Don't Judge a Dog by Its Cover.

I figured out a new way to fall down subway steps yesterday: backwards. (Seems mundane, but I think I spiced things up nicely.) If you just let your mind wander for a second and forget to carefully place your feet on each step, you can easily manage a hefty fall that will send you tobogganning down at least four steps on your ass. This will result in: some very nice dirt stains from subway stair grime on your now-bruised ass; snickers and gasps from bystanders; extreme discomfort; and the complete loss of all dignity. (Really. Is there any suave way to recover from a fall? Whenever I trip or fall or faceplant, I can't help but keep replaying how I must've looked in the act of falling in my head over and over. And trust me--even my imagination doesn't spare me any embarrassment. I keep thinking that everyone around me who saw me fall is doing the same thing, too. It's totes hard to recover from that. I welcome friendly advice.)

In other news, I embarrassed myself at work the other day. (Bahahaaa. Did you like how I pretended like I was about to tell you something not awkward and embarrassing? Because I did. I liked it a lot.) Fio is always telling me to be more assertive with customers: don't just give in when they ask for happy hour prices at the cafe tables, tell them we can't make special meals that aren't on the menu, don't let them wheedle you into drawing up separate checks--in short, he encourages me to indulge my inner bitch whenever possible. Last week, a woman and a man who appeared to be her husband waltzed into the restaurant with a huge-ass yellow labrador retriever and plopped themselves down in a booth. Gathering my bitchy instincts, I marched over to the woman and prepared myself for confrontation.

"EXCUSE ME," I blasted at her. "You can't have a dog in here. It's a healthcode violation." I also glared at her in what I hoped was a menacing and condescending way, as if to say, What IS it about you snobby New Yorkers who think that pets need to accompany you EVERYWHERE, up to and including the toilet? Jesus.

Unfortunately, today was apparently not the day for me to be assertive. "This is a seeing-eye dog," she coldly informed me. I now noticed that the dog had one of those special harnesses on. I also noticed that her husband was holding onto both of the menus.

Even Fio was embarrassed for me. He pulled me over to the bar and stage-whispered in my ear: "She comes in here ALL THE TIME. She can't see, Rachel. How can you not have recognized her?"

Well, fine. Fine. See if I ever try to be assertive again. 'Cause you never know if somebody's gonna turn out to be blind.

The Weirdest Thing I've Done Today, Part Three.

I love coffee. I only discovered it fairly recently--when I moved to the city, actually--but I have since become an avid Starbucks fan. (And when I say "fan," I mean "snob." In the worst possible way, yes. I'm the person who gets unnecessarily frustrated when the person in front of me isn't prepared with exact change to pay for his or her order. I hate myself for this.) (And yet I also love myself for it. What can I say? I was born to be an elitist.)

So. I have two standard drinks: for cold weather, I get the grande skinny cinnamon dolce latte. For warm weather, I usually get an iced grande skinny vanilla latte. While spending a week with my fam in May, though, I was exposed to new and enticing Starbucks drink orders that I had never tried before. (Kristen, my little sister, is so much of a Starbucks pro that I want to sit at her feet, call her Sensei, and learn all that I can from her coffee-breath-laden voice.) One particular concoction invovled a chai frappuccino with soy milk and something about not using water. None of this really made any sense to me--I wasn't even entirely sure what a frappuccino was--but it tasted so delicious that I knew I'd have to start getting one on my own.

When it came time to place my order with the barista at the Starbucks I frequent on the Upper East Side, I said, as confidently as I'd whisperingly practiced on the walk from the bus stop to the Starbucks: "I'd like a grande chai frappuccino with soy milk." (Short falter and ensuing millisecond argument in Rachel's head: should I say the confusing part about the no water? Should I risk it? What if she asks me what I mean? Should I make shit up? Is it going to actually taste that horribly if I just let her put the imaginary water in? What should I do?)

"And...no water."

Naturally, the barista has no idea what this means.

"No water? It's not made with water."

"Yeah." (Sheepish grin/refusal to actually say that I don't know what I'm ordering/attempt to look cool via indifference.)

"So...what do you mean?"

(Panic, naturally. Must. Look. Cool. Say the only thing that can get you out of this situation gracefully. Your Starbucks snobbery must not be upended!)

(Titter beguilingly.) "Oh...you see, this drink order is for a friend. I'm just saying what she told me to get. I don't even know!" (Titter again.)

(Barista smiles knowingly. I have fooled no one.)



Now, really. Really? Really, Rachel? Did you need to LIE to the Starbucks barista just to save face?

Well...yes.

Why. Am. I. So. AWKWARD?

The Weirdest Thing I've Done Today:

So, in addition to my job as a waitress, I also work the front desk at a downtown dance studio, signing people into class. Whenever we get new students who have never taken class before, we have them fill out a new student registration form that also has a liability waiver on the back for them to sign. The following is a record of an actual conversation that just happened between myself and a new student a few minutes ago.


Older gentleman with slight accent (gesturing to liability waiver): "Eh, and what is this?

Rachel (cheerfully): "Oh, it's just a waiver that you sign for us, basically stating that you can't sue us if you break your leg."

[Older gentleman looks at Rachel oddly. Rachel realizes that what she just said may have sounded...odd...and reconsiders her choice of words.]

Rachel: "I mean, not that you're going to break your leg or anything."

[Rachel's brain makes the quick assessment that she cannot actually guarantee this as fact and decides that the leg-breaking option must be revisited.]

Rachel (hurriedly): "Well. You might."

[Older gentleman continues to stare at Rachel oddly. Rachel attempts to rectify the conversation. Naturally, she fails.]

Rachel: "You could. It's a small chance. But you could break your leg. Or something. Just...be aware."

[More odd looks. Rachel smiles brightly, as if this entire conversation has just been a figment of his imagination. Gentleman leaves.]




 I am so dumb. I am really dumb. Fo' real.

The Weirdest Thing I've Done Today.

So, I think I'm going to start a new and possibly recurring thing with this bloggy-blog called The Weirdest Thing I've Done Today. It might be better for my self-esteem if I just choose the weirdest, most awkward thing I've done all day and recount that single episode, rather than telling all of the awkward things I do in a mere twenty-four hours.

So let's start with today. Since the super-weird thing I did today actually prompted this blog idea. I was in a restaurant bathroom, attempting to close the stall door so that I could concentrate every fiber of my being on peeing. (I have a problem peeing in foreign places. The problem...is that I can't. I have to turn the water on full blast, count to ten, give myself a pep talk, squeeze my eyes shut--sometimes all at once. It's a very big inconvienence. Lemme tell ya.) (But lemme also remind myself that I'M ONLY RECOUNTING ONE WEIRD THING A DAY NOW. Rachel. Jeez.)

