I don't want to tell you precisely how many years I've spent working in restaurants, precisely how long it's been.
(I'm officially beginning to think that it's been too long, howevah, that's another story for another time.)
But I decided fairly early on in my "Bussin Tables and Kickin Ass"-days that grade schools across America were doing a great disservice to our young folk by not offering classes on Restaurant Etiquette. Really and truly, and there are a sundry of reasons as to why.
This feeling has grown exponentially over the years. And of course it has. I've grown older, and wiser, and less likely to deal with people's supreme bullshit, and now that I'm like an actual citizen of the city and not just some newbie getting acquainted with things and people and jobs, now that I actually know some stuff and have gotten situated and have been at my present serving job for nigh on two years...I mean, it's time, guys. It's time.
HENCEFORTH! I present to you (on behalf of both myself and the hundreds of other Starving Artist friends of mine working the same grind):
RESTAURANT ETIQUETTE: A Fairly Sweet Yet Honest Guide...Abridged. You're Welcome.
1) The correct term is "Server". Just "Server". "Waiter" or "Waitress" are fine-ish, I guess, but pretty dated. The term "Server" exists because it is there to plainly dictate what it is that we are there to do, which is Serve You.
Do not under any circumstances think that this is a less than adequate term. Do not think that you need to come up with something more politically correct/refined sounding to refer to us as. Do not ever under any circumstances think that it is ok to refer to your Server as a "Waitron". I do not know what a "Waitron" is. No one else I have spoken to has ever heard of this "Waitron", but we have all assumed that it is a reference to A) a matronly Server, B) a Server who happens to be a robot, C) a matronly robot Server, and/or D) the fact that you're a huge douche.
1B) Do I know you? Like truly know you, as in are we friends? If your answer is "No", then that means that you the Patron may not ever refer to me as "Honey". Ever.
2) Incidentally, the Server's job is simply to serve you food and drink. It is not to do the aforementioned tasks, and babysit your children. Restaurants are a public place in which multiple families and couples and business partners do their dining. It is not a daycare. It is not a place where children are entitled to sprint around, lie on the floor whilst people are moving about/Servers are carrying trays of drinks, scream at a neighboring family's table, light tablecloths on fire, generally wreak havoc.
If and/or when this happens, it is not our job to stop them. It is our job to give you, their parent, your 5th margarita while you and your yoga buddy finish discussing which preschool to apply to for early decision...whilst your kid drags that stranger's son across the floor by his ankle.
3) If the food is not precisely the way you want it, it is not your Server's fault. Your Server did not cook your meal, your Server did not plan the menu, nor did they order the produce, etc.
Is everything alright, Ma'am?
"I ordered my eggs scrambled soft."
Right.
"These are definitely scrambled well."
Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, let me get some new eggs made for you right away.
"I ASKED you for soft scrambled!"
...You did.
"SO WHY DIDN'T YOU SCRAMBLE THEM SOFT?!?!"
... ...I mean, I'm sure it was just an accident. On the kitchen's part.
"ExCUSE me?!"
I just think...
"...UGH! I don't even want this, take this off my bill, this service is completely unacceptable!"
Incorrect.
The kitchen had an oops, which is super easy to remedy, and your service had nothing to do with it. Your Server served you your eggs, with a smile. Also: you, Ma'am, are a bitch.
To bank off of this...
4) Please read your menu. Please. Do not, for example, ask for waffles just because it's a thing you want, please open your menu to see whether or not they are available, first.
If they are, that's fantastic, request away. If they are not, they cannot magically appear, the restaurant cannot run out to buy a waffle iron just for you, and that is not your Server's fault.
"Yes, I'll have a turkey burger, please."
Ohh, I'm sorry, we only have chicken burgers.
"What!? You don't have turkey burgers?!"
...We have chicken burgers.
"White meat?"
Chicken burgers, yes.
"You don't have ANY turkey burgers in the back? You can't just make a turkey burger?!"
...No.
"Well, I can't do that! What am I supposed to eat?!"
...I just don't know. As am I neither in charge of the menu, nor your crazy ass diet.
AND!
5) Only call us over to take your order if you have read your menu. Do not, for example, hastily and furiously flag us over to take your order, tell us that you're in a rush, only to then open your menu and say "Sooooooooooo...what's good here? Whatcha got? And is there, like, anything I can get a 3 year-old?"
Not nice.
This maneuver of yours will consume at least 5-10 minutes of our time. And, with 8-12 other tables in our section, we do not have that time.
Nor do we have the time to discuss your life story, discuss why you have celiac disease and why your husband is diabetic and why the sky is blue and why children shouldn't be restricted from beer gardens and why Prospect Park should restrict vendors from selling ice cream and why you'd rather die than lose access to your food co-op.
I wish we had the time to discuss these things. I do. But, I've got these 10 other tables, see? And they're all glaring at me, and they're all going to make it possible for me to leave here tonight and go buy like 2 fancy bulk bags of Malt O'Meal and some crazy artisanal Chunky Soup because WE LIKE LIVIN LARRRRRRRRRGE!!!!
