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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 17, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 3, 2011
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.
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.
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