Mariposa is what most of the kitchen staff calls me. The rough translation is calling someone a “fairy.” The direct translation is “butterfly.”
Sometimes the younger ones like practicing their English and call me “butterfly.” I tell them that it doesn’t work in English. It’s like calling someone honey or sugar. I make sure they understand that it’s a form of flirting. They normally never say it again… So now I call them “butterfly.”
“Good morning my butterfly,” I’ll say to Juanito who’s shredding tomatoes.
He’s more than a cook, he’s a chef. Unlike the others who just throw in a handful of this and a pinch of that, he actually cares about the taste of a dish. He’s a creator, not an imitator like the others. I’ve respected and adored this creator ever since he transferred from Pasadena. We have the same schedule, so I spend most of my shifts orbiting around him. I’m constantly offering to get him a drink, asking if he needs a massage, complimenting him on his face. Friday is his only day off and I dread going in to work because I know he’s not going to be there to distract me from the otherwise miserable world of serving. Fridays suck.
His name is Martin, but I call him “Martini.” He shares quit a few adjectives with the drink.
1) Strong. I’ve watched him pick up a 50 lb. bag of sugar and throw it over his shoulder like it was a wet towel. When he burnt his arm on a sauté pan, a blister had formed before he even winced.
2) Classy. He’s never once called me a derogatory name. I can’t go a shift without one of the other Latinos calling me a homo, fag, woman, retard, ect. Even when I introduce him to my friends as “My boyfriend,” he just smiles, shakes his head and then their hand.
3) Chill. He’s always relaxed and in control. He never barks at me when I ask for something or stresses out when he’s got 20 tickets to make. He’s calm and collected. But you see his 23 year-old youth come out every once and a while, like when he gets excited and runs up the stairs. He won’t take slow, heavy steps like his co-workers. He jumps back and forth, skipping steps and uses both hands to pull himself up the hand railings.
4) Straight up. He is straight but doesn’t make it an issue. When he catches me staring at him he smiles and says, “Guero, what are you looking at?” I smile back, blush, and then disappear. When the other cooks give him a hard time and say things like, “Oh, Jimmy-girl and Martin,” he smiles and says, “You know it.” When I catch him staring at girl, I snap at him and say, “Come on Martini, don’t dog me like that.” He’ll laugh and say, “Oh, sorry.”
Today my manager pulled me aside. He told me that two days ago Martin was involved in a car accident. He was in the passenger seat when the car rolled over and hit a telephone pole. He was killed.
And just like that every day from here on out is going to feel like a Friday.
I’m doing a phase-out right now with an old acquaintance and it’s really making me uncomfortable. I’m no good at them. I always feel too guilty and end up buckling and returning their call. Then I act like an asshole and blame myself.
“I’m so sorry. I’m a terrible person. My life is just so crazy right now. I might be heading for a nervous breakdown,” I’ll say. Why do we make ourselves seem so worthless in these moments? Is it to ease the awkwardness? Is it to make the other person feel good? Well, it’s stupid and I don’t like it. They’re the ones who are worthless, not us.
So I’m trying really hard with this current one. But I feel like I owe her an explanation. What would I tell her? That as I get older I like to keep in touch with fewer and fewer people and she’s not one of them? That’s just cold. But there is no warm way around it. The most delicate is probably the phase-out. But she’s a stubborn ol’ hen and is choosing to ignore the hints and remains persistent.
I met her when I was in college. I was in the closet and nice to everyone, she had eaten the closet and was mean to everyone. I felt bad for her (one of the worst reasons to befriend someone). She developed a crush. When I told her I was gay, I broke her heart. The next day she had decided that I was donating my sperm to her and recited a list of girl names she likes. There’s no way I’d want her to be the mother of my child, and if she had asked me I would have told her. But she didn’t. That’s how she is; doesn’t ask just expects. I don’t like people who expect things. Our friendship is more stressful than fun and I don’t like that.
So I’ve stopped communicating with her. But she’s coming to town next week and wants to meet up. I swear, if she comes into my work I’m going to die. But before I do, I’ll tell her the truth.
