Remember That Time...

Hey guys, remember that time I said I was going to write a blog post every day in November?

Ah hahaha!

Right. Sadly, I have nothing I'd really like to share with you today. So I will simply leave this in the ether for your pondering pleasure:

"...and all those things you thought were so important... are nothing... Because once you know the story, you do not need the words, and once you know the person, you do not need the story. So the space between us disappears. And I am hopeful in a sad way, or sad in a hopeful way."

From a show I'm in. That opens in a week. Which is why I have to go now.

The Next Big Thing

I had my first official meeting with Red Light Variety Show this afternoon. This is what they're like.

So you can't imagine what the meeting was like, but you can imagine why I'm completely and entirely so excited out of my mind to be involved with all of these really incredible and amazing ladies (and gentleman).

Dreary Days

Today is overcast, dark, trying to rain and very quiet.

I love this kind of weather. The clouds sink in just enough so it's not terribly cold, just dark and weird. There's not a lot of people out and it's a perfect time to have a cup of hot chocolate with the ESMF.

These kinds of days remind me of being a teenager, mostly because I have silly thoughts of the darkness of the weather mirroring the darkness of my insides. I know, hugely cliche and laughable, which I also knew at the time I was a teen. I think the difference for me was that I found a lot of positivity in "darkness" as opposed to being negative and wallowing, I was just "dark" and weird.

Although I will say this: You may recall from this post that I have this problem which makes me think I'm funny. While still true today, it was amplified ten fold in high school. "Now I have to go boil myself" was a favorite retort when someone touched me or, "Go set yourself on fire" when someone said hello. Other than that, I was pretty quiet. While I see that those phrases are very mean, and likely hurtful, I saw it as being clever. I think I really thought that if I just pretended that my high school years were an awesome eighties teen movie (you know, Heathers, Reality Bites, Pump Up the Volume), everyone else would follow suit.

Well. It explains why I didn't have a lot of friends. And maybe why I like dreary days.

Addendum

Hannah's right.

Tip your baristas. The only reason I didn't cover this in the previous post is simply because I've never worked as a barista. Seriously though, have you ever tried to make espresso? Have you ever made a decent shot of espresso? And no, that pricey counter-top espresso maker does not count. Those are machines that are designed so an idiot can pull a decent shot. I should know, because I have one (a generous graduation gift from my sister and brother-in-law), and I'm an idiot, and I make delicious espresso.

Okay, I'm not really an idiot, but when it comes to making espresso I most certainly am.

I know some people just buy a cup of drip when they go to the coffee shop and feel that handing a customer a cup is not license for extra money. Well, did you get up at five in the morning to go and be chipper to a bunch of strangers who are all grouchy ass holes because they haven't had their coffee yet? No? Then maybe you can at least throw the remains of your second dollar in the tip jar.

Me, I have one of those drinks at the coffee shop. It's a sixteen ounce (not called a grande, actually) iced vanilla latte made with DaVinci syrup. Yeah, I might be a pain in the ass, but I sure as shit know I am. How do I make up for it? Tip a dollar a drink. And perform while the barista is making said drink. The espresso machine sits directly between customer and coffee maker, so it's pretty ideal to practice "going downstairs walk", or "going down escalator", "moving walkway", or one of my favorites, "awkward elevator that won't close". All of these were tried, tested and nearly perfected when I worked at a very slow restaurant and did them for the cooks behind the line, who were very honest about how well I committed.

General rule: You're spend $4 on an espresso drink, make it five. I'm broke as shit on a very regular basis (yes, I know, I probably wouldn't be if I didn't buy $4 coffees but no one is asking for your judgement here, in fact, if you're reading this you are clearly asking for my judgement) what's one extra dollar? At very worst it's going to your baristas pot habit, at very best, it's helping her buy school clothes for her kids.

If you have a hard time tipping people, try getting to know them. Ask them if they're in college  and what they're studying. Or how long they've worked there. It's a lot harder to clutch onto your money when you realize you're talking to a human being that's working their ass off (and often extremely over-qualified) for $7.50/hour (which is roughly three dollars less than the national living wage).

Also, you should probably know that in the four short years I've known her: Hannah's always been right. And awesome.

Twenty Percent. Not Just For Math Nerds.

