Fuck You, I'm 23

Fuck you I'm 23….or 24 in two months…which is close to 25 and that basically means I’m halfway to fucking 50.

Getting a little annoyed with muggles and all their hooplah about what they feel people my age are supposed to be doing with their lives.

SHUT YOUR FACES PEOPLE.

1. "So do you have a boyfriend?" Can we beat the dead horse a little more? 

 The closest I came to a boyfriend these past few months was the man who delivered my lunch to me every day at work. He barely spoke English.  I like it best that way. Smile and nod, don’t talk to me, and bring me food. His mustache was on point too.

What’s the big hurry? I have about 6 years until I’m 30. I have a lot more douchey McDouchersons to frolic around and sneak out while they are in the shower before I feel washed up,sad, and alone.

2. What's your plan: Survive the day? Not to drool on myself while brushing my teeth? Move to a farm, buy chickens, and make jam?

I don’t fucking know. It’s a fucking miracle my legs are shaved and my socks match. What more do you want?

3. You're hair looks nice did you do something different? I brushed it. Thanks though. Sometimes I spend $100 dollars on my hair or at the bar on fireball and dirty shirleys..OOPS. Other months I’m too cheap to buy shampoo that’s over $4 a bottle and I barter babysitting for a bottle of wine.  It doesn’t make a drop of sense. Why should it? Priorities should be fucked up at this age.

4. Insurance: Don't have that…I have a payment plan when I go to the doctor or the dentist…I pay them whatever I can afford monthly until the bill is gone. I’m not sure they are as down with this as I pretend they are.

5. When I say I am going to do something and then have to man up and grow some balls and do it. So all summer I joked about how if I didn’t get a full time job in the winter I was going to move to Florida. WELL GUESS WHAT…I didn’t get one. Or really try too hard..in that I didn’t even apply for one…

So I’m packing up my extensive shoe collection and heading South for four months to live with my mom and her husband Rick. 

After about 5 years of living on my own I’m not really sure how this is going to pan out. How do I say, “Mom I’m not coming home because I’m on a futon in some strangers house making out with my co worker?” Pretty sure “I’m sleeping at Stephanie’s” isn’t going to fly since she will be thousands of miles away in Maine.

It gets funnier…I have decided I am in charge of packing our lunches for work every day. Just call me Carol Brady.

6. Marriage: This chick is about to be in her 4th wedding next summer. Two out of three of the previous ones I have been in ended in divorce. You know what I notice at weddings...the married ones look the most miserable. They don’t dance, they barely got dressed, and they certainly are not drinking. Why would I want to subject myself to that torture?  I'm pretty cool if someone just stops by once a week to eat sandwiches and make out with me. HOLLA!

8. Babies : Monsters. Put those things back where they came from. They are sticky, smelly, and demanding. Why am I supposed to like them? Stretch marks GROSS. Up all night crying….and they aren’t even drunk. USELESS. Eating everything in sight…less food for me.

It’s just a lose lose people.

9. Stop working so much: Well, I like to be able to buy myself 6 pairs of long johns WHENEVER THE HELL I WANT TO. I also went to college for 4 years and am currently sitting on a buttload of debt. It's not a god damn choice it's necessary.

We have to pay rent and for the fucking heat in our houses (those of you who don't have Mommy and Daddy enabling your eventual downfall by paying for these things..). I keep that thermostat on a constant 63 which feels like Antartica. Especially right now, my feet might be blue. If you’re cold put a sweatshirt and some fuzzy socks on, call one of the guys you text when your wastey pants for a snuggle sesh..don’t tell them it’s because you’re too poor to afford heat though..you might hurt his non existant feelings and he probably won’t come over if he thinks he’s not getting any.

Whatever you gotta do to stay warm in Maine & have enough money to buy wine..or whatever your poison is.

Basically, what I am saying here is you don’t have to do “what you think you are supposed to be doing” the second you get out of college. Try smiling, sleeping with the wrong people, making 6 different kinds of eggs benedict, or smoking cigarettes & drinking beer on your patio in the rain.

Whatever makes you feel alive.

Fuck this list. I’m going to put on my pajamas and spoon my dog.

I'm your waitress not your bitch

There's nothing a server enjoys more than absolutely crushing it on the floor during a busy shift. Anticipating every gosh darn outrageously annoying need before it's necessary,managing not to spill a single item on yourself (a monumental feat for me), and most importantly making 20% or more on all your checks.

