Hiding Under a Restaurant Table – A Day in the Life

I know you all are dying to get to the meat of this blog – the restaurant table – but what good is a narrative that gives away its twist at the beginning?

Yesterday was Friday (no Rebbecca Black jokes, please) and Friday means pre-school in the morning, and teenagers at night. A fun combo for anyone. Guys, I’ll admit this. I hate teenagers. It’s no secret. They’re balls of uncontrolled hormones with little respect and much bravado. There is not much likable about that. Which is not to say I hate all teens. During my work with teens this past year, I have come to love several of them very much – but it hasn’t changed my opinion. My work with the pre-teens is still miles beyond my work with the full-fledged teens, i.e., they don’t mouth off at me every other minute.

I digress. Friday, pre-school. Kaylah’s 21st birthday, one of our parents brought treats for us and all the kids, which was nice! Poor Kaylah has mono, so she can’t really drink (not a problem, really), and she can’t do too strenuous of exercise, which is a problem for some of her dance classes. And, you know, mono sucks (just to clarify, she did not get it from sucking on some infected guy’s mouth, lest we make any judgments that are incorrect).

It was a good day, I got to come home and play Pokemon, and have a wine spritzer and a good dinner, and all these nice, positive things! Chris and I also came up with some awesome/unholy crack pairings for Symphonia, but that’s for another day.

So, teen night. Since it’s Easter tomorrow, I got the go-ahead to do Easter eggs with the kids. Surely this would be the one project they would not make a mess out of. For a good half an hour, this was the case; dye in its proper bins, everything going well. I turn around to wash something. I look back – dye everywhere. I still don’t know what happened. As bad as that was, things got FAR worse for poor Jeremiah after I left, when some of the rowdy boys took the eggs from the girls, threw them against the wall, tried to eat them whole, and then vomited them everywhere.

I mentioned I don’t like teens, right?

The project was more and less successful than I expected: I didn’t have my usual crowd, and certainly it didn’t reach the popularity of projects like, say, tie dye. But I did have a few people coming in, I stayed relatively busy boiling and coloring and cleaning, so that’s all a positive.

After that, it was time to celebrate Kaylah’s birthday at the Radio Room! I hate driving on 82nd northbound at night. You can’t read any of the signs, so I passed Fremont the first time. After that, I had a pretty easy time getting there, though a difficult time parking, for which I was – deservedly – ribbed. The place was nice, very well decorated and comfortingly busy, but not out of control. Service was okay. Fries were amazing, and the warm pita bread was good. Creme brulee was TERRIBLE, don’t get it! They didn’t really caramelize the sugar on the top so it was all soft and gritty tasting, and my attempts to cook it with the matches for the birthday candles were unsuccessful.

At this point, you’re all thinking, “Okay, fine, Easter, whatever – why were you under the table!” Patience, gentle reader. We are getting there.

Here I had a very fun little narrative sequence, but on the good advice of Chris, it has been heavily modified for the sake of…well, everything. Let’s just say that for a while someone with whom I work with for the city has been giving me the vibe that they were into me, and it was totally not cool, as they are much older than me and in a supervisory position. I had been wanting to talk to my coworkers about this for a while because I was so uncomfortable, but hadn’t had the chance. And then the subject came up and they all got real quiet – because apparently it was obvious to everyone this was going on, well gee, thanks guys! And then someone said he had admitted to them being “in love” with me.

Guys, X is not in love with me. Say whatever you want about me and love, but I am not a total moron. I’ve seen it, I get some of its basics, and I have some very good role models for it. X is not one of them. Everyone I work with knows this. I was so completely undone by this (get ready for it….) that I crawled under the table, and then back out the other side to hug the girl WITH MONO rather than deal with this. And everyone felt pretty bad, asked if we were gonna do anything (NO WE WEREN’T) and agreed that was for the best.

I can tell you why else we’re not. And I will, but let me just say I spent the rest of the night biting my knuckles to poor Kaylah’s immense pity, and then went home and hid under my sheets. That’s how much this wigged me out (though I suffer from anxiety, so it may not have been the most reasonable response).

I even dreamed about this disaster in public relations, and woke up at 7:15, despite not getting to bed until after midnight. When I couldn’t take hiding in bed any longer, I got up and trudged to my dad’s office and sat on the floor. He continued to play Spider Solitaire.

“Heeeey….”
“Morning, sweetie!”
“Mom and I are going to go rug shopping later in the week for Mother’s Day.”
“That’s good.”
“I couldn’t get reservations at the London Grill, but I got them at _____ (in case Mom sees this) instead.”
“Oooooh, good choice.”
“….”
“….”
“SOIHAVETHISPROBLEM!”

I then related the issue and presented what was a completely sensible, even elegant, solution.

“What if you and your cop buddies came to the park and flexed some muscle?”
“….Emily. No.”
“WHY NOT!”
“I can’t go be your playground bully once an issue bleeds into work.”
“You did in high school! What happened to the guy that threatened band members over the phone!” I’d love to digress and tell that story, but we’re already over 1,000 words, so maybe next time.

My dad presented several doable, but still uncomfortable, solutions until he said, “What he is doing is highly inappropriate. If you hadn’t come to me as your dad, I would be obligated to report it,” and reminded me of the story where he had to deal with a similar situation. So be advised, world: if you have some irrepressible romantic feelings for your coworker/employee/person half your age, do not go around telling your coworkers this. Because the city will take disciplinary action, and if you keep it up with more than one lady friend, you’re gonna get yourself into some hot water.

I didn’t want to rock the boat too much, Papa’s solutions of talking to my ultimate managers seemed drastic. Partly because I would only be able to go and say, “Well, it’s an uncomfortable feeling and he emails me a lot.”
“…..can you give me like a sentence or an inappropriate touch or something?”
“Uhhmmmm……no. No, not quite.”

My dad was at least sympathetic, and not trying to encourage us to go out or something like the last time this happened….Chris, however, said I should report it. Hearing him say that made me feel a lot better, so I decided, “Yeah. This isn’t okay, I should.”

…..so I’m taking the big, brave response and am going to tell it to my dad “anonymously” over breakfast. With lots of “wink, wink; nudge, nudge.”

DON’T JUDGE ME, YOU!

Advertisements

About emilydnelson

A recent graduate of Hofstra University with a B.A. in anthropology, Emily is like every other twenty-two year old on the planet - trying to figure out what the hell to do now. Follow as she struggles with writing, her social work job, and bopping from coast to coast.
This entry was posted in Day-to-Day. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Hiding Under a Restaurant Table – A Day in the Life

  1. Pingback: It’s Our 100th Episode, YAY! | The Undiscovered Country

  2. Pingback: Sashimi and Shite – My Surreal Life, Part One | The Undiscovered Country

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s