Our Trip to the Zoo, Part 5

Poor zebra, he's so bored. He longs to be free to roam the zoo, buy a pretzel and get his picture taken by someone who'll charge him $20 a print. Mr. Z, you don't know how good you've got it.
The Flamingos were great. They're housed with the ducks, who are very raucous neighbors. They were making all kinds of noise, chasing eachother and occasionally running into these pink birds.
This third one reminded Janet of a vaccuum cleaner as he continued to drag his beak accross the pond's floor. I like the ripplage in this picture.
Thus concludes my series of zoo pics.

 

Our Trip to the Zoo, Part 4

This is the daddy panda. The panda exhibit kind of bugged me, not because of the signs that said we had to be quiet, but because of the way it is formatted. Instead of being able to walk up to the panda habitat, guests have to walk through a line. An unecessarily long line. The line was dragged outside of the exhibit, and when we finally got inside the exhibit we saw that the congestion was caused by stupid people. These people would wait to get as close to the pandas as they possibly could, whip out their $500+ cameras and spend minutes taking pictures. In a normal exhibit that's understandable to me, but this was a line. Lines are meant to move; click, click and you're done! Now I know their cameras are great and all, but come on! These people weren't satisfied with one or two great shots, oh no. They had to get every moment of cuteness these pandas could squeeze out. I was extremely lucky to get this second picture of the baby panda about to pick his teeth or his nose with his lunch!
The third picture is of a sunburned Me on a reflective polar bear stature. I don't know if you could tell, but staying on that bear was not an easy task.
 

Our Trip to the Zoo, Part 3

This is what's known as a Bearded Warthog. We knew him as stinky. For being so fierce (you can't see his teeth in this picture), these guys were actually kind of cute. At one point they just kept chasing each other around their pin. He kind of reminds me of a soldier in the Civil War.
I'm not really sure what this next little guy is. I missed the sign. But he kind of looks like a punked-out Bambi. He has his little mohawk and his antler piercings. He's hard core and cute as can be!
The third photo is of some flowers at a break area. I just liked the colors. Just in case you don't already know, the drinking fountain water at the zoo is yucky, and made me feel crummy in the tummy. Of course, it could've also been the heat and all of the walking we did. You're better off paying $3.50 (part of the money is a zoo donation) for a bottle of water from a machine.
 

Our Trip to the Zoo, Part 2

Our following two photos are of meerkats. If you've ever wondered what meerkats look like, or live under a rock and have never watched "The Lion King", then feast your eyes upon the first two cuddly pictures. Look at the first little guy digging a hole so he can hide from all of our cameras. Aww... Or the second one, who was posing for us. You can tell which one has been there a while.
The third photo is of a mommy and baby warthog eating together. I was so proud of this pic. I framed them in the leaves and it looked great in the viewer on my camera. But upon loading it onto my computer, I realized I had a great picture of some leaves. But I decided to post it, anyway, for memory's sake.

Our Trip to the Zoo, Part 1

Last Thursday, Briggidy, Brandy, Their Aunt Kathy, their cousins Julie, Janet and I all went to the San Diego Zoo. It was great. We all laughed at everything and all the animals were super-cute. By the end, we were all tired and cranky. Okay, by the end, I was tired and cranky. But we still all had fun. I was sore and exhausted for three days, afterwards, after all of the walking we did. But we finished off the night with chocolate chip pancakes, so it was all in all a great day.
I didn't take nearly as many pictures as some of the others, but I thought I would space these out, anyway. The first one is of a Tree Kangaroo, who clearly is not in a tree. The second photo is of two of the Giraffs you can feed at two different times each day. Most of us fed them. Their tongues are long and slimey, but they have hand sanitizer for after they've taken your biscut. The third photo is a cute baby Giraff. Apparently, when a Giraff is born, she falls six feet to the ground. We think it's scary when we're born: it's cold, bright and who are all these people staring at you? At least we don't have to drop a great distance to the ground and are expected to immediately stand up. We're such wimps.
 

Proof

Here is the proof that I did in fact work at Disneyland. You can't just go and get these things made. For four glorious days, I was a cast mamber. And if I lived closer, I might consider working there, again. That is, if I were to find myself in the same situation and not moved on to bigger and better things. It might be fun to work in the entertainment division, but they don't have too many shows going on there. I guess they don't have too many people working there with my name, or they at least didn't expect to get any more Alithias before the end of the 50th celebration. Well, this is just another item that will have to go up in the museum the world builds for me after I take it over. 

Aww...

Look at our little kitty, Tiger. She's an angel... when she's sleeping. In this house, you won't find a cat who cuddles better. 

Welcome to the desert! Watch out for exploding garages!

