Oh, Shit... The Brakes Don't Work...

“Oh, shit… the brakes don’t work…” that was the thought running through my mind while I was flying northbound, downhill on the I-5 back into the Central Valley yesterday. I looked at my dashboard and noticed that my car’s engine had turned off while I was driving! The dash lights told me that my car was in that limbo-land that allows you to hear the radio but not actually drive the car. As I picked up speed toward what was potentially my impending demise, I put on my hazards, started pumping the brakes, and began moving over to the right side of the freeway. My death hadn’t even crossed my mind. What I was more concerned about, was how I was going to afford to fix whatever the fuck was wrong with my car now! I can’t say I’m surprised that my day was turning out to be like that because the way it started was no peach either.

It all started Tuesday night when my friend, Tony, texted me and said his roommate’s room was up for grabs starting in August. I, of course, jumped at this opportunity because the room is over $100 cheaper than I was paying last year to rent a room from a crazy-ass cat lady. So I talked to his roommate, David, that night after I got off of work, and it was decided that Wednesday was the best day for me to come down and look at the room. That meant that I had to make an emergency trip down to Orange in less than 8 hours. Not pleased, but relieved to have a chance at a better place to live.

I had the beginnings of a sore throat Tuesday, which turned into a dry, scratchy throat that night, only to wake up Wednesday morning from less than 6 hours sleep and with a full blown sore throat. Super pissed! Still, I hit the road at about 8:30am with a 3 ½ to 4 hour drive to Orange ahead of me.

The drive was ok, if not boring, since I was by myself. I listened to Pandora on my new Android—I’ve recently become a fan of Dub-step (thanks Bruseph)—and I arrived at the apartment at about 12:30pm. I liked everything I saw and by 12:45pm I was down at the rental office filling out a credit check/application.

The credit check got me concerned because 1) It didn’t dawn on me that I’d have to pay $30 for the credit check and 2) If I needed a cosigner for this place, I’d be kinda screwed. I have better credit than either of my parents, and I really didn’t want to have to ask my grandma to take a risk like that (even though I know I’m good for it). Regardless of my fears, I turned in the application and was told the results would be ready by 2pm. With an hour to kill I decided to get some gas, food, and a 5 hour energy drink because I was exhausted and still had to drive back home to Fresno.

Thankfully, by 1:15 the woman from the rental office had called me and said that I had passed the credit check and could sign the lease all on my own, without a cosigner!

Now, let’s talk about the 5 hour energy drink for a minute, shall we? I had never tried one before, but I’d heard they work great. I don’t generally like the taste of energy drinks and I don’t drink sugary beverages, but the 5 hour is sugarless and the new flavor is grape- my favorite! I read the tiny bottle and it basically said don’t drink more than 2 a day because you’ll probably die, blah, blah, blah… So I downed it, and it didn’t taste too bad toward the end. I felt kind of like Lucy in the Vita-meat-a-veg-a-min episode.

By the time I’d reached the rental office 2 minutes later I was feeling a little weird. Kinda shaky, and yet on top of the world because I was signing my first lease ever, all by myself, with the good credit I’d worked so hard to build! It was a major “I’m a big girl” moment. My immediate thoughts were “I’m pretty sure this is what crack feels like.” I know some people who’ve done it and they say that you get super awake and you feel like you can do anything. The logical conclusion for me (and some other people I know) was that 5hour energy=crack! 

So I sat there in the office kinda drunk/happy while the lady went over the lease with me. I initialed all over that lease, wrote some checks like a boss, and walked out of there feeling relieved, happy, and wired, to say the least.

The drive home seemed longer than usual, probably because my throat was still sore and I just wanted to go home and go to sleep. I mark the end of the grapevine as the final stretch of my trips to and from Orange, and was relieved to be coming up on that checkmark. Usually, on the downward steep, I take cruise control off, and throw my car into neutral in an attempt to save gas. I don’t know if it actually works or not… This time, I think I forgot to turn the cruise control off first and just threw it into neutral. As soon as I did that, the engine cut out and I found myself gliding down the hill at 80+mph with no brakes and no power steering.

