Apparently it's possible to have simultaneously the best and worst day ever. It started out all right: I ate me some oatmeal, put my shoes on the right feet (yes, I have two right feet) and made my way off to work. Little did I know it would be my first and last day as a server.
CUE OMINOUS MUSIC.
But first, I should really illustrate the beginning of this grand tale, this epic journey of how I came to fail at the demanding task of waitressing. As with most of my stories, it begins with a lie.
1. Oh! You mean REAL experience, not PopCap waitress flash game experience?
I walked in to open interviews at Emmet O'Lunney's Irish Pub, and talked to the manager.
M (for manager): Well hi there, how ya doin'?
S (for Super awesome-pants): Great! Thanks, how are you?
M: All right so I see here you have serving experience?
(Thanks, fabricated resume!)
S: Yes...
M: Great! When you served, how many tables were in your section?
S: Well, it wasn't as big a restaurant as this. I'd say... thirty?
Her eyes widened.
M: You... you served thirty tables at once?
Oh shit, that's probably a giant amount.
S: Oh! Haha! In my SECTION, I thought you meant WHOLE RESTAURANT. Yeah, uh, I had five in my section. Ha! Thirty! What am I? Superwoman? Ha!
What am I, AN IDIOT?!
M: Haha! Yeah... so what program did you use?
Wow. Something I can't bullshit. She's good.
S: You know what? I can't actually remember the name of it! I know it was a touch screen...
M: Aloha?
S: Aloha to you too!
M: No no, the program name, Aloha
S: Oh! Haha! Yes! Yes that was it!
M: Great! That's what we use here! You should be familiar with it.
S: Oh you know actually that may not have been it. I'll have to give it a look.
M: Okay well great, I'll give you a call later if I want you to come in tomorrow! Thanks!
And later that day, while I was buying salmon at Whole Foods, she totally did. My word. What a nice lady, right?! (Hint: THAT BECOMES A LIE) So I worked for two days as a trainee, I got a couple of tables but very few people came in, and I made simply abysmal money. This morning, she promised me I would get my own whole section. I was thrilled, despite the fact that it was a sports pub, it was my first real day as a server, and the england and USA games were playing simultaneously. Awesome.
2. No that's fine, feel free to elbow me in the boob as I shove through you holding nine beers.
It was still early, but people were already piling in, and Lisa (my lovely, lovey boss) hadn't yet assigned us sections. A man sat down near me and glanced at me expectantly. I sprinted over to help him, both because I wanted to please a customer and because he looked exactly like a more attractive version of someone really attractive, and took his order. He wanted a cheeseburger, so I rung it up and sent the order to the kitchen. Then he flagged me down and informed me he wanted to change his order. So, I went back to the computer and changed it, and got Lisa to void the item.
S: Hey, uh, Lisa?
M (for MEPHISTOPHELES): Yes?
S: That man over there ordered a cheeseburger and then changed his mind, could you please void the item?
M: You already need to void an item? You clearly can't handle your own section today, I'm sorry.
S: But it wasn't my fault, I-- I, he just changed his mind.
M: You know what sweetie, I really don't have time for excuses.
S: Okay.
M: Now you have three tables: 300, 800, and 900.
S: Okay. Thank you.
Three tables? Thanks. Also, do I know where 300 800 and 900 are? You'd think. But no, this restaurant has to have the most ridiculous numbering system known to man. Instead of using numbers, they instead use NONSENSE. Guess what's next to table 300? Table 7. Yeah, good ol' table seven. I eventually figured out where my area was and saw a woman in a red shirt sit down, so I took her order. I was exceedingly polite and friendly, 'cuz my mamas raised me right, and she was equally as nice, so I brought her some spit-free coffee.
S: So what can I get started for ya?
Her: Do you know what's in the Irish Breakfast?
S: You know what, I'm so sorry, this is my first time serving breakfast and I actually don't know. Just a second and I'll go check for you!
Her: Sure thing!
Guess what? No one knew. Not a single waiter. So I asked Lisa. I can't believe I asked Lisa. Without even bothering to respond to my question, she marched, pointy nose first over to the lovely red-shirted woman, and told her the contents of the breakfast while shooting me a dirty look. Well, I'm fired. So I continued to be attentive to that woman, who informed me that she'd be having two friends come join her soon. Meanwhile, the restaurant had filled up and I just couldn't even move. I finally made my way back over to my lady, who asked for an omelete, so I ordered it. Fifteen minutes later, it hadn't come, so I told Lisa.
M: Well, did you order it?
S: Yes...
M: Are you... sure?
S: Yes ma'am.
So I told the Red Shirt lady that her omelete would be out soon (I hoped for my sake that it would) and apologized for the delay. She said something incredibly polite and then her friends entered.
