I'm operating on the assumption that most of my readers are women. If you are not, keep prudish and/or piggish comments to yourself. *KTHXBAI.
One of my friends sent me a message via facebook the other day, asking me how the whole pregnancy thing was going. I made the mistake of writing back after a night at work. I spent my entire shift starving and crazy, and all I could manage was a chicken tender, half a baked potato, and a bowl of grape tomatoes (that's my latest thing--I eat tons of the things--, and oh HAI THAR MOUTH SOREZ! I'M IN UR MOUTHZ WIT LOTZ OF ACIDZ!). So, I was a little frustrated when I replied thusly:
------
Oh, freaking AWESOME. Here's how it goes:
My Stomach: I'm starving. Feed me or I will make you crazy.
Me: How about [insert, delicious, healthy food that I have loved all my life]
My Stomach: Ew.
Me: Not even ranch dressing?
My Stomach: Ew.
Me: Cheese? Cheese is an essential food group all its own.
My Stomach: Ew. Idiot. I'm just going to starve. And make you miserable. How about half a jar of pickles, though? That sounds okay.
Probably way more info than you wanted/needed/was asking for, but I'm in a particularly bitter mood at the moment.
Last I checked, though, the baby is fine. So it's all worth it.
-------
It was meant to be funny, but now it just seems whiny. But still. So very true. I just keep reminding myself of what we'll get out of it in the end.
Also. Do not ever eat six fruit roll-ups in one sitting. Even if it seems like a really awesome idea at the time. It's not an awesome idea ever. It's a very bad idea.
On the upside of pregnancy, we have this: I have gone from a 34B to a 34E in just two short years. About 70% of that growth has happened in the last three months. James can barely believe his good fortune. I keep forgetting that they're, you know, there, and hitting them on things. Like my arms or when I try to squeeze sideways through a doorway that has a person in it already:
"Ow!"
"What's wrong?"
"My breasts are OUT OF CONTROL."
"Oh... Thanks... for that. Hope you feel better."
I mean, imagine if you feet suddenly grew an inch. It's kind of the same thing. Especially for someone like me who could never get a date with **Archibald Widdershins because I had no boobs. Also because I was a huge dork, but I like to think it had nothing to do with me or my personality.
*I can't help doing this LOLCATSspeak since I saw this, which is awesomely hilarious. While I've always found it hilarious, this latest batch of funniness is too much for me to resist the fad any longer.
**You know, I bet someday he or one of his friends somehow stumbles across this. I don't know how. It's not like the guys I went to high school with browse Blogger looking for touching stories and wild hilarity. But I bet they do find it and tell him. And if they do, I never want to know about it. Because I will die. Also, Archibald Widdershins is not his real name, but I'm pretty sure everyone who knew me in high school could figure it out.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Ew.
Dear Members of the General Public:
One
If you are crammed in next to someone in a double seat, and another double seat empties out just a small distance away from you, move to that seat. (I got stuck on a nearly empty bus squished against the wall by a somewhat portly 40-something lady for about half an hour the other day. I chalk my rage up to hormones, but it would have irked me anyway. I nearly punched her.)
Two
Four in the afternoon is a totally inappropriate time to save a seat for someone who isn't even on the bus yet:
Middle Aged Lady: Is anyone sitting here? [indicating a double seat with a bag on it, and a third seat next to the girl who is guarding the bag. She has her feet on the seat. They are wet and sandy.]
Hoodlum Child: My sister's sitting there. She's standing up there by the bus driver.
MAL: Two people to four seats?
HC: Our friends are getting on soon. [Meanwhile, 85 people who are already on the bus have nowhere to sit]
(Later, HC's sister finally came to sit down (the friends never arrived). She was going to sit down but saw that HC had made the seat all gross with her dirty feet. So she sat in the next seat up. HC put her feet right back on the seat. This bothered me way more than it should have.)
Three
Please do not foray into the street and onto the bus if you *smell strongly of cats. It's nasty to the average person. But pregnant women already struggling with motion sickness will barf on you.
Four
Please do not frequent a restaurant if you smell strongly of musty attic and marijuana and dirty socks and some other undefinable vileness. Same reason. Only this time change "women" to "waitresses".
