Dinero Stupido -or- Chimichangas de la Casanova

I have a Public Service Announcement to make to you good folks. But I must do it in the form of a flashback.

When my friend Debbie and I were at Epcot for a conference-- and yes, this was the same day I totally, publicly freaked out on the family of Butt Scoochers at Epcot's Test Track-- we decided to have dinner at the Mexican Pavilion. We figured we could do a little shopping in the bazaar, go have a margarita or two... eat... and watch people come out of the ride shouting, "Mio Dios, please make that song stop!"

(The song, at the end of the Mexico ride, really IS one step away from the "It's a Small World" theme. We got stuck in that ride once, right at the end. After ten minutes of that singing loop of Mexican puppet children, it's a wonder we didn't leap out of that boat and run for the border ourselves.)

Anyway. So Deb and I were having our margaritas, and the waiter started chatting with us. Initially, we figured he was just friendly, because, you know, it's Disney. It's not the DMV or the gas company. No, these people were PAID to be friendly there. Everyone's really wonderful. They're genetically designed to be.

So our waiter asked us what brought us there, how we were enjoying our stay, and what we planned to see later.

Now after a day of walking around, we really just wanted to get down to business and order. But hey, it had been so long since either of us had seen good customer service outside of Mouseville, Deb and I figured it was very possible that we just didn't know what that looked like anymore.

So we talked a bit, and Deb told him we'd probably head over to the nightclubs at "Pleasure Island." Then we promptly forgot all about it.

Soon, the waiter came back to check on us. Judging by the level of my margarita, it really hadn't been more than five minutes or so. This round of conversation involved asking more questions about our conference, when we were going back home, and where home was. It would have been okay, only the questions were fairly detailed, and this guy had a lot of other tables to wait on.

Deb and I exchanged raised eyebrows.

Eighth of a margarita later, why, here was our waiter friend again! And Deb and I started to get the sense that our middle-aged waiter was either just a little too into his work or he was using his role at the Mexican pavilion to pick up chicas. This theory was further reinforced when he asked us our names.

Now while I have the utmost respect for servers and the pains they go through to deal with the grimy public, I also don't really think I need to be on... oh... their Christmas card list. Not, at least, for just one evening of seafood chimichangas (no matter how yummy they were-- and, actually, they were really yummy).

So in a blatant, wholly-unconvincing lie, I looked at my waiter and said, "My name's Rachel."

Rachel was the name of my first mystery story's heroine. It is the only name I can ever think of quickly. I am a truly terrible liar, so on those few rare occasions fake names are called for, I am Rachel. It's best to keep it simple, I think.

Our waiter then turned to Debbie and Debbie said, "I'm Debbie." Because, you know, Debbie isn't my friend's real name, anyway.

So we, Rachel and Debbie finished our margaritas and enjoyed a lovely meal, including the aforementioned yummy chimichangas.

As we were winding up dinner, our waiter came back once again. Was there anything else he could get us? Were we sure? Fine, great and...

Oh, so what time would we be stopping over at Pleasure Island? How long would we be there? Was there any particular club we were going to? Because you know, HE was thinking of popping by there himself after work and...

It was Rachel, wasn't it?... And Debbie?

I have to admit, in my plans for my one evening in The Happiest Place on Earth, hanging out with the waiter from the Mexican Pavilion hadn't really crossed my mind. Though, perhaps, this is why I'm still single.

Anyway, Debbie mumbled something vaguely about not being sure when we'd be where, about how she'd be meeting her husband first-- her husband who was, in fact, thousands of miles away settling down to the Steelers game.

The waiter said, well, maybe he'd bump into us over there, and he gave us the check.

That's when we realized neither of us had much cash.

Nope, Debbie and Rachel were going to have to use the ol' credit cards, oh yes!

And so, the moral of the story, my friends, is: if you're going to lie about your name to someone, make sure they are also not the person who has to run your credit card through with your name emblazoned all over it.

