Post by roscoe hoberman on May 4, 2009 21:25:19 GMT -5
roscoe james hoberman!
[/color][/font]WON'T HESITATE NO MORE
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------------------------------------[/center]
TO BE CHILL BUT YOU'RE SO HOT
[/color][/font]THAT I MELTED I FELL RIGHT THROUGH THE CRACKS AND NOW I'M TRYING
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
"well hey hey sexy people, the name's roscoe james hoberman, but most people
just call me roscoe. i was welcomed into this fine world on march sixteenth, 1993,
which would make me about sixteen years old. obviously i'm a guy, and
i'm hella proud of it too! i'm also very proud to be heterosexual, so if
you don't like it, you can go suck it! a lot of people tend to tell me that i really do
look a whole lot like kevin flamme. i think it's mostly because of my dark brown
hair and my totally heart breaking chocolate eyes. but what really makes me sexy is
my boyish face. oh...and did i mention that i'm living it up as stewart academy junior.
[/center]
nothing's gonna stop me but divine intervention
[/color][/font][/i]i reckon it's again my turn to win some or learn some but i won't hesitate no more[/font]
---------------------------------------------------------------------------[/center]
cooking, doing well, reading, tea, working hard, being
right, social studies, honesty, classical music, being in
control, colored pencils, people, english, trying to
understand people, people watching, tic tacs, math,
museums, chapstick
AND NOT SO MUCH?
being wrong, elevators, doctors, losing, dogs, failing,
markers, not being in control, computers, regrets,
relationships, big crowds, science, enigmas, meeting
new people, dentists, small spaces, pain, feeling
stupid, the color red, talking, secrets, coffee, crying,
sports, coffins, needles
WHAT GET'S TO YOU, SCAREDY CAT?
i guess i’m afraid of not doing anything significant, of not mattering.
i want to make a difference, do something... important. i’m afraid of
having a real relationship, of falling in love with someone. i’m afraid
of commitment to a degree. feet weird me out. i’m also a little
claustrophobic. i don’t have a panic attack ever time i step into an
elevator, so i mean, it’s not awful claustrophobia. but i get stressed
out in a really tight crowd, for example, and i have this recurring
nightmare about being buried alive. coffins are creepy. i don’t like
letting people into my head. i mean, i like honesty, but more in
theory than in practice. it’s not an image thing; i just don’t know
how to act around people when they know everything about me. it
weirds me out. and i like having parts of myself to myself, if that
makes sense.
WHAT'S YOUR DREAM COME TRUE?
i want to graduate and get into a good college. i want to figure
out what i want to do with the rest of my life, because right
now i really have no idea. i want to learn to be more smooth
like dodger, less socially awkward. i want to be less of a recluse.
WHAT ARE YOUR HABITS , GOOD AND BAD?
i have a chapstick addiction. i always have a stick in my pocket.
i also have a tic tac addiction. hey, better than some addictions.
i count things when i get bored. i count my steps when i walk.
i love prime numbers. with candy stuff, like m&m’s, i sort them
into different colors, and i like having the same amount of each.
i start my sentences with ‘but’ a lot. i overanalyze everything. i
think before i talk, but when i get nervous i rush and, since i’m
not checking everything i say, i sound really stupid. i ask too
many questions.
WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?
i wouldn’t saying i hide things, really. i just keep things to myself,
like i said before. i guess specific things that i don’t tell lots of
people or really want people to know would be like, my color-
blindness. as far as disabilities or impairments go, it’s a pretty
minor one, and i actually think it’s pretty cool. but i could never
really explain how i see things, because i don’t know how everyone
else sees them. and it’s not like it matters, really. and i don’t
usually tell people about my issues with my dad, or how i much
i compare myself to dodger.
GOT A FAVORITE MEMORY?
this is going to sound really lame, i bet. but when i was
twelve, my grade was taking a field trip to the smithsonian,
but i couldn’t go. i had the flu, and my mom wouldn’t
let me go. so a few weeks later, my mom let me skip
school. dodger still had to go. we left really early in the
morning and took the train to new york. and we went to
her favorite museum, the museum of natural history.
it was amazing. i never wanted to leave. it was my
first time at a museum, and now i love them. we
hung out the whole day and even went to the new
york city public library, which is the most amazing
library i’ve ever seen.
