Rebound Nightmare

   As I'm helping Maggie Garcia shop in my closet over text for a dress to wear to her sister's rehearsal dinner this weekend, she asks me to give her a heads up on these crazy guys I mentioned in my last post. Garcia also falls into the category of strong, independent, single women in Memphis, so
I gotta help a sista out.
   After J.A. and I broke up a few days after my birthday in January, several of my friends encouraged me to put myself out there and jump right back into dating. With out hesitation, I did.

   J. A. and I moved way too quickly. We moved in to a condo in South Main together after only 6 months, and 4 months later we broke up. Though we got back together 2 months after that, I was single for that period of time and looked into dating other people. Keeping up with my time line ok? Good. One weekend I went down to the Mississippi State vs LSU game and hung out with all of my old guy friends. They kept mentioning some app called Tinder. I curiously navigated through one of their apps and quickly realized that it was the most vain, superficial dating app that currently exists. They explained to me that you only see their pictures and swipe to the right for "yes" and to the left for "nope." I had no intentions of downloading this heterosexual version of Grindr, the gay dating app that my gay friends used for random sex. One of the guys finally convinced me to download it as a scheme. They were convinced that our friend Zack was on there but wouldn't admit to it. Since he and I both live in Memphis, he would have shown up as one of my matches. Fast forward to a week later when I was addicted to swiping "nope" and laughed hysterically as Zack and other friends of mine popped up.
   So, this one guy, we'll call him G-Town, caught my attention only because of the friends that the app told me we had in common. I swiped "yes," and we were an immediate match. We messaged back and forth for a few days, and I learned that our mutual friends were regulars of J.A.'s bar. I knew from the get go that this was not going to work out. I couldn't have that looming over my head or have it the talk of the bar. I was kind of a dick about it. I just straight up quit responding to him. And, unfortunately at the time, I actually liked this guy. But, shortly after, J. A. and I got back together, and I forgot about Tinder and G-Town and every other aspect of single life all together.
   Now, all of you should have caught on that J.A. and I are no longer together. All of this was a preface to my first week of single, dating life a little over a month ago. So, I was laying on my couch one night after work going through my phone when I came across G-Town's phone number. With out thinking much about it, I shoot him a text. He quickly fires back with something ridiculously rude about how I just dropped off the face of the earth and blah blah blah. Ok, yes, he was right. I did. I explained to him about my past relationship and knowing the same people and ruining friendships/business at the bar, etc. He was still a straight up asshole to me about it, but I didn't really care. It was a long shot texting someone I had 1. never been out with 2. hadn't talked to in 3 months and 3. never responded to.
   The next morning I woke up to a totally unexpected apology text from G-Town. That one text led to texting back and forth all day, all week, and eventually a date that Sunday. I was pretty fucking excited about going on a date. It had been a long time since I had gone out with someone other than J.A. I had semi-high expectations. G-Town and I had already figured out how much we had in common, he was successful, he owned a condo, came from a great family, and on and on. What could go wrong? There's nothing wrong with this guy.
   The Sunday of our date, I'm flying down HWY 72 coming from a baby shower at Pickwick and trying to make it back to Memphis on time. I get home, quickly throw on some non-baby shower clothes, touch up my makeup, fix a vodka roadie, and head towards Patrick's, a bar which I had never gone to. I was a little weary about that, but it was half way between Germantown and Midtown. I down the vodka before I even make it to Poplar. I wasn't exactly nervous, just rushed. When I got to the bar, I pulled it together because that's what well-raised Southern women do. G-Town was already there, waiting, with a beer and a shot in hand. My kind of man. I liked his style. And his whole face lit up when he saw me...something that I hadn't seen in a long time. There were no awkward pauses or silences or anything. We just dove right into conversation. We laughed and talked and the beers and shots kept coming and before I knew it, it was midnight. We had been there for 6 hours. I knew I was at my limit, so he paid the tab, walked me to my car, and kissed me. My whole body tingled. I hadn't been kissed by another man in so long. It was like I didn't know what to do. My body didn't know how to respond. But, I knew I wanted more. That's all there was to it. There's nothing wrong with this guy.
