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save the date!!!!!! (after you read my poem)

20 Mar

Tonight the only thing I can think about is this dress, and how much I need to own it, and how I can’t find it anywhere, which makes me need it even more. It’s distracting me so much that I can’t write about how I booked the official opening (and closing) night of Hashbrown Harry’s, which is most unfortunate for you, because you have to make sure your calendar is marked.

A wise wise wise bar customer told me that I only want the dress because I can’t have it. I told him that’s bullshit, I really really want the dress, and I will do whatever I have to do to get it. This includes, but is not limited to, selling my stepson on the black market, moving to Texas to dig for oil, wearing a bathing suit to work and/or running nude through a college basketball game.

Poetry Tuesday (I’ve gotta go daydream about my dress…)

Almost Passover

(a belated st. patty’s day limerick)

The bartender working is new.

We hired him ’cause he’s a Jew.

It makes me feel happy

When he gets real jappy

So then I can act that way too.

Oh… and save the date.

Saturday, April 28th.

Hashbrown Harrys (a late-night farm-to-table breakfast joint) for one night only!

Seating is at 9pm. (midnight add-on is a possibility)

Stay posted for details (such as INSANE crispy chicken skin benedict and bloody mary jello shots)

 

no one will ever compair….

22 Feb

… to my leopard Michael Kors heels that have won more compliments than any other aspect of me combined, including my dreamy blue eyes (but maybe not including my beachy virgin hair). A more practical work shoe simply doesn’t exist, and building an incredible outfit around them is as simple as black, black, black (tights, skirt, long sleeve tee). The shoes make my life simple and outstanding.

R.I.P. my lovelies...

But the leopards are growing old. Their spots are fading. My toe is peeping through the front and they are not peep toe shoes. (See here for more information about shoe needs as a restaurant owner, if you haven’t already done so). I fear they might disintegrate while I’m seating a table of women who are coincidentally fawning over my feet and my face will turn redder than my heels (from being stabbed by the rickety old shoe, of course).

It is for these reasons that I decided it’s time for some new shoes. This may not be a biggie to some of you. But for me buying shoes gives me hives. When I told my mom that I’m blogging about my shoes tonight, she got confused and shouted “But I thought it’s Sunshine Week!” That pretty much sums up my relationship with footwear – less than smiley. Alas, the replacement was inevitable, and so I trekked to the lovely DSW (I’d call it my own personal hell if I weren’t trying to be super positive this week) in search of a pair of black high heels with perhaps a little buckle or something mildly blingy to replace my lovelies and carry me well into spring/summer/fall/next winter.

Please enjoy the following results of a quite nerve-wracking day for me:

  • SNAKE –  These would be ideal work shoes if the heel weren’t a stiletto. Usually I justify these purchases by saying that the heel is so teeny tiny that it won’t get stuck in the kitchen mats, and then cursing incessantly every time I wear them and trip on my way to the dirty linen bin.

  • ZEBRA – Finding a sensible work shoe is no easy task. These puppies have heels wrapped in some sort of hemp-y rope that are literally going to last no more than 3 hours in the restaurant. Luckily I’m a crafty gal with a glue gun and black spray paint, so I should be able to increase their shelf life by at least 3 days.

  • AFRICAN TRIBAL WOMAN – These are not actually made of an African tribal woman, they just look like something she might wear while she carries a basket of fruit on her head. Seeing as I scored so majorly on shoesies, I photographed these in secret so that Harry wouldn’t get suspicious that I blew all our Disney souvenir money on footwear. I wore them to the children’s museum the other day he asked me if they were new. “Oh, these ole things?” I giggled, and shuffled away to the African Drum Room with Riley.

 

Even though none of these shoes are black, or remotely close to black, my shoe jungle feels pretty complete. Perhaps I’ll meet a fairy shoemaker who will put my dear Leopards back together again and we can all live happily ever after.

BLOGGER’S NOTE: I meant to spell compare wrong. It’s supposed to be funny, so refrain from commenting on my poor grammar.

 

how to score a crappy table at a good restaurant.

12 Feb

On weekend nights my mom and I call each other at the restaurants to check in, see what’s going on and how busy it’s been and who’s irritating/handsome/entertaining/getting fired. Every so often, we decide that it’s a full moon because there is no other explanation for so many complete assholes (disclaimer: I do not have any affiliation with, or knowledge of the actual lunar calendar so please consult another blog for accurate moon stuff). Tonight was a full moon.

