The Bittersweetness of Life Getting in the Way

Geez! I just realized that it's been two and a half weeks since my last post. I'm sorry to my sweet little blog and to the small handful of you who actually take the time to read it (I love you, by the way!). My life has just been getting all sorts of in the way. I feel guilty for neglecting my self-proclaimed life's passion but there's just so much stuff to do and so much recovering from stuff I do! I could go ahead and blame it on the end-of-summer need to cut loose or whatever, but that's a weak excuse at best. I could also blame my day job at the bar, which is a considerably less weak excuse but still not a good enough reason to be a lazy writer. When I do carve out an hour or two to devote to my laptop I have been spending that time working on a piece that I am submitting for publication in 2 weeks and I'm getting my first taste of deadline anxiety. So keep your fingers crossed that come the new year, I will be a real-life published writer! But for now I am choosing to use all three of the aforementioned reasons for why I have been neglecting my small circle of readers. Many apologies.

The highlight of my recent hiatus had to be a spontaneous mid-week getaway to my friend Gabby's waterfront house in Cambridge. Even though the trip was all of two nights, it was the perfect outlet for some much needed bowing off of steam. Five of us packed up two cars with beer, liquor, food, coffee (of course), and a few overnight essentials... and then more beer... and headed for the Chesapeake. What ensued over the next 36 hours was the perfect combination of intoxication and relaxation with some of my favorite people on this planet.

We played games, floated in the pool, watched my brother play 157 games of ping pong against anyone that wasn't otherwise occupied at the moment, sat around a bonfire, and kayaked into the sunset. Over the course of the two nights we managed to drink a comically large bottle of espresso vodka, an entire bottle of Kahlua (what's a vacation without white russians, anyway?), two bottles of wine, at least three pitchers of bloody marys, and, if I had to estimate, around three cases of beer. After said alcohol was consumed, the group congregated at the end of the pier and we all lay on our backs and watched the stars for what seemed like hours. With the exception of driving home before noon the next morning and having to cross the Bay Bridge with a wicked hangover, the mid-week mini-vacation was perfection. I would also like to mention that Brandon was not able to make it because of his job, and his presence would have been the only thing to make the entire experience complete.

So I suppose it's time to bid farewell to summer and start hitting the laptop hard (some days I would like to take that literally), because I would hate to succomb to Lazy-Writer-Syndrome, or LWS as I will now be calling it.

P.S. I still intend on offering my thoughts on the new season of Weeds, however, I can't decide how I feel about the first two episodes just yet. I will let everyone know once I have formed an opinion.

"We live to dance another day, it's just now we have to dance for one more of us..."

It has been quite an intense week. Last Friday our close group of friends was rocked by the news that one of our own had taken his life. Jason "Old Boy" Kuzniarski had hung himself in his house. Words could not explain the shock, confusion, and utter sadness that collectively settled over the group that night. After each of us received the phone call from somewhere along the chain of friends we all gathered at our favorite bar- the bar where Old Boy had worked- to begin to try to make sense of the situation.

What occurred that evening, in the face of such unspeakable tragedy, was nothing short of inspiring. Both the bar and the sidewalk outside the bar were scattered with the people affected by Old Boy's death. It was clear that the usual atmosphere of laughter and general shenanigans had been replaced by an almost visible cloud of shock and sorrow. The amazing thing, however, was how every single person, through there own sadness, found a way to support every other person in the group. No one tried to find the magic words that would take the pain away, because we knew they didn't exist. No one tried to compete over who was the most sad over Jason's passing, because we knew that didn't matter. We were all simply there for each other in any way we could be. Some people needed to cry, so someone was there to hug them. Some people needed to tell jokes to alleviate the tension, so someone was there to laugh. Some people needed to sit silently by themselves, so we left them alone but stood close by in case they changed their mind. It was natural, it was beautiful, it was devastating.

In the days that followed each person mourned and honored Jason's memory in their own way. After his standing-room-only funeral (if that) the group that was now more family to each other than friends gathered once again at the bar where Jason worked and spent the entire day drinking beer and telling stories about the insane memories we had of Old Boy. Even his parents and sisters showed up to join in the reminiscing and by the end of the night they were our family too. It was exactly the way he would have wanted it.

It seems as though when someone dies the people left behind tell only the best qualities of the one who has passed on. It always seems a little exaggerated too. "She was always smiling." or "he was the greatest guy I've ever known". Nobody wants to admit that she was kind of a bitch sometimes or he was an angry drunk. That is not at all the case with Jason.