   We talked the next day while I was at work, and he showed up to my house that night around midnight. He was being weird. I chalked it all up to him being drunk. He talked about his ex girlfriend...from 6 years ago. I immediately shut that down. There's no worse turn off than someone bringing up their ex that they are clearly still in love with. He also told me that his dad already knew all about me and kept saying that I intimidated him. Drunk. Yes, that's what I'll blame it on. Ok, so there may be something wrong with this guy, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.
   He spent the night. No big deal. I didn't have sex with him. And, he snored so bad I had to move to the couch. It was Tuesday. We were three days in and seen each other all three days. Kind of weird, but I'll go with it. We had a date that night. I called Felix and his boyfriend to scope him out. They met us at Bayou and both loved him. So, I had some reassurance. From there, we went to Young Ave and took lots of shots then met up with his cop friends at Celtic. LOVED THEM. Hit it off as soon as we met. But, G-Town was not involved in the conversation. Dude got fucking wasted. We went shot for shot, but he's over here swaying back and forth. What the fuck. Obviously he couldn't drive back to Germantown, so he stayed with me the second night in a row. Still, not having sex with him. He accuses me of liking his cop friend better than him and starts getting super insecure and saying all this crazy shit. "I'm not good enough for you," "You have more money than me." etc. Alright, there is definitely an underlying issue going on with this guy.
   After that night, G-Town and I don't see each other until Saturday night after I get off work. He canceled two lunch dates we had planned and didn't text me one day at all. I get it. People are busy. He's busy. But, he would send texts like, "Hey, I miss you." "I can't wait to have sex with you." "You're so amazing." I don't want to put all of these expectations on sex like he did. He was super nervous about it. Like, talked about it all the fucking time. Apparently he hadn't had sex in a couple months or something. Who cares? It's sex. It's like riding a bike. Except, you're riding something different. No big deal. Then, THEN, I get this text at work Friday, "Let's get you pregnant so I can't lose you." God damnit. I lost my shit. I was laughing but pissed off and weirded out all at the same time. I knew he was Catholic and didn't believe in abortion, but what fucked up person says that after knowing each other for 6 days??? Then, after work, I go to Huey's to get a drink with some old co-workers. G-Town starts blowing up my phone. Says that he broke his ankle, he needs a hotel room, he wants me to get him a hotel room, and stay with him, and he's almost in tears because he doesn't think he can have sex with a fucked up ankle. I just hang up. I can't deal with this. Not sober. Not drunk. Not at all. This guy is fucking nuts.
   Alright, last chance for G-Town. He had asked me to come over to his best friend's house after work Saturday night. Knowing in the back of my head that this was going to be the last time I would ever agree to seeing him, I went just so that I could find a few things out. I get there, and he would barely speak to me. He was super standoffish and down right strange. In front of everyone, he tells his best girl friend that he couldn't wait to fuck me. Not kidding. He said that. I glared right through to his soul. That is not ok, and he knew it. So, he retreated inside with all the guys leaving his BFF and I to chat. I don't waste anytime. I just started firing away telling her all of the crazy shit he said to me, that he brought up his ex girlfriend, where his mom lived on Peabody--everything that I knew he lied to me about. None of his stories added up. His best friend was stunned. She laughed then suddenly changed her tone and told me that everything was a lie. Everything. How can someone lie to me about everything? I don't get it. How does someone keep up with such elaborate lies? His mom does not live on Peabody, his ex girlfriend has him blocked on Facebook and her phone, his condo is an apartment, he's not some big bad guy at work like he told me...I could go on for hours. So, I called him out on it when he walked me to my car. I told him that this was not going to work out, got in my car, and left that nightmare somewhere in East Memphis.
   After I got home, his BFF called me. Apparently, his story, was that I yelled, "Get the fuck away from my car. Don't fucking touch me. I hate you," to him. I couldn't take it. I told her that I was done, hope he has a great life, and that she can keep in touch. After that night, I received so many crazy text messages about how he wanted to marry me, how sorry he was, and that he knew he fucked up. I have since then deleted all of that crazy out of my phone, but I do have this in my Facebook messages, " :( Sorry again for being a d bag. You will make someone very happy. Sorry I messed up."
    Yes, thank you. I will make someone very happy. And, you sir, are one very fucked up individual and need major help.
   

