brixie19

[brixie19]

Timeline

Timeline of events at 5033 Buffalo Ave:

-Found the apartment on Trulia in mid November.  Contacted them through the app and received an email from one of the owners, Randy Poli.  He put me in contact with the “building manager” Patricia, who set up a showing for us.

-We walked through the unit on Tuesday, November 21.  It was still occupied at the time.  As we walked through, we noticed that the floors throughout the apartment were incredibly warped.  I like to compare it to “walking on a waterbed.”  The apartment also smelled of mildew.  Like wet towels.  I commented on these things, and Patricia assured us the owners would be doing repairs when the current tenants moved out.

-We quickly applied for the apartment and were approved the day after Thanksgiving.  When Randy called me to tell me we’d been approved, I mentioned that we didn’t really have a firm move-in date, as we technically had our current house until January 15th (although our landlord was flexible).  Randy firmly said that we’d have to get the keys (and therefore pay him prorated rent) by December 15th.

-My roommates and I decided to go ahead and pay for the half month at Buffalo Ave, but move slowly over the following two weeks, culminating in a “big move” with a U-Haul on December 31st.  I told Randy and Patricia this, and they were find with it.  They said they needed to replace the floors in the unit, and that they would do that over the two weeks the unit would be empty.  I, again, offered them more time in case the floor issue turned out to be bigger than they thought.  They again refused and insisted it would be done and on us paying for half of December.  

-We dropped off the deposit ($2500) the week after Thanksgiving, then the prorated December rent ($1375) on December 15th.  We got our keys and did a quick, unofficial walkthrough with Patricia.  We pointed out a few things that needed to be fixed (lights, curtains, etc) and headed back to our house.  We noted that the floors had been replaced, although the apartment still smelled of mildew.  We chalked it up to remnants of the (now fixed) flooring issue and assumed it would dissipate with time.

-Once we had the keys, I began making small trips with carloads of boxes.  On my first trip, I noticed that the unit was completely filthy - even closet rods were covered in dust.  I opened the cupboards under the kitchen sink and found a standing bowl of water from a leak that they had somehow missed.  The apartment still stunk of mildew.  I contacted Randy immediately, and he apologized and promised to fix it within a few days.  They had the apartment cleaned and fixed the leak.  We continued our move.

-On December 31st, we officially moved in.  Within 24 hours, we realized that the mildew smell wasn’t going away - and was strongest in the back hallway where the bedrooms and bathrooms are located.  My boyfriend and I noted that our bathroom was extremely humid.  It felt like someone had just showered in there at all times, even if no one had all day.  My boyfriend went out and bought a humidity meter.  We placed it in the bathroom and closed the door.  Within 4 hours, it read 84% humidity.  

-We contacted Randy on January 2nd about these concerns.  We asked if they had done any mold tests while they were replacing the floors and sent him pictures of the humidity readings.  His father, Dean, wrote me back a few hours later, assuring me that they would send an inspector but making sure to point out that the previous tenants never complained and that he, himself, had walked through the unit and hadn’t noticed any issues.  The next day, Patricia contacted me to set up a time for an inspector.  I was also told not to contact Randy or Dean about problems anymore, and to only go through her from now on.

-The inspector came the next day.  My boyfriend, Matt, works from home, so he was able to be here for the tests.  The inspector commented that, though there was no visible mold, it “smells like mold” in the apartment.  He took several air quality tests and left.  We heard nothing for several days, until the same inspector showed up again, unannounced, 3 days later to take more tests.  He told Matt, “we’re trying to figure out why your levels are so high - but you didn’t hear that from me!”

-A few days later, Patricia sent me a text, saying that there are “elevated levels of mold due to lack of ventilation” and that the owners would be “dropping off filters” and that we need to “properly ventilate when we shower.”  The floors were beginning to warp rapidly in the bedrooms - Kevin’s bedroom door would only open halfway our to the floor puffing up.  The floor in our bedroom feels like a roller coaster.  The floor in front of the toilet visibly moves when you step on it.  At this point, we had only lived in the unit for 15 days.  

-When the owners arrived the next day, they only brought 2 air purifiers (one for the bathroom, one for our roommate, Kevin’s bedroom.  The two most humid rooms.).  We had hoped for dehumidifiers, but regardless, Matt invited them inside to experience the issue for themselves.  Once they left, they texted Matt offering to bring dehumidifiers.  Matt asked if we were being asked to run 4 different machines 24 hours a day as a solution.  After that, the landlord’s wife called and said they’d be sending another inspector the next morning to perform more tests.

-The new inspector arrived, and didn’t say much to Matt apart from us needing the vent in our bathroom cleaned or replaced.  The landlord again called afterwards and said they’d be sending a plumber the following day.

-The plumber arrived and took one look at the floors and declared that we had a major problem underneath.  He said the wood must have gotten wet at some point and when wood gets wet, it never fully dries.  He said the “landlord isn’t going to like what I have to tell him” and left.  

-The landlord called Matt that evening.  He was apologetic, but said that they have to rip up the floors in the unit- and that we have to move out.  He said another unit in the building will be vacant on February 1, and they were offering to hire movers to move us over there for 4-6 weeks, then move us back in.  He also mentioned that he would still be expecting us to pay rent during this time period.  I feel that we should not have to pay rent if we are not living in the unit we signed a lease for.  Also, if they had done a thorough job with the floors the first time, they would have known how bad it was.  And they had 6 weeks to fix it, but they instead chose to rush us into a lease so they could get their money.  This has caused considerable stress and discomfort for all three of us, plus we are worried that our 2 small dogs have been breathing in toxins for weeks.  

-Our towels never dry, so we have to do constant laundry.  I have had to throw out our toothbrushes and loofahs.  We cannot keep towels or toothbrushes in the bathroom out of fear that they will grow mold.  Our roommate, Kevin, has not slept in our apartment for over a week because his sheets are damp with humidity.  Our backyard is always muddy and wet.  Mildew grows before our very eyes in our bathroom sink after we shower.  Our clothes and furniture smell like mildew.  What exactly are our rights here?  What should we do?  Accept their offer, but say we’re not paying rent?  Say we’ll move out, and demand our security deposit back? But I fear that we won’t be able to find another suitable place in our budget, and in the meantime, we’re breathing in God knows what - and Kevin’s not even living here.  

I also have pictures, emails, and text messages saved from all of this.

[brixie19]

Rock the Boat, Baby

I’ve been fairly quiet on social media about the current political situation for the most part.  I share articles that I find to be either informative or mind-numbingly insane, but other than that, I keep my mouth shut on Facebook.  Twitter is a different story - my entire timeline is filled with political retweets and one-sided conversations with our new President.  I keep that to Twitter for one big reason - I don’t have family members or many friends as followers.  On Facebook, everyone I’ve ever gone to school with or spoken to more than twice can see my posts - and, although I pride myself on being respectful and open, the few opinions I’ve shared have still led to public fights with family members and acquaintances.  

Everyone wants to believe- or at least hope- that, with time, the heightened emotions of the past few months will fade.  That things will return to normal, or some semblance of the normal we once knew.  I believed it myself for a while - on my darkest days after the election, I would think, “we’ll be fine.  How bad can it really get?  How much can things really change?”  But now, more than 2 months later, I am still angry.  I am still sad, disappointed, shocked, and terrified that this happened.  That it’s still happening.  And while I won’t bore you with the minute details of every offense Donald Trump has committed - the list would be far too long, as they seem to occur on an almost hourly basis at this point- I am remaining vigilant and am going into his term with my eyes wide open.  While I don’t love making myself angry every day or wanting to pull my hair out every time I read the responses to his tweets, I feel that it is so imperative to remain informed and educated.

For that reason, among many other obvious ones, I attended the Women’s March in Downtown Los Angeles yesterday.  If you know me, you’ll know that I do not like crowds, people, or walking - but this felt big and important and life changing, so I wanted to be there.  I NEEDED to be there.  The experience was unforgettable.  A day and a half later, I can still feel the energy, the positivity, the unity.  I don’t wax poetic very often, but what I witnessed yesterday - what I was a part of- was beautiful and powerful.  It was inspiring and empowering and will stick with me for a long, long time.  

But then when I turned to social media to share my joyous feelings, I instead- as with everything else that has happened over the past year- found so many distorted facts and outright falsehoods about what I and millions of others had just experienced.  Stories of violence and desperation- I even saw a quote that called the Marches a “total collapse of the social order.”  Something in me snapped.  I can’t stand for this anymore.  I won’t.

On the day of Trump’s inauguration, there were protests in the streets of Washington DC.  Thousands of people peacefully protested what could very well be the worst president in our lifetimes.  They protested his words, his lies, his plans.  They chanted and made signs.  They marched through the streets together, passionate and united.  

And then one group of people fucked everything up.

A group of people who do NOT represent me or anyone I know decided to go full blown anarchist and create chaos.  They broke windows, they threw bricks, they set a damn limo on fire.  I think everyone, from all sides, can come together on this one and agree that these types of actions - protests, riots, whatever you want to label them as- are absolutely not ok and is the opposite of what liberals and anti-trump protesters are trying to convey.  But even the Chief of Police admitted that it was one small, organized group who just wanted to come in and cause mayhem.  And it worked.  Because now, in the minds of Trump supporters, those people represent the thousands of people who peacefully protested.  And even worse, the 2.9 million people who marched across the globe yesterday for the Women’s March are being lumped in with them, too.

I can’t speak for other marches around the world.  But I can tell you what I experienced among the hundreds of thousands of strong women and their supporters:  Thousands of people peacefully protested what could very well be the worst president in our lifetimes.  They protested his words, his lies, his plans.  They chanted and made signs.  They marched through the streets together, passionate and united.

And no one fucked anything up.

And yet I see these tweets and these stories from “news” sites I’ve never heard of that people are desperately googling to fit the agenda Trump has created for them. Liberals are “soft,” we’re “elite snowflakes” who are “triggered” by Trump’s strength and vision.  We’re angry and pathetic, making mountains out of molehills and being too politically correct.  

Well fuck that.  FUCK THAT.  No one is going to tell me that wanting equal rights for everyone makes me weak.  You’re not going to call me a baby killer because I want Planned Parenthood to continue to receive federal funding.  Wanting to see our President’s tax returns doesn’t make me a crybaby.  Supporting Black Lives Matter doesn’t mean I hate cops and therefore veterans and anyone performing a public service.  I work hard.  I pay my fucking taxes and I love my country.  I am grateful for our service men and women.  But we need to do better.  And I’m going to keep shouting that from the rooftops for as long as Trump holds office.  

I support Planned Parenthood, 100%.  I think it is so important for women to have affordable health care, whether that means education, pap smears, screening for ovarian cancer, or STD testing.  It is so much more than what these people are focusing on.