THE WORST?
my dad and i got into a really bad fight about a year ago. see,
i don’t usually stand up for myself as much as i should, and
i tend to let my dad kind of... walk all over me. he always
says whatever he wants about me or to me, and i never do
anything in response. and i just got so angry with him. i
never get angry, either. i’m too passive for my own good,
according to my mom. he was sitting on the couch, watching
a yankee game. he had his baseball mitt with him, for some
reason, and he was tossing a ball up with his right hand and
catching it in his mitt on the other. and he just sighed and
got this disappointed look on his face. so i asked him what
was wrong. he said that he missed dodger, that he missed
having another man around. that throwing the ball by
himself wasn’t as much fun as tossing it to his son. so i
offered to throw the ball around with him, even though i
hate baseball and i had homework to do. he said that he
wouldn’t want to inconvenience me, and that it would be
no fun anyway. i just... i lost it. i mean, i never lose it. my
mom was in the kitchen, and she came in when she heard
the yelling because she figured dad was yelling at me. man,
was she surprised to see my dad sitting in his armchair all
shocked. he even dropped his baseball. then i ignored him
for about a week. i guess he felt bad, because he took me
out to dinner the next weekend, called it a ‘man’s night out.’
my mom didn’t seem to mind. that’s probably the only time
he didn’t seem completely disappointed in me, and it was
only because he felt guilty. two nights later, everything
went right back to normal.
WHAT ABOUT PET PEEVES?
i don’t get annoyed or angry very easily. but i guess if i
had to think of something, it’d be people who are really
smart, but don’t try in school and wind up with the same
grades that i do. i’m not all that naturally smart, and i
work really hard to get the grades i do. but there are a
lot of people who don’t have to work as hard as i do, and
they don’t. but they still do as well as me, if not better. i
know that shouldn’t annoy me, because it isn’t any of my
business how other people do. it’s just irritating, because
those people could do so much better and they just don’t.
and it stinks to know that some people can do as well as
me at a fraction of the effort. it makes me feel stupid.
HOW STRONG ARE YOU?
i’m pretty good in school. my best subjects are probably
english and social studies, though i’m pretty good at math,
too. i work hard and do my homework and study, so i do
well even in classes i’m not very good at, like science. i...
i think i’m pretty good at figuring people out. i can’t think
of anything else.
EVERYONE HAS A WEAKNESS...
i’m not very good... verbally. i’m not clever. i’m pretty sure
everything i say is really bland and cliched. i’m not funny. i
get nervous in front of people. i’m no good at sports. i’m not
good at much, honestly. i’m not very good at science or foreign
languages. i really stink with computers. i’m bad with pain. i
can’t handle when people cry, especially girls. going to the
doctor or the dentist makes me nervous. i’m really bad at
anything musical or artsy. i have no sense of rhythm. i don’t
have a very high self-esteem. whenever i see people whispering,
i think they’re making fun of me.
HOW'S YOUR HYMEN, METAPHORICALLY OR NOT?
oh, i’ve never, um, had sex.[/color][/font]
[/ul]
i'm yours; well open up your heart and see like me
[/color][/font][/i]open up your plans and damn you're free look into your heart and you'll find
---------------------------------------------------------------------------[/center]
that’s hard. i don’t think i could choose one. but i’m
currently rereading dracula – it’s a great one.
FAVORITE MOVIE?
i don’t really watch movies all that often. i just saw
the new batman movie, though! that was really good.
FAVORITE MEMBER OF NSYNC?
my brother was a lot more into n*sync than i was.
FAVORITE FOOD?
chinese!
FAVORITE TYPE OF BUBBLE GUM?
cinnamon, i guess. like big red.
FAVORITE COLOR?
probably green.
FAVORITE TV SHOW?
either house or law & order svu.
FAVORITE NON-ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE?
mountain dew, the drink of the gods.
FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE?
i don’t drink. beer tastes gross.
FAVORITE TIME OF DAY?
the morning. dawn, i guess.
FAVORITE HOLIDAY?
thanksgiving. the food’s great.
FAVORITE IDEAL DATE?
oh, er, i really have no idea.
[/color][/font]
[/ul]
spending way too long checking my tongue in the mirror
[/color][/i][/font]and bending over backwards just to try to see it clearer but my breath fogged up
---------------------------------------------------------------------------[/center]
alexander leonardo hoberman; fifty-one; los angeles, california; stock broker; father
AND HIS BABY MOMMA?
maria isabella lorenzo hoberman; forty-eight; los angeles, california; runs a small cafe; mother
WHAT ABOUT THOSE CRAZY SIBLINGS?
dodger keith hoberman; nineteen; pittsburgh; sophomore at university; older brother.
WHERE ARE YOU FROM?
los angeles, california.
WHAT'S YOUR LIFE STORY?
i’ve always been really jealous of my brother. we get along
fine; i don’t resent him, or anything like that. i just wish i
could be more like him. he’s outgoing, and friendly, and
funny. people like him. he’s “normal.” he’s good at everything
without even trying, and i’m bad at everything. i have to
work so much harder than he does. he’s popular, he’s had
girlfriends. girls don’t even notice me. i know it sounds
really immature, but i’ve always wanted to be like him,
and i just can’t be. i don’t resent him for it; if anything, i
kind of... i hold it more against myself than i do him.
my brother gets along better with my dad, and i get along
with my mom. i’m actually pretty afraid of my dad. he’s
never hit me, or anything like that. but he and dodger get
along so well. they play ball together, watch sports together.
i think he was really disappointed when i wanted to read
instead of watching the oriole game. i’ve never been a ‘man,’
like he and dodger are. and he wasn’t afraid to tell me so.
he’d come at it from a lot of different directions, too. he
might complain about how, now that dodger’s at college,
he had no one to watch hockey with him. or he might
yell at me, or try to pressure me into trying out for some
sports team or another. or he might comment on how i
reminded him of my mom and sound all disappointed. i
think he’s part of the reason i’ve always felt so bad about
myself, why i always compare everything i do to dodger.
and i really hate him for it. but my mom and i get along
really well.
but other than some of my tense familial relationships,
nothing interesting has ever really happened to me. i was
born in los angeles, california. we moved to pittsburgh
three years ago, when i was in eighth grade. and nothing
else has really happened; nothing that could really
catch anyone’s attention. i used to be made fun of a lot
in elementary school. i still am sometimes, to an extent.
but i mean, that’s not really a big deal.
we’re also of really weird descent. i forget the exact
percentages, but we’re greek, italian, and polish. kinda
odd, huh?
oh, and i guess i’ll describe my color-blindness, because
it’s actually kind of cool. so basically, people normally have
three different photoreceptors, red, blue and green. color
blindness can be caused by missing one or having one kind
of messed up. i’m missing the blue one, which is called
tritanopia. i hope i spelled that right. there are other ways
of classifying color blindness, and it gets really complicated.
but basically, the left is how you see the rainbow, and the
right is how i see it:
they look the same to me. i also have asthma, and i’m
allergic to dust, cats, and pollen.
THE SOUNDTRACK TO YOUR LIFE?
my stupid mouth has got me in trouble. i said too much again,
and i could see she was offended. she said, “well anyway, i’m
just dyin’ for a subject change.” oh, it’s another social casualty,
score one more for me. how could i forget? mama said, “think
before speaking.” yes, my head is swirling, welcome to my
world. it’s population one and you can come, so take it or leave
it, that’s just who i am. it might be hard to believe it but you
know, but you know, but you got to understand. look at me now.
one more thing: why is it my fault? so maybe i try too heard, but
it’s all because of this desire. i just want to be liked, just want to
be funny. looks like the joke is on me now, so call me ‘captain
backfire.’ i’m never speaking up again, it only hurts me. i’d
rather be a mystery than she desert me. oh, i’m never speaking
up again, starting now.
