A few weeks ago I was in San Francisco, the city of love. And let me tell you, the residents still like to love. I was hit on not once, but THREE TIMES in one evening, which is well above average. In New York, I am hit on about once every four months, and I don’t think that it is only because I am usually with Ken or because I avoid eye contact with the entire city. I think SF just has a different bar scene. One that is really into hitting on the ladies.
The reason I was in San Francisco was to meet up with my college girl friends who were going to see a guy friend and his band perform. Actually, the real reason I was in San Francisco was because I decided to go to California on my way to a family party in Oregon, but the reason I was in the city that night was to see this band. The band was super, but when they finished playing, the night was still young(!) and one of my girl friends had the idea going to a Karaoke bar. Now, I was with friends from my college a cappella group, so presumably we could all sing. I was all for going, but nonetheless, I was scared of singing Karaoke and took my sweet time selecting a song. I enjoy believing that I am capable of singing and spent a while debating whether or not I wanted to risk shattering this illusion by having to prove myself in front of a live audience.
By the time I talked myself into submitting a song to the DJ, my friends had already performed a Kelly Clarkson number. As I was waiting for my name to be called, a young suitor came over and asked if he could look at the book of song choices we had on our table. He then started talking to me because apparently everyone in SF thinks everyone else is far game and likely interested in them. Also, I was looking quite lovely (see below).
He was dorky enough for that I felt in no way guilty talking to him, and he was normal enough for me not to feel uncomfortable. He asked me for advice on what to sing, etc (etcetera being what I did for a living, why I was in the city, blah blah blah), and eventually said he wanted to sing something by Meatloaf. I know exactly one Meatloaf song, so I said, “You should sing ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Lights,’”
“Do you know the girl part?” he asked.
“Yes.” Fortunately, I had named the exactly one Meatloaf song that I knew, and he invited me to sing the duet with him. We continued to talk, which to him was probably flirting. However, nerdy flirting really just comes across as polite chit-chat.
Some time later, I was called up to sing the song I had selected. I asked my friends to dance behind me while I sang Sarah Evans’ “Born to Fly,” a country song that I often sing alone in my car in preparation for my Karaoke debut. “Really,” I asked myself, “how bad could I be?” I have sung all my life, and I wasn’t even drunk! I had only had two drinks the whole night (though one was a Long Island Iced Tea, and let’s face it, that is more like three drinks with a little bit of sand added as garnish). But to my astonishment and despite years of practice on the Interstate, I was not good at singing this piece in the loud bar in front of a live audience. I was appalling, and I made the wise choice to abandon ship before the song was over.
Back at our table, I saw that our friends from the band had turned up at the Karaoke bar, apparently just in time to see me sing.
“Oh God, I embarrassed myself more than I thought.”
Singing poorly in front of two of my close girl friends from college who were far drunker than I was is one thing (and not really a bad thing. They have both seen me embarrass myself far worse than a bad Karaoke night.), but I didn’t really want to embarrass myself in front of additional friends and acquaintances. The band members were polite and told me I did a good job, but oddly, my young nerdy suitor avoided eye contact with me and did not reconvene our conversation. Ashamed, I left without saying goodbye, and he let me leave without putting up a fight for our promised Meatloaf duet.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Josh Groban?
I was in Central Park yesterday, sitting on a bench practicing the French I would be singing in my upcoming voice lesson and watching a co-ed adult softball game. A dog altercation to my left caught my attention. A passerby and his dog had approached an older woman and her dog, who were standing near an adjacent bench, and though both owners probably hoped that the dogs would become friends (as did I!!), they did not.
Moments later, a young hipster type walking his Wheaten Terrier approached from my right, on the far side of the path. As he neared the woman and her medium sized white beast, the woman kindly said, “He might bark.”
Why she assumed the man would cross the path and thus provoke her dog, I am not sure, but maybe dog owners share a special bond that the rest of New York’s citizens do not. Maybe dog owners, through their dogs and their dogs’ desires to befriend other animals, are good natured and go out of their way to interact with others. I don’t know. I don’t have a dog.
“Okay, I’ll stay over here,” hipster man said, and continued walking on the far side of the path, as I expect he would have regardless of the woman's warning. But again, I am no dog owner, and maybe the man would have brought his dog over to socialize.
“Oh, Josh Groban,” the woman then said, “I love your voice!”
