I'm an adult and I'm not sorry about it

Tonight, out celebrating the birthday of a colleague and dear friend who is somewhere in his early-to-mid 40s (he claims to not know his exact age), we somehow got to talking about romantic relationships and what we want out of them. He admitted to knowing he was somewhat difficult to date, but claimed that for the right woman, he would amend his ways. I simply said I was still searching for a real partner -- an actual companion, an equal, someone willing to put as much energy into a relationship as I am. And after a long pause, he said, "You're really a grown-up."

And you know what? I am. And I'm fucking proud of that fact. 

I don't know why it's become trendy or cool to put off adulthood and maturity for as long as possible. I confess, I am always baffled when I meet someone over the age of 30 who advertises the fact that they're still "kind of a kid." Being young at heart is fine, but perpetually avoiding responsibility and commitment is less cute. It's not even, in my opinion, entirely a gendered thing -- the man-child has become an archetype in various films and TV shows, but there are plenty of women who are guilty of the same thing. They are just less visible in pop culture. 

My question is, why is it a point of pride to not grow up? (I totally feel like Carrie Bradshaw, posing this rhetorical question)

 Not growing up = getting to date this douche

I have always felt like an old soul, despite my youthful appearance. And ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be a grown-up. I insisted on reading adult books even when I was too young to understand them. When I was 8, I demanded to borrow my mom's copy of Stephen King's Pet Cemetery. I think my parents were savvy enough to realize that there was no way I could comprehend the inappropriate content, so they let me nobly schlep around the heavy hardback edition and played along with the ruse that I was actually reading it. I was trying but obviously I was in over my head. So I just carried it around because it was An Adult Book and I wanted to be taken seriously as An Adult. Even though I was 8. The same thing happened with the Andromeda Strain when I was 10. I didn't want to read kids' books -- kids' books were for kids. I didn't want to be a kid or be treated like a kid.

Now I'm actually an age where I am, legally at least, supposed to be a grown-up. And the kicker is, I actually am! So it's frustrating to meet charming, intelligent men who confess/boast about being "big kids." You know what? I don't want to date a fucking kid. I'd like to date a man. Being an adult doesn't mean not having fun. I have fun all the time. I go out, I stay up late, I still get drunk sometimes. But I self-identify as an individual who is not reliant on any outside support systems (parents etc). In other words, I'm in charge of my shit and I'm the boss of me. I pay my bills, I have a job, I live in an apartment I pay for. 

But it's not so much the trappings of adulthood that matter. It's psychological -- I think of myself as an adult. Someone who has experienced a lot of stuff and grown into a fully realized human being. I'm not all that nostalgic about my youth -- I'm not sad to no longer be a teenager or in my 20s. You know why? BECAUSE I GREW OUT OF THEM. I am a smarter, better person than I was then. So no, I don't wistfully long for the days of living with Craigslist roommates and eating cereal for dinner. The days when I had a fake ID that I used to buy the cheapest vodka I could find. The days when I didn't have health insurance, when I still had to ask my folks to bail me out occasionally because I accidentally miscalculated my finances and couldn't pay my rent. I don't regret my 20s, but mostly I value them for how they shaped me into the adult I am today. I would never want to live forever in them. That sounds like a nightmare.  

Alas, I'm in the minority. So many people, it seems, delight in promoting how un-adult they are. It must be attractive to fellow non-adults, but me? I'm still holding out hope that I will find a man who knows who he is and what he wants in life and can appreciate what I have to offer. Because I do think I have a lot to offer. I just have yet to find someone who's smart and funny and wants to be in an adult relationship. Not a boring relationship -- a fun, dynamic relationship built on a foundation of trust, respect and love. 

Time to end this post before it goes full-Oprah. But hopefully, you get the gist. Growing up is an unavoidable, normal, HEALTHY part of life. I grew up and I'm glad I did.  

Hostess with the Most-ess

It's been a long time since my last post.

I've been busy.

But now I'm back! And despite my best efforts to resist the siren song of the restaurant industry, I find myself once again at the mercy of the most insane smattering of humanity one can imagine. Working in restaurants will make you hate people in about .01 seconds. Doesn't matter what restaurant. Trust me on this.

As always, I am the most employed person I know, in that I work roughly 4-5 jobs at any given time. And because there were no openings for servers at the place where I had a lead/connection, I'm running the host stand. At a place that serves close to a thousand people a day, located in the heart of tourist Chicago: downtown Michigan Avenue.

                                               (Apologies for the incorrect grammar)

People are constantly flooding in without reservations and it's tough to keep up. Also, our owner, Tommy* (name changed) is the friendliest/most popular man in Chicago and tells basically everyone he meets to come on in, drop his name, and they'll get a table, instantly. So it's become virtually impossible to distinguish between his actual friends that need VIP treatment and some random guy he met somewhere once whom he has no recollection of now. People drop Tommy's name so often that the staff actually had shirts made that say "I know Tommy, too."

Some of the current trends of insanity I am dealing with every day:

1) People can't get the time they want on OpenTable, so they just book what is available and come in when they wanted to book, i.e. an hour before their reservation time.

