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Five word-inspired Halloween costumes you can put together in a day

A Cat Call

Puns! This is a drunk Jackie Mantey original idea and my favorite Halloween costume (and party) to date! I got so sleepy putting together this makeshift photo booth for my dining room, I had to take a cat nap before the party. Eeeeeeehhhhh?

This is super easy. Throw on something that looks like a cat costume, which you can fake really well with drawn on whiskers and some pointy ears. Hold your phone and pretend to make calls a lot. Also, say inappropriate things to your hot friends.

Lady and Gentleman Bug

Eeee. You know what they say. A couple that puns together… breaks up for a year or so then stays together.

This is another original and my favorite couples costume we’ve done together. It’s pretty self-explanatory and you could pull it off a lot of different ways; however, Justin’s black man leggings, top hat, homemade wings and monocle really took it next level.

Edgar Allan Ho

Scandalous and amorous, old Edgar Allan wouldn’t mind you adding some fishnets and heels to his look. Hit up a craft store to get a decor skull or raven/ crow (no one knows the difference) to hold so you don’t just look goth.

A Shooting Star

A cut-out star + water guns = giiiiit it?

Arthur Dent from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”

Be honest, playing a helpless human won’t be that hard. Put your robe over your pajamas, throw on some slippers and grab your fave coffee mug. Roll up a newspaper or Scientific American and place it in your robe pocket for extra credit. Maybe tape a sign to your back that says “Don’t Panic”? Fellow hitchhiker fans will eat it up.

Words on the Street: October 26, 2017

I love everything about this building… except those glaring “your” and “you’re” errors but I choose to ignore them.

Slut boy!

Foreign boy!

This poster looks so ominous because of its decay. Like some shifty Groupon lackey tried to remove it or scrape of its message in the cover of darkness.

It’s been three years since a Chicago policeman shot 17-year-old Laquan McDonald in the back 16 times. Black lives matter.

Get it?

These quotes about famous people’s perseverance are on the outside of a Family Dollar, which is a pretty perfect location to spread the message to never give up.

This is from a show at the Slate Arts and Performance space. Liu’s work is bright and immersive and reflects her narrative search for memory and emotional recovery following a terrible head wound. It’s interesting to see how visual artists find ways to express their story through color and form, not words.

 

And here’s the Slate bathroom. It’s glorious and this post series seems to be where I, ahem, dump all my good bathroom photos. You’re welcome.

In which sometimes the universe helps you say yes

The thing I’ve basked in most since moving to Chicago from Columbus is the anonymity I have here. No one knows me in Chicago. I’m just one person in a crowd of many. One ant in the army, a pretzel in the party mix.

I know that’s unusual to say; don’t you want to be where everybody knows your name?

Well, therein lies our answer. I liked that no one knew me in Chicago because it made getting sober a lot easier. There were no expectations for who I was and how I would act.

No one in Ohio made me drink, of course, but it was hard to say no to “just one” when I had created the habit and reputation of being a party girl. I didn’t want to let anyone down, and you convince yourself you will by not drinking. At least when you’re a drunk. Codependency comes so easily for us!

I recognize that none of that matters and I what I needed to break through was why I had convinced myself I was Good Time Gina and couldn’t break free from that self-perpetuating idea. Nonetheless, moving to a new city was a relatively easy way to stack up some months of sobriety and then use them as the foundation for strength to even claw my way to that realization.

In Chicago, I didn’t care if anyone liked me. My move there wasn’t about them. It was about rehabbing a love and rehabbing myself.

Nearly a year and a half later, both of those things have come to fruition. No regrets, clearly, but I do find myself thinking sometimes, “Oh wow, I don’t really know anyone here except the person I came here for and the friends I met at work.”

That happens naturally as you get older. You settle in. Find one or two people who are worth your time and mostly just stick to them.

But I ain’t dead yet. And now that I know how and trust myself to hang out without wanting to drink, I’m ready to do it!

Getting myself to do that has proven difficult though. I think I’m an introvert who’s excellent at playing an extrovert. Which means, I make a lot of plans and never follow through. Then there’s that pesky monthly wave of depression.

