the anatomy of a sandwich

So, when I thought of doing this post, this is what I was doing:

Because I live in the middle of the polar vortex, I have forgotten my love for cold sub sandwiches. The temperatures have been unforgiving, and it's a miracle when the thermometer goes up past zero. Not including windchill. We're desperate here. I don't eat cold foods often these days, for fear that in my constant state of borderline hypothermia, a cold pasta salad or deli meat sandwich may just do me in.

But today, today was different. It was 14 degrees Fahrenheit. I didn't need a hat, and on my way to my car after work I passed by a Jimmy John's and knew it was time to have a sandwich. Not just any sandwich, not some wheat bread slice-whole grain sandwich, but a sub sandwich. Using bread with the heel of the loaf still intact.

I'm a minimalist, I love a classic turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomato, a few other veg and mayo. The mayo and the tomato are a must. Why? Because as you are eating the sandwich, it is a delicious experience... then finally there is the end piece.

There it is, the heel of the loaf, the hard, crispy crusted end now slightly softened and soaked with the oozing juice from the tomato and mayo. All the condiments from your sandwich have been pushed down to the last part of your sandwich.

The last bite is crispy, creamy, tart, and all yours. There might be a bit of meat and lettuce left at the end, but it's always best if all that remains is mayo and crust.

...and it's the only way to eat mayo and bread in a sociably acceptable manner.

the corner of 7th and 9th: 2.5 months in hell

When I entered my first year officially going to a state university, officially living on campus I was about 22 years old. Living in a primarily right-wing city about an hour and a half north of the cities, I was eager to find an apartment of my own. A majority of the students left of campus were freshmen, and I didn't have any desire to go to house parties with underage kids or show up to class hungover. I had a bad enough history with not doing well in my studies already.

My main goal was to graduate as fast as I could. The felt the only way to do this was to find a studio apartment so I could be alone and not have any distractions and become a somewhat good student. I worked part-time back in the cities on the weekends, and it wasn't nearly enough to cover apartment rent, much less gas traveling back and forth once or twice a week. My pops was gracious enough to agree to help me pay half my rent for a reasonably (dirt cheap) priced apartment as long as I kept my grades up. I was on the lookout.

Finally we stumbled on a decent looking apartment complex on the edge of campus with a broken hinged sign that said "STUDIO APARTMENT AVAILAB". The L and E was missing and might of been laying somewhere in the property, overgrown with weeds and crushed beer cans. To me, it was a shining beacon of hope. I called what I could make out of the property owner's phone number and requested a showing for that afternoon, little did I know that in the two and a half months I lived there... I would be leaving that apartment in two and a half months.

My dad came with me that afternoon to look at the apartment with me, just to make sure everything checked out okay. (Thanks dad...) The whole complex consisted of small studio apartments with a shared bathroom in between a pair of separate apartments. The communal kitchen was on the first floor, my apartment was on the second floor at the top of the stairs. We checked it out and I immediately wanted it. It was very small, but had the basics. A small closet, a sink/counter/cupboard area with a microwave and a mini fridge. There was enough room for a bed, small desk and a TV. That's all I needed. The landlord said I would be sharing the bathroom next door with another female occupant, locks would be on the outside for each and just be sure to knock before entering. Shower. Toilet. That was good enough for me.

The price was right too, it was such an incredibly cheap apartment at $250 that I was happy that I could afford to pay half the rent and still have money for groceries and gas, so we signed the lease. I immediately moved in my bed, TV and desk with the help of my folks and then I was all on my own. I went out to the store and bought a bit of groceries and designated my own little corner in the bathroom with my shower supplies and hung my towel. I slept peacefully that first night.

The next morning I went outside to unlock my bike and head for class, when I was stopped by a greasy-looking middle aged man having a cigarette outside of the door of the complex. He introduced himself and shook my hand. His name was Greg. He smelled like a musty basement and looked like he hadn't showered or slept in a week.I had no desire to get to know him, but assuming he was probably another tenant, I did my best to be neighborly and say hello, and excuse myself as I biked to class.

