everyone has to have a dream

Ten days and no new posts? For shame, for shame. Well, I have some excuses, starting with the fact that not a whole lot has happened. Last weekend was soul-crushingly slow -- usually The Bar is packed to the gills on Friday and Saturday nights, and I walk with at least $120, which, some nights, is not even close to the kind of compensation one would normally expect for having to walk back and forth through a colossal knot of total assholes with a knocked-over appletini festively splashed, Pollock-esque, all over my shirt. Those fuckers are stick-ee.

Ugh. I also got stiffed the other night on a hundred-dollar tab, which I am still not quite over. Seriously, dudes, it was like four percent. The only time I could see stiffing someone that badly as being remotely acceptable is if there were issue after issue after issue, and bringing those issues up with my server got me nowhere. Then maybe I'd do that. But I gave them great service and that's some bullshit.

Also, two nights ago, I was outside The Bar at around midnight, having a cigarette and minding my own business, when this teeny-tiny white dude starts talking very earnestly and very, very cluelessly to my friend Ryan about his "underground political hip-hop collective." Ryan, who fronts a local oi band, was playing enthusiastic: "Oh man, that sounds awesome! Let's put a show together!" I was trying to ride out the tail end of a monster hangover, so I was not in the best of moods, and I guess the effort of not laughing openly at/bitch-slapping this pint-sized dork-on set my mouth in kind of a grimace. So his little rat-faced friend, who had asked me for a light earlier by miming flicking a lighter (which I studiously ignored), looks at me and says, "You have kind of a poo face, don't you? Like, when other people are talking about their art, I bet you always just get that look on your face like you're smelling shit." I just looked at him for a long, long time, not saying a word, until finally I just said "I could give a fuck about your retarded little band. I'm really fucking hung over and right now I'm just concentrating as hard as I can on not throwing up all over you." Not my best, but I suddenly didn't have the energy to methodically tear down this kid's self-esteem. Like, had I the time and inclination, I would have really tried to break up their "collective," which, as far as I could tell, was comprised of three twenty-one-year-old car-wash attendants. They're not exactly a commanding presence in the Seattle political hip-hop community, I'm guessing. Anyway, when we got back inside, Ryan turns to me and says, "Oh fuck, if that dweeb ever calls me to try to set up a show, he's gonna get shut down so hard." Lena and Ryan: Crushing annoying white kids' dreams since 2007. Maybe we'll start calling ourselves an underground dream-crushing collective.

strictly prickly

At work, when I'm busy or stressed out or annoyed or a combination of all three, I turn into the same salty, argumentative bitch that I am in traffic, only without the protective metal casing that keeps me from getting all up in peoples' faces and just dealing on them like I really want to. Without that....um. Smart people know that the scowl on my face when I'm really overwhelmed means "Careful, Tex, there's bullets left in them there pistols," and we don't have a problem. Some people, though, just do not fucking get it, and even though I am relatively wee in relation to most of our clientèle, I can handle my shit and I will get all up in anyone's face if I'm in a bad enough mood.

Case in point: Saturday night, when it was super-crowded at The Bar and I was trying to make it back to the service station with twenty quarter-full glasses of beer, some oversized frat boy wearing suspenders (not kidding) knocked into me and hollered "Woo! Cindy's birthday!" right in my ear, which I did not find nearly as festive or amusing as he did. I looked him straight in the eye, half-crazed because I stupidly wore cowboy boots to work and they were grinding my feet into chuck, and said "Listen, asshole, you yell one more time and I will kick you and your friends the fuck out of my bar."

