Cooking

So, I cook. For a living. I started at assembling salads a few weeks ago and have since almost replaced the the guy one station up (read: more advanced, busier) from mine. Did I mention that everyone else in the kitchen is male? Cooks, managers, food runners, dishwashers, everyone. The servers are all female, and made to wear miniskirts with kneesocks and tight shirts. You know the place; every city has one. What you don't know but could probably surmise is that the managers/employees of the place, if male, objectify women and feel they are unworthy of respect, and that the employees, if female, have little to no self-respect and/or may not be qualified to go by the alias of Ms. Independent. Unfortunately, in this micro-universe, I stick out like a used condom on the pier where you're walking with your children. How can it possibly be, some wonder, that this young female wants to cook and not serve? So odd. Since this is so shocking to the males with whom I work, they deem fit to treat me as if i pranced around in whore's garb feeding and cleaning up after them. I didn't want to pull the "sexual harassment equals joblessness" card so quickly, but those of lesser intelligence are more helped by extremes, less by subtlety. Assholes.

phone calls from old friends

I love this girl.
Memorable quotes: "We are not starting a band so you can have more sex."

jogging.

Jogging. It's what I do when, instead of going to the gym like I've been saying I will for two weeks, I eat junk food and blog.
You ever wonder why they call it food blogging? Nobody wants to say they flog for fun. What one does behind closed doors is their business and theirs alone.
Sometimes, when I go through Facebook photos of my old life, I want to comment on all pictures of people I've had sex with. People with whom I've had sex, that is. Wouldn't it be neat if one day you logged into your FB account and found that some girl from 5 years ago commented on your photo that you'd slept together? It could do nothing but make life more interesting, albeit less mysterious.
Right. Well there's only fifteen minutes before noon, who wants a beer while it's still a.m.?

Part 1-Me, the possible rapist--only statutory.

It's finally happened. I've been forced to start a blog. I mean, no one's got a gun to my head, but this morning (take a deep breath and sit down if you aren't already) my boyfriend of two years said I'm like his mom. All I did was recommend that he not stick a wet spoon in the sugar jar because it creates gross lumps. Is that so wrong? I mean, how are we going to raise children to be upright, productive members of society if we live like animals?
Not that we have children. Nor are we planning on it in the near future. One day we'll be married with children, though, and I refuse to bring up children in a sticky house with lumps in the sugar.
"You're like my mom or something." That's what he said. As he went back to playing World of Warcraft for the third hour since waking, knuckles popping, unshowered head wrapped cosily in it's cap, I couldn't help but wonder if he lied about his age.