Go To The Dentist

I haven’t been in four years. I have one cavity and I need to floss more, which is consistent with what every other dentist has ever told me—about flossing, that is. I’ve only had two other cavities.

I went yesterday and oh man, was it unpleasant. I’m one of those people who really dislikes having a stranger stick sharp metal instruments in my mouth. And the toothpaste always tastes nasty. I have to go back the week of July 4th to get the cavity filled. Happy Independence Day to me!

What else did I do on my day off yesterday? Bought new sheets at K-Mart—the expensive kind from Land’s End. And I got a nice beach towel to replace my ratty old Sponge Bob one I’ve had since high school.

Then Jake came to pick me up in his Unimog and I really wish I liked him more because it would be so worth it to be able to have access to this thing all the time. Seriously, look at it:

AMAZING. But really uncomfortable. The engine is basically inside the cab and gets wicked hot and when it rains, as we found out last night on the way back from trivia, it is not leak-proof.

Still, a pretty awesome beach vehicle.

I know it’s early in the season, but you can really tell that the summer people are here already, and I’m basing this solely off of the snippets of conversation I overhear and how the women dress.

For example, Monday night I had a table of six—two moms and their kids—and the mothers were talking to each other like this: “I think I’m going to have a beer.” “Oh you should. You totally deserve it.” “I am. I am going to have a beer.” “You go girl!”

I wish I was exaggerating. It all sounds so fake and Real Housewife-y. Like the day I went to Indian Wells and there was a group of middle-aged women in their fancy cover-ups and Lululemon capri yoga pants and a couple of them were like, “We’re going to check out the food truck.” “Obviously we’re the ones eating on our exercise walk!” “Do you have any money?” “No, but I have my credit card number memorized! Hahahaha!” Ugh, no, stop. Materialism is not something that should be celebrated.

That’s what these people do—they come out here to celebrate themselves SO HARD. I can’t even take credit for that observation—Pete the bartender came up with it. He texted me one night to say, “At the EH Grill. Never seen people celebrate themselves so much.” I go on vacation to relax. The people who come out here to vacation do it to be seen and to see and judge others. And to feel fabulous about their wealth and possessions.

Yeah, and I recognize that further up in the post I specifically mention that I bought the expensive kind of sheets from K-Mart. I guess the difference for me is I don’t define myself by my purchases? Not that I think a lot of these people realize or admit that that’s what they’re doing, but think about it. I think there was a Vanity Fair or some similar magazine interview with Keira Knightly and she said something like, “I work hard to not be defined by the things I own.” And at first it’s like, well, yeah. That sounds kind of awful. But then you think about and it and what kind of shit must you own to potentially be sucked into deriving your identity from it? Oh, maybe something like a Maserati, a 30 million dollar house, an Hermés Birkin. Not the stuff I have: a five year-old laptop, a set of nice sheets from K-Mart, a Joy of Cooking, a couple of those energy saver light bulbs that cost more than the regular kind. You know what I mean?

I’m descending into bitterness. Leah’s getting her shit taken care of today, so I’m off to be supportive and all that.

And then…

I found Leah in the women’s bathroom crying.

“I feel like such a fuck up,” she bawled.

Over her shoulder I read the graffiti scrawled in blue Sharpie, “Larry is a scumbag.” Well okay, I thought.

“You’re not. Stop. You’re doing the right thing. You’re being responsible about this. It wasn’t your fault.” I go through all the platitudes that I can think of that might comfort her.

“I know,” said Leah. “But I’d heard about certain antibiotics cancelling out birth control…why didn’t I pay more attention or look it up? This could so easily have been avoided.” She rubbed under her eyes where her mascara had smeared.

“Don’t do that—you’ll break the skin.” I took hand moisturizer out of my bag and dabbed some below her eyes then wiped it away with a bit of tissue. “There. It’s like cold cream.”

She looked at herself in the mirror. “That is an improvement,” she said, sounding despondent.

