There was a fire at work last night.

I’ve been thinking of all various first lines for this post. But might as well get right down to it.

I have had my share of fires at work in Worcester. We used to put oily fish and chips on newspaper and then sit it by a candle on a table. But this was not a fish and chips fire. This was a ‘the building is on fire’ fire.

I get to work a little before 4pm. Everything is as usual. At 4:30 I smell something funny. Is something burning? Maybe. But I work next to a big kitchen and plenty of times things are burning. Never mind when we’re smoking meat on purpose.

I head into the basement for the pre-shift meeting and family meal. I come back up at 5pm. Something is burning. It smells terrible. The restaurant is open. People start coming in for drinks and dinner. My throat feels scratchy and my eyes are watering.

I serve a neighborhood of people most likely to complain about anything and nobody is saying a word. Maybe I’m crazy. I peer back toward the kitchen. The chef and managers are scrambling around. I’m not crazy.

I start to be able to see the smoke in the restaurant. We have a problem. Nobody is complaining. The fire alarm is not going off. There are flames coming from a wall in the back. I go from guest to guest at the bar,

“I’m sorry, we’re having a problem. We need everybody to leave please.”

“I thought I smelled something.”

Yes, and you can see the billows of smoke now, so lets move it.

Everybody is out on the street. The guests dining on our sidewalk patio seem reluctant to leave. Twelve fire trucks come roaring up and the alarm finally goes off. People on the patio move. There’s one guest standing on the sidewalk still sipping her glass of wine. I wish I had brought a drink with me.

The firefighters swarm all over the building. They rip open the roof with axes and pour water in. I’m surrounded by my co-workers. I start to cry,

“I love this place.”

I can’t believe I’m crying over a bar.

The woman finishes her glass of wine and hands the empty glass to a server. The server declares,

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

For the record, no one got hurt.

Yesterday I went to Worcester to get my teeth cleaned and a free lunch. Thanks Mom.

I have the best dentist in the world. I’ve been going to him my whole life, except for my few years around the world when I didn’t go to any dentist. A mistake. And then I went to a dentist in Cambridge. That was a bigger mistake.

Two years ago the dentist in Cambridge did x-rays. He pointed to spots on the x-ray that looked like other spots on the x-ray and told me,

“Do you see these spots? You have five cavities.”

“FIVE?!”

The proposed bill would be over $1,000, payable in installments. My mom told me,

“You should see the dentist here.”

I did and he told me I only had two cavities. What?!

After he patches me up, he asks,

“Can I welcome you back into the fold?”

Yes please.

I baked tooth cookies for my dentist. 🙂

I didn’t bake these ones, but I forgot to get good photos of mine.

A guy comes into the bar. We have a short conversation about what beer I would recommend. He picks one. I serve him. He orders dinner. He seems fine and everything is going as usual.

It’s 11pm and the bar is almost empty. A woman walks in. She orders a drink and starts to write in a notebook. So far very normal behavior for my bar.

Next thing I know she is sobbing. Writing and sobbing. I don’t mean a couple tears running down her face, I mean gulping for air, snorting back snot and being loud enough that I come over from the other end of the bar because I have no idea what is going on. She tells me,

“I used to be a lesbian, but now I’m straight.”

“Ok.”

“But now there’s this woman and I’m trying to write a letter to her.”

Who writes letters anymore?

It’s hard to remember now, but once upon a time I did some online dating. Which I recommend if you need to material for a blog.

After every mediocre to terrible date my first thought was to erase their number from my phone. But there were a few legitimate crazies I never wanted to talk to again. My mom mentioned keeping their number labeled so I wouldn’t answer it. There are a couple numbers under “Crazy Guy Match.com don’t answer.”

I forgot they’re in my contacts, until for some unknown reason I was included on a group text from a Match.com guy. I’m not sure who he thinks my number is. At first I was going to be a good Samaritan and let him know that he’s got me confused with somebody else, but then I remembered I was on vacation and I didn’t do anything.

