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blind dates for crazy bitches.

30 Jan

A woman wearing sunglasses walks really really slowly into the restaurant tonight like fifteen minutes before closing. I’m like “Fuck, dude, why can’t you wasted people go to the druggie bar across the street? Why do you have to come to my classy establishment?” She inches towards me at the host station, and even though she’s wearing shades I swear she’s giving me the evil eye. Time stops. I realize that this is how I’m going to die. This woman is the mother of a waiter I fired yesterday – I thought he was a lose canon but it turns out it was his momma. Or maybe she had a bad meal and I didn’t buy her a dessert and she was pissed. Either way, she looks at me like she’s going to kill me.

Then I realize she’s blind, or something like it, considering I could’ve SWORN she got out of the driver’s side of the car.

“I’m here to meet a man who says he looks like Derek Jeter,” she tells me. I still think she’s going to strangle me, I don’t believe her. But Brittney my bartender directs me towards a lone non-Jetery man.

“Can you help me over? I can see a little, but it’s very very dark in here.” (It is not dark in here.) I hold her hand and lead her to the bar stool of a man who clearly does not have any clue that he is going on a date with a blind woman.

Why oh why did I not record the ensuing conversations? Why could I have not captured the glorious moment of the dude begging the woman to let him drive her someplace, because blind people should not be driving at night? Or the spectacular “feel-up” session in which she ran her hands up and down from his forehead to his knees for like five minutes? How could I have missed out on owning documentation of a man making choking death faces to my bartender while talking to the blind lady about her taste in music? WHY WAS I SO SELFISH TO NOT PROVIDE THIS FOOTAGE FOR YOU???

Because honestly? I was way too busy staring and sneaking into the kitchen with Brittney to piece together the mystery of the weirdest date ever ever ever. (Other than the one or two where couples went to third base whilst sitting at the bar. I’m not explaining third base, ask your teenager.) Because HOW DO YOU NOT MENTION THAT YOU’RE BLIND? IS THERE NOT A CHECK BOX FOR THAT SHIT ON THE DATING SITE??? How do you drink your wine every other day if you don’t have a blind (seeing) date to assist you in holding your glass? Why does your date have to feed you? What is going on right now???

After ordering a third glass of wine (this time “with a straw”)  and making more nasty faces at his date, the guy goes to pee, leaving Brit alone with the blind lady. Who proceeds to lift her sunglasses, look dead at Brittney and tell her that her date looks nothing like Derek Jeter.

Because the crazy bitch can see!

 

 

 

THE WOMAN FUCKING FAKED BLIND. “Because blind dates should be fun!” she said.

Then they ran off to have car sex in the parking lot and lived happily ever after.

I think it’s safe to say that match.com did an INCREDIBLE job matching up a couple of wack douchebags. Kudos to you, match.com!!! Thanks for the giggles!

 

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i just got locked inside the restaurant with the motion detector on. nobody move a muscle.

27 Jan

Once upon a time I got to work in the morning with a huge ass to-do list and was so busy for the entire day that I not only got zero things done, but also added like 5 bullets to it. I’m not even talking about work-y tasks, I mean like normal human being stuff (brush hair, put on makeup, pee). This business is like the occupational version of ADHD – it is literally impossible to focus one one thing for more than a fleeting moment. Just when you think you’re gonna have some time to sit down and make a flyer for your “Afternoon Delight” Valentine’s Day special promotion, some bitch finds a hair in her salad that CLEARLY came out of her own head, but she wants a bunch of free shit to compensate for the resulting emotional trauma.

As a result of my inability to get shit done, I’ve decided to start outsourcing some of my roles here at the restaurant.

