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if i could change anything about you it would be this:

30 Dec

A couple weeks ago, I noticed that I’m like thisclose to publishing 200 posts this year, and that’s like fucking amazing considering the last time I wrote on a regular basis was never. We sure have been through a lot together, not that I have any clue what it is because I’m way too busy to reflect on the writing I’ve done from like January through December 15th. But what I do know is that I’m terribly interesting to approximately 35 people, and just for those chosen geniuses, I vowed to get to the magic 200.

But vows are made to be broken, my friends, because there is no fucking way I’ve had enough time to do things like open my computer and type six sentences. Just hasn’t been in the cards.

For one thing I got a puppy. So most of my days are spent wiping up urine and washing my hands. I’d say a good 77%. This is my first foray into raising non-human babies (unless you count my new 8-line beer system, which I obviously do) so I had no idea that all puppies do is shit where you don’t want them to, pee where you don’t want them to, whine and eat your 2-year-old Babygirl. Alas, I have been preoccupied in the evening when I roll home from work, doing things like buying stock in Brawny and putting a second coat of Neosporin on my bite marks.

And I’ve actually been having to WORK at work, which is such bullshit. Place has been so busy that I had to call my mom and dad (aka The Big Guns) for a bailout a couple times, because I couldn’t handle the volume on my own. The funny thing about calling your dad for help when he hasn’t come to work in six years is that you still fight like it was yesterday. We didn’t even make it fifteen minutes before I was whining to Harry and my dad was bitching about me to my mom. Just like the good ole days! Except this time he quit and fired him.

So yeah. No 200 blogs. I know you’re really upset.

To make you feel better, I made a list of things I’d like you to stop doing in 2013.

  • Get off your phone at the dinner table. The only excuse you have to be on your phone is if you and your kids/boyfriend/waiter are arguing a fact and you desperately need to google something. Otherwise, put it in your pocket and have some real human interaction.  Whether it’s your fourteen-year-old sexting at the table, you playing Words with Friends under the table or your husband “checking work email,” give it a rest. You don’t get this time back. 
  • Stop being allergic to everything. It’s so annoying. Get an Epipen and eat those peanuts, friends!
  • Please please please don’t ask me to put something “regular” on tap. I have just spent the past 3 months completely immersed in the craft beer segment. And if I’ve learned nothing else, it is that Bud Light tastes like ass. So if I’m doing you the favor of turning you on to something that is actually worth your time and calories and money, do me the favor of shutting the fuck up about Amstel.
  • Don’t be a vegetarian. Life is too short not to eat a cheeseburger with sautéed onions and fries. Seriously get over it. 
  • Don’t tell me that you “used to be in the restaurant business” and that I’m “doing it wrong.” You just waited 45 minutes for a table on a Wednesday night. I think I’m doing it pretty right. 
  • DO NOT. I repeat DO NOT order a turkey burger or a cobb salad if you’re on a diet. I don’t have time to be a nutritionist, but Tuesday morning when you wake up with your big lose weight resolution, please don’t come by my place and order one of these items.
  • Seriously just get off your phone. If you make no other change this year, make it that. If you don’t know the color of your father’s/son’s/boyfriend’s/waiter’s/gorgeous restaurant owner’s eyes, then you’re sincerely missing out on the finer things in life. Such as life. 

In other news, my personal New Year’s resolutions are to hang out with Charlie more often and FINALLY get a tattoo. And get my dog to stop eating my kid.


if i only had a penis. (a poem)

9 Dec

Like any typical Saturday, tonight I spent part of the evening having extremely super professional craft beer discussions, and the remainder lurking in a dark corner of the restaurant, checking out who on my staff sucks and things like that. I’m not necessarily into voyeurism, but I will say that when people don’t know you’re watching, you get to see awesome things such as sexual harassment, deep wedgie pickings, and your manager standing behind the host station daydreaming for ten minutes while the restaurant functioned around him. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, I mean we’re obviously all entitled to completely tune out our job after a nearly-completed work week filled with a shit ton of drunken Christmas parties. What I am saying is that I watched Ryan stand at the desk for an extended period of time, staring at nothing in particular, just maybe reflecting on who he still needs to buy gifts for / where he’s going to drink after work / how bad he has to pee but someone is taking a really long time in the men’s room. I cruised over to where he was to wake him up and to grab a very important document, (the Costco coupon book, if you really need to know) and he scampered off to check on a table or whatever. Moments later a man who had been sitting no more than 3 feet away from Ryan the Dreamer approached me.

