Stoli Razz and Soda, Please

I've been really lucky when it comes to jobs, and that's especially true at Bayside Bowl. I can't say enough how great it is, everyone I work with is awesome, my customers rule, blah blah blah. One of the many perks is that I get one free meal for every shift I work, and I'm  usually compelled to wind down with an adult beverage once I clock out. If you, my readers, haven't already gathered that I drink a lot, I'm telling you now: I drink a lot. My lifestyle lends it self well to this sort of behavior.

At Bayside Bowl, we take our liquor seriously and our attitudes about liquor even more seriously. Our beer selection is extensive, featuring tons of craft beers, from here and away, but also favorite imports like Guinness, Heineken and Corona. As far as liquor, we have plenty of scotches and bourbons, as though bowling is such a sophisticated business. We probably sell more Courvoisier and Tuaca than any one bar in the entire state. But for me, even more enjoyable than a Shipyard Export or a Bulleit bourbon, is my dress size. From time to time, if I'm having a drink for the purpose of relaxing, I'll grab a vodka-soda, the low-sugar, low-cal, less-gross alternative to light beer. Even better than a vodka-soda, though, is a flavored vodka. I don't get all crazy with the blueberries or the passion fruits, just a simple Stoli O or Razz from time to time.

This was a secret from everyone at Bayside Bowl for a long time. It took us months to start carrying Stoli Razz, and that's only because it was insisted that we carry it for a private function. Before that, anyone who tried to order a flavored vodka was met with (thoughts of) pity or contempt. I would secretly sympathize, offer a splash of cranberry juice or a margarita. Then, last Friday, I went for it. I ordered a Stoli Razz and soda. I asked Nathan, the Handsome, Talented Photographer moonlighting as Awesomest Bar Manager Ever, to be cool about it. He knows I'm not a Midori-sour kind of a girl, he knows I'm cool when it comes to brews, but he can't help but totally make fun of me, extremely loud, and I don't blame him. "AMANDA! HOW IS THAT STOLI RAZZ? ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR STOLI RAZZ?" All of a sudden I'm no longer hip-staff member charming customers and coworkers alike, I'm that girl asking, "Do you have blueberry vodka?"

My drink is awesome. It goes down fast, as I'm telling a new coworker all about my recent lovelife drama. The owner asks me if I want a refill, and I nod, cringing, "OMG, does he know that I got the Stoli Razz?" (Yes, I speak to myself in acronyms from time to time.) And he goes, Tanqueray and tonic? And I'm like, yessss! He doesn't know.

At this point, I decide that I'd really like to bowl. (I usually bowl alone.) And I also decide that I'd like one more Stoli Razz and lemonade, which I ordered through my laneside server. This is what came:

It was so ridiculous, so many garnishes, I couldn't even look at it, let alone drink it. 

The rest of the night consisted of a few bowling games of diminishing scores, despite encouraging cheers from the next lane over. I called a cab, since it's not safe to walk home alone at one o'clock in the morning, let alone tispy on gin and flavored vodka.The cab seems to be taking longer than normal, so I go back inside to use the restroom. When I come back out, a group of drunk people are trying to get into my cab and I find myself yelling and running down the stairs, "NO! NO! NO! Get out! That's my cab! No! No! Get out!" Luckily, for me, they did, because those girls were a lot bigger than me. The cab driver and I laughed about it and tipped him well.  

The Article and the Boat Guy

It’s really weird to have your face on the front page of the paper, even if it’s a free alternative-daily newspaper. I didn’t think anyone really read the Portland Daily Sun, I just thought people picked it up for the crosswords. Not the case, and here’s a story about the repercussions of having your fifteen minutes of local fame.

The night of the run in with the promiscuous 85 year old, this cute guy came by the bowling alley. This is nothing out of the ordinary, tons of cute guys come by all the time. But then I recognized him as a friend of a friend, and had a tiny freak out because I had a crush on this man, even though we’d never actually met. What was he doing in Portland, at my bowling alley? Before I had a chance to go over and introduce myself, busy caught up with my senior citizen suitor, he was gone. So, I did what I do best- I wrote him an email. He came up right away on the Google search, and right there on his website, I found his email. Although Googling someone usually yeilds results, it never ceases to amaze me. This was like the scene in High Fidelity where Rob is going through his what-does-it-all-mean phase and finds Charlie in the phone book. “She’s in the fucking phone book.” There is the whole stalker factor one has to be considerate of when confessing to someone that you found them on the internet, so I carefully wrote him a pleasant, complimentary email, trying as hard as possible to not sound like a total creep show, and offered to buy him a beer.

