Tag Archives: restaurant

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. 

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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. 

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

27 Jan

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

30 Dec

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

how to survive 9 days running a restaurant in a powerless town full of complaining jews and other people.

7 Nov

Last night some friends came in for dinner and, upon observance, accused me of not once cracking a smile the entire time they were there. It’s true. I’m smiling minimally these days. Don’t get me wrong. Business is booming and I have power and my family is safe and life is special and whatever. I’m grateful for these things. But the fact is, I deal with the public.

And the public has reached the 22nd Hour.

Each September, Jews everywhere observe the holiday of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. During this time, we fast for 24 hours in order to be forgiven for the sins we have committed during the year such as driving on the Sabbath, coveting our neighbors’ wives and eating cheeseburgers. Out of the 24 hours, at least ten are spent complaining about thirst, hunger, stinky breath and supreme desire for bagels & lox. The final 2 hours turn most every Atoning Jew into a miserable, nearly unrecognizable hunger beast. By the 22nd Hour, everyone’s just a fuckin’ asshole to each other.

That’s pretty much where we’re at in the spectrum of this whole hurricane thing. The 22nd hour.

Since the stop lights went out on Broadway, (and Jericho Turnpike, Main Street and whatever woodsy street your house is on, just kidding not you because if you live on a woodsy street you are sitting in the dark inside of it and do not have a phone charger with which to power up this post) drivers have developed an inability to: change lanes, participate in an all-way stop sign, navigate around a roadblock (ie. downed wire, parked car, fallen tree, pooping dog). There is also some sort of lack of brain power when it comes to lining up for gas. I have literally resorted to directing traffic. 

You + Active Driveway = Leave a space.

That’s how it should be.

Not Me + You blocking my driveway + Pouring Rain = Me standing in the falling slush letting you know that there are 15 feet between you and the person in front of you so can you please move the fuck up.

A local (hottie) cop came in last night to pick up some dinner, and when I asked him to arrest me so I can finally get some peace and quiet, he asked if I’d kindly do the same to him. “Ummm, yeah, for sure, no problem. A.N.Y.T.I.M.E.,” I winked. (Don’t worry, Harry knows I’m totally not just kidding. Just kidding.) He said that he keeps getting calls to people’s houses so that they can complain that their dogs are cold from the lack of power, and that he has broken up more fights at the gas station in the past 3 days than he ever has in all the local crack bars. I gave him a big hug and we held hands and I told him it will all get better soon, and we stared into each other’s eyes and… oh shit, that’s for the other blog.

Anyway, it breaks my heart that I can now determine whether or not someone has power within the first 30 seconds of them entering the building. Telltale signs:

1. They have eaten at the restaurant 3 nights in a row. The second they walk back in for a 4peat, I know they’re still in the dark.

2. No mascara. (This typically is only used for judging women, but there is the occasional man who’s looking a little puffy around the eyes)

3. Greasy ponytail. I have known some of these bitches for years, and never seen their anything less than perfectly blown out. So once that ponytail swings in, I know.

4. They enter in a single file line. Families are no longer united. They hate each other. The parents hate the kids because they’re annoying and keep staying with friends and it’s not fair. The kids hate the parents for being too cheap and disorganized to check into a hotel til the lights come back.

5. Beeline for an outlet. The obsession with technology is merely repressed, it isn’t going to dissipate with a setback like no electricity. The lack of power to iPhones is literally destroying lives. Like literally.

6. Wearing an inordinate amount of jackets. Last night there was a guy wearing 2 pairs of jeans. Someone needs to buy him some thermals, he seemed really stiff and uncomfortable.

7. They bring a board game, 2 dogs and a sleeping bag to dinner. Brings a whole new meaning to camping out at a table.

 

I’d like to dedicate this post to the following people who have changed me from a sort of negative gal to a full on bitch to everyone I encounter:

Guy with Fanny Pack and head tattoos. Sits at the bar talking to himself for 1 hour straight. Loudly. In his fanny pack, he pulls a back scratcher out Mary Poppins-style and begins to rub himself down. FROM TOE TO HEAD. Harry makes me leave the vicinity because a) EW and b) he’s trying to look down my shirt. DOUBLE EW.

Old lady who can’t stand for long periods of time and should therefore sit at a table before the other 75 people waiting. I directed her to a cushy bench by the host stand, brought her some coffee and make her wait like the rest of the pions. Just like the gas line, nobody in this place is cutting the damn soup line.

Couple who wants free shit during a time that I’d really like to direct my free shit towards those who legitimately need it.  We often run a dinner special on Tuesday wherein you get a free soup or salad, but it’s off this week because we’re offering something different. Not ok with them. When I offered to make a donation directly to the Red Cross for the difference in price, they told me that all they wanted was free soup and that they shouldn’t have to donate money if they don’t want to. “Oh,” I managed squeak out. “OK. You only care about yourselves. No problem. I’ll bring you soup.” They nodded and on the way out, applauded me for “doing the right thing.” Karma’s a bitch, medium old people.

Snobbish Douchebag wearing Argyle. “It’s very rude to bring someone a check in front of their other guests,” he tells me, looking down on me even though I’m standing and he’s sitting. Meanwhile, 4 feet away, I am trying to accommodate a restaurant full of people and help bus tables because it’s Monday night and we’re doing Saturday business. He shorts me by 38 cents because “he doesn’t have change and he doesn’t think he should have to round up.” You keep on with your awesome self, my friend.

Family who thinks the restaurant is housing their own personal thermostat. A table is cold when they get inside. So I make it warmer. Then there’s hot air blasting on them. Then there’s a light shining on them. Then it’s too dark to read the menu. Then one person needs hot water with lemon. Then another person needs hot water with extra extra lemon. Then the first person needs cold water. Then they put their coats on the table next to them, even though we clearly need to use it. Then they put their coats back on because they’re cold again.