My response: (paraphrased and delivered more politely) Those slots on OT were booked for a reason and you will get a table when you reserved a table. I'm not going to reward bad behavior/set a precedent that showing up an hour before your reservation is okay. Get a drink at the bar and deal with your life.

2) Party of two wants a booth that seats 4-6

My response: (tactfully) Live in the real world, folks. You are two. I have parties of 6 that can't sit at a deuce.

3) "Hi, we have a reservation for 8 but we're actually going to be 15, hehe!"

My response: Okay, we'll do our best to accommodate you.
My response in my head: JESUS H CHRIST ARE YOU JOKING. Because now you actually need two more tables, which depending on the night, I may or may not have. FML.

4) "Hi, we have a reservation for 8, but we're only going to be 4."

My response: No problem
My response in my head: Still probably fucks up my plans for table-plotting but now I can take a walk-in.

BOTTOM LINE: For the love of God, PLEASE call a restaurant where you have a reservation and let them know if the number in your party changes. It is relevant to us, I promise you. Even if it's a seemingly minor change, like from 6 to 5, it may affect where we seat you.

Oh, and don't be that guy who drops the owner's name when I tell you it's a 45-minute wait for a table (which, duh, if you come in at 6:30 on Friday night, what are you expecting?) because it does not curry any favor with me. You are probably the 5th person in the last half hour to say you know Tommy. TOMMY KNOWS EVERYONE IN THE CITY OF CHICAGO. Take a number, chump, or, here's an idea: just make a reservation like the rest of the planet!

This Space Is Not For Rent

When I started this blog back in 2008, I wasn't sure what kind of content I'd be putting up here. I didn't then, and still don't, read many blogs and didn't have a clear concept of the function of them. But I thought it would be a good outlet for my musings and observations and a way for people (mostly friends and family) to keep up with developments in my life. I hoped it would get me writing more regularly, which it has. 

And mostly, the feedback I get from my small readership is positive. People tell me they think the blog is funny (and cleverly named -- thank you, Noah!) and when I don't post for a while, it doesn't go unnoticed. My stepdad, for instance, is always encouraging me to post more because he likes forwarding my posts to his co-workers, who apparently enjoy reading it despite having never met me. 

So all in all, I dig the whole blogging thing.

But it has happened occasionally that someone will ask me to take down a post, usually for their own personal reasons. And this really irks me. Because this is a personal blog. It's not The New York Times. And I stand by my right to write whatever I feel like. Now, I don't engage in personal attacks (well, not often) and I never aim to hurt anyone's feelings. I don't lie/make things up, either. I may exaggerate for the sake of humor, but I think that's within my creative prerogative.

So when I was asked yesterday -- well, actually, more like told -- to take down a post (a poetry post, no less) from last December, it really pissed me off.  The issue was that before reposting the poem, I explained my connection to the poet. And that connection was that we share an ex. I said I'd never met her, but that I admired her work and hoped to meet her someday. And then I posted her poem, which had been previously published in Ploughshares. 

Apparently, six months later, she came across it and freaked out on our mutual ex, and he basically demanded I take it down. Which I immediately did. But I'm irked, especially because of how he went about it -- he didn't say "Hey Katie, [redacted] saw your blog post that mentions her dating life and she's upset. Would you consider taking it down or editing out that part? I would appreciate it, thanks."

No, he wrote in an email including the link: "Delete this."

Again, I did. I don't want to upset people.  And to be fair, he called and apologized for the curtness of the request.

But this isn't the first time this has happened, so I feel compelled to assert here, on this publicly-read space that I 100% author and own, that I feel entitled to write what I want here. If you are in my life, you might wind up here. Sorry, them's the breaks. For instance, if you are an ex-boyfriend and cavalierly brag in an e-mail about having sex with a Brazilian, I might design a t-shirt that says "I Fucked a Brazilian" and post the image here. (Stuff white people like: boasting about one-night-stands with non-white people?)

Oh, wait, I did do that -- but then I took it down when he asked me to. Even though I did not name him or provide any identifying information, i.e. there is no way anyone who doesn't know me personally would know whom I was talking about.

So from now on -- I'm not taking anything down anymore. Date me/be my friend with caution, I suppose. I can promise that I won't make up things about you or say intentionally nasty things. But this is the masthead of my blog:

Editor-in-Chief:  Katie Vagnino
Managing Editor:  Katie Vagnino
Staff Writers:  Katie Vagnino
Copyeditor:  Katie Vagnino
Publisher:  Katie Vagnino 

You get the idea. If you think I'm a snarky bitch, feel free to write all about it on your blog and I will never ask you to take it down.

(here's that aforementioned t-shirt design. It is available in S, M, L, XL)

My Server Manifesto

Tonight was one of those nights in the restaurant industry where I pray to Jesus that I won't have to be waiting tables much longer, that my indentured servitude to the service industry might soon be coming to a close. I'm 31 years old and I have a master's degree. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET IT END.

