Archive for March, 2013

Flintstone sour gummy vitamins fucking stink

I have not smoked for 9 days, 22 hours, and 7 minutes. I have been at least a pack a day smoker for at least 20 years so this is a huge milestone in my life. I work in the restaurant industry, am married to a smoker, and am constantly(though not always justifiably) stressed. I drink large quantities of beer. I enjoy the act and smell of cigarette smoking. My father smoked. I am orally fixated. All of my friends smoke or used to smoke. Most of my co-workers smoke. See? I have excuses.
Please let me tell you how and why I quit. I have only tried a few times before to quit, even though I never really wanted to. I figured I run, eat pretty well, and seldom have health issues. Belligerent? Yes. Intelligent? No. Those commercials with the smokers talking through the tracheotomy really affected my point of view. I do not like pain and I do not want to be in pain when I am older. And I want nice teeth.
A year ago I bought a Groupon for laser therapy, a form of acupuncture, that was supposed to be 80% effective for smoking cessation. I felt duped. 2 years prior, I tried Chantix. Crazy Bitch. Crazy dreams. I continued enjoying my cigarettes and then my best friend decided to quit because doctors found a nodule on her lung. A few weeks later, another one of my best friend’s mother had a tracheotomy. Then, my boss asked me if I wanted to quit with him and his wife on Monday, March 11. Maybe it was the “happens in threes” theory. Maybe it was just my time…
I decided to try the patch this time. I had already purchased the patch and the box sat unused in my medicine cabinet. March 11th rolled around. I should have set that patch right on my nightstand. Instead, I had to physically get out of bed and rummage through all the shit in my medicine cabinet trying to find that damn patch. It should not have been hard to find considering the box had a bright orange clearance sticker on it. I grabbed the package and read through the directions, which thankfully did not include a mile long list of possible side effects like so many of the commercialized new age drugs that can cure anything from dry mouth to dry vagina.
As I read through the instructions (peel off patch and stick it somewhere), I noticed the expiration date. There was a reason the box was 75% off. I breathed a sigh of relief and went downstairs to enjoy my morning coffee. With my morning cigarette. I resolved to buy another unexpired patch after work and happily went about my day.
A few days later, I had a few more excuses for not yet purchasing the patch. Kid #3 had stayed home from school Monday and Tuesday because she did not feel well. I rarely get sick; yet this bout I did not remain unscathed. I had not felt that bad in years. I always pride myself on being a ‘good’ sick person. Apparently I am not. It’s that patience thing. I do not have time to be sick. I can’t just lay around and not get things done. How fucking frustrating! I contracted a cross between the cold and flu which was highlighted by an acute headache, plenty of body aches, and a nasty cough. I was miserable. The husband was scheduled to get his wisdom teeth taken out that Thursday so I finally decided I would try to quit Friday. I knew he was not supposed to smoke after having the procedure done and I felt like hell anyway. I purchased the patch and waited for Friday.
Thursday morning I transported the husband to the dentist. They had given him a prescription for some hallucinogenic drugs that would knock him out during surgery. After the procedure, the nurse gave him and I instructions. She asked if he was a smoker. He feebly nodded.
“So am I, “she said conspiratorially, “Just make sure you leave the gauze in.”
What the fuck?? Are you kidding me? My one chance to have the husband NOT smoke for a few days. Ruined!
He lit up in the car. I angrily resolved to stick with my quit date.
The next morning, I rolled out of bed and stuck on my new patch. The hardest part of not smoking for me is not having that first cigarette in the morning. I am not one of those people that can wait a little bit before I light up. Nope- I stumble down the stairs and beeline for my coffee and cigarette. So Friday morning I poured my coffee and detoured to the living room as opposed to the garage. I kept busy and tried not to think about smoking. And I made it.
Somehow, I always imagined if I made it through just ONE morning the next would be easier. And it was. Day #2 was a Saturday. I put on the patch and went to get my coffee.
The coffee in our house is a volatile subject. I like my coffee strong; the husband likes it weak. This discrepancy has caused us to engage in heated arguments. He calls my coffee ‘Jew crack’. I call his coffee ‘hillbilly pisswater’. There was a stretch of time when our coffee maker was really fucked up and brewed Jew crack. I left work one day and went to the doctor because I thought I was having a heart attack/ panic attack or both. Thankfully, it was just the super strong coffee. Since then, I have limited my coffee intake to a cup or a cup and a half.
For the first few days after I quit smoking, I texted the husband to ask him if he had brewed the espresso we sometimes make because I felt so jittery. No, no he had not. Someone explained to me that since coffee is a stimulant and tobacco is a depressant, I was drinking straight stimulant without offsetting the caffeine with my cigarette. Sigh. I stopped enjoying my coffee. I also mistakenly thought the cold and flu symptoms would go away once I quit smoking. Wrong again. I should have known there would be repercussions when I stopped doing something I had been doing for 20 years.
And then bitch mode kicked in. The husband calls me passive aggressive. Not this week!
My new best friend? Sugar coated lemon drops. I have never been a gum chewer. The patch was giving me a weird looking rash so I took it off and have been free balling it since.
I finally started feeling better Thursday. I have an app on my phone that tells me how long its been since my last cigarette and the health benefits of quitting. For the last few days, the app has told me nerve endings have begun to regenerate and my sense of smell and taste have begun to return to normal.
This may or may not be true. I did go to grab kid #3 Flintstone vitamins this morning and almost threw up. Those sour gummies smell like shit! Thankfully, the Bass still tastes great!(I’m saving my lungs; fuck my liver!)
Oh, and the husband got dry sockets.

