Intipidation

So… I went to IHOP this morning (something I NEVER do because just the smell of syrup makes me ill) because I’ve been craving their steak omelette for the past few days. I’ve only ever had it once. But I really #WantedIt.

When I walked in the hostess asked me if it was my first time dining with them? Huh? This is still IHOP, right? I mean I appreciate the customer service and professionalism but… But…

I digress. I asked to be seated in a booth — there were four booths on the wall with the window. I was escorted to the second booth from the door. There was a gentleman behind me, and another one 2 booths ahead of me. So per international self-diner rules I sat and faced the same direction as them. So we don’t have to stare each other in the face as we’re eating. Well… the next lady that was seated (alone) decided that she wanted to face me. Yay! She then took out her cell phone, put it on speaker, laid it on the table and proceeded to have a very loud conversation while she ate. Double Yay!!!

Annoying as that was — especially because she was not a fan of chewing and swallowing before talking — that is not the purpose of this blog. The purpose of this blog is to discuss what happened when I was done eating and the server brought my check. OK… so she brings me my check literally 5 minutes after bringing my meal. Fine. Just leave it. But she stood over me like I was gonna put down my knife and fork and dig out my money right then. Renee, there are 4 other people in this IHOP… Why are you stressing me? “You can just leave it,” I said and gave her the big eyes with eyebrows raised. She did that. And I continued to eat my omelette and read my fantastic book (The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao).

When I actually was done and she stopped back by to drop off my credit card receipt, she hovered again. Waiting for me to sign and write in the tip. I thought that was weird. I mean, can you back up off me, Renee? First, I’m gonna have to figure out this with my fingers and/or do a little scratch math on the back of the receipt. That’s very stressful, and a bit embarrassing for a grown ass woman such as myself. Second, you not finna stand over me and inTIPidate me.

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“Really, Renee you just gonna stand there and breathe down my neck while I’m trying to do this math? Is that hot? Is that what’s going on in the streets?”

Cause contrary to what you might believe, that’s just going to result in further ‘big eyes’ and a near-invisible tip. Cause see, the thing is, I’m a very good tipper. I respect people in the service industry. I know what it’s like to hustle for next to nothing… But Renee, you’re trying me. How bout this: I would like a bag please for my leftovers. Why don’t you handle that while I handle this?

Please and thank you.

Get yo’ phone out my pocket

OK, so one of my biggest pet peeves is when I see an item of clothing with a non-functional pocket or zipper. I mean, I’ve never understood why that is a desirable design element. Fake pockets that are sewn up, really shallow pockets, pockets so tiny that can’t possibly fit anything in them… I just don’t get it.

So I have decided to start a new photo/series feature called “Useless Pockets” where I photograph clothing with useless pockets that piss me off and share them with all of you (of course by ‘all of you’ I mean my 6 regular readers). Now, in the interest of full disclosure I was 2 or 3 Jack and Gingers in when I decided to undertake this project, and it wasn’t very well thought out. But that’s OK, cause like most new features I start on this blog, it will probably be short lived… Anyway, here is the first installment:

I took this photo of my friend Kacey at a Labor Day BBQ. Now Kacey is a very stylish dude. And I liked the shirt but I gotta say… that’s a pretty ridiculous pocket. What could you possibly put in that pocket? Kacey said that he could put all the numbers he gets from the girls at club in there. And I agreed… I agreed that if it were 1995 he certainly could have done that. But since no one carries pens and paper to write down digits at social outings anymore if he wanted to collect numbers and put them in his pocket, he’d have to put his cell phone in there.

Which is even more ridiculous. This post is stupid. Almost as stupid as that pocket. G’nite y’all.

I smell like salmonella

I smelled like spoiled eggs until 4th grade… Or at least my hair did.

Thanks to my mom and grandmother’s love for Sulfur 8 — the anti-dandruff, conditioning grease that many brown parents swore would make little brown girls’ hair grow. Seriously, if there had been an egg recall when I was in elementary school, officials would have thrown me in the back of the truck with the rest of the “large browns.”

I started thinking about this because a Facebook friend of mine posted about how excited her daughter was to get her hair straighetened for the first day of school. It was gonna be her first time ever having it pressed and she was debating on whether she should take her to a salon or let her mom do it. And my mind immediately flashed back to when I used to get my hair pressed… And then I got angry all over again at my mom for sending me to school smelling like farts. And…

Exhale.

Learning to forgive. I love you anyway, Mommy.

No shoes, No shirt, No college

Prior to becoming a comic I worked in higher education for about 8 years — at two different universities and later, a newspaper that covered the higher-ed industry. During that time, I saw the popularity of online degree and certificate programs skyrocket. A great option for non-traditional students, their pitch used to be ‘flexible scheduling for parents and working professionals.’ Now, apparently it’s devolved into ‘you can go to school in your pajamas.’


I Go to School In My Pajamas! Distance Learning Education – The funniest videos clips are here

This is nothing if not a testament to how lazy we’ve become as a country. And I can’t help but feel that if getting dressed is what was preventing you from completing your degree, maybe college isn’t for you. I mean really, is there anyone out there like, “Man, I really want to become a lawyer and help level the playing field and fight the many injustices in this world… Wait. What? I have to wear pants? Awww, nah then… I’m good on that.”

Doubt it.

I will put my soft shoe up in yo’ …

So I had a show night before last in Lake of the Ozarks, MO. I was about an hour early for the show because I had the showtime wrong so I was hanging out in the back of the showroom and besides the staff there was only one other person there — a lady sitting at the next booth over. I was playing around with my Blackberry when she started talking to me.

LADY: Are you here for the show tonite?

ME: Yes I am.

LADY: Well then get up there on that stage and dance for me. I need to be entertained while I’m waiting.

Ummmmm… WHAT?!?!?


Dance? A little soft shoe, perhaps?!?!?

There was no indication that I was part of the show. And there was no hint of a smile or a joke on her face. She didn’t blink. She was dead serious. And I was livid. I gave her the big eyes and said, “Oh there will be no dancing” and then continued doing what I was doing. But after a minute or two I was so heated I had to get up and move myself over to the bar. I really wanted to hit her — not like in an imaginary dream sequence, but in living color. I was trying to figure out if there was another way I could take that, without jumping right to the fact that it was the most racist thing I’ve heard in years. But I couldn’t come up with anything.

I  was sooooo angry and I wanted to address it on stage, but since no one else had witnessed it, I knew I was just gonna ruin the show for the headliner and the other 99% of the audience. The show ended up going really well for me but I still kinda felt like a punk for not getting at her. On my way back to the hotel I called my Dad, and he basically just told me to take my money and let it go. He’s had to deal with tons of racist comments being one of just a handful of black folks that worked at his company for 30+ years. And I know he was right. My job is to give a good show and get invited back. Releasing that venom definitely would have made me feel better, but it probably would have ensured that I’d never play the venue again.

I’m a bit of a hot head, and learning to pick my battles is a difficult thing for me, but when things like this happen I guess they’re just an opportunity for growth.

Exhale.