Delightfully Single and Free of Crazy,

Merekat

Taxes, Target, and Testosterone

   Tuesday is my day off, so I feel obligated to be like 10% productive. As I looked over my to do list this morning around 8 am with glass of champs in hand, I circled the ones that were the most important: taxes and Target. The more I thought about what the fuck to do with my taxes since my horror story with H&R Block, the more confidence I had in myself and Turbo Tax. I sucked it up this morning, and before I knew it, an hour and a half had passed, I had drank the better half of a bottle of champs, and my taxes were filed. It's absolutely amazing to me that this woman at H&R Block couldn't figure out my mutual funds, yet me, someone who avoided math and economics and shit like this at all costs did it in an hour and a half. Blows my mind.
    So, since I was all proud of myself and shit, I decided to make a Target run. I didn't wake up yesterday until 1:00 pm, an hour before work, due to all of the shots of fireball I stupidly decided to throw back from 2:00-3:00 am at the Monkey. An hour wasn't enough time for me to wash my jeans that I like wearing to work, so I dug out all of the jeans from my closet. One by one, I started throwing them into a pile because they were all too big. It's a fucking Christmas Day miracle that I've lost weight with out knowing it or trying for that matter. Several of my friends have been commenting on my weight loss and how good I look, but I still feel the exact same. I jokingly told one of them that my "secret" was lots of cigs, beer, shots, sex, and sloppy joes. Apparently it works. I've realized a trend in my weight loss. Every time my ex boyfriend and I would break up, I would lose a lot of weight. And do not for one fucking minute think it's because I feel sorry for myself for being single or don't eat or throw up because I think I'm fat and ugly. I really think his eating habits fucked my diet up. I was always going out to eat. Every meal. It was ridiculous. So, back on track. I went to Target today to buy cheapo jeans for work, and low and behold, I've gone down two pants sizes. Fucking right, doggy.


My current blogging state

   All of that back story was to preface my lunch date with the lovely Miss Raven, a new character introduced to the blog. Raven has a real job. What I mean by that is that she has real hours and gets to have a real life outside of work. My life consists of sleeping until noon, staying up late and closing down bars, and expecting to never experience what a Friday or Saturday night is again. We don't get to see each other much anymore mainly because of my conflicting schedule. Grace works in East Memphis, and since I was going to relish in my new found "skinny" jeans at Target in East Memphis, I invited her to lunch. Though my fingers were crossed hoping she would pick somewhere with alcohol, she chose Panera. Whatever. I had a gift card that paid for my lunch, so I could post pone wine until I got home. As I waited on her to arrive, I stood there watching all of the business professionals, soccer moms and their 30 kids, and old East Memphis women on their weekly lunch outings. Made me really appreciate not having to deal with that in Midtown and Downtown. Now that I'm single and so far from having a husband and family, these are the last people I want to surround myself with. Finally, a long 4 minutes later, Raven arrives like she's walking into a business luncheon fully clad in modern, professional attire. I, myself, am wearing running pants, a pullover, and my new, badass tennis shoes. Do I run? Absolutely not. And I probably fool no one. As we order, Raven and I chit chat about work and bullshit. But, as we settle in with our half and half soup and sandwich deal, we get down to business: single life.
   Raven and I are both as single as they come. And, to be quite frank, we're both damn good catches. We're beautiful, independent young women with big dreams. Apparently, that is intimidating to a lot of men our age in Memphis which is very unfortunate since that it a total turn off. Raven and I haven't seen each other one on one, sober, in over a month. As we traded dating stories and quizzed each other on sex and past relationships, we opened up and blurted out some embarrassing information about the guys we'd met. I'm sure the stuck up socialites around us were covering their children's ears and gawking at us as we laughed and whispered the guys' names across the table. Those of you who know me are aware at how loud I am and my lack of filter. Panera was not the place to talk about such racy topics.
   As I hugged her neck, wished her a good afternoon at work, and lit a cigarette, I realized one thing: there are some weird, fucked up guys in Memphis that we single women have to weed through to find the ones worth tolerating. And men, you need to do the same. Just because we're single doesn't mean we're looking to get married in the next 6 months or have to jump into a relationship immediately or have children before 30. Sometimes its nice to play the modern 20-something year old woman and just get laid once in a while. No strings attached.

XOXO,

Merekat

Tax Season is Upon Us

2013 was a major growing year for me. It's been almost two years since I've written, but I found a previous post about growing up. I felt like I needed to grow up, but I didn't quite know what that meant. I think I've finally figured it out.