I came back home in the late evening and saw Greg sitting and having another cigarette outside of the door, I did my best again to say hello while locking my bike back up. As I was unlocking the front door, he decided to attempt to strike up a conversation with me.

He said, "Nice night, huh?"

"Yup."

"Y'just move in 'ere?"

"Yesterday."

"Yup, I been livin' 'ere for about four years an' this is th'place t'be. Yer young an' pretty so ya outta have a good time 'ere!"

He must of found himself quite amusing because he rolled into a laughing, coughing fit which included a couple of knee slaps.

"...thank you...um, well, have a good night."

I hurried up the stairs and locked my door. I figured and hoped he just might of been a weird but hopefully harmless greasy old man, but I still kept my guard up. It made me feel uneasy.

A couple hours into studying I started hearing my "bathroom roommate" enter into her apartment next door, trying again to be a friendly neighbor, I peeked outside and introduced myself to her and did again, my best to say hello and make a good impression.

"Hi!" I said. "I'm Julie, I just moved next door, I thought I'd pop out and say hello."

She looked at me like I was some sort of troll that crawled out from under a bridge.

"Yea, thanks." and she closed her apartment door in my face.

What did I do? I thought. Maybe she just had a bad day, but I did my best to be as good as a neighbor and bathroom roommate as I could. The walls of the apartment were paper-thin so I always knew when she was in the bathroom. Sometimes I'd hold it in for a good hour while I heard her on the toilet, talking on her phone, then afterwards taking a 30 minute shower. It kind of sucked, but so far all that mattered to me was that I living alone in my room with no one to bother me.

Hunger crept in awhile later and I decided to go downstairs to the communal kitchen and make myself a grilled cheese. I clutched my loaf of bread and American singles in one hand and poked my head into the kitchen area. One man was sitting alone at an unfolded card table eating chili from a pot and flipping through a lingerie magazine. Oh Hell. My desire for a grilled cheese outweighed my current instinct to flee back to my room and spend the rest of the night eating bread slices and packets of American cheese. I made my way quietly to the oven and prepped my sandwiches and waited what seemed like forever for them to cook.

Against my better judgment, I (stupidly) tried to make small talk again with the fellow tenant.

"... starting to get cold out there, huh?" in Minnesota, if there's nothing to talk about, we talk about weather.

He was startled so much by my voice that I too, jumped when he did.

"...Oh, yeah man, it's getting cold." he replied with a weird drawl.

I looked him in the eyes, good God, this guy was higher than a kite.

"Whatcha makin' there? I just got hungry and so I saw I had chili and heh-heh- I knew I just had to..." he eyed my grilled cheese.

I knew he wanted it. He already had stepped into the first stage of a night of destructive binge eating, lingerie magazines, and watching Wizard of Oz with Pink Floyd as the audio.

"Oh, just dinner... this was all that was left in my cupboard to eat so I thought I'd heat it up." I knew a lie was necessary for me to give reason not to share my food with this guy, now tearing out certain pages from the magazine. He seemed to of not heard/ignored/drifted onto a new mindset since he did not respond. I grew wide eyed as I saw him now arranging the torn out pages on the table in a pattern that made it seem like his life depended on the arrangement of each picture of the scantily clad models.

I was never more overjoyed when my grilled cheese was done. I grabbed my sandwiches and loaf of bread and fled back up to my apartment.

I was trying to forget what just happened, I drowned myself in cheese sandwiches and Harry Potter DVDs. I subconsciously was vowing to avoid the communal kitchen as much as I could while I lived there. I heard my neighbor talking loudly on the phone again in the bathroom. At 3AM I finally might of drifted off to sleep.

I woke up at three hours later because I forgot I left the window open and I could smell cigarette smoke everywhere in my room. I groggily peeked out the window and looked down and saw Greg having his morning cig and a morning beer. Great. My window was just above his favorite hangout spot.