...
...Don't be inconsiderate, ya jerk.
6) Think before you go out to eat. If you are, in fact, craving TexMex, don't go to Sushi Samba thinking that they can accommodate your craving. There will not be many vegan selections at a Longhorn Steakhouse. You will not be able to order a macchiato at Pizza Hut. Certain restaurants specialize in certain cuisines, and will only be so flexible in their offerings.
I cannot tell you the number of times that I have been ripped into by brunch patrons at my restaurant for not offering sprouted wheat toast, rice milk, greek yogurt, soy bacon, and sugar-free Frappucinos on our menu.
"I just can't believe it. What kind of restaurant doesn't serve cage-free quail eggs for brunch these days?"
...You know, restaurants specializing in pizza and Cajun cuisine. Our restaurant. So. There's that.
**7) (The asterisks are denoting that this is an extra special note so please, dear sweet jesus, take care to read this, imprint the words in your brain and grapple it to your soul with hoops of steel).
If you do not have enough money to leave a decent tip, you do not have enough money to go out to eat. Period.
Let's say you need a new pair of jeans, right? You walk into a store, and go "Hey. So, I know these jeans are $70, but I only have $55 on me, soooooo...That's cool, right? We have a deal? GreatOKbyeeeeeeeeeee."
No.
Consider the tip a part of the overall cost. Not a voluntary thing, not some chump change to leave just to do your Server a favor, but an actual part of the bill. And when I say "Tip", we're not talking 10% of the bill, we're talking 18% bare minimum, ideally 20%.
Now. Before anyone starts to freak out and say "WHAT THE SHITFUCK?! A bit hefty, don't you think?! What's that all about?!"
Here's what it's all about:
The average Server makes (...wait for it...) $3-$5/hour.
...
...Correct.
Henceforth, if you leave your Server a $10 tip on top of your $170 dinner bill, you are ensuring that your Server can purchase a roll of toilet paper tonight, but not pay rent. It is helpful to be able to wipe your own ass in a clean-ish way, however, it is more helpful if you have a place in which to wipe it.
8) If you see your Server running around like a crazy person, that means that they are busy. Very. It does not mean that they are making a point to ignore you, that you are not a priority, or that you have been completely forgotten. Plain and simply, they are busy, and your ass needs to practice some patience. (That's a goddamn virtue, it is!)
It is in no way helpful when you, the Patron, flag them over and say:
"Um. WHERE'S our food?"
"Um. HelLO! More water?"
"Um. More napkins?"
"Um. Can you get my daughter a different coloring book? She hates the first 3 you've given her."
As if we were a negligent douche for not being on top of these things sooner. Please trust that if you see us running--literally running--around the restaurant that we are getting to you and your needs. Be patient. And calm the fuck down.
9) Incidentally, hand gestures to get your Server's attention suck. Waving, snapping your fingers, drawing a check sign in the air, all of those things suck. They are demeaning, and they suck. We are not servants, we are Servers, and I assure you that there is a difference.
10) Do not speak to your Server as if they were completely imbecilic. It's mean. I don't know if you've seen the movie Waiting, but there are things that Servers can do to your food before it arrives to your table; the more of an asshole you are, the more we are enticed to do these things.
Also, the likelihood is that your Server is the opposite of imbecilic. The likelihood is that your Server is actually pretty educated.
I don't know a single person whose life-long career goal is SERVER EXTRAORDINAIRE!!!! (If you do, you should probably kiss that person's feet because they are most likely a saint. A goddamn saint, I tell you.) Every single person I know is a Server simply because they haven't gotten to where they ultimately want to be professionally. Yet. They have not given up hope, they are steadily working towards something better and are, in the meantime, serving you your chicken parm in an effort to pay the bills.
Your Server might be your higher-up at your advertising firm within the next 7 years.
Your Server might write the next great American novel.
Your Server might write the next great "Fuck You"-ballad about what an atrocious asshole you were for blatantly staring at her tits all dinner long in front of your wife and kids. And won't you feel like a shmuck.
Your Server might be your wife's divorce attorney in 2 years. And won't you feel like a shmuck.
Your Server might simply be a Starving Artist who auditions her ass off throughout the week and works her ass off throughout the absolute duration of the weekend, every weekend, in a tremendous effort to both get by and (hopefully) get ahead. A Starving Artist who is completely aware that life is not all about serving up some jambalaya, rather that that jambalaya is simply a means to an end. A hopeful end, a better end.
But, who knows.
...
GUH! Point is (and believe me, I could go on): for crying out loud, behave yourself when dining out! Be patient, be kind, be considerate, rein your children in, take your head out of your ass, get a hold of yourself and Dont. Be. A douche.
And tell your friends.