  • Customer Service. (Unless customer is providing accolades or awards and/or going to provide a decent blog subject for that evening)
  • Employee Relations. (Unless said employee bears any resemblance to Ryan Gosling, Jimmy Fallon, Jason Bateman, the guy who played Marius in the Les Mis movie, Freddie Mercury or Ellen Degeneres and said relations involve a “private meeting about a private matter”)
  • Peeing. (There’s just no time for that shiz, plus the sink in my bathroom is always so cold)
  • Flyers. (I get to choose all the fonts, which actually takes up the majority of my design time, so maybe nevermind on this one)
  • Internet stuff other than Facebook. (This includes Instagram, because I actually LIKE being in my photos every once in awhile. My boobs aren’t going to be like this for much longer, I need to get them some screen time. I’m specifically looking for somebody who can get me like 10,000 more Facebook likes in a week. Also I don’t want to spend any more than $150 total on this person.)
  • Blogging. (I’m not even kidding, please somebody write a fucking guest post so this place is actually interesting again. In fact, it doesn’t even have to be interesting. I just don’t want to take the time to write it)
  • Selling Parties. (I’m just feeling so over false enthusiasm for your fucking wife’s fucking 40th birthday and what fucking colors the fucking balloons should be.)

Since I’m going to have so much free time with all this outsourcing, I’m going to do really exciting things that I’ve been dying to do. Such as:

  • Drink more beer.
  • Wear mascara so I don’t look like I’ve been crying for the past hour, even though chances are that is actually the case.
  • Drink another beer.
  • Make a Pinterest board for the next 5 restaurants we plan to open, as well as our Hashbrown Harry’s food trailer we’re now planning on opening in Austin because it’s the best place ever and we’re totally moving there and I don’t care if you think I’m just bullshitting you plus I’m also getting a tattoo so whatever.
  • Make a seasonal menu, which I have literally been planning to do since late August but I swear it’s really coming.
  • Load photos on a digital picture frame, as well as the awesome flyers Mystery Flyer Man is creating for me.
  • Write a book.
  • Talk nonstop to people about beer, even the people who don’t give a shit.

That’s pretty much it. I just fell asleep on my keyboard, luckily the dishwasher woke me up to tell me he ADIOS. I was like ¡HOLY MIERDA! ¡AY DIOS MIO! ¿DONDE ESTAS MI BABYGIRL Y MI TOTALLY ANNOYING PERRO???? NO ME GUSTAN RESTAURANTES. HASTA MAÑANA.

 

The moral of the story is: If you want to be in the restaurant business you’re a turd.

how to burn the candle at both ends.

7 Dec

i don’t know.

if i had a cauldron…

13 Nov

If I had a cauldron, after my babygirl drifted off to dreamland, I’d cook enormous quantities of pot butter in the backyard over a lovely homemade campfire. While it brewed I’d lay on a lounge chair staring up at the stars, dreaming up magnificent flavors of cookies. I would make a mental list of alternatives to Rice Krispies with which to create the most delicious treat in town.

I’d despose of the old weed in the dumpster, and some random dudes would stumble upon it and think they were getting lucky, but no beans, my friends. No beans.

I would keep the butter a special refrigerator, and in my spare time I’d whip up goodies galore in my special oven. I would use only the highest quality ingredients, such as organic flour and agave nectar, and source locally whenever possible, such as with Long Island honey and apples (that’s very Jewish, I’m well aware, but I’ve got to go with the demographics, do I not?).

I would hold Baked Sales all over town. I would host Special Pancake Breakfasts for adult softball leagues. I would set up a 10×10 popup tent outside of Whole Foods on the day before Thanksgiving and sell my hyper-local desserts, as a variety of stuffings. Life would be glorious and I would have business cards made up on moo.com because their stuff is just way better than the competition.

My customers would be like chill, man. I’d outsource to cutting edge hipster places that only take cash. I’d hire an intern.

People would accuse me of wanting to be Nancy Botwin from “Weeds” but the fact of the matter is that she converted to be a Jew, and I started out as one. Plus she’s fiction and I’m real. We both wear short skirts, making that round a wash. So I win.

In conclusion, I would like a cauldron for Hanukkah. Also a puppy.

double, double toil + trouble.

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.

confessions of a wandering jew.

