In a kitchen you have two general types of anger: passive/aggressive and explosive.
I, SARAI VASQUEZ MARIÑEZ, admit to being super passive/aggressive - something really horrible when you're in an environment where aside from cooking, you're also inspired to cut open one of your co-workers a new asshole with an unsharpened steak knife. Lucky for me, there aren't many people who produce this type of anger in me...just one. We'll just call him SFB (SHIT FOR BRAINS) for the sake of just giving him a worthy name.
SFB gained entrance into our dojo via...no one really knows, actually. Sucker came looking for a job and don't ask me who he sucked off for a shining recommendation letter. Usually, newbies are silent. Dont say much. OBSERVE. SFB did just the opposite: started marching around on his high horse making pompous statements about how he had worked with the best (FALSE: he hasn't even gone out of the country to even dabble in an internship abroad, therefore if anything making him LESS qualified than his peers), how he had abused his girlfriend and skirted out of prison - a statement which holds NO place in a kitchen with five women - and other types of generally heavy buzzkill statements, such as my personal favorite: that wouldn't leave the kitchen until he had the executive chef position. And later had the LARGEST FUCKING BALLS to go and admit to having even uttered the words...to the commander in chief himself. Personally, such bravado stands for shit so I called him a compulsive liar on one of the first opportunities I could snatch up. It's not something I say because I'm a compulsive liar myself - you know, a bullshitter can't bullshit a bullshitter and all that - but because someone I know suffered from that and exhibited the same sort of behavior. And you know what they say: If it looks bad and smells bad...
Nonetheless, since he walked in three weeks ago, his bizarre machiavellian treatment towards the staff (and towards his work) has proven to us, as a group, that he REALLY THINKS that he's calling the shots for everyone. This will include to functioning in every station available, which would be great if he could finish what he starts, to bossing around people that are on his same level [as far as hierarchy goes]. He gives shitty "advice" when least necessary, cannot handle criticism and gets caught up in his own "neurosis", thus screwing things up for everyone.
So today, after weeks of this sort of chauvinist treatment - read: asking me for "help" because he thinks that he's gonna make me do all of his work - he comes up behind me and keeps his string of antagonizing behavior and talks shit about my tuna tartar quennelles (dude, HARD TO DO when the goal is compacting tiny pieces of fish into a spoon shape; it's not easy to manuver like ice cream or purées) but since I was already saturated by all of his unnecessary talking and whining, I threw the two spoons down, called him fucktard and told him to do it himself.
So how do the next days go for me?
1) Stay out of pantry, which sucks monumentally because I love it so.
2) Stay out of pantry.
3) Stay out of pantry.
4) Let him clean up his own mess. Why? I DON'T BELONG TO HIM AND I DON'T GET PAID TO DEAL WITH HIS CRAP. Besides, I figure I paid my dues in that area of the kitchen and now's my excuse to meander between stations and be productive JUUUUUUST LIKE HIIIIM. @_@
♥♥
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
today is love/hate your president day.
chavez deemed tomorrow a national holiday, which brought upon shock and fucking fury to a young nation. funny enough, this benefits me because i wasn't really prepared to present my thesis ANYWAYS, so hurray?
this all just means that for the next few weeks i'll have a big ol' goat stew and pork medallions in mustard seed sauce in my freezer waiting to be served for a test. :(
in other news:
i wish that everything could make sense sometimes. i kept a loose count on how many times in the past 3 days i've checked on the hong kong polytechnic university admissions' website to see if my application was greenlighted and rounded out at about 14. in three days. desperate much?
i dont know...what am i running from?? do i have anything to run from? what the hell is so bad about right now, or is such a statement me merely conforming? is it a sign that i should question my reasons for wanting to leave in the first place? i just wish the answers could be sitting inside of a wrapped box inside of my living room.
