Yesterday afternoon the Ex called me to ask if I could hold a table at Toro that evening for an old friend of his who was coming to town. The Ex knows Toro does not take reservations and on weekends it's nearly impossible to get in...unless you know someone.
"Of course," I said. I'd do that for any of his friends. The friend in question also happens to be the guitarist of Maroon 5, making the reservation that much more interesting in a celeb-starved town like Boston.
The band arrived right on time for their reservation, dined, and had an excellent meal (or so I was told; I wasn't there.) Other guests at neighboring tables were appropriately star-struck. Sweethearts that they are, the band offered us all tickets to this evening's show -- I'm pretty sure they had a blast.
I passed on the show tickets because I had to work tonight, though there was a time when I'd have found a way to go to the concert, come hell or high water. Back then it would have been at the Agganis Arena, not the Tweeter Center. And before that, they'd have played at the Paradise, or even Harper's Ferry. In fact, I first met the Ex's friend back when the band had a record deal but were still relatively unknown on the East Coast, nomads living on a modest stipend and per-diem (though we all knew those days would be short-lived.) Their tour bus was a bit more humble then. I can only imagine what their digs look like now.
As my relationship with the Ex declined, the band's star just rose and rose.
My Ex called me after the reservation was finalized to say thanks. "It's no trouble," I told him, "I love those guys, and I love all of your friends. In fact, now that James is coming through town I've officially seen all of your old friends in the past two weeks." His best friend was in town last week avec girlfriend, as well as another old friend, also a total figment of our previous life as a couple. They all even stayed with the Mathematician and I at the apartment we share...a very real embodiment of our present (and future) life as a couple.
It's all had me in a very weird head space lately, but feeling thankful and happy that those pleasant relationships I spent years forming alongside with Ex don't have to shrivel up and blow away, just because the Ex and I are no longer. I'm sure the band would have had no trouble getting a table anywhere in the city, but the Ex still called me to broker the deal. It warms my heart that he did; it would have been weird if he hadn't.
Then again, this is Toro we're talking about. On Saturday no less. I may very well have been their only hope.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
nine years difference
My best friend pointed out to me last night that I used to have this exact same haircut almost when I was in college. She is correct. See below.
Me, circa 1999...
Me, circa 1999...
Me, circa now, 2008.
The same haircut, really. Yet so, so different.
Nine years different.
The same haircut, really. Yet so, so different.
Nine years different.
Friday, May 16, 2008
NKOTB reunion tour...
It's hard to believe this is happening.
I checked out their Today show performance online with every intention of making fun of it. Instead, it made my little heart swell with nostalgia.
I guess somewhere deep down inside I am still that chubby little girl with a Jersey accent and feathered bangs dragging around a tiny pink boom box and listening to "Hangin' Tough" over and over again on full blast.
And Tiffany. I also loved Tiffany.
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I checked out their Today show performance online with every intention of making fun of it. Instead, it made my little heart swell with nostalgia.
I guess somewhere deep down inside I am still that chubby little girl with a Jersey accent and feathered bangs dragging around a tiny pink boom box and listening to "Hangin' Tough" over and over again on full blast.
And Tiffany. I also loved Tiffany.
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Thursday, May 15, 2008
picture worth a 1000 words
What is actually happening: I am enjoying a lovely, pleasant evening talking to Evan (left) and seven other unpictured guests at the World Cocktail Day celebration at Green Street. The photographer seems to have captured a different story altogether.
Your creative writing assignment: Write a caption that explains what's happening in the story/scene below. I invite you to post them in the comments section, the more creative the better.
Here are a few that came immediately to mind:
THE BLONDE: Oh dear, how long did Cleve threaten to lecture us on the history and origins of Chartreuse?
OR
THE BLONDE: This young man is awfully cute, but I wish he'd stop talking to me about his truck...
Your creative writing assignment: Write a caption that explains what's happening in the story/scene below. I invite you to post them in the comments section, the more creative the better.
Here are a few that came immediately to mind:THE BLONDE: Oh dear, how long did Cleve threaten to lecture us on the history and origins of Chartreuse?
OR
THE BLONDE: This young man is awfully cute, but I wish he'd stop talking to me about his truck...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The birth of a column...
The LUPEC Boston column was born today! Look for it from now 'til the end of time each week in print in the Weekly Dig in the Boston area, or here if you live too far afield. Authorship will be shared amongst the LUPEC gals; this first foray into print was penned by yours truly, Pink Lady.
That's right, in addition to being the Undercover Blonde, I also get to be the Pink Lady, Kitty, and every bastardization of my given name (Kirsten, pronounced K-eer-sten to rhyme with beer & queer) under the sun: K-hur-sten, Kristen, Kristine, Katie, and so on.)
Cin-cin, readers!
That's right, in addition to being the Undercover Blonde, I also get to be the Pink Lady, Kitty, and every bastardization of my given name (Kirsten, pronounced K-eer-sten to rhyme with beer & queer) under the sun: K-hur-sten, Kristen, Kristine, Katie, and so on.)
Cin-cin, readers!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
a new haircut...
...is like a new friend.
You like said friend a lot at first, otherwise you never would have pursued a friendship with them in the first place. Sometimes, you think it may even be love. But for the most part, the first few weeks are spent testing each other out; trying each other on for size, seeing what fits & what works.
Today, we tried a roller set. Like an old lady, I exited the shower and put my locks directly into rollers.
Behold the fruits of my labor:
What do we think? Do we like it?
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I think so...
You like said friend a lot at first, otherwise you never would have pursued a friendship with them in the first place. Sometimes, you think it may even be love. But for the most part, the first few weeks are spent testing each other out; trying each other on for size, seeing what fits & what works.
Today, we tried a roller set. Like an old lady, I exited the shower and put my locks directly into rollers.
Behold the fruits of my labor:
What do we think? Do we like it?.jpg)
I think so...
Monday, May 12, 2008
blonde thoughts...
For the first time in a while, I can't think of my own. Here are a few I found through the magic of the Internets...
"If you can't change your surroundings, change your hair color."
- Brittany Murphy
"Just standing around looking beautiful is so boring, really boring, so boring."
- Michelle Pfeiffer
"If you can't change your surroundings, change your hair color."
- Brittany Murphy
"Just standing around looking beautiful is so boring, really boring, so boring."
- Michelle Pfeiffer
"Its great being blonde, with such low expectations its easy to impress."
- Pamela Anderson
Sunday, May 11, 2008
isn't it humanizing for us all?
"Kitty, Table 43 says you are very famous. They want to speak to you, to shake your hand if you can take the time," Cynthia tells me as I'm ringing in an order.
"What? Cinthyia, what are you talking about?"
"They said you are in a magazine and your blog is famous and is known everywhere, maybe all over the world."
"Oh, I get it. You're totally teasing me. Are you teasing me?" I say.
"No, no I am not! How would I know to tease you about this, I didn't read. Go! Go say hello. He comes in all the time and he's so nice! Say hello!"
So I do, and Table 43 is nice. Turns out he is friends with one of the three people who were seated at this table several nights ago. We chat for a moment and he is so sweet, friendly, and full of kind words about my blog that it warms the cockles of my bitter waitress heart. As I walk away from the table to leave them in peace, I can't help but think: How humanizing. Every night I create these vignettes of experience and throw them like messages in a bottle out into the cyber-ether. I can hardly believe when someone finds them and actually reads them. And filling in the blanks with a face to face meeting? How truly lovely.
He didn't have any further answers for me as to who "the Boss" is. But that's okay. I rather like that the mystery lives on...
"What? Cinthyia, what are you talking about?"
"They said you are in a magazine and your blog is famous and is known everywhere, maybe all over the world."
"Oh, I get it. You're totally teasing me. Are you teasing me?" I say.
"No, no I am not! How would I know to tease you about this, I didn't read. Go! Go say hello. He comes in all the time and he's so nice! Say hello!"
So I do, and Table 43 is nice. Turns out he is friends with one of the three people who were seated at this table several nights ago. We chat for a moment and he is so sweet, friendly, and full of kind words about my blog that it warms the cockles of my bitter waitress heart. As I walk away from the table to leave them in peace, I can't help but think: How humanizing. Every night I create these vignettes of experience and throw them like messages in a bottle out into the cyber-ether. I can hardly believe when someone finds them and actually reads them. And filling in the blanks with a face to face meeting? How truly lovely.
He didn't have any further answers for me as to who "the Boss" is. But that's okay. I rather like that the mystery lives on...
Saturday, May 10, 2008
perennial
Do you know what an amazing feat it is for a restaurant to be open and successful for more than 10 years? Tonight I met two girlfriends for dinner at the Franklin Cafe, a restaurant that has been open since 1996, and has been so many thing to me since I first crossed the threshold.
On my first visit I was just 19 years old, out for drink after a busy shift at my very first waitressing job. The Franklin was one of the two places in city the where I could drink without getting carded, and this only because I was accompanied by James, Molly, and Scott, all of whom were 2 - 15 years my senior. It was new and exciting and dangerous, trying to slip under the radar and drink underage: what a the thrill, to not get caught.
Six months later the Franklin was the site of my first formative culinary experience. We didn't go out to eat often when I was growing up, and I certainly didn't grow up in a "foodie" household. If we ever did dine out the restaurant was either really, really casual, like a glorified diner, or really, really fancy, in which case I thought it imperative to order French onion soup or shrimp cocktail, and filet mignon. At 19 I learned about a whole new world of food: "New American" cuisine and "upscale dining", the cuisine that comes between simple and fancy, expensive for a 19-year-old out to dinner for her first big girl meal, but a drop in the bucket for the urban young professional. I had my first meal of this sort at the Franklin: black pepper encrusted tuna steak over garlic mashed potatoes with greens and citron blanc, so perfectly seasoned, salty, and delicious. I can still taste it. The food was as delicious and dangerous as the underage drinks -- after all, I was eating tuna that wasn't cooked.
Three years later, after a failed attempt at a life in New York post 9/11 I moved back to Boston with my then fiance, the Ex. We drank at the Franklin almost every Saturday night with friends, he as a last stop on his evening tour of the city, I as a first stop after a long crazy waitressing shift. It became the automatic, the go to place. For a while I even went on Thursday and Sunday nights as well. We celebrated one (of five anniversaries) there.
Then, two and a half years ago there was the break-up, as much a break-up with aforementioned friends as it was with the Ex. I began dating the Mathematician, who doesn't drink so much: I too stopped drinking so much. I changed jobs, changed relationships, changed all my patterns. Every single thing about my life changed, but on the occasion that I did want to go out for late night dinner or drink after a busy Saturday night at the restaurant, the Franklin was the spot, there as always like an old friend, more an old friend than the friends I lost (along with all of the furniture and the All-Clad pans) in "the divorce."
Fast forward to tonight. The Franklin has gotten two face lifts since I used to sneak in there underage and drink my face off with James, Molly, and Scott. Many of the staff have changed, but Jodi happened to be behind the stick tonight, manning her old post. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and while applying lip gloss in the familiar mirror, had a total Franklin moment. Same old tiny bathroom. Same itty bitty sink. Same music pumping through the speakers into the bathroom, something James used to love, that I learned to hear and love, too. Suddenly I realized: drinks and dinner at the Franklin felt more familiar and comfortable than they would have in my own kitchen.
So tonight, I have to thank you Franklin, just for being there. For being consistent and delicious for over a decade, more stable than my own life. I hope I'm still gazing into the same mirror to apply my lip gloss and washing my hands in your tiny sink for years to come.
