Archive | September, 2012

how to excuse yourself from blogging on the regular due to an emergency amputation.

30 Sep

The reason I haven’t been writing is because I needed to have an emergency amputation of my left middle finger after a customer caught me using it on his wife. The situation sincerely called for it, as she beckoned me over to ask if I “have the fucking nerve to charge a dollar for mushrooms on a burger?” and hissed in my face and poured half a glass of wine on the orange Tory Burch flats that I vowed to never wear to work in case something like this happened. Naturally I flipped her the bird with a sarcastic grin, because that’s what I always do in these situations, but apparently the husband took her side in the whole thing and he snapped that digit back like it was a celery stick and it was just hanging there, but I couldn’t go the emergency room, there was just too much food piling up in the window that had to be run, and by the time the Friday rush was over it was too late, my finger was not able to be put back on, even with those leeches or whatever, and now I’m having a lot of issues with typing, only certain letters though, like E, D, C and the number 3. Thank heavens Harry got the new iPhone so Siri is writing this right now to explain to you why why why oh why my precious writing is so sparse of late. Except she autocorrects and apparently doesn’t know how naughty my vernacular is so she keeps changing fucking to trucking and that seriously makes no sense.

The last button that I can’t push right now due to my amputated bird is the # sign so now I like can’t use Twitter or Instagram and I’m so heartbroken that I just don’t want to write anymore. What is life without Instagram or Twitter?? I don’t know! Actually Twitter I don’t really care about because I only have one follower and frankly he only follows me because I pay him $4 a month to do so. But Instagram???? Holy shit that’s like taking away my only joy! As a result of my lack of ability to hashtag things, I’ve taken to drawing social media icons in other mediums. Like doodling. And chalk. I know what you’re thinking, and no, I did not go to art school. I’m just wildly talented at copying things. Also at recognizing obscure Queen songs. In actuality, my finger is fine. The truth is that I haven’t been writing because Harry got a really bad boo boo at work and I have to tend to his crushed hand morning, noon and night, except when he’s behind the line cooking or making the bed or doing laundry or cleaning the house or rubbing my feet. But other than those times, I am taking care of him pretty hardcore. I even wear a nurse’s hat and bought him flowers and a card and cookies.

 

Ok. The real real reason that I’m not writing as often is because I fear that you are going to recognize yourself in my blog and stop eating at my place and/or stop reading my blog, which would really devastate me because that would pretty much mean that I’d be talking to myself and Amanda Bynes already has that department filled and while I always wanted to be just like her, this is not one of those particular circumstances. I can’t help it if I have to talk about you, sometimes you make me. Maybe you’re the horribly irritating pain-in-the-ass who called today to tell me that she didn’t want a table that was “a) a booth, b) in the center of the room, and c) near a wall, although a booth would be fine, and if it has to be by a wall that would be fine as well.” It is people like her (you??) who have driven me crazy beyond actual words.

If you have made it to the end of this passage, it is because you don’t believe any of the reasons I’ve given for my infrequent writing/venting/genius productions of literature. And it is for that reason that I am going to expose the true, actual reason to you, and you alone. (If there is even one of you)

TV season is back in full swing and multitasking was never really my thing.

 

insiders guide to the fuck-ups serving your dinner.

24 Sep

Something really special about the restaurant business is the colorful nature of the people who inhabit it. As a girl who grew up in the restaurant business, (and stupidly stayed in it) I have had the pleasure of working with no less than 75,000 different people, most of whom were so fucking odd that I didn’t dare make eye contact with them just in case they were actually zombies or aliens who were going to take over my brain and make me behave like them.

No other industry in the world seems to appeal to such a huge collection of vagabond delinquents (other than reality TV and surfing). Staff at the restaurant is so transient that my mom, who literally does the payroll every single week, doesn’t know any of my employees. If I were her, I’d find that fact comforting, especially based on the history of people who have survived the elite hiring process in our places.

For example….

1. The Normal Person. I can literally count the number of normal people who have worked for my family on less than four fingers. Both of them are my Facebook friends and it probably isn’t you. Note: I’m not counting college kids because frankly they’re smart to learn something legitimately valuable like how to open a bottle of wine properly or how to cut lemons in a wheel and a wedge. Consider it continuing their education. Plus when they can’t get a “sociology” job upon graduation it won’t matter because they’ll already have a source of income and then they can eventually fall into one of these other categories.