Let me explain where I'm coming from and clear up some possible misconceptions you might have about what I do (specifically what I do 3 nights a week to pay back my student loans; I also teach college freshman how to write at a private, expensive college, but wouldn't you know, that doesn't pay the bills).

First of all, servers get NO respect, except from other servers. And I'm not just talking about the customers, like the man tonight who tried to "correct" me and convince me that arugula was a kind of cheese. The back-of-house, the cooks? They think we're morons, too. Lazy, stupid assholes who have it easy -- we just have to sell the food they are making. I know, line cooks and sous chefs make paltry salaries. When you're eating at Tom Collichio's restaurant, it's some no-name dude back in the kitchen sweating to make your food. And he makes about minimum wage to do that, despite what you're paying for that filet mignon. It's not fair.

Here's something else that's not fair -- servers make less than minimum wage, based on the assumption that tips will make up the difference. People who have never worked in the industry have some vague notion of this, but I don't think they know the actual math: $2.65 an hour, folks. Minimum wage in the state of Massachusetts is $8.00. I make, per hour, about a third of that. Yup.

And what I do isn't as easy as the cooks who disrespect servers think. Because I'm not just writing down orders. I'm good at what I do. And there are servers who aren't good at what they do. I encounter them all the time. If you don't know what the soup of the day is? FAIL. Hi, I work in a restaurant where we print our entire menu daily. And while not every dish changes every day, it's common that 30% of the menu will have changed. Or, for example, we still have salmon, but instead of coming with a celery root puree, quinoa, and a shaved fennel salad, today it's served with pearl pasta, foraged mushrooms, on top of a citrus-infused glasage. Oh, you don't know what a glasage is? Guess what, I didn't either, but I had to learn and memorize it so I could explain it to you when you ask about it.

As servers, we hear all the time how great the food is and we regularly relay that information back to the kitchen. But how often does the kitchen hear how good we are? Well, never. It's not like patrons wander back after eating to tell the kitchen how well we described their food. How they were going to just order the burger, but then heard how the Maine lobster pasta is a hand-cut pappardelle and changed their minds. They prefer to think of us all as idiots, or as this internet commenter (and presumably BOH, or back-of-house) wrote, "the fucking idiot waiters [who] are making double their weekly intake while they get to giggle through service, snack, and have their free staff drinks while the cooks are cleaning up the kitchen."

#1 -- I don't get a shift drink. I occasionally am offered dregs of wine that won't be serve-able the next day. Whoopee. 

#2 -- Giggle through service and snack? Where the F do you work? I am usually working my ass off and am in the equivalent of a mute fugue state during service, except when tableside, when I'm charming the shit out of people by answering all their questions and making sure they have everything they need. P.S. I not only have to know everything about the food, but also be familiar with and able to describe about fifty bottles of wine and more than a dozen signature cocktails that feature things like chamomile bitters and Skinos ( which, if you're wondering, is a savory Greek liquor).

Here's what to you need to keep in mind the next time you're considering tipping less than 20%: I have PTSD from this job. I have server nightmares almost every night. It's stressful work. And it's largely thankless. And that's why, even when the service I receive when dining out isn't top-notch, I still tip 20%. Because this industry can be wretched. And there is nothing worse than leaving work on the verge of tears and knowing that no one knew how hard you worked, or how your table almost didn't get their appetizers because the kitchen lost the ticket but you noticed in time to correct it before too much time had passed. (Yes, that happened to me tonight). 

Yeah, the customers can be annoying and treat you like dick. But what hurts more is when the kitchen folks, the ones who are supposed to be on your team, fail to recognize the challenges of we do, of how much the difference between an adequate server an excellent server can make in terms of a dining experience. They must recognize it when they eat out, but somehow, once in the vortex of the kitchen, it sometimes feels like us against them. 

I'm lucky -- I've enjoyed a largely positive experience working in a well-run restaurant for over two and a half years. But after nights like tonight, it seems like a wash. I really wish that part of culinary school was compulsory training as a server. Just one night on the floor, I think, would make all the difference. You try and keep a straight face when someone asks if they can get/only be charged for half a cup of coffee and then have their half cup perpetually refilled to the half way mark. JUST TRY.          

First World Problems

I woke up the other morning with a great idea: to start a Tumblr blog of First World Problems. I started writing down ideas, envisioning my blog becoming a wild success, virally forwarded, linked to on Gawker, eventually culminating in a book deal (you know, the type of book you buy on Dec. 23 for your cousin because you can't think of anything else to get him and it's on display near the register at Barnes & Noble on a table labeled "Humorous Stocking Stuffers").

Then I Googled "tumblr first world problems" and of course, such blogs already exist. Four of them, to be exact. Now there's a first world problem -- getting scooped on your snarky million-dollar tumblr blog idea.

Still, after perusing the existing blogs, I think some of mine were decently funny and original. And the twist here is that the list below represents my PERSONAL ACTUAL first world problems. Because why have a blog if not to use it as a platform of self-indulgence that operates under the assumption that people give a shit about my life?

