catharsis

(and now concha gets angry)

I don’t know how you grew up. And frankly, I don’t care. But let me tell you about how I grew up. I grew up in a place where shopping for groceries didn’t invoke homicidal feelings. I grew up knowing if the loudspeaker announced “Cleanup on isle 3” Someone went to mutherfuking isle three and started moppin'! I grew up not having to ask myself, “Will there be a prize in my Cracker Jacks, or perhaps a FUCKING DEAD RAT?” Cause I grew up with Publix, where shopping WAS a mutherfuking PLEASURE.

Then I saw this. The fucking entrance to fucking hell, my brethren.

Maybe their lawyers (stupid mutherfukers who think they can actually defend this place) call it Gristedes. But for the rest of you, you better fucking call is what it is. The nasty, fatty, artery-clogging, heart attack causing, excrement of fucking pig lard, lubricant between the sweaty cellulitey thighs of fat chicks: Grease. Fucking Greasy’s!

Here is a picture of the fucking piece of shit Greasy’s by my apartment. See how the sky is all ugly and gray? That’s cause it just realized that it’s the part of the sky hovering over Greasy’s, and it’s about to ball like a fucking constipated baby who’s fortune teller just told him that he’s gonna grow up to be nothing in life but a fat piece of shit mutherfuking Greasy’s employee!



The other night I was in fucking Greasy’ s trying to buy some dinner to end my pathetic day, when the stupid baby who grew up to be a fucking Greasy’s cashier started talking to me.

“You know what?”

No. I don’t know what. And I don’t fucking care.

“I was laying in bed next to this girl last night and I told her, ‘I think I’m in love wit chu.’"

Thank you. Now I have a naked fat man picture in my head. There went my fucking appetite. And by the way…why are you telling me this?

He fucking continued.

“So she rolls over and says, ‘Steve, what you talking about? We just havin’ fun, Steve.’ And I was like, ‘But really, I think I’m in love wit chu. I’m tryin’ to take it to the next level.’ And she was like, ‘Don’t be stupid, Steve.’”

First of all, telling a fucking Greasy’s employee not to be stupid is like telling a fucking emo to cut his bangs. Because one day this idiot woke up and decided, despite all the fucking fungus free grocery stores out there, he wanted to work at FUCKING GREASY’S. OF COURSE HE’S FUCKING STUPID.

FURTHERFUCKINGMORE, If I fucking had anything that resembled sexual relations with a fucking Greasy’s employee, it had better be because I had fucking IVs of GHB in all six thousand of my veins, regaining consciousness only because the fat fuck ripped them all out. And when I came to, and discovered I’d just been (eww, gross, gross, gross!) fondling a Greasy member, I’d say the same thing. And by the same thing I mean, “Put the IVs back in and get the fuck out of my house YOU FAT STUPID GREASY’S EMPLOYYEE!”

This is the fucking stupid door to get into Greasy’s.
(Note: none of these pictures fully capture Greasy’s grease in full glory. Much more acned in person. Much.) Most automatic doors do what they’re supposed to do and open when you step on the mat. But not this fucking door. Step on the mat here and it will say. “Oh, shit. Do I really have to stop eating cheetoes and get off my fat fucking ass to open the door for you. Goddamn fucking customers!” And then you will hear lots of creaking, which is actually the sound of it scratching its fat fucking lazy ass while it opens the door for you.

More grease.

I'm so fucking glad they could get off their fat greasy asses to clean up this germ infested half finished soda can left in the spice rack.


Uh, yeah. That would be dried mud on that beer bottle.



Gee. I was looking all over for the maxi pads. There they are! Silly me, I should've known they would be next to the Jolly Green Giant. Great organization, ass wipes.



This would be the way the genius custodial staff decided to fix the leaky seafood shelves. Really works up your appetite for tuna.

Seriously. With the way this place can ruin appetites, there's no need to buy Lean Cuisine.

AHGHG. I hate fucking Greasy’s!

Believe it or not, once in a while they do make lame attempts to mop up the constant dripping grease of this place. One time I actually saw a fucking Greasy’s employee cleaning the floor. Unfortunately the ramen section was hovering above the part of floor he just mopped. So I had to gingerly step over it. But when I did, the fucking piece of shit grease cleaner shouted out, “You fucking stupid bitch! Fucking walking on my clean floor you fucking stupid bitch!” And this was all in earshot of the manager. But did he threaten to call corporate? Run to me and apologize on behalf of his delinquent employee who would surely be facing some kind of immediate punishment? Offer to comp my Ore-Idas? No. He fucking only grunted and went back to licking the grease out of the corners of his register.

I suppose you may suggest that I do something like stop going to Greasy’s. “They just opened a Trader Joe’s in Union Square, Concha. Why don’t you try that?” To which I’ll answer, “Exactly. It’s in Union fucking Square and I’m not about to ride down the whole green line just cause I ran out of fucking Pot Noodle!” I say we all go to every Greasy’s and dump buckets and buckets of Dawn on them, since it takes “grease out of your way” and all. Only then might we be able to rid the world of this artery clogger, and buy our Pot Noodle in peace.

the bride of frankenstein

At work on Friday night, I had a fucking pounding headache. The pounding part was ever amplified by the fact that unless I’m hung-over, I don’t usually get headaches. So I’m not used to the feeling of a little man on cocaine running around inside my skull, pounding on the inner walls of my brain with a sledgehammer like an ADHD child on a kilo of meth. Yeah, it hurt.

“Can you go down to the ladies room and see what’s going on?”

I looked up into the face of my manager. The entire night I had been awash in a sea of “Can you do this?” “Can you do that?” so I gave him a look like he had just asked me to extend my shift an extra 14 hours.

He sensed my pain. “Please?” he added. He was being sincere, so down I went.

My judgment was clouded from my headache, so I immediately pictured a group of women all partaking in a drug buffet in one of the stalls. (And had I still been working in South Beach, that’s probably what would have been going on.) My plan of action was to march me and my headache all authoritative-like and threaten to call the cops, unless they shared. After I had consumed every drug known to man, I’d just float home, having successfully killed that asshole with the sledgehammer in my brain.

I was confronted with something very different.