All right, all right, I'm missing days left right and center. Quite frankly, I probably shouldn't be spending time on my blog right now, but I'd like to full as much of November as I can. So today's post is simple: Why tipping twenty percent isn't generous: it's just common decency.

Let me preface with this: I have never waited tables in a state that wasn't Right to Work. "What the fuck is right to work?" You might ask. In which case, I sure hope you don't live in a right to work state, because there are many many things that fall into effect under right-to-work laws, including break allotments, pay rate, union contracts, discriminatory hiring (which is technically still illegal everywhere, but if you live in a right-to-work, it's much easier for an employer to discriminate). I'd give you fancy links to follow, but if you're reading this, I assume you have access to the internet and that fancy little search engine known as Google. You can figure it out.

In any case. Minimum wage in most states is the lowest amount a worker can be paid. However, that is not the case in right-to-works. Here, waiting tables I was paid an hourly amount of $3.35. The assumption here is that I would make enough in tips to make up to minimum wage on the hour, which for the most part was absolutely true, though I do have several months of time during which I was hardly paid at all in the service industry. But that's complicated and irrelevant to the current topic.

The biggest problem with paying your servers $3.35/hour is simply this: Many diners have no idea. In fact, in my experience, most people who dine out assume servers who work at a restaurant that seems like more than a McDonald's are on a low-rate salary or at least getting minimum wage, maybe even with benefits (fellow servers and former servers- I'll give you a moment to stop your spurts of laughter here).

Oh. I think I forgot to mention: That $3.35/hour is before taxes.

And yes, servers claim their tips and pay taxes on them. Every computer system and restaurant I've ever worked for has a system set up for claiming your tips.

So: Reason one to tip: Customers are directly paying servers wages. You are paying the person who brings you your food for a variety of services: Bringing your food from kitchen to table, getting you waters and drinks, knowing about things on the menu, not being a total bitch/dick, helping you find a special meal because you're glutarded, and not strangling your child for throwing salt and pepper all over the table, which you happen to find adorable. Guess who gets to clean that up after you leave before the next patron arrives?

Reason Two: You're server doesn't keep all of that tip money. Oh no. Servers usually tip out about 8% of their alcohol sales to the bar. Not 8% of their tips. 8% of their sales. So let's say you order a $150 bottle of wine to enjoy with someone and that's all you get. Let's say you leave $15, I mean, all you did was drink wine, that server didn't really have to do anything for you, right? Well, consider THIS fucking shit: 1) You took up a table for probably about an hour and a half, or if you're not a fool, and actually enjoyed that bottle of wine, more likely two and a half hours. That's a possibility of getting two other tables in that location who would have likely had full meals, and had ticket prices nearly as high as yours, if not higher (Oh yeah, you're also renting that table when you tip. That section of tables belongs to that server, much like a hairstylists chair station in a salon). 2) Twelve dollars of that tip is going straight to the bartender. This is crazy, considering it's likely that all the bartender did was go and find the bottle of wine and hand it to the server, but bartenders need to be paid fairly for their experience as well, including knowing how and where to find that bottle of wine. This leaves your server with about $3 from that tip you left, one of which is probably going to the servers busser. Many servers are also required to tip out the hostess, the kitchen and sometimes specialty employees. There's a restaurant here in town that does table-side made guacamole, which is amazing, but the gauc-makers have a tip jar on their cart and the servers tip them out.

In any case: A typical successful night of waiting tables for me is determined by the percentage I walk with on my sales. Say I sell $800.00. I consider it a successful night if I'm walking with $160, that's after I tip out my busser, host, bar and kitchen. Now, you might say, "How greedy! No one should make that kind of money in one night! Not for just putting food in front of people!" I say to you, "Try it." Seriously. Walk up to a table full of four strangers and give perfect wine service. I dare you. Aside from that: it's not like servers are making that kind of money every single shift. It's a gamble. I worked for weeks at a time, particularly lunch shifts, where I was lucky to walk with $40. You savor the good days and start hiding $100 bills from yourself so you can find them on the bad days. Not a perfect system, but I still find a pretty $20 every now and then, and it's a great, "Thanks past me!" Moment.