You people were wondering why I hardly ever went to your table. Why you had stacks of dishes everywhere. Well, first, it's because you piled your plates with more food than your average half-ton man could eat and then only ate two bites. And then went back for six more similar plates. And there were ten of you. It's hard to keep up with that. Also, I like to make you look at what you're wasting for a good long time (like rubbing a dog's snout in Bad Things He's Done, not that you're animals; you're people, so please act like people).
But mostly it was because every trip to your table was an unpleasant reminder of what I ate for lunch. And you don't want **recycled hummus plate down your neck, no matter how good it was the first time around
*Oh please. You can own lots of cats and not smell like them. I know a family that owns an illegal number of cats, and somehow they still manage to smell like roses (the people, not the cats, though the cats don't smell bad).
**If you live in Madison, you must visitoh crap. I cannot remember the name of this place. But it's got a green overhang with white letters, it's on the south side of State Street near the west end, somewhere between Frances and Lake Street Mediterranean Cafe. I finally remembered! Actually, no; I went there again and made sure to take a good long look at the sign. Delicious. I have the hummus plate with chicken and extra sauce (I like to mix it with the hummus, which is a little too sharp sometimes). Oh, but it's tiny and always busy. So make sure you have time.
If you are crammed in next to someone in a double seat, and another double seat empties out just a small distance away from you, move to that seat. (I got stuck on a nearly empty bus squished against the wall by a somewhat portly 40-something lady for about half an hour the other day. I chalk my rage up to hormones, but it would have irked me anyway. I nearly punched her.)
Four in the afternoon is a totally inappropriate time to save a seat for someone who isn't even on the bus yet:
Middle Aged Lady: Is anyone sitting here? [indicating a double seat with a bag on it, and a third seat next to the girl who is guarding the bag. She has her feet on the seat. They are wet and sandy.]
Hoodlum Child: My sister's sitting there. She's standing up there by the bus driver.
MAL: Two people to four seats?
HC: Our friends are getting on soon. [Meanwhile, 85 people who are already on the bus have nowhere to sit]
(Later, HC's sister finally came to sit down (the friends never arrived). She was going to sit down but saw that HC had made the seat all gross with her dirty feet. So she sat in the next seat up. HC put her feet right back on the seat. This bothered me way more than it should have.)
Please do not foray into the street and onto the bus if you *smell strongly of cats. It's nasty to the average person. But pregnant women already struggling with motion sickness will barf on you.
Please do not frequent a restaurant if you smell strongly of musty attic and marijuana and dirty socks and some other undefinable vileness. Same reason. Only this time change "women" to "waitresses".
You people were wondering why I hardly ever went to your table. Why you had stacks of dishes everywhere. Well, first, it's because you piled your plates with more food than your average half-ton man could eat and then only ate two bites. And then went back for six more similar plates. And there were ten of you. It's hard to keep up with that. Also, I like to make you look at what you're wasting for a good long time (like rubbing a dog's snout in Bad Things He's Done, not that you're animals; you're people, so please act like people).
But mostly it was because every trip to your table was an unpleasant reminder of what I ate for lunch. And you don't want **recycled hummus plate down your neck, no matter how good it was the first time around
*Oh please. You can own lots of cats and not smell like them. I know a family that owns an illegal number of cats, and somehow they still manage to smell like roses (the people, not the cats, though the cats don't smell bad).
**If you live in Madison, you must visit
Saturday, November 11, 2006
People
People
James: Husband. Sometimes I call him by his real name. Don't think that I have two husbands.
Study Buddy: From my days in engineering. She, James and I were lab partners once (well, James did most of the work; she did some; I sat in the computer lab feeling my soul slowly die at the awful prospect of devoting my life to engineering). Now we study together.
Awesome Friend: Name is pretty descriptive. But there's more about her here.
Church Friend: Um, friend from church (dur). I've known her (off and on) since we were little. Now she goes to my school. And she makes wicked good coffee.
CFF or Church Friend's Friend or BlueDelirium: Friend I met through Church Friend. Obviously.
Hebrew Friend 2.0: New Hebrew Friend. She didn't join our class until partway through second year Hebrew, and now we're both in the same two soul-sucking courses. I guess misery really does love company.
Dr. Evil: My Syriac and Hebrew professor. He's not really evil. in fact, in his own way, he's really wonderful. But he's demanding and terrifying and has no concept of how much he scares the crap out of his students. Or maybe he does. I don't know. Anyway, despite all that, he's one of the best teachers I've ever had. I call him Dr. Evil because, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was a psychotic sadist.