So I'm in the stall, fiddling quite a bit with the lock, because it won't fit nicely into the slot it's supposed to slide into. (That's what she said...?) After possibly a minute of frustrated attention, I suddenly find myself whispering--without forethought--to the lock. Now, this in itself is weird. But not really Rachel-weird. I mean, let's be honest. Ever since I moved to the city, it's like my weirdness is on the crack cocaine. I think it has something to do with the other weirdos here. They make me feel better about my own awkwardness. Which, in turn, encourages me to just let loose. Because I reassure myself that I'll never be as weird as them. But I digress. (Duh.)

The weirdest part of all of this is that I chose to quote a movie without even THINKING about it. I mean, that's weird, right? In a cool sort of way? It's equivalent to thinking in another language, right? Right?

I suppose it is decidedly less cool when I reveal that I was actually quoting a line from My Fair Lady ("C'mon, Dover...c'mon, Dover..."), but still. (I was whispering it, too. Just like Eliza.) Still.

Still.

Yes, I promised to never go so long between blog posts again. Yes, I lied. Yes, I poisoned myself and my roommates. (Intrigued? Read on.) Deal with it.

Since my follower-ship (disciple-ship?) (Is that going too far?) has recently increased from nine people to twelve, I decided to reward the few, the proud, and the guilt-tripped who follow this blog with a new post. I have, naturally, many things to tell you all, all of them awkward and stupid and laughable.

First off: Audge's birthday cake. Our dear Audrina turned twenty-four on May 7th, and I decided to attempt to bake my first cake from scratch with a bit o' help from Master Chef Kayla and her new recipe book. Unfortunately, I had to work a brunch shift the day of Audge's birth, so this required me to awake not only myself but also Ever-Patient Kayla at 6:30 am so that it'd be done by the time I had to leave. It was, of course, a completely nerve-wracking experience (Allie's mom, Ms. Dale, who was visiting at the time, laughed so hard she cried from her front-row spot on the couch), complete with both a batter that resembled...dough...far more than a cake batter and my first terrible bout with an electric mixer. (Scaaa-ry. I do not like the mixer, Sam I Am.) But somehow--miraculously--both the cake and the chocolate-marshmallow-fluff icing looked rather nice by the time Audge awoke. I had to run to work, though, and no one else was in the mood for cake-breakfast, so we decided to save the singing and eating for much later that evening, once we'd all come home from the movies, post-work. Which is exactly what ended up happening: Kayla, Audrey, and I all had some cake once we got home. It was kind of dry, since it'd been in the fridge all day, but whatevs. I was proud of myself. I could now officially cook eight things.

Or...so I thought. I ended up waking up three hours later, totes nauseated and on the verge of vomming. Eventually, the toilet bowl and I had our special moment (or three, rather), and my throat promptly felt as if it'd been run over by a tractor instead of just a shitload of stomach acid. I crawled back into bed, reassuring myself that my vomiting could not--could NOT--be the result of cake poisoning. I had followed the directions, damn it! It had looked pretty! The cake was not the culprit.

But...it was. Audge awoke the next morning to inform me that she, too, had been super nauseated in the middle of the night. Luckily, she didn't actually throw up; she just spent the following morning on the toilet, dispelling that poisonous cake out of her other end for an awful length of time.

So yes. I poisoned my roommates with a birthday cake. There shall be no more forays into the kitchen for me. Not for a while, at least.

I did, however, have a rather nice time in New Orleans and northern Mississippi over the past two weeks, spending time with the fam and indulging in some ridiculous bachelorette festivities for my good friend Sarah. (She was married this past weekend.) In accordance with Sarah's wishes, we took a pole-dancing class from a very talented lady named Rain. (Er...spelling? Rayne? Raine? Rhain?) Rain/Rayne/Raine/Rhain could do marvelous, marvelous things with that pole: at one point, she had only one leg wrapped around the pole; her other leg, both arms, and torso were PARALLEL TO THE GROUND AS SHE SPUN WITH THE EASE OF PINK COTTON CANDY AT THE SKETCHY ST. ROBERT BELLARMINE FAIR. She was very, very good. Probably the most important piece of dance training that I will take away from Rain is what she termed the "Coochie-Bone Shuffle," a particular move that is executed...much as you'd imagine.

The bachelorette festivities concluded that evening with a nice little dance party at Republic, complete with a Libby-Gantt-Inspired-Grab-Bag. (This little Grab Bag, upon its arrival at the Republic, contained: one tortilla; a shrimp tail; a slice of bell pepper; a salt shaker; a pepper shaker; and fresh flowers. Upon arriving at the club and ordering my first drink, I noticed a very shiny and pretty strainer sitting atop the bar, all by its lonesome. With The Spirit Of Libby Gantt whispering in my ear, I snatched it off the bar before any of the bartenders could notice and politely dropped it into the Grab Bag. Unfortunately, due to a very long dance-off with an Asian man clad in a vest, the Grab Bag was largely forgotten until the very end of the night, when we were all offered a VIP, roped-off section of the club with two bottles of free and delicious champagne. I decided to thank the nice man who gave us this delightful surprise with a free reach into the Grab Bag. Sadly, he picked the strainer, of all things. He was...angry.

"Did this come from my bar?" he immediately demanded of me.

"Hahahahaaaaa," I tittered tipsily. "Aahahahaaaa."

"Listen here," he said, now turning his attention to Snuffy, since I was clearly not responding correctly. "If there are ANY MORE OF MY BAR THINGS IN THIS BAG, I'm gonna need them to be returned."

"Of course, of course," Snuffy oozed. "We'd never really take anything. It was just a joke."

Which he clearly did not take very well. Your champagne may have been delicious, Republic Man, but your sense of humor was lacking.

Sigh. And now I'm back in New York, that very different world from the South. As I was going through the security line at Memphis airport on my way back, THREE DIFFERENT PEOPLE inquired as to how I was feeling and sincerely wished me a blessed day. New York, on the other hand, greeted me with a woman's gratingly loud voice over the baggage claim loudspeaker at LaGuardia airport: "WILL THE PERSON WHO IS MISSING A 93-POUND SUITCASE PLEASE COME GET IT FROM THE BAGGAGE CLAIM OFFICE, BECAUSE I AM NOT EVEN GOING TO TRY TO LIFT THIS THING. I HOPE IT'S 93 POUNDS OF ALCOHOL YOU HAVE IN HERE BECAUSE THAT'S JUST ABOUT THE ONLY THING THAT WOULD MAKE IT WORTH IT."

Oh, New York City. I've missed you so.

I'm baaaaaaack.

