Where were you?

While all of my classmates were walking across the stage at graduation, I was serving 8 pump Patricia her “no water no foam extra hot 8 pump chai in her own cup with a banana bread extra nuts no not that one the one behind it” her latte at my job at Starbucks.

Camp Anawanna

My first real, paying job was at a summer camp in Lake Tahoe. I got the job through a high school ROP cooking program I was in. The “head chef” from the camp came to speak to us about the wonderful job opportunity he was presenting to us, and I really wanted to get some experience under my belt, so I bit. I applied and got the job.
I thought I’d be cooking for children the whole summer. I thought about packing lunches, making breakfast to the sound of a bugle on a sound system to wake everyone else up, cutting up fruit, and of course, catering to the family camp that was also on the premises. I got everything in order, packed what I thought I would need, and was on my way to Lake Tahoe.

Of course, when I got there, my world turned upside down a few times, and I had to adapt to this new, horrifying situation. I had been tricked! I was lured in with witchcraft and lies that told of experience in the kitchen, only to find out that I would be in charge of ten snotty eight-year-olds. I didn’t even have time to ask “What the hell?” before I was sent off to the cabin I would be residing in to unpack my stuff and get myself familiar with the camp before the newest round of kids arrive for the week.

The first real problem I had was that I had not been given a list of necessary items to bring. I did not have the most essential thing. I didn’t bring a sleeping bag. I was under the impression that I would be in a staff cabin with heat and blankets. I had to call my Aunt, who lived two hours away over the Nevada border and asked her to please, please bring me a sleeping bag. For the first four days, it was sweatshirts worn as pants and towels.
The second problem was, I FUCKING HATED KIDS WITH A DEEP BURNING PASSION, WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS TO ME? I spent an hour trying to think up good excuses to get the hell out of there, it needed to be good or I’d be stuck in Tahoe for at least a week.

My feelings towards kids pretty much evaporated as soon as I met my girls, though. 8/10 had been there before, and decided immediately that I was a “cool” counselor. I have no idea what gave them that idea, but I wasn’t going to correct them, if they thought I was cool, maybe they would listen to me.
They were also the cutest little shits I’ve ever seen. Those 8 that had been there before all vaguely knew each other, and were quick to include the other two in their group. They cooperated. They had Disney princess sleeping bags. They would rather climb trees than play with makeup and talk about boys! I was amazed, confident that this summer and first job would be the best I ever had.

My day off on my 3rd week in Tahoe was on a Thursday. I had just come back from my Dad’s house, doing laundry, when another counseor came up to me and told me Regina, one of my girls, had just been found with a used tampon in her mouth. She was a very sheltered child, one of the new children to the camp scene, and one of the older girls decided to screw around with her and tell her it was edible. Regina didn’t understand why we were freaking out. Why were we calling her mother, why did that candy taste so bad, I don’t know who gave it to me. Regina was removed from the camp, and I quit days later. I knew which little cunt had did it and there was nothing I could do. The campers had more power over my job than my boss did, as they demonstrated on one of my favorite co-workers. Another older child, a boy told his mom that the counselor had hit him, and this man was from England, working for the summer. He was gone by morning.

The job was really just round one of my lafe taking a ridiculous turn for the worse. So if you ever encounter an 8 year old with a bloody tampon hanging out of it’s mouth, get the fuck out of there. You’ll be facing drug addiction and jail time before you know it.

October-December wrap up

From mid October to pretty much 15 minutes ago has been the most hectic weeks of my life.
In a nutshell, I suddenly became single, I got arrested, I got a piercing that turned into a horrible abscess on the cartilage on my ear, I went to the ER twice, flew to the other side of the country to have emergency surgery on said abscess after a plastic surgeon quoted me $3800 to have the procedure done, spent 3 days blissfully unaware and uncaring of EVERYTHING doped up on dilauded after surgery, was told there was no way I was going to be able to fly back for my arraignment(see you all after I get arrested again for failing to appear), nearly killed myself driving for the first time in snow tonight, and, about an hour ago stalled at of all places, Wal-Mart and had to get a jump from a tow truck. At midnight. At fucking Wal-Mart. IN THE FUCKING SNOW.
I haven’t really been keeping up with anything on the internets, because real life decided to take over and hurl some shit in my fan. Of all the things after this whirlwind of shit, stalling? I was driving to get some bandages for my fresh from the OR ear. Give me a fucking break.
Oh, and I forgot to mention. My laptop battery ate shit. Lucky, lucky, I’m staying with my Mom until I can get my life back on track, which is going to take a while since I cant fucking fly, and I have to wait until spring to get my reconstructive surgery. (The infection literally liquefied all of the cartilage in my ear, leaving me with a large bag of skin vaguely resembling an ear.)

