Get off my land!

As I’ve said before, I do love my neighborhood.  However, recent events have made me very frustrated, and left me in a position of little control.

A while ago, the house that we share a driveway with was abandoned and subsequently repossessed by the bank.  Since that time, a handful of realtors, handymen, and potential renters/buyers have been wandering around, blocking my driveway, and trying to sell me and Jewish Friend property.

That’s not a problem, so much as it is a bit strange and annoying at times.

With the abandonment of the house comes the abandonment of the yard.  The property lines for the abandoned house are very strange in that the yard closest to my house, the one that looks like my yard, actually belongs to the abandoned house.  This is the big yard that recently had the fence run into.  Since the fence has been run into, the gate does not work, and that wide open space is apparently a giant neon sign to the kids in my neighborhood “hey, make this yard your new hangout space.”

Because this yard is right next to my house, naturally, so is that yard, and now these kids.  I mentioned to my landlady a while ago, that it makes me very uncomfortable to have so many people (adults have taken to cutting through the yard as well to save the extra 10 steps it would take to go around the corner) right outside my window.  I stand at the sink doing dishes, and boom, there’s a stranger right in front of me.

“It’s not my fence,” landlady said, “I don’t see why I should have to pay to fix it.”

In her eyes, people are taking over the yard because they know the house in abandoned.  In my eyes, they didn’t start doing this until the gate went missing, and if the realtors can’t figure out the property line, why would she assume a bunch of 8 to 12-year-olds could?

The other night, I was talking to my brother on the phone and I heard scuffling and whispering sounds coming from the yard.  I pulled the curtain back to find about six kids, hanging out, listening to me talk on the phone.  Since they have been spending more and more time there, they have gotten more and more comfortable, and I keep half expecting to find them in my living room once it starts getting colder out.

Something must be done, and I will do it myself.

First, I took the garbage can and placed it in the space where the fence gate is supposed to be.  Within a day someone had moved it aside– clearly my message was not received.

Second, I took the detached bit of gate, and leaned it up against the rest of the fence, then pushed the garbage can against it to hold it in place.  Within a day, someone had figured out that you could still open it from the other side, and (I think) kicked in the door to the potting shed just to spite me.  So now I know that they are a determined lot.

My new course of action has been to take a length of wire, and length of chain, and my recently acquired gunlock and secure the fence in place that way.  If they are very determined, they can unwind the wire, but I made it as complicated and annoying as possible to do, or they can get tools and cut both the wire and chain.  If that happens, I guess I will go buy thicker chain (though I don’t really want to spend money on this situation any more than landlady does– but I would rather not get robbed), or perhaps take a page from the ACME handbook, and sprinkle a lot of tacks along the sidewalk.

I’m not giving up. 

This is them hanging out on my front steps and atttempting to climb my fire escape.  I wasn’t just being an alarmist when I said they are getting too familiar.  Damn kids.

Providence is a city that really wants you to know where you can’t get the bus

I don’t really take the bus, I always mean to but work/work/school scheduling prevents it and I instead become that asshole who says things like “I really wish I could take the bus but my schedule is just so hectic.”

A busy person is never too busy to tell you how busy they are.

Also, I’m a bit afraid to take the bus. I have a huge fear of being stranded miles away from my home and having to walk along the side of the interstate 40+ miles wearing heels in the pouring rain with wolves and other beasties watching my every move because I lack cab fare and my cell phone battery is dead so I can’t inconvenience a friend.  I tried to bury this fear in my initial attempts to become “the girl who takes the bus”, I stuffed my purse with schedules, and read them like they were novels feeling green, public transit savvy, and inordinately proud of myself.

The first time I took the bus in Providence, I had to wait 35 minutes in the blazing sun because the bus was running late; the second time, I got to the bus stop five minutes early and the bus had already left– I started driving myself after that.

Recently, this bit of news came out:

“PROVIDENCE — The state transit authority yesterday spelled out the service cutbacks it is considering, saying it would eliminate a fifth of its service, affecting dozens of bus lines across the state and dropping service to four towns entirely.”

Naturally, as someone who wants to take the bus, I was outraged, especially when I saw that the one bus I might actually take was on the list to be cut.  Later they amended it saying: “Rte. 66 URI/Galilee, all supplemental Summer Beach Bus service”, so I guess that’s ok.