15 Jul

The thing about being a Jew is that we don’t make our beds, specifically on vacation. So it’s a little alarming that I spent two days heading down the East Coast in a Volkswagen filled with pillow pets, swim diapers and Pirate Booty, final destination being a beach house on the Outer Banks with no housekeeping. For a week. This is literally the least Jewish thing I’ve ever done. Less Jewish than the corned beef sandwich I had the other day with swiss cheese, less Jewish than the Italian guy I married, less Jewish than the Christmas Tree I decorate every year since marrying the Italian. At first I was disgusted by myself for how horrifying I find 7 days and nights of cleaning up after myself, thinking that I’m a super spoiled lazy bitch who wouldn’t appreciate a good vacation if it smacked me in the face and told me it loved me. But then I started to casually interview some other Tribe members, and it turns out that as a Jew, I’m actually conditioned to take things like mini bottles of Molton Brown shampoo & my toilet paper folded in a V every morning completely for granted. As it happens, the majority of Jews I spoke with (there were at least a dozen, so don’t think that it was just my bartender I asked or something) absolutely do not do anything more than pull their blanket up in the morning upon exiting their beds. One couple puts the decorative pillows and shams and shit back in place every AM, but they apparently started that only recently after their children left for college and they had some spare time.

This whole road trip thing is pretty new to me as well. Before embarking, I called my mom to find out what I should pack for the kids to do in the car for the long haul to our first stop, sunny Williamsburg, VA. “I have no idea. We never went that far.” Upon reflection, I realized that the furthest we really ever went as a family without heading to JFK or LaGuardia was Hersheypark or Lake George. And other than that, the most extended time I ever spent in a car was an unfortunate trip from the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown to Howe Caverns with a friend from college during which we drove in wrong direction for hours on end. The silver lining of the day was that we decided to backtrack and made it just in time for the last cavern tour of the evening at the conclusion of which they literally shut off the lights in the cave. I don’t believe that the whole driving-to-a-vacation thing is exclusive to non-Jews, but then again, Harry is sooooo much better at license plate bingo than I am.

Among my Jew panel, one thing was absolutely certain: WE DO NOT MAKE OUR BEDS WHILST VACATIONING. We simply lock our valuables in the safe, sit around drinking our Poland Spring and white wine spritzers (and miami vices if we’re on a cruise,) and wait for housekeeping to tidy up & refresh our mini shampoos.

Not so much on this trip.

Upon arrival at our house “Big Daddy,” (which is beautiful and beachfront and I didn’t even know that places like this existed outside of the Hamptons to be perfectly honest and other than an insane fear of being eaten by sharks it’s totally paradise) we divvied up the rooms and were handed SARAN WRAPPED PACKS OF LINENS WITH WHICH TO MAKE OUR OWN BEDS. So not only was there going to be nobody to make my bed each day and hang a USA Today on my door, there was also apparently going to be nobody to put the sheets on in the first place except for lucky lucky lucky me. So I made 3 beds on the very first day of my relaxing vacation. And you know what? Even though I bitched Harry out the entire time for making me love him and marry him and be a part of his family and subjecting me to this awful form of torture, I did some kick ass hospital corners and the beds came out top notch.

Speaking of things I learned in sleepaway camp and brought with me to the beach house, I also played a pretty great game of Jacks against my mother-in-law, and although I tried to teach the step kid, I quickly decided that this is not his sport and that maybe he should instead consider becoming a professional sand crab hunter or boogie board faller offer. My babygirl, on the other hand, is now a living legend in Harry’s family for being that chick who pooped on the deck.

Regardless of their habits, I am so thrilled to be passing on my admirable attributes to my children. After exploring the 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom condo at our two-night halfway point Williamsburg stop, he discovered that our bathroom boasted a feature that his did not. “It’s not fair!” he stomped. “My bathroom doesn’t even have a jacuzzi!”

I think it’s safe to say my work there is done.

how the cheesecake factory ruined my life.

