Sessions: 2

Growing up my mom told me that I was just like my father.  Just like my brother, I was just like my father.  I think she was upset that no one in our family resembled her, physically or emotionally.  She's Italian, with olive skin and jet black hair, and those eyes that I assume people describe as almond.  Now, my dad and my brother and I, we're Ukrainian.  We're fair-skinned with blond hair and blue eyes.  Mom's even tempered and cheery, always whipping up some kind of dinner that sits in your stomach for the next two days like a pound of bricks.  My dad, brother, and I?  We're moody.  Moody and closed in on ourselves and, being the girl, I took it upon myself to spend the majority of my teenage years trying to be anorexic.  It never really worked out the way I planned.

We used to have a dog that had brown hair and she was always jumping around wanting someone to pet her or feed her.  Whenever my mom would start complaining about no one in the family being like her, we would point to the dog and continue on our mopey way.  I didn't grow up in a bad household.  My parents never got divorced (although sometimes I think they should have), no one ever hit me or even grounded me for that matter.  We always had food on the table and every summer we were able to save enough money to spend a week on the Jersey shore; beachfront house and all.  It was a typical childhood; all that was missing was a white picket fence and saddle shoes.  All things considered, I should have turned out normal like my brother; my physics professor brother who teaches at a university downtown and lives with his girlfriend of god knows how many years.  They just bought a cat because she loves cats.  I'm allergic to cats so I have yet to visit their apartment since Snowball entered the picture.  Who the hell names their cat Snowball?

So yeah, word on the street is that I'm pessimistic with the possibility of self-destruction.  My parents had the misguided foresight to name me Sunny.  Fortunately, they spared me the torture of it being a nickname for Sunshine.  Apparently my grandmother on my mother's side, her nickname was Sunny because she was just the jolliest woman around.  

When I was eighteen I went to school in the Boston area; just a small, little liberal arts college that didn't do much good for me.  I took a lot of art and poetry classes, and one of my professors told us one day that if you want to be a poet, go into advertising.  It's simply industrial poetry that actually makes you money.  So that's what I did.  The afternoon I graduated, I packed up the tiny two bedroom apartment I shared with three girls and moved to New York City.  Cliche, I know, but money motivates me and I wanted to get right in the action.  Somehow I managed to get an internship at this place that handled a lot of those infomercials you see at three AM on channels you didn't even know existed.  The head boss of the place was a heinous bitch which worked out fantastically for me.  We got along great.

So that's where I am now.  I've been here for five years and logistically speaking, I've set up quite a nice little life for myself.  I have a decent sized apartment which I live in by myself with the exception of a fish tank a friend pawned off to me a year or so ago.  I keep my extra rolls of toilet paper in it.  I'm still doing the advertising thing.  I don't mind my job.  Waking up at the crack of dawn doesn't exactly make me dance around with happiness but I manage to drag my ass out of bed every morning at five-thirty.

Since I live by myself and have surely come off as sufficiently bitter about life in general, a question I'm sure you're dying to ask is, Hey Sunny, do you have any friends?  Well, it depends on how you define 'friends'.  I have acquaintances, most of whom I met at the bar I frequent down the street or at work, and I do have a pretty close relationship with some cousins back home.  You know, I guess they're my girlfriends who, if I was thirteen, I would paint their toenails and than have a pillow fight with.  Now as for boyfriends, the situation's not any more interesting.  I'm not opposed to getting drunk enough that I bring home a random guy to sleep with and then kick out the next morning.  I'm not looking for a relationship right now and I have a whole freakin drawer full of condoms so I don't necessarily see anything wrong with this.  I've had a handful of flings since I've been in the city, usually lasting no longer than a few months.  And have I ever been in love?  Well, I never really took the time to think about it.

This is boring, right?  It has to be, I'm getting bored and it's about me.

Sessions: 1

Wednesday at six.  Every Wednesday night at six o'clock I am here for two hours to listen to her tell me what I've done wrong and why I've done wrong and who I've done wrong.  But of course, the ultimate person I've done wrong is myself because according to her, if you can't make yourself happy than can you really make those around you happy?  If this is true then everyone must be fuckin' miserable because I've been around a lot of people and I'm still coming here very week to sit on this sticky leather couch, telling some certified stranger all about my sticky little life.

"What do you think you can do to better yourself?" she asks me, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees, a look of I-work-on-emotional-commission concern spreading throughout her face.

What can I do to better myself?  I could take the three hundred dollars an hour I'm paying you and go buy some shoes and a handle of vodka.

She starts going off on some lucid rant about the steps I can take toward a more enjoyable future.  One filled with independence and commitment and lollipops and rainbows.  I try to listen but I just can't get this damn song out of my head.  What makes it even worse is that I can't for the life of me think of the title.

