Last night a regular came in with a date. He always has a different woman. At first this one seemed nice, but by her third margarita she was headed to crazy town.

She waves me over,

“Isn’t he great? He’s great.”

“Yeah.”

“You better remember my name.”

“Ok.”

“It’s Marcy and I’m the last woman he’s coming in here with. There will only be Marcy, there won’t be any others.”

I glance at him. He looks terrified. She continues,

“Marcy. Remember that. Marcy is the only woman. These are really good margaritas.”

I spent all day Saturday in a writing workshop to figure out if I want to do anything besides blog and bartend. As noble as both of those are. The outcome is inconclusive, although I have a much better idea of what I need to do if I want to make more friends.

What I’ve accomplished since then is I went to Target, I cleaned my desk and I’m about to clean my closet.

Overall the workshop was wonderful, except at hour four when the teacher spreads magazine clippings on the floor and tells us to pick seven. My heart sinks. If she thinks I’m going to create something that involves anything other than typing… I glance around in despair and head to the bathroom. The teacher says,

“Now I need everyone to get out your poster boards.”

The prerequisites for the workshop were sticky notes and a poster board 16 x 20. At my nearest arts and crafts store which I’ve been to never, the 20 x 30 foam boards were on sale for $2. I bought one figuring I’d just cut it.

I stand in my kitchen staring at the board, desiring to cut it in something resembling a straight line and knowing that ever since my parents’ parent-teacher conference in pre-school, I’ve never been able to do this.

I start to cut the board, it rips in several directions. I reject the scissors in favor of a steak knife. I stab at the board in an almost straight line and bend it back and forth like a perforated piece of paper. This works well enough and I got to hurt the board.

In the workshop, I pull out my board and stare at it’s ragged edge. The woman next to me pulls out a similar looking foam board with a more ragged edge than mine. She sighs,

“I tried to cut it, but that didn’t work so I took a knife to it.”

A woman across the room from us holds up her board with a ragged edge. She exclaims,

“I did the same thing!”

A regular says,

My problem is I never read this book.

I had full schedule this morning. I had to sleep until 10:30, then I had to vote and get downtown to meet a friend at noon. I walk out of my house at 11. I’m planning to vote and go for lunch in an hour. There’s a line. It looks like it’s a block long. I walk further. It wraps around the corner for several more blocks. People are waiting for two hours. TWO HOURS. I need lunch and then I’ll consider my options. Maybe they’ll just give me an “I voted” sticker and I don’t have to wait in line.

I really wish I had some.

I was hoping for a weirder day.

Over a year ago, I got a random message on myspace,

“Interested in foot modeling?”

“Hmmm, I’m interested, but I’m out of the country for the next year.”

My foot modeling career slipped my mind somewhere between Egypt and Argentina.

A year later, back in Worcester, busy doing nothing and stalking people on facebook, I get another message,

“Still interested in foot modeling?”

“YES!”

The day arrives. I tell my mom what I’m doing. She’s worried,

“How did you meet him?”

“On the internet.”

“What’s he going to do with the photos?”

“I can only imagine… But he’s paying me forty dollars!”

“Oh, ok.”

I pick out my toe crud and off I go.

He’s not nearly weird enough! Cute, quiet. So much for my afternoon of fending off a foot fetish psycho.

He perches my feet on a park bench and the shoot begins. A middle-age guy plunks down across from us and shouts,

“Is that for Foot Fetish Magazine?!”

Maybe this is the start of my career.

“It sure looks like it’s for Foot Fetish Magazine!”

Near the end of the shoot, foot boy remarks,

“What I like about your feet is the shape.”

Yeah, I get that all the time.

He hands me forty dollars and that’s it, no foot molestation. As I walk in the house, my mom yells,

“Are your feet still attached?!?”

I show her my feet and the forty dollars. She’s excited,

“Does he want to take photos of my feet? We could get women together for him and have a foot party!”