The Gym

I work out. I never thought that I would say that, but as of about a month and a half ago-its true.
I am buffing myself up for summertime and I hope to be a hottie by June. In the past, I avoided gyms. They seemed to me a den of sweaty, self obsessed, arobasizing freaks in matching spandex who got high off wheatgrass shots at the juice bar while comparing notes on personal trainers. Every time I walked into one of those places I would start to feel the anxiety rise as the girl with the fake and bake tan and acrylic nails gleefully explained that they had a pool, sauna, tanning bed AND a juice bar!!!
"Its like, SO soothing to get some green tea and like, sit in the tanning bed after a HELLA hardcore elliptical session-you know what I mean?!? She squeaked.
Needless to say, I didn't know what she meant and promptly left the building without signing the mandatory 2 year contract. Years went by and I tried and tried to get into the whole scene. The techno music in the background as people grind away on the stair master while staring at themselves in the mirror like freaking Narcissus on ecstasy. It was just too much. I needed something low key and, more importantly, something cheap.
That opportunity arose this past month when Michelle and I decided to join the local gym up the street. It claims to be the "oldest gym in Portland" and when you walk through the doors, you don't doubt it. It is like your grandfather's YMCA. Its tiny, the paint is peeling, the weight training equipment is archaic and there is no juice bar or swimming pool in sight. There was a man who appeared to be in his 70's wheezing away on the one stairmaster and a morbidly obese women attempting situps. Neither one was wearing matching spandex. I knew immediately that this was the gym for me. I paid upfront, there was no contract and it was merely $27 a month. It was time to work out!
I now attend the gym about 4-5 days a week and I am digging it. Of course, there are still people staring at themselves in the mirror-you cant avoid that at any gym-but it's way more low key. Having said this, there are plenty of strange and unusual characters worth mentioning. The cheap prices of this place appeal to all kinds of people and that is exactly what you see there: ALL kinds of people. There is the older gentleman with a pleasant smile who always begins his workout by hopping on the stair master. About 5 minutes into his routine he starts groaning like he is having the best sex of his life.
"Awwwwwww.....oooooooohhhhhhh. YEAH!!! YEsssssssss!!!! OOOOH GAWWWWWDDDD!!!!!!"
This goes on for the entire 20 minutes or so of his routine and by the end of it you would think he actually HAD climaxed by the ecstatic grin spread across his sweaty face. I was blushing in embarrassment the first time I witnessed this, but looking at the unfazed faces around me, it appeared that they were used to it. I found out he has been coming to the gym for at least 20 years.
There is the woman who insists on squawking out what she seems to think are musical notes while listening to her ipod. It comes in spurts and after about 10 minutes of blissful silence, she breaks out into a sound which I can only liken to a feline coital session. It's practically unbearable and I have now made purchasing my own ipod a priority for obvious reasons .
That particular woman has a daughter who, like her mother, has tanned herself to an orange crisp thinking it makes her muscles look better, while in actuality all it does is make her look like a carrot. The mother and daughter duo, when not screeching out guttural noises to the beat of Christina Aguilera, park themselves in front of the mirror, do situps and argue about who has better abs. They also take offense to whoever is on the machine that they want at the moment and stand there with their arms crossed, glaring at you until you are done.
Another character who seems to grace the facility whenever I am there is a man who stays on the elliptical for 2 hours at a time while giving you monologue about how many drugs he's consumed.
"It used to be coke for me man." He pants, sweat beads gleaming on his forehead.
"Coke, whiskey and pills. GOD I loved that shit." He exclaims longingly, a pained look on his face.
"This is the only thing that keeps me straight now, man. Two hours on this thing and I'm high as a motherfucker!! YEAH!!!" He yells as he turns up the resistance to 13, his enormous calves bulging under him.
On days when all those people are there at once, as well as countless others I am not describing -it is colorful to say the least. But, that's the way I like it. I'm the girl with the glasses, dripping with sweat on one of the four ellipticals, reading gossip magazines and trying not the think about the fact that I have 30 more minutes of cardio ahead of me. By summertime I hope to be that hot, buff chick lifting weights in a belly shirt still loving that fact that there aint no juice bar in the joint and there never will be.

