Thursday, September 11, 2003
JES' KICKIN' IT - ADDENDUM
I have searched my heart to see exactly what, if anything, I need to say about September 11th in my blog. As of yet, I have no immediate reason to say anything, so I will keep my ambiguous thoughts to myself and spare you my confusion.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
Although I have been on a “no-white-starchy-foods” kick, I broke my rule three times in the last 2 days, a situation which is not exactly riddling me with guilt- although it should. Yesterday and today I had a bagel- sesame seed with butter. My weakness. My shame. I purchased each of them at the local Baskin Robbins which also has a Dunkin’ Donuts branch inside it. The woman who works there at 11 am, which is when I take my prep/break, has all those unique qualities that make a person intriguing and yet terrifying. I saw her a couple times last year- so I recognized her face. She’s one of those brass, borderline vulgar women, who masquerade as part of this earth’s female population, but once you hear the tenor voice could easily pass as men. She’ll talk about anything, raise her voice about anything. She takes orders, quickly, as if she can’t wait for you to get your shit and get out so she can go get her smoke on “one mo’ ‘gain.” I don't think she likes me.
This morning she was out on the patio, puffing away, yakking to some guy dressed exactly like her- same haircut, jeans, boots and everything- minus the Baskin Robbins apron. I breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared someone else would be serving me today. The other girl was pixie-cute, and she had itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny…feet. A fleeting thought posed the question: is it possible for Quasi-Woman to have an effect on her? You know the old saying, “One bad apple…"
The patio door opened suddenly as Pixie Girl was finishing up with her customer and she-man walked in. He-she walked in with that watered down customer service attitude that SEEPS with obsequiousness. She looked fired up and ready to assist with the “morning rush.” I wondered what the urgency was as the only other customer present was yours truly. Why couldn’t pixie girl serve me?
Clandestinely, I noticed her hair because she had taken her hat off before she took her cigarette break. Although it's a pretty color, it’s one of those Mullet-For-Women hair dos, that can be found at ye ole “Ambigusex Super Cuts” store. It’s one of those hair dos that makes you want to bust out with a clever joke that begins with: “Hey, the 80s called…”
Pixie girl disappeared while Trucker lady approached the counter. Thankfully, she had taken care to wash the nicotine residue off her fingers before she pulled my bagel off the rack. The tips of her fingers are the only feminine things about her, and seemingly the antithesis of her persona because they are covered with plasticy talon-like, store-bought pink fingernails.
Gruffly she took my order. Bagel, toasted. Coffee, sugar. No, nothing else, thank you.There was an awkward pause after in between. We just sat there, staring at nothing but pretending to stare at something while my bagel rolled around the “Roto-toaster” (my word, for lack of any other).
I hope she’s there tomorrow.
I have searched my heart to see exactly what, if anything, I need to say about September 11th in my blog. As of yet, I have no immediate reason to say anything, so I will keep my ambiguous thoughts to myself and spare you my confusion.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
Although I have been on a “no-white-starchy-foods” kick, I broke my rule three times in the last 2 days, a situation which is not exactly riddling me with guilt- although it should. Yesterday and today I had a bagel- sesame seed with butter. My weakness. My shame. I purchased each of them at the local Baskin Robbins which also has a Dunkin’ Donuts branch inside it. The woman who works there at 11 am, which is when I take my prep/break, has all those unique qualities that make a person intriguing and yet terrifying. I saw her a couple times last year- so I recognized her face. She’s one of those brass, borderline vulgar women, who masquerade as part of this earth’s female population, but once you hear the tenor voice could easily pass as men. She’ll talk about anything, raise her voice about anything. She takes orders, quickly, as if she can’t wait for you to get your shit and get out so she can go get her smoke on “one mo’ ‘gain.” I don't think she likes me.
This morning she was out on the patio, puffing away, yakking to some guy dressed exactly like her- same haircut, jeans, boots and everything- minus the Baskin Robbins apron. I breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared someone else would be serving me today. The other girl was pixie-cute, and she had itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny…feet. A fleeting thought posed the question: is it possible for Quasi-Woman to have an effect on her? You know the old saying, “One bad apple…"
The patio door opened suddenly as Pixie Girl was finishing up with her customer and she-man walked in. He-she walked in with that watered down customer service attitude that SEEPS with obsequiousness. She looked fired up and ready to assist with the “morning rush.” I wondered what the urgency was as the only other customer present was yours truly. Why couldn’t pixie girl serve me?
Clandestinely, I noticed her hair because she had taken her hat off before she took her cigarette break. Although it's a pretty color, it’s one of those Mullet-For-Women hair dos, that can be found at ye ole “Ambigusex Super Cuts” store. It’s one of those hair dos that makes you want to bust out with a clever joke that begins with: “Hey, the 80s called…”
Pixie girl disappeared while Trucker lady approached the counter. Thankfully, she had taken care to wash the nicotine residue off her fingers before she pulled my bagel off the rack. The tips of her fingers are the only feminine things about her, and seemingly the antithesis of her persona because they are covered with plasticy talon-like, store-bought pink fingernails.
Gruffly she took my order. Bagel, toasted. Coffee, sugar. No, nothing else, thank you.There was an awkward pause after in between. We just sat there, staring at nothing but pretending to stare at something while my bagel rolled around the “Roto-toaster” (my word, for lack of any other).
I hope she’s there tomorrow.
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