“Thank you,” Josh said, and continued walking his dog.
I did not recognize him, but I guess he looked like what I think Josh Groban looks like. So, I got up and followed him for about 5 minutes, because I knew that nothing that would happen for the rest of the day would be cooler than following someone who could be a celebrity and what might be a celebrity’s dog. Nothing.
Moments later, a young hipster type walking his Wheaten Terrier approached from my right, on the far side of the path. As he neared the woman and her medium sized white beast, the woman kindly said, “He might bark.”
Why she assumed the man would cross the path and thus provoke her dog, I am not sure, but maybe dog owners share a special bond that the rest of New York’s citizens do not. Maybe dog owners, through their dogs and their dogs’ desires to befriend other animals, are good natured and go out of their way to interact with others. I don’t know. I don’t have a dog.
“Okay, I’ll stay over here,” hipster man said, and continued walking on the far side of the path, as I expect he would have regardless of the woman's warning. But again, I am no dog owner, and maybe the man would have brought his dog over to socialize.
“Oh, Josh Groban,” the woman then said, “I love your voice!”
“Thank you,” Josh said, and continued walking his dog.
I did not recognize him, but I guess he looked like what I think Josh Groban looks like. So, I got up and followed him for about 5 minutes, because I knew that nothing that would happen for the rest of the day would be cooler than following someone who could be a celebrity and what might be a celebrity’s dog. Nothing.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Why don't YOU have an accent, a**hole?
Are you from Long Island? When you tell people that you are from Long Island, do they invariably ask you why you don't have an accent, and do you invariably want to tell then to shut the hell up?
Growing up in Northport, my Long Island town, no one had accents. I did not know that I was expected to have an accent. When I was young, my response to the question was, "No one in my town has an accent."
As I grew older, I learned about the accents of Long Islanders and which people have them. Though I rarely heard them, I was told (mostly by my parents) that the residents of the south shore are the ones with the accents. That became my response to the inquiries on my speaking patterns.
After I went to college, came back, watched the Jersey Shore, and observed young 20-somethings going to bars, I learned that anyone who stays on Long Island too long and who patrons trashy bars become susceptible to developing the accent, either by choice or through osmosis. My newest explanation for my absent accent was a too-long description of this phenomenon that no one cared to listened to, but provided a welcome opportunity to comment on the Jersey Shore.
But deep down, I have known the true answer for a long time, as would anyone who lives anywhere with a stereotypical accent. Or, for that matter, anyone who has watched a movie like "Good Will Hunting." Accents often reflect a class distinction. I mean, which characters in "Good Will Hunting" have the strongest accents? However, I don't usually cite this as my answer. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
I am tired of people asking me why I don't have an accent, and the questioning has become even more frequent and persistent in recent years. I fear this is mostly due to reality TV shows showcasing trashiness, and I would like a break! I don't walk around Boston asking every resident why he doesn't sound like Matt Damon.
Last week when socializing at a bar in Portland with my cousins, some of my cousin's friends asked Ken (my boyfriend) and I why we didn't have accents. Why must I explain myself?!? Especially for something as mundane and nonthreatening as sounding like everyone else? I snapped, and yelled, "Because we aren't poor!"
Probably not the best response, but at least is was more concise than my explanation of how people develop the accent over time due to bar-patronage and shopping at Target too often.
But still not the best response, because it was easy material for the drunk frat-type friends of my cousin to take way too far. After loudly repeating what I had said a few times, they started saying something about how we were all rich and finishing it up with how they were glad they were white because being Caucasian historically gives you the upper hand. I did not say anything like that.
Growing up in Northport, my Long Island town, no one had accents. I did not know that I was expected to have an accent. When I was young, my response to the question was, "No one in my town has an accent."
As I grew older, I learned about the accents of Long Islanders and which people have them. Though I rarely heard them, I was told (mostly by my parents) that the residents of the south shore are the ones with the accents. That became my response to the inquiries on my speaking patterns.
After I went to college, came back, watched the Jersey Shore, and observed young 20-somethings going to bars, I learned that anyone who stays on Long Island too long and who patrons trashy bars become susceptible to developing the accent, either by choice or through osmosis. My newest explanation for my absent accent was a too-long description of this phenomenon that no one cared to listened to, but provided a welcome opportunity to comment on the Jersey Shore.
