This is my favorite poem.
Siren Song
This is the one song everyone would like to learn
the song that is irresistible
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer.
This song is a cry for help
Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique at last.
Alas it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Margaret Atwood
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
why, oh why did she swallow that fly?
Every morning when I drive to work and listen to "Baby, it's cold outside," my heart is filled with amazing Christmas cheer. And though I don't still believe in Santa Clause, I do still yearn to be his wife.
Doesn't she look amazing?! So cheery and happy. The hair...well, not so much. But, I am willing to sacrifice. Santa baby. Oh, Santa baby.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
quotes i've found worthwhile lately
"A meal without wine is called breakfast."
"Why waste a second not loving who you are?"
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."
"It's not your salary that makes you rich. It's your spending habits." (this one reminds me of my dad, that is why i like it...it's not revolutionary but very true nonetheless...and of course, "rich" is being defined in terms of money and that is up for interpretation....jury is still out on that one)
"Dreaming of one person for hours straight can, and will, lead to delusions."
Though these are not my words, I find something about them true to who I am and what makes me up...who knows?
"Why waste a second not loving who you are?"
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."
"It's not your salary that makes you rich. It's your spending habits." (this one reminds me of my dad, that is why i like it...it's not revolutionary but very true nonetheless...and of course, "rich" is being defined in terms of money and that is up for interpretation....jury is still out on that one)
"Dreaming of one person for hours straight can, and will, lead to delusions."
Though these are not my words, I find something about them true to who I am and what makes me up...who knows?
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
a case of the tuesdays
The coolest thing I learned about this month was a challenge posed to Ernest Hemmingway to write his biography in just six words.
His went something like this: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn..."
I came across a lot of fantastic ones from people both famous and not-so-famous. My favorites were:
"Catholic school backfired. Sin is in!"
"Longed for him. Got him. Shit."
"Will this do (lazy writer asked)?"
"Finally, he had no more words."
"Steve ignores editor's word limit and"
"Dorothy: 'Fuck it. I'll stay here.'"
and as my good friend used to say, the "story of my life" is:
Doing nothing is too a hobby!
His went something like this: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn..."
I came across a lot of fantastic ones from people both famous and not-so-famous. My favorites were:
"Catholic school backfired. Sin is in!"
"Longed for him. Got him. Shit."
"Will this do (lazy writer asked)?"
"Finally, he had no more words."
"Steve ignores editor's word limit and"
"Dorothy: 'Fuck it. I'll stay here.'"
and as my good friend used to say, the "story of my life" is:
Doing nothing is too a hobby!
Saturday, September 6, 2008
full of pretenders
When I sit here feeling the most amazing feeling in the world, encompassed with breeze and full of love, there is no doubt that I made the right decision. But when Monday comes, is my world going to seem endless again?
Boiling over with questions of the future and affordability deepening itself. If I chase after a dream that I can't control then what is the use of optimism? The right we have to express who we are through the written and verbal word is one that not all others have. Just because I want to make money with that right doesn't mean I am not a true believer in a day's hard work. I want to express myself for you. And for me.
All I need is one more phone call from anyone willing to believe in my computer. And to believe in the person sitting in front of it. Then I promise I will dedicate myself to you. No matter the circumstance. As long as I can write and stay true to myself, I will be happy forever.
Boiling over with questions of the future and affordability deepening itself. If I chase after a dream that I can't control then what is the use of optimism? The right we have to express who we are through the written and verbal word is one that not all others have. Just because I want to make money with that right doesn't mean I am not a true believer in a day's hard work. I want to express myself for you. And for me.
All I need is one more phone call from anyone willing to believe in my computer. And to believe in the person sitting in front of it. Then I promise I will dedicate myself to you. No matter the circumstance. As long as I can write and stay true to myself, I will be happy forever.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
"A statement followed by a question separated by a colon: An effective journalistic technique?"
