I have been so busy this past week, I almost forgot write about rich people.

Rich people, I know, are a completely different breed of species--rather, they are an entirely different species all together, with much of their genetic code dictated by designer labels, the look of their mortage-brokeraging business cars and the fake, loud glare of their teeth. As the species poster boy, I give you "Alton"--the clean-looking man with product-defying hair. Today he's done up in a white button down oxford (sans the stripes, of course. Plain white button shirts being so bold and daring and all ...) He drinks Effen Vodka martinis with three olives and smiles a lot while looking around the room saying things like, "Yea, we'll be talking later," with a glassy glint in his eye.

I met Alton while serving drinks at a benefit last Thursday night at Moonshine before I headed to Sanibel and Captiva Island and the surreal Wal-Mart experience (see previous blog.) The benefit was hosted by an organization promoting Breast Cancer Awareness. A noble cause, I will note, with a less applaudable following.

Here is my problem with benefits of this nature. Yes, they benefit the greater cause at hand, but benefiting the greater cause at hand are self-serving, pretty, rich people who, may not all fall into the "asshole" catergory (many of them are pleasantly nice in a creepy, plastic way) they are so unaware of a world outside of their own that they do not even realize they are benefiting the greater cause. Going to these benefit functions (which usually entail a $100-plus entry fee, moderately scaled open bar, some pseudo hot dog, roll-up things served on heavy plastic plates and a mish-mash of expensive perfume and French manis) is simply a matter of being seen. Go. Run into all of your other rich friends who you may see at other benefits and retrograde into the usual "benefit conversations." .

Defining the exactness of these conversations proves difficult, because as hard as I tried on Thursday night, all I got was bits and pieces of short-strung sentences, while men with high cheek bones angled their eyes at the television screens and occassionally glanced around the room scoping the talent, not looking at people, but looking over them--away from them as if everyone around them was invisible.

So, Alton.

I have to first give the man some credit, for being impressionable enough to stick with me. Unlike his other asspony friends, he had a shred of personality--a shred of ... something human. And as cheesebagged as he sounded telling me, "Yea, we'll be talking later," as he handed me his credit card to open his tab, I still commend the man for looking me in the eye when we interacted. Occasionally throughout the night, I sassed around my customers as I usually do on regular nights at Moonshine (with the exception of Saturdays, when Lincoln Park vomits all over the upper half of the restaurant) and most the time they either a) ignored me b) looked at me like I was the retarded girl on the regular bus c) completely didn't get the joke. "What?" one modelesque guy with curly asked me. Believe I was jesting his drink. I even went out of my way to be nice to these people, buying the ones who looked at me a round of shots. They, of course, couldn't even come up with a creative cheers, they simply shot the shot and said "thanks."

Then came the moment when the bar poured the last reserves of its Effen Vodka, the featured vodka at the benefit that evening. Rich people ordered them by the half-dozens. Effen gimlet. Effen soda. Effen martini up. Make it dirty. Not so dirty. Little dirty. Little lime with my lemon. Got San Pelligrino back there?

On the last pour, my manager, my flaky but respectable ally in the character department, instructs me and my fellow barending beauty Susie to "Give 'em Gilbey's," with a slight smile in his eye. He knew what he was doing. Oh, the glee! I couldn't wait to see thier faces contort when they foresaw the prospect of consuming ... Gilbey's. So when the next "Effen soda" order came up, I dug deep into my well and extracted the Gilbey's (rightfully sticky from not being poured in the last two and a half weeks) and shine up their glasses nicely. I didn't tell them unless someone noticed, and the sad part was, that most of them didn't, unless they happened to be looking directly at me, which in their case happened only 1 time out of 999 chances.

On that one chance a woman with dark hair and shimmery powder skimming her shoulders looked at me and said "What are you doing?"

I looked back at her and said "Oh, we ran out of Effen."

"But I don't want that stuff," she said.

"OK, anything else you have to pay for."

"I did pay."

"Yea, at the door. The Effen is gone. Everyone drank it. Gilbey's is what we are using for the package deal."

"awh."

There's that scoff. Sadly, no one else realized they went from drinking top shelf vodka to bathtub-brewed crappola. And they claim they have such discriminating palates. I can't speak for the rest of the crowd, but I can speak for shined up Alton, who, when confronted me with the rumor that "The Effen is out!" asked for "whatever I was pouring."