After all this came to light, I had many, many heated discussions with co-workers, and friends where I fiercely advocated for the poor and the carless and almost convinced myself that I will, at some point, take the bus.  Then I started noticing the signs:

So I found that amusing, and Jewish Friend and I had a good chuckle.  Then, like always happens the first time you notice something, I started to see these signs everywhere.

So, I have to ask, with all of the money saved on cutting bus lines is RIPTA just going to turn around and put up 11,000 more signs?  With the exception of the first one, these are quite well made– sturdy, reflective– can’t be cheap.  Also, the first two signs pictured here are on the same street about one block away from each other, and the second is in view of a still-used bus stop– like 10 yards away from it.

Rhode Island, you are just not good with money.

WaterFire

I don’t particularly understand the Providence phenomenon of WaterFire. I’ve seen it, but like a poorly written movie, I feel like I’m missing a piece of the puzzle, and I just don’t understand what the draw is. I mentioned once before, that the night I moved into to town last year was the last Waterfire of the season. So after getting stuck in traffic for more than an hour, my Human Traveling Companion and I decided to wander downtown and see what it was all about.

We stood in front of Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse (a name of a restaurant that I still, also, just don’t understand– is that because the name is stupid, or is it some steak-joke that I just don’t get?) and watched the WaterFire. We watched metal baskets of cedar burn on the river, middle-aged men and women ride around them in gondolas, and after five minutes, acknowledged that our eyes were burning from the smoke and it was time for a drink.

I’ve spoken to other people about my lack of understanding, and found that many agree. “There’s really nothing to see, it’s just fire on the water.” a crazy co-worker said once, and I agreed. So, I don’t get it, and she doesn’t get it, but it seems like thousands of people do because these things are very well-attended, and the concept is being stolen by other cities now. When I took the Providence Trolley Tour to acquaint myself with my new home, the driver went on about how expensive a single WaterFire is to put on, and what a labor of love it is etc. I can’t figure out why it’s so expensive because cedar can’t possibly cost that much, and from what I understand, the workers are volunteers…

The website is rather vague as well, perhaps in an attempt to lure people in without giving them a clear idea what they’re coming to, just that it’s free:

“WaterFire Providence®, the award-winning sculpture by Barnaby Evans installed on the three rivers of downtown Providence, has been praised by Rhode Island residents and international visitors alike as a powerful work of art and a moving symbol of Providence’s renaissance. WaterFire’s one hundred sparkling bonfires, the fragrant scent of aromatic wood smoke, the flickering firelight on the arched bridges, the silhouettes of the firetenders passing by the flames, the torch-lit vessels traveling down the river, and the enchanting music from around the world engage all the senses and emotions of those who stroll the paths of Waterplace Park. WaterFire has captured the imagination of over ten million visitors, bringing life to downtown, and revitalizing Rhode Island’s capital city.”

This Saturday was another WaterFire night that I did not attend. Instead Jewish Friend and took the train to Boston. As we were walking to the train station, the driver of a mini-van waved us over and asked if we were going to Waterfire. I thought the fact that we were both wearing backpacks and walking toward the train station made it fairly apparent that we were not, but I didn’t say that.

“We’re going to the train station.” Jewish Friend told him, indicating the building in front of us.

“Do you know where the Waterfire is?” he asked.

“Well, yeah, it’s back there, on the river.”

“What is it?” he asked.

I left that question for Jewish Friend to fumble through, and she gave him a rather succinct response about water, and fire, and experience etc.

“Do you grill at WaterFire?” he asked, “Should I bring my own chickens, or can I buy them there?”

So this guy drove all the way from New Hampshire (as his license plates indicated) to go to WaterFire, thinking it is an event that includes grilling chickens. At least I’m not the only one who doesn’t get it.

Oh my god, the cleaning lady is racist

The other night, at job #1, was The Gala– the event of the season, the one that society attends to see and be seen, and even some people who can’t actually afford to attend, somehow scrape together to money because it is important. I know these things because I worked that morning and was in charge of labeling the placecards with the correct table number and alphabetizing them.

One of the ladies that I work with is Southern and therefore cares very deeply about the social hierarchy. It was hilarious to call out names so someone else could tell me what table number, and then have this woman gasp “I certainly don’t know how they can afford this”, or “She created the scandal of the decade back in the 60’s by marrying him– the newspaper headline read ‘Heiress marries Negro‘, or “Make sure that you have III not IV– IV is her son and his wife, they’ll be attending as well, of course.” It was fascinating and odd and gross and completely unlike what I grew up with.

