I haven’t quite had the time to figure out how this piece of fantastic machinery works, (ie. pages, ie. where to put my poetry and prose versus everyday ramblings), but I will soon, and mark my words, once I figure it out it will be fucking epic.
Other than my general lack of any technological know-how, life continues on ever so swiftly. Last night I got home from work at a later hour than usual, but it was a goooooood Wednesday! I’ve been thinking of keeping a tip vs. paycheck journal, but so far haven’t found a smart place for it. Now I’m thinking to make an excel spreadsheet about it… do some comparisons at the end of a 3 month-ish period and see how much money I actually earn. But, like I said, last night was fantastic. It was reminiscent of some of the first nights I worked at King Eddies, with more than 100$ in tips coming my way at the end of it, despite me begging for mercy. The thing is, if you’re busy – you’re happy. No waitress is going to be happy sitting with the same customers for the entire night – you’re just going to get frustrated even if the person(s) is(are) your best friend(s). But if you have a legit stream of newcomers that you semi-know and can entertain the fuck out of? You are your own best friend. You are the queen of the butterflies, flitting from table to table with your gorgeous smile and anticipating beers and presenting wines from behind your back like magician’s tricks, much to the awe and congratulations of the patrons (ie. audience). You are everywhere at once, you are working the room and you know you are damn good at it. Everybody loves you, and the table at the back from Alberta, full of hockey players and moms, that is getting rowdy singing Rasputin at the top of their arms? They give you hugs every time they see you with another rye and coke, or rye and diet or vodka water lime (mostly because you remember each person’s specific drinks, and partly because you’re russian and they’re hockey players). They sing, they laugh, the ask you whether your nipples are pierced, and then they leave in a giant flurry of stumbling tall men, in cabs too small to their hotel across the street. You are now satisfied – they are happily drunk, they are coming back for more, and they tip like madmen!
What’s better then that? A close second would be getting more than 8 hours of sleep for me, since these guys kept me at work till about 2:15 last night, and I wake up at 7 on Thursdays. But it was worth it – I’ll sleep on the bus and dream about dancing 20$ bills on the way to my ridiculously early English class.
I hear the best writers lived in bars… except the thing is I don’t think they worked there, but .. er… drank there.. so really the best writers should be my regular customers… except they’re not. But I will be from listening to all of their ridiculous drunk stories time and time again. I will be.
Time to go dry my hair. And eat something.