So, here are my very real first world problems, in top ten list form:

10. Nowhere to play my last two letters in Words with Friends


9. Nextbus.com is down and I just have to wait for the fucking bus like it's the Dark Ages

8. Shaw's Star Market has a dismal selection of fresh herbs (how can they not have black currant leaf? It's vital for this epicurious recipe I'm making tonight!)

7. My favorite sushi lunch deal is not available on weekends or holidays


6. I have to wait like 8 months for more episodes of Homeland

I know, Claire, I'm freaking out, too!

5. I might not have time to see "The Artist" before the Oscars


4. Shoe rack full; wine rack empty (side note-- possible memoir title?)

3. Starbuck's Blonde Roast is a disappointment (and as a light roast drinker, I had such high hopes)


2. Petco is out of my brand of organic litter, forcing me to buy Fresh Step at the bodega

1. Cab drivers constantly give me shit about paying with a credit card


GOD, MY LIFE IS SO HARD

Corporations on my shit list

Lately, The Man has really been getting me down, or at least The Man as represented by large national companies. I love to support local businesses, but let's be real, the fries at McDonald's are pretty bomb and sometimes, there's just no substituting them when you're starved at 1 a.m. and nothing else is open.

But McDonald's isn't really pissing me off actively right now. I actually find the discontinuation of the dollar menu between the hours of midnight and 2 a.m. at my local McD's more amusing than irritating -- if you ever need a good laugh, I highly recommend watching drunk people try to order dollar fries and shakes and be told over and over again that they have to buy an entire extra value meal. This goes on every night at the McD's at the corner of Commonwealth and Harvard Avenue in Allston, MA. Comedy gold.

No, today my ire is aimed at Dunkin' Donuts, Panera, and Best Buy. Let's start with the most minor offender: Dunkin's. Recently, they stopped offering an egg white option for their breakfast sandwiches. I guess high cholesterol and obesity are back in vogue. There is still the egg white flatbread, but it's disgusting -- dry, with alleged turkey sausage and flecks of green and red that I suppose are meant to resemble peppers. Not that the regular breakfast sandwiches were any culinary masterpiece, but at least you could get them on an English muffin, which is approximately 1,000 times tastier than the mealy flatbread monstrosity.

There was also some deception that transpired at the Boylston/Tremont location -- I came in one day and was told they were "out" of the egg whites that I had gotten in the habit of ordering on an English muffin with cheese. I was informed that they just ran out but would have them again soon. LIES. Two days later, the same thing happened, but I was again reassured that it was a temporary outage, no cause for alarm. About a week after that, they finally dropped the ruse and broke the news to me that egg whites were a thing of the past.

Dunkin' Donuts, you are dead to me.

Next offender: Panera. I'm actually writing this from a Panera right now, fueled by their subpar coffee and injustice. Let me say that it pains me to muckrake a corporation that began as a local chain in my hometown of St. Louis. Once upon a time, Panera was St. Louis Bread Company, a great little cafe with delicious pastries. From the ages of 8-18, I ate countless tuna-salad-on- honey-wheat sandwiches. As Panera, the food is still pretty solid. I particularly enjoy the Fuji apple chicken salad, despite the fact that the dressing is the exact color and consistency of semen.


The location in Brookline advertises free wifi, so today I came for lunch and brought my laptop. When I logged on to the network at 12:45, I saw a disclaimer that between the peak hours of 11:30-1:30, I could only be online for 30 minutes. I was slightly annoyed that this policy was not made clear on the numerous "free high speed wireless internet!" signs, but whatever, I thought, I'll have to be disconnected for like 15 minutes, from 1:15-1:30 and then I can get back on.

As expected, I got bumped off at 1:15. I waited till 1:30....couldn't get back on. 1:40....still nothing. I asked an employee (Charissa) and she told me the peak hours are actually from 11-2. I told her this is not what it says on the "log in" home page. She also said that sometimes it's limited to 30 minutes even not during peak hours because they have a problem with students camping out for hours and occupying tables. By the way she snarkily informed me of this, I could tell she thought I fell into this category. I told her I have been here less than an hour, bought and ate lunch here and was in the middle of writing an important e-mail when I was kicked off (this was true). She offered me a complimentary cookie. I told Charissa to go fuck herself and get a real name.

Ok, the last part isn't true. But I did turn down the cookie. I have some principles. The good news is that the town of Brookline has a cheap wifi service you can sign up for, so I am now taking up a large booth to blog about this. Suck it, Panera.

Finally, the corporation most deserving of my hatred -- Best Buy. Last year, my dad bought me an Insignia flatscreen HD TV with a built-in DVD player. In March, a little over a year after acquiring this TV, the DVD player stopped working. I took it in to Best Buy since it was still under warranty. It took them 2 weeks, but they repaired the DVD player. I brought the TV home and about a week later, the DVD player stopped working AGAIN. I called Best Buy and asked if I could get a new TV since this one was obviously a piece of garbage. They told me that per my warranty, they won't replace the TV until it's been sent out for service FOUR TIMES. It has to break FOUR TIMES before they replace it, and remember, each time it goes out for service, it takes 2 weeks to fix. Unacceptable.