"We got Gilbey's!" I said in the most exalted voice and modeled the bottle like a game show prize. He just smirked (rich people never "laugh") and said, "I'll take it then," as if he had just made the most important decision in the world. Mind you, he had most the important statement in the world. He was a blessed man.

I really don't mind taking money from these people. They tip well, but not because they appreciate the service, because it's money and it's expected. Should I continue to question ethics if my pockets are filled at the end of the night? Maybe not. If I hadn't served these people, I wouldn't have banked. But the quick peak I got of such tranquilized beauty frightened me. I walked out of the bar that night slightly scratching my head, and fully thankful I could see even in the dark.

Nasty Wal-Mart and other Southwest Florida Ramblings

I arrived in Fort Meyers beach on Friday morning, foolishly assuming it would be much easier to find an Internet connection than it has been. Then again, I should never assume certain things about South Floridia, because Floridians are a mish-mash of oddities that I can't quite put my finger on. A girlfriend of mine once told me, "Stay away from Florida boys, they have sand in thier ears." Well, I think many people here in Florida have sand in their ears--not just boys, but the mix of young and old and natives who I am trying not to stereotype in any form--but sometimes such observations are inevitable.

Case in point: Last night (Sunday night) I made the mistake of going to the 24-hour super Walmart because I needed envelopes, some stamps and batteries. The first thing I see when I walk in is a row of soda-flavored cakes. Seven-up cake, Orange Crush cake (appropriately orange), Hawaiian Punch cake, Dr. Pepper Cake, Cherry Vanilla Coke cake ... the list goes on. I suddenly felt the urge to conduct science experiments. Then I realized that half the rack was gone, and people actually ate these things! They they digested them, was another story all together. After dodging amused glances from the locals, I moved onto waiting in line to purchase minutes for an overseas phone card. While standing in line, there is ... something .. in front of me wearing a shirt that reads "Fuck Y'all, I'm from Texas." His shopping cart consisted of the following (nothing more, nothing less)

--five, three-pound bags of frozen, "Sam's Choice" chicken quarters

--two, two-pound bags of cornmeal (again, "Sam's Choice")

--one case of Mountain Dew (name brand)

The shirt resembled a tent and he kind of grunted and snorted at the cashier ... who, when, I requested to purchase "two hours" on my phone card said, "no, I need to know who many minutes you need." I kind of looked at her and she turned around and asked the other cashier across from her how minutes was in two hours. Seriously. I was frightened by the whole ordeal while simultaneously. The worst part of the experience came at the end of the trip while I was walking out to my car, I am la-la-laing in Jenn Land when this car pulls up with tinted windows and blows the loudest fog horn into my ear and then speeds away! My ear was ringing for three hours afterwards and I still can't figure out who and why the person did it. It was as if this phantom car came out of nowhere, and just as quickly, sped away. I was not walking the street and if that was an attempt to honk at me or make some other cat call, I swear, that guy must not get many chicks. I was horrified and scared and started screaming and running after the car. "Fuckface!!!" I said, flaying my plastic bag in the air.

In Florida, I understand people even less. I am out of my element even less with the prsence of beach and sun ... but I am not necessarily looking forward to coming back to my hot apartment and (more) piles of work. I ate at this lovely bistro yesterday on patio on the point of Captiva island and drank a Key Lime margarita after getting tossed around by waves. I have several scraps on my back from getting tossed around so much. In many ways, I wish I would have been "cleansed" after the Wal-Mart experience ... on the flip side, I found the original Creepshow DVD (George Romero, circa 1982) in a clearance bin for five bucks.

For a minute, I found salvation.

On Assage.

Quit staring at my ass. I'm serious, I know it's summertime, I know my new blonde hair is just asking for trouble (the fact that I am phrasing it like just shows how sick and wrong our society is and its views towards women), but seriously ... it's unwarranted. I have visited states, lived in other countries, trasped through other cities--and I've never encountered such a rash amount of ooglers as in the city of Chicago.

Especially this summer.