I was Fired. Fired I was.

Isn't it ironic that only last week I was complaining about what I do for a living and yesterday I got fired from doing exactly that? Yes, that's right-I was fired, shitcanned, given the boot-or as they so euphemisticly put it: "terminated."
Why? You ask. For stealing. Or for "too many voids in a two month period" if you want the official lingo.
I contested it of course, but my shocked and stuttered explanations for my voids did "not match what it said on paper" and that was that. They either thought I was pocketing the money or giving away free food.
I walked down the rainy covered sidewalk with my last paycheck in hand, feeling dazed, shocked, and only slightly relieved.
Today I feel dirty, angry and extremely depressed. I cried over that stupid job. I did. When no one but my boyfriend could see me. To get fired sucks. To get fired for on bogus grounds of STEALING of ALL THINGS really, really sucks.
What to do?
Well, my plans are to mope around for a few days feeling sorry for myself, then update the ol' resume and hit the pavement. I would love to think I wont have to table whore any more. But in January, in a city with more restaurants than anything else (besides strip clubs that is-and NO I wont just in case you're wondering) -I'll take what I can get.
Wish me luck.

Monday. Winter. Blah.

I forgot what blue sky looks like. I close my eyes to remember the bright, majestic color that filled the atomosphere no so long ago. I look up pictures of southern California and Mexico on the internet...if only to remind myself that pretty days still exist. I open my eyes again after trying to evoke that lovely blue that is lost to us until May and I look out the window. White, grey dark. The only blue is on the trim of the neighbors house and I want to steal the paint and smear it across the dull, grey sky.
My only comfort on this cold, bleak January day is the hot cup of tea by my side and the snuggly, cozy kitty in my arms.
I am SO renting movies and putting on my PJ's.

Table Whore

Most days it doesn't bother me. The fact that I serve food to people with a fake smile and ask in a saccharine sweet voice: "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?" as if there was nothing more I would LOVE to do than get them another side of dressing. No, most days, after I walk out the door with a wad of cash equivalent to 15-20 percent of my sales I don't mind my job at all.
Tonight was different. Tonight I mind. Tonight I want to be a table whore no more.

It all started like a normal Friday. I pulled a double as I always do at the end of the week and I was looking forward to the wad of wallet stuffing that would come at the end of my labors. The day was filled with the usual mix of nice people and the typically clueless, demanding bastards who seem to have no idea that food actually has to be cooked beforethey consume it and that they are not the only table in the restaurant. I can handle these people. Its my job. Just a little smile, a look of concern, a distracting comment of praise about their appalling wardrobe and they are putty in my hands. No problem. I'm an actress. I'm a table whore. I'm a pro.