“I just want to make sure that you have our reservation down. When will our table be ready?”

“Oh, I apologize, I just came over here to retrieve this very important document. I’m not actually in charge of seating, but I will find out if your table is almost ready from Ryan, who is.”

“Oh, I just assumed that because you have tits, that you are the hostess,” he didn’t say.

“No, sir. We are an equal opportunity employer. We let people with breasts AND without breasts bring you to your table,” I didn’t say back.

“Wow, I didn’t realize that men could be hostesses. I thought they could only play golf and make chauvinistic comments about chicks and eat steak.”

Ok, so the conversation was somewhat more lighthearted than that, and I obviously got him his stupid table. And I ALSO WROTE THIS AWESOME POEM!!!!!


If I had a penis, oh the things I would do!

I’d have a firm handshake and a secret one, too!

I’d wrestle with dudes but still say that I’m straight,

And not use shampoo, it would be fuckin’ great!

At Home Depot no one would ask to help me

Because buying tools as a dude is so easy.

My martini’d be cold, because men can shake harder.

And I’d know so much more, because men are just smarter.

Probably I’d have to drive a Ferrari

And when my wife got mad I’d never say sorry.

My job would be more important than yours,

Because women are mostly just teachers or whores.

I’d open a bar and then when I went broke,

I’d hire an experienced chick to consult.

‘Cause when a man and his penis are poorly maintained

There’s no better fix than two tits and a brain.

In conclusion, it’s a man’s world. Just kidding.

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.

epic battle: water flavored beer vs. marijuana flavored tea.

24 Aug

One of the best parts about my job is that I basically get to do whatever I want to. For instance, today I took glamour shots of lobsters for the restaurant’s new Instagram account and offered a girl who was celebrating her 17th birthday at the restaurant a martini with no booze in it so she could impress her friends with her mature glassware. Some things are more long term, and require acute planning and execution. Lately, I’ve been devoting much energy to two arenas: Trivia Night and Craft Beers, both of which I knew literally zero about providing for my customers until like yesterday.

Trivia night came about because I’m tired of watching Jeopardy! all alone at the host station every night at 7 and impressing only myself with my vast knowledge of three syllable Shakespearean characters and shit like that. I hired a “professional” host, this man-child who lives down the way who has really good posture and taste in music (as far as I know, although he can’t tell the difference between the Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel so now I’m like seriously questioning that judgement) but does not know the definition of the word sibling and will only drink weed in the form of tea. I have him there so that I can feel free to participate and frolic around the restaurant with other trivia nerds and whisper sweet answers in random ears. He’s both entertaining and strange, two characteristics that I find close to my heart, so I like totally love when he comes, even though I think he’s drunk when he arrives but who cares because drinking makes you funnier and more interesting. No wait, you only THINK you’re funny and more interesting when you’re the drunk one. No wonder he giggles so much and mutters under his breath. Mystery solved. In any case, trivia night is literally the greatest thing that’s happened to the restaurant in years, unless you count regrouting the tiles behind the bar to stop it from smelling really bad. That was also pretty great.

Then there’s the beer. As we’ve discussed in the past, I like to drink whatever brew tastes the most like water (most often this is Bud Light but I’ll also settle for MGD 64). But it turns out that some people actually like their beer to taste like something, and I’ve made it my mission to make that available to them in the form of hipster-friendly Instagram-worthy bottles. Of all the things I’ve done in my life, and this includes taking the SATs and birthing a child and picking out a paint color for my office, choosing a craft beer list was by far and away the most difficult, stressful, awful occasion of my life. Like, the destiny of a beer lover’s evening literally lies in my hands. That is just way too much pressure. Plus, in the typical procrastinator fashion I’m so accustomed to, I waited until I had exactly 27 minutes left to order for my weekend delivery to choose a totally perfect list of beers. So basically I Googled the name of every craft brewery and whichever beer came up after the name on that instant result thing, (Harpoon……., Dogfish Head…….) that’s what I chose. And then just to solidify my decision, I asked the Spanish speaking women in the order department of the beer companies, who literally don’t give a fuck if I do or don’t order beer, and have no idea what is “trendy” for their opinions. And honestly? I feel really good about my decisions. Who cares if I’ve tried it or not, nothing is ever going to compare to my refreshing Bud Light.

Don’t think I’m gonna unveil my final list to you on here. You’ll have to wait patiently until tomorrow just like my customers. What, you think because you read this shit you should be privy to some sort of insider information? Um, no. Not happening.

