“Average. It was the worst, most disgusting word in the English language. Nothing meaningful or worthwhile ever came from that word.”
― Portia de Rossi, Unbearable Lightness: A Story of Loss and Gain

Today, I wasn’t feeling entirely well, and while I was resting and thinking about what today’s blog topic should be, I drew a blank. The only thing that popped into my head was the Sesame Street song from my childhood, “C Is For Cookie”.

It also got me to thinking how as a teenager, the same kids who learned along with that song would sing it in relationship to grades (since a C or above constituted a passing mark). It was, in a way, a song about accepting mediocrity and the realisation that sometimes, just squeaking by got you the same results as trying extremely hard.

Like many people in my generation, I suffer from a love-hate relationship with both laziness and perfectionism, which are often two sides of the same coin. Of course, sometimes laziness is just laziness–a lack of focus, a lack of discipline, not feeling like doing something because it’s hard and not that much fun. On the other hand, often laziness covers up the feelings that lurk behind laziness: You can’t fail if you don’t even try.

I think this is a common problem amongst people who describe themselves as lazy, ordinary, or not really that great at things. I know it always has been for me; all the auditions I never went to, the stories I never submitted, the books I never published, the jobs I never applied for, I tend to let people think didn’t work out because I’m a bit lazy, a bit disorganised, a bit immature. But the truth of the matter is, although I am a little bit of those things, I also consider myself an extremely ordinary person. There is always a voice in my head that says, “You aren’t special, and you’ll never be good enough.” I don’t know where the voice comes from. If anything, I spent most of my time until my early 20’s being an overachiever. If there was something I could do, I wanted to do it better than anyone else. If there was something I couldn’t do well–say, perhaps, playing volleyball or figuring out how to put furniture together– I tended to not try at all.If I didn’t even reasonably stand a chance at being the best at something, I didn’t do it at all.

This problem has followed me into adulthood, and left me with issues regarding laziness, procrastination, and a general lack of self-esteem. Recently, I had a dream in which I was attending an audition where all the other girls there were tall, beautiful, sexy, charismatic, and danced perfectly…and then there was me, kind of resembling Mary Catherine Gallagher from the infamous SNL “Superstar” skit.

Tonight, before I wrote this blog, The Guy I Am Currently Dating and I watched an episode of The Goldbergs, and in it, the teenage daughter–who is actually pretty, bright, popular, and talented—decides she wants to become a pop star, like most teenagers somewhere along the way. Most kids want to be an actor, a singer, a movie star, the President, anything but an ordinary person. There is this feeling of “If only I were special, life would be easier”, and for some of us, that doesn’t go away with age. In the show, her parents attempt to crush her unrealistic dreams, but what does that is realising that every girl her age thinks they are just as special, just as talented, just as likely to be famous someday. Everyone shows up to the rock concert with a homemade demo, hoping something wonderful will happen and someone will say, “Wow, you’re really special”.

But it doesn’t happen, because in reality, most people don’t have extraordinary gifts. And for people like me, who grew up with very high expectations and surrounded herself with high-achieving, way-more-perfect people all the way into adulthood, the hardest thing to come to terms with is “being ordinary”. If you happen to be able to do a whole lot of things averagely well, is anything about you special at all? Should you even bother doing those things, knowing that so few people will ever really notice? Should you bother to speak if nobody’s listening? If you’re in a group of people where everyone is more accomplished, better-looking, more intelligent, more charming, is it normal to feel so inadequate you wish you could disappear–and wonder if anyone sees you?

I don’t think it is, and “not being special” has held me back from doing a lot of things and taking a lot of chances. I’ve always waited for the “someday” when I was more perfect, and as karma and time would have it, you often become more damaged and less perfect as time goes on. I do not even want people to see me until I’m able to be the person I could and should be, because I can’t stand being the one in the group who isn’t good enough, whom everyone laughs at.

