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