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ode to my newborn. (a harried post.)

13 Jun

It was pointed out to me yesterday by a douchey reader/friend of mine that I’m being selfish by not documenting the intricacies and antics involved in opening a restaurant (as that’s what I’m doing today. You? Slacker..). 

But something really interesting about opening a restaurant is that by the time I get done with what I need to do for this opening… oh wait. I’m still not even close to done yet and we crack the doors in 7 hours. So, sorry dudes but you’ll just have to believe me that it requires a lot of the following:

  • arguing
  • crying
  • shopping for a good outfit
  • picking a nail polish color that’s “professional, yet me”
  • wiping up your kid and/or puppy’s urine off the floor because they’re protesting the 70 extra hours you’re putting in a week
  • drinking beer for research
  • convincing your husband to double park on the side of the LIE to pick up 3 kegs of superman beer that maybe MAYBE 1% of your customer base will give a shit about from the back of a truck
  • eating bagels at 2am because you forgot to have breakfast, lunch and dinner
  • being sad about how bloated you are because you keep eating bagels at 2am
  • writing a blog post instead of finishing the cocktail list, kid’s menu, bar menu, dessert menu and programming the computer for all of them
  • tweeting, or as I like to call it “how the fuck to I tweet?”
  • forgetting to make a google place page until just now so basically I’m using this post as a to-do list. 
  • wishing you had time to do the laundry so your spanx were clean (they make man spanx so this applies to all of you except skinny people and you don’t count anyway)
  • making all the cocktail recipes a few hours before you open and consequently being wasted by the time anyone gets there. 

If it weren’t for aforementioned reader/friend whose name I won’t mention until the end of this post, I’d have taken a few moments to relax with my ukulele instead of writing this, but I didn’t, and now I don’t feel centered and I’m going to be a drunk, uncentered business owner off the bat, and SERIOUSLY GOOD LUCK to anyone who shows his or her face tonight to “be supportive” because it will most likely in a violent bar fight involving me, my dad, and some seriously impressive looking beer bottles. 

You can thank Sandy. 

a note on baby toting.

30 Apr

Once upon a time, a really tall dude and his regular-sized wife walked into the restaurant looking to book their newborn’s post-Christening blowout kegger or whatever. In his arms, the giant man held said infant, who wore a modest beanie and fuzzy blanket thingy. I screamed and fell over at the mere sight of such a bare-handed family. You see, until today, I’ve truly believed that the following items are 100% necessary for bringing your babygirl or babyboy on the long and treacherous 30 foot journey from parking lot to door to table (preferably a booth.. no not that one, there’s a draft… no, not that one, it’s too far from the bathroom… ugh this one is WAY too close to the kitchen):

  • Infant seat – The infant seat is surgically implanted to a baby’s ass at birth, and removed at some point between like 7 months and a year, depending on whether your kid is extra bulky or wants to be one of those show-off “active” brats. There is a special removal system for diaper changing and crib sleeping, but the infant is otherwise permanently adhered to his/her seat. 
  • Huge ass Stroller – Although no actual strolling takes place whilst a family eats their dinner, a baby must, must, must always be within drooling distance of his stroller. General rule of thumb: busier the night, bigger the stroller.  Insider note: a stroller is actually a rolling Mommy storage unit. 
  • iPad – Every baby needs an iPad. Fuck Leapsters and Windows based tablets, baby needs to save her work on the Cloud and do FaceTime with her other baby friends and work on her Spotify playlist. 
  • Snacks – Specifically these magical little Cheerio ripoffs called Puffs. Babies must constantly be eating Puffs, specifically when they are about to eat 2 jars of baby food, little itty bits of french fry, ice cream and a bottle. Puffs MUST always be distributed evenly between baby’s mouth and the floor. 
  • A diaper bag – Back in the olden days, I used a diaper bag. It was the size of my camp trunk and I was prepared for every season on land, sea and in space. If I left home without it my babygirl would cry and cry and cry out of desperation for and extra pair of socks and Baby’s First Words flash cards.  One day recently, I looked in the diaper bag and it was filled with outgrown diapers, dried up wipes, a moldy sippy cup and about 35 pounds of powdered Puffs. 
  • High Chair Cover – If you ever decide to become a parent, this will be the most important thing you will ever own other than those disposable placemats that stick on restaurant tables. I’m totally kidding. They’re seriously useless except for making fun of babies. Every parent wants to protect their angel from germs and nasty caked on food bits, but let’s be honest, my friends. Babies consume some seriously nasty shit. My babygirl dropped two cherries in the holes of the mats behind the bar today (we were changing a keg and doing inventory together) and I swear I had to pry them from her clenched teeth less than 2 seconds later. 

