Warning to my mother: Some of this is about a pregnancy scare.
For a week or so, I had been sick to my stomach in sudden waves that passed after a few minutes, faster than a Taylor Swift relationship. Any woman in her 30's who has been nauseous for a week straight...well, it's safe to say that her first thought is, "Sonofabitch, I'm pregnant." The actuality of me being pregnant is highly unlikely since I'm a big proponent of wrapping it before tapping it, even though I know that condoms aren't 100% effective, and it is on the box, Ross Geller. In complete denial, I had decided to ignore the nausea (and the fact that my period was two weeks late) and continue to drink bottles of wine, hoping that both the nausea and the lateness were being caused by stress.
At the end of this week, my friend, Sarah and I headed over to Union Bar and Grille for dinner. Right away, when the waiter came up, my first thought was, "hell to the yeah." I shamelessly flirted with him through our initial drink order and appetizers.
But, then my duck rigatoni came. It looked delicious. But, the smell...and I ran to the bathroom. After that, my mood completely changed, as I finally accepted the realization that I might be pregnant. I discussed my concern with Sarah, and while doing so, I started to cry discreetly in the restaurant. Sarah, being the good friend that she is, told me that after dinner, we would hit CVS because I needed to know for sure. And I agreed. It was hard to focus on my food after that, but I made it through dinner. I had forgotten about the waiter, but I tried to lighten the mood by making awkward jokes that Sarah laughed at because we both enjoy awkward jokes. Small sample: related to bridesmaid dress shopping that weekend, I muttered, "Should I even buy the dress now? I won't fit in it by October" and when Sarah commended me for being able to eat at least some of my dinner, my response was, "Well, I am eating for two."
When it came time for dessert, Sarah and I ordered the sorbet. The waiter looked right at me and said, "I just want to tell you that the sorbet has cream in it." I realized, with horror, that he had seen me run to the bathroom earlier and had noticed that I stayed in there for longer than number one. As he walked away, to put in our sorbet order, Sarah said to me, "That was really nice that he said that. A little weird...but more nice than weird." And I had to agree. Even with our ominous task looming ahead like the Shadow of Mordor in my own Lord of the Flings story, I thought that it couldn't hurt to flirt a little more, you know...before I started to show.
We enjoyed the sorbet, and when he brought the check, he looked right at me and said, "By the way, my name is [the Waiter]. It really was a pleasure serving you. I hope you come in again." Sarah said to me as he walked away, "you need give him your phone number. He's been flirting with you all night." My thoughts were, "He can't be interested. One, it's his job to flirt. He wants a tip. Two, he thinks that I was attacked by lactose, so he probably finds me disgusting. Three, if he had been that observant of me throughout the night, he had most likely witnessed me sobbing for ten minutes. None of this is attractive." But, Sarah said, "what do you have to lose?" ("Except never being able to show my face in Union Bar again," I thought).
Anyway, I had been trying to be more assertive when attracted to someone. And so I left my number with my name and a "you should call me."
The next day, Saturday, I received a voicemail message, "Hi Melissa, it's the Waiter. I received a note from you saying to call. So, I'm following instructions. Call me back." And we have a date this week. We're already off to a good start...according to the vm message, he's a man who does what I tell him to do. He's seen me at my absolute worst. And one day, he may be telling the grandkids about the day we met, "I saved your grandmother from too much dairy." That's romance!
By the way, I took the test. I tried to buy it covertly, but the CVS self-checkout machine outed me by bellowing, "WELCOME!!! TO START, PLEASE SWIPE YOUR EXTRACARE CARD!" in a silent drugstore. Turns out that I was not pregnant (just stressed), and Sarah and I celebrated with much rejoicing and vodka.
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Monday, June 9, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Tales from France, Part III: Le Gay Paris
Since it was Jeff's birthday, and since I had already had my romantic rendezvous for the trip, I agreed to head out with Jeff to some of Paris's finest gay clubs. I actually enjoy going to gay clubs. It's a crowded room full of typically very handsome men (often shirtless) who flirt with me but aren't trying to get me to have sex with them. I mean, come on, that's a gold medal night for a girl.
The problem was: we had no idea where Paris's finest gay clubs were. I'm typically a planner. When I go to Disney World, I plan every day's itinerary to the minute, including what ride route we're going to take. I make restaurant reservations six months in advance. I have literally said to someone, "I'm going to the movies that day" when they offer plans for a date three months into the future. And this Paris trip was no different. I had spreadsheets drawn up of where we were going, what we were doing, with included attachments of the walking maps to get there. Jeff had one job. ONE JOB. And that was to choose which club he wanted to go to, and find out where it was. The night of our birthday festivities, we went to a pub near the hotel for a kickoff beer and I said to Jeff, "So, where are we going?" And he answered, "Oh, I don't know. I figured we'd just ask the bartender where we should go." I responded, "Oh yes. The straight German bartender with the neck tattoo who hasn't stopped talking about Manchester U? I'm sure he knows where the gay clubs are."
When we asked the bartender if he knew of a good gay club to go to. He looked at us with a blank stare. Then said, questioningly, "I think that there are a whole bunch on Saint-Michel" and proceeded to give us directions.
Jeff and I paid up and headed down to Saint-Michel. Once we got there, we walked up and down the street, but couldn't find any club, let alone a gay club. So, we stopped someone for directions.
"Excusez-moi? Do you know of any gay clubs in this area?"
"Yes, they're on Saint-Michel"
"Ok, thanks."
We once again walked up and down Boulevard Saint-Michel. By this point, I was getting tired and a little bit cranky and frustrated at Jeff for not doing his research. We stopped another person for directions.
"Excusez-moi? We're looking for a gay club?"
"There's some on Saint-Michel."
"Do you know what it's called in particular, or where on Saint-Michel it is?
"No, I'm sorry," with a sympathetic look.
What was this? We were on Saint-Michel. Where was this ghost gay club that everyone kept talking about? I took out my phone and consulted google, which also told me Saint-Michel. Was this some conspiracy between the French citizens and Google to turn gays off to the city of Paris? Finally, I said to Jeff, we need to find some gay men and get them to show us. Now, this is harder than you think. The "Gay or European" game was invented for a reason. It's really tough to tell the difference sometimes. But, when a couple of men walked toward us with their hands touching, I knew we had found our saviors. Unfortunately, they didn't speak English.
Since one of them had a more Mediterranean look, I took a shot and asked if they spoke Spanish. And the one that I had pegged for a Spaniard said, "Ah! Si!" So, in my broken Spanish, I said, "Estamos buscando por un club donde...um, los muchachos se gustan los muchachos." The Spaniard laughed and then translated to French what I had asked for his boyfriend, who also started laughing. Their answer: Saint-Michel.
After forty-five minutes of walking, Jeff and I decided to call it a night and go back to the hotel. We hailed a cab and started driving back. The cab turned onto a street called Rue du Temple. I looked out the cab window...men were coming out of the clubs onto Rue du Temple in droves. Men holding hands, men making out with each other on the street, men skipping to each other. I'm not being offensive. There were literally men skipping to each other on Rue du Temple. The irony was too much for us and we decided to keep heading home and try Rue du Temple the next night, which we did.
The next night, we did have a blast on Rue du Temple. A bouncer stopped us at the door and warned us that we were heading into a gay club, which I thought was nice, as he didn't want an unassuming American couple to walk into something that they weren't ready for. Both Jeff and I yelled excitedly, "We know!" and walked into a soapy naked guy in a shower with a bunch of men crowded around him watching. I met some boys from Chicago and danced with them for most of the night. And later I had a very nice conversation with the naked man in the shower. His name was Jean-Baptiste and he was in grad school.
So, did we ever solve the Case of the Ghost Gay Club at Saint-Michel, Nancy Drew? Well, although we thought we were walking down Saint-Michel, we were actually walking on the street perpendicular to it. So while we were hitting Saint-Michel at the corner, we weren't actually going down it. Mystery solved. Americans are dumb.
The problem was: we had no idea where Paris's finest gay clubs were. I'm typically a planner. When I go to Disney World, I plan every day's itinerary to the minute, including what ride route we're going to take. I make restaurant reservations six months in advance. I have literally said to someone, "I'm going to the movies that day" when they offer plans for a date three months into the future. And this Paris trip was no different. I had spreadsheets drawn up of where we were going, what we were doing, with included attachments of the walking maps to get there. Jeff had one job. ONE JOB. And that was to choose which club he wanted to go to, and find out where it was. The night of our birthday festivities, we went to a pub near the hotel for a kickoff beer and I said to Jeff, "So, where are we going?" And he answered, "Oh, I don't know. I figured we'd just ask the bartender where we should go." I responded, "Oh yes. The straight German bartender with the neck tattoo who hasn't stopped talking about Manchester U? I'm sure he knows where the gay clubs are."
When we asked the bartender if he knew of a good gay club to go to. He looked at us with a blank stare. Then said, questioningly, "I think that there are a whole bunch on Saint-Michel" and proceeded to give us directions.
Jeff and I paid up and headed down to Saint-Michel. Once we got there, we walked up and down the street, but couldn't find any club, let alone a gay club. So, we stopped someone for directions.
"Excusez-moi? Do you know of any gay clubs in this area?"
"Yes, they're on Saint-Michel"
"Ok, thanks."
We once again walked up and down Boulevard Saint-Michel. By this point, I was getting tired and a little bit cranky and frustrated at Jeff for not doing his research. We stopped another person for directions.
"Excusez-moi? We're looking for a gay club?"
"There's some on Saint-Michel."
"Do you know what it's called in particular, or where on Saint-Michel it is?