22 Jun

So I’ve been thinking about this all day, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s absolutely nothing in the whole entire world that is shittier than a fucked up takeout order. Because you know what? If you get injured you can heal. If you get lost you can find a gas station or use your iPhone. If your flight gets delayed you can buy an extra magazine. If you break up with your boyfriend there are like a million other fish in the sea who are probably far better suited for you anyway and don’t have bad breath all the time.

But if you get home and there is no dressing for your salad and your chicken is overcooked and it’s 11pm and you’re so so so exhausted and starving to death because all you ate the whole day was 1/4 of a melted kids size strawberry banana Tropical Smoothie, you’re like 100% shit out of luck. And all the thoughts swimming through your head of drenching your lettuce in that awesome creamy ranch dressing is squandered and you want to cry but you can’t because you’re too hungry and don’t have the energy to produce the tears. And then your husband rolls his eyes at you because you’re sitting with the phone on your ear while you’re having dinner together trying to talk to a manager to make them understand just how frustrated and inconvenienced you truly are and you throw something at him, only you miss because your aim got thrown off with the phone distracting you and you stain your Ethan Allen chairs that you won’t let your stepkid sit on because he’ll make them messy.

This scenario (perhaps slightly less exaggerated when it actually happened) occurred in my home last night.

WHEN WE PICKED UP TAKEOUT FROM THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY.

I caps locked and bolded because I’m not going to be cruel like all the other assholes and write a bad Yelp review about Cheesecake based on one or two or fifteen shitty takeout experiences, but I’m taking a stand in Shelbytown! Fuckin’ Cheesecake Factory ruined my night, possibly even the rest of my week and/or life! HOW DO YOU LEAVE THE BACON OFF A BLT SALAD? Please, somebody tell me how. Oh wait. It doesn’t matter. Because it wasn’t there and I wasn’t going back and when I called to get it taken off our charge, I got put on hold for 15 minutes while the manager (TIM) “ran to the office” (aka hung out with the servers shooting the shit about shift drama) and then finally another manager picked up the phone saying “Hi how can I help you?” and finally took care of my assholic situation.

I didn’t sleep all night. It was horrible. The missing bacon left this void that just kept me up biting my nails until the sun came up.

We do a lot of takeout at the restaurant, and when people call that something is fucked up and they’re all pissed off, I am always sympathetic because out of 10 times a month that we order from Cheesecake Factory, the order is wrong at least 75% of the time. And out of that 75%, Harry’s is perfect and mine sucks 100%. (Also it’s usually when I’m getting my period, which is so convenient because I can order a 3500 calorie slab of chocolate but terrible for the manager on duty because he’s gotta deal with some cranky hungry screaming bitch on the other end trying to get her money back but also make them learn that consistency MATTERS.) Unfortunately sympathy doesn’t make meat less well done or a missing side of mac and cheese appear in a customer’s bag. I’ve taken the following approaches to rectify disappointed guests: home delivery, free dessert, gift certificates, letting the customer personally fire the guilty server who wrapped up the order. I don’t fuck around with takeout.

Because I NEVER want to have to deal with a bitch like me.

shit my babygirl needs to know.

22 Jun

Tonight I was going to write about how disturbing it is to see teenage girls with exposed side boobs and tweens wearing sheer tank tops and large Tory Burch totes hanging off a gel manicured, Hermes bracelet clad, limp wrist, but I really think it’s pretty obvious that this is not ok.

Instead I’m going to make a list for my babygirl, because one day she will speak in sentences, and then she will be able to write her own name in crayon, and eventually she will be able to read. So I figured that I should probably start working on an instructional manual for her, because if she’s gonna be hanging out with the side boobs and the Tory Burch 10-year-olds, she’s really gonna need it.

Here ya go, babygirl. In no particular order. Some keys to the kingdom.

