I like whimsical Britney. This song sounds good playing in my kitchen as I cook dinner. I’m making chicken Cesar wraps and thinking about a video The Georgian sent me. The other day he came to work all horned up. When he was passing by me in the beverage station he purposely rubbed his groin against my butt. He’s done this before and as much as I would have liked to just roll my eyes like i normally do, I bit the bait. I was slightly hungover and whenever that’s the case, I’m horny as hell. I told him to go in the bathroom, pull down his pants, and take a picture of his ass. Not exactly sanitary for a server, but slutever. He did and sent me the picture. Later that night he sent me a text titled “Explicit” with a video attached. It was a clip of him masturbating over the tub until completion. Seeing him unload everywhere made me uncomfortable, but also really excited. I wrote back saying we had overstepped our friendship boundaries, then I went in the bathroom and masterbated. We talked about it the next day and decided that it wasn’t fair for him to send queers stuff like that. “I guess you’re right, James. If some chick pranced around me in her underwear I’d get all rowdy too.” I’m really wondering, though, is he gay?
Last night I got all gussied up to join Nixxx for a fancy meal at Mastro’s Steakhouse. She’s been wanting to thank me for that time I helped her get a car (which she named Gary) AND she had a gift card that’s been sitting in her wallet for the last three years.
We parked around the block because valet is for the lazy, which is really just a jealous thing poor people say. As we walked down the street, Nixxx told me about how her ex used to take her to steakhouses all over Maryland.
“He was right,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how poor you are. In places like these you can go in with ripped jeans, be roudy, just as long as you act like you own the place. You have to be demanding and assertive and they’ll believe anything.”
“Sure,” I said. “But it’s still nice to dress up and act civilized.”
When the server asked what type of water we wanted, I said a bottle of San Pellegrino. When he returned and started pouring it in our glasses, my nose was deep in the wine menu. Without looking up I ordered a bottle of red from Spain.
“I tell your server,” he replied in broken English.
I looked up and it was the busser who had dropped off the water. Well, if I didn’t feel like part of the crowd, that definitely made me fit in with the rest of the uninterested rich who like to order from the help. I apologized. The rest of the night was amazing. My rare filet was out of this world and the Gorgonzola mac and cheese was so good that when I finished I told the waiter that I was gonna have to unbutton my pants. Now that was more like me.
My family celebrated Thanksgiving a couple days late. A perk of having a large family is the house is packed on holidays, only we’re never able to gather on the actual holiday because every one has their own family and obligations. So we meet up a day or two late, but that’s good because by then we normally have a juicy story to share about something crazy one of the in-laws did.
Last Saturday everyone gathered at Baloney and Britney’s house— who are still spending every minute of their lives bedside with Baby Isla at the hospital. Their strength has been inspirational, especially for Baby Isla who’s making huge developmental steps towards going home! Mom recently made a visit to the hospital and sent an e-mail about her experience. It’s titled “My Visit To Heaven”:
Hi! You will all get what I mean by the time I finish this note. Yes, I called it HEAVEN. And Heaven is where I have been. On Monday morning Uncle J and Nephew J took me down to Children’s Hospital so I could meet a very beautiful princess* * * Now in order to have a “Princess” we need a King and Queen, right? What does a King and Queen do all day? They make sure the Princess has whatever she needs or wants to shimmer and sparkle because she is responsible for the Joy of life and keeps the light glowing. I am so serious. I was able to witness 4 days of a life planning future and a family dynamics developing in this little 8 x 8 cubical. The daily routine is busy but runs very smoothly.
Say good morning to princess and plant a kiss on her blanky ….she poops, change her diaper, ooops she pooped in the clean one before mommy got it on….
I was at this bar a few weeks ago for first fridays. Well we decided to hop into this bar, and at this point I was switching to water for the night. My boyfriend had already gotten me one glass of water, but when I went to get a refill on my own, I was ignored for a while as he got all the men’s drinks first, and when the bartender finally came up to me I asked politely if I could just have a refill on water. The bartender’s answer? "Do you got a tip for that??"
Ok first of all WHO ASKS for a tip? Let alone for WATER?? I said “no” (I honestly didn’t have any cash on me, and once again who tips for water!?!) and then he asks… “what number water is this?” I reply “it’s my second” now with a little bit of attitude because I’m getting annoyed at this point.
I’m sorry but just because I’m a straight girl, that doesn’t give you the right to treat people differently in your bar. If the roles were reversed and I was a bartender only treating all the gay people rudely, you bet that would be all up in the news! I treat everyone equally! Gay… straight… whatever! And this establishment should too!
This place made me feel disgusted and I won’t be going back… Sorry.
Rule #18 of Cool Bar Etiquette: Tip on Water/cigarettes.
First of all, I love the bartenders at Roosterfish. They’re old and bitter and rotten but will treat you well if you treat them well. Here’s the deal Denise— the bartender isn’t treating you like shit because you’re a straight girl, it’s because he knew the minute you walked up you weren’t going to tip, “Let alone for WATER!!” He smelt you a mile away. Refilling your water isn’t gonna pay his bills. A bartender knows the importance of drinking water, especially for designated drivers, but just be sure to always have a dollar in hand because sometimes refilling that water takes longer than cracking open a beer.
