Payday Loan Hero

A thing that happened at work recently:

Mom chasing her two-year-old daughter down the hallway: Ella! Ella! Ella!
Me, rounding the corner and overhearing: Eh, eh, eh.

She didn’t get it. I couldn’t stop laughing to myself.

My high school boyfriend is a semi-pro cyclist and dealer of bikes.  I’ve been hounding him for years to get me a deal on a bike that’s way too fancy for me, and he’s finally come through.

I’ve been getting serious about riding for 2 solid years now, and I’ve done all my major rides (2 centuries, a handfull of shorter races) on a Schwinn hybrid that cost my mom $75 used in 1998.  This is a huge upgrade that’s desperately overdue.

It’s a gorgeous bike that retails for around $3200, and I’m getting it for $1200.  Anyone who says that virginity is priceless is wrong.  Mine was worth $2000!

Hey, remember when people cared about the environment so much that they made a really terrible/awesome cartoon about it? Ever think that maybe you were getting an oversimplified message about the across-the-board evils that big corporations represented? Or that a silver-skinned, green-mulleted man who, when he wasn’t working, was split up into five different pieces that were stored inside some class rings maybe had some kind of scary ecoterrorist tendencies?

Yeah, well, so did my boyfriend, who collaborated on this hilarious reimagining of the adventures of that multiethnic band of dorks. Enjoy!

I, like every single lady on the planet, love ladies’ magazines.  Which is why I defaced one at the gym the other day so I could share the insights of the Februrary 2008 issue of Redbook with you, my lovely lady readers.

“You know you’re a grownup when…

… you make an appointment to get your teeth cleaned without anyone having to remind you.”

FAIL.  I hate the dentist and I don’t think growing up will ever change that.  Also… this is totally false.  No one does this because dentists mail out those little cards with corny pictures on them telling you that you need to throw more money their way so they can attack your gums with sharp metal objects.

I also have an issue with this because it sort of implies that all grown-ups have health insurance.

“…strangers compliment your best friend on her new haircut and you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to race out and get your own hair styled the same way.”

Oh, so being a grown-up means you’re older than 13?  Does this actually happen?  Come to think of it, it WAS kind of annoying when all my friends showed up to my birthday party with mohawks after I got my own.  NEXT.

“…you aren’t embarrassed to admit you still like Motley Crue.”

FUCK.  I didn’t realize I was supposed to like Motley Crue in the first place.

“…it has finally registered that snooping around on your husband’s computer — whether it be checking his history or reading his email — will never make you feel better, but onjly cause trouble.”

I’m sorry… I stopped on the word “husband.”  FAIL.

“…you remember to change your sheets before you can’t remember when you last changed them.”

I really want to say, “EWWW, gross!  Of course I change my sheets regularly.”  But instead, I say… FAIL.

“…you realize that sometimes it really is better to say nothing at all if you can’t say something nice.”

Uh, if I ever start following this rule, will someone seriously kill me?  Thanks.

“…even thought you still have a great behind, and can rock a pair of low-rise jeans like nobody’s business, you have embraced the truth that butt cleavage is a big mistake for anyone over…well, for anyone, really.”

Two things about this: 1) My sister told a story at dinner the other night where she related something that a coworker had said about my ass, which was along the lines of “Stella’s so tiny, but she has an enormous butt.”  In front of my whole family.  Who then laughed heartily at me. 2) I see a lot of butt cleavage in my line of work… hanging out of diapers.  So I definitely agree with this one.

“…your sister/boss/best friend is in a lousy mood and you let her ride it out, rather than trying to jolly her out of it.”

God, can you imagine if your sister were your boss AND your best friend?  Time for a new life, loser.  Also, “jolly her out of it”??

“…you buy yourself an overpriced pair of boots, a weekend in San Francisco, or a new puppy — just because you can.”

Great, so I’ll finally be a grown-up when I learn how to be a financially irresponsible lesbian who’s uninterested in the serious stray problem we have in this country.  FAIL.

Well, looks like I’m not a grown-up yet!  Check back next month when Marie Claire weighs in on “What Astrological Sign Are Your Boobs?”

