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musings on being lame.

17 Jul

I’ve just been accused of posting something lame by one of my “friends.”

You know what, dude? I try really really hard not to be lame. In fact, one might argue that I am the least lame girl in town.

The following are examples of how not lame I am.

  • I sport like 6 bracelets at a time from (chain stores) all over the world.
  • I didn’t get the anti-reflective stuff on my glasses so as to fully achieve the “nerd chic” look, which is all the rage right now.
  • I wear Tory Burch flats to work because I work in Plainview and in this town, conformity rules.
  • My babygirl wears a vintage charm necklace and can perform a one-man version of Macbeth. She’s 2.
  • I can’t remember if in the olden days when I wrote these posts, I used all lowercase letters or not. I feel like I did to be stylish, but it goes against nearly everything I believe in. (If you spell a lot as one word, please stop reading now and never ever ever ever try to contact me again. You are dead to me.)
  • That’s all I can think of. Maybe you’re right, Sandy.

In other news, being a mommy to two restaurants is really annoying for me, and potentially interesting to you. So maybe I’ll actually write about the business again.

Today was my first day back from vacation (Naturally, we went to Disney World. Because there is nothing more relaxing than chasing hungry and tired babygirls/stepkids/dads around multiple theme parks and hotel lobbies for 7 days. The highlight is a tie: the Jr. High Miss America Pageant and a child talent scouting conference, both held in my hotel. Exploiting children is one of my favorite hobbies, that and car singing). I spent my first 4 hours back at the restaurant working on a list of things to do so that I can be focused and completely on my game. It currently consists of the following items:

  • call farms.
  • make an about page on the website.
  • plan a beer halloween party.
  • reboot hashbrown harry’s. 
  • “email.” (I don’t remember to whom I am to send one)
  • find miniature disposable tongs.
  • refinance house.

The to-do list was all I did. Oh no wait. I also bought a stamp and a smoothie. I was trying to do other stuff but then the whole lame fiasco went down and now all I can think about is how true it truly truly is.

The new restaurant (Wait, have we even talked about the new restaurant?? Ok, we opened a new restaurant. It’s fucking baller. There’s incredible beer. My belly is like, dude, stop drinking that shit, you look preggers and it’s too hot outside for more than one layer of Spanx.) is getting on nicely. We’re yet to be reviewed by the newspaper. The food is yummy and I play Lumineers radio on Pandora, so basically we’re guaranteed a perfect rating. If we don’t get a perfect rating I’ll basically go into a state of depression so deep that people will confuse me with Wednesday Adams and my daughter will cry every time she sees me. I sure hope the reviewer is reading this so she realizes the potential damage she’s doing to an adorable Shakespeare-performing babygirl.

On Tuesdays we have Taco Tuesdays, and it gets super crowded,  which I find really confusing since the menu is in no way Mexican and we don’t have guacamole, and why would you want to go someplace that doesn’t have guac for your tacs? Alas, people are entitled to make the decisions they make, even if they are wrong, and show up at my restaurant on a stupid night of the week. Fools.

The new restaurant is in a town so deeply Jappy that I started talking like I’m from Long Island again, a habit I happily kicked when I was in my tweens. I sound like Fran Drescher. I constantly make myself want to puke. It’s so Jappy that I think I’m going to have a CAMP viewing party on Friday nights. Oh shit! Something to add to my to-do list! No, like I really think I’m gonna do that. Not taking advantage of being a Jewish business owner in this town is like not taking advantage of being an Eskimo on a college application. For instance, I’m currently planning a “Jews and Brews” charity event, and there’s a farm-to-table Rosh Hashanah menu on the horizon. Also a weed dinner (dreams do come true!!!) but I probably shouldn’t talk about that because my mom totally reads this and she’ll be all disappointed in me and lecture me and say “Shelby you can’t sell weed!” and I’ll say “But moooommmmmmm!!!” and she’ll say “I said no.” and I’ll say “I hate you mom! You ruin EVERYTHING!!!” And then I’ll do it anyway.

