Monthly Archives: June 2007

On being a cocktail waitress

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I never thought that I’d be praising God for a job in a bar, but lately I’ve been doing just that.

After a couple of weeks and a few thousand resumes, I finally found a nicely lucrative position as a cocktail waitress (Oh, wait, excuse me: “Server”) in a nearby pool bar. While I may not be a brag-worthy job, I am excited to report that the other “servers” said that I should average about $250 in tips on Fridays and Saturdays. Mind you, that’s$250 per night. Had I only known that jobs like this existed in the past, I would never have wasted my time as a regular waitress. Today was a very slow night, and even so, I would have walked away with about $90 if not for my usual ability to lose money. How did I lose this money? By being me.

I, more than anyone I know, misplace things. What kind of things, you ask? Everything, I reply. I think it’s moved past an art form, and more into the realm of magical ability. Really, I think I’m magically gifted in this area. Of course, I’m not really sure what kind of benefit there is to being magically gifted like this, but hey. Who am I to complain about being gifted?

Anyways, while I can’t be entirely certain, I have the distinct impression that I managed to lose somewhere in the vicinity of $40 in tips. Either it slipped out of my pocket, or someone stole it out of my pocket, or I just plain counted change back incorrectly. My inability to count money is actually one of my biggest embarrassments. Until I started working in the food industry, I was one of those people who couldn’t count their change to save their life. If you gave me the amount I could perform an inverse square root on it, or apply it into the quadratic formula, or even write an essay about it… but count i? Nope. I think there’s a whole bunch of people out there in the world like me, who have change-counting dyslexia. I can add all the numbers up in my head, but when I start trying to apply that to the money in my hand, everything gets all confusing. Of course, I figure I’m in good company with this inability— It’s rumored that Einstein suffered from the same problem.

So, what I figure really happened to the money is that, in my nervousness to count the change back correctly, I probably gave the people back their $20 in addition to all the change. Since the people I’m dealing with are, for the most part, drunken males in their mid 20s, I’m not exactly surprised that I didn’t have any honest refunds.

So I’m poorer than I should have been after 8 hours running around grabbing drinks for people… but on the other hand, my self-esteem has never been better. I’ve received so many heartfelt, thankful compliments during this past shift that I feel like I should be turning sideways to fit my head through doorways.

Just for fun, here’s a list of the pet-names I was called tonight:

Mama
Sweetie
Honey
Hun
Kitten
Sugar
Babe
Sweetcakes
Sweetthang

Two Hot Gay Guys

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So today, despite my moral upbringing and overdeveloped guilt complex, I almost abandoned the boyfriend and ran away with two strange men. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. And before any of you guys start thinking about throwing any stones, let me assure you: You would have done the exact same thing.

I was walking home from the video store, slowly meandering down my busy little street. Traffic from a nearby street had been diverted down my own little residential area, leaving the cars backed up for quite a bit. I was threading my way between two stopped cars to cross a street, when suddenly…

“Excuse me, miss?”

I know it doesn’t sound like much of a statement, but did I mention that the statement was spoken in a pleasing baritone…. AS WELL AS WITH AN AMAZING ACCENT?
I mean, I know it’s completely cliche, but I am a COMPLETE sucker for accents. It’s pathetic. I know it’s shallow and dumb, but I can’t help it.

I mean, something like this could be walking down the street towards me:

And do you know what? If it started talking with a sexy little accent (preferably something from the UK), I’d start fluttering my eyelashes at him with my best HeyBaby look.

Like I said, it’s pathetic. It’s shallow. I’m a moron. Shall we get on with the story?

After a frantic scan of the area for the source of the brogue (please be talking to me, o’ mysteriously-accented One!) my eyes found the source of the comment. There in that line of cars, seated in a top-down convertible (BMW? Lexus? Something expensive-looking), were the two most insanely handsome men I have ever seen in my entire life. It was like something out of a movie. Forget that— these two were better looking than most movie stars, and I’m not exaggerating. Mr. Stunningly Gorgeous #1 was behind the wheel of the car, giving me an encouraging smile (dimples! He had dimples!), and Mr. Insanely Handsome man #2 was in the passenger seat, trying to motion me over. I fought the urge to look over my shoulder, or point at my chest in the classic “Who, me?” It’s not often that I’m confronted with two model-type 6’2″ men with Irish/Scottish brogues, chiseled features and muscles, shiny white teeth, and charming smiles.

What followed was a completely normal conversation. They were a little lost, and wanted directions to a street I didn’t know. I smiled, said that I’d love to help them out, if only they would let me into their car, their hearts, and/or their lives. They in turn laughed and told me that they were only pretending to be lost, and had decided to ask me directions in the hopes of being able to talk to me. They admitted that they’d never seen a woman as unbelievably stunning as I was, that they could tell I was intelligent and charismatic, and that the only thing that could make me any better was if I had cellulite hiding beneath my jeans (they had a secret cellulite fetish.) Flattered, I climbed into the backseat of the convertible, admitting that I did have an unsightly amount of cellulite rapidly accruing beneath my jeans, and that I would love to accept their proposal of marriage, and when would we be leaving back to Scotland/Ireland/Wherever they were from?

Sigh. I wish.

What really happened is that I stood there with my stained shirt and unbrushed hair and stuttered out completely incorrect directions. I had a completely ridiculous grin on my face the entire time, and I’m ashamed to say that I think I even giggled a couple of times. In other words, I behaved like a complete moron. I’m absolutely positive that they were gay, because they were absolutely too-good looking and clean to be otherwise. After all, has anyone but me noticed that gay guys now-a-days all tend to be perfect (aside from their penchant for being gay?)

The second they were gone I was completely mortified by my behavior, and called up the boyfriend to confess that I’d almost left him for some hot gay guys. He was amazingly forgiving, especially considering the fact that I admitted openly that I was planning on screaming out “Take me with you!” I’ll go with you anywhere!” if they were to ever return.