Maybe I should be more tactful. Maybe I should have said "Please don't yell in my ear, sir," but that fucker trembled every time I walked past him, and he was quiet as a church mouse for the rest of the night.

amateur night #1

I've worked Friday and Saturday night for the past four weekends, which is a mixed blessing. It's not that I'm pissed about having to work when everybody else gets a night off, because whatever, I go out on Monday and Tuesday and I don't have to worry about waiting in line. The problem is, you know how some seasoned alcoholics call New Year's, St. Patrick's Day, Purim, and maybe election night "Amateur Night?" That's what I call Friday. Jesus Christ, you guys, it's like every high-fiving goober from the darkest bowels of Accounts Receivable descends on my depressingly trendy neighborhood, and they all seem to wander into The Bar. Often, these people are very nice, if a little difficult to stomach, cologne-wise. But some of them honestly just don't know how to act in a bar.

Okay, case in point: Last night, a group of about a dozen people came in for a birthday party. They were very nice, tipped decently, and didn't bitch about anything. They did, however, make a couple of really annoying mistakes that meant that I didn't give them very good service.

* No one called ahead to let us know they'd be coming in. Instead, they pushed two six-tops together when they got there, and six people commandeered twelve seats for half an hour before everyone showed up. The Bar gets pretty busy on Friday nights -- we couldn't afford to have that many seats sitting empty because they were reserved for people who, incidentally, did not drink very much.

* At one point, I had seven tabs open for that table, which meant that I had to coordinate seven separate tables on the computer system. That's insane. They all came in at different times, and they all wanted to start their own tabs, and then periodically one person would close their tab, and another person would open one -- madness. I am amazed that I didn't fuck any of their tabs up.

*They all ordered at different times. It got to the point where I'd periodically walk up to the table, holler "Okay, who wants another drink!" and then, if no response was forthcoming, I'd go take care of my other tables. Then I'd walk by thirty seconds later, and someone would want to order drinks or food. And then they'd take, like a minute and a half to order a damn plate of chicken nachos and an IPA, and then the guy sitting at the opposite end of the table would want something, and then I'd come back with everything and somebody would want something else, and I ended up not being able to take care of my other tables because these amateurs just would not let me coordinate them all into a manageable group.

Plus, they brought an enormous cake box full of coconut cupcakes -- ew. The coconut shavings, predictably, got everywhere, and when the group left, the table looked like a tiny snowstorm had hit it. Bunch of jerks.

i'm gonna pop-lock that man right out of my hair

You guys. I have discovered something amazing: It is impossible to feel depressed when "Planet Rock" is playing. Six and a half minutes of bliss, everybody.

slow night

One of the great things about waitressing is that when it's busy, there's no time for reverie. Either you keep moving and don't stop for any reason, or you very quickly find yourself in the weeds. Whatever's bugging you gets hustled to the back of your mind, because you have to remember, like, "Table three: Vodka press, tall, no fruit, two 'kazis with Stoli Vanil and a Bud Light, tab; guy by the pool table: Porter, tab; table six: pitcher PBR, four glasses, Woodford manhattan, chicken nachos, no guac, cash," and there is no room left for "I can't believe he broke up with me."

Conversely, when it's slow, you've got nothing but time to woolgather and, if you're me right now, plot revenge and try not to throw up. The bar is half-empty, and everybody's just sipping their drinks and watching the game, and then it becomes a game of "Okay, what can I do to keep myself busy?" So you clean like there's gonna be a white-glove test later. You bug tables for their empties. You make change in the tip jar. You restock everything. You wander into the fifty-five degree weather outside in your t-shirt and smoke and shiver on the benches. Even when you haven't just been through a nasty, acrimonious final showdown with your ex-boyfriend--which was how I occupied myself Sunday before my shift--it's pretty hellish when it's slow.

I asked the bartender, Monica*, to let me go home early: Most of the customers were regulars who'd come in to watch the Series, and maybe ten seconds after Seth Smith whiffed (heh), they all cleared out. After that, it was either go home, where there is vodka aplenty and Friday Night Lights on the DVR, or stand in the service station like a deer in the headlights, waiting for someone to distract me.

eine kleine jagermeister

Attention, frat douches: Although The Bar charges $5.50 for a shot of Jagermeister, which may make it seem classy, the sad reality of Jagermeister is that, in Germany, it's the equivalent of Boone's fucking Farm. I'd have more respect for you if you ordered a shot of Robitussin, which, incidentally, gets you way more fucked up for much, much cheaper. Plus it tastes better.