OK. Let’s talk soon, alright? Because seriously, I really do miss you.





evolution of a new hire.

24 Feb

Holy fuck, it’s been so long since I’ve written on here that I forgot my username.

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is that I totally loathe new people. They make me want to puke, for the most part. Occasionally there’s one with a personality or a magical air about him/her and I don’t want to punch him/her. But as a general rule of thumb, I wait :

  • 2 days to speak to a new hire
  • 5 days to make eye contact with the new hire
  • 10 days to smile at the horrible jokes the new hire keeps making to try and impress me
  • 2 weeks to joke around within earshot of the new hire (although never directly to them so they don’t get the wrong idea)
  • 3 weeks for simultaneous smiling and eye contact (although not everyone ever gets to this point, I’m extremely selective at this stage).
  • 4 weeks to ask the new hire any personal questions, such as “what’s your name again?” and “how was your weekend?”

Once we’ve conquered these hurdles, we’re good to go. Unless you give me a nickname prematurely. If you develop a pet name before we have worked at least 20 shifts together and you have told me how much you love country music and we have bonded over that fact, you suck and I hate you eternally.

This post is dedicated to the fuckin’ waiter who keeps calling me Shelbs. I’m going to fire you tomorrow, just so you know.

heavy petting: secret to my success.

1 Jan

So lately at work, like for the past year or so, there’s been some heavy petting going on between Harry and Thing 2, one of my middle aged spinster party waitresses. I let it happen because I like to keep morale up in my joint, and what the hell do I care if some weird lady wants to pet my husband’s hair?

Oh wait, did you think I meant that he was like feeling her up or something? Yeah, no. She just really likes to run her fingers through his thick locks. And I’m like “Whatever, Thing 2. I’m just gonna sit here and watch you pet my man,” and she’s like “Oh man, Shelby. Thank you so much, it just makes me feel all hot and bothered” and me and Thing 1 just sit there rolling our eyes at them.

That’s the thing, you guys. You need to keep your employees happy. An upbeat work environment makes for a productive staff. Even if said employee is unhealthily obsessed with your spouse and it requires essentially pimping him (his hair, let’s not be dramatic) out.

This weekend Harry and I are catering our wedding for some other couple in a barn someplace on Long Island. An event like this requires a team stronger than titanium (and I need like sooo many Xanaxes and weed brownies) to run smoothly. Naturally, Things 1 & 2 are vital components to this team, because they know that I’m an anal bitch when it comes to certain party details (angle at which to place tables / level to which water glass should be filled / EXACT time candles must be lit) and that they should BACK THE FUCK OFF and just do whatever I say, and they always have a good stash of pot for the end of night. Knowing these facts, I remain content, which, in turn, keeps Thing 1 cucumber cool. Thing 2 is a different story. She gets a little snippy if I don’t let her fondle my husband, so that’s a concession that I make. Just for her.

It also keeps Harry feeling young and virile, like he’s some strapping pornstar celebrity chef. And in case you didn’t know this about the restaurant business, a cranky chef is a FUCKING DOUCHEBAG. Ask anyone who works with Harry. I mean, a chef. Not Harry, he’s like never cranky. Like ever.

Anyway, Charlie is also working the party. I got him to do it by telling him that I knew for sure that there are going to be some hot guys as guests. Charlie never turns down the chance to rip a heterosexual out of the closet, even if it’s only for a few hours. I’m paying him in bottles of vodka and condoms. There’s also a redhead working the party. But if I write about him he may lose his day job. So we’ll just call him Gregory and say that he would also like to be paid in vodka and condoms, but substitute the vodka for Charlie.

Do we know how to throw a party or what?????

Ya we do! We’re so good at throwing a party that I WROTE A HAIKU ABOUT IT!!!!!!


Hire us for fun.

There may be weed in your apps.

Pigs in a blanket.