Well, this neighborhood is yucky. Two weeks ago, I would've said it was fine. But last week we had some new neighbors move into a house accross the street. These people moved into a house who's garage caught on fire (an unfortunately common occurence in the desert) several months ago. Well, last week they were moving stuff into their garage, and they were blaring music out of their parked car. It wouldn't have been so bad, but it was pimp n' ho music, and it was so loud (how loud was it?) I could hear every word through my walls. So on my way out, I parked my car in front of their driveway (not in it, in front of it) and told them to turn it down. Well, they didn't like that very much. The lady's two young daughters (oldest being around twelve) started calling me horrible names, and the mom joined in. I threatened to call the cops on them, which shut them up for about two seconds, then they continued to call me names. As I drove off I tried to flash them the backwards peace sign, but I was so flustered I kept putting up the wrong fingers. It looked like I was counting to three to them, very forcefully. So I don't talk to them, I don't look at them, and if they're outside I either stay inside or leave altogether. But at least the music's stopped.
On Saturday, the mom got into a fight with a man I'm assuming is her boyfriend. It was a tussle. She was chasing him around the yard, they were shouting, and the crowning moment was when she threw some big, heavy piece of metal at his head (it missed). Ooh, she also punched her daughter in the face when she tried to stop them. Well, my mom called the cops (and I was just waiting for my tires to get slashed, later) and about four cars showed up to their house in a matter of minutes. The mom received some kind of citation, and the boyfriend left shortly after the cops did. Nothing else has happened with them, since.
Saturday evening, it sounded like someone was setting off fire crackers. At one point in the evening, it sounded like a major rocket exploded about twenty feet above our houses. It was so loud (how loud was it?) that it shook our house a little and set off my car alarm. The police started driving around our street after that.
Yesterday evening, I was driving home from job-hunting. As I turned on our street, I noticed that it was block off by cars. They were all normal sedan-type cars, but there was one ugly cadillac-type car in the center, primered and battered. They were blocking off the street about three houses from mine. As I made to turn my car around, I saw in the driveway of the house (on our side of the street). There were a bunch of people, sitting in the driveway in a circle with their hands behind their backs. A few police officers were standing above them. There's nothing in the papers about it, which kind of surprises me. That could mean that this stuff happens all the time, or it could mean that we can expect more of this crap to happen, as it may be part of an unfinished investigation.
I can hardly wait.

One year old! Oh, my!

Happy Anniversary to my blog,
Happy Anniversary to my blog,
Happy Anniversary, dear Pretty...
Happy Anniversary to my blog!

The elusive Miss Skippy

She just doesn't like that flash-thingy.
"I said no pictures!" She's telling me. 

So, naturally, I blame my Mother.