Seriously, dudes. Nut up and start drinking bourbon.

the endless appeal of the coffin nail

I defy anyone who has quit smoking to get a job in the restaurant industry and see if they can manage to stay quit. I couldn't do it; the pull back to it is too strong. For one thing, almost everybody smokes. Proportionately, the incidence of nicotine addiction in the industry is absurdly high, and if you're an uneasy quitter, you've got maybe two weeks of willpower and then you're fucked. Because it's the only time you get to take breaks, you see, and maybe you hate it and it makes you nauseous and lightheaded and your mouth tastes gross, but you get to sit down for five minutes and ignore the endless requests for glasses of water (more on my deep loathing for the words "We'll have a round of waters" later) and menus and shots of Jager (see previous parenthetical) and books of matches.

Oh, also: The costume was a hit. Predictably, the short shorts went over very well, and no one tried to blow the whistle. I blew it for last call -- "Last call, bitches!" -- and then I spent five minutes ignoring the customers and dancing with Kai to the Dixie Chicks. Fun, fun night.

holla-ween

Well, shit. It's been months and months since I last posted, and let me just give you a li'l update on where I'm at: I've been working at The Bar for, oh, four months or so. I quit my job at the Greek restaurant after, like, two weeks because almost everything about it sucked except for the free meals at the end of every shift and my awesome coworkers. I'm cooking and cocktailing at The Bar now -- mostly cocktailing, thanks be to God, because cooking is way less glamorous than cocktailing and apparently I like to be glamorous now. Now my life revolves around conning people into taking shots of Don Julio Anejo for like nine bucks (which, by the way, I think is a stupid idea because it's a sipping tequila, you guys, if you can even stand to sip it. And for nine bones, you may as well acquire the taste) and sassing the crap out of everybody. I've pretty much decided to take this blog, like my life, in the restaurant-industry direction, because my job, unlike my life, is actually pretty interesting.

So tonight Kai* (bartender), Dani* (cocktail waitress) and I are all dressing up for Halloween, because it's the only night where we're all working together. I had this idea where I was gonna be the Beer Fairy, which was really just this half-cocked Generic Slutty Fairy costume involving children's wings and silver lamé, but then I got to American Apparel to pick up the halter bodysuit (shut up, I know) that I was going to wear and I tried it on just for gigglies and it looked horrible. Not in an "if I lost some weight, it would look fantastic" kind of way, but in a "Sweet fancy Jesus, my tits look deformed" way. Because American Apparel just doesn't make stuff for girls with big chichis. Whatever, that's their deal--although I'm a little surprised that their allegedly sleazy CEO doesn't encourage the big-tittied hipster ladies to shop at his store--and I will continue to shop there while I labor under the delusion that I could ever, ever minimize these beasts. Anyway anyway. I ditched the lamé, and then I ditched the costume entirely. Now I guess I'm an athletic something-or-other, which means gym shorts, a tank top, a whistle, knee-high athletic socks, and Chucks. Cool.

I have two major reservations about wearing this getup to work, though.

First, the whistle: I have worked in a bar for long enough to know that if there is something on your person that is fuck-with-able, a drunk person will try to fuck with it. I generally wear pretty large hoop earrings to work, and I can't get through a Friday or Saturday night without some drunk dumbass trying to mess with my ice. It's annoying, but not nearly as annoying as drunks messing with my whistles could potentially be. So I may have to ditch it halfway through the night if it becomes too much of a problem.