On my first visit I was just 19 years old, out for drink after a busy shift at my very first waitressing job. The Franklin was one of the two places in city the where I could drink without getting carded, and this only because I was accompanied by James, Molly, and Scott, all of whom were 2 - 15 years my senior. It was new and exciting and dangerous, trying to slip under the radar and drink underage: what a the thrill, to not get caught.
Six months later the Franklin was the site of my first formative culinary experience. We didn't go out to eat often when I was growing up, and I certainly didn't grow up in a "foodie" household. If we ever did dine out the restaurant was either really, really casual, like a glorified diner, or really, really fancy, in which case I thought it imperative to order French onion soup or shrimp cocktail, and filet mignon. At 19 I learned about a whole new world of food: "New American" cuisine and "upscale dining", the cuisine that comes between simple and fancy, expensive for a 19-year-old out to dinner for her first big girl meal, but a drop in the bucket for the urban young professional. I had my first meal of this sort at the Franklin: black pepper encrusted tuna steak over garlic mashed potatoes with greens and citron blanc, so perfectly seasoned, salty, and delicious. I can still taste it. The food was as delicious and dangerous as the underage drinks -- after all, I was eating tuna that wasn't cooked.
Three years later, after a failed attempt at a life in New York post 9/11 I moved back to Boston with my then fiance, the Ex. We drank at the Franklin almost every Saturday night with friends, he as a last stop on his evening tour of the city, I as a first stop after a long crazy waitressing shift. It became the automatic, the go to place. For a while I even went on Thursday and Sunday nights as well. We celebrated one (of five anniversaries) there.
Then, two and a half years ago there was the break-up, as much a break-up with aforementioned friends as it was with the Ex. I began dating the Mathematician, who doesn't drink so much: I too stopped drinking so much. I changed jobs, changed relationships, changed all my patterns. Every single thing about my life changed, but on the occasion that I did want to go out for late night dinner or drink after a busy Saturday night at the restaurant, the Franklin was the spot, there as always like an old friend, more an old friend than the friends I lost (along with all of the furniture and the All-Clad pans) in "the divorce."
Fast forward to tonight. The Franklin has gotten two face lifts since I used to sneak in there underage and drink my face off with James, Molly, and Scott. Many of the staff have changed, but Jodi happened to be behind the stick tonight, manning her old post. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and while applying lip gloss in the familiar mirror, had a total Franklin moment. Same old tiny bathroom. Same itty bitty sink. Same music pumping through the speakers into the bathroom, something James used to love, that I learned to hear and love, too. Suddenly I realized: drinks and dinner at the Franklin felt more familiar and comfortable than they would have in my own kitchen.
So tonight, I have to thank you Franklin, just for being there. For being consistent and delicious for over a decade, more stable than my own life. I hope I'm still gazing into the same mirror to apply my lip gloss and washing my hands in your tiny sink for years to come.
Friday, May 09, 2008
short hair vs. long hair
"Hola, Kitty," Luis says as I approach him on the stoop where he is basking in the sun, enjoying a few quiet moments before work.
"Hola, como estas?" I say.
"Bien, bien," he says. "Y Tu?" Then gasps -- "Oh! Kitty, what did you do? What happened to your hair?"
Funny, Tony, the Brazilian drag queen/busser who used to call me Barbie said the exact same thing when I dyed my hair dark brown last winter. Whereas Luis' voice is low-pitched and gravely, Tony screamed out his sentiments like a lady who'd seen a mouse. In any case, I didn't expect to hear the same thing, verbatim, from the very straight, very masculine Colombian waiter Luis.
His reaction did, however, offer me an interesting new data point to plug into my theory about what Latin American men like best: not only does Luis prefer blondes, or monas, he also prefers long haired monas.
I also find it interesting that the Colombians I know have no qualms about telling you when they don't like how you've changed your look. I don't think Americans are as honest in this regard, at least not to a person's face. I'm just saying, no American has come right out and told me: your hair looked better long. Not yet, anyway.
I challenge which ever one of you who'd like to mess with me next to write THAT on a charge slip next time I wait on you at Toro. Then I will truly have been had.
"Hola, como estas?" I say.
"Bien, bien," he says. "Y Tu?" Then gasps -- "Oh! Kitty, what did you do? What happened to your hair?"
Funny, Tony, the Brazilian drag queen/busser who used to call me Barbie said the exact same thing when I dyed my hair dark brown last winter. Whereas Luis' voice is low-pitched and gravely, Tony screamed out his sentiments like a lady who'd seen a mouse. In any case, I didn't expect to hear the same thing, verbatim, from the very straight, very masculine Colombian waiter Luis.
His reaction did, however, offer me an interesting new data point to plug into my theory about what Latin American men like best: not only does Luis prefer blondes, or monas, he also prefers long haired monas.
I also find it interesting that the Colombians I know have no qualms about telling you when they don't like how you've changed your look. I don't think Americans are as honest in this regard, at least not to a person's face. I'm just saying, no American has come right out and told me: your hair looked better long. Not yet, anyway.
I challenge which ever one of you who'd like to mess with me next to write THAT on a charge slip next time I wait on you at Toro. Then I will truly have been had.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
are you messing with me, people?
I'm beginning to think that people who happen to have read this thing are coming in to Toro and fucking with me, perhaps in an effort to see if I'll actually end up writing about them. This may sound paranoid and nutty, but I have had some weird interactions lately that have led me to this conclusion. Examples:
#1: Last week a perfect stranger left me a 100% tip for no reason. I was slammed when they sat down so there wasn't much time for sweet talk, though I was courteous, cordial, and attentive as time would allow. I was also, I'll have you know, in a REALLY bad mood that afternoon, so likely overcompensating for my internal demons with a big fake publicist/waitress I'm-pretending-that-I-love-you-but-I-wish-you'd-all-go-home-and-leave me-alone grin.
When I offered dessert menus to my guests, I must have spoken exuberantly because the male guest at the table responded in what I could only interpret as a mocking parody of my tone: "We sure would like to see dessert menus!" he said.
I tilted my head and stared at him for a second. Then I decided he was dead to me. You're done, I thought, I'm not even trying to cover up my mood now, it's all business with you from now on, buddy. I pretty much ignored the table from that point forward. After they left, I picked up their check presenter, bracing for 15%: a $68.25 tip hovered in the line below the subtotal; in the line below that, the total, a whopping $136.50.
Needless to say I was completely stunned. Had they still been in the restaurant, I would have asked them what the hell was going on-- but they were long gone.
So I'm asking you, readers: Coincidence? Or is one of you testing me. If you are, you win Mr. 100% Tip Guy. Not sure what corner of heaven you fell out of, but thanks for stopping by my section.
#2: The Sociopath from Sunday. The note he left of my check presenter was SO WEIRD, right?
#3: The girl at Table 20 last night -- my first table of the night -- who left a note on her charge slip reading: Nice blog, from the Boss. It was very cool to get your note, reader, but what/who is The Boss? Were you referring to my boss? If so, which one? Ken Oringer? Dalyn Miller? The GM, Alyssa? The Cheese Man? God? Girl, you really got me with this one. Thanks for your kind words about my blog in any case, I'm thrilled, and thank you for stopping by and being a sweet and low maintenance table on an otherwise crazy night.
Other readers, what do YOU think?
#1: Last week a perfect stranger left me a 100% tip for no reason. I was slammed when they sat down so there wasn't much time for sweet talk, though I was courteous, cordial, and attentive as time would allow. I was also, I'll have you know, in a REALLY bad mood that afternoon, so likely overcompensating for my internal demons with a big fake publicist/waitress I'm-pretending-that-I-love-you-but-I-wish-you'd-all-go-home-and-leave me-alone grin.
When I offered dessert menus to my guests, I must have spoken exuberantly because the male guest at the table responded in what I could only interpret as a mocking parody of my tone: "We sure would like to see dessert menus!" he said.
I tilted my head and stared at him for a second. Then I decided he was dead to me. You're done, I thought, I'm not even trying to cover up my mood now, it's all business with you from now on, buddy. I pretty much ignored the table from that point forward. After they left, I picked up their check presenter, bracing for 15%: a $68.25 tip hovered in the line below the subtotal; in the line below that, the total, a whopping $136.50.
Needless to say I was completely stunned. Had they still been in the restaurant, I would have asked them what the hell was going on-- but they were long gone.
So I'm asking you, readers: Coincidence? Or is one of you testing me. If you are, you win Mr. 100% Tip Guy. Not sure what corner of heaven you fell out of, but thanks for stopping by my section.
#2: The Sociopath from Sunday. The note he left of my check presenter was SO WEIRD, right?
#3: The girl at Table 20 last night -- my first table of the night -- who left a note on her charge slip reading: Nice blog, from the Boss. It was very cool to get your note, reader, but what/who is The Boss? Were you referring to my boss? If so, which one? Ken Oringer? Dalyn Miller? The GM, Alyssa? The Cheese Man? God? Girl, you really got me with this one. Thanks for your kind words about my blog in any case, I'm thrilled, and thank you for stopping by and being a sweet and low maintenance table on an otherwise crazy night.
Other readers, what do YOU think?
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
what also happened yesterday...
I flipped the coin, and this is what I got: short and blonde.
Jason made me cut it myself, actually. "If we're taking that much off, you're starting it," he said. Then he made me put it into pigtails, handed me his super sharp stylist scissors, and said: "Okay, go." I slide the shears around the thick bands of hair and chopped them off, left side first, then right. It was really satisfying, actually, like cutting through two thick, yellow ropes.
I'm still getting used to it. I'm surprised every time I look in the mirror. I love it and I can't believe I stalked this haircut for a year before actually going for it. Every few hours I feel a pang of sadness and loss for my long blonde hair. But there's something incredibly liberating about this new look.
An exciting new phase for the Undercover Blonde. How will I fare with short blonde hair? I'm pretty sure it will be different. Check back for updates!
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Jason made me cut it myself, actually. "If we're taking that much off, you're starting it," he said. Then he made me put it into pigtails, handed me his super sharp stylist scissors, and said: "Okay, go." I slide the shears around the thick bands of hair and chopped them off, left side first, then right. It was really satisfying, actually, like cutting through two thick, yellow ropes.I'm still getting used to it. I'm surprised every time I look in the mirror. I love it and I can't believe I stalked this haircut for a year before actually going for it. Every few hours I feel a pang of sadness and loss for my long blonde hair. But there's something incredibly liberating about this new look.
An exciting new phase for the Undercover Blonde. How will I fare with short blonde hair? I'm pretty sure it will be different. Check back for updates!
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Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Despite your enthusiastic suggestions, I did not wear yoga pants
The Stuff@Night issue featuring a back page piece on me pubbed today. It was a tough call, but I did not, in the end, wear yoga pants for this photo. Instead I wore this pretty dress.
You can read it here, too.
You can read it here, too.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Sunday, May 04, 2008
sociopath II
Remember this post of last week? Well, I totally waited on one this evening. Our social worker/host was kind enough to give me a head's up.
"Sociopath at the door, going in your section: get ready."*
"Oh, really!?!?" I gasped. How exciting! A real live sociopath walking amongst us, in my very section no less. Would my sociopath order the corn? What would my sociopath drink? Wine, whiskey? What would he be like? I waited with baited breath for the truth to unfolded in our interaction.