Surprisingly, I didn’t panic. Well, I didn’t panic because I thought I was going to die or crash. I coasted down the mountain while pumping the brakes; afraid I was going to be stranded on the 5 still 2 hours from home. I panicked at the knowledge that car repairs are expensive, and I almost never have a substantial amount of savings to cover a car repair. I panicked… because I knew I’d have to call my dad and tell him that the car he still isn’t finished paying for needed to be fixed…again…



**Side note**

Fuckin’ Fords…

**End Side note**

As I glided to a stop along the side of the highway at the end of the ridge, I put the car in park, turned the key to the off position, and then turned it back on. It started perfectly. I was still shaking—this time from anxiety, not the energy drink—but I was so very relieved! I think the glitch may have had something to do with not turning off the cruise control when I put it in neutral. But it was fine the rest of the way home, thank God!

I’m kind of a spiritual person, by the way. I believe in fate or God’s plan or whatever you choose to call it, so what do I think saved my car that day? I think it was the cross that my Grandma had blessed that hangs from my rearview mirror. That blessed cross saved me and my car, and you can’t convince me otherwise. Besides, there’s no proof that it wasn’t the cross that saved my life. HA!

Basque-ing In All the Glory

It's that time again: Time for another tale from your favorite preppy white guy... which is hopefully me and that's why you're here reading this blog.

My situation recently has been that I've had to move back home to Fresno for the summer. If  you've never lived or been to Fresno, CONGRATULATIONS! If you happen to live in Fresno... kudos for making it work for you. I joke, but it's only been since I moved out of Fresno that I've learned to appreciate its prime location (it's basically 3 hours from all the important stuff in CA), and the importance of its agriculture. Prime example: My grandma Abate's homemade peach pie made from our homegrown peaches. If  we didn't live in Fresno, we wouldn't be able to grow the deliciously juicy peaches that make her mouth-watering pie. It's literally better than any store-bought pie you'll ever eat...in your life! I wish I had a picture of it. Instead, I have a picture of our nectarine tree because our peaches aren't ripe yet.

Ignore my finger in the shot...

Anyhoo... in order to save money for rent and other expenses for next school year, I was on the hunt for a job a couple months before I even got home. It's hard to get even a minimum wage job these days, but it's especially hard to get one in Fresno. Unemployment is at an all time high, and that was a depressing fact to face. But luckily God decided to smile upon my poor unemployed but easily trainable soul and I got me a job as a waitress at the Basque Hotel & Restaurant!!! Here's how it happened:

My mother went into the restaurant and asked the bartender if she was still hiring because she didn't want her daughter (me) "lazing around the house all summer." ........ Need I say more? She also let the bartender/owner know that I was only going to be in town for the summer. Now let's go back to the part about how it's insanely difficult to get a job in Fresno. What do you think happens to those odds when your potential employer thinks you're lazy and knows you're only going to be there temporarily? Usually they won't even bother hiring you if they know you're going to cut out of there in 3 months. And she even forgot to tell the lady that I had food service experience because she forgot that I worked at Jamba Juice for 6 months! But despite my mother's lack of the ability to sell my good qualities to my potential employer, I GOT THE JOB! The lady hired me with no experience as a waitress, knowing that I'd only be there temporarily, and with the impression that I was some lazy ass kid. Needless to say, I believe in miracles.

 Here's a picture of the sign outside.

Of course, I was a little nervous about working here for the first time since I'd never been a waitress before, but I was a pretty fast learner. And by the way, there's nothing particularly "Basque-y" about Basque food. It's all pretty normal stuff. You get bread, soup, salad, potato salad, beef stew, beans, the option of a meat (from fried chicken to prime rib), and dessert all for about $12-$20 depending on your main entree. On weekdays they have the "exotic" meats like beef tongue, lamb testicles, and fried pigs feet. I've tried all of these because I'll try pretty much any food once, and to be honest, the tongue bothered me the most. I had to focus really hard on not picturing a cow's tongue in my mouth, but if I didn't know beforehand what it was it wouldn't have been a problem.

So it's been here that I've discovered the wonders of waitressing. It's a pretty small venue, so only me and one other girl work together to make the tips worthwhile, and boy are they worthwhile! The tips are THE best part of waitressing. I usually make more in tips each night than I do at my hourly wage. Plus, the clientele there is pretty much just old people. More specifically: old men. And they usually have a drink at the bar before I serve them, wine during dinner, and another drink to top it off before they leave. All this makes for a loose hand when it comes to tipping the pretty, young, white, blonde girl that served them at dinner. That's right, at this place I'm considered pretty, young, white (duh!), and blonde! Never before now have I felt like the prettiest girl in the room, and I'll tell you what, every girl (or boy) deserves to feel like that at some point in their lives. It does wonders for the ego.