What was one of the things I did when I was 6 years old? Watched the pilot episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation with my dad…followed, over the course of the next 9 years, by every other episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. There was also Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and even Star Trek: Voyager before it started sucking serious ass. And of course, all the older seasons of Doctor Who and the entire run of Babylon 5 (some of my favorite TV EVAR). On the slightly trendier side, there was The X-Files and, obviously, Lost.

My friend Drew introduced me to Battlestar Galactica last summer, and I got hooked. I would have started earlier, but neither I, in my old Greenpoint apartment, nor my parents had/have cable, so I had to rent and download to see the first three seasons/movies. And tomorrow is the premiere of the fourth and final season of this incredibly incredible show.

I absolutely love how juiced everyone is about this show, and when I say everyone, I mean fucking EVERYONE. I’ve gotten at least a dozen Facebook messages and gchats along the lines of “so frakkin’ excited” and “so say we all” and making Cylon jokes. Entertainment blogs and magazines are freaking out; I know of at least one viewing party with costumes. For my part, I called up a bunch of families for whom I babysit and offered my services for Friday night…because I need the Sci-Fi channel. It worked: I’m getting paid to be a nerd.

For someone who was pretty underground about her nerdiness for most of her life (I’m an excellent conversationalist, I don’t have acne, I’m not a virgin, I don’t own a “I Want to Believe” t-shirt, but I do own at least one book of the Starship: Enterprise schematics [it was a gift, I swear] etc), it feels remarkably good to be so openly gay for terrific sci-fi TV.

I’ve been working two medical-related jobs recently (more on each later) and had a moment of clarity over lunch while discussing a patient in this research study I’m on with another doctor and the sleep lab technician. We were talking about this particular patient and her crazy brain when I realized, Oh my God. I’m going to be a research doctor and I’m going to spend a lot of my time talking about, dissecting, and analyzing the intricate details of other people’s flaws. With other smart, highly educated people.

Yes!

I like to play ultimatum games with myself when I’m in the car. You know, games along the theme of “desert island” or “Would you rather?” or, in the case that has inspired this writing, “Favorite musical artist of all time.” I allow myself to indulge in this kind of thinking while I’m alone, driving, so I don’t let it seep into my life where thinking like that isn’t productive and the situations don’t exist, i.e., when would you actually only be able to listen to ONE CD for the rest of your life; or have to choose between only eating bar snacks (peanuts, pretzels, wasabi peas) for the rest of your life or never being able to take off your shoes; or if my boyfriend and my sister were both teetering on different cliffs that were about to fall into a lake full of lava, and I could only save one from a horrible death, who would I choose? (BTW, this is an especially difficult choice. I’m glad I’ll never have to make that one again. Sorry, ex-boyfriend!)

Anyway, I’ve been thinking recently about my favorite musicians of all time. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to say musicians, plural, because I can’t even break it down further than favorite solo male, solo female, and band. This is kind of a stupid exercise, because while the experience of listening to solo male and solo female are different from one another and both different from listening to a band, one male musician is not necessarily the same as another one, and some male musicians are closer to the female musicians I like than fellow male recording artists. Also, if a solo musician plays with a band, does that count as a band? All these questions and more contribute to why this is ultimately a futile, meaningless exercise. However, this IS a blog, so…

Let’s start with the fascination I have with why people like types of music, recording artists, and songs, and not others. Is the like or dislike of music based on memories of childhood, sounds and images engrained into our young brains and associated with pleasant, comforting things? Or do the particular frequencies and vibrations of some types of music align with the frequencies of our own bodies? (I like this idea, though I don’t know if it holds any water.) If I had the opportunity to do another senior essay, I’d write it on this topic, I think.

I tend to be pretty picky about music, but I can’t always explain why. It just has to make sense to my ears and my body, though there are several essential characteristics that must be present for me to enjoy. One, and I’ve taken a lot of shit for this over the years, the singer has to be a good singer. Sometimes a good singer is not enough; they have to be an outstanding singer. This is the sole reason why, though I appreciate his music and recognize its importance in American culture, I do not like Bob Dylan. (Believe me, this has started an assload of fights - feel free to criticize me, anonymous reader, but you will likely not be able to sway me out of this opinion. Also bear in mind that while I may be fat, you are ugly, and at least I can diet.)