And so, the ogre daddy booked his kid’s party and the kid survived 7 minutes without a fuckin’ laptop and swing. And they all lived happily ever after. 

The end. 

memoirs of an invisible blogger.

15 Jan

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is that January is supposed to be a little bit calmer than December and I’m supposed to have time to do some writing, or perhaps parenting or movie watching or January bargain shopping or sleeping. Instead, life seems to have gotten more hectic. All I really want to do is send out the 4 thank you cards I wrote out for gifts I received over the holidays and see Silver Linings Playbook. Modest aspirations, one might think. But the thank you cards have gone missing, never to be seen again. And three extra hours simply do not exist, except at 9am when I drop my babygirl off at school, but the movie theater doesn’t open that early.

I’m not sitting here having a pity party for myself. The pity is really for you, because you don’t get to read my genius musings with any sort of regularity. It’s just not fair. Seriously, fuck these people who keep calling to book their communions! I have fans to produce semi-sensical works of blog for! Screw trying to build my craft beer empire! You are losing sleep over the lack of entertainment in your life!

Anyway, these are the following reasons that I don’t have time to become a world renowned blogger:

  • I became an activist. I really can’t explain this. Somehow I’m this like political person, even though I totally don’t know the difference between a republican and a democrat. It all started when I found out that thermal receipt paper contains a staggering amount of BPA (google it. This isn’t a science blog, ok?) and my mom and I (and the rest of my employees, and you and your whole families) handle the hell out of receipts on a daily basis. So I switched to BPA free paper at the restaurant so that my mom and I can die from some other cause and I told a local Breast Cancer activist and somehow we became the “sample” business when it got introduced at the legislature and I had to go speak in front of these elected people even though I was dressed totally inappropriately and blah blah de blah, now thermal receipt paper is banned by law in Suffolk County.
  • I consequently became a movie star. Exaggeration? Um, yea, obviously. But I was on the news on 3 different channels so I think that counts. First the CW came to the house, giving us only about 15 minutes to prepare (Harry “cleaned the kitchen” by dumping any loose object in the trunk of his car, and I changed out of my pajamas and into a maternity shirt because it made me feel less nervous). Then a couple days later, they decide to sign the bill at the restaurant, and also decide that I’m to sit at the table with the politicians, and then, what the hell, they decide that I should say something. Which shows up on Fox and News 12. And now I’m a household name practically everywhere, and hopefully before that ever happens again I will have more than 1 day’s notice so I can lose 28 pounds or so.

outcast me, accopanied by handsome legislator and other people.

 

