Dear Cathy...

Dear Abby Cathy,

What is the appropriate amount you should tip at a poboy place on a Friday night? 15% 20%?

Probably not 5000%, right? That's what I thought. Until last Friday night.

Some friends and I were hanging out and drinking when we decided to indulge in some French bread, greasy, meaty goodness. We went to a restaurant where you place your order, give them your name, and then wait and they call you when your food is ready. This is a normal process that normal people can handle. First of all, normal is a tough term to define. Second of all, I was especially not normal on this night. I brought my own scotch in my own "go cup" to dinner with me. I don't drink scotch. I shouldn't drink scotch.

But I did.

I also gave them my "fake name" because giving my real name to anyone who will soon be repeating it out loud is always guaranteed to be a bigger deal than it should be (hence the blog double entendre).

Them: What's your name?
Me: Leila
Them: What?
Me: Leila
Them: Spell it.
Me: L-e-i-l-a
Them: L-i?
Me: No- L-e-i-l-a
Them: Type L-I-L-A onto my receipt and look at me hopefully.
Me: Sure- whatever.

Food is ready.
Them: LILAH- LYLA? LAYLA. LAYLA- YOUR FOOD IS READY.

So instead I go with "Cathy." Nice. Simple. Hard to screw up. Unless I'm drinking scotch.

I was waiting on my poboy, and my friends and I were chatting and we kept heard a name being called. I laughed and told my friends that whoever "Chad" was- he sure wasn't hungry.

Name called again.

Finally waiter comes out to our table- "Are one of yall Cathy?"

Me: "Yeah- why?"
Him: "We've been calling your name for a while." (Chad?!?) "Also, they need you at the register."

I go to get my food and they won't give it to me before I go to the register. WTF is going on here? I just want my poboy to wash down with my scotch.

I go to the register and the girl who took my order is frantically dialing. She gets on the phone and then looks at me and goes "It's for you."

I immediately think I am about to be caught in some sort of horrible moment where there was someone named Cathy there and she is getting a call because there's been a terrible accident and I have to explain that I'm really not Cathy. So awkward. Scotch awkward.

Instead, I get on the phone with the manager and she explains to me that the girl accidentally added an $800 tip to my bill that night. I'm pretty sure I don't look like P-Diddy so I don't know why they picked me to try to make it rain. Because I couldn't. The poboy was my big purchase of the night. And it wasn't dipped in gold and it didn't come with any sort of $800 gesture, so I am not sure why I was paying that much money for it.

Apparently I wasn't. The manager just wanted to explain to me what had happened but that they had cleared it right away. It was all well and good except that every time she called me Cathy, I almost corrected her. That's what I get for trying to use a "normal" name- an $800 poboy.

The Great Sensational Bearded Lady!

I've only had stitches once- when I was five.

I was bored one night and decided to kill time by trying to slide across the dining room floor on a pillow (which really doesn't seem too ludicrous considering when I was fifteen, I would bump down the stairs in my sleeping bag). I would set the pillow up, back up a few feet, run, jump, and slide. Apparently the concept worked once or the idea of it working was appealing enough to keep me at it for a while. All was well and good until I backed up, ran a few steps, jumped, and completely missed the pillow. I did a face dive onto the hardwood floor. My chin split open like the Red Sea.

My parents took me to the hospital, where I received eight stitches in my chin. While at the hospital I realized that I had also chipped one of my front teeth. The moment we got home I scrambled to find the tooth piece and put it under my pillow. The tooth fairy wasn't going to stiff me. I was collecting even if it was only a piece of a tooth. (I was a greedy little five year old).

Back at school, I got to show my stitches off to my Kindergarten class. It was pretty cool until one day when we had some sort of presentation. We had to go on stage in front of other classes and as we made our way up on the stage, I heard a murmur from some jackass older kids and then a big laugh. I had been dubbed the bearded lady. I was mortified and didn't understand that kids only tend to make fun of what is right in front of them and that I would lose that moniker the second I stepped off of the stage.

Needless to say, my stitches quickly lost their appeal and I never tried to slide across the floor on my face again.

Tis the Season

I know it's after the holidays, but I figured that a lot of lazy people still have their trees up and their dead garland hung- so I can tell this story.

When I was in elementary school, some adult had the brilliant idea to teach us Christmas carols and take us caroling to a strip mall nearby. I am sure this has induced a bunch of "awwws" but honestly, give me a break. There are so many things I would rather do than listen to children sing Christmas carols (and it has nothing to do with me being Jewish. OK- maybe a little bit to do with it.) Children singing together can probably be compared to "geese farts on a muggy morning" (thank you Leo Kottke for that wonderful line).

So they taught us an entire lineup of holiday songs including "The Christmas Song" (Chestnuts roasting on an open fire). There was a boy named Cheston in our elementary school so we immediately used our elementary brains and made the song into a carol about Cheston's genitals. (Which still makes me giggle, so I guess I can now consider it using my Master's Degree brain...) Our teachers were never amused by it and warned us about singing the incorrect words while we were caroling. Their warnings sounded a lot like the adults on Peanuts. When the day came for caroling, much to our teacher's dismay, we sang about roasting Cheston's nuts in front of all.


That's what you get for thinking it was a good idea to take a bunch of kids caroling.

Love, the one Jewish kid in the class.