"What NOT to do when meeting your ex."

So where were we? Right yes okay... lost job, got dumped, turned 30, got drunk, almost died, left LA. Cool. Now that we are all caught up with that let's move onto brighter and sunnier things!
I was meant to be jumping on a flight to London from LA but had to detour to Spain due to spastic dyslexic vet messing up the dates on my dog's pet passport.
In brief, England has very strict rules for bringing pets into the country so you need to make sure the animal is vaccinated and up to date. However, my Wanker of a vet messed up the dates of my dog's vaccinations. So the day before I was set to leave, all packed up and ready to brace the cold and rain in London I was told I could not in fact leave the bloody country! Well, not with my dog anyway. That was clearly not an option being that my dog Pikachu (don't judge, what else are you meant to name a mini cockapoo?) was currently the best thing in my life. There was no way in hell I was about to leave her behind! So, after an hour of crying, sweating and begging at doggie immigration, they told me that she was able to travel to Spain, have a vaccination and wait there for 6 months before being allowed into the UK. Well, luckily for me, my Mum lives in Spain so yey! It was off to Espana for me and Pikachu. I changed my flight, wished I hadn't already shipped my summer clothes to London as would now be arriving in a very hot Spain dressed for skiing. Shitzer.

So, 24 hours or so later there I was, in Spain, dressed for a hurricane, dog in tow and no other possessions to my name. All my actual belongings were currently on route via ship to England. I would have to catch them up later.
Now, I hadn't planned to spend an entire 6 months in Spain with my Mother and dog. That was definitely not on the agenda so I decided I would spend the summer there, getting healthy and fit, getting over my broken heart and then fly to England, leaving Pikachu with my Mum until she was allowed to join me in the UK.
Actually, it wasn't so bad. Lovely sunny days, no rain, morning walks by the beach, long wine fuelled lunches with fresh fish and beautiful scenery. Not too shabby at all and just what I needed to get my head together after my big life change of leaving La La land for good.
It happened to be the summer time and in Marbella, Spain in the summer it is a massive party fest. Think spring break type thing. Every night is a drinking, dancing crazy night out, and every lunch takes about three hours while consuming your body weight in wine or sangria. I started to finally feel like me again. Whopee!
Then something happened....
I arrive back at my Mum's place one glorious Mediterranean afternoon, after an entire day of partying at the beach with some new found friends, slightly tipsy after copious glasses of Rose and my Mum decides to inform me of something...
"Now, don't freak out, but my friend Jill called and her son (who happens to be army boy ex fuckit boyfriend) has just arrived for the week. Whatever you do DO NOT CALL HIM". She says.
Well, that was probably the worst advice she could have given me. She would probably have been better off saying, "Hey I know what would be good for your self esteem, call army boy and maybe go meet him and find out why he left you. Coz THAT will make you feel awesome!"
The challenge of being told "not" to do something, especially when slightly inebriated, was way too much temptation for me and so I did what any crazy girl would do and I called him.
"Hey, been a long time, I hear you're in Spain, wanna get together for a drink and catch up?"
So.. here is how that went..

Me, looking my finest, dressed to the nines, sporting a healthy tan from my nice few weeks in Spain, feeling confident and good about myself. I show up to the bar we are meeting at (still a little tipsy but not too bad at that point). The first few moments are undoubtedly quite awkward, he suggests a couple of tequila shots to break the ice and I, being slightly off guard already, agree to this terrible idea.
Now, let me tell you... WINE + TEQUILA= DISASTER and BLACKOUT.
That is where my night ended. Last thing I remember was drinking the shots and then waking up the following morning with the worst hangover known to man, not remembering a single thing and having no clue as to how I even got home! I decide to text him asking what had happened. This was a bad idea. As I sat, holding my stomach and head, trying not to vomit up my insides I listened quietly as he recalled the previous night to me..
Here is what I learned and here is a list of things one should absolutely NOT do when meeting their ex for the first time since the break up:
1. Arrive tipsy on wine.
2. Agree to drink tequila.
3. Steal his tie and wear it.
4. Tell him you love him and try to kiss him.
5. Scream I hate you in public when he rejects kiss.
6. Punch him.
7. Drag him to an empty nightclub and proceed to give him lap dance.
8. Try and get him to come home with you.
9. Get shoved into cab alone and sent home.
10. Wake up in blackout.

