Shakespeare and Omelets April 13, 2008

My last show of my undergraduate education is in tech, which means my job is almost Officially Over.  I am so overjoyed and relieved and excited, I don’t really have words to describe how much lighter I feel now that this task is nearly complete.  I can paint a marble now, that’s for sure.  It was my one real weak spot so far as faux-finishing is concerned, but I have taken care of that, rather neatly, and developed a style of marble treatments that is both unique and effective.  Now I can go earn $150 an hour to make some rich persons bathroom look like marble instead of plaster.  

I got a summer job yesterday.  I will be the omelet chef at the pre-eminent brunch place in town.  My job interview was pretty hilarious; I met with the owner, and her first (and only) question was: “Are you a badass.  Because you have to be a badass to work in this kitchen.”  My response: “Check.”  She liked my answer, apparently, and jumped immediately to the scheduling part of the interview.  The pay is clearly not exceptional, not what I was earning last summer, but I am So Effing Excited that someone has finally given me a job cooking.  This restaurant particularly rocks my world; it’s one of my favorites in town, and their food as well as their decor and atmosphere suit my style and flair perfectly.  I anticipate we will be a good match.  Best part is, I only have to work on Sundays until after graduation/vacations.  I expected her to laugh when I told her I needed the first three weeks of June off, but she just shrugged and said that she could work around that.  At the end of the interview, she told me her daughter (that I had called as a lesbo about a year ago) liked me, and that was good enough for her.  Also, there is a surprising amount of street cred people lend to working at this particular restaurant, and I have a feeling this is a perfect oppurtunity to expand my network to include people that I don’t go to school with.  I’m nervous about starting a new job (it’s been a while…) but I’m really stoked to be working a kitchen, albeit one that serves up low-brow gourmet, just like I’d cook for my friends if I had more money.  

In less than fifty days, I will be at the beach, Very Expensive Piece of Paper in hand, drinking fruity drinks in the sunshine, barely believing that I weigh less than I did when I was a senior in high school, basking in the radiance of hot sun and accomplishment.  I feel like, at this point, I’m just hanging on for the ride.  The emotions are definitely creeping towards the surface, but my sadness for leaving this school and these people and my house and my routine is tinged with the excitement for my new beginning.  Somewhere new and far-away and frightening and gorgeous, and I’ll be a stranger again, and I’ll have to get my game face out of the corner of my closet.  I can’t wait.  I’m terrified but I can’t wait.  

I had fill number 3 on Thursday…this time, the doctor only had to stick me once, but only because I requested we go straight to flouroscopy, so it could be a one shot deal.  I made the mistake of turning my head towards him when he asked me if i was okay (during the procedure) and I saw the needle sticking straight out of my abdomen, standing up of its own volition (the doctor was studying the x-ray with his hands on his hips) just like I was Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, but eight inches lower.  It was gross, and I had to will myself not to throw up for about a minute, but it was over quick, at the very least…and then I lost six pounds by the next day.  It’s blowing my mind, a little.  

Completely unrelated: I found myself driving behind an incredible asshole, who perfectly summed up what I believe to be wrong with the ignorant masses in this, our great country of America.  Picture if you will a 1988 Datsun truck, the paint stripped away to a flat gray, jacked up on tires taller than me.  Behind the wheel, a greasy redneck with a mullet that flapped in the breeze.  On the roof, the Papa Johns light-up pizza sign was almost invisible, it was so far out of the line of my sight.  His license plate told me his truck was heavy, it had earned a Weighted plate.  Can you imagine the nerve of this guy?  A passenger truck so heavy that it required the same plates an 18 wheeler sports?  And he’s driving pizzas!  I know they don’t pay him that much per mile; I’ve delivered pies before.  The icing on the cake, the real piece de resistance, was the one and only bumper sticker attached to the truck.  It was small, maybe 3″x5″, positioned directly above the Weighted tag, below the 7′ tall tail gate.  It read, “If you are close enough to read this sticker, you will be shot.”  And then it was translated into sanskrit.  

I won’t miss the rednecks when I go.