“Look,” I said. “You screwed up. You’re taking care of it. You’re also drunk right now which is making you extra emotional on top of all those hormones your lady-parts are giving off. Reality is more intense than usual. Wake up tomorrow, take a shower, and shake it off. We’re all supporting you and you’ll get through this and it will be just another experience added to the long list of crazy stuff that will happen to you during your life.” I tried to look into her eyes but they were dull and unfocused. Time to get her home.

“I guess,” she sniffed.

Leah is normally my rock. Her family is solid, like a Norman Rockwell painting: loving, caring, traditional, kind. She has a great relationship with her parents and Silas and she’s one of the most fun, normal people I know. Hardly any baggage, which I guess is about to change.

“Okay,” I said. “Time to leave.” I know what it’s like to feel despair, and a shitty bar on a crowded night when you’ve been drinking and fallen into a self-pitying funk is not the place to be.

I reached over and untwisted her bra strap.

“El!” she cried and threw her arms around my neck. “What would I do without you?”

I patted her back. “Alright drunky, let’s go.”

“You don’t understand, I really love you!” Leah slurred.

“I’m sure you do.” This was beginning to become comedic.

I propelled her through the bathroom doors and into the bar, craning my neck to look for Silas. I wasn’t entirely sober either and it took me a minute to spot him, almost a head and shoulders above the rest. He was talking to some blonde girl and I felt a little twinge something I didn’t feel comfortable identifying as jealousy. “C’mon,” I said and gave Leah a little push in his direction.

He hadn’t seen us. I poked him in the back and he turned around quickly, glaring. “She needs to go home,” I said. Leah smiled beatifically, listing to the right.

“Easy there, killer,” said Silas. He reached out to straighten her.

“Well?” I said.

“Well what?”

“Are we going?” I tapped my foot.

Silas turned to the blonde. “Excuse me,” he said. She smiled at him. I smiled at her. Step off. Where had that come from?

Just then, Jake came up behind us.

“I can walk them home,” he said.

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” I answered brightly. “That way you can stay and hang out with your friend, Silas.”

He scowled.

“C’mon Leah,” I gripped her hand and tugged her towards the door. “Thanks Jake!”

Leah waved happily to Silas as we left.

And that’s the story of how I ended up in my bed making out with Jake half an hour later.

Yeah, I’m not super proud of myself, but that’s like the story of my life. I read plenty of trashy romances and I’m not trying to be like some dumb heroine who’s like, “Oh, I don’t feel jealous. Couldn’t possibly—I don’t like him at all.” No, at least I’m honest with myself: I’m way more into Silas than Jake but I was also lonely and Jake was there and maybe I hooked up with him to get back at Silas for flirting with that blonde which is totally dumb, but there it is.

Anyway, Jake’s a good kisser so it all worked out. He did not spend the night—I kicked him out after I heard Silas come home and slam the front door to the main house. He definitely wanted to spend the night, but I’m not giving it away for free these days.

Um…but we do have plans to go out for dinner? I couldn’t really say, “Sorry, I’m just using you to feel better about myself and to try to make this other guy I’m way more into jealous. Plus you talk too much about boats and fishing and while those things are interesting it would be nice if you asked me about myself once and a while.” Boys, ugh.

I think we’re going to Zum Schneiders maybe later this week? At least I get a free meal…

Live Your Life With Reckless Abandon…Said No One Ever

Here’s why I don’t go out much: I dislike most people.

I dislike the girls tottering on high heels, the girls with shrieky voices who shriek at each other in delight, or anger, or just to communicate in general. I dislike the girls who elbow me out of my spot at the bar, the girls I see obviously flirting with the bartender for free drinks. Like, I actually have money and am above batting my eyelashes so shove over and let me get my Seabreeze.

I dislike the dudes who violently high-five one another. The bros who wear sunglasses inside, at night, in a dark bar. The finance guys who have their Sperry Top Siders, their JCrew pastel shorts, and their Ralph Lauren shirts with collars popped. I will say I’m impressed by how well they all conform. I mostly dislike the dudes who talk loudly about which chicks they’ve banged, are trying to bang, would like to bang, are bangable.

