Slowly but surely, we all gathered up the courage to begin physical preparations to be seen in public. We left the lake house by eleven-thirty and arrived at the "ghetto but really delicious" pancake house by noon. Once our food was placed on the table and the waitress' hands were safely back at her sides, I ate EVERYTHING. I had ordered a spinach omelet with a side of chocolate chip pancakes, and Z and I had decided to split an order of breakfast potatoes. I didn't actually eat ALL of this, but I definitely ate way more than a little girl like myself should. (The peanut butter sandwiches from last night had lacked staying power, and we had basically skipped breakfast so I can't really be held responsible for my actions.)
Then, Z and I accompanied Matt and Beast on their expedition to a giant hardware store. They were buying PVC pipes to make a wake board rack and quizzing the two writers about what PVC stood for. (It's Poly...something...Chloride. I can't remember.) While they focused on their project, we dreamt and discussed all the amenities of our future apartment. I learned that Z doesn't like shower curtains, and she learned that I don't like glass shower doors. So I guess we'll just have to compromise on a clawfoot tub.
After our return from the land of PVC and plenty, the boys got down to work and we got down to float. Around three, Z's dad, known as Doc, arrived and asked us if we wanted to go tubing. I thought that this meant lounging in an inner tube attached to the Kuester family boat. (Oh, you poor, innocent child.) Instead, I got the work out of my life. These tubes were actually large floating circles to which I held on for dear life. I want to say that I was able to withstand twenty minutes of tubing before my first fall, but I have never trusted my sense of time. For all I know, it might have only been thirty seconds. The final tally of my falls were six, while Z had only been thrown once. I'm just going to chalk it all up to experience and the "lime infused water" Doc had made and served us while we were tubing. (A side note: The right side of my chest is still sore from this endeavor.)
When we arrived back at the dock, the rest of the Kuester clan and friends were waiting for us. This included Z's mom, Cam, who greeted me with the most lovely of hugs. Do you know how good it feels to be immediately accepted by your best friend's mother? It felt like a unicorn shitting sparkly butterflies (made of actual butter) right onto your clear, poreless face. It felt great. Then, everyone piled into the boat, and I witnessed another wake boarding/ water skiing session. It was less professional than the first one, but way more entertaining since I actually knew these aquatic athletes. Doc went first with his water skis. From watching him, I learned that you are, indeed, supposed to lose one water ski shortly after beginning your run. I thought he had done it on accident the first time, but apparently, that is just what you do. Next up was Z on her wake board, for whom I cheered like a crazy stage mom. (Incidentally, this is an accurate way to describe our relationship. Okay, it isn't, except when my little girl tries her hand at cooking. Like she did here. Shameless plug #2.) Matt rounded off the Kuester trio of water acrobats, and he wasn't half bad.
All the while, Z and I had one of our most beautiful and deep talks about something so important and integral to both of us-- writing. We discussed our hopes and our insecurities in relation to our craft, each encouraging the other that her future was nothing but bright. I think that what characterized this talk (and what characterizes our friendship) was that there was no competitiveness between us. We both acknowledged our own talents and shortcomings, and we both were (are) focused on simply trying to become the best writer each of us could be. We're different people, different writers, and we respect and encourage each other for that. What I'm trying to say is: it was a good talk.
By the time we got back to the lakehouse, it was about seven p.m. More of Matt's friends had arrived, and an interesting night was beginning to take shape. Z and I attempted to help Cam make dinner, but almost immediately, we became distracted by our own little worlds. We succeeded in slicing hamburger buns, but not much else. I was consumed by a recent cellular incident, and Z was consumed in helping me navigate through it. (Oh, the trials and tribulations of our young, female lives.) I will say, however, that the text which drew my attention away from the kitchen was an...interesting one.
After we decided to give up on our pursuits to be the Next Food Network Star, we joined Matt, Beast, and all their twenty-something friends and girlfriends in the basement. Everyone was sitting around drinking "root beer," and somehow Z's lake house guide wormed its way into the conversation. Everyone, knowing that they had been mentioned in the guide, was curious about its exact contents. Z and I refused to give away its secrets, mostly because we were both pretty badly implicated in the guide ourselves. (When we know so much about each other, it's hard not to.) Z also happened to mention the existence of her "Brothers" powerpoint. This was a powerpoint sent to me and other prospective lake house guests briefly explaining each of Z's "brothers," including but not limited to her actual biological brother, Matt. Once this entered the conversation, all the brothers demanded that they be shown this mysterious powerpoint. Z promised to do a viewing session later when she would be more "agreeable," but this showing never (thank goodness) actually happened.