Much to my surprise, he wrote back within 24 hours with his phone number. We sort of text a little bit about a potential time and place to meet, but I soon realize we were going to have to have a conversation to figure this out due to my complicated transportation issues and scheduling conflicts. Unbelievably nervous, I call him. It goes to voicemail. He calls back almost right away. I try to smile the whole time, which is the only thing I learned during my one week of telemarketing, other than that telemarketing is the worst job on the planet. I recommended Flatbread to a friend for a lunch date, once. Since he’s now in a serious relationship with that girl, I figured my intuitions were correct that it’s a good lunch date spot. Although, anyone who was at the Scratchpad Series knows how I feel about lunch dates. For lack of a better nickname, we’ll call this man the Boat Guy (but not the man in the boat,) because he has a boat.  I call him the night before our scheduled meet-up to confirm plans, and we talk on the phone for over an hour. I love talking, and I love talking on the phone. This is already a really good sign.

***

My day consisted of meeting Matt from the Portland Daily Sun at the Hilltop for a quick picture for the paper, then a lunch shift at the bowling alley and then my date with Boat Guy. My hair was a mess and I had no make-up, but there was no turning back now. What does one WEAR on a day with so many different kinds of activities?! A severe thundershower narrowly misses me as I duck into the restaurant. (So much for the eating outdoors idea.) I’m right exactly on time. He’s already sitting at the bar, and from the amount of beer in his bottle, I can tell he’s been there for more than five minutes. This is actually a stunt I usually pull- showing up extra early for a date. That way you just sit, cool and collected, letting them come to you. There’s always the possibility that they’ll walk in, see you, turn around and walk out, but luckily that hasn’t happened to me, and it definitely didn’t happen to Boat Guy. We make eye contact right away and he waves me over. I breath a sigh of relief and sit down.

It seems to be going well. He’s asking me a lot of questions, which keeps the conversation moving. We talk about travelling and Portland and food. I make him tell me everything he’s done since college, which is a lot, and he confesses that he’s recently ended a serious relationship. Noted. At some point in the process of getting to know someone, they’re going to want to know what you “do.” What I mean by this isn’t your job, but what drives you. What your passions are, what you would spend all of your free time doing if money wasn’t an issue. For me, lately, the answer has been writing. Looking back, I’ve been writing for years, I even had a LiveJournal way back when, but never seemed to realize it was like, my thing. I went to art school, so new people usually tend to focus on that- “Oh, Amanda, well, what kind of art did you do? Are you still making art?” I hate that question, and so does everyone who’s ever “done art.” I’m halfway through my second pint, and apparently feeling some sort of liquid courage, because I start talking about the blog. I mean, you’re here, reading it. My Google Analytics tracker tells me that my readership has been steadily growing, which wouldn’t happen if it sucked. And I tell him that the next day I was going to get my first big press- the Portland Daily Sun. It seemed like all of the silly stories I’ve been putting down were actually kind of going somewhere. My writer friend Sean even said that he was thinking there might be a book in there somewhere.  A book! Holy shit! This is completely self-motivated, I’m in complete control of the whole thing, I’m working on it a lot, and I’m happy.

This does not go over well. Boat Guy says things like, “I can’t believe I ended up here with a blogger. This is the last thing I need in my life right now.” Suddenly, Boat Guy was no longer smiling and his body language has completely changed. I back pedal. “Listen, Boat Guy, I don’t write to offend or hurt feelings. My relationships are more important to me than the blog. It’s supposed to be funny, that’s all.” (This is all completely true, by the way.)  I try and change the subject, but I’m totally flailing. This date did a 180, and I’m not even sure if it’s still considered a date at this point. No amount of arm touching or eyelash batting was helping.  I had unknowingly struck some sort of nerve. Something was going on in his life that he wasn’t going to tell me, but was making him freak out. He was invited out under the pretence that I was buying him a beer. So, I insisted on paying for lunch. The check came, and I threw down. This probably made things even worse, in some kind of old fashioned emasculation way. We walk outside and I seriously want to get the fuck out of there, it’s awful. I’m fairly certain at this point I’m never going to see Boat Guy again, and don’t know if I even want to. I make a lame excuse and try not to run. I barge into Angela’s office two blocks from Flatbread, flabbergasted, and tell her the whole story.