I'm not sure which magazine it is, specifically, but I know it's something like Marie Claire or Allure--I get those women's mags confused--that has a page devoted each issue to making its readers feel better about seemingly embarrassing things. The title of the page is something along the lines of "Hey, it's okay to...," and the rest of the page is filled with things like "...paint your fingernails pink and your toenails orange!" Or "...think subway rats are cute, except when they're in your apartment and you're freaking out on the couch because THEY ARE TERRIFYING AND NOT ADORABLE AT ALL." (Obvi that last one wouldn't be a real entry. That's more of a personal example. But you get the idea. It's your basic, we-all-feel-the-same-way-sometimes-over-dumb-stuff humanizing drivel.) Newayz: I was creating such a list in my head yesterday, in an attempt to reassure myself that I am not too-too weird (at least by New York standards), after I managed to do several dumb and/or embarrassing things in a relatively short amount of time. This is what my magazine entry would look like:


"Heeeeeeeey, Rach! Yeah, you're awkward and you lack even the most basic amount of common sense and you're always unintentionally making other people laugh when you talk, but: IT'S OKAY TO...

...go through four--count 'em, FOUR--ramekins of syrup when eating your pancake breakfast-snack at the restaurant whilst working a brunch shift. (Important information: a ramekin of ours holds approximately two tablespoons of liquid, viscous or otherwise. So yes. I did just admit to consuming eight or so tablespoons of syrup over the course of three pancakes. Furthermore, I drank the small amount of syrup remaining in the last ramekin like a shot, because I didn't want either the syrup or the blueberry-pancake morsels floating inside it to go to waste. Oh, yes. This is a true thing. Live, laugh, love, syrup.)

...take the stairs in one's apartment complex, wonder why they ALWAYS SMELL LIKE PEE, and then come to the conclusion--after much, much thought--that this is because people who live in the complex must just have to pee suddenly when taking the stairs and decide to relieve themselves on the spot. (When discussing this with Audrey, I later learned that the real reason the stairs smell like pee is probably because people are too lazy to take their dogs outside for a potty trip. This...makes much more sense. But, sadly enough, my own interpretation of events made perfect sense to me for a good, long while. Alas.)

...be so tired when removing one's boots at the end of the day that one lazily attempts to just kick one's leg spastically and fling the boot off but instead discovers that said boot will not come off quite as easily as predicted and will instead stay half-on and trip one rather drastically, resulting in a noisy faceplant in one's room. (This happened two nights ago. At least I managed to laugh at myself as I mourned my lack of agility or grace, facedown on my bedroom carpet.)

...not take a shower before work (I mean, you were too tired the night before, and you're just gonna get dirty again, ANYWAY) and instead wash off all reminders written on one's hand during the previous day in a pathetic attempt to trick other people into believing that one actually HAS taken a shower. (The lengths I go to in order to mask cleanliness--ridiculous, I tell you. It might actually be easier to be clean, come to think of it.)

...not brush your hair and tell yourself that it's okay because the hipster kids don't brush their hair, either, and somehow they manage to look cool. So, really, you're just getting cooler by the second. (You'll notice I abandoned speaking in the third person. No use pretending.)

...purposely squeeze your ass into an obviously too-small spot on the subway bench because you want to absorb the body heat of the people on your left and right when it's freezing. (IN THE MONTH OF APRIL, NO LESS.) (Seriously, Mother Nature. C'mon. Get. A. Grip.)"



So, there's that. That's what's going on.

Stupid Gras.

Okay. I'm pretty sure everyone I know from the New Orleans area will be significantly disappointed in me for saying this, but...I hate Mardi Gras. (Dun dun DUN.) (That was the sound of ominous thunder, beeteedubs.) I always have, though. Hated Mardi Gras, that is. I think this stems mainly from my being forced to march in parades from the fifth through twelfth grades, but there are maaaaaany other factors involved. Which I will hereby list. I feel confident in the fact that you all (all ten of you) will at least concede to the fact that Mardi Gras is not always the awesomely-amazing Time Of The Year that everyone proclaims it to be.

A of all, Mardi Gras smells like horses. Everywhere. And, to be honest, horses stink. (Please don't think that I mean any disrespect to the horsies. I have long had a fascination with horsies, in fact. They are majestic animals, and I used to want at least a pony when I was younger. We used to have the Barbie Horse And Trailer set, too. It came with TWO ACTUAL WALKING HORSES. Like, no lie. Those things could clip-clop across the kitchen floor with a robotic, heavily-jointed ease, even with a vapidly-smiling Barbie atop their plastic little backs. But their manes got tangled easily. This is what I remember about them.) But the scent of actual horses is rather distasteful. And what smells more than the actual horses is their shit. And that, my friends, is EVERYWHERE during Mardi Gras. In fact, I actually associate the smell of horse poop with Mardi Gras. I was in Central Park yesterday, and I entered by the 59th street entrance, where there's an abundance of horse-drawn carriages just waiting for hapless tourists. And whenever the smell of horsie shit would waft over to my nostrils, I would immediately be transported back to my parade days and feel a small panic come over my body. And then I would just as immediately remember that I was nowhere near New Orleans or Mardi Gras or that extraspecial brand of debauchery that makes its presence felt in the months of February and March. I was only near ordinary horsie shit.

B of all, there's no place to use the bathroom. Unless, of course, you happen to be near a Port-O-Potty, which is certainly a very attractive option for one to urinate in. (I don't even want to GO into the idea of defecating in one of those things. Although it certainly happens--and often, too, judging from the odor and residue which are both painfully present.) And there's ALWAYS a line for those disgusting things. Who wants to wait in line to pee in a claustrophobic box that smells like pee and shit (but not horse shit, at least)? I also have a personal problem of pee-shyness, so this wholly complicates matters. I can't pee in unfamiliar places or if there's no sound of running water close at hand or if I am aware that other people are waiting for me or if I am nervous in any way. (Yes, this makes my life as difficult as one might imagine. I used to be so good at peeing, too. In high school, we would have pee races, and I totes dominated. Alas.) So, there's that.