  • I got fired. It totally sucked. You see, sometimes in life you say stupid shit, and occasionally it’s during a family business meeting about opening a new restaurant and your father fires you. Next time I get fired, I hope it’s from both locations. Because I’m in way over my head, and nobody seems to be recognizing this fact. Like, hello, I have absolutely no business running a restaurant. I really just want to hang out with my babygirl all day doing puzzles and teaching her how to spell her name. I’m a socially awkward film major hippie who is like shorter than most of the kids who order off the kid’s menu. I didn’t even brush my hair today. Like not once. I tried at the end of the night, but it was too far gone. It’s one giant dreadlock. So really getting fired made sense. Unfortunately I think I was rehired. I was so looking forward to puzzles. 
  • I caused my father to go deaf. It’s one of those moments that “I meant well” really means nothing, because your dad can’t hear you say it. I got him tickets to see Queen (except that Freddie Mercury is deceased, which should have been the first indication that this was a bad idea) for Hanukkah because I’m like the best daughter and so so so cool. After purchasing 2 tickets that were on exact opposite sides of the venue from one another, we endured the most horrific cover band ever. During the intermission (fancy pants shit right here) I told my dad “This is a very special concert for us to be at together because Queen is the band that made music such a big part of my life, and you’re the reason I started listening to them.” He didn’t hear me though, so he bought me another beer because I guess that’s what he thought I said. So that part was cool.
  • I threw a wedding. Ok, it was really just a big giant party that just so happened to be a total replica of my nuptials sans religious ceremony and first dance and porta potties and sweltering heat. If you were at the party, you’d have thunk that an actual professional planned it, not just some girl with a gift for creating inspired Pinterest boards and buying old farm equipment. You’d have thunk it was the sweetest combination of rustic and elegant. In fact, I may have to give up my day job and switch my career over to planning hardcore amazing parties in barns. Hopefully there is no BPA on craft paper or burlap, otherwise that would have to be a whole new legislative hurdle.

genius barn party planner.

  • I missed my first blog birthday. This is possibly the most devastating thing that’s ever happened in my entire life. I mean, I vowed to not give a fuck, I really did. But the fact is, writing on the regular is like the sort of thing that actual writers do. Like, as in writers who write professionally and publish things and call themselves writers and I did it! Still truckin’ even! (sort of) So really I missed out on a really good opportunity to publicly sing my own praises and have some sort of party with milkshakes and noisemakers and wear a sparkly dress (Restaurant people don’t participate in New Year’s Eve. We rely solely on bigtime parties where we are the guests of honor to break out sequins. It’s true.) and do showtune karaoke and eat the shelbytown cake that some of my biggest fans (of which there are at least one) baked for me, anything but red velvet because that shit is literally just food coloring.happy blogday to me.

 

  • I got eaten by a puppy. This is actually the real reason I can’t write anymore. As a result of literally being consumed by a lab pointer mix, I have resorted to writing this blog post in the dark hallway outside my bedroom door. There’s simply no place left for me to turn. 

adorbs puppy after he ate my leg.

In conclusion, thank you to Brad and Jen for the cell phone case. Thank you Susan for the platter. Thank you Mom and Dad for the Clarisonic, seriously my skin has never looked better other than all the stress breakouts I keep getting but that totally doesn’t count. Dad, sorry I’m an asshole and drag you to concerts. Next time I will give you ear plugs and a weed brownie, so it won’t be as bad. Mom, thank you for watching the Golden Globes with me after the concert. It’s the best having a mom as nocturnal as you. Thank you Harry for the trip to Texas that we are taking in less than a week. I am thoroughly looking forward to eating and drinking more than ever thought humanly possible, and also to not having my body parts ruptured by puppy teeth. Also thank you for the skateboard, you sure know how to keep a girl young.

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.

underage drinking in your hometown during the holidays for dummies.

19 Nov

Aaahh the holiday season is upon us!

You never really remember how quickly it hits. One minute you’re milking a pair of flip flops and totally excited to maybe keep a thing of mums alive for more than a week. Then, in the blink of an eye, you’re trick-or-treating in a blizzard and are literally incapable of making a purchase in a store without waiting 35 minutes.

The arrival of Christmastime is marked most notably by the return of the sweatpant-clad college set. We in the restaurant business devote a lot of time to complaining about little brats and high school kids, and then suddenly a bunch of punk 20-year-olds roll into town to put it all in perspective.

