30 December 2009

Dine and Ditch

"Crap, it looks like I only have $15 in my wallet."

His bill was $27.85.  Not an extravagant or even remotely expensive bill, but apparently more than he'd bargained for.  Looking at him my first thought was about having to explain this to my manager.  My second thought was that if you only have fifteen bucks wouldn't you be watching your spending and stop a pitcher and an appetizer ago?  My third thought was how do you have less than twenty dollars between two adult men?  And why had I given you such effing good service?

Suddenly he interrupted my spiraling train of thought.  "I got some cash in my car."

Sure thing, buddy.  I watch him stand and stride towards the door before I can even protest.  As much as I don't believe him, I leave the table to take an order nearby and give him the benefit of the doubt.  After all, his friend is still at the table.  So I smile and start taking the order a few tables down.  Just as I'm asking "breaded or naked?" I see the man's friend get up and head for the door.  I'm in the middle of the order and there is nothing I can do.  I have just been dine and ditched.

As I'm about to tell my manager what happened I make my way past the table.  Glancing over and shaking my head I notice something below one of the stools.  A wallet.  With wallet and receipt in hand I approach my manager.  Handing him both I explain the situation as he opens the wallet.  He finds the usual information, an ID, credit cards.  But he also finds $90 in cash.  Not only did he have enough to pay, he had three times the amount of his bill in his wallet.  The wallet he dropped when he attempted to skip out on the bill.  The wallet that told us exactly who he was.

Rather than keep the wallet in the safe and make a phone call to its owner as we'd usually do, my manager called the police.  Yes, the bill was less than thirty dollars and that may seem extreme, but as a total dumbass he deserved it.  So the police came, questioned us and took the wallet to the station.

The next day the phone rang.  "You'll never guess who called," giggled the bartender. 

A few hours later our freeloader returned to pay his bill with wallet in hand.  He left me a fifteen dollar tip.

My Anti-Resoultion

I'm not one for New Year's resolutions.  If one is truly interested in personal change it begins not on a specific day, but rather when one is ready for such a change.  Basically, it seems to me that forcing yourself into some measure of drastic change simply because it is the expected thing is never truly successful.  Change is an individual thing, not a phenomenon defined by some annual societal expectation.

I mean if you really want to lose weight or stay connected to family or avoid being a dirty whore why not start today?  Why is it that we continue to indulge in our vices until a certain day comes around?  I'd say it's because we don't really want to change.  We put it off.  We avoid it.  You say you'll start to workout tomorrow or call you mom once a week starting next week or keep your legs closed after that big party.  Yeah, you may do it, but mostly likely you'll stick with it for a few days and then go back to what you did before.  If you really wanted change and felt determined about it you would not start tomorrow or next week.  You would start today.

So no, I'm not going to to have a New Year's resolution because honestly it is my opinion that they are wildly unsuccessful.  I won't be forced to change until I personally decide it is in my best interest.  And that is why today, December 30th, I have decided to put new life back into this blog and post like I used to.  Not because it is my contrived New Year's resolution to do so, but because I want today starting now.  This is my anti-resolution.

15 December 2009

The Beginning

Once upon a time, I found myself at Hooters.  I had graduated college a few months before and just returned from a fantastic European adventure with my younger sister.  I was also unemployed.  Applying for several professional positions both before and after returning from my post graduation trip, I'd had little luck in my job search.  I was feeling the effects of the recession first hand.  So while I continued my less than successful job hunt, I had fun enjoying myself as if college had never ended.  And that is how I found myself at Hooters on a Saturday morning.

Hooters had opened just a month before.  I'd applied before leaving for my vacation but hadn't even received a second interview.  Unfortunately, my first interview not only followed a horrible attempt to change my hair color from blonde to brown, but also an intense sunburn that left my face peeling.  Needless to say I looked nothing like a Hooters Girl.  I wasn't surprised when they didn't call back.

Several months after my horrible first interview I ended up at Hooters that Saturday morning to take the complimentary shuttle bus to the local college football game.  So there I sat with two of my very best guy friends drinking Big Daddies and Clearwater Punches waiting for our ride to the game.  I was in white short shorts, tan and less than sober.  Luckily, my less than soberness allowed me to let my personality shine through - naturally.  So I was in white short shorts, tan, less than sober and extra bubbly.  Apparently I was Hooters Girl material.

Getting on the bus the general manager, who'd interviewed me a few months before, stopped me. 

"You'd make an awesome Hooters Girl," the manager beamed at me.

"Um, really?!"