M: Dr. M. Another professor in the Hebrew department. She is tough, and her class makes my brain squeak in pain, but I heart her.
James: Husband. Sometimes I call him by his real name. Don't think that I have two husbands.
Study Buddy: From my days in engineering. She, James and I were lab partners once (well, James did most of the work; she did some; I sat in the computer lab feeling my soul slowly die at the awful prospect of devoting my life to engineering). Now we study together.
Awesome Friend: Name is pretty descriptive. But there's more about her here.
Church Friend: Um, friend from church (dur). I've known her (off and on) since we were little. Now she goes to my school. And she makes wicked good coffee.
CFF or Church Friend's Friend or BlueDelirium: Friend I met through Church Friend. Obviously.
Hebrew Friend 2.0: New Hebrew Friend. She didn't join our class until partway through second year Hebrew, and now we're both in the same two soul-sucking courses. I guess misery really does love company.
Dr. Evil: My Syriac and Hebrew professor. He's not really evil. in fact, in his own way, he's really wonderful. But he's demanding and terrifying and has no concept of how much he scares the crap out of his students. Or maybe he does. I don't know. Anyway, despite all that, he's one of the best teachers I've ever had. I call him Dr. Evil because, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was a psychotic sadist.
M: Dr. M. Another professor in the Hebrew department. She is tough, and her class makes my brain squeak in pain, but I heart her.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Crazy People!
My keyboard seems to have unstuck itself most of the way. Except the space bar. It still doesn't want to budge, but when it does, it's very enthusiastic about it. <---see (ok, this is weird. only two spaces show up, although what I've typed has like a hundred spaces)? So, I'm writing an entry.
I sat next to a nice crazy man on the bus today. Because he was nice, I felt really bad for wanting to bludgeon him with my mp3 player. I was sitting on the window seat, and Crazy Man plopped down right next to me. He was about two and a half times my width. I mean, I tried to be understanding, but you can only get so cozy with a stranger on the bus before the discomfort starts.
So, at first it was okay. I'm smooshed, yeah, but there's really nowhere else for him to sit. But then he started talking to me. And this is where iPod Action Plan comes into play. Crazy Man strikes up conversation with his two friends--me and the invisible man who is apparently sitting on my lap--, and I can pretend that I don't know he's speaking to me. Thus, no hurt feelings on his part, and no uncontrollable urges to throw myself out the emergency exit on my part.
After Crazy Man realized I couldn't hear him, he continued talking to someone--I don't know who, may as well have been his pet gourd Fred because there was really no one else within conversational distance. He caught my eye a couple times and smiled, and I smiled back, and I thought, Ok, it's going to be all right. No awkward conversations here. We just smile at each other. Good times.
Then he started digging in his pocket for something, I don't know what. He (and, the first time I typed this, I wrote "I" instead of "He", which is really funny to me) removed all 762 objects from his pants pocket one by one, elbowing me viciously in the arm every single time he went for anothing dig. That's when the bludgeoning fantasies began. But then he'd smile at me periodically, and it was such a sweet smile that I couldn't hold onto the bad angry feelings.
Apparently, what he wanted was not in his pocket (of course not!). Back went all 762 objects into his pocket, one by one--dig, dig, dig, flash an appeasing grin at me, dig, dig, dig, break my rib, etc.
Finally everything was back in his pocket. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Now, the digging in the pocketsessss had been bearable because I knew there was a finite number of things to dig for and to put back. I knew it would end sometime. But then he started played with his knit cap. He'd fold it, unfold it, toss it in the air, catch it (which, ouch in my arm), put it on his head. I was rather surprised that he didn't start petting it or offer it to me as a tasty snack. Knowing this could go on indefinitely, I despaired. I still had 20 minutes left on my bus ride, meanwhile my right arm is slowly turning to pureed meat.
But he was such a happy man! I couldn't be angry! But I wanted to be! Which made me even angrier!
Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, Crazy Man got off the bus, still not successful in his treasure-digging.
I looked at the seat next to me after he'd gotten up, and there it was. His pen! He'd wanted his pen all along, and it had been under him. I swear to you that, if I had known that's where the pen was, I would have reached my hand under his rear and retrieved it myself. That's how desperate I was.