Also, this happened today. It is a clip of me being interviewed by the CW 5pm news about something really crunchy and professional. Which proves that you can be a hippie who wears inappropriate footwear to a legislative session and skateboards around her development on a custom neon pink Penny Board, and still occasionally appear to be somewhat of a responsible adult.

Disclaimer: I like never ever ever associate my blog with my actual restaurant, but due to extreme vanity and egomania, I am doing so this evening. Kindly do not sue me because suddenly you’re putting 2 + 2 together and you realize that I’ve been writing shit about you all along. Moreover, don’t be scared to bring your children to my restaurant just because I talk like a sailor and have a brain like a pervy fifteen-year-old boy. Thanks dudes.

a public service announcement to those of you who are interested in opening a restaurant (aka idiots).

19 Dec

Tonight on my way home from work I called my mom to ask her if she can babysit my kid on Thursday night because I have a party.

“Who’s party?”

“I don’t know. Some dude.”

“Oh, I thought you were invited to a party. I didn’t realize you meant for work.”

“No, mother. I was not invited to a party.”

“I got so excited!”

“Yeah, well sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel pathetic.”

“I don’t feel pathetic. In fact, I’m going to blog about how the only parties I ever attend are the ones I’m throwing for somebody else and that I’m seriously an awesome party planner.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t write that. It really does make you look a little pathetic. Stop letting people think that you’re a bigger loser than you actually are.”

Um, no, Mother. I’m being pretty fuckin’ accurate. At some point in time, I went from being the life of the party (TOTAL EXAGGERATION) to the host of the party who doesn’t know anyone except the person who booked it, and they pretty much ignore me the whole time to do things like talk to their friends and drink all-they-can and sexually harass their employees. The holidays are a super busy time for me and Harry, so I get that people don’t want to make us feel bad for declining. That’s obviously why we don’t get invited to do anything festive. But they’re making a big mistake! We’re very valuable guests!!!!

The following is a list of reasons that we should definitely be invited to parties of people we actually are acquainted with:

  1. We never show up empty handed. And I’m not talking a cheap bottle of wine. Maybe we’ll bring a totes gorg fruit platter on a bamboo cutting board for your brunch. Or maybe even a 1 pound block of butter. Throwing a cocktail party? We’ll show up with hors d’ouerves for like 50 people, just because we’re that nice!
  2. I mix a mean martini. All this self-serve bar shit means that most of the drinks will have the incorrect balance of vodka to mixer. But helloooooo I’m like a bartender. I can make creative, seasonally appropriate, refreshing cocktails with simple ingredients you can find laying around the kitchen! I’m the MacGuyver of Holiday Booze! In addition to mixing a great drink, I also mix a great Spotify list. Just in case your boring lame-o Pandora station blows as much I’m assuming it does.
  3. I have compiled a VERY LONG list of potential hostess gifts that I am DYING to purchase. I literally don’t care who I buy one of those trendy aprons from Anthro for. You can be the lucky winner if you just send me a damn Paperless Post. And I bet you’d be super happy if some special guest of yours showed up with one of those Pop Phones that you secretly want but can’t think of any legit reason to purchase. Just sayingggggg…..
  4. I have an arsenal of interesting topics to discuss with fellow partygoers. For instance, the best food I ever ate in the parking lot after a Phish show / how I still mourn Amy Winehouse on the regular / my parents have a rat infestation / motor homes are the best / my brother got bullied at theater camp.
  5. I am an extremely entertaining drunk. It’s just that I never get the chance to prove it! Like, do you know HOW AMAZING I can sing karaoke? Neither do I!!! Because I never remember it the next day!!!!!!! But how the hell did I get that huge ass bruise on my wrist?????