My dad, who loves lost causes and in his semi-retirement writes a lot of angry letters, was pretty pissed that this policy was buried in the fine print of the extended warranty agreement he signed. He chewed out a Best Buy supervisor named Troy, based in Colorado. I guess it brings me a little pleasure to think about Troy (employee ID #153162) in Colorado getting yelled at by a 65-year-old man in St. Louis who's furious that his daughter's DVD player in Boston is broken. My dad threatened Troy that he would "post a blog on the internet" (I didn't have the heart to tell him that statement's redundant) and bring Best Buy to its knees, defaming Troy and all the Troys in the Best Buy corporate machine who rip off the little people.

Et tu, Troy?

Then Dad ordered me an external DVD player. From Walmart. We'll see how this plays out.

North Shore Agency: BUSTED

In my last post, I transcribed the e-mail Funkin' A! received from douchenozzle extraordinaire Kyle Fitzpatrick. Now I'd like to share another odd piece of correspondence I received a few weeks ago in the mail, from North Shore Agency, a collection agency with a Columbus, OH address.

Dear Katie Vagnino,

Be realistic.

You don't get something for nothing.

The magazines you ordered from our client, TIME OUT NEW YORK, have a value. Otherwise, you wouldn't have placed an order for that subscription.

That value is in the amount of $19.97.

We expect full payment for that subscription. The value of sending payment on your part is to protect your account with our client.

That account has a value, too.

Make a check payable to North Shore Agency and mail it in the envelope provided.

You don't get something for nothing.

It's not the way it works and you know that.

***************************************************

I find this letter completely hilarious in its tone. I mean, talk about childish shaming tactics! I also, upon checking online and calling Time Out, determined that my account is not actually in collection and my subscription is paid up through June 2011. BOGUS.

A quick Google search of "North Shore Agency scam" yielded a ton of hits, information about class action lawsuits and warnings on consumer scam sites about how NSA obtains/steals old subscription data and sends phony letters. Sadly, most people pay because the amount requested is low and they don't want to jeopardize their credit. Hell, I almost just paid it and figured I'd forgotten to renew my subscription on time. However, North Shore Agency can't even report to credit agencies. This is something they freely admit when you call them, like I did.

Getting a human on the phone was not easy. The number listed on the letter I got just connected me to an automated system that wanted my credit card information. I tried pressing zero, I tried pressing nothing and staying on the line and I just got disconnected eventually. Finally, I located an alternate number, provided by another pissed NSA letter-recipient. I called and spoke to a very hostile woman who admitted that they are being sued by a bunch of people ("well, all companies get sued") and insisted that Time Out New York had given them my information, even after I told her I had just gotten off the phone with them and their records show that my account is paid.

At any rate, I probably should report these clowns to someone. In the meantime, if you get a letter from North Shore Agency, don't send them any money.

Summer is almost over...

....and I couldn't be happier about it. Not because this was a bad summer, per se, but because (prepare to gasp) I don't really like summer. It might, in fact, be my least favorite season.

Admitting you don't like summer is like saying you hate dogs, a subject I blogged about back in June. From a very early age, we are programmed to look forward to summer. School's out! No more getting up early, no more homework! You can eat hotdogs and watch fireworks! What's not to love?

Well, off the top of my head:

1) It's too fucking hot. And air-conditioning is expensive. There is nothing worse than taking a cool shower and then starting to sweat again before you can even get your clothes on. I enjoy the hot weather for about two weeks -- then I'm over it.

2) The beach is overrated. Unless you look like this :For most of us, donning a bathing suit and being close-to-naked in front of total strangers who may or may not have better bodies is not a fun prospect. Also, I usually get bored after about 2 hours on the beach. I read, I nap, I swim (if I'm not on a beach on the Atlantic where the water is frigid) and then....I'm kind of ready to go back indoors.

3) Everyone who can afford it is out of town on the weekends, making for a stagnant social life. And for those of us who don't use "summer" as a verb and jet off to the Cape/Hamptons/the Vineyard every weekend, there's not much to do except visit the same old bars and drink watery sangria.

4) The Fourth of July is usually disappointing, much like New Year's Eve. You try to make "awesome" plans, but something always falls through -- it rains and the BBQ you planned to attend is canceled, or the roof party with the great view of the fireworks runs out of beer at 8 pm. Something always goes wrong and before you know it, it's July 5th. Happy fucking birthday, America.

5) August is, hands down, the worst month. It's the Sunday of months -- you can't really enjoy it because you're thinking about all the shit you have to get done in September and feeling guilty about all the stuff you were supposed to accomplish with all your free time over the summer. Everyone is depressed and sluggish. No good movies come out in August ("Hey hon, want to see Nanny McPhee Returns tonight?").

I'm not depressed at the end of August, however -- I'm positively elated that fall is almost here. I love fall clothes and colors, I love the cool evenings, and my favorite holiday, Halloween, is right around the corner. August is insufferable, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel, a light signifying salvation from the heat and the exhausting summer expectation to HAVE FUN CONSTANTLY.