3. You're too famous to be this nice.
Who should enter but HEATHER MATARAZZO, the awesome lady who played Lily in Princess Diaries. Thank you, Times Square pub. I did a double-take and then went to go attend to some other tables when Lisa approached me and said, "That woman's omelete took to long to come. You clearly can't handle three tables. You now have two." Can I get double-fired? I was really angry inside, but I murmered, "All right." And went to go check on lovely Red Shirt lady, who, despite no longer being my table, was friends with Heather Matarazzo and was super nice. I refreshed their drinks and then sputtered something awkward and starstruck like, "Weren't you on Princess Diaries? You were excellent I just love you oh my word!" And she grinned sheepishly and patted me on the shoulder, confirming my suspicions that she was famous. Then, everything went as planned for a while, until I got combo-fired.
I was walking around, milling (because I was barked at for standing still despite the fact that I only had two tables in a giant restaurant and the members of those tables were calmly sipping water watching a 90 minute game) and a man asked me for a beer. Excuse me, sir, what table are you at? How do I ring up your beer? Are you just roaming around this cattle ranch of soccer fans? So I asked the bartender, who told me to just take the guy under my own section and come up with a random table number. So I asked Lisa. You know how you're always taught that it's better to ask questions than to do something wrong? Yeah well that's a lie. They're both a terrible idea. Turns out, Lisa is one of those things that's pretty on the outside, but ACID on the inside. Spending too much time with her is like walking into the Louvre only to discover that it contains piles and piles of sewage. Or dead bodies. A dead body/sewage medley.
M: Sally, I don't know what I'm not getting through you to--
S: No, I--
M: Don't interrupt me! You can't handle another table!
S: But, he--
M: You can't take him!
S: But, I'm sorry, but the bartender told me to take him, I just want to know how to ring him up since all the tables are taken, I'm fine with putting him on another server's section, just please tell me how to put his drink in the system when he's standing.
M: Just, just point him out to me.
S: Oh... okay.
4. Quadruple fired?
Just after that, Red Shirt lady asked me if I could watch their fantastically polite table while then went to have a smoke. I said, "Certainly!" And stood there, smiling, back straight, for ten minutes. Lisa of course walked behind me and glared at me for doing something I'm sure I wasn't supposed to be doing, and Red Shirt lady returned. "Oh I can't believe you really waited there that whole time! Aren't you just the cutest thing!" Then, things winded down. I cleared away my tables, was tipped extremely well by my few guests, and then people started to clear out. I walked past Red Shirt lady on her way out, who stopped me.
RS: You get the tip we left, right?
S: Oh actually, that goes to my friend Corey, he's a great guy!
RS: Oh what but he barely did anything, you were great!
S: Oh thank you so much, but I was switched away from your table, I really appreciate it though. Have a great day!
RS: All right, well... bye
And then, about a minute later, who should walk back toward me but Heather Matarazzo. She reached toward me and gave me my first real money handshake. A MONEY HANDSHAKE. "I just wanted to tell you that you were excellent, and you deserve this. Thank you." I sputtered something very grateful, and Lisa, right on cue, shot up to me.
M: Whatwasthat.
S: Well, that was just, uh, you know, a celebrity coming in here to tip me personally and say that I deserved it. No big deal or anything.
M: How did she know that you didn't get the tip?
S: Well, her friend asked and I said no, that goes to my friend Corey, and she left, and then Heather came back and tipped me personally.
M: You know, in this restaurant, we don't take other servers' tips.
S: But Corey was tipped in the bill, this was just separate money.
M: You know, I feel like you're questioning me a lot.
S: Okay.
M: I'm going to have to cut you right now. Go cash out, I'll call you if we ever want to you come back, all right?
And her face dripped a saccharine smile. So I sighed, grabbed my things, and muttered frustrated goodbyes to the rest of the wait staff. I stuffed four complementary Munchkins in my cheeks and ate them furiously while I bagged my tips for the day. Then I remembered Heather's tip, which I had immediately pocketed. Oh what's this? A fifty! Best way to get fired. Ever. I was still upset though. I really dislike performing poorly at anything, and I was angry. So when I exited, I was close to tears. And who should I see on the corner but Heather Matarazzo and her angel friends (one of whom, I later found out, was her girlfriend). So I ran up to them.
5. You're my new best friend in the whole world, sweet famous lady
S: I just wanted to say, thank you so much for being the b-... the best part of my day.
In the middle of my already ridiculous sentence, I had broken down and started sobbing uncontrollably.
H: Oh honey! Oh what's wrong?
S: Well I actually was just f-ff-ffff-fired.
H & company: OH HONEY!!
RS: Oh we were all just talking about how much first days suck and how great you did!
They all nodded reassuringly.
S: Oh th-th-thank you, oh man I'm so sorry I'm just crying in front of you and I don't even know you!
RS: Sweetie don't worry about it!
Then Heather grabbed my hands, looked at me in my puffy eyes, and said in a smooth, calm voice
H: You know what? Soon, you're going to feel so grateful for this. You're not meant to be a waitress. That job's not for you! What's your dream, sweetie?