Walking down the dark stairs to the restaurant’s bathroom, you get the feeling of walking into the basement of a horror movie. The bathroom is quiet and barely lit by an overhead light, while candles eerily flicker in the corner. When i opened the door, I found a woman standing in one of the stalls. She was overweight, some sort of foreign, with an unbuttoned shirt, droopy eyes, and an agape mouth. There was probably a little drool there too, but me and sledgehammer man agreed that we weren’t about to get close enough to investigate.

Eyes practically rolling into the back of her head, she looked up at me and with a deep, almost demon-like voice asked, “Where are my pants?”

Sledgehammer man and I looked down further, and asked ourselves the same question. Because, good fucking god! Where were this woman’s pants?!

“I can’t find my pants.”

Now, one’s first guess would likely be that she was really – I mean like 87 tequila shots – drunk. But as I stood there in the dark quiet bathroom and watched the candles flicker in her bloodshot eyes, I thought I was starting into the possessed face of Damien’s much older sister.

She reached a shaking finger towards me and pointed to the pants I was wearing. “You. You have pants. Give me yours. Give me your pants!”

Me being 5’9” and 130 pounds (187 if you added the sledgehammer) and her at 5’ 2"ish and probably well over 160, I wanted to state the obvious: “My pants would only fit around one of your toes.” But given the fact that she was standing in the stall of a fine dining establishment’s restroom, inquiring the whereabouts of said missing pants, I don’t think this woman could comprehend the concept of being a fat fucking bitch.

Like a demon after my soul she started to stagger towards me and slowly chase me out of the restroom.

“Give me your pants! Give me your pants!”

I suddenly felt like I was a scared-to-fucking-death little kid in a haunted house, running from a ghoulish skeleton, who was inching its fingers toward me with a greedy appetite. So me and my pants hauled ass up the stairs back to the bustle of the Friday night restaurant crowd, safe from the monster in the bathroom stall.

“A!” I called to my manager, breathless. “A, we’ve got a…a…a ‘situation’ in the ladies room. Woman…no pants…drunk…”

She gave me a puzzled look. Probably cause I looked like I had just seen a ghost.

“Just go down there and check it out.”

My headache now miraculously gone, I walked out of the kitchen to experience the comfort of being surrounded by tables of fully dressed non-ghost like people. And I walked out just in time. Because standing in the back of the restaurant, I had a great seat to the show.

The woman had decided it was time to leave the restroom and join the rest of us. And with the speed of a zombie, she sloooowly and pantslessly walked down the middle isle of the restaurant and out the door with all eyes and snickers on her. Since staring at cellulite isn’t much of an aperitif, the management had badly wanted this situation contained. But there was nothing they could do now but ogle and giggle at the fat lady in her granny panties as she walked down the isle. In the spirit of the procession, I thought about humming a little ‘Here comes the Bride’ to the tune of her walk. It would have fit perfectly. Except for one difference. She wasn’t carrying a bouquet. She was carrying her skirt.

karma tastes like shit

Most of you that know me, are well aware of the amount of shit talking I do. Be it, fruity drinking guys or that fucking anorexic bitch over there, there’s always a plethora of excrement flying out of my mouth. And I guess it’s payback time. Because lately I’m having to swallow heaping spoonfuls of my own sarcastic comments. And Mother Karma is not letting me up from the table till I’m finished with dinner.

The first course of this meal was prepared by the Rican. Last week when getting the mail, he couldn’t help but notice a package from Victoria’s secret arrive at our apartment. He brought it over to me, hoping I'd open it immediately. But me excitedly tearing it open was only prelude to his disappointment. Because he gave the contents one condescending look and then turned his nose, announcing he liked nothing.

“Fine.” I said, throwing the catalogue at him. “Why don’t you go through this and Art Direct me some underwear.” Not one to turn down the chance to peruse the scantily clad, he agreed.

“What about that one?” I asked, pointing at a thong I think most guys would agree with. “That one’s cute.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay. But there’s no point in getting it cause it wont look like that on you.”

My face dropped. To the floor.

He, to my disbelief, continued. “What? You know you don’t look like that. I know you don’t look like that. Everyone knows.”

My face was practically fucking the floor.

…and on. “I mean no one looks like that except for a Victoria’s Secret Model. You don’t. So what’s the point of pretending you do and buying something even though it wont look as good on you.”

My face and the floor were now having post coital cigarettes.

All women are painfully aware that because we don’t have 36 hours an afternoon to spend in the gym, nor have the money to afford the microbiotics/coke diet, that we don’t look like Victoria’s Secret models. We don’t need to be reminded. Although I was too dumfounded to say it then, I should have replied with, “Yes, I’m well aware of my sub Victoria’s Secret Model looks. Because if I looked like a one, I WOULDN’T BE DATING YOU.”

During one of my half assed attempts to be a tenth as attractive as the model I’ll never be, I pulled on some sneakers and did my early morning visit to Crunch. Never having been one of those put-on-a-full-face-of-makeup-and-prance-around-the-gym-like-the-Victoria’s-Secret-Model-I ain’t types, I was more the pull-on-an-old-pair-of-Umbros-I’ve-had-since-I-was-fourteen-and-the-rest-of-you-can-just-fuck-yourself chick.

This particular morning I was in a body sculpting, Victoria’s Secret Model looks attempting class. Taught by the sort of perky cheerleader type, that, if I ever have kids, and my daughter turns out like her, then she will have to be taken out back and shot.

Miss sprightly gym class instructor came bubbling and bouncing over to me and pointed to my shorts.

“OMIGOD, LIKE, I TOTALLY USED TO HAVE THOSE!”

Great, I thought. Way to point out my ugly shorts.

“THOSE MUST BE SO OOOOOLD!!!!”

Yes. They’re old. Thanks for drawing the entire class’s attention to my circa 1994 gym short fashion sense. I realize that since you’re shamelessly playing Kelly Clarkson music, you must not mind revealing your incredibly embarrassing music tastes. But some of us and our ugly shorts, would rather go un-pointed out over the fucking microphone in the back of the class.

“I HAVEN’T SEEN THOSE IN LIKE SOOOOO LONG. THAT’S WHAT YOU WORE BACK IN THE DAAAAAAY. UMBROS AND A TANKTOP. THAT WAS SO COOL WAAAAY BACK IN THE DAAAAAY.”