Two, I hate complacent music. I tend to like my music to be complicated in its arrangements, harmonies, and lyrics — owing, I sincerely believe, to the fact that I listened to nothing but “classical,” that is, instrumental, orchestral, choral, not necessarily from the classical period, music for the first 9 or 10 years of my life (thanks, Mom, Dad, and constantly-playing-NPR!) — but I equally love music that is brilliantly simple. This explains why I tend to hate “sap with a guitar” music along the lines of John Mayer, Gavin Degraw, Damien Rice, Jason Mraz, Jonathan Fartknocker, and Chuckles McSixstring. This also explains why I love Lou Reed’s solo stuff and Joni Mitchell’s early albums. It ALSO explains, I think, why I really enjoy listening to a lot of what is often termed “electronica” but unless I’m drunk, high, dancing, or running at least seven miles per hour, cannot bear to sit around and listen to “house music.”

Three, (and I realize I just fell into this trap not two sentences ago) I don’t really believe in genre, at least not anymore. Words like “indie” and “alternative” used to mean something, but let’s be honest, they don’t anymore. “Folk” has come to be synonymous with “acoustic” and I’ve heard bands like Vampire Weekend called everything from “trip-hop” to “Afropop” to “ska.” Convenient labels, genre headings are ostensibly a way to draw in otherwise incurious listeners but end up being alienating more often than not.

Enough of my music bullshit. I hate reading record reviews because musical choices are intensely personal. And while I respect that people write about their personal choices in music, I have a hard time with the idea that one person is more qualified to judge how good a record is and have that hold sway over a general, faceless public. I agree that Sasha Frere-Jones is a good writer, but why should I take his opinion any more seriously than Joe Butthole’s (also a phenomenal writer)? On to my personal favorites:

Female solo artist: This one was hard. In thinking about all of these, I wondered how much emphasis I should place on the artists/bands that occupied the spot of “favorite” previously in my life, especially those that were my “favorite” when I was a huge, dramatic nerd about music. For anyone who knew me from age 14 through about age 20, I’m obviously talking about Tori Amos, an artist who shaped my very understanding of music, as well as an understanding of myself as a big, dumb, teenage homo-ette. I kind of can’t even bear to listen to a lot of Tori’s stuff anymore, and I haven’t bought her last two albums, so I don’t think I can legitimately claim that she’s my “all-time favorite.” I kind of feel the same way about Joni Mitchell - I will always put “Blue” in my top 10 favorite albums of all time, but I don’t like her later stuff nearly enough to name her the favorite. So who is it? Someone complicated, someone who understands why music works, and someone insane. Yeah, Bjork is definitely my favorite female artist. Her status as solo musician is debatable, since it’s not like she’s “girl with a piano” or even “girl with a theremin,” though “alien with 58 oboes of varying sizes” might be a pretty apt description. I love the complexity of her music, and I love so much of it broken down to solo voice and melody. She’s weird, she’s challenging, she’s got eyebrows for days. What else is there?

Speaking of theremin, male solo artist: This one popped into my head immediately. In a world where the only thing you need to be successful in music is the ability to look good with a scruff of beard, a scratchy yet melodious voice, and a guitar and at least three fingers on your left hand, a crazy, complicated nutbag who makes weird and beautiful music is a welcome distraction. I’m talking to you, Brian Wilson. I confess, this was pretty easy, and also may be considered cheating, since I technically get to include the whole Beach Boys’ repertoire in my folder of favorites. Brian Wilson is, to use the technical term, batshit insane. I certainly wouldn’t want Brian Wilson and Bjork as my parents (oh my GOD, can you imagine how even more fucked up Carnie Wilson would be if Bjork was her mother? On an unrelated note, I always thought it was the most, most unfortunate thing in the entire universe to be a huge fatty named CARNIE), or as world leaders, or even as my local crossing guards, but damn if those crazies can’t put together complex, gorgeous music…which is another good point. Do you have to maybe be a little unhinged to make music that’s uniquely beautiful, a little nuts in its own way, but somehow works?