In the end, he wasn't very exciting, and the dinner interaction from my side of the table was nothing to write home about. The Sociopath seemed like your run of the mill slightly weird & awkward guy making semi-successful attempts at charm and charisma while on a date with a pretty blonde woman twice as cute as him. I had my hands far more full with the wasted guy at table 46 who was pouring cava in his own lap...on purpose. The Sociopath seemed a little weird and controlling in our interaction for sure, but I didn't realize how bizarre he actually was until I picked up his signed charge slip after he left. It read:
Thanks so much
I love you.
Scrawled in perfect, bubbly script in baby blue ink. A crude smiley face hovered in the blank area above the subtotal line. A paltry 9% sum languished in the tip line.
"Yech! T, look, this is SO weird," I said, shoving the charge slip at our social worker/host to get his assessment.
"Obviously he didn't love you that much," said T when I showed him the bill. "See, I told you he was crazy."
Never a dull moment.
*T clarified for me that he couldn't definitely diagnose if this dude as a sociopath without a proper interview, etc, and more information about his personality. However, we can say from their interaction that the Sociopath exhibited tell-tale sociopathic traits. And I can confirm, from my years of experiencing waiting of weirdos, he was decidedly wacky-nuts.
"Sociopath at the door, going in your section: get ready."*
"Oh, really!?!?" I gasped. How exciting! A real live sociopath walking amongst us, in my very section no less. Would my sociopath order the corn? What would my sociopath drink? Wine, whiskey? What would he be like? I waited with baited breath for the truth to unfolded in our interaction.
In the end, he wasn't very exciting, and the dinner interaction from my side of the table was nothing to write home about. The Sociopath seemed like your run of the mill slightly weird & awkward guy making semi-successful attempts at charm and charisma while on a date with a pretty blonde woman twice as cute as him. I had my hands far more full with the wasted guy at table 46 who was pouring cava in his own lap...on purpose. The Sociopath seemed a little weird and controlling in our interaction for sure, but I didn't realize how bizarre he actually was until I picked up his signed charge slip after he left. It read:
Thanks so much
I love you.
Scrawled in perfect, bubbly script in baby blue ink. A crude smiley face hovered in the blank area above the subtotal line. A paltry 9% sum languished in the tip line.
"Yech! T, look, this is SO weird," I said, shoving the charge slip at our social worker/host to get his assessment.
"Obviously he didn't love you that much," said T when I showed him the bill. "See, I told you he was crazy."
Never a dull moment.
*T clarified for me that he couldn't definitely diagnose if this dude as a sociopath without a proper interview, etc, and more information about his personality. However, we can say from their interaction that the Sociopath exhibited tell-tale sociopathic traits. And I can confirm, from my years of experiencing waiting of weirdos, he was decidedly wacky-nuts.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful
A little over a month and a half ago, LUPEC published a cocktail book/pamphlet thing, The Little Black Book of Cocktails, featuring namesakes & favorites by LUPEC Boston. An entire page is devoted to yours truly with a gorgeous photo, my signature cocktail recipe (the Pink Lady) and two other recipes of my choice (chosen after iconic blondes: the Jean Harlow and the Mae West.) I got to pick a quote to accompany my photo too, and I chose this one, from my favorite blonde of all time:
I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful.
- Marilyn Monroe
Copies cost $15 and proceeds benefit the Friend's Boutique at Dana Farber. You can pick up a copy at Toro.
As the book is on sale at Toro, my Toro colleagues have perused it. After reading my page, my coworkers Luis and Juan were thrilled: they took my quote to mean that from now on I'd be donating the tips I'd earned each evening to them.
"You don't need money, right Kitty?" Luis said. "You just want to be wonderful?"
I'm thinking that something got lost in the translation from my native English to their native Spanish.
In any case, they still haven't let me live this down.
I don't want to make money, I just want to be wonderful.
- Marilyn Monroe
Copies cost $15 and proceeds benefit the Friend's Boutique at Dana Farber. You can pick up a copy at Toro.
As the book is on sale at Toro, my Toro colleagues have perused it. After reading my page, my coworkers Luis and Juan were thrilled: they took my quote to mean that from now on I'd be donating the tips I'd earned each evening to them.
"You don't need money, right Kitty?" Luis said. "You just want to be wonderful?"
I'm thinking that something got lost in the translation from my native English to their native Spanish.
In any case, they still haven't let me live this down.
Friday, May 02, 2008
the brunette as the usual type of villain
"Fiction and fancy have always pictured the brunette as the usual type of villain, both on and off the stage. [Surgeon United States Army] Major Woodruff now shows, and he exhibits figures backing up what he says, that the blondes, in this section of the country at least, are just as bad, if not worse, from a criminal standpoint, as are the brunette types."
-- New York Times article circa September 13, 1908, Headline: The Dominant Criminal in America is Blonde
Well, there you have it.
(Thanks to the Google's search records for "blonde for summer" and the New York Times online archive for making this blog entry possible.)
-- New York Times article circa September 13, 1908, Headline: The Dominant Criminal in America is Blonde
Well, there you have it.
(Thanks to the Google's search records for "blonde for summer" and the New York Times online archive for making this blog entry possible.)
Thursday, May 01, 2008
short blonde hair...
I have been considering this haircut for about a year now...
I'm getting cut/color on Tuesday. What do we think? Short & blonde? Stay long & go reddish? I'm thinking it might be time for a little change.
Just a thought...
I'm getting cut/color on Tuesday. What do we think? Short & blonde? Stay long & go reddish? I'm thinking it might be time for a little change.Just a thought...
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
staff meal tonight
Jalapeno poppers procured from an undisclosed source, fried and strategically layered on a bed of what appear to be diced peppers and tomatoes among half-cup globules of sour cream in the bottom of a paella pan.
On top of this a perfectly round tortilla espanol is balanced like an egg frisbee.
On top of that, a heaping glob of alioli. Garnished with five small specks of chive.
This "meal" looks terrifying.
Do you think the kitchen staff was mad at us?
On top of this a perfectly round tortilla espanol is balanced like an egg frisbee.
On top of that, a heaping glob of alioli. Garnished with five small specks of chive.
This "meal" looks terrifying.
Do you think the kitchen staff was mad at us?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
corn
Tonight at Toro we ran out of "the corn."
If you have ever eaten at Toro you know, this is a really big deal. Chaos ensued. Yuppies adopted sour pusses. Mild mannered hipsters seemed ready to riot. Disgruntled South Enders stiffed the waitstaff left and right.
It was a restaurant crisis of epic proportions.
If you have ever eaten at Toro you know, this is a really big deal. Chaos ensued. Yuppies adopted sour pusses. Mild mannered hipsters seemed ready to riot. Disgruntled South Enders stiffed the waitstaff left and right.
It was a restaurant crisis of epic proportions.
Monday, April 28, 2008
sociopath
Our new host is a social worker by day, host at Toro by night. We are chatting after our shift over a glass (or three) of wine about the woes of working the door at a busy restaurant.
"People reveal their psychological problems so openly and easily during the course of a dining experience," I say. "All the food protective behaviors, control issues, eating disorders. All out there, right in the open at dinner. It's crazy."
"Oh, trust me, I know," he says. "I see it all. I can spot a sociopath in a second when working the door at Toro."
"Hahaha," I laugh and take a sip of my wine. "Wait a sec -- can you?"
"Mm-hmm," he nods.
"You're actually trained to recognize this stuff. Are you serious?"
"Oh yeah. You can totally tell. They're very calculating. They're in your face, looking over the list, surveying the entire scene of the restaurant before you can even quote them a wait time. They know exactly who is getting up when. They may try to be your friend, but they've always got an eye on where they can weasel in on the list and how they can get a table faster."
"Huh. Interesting. So, you've seated sociopaths? How often?"
"I don't know. Couple times a month I guess. Not that often, but it does happen."
"Wow. And I thought I was clever for being able to spot customers with anorexia."
"People reveal their psychological problems so openly and easily during the course of a dining experience," I say. "All the food protective behaviors, control issues, eating disorders. All out there, right in the open at dinner. It's crazy."
"Oh, trust me, I know," he says. "I see it all. I can spot a sociopath in a second when working the door at Toro."
"Hahaha," I laugh and take a sip of my wine. "Wait a sec -- can you?"
"Mm-hmm," he nods.
"You're actually trained to recognize this stuff. Are you serious?"
"Oh yeah. You can totally tell. They're very calculating. They're in your face, looking over the list, surveying the entire scene of the restaurant before you can even quote them a wait time. They know exactly who is getting up when. They may try to be your friend, but they've always got an eye on where they can weasel in on the list and how they can get a table faster."
"Huh. Interesting. So, you've seated sociopaths? How often?"
"I don't know. Couple times a month I guess. Not that often, but it does happen."
"Wow. And I thought I was clever for being able to spot customers with anorexia."
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
hair color profiler
Tonight I went to a cocktail party/gallery opening at Space 242, the Weekly Dig's art gallery. I spent a good chunk of the night talking to a friend who has the most gorgeous long, strawberry blonde hair. It inspired me.
What do you think? Would strawberry blonde be a good direction for this experiment? Here's a pic of Rita Hayworth sporting the color as the star of the film which coined the phrase Strawberry Blonde.
I'd have to start wearing turn of the century period dress and weird little hats too, of course.
What do you think? Would strawberry blonde be a good direction for this experiment? Here's a pic of Rita Hayworth sporting the color as the star of the film which coined the phrase Strawberry Blonde.
I'd have to start wearing turn of the century period dress and weird little hats too, of course.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
your hair
"Hey Kitty, how are you baby?" says the bartender.
Love this bartender. We used to work together and I haven't seen him in months. It reminds me how much I miss him, miss working with all my friends here. We were a family in our own way. A dysfunctional one, but still...
"Your hair looks great," he says.
Really? My hair? What does that mean? The blondeness? That it's light? Or is he talking about the book? Or does the rest of me just look okay, but my hair looks great?
All of these questions. He is too busy to ask, his bar three deep and full of queens.
I ponder these notions anyway as I talk to my blonde friend and sip blonde wine on their open patio.
Love this bartender. We used to work together and I haven't seen him in months. It reminds me how much I miss him, miss working with all my friends here. We were a family in our own way. A dysfunctional one, but still...
"Your hair looks great," he says.
Really? My hair? What does that mean? The blondeness? That it's light? Or is he talking about the book? Or does the rest of me just look okay, but my hair looks great?
All of these questions. He is too busy to ask, his bar three deep and full of queens.
I ponder these notions anyway as I talk to my blonde friend and sip blonde wine on their open patio.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
undercover redhead
My stylist Jason sent the following text late this evening:
What do you think about taking a step on the wild side and becoming a redheaded copper top? Under cover!
Must be half in the bag, I thought. Or...maybe he's grown bored with blonding me? Is it true? Could it be?
Have I grown bored with blonding me?
Maybe I should do it...
What do you think about taking a step on the wild side and becoming a redheaded copper top? Under cover!
Must be half in the bag, I thought. Or...maybe he's grown bored with blonding me? Is it true? Could it be?
Have I grown bored with blonding me?
Maybe I should do it...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
tipsy tuesday...
...thanks to a LUPEC meeting, all you get is a photo...
...an homage to Alexander & Mougins, where this pic was taken almost one year ago...
...an homage to Alexander & Mougins, where this pic was taken almost one year ago...why do we drink on Marathon Monday?