42 Year-Old Father Server:(looking frazzled) There you are!
Young Actress Server:Sorry I’m late. I just had an audition.
42 Y.O.F.S.:I’m transferring you all my tables! I gotta be out of here in 10 minmutes so I can pick up my daughter!
Me:(interrupting) If we were filming a reality series, this is where the show would get really tense.
Me:Nothing. I’m just really high.
42 Y.O.F.S.:(leaning in) Really?... Can I have some?
42 Y.O.F.S.:Uh, yeah. So am I. (rushes out)
NOTE:Divorced, single fathers who are serving at my restaurant break my heart. Between the psycho ex-wife taking away visitation rights and having to sleep in a dingy studio apartment on Ventura Blvd., their lives are normally stuck under a cloud. The only ray of light they have is their children and they end up doing whatever it takes to make them happy. 42 Year-Old Father Server will work 5 doubles in a row then spend every penny he earned spoiling his daughter while he has her for the weekend. As messy as their lives are, they still have priorities.
Aren’t we taught at a very early age to say sorry? There’s nothing more annoying than when someone won’t apologize when they’ve fucked up. You want to be attractive after your actions were ugly? Then say you’re sorry.
In High School, my sister made a hallowed out male’s head out of clay. It was actual size, painted light blue and had her name and date etched on the bottom. It was a functioning piece of art, as it held all of our brushes and combs. Like spiky hair, handles and bristles jetted out from the top. We called him the comb holder.
When I was 11 and curious, I removed all the brushes and combs and used a washcloth to wipe off the dust in the cracks of its nose and lips. I used my finger nail to scratch off the tiny splatters of toothpaste that had accumulated over the years. Once clean, I held the smooth and shiny head up to my face and said, “You wanna kiss me?” I then moved in for a little peck. His lips were cold and thin and hard. I enjoyed it. “I love you,” I said as I went in for another kiss, only this time getting a little more intimate. I opened my mouth and kissed him with tongue. I spent the next 20 minutes making out with the inanimate object.
It was the first time I had ever made out with another dude. Our love session ended abruptly when my brother banged on the door.
“Get out! I gotta go,” he shouted.
“I’m combing my hair, gimme a minute!” I said as I quickly put the head back on the counter and shoved the brushes back into his brain. I opened the door and with chapped lips said, “It’s all yours.”
It’s so weird interesting to think of all the perverted things we did growing up.
To remove makeup stains, rub shampoo or dish detergent (preferably a grease cutting formula) into the stain. You could also try spraying with hairspray or using a non-oily makeup remover to remove the stain. Then, launder as usual… Or just throw the fucking thing out.
Between the Super Moon bringing out the crazies, the expected acid rain for tomorrow’s marathon, the radiation that reached Sacramento, an earthquake warning, and the pimple on my cheek, I think I’m going to just stay in tonight and drink by myself… If my apartment crumbles in the big one tonight or my face burns off in the rain tomorrow, please tell my Mom that I love her. And here’s the password to all my accounts: dairyqueef_99. Thanks!
Louie’s having an issue with The Brain. He says that he no longer gets hard when they have sex. The married actor pops a woody the second they begin to kiss but Louie remains limp as a noodle. He doesn’t know why this is happening and is getting worried because sex is an important part of their relationship… Actually, it’s the only part of their relationship.