"No, I'm sorry," with a sympathetic look.
What was this? We were on Saint-Michel. Where was this ghost gay club that everyone kept talking about? I took out my phone and consulted google, which also told me Saint-Michel. Was this some conspiracy between the French citizens and Google to turn gays off to the city of Paris? Finally, I said to Jeff, we need to find some gay men and get them to show us. Now, this is harder than you think. The "Gay or European" game was invented for a reason. It's really tough to tell the difference sometimes. But, when a couple of men walked toward us with their hands touching, I knew we had found our saviors. Unfortunately, they didn't speak English.
Since one of them had a more Mediterranean look, I took a shot and asked if they spoke Spanish. And the one that I had pegged for a Spaniard said, "Ah! Si!" So, in my broken Spanish, I said, "Estamos buscando por un club donde...um, los muchachos se gustan los muchachos." The Spaniard laughed and then translated to French what I had asked for his boyfriend, who also started laughing. Their answer: Saint-Michel.
After forty-five minutes of walking, Jeff and I decided to call it a night and go back to the hotel. We hailed a cab and started driving back. The cab turned onto a street called Rue du Temple. I looked out the cab window...men were coming out of the clubs onto Rue du Temple in droves. Men holding hands, men making out with each other on the street, men skipping to each other. I'm not being offensive. There were literally men skipping to each other on Rue du Temple. The irony was too much for us and we decided to keep heading home and try Rue du Temple the next night, which we did.
The next night, we did have a blast on Rue du Temple. A bouncer stopped us at the door and warned us that we were heading into a gay club, which I thought was nice, as he didn't want an unassuming American couple to walk into something that they weren't ready for. Both Jeff and I yelled excitedly, "We know!" and walked into a soapy naked guy in a shower with a bunch of men crowded around him watching. I met some boys from Chicago and danced with them for most of the night. And later I had a very nice conversation with the naked man in the shower. His name was Jean-Baptiste and he was in grad school.
So, did we ever solve the Case of the Ghost Gay Club at Saint-Michel, Nancy Drew? Well, although we thought we were walking down Saint-Michel, we were actually walking on the street perpendicular to it. So while we were hitting Saint-Michel at the corner, we weren't actually going down it. Mystery solved. Americans are dumb.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Tales from France, Part II: The Tale of the Dutchman
Notwithstanding the misadventures in customs, I was so excited to be in Paris. I had never been before and on the way to hotel, I was out the window like a teen in a rom com during a music montage.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Tales from France, Part I: Le Straight Par-ee
I've had a busy couple of months. Started a book club. Got promoted at that attorney gig that I do in my spare time. Went all Fatal Attraction on Coop by cutting up a Christmas/birthday gift and leaving it on his doorstep after he asked if he could have it back. Welcomed the Sox back to Fenway on a winter(?) day:
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Wanting to DTR and Not Being DTF.
Part of the reason that I've been Ross and Racheling it with Coop is that despite my attempts to get him to do it, he refuses to define the relationship. So, I began to think about why it's so important to me to have a definition while it's seemingly as important to him as the question of how many seasons 2 Broke Girls is going to last.
For starters, let's run through your usual definitions of relationships and what I take them to mean:
1.) Talking to each other. The very beginning of a relationship. You haven't really gone out on a full-blown date yet, but you're aware of each other's interest and know that the date most likely is going to happen soon.
2.) Seeing each other. You've started the dating process and you've gone out a few times and stay in touch. You're not at the point where you're introducing each other to your friends and family, but those people know that you're "seeing someone" and have noticed that this particular person has come up in conversation more often than the people that you're just "talking to".
3.) Dating. You've been seeing each other for a few months at this point. You're starting to meet some friends and family and gauging how the other person interacts with them. Side note: Sometimes this definition is used for "seeing each other" and vice versa.
4.) Boyfriend/Girlfriend; Girlfriend/Girlfriend; Boyfriend/Boyfriend. You're in a relationship. Everyone knows that you're in a relationship. There's no question that you're in a relationship.
5.) Significant Other or as the kids say "Sig O". Word that people use when they think "boyfriend" is too juvenile, "husband" is too antiquated and patriarchal, and "partner" is too "I'm trying too hard to be politically correct."
6.) Booty call. Strictly a sexual relationship that only takes place betweeen the hours of 1 a.m. and 5 a.m.
7.) Friends with benefits. Much like a booty call in that you hide the sexual relationship from your friends. But, in this situation, you actually kind of like the person as a person even though there's no romantic involvement. It's a continual relationship, but there are never strings attached.
So, why is it so important to me that I fall into one of these categories? Well, when you don't have a definition, as I've learned, there is no good answer to the following question: "Is that your boyfriend?" I've been asked this a number of times, typically in a hushed voice, when Coop and I go somewhere together, as soon as he walks away. The answer that I usually give, in an equally hushed voice, is this: "Well, we are friends, except we have a deeper connection than most friends and we were dating, but we're not now, but we like each other as more than friends, but he's not my boyfriend. Is there a word for that?" To make it more confusing, our friends have started to treat us like we're a unit..."Mel and Coop". They make plans with us by talking to one of us, and the expectation is that that one will just sorta bring the other one along to the outing. And I've kind of started to expect that too.
I think that definitions help so that you know how to act when you're around each other. It makes a difference. If we're just friends, well then, I won't make out with you...or show up drunk at your house unannounced...or make you mix tapes with angsty "will they or won't they" music because that would just be weird. If we're seeing each other or dating, then drunken pop-ins and mix tapes are too much. But, if we're boyfriend and girlfriend, then it's just right. And if you act like it's just right, it means that you're comfortable being my boyfriend, so then why are you saying that you're not my boyfriend. Confused? So am I.
And to make all of this even MORE confusing, when I ask Coop about how he would define the relationship, his answer is "Well, we don't need to define it because it's obvious." For crying out loud to Jenna Hamilton.
I've ultimately come to the conclusion that if you can't define the relationship, it means that you just aren't in one...in the normal sense of the word. And that's not really a conclusion at all, is it?
For starters, let's run through your usual definitions of relationships and what I take them to mean:
1.) Talking to each other. The very beginning of a relationship. You haven't really gone out on a full-blown date yet, but you're aware of each other's interest and know that the date most likely is going to happen soon.
2.) Seeing each other. You've started the dating process and you've gone out a few times and stay in touch. You're not at the point where you're introducing each other to your friends and family, but those people know that you're "seeing someone" and have noticed that this particular person has come up in conversation more often than the people that you're just "talking to".
3.) Dating. You've been seeing each other for a few months at this point. You're starting to meet some friends and family and gauging how the other person interacts with them. Side note: Sometimes this definition is used for "seeing each other" and vice versa.
4.) Boyfriend/Girlfriend; Girlfriend/Girlfriend; Boyfriend/Boyfriend. You're in a relationship. Everyone knows that you're in a relationship. There's no question that you're in a relationship.
5.) Significant Other or as the kids say "Sig O". Word that people use when they think "boyfriend" is too juvenile, "husband" is too antiquated and patriarchal, and "partner" is too "I'm trying too hard to be politically correct."
6.) Booty call. Strictly a sexual relationship that only takes place betweeen the hours of 1 a.m. and 5 a.m.
7.) Friends with benefits. Much like a booty call in that you hide the sexual relationship from your friends. But, in this situation, you actually kind of like the person as a person even though there's no romantic involvement. It's a continual relationship, but there are never strings attached.
So, why is it so important to me that I fall into one of these categories? Well, when you don't have a definition, as I've learned, there is no good answer to the following question: "Is that your boyfriend?" I've been asked this a number of times, typically in a hushed voice, when Coop and I go somewhere together, as soon as he walks away. The answer that I usually give, in an equally hushed voice, is this: "Well, we are friends, except we have a deeper connection than most friends and we were dating, but we're not now, but we like each other as more than friends, but he's not my boyfriend. Is there a word for that?" To make it more confusing, our friends have started to treat us like we're a unit..."Mel and Coop". They make plans with us by talking to one of us, and the expectation is that that one will just sorta bring the other one along to the outing. And I've kind of started to expect that too.
I think that definitions help so that you know how to act when you're around each other. It makes a difference. If we're just friends, well then, I won't make out with you...or show up drunk at your house unannounced...or make you mix tapes with angsty "will they or won't they" music because that would just be weird. If we're seeing each other or dating, then drunken pop-ins and mix tapes are too much. But, if we're boyfriend and girlfriend, then it's just right. And if you act like it's just right, it means that you're comfortable being my boyfriend, so then why are you saying that you're not my boyfriend. Confused? So am I.
And to make all of this even MORE confusing, when I ask Coop about how he would define the relationship, his answer is "Well, we don't need to define it because it's obvious." For crying out loud to Jenna Hamilton.
I've ultimately come to the conclusion that if you can't define the relationship, it means that you just aren't in one...in the normal sense of the word. And that's not really a conclusion at all, is it?
Thursday, January 9, 2014
The Trials of Hosting
So, here's how I feel about throwing parties. Most of you know that I haven't been to a grocery store since 2009. Andrea loves to regale new friends with the story of how one time she asked me "Where do you get, like, chips and snacks?" And my answer was, "the liquor store?"
The last time that I threw a party was in 2003. My boyfriend at the time had a ton of no goodnik friends, but the deal was that if he cleaned up after them, they could be invited. I remember watching one of them sit in my kitchen and he had that look...the look that reality tv stars get when they're forced to eat 25 dragonflies or drink a jar of pickle juice and salsa together. The look of someone about to blow. Here was my dilemma. There was one bathroom in my apartment. I lived on the fifth floor, so there was no hope that he would get outside in the event of a vomit emergency. But, I really had to pee. When I couldn't wait anymore, I finally went into my bathroom. While in there, I heard my boyfriend's sister yell, "Oh my God, Mel, open the door!" I zipped up quickly and opened the door to my boyfriend's friend... throwing up all over my carpet. I vowed never again to throw a party.
