I’m not quite sure why, but restaurant wait staff seem to talk about me for one reason or another. I don’t know if last Valentine’s Day was the first time it happened or if it’s just the first time it dawned on me to remember.
We were at Culver’s for a romantic dinner for eight, planned by our menfolk. We were all dressed up in pretty clothes, probably showing too much cleavage and sat around this big table in a beautiful room with a fire place and people drinking wine and staring into each other’s eyes. Anyone who knows me knows that I am an extremely picky eater. Like seriously, 8 year olds have a wider pallet than I do. So Bear told me which was the thinnest cut steak and then I asked for it to be butterflied and cooked well with no pink. Additionally I informed the pretty waitress that the table ketchup appeared to be missing. As my husband and six friends pointed and laughed (with love, I assure you. Salt of the earth these people.) the waitress took our order to the kitchen. When she came back with our food she said the the kitchen staff said they wanted to come into the dining area and see the girl who ordered burnt steak and ketchup.
Fast forward 12 months.
Today I went to the Olive Garden for a lunch break. I ordered bread sticks, alfredo and zeppoli, which are these glorious little scone things with powdered sugar with raspberry and chocolate sauces to dip them in. So heavenly. I ordered a Coke, so I could make sure there wasn’t a shred of nutrition in front of me, took out my e-reader and started on the final hundred pages of The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest. Yes I’ve read it before. I’m a repeat offender folks. Always have been. Someone ask my mom or sister how many times I’ve seen Grease. You’ll shit yourself.
Anyway, three separate waitresses stopped by to tell me how charming my lunch set up was. The gal waiting on me said she told all the kitchen help that she had a customer having zeppoli and reading a book and they were all like “that is so wonderful” and all enchanted with me like I was sitting at a white swirly table in Paris, probably with a view of the Eiffel Tower as the sun was going down and like a hot French dude is serenading me and French chicks are all staring at me, hairy arm pitted and wishing they were me.
People, had I known that this was such an enchanting thing to do, and if I had a higher lunch budget, I’d do it way more often. I just love compliments, don’t you? Before I left, another waitress stopped to tell me that she loved my hair color. I can die now. And happily.
Did someone set this up for me? Like being on Punk’d but in a good way? Oh my gawd I totally just invented my own tv show. Producers wanted, people. (And a treadmill, because the cameras add twenty and a hundred pounds).
Driving back to work I must have been a bit dreamy eyed thinking about my lunch break and I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m not a very good driver. Have I? Well I’m totally not. While turning into the parking lot at work I damn near hit a Sales lot tech in a brand new car. I swerved to avoid him and waved apologetically thinking, jeez, there wasn’t even a gummy bear on the floor to pick up or anything. I just did that out of pure shitty driving. (For those of you who are stellar and Good Samaritan type drivers I’ll let you in on a secret: it’s always easier to play off your bad driving with a distraction. Like this “I totally dropped my gummy bear and when I bent to pick it up I ended up in the next lane and heard a number of horns honking and saw just as many birds flipping.”).
The moral of this story is this: if you see me in a restaurant, you should probably take a picture of me and whatever I’m eating and ask me to sign it. I’m guessing you’ll be able to sell that shit on eBay when my Nice Punk tv show tops the ratings. And then when people go, have you heard of this cool new show by Jess? You can say “bitch please. That girl likes burned steak with ketchup. Tell me something I don’t know about her.” And then it’ll be all inside information and suddenly you have more Facebook friends and relatives and junior high school classmates coming out of the side hatch just to get close to you because you know the Nice Punk gal. You’re welcome.
Ps. I’m not prepared to say that the gummy bear thing actually happened, but I’m not prepared to say it didn’t.
PPs. But I can tell you that when the guy told me I needed a new wheel and asked what I had hit, I totally lied and said Brandon did it. 😂
Ppps. Sorry Bran. You knew I did that, right?