A few things on my mind right now:
giving peace a chance, anti-obama campaigns, the year 1984, apples with worms in them and the movie Children of Men. In case you wanted to know.
giving peace a chance, anti-obama campaigns, the year 1984, apples with worms in them and the movie Children of Men. In case you wanted to know.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
thanks GiggleSugar!
This is the funniest thing I have seen in quite some time! Love it! My childhood just flashes before my eyes...in German.
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object width="425" height="344">
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
mistreated: the beginning
The beginning of a short story I wrote.
1 She threw me hard that night. Harder than any of the other times. This night was different, undoubtedly. I could feel it in every single one of her fingers; they felt angry. But not angry like usual, angry like that was the only emotion that she could feel. Angry like this was the end… the end of us. You see, we have known each other for as long as I can remember. I was born with her by my side. You could say we are best friends, but that would be an understatement. She tells me all her secrets and I don’t have to say mine because she can just look at me and see them in my eyes. People say that the eyes are the window to the soul but some people say about me that is impossible simply because they feel that I do not have a soul. But she knows better because she knows me. On a usual night, she will hold me tight and we will fall asleep together. Not this night. This is the last. The last of me and her. The last of us. She will be leaving tomorrow, I know it. No one told me, I just know. This is the end. There will be no do-overs, no mistakes to be remedied, I have been mistreated and they will take her away. For good.
2 Lisa Singley was born on February 14, 1988. She was born in the back of a cab in New York City. As you might assume, the cab was in a hurry. However, it was not in a hurry to the hospital. The cab smelled of cheap booze and had that almost-refreshing smell of contradiction. Lisa’s mother was an addict. She was addicted to everything. Drugs, alcohol, attention, coffee, sex, love, hate, people, sidewalks, alleys, money, and most of all fear. She needed everything. She got everything.
The night Lisa was born, her mother was on her way to a party. It was a bad, and quite honestly typical, habit that she was not ready to let go. She loved to drink and didn’t let pregnancy stand in her way. She did however, sacrifice her cocaine addiction for the last three months of her pregnancy, a way to prove to the father that she could settle down. This particular party was for a woman named Henrietta Harrilson. She was a major PR rep. for almost every local Broadway theatre actor in the City. (And yes, she changed her name to be Henrietta Harrilson once she got “big”). Lisa’s mother knew her because she was addicted to the theatre. She loved to watch things unfold, she felt that there was more reality in the theatre than she could ever find on the streets of New York. She was unaffected by death, homelessness, disease, and poverty in general but the theatre she believed in. It helped soothe her. She called it her “therapy of love”. And in fact, she loved it more than any human she ever had come in contact with. Including Lisa. She knew Henrietta solely because she was at the theatre every night, even if there was not a show. Henrietta bought her a cocktail the night Lisa was conceived. She recognized Lisa's mother and sent her a drink with a note on the napkin saying, ‘Cheers to bad luck’. Henrietta really just felt bad for her, she could tell that her night had been full of bad choices and she was here to forget about the “fake” outside world. Henrietta knew that the theatre was the place Lisa’s mother found therapy because she told her. She had actually said it to her every single time they had met. Tonight was no different. Lisa’s mother raised her glass in Henrietta’s direction and mouthed ‘theatre is my therapy of love’. Henrietta gave her a pitiful grin that meant I know, you tell me all the fucking time, but here’s to you because I am better than you will ever be but to Lisa’s mother it was a nice gesture that would get her started on her usual booze binge. The sad thing about this night was that Henrietta would be right, she always was.