Oh, and also, not being drunk means drunk conversations now bore the shit out of me. I want to talk the good stuff. Not share party stories. I’m so bad at small talk now.

Me at your kegger.

So imagine our surprise and, really, glee, when last Saturday Justin and I went out for an all-you-can-eat sushi date (gross in theory, delicious in reality) and found that a pair of our friends already had the same idea.

While we put our name in for a table, we heard our names being called from another one. We’d been “planning” double dates with this pair for as long as I’ve been living in Chicago, but we had yet to make it happen.

“Come sit with us!” they waved.

I think our first instinct was to politely decline and say something about not wanting to interrupt their date–or ours. I’m glad we did nothing of the sort. For the first time since I’ve moved here, it was really nice to not feel anonymous.

There was wine and gin on the table, BYOB, but I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t even think about it being there until we were out the door and on our separate ways, enveloped by the Chicago night. Alcohol finally appears to me in the way I think healthy drinkers see it: As secondary to the party as the food. It’s awesome when it’s there, but it’s not necessary.

Is this what coming out of a self-imposed hibernation feels like? I’m finally warming up to the city’s flesh and bone inhabitants, de-thawing into a wonderfully vulnerable little puddle that wants people to come and play.

As we shared dinner, sushi and stories, we discovered both of our date nights had been stalled in various ways to put us here, in the same obscure restaurant, at the same strange time, in a city where more than 2.7 million people could be roaming about.

What are the chances?

Here’s to no longer asking questions like that.

And saying yes more often with follow-through, no matter how shaky I feel.

Thanks for the kick in the pants, universe. And also for the sushi.

In sickness and in health, from memories do we part

The headache came first. On a Saturday afternoon, as innocent as a Cure song.

By Sunday I’m woozy. “Monday’s blue. Tuesday’s gray and Wednesday too. Thursday, I don’t care about you. It’s Friday, I’m in love.”

OK, but back to Wednesday.

By this point I had shut down almost entirely.

I had a full-on head cold, or probably the flu because it was complete with fever, nausea and exaltations to the Goddess that I would never do anything bad again if only my nose would drain itself of this hot gold mucus and allow me to breathe like a real person again.

This was the first time my husband of exactly one and a half months saw me so sick for such an extended period of time.

Though we lived together before being betrothed, it had never been during a bout of ol’ influenza.

During those illnesses of yesteryear, we’d typically give each other a middle-school-slow-dance-distance hug, a warm bowl of soup, and a shout to “Call if you need anything” on the way quickly out the door to our own, not-gross apartment.

It didn’t bother me that he was seeing me so absolutely unappealing. We’d seen each other at our most vulnerable long ago.

In fact, the scariest part about getting married wasn’t the wedding night or committing to each other for life, it was trusting one another with our money. Sharing bank accounts is the modern girl’s virginity, after all.

“Will you still love meeee tomoooooorrow – because today I spent way too much at Macy’s-there was a really good sale tho and we should go back asap because coats are eighty percent off.”

That’s how that song would go if it were written in 2017.

But here we were: Me sick, him catching it, and us together … living our “In sickness and in health” vow IRL. I really thought we had nothing left to learn about each other.

Incorrect.

For example, I learned that it’s possible for me to smell his stanky dried saliva on a shared pillow and not bitch about it once, and instead just roll over, mentally adding “wash sheets” to our to-do list.

I also learned that as I tend to skew into helpless whiny adult-baby territory when I don’t feel good, he turns into a no-nonsense Polish grandmother who loves me but is … whatever is Polish for “completely sick of my shit.”

The more I refused to help myself, the more he helped but also gave me lectures. While gently covering my burnt-out nose and chapped lips with Vaseline, for example, he gave a long-winded speech about not putting dirty tissues on the nightstand like I had been doing.

I stared back in awe that one person could have so much air in their lungs!

I also thought I had nothing else to learn about myself. But this infection was a monster and a scholar, ready to teach my sorry ass.

So, I work from home as a copywriter and I had an important client presentation to make via phone call on Thursday. At this point I was on the upswing but still ticking by at only about 70 percent.

Though I felt capable of faking coherency, I had been bequeathed a new sickness gift: A voice that was nearly gone.