'Saturday, in the park, I think it was the Fourth of July...'

"-So you see, if you can just write down one thing you want to accomplish every day, and then steadily work toward that goal, I think you'll find your days much more fulfilling, I really do."

She seems to be done talking, or at least is offering a delayed pause which implies it's my turn to speak.

I focus my gaze on her and frown.

"Who sings that Fourth of July in the park song; Boston or Chicago?"

"Excuse me?"

"I always get the two of them confused.  You know, 'Saturday, in the park..."

"Sunny-"

"...I think it was the Fourth of July..."

She gently places her clipboard on the end table next to her cushy velvet armchair and leans back, crossing her legs.

"Sunny, I'm really concerned about your progress.  You don't even seem to pay attention to our sessions.  Why do you even bother to come?"

I lean back as well, crossing my legs just like hers.

"Now there's a question to analyze."

The Tale Of The Most Depressing Bar In Georgia

It's called The Bayou Cafe.  Located on the riverfront in Savannah, Georgia, it's located smack dab in the middle of a strip of shops that can only be described as a tourist's wet dream.  Sitting on the stoop that leads up the black metal staircase into the Bayou is a townie, his white tshirt sticking to his skin from sweat.  He's crouched over and looks like he should be playing a harmonica but his hands are empty.

We had just driven in from Charleston a few hours before where we had laid on a beach that displayed a shocking resemblance to New Jersey.  Now two hours south in Savannah, we walked through the city, our bodies covered in sand from the knees down.  Into the Bayou we go, bar music ahead of us, an old man singing to a crowd of five behind us.

Here's the thing about The Bayou Cafe.  From the outside, it doesn't have any excitingly attractive features, but you figure since it's in Savannah it has to have some kind of coolness factor to it.  And it sounded like there was a fairly good blues band in there too.  It was muggy enough outside to already feel like a bayou, so I was feeling pretty good about this place.  Besides, I have a inexplicable crush on dive bars.  Call me low-maintenance.  

So we walk into the bar.  And we stop.  There's not a band, there's a pre-bypass John Popper sitting on a stool with an electric guitar and laptop in front of him.  He's playing sound effects off the computer, mostly trying to wake up the patron (who, as it turned out, worked there) who was passed out cold on the bar, an empty pitcher of beer next to his head.  Chickens clucked, men snored, dogs barked, slutty girls moaned- this guy had a veritable circus of sounds on his laptop.  Meanwhile, the seven of eight people in the bar, bartender included, were hysterical with laughter.  Them and their twelve teeth had apparently never before in their life experienced such an unbelievable act of talent and hilarity.  On the other hand, John Popper seemed to hate his life a little more with each cow moo.

We order our drinks and get a table in the back corner, away from everyone.  The chairs wobbled and the table top was covered in rice.  A la post-wedding.

Guitar man asks the audience for song requests.  They all seem to be in agreement about the song "Cocaine".  "Cocaine" quickly turns into "Rogain", and once again, the crowd goes wild.  The guy has a pretty good voice, I'll give him that.  But he barely touched his guitar.  The majority of music was pre-programmed into his laptop and he was visibly reading the words off the screen.  One of the people I was with leans over to me and whispers, "This guy loathes himself."  I frowned sadly and nodded.  After each song, we were treated to a story of all the high class celebrities that have passed through this very bar while this guy was playing.  Had we been there a few years earlier, we would have been in the presence of the incomprable Tom and Roseanne Arnold, not to mention the epic Rosie O'Donnell who proceeded to get food poisening at a Wendy's down the street.  And again, whoops of elation from the crowd.

At one point the guy asked where everyone was from.  There was a couple from Virginia, a guy from Tennessee, and then us, from Philly.  I almost felt embarrassed admitting that had driven through eight states to sit in the corner, rice up to our ankles, listening to a guy press play on his iTunes.

We made it through one drink.  The whole scene was almost too much to take.

As we walked out of the Bayou Cafe, the guy in the white shirt was gone from the bottom of the steps, but the old man across the street was still singing, although this time no one was watching.

All My Clothes Have Mocha Stains

"Ventisoychaitwoandthreequartesinchesoffoamwithtwoeightsofacentimeterofcaramelsauceanda

turkeysandwichwithonlyahalfpieceofturkeyandineeditallinthenextminuteandahalfcauseihavea

traintocatch."

I've been working here long enough that I now have the coffee language down, but would it hurt for people to breath in between their words?

I look at the sixteen year old girl in front of me, decked out in Tiffany's and Bloomingdales, and then at the line of 25 people behind her also waiting for their drinks.  There is no way that her order will be ready in 90 seconds.

"Our sandwiches are pre-made."

She rolls her eyes.  "Whatever.  This is bad business.  Just give me the drink.  Now I only have 72 seconds until my train comes.