Lisa was born on that Valentine’s night. The night of Henrietta’s party. The birth of Lisa would stop her mother from attending, would stop everything. Lisa was born at 9:52 p.m. She emerged without uttering a sound, but she could hear the screams of her mother and the cab driver, Ahmul. Ahmul was an Indian male in his mid-30’s. He was single and had never been in a situation like the one he was in that night. Lisa’s mother started to shriek around 3rd and Broadway and Lisa was born 2 blocks later. It was short and not-so-sweet. As Lisa came out, her mother said with disdain, “Ahhh, of all the fucking nights…why little child? Why? I knew you were the worst decision I would ever make…god damn it.” Ahmul looked at Lisa in disgust and said to her mother, “you better give me a big tip” as he pulled out a knife from his glove compartment and cut Lisa’s umbilical cord. He had seen it done on TV recently. He felt proud of himself but it didn’t matter because he was alone in New York and he would have no one to share this story with, except the next passenger in his cab. He felt worthwhile nonetheless and he dropped Lisa and her mother off in front of a man named Jade’s apartment. This was the last night he would ever feel worthwhile.
Jade answered the door in cut off jeans and a ripped black T-shirt. He looked at Lisa’s mother with pity in his eyes and knew this child would be his responsibility. Lisa’s mother was holding her with one arm, Lisa was still bloody and she was freezing cold. She was not crying however. Jade looked at Lisa and took her in his arms, he was in love. He carried her with strength and confidence over to his bathtub and washed her with warm water. This was the first act of love that Lisa had felt, it was here she began to cry. Jade slowly washed her until her skin came to what seemed to be a normal color. He took her out of his arms only for a second to grab a towel off the floor. He wrapped Lisa tightly in the cotton and gave her back to her mother. Her mother smoked a cigarette as she fed Lisa for the first and last time.
3 Jade awoke on his black leather couch with Lisa in his arms, the same way he would wake up for the next two years. The sound of his squeaky screen door woke him up as it slammed against its frame. Lisa’s mother was gone. Jade stood up and left little Lisa on his couch while he looked for his wallet. He found it quickly and scooped Lisa up in his arms with only the towel upon her. Lisa woke up and looked at Jade with her bright green eyes and began to scream. He held her tighter and she continued. They walked out his front door and thought of nothing else but his little girl. As they headed down the street Jade found exactly what he was looking for, without even knowing it. A bargain store. He walked in and managed to find a few onesies for Lisa even though she had not yet stopped screaming as loud as something that little could. He was pleased at his accomplishment and moved on to find her something to eat. Again he prevailed. There was one last thing Jade felt she needed, and he knew it when he saw it. It was me. He unloaded his wallet on the counter and he clutched us both in his arms as we walked home.
Without much hard work he became a father. And a pretty good one at that. Day in and day out Jade took responsibility for her and he loved more than many men can in their whole lives. Though his new-found daughter did not come from a stork high above, he still felt lucky to have met Lisa’s mother one night many years ago at the theatre. Jade was there for an opening night and Lisa’s mother noticed him the minute he walked in. Though they never slept together, Lisa’s mother knew that he was the man she should have ended up with. He was too good for her at this point and she had always promised that the day she could overcome her addiction to anything, she would call Jade and ask him out. She told him this numerous times over the next few years and he always laughed. He was intrigued by her. She was nothing like most women he came in contact with, partly because she was a whore, but also because she had something inside of her. No one ever gave her the chance to show it but he knew it was there and he also felt that given a different social circumstance, Lisa’s mother should have been his one and only. Though, of course, he never told her that.
That was their flaw. Each other. They only met a few times all the years they had known each other but they both knew that they were horrible for each other in this life. Lisa’s mother said that the night she died. She said, “I will come back in my next life for you and you better not be me.” Their love was not romeo-esque, rather it was unfit. Inside their souls felt the need to be together but their lives got in the way.
1 She threw me hard that night. Harder than any of the other times. This night was different, undoubtedly. I could feel it in every single one of her fingers; they felt angry. But not angry like usual, angry like that was the only emotion that she could feel. Angry like this was the end… the end of us. You see, we have known each other for as long as I can remember. I was born with her by my side. You could say we are best friends, but that would be an understatement. She tells me all her secrets and I don’t have to say mine because she can just look at me and see them in my eyes. People say that the eyes are the window to the soul but some people say about me that is impossible simply because they feel that I do not have a soul. But she knows better because she knows me. On a usual night, she will hold me tight and we will fall asleep together. Not this night. This is the last. The last of me and her. The last of us. She will be leaving tomorrow, I know it. No one told me, I just know. This is the end. There will be no do-overs, no mistakes to be remedied, I have been mistreated and they will take her away. For good.