I thought “back in the day” comments were still reserved for my dad. But apparently, kids, I have my own back in the day, and that was the day of the ugly Umbro. Which means I am officially old. No wonder I don’t look like a VS model.

So far I’ve had to swallow the fact that I’m Umbro wearing and sub VS model looking. But I can still write, right?

Lately it pains me to answer the “What do you do?” question. My ad friends get it. But questioned by anyone outside the complicated world of portfolios, and my answer may seem like a desperate string of excuses for why I don’t have a “real” job. Last week I was asked this question by an old man I was waiting on in the restaurant. While I should have stated the obvious (“I’m serving you your fucking foie gras, what the fuck does it look like I do?”) I decided to save my own face and give the short answer to my most dreaded question.

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh!” He clasped his hands together excitedly.

“What do you write? Novels? Theater? Screen plays?”

“No, sir. I write advertising.”

“Oh. His voice dropped to a nadir of disappointment.

“I thought you were a real writer.”

Fine. You got me. I’m the fucking unemployed pack of Splenda in the pastry shop. But you should see how I rock the runway in a pair of Umbros.

If you like Piña Coladas....

Picture this: You’re sitting in a restaurant. You reach down for your crotch (like you probably do about 14 times a day) and there it is again. The umpteenth confirmation that: Yes. You are %100 percent male. But cha coulda fooled me. Cause on the table in front of you is a Sex on the Beach. And you’re sipping it with all the glee of a gay parade.

If I’m waiting on a guy who has ordered a drink that shoud only be consumed by pre-teen girls, I make sure to garnish the glass with an overabundance of pineapples cherries and other fruits that symbolize the female genitalia. You may be wearing pants, but underneath you’ve got on panties. And somebody’s gotta let your poor date know before she gets back to your pathetic apartment and finds herself in the middle of a reverse Crying Game script. Here is a list of drinks that as a man, you should NOT be ordering.

The Cosmopolitan

I find it pathetic enough that there are still large numbers of girls who shamelessly quote Sex and the City and try to find parallels with the plot and their own lives. But chances are, you’ve convinced one of these halfwits to be your girlfriend for at least two weeks. In that short time, you must have learned that the Cosmopolitan is the show’s signature drink. So by ordering this pink puke, you have just carelessly thrown away your manhood. Now you only resemble a Carrie wannabe. Except not nearly as pretty. Which would make you Miranda. And no one wants to be her. Just ask the dimwitted little PR assistant who was dumb enough to go out with you.

Piña Colada
There is only one place you can order this drink. A tropical island. Preferably a deserted one so nobody can see what a douchebag you are.

Bay Breeze
I used to be somewhat of an acquaintance with an RnB singer (that alone already breaks the gay meter) who drank only Sea Breezes. He also sings a song that I’m sure your ears were once unlucky enough to be poisoned by. Excuse my particularly awful singing voice, while illustrate one the most pussified songs in existence.

“I don’t wanna know
If you’re playing me
keep it on the low
Cause my heart cant take it anymo’”

Unable to be a man and dump the bitch, he’s basically giving her an open invitation to cheat on him. He’d rather just live in the deluded bliss that only his Malibu Rum can provide, and nurse his pussy with “Bay Breeth.” If this is your drink, this is also you.

Strawberry Daquiri

Just cut off your dick and stick it in the glass. It’s got better use as a swizzle stick. (Although I’m sure at least one woman has told you this already.)

White Wine Spritzer

Is it a coincidence that the name of this drink so easily lends itself to the lisp? I think not.

Wet Willies
I hope you’re only here because your girlfriend and her six friends dragged you out, and you’re angrily sipping a scotch in the corner. But if you’re sitting at the bar with several sampler cups, and you (insert lisp) “just cant decide between a ‘call a cab’ and a ‘frozen flaming homo’” then I suggest you skip the charade and head over to Scores. I’m only sorry I avoid Wet Willies LIKE THE FUCKING CHICKEN FLU and won’t be there to make fun of you to your face.

Of course you’re now asking, “Well, Miss Concha, fine dinning guru, what IS acceptable for me to drink?” I’m glad you asked. Cause by admitting your ignorance, you just let ME know you’re a fucking HOMO who’s probably sipping on a Mai Thai right now, with your pinky out and a cocktail umbrella behind your ear. And lemmie guess. The umbrella’s a rainbow.

Why so angry, you ask? As a server, I get looked down upon plenty. This is my chance to talk back. So, boys, next time you shout out a supercilious “Miss!” and expect me to take you seriously, I hope you’re slamming down a Johnny Walker neat. Or I’ll make certain you’re next drink is garnished with a neon pussy – giving your date a heads up that, despite your almost convincing man mask, she’s actually on a date with Miranda.


Cheers.

compliments of the chef

Chefs are tempermental souls. After working in two of the most famous restaurants in Miami Beach, I can confidently vouch for this. Either insanity is a culinary school pre-requisite, or it’s only because as artists they automatically posses some amount of lunacy. Given the right circumstances (and power), it will rear its ugly head. Hitler was an art student, he got a little power and look what happened to him.

So as boss of the kitchen, the ugly head is ripe for rearing.

We get the word "chef" from French. In English, it translates to boss. And in the kitchen, the Chef is the king priest boss on high. The kitchen is his country, and he’s given ultimate control. Since every line cook aspires to work his way up to Chef, they pander to his every crazy demand, no matter how insane the rules are. Not to mention at 8pm on a Saturday night, tensions are high, the heat is on full blast and the Chef’s success or failure depends on a bunch of obsequious Mexicans to carry out his vision. You can see why he’s prone to go a little nuts.

I’ll illustrate.

A few years ago I worked in a famous restaurant that kept an arrangement of Sake bottles on display. As I was setting them up one afternoon before we opened, the chef approached me and asked if I would pour him a carafe (not a shot, a full carafe) of our house sake. I agreed, assuming he needed it for cooking. As soon as I handed him the sake, he proceeded to chug the entire carafe in front of me. Well not the entire carafe. Some managed to leak out the corners of his mouth and litter his beard with stray dribbles. I’ve seen fraternity boys bong beer with more class.