I had an abortion once.  Talk about burying the lead, huh?  I was 20 years old.  The father was someone older than me who was in a long-term relationship.  When I told him, he told me I couldn’t have the baby.  While some of you may be grabbing your pearls in horror right now, let me assure you - I was agreeing with him before the words were even out of his mouth.  I could barely pay my rent.  I couldn’t (legally) drink yet.  He wasn’t mine - he never was and he never would be.  There was no future here.  There were relationships to destroy, lives to stall, and an unwanted child who I couldn’t - and didn’t want to- provide for.  

I called Planned Parenthood immediately.  They asked a few questions and made me an appointment right away.  Once I got there, I had to go through several therapy sessions and medical tests.  They MAKE SURE you are ok with this.  Almost ad nauseam.  I honestly got to the point where I wanted to scream, “can you just DO IT already so I can go home?!”  The doctor who performed it was kind and not at all judgmental.  And I assure you that he also was not a mustache twirling villain who scratched a mark into the wall to count off the babies he had killed that day.  This was not fun for anyone involved.  But it was my right.  It IS my right.  I was not raped. I was not a teenager or a victim of incest.  I did not have medical issues or any indication that the pregnancy would be high risk.  I was just a 20 year old idiot who didn’t have the emotional or financial capabilities to have a child at that moment.  And I own my mistake - I got pregnant, I own that.  I do not advocate for abortion as a form of birth control.  But here we are, 14 years later - and I’ve never gotten pregnant again.  And had Planned Parenthood not been able to legally perform my procedure, I would have had a very different life.  Can I say that it would have been a BAD life?  No, of course not.  But no matter what happened, I would have a 14 year old right now.  And even now- even right now as I sit here typing this as a wizened, more mature 34 year old woman living in Los Angeles and happy in a relationship- I can say that I don’t regret it.  I regret that the entire situation ever happened, of course.  But I don’t regret my decision.  

I don’t ever want a scared 20 year old to go through what I went through and not have a way out.  Because what happens then?  Nothing good, I assure you.  Life is not an uplifting coming-of-age movie.  Life is hard and ugly and unfair.  So don’t tell me that I can’t voice my opinion when things that make our short time on the earth just a little easier are being threatened.  I won’t listen to it anymore.  We need to support each other, to help our fellow man.  This is basic human decency.  

I stand with my fellow women.  I stand with the gay community.  The black community, the muslim community- with the immigrants and the people just trying to get out of bed every day and make something of their lives.  I stand with people who just want to marry the person they love, the men and women who want to use the public restroom that coincides with the gender they identify with, the couple who wants to order some goddamned cupcakes without being asked what their religious beliefs are.  I stand with women who are scared, women who are strong; poor women and the Meryl Streeps of the world.  

Women’s rights are human rights.  If our country is as great as many of you want to keep screaming, then it should be great for each and every one of its citizens - not just the ones you pick and choose.  I’m tired of being polite to hold on to relationships that weren’t very strong in the first place.  You think liberals are too politically correct?  Alright, let me fix that.  Fuck you for not wanting to help people.  For wanting to take away people’s health care, for denying scientific evidence of climate change.  Fuck you for victim blaming and trying to pass laws that discriminate against the LGBTQ community.  Fuck you for trying to use the government to try to tell me what I can and can’t do with my own body because a deity you’ve never seen tells you so in a book that was written a million years ago.  Fuck you for electing this horrid excuse for a man into our country’s highest position.  I pray it works out for us.  For ALL of us.  But until we know that it will, I will no longer be censoring myself.  I will wear my anger and my anxiety for our future on my sleeve and on my Facebook page.  You don’t like that?  Too bad.

To quote the words of one of my heroes, the strong, beautiful Amy Poehler; when a male comedian told her to be more ladylike because he didn’t like the raunchy joke she was telling, she replied:  

“I don’t fucking care if you like it.”

And neither do I.  

[brixie19]

The Casual Racism of a Bleeding Heart

I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood. And by “predominantly,” I mean there was approximately one African American student who attended my high school for the entire four years I went there. There was a small wave of excitement and wonder when she showed up on her first day- “our first black student!” we whispered to each other. As if it wasn’t odd that we had come to this school for three years and there wasn’t a single student or teacher with more than a deep summer tan in the pages of our yearbooks. I also grew up in an accepting and loving family. My brother is gay. The man he spends his days and nights with is African American. My family never thought anything of it. Now, we are not the type of people who proclaim that we “don’t see color.” Of course we knew and acknowledged the color of his skin. But it was never a cause for concern or discussion. But still…but still… Just as women are conditioned to fear men, white people are taught that black people are dangerous criminals that should be avoided. When I lived in downtown Buffalo, I would hold my purse more tightly if I passed a black man on the sidewalk. Did my mother ever tell me to do that? No, she did not. But I do it because that’s what society tells me to do. You don’t invite a strange man to walk you home at night, lest he rape you. You don’t walk by a black man with your purse open, lest he rob you. It is a shameful, dirty feeling. I know that I am an accepting person. I know that I feel empathy and shame when yet another African American family appears on my television screen, mourning the loss of their father and husband at the hands of a white cop. But I will never know their struggle. I will never know the years of suspicious glances and of being watched at a high-end store, or being pulled over and harassed for the color of my skin. I will never hear the click of someone hitting the automatic door locks on their car as I pass them on the sidewalk. The name-calling, the stereotyping, the feelings of alienation and persecution. These are things I will never experience. And yet, I mourn these senseless losses. I believe that black lives matter. But where does casual racism end and activism begin? Nothing is being done to help the countless victims of these brutal crimes. And think of all of the incidents we don’t even hear about on a daily, even hourly basis is this country. Alton Sterling. Philando Castile. Michael Brown. Tamir Rice. Sandra Bland. Trayvon Martin. Eric Garner. Say their names. Feel their confusion, their panic, and their devastation during their last few moments on this earth. There are so many more that don’t gain national attention. If Tamir Rice had been a little Caucasian kid waving around a toy gun in a park, do you think police would have shot him dead within seconds of exiting their vehicle? Why are we conditioned to believe we are in more danger in the presence of a black person than a white one? If Philando Castile had been white and had calmly explained to the officer who pulled him over that he had a registered firearm on his person, do you think the officer would have put 4 bullets into him in front of his 4 year old daughter? These are rhetorical questions because we all know the answers. And those answers should sicken and shame us. Nothing will change until the rampant racism in this country, “casual” or not, stops and we start treating one another with respect and humanity. A human is a human – I don’t care if they have a rap sheet a mile long or spend their free time reading to blind kids. We all need to take a hard look at ourselves and really begin to question where we really stand on these issues. What would YOU do in these types of situations? You can say you wouldn’t make the same decisions as those police officers did, but until Americans begin truly accepting one another as fellow humans whose lives matter just as much as our own, I’m not sure I’d believe you. I know I personally have a lot of soul searching to do about these issues. Because I’ve heard the phrase, “everyone is a LITTLE racist” countless times, and it isn’t cute, funny, or cool. How can we unite on the bigger issues our country faces if we are constant war with each other? How can we live full lives as self proclaimed open-minded, loving, and accepting people if we still feel our hands pulling our belongings closer to our bodies when we walk past a black man? And though hopelessness might be the prevalent feeling in situations such as these, you don’t have to attend a vigil or lead a protest to make a difference. As the saying goes, change begins at home. Teach tolerance and acceptance for all humans, regardless of race, sexual orientation, or religion. During this election year, social issues are at the forefront of people’s minds. This is the perfect time to begin a calm and thought-provoking discussion with your kids, friends, and family. If your child comes to you with questions, don’t sugar coat. If your grandfather makes a racist statement, tell him you’re not going to listen to that type of talk. If your drunk friend uses a racial slur, call him out. This is the time to take action in any small way you can. While we sit on our hands and wait for politicians to wake up and laws to be updated, change can happen- big or small- in our daily lives. And it has to. Enough is enough.

[brixie19]

Ovaries Before Brovaries

On this International Women’s Day, I wanted to take this opportunity to give some shout-outs to women who are important to me – whether family or friend, celebrity or stranger. These are women I look up to, appreciate, and cherish – the people who have shaped and continue to shape the person that I am today.  Cheers to the following amazing ladies:

 1.)  My mother.  This woman is the person who raised me, almost singlehandedly, to be an independent, strong, generous, caring person.  (Not to toot my own horn – but thanks to Linda, beep beep, ya know?) She clawed her way from the bottom of her company to a Vice President position through hard work and dedication, sacrificing much of her own life to succeed and ensure that her loved ones are well-taken care of.  She taught me that success and self-worth are important, but also, that having love in your life is priceless.  She taught me about forgiveness and kindness, perseverance and believing in myself. Mom, today, I celebrate you.

2.)  My friends.  I have known a lot of women in my life: some who have come and gone, and some who will never leave.  I appreciate all of these relationships for what they were and what they continue to be. My friends allow me to be both the best and worst versions of myself.  They let me complain, let me cry, let me be crazy and funny.  They support me at my lowest points and celebrate with me at my highest points.  Some of them, I see every day.  Others, I talk to twice a year.  None of that matters – I know that if I need them, they will be there, and vice versa. They understand that life happens and I can’t always respond immediately.  They are happy for the good changes in my life.  They offer to help me in any way they can when I am stressed, and offer to listen to me vent about even the silliest of things.  There are almost too many of you to name, and I certainly don’t want to leave anyone out – so ladies, today, I celebrate you.  

3.)  My idols.  Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Amy Schumer, Kelly Oxford, Chrissy Teigen, Jenny Mollen, Mindy Kaling, and so many others – these women have inspired me, fascinated me, and empowered me.  Whether telling a crass joke or giving a speech about feminism, these women have carved out a new niche for women everywhere – one where a woman can be smart AND pretty AND funny AND talented AND sexy.  One where your body type or hairstyle doesn’t define you.  They have created a new normal for ladies everywhere, teaching the Average Janes of the world that they can do anything they want, BE anyone they want, SAY anything they want.  To stand up for what they believe in and keep working towards their goals, regardless of who tells them they’re not good enough, smart enough, pretty enough. I may not know these women personally, and I may not ever meet a single one of them – but today, I celebrate them.

4.)  My superheroes.  Victims of harassment and abuse and violence who have come forward this year, whether it be on a grand scale or a simple Twitter status.  Women who aren’t famous or popular, but who I’ve read about in the news or on social media, who have started to come forward and talk about their harassment at the hands of employers, significant others, family members, or strangers on the street.  As “feminism” has become more prominent in popular culture, I see more and more women talking about daily run-ins with bullies, sickos, perverts, sexists, or even rapists – and it’s so important for future generations to see these kinds of discussions.  From unwanted catcalls on a busy street to quiet emotional abuse from a spouse, these are things that need to be brought to everyone’s attention.  As much as some people see feminism as a fad- a thing that will peter out like shoulder pads or the Macarena- I feel the opposite.  I think we as a society – as women who have carried this burden for far too long – are coming around to a new way of thinking that will shape future generations to come.  It is important to talk about the pay gap.  It is important to be heard – and believed- when you have been sexually assaulted.  It is imperative to stand up for yourself when you are being harassed.  And all of the women who have come out and simply told their stories have impacted our culture far more than they even know. From simply refusing to engage in calling other women “bitches” or “whores” or “ugly,” to educating people on rape culture, to standing up to employers for fair wages – these things are changing female stereotypes on both small and grand scales.  These women make me proud to be a female in 2016, and make me hopeful for the future.  Today, my personal superheroes, I celebrate you.

