A Sex and the City Moment

Anyone who's seen the first movie knows the quote I'm about to reference. "Why is it we're willing to write our own vows, but not our own rules." Throughout that entire movie, that is the one moment that stood out to me. Yes, Charlotte crapping her pants was absolutely hysterical, watching Carrie rise from the ashes of a broken life was beautiful and heartwarming, seeing Miranda run to Steve on the bridge made me bawl my eyes out, and yes, I nearly peed my pants when Samantha threw sushi at Smith. But that one moment at the end, that made an impact on me.

Everyone has been through a breakup, everyone knows it sucks. My most recent experience has definitely been the hardest to get over. You spend enough time with someone, they grow to be a substantial part of your life. Then you get serious and talk about the future. You make plans, you talk about a home and a family, where you're going to spend the holidays. You save every movie stub, every letter, every token of devotion, so that thirty years from now, when your children are rifling through the attic and they stumble upon a nondescript little box, you can recap the story of your love.

Then the unthinkable happens. The fights become more frequent. It's never any one person's fault, it's simply a matter of life revealing that despite your most fervent desires, it just isn't meant to be. You cry, you vent, you get angry, you attempt to get over it. Then after some time, the epiphany comes. It simply wasn't meant to be. It's not a negative reflection on either person, neither of you fell worse for the ware, if anything, you grew from the experience. You come to appreciate all you learned from the relationship, and when people ask what happened, you reply with a simple, "It just didn't work out. They're a great person, and we're just exploring different paths."

The only remnants from the relationship are kept in a nondescript box that you were saving for your kids to rifle through. What now? Do you throw away all the movies you watched together? Toss your favorite sweater just because it's what you wore on your first date? Do you avoid going to the best coffee house within a twenty mile radius because it's where you two talked about kids for the first time?

No. You don't. You reclaim all your favorite things as your own. Take back the power from the broken relationship and realize that you had a life before him and you'll have a life after him. All your favorite things were there prior to him entering your world. Or as Carrie Bradshaw so eloquently said, why can't we make our own rules? And if Serendipity didn't love me enough, this article popped up on my Yahoo page, thus validating my belief in recapturing my world.

http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/sex/breakup-recovery-101-five-rules-you-must-follow-520785/

High five, you are awesome.

Three Years Later: An Open Letter...

I never really understood the phrase, 'waking up on the wrong side of the bed,' because I figured, it's a bed, the limited spacial dimensions leave very little room for there actually to be a quote-unquote 'wrong side.' That being said, I woke up in a very weird mood today. I was fortunate enough not to have to work until noon, leaving me plenty of time to ignore an alarm and still wake up with time to meander about my kitchen, peruse breakfast options, watch two episodes of early "Saved By the Bell," and the beginning of "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2," and still have time to shower and get ready for work. Throughout all of this, something just felt, for lack of a better term, off.

Almost nine hours, three emergencies, countless lognotes, and god only knows how many 'Thank you for calling, this is Dori, how can I help you' responses later, I still felt off. It wasn't until I was driving home with my ipod on shuffle, randomly skipping through songs, hoping to find some sort of connection to the myriad of music choices when it finally hit me. Dispatch's "The General" came on and it all started to make sense.

It's been three years since he left and part of me acknowledges the loss, misses him, and learns from the mess he left. The other part of me is angry, still confused, wishing we were closer, wondering if we were that there might have been something I could have done. Nonetheless, I drive the fifteen minutes and how many seconds ride home, trying to keep it together enough to maintain control of the car, all the while hoping my eyeliner doesn't smudge and cause my eye to burn.

Despite my history, and despite the ability to understand how a person's thinking can get to the point of "it's better this way," I don't get it. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how alone you feel, there is always at least one person who will miss you. One person will be hugely and deeply impacted by your absence. And that one person has the unbearable task of feeling plagued that they didn't do more. Feeling like they're abandoning you when they move on with their lives. Feeling guilty that they have a life to move on in. You left. You made that choice. Three years later and we're still coping with that. Thirty years later and we'll still be coping with it.