Seeing as how I mostly use this blog for complaining, anyway, I may as well keep it going. This will not be a pretty post, no pun intended.
Life is just sucky, right now. I think the video game was "Space Invaders", where your little ship was at the bottom of the screen and could move from left to right, while space ships would come down in rows upon you while you shot at them. Usually you lost the game, because so many of those little ships would come at you, that you would dart frantically back and forth across the bottom of the screen, shooting your little pellets all the way, until the ships landed on you and squashed you like the little Atari bug you were.
So, 2005 wasn't exactly my best year, ever. Granted, it wasn't the best year for a lot of people. But 2006 isn't exactly shaping up to be a stellar one, either. I keep making choices and darting back and forth, losing money all the way. I'm not being very smart about things, and neither are my parents, to be perfectly blunt. I thought I was going to be able to help them, but it's kind of looking like we're all getting sucked into this vortex of hopelessness. I just can't help but wonder how this all ended up this way.
I've sort of had it up to here with my Mom. She like to blame a lot of things. She blames my Dad's massive heart attack in 1998 and being unable to work for a year for them having to move out of their house into a smaller, crappier one. She blames me for trying (and failing) to have an acting career in Los Angeles for seven years and constantly borrowing money from them so I could pay my bills. She blames her old boss for firing her from a job she held for over ten years for triggering her manic depression (to this day, she still has violent dreams about her). She blames her unwillingness to get up every day for the job she miraculously still has on her lack of proper perscription drugs, or on the weather if she has the proper drugs. And then (just like me, I'm so flattered!) she complains about not having enough money.
Tonight, I came home from training for the final night at a restaurant in an outlet mall in Ontario. This is a place I do not want to work, but I thought I did because it's a serving job. But I won't make money, there, because it's nothing but 10% tips or less, and I'm already $200 in the red and-- oh-- you know the drill. So I come home, and after my Dad goes to bed she lets me know two things: the company that sold Dad his car is appealing My parents' bancruptcy and wants to repossess his car, and Mom wishes they would just sell this house.
Naturally, this makes me livid. So, I first say that Dad can drive her Mustang to work and I can drive her to work, to which Mom scoffs and says,
"Then how will I get home?"
"Dad can pick you up." I say. More scoffing ensued.
Then I said, that under no circumstances, will it or should even remotely be considered that we will be selling this house. Because they are not renting an apartment and I am not living on the street. No. No. No.
Mom went into an "of course we won't, but we can't afford it" kind of mumble. She then went on to say that we're having a family discussion about money on Saturday, and strongly suggested without actually saying it that I needed to give them money (that money I don't actully have and probably won't have for another three months).
Things are bad, and they are going to be getting worse. Immediately speaking, I'm probably going to get my car repoed in about two weeks if a miracle doesn't happen, immediately. Constantly speaking, it is damn hard living with a bipolar person. I know I have bipolar friends, I know there is a very strong possibility that I am an undiagnosed bipolar person (I have been diagnosed with depression, but who hasn't?). But it is damn hard having a bipolar mother. Your mother is supposed to be strong. She is not supposed to decide each morning that she's giving up because the world is against her, and when things are falling apart around her and her family she shares none of the blame because we just don't understand her. There have been times when I have gone into my Mom's room at noon and told her to get up for the fifth time in three hours, only to be yelled at drowsily to not worry about her, and have her turn on her side right in front of me. Dad calls her each morning at nine, and she lies to him and says she's up (actually, she's stopped doing that so much, because I'm telling him so). It makes me physically angry. I've tried doing things like turning on her shower in an attempt to force her to get up and turn it off. But it just stays on for about an hour. I've turned the TV onto a reggae music station extremely loud, but she just yells at me and falls back to sleep. Sometimes the theatrics do work, but they get old, fast. Lately, I've been doing practically nothing, and gently waking her once or twice to let her know what time it is. Sometimes that works. Often times, it doesn't. I honestly don't know how she's keeping her job, when she hasn't shown up over half the time she's been working there.
I know I sound like a harsh person. I know I sound like a hard, unloving daughter who definitely doesn't know how to deal with people who are afflicted with such a horrible... affliction. But my only other option is to agree with her and say the world is, in fact, against her. And me, while we're at it. Hey, maybe I should curl up and sleep my life away, too. I'm sure the sand will become comfortable when we're out on the street, once we get used to it. I can't live like that, and I know at some point she's not going to want to live like that, either. There is a determined and sensible person inside my Mom and it's being clouded by an unconfident and despairing being that I wish I didn't recognize. I wish I could perform an excorcism and get rid of her depression, but I don't want to give myself any ideas. Mom would probably like me throwing water on her and yelling, "BE GONE, DEMON!" as much as the raggae version of "La Bamba".
So, to sum up: we're not getting any richer, we're all very unhappy and we're about to only have one car between the three of us.
Enjoy it while you can, ex-boyfriends and stupid girls I pissed off in high school. I guarantee you that this little Atari ship is doing everything she can to make sure it doesn't last too long.

I've conformed!

In case anyone's curious, I am now on myspace. That doesn't mean I won't ever post on here, again. Look, I'm posting, right now. Unfortunately, I am sleepy, and nothing spectacular is coming into my brain to write, so here is my myspace address: http://www.myspace.com/pisleogem