In all honesty the list is like all the way on the other side of the house and I’m way too lazy/tired/comfortable/cold to go get it.

PS. My makeup bag is one of those purple drawstring felt bags that bottles of Crown Royal come in. That’s yet another perk of the restaurant business. INSANE free shit.

epic battle: shelby vs. harry

9 Jul

While a bit of friendly competition keeps the juices flowing for oodles of couples, Harry and I find that our special relationship is better suited for ultra-competitve, cutthroat throwdowns involving every single facet of our lives. We go head to head in a multitude of arenas, including (but not limited to) who wakes up the most often with the baby, tennis, swim races, eating contests and filling two imaginary busses with the people in our lives based on who they think is cooler. Right now my bus has Charlie, Nicole, my mom, my high school Spanish teacher Señora Davidson and most likely the plumber. Harry’s bus has these two swingers who come to the bar, my dad, (it’s fishing season and my dad gets intimidated by my mad casting skills) my babygirl because he still gives her a bottle and I don’t, the 19-year-old waitresses who think that he’s sexy because of his position and temper and the owner of the local sushi place, because Harry keeps them in business.

Generally speaking, Harry and I are extraordinarily cool, so we both have an overflowing bus nearly all the time. I thought that I’d compare our qualities, so that perhaps we can figure out for once and for all, who is cooler.

  • LOOKS – I am definitely handsomer than Harry, if for no other reason than my gorgeous blue eyes. We both have thick hair, so that’s a tie. But mine is longer and wavy like Steven Tyler’s only more fabulous and less feathery. Harry’s nose is really nice, while mine is a little bit bumpy (however, as a traditional Jew, my nose is still the nicest in my family even with the bumpiness). We’re both pretty dreamy though. Easy on the eyes for sure. Especially when we’re not hungover or crying or pale.
  • PHYSIQUE – Kindly refer to the sentence where I said that Harry and I compete in eating contests. Obviously there is no winner here. If the tiebreaker were legs, Harry would win because his are really top notch (and mine, according to him this very morning, are “thick like a lesbian softball player’s”). If the tiebreaker were boobies, I’d take the prize but not by a landslide. Harry has one permanently hard nipple as a result of an unfortunate piercing incident. So that gives him extra points. But when I wear my Gilly Hicks bra you can forget about it. Me by a landslide.
  • CULINARY SKILLS – This one isn’t fair! Who chose these categories anyway? Whatever, I can make rice krispy treats, chocolate chip pancakes, grilled cheese, matzah ball soup, (from the packet that you just add water and one egg to) ice cream sundaes, orangeade and pot brownies. So what if Harry can make beef wellington that will make you orgasm?
  • TASTE IN MUSIC – Other than my oft questionable love for country music, show tunes and the Brandenburg Concerto, my taste in music fucking rules. I literally charge people to listen to my playlists at the restaurant. Harry listens to Lithium and 90s on 9 and sometimes I catch him NOT SHUTTING OFF MAMBO #5. This is not ok, I’m not only embarrassed to be writing this fact, but am strongly considering having the channel removed from our Sirius subscription so he never has to expose this great weakness to me (or you) again!
  • FACEBOOK PROFILE – This one definitely goes to me because Harry isn’t on Facebook. Ha! Bet if he knew this was going to be a category he wouldn’t be so “against the grain” about that shit.
  • GENERAL COOLNESS – I’m really cool because I’m getting a tattoo (I swear it’s happening soon.) and I’m an aspiring weed dealer  and I have a Burberry raincoat but my favorite possession is a Kiss concert shirt from 1980 that has their faces unpainted. Also I’m secretly great at math and I played on an all girl’s ice hockey team and my favorite movie is Excess Baggage with Alicia Silverstone and Benicio Del Toro. Harry is cool because he’s really good at that boy secret handshake/high five/hug/fist bump thing and he tells good stories (about me) and he doesn’t crack under pressure and his handwriting is great.
  • POPULAR CULTURE KNOWLEDGE – Harry and I each bring something very distinct to the table when it comes to pop culture. Harry is constantly on TMZ, so he’s fabulous at breaking news and following important issues such as how many people called the police to complain that Justin Bieber was speeding on the freeway (10) and also he’s a huge John Cusack fan so if you’re looking for someone to navigate “One Crazy Summer,” he’s your man. I, on the other hand, have seen every Mary Kate and Ashley movie that has ever been made. I also own a few of their skirts from their JC Penney Olsenboye line, as well as their body spray circa 1997. I know every line to Spaceballs and most of the choreography in the movie Center Stage. I’m a champion “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” player, and have read the play (and seen the film adaptation starring Will Smith) that the name of the game borrows from. We are in the upper echelon of pop culture phenoms.
  • CREATIVE INSTINCT – The other day I made a Starbucks bag into a hula skirt using nothing. My belt hooks are vintage drawer handles. I turned a dresser into a desk by hammering out the bottom two drawers and painting it purple. I wrote a short story about a funeral that’s held on a cruise ship by a couple that’s severely obsessed with role playing. Harry doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does Martha Stewart or Zooey Deschanel.
  • SOCIAL SKILLS – While we both totally blow at socializing and take pride in our awkwardness whilst conversating with anyone out of our comfort zone, I would have to give this round to Harry. Yes, you and I have grown quite close, and I really do feel like I can open up to you, but the truth is, I’m a total spaz when it comes to any sort of activity that involves speaking to another human being. That being said, Harry has this angry switch that he sometimes flips during dinner service and jumps down the throats of bartenders over 3 spilled french fries, so maybe it’s a draw.