This group text just rolled in:

Match.com guy to some other person,

“I’ll give you guys until 9:30 and then I’m coming in with the cleaner.”

“Hey sorry! I was having some contractions so I stayed home.”

“Gloria started on the windows, I’m going on a coffee run, do you want anything?”

I want a coffee.

There are two main reasons people go to the beach: to relax and to have fun. The other day I witnessed a debacle of a beach trip. They made going to the beach look really hard.

Camp Clothespin Note kid on the left with blue and black towel over his head. Will he ever get shade?

Last weekend I went to Atlanta. I know. Who goes to Atlanta in July? But Captain’s friend was getting married, the hotel was paid for and I’ve never been to an Indian wedding before, so I might as well check that off.

My mom and I head to the beach with Booker. He’s my chocolate lab who lives with my mom. And yes I used his real name in my blog. If he has a problem with that, well then I’ll give him a treat.

Booker loves playing fetch in the ocean. He’ll swim after the ball forever. The strange thing is that when he gets back to the beach he’ll drop the ball 10-30 feet away in the sand somewhere. As I trudge up the beach for the millionth time to retrieve the ball Booker brought back. I tell my mom,

“I’m not sure how this happened, but he’s got me trained to go pick up his ball anywhere.”

At which point I decide that I’m not moving. I stay by the water. If he wants me to throw the ball for him, he’ll bring it back to me. He looks at me. I look at him.

“Where’s your ball?”

He runs straight for his ball. He paws it. He puts it in his mouth, drops it, paws it again. He runs back to me without the ball and gives me a look that says,

“You get it.”

My mom declares,

“It’s too sandy. Nobody likes sandy balls.”

Hey Folks! It’s my birthday! And I’m on vacation at the Cape. Sorry I forgot to tell you sooner. I am very busy sitting on the beach, sitting at the house and opening beers. But we need to talk soon.

That’s right. I posted a birthday card to myself.

Captain’s brother went to a Cougar den the other night. He tells us,

“This bar is renowned for its cougars. Manthers too.”

I exclaim,

“Manthers! I haven’t heard that before.”

Captain’s brother tells Captain,

“You’re a manther.”

“Almost.”

He’ll be forty any day now.

Captain’s brother goes on to describe a woman hitting on him at the bar. He says,

“But she wasn’t even a cougar, she was in her sixties.”

Someone asks,

“If she’s not a cougar, what do you call her?”

He thinks for a minute,

“Granimal.”

Friday night was slow. I was all ready to walk out the door at 11:00 when 20 people come strolling up to the bar. One guy hands me his credit card,

“Whatever these guys want.”

Another guy shoves a really tall older guy towards the bar and shouts at me,

“This guy used to play for the New England Patriots.”

“Whoa!”

“Can you believe that?”

I can believe that.

He shouts at the former football player,

“Give her your business card.”

He starts handing out cards to his friends at the bar.

The guy shouts at me again, maybe it’s his only volume level,

“Did you get his card? Do you know who he is?”

“It’s ok. Can I get you something to drink?”

He could play for the New England Patriots right now and getting his business card would not help me know who he is.

There’s more shouting. A guy takes a sip of his Dewars and yells at me,

“This is terrible. I don’t know what this is, but I’ll take a Dewars on the rocks.”

The first guy shouts again,

“Put everything on my tab.”

Next thing I know my general manager is behind the bar. He tells me,

“Some of these people have already been drinking.”

Yes. I’ve noticed.

Two hours later everybody starts closing their tabs. The former football player comes up to the bar,

“Do I have a tab?”

“No, those guys over there bought your drinks.”

He stares at me. I can’t tell if he’s thinking or if nothing is happening. He tries again,

“What’s my tab?”

“Nothing.” This guy seems eligible for those concussion studies they’re doing now.

He pulls $20 out of his wallet and hands it to me. Perfect.

Another guy at the other end of the bar is looking my way. I glance at him. It looks like he’s having some sort of facial twitch. I approach him,

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

His face keeps contorting. He says,

“I was just trying to…”

“What?”

