wine and cheap perfume

Yesterday my mother and I went to the salon in the Waldorf Astoria to get facials. This is something we used to do on a monthly basis for years, because my mother's favorite facialist (is that even a word?) closed her private practice about fifteen years ago and opted to work at a fancy hotel instead. We hadn't been there since I was 18. I was looking forward to it, because I have the skin of a puberty-laden teenage boy, but as soon as I walked through the door I knew I was in for it. 61-yr. old Judith (pronounced "Udith") was standing there with her large, mannish hands planted firmly on her 46-inch waist. Her hair, which for as long as I'd know her had always been short and gray, was now long and red. She narrowed her eyes at me.
"Well!" she began angrily. "It's been a while!"
My mother was already inside, and suddenly I felt terrible about having neglected my skin and Udith for so long.
"Yeah...I....I mean, I'm sorry?" I couldn't even think of a bad excuse as to why I had failed to patronize the salon for seven years.
"Come in!" she barked.
I walked into one of those special little rooms and she forced me out of my clothes and into a starchy teal robe.
"Lie down!" she commanded.
And then I asked the stupidest question I've ever asked in my entire life. I'm not sure if it was because I was flustered, or if it was because I forgot why I was there to begin with, but I queried, "On my stomach or my back?"
Okay. Why THE HELL would I lie down on my stomach for a facial? So that she could croutch below my head and attempt to nurture my skin from below? She looked at me as if I was crazy and replied, "What do you think?"
I tried to redeem myself by informing her that I wear sunscreen everyday and drink a lot of water, but she couldn't have cared less. Plus, I don't, and I'm sure she could tell.
Back downtown after the facial, while I was wiping down the menus at work, I got a call from the A.S.P.C.A. that went a little something like this:

Me: Hello?
Man: Hello, Ms. Liederman?
Me: yes?
Man: This is Dr. Armstrong calling from the A.S.P.C.A. I'm calling about Louie.
Me: Oh, hi! Yeah, I'm at work, so I actually can't talk, but he's doing great! His stitches are healing nicely. Thanks so much for-
Dr. Armstrong: Actually, he's not. That's why I'm calling.
Me: What?
Dr. Armstrong: He tested positive for Ghardia.
Me: Wait. Isn't that an STD?
Dr. Armstrong: No. You're probably thinking of chlymidia (sp?). Ghardia is an intestinal parasite. And it's contageous to humans. If you start having an upset stomach, it means that you, too, may have Ghardia.
Me: Cool. Thanks.

I swear this won't turn into some pathetic dog blog (though I suspect that it already has), but like, come on. My dog is a complete disaster. It's always something.

As I grow older, I'm finding it harder and harder to make new friends. It seems like everyone always assumes you have an alterior motive, or they're not interested in meeting new people. The other day I came up the stairs to the second floor and found my neighbor painting her new apartment. We always say hi to each other, but had yet to have an actual conversation. We started talking about her new place (she was moving from the apartment directly next door) and she asked me, "Do you know anyone who's trying to sell or get rid of a couch?"
My friend Jason has been complaining for a while about a couch that he doesn't want, so I told her, "Yes."
We then moved on from the topic of the couch and onto other things, like how we're both bartenders, we know a lot of the same people, etc. etc. Finally I turned to leave, happy that it seemed I might be in the process of making a new friend, when she exclaimed, "Wait! Let me give you my phone number!"
I thought, "YAY! SHE, TOO, WANTS TO BE FRIENDS!"
I shouted, "Sure!! It would be so good to have a friend in the building! We can get drinks sometime, or Annie and I can have you over for dinner!"
There was an awkward pause and she stared nervously at the floor for a second before speaking.
"Well, yeah," she began. "But I was kind of just interested in that couch you mentioned."
I was so embarrassed and felt obligated to somehow save face (which in a situation like this is nearly impossible), so I replied haughtily, "Yeah, well. I was too. I mean, yeah. Me too. I'll talk to my friend about his couch. When I get the chance."
Then I sauntered away like a blithering dork, just then noticing the large, sprawling patches of smegma (sp?) that my dog's penis artfully decorates my coat with each time I carry him up and down the stairs.
On another note, I made the mistake of taking a shower earlier and leaving a topless bottle of soy sauce on the dining table. When I came out of the bathroom with a towel on my head, so fresh and so clean, I took one look at my dog and immediately started gagging because I was convinced he had somehow managed to shit on his own head. My snow-white dog suddenly had a patchy dark brown face, and then I saw the upturned bottle of soy lying on the floor almost completely empty. I've been scrubbing his little head with a savage ferocity for about an hour, and it's still brown, and my entire apartment smells like a discount sushi restaurant.