A Day Without a Pretty

Today is May Day. In renaissance Europe, May Day was a celebration of Spring, life and fertility. Young maidens would dance around a maypole, holding ribbons that started at the top and danced around until the ribbons braided to the bottom. In Central and South America, May Day is a worker's holiday to take the day off and do whatever you want. Essentially, it's Labor Day (Labour Day for our Canadian friends). And in the United States, it will now be known (at least for a little while) as the Day Without an Immigrant. And on this day when a mostly Mexican crowd goes out to try and prove they are neccessary for the country to function, I can take a moment to ponder my on-going quest... for employment.
I mean, seriously, what does a woman have to do to get a job in this sand trap?
Maybe it's my attitude?
Truth be told, I've actually worked in two places since the beginning of April. The first place was a place I've only dreamed of working at, before. I'll give you a hint: Disneyland. I went down there, after I'd learned they had a commuter assistance program, and was hired the same day. Orientation was great, and I got my name tag which was gold with "Class of 2006" underneath my full name (Pretty's just a nickname, my full name is Gorgeous ;P). For four glorious days, I worked parade control (I met Maynard, and he's nice. If you're even a hint of a Disney Geek, you know who I'm talking about) and trained on Star Tours. Let me just say that the height requirement is there for a reason. I actually got to go below into "the cage" and watch a Starspeeder in flight. When it's in settle mode (not in motion), the Starspeeder sits 10 feet above the ground and 4 stories below the ceiling. When the ride is in motion, it uses all of that space. Watching the Starspeeder like that was the most awesomest thing I have seen. So, if your child is shorter than 40 inches, or your grown friend unfortunately does not have enough of a torso to fit past the safety belt, then it really is in their best interest that they don't ride the ride. And trust me, they won't be able to. Making sure people who don't meet the hieght requirement stay off Star Tours is the number one responsibility of a Cast Member.
Unfortunately, the commuter assistance program they offered wasn't what I thought it was going to be, and I couldn't take part in it. So, a week after I got the job, I had to respectfully resign. Man, was I bummed. Quitting Disneyland was like breaking up with a boyfriend I didn't want to break up with. It honestly gave me the same feeling. I didn't help matters that most of my clothing, accessories, photos, and my computer have Disneyland plastered all over it.
But then I immediately landed a job, here, at a fusion restaurant in the hoity-toity area of the desert. It was terrible! The food and the atmosphere was wonderful, of course, but they are rapidly in the process of going out of business. On average, I made $25 a day for a week. Practically no one came in. And everything was done on paper(eeeww)! On Sunday, I went in and was the only server and busser. I couldn't keep up, because I had to do everything short of cooking and washing the dishes. Then at the end of the day, my manager pulled me aside and told me to forget the schedule for this week, because she completely forgot (uh-huh) that my week evaluation was up, and the managers would decide whether I was staying, and she would call me on Wednesday. So, I'm basically looking for a new job, which I'm completely okay with, because $25 a day won't pay my bills. And if they fire me, I can collect unemployment (woo-hoo) until I find a new job.
So, today I hit our restaurant row. I had a manager at the Scottish Place tell me not to apply at the cookie-cutter corporate restaurants, because it would look bad on my resume. Well, pride is all well and good, but right now my check balance is speaking a little bit louder than my ego. Actually, it's screaming at me and threatening me with pitch forks and torches (I mentally represent my check balance with medieval European peasants, what of it?). All I'm asking is $40 a shift in tips. That's hardly unreasonable. $40 a shift will pay my bills. A server can make that out here, no problem. I kept track of my sales-to-tips ratio at the fusion place (which they didn't like me doing, go figure), and people tip about the same out here as they do in L.A. I just need a place where I can make $40 a day, have a busser, and have a computer system.
Okay, that should cover me for a few days, at least.

Worst Garage Sale Ever!

Oh, my goodness. Okay, so we woke up at about 6:00am and started putting things out and cleaning things off. By about 7:00am, we had a few early birds. You know, you specifically put in your ad, in bold type, "No early birds". But people don't listen. They think, "everyone except me". But that was the least of our problems.

One of our neighbors came to check out our stuff and introduce herself. She lives on the corner, and we talked about how this town is stupid because they won't allow you to put up signs to advertise your sale unless it's on your property. Then she left, and for two hours nothing happened. No one came. Finally, Dad and I decided to put a sign on a box and sit it on the corner of the road with two big rocks in it. As we walked to the corner, we saw a whole bunch of cars at our neighbor's house, and she had stuff in her driveway! She was having a garage sale, too, but she never put an ad in the paper. She was sponging off of our ad! People saw the name of our street in the ad, and when they got to the corner they'd go to her sale and never even see ours! That slimey bitch...

So, I took action. I gunned it to the party supply store to buy balloons and crap. If we didn't have the prime location, then we would compensate with flashy decorations. Fortunately, I know my audience. In a mostly conservative, Republican town, what colors would be the most effective? Red, white and blue! I bought a dozen balloons, bunting, flags and streamers and stuck them all over the front of our yard and our cars. Sure enough, the people started coming. And some of them actually bought stuff, too.

We just barely made a profit, but we decided to look at this as a "rehearsal" garage sale to get a feel for the area. Because if we look at it as an actual garage sale, it was pitiful. Besides the cheating, no-good, under-handed neighbors, Mom fell down in the hallway as she was trying to grab something from another room. She tripped on a chair and gave herself a beautiful black eye. I'm just happy I took out the sharp wooden storage box we had in the hallway from the spot before her head landed there. I think this made her realize that we need to get rid of most of this stuff-- it's not only depressing to have no space, it's dangerous. Besides that, I got sunburnt, and the cats crapped all over the living room to show us their disgust at being left alone while we were right outside for seven hours. So, yeah. Not the greatest sale, ever, by any means.

At least there's June...

Pictures of Kitties and Sand

So guess who's computer can finally get online? Mine! As promised, here are the pictures of kitties and sand. To your left, the first picture is of Lucky. Who knew an A-Cup was the perfect fit for a cat's head? And can you blame him for wanting to use it as a pillow? It is padded, after all.
The next photo is of Lucy and Lucky, the constant cuddlers. They are the first cats of the household, and thus best buds.
The third picture is of Tiger, looking as paranoid as ever. She has claimed me as her pet human.
Fourth picture is of a lovely tree in our yard. That house actually belongs to a neighbor. You can just barely see sand beneath all of those weeds.
Much has happened in the time between posts, but I can't go through it all, now, as I am very sleepy. So, good night.
Before I go, a quick plug: to the right are my links to interesting sites. One of the sites is devoted to a band called Downtown Harvest. Their music is really fun and very good. Recently, they released an album, and if you click on the link, you can listen to it and buy it for $10.95. I reccommend buying it for yourself, then for friends, family and anyone else who needs to hear about being in Bob's Disco House ("B.O.B"). Night night!


