Entries from March 2004 ↓

The other day at work one of the hostesses, P., had a totally Twin Peaks experience. It was lunchtime, right around noon, when this woman stumbled into the foyer yelling, “EARLIEST SEATING!” P. braced herself as the woman approached her. She leaned in approximately 12 inches from P.’s face and repeated, “EARLIEST SEATING!”

P. did her best to keep her composure, and since we were on a wait, asked the lady in her face for her last name. “EARLIEST SEATING!,” the crazy lady bizarrely replied in a booming voice. P., who should be given an award for what she says next goes, “How do you spell that?” (!) The woman finally said something else by stammering “WILLIS, 2, EARLIEST SEATING!” P. informed her of the 20 minute wait, at which time Earliest Seating turned on her heels and marched out the front door.

P. said she was pretty sure she’d just had an LSD flashback.

It’s hard to know what will become of silent afternoons and the tears spilled on our bed and so many promises, but your hands and eyes and the way you brace me with your arm if you slam on the brakes excites me still like a mysterious lipstick stain.

And the left side of your chest, just below your collar bone, is more home to me than any structure.

I’m so bored with my normal haunts.

Recommend to me a really great non-weblog site. Something you love. Maybe you read it everyday. It can be anything at all. My favorite five submissions gets a copy of my latest mix CD project, Saddest Sad Songs Ever. Mailed to your front door. Or to your P.O. Box, you secretive, scandalous freak.

Choose wisely and thanks for playing.

The other day I was sitting with one of the hostesses before the doors opened at 11. She mentioned that a film crew would be in at one o’ clock to film a commercial. “Neat,” I said. “Not really,” she replied, “I bet they’ll be a nuisance.”

I shrugged and thought little more about it until I saw two heads at my table, one of them looking down into a camera. I audibly groaned. I was scheduled out early and was fearful that the commercial creating would take all afternoon. After unsuccessfully trying to give the table away to the closer, I made my way over. I opened my mouth to say hello, when I was interrupted by a stuttering, blathering, incredibly pushy gentleman in an argyle sweater vest.*

“HiWeAreGoingToBeHijackingYourTableToMakeACommercialForAHealthClub. So,Um,I’llHaveAPanna. AndChris,You?,” he declared at lightspeed. Chris wanted a Perrier. I fetched the sissies some fancy water, and before long one of the chicks to be filmed arrived. She didn’t look at me, just stammered “Water.” before being verbally assaulted by Argyle Sweater Man. Another woman arrived a few minutes later. She looked me up and down with disdain and mouthed, “Water.” I fetched the drink and came on back to the table.

I asked them if they cared to hear the specials, which Argyle Sweater Man took as a prompt to begin talking again, full speed. “OkayHere’sWhat’sGoingToHappen. YouAreGoingToGoAwayForAboutTenMinutesWhileWeChatAboutFood. Then,WeAreGoingToHaveTheLadiesOrderOnCamera.” I was fine with that. I had five other tables to attend to.

Seven minutes or so later (I was counting), Lady #2 flagged me down rudely. I stepped over to the table, opened my book, poised pen over paper. I heard the camera click on below me. Lady #1’s face erupted with cheese as she beamingly ordered the following: Chutney Chicken with no chutney, and the sweet potato and green beans with no butter. Except she worked her overly glossy lips for the camera in this abhorrently ridiculous manner that made her look like a scary, smiling mule. Lady #2 ordered the burger and fries–JUST KIDDING! I scratched out her first, joke order and wrote that she’d be copying Lady #1. Argyle Sweater Man and crew, unsurprisingly, weren’t hungry.**

I mostly ignored them while their food was cooking. When it was ready I took it out promptly to help speed things right along. I made it to the table and was about to set down the first plate when I was given The Hand by Argyle Sweater Man. Like he was directing me or something. “WaitThereOneSecond,” he ordered. I did wait. I waited, and I somehow kept myself from throwing down my SAG card and demanding to speak with my agent before I made another movement. Only thing is I have no SAG card, nor do I have an agent, so I just stood, fuming, holding the cold chicken in both hands. Camera Guy finally cued me to go, at which time I plopped down both plates and promptly walked away.

Sweater Guy thrust a credit card at me halfway through the womens’ meals, signed his slip and left. The two women each left exactly one half of the 6 oz. chicken they ordered, as well as one half of their sweet potato. I boxed the remaining food up and sent them on their way. I picked up the credit card slip to find a $4 tip.

Then yesterday Lady #1 came back in for lunch. But this time there was no camera crew to document her every bite. She ordered a bourbon for an appetizer, a caesar salad to start, then the olive oil-laden pasta with extra cheese, add chicken, followed by another bourbon for dessert. After her second drink she shot me this really sweet, vulnerable look. An apology of sorts. She definitely had a buzz, but it was nice of her to be nice, if only with her face.

So I shot her a look that conveyed that I would totally forget all about that four-layer chocolate cake she drunkenly ordered very next thing.

*I’d bet a bizbillion thousand dollars that guy was on coke.
**See above.

When I was a kid I wanted to be Shirley Temple. Or Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Blair from the “Facts of Life.” I wanted to be a gymnast or a skater or a dancer or a singer or an actress or twirl batons or something like that. I wanted to be Margaux Kramer. To a 7-year-old me it was no conincidence that the prettiest, most stuck-up, popular chipette Brittany and I shared a name.

I was a totally prissy, princess attention junkie. In a tutu. Dancing for you for as long as you can stand to watch, busting my freshly choreographed moves on you whilst falsettoing Paula Abdul’s “Rush, Rush” into a banana clip.

In my after school care I would write plays, cast them, myself always in the lead, then direct and perform the show. In day care. In first grade I did a revisionist version of Cinderella that had Cinderella (performed flawlessly by me, naturally) doing 80s dance moves such as the Roger Rabbit. I think there was some sub-plot about Cinderella rebelling against the stepmother who made her drink powdered milk. They made us drink powdered milk at day care and I hated it so much, so much. Barf, just thinking of it now makes me stomach wince.

I convinced my mom to let me be a cheerleader for a city league kids’ football team. The Ashland City Cowboys. How janky is that? They had navy and blue uniforms with stars on them and I got some bloomers that had my name embroidered right across the ass. (I fucking loved those bloomers. I would sometimes wear them under my clothes to school. Just because.) We did a dance to freaking Alabama’s “Mountain Music.” You know, like Grandma and Grandpa used to play. Is that not the single most redneck thing you have ever heard?
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