Entries Tagged 'Overheard' ↓

“Number 49! … Number 49! … Number 49, are you deaf?”
–Cashier at taqueria during lunch today

Girl #1: I am only going to eat one serving each of the bad carbs tomorrow.

Girl #2: You should make that one spoonful each. Seriously. Your pants are too short for a reason.

The Boyfriend: “…and they should put more locally-owned restaurants in the airport, because local businesses pay for that airport with their taxes…”

Me: “Yeah, then they just give it all to Chick-Fil-A, which is in Utah.”

The Boyfriend: “Are you sure? I think they are based in the South.”

Me: “I think they are Mormon.”

The Boyfriend: “I know they are churchy, but I don’t know if they are Mormon. They might be Baptist. I know they are closed on Sunday.”

Me: “Hmm wait, maybe they are Seventh Day Adventist.”

The Boyfriend: “No, because…”

Me: “…because then they wouldn’t serve meat!”

The Boyfriend: “Uh yeah, except that they would be closed on Saturday.”

Me: “Oh, yeah.”

The Boyfriend (laughing): “I mean, of all the ways to be churchy, we can go ahead and eliminate them and the Jews.”

Note: Just now in typing that I debated whether to quote him verbatim, what with the words “eliminate” and “Jews” in the same sentence, but The Boyfriend insists on accuracy.

So, earlier I was having an adult beverage with my Auntie B at Beyond the Edge, when a curious thing happened. We were just chilling, talking internet shit, when we heard this dude behind us all, "Yeah, it’s called Nashville is Talking, and it’s a great way to see what people in Nashville are talking about. It has all these blogs on the right-hand side that update automatically, and on the right it’s more editorial…Yeah, man, Stacey Campfield has a blog…yep, NashvilleIsTalking.com."

Now, in all the two plus years I worked for WKRN I never, ever overheard anyone talk about my blog. A week after I quit, the site gets some word-of-mouth. Figures.

Anyway, that was weird, but not quite as weird as the staggeringly drunk redneck who came tumbling out of the door, walked up to B and mumbled something about "What the hell…eating…" His friend quickly told Juiced Up John to straighten up, while I gave them my very best What the Fuck Face. A minute later John was rubbing his jean shorts-clad ass on some woman’s Ford pickup. John was tore down and it wasn’t even 6 p.m.

I need to get out more.

UPDATE: I feel like an asshole for not knowing that’s what was said at my table last night. I’m mad as hell now, and feel like going Sycamore Rec on that fucker.

A conversation between my sister and I yesterday as we tackled the greenway after work. We’d just passed a taut, tanned young lady with a without an ounce of fat anywhere it wasn’t supposed to be:

Amy: Man, I wish I looked like that.

Me: Yeah. But, she’s probably 20.

Amy: Oh, my God. Listen to us. We are so old.

Me: Next thing you know we’ll be buying our clothes at Cracker Barrel.

I’ve been doing "real" writing lately, so things have slowed here a bit, like you didn’t notice. I’m proposing things and reviewing things and starting a new project that I’m taking on a page at a time.

Fear not, soon a customer will get drunk and say something funny and I’ll tell you all about it. Unlike the couple that got drunk tonight and said nothing funny at all, just flirted mercilessly then, as they left, bid every single person on their path to the door goodbye. But not before they whistled me down and told me what a great time they had. I was the best, just the fucking best. Then guy punched me on the arm a little, like I was his waitress wingman and he was gonna get SO LAID. I did serve her three Grey Goose and tonics, but that isn’t so many unless you DON’T EAT WHAT YOU ORDERED. She just sat there, giggling, sipping her cocktail and ignoring her eggplant parmigana.

Anyway, something better than that will happen soon and I’ll be back to fill you in. Until then, ponder this statement I heard when I dropped off the check at a table: "I’d rather watch my parents fuck than think about where Tony might have put those."

Overheard at a friend’s house the other day.

Hester:  "Honey, I laid out your clothes.  Go get dressed."

Hester’s 4-year-old daughter, after looking at the clothes: "Mom.  I am going to be off the hizzy in this outfit."

Just before I left work today I ducked into the women’s room to pee.  I was washing my hands when I looked up to see a thick streak of Clinique’s Coffee lipstick smeared up the left side of my face.  It wasn’t a small smudge or a slight bleeding of color, but a giant mark that looked like a gash.  I had waited on four tables since I last reapplied that lipstick. 

I had served drinks and plated desserts and opened a bottle of wine and talked to my co-workers for a half hour and every single person neglected to tell me I had lipstick up to my ear.  I wiped it as best I could and immediately found another server to ask her why she’s hadn’t said anything.  She claimed to not have seen it. 