When I dialed into my team line before we called the client, I managed to croak out a wimpy “Hello.”

My teammates on the other line burst into laughter. A loving laughter, at how pathetic I sounded and how they thought I should just go back to bed, but laughter no less.

I laughed too but told them I was going to go on mute and just jump in if there was a client question only I could answer.

Something inside my head—and not just the mucus buildup—made me feel like my scratchy, nearly nonexistent voice made me appear weak, not good enough, and that embarrassed me.

Hmm… Where did that come from?

Luckily, when you’re sick, you have a lot of time to think about things like this. Because while the Goddess giveth you DayQuil, she taketh your ability to sleep on command.

After the call ended and I had crawled back to my bed, I laid there and thought about this perceived weakness and my subconscious desire to not let anyone hear me that way.

Again, where did that come from?

I decided to start with my childhood. Because this is where all weird subconscious adult insecurities take root.

I remembered having sore and strep throat a lot.

Then there was the unfortunate bout of frequent yeast infections until we discovered I was allergic to the bubblegum scented, red-dye body wash we were using.

I remembered pretending to get sick from the fumes of 409 when it was time for chores and I didn’t want to work.

I remembered Grease. Yes, I associate sickness with Danny Zuko and, my favorite pink lady, Rizzo.

As we were not yet owners of cable, I spent my days home from school in the ‘90s watching Grease on repeat.

“Won’t go to bed ‘till I’m legally wed! I can’t! I’m Sandra Deeeee!”

Who knew going to bed meant having sex? Not I, said the child singing it.

I just thought she was willing to forgo sleep to find a suitor. Like a real idiot.

Following the lead of my boo, Rizzo, I never liked Sandy that much. Nothing in her character resonated with me. She was indeed too pure to be pink. She was too pretty. She was too sweet.

Too sweet… too sweet… Oh my god, bingo!

Like a T-Bird outta hell, the following memory landed on me:

It’s third grade and time for the Christmas musical. Grades 1-3 do a musical together, which means I’m considered an “older kid” and can try out for a lead role!

Fast forward.

I get it.

Fast forward.

I practice my butt off at school and at home, learning my lines, putting together my costume using my dad’s old robe and knock-off Birkenstocks, a raggedy brown towel draped over my head and tied on with baling twine from my dad’s farm.

Most of all though, I practice my one vocal solo.

My singing voice is pretty average now and it was pretty average in third grade. Here was my solo part. I still remember it:

“Sometimes I wish that I could be. Somebody else instead of me. A person who is quiet and sweeeeeet. To be like that would sure be neat.”

If I’d been assigned to sing this verse as a teen, my paranoid rage would have led me to believe someone was trying to tell me something. I’ve never been accused of being quiet. And being sweet is a nice goal but it’s not exactly something that comes naturally to me.

Sometimes you gotta tell a motherfucker that dirty tissues can go anywhere you damn well please when your head feels like it’s in a vice, OK?

Fast forward.

It’s the day of dress rehearsals and we’re performing our musical in front of the WHOLE SCHOOL, which means the all-powerful fourth, fifth and sixth graders will be watching from the bleachers.

I’m. So. Nervous. And on top of my nerves I have, you guessed it, a sore throat. And my voice is almost gone.

Here’s what I remember. Squirming my way through the whole show, bravely speaking into the mic even as my voice uncontrollably spat and sizzled.

My 9-year-old-self made every valiant effort to add inflection and drama and intrigue but I mostly sounded like a mouse on acid. I can remember so badly wanting to prove myself worthy of this part.

I thought I was doing OK. But then I had to sing.

And there, swimming in my dad’s weird brown throwaways, I sang. My nasally voice cracking the whole way:

“A person who is quiet and sweeEEeEEeEeet. To be like that would sure be nEEEeeEeat.”

As I recall this, I can see as clear and as bright as Christmas Eve’s come-to-Jesus star, the entire sixth-grade class whispering about and laughing at me.

Do you ever have memories of Those Moments where you wish you could DeLorean back in time and just give your little self a big hug and whisper:

“It’s totally cool, bitch. I got you. We’re gonna be SO fucking happy someday. Fuck them.”

