are you?
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I haven't ever given a waiter my number, although I once got the number of the guy serving me drinks at a table at a bar in Prague, but since his English was only a little better than my Czech, I never found the courage to call.
Last night, I almost left the waiter at an Italian Restaurant in the Village my number. I couldn't decide if he was gay or straight, not that it really matters, but I think I would have taken his not calling as a rejection to my womanhood. NOT that I think he would have called if he were straight and single, but he was really, really cute.
So, on the bill, which I paid by credit card, I left a little note that says thanks for being cute. If he were an interested and smart waiter, he'd be able to look me up online, since my name was on the receipt and email me this long poetic love message, and then we would go out, and one of us would eventually get bored, cheat and break the others heart. This could, of course, all happen in a series of weeks, not months, cause that's how love works in my life.
But he was the waiter, and I didn't leave my number, and I'm sure I'm not the first woman to hit on him at the restaurant. I think I'll have to go back there. For dinner. On a Monday night when I'm not working.
Tonight I'm going to see Seymore Butts at the Virgin Megastore at 6:30. I want to do a piece on him, and who he has an influence on. That might not make sense just yet, but it will, I hope, when I see him tonight. I promise it will be more exciting than that, unless the whole thing is a bust, but we shall see. I'll be preparing questions this afternoon, but I'm still recovering from a Halloween I don't quite remember.
Which is some scary shit. I've never not remembered before, but this past Sunday night, all conditions are fuzzy. Maybe that's because I was a bear. Bey-atch bear. Well, and then Barfing Bear, but whatever. I was a bear.
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because sex matters...