 

My jeans are falling apart!

Well, my mom ordered a router and adapter, so I may have my computer up and running by this next week. So you know what that means: pictures of cats and sand!

So much sand...

It's been cloudy, quite often, as it has been in all of southern California. And it's been super windy here, too. But it's almost always super windy, here. And it simply isn't warm, yet. I wish I'd get hired somewhere, so I could make some money and by some amazing clothing, already. I finally got my security deposit, and it was about $200 less than I was expecting. Oh well, another thing to remind me of why I left L.A. (never enough money)

I dropped out of the play. I did this for several reasons. First off, I couldn't stand the play. Second, they wanted me to memorize many, many lines, and I know that I'm simply not ready for a role that large in such a short amount of time. Third, the owner of the restaurant flat out told me he needed me to wait tables for him on Wednesday, and then asked me if I could do it. Maybe it doesn't read as shifty as it sounded, but I hadn't filled out a W-2 with him, and my gut was telling me that this wouldn't be the only time something like this would happen. I could just picture, three months down the road, working for practically no money at the owner's beck and call and memorizing badly-written plays that I really didn't want imprinted on my brain. It struck me that that is not why I came out here. I took a different direction so that I could do what I wanted to do, not more of what other people wanted me to do (while I realize compromises need to be made sometimes, my goal is not to be a big pushover, anymore). So I'm demanding a better situation for myself. Even if it takes a while (because it's certainly taking longer than I expected it to-- I thought I'd be working by now), it's okay, because I'm in a situation where I have to worry as much.

Speaking of getting a job, that one restaurant I went to that said they'd probably hire me-- uh-- hasn't called, yet. I'm still confident they'll call me, because they said they were retrofitting their computers in a few weeks, and that's when they'd start training people. But still, if they haven't called by this weekend, I'm going to call them. And then, maybe (ugh!) I'll look for a job, again.

So that's what's happening over here. Don't forget, dear readers, to set your clocks forward on Saturday night.

It's not the house so much as the lifestyle...

Well, my computer's still not set up, so no pictures, yet. Don't fret, it'll happen. Because I know you're all just dying to see more pictures of the cats. And sand. So much sand...

Things are still moving slowly, here. But, you know, I think maybe that's just the way things work, here. It's nice, sometimes, but also really frustrating. Last week I did nothing but job hunt. It felt extremely unproductive. My first thought, naturally, was to look for a job as a waitress, since I have the most experience doing that. But since there are only so many nice restaurants out here, pretty much none of them are hiring. One nice one has had an ad in the paper for about three weeks. I actually applied twice over there (once with one manager, and once with another), and I haven't heard anything. I even went down the hill to Rancho Cucamonga, and everyone was extremely snotty. You know what I can't stand? I go to all the trouble to make a really nice resume and reference sheet, and no one wants one. Everywhere I went, the hostess would only accept an application, which usually asked for less information than I provided on my resume. My favorite part was when they told me when they accepted the applications, and I was still about an hour or so within the time limit for the day.

Then on Friday, my dad called me up and said their was an ad in the paper (because he takes it with him) for auditions for a mystery dinner theatre. I went to check it out, and I got a part. The owner gave my a copy of the show on DVD, so I could get an idea of what it's like. Here's my idea: it's horrible. Oh, my goodness, it's sooooo bad. It's about these hillbillies who are being hounded by an IRS agent who gets killed, and the dad is sexually abusing the daughter, but it's supposed to be funny because they're hillbillies, and all this crap. The writing is terrible. There is no back story. You just discover things as the show goes along (while that may sound appropriate for a mystery show, it's still lame). The cast is all right, but their morale is low, because it's such a lousy show and less people are seeing it. But it pays a dollar a head and I have no money, so let's put on a show!

I find it ironic that, while in L.A., I couldn't land an acting job to save my life, but I could get normal jobs pretty easy. But when I move back home, I can't find a normal job, but land an acting gig, right away.

I went to a rehearsal on Saturday, and only two people showed up on time besides me. Everyone else showed up an hour and a half, later. When the show went on, that night, I got to be a hostess.

Today is rehearsal, and they would like me to learn the lines for the detective and be show-ready by Friday. Now, I don't mean to be whiney, but the detective has 70% of the show's lines. It's been about six years since I've had to memorize a role with that many lines, and I don't know if I can pull that off in time.

Wait, it gets better.

Yesterday, I got a call from a nice restaurant that is only about a five-minute drive for me. I went in for an interview, filled out an application, and was told I'll more than likely be hired in a few days. This is great news, but now I may not be able to do the dinner theatre. That also wouldn't be so bad, but I haven't been in anything for about six years, like I said ( I don't count extra work as acting).