Part of me wishes I had stuck around to really see the big show and ogle the fancy people, but I quickly found out that the dress I have been wearing at work all day was far too plain (not that anyone would actually take notice of me), and I’d left my house at 8:30am– I wanted to go home.

Our delightful cleaning lady showed up in her fanciest duds ready to give the bathrooms a quick wipe-down and then volunteer her services. She was shocked at the way we’d gone through paper towels and toilet paper over the course of the day.

“We had a lot of people in from the Black Ships Festival,” someone explained. The Black Ships Festival is an annual event that celebrates good relations with Japan by promoting their culture (I think)– either way, some events included: Sumo Wrestler Meet and Greet, Sushi Making Demonstration, Ninja Demonstration, Tea Ceremony, etc.– many other things that I really would have liked to see and see the kind of people who go to them– my lower class version of seeing and being seen, I suppose.

“Oh, I forgot about that,” the cleaning lady replied, “but I was going to Talbots today, and I kept seeing Chinks everywhere with their paper umbrellas. Get out of my way you Chinks, I kept thinking.”

The three of us averted our eyes and said nothing, one laughed. I’m not really sure what to do in a situation like that, but part of me wanted to say– you know, “Chinks” are Chinese, not Japanese.

I won’t know for sure if it’s 4th of July revelry or gunshots

I used to always have to work on the 4th of July. When I was in high school and didn’t have a car, I had to walk home after dark, and I always made the joke that it was like walking home in Northern Ireland with random booms and pops scaring the crap out of me the whole way. Of course I was waiting for a stray bottle rocket to skewer my wrist, or for a string of Black Cats to dance too close to my shoes. Now my neighborhood is being terrorized by a Laotian gang known as “Laos Pride” who shot and killed a kid six blocks from my house.

“PROVIDENCE — A decision by two Smith Hill teenagers to walk through a pack of Laos Pride gang members cost one of them his life, the police said.

Jeffrey Lopez, 19, was gunned down Monday night on the front porch of an apartment house less than two blocks from where the confrontation took place on a Camden Avenue sidewalk. A second shot grazed the back of Lopez’s friend, Carlos Javier, also 19.”

Apparently the Providence Police’s Gang Intervention Unit has made this a top priority, but I’m not sure what that means since the paper tells me that gun violence has surged in recent months. This is why I don’t read the paper or watch the news.

I was talking to a co-worker about this the other day and she asked if I had heard the gunshots from this recent event. I was out of town at the time, but I told her that I always seem to hear random pops and cracks at night, so much so, that I’ve really stopped paying attention. Her eyes got really big, and she didn’t say anything.

When I lived in downtown Fargo, my parents feared for my safety. My mother told me that the entire year I lived in that apartment, she slept poorly. They find my neighborhood in Providence colorful and charming, “I think people really take notice of me when I’m walking around your neighborhood.” my dad told me when they were here visiting before.

“Why do you think that is?” I asked him.

“I think it’s because I’m so tall, and I have my khaki pants pressed…”

“And because you’re white?”

“I am white.”

I have no big plans for the 4th of July. I have a stack of books and travel DVDs, and a cold I’m recovering from. Apparently Smith Hill is also known for a super kick-ass 4th of July party. I think I’ll sit home, and listen to the festivities hoping all of that booming is the good kind.

city folk

Almost two years ago, on the 4th of July, I went to a demolition derby, in Hatton, ND with D.C. Insider Friend before he was D.C. Insider Friend when he was just wannabe D.C. Insider. It was the first demolition derby I had actually seen, but I’d heard many before since for a while my family lived near the fairgrounds. Because it was a demolition derby, we bought Bud (there’s still some dispute as to whether it was Budweiser or Bud Light), and Jim Beam, and listened to the cars crumple in front of us, got hit by flying balls of dirt, and had a seriously kick-ass time.

Eventually, though, we ran out of alcohol. D.C. Insider said, “I have to go to the bathroom; those people in front of us are drinking, your job is to make friends with them and get them to share.”

This was no problem. While the male half of the couple was a bit aloof, the girl just wouldn’t shut up and was more than happy to share her rum and cherry coke with us. We chatted for quite a while until finally the aloof guy muttered something about “city folk”and gave us a look like we should “get off his land”– we excused ourselves.

Hatton, ND may be a city of 707, but it’s not like Fargo is a teeming metropolis. Also, D.C. Insider and myself had grown up in teeny tiny towns, not unlike Hatton– but aloof alcohol-sharing guy didn’t want to hear that. D.C. Insider was indignant about this turn of events, where I was mostly just confused having never been called city folk before in my life.

