How I Met the Mister, Part II

(You can read How I Met the Mister, Part I right HERE)

About a week before I went to T.G.I. Fridays with Kara, my friend, Steve, and I were discussing our requirements in a boyfriend/girlfriend. Having ended a tortuous 4-year relationship two years prior, I was ready to return to the dating scene from my self-imposed sabbatical. I was smarter and more confident in what I wanted. In fact, I had it narrowed down to two requirements:

1. He had to like art and museums.
2. He had to remember I was lactose intolerant.

Steve was concerned my list of requirements couldn't weed out the riffraff, but there was a method to my madness. I felt a museum lover would be reasonably intelligent; less likely to spend Monday nights smashing beer cans against his forehead, if you will. More to the point, we would have something in common and share similar interests and hobbies. Someone who remembered I was lactose intolerant would be caring, attentive, and not self-involved. I was looking for the opposite of everyone I had ever dated.

I thought it was genius; Steve remained unconvinced. One week later, I walked into T.G.I. Fridays with Kara and unwittingly put my requirements to the test.

Kara and I were sitting at the table in the bar area debating what to eat while the Mister served drinks to the regulars sitting at the bar. I knew I had to stick with soda or water since I had class in less than an hour.

“So, ladies,” the Mister asked from his post behind the bar, “what can I get for you?”

I looked at him looking at me, opened my mouth and said, “I’ll take a shot of tequila, please.”

Kara grinned into her menu. A regular spun around in his seat, took one look at me, and chuckled.

“Well, alright,” and the Mister also chuckled. “What kind can I get you?”

I didn’t really care, so I asked for Cuervo 1800, which was on special.

“You don’t want that.” The Mister said firmly.
“Really. Is that a fact.” He had caught my eye, but not my tongue. “And why are you so sure?”

“Because it’s not good Tequila, so you’re just paying for a heavily marketed label. If you want to come over here, I can explain to you the different types of Tequila and how it’s produced.”

And that is when I left my perch in the safety zone and walked over to the bar, trying to ignore the smiles and elbowing going on by the regulars. The Mister placed several different bottles of Tequila on the bar and explained at length the production process. He explained the difference between silver and gold; añejo and reposado; American brands, Mexican brands; and the best climate for the agave plant. All of a sudden, the cocky, backwards-cap-wearing bartender had turned into a nerdy scientist, and I, who spent hours as a child reading the encyclopedia for fun, was immediately and hopelessly smitten.

I had one shot of tequila and maybe another drink. I never did make it to class. But, I did call Steve from the parking lot to tell him I met the man I was going to marry.

I spent the next couple of weeks going to T.G.I. Fridays with various friends, all of them curious to catch a glimpse at the first guy to ever make me gush. I made sure we sat in the dining room, far away the bar. We never saw him, until one night when I was there with my friend, Tiffany. I was walking back from the bathroom to my table, minding my own business when some rude bastard all but screamed in my ear, "MOVE IT, OR LOOSE IT!"

I turned around to watch the Mister rush past me with two arms full of hot plates.

I returned to the table and told Tiffany I saw him, but that it wasn't going to work out. "I couldn't possibly marry a guy with thighs thinner than mine." Tiffany agreed it was for the best.

A month or two later, Kara wanted to go to Fridays. I told her no way. She begged and pleaded and promised we would not go anywhere near the bar. I told her since I was wearing old jeans and a slouchy sweater plus didn't have time to do my hair or put on makeup that I would only go if she went in first and made sure the Mister was not working in the bar. Not that I was interested, but still.

To her credit, she lived up to her part of the bargain. He wasn't working in the bar and she waved me in. Almost immediately we were seated. The hostess handed us our menus, smiled sweetly and said, "Your server, The Mister, will be with you in just a minute." Our chins hit the table. I told Kara she was on her own and grabbed my purse to leave. When I looked up, there was the Mister. I could tell he recognized us immediately. I wanted to die.

I couldn't leave, so we ordered dinner and drinks. He was friendly and chatted with both us in between serving tables. Nerves kept me from eating anything more than the ice in my stiff drinks. I hadn't planned on ordering drinks, so I had to go use the ATM and get more cash. When I returned, the Mister was kneeling next to Kara talking, and it occurred to me he liked her and not me. He left immediately upon my arrival, leaving Kara grinning.

