Grit Tea

I take a calcium supplement daily, and in my recent jar, several of my capsules broke open, showering the bottom of the supplement jar with calcium fallout.

I reached the bottom of my jar today and thought it might not be a bad idea to take the one remaining capsule (a daily dose is four) and stir the rest of the powdered calcium into my tea.

Turns out, it was a bad idea. That type of calcium, for whatever reason, doesn't dissolve in water. So I wound up taking two sips of the tea (with the film of calcium floating on top and chunks of calcium swimming within) and tossing the rest out.

Because you know what? I'm a grownup. I don't have to take all my calcium if I don't want to!

Free At Last!

I did something very out-of-character for me yesterday ... I quit my job.

The job that was making me miserable. The money was good, I admit that. I've never had a panic attack before this week, but before going into work every day, that's EXACTLY what was happening to me.

Plus, I've been bitten by quite a few creepy-crawlies lately. Some mosquitoes (comes with the territory), but I think some spiders, too. I've heard stories of spiders biting people who weren't doing what their heart demanded.

At any rate, I found a posting that looks very promising. And I'm making a commitment to seriously start working on my writing again.

Things are lookin' up!

I Know ...

It's been too long, again.

I don't know what to say. I can't find a new job. I'm really kind of hating the one I have right now.

That's pretty much all she wrote.

Music Makes the World Go 'Round

I am such a radio snob. Currently, I have a select few radio stations I listen to: 101.5FM, the independent radio station in Denver; 1390AM, Denver/Boulder's community radio station; and 1190AM, the University of Colorado's student radio station.

It's gotten to the point where if I hear too many commercials, I just change the dial. One of the worst offenders in this state for that is 106.7FM, the "alternative" radio station -- basically they play a bunch of hard rock, some of it good, most of it crappy. And about half their air time is dedicated either toward advertising or misogynistic "funny" talk by the show hosts. Both the AM stations I listen to play a very wide range of music; it's almost like a scavenger hunt to tune into those, because you really never know what you're going to hear.

And the friend who inspired my previous blog on changing relationships just invited me to be a fan of Afro Connection on Facebook. I'm sure it was a mass invite to all her friends, because she already knows that I think Afro Connection is one of the worst hip-hop groups I've ever heard in my LIFE. (Yes. THAT bad.)

It's one thing to toss my friendship aside as though it's nothing special or valuable. It's another thing altogether to insult my intelligence and musical taste. The first might be forgivable one day. The second ... well. I just don't know if I can ever look past that transgression, that's all.

Snobby Is As Snobby Does

Last night I had my first encounter (at this particular job incarnation) of Evergreen snobbery. First, two gentlemen came and sat at a table on the deck; one was wearing a Hiwan Golf Club shirt. They ordered a pitcher of beer. Then a couple came in and were sitting down, chatting with the gentlemen. They talked for a while, and I asked if they were going to join the group; they said no, they were going to be taking a table at the end of the deck, and proceeded to place their order.

The first couple of things the male half of the couple ordered, we were out of. "You would say that, wouldn't you?" he said after the first item. After I told him we no longer had the second, he said, "Do you know who I am?"

"No," I told him.

"Do you know who he is?" Gesturing to Hiwan Golf Club next to him. (Owner? Operator? President? Who knows?)

"No," I said.

"Well," he said. "That didn't get us anywhere, did it?"

"Nope," I agreed. He ordered from what we did have available on the menu and that was that.

I just thought it was funny. What do people think? "Oh, we're out of this item for the plebians. But for our special customers, we keep an extra stash in the back. Let me just go alert the cook that your table is the special table."

Some people. Really!

Things People Should Always Remember

I had my third babysitting gig with this particular child yesterday, and I remembered something I had forgotten: When children start throwing temper tantrums or getting fussy over nothing in particular, what should you do?

Ignore them.

It seems so obvious. But the first time I went down there, the kid was all freaked out by not having his parents around when he woke up and dealing with this stranger in his house instead. The second time, he was a bit jet-lagged from a trip.

This time, he was just testing me occasionally, with typical two-year-old resilience. And he figured out pretty quickly that he gets to have more fun with me when he's not insisting that he be allowed to dump water all over the ground out of his sippy cup. That gets a sippy cup taken away, and all protests are steadfastly ignored until he can agree that he will use the cup to drink, not to adorn the floor with droplets.

A simple lesson, yes -- but invaluable.

Spare Some Change?

