We all know the only reason I like my hostessing job is because it’s in TriBeCa and I get to wear dresses and be pretty and smile. Easy! The downside is the amount of creepy people who take that as a signal to start a friendship with me, hit on me and/or stalk me.
First there was Carrie, who quickly earned the nickname Crazy Carrie, because she was at the restaurant every day while coping with her divorce. I feel bad for the woman, but after 2 months of seeing Carrie everyday, I was sick of hearing about her divorce. Carrie quickly started saying things like "well, you know what I mean, cuz we're friends," and "I can tell you, because we're friends," and "keep this just between us because we're friends." No Carrie! We're not friends! We're only talking because you've cornered me at my host stand!
Then there was Pete. Real nice guy. He was stopping in before working as a PA at a film shoot. What started as a quick macchiato break turned into a two hour story of his life and how his recent diagnosis of ADD suddenly made his whole life make sense. Believe me, I felt bad for the guy's history, but I was running out of comforting, friendly things to say.
I'm not sure why these people feel the need to divulge their intimate stories with me, a stranger. But the worst is if they interprete my listening skills as genuine interest and make a habit of visiting me at the restaurant.
Doctor Garrett is a good looking guy. He’s fit and works out. Muscular. He’s a doctor, too. He lives in TriBeCa in one of those apartments that I only dream of someday renting. He can afford it because he’s a doctor. He’s 37 years old. He’s a doctor. Smart. Did I mention he’s a doctor? Doctor Garrett is also 100% obnoxious. And 100% my stalker.
"Jodieeeeeee. What’s happenin’?” Oh great, Doctor Garrett’s here to visit me again. I am only here 3 days a week!
“Oh, uh, hey Garrett.”
“I was just walking through the neighborhood. How you doin’?” No you weren’t – the waiter told me you came by twice earlier today looking for me.
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Gooooood. Just got back from the gym. Those reps killllllllled me. Don’t be alarmed that I’m in my workout gear and not my doctor scrubs.” Nope, not alarmed. More alarmed when you wore your scrubs here the other 3 times, actually. Do you even own a regular t-shirt and jeans?
“It’s cool. Got the day off?” Why am I continuing the conversation by asking questions?!
“Yea. So I hit up the gym hard.” Yes, we’ve established that. Oh wait! ---- you mean!, you work out?! Oh wow, I’m so impressed!
“Was thinkin’ of headin’ to the beach. So nice out. You like the beach? (lightbulb goes off) What you up to?!”
“Duh, I’m working.”
“HAHA! You’re so funny!” *slap*
The *slap*: the slap is when Doctor Garrett means to give you a little “love tap” like one does while flirting, and instead literally slaps my forearm, right below the elbow. It hurts.
“Ow! Careful with those muscles there!” He smiles. Why is this guy confusing my friendly “just doing my job” smile with a flirtatious invite?! I am cordial with you because it’s my job. I answer you when you talk to me while you’re getting a drink at the bar next to my host stand because it’s my job. I say “How are you?” and “Hope to see you again" not because I really care or want to, but because…it’s my job! And I know you know what a job is, because you have one, and you remind me what it is every time you come in here to stalk me.
I’m sorry – there’s a few different ways to hit on a girl and stalking her at her place of work is just not one of them. I have no choice but to humor you. I mean, literally, no choice. My job is to stand here by the door and smile. At you.
“Well when’s your next day off?” Oh dear, here we go…
“Oh geez. They are working me into the ground here! It’s like they want me to have no life and just make friends with the people who come through the door!”
“You are so funny!” *slap!* Ow!! How is that funny?
Cell phone rings. “Oh uh, hang on. Gotta take this.” Please do…I’ll just get back to my JOB.
Doctor Garrett proceeds to stand in the middle of the doorway, yapping into his cell phone. He keeps giving me the one-minute finger, as if I am his date and he’ll get back to me asap. No worries, dude. Take the call. In fact, take the call OUTSIDE. Are you even dining here today? Did you want to get a drink? Can I HELP you?
“Blah blah blah…fixed gross income…blah blah blah…yea it’s that high…blah blah blah…yea I know, my accountant couldn’t believe it either…” (covers earpiece) “One second Jodie, I’m so sorry.”
ARE. YOU . KIDDING. ME?
There are girls who fall for this. Who are so impressed by a man’s ability to bench press and obtain an insanely high grossed fix income as a doctor. But I am no such girl. In fact, I’m the type of girl who says:
“You know, when you slap me…it hurts.”
Because if we're going to be friends, dear restaurant regulars...then I'm going to be honest.
“No! That’s a good thing! It means I like you.”
“Yea, I know that’s what you want it to mean, but it’s not working. Because you’re slapping me. You’re hitting me. It hurts. I’m just letting you know so that, for future reference, when you’re flirting with women, you shouldn’t do that.”
“Haha. You are so funny! You’re so cute!”
Ahhh…and thus the abusive flattery and forced frienships continue. Just trying to pay my way through grad school and an acting career by working this silly hostess job. Just gotta find the humor in this situation to make it less creepy. Just another adventure for our ingénue.