As I watched him sloppily stumble back to the kitchen, I wondered what celebrity was going to come in that night and call him a genius. I stood there in shocked silence, probably looking more like a hooker than a waitress – my mouth hanging open in a perfect “O.” I probably should have run after him and tried to prevent him from getting his hands on any knives that evening. But what could I do? He was the Chef.

So you can imagine my surprise when I started working for a new restaurant in New York, where the Chef is actually…normal. Normal and nice. His benevolence is so surprising that I’m fully prepared for the day he’ll come into work, smile at everyone, pull out an AK and start shooting. Nice, I tell you. He doesn’t yell, he treats the servers with respect, and he actually gets his hands dirty in the kitchen. (Most Chefs only parade around the floor of the restaurant and accept compliments for the food that the sweaty slaves in the back are actually making.) He’s so nice that there’s no way he meant to offend the bartender who I was lucky enough to witness him inadvertently insult last week.

J the bartender, is sweet. The sort of niceness that doesn’t deserve to be the object of insult. She’s also been trying to loose some weight. So far she’s been successful, shedding a respectful 12 pounds. And her efforts did not go unnoticed by the Chef.

“Hey, J.” Chef began. Did you loose some weight?”

“Yeah,” she brightened. “I did.”

“About 12 pounds right?”

Given that that’s a pretty precise guestimate, her faced twisted up into a confused contortion that said, “How the fuck would you know, stalker? Did you stick a fucking computer chip in my scale or something?”

She actually said, “Uh…yeah. How’d you know?”

He smiled, completely oblivious to the insult he was about to make. “Cause I cut meat all day.”

Satisfied with what, to him, was a perfectly logical explanation, he walked back to the kitchen to continue working. But if you've ever been on a diet you can imagine how she felt. Most women don't want to be seen as just a piece of meat. More importantly, while J has been diligently dedicating her efforts to look better in a bikini, Chef (albeit obliviously) only made her feel like a slaughtered cow.

But what can we do? He’s the Chef.

never mind the bollocks, it's time to talk about my boobs

(And now Concha references an exceptionally trite and mindless movie that yes, she is embarrassed to admit she has seen, but it is relevant to the exceptionally trite and mindless subject she is about to discuss. )

I was twenty-two when I saw the movie, “The Sweetest Thing.” (Shut up. I was at a friend’s house and she put it on. I have better taste than that, ok?) There’s a scene where Cameron Diaz and the chick from Married with Children are standing in a dressing room. Wearing only a bikini top, Cameron Diaz lifts her boobs to the top of her chest and proudly declares, “Twenty-two.” She then lets them go. As they fall down to their sunken position on her chest, she announces her current age, “Twenty-eight.” She repeats this sequence of lifting her boobs and letting them go, to illustrate the waning of her boob quality as she’s aged from twenty-two, to twenty-eight.

Back when I watched that movie, I was twenty-two. As I watched Ms. Diaz map out the path of her boob’s descent, I felt content that I was still at a peak age and my boobs were surely still on top. Well, my friends, this past weekend I turned twenty–seven. You can spare me the happy birthdays, as I am not too happy about this one’s arrival. Because here I am, only one year away from her dreaded age, and I can confidently conclude that, yes, my boobs are also sagging.

“My boobs are sagging,” I shirtlessly announce to the Rican.

He squints his eyes to examine the evidence.

“No, they’re not. They’re fine.”

“Yes they are. Look closer.”

Of course he doesn’t get it. Men will never be able to grasp any of our illogical female plights. For example, no man can comprehend that we as a gender perpetually have nothing to wear. In fact I can guarantee you that if I decide to go out Friday night after work, I will stand in front of a heaping pile of brand new birthday clothes, declare that I hate everything, put on my pajamas and pout. This is also the same sort of female common senselessness used when we insist that we ARE, in fact fat, or goddamnit, yes they are too sagging, and I’m not putting my shirt back on till you agree with me!

“Baby, your boobs are fine. They’re not sagging.” He gives one an affectionate squeeze and walks past me. I should be happy with his approval.

“Goddamnit, yes they are!”

But I should give him a little credit. It's not like they've sunken dramatically. Cause, aging moves kinda like continental drift: slowly BUT surely. It doesn't happen overnight, but eventually the once young and tightly unified Pangea will spread into the seven problem continents of wrinkles, graying hair, failing eyesight, swelling ass, drying eggs, and a few I’d rather not mention. (Causing tidal waves and earthquakes of frustration like this one, as they carve their course across my epidermis.) But as goddess of my own continents, I’m must bear the burden of omnipotence. And thus, be aware of every millimeter of progression, as my once twenty-two year old perkies decend further and further to my knees.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

A completely hypothetical hookup story that I’m only writing about because the Rican and I are lame and never go out and do anything on Saturday night hence I’m living vicariously through my own rambles


It’s come to my attention that perhaps I have too much paprika. (Ok one of those bottles is thyme, but I put it in there so that you would be affected in the same way I was when I perused through my very cramped spice cabinet this evening, and thought, “Hey, really who has this much paprika?”)

What does this say about someone? We all know that a sneaky peak in the medicine cabinet can reveal whether or not it was a good idea to take home the smelly dude drinking the Pabst in the back corner. (I mean, he said he wasn’t homeless and that was good enough for me.) In fact I’m an advocate of the sneaky peak. Cause while sweet drunken lips may be deceitful, Valtrex never lies.

But what, pray tell, does it say about someone whose spice cabinet is overloaded with a spice usually found in Goulash? I mean, you’re in a bar, you meet some drunk chick (me) who’s doing a lot of drunken rambling on and on about herself (most definitely me) and one cab ride to her apartment and a sneaky peak later you discover an abundance of the spice in question (Yep. Me again.) First you may think, “What do I know about paprika? Oh, Crackberry, Wikapedia me!”* And pull out your blue little friend for an answer. (At which point I hope you stick a ballpoint pen through your balls for saying something so stupid.)

After a quick scroll down of the page (if you can still read since you were drunk enough to take me home) you’ll learn that paprika is a spice most extensively used in Hungary. **
You may have stray thoughts like, “I’ve always thought the people in Hungary should go to Turkey. Ha ha. Or how come they named an entire country after a side effect of getting high?” But I assure you, please keep these overwhelmingly asinine thoughts to yourself. They may have that discovering-Valtrex-in-the-medicine-cabinet effect on me and send me out the door. Except for, shit. This is my apartment. Godamnit, who’s the idiot now?