I came back for the second round. It. Was. Awful. There seemed to be a certain amount of "asshole" traveling through the air with the east wind. It was apparently catching and absorbed into the pours of ninety percent of my customers.
"Why is our pizza TAKING so long?!?!" screeched a botox filled, peroxide bleached septuagenarian. "We have to be to temple by 7!!! THIS is unacceptable and I'll have you know I KNOW the OWNERS!!"
"You and half the town bitch." I muttered under my breath as I walked back to get her pizza which was, incidentally, 3 minutes under its scheduled time.
The hours went by. So did the assholes.
"Thees wine tastes like sheeeet." announced an arrogant Arab man in an designer suit that reeked of Hugo Boss. His cowering wife sat silently with her glass of water, not making eye contact with anyone. "In my country we KNOW good wine. Take eet back. I wont pay for eet. Eeet is Sheeeeeet!!"
I took back the brim-full glass of pinot noir and it took every ounce in my body not to slam it down right there.
"My salad is too wet!"
"WHY isn't our appetizer here?!? My son has hypoglycemia!!!"
"don't think that I'm going to tip you for THIS lady. You call this GOURMET PIZZA?!?! I like my pepperoni with Italian SPICES and HERBS!!! This tastes like SALAMI from HELL!!"
"What do you MEAN you don't have RANCH DRESSING?!?! What the HELL kind of pizza place is this?"
And so on, and so on and so on.
The wind kept blowing and the assholes kept pouring in. The people that were actually decent, nice, and good tippers were too few and far between to notice. I had had enough, and I was ready to go home.
But the night was not over yet. It is almost always inevitable that the last customer of the evening will be the worst. Tonight was no exception.
It was a quarter 'till 10: fifteen minutes before closing, and a flusterd woman came through the door with her daughter.
"Where are your slices?" she asked.
"Actually, we don't serve slices at this location." I replied in a robotic voice, quoting what I say at least 500 times a day.
"WHAT?!?! But, my daughter is STARVING and we are MEETING people here for a slice!" She whined shrilly, like a three year old.
I was calm and composed and tried my damnedest to get her the hell out of the restaurant and down the street to the slice shop. She would not budge.
"No, no no. We're here now and we might as well stay. I'm so COLD. Are you cold?" she asked.
The sweat beads streaming down my haggard face didn't seem to be enough of an answer for her.
"Um... no. But, the kitchen closes in 15 minutes. Can I get your order?"
She didn't seem to hear this and proceeded to launch into a horrificly personal monologue about her menstrual history.
"GAWWWD-I have the WORST cramps!! Don't you HATE it when that happens? I know this month is going to be clotty! I HATE it when its clotty! I can always tell its going to be CLOTTY when my cramps get this bad? Do you have anything for that?"
I tried to suppress my utter disgust for his woman. Not only did I automatically hate her for having NO clue that we were CLOSING and we all wanted to get out of there-her insistence on telling me about the pain in her reproductive organs made me want to barf.
"Just 'cuz I'm a girl doesn't mean I give a shit about your ovaries bitch." Is what went through my mind.
"Um....red wine?" Is what came out of my mouth. "Red wine is always good for cramps."
I'm an actress. I'm a pro.
"YES!!!" she yelled as if it was the epiphany of the year. "Give me a bottle of whatever you think is good!!!"
I proceeded to grudgingly open a bottle of our most expensive wine. If she was going to leave it up to me, I was going to make the most of it.
Her husband showed up with her OTHER daughter and they proceeded to changed tables at least three times because one of their daughters was apparently OCD and: "didn't like metal. It makes me uncomfortable." she winced as I pulled a chair out for her.
They settled for a booth, and the woman still wanted to chat with me about her ovaries like we at a fucking 7th grade slumber party and we were obsessed with our impending periods.
I tried to suppress my gag reflex and get to the point.
"Can I take your order?" I asked.
Simple question. Not so simple answer. She asked me detailed questions about half of the 26 pizzas on the menu.
Is it good? Does it have animal fat in it? Will it make ME fat? Do kids like anchovies? How do you feel about sausage? What exactly is a WILD mushroom? Do you have someone that hikes out and picks them?
This woman was apparently sent from another planet to make my life hell. I answered as curtly and quickly as possible in hopes to get her to a decision. I used my suave tools of suggestion and influence to get her to FINALLY decide on the most expensive pizza on the menu (hey, she ASKED me!)
We waited for the pizza to cook. It seemed like an eternity. A million demands were made in the meantime. A salad was ordered because the pizza was "taking too long." We had been closed for 20 minutes at this point. My co-workers were telepathically cursing this woman along with me.
I finally served the pizza. She complained that it was too well done and wanted to send it back. I told her this was not possible because the kitchen was closed. She sighed deeply and swigged some red wine. What happened next was the last straw.
"FINE." she mumbled, and proceeded to hand me her empty salad plate and SHOVE her dirty salad prongs into my apron pocket containing my cash.
"Can you take care of this filth and leave us to our pizza?" she demanded.
It took every ounce of self control in my body to not shove the salad prongs in HER pocket and rub the salad dressing all over her cashmere sweater. I took a deep breath and walked away.
They took forever to eat and had a million complaints in between. When they were FINALLY ready to leave they needed to split the check. They were MARRIED and they needed to split the check.
It was split. They left. It was an hour and a half after they came in. I walked back down to the table and opened the ticket book. They left two dollars on a fifty dollar ticket. I wanted to scream.

