So. Cold.

I have a problem. My name is Erratic and I hate cold weather. When the weather starts to turn, I can't get out of bed. I want nothing more than to stay curled up under the covers for hours, never facing the horror that is whipping off the covers and facing the ice cold winter air. Well, fall air in today's case.

I don't want to shower because I don't want the same freezing cold moment of getting out of the shower. I don't want to bundle up and leave the house, because I want nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and weep until spring.

This fall seems to be the worst in memory. I am 30 lbs lighter and used to sweltering hot kitchens. It is 58 degrees outside right now and I want to kill myself I am so cold. And my stupid finger? ACHES. As I am typing this, I am trying to use words that do not have "s" in them so that I don't have to use that finger to type.

AND I AM SO COLD. I can't even think I am so cold. 

I know I am being a giant wuss and need to just suck it up and remember I live in Ohio and we have four seasons and there is nothing that can be done about that. But I have no doubt, this is only the beginning of the winter whining.

I am now going to make grilled cheese and tomato soup and put on 12 pairs of socks and 4 hoodies until I force my body to get warm. 

Strange 10 Minutes

I had a very strange 10 minutes today. I mean, most of my minutes are strange because it is me and that shit happens, but today was extra strange.

I was almost out of gas because I live in my car and put gas in it more times in a week than I care to think about. So, I went to this little gas station in a bad neighborhood by school. I pulled up to the pump and popped the trunk instead of the gas cap because I am a giant dumb ass. As I am pumping gas and absorbing the horror that are gas stations in this neighborhood, out walk two guys in the nicest suits I have ever seen. OK, maybe not ever, but they were not from Men's Warehouse. They had very close cut hair and looked very intense. Not in a gangster way, in a way that they carried themselves with confidence and authority. So, they get in their Ford Focus (um, what?) and pull out of the parking spot. They then drive about 30 feet, park, get out binoculars and start watching a house that backed up to the gas station. In plain sight. Not even trying to hide what they were doing.

As I am staring at them, the gas pump clicks off. I look and it only put 10 gallons into my 12 gallon tank. I try to pump again, it is not having it. It will not fill my tank. So, I pull it out of the gas tank and go to put it back in and try again, when the pump beeps at me. I look over and it has spit out my receipt and says "thank you for shopping with us." Clearly the gas pump was telling me I was done.

THEN I call Big Jed to tell her this, because I always call her and tell her the weird stories of things that happen to me. The phone goes straight to voice mail and halfway through her greeting, it just says "press 1 to approve this message or 4 to delete and re-record." I was like, um, what? I didn't leave a message yet. So, I deleted and left her a message that I am hoping is now not her greeting. 

Finally, there was a guy on the highway going like 25 mph with his hazards on. I figured he was having car trouble. I go to pass the car, and you could not even see in the car. It was full of smoke. I am assuming of the pot variety. Or he was on fire. Definitely one of the two.

Happy Birthday To Me

Today I turn 29. This is the last year of my 20's. And I know, 30 is the new 20 or some stupid fucking bullshit that old people say to make themselves seem hotter. This is the only digital picture I have from before I was 20...and I am sure that smoke is a combination of both cigarette (quit a long time ago) and pot smoke.

There. Now you know what I looked like a decade ago. I was hot then. Fucking teenagers.

When I turned 25, I made a promise to myself. I promised myself I would graduate from college before I was 30. I will accomplish that. Every other "before I am 30" promise I will not accomplish. I am so completely OK with that.

Here is to the last year of my twenties. Here is to 29 being the new 19, even though 19 is way hotter and skinnier and definitely has less inhibitions.

You can't choose your family...

My niece, who is stunningly beautiful and wise beyond her years, posted the following today:

I'm never going to be perfect, and it's high time I stopped trying.

I will never, ever, EVER be the kid who can get called on in math class and answer the questions perfectly. I probably won't answer the question at all, actually,

I won't always look perfect. Hell, half the time, I probably won't even look good.

I will never be a size zero. (Thank god, if my hips were that small I would have no figure.)

I will always have a bit of extra weight on me.

I will always be less pretty than some girls. Than most girls, arguably.

I'm never going to be one of those girls who looks pretty when she cries.

I'm never going to be one of those girls who can arrive at school with her hair one way, in perfect order and never have to glance in a mirror to know it looks good.

I'm never going to be one of those girls that have boys after her.

I'm never going to be one of those girls who have the courage to say what they're thinking all the time, because I don't have the confidence to back up my courage. I'm too afraid of my peers, and I'm too afraid of being judged.

However...

I will always be one of those girls that can never stop dreaming and imagining.

I will always be one of those girls who will give you the answers to the English homework... Because I've had it done since the day it was assigned.

I will always be strong.

I will never, (ahem, from this day forth) let people get in the way of how I feel about myself.

Okay, never is a bit much. I will TRY not to ever let people get in the way of how I feel about myself.

I'm going to be one of those people that feels awkward in most situations. (At least until I pass through these silly teen years...) I feel awkward in my body. I feel awkward with my personality.