1. The Great Gatsby, Harry Potter, Charlie & The Chocolate Factory and Charlotte’s Web were all books before they were movies. Please never forget this. Nothing pisses your mommy off more than hearing people talk about great literary works in terms of the film version, and not being aware that before it was a blockbuster, it was a book. Also please watch Jeopardy voluntarily and don’t worry about being smarter than everyone else you know. It runs in the family.

2. Your cool jeans will someday be mom jeans. You are always going to think that your new jeans are like totally the best, and maybe they are right now. But no matter what Calvin Klein says, there is no such thing as a timeless jean. Today I threw on a pair of my favorites and as I zipped them up and sighed about how great they make my ass look, I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “What the fuck jeans are these?” I yelled at my reflection, “They must have fallen out of a “donate” bag.” Um, no. These were, in fact, my favorite jeans as recently as 1 year ago. I can’t figure out how this is possible. The ass pockets are as big as a legal size piece of paper. The “low-rise” comes to my belly button. They are worse mom jeans than my mom wears. And the saddest thing is that I can’t wait until fall jeans season arrives so I can wear them ’cause they’re sooooo comfy! In other words, don’t make fun of your mommy’s pants. That will someday be your tush.

3. A woman’s place is in the home. Hahahahahhaha just kidding. Take a look around mommy’s unused kitchen. Don’t let anyone tell you that takeout is not an acceptable form of food. Go out and do whatever it is you want to do. These days you appear to want to be a hockey player. Go for it! Kids pretty much raise themselves these days. You really don’t need to do much except give them an iPad and organic milk, so you’re good to go do whatever.

4. Men are jerks. This tidbit was passed down from your Mimi (my mommy) and it is the greatest thing she ever taught me. Because even though there might be some exceptions, (not that I’ve found any other than your daddy, who is only a slightly occasional jerk and your Grandpas who are accidental jerks) you go into every relationship with significantly lowered expectations, and that will prove convenient and save your lots of frustration. Is it fair that boys get an automatic excuse for every stupid thing they do? No. But they’re so cute, so we give them a free pass.

5. Never ever ever pair a short skirt with a low-cut shirt. I know some people are going to tell you that less is more, but this does not apply to clothing. Please don’t confuse accessories and clothes. Dressing like you’re at some sort of porn convention can only lead to trouble.

6. Wearing a thong as a necklace becomes inappropriate once you reach school age. It’s sooooo cute that you do it now, but you’re gonna need to stop soon. In fact, please stay away from thongs until you are at least 30 years old. I promise, it is totally alright for people to know that you’re wearing underwear. Here’s a little secret: They are too!

7. Nothing tastes as good as thin feels. Except chocolate. And ranch dressing. And really good pancakes with melty butter. And biscuits. And birthday cake. Please never ever deprive yourself of something delicious because you might be bloated the next day (unless you’ve entered a bodybuilding competition or the Miss American Pageant or the Olympics, in which case you should limit your intake somewhat because you made a commitment and should most definitely follow through).

8. Dishwashers are people too. 

9.  Learn to waitress and bartend, then get out of the restaurant business. Honestly, babygirl? It’s 12am and I just ate dinner. Now I’m going to be up all night with heartburn and regret.

10. Never be too good for Sears. Sure, it’s nice to go shopping at Bloomies, but sometimes Sears is where it’s at! Can you buy a ride-on mower or Kardashian Kollection at Bloomingdales? Nope. And you also can’t have your portrait taken or pay your Discover bill. Be flexible enough to shop, eat and play wherever you find yourself, and the world will be your oyster!

Ok babygirl. Even though you still haven’t had a haircut yet ever in your entire life, and the only color you know is blue and you wear feet pajamas like a superman cape every morning for 2 hours, I think you’re officially ready to face the world…

where jews come from.