I don’t know why I am this way; the same quality that’s led me to have a larger-than-life personality and a unique appearance and a quirky way of looking at and experiencing the world hides a very deep insecurity, one that says “When I try to be like everyone else and accept being just an ordinary person, nobody knows I’m here”.

The “C Is For Cookie, And That’s Good Enough For Me” mentality was never one I could deal with…yet looking at myself realistically, as an adult, I’m a C kind of person, one who isn’t going to be famous or change the world or be the most interesting person in the room. I’ll usually be less interesting in a social setting than my prettier friend, less noticeable in intelligent conversation than my more accomplished friend, less everything in most situations.

And somewhere along the line, I know the trick is stop caring how other people see you–even if you agree with them—and to just be happy with the little things. It is important to just accept being you.

It was much easier when we were all kids and were willing to make fools of ourselves because we genuinely thought we were showing the world we were special. In reality, that confidence and courage is special, because most of us don’t have it as adults. Not even people like me, who wear glitter and fascinators and have loud voices, and “suck all the air out of the room”. Not even that guy or girl with the great job, the perfect hair, the “just came from the gym” body, and all the friends. Not the woman who has all the kids but manages to still do everything perfectly. We’re all kind of faking it, hoping the world will see something better than a C. So many times, we don’t try, because we’re afraid that the only thing worse than failing is being unremarkable.

Today, I wrote this blog. It was not a masterpiece, and it was perhaps not even very good. It is sitting on the internet, where people, many of whom are better writers than I am, might read it and laugh at it.

I’m learning to be OK with that, because C is for cookie, and at some point, that has to be good enough for me.

C is also for courage, and I sometimes like to think it takes a little of that to write about what everyone else is feeling, but would never tell you.

A lot of the time, I am afraid I am not good enough and there never will be anything remarkable about me. What gives me comfort is knowing I can’t possibly be the only one who feels this way.

The Guy I Am Currently Dating told me I could have a special surprise if I finished this blog before midnight, and I did. I’m going to laugh if it happens to be a cookie.

I have a confession to make: After all these years, it seriously bothers me that other people don’t like me.

I don’t know why it should. I’ve lived on my own since I was 17, survived in some of the most brutal and competitive cities in the world without ending up as a news story, and I’ve met every kind of person on the planet. I’m well-aware not everyone in the world is going to like me, just as I don’t necessarily like everyone I meet. Yet, when it is brought to my attention that someone doesn’t like me, or once liked me and has since reversed his or her opinion, it has an emotional impact.

OMG, why doesn’t everyone like me?

Not only do people not like me, in some situations, I encounter people who actively dislike me. After over three decades of life, I’m still encountering girls who talk about me behind my back, or do little more than glare at me when I see them, although I don’t remember ever actually saying or doing anything negative to them. I’m still encountering people I thought were “real” friends who no longer hang out with me because they have a boyfriend/girlfriend/best friend who doesn’t approve of me. I can inspire women twice my age to send me vitriolic letters and make phone calls that would put a less self-assured person on the brink of suicide. I have made people want to literally destroy my life, and not in the high school sense, where a bad rumour is circulated to make someone cry. Especially in Atlanta, where people are immediately sized up in social situations by money, appearance, and availability for no-strings-attached hookups, I’ve had to deal with the transition of no longer being the person everyone finds fascinating and wants to get to know. I’m a decade too old and twenty pounds too heavy in order to inspire people to pay attention to me for all the wrong reasons, which should be a relief, but it’s not. Instead, it makes you feel rather non-existent, as if you’ve fallen off the social radar of life.

I can make an enemy just by showing up. It turns out that when you’re taught “be yourself”, that mostly only applies if yourself is sufficiently socially acceptable and enough like everyone else that you’re dubbed as “a nice person”.

Why am I not a nice person?