I struck up a conversation with a bus driver today who came to eat at my restaurant. Boy did he have a good one. There's a man who comes on his morning bus every day. This man rides by himself, but he always pays two fares. The empty seat next to him contains one imaginary friend. To get around this and save the man some money, the bus driver has told him multiple times, "Oh, don't worry about your friend. He can ride for free." The man's response: "He'd better pay. He's an effing a-hole, and he deserves to pay. If he ever doesn't, just let me know, and I'll kick his effin'a**."
If anyone sits in the imaginary friend's lap by accident, the guy freaks out. He yells, he screams, he swears. And, here's the best part: just to settle everyone down, the bus driver comes over and says, "You can't sit there because you're on his friend's lap." It takes a real man to say that with a straight face every single morning and not go off the deep end.
I'm so glad I don't drive a bus. I would cry at least once an hour. Or I would just snap one day and have my imaginary henchman shoot everyone. I don't know which.
I'm going to bed. I can't handle this space bar anymore. It's making me twitchy.
I sat next to a nice crazy man on the bus today. Because he was nice, I felt really bad for wanting to bludgeon him with my mp3 player. I was sitting on the window seat, and Crazy Man plopped down right next to me. He was about two and a half times my width. I mean, I tried to be understanding, but you can only get so cozy with a stranger on the bus before the discomfort starts.
So, at first it was okay. I'm smooshed, yeah, but there's really nowhere else for him to sit. But then he started talking to me. And this is where iPod Action Plan comes into play. Crazy Man strikes up conversation with his two friends--me and the invisible man who is apparently sitting on my lap--, and I can pretend that I don't know he's speaking to me. Thus, no hurt feelings on his part, and no uncontrollable urges to throw myself out the emergency exit on my part.
After Crazy Man realized I couldn't hear him, he continued talking to someone--I don't know who, may as well have been his pet gourd Fred because there was really no one else within conversational distance. He caught my eye a couple times and smiled, and I smiled back, and I thought, Ok, it's going to be all right. No awkward conversations here. We just smile at each other. Good times.
Then he started digging in his pocket for something, I don't know what. He (and, the first time I typed this, I wrote "I" instead of "He", which is really funny to me) removed all 762 objects from his pants pocket one by one, elbowing me viciously in the arm every single time he went for anothing dig. That's when the bludgeoning fantasies began. But then he'd smile at me periodically, and it was such a sweet smile that I couldn't hold onto the bad angry feelings.
Apparently, what he wanted was not in his pocket (of course not!). Back went all 762 objects into his pocket, one by one--dig, dig, dig, flash an appeasing grin at me, dig, dig, dig, break my rib, etc.
Finally everything was back in his pocket. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Now, the digging in the pocketsessss had been bearable because I knew there was a finite number of things to dig for and to put back. I knew it would end sometime. But then he started played with his knit cap. He'd fold it, unfold it, toss it in the air, catch it (which, ouch in my arm), put it on his head. I was rather surprised that he didn't start petting it or offer it to me as a tasty snack. Knowing this could go on indefinitely, I despaired. I still had 20 minutes left on my bus ride, meanwhile my right arm is slowly turning to pureed meat.
But he was such a happy man! I couldn't be angry! But I wanted to be! Which made me even angrier!
Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, Crazy Man got off the bus, still not successful in his treasure-digging.
I looked at the seat next to me after he'd gotten up, and there it was. His pen! He'd wanted his pen all along, and it had been under him. I swear to you that, if I had known that's where the pen was, I would have reached my hand under his rear and retrieved it myself. That's how desperate I was.
I struck up a conversation with a bus driver today who came to eat at my restaurant. Boy did he have a good one. There's a man who comes on his morning bus every day. This man rides by himself, but he always pays two fares. The empty seat next to him contains one imaginary friend. To get around this and save the man some money, the bus driver has told him multiple times, "Oh, don't worry about your friend. He can ride for free." The man's response: "He'd better pay. He's an effing a-hole, and he deserves to pay. If he ever doesn't, just let me know, and I'll kick his effin'a**."
If anyone sits in the imaginary friend's lap by accident, the guy freaks out. He yells, he screams, he swears. And, here's the best part: just to settle everyone down, the bus driver comes over and says, "You can't sit there because you're on his friend's lap." It takes a real man to say that with a straight face every single morning and not go off the deep end.