I'm taking control over my life now. It's stupid how simple that sounds. In the past, I thought I was living by Felix's slogan, "I do what I want. I get what I want." But, I wasn't doing it the right way. In the past year, I had three different jobs, dated and lived and broke up with a guy, and quit culinary school. 2013 sucked balls, and god damnit, 2014 will not.

This year I'm not putting up with anyone's bullshit. I'm not going to settle. And, I'm going to become that amazing, independent woman that my mother raised me to be.

Step 1:  Get out of a toxic relationship. CHECK.

I finally realized that I can not fix something that is too far gone. It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make, but after I cried my eyes out at work in front of the entire kitchen staff, I felt good. Really good. And embarrassed. And I went out and got drunk with old friends that night. Fuck it. The amount of relief was refreshing, and made me feel like I was being true to myself.   

Step 2: Take over my health insurance. CHECK.

So, Momma Hen, being the supportive, awesome human being that she is, has paid for my health insurance all this time. Well, except when I had a real job with benefits at Mississippi State. Oh, God. Now I remember how pissed she was when I quit and became a nanny....and she had to support me again. Whoops. Regardless, she loves me. So basically, I've been fucked by my insurance agent in Corinth, and he changed my coverage with out me knowing. I started getting bills for $600+ every time I walked through the door at a doctor's office. And, Blue Cross Blue Shield of Mississippi finally figured out that I didn't live in Mississippi anymore. It only took them a good two and a half years to bust me. When they called, I was like, "Oh yea, I've lived in Memphis for almost three years." Then, I played the girl card, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Am I doing something wrong? I can't use Mississippi and not live in Mississippi? No one told me." Fucking idiots. So, I canceled it and got Blue Cross Blue Shield of TN.

Step 3: Take over my taxes. No where near being fucking checked.

God damn. Yesterday was a fucking nightmare.
Momma Hen has always taken all of my tax docs to someone to have them done. This year, going along with my plan, I decided to take that over and have them done in Memphis. So, I asked around and all of my CPA friends recommended H&R Block. And, this is what happened.

My first mistake was loosing my school tax shit. I was going to play dumb and act like I didn't get it. My second mistake was making an appointment at the H&R Block office on Cleveland.

Alright, so I'm all pumped up about being awesome and productive on my day off, but the so called "Senior Tax Analyst" quickly deflated my confidence. I walk in and am greeted by the lady I had confirmed my appointment with. See, very professional. I confirmed. So far so good. She ushers me over to this little cubicle with this tax lady.

"What can I help you with?" Tax lady doesn't smile.
"Well, I made an appointment to have you do my taxes." Duh

All she does is stare at me. Her 70 year old self with dead eyes. Just stares. I was so uncomfortable, I just kept talking.

"My mom has always had someone do my taxes, but I wanted to do them this year."
"Do you have your W2's?"
"Yes. I have three W2's right here along with my Edward Jones money market account 1099 form. I never got anything from school. I was a fulltime student and worked last year."

And, she stares at me again.

"So, can you do my taxes?" I mean, what the fuck else am I supposed to say? The bitch just FUCKING STARES AT ME.

She shuffles through my W2's and doesn't even really read them. She's just doing what she does best: stares blankly at them. Then, she picked up my Edward Jones packet.

"What is this?"
"That's my Edward Jones money market account. It's the 1099."
"You haven't opened it? Why haven't you opened it?"
"No....I brought it to you. I don't know what to do with it."

And she stares at me. So, I open the packet.

"This isn't what I need."
"Yes, it is. I called my Financial Planner, and this is what he said I needed to give you. It's my 1099."
"I need a summary page. I don't know what this is. I'll have to ask my supervisor."

By this point, I'm so mad and on the verge of tears. My voice is shaky and I'm about ready to slam her head into her desk. I give my best effort to explain this shit.

"No, I do not want your supervisor. This is what you need. It's my 1099. I have a money market account. It's like 20-30 mutual funds that have shown growth over the last year. Edward Jones. Investments."

Bitch doesn't say a fucking word. She turns to her computer and chicken pecks her password in. She turns to me and says, "Do you have any questions before we get started?"