  1. We know you’re not from New Jersey, so please put your fake ID away and stick with the Root Beer. We also know you’re not from Michigan, California, South Dakota and New Mexico. Know how we’ve figured that out? Because NOBODY COMES TO LONG ISLAND FOR THANKSGIVING UNLESS THEIR MOM MAKES THEM.
  2. When we mention Amateur Night, we are specifically referring to you. If you are from New Mexico, Michigan, California or South Dakota, please don’t eat at my restaurant on Thanksgiving Eve. Unless you’re one of those dorky groups of friends who’s yet to “break out of their shell” and then I love you and your sober asses. You’re adorbs and I’m super glad you came down to play Trivia Night.
  3. College isn’t real. It feels totally real. I know. I was there. I still bleed Orange. I lived in a house where I paid a staggering $600 a semester, and I was stoned morning, noon and night on awesome weed that my friends’ parents had essentially purchased for them. (I’m really well behaved and spent all of my parents’ money at CVS.) But when you’re at school, you’re really in some sort of idyllic microcosm of life where a basketball game is considered a holiday. So please remember that while you’re amongst us regular people, you are required to follow our regular people rules. Like tipping your server, and ordering more than a diet coke and side of fried pickles as your meal.
  4. It is not mandatory to play air guitar to every classic rock song. We are all very proud of you for knowing an Eric Clapton song. But you don’t have to prove it. Because really? You look really really really silly when you and all of your friends have your eyes closed and are rocking out on your invisible instruments in unison when Layla plays at my bar.
  5. Put your phone down for like 30 seconds and have a conversation with your parents. For 9 months out of the year, all I listen to is your mom telling me how proud she is that you’re double majoring in Communications and Poli Sci. Your dad tells me that you’ve “figured out how to balance getting good grades with studying abroad in Amsterdam.” Please don’t make them look like fools, believe me, they already do enough douchey stuff the rest of the time for that to happen.
  6. Sweatpants are pajamas. Also, Uggs are slippers. And when did this whole don’t-bend-your-hat-brim thing start, because I fuckin’ hate it. Dress like a grownup, because you never know if the owner of the restaurant you’re eating in is looking to hire an intern for her weed bakery business, but only wants someone who will dress business casual. It is a very very serious operation. If you don’t want to dress like a grownup when you’re popping by for a burger, that’s fine. But at the very least GET DRESSED!
  7. My restaurant is owned by old people. And that old people is me. Right? Like, I’m such an old fart! When did this HAPPEN??? Like, I’m bitching about wearing UGGS when they are my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE FOOT COVERING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD EXCEPT FOR THESE BAMBOO SOCKS I HAVE!!!! I don’t get it, I used to be so fucking cool (You know, after I came out of my shell).  Really I’m just jealous. Not about the air guitar thing though. That’s just lame.

Anyway, so the college kids have landed. The holidays are here. And in case I had instantly forgotten about The Arrival, as a final reminder, tonight I stepped in a lone pile of vomit on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

Thanks, college friends. Merry Christmas.

a panty for your thoughts.

16 Oct

Not sure if you noticed, but October is like totally Pink. Holy hell, it’s everywhere! Like, I have a Breast Cancer Themed pancake spatula. And tomorrow I’m going to a Breast Cancer Themed Sushi Party at some jappy place in Syosset where I will drink Breast Cancer martinis and eat Breast Cancer hand rolls and talk about which limited edition Breast Cancer bracelet I’m sporting. In a month that is packed to the gills with pumpkin carving and celebrating Hispanic Heritage and finding a slutty-yet-family-friendly costume and apple picking and watching the leaves turn to fluttering jewels, we are also expected to FIND A CURE. Like, wow, October. No pressure or anything.

Since I don’t like to focus on anything negative on my blog, I’m eliminating Cancer from the equation and instead celebrating Breast Awareness Month. Although this evening I’ll be referring mostly to my own particular boobs, this is really a celebration of all breasts everywhere. Even the ones that are so perfect that you’re a little bit bitter. Yes, Perfect Booby Chick, this one is for you….