And so I’ll be wandering around in the dark for a while. Maybe I’ll go to school or something. I have two other entries I was writing the day before I had to fly out. Or look for a job.

Lmfao. Yeah, right. I’m going to spend the winter holed up on narcotic painkillers, watching movies with my Mom’s birds. I’m planning on teaching them how to say choice phrases like “Go fuck yourself”. See you in January. 😉

The girl with the captive bead earring

After 10 years, 4 infections and half a bottle of Vicodin, I have decided that body piercings are not my thing. I’m suffering the worst piercing related infection imaginable. And the painkillers make me feel like a human Slinky.

I got my Helix pierced 2 weeks ago at a tattoo parlour that was having a promotion for the art gallery next door. For about 2 hours, they would be doing most basic piercings for free, provided that the victim tip the asshole that inflicted such violent abuse on them.
I have a few piercings, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had my lower lobes pierced twice, and the spot above them pierced once. Both lower lobes got infected the first time around, and I discovered that my delicate skin is not ideal for expressing my inner teen angst and rage with outrageous jewelry. I was left with just the standard lower lobes until last year, when I decided to get my nose pierced.
It healed beautifully, even though there was a little trouble finding the right length for my nostril screw. It sank into my skin and was swallowed by yellow crust and blood if it was too short, and it caught on my clothes and towels if it was too long. I thought that was horrible at the time and hoped, when I went to get my Helix done, that it would be much easier since it’s a simple ear cartilage piercing.

Simple ear cartilage piercing. Which now, 13 days later is a gigantic, pus filled abscess. I went back to the tattoo parlour and they had to cut the captive bead ring out of my ear. A lot of “oh holy shit”‘s from both parties, and I thought I was free at last. But the lack of sleep from the pain in my ear made me decide that perhaps a trip to urgent care was in order.

And now here I am, feeling like Gumby, on a short supply of Vicodin and antibiotics, looking up doctors that will take an out of pocket patient for a debridement and curettage.

I’ve been defeated by a piercing that every 12 year old girl on the planet has.
I must have been a real jerk-off in a past life.

dropout panty street

I’ve been getting some pretty fucking weird search terms that link to here. The weirdest so far being the title.

But I’d like to say, before anyone gets any ideas, that I do not condone dropping out of school. Education is great. It’s free. Don’t waste it. This is not a guide to success(ha) from dropping out. It’s a few stories about a 20 year old girl who works shitty jobs that pay minimum wage. Sooner or later, I won’t be a high school drop out. (Although, Peachbot – High School Graduate isn’t nearly as catchy. Success stories aren’t nearly as fun!)

The beginning of the end.

Or maybe it was the end of the beginning.

In 2005, I snapped. I fought with my mother, and misunderstood the whole argument. I thought she was implying that I was ungrateful, and that I should leave. She wasn’t. But I did leave.
I waited until she went to sleep. At about 11:00pm I crawled out of my sisters window with a bag full of clothes and $160 in my wallet. I had no idea where I was going or how I was going to get there, but I was going.

Starting the car was the worst part. I could handle the phone call to tell her I was gone. I could handle the confrontation when I inevitably had to return. I could even handle getting pulled over by the police when she eventually called them, and I was unlicensed and a minor. But there was no way I could deal with getting caught. I could barely put the key in the ignition, and it took me 10 minutes to work up the courage to turn it. I sat there, scared shitless for another 10 after I finally had started it.
I crept out of my neighborhood with my lights off and drove to my best friends house.

She didn’t try to stop me. She didn’t even ask what was wrong. She let me use her computer to mapquest a few places I had decided I might go, and helped me creep back out of her house. Honestly, I wanted her to smack me around and tell me to quit being so stupid.
Soon I was on my way. I was about to get on the freeway when I realized the magnitude of what I’d just done, and what I was about to do. And I was ecstatic.
Los Angeles was to be my destination, after a few minutes of deliberation. I had an internet ex boyfriend there, and I created this crazy idea in my mind that he would know what to do and how to help me. His name was Kage, and he was Jesus risen from the dead in my eyes.