2. The Theif. This employee comes so frequently, and in so many shapes and forms that it should be a multiple choice question on the job application. And it shouldn’t be “Do you steal?” it should be “What do you steal?” The Thief ranges from just your general salt and pepper shaker pilferer to your all out cash heisting crafty fucker. Then there are those in the middle. The cook who has stocked his entire house (and his cousins’ houses) with dinner service for 13, complete with every type of glassware, silverware and dishware that has ever been brought through the doors. There’s the tip adjuster who doctors inflated numbers at the expense of the customer (we’re unfortunately too good at catching those thieves at this point). There’s the busboy who steals a customer’s iPhone and the police come a few weeks later to arrest him because it turns out you can track that shit, ya damn moron. And who can forget the waitress who does her grocery shopping in the walk-in and smuggles it out in a duffel bag sized purse.

3. The False Identity. This chick can’t claim unemployment after you fire her because SHE DOESN’T EXIST. That being said, it doesn’t really matter because she’s already collecting unemployment under her real name. The job at your place was just a bonus income. Oh, and every Spanish speaking dude is not named Jose. Sorry Spanish guys, we’re beginning to catch on to that.

4. The Nazi. As a Jew, it’s difficult for me to relate to hating Jews (other than when I go to lunch at the Miracle Mile). But apparently this is the case for some people. Occasionally these some people get jobs at restaurants. And sometimes these restaurants are owned by Jews. Specifically me. It’s a funny thing, dealing with a prejudiced asswad who seems to truly believe that under my new bangs are a set of horns, or that I’m cheap by default and that’s why we have a policy where you can’t just bring home a gallon of milk or bottle of Goose from work whenever you feel like it. Oddly enough the Nazi never seems to stay long. His loss, the restaurant is fucking packed on Christmas Day.

5. The Felon. It wasn’t this guy’s fault. He swears. He was just holding those bags of weed for one of his friends, and he seriously thought it was dried oregano for a cooking thing. And it also wasn’t his fault that he failed his drug test seven times, it was his friend’s birthday one night and then he ate like a shit ton of poppyseed bagels and there’s something weird about his new toothpaste so seriously, it wasn’t his fault. One of the best qualities of the Felon is that he literally has to come to work, because the other option is jail, and he really doesn’t like going to jail for more than one night at a time. One Famous Felon from yesteryear got so many DWIs that he was on the front cover of the newspaper and is currently on the run from police in 3 states. It’s a shame, he was a fun guy to have at work. We’re still pen pals on email, his humor translates well when written.

6. The Alcoholic. Turns out the bar isn’t just for customers! Some restaurant employees are really just in it for the vino. At 11am. In a pint glass. Key characteristics of the alcoholic is that you run into them at 7-11 between shifts buying a 40 oz. beer and pouring it into a Big Gulp cup. Or that the taxi driver that picks her up at the end of her shift knows her name. Or that the nice police guy comes in for a coffee and whispers in your ear “That one is trouble. Picked her up last week for offering some guys blowjobs in the parking lot at the crack bar across the street,” and she stumbles over to him and asks him if she can play with his taser gun anyway.

7. The Heterophobe. I think I’ve made it abundantly clear over the past however many months that we’ve been getting to know me that I’m a lover of gays, specifically Charlie (formerly known as Gay Asian Waiter but now he’s all fancy and wears a tie and works 9-5 and shit) and my sister sister and this ginger I know and random other people who haven’t come out of the closet yet even though they SERIOUSLY NEED TO. But what’s interesting is that not all of the gays love the straights.  So many people have worked for my family who accuse everyone from us to the customers to the gay busboy that we dislike them because of their sexual persuasion. “Um, no, Dude,” we’ve been forced to say. “We hate you because you’re standing over the customer while you apply your chapstick in the mirror behind their table for like ten minutes.” The restaurant business is really quite conducive to many different sexual orientations. As long as you’re willing to strap one on (an apron, you perv! Get your head out of the gutter!) we’ll pretty much let you go to town on our customers. But sometimes I feel the same way about gay servers as I do about Harry (a Christmas) marrying me (a Hannukah) – Just in it for the jokes.