Reason Three: These people are bringing you your food. This is still a little mind-boggling to me. I sometimes can't believe that people trust servers, or even more so, cooks (no offense, guys, I love each and every one of you, but you can be filthy bastards and bitches sometimes) to not be lewd with the foods. That being said, you should take solace in this: I worked in the service industry for ten years on and off, in all aspects: hosting, bar backing, bussing, food running, server, prep cooking, line cooking, and never, ever did I once see anything done to someone's food that was a health risk or even malicious. I've seen cooks play pranks on their buddies that they knew were coming in, but it was harmless fun, like stuffing a burger with as many jalapenos as would fit. But seriously, you're paying your server to wash their hands, to take care of your food, to make sure you don't eat glass, etc.

Reason Four: In case I haven't made this abundantly clear: The final amount on your check? None of that is going to the server. Unless there's an auto gratuity, and you can always ask if you're not sure. I never got offended when someone asked if the gratuity was included. I think it shows that you're a responsible diner. What you shouldn't ask: "How much do you think you deserved?" or "What should I tip you?" or  "You think you're going to get a tip? HA!" (All of which I have been asked) It just makes for an uncomfortable situation, and if you don't know how to tip, you shouldn't be eating out.

I got really bummed out about five years back when Oprah apparently announced on her show that it's totally okay to tip 10% in a recession. Hey, Oprah, I don't watch your show, but all of my tables do. And actually, for me, the worst time to only tip 10% is in a recession. How about you give me a new car and we'll talk about it.

Reason Five: You might be a pain in the ass. This is a tender subject. Many perfectly wonderful people are a pain in the ass to wait on. My mother is a perfect example (who also waited tables for many years of her life). She needs her water filled about fifteen times during a busy lunch rush, she wants to get to know you when you're slammed, she thinks she's very funny, she's curious as to what the difference between the small and large hummus is (my favorite question. One is fucking small and the other one is not!) but she's a wonderful tipper, and a lovely human being.

Reason Six: Discounts. Happy Hour, two for one specials, free app with a meal. All of these promotions are designed to get you in the door, but consider if the server  worked to bring you only the one drink you paid for, or the two? Did they bring you that free app, and preset plates and proper silverware? The work still happens, so if it's done well, tip as though the total included everything you got for free. 

What do I tip when I go out? It's embarrassing. I tip 20% if the server is a total fuck up. 20% is my low tip. I think it's hard for people to remember that minimum wage, in most states, is very different from a living wage. I also go out to eat at a sit-down restaurant maybe once every two months, because I like to tip fat. It's also a selfish habit I have; it makes me feel really good to tip fat, and I like feeling good.

Bottom line: Of course you have to take into account what kind of service you received, but when it comes right down to it, when you say to yourself, "I have enough money tonight to have a fifty dollar meal!" I hope that means, "I have enough money tonight to have a forty dollar meal, and tip appropriately if my service really kicks ass."

I Missed A Day

Whoops. Mondays are easily misplaced for me. I work from 10a-6p, and yesterday I had rehearsal from 6:30-10 and then I just crashed out. Sorry. I worked a double today and those lines aren't going to memorize themselves so something had to be sacrificed.

But remember: I already failed National Bloggers Whateveritsshits because I started on Nov. 2, so no loss! Hooray!

I have a habit of telling people I'm busy. Then when they ask me what I'm up to the conversation seems to be far too short for someone who is truly busy. Maybe I'm not really that busy, but I thought I'd take a moment to tell you what I'm doing in life lately:

Job One: I'm a little smitten with this one. I work in a locally owned yarn shop with two other lovely ladies. All day Monday, half day Tuesdays, teaching some classes and maintaining the website and monthly e-mails from my home. It's really awesome. Today I talked to a woman about different yarns and gave her a 45 minute tour. Of a 200 sq foot space. It was fantastic. I also taught a woman how to splice, bind off and knit two socks at the same time from the toe-up. Knitterly friends, you may be yawning, but we all know how impressed non-knitters are by the simplest little techniques.

Job Two: Seasonal work at a fancy lady store. This place is wonderful, the ladies (and two gents out of 35 employees) that work there are lovely and sweet. I'm averaging a pretty pathetic amount of hours, but the discount is great and the environment is heavenly. I will say though, that every time I work there I feel like I'm at a very rich, distant, relatives house where I'm supposed to be seen and not heard and for God's sake don't touch anything!