In conclusion, if you open a restaurant, you will be a SLAVE to that restaurant, and you will never be invited to a party ever ever ever again unless your friend throws a party at your establishment, and then you will go from talking to him about business and shit like that to bumping in to him while you’re trying to carry a bus tub of dirty glassware into the kitchen and slipping and nearly dropping the whole lot of glasses attempting to keep your breast inside your shirt because you’re good friends but not that good. Not that this scenario happened to me tonight or anything…..


naughty (and nice, i guess) holiday party roundup.

12 Dec

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is Christmas Parties. (Oh, hey guys, remember Hanukkah? The holiday that it ACTUALLY IS right now? Can SOMEBODY bring a fuckin’ Secret Santa gift that’s wrapped in blue and silver paper for once??? Whatever, maybe next year. Anyway…)

drunk christmas

Right now we’re deep in the heart of party season. What this means for you is that you get to drink with your colleagues and eat a free meal. What it means for me and my staff is that if we could all crawl in some sort of hole and hide from all of you freaks, we definitely would.

No offense, but the holidays bring out the worst in you. Like, we get it. You’re stressed because your kid hates you but you still need to buy him a skateboard (Yo, did I mention I got a skateboard for Hanukkah? A pink one with green wheels? Because I’m a woman-child? And I’m going to break my face open and post gruesome photos of it? And it’s going to be so awesome?) But that’s no reason to be scroogey/too happy/wear terrible festive clothing/berate me because you drank 13 double Jack Honeys on the rocks and we ran out.

What you may not realize is that you don’t all suck in the same way. There are many, many different types of Holiday Parties! And with each party, a different Spotify list is necessary. Spotify lists are essential to the success of a holiday party, because at my particular establishment, we have carpet and so bosses have the perfect excuse to not pay a DJ, disappointing millions of horny secretaries who are sincerely looking forward to grinding on a doctor or partner or other secretary or whomever. Because the best part about the office holiday party is most definitely the one-night-only lift on the company sexual harassment policy. Gotta take advantage of that shit.

Merry Christmas Party Season to the following partiers:

1. Christmas Over-Enthusiasts. These bitches show up an hour and a half before the party starts to “accent” our holiday decorations with their own. Poinsettia leaves strewn across the tablecloths, cinnamon sticks in the water glasses, reindeer antlers hanging on the wall and a personalized rudolph nose for each guest. They play every classic holiday game there is, including an ugly sweater contest, “pack santa’s toybag” and other shit that nobody wants to participate in. PLAYLIST: 100% Classic Christmas, highlighted by the Mariah version of “All I Want For Christmas is You” and “The Hanukkah Song” and the ever horrible “Dominic the Donkey.” They sing along to nearly everything, except when they’re laughing-til-they-cry during the “Naughty or Nice gift exchange.”

2. Cheap Boss. This guy calls in a lunch reservation for 8 people so that he doesn’t need a party package, and throughout the month he needs to “add a couple folks” until the number has topped 40. He fancies up the non-private room with one bouquet of Trader Joe’s seasonally appropriate flowers and gifts his staff with leftover giveaways from the pharmaceutical rep. Half of his staff “goes to the bathroom” together and hits up the bar to take a bunch of shots, because he has decided that booze is not appropriate to celebrate the holidays. After party is back to work.     PLAYLIST: Fuck that, we’re listening to country music. If this isn’t technically a holiday party, then I can technically listen to my regular playlist, and sing at the top of my lungs to every other song.

3. Funeral. Someone needs to tell these people that they’re at a party. They are so dull that if we talk about how boring they are in the server station too loud, they will all hear us and start crying. They all wear festive clothing, which is all ugly. They sit down the second they get to the party, which makes for an awkward cocktail hour with passed hors d’ouerves.  After party is the next morning on Facebook, with elegantly posed photos of each attendee.     PLAYLIST: The Michael Buble Christmas album, followed by the Charlie Brown Christmas album by the Vince Guaraldi Trio, followed by a funeral death march performed by a local high school bagpipe band, with a finale of “River” by Joni Mitchell on repeat for the last hour.