Anyway, we’re hiring if you’re interested. Heads up though, we check references.

31-year-old working mothers just want to have fun

21 Sep

I couldn’t sleep last night because I’m an adult and it was making me want to vomit. When did this happen? When did my fridge get covered in school calendars and “art projects” and Minnie Mouse magnets and gold homework stars for my stepkid?

The most irresponsible things I’ve done in recent memory are that I left a sippy cup with milk in my kid’s room for a week and it turned into a layer of water and a layer of yogurt, and I let my credit card expire on my iTunes account. Before I was an adult the thought of not having iTunes would make me quiver with fear that the end of the world was near. Now I’m getting by.

I am suddenly adult in the following ways:

1. Language. Back in the day (like a month ago) I could curse openly and freely without the worry that my babygirl would chirp it back to me in her adorable little chipmunk voice. No longer the case. We’ve had to quit cursing cold turkey and it fucking sucks. Other things I can no longer subject my kid to in fear that she’ll repeat my actions: Have road rage. Give random strangers the finger. Get tattoos. Throw things at Harry.

2. Wardrobe. Yesterday I put on one of my staple fall/winter dresses that I had picked up last year and worn constantly. Just a little black lace Free People number with a ragged hem and navy blue lining that peeks out of the bottom. “Shelby!” I scolded at my reflection. “This is not appropriate for work. Nobody is going to take you seriously with this outfit. Free People is not an acceptable department to shop in anymore, grow up and go to Banana Republic immediately!” I wound up wearing a dorky printed shirt that I stole from my mom’s closet and slacks and fucking pearl earrings. I looked like the highest form of personal nightmare. Yet I was satisfied.

5. Work Habits. I just don’t know what’s going on with me. Instead of spending all my time at work on my Facebook page, I spend all of my time on the restaurant’s Facebook page. Instead of spending countless hours Googling upcoming concerts, I spend countless hours talking to performers about playing live music at my place. Instead of drinking a Bud Light on one of those very rare evenings that I stop for a drink after work, (Charlie and Nicole are gone. It’s a lonely restaurant world.) I drink Craft Beers and work on educating myself on hoppiness and bitterness and headiness and other beer words so that I can properly provide a hearty and trendy list to my customers. Instead of playing only the music I want to listen to, I play a Pandora list based on only the music I want to listen to so that other stuff plays too. Oh, and we got new hamburger rolls and I take photos on them for Instagram. Surely my maturity level is peaking as we speak.

3. Television Programming. Honestly? The saddest part of my newly acknowledged adult life is that I have absolutely no idea what shows are on the Disney Channel. The last time I had enough time to watch my very favorite brain-free shows was when Wizards of Waverly Place was on, and now Selena Gomez is way too busy tramping it up with The Biebs to do things like make a FANTASTIC TV show with the average target demographic being 12-years-old. Now the only stuff I watch is old people shit like The X Factor and Live with Kelly and Michael Strahan, and baby shit like Yo Gabba Gabba, which is only really fun to watch when you’re tripping on mushrooms and that is NOT OK when your kid is awake, which now seems like ALWAYS, thank you fucking baby teeth.

7. Shelbytown. Right now I am sitting in a Starbucks in the morning sun, sitting upright in a chair and sipping on a healthy caffeinated iced tea and tapping away on my keyboard and wearing a pair of heels. There is a trio of women LITERALLY perusing the school calendar and discussing Candle Fundraisers for the PTA. I’d be less devastated if I didn’t find myself wondering if this is my district or not, and who I can hit up to buy some cinnamon scented sparklers. What the fuck!?!?! This is not the real me!! The real me is lying facedown on a couch in a fifteen-year-old pair of lacrosse shorts with my computer resting comfortably on a throw pillow, munching on self-serve fro yo and barely keeping my eyes open! If you looked at the real me you would think that I’m Googling pot brownie recipes or changing my Facebook status every 3 minutes (which would possibly be the case). But some dude reading a paper just glanced up at me and I bet he was convinced that I was catching up on some sort of vital correspondence with a fellow professional, or building a power point marketing presentation or something white collar like that. Writing at 9am cannot possibly produce anything even remotely interesting. In order to be truly inspired one must must must be polluted on the day’s bullshit. What bullshit happens at 9am? A bitch cut me in line. Big shit. If it had happened at night I probably would have been amped enough to elbow her out of my way and ask for an unsweetened venti iced green tea while I stepped on her kid’s toe. But not at 9am.