Today I saw a guy in a blue suit screaming at another guy that he was a pussy and so were all of his pussy friends. They were waiting in line to get into Clery's, sometime around 5 p.m. No doubt he and his opponent (the pussy and his pussy friends) had been drinking all day, and I can only suspect that tempers were aflame because everyone were so anxious to get inside the bar and drink more.
As someone who did not have the day off and toiled away this sunny Monday in front of a computer, it was less than charming. How odd that drunk, belligerent guy looked beside the number clad runners in shorts who milled. A family with children and lawn chairs were also walking by, same time as me.
I hope everyone who was out drinking their livers off had fun today, but it certainly is an odd tradition: running, physical endurance, and health at one end of the spectrum, drinking and a whole different kind of physical endurance at the other.
Something tells me blue suit guy would have been one of those runners who pees or vomits all over himself as he goes. Of course, given his state at 5 pm, that may be happening by now anyway.
As someone who did not have the day off and toiled away this sunny Monday in front of a computer, it was less than charming. How odd that drunk, belligerent guy looked beside the number clad runners in shorts who milled. A family with children and lawn chairs were also walking by, same time as me.
I hope everyone who was out drinking their livers off had fun today, but it certainly is an odd tradition: running, physical endurance, and health at one end of the spectrum, drinking and a whole different kind of physical endurance at the other.
Something tells me blue suit guy would have been one of those runners who pees or vomits all over himself as he goes. Of course, given his state at 5 pm, that may be happening by now anyway.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
annoying customers
Tonight I had the pleasure of waiting on one of the most annoying customers I have ever encountered. I don't know why, there was just something about him. Curt, an interrupter, but most of all, he was really aggressive, almost accusatory about everything. For example:
After I've recommended our signature dish, the corn: "MMmmhhh...corn doesn't really excite me." Like I'd recommended white rice or the plain toast.
When I asked if they'd like to order more food: "Well we were going to order the OYSTERS but you're OUT of THOSE." Like I had eaten all of the oysters myself in advance because I suspected he might want one.
Backwaiter Manuel agreed with my assessment of table 33, based on the tiniest interaction with him:
"Kitty, table 33 wants..." Manuel began.
"Table 33 is an asshole," I said. "I don't care what he wants."
"Oh, I know!" said Manuel. "I tried to bring food to his table and he said that if I wanted to bring him another table to put the food on then I could give it to him. He's so rude..." I mean seriously, Manuel doesn't need that. He works seven days a week, sixteen hours a day to support his Mamasita in Colombia. Come on.
Table 33 happened to be on a date with a very pretty woman -- like 7x prettier than him. It was a little warm in the room this evening, and microscopic beads of perspiration made his nose & forehead, his T-zone if you will, shiny. I imagined her pretty pout bracing as he leaned in to give her a sweaty faced kiss... Yech.
Must be a blind date, I thought, but later the hostess told me I was wrong:
"That girl seems to be enjoying herself!"
"No way," I said.
"I know! I watched him spoon feed her a piece of skirt steak. Seriously."
"Ew," I said. I felt sorry that the new hostess had to see that.
I could not wait to drop the check on this inexplicably odious table. Just something about the guy at Table 33. Eventually they paid, in cash, an amount that exceeded the total bill by something outrageous, like 40%. As this guest had been super rude all evening, I assumed he liked me about as much as I did him, and returned to the table quickly with his change.
"No, no," he said, when I tried to hand him back the bill. "That's all set."
"Oh," I said. "Okay...thanks. Have a good night," I said.
It was truly one of those puzzling waitress moments. The rude guy at table 33 just left me a ridiculous tip, better than my best friends (unless they are drunk), my boyfriend, and my parents. All I could think was: Am I on candid camera or something? Is the joke somehow on me? Is Ken sending in shoppers to see calibrate the quality of service is at Toro? Surely a guest that surly wouldn't leave that much money to a hacked waitress out of the kindness of his spirit or the goodness of his heart? Or what he thought a heart would do if he had one in that black, empty space in the center of his chest.
I remain confused. The money is nice to have, of course, but seriously? It feels hollow and strange to gross such a big tip from a table I so deeply hated. I think I'd have preferred a smile.
I suppose this means my integrity is still intact.
After I've recommended our signature dish, the corn: "MMmmhhh...corn doesn't really excite me." Like I'd recommended white rice or the plain toast.
When I asked if they'd like to order more food: "Well we were going to order the OYSTERS but you're OUT of THOSE." Like I had eaten all of the oysters myself in advance because I suspected he might want one.
Backwaiter Manuel agreed with my assessment of table 33, based on the tiniest interaction with him:
"Kitty, table 33 wants..." Manuel began.
"Table 33 is an asshole," I said. "I don't care what he wants."
"Oh, I know!" said Manuel. "I tried to bring food to his table and he said that if I wanted to bring him another table to put the food on then I could give it to him. He's so rude..." I mean seriously, Manuel doesn't need that. He works seven days a week, sixteen hours a day to support his Mamasita in Colombia. Come on.
Table 33 happened to be on a date with a very pretty woman -- like 7x prettier than him. It was a little warm in the room this evening, and microscopic beads of perspiration made his nose & forehead, his T-zone if you will, shiny. I imagined her pretty pout bracing as he leaned in to give her a sweaty faced kiss... Yech.
Must be a blind date, I thought, but later the hostess told me I was wrong:
"That girl seems to be enjoying herself!"
"No way," I said.
"I know! I watched him spoon feed her a piece of skirt steak. Seriously."
"Ew," I said. I felt sorry that the new hostess had to see that.
I could not wait to drop the check on this inexplicably odious table. Just something about the guy at Table 33. Eventually they paid, in cash, an amount that exceeded the total bill by something outrageous, like 40%. As this guest had been super rude all evening, I assumed he liked me about as much as I did him, and returned to the table quickly with his change.
"No, no," he said, when I tried to hand him back the bill. "That's all set."
"Oh," I said. "Okay...thanks. Have a good night," I said.
It was truly one of those puzzling waitress moments. The rude guy at table 33 just left me a ridiculous tip, better than my best friends (unless they are drunk), my boyfriend, and my parents. All I could think was: Am I on candid camera or something? Is the joke somehow on me? Is Ken sending in shoppers to see calibrate the quality of service is at Toro? Surely a guest that surly wouldn't leave that much money to a hacked waitress out of the kindness of his spirit or the goodness of his heart? Or what he thought a heart would do if he had one in that black, empty space in the center of his chest.
I remain confused. The money is nice to have, of course, but seriously? It feels hollow and strange to gross such a big tip from a table I so deeply hated. I think I'd have preferred a smile.
I suppose this means my integrity is still intact.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
perfect song Saturday
Tonight I saw Leo Kottke play a concert and he played this song.
His version of this tune is one of my favorite songs ever in the history of songs. I felt so happy to be there, in the auditorium of a high school in Exeter, NH, listening to him playing in real time a song I've played over and over on my Ipod on very high volume.
It was a perfect song on a perfect spring night with a perfectly full moon.
His version of this tune is one of my favorite songs ever in the history of songs. I felt so happy to be there, in the auditorium of a high school in Exeter, NH, listening to him playing in real time a song I've played over and over on my Ipod on very high volume.
It was a perfect song on a perfect spring night with a perfectly full moon.
Friday, April 18, 2008
the photograph
I am having my picture taken by a photographer from Stuff@Night today. They will be featuring me in this section of the May 6th issue (mark your calendars.) I am not totally sure how I convinced them that I am interesting enough for coverage here, but I'm trying to just go with it.
When the photographer called to set this shoot up, my first question was, "So what should I wear?" Instead of sounding poised and professional, I am pretty sure I sounded like a teenager wondering what to don for Spring Fling Semi-Formal being held in the high school gym. Again, though, I tried to just go with it.
His response: "Whatever you want. Whatever makes you feel most like you."
Whatever makes me feel most like me, huh? Well, that presents a problem. I feel most like me in yoga pants, slippers, and a tank top.
Whatever shall I do?
When the photographer called to set this shoot up, my first question was, "So what should I wear?" Instead of sounding poised and professional, I am pretty sure I sounded like a teenager wondering what to don for Spring Fling Semi-Formal being held in the high school gym. Again, though, I tried to just go with it.
His response: "Whatever you want. Whatever makes you feel most like you."
Whatever makes me feel most like me, huh? Well, that presents a problem. I feel most like me in yoga pants, slippers, and a tank top.
Whatever shall I do?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
my taxes...
...made me want to stick my head in the oven today. Why must everything involving the government be so hard?
Then later today, someone sent me an email that should have sent me here, but instead sent me here.
And that was pretty amazing.
It only happened for a fleeting second. The message was from a professional contact, and when I went to check it again to figure out exactly what was going on, I landed right here, on the totally correct page.
It made me think, once again, that I must have a little angel on my shoulder, watching over me, looking out for me, intent on making sure that I am having a good time.
Then later today, someone sent me an email that should have sent me here, but instead sent me here.
And that was pretty amazing.
It only happened for a fleeting second. The message was from a professional contact, and when I went to check it again to figure out exactly what was going on, I landed right here, on the totally correct page.
It made me think, once again, that I must have a little angel on my shoulder, watching over me, looking out for me, intent on making sure that I am having a good time.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
the worst weekend ever...
...yet it ended with me waiting on the nicest people ever tonight.
The nicest people ever don't always come to Toro. But they did tonight. An elderly couple, fashionable and chic -- she wore enormous pink glasses and he wore something like an ascot. An old regular whom I haven't seen in over a year -- I've been taking his order since I was 22. Nice Europeans who speak excellent English and, despite their European-ness, still tip me 18%.
It made me believe that there is a special angel who watches over us service industry folk, and that somehow she miraculously knew that having my ass handed to me tonight would have put me over the edge. WAY over the edge.
Instead, she put gems of humanity in my section.
I'm so lucky...
The nicest people ever don't always come to Toro. But they did tonight. An elderly couple, fashionable and chic -- she wore enormous pink glasses and he wore something like an ascot. An old regular whom I haven't seen in over a year -- I've been taking his order since I was 22. Nice Europeans who speak excellent English and, despite their European-ness, still tip me 18%.
It made me believe that there is a special angel who watches over us service industry folk, and that somehow she miraculously knew that having my ass handed to me tonight would have put me over the edge. WAY over the edge.
Instead, she put gems of humanity in my section.
I'm so lucky...
Saturday, April 12, 2008
thoughts on other soulless industries...
...from my favorite blonde:
Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.
- Marilyn Monroe
Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.
- Marilyn Monroe
Friday, April 11, 2008
today I felt thoroughly convinced...
That my industry has no soul.
Then I began to wonder if any industry has soul.
Then I began to ponder the evils of capitalism.
It was all downhill from there...
Then I began to wonder if any industry has soul.
Then I began to ponder the evils of capitalism.
It was all downhill from there...
Thursday, April 10, 2008
past lives
I am having lunch with my former advisor from high school. Like, high school -- it feels like it was 100 years ago.
She is running a little late, so I am sitting at Garden of Eden seule, deeply engrossed in the most recent issue of the Weekly Dig. I pay attention though, through the corner of my eye. Whenever I see a hint of motion, I look up...in vain, to see my favorite waiter leaving as he closes out his shift, a man in a sport coat looking for a table for one, a woman in track pants waiting for a friend. It keeps not being her and I keep reading.
Then suddenly I hear a familiar voice..."Kirsten...? Hi!" There she is!