But deep down, I have known the true answer for a long time, as would anyone who lives anywhere with a stereotypical accent. Or, for that matter, anyone who has watched a movie like "Good Will Hunting." Accents often reflect a class distinction. I mean, which characters in "Good Will Hunting" have the strongest accents? However, I don't usually cite this as my answer. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
I am tired of people asking me why I don't have an accent, and the questioning has become even more frequent and persistent in recent years. I fear this is mostly due to reality TV shows showcasing trashiness, and I would like a break! I don't walk around Boston asking every resident why he doesn't sound like Matt Damon.
Last week when socializing at a bar in Portland with my cousins, some of my cousin's friends asked Ken (my boyfriend) and I why we didn't have accents. Why must I explain myself?!? Especially for something as mundane and nonthreatening as sounding like everyone else? I snapped, and yelled, "Because we aren't poor!"
Probably not the best response, but at least is was more concise than my explanation of how people develop the accent over time due to bar-patronage and shopping at Target too often.
But still not the best response, because it was easy material for the drunk frat-type friends of my cousin to take way too far. After loudly repeating what I had said a few times, they started saying something about how we were all rich and finishing it up with how they were glad they were white because being Caucasian historically gives you the upper hand. I did not say anything like that.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Bossypants
A coworker lent me Tina Fey’s Bossypants and I was excited to read it on the plane ride to Oregon. I expected a amusing read, but found myself, in chapter five, wondering, “when is it going to get funny?” The book is one 2-inch-long paragraph after the next, every other of which ends in a “funny-one-liner!”, often in the form of a question. For example: “What’s happening to my moral compass?” (p77). “But remember the beginning of the story where I was the underdog? No? Me either.” (p80). “What has your cult done for you lately?” (p82). “What kind of a way is that to live?” (p84). “Whaaa? More on that later.” (p87). Now mind you, those were only the funny question punch-lines at the ends of paragraphs within ten pages of fairly large print type face (size 12, 1.5 spaced? I’m not an expert). There are plenty more question one-liners interspersed between, and many more non-question one-liners at the ends of paragraphs (and of course, interspersed between as well). As I said, the rule of thumb is that every other paragraph ends in a one-liner. If you like "30 Rock" and now have Bossypants on your shelf, please refer to it now. You’ll see that the pattern is nearly a science in Tina Fey’s writing.
Further, her paragraphs jump around from topic to topic too much, and don’t always return to what she was initially talking about nor does it always connect with the title of the chapter, and that bothers me. Especially because, as the writing is so basic, I am not giving the book my full attention (I don’t need to. No one needs to), and “BAM” I suddenly find myself 10 years and two stories away from what I was just reading.
I considered mapping a chapter to prove my point, but I am sure you believe me regardless. Especially if you have the book and are following along.
However, my main reason for writing this particular entry was not to review Tina Fey’s comedic memoir but to express to you my new found distress: I do exactly the same thing! I compose useless nonsense in a very patterned style to entertain, ignoring rules of good writing to make you laugh. The biggest difference is that Tina Fey is famous for other talents and people will read her book.
But overall, I was very disappointed in Bossypants. It reminded me of the time I went to see Baby Mama. I expected to laugh, and was sorely let down. I thought the writing would be as good as "30 Rock", but it wasn’t, and in both cases, I bailed on Tina Fey half-way through.
Further, her paragraphs jump around from topic to topic too much, and don’t always return to what she was initially talking about nor does it always connect with the title of the chapter, and that bothers me. Especially because, as the writing is so basic, I am not giving the book my full attention (I don’t need to. No one needs to), and “BAM” I suddenly find myself 10 years and two stories away from what I was just reading.
I considered mapping a chapter to prove my point, but I am sure you believe me regardless. Especially if you have the book and are following along.
However, my main reason for writing this particular entry was not to review Tina Fey’s comedic memoir but to express to you my new found distress: I do exactly the same thing! I compose useless nonsense in a very patterned style to entertain, ignoring rules of good writing to make you laugh. The biggest difference is that Tina Fey is famous for other talents and people will read her book.
But overall, I was very disappointed in Bossypants. It reminded me of the time I went to see Baby Mama. I expected to laugh, and was sorely let down. I thought the writing would be as good as "30 Rock", but it wasn’t, and in both cases, I bailed on Tina Fey half-way through.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Williamsburg: A Ghost Tour
Back to Williamsburg, Virginia....