2 Lisa Singley was born on February 14, 1988. She was born in the back of a cab in New York City. As you might assume, the cab was in a hurry. However, it was not in a hurry to the hospital. The cab smelled of cheap booze and had that almost-refreshing smell of contradiction. Lisa’s mother was an addict. She was addicted to everything. Drugs, alcohol, attention, coffee, sex, love, hate, people, sidewalks, alleys, money, and most of all fear. She needed everything. She got everything.
The night Lisa was born, her mother was on her way to a party. It was a bad, and quite honestly typical, habit that she was not ready to let go. She loved to drink and didn’t let pregnancy stand in her way. She did however, sacrifice her cocaine addiction for the last three months of her pregnancy, a way to prove to the father that she could settle down. This particular party was for a woman named Henrietta Harrilson. She was a major PR rep. for almost every local Broadway theatre actor in the City. (And yes, she changed her name to be Henrietta Harrilson once she got “big”). Lisa’s mother knew her because she was addicted to the theatre. She loved to watch things unfold, she felt that there was more reality in the theatre than she could ever find on the streets of New York. She was unaffected by death, homelessness, disease, and poverty in general but the theatre she believed in. It helped soothe her. She called it her “therapy of love”. And in fact, she loved it more than any human she ever had come in contact with. Including Lisa. She knew Henrietta solely because she was at the theatre every night, even if there was not a show. Henrietta bought her a cocktail the night Lisa was conceived. She recognized Lisa's mother and sent her a drink with a note on the napkin saying, ‘Cheers to bad luck’. Henrietta really just felt bad for her, she could tell that her night had been full of bad choices and she was here to forget about the “fake” outside world. Henrietta knew that the theatre was the place Lisa’s mother found therapy because she told her. She had actually said it to her every single time they had met. Tonight was no different. Lisa’s mother raised her glass in Henrietta’s direction and mouthed ‘theatre is my therapy of love’. Henrietta gave her a pitiful grin that meant I know, you tell me all the fucking time, but here’s to you because I am better than you will ever be but to Lisa’s mother it was a nice gesture that would get her started on her usual booze binge. The sad thing about this night was that Henrietta would be right, she always was.
Lisa was born on that Valentine’s night. The night of Henrietta’s party. The birth of Lisa would stop her mother from attending, would stop everything. Lisa was born at 9:52 p.m. She emerged without uttering a sound, but she could hear the screams of her mother and the cab driver, Ahmul. Ahmul was an Indian male in his mid-30’s. He was single and had never been in a situation like the one he was in that night. Lisa’s mother started to shriek around 3rd and Broadway and Lisa was born 2 blocks later. It was short and not-so-sweet. As Lisa came out, her mother said with disdain, “Ahhh, of all the fucking nights…why little child? Why? I knew you were the worst decision I would ever make…god damn it.” Ahmul looked at Lisa in disgust and said to her mother, “you better give me a big tip” as he pulled out a knife from his glove compartment and cut Lisa’s umbilical cord. He had seen it done on TV recently. He felt proud of himself but it didn’t matter because he was alone in New York and he would have no one to share this story with, except the next passenger in his cab. He felt worthwhile nonetheless and he dropped Lisa and her mother off in front of a man named Jade’s apartment. This was the last night he would ever feel worthwhile.
Jade answered the door in cut off jeans and a ripped black T-shirt. He looked at Lisa’s mother with pity in his eyes and knew this child would be his responsibility. Lisa’s mother was holding her with one arm, Lisa was still bloody and she was freezing cold. She was not crying however. Jade looked at Lisa and took her in his arms, he was in love. He carried her with strength and confidence over to his bathtub and washed her with warm water. This was the first act of love that Lisa had felt, it was here she began to cry. Jade slowly washed her until her skin came to what seemed to be a normal color. He took her out of his arms only for a second to grab a towel off the floor. He wrapped Lisa tightly in the cotton and gave her back to her mother. Her mother smoked a cigarette as she fed Lisa for the first and last time.