Second, the shorts: They are, as the name implies, short. I typically do not wear shorts, because I've got thick ol' thighs, and I'm kind of self-conscious about them. They're actually pretty nice-looking, because the great thing about running drinks all day long is that your legs get very strong and very toned, fast, but they used to be kind of flabby and unattractive. And they still jiggle. Y'all, I don't want to look sexy when I'm standing still but be jiggling all over the damn bar when I'm moving around. Whatever, I guess. I'll have a pair of jeans on standby if I get too weirded out.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

this heart

So, just to give you an idea of what my life is like at this exact moment, I am sitting in front of my computer in my boxers and t-shirt. My hair is loose; if I don't wash it, I'll smell like barbecue and, uh, failure, kind of. I am listening to Carrie Underwood. You guys. What happened.

No, seriously, besides being a little hung over (which was totally my fault--four drinks would probably not have close-to-floored me if I had drunk even one glass of water in yesterday's ninety-degree heat), my life is really, really good. Weird, right? I spent four years pretty much hating life, and now...everything just kind of fell into place. I'm not, like, blissfully happy, but I swear to you, I was walking down Ballard Ave in my cute new dress (orange! Even orange looks good on me lately!) and my feet hurt and it was so hot that I was getting that nasty underboob sweat--ladies, you know what I'm talking about--and I had a lot on my mind, but I just felt good, and not in that I AM FEELING VERY GOOD EVERYBODY way, where you smile all the time and, I don't know, sing with joy or whatever. I just feel...good.

And then I remember what today is.

Today is the memorial for a childhood friend who recently killed himself. I've talked about him a lot with friends and family, and I don't really want to talk about it anymore; stories like this are always much too long, and much too personal. It's not my place to talk about it, either, because we sort of lost touch as the years passed, and hey, you know what people say about regrets? That's mine.

shut up: tampon wrappers

I bought a box of Tampax Sport tampons, not because I actually play sports, but mostly because I hoped that wearing sports-labeled tampons would be an extra incentive to work out: "You bought the sport tampons, honey, now start playing volleyball or doing wind sprints or whatever it is girls with small boobs do." Like they would imbue me with fitness or something.

Not so much. Mostly they just imbue me with low-level rage that prompts me to begin the first entry in what will doubtlessly be a massive series of blog entries discussing things that vaguely annoy me. Because, okay: My Tampax Jock Girl Plugs feature sort-of-but-not-really inspirational blurbs on the wrapper, and I HATE THEM. Two recent gems, both from the same wrapper: "You'll always have halftime," and "Win or lose, play fair." Let's address the former: What does that even mean? "You'll always have halftime"? To do what? To say "Fuck this workout, I'mma go watch L&O reruns and eat some pasta"? I don't get it.

And then there's "Win or lose, play fair." Uh, the last thing I want to do, whether I'm on my period or off it, is be nice. It's just....it's just the sissiest, most second-grade gym-class thing to say. And it really kinds of adds insult to axe wound, because the reason I need a tampon is that I AM BLEEDING OUT OF MY VAGINA. I already know I'm a girl, Tampax, so don't bother reminding me with your sissy little slogans.

In a larger sense, I'm annoyed by inspirational sayings emblazoned on things marketed towards women. Menstrual products are some of the worst offenders, but I think that's because the only time we ever think about them is when we're on our period and therefore kind of generally unhappy. Those goddamn chocolate Promises things, too: I like chocolate a lot (not like the women in chocolate commercials, who look like they're having the world's most proper orgasm as they bite down on what is almost always touted as a "low-calorie indulgence," that heinous plague of women-oriented marketing), and I'd rather not have my chocolate-eating experience marred by someone's idea of an uplifting saying.

the mature thing to do

So for those readers who don't live within a ten-mile radius of wherever I am when I'm having a conversation about How My Life Is Going, here it is: I went and got a job. Yeah. I got two, actually, both of which are restaurant gigs, and both of which are so dazzlingly entry-level that you'd think I'd never even seen food before. One job is at a Greek restaurant in Fremont, and the other's at a bar in Ballard. (Sidebar: I have wanted to work in a bar since I knew what alcohol was. I have never, ever wanted to work in a club, because I like the idea of regulars at a bar but I am deeply mistrustful of anyone who patronizes a club so frequently that people greet him or her by name. Also, clubs tend to smell like Axe body spray, sweaty testicle and self-satisfaction, and I hate that.)

