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Mariah BeckmanMariah Beckman |
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Who amongst you can say you have more pets than I?
Here's all my pets. Please note: there are two different rabbits pictured. Harvey is more black in the face, Rooney is more white. The hairless rat is Little Bald, the pig is Bebop, the black cat is Bolt (named before the film of the same name came out, thank you), black rat is Scout, white and grey is Scamper, puppy is Otis, grey cat is Quick, yellow cat is Cat, and Wizzle is the ferret. Not pictured: Donnie the turtle, Harold the crab, and Flutter the recently deceased Beta fish. Top middle: me. Bottom center (not the dog!): Jay, my man.
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Then, when I get in, it's a race to try and avoid entering the restaurant itself. Like a slightly fairer Quasimodo, I've been exiled to the back, and now I like it that way. I'm a food runner. I run food. I like to think that that's pretty pathetic--when I applied there two years ago, I was told that everyone need work up the ladder and had to start at the bottom. Then the manager that hired me got fired, I kept on in that position, and they have since hired folks off the street to work in the position I was supposed to be working towards. Whatever. Now I'm used to the back. The back--or heart of the house--where they curse like sailors, have no patience and are prone to misjugdments, and often strike me as overfull of themselves. But they're funny and they all have this same dogged determination to make something of themselves. Most of them have upwards of $50,000 in student loans and drive used cars, unlike most of the front of house staff, who I sometimes think should be getting served and not serving. I hate entering the restaurant because it seems to signal the official start of the day. People whining about the weather, their food, their bed, their day, their spouse, their sadsack life. Not that I don't care....I just don't care. I usually eat a bagel or yogurt first thing. No, that's not true...usually, first thing, I do a quick check to make sure that, if I were to eat my bagel, would I alsmost instantly be bombarded with tables that would leave me caught with my pants down? I survey what I stocked the night before to ensure that it hasn't been stolen by some troll from room service, check my prep work (butters, ketchups, napkins, cream cheeses, whipped cream, servillettes, "bread folds" and "bread baskets"), and sometimes I put the requisition away...the req' being just our daily order of beverage products that I put away...it usually comes on something the size of a queen mary. For those unfamiliar with a queen mary, it's essentially a giant rolling cart. Then I eat my bagel. Everything bagel. With jam. One side strawberry, one side blackberry. I do this because it helps remind me to a) turn on the toaster, and b) turn on the heatlamps. And c) feed me. I used to get yogurt everyday--vanilla lowfat, like 8 oz, and then cut up a banana inside and mix it up. But one of my lower chefs would always see me cutting up the banana and throw it away, yelling not to eat in the kitchen. Not that I would be eating in the kitchen, but chefs get their panties wadded up about little stuff all the time. One chef chased me down the hall with a cleaver once because I was whistling--I probably would have stopped if I'd known what I was doing that was pissing her off, but she didn't mention it until she caught me by the apron running down the hall. I've had some good times here. There was the time that President Obama stayed with us and I got to pester the secret service guys, who were posted up in the kitchen to ensure we didn't poison the pres. And I got detained briefly that same week for petting the service/bomb sniffing dogs...which i guess really distracts them. This dog's name was Bruce, and although Bruce appeared to be a dog, he was actually an officer of the law, and if I shouldn't pet cops, why on earth should I pet dog cops? There was the time that Jay-Z and Beyonce rented out the ballroom and had this giant chocolate statue made, and I got to eat the leftovers with the rest of the crew. It was huge. And then I wonder why I'm a porker. There was also that time that I was just bringing food out to a table and when I dropped my eggs benedict I was staring at Dan Ackroid (is that how you spell that?). Or Jessica Simpson--who is not, by the way, fat. And her mom is so cute--she looks just like Patty Wyatt, but maybe shorter.
But then there are the bad times. Working 12 hours Christmas, my birthday (which happens to fall on new year's eve), Thanksgiving, Easter and any other psuedo-holiday. No days off for a week some arbitrary week. There's suffering through a semester at school and only receiving off the days that I have class because, hey, why should I get special treatment. There's the days I come in to find that someone has undone all the work I did the night before, and instead of sympathy or help from management, I get rolled eyes and glaring due to whatever tremendous stress they're under. There is, in short, the fact that I work in food service.