KILL ME NOW. Those are the only words that came to mind at that point. The illusion I had wanted to portray of "Beautiful, tanned, getting it together and so over you woman" I had wanted to project turned into "Absolute carnage train wreck, alcoholic type nut case". Oh dear.

At that point there wasn't much left to do but head straight to the bathroom and spend the next 12 hours with head down the toilet in utter shame and disgust. But hey, you live and learn. The moral of this story? ALWAYS listen to your Mother. She really does know best!

The Big 30

The hangovers one experiences in their teens and twenties really don't compare to what happens after the age of about 25... In your youth you can easily stay out until 4am, drink your body weight in alcohol, pass out by 5 and by some miracle actually feel human the following day. You may feel a slight headache or dehydration but nothing that can't be cured by an ibuprofen and some water. HOWEVER, once you pass the age of say, 25 it's downhill from there. I don't usually do this but this time, in fact, I would like to show you an example of exactly what Im talking about here by adding the following page for your viewing pleasure. Please read the following before I continue my ranting...

http://www.buzzfeed.com/samjparker/the-9-types-of-hangover-weve-all-had

So, as you have now witnessed just how bad hangovers can be past the age of 25, Id say my post girl's night hangover was a number 2.

After 48 hrs of consuming as much coconut water and green juice as money could buy, I was officially 30 years old. Yes, that's right, today was my 30th birthday. I happen to share my birthday with my roommate/best friend and luckily for him, he was at the airport ready to jet off to celebrate with his family in Miami. I however, had already had my one last girls night out, trapped a nerve in my shoulder and sprained my wrist. So, I spent this glorious day alone in my apartment with my dog. Even she seemed to be looking at me with pity and if she could talk, I imagined by the look she was giving, that the words would be something along the lines of..."oh dear, what did you do this time?" Bitch. What's the point of having a pet if they're going to bloody judge you?!

So, as I sat in my apartment, which may I add, was now bleakly empty as I had already shipped all my belongings back to England. I started to ponder on my life. Not a good idea when you are post hangover, alone, turning 30, broken hearted and sitting in an empty apartment with your dog..

It was not a happy time. The only thing that kept me from throwing myself head first off my balcony, was the thought that in a few days time I would be setting off on a jet plane back to London, to start over, a new life, new beginning and no more bloody waitressing! Hurrah.

As I sat there thinking about this and smiling to myself I suddenly remembered the awful and shocking pain that I was in. My shoulder was killing me after my ridiculous drunken bull ride and it was time for some serious pain relief. Now, lets face it, people in LA tend to pop opiate painkillers such as Vicodin etc for simple pleasure and a good night out, but for me, I actually decided I needed to take one for it's actual medical purpose...curing pain. So, I walked over to my bed stand and pulled one out of my drawer, grabbed a glass of water and popped it in my mouth when..... YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME? I started choking on the damn thing. That's right, I somehow managed to drink it down the wrong way and the bastard thing got lodged in my throat causing me to choke. For what seemed like one very long and scary second, my whole life flashed before my eyes and I succumbed to the horrific fact that I was indeed  going to choke to death on a bloody painkiller, on my 30th birthday alone with my dog.

In that second I thought, "f**k that"! I know I've had some bad luck in my days and the past few months had not been the greatest...but I'll be damned if this is going to be my legacy. So, with my new found strength I did what anyone with first aid training would do (finally a reason to thank my work for something) I ran chest first into the biggest corner I could find in my kitchen, in an attempt to perform the heimlich maneuver on myself. As luck would have it it actually worked! I choked up the pill and spat it out across my kitchen as I clung for dear life onto the counter that had basically saved my life.

After that, I burst into absolute hysterical laughter. I looked around at this situation... the dog hadn't even budged an inch and just continued to stare at me in sheer disbelief, I was gripping the counter in absolute shock that I had actually remembered how to perform the bloody heimlich in the first place and was just generally amused by what the fuck had just happened.

That was it. I was done. Done with LA. Done with being a bitter angry waitress. Done with my stupid heartbreak and absolutely full on ready to get the mc fuck out of LA and back to London.