I actually really am. I hold doors for strangers, make small talk with people I don’t know, pay for lunch when it’s my turn to do so, and don’t commit embarrassing party faux pas. On your birthday, I will always send a note or a card or a gift or plan you a party. If I like you, I will send you mail for no reason or share a particularly moving book I just read. I return phone calls, and send my regrets when I can’t make it to things. I am by no means a doormat, but I consider myself a generally nice and empathetic person.

Yet, it consistently shocks me when someone I thought was a friend turns out not to be, someone who is an acquaintance and doesn’t know me is spending time gossiping about me and I’m experiencing social repercussions as a result, someone says or writes something extraordinarily self-esteem shattering behind my back, or someone with whom I have a mild infatuation or am crushing on doesn’t see what an awesome, fun, and loving person I happen to be.

Do I suffer from low self-esteem, or rampant narcissism?

After all, it’s not paranoia if people are really out to get you, and it’s not low-self-esteem if what’s bringing you down comes out of the mouths of other people. Sometimes, it’s people you really care about, although you wonder why. Sometimes, it’s someone you know nothing about. Either way, the rejection and hurtful assessment of what’s unlikeable about you hits hard.

I’ve always been that way. I have always needed everyone to like me, and it’s always come as a punch in the stomach when I’ve heard people say things behind my back. I used to think I was my own worst critic, and then I met other people, and the things that were most hurtful were the things I already feel self-conscious about as a human being. It’s one thing if I look at myself in the mirror and tear myself down on a daily basis, and understand the reason everyone doesn’t love and adore me is because I am not pretty enough, smart enough, nice enough, likeable enough, laid-back enough, skinny enough, entertaining enough. It’s quite another when you hear others saying these things about you.

I was never bullied in high school. I never went through that “I don’t want to go to school because it’s a mean place that makes me feel bad about myself” phase, and I guess I’m fortunate. At the same time, I never learned the coping mechanisms that many of my peers learned early on, namely how to not let rejection and criticism and abject meanness affect you too personally. I went through the same awkward adolescent crap as everyone else, but for the most part, I was a fairly popular and energetic person who was very driven, and thrived on being at the center of everything. I suppose that hasn’t changed.

However, back in those days, for every few close friends I had, I had someone who wanted to tear me down and make me cry. I learned I wasn’t sweet or nice or congenial. I wasn’t the perfectly pretty girl everyone wanted to look like, or the charming one that everyone wondered “How does she have so many friends?”. However, I had enough redeeming qualities to make me a well-liked person by my peers. Still, I was too insecure about the people who said mean things about me to notice that. I wondered what was wrong with me.

I have always been a divisive personality.

I don’t know why. People either love me—in some cases, they actually fall pretty hard or maintain intense connections with me through long periods of time, and are the type that would do almost anything for me—or they hate me. When I use the word “hate”, I don’t exaggerate. I’ve been offered money to stop seeing people, and blackmailed in attempts to get me out of town. I’ve been completely ostracised by groups of people without even knowing what they had against me. I’ve had people say to ex-boyfriends, “Sure, I’ll marry you, as long as you never have contact with that girl again.”

But I don’t, for the life of me, know what’s so objectionable about me. Those who like me find me thoughtful, witty, empathetic, creative, entertaining, intuitive, and intelligent. I’m well-traveled, well-educated, and consider myself fairly cultured. Yet, I try my best to be all those things in a rather unpretentious way. I have a lot of interesting life stories…and I mean a LOT. Some people likely find them more entertaining than others, but isn’t that the same with everyone? Maybe I’m not wealthy enough or attractive enough to have every guy I’ve ever liked fall at my feet in return, or every girl I’ve ever wanted to be friends with to find me cool enough for her social circle, but neither have I done too shabbily in either of those departments throughout my life. I’ve never been one to have trouble finding dates, or relationships, or making new friends in a new place. I will find myself in a brand new city for a day, and have an adventure, and meet 20 strangers. Yet, the reality is, at least 5 of those strangers didn’t really care for me or resented my presence, while another 5 immediately friended me on Facebook.

