Nikki's Last Blind Date...EVER!

I so do not want to be at work today!

Don't get me wrong. I do generally enjoy my job, but today I'm just not in the mood. I've already had some old man ask me if I was a size zero, which would have been flattering had he not been referring to my bra size. Ouch!

Now, I have another guy, whom I like to refer to as the "Jukebox Jackass"throwing a tantrum because I turned the speakers in the bar down from deafening to normal volume. "Why did you turn the music down," J.J. yells.

I explain to him that several other customers complained that they could not carry on conversations with the music playing so loudly. Most of the other patrons currently at the bar have just gotten off work and stopped in for a drink on the way home. After working eight hours, they do not want to be subjected to the obscure, crappy music J.J. likes to play on the jukebox. I've only been at work half that time and I don't want to hear it. J.J., of course, does not understand my rationale and storms off to sulk in a corner with his beer.

Fine, be a fucking baby. You're cheap anyhow, so I couldn't care less if you're mad at me.

I chat with Chris, one of my regulars, as I finish my third Irish coffee of the day (I'd like to take this moment to thank the nation of Ireland for the wonderful gift that is Jameson). I genuinely like Chris. He is always talks about how much he loves his wife, which is a nice change from most of the married men I encounter who are either cheating on their wives or plotting their deaths.

I explain to him that I have a dinner date after work with a friend of a friend. Chris, who has heard many of my dating disaster stories, smiles and nods politely though his facial expression betrays the fact that he expects to hear another horror story tomorrow. With my track record, I cannot say that I blame him. I am really hoping things go well with this guy. I could certainly use some male companionship because things are starting to look good to me that really shouldn't. Like the bottle of Galliano currently sitting on one of the liquor shelves. It's just the perfect length and shape to fit...

AHHH!!

I so need to get laid.

******************************************************************

I am so not getting laid.

My date sucks ass!

It started out innocuously enough. My date, Chuck, picked me up at home and drove us to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner. This would have been perfectly normal had he not blasted bad techno music the entire ride. I felt less like I was in a Nissan Maxima and more like I was in a nightclub in Lodi, New Jersey. I half expected him to hand me a couple of glowstcks and an Ecstasy pill.

For the record, no, I do not want to "pump it up" or "put my hands in the air."

Currently, we are having appetizers and struggling for conversation. "So where did you grow up," I ask, hoping to get more that the monosyllabic answers I've received thus far.

"All over," Chuck replies vaguely and continues devouring the bowl of mussels in front of him. Seriously, I have had better conversations with my cat. And, by the way, I'm pretty sure that it was my idea to order the mussels, so why the hell have I not gotten a single one?!

I am silently wishing all of the plagues of the Apocalypse on my idiot friend who set us up, when Chuck speaks again. "Actually, I used to live in the next town over from you."

Happy to finally have something to chat about, I explain that I know the neighboring town pretty well. "What street did you live on?"

"Near the high school."

"Yes, but where?"

"The prison behind the hospital," he replies, nonchalantly.

Check please!

Unsure of the proper etiquette for questioning someone about their time behind bars, I proceed with caution. "Why exactly were you in prison?"

"Drugs," he explains, calmly. "Then I went to rehab for awhile after."

For the record, we all make poor decisions in our lives from time to time. I average about 5-7 bad decisions a week, and probably twice that during the holidays (mmm...egg nog). I can respect someone who has paid their debt to society, cleaned up their act, and is now trying to live a better life.

However, jail time and stints in rehab are not appropriate first date topics of conversation! Discussing these matters serves no purpose other than to frighten your date before they have had a chance to get to know you as a person, rather than an ex-convict.

I excuse myself to go to the restroom, where I call my friend Amy. I leave her a not-so-nice voicemail about her complete lack of matchmaking skills. I also may or may not have threatened to pop her new breast implants with an ice pick.

I return to the table and make up an excuse about being ill. It really is amazing the effect the words 'pus,' blood,' and 'vomit' have on someone about to eat dinner. Especially when you use them all in one sentence.

Chuck the criminal pays the check and returns me to my house, no questions asked. I thank him for a nice (read: bizarre) evening and head inside. As I prepare to go to bed, I realize I do have one regret about this evening.