However this isn't a happy story. That would be way to far out of my comfort zone. I'm going to let er’ rip on what drives me absolutely bonkers about my customers. 


1. When I have barely set the plate down in front of a customer and they ask me for cheese. 

LOOK BUDDY, IT'S A FUCKING ITALIAN RESTAURANT OF COURSE I’M GOING TO BRING YOU CHEESE. 

Let me give your wife her ravioli before you start demanding dairy products.

Then it just gets plain ridiculous. I bring the grater to the table and say, “Just tell me when”

20 minutes later…

 The entire table has a pile of Parmesan up to my boobs. 

Meanwhile I’ve developed carpal tunnel as he adds an incredulous amount of cheese to Fettuccine FUCKING Alfredo.

 I walk away, with a defective hand, sweating, and generally feeling astonished while this guy pile drives his fork into Mount Parmesan.

Take notes people. What normal cheese portions look like.

Enjoy your clogged arteries and severe diarrhea later sir. I hope you choke on your noodles.

2. When the Canadians write a note on my check saying "great job!" And then leave me a 10% tip. Is that a sarcastic great job? Are Canadians even funny? Is the "great job" exchangeable with the electric company so I can pay my bills?

It’s no secret Canadians are terrible tippers. But do you really have to leave me a hand written note? “Sorry I didn’t leave you more money, I think you did a wonderful job, but I’m just a cheap fuck” would have been more accurate don’t you think?

3. People who can't order food. So you’ve walked into a restaurant, you’ve spent twenty minutes looking at the menu; and I your server come over to inquire what you would like for dinner! Annnnnnd you Mrs. Lucky "I get to go out to eat and enjoy myself on Friday nights"…stare at me blankly….reopen your menu and then ask someone else at the table to go ahead of you. GET IT TOGETHER.

 Is it a surprise to you that I have come to take your order? Was my delivery of drinks, “ I’ll give you a little more time with the menu" comment, then my asking if you had any questions about the menu not enough of a clue that you should order? Please tell every other person at the table to go first while you continue to stare at the menu in blank disbelief. I would love to wait at your table for another 10 minutes, because you are my sole reason for existing tonight. I don’t have 10 other starving people staring at me waiting for me to bring them chicken parmesan.

4. The mind fuck customer: The person who looks infuriated and un-happy the entire time you are waiting on them and then leaves you a great tip. I don’t get it. I thought you hated me. Why did you look like you wanted the floor to open up underneath me and for me to slip into the depths of hell?  Cause I’m honestly confused.

In shock that someone would actually paint this.

5. Anyone who asks for French fries with filet mignon.  It’s like wearing stilettos with running shorts. You just look stupid. I will just automatically bring out some A1 with that and I presume you would like that cooked to shoe leather consistency…oh I’m sorry “well done”.

6. The lady who saves every extra piece of meat on everyone’s plate for her dog. YOU ARE KILLING YOUR ANIMAL WITH THAT KINDNESS. Not to mention you’re probably single. It’s okay to be the crazy dog lady. Just don’t let the entire dinner table in on your little secret.

7. People who tell me they know the owner and expect to be treated like royalty. That’s nice, me too. You’re still paying. Additionally, if you know the owner SO GOD DAMN well why don’t you recognize me. Because NEWSFLASH I’m his daughter. I have no problem treating you with kindness and respect but please don't act entitled because you know the person who owns the business someone works at. 

8. Cole slaw freaks. I guess I should ease up on “The People of the Slaw” because typically they are between the ages 65-90 and struggle to make it from the lobby to the dining room. It’s probably hard to find much to make you happy with your loss of hearing, dentures, and special order shoes. I’ll let you have the joy of soggy cabbage and mayo.

9. Women who think I want their man. I am not smiling and agreeing with everything your boyfriend says because I want to shamelessly steal him from you at the dinner table. It’s my fucking job to be pleasant you crazy bitch. Though I

wouldn’t blame him if he left you because you’ve had your stank face on since you two sat down. Meanwhile his poor guy has tried everything from shrimp proscuitto to tiramisu to make you happy and all you can do is glare angrily at me. Be thankful you have someone who can afford to bring you to dinner and encourages the eating of dessert. My dinner date is usually a book and a beer. ALONE. AT A BAR.