Lately, I've been feeling like change is in the air. Not just in terms of my job situation -- although that certainly counts as a big change in my life -- but in terms of friendships especially with me. I just lost someone I consider a very good friend because I had some things to say about the guy she started dating that she didn't want to hear.

Alternatively, I just met a girl who is quickly becoming a very close friend.

It's funny: They say when the universe closes a door, it opens a window. (Actually, "they" say that God does that; I put the universe in there on my own time.) I kind of think that's true -- and I've kind of been seeing it in my everyday life.

Ooh, makes you wonder ... (singing Led Zeppelin as the curtain draws shut and the house lights come up after the screen fades to black ...)

Ouch!

Those of you who know me well know this to be a fact: I hate running. Hate it. Everything about it.

So you will understand the seriousness of the situation when I say that I have taken up running, of all things, to help me get in shape.

I know. I'm shocked, too.

Yesterday, I went for a short run/walk (we're talking 15 minutes here). This is what really brought home to me how awfully out-of-shape I am. I figure I can add on 30 seconds a day and get up to speed ... meanwhile, boy am I sore today!

Because the other thing is, I forgot to stretch both before and after my run. I know, I know. Brilliant.

I just got back from a hike/jog with the dog up in the mountains. For some reason, that was much easier for me than the run, even though it took about twice as long. And even though my legs, now, are just as sore.

In other news, I missed a chance to interview the inspiration for The Big Lebowski's The Dude. I wish sometimes I would get a bit more advance notice than that!

And finally, anybody looking for summer reading material and who's remotely into sci-fi/fantasy should totally check out Jacqueline Carey's Santa Olivia. Awesome book!

Bei Mir Bist Du Schon

I went to a WWII-era ball last night with a friend -- and we had so much fun!

First things first: I got hopelessly lost on the way there. I'd never been to this facility before (Boulder Airport), and once I found it, I had to drive around it to get to the entrance. Luckily my date was understanding.

Once we got there, we grabbed our drink tickets and got some red wine. They had this place totally tricked out -- an authentic B-25 bomber that they started and revved up during the dance, a 1940s big band, a barbershop quartet, old movies screening on the wall, an aerial burlesque artist, and a vintage-vehicle collectors' group who were dressed up in authentic WWII soldiers' uniforms. We made friends with a "captain" and a "colonel" who served as our drink-runners all night; it was great. They even introduced us to "General Patton," who let us fire the machine gun on the vintage tank!

(Then we got yelled at for firing the gun -- first by the band leader, then by the airport operations manager, who had apparently been called by the police because it was too loud. It was the second time that night we'd been "shushed" -- the first being during the barbershop quartet, but we weren't even the loudest people talking at that point. And it was funny because they were admonishing me and my date instead of the "soldiers" -- because we totally brought the gun in the first place, and it was totally our idea to fire it!)

Anyway, it was awesome. We had a blast. I wish they had one every weekend -- but it probably wouldn't be that much fun, then, would it?

Amber is the Color of my Energy ...

The concert last night was awesome. I really love Red Rocks; that venue is arguably the best I've ever been to!

Maybe I'm just a misanthropist, but it also seemed as though there were a lot of ... well ... stupid people there. For lack of a better term. But, that's par for the course when you attend a concert, I suppose.

Also, Ziggy Marley (not the Wailers -- I am silly) rocked the house way better than 311, in my opinion. They had the light show and the fanciness; Ziggy had the heart and the songs on lockdown.

But all in all: Awesome show.

First Concert of the Season!

Well, not technically -- technically, that would have been NIN/JA (Nine Inch Nails/Jane's Addiction) last month. But the first concert of the season at Red Rocks is tonight! 311 and Ziggy Marley, aw yeah.

Should be fun. I love Red Rocks. Some kid at my new job the other day was talking smack on Red Rocks -- I don't know what his problem is; how can you not like that venue? Seriously!

It's About That Time ...

I feel like I don't really have much to write about these days. Between my job hunt and three different employers -- I'm a cocktail waitress/babysitter/freelance writer -- it's all about the jobby. Trying to find a better one, trying to cope with the ones I have.

I have a good feeling about some of the applications I've been putting in, mostly because I'm already working forty hours a week as a waitress. "Server," to be politically correct, but my place of work most definitely is not, so I see no reason why I should be! It figures, as soon as I find something to fill my time and that pays decently well, something else will come along that pays even better. I'm just glad that I've grown enough of a spine as far as my employers are concerned to do what's best for ME instead of what's best for THEM.