also, you know you've reached the pinnacle of lameness when you find yourself listening to dashboard confessional's "a mark. a mission. a brand. a scar." i used to be a "proud" owner of the cd, but then again when this was so, i was in 10th grade and playing crash bandicoot on playstation, crying hysterically and asking myself why the boy i had a crush on didn't give a toss about me. (i think i started wearing makeup shortly after those crying sessions...let's hate me in unison please. i should also make a point of advising everyone to not take music recommendations from fat violinist jocks who have had their lives spoonfed to them since birth; pain will seem chic to them and you'll only be hooking yourself up for failure.)
i almost told my dad that men like him made girls consider going gay; i'm glad i held back because i'm sure i wouldn't be alive to type this. that's a long story that starts and ends with male chauvinism but whatever. according to all my family, i will hear worse things but i think they just say that to try to keep me from hating my own father.
*shrug*
oh yeah, today was a great day.
this all just means that for the next few weeks i'll have a big ol' goat stew and pork medallions in mustard seed sauce in my freezer waiting to be served for a test. :(
in other news:
i wish that everything could make sense sometimes. i kept a loose count on how many times in the past 3 days i've checked on the hong kong polytechnic university admissions' website to see if my application was greenlighted and rounded out at about 14. in three days. desperate much?
i dont know...what am i running from?? do i have anything to run from? what the hell is so bad about right now, or is such a statement me merely conforming? is it a sign that i should question my reasons for wanting to leave in the first place? i just wish the answers could be sitting inside of a wrapped box inside of my living room.
also, you know you've reached the pinnacle of lameness when you find yourself listening to dashboard confessional's "a mark. a mission. a brand. a scar." i used to be a "proud" owner of the cd, but then again when this was so, i was in 10th grade and playing crash bandicoot on playstation, crying hysterically and asking myself why the boy i had a crush on didn't give a toss about me. (i think i started wearing makeup shortly after those crying sessions...let's hate me in unison please. i should also make a point of advising everyone to not take music recommendations from fat violinist jocks who have had their lives spoonfed to them since birth; pain will seem chic to them and you'll only be hooking yourself up for failure.)
i almost told my dad that men like him made girls consider going gay; i'm glad i held back because i'm sure i wouldn't be alive to type this. that's a long story that starts and ends with male chauvinism but whatever. according to all my family, i will hear worse things but i think they just say that to try to keep me from hating my own father.
*shrug*
oh yeah, today was a great day.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
A proper update
December is already here, which means if you thought I cooked enough as it was, for three days I will cook like a beast. And the only people that will try what I have to offer are my direct family.
SHAME ON YOU ALL, SHAAAAAAAAAME.
Strangely enough, the menu is up for discussion. In this country we actually have a set dish that is composed of many things to make an entirely delicious Christmas/New Years' meal. So where did we go wrong? Oh right, the year we had linguine al pesto and beef BBQ ribs on the same night. What a bust for my stomach.
Nonetheless, December brings up this very interesting question: what the fuck am I gonna do this month? Let's break down my schedule for the 7 days, day by day, shall we?
04 - Buy plates for my graduation ceremony. (Check!)
05 - Go and buy 6.5 Kg (something like 14 lbs) of salt cod along with the other things necessary to pull of Stoccafisso All'Anconitana for 140 people and stick it in water. Pick up the invitations for my graduation ceremony. Work on my visual presentation for the ceremony. Download a shitload of Buddha Bar to play the day of my graduation courtesy of my iSex (or EAR TAMPON which is how I refer to it on my PC).
06 - Go to the Christmas Bazaar. Did I mention that I'm going to see Viniloversus that night?
07 - Billy Se Fue over at Torre Corp Group at 2PM.
08 - Cut everything up, leave it in containers.
09 - Be at Le Vue at 6AM to cook and have everything ready by noon. Grace everyone with my DJ skills (everyone who's everyone knows that cooks are just frustrated rock stars). Not pick up my diploma because I have a few classes I need to provide them with in order to obtain said paper. Leave gracefully and ask to see my friends, so we can get trashed together and talk about what a waste of time studying here in Caracas was.
10 - Regret having gotten trashed the day before and wonder what the next week will bring me.
FAST FORWARD
13 - Desorden Publico at the Moulin Rouge.