Two weekends ago, the Historic Pawtuxet Village in Warwick/Cranston, RI celebrated Gaspee Days and the ritual burning of the HMS Gaspee. The HMS Gaspee was a British ship sent to to colonies to enforce the stamp act. It was a jerk ship, and the colonists had had enough! The burned it in the historic Pawtuxet Village (back when it was just “Pawtuxet Village”), and this act– not the Boston tea party– started the Revolutionary War. Rhode Islanders are so proud of this feat that they re-burn a miniature Gaspee every year, which does not look as impressive as the burning in this painting.

Being a new Rhode Islander, and a lover of all things a bit ridiculous, I simply had to see this event for myself and make my Jewish Friend see it too. Admittedly, it was a bit slow, the colonial fashion show was rather lame, and Jewish Friend was much happier to ogle all of the cute dogs and try to make friends with them than she was to learn about the history of this historic day.

Finally, as we were waiting by the raffle table to see if we had one any of the 500 crappy (chemical peel), and awesome (basket of wine) prizes they were giving away, the re-enactors wheeled a cannon down to the shoreline and fired it off.

I jumped, and yelped “Jesus Christ, that’s loud!” Then they just kept firing the damn thing over, and over. After about five rounds, I just left my hands clamped on my ears, and muttered “why do they keep firing it?”

“They fire the same number of shots that they fired at the Gaspee.” a woman standing next to me said.

“So, they’re actually trying to set that” (I indicated the fake, miniature Gaspee in the water) “on fire with the cannon?”

“No, some men rowed out there earlier to light it, and they’re hiding and waiting for the appropriate number of shots to be fired before they do it.”

“Well, how many shots is that?” I asked her, thinking that this booming had been going on for quite a while already.

She looked at me a bit like my mother used to when I’d put on an outfit she deemed too ‘wacky’ or like my grandmother when I ordered mashed potatoes with a side of french fries, ” You don’t know how many shots they fire?”

The American Diner Museum and I are now enemies

I’ve mentioned before my love (or rather need) for watching travel documentaries. Well, I was perusing the ol’ library stacks a while looking for something about India, when I came across a travel documentary about Rhode Island. What better way to get to know your new home, than to watch a low-budget movie about it? I thought. So I got it, and watched it, and that has already come in handy because on Sunday I went and watched the ceremonial burning of the H.M.S. Gaspee (more on that later).

The DVD (yes, it was actually a DVD), also included a glimpse of The American Diner Museum in Lincoln, RI. Diners apparently started in Rhode Island: “It is generally agreed that the first diner was a horse-drawn wagon equipped to serve hot food to employees of the Providence Journal, in Providence, Rhode Island, in 1872. Walter Scott who ran the lunch wagon had previously supplemented his income by selling sandwiches and coffee to his fellow pressmen at the Journal from baskets he prepared at home. Commercial production of lunch wagons began in Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1887. The first manufactured lunch wagons with seating appeared throughout the Northeastern US in the late 19th century, serving busy downtown locations without the need to buy expensive real estate. It is generally accepted that the name “diner” as opposed to “lunch wagon” was not widely used before 1925.”– Wikipedia.

So they created a museum to honor this contribution to eating, and showcase the history of the loveable institution of “the diner.” Sounds great to me.

A while ago my Jewish Friend and I were driving home from a super-fun-adventure-Sunday hiking in Purgatory Chasm and then eating ice cream. It was early, and we still felt like more adventures could be had. So I pulled out Susan, the trusty GPS and asked her for a list of local attractions.

“Ohhhh, The American Diner Museum.” I said, “I just watched a travel documentary about that. Do you want to go there?”

“What is it?”

“It’s like a tribute to the American Diner.”

“Sounds good.”

Susan was not on her game that day and she made us drive in circles for quite a while leading Jewish Friend to yell out, “Why is she making us drive in circles? Doesn’t she know how expensive gas is?” Finally, we found the museum, and found it to be closed. There were no posted hours on the building, nor did the recording give me any when I called them. So we went home.

The following day, I found their website which promises: “Visitors to the Museum’s permanent home will be able learn the history of the diner through interactive video and exhibits commemorating the numerous diner manufacturers. The Museum’s reference library will provide access to manufacturers’ literature and records, a registry of diners and a collection of photographs and artifacts.” Except there are no posted hours on the website either. So I sent them a politely worded email. I thought maybe, it’s only open during the summer months, and we had visited too early.

