Yes, I Can Be Fancy, But Only Until The Clock Strikes Midnight

"Would anyone like some wine?" The waiter asks. I throw myself across the table onto him and cling to his neck desperately. "YESSSS!!!" I shriek.

Except I don't. I politely raise my eyebrows without breaking eye contact with his face, finally succeed in catching his attention, and say, "The Malbec, please." This is the third time he has rounded our table to ask who wants wine, and failing to catch his attention during his last two passes, I was determined to be successful this time. At this point, I am surprised my manners are in tact: I have needed wine since the moment we stepped into this restaurant.

Wearing our finest (in Honolulu that means a pretty, light-weight dress with sparkling flip-flops), we had followed my moms roommates in through the heavy door after we dropped the car off at the valet. At the sight of the valet driving off, my mom smirked and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Well, whatever we've gotten ourselves into, we're stuck here now!" We walked confidently through the front door, but the atmosphere of the place had suddenly snuffed my adventurous streak and all I wanted to do was turn around and run to the beach.

The first thing I had noticed was the piano. It was black, sleek, and utterly alone, shoved into the cramped entry as though the designer had thought, "Pianos are fancy, right? There! Now everyone will know this place is fancy." The walls were painted a steely grey, the floor a shiny black tile that looked like a frozen lake in the dead of winter. The color scheme seemed to be a pretentious mix of black, white, and slate, though there was a huge red ginger plant flowering exactly in the center of the room, adding one singular explosion of harsh color. The lights hanging above were covered in jagged white paper, screaming, "We are modern. Feel how urban we are. Don't you feel powerful?"

All in all, not my kind of place.

I look across the table at my mom as she orders a sake from the waiter. I can tell she feels as uncomfortable in this environment as I do. She notices me looking at her and makes a face that only I notice, which says, "Sorry. I know this is weird. Did you see the menu? $35 for a piece of fish. Dear GOD."

After about ten minutes, my wine finally shows up and I reach for it gratefully. And suddenly there are some appetizers on the table, and because I have been sitting in this restaurant for about 45 minutes already and haven't even been able to order my dinner yet, I dive on the proffered food as politely as possible. I am so focused on this food that I am simply nodding and making agreeable noises to the people around me who perhaps are carrying on a conversation, but to whom I am becoming more and more oblivious as my food intake increases (as slowly as I can manage, so as to not look like a tiger pouncing on the carcass of a fresh kill).

There is a moment where my hand reaches towards the pita bread and brushes against my wine glass, and suddenly the glass is teetering from side to side. My heart stops as I dive for the glass and watch in horror as some of the precious wine spills over the side. Onto my hand, onto the glass, and worst of all, onto the tablecloth. The pure WHITE tablecloth.

I am horrified. "Oh shit." I mutter, and I feel like crying... this was a fucking $11 glass of wine, that is about $2 worth of wine on the table! Zamboni! I hear Claire yell in my mind, but resist the urge to swoop down and start sucking the wine out of the tablecloth. Barely. I remind myself of the need to be fancy, even in these desperate situations.

My mom is staring wide-eyed in shock at me. I stare in shock at her. I raise my hand to my mouth to lick the wine off. Mom keeps staring. "I don't belong here." I whine quietly. Her mouth twitches and I can tell she is on the verge of hysterical laughter but because she too needs to be fancy, she only chuckles politely.

The woman sitting next to me offers me her napkin and we both start dabbing at the tablecloth to get the wine out, but that works about as well as telling a dog to make a sandwich. There is a huge, accusingly red wine stain on the blindingly white tablecloth. So, as any mature and fancy person would do, I grab my plate and place it right over the top of the stain. THERE. No one will know.

I momentarily forget about my blundering act of stupidity as I review the menu, and decide it is high time we had some proper entree's in our vicinity. "We'd like to order!" I say to the waiter the next time I see him running by. He slows down enough to takes out his pencil, and, looking quite harassed, actually seems ready to write something down. "Mom," I say, pointing at her, as though I am coaching an intense semi-finals soccer game rather than ordering a stir-fry, "You first." This strategy seemed to work rather well and we begin another long wait for our food, during which time the waiter uncharacteristically pays some attention to me and asks, "Are you done with that plate?"

"Sure, yes, thank you." I say, and turn back to my conversation, but as he takes the plate away I realize that THE STAIN OF SHAME is under it and twitch horribly in my attempt to figure out what to do. Did he notice? Should I be embarrassed? Can people be kicked out of restaurants for spilling wine? As my mind whirs, I reach out and grab the next closest plate that could cover up the stain: the appetizer plate. Though it is almost empty, there is still a few pieces of food on it, and because it is now sitting directly in front of me, I look like a pig who ate all the appetizer. Fantastic.