"Oh my god, hi!" I say and we hug. "It's you! Wow!"
"I know," she says, "I didn't see you at first! I was looking for red!"
Red...? I think. Then I recall: this woman knew me 100 years ago when I was fifteen years old and SO MATURE and had red hair. It was so long ago, such a different life I almost forgot. She knew all of my early hair phases in fact -- Manic Panic Deadly Night Shade (pinky-purple), Ultra Violet (very purple), Fire Engine Red (exactly what it sounds like), henna (when I transitioned into my hippie phase).
Oh, how far we have come since then...
She is running a little late, so I am sitting at Garden of Eden seule, deeply engrossed in the most recent issue of the Weekly Dig. I pay attention though, through the corner of my eye. Whenever I see a hint of motion, I look up...in vain, to see my favorite waiter leaving as he closes out his shift, a man in a sport coat looking for a table for one, a woman in track pants waiting for a friend. It keeps not being her and I keep reading.
Then suddenly I hear a familiar voice..."Kirsten...? Hi!" There she is!
"Oh my god, hi!" I say and we hug. "It's you! Wow!"
"I know," she says, "I didn't see you at first! I was looking for red!"
Red...? I think. Then I recall: this woman knew me 100 years ago when I was fifteen years old and SO MATURE and had red hair. It was so long ago, such a different life I almost forgot. She knew all of my early hair phases in fact -- Manic Panic Deadly Night Shade (pinky-purple), Ultra Violet (very purple), Fire Engine Red (exactly what it sounds like), henna (when I transitioned into my hippie phase).
Oh, how far we have come since then...
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
how was your night?
A rogue piece of rice from the paella I was wrapping up for Table 48 somehow found it's way all the way down my shirt.
Table 51 suggested that I lick their plates clean for them when I asked if they were ready for me to clear. "We wouldn't blame you if you did -- everything was delicious," they assured me. (My response: Thanks...I think I'm all set.)
And table 52 order two rounds of single malt scotch...as shots? Because I guess THATs what the kids are up to these days...
Just the tip of the iceberg on my night. How 'bout yourself?
Table 51 suggested that I lick their plates clean for them when I asked if they were ready for me to clear. "We wouldn't blame you if you did -- everything was delicious," they assured me. (My response: Thanks...I think I'm all set.)
And table 52 order two rounds of single malt scotch...as shots? Because I guess THATs what the kids are up to these days...
Just the tip of the iceberg on my night. How 'bout yourself?
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
truth, fiction, eh? let's get a drink.
Can someone explain to me how Ben Mezrich's imaginatively enhanced nonfiction is different/more okay than what James Frey did?
With the amount of scandal that faux-memoirists and creative non-fiction liars have caused in the past few months, I find it odd that more people aren't upset about this author's free-wheeling take on the genre.
I seem to be the only person in publishing who wasn't totally outraged by the whole James Frey thing, and the last thing I want to do is run Ben Mezrich up on a rail here, especially since I haven't yet read his NYT bestseller Bringing Down the House. I also think that people tend to be too naive about print media, assuming that because something is inked on newsprint in the Globe or the Times or printed in a book, it's a real, honest to God fact. I tend to view media with a more suspicious eye, largely because so many of my cohorts in my Sarah Lawrence days were borderline conspiracy theorists. In the end, everything we write & say is filtered through our bias, thus whatever version of "the truth" a person tells is actually more like a fact-opinion-bias-based cocktail; we can only hope that it's well balanced.
But yeah, this article makes Ben Mezrich sound like Pinocchio. I'm just saying...
With the amount of scandal that faux-memoirists and creative non-fiction liars have caused in the past few months, I find it odd that more people aren't upset about this author's free-wheeling take on the genre.
I seem to be the only person in publishing who wasn't totally outraged by the whole James Frey thing, and the last thing I want to do is run Ben Mezrich up on a rail here, especially since I haven't yet read his NYT bestseller Bringing Down the House. I also think that people tend to be too naive about print media, assuming that because something is inked on newsprint in the Globe or the Times or printed in a book, it's a real, honest to God fact. I tend to view media with a more suspicious eye, largely because so many of my cohorts in my Sarah Lawrence days were borderline conspiracy theorists. In the end, everything we write & say is filtered through our bias, thus whatever version of "the truth" a person tells is actually more like a fact-opinion-bias-based cocktail; we can only hope that it's well balanced.
But yeah, this article makes Ben Mezrich sound like Pinocchio. I'm just saying...
Monday, April 07, 2008
my favorite blonde...
"Well, if it isn't my favorite blonde!" a familiar voice booms behind me. I turned around from the computer screen, where I am frantically typing in Table 40s order -- one of my favorite Boston chefs is standing behind me.
"Hey you! What's up? How are you? Long time no see!" I greet him with a big hug and a kiss. He is here tonight for the private, friends and family exclusive screening of Iron Chef America: the Ken Oringer edition. LOTS of chefs are here, actually, as well as various other "important" city folk -- owners of sports teams, former investors, important friends who go way, way back with my boss -- hey, I don't need to know the back story, all I need to know is that almost every single person in here is SUPER VIP. They are mixing and mingling with various & sundry restaurant industry professionals, regulars, parents, cousins, etc.
And I am in an incarnation of Waitress Hell. The place is so packed & congested that my job -- serving said VIPs dinner -- has become next to impossible. I can't hear a word my VIPs are saying over the ruckus, it takes five minutes to get to their table to check on them in the first place because the dining room has become a veritable obstacle course, and no one really wants to talk to me in the first place once I get there -- I keep getting in someones way, blocking the view of the TV. I have never been good at video games, with their car chases & incessant burrowing, but tonight I feel like I'm in one, dodging chairs and rich peoples' suit lapels with hands full of dirty plates -- don't drop that paella pan! One misstep and it could land in a famous person's lap. Total cluster-fuck.
Then the blonde comment. And suddenly I am transported from Waitress Hell into my blonde universe -- Undercover Blonde land, where all I think about is hair, in service of this project & my book. I recall the tentative first time I referred to myself as a blonde in public, wondering if they'd stop me, interrupt me, correct me -- Would they bust me as an underneath-it-all brunette...? How devious & satisfying it felt to get away with it.
Gee, I'm his favorite blonde! I think. Then again, I bet he says that to all the girls. Still, I'm delighted. I've known this chef since long before the blonde project began -- I wonder if he remembers me from back then? I wonder if he's noticed a difference?
"Hey you! What's up? How are you? Long time no see!" I greet him with a big hug and a kiss. He is here tonight for the private, friends and family exclusive screening of Iron Chef America: the Ken Oringer edition. LOTS of chefs are here, actually, as well as various other "important" city folk -- owners of sports teams, former investors, important friends who go way, way back with my boss -- hey, I don't need to know the back story, all I need to know is that almost every single person in here is SUPER VIP. They are mixing and mingling with various & sundry restaurant industry professionals, regulars, parents, cousins, etc.
And I am in an incarnation of Waitress Hell. The place is so packed & congested that my job -- serving said VIPs dinner -- has become next to impossible. I can't hear a word my VIPs are saying over the ruckus, it takes five minutes to get to their table to check on them in the first place because the dining room has become a veritable obstacle course, and no one really wants to talk to me in the first place once I get there -- I keep getting in someones way, blocking the view of the TV. I have never been good at video games, with their car chases & incessant burrowing, but tonight I feel like I'm in one, dodging chairs and rich peoples' suit lapels with hands full of dirty plates -- don't drop that paella pan! One misstep and it could land in a famous person's lap. Total cluster-fuck.
Then the blonde comment. And suddenly I am transported from Waitress Hell into my blonde universe -- Undercover Blonde land, where all I think about is hair, in service of this project & my book. I recall the tentative first time I referred to myself as a blonde in public, wondering if they'd stop me, interrupt me, correct me -- Would they bust me as an underneath-it-all brunette...? How devious & satisfying it felt to get away with it.
Gee, I'm his favorite blonde! I think. Then again, I bet he says that to all the girls. Still, I'm delighted. I've known this chef since long before the blonde project began -- I wonder if he remembers me from back then? I wonder if he's noticed a difference?
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Saturday, April 05, 2008
100 years of Bette Davis
If Bette Davis were alive, today she'd turn 100. Some interesting articles about her career and her successes can be read here and here.
A two time Oscar winner, the indefatiguable Davis hailed from the Bay State (one source says Lowell, another Newton -- I'll have to do some more research to be sure.) I can't think of a single actress working in Hollywood now whom I'd compare to her -- they just don't make 'em like they used to.
More on Bette Davis later as she's a (sometimes) blonde who truly catches my fancy and always has -- for now, let's raise a toast to the Grand Dame of a bygone era by trying one of these, which she sipped on camera in the film Dark Victory, which she appeared in with Humphrey Bogart and Ronald Reagan. (I'd like to also give a shout out to one of my fellow LUPEC Boston broads, who chose this cocktail as her namesake.)
Pink Gin
1 glass gin
half a dozen drops (no more) of Angostura bitters
Stir with ice & strain into a cocktail glass.
Happy Birthday, Bette Davis!
Friday, April 04, 2008
Is this really a headline...?
81% in Poll Say Nation Is on the Wrong Track
That's the headline? In the New York Times? Really?
When I saw it on my Google homepage this morning I was instantly confused. I have my little IGoogle thingy set up with news from the NYT on the left side of the page, and "news" from the Onion on the right. Below are my horoscope, the weather, book and fashion news, celeb gossip, etc.
I mistook this NYT headline, in all its glorious vagary, as a piece of mock journalism culled from the Onion. I wasn't confident that this was a sincere article penned by real NYT journalists until, oh, paragraph three. I guess it's the absurd open-endedness of this blanket statement -- at first I didn't believe it was real.
Sadly, I think this is a definite case of "It's funny 'cuz it's true..."
That's the headline? In the New York Times? Really?
When I saw it on my Google homepage this morning I was instantly confused. I have my little IGoogle thingy set up with news from the NYT on the left side of the page, and "news" from the Onion on the right. Below are my horoscope, the weather, book and fashion news, celeb gossip, etc.
I mistook this NYT headline, in all its glorious vagary, as a piece of mock journalism culled from the Onion. I wasn't confident that this was a sincere article penned by real NYT journalists until, oh, paragraph three. I guess it's the absurd open-endedness of this blanket statement -- at first I didn't believe it was real.
Sadly, I think this is a definite case of "It's funny 'cuz it's true..."
Thursday, April 03, 2008
backhoe
I am walking through the South End on a bright, gorgeous, sunny April afternoon. I'm on the way home from my office on the way south side of SoWa to my apartment on Warren Ave to meet the plumber, who should be there at 3 p.m. As I cross Shawmut I shuffle around in my pocket to check the time on my cell phone: 2:45. Perfect, I'll be there just in time.
As usual, I am bag-ladened as I walk: laptop bag on one shoulder, handbag on the other, grocery bag in my right hand, cell phone in my left, and I'm digging around in my pockets contemplating the purchase of today's Globe from the newspaper box on the corner of Shawmut and Union Park if I have enough change.
I don't.
I jostle my bags around in an ill-fated attempt to get my phone back into my purse and get my bag zipped up again without having my laptop fall off my shoulder, all while crossing the street. In the midst of all this I am not watching the road, but my ears perk up at the sound of the robust rumbling of oversized tires and the faint thumping of hip-hop...
What is that???