Favorite band: This one is the hardest, for sure. I have to reference favorite bands of yore, which include Counting Crows (you loved them too, shut up) and The Shins (ditto); and neither of those I say entirely lightly. My college boyfriend speculated once that I may have learned some of my vocal technique, specifically how to belt and sustain a looooooong note in chest voice, from listening to Adam Duritz sing at an early age. The Shins were a band to whom I connected in college and after, and who I’ve finally realized have served their purpose for me and I don’t really need to listen to all that much anymore. Other notables here include, in the distant past, Nirvana and Weezer; in the more recent future, Animal Collective (and offshoot, and my personal contemporary Brian Wilson, Panda Bear) and probably The New Pornographers. I think I rely on solo artists, specifically las bitches, to give me the moody estrogen songs I crave at times, so from a band, I want 98% rockin’ fun. I’m going to have to go with Queen here. For the third time, this is questionable - can I pick Brian Wilson as my solo male and still consider Freddy Mercury as a mere band member? This is my blog, so yes. Again, the complex structure of orchestration and vocals that’s reminiscent of crazy baroque and modernist composers (Russian composers have always, always been my favorite, in terms of orchestral music, at least, and certainly as a former cellist) really, really appeal to me. What else can I say? If you also love Queen, you get it. In this category it’s actually easier to tell you who I hate than who I love, so here are a choice few: Smashing Pumpkins, Maroon 5, Modest Mouse, Death Cab for Cutie (though he should do another Postal Service album, because that one was awesome), Coldplay, and bands with “wolf” in their name.

Also, all my opinions are subject to change as soon as an awesome song happens. Who are your favorites? Give me really compelling reasons to believe/grumpily judge you.

Is it possible not to believe in God but to believe in the power of religious ritual? Or, is it possible to find the same comfort that true believers claim to find through the presence of God (or the nebulous “Spirit”) just by going through the familiar motions of ritual and song? I like to tell myself that I’ve merely figured out what millions of dupes still claim is the Holy Ghost acting in their lives: it’s the self-enforced, self-perpetuated series of rituals that bring the “believer” comfort and not the presence of some invisible life force. That when, as the Bible verse speaks, “two or three gather together” God is not just present … God is created.

Before I go any further, please note: This blog is not the place to debate the existence of God, nor am I interested in hearing your arguments. I’m not looking for anyone to agree, and I’m certainly not looking to defend my position or somehow claim that I am more right or more wrong than any other unqualified rando. So keep that in mind as you read on.

I spent three years of college getting paid to go to church. I was hired by a local Episcopal church to be the alto section leader, which meant that in exchange for about $150/week, I gave up a few hours each Wednesday evening and Sunday morning (and more around religious holidays, like Holy Week) to sing with congregation members who did this for free. I was raised alternatingly in a strict Latvian Baptist and a very lax New England Congregationalist church, neither of which were particularly rooted in religious ritual (no weekly communion, no organized confession, no prayers other than the Lord’s Prayer, among others), so to come to an Episcopal church which was steeped in High Anglican tradition was, in so many ways, a truly awesome, life-changing experience. I finally felt like someone was speaking about God in a way that I could understand: on the one hand, I was not being told that I was “a sinner” at age five or to break up with my Jewish boyfriend when I was 14 (both of these things really happened); on the other, I was not subject to thirty-minute long sermons with no viewpoints featuring Bible verses truncated or excerpted out of context to make convenient little epigraphs. Here was a church where the priests were also scholars (also owing to the church’s affiliation with Yale Divinity School) and who told their congregation that no, we’re not inherently flawed, but no, we’re also not doing our best and change needs to be exacted. Here was a church that campaigned for such change, refusing to perform weddings until the Episcopal church openly acknowledged and allowed gay marriage. Here was my introduction to some of the gorgeous liturgy that comprises the Anglican tradition. And most of all, here was the rigorous training of my voice on plainsong psalms and lush anthems, a segue into the period of my life where my voice, always one part of myself in which I’ve been wholy confident, was at its very, very best. I’ve said more than once to people who know of my experience there that the strongest evidence, for me, in support of the existence of God is this church finding its way into my life.

I think about St. Thomas’ a lot at this time of year because this was when I went into overdrive: 5 services in 4 days (Maundy Thursday, 2 Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday), which meant a lot of singing and a lot of cash. The first time I went through the Holy Week service cycle, I was moved, disturbed, awestruck, and exhausted. At the end of the Maundy Thursday service, the altars were stripped, the priests removed their outer vestments, leaving only their black cassocks on, and everyone left the sanctuary in dark silence. The next afternoon, I listened with anxious tears in my eyes as the choir director and the two male section leaders sang the Passion According to John (which I would get to sing two years later). By the feast after the Easter service, my vocal chords were shot, I was exhausted, and while I may not have been any closer to these people’s conception of Christ, I understood the intense dedication that went into maintaining ritual over and over, forever and ever.