 SO GET IT TOGETHER before I bring your boyfriend into the bathroom and show him a better time god damnit.

10.One final thing…If you can’t afford to tip 20% please please please do not come out to eat. It is our job to provide you with the best dining experience possible. We do this because 1. We really do enjoy it 2. Based on our performance we receive money from you…for providing you with a service. I make sure your drinks are delivered promptly, your appetizers come out before your meal, and that you have five extra lemons for your water. I set the tempo for that REALLY ENJOYABLE evening you just had. So pay up. Or go to the grocery store and make your own meal.

Disclaimer: I really do enjoy waiting tables. I adore the people I meet…from the guy named Big Wood who paints pictures of animals on feathers to the awkward first date couple…or the hooker and the old dirty man who’s hired her. You make a lot of connections, make great money in a 5 hour shift, and if you do your job right people leave with exactly what they came for…a night away from the kitchen being taken care of in a respectful, knowledgeable, and of course fun way.

Sometimes people are just infuriatingly stupid.

Peace & Parmesan,

The Bitter Waitress

The Single Girl Chronicles

SINGLE GIRL CHRONICLES: PART ONE

I snuck down my stairs sometime around Christmas at the incredibly late hour of 2am and engulfed 4 chocolate hazelnut cookies, by light of the refrigerator. While my dog, Basil silently judged me with her permanent frown and hungry little eyes as I hauled off the milk cartoon. This was slightly irritating because I bought her to give me unconditional love even though I have crumbs on my face. In fact I think she rather enjoys the crumbs. But that nigt her glare was extra harsh.

 I began thinking about how I will cleverly tweet about feeling like a mix between Santa and single while creeping through my home in the dark of night pretending calories do not count because no one saw me. And somehow subsequently relating myself to a jovial pink cheeked obese fictional character who squeezes through chimneys spreading joy to spoiled little child monsters across the world.

Something dawned on me between the chomping of cookie and guzzling of milk. I should share what it is like to be single. Straight from heaps upon heaps of failed dating attempts to finally buying a dog, and spending my Friday nights making coasters out of wine corks. This will be a sort of mini-series for the blog. In which I dream that some rich, well dressed 25-30 year old business man/actor/musician/athlete will happen across this blog and discover that he is really into red-headed, carbohydtrate loving, aspiring writer/chefs, who walk into walls and put their dogs in hideous sweaters. More specifically ME.

So here it is...

STORY ONE

FAILED FLIRTING ATTEMPT:Trying to hit on the cute guy at the yoga studio

So I had been going to this yoga studio on and off since May now and I  would ALWAYS see the CUTEST yogi man just frolicking about looking all yoga buff and relaxed with his adorable messy blonde hair…yum.

We will call him Steve. Steve even learned my name! He was super smiley and excited whenever I would come to class. He even complimented my leg lift while in wheel during one of his classes. Which basically meant he was in love with me right? He wasn’t just being a supportive teacher or smiling at me because it’s good customer service. OBVIOUSLY. Plus yoga teachers aren’t naturally friendly.

Anyways, after class one night I decided to strike up a conversation with him by buying coconut water. Which tastes like moldy toenails. Since I already had a giant water bottle and that was the only other beverage in the fridge I had absolutely no choice. So now I’m stuck awkwardly buying a drink I don’t like so I can make conversation with this kid. TYPICAL.

 I ask him why he’s here so late (because he’s closing the studio) NO SHIT. This conversation just threw itself off a cliff and was free falling straight to a giant pit of really blunt elementary school scissors where it would suffer a drawn out and excruciating death.

So then I continue to babble about nothing while becoming more and more embarrassed, something about loving yoga and not coming as often as I would like..I’m not really sure because when I get going on a tangent I sort of black out and end up saying “like”or “and yeah” entirely too many times. This poor kid is just smiling back at me and nodding while thinking, “I really just want to close this place and get the fuck home.”

Finally I decide to land this sinkhole of a conversation and I say bye to him roughly three times. Then as I turn around to make my defeated exit I drop my keys, my yoga mat swings to the side and smacks me in the head (So obviously I’m looking coordinated, collected, and sexy) Out of the corner of my eye  (blocked by the yoga mat and shame), I saw the class instructor. As I stood up, I looked at her and said “Goodbye thank you for a great class” only to realize it was a complete stranger. I took that as my cue to sprint out the door and escape my embarrassment as soon as possible.