Job Three: Is about to come to a close. The ESMP and myself are resident teachers of the theater elective at a pretty hip charter school. While many of you may be terrified at the prospect that I'm allowed to help shape the young minds of tomorrow because of this and more likely this. But I do teach. Often, actually. It's my bread and butter throughout the summer and it helps me scrape by during the Fall. And it's amazing. I don't particularly love children (that I'm not related to), but I do love what I do and the sheer, unabashed enthusiasm that kids bring into everything.

Non-job One: Breadcrumbs. It's the play I'm working on every night. I'll go into it more at another time.

Non-job Two: Finding another Job, for when Job Three runs out.

Non-job Three: Christmas. Handmade. I'd like to do 100% handmade Christmas, but we'll see if I'm talented enough for that.

Non-job Four: Variety Show directing.

Non-job Five: Is me calming myself down after I've realized I've taken on too much again and am broke again and am behind on Christmas again.

That's it.

To the line memorizer!

Thanks

Today I would simply like to say: Thank you.

To every man, woman and child that has ever served in any facet of National defense for The United States.

Thank you.

A List.

Today I was on call for work and didn't get called in, which is great because I have very many things to do (but not so great, because I'd love a few more hours). I don't know if you know this, but I'm terribly busy and important. So, instead of another long-winded, not well thought-out post, I'm going to share my to-do list, starting with this morning:

-Go to rehearsal. I got cast in a show two days ago that opens in two weeks. Why do I do this to myself? I hate myself, clearly.
-Write Blog post.
-Bring ESMF vitamins so he doesn't get sick.
-Work on Christmas presents. In all their delicious yarny goodness.
-Memorize lines. (The show's a one act, which is good. I'm one of two characters with an equal line load, which means we're looking at roughly 45 pages of content to memorize, which is... stressful).
-Look up weird words and professions in script.
-Contact only other person who has ever directed a Red Light Variety Show.
         I was offered to direct Red Light officially last night. It's a job I've been drooling over for a couple of years now. They're really incredible performers and do a lot of really awesome burlesque. I've never directed a variety show, so I need some guidance. It's also a really great excuse to talk to one of my favorite people in the world.
-Clean house. I have a really hard time memorizing or focusing on a task for an extended period of time if the house isn't in a moderately clean state. Since the time I began writing this I have already flitted off to do the dishes, pick up some socks, make the bed, and sweep.
-Wrap two gifts. I'm seeing a good friend of mine tonight who recently moved to Chicago. When she left she gave me boots. She said she had too many. I have no idea what, "too many boots" means, but I'm certain it will never happen to me. In exchange I made her this:

Those are little Robot buttons. I love little robots.

The other gift is for her lovely man-friend who moved with her, and would frequently give me rides to rehearsal when we were in a play together last year.

Just a comfy, alpaca beanie.

(For any yarnies out there, that's all Mirasol Qina: A DK 80% alpaca 20% bamboo blend, and it is lovely. I have a ton of it because we put it on sale at the yarn shop when it wasn't selling at full price.)

-Eat. Seriously, if I don't write it down, I'll forget entirely and wonder why I'm so grumpy and emotional.
-Print off calenders for November and December and fill out everything I'm doing. I'm going to have to become that kind of person, things are getting difficult to keep track of in my little black book.
-Research film noir and other "noir"-esq things. Suggestions are welcome - this is Red Light's theme.
-Call Verizon. I dread these phone calls, but I've been having service issues with my 3G on the iPad for months. I've avoided doing anything about it because I hate automated systems and even service people who tell me to try something I've already done ("Okay, now turn the device off. Leave it off for about ten seconds. Now turn it back on, does it work?"). But I'm sick of not having service.
-Take baby photo into work. They're having some sort of "fun contest" so they tell me. I don't think I actually own any baby photos of myself (that would be weird, right?) but I'm sure I can find something.
-Go see a show! This is where the sweater and hat will be given away. My friend that moved to Chicago promptly got cast in a show back here and is back until tomorrow. Hooray!

Now that's a pretty rockin' day. There's actually not one of those things that is going to suck to do. Well, except call about my service. Those things usually blow.

