That Time I Sold Myself for Charity

I can probably count on two hands the number of times I've been asked out on a real date. Narrow it down to requests from someone I'm actually interested in? One hand.

I've never been the girl that guys flock to, or flirt with, or talk about with each other — like, "Is she gonna be at the party? Is she single?" 

I've never been the girl who gets the attention. 

Until two weeks ago.

My attitude toward life for the past six months has gone a little something like this: fuck it.

I was fed up with roommates, flaky friends, internet dating nonsense, money worries, job troubles, and my life in general. So I started taking a new approach.

Sick of my living situation? I moved, broken budget be damned. Tired of trying to arrange outings with other people? I started going solo and exploring on my own. Bored and unappreciated at work? Time to stop saving those vacation days.

This might sound like common sense to most people, but for someone who's spent the majority of her life meticulously planning, constantly worrying, and always trying to please everyone else, this was a revelation. And it was at that point that an email circulated around the office: a friend of an employee was running a date auction for a local charity and needed volunteers to be auctioned off.

Fuck it. Sign me up.

NAME: Lisa L
AGE: 29
OCCUPATION: Copywriter
INTERESTS/HOBBIES: Reading, road tripping, trying out new recipes, fixing up my apartment, exploring the city, pretending I'm outdoorsy
SUPERHERO POWER I'D LIKE TO HAVE: Teleportation (no more parking tickets or taking the T!)
ONE PLACE I'D LIKE TO VISIT: Iceland

I submitted my profile info and then promptly forgot about it for the majority of the next few weeks. It felt like this abstract thing that I mentioned to people, as a sort of "Isn't this hilarious?" conversation topic. (Also: a "these things still exist!" conversation topic.) It didn't feel like something I was really going to have to do.

Until the week before, of course.

In a panic, I got my hair cut and colored. It was a disaster, and I had to go back to the salon to get it fixed. I walked around with frizz and zits for days, certain it wouldn't get better before the auction. In my attempt to not make the night feel like a Big Thing, I hadn't bothered shopping for a new outfit, and that just added another layer of anxiety to the mix a few days beforehand: Do I own anything appropriate for this kind of scenario? Do I own anything that makes me look even vaguely appealing?

The day of, I rushed home from work, cracked open a bottle of wine, and frantically texted my friends for makeup tips. (When was the last time I'd worn eyeshadow?!?) My dress of choice was one I've had for probably four years at this point; the heels were shoes I cursed at last year's Christmas party when I could barely walk by the end of the night.

I inhaled a burrito, downed half the bottle of Chardonnay, and hopped into a Lyft.

The event was held at ICON nightclub, and this marked my first ever visit to a nightclub, period. I teetered up the steps, signed in, and was forced to slap on a name tag that I spent the rest of the night trying to smooth down. I'd known that another girl from work — the pitcher from our company softball team — was doing the auction, too, but it turned out that two more Wayfair people had volunteered, as well. I chatted with them for bit while I sipped my $14 (it's-for-charity, it's-for-charity) vodka tonic, and then forced myself to work the room.

We were encouraged to mingle and talk to guests before the auction, but at that point in the evening, it was nothing but a sea of fellow auctionees. I was impressed by the array of people who'd thrown their hats into the ring: heavyweight fighter, CEO, personal trainer, designer, police officer, engineer, performance artist (yup), marketing manager...the list went on. One thing I realized after talking to people was that most had brought along an entourage of friends and family who could be relied on to bid for them if things became dire.

Per usual, I was completely and utterly solo.

I was having a pretty good time talking with the others, joking (but secretly serious) that my goal was to go for at least $30. It was at that point that one guy, who had participated in the auction before, proceeded to tell me that the highest bid last year was $450.

Whaaaaaaat.

If you know me, if you've read this blog, if you've ever talked to me for a significant amount of time, you know that I'm a total Scrooge McDuck. I don't pinch pennies; I cling to them with a death grip.