Please, let me explain: The purpose of these words is not to make the point that men find me attractive--honestly, I am an average looking gal, I take care of myself, enjoy working out, enjoying feeling the high I get from my cycling class or the elliptical machine. But I do these things to sastisfy my own self, not anyone else's. Why, then, should I feel uncomfortable walking out of the YMCA in bicycle shorts (not short, mind you. Mid-quad) only to bump into two 40-something gentleman (hold up! too much credit!) who I can see cereening at me from the reflection in an adjacent window? Today, I had had enough. As I saw "the oogle" (dun-dun-dun) I whipped my head around and simply stared them down. They, obviously embarassed by their actions, whipped there heads around equally fast, prentending the whole situation never happened.

Here is a balance that I am finding impossible to strike--so I lighten my hair a bit, so I work out nearly every day? I do this because I know it flatters ME--I don't do it attract attention from men, or of anyone for that matter. On Tuesday night, for example, a male friend of mine told me that whether I want the attention or not, I'm going to get it, based on the fact that men are men and your actions and the perception you give off to the world are what people see. In other words, "It's your own fault, honey." It's almost as if he seemed to be saying, "but isn't that what you want? Why else would you do those things?" No, again--twisted! Why should things that make ME feel good ultimately make ME feel bad? They make me down right uncomfortable. How are the things I do for myself benefiting me then? I am not starved for attention nor do I get my self-esteem from men in anyway (an accusation slung my way in college due to my close involvement with my male friends, who I relate to and love very, very much). I am just trying to better MYSELF and flee from the male, summertime preoccupation and aversion with perversion. I have no problem flipping off cars who honk at me, or random dudes on the street that say "hey, baby." Fuck off. This world is complicated enough without you making me feel uncomfortable.

Italian Men and Carrot Cake

Tonight gramma and I went out for dinner to Jedi's Garden. She ate a grilled cheese with bacon on it and I had a nice fillet of orange roughy with iced tea and salad. She suggested spliting the carrot cake for dessert and since I have infatuation with all things cake (not so much the cream cheese frosting part--just raisins and nuts). I said sure and we talked about the old days when grandpa was still around. Adjacent from us were these two older Italian men wearing Greg Norman-esque hats. They wore shorts with black socks pulled half way up their calves and talked about men with names like "Danny Frilata." The ate salad tossed with iceberg lettuce and peppercinis. One man keep turning in his chair to look at us. He was looking at gramma.

Suddenly, he spoke to me. "Smile, you'll make my day," he told me. Then he asked if me and gramma were sisters. He said I was the older one. I laughed and he asked us our names. "Jennifer and Mary," I said and the old man extended his hand and told us to enjoy our evening and enjoy ourselves. "Bless the night," he said, before trasping aways.

I hate to be cynnical, but I wonder what motivates men like that to approach us ... is it mere friendliness, lonleiness, or pervertedness? Gramma told me she saw him eyeballing our table and she attributed to my new blonde hair. I chalk nothing up to blonde hair because I already know it attracts creepy ooglers. I was more concerned with the comfort level of gramma, who, at 83 years old, doesn't have a grey hair on her. She has the face of Sally Field, with this big Bohemian cheek bones and 105-pound frame. She is still beautiful, and runs the treadmill at the YMCA. Gramma, though, is soft spoken and meek -- she couldn't even bring herself to order a refill on her coffee, I had to do it for her. I have to wonder how she feels when men like that approach her. She is alone since grandpa died in 2000. HOw must she feel when a man approaches her like that? For as shy as gramma is, I know she can still flattery. I wonder, however, if she knows how to flirt?

**************
The Big Chill

I ponied up and lugged my air conditioning unit from the backseat of my car into my bedroom today. I finally snagged it last night from one of my bartending co-workers, who was storing it in his own backseat after I purchased it from my manager for 20 bucks nearly two weeks ago. Yes, it took this long. The unit was certainly a beast, having bit up my shins with tiny scratches and cuts. I installed it though, and it's finally cooling my little one bedroom nicely, and nicely enough, I have the satisfaction of installing it alone.

The whole process did remind me of a situation I encountered last summer, with a guy I was semi-interested in at the time. I am talking in terms of "semi" here because he was a self-interested bloake who could never get past the "semi-reality" of my existence, for whatever it was. I, of course, being the kind of gal who occasionally enjoys being treated like crap (ladies, you're out there, you know who you are)endured it and thrived on it like some deluded jr. high high. I was simply channeling energy. Anyway, I had a much larger unit last summer, and was forced to dispose of that one due to six inches of pigeon poop crusted over the top. At the time I wanted to install the unit last summer, there was no way I could carry it alone. It was that durable.