Finally at 7AM, the neighbor sounded like she had left her apartment. I crept into the bathroom to take a shower and saw that her door to her room was left slightly ajar. Out of morbid curiosity, I peeked and saw a man passed out on a blow up mattress and the floor littered with pizza boxes and empty forties. I quietly closed the door and showered as fast as I could to get ready for class.

Greg never failed to be sitting outside the apartment entry each time I got home. I tried my best to politely respond to his off-putting conversations and hellos, until one day he caught me coming home late one night.

"'Ey, how you doin' tonight?"

Ugh.

"I'm fine.. thanks." keep it short, and sweet. Don't even ask for a response.

He stood up and I took a little step back. "'ow come I never see a pretty lady like you never bring a guy back? You always comin' back alone, why not you got yourself a boyfriend?" he questioned me.

I just wanted to lock myself in my room forever.

"Um.. I'm too busy and I like to be alone.." I responded as I fumbled furiously for my keys.

"Hahhaha--well if you ever find yerself needin' company, stop on by my room and we'll watch a movie or somethin'! I got lots o' DVDs and cable."

Oh dear God, I just wanted to be inside. I muttered a polite decline and said goodnight, while I ran again back upstairs and locked the door. I put on more Harry Potter movies and never in my life, did I wish more that I wanted to be living in Hogwarts. At least Professor Filch would of been the most drab looking man but I'm sure he would of kept to himself and his cat. He wouldn't propose me to go watch DVDs and midnight fuzzy cable shows in his danky dark room. I was startled when someone was knocking on the other side of my bathroom door and yelling. My neighbor was yelling at me to keep it down because "it's late and some folks have real jobs to go to in the mornin!". I could already barely hear the movie, I was surprised she was able to hear it. I obeyed meekly and said nothing and turned the volume down to 5. She said nothing afterwards. But now I could hear her laughing at her shows, I could even tell what she was watching. Her and some man were laughing and talking at the TV that seemed to be revealing paternity tests with undesirable outcomes.

I curled up in a fort of blankets and pillows and tried to get some sleep, when I heard below me, a little ways away, the noise of another room. It was less audible than my neighbor, but because I had been told that I was "making too much noise", I didn't have any audio to drown any other sounds out. Oh no. It was sex. It was very, enthusiastic noises of sex. One ear was subjected to "OH HE GOTTA BE THE DADDY!" the other to... sex noises. I'm pretty sure I heard a loud spank at one point too. I gave in and put on my headphones and blasted my ears with non-sex music and tried to sleep.

This continued on for several weeks, I refused to use the communal kitchen so all my meals were either fast food, microwavable, or just ready to make. Microwave cheese sandwiches were not the same. I bought a toaster, but toaster cheese sandwiches didn't work either. My sodium intake was probably through the roof due to mass consumption of frozen meals and canned soups. My neighbor never said anything to me, except the occasional furious knocking because apparently turning the pages of my textbook were too loud. Every other night, a lot of druggy smells from her apartment seeped into my room under the bathroom doors. If I opened the window, cigarette smoke from Greg outside the door was waiting for me. My room ended up smelling like a sixtiess Volkswagen most of the time, and the air freshener definitely didn't help. My neighbor started to leave passive aggressive notes for me in the bathroom. Usually written on a sheet of toilet paper or paper towel. Most of them were the same, about noise, and leaving the bathroom a mess. I didn't know what to do. The bathroom was tiny and I always neatly folded my towel back up on the rack, and even wiped up shower water than got on the bathroom floor. I had no idea what she was talking about. Another note said that my "disgusting hair" was everywhere and to clean up after myself.