The moral of the story is, it’s very important that you marry someone nearly as cool as you are, because who wants to participate in a runaway Cool Contest? When we pressed our staff to decide who’s bus they’d choose, they refrained from answering and I just didn’t understand because I’m the clear winner. But the more I thought about it the more I realized that if they chose me, Harry would cry and have a temper tantrum. So they cut him a break and let him think that he holds a candle to an amazing chick like me.

the official shelbytown summer 2012 yogurt crazy challenge. (day 1)

3 Jul

As I’ve mentioned briefly and frustratingly in the past, I have developed a few theories regarding the self-serve fro yo place that have proven true time and time again.

#1: It is impossible to spend less than $5 per yogurt.

#2: No matter how many yogurts you are purchasing, you are always asked if you want a lid.

#3: You are also asked if you want a bag.

Tonight was no exception, and as a result, I’ve decided to go to Yogurt Crazy every night this summer (unless I’m out of town/full/not in the mood) and keep a detailed log on the experience.

Night #1: July 3rd, 10:53pm

Number of yogurts purchased: 2

Topping Highlights: Waffle cones drizzled in hot fudge.

Total cost: $10.41

Average cost per yogurt: $5.20 and a half

Cashier gender: Male

Tan: Deep orange.

Asked if I need lids: Yes

Asked if I also need a bag: Yes

Cashier placed the yogurts in the bag: No

Additional notes: Tonight the only other customers were two girls who hovered over each flavor for a good forty-five seconds each. It took me five minutes to swirl my 2 yogurts because they were hogging the cake batter/cookies n’ cream machine with dumbfounded indecision. I beat them to the toppings but one girl skipped in front of me, then stood there and stared at the containers because she absolutely could not decide between regular coconut and toasted coconut. If I see these girls again I will exit the premises immediately.

yo ho!

30 May

Something really interesting about me is that I get like totally bored if there’s no drama or action going on, and right now there’s just none of it. The restaurant has been steady, my parents and the kids are behaving themselves, the sun is shining….nothing is out of sync. Some people would enjoy this slice of normal and do things like clean their closet or go to a gym or catch up on reading, but not me. I am just not nearly distracted enough to get anything done. I can’t work in this quiet. It’s horrible! Today I stared at a computer screen for 45 minutes. It wasn’t even on. In fact, it wasn’t even attached to a computer. I just couldn’t remember what I was doing because what I was doing was something totally mundane like eating pretzels and drinking a gallon of lemon water and adding things on a calculator.

I’ve decided that I need to come up with a list of things to do when there’s not enough drama. This is all intended to create unnecessary stress in my life and/or destroy relationships with those around me. Here’s what I’ve got:

