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.
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