Immediately following, there's the obvious outpouring of affection and sympathy, people desperate to find a connection to you to feel like they're a part of something greater than they're own meaningless worlds. Everyone who was ever even remotely near you recounts some story. "The Ho Trap," Dance Co., "The Pit," your brown jacket, your all too perfect smile. I remember pennies spelling out "I <3 U" outside my door. I remember creepy "Seven days..." phone calls after watching "The Ring" in the mezzanine in BT freshman year. I remember watching you play in the snow, running up a mountain the plows made in the back parking lot of Mark Hopkins, laughing like a little kid in a snowball fight. I remember trying so hard not to forget my lines when you were stage manager of Emily's senior director class presentation of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." I remember you, beautiful, delicious, sweetly mischievous you.

I know how it feels to think that nothing you do is right. I know how it feels to think that it would all be better if... I know how it feels. But I'm still here. I'm still fighting. No matter the pain, no matter the sadness, no matter how god awful it hurts, there is always a reason to keep fighting. What I will never understand is why you stopped, why you gave up. If you saw how many people came to your memorial... If you saw how many lives you really touched... If you could understand how much you truly meant..

Three years later and I'm still trying to understand.

What Dreams May Come

I don't think I've slept the entire night through without the aid of alcohol or Tylenol PM since I was about 16 or so. And with the advent of "Simply Sleep," Tylenol PM's counterpart but without the pain reliever acetaminophen (and subsequent potentially fatal liver damage), a complete night's rest seems actually within my grasp. However, as anyone who relies on sleep aids, even infrequently, will tell you, they come with some pretty bizarre dreams.

Most recently, there's been dreams of pregnancy (thank god it's just a dream), death, constantly being late, and of course, the occasional boring dream of just being at work doing my job. Naturally, my curiosity spiked when the first two topics seemed to be repeated more frequently than any other. There was a span of about a week where every night I dreamt I was pregnant or giving birth. The dream dictionaries I consulted all stated it meant my subconscious was fighting to bring something to the surface, an idea was bubbling and would soon come to fruition. In my eternal optimism, I thought that it meant that my subconscious had known all along what my heart so desperately wanted for my career, but alas, two months later, not a single pregnancy dream nor any clue as to employment ambition.

The second, and most obviously more disturbing topic, came with rather specific details that are a bit hard to erase from my memory. While others are desperately trying to hold onto every image, color, and memory from a dream as they slowly come into the waking world, I wish I could forget. In the most recent unconscious hallucination, I had just learned of a family member's death while staying at their house while other relatives were away on vacation. It fell upon me to tell those relatives that their child had died. The image of my aunt walking in the door with a smile on her face contrasting that of her falling to the floor and shaking after my delivering the news have yet to fade. Again, I consulted the dream dictionary, praying to whichever deity was en vogue at the moment, that I wasn't somehow becoming clairvoyant. According to this particular entry, when you dream about someone close to you dying, it means they possess something you envy, whether a job, a character trait, or whatever. They have something in their lives that you want in your own. Needless to say, reading the end of that passage left me thinking, "huh, how 'bout that."

How people come to the conclusions that one dream means something completely different than what you actually dreamt about is beyond any comprehension. For example, dreaming about spiders doing any number of specific actions means you're either going to be rewarded in some way, you feel like an outsider, or you're fighting with your mother. Somehow, it always comes back to your mother.

So what conclusion can we come to, given the two most prevalent dream ideologies in my current world? I'm jealous of my cousin and I'm about to figure out why. Or our relationship means nothing, she's dead to me, and I want a baby. Given my adamant feelings about the human gestation period, and physically pushing a life form from my loins, I'm going with option A.

But my cousin is pretty awesome, so it's kind of hard not want to be something like her.

I know, wicked sappy way to end it, right? It's my blog, deal with it.

Special K....not that one, the other one.

My mother and I have been trying diet after diet, searching for the right fit, the one that we will stick to and not give up on. She seems to have found hers in the "Raw Diva Diet," and is quite content on eating nothing but pureed fruits and vegetables. While I respect the idea behind it, and can confidently say I completed their 7-Day Detox, I was never fully satisfied with their meal plan. I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't satisfied, and that seems to be my downfall. So now I'm on to the next challenge.

I've been researching the Special K Challenge for a while and decided now is the time to do it. Losing two inches in two weeks seems like a pretty good deal to me. Overall, I know I don't have that much to lose. Ideally, I'd like to drop about 10 pounds, which, yes, I know, is not that bad. But for me, it's more about getting fit and learning what to eat and portion control. I'm hoping that by documenting this, it will be the kick in the pants I need to just do this and stick with it. I need to learn that indulging every once in a while doesn't mean give in to every temptation. I also need to learn that not eating at all doesn't fix my problems either.