I left work shortly thereafter and went straight to the bank.  While waiting for the teller to deposit my cash I listened to a woman training another woman on the computer.  In the midst of talking about interest rates and IRAs she farted really loudly and for a long time.  The male teller who was counting my money smiled broadly, but never skipped a beat.  My eyes hit the floor but not before getting a look at the offending lady whose face burned hot enough to melt snow.  Her trainee sat startled and silent beside her.

My shoe made a wet vibrating noise on the freshly waxed floors just before I hit the door, and I had to laugh once outside at the ridiculousness of it all.  Only an hour before I was mortified I’d walked around telling people about the delicious Arctic char with a red smear of makeup on my face, but OMG, the trainer lady at the bank TOTALLY FARTED. 

Things I Overheard While I Worked Today’s Lunch Shift

Table Number 24

Lady With The Horsey Laugh: “Yeah, girl, she is a Life Coach!:
Lady Who Got All Uptight About Her Straw: “Oh God, is she any good?”
LWTHL: “Oh yeah, girl, she is a great Life Coach, but her morals are out of whack. She is sleeping with her client’s teenaged son. And she has a teenaged son of her own, who, it turns out, she’s been having an incestuous affair with. Her son finally stopped the affair. She got so mad she gave all his clothes away to the homeless.”
LWGAUAHS: “And she’s a Life Coach?”
LWTHL: “Yeah, girl, Cathy swears by her.”

Table Number 28

Blonde And Newly Signed Country “Artist”: “I know this is going to sound weird, but can you ask the kitchen to measure out exactly three ounces of chicken? I’m on a very restrictive diet. That is all I want. Three ounces of grilled chicken. And don’t worry, I don’t mind paying the $10.50.”

(later, after asked about dessert)

BANSCA: “I have to get out of here. I have to go get famous.”

Table Number 5

Guy Without A Single Clue: “Can I get a caramel Frappacino?”
S, Guy’s Waitress: “We don’t actually have the stuff to make that drink, but I can make you an iced coffee.”
GWASC: “Will it come with caramel and mocha and all that? Blended?”
S, GW: “No, I’m sorry. It won’t.”

Table Number 22

Lady With The Bruised Mouth: “Liposuction? You had it?”
Lady Drinking The Kir Royale: “Yes, and it hurts like fucking hell, but not more than you will like how it looks. I definitely think you should get it done too.”

One day last week I was totally slammed during my lunch shift. I had six tables, one of which was sitting dirty for several (or ten) minutes while I caught up on everything else. I finally get a chance to clear the large table when an onslaught of older, well-dressed women approached me. The ugliest one, in red, pulled out a chair and moved to sit down.

“We are going to go ahead and have a seat, is that okay, we’ve been sitting down there in the lobby a long time,” she asked in her sweetest Southern drawl. I immediately replied I’d need a chance to clean it off first before they sat down, at which time they turned and headed back to the foyer. I mouthed a big “WHAT THE FUCK?!” to the hostess Pam, whose last name is that of a famous, red swimsuit wearing actress.

Once they were properly seated I tried to forget all about the incident and make a fresh start with my table. I was going to anticipate their every whim and need to avoid having to hear their condecending voices.

Little did I know I would be totally unable to get away from their prattling, precious accents. These 60-something Southern belles were having lunch to talk important and pertinent issues. Politics.

Turns out they were in no real hurry to go anywhere or order anything or listen to me at all. Which makes me curious as to why they were in such a hurry initially to sit down at my still-dirty table. Anyway, the bits of conversation that I overheard were so incredibly sad but awesome that it totally made up for their high maintenance neediness.

I knew it was going to be good when refilling ice waters (half with ice, half of them without) I overheard the smallest woman say, “Why is Nancy for John Kerry? Can you tell me that?”

“Because she is so mad at Bush, I think,” said the woman who wore her sunglasses until the salad course arrived.

“Tell me why. Why? I hear everybody say it, but no one can tell me why they are mad at George Bush.”

A bit later I heard the woman who was wearing sunglasses tell the other four Republican women at the table why she would be voting for John Kerry as well. The shocked small woman almost yelled, “WHY? Is it because he’s for abortion?”

“It’s because I don’t want to vote for anybody who tells a woman that she has to have a baby. Because he’s all but ruined our environment. I really care about that stuff! I do!,” Sunglasses Lady said frankly, “And you don’t even want to get me started on this stupid war.”

“That’s hogwash! President Bush gave one of the best speeches on Reagan I’ve ever seen,” countered Small Woman, who folded her arms across her chest in disgust.

At meal’s end I was sad to see the debate end, and gathered up all the credit card slips–seperate tickets, naturally. Then I noticed the tips. The die-hard Republican ladies left me $2 each. The more liberal lady left me $8.

Just sayin’, is all.