And now: I go, I go, look how I go! Swifter than arrow from tartars bow!

How I Made My Father Uncomfortable: Part 1

I know, you may be all like, "Whaa...? A 'Part 1' post? is there a second part? eighteen more parts? Is this the beginning of the middle three parts and then some indeterminate time  in the future you'll release three really high tech shitty first three parts and then sell the rights to some giant corporation so they can make the final three parts?" No no, my dears! I've just decided that this should be a series. There's another post I published some time ago that I'm thinking of also turning into a series, just because it kicked so much ass.

Truth be told, I've made my father uncomfortable enough times to write a really awkward book, which I may someday. I also contemplated calling this post: Questions My Father Wished He Couldn't Answer.

First off: My Dad is awesome. I just need to preface with this. He is a self-defined "recovering Catholic" which gives you an idea of his upbringing: A little up-tight (his upbringing, not him), importance of education, and there's some things you just don't talk about. He raised me with the company of my Mother, who is also awesome, but we'll save that for another post. My mother made it very clear to us childrens growing up that you should never be ashamed or scared to ask a question any question. Everything was on the table. You want to know what a penis is? Oh, she'll tell you what a penis is! Why boys have it and girls don't, what it's used for, all sorts of different things people do regarding the penis, why people are weird about saying the word penis and how silly that is, any medical conditions that she's aware of that can plague the penis, everything ever. My mother is the only person I know that could make a foul-mouthed trucker blush.

Okay, yeah, and probably me too.

In any case, I realized at a very young age that if I wanted to know everything about something: ask my mom, if I had a feeling something was socially sensitive and didn't want to know everything especially (and most often) because the answer I usually wanted was a definition, not a sociology paper, I should ask Dad. Poor Dad.

You should also know that I got about 50% of my U.S. history from the plethora of Doonesbury compilations we had around the house (and most of my humor for The Far Side, and most of my adorability from Calvin and Hobbes). Not only is my dad a pretty big fan, but we're actually related to B.D. Yeah. Related to B.D. Whatever, it's by marriage and some distant second-cousin something, but it's still pretty cool.

I can't find the exact strip to save my life, but I'll put it up as soon as I do. There was a particular series in the seventies in which a young suburban kid had moved to the big city and was all of a sudden surrounded by bustling diversity. On the bus ride to school there was a young and tough black kid who would always make fun of him, be mean to him, knock is books out of his hand, etc. The little boy (around 6-8, probably) was always really polite because he didn't want anyone to think he was racist.

Then one day, the little boy had enough, and the little black boy does something mean and the little white boy loses his shit and says, "You... you... YOU HONKY!" To which the other boy replies, "What did you say?" And that was the end of the strip. And the beginning of my fascination with the word honky.

I was probably about ten or eleven at the time and I brought the book to my dad and said, as I'm sure many parents become accustomed to, seemingly out of nowhere, "Daddy, what's a honky?" In retrospect, it's a good thing I brought the book with me because as soon as he saw it he understood that this was a contextual question, not one that had just sprung into my head, and not something I'd been called at school (hah, like I didn't go to school with nearly all honkies anyway).

The first ever Doonesbury strip. Published in the Yale school paper.

Thus it was explained to me that "honky" is a slang term, merely meaning "white person". "Is it mean?" I asked. "Not particularly." My dad answered. While at that point, I understood the joke, I had a whole new set of questions that I was free to ponder on my own, seeing as I had asked my father. If there's no other connotation to "honky" then why did the word come into existence? Why didn't people continue just to say, "white person" or "Caucasian"? Maybe there was another connotation to the word.

Bottom line: My personal theory is that honky doesn't have a specific connotation because we're boring fucking honkies.

Or maybe it really does, and every other race in the world is laughing their ass of at me right now. I kind of hope it's that.

Also: I really only wanted to write this post so I could use the word honky an obscene amount of times. I think that word is hilarious and I'd like to bring it back.

Today...

I wish I had something wise to impart upon you today. I wish I could drop a piece of wisdom in your brain that would give you new zeal for life and help you re-exam how much you work and how little you play. I wish I could give you a new perspective on an old routine.

But we all know that's what theater's for.