Last night was long. I got a text from Linda on my walk to work saying, “Just got here!” She was saddled up next to the well before I even arrived. Tomorrow is the anniversary of her father’s death so she was emotional. She ordered food but lost her appetite before it arrived so we boxed it up and she stuck to a liquid meal.
Gabe, un lavaplatos, came in with his girlfriend to pick-up food before going to a late night screening of Thor. For the last three months I’ve been telling him that I want to meet his girlfriend. I hear him talking to her on speakerphone out back and he says stuff like, “I love you more, baby!” It’s so cute, especially because he has a rough background. Last year he had a crystal meth habit that made him lose his job and go to jail. Since then he’s been clean, turned 22, and working hard to take advantage of his ability to speak perfect Spanish and even better English. He’s focused and he’s handsome. I adore him a ton, which is why I couldn’t wait to meet the lady that gets to call him her man.
He brought her over and introduced us.
“Jimmy, this is my wife,” he said guiding her towards me. Was that a direct translation? Wife? He’s never called her that before but I’m aware that many of the other cooks call their long-time girlfriends esposa, even though they’re not married.
Her hair was thick and had big curls. Not like Eva Longoria’s but more like Lisa Bonet’s. She was a little rough but shy. I shook her hand.
“I’ve been dying to meet you,” I said. “Gabe talks so much about you!”
She was bashful but brave.
“So it’s date night?” I asked. “Are you guys getting a table?”
“No,” Gabe replied. “We’re just waiting for our to-go orders.”
“Well then, let me make you something while you wait,” I said while grabbing a giant scoop of ice.
“Cool,” he said.
She perked up when she saw me pouring mango puree into the blender. I knew she’d like the frozen iced mango smoothie with extra coconut. That’s what I make for the cooks when I mean business, when I expect a trade like a pizza or pasta. He salivated as I swirled the raspberry puree around the plastic cup. I put on lids and poked in straws then handed them over.
“Have fun tonight! Ha sido un gran placer conocerter,” I said like a snobby, fucking Spaniard. What was I thinking? I should have said mucho gusto. She laughed and took a sip of her smoothie. She made a face of approval.
“You too,” she said.
He put his hand on her back and led her out the front. On the way out they tripped over each other’s feet, clumsy in love.
“I like what you just did, James,” Linda said to me. “That was sweet.”
Just than Yolanda, the little chihuahua manager who’s been moved to three different stores because corporate keeps getting letters about her, spooked me by smacking her hands down onto the wet counter.
“Hello,” she snarled. “Did I see Gabe and his girlfriend with smoothies?” she asked while looking up from her 5’2’’ view of the world.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did they pay for them?”
“I bought ‘em for them. It was my treat.”
“Oh. That’s nice,” she said and then raised an eyebrow. “Then I’ll see a receipt for two smoothies at the end of the night, right?”
I screamed in my head YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU WHOOOOORRRREE!
“You sure will,” I said with a smile.
She left early so I just put the receipt in her box. I wrote in pink letters across the front, “Abe’s date night xoxo.”
If I can’t get out of bartending because no entry-level job is going to pay the rent, then I better find a different bar, and soon!
Ronnie’s all-time favorite artist is Britney so the party was centered around her, everything from the cake to the music. We had her videos playing in the background the entire time, which provoked a lot of Britney conversation. Everything from her old moves to breakdown to upcoming documentary (which I’m told by inside sources who’ve seen unedited footage that there’s a part where she’s annoyed to be writing a letter to a fan which is dictated to her slowly, word for word by one of her puppet masters…but that’ll get edited, which is the best part about Brit Brit). We also talked about her influence on pop music, which led us to Lily Allen’s latest single/video.
“Do you like it?” one of the girls asked.
“I do,” I said. “It’s not as original as her old stuff, which was so good that it made me a fan for life. When Rosie and I lived together in Venice we’d play It’s Not Me, It’s You before everything: dates, dinners, bike rides. Her music will always remind me of those carefree years. So yeah, I like her new single.”
”I don’t know,” the girl continued. “It’s kind of annoying that she sings about being too smart to twerk but in the video she has…”
I don’t remember the rest of what she said because I started humming in my head the lyrics, “It’s hard out here for a bitch.”
I got in trouble at work for being inappropriate. No, I didn’t get caught with my hand down Gerardo’s pants, although that would have been nice. Speaking of Gerardo, I was bending over to grab some oval plates from the cabinet when I caught him looking my way. He wasn’t looking at me lustily like an Arkansan would to a hog, but more nauseated that a man of my height would try to arch his back to such a dangerous and unhealthy degree. He winced thinking about how at any moment my spinal cord was going to splinter and my guts plop to the floor.