Yeah. This is one of my Those Moments.

Fast forward.

My older sister takes a seat next to me on the bus home that day after school. She’s in fifth grade and doesn’t sit by me normally, so it’s nice to have her there by my side.

She tells me I did great, and I shouldn’t worry about those kids laughing at me. After all, didn’t I notice who was making fun of me the most?

I cringe. No. I was trying not to look.

“It was Hillary’s sister,” she says matter-of-factly. “You know, Hillary, the girl in your class that you beat out for the lead part. They just think they’re special because their mom is a professional singer and they think singing is all that matters and it isn’t.”

Then she changed the subject and rode by my side the rest of the way home.

Fast forward.

I wake up from my reverie and turn over to see my new family member, my person who has taken the place of my sister and now rides shotgun in my daily life. My Polish grandmother husband, now sick with whatever I gave him.

In that moment, it’s Friday. I’m in love. And I throw up a shout-out to the Goddess for giving me such good people throughout my whole life. I’d give them all my money, my flu, my voice. I’d give them anything, everything.

And, in that moment, I feel better already.

Tips for a successful DIY family holiday

When my family started doing its annual Great Pumpkin Day event, I only had one nephew and one niece. Now I’m up five. Total count: four nephews, two nieces.

I’m not being hyperbolic when I say being an aunt is the best thing in the world. I love these little ones as if they were my own. My idea to start Great Pumpkin Day was just an excuse to hang out with them. I was also at the point in life where I was learning one of my most value life lessons to date: No one knows what they’re doing and traditions can be started at any time, yes even by you.

What began as a family get-together has turned into an annual thing I think we all look forward to.

Great Pumpkin Day 2012

Here’s how it works. It’s so simple. We just pick a Saturday in October that we all can meet at mom and dad’s house. We dress up in costumes (optional), do fun fall stuff, eat pumpkin everything (not optional), and just hang out.

There’s no pressure to cook a huge meal, like Thanksgiving, or bring a list-full of presents, like Christmas. And it’s in fall, which, who are we kidding, is the best season of all. Again, no hyperbole.

We just had our Great Pumpkin Day 2017, and it was my favorite one yet. Here are some suggestions to get your own family holiday started.

***

Keep the guest list small.

Part of what puts so much pressure on traditional traditions is that you have a whole contact list full of family and friends you want to see during them. That’s not a bad thing, but having a special day that you only share with a few people (like for us, it’s immediate family and grandparents only) no one can get shifty that you’re spending just an hour or two at their event before bouncing to another one. It also makes your nearest and dearest less likely to skip out on the event each year. It’s easier to send your regrets when you know a ton of people will be at the party and your presence won’t be missed that much.

Do it during the day.

Here’s why: It keeps the party flexible. We start at noon and it ends whenever we’re tired. You’re not trying to “make fetch happen” in a tight three-hour window at night when the mood has shifted and everyone’s thinking about going home or what they’re going to do later.

Have fun activities.

This takes you from hangout to holiday. We’ve done face painting, pumpkin carving, coloring, crafting, kickballing, apple bobbing, trick or treating, costume fashion showing, and, new this year thanks to the addition of Justin to the family, a piñata.

Stay open to anything.

Ugh. Other holidays are a pain when there are expectations involved. So, like, don’t have any. A general theme is fine, and planning ahead is necessary, but anything goes. It’s your holiday. So about that piñata. I love Justin’s family, and during a recent birthday party for his mom they had a piñata filled with little plastic bottles of liquor and lottery tickets. Oh shit, what a fun idea! We stole their idea but used kid friendly Halloween candy instead. Who knows what we’ll do next year? Maybe a kid piñata and an adult piñata? (Yes!) Spontaneity is the fun of it.

Take SO many photos.

My greatest Great Pumpkin Day regret? I didn’t take a million photos every year! I wish I had a picture album for each edition so we could see how much the kids and our family has grown year to year.

After all, time flies when you’re having fun.

 

Interview: 10 Questions for Author Mimi Matthews

Bust magazine readers may recognize the name Mimi Matthews.