As I was counting out my oily money this evening I had an epiphany: I don't like what I do for a living. Its not worth it. No amount of tips can make me love to swallow my pride and count out salad dressing drenched currency. I'm over it. Oh, I'm not quitting. I'll swallow my pride a lot more and act my ass off in the name of tips-but I am SO OVER IT. I will continue to demean myself until summer time and then I am off to North Carolina to go back to school and start a new life. What will I do you ask? Hell if I know. Anything but this. My feet hurt, my pride hurts and I am starting to get carpal tunnel from carrying overflowing plates of food. Until there is some sort of academy award given out to servers for our outstanding performances I gotta find a new line of work.
until then: I'm an actress. I'm a pro.
I. Am. Table Whore.

Enough is-(cough, gasp, wheeze-)ENOUGH!!!

I took my first drag of a cigarette at age 12. I coughed. I gagged. I thought: "nasty!" -and that was that. Then, at the ripe old age of 14 I decided to give it another go. Everyone looked so damn cool doing it after all, there must be something behind that awful taste. I bought a pack of Marlboro reds. Or, rather, I had some 18 year old do it for me. I coughed. I gagged. I thought: "nasty!" Round three: Camels. Same taste. Same gag. Same thought. You would think I would have stopped there. No, no no. It was all about getting past your bodies reaction and MAKING yourself LIKE it!!! I did. And I felt sooo cool.
"Have you been smoking?" my mom asked me as I waltzed throughout the door after a marathon smoking session with BJ above the house.
I rolled my eyes in a "WhatEVER MOM!" look and ran to my room.
" Mom soooo doesn't know I smoke" I thought smugly to myself, forgetting that she was 35 years older than I and had a decade of smoking under her belt.
She knew. And I kept smoking.
My older friends (all of 18 mind you) warned me: "Dont start!" I've been smoking for 5 years and I don't think I can stop!"
"Whatever." I said as I pulled deeply on my cig, feeling ever so cool as I did it. "I am SO not addicted!"
Fast foward 11 years. My lovely pink lungs undoubtedly not so lovely or pink anymore, and I look back on that day so long ago. They were right. Dammit.
I have gone in and out of the smoking thing. Not smoking for 6 months here and there. Only smoking when I drink. But its all getting old, and so am I. I'm sick of it.
"I only smoke when I drink." I used to declare proudly.
"How often do you drink" asked one man at the bar. (This was when I just turned 21 mind you)
"Umm, only like 5 days a week!" I said hesitantly as I pulled a fresh, white stick out of my purse and lit it.
He looked at me with sad eyes and his lips curled around his tobacco stained teeth in a sarcastic smile.
"You're hooked and you know it girl." He said knowingly."I been smokin' this shit for 45 years, and don't you think it wont catch up to ya. Quit while ya can, or that shit'll smoke YOU!"
I laughed nervously and turned around to my much more young and attractive friends who were also smoking, but too drunk to care and too young for smoking to make its yellow, physical mark.
The years went on. So did the smoking.
Alcohol and cigarettes are like peas and carrots. They go together all too well. After awhile, you cant imagine one without the other. A balanced meal if you will.
Well, I am going on a permanent DIET dammit!! Only carrots for me from now on baby. I don't care HOW well they go together-I would rather be malnourished than have another balanced meal of tobacco and booze EVER again!!!!!!
Thats not true. I know I'll want it. Part of me will always want it and that's the catch. But, I am getting too old for this shit to be cool anymore. My body is yelling at me and I gotta listen. I joined the gym and have started weekly Yoga classes and my lungs are loving it.
Its been 1 week. Wish me luck.