I know I am not low-key enough to ever win any congeniality awards. It isn’t that I’m not nice. Yet,I say what I think. I stand up for myself, and my ideals. I won’t keep my mouth shut just to be polite, or keep conversation from getting too deep, because I find that painfully dull. If you get to know me, you may just find me rather insightful and compassionate. I won’t decide that glitter and jewelry and other adornments aren’t for me, because they’re too much for other people. I don’t see how the way I use fashion to express myself should form your opinion of me at all, yet I’ve heard it does. Frankly, I sometimes feel like a Real Housewife Of Atlanta, without the money and its advantages.

I know some people find my way of being “too much”, are put off by my rather Northern demeanour, which can come off as brash or abrasive without meaning to. Some don’t like my flirtatious banter or witty observations. Some people dislike my style, my disinterest in simply being pretty and charming and accommodating, ideals that are held very highly in women in the South. Some people don’t care for my ability to make a snarky remark, tell a dirty joke, or drink others under the table while still having a fairly respectable good time. Others don’t relate to my disinterest in marriage and children and having things in my life to nurture and support. Sorry, but I’d prefer to discuss politics over pacifiers any day, and I think a drink with a friend at 6 PM every day should be mandatory.

Of course, then there are those who don’t find me particularly respectable or endearing or charming at all, and that’s not something I can ever change.

But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt my feelings. I don’t intend to come off as obnoxious to some or threatening to others. I just like having fun and living life without too long of a list of rules and boundaries. I don’t mind that maybe some of my choices in life are unconventional, so why should anyone else? If those who judged me bothered to talk to me about my life, they might learn to look at the world in new ways, as I do when I talk to people who aren’t much like me.

So, why don’t people like me?”

The answer is, truly, I don’t know. I do my best to be nice to others while refusing to change who I am, as a person, in order to suit anyone else. It’s never enough. I’ve encountered more hatred and judgment and criticism in Atlanta than I have in my entire lifetime anywhere else, and I don’t understand. I wish I did. But it’s tiring, feeling perpetually misunderstood, on the defensive, or just overlooked.

I don’t think it’s low self-esteem, because most of the time, I think I’m pretty fricking awesome. I’m just secretly crying because someone else I either liked or respected or genuinely cared about didn’t agree, and I don’t know how to brush things off and move on without being too affected, as most adults seem to know how to do.

However, if people don’t like you often enough and criticise you harshly enough, insecurity is an inevitable consequence. You begin to wonder if all the secret little imperfections you see in yourself are so glaringly obvious to others that people can’t stand you. You wonder what people really say about you behind your back, if the bits and pieces you’ve heard are bad enough.

I was always nice to you, so how can you not like me?”

Inside, there’s a 13-year-old girl who asks that, and can’t come to terms with the idea that someone people just genuinely dislike the kind of human being you are. Being yourself doesn’t always win you friends. Being intelligent and accomplished and empathetic doesn’t always make you likeable. If you’re a woman, sometimes being yourself is the fastest way to make enemies, either because the men around you want to sleep with you or they don’t, and the women around you are either threatened or disdainful of the lack of positive qualities you bring to the table.

It’s not fair, but it’s how it is. Yet, it doesn’t hurt any less when you’re the type of person who truly invests in building real friendships and chooses them carefully, or meets someone to whom you’re genuinely attracted once a year, and those things aren’t always treated as the gift they are

If I share myself with someone, on whatever level, it’s a gift…because I don’t take the walls down for just anyone. When I do, those friendships and relationships often become connections that last a lifetime, but when others find them disposable or not that significant, it affects me more than it should. It’s a reminder of why I am so distrustful, so reticent to really bond with others.

I wish that, not just in regards to my own experience but in general, people saw what others bring into their lives as the gift it is.

Why don’t people like me?

I won’t ever know, I suppose. I know I like me, most of the time, though probably no more or less than anyone else. I know I am often unfairly judged, misunderstood, or fit into someone’s life as the “inspiring manic pixie” character who is tossed aside when someone else finally becomes who they wanted to be and found what they were really looking for. It’s hard to be the person who is hurt in all of those situations.