This California-based writer pens a weekly column for the feminist magazine’s website. It chronicles the mostly fascinating, truly fabulous, and sometimes straight-up weird life and style aspects of Victorian culture.

Matthews does rabidly precise research and has a thoughtful eye for a good story — from Victorians’ beautiful fall dresses made of a toasted-orange fabric (the Pumpkin Spice Girls?) to the fate of old men who married young women in the 1800s (it’s, as predicted, pretty yikes) to their gone-viral beauty obsessions (mmmm, violet perfume).

You can (and should) read her Bust entries here. I, being an auburn-leaning ginger, am partial to the one about why auburn haired women were beloved (we cray!):

Auburn hair, with a florid countenance, indicates the highest order of sentiment and intensity of feeling, along with corresponding purity of character, combined with the highest capacities for enjoyment and suffering.

Matthews has two non-fiction books on the way, including “The Pug Who Bit Napoleon: Animal Tales of the 18th and 19th Centuries,” due out in November, and “A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Fashion and Beauty,” due out July 2018.

As an attorney with a Juris Doctor and a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature, it’s no surprise Matthews can expertly handle not only separating fact from fiction — but making them play together nicely.

Proof: Her debut fiction novel “The Lost Letter.”

This Victorian romance is the perfect companion for a cuddled-up Fall Saturday. It follows the story of the dynamic Sylvia Stafford. The tragic death of her father demotes her to a life of spinsterhood (no more pumpkin colored evening gowns for Ms. Sylvia!), until fate intervenes and she is reunited with her former love, the once charming Colonel Sebastian Conrad, gone surly and sour from a devastating battle wound. The Victorian countryside is the  lush backdrop for this story of love, loss and redemption.

In the following interview, Matthews talks about her own love affair with the Victorian era, how she balances research with crafting fiction, what she’s working on next, and advice she has for anyone writing a historical novel.

Oh, and which Bronte she would invite to a dinner party. Would you be able to choose just one?

***

What do you love about the Victorian era? What draws you to it?

The Victorian era has always appealed to me on multiple levels. First, there’s the obvious: the gorgeous fashions—from wire crinolines to enormous bustles. Then there’s the emphasis on manners and decorum; the strict societal rules for ladies and gentlemen and the limitations imposed on courting couples. The Victorian era was also a time of enormous advancements in industry, medicine, and the rights of women. Aniline dyes were discovered, the sewing machine was invented, train travel became ubiquitous, and women shed their cumbersome skirts and hopped on safety bicycles, an invention which gave them enormous independence. What’s not to love?

What made you want to write fiction about a subject whose real-life stories you’re so knowledgeable about?

The Victorian era has a wealth of fabulous history to tap into. And I already write so much about it in the non-fiction realm, it seemed only natural to set my novels there as well. I think my readers would have been disappointed if I hadn’t. Not to mention, when I read historical romances, I really notice when an author gets their history wrong. I was determined that I would use my knowledge of Victorian social history to help me get my own novel right.

How do you balance being true to the gender roles of the Victorian era with creating an interesting woman and romance your reader wants to root for? (Hello, Sylvia!)

It’s a challenge, especially as I hate when characters in a historical [novel] come across as nothing more than modern men and women in costume. This is why I really liked writing Sylvia. Since she had essentially been ejected from fashionable society, she wasn’t strictly bound by Victorian social conventions. It was up to her to make her own way in the world. It was a grim situation, but one that allowed her to gain a measure of feminine independence. At the same time, she was still quite constrained in regard to how she could interact with the opposite sex—especially Sebastian. Also, it helps that a lot of the emotion that she and Sebastian felt—the romantic angst, fear of rejection, and feelings of betrayal—is emotion that many of us have felt at some point in our modern romantic lives. This made the characters relatable in spite of the restrictions imposed by the era.

How did your background studying Victorian era history and culture help and/or hinder the fiction writing process?

It helped tremendously in that I was able to draw on my knowledge of Victorian fashion, etiquette, and social norms without having to do too much additional research. It hindered me on occasion because I’m such a stickler for historical accuracy and, in writing a scene, I would often think, “They would never have said/done this!” It was sometimes hard for me to put that aside in order to allow my characters to have time on their own to talk—or to kiss!