I'm graduating college in May, and am trying to choose what school I should give 10,000 dollars or more to. And for some reason, I feel more caught up in whether or not I'll be stuck at my current job then whether or not I should choose this or that university. And, as food places go, this place is really great. Benefits, retirement, paid time off, vacation and sick pay--it's not the company. It's the industry. I feel like a man on a daily basis--I lift nothing that isn't 20 pounds. I can't do my hair, or my nails. I can't wear fun makeup, but I have to wear foundation from the oils in the kitchen that keep my face high school oily (TMI? sorry). I feel frumpy, and I work in one of the nicest places in Scottsdale (well, that's debatable...but for the sake of my argument...) This post has literally no point. I'm just unwinding from my day. I should be doing my spanish homework...I should be making dinner. I should be writing up interview questions. I should maybe walk the pig or empty the litterbox or fold the laundry...or do I need to start a load? I don't want answers from anyone, I don't want to entertain anyone, and I don't want advice. I just want to understand what I'm thinking. Which is...what? That I'm pathetic? Or that I have no clue what I'm really playing at here, going to school with no real idea how I'm going to go about getting where I thought I wanted to go? What did I go to school for again? You know, I have LITERALLY learned nothing in college that I didn't already learn in high school...isn't that a joke? Just how to perform on tests. Speaking of tests...I must excuse myself. I have a spanish test to take.
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I just got off work. "Work", in my case, consists of the following: I arrive just barely beating the clock to punch in. I change into my uniform, which, like the restaurant at The Phoenician itself, has undergone several remodels: it's now a mock black chef coat with black pants (the baggy man-sized ones having been replaced with some Bebe pants, because it's bad enough I'm a chubby bunny, I don't need to look like a dumpy chubby bunny) and a bistro-cut apron (you know, the ones that look like a skirt, kind of) that I always take great pleasure in tying too tight and observing my physique in the mirror sideways, imagining 15 pounds shaved off, before hoisting my hideous purse filled with notes, to-do lists, make-up and sometimes a book that I usually get in trouble for reading. That's the first three minutes of my day.
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Today America lost one of its first teen heartthrobs of Generation X, Corey Haim. He was discovered by police in his home, having suffered what appears to be an accidental overdose, and was pronounced dead at the Providence St. Joseph Medical Center in California. Haim was reported in and out of rehab 15 times--including one widely publicized episode in which he suffered a drug-induced stroke, and at 38, his passing ends a long and tumultuous struggle with drug abuse. Born December 23, 1971, Haim was enrolled in acting lessons at a young age by his mother in Canada in an attempt to help him overcome his shyness--while Haim enjoyed acting, his real passions were hockey, playing keyboard and collecting comic books. Corey starred in roughly 8 movies with Corey Feldman, and the two were quickly dubbed "The Two Coreys". They starred in their own reality show bearing their popular nickname, and in this show they were roomies. Feldman publicly stated, however, that he would not continue filming with Haim until he made the decision to quit abusing drugs--their show was canceled shortly thereafter. Haim made a cameo in "Lost Boys: The Tribe", and Haim and Feldman both had both been slated to star in "Lost Boys: The Thirst" before Haim's untimely end. The actor's filmography is as follows, and the theme song to his perhaps most popular film, "The Lost Boys" is posted below:
