Technically this is yesterday's post (which I started writing yesterday before i made a series of decisions which led me to this particular... situation - headache included). My intentions for my evening last night included a painless afternoon shift at Peggy's, a quick stop by at Catherine's clothing launch, a leisurely daiquiri and some reasonably priced appies at the Keno Lounge, then home to watch the Princess and the Warrior followed by an early bedtime and good night's sleep. And it was going well up until..... hm. No actually, nothing went according to plans, and it easy to see how, for all of my good intentions, I am sitting here, on my couch like a bag of crap, trying not to wince every time i look outside.
I've had the pleasure of working the Friday afternoon shift at Peggy's for the last two years. It's always super busy, usually packed with locals, and definitely one of the most lucrative shifts at the ol' whore house. Usually, although they're tough, I enjoy myself a lot. Oh wait - what I meant to say just then was: usually, although they're tough, i try to enjoy myself. I mean, the ingredients are all there for a superfun, short shift - Wendy helps out in the bar, pint's are on special, pizza's sold by the slice..... every Friday I walk into that place thinking this Friday will be different, I will be the best damn bartender today, I won't panic or lose my temper, I will be patient, I will have a good time. And they always start good. By 7:30pm, however, I'm usually hoping to god for a cyanide pill to eat, or, at the very least for someone to walk in and shoot me in the foot so i can flee. What is it that turns the best job in the world into the reason to go out and drink away the pain? Easy. The Friday happy hour crowd. Friday is the night where everybody who doesn't drink usually comes out to celebrate their 9-5 existence. They're out to have a great old time, but they have no idea how to be in a bar. Despite the fact that they come to Peggy's at between 5pm and 6pm every week, these are the people who:
- snap their fingers, whistle at you while you're passing (if they know your name sometimes they'll just shout), or wave an empty or close-to-empty glass at you from across the room.
- look very impatient and unimpressed at the wait-time then have no f-ing idea what they want to order when you get there.
- expect superior service and chit-chat because it's their one special night out and of course it should be the bartender's job to be the sole source of their entertainment.
- say things like "do you have anything fruity, but not too fruity?", or "maybe a summer-type beer, but not corona - what do you think?", and "I'll have a ceasar, or, actually no. I'll have a cosmo. No. I'll have a glass of white wine - what do you have again?.... oh. No, I'll have a caesar."
- never have their money out when you come back with drinks.
- bitch at the fact that we need to take a credit card or debit card to run a tab.
- ask what kind of pizza we have when we always (I mean always) have the same two kinds.
- despite having used interact machines all over the world, can't figure out how to put a bloody tip on their total.
- don't know how to tip, or just don't (there are generous people too).
- get wasted off of three glasses of shiraz and get stained teeth and lips and blather on about how they always liked me as a person, and boy I must keep busy.
- should get wasted off of four martinis but don't - they just get louder and louder and louder.
- run our city, teach our children, fix our cars, and keep tourism running smoothly, but forget what appropriate public behavior is.
- treat you like your a servant, not a server.
- forget that you're a human being because you're slinging drinks.
I love my job.
I actually really do. Fridays are just trying. Good reason to go out and drink your face off if I ever saw one. And by the by, the clothing launch was great, the Keno Lounge wasn't sunny, the daiquiris were okay, the appetizers were not appetizing or cheap, and instead of watching the Princess and the Warrior, I fell asleep on the couch watching something weird that i don't really remember on CBC. Oh, oh, oh. But not before making the best (worst?) "midnight snack" ever last night (this one's for you georgia):
Everything Potatoes
Start with leftover potatoes from camping last weekend that were wrapped in foil with garlic, butter, and coriander chutney and then cooked over an open flame. Heat in a pan with more butter. When heated through, add, oh, a tablespoon or so of cream cheese and two eggs. Break the shit out of those eggs, and stir for a bit. Cover to make the eggs set. Stir again. Pour onto plate and then back into the pan because you're sure the eggs aren't cooked. Stir some more, realize it's the cream cheese that's making it gooey, and return to plate. Cover with a lot (I mean a lot) of ketchup and hot sauce. S&P to taste.
And when that not quite enough, you've got to have a couple of sour cream and onion chips for dessert (?).
Why am I so disgusting?
Okay back to bed for me. Maybe I can salvage a bit of my morning in an hour.