After all this inconclusive pondering, you may hear my footsteps and thus have to shut the cabinet and pretend you weren’t just going through my stuff or surfing the web. All before you were able to come to a resolution about what paprika is or what it means if someone has so much of it. In this brief period you may have only had time to jump to some conclusions like, A) I’m a Hungarian immigrant B) I might suggest getting kinky with goulash or C) Not that you’re gay or anything, but you found David Hasselhof to be much more attractive in Nightrider than in Baywatch. Well, my friend (and potential questionable hookup) if you found David to be less tasty when surrounded by a throng of perfect bodied females on a California beach, then may I suggest this: take one of my paprika bottles and spice him up by dumping four tablespoons down his hairy chest. I’ve sure got plenty to spare.

*No, I was not high when I wrote this.

**And yes, that is my paprika.

taking the Y out of NYC

J and I are sitting on the patio of a German Restaurant on the Upper East Side.

“So what exactly is ‘German potato salad?’” I spent 3 months in Berlin so I should know this. But while I was there I spent more time in Indian restaurants than native ones, so I ask J. His dad is after all, off the Deutchland boat.

“It’s crushed up potatoes with a vinegar dressing. No mayo or anything.”

“So good, it’s not like American Potato salad? I fukin’ hate that shit.”

I know, I know. What don’t I hate?

A round of Spaten in authentic looking German beer glasses. Authentic as Busch Gardens, Williamsburg. I take a sip, swearing this will be my only drink of the day.

A few sips later, the waiter brings our plates.

“I wish we had a girl waitress. I’d rather get to look at a chick in a dress than some guy in Leiderhosen.”

“I’m glad we have a guy. I’d rather have a guy for everything. For friends, a waiter a boyfriend…”

“We’re you thinking about switching to the other side?”

I crinkle my nose in disgust. What kind of question is that? Besides, I’ve ordered sausage. Not tuna.

“At least the papas are good,” I offer. But I guess to a man, no potato can replace the enjoyment of seeing bosoms every time you order a refill.

“I don’t wanna move to North Carolina,” I blurt out like whiney 3 year old. An agency, an unfortunately good agency, is flying me down next week for an interview. Flying means they’re serious. I wish it was a bad agency. But it’s the kind of agency I’d be naïve to turn down. But I posses a problem that fosters this naïveté. I’m a city snob. It’s an arrogance that was fostered early in my youth and nurtured by my string of past residences. Buckling down with a good job in a city without distractions may be a smart career move. But then I picture rodeos. Unnecessarily giant muddy trucks with stickers of Calvin peeing on the Chevy logo. Waitressing in this city has been suddenly elevated to rock star status.

“No one says you have to,” says J.

Sure no one says I have to. I didn’t HAVE to work two jobs my first few months here either. But I did. And now I can still afford to feed my addictions.

I gulp down a mouthful of my Spaten and wipe off my top lip. “What am I gonna drink there? Busch beer? Do they even drink imports down there?”

“Sure they do.” He says cheerily.

My feigned confused expression goes flat. “Dude, I wasn’t being serious. I know they have imports. I’m not that fucking ignorant.”

“No, I was gonna say, they import their whiskey from Kentucky.”

I reply with an unenthusiastic, “Ha.” I am not amused at their idea of cultural exploration.

My whining re-commences. “But I don’t wanna move to North Carolina.” I am three years old. I’m at the dinner table. And I don’t wanna eat my green beans.

“It’s really the north of the south.”

This does little to comfort me either. It’s like saying they’re the best of the worst. “I don’t want no north of no south,” I say. My grammar already beginning to assimilate with the NC natives.

“Just use it as leverage.”

“Can I do that?”

“Of course you can. Tell all the agencies you’ve been talking to you here that Agency wants to offer you a job.”

“But aren’t I really screwing Agency over? My headhunter too? He’ll hate me.”

“It happens all the time.”

“What? People hating me?”

“That too.”

“The rican’s gonna hate me.”

“No he won’t.”

“I’m sticking him with rent.”

“And you’re stuck with it now.”

“True.”

I look up at the fading sky. Then back down at my papas, nudging what’s left of them around with a fork. I’d finish them. I want to. But I’d spent the last week abandoning the gym in favor of 5 nights of heaving drinking with my favorite Korean drinking partner. I swore I’d use this hiatus to be “productive,” but it’s easy to forget your plight with eternal rounds of vodka. But after my week my body feels two pounds heavier. Multiply that by 765 and that’s how my head feels thinking about moving to the country.

I pull my sweater tighter. It’s getting chilly. I bet it’s warmer in NC. And if it’s not, a shot of Bourbon might do the trick. But then I remember my one beer limit. So I go home and pour myself a glass of water. Wondering if my future glasses will come from a Brita pitcher, or a well.

bad friday

i hate poems. i hate spoken word fucks. and i hate PMS. but one day, a yr or so ago, i wrote a poem about PMS. and it pretty much encapsulates how i feel today. so poetry hating aside...enjoy!


I'm feelin' more crampy than bitchy.
but sometimes the cramps are a bitch.
if i'm feelin' more bitchy than crampy,
you might go and call me a witch.
but whichever way i be feelin'
i suggest you stay out of my way.
cause the cramps are a bitch
and i'll soon be a witch
and you'll turn into my fuckin' prey.


happy easter.

thing to be a little bit more happy about #3

sexism.

my headhunter just called. my dream agency is hiring. and they're only hiring chicks. i'm no feminist, but at this point i'll take advantage of a little female affirmative action, in exchange for all the time i don't (and won't) get taken seriously.

thing to be realatively happy about #2

growing up in so.flo. i only knew two seasons. hot, and fuck you. but apparently here there are 4 seasons, and we're in one called spring which is actually quite nice. back home at this time, when the heat starts to begin it's ascent back to 117º, flowers let out a last "fuck you" and promptly die. but here they look pretty like this one outside my apartment.

good god. somebody make me stop. i just got nauseated.

delightful pessimism

i hate quoters. i hate people people that wak around with quote journals and start writing pieces with quotes and quote the whole goddamn library without ever saying anything interesting of their own.

however.

since the blog is on hiatus until my fragile confidence is restored (i'm so goddamn dramatic, i know) i found this quote too interesting to pass up. but maybe it's only interesting to me. but it's sure as hell more interesting than anything i have to say at the moment...

