Tired. Happy. Tired.

The new restaurant opened on Tuesday. It is Thursday. I realize all of you know this, but I am trying to figure out how it has only been three days. It seems like a month.

I closed Tuesday night and didn't get home until 1 2:45 pm. I leave for school at 9:00 am, to give you some perspective. I get out of school at 3:30 pm. My shift starts at 4:00 pm. I will give you a moment to contemplate that.

This isn't going to be easy. Tonight I did not close and got home about 11:15 pm. Here's the thing. I found home. I mean, not necessarily this restaurant. Just, this world. This industry. This life. My last job, I came home in tears. This job? I walk in the door with a smile on my face and a shit ton of energy. I'm happy. I'm tired. I am finding myself short with people, especially at school. But, I'm happy.

I never thought I would find this. I felt a little bit of it when I started culinary school, being surrounded by people with similar goals. I feel it every time I get to sit and talk to a chef, any chef. I really feel it now. Does this happen to other people? Do they just wake up one day and realize they fit in? That they are where they belong?

Because that is exactly how I feel. And it feels pretty damn good.

Girl, I must warn you. I sense something strange in my mind.

Once upon a time in a land far far away, this girl had a blog. And she loved the blog and the people who read her blog with all her heart. She thought about them often, though they never knew this because this girl? This girl was an ass hole who ignored the Internet for two weeks. Upon her return, she had over 1,000 unread emails and so many blog entries to read, she immediately shut her laptop and vowed to get through all of her bullshit tomorrow. This cycle continued for several days until the girl realized that nobody even knew if she was alive or dead. So, the girl wrote a mediocre fairy tail in hopes that her Internet friends would forgive her disappearance and laugh at her cleverness. Then the girl made a list of the top 10 reasons she disappeared from the Internet because the girl liked lists and referring to herself in generic third person. The girl really should have no friends.

1. I have been burning the flesh off of my arms at my new job. I have 6 burns, from the severity of a little red to I probably should have gone to the doctor, but didn't. I also dropped a deep Lexan (think giant Tupperware, non-kitchen folk) on my knee. It looks like someone hit me with a baseball bat.
2. I have been working to open the new restaurant I work at and am in love with this place and every single person in it, except one. He is a turd burglar who talks down to me and causes me to express rage in a way that is unhealthy. Mostly, just being a gigantic bitch to him and not caring who listens. Not good. Must stop. Working on attitude change.
3. Attitude change is beer.
4. I have been hiding from my past. I met a guy at work, we will call him Tremont, who has taken me to every gay bar in the city. Also? He knows this guy. The guy who threw his life away. He also confirmed his HIV status as positive and every other rumor I have heard. The worst part is that Tremont and that old friend are still in the same circle and I fear running into him. More on that later.
5. Midterms. Enough said.
6. I have been playing Harry Potter Lego on the Wii. A lot. In fact, if I go another week without blogging, send someone over to take away the Wii. Because I also have Indiana Jones Lego waiting in the wings. My name is Erratic, and I am a Wii Lego addict.
7. I have not been watching enough TV. My DVR has taken to throwing small, heavy objects at me when I walk by in order to remind me that it exists. Then deleting all my favorite old shows I love. Bastard.
8. Driving. Holy fuck, I live in my car.
9. Drinking at gay bars. This is being said twice because, um, it needs to be said twice.
10. Listening to this new radio station (see #8) called GenX radio that is A-MA-Z-ING. It is all 90's music. Montell Jordan, 4 Non-Blondes, Snoop, Depeche Mode, 2Pac, and BEL BIV DEVOE. Oh, that girl is poison. You can listen online. Do it.

Does your shaft have a best friend?

Where do I start? The slogan? The fact that it is individually packaged? The horror that is the graphic? Or just leave it at the fact that is is a shaft's best friend?

(Sorry if you are using a reader and you got this more than once. I was having image issues.)

Sometimes I wonder why anyone still talks to me.

Hi fellow bloggers. I have a question. About ads. I have no intention of putting ads on this blog unless someone is like, YOU WILL MAKE A MILLION BAZILLION DOLLARS. Then, well, that's a lot of money.