"Oh yeah!  I'd love to have you on staff.  Stop in on Monday and we'll get you started."

It seemed that with my hair a perfect shade of brown and my generally clear skin not peeling awkwardly off my face I was actually exactly what Hooters had been looking for all along.  Go figure.  And that was it, I came in the following Monday, tried on a uniform and was scheduled to train the next day.  I'd gone from Hooters reject to Hooters Girl in no time at all.  Over a year later I'm still here.  Thanks, Big Daddies, I owe you one.

07 December 2009

Fearing St. Nicholas

Yesterday began the first of my Christmases.  This is correct, Christmases.  You see I am of Dutch heritage.  I am so much of Dutch heritage that I have both a Dutch passport and a Green Card totting father with an accent.  I have wooden shoes and delft dishware and enjoy a nice wheel of Gouda cheese.  In addition to these Dutch traditions, I also celebrate St. Nicholas Day and consider this my first Christmas of the year.

In The Netherlands, Christmas itself is taken in its religious connotation.  It is not about presents, reindeer and portly, jolly old men.  Christmas is a time for church and family.  Instead, like many Europeans, the Dutch do their gift giving on St. Nicholas Day.  Now before I go on I would like to make it quite clear that St. Nicholas  - or Sinterklaas if you prefer a little Dutch in your life - and Santa Clause are not the same person.  St. Nicholas is not a synonym for Santa whatsoever.  In fact, when I was younger St. Nicholas was a frightening figure while Santa seemed to be a pretty awesome dude.  St. Nicholas was the ying to Santa's yang.

Here's the deal on St. Nicholas.  St. Nicholas is obviously a saint.  He was a pretty cool guy who had a tendency for leaving coins in people's shoes.  As such, over the years it became the tradition to place your shoes by the hearth to receive the saint's many gifts.  Now he's not just going to leave you shit; you have to do something for him in return.  So you leave hay or carrots in your shoes because the white horse St. Nicholas rides over the rooftops gets pretty effing hungry.  So if you're good, and you've left some treats for the pony, you'll get some presents and candy and all the good things that such holidays are meant to bring.  YAY!  If you're naughty though, instead of gifts you'll receive some sticks.  Now I'm sure none of this seems remotely frightening.  It's what comes after all the sticks that is really messed up.

If you get sticks this is a huge warning.  Basically, if you get the dreaded sticks you better shape your shit up or else what happens the next year will really, really suck.  If you are naughty the next year St. Nicholas's helper, Zwarte Piet (I'd explain what that means but I'll just tell you some would say it's somewhat politically incorrect), will scoop you up and drag you to Spain in a bag.  Once you get to Spain you will be forced to make toys for all the good kids for one year.  Way worse than coal in a stocking.

Don't worry, I never awoke to the dreaded sticks in my wooden shoes.  Rather I got epic things like an American Girl Doll.  Basically, St. Nicholas freaked the eff out of me, but luckily I was a fairly wonderful kid.  Years later, St. Nicholas is still sending me gifts.  Ironically, they come from my mom in big brown boxes right to my door.  Go figure.  This year however I have just moved and my mailbox is currently being rekeyed.  This has meant that my gifts, which were delivered on Saturday, have been just out of reach.  There is nothing worse than knowing your presents are there just waiting to be unwrapped and you can't get to them.  I feel like I'm twelve and I did the whole "can we open one present on Christmas Eve" thing and mom said no.  Not even fair.

Tomorrow I'll finally get in there and discover the awesomeness that awaits me.  I know it will contain a chocolate letter (it's tradition to receive the first letter of your name in chocolate) and other sorts of sweet goodness.  Luckily, it has been below zero thus preserving all my yummy treats within the confines of that metal mailbox.  Don't worry presents I'm coming!

Back to Blogging

Good news world!  It's December and contrary to my worries, I am not homeless!  Yes, I have found a comfortable little studio (excuse me, "Junior One Bedroom" according to the brochure) that I have decorated in a style befitting a young Hooters Girl/aspiring lawyer.  I have a pink paisley shower curtain and graphic black and white photography gracing my walls and now I even have internet.  Finally the world has righted itself and though my closet is small and I lack the amazing piece of furniture called a couch, I feel at home.  Back to internet not only means back to society and CNN.com it means back to blogging.  My dear blog, I have not forgotten you.  Please forgive the neglect.  I promise you several rousing stories to make up for my absence.  I promise to try and give equal time to both you and your stepbrother, Facebook.  I promise to be as close to awesome as possible.  I'm good like that.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...