Table that won’t leave. I get it, it’s cold at your house. But I have 20 guys from Alabama wearing orange vests and hardhats who are waiting to sit down and eat steaks and french onion soups, and you’re sitting smack dab in the middle of a row of empty tables. I understand that your second cousin put the wrong kind of gas in his generator, but we need to save these thrilling stories for another day. I’ve got mouths to feed.  And you already got yours.

Guess what. I just smiled! I’m sitting in Starbucks and a random dude just took it upon himself to carry a very large flag inside that was about to blow away in the wind. He was just being a nice guy. Humanity is saved! All is right in the world!

So even though I stepped in dog shit this morning and the wifi doesn’t work up in this joint and it’s FUCKING SNOWING, I still think it’s gonna be a good day.

thanks, yanks, for not continuing to fuck up my business. i owe you one.

18 Oct

Last night I was chillin’ with my entourage (which, ever since Charlie moved to Queens, consists only of Nicole) and we drove past the shopping center that housed one of my family’s restaurants (the one that inspired this very blog, in fact). All at once, these flashbacks popped into my head – learning how to carry a tray, steaming milk to make frothy caffeine drinks, developing a strong opposition to customers, falling in love with every waiter who strapped on an apron… Aah, the memories of a sincerely unique childhood, one filled with laughter, joy and a fuckload of spilled milk.

Perhaps some of you have considered dropping your well-paying job and (stupidly) investing in a restaurant in which to raise your children and give the a very (demented) special special experience. That’s all fine and dandy, but just know that you’ll be raising your very own Owner’s Daughter, and she’s probably gonna come out a whole lot like me.

So if you ever become the offspring of some fools who raised you thinking that a refrigerator is a room and a dishwasher is a dude, this post is for you, and here’s some shit you need to know:

  • You are the center of the universe, except during the dinner rush, at which point you are invisible. My babygirl runs around the restaurant like she owns the place, and usually my stepkid is chasing her. And even though they are being the typical annoying turds that everyone totally hates, they’re totally adorable according to everyone who works for me. They treat the kids royalty to the max. Like, if my stepkid asks for a soda, they say “how high?” and if my babygirl sneezes they’re cleaning up that snot in no time. And I fawn all over them too, so don’t think I just pawn them off on the hourlies. I move all the furniture in my office so my stepkid will have the most entertaining fort available. I blow up 3′ balloons for the girl, just small enough so she won’t float away. BUT. The moment the restaurant fills up and the dinner rush sets in, I literally forget they exist. This is not an exaggeration. One night my stepkid called the host stand asking for a drink and I told him to ask the babysitter. Because I really really really thought he was at home with her.
  • You are always rooting for the local sports team. To lose. Take today for instance, I have a Yankees hat and shirt and whatever, but the fact is, I would have cried had they won. (Go ahead, stop reading here, diehard fuckers. See if I care.) Tomorrow is Friday and this is like the 3rd weekend in a row that the Yanks are FUCKING UP MY BUSINESS by being on during dinnertime. Like SORRY WE’RE NOT A PIZZA PLACE, customers, but maybe you can skip the damn game and settle on some app with alerts, ever consider that?? I could suck it up and get TVs in the dining room, but I’m just not ready to go there, and encourage the public to ignore each other for yet another illuminated box. I’m not exclusive to dreading successful sports teams either. I also hate sunny weekends, holidays that fall on Friday or Saturday, the first week of school when everyone is trying to be a good parent and actually cook, and Halloween because apparently nobody eats anything except Fun Size bars and I’m too disheveled to plan a decent costume party.
  • People don’t necessarily like you. I used to take this really personally, especially on one memorable evening during which a middle-aged waitress approached me to inform me that the staff is only nice because I’m the owner’s kid. At that point, I was still under the impression that everyone thought I was totally adorable and fabulous, and that they weren’t simply attempting to score points by being sugar sweet nice to the boss’s snotbag superiority-complex socially awkward total wannabe daughter. But you know what I learned from that awful night? That you pretty much have to be nice to me if I’m in the family, and that just really sucks for you. Chances are, if you don’t like me, then I don’t like you (chances are also pretty high that if you do like me, I still don’t like you, but we’re not keeping score). The following people have disliked me: waiters, bartenders, busboys, (line cooks and dishwashers always like me. Go figure…) the computer guy, (but then it turned out he really actually really really liked me) customers, advertising people, a few people on Yelp, one lady who came to a murder mystery dinner we did dressed as a ladybug, a liquor salesguy, and this girl who lives in my neighborhood and is 9-years-old. 
  • You will have ample material to write a musical/novel/TV series for ABC Family. At least I hope so, as I am newly at work on developing this very blog that you’re reading into something that can generate enough cash to pay for a jolly trip to Disney World for the fam, and possibly a motor home. You also have a lot of material for frequent psychological analysis, but I’m really trying to focus on the writing thing, because I’d rather bestow my issues on the masses, as opposed to just one social worker. If you feel like maybe you would read a book form of this, would you please tell me so? And if you have any particular favorite posts or subjects, will you mention that too? If you’re nice and do as I say, (because I’m the owners daughter and therefore I get whatever I want, and what I want is your feedback so you have to do it or my daddy will yell at you) I will reward you by announcing a date and theme for our (FINALLYYYYYYY) next popup adventure. I know, I just got a little tingly inside, too.*

*Sidebar: My mom and I had a detailed discussion about 50 Shades of Grey today and I feel like it was a little uncomfortable. Can’t figure out why.

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.