I'm so glad I don't drive a bus. I would cry at least once an hour. Or I would just snap one day and have my imaginary henchman shoot everyone. I don't know which.
I'm going to bed. I can't handle this space bar anymore. It's making me twitchy.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
I should be studying for Italian...
...which means I'm going to blather on and on and on in this entry until I can't possibly blather any more. And then I'll just type letters at random until my fingers fall off. Then, possibly, I'll study. Who knows.
A few things:
First, a lady customer at work yesterday asked me to come work for her at the place she manages. She was there with her husband and son. She said, "If you want to make a few extra bucks on the side, why don't you come work here?" and she handed me her business card. I had no idea that she was about to hand me a card for T_______ Gentleman's Club, across which she'd written, "Dancers Wanted". I didn't know whether to be flattered that she thought I COULD be a stripper or horrifically offended that she thought I WOULD be a stripper. Is it my fabulous ghetto booty that swings and sways, making people think I walk like a stripper on purpose? I don't know. I opted for an awkward, "Oh! Thanks..." and lamely walking away, my entire head as pink as a diaper rash. I think even my hair turned pink.
Second, people aren't tipping lately. I don't know what it is. I got two outstanding tips tonight, otherwise I would have come home with less than $20, which is about $5 an hour. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for every little bit. But $5/hour doesn't pay the bills. People think I'm greedy when I get all disappointed about crummy tips, but really I'm just frantically assessing our budget for the month and wondering how long we can subsist on our own toenails. They're high in protein, but rather lacking in essential vitamins and minerals.
Third, WEIRD people at work lately. See how I capitalized "WEIRD". That means extra-weird. That means, "Wow, you really skeeve me out" weird. In particular, there's this one guy who I first saw come to eat at my restaurant a week ago. He wasn't sitting in my section, but every time I walked by he would look at me. A lot. About the third time I walked by and--heaven forbid--wasn't smiling for once, so he stopped me and said, "Smile!" I said, "Um, okay," and walked away because I'm socially awkward.
Today he purposely sat in my section, and more of the pro-smiling inspirational speeches. "You have such a beautiful face, you need to smile more," he says to me probably five times (or some variation on the theme). People, if you knew how much I smile already you would know just how whacked this guy is. I'm obnoxiously smiley. I'm the kind of smiley that would cause a lesser woman's face to slide right off her skull. But he gave me a generous tip, so I didn't care too much.
I just hope he doesn't think generous tipping buys him a date. Some guys are like that. A guy once actually got angry at me. He kept throwing one-dollar bills on the table, one after another, each time saying, "Now will you?" and when he ran out of ones got so upset he just stomped out and left all the money there, like he was my sugar daddy and I was some ungrateful trick.
Hello? The more money you throw at me, the more unstable you seem. I wasn't married at the time, or I may have had a good excuse. He just wasn't willing to accept that I wouldn't go out on a date with a complete stranger.
What happened to that guy I had last week? Huh? He needs to come back and bring his kids. I would offer free babysitting to that man.
Instead I get crazy people, like Potato Man and Mr. Smiley. I know I've said in the past that I love the crazy, that it's highly entertaining, but it seems like lately there's been a little too much. Like maybe the crazy people are magically drawn to me, and I don't even want to speculate as to what it is about me that attracts them. Maybe I have crazy-attracting pheromones.
I know I have one more thing to talk about, but I can't think of it. I'm going to be up until very late tonight because I took a three-hour nap this afternoon. I came home from class in some kind of stupor and flung myself upon the bed, where I dreamt bizarre dreams and hallucinated all sorts of crazy things. It's amazing how much fun I can have without ever doing 'shrooms.
Now, I must go study Italian. Not much to learn, but I do need to know the vocab (which I don't), and I need to finish my workbook assignments. I always save the most boring, tedious ones for last, and that's probably really dumb. Okay, goodnight.
A few things:
First, a lady customer at work yesterday asked me to come work for her at the place she manages. She was there with her husband and son. She said, "If you want to make a few extra bucks on the side, why don't you come work here?" and she handed me her business card. I had no idea that she was about to hand me a card for T_______ Gentleman's Club, across which she'd written, "Dancers Wanted". I didn't know whether to be flattered that she thought I COULD be a stripper or horrifically offended that she thought I WOULD be a stripper. Is it my fabulous ghetto booty that swings and sways, making people think I walk like a stripper on purpose? I don't know. I opted for an awkward, "Oh! Thanks..." and lamely walking away, my entire head as pink as a diaper rash. I think even my hair turned pink.