I scurry across the street as quickly as I can trying not to drop anything, and pause to reassemble myself once I've reached the other side. I raise my gaze just in time to see massive backhoe take a generous right turn onto Union Park.
The driver takes his eyes way off the road to give me a solid once over as he rolls by. He's leaned waaay back in the driver's seat, totally feeling whatever it is that he's listening to up there in the cab of the backhoe--I can't hear a thing over the construction vehicle's rumble. I receive a faint nod as he passes and the backhoe fades off into the distance and makes a left onto Shamwut.
I totally just got cruised by a guy in a backhoe.
As usual, I am bag-ladened as I walk: laptop bag on one shoulder, handbag on the other, grocery bag in my right hand, cell phone in my left, and I'm digging around in my pockets contemplating the purchase of today's Globe from the newspaper box on the corner of Shawmut and Union Park if I have enough change.
I don't.
I jostle my bags around in an ill-fated attempt to get my phone back into my purse and get my bag zipped up again without having my laptop fall off my shoulder, all while crossing the street. In the midst of all this I am not watching the road, but my ears perk up at the sound of the robust rumbling of oversized tires and the faint thumping of hip-hop...
What is that???
I scurry across the street as quickly as I can trying not to drop anything, and pause to reassemble myself once I've reached the other side. I raise my gaze just in time to see massive backhoe take a generous right turn onto Union Park.
The driver takes his eyes way off the road to give me a solid once over as he rolls by. He's leaned waaay back in the driver's seat, totally feeling whatever it is that he's listening to up there in the cab of the backhoe--I can't hear a thing over the construction vehicle's rumble. I receive a faint nod as he passes and the backhoe fades off into the distance and makes a left onto Shamwut.
I totally just got cruised by a guy in a backhoe.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
food protective behavior
So, what's up with food protective people who won't let you clear their plates, even when you know they are done?
I encounter all manner of weird food issues as a waitress: people who won't allow you to cook their food in ANY FAT WHATSOEVER ("NO! Butter, NO! Oil! Or it's YOUR ASS!"), people who demand that you hold the starch and add extra greens to everything (very common, thanks Atkins/South Beach diet-craze), people who freak if your restaurant deigns to complicate their wildly complex & totally psychotic diet-food regimen. But I have to say, one of the weirdest food issues I encounter semi-regularly is when people REFUSE to let you clear their plates, even when they are quite obviously already done eating their meal. It happened tonight and the interaction went something like this:
I realize that Table 42 has not touched their patatas bravas in a while. They seem totally engrossed in their conversation and the table looks messy and wasted beneath them-- crumbs everywhere, bits of corn and cheese all over the place. Yech, I'd love to clean that up and get them all set for dessert. I make my way over to see if I can help.
ME: May I take these plates out of the way, ladies?
WOMAN: No, we're okay. We're still working.
ME: Oh, okay. No worries...no rush.
They resume their conversation, and I smile and walk away.
Ten minutes pass. I see Lilliana, one of the backwaiters, walk over to Table 42 and ask in her broken English if they are done. They shake their heads. She leaves empty handed.
Ten more minutes pass. I go by the table again. Should I ask now? The patatas are in the EXACT same formation they were in when I first approached the table to clear. The table still looks every bit as messy and offensive to me. These ladies MUST be done by now. What if they have been done for a while, and think I'm a bad waitress for leaving them like this? I'll ask again.
ME: Can I clear for you ladies?
WOMAN: No. Thanks. I'm still working. She smiles politely, as though this is the first time this evening -- no in her LIFE-- that anyone has tried to clear her plate.
Ten more minutes pass. I'm at a lull and have nothing else to do, so I eye Table 42, wondering when I'll be allowed to clear. Even if they AREN'T done, they should be. The potatoes are definitely ice cold by now, growing mealy and awful under their fried exterior skin. Eating them now would be like biting your teeth into a weird sponge. The aioli dipping sauce is growing warm, drooping in a sad puddle on the plate. Yech, it's DEFINITELY time to get that food out of the way...But I refrain. I will wait. It is clear that these ladies have food issues and I have no interest in getting involved.
As we all know from yesterday's post, I am currently in the throes of PMS, which is making me fat, emotional, and most of all, forgetful. After my last failed attempt to clear Table 42, I promptly forget that they are in the restaurant at all. They have been here for so long and are so engrossed in their own thing and CLEARLY uninterested in the quality of the food they put into their mouths, I decide to let myself off the hook and ignore them completely until they are flagging me down and begging to be cleared.
I forget about them for, like, a really long time. So long that when I do look up and notice Table 42 again, the first thing I think is, "Oh! I have a table there! What are those ladies doing and how long have they been here?"
I think those girls sat there staring at the same plate of cold, foul patatas bravas for over an hour.
I mean what is that? That has to be a psychological issue at play there, right? Some manifestation of weird control issues? Food protective behavior, to say the least? I mean, I have my food issues like every other girl, but these issues I just don't get.
I invite anyone with a psychological background to weigh in.
I encounter all manner of weird food issues as a waitress: people who won't allow you to cook their food in ANY FAT WHATSOEVER ("NO! Butter, NO! Oil! Or it's YOUR ASS!"), people who demand that you hold the starch and add extra greens to everything (very common, thanks Atkins/South Beach diet-craze), people who freak if your restaurant deigns to complicate their wildly complex & totally psychotic diet-food regimen. But I have to say, one of the weirdest food issues I encounter semi-regularly is when people REFUSE to let you clear their plates, even when they are quite obviously already done eating their meal. It happened tonight and the interaction went something like this:
I realize that Table 42 has not touched their patatas bravas in a while. They seem totally engrossed in their conversation and the table looks messy and wasted beneath them-- crumbs everywhere, bits of corn and cheese all over the place. Yech, I'd love to clean that up and get them all set for dessert. I make my way over to see if I can help.
ME: May I take these plates out of the way, ladies?
WOMAN: No, we're okay. We're still working.
ME: Oh, okay. No worries...no rush.
They resume their conversation, and I smile and walk away.
Ten minutes pass. I see Lilliana, one of the backwaiters, walk over to Table 42 and ask in her broken English if they are done. They shake their heads. She leaves empty handed.
Ten more minutes pass. I go by the table again. Should I ask now? The patatas are in the EXACT same formation they were in when I first approached the table to clear. The table still looks every bit as messy and offensive to me. These ladies MUST be done by now. What if they have been done for a while, and think I'm a bad waitress for leaving them like this? I'll ask again.
ME: Can I clear for you ladies?
WOMAN: No. Thanks. I'm still working. She smiles politely, as though this is the first time this evening -- no in her LIFE-- that anyone has tried to clear her plate.
Ten more minutes pass. I'm at a lull and have nothing else to do, so I eye Table 42, wondering when I'll be allowed to clear. Even if they AREN'T done, they should be. The potatoes are definitely ice cold by now, growing mealy and awful under their fried exterior skin. Eating them now would be like biting your teeth into a weird sponge. The aioli dipping sauce is growing warm, drooping in a sad puddle on the plate. Yech, it's DEFINITELY time to get that food out of the way...But I refrain. I will wait. It is clear that these ladies have food issues and I have no interest in getting involved.
As we all know from yesterday's post, I am currently in the throes of PMS, which is making me fat, emotional, and most of all, forgetful. After my last failed attempt to clear Table 42, I promptly forget that they are in the restaurant at all. They have been here for so long and are so engrossed in their own thing and CLEARLY uninterested in the quality of the food they put into their mouths, I decide to let myself off the hook and ignore them completely until they are flagging me down and begging to be cleared.
I forget about them for, like, a really long time. So long that when I do look up and notice Table 42 again, the first thing I think is, "Oh! I have a table there! What are those ladies doing and how long have they been here?"
I think those girls sat there staring at the same plate of cold, foul patatas bravas for over an hour.
I mean what is that? That has to be a psychological issue at play there, right? Some manifestation of weird control issues? Food protective behavior, to say the least? I mean, I have my food issues like every other girl, but these issues I just don't get.
I invite anyone with a psychological background to weigh in.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
welcome to fat week
Welcome to Fat Week, everybody! Fat week happens once a month and begins exactly one week before I get my period. And it blows.
Friends will tell me that I am crazy, not fat, and that this is all in my head. Boyfriends have banged their heads against the wall trying to talk me off the ledge during Fat Week. Strangers likely won't even notice it's Fat Week. The problem is that I notice. My body is kicking off Fat Week right now, with flair and celebratory style. My body is ringing it in with gusto. Huzzah Fat Week!
To some extent, the people who say Fat Week is all in my head are correct. More precisely, it's in my hormone secreting glands. Fat Week is the direct result of changes in hormone levels that happen at predictable times during my cycle. Today, for example, my progesterone levels are at an month-time high, and my estrogen and testosterone levels are also peaking for the second time this month. Estrogen & Testosterone on high? That's usually a good thing, as estrogen & testosterone are the hormones that make me outgoing, confident & feel as though I can take over the world during Thin Week (a.k.a. Week 2 of my cycle). Today Progesterone trumps the E&T card making me calm, collected, and since I am sensitive to it, a little blue.***
Tomorrow, all hell breaks loose and ALL of my hormone levels will plummet as I begin the hellish descent into PMS.
I also call this Fat Week because I literally am fatter this week. Every month I gain & lose at least five pounds over the course of my cycle (since I finally bought a scale in January I've been able to measure this for once and for all). For this duration of this glorious week I get to sport those brand new pounds like a shiny, spanking new pair of shoes. Heavy shoes. Shoes that only weigh five pounds, but feel like they weigh 25.
As you can see, Fat Week isn't just in my head, nor is it exactly real, as in just a week's time, I will lose exactly five pounds in the space of two days. But for now, Vive La Fat Week!
Welcome to my crazy, crazy world...
***All of this info was gleaned from a lovely little book by Gabrielle Lichterman called 28 Days. Pick up a copy & unlock the secrets of your cycle, especially if once a month you think you're going crazy. It's not all in your head & you are NOT alone!
Friends will tell me that I am crazy, not fat, and that this is all in my head. Boyfriends have banged their heads against the wall trying to talk me off the ledge during Fat Week. Strangers likely won't even notice it's Fat Week. The problem is that I notice. My body is kicking off Fat Week right now, with flair and celebratory style. My body is ringing it in with gusto. Huzzah Fat Week!
To some extent, the people who say Fat Week is all in my head are correct. More precisely, it's in my hormone secreting glands. Fat Week is the direct result of changes in hormone levels that happen at predictable times during my cycle. Today, for example, my progesterone levels are at an month-time high, and my estrogen and testosterone levels are also peaking for the second time this month. Estrogen & Testosterone on high? That's usually a good thing, as estrogen & testosterone are the hormones that make me outgoing, confident & feel as though I can take over the world during Thin Week (a.k.a. Week 2 of my cycle). Today Progesterone trumps the E&T card making me calm, collected, and since I am sensitive to it, a little blue.***
Tomorrow, all hell breaks loose and ALL of my hormone levels will plummet as I begin the hellish descent into PMS.
I also call this Fat Week because I literally am fatter this week. Every month I gain & lose at least five pounds over the course of my cycle (since I finally bought a scale in January I've been able to measure this for once and for all). For this duration of this glorious week I get to sport those brand new pounds like a shiny, spanking new pair of shoes. Heavy shoes. Shoes that only weigh five pounds, but feel like they weigh 25.