I just don't, I don't know. I mean, I read everything in google reader, so it affects me not at all. I never go to actual blogs unless I am commenting. In fact, I read most blogs from my phone, which does not allow me to comment without standing on my head and doing the hokey pokey. This, by the way, is why I never comment anymore. Blame the Droid, man. Blame the Droid. I still love you all more than life, I just fail at expressing this in any way that is tangible. I am a total ass hole.

I know that a lot of people hate ads and liken it to selling out. Again, I care not. Ads, no ads, I never see the difference. The ONLY thing that pisses me off is when you only allow a blurb of your blog on readers so that I have to go to your blog to read the whole post. I will stop reading. Seriously. We have already established I am an ass hole. I am also a busy ass hole. I don't have time to physically go to the blogs that I follow. There are, maybe, 10 people I love enough to go through this for. You know who you are.

Having said that, are ads really the root of all evil? Do you really make any money? Does anyone who reads this blog actually have ads and care? Am I the only person who doesn't get all this drama? OK, yes, if you are Dooce, I get it. Frankly, I am grateful when I look at my stats and see that one person read my blog. I can't even imagine the pressure and stress of her life. She deserves the ads.

And maybe everyone else deserves them too. I just really need someone to explain all the drama around ads and why it is there and if you make money and, please, just hold my hand and try not to talk down to me because I know that this is obvious and I am being lazy by not doing research. Also, that was the biggest run on sentence in the history of life.

And? I am still peeling from that sunburn forever ago and I am pretty sure I have leprosy.

Does anyone else feel like someone is slipping me speed? Because if you are not reading my last few blog posts at least as fast as this guy talks, you are not even near the speed my brain is working lately. I need medication.

Little fucker, I love him already. And feet.

Two posts in one day, but it's been a while since we have had conversations with grandma.

She starts chemo the beginning of August. Now, let me preface this with the fact that she had leukemia for the better part of a decade. It is essentially so slow-growing that they chose not to treat it and, in fact, estimate that she has had it far longer than a decade. She was diagnosed, the day of my sister's rehearsal dinner no less, with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. There were a lot of tears and everyone is scared. But, the doctors have essentially said that, unlike the leukemia, this has to be treated.

Having said all that, I realize this is serious. I love my grandmother dearly, no matter how crazy she is. I, in fact, inherited said crazy and embrace it with everything I am. But, this conversation? It had to be shared.

Erratic: So, when do you start chemo?

Grandma: Sometime in August. They say I have to do it. Or I'll die. I don't think I can afford it, so I figure I will just die.

Erratic: Grandma, seriously, that is ridiculous. Don't think about money. That is the stupidest thing you have ever said. This family has enough money to pay your copays.

Grandma: Well, that's true. What happens if I shit myself? If I shit myself, promise you will make them send me to a home.

Erratic: Nobody is sending you to a home and nobody is shitting themselves.

Grandma: I'm just saying. I talked to my sister today. She is bat shit crazy.

Erratic: Well, yeah.

Grandma: I mean, everything is about her and how her feet fucking hurt. My feet hurt to, you know. Did you know my feet hurt?

Erratic: Yeah.

Grandma: Well, they do. But, nobody cares about my feet. It's all about HER feet. And that loser of a son of hers who won't get a job. You have a job. And you're in school. But, he's too good for a job.

Erratic: I mean, the economy...

Grandma: Oh, don't defend that crazy family with all their feet and joblessness. I don't have the time. How is that kitty of yours?

Erratic: He's good, rotten, but good.

Grandma: Well, that's good. I've got to go. So You Think You Can Dance is on and I am rooting for that little shit from Ohio for you, honey.

Erratic: Um, thanks? Love you.

Grandma: Love you too. Send pictures!

Of what? I don't know. I sent pictures of the cat, thinking that is what she meant, to which she responded, "He looks rotten. Little fucker, I love him already."

The crazy runs deep, my friends. Very, very deep.

What's your sign?

Do you ever have days where you are POSITIVE there is a sign on your back? My mom always says she must be growing a separate head because everyone is staring. I have these days often. It's not like I have Pamela Anderson boobs or a mohawk or something. I am pretty plain jane. I don't wear inappropriate things. I dress like Simon Cowell, seriously. That does not stand out in a crowd. Yet I catch people staring at me ALL THE TIME. And with a "that girl has two heads" look on their face.

Anyway, that is not the story I was going to tell, I just got a little ADD up in here. And then said up in here. It's been one of those days.