One afternoon, I simply enlisted his help installing my air conditioning unit.

Without hesitation, he asked, "Why, is it a physical thing?" meaning of course, "are you asking me because you can't phsyically do it?" There was no "yes" or "no" involved; it was simply a matter of him questioning why I would ask him such a favor. He never extended a hand.

Then, there was me. Smiling as usual. Jesus. Underneath I was screaming "Hell yes, jackass! Why else would I ask you to help me?" Right there, I should have known that a man who questions a girl-of-the-moment's request to help her install a 40-pound air conditioning unit is self-centered asshole. No questions asked. But I fed off of it for that second, and maybe even for those months when I didn't care how anyone treated me. Instead, I enlisted the help of two other friends to do it, who happily obliged. But this year, I opted for a different route. I installed my air conditioning unit alone and I didn't carry that sense of anger and frustration that I did last summer. There was excess, confusion and a murkier prospect for that fall and winter that lay ahead. There were problems constantly surfacing.

This evening I'm alone, listening to the air conditioning unit whirring in my room. It may not be as larger-than-life than last year's model, but its slow, constant buzz sounds quite fine and clear, much like the forthcoming cool seasons that lay ahead. I'll keep my jacket ready.

What's the difference between a rude person and an oblivious person ... and how can you spot them?

Bartending last night left me a little tense in the teeth, so to speak. I am not one to pass judgements on people, but these two shined-up cats wearing Madras shirts come in and start swigging Bud Lights. It was only a given that rounds of Red Bulls and (rail) vodka would follow, followed by the obilgatory Jagerbomb and an ill-fated attempt to pick up a girl wearing a one-shoulder shirt. Everything around them was sparkling. One of the shorter guys had already left me a whole 50 cents for a tip on his beer, so he probably figured I was taken care of for the evening. Why tip the next round when he was so generous in the first place, right? His taller friend--who looked less smarmy and slightly more aware--decided to throw down a credit card for the big round of double vodka and Bulls. Still, at $42, I would expect an $8 tip to make it an even $50.

The verdict: $2.00

"You have GOT to be kidding me," I laughed. My bar was four-people deep.

So I take the slip over to the two shined up friends and tell them this is horseshit. Complete horseshit. They look at me like I'm crazy, like someone just slapped them across the sides of their tanned, apple-cheeked faces after telling them , "Oh, by the way, the Cubs SUCK!" The smaller, 50-cent tipper kind of snarls at me and is ready to call me a bitch, it seems (later, I would find out that someone went to the downstairs bar and told another bartender that that "Buddha Bitch up top doesn't know what the hell she's doing." It happened that I was wearing a shirt that said "Shake your Buddha" on it, so I knew it was me.) I wouldn't put it past them to say it. In the end, the taller shmo gave me another two dollars and I told him he had earned my admiration while I batted my eyelashes him with exaggerated vigor. Fucker. What else to say? What else to do?

That was--in its truest essence--horseshit.

I have to wonder if people who go out to bars on weekend nights--who play the part of shined-up man, a sophisticated, successful I-make-the-money-and-have-shiny-business-cards-to-prove-it--I have to wonder if these people really feel comfortable in their own skin. Do they know their own skin? For as much product, as much lotion, as much they pamper their outer facades, these people are masking their reality of unknowing with (false) knowing assurance. Can the girl in the one-shoulder shirt shirt see through this? Does she care--as long as her drinks are paid for?

I should have waved the credit in their faces and told them, "I'd be careful if I were you--a man who cheats the bartender is sure to cheat (on) you too."

On Eye Contact.

I sometimes compare my spin class to a subway ... except with more sweat, less clothes and an abundance of water bottles. The level of awkwardness is about the same. The level of eye contact-or lack there of--is equally disturbing. The other day my water bottle fell out of those little metal clingers that attach to the side of the stationary bikes (or those who may not be familiar, spin is a form cardiovascular torture that is pleasurable to those who enjoy the dark, lots of mirrors and a big endorphine hit. There's also music involved by everyone from Sting to CCR to CC Peneston ... on good days). So my water bottle falls and I am clipped into the bike with my spinning shoes fastened to the pedals, so I don't really want to unclip myself and move because its kind of a pain in the ass to get situated in the first place ... and I noticed the female spinner warming up next to me isn't wearing clipped shoes. She could easily scoot off the bike and grab my bottle. Instead, she diverts her head the other way and I am left feeling bashful about asking her to grab the bottle eventhough she watched it roll. She never even made eye contact with me.