I didn't know what to do. I had long hair, and every so often a couple of strands would remain on the shower floor, but I hadn't lived there long enough or even showered often enough for something that resembled a clump or noticeable mass to accumulate. I never even left drips of shampoo, I even started keeping my shower caddy in my room. I really hoped that she thought the "disgusting hair" that was always left on the toilet wasn't mine...because it definitely wasn't mine, but it was disgusting. I even found an angry journal entry I had from a long time ago about one of the paper towel messages said:

"CLEAN! If it didn't affect me I wouldn't gave ahoot, Take your trash out or clean in your room the smell is trouble(terrible?) and unpleasant because I do live next door, feel free to clean up behind yourslf atta (after?) showering""

I lived in.. a 10x15ft apartment... all my foods are eaten and wrappers are disposed of, I never even had enough garbage to make any sort of smell. I didn't know what to do. I called my landlord and told them I wanted out... I didn't feel okay with my neighbor and I also told her about Greg and his "friendly conversations." She laughed at me and told me he was an old harmless soul, and that smoking is restricted in the apartments so she would talk to my neighbor soon. That didn't help. All of a sudden a couple of days later my neighbor seemed more passive aggressive and almost deliberately did her best to make as much noise, hair, and smoke infiltrate my apartment. I wonder if she also told her boyfriend to drink a ton, and then loudly pee and talk on the phone in the middle of the night on purpose too. I needed to get out. I tried as hard as I could in the oncoming days to pretend I didn't exist and try to keep my mindset intact.

One night I got home and was thrilled for once to not see Greg waiting at the front door. Although my happiness was only momentary when I realized I left my keys in my apartment, which also meant my room was unlocked. Being on the second floor, I couldn't attempt to climb into my room either. I just wanted to get my backpack full of wine and Doritos inside and waste the night "not existing". I had an idea though. Maybe the kitchen window was unlocked! I didn't have high hopes though, because it was on the first floor and it was a residential complex in a somewhat sketchy part of the neighborhood. Surely everyone would want to feel secure, right?

I snuck to the kitchen window and gave it a little push.

The outdoor screen completely came off. And the window was ajar. There was dirty shoe prints all over the ledge as if this was a common entrance and exit for some people. I tried not to think about who those people might be. But I was in.

I ran up to my room, and peeked first through my door just to make sure no one was waiting for me inside, I even checked the closet. It was clear.

I made up my mind earlier that week that I was moving out no matter what, and the fact that the landlords didn't care about creepy Greg's advances or my un-neighborly neighbor and that if she wanted to try to take me to court for breaking my lease, it may be in my favor that she didn't have my safety or well-being accounted for.

I settled into my blanket nest and was ready for a night of cheesy chips and wine. I once again ignored the sounds of sex from somewhere downstairs and my neighbor's paternity test talk show complete with commentary. I would be out in a week and I was just going to do what I wanted and try to keep a low profile... somehow lower than what I already trying to keep. But the wine was my downfall. Not the consumption of wine itself, but the damn opener. I wasn't too good with corkscrews, and all I had was a butterfly type opener with wings and metal plunger. My thumb somehow got in the way between the metal plunger and bottle, before I knew it, a large part of skin from my thumb was missing.

Oh God, there was blood everywhere. I didn't have any band-aids. It was too late to run to the convenience store, I didn't want to leave the apartment because it wasn't safe to be alone at night in my area. But it also sucked inside the apartment too. I sure as hell didn't want to ask my neighbor. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and wrapped my thumb, but the paper was sticking to my wound and hurt like hell. I knew I needed some sort of actual medical bandage. I ran downstairs to the kitchen and checked all the cabinets for any sort of emergency supply kit, of course there was none. I threw away the bloody tissue and rinsed off in the kitchen sink and took the last bit of paper towel from the rack and re-wrapped my thumb.

I knew I had to muster up my courage and ask one of my neighbors. There were several I hadn't seen or met yet, hopefully one of them had to be a decent person. I left the kitchen and boldly knocked the first door across the hallway. I heard someone get up from their chair and the door opened, a stale smell exited from the room and I saw a pair of bloodshot beady eyes peering out at me from the chained door. Shit. It was Greg. He seemed to be overjoyed to see me and quickly opened the door.

"'Eyyy! How you doin'?" he said. His breath smelled like he'd been drinking all day.

There wasn't really any going back now. Just do it.

