July 2008

Last night while working a private event at the restaurant, a pharmaceutical representative gave an hour-long presentation regarding HIV medications, which soon turned into an AIDS 101, for a non-profit organization. For ten minutes, literally one-sixth of the presentation, the club members debated the difference between pre-cum and cum. And none of these gay men –that’s not me being ignorant, that’s what the organization was for –knew the difference.

“It doesn’t have sperm!”

“One’s clear and one’s white?”

“It can’t create babies!”

“No protein!”

The differences in life experiences made me smile. Based on their responses, I am pretty sure none of them have ever sat in their high-school bathroom or college dorm room, worried about an overdue period with their best friend saying, “You might be, you know. Pre-cum, can like, totally get you pregnant.”


In response to my question about his constant yawning, my friend said, “I couldn’t sleep last night because this chick was throwing pineapples against my house. We’ve decided not to date.”

The New Wine Bar is going really well. I didn’t realize what I was missing from my day job until I returned to the restaurant world. During the day, I sit in a cube, play with Excel, and go for days –or hell, even weeks– without laughing. My co-workers are too busy being productive and climbing the corporate ladder to make jokes. We are professionals.

The restaurant environment is completely different –the staff is SOCIAL (they need to be, their income is dependent on the ability to interact with customers); they drink (during work and especially after); they make lewd comments – and every lascivious remark reinforcements my appreciation of sexual harassment’s entertainment value. It’s fun, a social outlet of sorts, as pathetic as that paints my social life.

Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the bartenders are cute. I think I have crushes on four of them. Which was awkward yesterday when I was flirting with one and my boss interrupted to ask, “Molly, rumor has it that you and [employee name] used to date, is that true?” Hm, dating is a relative term … Dammit, I forgot that with the fun comes some drama. But oh, I am enjoying it.

He had glitter on his arm.

“My girlfriend.” He said by way of explanation.

Oh. Girlfriend. His girlfriend is the type that wears glitter. I was disappointed, partially from the girlfriend piece but also that he dated that type. I had thought higher of him. He gave another explanation, I think in reaction to my face, which I am sure conveyed my silent judgment.

“She’s 22 and has big boobs. We’re breaking up tonight.”


“I don’t know if I see you dating a club chica but then I guess I date guys who are my opposite. I hate having two Vs. DAMMIT Scrabble. Also, for the record, I am kicking your ass.”

“Your turn. I usually only date your standard dumb hot chick. Its easier, haha. And my ex wasn’t a club chick. She was a go-go dancer and hated the scene.”

“A go-go dancer? Nice work, man. You’re up.”

“I do alright.”

“Who woulda thought.”

“I just took the lead. Who woulda thought.”

This week has been light on posting because I have spent it consumed in self-doubt. Every possible changed-for-the-better decision has been second guessed and internally debated and oh-my-god-what-the-hell-am-I-doing’ed. Usually I need my freak out time to fully embrace my irrationality until I can step back, reach the best conclusion, and move on. This time, it’s cyclical. I can’t seem to reach the move-on-with-acceptance step. When I mull the individual choices, I am confident … but the expanse of my general life overview … fuck. I feel like I am carrying something, lots of somethings, and I can feel everything slowly slipping out of my arms, but instead of stopping to regroup, I walk faster.

During today’s 7am breakfast meeting with my new (but temporary) boss, she, a medical doctor, ordered oatmeal and skim milk … so I got a bacon omelet and Diet Coke. It was 7am. I had to amuse myself somehow.

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