Since October, I've been Ross and Rachel-ing it with this guy; let's call him "Bradley Cooper", or as I like to call him "Coop". On a recent ski trip with him and another couple, I brought up New Year's Eve and we decided that we would have a low key game night at my place. (This was all part of my elaborate plan to make sure that he spent New Year's Eve with me and not some other chick, but that's another story for another day). I had mentioned to a couple of other friends that we should get together on New Year's, so I sent an e-mail to those guys to tell them to join us.
As the days went on and as people asked me what I was doing for New Year's, my standard response was "I'm having Coop and some friends over. Come on by." And before I knew it, my low key game night had turned into a mini-party of 16. Apparently, according to my dad, I've been doing this my whole entire life. My mother would say to me, "Pick six girls in your class to come to your birthday party." And I would come home from school the week of my party and say, "is it ok if all the girls in my class come? Because I told them they could."
The morning before New Year's Eve, I did a quick head count in my head of how many people would be coming. I paused when it became more than ten and said to myself, "Now, that can't be right." But it was. I had no alcohol. No food. I didn't even have a place for all of these people to sit. And unlike my birthday parties, my mother wouldn't be there to do all the work!
And so, I made a list and I turned to my old friend, the internet. First, I researched the price of renting chairs and tables at the last minute. After my eyes popped back into my head, I sent a text message to Coop to ask him to bring some of his folding chairs to the party. Then, I started to think about how I was going to carry four bottles of wine, a 12 pack of beer, two bottles of champagne and three bottles of alcohol from the liquor store to my car to my apartment. And I googled "Boston liquor delivery." (Did you know that they do that?) After scheduling the alcohol delivery, I asked my co-worker who seems to host people at her house every weekend for some advice about the food. She gave me the recipes for some quick easy appetizers. And I realized that most of them could be found pre-made at the Market Basket deli counter. So, I ordered some platters. After this, I began to feel a little less stressed. It's not a lot of work to throw a party, if you make other people do stuff.
The one black fly in my Chardonnay was that I had to go Market Basket to pick up the platters. The weathermen had been predicting a three-day snowstorm. Blizzard plus New Year's equals crazy people. So, the store was a madhouse and probably not in the best condition for my "first day back". I've blocked out most of that trip. I know that there were shopping cart jams and crowds of middle-aged men on their cells with their wives. At the deli counter, there was a line to take a number to get in line. And I was stuck in the bread aisle for what seemed like three hours, until I was finally rescued by a savior in a blue smock with a bread cart. When my friends finally arrived at my house, I was sure to tell them, "Thank you. Thank you for being with me on this day. The day that I survived Market Basket."
Food shopping apocalyptic episode aside, the party turned out to be a great time.Yes, I've been living on Ritz Crackers, pepperoni, and taco dip for the past week and a half. But, having everyone at my place and ringing in 2014 together made it worth it. I may even do it again next year! Although next year, I'm calling Peapod.
The last time that I threw a party was in 2003. My boyfriend at the time had a ton of no goodnik friends, but the deal was that if he cleaned up after them, they could be invited. I remember watching one of them sit in my kitchen and he had that look...the look that reality tv stars get when they're forced to eat 25 dragonflies or drink a jar of pickle juice and salsa together. The look of someone about to blow. Here was my dilemma. There was one bathroom in my apartment. I lived on the fifth floor, so there was no hope that he would get outside in the event of a vomit emergency. But, I really had to pee. When I couldn't wait anymore, I finally went into my bathroom. While in there, I heard my boyfriend's sister yell, "Oh my God, Mel, open the door!" I zipped up quickly and opened the door to my boyfriend's friend... throwing up all over my carpet. I vowed never again to throw a party.
Since October, I've been Ross and Rachel-ing it with this guy; let's call him "Bradley Cooper", or as I like to call him "Coop". On a recent ski trip with him and another couple, I brought up New Year's Eve and we decided that we would have a low key game night at my place. (This was all part of my elaborate plan to make sure that he spent New Year's Eve with me and not some other chick, but that's another story for another day). I had mentioned to a couple of other friends that we should get together on New Year's, so I sent an e-mail to those guys to tell them to join us.
As the days went on and as people asked me what I was doing for New Year's, my standard response was "I'm having Coop and some friends over. Come on by." And before I knew it, my low key game night had turned into a mini-party of 16. Apparently, according to my dad, I've been doing this my whole entire life. My mother would say to me, "Pick six girls in your class to come to your birthday party." And I would come home from school the week of my party and say, "is it ok if all the girls in my class come? Because I told them they could."
The morning before New Year's Eve, I did a quick head count in my head of how many people would be coming. I paused when it became more than ten and said to myself, "Now, that can't be right." But it was. I had no alcohol. No food. I didn't even have a place for all of these people to sit. And unlike my birthday parties, my mother wouldn't be there to do all the work!
And so, I made a list and I turned to my old friend, the internet. First, I researched the price of renting chairs and tables at the last minute. After my eyes popped back into my head, I sent a text message to Coop to ask him to bring some of his folding chairs to the party. Then, I started to think about how I was going to carry four bottles of wine, a 12 pack of beer, two bottles of champagne and three bottles of alcohol from the liquor store to my car to my apartment. And I googled "Boston liquor delivery." (Did you know that they do that?) After scheduling the alcohol delivery, I asked my co-worker who seems to host people at her house every weekend for some advice about the food. She gave me the recipes for some quick easy appetizers. And I realized that most of them could be found pre-made at the Market Basket deli counter. So, I ordered some platters. After this, I began to feel a little less stressed. It's not a lot of work to throw a party, if you make other people do stuff.
The one black fly in my Chardonnay was that I had to go Market Basket to pick up the platters. The weathermen had been predicting a three-day snowstorm. Blizzard plus New Year's equals crazy people. So, the store was a madhouse and probably not in the best condition for my "first day back". I've blocked out most of that trip. I know that there were shopping cart jams and crowds of middle-aged men on their cells with their wives. At the deli counter, there was a line to take a number to get in line. And I was stuck in the bread aisle for what seemed like three hours, until I was finally rescued by a savior in a blue smock with a bread cart. When my friends finally arrived at my house, I was sure to tell them, "Thank you. Thank you for being with me on this day. The day that I survived Market Basket."
Food shopping apocalyptic episode aside, the party turned out to be a great time.Yes, I've been living on Ritz Crackers, pepperoni, and taco dip for the past week and a half. But, having everyone at my place and ringing in 2014 together made it worth it. I may even do it again next year! Although next year, I'm calling Peapod.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Strip T's to the rescue: Part 2
There we were, the Strip T's staff and I waiting for Mr. Could-Be-Sloth to walk through the door. I had just received a text saying "Where are you? Inside." Jonathan and I looked quizzically at each other. Strip T's is not that big of a place. It's essentially the size of a D'Angelos. (Side note: When (and notice I say "when", not "if) you go to Strip T's, take a trip to the bathroom. You will feel like you just came down the beanstalk to wreak havoc on peasants. It's an experience.)
Making me even more nervous was the fact that, during one of our texting conversations, Mr. Could-Be-Sloth had told me that I was only the second person that he's met online to date. The first...he arrived at their meeting place, saw her, and in his words, "ran like a cheetah." I almost broke the date off when he told me that story, but he explained that it had nothing to do with her looks, he just freaked out, and he called her later to apologize. Whether or not his version is true, I don't know, but a free meal at Strip T's was at stake, and I didn't really want to give that up, so I gave him the benefit of the yay-I-get-food doubt.
As Jonathan and I scanned the room, Jonathan asked what Mr. Could-Be-Sloth looked like. I told him that all I knew was that he was bald, with a goatee, and Middle Eastern. Jonathan, then became busy with restaurant stuff, such as like, you know, running it, so I decided to take a look outside. I looked to my right, down the sidewalk, and saw a gorgeous bald, bearded man round the corner. He glanced at me and smiled....and then started walking in the other direction. For a split second, I thought "cheetahs run faster than that," but quickly realized that that wasn't the person I was waiting for.
I looked to my left and a tiny man was walking toward me. He wasn't bald (I'm not sure where I got that). He had a very nice smile. And he came up and hugged me hello. So I assumed that it was Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, who while attractive, wasn't really my type physically. However, not one to judge a kindle fire by its electronic title page, I was still looking forward to getting to know him because he seemed like a very sweet guy. As far as the confusion over his text saying that he was in the restaurant, here is where punctuation is important, guys. Without it, your message becomes, "where are you. inside" instead of "where are you? Inside?"
My Waiter Crush sat us at what Strip T's calls, the "Mafia Table". It's a corner table that faces the entire dining room and it's where I expect I'll receive my business if I ever have any and happen to be eating there.
I was trying not to feel self-concious that, sitting down, we looked like Jack Sprat and his wife, but even at 5'5", I felt as though I was towering over him...even though he insists to this day that he's 5'7". Waiter Crush took our drink order and left to grab them.