“I was just trying to wink at you.”

“Ah.”

“Was it attractive?”

The older regular, who I had the unfortunate opportunity of seeing in his spandex bike shorts, came to the bar last night. He tells me, as usual,

“Come close.”

I nod my head and hold my ground.

“Come close.”

“Yes?”

My feet are planted. He can’t fool me. He declares,

“We have something special.”

“Yes.”

“What I’m giving you right now is not exactly my mating call, but it’s close.”

I need a library. Really I just need a room with a lot of shelves for books. The kitchen would work if other people didn’t need it to cook.

All my books from when I was born until 2010 are in Worcester: in the attic, on different shelves, on my desk and on my bedside table. Most books post-2010 are in Somerville: in the living-room, in my room on a shelf and stacked on my dresser. Some of the books post-2010 have made their way to Worcester and haven’t come back; some have done the reverse trek. A few lucky ones will spend the summer on the Cape.

I need all my books in one place. This became apparent the other day. I was reading an article online and it mentioned a humor writer. I thought to myself,

‘That book sounds great. I should buy it.’

I go on Amazon, click order and two days later it’s on my doorstep. I open it. I stare at it. Sigh. I have the distinct feeling I already own this book. I text my mom. Sure enough it’s sitting in on my desk in Worcester mostly read.

My mom texts,

“You must really like it.”

Something like that.

My bar is a little bit like an ice cream parlor. You can try out a couple flavors before you settle on a sundae.

I used to have two favorite co-workers. One got moved to a sister restaurant. Sad day. The other day my bar manager (my other favorite co-worker) and I took our former co-worker out for a birthday lunch. That sounds lamer than it was. 

There’s a little clothing store on my way to work. On a nice day there’s always a rack of pretty dresses out on the sidewalk to taunt me. Most days I don’t have enough time to walk to work and shop, so I walk past and give them a good hard look.

I head to the tattoo parlor with my friend. She’s having a consultation about jazzing up some of her current tattoos. I sit in the waiting room and eye the piercing price list. One ear is $50, genitals are almost $200. That seems like a lot for one ear. But I have no piercings, so what do I know?

I join my friend for her consultation. The tattoo artist introduces herself and tells me,

“So you’re the friend with no tattoos.”

Yes. Why is that so obvious? I could have a butterfly on my lower back. I don’t. You can’t have tattoos if you want to be buried in a Jewish cemetery. I don’t know what I want to do when I die,  but for now I’ll keep my options open.

This past weekend I took the pink machine out for it’s first ride of the season. That’s right, my pink bike with a white basket, sparkly pink streamers, heart bell, and a handlebar flower.

The ride was a success. I got to use my bell. Not only did I use it, but I NEEDED it. A couple pushing a baby stroller one way, stop to talk to a couple walking the other way and they manage to cover the entire bike path from side to side with no regard for oncoming traffic. I have two options: I can shout ‘EXCUSE ME,’ or I can ring my heart shaped bell.

Bell it is. Everybody jumps out of the way so fast. Amazing.

I continue on. Two middle-aged men stop to talk to me about my bike. One exclaims,

“I LOVE your bike.” He whines, “I want a bike like that.”

“You should get one!”

I pedal on, streamers sparkling in the sunshine.

At a crosswalk a woman remarks,

“That is a very girly bike.”

“I tried.” Handlebar flowers don’t happen by accident.

“I don’t think you could get a girlier bike.”

I have the feeling this woman is not complimenting my bike.

She adds,

“The only thing that would make it girlier is if you had a photo of Justin Bieber in the wheel spokes.”

Nope. Definitely not complimenting my bike.

I’m girly, but I’m all grown up. If there’s a photo of Johnny Depp I could put in the wheel spokes, we can talk.

Justin Bieber cake. My birthday is only weeks away.

We were busy last night. Not crazy busy that I forgot my name, but busy enough that I was moving. I had my head down. I know people need things and I’ll look up when I’m ready to help them.