Oh, also this is for my Aunt Babsy who is currently undergoing treatments and doing it with such finesse and optimism that she should be awarded free pink ribbon bagels from Panerabread for life, and then some. This particular side of the family is famous for our disproportionately large racks. And now, she’s suddenly got the littlest ones in town! I can’t even imagine what it must be like to wear a button down shirt without it gapping, but finally someone in my family (other than the dudes) can describe what it’s like. Kudos to you, my Dear Aunt!

Back to me.

Something that we’ve discussed in the past is that I am nothing without my bra. Mostly I’ve discussed my Friday and Saturday night knickers, but the rest of the week matters too!  You know what? I wear a bra every single day! And here is how I select them!!!:

Bra-natomy: A week in review

  • Monday: As this is typically my day off, I usually strap on one of those sheer and unsupportive numbers. Chances are it’s like a decade old and I’m clinging to it as though one day I’ll wake up and the girls will be as perky as they were when I was 20. If I do muster up the desire to hit up the restaurant, I throw on a whatever overthing and a pair of leggings and head over. The only time I ever run into a problem is in the winter, because I am too cheap/lazy/selfless to turn on the heat in my office and then I walk into the dining room to see someone and they’re all “Ooh somebody’s chilly!” or “Is that a cork in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”  or the classic “One of your headlights is out.” Otherwise I love, love, love Monday bras. Here is an example of a Monday bra. This one is Calvin Klein, which you can apparently pick up at Macy’s if you’re attempting to emanate me and my boobies. 
  • Tuesday: Logic might tell you not to waste good cleavage at the beginning of the week because it’s not when you’re gonna see the bulk of your customers, but this is the day that most vendors stop by, and a low cut shirt comes in real handy. My favorite approach with the Tuesday bra is to really play into the fact that you’re just any other dumb broad, do a lot of giggling and hair twirling. Then when the beer/liquor/coffee/newspaper ad guy gives you his “best offer, but just because you’re so sweet,” you slam them with your cutting wit and lethal negotiating skills. Here is a Tuesday bra. Have I mentioned that these are all photos of my body with other girls’ heads Photoshopped on? And I have had like little-to-no plastic surgery. Crazy, thanks Mom and Dad and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for the great bod. Seriously, I owe you one.
  • Wednesday: I always dress extra professionally on Wednesday because I go to my shrink between lunch and dinner and I just love it when she commends me on being such a fabulous and serious businesswoman. On occasion I’ve dressed like my regular self and she has accused me of being a little too slutty looking to get the job done. After I had my babygirl she questioned whether my exposed cleavage was a way of me desperately clinging to my youth. She has also accused me of trying to use my breasts as some sort of scheme to take over the world, and I don’t really want her to know about that until after I have actually done so. So for this reason, head to Soma and pick up a boring ass bra like mine:
  • Thursday: On Thursdays I try to make my boobs look as small and perky as possible, because Thursday is Trivia Night and random people from my past keep showing up and I need to look better than I did in high school, because that is how life works. If there is a chance you are going to see someone from a long time ago, you have to look a)better than you used to, and b)better than said person. Thankfully I have discovered the pushup without padding, because it’s like SUPER CONFUSING to me as to how you can look skinny with literal extra padding on your body. Check out this one from Victoria’s Secret. I was extra tan in this shot! 
  • Friday: Rule of thumb for the first night of the weekend: Short skirt OR low cut shirt. Personally I’m a fan of the short skirt on Fridays because it isn’t as busy as Saturday, so I spend more time walking around the dining room and less time standing behing the host station. This means that I am seen from the waist down just as much as the waist up. So Friday bras are made more for enhancing than for highlighting. A larger problem is the choice of underwear, because if you have a panty line you look like a farty old mom, which means you sort of need a thong, but I am like really anti thong, because wedgies are NOT FUN and perpetual wedgies are JUST TOTALLY FUCKING STUPID. So I’m partial to the boy short, which covers the cheek pretty fully without any. Judge me and my granny panties, I don’t care. But if you ask me, G-strings are for violins and guitars, not girls with short skirts. This set is Hanro from Neiman Marcus, and if you haven’t been turned on to the joy of underwear that completely covers your ass, you truly haven’t lived (happily).
  • Saturday: Rule of thumb for Saturday night is like Friday, only instead of choosing between tits or ass, you choose tits AND ass. You have to do it, because it’s the only way customers are nice to you. Men are nice because you make them feel young again and you can distract them from the fact that their table is going to take 45 minutes longer than you told them it would. Women stay away from you because pushed up boobs make you look confident, and they’re scared of you, and you’re really fine with that because that means they’ll leave you alone. 
  • Sunday: Sunday is family day so on Sunday I wear an old lady bra. There are two types: one is the supportive old lady bra that looks terrific under a sweater but is basically a dealbreaker when your husband sees it. Wacoal makes the widest variety of this type of old lady bra. The other old lady bra is a Brigette Bardot-ish pointy balconet that gives you boobies reminiscient of Kim McAfee in Bye Bye Birdie or Sandy (before she gets super hot) in Grease. 