So, the sign today was "be an asshat to me for no reason" day. Like, seriously. I got cut off, I got shitty comments from fellow students. The boy is in a bad mood from work and somehow angry at me for it? Even the cat! Little, cute, adorable Neil. I got home from walking the dogs and he was standing by the door with his back arched hissing at me. WHAT. THE. FUCK. He hasn't hissed at me since the day we got him. Little bastard.

Oh! OH! And crazy people talk to me. Like, today, this lady was walking her two prissy dogs and I talked to her for TEN MINUTES about how hot it was and how bad the mosquitoes were. Um, lady, they are biting us while we stand here. We might as well jump in a bath of sugar water and get naked here. STOP TALKING. OK, that wasn't really inexplicably angry, more like overly friendly. But, still. I am exhausted by people's inappropriate emotions with me today. Maybe that is just it. I should wear a sign stating my mood and people can deal with me accordingly.

Like, today's sign would read, "More energy than necessary, overly happy, take your dick mood elsewhere."

Then, my every day sign, "I hate people, please give me medication."

Then, when I am in a bad mood, "If you talk to me, you will die a horrible death."

Wouldn't it be nice if we all just wore a sign so you knew what to expect? Because, seriously, I expect the world to cater around my mood. I should also wear that sign.

I am about to talk a lot about freezers.

Sometimes I just believe things because they make sense and I am too lazy to look them up. Like, that this song is about Kurt Cobain. However, upon googling for the sake of not sounding like a total ass clown in this post, I have learned that it is not. It is about Budd Dwyer. See, people, this right here is why you should just not believe things because you are too fucking lazy to verify the facts.

I am getting off subject here. This weekend was very eventful. I got fired from a job and got hired at a new job. A lot of the things that went on surrounding this were about me just believing people because, well, why would they lie to me? I was wrong. Very very wrong.

I have written about my current former job and it was hell. It was dirty and unorganized and poorly run and hell on earth. I believed the people around me when they said, this is the kind of job you will get. This is what you are stuck with, this is the way people are treated. I believed the people I worked with when they told me that it gets better, that it wasn't that bad, that I should hang in there.

FUCK. ALL. THOSE. PEOPLE. OK, except like three of them who I really liked.

Friday evening I went and interviewed at an organic, sustainable restaurant about a mile from school. It was clean. The people were friendly. They wanted to make sure that I was a good fit for their company and that their company was a good fit for me. When asked why I was leaving my current job, I explained the situation without talking too much shit. By the end of it, I was practically begging them to get me out of that hell hole.

I came in Saturday morning for a second interview. Then an impromptu third interview. They hired me on the spot. I attended orientation on Sunday and start training this Saturday.

The restaurant opens the end of July.

Can I just say that this is my dream job? They talk about buying locally and have organic cotton chef coats and THEIR FREEZER IS ONLY USED FOR FRUIT FOR SMOOTHIES. Can I repeat this? I am not sure you heard the pure and utter glee in my voice. THEY DON'T FREEZE ANY OF THEIR FOOD. It is fresh. It is local. It is helping the planet. I am helping the planet just by working there. Seriously, I just. I can't put into words what this means.

Saturday on the way there, I was a wreck. I felt like I was going to throw up. I was so excited that this could happen, when he offered me the job, it took everything in my power to not kiss him on the mouth and do a victory lap around the restaurant. At the orientation, they emphasized the good energy they want in the place. That it is important for their employees to be happy. That they want people to want to come to work. And, seriously, I believed them. Not in the "I really hope they are telling the truth" way. In the way that they really hope they can foster this kind of work environment.

DID I MENTION THEY HAVE AN ENTIRE GIANT WALK IN FREEZER THAT ONLY HAS FRUIT?

And their refrigerated walk in, just, balls. It is huge. And they have it setup to grind all their meat in the walk-in so as to not run the risk of it entering the temperature danger zone and possibly harboring bacteria. Am I getting too dorky here? I may be.

When I put in my notice at my previous job, they pretty much told me to go fuck myself, which was fine by me. I felt the same way about them.

So, I am going to just believe again, believe that this is really, truly the start to my career. The start to the path I want to head down. Because, dear readers, if I ever open a restaurant of my own, it is going to look pretty damn close to where I am about to go work. And that just makes me want to cry I am so excited.