Annie and I just dropped Louie off at the A.S.P.C.A. to have his nut removed. Actually, nuts plural, but the other nut is still in his abdomen. They'll get that one too. I know it's for the best, but I can't help but feel bad. I wonder if he'll still hump the living daylights out of every male bulldog he sees. It's weird, he has a thing for male bulldogs, and more specifically, he has a thing for their faces. As in, most dogs, straight or gay, will peacefully mount the rear end of whatever dog they find attractive, but Louie only mounts their heads, and then he rides their face for as long as he can. However, there was this one bulldog, Walter, at the dog park the other day who LOVED IT. I was really embarrassed, cause Louie just wouldn't stop, and I kept pulling him off. When I finally picked him up and tried to carry him to another spot in the dog run, Walter growled at me and batted his paw at my leg. He wanted his boyfriend back.
And then--I kid you not--they retreated back to the spot they had had their initial trysts, on this strange little mound of dirt near the back of the park, and resumed. It was their Brokeback Mountain. Anyway, we pick him up at five today, and when we do, he will be testes-free. Poor baby.
I gave my notice at the bar this week cause I just can't take it anymore. I can't take all the drinking I end up doing, I can't take the late hours, I can't stand to be around 99% of the people who patronize the bar.
I got a new job at this French restaurant on Ludlow that I've always loved. I trained for the first time last night. This French waiter named Mano trained me, and the first thing he said to me was, "It eez VERY important to flirt wiz all ze customers. Zat's how you make all your money. Here, watch me."
I then watched him swagger over to a table of three homely women in their mid-fifties, and move his hips in slow, sensual circles as he told them about all the daily specials. Then he began tracing his meager lips with a stubby forefinger as he started in on the wine list, and the women were looking at him as if he were a large, wet, month-old heap of sewage.
The thing is, he's not particularly attractive (think of an emaciated version of Nathan Lane with overly-plucked eyebrows and buck teeth), and so all night as he pulled these seduction antics with every woman who sat in his section, they all responded by giving him either quizzical looks ("Is he serious?") or looks of utter repulsion ("He's definitely serious."). He was totally oblivious to it all.
He also speaks roughly no English, so anytime I had a question about anthing, he would stare back at me blankly as though I was speaking Cantonese. Early on, I cleared a table and asked him where I should put the dirty linen napkins, and he replied, "Yes."
I repeated the question: "No, I was wondering if there was a laundry bag or something where I should put these napkins."
He responded, "Yes. Napkins." I was like, "Thanks for clearing that up for me."
There's a residential tarot card reader named Kyler at the restaurant, and at a slow point in the night Kyler asked me if I'd like to have my cards read. I said sure, and he asked me to ask him about something, anything, and he'd help me find answers. So I asked, in light of my oftentimes tumultuous relationship with Annie, "Will things get worked out in my relationship?"
He had me pull three cards out of a deck (which ended up being Romance, Completion, and Oppression) and then launched into the most vague interpretation of the cards you could possibly fathom. Sample quote: "You may or may not have some or many problems in the near future or future. However, there will be some joy at some point which could be with the person you're seeing. Know that there will be pain and there will be happiness. Stay true to yourself, keep your head up, have faith, and remember: everything happens for a reason."
I was like, "Wait, are you kidding?" He somehow managed, in his ludicrous ambiguiouity (sp?), to string together the cheesiest and most trite Hallmark-eqsue adages I've ever heard in a single speech. I was almost impressed. I said, "I'll definitely point my friends your way when they come by."
Without missing a beat he said, "Really? That'd be great. Actually, see that couple sitting in the back? Would you mind putting in a good word for me? They seemed on the fence about it and maybe you could help them make their minds up."
I was like, "Um, yeah, except, I don't know them personally and it's my first day on the job. I'm not so sure it would be smart for me to try to talk them into having their cards read while they're trying to enjoy a romantic dinner."
"Fine," he spat, and then sulked away like a surly teenager. Speaking of surly teenagers, he was wearing a No Fear t-shirt. Like, wow.

Well, not really. In truth, I don't even know what "March Madness" means. Is it just some generic term that bars like to scrawl across their window chalkboards because there's an ultra-jazzy alliteration factor and they feel it might arbitrarily lure people off the streets and into their joint? Or is it like an official time of year when serious football or hockey games are being played? Not sure. It's been far too long since I last wrote. I've started and stopped a new job (the bartending school things--like, no thanks), gotten into and M.F.A. writing program for grad school (Sarah Lawrence, which is awesome save for the fact that as far as I know, all women who go there have full beards and chest hair), fallen deeper in love with my dog, and have generally just felt like a happier human being. February was the worse.
On another note, Annie and I found ourselves locked out of the apartment for the first time last night (I explained in a prior post that we've been locked IN before, but never out). She was furious and stormed off with the dog, and I found myself in the next door neighbor's apartment for the first time, resting on a brown velour lazy-boy, pounding vodka and pomegranate juice like it was going out of style and pretending to know things about architecture. He's a tall, quiet, older gay man, obviously very neat, and private, so I had never really had the chance to get to know him. He's nice. Very kind. Very fond of vodka. When he first graciously ushered me into his home, he said, "Would you like some vodka?"
I was already slightly drunk, so I said, "No, thanks."
He said, "I'd really like to have a drink right now, but I never drink alone."
I replied, "I'd love some vodka."
And that he did. When the locksmith people finally came to let us back in, I was so drunk that the room was spinning, I could barely remember my name, and somehow managed to mash a jalapeno popper into my favorite jacket.