...And be sure to tip your Waitron.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Saturday, January 5, 2013
A Starving Artist Taking Turns
So, I know multiple people whom have begun their thirties in fairly dramatic fashion.
One of my best friends was arrested ten minutes before actually turning 30. Whilst driving home. Not knowing that there were bunches of folks waiting in her apartment to surprise her.
Another friend of mine rang in her 30th birthday in London. At a legit rave. With her parents.
Numerous friends of mine turned 30 and got engaged, cradled their newborn instead of a bottle of bubbly, got promoted, got demoted, got more schwasted than they'd been in years in an effort to give their 21st birthday a run for its money.
And one of my dearest friends got treated to a 13-course Chef's Pairing/Wine Tasting at Le Bernardin. Like ya do. (GIRRRRRRL, YOU FANCY!!!)
I had begun to think that I had escaped the dramatic entrance into my thirties and, truthfully, I was feeling pretty ok about that.
...
I finally got my meeting with a legit agent the Friday after turning the Big Dirty. Finally. After years and years of wanting to just click with someone and spark their interest and be able to walk in the door of their office, it was actually happening.
I was. Ecstatic.
I had signed up for yet another workshop-meet-and-greet kinda deal, only this time, with an agent that I knew one of my friends was already signed with (which, FYI, is an incredibly smart and pseudo-necessary move in the pursuit of a legit agent).
I walked in, and killed my scene. (Hell yes, I did.)
She smiled, said nice things, I most likely got kinda flushed, and we started chatting. And lo and behold, one of the other two agents in her office was a sweet gal I went to undergrad with.
I had NO idea. None. And damn, that felt serendipitous.
And, the next week, said sweet gal emailed me to set up an appointment to meet with her team.
I ran home with a new old pair of green jeans in tow (just because) and squealed like a maniac to a boy and a dog all freaking night. ALL night. I was peeing my pants. Really. (Not really. Metaphorically? I guess?). I didn't want to set myself up too hard with any grand super amazing expectations, but I KNEW. I knewww that this was going to be a good thing.
I did.
Two and a half weeks later, we finally met that Friday, the Friday post Dirty.
And I wasn't nervous, I wasn't jittery, I didn't doubt a thing, I just knew.
And we just sat there and talked, just talked, for an hour. It wasn't weird, it wasn't awkward, we didn't even sort of have a shortage of things to say: there was New York, there was acting, there was professional connections, there was cleaning up resumes...there was undergrad, there was shoes--cute ones and Crocs, there was Judy Greer, and Arrested Development, and the necessity of coffee, and our collective complete lack of computer related knowhow. It was just so fun.
Honestly. It was fun.
And they said that I was "delightful", and I giggled like an idiot. And they said that I "certainly seemed like I had (my) stuff together", and I blushed...again. And they said they'd have to have a meeting to "talk about (me) behind my back", and I said that that was fine, because of course it was.
Of COURSE it was!
Because I walked away from that meeting feeling like I'd made friends in that room. I walked away knowing that that was the beginning of a sweet relationship and, goddammit, it felt great. And refreshing. And like a huge relief but, more than anything, just...nice.
Nice.
And overdue.
...
The holidays come, and they go.
And everyone takes their time during the holidays, and they should, so I didn't fret over not having heard anything in two weeks. Rather, I simply did my part and briefly rolled away from my Christmas danish to email a Hello and Happy New Year...and immediately rolled back to resume working on my holiday pudge. And I felt great about it. (All of it.)
...
It is now January 2nd. The holidays have given up on themselves, and I awake to an email.
It is the sweet gal. And her email is sweet. And it is kind.
And it is not at all what I want to hear.
"We feel you conflict with a few of our women, so it won't be going further at this time together."
Oh.
She says things are shifting around at the office, that's she's happy that we reconnected and "Please contact me again around March."
And there it was, my dramatic entrance: 30, and rejected. Ring the bells, Y'all.
People say not to bother getting heartbroken over things that are completely out of your hands and beyond your control. "Why worry about it? Don't worry about it! There's nothing you could have done about it, so why be sad?!"
So. That's bullshit, right? Kinda?
I fucking wanted it. When people get the opposite of things that they want (slash, for better or worse, think that they deserve), it is a sad moment.
Clark Griswold gets a subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club as opposed to a Christmas bonus.
Ralphie Parker gets a C+ instead of an A+! (+! +! +! +! +!...).
Elle Woods gets broken up with instead of proposed to.
I think that I'm going to join an agency, hitch up with some awesome new advocates for my career, and not only am I sadly mistaken, I am told that they already have someone like me.
It is both a tragic stereotype and absolute truism of the actor that we continually fight against being seen as "ordinary", "inauthentic", "done". We want to think that we're unique. That we're a new, refreshing thing. That we are extraordinary, and a thing that you long to have.
Finding out just how many "Yous" exist in the world is a shock to the system.
Hearing that at least one other pseudo-You exists in the family of a really appealing agency just smarts.