Second, people aren't tipping lately. I don't know what it is. I got two outstanding tips tonight, otherwise I would have come home with less than $20, which is about $5 an hour. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for every little bit. But $5/hour doesn't pay the bills. People think I'm greedy when I get all disappointed about crummy tips, but really I'm just frantically assessing our budget for the month and wondering how long we can subsist on our own toenails. They're high in protein, but rather lacking in essential vitamins and minerals.
Third, WEIRD people at work lately. See how I capitalized "WEIRD". That means extra-weird. That means, "Wow, you really skeeve me out" weird. In particular, there's this one guy who I first saw come to eat at my restaurant a week ago. He wasn't sitting in my section, but every time I walked by he would look at me. A lot. About the third time I walked by and--heaven forbid--wasn't smiling for once, so he stopped me and said, "Smile!" I said, "Um, okay," and walked away because I'm socially awkward.
Today he purposely sat in my section, and more of the pro-smiling inspirational speeches. "You have such a beautiful face, you need to smile more," he says to me probably five times (or some variation on the theme). People, if you knew how much I smile already you would know just how whacked this guy is. I'm obnoxiously smiley. I'm the kind of smiley that would cause a lesser woman's face to slide right off her skull. But he gave me a generous tip, so I didn't care too much.
I just hope he doesn't think generous tipping buys him a date. Some guys are like that. A guy once actually got angry at me. He kept throwing one-dollar bills on the table, one after another, each time saying, "Now will you?" and when he ran out of ones got so upset he just stomped out and left all the money there, like he was my sugar daddy and I was some ungrateful trick.
Hello? The more money you throw at me, the more unstable you seem. I wasn't married at the time, or I may have had a good excuse. He just wasn't willing to accept that I wouldn't go out on a date with a complete stranger.
What happened to that guy I had last week? Huh? He needs to come back and bring his kids. I would offer free babysitting to that man.
Instead I get crazy people, like Potato Man and Mr. Smiley. I know I've said in the past that I love the crazy, that it's highly entertaining, but it seems like lately there's been a little too much. Like maybe the crazy people are magically drawn to me, and I don't even want to speculate as to what it is about me that attracts them. Maybe I have crazy-attracting pheromones.
I know I have one more thing to talk about, but I can't think of it. I'm going to be up until very late tonight because I took a three-hour nap this afternoon. I came home from class in some kind of stupor and flung myself upon the bed, where I dreamt bizarre dreams and hallucinated all sorts of crazy things. It's amazing how much fun I can have without ever doing 'shrooms.
Now, I must go study Italian. Not much to learn, but I do need to know the vocab (which I don't), and I need to finish my workbook assignments. I always save the most boring, tedious ones for last, and that's probably really dumb. Okay, goodnight.
Mr. Smiley
So, yesterday at work was an interesting one. My responsible adult self decided it would be a good idea to finish off the Greenbush Bakery doughnuts that I'd bought the night before. So, for breakfast, lunch and dinner I had doughnuts and coffee.
By the time I got to work I felt! Like! A million! Bucks! Also, everything was funny to me. Lack of sleep, I'm sure, had something to do with that.
Anyway, there's this guy I call Mr. Smiley that's been coming to eat at my restaurant for the last several weeks. Clearly, the man has a thing for me, but it hasn't ever gotten creepy so much as weird.
Well, every single time he comes in he makes some mention of my smile. If you take a gander at my photo above, you can see that it looks like I have never smiled in my life. But the truth is, I smile a lot. I smile until my teeth hurt. My whole face scrunches up, and my cheeks get all chipmunky, and I SMILE, gosh darn it. Constantly.
Mr. Smiley seems to think I don't. Every time I walk past the table, "Hey! You should smile more!" Um, okay. Maybe I'll train myself to smile in my sleep. Although, if I can't train myself to stop screaming at imaginary spiders in my sleep, I very much doubt I can train myself to smile in my sleep.
Yesterday he was there again. Now, I don't mind him, really. He's pretty nice, and he always leaves a good tip. But yesterday, in the middle of a conversation, he said to me, "Now, I must admit I'm a little disappointed in you."
I thought to myself, If he even thinks about telling me that I'm smiling less than usual, I'm going to bite his face off.