The email bounced back– three times.

So I called them, and left a politely-worded voicemail explaining that I’m new to the area, saw the museum on a travel documentary, and would simply love to come visit if they would only tell me when I can actually get into the building. No response.

Now, I have to ask, what is the point of having a museum that no one can visit? Do I need to be a part of a documentary crew in order to get inside? Someone must be paying the phone bill, so why is he or she not checking messages?

I was fully prepared to visit this establishment, appreciate the contribution that my adopted home of Rhode Island made to food service, marvel at olde tymey cooking gadgets, and then leave satisfied and say nice things about it to other people– no more. I fully intend to scoff every time someone else brings it up and say something like “good luck getting in.”

home of the racist potato

And this is why I love librarianship. A while ago, I was sitting at the circ desk at job number 1. A gaggle of teenage girls came in with an older gentleman who had a very chaperonely air. Teenage girls are rare in this type of library, and they all looked very baffled, so the reference librarian asked if she could help them.

Basically, these were girls who go to some private school, and one of their treats for being honor students is that they get to come to Newport and go on some sort of scavenger hunt. They needed to acquire a book from our library, and also were looking for Mr. Potatohead.

Naturally, I found this very confusing, but it was explained to me that Hasbro is located in Pawtucket, RI, and some years ago (to increase tourism, to raise awareness, cause this seems to have been a trend in 2000?), the state decorated large Mr. Potatoheads and scattered them throughout the state. Unfortunately for these girls, no one knew where the potatoheads had been relocated, and 15 minutes of asking the internet and making phone calls only resulted telling us where the potatoheads had been, and confusing the people who were unfortunate enough to have answered the phones.

This made me curious, and I thought that it might be fun to sleuth out where the potatoheads had ended up, and make a day of finding them. So, I settled into my web-based research, only to unearth something a bit shocking: Mr. Potato Head Statue Said Rascist

By Gillian Flynn
Associated Press Writer
Friday, Sept. 29, 2000; 12:47 p.m. EDT

“WARWICK, R.I. –– A 6-foot Mr. Potato Head statue, one of dozens dotting Rhode Island as part of a tourism campaign, will be taken down because of complaints that the grinning, brown-skinned figure appeared racist.

The “Tourist Tater” was painted dark brown to appear suntanned and wore an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt, glasses and a hat.”

And the best part:

“Kathy Szarko, the artist who designed “Tourist Tater,” said that she meant no offense and that several other spud statues are a similar color.

“He’s a potato. That’s why he’s brown,” Szarko said.”

Oh man, what a gift. Of course, you can judge for yourself.

Is that so shocking??

My parents are coming to visit in July. For five days I will have three extra bodies (two of them large, male bodies) crammed into a very hot apartment, three extra people using my shower, and three air mattresses taking up all of my floor real estate. It would be an understatement to say that I’m a little apprehensive about the whole thing, though I am looking forward to free meals (not from Tim Horton’s).

What makes me most apprehensive is the miscommunications we’ve had already in planning this trip. First they were coming in May, but my brother’s work got in the way. Then they were talking about July and asked if there were any dates that didn’t work for me. All I said over and over and over was “end of June through beginning of July, I am going on vacation, I am unavailable those dates. The rest of the whole summer is up for grabs but end of June through beginning of July is off-limits.”

Then I get an email from my mother saying that they’re planning to arrive July 4.

In the subsequent phone call she inquired about the black-out dates on my calendar, and I told her, and I had told my father 1/2 dozen times “I took the time off to go to ALA conference in Anaheim, but that fell through, so now I’m going somewhere.”

“You don’t know where you’re going?”

“Well, we (my Jewish friend and I) were going to go to Montreal, but she doesn’t have a valid passport right now, so we’re re-planning things. If it doesn’t work out that she and I can coordinate schedules– then I’m going somewhere by myself. I have to go somewhere this summer.”

Of course she asked me to switch the days off to coordinate with when they are visiting, but I refused, then she asked, “really, you’d go somewhere all by yourself? Aww.”

This brings to mind another pair of incidents that came one on the heels of the other recently. I was in a class and we had to group up with different people than usual. So I got to meet a couple women from the other side of the room (the room divided itself, rather handily, into the young side and the old side). One of these women had mixed up my friends Mary and Lisa and asked Lisa why in the world she moved all the way to Rhode Island from Texas.