I never asked him if he'd ever dropped the soap.

Mr. Boston Does Himself

I have a problem!

I always want things that are bad for me. Doesn't matter if it is something that I've never thought about before, as soon as I know that it is detrimental to my well-being I have to have it. Perfect example: I have always hated milk, but now that I know I am lactose-intolerant, all I want to do is shove dairy products in my face.

It's a sickness!

I blame my parents.

This mental defect of mine especially comes into play when dealing with men. You've heard the expression "scrape the bottom of the barrel," well I prefer to search the crap underneath the barrel for my dates. If anyone knows, a guy who will stand me up on dates, not return phone calls, and/or steal my credit cards to pay for prostitutes please send him my way.

It's sad really, but like I said, it's a sickness.

My latest "prize" is currently sitting to my right having a very intense conversation with a wall. To be fair, we have been out drinking since 11am, but the fact that he is also holding up the wall's end of the conversation (in a different voice than his own) is slightly alarming.

We met a few months prior at a party and though he seemed quite normal at the time, it has since become apparent that I have discovered yet another Tool Academy reject. I know I should have stopped talking to him weeks ago, but he is soooo cute. Plus, I have a thing for Boston accents. It's like talking to an alien that does not realize the letter "R" is part of the alphabet.

I sip what is probably my fifteenth beer of the day and wonder how Mr. Boston could have gotten this drunk. I am starting to think that someone may have drugged him, when he suddenly bursts into hysterical fits of laughter. Apparently, the wall just said something hilarious.

Guess bricks have a sense of humor. Who knew?

"I think we should head back to your place soon," I tell him.

Mr. Boston turns to stare at me. "I'm having man time right now," he explains. "I don't want to leave yet." He then continues talking to the wall, apologizing to it for the interruption.

Man time, my ass! I want to go home...now!

I walk over to the bar and close out our tab. Figuring Mr. Boston will be okay for a few minutes, I quickly go to the restroom and splash cold water on my face. I need to sober up a bit since I will clearly be on babysitting duty tonight.

I return to find Mr. Boston dry heaving in a corner. I try to get him to stand up and go to the bathroom, but to no avail. Instead, he takes off his baseball cap and vomits into it.

Terrific.

Fighting the urge to now be sick myself, I try to take the hat from him and dispose of it. Mr. Boston, however, does not want to part with his favorite Red Sox hat. Instead he plops in back onto his head, vomit and all.

For a few moments, I am paralyzed. Did that really just happen?

He smiles happily at me, like a little boy who just won the school spelling bee. He is oblivious to the fact that he basically just threw up on his own head.

Realizing that I should get him home, I call my friend Mandy to pick us up. Somehow, I am able to get Mr. Boston out of the bar and into Mandy's car when she arrives. As we drive, I fill Mandy in on the events of the evening and explain to her why her car now smells slightly like vomit.

We are only a few blocks away from Mr. Boston's apartment building, when Mandy and I begin to hear grunting noises from the backseat. We both turn around to check on Mr. Boston and find him fondling himself (over his pants, thankfully) and moaning.

Really?! Why me?

Mandy explodes into laughter and I sink down into my seat, mortified. Thankfully, we have reached the apartment. I turn around to tell Mr. Boston to get out of the car. He responds by opening the door and tumbling out onto the pavement. I thank Mandy for the ride and exit the car, to find Mr. Boston on the sidewalk doing push-ups.

"Let's get upstairs," I tell him, hoping to put an end to his drunken workout. Instead, he hops up, crawls back into the car, and curls up into the fetal position. I briefly wonder what horrible things I did in my past life for God to punish me with such weirdos.

Mandy, to her credit, patiently coaxes him out of the car again. I tell her good night and guide Mr. Boston toward his building. We are almost to the front door, when Mr. Boston abruptly turns around and runs back to Mandy's car.

"Do you want to make out with me," he asks Mandy. Being the pal that she is, she politely declines, wishes him a good night, and drives away.

I finally succeed in getting him up to his apartment, but not before he passes out in the hallway for about ten minutes. Luckily, I have his keys and am able to let myself into the apartment while he bonds with the carpet.