4. Drunken Fools. The holidays are the ultimate time to attempt a sexual encounter with your boss and/or his wife, and there’s no better way to do this than to drink yourself silly. At some parties, this scenario is a sure thing. Except you can’t really fuck a boss who’s passed out in the corner, so there goes that theory. These party people decorate by coming early and taking shots at the bar. After party is at the strip club. After after party is at work the next day, where everyone is still drunk.     PLAYLIST: The Chris Brown Christmas Album, along with whatever else the DJ chooses. Your boss hired a DJ for this one, because he wants to show off his moves and he’s seriously hoping to get his wife laid tonight.

5. Teachers. Teacher parties fall into 2 categories, both of which involve karaoke. Both after parties are bed, there’s school to be taught tomorrow! Except for this one guy. It look’s like he’s gonna need a sub.

  • 5a. Drunk Teachers. Choose the cheapest food package possible. Complain about everything from the very first day of planning. Old teachers are the life of the party. Pay in singles.      PLAYLIST: Karaoke machine. Then the Chris Brown Christmas album.
  • 5b. Sober Teachers. Require more food than drunk teachers, but want to spend less money than them. Complain about nothing except how they don’t have enough food. Young teachers are the life of the party. Pay in singles.     PLAYLIST: Karaoke machine. Then the Michael Buble Christmas album.

6. Segregation City. This group is a mixed bag of blue collar and white collar workers. The sales department and the warehouse guys. The queen bees and the worker bees. People who hire cleaning ladies and people who are cleaning ladies as their second job. This is my preferential group, because it’s sort of like having two parties at one time and it makes me feel more accomplished. Like I brought together separate worlds with my pulled pork sliders. This party typically starts slow and ends with some crazy ass afterparty at the local Spanish bar.     PLAYLIST: Feliz Navidad by Jose Feliciano and Pitbull and Gloria Estefan and JLo.

7. Cool People. I’m not gonna lie and act like there’s more than one of these a year. It’s a needle in a christmas tree farm. These people drink enough to have a hefty liquor tab, but stay sober enough to not urinate on the party room floor. Everyone is dressed fantastically and many of the women wear amazing sparkly platforms that I try to steal. They smoke pot in the parking lot. We all get contact highs. They leave in a timely fashion and tip extra. The after party is a PJ party in someone’s basement apartment and everyone lays around watching Christmas Vacation until the sun comes up.     PLAYLIST: This.  Because I save cool playlists for cool people.

*Note: I am not exempt from this list, but I fall into sort of a hybrid category. My Christmas Party is a lovely combination of #6, #2, #4 and mostly #7 based specifically on my presence. Plus we obviously have a naughty or nice gift exchange.

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.

25 things you don’t know about….

7 Nov

As the cherry on top of my long ass day, (highlighted by me stomping my Ugg in fresh dog shit courtesy of Oliver, my parents’ favorite child) I received a letter in the mail telling me that my subscription to US Weekly has expired. The only reason I even went to the mailbox was for the damn issue so I could put my feet up and watch the season premiere of Top Chef and just VEG for an hour. Alas, it’s not in the cards.

Since I now can not discover 25 things I didn’t know about Melissa Joan Hart or Carrot Top or whatever, I’ve decided to divulge 25 things you didn’t know about ME!!!!!

1. I wrote a picture book called “The Squashes Cross the Country” about a family of squashes who take a road trip and do clumsy things at various roadside attractions.

2. I started listening to country music because of a guy named Aaron Hoffman in college, who I believe is a preacher’s child but I could be wrong. I keep meaning to find out his address so I can send him a thank you note.

3. I have gotten fired by my dad like 100 times.

4. I’ve quit like 105 times.

5. I’m a really really really fast typer.

6. My favorite TV shows that only lasted one season were My So Called Life and Wonderfalls. You’ve never heard of Wonderfalls but you should watch it on Netflix.