my stupid mouth john mayer
i am a question to the world, not an answer to be heard or a
moment that’s held in your arms. and what do you think you’d
ever see? i won’t listen anyway. you don’t know me, and i’ll
never be what you want me to be. and what, do you think you’d
understand? i’m a boy; no, i’m a man. you can’t take me and
throw me away. and how can you learn what’s never shown?
yeah, you stand here on your own. the don’t know me, ‘cause
i’m not here. and i want a moment to be real, want to touch
things i don’t feel, want to hold on and feel i belong. and how
can the world want me to change? they’re the ones, they stay
the same. they don’t know me, ‘cause i’m not here. and i want
to tell you who i am; can you help me be a man? they can’t
break me, as long as i know who i am. yeah, the world is still
sleeping while i keep on dreaming for me, and their words are
just whispers and lies that i’ll never believe. and how can they
say i’ll never change? they’re the ones who stay the same. i’m
the one now, ‘cause i’m still here.
i’m still here goo goo dolls
[/ul]
THERE'S NO NEED TO COMPLICATE
[/color][/color][/font][/font]OUR TIME IS SHORT THIS IS OUR FATE I'M YOURS SCOOCH ON CLOSER DEAR[/font]
---------------------------------------------------------------------------[/center]
hey, what's up? my name is andi and i've been rocking out with
my stunna shades for seventeen years. yeah, i know i'm pretty ill.
and obviously i'm a chica, can you dig it? if you wanna get in touch with
me just hit me up by pm is fine. oh, and i gotta have me my red light district.
“Be careful, Bridgette!”
Bridgette tottered on the top step of the ladder, but luckily maintained her balance. She looked down at the girl holding the ladder for her, smiling sheepishly. “If I fall, you’ll catch me, right?” she checked, grinning. The girl holding the ladder, Marissa, rolled her eyes and chuckled, motioning for Bridgette to finish her job and get down. She wasn’t the most coordinated of people, so sticking her on a ladder may not have been the brightest of ideas. But she was one of the tallest employees there early to set up for the benefit, and thus had the best chance of being able to hang the banner above the doorway with any semblance of accuracy.
Bridgette stood up straight, tilting her head to the side and studying the banner, trying to gauge if it was straight or not. There was a strict uniform enforced for the waiters and waitresses, so like all the other girls, Bridgette was in a black skirt that was shorter than her typical style, a white button-up dress shirt, and black pumps. She had done plenty of these events with the same catering company, and she perfectly fine with the outfit. But not when they stuck her on a ladder. Some of the waiters had a tendency to walk under the ladder at such opportune times, and trying to balance atop a ladder while also trying to cross her legs to conceal her underwear was impossible. So today, she’d worn black spandex under her skirt, and she could hear a disappointed sigh from a Brett, a waiter a few years older than herself, as he passed under the ladder. She smiled victoriously to herself.
“Riss, does this look straight to you?” she asked.
Bridgette and Marissa did these events together all the time. Marissa was a culinary student who felt that any job had to be somehow related to her chosen profession. She had found the catering job, but hadn’t wanted to do it by herself. So she’d asked Bridgette, her roommate from their undergrad years, to do it with her. This was two years ago, when they had both been fresh out of college, not to mention desperate for the money. Now it was a month before Bridgette’s twenty-third birthday. Marissa was still in culinary school, but Bridgette still didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. She’d double-majored in Psychology and English and had been two credits short of a philosophy minor. But she didn’t do much with her degrees. She did a little free-lance writing for the small newspaper run through her old home town, and they always published whatever she sent them.
Bridgette had never wanted to leave her hometown. To go to college, of course, she had to. But she loved the small-town atmosphere, loved that everyone knew who she was. She had wanted to go back after college, but her parents hadn’t let her. Literally. They were concerned that she’d never had a boyfriend while she was in high school there, that she had still never really had a boyfriend.
It wasn’t because she wasn’t pretty. Quite the contrary, her parents were convinced that it was because she was too pretty. Bridgette had laughed, but her parents were utterly serious. They had expressed their concern many times before, but never like they did that night. She had been back for the summer after her sophomore year, and was trying to figure out what she wanted to do after college, bouncing possibilities off of her folks. She had jokingly suggested that she could live with them. And that was when they told her that they thought she should move to New York City.