But he didn't. He said, "I found our you're married!"
I said, "Oh. Um, sorry?" Then I coughed nervously and scurried away. What I was thinking was, Have you never seen a wedding ring before?
Ok, men. If a woman is wearing a shiny metal thing with maybe sparkly stones in it on her left ring finger, at least ask if she's married before you get your hopes up. Please. I don't care if she looks like she's 16. Just. Ask.
So, I was made slightly uncomfortable by that, but I didn't want to be rude, so I continued waiting on him. Later, as he was walking out the door, talking to me, he said, "You know what I told your boss?"
"Oh, what?" I said, and then I expressed extreme interest in a piece of red jello stuck to my dirty wall.
"I told him it just wasn't fair to have such beautiful women like you and Sandra working here."
"Oh, uh, really? Uh, hahah! You're too kind!"
"Oh, you're blushing!" He crowed, as if violating my sense of propriety is something to be proud of.
"Yes, I'm blushing because I'm half your age, I'm married, and I'd really rather be anywhere else than here right now. Thanks. Oh, and this jello? Is fascinating. See how its color perfectly contrasts this rich brown chocolate smear?" Actually, I just grunted. But that's what I wanted to say. That's what Superhero Naomi would have said.
"Well, I told him it was better in some ways. You wanna know how?"
"Oh, really, well, uh, how?" At this point I crawled under a table and died, but he didn't notice. He just kept talking to my dead body.
"I told him that now I could admire you like a Picasso. Have a great night!" At that, he waved and walked out.
Okay, chalk that one up in the "Top Five Most Awkward Conversations Ever" category.
The poor guy. Underneath all the weirdness and maybe-creepyness (creepiness?), he seems to be really sweet. He just doesn't get it. I do hope someday he finds some (unmarried) lady who likes being compared to a painting in which facial features are all in the wrong spots.
I just don't know what to do in situations like that. It's so awkward and weird and confusing. And coming from me, that says a lot, since I spend every day bringing awkward to a whole new level.
By the time I got to work I felt! Like! A million! Bucks! Also, everything was funny to me. Lack of sleep, I'm sure, had something to do with that.
Anyway, there's this guy I call Mr. Smiley that's been coming to eat at my restaurant for the last several weeks. Clearly, the man has a thing for me, but it hasn't ever gotten creepy so much as weird.
Well, every single time he comes in he makes some mention of my smile. If you take a gander at my photo above, you can see that it looks like I have never smiled in my life. But the truth is, I smile a lot. I smile until my teeth hurt. My whole face scrunches up, and my cheeks get all chipmunky, and I SMILE, gosh darn it. Constantly.
Mr. Smiley seems to think I don't. Every time I walk past the table, "Hey! You should smile more!" Um, okay. Maybe I'll train myself to smile in my sleep. Although, if I can't train myself to stop screaming at imaginary spiders in my sleep, I very much doubt I can train myself to smile in my sleep.
Yesterday he was there again. Now, I don't mind him, really. He's pretty nice, and he always leaves a good tip. But yesterday, in the middle of a conversation, he said to me, "Now, I must admit I'm a little disappointed in you."
I thought to myself, If he even thinks about telling me that I'm smiling less than usual, I'm going to bite his face off.
But he didn't. He said, "I found our you're married!"
I said, "Oh. Um, sorry?" Then I coughed nervously and scurried away. What I was thinking was, Have you never seen a wedding ring before?
Ok, men. If a woman is wearing a shiny metal thing with maybe sparkly stones in it on her left ring finger, at least ask if she's married before you get your hopes up. Please. I don't care if she looks like she's 16. Just. Ask.
So, I was made slightly uncomfortable by that, but I didn't want to be rude, so I continued waiting on him. Later, as he was walking out the door, talking to me, he said, "You know what I told your boss?"
"Oh, what?" I said, and then I expressed extreme interest in a piece of red jello stuck to my dirty wall.
"I told him it just wasn't fair to have such beautiful women like you and Sandra working here."
"Oh, uh, really? Uh, hahah! You're too kind!"
"Oh, you're blushing!" He crowed, as if violating my sense of propriety is something to be proud of.
"Yes, I'm blushing because I'm half your age, I'm married, and I'd really rather be anywhere else than here right now. Thanks. Oh, and this jello? Is fascinating. See how its color perfectly contrasts this rich brown chocolate smear?" Actually, I just grunted. But that's what I wanted to say. That's what Superhero Naomi would have said.