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The husband and his beater

I do not have convertible hair. My hair is curly. And thin. When I wake up in the morning it does not look like it did when I went to sleep. When I ride roller coasters it does not fall back into place with a few light brushes of my fingertips like girls with straight hair. Humidity? Sex? Rain? Fucked! Often times, I painstakingly spend more than an hour trying to straighten my curly locks. I apparently am not good at that either; my hair is so fine(not in the complimentary or slang sense of fine) that it tends to singe and break off.
During my first midlife crisis(when I was 30) my hairdresser talked me into chemically straightening my long curly hair. What the hell? Why not cut off 6 inches too? So I did. Except I still had to use a flat iron to straighten my hair everyday. And since I have never had straight hair I did not know saturating my hair with heat protective styling products was an absolute necessity. After about 3 weeks, I started noticing patches of bald spots. I freaked out and went back to the devil hairdresser to try and get things fixed. You can’t fix bald.
“What am I supposed to do?” I implored, near tears.
“Umm… buy a wig until it grows out,”.
No apology. No admittance of any wrongdoing. No “I’m sorry I straightened your hair, didn’t tell you how to take care of it, and it all fell out”.
What did I do? I bought a wig. Sort of. I went to Sally’s Beauty Supply and bought a fake ponytail. Or three. Wigs are fucking expensive. And even when all my hair falls out, I am still ultimately just a hairless Jew. So I would slick back my remaining hair and pop in a fake ponytail. I had curly ponytails, straight ponytails, and blonde ponytails. A few of the ponytails snapped into place with a simple hairclip. My favorite one was more complex and required a hairnet and drawstring. The amout of time it took me to get ready diminished. Unfortunately, it still did not help with the whole arriving on time thing.
I grew fond of my fake ponytails. I even thought they looked good on me. Washing them proved to be a mild pain in the ass, though. I would have to soak them in the bathtub with a special shampoo and try to gently comb them out. Then I hung them various places around the house to dry. The kids became accustomed to fetching my hair.
“Hey! Can you run upstairs and grab my hair? I need to leave!”
One time the husband and I were at my cousin’s wedding. We needed to travel from the hotel to the ceremony and it was drizzling lightly outside. I had straightened my hair for the occasion so I asked the husband to grab the umbrella out of the car.
“The car is right there,” he said pointing at the vehicle parked 10 feet from the hotel door.
“Baby-we’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Please just grab it for me!” I answered.
One drop!! That is all it takes for one piece of my hair to shrivel up into its own inevitable curl. Am I a freak about my hair? Yes. This proves 2 things.
1. Noticeably singeing the majority of my hair was detrimental to my self esteem.
2. I have no business owning a convertible.
But the husband wanted a beater. Don’t get excited. He drives a medium sized pick up truck. That fucker guzzles gas and he works 20 miles from home. We had been talking for a while about purchasing a smaller car for the sole purpose of driving to and from work. A 2004 metallic blue convertible Saab, however, is not my idea of a ‘beater’.
The Saab previously belonged to the husband’s sister. Though she enjoyed the Saab, the Saab had issues. At one point she purchased an entire new engine. The husband had worked on her car often and longingly. When she decided to depart with it, she offered the husband a deal he couldn’t(and wouldn’t) refuse.
The Saab IS beautiful. We paid his sister $1500 and had it towed to our garage. It took the husband less than 10 minutes to fix the car. At this point, I was less mad about the $1500 and wished like hell I had straight hair.
The Saab gets fantastic gas mileage. And the car is sweet. It took me all summer to really start enjoying driving around with the top down. I even experimented and came up with a sustainable hairstyle that could survive a topless commute.
The husband and I went to another wedding last August. One of his work buddies got married in a little town about 45 minutes away. Of course the husband wanted to drive the Saab. I reluctantly agreed but told him we could not put the top down until we were on our way home. It was August; too humid to straighten the hair and there was no way in hell my curls would remain intact for that long of a car ride.
After the wedding, we started driving home with the top down. The husband pulled into the grocery store so we(I) could get beer. I looked in the mirror.
“I’m not going in!” I told him emphatically.
You know those pens with the little trolls with the fuzzy hair on top? The ones you rub between your hands and their fuzzy hair goes every which way? Yeah. He rolled his eyes and begrudgingly went in to get the beer.
My best friend chose that moment to call and say hi. So I did what I do best and started bitching. I told her the husband was irritated because I wouldn’t go in to get the beer and she started laughing. She called me a diva and said I was such a freak about my hair. I told her I would send her a picture. I snapped a picture of myself with my Iphone.
She called right back and apologized. The bitch also made that picture her background photo on her phone and says she laughs every time she looks at it.
And that is my Saab story.