Jason was like that song that comes on the radio that instantly makes you perk up and sing at the top of your lungs. It was impossible to be in a bad mood when Old Boy was around. He wouldn't have it. He'd grin as wide as he could, his eyes would sparkle, and he would say just the thing you needed to hear to laugh like crazy and forget whatever the hell you were upset about. Even when he was drinking too much and doing something wildly inappropriate you couldn't help but laugh because only Old Boy could pull that off. The guy simply radiated joy and animation and he made everyone he met feel like they were the most important person in the world. And for the record: I believe I can speak for everyone when I say that we would all say exactly that about him if he was still with us and it was just another Friday night at the Wharf Rat.

One such night about three weeks ago my brother, Jon, was sitting at the Rat among the usual group of friends watching the Oriole game. Jon was giving Kevin a hard time about refusing to give him a piece of cake at a party they had been to earlier in the week. After a few minutes of light-hearted bantering between the two of them Old Boy, overhearing the conversation, disappeared for about ten minutes or so. He returned with a huge slice of cake that he placed in front of Kevin. This cake was not intended for Kevin, but for Kevin to redeem himself by giving it to Jon. No one knows where he got the cake from. He just wanted to put a smile on Jon's face. Jon told me later that it was one of the best night's of his life, sitting at a bar with all his friends, watching the Orioles, and being the only one in the bar eating a giant piece of cake.

Old Boy is not one that will soon be forgotten and I truly pray that he has found the peace that he was seeking. I like to think that he's happy now to see how close all his friends and family have become through this. However, I know we all wish it was under less tragic circumstances.
We'll miss you, buddy.

Jason "Old Boy" Kuzniarski

August 12, 1981 - July 16, 2010

"Long Live the King"

Wanted: Marital Social Director

Ladies and Gentlemen: for your consideration, I present to you the classic marriage dilemma; or one of the classics as it were. Maybe some of you can help me out with this little conundrum. I swear, even after all the tricks, procedures, secrets, landmines, and loopholes I've  discovered in and about marriage (and believe me, they're none too few) I still can't for the life of me navigate this issue clearly. So someone please tell me; what the hell are the rules when it comes to your outside social life as a couple?

I feel as though this issue doesn't receive enough attention in the matrimonial "how-to" literature. Perhaps this is because no one in their right frame of mind would consider this particular problem a deal breaker. Regardless, I still find the whole scenario irritating. It's hard enough for me to figure out my own social politics without having to work my husband's in as well. Let me present an example of this dilemma that presented itself relatively recently in my house.

Author's note: Some details of the following story have been altered to protect the privacy and feelings of those involved.

Brandon and I had been invited to a party thrown by Alex, a mutual friend. The invitation arrived in the mail four or five weeks before the party was to take place and neither Brandon nor I made any sort of immediate commitment to attend or not. The invitation requested we RSVP regrets only therefore we were still within our boundaries of party etiquette. Three days before the date of the party Brandon and I both received a mass email from Alex requesting that we reply if we would not be attending the party. The conversation that occurred that morning over coffee went as follows:
Me: "Hey, Bran- are we going to Alex's party this weekend?"
Brandon: "No."
Me: "Why not?"
Brandon: "I want to go to the Oriole game."
Me: "OK, whatever, I'm fine either way. But can you let Alex know we won't be coming?"
Brandon: "Why do I have to do it? You tell Alex."
Me: "Uh, because you're the one who doesn't want to go."
Brandon: "Fine, then I guess we're going."
Me: "What? That's not what I meant. I'm fine with going to the O's game I just think since you're the one who doesn't want to go to the party you should be the one to tell Alex we're not coming."
Brandon: "I don't want to."
Me: "What makes you think I do?"

And so on, and so on... you get the idea.

Now, this was by no means a huge ordeal- minor banter really. But it was clear to me at that point in the conversation that we were at a stalemate. Neither one of us was going to back down any time soon, yet I was still unclear if we were going to a party or a baseball game that weekend. And I was fuming with frustration at the clear power play that was unfolding in my living room- not enough to back down though, of course. I thought I was making perfect sense and the situation was pretty straight forward:
- Brandon didn't want to go to the party
- Alex is a mutual friend that invited both of us, Mr. & Mrs.
- Brandon should be the one to make the uncomfortable phone call or write the uncomfortable email that explains why Mr. & Mrs. will not be attending
AM I RIGHT?

