Thursday, 21 June 2012

Hey, Kid. Hey, Dickhead.

Somebody asked me in a comment this week whether my resto job ever got better, because I don't really talk about it much anymore. I was planning on answering with a blog post detailing how I now feel about the waitressing job and then yesterday something happened at the resto that I want to tell you about, so it's all good timing really.

It didn't happen when I was working, but it happened in work and when I say 'it' I mean 'I'. Yes, I happened, like a freak storm, like a natural disaster, like an awkward fight between a drunk couple on the edge of the dance floor...

This morning I felt The Fear as soon as I woke up- a hot, itchy wave of paranoia, rolling over me as I lay there with my eyes closed, wishing it away. Unfortunately you can't wish yourself away. Do you ever get sick of yourself? Do you ever roll your eyes and think 'What have you done now?' except you already know the answer because you were there?

I'm an absolute dickhead.

But it really wasn't my fault...

It was Mez, the Welsh girl at work who started a couple of months ago. She was exactly what I'd been waiting for, someone to do silly accents with and dance around in the kitchen on a Saturday night when we're both on 'the run'. We call ourselves the Dream Team. I think everybody else probably thinks we are dicks. Also we mostly talk in an American showbiz agent/New York gangster voice, which has got slightly out of control; last night we arrived at the pub, sat at the bar and I yelled to the new person behind the bar who I've never spoken to:

"Hey kid, get me a whiskey on the rocks. And crack a smile, would ya? Or my cousin Vinny'l crack it for yer."

Oh, how me and Mez laughed hysterically.

Oh, how the new guy at the bar gave us a small, fake laugh before asking us if we really wanted a whiskey, or not.

"No, really we'll have two pints. This kid's killing me! Some people just ain't got the smarts!"

And we went on. And on.

Last night it was the birthday of two girls- an American girl who has just started and an English girl who started a couple of months ago but I never really work with her, so we don't talk much. Also, the first time I met her she said I didn't sound very Northern and I have NEVER gotten over it. I will bear that grudge until I die.

Plus, this French guy was leaving to go back to the South of France for the summer, so word on the street was that there was going to be a little party after the restaurant shut, but it had to be kept a secret from all the Shift Managers, apart from the Shift Manager who was working that night, obviously.

At first I was reluctant. The two times I have been drunk at work I have made an absolute show of myself, putting the Spice Girls on and singing along, dancing around on the bar and yelling at the top of my voice, all the time, for No Reason.

But Mez insisted. Also... and I have to be a bit careful here because I have a few of people from the resto* on Facebook and someone posted a link to my blog on my wall and I know for a fact that a couple of girls read it, because they told me... I'm not worried about the girls it's someone else I'm worried about... I'll try and say it in clues... Do you remember agesss ago when I mentioned there was someone at work who somebody else said looked like somebody famous and then somebody else was making jokes about me fancying him right in front of said person and I thought actually, hello there, maybe I should ask him out for a drink but then I obviously never did because I don't do that?

I made that as confusing as possible on purpose- my brain hasn't melted.

Well anyway, I kind of thought they might be there. I don't know why this mattered to me seeing as I never really speak to him, or really look at him even if he is stood directly in front of me, but it swayed me a little bit. Mez was insistent.

"It will be bants, it will be bants!" she kept saying. (In the rare moments during our lunchtime shift together that she spoke to me in her real voice and not the American 1950s showbiz agent/mobster.)

In the end I decided to go, because I knew me and Mez would have a good time doing silly accents to each other and also we get cheap drinks there. I promised myself I'd be in bed by 3am, as I had to get up at 9am this morning and go to my au pair job. Mez also looks after kids, so she would be in the same boat. There's something so reassuring about knowing somebody else is going to be in the same hungover, 'at work and wanting to die' situation as you.

It was almost midnight by the time we got to the resto, we went in and took a seat at the bar, yelling at the bar tender to get is whiskey on the rocks like I mentioned before. The new bar tender is English and before I'd even met him I 'dibsied' him, as a joke. Last night all the other girls were saying:

"Don't worry, we know you've called dibs on him already."

Gees Louise, news travels fast in this joint!

"I'm taking the dibsy off! But the other person, I've still got dibs on him."

It's all a Joke and a Laugh, of course. I haven't really got dibs on anyone. But last night made me realise something- people don't realise when I'm joking, ever. I need to be more careful. Oh God, if only I have realised this earlier. Everyone at the resto now thinks I am a dibsy-ing, aggressive bitch.

Anyway. The person I mentioned earlier was there, after all. I planned to say hello and the first time we made eye contact was when he walked past, just as a group of scally French firemen had gathered around me and Mez, so I didn't get a chance to say hello. Bad start. The firemen were asking if they could take pictures. At first I refused to play the game- I ain't playing ball you guys, beat it- I can't be that girl who flirts with annoying men and pretends to enjoy their fucking shit craic. (Or Anti-Bants, as Mez calls it. I've used capitals because I think I'll probably start using it in my blog- I like it because it's a good label to slap on people who don't laugh at your jokes.)