 There are so many other women who I admire: single moms, caring grandmas, thoughtful aunts, respectful tweens- inspiring and strong individuals who have overcome obstacles to achieve greatness or are just kind, solid people with a good head on their shoulders.  It is so important to take whatever opportunity you can to give pause and thank these people.  Whether it’s a male or female, celebrate the good eggs.  There is so much hatred and sadness and online vitriol these days – celebrate the people who matter to you when you can.  It’s nice to take a moment out of your day every now and then to be grateful.  And I am beyond grateful for the strong-willed, passionate, tenacious women in my life.  Today- and every day- I celebrate you.  

[brixie19]

“It’s Caitlyn with a C”

Please allow me to preface what I am about to write with some facts about me:  I abhor all things Kardashian.  I have never watched more than a clip of their multiple shows, and I find them to be the epitome of what is wrong with society. 

I am also not a poster child for the transgender community.  I am not an expert about what trans people go through, nor do I know anyone personally who has struggled with the feelings of hopelessness and confusion that go along with it.  I am a lover of people (as long as you’re not an asshole.  I dislike assholes).  I believe that everyone deserves to live a life where they are their true selves.  And you know what, hey – if the Kardashians are being their “true selves,” then good for them.  I just choose not to follow along.

 But then there’s Caitlyn Jenner.  

 Anything I’ve ever read about “Bruce” has been positive.  In previous seasons of all the Kardashian shows, I’ve only read about her being quiet, supportive, and perhaps a bit lost in the shuffle.  In the past few months, she has made the brave decision to go public with her journey. She has been open, honest, and maybe a little afraid.  But then there she is, in a corset, looking fierce as hell on the cover of Vanity Fair for the whole world to see.  And I love it.  I am so saddened that Caitlyn had to live 65 years not feeling like her true self. And while most of the response she has gotten has been overwhelmingly positive, there are still plenty of people who take issue with it.  And I’m really wondering why.

 To take a page from my high school research papers, I’d like to define a few words for you.  Bravery is defined as “mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.”  Caitlyn Jenner is being called brave, a hero, a game changer.  Over and over for the past 24 hours, I have seen people, some my own friends, say that she is not brave.  But, by the very definition of the word, is she not?  Is she not beginning a new venture with perseverance and strength? Is it not difficult or frightening? I don’t think that any of us can put a limit on what bravery means.  Yes, of course our troops are brave.  Doctors are brave.  Children fighting cancer are brave.  But so is Caitlyn.  

 A hero is defined as a person who is admired or idealized for courage.  This is another word that you can’t fit to just one type of person or situation.  I admire Caitlyn for her courage.  She could have taken the easy way out.  She could have divorced Kris Jenner, distanced herself from the family, moved to Idaho, and lived her life quietly with perhaps none of us the wiser.  But she chose to speak, and I truly believe that she will save lives because of her courage.  Of course, people may ask why she chose to “come out” in the way she did.  Why the corset on the cover of a magazine, full of Photoshop and extensions and pomp and circumstance?  And I’m sure that some of those decisions were made because of the family she comes from – the Kardashian machine is a powerful one, and they announce things on a grand scale.

 But think in smaller terms.  Think of how many teenagers or young adults that magazine cover and interview will reach.  Think about how many transgender people will see this and JUST FEEL BETTER.  How many suicides Caitlyn may prevent.  How many parents might read her interview and come to a better understanding of what their child is going through.  

 At the end of the day, one woman’s journey doesn’t affect your life if you don’t want it to.  I completely understand if people feel that they can’t escape it – the news is big and it is everywhere.  But this IS a game-changer, like it or not.  It is 2015, and this is the world we live in now.  I can think a soldier is brave, and I can also think Caitlyn Jenner is brave.  That doesn’t make me less American or less grateful for my freedom.  It doesn’t make me sick or queer.  It doesn’t make me a liberal or a hippie.  It makes me human.  And as a human, I ache for the life that Caitlyn felt that she had to live for 65 years.  I think of Robin Williams’ struggles and I am grateful for Caitlyn’s strength and perseverance to carry on for so long.  I cannot fathom what it would feel like to be uncomfortable in my body for even half as long as she did.  

 I have been bombarded by unsolicited opinions and Facebook posts today.  I have heard that it’s all a farce, it’s for publicity, “HE” doesn’t deserve awards or accolades or praise.  That it’s disgusting, over-the-top, and that people think she should just go away.  That there are bigger things going on in the world that deserve our attention.  There are always bigger things going on than the specific thing the world is focusing on, my friends.  But for one day, Caitlyn Jenner broke the internet.  And I believe we will all be better for it, even if her story only affects one lonely transgender teen.  It will make all of this worth it.

 If Caitlyn’s story bothers you, I’m truly not trying to change your mind.  I may be trying to open it a little.  I always try to put myself in other people’s shoes, and I think about what would happen if my brother were not only gay, but was also transgender.  It wouldn’t even be an issue for me.  My brother would be my sister, and I would go shopping for purses with her and get mad at her for not being my size so we could share clothes. And if my brother was trans and wanted to share her story?  I would be the first person to encourage her, as I would hope all of my friends would do if a sibling/friend/child was struggling with this.  

 But we are all our own people, and I can’t change your opinion. I want all of you to live as your true selves, too.  And you know what?  If you really hate Caitlyn Jenner that much, for finally living as she’s always dreamed, for being courageous enough to speak her truth?  Then, like me with the Kardashians, simply don’t follow along. 

[brixie19]

For Jim

Writing about my stepfather is something I had always planned to do, but I never felt ready – and I didn’t want to cause any added pain to my family with my words.  Today, I feel ready.  

 Today is Jim’s 58th birthday.  I knew it was coming up – I have always been strangely good at remembering people’s birthdays, even if I never remember to send a card or gift.  Still, this morning, the pain hit me the second I opened my eyes.  Things have been alright lately.  I think about Jim constantly, and the shock that he’s gone hasn’t dissipated in the slightest, but things have gotten back to a routine at least.  A new normal.  A shitty normal.   The grief no longer comes in great big enveloping tsunamis, but smaller waves.  I won’t lie- I am sad all the time, I am angry all the time.  But I am also so unwaveringly grateful for many things.  

 I have a horrible memory, but I know that Jim has been around for basically my entire life.  He was there when I was a small child; I remember that he was loud and huge, filling every room with laughter.  He gave me my brother Maxwell, and I remember how joyful he was at Max’s birth.  A second chance at a real family, the opportunity to finally have everything he wanted.  He helped me learn to ride a bike, but never coddled me.  He treated me as his own daughter from day one.  As a man with only sons before me, there were plenty of struggles in our relationship over the years.  He drank.  I was the worst teenager on earth.  He annoyed the shit out of me.  I annoyed the ever-loving God out of him.  But there was always affection and support and love.  I never doubted that.  He took me to my first concert – Kriss Kross.  I remember not wanting to be there with him, embarrassed at his booming voice, wondering why my mother had forced me to go.  20 years later, I am so grateful for that memory, of Jim rolling his eyes at the music and me rolling my eyes at his general existence.  Ours was a relationship of mutual frustration and adoration, like any other father/daughter duo.  

 As I got older and moved out of the house (approximately 20 times or so, and he moved me every single time), our relationship grew stronger.  With maturity, I came to understand the things about Jim that had annoyed me when I was a bratty teen.  He truly had the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met, but with that huge heart came stubbornness and a pigheadedness that could easily frustrate the person he was debating.  I grew to love this side of him as I aged out of my 20s, always asking him his opinion on political matters and truly enjoying our talks.  He cared deeply for my brother and me, supporting us through anything we wanted to do.  When my brother announced that he was gay at 15, Jim accepted it without hesitation. This loud, bigger than life, sports-loving, beer-guzzling man’s man loved his gay son more than I knew was possible.  Jim cried more than anyone on Max’s wedding day.  When I decided that my passion was writing, Jim was the first person to encourage me, coming up with blog ideas regularly and proudly displaying a full-page letter I had published in Buffalo’s free weekly paper.  Even last year, he sent me a long rambling note about how much he believed in me, and how much he wanted me to follow my dreams.  

 When Maxwell and I moved to California over four years ago, Jim drove across the country with our boxes and furniture all by himself.  When we moved into a new apartment 3 months later, Jim flew out alone to move us again. He found my car for me and brokered the deal, knowing that I am a complete idiot when it comes to that kind of thing.  He loved our dogs and treated them like his babies.  Hearing a man as huge as Jim speak baby gibberish to little Chihuahuas was a sight to behold.  Jim fell in love with California, always having been a fan of sunshine and beaches. He and my mother were finalizing talks to move out here when he got sick.  

 I don’t want to delve too much into last year, as I’d rather speak about the healthy, strong Jim that we all knew.  But the thing is, the sickness didn’t lessen his strength.  Every single day, no matter if he had received treatment or hadn’t eaten, he was positive.  He laughed, he prayed, he had hope.  I would call and ask how he was doing, and his answer was oftentimes, “ebullient!!” He never complained, not once. Not even towards the end.  Even as recently as Christmas, when he was having a bit of trouble with his mobility, he insisted on going out to the garage to carry in a giant mirror he had found for my mother.  That was just Jim.  No one was going to keep him down.  Which is why I think acceptance has been the hardest part for me.  That this man who fought with every fiber of his being, who was so grateful for life, who loved wholly and deeply, who had such strong faith, is gone.  

 That last night, when I arrived in Buffalo from LA because things had gotten bad quickly, I will cherish his reaction when he saw me.  He had been a bit loopy from his medication for a few days, with lucidity a rare and welcome thing.  When I walked in and my mother told him I was there, he snapped back to us immediately. He knew it was me, and asked me for a hug right away.  He grabbed my hand and held it as he faded back into his haze.  For that one tiny moment, I will forever be grateful.  I hold on to that when I am at my lowest, knowing in my heart that he truly knew I was there.  

 At the cemetery on the day of Jim’s services, his sister hugged me as we were leaving and whispered, “He loved you.  He loved you so much.”  Without pause, I responded, “I know.”  And I really did.  I never questioned it.  Although I will miss him every day for the rest of my life, I am so grateful to have known him and to have had such love in my life.  I will be grateful for his loyalty, his support, the way he loved my mom and brother.  I’ll be grateful for his strength, which I can still feel to this day.  I’ll be grateful for his humor, his wisdom.  I’ll be grateful that I can call myself Jim’s only daughter.  

