Apologies for the delay here, folks. Life commandeered my writing hours. I had every intention to be prompt with my deadline, but Glennon would be nothing without her isms if she didn’t let life have its way with her.
Okay so here we are with #3
ASK FOR WHAT YOU WANT: PRECIOUSLY, PRECISELY AND PURELY.
This shouldn’t be groundbreaking information. We ask for what we want almost everyday. Could be telling your neighborhood barista your coffee order, maybe asking your lover or roommate or friend to take out the trash when they leave or bring you a snack, or maybe even run a tiny errand. We all have those small asks we routinely do.
I’m here to tell you to go a liiiittttle bit bigger. Actually, way bigger. Throw those routine asks in the trash. Let’s get LOUD. The bigger the ask, the more fun, yes the higher the risk, b-b-bbutttt the higher the reward. Ask for decaf cappuccino with cinnamon and coconut milk, ask “ if there’s any more flexibility in the budget?”, ask “wait, can you take one more pic?”, ask for the ride home, ask for a second date, ask to get connected to that person in the industry, ask if there’s a special discount, ask to spend the night, ask for the kiss, ask for their number, ask for a second chance, ask for a second helping, and, most importantly, ask for a DANCE. The last one I really mean. Since when did you stop doing this? Hell yeah I wanna slow dance with you, spin me around and dip me over. Let’s not let this behavior, furthermore, art form fade. Could be the best 5-45 mins of your life.
That being said, I’m here to say — do it. Ask for the crazy out-of-pocket thing you want. Worst thing you get is a “no” or…maybe ghosted. Equally possible, equally bothersome. But no is better than nothing. I’d rather have a period than a coma.
So, I have two funny little stories I’ll share that will hopefully win you over and inspire you to do the same.
(Please email me any stories that come out of it. I’m so serious. I LIIIIVEE for a good story.)
My first story is set in Asheville, North Carolina. It’s about two weeks into February 2020. I was working two part-time jobs which meant 6 day work weeks between the two. Why did you have two part-time jobs, you ask? Yes, I understand the confusion. My job hunt for F&B work was strangely difficult. One came before the other and I needed both.
I tried to get a job at Trader Joes to switch things up. Instead of getting covert sexual harrasment in restaurants, maybe stocking produce would be refreshing. Don’t get me wrong, there was a part of me that loved the anarchy of it all. The same way I get sad when my neighborhood catcallers decide to refrain from commentary. Yes, it’s harassment but.. a compliment is a compliment.
I had worked F&B all throughout college once I finished school I was a high school teacher in France and spent my every dime on travel, so I snapped back to F&B out of necessity and easy job access (or so I thought). I don’t really know why I didn’t pursue a 9-5 after my time in France. It just didn’t feel like the reflex.
So I thought TJ’s, why not? Could be fun! I always cherished my grocery runs with my dad there so I thought it could be a good way to connect with him.
It was not fun. Instead I got interviewed THREE times to be sales associate only to be left a rejection voicemail. There is more to this story, but that’s for another time. Therefore, I had two part-time jobs working 5 or 6 days a week and was grateful.
I was a co*cktail server at a very busy, very popular rooftop bar known for its sunset over the Blue Ridge mountains. The view really was spectacular. Once a week. I would do an opening shift and listen to Blonde top to bottom. Watching the light change over the mountains was my reset button.
This story has to do with my other PT job. I was a host / SA / vinyl DJ at a very popular fine dining restaurant in West Asheville. Bizarre role, yes, but that’s exactly what it was. I’d greet people, get them seated, deal with reservations, run food, flip tables, run silver, pour wine, run drinks, pretend to laugh at the line cook’s joke, tell the manager about a no show, console the manager, flip the record, pick out the next one, grab the coat and get the door and say goodbye and thank you with a smile! Oh, and look pretty while doing it. I knew I was a pretty hire turned personality hire. A pipeline I’ve learned to love over the years. I still struggle to accept that I am “pretty” to a majority of people. The 8 years of being called fat and ugly in the crass suburbs of Philly unfortunately still pull weight in my self-perception to my current reality of being conventionally hot.