”Gerardo?” I asked grabbing his attention to my face. “If I give you all the money I make tonight, would you let me give you a blow job?”
”No thanks guero,” he said laughing. Gerardo is handsome. He’s Chicano, thick-chested, has amazing hands (he’s a carpenter by day just like Jesus was), and a mustache that I’d love to tickle my chode. But Gerardo is far from curious. He’s got a beautiful little girl with his ex and is happily dating two women at the moment. “You wanna hear something funny?” he asked. “I used to work at a steakhouse and there was this rich guy that’d come in every night to sit in my section. One time he offered me $10,000 to spend the night with him. Cash.”
“And you didn’t?!” I gasped.
“Come on guero,” he said. “There’s no way.”
It made me wonder. I’d never go looking for it, but what if it found me? With that kind of money I’d be able to pay off my student loans, credit card bills, and still have enough left over to comfortably fly to Tunisia and live like a king during Sweet D’s wedding. Hmmm…
Anyway, as I was saying, the other day I was behind the bar and we had just finished our lunch rush. I was bored so I grabbed a butter knife and walked outside to the patio.
“Has anyone seen a cat?” I asked loudly as I poked my knife through the air. My apron had raspberry puree splattered across the front of it.
“Excuse me?” a woman sitting alone said while putting down her fork.
“He escaped from the kitchen,” I said as I waved my knife under a vacant table. “A Calico.”
She didn’t say a word, just lowered her head and went back to eating. I poked around for a few more seconds, looking focused, then gave up and walked inside. That was it. Nothing big, just some good ol’ fashioned cat humor. The woman did not like it and when she paid her bill went inside and asked for a manager. She said my humor wasn’t appropriate.
”She’s obviously not a dog person,” I said once my manager was done reprimanding me.
One of my most memorable Halloweens ever was my senior year of high school when Jazz, Chloe, and I hung out at her parent’s house while they were out of town. We watched movies in the den while rummaging through her Dad’s supply of mini-liquor bottles. He had a giant basket full oft hem under the bar. We were still young and our livers weren’t pickled yet, so it didn’t take much to get us drunk. After a few glasses of orange juice spiked with Triple Sec, we put on masks and wandered the streets. Chloe lived on Pennington Hill, a densely populated neighborhood, which unlike every other place in town where houses were separated by three acres of wilderness, was a goldmine for candy. The Mayor lived there as well, in a nice house all by herself. Her driveway was lined with tiny lanterns that she made out of brown lunch bags and tea candles. It was a really sweet and welcoming gesture, but I was all hopped up on Triple Sec (and a little resentful that she was living a life of homosexuality and I wasn’t) and on the way out stomped on each lantern. I still feel bad about it to this day and wonder what she must have thought as she watched from the window some punk stomp on each glowing bag of peace. Who knows, though, maybe she closed the door, locked it, walked to the kitchen, grabbed a cucumber from the crisper, went into her bedroom, put on some soft rock and masterbated.
When Hefsaid that he could offer some advice on how to meet the man of my dreams, I asked him for more information. He started with a sweet letter explaining where he’s coming from:
As soon as my sons were old enough to understand gay and straight I started talking about it with them. I told them that I thought the world was a better place with gays in it. I also would tell them if they were gay that I would kiss them, tell them how special they are and then help them meet the man of their dreams(after a few years of fun). I wanted you to know this so you can understand that any of my “know it all advice” comes from the heart.
I really liked this letter. It was genuine and nice to know that family thinks like this. I wanted to hear more of what he had to say. His first bullet point:
I think the thing I see in common with all the people that have strong marriages is that they care about family. I’m sure for what you want in life now BH’s is a great place to live. When you are ready to really settle down I think you will need to be in Seattle where the men you meet could see you with your family. That will make anyone else wanting marriage picture you in that way.
Interesting point and I agree. I’ve often thought that I keep sabotaging relationships in L.A. simply because I don’t see myself here in the future. But I mean, I just redecorated and already got the zoning permits for Sweet D’s RV this February, I plan on staying here at least through the winter. Is there maybe a bullet point that isn’t location specific? Something to try that’ll keep me occupied until then? To keep my heart from freezing this winter. Something simple like donating blood?
*flamboyantly* I like the new dishwasher, Jesse.
Is he the one with Caroline tattooed on his forearm?
Yeah. He’s hot and I’m pretty sure he’s gay.
You sure you don’t just wish he was gay?
No, I’m sure. Every time he carries out a stack of plates he smiles at me and says hello.
Here he comes. Why don’t you just ask him?
Hey Jesse. Can I ask you something? Do you like boys or girls?
*smiles* Girls *walks off*
I don’t believe him.
My co-worker tiene pluma ("to have feathers" is how they'd equate flamboyant in Spain). He’s got a limp wrist, plump ass, arched back, polished nails, and flared nostrils. He’s proud and has been for years, which also makes him an easy target for straight men to bully/hate. Understandably, he’s guarded, so whenever a straight man shows him any form of kindness he runs with it. There’s a little bit of Thomas in all of us.