"An ad that pretends to be art is -- at absolute best -- like somebody who smiles warmly at you only because he wants something from you. This is dishonest, but what's sinister is the cumulative effect that such dishonesty has on us: since it offers a facsimile or simulacrum of goodwill without goodwill's real spirit, it messes with our heads and eventually starts upping our defenses even in cases of genuine smile and real art and true goodwill. it makes us feel confused and lonely and impotent and angry and scared. It causes despair."

and so the job hunt, and chance to inflict these emotions on the thoughtess masses, continues...

more meaningless life excerpts

Since yesterday was my last day of freelance, one of my former co-workers suggested we go out for drinks. Anyone who knows me, knows I am absolutely incapable of turning that down.

Unfortunately before she offered me drinks, I promised the Rican I would cook. For some reason, this promise is always met with great excitement by him. So I was going to have to figure out how to have drinks and produce the pollo. Else I would have to endure a minimum two days of pouting because I had promised Christmas, and then failed to deliver the gifts.

While I was out my phone died. Which cut off my communication with him and my access to a time source. In the midst of scotch and conversation, I forgot my hunger and that it’s best not to deny a Rican his beans n rice. Luckily my drinking companion reminded me I better get home, so I traded having another beer for a trip to the grocery store to buy food.

Feeling nice and sauced up from 2 black labels and 2 beers, I sauntered in our apartment, tossed my computer bag on the floor like it didn’t have a computer in it, and ripped out my (fucking brand new so awesome!) iPod earbuds out of my ears.

“Where have you been? I called you like 4 times. You don’t answer your phone?” he expressed with un-rican like concern.

“Why, what time is it?” I had no idea.

“Almost nine-thirty. I was about to order dinner and call the cops!”

Note, ordering food was first in line. Good to know he has his priorities straight.

brain dead

It’s late. I’m still at the office. Everyone else has left. And all I can think about is scotch. And the sweet sweet tinkling noise the ice makes as I swirl it around in my glass. And its sweet sweet feel as it courses down to my belly, the alcohol carving out tiny caverns inside my throat. Three glasses and I can finally wake up from this headline nightmare, having forgotten about advertising completely. Six and I’ll be scrawling scripted nonsense onto bar naps with the pen the bartender lent me. Eight and I’ll be telling everyone to fuck off and I hate them all. I hate this city. I hate my life. And you can all just fucking die. And then, thanks to the sweet sweet mind erasing benefits of sweet sweet scotch, I won’t remember a damn thing.

Hm. Headlines or not, I think it might be time for me to go home.

i miss miami

How appropriate. I am now a shot. My dear bartender friend in Miami has been threatening to name a shot after me, and he finally developed the recipe.

1 part chambord
1 part Godiva white chocolate liqueur
1 part Myers Rum

Layer them in that order and serve.

I was hoping that a shot made in my honor would be a little stronger, but apparently the recipe of straight tequila was already taken. So next time you’re at a bar, order la Concha Libre. And if the bartender makes a face of confusion, kindly enlighten him with the recipe.

May you always be happy and your concha be free.

(god I miss the beach)

the switch (or crappiest and most unorganized blog ever, sorry guys)

I’m sitting in Starbucks during a three-hour intermission between my two jobs. Everyone leaves the office by 6 on Friday. And given that the agency and the club are within a block of each other, (how that happened, I don’t know) I’m forced to sit here in dread of the next 8 hours on the clock.

This is when I must make the switch.

I’m not the first person with two jobs. I think Jamaica has already pioneered that frontier. And since advertising entrance salaries aren’t exactly forgiving, I’m not the first copywriter who was forced to find outside employment. But how many copywriter/ cocktail waitresses are there? I’m sure there’s lots of bartender/copywriters. And perhaps a few restaurant/cws as well. But copywriter/cocktail waitress? It’s like the Skittles’s sheepboy of employment.

In my observation, the smartest ones in the service industry tend to gravitate towards bartending. There are plenty of idiots behind the bar, sure. But the ones in aspiration for callings higher than a Grey Goose martini, seem to earn their interim income flipping bottles. Then you have your waiters. Respect them. They know more about wine than you do. A lot of them are just between jobs. And some just can’t figure out what the fuck they wanna do with their lives. And I don’t think any of us can judge a person for that.

But then you have the cocktail waitresses. A totally different deluded breed that manages to squeeze $80,000 + a year from society, while remaining completely ignorant to anything outside the world of expensive jeans, manicures, and facials. (You are free to interpret facial either way you like.)

I once walked in on a conversation between two of my coworkers who were discussing the absence of high tippers in the past 5 years.

“I used to walk out the club with like $2000 maybe $2500 in my pocket. But, you know, it’s ain’t like that no more.”

“Prob’ly cause of the recession.” I offered.

They stared at me like I had just proudly announced a case of the crabs.

I made the mistake of trying to explain, “You know, 9/11, the .com burst, decline in consumer confidence…”

It was like trying to teach Neitzsche to eight year-old boys. They’d stare at you for a second, and then go back to giggling at each others’ farts.

Yet, I’m one of these girls.

Yeah, yeah…. I’m on my way to other things, my day will come…bla, bah. I’m sure I’ll be the fucking president come February. But for two nights a week I’ve got to play the roll. Because customers don’t want to deal with anything unexpected. They want the same vodka tonic they drank last week. They dance to the same Kanye West song that was playing on the radio while they looked for a parking spot. They don’t want to be confronted with a sarcastic bitter half writer wannabe who’s trying to prove she’s more than this. So, I’ve got to play the role. I’ve got to make the switch. But luckily I’ve got abundant access to the remedy.

I take a shot. It doesn’t do much. I take a second. Score some champagne. That Shakira song sounds a little better now. More Patron? Sure. You sell insurance? Really? Oh my god! My friend used to do that! By the way, that’ll be $675. Eight-fifty, with gratuity.