But then the manager came over and told us they'd forced her to have a photo with them and then they'd given her a glass of champagne (she also told us that she knew we'd come for the secret party- busted. She didn't seem to mind that much though) so the smile came out and I forced myself to have a photo. I hate it when weird men ask you to get in their photo because I am the Least Photogenic Person in the world and it haunts me to think that there are disgusting photographs of me out there, in the hands of strangers who will look at my uneven, snaggle-toothed smile and half-closed eyes and think: 'Fucking hell.'

To be fair, they mostly wanted pictures of Mez. Mez is blonde and bubbly and cute. I am, as we all know, that girl who drunk men shake their head at and slur "What's up with your mate? Tell her to smile."

YOU'RE what's up dickhead, I'm trying to do American gangster voices with my friend and you're blocking my view of a Certain Someone.

I digress. Eventually the firemen got thrown out because one of them stole one of the waitresses' phone, the English birthday girl actually. She saw them take it and told the bouncer: cue long and boring arguement and then finally they left, leaving a big table with two sofas that me and Mez grabbed, beckoning over the other staff who had come for drinks.

Soon the pub closed and it was officially a Lock-In. I heard a rumour there was cake.

As always, I was drunker than anyone else. It always happens when I drink at work, I think because I sit down and drink steadily without going anywhere. Also I felt a little bit nervous. The reason I go around saying I dibsy people is because to me, it's obviously a joke, because I would never do anything about it. I can't dibsy people just to never speak to them, can I?

Oh God I'm an idiot.

It's painfully obvious, the way people were talking to me last night, that everyone knows that I have a little soft spot for Certain Someone. I probably shouldn't write it on my blog but I don't care anymore. Nothing is going to happen. I will never make a move and I'm pretty sure he knows so if he was interested, he would have made a move by now.

This is my life this is, always talking loudly about things but never actually doing anything.

And boy, was I talking loudly! All the boys back in New Jersey could hear me, doing The Voice with Mez, using it in (yelled) conversation with the American girl who must have been more than a little bit offended. I just can't stop myself. I drank and drank, yelled and yelled. I had a go at the English girl who said I didn't sound Northern. In a jokey way, of course, in that faux-aggressive thing I do whenever I get really drunk, that always makes me want to die inside the next day...

"Not Northern? I had a fucking pie for breakfast you mad bitch, fucking Coal Pie and all so don't start telling ME I don't sound Northern."

Etc, etc.

I'm an idiot. I'm a bad, bad idiot.

A Certain Someone left, the cake came out and by this point it was half three and I knew I had to go home.

"Kids, I'm gonna blow this joint."

I decided to walk home, still in my faux aggressive mood, convinced that if anyone attacked me I would batter them with my superhuman strength. One of these days I'm going to meet a sticky end, I'm telling you.

Miraculously I got myself home safely and then looked at my eyebrows in the mirror for a long time. (Brow News: I've stopped having them threaded because they were doing them too thin. Instead I've been patiently growing them and shaping them as I go along. People keep telling they've never looked better. Honestly, people have told me that. Whenever I get a compliment on my eyebrows I store it in my Brow Compliment Bank and get them out when I'm drunk and alone, looking in the mirror and stroking them like an Insane Person. I think maybe I am a little bit too obsessed with my eyebrows.)

This morning I woke up. As well as The Fear, I felt ill. My eyes were all swollen and stinging, I felt dizzy and disgusting. Somehow I dragged myself out of bed and had time for a cup of tea before starting the long journey to the little girl's tennis club. I know there must be an easier route but I always forget to research it.

The little girl announced she wasn't going to her ballet class, which meant saying goodbye to that precious hour of free time I get in the afternoon. Instead we played a very weird game with these slimey fart-making toys she has, you know that putty that you push your finger in and it makes a horrible noise like someone breaking wind.

We went from having a competition to see who could make the biggest noise, to throwing them to each other and clapping in between each throw, to choreographing an obscene dance to a shitty pop song called 'Sexy Girls' where we shake them in our hands whilst wiggling our hips, then throw them to each other in time to the music, clapping under our legs just after we throw them before finally freestyling with the slimey, gobs of goop. As we shook them, they drooped into a sausage shape and because we were flopping them back and forth, they looked like you know whats and I couldn't keep a straight face.

The eight year old started laughing as well and said "They look like a thing boy have here!" and indicated down there... Ha. By this point I felt like I was going to die.

"Do you know how to use your mum and dad's coffee machine?" I asked her.
"Yes..."
"Please can you make me a coffee? I'm so tired!"