Was it a sign? Giving me a fresh start? A new chance to start a whole new life? Perhaps it was. Whatever it was, I didn't give a shit, I was ready to blow this joint!

"Girl's night out" and other disasters...

Okay so where did I leave off? Ah yes, with a couple of days before my 30th birthday; suffering a broken heart and in desperate need of an alcohol induced coma, it was time for my girl's night out. This was to be our one final hurrah before I embarked on the big Trans-Atlantic move back home, so the timing was kind of perfect. See? Every cloud... 

My fellow waitress buddies decided we should do something typically "Los Angelean" touristy for the night. (Vocab/grammar skills are not my forte, but hey, I'm not trying for a Pulitzer am I?) We ended up at the Saddle Ranch on Sunset boulevard. Not my usual kind of hangout that's for sure. But after several shots of Tequila, followed by enforced shots of the dreaded and vile Jaegermeister, I didn't really give two hoots where I was.

The pain of my soldier boy break up was finally starting to get a little blurry and I was determined to say "f**k it" and have some serious fun.

For those of you who aren't familiar with "Saddle Ranch", it is a stinky dive bar with a massive electronic bull in a ring, which drunk people pay to take turns attempting to ride, while a sadistic controller violently bucks and shakes them until they fall off. 

The girls took turns riding it and then decided to gang up on me and convince me to have a go. I am not known for being very adventurous in terms of rides and general cheesy tourist fun, and being totally accident prone, I usually avoid ventures such as these.

Also, let me remind you, I had recently lost my job due to a chronic neck and back condition, and being thrown around on the back of a giant bull probably wouldn't be the smartest idea.

 However, once again I can only blame one thing for what was about to happen... Tequila. 

(I really ought to stop drinking that devil juice). 

So, there I went, drunk as a skunk, riding the bull, while hanging on for dear life as to not be chucked off the damn thing. Finally I let my pride go, gave up the fight and of course came flying off into a crumpled heap on the floor. 

Luckily, with the amount of booze flooding my veins, I didn't feel the pain that I would no doubt be waking up with the following morning.

After we'd all been thrown about enough for one night, we went to onto the next best cliche thing to do after a breakup and with a bunch of drunk girls.... A kareoke bar. It was there, that I decided public humiliation and shame was exactly what the doctor ordered...

I stood alone singing (well shouting) the angriest Alanis Morrisette songs known to man, while I swayed and slurred my way across the stage. Classy. 

Luckily the rest of the night became quite a blur after that. However, in the morning I had flashbacks of some other deeply shameful behaviour that occurred post kareoke bar... Actually that is a lie. Who am I kidding? Tequila and Jaegar? Total blackout. Couldn't remember a thing, and it wasn't until one of my friends emailed me the bloody VIDEO she had taken of my drunken ballads and the other debauchy that followed, that pieces of the night started coming back to me. (Too shocking to even blog about)... THAT is how bad they were.

After crawling out of my shame cave and stumbling out of bed into the kitchen, sporting massive black sunglasses and having my roomate greet me good morning with a "Hey Liz" (as in Taylor). I felt it. Sudden, sharp, excruciating pain in my shoulder and wrist. Oh dear god. What had I done? 

That bloody bollocky stupid bastard wanky bull ride!!!!!! 

 Yup, that's the price you pay for letting loose and trying to drown your emotional pain in booze. 

Genius that I am, I actually managed to sprain my wrist and trap a nerve in my shoulder in the process.

Only three letters came to mind...

FML.

Hangovers are bad enough as it is. With my head pounding, my body screaming in pain and my tongue sporting it's own fur coat I crawled back into bed, downed a shit load of water and about a hundred painkillers as I prayed for sleep.

The next day was to be my 30th birthday and one thing was certain... Tequila was not going to be involved.

She's BACK!

So this is awkward...
Feels a bit like calling an old friend, you know? The one you disappeared on years ago with and are now asking a favour of with your tail between your legs.
Having been MIA for the past two years it would be a miracle if any of you were still listening, however, I do hope that you are! I've missed talking with you and sharing my tales of woe.