C of all, there is NEVER any place to park. (I'm using a lot of Caps Lock today, and I'm fully aware of it. I'm doing my best to convey my nearly-complete hatred of Mardi Gras, and the Caps Lock seems to be the most efficient way of doing that.) And if you do manage to find a place to park, you may as well just count on spending the night in your car, because you will most assuredly end up being double-parked. This has happened to my family on many an occasion, with one instance being particularly horrendous. I believe we were attending Shangri-La, after it moved from Chalmette to New Orleans, and this seemingly nice lady had offered up her sizeable and bricked-in front yard as a parking lot. Granted, she was charging people to park there, but I don't think my dad was wrong in assuming that we'd be able to leave the makeshift parking lot once the parade was good and over, since she was acting as if this was a legit, paying parking lot. But oh no no no. We arrived back at the lady's front yard, once the parade was completely and totally over, only to find that we had not only been double-parked but double-parked without even a hope of escape. I mean, I was probably only ten or so at the time, but I remember very distinctly that there was about a foot of space behind our Plum Mist Windstar minivan (yes, that was the official name of the minivan's color, and yes, we did refer to the van by its full name, color included, on the reg) and probably about a foot between the van's front and the lady's house. It took HOURS for us to get out of the parking spot--and this was after waiting a considerable time for the bastard who parked behind us to return from his post-parade forays and move his stupid car. And I am actually not exaggerating when I say that it took hours. Frankly, I'm not sure how my daddy managed to get us out of that space, to this day. I remember he had to move the car--again, not exaggerating here--inch by painful inch, frontwards and backwards, until we had literally jimmied the Plum Mist Windstar out of the spot. I remember being very, very nervous the entire time. My dad and mom kept having to get out of the car and re-assess the situation with each new inch of movement.

Gah. Just thinking about that incident makes me want to punch several people in the tooth.

D of all, your feet are constantly being stepped on. And yeah, we're all wearing tennis shoes, but still. Having your feet stepped on again and again and again is significantly painful. As is being elbowed in the face by some completely and unnecessarily overzealous man who thinks that the beads he has now managed to catch (at only the expense of MY LEFT EYEBALL) will actually still be important to him, come tomorrow morning. I mean, really. These are beads. Plastic, mass-produced beads. Even the "good stuff"--feather-embellished plastic spears and horribly unattractive stuffed animals and fake poop and banana moonpies (I'm so aghast at this list and the memories it evokes that I'm actually shuddering as I type this)--is not worth my left eyeball. These are cheap, stupid things that will almost immediately go in your attic or in the trash. Bah.

And truthfully, I really don't think I can accurately go into how awful parade marching was. Suffice it to say that one year, during high school, while marching in an obscenely long Metairie parade, I ran ahead to the McDonald's at the halfway point of the Bonnabel loop with a few other cheerleaders to use the bathroom, and ended up dropping my white beanie into the toilet as I relayered my cheerleading turtleneck, uniform top, hoodie sweatshirt, and jacket. And the toilet had NOT been flushed yet. And I had to put it BACK ON MY HEAD. Because the remaining fifteen cheerleaders were wearing beanies, and we all had to look exactly alike. Re. Volt. Ing. (Actually, that will NOT suffice it to say, upon further reflection. Among my many other disorders, I also cannot drink water whilst participating in cardiovascular physical activities, because it makes me extremely nausated. I was pretty desperate one parade during high school, however, and swigged a half bottle of water out of sheer dehydration. Huuuuuuuge mistake. I could barely march, let alone bust out our painfully repetitive cheerleading parade dances, due to my nausea. I ended up vomiting profusely all over my pom-poms during the last quarter mile of the parade. Bleh. So gross. So awful. Mardi Gras, I hate you. I hate you.)

Really, the only truly good thing about Mardi Gras is kingcake. And even that is a bit stale (oh yes, pun indeed intended) for me, since I was forced to have a kingcake every single year for my school birthday cake. I used to dream of being able to bring in a beautiful white sheet cake, heavily and beautifully iced with my name and rosettes, with a strawberry jam filling. Instead, my sisters and I were forced to immediately relinquish any of the babies we found in kingcakes during each Mardi Gras season so that my mother could collect them and manually insert them into the giant kingcake I would bring to class each year on my birthday. Which totally made getting the baby not as cool and special. One year, seven kids in my class got the baby. Seven. So getting the baby that year was only one-seventh as cool as it could've been. Whatevs. Gotta make the kids feel special, yada yada yada.

Good News: My Sympathetic Nervous System is Working. Quite Well, In Fact.

Today is Tuesday. On Tuesday mornings, I work the front desk at a dance studio downtown, beginning at 8:30 am. I have to leave my upper-east-side apartment by 7:40ish--7:45 at the absolute latest--to make it on time.

This morning, I awoke at 8:30.

Naturally, extreme panic immediately took place in my body and brain. I am quite amazed, though, at the method of response my body chose in this time of dire need: a combination of auto pilot and instant prioritizing. First: get out of the bed. (Which was actually more difficult than one might imagine, this time around. I sleep with two sets of covers, and in my state of hysteria, I became tangled up in the both of them. Lots of frantic leg-kicking ensued. This is easy to imagine, I'm sure.) Second: pick up cell phone, which is resting next to bed on nightstand, and wonder why the hell the alarm didn't go off. This was easily figured out--it had shut itself off in the middle of the night, despite its still being plugged in and charged. (My cell phone alone deserves a blog, really. It has served me well for the past year and a half, but it must be very, very near its death, because it has developed certain idiosyncrasies which sometimes make it difficult for me to carry on a normal life. For example. My phone likes to send its own text messages--which are never composed of anything more frightening than gibberish like 99999iiishshsoogogogg or 89898989898oooo--to made-up phone numbers that usually include an alarming number of sixes. It also likes to tell me that it's about to die, even when fully charged, and then it follows through on that warning by shutting itself off in the midst of a phone call. But I digress.)

So, I spend a precious ten seconds cursing my cell phone. That was apparently necessary, according to my parasympathetic nervous system, which is now in overdrive. It feels as if I have ice in my veins. Now: pants. Those must come on. I spy a pair of slightly-dirty jeans on my bedroom floor and throw them on. I still have my socks on from yesterday, so that leaves only shoes. Tennie sneaks are thrust upon my feet with speed and absolutely no grace. I stagger to the bathroom as I'm shoving my heels into my converse and assess the situation that faces me in the mirror. Naturally, I immediately wish I hadn't. I still have my makeup on from the previous day, and my hair is a fright. (I do not mean that in a figurative way. My hair literally gave me a fright. It...scared me.) I had had plans of taking a shower this morning--delusions of grandeur, now--but all but the essentials must be abandoned. Face-washing? Nope, my brain answered. None of that. No time. Hair-brushing? Ahahaaaa, my brain laughed. Good one, you little jokester, you. Coffee? My brain didn't even dignify that one with a response. So, I brushed my teeth. And put my contacts in. Those were my only hygenic and aesthetic allotments of the morning.

I grab my coat off one of the kitchen chairs, snap up my purse from next to the coffee table, run out the door and down the stairs, and haul ass to the subway station. I promptly began sweating (truly, this is a miracle of both science and God, that I began sweating in thirty-four-degree weather), once on the train, when I realized we were going at roughly a snail's pace and that I had absolutely no shot of getting to the dance studio by even 9 am.