3 Jade awoke on his black leather couch with Lisa in his arms, the same way he would wake up for the next two years. The sound of his squeaky screen door woke him up as it slammed against its frame. Lisa’s mother was gone. Jade stood up and left little Lisa on his couch while he looked for his wallet. He found it quickly and scooped Lisa up in his arms with only the towel upon her. Lisa woke up and looked at Jade with her bright green eyes and began to scream. He held her tighter and she continued. They walked out his front door and thought of nothing else but his little girl. As they headed down the street Jade found exactly what he was looking for, without even knowing it. A bargain store. He walked in and managed to find a few onesies for Lisa even though she had not yet stopped screaming as loud as something that little could. He was pleased at his accomplishment and moved on to find her something to eat. Again he prevailed. There was one last thing Jade felt she needed, and he knew it when he saw it. It was me. He unloaded his wallet on the counter and he clutched us both in his arms as we walked home.
Without much hard work he became a father. And a pretty good one at that. Day in and day out Jade took responsibility for her and he loved more than many men can in their whole lives. Though his new-found daughter did not come from a stork high above, he still felt lucky to have met Lisa’s mother one night many years ago at the theatre. Jade was there for an opening night and Lisa’s mother noticed him the minute he walked in. Though they never slept together, Lisa’s mother knew that he was the man she should have ended up with. He was too good for her at this point and she had always promised that the day she could overcome her addiction to anything, she would call Jade and ask him out. She told him this numerous times over the next few years and he always laughed. He was intrigued by her. She was nothing like most women he came in contact with, partly because she was a whore, but also because she had something inside of her. No one ever gave her the chance to show it but he knew it was there and he also felt that given a different social circumstance, Lisa’s mother should have been his one and only. Though, of course, he never told her that.
That was their flaw. Each other. They only met a few times all the years they had known each other but they both knew that they were horrible for each other in this life. Lisa’s mother said that the night she died. She said, “I will come back in my next life for you and you better not be me.” Their love was not romeo-esque, rather it was unfit. Inside their souls felt the need to be together but their lives got in the way.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
state of emergency
what if creative outlets were just like electrical ones? would people still be in an energy crisis? or would we all fall short?
when you feel stuck or lost or confused or feel that you are using a run-on sentence as an excuse to blow off reality...you are in the right spot. A creative energy is fueled from loss and rejection. It has never changed. That is why artists killed themselves before they were ever recognized. Then people cared. Shameless.
when you feel stuck or lost or confused or feel that you are using a run-on sentence as an excuse to blow off reality...you are in the right spot. A creative energy is fueled from loss and rejection. It has never changed. That is why artists killed themselves before they were ever recognized. Then people cared. Shameless.
you'll always have the wind
When the wind blows and you wait for him – you are unsure.
Unsure of life, future, and the love that makes you sure.
He helps as he walks by and soothes you with nothing.
Unsure of life, future, and the love that makes you sure.
He helps as he walks by and soothes you with nothing.
When love falls – at least you have the wind.
Monday, March 24, 2008
imagination is not just for kids
Leave it to us to ruin the one thing that our body gives us as reprieve.
Analyzing dreams = making our dreams a reality, they are there to let us escape and to give our minds a break…it lets our imagination that we let go when we were kids come back just for the important part, to make us happy to make it simple again. That is why they don’t make sense. They aren’t supposed to. They may make us think, but think about something fake. Something besides our daily reality. Beside the bullshit. Beside the facts, we have our dreams and then we are allowed to keep them to ourselves or share them for a smile or to make someone think differently but NOT to analyze. Analyzing ruins the dream and therefore ruins our imagination. Forever is no longer.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Celebrate Good Times
As a newly-added member of the already bursting city of San Francisco, I can coolly say: finding a job sucks. Craigslist is my one and only friend, I get more sleep than an 80-year old and my boyfriend’s phone wont stop ringing with job offers and interviews. Yeah, it sucks.