It's at this point that people usually chime in with "Yeah, but it's for charity..."

Valid. But the way my mind works? Something like $175 would be my big, all-out bid. Even if it's for a good cause. So, needless to say, I was pretty shocked.

At that point, guests had finally begun to arrive, so I said goodbye to my comrades and started circling the room, awkwardly trying to insert myself into conversations and introduce myself to people. I managed to talk to four non-participants before the bidding began and I was summoned to the stage, told that I'd be the second woman auctioned off. (What do you mean, second?!)

The stage was a tiny thing at the front of the club, and our hosts for the evening were two local radio personalities. (Thanks for dressing up, guys.) The first man up had a little choreographed number planned to the James Bond theme song, and bidding started at $100.

It started at $100?? There went my $30 goal.

Number One had bids pile up pretty quickly, and eventually sold for $300 (they went in increments of $50). One of the next guys opted for a PG-13 strip tease to earn his bids. The first female was an executive chef who loved yoga (theme of the night: all girls "love yoga") and she had a respectable number of bidders.

It all went much too quickly. It was my turn before I knew it.

The upside? There was no time for a full-blown panic attack. I clung to the stair rail and made my way onto the stage. The hosts had some fun with my profile, offering to the crowd that I was good at fixing things: "Guys, she can fix your toilet!" (Nope, really can't.) And the second they started the bidding, I had an offer — one of the people I talked to earlier in the evening! Two points for awkward socializing.

And then something crazy happened. Someone else put in a counter-bid. It was a guy in the back of the room, too far to tell if it had been one of the other people I'd met. But it set off a full-on bidding war.

If there's anything more surreal than watching perfect strangers offer to pay large sums of money just to spend an evening with you, it's this: watching a perfect stranger pay $650 to spend an evening with you. Also known as: the highest bid of the night.

I think the look on my face in that picture pretty much says it all.

So what have I learned from this experience?

#1. I will do almost anything for a good story.
#2. I should probably invest in different shoes.
#3. I'm actually pretty good at holding a conversation when forced to turn on the charm.
#4. I should avoid mentioning my love of yoga in any future dating profiles.

Am I pleased I was able to raise that much for Project Smile? Heck yes. Did I gain a little smug boost of confidence in that moment? Guilty. By the time the night was over, though, that had worn off and mostly I just felt a combination of hysterical laughter, confusion, and squirming uncomfortableness.

I don't all of a sudden think I'm hot stuff, and that guys are going to actually start noticing me now (though I did leave the club with a phone number). Realistically, I just happened to talk to the right person at the beginning of the night — someone who was willing to donate a significant amount of money to the charity no matter what — and I managed to pick a good conversation topic (books, you never let me down).

But at the very least, I learned this, too:

#5. I'm worth more than just $30.

Hanging up my Apron

My first kiss was sprung on me by a boy I'd pined after my entire senior year of high school. We were saying goodbye before leaving for our respective colleges in the morning, and all of a sudden his mouth came out of nowhere, leaving me feeling both terrified and confused.

I did not appreciate it. At all.

My second kiss came from an older gentleman who was watching a Syracuse sporting event from one of the upper-level suites of the Carrier Dome, where I was stationed as the Suite Manager/Suite Liaison/Suite Bitch/whatever they called it. I was in charge of getting the food and drinks to the suite at the right times, and just generally making sure everyone had a good time and that the buffalo wings weren't cold.

It soon became clear that my duties also included making polite small talk with guests who couldn't care less about the game and just wanted to hang out by the bar the whole time. So I did. And when the game was over and the stadium began to empty out, this man walked over, bade me goodbye, laid an efficient smack on my lips, and pressed a $70 tip into the palm of my hand.

This, at least, I appreciated.

It makes sense that the food service industry has played a part in some of the more formative experiences in my life: I've held jobs ranging from bored hostess to harried bartender at various points in my life from the time I was 17.

