Scrabble

I heart Scrabble.  It is a bit more of a commitment than cards, but that's part of the beauty.  Husband and I play, but sadly, we are amateurs at best. Despite this, I get really angry and sarcastic when I'm losing, but as you might be able to tell, with my move of "HAZY," strategically lining up my Z with the triple letter tile, I have ground his hopes to dust.  I am the smartest.

Waiting

I work at a fine dining establishment. I will confess that waiting tables feels much different at thirty than it did at twenty. I don't remember this feeling of humility... and sometimes seething anger. I find this change interesting. I attribute it to the comparison I now have between the respect of a professional job and the lack of it in a service industry job. It is interesting moving from a job where I lectured and controlled the behavior of those around me to a job where I control nothing and deliver the requests of others. I'm sure this is good for my character.

A few weeks ago, I had a nine top who came in to celebrate a birthday. They milled around everywhere, wanted to order at different times, and went out to the parking lot to smoke at random. I went back into the kitchen at one point, and homeboy from the party was back there with the cooks trying to chat up Chef. They were all in their late twenties, and the ladies kept talking about their benevolence in each of their charities.

One of them asked me if it took a really long time to make the margaritas because it was taking me a long time to get them out to the table. Um, I'm opening three bottles of wine for your stupid friends and delivering tapas, and this isn't even my only table right now, so shut it, vapid blonde fatty. But wait, things get better.

Later, I'm dropping off salads to the table and Trendy-single-girl compliments me on my wedding ring. Her friend, Whiskey-drinking-brunette, slurs that Trendy has a ring just like it. Trendy holds it up, and indeed, she does. I'm a little surprised by such an impressive diamond

ring worn just for the heck, but whatever, I'm middle class. But wait, it gets better. Whiskey astutely notes that Trendy's diamond is bigger than mine. (This is fine. I have a great ring. I feel no need to compete.) However, I'm starting to feel that Whiskey is not my favorite person. Whiskey points out that Trendy isn't married so that means that the waitress (that's me) is "better." Oh, but wait. Then Whiskey announces to everyone that Trendy's boobs are bigger than mine, so she's better. Um. (It is true. Trendy's boobs are bigger.) With horrified face, I moved on down the line with the Rioja. What do you say to that?

Doppelganger Diary

I couldn't sleep--must be my shifting schedule--and I resigned myself to getting up to escape Husband's increasingly sonorous night breathing. Why shouldn't I go ahead and post my first blog entry?

Unsure of where I should start, I'll guess I'll just give background on my name for now. Everyday Attic refers to one of my longtime fav novels, Jane Eyre. I have a special teenage affection for Jane, and all things considered, she's probably my favorite female character of all time (John Proctor takes best male). I taught the novel to my juniors back in a previous life, and though closer adult inspection revealed flaws in Bronte's book, it didn't diminish my love for Ms. Eyre. I wish I could be more like Jane. Although I love her strength and intelligence and virtue, I love me some Bertha, too. Jane lives out in the world: obedient, modest, disciplined. Bertha, on the other hand, lives up in the attic: angry, impulsive, emotional.

Arin Fay, the artist of the previous painting, comments that "Bertha is Jane’s double, a kind of skeleton in the attic whose appearance serves as a foil to Jane’s naïve romanticism. Her appearance at all in a formulaic love story, especially one published well over a hundred years ago, speaks to the importance of giving voice, however disenfranchised, to significant female frustrations. With Bertha’s fire and violence Charlotte Bronte interrupts her own ‘conventional’ story, and thus gives the reader a limited but valid view of an alternative female reality."

Obviously, a blog offers a (somewhat) anonymous chance to pull back the curtain on one's less public thoughts, interests, habits. This is just a chance to open the attic doors... if you will. I used to talk to my students about this crazy woman trapped in the attic and how Jane is

n't the only place this insane femme fatale creeps up. Jane lives and works down on the lower, more public floors. Bertha is trapped upstairs... in her own head. And thus, I arrived at the metaphor of the attic for my title. Long story short, the blog will be about, wait for it, what's in my head. I know. Don't take this to mean that I will have anything significant to say in any my posts. I plan on being as shallow as possible. I might write about how my manager's voice is obnoxious or detail my latest Anthropologie obsession. But these trivial complaints, stories, etc are shadow side revelations in their own way.

It is getting late now, and I'm getting sleepy. I guess this would be an appropriate time to go set Husband's bed on fire. (Insert maniacal laugh here.)