Exhausted, I get ready for bed. I am almost asleep when I hear noise coming from the living room. I get up to investigate and find Mr. Boston dancing to Eminem's "Lose Yourself" ...completely naked aside from his vomit-filled Red Sox hat.

And guess what...I had sex with him that night anyhow.

Like I said, I have a sickness.

Single-malts & Exs

There is nothing fun about walking into work on a Saturday morning disheveled and wearing the same clothes you wore Friday night. I should know. I have done it more times than I care to remember. The walk of shame into work is usually made worse by coworkers who, of course, have to point out the fact that you look (and probably smell) terrible.

In my case, this would be the kitchen staff.

"Nikki aren't those the same pants you had on last night," Jose, our sous-chef asks.

I nod and mumble greetings to the kitchen guys, who are whistling and having a laugh at my expense.

"Why do you look like you just rode a horse," Manny, another cook inquires, smiling slyly. He is right, as much as I hate to admit. I do, in fact, look like I just placed first in a rodeo. Perhaps because my male friend of the previous night decided that pouring single-malt scotch into my nether regions was good foreplay. I now know the true meaning of the expression "fire in the hole."

In his and my defense, it was at least a good eighteen-year old scotch. However, it is really not meant for any bodily orifice other than one's mouth.

Lesson learned!

The day proves to be pretty uneventful, so I am happy when my coworker Austin joins me for the dinner shift. At least now I have someone to talk to beside the fruit flies.

Still suffering from the after effects of my scotch crotch incident, I seriously contemplate sitting in my ice bin. Somehow I think the Board of Health might frown upon such behavior, so I refrain.

The night passes quickly,(thank God) and aside from a few inappropriate comments from the kitchen guys about my dirty stay-out behavior, without incident. I am practically salivating over the thought of last call, when the door to the restaurant opens. In strolls my ex, X, and his new girlfriend.

Great, I think to myself. There is a bonfire going on in my vagina and now I have to deal with this. I silently hope they sit down on Austin's end, but instead they plop down on my side of the bar.

"Hey Nikki," X shouts, leaning over the bar to kiss my cheek. He orders a beer for himself and a vodka and club soda for his girlfriend.

I cannot help but think that God is punishing me for my unholy activities of the previous night. I really should do two Hail Marys and douse myself in holy water when I get home.

I get their drinks and make small talk for a few minutes. My attempts at conversation are cut short when the two begin speaking to each other in baby talk. I guess this is fitting considering she is almost fifteen years his junior. I make a mental note to give him directions to the nearest abortion clinic since he seems to like fetuses so much.

After about ten minutes of "I wuv you baby"s and "You complete me"s, both myself and Austin have had enough of the happy couple. I collect their money and usher them off into the night. They leave holding hands and practically skipping out of the door. All that is missing is a field of daisies and a Michael Bolton song playing in the background.

As Austin and I clean up for the night, I start to think that maybe I am being too harsh. I do actually like the new girl. She tolerates X, which makes her a stronger woman than myself and X does have some redeeming qualities. I make a vow to myself not to think such mean things about X and new girl anymore.

My thought is interrupted by my cell phone vibrating on the bar. I flip it open and there is a text message from X: 'Thanks for everything. By the way, it would have been so hot if we had hooked up in the bathroom tonight."

Really though?!

So much for happy thoughts.

Most people are stupid.

This is what my eighth-grade history teacher told me and as I go through life, I have learned this to be sadly true.

At the moment, I am staring incredulously at a woman who has just asked me to make her a weak, vodka martini. For those that do not know, a standard martini consists of gin or vodka and dry vermouth--all alcoholic ingredients. So, it isn't really possible to make a weak one. I suppose I could put water in it, but somehow I think this woman may be upset with my doing so.

Like I said, stupid.

Her husband, who is seated next to her, reminds me a bit of Tom Hanks. That is, if Tom Hanks were a lumberjack. He is dressed in a plaid shirt and overalls, which I was not aware until now could still be purchased in the United States. "Paul Bunyan-chic"...so do not remember seeing that during Fashion Week. Wonder if he left his blue ox in the parking lot.

"And may I please have an apple martini," Mr. Bunyan asks.