But my hostessing job at the Greek restaurant...I don't know if I can stay there. I've been there for, like, a week, and already I'm pretty sure it's not the gig for me. Because, okay: I am almost twenty-two, which, while not necessarily advanced, means that I'm kind of a grown-up. I cook for myself, I pay rent, I do my own taxes. I also think Invader Zim is hilarious and I still balk at the idea of being drug-tested. So the transition isn't quite complete, but still. Of the four other evening hostesses, I am the only one who can legally drink. One of us can't even buy a lotto ticket. They look at their tips at the end of the night and, I suppose, sigh happily at the thought of buying a round of vanilla shakes at the malt shoppe or whatever it is kids these days are doing with their money. I look at my tips and think "Oh shit." So I've got to find something else.

Man, but I am just so glad I didn't keep looking for an office job. I'll allow as how maybe I'd be in better financial shape, but...frankly, the idea of going to work every day and sitting down and just basically not moving for eight or nine hours was giving me hives.

dry spell

Okay, can you believe that dating consulting is actually a career path? Seriously, these people get, like, 2 grand a pop to teach guys how to pick up chicks. Here's a hint, guys: BUY US DRINKS. Don't be a skeezeball about it, and definitely don't assume that every girl who accepts a drink from you is obligated to fellate you in the back of your Rav-4. Buy enough drinks for enough girls, and one of them will probably be charmed enough to want to talk to you. Some more hints, while we're at it:
- Don't go on and on about your job like it's interesting. If you sit in an office all day long, think long and hard about whether your career is something we'd want to listen to an in-depth description of.
- Don't fucking talk about any of your exes, ever. It's not like we assume you've never had any, but it's just annoying and it breaks the mood. And especially don't talk about them while we're making out.
- Got kids? Chances are, we'll be cool with it, but you should at least mention it at some point soon after we meet. And don't talk about them ceaselessly. That gets old real fast.
- And, oh my god, don't check out other girls while we're talking. It's disrespectful, and if you want to go talk to other girls worse than you want to talk to us, we might be a little pissed, but we'll get over it.
- Do get creative. Once, I met this guy at the Sunset and he asked to put his number in my phone (that sounds sexual, but it really wasn't), but instead, he changed my startup message so that it said "Hi Jewpacabra, call P-----." It might've been creepy, but at the time I thought it was cute. Do something like that.

click click click

This is what my life has become: Sitting in a darkened room in front of the computer at 10:30 in the morning, listening to the Fastbacks and waiting for this incredible hangover to pass. If you asked me why I'm wearing aviator sunglasses, I couldn't tell you.

I swear I only meant to have a beer. I had a few beers with my family, plus my signature sickly-sweet Triple G Battleship Sinker (gin, ginger ale and a splash of grenadine--tell your friends), and then I went to College's pub, where, if memory serves, I had a Pabst and a gin and tonic AND THEN Jack, who had gotten pretty much twelve-drinks legendary before I even arrived at the pub...well, he kind of disappeared. I found him going punch-for-punch with a much smaller dude about an hour later. Anyway, in the meantime I started talking to this football player sitting at the bar (this story is not going in the usual direction, by the way. Keep your shirt on.) Apparently we knew each other from an earlier incident involving Pop Tart theft, and we talked about how much he loves his girlfriend and how much I despise football players.He apologized for the excreble manners of his teammates and then he bought me the first of, oh, four drinks. I got another Triple G, then he ordered a round of tequila shots, then I got a vodka tonic, then he ordered round of Jager shots, and that's where things get hazy.

