Eight years ago, Justin Timberlake released a song about karma and I've got a story that really proves that 'ole JT was right on the $$$ about what goes around really comes back all the way around.
Just the other night, as I was digging into some savory Chinese takeout, I began to reminisce. When I was in college, there was this guy that made me feel nauseous at the near sight of him. He wasn't unattractive by any means; in fact, many women considered him the 'campus hottie'. In my eyes, he was just a regulation D-Bag with a piss-poor attitude. I don't care how great you look; it's like that saying goes 'you can polish a turd, but it's still a piece of shit'. My friend had a class with him and he constantly demanded to copy her notes, only after sleeping through class after class. Upon her rejection, he said 'you obviously don't know the way things are done around here'.
It was a typical Friday evening at the bar and I see him roll up with a bag of Chinese takeout, but before he comes in, he places the bag on the roof - I guess he figured this was an inconspicuous place to store his drunk food. I guess he didn't consider the possibility that anyone would be curious about a random brown paper bag chillin' on a low roof. When I say low, I mean that Wee Man from 'Jackass' could reach it if he jumped.
When I decided it was time to call it a night, I ventured outside into the parking lot and eyed the bag. I walked over and grabbed it without even thinking twice. I couldn't wait to get home and explore the contents, which included spicy General Tso's chicken, rice, Wonton soup, and an added treasure: 1 eggroll. I'm about halfway through my meal when I realize my phone has gone MIA. I should've known that I wouldn't escape this risky operation unscathed. I had no idea where it was, but began to retrace my steps.
I trekked down the hill, across the football field and back onto campus. Along the way, I come across a few duck sauce packets and laughed to myself, thinking this is what I get for trying to teach that asshole a lesson. I stood in the dorm parking lot across from the bar, deciding I should accept my loss when I looked down and noticed my phone sitting on the curb.
Word on the street is that he incessantly searched for the culprit over the next few weeks; I don't think he found out it was me, but maybe one day, he'll come across this blog. I guess he didn't know the way things were done around here.
When I started this common hobby of blogging, I knew the possibility of a 'dry spell' was possible. It can be a let down when you go to check your favorite blog, only to find the latest post was two weeks ago - say whaaa? However, it isn't writer's block. I'll admit that once I kick off my work shoes, the last thing I want to look at is a blinding computer screen. Additionally, life unexpectedly gets in the way but I promise I'll do my best to keep you all laughing and hopefully coming back for more nonsense.
So, last weekend after the restaurant gig, we moseyed on over to a frequented bar that I don't frequent often 'cause it's loud and the crowd is something less than desirable. I have a good idea of what I'm getting into when I walk across the parking lot and Zack Galifianakis' clone busts out of the door, pulling his fat girlfriend behind him while slurring at me "you're gonna get lucky tonight - there's a lot of dick in there!'' Thanks, Zack.
A couple of shots later, I've forgotten the sense of loss I felt when I paid $7.00 to gain access to this sausage fiesta. What kind of cover charge is that anyway - is Nickelback in there? The drinks have been flowin' and I'm feeling a case of 'Barcolepsy' coming on - it's been a long day and all I want to do is get some decent shuteye.
Soon enough, the group begins to coordinate the location of a late night meal. Survey says: Double T Diner. Food? What? OK, I'm awake (sort of). I haven't been to this place in 10 years, so I wasn't opposed to an intoxicated trip down memory lane. Late night diners are always a show; sub-par food and top notch entertainment. Of course, it's 2 am and you're drunk so anything you eat IS a five star meal - nothing less.
The waitress sashays over and flops down an Atlas in front of everyone, at least that's what I thought it was until I realized it was a MENU. If I wanted to read an encyclopedia, I would've gone to the library. My brain is not wired for sound decisions at this hour; I really just wanted to tell Olga or whatever her name was to pick something and surprise me, but instead, I pulled a copycat move and said 'I'll have what she's having' while motioning to the friend sitting next to me.
And what's with the disclaimer sized print? I'll be sure to bring one of these next time.
With all of the snow behind us, (hopefully) I got to thinking about another major threat to all of mankind (especially women): TOOLS. I'm not talking about the kind you buy at Sears, either.
Ladies, we've all had the 'pleasure' of knowing
at least one; actually, consider yourself lucky if you don't have to
count any higher. Chances are, you've
probably dated Mr. Craftsman - it's typically a brief, forgettable relationship
because let's face it, your bathroom sink had more personality. We tend to hang out with these types of men
boys when we are bored and need a distraction; they don't need one because they
are already too fixated on themselves – usually in front of the mirror with a
phone.