Though I hear the tiny voices of reason in my head and my parents tell me “everything happens for a reason” and “you will find something soon” I still check my email approximately 3,000 times a day to make sure it’s working and call my own voicemail about half that number…just in case for some reason my phone didn’t ring that one time that a potential employer wanted to offer me a job on-the-spot just because he/she saw my amazing resume in their inbox.
Nonetheless, I am an aspiring writer that has some restaurant experience and I have resorted to the latter.
It has been exactly 51 days of unemployment and competition in this town is, to say it politely, ferocious. So, when the manager of a wine bar emailed me about an interview I was giddy. I had pictured myself wearing an apron and talking to guests about taste and time and chugging the wine as I worked and laughed about my previous (and current) situation all before I had hit the “reply” button.
I went in positive, got there 15 minutes early and wore the best interview outfit I owned. I left laughing hysterically at myself and looking desperately for the nearest bar. Here’s sort of how it went.
I walked in feeling immediately out of place with the amount of pretension in the air. I still managed a smile and asked for the guy who was behind the trendy bar sipping on some red wine and describing it to his employees. He looked me up and down, smiled and said I was a bit early but to sit in the corner by the window and wait. I did. He came over after his lesson was over and greeted me kindly. Our conversation began okay as we discussed why I had moved here from “paradise” (his word) and what my plans were. I answered as anyone looking for a job does. Something like, “To try something new and get to know a new city. And I plan to freelance as I work in a restaurant or bar to make some money while I get to know people and expand my customer service skills.” Or some bullshit like that.
He seemed impressed. Then it spiraled so wildly out of control. “There’s just a little wine knowledge test,” he says as he slides the paper over to me. I think, okay, I can do this. I’ve drank plenty of wine, I’ve been wine tasting like at least 12 times, I own a wine fridge for my whites and a wine rack for my reds and I love drinking…it can’t be that hard. Boy, was I wrong. The first question contained three words I didn’t know existed (and I graduated with a Bachelor’s in English) and the rest got worse. I answered about three of the 15 questions with sheer guesses and couldn’t even muster up a fake to the rest. He came back over about 10 minutes later and I laughed out loud as I handed him the paper. I think I said something like, “You can just tell me it was nice to meet me and I will be on my way…no hard feelings.” He proceeded to assure me it was “no big deal” and when he started at this job he knew NOTHING about wine, so I was better off than he was. I knew he was lying.
To his credit, and I still sort of admire the guy for this, he kept on going with the interview. He tried to like me. He tried hard. And after a couple more humiliating questions regarding varietals of wine, I actually blushed. Something I haven’t done since high school. I embarrassed myself with my own answers to questions. It was that bad. He ended with a stinger. “What kind of music do you listen to?” The truth is everything. And it really is. That is not just my way of getting out of the question. I love music. I love all kinds of music. From the Beatles to my friends’ attempts at bands to the no-one-admits-they-like country music. But instead of being a normal human being and saying any of that, the words that floated out of my mouth without a thought in my head were…wait for it…Kool and the Gang.
Keep in mind I am 24 years old. I don’t EVER listen to Kool and the Gang. At the time I didn’t even know what they sang. But I said it. He chuckled and said, “it’s okay.” We shook hands and I walked out literally laughing out loud at the last half hour of my life. And the words “Kool and the Gang” were laughing in my head with me. Or at me.
I drunk dialed my mom that night after an entire bottle of red to tell her of my afternoon. She informed me that Kool and the Gang was most famous for that overplayed-but-still-lovable wedding song “Celebrate.” I knew it. Of course that was what they sang, how could I have forgotten? It was the perfect ending.