Two weekends ago, I went to Williamsburg with my mother and older sister, Caitlin. We did very little in the town due to heat (90 degrees!) and boredom, but we did (along with my cousin who came down for the day) partake in a spectacular ghost tour.
Because we signed up late in the day and ghost tours are in high in demand, we were only able to go on a family-friendly tour, rather than the advanced, "not recommended for children" tour that I can only imagine was completely terrifying.
We left our hotel, where we had spent the later part of the afternoon keeping cool (or in Caitlin's case, sleeping), and feasted on a dinner of appetizers and wine. I, trying to be helpful, broke our coffee pot while putting away the dishes. My mom called for a replacement (which didn't come) but we left in good spirits, full of good food and drink.
Arriving in Williamsburg, we found it once again unbearably hot despite the later hour, but we carried on with our plans. Our tour guide was a short, petite, middle aged woman with puffy hair, formed in the shape of a triangle around her face. She wore glasses, sneakers, a Williamsburg staff polo shirt with capris, and resembled an adventurous elf--one who your would find exploring caves, canyons and deserts during the North Pole's off-season. It was clear that this elf worked in the assembly line fitting bits and pieces together rather than a in a more creative, skilled, or artistic role. I'm sure she is a dedicated worker, but likely not an advanced craftsman and certainly not a children's storybook writer. She had no mind for stories.
"I am going to tell you about the ghosts of today," she told us, and proceeded to tell us, over the course of an hour, 5 modern-day ghost stories as relayed to her (and the entire ghost story walking tour staff) by others who worked in the colonial village. They ranged from lights being left on, to retail items falling from shelves, to the occasional apparition. It seemed as though any time anything was out of place, it was blamed on the supernatural.
"One waitress at The Kings Tavern needed to use the bathroom, but didn't have time to go downstairs to use the staff bathroom. After finishing a table, she slipped in the patron's ladies room, but on her way out, do you know what happened?" (Our elf-guide loved to have us guess the next predictable event in her stories) "The door was locked! But it was a swinging door, which can't lock! The waitress pulled and pulled, for 10 minutes, and couldn't get out! Finally, she did."
We learned a plethora of details about the layouts of the buildings, where stairs are, what types of locks are on what types of doors, etc. We also heard speculations as to which deceased people might be haunting which locations, but the guide would only provide a best guess and never fully commit to the assumptions.
Another gem of a tale: "It was late one night, and a waitress was closing up Chowning's Pub. All the lights were off, when she looked up and saw through a window in the attached building (they buildings are attached by an underground tunnel, but you will see that there is a space between them), guess what she saw?"
You'll never guess.
"The light was back on!" The tale continued with the woman walking back and forth to turn off the light three times to no avail, and finally imploring the ghost to leave the light off as she was tired and wanted to go home. "And guess what happened?"
The light stayed off.
My favorite story was the one about the insolent worker whose complaints about working in a shop resulted in an angry ghost throwing a mounted chess board from the wall, hitting the poor girl in the head. I told Caitlin that she was probably high, tried to climb up on and pull a mounted board from the wall, fell, hit her head, and blamed it on a ghost. A lot of the gave me the eerie feeling that employees weren't doing their jobs well and found the best excuse was to fault a ghost.
The tour complete, we went back to our car, cranked up the air conditioning, and returned to the hotel. When we got back, we were in for a shocking surprise. The coffee pot I had broken was repaired! And in the same spot where I had left it! It was surely the work of a spirit, haunting the coffee machine!
"No, Ashley," my mother said, "I asked them to bring it up when I stopped by the desk before we left."
But I didn't believe her. I know supernatural when I see it.
Two weekends ago, I went to Williamsburg with my mother and older sister, Caitlin. We did very little in the town due to heat (90 degrees!) and boredom, but we did (along with my cousin who came down for the day) partake in a spectacular ghost tour.
Because we signed up late in the day and ghost tours are in high in demand, we were only able to go on a family-friendly tour, rather than the advanced, "not recommended for children" tour that I can only imagine was completely terrifying.
We left our hotel, where we had spent the later part of the afternoon keeping cool (or in Caitlin's case, sleeping), and feasted on a dinner of appetizers and wine. I, trying to be helpful, broke our coffee pot while putting away the dishes. My mom called for a replacement (which didn't come) but we left in good spirits, full of good food and drink.