27 May

Tonight was like Christmas or something at the restaurant, because alllll the Jews were out. I wonder what it is about Memorial Day that makes every tribe member skip the family BBQ and call in a babysitter. Maybe it’s because everyone wants to show off their new summer wardrobe and absolutely cannot wait until a less family-friendly weekend. Or maybe since Jews don’t cook and this is a holiday where burgers and ribs are a must-have, we fit the bill. Regardless of the reason, they were seriously in every nook and cranny of the restaurant tonight. And I’m not talking about the vanilla difficult-to-identify variety who send their kids to schools like Princeton and University of Texas and don’t wear designer jeans or have any elective plastic surgery. I’m talking about your SUV driving, huge ass diamond sporting, Tory Burch toting creme de la creme Long Island Super Jews (who, if you’re wondering, send their kids to schools like Cornell, Wisconsin, Indiana and, yes, Syracuse).

There are some distinguishing qualities that we (I’m throwing myself in with the masses for this one…) tend to display. While I’m generalizing and completely stereotyping my peeps, these are all for the most part 100% completely and entirely true.

  1. We get too loud too fast. It happens in an instant. Tonight I asked the new waitress if she was a Jew (after she complimented Harry on his excellent guilt-dishing) and when she said yes, there were suddenly four of us screaming at the top of our lungs about which direction you light the candles on the menorah in. Which leads me to…
  2. Nobody actually knows anything about Judaism. There are exceptions. We have a few customers who go to temple and do things like talk about religion and celebrate non-gift-giving holidays. But for the most part, Jews these days are in it for the food and the free birthright trip to Israel.
  3. Everyone went to camp. Tonight when I found out about the new Jew girl, I didn’t ask her if she went to camp, I asked her what camp she went to. Because camp is pretty much non-negotiable for adolescent Jews. This has nothing to do with wanting to ditch your kids for 8 weeks (although now that I have a 9-year-old step kid I can say that the temptation does pop into my head now and then). Camp has to do with passing down amazing experiences from generation to generation. Such as getting fresh bagels on visiting day and joining the inter-camp soccer team just for the ice cream sundaes on the van ride back.
  4. Like Asians, we are completely undistinguishable when in a large group. On an individual basis, we all display our own unique style, whether it’s the type of music we listen to or color of Essie nail polish that we use or the way we pronounce “Bendels.” But when we get together for a girl’s night, we all dress the same, talk the same, complain the same, and order the same salad (with well done salmon, dressing on the side, extra garbanzo beans, no olive and make sure it’s chopped).
  5. Jews hire night nurses when they have babies. I didn’t put this as “we” because I didn’t marry a Jew, and so I didn’t get a night nurse. Harry insisted that “we’re the parents, so we should wake up with the baby.” While I sincerely hated him at the time, and our social lives probably took a major hit (as though we had one at all) because we couldn’t go out drinking with the other new parents, I will always fondly look back on those days of sitting on the couch at 4:30am watching Pretty Little Liars with my itty bitty baby girl in my arms. Still. I deserved a night nurse.
  6. Every Jew knows Artie. Something about our recently deceased original restaurant is that it was like the number one spot for Jappy women to have lunch for literally decades. So my dad really got to know them, as well as their husbands/boyfriends/sugar daddies. And he was friendly and super sweet and made everyone feel like he was their buddy. Not like me, who flips people the bird before they’ve completely turned around and refuses to schmooze with anyone who rubs me the wrong way. Yes, he’s the Penn to my Teller. And as a result, not a Saturday night goes by at the restaurant where some balding dude comes up to me or my manager and says “Where’s Artie?” And I say “Artie hasn’t come to work for 5 years,” followed by “Maybe if you were a devoted customer you’d know that, huh?” followed by “Stop looking at me like that, asshole” followed by “Fine! Don’t come back! See if I care! My dad doesn’t even remember who you are!” I can’t figure out why they don’t want to get to know me better, but it’s their loss for sure.

Anyway, that’s the deal with Jews, at least this week. Because if one thing is true (other than the aforementioned items) it’s that we love a good trend.

how to have the best dad in the world.

25 May

In celebration of the holiday weekend and all the horrible drivers/outfits/people in general out there, I’ve decided to highlight some morons.