7. I thought I broke my pinky playing tetherball at camp and “set it” with a lollipop stick and two bandaids.

8. I can sing Rent, Annie Get Your Gun, Thoroughly Modern Millie and Les Mis (and like maybe ten or twenty more shows) in their entirety, and I often do.

9. On a high school trip to England I made people sneak out to go to a club and one of the girls on the trip met her future husband with whom she has like I think a couple kids. The vodka cranberries had no ice in them, it was nasty.

10. I played soccer and only got into the all-star game one time because I sucked, but one year I got to do the line flag and wear a referee shirt.

11. When I was a camp counselor I wrote “REDRUM” on the mirrors and almost got fired.

12. I throw up pretty much every time I drink, but usually not til the next morning.

13. I use a record player. My favorite album is Getz/Gilberto. I can listen to the song Corcovado a million times in a row. Bossa Nova sets the best mood.

14. I have been going to the movies by myself since I was really young. I went to the artsy theater because they had muffins and tea instead of candy and soda. I saw anything Parker Posey was in.

15. I used the word cunt in a short story in college and it made my mom cry. I justified it by telling her it that I was referring to a body part. Perhaps one day I’ll post the piece, it was pretty great.

16. My favorite parts about marrying out of my religion are the Christmas tree and the lack of arguments about who’s family we’re going to.

17. I once hitched a ride to Boston for the weekend with nothing to do, no place to stay and no jacket. I bought a North Face fleece.

18. I’m a lefty but not the kind who notices other lefties.

19. I once made pancakes out of powdered baby formula for Charlie’s birthday, which also happens to be my daughter’s birthday.

20. My calves are very muscular from playing sports and I hate them but I get a lot of compliments which is really confusing.

21. I can play the viola, the piano and 3 chords on the guitar.

22. I needed help writing this list so I asked two good friends for ideas. One of them said the pancake thing, the other said I have really good hair but that seemed vain.

23. I crack myself up while I’m writing. I LOL.

24. I’m a really good kayaker.

25. My favorite place in the world is Verona, Italy. Because I like love love.

Don’t you feel so much better now that you know this stuff?


how to avoid pretty much anyone, even if you’re famous like me.

10 Oct

A frequent recurring trend among restaurant owners is that we eat at places other than our own establishment.

It seems fairly reasonable to us. Sometimes you don’t want to eat the same identical cuisine 35,430 meals in a row. Sometimes you want to be served by a waiter who you don’t know streaked across the parking lot the other night. Sometimes you want to steal other people’s ideas. Sometimes you want to let your kid make a huge fucking mess on the floor* and then leave the premises. Sometimes you want to tip 15% on poor-to-mediocre service and run for the door. And you know what? That’s alright by me. However to you, the customer, the act is completely inexplicable. For the past 20whatever years, every single time we run into a customer at a restaurant, (which is like all the time because we’re famous) we are greeted with a hearty “You’re not allowed to eat heeeerrrrrrreeeee!!!!!!”

Um, yes we most certainly are allowed to eat here. Really, shouldn’t it be the other way around? If you are MY customer, then you should be eating in MY restaurant. Unless we’re at Indian or Vegan food (which I assure you, we are not) then the only place YOU are expected to be is eating the many delicious dishes at my cozy establishment. I’ve got college educations to pay for and it’s all literally going to boil down to your ravioli 2 times a week.

That’s the thing about owning a restaurant like mine. I run it, so I have to really get to know my customers. It gets pretty deep. I talk to everyone, and pretend I think they’re funny/intelligent/nice even when I know very well they’re not. I also have to sometimes act like their husbands aren’t SO sexy or that their kids aren’t SO ugly. I also have to share things about my family (photos of my kids on my iPhone with random self portraits and drunk pictures, quirky stories about how UNFANTASTIC it is to work with your husband and parents, where I shop for my Saturday bras, whether or not Harry and I are trying to conceive) and I’m truly not one to share personal aspects of my life. I don’t know if this is obvious by my ramblings, but I’m actually like really shy and totally loathe human interaction in a way that many people would take medication for.

