Earning the Hashtag

Most times when I introduce myself with my most recent label as “LA cliché,” people have a need to feel pity, or if they don’t, then they feel guilty. But, I’m okay with it. I’m probably too okay, actually. I’ve come to terms with the fact because in fact, I was forced to come to terms with it thirteen or so years ago when I decided I wanted to be an actress.

Hi, my name is Olivia. I am a (somewhat) recent college graduate, and proudly, an LA cliché. This introduction has manifested itself anywhere from my first class at Groundlings to opening my account at Chase to (so help me God) meeting someone at a bar.

It is what it very well is. And I’m okay with it.

I’m okay with it until the point where my sanity reaches a questionable level on a Saturday at 7:55 am when there are people waiting outside of the restaurant where I work in West Hollywood. They’re there before me, and based on that alone, my hangover rises to a 15 out of 10.

Until that point, yeah, sure, life is great. I’m living in a positively fab studio in a fab apartment complex which is decorated so fabulously not even the straight men living here are going to complain. It’s one of those old motel-looking buildings from the ’50s with a bunch of single and one-bedroom units surrounding a pool in the center. Not long before I moved in they had re-done the place, not to mention the laundry room which is styled à la Home Goods and even has an elliptical.

The closest thing I can walk to is Las Palmas market which I may visit one too many times I hit writer’s block. For you know, the pilot that I’m writing. Because you know, I’m an LA cliché.

In the opposite direction, though, is Hollywood Blvd., the Walk of Fame, the sight of all sites. I am grateful that I forget how close I am to thousands of tourists cramming to get pics with Batmans and Marilyn Monroes. Every time I drive down it, I whimper slightly in anxiety.

But before Hollywood comes Sunset Blvd. where I’ve found a very large and interestingly beautiful Jesuit church. It’s like being transported back to the good old days of Saint Ignatius College Prep, my Hogwarts-esque high school in downtown Chicago. It’s nice because I feel good about myself for still having the Prayer of Generosity memorized. Mainly I feel good, though, because it’s a five minute walk away, and I wouldn’t be lying if I said I hardly walk anywhere. Because that’s LA, and I’m its cliché.

What might be a bit less cliché of me is that I am a hostess. Not a server. I have not been upgraded to elite cliché status quite yet because I must first put in my time. Either that or take one woman’s advice: “Go to Red Lobster.”

It’s always an option.

But this way, I’m happily putting in my time hosting at a very well-known place within the grasp of Hollywood elite. And I mean literal grasp.

Because when Mr. So&So Producer doesn’t get his four-top table by the window to himself, then there’s hell to pay.

Except when it’s Jay. My beloved customer, Jay, aka the little, old, white-haired man who comes in and sits at the same table every single day. I never want to know that hell.

It’s not even the people worth name-dropping who come in and act like complete entitled, narcissistic assholes. Not even them. They’re the pleasant ones. (Thank you kindly, Rose Byrne, Bobby Cannavale + baby, who merely smiled at my awkward, panicked state of being starstruck.)

Rather it is the more business-like types who proceed to stomp around demanding this table, that table, drier eggs, crispier bacon, softer fries and so on and so forth.

Never have I worked in a restaurant, but never have I seen such foul-mouthed customers. And emotionally-unstable servers. Enough drama to write another series in the Chicago franchise. Except Chicago Hospitality just sounds too nice.

I’ll write the first episode after I finish my pilot and spec. Thanks for wondering.

Is it too late to start implementing the hashtag? #LAcliché.

It’s not all bad, though. In the midst of all the passive-agressive banter by the likes of both employees and customers, there are the friendly, familiar faces of Back of House (BOH). The Latino guys in the kitchen are sometimes the only reason I ever have a (not fake) smile on my face. Not only because they love to call me bonita, but because they laugh at the few opportunities I get to be my silly, ridiculous, hilarious self. I escape to the kitchen to pack to-go orders and just let looooooose.

BOH sings out “OLIVIAAAAA,” and I know I’m in good hands. When the goin’ gets tough, i.e. when I have to deal with whiny vegans about their non-dairy needs, I resort to BOH to get me through the day. This might be a little less cliché of me, and part of the reason why they might like me so much.

I have plenty of  restaurant horror stories, more of which to come in shorter, more frequent posts on this blog. Some of them are too awful to remember because I hate them, but some of them are simply enthralling.

And so I continue to strengthen my legacy as hostess with the mostess – mostess in this sense meaning my ability to not snap at curt executives and keep my fake smile game strong. (I realize I may sound just as curt and unfriendly as the executives themselves, but I assure you, I do have my favorites (mostly dogs) with whom I put forward my BEST self, real smiles and all.) (But dogs are always offered water first.)

All jokes aside, Al Pacino ate an avocado hummus wrap based on my recommendation, so I’m pretty much killing it.

#LAcliché ouuuuuuuuuut.