thanks, yanks, for not continuing to fuck up my business. i owe you one.

18 Oct

Last night I was chillin’ with my entourage (which, ever since Charlie moved to Queens, consists only of Nicole) and we drove past the shopping center that housed one of my family’s restaurants (the one that inspired this very blog, in fact). All at once, these flashbacks popped into my head – learning how to carry a tray, steaming milk to make frothy caffeine drinks, developing a strong opposition to customers, falling in love with every waiter who strapped on an apron… Aah, the memories of a sincerely unique childhood, one filled with laughter, joy and a fuckload of spilled milk.

Perhaps some of you have considered dropping your well-paying job and (stupidly) investing in a restaurant in which to raise your children and give the a very (demented) special special experience. That’s all fine and dandy, but just know that you’ll be raising your very own Owner’s Daughter, and she’s probably gonna come out a whole lot like me.

So if you ever become the offspring of some fools who raised you thinking that a refrigerator is a room and a dishwasher is a dude, this post is for you, and here’s some shit you need to know:

  • You are the center of the universe, except during the dinner rush, at which point you are invisible. My babygirl runs around the restaurant like she owns the place, and usually my stepkid is chasing her. And even though they are being the typical annoying turds that everyone totally hates, they’re totally adorable according to everyone who works for me. They treat the kids royalty to the max. Like, if my stepkid asks for a soda, they say “how high?” and if my babygirl sneezes they’re cleaning up that snot in no time. And I fawn all over them too, so don’t think I just pawn them off on the hourlies. I move all the furniture in my office so my stepkid will have the most entertaining fort available. I blow up 3′ balloons for the girl, just small enough so she won’t float away. BUT. The moment the restaurant fills up and the dinner rush sets in, I literally forget they exist. This is not an exaggeration. One night my stepkid called the host stand asking for a drink and I told him to ask the babysitter. Because I really really really thought he was at home with her.
  • You are always rooting for the local sports team. To lose. Take today for instance, I have a Yankees hat and shirt and whatever, but the fact is, I would have cried had they won. (Go ahead, stop reading here, diehard fuckers. See if I care.) Tomorrow is Friday and this is like the 3rd weekend in a row that the Yanks are FUCKING UP MY BUSINESS by being on during dinnertime. Like SORRY WE’RE NOT A PIZZA PLACE, customers, but maybe you can skip the damn game and settle on some app with alerts, ever consider that?? I could suck it up and get TVs in the dining room, but I’m just not ready to go there, and encourage the public to ignore each other for yet another illuminated box. I’m not exclusive to dreading successful sports teams either. I also hate sunny weekends, holidays that fall on Friday or Saturday, the first week of school when everyone is trying to be a good parent and actually cook, and Halloween because apparently nobody eats anything except Fun Size bars and I’m too disheveled to plan a decent costume party.
  • People don’t necessarily like you. I used to take this really personally, especially on one memorable evening during which a middle-aged waitress approached me to inform me that the staff is only nice because I’m the owner’s kid. At that point, I was still under the impression that everyone thought I was totally adorable and fabulous, and that they weren’t simply attempting to score points by being sugar sweet nice to the boss’s snotbag superiority-complex socially awkward total wannabe daughter. But you know what I learned from that awful night? That you pretty much have to be nice to me if I’m in the family, and that just really sucks for you. Chances are, if you don’t like me, then I don’t like you (chances are also pretty high that if you do like me, I still don’t like you, but we’re not keeping score). The following people have disliked me: waiters, bartenders, busboys, (line cooks and dishwashers always like me. Go figure…) the computer guy, (but then it turned out he really actually really really liked me) customers, advertising people, a few people on Yelp, one lady who came to a murder mystery dinner we did dressed as a ladybug, a liquor salesguy, and this girl who lives in my neighborhood and is 9-years-old. 
  • You will have ample material to write a musical/novel/TV series for ABC Family. At least I hope so, as I am newly at work on developing this very blog that you’re reading into something that can generate enough cash to pay for a jolly trip to Disney World for the fam, and possibly a motor home. You also have a lot of material for frequent psychological analysis, but I’m really trying to focus on the writing thing, because I’d rather bestow my issues on the masses, as opposed to just one social worker. If you feel like maybe you would read a book form of this, would you please tell me so? And if you have any particular favorite posts or subjects, will you mention that too? If you’re nice and do as I say, (because I’m the owners daughter and therefore I get whatever I want, and what I want is your feedback so you have to do it or my daddy will yell at you) I will reward you by announcing a date and theme for our (FINALLYYYYYYY) next popup adventure. I know, I just got a little tingly inside, too.*

*Sidebar: My mom and I had a detailed discussion about 50 Shades of Grey today and I feel like it was a little uncomfortable. Can’t figure out why.

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2 Responses to “thanks, yanks, for not continuing to fuck up my business. i owe you one.”

  1. Susan October 19, 2012 at 5:49 am #

    ❤ it as always!!

  2. Lori October 19, 2012 at 10:03 am #

    Except for the sidebar, I thought this was a great blog!

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