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A few weeks ago, Patty and Lisa featured guests on the show who had battled with meth addiction. This prompted me to write about a good friend of mine--of the family's, really--who had struggled against meth addiction. She has a young son, Owen, and she is currently serving a year's sentence in Perryville Women's Prison in Arizona. I also mentioned her mother, Catherine Downing. Like any good mother, she fought long and she fought hard for all of her children's safety, health, well-being and advancements in society. It was an uphill battle--Cath rarely made time for herself. She did, however, love to play the organ--she did this for 30 years at a Methodist Church in Glendale. When I was in grade school, my friend and I would listen to Cath and her husband play piano and the organ in harmony at church, right before we went out for pizza. Cath was always very giving--she rarely had money, and the church knew this--after Cath and her husband seperated during a fight with alcoholism (that was fortunately won, but at the cost of my friend's parents marriage), the church paid Cath to play organ. When her daughter began to use drugs, Cath was working two jobs. When my friend became pregnant, Cath worked three. She often smoked too much, but never drank (as family of alcoholics rarely do) and was so busy she didn't see the signs that her daughter was having troubles. My friend was in prison before Cath ever got a chance to slow down enough to think about her own health. In what seems a whirlwind of events, Cath went to the doctor for horrible back pains in December, and at that time was diagnosed with back cancer. Within a month, Cath had cancer in her breasts, stomach, lymph nodes and brain. Her daughter was able to make a special jail visit, under supervision of armed guards and at great expense to the family, to the intensive care unit where Cath spent the month of February. Cath was moved to hospice care over the weekend--the last weekend in February. She'd already lived a week longer than was expected. Cath Downing, 57 if I remember correctly--you know how women are, never very revealing of their age, especially when they become grandmas--passed away Wednesday night at 9pm. She was a lifelong friend to my sister and I--she always treated us as her own children. She is survived by two twin boys, Danny and Andy, eldest son Kelley, daughter Anne, and grandson Owen. She loved to play the organ and piano, was very pretty with beautiful skin, could sew (and did) her children's clothes through elementary school, loved to laugh and was quite possibly the kindest person I've had the pleasure of knowing. She took in her daughter's drug friends when they were thrown out, she helped babysit fatherless children in the neighborhood, and never got so mad that she wouldn't speak to you...she might yell, but then again, she was fond of talking loudly. She always overcooked the turkey at Thanksgiving, but her mashed potatoes were stupendous. She will be sorely missed, and I just wish I had had more time with her. Please take advantage of the time that you have with those in your life. Everyone passes on, this is true, but not always when you're prepared to accept their passing. Tell everyone that you love that you love them, and often. A person can never hear that too often. http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/azcentral/obituary.aspx?n=catherine-mary-downing&pid=140366348
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...that wants to tear it down: this is how I've always thought of language. We certainly can't all be Oscar Wilde, but reading and writing--when they go hand in hand--create a medium to knock out walls in your own mind and free up space. While it could be said that maybe you think you've already got a lot of room to rent upstairs, I think everyone could surprise themselves if they took the time to write. I've always really loved to write. Dorky stuff, serious stuff, melodramatic stuff, not-so-good stuff, but always stuff, nevertheless. I was just reading the blogs of my fellow Girlfriends, and the notion came over me that I have not written anything for my own outlet or benefit since...well...since I started college, I want to say? And that's just sad, isn't it? I used to keep journals, write poems, short stories, I even had a novel I was nursing for quite some time. But somewhere, in between hard drives crashing (back up your stuff, ladies and gentlemen--it doesn't seem like it will ever matter until you lose something you really need), changing schools, moving, and my roommates, siblings and even husband scrutinizing my private notebooks, I just decided that it would have to wait. Now, nearing a quarter century in age, I have to wonder when exactly that time will be. Do any of you girls write, and if so, what do you write about? WHEN do you write? I fill my lunch breaks at work with reading textbooks I should have already finished and work on drafts of essays while mashing potatoes or even in the bath--where do you find the time? I know that people are shy about replying to blogs, but I'd really like some advice on this one.