Eventually the point was moot because we attended Alex's wonderful party and had a great time. But I can't help musing about the vastly under-appreciated issue of who is the social director of the marriage and what the guidelines are that exist within that position. If you have managed to figure it out in your own relationship I tip my hat to you- congrats! I'm still working on this one.

A Tribute to Charm City

After my last post about the breath-taking splendor that is the great state of Montana a funny thing happened. I discovered a new and refreshing appreciation for my own fair city of Baltimore. I spent the majority of my vacation to where the deer and the antelope play mentally packing up all my belongings and fleeing the East without so much as a nostalgic glance over my shoulder. "I'm so over Baltimore!" I kept repeating to anyone that would listen. "The weather sucks and the people are mean." I was clearly itching for some new scenery and who could resist the landscape that the good ol' West was waving under my nose?
So it was no surprise when I begrudgingly set one foot off the plane at 10:30pm in Charm City and was immediately engulfed in a thick suffocating blanket of humidity that I wanted to spin right around and get back on the plane to anywhere but here. Stepping out into the heavy night air after collecting our bags didn't alleviate my misery one tiny bit.

My brother, Jon, however, couldn't have been more ecstatic to be home. He had convinced me on the plane that we needed to immediately seek the welcoming arms of the Fells Point nightlife. My rationality for agreeing to this insane notion was that after spending the entire day on an airplane, suffering through teeth-rattling turbulence over Denver, and losing two hours somewhere over Omaha I really needed a cocktail. I also figured my brain was still on Mountain time.

After shaking off the stale air of the plane and strolling through the cobblestone streets of Fells Point on the way to our favorite bar I was beginning to feel refreshed. Because of the horrendous parking options available on a Saturday close to midnight Jon and I had a few blocks to walk from our car. It was incredible what happened in those few little city blocks. I don't really know if it was Jon's enthusiasm and love for his city rubbing off on me, the extreme contrast of spending that very morning driving though a Montana valley and mere hours later walking the cracked streets of urban civilization, or maybe a little of both. The fact was, I saw my hometown through new eyes.

Baltimore is a city with a pulse, a city with a personality. It's pleasant enough to appreciate it for the historical architecture in downtown Fells Point or the tourist traps of the Inner Harbor; but what makes Baltimore stand out is what you wouldn't immediately pick up on. The simple diversity of culture that you witness if you just looked up long enough to see it is amazing. I don't mean that in a P.C. "Appreciate-All-Colors-And-Religions-Because-We're-All-Special" kind of way. I mean just seeing people co-existing- smiling, laughing, talking, or shouting at each other because their drunk. While walking the span of two blocks in Fells Point you will pass at least 12 bars, each with their own unique hook and loyal gang of patrons. Probably four or five of those bars will be featuring some crappy cover band or marginally talented folk singer likely playing for the free alcohol and basking in the attention of inebriated groupies. The sidewalks are saturated with bar-hoppers who all seem to be overly enthusiastic about one thing or another. And the entire time Jon and I are experiencing all the familiarity of just another Saturday night in Baltimore all Jon can say is, "I'm so happy to be home."

We reached our destination dangerously close to last call. So we grabbed a couple of Natty Bohs (that's National Bohemians for you foreigners) and settled into a couple of vacant stools. A few of our bleary eyed friends were scattered throughout the bar and more than happy to welcome us home. As the obligatory Boston, Bon Jovi, and Journey bar playlist faded through the chatter of inane bar conversation I sipped on my beer and smiled. This is a pretty frickin' cool city actually. The weather really does suck and many of its citizens could use a pretty drastic attitude adjustment but one thing's for damn sure- this town's never boring.

So with all that being said, the West still maintains a strong pull on my quarter-lifed restless spirit but cruising the balmy cobblestone streets of Fells on a summer night makes me a lot more hesitant to leave.

The Cautionary Tale of Abby

I have a friend- well, she's actually more accurately described as a casual acquaintance. For purposes of online anonymity I'll call her Abby. Abby is a tragic case. As former co-workers during my time as a waitress I got to know Abby rather well considering we worked just about every shift together. We spent a few occasions outside of work together and I even had her over to my house for margaritas. Between me and my good friend Amanda, we believed we could rescue her from the ever-deepening bleak hole she was digging herself into. This endeavor has proved to be quite the uphill battle.

