Monday Mix Tapes: Splitting at the Seams

Talk about a Monday morning. Sprinted up the stairs to catch the train, only to make it to the platform right in time to get the doors closed in my face. Survived the train ride, got on the bus, then was so thrown off by the teenage girls saying they would "push a bitch" who wouldn't get out of their way (who may or may not have been me) that I walked in the wrong direction when I got off. Not that I was scared of 14-year-olds or anything...

It wasn't until I was approaching my building that I realized I'd forgotten my security key. Ten minutes later, feeling like that kid whose mom forgot to pick her up from school, I was finally at my desk. I looked down. My fly was undone.

LOOKS LIKE SOMEBODY'S GOT A CASE OF THE MONDAYS! Barf.

Do you think it all happened because I listened to this as I got ready for work?



"Things start splitting at the seams"/ (I'm forgetting to zip my jeans) ...

At least it wasn't as bad as this historic, awesomely awkward Monday morning commute.

Will You Ever Forgive Me?

Yikes. Apparently I've started a new trend on the Rainbow Chronicles that involves me only posting on Mondays. And only about music. I swear my brain is not totally devoid of all thoughts except this. I swear it. I know you've all been crying and screaming at your computer screens:

"Where are the poetry slams?! The awesomely awkward adventures?! The magical moments waiting tables?!

AND WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO SUNDAY SWAYZE FEST?!!!!!"

Am I right? I knew it. Don't fret, my darlings. I have not forgotten you. More poetry slams are in the works. I am still always, always, awesomely awkward. Living in Knightstown just doesn't seem to warrant the awkward adventures that being in Chicago did. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that when I'm not at work, I'm hanging out in my childhood bedroom, having long debates with my cats? I mean ... WHAT? I don't talk to my cats. That would be weird. And speaking of work, I had to sign a "social media contract," which essentially means I'm no longer allowed to document my current magical moments waiting tables. Sigh. I will say this: There have been plenty this summer. PLENTY.

As for Swayze fest ... well, it's just been too hard. Although my brother Tom and I are still planning our North and South marathon, which might actually happen one of these days.

Two other major excuses for not blogging: I've been working on a submission for an essay contest, and my brother Jay got married this past weekend. In other words, I am unable to concentrate on more than two things at once.

I'm not quite yet ready to work on my entry for the Writer's Digest Short Short Story competition this year, so maybe I'll actually blog consistently for a bit.

Maybe. I'm not making any promises.

More Magical Moments Waiting Tables

Part 1: Creepy Customers 1 and 2

Last night was a doozy. A real, effing doozy. I could begin by telling you that one of my customers got hit by a car, rolled off of it, then hopped up and continued running down the street after a tow truck, but that wouldn’t really be fair.

So let’s start at the beginning, with Creepy Customers 1 and 2.

I was inwardly groaning and outwardly rolling my eyes at Rachel when I realized it was my turn to wait on these two guys that walked in. As I hovered behind them with menus as they danced around the table trying to decide who would sit in the booth seat and who would take the chair, I knew I was going to be in for a treat. After what seemed like three hours, they sat down.

I began my spiel: “Hey guys, how you doing? Want something to drink?”

CC 1, looking at CC 2: “Well, hmm...what do you think? Are you having a beer? If you’re having a beer, I’m having a beer...”

CC 2, looking at me, then frantically back at the menu: “Umm...”

Me, fake smile plastered on my face: “I’ll just give you a minute.” *scurries away*

Back at the table...

CC 1: “What’s your name?” (As a general rule, when a middle-aged man I’m waiting on asks for my name, that means he’s going to say it every time I come to the table, every chance he can get. He’ll say it so many times I will want to punch him in the face at the sound of my own name.)

Me, fake smiles galore: “Alison.”

CC1: “Alison, tell us about your beer specials.”

Uggh. I hate when people make me do my job. I especially hate when they command that I do or tell them something.

I tell them some BS about our Skinny Dip beer special, knowing that unlike most tables, who will shrug and say, ok, I’ll take that, they’re going to ask me specific, annoying questions. Long story short, after a ridiculously long conversation where I have now forgotten everything I was supposed to be getting for my other customers, they take the damn beers.

Back at the table, CC1, who apparently does all the talking for his friend, delights me with a story about how they’re not too hungry, so they want to split the Cobb salad. We don’t have a Cobb salad.

