I received a paycheck and finished training since my last post. You are reading a working woman’s blog. I am now a front of house guest liason slash host slash receptionist.
THE SCENE: me (little, blonde, pale) in a navy blue shirt dress that drapes off of my fragile bones, black flats, and grey striped tights. All around me: swankier types, all much taller than I. I greet them in the hallway as they hang up their coats. I squeak, “Hello! Welcome! How are you! May I check you in! Reservations tonight?” in my pseudo-assertive voice. I do so. I guide them to their table, giggling along the way. I ask them about sparkling water. I smile all night until my face hurts. I drink a glass of champagne and then, I go home.
It’s been wonderful getting out of the house and talking to strangers. It makes me want to write more and it makes me cherish my alone time (which, as I said, in a house of 10 people… is few and far between).
Though I haven’t been furiously writing this last week, I am currently in the middle of Everything is Illuminated… and I dig it. I’ve been taking my time reading it because of this fact. I am a notoriously fast reader. I saw the film years ago, but a re-viewing will take place once I complete it.
Which brings me to my next topic of Guys Who Talk to Me in Coffee-shops When, Like, I’d Rather They Didn’t…
THE SCENE: I’m wearing that same damn dress with those same damn tights. I’m sitting at a tall, skinny table that seats 8 people. In order to not appear incredibly awkward (or creepy) I stare straight down (through?) the pages of my book or at my perfectly crafted latte, but the man who sits down in the empty seat next to mine still for whatever god-awful reason asks, “How’s the book going?”
This is friendly. I understand. I’m not a complete wench. I oftentimes ask strangers what they’re reading just because I’m an English nerd and I sincerely wonder, but… how… is it going? I wanted to say, “Er. Well, I’m reading it,” but instead I made some sort of tiny talk about how Jonathan Safran Foer is, allegedly, an asshole. This comment prompts an older gentlemen to look straight into my eyes from above his silver Macbook Pro and we talk about Ernest Hemingway for a bit, since Ernest Hemingway is everyone’s #1 asshole author response. I then discuss how I can appreciate the genius of an artist who is an asshole, that I regularly expect it, but I just like it when authors are good people. Like Harper Lee.
I never delved into the fact that this sentimentality is based upon my creative writing degree and if I ever do anything that is worth a damn, that is published on paper, I would want people to say, “Oh, she was hilarious! Charming! Warm! And, if I may be so brazen, damn attractive!”