I turned to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth and said, "so nice to finally meet you! How was your day today?" "My day was good," he responded. *Silence*
"What is it that you do for work?" I asked. "Operations," he responded. *Silence*
"What kind of business does your company do?" I asked. "Hospitality," he responded. *Silence*
"Oh cool, that's what my company does too!" I said, hoping that this would spark up the conversation. "We run the laundry facilities in dorms and apartment buildings and hotels." I continued. "I see," he responded. *Silence*
Now, a few things were running through my mind. One, oh my GOD this is BRUTAL. Two, is the whole dinner going to be like this??? Three, is it too soon to sneeze and get the check? But, I thought maybe he's just nervous. Or it might be that he's not interested? So I gave him an out by saying, "if you're not hungry, I don't mind just grabbing a small plate and a drink or something." And in his longest response yet, he stated, "No, let's eat a meal." and grabbed the menu.
The conversation went on like that for our whole dinner. During the times when I was just tired of the responsibility of carrying on the conversation, I sat there with my elbows on the table, and my chin in my hands, in classic boredom pose, like a kid who's been told she can't have dessert until she finishes her peas. I kept catching the eye of Waiter Crush and sending him silent "help me" signals, which I could tell he understood. But, with f-ing delicious food also comes painstaking care, meaning I wouldn't be seeing our entrees soon enough and there was nothing he could do.
Our food did come out soon after though, and my food was ten times more interesting than my date! The amazing thing about Strip T's is they basically go to the farm and get the ingredients for the menu which changes daily. I'm not being sarcastic...they literally go to the farm and get ingredients. They cure their own meat. They make their own vinegar. The flour for their bread and pasta is milled the day before. So, not only is the food interesting and cooked perfectly, but it's practically the best quality you can ask for.
That night, I ordered for Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, whose only instruction was "I like spicy," which I conveyed to Waiter Crush who suggested that he have the roasted skate wing, with spicy 'nduja sausage, kale, potato and leeks. Mr. Could-Be-Sloth ok'ed that with an "ok". Me, on the other hand, I knew exactly what I wanted. Oysters Ouefs Brouilles, and the Anne Fish Tautog with lobster sauce, fiddleheads and home fries. And in a down-to-the wire decision, encouraged by Waiter Crush, I got the seared pork belly small plate. Yet another reason that I love Strip T's...whenever I'm on the fence about ordering something, the waiters always give me a "no big deal" go ahead, which makes me feel like I'm not being gluttonous, just appreciative of what's on the menu.
Anyway, back to my disaster date: I still took the time to enjoy my food and wine, but once that was gone, I wanted to be!! I excused myself to go to the restroom, and on my way back from Lilli-pot, I went by Jonathan who asked, "Are you sneezing?" To which, I responded, "God, yes." Over comes Waiter Crush, who again subtlely steered us in the right direction by saying, "You guys are too full for dessert?" Before Mr. Could-Be-Sloth could answer with a one-word "no" response, I said, "Yeah, I'm stuffed."
Waiter Crush: Just the check, then.
Me: Yep.
Once Waiter Crush dropped the check off, I offered to pay, and Mr. Could-Be-Sloth took the billfold and said that it was on him (which was nice), and then he proceeded to put it on the bench next to him... So, we sat there in silence for another ten minutes (or was it a year? hard to tell), while Waiter Crush kept glancing at the table, trying to see if he could help me make my escape by speeding along the payment process.
Finally, (and I literally breathed an audible sigh of relief) Mr. Could-Be-Sloth slipped his card out of his wallet and into the billfold and Waiter Crush took it, bringing it back processed a second later. I said goodbye to all and Mr. Could-Be-Sloth walked me to my car where I gave him a hug. He told me to text when I got home and I said ok. When I got into my car, I saw a text from Jonathan, "At least the food was free. :)"
I texted Mr. Could-Be-Sloth when I arrived home and he asked, "Be honest. What did you think?" And I replied, "It started out good! I just thought that there were a lot of awkward silences," thinking that there's no way he could disagree. He responded, "I didn't think they were awkward, but oh well." This leads me to question my own dating style, and I would love it if you'd let me know what you think. To me, if you're having silences on the first date, they're prima facie awkward. You should have plenty to say when you don't know anything about each other. The silences come after you've been together for a while, then it becomes a comfortable silence.
Anyway, I haven't heard from Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, so I think he realized that it wasn't a match. But, the silver lining around my dinner plate...man, those oysters and that pork belly were F-ing Delicious.*
*I'm trying to get Strip T's to adopt that as their slogan. I'm not optimistic.
Making me even more nervous was the fact that, during one of our texting conversations, Mr. Could-Be-Sloth had told me that I was only the second person that he's met online to date. The first...he arrived at their meeting place, saw her, and in his words, "ran like a cheetah." I almost broke the date off when he told me that story, but he explained that it had nothing to do with her looks, he just freaked out, and he called her later to apologize. Whether or not his version is true, I don't know, but a free meal at Strip T's was at stake, and I didn't really want to give that up, so I gave him the benefit of the yay-I-get-food doubt.
As Jonathan and I scanned the room, Jonathan asked what Mr. Could-Be-Sloth looked like. I told him that all I knew was that he was bald, with a goatee, and Middle Eastern. Jonathan, then became busy with restaurant stuff, such as like, you know, running it, so I decided to take a look outside. I looked to my right, down the sidewalk, and saw a gorgeous bald, bearded man round the corner. He glanced at me and smiled....and then started walking in the other direction. For a split second, I thought "cheetahs run faster than that," but quickly realized that that wasn't the person I was waiting for.
I looked to my left and a tiny man was walking toward me. He wasn't bald (I'm not sure where I got that). He had a very nice smile. And he came up and hugged me hello. So I assumed that it was Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, who while attractive, wasn't really my type physically. However, not one to judge a kindle fire by its electronic title page, I was still looking forward to getting to know him because he seemed like a very sweet guy. As far as the confusion over his text saying that he was in the restaurant, here is where punctuation is important, guys. Without it, your message becomes, "where are you. inside" instead of "where are you? Inside?"
My Waiter Crush sat us at what Strip T's calls, the "Mafia Table". It's a corner table that faces the entire dining room and it's where I expect I'll receive my business if I ever have any and happen to be eating there.
I was trying not to feel self-concious that, sitting down, we looked like Jack Sprat and his wife, but even at 5'5", I felt as though I was towering over him...even though he insists to this day that he's 5'7". Waiter Crush took our drink order and left to grab them.
I turned to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth and said, "so nice to finally meet you! How was your day today?" "My day was good," he responded. *Silence*
"What is it that you do for work?" I asked. "Operations," he responded. *Silence*
"What kind of business does your company do?" I asked. "Hospitality," he responded. *Silence*
"Oh cool, that's what my company does too!" I said, hoping that this would spark up the conversation. "We run the laundry facilities in dorms and apartment buildings and hotels." I continued. "I see," he responded. *Silence*
Now, a few things were running through my mind. One, oh my GOD this is BRUTAL. Two, is the whole dinner going to be like this??? Three, is it too soon to sneeze and get the check? But, I thought maybe he's just nervous. Or it might be that he's not interested? So I gave him an out by saying, "if you're not hungry, I don't mind just grabbing a small plate and a drink or something." And in his longest response yet, he stated, "No, let's eat a meal." and grabbed the menu.
The conversation went on like that for our whole dinner. During the times when I was just tired of the responsibility of carrying on the conversation, I sat there with my elbows on the table, and my chin in my hands, in classic boredom pose, like a kid who's been told she can't have dessert until she finishes her peas. I kept catching the eye of Waiter Crush and sending him silent "help me" signals, which I could tell he understood. But, with f-ing delicious food also comes painstaking care, meaning I wouldn't be seeing our entrees soon enough and there was nothing he could do.
Our food did come out soon after though, and my food was ten times more interesting than my date! The amazing thing about Strip T's is they basically go to the farm and get the ingredients for the menu which changes daily. I'm not being sarcastic...they literally go to the farm and get ingredients. They cure their own meat. They make their own vinegar. The flour for their bread and pasta is milled the day before. So, not only is the food interesting and cooked perfectly, but it's practically the best quality you can ask for.
That night, I ordered for Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, whose only instruction was "I like spicy," which I conveyed to Waiter Crush who suggested that he have the roasted skate wing, with spicy 'nduja sausage, kale, potato and leeks. Mr. Could-Be-Sloth ok'ed that with an "ok". Me, on the other hand, I knew exactly what I wanted. Oysters Ouefs Brouilles, and the Anne Fish Tautog with lobster sauce, fiddleheads and home fries. And in a down-to-the wire decision, encouraged by Waiter Crush, I got the seared pork belly small plate. Yet another reason that I love Strip T's...whenever I'm on the fence about ordering something, the waiters always give me a "no big deal" go ahead, which makes me feel like I'm not being gluttonous, just appreciative of what's on the menu.
Anyway, back to my disaster date: I still took the time to enjoy my food and wine, but once that was gone, I wanted to be!! I excused myself to go to the restroom, and on my way back from Lilli-pot, I went by Jonathan who asked, "Are you sneezing?" To which, I responded, "God, yes." Over comes Waiter Crush, who again subtlely steered us in the right direction by saying, "You guys are too full for dessert?" Before Mr. Could-Be-Sloth could answer with a one-word "no" response, I said, "Yeah, I'm stuffed."
Waiter Crush: Just the check, then.
Me: Yep.
Once Waiter Crush dropped the check off, I offered to pay, and Mr. Could-Be-Sloth took the billfold and said that it was on him (which was nice), and then he proceeded to put it on the bench next to him... So, we sat there in silence for another ten minutes (or was it a year? hard to tell), while Waiter Crush kept glancing at the table, trying to see if he could help me make my escape by speeding along the payment process.