In rare moments of clarity I recognize that my friends and I are just as asinine when we go out, but I happen to like my friends so our jerkiness doesn’t bother me as much. Hey, I was in college once. I even bartended. I know how to get irresponsibly wasted and make a fool out of myself. I’m actually pretty good at it.

But now my responsibilities extend past a ten-page paper and I’m not on vacation so I generally don’t.

Except for last night.

I’m sure this blog gives the impression that I might have a teensy drinking problem. I don’t, I swear. I’m sober 90% of the week and when I do drink I usually don’t drink like I did last night. It’s just, well, see the posts further down to read about my tale of woe.

So I’m at the bar with Leah and Silas and Sarah and I’m sitting there like Daria: HATING EVERYONE. Everyone is stupid and immature and smells like a mix of Aqua Di Gió, sweat, and try-hard, and the only solution was to drink and then drink some more.

By the time I looked up from my third Seabreeze (I wasn’t kidding) I was buzzed. And then Jake came over and bought shots because he “hadn’t seen me in a while.”

Oh Jake, you know the way to a girl’s heart.

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Classic Waitressing: XLI: Father’s Day And Terrible Karma

This Father’s Day, I told a customer my dad was dead. This may be offensive to some, so read on with caution.

The first restaurant I ever worked at told us on Father’s Day to not say “Happy Father’s Day!” to the customers. Our manager: “You don’t know their situation. Their dad could be dead, he could have been an awful person, he could have been absent, etc. These people are coming out for a meal on a special day and many of them will be with someone who looks like he could be a father, but you just don’t know. Give them great service with a smile, the way you usually do, and that’s it.”

I really took this to heart. It’s no one’s business what I do, or do not do, on Father’s Day, and it’s no one’s business if I have a “happy” one.

Cut to last night.

I take the drink order on Table 2. “What’s your name?” the older man asks. He’s with a younger man who could be his son—I don’t know! I didn’t ask!

“Eloise.”

“And have you had a chance to celebrate Father’s Day, Eloise?” he leans forward in eager anticipation of my response. Already the warning bells are going off in my head.

“No, not yet.” I shrug to indicate this is not a big deal.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Well, me neither. My father’s been dead for a while. Where’s your father? Will you get a chance to celebrate with him later?”

“My father’s dead, too.” In a split second I have decided to teach this well-meaning gentleman a lesson on behalf of everyone who doesn’t have a great relationship with their dad, or whose dad was a terrible person, or whose dad is actually deceased. The words are out of my mouth before I can reconsider. I flush with shame because part of me cannot believe I actually said it and part of me is stubborn and wayyy pissed off at this nosy customer.

His face falls a little. “Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry. You’re just so young, I didn’t think…Well, hopefully you have great memories with him.” He smiles encouragingly.

Really dude? It wasn’t bad enough you had to remind me of my dead father, but now you’re trying to get me to recall all the wonderful memories I have with him? What if the memories are not so great? Would you get up and walk out of the restaurant if I told you my father raped and beat me?* Because some fathers do that and it would be really shitty if you were the guy making your waitress have to confront all that while she’s forced to interact with you because that’s how she makes money to support herself. Dick.

“Mmm…sure,” I mumble and run away to put in the drink order.

*My dad is not dead, nor has he ever raped or beat me. I just…can’t deal with people and their tactlessness sometimes.

Waitressing: CXX: All The Small Things

I spend a lot of time at work yelling in my head at customers.

Example: last night a table, within two minutes of being seated motioned me over.

“We’re ready to order,” said the man.

“Great,” I said.

“Do you have burgers?”

HOW CAN YOU BE READY TO ORDER IF YOU HAVEN’T EVEN LOOKED AT THE MENU? LITERALLY ALL WE HAVE ARE BURGERS.

“I’d like a burger.”

THAT’S NOT A COMPLETE ORDER! HOW DO YOU WANT IT COOKED? DO YOU WANT CHEESE?”

“How would you like it cooked?”

“Medium.”

“Would you like cheese?”

“Mmmm…mozzarella.”