Do you have any advice for writers about doing research for a fiction novel?

If they’re striving for true historical accuracy, I would strongly advise them not to limit their research to uncited blog posts or Wikipedia articles. They should read historic newspapers, magazines, and books. They should get a feel for the language and the behaviour of the era in which they’ve set their story. And if they’re writing about something they know nothing about—like horseback riding—they really need to have their research down. Nothing is more irritating to a reader than being absorbed in a story only to have some anachronism wrench them out of it.

Check out the Mimi Matthews author Facebook page. She regularly posts paintings from the era and provides some context for the work. She had me at cats sneaky-snackin’ on some tea and crumpets. TBH, I don’t know if that’s a crumpet.

What do you listen to or watch or read to get pumped up to write?

I get most pumped up to write when I’ve been researching something. I often find some odd Victorian fact which inspires me to envision a scene or a scrap of dialogue. Victorian fiction—especially classic novels like those by the Brontë sisters, Margaret Gaskell, or George Eliot—also inspires me and helps to get me in a certain frame of mind. As for music, though I love it, I can’t really listen to it when I’m writing. It’s too distracting. I have to have everything super quiet.

Do you have a daily writing routine or schedule when you’re working on a novel? If so, what is it and how does this help you get the work done?

I had to finish my latest non-fiction book, “A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Fashion and Beauty,” on a hard deadline. I was at my computer writing every day by one o’clock. I would then write straight through until dinner. For fiction I’m not so strict with myself. I write whenever the muse takes me. There are some days I can write thousands of words. Other days I only write a few hundred—or none. I aspire to be more disciplined (and more prolific), but life often gets in the way.

Do you want to write another romance set in this time period? If so, what will you do differently or how do you want to grow or explore as a writer in a second book?

I’ve got a few other novels set in the Victorian era that will be out over the next year or two. “The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter” is coming in January. I actually wrote it before I wrote “The Lost Letter.” Because of that, I’m not sure how much it will read as if I’ve grown as an author. It’s far less angst-ridden than “The Lost Letter” was. In fact, it reads more like a romp, with an impulsive, rakish hero and a prim heroine who can’t resist him. Following that, I have a much darker Victorian novel coming out (as yet untitled). It’s about an injured soldier in coastal Devon who places a matrimonial advertisement in a London newspaper. The woman who arrives on his doorstep is not quite what he was expecting. This novel allowed me to explore more sinister themes, including those relating to the legal power that Victorian men had over their wives and female relations.

What has been inspiring you lately?

I’ve recently been researching 19th century breach of promises cases. In many, the gentleman had written compromising letters to his betrothed before breaking their engagement. The jilted girl’s father then used the letters as evidence when bringing suit. I’m planning on using one of these old cases as a basis for a novella about a broken engagement which results in a breach of promise suit. I’ve already written the first five pages. We’ll see where they lead!

If you could invite three people, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would they be and why?

I’d like to say Queen Victoria would be on the list, but I actually think she’d put a damper on dinner conversation. The guests would be too intimidated to speak. Instead, I’d invite all three Brontë sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. They were three of the most talented authors of the Victorian era. I would love to hear their thoughts on life, love, and the business of writing.

 

Cryptic away messages to use during AIM’s funeral

So sad face! AIM, the old friend we didn’t even know still lived in town, will sign off for good on Dec. 15. In preparation, here are a few thought starters for your away message during AIM’s funeral. I know, we have a few months until then, but you remember how much thought goes into crafting the perfect away status in hopes that your crush sees it and worries about you. You’ll need time. XOXO TTYL, BFF.

***

RIP AIM {class of 2002} {’97-’17}

My girls 4 lyfe: KC RA JH KK KS MG TH CW ES CB AIM

These woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. – Robert Frost

brb “We’ll all float on okay”

Every step I take, every move I make
Every single day, every time I pray
I’ll be missing you
Thinkin’ of the day, when you went away
What a life to take, what a bond to break
I’ll be missing you // Puff // AIM 🙁

omg life is so random… Love you forever, AIM

cells on if u need a ride

i just cant believe hes gone he was so nice and funny ninth grade was the bomb bc of him

I wish I had talked on him more…

:'(

 

 

 

Half-price life lessons at Applebee’s

As Marion, Ohio’s first ever Applebee’s Carside To-Go girl, I took my duties seriously.