14 - Tell the world to fuck off as I leave for Barquisimeto with a friend.
What can I say; life is truly beautiful. WHEN YOU'RE BUSY.
♥♥♥
PS - I'm having a hard time facing the fact that I will always be a backdoor slut for bassists. Why?
SHAME ON YOU ALL, SHAAAAAAAAAME.
Strangely enough, the menu is up for discussion. In this country we actually have a set dish that is composed of many things to make an entirely delicious Christmas/New Years' meal. So where did we go wrong? Oh right, the year we had linguine al pesto and beef BBQ ribs on the same night. What a bust for my stomach.
Nonetheless, December brings up this very interesting question: what the fuck am I gonna do this month? Let's break down my schedule for the 7 days, day by day, shall we?
04 - Buy plates for my graduation ceremony. (Check!)
05 - Go and buy 6.5 Kg (something like 14 lbs) of salt cod along with the other things necessary to pull of Stoccafisso All'Anconitana for 140 people and stick it in water. Pick up the invitations for my graduation ceremony. Work on my visual presentation for the ceremony. Download a shitload of Buddha Bar to play the day of my graduation courtesy of my iSex (or EAR TAMPON which is how I refer to it on my PC).
06 - Go to the Christmas Bazaar. Did I mention that I'm going to see Viniloversus that night?
07 - Billy Se Fue over at Torre Corp Group at 2PM.
08 - Cut everything up, leave it in containers.
09 - Be at Le Vue at 6AM to cook and have everything ready by noon. Grace everyone with my DJ skills (everyone who's everyone knows that cooks are just frustrated rock stars). Not pick up my diploma because I have a few classes I need to provide them with in order to obtain said paper. Leave gracefully and ask to see my friends, so we can get trashed together and talk about what a waste of time studying here in Caracas was.
10 - Regret having gotten trashed the day before and wonder what the next week will bring me.
FAST FORWARD
13 - Desorden Publico at the Moulin Rouge.
14 - Tell the world to fuck off as I leave for Barquisimeto with a friend.
What can I say; life is truly beautiful. WHEN YOU'RE BUSY.
♥♥♥
PS - I'm having a hard time facing the fact that I will always be a backdoor slut for bassists. Why?
Friday, October 17, 2008
on the lack importance of recognizing your feelings
truth be told, i have no idea how i wound up at the airport. caracas is a an urban setting and the airport is on the coast so you have to take a highway that goes through the mountains, two tunnels before you smell salt and hit heavy traffic: you know you're not in kansas anymore. all i remember is that one minute i was at adolfo's, the next minute we were at the metro station commenting on how sunny it was and how i wanted to see planes and within moments, flashes of badly dressed people, we were on the bus to the coast.
the ride is great. it's therapeutic. i really wish people knew what a mental holiday it is for when i feel cramped in the city. car rides into the coast or into the country seem to be the answer to urban suicide or personal implosion. we listened to mindless music and sang and danced on a bus seated on clandestine benches while old men stared at us and for two seconds being unhappy faded across my mind.
this is a bus that makes 5 stops, its final at the port before it turns around and goes directly back into the city. one of its first ones is across the international airport. we were idiots and didn't get off there, opting for a later stop and going up on another bus. we got off and started walking. somewhere in between complaining about the eternal distance and the humidity we saw it: the russian presidential plane. we didn't even know putin was here. it looked a little outdated and all of a sudden all i could thing about was mrs. kuleshova and dangling deli meats.
we started our tour, sweaty and badly dressed (i was still in my chef uniform and he looked like he was playing hooky), through the national wing of the airport and dreamed up of the locations that we'd go to; started small through maracaibo and puerto ordaz as adolfo scoffed and begged me to dream big. "amsterdam," he whispered, doe-eyed. he bought me water as an alternative to buying the food at that miserable stand...it was a typical stand; no national tourist should leave their house for that crap.