It all started with a part-time hostessing gig at an Italian restaurant franchise in my town, something to fill my summer days and then, when school started again, the odd evening or two each week. I was in charge of walking patrons to their tables, pre-slicing endless loaves of crusty bed, and telling every group — no matter how small or large, no matter how busy we were or weren't — that it would probably be no more than a 15-minute wait. Okay, if we were really busy, then maybe I'd predict a 20-minute wait. Max.

First lesson of the food service industry: hostesses are full of shit. At least, the teenaged ones making only $7.75 an hour are.

Second lesson of the food service industry: be wary of restaurant owners whose idea of appropriate business attire is a quarter-zip fleece pullover that fully exposes their yeti-like chest hair. Give your two weeks' notice the second said owner tells you that you're "looking foxy today."

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I graduated to a waitressing gig at a Middle Eastern place in the middle of our downtown. Its central proximity didn't do much for its popularity, though; when friends and former classmates learned where I was working, their first response was usually "Where? Never heard of it." That should have been my first hint that I would be making no money that summer.

At the time, it had the look of a dingy cafe — nothing terrible, but nothing particularly appealing, either. The menu options averaged $9 and there was no liquor license, so I quickly realized that I would essentially be making only $2.75 an hour. My "tips" were like puddles in the desert: juuuuust enough to keep me going.

I was also the only person working there who didn't speak Lebanese, something the assistant manager — a tiny, somewhat shriveled old lady with a permanent frown — seemed to hold against me, if her constant glare and muttering whenever I asked a question were any indication.

The restaurant has since acquired a liquor license and undergone a full renovation, turning it into a swanky-looking place that's packed every time I've driven by during visits home. 

I bet the tips are amazing now.

I curse its name every time I see it.

In college, I worked a variety of odd jobs, but the one that stuck all four years was slaving away for the Carrier Dome's catering department. I started out as a runner, literally running giant platters of food from the kitchen to the suites just before the mad rush of halftime. I then worked the hotdog concession stands on the lawn before football games, waking up Saturday mornings while it was just barely light out and walking to the Dome through grass that had begun to frost over during the night. When it switched to basketball season, I mastered the cash register at the Italian Stand, handing over endless subpar chicken parm sandwiches and overpriced meatball subs.

I soon graduated to Suite Master, and then some sort of vague senior role during my final two years due mostly to the fact that I was reliable and had been around long enough to know the ins and outs of most of the jobs. I started working during the week, managing the meals for the different sports teams after practices or helping with special event dinners. I stocked the suites in between games, riding pallet carts filled with cases of beer down the empty halls of the stadium and having endless pointless conversations with my coworkers about how much homework we had, how we longed for the free time our peers wasted, which events we hated working the most.

It was expected to bitch about the job, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. There was something eerie and exciting about working in that giant space when no one else was around, and I secretly loved it. My meals were more often than not provided by the events I worked, or simply care of the friendly kitchen staff who would feed us leftovers even on days when there was nothing going on. If I could change anything about my college experience, I wouldn't have worked less — I would have chosen to simply study less.

So that's how I ended up in Boston, nearly three years ago, applying to work for a catering temp service that hired out servers and bartenders to events that needed the extra help. That's how I worked my first wedding that was marked by a hysterical bride and three gigantic performing drag queens. That's how I slowly got to know each of the million universities within the city limits, serving re-heated bacon-wrapped scallops and mini quiche by the trayful to both alumni and prospective students. That's how I had my first visit to the Cape (summer wedding) and attended the very first Boston Calling concert (beer garden).

When I finally landed a real, full-time job, I continued to bartend on the weekends because I have never been one to turn down extra money. Time went by. Raises and bonuses happened for the first time in my life. I got another new job. And I finally realized a month ago, with a weird jolt, that I really didn't need to keep bartending.

Maybe, instead, I should, like, try to have a social life? We'll see.