S: I'm, I'm, well I want to be a writer.
H: Oh yeah? Well that's what you're going to be!
RS: Yeah, you're not meant to push drinks!
H: Hey! This is exciting, right guys?
RS: Yeah! Yay!
And they all did a little clapping dance and hugged me. HOW ARE THEY SO NICE.
S: Oh man, Heather Matarazzo, you are so wise! Thank you so much, you guys were just the sweetest customers, thank you so much for making my day, I'll just, I'll be going now, I'm sorry, and thank you, and I'm sorry, and thank you!
All: Good luck/ Bye/ Thank you, cutie!
What a city. What a day. That happened. That totally just happened. And now my life is dedicated to fulfilling my dreams of becoming a writer and later hiring Heather Matarazzo for all my acting positions. I love her.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
His friends must take "gag gift" a tad too literally...
So as many of you guys might know, I recently moved to New York for the summer. So far, it's fantastic. I'm fresh with awe! Everything is exciting and beautiful! And there are so many cupcakes! The people are much friendlier than expected too (it's been one whole day and I have yet to be spit upon), and there's chai here. Yes, that's right, I was frightened that there wouldn't be.
Also, my apartment is a titan. There's a gorgeous suede couch (the one place that my roommate has told me I'm not allowed to sit naked, oddly excluding her bed), and fantastic wooden floors that are ideal for high-speed sock-sliding. The current sublessor is a film professor at a university in New Jersey, which (sort of) explains the apartment's general decorative flair.
He has some amazing things-- incredible books (including Deepak Chopra's Kama Sutra, which should make for some G-rated summer reading, and oddly, the exact Biopsychology book required for my on-line class), great movies, and awesome little tchochkes. I'm very upset that the giant Pegasus drum is a tad too suspicious to smuggle.
But let's face it: the child's skeleton costume hanging grimly on the wall is just terrifying. The last thing I want to see before I go to bed is some tiny glow-in-the-dark femur.But his apartment revealed many excellent finds. This morning my roommate, Liz, and I rearranged our gigantor living room to make ourselves feel more at home, and to gain access to a closet that was blocked by a small coffee table. Curious, and in need of a place to put some of our things, we opened it, only to discover this:
That's right kids, It's complete with THREE tender love openings. I'm positive that this was some sort of joke gift, as it was clearly unopened, but it nevertheless made my morning. Of course, to make my day would have been much more of a feat since it was so amazing. I spent the afternoon job hunting in Manhattan, and learned two valuable things about New York.1. It is not acceptable to take someone else's napkin
So this isn't fantastic etiquette anywhere, but I felt especially awkward this afternoon in Barnes & Noble, when I was sitting reading by the window and spilled my drink on my shir, as is my general custom. I looked over to my right and saw a pile of napkins. For some reason it didn't occur to me that those napkins could, in fact, belong to the surly-looking Indian man sitting about four inches from me, and so I casually reached for one. Indian man was not amused. He whipped the GQ magazine he was reading aside and pierced me with his napkin-hoarding gaze. My hand hung awkwardly over the pile and then I retracted, blushing. Turns out, napkins are kind of a big deal.
2. I am not a New Yorker
I stopped for lunch today at this place called Tasty's (how the hell could it be bad?) and ordered some pasta, got some chai, and possibly added a few too many "please"-es, because the cashier asked me, "Hey sweetness, where you from?"
Me: Ha, you don't think I'm from around here?
Him: Baby, you too soft to be from this place.
Sigh.
So maybe I don't quite fit in on day one, but there's time :) And I'm so excited to check out what's around me! I do miss Seattle already though. I had the best luck leaving. It was like the city was giving me a goodbye hug. I went to check my bag and the bag-checker man calmly informed me that both of my bags were fifteen pounds overweight.
Him: That'll be $30 for the bags, and $50 for the extra weight. Each.
Me: Oh, total? That's not so bad.
Him: No, additional.
Me: Well that's a little outrageous.
Him: Hey well, it's--
Me: Oh no! I know it's just your job, no biggie, I'm just exasperated and cheap.
Him: Well, all right, so that'll be $160.
I reluctantly pulled out my wallet.
Him: (glancing at my ID) Hey, you go to UW?
Me: Yeah! Do you go there too? Or are you a fan?
Him: Nah, I'm a WSU fan actually.
Me: ... are you going to charge me extra now?
Him: Haha no! In fact, I'm in the mood for some charity. This bag's free. Just gimme $50. Also, I hooked you up, put you in first class.
I have no idea why that happened. I'll be back before we know it, Seattle.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
I think that USED to be edible...
Every few months I like to clean out my closet, you know, just to get rid of all the excess silliness that shouldn't be in there: little broken buttons, chocolate shavings (like the kind that inevitably sink to the bottom of every female purse in America), giant and embarrassing hairballs (because I hate vacuuming, and so should you), that pulsating thing that maybe/possibly/likely used to be an apple, and all the clothing that has somehow been absorbed into my drawers despite not belonging to me (that's right, green sequined vest: you aren't mine). But though I love the catharsis of cleaning, my favorite part of going through my closet is finding all of the things I've collected over the years, but have been too sentimental to throw out.