Arriving in Williamsburg, we found it once again unbearably hot despite the later hour, but we carried on with our plans. Our tour guide was a short, petite, middle aged woman with puffy hair, formed in the shape of a triangle around her face. She wore glasses, sneakers, a Williamsburg staff polo shirt with capris, and resembled an adventurous elf--one who your would find exploring caves, canyons and deserts during the North Pole's off-season. It was clear that this elf worked in the assembly line fitting bits and pieces together rather than a in a more creative, skilled, or artistic role. I'm sure she is a dedicated worker, but likely not an advanced craftsman and certainly not a children's storybook writer. She had no mind for stories.
"I am going to tell you about the ghosts of today," she told us, and proceeded to tell us, over the course of an hour, 5 modern-day ghost stories as relayed to her (and the entire ghost story walking tour staff) by others who worked in the colonial village. They ranged from lights being left on, to retail items falling from shelves, to the occasional apparition. It seemed as though any time anything was out of place, it was blamed on the supernatural.
"One waitress at The Kings Tavern needed to use the bathroom, but didn't have time to go downstairs to use the staff bathroom. After finishing a table, she slipped in the patron's ladies room, but on her way out, do you know what happened?" (Our elf-guide loved to have us guess the next predictable event in her stories) "The door was locked! But it was a swinging door, which can't lock! The waitress pulled and pulled, for 10 minutes, and couldn't get out! Finally, she did."
We learned a plethora of details about the layouts of the buildings, where stairs are, what types of locks are on what types of doors, etc. We also heard speculations as to which deceased people might be haunting which locations, but the guide would only provide a best guess and never fully commit to the assumptions.
Another gem of a tale: "It was late one night, and a waitress was closing up Chowning's Pub. All the lights were off, when she looked up and saw through a window in the attached building (they buildings are attached by an underground tunnel, but you will see that there is a space between them), guess what she saw?"
You'll never guess.
"The light was back on!" The tale continued with the woman walking back and forth to turn off the light three times to no avail, and finally imploring the ghost to leave the light off as she was tired and wanted to go home. "And guess what happened?"
The light stayed off.
My favorite story was the one about the insolent worker whose complaints about working in a shop resulted in an angry ghost throwing a mounted chess board from the wall, hitting the poor girl in the head. I told Caitlin that she was probably high, tried to climb up on and pull a mounted board from the wall, fell, hit her head, and blamed it on a ghost. A lot of the gave me the eerie feeling that employees weren't doing their jobs well and found the best excuse was to fault a ghost.
The tour complete, we went back to our car, cranked up the air conditioning, and returned to the hotel. When we got back, we were in for a shocking surprise. The coffee pot I had broken was repaired! And in the same spot where I had left it! It was surely the work of a spirit, haunting the coffee machine!
"No, Ashley," my mother said, "I asked them to bring it up when I stopped by the desk before we left."
But I didn't believe her. I know supernatural when I see it.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Williamsburg: A Disguise
Last week, I was invited to join Ken and his friends for drinks in Brooklyn.
"Sweet!" I said, "We can wear our disguises!"
I have a hideous gray jacket with frills and flowers on it that I purchased at Salvation Army back in the days when I tried to "dress differently" and essentially dressed in garbage and had saved for its obvious usefulness in dressing up to go to Brooklyn.
Ken and I outfitted ourselves meticulously, put on our "I don't care faces," and were ready for a night in Williamsburg! I even bought glasses at American Apparel that afternoon.
No one remarked on my outfit, which means I fit in well. Ken's glasses (that look like this:
)
did receive a quite a few compliments.
"Sweet!" I said, "We can wear our disguises!"
I have a hideous gray jacket with frills and flowers on it that I purchased at Salvation Army back in the days when I tried to "dress differently" and essentially dressed in garbage and had saved for its obvious usefulness in dressing up to go to Brooklyn.
Ken and I outfitted ourselves meticulously, put on our "I don't care faces," and were ready for a night in Williamsburg! I even bought glasses at American Apparel that afternoon.
No one remarked on my outfit, which means I fit in well. Ken's glasses (that look like this:
did receive a quite a few compliments.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Williamsburg: A trip to Trader Joe's
On the first day of our vacation last weekend, my mom and I went to Trader Joe's to buy groceries. Any of you who have visited a Trader Joe's know that the cashiers are very talkative and friendly (I imagine this to be a job requirement) regardless of the state you may be shopping in. They are polite and friendly in Portland stores (expected) as well as locations on Long Island. It was no different in Williamsburg, Virginia.