I can only be glad that those who do support me, love me, adore me, maintain infatuations with me, want to be my friend, go out of their way to hang out and call and write and visit, and honestly are happier for having me in their lives feel the way they do. I may never understand why people react so strongly to my personality, either positively or negatively, but I do know I have more enduring friendships and relationships than most. Little is superficial in my universe, and maybe that’s why things are the way they are, because I don’t have much interest in the superficial, the acquaintances, the living life on the surface.

Unfortunately, sometimes, I think I’m in the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong mindset for that.

Perhaps that, more than anything else, is why people don’t like me.

You’d think those three things don’t go together, outside of an unreasonable enjoyment of calorie-filled food that keeps me from fitting into my favourite dress from 2007 (discovering this was a huge blow to the ego, also a theme for this week in my world.), but if you put them together, you have my week.

I haven’t blogged much, and it’s largely because we all have those weeks where, after a few weeks of significant drama, the storm has died down, and everything seems quiet. And, once everything seems quiet, you can’t tell whether relief or boredom is going to set it. That’s pretty much my week in a nutshell.

I’ve gotten used to the fact that my roommate is gone. Like so many other men in my life, our years of friendship and helping each other out counted for little, and he skipped out without paying me or The Guy I Am Currently Dating any of the money he owes us. He gave two months notice, but in reality, it was three days to get the lease signed over, and then he was gone..leaving piles of crap in his half-moved-out-of-room, not cleaning a bathroom that I’m disgusted by looking at, and leaving boxes too heavy for me to deal with sitting in my living room. He’s left no forwarding address, and no longer answers my texts. My intuition tells me that friendship ultimately is a disposable, useful thing for some people, and we’ll never see him again. Yet, I’m struggling financially because I had no notice that I was going to have to spend hundreds of dollars setting up utilities, and paying our rent without any help from him, even though he moved out mid-month. It still makes me really angry when I think about it, but mostly it makes me sad. The kind of betrayal and abandonment I received from him reminds me of betrayals and abandonment that has followed me my whole life. Little is real, meaningful, and nothing is forever. Throughout life, you’ll find most people don’t deserve your friendship, much less your trust. I know this, but every time I let my guard down and someone stabs me in the back, it tears me apart all over again.

As a result, I’ve been feeling particularly vulnerable and not liking people very much. My interactions with other human beings have largely been confined to people I know and love and have earned my trust over the years. On the other hand, my interactions with newer friends in my life have been full of sensitivities and misunderstandings and “Maybe we’re never going to be that close because you can’t give me what I want/don’t know how to be emotionally supportive enough to deal with me/ send out messages that confuse me.” There have been small things that have felt like rejections and criticisms and a general feeling of “Why am I not good enough for you to like me?” in dealing with old friends, new friends, The Guy I Am Currently Dating, and others. There have also been some reactions on my part relating to situations that feel like betrayal from someone I care about greatly…although there is no wrong, no betrayal, no negativity to speak of. It is simply me not adjusting well to change, being reminded that caring means being abandoned, being reminded that I am the sort of person who seeks the attention and affection of those least able to offer it, needing validation and emotional support, and instead of receiving it, hearing “constructive criticism”.

It has made me feel very estranged from the ideas of meaningful friendships, relationships, and allowing new people in my life, in general. It has made me realise that, on an emotional level, I don’t have anyone in my life who truly understands and is able to be emotionally supportive and connect with me on a level that I value greatly. I believe it’s because there’s virtually nobody in my life I love and trust who feels on the same level as I do and is affected by things as I am—the people in my life are largely a far more logical, and often times, emotionally removed, group of people. Rationally, I know it’s a personality difference. Emotionally, it feels like indifference or “It’s not my job to help you deal with your feelings.”