Now, I throw out just about everything. I throw out dvd cases and cracked picture frames and even that ceramic cougar I got once for Christmas from a distant relative who clearly didn't understand 12-year-old girls, but I never throw out anything that carries meaning-- no matter how insignificant. I keep notes and Christmas cards and pictures and letters-- especially love letters, buttons and papers and tickets and pieces of string. And all of them, as you'll soon discover, mean something.
What you'll find in Sally's Keepsake Drawer:
1. A Valentine's Day card from Freshman year of high school.
It's just about the size of your palm if your palm is girl-sized. The pink lace that edges the top and bottom has faded a little with age, and the magenta construction paper heart is glue-sticked to the front of the card, proudly off-center and tilted leftward enough to reveal the maker's overzealous on-sticking. Yes, its appearance is adorable. But the reason I kept it is for the precious, precious message within:
"Dear Sally, your so hott, I have to put on sunscreen to get close to you."
Oh, the romance of it all. If it weren't so lovingly constructed out of layers of pink paper, I may have made fun of Omar, the Turkish-American tenth-grader, for his unacceptable grammatical error and general lack of woo-ing prowess, but I've kept this damn card for five years, and it never fails to make me smile.
2. Pillsbury Dough Boy Pajama Pants
All right, I lied: they're not in my Keepsake Drawer. I may or may not be wearing them right now. I'm rather proud of them, actually. The summer after high school I had just broken up with that one boyfriend we all have: the one that lasts for much too long. I was simply in no mood to be hit on by a marine. Yet, he caught my attention with his giant marine-y muscles and fantastic arcade game skills. And I, interestingly enough, caught his attention, though on our first evening together I made him wear a sticker on his forehead that said "I am a dumbass" because my cousins and I beat him at Cranium. I wouldn't date that cocky teenager, but apparently arrogance tickled his fancy! So he got me, kissed me during Ella Enchanted. When I was all caught off guard by music and fanciful tales of romantic glee. Clever bastard. And I gave in, enjoyed myself in our summer fling, and spent enough time with him that he revealed to me his love of all things Nicholas Sparks (specifically, The Notebook), which I'll never know was actual fandom or simply a lie that he hoped would get me to swoon. And of course, it didn't, but it was worth a shot. What REALLY got me to like him was his excellent taste in fast food. Florida fries find their führer in Checkers. Ah, Checkers: your burgers are mediocre, but your fries taste like tiny tubulur donuts. He took me swing dancing, bowling, roller coaster-ing, and driving-- always something with an -ing. This young man was probably my only exception to the monogamy pattern. I knew I would be leaving in a month, but just sort of rode out the wave and waited for our story to end. Which, of course it did.
One afternoon, we were playing video games when he turned to me and said, "Sally, I have to tell you something." I feigned seriousness and replied gravely, "Dear God. Do you have a child?" I laughed. He didn't. Dear God. But before my eyes could actually consume my face with their wideness, he stopped me and whispered, "No, but it's almost as bad. I'm married. Well, I mean, we're separated. She's in Austraila. But, technically, I'm, you know..." and he trailed off into what I imagine was some poorly put together excuse about how dating random teenagers is totally okay in their marriage. And when I managed to actually emerge from shock, I of course informed him that I was "f'sho not kosher with this whole other-woman thing," and he accepted my farewell, and then politely asked what was bulging out from under my tank top. We had since left his house, you see, and I had taken with me a trophy: awesome pants to remember my summer by. I said, "That's your unborn child" and his sheepish grin told me that I had achieved my goal: the pants were mine. And now, whenever I poke my Pillsbury dough boy shin and giggle "hmm-hmm!" I think of Mr. Marine, graciously ignoring my sentimental kleptomania.
3. A tiny piece of plastic ripped from a mint-condition Jar-Jar Binks action figure
First of all, I can't believe I've already mentioned Jar-Jar Binks twice in this blog. Anyway, freshman year of high school, I had just moved to Turkey. I lived in a three-story apartment building guarded by ever-changing but always gruff-looking Turks who constantly sipped tea and played backgammon. My windows had bars on them but I always felt like they were for keeping me in. Luckily, they didn't do so well. Two floors above me lived a gorgeous sophomore-- ah yes, an older man. At first, I went up to his house to borrow his computer (since mine hadn't come yet), then I graduated to less legitmate excuses as I began to notice his frequent habit of answering the door in nothing but a towel (evidently, he was in a perpetual state of just having showered). "Hi. I just came up to borrow... uh... (some cinammon/ a straw/ three chocolate chips that all have to look like Nixon)" and he'd let me in. And soon the visits became steadily longer, and we began to date. It went pleasantly enough, until three weeks later when he broke up with me. "Basketball season is starting, and... I just can't have any distractions." Freshman Sally, who couldn't possibly stop to think about how ridiculous this boy was, felt crushed.