As it's been a while since you heard from that cranky, disgruntled waitress... Aka me, there is a lot of drama to catch up on, and as you probably don't fancy reading an essay, I think the best thing to do is give you some bullet points, (in parts over the next few posts), of the past two years in a sort of montage..
**Cue Team America soundtrack**

• After three years of the daily grind at Diner X I ended up in the emergency room one morning, unable to turn my head. Yes that's right, my body had officially decided no more waitressing for me and so began a chronic neck problem. Oh joy. 
• I lost my job due to going from "Hot waitress, wearing fish nets and thigh high boots" to crippled waitress wearing hideous neck collar.
• After spending months unemployed and in gruelling Chiropractic treatment,  I landed in Spain on my Mother's doorstep ready for her to pick up the pieces and help me plan the rest of my life. (That is what mums are for isn't it)?

The following day, after an afternoon of slobbing out on my Mother's couch; feeling sorry for myself, skin broken out with spots, frizzy hair from travelling,  gaunt face from stress, Mum dragged me out to dinner with her friends. Little did I know, the hot, charming son of one of those friends would be there. Hence why I never bothered trying to look better and showed up in no make up and a shit outfit choice.

 I arrive at dinner and OMG! The most gorgeous man Id ever laid eyes on is there. Not only is he a handsome Brit with Turquoise colour eyes, but he is funny, charming and a Captain in the British army. Major SWOON.  I manically grab Mum's handbag, praying there is some kind of make up in there, rush to the bathroom and desperately try to do something with my appearance.
Now, as cliche as this sounds, it was love at first sight :) :)
I was trying, (and think I succeeded) to win him over with my personality that night, in order to make up for my face (which was now sporting Mum's bright pink lipliner and green eyeliner!) and he and I spent the entire leaving laughing our socks off and bonding over dinner. Left our parents to their meal and headed to the bars. By 2am we were absolutely hammered and falling into bed together. Total slut I know. But there were four factors in play here ok?!

• 1. Tequila. 
• 2. Hot soldier boy. 
• 3. Extreme sexual frustration caused by months of loneliness.
•  4. More Tequila.

I wake up the next morning and remember nothing of the previous night. Total blackout. Followed by instant regret and nausea as I peer over to see this gorgeous man sleeping in my bed, knowing he is going to have zero respect for the slut who slept with him on the night they met. All I could think was "You idiot!" Tequila has a lot to answer for.

I then remember I am in my Mother's house and he now has to get up and get out before she sees this situation. I wake him up and assure him this is totally out of character and he is to tell my Mum he slept fully clothed in my bath tub. Good plan, I thought, as about only two of my brain cells appeared to be working at that moment. So, he gets dressed and does in fact assure my Mother that he was a complete gentlemen and he scurries off home.

Now even though the rules say, "Never sleep with a man on the first date." In this particular instance it worked out in my favour as for the weeks to follow he literally couldn't keep his hands off me.
That night was the beginning of a whirlwind romance. We were inseparable after that, I  postponed my ticket back to LA to stay in Spain with him while he was on leave from the Army. He had to go back to London after a few weeks and asked me to come with him, so I did, and we spend another amazing loved up few weeks there together as he prepared to go back for 6 months in Afghanistan.

• After a total of eight glorious weeks together, he announced that he was in love with me (well that happened after week 4 actually) and as I felt the same, I assured him I would wait for the 6 months to be over while he was in the war zone but he said it couldn't happen and would be too hard being so far apart, so as hard as it was, this was to be the end of this romance.  
• The airport was hell. A long tearful goodbye, like something out of a movie, followed by me drowning myself in copious amounts of vodka on the plane back to Los Angeles. The flight attendant was my new guardian angel who, after seeing me going through a million tissues, began automatically re-filling my glass with booze without me having to even ask. Good lad. 

Now back in LA, still jobless and now heart-aching. I didn't know what to do with myself. A mere 48 hours later I get an email from Soldier boy telling me he can't end this. We both love each other and will make it work. So over the next few weeks we exchange daily soppy emails and skype calls. 

