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.