Seventeen going on 18, I was the perfect fit for the job, as I was not yet old enough to serve alcohol like a full-fledged in-restaurant waitress. This, despite the fact that in my previous position as a night server at a nursing home, I carried flights of boxed red to ornery old folks looking to score.

Among my major responsibilities at my hometown neighborhood bar and grill:

  1. Stand by and answer phone. “Thank you for calling Applebee’s, ‘Home of the Half Price Happy Hour.’ How may I help you today?” Perfect. Since age five, I’d been answering my home phone in a similar manner. “Hello. Mantey residence, Jackie speaking. How may I direct your call? Oh, she’s taking another acid shower. Would you like me to record a message?”
  2. Take orders over phone. Place orders in POS system. Stop sweating. Do not be intimidated by surly cooks who accidentally put Carside orders on for-here plates instead of green plastic to-go containers and who silently blame you for their lot of life on the line as they dump the Oriental Chicken Salad into the correct container. Ponder what about the Oriental Chicken Salad actually makes it Oriental besides the crispy noodle topping. Deliver food to cars. Try not to be obvious with flare pin on chest that reads, “Though I be but a lowly Carside To-Go girl, you may tip me! I’m paying for college soon and make $5-something an hour.”
  3. Help out when slow. Run food. Play host. Do not, I repeat not, give a surly waitress’ next four-top to someone less deserving. Be “expo,” short for “expediter,” short for “put the lemon garnish on the grilled chicken and don’t screw up the ticket or you will be forever 86ed in the mind of all.”

The staff was nice, but kitchens get heated when everyone and their cousin-brother is packed in slimy neoprene booths awaiting boneless chicken wings and onion peels. Half off. Hot damn.

These rush hours, I was not cut out for. But by God, I put this job on my college applications and would excel at this just like I did everything else. Beam me up, Stanford. (And by Stanford I mean the perfectly affordable state school up north that supposedly admitted the half-illiterate.)

Years later my future husband would dub me a Trophy Hunter: a person trained for validation by way of a gold star, A+, Dean’s list, line-itemed resume. In restaurant worlds, there are no trophies, unless you count the rouge dessert sent back to the kitchen because the order was wrong. Upon which you descend like a pack of starving kookaburras.

I was too soft to deal. Luckily, I knew I wouldn’t have to for long. My stint at Applebee’s would be a chemical-egg-scented pit stop on the way to “bigger and better things.”

Not like the lifers. These co-workers were my motivation to stay in school when I’d come back to work on college breaks. There are two types.

First, the ones who have worked at every restaurant in a three-county radius. Sometimes coked up. Sometimes just draw-ers of the short sticks. Sometimes hard up for work because life is unfair and I was a young judgey jerk yet to be served my own sour shot of life.

Example of type one: Sam, who we nicknamed Sam-ela Anderson for her predilection to position her generous rack on the high-top tables when a group of guys would come in for beers. (Hey, sister could get tips, so who are you, dear reader, to side-eye? Just eat your Spin Dip.) She pulled night shifts at Cracker Barrel post Applebee’s lunch shift. Ponderosa on the weekends. Soon she’d be fired or fed up with one or the other and move on to the next waitress want ad.

Post-college, I’d see her at a burger joint while on a lunch break out with my new magazine editor. It was genuinely good to see her. She asked me how many kids I had now, despite being only 21 (answer still, ten years later: Zero). Props to her for working her similarly generous butt off for her four. Five kids? I think it was six.

Also in this category of Applebee’s colleagues were those working in wait. These individuals were here for some rest; slangin’ apps was an Appletini-stirrer-shaped pin in their regularly scheduled work lives.

Best example: Doug (name changed for soon-to-be obvious reasons), one of only a few male waiters on the team. He was friendly, smart, fast. And, most importantly, as chill as the bagged salad in the back.