Let me tell you a little bit about Abby. Abby is stupid; there's just no way around it. She has the mind of a seventeen year old idiot trapped in the body of a twenty-two year old girl. With no inherent desire to better her situation in any way, Abby works as a part-time waitress and spends her free time moving into, then out of, then into her eighteen year old deadbeat boyfriend's filthy apartment. On top of participating in one of the most dysfunctional relationships I've seen since Whitney and Bobby (that's right, I made a Whitney and Bobby reference), Abby wanted to get pregnant. Every attempt at trying to explain patiently and logically to her that this was perhaps quite literally the dumbest idea anyone has ever had was only met with a blank stare or a dismissive shrug.

After Abby and her loser boyfriend's first attempt to co-habitate lasted only two weeks, Amanda and I started to see a shimmer of hope for Abby. We were proud of her for making the first step to becoming a functioning adult. She dumped her dumb-shit boyfriend, started showing an interest in working more, saving money, and participating in activities with people her own age. I'll pause here to mention that Abby had previously been unable to enjoy her status as a twenty-two year old because all her friends were fresh out of high school and couldn't set foot in a bar. Anyway, suffice it to say Abby started making progress- for about a month.

Re-enter the loser boyfriend. This prick decided that he couldn't just be a deadbeat and waste his life all by his lonesome. He had to drag poor lost little Abby back down into the ditch with him. After threatening suicide if she didn't come back, shocker or shockers, Abby returned. She abandoned every last one of her efforts and moved back into her self-inflicted hell. This is the part where Amanda and I start beating our heads against the wall when what we truly would like to do is beat Abby's head against the wall.

You may be wondering at this point why Amanda and I are taking such a vested interest in this misguided little girl's exploits. Why shouldn't we simply write her off and go on about our lives? The girl is clearly a lost cause; let her hang herself. Don't think we weren't tempted. The thing about Abby is there is something different about her. She's not like so many of the entitled little brats I come across all too often who I feel could use a nice hard punch in the face from reality to knock them down a few pegs. She's got this trusting innocence to her that really makes you believe she deserves better and she simply doesn't know it.

The latest update on Abby, which I received from Amanda yesterday and the reason why I am writing this post, seems to be the last straw. Amanda has invested much more time than I have in the Abby Project and even she seems to have reached her wits end and is, for all intents and purposes, ready to throw in the towel. Turns out Abby suspects her worthless skeeze of a boyfriend (have I made it clear how I feel about the guy?) of having an STD. Showing no symptoms herself, Abby was advised to go get herself tested. Side note: is this something that really needs to be told to a twenty-two year old? This bold declaration of the obvious was met with a response that I still have to repeat in my head to truly believe someone could think this was a point to be argued.

Abby first responded by saying that she couldn't afford to go to the doctor. I know, I know, dumb-ass, right? But, sit tight, it gets better. After Amanda tried to present Abby her options as they pertained to her financial hesitations Abby tried a second line of rationalization.

"Well, it could just be something else," Abby replied brushing off the subject entirely. This is one of those moments that it would have been totally appropriate to grab Abby by her shoulders and literally attempt to shake some common frickin' sense into her, but my guess is that it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Amanda tried a few more times to get this girl to see that she was being a weapons-grade moron; but sadly it was to no avail.

So what should be done about sad, lost little Abby? Unfortunately this story is only the tip of the tragic iceberg. And just like the Titanic before her, if Abby had simply pulled her head out of the sand for even a moment she could have avoided crashing into that iceberg and sinking to the bottom of the dark relentless ocean.
But, who knows; maybe there's still hope for Abby. Or maybe the great philosopher Ron White had it right; you can't fix stupid.

What Ever Happened to "Happy for You"?

I was a waitress for seven years. It was a tragically bittersweet job that ushered me through many stages of my life. What started as a part-time job that I stumbled into by chance eventually evolved into a lifestyle, slowly transitioned into a means to an end, and eventually died a slow death and was ultimately put out of its excruciating misery- this time (here's hoping) for good.


During my tenure as an under-appreciated and under-paid servant to the masses I learned countless valuable life lessons. For starters, I could multi-task in the Olympics. I would win too because all the judges would get their self-righteous butts kissed with a sincerity that only a seasoned waitress knows how to fake. But above all things I learned doing this job I discovered that no matter the amount of utterly ridiculous behavior I've witnessed from guests in my restaurants, no matter how many times my jaw has dropped to the floor, the general public that I served never ever ceased to surprise me. Even on my last day as a waitress I guarantee there was something some random patron did that made my eyes widen and rendered me speechless at their complete audacity.


