I mean, technically my first truly awful night at work was about a week after I had started, when I worked at an A$AP concert (hip hop artist) and two different tables walked on their checks and some other tables didn't even tip. I was so furious I came home crying that night because I wanted to slap the shit out of those customers. Who does that?! However, back to this week... awful tips. AWFUL. Last nights show was sponsored by MTV, so there was an open bar upstairs in the VIP balcony section. I was feeling pretty honored that I got to serve in VIP, however, no one was eating (everyone was an anorexic hipster) and everyone was ordering a free drink... hence, no tips. You would think that if a person wasn't paying for the drink, they would tip the server who brought it out for them, and weaved through the crowd of intoxicated customers balancing champagne glasses and screaming 'Excuse me' at the top of her lungs to no avail, an EXTRA generous tip... wrong. The highlight of my night was the fact that some dude told me I had 'beautiful, big blue eyes' and I later found out it was Zedd. Oh, and I served Jack White a Stella Artois.... that was pretty awesome. I wasn't too terribly angry coming out of last night tip-less because the show/music was amazing. However, whenever we have an EDM artist, I always get so jealous of everyone around me boozing and dancing. When I hear that music I start craving cocktails and/or E. It's like a terrible tease. Then I come home all wired and can't sleep until 3am, so I am a lazy ass who can't wake up before 10am and am worthless until noon. Sigh.
Tonight was pretty infuriating. I was again in the VIP section, and no one was eating... not a single person at the tables I was in charge of. Additionally, they all swarmed in and weren't sitting at all... they wandered around the balcony so it made it extremely difficult to determine which server was in charge of taking care of which people, and keeping tabs. Furthermore, they all hung out at the bar and ordered there instead of through me... so again, my tips fucking blew. And unlike last night's awesome DJ, tonight we had some British pop, girl-band "the Saturdays" playing. There was a meet and greet in the VIP section after the show, so it was jam-packed with bodies and I was unable to move around and clean up tables... so I had to wait around milling about doing nothing but trying to look busy for an hour before I could finally mop the tables and leave. I try to be a nice person, and I try not to judge or criticize people based on their bodies or looks, but I find that whenever I am feeling feisty or angry or pissed, I start to take jabs at the way a person looks in my mind as a method of coping with my frustration. For instance, as I stood waiting for people to hurry up and take their damn photos so I could walk behind them to mop the table, all I could think was, why did this girl pay for cheek implants, when she should have paid for a personal trainer to work out the dumpy ass she is now galavanting on stage in latex shorts? I don't like when I get like this. I really need to learn how to deal with my anger and not start picking people apart based on physical appearance. Then, some guy told me I was "definitely the hottest bitch working there." This should have been a compliment, and was intended as one, but um, excuse me... who are you calling a bitch? I throw around the term 'bitch' loosely. I am a woman, so I can. Kind of like black people using the 'N' word. you know? If a guy refers to girls or women as 'bitches' and he isn't a flaming homosexual and joking with his girlfriends, it is just not ok in my book. Then he proceeded to ask my age. Haven't men learned you never ask a woman her age or her weight? So offensive. ugh.
And then, to top it all off, I had the subway ride from hell, where my vicious thought train on picking apart people's physical appearance continued. There were three, absolutely trashed, italian girls being loud and obnoxious as fuck. Some hipster dude who clearly wanted to be Russell Brand was sitting next to them trying to flirt with them. A side note on him: he had terribly thin, fine hair that he had all ruffled up, a la Russell Brand, except I could see his bald scalp through the patchy hairs... and he had on guyliner and terrible tattoos of Octopi on his hands... so gross. These girls though, omg, the whole subway car was pissed off listening to them scream and shout at everyone in their broken english. One was sitting spread-eagle in a pair of sheer tights... little did she know I saw some perv standing in front of her staring at her crotch the entire time. And then two of them started pointing at some guy standing in the middle of the car, laughing and continuing to gesture at him as they spoke in their native tongue.. so fucking rude. Goddamn. On another note, since this is a verbal tirade on humanity I am not quite ready to end, I fucking hate hipsters. If I see one more pair of 'celestial print' leggings, I will fucking die. Stop trying so hard to be cool and different... because you all look the fucking same to me, and you all look like vagabonds with poor taste at that.
Typical hipster chick (in summer mode); note the skeletal frame, floral head-piece, short-ass high-waisted shorts, and thick, untamed brows paired with red lips. Please also note the coffee; probably from Toby's Coffee house, or Blue Bottle coffee.
On a lighter note; as you may or may not have heard, I have a new foster cat named "Bon Bon," and no, I didn't name him... some old, Spanish dude did. At first, I wondered why a male, short-haired cat would have the name 'Bon Bon'... I was expecting a fluffy, prissy cat to arrive when he was dropped off. Alas, I think he is gay; so maybe the name works after all. His meow is very soft and high pitched... though not as cute as Bijou's, and he loves watching me do my makeup and get dressed... definitely gay. He has a mild form of cat ADD and suffers from anxiety since he was used to crossing highly-trafficked, four-lane highways at his own accord (apparently his last 'owner' didn't give a shit about him and he would often be seen by residents of the gated community meowing outside of the gates to get back into the building). He now as a lavender-scented anxiety collar and gets special anxiety treats. I can finally sleep at night; the first week I had him, he would wake me up by crying at the terrace door all night. It was pretty awful. Bon bon now likes to chill on the couch with me and he loves sitting under my chair when I'm at the computer.
I know I give off the impression that I love cats, because I love Bijou and now I foster them... but I swear to God, I will never in my life own more than one cat at a time. Fostering indoor cats has changed my entire perspective about how fun cats are. Bijou is great because he does all of his business outdoors, but now I find myself scooping the world's smelliest shit out of a litter box multiple times a day. Oh, and I failed to mention that when Bon Bon came to live with me, he had literally JUST been neutered, so he still had male hormones in his system, and his piss smelled up the entire apartment. I almost fainted the first time I left Bon Bon here for a few hours and returned to my apartment... there is nothing more foul than the smell of cat pee. The other issue of the litter box, is that I now have litter tracked all over my apartment, and being the neat freak that I am, I find myself constantly cleaning. I guess I should just be thankful that this cat doesn't hide under my bed all day.