Finally, (and I literally breathed an audible sigh of relief) Mr. Could-Be-Sloth slipped his card out of his wallet and into the billfold and Waiter Crush took it, bringing it back processed a second later. I said goodbye to all and Mr. Could-Be-Sloth walked me to my car where I gave him a hug. He told me to text when I got home and I said ok. When I got into my car, I saw a text from Jonathan, "At least the food was free. :)"
I texted Mr. Could-Be-Sloth when I arrived home and he asked, "Be honest. What did you think?" And I replied, "It started out good! I just thought that there were a lot of awkward silences," thinking that there's no way he could disagree. He responded, "I didn't think they were awkward, but oh well." This leads me to question my own dating style, and I would love it if you'd let me know what you think. To me, if you're having silences on the first date, they're prima facie awkward. You should have plenty to say when you don't know anything about each other. The silences come after you've been together for a while, then it becomes a comfortable silence.
Anyway, I haven't heard from Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, so I think he realized that it wasn't a match. But, the silver lining around my dinner plate...man, those oysters and that pork belly were F-ing Delicious.*
*I'm trying to get Strip T's to adopt that as their slogan. I'm not optimistic.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Strip T's to the Rescue: Part 1
First of all, I just want to mention that I posted twice in a week a couple of weeks ago, and was really excited to get momentum back. And then the Boston Marathon bombing happened. As you know, Boston is my hometown, and I really struggled with what I would say on my next post. I knew that I had to say SOMETHING, but this is supposed to be a humor blog. So, I kept procrastinating, trying to figure out a way to reconcile what I was feeling with the usual tone of this blog. Because I was just too sad.
But, then it dawned on me: it's important to laugh! It doesn't take away from remembering what happened or mourning the loss of such young and vibrant lives. It strengthens our resolve to carry on and show these horrible people that their actions do not affect us, our democracy, or our freedom to speak. I don't have any sniper training and I hate guns and violence, so I can't root out the bastards. And while the spy life looks glamorous, I'm way too much of a blabbermouth to work for counterintelligence. ("Melly, what do you do for work?" "I'm a spy...uh, I mean, a Coors light promo girl, obv.") But, betcha by golly, wow, I can make people laugh (I hope). So, I said to myself, you write that blog about awful men buying you delicious food. And you do it for AMERICA!!! And so, without further ado:
Let's talk about online dating profiles and pictures. Typically, I skip over the profiles that don't have any pictures. I immediately think they're either married or look like Sloth.
FYI, that's true hardly ever. One of the best looking men that I've ever dated didn't have a picture on his dating profile simply because he was a professor, and he didn't want to encounter any of his students. And a gorgeous female friend of mine didn't have her profile picture up because she felt like she was always being judged on her looks and she wanted someone to date her because she was intelligent and kind. But, that's where my mind goes when I'm contacted by a guy who has no picture.
Imagine my skepticism when I received a message via match that stated that we seemed to have a lot in common and that he'd like to take me out, but he had one dealbreaker: I couldn't ask for a picture because he wouldn't send it to me. According to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, he would much rather just meet for dinner or drinks in person. Initially, I thought that was a bit weird, but after a few messages back and forth that seemed to go ok, I gave him my number so that we could text as it's easier. At first, I wasn't sure if we were a match, but he did grow on me as the week went on. He finally asked if I would meet him for dinner, and he suggested that we go to Strip T's in Watertown
Now, here's a little background on Strip T's. It's f-ing delicious and has topped pretty much every "Best of Boston" list since it opened. So, I knew that he had good taste in restaurants. On the other hand, the general manager, Jonathan, is also an old friend who I've known forever. I'm talking we carpooled to Hebrew school together when we were kids. And, I had JUST been to Strip T's the week before for dinner with Andrea and her husband, where we had eaten them out of building and restaurant. I ultimately decided though that, even with the danger of bringing a man who could look like Sloth to my Hebrew school carpool-mate's restaurant and the danger of becoming known by the staff as a foodie groupie, it was a good place to go because as to first point, it's f-ing delicious.
Strip T's is very hard to get into without a reservation. So, I had mentioned to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth that he should make one. On Sunday, the night before our date, I received a text, "Were you serious about a reservation? How busy could it be on a Monday?" I'm not sure why this irritated me as much as it did. I think sometimes I have a tendency to be too hard on people when they don't do as I say. But that's only because I'm a genius and always right.
Luckily I could shoot a quick text to Jonathan and ask if he had any openings for a table for two for Monday night. In a text dripping with wisecrack (or so I imagine), J responded, "You mean for your date?"
Me: Yes! He didn't believe me when I said we prob needed one.
J: Well, make sure he pays.
When I arrived the next night (early as always so that I could get settled in before the fun started), I walked in to meet Jonathan at the door. Here's another reason that Strip T's is so awesome. Not only do they have delicious food, but Jonathan had provided the staff with instructions that I was on a blind first date, so that if I looked like I wasn't having a good time, they needed to get me the hell outta there fast. That's above and beyond typical restaurant service, you have to agree.
So, here we are at the "big reveal", let's run down the reasons that I was nervous about this date:
1.) My date could look like Sloth
2.) He never made a reservation, so seemed like kind of a slacker.
3.) I have a crush on the Strip T's waiter that was going to be serving us. So, I was nervous about making a fool of myself by continuously mentioning that this was a "first" date and a "blind" date, in order to give the appearance that I was still available.
As I stood there with Jonathan and the staff, and as we all ran down the plan ("People, if I sneeze, it means it's a total disaster and come over with the check even if there's still food left. No veal left behind! I will box it up!"), I got a text from Mr. Could Be Sloth..."Where are you? I'm inside".
Was Mr. Could-Be-Sloth actually Sloth? Did he even show up?? Did the unbelievably well thought-out and sophisticated sneezing plan work? Tune in next post and see!
But, then it dawned on me: it's important to laugh! It doesn't take away from remembering what happened or mourning the loss of such young and vibrant lives. It strengthens our resolve to carry on and show these horrible people that their actions do not affect us, our democracy, or our freedom to speak. I don't have any sniper training and I hate guns and violence, so I can't root out the bastards. And while the spy life looks glamorous, I'm way too much of a blabbermouth to work for counterintelligence. ("Melly, what do you do for work?" "I'm a spy...uh, I mean, a Coors light promo girl, obv.") But, betcha by golly, wow, I can make people laugh (I hope). So, I said to myself, you write that blog about awful men buying you delicious food. And you do it for AMERICA!!! And so, without further ado:
Let's talk about online dating profiles and pictures. Typically, I skip over the profiles that don't have any pictures. I immediately think they're either married or look like Sloth.
FYI, that's true hardly ever. One of the best looking men that I've ever dated didn't have a picture on his dating profile simply because he was a professor, and he didn't want to encounter any of his students. And a gorgeous female friend of mine didn't have her profile picture up because she felt like she was always being judged on her looks and she wanted someone to date her because she was intelligent and kind. But, that's where my mind goes when I'm contacted by a guy who has no picture.
Imagine my skepticism when I received a message via match that stated that we seemed to have a lot in common and that he'd like to take me out, but he had one dealbreaker: I couldn't ask for a picture because he wouldn't send it to me. According to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth, he would much rather just meet for dinner or drinks in person. Initially, I thought that was a bit weird, but after a few messages back and forth that seemed to go ok, I gave him my number so that we could text as it's easier. At first, I wasn't sure if we were a match, but he did grow on me as the week went on. He finally asked if I would meet him for dinner, and he suggested that we go to Strip T's in Watertown
Now, here's a little background on Strip T's. It's f-ing delicious and has topped pretty much every "Best of Boston" list since it opened. So, I knew that he had good taste in restaurants. On the other hand, the general manager, Jonathan, is also an old friend who I've known forever. I'm talking we carpooled to Hebrew school together when we were kids. And, I had JUST been to Strip T's the week before for dinner with Andrea and her husband, where we had eaten them out of building and restaurant. I ultimately decided though that, even with the danger of bringing a man who could look like Sloth to my Hebrew school carpool-mate's restaurant and the danger of becoming known by the staff as a foodie groupie, it was a good place to go because as to first point, it's f-ing delicious.
Strip T's is very hard to get into without a reservation. So, I had mentioned to Mr. Could-Be-Sloth that he should make one. On Sunday, the night before our date, I received a text, "Were you serious about a reservation? How busy could it be on a Monday?" I'm not sure why this irritated me as much as it did. I think sometimes I have a tendency to be too hard on people when they don't do as I say. But that's only because I'm a genius and always right.
Luckily I could shoot a quick text to Jonathan and ask if he had any openings for a table for two for Monday night. In a text dripping with wisecrack (or so I imagine), J responded, "You mean for your date?"
Me: Yes! He didn't believe me when I said we prob needed one.
J: Well, make sure he pays.
When I arrived the next night (early as always so that I could get settled in before the fun started), I walked in to meet Jonathan at the door. Here's another reason that Strip T's is so awesome. Not only do they have delicious food, but Jonathan had provided the staff with instructions that I was on a blind first date, so that if I looked like I wasn't having a good time, they needed to get me the hell outta there fast. That's above and beyond typical restaurant service, you have to agree.
So, here we are at the "big reveal", let's run down the reasons that I was nervous about this date:
1.) My date could look like Sloth
2.) He never made a reservation, so seemed like kind of a slacker.
3.) I have a crush on the Strip T's waiter that was going to be serving us. So, I was nervous about making a fool of myself by continuously mentioning that this was a "first" date and a "blind" date, in order to give the appearance that I was still available.
As I stood there with Jonathan and the staff, and as we all ran down the plan ("People, if I sneeze, it means it's a total disaster and come over with the check even if there's still food left. No veal left behind! I will box it up!"), I got a text from Mr. Could Be Sloth..."Where are you? I'm inside".