I will always think fondly of that manager and the way he tried to make me a wine lover. He wanted me to work there. He wanted me to know about grapes and why they taste the way they do. But I was a lost cause.
And the search continues.
Though I hear the tiny voices of reason in my head and my parents tell me “everything happens for a reason” and “you will find something soon” I still check my email approximately 3,000 times a day to make sure it’s working and call my own voicemail about half that number…just in case for some reason my phone didn’t ring that one time that a potential employer wanted to offer me a job on-the-spot just because he/she saw my amazing resume in their inbox.
Nonetheless, I am an aspiring writer that has some restaurant experience and I have resorted to the latter.
It has been exactly 51 days of unemployment and competition in this town is, to say it politely, ferocious. So, when the manager of a wine bar emailed me about an interview I was giddy. I had pictured myself wearing an apron and talking to guests about taste and time and chugging the wine as I worked and laughed about my previous (and current) situation all before I had hit the “reply” button.
I went in positive, got there 15 minutes early and wore the best interview outfit I owned. I left laughing hysterically at myself and looking desperately for the nearest bar. Here’s sort of how it went.
I walked in feeling immediately out of place with the amount of pretension in the air. I still managed a smile and asked for the guy who was behind the trendy bar sipping on some red wine and describing it to his employees. He looked me up and down, smiled and said I was a bit early but to sit in the corner by the window and wait. I did. He came over after his lesson was over and greeted me kindly. Our conversation began okay as we discussed why I had moved here from “paradise” (his word) and what my plans were. I answered as anyone looking for a job does. Something like, “To try something new and get to know a new city. And I plan to freelance as I work in a restaurant or bar to make some money while I get to know people and expand my customer service skills.” Or some bullshit like that.
He seemed impressed. Then it spiraled so wildly out of control. “There’s just a little wine knowledge test,” he says as he slides the paper over to me. I think, okay, I can do this. I’ve drank plenty of wine, I’ve been wine tasting like at least 12 times, I own a wine fridge for my whites and a wine rack for my reds and I love drinking…it can’t be that hard. Boy, was I wrong. The first question contained three words I didn’t know existed (and I graduated with a Bachelor’s in English) and the rest got worse. I answered about three of the 15 questions with sheer guesses and couldn’t even muster up a fake to the rest. He came back over about 10 minutes later and I laughed out loud as I handed him the paper. I think I said something like, “You can just tell me it was nice to meet me and I will be on my way…no hard feelings.” He proceeded to assure me it was “no big deal” and when he started at this job he knew NOTHING about wine, so I was better off than he was. I knew he was lying.
To his credit, and I still sort of admire the guy for this, he kept on going with the interview. He tried to like me. He tried hard. And after a couple more humiliating questions regarding varietals of wine, I actually blushed. Something I haven’t done since high school. I embarrassed myself with my own answers to questions. It was that bad. He ended with a stinger. “What kind of music do you listen to?” The truth is everything. And it really is. That is not just my way of getting out of the question. I love music. I love all kinds of music. From the Beatles to my friends’ attempts at bands to the no-one-admits-they-like country music. But instead of being a normal human being and saying any of that, the words that floated out of my mouth without a thought in my head were…wait for it…Kool and the Gang.
Keep in mind I am 24 years old. I don’t EVER listen to Kool and the Gang. At the time I didn’t even know what they sang. But I said it. He chuckled and said, “it’s okay.” We shook hands and I walked out literally laughing out loud at the last half hour of my life. And the words “Kool and the Gang” were laughing in my head with me. Or at me.
I drunk dialed my mom that night after an entire bottle of red to tell her of my afternoon. She informed me that Kool and the Gang was most famous for that overplayed-but-still-lovable wedding song “Celebrate.” I knew it. Of course that was what they sang, how could I have forgotten? It was the perfect ending.
I will always think fondly of that manager and the way he tried to make me a wine lover. He wanted me to work there. He wanted me to know about grapes and why they taste the way they do. But I was a lost cause.
And the search continues.
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