I’ve had the same issue before. It was with this guy that I had met through some friends. He was husband long term relationship material—had a great job, well dressed and educated, handsome, and most importantly polite. I considered him to be perfect. That’s when I began to overanalyze everything and asked myself, “Why would he want to go out with me? I’m nothing special… I better make sure the sex is good to make up for everything else…” I began to psych myself out. Before the date even started, I already felt that it was a disaster. It didn’t help that at dinner we sat 3 tables down from a one night stand I had a week earlier and I was wearing the shirt he left at my apartment! I kept thinking that this couldn’t get any worse. It did. Once we went back to his place I tried everything in my power to prolong el sexo. “Let’s watch another episode,” I said as I rested my head on his lap. The entire time I was thinking, “Your head is so close to his dick. Get horny… Get horny!” It didn’t work. Finally, he turned off the T.V. mid program and started kissing me. So many things were racing through my head that I didn’t stop to even enjoy the moment. My poor little pecker shriveled so deep inside my pelvis that it looked like a mole poking its nose out of a hole. Every time he reached down to grab my package I pushed his hand away. Eventually, I gave in and knew that I wasn’t going to get hard so I rolled over and let him fuck me. Hopefully pleasing him would warrant another date. Once he came, we cuddled for a while then I put on my clothes and left. The walk home was miserable. I wanted to cry. He called the next day and wanted to see me again. “What is wrong with this guy?” I asked myself while riding the metro to meet him for date number 2. “Why would he want to see me again? I’m worthless.” Sure enough, after dinner it happened again. I was too embarrassed to return his calls when he left a message to see me a 3rd time.
It’s sad because after this incident I convinced myself that I could never sleep with any guy I deemed perfect. He’s got to have some kind of obvious malfunction before I agree to drop my pants. And this is just plain ridiculous because now I’m setting myself up to be with goons and misfits and I deserve better. This all happened because I doubted myself. So is Louie doubting himself? Nah, he’s too young and fresh and pretty for that. It must be something else, something deeper. Maybe he’s got a conscious after all.
My Mom took me and my brothers to the south end of the island to spend the day in downtown Langley. After spending the morning touching everything in the gift shops, we had lunch. Mom had packed us sandwiches so we found a nice picnic table half way down the trail towards the water. The sun was out and reflected off my giant, blonde afro as I happily ripped tiny chunks from the tuna fish sandwich and popped them in my mouth. Taking bites was too barbaric; I preferred to eat sandwiches like the rest of the girls I knew. I swayed my body as I listened to the song playing in my head. I was happy.
Out of nowhere, like a pack of vultures, 4 unruly teenage boys gathered at the look-out spot above us. One of them yelled down to me, “Wow! Nice hair dude!” I ignored him. Another one said in a Native American accent, “You! Little man with big head!” My brother giggled and repeated it. I felt my face turn red with anger as I furrowed my brow. I looked like one of those Snow Monkeys that bathe in hot springs. “Can I flip them off?” I asked my Mom. “No. Besides, why do you even care? You should just turn around and give them thumbs up and say ‘Ehhhhhh,” she said. What?! How the hell was pulling a Fonzarelli going to make me feel better?
I didn’t say a word for the rest of lunch. A few hours later, as we rode the transit bus back to Coupeville, it dawned on me that Mom was right. Those vultures only wanted a reaction. They feed on spoiled meat, so the only way to starve them was to stay cool.
This doozie of an article is on the front page of my hometown’s paper… A year ago, I sent the editor a picture of me in drag and said that I’d like to contribute a lifestyle column. I wrote my number on the back of the photo. He never called back. If he only knew what was good for him… I wonder whatever happened to that photo. I’d like to think he has it in a frame on his desk.
I’m a huge advocator of coming out as early as possible. High school is ideal, but I know it’s normally a little later for most people, like in their 20’s. This is a sticky time to come out because it’s also when you start establishing credit. We all know that coming out/happiness takes precedence over everything else—especially bills, bills, bills. You’re so overwhelmed with the excitement and freshness of it all that you end up spending that last 100 dollars on cocktails and condoms as opposed to putting it towards your Macy’s bill. By the time all the excitement wears off, you’re 30 and left with bad credit… I had to remind Ronnie of this the other day when he asked me, “How long after you buy a car do you have to make the first payment?” Bills before pills and thrills, kiddos.
Olivia has been dipping her little fingers in a lot of stuff lately and it’s driving me nuts! First it was the peanut butter jar and then the pickle jar. I’ve patiently been trying to teach her that using a fork or a spoon is just so much more sanitary, especially if we’re dealing with communal food. However, my patience has worn thin and I finally snapped at her two nights ago when we were at the bar. We were meeting up with Ronnie because he wanted to introduce us to his latest lover (a hard working actor who is signed by a HUGE studio) so we had to be on our best behavior.