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? With a heightened voice, I start loosing my professional, Southern demeanor and say, "Yes! Of course I have questions! I'm completely clueless! You're supposed to help me understand what I'm doing. I know nothing about taxes. You tell me you don't know what a money market account is. I'm just going to take all of this and leave."

And guess what. She stares at me with her little blank expression. I'm furious. I'm holding back tears. As I shuffle all of my documents and grab my purse, I see her slide her business card across her desk. I turn, look at her, and say, "Oh, trust me. I will not be needing that."

I get in my car and immediately text this guy I've been seeing because for some reason, I feel like he can give me some kind of advice and support. I mean, he's a guy. He knows stuff like that, right? Then, I just break down. I call my mom. She's laughing at my story while I'm crying. I felt so defeated and misguided. I turned to wine.

So, I have not completed this step. I'll figure that out another day after I get over that traumatic experience.

Good luck out there all you tax first timers.

Merekat

Let Me Explain

My life has changed dramatically since my last blog post. I've been through 2 jobs, 2 love interests, and 2 classes at school. This post is basically going to be an explanation and a huge apology to my friends and family for being MIA for the past few months. This isn't a funny, ridiculous post like my last ones. Just an update on my life. 

The last time I blogged, I was just scratching the surface at school, still had a part time job at the construction company, and still had time to have a social life. I had no idea how easily and quickly my life could be turned upside down just by deciding to go to culinary school. When I walked in to my first class July 31st, I had absolutely no culinary skills. Sure I'd try new things in my home kitchen or cook big meals at the cabin for friends and family, but I didn't know how to hold a knife properly or temper eggs or make whipped cream--all things that are basic and stupidly simple now that I've been introduced to this new world. 

6 year old cupcake birthday party at school 

Shortly after beginning school, I started my job search for a kitchen position knowing that I would take a major pay cut. I applied for a job at a corporate cupcake shop with no confidence of even getting an interview. I mean, who would interview a girl with no experience baking other than out of a Duncan Hines box, sloppily slathering on store bought, disgusting icing, throwing some sprinkles on top and calling it a day. With in a week of applying, I got an interview and was offered the job. I freaked the fuck out. I was actually starting my culinary career...or so I thought. I went from working 20 hours a week to 40 on top of 24 hours of school a week, working school events when I could squeeze them in, and sorority recruitment advisor and alumnae/collegiate relations advisor. I knew I was making a huge sacrifice and would never see my friends and family, but I was beyond excited. Fast forward two months: the thought of a cupcake made me want to vomit. The thought of driving 30 minutes to Germantown every morning at 4:30 for work made me want to vomit. Every thing about working there made me want to vomit. Chefs didn't respect me when I told them where I worked, everyone I met started labeling me as cupcake girl, I was spending more on gas than I was making, and I didn't feel like I was really baking. I had made a terrible mistake and was stuck in fucking cupcake hell. 

One Sunday I signed up to volunteer through school at the Harvest Celebration at the Memphis Farmers Market downtown. Sundays are my day. I don't want to do a fucking thing except eat and sleep in between loads of laundry. But, my advisor at school asked me to be in charge of the students for her so I gave in. I wasn't happy. Plus, it was 35 degrees that Sunday and I was hungover and miserable and hated my life and wanted to spend the day watching football with my man friend. We've since broken up. Everyone knows a boy can't keep my interest for more than 2 or 3 months anyway. Back to the story. Even though I had bitched all day about having to work this event, I finally drug myself out of my warm bed, threw on my chef coat, and went to the Farmers Market. 

And you know what? Thank the good Lord in Heaven for working in mysterious ways. Listen to this shit.

My advisor's daughter came up to me, introduced herself, and went on an on about how much her mom loved me. I love her too. She's like my mom. People at school don't ask where Chef Myers is. They ask where my mom is. It's kind of weird, but whatever. So daughter knows from Chef Mom that I hate my job. She introduced me to the chef and owner of Bluff City Coffee who were at the event handing out mini death by chocolate cakes and mini country apple cheesecakes. I spent the rest of the night handing out their desserts and hanging out with their chef. It began with "Hey, I'm Meredith" and a hand shake to being asked to come hang out in his kitchen on my day off for a potential job. Next thing I know, I go to "hang out" and am thrown an apron and some recipes and told to produce his desserts. Then I'm offered the job, I quit the cupcake place, work on my days off, and really start my career. 