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU PICKED THE ONE CHEESE WE DO NOT HAVE. YOU ARE HITTING IT OUT OF THE PARK.

“We have cheddar, American, Swiss, or blue.”

“Mmmm…cheddar. Does it come with fries?”

OF COURSE IT COMES WITH FRIES. IT SAYS SO RIGHT THERE ON THE MENU YOU DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO LOOK AT. WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT?

“I want to kill myself” is one of those turns-of-phrases that’s humorous when used to emphasize something awful…until it’s not funny anymore.

That’s where I’m at right now.

I think, “I want to stab my eye out with a rusty spoon,” is an okay substitute—after all, the likelihood of that happening, well, knock on wood.

Any suggestions?

I DO HAVE A LIFE

It’s just the rain is kinda putting a damper on things at the moment. When will it stop? I need the sun. My freckles need the sun. My plant that’s slowly wilting needs the sun.

I’ve decided to be positive. It’s the only way I can think to rise above all the crap that’s been going on. Work is good! Friends are good! I’m healthy! See? Already feeling better.

I’m taking Leah out after work tonight—well, Silas and I are. She needs some cheering up and that’s the project I’m throwing myself into. We’ll probably end up between the Talkhouse and the Tavern since it’s walking distance from the house.

It hasn’t been too weird between Silas and I since my drunken, foolish kiss. There are bigger things to deal with at the moment, not that I don’t notice something simmering, but it’s very much below the surface. Jake hasn’t been around that much either—everyone’s getting busy the closer it gets to July 4th, when the kids are out of school and the real fun begins.

Going home to Vermont was so refreshing. I know I’m basically a reverse snob, but it’s very relaxing to be around people who are not trying to impress each other with expensive cars and clothes and handbags. My heart cries a little when I see the packs of 12 year-old girls wearing Juicy Couture with Coach handbags dangling from their limp, bored forearms. How can people so young act so disaffected?

But I guess we did the same in Vermont, only we wore really bad fashion and tried and failed to be sexier and older than we were. I feel like these girls I see around Southampton are attempting world-weary sophistication which, when I was that age, was something I couldn’t even imagine.

I know I judge everyone. I would probably have a lot more energy if I stopped worrying about other people so much. But honestly, it’s my defense mechanism. You know, like I put off dealing with my own issues because it’s easier to make fun of some dude wearing a popped collar shirt with the Louis Vuitton logo patterned all over it. Seriously.

Sometimes I try to give them the benefit of the doubt—Oh, it’s just a subculture. Look, they’re totally into doing their thing and they don’t care what the rest of us plebes think. But then I’m like, Get real. They care so much what everyone else thinks which is why they only buy brand name stuff. I mean, sure, expensive things are nice but what kind of person prefers luxury shit across the board? Is drinking out of that $175 Hermés coffee mug really that much better?

Hahaha, but we all know that deep downI realllly want that coffee mug. I’m just jealous; I feel that if I just had more money all my problems would go away. I could travel and write and not be in an existential crisis every day about being a waitress and wondering if this is what I’m going to do for the rest of my life.

The good news is I sent off my grad school applications. The bad news is I won’t find out until the fall, so it’s another summer of waiting to see what happens.

Welcome Home

What is home? Hahaha just kidding. That’s like the beginning of every Nicholas Sparks book. “Home is where love is.” Thanks Nick! Going to get that tattooed on my ass now.

I’m back in Amagansett. Leah is finally here for the summer. Silas is visiting this weekend. I have to do laundry from my trip and unpack and get ready for work by 5. It’s good to be busy. It keeps my mind from dwelling…

My intention was never to make this a depressing or heavy blog, but then, you know, Billy dumped me, a good friend from high school killed herself, and now…Leah is pregnant and there is NO WAY she is keeping the baby.

Yeah. When it rains it pours. It was a one night stand kind of thing and I guess the antibiotic she was on negated her birth control and the condom broke and it was like the perfect shit storm of conditions and now she’s with child. That’s what I told her, “You’re with child now.” It’s funny because it’s not funny at all. Nothing is funny anymore. Leah and I are the people who kill fun.