Madly in love and still jobless, I decided to say good bye to LA and move back to my hometown. Not just for the soldier boy (although he helped) but due to utter frustration with how my life had panned out.
Look, I moved to Hollywood, like so many other young actors, with dreams of walking the red carpet. However, at this rate, being almost 30 years old with a chronic neck injury and officially unemployed, I realised it was more likely I would be cleaning the bloody red carpet than walking down it anytime soon! So, I made a choice. I decided enough was enough. I wanted to move back to London and start a new life for myself.
So, with everything packed, shipped and sold I was sitting in my apartment with nothing but my dog by my side waiting to embark on my new life. I had to wait an extra two weeks for the pet papers to travel so I had to spend my 30th birthday (which was in a few days), alone. Where were my friends you may wonder? Yes, where the f**k where they? I wondered too. Another reason to leave La La land...

So, there I am a few days before the big 30. Weeks gone by of reading and writing gushing emails back and forth from my man in England, who was now awaiting my arrival so we could spend the summer together before he left for Afghanistan, when suddenly I get an email....

"Im sorry but I've decided it's going to be too hard to do my job and have a relationship at the same time. I must put my boys first".. blah blah blah.
Now, at this moment a few things/feelings crossed my mind...kind of in this order.
1. RU Serious?
2. NICE timing. One week before I finally get to see you AND a few days before my birthday.
3. Via email?!
4. Pussy.
5. Bastard.
6. Utter Heartbreak.
7. Devastation.
8. Anger.
9. Forgiveness.. Ok, so, I have no idea what being the Captain of an army about to head to Afghanistan is like. Maybe he was right, maybe this is for the best. I can't blame him.

So, that was the end of that.
I was officially single again; about to turn 30, unemployed, heartbroken and about to move back to the country I left 12 years ago. There was only one thing for it...

Girls night out.



Watch this space to find out what happened next.....

Control Your Saliva People!

So far today, I have been spat on by three people; been poked in the eye, had maple syrup smeared on my face and granola in my boots.

Now, I realize that in life we cannot avoid certain things... saliva in the face is one of them. Now perhaps it is because I'm a germaphobe that the universe treats me like a magnet for such things. The law of attraction and all that hooha.

Let me explain...

9 am. I arrive at work and one of my fellow waiters is talking to me rather enthusiastically about his night out, he is so excited to tell me his story that he apparently loses all control over his mouth and spits directly onto my eyelid. Blarf. He actually notices he has done this and attempts to wipe it off, (yes it is still sitting there festering), as he sticks his fingers toward my face he accidentally pokes me in the eye making matters worse. He then turns a deep shade of crimson while apologizing and shuffles off.

11 am. I'm serving a customer at the counter, we are at eye level and as he is talking he spits directly into my eye. AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!
I am now completely freaked out and what I want to say is, "Excuse me, you just spit in my fucking eye man, gross"! However, being British, I was obviously taught to hide my emotions, so instead I pretend it didn't happen, as to avoid embarrassing the man. I'm now screaming internally and it feels like this glob of saliva is now burning like acid through my eye and within two seconds I have created mass paranoia that his germs are going through my eye and into my bloodstream. Total overreaction of course, and believe me, part of me knows that (the sane part of course) the OCD, Hypochondriac on my other side remains in total panic.

130 pm. I stand in front of the kitchen next to the food runner. First let me tell you a little something about our food runner.. Not only is he a 5 year old dressed in a 26 year old Mexican body but he is blatantly aware that I have issues with germs and have asked him on many occasions not to touch/grab my hand... or any other body part for that matter.
However, being the child that he is, he seems to gets a kick out of constantly pressing my buttons.... and other things for that matter. So there I am walking over to the kitchen and he wipes his mucky, sticky, maple syrup covered hand down the side of my cheek. MOTHERF***ER!!!!!!!!!!!!
The restaurant is in full swing so there is literally no opportunity for me to run to the loo and wash it off so Im now forced to endure this sticky yucky shit on my face for the next twenty minutes.

3 pm I'm on my way across the restaurant with a bowl of granola and I trip on the stupid slip mat. slip.mat.- a pointless waste of space that is constantly causing more damage than any good. The granola goes flying everywhere, including all down the inside of my thigh high boots, which may I add, I never wear! Until today of course.

4 pm The shift is finally over, thank the Lord. I'm literally heading out the door and a regular walks in asking when I'm next working, I tell him "On the weekend", and he says, "Cool, see you then." As he does so, saliva comes flying out of his mouth and hits my directly on the forehead.