She showed me how to use the Nespresso machine as she made me a huge coffee. Ahh I'm so glad I started drinking coffee. She asked me for a taste of it so I obliged, maybe I shouldn't have done but she spat it out anyway, so no harm done.

"It disgusting!" she screamed.

I agreed with her. I don't like the taste of coffee. But I like drinking it now. I started at Christmas when I was struggling to stay awake at a family gathering and then when I got back to France I just started drinking it. I never thought I'd drink coffee. (The thing is, I'd never openly admit this to anyone, but now I drink less tea. I have about four cups a day now, sometimes two or three... Who am I?)

After my coffee I gave her a piggy back and ran around the living room, then we played tennis on the Wii. She told me to sit down on the couch and not play because I kept making us lose.

Me and Mez were texting all morning, giving each other moral support. Ain't so full of wisecracks now are we huh? After a while she went quiet and then she texted me to say:

'I'm at home, threw up in work.'

Oh dear, Mez.

Luckily I didn't feel too bad after lunch and a coffee, but I was so relieved when I got home. As soon as I got back to mine, at abut half four, I sat on my bed and as I did I got a text from Olivia:

'Do not nap. I repeat, do not nap.'

What a good friend. I decided to fight the temptation to nap, which would inevitably turn into a five hour sleep like it does every week. I wanted to do a blog post instead but somehow I ended up snuggling under the covers, just for a second, and the next thing I knew it was 7pm. Will I ever beat the Nap Monster? he comes for me each Wednesday afternoon, turns my plans to dust and he makes me feel lethargic and guilty. Sadly I think he has already beaten me into submission.

Anyhoo, that was my Tuesday and Wednesday for you. Tomorrow my lickle brother is coming to Paris! I was supposed to meet him at the airport but I've just been persuading him on Facebook how easy it is to get the Roissy Bus... Also I don't know where he's going to sleep as I don't have an airbed. Are we too old to sleep top to toe?

Tomorrow is Fête de la Musique , but I don't know where we are going yet. Last year we went to Place de Clichy for a dubby street party and we loved it. Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaur is doing a DJ set at Nouveau Casino but it's sold out. ALSO, shocking news- on Friday I went out with Ruth from work and one of her friends makes his living as a 'beat maker' as he called it, making music with Ruth's boyfriend who is a rapper. Beat Maker told me that T.E.E.D used to make music with him and Ruth's boyfriend, until one day he said he wanted to do something that would make him 'loads of money' and that's when he donned a dinosaur headdress and started making tunes like this:



I saw him at... erm, KOKO, I think... a while ago and he was such a fun performer, it was amazing. But now I feel all jaded and cynical, like I've been sold something without realising it.

Anyway, talking about Friday reminds me that I have so much to catch up on, as always. But not now, now it's time for bed.  

That's all folks.

Oh, one last thing, shout out to the person who somehow found my blog by Googling 'little girls assluts'...
You sound like a swell guy!

*I know I sometimes call it a pub and sometimes a resto, but you know I'm talking about the same place right? During the day it's more of a restaurant and at night time it's more of a bar/pub.

6 comments:

  1. Hi, LBM! I really enjoy reading your blog. You have a frank, colorful style of writing. I suppose you can tell I'm American by now--e.g. Colorful vs colourful...Anyway, your blog is much akin to curling up with a good book that I wouldn't want my mother to know that I was reading. Keep up the honesty! Question, I thought about working at a hostel in Paris, but too many uncomfortable memories. I fibbed; here's the real question: how did you find a "resto" where you could speak English? Job tips are much appreciated. Merci in advance!

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    1. Hey thanks for the comment! Frank and colorful, I might put that on the blurb when I get published. Joke. I'm never getting published. Also, I would have to spell it colourful.

      Oh Aimful Wanderer, I would love to tell you the exact website that I applied for my job but I can't reveal where I work, it's a chain of English-themed pubs and restaurants and you can apply online, in English, have a little session on Google and see if you can find it! Also I would look in the FNAC, an English-speaking magazine in Paris that advertises jobs, they are also online. Hope this helps! Keep on reading xx

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    2. It's fusac, babe, fusac. FNAC is a shop.

      Olivia x

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    3. SHIT yeah, FUSAC not FNAC ha ha.

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    4. Brilliant, as your people say. Really, thanks a ton! And, thank you for the FNAC clarification. I was like, "Hmmm...the record store?"

      P.S. You never know where the Left Bank may take you; you could get published one day.

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  2. hey kid you better watch out runnin your mouth about this situation, you dont want nobody gettin hold of this precious information!! and hey kid how could ya do this while we're on the run from tommy!! he'll snap your legs off before you got time to say hey kid what ya doin with that steak knife!! and mickey, please, how many times do i gotta tell ya? refer to me by my street name, mez dawg, its gotta certain ring to it dontcha think!! anyway i gotsta go, the old pigs are sniffin at the door, gotta sgidaddle!!

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