I’m not really one for literary interpretation for personal gain. I used to seize quotes from songs, prose, and poetry, and paste them all over my life, finding commonalities between myself and other people’s words. Since taking an intro literary theory course in college, I’ve become a little more traditionalist in my feelings on finding personal meaning outside of authorial intent (or perceived intent). Still, once in a while, I encounter a piece of text that really resonates with me, even though I’m quite sure the author experienced it differently than I do. One of these examples is a song that we performed every year during Holy Week, a modern setting (David Hurd) of George Herbert’s “Love Bade Me Welcome.” It should be noted that I absolutely lose it whenever I hear or sing this song, for reasons inexplicable even to me. The harmonies are very modern (not usually my favorite, especially next to the other pieces we often performed on Maundy Thursday, including “Ave verum corpus” by William Byrd and the Palestrina “Sicut cervus”… oh, and the Durufle “Ubi caritas”!), clusters of notes that often sounded less than ideal with a choir of non-professionals. But the little progressions of discordance, suspension, and quietly satisfying resolution somehow align well with my own internal vibrations (if you can read music, here’s a PDF copy of the song so you can see for yourself. And here is a recording that I found, performed by a Canadian choir that is much better than the wonderful, wonderfully flawed choir with which I used to perform.) Even more powerful than the music, though, are the words. Keep in mind as you read them that the author wrote this in the 1620s, and yet his words are so simple and so effectively convey an ever-present anxiety, whether Love, to us, means a Christian God, a creator figure, love as a concept, or even the demands of being a “good” person in daily life.

“Love Bade Me Welcome”

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack’d anything.

“A guest,” I answer’d, “worthy to be here”;
Love said, “You shall be he.”
“I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.”
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
“Who made the eyes but I?”

“Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.”
“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”
“My dear, then I will serve.”
“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”
So I did sit and eat.

This is something I wrote last year when I was shopping for a not-close friend’s wedding from her Crate & Barrel registry. I’m reposting here because I went wedding registry shopping again today (but more about that later). For now, enjoy my snide thoughts on unsentimental gifts:

(originally written 4/5/2007)

I hate mostly everything, but I especially hate wedding gift registries. I just moped around Crate & Barrel for 45 minutes getting angrier and angrier at the world as I shopped for this wedding I’m going to in a couple of weeks. Their 6-page registry includes such items as “Scissor Cut Wine Cooler” and “Pancake Warmer.”

First of all, you might ask, what the fuck is a pancake warmer? Well, I’ll tell you: it is LITERALLY a round porcelain dish with a lid. That you can put pancakes in. To keep them warm. Sound suspiciously like a casserole dish? Or perhaps a serving dish? Or perhaps a generic piece of kitchenware? THAT’S BECAUSE IT IS. Second of all, what on God’s green earth would possess someone to think that they need a pancake warmer?

“Holy shit, guys, I was making pancakes for me and my new husband and I accidentally made 500 pancakes instead of just 10. How the heck am I going to keep all these extra pancakes warm while I spend the entire day eating them?”

Or maybe: “I have this huuuuuuuge problem, you guys. I made pancakes yesterday, and I have some leftover, but I don’t want to eat them cold. HOW IN THE WORLD AM I GOING TO WARM THEM UP?????”

And so on. There is so much crap in that store that just does not need to exist. Put your goddamn pancakes in the microwave. On a regular plate. Why do you need a stupid Mario Batali Red Pizza Pan that costs $60? “Oh, the pizza doesn’t taste as good if the pan is blue. Everyone knows that, STELLA.” Why do you need half of the stupid stuff on your list? Yes, I know everyone needs plates and glassware and stemware and all those basics. Fine, I get it. But a set of two “Turkey Lifters” for $9.95 each? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t a “Turkey Lifter” just a FORK????