  1. Open another popup restaurant. Habanero Harry’s may have to come to fruition sooner rather than later. Or Hashbrown Harry’s needs to make a second appearance. Perhaps an outdoor location? Shall we begin looking? I think so!
  2. Become a pirate. The other day Harry and I took the kids to Greenport to see “The Tall Ships,” which is basically a fancy way of saying a bunch of really old pirate looking vessels. As we approached one very rickety one, we spotted a sign next to it that said “Join our crew and sail to the Cook Islands!” Harry and I rock, paper, scissored and I won which means I get to become a pirate and live on a mattress made of hay for 6 months while I sail the world, acquire an Australian accent and grow dreadlocks, while Harry stays home cooking, cleaning, working full time and rearing our children. I’ll bring him home nice souvenirs though.
  3. Go back to school. I have literally no desire or reason or money to do this. But the thought of getting a second chance at good grades seems so appealing. Also college gear is so cool, and my Syracuse sticker is starting to peel off my back windshield and rather than replace it with what I’ve already got, it would be super cool to have a new sticker to stick. Also I would like to make younger friends, because they know where all the good parties are in the summertime and I like feeling like a role model so I can do things like buy beer for my new little friends and they’ll all think I’m the coolest!
  4. Become a weed dealer. I know I keep talking about it. I should probably just do it already, it’s so ridiculous I’m even getting tired of hearing it. Will somebody PLEASE order the chicken tacos at the restaurant?? I’m dying to get this shit off my hands! I’m not trying to go to jail, just make a couple extra bucks so I want to make sure I do this the professional and smart way. Maybe I’ll get in a practice run at the Dave Matthews Concert and sell chicken tacos in the parking lot. Which leads me to….
  5. Become a street food vendor. I really think that this may be the best course of action for me. Other than a stray speeding ticket here and there, I’ve got a great driving record, so a food truck is probably a logical direction that I should take my business savvy in. Perhaps my brunch truck “The Screwdriver” can come to your next Bar Mitzvah or tailgating party or miscellaneous soiree.

I don’t know. Only thoughts only thoughts. Realistically I think we all know that the only possibility is that I become a pirate. As soon as the sunburn on my back goes away, I’m climbin’ aboard.

epic battle: bar mitzvahs vs. communions.

20 May

Something really fun about May is that it’s Communion season. And it turns out that my restaurant is a pretty hot spot for these puppies. With all this talk of religious rites of passage, how can I resist comparing the Communion and everyone’s favorite Jewish party, the Bar Mitzvah:

  1. Balloons. At a Communion, seven minutes before the party starts, the host brings fifteen mylar balloons with either pink or blue crosses on them and they’re all knotted together because they’ve been sitting in her car for the past 4 days getting shoved around during carpool. At a Bar Mitzvah a professional balloon crew arrives three days before the event to erect a balloon ballroom in which to house the party. Guests enter through a balloon hallway and are handed a gold plated balloon which, when popped, sends a firework into the air above them in the shape of their table number.
  2. Centerpieces. At a Communion, the centerpiece is two or three of the cross balloons tied down on some sad looking pansies or one of those giant martini glasses filled with leftover Easter-colored m&ms. To make it a little more sexy, there are some pieces of cross confetti strewn about. At a Bar Mitzvah the centerpiece is constructed from rare orchids and three-dimensional recreations of the Bar Mitzvah boy’s favorite moments in Sports History.
  3. Favors. At a Communion, the favor is a Hershey’s bar with “Jennifer’s First Holy Communion” printed on a piece of paper and taped around the candy bar. Also you get a mint with a cross on it. At a Bar Mitzvah, the candy bar itself is imprinted with a 3-D rendering of each guest’s face. Every kid also receives a camp trunk filled with t-shirts, boxers, shot glasses and hoodies that say “I got leied at Samantha’s Hawaiian Bat Mitzvah Ultra Lounge.”
  4. Music. At a Communion, the music is carefully selected by the programmer at the radio station. Occasionally the hosts play their own (2nd generation) iPods, loaded with Frank Sinatra, Amy Grant and Hall & Oates. At a Bar Mitzvah the Cocktail Hour features both the Long Island Philharmonic and Selena Gomez. The reception is done by EJ the DJ (and their gaggle of pole dancers who “get the crowd pumped”) with a surprise appearance by The Foo Fighters (rockin’ the horah, obv.)
  5. Entertainment. At a Communion, kids are treated to those really awesome little foam thingies that you can stick on other pieces of bigger foam to make exciting shit like foam visors and foam door hangers. There’s occasionally a caricaturist. At a Bar Mitzvah, kids can enjoy a world-famous freak show followed by a one-night-only performance of Cirque du Soleil. Then they are whisked away to Chinatown for dim sum and brought back in a party bus before dessert. At that point they can choose between a reading of “50 Shades of Grey” by the author herself, or a 1 on 1 basketball game with Jeremy  Lin.
  6. Style. The Communion girl dresses like an innocent bride. The morning of her party she may go get a fancy undo that’s heavy heavy heavy on the hairspray and curls, with little roses tucked throughout. Her mom might let her wear some sparkly lipgloss and Mary Janes with teeny tiny heels if she’s one of the lucky ones. On the flip side, the Bat Mitzvah girl dresses more like a slutty bridesmaid than a bride. She has 24″ hair extensions and Keratin treatment, waxed eyebrows, Mink faux lashes, and had her makeup done by the same girl who did JLo before the Academy Awards. Her jewelry is by Harry Winston and her shoes are 5 inch platform stiletto Louboutins.
  7. Fun. Communion girls and their friends practice tap dancing in the hallway between the bathroom and party. Boys play PSP. Bar Mitzvah kids are lifted up on chair while people dance around them, which in many cultures around the globe leads to sacrifice.
  8. Cake. At a Communion the cake came from Costco and cost $16.99 and has a flower cross and the kid’s name is spelled wrong and it doesn’t matter because nobody brought their camera to take a picture of it anyway. At a Bat Mitzvah, each of the fourteen (13 + 1 for good luck if you’re a shiksa) candles gets its own individual 4-tier fondant cake. Each of the 14 cakes is hand painted with scenes from her favorite films of all time (Twilight, Monsters Inc., The Lion King, Fight Club, Harry Potter, The Hangover, Half Baked and some others). The candles are made of human souls and glitter.
  9. God. At a Communion, God is EVERYWHERE – The confetti, the napkins, the plastic tablecloths, the mints, the cake that says “God Bless Redecca” and the Amy Grant tunes. At a Bar Mitzvah, there’s really good sushi and everyone’s talking about the MOBMB’s (Mother of the Bar Mitzvah Boy) new nose was still a little black and blue for weeks to come.
  10. “The Low Key Alternative.” When the family of a Communion boy or girl wants to “keep it low key” they go to the diner after the service with all the grandparents. If they want to make it special they drive an extra 3 miles and go to the good diner, not the one that sometimes there are ants. When the family of a Bar Mitzvah boy wants to keep it low key, they go on a fourteen-day European Cruise and then have a 125 person luncheon after the service with only a DJ and not a DJ and a band.