My stir-fry arrives about a fortnight later, and though it is decent, it surely is not $22 worth of food, especially because I think I could have made this dish myself, and that is seriously saying something. I look up to hearing my mom having a conversation with the woman sitting next to her, "This isn't our normal type of place." She says, smiling apologetically.

"What do you mean?" The woman asks curiously. She is very well dressed and is wearing several pieces of jewelry that sparkle in the dim light. Though not upfront or pretentious about it, I can sense her wealth.

"I mean, we sometimes like to hang out at dive bars." Mom says looking at me. I nod in agreement but am a little off-put at my mother revealing our secrets like this. Is it safe to be talking about dive bars in this nice of place? I already feel like I am disguised as a member of the 1% by just being here, but she is quickly dissolving that illusion. "There is this place in Corvallis that we like to go to, The Peacock, and it's just really fun." She explains, and I feel that we are digging a hole that we may need to climb out later.

The woman looks vaguely amused. "Ahh... yes. But what is a dive bar?"

I can feel my eyebrows shoot up into my bangs, and my mouth drops a little. Yes, I know we are in a fancy restaurant with fancy people, but how can it be that she doesn't even KNOW what a dive bar is?! Is she mad?! Has she never played pool or video poker in a bar with fake wood paneling while listening to drunk people karaoke and drinking a PBR?! Worst of all, she hasn't even HEARD of this beautiful lifestyle?! I mean, there is a time and place for fancy restaurants, but there are more times and places for dive bars.

Again, my reaction is reflected in my moms face, but only for an instant before my mom says nonchalantly, "Oh, you know, pool tables and cheap beer, kind of hole-in-the-wall places."

"Ahhh..." The woman nods in understanding, but I don't think she does. Man, sometimes the rich really miss out on the best parts of life. Come down here to our level! The beer is shitty but the laughter comes from our stomachs! And the food... oh, the food... I would kill for a burger right now as I chew this mediocre mixture of vegetables and chicken.

By the time the meal is over my mom and I are so antsy to get out of there that we decide that instead of staying out downtown with everyone else and paying even more money, we just want to go home and drink a beer. So that is what we do. I fling my dress across the room and put on pajama shorts and a T-shirt, walk barefooted to the fridge and pull out some Newcastle Brown Ales. The sigh from the bottles when I pop the caps off makes me sigh too. I hand a beer to my mom and we cheers each other for getting through the night, for the comfortable solace we find in each other, and for being awesome.

Thank you, Mr. Bus Driver!

Riding public transportation is wonderful in many ways: I am saving the environment, no longer buying gas in the vast quantities I did before, therefore saving money, and I get a nice half-hour to 45 minute transition period from home to work, where I can sit and read while still getting where I need to go. The downside: it takes longer to get places and the bus may not come at the most convenient times. But generally the payoffs for taking the bus outweigh the potential issues, and I have embraced the practice gratefully.

If you are not familiar with the custom of riding the bus, let me take a moment to explain the expectations of participating in this practice. The bus is a strange social experiment in which a bunch of strangers are all forced into one small confined space, a place in which there are some very important unwritten rules. Rule #1: The bus fills up by everyone sitting as far apart as possible from each other. Once all the rows have one person in them, only then can you place a second person in the same row. Rule #2: No loud talking. If you are on the phone, you make it quick and you speak softly. Rule #3: No eye-contact. Rule #4: Everyone moves for wheelchairs and pregnant ladies. Rule #5: COVER YOUR GODDAMN COUGH. It is a simple set of rules, but there is generally a consensus to follow them dutifully.

Sometimes, however, someone enters the bus that either knows of these rules but chooses not to follow them, or they just are completely oblivious of them. There is an area of the bus that is technically called the "Priority Seating" area, but which I like to refer to as the "Ring of Crazy." This area is the front of the bus, where instead of the seats facing forward, there are three seats on either side of the bus that face inward towards each other, then the rows of two on each side start after that. And this, for some reason, is where all the crazy people congregate. I don't know why, maybe they feel that they have more room to move around.

I have seen many displays of crazy on the bus, but yesterday I had the experience that so far has topped all others. I boarded the bus and, following Rule #1, noticed that there was one person sitting in each pair of seats, except for the first pair on the right. Instead of pairing up with someone in the back, like I would normally do, I for some reason took the empty seat on the right, which I noted was on the Ring of Crazy, but decided to ignore that fact. Note to others: Don't ever ignore the fact that you are sitting on the precipice of the insane.