A lot.
And I sat back feeling like a douche. Like a teary-eyed douche. An angry, confused, teary-eyed douche, while my boyfriend turned away from playing Call of Duty to grab my hand, because he's the nicest and has, unfortunately, had to deal with me being an emotional douche what feels like quite a lot as of late.
Because I'm 30. 'Member that time I turned 30? I 'member that time....
"You will get an agent, Angela."
I hope so.
"You will."
When though?
"Well..."
When?
"... ...I don't know."
And that When-question has very quickly become old, and more important.
And I'm not giving up on it, because that'd be dumb, and I'm too stubborn. And I stubbornly feel like I have something to give.
But. I'm anxious. I am anxious, dammit. I would like to know when it's going to be "My Turn", and if there's a thing that I need to do to bring about "My Turn".
Maybe that's just reconnecting with these ladies in March. And I will.
Maybe that's just shaking hands that I haven't shaken yet. And I will.
...Maybe that's sending out baskets of cookies and/or Edible Arrangements and/or singing telegrams to every agent in the New York City-area. I don't know.
I don't know what it is, but I've got to do it.
One of my best friends was arrested ten minutes before actually turning 30. Whilst driving home. Not knowing that there were bunches of folks waiting in her apartment to surprise her.
Another friend of mine rang in her 30th birthday in London. At a legit rave. With her parents.
Numerous friends of mine turned 30 and got engaged, cradled their newborn instead of a bottle of bubbly, got promoted, got demoted, got more schwasted than they'd been in years in an effort to give their 21st birthday a run for its money.
And one of my dearest friends got treated to a 13-course Chef's Pairing/Wine Tasting at Le Bernardin. Like ya do. (GIRRRRRRL, YOU FANCY!!!)
I had begun to think that I had escaped the dramatic entrance into my thirties and, truthfully, I was feeling pretty ok about that.
...
I finally got my meeting with a legit agent the Friday after turning the Big Dirty. Finally. After years and years of wanting to just click with someone and spark their interest and be able to walk in the door of their office, it was actually happening.
I was. Ecstatic.
I had signed up for yet another workshop-meet-and-greet kinda deal, only this time, with an agent that I knew one of my friends was already signed with (which, FYI, is an incredibly smart and pseudo-necessary move in the pursuit of a legit agent).
I walked in, and killed my scene. (Hell yes, I did.)
She smiled, said nice things, I most likely got kinda flushed, and we started chatting. And lo and behold, one of the other two agents in her office was a sweet gal I went to undergrad with.
I had NO idea. None. And damn, that felt serendipitous.
And, the next week, said sweet gal emailed me to set up an appointment to meet with her team.
I ran home with a new old pair of green jeans in tow (just because) and squealed like a maniac to a boy and a dog all freaking night. ALL night. I was peeing my pants. Really. (Not really. Metaphorically? I guess?). I didn't want to set myself up too hard with any grand super amazing expectations, but I KNEW. I knewww that this was going to be a good thing.
I did.
Two and a half weeks later, we finally met that Friday, the Friday post Dirty.
And I wasn't nervous, I wasn't jittery, I didn't doubt a thing, I just knew.
And we just sat there and talked, just talked, for an hour. It wasn't weird, it wasn't awkward, we didn't even sort of have a shortage of things to say: there was New York, there was acting, there was professional connections, there was cleaning up resumes...there was undergrad, there was shoes--cute ones and Crocs, there was Judy Greer, and Arrested Development, and the necessity of coffee, and our collective complete lack of computer related knowhow. It was just so fun.
Honestly. It was fun.
And they said that I was "delightful", and I giggled like an idiot. And they said that I "certainly seemed like I had (my) stuff together", and I blushed...again. And they said they'd have to have a meeting to "talk about (me) behind my back", and I said that that was fine, because of course it was.
Of COURSE it was!
Because I walked away from that meeting feeling like I'd made friends in that room. I walked away knowing that that was the beginning of a sweet relationship and, goddammit, it felt great. And refreshing. And like a huge relief but, more than anything, just...nice.
Nice.
And overdue.
...
The holidays come, and they go.
And everyone takes their time during the holidays, and they should, so I didn't fret over not having heard anything in two weeks. Rather, I simply did my part and briefly rolled away from my Christmas danish to email a Hello and Happy New Year...and immediately rolled back to resume working on my holiday pudge. And I felt great about it. (All of it.)
...
It is now January 2nd. The holidays have given up on themselves, and I awake to an email.
It is the sweet gal. And her email is sweet. And it is kind.
And it is not at all what I want to hear.
"We feel you conflict with a few of our women, so it won't be going further at this time together."
Oh.
She says things are shifting around at the office, that's she's happy that we reconnected and "Please contact me again around March."
And there it was, my dramatic entrance: 30, and rejected. Ring the bells, Y'all.