But, in being so awkward, I'm learning.

I will never stop learning.

I will always love and cherish the Harry Potter series. (This is a vow.)

I'm going to be one of those girls who loves things to an obsessive extent.

I will always love music that helps me.

Books will be my life.

I am always going to love my friends in a completely familial way, to the point where they're more like my relatives than my relatives are.

I will never stop being grateful for the people in my life.

I will always end up making my inspirational speeches and revelations sound corny.

My lists about myself and my life will almost always be disorganized, confusing and slightly out of order.

Always.

This kid? She has had a hard fucking life. She has had a mother who doesn't deserve her. She is an amazing, beautiful teenager who gets life more than I think I ever will.

She is contemplating coming to Ohio for college next year. I have offered my spare bedroom to her, until she finds her way and finds someplace she belongs. I hope she takes me up on it, because I barely know her.

Sometimes teenagers, just wow. Sometimes they blow your mind.

Balance

I am struggling to find balance. To balance what I want and being somebody that other people can have in their lives. Work and school are what they are. I can't change my hours, or the fact that I am at school 30 hours a week and work 40 hours a week. I can't change the fact that those two things are really the only things in my existence right now. They are all consuming.

The boy needs me to try to conform to a schedule where we are awake at the same times. We are home a lot, but one of the two of us is sleeping. I want to wind down with a few beers when I get home. I want to have time to decompress. I don't want to go to bed when I get home.

My friends need me to be available during normal hours, not at midnight. They need me to be able to meet them for cocktails and to catch up during times when it is convenient for them. I want to call them at midnight when I get off work and catch up. I don't want to call them when I am driving from one to the other or on break at school. I want to use those times to decompress. To have some me time before I am thrust into situations where I am required to communicate.

As a blogger, I want to tell you all the stories, but this industry is so fucking terminology centric. Like, I had a funny story the other day about mire poix and I started blogging it, but after I spent a paragraph explaining what mire poix is, the story just didn't seem funny anymore. You all need me to be relate-able, to be someone who tells funny stories about work. Someone who can talk about my life and share with all of you.

I don't know what to do to change this. I don't know how to be this person anymore, but I really really want to be someone who can still have my old life and my new one. I want the best of both worlds.

It's a balance I haven't figured out and I apologize. To all of you, to my friends whether Internet or not. I am trying. I am not giving up this blog, I don't care if I do a terminology list on the side so you all know what I am talking about and can laugh along with me. I will figure this out.

However, something really cool is happening. Tomorrow night my class is preparing the meal for the American Culinary Foundation meeting here in town. I am really excited and completely plan on a post tomorrow full of pictures.

For the record, mire poix is the combination of onions, carrots, and celery (2:1:1) that is the basis for most sauces and stocks in French cooking. The whole point of the story was knowing that you need to cut your mire poix based on the cooking time - small for short, big for long - so you don't end up with mush. In hindsight, the story may not have been that funny. I laughed my fucking ass off, but it may have been a "you had to be there" kind of moment. I really just miss blogging.

My Cold, Dead Heart.

Someone told me today that my Facebook posts made me sound like I was about to slit my wrists.

You all get that I am happy, right? I mean, I am angry and bitter in general, but happy? I felt like everyone knew that. I have problems, but shit, who doesn't? It just took me by surprise, because, I mean, it's me. I am not exactly a positive, today is a beautiful day kind of person.

So, I posted this on Facebook:

I was told tonight that all my Facebook posts are negative. So, hearts and rainbows and shit. I fail at being positive, even though I am happy as hell.

Here are the responses I got:

My favorite is the my little pony. Also, I left Big Jed's picture up for your amusement. That shit is the funniest graffiti ever.

I am not a hippie, but this country is full of ass holes.

You know how I always say I don't want to talk politics on this blog and then I go right on and do it anyway because it's my blog? I am about to do that again. I am not even sure this is a political issue as much as a social issue. And when I discuss social/political issues, I stay away from the "I am right, you are wrong" mentality because I try hard not to be an asshole. Even if I think you are wrong, it is your right to be wrong.

On this issue, though, if you don't agree with me, you are wrong. Very wrong.

The issue is building a mosque near ground zero. To be exact, the issue is people who have an issue with it. I don't understand. A handful of really bad people from the same cultural background did a really bad thing. I do not understand how this means that all Muslims are evil and bad. Muslims died in the towers too. Or does no one realize that? They have every single fucking right to worship near the sight of that tragedy. Just as much of a right as anyone else.

Here's the thing. It's discrimination. It's not right. And it pisses me off.

Maybe I am a closet hippie or something, but why all the hate? Why is it so hard to just accept that we are all different and that is OK?

Let them worship wherever they see fit. It is their right and I don't want to live in a country where they can't. It makes me stabby. Which is probably proof that I am not a closet hippie.

This week...

I cut my finger.

I got stitches for the first time in my life.

I had some sort of allergic reaction to the tetanus shot I got in the ER, which resulted in vomiting, a fever, disorientation, and a lump on my arm that is still there a week later.