"Um... I cut myself pretty bad... do you have a band-aid? I don't have any." I held up my wrapped thumb, still bleeding through the paper towel.

"Ay! Do you need to go to the hospital? I can drive ya!" Thanks for the concern, but I wasn't about to go to the hospital, much less, be in a vehicle with you behind the wheel.

I politely said thank you, but that I just needed a band-aid and that I'd be fine.

"Sure, I think I got a band-aid somewhere 'round 'ere... just a second, come on in!" he opened the door wide and started wandering through his dark and what sounded like, messy apartment. With good judgment, I politely declined again and said I'd wait outside. I heard him rummaging through what sounded like a cupboard full of dishes and numerous dry pastas, then opening clothes drawers and rifling through them. There was a strange, ominous glow coming from a TV in the far corner in the room. Out of curiosity I peered from outside the door and past his torn upholstered recliner that was parked in front of the television. Whatever he was watching was paused. I got on my tip toes and peered over the top of the chair to see what he was watching.

It was a freeze-frame of two naked men with a naked woman in a barn, obviously about to engage in some sort of sexual act. No one was having vigorous sex in the apartments below me, it was Greg watching non-stop porn into the wee hours of the night. Almost every night. Thank God I didn't step into his apartment. Greg came back to the door and I acted like I had just been waiting outside, not noticing that he was probably in the middle of some sort of nightly masturbation routine.

He held out a crumpled looking band-aid still in its paper wrapping to me with his right hand.

"Sorry i'took so long, couldn't remember where I put'em!" he grinned at me from ear to ear like a kid showing his parents a bug he just caught.

Taking that band-aid from his possible soiled hand was the last thing in the world that I wanted to do. I'm pretty sure I would of rather let infection and gangrene take over my thumb than touch that germ-infested bandage. I quickly picked up the corner of the band-aid with my paper towel covered hand, said thanks, and ran back upstairs.

I flushed the band-aid down with the paper towels and washed my hands. Several times. And ended up wrapping my thumb with a pantyliner and tape.

One week later I moved out. My landlord had told me they lost my lease, and I never saw Greg again.

$hopping Adventure$

I suck at mall shopping. I really do. Especially being in my mid-twenties and living paycheck to paycheck, I can't bring myself to spend money on something unless I can justify it ("I REALLY REALLY want it!") or I only own two pairs of pants. Work pants and pajama pants.

I went to the mall today, it was crappy. It serves as a reminder that if you're not 5'8'' and 110 lbs., shopping sucks.

 

Seeing a nice outfit!

Makeup! ... where do I use the "crease" shadow?

Underwear shopping!

 

But when the day is said and done, I'm always happy.
 

 

How I mastered time travel with going to church.

I've becoming more consciously aware these days on how much I daydream. Maybe "daydreaming" isn't the proper word for it, maybe more like "my mind is completely exiting my body and traveling to another realm for a certain period of time" -dreaming. No, that doesn't roll off the tongue too well.

Being an adult and whatnot and having to be in the presence of other people for a majority of my day at work, with friends, and so forth I guess I tend to zone out a lot without even noticing it. Every so often someone says "Hey, you okay?" or I realize that I'm in the middle of a conversation and my train of thought blips out and I'm left staring vacantly for a few seconds.

So where do I go during this time? My secret time traveling realm inside my head, of course. All right, that sounds insane. But really, I think it's some sort of survival technique that kicks in whenever I'm incredibly bored with the current situation, being patient, or my brain decides whatever information I'm processing isn't important for some reason. I learned this after going to church on Sunday for two hours for 18 years. Sometimes it kicks in even if I don't realize it. Even when I believe the conversation is stimulating or important. I'm very good at sitting still for long periods of time.

Sometimes this concerns people.

Like, boyfriend.

Co-workers.

Friends.

Family.

Myself.

I'm really not trying to be rude, I guess I'm really a space-case.


Note: I was going to re-post this last panel several times and just edit in different people with the same expression, but my need for looking like I'm actually wanting to produce blog entries is out-weighing my wanting to draw and do effort-type things.