I didn't officially enter the studio until 9:18. Luckily, the front desk manager who works with me, Arianne, had very kindly opened up the studio sound systems and let those poor people who were waiting for me to open everything up inside once she got here at 9 am. I then frantically rushed around, doing my opening duties at hyper-speed, studiously avoiding looking at my reflection in the mirror, frightful hair trailing behind me in my wake.

I need...a shower.

You Can Shower When You're DEAD.

I know, I know--I haven't blogged in a while, I'm a terrible person, everyone hates me, I'm gonna make sure to take a hot bath when I slit my wrists later on tonight, etc. I promise not to go so long between posts, henceforth. Fo' realz.

Something worth recounting: a week or two ago, it somehow came to my attention that I hadn't taken a shower in a few days. To be explicit: it was a Saturday when I realized my hygiene was lacking, somewhat--that is, there had been no shower since the previous Tuesday night. Unthinkingly, I voiced this epiphany aloud to my two roommates, Kayla and Allie, who happened to be sitting in the living room with me. Audrey was not home at the time, which I soon realized was a very good thing, once I saw how big of a deal Allie and Kay were making of my lack of recent shower time. Audge, I figured, probably would have manhandled me into the shower, fully dressed, within seconds, had she been present. I reassured the now thoroughly disgusted Kayla and Allie that I'd be taking a shower that night, for sure, and then continued on my merry way for the rest of the day. Really, it wasn't that much of a merry way, though, because I had to do laundry. (Side note: I don't think I can adequately describe how much I absolutely HATE doing laundry here in the city. I have a running list of Things That Once I Have Procured I Will Know That I Have Become Moderately Successful In The City of New York, and Sending Out My Laundry is near the top of the list.) (Other list items, you ask? A doorman; a dog; and enough money for regular taxi fare.) On one of my return trips to the apartment from the laundry room, I found the door locked. And though I used my key to successfully unlock the bottom outside lock of the door, I still could not open it, due to the fact that the inside top lock was in place. This, I immediately saw, was the work of the dastardly Audrey. She had arrived home, and someone had filled her in on my lack of showering. Sure enough, when I knocked on the door, Audrey announced that she was not letting me inside.

"Nope!" she singsonged annoyingly. "I'm not letting you inside until you promise to take a shower! You dirty girl."

Now, I don't think it will be any great revelation here for me to say that I am, at best, a very stubborn person. (And, at worst, very similar to a...mule. In my...determination.) If someone tells me to do or think something, I will most assuredly do the very opposite, simply because I do not like being bossed around. (It is I who gets to dish out the orders, thank you, a personality characteristic formed comparatively late in my life, owing to my being the oft-quieted and horribly ordered-about middle child.) So even though I fully intended to take a shower in the very near future, I refused to give Audrey the satisfaction of thinking that I was succumbing to her completely unnecessary bossiness.

"NO!" I yelled, from outside the door. "I DON'T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU! YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!"

"Well, then, you're not getting inside," Audrey responded infuriatingly from directly inside. "Not until you promise to stop being so dirty."

More jiggling of the doorknob ensued on my part, followed by repeated fist-poundings and hand slaps administered to the door itself. I am not proud to admit that there may also have been foot-stomping, whimpering, screaming, and--eventually--the sight of me, crouched on the floor, back against the door, feet stamping incessantly, yelling my fool head off. Audrey finally let me back inside, probably because she feared that a neighbor would soon call the cops, but I made sure to let her know that I was only taking a shower because I wanted to. And NOT because she told me I had to.

Lesson learned? Stubbornness will still get you everything. Duh.

Mattress Diving and Stupidity.

Just a few quick things to recount here, the majority of them instances of unintentional stupidity that came out of my mouth. For example: Audrey and I were lounging upon the couch, discussing gosh knows what (she was surely teasing me mercilessly about something or other) when she apparently said something so offensive that I felt a need to deliver a withering retort. Unfortunately, the one that came to the forefront of my mind was incomplete, so I simply said what I could remember with confidence and menace and then made the rest up on the spot. This was the result:

"AUDREY! I am going to slit you from navel...[long, searching pause] to BELLYBUTTON!" I was triumphant at the end, momentarily sure that I had come up with something appropriately dastardly.

Nope. Audge doubled over in laughter as I soon realized my mistake. (And I'm not even sure what the real end to that statement is, now a few days later. Nose? Or would it be nose to navel? Or can one slit another person lower than the navel? And is that crude to discuss? Even as a threat? These things I do not know.) And now Audrey has proceeded to tell everyone she comes in contact with of my stupid mistake. So much for a withering retort. (But isn't "withering retort" SUCH a good phrase? Say it with me now. Withering. Retort. See?)

Second example of stupidity: Audrey and I were, once again, lounging on the couch (at the playground is where Will Smith spent most of his days; Audrey and I spend ours on the couch) and watching television. A particularly frightening commercial came on for some scary movie in which the titular female evil character proclaims in a creepy voice that she needs blood to live. As soon as the commercial was over, Audrey turned to me and barked: "Rachel, do you need blood to live?"

Startled, and sure that she meant to compare me unfavorably to the creepster character, I stammeringly replied, "N-no..."

Audrey grinned triumphantly. "Trick question. Yes. You do. You need blood to live."

Dumb. So dumb. (She is, I mean.)

And finally. My roommates and I have discovered the most wonderful of activities: air-mattress diving. Kay's friend, Tracena, came to stay with us a week ago, and so we kept one of our blow-up mattresses in the living room for her to sleep in. After she left, none of us bothered to deflate the mattress, and so there it remained. Audrey had the BRILLIANT idea to fling herself up on it dramatically one evening, apropos of nothing; amazingly, her body rebounded nicely. Naturally, the next course of action for the two of us was to take turns flinging ourselves onto the air mattress and then quickly rebound to a standing position. I soon took the game to the next level by starting from the kitchen entrance and running a good twenty-five feet before jumping from a juicy demi-plie onto the mattress. The added momentum worked nicely. Audrey had created a glorious swan-dive sort of move, with arms extended in an airplane stance and feet together, toes carefully pointed.

The next step was, of course, music. I have always been fond of musical cues in dance, so I quickly ordered Audrey to play "Carmina Burana" on her itunes so that I could have appropriate accompaniment to my mattress dives. The key was flinging oneself onto the mattress at the precise moment of musical climax; a crash of the cymbals or pound of the drums required necessary dramatics.

We were showing this fantastic activity to Kayla and Allie the following night when Audrey had an inspired move: after completely exhausting myself solely for the entertainment of Kay and Allie, I lay unmoving on the mattress after my final Carmina Burana dive, intermittently panting attractively and moaning softly. Audrey surprised me by selecting to play the 1812 Overture from her itunes, and I immediately found renewed strength. I hurled myself off the mattress and readied my stance in the kitchen doorway. Audrey was right behind me, yelling at me that we'd be taking turns this time around. Allie soon joined us, as well, once she saw how orgasmically the combination musical cannons and mattress swan dives meshed. Kayla quietly videotaped us.