how to be a really successful madame.

2 Oct

“I can’t believe you sold yourself and kept your clothes on. I’m so proud of you.”

~ Harry

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is that it can easily be confused with hooking. Bet you never knew that! Today I sold my party planning services for a pretty penny and voila! My husband equated me to a prostitute!

Really, you guys, I’m not a hooker at all. If you think about it, I’m more of like a madame, which is way more lucrative so I’m pretty happy. A couple comes in for a date and I set them up in a booth with a girl who will satisfy their every (dinner) need. And then, depending on how well that girl serviced them, she’s tipped accordingly! And I get paid a set fee. See? Decent analogy if I do say so myself.

This whole prostitution analogy crosses over to you, the lowly customer, so don’t think that you’re so innocent. It’s actually where the whole concept of “food porn*” came from. You thought it was Instagram but you were way wrong. It was because men began discovering that instead of paying for sex, they could buy a woman a meal and for the same price (depending on the venue, of course), they could get a steak and get laid because if the food is delicious enough and the vino’s dry enough, a girl will give it up for free! So it’s like a BOGO sort of situation.

Anyway, to show me how proud he was of me for selling myself to a woman, Harry cooked me sweet potato gnocchi with sage butter sauce and that was the first time we’ve used our stove in 6 years.

 

*Side bar: Food porn, Mom and Dad, is where you take photos of something mouth watering that you’re about to sink your teeth into, which also happens to be pleasing to the eye. Then you post the said photo to Instagram and all of your followers like it and say things like “omg did you make that yourself?” and “they serve brunch at that place?” and “#stoptakingphotosoffoodandshowussomethinginterestingalready” and “did you use Lo-fi or Nashville on that photo?”

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.

it takes the owners to raise the owner’s daughter.

26 Aug

Something that probably crosses your mind every so often is what sort of strange people made me the lovely lady I am.

Well, this is my dad. In this photo he’s doing one of his favorite things, “treasure hunting.” He learned it from the classic Steve Martin film Housesitter. His other favorite movies include Spaceballs and Rudy. He does not like movies with more than one word in the name.


And this is my mom, wearing one of her favorite shower caps. She wore it to a bridal shower we had today because she didn’t like the way her hair came out. I thought it looked just fine, but who am I to vote?

Here’s a picture frame that they proudly display in their kitchen. In it are their two favorite children, and me. Kindly note that the dog is the only adequately captured subject.

Here are some closeups, just in case you can’t exactly figure out what these are photos of.

Here’s me, sitting on my parents’ boat.