A Plea for the Art Gods

I've been struggling with a creative block for several years, playfully calling it a "creative re-routing" as if my creativity still existed but was being re-routed somewhere else and will find its way home back to me eventually. It's been "lost" for five years.

I know what you will say, "But Julie, you've obviously been making these little comics every once in awhile and some drawings, it's definitely not lost!" -- but it kind of is. And it couldn't be more frustrating. Making these comics were done by forcing myself to exert some sort of art, in an act of impatience and frustration with my prolonged inability to draw anything.

 I remember when I used to draw all day, every day. I stayed up till the wee hours of morning drawing on a piece of paper or on my tablet and I wonder to myself all the time, "where did that go?" I used to blame it on a completely different lifestyle than I had when I was 16. Lack of a full-time job, paying bills, half-assing school definitely gave me a lot of time to draw. I then tried to blame it on the fact that my full-time grown-up job with grown-up work hours made me too tired to even think of anything remotely creative other than what I'd be cooking for dinner. Then cooking became my creative outlet.

It's nice, but it's not as satisfying. It's like wanting a can of Cherry Coke but all the soda machine has is Cherry Pepsi. It'll do, but it's not the same.

But then I realized that it's just a change in interest. The drawings I spent hours and hours on when I was younger was a lot of fan art, a lot of anime, and I'm definitely not as into it as I used to be. It kind of was what I only knew how to draw, if you asked me to draw a realistic cat, I wouldn't know what the hell to do.

 I tried drawing anime again the other day, it was even more disappointing.

After venting my frustrations to friends, it's always the same question that comes up, "Well, what inspires you? What can inspire you to draw?" and honestly, I love comics. Not elaborate detailed superhero or manga comics but quirky comics with a simple but signature art style and great dialogue. It's just that I haven't got my own "style" or even one that I'm satisfied with. Before I spent so much time copying other artists' anime styles because I envied them and was unsatisfied with my own. I drew this in 2007. Didn't copy exactly, but took the style and color scheme.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm starting on a blank slate in terms of "how I draw" in general. There are definitely artists of all sorts that I admire, but it just evokes a mixture of jealousy and impatience that they're doing something that I want to do, and their art style is amazing. Which is ridiculous because I've not even come to close to the devotion and creativity that they have. It's as if my passion to draw is still there, but there's no content. Even starting this comic blog, I heavily took another artist's style.

**Note: This is not my work, just someone's awesome work.

Writing a life event or some thoughts I have is pretty simple, but drawing accompanying pictures with it gives me anxiety, especially when I know the art style isn't mine. Drawing without something telling me what to draw just doesn't exist. I started to feel guilty about the stolen art style which is why this website has inconsistent time frames between posts. When another post is up, it's usually me, forcing myself to squeeze out some sort of creative productivity in hope that maybe I can make this art thing actually work some day.

What's a girl to do?

Why "Make Your Own Shot Night" Shouldn't Come Before "Graduation Dinner Afternoon."

Earlier in May this year, I walked at my graduation commencement ceremonies (graduation still pending...) at my university. A few days later on a Friday my parents thought it would be great to go out for a special "Happy Graduation!" luncheon with them and my brother and his wife that drove from out of state to see me. I was on board with the idea so the Thursday night before my friend calls me over and asks if I want to "help" her clean out her liquor cabinet before she moved to Colorado. I know this is already a bad idea but I figure since it's 9PM and the lunch is at 12PM the next day then my 2PM work shift, I can pace myself and get plenty of sleep.

It turned into "Make Your Own Shot" night with a rack full of spirits and cordials.

 Normally I'm not one for anything very sweet when it comes to alcohol but they just went down so easy... next thing you know we're stumbling drunk and realize it's definitely time for bed. I stumble into her bed and pass out.

Then my alarm goes off at 10AM. I'm confused, in pain, and uncomfortable.