JESUS CHRIST. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON TODAY?!

Seriously people... Control your saliva!

NOTE TO SELF: "DO NOT DATE A CUSTOMER...HE IS LIKELY TO EITHER BE GAY, A LOSER, A RAVING LUNATIC, OR QUITE POSSIBLY ALL OF THE ABOVE".

Hi People, for those of you who were enjoying my stories, Im sorry for the extended absence.. but I'm back now with much to share...

I'll begin with explaining why I should never date a customer.

This I learned first hand today as I had, what went down on record as one of the most awkward and painfully dull dates ever.

So there is a guy that comes into the diner, someone who I actually have never served but who I've always thought was cute (in a kind of vegan, rock star sort of way). Firstly let me preface this with the fact that A. I haven't had a boyfriend for a stupidly long time. B. The past two semi - relationships I have had both turned out to be gay. C. I clearly have awful judgement in men.

I notice last week that he is in the diner eating with a regular customer I know so I take the opportunity to say hi and introduce myself. Long story short, I tell my regular later that day that I think his friend is cute and he sets us up on a date.

Cut to...

THE DATE

We arrange to meet for coffee at a reasonable time of day, nothing too serious for a first date. First off I have made the mistake of being very hungover so Im already worried he is going to know I've been up all night and probably don't look so great, not to mention I probably have the personality of a Brussels sprout right now.
Secondly he is insanely late. He texts me with traffic updates as each five minutes pass by. So Im sitting there like a pleb waiting at a table in a cafe and not ordering anything, while the irritated waitress is coming up to me every frigging minute asking if I want anything.. IM WAITING FOR SOMEONE WHO IS OBVIOUSLY NOT HERE, AND YOU ARE NOT HELPING!!!! Anyway he finally arrives and this is how it goes...

He sits down and I am hit with an overpowering stench of Patchouli oil which he has clearly bathed in. One thing you need to know about me is that I fucking hate Patchouli, its disgusting and only worn by dirty hippies who don't wear deodorant.
STRIKE 1

After I stop myself from gagging I start to attempt conversation because this man seems like he doesn't have a lot to say, or rather that he is flustered about something.. Awkward?... just a bit. Not to forget my brain is struggling to even form a sentence right now but I see Im the one who's going to have to drive the conversation. So I begin with the usual "where do you live, what do you do etc:.. He then proceeds to speak in the quietist almost inaudible voice I have ever heard and I am struggling to understand him, and keep having to shout "sorry? what?" at him. He tells me he lives in Malibu then proceeds to whine and moan about the traffic for the next five minutes straight.
STRIKE 2

He does not try to ask me anything whatsoever about my life, who I am, where Im from... NADA. So I keep interviewing him about his life and realize he has a nervous blinking tick and its freaking me out. And some weird black stains on his teeth which are almost as disturbing as his Patchouli.
STRIKE 3

The waitress comes over and finally I order a tea, something quick I can drink so I can get the Mcfuck out of there as soon as humanly possible. He orders a slice of pie. When it arrives he starts to eat and as he talks/eats simultaneously with his mouth open I notice the pie schmooshed in the sides of his cheeks, in manner of crazed hamster, and see it sitting there as he's talking. Seriously trying not to vomit at this point.
STRIKE 4

So far I have learnt that he lives in Malibu but wants to move back coz he hates driving, he doesn't watch TV because he hates the media, he has absolutely nothing positive to say nor does he want to know anything about me. I discover he is a film producer and seeing that Im now painfully struggling to make conversation and am too much of a people pleaser to just leave I try to show interest in his work and ask him what film he's working on.. He says its a film about a family up a hill. I say "Cool, and what happens to this family"? Do I care? absolutely not but fuck I have to say something to distract myself. He tells me about this lovely little story about two families who have a mix up with the house they live in up the hill, yardy yarder and as Im half listening, half praying the earth will open up and swallow me whole, he tells me that all of a sudden the film ends with, "The two families end up hacking each other into pieces and its a giant blood bath. " Errrrr... WHAT? That film sounds almost as horrendous as this date is turning out. Pretty soon I start thinking he is likely to hack me up into little pieces too.
STRIKE 5

As soon as he finished eating I desperately try and make eyes at the waitress so she will bring us the check but now that I need her of course she is nowhere to be seen. Dammit. What happens next is the icing on the cake.... Two fire engines go past with the sirens going and he dramatically plugs his ears and winces. I thought he was joking but then realized he was actually serious. OMG, how old are you? 5? Relax buddy. What kind of a man are you?!
STRIKE 6

IM DONE.