A man wearing headphones takes a seat on one of the inward-facing seats in front of me, and began to hum. I stared out the window, ignoring him. As the bus lurched forward, the man started banging on invisible drums and stomping one of his feet to the beat coming from his headphones.

".... naaaahhh na naaah AND THE EIGHT BALL ROLLS and I hear the call ann naah naahhhhh..." the man sang loudly. Following Rule #3, I ignore eye contact.

"The Blazers are awesome, I am a great fan!" He said as we passed the Rose Quarter. I felt him glance at me but I was busy staring out the window and pretending he wasn't there. "Yeah." He said, and again went back to singing what words he knows from his musical selection. Suddenly he stops singing and says, "Alcohol is bad, anyone who drinks alcohol is a demon. Naa na naaaaahhh." And a few minutes later, "Why would you sleep with a woman when you could sleep with a man?!"

I almost laughed out loud but quickly erased whatever hint of amusement that had appeared on my face and instead stared pointedly out the window, thinking that if I just ignored him, he might stop. I didn't feel threatened by him, mostly I was balancing on the edge of confusion and taking offense. I wished I could move but was sure he would notice if I stood up and went and sat next to someone else. Not wanting to create a scene, I stuck it out. But I crossed my arms over my chest. There, now I'm protected.

Suddenly, after about fifteen minutes of his crazy bubbling under the surface, it finally overflowed. "I have attitude!" He yelled to the bus. "I have slept with a lesbian, and I have a huge wanger! Ha! Attitude, people!"

Suddenly the bus slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, and we weren't even at a bus stop. The driver of the bus stood up, turned around, and stared menacingly at the man. "You need to STOP THAT." he said dangerously. "No one on this bus cares about your wanger, and I'm tired of hearing your crap! If I hear you ONE MORE TIME, I am pulling this bus over again and calling the COPS, and have you arrested for holding up public transportation!" And with that, the bus driver took one good, long stare at the man, turned on the spot, and walked back to his seat.

When his back was turned, the man held up his middle finger, and I felt like yelling, "HE'S FLIPPING YOU OFF! THROW HIM OFF THE BUS!" But I controlled my child-like impulse and decided to simply go back to Rule #3 and avoid eye contact.

"I don't care what you people think." The man said under his breath. He crossed his arms and leaned back. "I have attitude." And he was silent for the rest of his ride.

When he disembarked a few minutes later, I felt like the whole bus wanted to break into applause, but we restrained ourselves. The bus driver yelled back at us, "Did I handle that okay?" And a few feeble voices replied, "Yes!" You are our hero, Mr. Bus man. I would have been cool with you chucking his ass from the vehicle, but your severe father-like reprimand was pretty fantastic as well. Please let me hug you when I leave.

And I noticed that everyone on the way out said directly to the bus driver, or yelled from the back door, "Thank you," with such sincerity that I knew they were thanking him for more than just the bus ride. In that Thank You, I could hear Thank-you-for-handling-that-situation-because-it-was-making-me-super-uncomfortable-and-you-reminded-me-of-how-my-father-used-to-take-care-of-me-but-now-I'm-not-a-child-and-all-I-have-is-you, or something of that essence.

And now I have definitely learned my lesson, STAY AS FAR AWAY FROM THE RING OF CRAZY AS PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE. Even if it means I have to break Rule #1. People can just get over it.

The Joys and (mostly) Terrors of Snorkeling

My eyes closed, the hypnotic rasping of the ocean waves rinses from my mind any coherent thoughts, leaving me with simply half-formed words like "mimosa" and "exfoliation" floating lazily around in my subconscious. The gritty sand sticks to the back of my legs, momentarily making me ponder the effects that it will have on my sorry attempt for a tan, before the thought sinks back into nothingness. The warmth of the sun makes my skin lightly tingle. As I continue to lay there, with all the energy of a comatose slug, the tingle slowly becomes a prickling sensation, and not moments later my whole body twitches as the prickling transforms into a deep burn, as if someone had thrown freshly fried bacon onto my back. I can almost hear my skin sizzling. Obviously, time to flip.

I open my eyes and sit up. The iridescent, glowing blue of the ocean and the sky are barely distinguishable hues on the horizon, and for a moment I'm not sure which way is up. The green fronds of the palm trees sway softly to the beat of the ever-present folding of the waves. I look over and see my mom, wearing only her bikini, her sunhat perched on top of her mass of curling, blonde hair. She seems just as hypnotized by the ocean's lullaby as I do. She catches my eye and smile lazily at each other.