Either way, it's time to hang up my apron for good; pack away my bow and bistro ties, my scuffed black wingtips, and my now-dingy white Oxford.

Goodbye, my friends. You served me well. Probably better than I served anyone else.

A few more friendly tips learned from the food service industry:

Lesson #3: When they put out coffee at the end of an evening event, it's all decaf — no matter what the sign says.

Lesson #4: If the hors d'ouevres look like the frozen stuff you can buy at Costco, they probably are.

Lesson #5: You can become — and remain — a bartender without knowing anything about mixing drinks as long as you're charming and hard-working.

Lesson #6: Everyone should work a food service job at least once in their life. At worst, it will teach you humility and appreciation for others. At best, it will bless you with endless crazy stories and experiences, as well as some impressive biceps courtesy of all the heavy trays, racks of glassware, and cases of beer.

Eating Our Way Through Boston

I distinctly remember having a conversation with my mom a couple years ago where she made this telling statement:

"That's what our family is all about: going to church and eating."

I'm not going to touch the first part of that declaration, but you'll get no argument from me about the latter half.

Meals are the major pillars that define my family's time spent together. Don't get the wrong idea; it's not like we're these skilled food connoisseurs looking to hit up all the "It" spots or dine on delicacies. For us, food has a more subtle, ingrained presence: my grandma making daily trips to Shop Rite every time we visit, even if just to replace the four bagels consumed that morning; lengthy discussions about the quality of this year's Jersey corn and tomatoes; debates over where to go for dinner based on the possession of strategic gift cards and coupons.

It's even more than that. Treasured memories always seem to take place around a dinner table or in the kitchen, and the first step to entering the ranks of the adult women in my mom's family is mastering the art of making Easter bread. (For my dad's family, it's spaghetti sauce — or "gravy," if you're talking to my aunt Rosie.)

So it only makes sense that when my parents visited last weekend, our time together was planned around food. It's the Lombardi way. 

• Rino's in East Boston was the perfect place to stop on the way back from the airport. My mom heard about it on Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives (not sure that it fits any of those three descriptors, but okay), and eating here was one of her two only requests for the visit (the other was visiting the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum; check and check). It easily stood up to my favorite Italian place in the North End, and the portions were massive, so my parents blessed me with the greatest gift of all: their leftovers.
   
• Saturday morning, we walked a few blocks from my apartment to The Paris Creperie for breakfast because my dad (1) hates eating too much "heavy" food and (2) turns into a hangry monster if he has to wait too long for his meal. I have yet to have a bad meal here, and they get bonus points for having a Liz Lemon-themed crepe! Word of warning: this place is always packed during peak hours, so be prepared to get your crepe to go if all the tables are taken.
   
• Post-museum, we took an ice cream break at FoMu in Allston. Each flavor is dairy-free, made with either coconut or some other nut-based milk and, more importantly, is ridiculously good. I'm not lactose intolerant or vegan, and I'd still pick this over other traditional ice cream joints in the area any day.
   
• The Publick House in Brookline was a place I'd heard good things about, and this was my chance to give it a shot. My grilled pork chop with maple chipotle glaze didn't disappoint, but the clear winner was my mom's soy braised short rib with asian pear risotto and napa cabbage slaw. I'll be getting that next time.
   
• Sunday morning was spent in the South End, getting brunch at The Gallows. We started with a shared blackberry lavender donut from The Gallows' sister shop Blackbird Doughnuts and admired the giant Ouiji board wall while waiting for our meals to arrive. I tried to offset the weekend of crazy eating by ordering the kale salad (with crispy ham and fried egg — I'm not dead) but was eyeing my mom's wild mushroom frittata the entire time.
   
• We had just enough time to wander around the SOWA market and share a snack from The Cookie Monstah before it was time to head to the airport. 

At the rate I'm going, I may have hit all the best food spots in Boston in, oh, let's say 100 years. 