"Well, I told him it was better in some ways. You wanna know how?"
"Oh, really, well, uh, how?" At this point I crawled under a table and died, but he didn't notice. He just kept talking to my dead body.
"I told him that now I could admire you like a Picasso. Have a great night!" At that, he waved and walked out.
Okay, chalk that one up in the "Top Five Most Awkward Conversations Ever" category.
The poor guy. Underneath all the weirdness and maybe-creepyness (creepiness?), he seems to be really sweet. He just doesn't get it. I do hope someday he finds some (unmarried) lady who likes being compared to a painting in which facial features are all in the wrong spots.
I just don't know what to do in situations like that. It's so awkward and weird and confusing. And coming from me, that says a lot, since I spend every day bringing awkward to a whole new level.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Microwave my baked potato!
Actual conversation today between me and a customer who smelled strongly of pot:
Microwave Man: Excuse me, miss? Do you have a microwave here?
Me: Uh, no, I'm sorry. What for?
MM: Well, my baked potato is cold. You don't have a microwave?
Me: No, but I can go get a mana--
MM: No, I need to reheat my baked potato. It won't even MELT. BUTTER.
Me: Well, we don't have a microwave. I'm sorry. As I was saying--
MM: (frothing a bit at the mouth now) No, I need a microwave! How can getting a manager help me? I can't believe you guys don't have a microwave!
Me: (plowing on through even when he interrupts me repeatedly and raising my voice in increments just to make sure he hears me) I can get a manager to check the temperature ON THE POTATOES AND IF THEY'RE ALL COLD, WE CAN GET ANOTHER BAATCH OUUUT, OOOOKAAAAY?
MM: I just don't see how that helps me.
He then huffed away, all in a frenzy about the microwave. All through this conversation, his tone of voice told me that it was most definitely my fault that there was no microwave, and that I, the lowest on the totem pole in the entire restaurant, could most certainly do something to remedy that if I actually wanted to help him. You know, like, run over to Target and buy one with my tip money. Or something. Apparently he also had this exact same conversation with two of my coworkers.
Methinks he was just trying to get a free meal. You know, if he complains enough about the food, he can claim he should get a refund. Happens all the time with people. And then they get their panties in a twist when we actually check the temperature on the food because, duh, there's steam rising from the very pan of food that you claim is cold.
My theory is that he got his food, went out to smoke a joint, and then when he came out, his potato has gotten cold. I mean, who gets that worked up over a baked potato?
This is why I love my job. There are so many crazy people, and I get to see it all. For FREE, people.
Microwave Man: Excuse me, miss? Do you have a microwave here?
Me: Uh, no, I'm sorry. What for?
MM: Well, my baked potato is cold. You don't have a microwave?
Me: No, but I can go get a mana--
MM: No, I need to reheat my baked potato. It won't even MELT. BUTTER.
Me: Well, we don't have a microwave. I'm sorry. As I was saying--
MM: (frothing a bit at the mouth now) No, I need a microwave! How can getting a manager help me? I can't believe you guys don't have a microwave!
Me: (plowing on through even when he interrupts me repeatedly and raising my voice in increments just to make sure he hears me) I can get a manager to check the temperature ON THE POTATOES AND IF THEY'RE ALL COLD, WE CAN GET ANOTHER BAATCH OUUUT, OOOOKAAAAY?
MM: I just don't see how that helps me.
He then huffed away, all in a frenzy about the microwave. All through this conversation, his tone of voice told me that it was most definitely my fault that there was no microwave, and that I, the lowest on the totem pole in the entire restaurant, could most certainly do something to remedy that if I actually wanted to help him. You know, like, run over to Target and buy one with my tip money. Or something. Apparently he also had this exact same conversation with two of my coworkers.
Methinks he was just trying to get a free meal. You know, if he complains enough about the food, he can claim he should get a refund. Happens all the time with people. And then they get their panties in a twist when we actually check the temperature on the food because, duh, there's steam rising from the very pan of food that you claim is cold.
My theory is that he got his food, went out to smoke a joint, and then when he came out, his potato has gotten cold. I mean, who gets that worked up over a baked potato?
This is why I love my job. There are so many crazy people, and I get to see it all. For FREE, people.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)