Olivia had ordered a glass of Prosecco. The bartender poured it in a pint glass because he was all out of champagne glasses. Once he was finished filling the gigantic glass with champagne, he dropped two glowing red cherries inside. Tiny bubbles fizzled off them as they sunk to the bottom. Olivia’s eyes lit up. She held the glass up to her face and stared at them like a pirate would to a treasure chest full of rubies. She had to have those cherries! Without hesitation, she stuck her entire hand in the glass of champagne. I watched as champagne spilled over the rim of the glass as she whirled her hand at the bottom.
“What are you doing?!” I screamed. I was repulsed. “That’s so unsanitary! There’s a proper way to do it,” I said. By then she had finally gotten a hold of a stem and pulled the cherry out and popped it in her mouth. I continued. “You have to finish the drink first and then reach in for your prize.”
“But I want the prize now,” she said as she munched her cherry and air dried her hand.
And that’s it. Olivia wants things now and doesn’t necessarily care how people look at her as she gets it. She’s not the type to step on someone’s toes, she’s too sweet, so why do I care what she does to herself? So what if she’s a “finger dipper.” I couldn’t help but to appreciate her shamelessness and hope that some of it rubs off on me. Only, you will never see me sticking my fingers in a pickle jar. A butthole maybe, but not a pickle jar. That’s just so unsanitary.
The situation in Japan is tragic. Life is very fragile. I feel sorry for everyone involved… What I find most intriguing about natural disasters is when people call upon God. The man who’s supposedly responsible for everything that happens to/on this planet is the first person we turn to. I understand that praying gives people a sense of hope but if I lived in Hawaii and heard that there was a tsunami on the way I wouldn’t get closer to sea level by being on my knees, I’d start climbing a fucking volcano.
Every pair of jeans she owned were stone washed, tight, and pulled up to her belly button. That’s how she got the nickname Camel Toe Kathy. She was also deaf. Her husband, an oafish man who wore his hat just resting on the top of his head, was best friends with my older brothers. I was only 7 when I’d eavesdrop as they stood around the burn barrel, being boys and drinking beers.
“She’s a quiet girl in general, but in bed she’s a loud one,” he said as he took a gulp of Bud light. He loved her enough to learn sign language but not enough to keep their sex life private. But what keeps that private, no matter how much they love you? “She howls and grunts and barks like a coyote,” he said.
In High School, my brother was convinced that Camel Toe Kathy had been playing deaf all these years in a ploy to get sympathy. So one day while we sat parked behind her at the bank, he unrolled his window and began whistling. Like my father, my brother could produce a sound as loud as a train whistle with just his lips. He whistled until his lungs were empty. She didn’t flinch. Her head continued looking down at the papers she was filling out. In a desperate, last minute attempt to catch her, he honked the horn. He held it down for a good 10 seconds. The drive-through teller started looking around to see what all the commotion was. Camel Toe Kathy didn’t budge.
“Whelp, I guess she’s deaf,” he said and we drove off.
I’m trying to justify all the partying I’ve been doing lately by calling it “networking.” The only way I could piece together the other night was through the trail of receipts I found in my pocket the next morning. Apparently I had taken a taxi at some point which shows that I’m being responsible while I “network.” One of my favorite finds during this recent “networking binge” is a stud named Teddy. He’s on a bike tour across America and is stopping at elementary schools along the way to give speeches on the importance of a healthy/active lifestyle… Something I should focus a little more on. Check out the Facebook page for this amazing project.
“This is a really nice street you live on,” my brother said as we looked for parking. He started to parallel but stopped half way once he realized it was going to be a tight fit. “Shit, I’m not gonna try and park between a Mercedes and a BMW. I’ll just pull up here.”
This was the first time he was visiting me since I moved to Beverly Hood. I always get nervous when he visits because he’s the one brother I want to impress the most. He and his wife have been very influential in my life since high school. They’ve always helped me out when I needed it (my brother co-signed for my first car and then had to pay it off 3 months later because I was too poor to buy insurance and he didn’t want to be liable). So now and days when I see him I like to show him how much I’ve grown since those irresponsible days.
