Fun with NotJenna

Traveling today, so in the aftermath of Jenna's engagement, I thought I'd share a fun excerpt from an essay by New York Times columnist Coco Henson Scales from back in 2004. Ms. Scales spent time as a hostess in a trendy New York City bar, and she encountered a number of celebs, including the First Twins.

Enjoy this revealing portrait of Barbara Bush the Younger:

ONE cold night I am working the lounge when a waitress grabs me by the arm. "A guy wants to talk to you," she says.

I assume it's a complaint.

"This guy," the waitress says, pulling me toward a tall, heavy-set man. He is clasping his hands and leaning his head to one side in a pleading gesture. He is going to ask me if I will let his friends in, I see.

"I'm expecting Jenna and Barbara Bush in about half an hour," he says. "They're going to arrive with several of their friends, but they're not going to stay long, they're just going to have a few drinks and leave. Is this O.K.?"

My first response is surprise — Barbara Bush is coming here? Jenna I would expect, but not her grandmother. Jenna's antics in bars have been well publicized, and it does not seem unusual to me that she would pass thorough our door, or any door for that matter where there is a party. But Barbara Bush? She's got to be 80.

"Yes, the twins. Barbara and Jenna," the man responds quickly. Of course. I feel embarrassed that I know only the one daughter's name.

"They're just going to come for a little while and have a few drinks," the advance man says. I am agitated because the lounge is bottle-service only, and serving cocktails is more work for the bartender and waitress, for less money. "How many are you expecting?" I ask. I let my irritation show.

"I don't know. Maybe . . . eight?"

"What?" I say indignantly, throwing up my hands.

"Please," he responds. "They're already on their way. Please." Yes, begging is good, I think. In lieu of money, I accept pleading. I fold my arms. "I don't know," I say.

"Please." He's on to my game and sticks out his lower lip playfully.

"Yeah, all right," I say, bored now. I suppose it can't hurt to have the Bush daughters here. Not 20 minutes later, I see him leading a dozen people inside.

I rush to meet them and he introduces me. "Barbara, this is Coco."

I smile and Barbara Bush smiles wider. "Hi! How are you?" she says in a very loud voice. She immediately wraps her arms around me. "Oh my God," she says enthusiastically, "I love your shirt. Guys, look at her shirt." I am wearing a black turtleneck. Her friends look and nod approvingly. She surveys the room and steps very close to my face. For a minute I think she is going to kiss me. "Oh my God, this place is cool!" she shouts. "How long has it been here?" Even though the music is loud, her voice is much more forceful than needed to be heard.

"Since August," I say.

"It's so nice!" she says, adding, "You have pretty eyes."

I look around and spot Ariana and grab her arm. "Make sure that you give them a round on us," I tell her. "And, um, Barbara is a bit of a close-talker if you know what I mean."

"Oh yeah?" Ariana says. That is all she ever says. I could confess all my sins to her, tell her I slaughtered my entire family and she would respond, "Oh yeah?" I am irritated that Ariana doesn't share my excitement about the Bush girls being in the house, and so I snap, "I see empty glasses on the tables."

From behind me I hear a loud voice. "Thank you, this is great, really." I turn around and there is Barbara, drink in hand, so close that if I just thrust my lips out a little we would touch. She is smiling widely, and I smile, too. Her friendliness and lack of pretense make it impossible not to like her.

"I love this song!" Barbara exclaims, grabbing my wrists and starting to wave my arms around. She throws her shoulders back and grinds her hips. It is the part of the evening when the D.J. goes old school with Guns N' Roses. For people who work here every night, this is the saddest point.

Fifteen minutes later, I step outside to make sure the entrance is swept, and there I see Barbara bent over, hands on her knees, out on the sidewalk. "Are you all right?" I ask. Please, I think, don't let me see her throw up.

She spits on the pavement. "Yeah, I just needed some fresh air," she says. She stands and I see her forehead is damp with sweat. It must be 20 degrees out, and windy. I want to go back into the warm restaurant, but I stay with her.

I massage her back for a moment. Finally she lets out a loud burp, mumbles, "Excuse me" and returns inside.

I always did think NotJenna was the cute one.