I experienced said stitched finger being crushed by one of my fellow students, literally bringing me to my knees and to tears. Two things quite rare for me.

The check engine light came on in my car.

I got out of work an hour and a half late both Friday and Saturday because the restaurant had two record breaking nights in a row. (Good for the company, but we were not prepared.)

I fell down the stairs at work, bruising the entire left side of my body. It looks like someone implanted half a cantaloupe on my thigh.

My boss said to me, after I poured 18 quarts of water on his shoe, that if next week isn't better, he is giving me paid leave until my luck changes.

I have wondered if other people have weeks like this...

It is far too late to be blogging...

There are certain types of people that I cannot handle. It's not even a matter of not getting along with them, I simply do not know how to respond to them in a way that is appropriate. I think everyone has these people in their life in one way or another. I know I do.

The person who throws everyone under the bus. Nothing is ever their fault, it is always some other person's fault. I am honest, if it is someone else's fault, I won't cover for them. But, I NEVER blame my bullshit on other people.

The person who thinks faster is always better. Seriously, have they not heard the bullshit about the tortoise? Slow and steady wins the race, fuckers. Not frantic. And you add wielding knives to that frantic energy and you are downright dangerous.

The person who is always trying to reinvent the wheel. Like, instead of just, say, chopping onions, they come up with this convoluted process that has so many steps it is ineffective. People have been chopping onions since before chef knives existed. Just improve your knife skills, douche.

People who are always right. I had this conversation today.

Me: Did you put water in the grease tray?

Fucker who is always right: Yes

Me: Really? Because the chickens are on fire.

FWIAR: No they're not.

Me: Then someone slipped acid in my water bottle. I see flames.

FWIAR: There is just a string on fire.

Me: Dude, the tray is on fucking fire. Are you getting baking soda or am I?

Manager: Are you aware that the chickens are on fire?

FWIAR: No they're not.

At that point, I threw my hands in the air and stormed out of the room to get baking soda.

The person who can't spell and refuses to ask. One of my jobs (because I am anal and wanted it) is to organize the walk-in at the end of the night. I am not even kidding, I have seen the following:

cheder (cheddar)

nin (nine)

palmo (pimento)

salry (celery)

grooyare (gruyere)

Needless to say I had an evening filled with all of the above and then some. I am so glad to be home enjoying a beer and blogging.

Any Day

I walk out, exhausted and drenched in sweat. My hair is plastered to my face. The night air feels like heaven. My feet ache and my body threatens to give out before I reach my car.

We all laugh, the guy in dish finally fell after nights of sliding around on the floor thinking he's a bad ass. All of our eyes reflect the exhaustion, yet are bright and happy. Our arms, uniquely chiseled. Our legs never restless late at night.

The drive home is agony, a boring end to a long day. Energy pumps through my veins, as exhaustion fights it.

The first beer tastes like perfection. Sweatpants feel like luxury.

I may be ready to collapse, but, fuck, I love my life.

Why does everything in my life snowball into a complete cluster fuck?

I WANT TO KILL A BABY. OK, no I don't. I would never ever actually murder an infant child. Or animal. I couldn't even kill the lobster, people. I am incapable of murder. Except today. TODAY, I could have murdered someone.

So, we all remember Fingergate 2010, right? Well, then I had a weird reaction to the tetanus shot and my arm swelled up like a baseball, had a fever, and vomited. I also remember almost nothing from Tuesday. Today at school, people told me that they were really worried because I was acting like some kind of lunatic yesterday. Awesome.

THEN. I went to work. You know the place where they pay you to be there and if you act like a lunatic, they tell you to never come back? Yeah. Burst into tears when my boss kind of, but not really, yelled at me. Then vomited and pretty much bolted. Also, I almost passed out after I almost cut off MY ENTIRE FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK FINGER ON A SLICER. Not even the bad finger. So, yes, if you are counting, I would be down to 8 3/4's fingers.

So, I walk into school today and am all, weeee! I'm normal again. Normal is fun. One more time. WEEEEE!

Then my fucking classmate smashed my fucking finger with her fucking knee into a stainless steel mother fucking table and I BURST INTO TEARS and ran out of the room. Where I proceeded to sob in the bathroom. And nobody came to check on me. Which made me cry harder because, nobody loved me. Then a very unexpected person came to check on me - still not the fucking cunt rag that smashed my finger - and made me laugh. Then I went back to class and iced it and cried more.

Sorry for the cunt rag. I have rage. And am inappropriate. Inappropriately ragey.

I felt like a complete fucking douche canoe. Like, seriously, I am a grown ass woman sobbing over my finger. But on a scale of 1 to 10, I rated the pain a 1 in the ER. When I cut off the tip of my finger. Table meet finger was about, oh, 432. She actually tore the cut, so, in my defense, fucking ouch. But, still.

So, yeah, today I get to want to murder babies. Tomorrow I will return to the regularly scheduled, socially acceptable hate of just wanting to murder stupid fucking idiots. And I will try to refrain from the c-word.