Soon enough, the unfortunate experience with this individual ends once the Red Flag Express runs you over with no warning (toot, toot!) Despite the time you feel was wasted, you're 200% relieved that you don't have to float upstream in a douche canoe anymore. Great success!
So, without further ado, I'm going to get down to the NITTY gritty here. Just when you think you've made the great escape from this loser, he pops up in your phone out of nowhere like a zit during puberty. You hear the 'bling' of your text tone, look down and see a message from Tim the Toolman chillin' on deck. You hesitantly slide your finger across the screen to not reveal a generic message, but an unsolicited PICTURE of his body part(s).
Just this past weekend, I was hanging out with a friend of mine when she showed me a text she had just received (as seen below) with the following caption: 'what do you think of that?'
What do I think? Personally, I'd rather lick the bottom of a trash can. Is this supposed be enticing? In this case, the only thing that was turned on was the light bulb in our heads reminding us even more of what an arrogant asshole you are. Stop thinking that women want to see your NON-REQUESTED muscles; if I feel like looking at some, I'll turn on 'The Notebook'.
Sup, Ryan?
If Friday was Valentine's Day, then Saturday must have been 'take your side chick to dinner' day; the freaks were out in full force, in addition to my patience.
This isn't just another weekend serving; this is a borderline suicide mission. I felt as if I need some extra preparation before hitting the floor - maybe a few deep breaths, some jumping jacks/high knees...a stun gun, perhaps?
I always tend to scope out the guests before I walk over to greet the table; based off of one look, I can get a good feel for what I'm about to deal with. Call it a sixth sense, if you will, but usually I wish I could see dead people instead. I had just shown up for my 4:30 shift, and I'm pretty sure Third Eye Blind was coming out of the restaurant's speakers, softly asking me 'how's it gonna be?' Trust me, I already know. I mosey on over to the table with my forced, enthusiastic smile and place the drink coasters down, although all I really feel like doing is throwing them to each person like a Frisbee.
So, with my winning discus routine comes my greeting: 'how's everyone doing this evening?' I don't get a 'hi', 'goodbye', or 'kiss my ass' but just 'what does the kettle chip appetizer taste like?' Mmm, Ketel One. I could go for a martini right about now. To give you a visual, the man who asked me about the chips is standing up, leaning against the table like he's Billy Ocean. I'm like 'honestly, Billy...I haven't tri-'
I'm in the midst of telling this low life that I haven't tried the shitty dish he's so kindly inquired about when he puts his Hulk sized hand up in an exasperated, 'stop, in the name of love' pose, and says 'SO, you mean to tell me that you work here and haven't TRIED everything?'
Clearly, he has learned a lot from his 3rd grade deductive reasoning lesson. What do you think this is? Do you honestly expect me to have dabbled with every food item on the menu? Like I'm that former fat ass Adam Richman, who toured the country eating 4lb pancakes and baby sized burritos.
Since I couldn't provide a personal kettle chip experience, Billy's 'date' proceeded to roll her eyes - so far back, I wondered if I'm going to need to call a priest for her exorcism.
C'mon Billy, take the demon, get out of my restaurant...and into your car.
Unless you've been living under a rock, you're aware that the Olympics in Sochi are well underway. The net is buzzed with chatter today regarding our victory over Russia in men's hockey. There is said to be a rivalry between USA and the Russkies, and I'm pretty sure it originates from the following:
Sorry, Apollo...not even those flashy shorts could've saved you - the guy's a machine. I think it's safe to say that everyone is having a Springsteen moment today, 'cause we were boooorn in the USA! I could be completely wrong, but I feel America's love for hockey has increased exponentially over the last 20 years or so - thanks to Gordon Bombay and his amateur drunk driving.
I mean, look at this guy with his 'I'm cool, bitch!' expression. One hand on the wheel of his asshole sports car with a bottle to the face; this is Gordon Bombay, Attorney at Law. Caught under the influence, Gordon rises above the haters by leading a group of dumpster diving kids to a pee-wee hockey championship title.
Don't deny it, you wanted to be one of the Ducks (except Goldberg)...myself included. I think a lot of kids could identify with the characters; the idea of you and your rag tag friends coming together to be CHAMPIONS suddenly became a semi-realistic goal. Also, let's not forget the fact that 'The Mighty Ducks' is the only movie with Joshua Jackson that's worth seeing (we'll give him D2 too).
One of the ongoing conflicts throughout this movie focuses on Gordon's internal struggle with his past; he is haunted by the memory of missing a penalty shot in a pee-wee hockey game - 20 years prior! In the real world, this is normally something that takes maybe a week to forget, but it's Disney so you have to roll with it. What I couldn't get over was how after all those years, his former hockey coach seems to have been cryogenically frozen.
