Accidental Ambivalence

In the meantime, I'll leave you with this lovely photo, taken somewhere random in College Town by Bradshaw's roommate and stolen from facebook by me.

Since beginning this blog, I’ve made a little bit of effort to keep my true identity anonymous, as well as those of the people that I write about. Coming up with some of the pseudonyms has been pretty entertaining, and I’ve been asked where they come from. This could be considered the current cast of characters of the blog, and I may or may not revise this as more characters are introduced into my life. However, now you’ll know where all of those weird nicknames came from.

Nic Hey, it’s me! Nothing spectacular here, this was a nickname I was given in high school, which means that my own pseudonym shows absolutely nothing of my own creativity.

Bradshaw Her pseudonym came to me so easily it was almost scary. She is named after the infamous Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City, one of her favorite shows. The character she most resembles is Carrie, and thus the nickname was born.

Iris is so named because his eyes were always my favorite thing about him physically, particularly the shade of blue that was so unique.

Ms. O is short for Ms. Obnoxious because, quite frankly, she is, in the most positive of ways. She’s absolutely uninfluenced in her mannerisms or her choice of style, no matter what anyone else says.

Project was, for quite some time, one of my own personal projects. I wanted to fix him. That never happened.

Dread is a combination of things. First, he had dreadlocks the first time I met him. Second, he is a 6’5” 270 lb university football player: if I played football, I would see him with a great sense of dread.

Racer Boy shares my love of all things motorsports, and he’s been known to drive a car himself. He is not to be confused with my parents’ cat, Racer.

Grease Monkey likes tearing apart engines and the like and fixing them. Sometimes the fixing doesn’t go so well, but he had good intentions. More than once I’ve walked away from him with dirty, greasy handprints on my ass.

Drama Queen was a high school drama nerd. She is a drama queen. Not so clever.

The lack of my cleverness continues with Mickey. It was a nickname her father gave her when she was little and it carried on through high school and up till now.

Tall Girl is a vertically gifted female. She is the exact opposite of short little me. In fact, she is exactly a foot taller than me now that I think about it.

K. This is quite possibly the low point of my pseudonyms. His name begins with the letter k and I can’t think of anything better to call him.

This is the short list of those I’ve referenced since I began blogging, and I am certainly open to suggestions on those that are seriously lacking in creativity.

The majority has spoken, therefore you get to read about exactly why I have a reputation at work for being a bitch. However, as I wrote this, I decided that I don’t find it terribly interesting once written, so I wouldn’t really recommend it. I'm certain that I could come up with a better story of my bitchiness, but whatever. You have been warned.

I’ve had the same job at my parents’ restaurant for almost six years, which means that I can do just about anything there better than anyone except my mother. Since going to school, I only work on breaks and when I come home on weekends (which is when I start to get low on funds). This is where I insert the disclaimer:

I understand that it must be disconcerting to start a job and get used to your co-workers only to have some strange new girl come in and point out when you’re making mistakes. On top of that, the bitch is your bosses’ daughter, so you can’t say anything.

This isn’t a difficult job. It’s a lot of stuff to remember at first, buit as far as I’m concerned, after two weeks or so things should start to click and be much easier.

I have no idea when The Moron started, but I know she was there when I came home for Thanksgiving, and she is certainly earning her name. Last Thursday night, I went to work in a weird mood, the beginning of a funk—one of those moods that is quickly turned into flat-out bitchiness. The Moron has a tendency to hover and stare when she has a questions instead of just asking, and it seriously annoys me. In an effort to avoid eating her face, I asked her nicely to please just speak up. She did twice before returning to the hover-and-stare method.

I was annoyed.

She made all of the drinks on an order the wrong size. She hover-and-stared until I gave her explicit instructions on how to correct the mistake. (Pour the drinks in the proper sized cups, then add more liquid until they’re full enough.)

I was irritated.

She ignored a customer waiting to be helped, forcing me to stop what I was doing to wait on them. (Your job is to wait on people, not walk away when they come in the door.)

I was angry, and at this point I was slamming around and not talking to anyone, including my father. He told me that he was tired of my attitude, which only made me angrier.

We were cleaning before we closed, and while I was scrubbing away ice cream spots and sticky Dr. Pepper (which is cathartic), The Moron was chatting and listlessly dabbing at a counter with a sponge. An order that she was capable of making came in. She ignored it.

I was pissed. I told her about it. I was not quiet. I was not nice. I was not polite. I was not tactful. I told her the truth, and the truth often hurts.

I made the order and wiped down everything in the restaurant myself. She avoided me, and I noticed how shiny her eyes were when we were cleaning floors, our last chore before leaving. The idea that she was almost crying gave me sense of accomplishment, securing my room in the third level of Hell.

When I got to work on Friday, a co-worker stopped me to tell me that she had fun information about The Moron, which meant that it was something negative about her that would amuse me. Apparently she told someone at school that morning that she couldn’t wait until I went back to school, and that if I wasn’t leaving soon, she would have quit that night.

I believe that the joy that I experienced at this revelation upgraded my room in Hell to a suite, complete with a Jacuzzi and a lovely view of the fiery lake.

I know, I’ve been gone for just about forever, and I’m sorry. The internet here at home (stupid dial-up) has been fritzing out on me, kicking me offline as soon as it’s connected. Therefore, there were no posts. And since I’m not sure if this new working-ness of the internet is going to stick or not, we’ll see how posting goes for the next week. However, I will be back in College Town with my reliable internet service in a week, and then regular posts will resume.

In the days since my last post, many blogable things have occurred, but I’m not sure which I want to write about right now. Therefore, I am giving you, my lovely readers,* a few options to choose from.

Option One: Nic’s New Year’s Eve. This post will include my clothing choices, Nic in a semi-nice rural bar with Mickey and (yet un-blogged-about**) Squint, midnight kisses, drunk dialing, and my parents seeing me drunk for the first time and being completely unaware.

Option Two: Nic’s New Year’s Intentions. An idea I sort of borrowed from Ms. Sizzle. Will include my intentions for 2007 and quite possibly insight into why they exist.

Option Three: Nic is a Big Meanie. A post about how I almost made a girl cry at work and how being a bitch is a double-edged sword sometimes.

Option Four: I’m open for suggestions. Perhaps you’d like to comment and ask questions for me to answer. Perhaps you want to hear more about the people I blog about—the origins of pseudonyms or whatever else tickles your fancy. I’m feeling very open lately.

So if more than two people comment, the majority shall win. What do you want to know about me?