So, tomorrow I begin my workout routine, and Wednesday I begin "The Challenge." I've set up my personalized plan, I've picked my trainer, and I've reinstated my gym membership. Wish me luck.

The Bucket List

While the movie starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman didn't exactly live up to the hype, at least in my opinion, one cannot deny the impact it had on the masses.  After its release, I challenge anyone to find someone who didn't sit down and formulate their own "bucket list."  

While death doesn't seem to be anywhere near my doorstep, a birthday of an unnerving age does.  This year marks a quarter-century of life for me, twenty-five years worth of loves, friendships, and a myriad of "interesting" experiences.  And after caving to a bit of nostalgia, I rifled through some old journals and came across a few lists I made the summer before I left for college.  I'd written about the places I would go after graduation, the stories I would be able to tell my grandchildren, the legacy I would leave behind for my kids to marvel over after my passing.  Having read through those lists and realizing I've accomplished only a few items, paired with the upcoming branding of "mid-twenties," I've proclaimed this year as "The Bucket Year."  This is the year that things get done.  And with that, I give you, in part, my own Bucket List.

1. Travel through Europe

2. Drive across the country

3. Learn Italian

4. Learn Spanish

5. Learn Portuguese

6. Go skydiving

7. Go bungee jumping

8. Learn how to bake...properly

9. Run a marathon

10. Compete in a tri-athalon

11. Watch the sun rise and set in the same day

12. Learn the constellations

13. Learn how to sail

14. Buy a house

15. Run through a town square causing all the pigeons to fly up en masse

16. Play paintball

17. Play lasertag

18. Go bowling in a prom dress

19. Make my own pickles

20. Make my own wine

21. Knit an entire blanket 

22. Learn to crochet

23. Write a book

24. Learn to play the guitar

25. Learn to play the piano

26. Learn to play the violin

27. Meet the President

28. Go to Africa

29. Travel through Australia

30. Spend a week on a yacht

31. Travel through Ireland

32. Start my own business

33. Read the Top 100 Most Influential Books of All Time

34. Help 10 random people each day for a year

35. Go a year without any alcohol

36. Try being a vegetarian for a year

The list goes on...

Outside the Box, One Toe At a Time

We've been told, since the very moment we could comprehend language and formulate cohesive statements, to think outside the box. We are supposed to look beyond the obvious and see the deeper layers. Many proverbs, fortune cookie messages, and clichéd phrases, have been devoted to just such a notion. The only problem is that this seemingly prophetic message is far too ambiguous for its own good. Which box are they talking about? Is it a big box? What color is it? What's in the box and who put it there?

There are so many rules and standards forced upon us from the instant we make our ascent into society's rigors. They are pushing and pulling us into conformity, supposedly for our own good. Countering that push, however, with just as much force, is the idea that we are to ignore the rules and break the traditional roles that were set in quasi-cemented language by people who knew nothing of the progress that we were to make. We are to force our way out of the boxes society placed us in, shatter the glass ceiling, break the moulds, and dance, march, or sing to the beat of our own percussion section. Clearly, individuality is a little more difficult than they first explained.

Those who dare to defy the societal norms dictated by the geniuses at American Eagle, Abercrombie, and Cosmo, are seemingly few in numbers. Those who challenge the sanctity of TRL trends and Orange County fashion laws appear to be the most daring of us all. But, of course, they too are given the incredible encumbrance of a stereotype. They defy the colorful mandates of Benetton by wearing the anti-color, black. They listen to music that screams of anguish, pain, and abandonment. They wear chains and talk of death and all things ill-fated, yet they, too, travel in packs, similar to the cliques that they speak out against so vehemently.

Inevitably, the conclusion stands that even the rebels and the individuals stand with those most like them, which leads to us to wonder how to define normality. Who decided the standards that determine who and what is normal? Most likely, the same people who put us in that impenetrable box when we were young.

One thing that those who push you to scratch, claw, and fight your way out of the box fail to mention is that it does not come in one easy swoop. Progress takes time. "You have to walk before you run," I believe is a popular phrase. While we may think that we have burst through the lid of that suffocating box, it takes a lot more effort to actually get your feet onto solid ground. Now that we have a little fresh air, thanks to the now-lidless box, the next step is to get a toe down on the ground. Which toe in particular is up to the individual, but progress comes in baby steps.