Death By Chocolate cake I made at Bluff City Bakery

I've been working full time for Bluff City Coffee for two weeks and have already learned so much, picked up on new skills, and been introduced to so many people that can advance my career. For those of you who aren't from Memphis, let me explain my job. I don't serve coffee or make cookies for the coffee shop. We not only make products for the shop, but we outsource breads and desserts to restaurants in town as well. On a normal day, I'll make focaccia, pizza dough, baguettes, hamburger buns, slider buns, pies, tarts, cakes, etc. It's overwhelming. I've only been in a kitchen since July 31st, but even in that short of time, I've gone from box cake mix to producing amazeballs, sinful desserts and top notch breads. 

Now, I work M-F (or more) 4:00 am-11:30/until, then go to school from 1:30-7:30 pm, and work events for school. I'm gone for 16+ hours a day and spend the majority of that standing in a concrete floored kitchen. Come Friday, I'm mentally and physically exhausted. I don't want to go out of town, I don't want to go to a wedding, I don't want to do anything but sleep. So if I don't call you, or I don't come to your party or baby shower or whatever, know that I still love you. I still care about you. I'm still happy for you. Or whatever the case may be. And I try to go to as many things as I can and keep in touch when I can. But know this, it's not because I don't care. There's just only so much that I can do and fit in to my schedule. So, that being said, I just want to say that I'm sorry to everyone who hasn't heard from me. 

And it's now close to my bed time. 


www.bluffcitycoffee.com
www.memphisfarmersmarket.org

Kiss Me. I'm Irish.

Knock Knock Knock

Ummmm why isn't he answering?

Knock KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

Ok. Wow. He doesn't want me to come in. But, I'm just drunk enough to knock ONE more time.

KNOCKK KNOCKKKKK KNOCKKKKKKKKKK KNOCKKKKKKKKKKKKK

"Um, hey. Are we being too loud?" My neighbor asks as he blocks the door and my view to the kitchen.

"No, what are ya'll doing?" I say as I try to look around him and into the apartment....hoping that I get invited in.

"Nothing. Talking. Do you need something?" My neighbor looks around nervously as the smell of pot seeps out of his apartment and into my nose.

"Oh, well, if you put it like that. No. I just wanted to have a glass of wine with ya'll." By this point I feel broken and shot down.

"Then by all mean, Miss. Have a seat and help yourself to the whiskey."

My neighbor: a 60 year old, Irish-American, Leukemia survivor who loves Irish whiskey, an interesting mix of John Mayer and Johnny Cash, marijuana, and company. Since I moved to the Greenstone in January, I've seen him maybe 10 times...once at the bar, a couple times in the parking lot, and once when he had his friends play Irish jams in the courtyard of the apartment.

Tonight I came in from the bar around midnight and was greeted by music flowing from apartment #1. As I trek up the three floors to let Mack out to pee, I decide to pour a glass of wine and join my neighbor and friends for the rest of the night.

Once let in the apartment, I immediately recognized a character from the Irish jam band night. Felix and I refer to him as Mark Twain. Twain is an average height, thin man sporting a mean, white mustache, large sunken eyes, and a floppy, brown felt hat. Oh, and believe it or not, he's a writer. And not just your run of the mill writer either. He's 60+ years old. And writes science fiction. And told me about a girl named Amanda that he wrote a trilogy about....and she was mildly freaked out by it. I mean, who can blame her? I would be fucking creeped out if a man 30 years my senior wrote a fucking trilogy about me too. He claims she enjoyed the first book but got too bored to read the other two books....righhhhttttt.

Ok, well. Fuck. I wrote everything above around 4 am and have completely forgotten the details of all of the stories I wanted to tell. I blame it on the wine and the multiple buttery nipples my new gay friends bought for me at Celtic Crossing.

But, what I do remember, is that we talked about our Irish heritage for the better part of the night, errr, morning. Mark Twain bragged about getting kicked out of an Irish bar in Brooklyn for being mistaken as an undercover cop, my neighbor promised to bake some Irish soda bread for me, we all tried out our best Irish accents, and I let them in on my Irish middle name, McCormack. Other than that, all I remember is learning some history of the building we live in and my neighbor forcing me to take his favorite book to read.