Inadvertently, I make a face. What (straight) man drinks apple martinis? I consider telling him to retrieve his testicles from wherever he left them, but refrain for fear that he may pull out his ax and cut off my head.

I set to work on making their drinks. I see Kathleen, the manager, hovering near the restaurant entrance. Quickly, I flash her the 'please lock the door' look, which she (thank God) sees and complies.

It is the end of a very long and busy evening. I was actually cleaning up for the night, when this couple strolled in. Hopefully, they will have one drink and be on their merry way.

I present Mr. and Mrs. Bunyan with their respective martinis and ring in the transaction. They seem content to talk to each other rather than me, so I resume my straightening up for the evening.

Once that is done, I grab my bag from underneath the bar and head to the restroom to change clothes. I have a quasi-date with a Norwegian lawyer I met at a nightclub two weeks ago, which is another reason I am hoping these two vacate the premises quickly.

After my costume change, I return to the bar hoping to find it empty. Instead, I am greeted by the martini couple intensely making out. My stomach does a flip-flop and not in a good way.
Don't get me wrong, I think it's great when older married people are still madly in love with each other. I would appreciate, however, if they were madly in love with each other outside of my line of sight.

Even worse, I cannot stop watching. It's like a car crash on the side of the highway. I know I shouldn't look. I don't even particularly want to look, but I am powerless to turn away. The middle-aged lovebirds are too busy slurping and slobbering all over each other to notice me. It's almost as disturbing as watching "Two Girls, One Cup."

Almost.

Suddenly, the couple disengages. They swiftly gulp down their drinks, toss a ten dollar bill on the bar, and leave without a word.

Guess they decided to continue in private, which is just fine by me. I pocket the ten dollar tip, which almost makes up for the image of their flailing tongues seared into my mind.

Almost.

With a quick 'goodnight' to Kathleen, I am out the back door and off to my date. I meet Oscar, the Norwegian lawyer, at a small wine bar/restaurant around 11:30. He is dressed in a navy blazer, white button-down shirt, and jeans. He is a decent looking guy, but somehow I don't think he is going to be my type. I was a wee bit intoxicated the night we met and I am surprised that I actually recognize him upon my arrival.

He greets me with a kiss on each cheek and we sit at the bar to have drinks. A glass of pinot noir for myself and a glass of chardonnay for him. As we peruse the menu for appetizers, I cannot help but notice how attractive the bartender is. Despite my best efforts at self-control, I find myself making googly-eyes at him whenever he comes to our end of the bar.

God, I'm an awful person!

After we decide on our appetizers and order with sexy bartender guy, we chat about work, hobbies, and other inane nonsense people talk about on a first date. Oscar, my date, seems nice enough, but he is a little bland for my taste. I take a large gulp of wine, hoping that the drunker I get the more interesting he will become.

Great theory, but it does not quite pan out.

As Oscar prattles on about work, I start to zone out. I wonder what my cat is doing at home, what I would do if zombies took over the earth, what sexy bartender and I would play for our wedding song, and other random things.

My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of our food. As we eat, I throw back two more glasses of wine. Thank God for alcohol.

I nod and smile through the rest of the evening, throwing in the occasional laugh where I think (or hope) is appropriate. The check finally arrives, just as I start to have vivid fantasies about my new down comforter waiting for me at home. I reach for my wallet to offer money that I know Oscar will not take. Instead, he hands his credit card to the bartender.

I can almost taste my freedom.

When the bartender returns, Oscar signs the credit card slip and closes the check presenter. But, not before I see the numbers on the receipt.

Our bill was just shy of eighty dollars, not bad for the number of drinks we (mostly myself) had. It is the number below that with which I am having a bit of trouble. In the space marked "tip," there is a very neatly printed four dollars.

Are you f-ing kidding me?!

That is about a five percent tip! Did he miss the part about me working in a restaurant and even so, who the hell is that cheap?

Oscar stands and pulls my chair out for me. I want to leave before the bartender comes back and sees the paltry gratuity my cheapskate date left. It is my firm belief that people who stiff servers, without just cause (and I can assure you there was no reason for it), likely have other terrible habits, like kicking bunnies.

I thank him for the evening and practically run out the door. I do not want to be associated with the five percent tipper.