Was Mr. Could-Be-Sloth actually Sloth? Did he even show up?? Did the unbelievably well thought-out and sophisticated sneezing plan work? Tune in next post and see!
Friday, April 12, 2013
Crazy Pete two-ups Mr. Writer (A Mini-Story)
You may remember that one time I was so upset with one of my guys that it prompted me to create a flow chart. You may be surprised to find out that he's still on the fringe of my life. We talk every once in a while and see each other every so often. Stacy has changed his name from Mr. Writer to Mr. Personality, which I think suits him better for sarcasm's sake, as he's quite reserved when you meet him. She baptized him after we ran into him at the airport one day when we were returning from Los Angeles and he was flying out.
Anyway, while drinking at Second Glass's Wine Riot last weekend, I received this text:
The text took me by surprise as we had just been talking the week before about my moving to his neighborhood next month and his feeling that I was "invading his territory". So, it was out of the sky blue. Right away*, I took the normal action and obviously posted it to facebook so that my friends could see it.
Not to be outdone, three minutes later, I received this text from Crazy Pete:
Anyway, while drinking at Second Glass's Wine Riot last weekend, I received this text:
The text took me by surprise as we had just been talking the week before about my moving to his neighborhood next month and his feeling that I was "invading his territory". So, it was out of the sky blue. Right away*, I took the normal action and obviously posted it to facebook so that my friends could see it.
Not to be outdone, three minutes later, I received this text from Crazy Pete:
*It took thirty minutes to show everyone that I was with, and be taught how to make a screenshot on my iphone.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Christmas with the Other Family
The holidays are a time to spend with family. Sometimes that family isn't yours. Anyone who is a part of a "so-and so" and "so-and-so" usually has to make the decision of whether to spend the holidays with their significant other's family or with their own. The smart way to make the decision is to figure out which family will be having more fun. (My sister's boyfriend's famous line is "That sounds like something fun to do with your sisters" whenever my sister mentions some holiday-heavy event that he doesn't really want to go to, such as the Nutcracker or the Rockettes.) But, there are times when you don't have a choice in the matter.
A friend of mine, who I will call "C", recently told me a Christmas story.* Every year, C and her wife have a day with the wife's family when they exchange gifts Secret Santa style and take part in a Yankee swap. Every year, C mentions to her wife that she might sit out this year. But, at the wife's insistence that C sitting out will disappoint her family, C decides to participate.
Their Secret Santa is an elaborate process in which all of the names (C, wife, 2 sisters-in law, 2 brothers-in-law, and parents-in-law) are emailed to a friend, and then the friend emails them all back with their Secret Santa assignment.
This year, C was excited. For the Secret Santa, she had her mother-in-law and had bought a nice pair of leather gloves. For the Yankee swap, she had gotten a cool pair of earmuffs with built-in headphones, perfect for jogging or walking in the winter weather. Everyone gathered at Sister-in-Law #1's house. The gift exchange was underway! C watched everyone exchange gifts, and when the exchange was over, she looked down...at her empty lap.
You see, Brother-in-Law number #1 had "forgotten" to get C a gift. C would normally be understanding about something like this...except that this is the second time that this had happened. So, C sat there watching everyone open their presents. C's mother-in-law advised that she thought the new gloves that C gave her were the wrong size. C's sister-in-law went into another room and emerged wearing her brand new pajamas. And C sat with her empty hands and her visions of sugar plums.
And when it came time for the Yankee Swap, C got a lovely...jar opener.
When C and her wife returned home, her wife wearing her brand new gifted sweater, C casually mentioned that she probably would sit out the gift-giving the next year. To which her wife responded, "What? You have to. It means so much to my family!"
*Name has been changed to protect the innocent's marriage.
A friend of mine, who I will call "C", recently told me a Christmas story.* Every year, C and her wife have a day with the wife's family when they exchange gifts Secret Santa style and take part in a Yankee swap. Every year, C mentions to her wife that she might sit out this year. But, at the wife's insistence that C sitting out will disappoint her family, C decides to participate.
Their Secret Santa is an elaborate process in which all of the names (C, wife, 2 sisters-in law, 2 brothers-in-law, and parents-in-law) are emailed to a friend, and then the friend emails them all back with their Secret Santa assignment.
This year, C was excited. For the Secret Santa, she had her mother-in-law and had bought a nice pair of leather gloves. For the Yankee swap, she had gotten a cool pair of earmuffs with built-in headphones, perfect for jogging or walking in the winter weather. Everyone gathered at Sister-in-Law #1's house. The gift exchange was underway! C watched everyone exchange gifts, and when the exchange was over, she looked down...at her empty lap.
You see, Brother-in-Law number #1 had "forgotten" to get C a gift. C would normally be understanding about something like this...except that this is the second time that this had happened. So, C sat there watching everyone open their presents. C's mother-in-law advised that she thought the new gloves that C gave her were the wrong size. C's sister-in-law went into another room and emerged wearing her brand new pajamas. And C sat with her empty hands and her visions of sugar plums.
And when it came time for the Yankee Swap, C got a lovely...jar opener.
When C and her wife returned home, her wife wearing her brand new gifted sweater, C casually mentioned that she probably would sit out the gift-giving the next year. To which her wife responded, "What? You have to. It means so much to my family!"
*Name has been changed to protect the innocent's marriage.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Steve and the Cowboy
I recently visited my friend from college, Steve, in Los Angeles. We had a great time! We even talked him into Disneyland, which is like at the bottom of the list of places you want to go to when you live in L.A.
One of the funniest things about Steve is that he doesn't watch television and doesn't really pay much attention to who sings what or who's in what movie. So, while he lives in L.A., and knows famous people, he has absolutely no idea that they're famous. Here are a few examples:
Example #1 (relayed to me by Patrick):
Steve: My friend, Neil, is on some dance show that I think you like.
Patrick: WHAT DANCE SHOW??
Steve: I think it's called So You Can Dance or something?
Patrick: Are you KIDDING me?? You're friends with 2007 So You Think You Can Dance Third-Place finisher Neil Haskell??????
Steve: I guess so.
Example #2 (after I saw Steve tagged in a facebook photo with one of my favorite actresses, Lizzy Caplan):
Me: Are you seriously in a facebook photo with Lizzy Caplan?
Steve: She's a friend of a friend. How do you know Lizzy?
Me: Are you seriously asking me how I know Lizzy Caplan?
Steve rarely cares when I let him know who these people actually are. But, on this visit, I was finally able to excite him about someone he had encountered in his past, that he didn't know he had encountered. While Steve, my sister, Stacy, and I were lounging around in the Roosevelt hotel lobby, Steve told us a story about something that had happened with him there one night.
It had happened the weekend of the Country Music Awards. Hollywood had been overrun with men in cowboy hats and boots and puffed out chests hanging out with women who were way too pretty to be hanging out with them. It also happened to be Steve's birthday, so he and his friends had gone out for drinks at the Hollywood version of a local dive. Steve, being the generous guy that he is, decided to buy one of the cowboys (let's call him Yosemite Sam because that's who I'm picturing in this story) and his way too pretty girlfriend a drink, stating excitedly, "It's my birthday! I'm buying drinks! I'll buy YOU a drink and YOU a drink!!" Yosemite Sam and PG acted grateful and wished him happy birthday and accepted the drinks. But, then while Steve was in the bathroom, Yosemite Sam exclaimed to the guys next to him (who happened to be Steve's friends), "Can you BELIEVE that guy??"
Now, rightfully, Steve's friends were bothered by this. Here was Steve, nice enough to buy Yosemite Sam and his girl a drink, on his own birthday, which they accepted. But, then the moment, Steve walks away, Yosemite Sam starts badmouthing him? So, they began to call him out on his assholery. Steve, coming back from the bathroom, is wondering why his friends are being mean to his new buddies. And, Steve and his friends leave.
Out on Hollywood Boulevard, Steve and friends are being followed by Yosemite Sam and a disinterested gigantic black man, who is most likely Yosemite Sam's bodyguard and probably has been through this song and dance before, even earlier that night, and who is just kind of lacklusterly watching the scene unfold. Steve's friends had explained to Steve, in the meantime, what Yosemite Sam had said, and now Steve is thinking "what in tarnation is that lily-livered bowlegged varmint thinking?", or so I imagine. So, Steve also starts getting in Yosemite Sam's face. Yosemite Sam is inexplicably hopping mad and throwing gibes at Steve and friends, hoping to insult their patriotism, but not being very good at it. Gibes like, "How many things do you have memorized?" "I bet you can't even name all the states." "My boots cost more than your HOUSE, City F*cks". Steve and his friends just looked at him in blank disbelief. At this point, Yosemite Sam started naming off books of the Bible (to prove how Christian American he is??)...and I mean, not like the ones that we all know, like Genesis and Matthew. Books like "the book of Habbakkuk" and "Zephaniah".
Steve and friends, by this point, have made it to the Roosevelt Hotel and enter it by bypassing the locked side door and going through the back. As Steve's milling around through the hotel, he hears yelling. He goes to the locked side glass door, and there's Yosemite Sam outside on the other side. The door was still locked from the outside, but Steve could have opened it from within. Yosemite Sam starts banging on the glass, yelling "LET US IN!" And Steve, with his face inches away from the glass, yells, "No! You were MEAN to me!" And Yosemite Sam's biscuits were burning. He begins to threaten to kick Steve's ass.