Feeling Nostalgic...

Feeling like I want to write something new without any inspiration as far as topic, I've found a happy resolution in the re-posting of columns from my tenure as Senior News Editor for the MCLA Beacon.  Enjoy!

Give Me a Newsstand Over a Kegstand

At what point do I stop being seen as the moronic college student who is only out to get drunk and party, and start being recognized for the hardworking, intelligent woman who is trying to succeed in life?  I think it’s a valid question, and yet, it is one that members of the College faculty refuse to answer.

As stated by the giant signs in the cafeteria, there are 90 some odd days standing between me and graduation.  I have earned 109 credits, not including this semester.  I have an excellent GPA, I am a member of multiple honor societies, and I work very hard to maintain that status.  However, none of this seems to matter, because I am only a college student. 

This semester, I am fortunate enough to only have to take one class.  This does not, however, mean that I can slack off the rest of the time because that time is fully consumed to the breaking point with the work that I do for the Beacon as well as a six credit internship I am doing at Mass MoCA.  I thought this would be the easiest semester of my life, and it has quickly turned out to be one of the most stressful.

When I went to register for classes for this semester, I had already applied to and been hired for the internship.  However, since it is not technically a class, I couldn’t register it with the rest of my schedule.  I had my paperwork already filled out and signed by all of the right people.  When I personally delivered it to Career Services before the winter break, I thought I would be all set.  I thought wrong.

I received a call last week from the Bursar’s Office informing me that I was only taking nine credits this semester, and that would not be enough to fulfill the graduation requirements in time for May commencement.  Alarmed and a little confused, I called back and said that I was actually taking 15 credits, and that my paperwork for my internship should be there to prove it.  I was polite, pleasant, and did nothing to upset or berate any faculty member that I thought was trying to help me.  However, the responses that I received from several of these so-called helpers were anything but pleasant or polite.

I was told that these individuals were doing everything for me and that, in essence, it was my fault that I was in this position.  It must be my fault because the College has never made a mistake ever.  They can do no wrong, so let’s blame it on the person who’s about to have a meltdown because they might not let her graduate because of two credits.  

Over the past four years, I have said that I love this school.  I have nothing but raving reviews for the English department, who have bent over backwards to make sure that their students are treated well and get the best education that can be offered.  In my encounters with other departments, whether through Beacon articles or other activities, I have had almost nothing but pleasant greetings and experiences.  I do love this college, and I do not regret coming here.  But it is encounters like this, where I am treated like an ignorant twelve year-old, who’s just now learning the times tables, that makes me wonder why I even bother.  What’s the point in trying to be articulate and mature if you’re only going to be seen as the opposite?  My age does not give you the right to speak down to me. 

I was raised with the notion that if you are nice and polite to someone, then they will reciprocate and be more inclined to help you.  As much as it pains me to say it, Mom was wrong.   It seems that no matter how much work I do, or how much effort I put in to being a polite and well-educated person, I will still only be seen as a young, stereotypical college co-ed, just looking for the next big party, waiting in line for a keg-stand.

Yet Another Rant About the Job Market

I can remember, two years ago, at almost this exact time of year, searching the classifieds in no less than four newspapers, and having to rifle through page after page of ads.  Now, in the major publication of RI, the only available employment options fit into one tiny column, most of which were in the medical field, subsequently leaving most of Rhode Islanders unqualified.  

Thankfully, craigslist has come to the rescue, in a manner of speaking, giving the whopping 10% a glimmer of hope.  The only catch is that at least half of these postings are part-time, a quarter of the remaining opportunities are bogus "review ads for money" jobs or upon sending an email attached with a resume, you're directed to postyourresumehere.com.  No, I'm not kidding, it does exist, and when you try to actually post your resume there, you are redirected (again) to monster.com.  Is it one big gigantic commercial ploy from monster?  Who knows.  Is it incredibly frustrating and annoying to those wishing to actually find gainful employment?  Absolutely.

I recently applied to a local vineyard for an office job, something I've essentially been doing for the past three years (so glad that English degree is coming in handy).  When I called a few days later to make sure they received my resume, they told me they're received over 200 resumes and would call in a couple days to schedule interviews.  The next day, I received an email stating the amount of resumes they were sifting through and while they appreciate my interest, they felt my employment background didn't suit their needs.  Really?  It's an office job.  They stated the requirements were to answer phones, manage mailings, organize files, update lists, and be well-versed and proficient in standard computer office programs.  I have done all those things and have been doing them, as previously stated, for nearly the past three years.  How does this background not suit their needs?  I'm curious.  Someone please tell me.  