Men of the world be warned: cheap is an absolute deal breaker!

I hate mornings

God, my head hurts!

It's 11:15 on a Wednesday morning and I should really be setting up the bar, seeing as the restaurant opens in about fifteen minutes. Instead I am lying on top of it. I briefly wonder if my boss is watching the security cameras from her office. I contemplate moving my 'dead bartender' act into the cooler in which the beer kegs are stored (no cameras), but decide the effort required would be too great.

"Rough night," a voice calls out. I raise me head and see Kathleen, one of the restaurant's managers, standing in the front doorway.

I nod and put my head back down on the bar. "Just be up and on your feet by 11:30," she tells me and heads toward the kitchen. I manage a thumbs-up and return to wallowing in my own misery. Note to self: downing eight shots of Jameson and staying out all night is a terrible idea after the age of 21.

After resting a few more minutes, I slide behind the bar where I belong. Quickly, I set up the odds and ends that I will need during my shift. No sooner than I am done, I hear the front door of the restaurant open. A young couple enters and approaches the bar.

I stifle a groan. What kind of degenerates drink at 11:35 on a Wednesday, I think to myself. Anyone who drinks before noon on a weekday is not to be trusted (exceptions being made for St. Patrick's Day, Cinco di Mayo, and my birthday). Why don't they drink between the hours of 11:00pm and 7:00 am like normal human beings?! Ugh!

My thoughts are interrupted by the girl's annoyingly perky voice, "Hi, I'm Stacey!" Stacey looks like a life-sized version of sorority Barbie. "I was wondering if you guys had any jobs available?"

Yes, take mine. Please!

Somewhere in the mush that is currently my brain, I wonder if she had a Xanax omelette for breakfast. No one is this perky, this early in the day. Not without pharmaceutical help anyway.

I tell her to hold on and retrieve Kathleen, who leads Barbie, I mean Stacey (oops) off to a table to interview her. I am now left to entertain Stacey's boyfriend, who looks like he fell out of a J. Crew catalog. But not the regular catalog...more like the semi-annual "everything must go" clearance catalog. Basically preppy, but very sloppy. Good face though, definitely a fixer-upper.

The boyfriend asks for a club soda, which I get and do not charge him. I attempt to busy myself by organizing the pens I keep next to the register in hopes it will distract J. Crew boy from talking to me.

It does not work.

"So do you like working here," he asks.

"Yeah it's okay," I reply. When my head doesn't feel as if it has been beaten in with a five iron, I add silently.

"She wants to bartend," Mr. J. Crew informs me. "She's never done it before though."

I shrug noncommittally. "It's okay," I repeat. I know that I am not being helpful, but my hangover had severely impaired my conversational skills.

"Do you think they'll hire her with no experience?"

"Who knows, maybe," I explain. "She's cute which definitely works in her favor."

J. Crew smiles. It is a nice smile, actually. Still, I wish he would keep quiet so that I can be hungover in peace.

I make a mental note to ask Kathleen to get me a couple of Tylenols from the office. The only painkillers in the restaurant are not in the first aid kit, but rather locked in the owner's desk in the office. For safety purposes, as she puts it. As if her employees are a bunch of acetaminophen junkies who want to steal her Tylenol and use it for evil.

Give me a f-ing break.

Kathleen and Stacey return to the bar at this moment. "Stacey will be training tomorrow and hopefully she'll be working behind the bar by next week," Kathleen tells me. Stacey is grinning from ear to ear, literally. I honestly worry that she may pop a blood vessel in her head and die.

"I'm so excited," she exclaims.

I wonder what tall tale this girl told Kathleen to get herself hired with no experience, but I extend my hand and shake hers. "Welcome aboard," I say smiling. In the back of my mind though there is a far different thought: This poor girl is going to get eaten alive.

BN

Introduction

My name is Nikki. I have been tending bar for about seven years and I am currently employed at a restaurant in a suburb of NYC. I decided to write this blog to share some of my experiences in the service industry, as well as experiences in my life in general. I hope it will be something to which people, especially those in the restaurant industry, can relate. At the very least, I would like to provide a bit of frivolous entertainment and a few laughs. So enjoy!



BN