I can relate to Jennifer Aniston. Not because of her beauty, fame or wealth. Because I lacked flair–TGI Friday flair.
In order to save money so I could move to LA from the Bay Area, back in the mid-1980s, I worked two jobs while going to school: weekends I worked at Mills Memorial Hospital in San Mateo as a Radiology Assistant, and at night I worked as a waitress (If that’s what you can call screwing up orders, upsetting old women, and shattering glasses) at TGI Friday’s in San Bruno.
What I remember:
*One night a drunk guy, while outside TGI Fridays, took out his penis and rubbed it along the length of the long, front window. For weeks my friends and I would point out the thirty foot, snake-like smear to people. For weeks! How were those windows not washed before then? (Photo #1, window on left is where the penis smear stayed for weeks.)
Photo #1: San Bruno, CA TGI Fridays
*We were trained on the menu (basically, stuffed potato skins and fruity cocktails) for two weeks, until we could spew the fried food fare we offered at bullet speed.
*If, while training, we didn’t call out our bar orders correctly (the most time consuming cocktails first, i.e., daiquiris, etc.,), the bartender would pour bottles of booze and mixers directly onto the bar and bark out, “What was that again?” What a waste!
*Before our shifts we would have to line up for inspection. My big-haired manager, Julie, would tap my exposed upper thighs with a ruler. “Your skirts are always too short!”
*People used to make out in the phone booth near the bar. (Photo #2)
Photo #2: San Bruno, CA TGI Fridays
*(See photo #3) That last table, farthest away, is where I upset a group of senior women I was serving because I forgot to bring the birthday “girl” some balloons. That’s also the same table a bunch of twenty-something guys sat at for hours one Saturday, while I ran back and forth serving them, running a tab of a couple hundred dollars. They didn’t tip me. Maybe one of them was that birthday girl’s grandson. Pay back!
*Any time glasses shattered, the entire TGIF staff would call out, “Michele!”
*This is where I served a woman and her boyfriend. From the death grip which she held on to her boyfriend’s hand and the sneer she gave me, I don’t think that woman liked me. Plus, she left me a penny tip on her credit card print out. Sweet!
*TGIF is where I was working when my doppelganger, Rita, (a girl from college I was always mixed up with), sat drinking cocktails with her friends, confusing my TGIF waiter friend. Who said to me, “Michele? I thought I saw you in a booth, having drinks?” Nah, as Rita laughed, I wore my silly, stained white and red striped shirt, covered in sticky cocktails and oil from potato skins, trying to act cheery while being absolutely miserable.
After only a few months, I quit and moved to LA.
In the video clip of Jennifer Aniston from “Office Space,” not only can I relate to her flair flare-up (I didn’t wear kooky buttons or suspenders), but I did leave my answering service job this exact same way–middle finger waving.
Lesson From Last Night: An American Woman (a bit of a hint from last night’s show) canNOT out sorry a Canadian. Any American canNOT out sorry a Canadian. Believe me, I tried. I lost that Sorry Off in a big way.
Backstage (or whatever you call that narrow room with a window looking onto the floor below) at The Troubadour, last night.
Talented Musician Who Happens to be Canadian (extending his hand toward me): I’m sorry, have we met?
Me (extending my hand toward TMWHTBC): Ah yeah, millions of times. (Okay, that may have been a slight exaggeration. About five times, quite a few years ago.)
TMWHTBC: I’m sorry? We have?
Me (seeing he felt awful for not remembering): Oh yeah, but don’t worry.
TMWHTBC: Really, we have? I’m so sorry.
Me: No, I’m sorry for saying that. I didn’t mean to… uh haaa, you know… make you feel badly for not…
TMWHTBC: I’m sorry.
Me: No. No. I.. I’m sorry.
TMWHTBC (with his right hand on his chest to convey his deepest apologies): Really, I am. So sorry.
I couldn’t top the sincerity of his sorry, so I just grabbed my foot and began lifting it toward my mouth. Then I slunked down The Troubadour’s kooky carnival stairs, feeling really, really sorry.
If you ever need to apologize to a Canadian just know you’re going to lose. Simply stick your foot in your mouth and skulk away, admitting defeat. Much quicker.
*As I often say, I make mistakes so you don’t have to.
Formula: 1 sorry Canadian + 1 sorry American = American skulking away in defeat.
(Note: My husband’s Canadian, so I poke fun with love. He used to play bass with Burton Cummings of the Guess Who. I took the below video of Randy Bachman–an old friend of my husband’s–and his band, last night after the sorry off.)
UPDATE! Well, the planets must be aligned in some kooky new way, because this Canadian “Apology Act” just came to me via Instagram (I wasn’t even looking). Read it here: https://www.ontario.ca/laws/statute/09a03
Excerpted from the Ontario law site:
Apology Act, 2009
S.O. 2009, CHAPTER 3
Consolidation Period: From April 23, 2009 to the e-Laws currency date.
No Amendments.