As a result of turning into an adult, I’ve decided to rebel. On my next day off I’m hiring a babysitter and I’m going to lay in my bed and watch 3 hours of the Disney Channel. Then I’m gonna go to a mexican restaurant that has karaoke night and drink Corona Lights and do La Bamba 5 times in a row. Also other stuff, but it’s going to be really spur of the moment so I can’t tell you what they are yet. But should it be appropriate for documenting, you’ll be able to read about my inappropriate behavior right here on Shelbytown.

memoirs of a tired restaurant mom.

15 Sep

Once upon a time it was 10pm and I knew where my children were. My 2-year-old daughter was running laps through the bar, around the dining room and into the server station over and over squealing in delight while discerning parents shook their head in disgust that someone has their child out so late. My 9-year-old stepson, on the other hand, was climbing up a tall waiter’s leg trying to get to his upper body so he could punch him repeatedly for not pouring him a Sprite. I was nowhere to be found, because I was hiding in the walk-in, “grocery shopping” for Rosh Hashanah, collecting ingredients for twice baked sweet potatoes such as butter and a martini. I spent a few extra minutes because it was the only quiet moment I’d had since 7am and it just felt so fucking delicious that I wanted it to last forever and ever and ever and ever, or until my babygirl pooped and I had to go change her diaper.

My day today consisted of my very first wedding at the restaurant. My finest planning contributions were peach bows (to match the peach-clad groom, as well as the rose petals which I was instructed to flutter onto the table) tied onto the tablecloths and a handcrafted Spotify mix consisting of the bride and groom’s specific specifications (Depeche Mode, Adele, Rolling Stones, 80s alternative, Twisted Sister and “user friendly” country music). It was so good that I sat in the middle of the room the whole time singing at the top of my lungs.

Then after the wedding was dinner service, which was a little disappointing because I had to expedite the window which meant my Saturday Night Cleavage was wasted on the kitchen staff instead of the customers (Vocab of the day – EXPEDITOR: if the kitchen were an orchestra, this is the conductor. See also: most important person in the entire world on a Saturday night, and in my particular case, the most attractive). Plus I got bangs, and nobody got the pleasure of complimenting me on how awesome they look.

Except Charlie, because he worked tonight, and he told me that I look like a cool mom and I was like “I KNOW!” and then we talked about tattoo ideas for a little while (new thought: heart shaped peace sign with wings but now I can’t figure out where that can possibly go because it for sure won’t fit on my finger and I want it to be visible to me because what’s the point of body art if you can’t see it? That’s like hanging a painting underneath your bed. It makes no sense). Then we chatted about how he flooded the bar the last time he bartended because he’s careless and irresponsible and was probably high on drugs and how we want to go to a lounge and eat good food and drink yummy mixologies. Then I told him that he’s the hottest guy I know because he’s been working out and starving himself lately. I don’t usually have a thing for Asians, especially Gay Asians but I’m making an exception for Charlie.

My stepkid had a lady friend come over to the restaurant for a playdate, so I set them up in the party room to watch Ghostbusters on the big TV. Next thing I knew they had the lights out completely and their shoes off. They had moved my fancy schmancy Ikea chairs from the office to the party room and were having a pillow fight. Then they ransacked the server station because they had heard a rumor about a hidden bag of M&Ms. Then they ate spaghetti and fell asleep googling cheap horse adoptions across the US.

Last but not least, my babygirl got dropped off, fresh off a day filled with ice cream, ice cream sandwiches and milkshakes with her Papa. My dad had loaded her up with so much sugar that the end result of running laps in a full restaurant was in no way shocking. I was a bit saddened to discover that she is now faster than me. Had I been wearing a sports bra and sneakers instead of a Saturday bra and high high high way too high for working 12 hours in a restaurant heels, perhaps the situation would have been different and I would have been able to catch her. But alas, that wasn’t the case and I looked like an asshole.

And the kids fell asleep in the car and I had to carry them in and I hit the cat with the door on my way in and may have broken her foot and they all lived happily ever after.

The end.

employees i wish i could have punched.