They said that they had gone to fortune teller on Maple Street. She was the only fortune teller in the small Virginian town, and everyone knew she was a bit off her rocker. She had told Bridgette’s parents, more or less, that she was too pretty to be stuck there, that people were intimidated. So when she graduated, her parents gave her a little money to get her started in the city.
Bridgette mostly worked a lot of odd jobs, enough to pay the rent on her small one-room apartment and keep her in clothing. She worked at a café, a book store, a law office, and of course, catering every so often with Marissa. Her friends all thought she was crazy, for more reasons than one. She was a college graduate, a terrific writer, great at understanding people. But she didn’t want to ask her parents for money for grad school; she wanted to pay for it on her own. She put about a third of all the money she made into a savings account, and maybe in a few years, she’d get a medical degree and become a psychiatrist, or study English more closely and maybe teach or develop the confidence in her writing abilities to write a book. For now, she liked her eclectic adolescent life.
The banner was finally straight. It had taken a few more tries, a good few minutes of bickering, and three second opinions. But now the whole catering staff was convinced that the banner was perfect, and Bridgette was content. It was a light pink, dotted with red and purple hearts. The thick red text spelled out “Save a Heart.” It was the week before Valentine’s day – a good time for a benefit to raise money for abuse victims.
Bridgette had found that, in general, the people who attended these benefits were, well, irritating. The guest list was typically composed of hugely wealthy families. Many of them didn’t even seem to know what they were donating money to. They didn’t donate money to help others or share their vast fortunes – they gave money to make themselves look good amongst their rich friends, so they could all compare how much they had donated and deduce who amongst them were the best people. They were meticulous; the type of people who would call her over and critique the food or the service. They viewed her as the help, not as a human being. And as such, as lot of the men had no problem piggishly staring at her as she served their food. It disgusted her a lot of the time.
But the fun behind the scenes always made dealing with the snobbish sorts worth it. Before the events, setting up was always fun. The catering staff rarely altered, so they had all become like a sort of large, rowdy family. Cleaning up afterwards was always more fun, because they didn’t have to worry about time constraints or people for the event showing up. They had food fights in the kitchen sometimes, sliding across the floors of the huge dining room after they’d mopped. If they didn’t have so much fun, Bridgette might have quit by now.
Inevitably, Bridgette had no plans for this Valentine’s Day, just like every Valentine’s Day before it. She didn’t care about it too much, but it did get rather annoying. She was almost twenty-three, and she had never really had a boyfriend. Guys had hit on her, flirted with her, but none had ever asked her out, According to the fortune teller, she intimidated them.
Maybe that wasn’t entirely far-fetched, though it did seem laughable to Bridgette Dawson. She was tall, standing at about five foot seven. She had a slim build, with legs that her mother described as “going on for miles.” Her complexion was fair, and she blushed easily. Her hair was long, almost to her waist, hanging in golden ringlets. She’d always expressed the desire to dye her hair red; she thought that it would suit her better, that blonde was so over-done. (Her friends had yelled at her and refused to let her dye her hair. She’d pouted for a straight week.) But her eyes were, in her opinion, her main draw. They were a bright emerald green, wide set in her fair, delicate face. Bridgette had been told many times that she had a piercing stare, that her eyes were beautiful in the most intense form of the word.
Her blonde locks were worn down casually today, parted to her right. And from the right side, she had braided a small portion and clipped it to the side. Bridgette had a lot of fun finding interesting ways to wear her hair, and she especially loved braiding it. Sometimes when she was bored, she’d start braiding and unbraiding her hair without even thinking about it.
Twenty minutes to the start of the benefit, and the tables weren’t yet set. Bridgette, Marissa, and a few other waiters and waitresses were running around, putting down the salad forks. The box of salad forks had been misplaced; the woman in charge of the catering company had been on the brink of a heart attack. Other than the missing salad forks, everything looked good. But with the sort of people who went to these benefits, not having a salad fork was about as bad as not having a plate and eating off of the tablecloth; unacceptable.