Days passed where we walked to the bus together, not talking, or occassionally mentioning something about the sidewalk or sky. I'd open the door for him on our way back into the building and say something that I found clever but what was actually awkward, like "Enter if you dare, good sir!" And he'd shift his eyes and pounce in, never turning back to thank still-standing-there Freshman Sally. But I of course still loved his bouncing brown curls and kind eyes, so when his parents asked her to cat-sit, I jumped up at the chance.
I spent hours at his house-- using the computer, watching tv where I could be alone away from the teenage hell of parents, until I finally couldn't help myself. I went into his room. I didn't do anything too terrible, but I did snoop in his closets. Just a little. I found nothing of interest, save for a trunk full of Star Wars memorabilia. I chuckled. And as quickly as I had opened it, I decided that I would do the unthinkable: steal one of his prized action figures.
I kept that sucker in my closet for three years. It wasn't until he was going off to college that I suddenly remembered its existence and returned it to him. That wasn't awkward at all. Luckily he didn't notice the tiny piece of plastic that I cut off of the box to remind myself of this precious tidbit of wisdom: it's never nice it to jack something from inside your ex's nerd trunk.
4. A pink plastic condom hat
But I guess that story is for another time-- I'm sleepy and like ambiguous cliff-hangers :)
Now, I throw out just about everything. I throw out dvd cases and cracked picture frames and even that ceramic cougar I got once for Christmas from a distant relative who clearly didn't understand 12-year-old girls, but I never throw out anything that carries meaning-- no matter how insignificant. I keep notes and Christmas cards and pictures and letters-- especially love letters, buttons and papers and tickets and pieces of string. And all of them, as you'll soon discover, mean something.
What you'll find in Sally's Keepsake Drawer:
1. A Valentine's Day card from Freshman year of high school.
It's just about the size of your palm if your palm is girl-sized. The pink lace that edges the top and bottom has faded a little with age, and the magenta construction paper heart is glue-sticked to the front of the card, proudly off-center and tilted leftward enough to reveal the maker's overzealous on-sticking. Yes, its appearance is adorable. But the reason I kept it is for the precious, precious message within:
"Dear Sally, your so hott, I have to put on sunscreen to get close to you."
Oh, the romance of it all. If it weren't so lovingly constructed out of layers of pink paper, I may have made fun of Omar, the Turkish-American tenth-grader, for his unacceptable grammatical error and general lack of woo-ing prowess, but I've kept this damn card for five years, and it never fails to make me smile.
2. Pillsbury Dough Boy Pajama Pants
All right, I lied: they're not in my Keepsake Drawer. I may or may not be wearing them right now. I'm rather proud of them, actually. The summer after high school I had just broken up with that one boyfriend we all have: the one that lasts for much too long. I was simply in no mood to be hit on by a marine. Yet, he caught my attention with his giant marine-y muscles and fantastic arcade game skills. And I, interestingly enough, caught his attention, though on our first evening together I made him wear a sticker on his forehead that said "I am a dumbass" because my cousins and I beat him at Cranium. I wouldn't date that cocky teenager, but apparently arrogance tickled his fancy! So he got me, kissed me during Ella Enchanted. When I was all caught off guard by music and fanciful tales of romantic glee. Clever bastard. And I gave in, enjoyed myself in our summer fling, and spent enough time with him that he revealed to me his love of all things Nicholas Sparks (specifically, The Notebook), which I'll never know was actual fandom or simply a lie that he hoped would get me to swoon. And of course, it didn't, but it was worth a shot. What REALLY got me to like him was his excellent taste in fast food. Florida fries find their führer in Checkers. Ah, Checkers: your burgers are mediocre, but your fries taste like tiny tubulur donuts. He took me swing dancing, bowling, roller coaster-ing, and driving-- always something with an -ing. This young man was probably my only exception to the monogamy pattern. I knew I would be leaving in a month, but just sort of rode out the wave and waited for our story to end. Which, of course it did.
One afternoon, we were playing video games when he turned to me and said, "Sally, I have to tell you something." I feigned seriousness and replied gravely, "Dear God. Do you have a child?" I laughed. He didn't. Dear God. But before my eyes could actually consume my face with their wideness, he stopped me and whispered, "No, but it's almost as bad. I'm married. Well, I mean, we're separated. She's in Austraila. But, technically, I'm, you know..." and he trailed off into what I imagine was some poorly put together excuse about how dating random teenagers is totally okay in their marriage. And when I managed to actually emerge from shock, I of course informed him that I was "f'sho not kosher with this whole other-woman thing," and he accepted my farewell, and then politely asked what was bulging out from under my tank top. We had since left his house, you see, and I had taken with me a trophy: awesome pants to remember my summer by. I said, "That's your unborn child" and his sheepish grin told me that I had achieved my goal: the pants were mine. And now, whenever I poke my Pillsbury dough boy shin and giggle "hmm-hmm!" I think of Mr. Marine, graciously ignoring my sentimental kleptomania.