13 Sep

Tonight I was fully intending on writing a scathing account of all the employees I’ve ever hated. I intended to curse superfluously and grumble about all of the arrogant servers who called me “babe,” or “Shel” within a week of meeting me, or “sweetie honey sugar pie.” I was going to list, by name and current home address, all of the waitresses (and waiter) who have attempted to sleep with my husband in an attempt to get better shifts. It would have been by far the most sardonic bit of prose I’d ever composed, and I’ve written some pretty nasty shit in my time.

But then 8pm rolled around.

And The X Factor turned my callous heart to mush.

Damn you Simon, and your endearing fatherly behavior towards your new co-judges and looser fitting t-shirt which is way more appropriate! And you, Demi, for making pink hair and horrible eyeliner look totally normal and for being wayyyyy more mature than me even though you’re only a teenager! And Brit Brit, for making the greatest comeback in the history of the world (you can try to fight me on this but the bitch shaved her head in public) and for being really adorable and like seriously eloquent considering most people look at you as a ditzy tween lip syncing popstar. And you, LA Reid, for making reference no less than ten billion times to Rihanna and Justin Bieber! And let us not forget the 13 year old girl crushing Nina Simone without being dressed like a prostitute! 

That’s right, I stood in front of my TV weeping at the utter ridiculousness that is an overproduced, overhyped American Idol-clone reality show (Not like “So You Think You Can Dance” or “Top Chef” which are top notch productions and therefor worthy of emotional investment). And the best part is, it’s only just begun!

Aaah September. There’s a briskness in the air that I can’t really even describe, because I’m holed up in my house finally watching new programming on non-cable channels! My DVR is more than 8% full! In fact, soon I’m going to be like totally stressed because it’s going to teeter at 93% for a few weeks until I figure out which new shows I hate! In case you’re one of those weird people who doesn’t watch TV or one of those other weird people who hasn’t read every article about the new fall lineups, here are the things I’m most excited for. Because I’m sure you highly value my expert opinion, seeing as I write a restaurant blog and my favorite show on TV is aimed at the 12-17 year old female demographic.

1. Rev(power icon)lution. All the power in the entire world goes out, including batteries so don’t try to find a quick fix there. Life goes on, mystery is not yet solved. I watched “Lost” for like 20 years with no satisfying conclusion. If this show fucks with my emotions like that I’m going to be really pissed, however I’m giving it the benefit of the doubt because the whole jungles-that-used-to-be-cities visual intrigues me.

2. Nashville. For obvious reasons. Such as that it takes place in Nashville and is about country music. I’m one notch less excited than I could be because it stars Hayden Panatierre and Heroes suckedddddd the last season it was on. Was it even on for more than one season? Add a notch for Connie Britton, fresh off of “American Horror Story,” (Um. The best. Until they added Adam Levine to the cast and now I can’t put it on my list of shows I’m excited for).

3. Vegas. I’m choosing this purely based on the fact that it’s starring Dennis Quaid and I REALLY love “The Parent Trap.” Also he’s wearing a cowboy hat.

4. Gossip Girl. I’m totally serious. I’m sorry! It’s just that it’s like Pretty Little Liars for grownups (ha!) and you know how much I LOVE PLL. Plus I saw this thing on Facebook and it reminded me that Dan Humphrey has gotten really hot over the years, accentuated by this killer role in “Easy A” with Emma Stone and the INFAMOUS Amanda Bynes, who if you don’t know keeps hitting people and running and was smoking pot out of a pipe that’s disguised to look like one of the car cigarette lighters. EPIC. This is literally the only returning show I’m excited for.

Just kidding!!!! I’m also excited for Suburgatory, Modern Family, Revenge, Parenthood and not Sons of Anarchy but Harry’s enthusiasm is contagious. AND ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5. Guys With Kids & The New Normal. I’m putting these two shows in the same little paragraph thing because I’ve seen them already and they’re both pretty funny and they also sort of suck a little bit compared to the shows they’re ripping off. That being said, I liked “Guys.” Anthony Anderson is really fucking hilarious and I didn’t even hate Jamie Lynn Siegler and the guy from “Bring It On” is in it (all grown up! Too skinny, cute though. Was cuter playing against Kirsten Dunst but eh). “Normal”is far better, unless you’re not into intelligent shows that make reference to “Grey Gardens” or witty gays.