I say, bring on September! I'd rather shop for Trapper Keepers than bikinis any day.

Hell hath no fury...

...you know the rest. Basically, chicks don't like to be scorned. Ever. And if you scorn a woman writer? You're just asking for it, really.

Case in point: my friend Julie Klausner's new book I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated. Julie is a very funny lady with whom I had the pleasure of working with on a few different occasions while living in NYC. And her book is a very enjoyable read, especially if you're newly single like me and a little bit cynical about those copious fish in the proverbial sea everyone's always raving about.

Julie's book inspired me to reflect on some of my dating snafus. Now, I don't want to be rude and I know that some of my exes read my blog, so I won't use names. I'm not a total bitch. Here, in no particular order and for your schadenfreudic pleasure, are some of the less-than-stellar moments from my love life:

1) A month before my 21st birthday, I broke up with the guy I'd been dating. In the spirit of trying to be "just friends," I invited him to my birthday party, which was held in my dorm. He decided it would be a good idea to show up with another girl and have sex. In my room. On my desk chair. Classy, right?

2) Meanwhile, also at this party, a guy I'd gone out with once and not even so much as kissed showed up very drunk and then disappeared. I thought he went home. Then when my friends were carrying me to my bed (I'd had, ahem, a bit to drink), we found him: He had stripped down to his boxers and was (presumptuously) waiting for me in my bed. Or at least he had been until he passed out. My friends had to wake him up, hand him his pants, and show him the door. There was no second date.

3) A roommate who worked as a bartender was really excited to set me up with this guy who frequented her bar. She insisted we would hit it off and arranged a group outing where we could meet. He showed up and seemed perfectly nice. When he found out I was from Missouri, he got excited and said, "Oh, then you'll totally appreciate this." He pulled out his cell phone, which had a Confederate Flag cover. Like this:


I laughed nervously and said, "Ironic, right?" He shook his head and said gravely, "No, it's not like that." Two possibilities: 1) he truly believes the South shall rise again or 2) he didn't know what "ironic" meant. Both were kind of deal-breakers, as was his comment later that evening about lesbians being "awesome." I mean, they are, duh, but when you're a straight guy who's clearly never met an actual lesbian, it doesn't quite count.

4) I haven't had many one-night-stands, but one that I did have yielded one of my very best stories. I already wrote about this incident on a sex blog, so click here to read it.

5) I broke up with someone the day after Valentine's Day and unfortunately, his belated V-Day gift to me was already in transit (but had not yet arrived). Now, I know for a fact he bought and sent this BEFORE we broke up, so considering that, the gift's message is amazingly prescient:


That's right, I got a T-shirt telling me to "bug off" just days after my bf and I had essentially, albeit in politer terms, said the same thing to each other. Also funny is the fact that said T-shirt (the top half of pajamas) is size small, meaning that despite having unlimited access to my breasts for 2+ years, this guy still thought I was a size small. Strange.

6) I once invited a boy I'd hooked up with a few times over for dinner. I was trying upgrade our relationship from drunken fumbling to something more meaningful. He showed up for dinner 45 minutes late, completely tanked. He actually had been at a bar about a block from my house drinking with friends. Then, throughout dinner, he proceeded to repeatedly check his phone and respond to text messages. It was pretty insulting, especially considering I had spent a good part of my day cooking on his behalf -- and cooking risotto, which takes FOREVER. Ugh. At least I got some good leftovers out of it.

I'm sure this year will bring some more entertaining dating stories, and hopefully some with less ridiculous endings. I'm considering venturing into the world of online dating-- I even created a profile on the free site OKCupid, only to freak out an hour later and take it down. I just want to find/be found by someone without having to look for them...and as I type that, I realize how incredibly lazy that makes me sound. Hmmm.

Bank of Some States of America

Generally, I'm pretty happy with my bank, Bank of America. They are fairly understanding when I occasionally overdraw my account and I can usually get them to remove those pesky $35 overdraft fees. Every time I call, they thank me for being an account holder since 1999. Basically, Bank of America and I go way back.

Living in Boston spoiled me, however, in terms of ease of banking access. Bank of America branches are EVERYWHERE. Paying ATM fees became a thing of the past when I moved to Boston last year, much to my delight. There is nothing that incenses me more than paying money to access my money.

But here in Colorado, I find myself in a quandary. Colorado has 161 Bank of America ATMs, but no banking centers. And none of the ATMs allow check deposit. And that is what I urgently need to do: deposit a check.

Why urgently? Well, those of you who know me know that I have a somewhat precarious financial existence. I have many jobs (4 to be exact) but cash flow is always a problem. Waiting tables is unpredictable (some people tip like bastards); my graduate assistantship pays me in full for an entire semester at the beginning of the semester (which is nice but hard to parse out over time); another job is freelance and sporadic; etc. So I'm constantly working and earning, but often checking my mailbox frantically for checks and living on cereal and pickles when times get tough.

The current situation is dire in that if I can't find a way to deposit the check I have in my possession, automatic payments that come out of my account at the end of the month will make me overdrawn. And I'll be accruing those $35 fees in no time. Which maybe I can get taken off, but maybe not.

