I’m a positive thinker, but I’m also jaded. It’s a good balance, and the combination works for me as far as getting through life, but it doesn’t always work in restaurants when I sit down for a glass of wine and some dinner. I’m not sure if it’s just me, and I’m truly cursed, or […]
All Pours Are Not Created Equal
I’m a positive thinker, but I’m also jaded. It’s a good balance, and the combination works for me as far as getting through life, but it doesn’t always work in restaurants when I sit down for a glass of wine and some dinner. I’m not sure if it’s just me, and I’m truly cursed, or if it’s the fact I’m a woman sitting next to a man.
When I’m with my man, it doesn’t matter where we are. Sitting with him, I never get poured as much wine. Even if we’ve ordered a bottle and the waiter pours the wine while we watch him, or the server sets down the wine that we’ve separately ordered by the glass, I always receive less. I don’t get it. At first it was funny—as in annoying and peculiar. After a good amount of time passed, with the same regularity of unfairness, I really began to take notice. Then I started documenting it.
I’m a woman who grew up in apartments in Manhattan and later graduated to condos and co-ops. This is the life I know, and no matter how many condos I live in or own, I never learned how to cook. Or learned how to stay home. I rely on restaurants, and I’m always treated very well when I’m sitting there by myself. So I’m confused by this perplexing dynamic.
It’s only been the last few years that I’ve paid full attention to this unfair phenomenon. Perhaps this was always the case and I was oblivious, but whomever waits on us, male or female, whether it be at a bar, a regulation table, tiki style sand areas with cool looking waitresses, rooftop randomness, private dining rooms, picnic bullshit on the west coast, five-star restaurants in New York, stupid Hawaiian luaus, Vegas for Christ sakes—you name it, I get poured less wine than the guy sitting next to me. Even in New England, where everything is considered equal.
Ron, my significant other, didn’t believe me at first. Month after month of effectively proving my point, he finally saw the obvious. The injustice didn’t make sense. Why do I get poured fewer ounces of wine than he does? I initially joked about how the server or bartender was so taken with my astonishing beauty that he or she forgot to pay attention to the important details—MY POUR. But that line got old, and Ron always thought it was terribly amusing, as if he were in on the joke. Then I started getting annoyed with him, and glaring angrily, and he didn’t find it as funny anymore.
So the fact remains. Many times a week, in various restaurants, I compare my glass to his. These days I barely look at him before trading glasses. He’s cool with it because it’s been proven. I proved it! Yet, THE POUR reared its ugly head again this past month in the lovely cold city of San Francisco. I won’t name this particular pretentious restaurant, at least not yet, although I can’t wait to—maybe the next blog—but the server who first greeted us, poured Ron a full glass of champagne and me just a few sips. Mine was a third of Ron’s pour. What the fuck?
Ron still thought this was hysterical, as I had been building my case for this creepy injustice for a while now. I didn’t find it as funny. Again, I simply took his glass, gave him mine, and glared. Honestly, I don’t know what to do going forward. How will I combat this awful prejudice? I’m a creature of habit. I like exploring new cities, as long as those cities are located in America. (In London, I also experienced similar unfair service.) Whatever it is, let’s put a stop to it. How dare someone pour me, of all people, less wine?
Well, sitting around writing erotic fiction all day tends to make you curious about other magazines’ ideas and thoughts regarding sex. This led me to read an article in Allure Magazine not too long ago. Not my favorite reading material, by any means, but helpful when choosing appropriate eyeliner in a pinch. Anyway, it was […]
Allure Magazine “Sex up your bedroom”
Well, sitting around writing erotic fiction all day tends to make you curious about other magazines’ ideas and thoughts regarding sex. This led me to read an article in Allure Magazine not too long ago. Not my favorite reading material, by any means, but helpful when choosing appropriate eyeliner in a pinch. Anyway, it was called, “How to sex up your bedroom.” I immediately thought to myself: have a lot of sex, perhaps? Hire some hot escorts and situate them around the room? Display porn on both seventy-five inch flat screens? Move the shower closer to the desk? A few other stranger ideas came to mind, but I forced myself to focus. (I have to remind myself from time to time that it’s not all about me.)
Can you believe the team of writers didn’t list any of my great ideas?
Instead the first thing the magazine said was “Keep it dark.” Well that’s pretty standard. It’s also pretty easy when you never raise your shades, day or night. I mentally checked that one off.
The second thing these sex-perts suggested was “Choose opulent bedding.” I scratched my head. Hmm. How expensive was my comforter? Considering I’d purchased it at Macy’s during a fourth of July closeout sale, I skipped that suggestion.
Reading further about this level of opulence I hoped to one day achieve, they advised deep reds and maroon for color. Very sexy, they said. I glanced over at my virgin white bedding. They also suggested silk or satin sheets. Been there, done that. I’ve had sex on satin sheets. Well, let me rephrase that, attempted sex. It was like doing it on a block of slippery ice or on the sidewalk in Massachusetts after the snow melts, and the true cold sets in.
Starting to feel annoyed, I read further. “Light some candles.” Really? Do I look stupid to you? There are accidents waiting to happen, and then there are planned accidents. Practically arson. Hey, I have an idea! Let’s not use a condom at the same time and get pregnant during the fire!
They went as far as to suggest positioning these torches on the bedside table and the windowsill. Hello? If I can’t keep my Tervis from tumbling over three times during the night, then that candle stands no chance . . . and the windowsill? Very impractical considering the fire escape is the perfect place for impromptu sex.
I moved on. “Soften up.” Now what’s that mean? “Throw huge pillows on the floor.” Dude, I don’t have to throw them there. They’re there already, having escaped some time during the night. “It’s nice not to jump right into bed,” they added. No shit, that’s what the fire escape is for. They clearly didn’t get the memo.
And lastly, “Leave your lady things out.” Seriously? What could they be referring to? Tampons? Bottles of douche? Yeah, that really sets a playful tone. Reading further, I saw they meant—and I quote— “dressing gowns, kimonos, playsuits, underwear.” Drape these items over a chair or armoire, they dictated.
First of all, a dressing gown? What are we still in the sixties with our mothers ordering us to slip on a dressing gown before entering the bathroom? Jeez. I flipped to the front cover of the magazine to check the year of the issue and make sure 7-11 hadn’t played a joke on me.
And kimonos? Plural no less! Well, I’m not living in South Korea perfecting my inner geisha. Sitting cross-legged, humming American show tunes, and waiting to be chosen by some narcissistic prick. Sorry, no kimonos arranged scantily on top of my armoire. Nope, not in my Macy’s sale inspired bedroom.
And playsuits? Do they mean like a cat suit? Yes, I have two of those! I guess that counts twice! I made a mental note to take them out of the closet and drape them over the bedpost. Finally, a helpful hint in this excuse of an article.
And the underwear? They didn’t specify ripped or torn, very vague. The editor clearly missed the boat in reviewing this article before it went to print. I vowed to write a helpful letter so he or she could rectify their mistakes or maybe even issue a retraction so bright women like us might continue to read their magazine.