I mark her cup and call someone to ring up the rest of the customers so princess can get her replenishment via mommy's credit card.  I steam the milk, pump the chai, and top it off with caramel.  I try to meet her measurement requirements but I'm not about to whip out a ruler to get exactly two and three quarter inches of foam and two eights of a centimeter of caramel sauce.  I finish her drink in record time and pass her the cup.  She takes off the lid and peers inside, a look of disgust on her face which she then transfers to me.

"It's not filled to the top."

"I'm sorry, if I fill it anymore it will overflow and then that would be a full three inches of foam."

"Show me what's left in the container."

I take the pitcher which I steamed the milk in and show her the five or six drops left on the bottom.

"Techincally, I paid for that."

'No, technically your parents paid for that.' I want to say.

I sigh and take her cup, pouring the rest of the milk in which, as promised, causes the cup to overflow.

The girl glares at me from underneath her false eyelashes and swoopy bangs and grimaces.

"You need to make me another one.  I'm not taking that, I'll get chai on my hands."

I sigh again, my frustration becoming increasingly difficult to contain and pour the drink into the sink.  A little bit of my pride rushes down the drain with it.

I make her next drink while a pile of other orders crowd the counter space around me.  The girls whips out her bedazzled cell phone, a la Paris Hilton, and begins to bitch to a phantom friend on the other end.

New drink finished, I slide it to her and immediately turn to the next order before she can complain about anything else.  As she walks away she turns back and sneers.

"I'm going to Starbucks from now on."

"For the love of god, please do!" I call out after her, watching her mini skirt ride up her ass with each step.

Why Books Can Lead To Drinking

Here is what I have learned in the past nine months: people who shop at book stores are disturbingly unappreciative and rude human beings.  

I have experienced a range of behavior from customers that starts at holier-than-thou thirteen year old girls and ends at sexually frustrated forty three year old men.  Mix in gold digging "housewives" and bitter old men, and you've got yourself my place of employment.

Once upon a time, not too long ago, I was a motivated and jolly little college student working my ass off to become a writer.  I went to see an accomplished author speak at Drexel University one day where I was told that if I wanted to ever follow my dreams of seeing my name on a shelf, I should "absolutely, positively, without a doubt work at a bookstore."  So I did.  I now find myself standing behind a register, ringing up other authors' books, and constantly steaming milk for lattes in the cafe.  My $42,000 a year education is in the back of my brain, kicking and screaming.

It's really quite amazing how retail employees are treated by the very people they are simply trying to help.  I've had people scream at me, telling me how stupid I am just because we no longer carry the book they want from 1949.  Apparently the term out-of-print means very little to them.  Additionally, I don't know what it is about Sunday morning, but the time span between 10AM and noon brings in a hoard of wonderful men who desperately need either a bit more attention from their wives or a new collection of porn.  I don't know why they think that it is appropriate to tell me to reach into their pocket and pull out their money myself but apparently this is a completely acceptable way to pay for their copy of the new James Patterson novel.

The one saving grace is the fact that almost everyone I work with seems to share these frustrations with me.  We have accepted that our social lives must take a backseat to our heavy weekend schedules and our bills must take an even further backseat to our barely three digit paychecks.  

There are common situations that happen to every bookstore/cafe employee.  One of my favorites is the Short-Term-Memory-Loss.  Example:

"Hi, how are you today?"  I smile as I greet the customer.

Customer slams his book on the counter.

"Are you a member with us?"

Customer looks at me like I just asked him to cut open his stomach and hand over his kidney.  I take this as a no, he is certainly not a member with us.

"Well just so you're aware, with our membership you can save 40% off of bestsellers, 20% off adult hardcovers, and 10% off everything else in the store."  I keep the smile on.  You can never ever let the smile fade away.

"My wife might be a member."

"Ok, great!  Do you have the card on you or should I look up your phone number?"

Customer, keeping his death stare on me, reaches into his pocket and slams his wallet down on the table.  He blindly goes through a seven inch thick wad of credit cards: Black and Gold American Express, Visa, Mastercard, the deed to his Mercedes Benz and Jaguar.  No membership card.

"Ok, why don't I just look up-"

"215-555-4382." Customer mumbles in half a second flat, before I even get a chance to go to the lookup screen on my monitor.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Smile smile smile.  Just keep freakin smiling.

"TWO.  ONE.  FIVE.   FIVE.  FIVE.  FIVE.   FOUR.  THREE.  EIGHT.  TWO."  Customer is now borderline yelling and talking to me like I'm just learning my numbers.

I look up the number and see that yes, his wife is in fact a member.  However that membership expired in 1992.

"I'm sorry your membership has expired.  Would you like to renew it?  It is a $25 renewal fee."