As I was leaving around 3:30 am, my neighbor gave me a big, warm hug, looks me in the eyes, and says, "You have really made my night. I've lived here for two years and no one has ever knocked on my door wanting to come in and visit with me. You my dear, are wonderful. Thank you."

If he was about 30 years younger, attractive, and had offered me one more glass of wine, I would have responded with, "Kiss me. I'm Irish."


Until next time lads,

Merekat

Midterm Madness

The last 5 weeks have been a blur of knife cuts, new friendships, getting back into the school mindset, commutes to Cordova, ever changing work schedules, wedding festivities, sorority recruitment workshops, and somewhere in there trying to squeeze in a social life.

I'm not sure how it happened so quickly, but I'm already having my first midterm of culinary school today. To be honest, culinary school is a lot more difficult than I mentally prepared for. I went in to this new phase of my life with the mindset that I would be at the top of my class. After being told that I'm one of ten students out of 400 with a bachelors degree, how could I not think that I would excel in the classroom? I was in for a rude awakening. Got my first test back (Yes, culinary school does have written tests...we lecture for two hours every day) and fuck me. I made a 92. OK, so that's not bad. It's an A. But when I've got my mind set on being the best, a 92 is kind of a slap in the face. And after that test...an 86, a 92, then finally pulled out a 100.

Ok, so not so bad in lecture. I have an A.

Now let's move on to the meat of the class. Lab. I've got my new knife bag full of shiny, sharp as shit knives ready to slice and dice anything thrown my way...until I realize that my knife skills suck. My Chef informs me that I have awful knife skills due to the fact that I'm right hand/left eye dominant--only the most challenging pair. I have to close one of my eyes at all times to get precise cuts. It's a bitch. I can't tourne (2 inch 7 sided football vegetable cut) a potato or a carrot to save my fucking life, nor can I julienne worth a shit. But, come to find out, I can make a mean mayonnaise...which definitely works to my advantage since that's part of my lab practical today. But, on the other hand, so are tournes and juliennes and every other knife cut I suck at.

I started second guessing my decision to go to culinary school after the first week of classes.

1. I'm in the minority at school. Well, actually, I'm the only privileged, sorority girl, bachelor's degree, Lexus driving white girl in school. I know more about food than my entire class combined. All of my classmates turn their noses up to avocados and garlic and onions...my favorites to eat. I was constantly asking myself, "How am I going to make it a year and a half with no friends in school?" Come to find out, I have a lot more in common with them than I thought...and I adore them and they adore me. If one of them isn't jumping out from behind doors and tackling me, someone else is hiding my books around the classroom...or prank calling me, or calling me a diva, you name it. The Chefs say that we're the closest 101 class they've ever seen...we even have a Facebook group. And we all have nicknames. There's Teddy B. Love (whom I named) that's the sweetest, most genuine black guy/aspiring rapper that I've ever met. Then Lil Bit who's an 18 year old, spit fire that works at McDonalds who calls me Momma. And Chief. She's my favorite. And her mother is dying of cancer in the hospital right now, and my heart breaks for her. Not only is she losing her mother, she's losing her best friend and babysitter. How is she supposed to bust her ass at work and go to school with two kids? I had to leave the kitchen Thursday when I found out because I couldn't quit crying. We're a family, and we have the most overwhelming love and respect for each other after only 5 weeks.

Puttanesca

2. Like I mentioned above, culinary school is hard. I've always excelled in everything that I've done or been a part of until now. I actually have to work hard at this, and it's not something I'm used to. But, I've come to realize, that the only thing I'm not that great at is knife skills, and Chef says that will come with time. But when it comes to the stove, I'm a bad bitch so watch me work. Last Thursday we made puttanesca and guess who was chosen to make dishes for dinner for the other chefs in the school. This girl right here. It was definitely my most proud moment in school so far. Once you have that feeling of achievement, you know you can actually do this and be good at it. It was that hump that I had to get over.

I'm no longer doubting myself. That doesn't mean I think I'm going to be the greatest chef that's ever lived, but I am going to be damn good at it. And ya'll are going to eat my food and fucking love it. And in case you're wondering, we have to say "Yes Chef" "No Chef" just like Hell's Kitchen. And I have a "culinary school boyfriend" that's crushing on me hard and brings food to me in class. Everyone's jealous. He's not so bad at drunken makeouts in my apartment parking lot in broad daylight either. Too bad he's 21 and lives with his parents.