So instead I will tell you this: today, I saw a dog the size of a small kitten. No joke. A dog, like grown-up, the size of a baby cat. It made me squiggle a bit (squeely giggle, the obnoxious kind that usually makes your significant other question whether or not you really are just like all the other ladies).

And I was so tickled that I saw this tiny little creature that I didn't think to take a picture.

That is all.

What What

All right, election day has come and gone. Decisions were made, people laughed while people cried, the usual. How does one follow an election day post? What could be better than voicing your opinion to help aid the direction of everyone's future? How can one possibly top the beauty of a democratic system? Oh, I will tell you how:

Butts.

That's right, and you're welcome. Today I am dedicating my post entirely to The Butt. An elusive, ever-changing, oddly likeable body part of which everyone has in a completely different shape or size. Fine, the shape and size variant is true for every body part, but I feel like it's far more fun to distinguish different butts than  different arms.

I'll start with what I know: My Butt. If I could write a letter to my favorite sitting place it would read something like this:

Dearest Derriere,
Thank you.
Love, Me.

Like many, I waged war on my unsuspecting tucus right around Jr. High, or slightly before. Personally, my hips widened long before I would ever see and semblance of an actual bosom (which is still second-tier, compared to... my sparkling personality). Bodies change quickly at that age and I hadn't even realized I had a butt until someone in middle school made a surly comment. Many silly diets and "work-out regimes" followed, to no avail, because your body will change in it's own way at it's own pace when you're that age.

I was shy and awkward in Jr. High, throughout High school, like many. Also like many, I was extremely self-conscious of my ever-changing body, so when I heard an attractive boy in my Biology class say, "Damn. You got a nice ass for a white girl." I pretended I didn't hear and scurried away in shame. I now hold a greater amount of appreciation for anyone who is bold enough to speak their minds regarding positive physical attributes in other people.

Let's hold here and make a distinction. A truck load of douchey dudes on the cruise whistling and yelling "are your pants made out of mirrors?!" Is not someone speaking their mind about the physical attractiveness of  someone else. That can only be explained as some strange male ritual of a yearning for failure. I would love to meet someone for whom one of those pick up lines has actually worked. Or whistling at someone. Or just honking and saying "YEAH!". I use corny pick up lines on the ESMF pretty regularly, and yeah, it works, but I have something all those douchey dudes don't: The body of a chick.

Back to the booties! As my dear friend has encouraged me: "Butts go through phases." (he is wise beyond his years in the science of bootology).  I have, over the course of my years out of high school and more recently out of college, noticed a disturbing trend in my own backside of a rather uniform shrinkage happened. This saddens me to no end, but the fact is, my body will likely change every day for the rest of my life, however much or little. My own rear has lessened with the loss of some baby fat but is lovingly referred to as "ghetto shallot" (ghetto onion was apparently where this originated, which I has never heard prior to ghetto shallot), by the one who likes it most. He refers to his own boy-booty as "A bag of oranges".

What I like most about bums is the vast array of sorts in which they appear. The short wide butt is one of my favorites to behold. It's a mystery to me. I work with a girl whose butt is actually wider than it is tall by about twice as much. It's amazing. Another woman I work with has this really fantastic pin-up girl silhouette from the front, but she turns to the side and she's flat as Kansas.

I realize I'm treading through some interesting territory by devoting a post to dissecting the beauty of the Ba-Donk, but it all stems from the fact that I find the sheer diversity in the physical form of humans fascinating, and what I simply cannot understand is the heeby-jeebies it seems to give other people when you talk about it. Yeah, you know what's coming: We're about to talk yoga pants.

Oh yoga pants. I do believe they are the single most controversial clothing item in the last 5-10 years. They're being outlawed from high schools, there's websites devoting to pictures of girls wearing yoga pants in public, and tirades on the internet from angry women who are upset that they have to wait and change into their yoga pants at the gym or else their creepy neighbor will look at their butt on their way to the gym.

A confession: I wear yoga pants roughly 4 months out of the year. I wear yoga pants anytime I can get away with it. They are comfortable, look great with everything, I can move in them (important when you're rehearsing for a show) and they make your butt look amazing. I am also not one to get upset if I see someone checking out whatever junk is in my trunk, obviously, because as you can see by everything above, I do it all the time. I understand banning them in school situations because they really don't leave anything to the imagination but have you seen girls shorts lately? I teach summer camps in a desert climate and those girls aren't wearing shorts, they're wearing denim underwear. It's pretty sickening the try to avert your eyes when you're leading a group of nine-year-olds through warm ups. Yoga pants are far superior to the loin cloths that have replaced shorts over the years.