Enough champagne and I forget about everything. The music is great now. My vocabulary plummets. (Yet my Spanish is strangely more fluent.) If only my Monday morning Starbucks could provide a champagne-like transition back.

On the morning after my two job collision, sore headed, I’ll wake up to another rainy New York Saturday. In between the time I regain consciousness and stumble to the bathroom, I’ll resume my incessant, narcissistic, fruitless pondering. Who the fuck am I? Stupid waitress or half ass copywriter? Who the hell are any of us? Who the hell are you? And why are you reading my blog?

happy pretend new year

Jesus may be the reason for a lot of people’s seasons. I’ve seen enough of those stickers on the lapels of stupid beaming church housewives to get it. But the holidays get me pumped for other reasons. Given that I’m a girl, I’ve worked in the service industry for years, and I’m still young enough that my family doesn’t expect me to bring alcohol yet, the holidays mean a lot of free drinking. But my mom and step dad choose to be a little different from the rest of us. Why? Well, many reasons, but one being that they choose not to drink. Fine. A lot of people chose to do this. But not only do they avoid alcohol, but they feel the need to pollute the world with endless sanctimonious bullshit about why an innocent glass of cabernet is part of Satan’s evil plan to poison the sinners who choose to indulge. I mean, it’s red, the devil is red, hello, could there be a more obvious parallel? But while on new years eve I’ll be working in my club and guzzling free champagne , she and joe the step weirdo, will do what they do every year. Which is sit alone in their bedroom (surprise, they have no friends) and toast the ball drop with this. Sparkling cider. The non-alcoholic alternative. The most famous sparkling cider seems to be a brand called Martinelli’s. On their website they call it “The ideal festive juice perfect for the whole family.” So, for the younger kids who wanna toast with mom and dad, it’s kinda cute. But when two adults drink it on new years, huddled in their bedroom by themselves it’s, for lack of a better term, fucking weird. Isn’t this "pretend drinking?" Aren’t they flirting with the very thing they warn against? "Oooo, look at us…he he he, we’re having some pretend champagne." Just like children spread out tea sets to have a, hehe, pretend party, or play doctor to do some, hehe, pretend fucking. After they finish the bottle do they pretend to be drunk? Do they talk in pretend slurs? Do they get into a pretend fight, wake up the next day and pretend to forget what happened? The most mind-boggling part: the stuff tastes like absolute garbage. I bet most of us will agree that when we took our first sips of alcohol, we checked to make sure we hadn’t mistaken that beer can for battery acid. Yeah, it was gross. But suddenly it felt warm and fuzzy so very nice good with that boy’s hand up our tube top. The sacrifice surrendered reward. But there is no reward for these people. And frankly I don’t think anyone over the age of twelve who thinks it's normal to pretend drink should be awarded anything other than a mouthful of merciless payback for the years of preaching they impose on me and my fellow alcoholics. As for me, on new years I’ll be drinking for real in my club. And while my mother and pretend (step) dad pretend to pass out, I’ll be busy counting my tips in my manager's officer, pretending to be sober.

it's been so long...so sorry

“So I paid some guy to fuck me last night.”

Standing in front of the mirror putting on makeup inside the club dressing room, I almost smeared my eye-liner across my face. The cosmetic equivalent of a record scratching.

“You did what?” another one of the girls asked.

“I went on this website and they have these guys there that you pay to come over your house for a few hours.”

“And he just came over and fucked you?”

“Yeah. I mean, why would I waste time going to a club to meet some guy? I spend money doing that anyway. And these guys know how to fuck, you know. They have big dick. They give you massage. You think some guy I meet in club is gonna do that?”

And to my complete disbelief, the entire staff of girls sat there and agreed. They asked her more questions. They commended her logic. They asked her for the website in plans of doing THE VERY SAME THING.

“But, honey,” one said, lowering her. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else around here.”

“Why?” She asked, dumbfounded. Her foreign accent making her sound exceptionally stupid.

“Cause, some people might not understand. There’re some ignorant people here.”

And by ignorant, I’m sure she meant me.

Like most nights, I wasn’t participating in their conversation. Just like they’re not gonna be able to keep up with one of our covos about Bogusky’s biggest blunder, my US Weekly reading hasn’t ever been exactly up to date. So forgive me if I can’t comment on the pros and cons of Britney be-dazzling her ass with Swavorski crystals. So while they talked, I sat in the same room secretly oh my godding in my head. Call me suburban raised but… a girl. Paying. For sex. If it’s ignorant of me to think this way then perhaps my morals do hail from the Midwest.

I suppose in my fuck-being-a-housewife mentality, I should commend her for her male-like attitude. If guys can pay for sex, why can’t girls? Like she said. She wanted to get laid, but didn’t want to waste time going to a club. Furthermore, these people are professionals. They “know how to fuck.” It’s a job to do and they do it right. If your sink is clogged you’re not gonna call a copywrtiter. (Even though, girls, I’m sure we’ve all had clogged sinks a few times in our lives and have mistakenly called an ad guy to come over and not know what the hell he was doing.) But forgive me for not wanting to be a job. Or it never even crossing my mind that gigoloing it was an option. In fact, I don’t even think highly of a guy paying for sex. When we saw that mug shot of Hugh Grant after his concubinal encounter, did we think, “I don’t understand the fact that he resorted to picking up a hooker. I should brush up on my civil rights and be more understanding.” No. We thought, “Oh my God. Why did a famous guy resort to this? Underneath his Prada, HE MUST BE A FUCKING LOSER.”

Loserness is not gender specific. And paying to get fucked is one of the most vile, pathetic things you can do no matter what your gender. So call me biased, ignorant, or whatever you want. But I still prefer to get my fucking for free.

Even if it’s from a Puerto Rican.

the plague

They’re everywhere.

On the subway. In my fucking way in a grocery isle. Queing up just to make me wait an extra 30 minutes to buy a fucking thing of OJ. Clogging the very narrow middle of the bus so I can’t barely breath. Prolific and touring. The terror of the year coming to a theater near you.

You know what they are? They’re People.

Don’t give me this “I’m a person. I have thoughts and feelings, a family and friends just like you.” No you don’t. You’re not a person. You’re People. You’re in my way. I want you to get out of my way. And stop trying to convince me that you’re anything other than vile, isle clogging, coughing into my airspace People.