Every hour or so, I’d pull into a rest area and change $2 into quarters. I didn’t have a cell phone, and surprise! Kage and I hadn’t spoken in months. I called him about 8 times before I got to LA. He never answered, but I kept going. I’d figure something out, even if I had to sleep in my car in a Wal-Mart parking lot.
I was driving over the grapevine as daylight was breaking. It would have been beautiful any other time, a real moment, but I stank, I was covered in snot and mascara and I hadn’t slept at all. I still had another hour or so to drive if traffic was nice to me. I didn’t give two shits about the sunrise. I wanted to collapse over the steering wheel and cry.
2 hours, some anticipated morning traffic and another 3 payphone calls later, I picked a nice residential neighborhood, parked and tried to sleep til 7 am. There was no way sleep was going to come willingly. Tired and loopy, I tried one more time to contact Kage.

Success! I havent heard your voice in months, how are you, by the way I’m in the neighborhood and wondered if you wanted to hang out, I’m at Vons, come point me in the direction of your lair!
I’d never met him before. Looking back, I’m pretty sure this was one of the stupidest things I have ever done. But anyway, we went back to his place and as payment for his hospitality, I surrendered my virginity and undying love. The consequences of my actions didn’t matter anymore. I was with him, I was on fire, I was happy.

bbbbbenefit

It’s a bit early to be writing a why post, but it’s for my own benefit. I have an awful short term memory, and I need to stay motivated to do something other than fuck around on myspace when I’m sitting in front of a computer.

I’ve toyed with the idea of starting a blog ever since I learned what a blog was. I used to think I was blogging when I was updating my livejournal when I was 13 about mundane things that happened to me that day. Maybe someday I’ll post a few of them here. They’re not embarrassing enough to be hilarious, I was lazy and angsty back then, but perhaps I could re-write them with a new perspective. “My bitchy physical education teacher, 9 years later”.
Perhaps not.

I eventually learned that real bloggers actually write, a talent I’d later try to accquire. I googled “blogging” and got a bunch of political blog results, and as a teenager, that was the last thing I wanted to read about, so I dismissed the idea of blogging and shoved it out of my mind until a few years ago. I had some real life experiences! I was burning to share them with the world.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this post. I have an awful short term memory.

So I “blog” mostly to remember. What is the point of having an eventful life if I can’t remember the best of it? For example, I once stole my mothers car and drove 6 hours south in the middle of the night. But instead of recalling the best parts when I share this story, I end up telling about how the drive was long and there was a big fight between some adults for a dumb reason, followed by an “Oh, I don’t know”.
I want to learn how to write, and I want to remember the moments that lead me to where I am right now.

Ugh, enough, I sound like a principal making a graduation speech.

Dick

What an appropriate name for the man. Dick. He was a neighbor my family had, kitty corner across the street. He’s dead now, and the only legacy he has are stories told at block parties about what a fucking dick he was.

My family’s first encounter with Dick was about a month after we moved in. I was about to start 3rd grade. He came over, knocked on the door. Oh, neighbors, how nice. But instead of a nice “Welcome to the neighborhood, I’m Dick, from over there” we got “Your lawn is ugly”. My mom gave him the finger in the nicest way possible and shut the door on him. We learned at a block party that Dick had been living in that house for a millenia and had a large police complaint file.

From then on, over the years we were graced with Dick’s presence for many things. Our cats killed a rare bird. Never mind our cats were indoor cats and CATS KILL BIRDS SOMETIMES. The thing he flung down on our porch in accusation was a common bird.
My parents came out into the front yard where my sister and I were playing and taught us how to give the finger after that encounter. They told us that they would allow us to flip Dick off all we wanted without getting in trouble for it. And we took it and ran with it.

The finger turned into mild vandalization. You see, Dick loved two things. His boat, and his lawn. We’d take our dog over to his lawn in the middle of the night and encouraged her to pee in the same spot whenever we remembered. We’d leave her big, gnarly rottweiler turds. We tried to TP his house once, but the light went on and we had to bounce, there’s no doubt in my mind that he had a shotgun or some other kind of weapon to use against the violaters of his precious.
After my parents divorced, he doubled his efforts. I would be walking home from school(on the sidewalk in front of my house) and he would yell things at me. I’m still not sure what, he often slurred strange combinations of words together, as he drank. A lot.
When my rottweiler eventually died, I got a smaller dog and he screamed from the safety of his yard that he would kill her if she ever came near his lawn, and by near, he meant if she took one step off our lawn on to the freedom of the road. He gave it a few half assed tries in his humongous truck when I let her out to run around in the afternoon.

Like I said before, his most prized possessions were his yard, and his boat. When he wasn’t laying on his stomach in the grass with some nail clippers and a ruler, he was sitting at the head of his boat with a 6 pack of beer, pretending to be Captain Dick, commander of the asphalt ocean. As the years went on, he spent more and more time doing this.