and then we walked the grand gap between the national and international wing (which is exposed, you should know). he stopped and smiled like a four year old listening to the sound of planes taking off...there's something really bewildering about that sound, you have to admit. walking through the sliding doors we immediately searched for the flight schedule screen. "oh my God, i'm late for my flight to paris!!" we made it practically a law to fill the space up with benign comments of the style but at the same time to be discreet, to not get caught as poor students with nothing to do on a friday afternoon.
we ate lunch at subway's. way to be discreet, right? church's chicken was not of the boy's fancy; something about cholesterol problems and how he wanted to watch my weight seeing as i wasn't doing anything for it. but i stayed really quiet and let him talk all he wanted (to be exact, he said something about a couple he witnessed it the bathroom fisting each other and then i tuned him out; this, you could say, was just when it was getting interesting) and thought hard. what the hell was i doing in an airport? what was i looking for? was i looking for anything in specific?
well, i didnt answer any of my questions and even now, with my man-sized drink poured and glassy-eyed the only conclusion i can come up with is this: everything i thought up this afternoon is correct. all of the above plus e.
a. i'm just a little girl who misses her daddy.
b. i REALLY want to get out of here.
c. i want to get the hell away from here.
d. i care more about the letdown of the internship than i thought i did.***
e. delayed anger.
and the worst part is this: in the international wing, i asked myself if i really had the money for a ticket to anywhere would i use it to start a new life without telling anyone or would i stay and you know how i answered that one?
i would have left gladly.
i have a family here, a vast one mind you; a mob-like crew who would likely hunt me down and do me in. can you believe that i've grown so unhappy that i would have hauled my body to djibouti or belgium and not have told them, just to not be here? do you know how that would kill my parents? how that would worry them, that the epileptic apple-of-their-eye has fled the nest without warning and they don't even know if she's got her medication on her???? this is a new degree of selfishness; i wasn't like this!!! i even knew how to work my sentences around the word I.
awareness isn't all that great. how i wish i could be on one of those planes right now.
the ride is great. it's therapeutic. i really wish people knew what a mental holiday it is for when i feel cramped in the city. car rides into the coast or into the country seem to be the answer to urban suicide or personal implosion. we listened to mindless music and sang and danced on a bus seated on clandestine benches while old men stared at us and for two seconds being unhappy faded across my mind.
this is a bus that makes 5 stops, its final at the port before it turns around and goes directly back into the city. one of its first ones is across the international airport. we were idiots and didn't get off there, opting for a later stop and going up on another bus. we got off and started walking. somewhere in between complaining about the eternal distance and the humidity we saw it: the russian presidential plane. we didn't even know putin was here. it looked a little outdated and all of a sudden all i could thing about was mrs. kuleshova and dangling deli meats.
we started our tour, sweaty and badly dressed (i was still in my chef uniform and he looked like he was playing hooky), through the national wing of the airport and dreamed up of the locations that we'd go to; started small through maracaibo and puerto ordaz as adolfo scoffed and begged me to dream big. "amsterdam," he whispered, doe-eyed. he bought me water as an alternative to buying the food at that miserable stand...it was a typical stand; no national tourist should leave their house for that crap.
and then we walked the grand gap between the national and international wing (which is exposed, you should know). he stopped and smiled like a four year old listening to the sound of planes taking off...there's something really bewildering about that sound, you have to admit. walking through the sliding doors we immediately searched for the flight schedule screen. "oh my God, i'm late for my flight to paris!!" we made it practically a law to fill the space up with benign comments of the style but at the same time to be discreet, to not get caught as poor students with nothing to do on a friday afternoon.
we ate lunch at subway's. way to be discreet, right? church's chicken was not of the boy's fancy; something about cholesterol problems and how he wanted to watch my weight seeing as i wasn't doing anything for it. but i stayed really quiet and let him talk all he wanted (to be exact, he said something about a couple he witnessed it the bathroom fisting each other and then i tuned him out; this, you could say, was just when it was getting interesting) and thought hard. what the hell was i doing in an airport? what was i looking for? was i looking for anything in specific?
well, i didnt answer any of my questions and even now, with my man-sized drink poured and glassy-eyed the only conclusion i can come up with is this: everything i thought up this afternoon is correct. all of the above plus e.