In recognition of all the scowling bitchy housewives and cranky househusbands who entered my kingdom tonight and stared at their iPhones longer than they looked up, (seriously, why do you bother eating with other people if you have more interest in Temple Run than human interaction?) here is my pocket guide to getting the table of your nightmares at all the coolest dinner spots. The benefit of these annoying habits is that you can often sit much sooner than the nice quiet people who have a drink at the bar, enjoy themselves and don’t worry about what time it is. But don’t count on a nice quiet booth in the corner if you’re guilty of the following:

  1. Stare at the hostess until she feels so uncomfortable she wants to run away. Making some quick eye contact with us and throwing us a friendly smile is always quite welcome. But don’t wear out that welcome by making an obvious attempt to catch my gaze every four seconds. I’ll want to get you out of my face so badly that I will LITERALLY set a table for you next to the bathroom and right under the air conditioner return.
  2. Show up early for your reservation and assume that you will be seated next. The people who fall into this category classically follow me to their table even if I was gesturing to someone on the other side of the bar at least two times before realizing that it might be a few minutes. Oh, all these people standing here? No, they aren’t waiting for tables. They’re just part of the decor.
  3. Show up late for your reservation and assume that you will be seated next. Tonight a woman showed up 25 minutes late. So late, in fact, that I marked her as a “no show” (vocab of the day: jerk who makes a big deal about taking their name at the EXACT time that they want, asks for your name so they can make sure to use it if they have to, and then decides to go to one of the 5 other restaurants they also made reservations at for the evening). All I had open was the drafty table next to the screaming tots. I told her it would be a few minutes, because I like to reserve that for walk-ins (I mean, who has the audacity to not plan what they are going to be in the mood to eat on Saturday night in advance?). She rolled her eyes before I turned away, and suddenly I remembered that a table was available….
  4. Drop the owner’s name. To the owner. That is so cool that you know me! And maybe if it were true I’d have a good table for you! And if you’re really going to be that person who asks where my dad is, I’m going to tell you that he hasn’t come to work in 5 and 1/2 years, so maybe you should learn my name.
  5. Make eye contact with the hostess’s breasts. If you’ve read my blog, you know that I use my cleavage to get people to be nice to me when there’s a really long wait on Fridays and Saturdays. That being said, I would like my face to be noticed as well. My breasts have feelings. They’re called my eyes.
  6. Use the host station as your own personal countertop. The host station is just like a hotel check-in but without the luggage and we don’t give you a map to your table. You give your name and move on ’til they grace you with your room key. You don’t show up at the Ramada and then park yourself at the front desk for an hour until your room is ready, so why is it that it’s ok here?
  7. Let your children use toothpicks and business cards as toys. Or perhaps they can jump on the host station until it is jusssstttt about to tip over. I can promise you that with behavior like this you will be sitting down in no time at a table that is 2 seats smaller than your party so that you can grace your server with this fabulousness in a more cramped setting!
  8. Block the hostess in even though she has said “Excuse me” repeatedly. I am really happy that you found a place to wait for your table that you find comfortable, but if you are keeping me from bringing people to their tables, it really is going to make your wait quite a bit longer. Also, while I understand that you’ve had a long day and can hardly stand, you’re leaning on the menus and I can’t get to them and even if you move your elbow once, I might have to access them again. And again. Tonight we had a group of 6 literally stand in a circle that completely cut off the flow of service from the kitchen to the dining room. Hot coffee, BBQ Ribs, Ice Cream Sundaes with birthday candles…. guess who got a table quicker than they should have!
  9. Use a stopwatch to test the hostess. While my job is to tell you how long the wait might be, I have neither a crystal ball nor a magic 8 ball. So if I’m off by a few (twenty) minutes, please don’t ridicule me. I feel bad, I promise. Don’t tap your watch and shake your head disapprovingly. I’m Jewish and extremely sensitive to subtle guilt. I might cry, depending on what time of the month it is or whether Harry has made me a milkshake that day.
  10. Have every person in your group of 8 tell the hostess that you have a reservation. Probably only one person needs to tell me that you made a reservation and it’s under Cohen. Someone else wants to tell me that everyone is here? Go for it. I absolutely do not need 6 other people to come up to me and tell me that the name is either under “Seth” or “Cohen” or “Summer” over the course of 3 minutes. Probably you should choose a charming delegate and let him
  11. Sit in the corner for 2 hours without asking why you were quoted 20 minutes. The reason the wait was so long is because I either forgot all about you or someone responded to “David” who wasn’t really David. I am truly sorry, and appreciate your patience so much, but unfortunately I only have a shitty unromantic table right now. Guess you should have been a little more aggressive. Here, have some calamari.