Finally the waitress brings the check and I tell him my meter is running out so I can escape. As I get to my car I see I have a ticket. Wonderful, now not only did I just waste an hour of my life on that nutcase Im now paying $55 for it.

Like I said... NOTE TO SELF: DO NOT DATE CUSTOMERS

BON VOYAGE

If your sentences begin with OMG, WTF or TTS... You may have been in this town for too long....


Okay so I appreciated people caring about their health and know that California is one of the few states in the US that isn't riddled with obesity, however, this calorie counting obsession makes me want to smash my head against a wall.

If one more skinny bitch asks me for her dressing on the side I may have to strangle her.

The funny part of this sick obsession is that people really have no idea what the hell they are talking about. Its definitely not about HEALTH concerns.. no, its about weight. I mean ordering your coffee with non fat milk and splenda may keep you skinny but your insides wont be looking so fabulous soon dear.

So I'm serving three Valley girls and their salads with dressing on the side and they all order a coffee with it, not just any coffee of course but 3 decaf, non fat, vanilla lattes. Non-fat? Ha! Non fat my arse. DO YOU REALIZE HOW MANY CALORIES ARE IN THOSE LATTES????!!!

Being a striving actress myself I do understand the pressure in Hollywood to be thin and look good, I get it. But I cannot seem to get over how sad is it that talent and hard work have literally NOTHING to do with making it as an actor in this town. Hollywood is obsessed with looks. My friend is 5"4 and about 95 lbs and was just told by her agent, to lose weight. WHAT?! This has in turn, spun her into a spiral of dieting, cocaine abuse and bulimia. It's sick.. literally. I mean Lindsay Lohan? Everyone should leave that poor mess of a girl alone, I'm not in the least bit surprised she turned out the way she did.

As if the acting industry isn't hard enough to break into, we are now having to obsess about everything we eat, how many times we go to the gym, how big our boobs are and how we can fight the aging process. If we don't do this there are other delightful options of course...

1.Go down on your knees and suck the cocks of Hollywood agents, directors, producers or pretty much anyone that has any power.
2. Have sex with a celeb, film it and put the tape online.
3. Become Michael Bay's new "girlfriend".

No thank you. Id rather scrub toilets. Which sadly enough, at this rate, I may end up doing.

I mean take me for example; I'm British, in my twenties and consider myself to be; educated, worldly,hard working, decent looking. I've studied my butt off in London, New York and LA. I have read all the great plays, seen all the great films, had wonderful teachers, have mastered characters and accents, am told by all my teachers I have talent and should be working (well, they are trying to make money after all so do we trust them?!)... and yet here I am blogging about waiting fucking tables. Now don't get me wrong, there are a million of us out there, it's the ongoing joke in Hollywood when you say you are an actress and the response is, "Yeah, what restaurant do you work at?" It's part of the struggle, i get it. However, after 4 years here and day in and day out of miserable waitressing, a string of nightmare agents and zero auditions. I am thoroughly exhausted. Not to mention, I don't appear to be getting any younger!

So I decided to take much needed time out from bubble town before I literally get fired and go to jail for murdering a customer. I realize, as my blogs have become angrier and angrier that for my own safety and all those around me I need a fucking break!!!

It is because of this that I now find myself on a jet plane heading for a 3 week vacation back home. Back to glorious rainy Britain....
Britain, the land where no one gives a shit what you look like.. how fake your boobs are or how many calories are in that salad dressing. Britain, where it's grey and gloomy.. where people snarl at you in the street. Britain, where crazed pigeons fly at your face, everything is a rip off and people are constantly pissed off... These are the reasons I left that country in the first place, but you know what?.. I couldn't be more excited to get back there!

BRING IT ON...

I will be back to my charming waitress self in a few weeks, with no doubt more stories to share.

Bye for now.... cereal waitress xoxo