People can’t make up their mind. They zig and zag down the sidewalk blocking you every time you try to pass them. If they’re walking toward you, when you try to move out of their path, they move the same way. Then they say things like, “Wanna dance?” and think that it’s funny. No it’s not funny. People are not funny. They’re People.

People are the reason you’re late to work. People are the reason the subway breaks down. People are the reason there’s no sour cream left in the grocery store. People talk with thick Staton Island accents and grab your ass while you’re in the club. People ask questions like “Whatcha readin’?” while you’re on the airplane. Even though you’re clearly burying your nose in a book to avoid conversation with People!

People say things like “Mami!” And “Do you have the time?” And “Does this train go uptown?” Even though THERE’S A SIGN ABOVE THEIR HEADS THAT CLEARLY STATES THE TRAIN’S DESTINATION. But People are illiterate. And they can’t tell time. I would say…give them a break, what do you expect…they’re People. But do not be fooled. Do not buy into their doe eyed innocence. Do not give them a break. Do not excuse their stupidity. Why? Cause they’re People.

Do I think I’m a bad person for this? No. Do I think my karma is gonna plummet like Crispin’s reputation? Of course not. Anne Frank, good sweet dear Anne Frank said, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” And then People came and put her in a gas chamber. In the end, caring for People can only send you to a concentration camp. But that’s what you get for loving People.

People.

sorority poncho

Last night in the pre shift meeting the staff was informed that we would be hosting a celebrity that night. Big fucking deal. I hate it when celebrities come. They’re usually cheep, tipless, and create this huge fucking traffic stopping mob in the club that makes it impossible for all us non celebrities to work. (Can you imagine if ad people were overpaid and famous? And if we got our own episode of “Driven” on VH1? Ahhhh….) But a few of us seemed a little more starstruckable than me, and begged our manager to tell us who was coming in.

And it was none other than my one and only celebrity makeout, Matt Damon.

A long time ago a little bit younger and much more naïve girl sat in her orange cocktail dress in a little Miami beach dive bar. She had just got off from work and hadn’t planned on going out, but the lure of cocktails and cocaine was too tempting. So there she was, still wearing her orange work dress (because she hadn’t brought a change of clothes) and her University of Florida sorority poncho on top of it. (This might speak for Matt’s taste, as he was letting himself make out with a nobody, still in uniform, post-shift cocktail waitresses, who hadn’t yet retired her sorority rain gear.) She knew Matt was in town, as she had served (btw…why an I writing in the 3rd person?) him earlier at a pass hors d’oeuvres party. The kind of party I told you about before, that rbrown can’t seem to find. And then, as she sat on that bar stool in the corner, sipping a rum and coke and watching her friends play a game of pool, a friend jabbed her side and said…”Omigod, Matt Damon’s here.”

“Elli, remember when I made out with matt damon?” I asked my manager last night.

“Yes, I do, you little whore. You and all the hostesses at Pearl made out with him. “

That, I didn’t know until last night. But I laughed it off pretending I did. But what should I expect for someone with his non discriminant tastes? That I was special?

But I thought I was that night. “I’m gonna go talk to him,” I informed my friend and took my place at the bar next to where he was standing. The details of that conversation, like the details of most of my first year in Miami, are a little hazy. I know that we talked for a bit and he excused himself. At that point I figured he was blowing me off. Oh well, no loss, I thought. And resumed my position on the bar stool in the corner.

But then he did the unthinkable. He came back over to talk to ME. Walked right back over to where I was sitting and struck up a conversation. My first attempt in the exchange was to explain why I was wearing an orange dress/uniform, and why I was even a cocktail server at all. I was starting ad school next month. I was going to study copywriting, but that wasn’t the only thing I was interested in. I went on and on about how I really liked editing and maybe would like to get into production, so I would look like more than just a waitress and show that we had some career interest in common. But much to my try-way-too-hard-to-impress-a-celebrity dismay, the only common interest he shared with me was figuring out a way to get under my poncho.

Sitting in the dressing room last night before work, the girls discussed celebrities.

“I heard Vin Desiel is gonna be at Stereo [another club] tonight,” one said.

“Big deal,” answered another. “I don’t wanna wait on Vin desiel. I already fucked him once so what’s the point? He’s got a big dick, though.”

But I’ve never been one to just fuck. Getting under my poncho takes more than a few drinks and a celebrity name. And although that night (or morning…the sun was up) Matt took my friend and I back to his mansion after the bar closed, I was pretty intent on making sure his home was not the evening’s final destination.

“Really, I should go,” I said in the middle of kissing him. “The sun’s up.”

“No, no…stay here,” he protested.

“No really, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea…”

“It’s okay,” he said. “If you don’t wanna have sex than I can just go down on you.”

Gross.

I pulled away. “Can you tell your driver to take me home now?”

And then I went home. Went to ad school. Went to Europe. Snagged the Rican. Moved to new york. Traded my orange cocktail dress for a black one. And after all that, i was about to face my former make out again. Doing the same old job. Seemingly not moved on with my life at all.

But was he going to remember me? Of course not. Having gone through all the hostesses at Pearl that same week I was just another orange dress to him. (And since that night I added a poncho to my ensemble, I’m sure I was the one he tried to forget.) So my plan was to just hang low, hide in my section and hope sans rain gear, I’d only look like just another dumb waitress trying to make a few bucks in new york. Nothing special. Nothing at all.

Eight hours later, I was standing in front of a hot dog vendor buying a late night snack.

“You work in the club over there, right?” The vendor asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“I recognize you. I always see you walking down this street around this time.”

I laughed. “Yeah, this is when I get out.”

“You make big money tonight?”

“Yeah, actually I did.”

“Congratulations, my friend. And see you tomorrow.”

“We’re not open tomorrow.” I said, “So next week.”

A cab pulled up and I got in it. As I shut the door, I realized that Matt had never showed up. And I was glad. If the random hot dog vendor recognized me, then maybe he might have too. But I was safe in cab and on my way home. On my way home and happy. I’ll take the Rican and a two-dollar hot dog, over his “I can just go down on you” celebrity ass any day. It may not seem like much to Matt, but to me it's pretty special.