I can't believe there are no Bank of America locations in Colorado. They have 161 ATMs, but they are all located in random gas stations and can't accept deposits. Useless. Apparently, Minnesota, Kentucky, Utah, Indiana, Ohio, Wyoming, Wisconsin, Montana, Nebraska, and South Dakota are similarly plighted. And you're really in trouble if you're thinking of traveling to North Dakota, Vermont, Mississippi, or West Virginia; they have no B of A anything, no ATMS or branches.

Which leads me to conclude that the name is kind of a misnomer. Bank of America? More like Bank of 35 States of America. Hmpf.

Also, semi-related: check out this video from 2006 wherein Bank of America, after another merger, rewrote the lyrics to U2's world peace anthem "One" to be about....credit cards. Shameless.

To the Rude Guy on the T

Dear Rude Guy on the T (RGOT),

I know you're really excited about your T-Mobile Sidekick's ability to function as an mp3 player. Bu there's this amazing invention that allows you to listen to your music in public without forcing those around you to listen as well. HEADPHONES. Seriously, invest in some. I'm not judging you or your music. I am, however, judging your lack of consideration for your fellow T-riders.

But you know what bothers me the most, RGOT? I think you're enjoying this. The way you smirk at the various people who glare at you, hoping you'll turn your music down, tells me that you like being the center of attention, even if it's negative attention. You're daring someone to say something to you, to challenge you. I came very close to taking one for the team and doing it. I doubt you would have done anything beyond call me a bitch. You might have even just ignored me.

You look about 18, RGOT, so I guess being a self-involved ass is to be expected. I thought I was untouchable hot shit too when I was 18. But being an arrogant prick stops being cute at some point, trust me. Nothing gives you the right to ruin everyone's Monday morning commute. Some people are trying to read, chat or listen to their own music on headphones. You are not entitled to impose your music on us just to so you can feel like a badass rebel.

Also, lose the diamond earring.

Best,
Katie

H&R Blockheads

Yesterday, I went in for my annual. Which gynecologically would refer to the once-a-year pap smear appointment, but in this case, I mean my annual trip to H&R Block. Except this time? I would have preferred an invasive vaginal exam. Because I left the appointment feeling quite violated and robbed of both dignity and money.

I knew my taxes this year would be bad and complicated. I had to file in two states (MA and NY), and as a freelancer, I had almost a dozen forms/sources of income. I had a few W-2s, several 1099s, plus dividend stuff, and student loan paperwork. It was a big 'ol mess. The appointment last over 2 hours.

But the worst part? I left H&R Block not entirely confident that they had done even a remotely competent job. And they charged almost $500 for their services. Which is twice as much as I paid last year. Forbes confirms that H&R Block raised their prices and that the average fee for having them do your taxes has risen by about 11%. Tax-wise, I am fine -- I'm getting a small refund, which is nice, albeit surprising. Often I don't get a refund and owe the government money because I don't have taxes taken out beforehand for some of my writing and tutoring gigs.

At the end of my session, after everything had been calculated, my tax adviser showed me the itemized breakdown of the services. He was actually late for his ride home and trying to hurry me out the door, which I found annoying. He also answered his cell phone several times during my appointment. Rude.

Basically, H&R Block charges you for every computerized field they fill out on the tax forms. Hilariously, every write-off they come up with, they make a profit off of. So whatever money it adds onto your refund check is totally canceled out. I actually had my adviser go back and claim less in expenses so I would owe H&R Block less money.

My tax adviser had to leave before everything had been signed, so he turned me over to another employee, who happened to also be The Oldest Man I Have Ever Seen. I mean, this dude was 90 if he was a day. He couldn't operate the stapler without my assistance. So the last step in the process, which should have taken 5 minutes, took 30. There were papers everywhere and he kept some, gave me some....it was like amateur night at the Apollo.

When I first came in for my appointment, another customer was loudly arguing with the H&R Block manager about the fact that he couldn't get a copy of the itemized receipt from them. Now I know why, though it still seems incredibly sketchy. They show you on a computer screen, after you're already dazed from answering tax-related questions for an hour, how much they're charging you and once you numbly nod, you never get to see that breakdown of charges again. Presumably because it's totally preposterous what they charge. They have raised their costs considerably from last year; I have my receipt from last year and spent $240 to get my taxes done. So they are charging more and have stopped giving you a copy of the receipt. SHADYTOWN. And the Better Business Bureau agrees; it has given H&R Block a rating of "F." That's right, an F. As in, FAIL.

Next year, my taxes *should* be simpler, since I won't have as many freelance writing gigs (one of the pubs I write for has already switched to an online-only format and cut the budget for freelancers) and will only be earning in one state. I am going to try to do my taxes on my own. Essentially, H&R Block charged me almost $250/hour, whereas I could have hired my own accountant for less and gotten better service.

So if you're thinking about going to H&R Block.....I would seriously recommend that you reconsider.