Well, we'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I'm taking a break from the job hunt, today, and I'm going to learn some lines.

Here I am! Or... Welcome to the House of Confusion

This is just an update to let you all know that I have officially moved and I am fine. My computer's still not set up, yet, so there will be no photos in this update.
Time has just been going so slowly since I arrived. It is just so incredibly messy in this house, I often don't know where to begin. The garage is completely full, from ceiling to floor, with boxes and furniture that won't fit in the house. The biggest gripe I have is many of the boxes are actually empty, and my parents don't want me to throw them away.
About two or three years ago, my parents moved out of a huge 4BR/3BA house with a 3-car garage and a storage shed in the backyard, and into a 3BR/2BA house with a 2-car garage and practically no closet space. Dad doesn't want to throw anything away and Mom has all of these clothes. Most of the clothes still have tags on them and some are two or three sizes too small, for when she loses weight. Needless to say, nothing has really changed since they've lived out here. Sometimes they'll make a little progress and sort some things or move a mess of stuff from one room to another, but they won't actually get rid of anything. It's a very depressing situation, or as I like to call it (but not actually to them) "The House of Confusion".
Well, we are going to have a yard sale in April, even if it's a crappy one. Mom wants to have one big one, with lots of organization and advertising. But she won't actually do anything about it. Dad just wants to set some stuff out on the driveway with the hope that shoppers with garage sales running through their veins will be able to sniff us out. But neither has actually happened. Now we do things my way.
Last week I bought a storage unit (because I couldn't get to anything in the garage. I got tired just looking at it). Each day I take anywhere from 5 to 15 boxes over. Before I take them over, I open them, write down on a pad of paper what's in the box next to a number, close the boxes, and slap numbers onto them. Once I have labled as many boxes as I can (and my storage unit is filled), I will schedule a yard sale (find out what's legal in the city, ads, blah blah crap). When we have the sale in April, we will look at the list, decide what we want to sell this sale, and put it in the driveway. What doesn't sell gets donated at the end of the sale. Then we will have another one in June or July, and a final one in September.
Then we can have fun? Maybe. Then we focus on making the house liveable. You know I can't plug anything into the outlets in my room because they're falling apart or have paint in the holes? And I know I mentioned the lack of closet space. And the windows... don't even get me started on the windows. The fact that I'm covered in cat fur no matter what I do pales in comparison to how I feel about the windows. No, I'm thinking 2006 might not be a very fun year for me. I could be wrong. We'll see.
What I do know is I need a job. My old apartment isn't exactly being prompt with my security deposit, and my previous fundage is running low. I need to get a job where I make about $1200/mo and only work about 3-5 days a week, because I have a second job here at the HoC. And really, it's hard for me to get anything else done when I'm working 6 days a week.
So, that's how it is, right now. I still don't know when my computer will be up and running, but I'm sure it will be... by the summer.
Maybe.
It's confusing, here.

Final L.A. Post (for now...)

Well, I'm 99% packed. I ran out of boxes, but all the stuff that needs to be in boxes are in boxes. I'm pulling out the trash bags, next.
I'm in a much better temperament this move than I was my last move. Of course, I haven't actually moved, yet. But at least this time, I labeled my boxes, specifically, instead of writing "RANDOM CRAP" on each one with magic marker.
Right now, I have a fierce case of the hiccups. I've had them for about a half hour, now. They'll go away at some point, but I'll get them again within the next 24 hours. I always do.
Okay, well, I guess this is it, for a few days, anyway. I'm not sure when I'll post, again. I guess there's no phone jack in my room, yet. But as soon as I have one installed, I'll let you all know what it's like in beautiful, slightly North-Eastern, Southern California.
TTFN! 

My little going-away party.

Today was my going-away party, thrown by my fellow servers from the Scottish Place. Well, there was one manager there, but she used to be a server so it counts. My party was held in the afternoon at the Disney Soda Fountain/Gift Shop, which everyone felt was appropriate. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a chocolate phosphate (as shown, left), and for dessert I had a Black and White Sundae. It was delicious! I recieved a card signed by everyone from the Scottish Place and $200! That just blew me away, it was so very nice of everyone. As the first wave of people started to leave, several more people showed up. One brought her daughter and her grand-twins, who were just adorable. They're going through their drooling phase, and I learned I'm not too keen about that. But they were still cute. After the second wave was finished eating, we headed our separate ways.
I would just like to thank everyone who showed up, and to those who didn't but still wished me well.
The photo below features the first wave of guests, including Mickey. I don't have pseudonyms for you all, so I'll use initials.
Featured are M.R. (who is showing off her "I ate the whole thing" pin that she got for finishing her sundae), V.B., A.S., Me, S.B. and D.R.
Those not shown but who I'd also like to thank are S.R., D.R., s.r. & s.r. (twins), Y.M. and V.D.