 The strength of my family has been nothing short of astounding.  My mother, the absolute love of Jim’s life, has been such a pillar for Max and I, and really for everyone who loved Jim, since day one.  No one who had known Jim could ever question his devotion and unwavering, unconditional love for her over the past 30+ years.  I know that she will be ok, somehow.  That we will all be ok.  

 Happy birthday, Dad.  I miss you so much, but I’m cheers-ing you up in heaven with a PBR, just like I know you’d want me to.  

[brixie19]

HGTV Presents: Kevin Hates Chandeliers

The episode of House Hunters that I happened to catch tonight was so perfect; I couldn’t wait to talk about it. It had everything: A young couple with high expectations, a low budget, and a passive-aggressive way of speaking to each other. A realtor who keeps making “STFU” faces. Outrageous wish list. Ridiculous demands. No desire to fix anything cosmetic.

Basic Facts: Names: Kevin and Carrie (early 30s) City: Chicago Budget: $150-$200K Must-haves: Light counters, dark floors, outdoor space, a room for Carrie to use as a dressing room, a room for Kevin to use as a darkroom. Open concept, duh. Big no-no: CHANDELIERS. KEVIN DOES NOT LIKE CHANDELIERS OR HANGING LIGHT FIXTURES. They do not want an on suite bathroom, because Carrie has been told that she is “loud.” Also, Kevin is quick to point out that he hates painting. He seems like a treat, huh?

House 1, $199,000: Kevin immediately sucks air through his teeth and says, “Ooh, that’s REALLY pushing our budget.” I hate when people do this. If $199K is pushing your budget, then your budget should top out at lower than that. These people berate their realtors for bringing them to these expensive homes, so maybe lower the budget? If your budget was $400K, and your realtor showed you a couple of dumps going for $90K, you’d be all, “show me something nicer!” I don’t understand.

Anyways, house 1 is small and boring, and there’s a light fixture that offends Kevin right away, even though it’s not an actual chandelier. Carrie is already so annoyed and you can tell she’s apologizing to the realtor under her breath every time the camera’s not on her. At one point, Kevin even finds a small, modern hanging light over the kitchen island and, trying to be the funny guy we know he is, says, “Oh, I like this one…because I can just take some scissors and cut it off!” Kevin. You’re really dumb, Kevin. Also, Carrie hates the countertops, and the master has an on suite, so Carrie knows Kevin will never let her poop in there.

House 2, $200,000 You just know walking up to this house that the realtor already has a sassy response waiting for when Kevin bitches about it being ��at the top of their budget.” (BUT STILL IN YOUR BUDGET, RIGHT?) Thankfully, Kevin gets distracted because there are NO chandeliers, the countertops are perfectly light, the floors richly dark, and the floor plan is “open concept, like we wanted.” But the bedrooms are small, so Kevin is pissy again. He and Carrie bicker about the size vs price and location for the cameras, but we know these entitled whores will never settle for a small condo.

House 3, $170,000 Ok, you know going in that they’re picking this joint. Cheap idiots love a deal, even if it is in the shit part of town. “An up-and-coming neighborhood” means you’d better get some wee-wee pads for your dog to pee on, because you are not going outside after dark – and Carrie, if you think Kevin is going to protect you from anything so much as a spider, you’re dumber than I thought. Though you did say you wanted a “dressing room,” so, moot.

House 3 is massive, of course, 4 bedrooms, 3 baths. One is an on suite, but at least Carrie has options. Once they walk in, it’s the absolute opposite of open concept. The counters are black as night. There’s a dark basement with old carpets. Chandeliers and ceiling fans fucking everywhere. House is covered in them. Kevin is basically breaking out in hives. No one, at any point, says to him, “you know you can take a chandelier down, right man?” Like, not his wife, not the realtor, not the goddamned cameraman.

There are a few closet doors that stick a little. Carrie keeps grimacing at their too-nice realtor as if these things might be dealbreakers. Kevin wanders down a long hallway to the kitchen and sees a lazy-Susan that is slightly off kilter in the corner of the cupboards. Well, that’s it for Kevin. He starts going off about how all of these “little repairs are starting to add up,” like we all forgot that this house is $30,000 under budget. Hey Kev, if you can’t afford a couple of floor lamps and some WD-40, do not buy a house. Just do not.

So this house is basically the very opposite of what they wanted. Which house did they pick? I already told you. House 3, of course. And guess what those cheap bastards did? They got the place for $156,000. Spoiled shits.

And in the end? Kevin agreed to keep the dining room chandelier. I feel like the last half hour of my life has all been a lie. The only thing keeping me going is that you just know he bitches about that thing every damn day. Carrie will eventually divorce him over it. Then she can have TWO dressing rooms. She deserves that, bless her heart.

Kevin’s sweet parting thoughts, re: the en suite: Carrie: “It’s kind of nice. I love being able to just brush my teeth and go to bed.” Kevin. “And I hate being able to hear her brush her teeth.”

I hope she hangs a chandelier in there.

[brixie19]

All my love to you, Poppet.

I was 11 years old when Mrs. Doubtfire was released. My parents had been divorced for almost 5 years at that point, and I had a 3 year old brother whom I adored. I had a decent relationship with my father- I was so young, there was still the standard “every-other-weekend” arrangement in place, although ours was a more of a “one day a month” type of thing. When I saw Mrs. Doubtfire for the first time, it awakened something in me that had previously been subconsciously tucked away- there were men out there who wanted to see their kids. There were men out there who would do anything, even dress up as a plump older British woman, to be around their children all the time. It made me angry, sad, and confused. Why couldn’t my dad be like Mrs. Doubtfire? Why didn’t my dad love his family so much that he would risk everything to be able to tuck me into bed every night? Was I a bad child? Unwanted? Unloved? As I wore out my VCR with repeated viewings of this movie that I so badly wanted to be my real life, I began to realize that I wasn’t hoping my parents would suddenly reconcile. I didn’t want or need my dad to help me with my homework every night. I wanted Robin Williams to help me with my homework every night. I wanted him to come to my house, in costume or not, and read me a book. I wanted him to scoop me up in those iconic furry arms and look at me with that trademark twinkle in his eye. I wanted him to be my father. Years later, rewatching Mrs. Doubtfire on some random cable channel, I can see it for what it is. I can see the flaws- the immaturity of Daniel Hillard, the frustration in his ex-wife’s eyes, the kids who needed more of a parental figure than a playmate. But no matter what knowledge maturity brings, I can’t help but get misty eyed at the love Daniel had for his children. It gives me a feeling of childlike yearning like nothing else I can think of. I would never call myself a major Robin Williams fan. He is nowhere near the level of my Tom Hanks obsession. But I truly enjoyed his movies and the special, often frenetic energy he brought to his roles. And in the quiet moments, during Awakenings and Good Will Hunting and Hook, I enjoyed the level of comfort he brought to me as a viewer. There was just something so warm about him, even in his oddest roles, that drew me in. Maybe it was those eyes; those gentle, mischievous eyes that always held a tinge of sadness. Those eyes that made you want to laugh, but also ask, “Are you doing ok?” The news of Robin Williams’ sudden death yesterday had me reeling. I’ll be honest, and I’m sure most of you will agree, here- I hadn’t given much thought to Mr. Williams in a long while. Apart from a guest role on Louie, I never found myself wondering what had become of him. I knew he had battled addictions in the past. I knew there was a scandal or two with ex-wives and knocked up nannies. But he always flew under the radar, delighting me when he made a cameo, but disappearing from my mind once he left my television screen. How awful, then, to hear about his depression. His relapses. His loneliness and desperation. I’m not here to tell you that I understand what he went through or even that I could begin to try, but I’ve been diagnosed with depression and an anxiety disorder. During weeks where I was in a black hole, turning to alcohol and men and staying in bed all day, I saw it. The despair, the helplessness. But I always came out of it. Knowing that he felt those feelings for many of his 63 years on this Earth makes my heart ache. Here is a man with all of the resources money can buy at his disposal. Here is a man who is beloved by millions, cherished by his family, who cannot see a way out. Here is a man who turned to self medication many times over the years, only get clean and repeat the cycle. I have never been suicidal. But I can see how, after months and years of feeling so utterly hopeless and sad, one would tell themselves that there is no other option. The only advice I can give, as someone who has experienced moments of the disease that this man lived a lifetime with, is this: When someone is anxious, don’t tell them to calm down. When someone is sad, don’t tell them they should smile more. We don’t know what is going on behind a person’s smiling eyes, and we should never claim to. Be kind to each other. Be understanding. Love one another fiercely and wholly. Don’t take depression lightly. There is never an easy fix, but there is love and support and help out there. No matter how you are feeling, you are loved. Someone loves you and cares about you. Find them. Talk to them. While there are many people out there who are suffering physically, there are even more suffering mentally. And while taking your own life should never be the answer, sometimes people’s brains tell them it is. This is not selfish, this is not cowardice: this is the end for them. There is no more help, no more therapy, no more pills. And this is why depression needs to be more recognized as a true illness. Robin had everything and more to live for – and yet his beautiful mind told him he needed to leave us. It is horrible that the world has lost this funny, smart, generous man. I know that none of us knew him personally, but his performances were such that we feel like we did. I know that he was a celebrity with millions of dollars and the respect of everyone he met- but at the end of the day, Robin Williams was a human being with a horrible, isolating disease- made worse by a horrible, isolating addiction. I know that there are more pressing matters in the world. I know that there are awful things going on in far away countries that I couldn’t even begin to fathom. But for an hour yesterday, after hearing of his suicide, I sat in bed and cried. Cried for the loss of my childhood favorite, whom I’ve always associated with those feelings of love and comfort. Who I always remember as my favorite Hollywood dad, who came to me in my dreams and read me bedtime stories in a British accent, eyes sparkling and arms holding me tight.

