I'm turning over a new leaf.

After my breakup with M., I allowed myself very little healing time and jumped right back into dating. There was one sweet but brief relationship, followed by a string of almost-boyfriends, one or two almost-girlfriends, and, er, general funsies with multiple people.

Yes, it was hurtful and a mistake, all in all. Live and learn. Had some fun along the way, learned enough about myself to know that it's time for this phase to come to a close. It lasted for about a year, during which time I figured out first that I don't need a partner to feel complete; and secondly, that I don't need to fool around with random people to remember that I don't need a partner.

Things are going well with Coffeeboy. It's new still, so I try not to spill the beans too much. I know that, at this early stage, I would normally run for the hills should someone utter "I think this is going somewhere" to me, so I generally keep my mouth shut, even though I secretly think it is.

He's sweet, but not in a boyish way, and funny, but not in a stupid way. I'm always laughing with him and I feel comfortable with him, just as I am, even with the lights on. He never, ever plays mind games. And we're into all the same stuff, if you know what I mean.

In other words, Coffeeboy is an entirely wonderful idea.

Dishboy, however, is not.

Dishboy started at the restaurant washing dishes a few days ago. He is very, very cute. When I asked him what he'd been doing prior to washing our dishes, he vaguely mentioned travelling, and when I probed farther, I found that he had been travelling Canada, the US and Mexico for the past two years working oddjobs and surfing.

When someone mentioned marriage, Dishboy scoffed, "pfft. Patriarchy." and then went on a long-winded feminist rant.

Dishboy believes in full liberation, including sexual, and is 'quite receptive' to new ideas.

In other words, Dishboy is the absolute epitome of all that is bad for me yet utterly, utterly tempting. This situation would normally play out as follows: I would go out for drinks after work with him one night and wind up in his bed. We'd have awesome sex and then pillowtalk that would last hours and convince me that this one really IS different. Then intellectual talk over breakfast. Then I'd leave my number and waltz through the day like a blithering idiot. He wouldn't call, or maybe he'd leave a nonchalant voicemail just to fuck with me, but I'd never actually go out with him again. And I'd be heartbroken.

Old Jamie didn't realise this. She would've gone out with him.

In fact, I did have coffee with Dishboy yesterday. We ran into each other at a cute cafe that makes terrible cappucino. And we talked, and we flirted, and as I left, Dishboy tried to kiss me.

I didn't let him. I turned my head, mustered up a 'sorry', and walked home.

A few hours ago, I ran into Coffeeboy at another cafe (I promise, I do do other things than just drink coffee. Really. Sometimes.) I just feel better around him. He invited me to a show at the bar he lives overtop of tonight, and I'm going to go, and probably wind up in his bed. Again. And what I haven't learned from this yet, but plan to, is that I'm perfectly strong enough to be without him but want to be anyways.

Since I wasn't enough of a cliche already (SNORT), I've taken a step further in the cliche direction by becoming involved with a regular at work.

He's my age, ish, which is about ten years younger than the average clientele. He comes for the decent lattes, and stays for people watching, just about every day. We had something of a mild flirtation for a few weeks, and I often sat and had coffee with him after my shift. Rumours, I may add, where flying long before anything actually come of it.

I like him. A week ago, I swore I was off dating forever and ever and ever (see vague reference to 'drama' in my last entry - let's just say the cops were involved). And I really don't want to do the whole mind-game dating ritual. Honestly, I wish I could skip ahead a few weeks and really know what's going on. Dating is exhausting!

I've been getting really mixed signals from him. I'm seeing him tonight, and I think I'll just be honest, say I don't want to play games, and what the fuck ARE we?

...and then have more mind-blowing sex. Oh. My. God.

I haven't been posting because of drama that I don't want to write about, yet can't seem to stop thinking about for more than two minutes to tell the world about some restaurant ettiquette.

But, while we're on it, here's a mini-rant:

Have some fucking common sense. The process of you getting your food is not a difficult one to master:

1) You are seated and look at a menu.
(IF IT'S NOT ON THE MENU IT'S BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE IT)

2) I, your ever-pleasant waitress, are informed by you what you would like to eat.