Not wanting to waste the lovely Wisconsin evening, there was a mass exodus to the Kuester's deck. The equipment for a game of "Bags" was already set up and waiting to be utilized. Z had explained "Bags" to me in her lake house guide, and I was very excited to get a chance to actually play it. Z and I played on the same team against Beast and one of Matt's other friends. The game consisted of one player from each team throwing beanbags onto a wooden platform with a whole in the middle. A person scored one point for each bag that landed on the platform and three for any that went into the hole. If the opposing team also landed on the platform or in the hole, the points cancelled out. The throwing continued until one team reached twenty-one points. It was a long and hard game, but Z and I emerged victorious.
By this time, dinner was ready. We all took a brief sojourn inside to grab the delicacies of Cam and Doc, and although I can't speak for anyone else, I certainly was not disappointed by the quality or the selection. The vegetarian was fully satisfied.
After dinner, we all went back outside to play some more games. This time, we started off with "Smack Cup," which is one of the funnest games I have ever played. About thirty cups were pushed together in the center of a big table, each one filled with a small amount of "root beer." The goal of this game was similar to "Nickels" but with ping pong balls instead of nickels and cups instead of "film canisters." This game was very similar to "Slap Cup," but again, playing that would have been an inappropriate and unworthy use of our underaged time. Z and I both ended up drinking the most amount of "root beer" because we each got caught between people who were in the zone, passing the cup back and forth. (I don't even want to think about the calories we each consumed in those few minutes.) Eventually though, we each were able to get our ping pong ball in the cup, and resurfaced. Once this game was over, Z and I both decided to sit out the next round because we know who we are and who we don't want to be. Later, Z and I joined in on a couple more games and had a jolly good time.
I have no idea what time the suggestion to go out to the boat came up. In retrospect, I'm guessing about three a.m. None of us had our phones on us for fear of them falling into the lake, so time had progressed strangely the entire day. At any rate, those of us who were still awake (which did include me this time!) clamored onto the boat. We sailed to the sandbar, and I got to experience it for the first time. Unlike the rocks and pebbles that lined the bottom of most of the lake, the sandbar's floor was soft and white. The water was waist-high and warm. It was a truly lovely place. However, we only stayed for half an hour because it was four a.m. by this time, and people were dropping like flies. On the ride back, Beast took over stirring for Matt, and he came back and sat with me. We had a nice chat about Chinese hookers and cultural constructions of reality. (This is what I do to people. I don't mean to do it, but it happens.) It was a good talk.
By the time we got back from the sandbar, it was five a.m. No one knew how it had gotten so late, but here was the sun. I was so exhausted by this point that I just decided to crash in Matt's room... because it was closest to the basement. The poor guy, having to share his room with a young woman. I really put (him) out.
The next four hours passed quickly, filled with a deep but too short sleep. Z and I both had to wake up at nine a.m. so that we would have enough time to get me to the airport by eleven. Luckily, the majority of my stuff was in Z's room so it was a quick round up. We drank some pomegranate juice to revive us in our sleep deprived states, and then we were off.
The next hour and a half was one of my favorites. Just me and my best friend sitting together, reminiscing about last night. If only her car had been the Emerson College dining hall, it would have been just like old times. We had a great time, until we inevitably reached the airport. I didn't want to return to my pseudo real life in If You Lived Here You'd Probably Kill Yourself, Pennsylvania. However, I had already paid for my ticket, and my parents would have thought I was the victim of the Wisconsin version of Taken had I done anything but say goodbye to my best friend, close the car door, and walk through the revolving doors.
My only solace was that this wasn't "goodbye," this was "see you later." In fact, this was "see you in three weeks." I've been waiting for our second reunion ever since, and if it's anything like the first, I know that I won't do it any justice when I write about it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)