As you can see, Fat Week isn't just in my head, nor is it exactly real, as in just a week's time, I will lose exactly five pounds in the space of two days. But for now, Vive La Fat Week!
Welcome to my crazy, crazy world...
***All of this info was gleaned from a lovely little book by Gabrielle Lichterman called 28 Days. Pick up a copy & unlock the secrets of your cycle, especially if once a month you think you're going crazy. It's not all in your head & you are NOT alone!
Monday, March 31, 2008
I'm back!
Taking a vow of silence last week gave me a nice break, but gosh I missed having a place to air my thoughts and grievances!
I didn't realize how accustomed I've become to putting the constant monologue that jabbers on in my brain down somewhere. It's actually something I've been doing my entire life, starting with the tiny pink diaries I kept when was a little kid, with a lock and key that I was very careful to always seal. And while this blog was created to record my ruminations and experiences and my identity as I made the transition from brunette to blonde, it's become all encompassing (as most things relating to "identity" do.) I had no idea how much I've come to depend on my blog as my secret little microphone.
On the flip side, I really needed a break from the stream of constant criticism and snarkiness that blogs and the Internet fosters. My blog was excerpted on Universal Hub twice a few weeks ago, which was awesome and drove TONS of new readers to my site -- fabulous! Among those readers were some pretty creepy, sketchy people who left a potpourri of weird, mostly unintelligible and offensive comments on here -- NOT awesome. I began to feel like this whole blog experiment was...too public.
It got me thinking about the dichotomies inherent in a writing life. On the one hand, writing is a solitary act, involving a person, their research, their pen & paper or keyboard and screen, and their thoughts. To parlay that into a career of any sort, is to open yourself up to a lifetime of endless criticism, some of it constructive and in your best interests (when coming from friends, family, agents, editors) but most of it ruthless, judgmental, and insensitive and coming from strangers. It's a slightly schizophrenic lifestyle choice, no?
So, I needed a little break from the voyeurism and the sharing of my thoughts with the strangers. And it was nice.
Then I realized I missed venting to the ether as I do on Undercover Blonde. In my real jobs, I rarely get to say what I think. I can't say to my tables at Toro, "the reason your drinks are taking a long time is because the bartender is in the weeds and the bar back is slow as molasses; you're just going to have to be patient." Instead I have to say, "so sorry about the wait on your drinks, folks, I'll have them in just a moment," and smile. As a publicist it's worse: as a smart publicist, I will refrain from including an example here ; ) But in my little blog world, I get to pretty much say what I think, and I actually get to have an opinion.
But more specifically, I missed this kind of personal writing. I wrote in my journal until my hand cramped up and felt unsatisfied because I still had much more to say. I wrote my parents a letter. I noticed my work emails growing longer, more conversant (and most likely annoying to my all-business colleagues). I felt as though all of these ideas kept popping up in my head and rattling around in my brain with nowhere to go. It felt claustrophobic...
So I'm glad to be back in the blog-o-sphere, prattling on about nothing to the ether as we bloggers do, mildly hoping that someone out there will read and identify with what I say, and hoping if said readers don't have something nice to say, they won't say anything at all.
It's good to be back.
I didn't realize how accustomed I've become to putting the constant monologue that jabbers on in my brain down somewhere. It's actually something I've been doing my entire life, starting with the tiny pink diaries I kept when was a little kid, with a lock and key that I was very careful to always seal. And while this blog was created to record my ruminations and experiences and my identity as I made the transition from brunette to blonde, it's become all encompassing (as most things relating to "identity" do.) I had no idea how much I've come to depend on my blog as my secret little microphone.
On the flip side, I really needed a break from the stream of constant criticism and snarkiness that blogs and the Internet fosters. My blog was excerpted on Universal Hub twice a few weeks ago, which was awesome and drove TONS of new readers to my site -- fabulous! Among those readers were some pretty creepy, sketchy people who left a potpourri of weird, mostly unintelligible and offensive comments on here -- NOT awesome. I began to feel like this whole blog experiment was...too public.
It got me thinking about the dichotomies inherent in a writing life. On the one hand, writing is a solitary act, involving a person, their research, their pen & paper or keyboard and screen, and their thoughts. To parlay that into a career of any sort, is to open yourself up to a lifetime of endless criticism, some of it constructive and in your best interests (when coming from friends, family, agents, editors) but most of it ruthless, judgmental, and insensitive and coming from strangers. It's a slightly schizophrenic lifestyle choice, no?
So, I needed a little break from the voyeurism and the sharing of my thoughts with the strangers. And it was nice.
Then I realized I missed venting to the ether as I do on Undercover Blonde. In my real jobs, I rarely get to say what I think. I can't say to my tables at Toro, "the reason your drinks are taking a long time is because the bartender is in the weeds and the bar back is slow as molasses; you're just going to have to be patient." Instead I have to say, "so sorry about the wait on your drinks, folks, I'll have them in just a moment," and smile. As a publicist it's worse: as a smart publicist, I will refrain from including an example here ; ) But in my little blog world, I get to pretty much say what I think, and I actually get to have an opinion.
But more specifically, I missed this kind of personal writing. I wrote in my journal until my hand cramped up and felt unsatisfied because I still had much more to say. I wrote my parents a letter. I noticed my work emails growing longer, more conversant (and most likely annoying to my all-business colleagues). I felt as though all of these ideas kept popping up in my head and rattling around in my brain with nowhere to go. It felt claustrophobic...
So I'm glad to be back in the blog-o-sphere, prattling on about nothing to the ether as we bloggers do, mildly hoping that someone out there will read and identify with what I say, and hoping if said readers don't have something nice to say, they won't say anything at all.
It's good to be back.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
vow of silence Sunday: charity rocks!
I'm breaking my vow of silence. The LUPEC party at Toro rocked!!!
Thanks to all of you who came out and got shit-faced tonight. All your drinking money went straight to charity, the Friends' Boutique at Dana-Farber to be specific.
We raised at least $800 in raffle tix and $1,ooo in drinks. I'll keep you posted on the final number, but we're thinking it was probably something like 3K total-- for a charity event held from 9 p.m. - midnight on a sleepy Sunday in March, that ain't half bad!
Cin-cin!!!
Thanks to all of you who came out and got shit-faced tonight. All your drinking money went straight to charity, the Friends' Boutique at Dana-Farber to be specific.
We raised at least $800 in raffle tix and $1,ooo in drinks. I'll keep you posted on the final number, but we're thinking it was probably something like 3K total-- for a charity event held from 9 p.m. - midnight on a sleepy Sunday in March, that ain't half bad!
Cin-cin!!!
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
vow of silence: Monday
Blogging every day has been a struggle for me as of late, as I have lots of writing projects cooking and lots of irons in the fire. In light of this, I'm taking a vow of silence for the next few days, starting...NOW
(I thank you in advance for your patience...)
(I thank you in advance for your patience...)
Sunday, March 23, 2008
taxi driver...
...mine just managed to keep me in the cab and give him lots of publishing advice for 35 minutes.
What?
What?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Hillary haters...
I just found out today that my mom is one of those Hillary haters. I have heard of those women out there, who hate Hillary Clinton, who won't vote for her at all, who would rather vote for a Republican than for her. I didn't realize that I actually knew any of these women personally, though. And I never would have guessed that I am actually related to one of them.
I am shocked and appalled. At one point during our talk, she even said the words "I just don't know what I'll do if she's our candidate..." then trailed off the sentence suggestively, as though some deep disgruntled part of her would actually consider voting for a Republican instead of Clinton, something that no one in her working class Irish-Swedish immigrant & staunchly DEMOCRATIC family has EVER done.
Dude.
My mother was equally confused by the fact that I'm not an Obama-girl. "It's not that I'm anti-Obama," I explained, "How could you be? He rocks. And either way we're making history. I just really want a woman in the White House."
My own mother looked at me as though I had two heads.
Then we made Manhattans and changed the subject.
I am shocked and appalled. At one point during our talk, she even said the words "I just don't know what I'll do if she's our candidate..." then trailed off the sentence suggestively, as though some deep disgruntled part of her would actually consider voting for a Republican instead of Clinton, something that no one in her working class Irish-Swedish immigrant & staunchly DEMOCRATIC family has EVER done.
Dude.
My mother was equally confused by the fact that I'm not an Obama-girl. "It's not that I'm anti-Obama," I explained, "How could you be? He rocks. And either way we're making history. I just really want a woman in the White House."
My own mother looked at me as though I had two heads.
Then we made Manhattans and changed the subject.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Enough already
The Mathematician has been away on business in Israel for the past eight days.
When he first left I knew I'd miss him but I thought it might be kind of nice to be on my own for such a time. I envisioned long evenings of relaxation, soul searching, and spending time re-acquainting myself with me. I thought I'd be journaling, working on various writing projects, and generally re-setting at home by my lonesome until he returned from the Middle East.
Instead, I have spent almost every evening since he left out with friends, drinking.
Last Saturday was a ridiculous, accidentally drunken affair of which I am still embarrassed which shall not be named here on the INternet. Co-horts, I love you, you know who you are. What a night!
Sunday was spent physically ill and recovering.
Monday I had a (drinking) client meeting with one of the aforementioned co-horts from Saturday, followed by a LUPEC caucus at Toro. I left on the sober side of drunk...but still not sober.
Tuesday had a meeting with Misty re: our new cocktail book project (over a bottle of wine), followed by dinner with Shanna (& a bottle of wine.)
Wednesday I worked at Toro and passed on my shift drink, thank you very much.
Thursday I had dinner with Oscar -- we've never actually hung out together outside of work/yoga. Why not try Thursday? The wait for a table was long at Eastern Standard...a Pegu Club, 3 glasses of Gamay, and a glass of Sauternes later, how do you think I felt?
And this evening, Friday, was spent sipping several glasses of wine with my best girlfriend, first Chez Lui, then at No. 9 Park. We had champagne, Ornellia, Bourgogne, and winded down with the gift of a delicious glass of dessert wine, reminiscent of Thursday's Sauternes.
My week has been busy and productive, and in all very very drunk, begging the question:
Am I officially a lush?
I've still managed to do yoga every day with a 90 minute hot yoga class twice this week. Still, I'm certain I'm retaining water, feeling very fat at the moment, and generally I don't think my liver can handle much more of this.
The Mathematician needs to come home soon...if for no other reason than to save me from my fabulous, social self.
When he first left I knew I'd miss him but I thought it might be kind of nice to be on my own for such a time. I envisioned long evenings of relaxation, soul searching, and spending time re-acquainting myself with me. I thought I'd be journaling, working on various writing projects, and generally re-setting at home by my lonesome until he returned from the Middle East.
Instead, I have spent almost every evening since he left out with friends, drinking.
Last Saturday was a ridiculous, accidentally drunken affair of which I am still embarrassed which shall not be named here on the INternet. Co-horts, I love you, you know who you are. What a night!
Sunday was spent physically ill and recovering.
Monday I had a (drinking) client meeting with one of the aforementioned co-horts from Saturday, followed by a LUPEC caucus at Toro. I left on the sober side of drunk...but still not sober.
Tuesday had a meeting with Misty re: our new cocktail book project (over a bottle of wine), followed by dinner with Shanna (& a bottle of wine.)
Wednesday I worked at Toro and passed on my shift drink, thank you very much.
Thursday I had dinner with Oscar -- we've never actually hung out together outside of work/yoga. Why not try Thursday? The wait for a table was long at Eastern Standard...a Pegu Club, 3 glasses of Gamay, and a glass of Sauternes later, how do you think I felt?