Anyway, that’s all. I feel obligated to watch the Glee season premiere.

PS. Brit Brit applauds like a loser.

condoms + calamari (food is the new foreplay, you didn’t hear?)

11 Sep

If, by chance, you’re single and ready to mingle and you live in the general vicinity of my restaurant, then there’s a strong possiblitiy that you’ve been there on a blind/first/regular date. There’s also a chance that your date went extraordinarily well (or mediocre but you’ve hit a dry spell) and you’ve gotten lucky in the front or back seat of your date’s Audi thanks to a strategically placed parking lot with lots of nooks and, depending on the phase of the moon, only the slightest touch of light. Of course, you could be one of the chosen few who meets for a mid-afternoon martini-and-blowjob. I won’t mention any names, but just so you know your windows are not tinted.

I’m not going to generalize and say that every type of date occurs at my place. For instance, the teenagers go to Applebees and the super ugly people only go to movie theaters. But these are some of the key players to watch for:

1. The First Date Girl – This chick brings all of her first JDates (vocab of the day – JDate: match.com for Jews) to the restaurant because it’s public and she can afford to pay her own way if he’s asshole/typically Jewish enough to split the meal. She eventually meets a guy who’s parents eat here every Friday after services, sparks fly, next thing you know they’re signing the Ketubah under the Chuppah (Jewish wedding stuff, if you don’t know what it is then you probably don’t care) and booking their baby naming in the party room. Mazel tov!

2. The Tennis Instructor – I don’t know what it is about tennis and sex that go hand in hand, but there has been a pretty consistent stream of tennis instructors who are either fucking their students or their students’ mothers. Probably both. You can find the tennis instructor at what we call “Table 1” at about 4:30pm eating shrimp cocktail with some tan lady who’s eating either a salad or a cheeseburger. They don’t stay long because her husband will be home from work soon and they need to go smack some balls before he wonders where she is.

3. The Tony Soprano – This guy is in the process of opening a restaurant even though the only place he ever sits when he comes to mine is the bar. He usually shows up with the same chick and talks about how fast his car is or how many suits he bought at Saks this morning or where he gets his nails done. Occasionally he runs into some other chick who was just having a salad with her tennis instructor, and then the next week she meets him for a cocktail or seven. He only dates divorcees because that way she’ll have some form of financial support in case he has to go to prison for a little while. He tips well and has a nice smile.

4. The Slutbag – There are like 100,000 Slutbags who show up at the restaurant, but this particular one is a dude. He shows up at the bar 5 nights a week with a different girl running towards his stool like he’s Johnny Depp, which he is like so not. He ignores the bartender because he’s too busy getting lost in his date’s eyes (and crotch, which he is trying to access while sitting about 7 feet away from a family of 4 who are innocently trying to watch the baseball game). Ignoring the bartender wouldn’t be a big deal, but she is literally the one person who can out the Slutbag and his slut slut ways. “Another one?” she might ask one night upon a brunette’s arrival. “What is that like seven different girls in six nights?” But then she would have to find another form of entertainment so she refrains.

5. The Cougar with a Deceptively Attractive Online Dating Profile Picture – This one always makes me a little bit depressed (and super fucking happy that I’m married and don’t have to deal with this shit). The look on a man’s face when he sees this chick for the first time could make you weep. Here he is, putting on his finest pleated front pants and making sure to trim every stray nose hair, thinking that he’s going to meet “the (2nd) one” and then he walks in to this train wreck of a woman who is fourteen years older than her photo suggests and has a horrifying nasally honking laugh. She can’t sit at a booth because she doesn’t fit even though her profile specifically mentioned her love for Pilates and organic farming and morning bike rides. You can’t feel too bad for the guy, because he posted a photo from his college years so she’s equally as disappointed.

6. The Part Time Lovers – These two are sooooo in love, they just can’t show it enough. Except when they come in for dinner on a double date with their spouses, at which point they have to play it super cool. Thank you, Part Time Lovers, for your complete moral looseness. You provide us with gossip when the well runs dry.

I don’t want to try to paint this picture of every date being like totally successful. Here’s an actual conversation that happened at the bar yesterday:

MIDDLE-AGED CHICK AT THE BAR ON A FIRST DATE (Looking at the menu, tapping her fingernails on the bar top): Eeeehhhhhhh, I wish there were some sort of plain skewered chicken on this menuuuuuu.