3. A tiny piece of plastic ripped from a mint-condition Jar-Jar Binks action figure
First of all, I can't believe I've already mentioned Jar-Jar Binks twice in this blog. Anyway, freshman year of high school, I had just moved to Turkey. I lived in a three-story apartment building guarded by ever-changing but always gruff-looking Turks who constantly sipped tea and played backgammon. My windows had bars on them but I always felt like they were for keeping me in. Luckily, they didn't do so well. Two floors above me lived a gorgeous sophomore-- ah yes, an older man. At first, I went up to his house to borrow his computer (since mine hadn't come yet), then I graduated to less legitmate excuses as I began to notice his frequent habit of answering the door in nothing but a towel (evidently, he was in a perpetual state of just having showered). "Hi. I just came up to borrow... uh... (some cinammon/ a straw/ three chocolate chips that all have to look like Nixon)" and he'd let me in. And soon the visits became steadily longer, and we began to date. It went pleasantly enough, until three weeks later when he broke up with me. "Basketball season is starting, and... I just can't have any distractions." Freshman Sally, who couldn't possibly stop to think about how ridiculous this boy was, felt crushed.
Days passed where we walked to the bus together, not talking, or occassionally mentioning something about the sidewalk or sky. I'd open the door for him on our way back into the building and say something that I found clever but what was actually awkward, like "Enter if you dare, good sir!" And he'd shift his eyes and pounce in, never turning back to thank still-standing-there Freshman Sally. But I of course still loved his bouncing brown curls and kind eyes, so when his parents asked her to cat-sit, I jumped up at the chance.
I spent hours at his house-- using the computer, watching tv where I could be alone away from the teenage hell of parents, until I finally couldn't help myself. I went into his room. I didn't do anything too terrible, but I did snoop in his closets. Just a little. I found nothing of interest, save for a trunk full of Star Wars memorabilia. I chuckled. And as quickly as I had opened it, I decided that I would do the unthinkable: steal one of his prized action figures.
I kept that sucker in my closet for three years. It wasn't until he was going off to college that I suddenly remembered its existence and returned it to him. That wasn't awkward at all. Luckily he didn't notice the tiny piece of plastic that I cut off of the box to remind myself of this precious tidbit of wisdom: it's never nice it to jack something from inside your ex's nerd trunk.
4. A pink plastic condom hat
But I guess that story is for another time-- I'm sleepy and like ambiguous cliff-hangers :)
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Sally Neumann: A Kisstory
Adhering as strictly as possible to this no boyfriend rule of mine, I've started to go through one of my least favorite aspects of single-hood (second only to increased chocolate appetite and new affinity for romantic comedies): kissing withdrawal. There's nothing I would love more right now than to feel the smooth, gentle, raspberry marshmallow brush of someone's lips. I want velvet cushions to whisper warm dew drops on the tingling nerves on my neck. I want to feel rough, pine needle bristles dig their nails into my cheeks. I want my eyelashes to lock fingers with his, and I want my skin to spark upon touch. I want to feel where hard meets soft and rough meets smooth. I want electricity and lightning.
Sally's very first kiss:
The first time I ever kissed a boy, I was six or seven or nine. I think. I know I was playing in the sandbox with a boy whose fingernails were always dirty and whose jean jacket and horn-rimmed glasses couldn't even distract from his rat tail that hung down past his shoulderblades. One afternoon, his mother beckoned for him to leave, and I couldn't resist giving him a spontaneous parting gift: I smashed my fleeting hummingbird lips against his and our pudgy faces bounced backward as soon as they had met. Of course, the teacher saw me and I was suspended. I would get suspended from Kindergarten.
My last recollection of that day was a view of my toes drawing figure eights on our black and white tiled bathroom floor as my mother shared with me the dangers of kissing. It gets you pregnant, you know.
Sally attempts open-mouthed kissing-- hilarity ensues
When I lived in Frankfurt, I lived in an apartment in a compound within a compound. I had a room within a room and a window that stretched far across my wall. One of the stranger rumors that leaked itself around the preteen community was that a guy named Preston liked to watch me undress in the evenings. I was twelve, so the creep factor was pretty high (though he was twelve too), but honestly, I really had nothing exciting under my sports-themed t-shirts. In fact, I'm pretty sure that was the age where my mom (yes, in front of company) would call my pre-boobs "cheerios." Anyway, I somehow got it in my head that I needed to figure out if this was true. It was. And it was easy to discern for one reason: Preston wore glow-in-the-dark glasses. That's right. I really know how to pick 'em. It was creepy, but I really wasn't all that threatened. It was more hilarious than a big deal, especially because he saw me see him and almost peed himself (his pee, presumably, also glowed in the dark). Anyway the point of this story is that Preston somehow ended up being my first real-live honest to God kiss. After getting over his skeeziness, I became good friends with Preston. On a particularly love-inspiring Tuesday, we finished a rollerblading race and sat a picnic table with our pinkies barely touching. He pushed his ever-present ridiculous glasses up his nose, now glistening with sweat, and uttered what is possibly the least necessary question in the world: "Can I kiss you?" Choosing to nod instead of deride him (give him a break, he's twelve), I felt him lean in. He hadn't quite mastered the whole "lips closed first, tongue later" scenario, and his open mouth came at me like an especially vacuuous black hole. Except wetter. When his tongue batted against mine, it fell each time like a plastic bag of soup dropped off of the third story of a building. And it tasted like a Big Mac. I pushed away as soon as I could and before I could catch myself, said "ew!" Luckily, he didn't seem offended. In fact, he apologized. "Sorry, I ate onions like ten minutes ago."