"Yeah, whatever, fine."

"Ok, and would you like a gift receipt with that?"

"A what?"

"A gift receipt."

"Of course I want a receipt.  What, you guys gonna charge me for a receipt?  Borders always gives receipts."

"No sir, you'll get a regular receipt, but I asked if you wanted a gift receipt.  Are you giving the book as a gift?"

"No, it's for me!  What the hell is a gift receipt?  I just want a receipt!"

"Ok."  Smile.

I ring up and the book and renew his membership.

"That will be $48.25."

"FORTY EIGHT DOLLARS!  THE BOOK IS ONLY TWENTY THREE!"

"Right sir, but you renewed your membership, remember?  I told you it costs $25 and you said you wanted to renew it."

"I NEVER SAID THAT!  DO YOU REALLY THINK I WOULD DO THAT IF YOU HAD TOLD ME IT WAS $25?!?!?"  Meanwhile, I can see a wad of hundred dollar bills stuffed into his wallet.  Pocket change, really.

I now have to call up a manager to cancel the transaction so I can start over.  I then hear the manager paging another manager and so on and so forth until someone is finally nice enough to come help me.  Oh so pleasant Customer has now been plotting my death for a full ten to twelve minutes.  As is the line of customers behind him who are whispering among themselves about how ridiculous this is and how they are missing their manicure appointments.  Side question: why aren't all these people at work at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday?

A manager finally comes up and cancels the transaction.  I ring up the book and nothing else, and tell him his total.  Customer reaches into his pocket, not into his wallet that runneth-over, and pulls out a roll of quarters.  He breaks it open on the counter, and proceeds to count out $23 in quarters.

It's barely past noon and I already need a drink.

Dear...

Dear Pumpkin Patch,

I can't promise this won't be a sappy, gooey, mushy letter.  But I can promise that it's all true.  You know that.

Here's the thing about you.  When all girls are little and imagining their perfect guy, there are certain traits that they desperately hope they can find in someone, but secretly know don't actually exist.  The thing about you is, you have those traits.  Every single one.  You're everything I realistically and unrealistically ever wanted.  And then there are parts of you that I didn't even  know a person could have.  Amazing things that just make me think, 'Wow'.  You have all of that, and you picked me.  That's what is going on in my head when you look at me and ask, "What are you thinking?"

I've gone through so much in just the past couple years alone, so much shitty, awful stuff.  But I would do it all again if that meant I would ultimately get to you.  I still can't believe I get to fall asleep every night and wake up every morning with you next to me.  I've told you before and I'll tell you again; you are absolutely stunning, inside and out.  

There aren't many people that can put up with the absolute ridiculousness that is my personality.  My singing in an awkward voice and dancing in an awkward way around the apartment, I'm pretty sure that at least 80% of the time you're laughing with me and not at me.  And that's pretty cool.

Thanks for surprising me with peanut M&M's with a list of reasons why you love me written on the bag.  Thanks for not liking it when I forget to leave a paper towel note on your mirror for you to come home to after work.  Thanks for telling me every night that I'm beautiful and that you love me.  Thanks for proving me wrong about my first impression of you and thanks for letting me prove you wrong about your impression of me.  And thanks for being hot.  Seriously, it's unreal.

I love you a whole bunch of bananas and I will for the next hundred and one years.

Love,

Dogface

Dear...

Dear Sean,

I decided to write my first blog letter after my unintentional hiatus to you because I think you should know how amazing a person you are.

There are very few people that have come into my life that have been nothing but a positive influence.  Although, and I've told you this, I wish we had become friends sooner than the last few days of my final year at Berg, getting to have such good memories near the end made me actually sad about graduating as opposed to the "get me the hell out of here" attitude that I had taken on before then.  And the fact that you live so close to my house is a nice little added bonus.

Thanks for always making me feel good about myself.  Thanks for dealing with my embarrassingly girly screams over those vicious white water rapids during our canoe trip.  Thanks for going to see an equally embarrassingly girly movie with me, and thanks for encouraging me to write every day, at least for ten minutes.  Thank you for being on the other end of the phone minutes after I lost yet another boyfriend and thanks for giving me the tough love that convinced me to finally break up with the douchebag.  You're probably one of two people in this entire world that can truly calm me down and one of the people that I feel most supported by.  That one day over a year ago when you saw me crying in the CA- at that point still basically a stranger to you- you gave me a hug and promised that you would always be there to give me a hug when I needed it.  Well you haven't disappointed me on that promise and I can't thank you enough.

Plus you're brilliant and funny as hell and always keep me laughing.  That's always a plus.

So Sean, I guess I just wanted to thank you for being not only the kind of friend, but also the kind of person that always has an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on.  You're the best and I adore you to a bajillion little pieces.

Love,

Alexis