3)I then inform the ever-pleasant kitchen staff (those who have waitressed are giggling right now) what you would like to eat.

Note: if there has been any disruption to the above process to date, I will be shot on sight.

4) The kitchen staff will prepare your meal.

5) I will deliver it.

6) You will eat it. I will then ask if you want dessert, which you probably don't, but I do need my daily dose of futility.

7) I will bring the bill, and you may choose to either pay me or take your bill to the till, where the nearby barista will assist you.

A few variants on this process that simply do not work:

1) Ordering one meal, then five minutes later ordering another for your dining partner. Actually, scratch that, that's all very well and good. However, have some common sense and realise that we're now dealing with two orders, the first having been submitted to the kitchen already, and they will not be up at the same time. Sorry. Next time, make a fucking decision or deal with it.
(GOT THAT TABLE FIVE?!)

2) Ordering something that's not on the menu, proclaiming nonchalently in front of your 20-something double-D girlfriend, "I'm a regular! Boss does it all the time!"

Well, that's great. But Boss isn't cooking, and Chef does not appreciate deciphering my notes on what you think you want, but you can't remember, gee, were those tomatoes? Or red peppers?

3) A literal translation of "shooting the messenger" is "snarking at the waitress". Should something go wrong in the process, it's probably not my fault. Look, we're a bakery. Sometimes we run out of croissants. Snarking at me about how we had them yesterday isn't going to magically bake a batch. Sorry.

Likewise, snarking at me for delivering an order with potatoe rye substituted for miche isn't going to make the customer's dentures strong enough to handle the oh-so-chewy miche they couldn't eat last time. For Christ's sake, SORRY.

The restaurant where I work is kinda of a peculiar place. That said, I don't think it's hard to stick your nose in the door and get a general sense of it for yourself. Firstly, it's a decently sized place with a full kitchen, which should give you some clues right off the bat. Secondly, there's a full barista station and servers running around like mad - more clues.

Here are some things the restuarant is not:

It's not a corner store. Right now is the height of tourist season, and as awefull as it sounds I have to say it: the thicker the drawl, the thicker the customer. I had a woman come in yesterday and ask me if we had anything "that aint so fanc-ay. Like a good 'ol chocolate chip cookie." If we did have a chocolate chip cookie, it would probably cost you in the area of $7 and be the best damn cookie you've ever had. We're not pretentious, but we do appreciate decent lard and will never, ever sell anybody anything that isn't top of the line.

It's not particularily kid-friendly. Good kids do well there. A tablefull of screaming banshees? Not so much. There's not really anything on the menu for kids, unless you have the only kid on the planet who appreciates portabellos. I should have expected it when a group of four redneck mamas donning torn sweatpants came in with at least a dozen under five, but they didn't order a damn thing that was actually on the menu and I got several complaints about the kids, one of which ran straight into the kitchen while Mama was changing a diaper - yes, that's right - on the table.

It's not a whitespot. Off the same cruise ship, I had a man flabberghasted that we didn't have burgers, or even ground beef on the premisis. There's a burger place right across the street! I don't know what part of 'authentic French cafe-bakery' made this man think 'greasebomb', but it did. And no, nothing comes with fries, and yes, the food is portioned by European standards, which basically translates into 'an ammount that won't leave you bloated and uncomfortable all day'.

And for God's sake, it's a bakery. By the end of the day, we run out of some shit. Ya know why? Because we can't just go into the back freezer and get more.


In other news, I'll soon be a barista. The barista who's training me is very, very passionate about espresso and gave me a stack of books to read on the subject. Barista said I was chosen to learn because I've shown a passion for tea - you're right there - he hopes to see develop for espresso. And it is. I haven't actually wrangled the espresso machine much yet, but he gave me a stack of books to read that I'm working my way through. I'm loving it so far.

In the manner of the French and all things compressed and pressurized for zing, I've been dabbling with my old friend Imagism. So here's a glimpse into my current poetic fancies, just how my weekend went, and what I think of my new piercing:

I loved it best
When a wet leaf slapped the window
We fogged.