That night at work, I’m sad. When you’re trying to get over someone, having someone new to take up that space in your brain is always helpful, and I was especially disappointed that Boat Guy was not going to be my new distraction. I’m good at dating and it shouldn’t have gone down like that. But whatever. Whatever was going on with Boat Guy had nothing to do with me. We all have varying degrees of fucked-upness in our lives, he was at some sort of peak. My blog is awesome, and I shouldn’t have to make excuses for my writing. Men should be lining up at my door to take me out, blog or no blog. So... imagine my surprise when I miss a call from Boat Guy later that night. He doesn’t leave a voicemail. Perplexed, I decide to call him back in the morning.

***

8:30 a.m., I get a call from Kate Digby Skinner. I can’t imagine what on earth she needs at this ungodly hour of the morning, especially since I had a pretty good idea what she was doing the night before and until what time, but I answer. She screams into the phone: AMANDA YOUR FACE IS ON THE PAPER AND IT’S HUGE AHHHHH!!!! I wince, then smile, and wince again. I hang up the phone, immediately throw some shorts on and run out to Sonny’s Variety, then over to the Greyhound Station. I probably grabbed 30 copies, not really knowing what to do with them. It was hard to not make eye contact with anyone, but I didn’t need any crazy St. John Street people stopping me. (Except for the Pizza Villa people. I wanted them to see it and think, that’s our GIRL! By the way, I didn’t tell anyone there I was moving. They probably think something happened to me.) Upstairs, in the comfort of my room, I read the whole thing twice. Although I’m reasonably satisfied with how the blog is represented, with Matt’s reporting, it’s shocking that my picture is so huge, a full half of the cover. Then there was the headline, “Putting it all on(the)line/Blogging as commentary on the modern dating scene” which might as well have said, “BEWARE! Amanda Pleau has a dating blog, do not go out with her!!!” That copy editor must’ve felt pretty fucking good about themselves.  I spent my remaining minutes with Boat Guy downplaying the whole thing, and this headline couldn’t have made things worse. “Oh, but Boat Guy, no, don’t worry about it, it’s not even like that. No one really reads the blog, it’s not that big of a deal, I don’t really write about dating, it’s just a fun hobby that I’m not even really that into. It’s not about dating or anything, I promise I’m not going to write about this or you or anything. This isn’t just like, research for the blog. REALLY, it’s not that big of a deal. The only reason that reporter guy talked to me about the blog is because we like, know each other and it’s been a slow news month. REALLY.” This headline made me feel like I had to give a disclaimer in the first thirty seconds of a date: I have a blog and you might be the subject.  

I call Boat Guy back and he’s on the boat. He says he read the blog, and I’m assuming this has put his mind at ease from whatever shit show he was picturing. It’s a beautiful Friday morning, and he asks me to meet him for coffee. This would be all well and good, I love/need coffee, except I told him I was going to be in the paper. I panicked. Up until Blog-Gate 2010, the Great Blog Meltdown, it seemed like things were going well between us, and I wanted to put the blog in the past. I weighed my options, which were few. There was definitely not enough time to beat him to Aurora and hide any papers there, and those papers are everywhere, anyway. Unless maybe I ran. He could have forgotten, although that seemed unlikely. I sucked it up, got dressed and headed over. It’s on his table when I arrive. Right there, my face, same hair and clothes that he had seen the day before. Thinking quick, I acknowledge that he’s seen it, by pointing and rolling my eyes, in and attempt to act annoyed rather than embarrassed. We don’t talk about it, it’s as if nothing happened. Close call.

You, my awesome and devoted readership (have I mentioned I work for tips for a living?) might be wondering how it’s possible that you’re reading this right now, since I promised Boat Guy I’d never write about him. Well, I pled my case. “Listen, Boat Guy, I’m reasonably certain that I’m never going to be in the paper again. It’s incredibly funny and ironic- the timing of all this whole thing, and it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to write about it.” He agreed, gave me the go-ahead, as long as he remained completely anonymous.

The Little Black Skirt that Could

I wasn't born yesterday. I'm well aware of the fact that I work for tips, and sometimes I'll put on clothes that, well, you know, aren't exactly modest or dumpy. This one skirt, however...