I say this to you, dear reader, because I have have found this particular life lesson carries over quite seamlessly to my married life as well. As you may have read in my previous post, family members have really breached about eight different kinds of personal boundaries when poking for information about Brandon's and my life plans. I don't know if these kinds of comments arise in the worlds of other married couples- maybe it's just us. Either way, I continue to find myself shocked and appalled by the comments people have deemed acceptable to say to my face. However, I have my seven year career as a hardened waitress to thank for my ability to take every last one of these comments with grace, dignity, and sometimes strategic wit.


I rarely accompany Brandon to events that involve his close-knit group of friends. Much of this has to do with the fact that since our move to farm country I have become somewhat of a  contented homebody. I also do not like to make a habit of encroaching on "Guy Time". Only one of Brandon's friends is married, two are products of recently failed marriages (but we'll discuss them later), two or three others have quasi-serious girlfriends, and the rest are steadfastly single. So where does this leave me? Quite often I am there purely for decoration, perched on a bar stool sipping a glass of Merlot, silently pretending to be listening intently to a conversation about fantasy football line-ups or Call of Duty strategies. No thanks.


This past weekend, however, I decided that I would make a cameo appearance. One of the guys was hosting his annual Memorial Day cookout. It was a comfortable mix of friends of Brandon that I could hold quality conversation with and total strangers. I have never been made to feel left out among Brandon's group, they are truly great guys and a lot of fun. But let's face it, they've all been close since childhood and I will forever be marked as "Brandon's wife". I'm somewhat of an alien life form to these guys. They're all perfectly pleasant and sweet to me, but I frequently get the sense that they can't quite figure out how to relate to me. There seems to be a hovering sense of hesitation around many of the conversations I have with some of Brandon's closest friends. It's almost like they still don't fully trust me or they are reluctant to absorb me completely into their circle because part of them still suspects I may not be a permanent fixture. While reading this you may chalk this analysis up to paranoid delusions, however, I urge you to withhold judgement until you find out how this was confirmed for me.


Brandon and I were standing among a group of miscellaneous friends and acquaintances sipping on bottles of beer and trying not to melt in the hot sun. One of Brandon's recently divorced friends that I mentioned earlier, I'll call him Scott, approached the group. I still can't quite remember how the subject arose but all of a sudden Brandon and I found our marriage in the social spotlight once again.
"Don't ever get married!" Scott exclaimed to Brandon, gesturing emphatically with his beer-holding hand. "Oh, wait," he continued sarcastically, "too late!"
We all had a half-hearted laugh and I was secretly hoping the line of conversation would drop dead right then and there. No such luck.
"It's cool," Scott looked to me. "You're great now, but around year two or three you will turn into a c***, you will cheat on him, and you will leave him."
OK, Scott. Thanks for the heads up.


Here's where that grace and dignity I also mentioned earlier had to come in. I laughed with only the slightest hint of discomfort and suppressed my urge to punch him because I realized several things in that moment. I recognized that Scott was clearly joking around with us, even though there was a glimmer of austerity behind his statement. I also was able to take the unbelievably abhorrent use of the c-word in stride because after four years of spending Saturday nights drinking with twenty-something single guys I have diminished my reaction to that word to a minimal cringe at its use. And lastly, I acknowledged the fact that what he described I would unavoidably do to Brandon is exactly what Scott's wife did to him. So after taking all this into consideration in about three seconds, I decided to laugh it off, smile at Scott, and attempt some witty banter.
"So I guess I should just give up now and get it over with, huh?" I shot back with a sly grin.


You could almost see the cloud of tension lift off the group. I didn't realize until that moment that it seemed as though everyone had been waiting for my reaction. I suspect that they all were expecting me to punch Scott. And, in retrospect, he probably would have deserved it. I mean, you can't just say that kind of thing! But that wouldn't have been very helpful to anyone.


So, thank you, seven outrageous years of waitressing, for teaching me that people are always going to surprise you with their inappropriate behavior. And, most importantly, for teaching me that when someone shocks me with their new heights of disrespect and insolence it's best to take it in stride, respond with grace and dignity, and then complain about it on your blog later.