I am really, really looking forward to drinking four or five drinks and being blind drunk. I have a pretty burly tolerance for a girl, and it's bankrupting me.

on legal majority

There are few things more irritating than being 21 and not having your ID on you when you want a beer. When you're underage, the simple act of ordering a pint of whatever domestic swill they have on tap without getting carded fills you with the kind of thrill that I'm told forty-year-old women get when they do get carded. You're annoyed when they ask for ID and you can't produce it (and let's admit it, fake IDs are cheating), but the whole thing seems like high adventure.

When you're 21, though: Not so much. Producing ID becomes an enormous hassle. Like, a hassle on the same level as, I don't know, trying to find a parking space in the grocery store parking lot right before Thanksgiving. Just this moment of total, irrational annoyance. Listen, assholes, I know I'm 21. I could give a shit if you know. Just let me into your stupid bar so that I can have the privilege of paying you six bucks for a criminally weak gin and tonic in a plastic cup, okay? Please?

I say this because, at the moment, many of my classmates at Generic Upper-Crust Private College are out drinking in the bars in town, which have wisely agreed to turn away any and all townies, because townies by definition just hate the fuck out of us because we're arrogant little bastards or whatever. I, on the other hand, left my ID at a restaurant 25 minutes away. I'm not all that fussed about missing the opportunity to hang out and get drunk with people I've spent four years ignoring--I like bars, and God knows I like to drink, but I just like to pick and choose my company--but I swear to God, every time I walk into a place and realize that I don't have my ID on me, I am filled with almost completely unjustifiable indignance.

suspicious minds

All signs point to me spending the next three days listening to Elvis Costello and staying just drunk enough to thoroughly appall all my lightweight friends. Senior week! Woo!

Ugh. This morning I woke up, finished that paper (my last ever, thanks be to God), and headed down to one of Off-Brand Uptight New England Liberal Arts College's many artificially verdant swaths of lawn for mimosas and donuts. After enduring two unimpressive glasses full of mostly orange juice, I had to explain to the bartenders--at 10:15 in the morning, mind--exactly how I wanted my mimosa: "Okay. Can you make me one with thiiiiiiiiis much champagne? And, like, thismuch orange juice?" The bartender on the right giggled (and let me just state, for the record, that I do not think that grown men should giggle, ever) and handed me the mimosa. "You're our best customer," he said. "You should come back for the barbecue by the pond. We'll be serving beer. For free!" Seriously, dude, do I know you? We have not established the kind of rapport where you can tease me about the fact that I am kind of a lush, okay? I hate it when total strangers assume that I'll find their judgement endearing.

awesome like a hot dog

At 21, I am either too old or too young to be blogging. That's all I know.

Well, okay: I confess to having maintained a Livejournal in my girlish days, but that was mostly just a cry for help, so I abandoned it when it came time to find a more appropriate outlet for my shameless attention-whoring. Now that alcohol has lost its mystique, though, here I am again. This time around, I promise to capitalize appropriately, refrain from copy-pasting memes, and stop talking about my boy problems as if anybody cares. Everything else is fair game.

It is the eve of my graduation from a vastly overhyped private New England college. My roommates, who are rising seniors and therefore not allowed to stay on campus during Senior Week (more on that later), just left for their respective hometowns. I have a 10-page paper due at midnight, so naturally I'm watching Law and Order and freaking out about the rest of my life. After four years of college, these are the thoughts running through my head:
"Man, I wish my name was S. Epatha Merkerson."
"Most things that are labeled peach-colored are usually more salmon-colored."
"Oh my god, what am I going to do without basic cable?"
"Someone should invent a remote-control spider-eliminating robot. Like the Roomba, except for spiders."
"I should get a boyfriend. Qualifications: Must be able and willing to kill spiders. Totally hetero love of Jerry Orbach a plus."
"I wish there were a computer program that could analyze whether or not I look good in aviator sunglasses, because I really can't tell."

That bachelor's degree: Money well spent.