Me: “So, you’d like to split the chicken chopped salad? What kind of dressing would you like?”

CC 1, chuckling: “Oh, Alison, that’s right, the CHOPPED salad. Hmm… Alison, why don’t you tell us about your salad dressings, Alison, AlisonAlisonAlisonAlison?”

Me: QUIT SAYING MY DAMN NAME!

Wait, I just screamed, err, said that in my mind. I told them the dressings.

After another debate, CC 2 decides he wants to try two of the dressings! How magical! I tell them no problem, and ignore them until I deliver their salads. When I bring them their unimpressive salads, they act like I’ve just given them a golden ticket. I’ve never seen two grown men so damn excited over a salad. CC 1 actually said, “Oh, Alison, this is perfect. This is so wonderful of you, Alison. This looks fantastic, Alison.”

Uh huh.

Just when I think I’m done with these goofballs, I hear it: my fucking name.

“Excuse me, Alison?” (May I just say CC 1 said this when I was across the patio, talking to another table.)

I nod at him in acknowledgement and attempt to take the rest of my other customer’s order.

“ALISON?”

Sweet Jesus. I get back over to this table, fighting the urge to scream, “WHAT?!” and smile at CC 1. CC 2 is staring into his salad.

CC 1 stands up—STANDS UP! Where the hell am I?! —-and gets uncomfortably close to my face. “Alison, you’re not going to believe this. You are going to write about this in your journal tonight. In your journal! My friend here … he wants… *chuckles* … he wants to try your ranch AND blue cheese!”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I fight back all normal human reaction to this interaction, and simply say, “Sure, no problem!” and sprint from the table as quickly as possible.

Then, I’m not sure if it was cause they were getting full, or what, but their weirdness calmed down a bit. That was pretty much it for that fun experience.

But then the night got even weirder.

Part 2: Car Crashes, Rumple Minze, and Angry Hippies

So around the time I’m delivering the ranch and blue cheese to CC 2, I get a new table. Three people—two guys and one girl—just having some beers. Seems harmless, although the one white hippie with dreads smells like he just came out of a dumpster. They’re drinking, having a good time, talking to Rachel at length about her tattoos or something, then next thing I know I come back to the table and smelly hippie looks murderous.

“Everything okay, guys?”

Smelly hippie proceeds to tell me that they just found out a friend of theirs died. Automatically, I assume they want their check so they can get the hell out of there, but no, they want to take shots of Rumple Minze in his memory. Because I feel horribly uncomfortable and sorry for them at the same time, I offer to give them the shots on the house.

Smelly hippie argues that he doesn’t want free shots, he just wants me to take one with them. I tell him thanks, but no thanks, partially because the thought of Rumple Minze at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday makes me want to die, partially because the thought of Rumple Minze at any time makes me want to die.

I come back with the shots. “I’m really sorry about your friend. These are on us.”

Smelly’s response: “I cannot believe you’re not going to take a shot with us in honor of our friend. That’s messed up.”

Take your free shot, you fucking smelly ass, is what I’m thinking, but I’m a little afraid that this is one dreadlocked white man who is not a peace-loving individual. Luckily his friends thanked me at that moment so I could run away.

A few minutes later, someone in the bar screams, I hear tires squealing, and see him sprinting out of the bar, dreadlocks flying, beer gut bouncing. Everyone in the bar starts yelling that some dude got hit by a car.

I missed the actual car crash. But it turns out that the woman at my table—yeah, not a dude, people—saw her car getting towed from across the street and started sprinting after the tow truck, getting body slammed by a car in the process.

So what did she do? She jumped up and continued to run after the tow truck. I’ll spare you the rest of the silliness that followed, but let’s just say when my customer returned, minus his friend who had just run into oncoming traffic (the third person just disappeared around this time), he was pretty unhappy about being stuck with the bill. So unhappy, in fact, that it led him to tell me to “be careful walking to my car tonight.”

Of course I immediately determined that I was about to get raped and/or murdered by this dude tonight, so I ran to my manager and told him what happened. Apparently when Mike went outside to talk to him he apologized, said he didn’t mean anything by it, shook his hand and said, “I’m Crash, by the way.”

That was my Tuesday.