ME (Eavesdropping, obv): Well if you’re looking for that, maybe you can try this. The seasoned grilled chicken with grilled vegetables.

DATE CHICK: Is it plain?

ME: Yes, it is seasoned and grilled chicken with grilled vegetables.

DATE CHICK: Is it on a skewer?

ME: No, it is not on a skewer, but it is plain.

DATE CHICK (to date): Ughhh, I’m just so tired of chickennnnnn!

DATE: But you’re not tired of it if it’s on a skewer?*

See?? Not all dates are created equal. If I were you, I would not go on whatever dating site these two met on, because she’s really annoying.

Poetry Tuesday! A haiku once again, because I’m still too lazy to write anything longer.

ODE TO JDATE

Jews who just date Jews

Missing out on Christmas trees

Big mistake, my friends

*NOTE: These two people did not fuck in the parking lot. Also they’re really boring because they didn’t even stay for Trivia Night and it’s like so fun.

how to score a perfect rim job and also i was abducted tonight at the gas station.

6 Sep

One of the most difficult decisions a restaurant owner is faced with making is how to get the cinnamon sugar to adhere to the rim of a pint glass when pumpkin beer season rolls around. For me, today was this such event, and I spent no less than 80% of my time at work establishing the perfect sugar-to-cinnamon ratio, and then toying with maple syrup and lemon juice options in order to make it stick effectively. Oddly enough, the I came to the conclusion that the best adhesive is simply the frost on an icy glass, and thus destroyed hours of rim testing and beer drinking. I was so wasted by the late afternoon that I completely forgot to tell all of my servers that we had actually tapped the beer, yet got extremely angry at them when they didn’t sell it. “What the fuck? We need to sell the fucking pumpkin beer!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, spilling some of my brew on a waiter’s apron. “Get your fucking apron away from my spillage, bitch!” I apparently get angry when I’m fictionally drunk. The moral of the story is, my rim job is the best in town and tomorrow I’m going to show my bartenders how it’s done right.

Lately all I want to write is complete lies. Actually, since I’m a famous writer now, I get to call it something else.

Lately, all I want to write is fiction. For instance, tonight I went to the gas station to put some air in my tire (hey, did you know that Hess give you free air, which is like so very ironic, but anyway that makes them the best gas station in the history of the world but I’m also taking the truck into consideration so they sort of had a leg up on the competition to begin with). And I was bending over to attach the little hose to the thingy on the tire (very car savvy) and singing the rest of a country song that had been on in the car and when I stood up, there was this scary dude who’s race I won’t reveal because I don’t want to be politically incorrect and pigeonhole any nationality into being a bad guy but I will say that he wasn’t Asian and he was like “Nice tits*” and I was like “It’s a Saturday bra.” And he tried to grab me and pull me into the back of his 4 door Wrangler but I kicked him in the testicles and made him fall over and then I jumped into my passenger side, locked the door, climbed over the seat and ran him over.

Fine, it didn’t happen exactly like that, but the corner of the gas station where I was filling my tire was like really dark and that’s the sort of thing that could legitimately happen to an innocent amazing girl like me. The ironic thing, had I been abducted by the non-Asian would have been that Harry was a mere 100 feet away because the gas station is right next to the restaurant and you can even look over the fence from the dark air corner and see all the chimney-waiters chilling in the back.

Tomorrow since I was way too intoxicated to do it today, I’m going to decorate my tap handle with one of those little pumpkins from the craft store so everyone will know what it is. My favorite thing about the craft store is that since school started today, it’s officially time to start selling Christmas decorations. Which reminds me that it’s time to start seriously considering how I’ll be dressing my kids up for Halloween. My babygirl is only 2 so it’s a little soon to make her a slutty angel. And last year I made them be Pebbles and BamBam so my stepkid was that boy at the school Halloween parade wearing a skirt. This year I’m leaning towards my babygirl being a Jazzercise instructor and my stepkid being The Dude from the Big Lebowski because I’ve got this bowling bag laying around. But I’ve got at least 36 hours to decide, so we’ll see.

the continuing saga of how cheesecake factory is destroying my life.