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I heard this clip on the radio today and instantly thought of the man in my life, Jay, and my sister's boyfriend (who shall remain nameless). It's almost sad, really, but if you've ever had to live with someone who was crazy about World of Warcraft, this is very amusing. I couldn't get it to load on my blog (sorry) but here's the link:
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This week, I have fretted and worried to now end, almost completely about pointless things. Don't get me wrong: I have real things to worry about. I have actual concerns. But the things that worry me aren't tangible or important things: I fret over things such as how to begin a conversation, or whether or not I have the correct opinion about something, or about how something that I have no control over AT ALL will pan out...and then I like to base my whole waking existence around these unknowables. I don't, however, seem to worry about deadlines at work or school, bills (which I should, since I certainly have enough of them), or how frequently I'm changing my cat's litter box. Real things that I can do something about. And sometimes I like to switch it up, really drive myself nuts with things like my weight, the condition of my hair, whether or not there'll be a future for me in a career of my choosing--you know, the usual suspects. It is a truly precarious way to live. I have invested some time in looking up some stress relief tips, and encourage my fellow Girlfriends to suggest their methods of stress relief as well. 1) Avoid, alter, accept or adapt to the stressor. So, in the case of me weighing about as much as a baby rhino, I can a) avoid food, b) change the foods I cram into my facehole, c) accept my large mammal status and consider bulking up to pursue a career as a giant bearded lady, or d) just accept my body and shrug it off. We'll see how that goes. 2) Avoid:
So I guess I can't head down to the liquor store and take a bunch of muscle relaxers, freak out at strangers and threaten violence to my customers. However, probably like most of you, I haven't tried most of these...so we'll just pretend that I never read this. 3) Start a stress journal, and include in it things like:
Okay, this would be a good solution for me, but I'd probably just stress out about not paying enough attention to my stress journal. I'm starting to get stressed that I'm not leaving enough "me" time, so I'll leave you with this link to more helpful stress tips, and sign off.
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Hey Girlfriends! In honor of this week's show, where Patty and special guest host Jodi Olson will be speaking about fun and creative ways to make Valentine's special, I want to start a running dialoge about your favorite and most innovative Valentine's. Any story about something you've done or that was done for you, let's share it here. I'll go first: Last Valentine's Day, I sent a pizza to my boyfriends work. I paid for a large pizza and tipped the manager 10 dollars to spell out a special message and have the pizza delivered on Valentine's Day. When the box arrived at his work, he opened it and all his co-workers oohed and ahhed as the box was opened and "I Love Jay" was spelled out in pepporoni and sausage! Not only was I the talk of the office as the sweetest girlfriend ever, but I got to his heart the best a way a woman knows how: his stomach!
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Anne and I were friends from infancy--we spent every holiday together, we attended parties toge
ther, our families were always commuting back and forth to spend time with each other. Anne and her family were, in many ways, closer to me than my own relatives.
Anne was recently arrested from her home for auto theft and credit card fraud. In court, a lawyer would plead compromising circumstance due to an intense methamphetamine addiction. Counsel would go on to suggest that Anne’s role as a mother to her newborn were circumstance enough to warrant a second chance for this wayward 24 year-old. As the first person who had their car and credit cards stolen by Anne, I knew that this offense she’d been charged with is roughly her sixth time committing such a crime, although I did not press charges. A judge would not agree that second chances were in order.
This is my meth story: my family friend, Cath, is going to die. Because her daughter stole from me, Cath refuses to speak to me—she thinks that I am somehow responsible for her daughter’s fall from grace. Anne will probably never speak to me again, probably for the same reasons—maybe they feel as if I should have helped stop the problem back then. Maybe I should have. I should have called someone—I should have done something. And now, because meth was more important than me, both of them are dead to me.
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Fast forward to present day: Anne and I haven’t spoken in three years, since my lifelong friend decided that her blossoming meth addiction was paramount to hours of girltalk, fashion shows and secrets we’d shared. Anne’s mother, Cath, was raising Anne’s son Owen in Anne’s absence (unfortunately, Owen was born a meth baby the same year she stole from me) when she went to the doctor for back pain, only to be admitted to ICU because an MRI and CAT scan revealed her body was riddled, literally, with cancer—stomach, throat, back, lung and breast. Anne will likely use her one visit from the prison in Perryville, Arizona, to say her final goodbyes to her mother in the hospital—one time only, prisoners may be escorted in shackles to visit a loved one in times of extreme duress.
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October Walk for Life