On this particular afternoon, they invited a few too many people to join us, so I didn’t get a seat. I was sad. I recall them cackling when they snapped this shot. Also, I was expected to serve boat drinks when I wasn’t in my hole. And pizza. It is for this reason that I now refuse to board a boat that is less than 50′ and fully staffed. I’d like to point out at this time that I bait all my own hooks whilst fishing. It doesn’t matter if the bait is living or dead.

And then here’s my brother standing on the front porch with his head cut off. Not literally, silly! But the dog looked really good in the photo so they were like fuck it, we’ll just frame this one. My therapist told me not to fight my brother’s battles, so I’m just letting it be. But honestly? All the other photos in their house are JUST of the dog, so they could have swung for a full face shot of my bro. Since this photo was taken, my brother has not returned to the house. He got his own dog and stopped shaving because “mom and dad don’t give a shit anyway.” It’s a little awkward, maybe I shouldn’t talk about it, I don’t know who you’re going to tell. By the way, he won’t bait his own hook when fishing. Even the lures made of rubber.

And those are the people who shaped me in a nutshell!!

sex, fries & videotape.

15 Aug

Something really interesting about the restaurant business is that it elicits lots of romances, many of which last for about 8 minutes in the back seat of a car parked next to the dumpster at work.

What is it about this industry that makes people want to take their clothing off for one another?

At first glance, you figure well, if you put a bunch of people who are the same age-ish in a room that they can’t leave for 6 hours, then it’s inevitable that sparks might fly. Except what about the uniform? It’s less than flattering. All the girls wear men’s shirts and the men wear aprons that look like skirts. The guys don’t shave and the girls don’t wear makeup or brush their hair unless we force them to. So what’s the attraction?

Is it the inevitable workout of a busy night that causes all of the touching and sex talk and massages? Is it the undeniable sexiness of a sweaty Salvadorian covered in black bean dip and fry oil that gets those juices flowing? Is it the allure of an eerily empty restaurant and recently mopped ladies room that makes people want to go at it?

But then I delved further into the general pickup practices of the Normal People population. When the workday is done for you, the 9-5er, you hit up happy hour and that’s where you find somebody to fuck, then you go to bed. But in the restaurant business, when you’re done with work the next stop is normally bed because you’ve worked well past happy hour and all the good flings are off the table. So you need to find someone before you leave work, and thus explains the swinger party that is a restaurant staff. Essentially, a dinner shift at the restaurant is one very long, very sober happy hour. Unless it is an all female or all male staff, and then it’s like total misery for the single set.

Don’t think that my restaurant is some sort of exception to an otherwise angelic group of foodservice workers. People have been fucking their fellow waiters and line cooks for eons. This sort of stuff happens everywhere from Pizza Hut to Pastis. If you think I’m the first owner’s kid who married a kitchen guy because the hanky panky went too far, then you’re just plain crazy. And if you think that Harry’s the first kitchen guy who I adored, then you should really consider reading my blog a little more closely. Because HELLO I went through puberty in a restaurant. Do you know what that was like for my raging hormones? Plus bedding the owner’s kid is like literally winning the Heisman Trophy of the restaurant industry. Harry scored bigtime (so did I).  I’m surprised he isn’t endorsed by the Food Network! Why does Guy Fieri have a show and not my husband? What the hell? Who’s daughter did he get???

In case you’re wondering about the “videotape” in the title of my post, the reasoning is twofold. For starters, I’ve got this newly single liquor rep who is OBSESSED with women, and today he kindly informed me that he only reads my blog if the title makes it look like the topic is sex. His recommendation for a title was “sex, lies & steak,” which is lame lame lame so I amended it to be far more hilarious. (I can devote quite some time to the “VENDOR-VENDED” hookup between someone like a liquor rep or dumpling salesman, which is quite unlike the waiter-waiter connection in that there’s a slew of mutually beneficial perks, but I’ll just stash that idea away for a rainy day.) Secondly, we have a closed circuit camera system at the restaurant which the smart people (me and Harry) have learned to navigate quite efficiently. And for the rest of the idiots, me and Harry basically have free porn.