"I think that guy wants to..." Kara never got to finish her sentence because the Mister was back, and this time he sat next to me.

We had the world's most stilted conversation. Then the Mister looked at me and said, "Well, I like you. I was wondering if you would like to meet up someplace and have coffee."

To which I responded, "I don't drink coffee." What the??? That's all I could come up with? WHAT AN IDIOT!

The Mister looked a little surprised, but didn't miss a beat.

"Okay," He said, smiling. "Do you like art? Would you like to go to the LA County Museum of Art with me?"

Why, yes. Yes I would.

How I Met the Mister, Part I.

I grew up in a strict, conservative Catholic home, the Argentine-born daughter of two immigrants. I was not allowed to speak with boys, date, or wear makeup. No daring outfits, dangling earrings, or dark nail polish. I begged, at the age of 13, to read Seventeen Magazine. I think my mom might have allowed it, but my dad flatly refused to even entertain the thought, even after I explained to him that 17 year old girls don't actually read Seventeen. After college, it was assumed I would return home. And I did. I was twenty-one years old.

I didn't even think of getting my own apartment until I was around 24 years old. By that point, I was almost done with my Masters and my dad was finding it increasingly difficult to end arguments with, "Because I said so." I found a very nice apartment in a lovely woodland-like setting. I had money saved up (living at home doesn't cost much) and I took great pleasure furnishing my new place. As I placed furniture and hung poster art, I couldn't help but fantasize of all the parties I would be hosting, late nights laughing with friends, and grilled dinners on the balcony.

Here's the rub. Sheltered Catholic girls don't have many friends, and the friends they do have lead equally dull lives. My friends from college all lived out of state. Things were not going as planned. I was now poor, bored, and lonely. I started going home to have dinner and staying until it was time to go back to my apartment to sleep. Suddenly my parents and brothers seemed infinitely more interesting.

I'm a night owl, so I would often pull into the apartment parking lot between 10:30 and 11:00pm. I am also exceedingly cautious. Morning, noon, or night--whether I was in or out of the apartment I kept everything deadbolted. On my first night there I installed a security light. So I was on my toes when I stepped out of my car just before 11:00pm. I did everything right. I scanned the area. I held my keys in my hand, and even had one extended and ready to stab any unsavory penises that dared cross my path.

I bounded up the stairs, looked around, and seeing no one, unlocked the door and quickly went inside. I immediately locked all the locks, including the deadbolt. I put on my pajamas, washed my face, and was scrutinizing my face in a magnifying mirror when I first heard the knock on my door. I had been inside my apartment for less than 10 minutes.

It was a happy knock, if knock can be happy. The kind of knock you rap on a friend's door when they are expecting you.

Knock! Knock!

Who's there? I said without saying. I gently put down my tweezers and cocked my head, waiting for a familiar voice to call my name.

Knock! Knock!

Bill? Steve? Not Tiffany, we're fighting. Kara is already in bed. A little something inside me started to tingle. I quietly got up from my vanity stool and walked towards the knock. I didn't make a sound as I approached the door and stood before it, not knowing I was projecting my fractured image through the peephole to whoever was standing outside.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

A little more insistent. I softly pressed my fingertips against the door and looked through the peephole.

White male, or light-skinned hispanic. Early 20s. Average height, 5'8-5'10. Overweight and doughy, about 220 pounds. Dark hair slicked back, round glasses. Some acne. He must have sensed my presence or noticed movement in the peephole because he suddenly broke out in a huge smile and chuckled, like I should be happy to see a miniature version of him staring back at me. I did not say a word. I did not know him.

I reached down to release the deadbolt, and then changed my mind. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and pulled my chef's knife out of the block and walked towards the bedroom. I picked up the phone and debated calling the police.

And then he tried to kick down my door.

For a split second, I stared at the door in disbelief, wondering if perhaps I didn't imagine the deafening crash. But then the crash came again, and I knew by the way the window in front of me shook that he was rushing the door and trying to break the deadbolt. I called 911 and explained in bursts what was happening. I had to yell over my potential intruder, who was now screaming, cursing, and kicking the door, for the operator to hear me.

The operator was very nice. He took down all my information and told me someone would be there shortly. And then he said he had to go.

Please don't hang up. I'm scared. I could barely speak the words. My mouth was taking in short gasps of air like a fish out of water.