Don't be like Debbie and Rachel.

Hasta luego, amigos.

You have to be this tall to ride at Humor-Blogs .


Alice said...

That had a I'm-gonna-slip-something-into-your-drink-at-Pleasure-Island vibe to it.

And now he's got your credit card info!

Jenn Thorson said...

Alice- Actually, he has DEBBIE'S credit card info, as we ended up with one check and I went and got cash. (Her card is fine, by the way. No strange charges.)

I don't think there was necessarily nefarious plans afoot, but he definitely did like us a little too much!

Da Old Man said...

I have a pseudonym also. It's funny when mail comes to my house addressed to Angelo Feinberg, especially when everyone promises they will never contact me.

Glad it all worked out, Rachel. As usual, great story. Now I want a chimichanga.

Jenn Thorson said...

DaOldMan- Angelo Feinberg is so... multi-cultural, isn't it? Has a good ring!

I'm kinda hungry for Mexican myself now, Angelo. :)

Greg said...

Oh, now THAT's a punchline!! Thanks for the laugh, Raych...

Jenn Thorson said...

You bet, Gregoire! :)

jadedconformist said...

Also be aware that there is a trick that many persistent men may use to see if you've given them your correct phone #. They will recite the number you gave them and change one of the numbers. If you say 'Yes, that's correct', then they know you're trying to avoid them--and you would think they'd get the hint at this point, but many might still insist on the correct one after that, if they're really THAT oblivious about your disinterest.

Jenn Thorson said...

Jaded- Ah!- Very good point. Of course, with me, that might backfire because I so rarely call myself, I might not notice the inversion! :)

jadedconformist said...

So, uh. Jenn, is it? Can I get that #?

:) LMAO. Great blog.

Jenn Thorson said...

Jaded- That's 714... no wait, 417... no, um... :)

Hey, thanks for stopping. Glad you got a laugh.

chyna said...

I've rarely used my "other" name but sure is good to have one in case you're getting hit on by creepy men. Mine is Samantha Strohs, just enough to be close to my name but far enough nobody would ever track me down. LOL

You could have just taken the check and credit card up to the cash register too. Then pray you get someone else. ;)

Jenn Thorson said...

Chyna- Samantha Strohs sounds like a novel character. :) Or maybe a TV detective. I like it.

I guess we could have tried to get someone else to take the check, yeah. I think we just kinda panicked. Because BOY the jig was UP. :)

Rebecca said...

That's hilarious! While I've never been in the same situation myself, your post brings back memories of times spent hanging out with my best friend during college. Every once in a while she would get hit on by random guys, like waiters, who would be annoyingly flirtatious. All I could do was roll my eyes very obviously and impatiently wait for them to go away so we could get back to our conversation!

Jenn Thorson said...

Rebecca- Ha, yep, what you described was exactly the way this played out, too.

We'd just start talking about something and then it was, "Oh no, here he is again."

There is attentive, and then there is... TOO attentive. :)

chyna said...

I kind of got it from Samantha Fox. gulp and my brother had this winter hat for Strohs beer. My maiden name was Strommen so you can see how easy it was to remember my "name". LOL I always thought that Samantha Strohs sounded like a beer model or a stripper. ;)

Jenn Thorson said...

Samantha Strohs as beer model-- makes sense! I forgot all about Samantha Fox. She was really big there for a while.

Anonymous said...

Now, usually my 'problem' is that I frighten waiters, but I think if I was ever in a situation where I had used a psuedonym and then needed to pay with my credit card, I'd walk up to the main cashier and pay the tab there. If asked about why, I might even go so far to say I didn't want to make a fuss, but the waiter was asking personal questions, and I wasn't comfortable.

Now, this could backfire, too, but it might save face at least momentarily and let you get the hell outta there discretely.

Jenn Thorson said...

Rhet- Yep-- but that would imply I'd actually be THINKING properly about the situation. Which after an intense work conference, was SOOOO not happening. :)