“See, there’s my patio. It’s cool, right?” I said as I pointed to the corner apartment. The lights were off, so I assumed that my tenants were gone. Before I left for Seattle, I had asked Ronnie and Olivia to PLEASE keep the place clean because I was expecting a very important guest. When I opened the door and flicked on the light, my immediate thought was “Now I remember why I liked living alone…”
I have exactly one hour to pack my suitcase AND go to the tailors to pick up my jacket before my ride gets here to take me to the airport. I HAD two hours, but I just wasted one of them dancing to this song in my kitchen. Well, it wasn’t wasted…
Olivia and I are trying to motivate each other to go on more dates. So we made a bet: the first person to go on 2 dates will win a 50 gift certificate to Zara. My first thought was, “Two dates cost at least 60 bucks each, so if I win I’m still down money.” Then I snapped out of it and said, “Stop being a weirdo dork sour puss and just go on 2 dates.”
Last night I was on the hunt. It wasn’t until the end of the night when the alcohol had officially taken over my blood stream that I was able to snag two numbers. The first guy was cute but shorter than me. Quite a bit shorter but he made up for it with his strength. At one point he wrapped his arms around me and lifted me off the ground. “Oh, this is different,” I said as I dangled my legs. His face turned red and a vein popped out of his neck, but he got me off the ground without falling over and I found it oddly attractive. So I think I might go on a date with this one.
The second guy ended up drunk dialing me throughout the night. I didn’t pick up so I checked my messages this morning and they were ridiculous. He was all slurred up and said, “If you’re up give me a call and we can meet for coffee.” Come on, nobody meets for coffee at 4 in the morning. I will not be returning his calls. Strong girls don’t give in that easily…
I’ve known her since high school. In fact, we rode in the back of a convertible together during the Homecoming parade. We also went to the dance together. She made my boutonniere out of little red chilies. I think I still have it. We ended up triple dating with 2 other couples and went to a seafood restaurant that overlooked the cove. At one point during dinner, my date and another girl were complaining how their larger than normal breasts were annoying because they caused back pains. That’s when the pretty but self-conscious flat-chested girl jumped up and said, “How do you think it makes me feel when you talk about how big your boobs are?” and stormed off to the bathroom where she cried. The other two girls chased after her. Unfortunately, I was stuck at the table with the dudes. One of them looked up from his plate and said, “Crazy bitches,” and then put his head back down and continued eating. I would have rather been in the bathroom trying to console the wounded. I imagine rubbing her hand and saying, “Baby girl, you’re lucky. You don’t have to wear a bra. Do you know how many super cute tops I’ve had to put back on the rack because I couldn’t wear a bra with them? Millions.”
Later that night we sat in her car in my parent’s drive way, talking about nothing. She patiently waited for her kiss good night but I was too nervous to give it. I kept inching further and further away until finally I fell out the passenger side door and ran inside. I dwelled on this awkward moment for months and months after, as did she. And it all could have been avoided if I was just honest and told her who I really was. Coming out makes everything better…
Years later, our friendship has only gotten better. We’re aware of who we are now and laugh about the past. Her job recently transferred her from New York to Beverly Hills. That means she’ll be staying with me for the next couple of weeks while she looks for an apartment. Until then, between her, Ronnie and me, this place is going to be like “Three’s Company”. Only there’s 1 bedroom and we’re all kind of like Chrissy Snow.
Two of my friends have recently come in contact with boys who are professionally and financially below them. Way below them. But they aren’t letting it defer them from going on another date. Now, as someone who is often looked down upon/dismissed for not having the ideal job/amount of money in the bank, I think it’s really human when people ignore social status and actually give IT a chance. But as much as you tell yourself, “It doesn’t matter what they do/make,” the subject still lurks in the back of your head. For example, my friend told me that at dinner she’ll feel awkward ordering another glass of wine or an appetizer because she doesn’t want to rack up the bill in case he pays for it. It’s hard not to think about it, but the important thing is to never let it get to you. Never let it sway you because she also told me that they had their first kiss and it was explosive! It goes to show what’s important in a relationship.