Things I fucking hate (about being a server)


I love my job. This week. I have known my boss for years. She is younger than me, she is hotter than me, and she is (except for one week out of the month) generally pleasant to work for. Being young and driven causes her to ride my ass about appearing on our work website on Facebook promoting our restaurant. Every week she posts a picture and an employee “profile”, listing our favorite house beer, the entrĂ©e we enjoy most, and an interesting personal fact. Fabulous idea. Unless you are pushing 40 and are totally insecure about announcing to the entire internet that you are pushing 40 and still work in the perceived peon stage of the restaurant industry.
Don’t get me wrong. I am proud of what I do, make a lot of money, and so enjoy the flexibility my job allows with three kids and the husband. I do, however, sometimes feel like people expect an explanation. Which they should not. More often, I feel like people owe ME an explanation why they are such assholes. Hence, my list of things I fucking hate about being a server.

1. Bitter bitches. You know the type. Office ass. Office affairs. A general distaste for anyone or anything younger, skinnier, or happier than they think they are. Primary attributes? Condescending banter, unnecessary requests, and a predetermined worthless gratuity.

2. Customers who say, “I’ll just have a water for now”. Ummm… yeah. You are having water. You are not going to pony up the $2.75 for a soft drink or a tea. You are having water. Water drinkers almost require a page to themselves. Hot water with lemon? What the fuck?? Who drinks hot water? It is as much of a pain in the ass as preparing hot tea. Without the $2.75. Water with lemon? I can handle that. Water with a plate of extra lemons? Come on! Get a fucking lemonade. Cheap cheap cheap! And the variations of water? Water with lemon, water with no ice, water with no ice and lemon, water with lime, water with a twist, a soda water with lemon and lime…. really? Fuck off.

3. The splitting of the checks. Generally, I do not mind requests for separate checks. Unless you fuck with me. Today, I had a table of ten that requested separate checks and I happily obliged. Then, seat #1 wanted to pay for seat #5 and #8. Seat #2 wanted to split appetizer with seat #6. Seat #7 had office ass and the rest paid with cash and were suddenly in a hurry.

4. Fighting over the check and trying to make ME decide who is going to win.

5. Whenever I say I’ll be right back with another Pepsi, water, Iced tea, etc. And then someone asks me for a Pepsi, water, Iced tea, or etc.

6. The verbal tip. Need I say more? Because I will…

7. Being an “older’ server. I know those young boys lament because they got the old server. I remember being 21, damn it!! I had a table that loved me last week. The lady says to me, “You’re a great server! Probably because you are a little older”.
Not a compliment, honey.

8. Regular customers who strive to order off the menu. I have one customer I hate spieling our daily special to. Without fail, he will ask me if he can get it in a wrap. I’d like to lie and say I do not know why this annoys me. He annoys me. That is the problem. He is a good tipper, though, so I spiel away and he gets the special in the wrap. And fresh squeezed orange juice. What the fuck?

9. One redhead I work with. She may elicit a page for herself soon.

10. Grown men that pay the bill with a Disney credit card. Pussy.


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