Until we had it green tagged.

My mom had let the bastard off easy so far. But she saw him waxing his boat in the street that night, and got an idea.
She called the police station to file a complaint about the watercraft. It was in the street, and it was ugly, and she wanted it gone. The lady on the other line knew exactly who we were talking about, and sent an officer over. He had already gone back inside. I don’t know the procedure, but it involved a tag and a notice to get the boat off the street within 72 hours or it’ll be removed for him. He had nowhere to put his boat. Captain Dick was marooned.
We thought we had him now. He waited until the very last second, had us thinking we were victorious, when he busted open his fence and had the boat pulled into his backyard. This was better than it being towed. He couldn’t reign from his backyard. The asphalt ocean was free again.

The war eventually stopped. He quit threatening to kill my dog. We stopped calling the cops. Every now and then my mom would re-do the lawn, usually with rocks instead of grass, which Dick absolutely hated. But that was about as far as it went.
He died not too long ago. I drove by my old neighborhood. Our ugly lawn was still ugly. His wife hadn’t kept up with his meticulous landscaping and his boat and truck were nowhere to be seen.

Rot in hell, Captain.

Womens Plus Sizes

You know, I thought working in a Halloween super-store would be amazing. I thought I’d get to play with kids dressed up as dinosaurs and bumble bees all day, wear masks at work and decorate the store. It’s what I’ve always seen going into a store, so it must be so. And to be truthful, it is a great job as far as part time jobs go.
But today something happened that made this particular job jump from best job I have ever had, to absolute worst.

So my day was going by pretty normally. I was wearing a crown pulled from our hat rack, halfway through my shift, ready to stuff some people into some costumes, no matter how small the costume is and how fat their thighs are.

It’s my job to ask, but nobody wanted to me to help them. This is what I usually expect, “No, just browsing” and maybe a glare. Until I walk up to her. About 25 years old, mouth full of cold sores, and a thick blond moustache.
“Anything I can help you with?” I regretted these words the second she turned to receive my assistance.

Her name was Sarah and she was half retarded.

I searched through 2 racks of “Sailor Babe” costumes before I found the only extra large we had. Sarah had specifically asked for a Sailor Moon costume, and Sailor Babe was as close as she was gonna get. Walking back to the dressing room, she sees an adult Rainbow Brite rip off costume from the more provocative line of costumes, and decides she would also like an extra large in that as well. Her tits were bigger than my head. There was no way in hell she would fit into either of these. But still, she had to at least try them on.

Ok, I thought, whatever turns your crank. I’d just hand her the costumes over the top of the cubicle and Sarah would be out of my life in 10 minutes.
But she had her shirt and bra off before she even closed the curtain. I had to turn around and say “Here you go!” as though I loved my job. I had to pretend the smell coming from her enormous breasts wasn’t there at all. It was a really hot day, and my section, the dressing rooms, happened to be under a gigantic lamp that made the area feel a good 10 degrees hotter.

I close the curtain for her before I had to see any more of her anatomy. I wasn’t prepared for her cries of “Somebody help me!”. They were soft enough as to where I could pretend that I hadn’t heard them. But my coworker had also endured the sight of Sarah’s naked upper body, and asked me to help her, because she “ain’t gonna do it”. I felt like I was walking to my execution. But what I saw(and smelled) before wasn’t even close to awful compared to what I was about to witness.

Sarah had the costume hiked around her waist, her two tits under the short, tulle lined sailor skirt. Her full bottomed panties were gray and looked like something my grandma would buy. You know those old fashioned panties, covered in lace that come from a box? Yeah.
But never mind her underwear, I was thinking that we all have laundry days and my own period week underwear isn’t anywhere near flattering.
I was going to ask what she needed when she turned around. I was seeing the largest jungle bush I had ever laid eyes on, and I’ve seen a lot of jungle bush. I was the kid who read Nat’l Geo mags just to see some nudie tribeswomen. This was the mother of all gaping entrances. The vines covering the door to some kind of fucked up secret garden of my worst nightmares.

Sarah jumped out of her dressing room to show the entire store her hilarious Sailor Moon pose, legs spread, the tulle under the skirt pushing it up, vagina for the store to see.

And I was the only one who witnessed it.

We didn’t make it past Sailor Babe’s bushy twat before her mother spotted her, balls out, and rushed over to push her back in the room. Rainbow Brite was a no go, thank fucking god, because it was a tube dress even shorter than Sailor Babe, and I don’t think I could have gone through that again. I was rescued by my manager who asked me to go on break before I even had to ask about it.

I hate halloween.