I’ve learned that, when it comes to close and meaningful relationships with others, it isn’t always what people say that truly reflects how they feel about you. It’s what they don’t say that carries the most weight, the absence of support and affection and, as a friend of mine might put it, “validation”. Some people do need that in their lives, because there are so many outside forces and people who “just don’t get you” trying to tear you down. Some of this is anger: people become angry because you will not live life by their rules, and have no interest in conforming to their image of who they’d like you to be, and once that sense of powerlessness kicks in, they have no choice but to lash out or passive-aggressively say mean, hurtful things about you. Some of this is also insecurity: if you’re seen as being too self-confident, too different, too happy being different, there’s an element of that which some mistake as not being approachable. For some reason, particularly in male-female dynamics, the reaction to this is to tear someone down just enough to reveal a level of insecurity and vulnerability, and then attempt to befriend that person.

I see this, I understand this, but when it seems the world is bent on not accepting you as you are and telling you how fucking awesome you happen to be….you want and need people in your life who are going to remind you. Unfortunately, this weekend, my people didn’t offer that, but instead offered a day of being together for 10 minutes and pointing out 7 ways in which my actions, words, or behaviours failed to meet with approval, of telling me I was wrong for wanting that support and validation, and indirectly pointing out “Well,maybe you’re not as great as you think you are.”

A girl can only be on her only real cheerleader for so long, before the input and perceptions of others start to have a dramatic influence. This weekend has changed the way I view some of the people in my life and closed a door that might have led to greater connection and feeling and possibility in life. It has replaced a sense of connection and being on the same page with a realisation that I’d spent time not seeing things clearly, and as every good idealist will tell you, that’s a tough but necessary thing to give up.

In the absence of bonding with people, I’ve spent more time lost in my own little creative world, a world that seems to experience and express emotion freely, and on the same deep experiential level that characterises my life. My whole life, it’s kind of been a world into which I retreat when I am feeling misunderstood. It’s a reminder to my idealistic side that what I seek from life and people does exist, even if it’s complicated, even if I haven’t met the right people to allow that to exist in my world *now*. It’s a reminder that although most people will hurt or disappoint you, life is still one giant possibility.

As a result, I managed to read the entire “The Hunger Games” trilogy in less than three days. I honestly didn’t expect to like it, but from the first book–a fast-moving story which sucked me in with its “reality show gone awry” premise and kept me interested with themes of rebellion and refusing to conform and the battle between love and survival and how some people are naturally wired to choose one over the other, whereas for others, they co-exist–it kept me wanting to read more. One of the most impressive things about the way the books were written, aside from a few particularly well-developed characters and a strong female protagonist, is that I didn’t always know where things were heading. Whenever I thought I’d figure out how the story was going to end, it twisted in another direction, and that always pleases me greatly. I dislike the predictable.

My inner ear issues still haven’t healed to the point where I can handle the movies yet, but I wish they had, as I’d love to see the first movie. I’ve heard they toned things down a bit, in terms of the violence (and none of the violence in the books is of a gratuitous nature; it is often shocking and brutal, but it makes a point. It hits on an emotional level. I’m not a great fan of violence in films, but when it’s necessary to paint the desperation and lack of humanity in a situation–say, in an epic war movie–it serves a purpose.) and they focused a little more on the romantic triangle aspect of the story. Of course, this is necessary to draw in the “Twilight”-loving teenagers, but I don’t think “The Hunger Games” is a young adult story. I think it is far deeper than what your average 14-year-old is going to take away from it.

In a political climate where our government is seeking to limit our rights more and more, and in particular, want to exert inappropriate influence over women and the choices they’re allowed to make about their bodies and reproductive rights, this is the perfect time for this movie to be released. I certainly don’t find that timing accidental.