Did anyone else notice that? How is this guy still alive?? What's fun about watching these movies as an adult is that you finally get those jokes that went 'whoosh!' over your head. Think back to the scene when the gang is in chemistry class and the teacher, while holding up a 3D model of an atom asks 'and what about the blue balls?'
The entire class giggles...
Yup.
In the craziness of da restaurant bidness that is a Friday night, I committed the most unthinkable, heinous act. I broke a glass - in the icebox. OH MA GAH. As Forrest Gump once famously said, 'it happens'. Yes, indeedy. Plates break, glasses shatter - it's a common fallacy, people...but breaking a glass in the ICE?? Apparently, it's a food service crime that seems punishable by death.
Yarghhh, if we were all pirates, I would surely be walkin' the plank, mateys. I had been hustlin' and bustlin' for a large party's waters when it happened; there is no time to waste when you're trying to expedite 12 beverages and you know at any daunting moment another one of your tables will be sat. So naturally, my brain short-circuits for a second and the corner of the icebox and my glass in hand collide, resulting in a horrific explosion. I stare at the aftermath, wishing I had telekinetic powers to piece the glass back together. I even thought, 'hey, it's just a little bit of glass, what can it hurt - don't people eat this stuff on 'My Strange Addiction?' Kidding! Anyways, this sitch-e-ayshun is a 4-alarm emergency and it needs to be fixed on the double!
The sound of breaking glass has the following effect: it paralyzes people. When it happens in a restaurant, employees turn into fucking Dick Tracy and keep asking 'WHO DUNNIT?!' In this scenario, some questions are better left unanswered. Whenever this happens, the ice needs to be drizzled with Grenadine and then drained, which makes the scene look unnecessarily grisly. Like, is there glass in there or a severed finger? Everyone walks by the contaminated ice, mourning the loss of it with mumbled, idiotic statements like 'party foul!' Um, excuse me? First of all, this aint no party and you haven't seen a 'foul' until you've seen someone vomit on an ice luge.
Eventually, the ice rose from the dead and my exile came to an end. So lesson learned, don't break the glass...but breaking the ice - that's a different story.
It goes without saying that it's pretty damn hard trying to get up for work on a Monday - the suck level rises up several more notches when you remember you work not one, but two jobs that day. F-U-C-K! So, I lay in bed for about 15 minutes after the alarm sounds off for roll call, say 'FML' a few times...then it's up and at 'em!
About a year ago, I had a brief moment of insanity and decided that in addition to my full time job, I'd start serving tables a couple days a week - but I'll delve into all that at a later time.
After spending 8 hours in an office, I'm ready to go home, throw on some sweatpants and park my ass on the couch with a glass of wine. Unfortunately, yesterday's post-work routine involved me putting on a chef coat and some sweet non-slip clogs. It's time to go feed the fancy, friendly folks of 'Napolis.
I rolled up to the restaurant feeling all warm and fuzzy thanks to my friend Pinot Grigio; you're probably asking yourself 'she drinks before work?' and the answer is YES (1 glass), because I'm going to need a little buzz if I'm going to be dealing with assholes for an additional 5 hours. The other servers are standing around the kitchen twiddling their thumbs because the place is dead - the entire country is still recovering from their Super Bowl induced heartburn. I'm standing at the kitchen computer clocking in when a fellow server/once a week manager who happened to be 'managing' last night approaches me and asks 'Jen, are you working tomorrow?' A question of this sort automatically leads me to believe that he will be asking me to work again tomorrow so I naturally reply 'no, I'll be tied up with my other job'. He responded 'well good, because those pants are unacceptable'.
What?
I completely understand that every restaurant has uniform standards, but this petty, nitpicking bullshit pisses me off. I looked down to make sure there wasn't a hole in my crotch, looked up at him and asked 'because...?' He rambled off something that didn't form a complete sentence but I'm pretty sure he said the word 'pleats' 5 or 6 times. OK, noted - must get man pants with pleats.
It's the pleats; it's actually an optical illusion
My pants aren't any tighter than any of the other pirate hookers here, so what is the big deal? How long were you staring at my ass to make that profound conclusion? He was clearly more embarrassed than I was; it was evident, when he started to profusely apologize like he had just kicked over my lemonade stand. I don't think some men know how hard it is for a woman to find a decent, fitting pair of trousers. I had ventured out to the mall a few hungover Saturdays ago before work, because I desperately needed to upgrade from the Steve Urkel flood watch style. However, I'm not going back to the 'Family Matters' route - I need to test the waters again.
Did I do thaaat? Yes, I did - and I will again.
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