So February 2020 - Jargon was bustling on a Friday evening and I was gliding through my shift. I greeted these striking middle-aged women at the door. They were elegant, confident yet disarming. One woman was wearing this wonderful scarf. Before they followed me to their table I inserted, “Oof, that is a fabulous scarf…” continuing my glide to table 10, she returned as she sat down, “Thank you! You know it’s funny I just pulled it out. I have a pile of them I used to wear when I was a cute gal in my early 20’s.”
I immediately answered, “Well, I’m a cute gal in my early 20s if you get tired of any of them. I’ll take one.” I whisked myself away. Mostly out of shock for how quickly that fell out of my mouth, partly because it was the second turn on a Friday night. I returned to their table to pour waters and, Heidi, that is her name, took off her readers, laid down her menu and looked at me, “You know, if you’d like to write down your address and contact, I’d love to give you one of my scarves.”
“Incredible, I’ll be right back.”
I quickly ripped off a piece of an old menu at the host stand, wrote it all down, flipped the record, winked at my work wife and sauntered back to the table. I feel such a rush any time I had over my information on a tiny, jagged piece of paper. It is always followed with lore like this.
“Here it is!! Send your best pick.” I grinned, I winked, I waltzed away. Heidi and her friends giggled along with me.
When I went back to clear their table for dessert, Heidi stopped me. “You know, Glennon, I really adore your ability to ask for what you want. You said you are 24 right now? I nodded and smirked. “It’s going to take you very far, I promise. When I return to Aspen, I’ll be sure to send out your parcel as soon as I can.”
Three weeks later, a package arrived. Heidi sent me a vintage Hermés scarf with a very sweet note and an invite to join her and her friends weekly “Inner Matrix” meetings. I attended a few out of curiosity and generosity.
The scarf still sits very pretty in my closet.
This next story is one of my favorites. It’s a favorite due to the unexpected 180 from start to finish—the generosity of a stranger and the core memory it has become. All because I spoke my motherf*cking truth, asked for what I wanted, and, frankly, needed.
The context is endearingly melancholic, but relatable. I digress, let’s get to the story.
This story is set here, in New York, in the spring of 2022. Dijon’s Absolutely came out in November 21’ and I was tethered to it. The timing of the album was eerie for me. It was medicinal. I was slightly addicted. At the top of 2021, I was dumped outside of an Artist and Craftsman. It was my fault, kind of? I was moving to New York and tried to imagine my life with him there and… I just couldn’t, but I really really wanted to. There was a whole combination of reasons, but I knew I needed to figure out who I was in a new city without him. My indecision led to the dumping.
Naturally 4 months later with a cavalier attitude on a freshly single high I landed myself in a long distance love affair turned love bombing. That ended in a dumping of sorts too. But, more gray and more knots untied. It was sticky. But what situationship with lots of attraction, passion but poor timing and poor communication doesn’t go south and get sticky?
(I will have to do another Glennonism column or essay on my long distance emotional love affairs, they deserve their own air time.)
Then, the last piece of my heartbreak sandwich was then finding out my ex of 3 years had already moved on (of course it was only ok when I did it) in a serious relationships, doing long distance with her (karma), then moved to NYC for her, but then still sending flame emojis in my dms, liking my thirst traps and, cherry on top, adding “The Dress” to the Glennon playlist he made me years ago. Safe to say, this album was my emotional support stuffed animal.
Oh, and I found out about this new relationships through a soft launch on his girlfriend’s page, although he had ample opportunity to tell me throughout our many friendly catch-ups. Oh, AND my ex-love affair did the same thing. The demise was catalyzed by the findings of a soft launch of his new girl from her page. Both had ample opportunity to tell me directly, but both choose cowardice instead. Sigh, what a sad behavior that engulfs many men these days.
Now that I’ve painted the picture of the context, let’s get to the happy ending.
Dijon was touring for Absolutely and was coming to Brooklyn. I remember when tickets dropped. For some reason I didn’t allow myself to get them. A few weeks later, I had a clarifying moment after talking to a customer who came into the vintage shop I was working at during that time. It lassoed me back to the ticket site.