Sally's first best kiss
I hate to call this my absolute best kiss. I've had a lot of amazing kisses since this one, but since it was my first, it stands out as the most prominent. When I was fourteen, my best friends and I went to Disneyland Paris for one of their birthdays. It was pretty much the best thing ever. And to top it all off, when I returned home, I experienced the budding teenager's dream: a parent-less house. As long as you promise not to partake in retro-active grounding, mom, read on :) My sister was out with her boyfriend at the time, so I decided to invite my potential boyfriend over. He accepted, thrilled, and promised to bring over his favorite movie at the time: Underworld. I put on something that I knew would make him smile, which meant a gray, over-sized Blink 182 t-shirt. I ran to meet him at the train station and we danced home, tripping over our intentionally ruined Converse as we went. I sat on the couch, too far to one side so that if he sat down right next to me, I would know he liked me. He did. We started to watch the movie and then our hands grabbed each other's so quickly that I felt my breath fall out of me when I turned to him. We moved toward one another at the same time and as his blue-tinted glasses clicked against mine, I felt perfect euphoria. His hands settled gently around my back like freckled snowflakes. Mine grabbed his shoulders so clumsily that I pushed him off of the couch. A minor inconvenience. I sat beside him and blinked my right eye, then the next as I said, "camera 1, camera 2." Because Wayne's World is God. He giggled, and before I could make another mood-breaking joke (as is my custom), we fell into each other again. After an endless amount of flawless kissing, I finally walked him back to the train station, where we shared a parting peck that still ressonantes in my memory as the perfect end to a perfect evening.
I've had some wonderful kisses. I've had some horrible, lip-vaccuuming, face-drooling, teeth-cracking kisses. But the ones that melt my knees and force my lips to smile make it all worth it. And I can't wait to do it again. You know... in time.
Sally's very first kiss:
The first time I ever kissed a boy, I was six or seven or nine. I think. I know I was playing in the sandbox with a boy whose fingernails were always dirty and whose jean jacket and horn-rimmed glasses couldn't even distract from his rat tail that hung down past his shoulderblades. One afternoon, his mother beckoned for him to leave, and I couldn't resist giving him a spontaneous parting gift: I smashed my fleeting hummingbird lips against his and our pudgy faces bounced backward as soon as they had met. Of course, the teacher saw me and I was suspended. I would get suspended from Kindergarten.
My last recollection of that day was a view of my toes drawing figure eights on our black and white tiled bathroom floor as my mother shared with me the dangers of kissing. It gets you pregnant, you know.
Sally attempts open-mouthed kissing-- hilarity ensues
When I lived in Frankfurt, I lived in an apartment in a compound within a compound. I had a room within a room and a window that stretched far across my wall. One of the stranger rumors that leaked itself around the preteen community was that a guy named Preston liked to watch me undress in the evenings. I was twelve, so the creep factor was pretty high (though he was twelve too), but honestly, I really had nothing exciting under my sports-themed t-shirts. In fact, I'm pretty sure that was the age where my mom (yes, in front of company) would call my pre-boobs "cheerios." Anyway, I somehow got it in my head that I needed to figure out if this was true. It was. And it was easy to discern for one reason: Preston wore glow-in-the-dark glasses. That's right. I really know how to pick 'em. It was creepy, but I really wasn't all that threatened. It was more hilarious than a big deal, especially because he saw me see him and almost peed himself (his pee, presumably, also glowed in the dark). Anyway the point of this story is that Preston somehow ended up being my first real-live honest to God kiss. After getting over his skeeziness, I became good friends with Preston. On a particularly love-inspiring Tuesday, we finished a rollerblading race and sat a picnic table with our pinkies barely touching. He pushed his ever-present ridiculous glasses up his nose, now glistening with sweat, and uttered what is possibly the least necessary question in the world: "Can I kiss you?" Choosing to nod instead of deride him (give him a break, he's twelve), I felt him lean in. He hadn't quite mastered the whole "lips closed first, tongue later" scenario, and his open mouth came at me like an especially vacuuous black hole. Except wetter. When his tongue batted against mine, it fell each time like a plastic bag of soup dropped off of the third story of a building. And it tasted like a Big Mac. I pushed away as soon as I could and before I could catch myself, said "ew!" Luckily, he didn't seem offended. In fact, he apologized. "Sorry, I ate onions like ten minutes ago."