Definition
1. In this Act,
“apology” means an expression of sympathy or regret, a statement that a person is sorry or any other words or actions indicating contrition or commiseration, whether or not the words or actions admit fault or liability or imply an admission of fault or liability in connection with the matter to which the words or actions relate. 2009, c. 3, s. 1.
Effect of apology on liability
2. (1) An apology made by or on behalf of a person in connection with any matter,
(a) does not, in law, constitute an express or implied admission of fault or liability by the person in connection with that matter;
Yeesh, I go to the market so often you’d think I’d have this routine down: Put food in my cart, pay and walk out. Is that so hard?
Okay, so this time I didn’t leave my perfect mango in my cart and accidentally take another person’s cart, like last time. Today, I’m at the register with my all my own food choices. I hear a lady allow a dad and his son to go ahead of her, one line over. As I’m getting prepared for a swift pay and go–getting my debit card out and my grocery app up on my phone, so the cashier can scan it–the lady walks over and stands behind me, holding only two peaches.
Me: Please go ahead of me.
Lady: Really?
Me: Yes, please.
She pays, thanks me again and leaves.
My turn at the register. I hold my phone up to the cashier for the grocery app to be scanned, with my left hand, while putting my debit card in with my right.
Cashier: Umm… she’s very pretty.
Me: Hmmm?
Cashier: But I don’t want to scan her face.
I turn my phone toward me and see that I’m holding a photo of my daughter up to the check out lady, the grocery app had disappeared. D’Oh!
Me: Yeah, you know, just thought I’d show off my daughter… as I often do at the check out.
We both started howling.
As if I didn’t feel like an idiot already, as I’m leaving, I hold my car key fob, point it to the grocery store doors and click it. When they slide open, on command, as automatic doors will do, it takes me a beat too long to realize what I did.
What’s life without humor? One huge reason why I love reading Nora Ephron’s work: we have the same idea on life and writing. Here’s what she said about negative experiences and using them for writing material: “When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you. But when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it’s your laugh.”
Her screenwriter mother always said, “Everything is copy.” As she was dying she told Nora, “Take notes.”
So if your skirt flies up in the air, a boss tells you you’re not cut out for that crappy job, you smash into a pyramid of Champagne bottles at the grocery store (all of which have happened to me)… turn that horror and humiliation into humor. Other people and/or bad experiences can make you feel lousy only if you allow them to. Laugh. Take notes. Write!
This is me, trying to get people to read my blog (see the video from my Instagram page, below). Here, in “The Day of the Locust,” Burgess Meredith as former Vaudeville entertainer, Harry Greener, roams Hollywood Hills, door to door, trying to sell health tonic. The movie is adapted from writer Nathaniel West’s novel.
Actually, when I first moved to LA from the Bay Area, with a dream of being a Hollywood actress, my life was not too far off from that of the character Faye Greener; though I wisely avoided some of the things she allowed herself to get pulled into. I write about that experience in my book, “Craving Normal.” See, I’m hocking my blog and book like I’m going door to door selling health tonic – “A little bottle of magic”.
In the summer of 2010, during the worst part of the recession, I sold luxury cars at a San Fernando Valley luxury car dealership showroom – Jaguars, Aston Martins, Lotuses…
Every Monday – I mean EVERY Monday (no matter if you had a day off or were dying) – we were expected to show up for the morning meetings. We had to get pumped up to sell, sell, sell – you know.
So one Monday morning meeting, I sat in the room full of mostly men (about 100 to 3), between a beautiful, feisty and stylish Filipina who didn’t take any crap, and another saleswoman, a gorgeous, Southern blonde former Miss USA, who’d had her crown taken away by Donald Trump after her raunchy (Eh, she had some fun, so what?) behavior hit the media; she sold Astons upstairs, near the James Bond-esque Aston Martin member only room (leather walls, bond theme door bell, top shelf liquor behind the bar, pass code, vault).
A male sales manager stood at the front of the meeting room, and asked for everyone’s attention. He then began his “pump us up to sell” speech, and turned on a scene from the movie “300.” On the wall before us, buffed, bare chested men were pumping themselves up for battle (get the analogy? Selling cars, it’s a battle!). I elbowed my fellow female co-workers, and began to wolf-call and howl at the screen. My feisty friend joined me: “Yeowww whoo hooo!” The manager giving the speech scowled, “Who’s doing that? Have some respect.”
I rolled my eyes and whispered to the feisty Filipina to my right. “Yeah, right. If those were women in bikinis on that screen would this room full of men be quiet? I think not.” Working with these guys everyday, I knew what hornballs they were.
So I howled some more. The battle leading General (errr, sales manager) stomped over to us three women and pointed his finger. “Stop that now!”
Sex! Now that I have your attention… I will talk about that, but mostly this thought spew may only interest personal essay writers/readers, memoir writers/readers, editors/agents/publishers, English lit academics, parents of kids under 10, kids who feared the VD man (explained below), and my daughter, to whom I wrote a personal note. Anyone else is welcome to read, of course. See, I know you’re scrolling by, notice too many words to deal with on a Sunday morning, and wonder if you should wade in to check out this post, so I’m telling you: Scroll on by! (This made more sense when I posted it on Facebook.)