My spanish is also getting better because the guys that work in the kitchen don't speak english. About the only thing I can say to them conversationally is "Como estas" and "Bien, y tu?" But they call me senorita bonita, so we get along pretty well. Juan knows the most english, so he's attempting to teach me something new each day I work.

Jackie is my friend and co-worker who started dishing the details of her life with me on my very first day. She trained me and helps me out whenever I need it, and always listens to my problems while giving me genuine advice.

Cathy is the boss's daughter who works with me occassionally. She tells it like it is and has inspired me to be a more assertive person.

Margaret is co-owner with her husband Fermin. She's the bartender that doesn't take any bullshit, and her husband is always trying to get me to drink the house wine while I'm working a shift. I have accepted his offer only once :)

So as you can see, my summer experience has pretty much been a series of Cheers episodes.

It's not peachy all the time, though. I get the ocassional bad tipper. And even the occasional no-tipper-at-all, but for the most part I've had some pretty good conversations with the regulars, and some especially good conversations with the drunks. I'm also happy to report that I've yet to get pinched on the ass, and I've only accidentally broken 2 glasses so far.

Not to mention, I've built up my savings account pretty nicely... That is until I got my tuition bill from Chapman.... Bye-bye savings.... That really pissed me off, but hey, I'm used to not having money, so I'll get over it. What's important is that I've made pretty good friends with my co-workers at the Basque and I've gained some more work experience. Hopefully I can get another waitressing job down in Orange somewhere. Although, in Orange, I'll just be one of a million of other pretty, young, blonde, white-girls. Eh, it was nice while it lasted...

I Met a Zombie, and His Name was Rob

I know it's been almost a month since I've posted, but give me a break. It's summer and I've been very busy doing I'm not sure what. Oh, watching a lot of I Love Lucy. That's what I've been doing. Not sure why. It still makes me laugh out loud. But in between the Lucy sessions I got invited to a Rob Zombie concert, and it was quite an experience. *Rob Zombie will henceforth be referred to as RZ*

Not gonna lie, I think he's kinda sexy

RZ came to Fresno at the end of May and my cousin Dominic won two tickets on the radio (Yes, radios still exist, and they still broadcast songs and stuff). I've never considered myself to be a RZ fan or a metal fan. Like I've already established, I'm a preppy white guy who's eighty years old. I like to listen to the old crooners like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Bing Crosby, Judy Garland. But, RZ was playing the Crest theatre here in Fresno, and I'd never been inside. The Crest is now affectionately known as the Crust theatre because it's so beat up, but it's super old and still has that ornate appearance of its picture-palace days. I was super excited to see the inside. Plus I like hanging out with my harcore cousin.

The Crest theatre in Fresno, CA. aka the "Crust" theatre.

When we got there, we had to wait in a long ass line, and I kept asking my cousin if I looked like a square with my jeans, t-shirt, blonde hair, and untattooed/pierced body. He said I looked ok, but the very fact that I referred to myself as a "square" makes me one. Dom had no problem blending in, by the way. This guy is all tatted and pierced up, and wears a mohawk. He looks like he'd cut you if you greeted him the wrong way. I'm pretty sure I've seen that happen. He's awesome, though.

At the end of the line there were security guards waiting to feel us up for sharp objects. It didn't really bother me except that the girls' line took a lot more time to get through because there was only one female security guard versus the ten male guards.

When we got inside, the opening band had already started playing and I was not that impressed. The lead singer was an old-ass fat guy with long greasy hair. He looked super dirty and sweaty. He and his bandmates drank beers in between each song, but I completly understand that part. Screaming takes a lot out of you, and beer really helps soothe the throat... Did I mention that their backdrop was a big, black trash bag/tarp? It looked like we were in someone's garage in the 70's listening to some high school band. I literally thought I had travelled back to the 70's, but I must have just been contact high from all the wheed (that's the way I like to pronounce weed). I'm being mean in my description here, but they were alright. I've heard worse metal bands that really annoyed me because I didn't believe they were saying words. At least I could here some words from this band and the music was ok.