At this point, it finally dawns on Yosemite Sam that Steve and friends must have been able to get inside somehow. At the same time, Steve and friends are amped up and ready to "take it outside". So, both parties hightail it to the back door at the same time, and almost pass each other as Steve and friends run out and Yosemite Sam runs (and bored bodyguard saunters) in. *cue Benny Hill Yakkety Sax music* It should have been "go-time", but Steve and friends started to see the humor in the situation with all the chest-puffing and bemusedly decide to go off laughing into the night, leaving Yosemite Sam with smoke coming out of his ears outside the Roosevelt Hotel.
At the end of this tale, I asked Steve the real identity of Yosemite Sam. He responded, "Some country singer guy named John something or other."
I replied, "John who?"
Steve texted his friend to find out the answer..."John Rich. I don't know who he is."
I said, "Steve! You know who he is! He's in that Big & Rich group."
Steve just shook his head.
I said, "You know that song? 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy'?"
Steve's eyes grew wide. He exclaimed, "That song??!!! I chest-puffed with the guy who sings THAT SONG??!!"
All in all, I find this story and Steve's realization of who his attacker was hilarious. Hopefully, Steve has learned that sometimes situations are better when you "know people"...and that the Roosevelt Hotel is a good place to "ride a cowboy"...wait, that didn't come out right.
One of the funniest things about Steve is that he doesn't watch television and doesn't really pay much attention to who sings what or who's in what movie. So, while he lives in L.A., and knows famous people, he has absolutely no idea that they're famous. Here are a few examples:
Example #1 (relayed to me by Patrick):
Steve: My friend, Neil, is on some dance show that I think you like.
Patrick: WHAT DANCE SHOW??
Steve: I think it's called So You Can Dance or something?
Patrick: Are you KIDDING me?? You're friends with 2007 So You Think You Can Dance Third-Place finisher Neil Haskell??????
Steve: I guess so.
Example #2 (after I saw Steve tagged in a facebook photo with one of my favorite actresses, Lizzy Caplan):
Me: Are you seriously in a facebook photo with Lizzy Caplan?
Steve: She's a friend of a friend. How do you know Lizzy?
Me: Are you seriously asking me how I know Lizzy Caplan?
Steve rarely cares when I let him know who these people actually are. But, on this visit, I was finally able to excite him about someone he had encountered in his past, that he didn't know he had encountered. While Steve, my sister, Stacy, and I were lounging around in the Roosevelt hotel lobby, Steve told us a story about something that had happened with him there one night.
It had happened the weekend of the Country Music Awards. Hollywood had been overrun with men in cowboy hats and boots and puffed out chests hanging out with women who were way too pretty to be hanging out with them. It also happened to be Steve's birthday, so he and his friends had gone out for drinks at the Hollywood version of a local dive. Steve, being the generous guy that he is, decided to buy one of the cowboys (let's call him Yosemite Sam because that's who I'm picturing in this story) and his way too pretty girlfriend a drink, stating excitedly, "It's my birthday! I'm buying drinks! I'll buy YOU a drink and YOU a drink!!" Yosemite Sam and PG acted grateful and wished him happy birthday and accepted the drinks. But, then while Steve was in the bathroom, Yosemite Sam exclaimed to the guys next to him (who happened to be Steve's friends), "Can you BELIEVE that guy??"
Now, rightfully, Steve's friends were bothered by this. Here was Steve, nice enough to buy Yosemite Sam and his girl a drink, on his own birthday, which they accepted. But, then the moment, Steve walks away, Yosemite Sam starts badmouthing him? So, they began to call him out on his assholery. Steve, coming back from the bathroom, is wondering why his friends are being mean to his new buddies. And, Steve and his friends leave.
Out on Hollywood Boulevard, Steve and friends are being followed by Yosemite Sam and a disinterested gigantic black man, who is most likely Yosemite Sam's bodyguard and probably has been through this song and dance before, even earlier that night, and who is just kind of lacklusterly watching the scene unfold. Steve's friends had explained to Steve, in the meantime, what Yosemite Sam had said, and now Steve is thinking "what in tarnation is that lily-livered bowlegged varmint thinking?", or so I imagine. So, Steve also starts getting in Yosemite Sam's face. Yosemite Sam is inexplicably hopping mad and throwing gibes at Steve and friends, hoping to insult their patriotism, but not being very good at it. Gibes like, "How many things do you have memorized?" "I bet you can't even name all the states." "My boots cost more than your HOUSE, City F*cks". Steve and his friends just looked at him in blank disbelief. At this point, Yosemite Sam started naming off books of the Bible (to prove how Christian American he is??)...and I mean, not like the ones that we all know, like Genesis and Matthew. Books like "the book of Habbakkuk" and "Zephaniah".
Steve and friends, by this point, have made it to the Roosevelt Hotel and enter it by bypassing the locked side door and going through the back. As Steve's milling around through the hotel, he hears yelling. He goes to the locked side glass door, and there's Yosemite Sam outside on the other side. The door was still locked from the outside, but Steve could have opened it from within. Yosemite Sam starts banging on the glass, yelling "LET US IN!" And Steve, with his face inches away from the glass, yells, "No! You were MEAN to me!" And Yosemite Sam's biscuits were burning. He begins to threaten to kick Steve's ass.
At this point, it finally dawns on Yosemite Sam that Steve and friends must have been able to get inside somehow. At the same time, Steve and friends are amped up and ready to "take it outside". So, both parties hightail it to the back door at the same time, and almost pass each other as Steve and friends run out and Yosemite Sam runs (and bored bodyguard saunters) in. *cue Benny Hill Yakkety Sax music* It should have been "go-time", but Steve and friends started to see the humor in the situation with all the chest-puffing and bemusedly decide to go off laughing into the night, leaving Yosemite Sam with smoke coming out of his ears outside the Roosevelt Hotel.
At the end of this tale, I asked Steve the real identity of Yosemite Sam. He responded, "Some country singer guy named John something or other."
I replied, "John who?"
Steve texted his friend to find out the answer..."John Rich. I don't know who he is."
I said, "Steve! You know who he is! He's in that Big & Rich group."
Steve just shook his head.
I said, "You know that song? 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy'?"
Steve's eyes grew wide. He exclaimed, "That song??!!! I chest-puffed with the guy who sings THAT SONG??!!"
All in all, I find this story and Steve's realization of who his attacker was hilarious. Hopefully, Steve has learned that sometimes situations are better when you "know people"...and that the Roosevelt Hotel is a good place to "ride a cowboy"...wait, that didn't come out right.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Wine Wedding Part 3: Congrats Sally and Tom and Greg and Emma!
So, bed bugs and bad bartenders notwithstanding, we arrived at the wedding on Sunday evening. It was held at the Ocean Edge Resort in Brewster. The wedding ceremony itself was right on the beach. Patrick had the honor of being an usher. He decided to channel his inner-Usher by inexplicably singing Ne-Yo songs to the wedding guests as he pointed the way.
I cried when Sally came down the steps to the beach. She's a natural beauty, doesn't wear make up really, never dresses up. So, when she walked down the aisle, to see her in her dress with these beautiful blonde curls around her shoulders, she was just so stunning. And the look on Tom's face said it all.
After a beautiful ceremony, we headed down to the reception, where I got to meet up with Andrea and her husband, Erik. I've come to expect oysters whenever Andrea's around, even if she's not the one planning the menu. The Ocean Edge people are just lucky that they delivered me some. After cocktail hour on the patio, we headed inside. Pat and I were lucky to be sitting at the hot guy table...with all of their wives and girlfriends. Sally had told Pat and me that there were 12 Tufts people, and only 10 per table, so she had sat us at what she thought would be the most fun and the most drunk at the wedding. If Pat and I had been sitting at a table for two, we probably would have been the most fun and the most drunk table. But, Sally was right. We did have a great time at our table!
I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned before that the reason that Sally and Pat and I became so close is that we all danced with Tufts Dance Collective when we were in college. As a result, Sally's wedding was fortunate enough to experience the easiest and fastest transition between Bride and Groom's first dance and getting people onto the dance floor ever. We were up before the band even got out their first "La".
I cried when Sally came down the steps to the beach. She's a natural beauty, doesn't wear make up really, never dresses up. So, when she walked down the aisle, to see her in her dress with these beautiful blonde curls around her shoulders, she was just so stunning. And the look on Tom's face said it all.
After a beautiful ceremony, we headed down to the reception, where I got to meet up with Andrea and her husband, Erik. I've come to expect oysters whenever Andrea's around, even if she's not the one planning the menu. The Ocean Edge people are just lucky that they delivered me some. After cocktail hour on the patio, we headed inside. Pat and I were lucky to be sitting at the hot guy table...with all of their wives and girlfriends. Sally had told Pat and me that there were 12 Tufts people, and only 10 per table, so she had sat us at what she thought would be the most fun and the most drunk at the wedding. If Pat and I had been sitting at a table for two, we probably would have been the most fun and the most drunk table. But, Sally was right. We did have a great time at our table!
I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned before that the reason that Sally and Pat and I became so close is that we all danced with Tufts Dance Collective when we were in college. As a result, Sally's wedding was fortunate enough to experience the easiest and fastest transition between Bride and Groom's first dance and getting people onto the dance floor ever. We were up before the band even got out their first "La".
During a dance break, bridesmaid Tara and I decided to take a walk around the grounds. After talking to some waiters, we heard that there was a gigantic wedding happening in the building next door. So, Tara and I did what anyone would do. We crashed it. Luckily, there was a photobooth set up there. We left "Greg and Emma" a keepsake in their wedding photo album that hopefully they will cherish forever. Their copy doesn't have any pizza sauce on it.