No more brunch for me! Hooray!

Today was my last brunch. It truly was a wonderful thing. Brunch was the bane of my existance, and I no longer have to deal with it (until I get a job somewhere else that serves brunch).
Here are the reasons I loved brunch:
1. All the blueberry muffins I could eat.
2. Getting to vent with my fellow coworkers about my (evil) guests.

Now, here are the reasons I hated brunch:
1. Free champagne. Oh my goodness. Okay, these people that come in actually expect me to pour them champagne during every minute of my shift. Calm down people, it's free. It's not like you have to worry about getting your money's worth.
2. The stress. It doesn't matter what time you come in, you will be sat before your shift actually begins. One brunch, I was told that I'd been sat a table as I was walking into the restaurant. And if you have plans right after your shift, forget them. I had an audition about an hour after brunch ended, once, and had to miss it, because I was still working.
3. The free champagne. There is never an open bottle when you need one. And if there is, it's empty. I'll say this: if it weren't for brunch, I wouldn't know how to open a bottle of champagne. My first few brunches, I had so many plastic corks popping out of bottles and riqochetting off of walls. Luckily, no one was hurt.
4. The evil guests. Okay, I must stress this: 90% of the guests at brunch are actually nice people. They're just there with friends and family, maybe after church, out to make the most of their Sunday. But there is that 10% of people who are simply miserable and angry about life, in general, and actually want to piss you off. These people should not eat out. In fact, they should not even leave their homes until they can find their happy place. But society doesn't work that way, and so the angry people are allowed to go out. Most of them like to go to the Scottish Place for Sunday brunch. They usually yell at the server. They yell and yell and yell, and when I don't give them anything free (because let's face it, they don't deserve it), my tip becomes very tiny (unless her husband is paying, and then my tip is really big). I could be wrong, but I think most of these people are evil because of... (say it with me...)
5. The free champagne. I swear, I had this lady who stopped short of slapping me because I told her we had no more champagne. The fact that brunch had been over for an hour and a half did not matter to her. The fact that dinner was now starting did not matter to her, either. Some times, you just need to stop and think if you're fighting over something that actually matters in the over-all scheme of things.

So, seeing as how the cons clearly out-weigh the pros, I am very happy that today was my last brunch.

Ta-daaaa!!! Blonde Pretty!

Well, I did it. I went to a salon in West Hollywood, sat in the stylist's chair and, three hours later, I'm a blonde!
I was just going to leave my hair be, but the more I looked at it, the more I realized that carrot orange was just not my hue.
It definitely cost more than I expected, but I like it.
I can't wait to see what it's going to look like in a few days, when my natural wave kicks in.
Thus ends (or begins, depending on up-keep) the saga of my hair.
Thank you for reading. 

What the...?

As you can see, my hair does not match the color on the box. It's not even close. The box even says "designed for dark hair". It also says "Rich color with no unwanted brassiness or unnatural tones". It goes on to say "100% Gray coverage". Well, dear readers, I put this stuff all over my hair, and I still have one gray hair showing. So it's only 99.9% gray coverage, approximately.

Oh yeah, I am totally showing the brand name.

The instructions told me to leave it on my hair for 25 minutes. And I did. Clairol sucks major butt.

While this color doesn't look that bad on me, it's not what I wanted. I am so going to the salon... at some point. We'll see how it looks, tomorrow.

Bye bye, Brunette Pretty.

Oh yeah, who should be a model?

Seriously, though, I am in need of some concealer or something. I look like I've been awake for two days in a row.

Anyway, I decided to change my hair color. I'm bored, and I'm in the process of going through a big change. Interestingly (or not), when women go through a big change, one of the first things many of us do is change our hair. It's symbolic, and it's something I'm totally cool with doing. I don't know how long this will last. It probably all depends on how good it looks. Or if I get bored, again.

I'll post another photo when I'm done.

P.S. My hair looks really good in this picture. It never looks this good in real life. I'd just brushed it.

Horoscope for today for me

Daily extended (by Astrology.com)
For the next few weeks, you're going to shock and amaze the masses -- not to mention the folks you see on a regular basis. You might also end up looking in the mirror and wondering who that is. Don't fight it. Everybody gets to try on a different personality for a while every now and then. It's your turn. You're going to be struck with a heady dose of fire. Put it to good use.

Hi, my name is Pretty, and I will be your lousy server, today.