Doug was in his 40s and his story was this: He used to be a lawyer but the job had him burnt-out to a crisp. One day, he simply walked out of his attorney suit and into a neon Applebee’s tee and waist apron.

He did good work but if he couldn’t–if a good night of tables was beyond his control–he didn’t care. Ok, man? In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter if Table 5 didn’t get that extra side of jalapenos, per the original verbal writ of condiments.

One teenage girl’s stressful work environment was another man’s paperwork free oasis.

Also, he had the best pot.

It was another hobby he’d taken up following his dramatic exit from the Bar. Once I bought two joints from him and smoked them both in the Wal-Mart parking lot behind the Bee’s following my night shift. I, duh, got way too high and spent another four hours in my car, waiting it out. I watched families enter the shining supercenter, like flies to a busted porchlight, with a slit-eyed, stoned stare. Do they know I’m an alien?

I think of Doug sometimes when I’m locked into a marketing writing project and trying to find five new ways to say “well-curated,” even though the client will just change it to “well-curated” because that phrase means nothing and everything anymore. I’m not quit-it-all-and-serve-fried-foods-and-weed yet, but I totally get it.

The second type of Applebee’s lifer would remind me why I couldn’t do this work forever: I was absolutely terrible at it and they were not.

Rhonda, for example, was a rockstar. I saw people come in for dinner, ask to be seated in her section, find out she wasn’t working that evening, leave. Amy was like this, too–everything else in life seemed to beat her, but there’s no one I’d trust more with a 20-person party, double drink orders each, screaming kids, bun on-the-side requests, and separate checks.

Both could handle the heat in their sleep. And they made good money doing it. Meanwhile, I had nightmares, still do, that I’ve been sat a table I didn’t even know was in my section and now the manager is being beckoned from afar and also we’re out of ranch dressing and how can we go on without ranch dressing?!

When I’d come home to waitress throughout my college breaks (I had matriculated from Carside To-Go), I’d notice how the people I worked with had changed in the months between my presence. Some seemed more haggard, angry, tired, high.

Not the type two servers. Waitressing is the hardest job I’ll ever have and these people just got better and better. They saved my mozzarella-stick-dimpled ass from angry customers many times. And they taught me to not be so harsh in my judgement of other people’s jobs.

Maybe they were the real winners. They didn’t have to pay off $40,000 in student loan debt to find what they were really, really good at. They didn’t need a stupid trophy or professorly pat on the head.

They’d never be the first at anything — but what’s that matter anyway? This was their calling.

And isn’t finding that what “bigger and better things” are about, at their molten chocolate lava cake core?

Six things I’m loving this month

Apples. Pumpkins and their spice get all the attention these days, but apples are like the under-appreciated older sibling. I’ve been throwing them onto my sandwiches and into yogurt with honey drizzled on top. Goin fast and lose with the Golden Delicious, y’all! Loved this cover photo’s rendition of brie, Granny Smith apple slices and a cranberry chutney from Blind Faith Cafe in Chicago.

“300 Arguments” and “There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyonce.” These books of sentence-long essays and poetry, respectively, were on the list of recommendations at the Chicago Lit Crawl’s “Best Books of 2017” panel I attended last month in Andersonville. Read ’em.

From “300 Arguments.”

From “There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyonce.”

Speaking of our girl. I was surprised to find myself crying during this SNL performance by Jay-Z  of his apology song to Beyonce, “4:44.” It feels shameful and raw. Devastating in its aloneness. Wow.

Look, I apologize, often womanize
Took for my child to be born, see through a woman’s eyes

Still Processing podcast. New York Times reporters Wesley Morris and Jenna Wortham host these funny and insightful culture conversations.

The short story “Likes” by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum. I don’t even have children but find this story of a father trying to understand his 12-year-old daughter’s Instagram totally relatable. This is also one of the first fiction accounts about life after last year’s election that I’ve heard that really nails its emotional aftermath.

“Recovery: Freedom From Our Addictions” by Russell Brand. Brand is back. Thank heavens. After seeing this interview with Bill Maher, I can’t wait to read his new book about addiction recovery. I think a lot of people fear that breaking their addictions will mean they no longer are themselves. This brilliant sober wacko proves that’s not the case at all.