Suddenly I can see my mom has an idea, and I gaze warily at her as she stands up and shakes herself off. I am still feeling as if I may be sleeping, or high, but her sense of purpose has made my body decide that it may be time to come back to earth and perhaps DO something with my day. I'm not sure how I feel about this.

"What are you doing?" I ask her, gazing up at her silhouette against the blindingly blue sky. In response, she bends down to pick something up, and when she straightens, I can see that she is holding two snorkeling masks. A sense of foreboding envelops me, but I try to ignore it and smile anyways. I have only snorkeled once in my life, many years ago, and I don't even remember how it ended. I may not have snorkeled at all; perhaps I imagined it. My mom has been suggesting a snorkeling adventure ever since I showed up at her house a few days ago, so I figure the moment has come. Embrace it.

We walk down to the water and she hands me one of the masks, with snorkel attached. I fumble around with it in my hands for a few moments, not even sure how to hold the damned thing without the strap getting in my way, or the snorkel falling over on top of the mask. It is a ridiculously complicated thing that my still sun-buzzed mind can barely wrap itself around.

"First," my mom instructs, "spit in the mask. Then swish the spit around over the mask with your finger." I stare at her, bewildered.
"Spit?" I repeat, sure I had heard her wrong. "In the mask?"
"Yeah," she says simply, then leans over and, sure enough, releases two drops of saliva into each eye of the mask. My eyebrows arch in surprise, but as it is now apparent that she really did say 'spit,' I copy her, feeling like a poorly behaved kindergartner. "It keeps the mask from fogging up." She explains. Seeing my incredulity, she adds with a chuckle, "I know it's weird, but it works."

After playing in our own saliva by rubbing it all over inside the mask, we dip the mask into the water and wash it out (negating, in my mind, all the effort I put in swirling the spit around inside). Then my mom shoves the mask onto her face. "Breathe in and to see if there are any air holes." Her voice has become a nasal nightmare, but I copy her. No air holes. We then fumble with getting the strap around my head. Feeling very off-put with my source of air cut in half from my blocked nose, I shove the snorkel into my mouth.

Then, I dip my head under the waves.

And I enter a state of mild panic.

I can't breathe! my mind screams as I try and fail to breathe in through my nose. And then my mind registers that I still have my mouth, and I take short gasping breaths through my one, very limited, source of air - the snorkel. I can't decide whether to hold my breath or try to breathe through my mouth. My panic escalates as I am SURE a wave is going to wash over my life-tube and drown me. I can't breathe! Where is my nose?! I gasp, take a huge breath, hold it, then breathe out a tiny bit of air so my head doesn't explode with excess oxygen and suck in the air again, sure that with every breath in, I'll be sucking down some water at any second. My air tube is going to be flooded by these massive, life-threatening waves hurling me around. I am going to fucking DROWN.

I snatch my head back out of the water and hastily spit the snorkel from my mouth... and realize that I had been standing the whole time in the chest-deep waves; my feet hadn't even left the ground. My mom is staring at me, looking like some sort of warped seal with a horn on it's head with huge spectacles. Through her goggles she seems baffled at my reaction. Shut up, seal. She lifts the mask from her head and stares at me incredulously, realizes what she is doing, then erases her face like an etch-a-sketch and replaces it with a motherly look of pity. "Sometimes people have a hard time with it at first."

I glare at her. "I don't like it." I say, feeling slightly child-like. "I'm going to drown. Water is going to get in the tube and I'm going to suck it up and drown."
"No you won't." She assures me. "If water gets in you just blow and it spits it out."
What. The. Hell.
Not feeling that I want to take the chance to suck down some water, but reasoning that I should at least take a look around under the water while I have this ridiculous thing on, I put my face down into the water again. I barely have time to register that, no, there is nothing to see except rocks and sand and dirt swirling around, before I feel the panic starting to surface again and jerk my head back out of the water.
"There isn't even anything cool to see!" I whine to my mom while yanking the mask off my face. I'm done with this.
"Well, you have to get further out." She says kindly.
I just shake my head in defeat and make my way back to my towel. Snorkeling is obviously not for me.

My mom walks gracefully from the water and plops herself down beside me. "We will try it when there aren't such big waves, maybe in the bay." She assures me. I just nod my head.

"We should have brought ocean margaritas." I say.
"It's 9:00 in the morning." She reminds me.
"Pah. Next time, we will." Then we walk back up to her house. And I don't wear pants. Because this is Hawaii, and even if I can't snorkel, I can still walk around pantsless, and no one even looks twice. Thank you for that, Hawaii.