a. i'm just a little girl who misses her daddy.
b. i REALLY want to get out of here.
c. i want to get the hell away from here.
d. i care more about the letdown of the internship than i thought i did.***
e. delayed anger.
and the worst part is this: in the international wing, i asked myself if i really had the money for a ticket to anywhere would i use it to start a new life without telling anyone or would i stay and you know how i answered that one?
i would have left gladly.
i have a family here, a vast one mind you; a mob-like crew who would likely hunt me down and do me in. can you believe that i've grown so unhappy that i would have hauled my body to djibouti or belgium and not have told them, just to not be here? do you know how that would kill my parents? how that would worry them, that the epileptic apple-of-their-eye has fled the nest without warning and they don't even know if she's got her medication on her???? this is a new degree of selfishness; i wasn't like this!!! i even knew how to work my sentences around the word I.
awareness isn't all that great. how i wish i could be on one of those planes right now.
Friday, September 5, 2008
3 reasons i give you to hate me entirely
1. i am a massive procrastinator; sticking true to this fashion, my trimestral thesis should be completed by the 18-19th to be printed, bound, and sent to the teacher. i'm only 21 pages in and this is probably gonna be like a 100-something page paper.
2. currently listening to: limp bizkit. yes, what the fuck!? this is the only computer where the clash and max bruch coexist in the white boy anger of fred durst and orgy.
3. what's so important that it can deter me from my thesis? the following, taken from the times:
well, the knives were sharpened yesterday; just give me a holler and we'll schedule my death date.
i'm just sayin'.
♥
2. currently listening to: limp bizkit. yes, what the fuck!? this is the only computer where the clash and max bruch coexist in the white boy anger of fred durst and orgy.
3. what's so important that it can deter me from my thesis? the following, taken from the times:
How deeply do you imagine your characters before you play them?an interview of javier bardem!!!!!
I want to understand everything about that mind. With Chigurh, I saw him as a man with a mission that was beyond his control. Someone chose his fate for him. I thought of him as a man who never had sex. He doesn’t like human fluids, even his own. [Pauses] I don’t want to get into too many details, but I even imagined how Chigurh would masturbate. For the Woody Allen movie, I don’t have to imagine such things because the character is very sexual, but for Chigurh, it was important to think about how he relates to other people, even sexually. So, I think he will masturbate once per month in the dark and with a pillow. Very clean.
well, the knives were sharpened yesterday; just give me a holler and we'll schedule my death date.
i'm just sayin'.
♥
Thursday, August 14, 2008
things not to do: a restrospect of my day
-wake up at 7am and then wonder why the day is going by so slow
-eat three-day old sachertorte - even if you did make it and it tastes like heaven - accompanied by chocolate milk BEFORE breakfast
-help your dad out with lunch and then not finish your portion (not because you were full but rather because it didn't fulfill your culinary standards of a tasty meal)
-...but then make something that resembles a diet-friendly version of nutella and eat half of it by yourself....and then follow it up with two kinds of fruit
-sit on your ass the whole freaking day and not research breakfast foods like you wanted to, opting for playing pimpwar and its spanish version on facebook instead
-leave home late, getting on the metro late, getting practically raped on the metro therefore showing up to my spinning class late, tired and with a guilty conscience (note: not because of the almost rape but because of my gluttony) and feeling forced to take what should have been a 1 hour spinning class into 2 hours
-not drinking gatorade during the duration of this, resulting in a drop in something in my blood
-bitching at my parents for not receiving my text message which had very important information (that means "make food cos i'm on my way home and will pass out if i don't eat anything upon entering the door")
-wandering around my neighborhood after dark, post-parental fiasco, looking for bread. BREAD.
oh yeah. the funny bit was that while i was on the bike, i asked myself if the pleasure i recieved while i ate was worth the pain i was going through while i was sitting on the bike and decided that it was. betcha even fat bastard would pity me.
basically, i came to the realization that i have problems that no psychologist can tap into: we're talking psychiatry, psychoanalysis and sleeper holds. *nods* gotta have the sleeper holds.