Did I also mention that they mop everyday? Because the last place only mopped once a week. ONCE A WEEK. AND THEY FROZE SHIT.

Wheeeee!!!! I am so excited!

Could you kill a lobster with a knife?

I am an omnivore, through and through. I love meat, I love fish, I love vegetables, I love fruit. You get the point. I love food. In my meat and poultry class, I had no issue fabricating large cuts of meat into single servings. None. I didn't think about the animal, I only thought about the delicious, delicious meat in my belly.

Today I filleted my first fish and it was nothing like that. It is hard not to think about it being a living thing when it's dead eye is staring at you while you cut perfect fillets from it's carcass. When I picked it up in my hand, it felt different than picking up a cut of meat. It had scales and a fin and eyes and little fish lips. And my heart sort of cringed. Then I got out my knife and made that first cut, and a very small part of me died. I don't know how to explain that part of me, maybe people feel this way the first time they hunt. Or even fish. I have never taken any thing's life that was not insect. The one time I had mice, I refused to kill them. Refused.

I try very hard to eat meat from food sources that are humane. I cannot stomach eating veal that is not free-range. The first time I heard how veal were raised was the closest I have ever come to being a vegetarian.

At some point in the next few weeks I am going to be required to kill a lobster with a knife. Through the brain. Just hold and stab. The chef instructor all but said you were weak if you couldn't do this. I just don't think I can. I am not weak. I just value life and I can't see killing something with my bare hands.

I have done research, I have watched videos on people killing animals on farms. I am aware of how it works and what goes into it and that it can be humane and it can be cruel. I do not think there is anything wrong with the circle of life. There are people out there who can kill an animal, fabricate it, and eat it. I am just not that person. I am perfectly OK with this.

I mean, people, I read this yesterday and sobbed like a little girl. I don't even know these people or their dog.

So, tomorrow I fillet another sole. I hope it is easier, that the fish eye staring back at me doesn't make me feel the way it did today. And I seriously, seriously hope that I come down with the flu on lobster day.

I am a giant fan of Mr. Bean, which is mostly irrelevant to this post.

I have been spending a lot of time at the pool. I am not really a pool person as much as I am a lay in the sun (with 45 sunblock on) and drink person. I dislike water and being in water, so, you know, there is that. And I have moderately fair skin. I mean, I will tan, but I will also burn like a mother fucker.

So, last Thursday I went to the pool with my step mom and a friend of hers. I was in the sun for five hours. I was drinking Jack. I laid only on my back.

I had a wicked sunburn. Which has now faded into some funny ass tan lines. Like, seriously, there is line on my left calf. A distinct line. Not, like, this may be a shadow. More like, this girl fell asleep with a blanket covering half her calf and she was obviously drunk when it happened. Which, let's be honest, I wasn't sober.

So, I am like, the blog world needs to see this line. And I took, like, 7 million pictures of my calf and you couldn't see the sunburn! I am real-life looking at a leg that is an accidental splicing of two ethnicity's and camera-life is like, nope, bitch, one ethnicity. I tried different lighting. I tried flexing my calf muscle? Admittedly that last one was a tad lame. I tried different settings on my camera. Nothing. Nada. My skin refused to be caught in such a state. Or I own some sort of ethnic splicing modesty camera.

I am pissed. I wanted to share my horror and pain with people who don't care to read about it. THIS IS WHY WE HAVE THE INTERNET. Right? I mean, right? So, I am checking out all parts of my body that have the sunburn and I am like, sweet, boobs are sunburned too! They will at least show the level of sunburn and then I can tell the story of the leg and this will work! People will understand!

You know what is unattractive? Boobs. On camera. OK, maybe just my boobs. I get home, bra comes off. This is my life. So, I take a picture and I am like, holy fuck, are those Betsy Ross's boobs? So, I attempt with my arm to squeeze them into cleavage that is appropriate for the Internet. Nope. I need lift. I put on a bra. Holy Porn Star Batman. That is NOT going on my blog. Then I stop and think, on what planet does ANYONE who reads your blog want to see a picture of your sun burned boobs? Balls! That is inappropriate on every fucking level ever made.

This lead to an internal moral monologue that was pretty much me saying over and over that I will never put my boobs on the Internet.

