why the cheesecake factory, discontinued bras and 9-5 jobs are for losers.

31 Jul

So like the worst thing ever in the history of the world of my breasts happened today when I went cruising around the mall with my babygirl and hit up Gilly Hicks to grab one or eight Saturday night bras and THEY’RE FUCKING DISCONTINUED OR SOMETHING. Like instead of the little metal ring that used to be in the middle of your boobs, they replaced it with some prissy bow and there’s more fabric than there used to be and it just doesn’t have the same va va va voom factor and now my self-esteem is pretty much gonna be non-existent and my life is over and I never want to talk to you again. I don’t care if I’m being dramatic, my breasts are very important to both me and many other people and they are not something that I really feel like fucking with. The thing about bras, for all you 3 guys reading this, is that once you find the one that gives you the proper lift, support and separation, you don’t let it go. And these Gilly Hicks ones were some sort of miracle workers and now I only have 4 and they’re all in rotation so I’m totally gonna be screwed in like 2 months when the collection needs rejuvenating and all I have is some Wonderbra that pushes the girls up so high that I occasionally stop breathing and this old lady bra I have that consists of more fabric than a track suit and looks great under a turtleneck sweater and that’s about all. I was so upset when the salesnymph told me that they had changed the style that when she asked if I’ve tried the totally rockin’ new hipster panty collection, I gave her the finger and said “In your dreams, slutbag” and ran out of the store with my cackling babygirl in tow.

Anyway, something really interesting about the restaurant business is that we get to take off on days like Monday and Wednesday, when the rest of you lawyers and investment people and teachers and bank tellers and shit like that have to go to work. We get to go to places like empty beaches, the DMV whenever we feel like it and not just during our lunch our, restaurants crammed with tailored suits during lunch hour, and to malls filled with SAHM (that’s “stay at home moms” for those of you who do not have the pleasure of being on mommy message boards when your babygirl does things like eat her clip on earring and then you have to make sure it’s going to pass through in a reasonable amount of time). In fact, other than the DMV, we hit each of these places today at least twice. Harry took me on a date to celebrate our anniversary (it’s not until Wednesday but some asshole has a “family emergency” that is apparently more important than having a high maintenance wife and has to take off instead of Harry and so goes the lovely business in which we work) and among the places we patronized were the mini golf place at Jones Beach where I lost by only 1 stroke (not including the 25 strokes that didn’t “technically count”) and then we walked into some snot bag business lunch kind of place but Harry didn’t like the carpet or the clientele in the bar area because it reminded him of an uptight Applebees and they didn’t have a cheese plate or TVs so we left there and went to some other place where there was a cheese plate and still some suits and all I could think about is how much makeup and hair product some of these bitches go through to get ready for their 9-5 job and I’m so glad that I get to dress like myself in my line of business because Office Space Shelby looks even more uncomfortable and awkward than Regular Shelby because she’s wearing like pantyhose and a dickie and a girdle, or whatever it is girls these day wear to the office. Blech. Life on a Monday afternoon is far easier when you haven’t brushed your hair yet and your sunglasses are tucked into the waist of your shorts and it doesn’t really matter if you get a little bit of cheese-plate-fig on your t-shirt. It’s also happier, because instead of trying to stay awake in those couple hours after lunch when you can’t quite figure out how you’re ever going to make it to the end of the day without napping on your keyboard, we are doing things like having a second glass of wine or running up the down escalator or diving into the surprisingly crystal clear ocean (because there’s nobody at the beach to cloud it up with all their jumping about). Yes, the best way to really enjoy life to it’s fullest is to live it up while all of you losers are at work.

But then, by the time that you would have been on the train home, or maybe even back at your house and in front of a hot home-cooked meal, (made by your SAHM’s assistant perhaps) me and Harry were with his dad and the kids at our usual haunt, The Cheesecake Factory. If you have read my blog for awhile, you probably know by now that we’ve got a pretty hardcore love/hate relationship with this puppy: we love going there, but we hate it pretty much every single time we leave. Never having learned our lesson, we plopped down in a booth with a high chair for another round of Russian Dressing Roulette.

Typically, nothing really went right. Do I need to go into detail about the hour and 15 minutes we had waited for our entrees to hit the table even though we only ordered one course? No, because I don’t want to break my streak of being an overly optimistic and sunshiny princess, so I’ll just leave out the part where I slammed my fist on the table and shouted “BLASPHEMY!!!!!” so loud that the sous chef from the California Pizza Kitchen three storefronts away came running over to check what the commotion was all about.

After my babygirl officially decided that she was done being in the building, (especially without grub) Harry took the kids to the parking lot while I waited to speak with a manager and ask for our food to be wrapped up. My father-in-law took out his wallet and I slapped it back down on the table.

“You will not need this. There will be no bill.”

I didn’t state this fact because anybody had told me it was the case. But lordy lordy lordy, at this point I know how the establishment operates better than the operators – they buy your love. And in the case of never getting your food, the only way that a corporate restaurant like that can assure you won’t trash them to pieces to every person you know is to purchase your silence, which may or may not include free dessert (tonight it obviously did, although I ordered the cake that Harry wanted instead of the one that I wanted and then made him go to Friendly’s and buy me a sundae and he came home with a 5 scoop brownie sundae that was the size of a baseball helmet, and I’m not talking about those little ones that they used to make sundaes in). Unfortunately silence isn’t the case in this particular circumstance, because I waited so long that I got cranky and didn’t have any Xanax and got heartburn from eating 2 loaves of bread out of boredom. By the time Dan the manager came over to the table to tell me that he was “embarrassed” by the experience they provided us (to which I responded “Yes, you should be embarrassed, it is embarrassing to operate this way, my main man.”) I already had half of this post written and every intention to publish it even if he did seem pretty sincere (ok? I gave him credit. Happy?).

Now that I’ve done all of this trash talking, I’m actually feeling a little guilty. Unfortunately I already wrote the last paragraph and I really don’t feel like deleting it right now.

 

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One Response to “why the cheesecake factory, discontinued bras and 9-5 jobs are for losers.”

  1. Scottie Boy July 31, 2012 at 5:37 am #

    hey happy anniversary. next time your around Jones Beach, come and visit your family! oh aand i still got your beach stuff from when we went to “Emerald Isle”, Not “Outer Banks” lol.

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