Designer, writer, activist, muse, bodhisattva.
Non-Fiction Writings
Photolog
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I’m Pretty Good Lookin’ … For A Girl
Something else you never knew you never knew about me: I am shy around cute boys. Like, I shuffle my feet and look down a lot and turn five million different shades of vermillion red shy. I also turn into a six-year-old girl that loves to flip her dress over her head and run around half-naked in the backyard. Like I said, I get shy.
I went out with my sistah girl Jason for dinner and a movie, our weekly tradition. For some reason, I was craving quesadillas somethin’ fierce, so we went to a well-known restaurant downtown that sports a late-night kitchen and plenty of eye candy for the boys. We are seated close enough to the smoking section so Jason can get his fill of bear eyecandy, and I am seated to face the entry from the kitchen into the dining area. Our waiter comes to take our drink order (me: a coke and a water, this is my staple) and Jason & I catch up on the past few days of not seeing one another.
A waiter leaves the kitchen with food and walks by our table, and I catch him looking at me. This waiter was cute, I’m not gonna lie to you, in that dressed-all-in-black with dark hair and matching beard kind of way. And he gave me a look as he walked past the table. I mentioned it to Jason and we made those sorts of laughs like “Oh my God, how funny is that shit?” kind of way and continue with our conversation.
We place our order with our waiter, and again the cute waiter leaves the kitchen. He looks at me a second time and this time, Jason notices. Jason tells me that if the cute waiter looks at me a third time, then I am officially being cruised. So now two things are happening simultaneously with me: I start to blush and I try in my best subtle fashion to look out the corner of my eye for the cute waiter to walk past us again. For the record, I did blush but I was not the most subtle creature. My simple turn of the head was more like rubbernecking in traffic when driving past a car wreck.
The cute waiter walks past the table a third time, and Jason makes it official: we need to know more information about this swarthy man. Our waiter brings our food and Jason immediately starts to grill him about Mr. Swarthy. This is when I turn all shades of red and I can feel my hands ready to grab the hem of my dress. I am seconds away from giggling, flashing my pre-pubescent boobies to the restaurant, and running around the dining area.
“So let me ask you a question,” Jason tells our waiter. “There is another waiter on the floor that is tall, with dark hair and a beard.”
“Yes,” our waiter responds.
“What’s his name?” Jason asks.
“Ken,” he responds.
I am trying my best to keep my composure and refrain from taking out Jason’s larnyx with my spoon, but I am already past vermillion and moving into the crimson tones.
“So is Ken single?”
“Yes,” our waiter says, and he can see my embarassment reaching massive proportions. He laughs and grabs my arm to reassure me. Right now, my dress is over my head and I could die.
“And would Ken be attracted to men with cute hair and glasses?”
“Shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP!” I say. “We’re fine, we don’t need to know anything. See? His name is Ken. Really, thank you, we’re okay.”
Our waiter laughs and leaves the table. Jason is smiling at me. I am beyond mortified and poised on the verge of killing my best friend.
“Great. Now Ken will think that I’m trying to pick him up. Oh my God, I can’t believe this. Look at my face, Jason. I swear I could kill you.”
Jason laughs and blows me an air kiss. He wouldn’t be laughing right now if he saw my body lunge across my quesadilla and toward his throat.
So now I am totally embarassed, I am certain that our waiter has told Ken I think he is cute and that I am acting like a school-girl geek at the table, and in my head I am calculating how many weeks it will take for me to feel comfortable returning to this restaurant without fear of being known as one of those customers that screams “freak”.
I am also noticing that Ken is not passing our table anymore. Great. So not only does he know that I asked about him, but he is avoiding the table. Lovely. God? It’s me. Could You do me a favor and kill me now? And could You take my friend Jason with me? Thanks, I owe You.
We eat our meal and I try my best not to notice the lack of Ken’s presence. Ken returns to our side of the dining area to hang out with a gaggle of servers in a corner that are taking a small break and talking to one another. I try not to look, and when I do all I can see is Ken’s back turned toward our table. Oy.
We finish our meal and ask for the check. As Jason & I compute our totals for the bill, Ken walks past the table one. last. time. And this time, Ken looks at me point blank in the eyes. Whoa. What was that? What that a look that said “Hi, I think you’re cute” or “Get the hell out of here you circus carnie and never darken these shores again”? I tell Jason about the look, and he is all types of convinced that I am indeed being cruised by Ken, and that I should do something about it.
Like bloody hell I am going to do something about it, I want to get out of this restaurant as quickly as my fucking legs can walk me through the exit. Jason & I leave the restaurant and walk to his car. I can’t wait long enough to get inside his car and drive far, far, far, far, oh so far away from here. Jason looks at me and says, “Oh my God, you are so emotional!”
I would have responded with something witty, but I was too busy fixing my dress.
Wednesday, 2003 January 29