After taking a minute to remember where I am, I notice at some point in the middle of the night I took my shorts off (probably because of the early summer heat) and decided instead of putting them somewhere not on the bed, I slept right on top of them the whole night. My friend was still dozing so I decided just to sneak out quietly and let her sleep.

I'm stumbling around her apartment, trying to navigate as quietly as I could without my contacts in. I'm blind as a bat and hungover so I can imagine I wasn't the most graceful person in the world. Luckily no one woke up. Even though when I went to go get a drink of water in the kitchen...

 Faintly remembering I was 98% positive I didn't throw up, like a pro I just stuck my foot blindly into the kitchen to rinse it off, squirted a bit of dishsoap on it, wiped off, then grabbed the rest of my things and headed out the door.

I had about an hour to drive back home, get showered and presentable to meet my family for lunch and then go to work. I felt like even through my sunglasses, the suns horrible rays still pierced through to my horribly bloodshot eyes. Luckily I made it back the 3 miles back to my apartment and I slowly showered in a hungover stupor as I tried to wrap my mind around the idea of actually ingesting food.

 Hoping it would pass, sipping water as I got dressed, I left and drove to meet my family. About a mile away I realized that no food would be coming in my body sooner than something that would be exiting my body. Any moment.

I pulled over and parked in a small neighborhood several blocks away since the restaurant was right across from my work and employees can't park in the parking lot on weekends. I stopped the car and sat. A million thoughts came into my head at once.

"How am I going to keep a conversation going?"

"How am I going to be able to eat food? It's a lunch and I can't NOT eat food. They'll be worried."

"Will I die during the hot walk over the bridge?"

"What if I throw up right there in the restaurant? How do I play that off?"

"I need to throw up. That's how I'll solve my problems."

I figured like most of my problems, it can be solved with vomiting. I feel like after I throw up from drinking too much, I usually feel time times better. Realizing I'm in a residential neighborhood, I can't lean out my car and throw up, or knock on someone's door and ask to hurl in their bathroom. I grab an empty paper bag from my back seat and try. And try and try and try.

 After several minutes of nothing but a lot of dry heaving and drooling, I realized it wasn't going to happen so I better suck it up, meet my family for lunch and play it cool.

The five-block walk was horrible.

Before turning the corner to the restaurant, I checked my appearance in a store window and saw that I looked like a very distressed, pale, train wreck of a girl with eyeliner running from attempting to vomit. Nonetheless I put a smile on my face and was genuinely happy to see my family. Once we stepped inside the restaurant the first thing that struck me was the smell of food.

If you have ever been incredibly hungover before, you know that the smell of food, a smell that people like most of the time, just smells like eventual throwing up.
**Note: I apologize already for the excessive use of "vomit, throw-up, etc." but it's a key part of the story. Hopefully no more vommy stories for awhile. I think.

As we sat down to our table, the pain in my stomach kept growing and the noises were something similar to that of an angry tar pit. I tried to chat with my family as much as possible with a friendly smile, but I'm sure they were wondering why I was going through five glasses of water every 10 minutes and why my speech turned into that of a high school burnout. I couldn't make competent sentences because I was trying so hard to control my stomach muscles to not turn on me.

Ordering food was one of the worst experiences of my life. Nothing on the menu looked appetizing at all.

 I settled for a vegan sloppy joe type sandwich because I wanted to:
A) Show my parents I was hungry for a meal and not water and crackers.
B) Stay away from anything meat or cheese-gravy like as possible.

Hoping that it would be the only obstacle I had to overcome during lunch, I was wrong. They ordered appetizers. They generously pushed my would-be-favorites of spring rolls and sweet potato fries my way. I couldn't refuse, but I'm telling you now, that was one of the worst eating experiences in my life. You know that feeling...

 

After excusing myself a number of times to the restroom feeling like I was going to throw up after bit chewing and swallowing, ("I had a lot of coffee, guys. Got a small bladder!") I was so relieved when that dining experience was over, (I ate two sweet potato fries, a nibble of a spring roll, and the top bun of my burger.) but then I forgot I had a 8 1/2 hour shift at work.