People say not to bother getting heartbroken over things that are completely out of your hands and beyond your control. "Why worry about it? Don't worry about it! There's nothing you could have done about it, so why be sad?!"
So. That's bullshit, right? Kinda?
I fucking wanted it. When people get the opposite of things that they want (slash, for better or worse, think that they deserve), it is a sad moment.
Clark Griswold gets a subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club as opposed to a Christmas bonus.
Ralphie Parker gets a C+ instead of an A+! (+! +! +! +! +!...).
Elle Woods gets broken up with instead of proposed to.
I think that I'm going to join an agency, hitch up with some awesome new advocates for my career, and not only am I sadly mistaken, I am told that they already have someone like me.
It is both a tragic stereotype and absolute truism of the actor that we continually fight against being seen as "ordinary", "inauthentic", "done". We want to think that we're unique. That we're a new, refreshing thing. That we are extraordinary, and a thing that you long to have.
Finding out just how many "Yous" exist in the world is a shock to the system.
Hearing that at least one other pseudo-You exists in the family of a really appealing agency just smarts.
A lot.
And I sat back feeling like a douche. Like a teary-eyed douche. An angry, confused, teary-eyed douche, while my boyfriend turned away from playing Call of Duty to grab my hand, because he's the nicest and has, unfortunately, had to deal with me being an emotional douche what feels like quite a lot as of late.
Because I'm 30. 'Member that time I turned 30? I 'member that time....
"You will get an agent, Angela."
I hope so.
"You will."
When though?
"Well..."
When?
"... ...I don't know."
And that When-question has very quickly become old, and more important.
And I'm not giving up on it, because that'd be dumb, and I'm too stubborn. And I stubbornly feel like I have something to give.
But. I'm anxious. I am anxious, dammit. I would like to know when it's going to be "My Turn", and if there's a thing that I need to do to bring about "My Turn".
Maybe that's just reconnecting with these ladies in March. And I will.
Maybe that's just shaking hands that I haven't shaken yet. And I will.
...Maybe that's sending out baskets of cookies and/or Edible Arrangements and/or singing telegrams to every agent in the New York City-area. I don't know.
I don't know what it is, but I've got to do it.
Monday, December 10, 2012
A Starving Artist & The Battle at Dirty Thirty, Ep.13
30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #28: ... ... ...
Here's the deal: I'm just gonna go ahead and forego the final three reasons. Why? Because I don't think I care that much anymore to rationalize/excuse/reason-out my turning 30.
Because, the truth of the matter is (...blargh...) I think I'm actually getting excited about it.
I can't. Fucking. Believe it.
ALL DAY, I've just kinda been sitting around like Oh. Weird. I'm turning 30 tomorrow, when FOR DAYS! WEEKS!! I've been legitimately squeamish over it. And, I guess, just going through the seven stages of denial over it. And then, whilst walking into Whole PayCheck late this afternoon, I, for whatever reason, found myself finally reaching that Acceptance-stage.
I have no idea why.
But, all of a sudden, I just found myself going OK.
And then, shortly thereafter: That's...kinda cool? I think?
And then, shortly thereafter: OK, truthfully, my 20s were kinda horseshit.
This is not to say that a ton of really amazing miraculous things didn't happen in My Twenties. Obviously they did: I lived in a series of amazing places, visited more amazing ones, did the grad school-thing, met my boyfriend, met my dog, started doing the Professional-thing, did a lot of the Wedding-things, started being a bystander to the whole Pregnancy-thing, grew some balls...all the things. These things among other things were glorious things and helped, largely, define what was My Twenties.
But also...I mean, I kinda got my ass handed to me throughout My Twenties. Lots. The number of different ways I had my heart broken, the number of different ways that I displayed myself as a complete and total asshole, the number of different times that I found myself scarily drunk, the number of different times that I found myself scarily broke, the scabies, "the Maggot", the number of different things that I had to find out the hard way, the number of different things that I never ever ever hope to experience ever again...These things among other things were just plain awful, and these, too, helped to largely define what was My Twenties.
At this point, I feel happy to leave it all behind. To legitimately feel like I've grown a bit from all of it, but to look at these events and occurrences and moments in time and say OK. They happened. Then.
What's next?
And I don't know.
And I think I'm over not knowing. I think I'm just excited to see. And I think I really mean that.
...
...
...And then I finished writing all of this. And felt relieved. Like YES! PERfect summation of My Twenties! And I looked at my boyfriend and asked him to read it, as I occasionally do before hitting the Publish-button, because...Well, just because.
"Oh. Wow."
What?
"Well, that's all pretty sad, don't you think?"
...What?
"I mean, that's an awfully gloomy post. I didn't realize your Twenties were all that bad."
...And then I lost it. I lost my shit.
Because they weren't. All in all, they weren't. They were simultaneously painful and wonderful and I am, in fact, terrified about leaving it all behind. I am.
And I lost my shit over it. And I ran into the other room.
"Honey?"
No.
"Come back, please."