I wonder what motivated her fear not to look ... or was it not fear, but the mere inadequacies we have in public places among strangers. We are forced to sit next to one another not by choice, but because we are putting ourselves in this place as a means to end. We are losing weight, impressing a mate, looking for the next high in a high-free zone. Yet, we can't seem to strike that balance of basic humaness (or ideal humaness?) I am baffled.

Then there is the opposite effect of eye contact. Tonight, I worked behind the bar with the lovely Ms. Veronica for a singles, icebreaker party. There were slews of 20- 30- somethings drink Diet Sprite and wearing name tags with celebrities typed on them. One woman had Matt Damon scrawled on her back. Another guy's shoulder read Marilyn Monoroe. He was talking to a woman who boar the name Joe Dimaggio. The point of the ice breaker of course was to find the celebrity you matched with on the "couple level" and then strike up a chat. As square as the crowd was, I was getting a kick out of a small man with no chin talk to a rosy tinted lady who was pratically busting out of this vile tangerine tank top. It was charming in a comic book sort of way. But then there was this older man who appeared out of now where wearing a cornflower oxford. He had googly eyes, may have been Hispanic and drank Red Bull and vodkas with cherries in them. All the while he kept shifting corners of the bar, staring at Veronica and I and sipping his drink. I didn't see a celebrity name tag on him. I didn't see him talk to anybody.

The very fact that he couldn't take our eyes off of us made me uncomfortable, but also sad in a way, because I have this knack of feeling very sad for lonely people. I , myself, have been very lonely in various stages of my life, so maybe I fast forward mentally, and see someone carrying all of this loneliness that built on years and years of loneliness--that's got to have some sting. At the same time I felt very angry that he was violating all of us in the bar with a glare that seethed sadness but was too insulting to befriend.

I'm talking about balance here. Where does it begin and end? Hmmm ... perhaps we all have to close our eyes for a moment and regroup.

Food Before Bed.

I used to keep dream journals all the time, but then they just turned into this sporadic, one-page accounts of all the really odd ones. I used to keep a dream encyclopedia by my bed too, but the process of looking up exact words, phrases--or trying to match the exact mood you were feeling at a certain moment--became too hard to match.

I ate a Garden Burger kfor dinner fairly late last night with two dill pickles, and then later, I ate a bowl of Cheerios with fresh blueberries while finishing up some research. I am usually not too accustomed to eating that late, but my broken sleep pattern got the best of me yesterday, so I didn't eat dinner until 8:30 due to a 4 p.m. nap. That said, I had all sorts of oddities popping up in my dreams. Everything from Moira Kelly (that chick from the Cutting Edge), who surfaced in a grainy clip from Caddyshack. Grainy dreams are not as distrubing as animated dreams, but still have a chilling effect. I decided it was one of her first movie roles in my dream and it completely blew me away. When I woke up, I really did check the internet and found out it wasn't true, of course. I was slightly disappointed.

The most distrubing moment of my dream came when I was observing an acquatic tank filled with large tortoises. The torts. looked kind and harmless ... when it came time to feed them, I was with a true tortoise expert--none other than one of our resident DJs at Moonshine (I will refrain from posting names for this one). He was a skilled tortoise master who feed them these GIANT crabs ... or maybe they were lobsters. Regardless, the torts. went to town chewing the faces and claws of these guys apart. It was awe inspiring and creepy, all at the same time. The DJ tortoise handler was all smiles though, while I was throughly repulsed and intrigued.

I am not about to start using my blog to record nightly dreams, but this morning it seemed appropriate for that my first blogspot be dedicated to something unique and uncontrived, because that is what I consider my life to be. I am a dichotomy of errors and successes. Many of the people I surround myself with or bump into on a daily basis while working behind the bar see me as a characature of sorts ... at least that is what I fear. But tangilblity can sometimes be the greatest in into understanding what makes your own world tick. Isn't a that why you read sometimes? When I can look through a window that may not be the same shape as mine, but I can still understand its texture, refinement and intricacies--that is when I know I've struck paydirt.

To all those who enter, there's a lot of loot to find in here. I'm keeping my eyes open.