In order to keep myself from going insane, I maintain a positive attitude, that each day is going to be better.  Tomorrow will bring an opportunity.  My first real job out of college didn't come until February of the following year.  I applied, on a whim, in October and heard nothing until the end of January, and ended up working there for six months.  So, while this recent disappointing showing of job offerings is a bit frustrating, I sigh heavily to release the tension, smile, and tell myself that next week is going to be my week.  Next week.

It's Facebook, NOT the Meaning of Life

http:​/​/​www.​ time.​ com/​time/​arts/​artic​le/​0,​8599,​18771​87,​00.​ html

The above​ link will take you to, what i can only assum​e,​ is some kind of socia​l comme​ntary​ on how faceb​ook has grown​ past the epide​mic stage​ and into the just plain​ absur​d.​ I, like many of the first​ gener​ation​ of faceb​ooker​s,​ still​ wish it hadn'​t grown​ to myspa​ce stand​ards where​ anyon​e and their​ mothe​r can join (and my mothe​r has, in fact,​ recen​tly joine​d)​.​ Remem​ber those​ days,​ when you had to have a legit​imate​ colle​ge-​assoc​iated​ email​ addre​ss to join?​ When you waite​d for your schoo​l to final​ly be accep​ted on faceb​ook so you too could​ join and be cool?​ When you could​ link to peopl​e who were in your class​es so, if you were like me, "​accid​ental​ly"​ misse​d class​ on any parti​cular​ day, you knew what chapt​ers to read,​ or when to polis​h your final​ excus​e as to why your paper​ wasn'​t ready​.​ Those​ were the days.​ 

Like most of you, I was recen​tly tagge​d in sever​al "25 Thing​s You Didn'​t Know About​ Me" notes​,​ and also like most of you, I wrote​ my own. The autho​r of the afore​ menti​oned "​artic​le,​"​ and i use that term very loose​ly,​ state​s that the facts​ peopl​e menti​on in their​ notes​ are stupi​d and not worth​ menti​oning​ at all. At this point​,​ I have to ask her, "​what did you expec​t?​"​ Are you looki​ng for thoug​ht-​provo​king,​ pains​takin​gly insig​htful​,​ and altog​ether​ aston​ishin​g revel​ation​s?​ It's faceb​ook.​ It's a socia​l netwo​rking​ site where​ peopl​e can post pictu​res of the stupi​d thing​s they do over vario​us weeke​nd adven​tures​ and assor​ted holid​ay break​s.​ 

But, unlik​e the autho​r,​ I found​ the hilar​ity in my frien​ds'​ revel​ation​s.​ I found​ it amusi​ng to learn​ that my frien​d hid in a box dress​ed as a dead perso​n in order​ to scare​ someb​ody at a sleep​over.​ I actua​lly did LOL when i learn​ed that a girl my frien​d punch​ed in the vagin​a in kinde​rgart​en is now a lesbi​an.​ I all but peed in my pants​ when I read that anoth​er frien​d kille​d a bunny​ she tried​ to rescu​e becau​se she rolle​d over on it while​ she was sleep​ing.​ 

While​ I can appre​ciate​ the absur​dity that comes​ with most,​ if not all, of the state​ments​ peopl​e procl​aim,​ I have to wonde​r why the autho​r of the artic​le felt it was of absol​ute impor​tance​ to comme​nt on it. Does she not reali​ze that her artic​le is just as absur​d?​ At no point​ did she herse​lf revea​l anyth​ing poign​ant or thoug​ht-​provo​king,​ which​ is what she asked​ of the faceb​ooker​s she so ferve​ntly chast​ised.​ And at no point​ did she make any conne​ction​ betwe​en these​ "25 Thing​s.​.​.​"​ notes​ and the waste​ of stand​ard work days,​ other​ than to menti​on that colle​ctive​ly,​ about​ 800,​000 hours​ were spent​ over the past week writi​ng these​ notes​.​ So why, I have to ask, does she care so much?​ If this is such an offen​se to every​thing​ she belie​ves in, why doesn​'​t she just cance​l her accou​nt?​ Probl​em solve​d.​

