Month: June 2016

I’m exposing my soul to so many new experiences lately, and the chemical reaction has been much more melodic than I could have ever imagined.

I’ve fallen in love. I’m falling more and more as each day passes, and to be loved as much as I love, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt. It’s strange to think we’ve known each other all along and had no idea we were so absolutely compatible with one another.

On the same note, I recently was mostly sober in the presence of my very drunk adorable boyfriend. The same situation in which I’ve previously deemed other guys 86’ed. Undateable. Don’t talk to me again.

We were across the bay and travelling via public transportation about 30 miles back to my house.  He was stumbly.  Belligerent with strangers and attracting a shit load of attention.

I was patient, and I was kind. Which is a reaction brand new to myself.

I’ve never felt so strongly in love yet also completely at peace with the decision I’ve made to finally allow myself to be loved, and love in return.

Today before work, I was feeling a little bit ungrateful about the job situation that I have. I was feeling slightly pretentious, and probably a bit overdramatic, about the fact that I now have to work on Saturday nights. I woke up at my babe’s house, 100 miles away from my own, and wanted nothing more than to lie in bed all day with him basking in our drunken odors lingering from the night before.

He made me coffee and put it in yet another travel mug to add to the ever-growing collection of his kitchenware in my backseat. I drove and drove and stopped for more coffee and drove some more until I crawled from the driver seat of my car, up the steps to my house and into my own bed.

By the time I got to work, I was feeling even more slow. I got there only to find that my coworker, who’s shift I was relieving, couldn’t find the time to replenish or restock anything that I would need for my brand new 8-hour shift of hosting and entertaining the cocktail drinkers of East Bay California.

Fucking rad.

I pissed people off. They asked me where the fuck their food was. They asked me why the fuck their drink was taking so long. And my god, do I need to ask someone else for a side of ranch? I broke a glass, dumped two drinks by accident and two people left without paying.

As I was printing my server reports for the night, my coworker asked me how I was feeling about this career choice.  “It’s shit,” I told him. “Nights like tonight make me think that it’s not worth it.”

And maybe it’s just because I’m used to a different presentation of stress. Maybe it’s just because I know how to handle a malfunctioning copy machine better than when the Pepsi machine runs out of syrup. Maybe it’s because I can better understand someone stressing the urgency of documents, better than I can understand someone stressing the urgency of their fucking flatbread.

I’m a firm believer that if it’s not making you happy, it’s not worth it.

And I cannot say that my part-time bartending job isn’t making me happy, because it for surely is. I can tell in the way that I speak to guests like they’re my friends. I can tell by the way I dance in the kitchen with the cooks, and play pranks on my coworkers.

After almost nine hours of running around, trying to meet other people’s made-up deadlines, I left out the back door with an apron pocket full of cash and a to-go box of freshly made (and free) food. I sunk into the driver seat of my car and smiled at my life. Aching feet and all.

Who gives a shit about missing a Saturday night ordering drinks instead of shaking them. Maybe it’s not what I’m used to, or maybe I’m just acting bougie. Being out of my comfort zone is helping me learn, it’s helping me grow, and for that…
I need to remember to stay thankful.

I’ve always struggled with the meaning of “home”.
They have all these phrases to help you identify what’s a house, what’s a home, what’s a family blah blah blah.

“Home is where the heart is.”  The most standard of them all.

I hate when people ask me where I’m from.

Like… Where was I born? Where did I grow up? Where do I belong? What do you mean, where am I “from”? I’m a product of everywhere I’ve been.

I usually just answer them that my family lives in Sacramento. Ah yes, they reply, Cap City. Everyone is familiar with the Capitol. This eliminates the confusion. Until of course, they ask for my phone number (area code first). Or ask where I went to college- do you mean like, where did I graduate?

My gypsy soul has taught me that I can make a home anywhere I go.
My gypsy soul has taught me to feel at home wherever I go.

Home isn’t a place at all.  Home is a feeling.