I'm fine.
"Come back. Please."
And I did. And I sat. And I cried and spewed-out a ton of shit about getting old and great triumphs and getting shit on and not being grateful and being too anxious.
"Angela."
What?
And he's the nicest.
"Nothing defeats you. Nothing. Ever. And I feel like this birthday is defeating you. And that's so silly. It's just a number, Angela. That's it. There is nothing different other than the number changing. Yes, OK. You had all of these things happen to you, and some good, and some bad, and fine. But you came out of every single one of them with flying colors. Why on earth should this be any different?"
...And then we heard the neighbors fucking downstairs. Which was disgusting, but in the grossest and most hilarious of possible ways, felt like a perfect button to my mini-tantrum.
I don't know, guys. I don't know anything. I'm sad about it, I'm scared about it, I don't know what to expect from any of it, I don't. And I haven't.
And I think that all just means I'm ready for it.
...
So fucking bring it.
Reason #28: ... ... ...
Here's the deal: I'm just gonna go ahead and forego the final three reasons. Why? Because I don't think I care that much anymore to rationalize/excuse/reason-out my turning 30.
Because, the truth of the matter is (...blargh...) I think I'm actually getting excited about it.
I can't. Fucking. Believe it.
ALL DAY, I've just kinda been sitting around like Oh. Weird. I'm turning 30 tomorrow, when FOR DAYS! WEEKS!! I've been legitimately squeamish over it. And, I guess, just going through the seven stages of denial over it. And then, whilst walking into Whole PayCheck late this afternoon, I, for whatever reason, found myself finally reaching that Acceptance-stage.
I have no idea why.
But, all of a sudden, I just found myself going OK.
And then, shortly thereafter: That's...kinda cool? I think?
And then, shortly thereafter: OK, truthfully, my 20s were kinda horseshit.
This is not to say that a ton of really amazing miraculous things didn't happen in My Twenties. Obviously they did: I lived in a series of amazing places, visited more amazing ones, did the grad school-thing, met my boyfriend, met my dog, started doing the Professional-thing, did a lot of the Wedding-things, started being a bystander to the whole Pregnancy-thing, grew some balls...all the things. These things among other things were glorious things and helped, largely, define what was My Twenties.
But also...I mean, I kinda got my ass handed to me throughout My Twenties. Lots. The number of different ways I had my heart broken, the number of different ways that I displayed myself as a complete and total asshole, the number of different times that I found myself scarily drunk, the number of different times that I found myself scarily broke, the scabies, "the Maggot", the number of different things that I had to find out the hard way, the number of different things that I never ever ever hope to experience ever again...These things among other things were just plain awful, and these, too, helped to largely define what was My Twenties.
At this point, I feel happy to leave it all behind. To legitimately feel like I've grown a bit from all of it, but to look at these events and occurrences and moments in time and say OK. They happened. Then.
What's next?
And I don't know.
And I think I'm over not knowing. I think I'm just excited to see. And I think I really mean that.
...
...
...And then I finished writing all of this. And felt relieved. Like YES! PERfect summation of My Twenties! And I looked at my boyfriend and asked him to read it, as I occasionally do before hitting the Publish-button, because...Well, just because.
"Oh. Wow."
What?
"Well, that's all pretty sad, don't you think?"
...What?
"I mean, that's an awfully gloomy post. I didn't realize your Twenties were all that bad."
...And then I lost it. I lost my shit.
Because they weren't. All in all, they weren't. They were simultaneously painful and wonderful and I am, in fact, terrified about leaving it all behind. I am.
And I lost my shit over it. And I ran into the other room.
"Honey?"
No.
"Come back, please."
I'm fine.
"Come back. Please."
And I did. And I sat. And I cried and spewed-out a ton of shit about getting old and great triumphs and getting shit on and not being grateful and being too anxious.
"Angela."
What?
And he's the nicest.
"Nothing defeats you. Nothing. Ever. And I feel like this birthday is defeating you. And that's so silly. It's just a number, Angela. That's it. There is nothing different other than the number changing. Yes, OK. You had all of these things happen to you, and some good, and some bad, and fine. But you came out of every single one of them with flying colors. Why on earth should this be any different?"
...And then we heard the neighbors fucking downstairs. Which was disgusting, but in the grossest and most hilarious of possible ways, felt like a perfect button to my mini-tantrum.
I don't know, guys. I don't know anything. I'm sad about it, I'm scared about it, I don't know what to expect from any of it, I don't. And I haven't.
And I think that all just means I'm ready for it.
...
So fucking bring it.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
A Starving Artist & The Battle at Dirty Thirty, Ep.12
30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #25: I feel like if everyone else is actually getting excited that I'm turning 30 (cheering about it, hugging, shrieking, all the things), it can't possibly be bad.
Also...like, hot damn, that just feels nice. THANKS, everyone else!