You’ll Sit There and You’ll Like It, Now Shut Up and Eat Your Stupid Food

Is it me, or have people just started to suck a lot lately?  Maybe I’m just upset because my post-collegiate life isn’t everything I hoped it would be, or maybe I’m projecting my fear of reaching the mid-20s onto unsuspecting people who have no connection to my life whatsoever, or maybe I’m just bitter because they get to enjoy fine, quality seafood and I get to stand around for ten hours, covered in ketchup and clam juice, sweating like Rosie O’Donnell when she wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes she’s just a big, scary lesbian with little to no fame at all.  Whatever the reason is, I’ve noticed an influx of baby-boomers and the slightly younger yuppie generation who really just, honest to blog, suck at life. 

When you go out to eat, you’re basically saying to the world, I really don’t feel like cooking tonight, I want to treat myself to a nice meal and just enjoy my evening.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that imply you should be in a good mood?  Shouldn’t you be projecting an air of happiness to the world?  So why is it that every other person or couple that comes into the restaurant I work in seem to have the worst case of hemorrhoids ever.  They walk in like their anus is bleeding and I have the magic cream and some latex gloves.  Oh here, let my rub that on there for you.  How’s that feel?  Oh nay nay, my little maggots, that is not my job.

I have the lucky task to showing these muff-chomping ingrates to their table, and then, the real fun begins.  It starts out like any normal relationship, with a pleasant greeting, a smile, and usually a slight tilt of the head.  “Hi, how are you?”  If they respond and then ask how I am doing in return, it’s usually a good sign.  Of course, working in the heart of a tourist town, getting any sort of acknowledgement of my humanity is slim, at best.  People are too wrapped up in their own pathetic, dreary lives to even realize that when you go out to eat, you’re actually going to someone else’s office.  Once we’ve established how many are in there party, and they’ve debated for a good twenty minutes on whether or not they want to eat outside, and then another thirteen minutes on in the sun or in the shade, I offer them whatever table I have available. 

Then comes the first fight in our relationship.  It’s awkward and weird, and you’re not really sure how far to push the boundaries.  You try to keep it civil and polite because you’re really not trying to be mean, you’re just trying to explain that you’re doing all you can and you really do care about them and their well-being.  But do they acknowledge that?  Of course not.  Apparently the whole world revolves around them and their crunchy hair (hi, yeah, the 80s are gone and they were ridiculous while they were here, that’s why Vh1 made a nine hour special solely dedicated to mocking the stupidity of their fashion trends and hairstyles).  This table isn’t the one that they picked out on their three second stroll to the hostess podium.  Explaining why I don’t have that particular table available even when it’s empty and all set up is a tricky thing.  Basically, when I’m telling you it’s not available, it means I just sat three tables in that server’s section and I’m trying to give them a break.  Hey, genius, there’s a reason I didn’t put you at that table, think about it.  I know it hurts and you can’t really juggle walking AND thinking at the same time, god forbid we throw in a little gum chewing and a hair flip, but sit in the stupid chair, take the damn menu and leave me alone. 

Once they’ve finally settled in and I’ve explained, slowly and with small words, that the specials are on their table and the wine list is in the back of their menus, my job should be done.  I should just head back to my podium, mark down which table they finally ended up at, and then wait for the next group of teet-suckling jerkoffs to show up.  But no.  Oh no.  After waiting all of about twenty-seven seconds, they decide its too cold to sit outside, they’d like to move inside, but not near the windows because it will be too sunny, and not near the door because It will be too breezy, but not around the corner away from the breeze and the door because there’s no view.  Ok.  Look around, although we make awesome use of the space by cramming as many tables as we can, its not a very large restaurant.  You tell me, given your criteria, where you think you should sit, because no matter where I put you, you’re going to point out at least four other tables that you think would be better, and then we’re just going to have to repeat the first fight all over again.  And then, for the nine millionth time, I’m going to have to explain to the intellectually incapable that they can’t give me their drink orders because I’m not their server.  I’m the hostess, I’m the chick who tries to tell you where to sit.  Your server is the one wearing all black and carrying a tray of waters towards your table.  Talk to them about getting a box o’ wine on over to your table right quick.  If you pay careful attention, you’ll notice the annoyed roll of my eyes as I walk away, and you’ll hear my apologizy to the waitstaff for giving you to them, and finished with a mutter of something about you probably being from Connecticut.