Last night, after trivia, we also watched “Breakfast At Tiffany’s”. I’d actually never seen the film before, although almost everyone I know told me how much I’d love it. Many of my friends pointed out I’d like it because it’s an atypical romantic comedy–one that says life doesn’t always work out as expected, but still works out, and still has a certain amount of happiness to offer.” Others pointed out the extent to which I’d relate to Audrey Hepburn’s character—and, yes, I see a certain amount of resemblance—and would therefore love the movie. Still others, knowing my love of quirky fashion, pointed out I’d see Audrey Hepburn in this film as a style icon (I now understand why the owner of Dagwood’s said I reminded him of her, due to the fact I’d worn a black dress, my hair in a chignon, and black sunglasses. I just thought he was old and attempting to be complimentary, but, no…apparently he remembered this movie.) *laughs*

The answer is, yes, I did love “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” for all these reasons, and more. I know Truman Capote’s novella was a little less cohesive and a little more scandalous—even in the 1960′s, they had to make reference to important taboo plot points in a very subtle way, and other things had to be removed from the book entirely in order to get it past the censors. The movie’s Holly Go-Lightly is able to pass off her superficiality and life of sin and decadence and disorder as the mark of someone flighty and too innocent for the world in which she’s existing…yet leaves you wondering how much is an act, and how much is part of her true personality, one that has learned the art of scheming, manipulation, and pushing herself ahead in the world. Capote’s character is neither stupid nor naive, and the depiction of her character less endearing. I suspect I may like the book a little more, so I’ll put it on my to-read list. :)

The next time the mother of The Guy I Am Currently Dating calls me up to remind me I’m a trashy, gold-digging whore, someone should recommend she watch this movie. It illustrates that trashy, gold-digging whores can be some of the most charming characters in film history. ;P

As for the hipster bar food—well, that’s just an amusing anecdote. On Friday night, we went to an independent art gallery where some acquaintances of ours were putting on an event to take a look at an art installation and hear 10 local writers read pieces that may or may not relate to time travel. Some were very well-written, some were entertaining, some just lost me completely, but it was energising to spend time with that much creativity and free-spiritedness locked in one room.

Afterwards, a friend of mine suggested a bar called the Bookstore, which appeared to be the kind of hipster hangout where all the girls behind the bar were dressed more like Velma from Scooby-Doo than your typical Atlanta part-time-model-working-behind-the-bar employee, which is what you get virtually everywhere in this city. (People are NOT shy about showing off their $2,000 implants and $700 hair extensions.)

We sat at a giant table on the patio, which, even though there were five of us, 10 people could have easily fit. It was like having Thanksgiving dinner, where you have to yell to the other side of the table.

In addition, everything I ordered, they didn’t have. A friend of mine ordered some sort of disco fries, which I love—but they came with bacon. I asked the waiter if he could hold the bacon, and he mentioned it was in the gravy. I then asked if he could just make me cheese fries, to which he said “No.”. Apparently, the restaurant doesn’t have shredded cheese. They use cheese curd. Finally, I gave up an ordered cheesecake, which was a weird creamy texture custard type thing on top of the world’s hardest sugar cookie.

Ugh. Frustrated, I just wanted a martini. I asked if they could do a chocolate martini. Of course, the answer was “No.”. Despite the fact that the city’s biggest liquor store was right across the street, they didn’t have the stuff to make that. He offered to make a chocolate cake martini, which arrived in the form of clear “cake” flavoured vodka with a sugar rim and slice of lemon. Nothing about it tasted like either chocolate or cake. I don’t know what he was smoking, but they should rename it to “Slightly Less Bitter Lemon Drop”.

I then asked for my standby, an apple martini. In what I see as a theme for my evening, the response was “No”. They didn’t have stuff to make that either. I asked what kind of martini they could make that wasn’t just vodka in a glass with some olives, and he said, “Anything. Except the things you wanted.”

I settled on a raspberry martini, which was, again, a glass of raspberry-flavoured vodka with a sugar rim, and a lime.

Dear Hipster Bar Owners: A martini is not vodka poured in a martini glass with sugar around the rim.

That is all. I don’t think I care for hipster bar food. *laughs*