My point is: why do we have to be so defensive when a bodily compliment is given? Are we all really brought up to think that any time someone says, "Hey, you've got a great butt." That they mean to rape and kill us? While I come from a long line of pretty fantastic rumps, I did not get the wagon I'm draggin' today by genes alone. I have many squats, lunges and stairs in my life to help with the maintenance of my behind. So when the rare occurrence happens that someone genuinely mentions the condition of said rear, I thank them politely. Again, this is not some barely post-teen muscle nut drunkenly stumbling, trying to cop a feel and slurring, "nice ass". This is the rarer, more earnest kind, that has been beaten out of so many men who have been told they, "know better" than to mention the glorious state of a women's lady lump (easily the worst term for butt ever. Thanks for nothing, Fergie).

Bottom line (pun intended). If I ask you if these pants make my butt look big. You sure as shit better say yes.

Now Count It!

This morning I had sunshine on my back and smugness in my heart. Mmmm. Voting. 

And apparently a whole lotta crazy in my eyes. You are welcome.

Don't Forget...

Happy Guy Fawkes Day, everyone.

I feel it appropriate this year that the fifth of November falls the day before election day, so I felt I'd take a moment and remind the maybe one person that reads this blog everyone to vote tomorrow.

I know, it's kind of a pain in the ass: you've got to make sure you're registered, you've got to figure out where the shit your polling place is, you've got to take time out of your day to go stand in line with a bunch of some-how strangers, even though they all live in your neighborhood, you've got to make decisions (one of my least favorite things to do).

Voting kind of kicks ass though. And if you have lady bits, as opposed to man-bits, if your skin is darker than honky shade, or really, if you're anything other than a white, straight male (that demographic has got it made!), think about how long ago it was that you would have been frowned upon for voicing your opinion concerning who runs this country. It hasn't really been that long. The Oreo cookie was invented before vaginas were welcomed to the polls. Afro-American? You could vote before ladies could, but could you? Really? Jim Crow made that pretty difficult, even after Susan B. Anthony cast her ballot victoriously.

I feel like it's very easy for my generation, and even the one just before it, to completely take advantage of the civil and political liberties we have. I'm torn on this issue for two reasons: I have personally never faced severe sexism or oppression because of my gender. I'm a lucky lady. Secondly, the word "feminist" has been rather abused over the past few decades, becoming associated with some big, hairy, butch women who yell and scream about how they're oppressed and are generally more annoying than active.

What I do know is that I didn't have to personally put my life (it's contents or my actual ability to breathe) on the line to get what I have today: Equal opportunity for jobs, schools and housing, the right to stand up for myself if some jerk is being a dick, and the right to help choose political leaders. Honestly, I vote to keep all of those things, and hopefully improve what I can for the next generation. I feel like if the wrong choices are made this election, I will have to put my life on hold and go become an activist. That would piss me off to no end, but I'm sure plenty of women during suffrage and plenty of African Americans during the civil rights movement had far grander dreams than writing letters, marching and demonstrating, but they knew things had to change, and they made it happen. Because they kick ass, they're selfless and you can actually do that in this country, which is also pretty amazing.

Also, no matter what your political beliefs, voting is one of the few times you're expected to pass severe judgement on people you don't know personally, which is kind of fantastic. It's when you can say, "I'm going to vote for such and such senator!" You may exclaim. And your friend can look at you and say, "That guys a total dick!" And no one's going to stop and say, "Hey now, come on, I mean, have you ever met him? He's a sweetheart!" Think of it as your guilt-free judging people day! No one does that in voting season. Everyone is expected to, at the very least, not like someone.

So vote. Tell D.C. and your local governments who you want, and chuckle to yourself in the booth while you think about what a prick that other guy is. Get that sweet feeling of smugness when you see someone notice your ballin' "I Voted" sticker. Then join the country as you sit in front of the television or computer (or radio if you're really awesome and also my new favorite person) tomorrow night and nibble on your cuticles while giving your personal brand of witty commentary when each state gets their votes counted.