It is for this reason alone that I am currently hiding under a table in the corner of a Panerabread with a hoodie on, with my laptop open only enough for me to fit my fingers on the keys so as to not draw attention with the bright lights of the screen. I don’t want to get lectured for patronizing a foodservice establishment other than my own. And I DEFINITELY don’t want to chat. It’s way too early, and I forgot my lipstick and I should only have to fake enthusiasm with these duds when I’m at work. This said Panerabread is located only about half a mile from my restaurant, and 3/4 of the people sitting above me at chair level are customers whose faces I recognize. The other 1/4 are most likely either infrequent customers, too generic to remember or they hide under my tables so I don’t know what they look like.

Other than hiding behind furniture, there is one way of avoiding people that I find works every time. You can implement it into your everyday life, such as with the kiosk lady at the mall who wants to ask you if you have artificial nails or your high school English teacher who knows you cheated on the final and definitely recognizes you at the Indigo Girls concert you’re both at. Here it is. Don’t tell your friends or you won’t be able to efficiently ignore them. Ok here it is. Secret to avoiding people:


I did this today at the supermarket when I nearly ran into a customer for whom I did a party. Under some circumstances, it would have been nice to see her. But I was in a rush, she’s definitely not the type to just wave hello and rush on by, and I just wasn’t feeling it. So I stared town that box of green tea like it was gonna run away. And VOILA! No convo needed!

OMG Sidebar. A girl just walked by wearing a little pink denim skirt, striped oxford, blue sweater tied over her shoulders and a bow in her hair. She looked adorable. Is there some sort of part time job that I can get so I can wear shit like that? Like the American Girls store or High School or H&M or something like that. Oh shit, she just passed again. Her shoes are adorbs too. If I weren’t deep in this important document I’d totally follow her and see if they’re hiring. Unless it’s the Gap. Been there, done that. Although they were playing country music there the other day so maybe I’d consider it.

Anyway, being famous in a small town is really tough. You get no privacy whatsoever. People are always wanting to talk to you. They ask such irritating things like “How are you?” and “How’s the family?” and “Is the skirt steak gluten free?” and, worst of all, “How’s your dad?”

My dad is famous too, only he’s more famous in Nassau County and I’m more famous in Suffolk County. Specifically only one town in Suffolk County, and really only one little part of that town. What I’m trying to say is that my dad is more famous than me. But I’m more potentially famous, specifically because of my blog (You know, the one I haven’t written in like a month ever since new TV started) and like maybe I can get some press as like “a restaurant owner who dresses slutty on the weekends so customers will be nice to her.”  I think if you were going to equate us to any father-daughter duo, it would be like Gene Simmons’s nobody daughter trying out for X Factor, except that my dad wears more makeup and I’m a better singer.

Unlike me, my dad never hid under tables . He stood on them (before his cardiologist told him to please stop). That’s what makes him way popular. In fact, already today like 13 people have asked me the dreaded “how’s your dad?” question. What am I supposed to say? “He’s good, right now he’s napping with the baby, and at 4 he’s going to watch Judge Judy.” No, that’s probably not a good idea.

Maybe next time I’ll stare at a very important document so the question doesn’t have to be an issue.

*Speaking of children making huge messes on the floor, I thought I’d share a lovely little story from last night’s dinner service. A little 2 year old comes in with her parents and grandparents. She’s cute. Obviously not as cute as my babygirl, but cute. Anyway, I’m in the other room putting glitter on some masks and doing other important stuff like that, and I keep hearing the kid making choking noises. They’re intermittent so I figure there’s no need to worry and yada yada yada, she threw up her mac and cheese all over the table. Her mother insisted it not be cleaned up because “She’s not done yet,” and the child ate her regurgitated mac and cheese (again). Lesson of the day: If your kid vomits in public and wants to eat it, kindly get a doggy bag.

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.


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.