“Actually,” Lisa told her, “I’m from Connecticut, Mary over there is from Texas. But Andria moved here from North Dakota.”

The woman’s jaw dropped and she gaped at me in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“Why did you move here?” she demanded.

“For library school.”

“Had you ever been here before? Why did you pick Rhode Island?”

“No, and because it sounded pretty.”

“You’ve got balls of steel, girl!”

“Erm, thanks ?”

And then she followed with a question that I never thought I would ever in my life hear, “But how do you meet single girlfriends?”

This question perplexed me to no end. I wanted to indicate Lisa, sitting to my left, and say “She’s a girlfriend.” And also assert, “Single or not, I don’t have a very elaborate screening process.” But I was really wondering if she was asking me where to find girls to go clubbing and trolling for men with or something. Do people really do that? Also, she’s a rather tired-looking elementary school teacher, does she do that? What the hell is this conversation about, is she really asking me how to make friends?

“Well, what do you do on the weekends?” she asked.

“Well, I work all week, so on the weekends I do homework and…” These are questions that are very hard to answer. ‘On alternating Sundays I go to pub trivia, occasionally I see movies, or go to parties…’ I mean really.

Thankfully, the professor asked us all to regroup, so I got to shrug off the rest of the grilling, but I was given her phone number along with the offer “I’d love to show you around Providence.”

So that was weird.

Then the following day at work I was having a nice conversation with someone who I genuinely like when she said, “I hope you’ve managed to make at least one friend since you’ve been out here.”

By this point, I’d been in Rhode Island for 7 months– is she kidding?

But I don’t really think that people want to hear that you have a full social calendar and are, in fact, beloved by many. This seems to be a product of never having left a place, and never having had to make friends, although I’m still baffled. Does the woman who asked me where I find single girlfriends actually not have any, or did she just want a new technique? I’m a bit disturbed by the fact that these people seem to picture me sitting home alone, longing for the prairie and the friends I left behind– but that’s their shit.

I am a scandalous woman.

I’m from Montana!

A while ago my friend from cowboy-ski-pole country, Kelly, came for a visit. We saw some sights, relaxed, and ate a lot of cheese. Toward the end of the visit, she expressed an interest in eating a different type of cheese– fondue.

“Do you like fondue?” she asked me.

“Well, I’ve only had it once, but it’s a bubbling hot-pot of cheese with bread on the side, so it’s really everything that I love.”

We did some web-based research and found out that Providence is very lacking in the fondue restaurant department. There was one in Boston that sounded promising, but expensive; and there was a “Melting Pot” in Framingham, MA, which is a bout 45 minutes away. Even though the brakes on my car were making horrifying noises– we drove to our cheese because it’s important.

When we arrived, I must admit, I was impressed with the decor. Sure the outside looked like a car dealership, but the inside was quite cozy, all booths with lots of privacy. There were lots of families with hyperactive 10-year-olds, and petulant pre-teens, but the hostess led us away from all of that to a cozy booth for two.

Our server, a nice younger guy, chatty, but not too chatty, and knowledgeable of wine, came out, lit our tabletop burner, and we ordered our first vat of cheese. We finished it quickly, and ordered another (cause why not). As we were ordering the second, out server asked us, “How did you two meet?”

“Well,” Kelly said, “we went to college together, sort of, and we also worked together, although we really didn’t like each other at first…”

“And the rest is history.” he finished.

“Well, no, not really…” I started.

“I’m from Montana!” Kelly blurted out, cutting me off. “I’m just visiting.”

I looked at her in complete confusion, but the server rolled with it by asking if she skied.

Once he’d gone, I looked at her still with complete confusion, and she responded with, “he thinks we’re a couple, and I would like to sleep with him, I can’t have him thinking I’m gay. Do you think we could work something out so I can sleep with him?”

A week later, I was recounting this incident to another friend on the phone.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” she said, “fondue restaurants are kind of romantic with the food sharing and the fact that it’s kind of expensive. Didn’t you know that? Why did you go there?”

“Because Kelly wanted fondue, and I haven’t had it since we were in Switzerland 7 years ago, and that was the least romantic meal ever. Don’t you remember, we sat at a rustic picnic table in a building that looked like a ski chalet? Also, Kelly said she always goes there with her mom, and there were tons of families there.”

“Yeah, but it’s totally a date place, at least Kelly’s hot.”

At least Kelly is hot.