Sorry about the really boring post. Hopefully something fun will happen at work tonight. Or something not-so-fun. Something at least remotely bloggable, at any rate.

An Open Letter to Smokers -- From Your Friendly Neighborhood Non-Smoking Server

(I'm posting this as a Rant & Rave on Craigslist, too, but thought you all should have access to it, too!)

Dear Smoker,

As a non-smoking member of the service industry, there are a few things I'd like to make clear. Thanks in advance for your compliance.

First: I don't smoke cigarettes for an array of reasons, health being first and foremost among them. Please do not blow your nasty-ass smoke in my face. As a supplement to this request, please do not smoke right next to the patio door. You see, I have to walk through that door several times an hour. When you smoke right next to the door, you force me to walk through a cloud of your disgusting, cancer-laden breath. I do not want to inhale your smoke or smell like your smoke. You are not doing me any favors by allowing me to secondhand smoke.

Second: The ashtrays are for cigarette ash and cigarette butts. Please do not place your gum in the ashtrays. Please do not allow your children to place their gum in the ashtrays. You see, someone has to clean gum out of the ashtrays -- that someone is me. I hate already-been-chewed gum almost as much as I hate cigarettes. I do not want to pull a wad of it out of an ashtray. There is a (100-percent recycled paper) napkin dispenser located on every table. I know; I put them there myself this morning. You can wrap the gum in a napkin and dispose of it that way. Easy. Breezy. Beautiful.

Third: Do NOT drop your cigarette butts on the deck floor. It's made of wood. There are gaps between the wood. I have to pick those butts up by hand so they don't fall between the cracks. When they do, I must attempt to pull them out. I do not want to touch your tobacco, and even more than that, I do not want to touch a filter you've put your mouth all over and sucked through. That is gross. That is what you're requiring me to do. And chew on this: I work for a carbon-neutral, recycling-machine establishment. Most of you who frequent this establishment are aware of said fact. That being stated, let's do the environment a favor and keep the cigarette butts off the ground. Please, for the love of all things holy. There are raccoons and squirrels and god-knows-what-else that forage on the deck. I'm pretty sure they live underneath the deck, or thereabouts -- that's where they hang out during the day, in any case. If I can't get one of your disgusting butts out of a crack in the deck, rain and other such elements are going to leach chemicals from your butt and carry them under the deck and into the nearby creek. It's great that you've got your hair all locked up and you're wearing that awesome Dead shirt and everything. I can tell you really care about the environment. So keep your butts OFF the deck, otherwise I will be forced to expose you as the hypocrite you really are. In fact, you're as bad as all the oil companies COMBINED. And I will make sure your hippie friends know it.

Fourth: Cigarettes + flowers = bad combination. Did someone tell you once upon a time that pansies and marigolds thrive on nicotine? Well, they lied. There are ashtrays strategically placed within paces of each other all over the deck. I know this because, once again, I put them there. What makes you think it's a good idea to ash into the flower container, then dispose of your butt in the soil? Again, someone has to pick that up. Someone who, to review, is not all that interested in touching something upon which you once slobbered. Take the extra step and put your cigarette out in an ashtray. I know, it's really difficult. But you'll feel such a sense of accomplishment when you've finished -- it will all be worth it. Trust me on that.

Love,

Your Friendly Neighborhood Non-Smoking Server

This Could Get Ugly

So, I had my first "real" day at work today -- in other words, I actually got a section.

It was good. Hectic, but good. It amused me a bit that I had to remind my new boss that I can't work next Friday and Saturday; it perplexed him, but I explained to him that I had already told him this last week when he hired me (true story). I guess that's the price I pay for working at a place like this.

Because it's nice and busy -- and people buy the server shots. Or there's a featured drink contest, and shots are prepared so everyone knows what the featured drink is. That kind of thing.

Needless today, the subject line probably needs no explanation. I think the shots are probably only a weekend thing ... if it doesn't stay that way, I'm going to have to swear off them while at work.

But I'm taking my post-work shift drink, no questions asked. That's a gift horse I know better than to look in the mouth.

Beastie Boy

Last night, D and I went down to the "Local Cure" for a pitcher of Blue Moon. The bartender was a man I used to work with ages ago at the Morrison Inn. I gave him my card to pay up and we snaked to the back where there was actually a table to sit at.

When he ran back to deliver some drinks, he came up to our table and said, "Do you have a sister named Jennifer?"

"No," I told him.

"But you work for Westword, right?"

"Yes," I said, now getting curious. "How did you know that?"