-eat three-day old sachertorte - even if you did make it and it tastes like heaven - accompanied by chocolate milk BEFORE breakfast
-help your dad out with lunch and then not finish your portion (not because you were full but rather because it didn't fulfill your culinary standards of a tasty meal)
-...but then make something that resembles a diet-friendly version of nutella and eat half of it by yourself....and then follow it up with two kinds of fruit
-sit on your ass the whole freaking day and not research breakfast foods like you wanted to, opting for playing pimpwar and its spanish version on facebook instead
-leave home late, getting on the metro late, getting practically raped on the metro therefore showing up to my spinning class late, tired and with a guilty conscience (note: not because of the almost rape but because of my gluttony) and feeling forced to take what should have been a 1 hour spinning class into 2 hours
-not drinking gatorade during the duration of this, resulting in a drop in something in my blood
-bitching at my parents for not receiving my text message which had very important information (that means "make food cos i'm on my way home and will pass out if i don't eat anything upon entering the door")
-wandering around my neighborhood after dark, post-parental fiasco, looking for bread. BREAD.
oh yeah. the funny bit was that while i was on the bike, i asked myself if the pleasure i recieved while i ate was worth the pain i was going through while i was sitting on the bike and decided that it was. betcha even fat bastard would pity me.
basically, i came to the realization that i have problems that no psychologist can tap into: we're talking psychiatry, psychoanalysis and sleeper holds. *nods* gotta have the sleeper holds.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
On literary ability, verbosity, and so on.
Okay. I've been obsessed with Jezebel and Gawker for a while now. I know I'm passionate about something, I just don't know what that something is. Politics? Gender? Music? Err. Neurobiology? Writing?
Anyhow, this kid writes to the New York Times book review and showers them with enviable verbosity and some interesting alliteration yet precarious conciseness to produce the meaning of the following sentence: "Stop looking for the great post 9/11 novel in the writers whose mindset you are contemporaries of. The Myspace generation you abhor is going to generate that literary revolution, whether you like it or not."
As someone who from a very young age has always believed in emphasis in meaning rather than the words that you pick to convey that meaning, it is a tad tiring to read the 100th white kid from North America/Europe criticising modern literature yet incorporating several of its aspects. Get with the times, kid. If the success of Gawker and the booming popularity of Jezebel in New York are any sign, you're a white boy, and if the last few centuries of literature have been filled with them, a revitalisation of it means you're not owning this period. We're not interested in hearing about what you think of your crush's porcelain white skin (if your citation of Joyce is any indication) - as Moe would have it, nowadays women want to be admired for something that can't be changed by a shopping trip to Sephora.
And as for your verbosity, one of the commenters at the New York Times said it best:
Hear, hear to Shakespeare. "To be or not to be." Not "To exist existentially or to be bereaved of all existence."
Anyhow, this kid writes to the New York Times book review and showers them with enviable verbosity and some interesting alliteration yet precarious conciseness to produce the meaning of the following sentence: "Stop looking for the great post 9/11 novel in the writers whose mindset you are contemporaries of. The Myspace generation you abhor is going to generate that literary revolution, whether you like it or not."
As someone who from a very young age has always believed in emphasis in meaning rather than the words that you pick to convey that meaning, it is a tad tiring to read the 100th white kid from North America/Europe criticising modern literature yet incorporating several of its aspects. Get with the times, kid. If the success of Gawker and the booming popularity of Jezebel in New York are any sign, you're a white boy, and if the last few centuries of literature have been filled with them, a revitalisation of it means you're not owning this period. We're not interested in hearing about what you think of your crush's porcelain white skin (if your citation of Joyce is any indication) - as Moe would have it, nowadays women want to be admired for something that can't be changed by a shopping trip to Sephora.
And as for your verbosity, one of the commenters at the New York Times said it best:
Hear, hear to Shakespeare. "To be or not to be." Not "To exist existentially or to be bereaved of all existence."
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