Saturday, January 31, 2009

Gratuity is Greatly Appreciated

I like teenagers, don't get me wrong. I just wish they weren't so cheap. Or maybe just broke. Except you in the head-to-to Diesel. Yes you, Mr. Cota De Caza with the rich dad and the blond-highlighted milf for a mom. Tip, dammit.
Yes I know energy drinks are expensive. yes, I too feel that it's outrageous that the candy bars are two bucks.
I need something cute to write on my tip jar:

"Pay up luvs, I'm as broke as you are, only my mommy and daddy don't give me an allowance and I've gots bills to pay."
Bit long? Yeah, too much.

"Because I'd tip you if you were me"
eh, getting there

How about
"I know. The economy sucks. But you don't have to."
Hmm that could be horribly misread, I think. Bah. Too much redbull, not enough sleep...

Don't be a sucker. Tip the girl who's just fished out your cellphone a dozen times only to put it right back into coat check, and got you extra cups of ice for your water. Seriously.
Sometimes, during my occasional gig running concessions for an all ages dance club, I like to imagine that instead I'm a bartender, and that any moment now some drunk is going to give me a tip bigger than the amount of his cocktail. But hey. It's still money I wouldn't have otherwise, and the social climate is awkward enough to be entertaining.

Yelling at Your Crotch

is so much safer than holding a cellphone to your ear, right?

As I accidently pass my destination, the person meeting me is calling to see if I'm lost.

I'd love to assure her that i am not, and am almost there.

But alas! Me without a hands free earpiece.

So I click answer on the cell sitting in my lap... but can't seem to make the speakerphone work .

Picture me driving down 7th in Long Beach screaming "HOLD ON A SEC! I CAAAN'T HEEEAR YOU!" down at my lap. Eyes on the road? Nope.

If I could hear with my vagina, I'da been golden. no such luck.

Sparkling Conversations, Vol. 1

It all began with my usual complaint that I have a problem getting a guy to buy a girl (me) a drink. It never happens... oh wait, but it has. While reflecting back on scintillating conversations I've had with quality males (at pubs and other late night venues), I came across this gem in the archives of the ol' noggin':

He: "Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart."
I: "You may, but I'm here with friends, so I'll be hanging out with them."
He: "No worries. Hey, I just want to buy a girl a drink. No expectations."
I: "How nice. Well alright then..."
He: "What would you like?"
I: "Ummm... Amaretto Sour?"
He (slurring a bit): "Haha... ummm, yeah. I can't pronounce that, sooo... Imma get you a jack and coke."

Thursday, January 22, 2009

It's 10 AM. I'm Eating Chili fries...

I park my car in the most readily available curbside location, in front of the apartment next to my complex. I grab my bag, my very large "medium" cherry coke (Del Taco's generous contribution to the American fat-ass), and bag of delux chili cheese fries- hangover elixir of champions; I am vaguely aware that I am wearing oversized sunglasses on the cloudiest of days and have mascara smudged under my eyes and super sultry J.B.F. hair.
As I make my way heavily in my high heeled boots, I become aware that a man... a mover or construction worker... across the parking lot is watching me, judging me. I meet his gaze straight on, as if to say "What? This is no walk of shame here." Sure it's a tired walk, a slightly nauseated walk. But a so-called "Walk of Shame" is only such if the previous night's activities involved highly inappropriate sexual contact with someone you just met that day/night/week (not that I'd know anything about that). Take away that element and you've evaporated the shame right out of that walk of yours.