They were sold out. Both nights. I was devastated, but not defeated.
I commented on Dijon’s latest IG post doing a shout for a ticket. I thought that guerilla marketing would work. It, instead, almost got me scammed. So, I want to Ol’ Faithful — Craigslist. I saw a few ticket postings and took off the training wheels.
Close to a deadline, I chose radical honesty and sent this email:
Of course, I was floored by the quickness and the kindness of the response. I didn’t expect a response. I didn’t expect anything. Isn’t it sooo f*cking frustrating that’s what usually does the trick?
Then, I got this:
It turned into a very wholesome, very girlie email chain. Obviously, I cleared my schedule for my Friday night and made sure I was available. I texted Rachel, the angel from this story, from the number on her email, thanked her again and said it would be lovely to meet up at the concert.
I arrived at the Williamsburg Music Hall alone and ready for a good cry. May 6th, 2022.
Rachel told me that my tickets were at will call. I gave my name and they handed me my tickets along with a VIP wristband. I chortled. Yes, chortled. This is the exact verb to describe my reaction. I chortled, quietly gathered my cool and thanked the kind lady and her confused face.
I was speechless for about 5 minutes, but my mind was opaque with layered thoughts.
“Did I really just get VIP tickets? 2 days before the show? What the f*ck? I’m so good at life. Is it kind of weird I’m alone? Holy sh*t… what if he’s here? With his new girlfriend? No no no no noooo no they cannot happen.
“Glennon!!!??!?” Rachel spotted me.
She introduced me to her boyfriend and her friend who got me the tickets. Rachel and I had a sidebar until I excused myself to find a good spot for me and my tears before the show started.
The show was incredible. Dijon and his band were transcendent. The curtains closed and I was healed. And I had to pee, really bad.
So I went to find the bathrooms, saw the long line and laughed at my foolishness — to think I was the only one who had to pee. But, then I realized I was VIP. Which meant, there must be a VIP bathroom upstairs.
I was wrong. However, this curiosity led to me to very helpful vantage point. I could see that the showroom had cleared out and Dijon and his band were hanging out chatting with some people and I remembered… I’m VIP.
So I went back downstairs, flashed my band at the security guard and walked back in. I felt it was important I deliver the insane story of how I got to his concert. So important I did not realize how quickly I was moving towards him and the group of people he was in conversation that I abruptly slowed down 5 feet before reaching them and pretended to be in awe of the concert hall. This was probably a weirder move considering the Music Hall of Williamsburg isn’t known for its beauty. But you know what? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, baby. They don’t know what tickles my fancy.
They invited me into conversation and I looked at Dijon and said, “It is verrryy comical you are in front of me right now,” He responded, “Is that so? Tell me why.”
I ended up giving him a synopsis and the long winded story of what you just read, explaining how I was without a ticket two days ago, resale was insane, my earnest Craigslist email, which landed me better tickets than the girl who got me in here.
He was shocked and delighted so we took a selfie to send to Rachel.
I thanked him for the heartfelt performance, the creation of the album and for the laughs and sauntered off.
However, before I finally exited the venue, I saw Michael formally known as, mk.gee. I stopped him in his conversation and said “Hey, I know tonight was Dijon’s show but your music is equally fantastic. Been listening since 2018. Love it,” I followed that with a thumbs up.
He looked me at peculiarly yet charmed, “Ha! Thanks!” and I grinned and made my final exit.
I busted through the double doors, laughed and twirled in a couple circles on North 6th Street and checked my phone to see a missed call and a couple texts from Rachel.
OMFG. You’re joking.
come meet us at this bar a few blocks up. Were with Minka Kelly? LOL, funny story but I’ll explain when I see you.
I met up with Rachel, we embraced, laughed at the serendipity of the evening and promised to keep in touch. Guess what? We still do. I am a woman of her word!
So, put that ism in your pipe and smoke it! Be bold, be honest, and ask for it. You never know how quickly and how smoothly and how cosmically it can unfold. New scarves, new friends, healed wounds and more memories.
The higher the steaks, the higher the reward!
Until next time, xoxo
(I am still welcoming emails if you have stories to share)
