As a waitress in Midtown, I meet a lot of tourists.
Sometimes they like to chat.
Okay. Sure.
I’ll gladly tell you where to go to buy great discount clothes. I can give you directions to pretty much any major tourist attraction. And, if I asked, I will happily offer suggestions on what to see and do in NYC.
But I find it strange when they inquire about my personal life. Particularly when they ask the question, “So, what do you do?”
It just seems too personal to me. Because they can see what I do. I’m their waitress. What they’re really asking is, “What are your dreams? What do you aspire to be besides a waitress?”
For some reason, I find this question insulting. I would never walk into a doctor’s office, greet the receptionist, and, while thumbing thru the year-old magazines, ask the receptionist, “So, what do you want to be besides a receptionist?”
I’m your waitress---not your friend. Let’s make a deal---you don’t ask about my dreams in life and I won’t ask if that’s your real hair color. And I don’t think my aspirations either qualify or disqualify me for the honor of bringing you coffee and a slice of cheesecake.
And frankly, why do you care? Are you an agent? Are you so taken by my sparkling personality that you sense a great hidden talent?
Of course, I am aware that I’m reading too much into this. Waitresses are notoriously snarky. We have to be. It’s a defense mechanism developed thru years and years of being verbally abused without the ability to retaliate.
In my lighter moments, I realize that what most of them really want is simply to get a story to take back home about their encounter with a real-life, New York City Struggling Artist.
For some reason, they think it’s interesting. After all, it always looks interesting in the movies. Huge artists lofts. Glamorous bohemian parties. Daily encounters with celebrity. Sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Juicy bits of gossip to take back home to their small town to impress their friends.
“So, what do you do besides this?” they ask with anticipation.
“Well, I’m a writer.”
Sometimes I can actually see their eyes light up. And then, more often than you would think, I hear this…
“Oh! Just like Carrie Bradshaw!”
Well, no. Not really.
Let me start by saying that I love Sex in the City. It’s a smart, sexy show with great acting and fantastic writing. And yes, sometimes the show is very much like life in NYC. As my friend Jana says, “Life here IS kind of like Sex and the City---but without all that pesky sex.”
But I’m not here to write about sex. Yet another reason why I am not like Carrie Bradshaw. I’m writing this on a PC. Carrie had a laptop. Strike number two.
And Carrie lived on the East Side. I live on the West Side. And if you know anything about Manhattan---that’s a HUGE difference. Strike three.
Still, the comparison continues. I’m a single gal, living in the big bad city, and spending my free time sitting in cafes, sipping cappuccinos and working on my next project.
The operative word is “free”. My FREE time. You see, this is where the comparison comes to a dead stop.
Once I was this temped to reply to a table’s Carrie Bradshaw comparison by explaining, “Yes! My life is exactly like that episode of Sex in the City where Carrie works the dinner-close shift and, after she tips out, walks with $82.”
“I don’t remember that episode, “ they would inevitably reply.
Exactly.
I bring this up now because I've been told that while I spend ample amount of time writing about restaurant life on this blog, I have yet to devote equal time to The Writer’s Life.
Well, if you thought working in a restaurant was boring…
Look, I LOVE writing. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
But talking about it in conversation is about the most boring thing you can possibly discuss. No one wants to hear about how I spent my day off editing twelve pages, writing six new ones and making a trip to Office Depot for two reams of paper.
I liken it to being a butcher. People may appreciate a fabulous steak---but no one wants to hear how it went from cow to butcher paper.
Nevertheless, I’m about to give it a shot. Over the course of the next week, I will faithfully document what it is truly like to live the life of a writer in NYC. But I warn you now---don’t expect any sex, shoes, or cosmopolitans.
Or puns. That’s the other difference between me and Carrie---I hate puns.
Sometimes they like to chat.
Okay. Sure.
I’ll gladly tell you where to go to buy great discount clothes. I can give you directions to pretty much any major tourist attraction. And, if I asked, I will happily offer suggestions on what to see and do in NYC.
But I find it strange when they inquire about my personal life. Particularly when they ask the question, “So, what do you do?”
It just seems too personal to me. Because they can see what I do. I’m their waitress. What they’re really asking is, “What are your dreams? What do you aspire to be besides a waitress?”
For some reason, I find this question insulting. I would never walk into a doctor’s office, greet the receptionist, and, while thumbing thru the year-old magazines, ask the receptionist, “So, what do you want to be besides a receptionist?”
I’m your waitress---not your friend. Let’s make a deal---you don’t ask about my dreams in life and I won’t ask if that’s your real hair color. And I don’t think my aspirations either qualify or disqualify me for the honor of bringing you coffee and a slice of cheesecake.
And frankly, why do you care? Are you an agent? Are you so taken by my sparkling personality that you sense a great hidden talent?
Of course, I am aware that I’m reading too much into this. Waitresses are notoriously snarky. We have to be. It’s a defense mechanism developed thru years and years of being verbally abused without the ability to retaliate.
In my lighter moments, I realize that what most of them really want is simply to get a story to take back home about their encounter with a real-life, New York City Struggling Artist.
For some reason, they think it’s interesting. After all, it always looks interesting in the movies. Huge artists lofts. Glamorous bohemian parties. Daily encounters with celebrity. Sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Juicy bits of gossip to take back home to their small town to impress their friends.
“So, what do you do besides this?” they ask with anticipation.
“Well, I’m a writer.”
Sometimes I can actually see their eyes light up. And then, more often than you would think, I hear this…
“Oh! Just like Carrie Bradshaw!”
Well, no. Not really.
Let me start by saying that I love Sex in the City. It’s a smart, sexy show with great acting and fantastic writing. And yes, sometimes the show is very much like life in NYC. As my friend Jana says, “Life here IS kind of like Sex and the City---but without all that pesky sex.”
But I’m not here to write about sex. Yet another reason why I am not like Carrie Bradshaw. I’m writing this on a PC. Carrie had a laptop. Strike number two.
And Carrie lived on the East Side. I live on the West Side. And if you know anything about Manhattan---that’s a HUGE difference. Strike three.
Still, the comparison continues. I’m a single gal, living in the big bad city, and spending my free time sitting in cafes, sipping cappuccinos and working on my next project.
The operative word is “free”. My FREE time. You see, this is where the comparison comes to a dead stop.
Once I was this temped to reply to a table’s Carrie Bradshaw comparison by explaining, “Yes! My life is exactly like that episode of Sex in the City where Carrie works the dinner-close shift and, after she tips out, walks with $82.”
“I don’t remember that episode, “ they would inevitably reply.
Exactly.
I bring this up now because I've been told that while I spend ample amount of time writing about restaurant life on this blog, I have yet to devote equal time to The Writer’s Life.
Well, if you thought working in a restaurant was boring…
Look, I LOVE writing. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
But talking about it in conversation is about the most boring thing you can possibly discuss. No one wants to hear about how I spent my day off editing twelve pages, writing six new ones and making a trip to Office Depot for two reams of paper.
I liken it to being a butcher. People may appreciate a fabulous steak---but no one wants to hear how it went from cow to butcher paper.
Nevertheless, I’m about to give it a shot. Over the course of the next week, I will faithfully document what it is truly like to live the life of a writer in NYC. But I warn you now---don’t expect any sex, shoes, or cosmopolitans.
Or puns. That’s the other difference between me and Carrie---I hate puns.
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