[brixie19]

That time I incited a mob, or the time I almost got punched by a 55 year old woman

We were really busy at the shop on Saturday night. It was one of those nights where we barely had time to exhale in between customers. The hot summer day turned into somewhat muggy night. At around 9:40pm, I finally had a chance to step out from behind the counter to clean up the lobby. As I walked outside to wipe down the small tables we have in front of our store, I took in my surroundings. The street traffic was finally dying down. Inches away from the center outside table sat a car at the curb. I remembered subconsciously clocking this car earlier – I had thought one of our umbrellas was leaning against it. The car was a very odd shade of blue. It was just one of those moments where you make a mental note to yourself. “This car has been here for a bit.” I finished wiping the table and straightened one of the wicker chairs. At the scraping noise, a dog began to bark. From inside the blue car. My head snapped up. There was a small white dog sitting in the front seat. The driver’s and passenger’s windows were rolled down about 2 inches. I murmured some soothing words to the dog as I looked around frantically. Surely, I was mistaken about how long the car had been there for. Surely this person would be back within moments. I walked back inside, shaken. When I told my employees, they seemed nonplussed. “I’m sure the car hasn’t been there for long,” said one. “Just keep an eye on it. They’ll be back in a minute.” I pulled out my phone and opened the Weather Channel app. 82 degrees. I did a quick Google search, as I honestly don’t know if “freaking out about a dog in a car after the sun has gone down” was a thing. I found a site that said that, even at night, temperatures such as 80 degrees can climb to 120 degrees in a matter of 20 minutes. I began to panic. Time passed. It was now 10:00. The restaurant next door closed. I stood outside, staring at everyone who passed, waiting for someone to pull out car keys. No one did. At one point, I heard different barking. There were two dogs, not one. I must have exclaimed something in my shock, because two young girls sitting outside asked me what was wrong. I explained the situation somewhat sheepishly, thinking they would roll their eyes like typical Valley teens and go back to their gelato. Instead, they sprung out of their chairs and over to the car window. I walked over with them. To my dismay, upon getting a closer look, there was more bad news. A third dog. Three dogs, locked in a car outside of my shop, for well over 30 minutes now. The sun may have been down, but it was a hot, sticky night. I turned to the girls. “I’m calling the police.” I walked back inside, ignoring the line my employees had, shouting a half-assed explanation at them as I went out the back door. I found the non-emergency line and called it. The woman who answered put me through to Animal Control. I explained the situation to the gentleman on the phone. He said, unfortunately, there wasn’t anything they could do unless the dogs “appeared to be in physical distress.” He said if they were barking, they were ok, but to call back if another half an hour passed. Dejected, I thanked him and hung up. I walked back out to the Teens and told them what happened. They were hovering near the car, almost in tears at this point. “What do we do?” they asked me frantically. “We wait,” I said. “If they start panting, you come get me.” They nodded solemnly and I headed back inside to help close the store. 10:30 came and went. I kept going outside to check on the dogs. At this point, the small local theatre production that had been going on had let out. Again, I frantically searched everyone’s faces, wondering who this horrible dog owner could be. No one stopped, except for one couple. The Girlfriend asked us what was going on, as the Teens and I had been gesticulating wildly next to the car as we weighed our options. When we told Girlfriend, it was on. She whipped out her phone and demanded the number for animal control. When she asked me how long the animals had been out there, I told her at least an hour, but I was pretty positive the car had been there much longer. The Boyfriend asked me to go get some water – he would stick his hand in the window to give it to the dogs. I almost cried. As I came back with the full glass, two Regulars had joined the growing crowd. I briefly filled them in, and they joined our little group immediately. Boyfriend stuck his hand in the window but was only met with frightened barks. Girlfriend was on the phone, giving her name and our address, demanding they send someone. It all escalated very quickly. At 10:50, I remembered we had a stash of organic dog treats in the shop. I ran to get some. By the time I came out, Boyfriend had the passenger door open and was gently coaxing the dogs to have some water. Girlfriend saw me and quickly explained that animal control had told her it is within our legal rights to enter the car and remove the dogs. They had gotten Horrible Dog Owner’s phone number off of the dogs’ tags and called her repeatedly, only to be greeted with a voicemail. They left pleading messages for her and got no response. Girlfriend didn’t want to take the dogs to a shelter, and I agreed with her. But what would we do? Our store closes at 11. The Teens, Regulars, and Couple all told me they weren’t going anywhere, and to go finish up. We’d wait for hours if we had to. The sense of togetherness was powerful and touching. At 11:15, I was counting the register when one of the Regulars came running in. “Brittne,” he said breathlessly, “she’s back.” I dropped what I was doing and ran out front. There stood a small blonde woman in her late 50s. And she was screaming. Obviously more than a little tipsy, Horrible Dog Owner ranted and raved about how she was only gone for 20 minutes, how dare we accuse her and lie. I shouted out that I work here, and she’d been gone for at least an hour and a half that we know of – and unless she had literally just walked away from her car when I discovered the dogs, she had most likely been gone a lot longer. She screamed that ok, maybe 30 minutes. Then she changed it to 45. I yelled that 45 minutes is 40 minutes too long. She came closer, swinging her keys and calling me a liar. She said she had witnesses back at the restaurant across the street, where she had been having dinner (and drinks, obviously) with friends, that she was gone less than an hour. I laughed at her. She turned around and ran across the street to get them. I turned to Regulars. “This is going to get ugly.” HDO came running back with 3 well dressed males. My stomach dropped. The Couple tried to explain to them what we were doing, when Drunk Male #1 began shouting at them. He got right up in Boyfriend’s face, nose to nose, chest to chest. He screamed that she was only in there an hour. Shouts of, “LIAR,” were exchanged. HDO carried on in the background, shouting and pointing her finger at me, accusing me of exaggerating. I told her again, quietly, that I wasn’t lying, that she had been gone at least 2 hours. Girlfriend shouted, “I heard you were gone 3 hours!” This was the worst game of telephone, but the point remains, she was gone too long. HDO seized on the number 3 and went at us even harder. “THREE HOURS,” she shrieked, sweat beading her face. “I WAS NOT GONE FOR THREE HOURS.” Girlfriend then informed her that the police had been called and they had her license plate number and phone number. HDO screamed that we’d ruined her life. I told her that her life would have been a lot more ruined if she had come back to her dogs being gone. Or dead. She screamed that they were fine, she was just across the street. Then why did she not come out and check on them once? If she had, she might have seen the angry mob crowded around her vehicle. At one point, Drunk Male #1 tried to use the excuse that “it’s a nice night, the car windows are open, they’re fine.” I told him it had been 82 degrees out when I found him. He turned to me and roared, “THAT’S A FUCKING LIE.” At that point, I just stayed quiet. It was then that I realized the Regulars were videotaping the whole thing. HDO continued to accuse me of lying (as if “three hours” was too much, but the 90 minutes that I watched her dogs was an acceptable amount of time). As we finally decided we weren’t getting through to her, we began to walk away in disgust. As she got into her car, Regular #1 shouted, “hey honey, you ok to drive?” I dissolved into adrenaline-fueled giggles, and we all hugged and thanked each other. I don’t have much else to say about this situation that you wouldn’t already surmise from my long blog. I’m just grateful for good, decent people in this town. I pray that those dogs are safe. And I pray for HDO that she doesn’t ever try that shit near my store again.

[brixie19]

Why #YesAllWomen is So Important

A few months ago, I saw a job listing through a mutual Facebook friend of mine. The ad was for an assistant to a Hollywood financier. I felt under qualified, but the mutual friend insisted that I would be a perfect fit. I applied, thinking I’d never even get a call back. I was wrong. The next day, a Sunday, I received a text telling me that Mr Finance would be calling me within minutes, and to be prepared. I was nervous. I answered the phone to hear the man himself, ready to interview me. I tried to sound cheerful, willing, ready, and able. Right away, he asked me what I’d be willing to do for the job. I chirped excitedly about how many hours I was willing to put in, how I would be available 24/7, what a quick learner I am. Mr Finance chuckled condescendingly and said, “No. WHAT. WOULD. YOU. DO. FOR. THIS. JOB.” As I had only seen things like this in the movies I was trying to help him finance, I paused. I paused for a long time. And then I said- all the while positive that I was blowing it- that if he meant what I thought he did, the answer was no. He meant what I thought he did. He proceeded to keep me on the phone for another 20 minutes, vaguely outlining sexual acts he would expect me to perform as his assistant but never explicitly saying them. I mostly listened while intermittently crying as quietly as I could. I never felt like I could just hang up. This was powerful Mr Finance, after all. I had to endure it. Later that night, various people advised me not to write about this experience. That he could and would blackball me. After all, this is the man who told me that there were plenty of people who had turned him down in the past, only to come begging on their knees two years later. I assumed that the “on their knees” was not a figurative statement. I stayed quiet. I told the mutual friend who had set up the interview that “I wasn’t a right fit.” Until now. No more silence. No more protection. ********************************************************************************* Two days ago, a young college student went on a shooting spree an hour away from my home. He targeted women, due to their continued “rejection” of him. I don’t want to give this person more time than he deserves, so let me just say that this tragedy has brought me to a place that I had never really, truly considered before. And I’m angry, ashamed, and scared. I’m really fucking scared. The situation in Santa Barbara has begun a movement on social media with the hashtag “YesAllWomen.” The point is to show what a life of fear women lead- taught from childhood how to act, dress, or prepare for inevitable male attackers. Rapists, robbers, home invaders, predators, even boyfriends can hurt or kill you at a moment’s notice. Don’t get too drunk on your date. Don’t tell the cab driver your real address. Don’t walk to your car alone. Take self-defense classes. Carry pepper spray. Stay in groups. Let that guy at the bar down gently – maybe lie and tell him that you have a boyfriend. Don’t embarrass him. Don’t wear a low-cut top. Don’t dance provocatively. Don’t be mean. Be sweet. Be ladylike. Be kind and generous and gracious. This is all complete and utter bullshit. I don’t think I’ve ever realized what bullshit it is before now. I’ve just gone through life, trying to be kind, be sweet(ish), be funny. Don’t want to hurt a stranger’s feelings. Bullshit. Why is it alright that, when I was 19 and working at Sam Goody, I was basically fired for being a “trouble-maker” after reporting my ongoing sexual harassment at the hands of my married assistant manager? Why should I be afraid in my home after reporting an Uber driver who basically held me captive and tried to molest me? Why should I be afraid to call the police on him because he knows where I live? Why was my first question to my new male roommate, “are you going to rape or murder us?” It was followed by a nervous chuckle, but I was completely serious. This is also why I refuse to date online. Which one of you is handsome? Which one is funny? Which one will tie my roommate and me up and rob us, then murder us in our living room? (Maybe the blonde guy. I’ve never trusted blonde guys.) Why was I told that I’ll never find a husband if I’m not more ladylike? Why would I not tell everyone who would listen about Mr Finance (who is also Mr Married) and what he said to me? People wouldn’t want to hire me to write for them because I tattled on the guy who wanted me to blow him for a job? I am many things- passive aggressive, funny, generous, and maybe even nasty at times- but I am not meek. As much as I am ashamed of keeping quiet about this all of these months, it was the natural thing to do. When people advised me not to say anything, I accepted it as quickly as I accept that littering is bad – you don’t throw trash on the ground, and you don’t tell on powerful, misogynistic pigs. Or they will destroy you. Why, when a guy approaches me at a bar, is “no thank you” not enough? Why do I have to endure moments, hours even, of persistence, annoyance, and insistence? “No thank you” should be ENOUGH. “No, I don’t want your number. No, you can’t have mine. No thanks! No, I don’t have a boyfriend. No, that doesn’t mean I want you to be my boyfriend. Do you even know my name? Nice to meet you, Fred. Still a no. Just trying to have fun with my girlfriends. Oh. I’m a bitch? I’m a cold bitch? You have a good night, too!!” If a girl isn’t interested, she’s cold, stuck up, a bitch, a tease, a prude. If a guy isn’t interested, a girl should probably go on a crash diet until he is. Right? If a guy shows interest in a girl, she should gratefully accept his attention and beg him to come home with her; if a girl shows interest in a guy, she is desperate, annoying, and emotional. Is this what I’m supposed to think? That if I drink too much, I’m asking for harassment? And if a guy does, he’s just having fun with his buds? Utter bullshit. I’m almost 32 years old, and I still jump at late night noises. I still check my closet every night. I still walk my dogs after dark with my keys strategically sticking out of my clenched fist. I carry pepper spray. I keep my phone in my hand during cab rides. I never, ever, go have a cigarette at a bar if I have some beer left in my glass. I am careful- because I was raised, as all women were, to be afraid and wary of men. #YesAllWomen. I guess I just didn’t realize it until now. And none of it is ok. “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” - Margaret Atwood