Update: Awkwardness Averted, Sorta

Enough people have asked me about the awkward text message I promised was in the future after my run-in on the El Wednesday morning that I feel obliged to give you an update. First off, if you’re wondering if I still went on that date, I’m going to need you to smack yourself across the face. Hard. Clearly I did not go on this date. Are you fucking kidding me? Does “I’m going to go stand down there now” ring any bells?

Okay, now that we’ve got that part cleared up, here’s another fun fact from Wednesday. So, before THAT GUY practically sprinted away from me on the El platform, he asked me if I had to work that night. My answer was yes. And yes, he knows where I work. He may or may not frequent the bar. Get off my back.

(Side note: THAT GUY is now his official name, as I’m either changing his name in my phone to THAT GUY or deleting it completely).

Fast forward to many hours later. I’m now at work and slightly buzzed from the shots of Jameson Rachel and friends forced me to take with them. (By forced I mean asked politely if I wanted to take shots with them, obviously. Or did I suggest the shots? Mwahaha. Umm, just kidding. I am a responsible young budding journalist. I would never take shots of whiskey while at work.)

ANYWAY. So I’m doing whatever it is I do when waiting tables and I happen to look toward the door just as...THAT GUY walks in. He sits at the bar for a few minutes while I consult with everyone what I should do in this situation. I heard enough “let him come to you” suggestions that I pretend I’m busier than I really am and actually pay attention to my tables. But after a few more minutes, he still hasn’t approached me, and I’m really irritated. What the hell is THAT GUY doing?

Just as I start to head over to him, he leaps up from the bar and scurries out. Now, I don’t know if he saw me or not, but still: LAME. At this point I have every intention of just blowing him off completely, which ordinarily I would never do, but good god, this behavior deserves a blow off. I assume he’s not going to contact me either after these displays of weird social behavior. But then:

Last night around 6ish I get a text from him. “we still on for drinks?”

Umm, NO, you weirdo. I reply: “sorry, something came up.”

By something, I meant I’d rather hang out with my cats all night, every night, than go out with you. Ever.

Just another example of why I told my father I've given up on dating. Although in retrospect I'm pretty sure he interpreted that as, "I'm a lesbian, Dad."


*Spencer, I dropped that F-bomb specifically in honor of you becoming a follower. Was it necessary? Always.

Ali’s Awesomely Awkward Adventures: More Blue Line Fun!

Maybe it’s just me, but it tends to get weird when you bump into an acquaintance when riding public transit. Take, for instance, the morning a coworker walked on the same car as me. First I feel excited to see a familiar face—and a face that’s not familiar because I served you beer last night, cause that happens more than I’d care to talk about—but then quickly, I realize now we either have to make small talk for the next 15-20 minutes, or one of us risks being rude by not sitting down with the other person. She sat down next to me. Whew. I put my book away and feel confident that we have enough work gossip to get us through the morning commute.

Her phone rings. She answers. Okay, back to reading. I pull my book back out. She loses her connection. I put my book away. “So…” Her phone rings again. I take my book back out.

Just as I’ve discovered I should hold my book on my lap so I can stop this little game, she jumps up. “My stop is next! Bye, honey!” Umm. My stop is next, too. But to avoid the likelihood that I will fall into someone’s lap by the jerking of the train stopping and starting, I always wait until the last possible second to stand up and exit. Now my routine was shattered! Uggh. I get up and try not to fall down.

I chat with her a bit more until we reach the stop. “Ok, bye!” she says. Uhh, what? We don’t walk together now? Now I feel obliged to let her walk ahead of me. I feel increasingly like a social pariah. Luckily I had to transfer to the green line, so eventually I stopped feeling like I was following my coworker around Chicago.

I completely accept that in this situation, I made it awkward—and probably only in my head—but this morning, I faced some awkwardness that I know was not in my head, and not my fault. AT ALL.

So, on the days when I have to go straight from my internship to working at the bar, I park my car by work and walk to the California blue line stop so I don’t have to take public transit home late at night. Might seem a little silly, but last night a homeless guy was peeing right in front of the train entrance as I walked to my car, so I was grateful not to have to get in range (or better eyesight) of all that bizness.

Anyway. This morning, I’m stepping out of my car and see a guy I know walking down the street.