I mean, I was wearing a tank top. It was only a cleavage shot. But, seriously moral compass...WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU ON THIS ONE?

I really just wanted to share the horror that was my sunburn. Sigh. Intentions.

Also? Someone on Last Comic Standing just said "I look like Mr. Bean if Mr. Bean was a rapist" and I literally died. DIED. Funny shit.

This post really went nowhere.

Monkeys and Otters and Bears, oh my!

Every single time the boy sends me any cute picture of any animal, he always makes sure to put a disclaimer in the email or message that no, I cannot have said animal. Because immediately upon seeing any animal do anything cute, I want one. I love animals I can't help it.

I saw a special on the animal planet (I think) about an elephant and a dog that became best friends and when the dog got sick, the elephant stood outside the clinic waiting for it. For weeks, I walked around the house stating that Kobers needed an elephant.

I really do want an otter. Those fuckers are cute. And I found out you can own an otter as long as you have a permit and can prove that you have a suitable habitat. So, operation create suitable otter habitat at Big Jed's house is in effect. I live in a condo. I think they frown upon tiny otter habitats.

So, when the boy send me this today, naturally, I wanted a monkey. Although, in my defense, I have always wanted a monkey. Doesn't everyone want a monkey? WHO ELSE AM I GOING TO SHARE MY COFFEE WITH?

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/picturegalleries/picturesoftheday/7862894/Pictures-of-the-day-30-June-2010.html?image=5

Happy 4th of July everyone! Oh, and buy me a monkey. And an otter.

I should really get more sleep, because tired me is way too fucking emotional.

Identity is something I struggle with. Every person has so many labels and it is hard to figure out which one I want to be, which one fits both who I want to be and who I really am.

I am my father's daughter.

I am my mother's daughter.

I am a girlfriend.

I am a culinary student.

I am a niece.

I am a friend.

I am a granddaughter.

I am an animal rights enthusiast. (Activist made it seem like more than what I am.)

I am an omnivore.

I am a cousin.

I am a line cook.

I am a mother to two dogs and a cat.

I am a sister.

I am an aunt.

So many of the labels that I choose are related to my family. Family is important to me. They are the beginning of everyone, right? It all starts with family.

Family isn't always blood relatives. It isn't always people who share your last name. To me, Krackle and Big Jed are family. They are, for all intents and purposes, my sisters. They both have sisters of their own, who they are close to. I too have sisters, who are not a part of my life. Not actively anyway. I have, finally, come to terms with this. I am jealous of Big Jed and Krackle's relationships, I admit it. I get a little pang in my heart every time they describe a sisterly moment to me. I mean, not jealous like someone is going to end up dead and I will assume their identity. Jealous that someone loves them that much.

This week has been a rough week for me. I have been through more with a job than I ever expected. It has made me face a lot about myself that I don't like. My instinct to just run when it gets hard. Yet, my instinct to fight. It's like war up in this bitch and a lot of times my instinct to run wins out. Feelings of failure and inadequacy because I didn't walk in and immediately be the golden child. The feeling that I couldn't talk to anyone about this, because they would somehow love me less if I wasn't some superstar line cook. As if my ability to crank out a fucking cranberry pecan chicken pita was a direct reflection of who I am.

And this is where I struggle. The boy listens, he does. And he is sympathetic and empathetic and he hugs me and loves me and does everything he can. And Krackle and Big Jed say all the right things. They are there for me, they are. And I know I can count on them for anything, anytime.

But, I don't have anyone in my life who has truly known me all my life. I just don't have that sibling relationship. And my parents fall in the category of pre and post eighteen parents, neither has been both.

So, I struggle.

I am not really a sister.

Or an aunt.

I am not my father or my mother's daughter...but some puzzled mixture of both.

I find relying on people emotionally to be hard. That's what a sister is for. I find it hard to get through this week because I just want this image of my sister that isn't real. This person, that calls me everyday and who I can cry to and tell all my insecurities to because she is my sister.

So, I come home and tell it all to my dogs and my cat and they lick my face and they cuddle with me and make me feel better. But, it isn't the same.

There is just something about being a sister that I will never experience. That I will never feel. It makes me sad, but not for me. It makes me sad for her. I have the closest thing to that relationship any person can have. I don't know that she ever will.