[brixie19]

LA Women: Part 4

The Over Involved Fan I head into a convenience store after a long shift at work to pick up a few essentials. Cigarettes, People magazine, some saltines for snacking - the makings of another raucous Friday night at home. As I place my purchases on the counter, I am lost my own thoughts; mostly wondering what the subject matter will be on the Dateline NBC I have waiting for me on my DVR. A quiet voice interrupts me. "So, what do you think?" I realize that the woman at the cash register has asked me a question. I smile. "I'm sorry?" She points at the People magazine on the counter. A headline blares, "Justin Bieber: Out of Control! Can Anyone Stop Him?" I am momentarily confused. "I'm sorry, what do I think about...?" She stares at me intently. "About him." She gestures at the cover again. "Do you think anyone can stop him?" I start to giggle, thinking she must be asking sarcastically, perhaps mocking me for wasting money on such drivel. My laughter dies when I see how serious she really is. "Oh," I stammer, trying to keep a straight face. "Umm...I don't really know. Maybe?" I take my credit card out, already back to wondering if Keith Morrison will be the narrator of Dateline tonight. I stop when I realize that the woman is still staring at me. "They say he's on drugs, you know," she continues. "That his parents are giving him drugs. Can you believe that?" I pause for a moment, only now hearing the strange acoustic version of Radioactive playing on the speakers. The man in line behind me shuffles his case of beer to his other hand and sighs. "No, I can't believe it," I finally say. "It's very disturbing. Can I also get a pack of Marb Lights?" The woman turns around to grab the cigarettes, continuing to talk about the tragedy that is unfolding in front of our nation's eyes. "He's just so young," she laments, "and so, so lost. All that money and no one to help him." "Yes," I say to her quickly, turning to give the man behind me an exasperated look. "I think he'll be ok, though." "I really hope so," the woman says almost sadly. "I truly do." I slide my credit card, quickly signing the screen. The woman gives the magazine one last longing look before putting it into a bag. "So handsome," she murmurs. I take my bag and mumble a quick thank you, shooting one last apologetic look at the man behind me. He ignores me. As I step out into the chilly night air, I can't help but hope that Justin Bieber does get the help that he needs - if for no one else than the woman running the register at the convenience store in North Hollywood.

[brixie19]

LA Women: Part 3

"The Entitled Girlfriend*"

*This story is a verbatim account of an exchange that actually happened to me today.  I will not include any physical attributes or details about these people, but know that this REALLY HAPPENED.*

A couple walks in to the gelato shop.  The man walks right up to the case and, without hesitation, announces that he wants a large cup.

"But I only want a tiny bit in it," he explains.  "Really, I just want small scoops."

The cashier looks at him silently for a moment, knowing that the large cup is $7.00 and he should just order a smaller size.  She eventually shrugs and smiles.  "Sure, what flavors would you like?"

He points to the Stracciatella (sweet cream and chocolate chips).  "That one.  And reach in there and get me one of those big chips on top."

The cashier looks at the brand new pan of gelato and grimaces.  There are large chunks of chocolate peppered through the top of the pan, none of which are near the area she is about to scoop from.  "I'm sorry, I can't give you a chip, sir," she says.  "The top of the gelato is for decoration."

His girlfriend, silent thus far, perks up.  "Are you kidding?" she asks.

"No," the cashier replies.  "It's our policy, and it's because the top is for decoration.  But anything you see on top is mixed throughout the gelato.  There are chocolate chips all throughout."

The girlfriend just stares at the cashier.  "You're not serious?  You can't just reach in and grab one?"

The cashier sets her mouth in a line.  "No, I'm sorry," she says through tight lips.  "As you can see, all of the gelato looks very nice on top.  It's for aesthetic reasons.  It's our policy."

"I want to speak to your manager," the girlfriend barks.

"I am the manager," the cashier smiles.

The girlfriend smirks.  "Of COURSE you are," she sneers.

The cashier turns her attention back to the man.  "Which other flavors would you like, sir?"  He chooses two more flavors, and repeatedly reminds the cashier that he only wants a small amount.

"Are you sure you don't want this filled up?" the cashier asks.

"No, we want a big chocolate chip," the girlfriend mutters.

The cashier ignores the woman and hands the cup to the man.  "Here ya go!" she says cheerfully.  The employee next to her looks at the girlfriend and asks her if she would like anything.

"Not anymore," she replies huffily.  "I won't give you my business."

The cashier knows that if she remains at the gelato case, she will get into an argument that will cause her to say things she cannot take back.  Before she leaves, she tells the other employee to only charge the man for a small size, since he didn't really get a lot of gelato and perhaps a small discount would diffuse the situation.  She walks to the back room and takes a few deep breaths.  Seconds later, she hears a raised voice from the cafe.  She rounds the corner to see the girlfriend berating the other employee.

"I will NEVER come here again," she is saying loudly, for the full cafe to hear.  "And I will tell EVERYONE I KNOW to never come here.  And you can tell HER that, too!"

The cashier walks out to the register to see what the commotion is.  She looks at the employee and says, loud enough for the girlfriend to hear, "is she really saying this over a CHOCOLATE CHIP?"  He nods meekly.

The girlfriend turns on her heel and storms out, complaining the whole way.  As the door slams behind her, all of the employees start to laugh.

****************************************************************

I don't usually comment on these posts, but I feel the need to say something here.  I truly thought this was a joke today.  I could not believe that this woman, not too much older than myself, was throwing an all-out adult tantrum in public because I wouldn't kowtow to her demands.  

How difficult is this to understand?  A pan of gelato is made so that it sits in the case for a few days and the employees scoop from the back, so that the part that faces the customers always remains beautiful and swirly and decorated.  So that they want to purchase and eat it.  This woman wanted me to dig my fingers into a brand new pan of gelato for her boyfriend to be able to eat a slightly larger piece of chocolate than was already mixed in.  Does this make ANY sense?  I have worked at this place for over 3 years.  I have had many difficult, rude, entitled customers.  I have never, before today, encountered anything as ridiculous and uncalled for as the exchange I had with this woman.

Why would you ever enter an establishment and expect special treatment?  And why would you, upon being told the policies, fight said policies and cause a scene?  Did I ruin this woman's day?  Because I refused to let her win and her boyfriend only ate the chocolate chips that were swirled into the gelato?  How dare she treat me like that.  How dare anyone treat another human being like that.

This is the problem that I continue to run into in Los Angeles:  People are not used to being told "no."  It's pathetic, really.  I allowed this gross human being to ruin my day.  Over a chocolate chip.  Does she feel good about herself?  Is she going to go tell all of her friends what happened?  Because I hope they laugh at her.  She'll probably tell them I was rude to her.  I wasn't.  What I wrote above was exactly what happened.  I actually wanted to exaggerate - to include a few things that I wish I'd said.  But I didn't.  So what will she tell people?  Her peers?  Other grown adults?  "They won't give you the stuff on top of the pans - don't go there!  Meanies!  I want what I want, and I want it NOW, or I'm not going back!  And neither are you!"  Just utterly, pathetically ridiculous.  Her family is probably embarrassed to be seen with her in public if this is how she acts.

Some things I wish I had said to this overgrown 5 year old:

-"You want me to pick up the chocolate chip with my fingers?  Gross."

-"You want me to ruin a $75 pan of gelato for you?  How nice!"

-"It seems that you're not very happy here, so I think it's best if you just leave."

-"I'm sorry I ruined your day.  I'll pray for you and your obvious hardships."

-"I think 7-11 sells chocolate bars, if you have a craving."

-"You are a disgusting human being, and I hope you're proud of yourself that you just yelled at a bunch of underpaid ice cream scoopers because we didn't let you have your way."

-"Hey, man - I know you've been standing there silently, and I would never condone this phrase for any other human on the planet - but I think you'd better CHECK YO BITCH."

But I'm the manager.  ("Of COURSE you are.")  So I walked away.  And this woman will walk around, telling people how awful we are and writing yelp reviews and getting us into trouble with our owners.  Over a chocolate chip.  Time to reevaluate, folks.  If this is the biggest problem in your life, you've got it pretty great.  The biggest problem in my life is that my roommates don't do the dishes, and I still manage to make it though the week without yelling at food service workers.  Perspective is key.  Maybe next time, I'll give her the gelato for free instead of discounted (bet you forgot that part, huh?) and tell her to take her money and go grab a pint of ice cream from Ralph's.  I recommend the Extra Chocolate Chip.  

[brixie19]

Independent Woman

Hey ladies! Us single gals have to stick together, am I right, or am I right?? Occasionally, something will happen to reaffirm that I'm loving my single-gal status. (Besides cosmos and girl talk, right ladies?!) For example, I know us single-superstars enjoy an occasional "midnight snack." (Wink wink, girls!!) Some of us even keep a supply next to our beds. For some women, it's a collection of "toys." For others, a racy novel. For me, it's chips and salsa. See, if I had a boyfriend, I could never stay up super late scrolling through the Twitter feeds of all of MTV's Teen Moms in the dark. I could never decide, at 2am, to roll over and grab the chips and salsa I had purchased earlier from Poquito Mas. Ladies, I know you're with me when I say I'm glad I don't have a grumpy guy trying to sleep next to me on nights like tonight, so I don't have to worry about how loud my chewing is! I can even move around on the bed, trying to position my iPad to better read what utter nonsense Jenelle Evans is tweeting about!! And then when I get so enthralled with Twitter and accidentally knock the lid to the salsa on the floor, I can keep reading without fearing I've woken my man from his slumber!! And then I can dip a chip into the salsa with such force that the salsa begins spilling down my arm. And then I can use said chip to try to sop up the salsa running down my arm. And then, when that doesn't work, I can shrug to myself and continue eating as thick salsa falls on to my sheets. And then, once satisfied, I can stand up to clean myself off and knock the bag of chips to the floor, spilling them everywhere. And then, I can drop the plastic container holding the last dregs of salsa on the floor while trying to stop my frantic dog from eating his weight in tortilla chips. And then I can turn on the light to survey the damage and forget all about the salsa until my eyes fall on the large spot on my sheets. And then I can go into my bathroom to grab a towel while my dog licks salsa off the wall. And then, once I wash my arms- surgeon-style- wet a towel, finish cleaning up the chips, and start scrubbing at the stain on my bed, I realize that I have to be up for work in 4 hours. So I can just lay the towel down over the stain and climb into bed. I could never do any of that with a boyfriend!! I had to wash my sheets anyways. You never know who could come along when you're a sexy single gal, right ladies??