I have been behaving quite reckless at work, lately. I think it's a combination of relief and frustration, if that's possible. The optimist in me would like to say that this is a sudden surge in confidence, but this is just not me.
Earlier this week I had a table, well, let me set this up. It was the lunch shift that would not end. The kitchen was slower that normal, and I had two tables that asked for something at the same time. One wanted more butter, and the other was expecting two first courses and also requested more butter. Well, I multi-tasked and put the two first courses and two butters on one tray.
I had a choice to make: who gets served first? Do I give the first courses to the two guys and the lady on 17? Or do I just give the butter to the old couple on 16? I actually thought about this as I was taking the tray out, because I knew that my choice would have consequences.

"But, Pretty," You say, "It's just butter. Who cares about butter?"
To you, I say, "You do not know the Scottish Place, or the restaurant business. I may even go so far as to say you do not know people."
You see, whoever I serve first is a matter of pride and ego to these people. It's not just butter I'm serving. The person I don't serve first is receiving the message that they are not as important as the person who is getting the butter, now.
"Oh, come on, Pretty." You insist. "People aren't that shallow."
All right, I'll give you a suppose:
Suppose you're sitting at a table in a restaurant, and someone-- let's say you-- ordered a steak, well done. There's a table next to you with two people at it, and they ordered an entree salad and a bowl of soup ten minutes after you ordered your food. Now, the other table's food comes out, first. Your food comes out immediately after. Are you mad?
"Well,"
Yeah?
"No, but--"
But, what?
"I'd be a little insulted. I sat down first."
But you ordered steak, well done. That takes forever to do.

Okay, enough arguing with someone who isn't actually there. Point being that I knew, I knew that if I put the old couple's butter down first, the lady on 17 would say something. But I still chose to put the old couple's butter down first, anyway. It was just butter, after all. Then I took one first course in each hand and put them down on table 17. Immediately, the lady looked at me.
"You know," She said, smuggly. "You forgot the butter."
This was the same butter that was still sitting on the tray, waiting for me to grab it. I knew she'd say something. I knew it.
"I'm sorry," I started, I just couldn't contain myself. "I left my third arm at home, today."
I saw the stunned look on their faces for a second, and then turned around and grabbed their butter. The happy ending of this, is they laughed hysterically, loved me and tipped me $20 on a $70 check.

Now it's time for a bad story that happened tonight. I had a party of fifteen and five of them wanted Hot Fudge Sundaes. Let me explain why this is a bad thing. We recently changed the way we do our HFSs. Now we have this huge, gorgeous dish that we place one huge scoop of ice cream. We grab a pitcher of hot fudge and two silver bowls. One is filled with whipped cream and one is filled with chopped almonds. Then we take out all of this on a tray and prepare the sundae tableside.
"Would you like whipped cream?" We ask the person.
"Yes, please." They say. So we pour a little bit of hot fudge onto the ice cream and put one teaspoon of whipped cream on top. Ideally, it's supposed to sit on top, perfectly.
"Would you like nuts?" We then ask the person.
"Yes, please." They say. So we scoop three teaspoons of nuts onto the sundae. Finally, we pour a little hot fudge on top and place the sundae and remaining pitcher of hot fudge in front of the person. We then take the bowls of whipped cream and nuts back into the kitchen.
"What happens when the person asks for more whipped cream or nuts?" I asked at the meeting where we were trained to make the sundaes.
"They won't." My manager said.
"Yes they will." Another server said.
"The portions you dish out will be enough." She said. And so ended the meeting. I don't think people took her very seriously, but I did. Maybe I just interpreted what she said wrond. There are many ways to interpret something, if it's vague enough.
So I took the five HFS set-ups and two other desserts on a tray out to my table. It was all extremely heavy. As I picked up the tray each time and set it in front of each person to do their sundae presentation, everything went of without a snag. Right up until I finished and was about to take everything away.
"Can I get anybody anything else?" I asked, insinuating coffee.
"Yeah, can I have some more nuts?" A guy asked. This was the first time anyone had asked me that question.
"No, I'm sorry." I said, apologetically. And I started to pick up the tray and walk away.
"Wait, seriously?" One of the women asked.
"No," I shrugged. "I'm sorry." And I walked away.
No, wait. Here's the stupid part. I went into the kitchen and related this story to my manager. She asked me why I did this, and I said it's because that's what we were trained to do. She firmly denied it, and then some people from my table complained to her.
I'm not in trouble, yet, but I know it's comming. In one way or another. I mean, wouldn't it be? Rule number one of the Scottish Place is you do not tell the guest "no" (unless we're out of something, or it's a major holiday). And I said no, twice.
I know I only have twenty-eight more days of work at the Scottish Place, at the most. But what's going to happen when I try to become a waitress once I move in with my parents? First, am I even going to be able to land a job when other places call the Scottish Place? Then, am I going to act rashly at the new place, too? Or is this just the waitressing equivalent of senioritis?
Either way, I've got to stop this behavior. People don't like a waitress who's unpredictable, not matter how much more interesting it makes the job.
At some point, though, I really need to find a new day job. Waitressing is aging me. Of course, so is poverty. Oh, well.