Turns out, he has a buddy who apparently dated Jennifer Taufen some years ago; they'd seen my name in the paper and had long wondered whether I was any relation. Then he saw my name on my card and put two and two together.

I assured him that I have no sisters, but told him I used to work with him at the Inn back in '99. "God, that was forever ago! What was I like? Was I nice or was I an asshole?"

"No, you were nice," I reassured him. "I used to call you MCA because of your tattoo." (He has a Beastie Boys tatt on his shoulder and looks a lot like Adam Yauch, hence the nickname; I used to joke with him that I knew he was sick of touring and wanted a quiet life as a server, and I wouldn't blow his cover.)

He laughed and that was the end of the interaction. I just found it funny -- what are the odds of someone I used to work with recognizing my name? He's the first person ever to do that!

This Place Rocks!

Okay. I'm sure in a few weeks (or days, depending), the sparkle of newness will have faded, and I'll be much more jaded about my new jobby job. But in the meantime, here are all the reasons why this serving job kicks ass compared to my last restaurant experience:

I can wear whatever I want to work. No special T-shirts, no color restrictions. Closed-toed shoes. That's the only restriction.

The people I work with are awesome.

The food is excellent.

I can take shots at work. In the kitchen. What? Yes. True story.

It's a completely green establishment -- I believe it's carbon-free, too.

I can sit at the bar and have a drink after work. Did I mention I'm allowed to sit at the bar? Yes. But I didn't mention that the drink is free, courtesy of my employer.

They serve awesome beer.

Karoake? Check! Trivia? Check! Live music? Check! Pool table? Check?

Oh, and: lonely mountain men who want to tip me a lot simply by virtue of my cuteness and femaleness? Check! Check! Check!

The deck overlooks Bear Creek. As in, is built right alongside Bear Creek. There's nothing like watching a creek rush by to make the day go faster.

Aah. Well, the shifts are long, and I am pretty pooped -- it's been a while since I had to spend all day on my feet. But, damn. It was a good day. I'm excited; I think this is going to be an ideal establishment at which to ply my waitressing trade.

Here We Go Again

I just got a job -- waiting tables. Yep. But this time it's at a bar. But that bar is in the mountains.

So, I guess, brace yourself -- you know what this means. Lots of blogs about people in bars in the mountains.

Don't say I didn't warn you!

Kid, Incorporated

I just finished my very first of several Tuesday night babysitting gigs. It was fun, apart from when the kid woke up from his nap and found me there instead of his mom. We had a bit of a crying spell then, but it passed pretty quickly, and I explained to him the plan for the night: Play outside, read some books, eat some dinner, take a bath, jammies on and then Dad would be home.

Which is just what we did -- I forgot, somehow, how messy kids are! We made quite a splash in the mud, he stomped on some mushrooms in the grass, then we read a bunch of books about trucks. He ate some lentil soup for dinner ("ate" being a relative term; most of it wound up on his bib, but eventually made it to the mouth). We squirted each other with duckies while he was in the tub (lucky for me, at two, his aim isn't great), and had time to read a couple more books -- one about trucks and one about dinosaurs. I was halfway through a Little Golden Book I used to own, I think it's called Richard Scarry's Best Book of Words or something similar -- I know Lowly Worm, with his one sneaker, was in it.

And then it was time to leave.

All in all, a successful afternoon. I like playing with kids and getting paid for it

Hair Apparent

You all can thank my conscientious friend Mrs. Walker for chiding me into writing again. It's true; I've been awfully neglectful of the blog. That stops ... today!

Those of you who have been keeping up with my doings via Facebook or MySpace know that I recently hacked off thirteen inches of hair. It's already grown at least an inch since that haircut, and I'm finding myself cheesed off at the length. It's right at the length where after I wash it, I really should blow-dry it and straighten it, otherwise it looks like crap. And it's also right at the length where I really need to wash it twice a week (when it was long, I could get away with once a week).

So, this leads me to wonder ... should I just cut it all off, a la me in college, again? Easier to maintain on a day-to-day basis. Needs to be washed more frequently, although no special maintenance is required post-shower; also needs to be cut every four to six weeks, no doubt. My hair grows like wildfire; if I keep it short and don't cut it regularly, I end up looking like Shaggy.

My other option is to grow it out again, which really won't take that long, given that my hair does grow like wildfire. Although I prefer to blow-dry and straighten it when it's long, it's not a necessity. And I don't have to wash the longer hair as often.

Dilemma, dilemma, dilemma. Any comments or advice would be appreciated.