I'm sorry. I have to answer more calls. And it occurred to me the operator didn't want to stay and hear what would happen when my intruder made his way past my locks.

We hung up, and I called every person I knew and then my dad. Only my dad was home, and by the time I reached him the pounding at the door stopped. I daresay in the deafening quiet he didn't believe me when I told him someone tried to break into my apartment and the police were on their way. He showed up as I just as I finished giving the officer my statement. He thanked the officer and as I walked down the steps towards my dad, the officer called down from my stoop.

Your daughter is very lucky. There's someone going around. She would have been the 3rd.

We didn't ask 'the 3rd what?' because we didn't want to know. My dad never said a word on the way home, and I never went back to the apartment. My mom had a family friend clear it out and put everything in storage. I canceled my lease. I resumed my boring, sheltered life, only this time with great pleasure.

Two weeks later, Kara called me and invited me to eat dinner at our favorite restaurant, T.G.I.Fridays. Now that I was at home, I had plenty of money for such luxuries, and 30 minutes later we were in the lobby of the restaurant waiting for a table. I had a night class for my masters, but if we ate fast, I could make it in time.

I know you two ladies aren't waiting for a table!

Kara and I looked over to find a bartender leaning over the bar and looking in our direction. Kara and I turned around to make sure he was talking to us.

Yeah, I'm talking to you! You're not really going to wait for a table when you can have dinner right now with me, are you?

Kara and I looked at each other. I don't really drink. I don't go clubbing or dancing or partying. I certainly don't eat dinner in bars--don't people puke in there?! My eyes said it all: I couldn't possibly do that.

Kara looked back at the bartender. Sure, why not? That sounds like a great idea.

We both walked into the bar, Kara with a more lively step. I smiled weakly at the obvious regulars and they chuckled into their bourbon. I made a point to sit at a table in the bar, not the bar itself. I wasn't going to be there long.

The bartender smiled at my passive-aggressive defiance and walked around the bar to our table. He greeted Kara first and then turned to look at me.

Hello there.

I took in his hair, dark as pitch, hiding underneath a gray Kangol hat. Two eyes the color of money stared right through me, and for the first time in my life I blinked first.

Hello there yourself, Mister.

An American Girl

Tristan and Kara tagged me weeks ago to list seven interesting facts about myself. Instead of listing seven small facts, I've decided to recount seven stories from my past. This is story number two.

Growing up an immigrant can be difficult, especially when you just want to blend into the crowd. I remember sitting at the school picnic tables, waiting for the bell to ring us into class. All the girls were talking about where they were born.

"I was born in Reseda!"

"I was born in Los Angeles!"

"I was born in Arizona!" Oooooooooh. A collective murmur of approval from 5 seven year old girls. Good one! Someplace outside California!

And then it was my turn. Already nervous to be included in the conversation with so many of my classmates, I opened my mouth and said, "I was born in Buenos Aires."

Dead silence. Stephanie L. looked at Julie M. and rolled her eyes. I could see the door to the inner circle closing fast. "I don't know where that is but..." Too late. They had moved on more important topics that didn't include me.

My name was different. My parents had accents. My lunch box contained sandwiches made with French loaves and obscure meats like mortadella and prosciutto. Even though we immigrated when I was six months old, my mom had found small ways to keep close the country we left behind, hoping one day I would appreciate her efforts. And years later I did. But as a shy child of seven, all I wanted was to go by the name Jennifer and eat pasta with sauce from the jar. I vowed to Americanize my parents.

To their credit, my parents were always willing to play along with my attempts to strip every last filament of culture from our home. As Thanksgiving approached, I gave detailed lectures on its meaning and the appropriate menu: a Butterball turkey, Stove Top stuffing, and cranberry sauce from a can. I gathered from eavesdropping on various conversations that this was what all the cool girls were eating so, by God, that's what we were having. We also had to hold hands around the table and give thanks for things like God and the USA and Holly Hobbie. I remember my dad looking at me with, what I believed at the time, utmost concentration as I waxed on and on about the importance of being like everybody else. That same memory now, seen through the eyes of adult, clearly shows my dad barely able to contain his laughter.

Thanksgiving was a processed foods phenomena and, flying high on my dictatorial success, I started planning my birthday party. Now, let me just say that I was a shy child. I never wanted to go to parties and didn't want to have any of my own, either. I don't know what possessed me to have a birthday party, but I did.