It turned out that some moron had dropped a tablecloth on top of the box, and no one had noticed them. It was Brett who saved the day, noticing the covered box. Now the servers were running around, placing a salad fork at every place setting before the guests started arriving.
Bridgette finished with one table and scurried to the next, both hands full of salad forks. She nearly tripped on her way from one table to the next – damn those heels! She was the last server to head back to the kitchen, still hurriedly laying out forks as people began filing in.
[/color][/SIZE][/font][/center]my stunna shades for seventeen years. yeah, i know i'm pretty ill.
and obviously i'm a chica, can you dig it? if you wanna get in touch with
me just hit me up by pm is fine. oh, and i gotta have me my red light district.
“Be careful, Bridgette!”
Bridgette tottered on the top step of the ladder, but luckily maintained her balance. She looked down at the girl holding the ladder for her, smiling sheepishly. “If I fall, you’ll catch me, right?” she checked, grinning. The girl holding the ladder, Marissa, rolled her eyes and chuckled, motioning for Bridgette to finish her job and get down. She wasn’t the most coordinated of people, so sticking her on a ladder may not have been the brightest of ideas. But she was one of the tallest employees there early to set up for the benefit, and thus had the best chance of being able to hang the banner above the doorway with any semblance of accuracy.
Bridgette stood up straight, tilting her head to the side and studying the banner, trying to gauge if it was straight or not. There was a strict uniform enforced for the waiters and waitresses, so like all the other girls, Bridgette was in a black skirt that was shorter than her typical style, a white button-up dress shirt, and black pumps. She had done plenty of these events with the same catering company, and she perfectly fine with the outfit. But not when they stuck her on a ladder. Some of the waiters had a tendency to walk under the ladder at such opportune times, and trying to balance atop a ladder while also trying to cross her legs to conceal her underwear was impossible. So today, she’d worn black spandex under her skirt, and she could hear a disappointed sigh from a Brett, a waiter a few years older than herself, as he passed under the ladder. She smiled victoriously to herself.
“Riss, does this look straight to you?” she asked.
Bridgette and Marissa did these events together all the time. Marissa was a culinary student who felt that any job had to be somehow related to her chosen profession. She had found the catering job, but hadn’t wanted to do it by herself. So she’d asked Bridgette, her roommate from their undergrad years, to do it with her. This was two years ago, when they had both been fresh out of college, not to mention desperate for the money. Now it was a month before Bridgette’s twenty-third birthday. Marissa was still in culinary school, but Bridgette still didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life. She’d double-majored in Psychology and English and had been two credits short of a philosophy minor. But she didn’t do much with her degrees. She did a little free-lance writing for the small newspaper run through her old home town, and they always published whatever she sent them.
Bridgette had never wanted to leave her hometown. To go to college, of course, she had to. But she loved the small-town atmosphere, loved that everyone knew who she was. She had wanted to go back after college, but her parents hadn’t let her. Literally. They were concerned that she’d never had a boyfriend while she was in high school there, that she had still never really had a boyfriend.
It wasn’t because she wasn’t pretty. Quite the contrary, her parents were convinced that it was because she was too pretty. Bridgette had laughed, but her parents were utterly serious. They had expressed their concern many times before, but never like they did that night. She had been back for the summer after her sophomore year, and was trying to figure out what she wanted to do after college, bouncing possibilities off of her folks. She had jokingly suggested that she could live with them. And that was when they told her that they thought she should move to New York City.
They said that they had gone to fortune teller on Maple Street. She was the only fortune teller in the small Virginian town, and everyone knew she was a bit off her rocker. She had told Bridgette’s parents, more or less, that she was too pretty to be stuck there, that people were intimidated. So when she graduated, her parents gave her a little money to get her started in the city.