Deep Thoughts (Brought to you by: Red Wine)

This winter has really been wearing on me, so I decided to escape Boston last weekend and went to see Adrienne and Dominik in NYC. While there, we had lunch with one of their friends who has lived in the city for about nine years — and she said she couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

Wait. Nine years? 

She didn't have a husband to stay put for. She didn't have kids (that I knew of). She had a job, but not one that she couldn't theoretically have elsewhere. She just...loved living in New York City.

I was baffled.

It's not that I can't imagine anyone loving New York City. It's more that I have a hard time imagining loving anywhere that much. Loving it enough to want to stay there, just because. It really got me thinking about the idea of home, and what it means to most people. What it means to me.

It's like this: I used to be irrationally afraid of sleeping over at other people's houses. It's not particularly unique because, at around the time this happened (fifth grade or so), I was inexplicably panicked about everything: kids at school making fun of me, people thinking I was weird, people thinking I was fat, the fact that one day I would die, the fact that one day my parents would die — the list went on and on. When the time came that I actually did spend the night at someone else's house, I just wouldn't sleep. Easy as that.

Senior year of high school rolled around. I momentarily grew a backbone and decided to go to college at Syracuse University — the farthest away out of all the schools I'd been accepted to. I felt smug that I hadn't given in to my fears and enrolled at the University of Michigan, which was a mere 45 minutes away with perfect traffic conditions.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep for the first year.

Though I did not grow to love Syracuse and its city's post-apocalyptic charm, I did finally break the spell that kept me firmly tethered to Michigan and the house that I'd spent half a dozen years living in. From then on, when possible, I spent summers interning in other cities (D.C., Boston), studied abroad (London), and constantly dreamed of going anywhere but here.

I've lived in Ohio, Michigan, New York, D.C., England, Massachusetts, New Mexico, and Pennsylvania. But ever since I grew out of my parents' house, I have yet to find a place that really feels like home. And I worry that I will never find such a place — in fact, a small part of why I took a road trip around the U.S. four years ago was to surreptitiously scope out possible future living situations.

This is what I understand about the concept of home:

1. "It's where your heart is." To me, that's dumb, because your heart is in your chest, and your chest is wherever you happen to be (unless you've been involved in a terrible motor vehicle accident or equally awful bear attack). To most people, I think this probably means that the location encompasses or is adjacent to those that you love, romantically and/or emotionally.
2. It's where you feel most comfortable. 
3. It's where you feel at peace, content.
4. Dare I say, it's where you feel happy?

I actually Googled "what is home" and waded through some of the results, but it got a little too nebulous for me to accept. It's well and good to say that home is wherever your husband/lover/life partner is, but what if I don't have one of those? Next.

"Home is where I can take my bra off." If that's the case, then I've got a kingdom's worth of homes to choose from! (Just kidding, mom.)

"Home is where the rags of your life are turned into quilts, lemons become lemonade, and a few extra pounds are simply welcomed as more of you to love.” Good Lord, barf. Note to Self: stop consulting Real Simple for life advice.

Before I moved to Boston, I was back in my parent's house in Michigan, climbing the walls and itching to escape. Boston and D.C. seemed like the two most logical choices for a future home base, since both were fairly large cities and would likely have more job opportunities, and both were home to at least one person I could probably count on for emotional support. Honestly, it was pure luck that I ended up in Boston: Adrienne finished grad school and was looking to move into a place she could afford, and that meant getting a roommate. It was that Sign from the universe that I'm always looking for, and I grabbed on to it.

Two years later, I'm still in Boston and Adrienne has split. And lately (okay, for the past six months, at least), I can't help what wonder: what am I still doing here? I always figured that decent reasons to stay put included a mix of (1) your dream job, (2) good friends, (3) love, and (4) a great city/town/desert island. These days, I've got maybe one of those — and to be perfectly honest, it's hard to out-and-out love Boston right now, with this Winter of Discontent so firmly blanketing the city and no signs of it letting go. 