I turned 8 with a bang.

I briefed my parents on proper party etiquette. Entertainment was a must. All the girls at school had a magician at their parties. My mom went and hired a magician.

We also needed a fancy cake from the supermarket with words on top! My mom went to Vons and ordered a cake.

Last, but not least, there needed to be a piñata. It was 1980 and my mom had no idea what a piñata was or where to buy one, but she was resourceful and determined to bring me out of my shell. She asked several of the moms at school about my latest party request. They all referred her to a Mexican/Hispanic market in town, and she bought the biggest, fanciest piñata they carried.

The day of the party came. The magician was perfect. The cake, delicious. My American party was going along as planned. And then, the moment I and every girl at my party had waited for: time to knock the crap out of the piñata and fight tooth and nail for every last bit of cheap candy.

All the girls had a chance to hit the piñata and we were now on the second round. By now, the parents were gathered around, eager to watch the approaching mayhem. Shani R. stepped up to bat. She was always a bit of a brute, and by the looks of the crumpled piñata we knew she was going to be the one to strike the death blow.

Whack! That was it: finished. Crepe paper snow drifted down to the ground and all fifteen of us girls dropped in a tangle of thin arms and legs and scraped the ground for toys, candy and, Hubba Bubba bubble gum. While the parents laughed and cheered, those of us in the ring quickly made a startling discovery. One by one, indignant girls jumped up from the ground.

"Hey!" Shani said. "This piñata doesn't have any candy!"

All eyes turned on my mom, and there she stood with color creeping into her cheeks at an even faster rate than my own. While preparing for my party, she asked what a piñata was. She asked where to buy a piñata. She even asked how to set it up and bought a special rope for my dad to tie it to the basketball hoop. She just never thought to ask if they came filled with candy.

My mom ran into the house, leaving behind some good natured laughing by the parents in attendance. Some of the girls were still shaking out their hair and looking under their skirts for candy. The concept of an empty piñata was so incomprehensible they assumed the candy had somehow gotten trapped in their long hair or bounced off the ground and into their underwear.

It's a damn good thing my birthday is 30 days after Halloween.

The screen door slammed open and out of the house ran my mom, her 80s perm blowing in the wind, clutching bags of leftover Halloween candy and various items raided from the pantry. Before anyone could yell "Cover!" we were hit with a spray of candy. Under pressure, mom has a good arm. She tossed handful after handful of candy at us like pigeons. Chocolate, gum balls, mints, Ding Dongs: if it was edible and prepackaged it was fair game.

It took us girls about 3 seconds to realize the piñata rules had changed, but once it clicked we hit the ground with the same excitement we had 5 minutes earlier. Only this time, instead of searching the ground and looking up at the piñata, we kept looking at my mom and her stash. Everyone was screaming and laughing. The parents were cheering my mom for her ingenuity and encouraging their daughters to skip the candy and go for the Doritos.

Needless to say, I didn't get my American party. I got more. I found proof that my parents, who left everyone and everything behind so that we could live a better life in a new country, were willing to suffer all sorts of indignities for me to fit in. I witnessed resourcefulness under pressure. I learned that candy makes memories short and smiles long. And, above all, I have damn funny story to tell at any party with a piñata.

An Unlikely Friend in Stephen King

Tristan and Kara tagged me weeks ago to list seven interesting facts about myself. Instead of listing seven small facts, I've decided to recount seven stories from my past. This is story number one.

I've always wanted to be a writer. I am embarrassed to admit this because at some point in life, doesn't everyone? Writing is a cliché, one of those idealized career choices children make when they are six. Marine Biologist, Fireman, Writer. As an adult, I can't help but admire the few who actually hold these dream occupations. They managed to keep a tenacious grip on the reverie of youth. I let my grip slacken, then fall, when I was eighteen years old.

I spent my childhood writing regularly and reading constantly. While other children played outside, I pounded out short stories on mom's powder blue Correct-O-Riter V. My affinity with words had no boundaries, but I worried about money. I knew my parents valued financial security, and very few people pull six figures by telling stories. In college I scrambled to find something that paid me to read and write, and settled on becoming a university professor. I decided to major in Latin American Literature in large part due to my love of magic realism.