Mandy and I are pretty much the same size, so we share clothes. The other day when picking up some key pieces of mine that she had, I grabbed this black miniskirt. She wears a lot of skirts and heels, I wear a lot of jeans and tee shirts. This was everything a miniskirt is supposed to be, short and snug, pockets. Before wearing it to work, I tested it out on a trip to Gritty's with Angela Pizzo. She has a mug, and I ate a cheezburger. Everything about my outfit that day was totally normal, except the length of the skirt. We're mid-pint, mid-conversation when a man, out of nowhere, comes over to us and says, "Can I tell you a story?" I'm psyched. I ask him if I can record, because a) the voice recorder app exists, b) I know how to post audio to the blog, and c) Laura is always looking for stories for her project. But the story is so stupid and he leaves out key pieces of information. He lives in DC, and his Mongolian girlfriend punched him in the face last week. He said he was just making dinner, $32 worth of scallops, she got annoyed and punched him in the face. Closed fist. So he gets in the car and drives to Maine. He rambles on and on about his house in Damriscotta, cell service in Lincoln County, this bartender he was talking up at a pub in Waldoboro, and his eventual reconciliation with the Mongolian woman. Angela said that she could see the disappointment on my face after five minutes in this wasn't going to be a great story. I recorded for almost 20 minutes and promptly deleted it when he walked away. It wasn't even a story. THEN the bartender told us that the reason she punched him in the face, which we poked and prodded him for and he never told us. I mean, seriously. She was Mongolian, not insane. He forgot again that she was allergic to shellfish. It was probably one of those, "If you forget again I'm going to punch you," situations. I would've been annoyed, too. Strange men approach me at bars sometimes, but based on the next two incidences which occurred during the skirt wearing, it's definitely to blame.

I wear the skirt to work on Saturday. Oh, it sort of looks like this. Except, black, with little pleats and pockets on the front. Similar fit, though. Don't forget my Tony's Donuts/Pizza Villa belly and Spanx indent, Dexter boat shoes (not spike heels), messy ponytail and glasses. Right, I was really knocking 'em out.

The night started slow. As with every really nice day at the bowling alley, I assume that no one will come in. If I wasn't working on a beautiful Maine summer day, I'd be on the beach, on a boat, at a baseball game, eating BBQ, or a combination of all four. Anyway, things picked up around 9, because Bayside Bowl is awesome and supersedes decks and boats. Then a couple of things happened:

I was propositioned by an 85 year old man. This is not a joke. A 50-something year old man with a name everyone in Portland knows, was doing shots of Crown Royal. He asked me for one for him and one for his uncle, the 85 year old, who's name might've been Jack. Jack was old, looked old, acted old, without a doubt the oldest person in the building by at least 20 years. He corners me at the waitstation. "AMANDA!" I look up. "Let me ask you a question." I know there's no response to this other than okay, so I say okay. "Have you ever made love to a senior citizen?"




!!!




What?! Oh my god. I blushed. Hell no, why would I ever want to put my body up against your old, hunched over, wrinkly body? Do you even still have all of your teeth? Not to mention I'd have to do all the work! Gross, no thanks. It takes a nano second figure out how to let this man down gently, by using words instead of running away or dry heaving (my two instinctive reactions), so I smile and say, "I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much." The boyfriend is a fragment of my imagination. He replies, "Have you ever considered it? You have, haven't you!" I'm really, just so stunned, that I paused, went into auto pilot, and must've blacked out, because I don't remember the rest of the conversation. He said something about my boobs (which I don't believe were particularly pushed up or exposed that night.) I must've changed the subject to bowling, which luckily, is always a topic, then made an excuse about getting an order in. Instead of helping actual customers who probably needed things, I ran into the kitchen and had a mini-freakout and gave the kitchen staff a pretty good laugh.

A bit later, things are winding down, but I'm still shellshocked when the Bayside Bowl phone rings. Micaela answers it, and apparently, a man on the other line insists that she take down his number, in case "the dark haired waitress with the glasses wants some cock." So Micaela, says, "Amanda??" Great, so the creep knows my name. She takes down his phone number. I freakout, crumple it and throw it in the trash immediately. Then I try to pull my skirt down. I just facebooked this guy's supposed first name, and the first person I found had pictures on his profile bowling at a different alley. Interesting.

Anyway, that skirt has gone back to it's rightful owner, and I'm going to wear jeans, tees and muumuus to work for a little while. (In case you were wondering, my tips were awesome that night.)

Bowling Barefoot

A few days ago, I was working laneside. This one girl tells me that she'd lost her job earlier that day. She's with two guys who are bowling, and no one is drinking very much. Eventually, she decides to get a fruit and cheese plate, then an ice cream sundae. I asked if it was tough economic times, but no, she was fired. She was working as an executive assistant and blamed office politics. It's one thing to lose your job, it's even more depressing to be fired from a job- I was in full support of her ice cream sundae decision.