Bridgette mostly worked a lot of odd jobs, enough to pay the rent on her small one-room apartment and keep her in clothing. She worked at a café, a book store, a law office, and of course, catering every so often with Marissa. Her friends all thought she was crazy, for more reasons than one. She was a college graduate, a terrific writer, great at understanding people. But she didn’t want to ask her parents for money for grad school; she wanted to pay for it on her own. She put about a third of all the money she made into a savings account, and maybe in a few years, she’d get a medical degree and become a psychiatrist, or study English more closely and maybe teach or develop the confidence in her writing abilities to write a book. For now, she liked her eclectic adolescent life.
The banner was finally straight. It had taken a few more tries, a good few minutes of bickering, and three second opinions. But now the whole catering staff was convinced that the banner was perfect, and Bridgette was content. It was a light pink, dotted with red and purple hearts. The thick red text spelled out “Save a Heart.” It was the week before Valentine’s day – a good time for a benefit to raise money for abuse victims.
Bridgette had found that, in general, the people who attended these benefits were, well, irritating. The guest list was typically composed of hugely wealthy families. Many of them didn’t even seem to know what they were donating money to. They didn’t donate money to help others or share their vast fortunes – they gave money to make themselves look good amongst their rich friends, so they could all compare how much they had donated and deduce who amongst them were the best people. They were meticulous; the type of people who would call her over and critique the food or the service. They viewed her as the help, not as a human being. And as such, as lot of the men had no problem piggishly staring at her as she served their food. It disgusted her a lot of the time.
But the fun behind the scenes always made dealing with the snobbish sorts worth it. Before the events, setting up was always fun. The catering staff rarely altered, so they had all become like a sort of large, rowdy family. Cleaning up afterwards was always more fun, because they didn’t have to worry about time constraints or people for the event showing up. They had food fights in the kitchen sometimes, sliding across the floors of the huge dining room after they’d mopped. If they didn’t have so much fun, Bridgette might have quit by now.
Inevitably, Bridgette had no plans for this Valentine’s Day, just like every Valentine’s Day before it. She didn’t care about it too much, but it did get rather annoying. She was almost twenty-three, and she had never really had a boyfriend. Guys had hit on her, flirted with her, but none had ever asked her out, According to the fortune teller, she intimidated them.
Maybe that wasn’t entirely far-fetched, though it did seem laughable to Bridgette Dawson. She was tall, standing at about five foot seven. She had a slim build, with legs that her mother described as “going on for miles.” Her complexion was fair, and she blushed easily. Her hair was long, almost to her waist, hanging in golden ringlets. She’d always expressed the desire to dye her hair red; she thought that it would suit her better, that blonde was so over-done. (Her friends had yelled at her and refused to let her dye her hair. She’d pouted for a straight week.) But her eyes were, in her opinion, her main draw. They were a bright emerald green, wide set in her fair, delicate face. Bridgette had been told many times that she had a piercing stare, that her eyes were beautiful in the most intense form of the word.
Her blonde locks were worn down casually today, parted to her right. And from the right side, she had braided a small portion and clipped it to the side. Bridgette had a lot of fun finding interesting ways to wear her hair, and she especially loved braiding it. Sometimes when she was bored, she’d start braiding and unbraiding her hair without even thinking about it.
Twenty minutes to the start of the benefit, and the tables weren’t yet set. Bridgette, Marissa, and a few other waiters and waitresses were running around, putting down the salad forks. The box of salad forks had been misplaced; the woman in charge of the catering company had been on the brink of a heart attack. Other than the missing salad forks, everything looked good. But with the sort of people who went to these benefits, not having a salad fork was about as bad as not having a plate and eating off of the tablecloth; unacceptable.
It turned out that some moron had dropped a tablecloth on top of the box, and no one had noticed them. It was Brett who saved the day, noticing the covered box. Now the servers were running around, placing a salad fork at every place setting before the guests started arriving.
Bridgette finished with one table and scurried to the next, both hands full of salad forks. She nearly tripped on her way from one table to the next – damn those heels! She was the last server to head back to the kitchen, still hurriedly laying out forks as people began filing in.
this application was created by ally uno of toybird productions and
ally cubed of toybird productions and CAUTION 2.0. steal this and we will
hunt you down and release ally uno's angry pregnancy hormones on you.