Ugh.

This post sounds angry but at the end it'll be okay!

Anyone that works in any form of retail/food/customer service industry could go on with lists and lists of complaints about... special customers. Things that happen that are (I hope) once in a lifetime experiences or something that happens every day. Or even several times a day.

As I've previously mentioned, I currently work at a liquor store as a cashier/stocker/warder of all things evil. I do hear many things every day from customers whether it's (supposed to be) a light-hearted joke or a full-fledged verbal assault, usually questioning my competence as an employee or as an overall human being.

Let me give you a quick run-down of things that I hear all the time that are NOT, I repeat, NOT clever/funny/things that I haven't heard before/make me feel whatever feeling you want me to feel. Feel. Feel. I'll say it more and now the word sounds funny.

1. (When the barcode doesn't scan) "I guess that means it's free, huh?"
*Note: Who the fuck even invented the system of something not scanning that it's free? I know you're making a joke but some little bit inside you has grasped some little bit of faith that somehow, your logic about something not scanning just MIGHT get you a free bottle of $900 wine or a half pint of $3 vodka. Produce doesn't scan at a supermarket. Do you ask the cashier if it's free?

2. "I thought your store would have everything."
*Note: This wouldn't even work at Costco, Wal-Mart, or some amazing fusion of the two. Do you know how gigantic of a store would have to be to have everything? Especially the store I work at. It's fairly large for a liquor store but I'm pretty sure if it had every single type of alcoholic substance made... no, that's just idiotic. "Yes, the snake wine is right next to the generic mint mouthwash."

3. "You don't take (this form of payment)?!"
*Note: Yep, it happens. Sometimes when you go to purchase something, your type of payment may or may not be accepted. Your credit card that claims to be world-wide accepted is not. Also, when you got enraged that we don't accept checks and decide to throw the pen provided at me, you looked like a fool once that pen stopped in mid-air because of the chain it was attached to.
*Additional Note: I also love when they claim that we took that method of payment "last year", and they look even angrier when I tell them I've worked there longer than that and their logic is flawed.

I could go on more and more... we're not onto ID discrepancies but that's a whole other field.

But why do some people have such disrespect for those working in customer service? I swear they think we aren't human. Many of our customers are wealthy, white Americans who will flip a grand on alcohol. Not that there is anything wrong with that, I mean, it gives me a job and if I had that kind of money I'd probably be doing the same thing. A grand's worth of Old Heaven Hill. Yuss.

Okay, story time. The other day was the last day of a very busy sale and the lines were flooded at the registers. All the registers had cashiers and we were about an hour behind on breaks. The longer you wait for a break, the longer the next cashier has to wait for theirs. I had opened and me and the other employees had been furiously working non-stop for the past several hours since open. Finally, my supervisor told me just to shut off my light and close down my register because I was over an hour late for my lunch break (that I desperately needed). Of course the reactions were pretty negative and moans and groans erupted from the customers. But one man (of course entitled) had to say something.

Man: Hey, what are you doing?!

Me: I'm sorry, I have to close this register and take my break.

Man: I've and these other people have been waiting forever!

Me: I'm sorry sir, my supervisor has ordered me to shut down and take my break. We are an hour behind and to make it fair to the other cashiers I need to go now before theirs is delayed more.

Man: Well then who's opening up again?! Is someone coming to take over?! Where are you going?! I've been waiting for like fifteen minutes!!

Me: SIR. My supervisor has ordered me to shut down, if you have any complaints, please speak with her. I am going on my break. Someone will be here to replace me in less than ten minutes.

Man: WHAT?!-----COME ON.

Well he survived I guess. He sure had it hard that Saturday afternoon. Lovely day out, spending your day off purchasing wine with your frequent flyers credit card doing whatever you please. Maybe he went to a fancy restaurant afterwards and complained about how his food didn't have enough "go to hell you asshole" on it.

It's okay now though. Because I'm really killing this crossword puzzle. :)