But it's not just the winter that's getting to me. It's that ever-present itch, that feeling that I'm missing out on something better just because I'm in the wrong place. I always assumed that I wouldn't feel that way anymore when I finally found the right place to be, but what if that never happens? What if I was just born with a heart filled with Wanderlust instead of the more easily remedied Regular Lust?

What if Boston is Home, but I just haven't found the Right People to make it so? How long do I wait around for that to happen? What if I find the Right Job, but it's in the Wrong City? What if every place I've lived was the Right One, but I left before it had a chance to be? (Scratch that last one, Pennsylvania was not, and never will be, the Right One.)

WHAT IF I'M JUST A TERRIBLE PERSON WHO IS NEVER SATISFIED WITH ANYTHING IN LIFE?

These are the things that I worry about, now that my nights aren't consumed with thoughts of boys making fun of me or my parent's funerals.

Date Night Win: Picnic on the Charles

It's officially winter, and while other people are gearing up for holiday cheer and cozy fires and pretty snow, I'm filled with dread.

I've long suspected that I am, physiologically, just not built for the cold. I'm someone who gets a chill just from sitting. Inside. While wearing three layers of clothing. Every winter, I waddle around like an overstuffed sausage because the only way I can manage to leave the house is if I've armed myself with an especially thick pair of long johns under my (logically) skinny jeans.

As I type this, I'm rapidly losing feeling in my fingers and my nose is like a half-melted ice cube: cold and drippy. It was 55 and sunny today, people. This doesn't give me much hope for when the actual cold weather arrives.

All this meandering whining is to say: I'm feeling nostalgic for those blazing hot summer days.

Dock along the Charles River

One of the great things about living in Boston is getting the "Major City" vibe while still being in close proximity to the ocean. Like, hop-on-the-T close. Some days, however, a trip to the beach just isn't in the cards. For those days, I've found the Charles River to be a pretty solid stand-in.

This past summer, on one of the hottest, most humid days of the season, Tim and I packed a picnic and rode our bikes to the docks by the river. We spent the afternoon napping, reading, and watching the boats go by, and it was one of my favorite dates yet.

Fellow Bostonians, keep this in mind for next summer. Use it as your shining beacon of hope to help you get through this hellish period that some people are dumb enough to call "the most wonderful time of the year."

Here's what you do:

FIRST Grab your (1) bike and pack a (2) guilty pleasure book and (3) pair of shades. (I think I was actually reading something way more embarrassing at the time, probably with a pink cover and a picture of a sassy cartoon lady walking a dog.)

THEN Put a couple bottles of your preferred (4) ginger beer in your backpack (mine is the house-brewed Minuteman from Brookline Liquor Mart), along with a (5) lime, and a (6) piece of fresh ginger. If you're not the type to walk around with a knife in your pocket at all times (yes, even at weddings) like my boyfriend is, maybe grab that, too. Fill your dad's old army canteen with whatever (7) rum you have on hand (Kraken is good for this), and you are officially prepared to enjoy some riverside Dark and Stormys — the ideal beverage for watching boats as they both sail majestically and capsize hilariously.

A NOTE Alternatively, you could take the T to the Hynes Convention Center stop, get off, and walk to the Esplanade from there, but why would you want to? Riding your bike beats being crammed into small quarters with a dozen other sweaty people any day.

DON'T FORGET On the way, stop at the Super 88/Hong Kong Supermarket and purchase a couple (8) bahn mi sandwiches at the food court. The lady there is nice and says you're pretty, and the sandwiches are a steal for under $4. 

MY BOYFRIEND SAID IT WAS OKAY If you're feeling brave, cool off with intermittent jumps into the Charles. Yes, it sounds sketchy, but the river was officially cleared for swimming in 2013, when the first public community swim in more than fifty years was held. Technically, you should only swim in it on official, sanctioned days, but sometimes it's just too damn hot to follow the rules.