today in l.a. i conquered my greatest fear of all: eating alone at a restaurant. and while it partly happened because i felt guilty that my dad had added the “breakfast for 1” plan onto our room, i also did it because if you’re going to be a famous writer, you need to learn to be a loner and eat at tables in dark restaurants by yourself as you wear all black and sunglasses while brooding over the new yorker. or, in my case, while wearing skinny jeans, a blue flowery blouse, wet hair, and a look that says “omg i might hyperventilate.”
when i walked in, i made sure to stammer “table for 1” enough times for the hostess to sorta understand me. then i threw in a nervous giggle, bc who doesn’t adore that. then i made sure that this was free, because i’m really very poor. it was awesome. not an ounce of me felt like a farmer, as my dear mum would say.
the hostess started to seat me, but then stopped mid-way between tables with my ass wedged between two diners’ seats bc she didn’t have a table open for me… except that there were plenty of tables open, and i think she didn’t like the look of my arm hair. she made me sit on a large couch alone as a bunch of other people came over to make sure i was alright. i was alright, for having caused a scene. i made sure to remember to report this atrocity to the hotel manager, but then the lady asked me if i wanted orange juice, and i really really did, so i let bygones be bygones and asked her how little mercedes was doing in school.
as i went to the buffet and approached the first silver bowl of breakfast goodness, i realized that i didn’t know how to open the lid. it was round. what the hell. so i opened it slowly, looking to my right and left to make sure no one was watching as i looked like i was waiting for fire to jump out and char my face. and it DID. no, it didn’t. apparently the new technology in buffet tins is that the lid will spontaneously stand on its own. i got me some bacon, white eggs that said they had asparagus and tomatoes in them, but didn’t, because someone clearly got here before me and picked them all out (kirsten) and so it was just heatlhy, gross, californians-love-these, white freaking eggs. i also got 1/4 of a belgian waffle, and some yogurt with berries in it. i also stared at what i thought were egg yolks in a bowl for 30 minutes, but then looked at the sign and sounded out “a—pri—cots.” new word for egg yolks? i said to myself, and walked to my table for 1.
i sat facing the window so i could seagull watch. i opened up my “real simple” magazine that i stole from my mom’s bedroom in nj, and i pretended to read as i tried my best to avoid looking around at the other tables full of laughter, chatter, and some guy talking about “them mexicans.” God, how i wanted to be apart of that conversation.
the egg whites were gross, but i ate them because i felt like if i wasted them, then some waiter would have the mistake of trying them, and i didn’t want to be responsible for his death.
everything else was fine, except for my need to look over my shoulder every two seconds. also, the waiter dropped the check off five seconds after i started eating, which made me feel rushed. also, it made me feel awesome, bc all it asked for was a name and room number, so i signed that bastard off to my dad, wiped my mouth, bowed to the servers, and went off to my room to dispense of the morning’s glories into the white commode. “this one’s for you” i said as i looked at the cleaning lady down the hall and gun clicked her.
oh, and i’m writing this by the pool which is located directly outside of the restaurant i just ate in. i’m facing the very window i looked out of. i think some of the staff might be reading this. to them i say: my apologies.
in other news, i’m pretty sure sitting on my ass by the pool all day is not going to get me anywhere closer to zack morris. i am, however, still wearing my bayside high t-shirt and will soon approach the front desk asking for mr. carosi.
i had the waiter snap a photo of me. that damn cat just couldn’t leave well enough alone.