Other evidence that H&R Block sucks:
"10 Things H & R Block Won't Tell You"

Consumeraffairs.com: Complaints about H&R Block

A Rant

Ok, I usually don't use this blog to just vent about shit that bothers me, but I can't help it. In the past few days, I have had some run-ins with uptight old white people in Boston. There are a lot of them and I'm sure many are quite lovely, but two occurrences bear mention re: unacceptable uptight cranky behavior.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to see "Slumdog Millionaire" at the Fenway AMC Theater. I was with two friends and we were QUIETLY chatting during the previews. Not the film itself, the previews. I'm sure you see where this is going. This old guy in row in front of us turns around and very nastily tells us to keep it down. Look, it drives me up the wall when people talk during movies, but I thought the commerical/preview portion was fair game for talking. I mean, we've all seen the Fandango ad a million times before, do you really need to hear it again? It's paper bags with fake hair talking, people.


Also, you can politely ask someone to keep it down. If you think someone is being rude, you don't have to be rude back.

But even more amazing is what happened tonight, not in a movie theater, but right outside one. I went to see a bizarre documentary about the inventor of the Theremin at Coolidge Corner. Waiting in a long line outside before we were allowed in the theater, my friend Alexis lit up a cigarette. And moments later, a crazy woman who was at least 15 people ahead of us in line comes up and says brusquely that the smoke is "bothering everybody" and that she should put it out immediately.

I want to reiterate that we were OUTSIDE. Now, I'm not a smoker and I love that when I come home from restaurants and bars my clothes don't smell like smoke. But to my knowledge, smoking outside is still legal. It's the one place where I really don't care if you smoke because there's this nifty thing called wind that makes the smoke go away. My friend didn't want to start a fight with a senior citizen in Brookline, so she apologized and put out her cigarette. I think I was more outraged than she was.

Then in the movie theater parking lot, right next to where the line had formed, a car alarm started going off. The owner of the car immediately tried to disable it but didn't succeed for about 30 seconds. And would you believe it, the same crazy woman starts yelling "READ THE MANUAL!!!" to this poor embarrassed dude.

Does this woman live in soundproof oxygenated bubble? Well, now that I think about it, if she lives in Brookline...then, yes. But if smoke and noise bother you, you might want to never go out in public. And staying away from heavy metal concerts might also be a good plan.

On a side note, theremins are totally fierce instruments. Listen to the Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations" if you don't believe me -- the theremin is the weird high-pitched spooky sound that happens during the chorus.

Lay off, haters

As a Time Out New York freelancer and subscriber, I am incredibly annoyed by the recent Gawker coverage on TONY's alleged imminent demise. I have always found Gawker to be too mean-spirited and catty for my taste; I envision their writers to be the kind of vapid, elitist, pat-themselves-on-the-back-for-being-so-clever folks that I did my best to avoid in college. Also, the "audition to comment" requirement on the blog is baffling. Really, Gawker? You need to give me the stamp of snark approval before I can respond to your posts? The whole thing just kind of pisses me off.

Gawker compares TONY to New York Magazine and comes to the conclusion that TONY is content-poor ("New York magazine could be considered a higher-end competitor, but its content is a million times better"). Well, maybe that's because the two magazines actually serve two very different functions and shouldn't be compared. TONY is and always has been primarily about their listings. And yes, the free event listings on sites like Yelp and Citysearch have decreased readership somewhat, but most publications are in a similar boat.

Yes, I'm biased -- I interned at Time Out and loved working there. They gave me the opportunity to write and not just fetch coffee and run errands. And I still write for them on occasion. Gawker is right about the freelancer problem -- it does take too long to get paid and the pay isn't great. But a byline in Time Out is valuable, which is why I keep writing for them. If you need a steady paycheck, don't be a freelancer. Duh.

New York Magazine has never been my cup of tea. Maybe it's because I don't care that much about the Best Doctors in Manhattan (because I can't afford them), the activities of NYC socialites or how much the highest paid call girl makes.


I would describe New York Mag as an interesting hybrid of classist and trashy. For interesting articles on politics and culture, I read the New Yorker. For event information, I read Time Out.

I briefly wrote for New York Mag's website, contributing mini-restaurant reviews. It should have been a dream job but I quit after a few months because my editor was a complete harpy. She was a writing-by-the-numbers editor-- all my reviews had to follow a rigid formula (1st sentence must be about the decor, 2nd sentence must be about the clientele) or else they were unacceptable. No creativity, no finesse allowed. And she would alter my work and post it on the site with my name on it without running the changes by me. There are things on that website that I would take my name off of if I could. For instance, this sentence was added to one of my reviews: "You can expect high-quality meat and sauces that don't overpower the meat."

I WOULD NEVER WRITE THAT.

That crazy editor did eventually leave -- to work for, as she wrote me in an e-mail, "an upstart literary zine." I assume she meant "start-up" but I never inquired further.

I would like to see Time Out chill out a little with their editorial and layout changes of late (bring back Around Town! Fire Julia Allison!) but overall, I think it's a good magazine and a valuable resource for NYC tourists and lifers alike.

So, haters? Lay off.