  XOXO,

 Skeeter
(nickname in school)

Freaky Friday

Several of you people have asked me to write more often, but I honestly don't think I've done anything worthy of writing about. But, here goes.

Most of this weekend was a blur. I honestly can't remember a lot of details, so this is what I have gathered from the pictures on my phone, tweets, texts, dreaded Facebook picture notifications, and bruises. Bare with me while I piece together my weekend.

Friday:

8:04 AM
Email to two guys I work with...that I had made plans with TWO WEEKS AGO.

Buenos dias bitchachos.

I hope ya’ll are ready to party tonight. This has been one hellacious week for me, and I plan on loving life tonight. Anything in particular you chaps want to do? Since I’m a poor student again, I need to pregame pretty hardcore so I don’t spend so much at the bar…..Or else take liquor in to the bar with me like I did when I was 17 and really super cool. I’m up for playing drunk jenga and walking to the bar if that’s ok with yall. Oh, and I’m skipping an engagement party and staying in town tomorrow night…who’s exciteddddd.

Holla atcha girl.

The reply crushed my heart. I actually told them that they had crushed my heart. Both of them were "too tired" from the work week to go out. Do you know what time the bars close in Memphis? 3:00-4:00 AM. You have plenty of time to nap after work before going out. And, for those of you who know me, you know that I'm a planner. When my plans get fucked up, I freak out a little bit. So, that of course, ruined my entire day (until I got drunk and then everything was lovely).

Ok, so on to Plan B. Not the contraceptive. No unprotected sex last week. After mass texting all of my Memphian friends, I still wasn't happy with my Friday night options. I knew I wanted to go downtown and obviously Raifords was the ultimate goal.

8:27 PM Tweet

'Merica.

"Drinking sugar free redbull and vodka, watching the Olympics and eating a single turkey dog while pregaming for the bar. Dieting/broke girl."

First mistake. Pregaming with red bull and vodka. And if you know anything about me, you know I'm patriotic as fuck. I was running around the apartment singing the Star Spangled Banner and sporting my DIY American Flag jean vest over my outfit for the night. Second mistake. Only eating a 70 calorie turkey dog in hopes of soaking up all of the alcohol I planned on consuming.

9:40 PM Tweet from Felix

"This is how @mmp91 pregames. Texting 7 people (including me) and blaring music attempting to charge her phone."

So, I don't have a phone charge other than my Ipod dock. And I was texting a lot of people. And I did text Felix...while we were in the apartment together. And, as you can see in the picture he so kindly attached, I was sitting on my bed texting while my phone was charging on the dock. And I can guarantee I was jamming to Austin Brown's "Menage A Trois." Check it out.



At Raifords

We finally made it out. I was already really drunk. I didn't realize it, but Felix informed me the next day that I was already slurring by the time we walked in to Silkys. We met up with Lady Gaga (obvi not the real one, but she would definitely be friends with us if she knew us. This is a new character thrown in the mix.) From Silkys we rode in the limo to Raifords. All I really remember is meeting up with some more friends, singing Whitney Houston ballads, dancing my ass off, and constantly having a full cup of beer but not knowing how since I didn't buy but one beer. There really isn't any documentation in my phone from Friday night...the Ipod dock didn't do much good, and my phone died somewhere around midnight. Oh, but Gaga's didn't. Found this out when I was laying on the couch last night and had a million Facebook notifications. Pictures galore. And I got some tweets as well.

12:11 PM Tweet from Gaga

"Limo and VIP at Raifords!!! Going to be a good night!!!"

1:13 AM Tweet from Gaga

"RIP Whitney. #Iwillalwaysloveyou @mmp91."

Saturday was awful. After I had brunch with a friend, I stayed on the couch all day in the moomoo Felix's grandmother gave me while he told me stories from the night before. Apparently Gaga spent the night with us and I made her sleep in the bed with Felix. And I slept on the couch. Why didn't I just sleep in my own bed? And I was in so much distress because I only had $4 to tip the limo driver. And I kept trying to put my feet in Felix's face at the bar. He doesn't like feet.



My moomoo. This is not a joke.

Just thinking about how I felt on Saturday makes me sick. I'll have to recap Saturday night another day, but be looking out for it. It's a good one.

I will always love you,

Merekat