Tag Archives: spanx

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. 


if you’ve got them, flaunt them. i’m talking about dimples. and breasts.

13 Apr

Tonight at the restaurant this really cute guy came in for dinner with his wife and 1-year-old daughter. A real family man. Except that he kept flashing his dimples at every girl in the room. First it was one of my waitresses. Then another. Then me. Then Charlie (just kidding, he’s still in Vegas). We all sat in the corner fluttering our lashes like giddy schoolgirls.

“He needs to put those things away in front of his wife. She’s starting to get pissed.”

But what’s a guy with dimples to do? Is it really hurting anyone to gaze into a girl’s eyes and make her feel like a million bucks? The fact that my waitresses felt so attractive to such a hottie made them work harder and more enthusiastically than I’ve seen in quite some time.

That’s why which bra I wear is so so so so important.

Some girls like the Victoria’s Secret cleavage, but not me. I think I’ve been shopping there for so long I consider them the “mom jeans” of bras. Every time I walk in all I can think about is the hunter green “2nd skin satin” sets me and my bunkmates bought on our trip to Montreal during sleepaway camp because the boys told us it was their favorite color. So I’m kinda done with VS. I’ve moved on to the far less mature nymph-haven, Gilly Hicks, which is literally Abercrombie & Fitch but with less fabric, if that is even humanly possible. I didn’t think that my Adele-ish body would work in an environment that is tailored towards 14-year-old America’s Next Top Model contestants (not the plus size ones, the regular ones) but this one gem I unearthed truly does the trick. I have it in 27 colors.

My Gilly Hicks underthings aren’t for everyday. They’re reserved for: days off when I’m wearing layered tank tops, nights out with Charlie or Harry and, most importantly, weekend nights at work. It is imperative that my boobs be pushed up and together, but without a hint of anything making that happen.

My weeknight work brassiere is far less romantic. It’s reserved for booking parties for ladies’ bowling teams, schmoozing with the regulars who are interested in the food more than me and running around doing liquor inventory. It’s usually paired with Spanx, control-top tights and a high-cut top. I feel lumpy and droopy in them, which is why my midweek blog posts are usually so bitter.

But tonight was a Gilly Hicks night, and let me tell you, my stories were sooooo interesting to sooooo many (male) customers. And Harry made me chocolate milk that was extra chocolatey.

The moral of the story is, if you’ve got adorable dimples, you can make a lot of people happy by letting them shine.

Sidebar: Tonight I was chatting up this guy at the bar (Did that make me  me sound like I was picking him up? I’m thinking it did, especially after this particular post, but let’s just be clear that it is my job to have conversations with men and occasionally women at bars). I confessed that I want Adele to play me in the sitcom version of my life because I really love the accent and think I deserve to be British (more Eliza Dolittle pre-Henry Higgins than post), he told me that she seems really angsty and that’s just not me. I spent the rest of the night crying under the desk in my old office in the basement playing Joni Mitchell and Bjork. Who the fuck is he to tell me I’m not angsty?