[brixie19]

"He was deep into hip hop."

This is something that has been discussed and picked apart ad nauseum whenever some wack-a-doo kills someone.  What was their motivation?  Did they play video games?  Were they violent video games?  That must be why so-and-so shot up that elementary school!  He played Call of Duty!  

This is especially bothering me when it comes to the Boston bombers.  TMZ (I know, it's not exactly the New Yorker) has been posting stories about the bombers' pasts, trying to do their part to educate the public on these men's lives before they became the most hated people in America.  This was a story they posted today:

------------------

---Boston Bomber Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was a big fan of "Breaking Bad" ... praising the show for teaching him how to dispose of corpses.  Since his capture Friday ... a lot of information is surfacing about the 19-year-old Chechan college student who helped mastermind a deadly attack on the Boston Marathon and led police on a massive manhunt.  Turns out Dzhokhar was a fan of violent TV shows  ... in particular "Game of Thrones" and "Breaking Bad." He tweeted earlier this year ... "Breaking Bad taught me how to dispose of a corpse."  As TMZ previously reported, his 26-year-old brother Tamerlan -- who was killed by cops during the manhunt -- was deep into hip hop.  Dzhokhar remains in police custody, in serious condition and unable to speak.---

-----------------------

Ok.  Let's discuss this, shall we?  Breaking Bad is an amazing show, probably one of the best shows in the history of television.  It is not a show that I would consider to be overly violent, but we are a desensitized culture, so others may disagree with me.  On a scale of Full House to The Wire in terms of violence and gore, I'd rate Breaking Bad at around a Lost.  Did that make a lick of sense?  Anyways, Breaking Bad has had a few iconic scenes - SPOILER ALERT - in one of the series' first episodes (and again, in an episode last season), two of the main characters dispose of a dead body by dissolving it in acid.  This was supposed to be a nod to the main character's knowledge of chemistry and to show the audience that he was in over his head - and yes, it was gory, but it wasn't done in a sensationalistic way.  It fit with the storyline of the show.

My issue is this: What does this have to do with the Boston bombers?  It seems to me that TMZ is searching for something, anything to blame for these men's actions.  I don't think this one fits.  Dzhokhar had a twitter page that TMZ must have combed through to find this tweet - and I say that because, as I said, the "body disposal" plot happened 5 years ago...and then again last July.  So it wasn't as if this guy was typing this last week.  

Also, these guys are/were fucking maniacs, that much is obvious - but they didn't "dispose of any bodies," so what does this have to do with ANYTHING?  He tweeted that to be a creep, probably over a year ago.  (I do not know this for a fact, because I have no desire to look at this psycho's tweets, but that's what I assume based on when the show aired.)

TMZ also asserts that the older brother was "deep into hip hop."  So is Gwyneth Paltrow, and I don't think she's murdered anything but a few of her Goop-reader's braincells.  

I know that people want answers.  I get that people want to wrap everything up with a neat little bow and crucify the entertainment industry for influencing normal people to do awful things.  But that just isn't the case.  My roommate watches Game of Thrones, and she has never tried to murder me with a medieval sword (that I know of).  I personally love horror movies and reading anything and everything about serial killers- but I also ran over a cat once and pulled over to cry for 15 minutes.  Maybe if I listen to more rap music, my inner psychopath will finally come out and I can go on a murderous rampage.

While I don't have articles and scientific facts to back me up, I have read enough to believe that evil is not made; it is born.  There are, of course, isolated incidents where there may be brainwashing or torture involved until someone breaks.  But I do believe that most people are inherently good.  Others are born with something missing.  This is why you hear about children killing animals at a young age as being a warning sign.  There is something wired incorrectly in their brains.  I am, in no way, making excuses for them or saying they have an "illness."  They ARE sick, but there is help out there and not everyone who has sociopathic tendencies goes out and shoots up a movie theater.  If every person who played Call of Duty, or watched The Dark Knight, went on a killing spree, we'd have a much larger problem on our hands.

There are so many variables and factors that can lend to an outcome such as the Boston bombing.  Environment, upbringing, religious beliefs (yes, I went there) - but even before their shitty childhoods or their associations with well known terrorist groups, there is something missing.  There is enough to digest here without bringing musical taste and favorite television shows into it.  This is not a myspace profile.  And I do not believe that anything would have been different if one bomber had watched less Game of Thrones, or the other one had listened to less Eminem, so let's stop with all that.

[brixie19]

Look For The Helpers

The Boston Marathon bombing earlier this week has been weighing heavily on my mind, as I'm sure it has been for most people.  I find myself going to watch a tv show or check a website, and instead, getting sucked in to videos and news coverage about the victims for hours.  I'm scared, you guys.  I'm scared and angry and sad.  So very sad.  

I remember sitting in history class as a child, reading about past wars and bombings.  It all seemed so intangible and foreign:  the photos of children having bomb drills in classrooms, the shelters people set up, the fear in their faces.  I felt safe.  I was too young to grasp what was happening in the Gulf War.  I don't really remember the World Trade Center bombing in 1993.  I saw images of the Oklahoma City bombing, but it was so far away and I was only 13 at the time.  I never quite understood the horrors of the world.  I felt safe.

Now, I don't feel safe anymore.  The world is a different place now, and it's horrifying.  There is so much evil in this world, and it's not only coming from one group anymore.  People can't feel safe at the movies anymore.  Parents can't be sure their children will come home from school unscathed.  Going to work can be dangerous.  And now even running a marathon on a gorgeous day in the company of thousands of people can be a death sentence.  

I know that I am afraid, but I also know that I cannot live in fear.  My fear has been outweighed by heart-swelling pride as I watch footage of the aftermath of this most recent tragedy.  That scene looked horrifically traumatizing for even those who were uninjured.  Blood and limbs strewn everywhere, people screaming and dazed  - like the front lines in a war over seas, not a sunny street in historic Boston.  Those civilians and first responders who leaped into action within seconds of the blast are heroes, and it truly is a beautiful thing to behold in the midst of all that horror.  Regular folks putting themselves in danger to help complete strangers, most likely saving people's lives through their swift actions.    

I only wish that this kind of togetherness, support, and love would be prevalent every day, and not just when tragedies occur.  Maybe if people were a little nicer and reached out to other human beings rather than judging and bullying, we would have less horror in the world.  

There are many relief funds set up for the people affected by the marathon bombings, but I have selected a few that spoke to me.  I will post them here.  Please give a few dollars - you can buy that new outfit or new iPhone in a few weeks.  These people's lives will never be the same, and most of them will have to deal with extremely expensive prosthetics once they get through surgeries and rehabilitation.  It's a small way of helping, but sometimes it's the only way when you can't physically be there.  All of these people's stories are on their pages - click to read about them.  

-Support Jeff Baumen: http://www.gofundme.com/Support-Jeff-Bauman

-Support Martin Richard's family: http://richardfamilyfund.org/

-Support Celeste and Sydney:  http://www.gofundme.com/CelesteandSydney

-Support Patrick and Jessica Downes:  http://www.gofundme.com/2mj2i8

-Fund set up by Massachusetts Governor and Boston Mayor for those who need it most:  http://onefundboston.org/

-Fund set up by Boston's first responders:  https://www.bosfirecu.com/page.php?page=246

--As I wrote this, I had the news on.  In the midst of updates about bombing suspects and the horrific situation in Texas, a breaking news report cut in.  Hollywood Boulevard has been shut down for blocks because a man has walked into a restaurant screaming that he has an explosive device strapped to his chest.  Fucking STOP IT.  Stop it, you insane lunatics.  Someone else called in a bomb threat to Cal State earlier today.  Knock it off.  This has never been funny, and is certainly not funny right now.  People are losing their lives, their limbs, and their loved ones.  STOP IT.

[brixie19]

LA Women: Part 2

"The Distracted Mother"

The door to the gelato shop opens.  A small boy, around 6 years old, runs through the lobby, making a beeline for the gelato case.  He begins to pound on the glass with his small fists.  

"Chocolate!" he screeches.  "I want chocolate!!"

The cashier looks around helplessly, searching for the adult this child belongs to.  The child continues to slap the case with his hands, leaving streaks of the dirt and food particles he has picked up during his day.  The cashier grimaces; she just windexed.

A moment later, the door to the cafe opens again, and a slim woman in her late 40s enters, holding an iPhone up to her ear.  She pauses to glance at her reflection in the mirror on the wall, scrunching her hair up with her free hand and flashing her teeth.  Satisfied, she makes her way over to the counter.

"Right, I know, hon," she says into the phone, not making eye contact with the cashier.  "I told you, I don't care what your lawyer says.  You helped make that house a home.  Married less than a year or not, you are entitled to keep it."

The boy, quiet during this exchange, spins around and slaps the woman on one of her thighs.  She sucks in a breath and grabs his sticky hand, pushing him away from her.  She pulls the phone away from her ear for a moment and begins whispering to the boy.

"Joshy.  Joshy, what did mommy tell you?  You need to wait a minute.  Tell the girl what you want," she says, gesturing limply to the cashier.  "Maybe she'll let you try a flavor."

She turns back to her conversation as the boy eyes up the cashier.  "Chocolate," he says in a loud, clear voice.  It is not a request.  "I want to try chocolate."

The cashier grits her teeth and spoons a bit of chocolate onto a spoon.  She reaches over the counter to hand it to the child, but he is too short to reach.  He begins to jump for it, kicking the case with every leap.  His mother, noticing the commotion, waves her hand at the cashier and gestures that he can't reach without breaking her phone conversation.  "I told you to call my lawyer," she's saying, pointing at her son with a perfectly manicured nail.  "She's a real shark.  Got me an amazing settlement."  She narrows her eyes at the cashier.  "I mean, you've seen my car, and I don't even drive."

The cashier finally gives the spoon to the child.  He promptly drops the gelato on the floor and yells: "The stupid lady made me drop it!"  

The mother snaps to attention at this.  "Kel?  Kel.  I have to go.  Joshy apparently needs help."  She rolls her eyes and puts her phone in her bag.  

"Ok, Joshy.  How difficult can this be?  What did you want?  Ooh, how about you try the vanilla with rum soaked lady fingers?  Does that sound good??"

Joshy's face darkens.  "I already TOLD you, stupid.  I want CHOCOLATE."  