I thought that this, surely, was the pinnacle of the night: what could be more perfect than the 1812 overture? Audrey had one more surprise up her sleeve, however. The William Tell Overture. COMPLETE AND UTTER PERFECTION. I added a new element of difficulty by placing a kitchen chair at the foot of the mattress, where one could easily mount it enroute to the mattress and gain extra heighth. (Good job to me.) My final swan dive--to the final crash of the music--gave me a feeling of such complete happiness that I could've died, right then and there. This was actually a possibility, considering how ridiculously out of breath and energy I was at that point. Audrey, who had given up about three-fourths into the last song, actually did die. She used only her arm to punctuate the music for the final fourth.

Oh, but it was excellent. A grand idea, indeed.

Ahem. Announcement Time.

I have an announcement. In the grand scheme of things, this isn't world-breaking news--but it is earth-shattering to my own world, I think. (That...sounded pretentious. But I am a dramatic person. And dramatic people make dramatic statements. So, good. I'm living up to my own expectations.)

I...like living here. In the city of New York. I like it here. In fact, I kind of almost--gasp--love it here. (I'm experiencing slight anxiety as I type this. Because it feels like the kind of thing one can say and then never take back. So I better be pretty damn sure.) (But I am! At least, I am right now. And I've been thinking about this a lot. I'm not treating the making of this statement lightly in any way.)

I think this revelation has been coming for a long time, too. I've been having these seemingly inconsequential events and thoughts and epiphanies quietly, almost imperceptibly accumulate, and now it is as if someone has presented me with a very pretty, tangible collection of these things and said, Here. Here is what you think. You think this. You like this. You are a part of this now.

We were watching this terrible movie a few days ago--It Could Happen to You, an awfully cheesy Nicolas-Cage-wins-the-lottery-and-has-an-affair-but-gives-away-his-earnings-and-has-a-terrible-dye-job endeavor--and I couldn't help pointing out every single New York City landmark that I even vaguely recognized, despite how pathetic the film itself was. I was so inexplicably pleased when the opening shots featured those great, big buildings that almost immediately identify a movie as taking place in New York. I felt proud, I think, of this city that I live in that so many other people exalt and pay tribute to and proclaim as the greatest city in America. Which is a somewhat silly thing to feel--I'm proud that I live here? That I can somehow lay personal claim to the vast praise that is perpetually heaped on this city? I suppose so.

A girl that I work with at the restaurant was telling me that her boyfriend always gets a Valentine's Day reservationist broker to get the two of them a reservation at a fancy place, under some fake name. And this both baffled and pleased me. A of all, it's ridiculous that people actually pay money to get a reservation for what will surely turn out to be an already stupidly expensive meal under some rando fake name. B of all, that is so ridiculous that it seems singular and therefore inherently lovely. In a head-shaking sort of way. I mean, there are probably quite a few other cities that have reservationist brokers--this is not a New-York-only sort of thing--but it just seems like A New York Thing.

I guess I don't really know where all of this love and admiration for the city is coming from. I've just tried to articulate what I feel, but I've failed miserably. Maybe it's just the simple fact that I'm finally finding my groove here: learning to juggle the awfulness of waitressing with the loveliness of dancing and taking class and slowly, painstakingly making friends and being surrounded by thoroughly entertaining roommates and finally facing the intimidating bus drivers with determined if superficial resolve and learning how to layer my clothes appropriately.

And don't you think for one second that the fact that I am feeling all of this in the dead of winter has escaped me. That is probably the most telling thing of all--I must really love it here, after all, if I can feel this way when it is thirty-something degrees outside and there's a new snowfall every thirty seconds.

Yeah. I guess I've become one of those horribly annoying people who go on and on about how New York is the greatest place in the world to live and it takes a special breed of people to tough it out and if you can make it here, you'll make it anywhere itisuptoyouNewYorkNewYork.

Fine. Fine, then. You're pretty cool, New York. You win.

All Things Asheville. (Hey, Audge. Nope. You didn't make it in this time.)

This past weekend, some of the members of the dance company I'm a part of (Mari Meade Dance Collective, bitches! We beez fo' real. Weez been performing all up in yo grill.) (And so ends my brief foray into ebonics. And shameless self-promoting. For now(z).) went on tour to Asheville, North Carolina. I want to be honest for a moment here and say that I wasn't actually very pumped about this brief tour, mainly due to the fact that it required two 13-hour bus rides, a hostel stay, and an income-absent weekend. But. But, but, but, but. I had a fantasmical time. Butt-numbing bus rides and all.

First of all, Asheville is a super-cool, hippie-fied city. So I felt cooler just walking around on the downtown city streets, let alone performing in its uber-awesome Fringe Festival. And everything there is locally owned and operated--no chain stores are allowed, save one Urban Outfitters that apparently had to first make several hefty donations to local non-profits to get in the city's good graces. And it's so much CHEAPER to eat/drink/live there than it is here in New York. Mind-boggling, really. Aaaaaand everyone there dresses like a hipster. And virtually all of the restaurants there serve organic or family-farm-raised or just plain ole delicious vegan food.

I could go on and on about Awesome Amazing Asheville, but I won't. Because then I won't have any time to tell you about the funny things Mari said, or the terribly smelly and awful bus rides the four of us had to endure.

Bus rides first. Now, we are a fledgling modern dance company. So we don't have any money. Therefore, our bus ride tickets and rental car had to come out of the small donation fund we've set up as a non-profit. This means that we needed to take the chinatown bus down to Charlotte. And this, in turn, means that: A. The bus had no heat for the majority of the trip; B. The seats were...quite close. (And mine didn't even RECLINE. Damn it. I'm STILL angry about that.); C. The "toilet" on the bus didn't flush, and there was no "toilet" paper. So, it smelled. Realreal bad; D. If one wanted to brave moving down the aisle in the crazily-swerving bus to attempt to urinate (and hopefully ONLY urinate) in the godforsaken "bathroom," one had to use headrests and occasionally people's heads in order to regain equilibrium. (I saw this happen twice, with Mari's sleeping head alone. Close call, tiny Asian man.)

But something about such truly awful bus rides makes me feel more like a legit modern dancer. You know? Obvs I'm not in this profession for the money, but struggling so valiantly to perform in this small, hippie festival and stay in a hostel for three days and eat Pringles for dinner and shower in flip-flops makes it all seem so much more worthwhile. Or something. I'm doing a terrible job of articulating, obviously, but hopefully you get the gist.