This is all tangent to my main point: I hate wedding gift registries. I understand that they can be practical, and I’m all for giving gifts that people actually need. But every time I’ve gone to a wedding in the past 3 years where I’ve had to buy the gift on my own (as opposed to going with my parents or something), I’ve felt a little piece of me die inside when I went to Pottery Barn or Bed, Bath, and Beyond or whatever:

“Hey, Lindsay, we’ve known each other since college, and I was there when your first boyfriend broke up with you during exams. And remember that time when you were puking your guts out and I held back your hair and mopped up your foul whisky vomit from my bathtub because you were too drunk to find the toilet? Oh, and I really loved all those times when we shared our deepest, darkest secrets and hopes and dreams and career and life goals. Yeah, you’re one of 5 people who has ever seen me cry. Here’s a set of dish towels.”

I know that when the sun crashes into the moon and I learn to only have crushes on only one boy at a time and I get married, I will find the idea of everyone bringing a gift that personifies them as less than cute. But now, in my idealistic, single, and cheap world, I LOVE that idea. That everyone would give my husband and me something that represents them, or what we mean to them. Or something totally unique and cool that I’d enjoy having in my new house. Or something totally random and weird and beautiful. Or something that’s a SURPRISE. I love weddings, I really do, and to me, wedding registries suck some of the joy (or at least the thoughtfulness) out of a ritual that should be about making new bonds AND reaffirming those that exist with your loved ones.

And that’s exactly why I bought them a set of green bowls and salad plates and a grass pattern engraved serving tray. Shipped to their house. With a gift tag that will be printed out by a computer. In a Crate and Barrel box. With no wrapping paper.

In addition to my relentless pursuit of a superhero degree, I am employed part-time as a glorified physical comedian.  I work about 15 hours/week at a “children’s play space,” where there is open playtime and classes for kids 0-5 (preschool age, though this is not an actual preschool), and on the weekends there are private birthday parties.  My job is essentially to shuttle kids through the birthday parties on the weekends, directing them through various activities where they use their creative and gross motor skills, and generally make them laugh, dance and sing with them, and appease their parents all at the same time.  If this type of business is foreign to you (which it definitely was to me when I first started - when I was kid, birthday parties = picnic table and Slip’n”Slide in my backyard), think of it as a McDonald’s playplace for rich people.

As weird as it may seem, it’s not entirely unusual for me to get hit on while at work.  A lot of the time I suspect that some dads hit on me out of sheer gratitude that I’m the one who is allowing their kids to draw all over me with chalk, and it’s always harmless.  “Thank you so much, you were really great!” they’ll say, and when their wives aren’t looking, follow up with a sly wink.  I take it all in stride because the people who have their parties here are rich, and rich people will tip you $20 cash on top of a $400 birthday party tab if you smile big back at them.

Every so often, though, I encounter an unusually aggressive flirt while working.  You should definitely be thinking to yourself, “Uh, that’s weird.”  Yes, it’s weird.  While I’m certainly no stranger to guys with kids romantically pursuing me, it’s a little sketchy to encounter flirtatious behavior in men who have accompanied their daughter or son to a birthday party.  I mean, I assume that these men have accompanied their children to a party, because the other option — they don’t have kids and they’re coming to a 4-year-old’s birthday party — is infinitely more creepy.

Today’s exchange went something like this:

Him: (lingering in the gym while I’m cleaning up the beach balls and giant parachute) You were really great with the kids.

Me: Thanks!

Him: Yeah, I don’t know how you do it.

Me: Yeah, you know, you just kind of keep going.  Keep your energy up.

Him: You really have a lot of energy.

Me: Um, yeah.

Him: …do you always have this much energy? (Sly smile.)

Me: Which kid was yours, again?

That shut him up pretty well, and I left the room to finish cleaning another area.  Half an hour later, when that party was leaving the facility, he sort of sidled up to me again.

Him: So, heh, do you guys ever host adult parties here?

Me: (thinking, “Seriously?”) Haha, no.

Him: You know, have some drinks, crawl around in the playground…

Me: Yeah, no.  We don’t do that.

Him: Aw, too bad.  You should. (The smile again.)

At this, I made a very pointed glance at his right hand (yes, wedding band) and then  abruptly turned away and did my best to interact with the nearest child.  He left (with his daughter, or the child actor he’d hired to play his daughter so he could come pick up women at a children’s indoor birthday party place) a few moments later, but not before he got my attention one last time.

Him: Well, I guess I’ll see you later.

Me: I guess so, if your daughter is invited to another party here and I happen to be working.

Him: Riiiight.