His mother smiles lovingly and begins reading off the flavors.  "Mmm, raspberry?  You like raspberry.  Honey fig?  That sounds amazing, right Joshy?"  The child begins shouting "chocolate" over and over, each time getting louder, banging on the glass case with every syllable.  His mother finally grabs his hands.

"Don't do that, my love.  That glass is dirty."  The cashier dies a little inside.

The mother finally relents and orders a child sized chocolate.  At the words "child sized," Joshy has a full blown meltdown.

"I'm not a BAY-BEY," he yells.  "I don't WANT that size.  I want the PINK cup."

The mother bites her lip.  "But Muffin, the pink is the biggest one.  You haven't had dinner yet.  Are you sure?"  Her six year old nods.  "Ok," she relents, "but only because you're such a good boy."

The cashier begins scooping into the cup.  Once she has adorned the cup with a small cookie and plastic spoon, Joshy sees that there are cones available.

"Oh no, I want a cone," he whines to his mother.  She has pulled out her iPhone again, and is now scrolling through it rapidly.  She looks up.

"Oh," she says to the cashier.  "Is it too late?"  

The cashier looks from the full cup of gelato back to the mother.  "Yes," she says, finally being allowed to speak.  "And also, we don't do the large size on a cone because the gelato is too soft.  I'm sorry."

The mother's attention has been grabbed.  No one, especially not a cashier, says no to Joshy.  "Well," she says icily, "can you try?"

"I'm sorry," the cashier says.  "I've already scooped it.  I can't do anything with this now.  I can put a cone on top if he wants?"  

The mother lets out a dramatic sigh as her son's wails get louder.  "He really wants it ON a cone.  You can't just put it ON the cone?"

The cashier, fed up with the lack of manners from the child and respect from his mother, grabs the gelato she has just scooped and throws it in the garbage.  The mother's mouth drops open a bit.

"Well, you didn't have to do THAT," she sneers.  Joshy claps his hands behind her and yells, "See, I get a cooooonnee!"

The cashier quietly puts a small scoop of chocolate on a cone and hands it to Josh.  He sees the pink spoon sticking out of the side and frowns.  "Um, I want a BLUE spoon."  

The mother, raising her phone back up to her ear, barks, "He wants a blue spoon."  The cashier hands Josh a blue spoon.  He rips it out of her hand and runs to a table, where he begins smearing gelato all over the mirror on the wall behind him.  His mother is already back to her conversation.

"Kelly?  Sorry, Joshy needed my help," she says, shooting the cashier a dirty look.  "Like I was saying, you are worth every penny."  She throws a crumpled twenty on the counter.  "You put up with that man for 9 months of your life."

The cashier silently rings the woman up, counting out her change as fast as she can.  The woman is turned away with her hand outstretched, waiting for her change.  Once the cashier gives it to her, she walks away wordlessly.  As she gets to the table, the cashier hears her sigh.  

"Oh Kel, just be glad you never had K-I-D-S," she stage-whispers.  "Joshy is getting ice cream all over his face right now, and it's Sally's day off.  Do you think if I took him back to school, they'd give him a bath?"  She giggles desperately.  

Josh continues to happily finger paint the table with dark chocolate gelato, the cone long forgotten, having been thrown on the floor immediately.  Moments later, they get up to leave.  As his mother walks a few feet in front of him, loudly debating the pros and cons of crying in court,  Josh puts his hand up in the air.  They walk over the threshold and he smacks his hand on the clear glass door, leaving a perfect brown handprint gleaming in the sunlight.

[brixie19]

Servers vs Servants

http://www.nypost.com/p/news/opinion/opedcolumnists/you_got_served_J0xciA8V4GfJ55VsILSGxL

Please take a moment to read the article I posted above.  Play a little game while you're reading - If you shook your head in disgust more than six times, we're probably friends.  If you nodded along with the author more than once, seriously get out of my life right now.  Allow me to address various aspects of this article by speaking directly to the man who wrote it, Kyle Smith, as if I am spitting the words directly into his face (or maybe his steak).  

-"Jason! I don’t care! Just bring me some food and go away!" - So Kyle, you're annoyed that "Jason," your waiter, told you his name, commented on the weather, and asked how you were doing.  It seems you'd rather Jason be nameless, faceless, and somewhat morose.  You don't want to be smiled at, spoken to, or looked after.  So my first question to you is this, sir:  Why are you out in public?  And also?  Jason is a human being trying to do his job.  Would it kill you to look him in the eye and refer to him by name?  

-"You’re a servant. So serve." - Kyle, this has to be my favorite pull quote from your charming article.  Servers are not servants.  They are people who are paid a minuscule amount of wages to put up with pricks like you.  This does NOT mean that they are your fucking slaves.  Saying that you don't want to hear the specials and you'd prefer the server to just take your order and leave means nothing - because that is their job.  They WILL serve you - after they have completed the duties required of them by the corporation or owners they work for.  You honestly think "Jason" came up with the idea of reciting the daily specials on his own?  No, you goddamned idiot - the people who OWN the restaurant YOU decided to patronize make Jason do that.  Just as they make him smile, ask how your miserable life is going, and make painful small talk.  IT. IS. HIS. JOB.  It is not, however, his job to be treated as a servant.

-"After taking my order, they disappear and give way to a series of surly busboys who do the food delivery, the clearing, the refilling of the water glasses." - Kyle, I'm confused.  You just said you wanted Jason to leave you alone, and now you're bitching that he's not around enough?  You wrote this about a busy place in NYC - Jason probably has other tables besides yours, which is why a busboy is filling your water.  Or maybe Jason could sense your absolute disdain for him and felt uncomfortable dealing with you.

-"After the order goes in, the next time I see Jason is when, after first ensuring that my mouth is full, he sneaks up behind me and hits me with a cheerful, “HOW IS EVERYTHING?”" - As a person who has been in the service industry for 14 years, I can honestly say that this is always an awkward situation.  There is never a really good time to ask how the food is, because you're either interrupting a conversation or the customers are eating.  But guess what, Kyle?  The people who run the restaurants WANT the servers to ask you how your food is because they want to ensure that you're enjoying your meal.  What if something was wrong with it?  I'm sure you'd move heaven and earth to find your server then, right Kyle?  And you'd probably be glad you knew Jason's name so you could call him over and complain.

-"In France, where I try to spend a week or two every year, waiters don’t even work for tips (the customer is expected to leave a mere euro or two) and yet they’re so much less annoying." - Oh, what an insufferable douchebag.  Good for you, Kyle.  But here's the thing - waiters in France?  They're paid a much higher hourly wage than those in the US.  Are you so dumb to realize that US waiters are cheerful and helpful because their income is BASED on how their service is?  If a server at TGI Friday's came to your table without a smile, pen poised to take your order without asking how you're doing, you would tip them 5%.  Because Americans want to be made to feel included and welcomed and to leave a restaurant feeling as though they've had a full dining experience. That's just the way it is.  If you don't like that, I implore you to spend more than two weeks a year in France.  Like maybe 52.

-"Which is why I’m being so nice to you, Jason! In reality, I can’t stand you, you twerp! As you’ll find out when you see my tip!" - You made this cheeky comment in reference to the possibility that Jason may spit in your food or throw it on the ground.  This is not a Dane Cook movie, Kyle.  People don't do that shit in real life.  First of all, I don't know what types of establishments you're dining at, but most places follow strict health code guidelines.  OR THEY GET SHUT DOWN.  Also, in a busy kitchen, there are many witnesses.  You think servers are getting away with throwing steak on the ground without people tattling on them?  Many servers don't have much access to your plate until the chef hands it to them - you think the busy server has time to spit in your meal and cover up said spit before bringing it out?  You think a server literally picks up your beautifully presented steak, throws it on the ground in front of a kitchen full of prying eyes (and possibly cameras), retrieves it from the dirty floor, puts it back on your plate, and walks out without anyone stopping him?  You are a paranoid delusional, Kyle, and you should probably seek professional help.  Also, threatening a waiter's tip because he's "annoying" you is the most juvenile, disgusting thing I've heard in a while.  Again, he's doing his job.  If his cheerful demeanor is too much for you, I suggest you learn how to cook for yourself and stay at home.

-"I’m spending $150 tonight, Skippy, and yet you were in the Federal Witness Protection Program when I needed a second drink. Now you want to hustle me into dessert and coffee. Uh-uh. Negative. This $28 sliver of trout still has about $9 to go, and I’m not leaving any of it behind. Enjoy my 11% tip." - Kyle, Kyle, Kyle.  Again, do you want Jason to hang around, or do you want him to leave you alone?  This poor kid can't win with you.  And he's not "hustling" you with coffee and dessert - he's fucking OFFERING you coffee and dessert because that's what people often want after dinner.  And no one told you to spend $150 on dinner, Kyle.  There are many cheaper places you can go for sustenance - and they'll probably serve you more than a "sliver of trout," you pretentious asshole.  So let me see if I have this:  You're going to leave Jason an 11% tip on a $150 because he was too cheerful, asked you how your food was while you were eating, made you wait a few minutes for a second drink, and smiled at you.  Let me lay down a few facts for you about servers, Kyle:

I do not WANT to be standing on my feet for 8 hours a day.  I do not WANT to have to smile at a bunch of (mostly) rude customers who look down on me and make outrageous demands.  I don't care how you are.  I don't care if you like your food.  I am PAID to care, so you will never know just how much I DON'T care.  My bosses set the rules - they tell me how to act, what to ask, what to upsell, and how often to check on you.  If it were up to me, I'd scowl at every asshole like you that I encountered - but you know what would happen then, Kyle?  You'd complain about how rude I was.  You'd rant and rave about how you're a paying customer and I treated you like the scumbag that everyone knows you are.  You'd call over the manager and tell him that I should be fired.  You'd demand your meal for free because I ruined your dining experience.  So make up your fucking mind, Kyle.  Honestly, I don't care what you want.  I think you're one of those miserable human beings who always finds something to complain about.  For whom the phrase, "you can't please everyone" was coined.  So you're a lost cause, and my heart goes out to any poor soul who serves you from now on.

But to those for whom there is still hope, hear this:  Serving people is not easy.  It can be fun, rewarding, and lucrative, yes.  The service industry is also stressful, demeaning, and soul crushing at times.  But for every self-important asshole like Kyle, there is a table full of wonderful people who want to talk to their server, laugh with him, maybe even praise him for working hard.  And it's those people who have kept me in this industry for all these years.  Be kind to your servers, folks.  Tip them well and look them in the eye.  They work long hours serving the Kyles of the world, so an extra smile (and maybe an extra dollar) can go a long way.  

And if anyone seats Kyle in their section anytime soon, don't be rude.  Put on the best fucking performance of your life - laugh at everything he says, pull up a chair to take his order, make lots of helpful suggestions, and (if time allows) run over to fill up his water glass every time he takes a sip.  If ever there was an opportunity to kill someone with kindness, it's now.  But if you still wanted to throw his steak on the floor, I'd be ok with that, too.