“And babies,” Leah said when I told her this.

“Leah! TOO SOON!” I shouted.

I mean, so yes. Obviously terminating a pregnancy is a big emotional deal without the static of religious groups and male lawmakers and not having the right to choose, etc. I’m just happy we’re not in Kansas right now. Leah told her parents—I mean, we’re all adults here—so that’s good because they’re supportive of her decision.

Next week we have doctor’s appointments and the abortion itself, then recovery, then possibly therapy? (It can’t hurt, right? That’s what I told Leah.) And then, hopefully, fingers crossed, things will settle down into the pattern of the summer and we can begin to put June behind us.

Classic Waitressing: XXXI: Dreams

Tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

Fall back asleep and dream about having no arms and a full section.

Wake up.

Cry yourself back to sleep.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Classic Waitressing: XXX: The Elderly

As soon as people pass the age of 65, their communication and etiquette skills regress.

I’ve noticed it with my dad, who will often order in restaurants by saying, “Gimme _________.”

And I see it all the time when I waitress. I serve mostly elderly people because Mama’s isn’t young or hip or anything like that, and these people with their myopic vision, their voices that sink back into their throats so I have to lean in close to hear the whispered, “Burger, rare, lettuce and sauteed mushrooms,” along with flecks of Poligrip-scented saliva and death that spew from their wrinkled mouths, who refuse to read the menu and make me recite what kind of cheeses we have, what beers are on tap, the variety of salads, our selection of soups, have lost their social graces along with their mental capacity.

Last night, three older women walked in. I greeted them at the door, “Hello ladies, how are you this evening? Three for dinner?”

“Yes,” they chorused.

“Well, I can offer you a lovely seat by the fire—” And here I was interrupted by one of the women silently pointing over my shoulder at some obscure location behind me.

“Oh, ahhh, you don’t want to sit by the fire? Where would you like—” Again, the long finger jabbed at the air. At this point I was messing with them; I knew where they wanted to sit, but on principle I refuse to respond to fingers. When people point to something on the menu, I play dumb and act like I have no clue what they’re referencing. “The Roquefort salad?” I say, when I can tell that their digit is more in the vicinity of the hangar steak.

Going into a restaurant is entering into a social contract in all kinds of ways. You expect good service, I expect an appropriate tip for the work I do. You expect to order food, I expect that you will articulate what you would like to eat instead of using your hands to explain. I don’t know sign language. I expect that, if you’ve been sitting at the table for 10 minutes because you needed more time to decide, when I finally come to take your order, you will be able to vocalize what kind of food you want instead of staring at me blankly and asking what sides come with the salmon. THE SAME FUCKING SIDES THAT ARE WRITTEN IN THE MENU.

This kind of behavior is prevalent in all age demographics, but it is particularly common among the elderly. I get that if you’ve lived a long, materialistic, and empty life you might lean towards bitterness, but for fuck’s sake, don’t take it out on the waitress. AND DON’T POINT.

Classic Waitressing: XVIII

Seriously, the quickest way to get on my shit list is if you take something off my precisely balanced tray. You are not helping me. You are not being ‘cute.’ You’re being an impatient asshole and if the entire thing becomes suddenly weighted far more on one side then the other, well, who knows, I may just drop the rest of the contents all over you. But that wouldn’t be my fault, it would be yours you sick fuck. Honestly, who looks at a tray being carried, one-handed, and is like, “Oh, the best idea is for me to take as many full glasses of liquid off that thing without first letting the waitress know what I’m doing”?

Classic Waitressing: XXII

echolalia  (ˌɛkəʊˈleɪlɪə)

— n

psychiatry  the tendency to repeat mechanically words just spoken by another person: can occur in cases of brain damage, mental retardation, and schizophrenia

[From New Latin, from echo  + Greek lalia  talk, chatter, from lalein  to chatter]

Real world example,

Customer: I’d like my water with lemon and no ice.

Me: Water with lemon and no ice.