I walk into a nice paper store. I’m bombarded by Christmas. There are Christmas napkins, aprons, doormats, tea cups, Christmas cards, do-it-yourself Christmas cards, and don’t forget to join the email list for more Christmas craft ideas.

I see three rolls of Hanukkah paper. A young guy clerk asks me,

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, do you have any other Hanukkah paper?”

“This is it.”

“Ok, thank you.” I pretend to look through my options again. I hear the guy remark to the other guy behind the counter.

“I like Hanukkah better than Christmas. It’s so much classier.”

Now please excuse me while I go wrap Hanukkah presents and listen to Christmas music.

See upper left hand corner of photo, someone has brought the Steins a present and they couldn’t find any Hanukkah paper.

I recount the details of my haircut to my bar manager. What guy doesn’t want to hear everything about my trip to the salon?

Halfway through my haircut, my hairdresser bends over, buries her face in my hair and takes a big sniff. She exclaims,

“Your hair smells sooo good.”

I tell my bar manager,

“But all she does all day is put good smelling stuff in people’s hair.”

He says,

“She’s got the right job. That is a woman who loves hair.”

I head in for an expensive haircut. I know it’s a lot and I go more often than I need to. I love that they take my coat, hand me magazines and make me coffee, several cups. I’m going to see how much my roommate charges to do this for me.

Relative to the number of Jewish people in the area, the Hanukkah wrapping paper selection is dismal.  Amazon doesn’t even offer very good options. What is a Jew to do? I’m going with a mixture of Hanukkah and Thanksgiving themed wrappings. And if I can figure out how to tie Hanukkah socks in a bow, we’re all set.

My little sister and I had a sleepover this weekend. We stayed up REALLY late, 10:30pm and we slept in until 9am. My little sister said she woke up at 7:30 but wanted to let me sleep. A good idea for everyone. I’m not nearly as much fun at 7am as I am at 9am.

She goes over her Christmas list with me: Slushy Magic, a bike, suspenders and glasses without lenses with tape around the nose. I exclaim,

“Suspenders?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what color or pattern?”

“Whatever they have at Claire’s.”

“What will you wear them with? A shirt and jeans?”

“Yeah, I’ll tuck my shirt into my jeans and then the suspenders go over my shoulders and clip onto my pants.”

“To hold your pants up.”

“NOOO. To be cool.”

A regular walks up to the bar with his girlfriend. His girlfriend starts talking to my bar manager. The regular waves his phone around. What is he doing?

Click, click, click.

Oh my goodness. He’s taking photos. I dash back toward the kitchen and hide behind a wall. My general manager asks,

“Is he trying to take photos of you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m hiding.”

I pop back behind the bar. I notice the regular is trying to read but he doesn’t have good light. I offer,

“Would you like to move over here for better light?”

“No thanks, I can get better photos of you from here.”

Oh. Ok.

I keep working. The regular sighs,

“I’ve gotten plenty of photos of your bar manager, but I can’t get any good ones of you, you keep moving.”

Funny thing about that.

I have bought the biggest warmest down coat I could find. It’s like a sleeping bag with sleeves. It’s not like a snuggie, because snuggies don’t have zippers and hoods. Ok after a quick google there are snuggies with zippers and hoods, but whatever, my coat is like a sleeping bag and it goes great with my jammies.

I’m ready for Winter. Even if it is 70 degrees today.

Baby snuggie. This alarms me.

My bar manager was in a drink contest last night. I was excited to go see him. Almost as excited as I was for the free food and drinks. I think I was a small starving child in another life.

I graze the cheese spread and keep an eye on the passed hors d’oeuvres. Those bacon wrapped thingys should’ve come around a second time.

More and more people arrive. It’s a good showing. I know a lot of people here and recognize even more. I say hi indiscriminately. A guy approaches our table. He starts to talk to my bar manager and notices me. He declares,

“Hey! Good to see you!”

He raises his hand for a big high five. I go for it. Some people have been saying my high fives are bad, but I think they’re at fault. I was a cheerleader. I KNOW how to high five.

I high five the guy. He goes for the high five turned handshake. Odd awkward. I wait for a fist bump. He chats a little more and before wandering off says,

“Good to see you guys, it’s been a long time.”

My bar manager turns to me,

“Who was that?”

“I have no idea.”

My boyfriend is far away. Not that far away, but far enough away for me to feel sorry for myself. Sigh. I better go smell his dirty undershirt I stole.

My mom asks me,

“Does he know you took it?”

Yes he does. I stole it and then I told him,

“I took one of your dirty undershirts, is that okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“It smells like you. I like it.”

He takes the shirt, holds it up to his face and takes a big whiff. He nods his head. He seems to understand. I offer,

“Do you want something of mine? Underwear?”

“No thanks. I’ll let you know if I see a pair I want.”

It’s amazing how many people think the blue wig is my real hair. Last night someone remarks,

“You have a great haircut, it looks really good with your face.”

“Thank you.”

I clipped a couple devil horns into my wig. Another bar guest remarks,

“Those horns go great with your hair, you should wear them more often.”

I am now giving considerable thought to a wearing a wig to work on a regular basis. Maybe a normal colored one. People have no idea. It would be great for days when I don’t shower and look like a mummy with a trash can on my head.