Mari, who is my choreographer and possesses an extraordinary brain which I imagine operates as does a pinball machine, often says very funny, non-sequitar-ish things. Here are just a few examples from this past weekend:

1. The four of us all got The Shirelles' "Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This" stuck in our heads this weekend, to the point where one of us would start singing, "Mama said--" only to be given abrupt, menancing glares from the other three listeners. Mari began quietly singing the song to herself at one point, and somehow managed to shush herself before any of us could jump in. So what an outsider would've heard coming from Mari's mouth was: "'Mama said'--SHUT UP!"

2. In a pathetic attempt to get "Mama Said" out of our heads, I began singing some tunes from Disney's "The Lion King." Mari ended this quickly by emphatically stating: "There are two things I hate in this world: Jonathan Taylor Thomas and coleslaw."

3. Apropos of nothing, actually: "I've always wanted to take a bath in mayonnaise."

4. And finally. Whilst walking around downtown, Mari and I spotted a dog with unusual markings--half dalmation-like spots, and half big ole black spots, similar to that of a cow. Mari then began describing the dog, in a terrible North Carolina southern accent, which I will attempt to duplicate phonetically: "Naow, that's what we cawl a dow. Thaat'd bee a cross betweens a dawg and ah caow. Ah. Nahw, nawh. Way-ut. Thaat'd actually bee wut we cawl a CAWG. Ya know. Thaat's wut wee cawl a CAWG IN THE SYSTEM." This...made me laugh. So very, very hard. In fact, I still laugh when I think about it. I'm laughing as a I type this. I love wordplay. And bad accents, apparently.

The entire trip was hectic and cold and I had to pee whenever I couldn't. And I had a ridiculously good time. (Despite the fact that we boarded the bus back to NYC by only the skin of our teeth, a panic-attack-driven time for me that included a harried rental car trip back to Charlotte's airport, followed by an Avis shuttle ride from the rental car drop-off to the terminal's taxi line, followed by a careening taxi drive to the rando, sketch chinatown bus pick-up locale. I have never been so blissfully happy to sit my ass down in a cramped, freezing, horribly-upholstered bus seat.) (Also: I awoke in the middle of the night to find my window had actually ICED OVER on the inside ledge. How is this even possible? I think the heat was on at this point. This continues to baffle me.)

And then I arrived back in the city only to be greeted with nine-degree winter weather. Yahoo, indeed.

Poppy.

My Poppy died. It makes my stomach hurt to think about.

I have a very vivid memory of him sitting on our couch in our Chalmette home, keeping me entranced merely by wiggling his fingers. I was fascinated by the huge, blue-and-green veins that rippled every time he moved his phalanges. He told me they were worms, buried beneath his skin. I believed him.

He used to wear these t-shirts that said "CAPITAL GYMNASTICS." He had them in probably every primary color, and he had absolutely no qualms about wearing them consecutively.

He and my Nonna had a fifty-acre blueberry farm in Gumpond, Mississippi for several years--it's where their ashes will be comingled and scattered, after Nonna dies--and Poppy was the one to take me on my first blueberry-picking trip. He watched me put twice as many berries into my mouth as into my bucket and soberly informed me that my stool (his actual word) would be black from all the berries. He was right.

Once, he allowed Lauren, my older sister, and me to accompany him on an expedition one frosty morning to dig potatoes out of the ground that he'd planted. It was bitterly cold, and I didn't last more than five minutes. Lauren toughed it out a bit longer, if only to lord it over me later, but I retreated into the house and allowed Nonna to fuss over my ungloved hands with a warm washcloth and cocoa butter. I was amazed that not even the weather could faze Poppy.

He used to let me ride in his lap while he drove the tractor, too. And he'd put up a big fuss whenever Nonna would corner him with the electric razor so that she could trim his ear-hair. And he never got upset with me when I'd track that orange clay-mud into their house, even after Nonna had warned me to take off my shoes at the door.

He always referred to Nonna as "Mrs. Rizzuto." I liked that.

My aunt asked my sisters and me, as well as the rest of the grandchildren, if we'd like to say anything at his service. I politely begged off, thinking only of my intense fear of public speaking, but I encouraged Lauren and my older cousin--my aunt's daughter--to speak. My cousin suggested that she and Lauren read something together, but Lauren was doubtful that she could have control over her emotions throughout a speech. My cousin tried to ply her by announcing that she'd found the perfect Dr. Seuss quote to end with, but this only further deterred Lauren from accepting.

"Dr. Seuss?" she wondered aloud to me. "I don't really know if that's the way to go." After looking thoughtful for a moment, she said, "Unless it's 'Oh, the places you'll go!' Because that is actually inappropriately appropriate. Or maybe...'I do not like it in a box'...?" She looked over at me mischieveously, and we both dissolved into giggles. (We're Rizzuto sisters. This is how we cope. And my cousin actually ended her very heartfelt speech with a perfectly appropriate quote. From the good doctor.)

I'm twenty-three years old, and I know that saying goodbye to people I love because of death is something that I am very lucky not to have had to deal with frequently up until now. And I know that it will only happen more frequently from here on out. But that doesn't necessarily make saying goodbye to my Poppy any easier. Especially since I didn't get to say goodbye, I guess.

I hope that he knows how very, very much he is loved. I wish this more than I have wished a lot of things in a very long time.

Audrey. (She asked me to title it this. So vain, she is.)

I have glorious news. Glorious, I tell you. Yesterday, I had a very awkward experience. (Duh.) But! But, but, but. 'Twas not me, this time, who was the awkward one--in fact, I played the role of Confused Normal Person Somewhat Disturbed By Awkward Occurrence this go-round. And this was a certainly pleasant but also mildly disconcerting change of pace, frankly. I kept doubting myself, wondering if I only thought it was an awkward situation because I was unknowingly being awkward and making the other person feel awkward for my being awkward at what I mistakenly thought was their awkwardness. (Go with me here.)

I was at the David's Bridal here in Manhattan, ordering my bridesmaid's dress for my friend Sarah's wedding this May. This was not my first time at the rodeo, either--I'd been to this same David's Bridal last spring, when I'd had to order a bridesmaid dress for a previous wedding. (Also, speaking of funny yet entirely meaningful expressions: I have created one. It trips off the tongue nicely, I do think: "Don't poop in the punch before you get to party!" Meaning, of course, that one shouldn't pooh-pooh an event that appears  undesirable to attend without giving it a fair chance. I really like the alliteration I created. It'll be sweeping the nation soon, I'm sure.)