We say hi. We discover we’re both walking to the El, and we’re both going in the same direction. Going to the same stop, as a matter of fact. However, he’s walking incredibly fast and I’m wearing heels, and Lord knows I can barely walk in my bare feet, so this presents a problem. I’m thinking he’s in a hurry and doesn’t have time to chat, so I’m fully prepared to say bye and leave it at that. But he keeps talking (albeit over his shoulder practically, because I’m tripping all over myself trying to keep up), and we end up walking up the El platform together.

We talk for a minute while we’re waiting for the train, and he’s looking over my shoulder for the nonexistent train so frequently that I’m starting to get uncomfortable. I ask him a question. He starts pulling a book out of his bag and gives me a distracted answer. And then: “Well, I’m going to go stand down there. See ya.”

Umm, bye?

You might be thinking, “Oh Alison, this isn’t that weird…it was the morning, he just wanted to read his book and get to class.” Uh huh. Maybe.

But when I said “a guy I know” I also meant a guy I’m supposed to go out on a date with.

Tomorrow.

Guess who has an awkward text message coming his way!

Ali’s Awesomely Awkward Adventures: Monday Commute Edition

Considering something awkward—and often, awesomely, incredibly, painfully awkward—happens to me on a near-daily basis, it would be unfair not to share some of these moments with you, the readers of my blog. If nothing else, it will leave you with the relief and satisfaction that you are not as clumsy, nerdy, and as all-around socially awkward as me.

Now that I’m using public transportation on a daily basis to commute to my internship, it has inevitably opened up new windows of awkwardness. Until today, nothing too exciting or painful had happened, with one exception: My first day of interning, I got on the train, and I made the rookie mistake of making direct eye contact with the bum screaming to the invisible person on the seat next to him. So of course, he decided to look right at me while screaming repeatedly, “THE MOTHER FUCKER FUCKER FUCKERS! THE MOTHER FUCKERS TOOK IT! YOU SAW THEM!” The older lady next to me then looked at me as if I was the one screaming nonsensical profanities in her ear, so I shrank lower and lower in my seat and pretended to be invisible.

After I made my switch from the Blue to the Green line, I was still a little shook up from that encounter, so I sat down next to a harmless looking young woman who was sitting with her kid on her lap. I took a deep breath, smiled at the person sitting across the aisle from me—another Hoosier faux-pas, apparently, as he responded by grimacing and averting eye contact—and I opened up my bottle of “sparkling water beverage.” It exploded. I quickly apologized and asked the woman next to me if I got any of it on her: “Not yet,” she responded, in a tone that suggested if and when it does, I might die. Her cute little girl points and laughs at me as the water continues to spill out of the bottle, and all over my pants.

Five minutes later, Alison Hamm enters her new office looking as though she might have peed her pants.

Yet, somehow, that incident was nothing compared to this morning’s commute. As I'm transferring from the blue to green line at the Clark/Lake stop, I’m riding up the escalator in my Monday morning daze, listening to my iPod, fairly oblivious to my surroundings. Right before I reach the top of the escalator, I notice the enormous man ahead of me on the escalator balancing a trolley loaded with boxes. Just as I’m thinking that a trolley on an escalator looks a little dangerous, the enormous man with said trolley gets stuck at the top. Before I can react, I slam into him and am suddenly trapped on a moving escalator, tangled between a giant, the trolley wheel, and the side of the escalator. The guy behind me somehow jumps over the side of the escalator but doesn’t bother to try to help either of us. Meanwhile, all of the people on the train platform ahead are now staring at me and the giant as I yelp, my headphones fall out of my ears, and he attempts to lift me over the trolley and off the escalator. In this process, my ribcage slams against the trolley, the giant and I accidentally go to second base, and I almost fall as I finally escape.

Once the giant trolley man gets off the escalator—somehow, without mangling anyone else—he starts to stroll past me as I limp to the side, clutching my ribcage. “Oh, are you okay?” he asks casually, as though nothing dramatic and possibly life-threatening had just happened.

AM I OKAY?!?! It’s 9 AM, I almost met my death on an escalator, and you just touched my boob. NO, I'M NOT OKAY!

It’s the kind of situation that makes a person want to start screaming, “THE MOTHER FUCKER FUCKER FUCKERS! YOU SAW THEM!”