In all seriousness, I couldn't be happier for Sally and Tom. I must admit that it took me a while to get to know Tom, but I fell in love with him that weekend because it's so clear how right he is for Sally. As Pat accurately described, Sally and Tom were on the "verge of tears of joy" for most of the day, which led us to be on the verge of tears of joy for them. We were all really touched by the bride and groom. And then, we were literally touched by the bride and groom. We all received complimentary lap dances on the shuttle ride home.
The whole wedding weekend was so much fun...as evidenced by these before and after pictures...
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| Before |
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| After |
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Wine Wedding Part 2: Wreaking havoc on Orleans
I got quite a bit of flak yesterday for my picture book of a post, but I like that because it keeps me motivated to write more. You're all true friends. So, we left off three bottles of wine in and about to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.
The dinner was held at Tom (the groom)'s parents' house. They have a lovely house in Harwich with their own private beach. It was truly a special event that I'm lucky that I got to attend. But, what I really want to talk about is the dinner itself. The food--incredible. It was a backyard barbecue complete with chicken, pulled pork, and some of the best macaroni and cheese that I've ever had in my entire life. The actual people that catered it--new to catering.
I walked up to this conversation between the groom and the bartender:
Tom: Could I have a Long Trail please?
Bartender: Sorry?
Tom: A Long Trail
Bartender (pointing to rum): This?
Tom: No, the beer.
Bartender: (Looks blank)
Tom (pointing to the bottle of beer on the table): A Long Trail
Bartender (picking up the beer and looking at it with confusion): Oh. Sorry.
The groom's father had to provide a lesson to the bartender on how not to skimp on the alcohol. I think that this is all partly because the bartender was 18 years old and maybe not as schooled in wine and beer as the rest of us.
But, perhaps my favorite part of the night was what was on Pescatarian Julia's plate. See, for an appetizer, we had this delicious smoked fish. Sally had mentioned to Julia that she ordered scallops for Julia's meal (even though Julia was perfectly happy with the mac and cheese). When we get to the grill...there are no scallops. The barbecuer, who was dressed in a sailor's outfit with a captain's hat, looked at us like his crew had just sent him out to sea on a raft. He said that he didn't have scallops, but he did have some fish, if we would just give him a few minutes to get it ready. A few minutes later, Julia returns to the table with a piece of the smoked fish appetizer warmed up on the barbecue grill. Got to hand it to the captain though. He's an improviser!
After the dinner was over, we headed back to Orleans to the Lost Dog Pub. Coincidentally, Sally had planned a night at the Lost Dog on the wedding itinerary without knowing that Julia's friend's brother's band was playing there that night. The result...we brought about a crowd of 25-30 people, in addition to the ones that were already there. It may be true that Orleans had never seen this many people in one place. I passed a lot of time amusedly watching people walk through the entrance, see the crowd, roll their eyes, and walk back out again. The rest of the time, I passed watching Patrick. A lot of Sally's wedding guests decided that this would be a good weekend to try a dirty martini. Most of them didn't like it. Most of it ended up in Patrick's glass. The upside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis and didn't spend a dime. The downside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis. By the end of the night, he was "I love you. You're my best friend." drunk.
On his way home, he and Becky, decided to lie in a field on the side of the road and exclaim (quite loudly) how beautiful the stars were. How do I know that they exclaimed loudly when I wasn't there, you ask? Because according to Pat, after about ten minutes of star-gazing exclamations, a nearby neighbor yelled out of his window, "END THIS NOW!!!" So, they did. On their way home, for some reason that I've yet to understand, Becky went one way and Patrick went the other. While Becky was walking, a police officer pulled over to her and asked, "Have you seen two drunks wandering around?" Of course, to which Becky convincingly replied, "Noooo". Let this be a lesson to you. Always split up after someone yells to you from a neighboring window when you're lying in a field looking at stars. The cops can't be far behind.
Meanwhile, I was having my own adventure. After saying goodbye to Patrick (Me: I'll see you back at the house. P: Ok, I love you. You are one of my best friends. I love you so much. Me: I love you too. I'll see you in a bit. P: I'm totally serious. I love you. I think I'm going to cry I love you so much. Me: Don't cry.), I went back to the Cove House and got ready for bed.
As I mentioned before, I have issues. All I could smell was camp. All I could think of was that the bed was too soft. All I could hear was a drip drip drip coming from somewhere and it sounded like it was getting closer. But, I said to myself, "Mel, you can do this. Just close your eyes. Go to sleep. You'll be fine in the morning." I don't like to indulge myself in my crazies. Just as I was about to close my eyes, a beetle flew around my head and landed right next to my face on the pillow. I freaked out like someone had told me to put the lotion in the basket. I murdered the beetle. Then, after a half hour of lying there and not being able to sleep. I packed up, texted Pat what had happened, and drove 50 minutes to my mom's house to sleep there.
Just to tell you how perfect my friends are: the next day when I returned, Sally and the bridesmaids had left to get ready for the big day. Pat was still at the Cove House. Pat told me, "Sally heard what happened and left you a present on your bed." I said, "Oh! That is really sweet!" You know that saying, "A good friend helps you up when you fall. A best friend laughs at you and says, 'Walk much, dumbass'"? Here's my present from Sally:
Next up, the WEDDING DAY!
The dinner was held at Tom (the groom)'s parents' house. They have a lovely house in Harwich with their own private beach. It was truly a special event that I'm lucky that I got to attend. But, what I really want to talk about is the dinner itself. The food--incredible. It was a backyard barbecue complete with chicken, pulled pork, and some of the best macaroni and cheese that I've ever had in my entire life. The actual people that catered it--new to catering.
I walked up to this conversation between the groom and the bartender:
Tom: Could I have a Long Trail please?
Bartender: Sorry?
Tom: A Long Trail
Bartender (pointing to rum): This?
Tom: No, the beer.
Bartender: (Looks blank)
Tom (pointing to the bottle of beer on the table): A Long Trail
Bartender (picking up the beer and looking at it with confusion): Oh. Sorry.
The groom's father had to provide a lesson to the bartender on how not to skimp on the alcohol. I think that this is all partly because the bartender was 18 years old and maybe not as schooled in wine and beer as the rest of us.
But, perhaps my favorite part of the night was what was on Pescatarian Julia's plate. See, for an appetizer, we had this delicious smoked fish. Sally had mentioned to Julia that she ordered scallops for Julia's meal (even though Julia was perfectly happy with the mac and cheese). When we get to the grill...there are no scallops. The barbecuer, who was dressed in a sailor's outfit with a captain's hat, looked at us like his crew had just sent him out to sea on a raft. He said that he didn't have scallops, but he did have some fish, if we would just give him a few minutes to get it ready. A few minutes later, Julia returns to the table with a piece of the smoked fish appetizer warmed up on the barbecue grill. Got to hand it to the captain though. He's an improviser!
After the dinner was over, we headed back to Orleans to the Lost Dog Pub. Coincidentally, Sally had planned a night at the Lost Dog on the wedding itinerary without knowing that Julia's friend's brother's band was playing there that night. The result...we brought about a crowd of 25-30 people, in addition to the ones that were already there. It may be true that Orleans had never seen this many people in one place. I passed a lot of time amusedly watching people walk through the entrance, see the crowd, roll their eyes, and walk back out again. The rest of the time, I passed watching Patrick. A lot of Sally's wedding guests decided that this would be a good weekend to try a dirty martini. Most of them didn't like it. Most of it ended up in Patrick's glass. The upside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis and didn't spend a dime. The downside is that he had 8 or 9 dirty martinis. By the end of the night, he was "I love you. You're my best friend." drunk.
On his way home, he and Becky, decided to lie in a field on the side of the road and exclaim (quite loudly) how beautiful the stars were. How do I know that they exclaimed loudly when I wasn't there, you ask? Because according to Pat, after about ten minutes of star-gazing exclamations, a nearby neighbor yelled out of his window, "END THIS NOW!!!" So, they did. On their way home, for some reason that I've yet to understand, Becky went one way and Patrick went the other. While Becky was walking, a police officer pulled over to her and asked, "Have you seen two drunks wandering around?" Of course, to which Becky convincingly replied, "Noooo". Let this be a lesson to you. Always split up after someone yells to you from a neighboring window when you're lying in a field looking at stars. The cops can't be far behind.
Meanwhile, I was having my own adventure. After saying goodbye to Patrick (Me: I'll see you back at the house. P: Ok, I love you. You are one of my best friends. I love you so much. Me: I love you too. I'll see you in a bit. P: I'm totally serious. I love you. I think I'm going to cry I love you so much. Me: Don't cry.), I went back to the Cove House and got ready for bed.
As I mentioned before, I have issues. All I could smell was camp. All I could think of was that the bed was too soft. All I could hear was a drip drip drip coming from somewhere and it sounded like it was getting closer. But, I said to myself, "Mel, you can do this. Just close your eyes. Go to sleep. You'll be fine in the morning." I don't like to indulge myself in my crazies. Just as I was about to close my eyes, a beetle flew around my head and landed right next to my face on the pillow. I freaked out like someone had told me to put the lotion in the basket. I murdered the beetle. Then, after a half hour of lying there and not being able to sleep. I packed up, texted Pat what had happened, and drove 50 minutes to my mom's house to sleep there.
Just to tell you how perfect my friends are: the next day when I returned, Sally and the bridesmaids had left to get ready for the big day. Pat was still at the Cove House. Pat told me, "Sally heard what happened and left you a present on your bed." I said, "Oh! That is really sweet!" You know that saying, "A good friend helps you up when you fall. A best friend laughs at you and says, 'Walk much, dumbass'"? Here's my present from Sally:
Next up, the WEDDING DAY!
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