So. Two items of note have occurred in the recent past at work. At the restaurant, I mean. Both are somewhat humorous, and the latter is my own extraspecial combo of Quite Awkward and Horribly Embarrassing. (Big surprise, I know. Huge.) Here we are, folks. (Folks? Why did I just type that? A of all, I have about three followers on this here thing. So using the plural form of any noun referring to my readership is ridiculous and, frankly, dishonest. Also, I just used the word readership. Redundantly dishonest, Rachel. Going for the gold here. B of all, I don't ever use the word "folks" in conversation. I don't refer to people as "folks." Because that's folksy. (Hardy har har.) (Parentheses within parentheses--the world is exploding!) Ah, well. Back to the stories.)
1. When I came into the restaurant last Wednesday, Fio informed me that an ipod had been left behind the bar the night before--he told me this in case anyone called, looking for said ipod. (Sometimes the servers and bartenders like to play DJ and hook up their ipods to the sound system. Clara, another server, had found this one and taken it home with her, for safekeeping. She was working again that night, so she planned on just bringing it along with her.) I absorbed this information and proceeded with getting the restaurant ready. Minutes later, Fio asked me if it happened to be MY ipod. I told him no--I'd never, never, ever use my ipod as ambient bar music at our restaurant, mainly because of my music selection--and then asked him why he thought it might be mine. He told me that Clara was going through the ipod's music and had noticed that there were a lot of showtunes. She and Fio had deduced, then, that it was mine.
This is noteworthy for a couple of reasons. First of all, this case of mistaken-ipod-identity meant that the people I work with at the restaurant had begun to associate me with musical theatre music. People: this is a big deal. I dream of being The Musical Theatre Laureate Of The World--a position that does not yet exist--and sitting atop a mountain, which people will climb in order to ask me musical theatre trivia questions. Or any questions concerning musical theatre, really. I would be more than happy to share my opinions. Or stories. Or other bombasticity. (Not actually a word, but it should be. So there.) This situation pleased me immensely. I love being thought of as the-girl-who-listens-to-nothing-but-showtunes-and-has-an-ipod-full-of-them-and-is-unhealthily-obsessed-with-all-things-musical-theatre. The second reason this is worth mentioning is that even though I was absolutely certain that I had not used my showtunes-laden ipod to entertain the masses at the restaurant, I was so flattered by the musical theatre association that I actually went to check my purse, just to make sure the recently-found ipod wasn't mine. (It wasn't.)
2. This past weekend, I worked a very busy brunch that often left us servers scrambling to get silverware to our tables before their food came up. I was delivering some roll-ups to an outdoor cafe table (oh, yes) that wasn't actually in my section but needed silverware quickly, as their food was about to be brought out. As I set the roll-ups down on the edge of the table, I noticed that one of the women sitting at this table had a bangin' color nail polish on. Excitedly, I asked her what color she had on. (I was pretty sure it was an OPI, but I wasn't positive.) She glanced at her fingernails and told me that it was, indeed, an OPI color--Commander in Chic, specifically. Thinking our conversation had reached its end, she proceeded to reach for the roll-ups at the end of the table. I, however, assumed that she could only be extending her hand in my direction so that I could fervently grasp it in my own and examine her nail color up close and personally. (Duh. Upper East Side women just loooove it when rando girls grab their hands.)
Unfortunately, I didn't realize my rude mistake until I already had her fingers in my hand. She, naturally, attempted to retract her hand from my greedy little paws, but I was already too far into this awkwardness to just give up and relent. My brain, stupid dumbass that it is, told me to just go for it--just hold her hand like you don't notice that she's desperately trying to pull it away! Just be cool. Be suave. You got this, yo. I'm sure you can guess that I couldn't pull this off. Not even a little bit. She only tried harder to pull her hand away from mine, and I only continued to grasp it more tightly. This terribly embarrassing situation ended with me lamely saying something along the lines of, "Oh. Nice. I like it." She then removed her hand for real. And I slunk away to the safe haven of the kitchen, where I was free to marvel at my constantly-increasing level of social awkardness in peace.
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