Now, what really blew my mind were the moments before RZ started playing. I was freakin out and kept joking with Dom that RZ was gonna eat a baby or something. I've seen his movies, he's a freaky motherfucker, so I was expecting the worst. After the garage band, RZ's roadies tore down the stupid tarp to reveal giant backdrops with pictures of the classic Universal monsters on them. As I looked at the pictures of Frankenstein, Phantom of the Opera, and Wolf Man I heard Johnny Cash songs being piped in through what sounded like an old intercom speaker that you listened to school announcements from. It was an overall creepy effect that I'm not sure if RZ intended to create or what...

Then he finally took the stage in a dusty Jack Sparrow getup and I instantly became a fan. The man puts on a kickass show. He talked to the audience like he was an old friend, he got as close to the crowd as security would let him, and he performed his songs at 110%. I think the relatively small theatre helped create a more intimate experience. I really felt like he was talking/singing to me and me alone.

While I watched RZ perform, my cousin decided to join the mosh pit--something I said from the start that I would never participate in. I'm a pretty tall girl, so I can take and give a pretty good hit, but I just don't want to. What the hell is the point of slamming into one another while music is playing? People get hurt, and I just don't see the reason for it... But my cousin was all about it, so he left me alone (yes, ALONE) in the crowd to go get his ass kicked.

I was proud that I had managed to stay out of the stupid shoving match until some DUMB BITCH decided to start a mosh pit right in front of me! I got hit from the front and got the wind knocked out of me slightly, so I shoved that bitch as hard as I could and ran to the outside of the crowd. Afraid? No. Getting the last hit in to prove that I don't like hitting? Yes. It's all very rational inside my head.

All in all, I had a great time. The only disappointing thing about that night is that RZ only played for an hour. I was expecting a couple hours, but who am I to complain? I got my ticket for free, and I'm not even a particularly huge metal fan (although slightly more now than before that night). I feel kinda bad that I got to go to this concert while my best friend Meg and her boyfriend had no idea RZ was even coming to town. Meg is a waaaay bigger RZ fan than I am, and she would've loved every minute of that concert, but she was with me in spirit!

Oh, and my cousin Dom didn't come out unscathed. He got in on a fight to defend his friend for reasons he's still unsure of, and his industrial piercing (I think that's what it's called) almost got ripped out of his ear. I think that constitutes as a pretty successful night.

What the Hell Kind of Title is That?!

I figured my first post should be an explaination of the title of my blog. I mean, I've never considered myself preppy--I transcend stereotypes, bitch!-- I'm not a guy, but I am white and I've got some tales to tell... so it kinda makes sense... Anyways, here's the story:

Disclaimer: I'll be using everyone's real names unless I feel like making some up, or if I find out I need to change them for legal reasons.

Last weekend my bestfriends and I had a little party. It doubled as an early birthday celebration for Britt (21 suckas!) and a graduation party for Ashole (her name is Ashley, you get the idea). Two birds, one stone, that's just the way I like to get things done.

I was talking w/ Ashole, Meg, and her boyfriend--we'll call him Matt because that's his name-- about the first impressions that people give off. Like an idiot, I asked Matt what his first impression of me was (I was under the influence of some things).  I was curious because I usually get way different answers: Bitchy, shy, nerdy, etc. All contradictory assesments of my actual personality, except for the fact that those are all probably pretty accurate...

Anyways, as Matt described his first impression of me I went from flattered, to offended, back to flattered, then to a neutral state somewhere between pissed and sad. He finally summed it up in one sentence, "You're kind of like a preppy white guy."

... Really, Matt? A preppy white guy? Not even a preppy white girl? By the way, this was after he described me as funny and uptight in the same sentence.

When I heard that, I actually busted up laughing. After that, Meg and I decided to make up titles to our memiors. Mine, of course, would be called Nicole Abate: Tales of a Preppy White Guy. Hers? Isn't it obvious? Well, it soon will be after I blog a few more stories about her. Meg's memiors would be called What If I'd Said No (this is, of course, a sexual joke often aimed at Meg and always in good-hearted fun). Matt decided to get all deep and name his Work in Progress, or Survivor, or something like that. Sorry I can't remember, Matt. Like I said, I was under the influence of some stuff.

Here's a pic from that night:

I'm clearly indifferent about them...

Oh, wait, I DO love them!

So there you have it, a fun filled night full of honesty and ab-crunching laughter. I love those days., and I love my friends. Oh, and thanks, Matt, for helping me come up w/ a title for my memiors. Your check is already (not) in the mail.