Ma Vie, Aujourd’hui!

Updates

October 23, 2008

Posted in: Marfa, TX

Updates:
Plural, yes, so buckle up, my lovelies!!!

1) This month of being sedentary hath made me, how shall I say… of splendid abundance. “Potelé,” to use the charming French term. Indeed-y O, j’ai un peu trop de junk in the trunk. My bum has a predisposition to expand (or explode, as it were), and so I go to war!!!  I have armed myself with super-duper supportive sports bras, and have even broken out those wretched orthopedic monstrosities of flashing silver and lime green (i.e. exercise sneakers). As promised, since my ankle has healed I have been bounding like a loon on my trampoline. How sad, I know. As a result, my ass muscles are constantly in rebellion, which is just swell given that my profession requires me to march around unabatedly like a wind-up German soldier-boy toy for 7 to 8 hours a day. It feels so marvelous, I cannot even tell you. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!

2) On the subject of exploding bottoms, my sister whom I love dearly has decided to reignite the “Campaign for Ylana’s Normalcy.” (I.e. She is being fiendishly cruel). Also, it is a lost cause, but I will not tell her this. This is what I mean:

1. ) She is the kind soul who first labeled my flowing locks “Anne of Green Gables Hair.” Nice, no? She calls me not infrequently with the express purpose of finding out if I’m still wearing “my granny bun.” According to her, this is why I will forever be alone.
2. ) Yesterday, I told her a wondrous tale about my recent stupidities: there is a most pesky boy from my ex-place of employment who texted me yesterday to tell me he has been saying nice things about me. To which I replied that I had been thinking about him the day before (this is true, but I suppose I left out the important fact that it was simply because I passed in front of the restaurant. So really, it was a technicality, not a dreamy “you-are-in-my-warm-and-fuzzy-thoughts-and-are-invited-now-to-text-me-all-the-time” idea. Which is precisely what he does. I was lamenting to my sister, and instead of bolstering my morale, she replied, “You will never learn, will you, my socially retarded older sister?” No, I will not, but that’s no reason to pick on me. But, joy of joys, she is now being karmically punished! She is experiencing both fits of projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea!!! Hurrah. The wicked witch of the west is dead, and the universe has actually come to my defense (a first!).

3) This one’s quite a hoot, I believe: The guy who usually runs the grill at the restaurant was out of town for a couple of days, so one of the co-owners took his place. I would just like to preface this by explaining that, even under the most innocuous of circumstances, he is a formidable man. One of whom I am terrified (a rarity, for me), and who I’m absolutely convinced detests me. Also, it was only my second night waiting tables, so I was emotionally fragile to begin with. Okay, back to this tale of utmost horror. The chef was in the kitchen, madly manning the grill (it’s been a few years since his acclaimed restaurant in New York, and I believe he was overcome by frustration at the difficulty he was having). He looks at me and asks, “What’s the temperature?” “Why, it’s a balmy 77 degrees,” I said, proud to be so on top of things (we have a very visible thermostat in the establishment). He looked at me somewhat cross-eyed. “HOW DOES SHE WANT HER LAMB???” he raged. “Ah, you mean the done-ness!” I happily returned (I’m even a word Nazi in times of incredible stress. Who knew?) He rolled his eyes so fiercely I was sure he’d rip those puppies right out of his face. That is how mad he was! Only me, I tell you. Only me. In retrospect, I really don’t think I’m at fault, though. He’s American. I cannot be held accountable for the fact that he does not speak the English language. TEMPERATURE refers to ambient climate. How DONE one wants a piece of meat refers to rare, medium, well done etc; Good grief… But, praise Jesus, our regular guy is now back, safe and sound and snuggly in his kitchen.

Also, speaking of German boy-toys, things with mine go not so well. There is a crazy lady in Marfa who is obsessed with her birds. She hates me, truly she does. Malheureusement, she comes into Coxinelle every night, and it is my tragic fate to wait on her (approximate rhyme. My goodness!!!) Well, my underage crush came in at the same time as she did. When family meal rolled around (communal eating-of-the-leftovers performed spectacularly by the restaurant staff), I opted to eat inside to seek refuge from both the cold and the crazy. Double whammy!!! Yes. I ended up at a tiny two-top with my Germanic buttercup. But, alas, I was not in sensory-mode enough to make this acceptable. I think such close physical proximity when I was in full raging spastic-mode (still coming off a high from the thermostat incident) has done irreparable damage to our non-existing relationship. Suffice it to say that we were discussing her insanity, and I went on to describe her as “batty” and many other obscure euphemisms for craziness. Between the language barrier and his naturally disciplined character, he did not take so well to my bizarre sense of humor. But who does, I guess?

That’s all for tonight.  I’m one bozo up, and one German down. Oops. Also, I may soon be fired for being uncontrollably weird. More time to deal with the Battle of the Bulge! Get it? Please tell me this reference to WWII history has not been lost on you? Perhaps if I tell German Boy this one he will swoon?

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