And this evening, Friday, was spent sipping several glasses of wine with my best girlfriend, first Chez Lui, then at No. 9 Park. We had champagne, Ornellia, Bourgogne, and winded down with the gift of a delicious glass of dessert wine, reminiscent of Thursday's Sauternes.
My week has been busy and productive, and in all very very drunk, begging the question:
Am I officially a lush?
I've still managed to do yoga every day with a 90 minute hot yoga class twice this week. Still, I'm certain I'm retaining water, feeling very fat at the moment, and generally I don't think my liver can handle much more of this.
The Mathematician needs to come home soon...if for no other reason than to save me from my fabulous, social self.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
blonde wisdom: texas guinan
I like noise, rhinestone heels, customers, plenty of attention, and red velvet bathing suits. I smoke like a 5-alarm fire. I eat an aspirin every night before I go to bed. I call every man I don't know "Fred" and they love it. I have six uncles. I sleep on my right side. I like carrots. I eat a dozen oranges every day and I once took off 35 lbs in two weeks. I guess that settles my personality. . . .
- Taxas Guinan, Dallas Morning News * * 6 November 1933 - just a month before her death
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
excluded
I am sitting at one of the long communal tables at Toro, polishing silverware and staring deeply into space.
Things have been stressful for me at work and personally lately. It makes me look forward to nights when I work as a waitress at Toro. When you work as a waitress almost every question has a fairly simple answer, most business functions happen obviously, in patterns and without explanation, and when you are done for the night, you are officially done: wipe the espresso machine down, punch out, pour a glass of wine for your shift drink and relax (only once the night is officially over, of course.)
Now, in this lull before we officially open for service, is the only chance I'll have for the next eight hours to obsess about everything else that's bumming me out in my life. So that is what I do, wiping forks, knives, and four different sizes of spoons one by one with a damp rag.
Eventually it dawns on me that I have been sitting alone, wiping silverware silently for far longer that I should be, given the amount of front of the house staff house we have on tonight. Usually set-up time is a stream of endless chatter, joking, and catching up. Where is everybody? I think.
I turn around to look over my shoulder and have my answer. The entire front of the house staff is sitting together at a different table: my fellow waiters Juan & Luis, back waiters Monica, Liliana, & Bibbiana. They are all from Colombia -- I am the only American on the floor tonight. They chat away, engrossed in several different conversations, interrupting each other talking over each other, teasing, joking, and catching up. All of this is happening in Spanish...which means that, but for my broken several phrases of restaurant Spanish, I am completely excluded.
"Hey you guys, wait a minute!" I say.
"Yes, Mona?" Luis stops talking to Juan.
"What's the matter? What's wrong?" says Juan.
"I'm lonely." I say.
"Well, what are you doing over there? Come sit here and talk to us!" Luis says. Before the sentence is out of his mouth I have completely relocated my silverware polishing operation and am dropping into an empty chair beside Juan.
"Hola," I say.
And for the next 5 -10 minutes before our staff briefing meeting, I just sit there and listen to a musical language that is not at all my own, no longer excluded but far from comprehension.
It's nice.
Things have been stressful for me at work and personally lately. It makes me look forward to nights when I work as a waitress at Toro. When you work as a waitress almost every question has a fairly simple answer, most business functions happen obviously, in patterns and without explanation, and when you are done for the night, you are officially done: wipe the espresso machine down, punch out, pour a glass of wine for your shift drink and relax (only once the night is officially over, of course.)
Now, in this lull before we officially open for service, is the only chance I'll have for the next eight hours to obsess about everything else that's bumming me out in my life. So that is what I do, wiping forks, knives, and four different sizes of spoons one by one with a damp rag.
Eventually it dawns on me that I have been sitting alone, wiping silverware silently for far longer that I should be, given the amount of front of the house staff house we have on tonight. Usually set-up time is a stream of endless chatter, joking, and catching up. Where is everybody? I think.
I turn around to look over my shoulder and have my answer. The entire front of the house staff is sitting together at a different table: my fellow waiters Juan & Luis, back waiters Monica, Liliana, & Bibbiana. They are all from Colombia -- I am the only American on the floor tonight. They chat away, engrossed in several different conversations, interrupting each other talking over each other, teasing, joking, and catching up. All of this is happening in Spanish...which means that, but for my broken several phrases of restaurant Spanish, I am completely excluded.
"Hey you guys, wait a minute!" I say.
"Yes, Mona?" Luis stops talking to Juan.
"What's the matter? What's wrong?" says Juan.
"I'm lonely." I say.
"Well, what are you doing over there? Come sit here and talk to us!" Luis says. Before the sentence is out of his mouth I have completely relocated my silverware polishing operation and am dropping into an empty chair beside Juan.
"Hola," I say.
And for the next 5 -10 minutes before our staff briefing meeting, I just sit there and listen to a musical language that is not at all my own, no longer excluded but far from comprehension.
It's nice.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
highlights tomorrow...
I'm getting my roots done tomorrow & I suspect it will be the highlight of my week. I always feel better after getting lightened. It lightens my spirits, from the roots of my hair down.
It's not just the roots that Jason deals with, though. He makes all of my hair look better, updated. He does something to the already blonde parts to remove the brassiness that somehow creeps in between lightenings. He conditions it to make the rough, split end parts soft & touchable & feel less like hay. He makes everything better, from roots, to ends, to soul.
I will never again underestimate the importance of good hair, for me, anyway. If this project has taught me nothing else it's taught me that when my hair looks good, the rest of me feels good, whether it's platinum, dark brown, or my natural hue somewhere in between.
Photos to follow...should we go lighter again?
It's not just the roots that Jason deals with, though. He makes all of my hair look better, updated. He does something to the already blonde parts to remove the brassiness that somehow creeps in between lightenings. He conditions it to make the rough, split end parts soft & touchable & feel less like hay. He makes everything better, from roots, to ends, to soul.
I will never again underestimate the importance of good hair, for me, anyway. If this project has taught me nothing else it's taught me that when my hair looks good, the rest of me feels good, whether it's platinum, dark brown, or my natural hue somewhere in between.
Photos to follow...should we go lighter again?
Monday, March 17, 2008
cheerios
It's old news by now, but this article in Saturday's Globe got me so riled up. I've just one thing to say to Liesl Trimnell and her South End mommy-brigade cohorts:
We waitstaff MIND when you leave Cheerios under the table. We DO MIND, no matter how polite we may be, no matter how plastered on our happy faces are. It's annoying. It's messy. It's presumptuous. We just can't SAY anything about it because we're in the service industry and, well, that would be rude.
Also, I empathize with you. I want to have babies some day and I don't want to move to the suburbs. And I believe in karma. I believe that every time I am a bitch to a struggling, frazzled mother, the chances that I will wind up with a gaggle of colicky demon babies with ADHD and psychological problems increase. So I will always be nice to you. But please, PLEASE show some humility when your child decimates a dining room.
Thank you, The Management.
We waitstaff MIND when you leave Cheerios under the table. We DO MIND, no matter how polite we may be, no matter how plastered on our happy faces are. It's annoying. It's messy. It's presumptuous. We just can't SAY anything about it because we're in the service industry and, well, that would be rude.
Also, I empathize with you. I want to have babies some day and I don't want to move to the suburbs. And I believe in karma. I believe that every time I am a bitch to a struggling, frazzled mother, the chances that I will wind up with a gaggle of colicky demon babies with ADHD and psychological problems increase. So I will always be nice to you. But please, PLEASE show some humility when your child decimates a dining room.
Thank you, The Management.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
angry comments
Wow, yesterday's post sure elicited a lot of angry comments. One from "Anonymous" posted on Universal Hub accuses me of being misandric. I had to look that word up. It means hatred of men.
To be clear, I don't hate men. I just hate being catcalled. But I do find it fascinating how sensitive guys can be! I write one tiny little blog about sexual harassment and men everywhere get all hot and bothered. Sheesh.
To be clear, I don't hate men. I just hate being catcalled. But I do find it fascinating how sensitive guys can be! I write one tiny little blog about sexual harassment and men everywhere get all hot and bothered. Sheesh.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
my armor
Last Sunday I was rushing to Toro for work, late. I was dressed totally incorrectly for the weather. It was glaringly sunny out so I'd assumed I'd be fine if I wore my short down jacket, hat, scarf and gloves for the fifteen minute walk from upper to lower South End. I was mistaken; the wind was icy & whipping with a surprising vengeance and after just half a block my eyes were tearing from the gusts and I was really, really cold. I felt lost without my puffy coat armor, with its cocoon-like length and its encompassing hood.
I turned left at West Dedham, rushing passing the post office and Villa Victoria, slaloming past a woman with a baby carriage and an old Asian man hobbling down the street in blue sweat pants. There were two young guys talking at the end of the street, and I felt them staring at me as I approached. I ducked my head down and tried to become invisible as I passed. For a minute I thought it worked! Neither of them said anything as I scurried past...
Then, once I was about ten feet away they started hollering: "Hey, snow bunny, where you goin'? It's gonna be alright! Damn, girl, you look good...." their voices faded into a gust of wind as I turned left to rush down Shawmut.
And there it was, that old familiar feeling: shame, embarrassment, one part anger, one part fear, seeping into my belly and up through my chest like terrible ink spilled on gleaming pale carpet. 100% usurping of my power. I realized as I walked: my puffy coat is more than just an armor against bad weather. It's an armor against catcalls. With its broad shapeless mid-section and its massive tent-like hood, my puffy has protected me from this feeling all winter long.
And underneath my puffy, my heart has grown soft. Spared from these comments all these months, I've let my skin get thinner, let myself become more open to this kind of verbal onslaught. A tiny little comment that should have rolled off like droplets of water slithering down a duck's feathers left me shocked, irked, vulnerable, and embarrassed. It really, truly made me feel like shit. As opposed to how I usually react to catcalling, when it makes me feel just a little bit like shit.
I cursed my decision to fore go the puffy coat.
I turned left at West Dedham, rushing passing the post office and Villa Victoria, slaloming past a woman with a baby carriage and an old Asian man hobbling down the street in blue sweat pants. There were two young guys talking at the end of the street, and I felt them staring at me as I approached. I ducked my head down and tried to become invisible as I passed. For a minute I thought it worked! Neither of them said anything as I scurried past...
Then, once I was about ten feet away they started hollering: "Hey, snow bunny, where you goin'? It's gonna be alright! Damn, girl, you look good...." their voices faded into a gust of wind as I turned left to rush down Shawmut.
And there it was, that old familiar feeling: shame, embarrassment, one part anger, one part fear, seeping into my belly and up through my chest like terrible ink spilled on gleaming pale carpet. 100% usurping of my power. I realized as I walked: my puffy coat is more than just an armor against bad weather. It's an armor against catcalls. With its broad shapeless mid-section and its massive tent-like hood, my puffy has protected me from this feeling all winter long.
And underneath my puffy, my heart has grown soft. Spared from these comments all these months, I've let my skin get thinner, let myself become more open to this kind of verbal onslaught. A tiny little comment that should have rolled off like droplets of water slithering down a duck's feathers left me shocked, irked, vulnerable, and embarrassed. It really, truly made me feel like shit. As opposed to how I usually react to catcalling, when it makes me feel just a little bit like shit.
I cursed my decision to fore go the puffy coat.
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