Reason #26: My best friend is flying in just for the occasion. She's FLYING IN. (Whaaaaaaaaaat?!) She thought this day was important enough for whatever reason to purchase a hefty ticket, take off from work, and bring her adorable pregnant self across the state for a day and a half. I mean, I just want to make my turning 30 worth her while, if we're being honest with ourselves.
Hot damn. So. Nice.
Reason #27: This weekend, I was bemoaning my birthday while at work (...of course I was...) and one of my co-workers looked at me and said "Girl. Relax. It's just 30."
Also, this co-worker is younger than I am.
Also...I'm starting to think she's right.
Reason #25: I feel like if everyone else is actually getting excited that I'm turning 30 (cheering about it, hugging, shrieking, all the things), it can't possibly be bad.
Also...like, hot damn, that just feels nice. THANKS, everyone else!
Reason #26: My best friend is flying in just for the occasion. She's FLYING IN. (Whaaaaaaaaaat?!) She thought this day was important enough for whatever reason to purchase a hefty ticket, take off from work, and bring her adorable pregnant self across the state for a day and a half. I mean, I just want to make my turning 30 worth her while, if we're being honest with ourselves.
Hot damn. So. Nice.
Reason #27: This weekend, I was bemoaning my birthday while at work (...of course I was...) and one of my co-workers looked at me and said "Girl. Relax. It's just 30."
Also, this co-worker is younger than I am.
Also...I'm starting to think she's right.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
A Starving Artist & The Battle at Dirty Thirty, Ep.11
30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #21: So, your twenties are the ten years of your life that you're supposed to spend wandering around aimlessly trying to figure out what the hell you're doing. I have only three days left of this Decade of Amble. I may not know completely what I'm doing, but I'm super thankful for where I've ended up.
Reason #22: I don't have a mustache. (Yet...).
Reason #23: Additionally, I have neither a receding hairline, deep set wrinkles, a prescription for bifocals, or dentures. And I have a premonition that I might be at least 38 before I acquire any of these things.
Reason #24: Know what I like? Theatre. Know what's exciting? After thousands of years of hundreds of thousands of written plays, most of the best roles are 30 and over.
(Yesssssssss...)
Reason #21: So, your twenties are the ten years of your life that you're supposed to spend wandering around aimlessly trying to figure out what the hell you're doing. I have only three days left of this Decade of Amble. I may not know completely what I'm doing, but I'm super thankful for where I've ended up.
Reason #22: I don't have a mustache. (Yet...).
Reason #23: Additionally, I have neither a receding hairline, deep set wrinkles, a prescription for bifocals, or dentures. And I have a premonition that I might be at least 38 before I acquire any of these things.
Reason #24: Know what I like? Theatre. Know what's exciting? After thousands of years of hundreds of thousands of written plays, most of the best roles are 30 and over.
(Yesssssssss...)
Thursday, December 6, 2012
A Starving Artist & The Battle at Dirty Thirty, Ep.10
30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #19: So, on the not-so-off-chance that 30 might, in fact, not be the best thing that ever happened to me, there is this possibility that it could, at the very least, not get worse. My sweetheart former roommate and I were discussing this over pork buns (PORK BUNNNNNNNS!!!!!!! Sweet sweet puking jesus) this afternoon. Said sweetheart former roommate turned 30 just shy of two months ago and, like ya do, like anyone does when they're walking into unfamiliar territory, I wanted her opinion on what I'm getting myself into.
Is it great?
"Um. I don't know..."
NO?!
"Nooooo, it just kinda...is."
Oh.
"I'm really still figuring it out."
Ah. Gotcha.
"Like, I mean, honestly, I'm still going through the same 1/3d Life Crisis.
At 30. No different."
...Let it be said that this girl is the singlemost put-together human being I have ever met in my entire life. Her "1/3d Life Crisises" look much like most peoples' "fairly decent days". And I love that about her.
Still, I take comfort in the fact that feelings like that, things like that might not change so tremendously. That's pretty OK. Really.
Reason #20: I'm turning 30. Isn't that right around when a woman's libido starts randomly spiking all over again? Because I'd be pretty OK with that, tooooo...
OOH! Maybe I can write a brilliant brilliant follow-up article to that one in The Huff Post in like a year or so: "15 Types of Sex You Have When You're 30 And Your Libido Starts To Go Ape-Shit Crazy". Yeah.
...Something less wordy? No? Perfect.
...
OH MY GOD HOW AM I SERIOUSLY ONLY REALLY REALIZING THIS RIGHT! NOW?!?!
Reason #19: So, on the not-so-off-chance that 30 might, in fact, not be the best thing that ever happened to me, there is this possibility that it could, at the very least, not get worse. My sweetheart former roommate and I were discussing this over pork buns (PORK BUNNNNNNNS!!!!!!! Sweet sweet puking jesus) this afternoon. Said sweetheart former roommate turned 30 just shy of two months ago and, like ya do, like anyone does when they're walking into unfamiliar territory, I wanted her opinion on what I'm getting myself into.