About the author:  I had lobster at my Bat Mitzvah. I also had a steel drum band, black ladies braiding hair and a casino for the kids. My dress was custom made and the dressmaker created custom matching socks for me to dance in, and there was a beach volleyball court in the corner. At the end of the party, beach balls fell from the ceiling like magic.

About the author’s brother: Brad opted for “the Low Key Alternative” although the cruise was only a week or maybe even less. The luncheon was at our restaurant, duh. He got a headache and slept through the whole thing.

epic battle: texting vs. actual human interaction

7 Mar

I was sitting at the bar tonight with some regulars (vocab of the day: Regulars are customers who come to the restaurant frequently enough that we know their names, and occasionally enjoy their company. A true regular is an avid reader of my blog and constantly tells me how beautiful I am, but some regulars just eat the food). We were sharing secrets of what we use to clean our glasses (I use “a vodka napkin” which is a touch of rack vodka on a beverage napkin, Brittney the bartender uses gin, Marc the regular uses isopropyl alcohol (known to non-dorks as rubbing alcohol) and Michele uses nothing, she just squints through it.

One of Charlie’s friends was sitting a few seats away from us with her boyfriend, drinking beers and having some apps. I know her from going out a couple times, and she’s old like me (have we discussed that I am FAR older than Charlie? Like, decades older. Seven and a half years, to be exact). I got really confused though, because she didn’t say hi or make eye contact with me, so I convinced myself that it wasn’t her, just someone who happens to have the same face, hair and voice as her. “What a small world!” I thought. “Two girls with the same hair, face and voice in the same town! Wow! It’s a miracle!”

As you have learned about me, it’s really not my style to believe in things like miracles, (unless it’s Sunshine Week, which it’s not) so I grabbed my phone to check out Charlie’s Facebook page and do some stalking. At the same time as I was stalking, a text popped up on my screen. Guess who it was from.

Charlie (virtually): “Regina’s at the bar. She said you don’t recognize her.”

Me (virtually): “I totally do. She’s not saying hi.”

Me (virtually): “I do so recognize you.”

Me (in an actual voice, after I realized that I texted Regina instead of talking to her): “I do so recognize you.”

Regina: “I said hi and you didn’t hear me.”

Charlie (virtually): “She said hi n you didn’t hear her”

I made fun of Regina for texting Charlie instead of just saying hi louder (did she need to know that I was trying to find photos of her on Facebook to make sure it was really her before I decided to say hi? No, she didn’t need to know) and we had a nice convo, talked a little smack about Charlie and his annoying habit of going to all of his classes all the time instead of playing hooky on sunny days and that was that.

The moral of the story is that actual human interaction no longer exists without texting, so get an unlimited plan for sure.