Sally's first best kiss
I hate to call this my absolute best kiss. I've had a lot of amazing kisses since this one, but since it was my first, it stands out as the most prominent. When I was fourteen, my best friends and I went to Disneyland Paris for one of their birthdays. It was pretty much the best thing ever. And to top it all off, when I returned home, I experienced the budding teenager's dream: a parent-less house. As long as you promise not to partake in retro-active grounding, mom, read on :) My sister was out with her boyfriend at the time, so I decided to invite my potential boyfriend over. He accepted, thrilled, and promised to bring over his favorite movie at the time: Underworld. I put on something that I knew would make him smile, which meant a gray, over-sized Blink 182 t-shirt. I ran to meet him at the train station and we danced home, tripping over our intentionally ruined Converse as we went. I sat on the couch, too far to one side so that if he sat down right next to me, I would know he liked me. He did. We started to watch the movie and then our hands grabbed each other's so quickly that I felt my breath fall out of me when I turned to him. We moved toward one another at the same time and as his blue-tinted glasses clicked against mine, I felt perfect euphoria. His hands settled gently around my back like freckled snowflakes. Mine grabbed his shoulders so clumsily that I pushed him off of the couch. A minor inconvenience. I sat beside him and blinked my right eye, then the next as I said, "camera 1, camera 2." Because Wayne's World is God. He giggled, and before I could make another mood-breaking joke (as is my custom), we fell into each other again. After an endless amount of flawless kissing, I finally walked him back to the train station, where we shared a parting peck that still ressonantes in my memory as the perfect end to a perfect evening.
I've had some wonderful kisses. I've had some horrible, lip-vaccuuming, face-drooling, teeth-cracking kisses. But the ones that melt my knees and force my lips to smile make it all worth it. And I can't wait to do it again. You know... in time.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Who am I Kidding? I'm not an Old Black Woman
Apparently using pet names all the time is weird. Apparently I'm flirtatious. I should probably stop that if I want to achieve my goal. Which brings us to...
Things I can Actively Change to Remain Single:
1) Stop using pet names. HOW ON EARTH CAN I DO THAT?! In fact, I probably shouldn't do that. That's just silly. I basically am pet names.
2) Stop touching boys flirtatiously. This obviously excludes the janitor, since he's seen me naked twice and is therefore my intimate lover.
3) Eat more chocolate. And pizza. And bagels. Isn't that word cuter if you spell it like "bagle?" Tee hee :)
4) Go to frat parties. YUP! So this isn't counter-intuitive because I'm not attracted to the following: (excuse me as I reveal my extreme tendency to generalize and stereotype)
a) Guys who wear collared shirts under...collared shirts
b) Guys who wear collared shirts on a daily basis in general.
c) Guys with names like "Brody" and "Hoit"
d) Guys who smell expensive
e) Drunk guys who hit on me and use lines like "I had to come over here because your shiny shiny silver spandex glinted in my eye and I was so distracted" (actually that was pretty hilarious, but still, I'm in man-repelling mode and have to be selective)
5) Keep dressing nicely-- feeling pretty usually equates to my feeling confident and generally happy throughout the day
6) Stop drooling over the really attractive guy in my linguistics class who looks like a combination of Jake Gyllenhaal and GOD.
I guess all I can do is try and achieve these goals and hope for the best!
Things I can Actively Change to Remain Single:
1) Stop using pet names. HOW ON EARTH CAN I DO THAT?! In fact, I probably shouldn't do that. That's just silly. I basically am pet names.
2) Stop touching boys flirtatiously. This obviously excludes the janitor, since he's seen me naked twice and is therefore my intimate lover.
3) Eat more chocolate. And pizza. And bagels. Isn't that word cuter if you spell it like "bagle?" Tee hee :)
4) Go to frat parties. YUP! So this isn't counter-intuitive because I'm not attracted to the following: (excuse me as I reveal my extreme tendency to generalize and stereotype)
a) Guys who wear collared shirts under...collared shirts
b) Guys who wear collared shirts on a daily basis in general.
c) Guys with names like "Brody" and "Hoit"
d) Guys who smell expensive
e) Drunk guys who hit on me and use lines like "I had to come over here because your shiny shiny silver spandex glinted in my eye and I was so distracted" (actually that was pretty hilarious, but still, I'm in man-repelling mode and have to be selective)
5) Keep dressing nicely-- feeling pretty usually equates to my feeling confident and generally happy throughout the day
6) Stop drooling over the really attractive guy in my linguistics class who looks like a combination of Jake Gyllenhaal and GOD.
I guess all I can do is try and achieve these goals and hope for the best!
Sunday, February 21, 2010
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