Remember remember the fifth of November, the gunpowder, treason and plot. I know of no reason the fifth of November should ever be forgot.

Today Was Boring

I know, that post title is just so inviting. Also, not entirely true. For me today was pretty fantastic. I got an extra hour of sleep (thanks daylight savings time!) to was a beautiful day, highs in the sixties (boo, weather! I have so many sweaters! Chill out, would you?) I knit up until I had to go to work, and then only got called in for two hours (Boo, work! I need hours, don't make me quit you for something more lucrative that I'm not entirely convinced exists...) I just consider all of those things fairly uninteresting to most other people.

However! Yesterday was highly eventful! Well, relatively eventful:

Suzuki training in the morning. It was our first session at the Dojo (I think is what it's called... martial arts practice space). It was exhausting and painful and I felt like a failure while doing it, which generally means you're doing it right.

An amazing Fall bike ride to above training. This is my favorite time of year to ride a bike. Especially in the mornings. I love to carefully select the perfect layers that will keep me warm and cuddled and the smell! The smell is so amazing.

Knit shop hang-out time. Yeah: not boring though some may disagree. I had to felt some slippers for the ESMF (which turned out fabulously) and I knit, drank tea and nibbled on goodies with the ladies for a bit while they tumbled about in the washer.

I got offered to direct something professionally. EEP! Third gig offer out of college, but I won't be divulging anything until things are set. I will just say it's an opportunity I've always wanted and it would be working with people for whom I have a huge amount of respect.

Made soup. Brie and Zucchini soup. "Whaaa?" You may say, IF YOU'RE AN IDIOT BECAUSE THIS SOUP IS AMAZING AND I AM EATING IT RIGHT NOW! (Thanks, sister!)

Had a lovely business/personal meeting with a dear friend about our future of working with each other in which we laughed a lot, cried a little and consumed just the right amount of wine. Much love.

This post a day thing is easy. (She said just three days in having already failed by not posting on the first, so thereby has nothing to lose.)

Startin' Shit

This is the time of year that I get to "startin' Shit" more than any other time. Granted, at any given moment you can find me startin' shit in a variety of ways. Crappy vehicle? I've been known to start that shit. Getting mouthy with someone far larger than me but obviously deserves it? I've definitely gotten into startin' that shit. Most importantly, however, and causing the least amount of physical, mental and emotional harm to others (but maybe not myself) is a whole slew of projects on the needles.

I started that shit today. It's pretty amazing, (like the future recipient: My Mom) I'm really excited about it, and I hope to finish it by the end of the month. And yes, that spinning wheel in the background will likely also come into play this Christmas season. If I can stop sucking at spinning.

I should perhaps at this juncture mention that, yes, I am absolutely aware that one "should" have quality photos on one's blog if one would like to be taken at all seriously. To that I would say, it may be in my best interest to not be taken seriously. In most aspects of my life. I have a really crappy point and shoot that I use to take photos for record keeping during my Spring acting job and I have a non-iPhone situation which takes photos that are slightly better, and seen above.

In short, to anyone who has complaints about my photo qualities on this blog I would like to pose the question: Why you gotta be startin' shit?

November is the Month Bloggers Get All Crazy

So apparently November is National Blogging some stuff month. I think the official title is a little more official sounding and has a clever short hand, but the fact that there's anything "official" about blogging is still a little difficult for me to grasp. Don't get me wrong, I'm aware people make their livings from blogging, and that's awesome, but I consider that being a writer, not just a blogger. Usually, those people have something else they do aside from just blog too, like create art that they blog about, etc.

In any case, in true me fashion I've already failed and National Blogging month because it started yesterday and I didn't post yesterday (I mean, come one, I didn't even do an anniversary post). But I've decided that posting every day in November sounds fun. So I shall. And I also don't have nearly enough things to worry about getting done right now. Nope. No Christmas gifts I'm knitting, or looking for a fourth job, or managing a  website. Just sitting around watching my stories and eating chocolates.

If there's anything specific you think I should write about or address, let me know. I'm sure I'll run out of ideas by tomorrow. Some days it may just be a picture or a word, but I'll have one post for every day of November.

Except the first. Because fuck the first.