Is it great?
"Um. I don't know..."
NO?!
"Nooooo, it just kinda...is."
Oh.
"I'm really still figuring it out."
Ah. Gotcha.
"Like, I mean, honestly, I'm still going through the same 1/3d Life Crisis.
At 30. No different."
...Let it be said that this girl is the singlemost put-together human being I have ever met in my entire life. Her "1/3d Life Crisises" look much like most peoples' "fairly decent days". And I love that about her.
Still, I take comfort in the fact that feelings like that, things like that might not change so tremendously. That's pretty OK. Really.
Reason #20: I'm turning 30. Isn't that right around when a woman's libido starts randomly spiking all over again? Because I'd be pretty OK with that, tooooo...
OOH! Maybe I can write a brilliant brilliant follow-up article to that one in The Huff Post in like a year or so: "15 Types of Sex You Have When You're 30 And Your Libido Starts To Go Ape-Shit Crazy". Yeah.
...Something less wordy? No? Perfect.
...
OH MY GOD HOW AM I SERIOUSLY ONLY REALLY REALIZING THIS RIGHT! NOW?!?!
A Starving Artist & The Battle at Dirty Thirty, Ep.9
30 Reasons Why 30 Will Be OK
Reason #17: So, I ran into my friend Evan at the gym today, and he's a super super nice bloke. The super nicest, and he has fond remembrances of being 30. I cornered him and recorded him saying the following:
"I wanna say Hi to my mom first, and I wanna thank everyone for all that they've done for me...You really don't have to hold the mike that close to my face."
No! I'm holding it close, I'm holding it close.
"You've really never used one of these iPhone-things before."
No! I have! Just not...this...part, whatever. (Because apparently the older I get, the less I know about pseudo technologically advance anythings.)
"OK, so what I was gonna say is being 30 is...awesome, or it was for me becauuuuuuse you have this freedom, and independence, but you also have this maturity and wisdom. So it's like the best of everything.
Uh-huh.
"But then the more responsibilities that add to the maturity if you were, say, 40..."
Uh-huhhhhh...
"It's a little less fun, but fulfilling in other ways."
Ah.
"Ways that don't involve Tuesday Drunken Brunches." At which point he leered at me.
And here's what I say to that:
A) Sound advice. Sounds lovely.
B) Thanks a lot, Evan, now I'm going to be dreading 40 for the next 10 years.
C) And I'm still totally having that drunken brunch. And it's gonna be awesome. Eat my maple syrupy shorts.
And all of this led me to a brilliant discovery...
Reason #18: ...I mean, can't I just lie? I can just become that chick who continually lies about her age. (Rather "lie within reason". I'm not gonna walk into an audition tomorrow and be like HEY, GUYYYYYYYYYYYYYS!!! I'M 18, LET'S GO CRAY-ZAYYYYYYY!!!! Nor will I be that 60 year-old chick begging for body shots because I'M 30, BITCH!!!!! WHO WANTS SOME TEQUILA IN THIS BELLY BUTTON?!?!)
Gross. A thousand times gross.
Reason #17: So, I ran into my friend Evan at the gym today, and he's a super super nice bloke. The super nicest, and he has fond remembrances of being 30. I cornered him and recorded him saying the following:
"I wanna say Hi to my mom first, and I wanna thank everyone for all that they've done for me...You really don't have to hold the mike that close to my face."
No! I'm holding it close, I'm holding it close.
"You've really never used one of these iPhone-things before."
No! I have! Just not...this...part, whatever. (Because apparently the older I get, the less I know about pseudo technologically advance anythings.)
"OK, so what I was gonna say is being 30 is...awesome, or it was for me becauuuuuuse you have this freedom, and independence, but you also have this maturity and wisdom. So it's like the best of everything.
Uh-huh.
"But then the more responsibilities that add to the maturity if you were, say, 40..."
Uh-huhhhhh...
"It's a little less fun, but fulfilling in other ways."
Ah.
"Ways that don't involve Tuesday Drunken Brunches." At which point he leered at me.
And here's what I say to that:
A) Sound advice. Sounds lovely.
B) Thanks a lot, Evan, now I'm going to be dreading 40 for the next 10 years.
C) And I'm still totally having that drunken brunch. And it's gonna be awesome. Eat my maple syrupy shorts.
And all of this led me to a brilliant discovery...
Reason #18: ...I mean, can't I just lie? I can just become that chick who continually lies about her age. (Rather "lie within reason". I'm not gonna walk into an audition tomorrow and be like HEY, GUYYYYYYYYYYYYYS!!! I'M 18, LET'S GO CRAY-ZAYYYYYYY!!!! Nor will I be that 60 year-old chick begging for body shots because I'M 30, BITCH!!!!! WHO WANTS SOME TEQUILA IN THIS BELLY BUTTON?!?!)
Gross. A thousand times gross.
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