4 Sep

Today was like any other day, in that I went to Cheesecake Factory for lunch and my kid was the one jumping on the booth and pressing her face up against the glass, leaving tongue trails of avocado in her wake. And shocker shocker, it was a totally shitty experience.

Ok, well not the company. That part was exceptional today, because in addition to my Energizer Bunny of a daughter and my mommy, my good friend from sleepaway camp joined us. Bari has a new baby herself, so she was really quite non-judgemental when my babygirl did things like spit tomatoes all over my iPhone or eat her boogers. Just kidding, her kid is only like a few weeks old and he doesn’t do nasty shit other than poop in the bathtub and that he really can’t even control. Probably Bari thinks I’m literally the opposite of mother of the year, but really there’s no way to comprehend the Terrible Twos unless you’re in the midst of it. Sort of like a hurricane. Or armed robbery. Or acid trip. Or intestinal parasite.

Anyway, let’s not dwell on my mediocre parenting skills. Instead we should worry about the nightmare that is Cheesecake Factory. Like for instance, when dealing with the issue of lunch, when did it become a luxury to get utensils? Guess how many people we had to ask for a fork and knife while we all salivated over the bread and butter (not my babygirl, she chowed down on those  butter packets like they were covered in chocolate). Three! Three people! It was painful. The worst part of it was that we were sitting right next to a wait station and I so badly wanted to set the fucking table myself but since Bari was there I didn’t want to act inappropriate, because Bari is like totally demure and ladylike. She didn’t coin the term “crapalicious” or anything. A few minutes later, the 3 of us were passed out on the table TOTALLY FAMISHED AND WASTING AWAY AND ALMOST DYING FROM LACK OF CARBS when this waitress chick cruised by and was like “hey, do you guys want silverware?”

“No thanks,” I told her coyly waving her away. “We went to Medieval Times the other day and we’re like so over forks. Yes we want forks, bitch!”

A little while later after my babygirl had successfully eaten the cloth napkins and learned how to spell, the food had still not arrived. We flagged down our waitress to ask her what was taking so long. “Um, YOU,” she said, pointing her finger so close to Bari’s face that if she sported a large schnoz she would have gotten hit. “You ordered the turkey burger and that’s what we’re waiting for.” My mom and I were so pissed at Bari that we made her sit next to my kid.

Seven hours later (I’m not even exaggerating because time with a 2-year-old is like dog years – it just adds up faster) we got our food. Well, me and my mom and my babygirl got her food. Bari, not so much. The manager dude came over (I can’t keep track if this is the same guy as the last 8 times, but he was equally as douchey). He knelt down at the table, which is a huge pet peeve unless I’m six-years-old and we’re at fucking Friendly’s. “Heyyyyyy, really sorryyyyyy about the wait.” (I’ve been watching Finding Nemo every morning, so apparently this manager sounds like that turtle surfer dude in the East Australian Current, the EAC.) “Your turkey burger is actually done. We’re just waiting for the fries.”

We tried to figure out how to deal with this information. Bari was very nice. I ignored him because I already had my food so what the hell did I care? My mom stared at him quizzically, secretly thanking the lord that her manager doesn’t kneel at tables. Then again she’s preggo, so that could go horribly wrong if she did. The turkey burger finally arrived, but Señor Kneeling Dude lingered for like way too long. Did he want to pull up a chair? Did he want to see if we chew with our mouths open? Did he want me and Bari to break out into our famous “Rent” duet where one of us plays the part of Mark and one of us plays the part of Everyone Else? The answer is a mystery, but at least we’re all on the same page that Cheesecake Factory blows. Except for the cheesecake. And the menu. And the portion size vs. the price. And the general convenience. But seriously, I’m glad it’s not my restaurant. Who wants to make millions of dollars off a mediocre operation anyway? I’d much rather have a mediocre operation and be broke.

This evening, after I had finally settled down from the horrifying Cheesecake experience, I opened my doggy bag to heat up my babygirl’s grilled cheese  and corn succotash (she filled up on butter packets and a little bit of bread and a daiquiri) only to find that they didn’t put it in the fucking container. It was empty. Like empty. Empty like my heart, and my kid’s stomach. I was forced to feed her some questionable cheese and two cans of tuna fish, because I really need to go food shopping and she was too hungry to wait.