As of 5PM last Saturday, we were not impressed by the people we interacted with, particularly at our hotel. The "concierge" did little more than give my sister hand lotion and write down the website for Busch Gardens (it's Buschgardens.com. We never would have figured that out without her). She did not help us purchase tickets ("Um, I can't do that"), offer to make a restaurant reservation (just said we should), or give any advice on discounts to the attractions we wanted to visit. She was less helpful than us doing the work ourselves on a laptop, which is what we ended up doing. We didn't understand her purpose. Even if we didn't have a laptop, it was clear that she would not help anyone do anything.
The man at the front desk was a second disappointment. He very rude and practically lectured me on not putting my key card near my cell phone. I cut him off, mumbling "I understand the concept" and walked away while he continued to scold me for my horrible misdeed.
Our impression of the local workforce so far was, "ugg, you are useless!", and was further reinforced at the grocery store check-out line.
"I love these," our cashier, an average-looking 20-year-old girl, told us, referring to the corn chips my mother was purchasing.
"Oh good," my mom responded, "I haven't had them."
"Yeah, they are great because they are easy to eat." They were oval-shaped rather than trianglular. "I can't figure our how to get the other kind in my mouth."
Are you serious? I thought. "You can't figure out how to put a chip in your mouth?" It isn't difficult to put chips in your mouth. Most people have learned to do that by now.
Well, she continued checking us out and she wasn't appallingly stupid. Her biggest problem was that she felt that she needed to keep talking, which was often unnecessary. (For instance, I learned that she is just shy of 20, and is excited to go to the one cool local bar, but is disappointed that it isn't as popular in the summer when most of the William & Mary students are away. I also listened to her ratings of several rides at Busch Gardens.) Finally, when I had almost forgotten her initial dim remark, she held up a cantaloupe and asked, "What is this again?"
"A cantaloupe," my mom told her politely. My mom is terrific at keeping a straight face. Her tone in no way implied that a 20-year-old grocery-store cashier should know what a cantaloupe is, or that a 20-year-old anyone should know what a cantaloupe is.
"I'm so bad at melons!"
As of 5PM last Saturday, we were not impressed by the people we interacted with, particularly at our hotel. The "concierge" did little more than give my sister hand lotion and write down the website for Busch Gardens (it's Buschgardens.com. We never would have figured that out without her). She did not help us purchase tickets ("Um, I can't do that"), offer to make a restaurant reservation (just said we should), or give any advice on discounts to the attractions we wanted to visit. She was less helpful than us doing the work ourselves on a laptop, which is what we ended up doing. We didn't understand her purpose. Even if we didn't have a laptop, it was clear that she would not help anyone do anything.
The man at the front desk was a second disappointment. He very rude and practically lectured me on not putting my key card near my cell phone. I cut him off, mumbling "I understand the concept" and walked away while he continued to scold me for my horrible misdeed.
Our impression of the local workforce so far was, "ugg, you are useless!", and was further reinforced at the grocery store check-out line.
"I love these," our cashier, an average-looking 20-year-old girl, told us, referring to the corn chips my mother was purchasing.
"Oh good," my mom responded, "I haven't had them."
"Yeah, they are great because they are easy to eat." They were oval-shaped rather than trianglular. "I can't figure our how to get the other kind in my mouth."
Are you serious? I thought. "You can't figure out how to put a chip in your mouth?" It isn't difficult to put chips in your mouth. Most people have learned to do that by now.
Well, she continued checking us out and she wasn't appallingly stupid. Her biggest problem was that she felt that she needed to keep talking, which was often unnecessary. (For instance, I learned that she is just shy of 20, and is excited to go to the one cool local bar, but is disappointed that it isn't as popular in the summer when most of the William & Mary students are away. I also listened to her ratings of several rides at Busch Gardens.) Finally, when I had almost forgotten her initial dim remark, she held up a cantaloupe and asked, "What is this again?"
"A cantaloupe," my mom told her politely. My mom is terrific at keeping a straight face. Her tone in no way implied that a 20-year-old grocery-store cashier should know what a cantaloupe is, or that a 20-year-old anyone should know what a cantaloupe is.
"I'm so bad at melons!"
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