Here goes: Writing academics, publishing experts, English lit types have defined story as ALWAYS FICTION. Always. A nonfiction story is called a personal essay. It’s that simple. Final. But for the last fifteen years or so, I’ve read my STORIES at bookstores’ open mics. Nobody asked me to get up and spout my personal essay. I go to theaters to hear other storytellers, like The Moth from NYC, which is nationwide now. There’s a growing STORYteller movement. People get up and tell personal STORIES; they call themselves storytellers.
In my book, “Craving Normal,” here’s how I’ve been thinking of the pieces in my collection – Some are stories where I’m the protagonist. There’s a beginning; what my character wants; conflict as my character tries to get there, and resolution. An example of this is my story “Suicidal Santa.” Within the story I do mention what’s going on in my community and the world, to give context. But it’s not the focus.
Meanwhile, in my book, I do have personal essays, where I wrote commentary on societal subjects, with personal anecdotes. I am not the protagonist in a story. It has a thesis statement, ending in a personal anecdote to back it up.
For example, there’s “My Barbie the Slut,” where my focus is one subject: SEX, the message I, at nine years old, received about sex. Sex as filtered through my kid mind and how I perceived what I was being told via TV, movies, songs, books. I’d pluck books from my parents’ filled book shelves, read Erica Jong’s “Fear of Flying,” and Michael Medved’s “What Really Happened to the Class of ’65?” Wow. Lots of teen sex (Hey, I thought those early 1960’s kids waited until they married?). My nine-year-old brain spun. Eye-opening! (I’d like to read that now as an adult.)
While adults thoughtfully gave me educational talks, those were in conflict with the messages all around me. So, in “My Barbie the Slut,” I storify my essay with my nine-year-old moments: beginning with my friend and me playing Barbies. Now, as often as I heard Helen Reddy sing “I am woman hear me roar,” and my mom gave me nice talks supporting women… Please! Barbie was all sex – big boobs, tiny waist, legs that could go behind her ears. AND! Accessorized with mini dresses and a sports car. That, plus the messages I got from movies: “Hi. Nice to meet you! Would you like to get naked and go to my bedroom? Or should I just tear your clothes off here in the doorway?” – no wonder I had my Barbie and Ken humping so hard, I scuffed their smooth plastic crotches.
Watch out, tangents ahead!
Parents of young kids – Be alert. Your kids sure are -> TV. Movies. Racy magazines found. Those nice talks adults gave me with healthy messages? Totally drowned out by the loud outside messages coming from a variety of sources. Hey, I was an observant little human (as most kids are). I paid more attention to the world around me than listen to lectures. Even though my parents limited my TV viewing, what little I saw I absorbed. I’d seen enough “Love, American Style,” episodes to dream of becoming a foxy stewardess with a guy in every city (Oh the conflict! Having to remember not to mix up boyfriends… flabby formulaic sitcom fodder). Hey, I was no dummy. I knew what Bob Eubanks on the “Newlywed Game” meant when he said “making whoopee.” His smirk gave part of it away. And then the way the contestants giggled and gushed, “Oh, Bob!” as they blushed, confirmed whoopee was about “It.”
IT. Doing IT if it feels good. Getting IT on. IT was piped into my head as if on a corporate Muzak loop. But do I want IT? When do I want IT? What if I don’t want IT?
And then cut to a commercial break for, say, Summer’s Eve. Those ads totally confused me. What in the world made these women so happy they would run through fields of wildflowers, huge smiles and flowing hair?
Even the choice of boogie monster we San Francisco State University student housing neighborhood latchkey kids feared made it clear how influenced we were by our sexually-charged era and society. We created scary neighborhood lore, the way other kids might say the most dilapidated house on the block is haunted. It started with the older teenage boys on our street. They told us about a naked man running through the eucalyptus groves near the handball courts of San Francisco State University. To enter the grove area we had to go through a hole in a chain link fence below a sign that said, in large red letters, “Danger!” So we appropriately called the land where The VD Man supposedly lurked, Danger.
NOTE TO MY DAUGHTER: If you read this, now you know why I was so on top of what movies and TV shows you watched, so much so that little you would ask, “Mommy, is this appropriate?” And why teenage you thought I was such a nagging bore. I know from my own experience being a kid, how messages are absorbed and how it’s confusing. Heck, soda and beer companies don’t pay hundreds of millions of dollars (or whatever it is) to advertise during the Superbowl because TV messages DON’T work. (Remember this if you become a parent. TV as a babysitter is like leaving your kid with a whacked out crackhead who also likes to sell you lots of pharmaceuticals and fear. Fear is a great manipulator. But it does sell drugs and insurance. Would you leave your kid with that crackhead?)
Anyway, my point is this: “Suicidal Santa” is in story form vs. “My Barbie the Slut,” which is societal commentary with personal anecdotes has some storyification, and what I call a personal essay.
Because I will be publishing under my own Exotica Gooch Publishing, I can do what I want. I will continue to blend my genres. *Exotica Gooch is my alter ego (There’s a story behind it, but I’ve yammered enough.)