So, a little while later I come back to check in, and the guys are starting their second game, and I asked her why she wasn't bowling. She was wearing flip flops and said that she didn't bring appropriate footwear- like, no socks for the rented shoes.

Okay wait a second. Let me just tell you, that I've never thought of myself as someone who could sell things. I tried telemarketing once, and I went home crying practically every day. It was terrible. Apparently, though, judging by my tips, I'm doing an alright job convincing people to drink, eat and bowl. Really, it's not completely self-serving- I want everyone who comes to Bayside Bowl to have a great time, tell their friends, and come back. I guess it's kind of like when I try to convince my friends to stay out for one more drink. It's easy, and it usually works.

So I find myself saying to this girl, "Oh, but the shoes are brand-new, we've only been open a week. They've only been worn like, once or twice, I'm sure you'll be fine."* She gave me a long, unblinking sidelong look, paused, and said very seriously, "Yeah. (long pause) I've heard that one before."

...wait for it...

She was comparing wearing rented shoes with no socks to sex without a condom. Oh my GOD! And she was RIGHT! And the best part is that somehow she knew that I would know exactly what she meant, right away and I did! I laughed for about a minute straight. She made me feel like a total creep for trying to get her to wear the shoes barefoot. I've heard that line a million times, and I'm positive the girls have heard it more than once or twice, drunk or not. Something like, 90% of the men I've been with have tried to go, ahem, barefoot, and guys. We all know that going barefoot is better. Act like a responsible adult and put socks on or don't bowl.

Did I mention we have a pastry chef? Here's a lemon square, a blonde brownie sundae, and a Maine Root root beer float with some kind of fancy cookie I forget the name of:

*Really though, you probably won't get any fungi. Our customers are pretty well-kept, and plus we have this spray that MUST kill everything, it's so potent.

Life at Bayside Bowl

I love my new job. No, really. Did I mention I'm working at Bayside Bowl now? We've officially been open for three days. Everyone is really excited, and there are a few people who've been in multiple days of the three. You remember a few posts ago when I mentioned my Spanx Scar? Well. Not only will this job keep me running around all night, but I'm also going to be drinking a lot less, less Tony's Donuts, less iced vanilla lattes. I think I'll be ready for bathing suit weather mid-July. There are quite a few baggy t-shirts in my closet until then.

Opening night was sort of ridiculous. To be a good server, you need to be timely, accurate, and friendly. Sometimes, I was able to only get two of three- there were a lot of ups and downs, but I was smiling the whole time. The owner's brother in law told him that I was really nice, that he was happy with the service. I told the owner that his brother in law was the one being nice, because he didn't mention that I brought him the wrong meal and the wrong beer. But I had another table who absolutely hated me. It was two couples- later realized that one of the guys was the twin brother of one of my coworkers, and that I'm friends with his girlfriend's ex boyfriend. I made a weird joke about their taste in whiskeys being different and it was NOT FUNNY, just awkward. I was trying to make fun of myself for not knowing the difference between Crown Royal and Maker's in the glass, but it came out as a criticism of the future of their relationship. Big problem with the brain to mouth filter, here. Note to self: just because I feel comfortable with someone, doesn't mean I can joke about details of their personal lives. Then, I put the wrong cheese on their pizza, forgot to ask the kitchen about egg whites, and the kitchen didn't put mushrooms and onions on the veggie burgers, as specified on the menu. These people absolutely hated me, and I don't blame them- when I was bringing them their checks I made an awkward mini-speech about bumps in the road, opening night, etc. Every once in a while, I'll be out somewhere, and not gel with the server. Like, this one woman at Flatbread. I was that woman to these people. They went to the bar and hung out for the rest of the night... and probably got drunk and forgot about it.

One kind of funny thing that's been happening, when I'm working the lanes: there are a lot of couples coming in, and an astounding number of women are beating the men, way more than 50%. "She's kicking my ass." Awesome. A busty waitress from GR DiMillo's, across the street has been coming in and bowling alone, for the practice. There are a lot of ladies who're really into bowling. I've had my first drunken customer come back the next day and confirm that they paid their tab. Been there, done that. She gave me a $13 tip on a $17 tab. Woot.

Q: Who carries cash anymore?

A: People who wait tables.

Tips at Bayside Bowl + tips at Maine Roasters - amazing brunch with great company at Local - new jeans at forever 21 =