  • The kid at the yogurt place. Look, kid. I’m really proud of you for getting an after school job. But if I’m by myself and I’m getting 4 things of yogurt, it’s pretty safe to say that I need lids. Oh, and yes. A bag.
  • People who compliment the cakes that we serve at parties. People tend to go bananas for our cakes, because they’re fresh and totally delicious. That being said, they’re mostly either from the supermarket or Costco. So when I say “it’s a local baker” in response to “where did you get this yummy cake?” I find it extremely difficult to keep a straight face.
  • The guy who helped me set up my computer. He’s a friend and he came over and that was so so so nice of him and I’m forever grateful for all the stuff he pimped out my computer with (except for the program that he probably put on to see what me and Harry Google from his living room). But telling a girl “stop it, your diet’s not working” is undoubtedly going to put you on a list of morons.
And now a retraction, of sorts…..

RETRACTION: So my dad asked me to retract the statement I made the other day about him being extremely whiny when it comes to fixing shit around the restaurant. Yes, he showed up promptly the next morning and miraculously rewired the broken fan to make it spin another day. He also cleaned up after himself. But the fact of the matter is that he did it all hesitantly and without zest. So for that, I am refusing his retraction request and instead telling an embarrassing story about him.

THE BOOTS

It was many moons ago, sometime around the turn of the milennium, and my dad decided to come visit me up at Syracuse and take me to the motor home show at the New York State Fairgrounds. It was probably around April, and since it snows 12 months a year there, we decided that we’d also hit up a ski mountain. We arrived at the mountain with my dad, his “vintage” skis, and my roommate Allie who had never been on a mountain before (she sidestepped down the mountain on our first and her only run). I was quite seasoned, having been on at least two bunny hills and one unfortunate black diamond. Allie and I hit up the rental place, partially to get skis and partially to get dates. After we were all geared up, we headed outside to the lifts to meet up with my dad. On our way there, I saw some pieces of debris on the ground. First just a couple pieces, then some more, then a shit ton more. And at the end of the breadcrumb trail stood my sad sad sad daddy wearing one ski boot and one sock.

“My boot exploded.”

“Well let’s go back to the lodge. We can go rent a new pair!”

“I have a wide foot. It was a special boot.”

“Well it was it’s time, dad. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He insisted that we go ski without him, and that he would sit in the lodge and wait for us. We turned and parted ways, but before we could make it to the lift, there was a crack. We turned around.

“My other boot exploded!”

At least we had the RV show to lighten the mood….

 

You know what? That felt so good! Exploiting my pops is FUN! I’m going to try for round two….

 

THIS OLE’ HEART OF MINE

It was a dark and stormy night when we found out my dad had to have triple bypass surgery as a result of sausage, peppers, onions and the restaurant business. Or maybe it was a lovely summer day. I don’t remember. Probably neither does he because he’s really sort of losing it. We do know that it was either a day or a night. He went in for surgery like a trooper, even though he was scared (of how bad business would be if he couldn’t come back to work quickly). He (obv) made it through, as we knew would happen, and we went home to get some rest, because the thing about my father is that he’s occasionally high maintenance, especially when under the weather, so we knew we’d need energy to cater to his odd whims and mostly unnecessary needs. When we arrived at the hospital the next morning, the sexy porn-ish nurse told us that we could go see him in the CCU. It was heartbreaking to see him laying there, completely unable to communicate with anyone around him. He felt such deep pain and had been so severely drugged up that he couldn’t even do anything but keep his eyes closed and moan and moan and moan and make us cry like girls.

But then something happened. I looked up at the TV and Lifetime was playing. Somehow, the boobalicious nurse knew his favorite channel! It was a miracle! She was a mind reader! Or he was a big fat faker. Sorry dad. Seven thousand stitches and a breathing tube or not, we all know the truth about the CCU.

 

*In regards to the title of this post, I’m not trying to compete with you or your dad. I was really just trying to put my dad in a super happy mood before he found out that I was rejecting his retraction request. Next time just come fix the fan, dad.