Happy Halloween! I’d love to be Wonder Woman again, but I’m working at the bar. I won’t be able to wear my red stiletto superhero boots and what’s Wonder Woman without her heels? I will have to wait for Purim.

Two guys sit down at the bar. They’re nothing out of the ordinary. I serve them and go about my business. They’re talking about a mutual girl friend of theirs loud enough for half the bar to hear. One guy declares,

“Her personality is kinda hot.”

“She’s hot. But she’s not as hot as me.”

A regular complains to me about his twenty-three-year-old daughter,

“I’m not sure if she’s going to make it.”

“She’s an adult and it sounds like she’s doing fine.”

“I’m an adult and I’m not sure I’m going to make it.”

He continues,

“She was asking me for advice about her boyfriend. He watches porn.”

“Oh?”

“Her girlfriends’ responses ranged from infidelity to it doesn’t matter.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“I said that as long as he doesn’t watch it for more than ten minutes at a time it’s not a problem.

People ask for all sorts of crazy drinks. Some from 1965, some from 1995. They almost always start hesitantly,

“I don’t know if you have it, but could you make me an Aviation?”

“Of course.”

“Could you make me an Appletini?”

Against my better judgement, but sure.

I can make almost anything. I’m working with a well stocked bar and Google.

A woman states,

“I don’t know if you can make this but-“

“-I probably can.”

“Do you have whiskey and ginger ale?”

Maybe I need these so I don’t have to figure out how to make it.

I work nights. I like working nights. My brain doesn’t function well before 11am.

Last weekend I closed the bar, got home and went to bed at 3am. My alarm goes off at 8am. I jolt out of bed. WHAT is going on? Oh that’s right, I’ve agreed to work a brunch shift. I stumble over there.

In a fog, I proceed to get the bar ready. I put on the heavy-duty leather work gloves and take the recycling out back. This is one of my least favorite tasks. All the glass bottles must be put in the recycling bin one at a time or risk the wrath of the old woman next door. She will yell and then she’ll call the owners.

As I’m doing this a clean-cut old guy wanders up. He waves me aside,

“I will do this.”

“I need to do it. I have to do it one bottle at a time.”

“Yes, yes. I will do it.”

I stand back. He’s not collecting the beer bottles. He is taking some of the wine bottles. I don’t really care, because whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it quietly.

I head back inside and return with another trash bin full of bottles. The old guy waves me away again. He declares,

“I will do this one too and bring it back inside for you.”

“Ok. Thank you.”

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Yes and 3:30pm on weekdays.”

I wander back inside still wearing my leather work gloves. I see a couple servers polishing silverware. I tell them,

“Some guy just wandered up and offered to empty the recycling bins for me.”

“And you’re letting him?”

Everyone stares at me like I’m crazy.

“Please. If some old guy wandered in here and offered to do your job, you’d be all about it.”

Everyone thinks for a minute,

“True.”

It’s 9:30am. I’m standing around in heavy-duty leather work gloves wondering what’s going on.

The old guy pops around the corner with the empty recycling bin and says,

“Thank you very much! See you tomorrow!”

People tell me I look like all sorts of people: movie stars, their friend’s kid, Egyptian mummies. You name it, I might look like it.

The other day a woman looks at me and exclaims,

“Do you know who you look like?”

I have a couple ideas, but you’re going to have to tell me.

“You look like the Noxzema girl!”

“Oh yeah, thank you.” That’s the one I get the most. The woman keeps staring at me. She continues,

“Wait a minute. ARE YOU the Noxzema girl?”

Yes, that makes sense.

I just gotta figure out what bar he’s working at.

I love Krispy Kreme donuts. Maybe I love them more because I can’t get them in Boston. But whatever I love them. Don’t even start with Dunkin Donuts. And after a quick google search it looks like there’s a Krispy Kreme in Connecticut at Mohegan Sun. So if anyone’s grandmother wants to bring me back a box I’ll buy them a donut.

So when I went to visit my boyfriend in the deep deep south/North Carolina, we drove by Krispy Kreme store after Krispy Kreme store. I tell him,

“I have to have some.”

We pull up to a drive-thru. The speaker voice says something unintelligible. I shout across from the passenger seat,

“A dozen!”

I open the box, stuff one in my mouth and continue to ogle them. My boyfriend remarks,

“Hmmm who’s the next victim?”

I proceed to eat ten of them. The only reason I didn’t eat twelve was because someone else ate two.

I got a red-eye flight home yesterday. The guy two seats over from me managed to spill his entire drink across his neighbor and me. I spilled my drink two flights ago, but I was considerate enough to spill it on myself.

I get home at 9am. I need to be at work in a few hours. I have time to sleep or shower. Not both. Sleep wins.

I wasn’t even considering a shower. I just said that so you would think I think bathing is somewhat important.

I pile my hair into a bun and head to work. A regular remarks,

“Whoa hair. You look like Nefertiti.”

“Thanks?”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Your hair looks good. Nefertiti’s hair looks like an upside down trash can.”

“Huh.”

“Yours looks better than that.”

I’m back! I’m sorry my poolside schedule was so busy. I’m off to the bar, to work, but I’ll be with you tomorrow. As soon as I unpack my boyfriend’s dirty laundry I stole.
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