But back to David's Bridal. The saleswoman assigned to me, Denouda (I remember the exact spelling because I was entirely distracted by how differently her name was actually pronounced than what I would have initially guessed--potentially awkward occurrence avoided! Props to me.) Denouda grabbed my gown for me to try on and then led me to one of the large, mirrored dressing rooms that seem ubiquitous in bridal salons. She then unlocked a door to one of them, hung the dress up on the wall, and then asked me what size bra I wore, so she could go grab me a strapless one, to ensure accurate dress fit. I quickly assured her that I didn't need to borrow a bra, because I'd packed one specially for the dress-trying-on occasion. Denouda seemed pleased by this turn of events. A little too pleased, perhaps, seeing as she didn't take this opportunity to exit the dressing room. We both faced each other for a moment, my eyes darting all over the enclosed space we were now locked in together, each of us waiting for the other person to make her next move. It was...painfully awkward.

Now, I know that bridal salons have these extra-large dressing rooms for the very reason that a bride-to-be often needs an assistant dresser to help her in and out of ornate, heavy, and difficult-to-button-up gowns and even undergarments. But...I wasn't trying on bridal gowns. I was putting on an above-the-knee strapless bridesmaid dress that zipped up the back. I literally needed only to step into it, yank it above my hips, and then zip it up. Really, it was a one-person procedure. I thought that maybe Denouda was waiting for some sort of sign to exit the dressing room, so I made a move as if to unbutton my jeans.

Nope. Didn't faze her. She remained in the room, smiling brightly. I paused for a moment, wondered briefly if I were on an episode of Candid Camera, and then decided that maybe this was just a New-York-bridal-salon thing that I'd somehow managed to escape the last time around. So I took a deep breath and proceeded to strip for Denouda.

It was an odd, odd situation; she simply watched me take off my seventeen winter layers of clothing (coat, scarf, hat, gloves, jacket, cardigan, tee shirt, jeans, tights) and then wrangle myself into the bridesmaid dress. She offered no help whatsoever, even when I very awkwardly had to zip up the back of the dress myself. (But that was only being awkward in a physical sense. Doesn't count as real awkwardness for me, in this instance. I WAS THE NORMAL ONE, THIS TIME AROUND.) Denounda just stood there, watching me. And still smiling.

The rest of my David's Bridal experience went normally, I suppose. The dress was ordered and purchased, and Denouda and I parted ways. I do fervently hope, though, that she is not working on the day I come back to pick up and try on my dress. Or I at least hope that it's warmer--less of a strip show, I suppose.

A Portrait of the Cat Lady as a Young Woman

So I worked a total of four shifts at the restaurant this weekend, beginning Friday night and ending Sunday night, which basically means that I had plenty of time to accumulate awkward doings. (It is a small comfort to me, though, that there is at least an outlet for my awkward incidents here. On this blog, I mean. It's the same sort of logic to me as getting an ulcer. Which is something that I've always wanted to get. Because if I had an ulcer, then at least I'd know that all of my anxiety and stress and neuroticism has at least produced something, you know? It wasn't all for naught. It resulted in something tangible. Er. Nearly tangible, I suppose. Same thing with my awkwardness. Kind of. It produces this blog. In a way. I'm terrible with analogies, obvs. It was my downfall on the PSAT.)

But here we go. (Short interruption: Audge, who is lying on the couch and watching "Law & Order: Criminal Intent"--our second-favorite of the many versions of that show, if you must know--just whined about me not mentioning her in this particular entry. "Why aren't you talking about me?" she demanded. It's hard for her to believe that her every movement isn't worthy of immediate documentation, I suppose.)

I had this big table of fratty guys during Saturday's brunch who were pretty laid-back and friendly, despite how busy the restaurant was and how crazy I must've appeared, running around like a chicken with my head cut off, only able to stop by and check on them somewhat sporadically. And I've noticed, in my waitress history, that several of the other waitresses at my restaurant are able to semi-flirt with their male patrons with enviable ease. And I would guess that this leads to their getting slightly better tips. I have long wanted to try this flirt-thing out, but I have refrained for several reasons, most of which can be summed up in: I am terrible at flirting. Apparently, I'm missing some Girl Gene which helps you determine whether the guy you are conversing with is totally into you or can't wait to make his escape. I find that it's almost always the latter, but on the rare occasion when I assume it's the former and attempt to engage in some witty repartee--which invariably involves some obscure musical theatre reference, on my part--I am horribly, horribly wrong.

Anyway. I don't know what prompted me to try constructing this delicate relationship with this group of customers--extreme lethargy? Apathy? Delerium?--but try I did. Things were going swimmingly for the first three or so seconds, until I reached over to remove some dirty plates from the table and asked if they'd like anything else.

"Nah," one guy answered, grinning invitingly. "Not unless you have some tubs for me, that is."

Now, this is what I heard. Tubs. He requested tubs. It turns out that he was actually talking about Tums, but I didn't learn this until later, when too much damage had already been done. Too eagerly, I jumped at the chance to continue this flirty-waitress-thing.

Cue my fake, hopefully-girlish giggle. "Oh, ahahahaaaaaaaa!" I twittered. "You stink, huh? You smell real bad?" There may have been some eyelash-batting at this point.

Now cue blank look from restaurant patron, followed by an unmistakable expression of offensiveness, coupled with mild disgust.

"You think I smell bad?"

"Haahahaaa," I replied, unsure why he wasn't playing along with our wholly beguiling tete-a-tete. "We...don't have any here, though. I mean, there's only toilets in the bathroom."

More of his earlier expression greeted this reply.

My excellent solution to this very obvious problem was just to keep talking. Rambling I can do. Quite easily. "Or...maybe a shower would be better? Because you're not a fan of baths...?"

"What," he deadpanned, "are you talking about?"

"You said you needed tubs! So I was just kidding, saying that you smelled bad. You don't actually smell...I thought you meant that you wanted to take a bath, and...well...we don't--we don't have tubs here, which is what I was telling you..." I quietly trailed off.

"Uh, no. I said I needed Tums."

"Oh. Oh...ahahahahaaaaaaa!" (My motto: when in doubt, do that giggle again. Just let 'em think you think they're the funniest thing EVER.) "That's so...funny! I thought you said 'tubs.' Oh, well! Hahahaaaaaa..."

He gave me a wan smile and turned back to his friends at the table--most of whom, thankfully, hadn't heard our exchange. I turned on my heel and made my way back to the kitchen, where I debated about adopting a whole bunch of cats on the way home and precipitating the reclusive, Cat-Lady future that most assuredly awaits me.

I also managed to pluralize the word "please" (nope, "pleases" is not actually a word, as it turns out, even when you're very politely asking for "two mayonnaises, pleases"), as well as think that a hot guy from one of the front booths was actually telling me hey from across the room. (Nope. He wasn't. He was talking to another, much prettier girl who was, coincidentally, standing next to me. Too bad I waved back and yelled "HEY!" super excitedly in response and even began walking towards him.)

Yep. Fourteen cats should do the trick, I think.