I was eighteen and in my sophomore year when I decided to take an advanced Spanish lit class at one of the graduate schools. The class was entirely in Spanish which, as a native Spanish speaker, was not a problem for me. I blocked out the name of the professor long ago, but I will never forget her appearance or how she ultimately changed the course of my career.

She was a woman full of false bravado, clinging to her youth with the help of whorish outfits. One day she arrived in a micro mini and fishnet stockings paired with a black leather jacket and lace bra. I had never met anyone like her and, in retrospect, my lousy poker face must have made that clear. Likewise, her disdain for me-- a reserved girl from a strict Catholic upbringing-- was immediate and palpable. I was the Bourgeoisie; she was Che. She would later cry that I looked at her each day with contempt. It was actually embarrassment, but I never bothered to correct her.

The incessant posturing in that class intimidated me and, confident I wasn't good enough, I worked twice as hard as everyone else. I slaved over the final paper of the term. I took it home to my mom to polish up the vocabulary and grammar. She didn't love it. In fact, she told me to expect a "C." I turned it in, confident in my mediocrity.

The following week I took my usual seat at the front of the class. The tramp professor blasted through the door and, when everyone was seated, walk up to me and asked me for the name of my academic adviser and every instructor I had ever studied under in the Spanish department. I could hear everyone behind me shifting in their seats, no doubt wondering just like me why she would need that information. She then asked to schedule an appointment with me to discuss my paper. Crap! Was my paper so bad that she needed to talk to me about it?! Couldn't the final exam help? I agreed with her on a date and time and sat through the rest of the class, sick to my stomach.

At the end of class I walked up to her and asked her the purpose of the meeting and why she needed the names of my instructors. She refused to tell me until our appointment. I persisted, albeit respectfully. The students could sense an argument in the air and moved around the room like sloths hoping to catch an expletive or two. They didn't leave disappointed. She stood up so that she had everyone's attention and said, "I need your information because you did not write that paper. You are a cheater and I want to contact everyone you have studied because I am sure you cheated with them, too. My goal is to have you expelled."

Twelves bodies in one room and it was dead silent.

A few days later, we met. She believed the paper was PhD material and beyond my capabilities. "I know there are some shy and quiet people that can be intelligent, and actually quite gifted. You aren't that person. I am, and I can't believe that someone like you can be as intelligent as me."

You can imagine how the rest of the conversation went. No amount of convincing (or copious tears on my part) could convince her I wrote that paper. She contacted all my other professors, and I spent the rest of the week in meetings. Fortunately, my other classes had in-class essay exams. She cautioned the professors that I was devious and probably figured out how to cheat. The school denied her petition to have me expelled, and with the benefit of hindsight I can see she lacked as much respect among her peers as she did with her students. No one believed I cheated, but they gave me an "F" to make her happy. The faculty also allowed her to write a manifesto about my unethical behavior to include in my permanent school record. She wanted to prevent any future graduate schools from making the mistake of accepting me into their program. I don't know what happened to that letter, but it never did make it to my file.

The experience crushed me. I switched majors and started taking science classes. My professors told me I was making a terrible mistake but I refused to listen. I stopped speaking Spanish and stopped writing. She may not have won the petition to have me expelled, but she achieved something far more permanent. I believed her when she said I wasn't smart enough and that I was incapable of writing well. I never again wrote an essay, and two years later I graduated with a very safe degree in psychology. Four years after that I had a Masters degree in Public Health. Five years after that I had a law degree. All of it very safe, very respectable, and fundamentally not me.

Of course, I do some creative writing with my announcement verses. But for the most part, writing is a passion I had abandoned--until this weekend. On a whim I bought Stephen King's book On Writing. It's an old book, and many of you may have read it already. If you haven't, and enjoy writing at all (Laurel, I'm talking to you), read this book.


You know what's funny? I don't even like Stephen King! I have never even read a Stephen King novel. But, this weekend, I found in Stephen King an unlikely friend. Here is a guy who is routinely persecuted by negative reviews--and yet he is one of the most prolific writers of his generation. The man writes what some refer to as drivel, and yet he has legions of fans and has published over 150 works (short stories and novels). Why the hell do I hang on to what some maladjusted little harpy said 15 years ago? Stephen King takes his criticisms to the bank, and often. I learned something from Stephen this weekend, even if it's something I've known all along. Don't listen to the haters, because they most likely hate in you what they wish they had in themselves.

It's time for me to start writing again. Thanks, Steve. I owe you one.