Saturday, July 31, 2004
I feel motherly
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Jesus it's been ages
So sorry to have deprived you of your hard-earned distraction. It's been a bit busy lately, between a full-time, hard-driving, job and a few hours every day looking after Ben's dog. So blame Ben.
Frankly, I thought the Deep Throat post would buy me some time. I assume that time's exhausted.
But honestly, I've had few moments to myself lately, and even fewer in which I found myself in any condition to write with any pith or cogency. When I've nothing to do, all I really feel like doing is sleeping, and when I'm in a state to write, I've been concerned with letters to realtors.
Realtors? Indeed. This is one of the more momentous matters of the past week: Sadie and I are going to get a flat together next year. She's coming back to Dublin, but neither of us is returning to Halls. This has been worked out as peacefully and fairly as possible with Stephen and Caitriona, towards whom I still feel mightily indebted, given the energy they devoted to ensuring that I would be accepted to Halls if Sadie withdrew. Thing was--and we are, of course, thrilled about this--Sadie decided that her decision not to return was made too hastily (among other things). So after much wrangling, the details of which I am not going to enter into here, we all realized that the only equitable solution was for the two of us to live together in City Centre, and provide our friends with a hidden key or something. So I've been looking at flats online all week, two- and three-bedrooms. Sadie's parents are agreeing to pay half of a brief, early-September return trip to Dublin, during which I would crash at a friend's place and spend all day looking at apartments. We'll work on that later. Apartment hunting is hard at 3000 miles.
In other news, the job is going well enough. The money's been good ($80-120 a night), and when you add the money I'm pulling in watching Henry ($6/hour, thank you Bright-Fishbeins), and then the occasional lucrative catering gig (last one came to $191 for five hours' "work"), I'm kind of rolling in it. But even more important than the money is the fact that, at last, I have what I think we can safely term a "real job." Tremendous responsibility, no one to hold my hand, no one to look to for help. Instead, a position where everyone else depends on me for expertise that I, and I alone, possess. I am the only one who can do this. I can't ask for help. People ask me for help. It can get crushingly busy at time, between the people at the bar, the drink orders coming in from the servers and the fucking delivery orders, which I alone take. When there's a crisis, I have to solve it. It's real work, real responsibility. Especially at the end. I'm responsible for all the paperwork, which is a nightmare of disordered credit card receipts, z-tags, overrings, cash and so forth. I fuck that up (if, for instance, I neglect to batch out), the restaurant can lose all the credit card transactions for the night, and I can lose a job. But I'm so good at it now that last night, I blew through the whole operation in about half an hour. At the beginning it was the source of immeasurable dread, because it involves an acute awareness of numbers and cash flying left and right. There has to be $153 in the register. If everything is done right, those $153 should just fall into place. You fuck up anywhere along the line, and it's coming out of your pocket. I lost over $20 that way in my first week. But past four shifts, everything has been dead-on perfect. You'd think, as a Jew, I'd be more at home manipulating money. Nope. Those genes skipped my heemie ass.
But as for the bartending, I'm getting pretty good at that, too. It's the beginning of a career. My drinks are good, and my demeanor seems to do well. People at my bar seem to like me. They indicate this with generous tips. Also, I know my shit. There's this one guy who comes in a few nights a week, near closing. David. Total alcoholic. Quiet, though. Not obstreperous or drunken. Just usually falls asleep on his stool. Honestly. Twice out of four times he's come in lately. Apparently happens all the time. But he's good enough for conversation when he's awake. Of course, what does a bartender talk to an alcoholic about? Right. So the other night, I'm telling him about my top shelf, extolling in particular the virtues of my scotches and explaining their several provenances, and he says, "Man, you really know your stuff."
As a very underage, first-time bartender, I have to say, to be told by a career alcoholic that I really know my stuff...well...I just don't know what could be more encouraging. I was thrilled. I do know my stuff. I also have to taste everything. Part of the job description, you know. Usually I'll just pour myself a half-finger of something and sip it surreptitiously behind the bar. But the new manager, when he's not being a total asshole, is totally cool with my indulging behind the bar. In moderation, of course. But I can make myself a furtive drink or two. Makes him tolerable. Lord knows I make him a few every night. Drunk bitch. He's a pain in the ass. I liked the old manager. Pity he left. And no, I haven't had further interaction with the owner. He hasn't been by lately (kinehora, knock wood).
I'm tired. Just saw Caroline, or Change with the folks. Good script, great acting, mostly ghastly music. Disneyized, misplaced gospel. Liked Assassins way better. Tomorrow I have more mouth surgery. More novocaine and numbness. Fucking groovy. So sick of periodontal peril. Will spend most of tomorrow evening with a coldpack pressed to the side of my face I can't feel anyhow. So drop by and laugh at my misery. Misery is funny. I love misery.
Okay, so maybe it's not utter misery. I really, really like Nitrous Oxide. It's the only drug I'll do. It almost makes the part where they jam a syringe through the roof of your mouth before they administer the novocaine contained in said syringe, well, worthwhile. Almost. Frankly, I wouldn't mind skipping that part.. Maybe it's because I told the anesthesiologist that I hated orthodontists, to which he replied, "Hey, my wife's an orthodontist." Then JAM. That fucking hurt. But after that it was lovely. I was conducting the music coming through the tinny speakers. It was the Four Seasons.
Bedtime. Hope y'all are enjoying your office jobs. Workaday sad sacks. Nine to five? Me? Never again. Yaharr, me mateys, yo ho.
Frankly, I thought the Deep Throat post would buy me some time. I assume that time's exhausted.
But honestly, I've had few moments to myself lately, and even fewer in which I found myself in any condition to write with any pith or cogency. When I've nothing to do, all I really feel like doing is sleeping, and when I'm in a state to write, I've been concerned with letters to realtors.
Realtors? Indeed. This is one of the more momentous matters of the past week: Sadie and I are going to get a flat together next year. She's coming back to Dublin, but neither of us is returning to Halls. This has been worked out as peacefully and fairly as possible with Stephen and Caitriona, towards whom I still feel mightily indebted, given the energy they devoted to ensuring that I would be accepted to Halls if Sadie withdrew. Thing was--and we are, of course, thrilled about this--Sadie decided that her decision not to return was made too hastily (among other things). So after much wrangling, the details of which I am not going to enter into here, we all realized that the only equitable solution was for the two of us to live together in City Centre, and provide our friends with a hidden key or something. So I've been looking at flats online all week, two- and three-bedrooms. Sadie's parents are agreeing to pay half of a brief, early-September return trip to Dublin, during which I would crash at a friend's place and spend all day looking at apartments. We'll work on that later. Apartment hunting is hard at 3000 miles.
In other news, the job is going well enough. The money's been good ($80-120 a night), and when you add the money I'm pulling in watching Henry ($6/hour, thank you Bright-Fishbeins), and then the occasional lucrative catering gig (last one came to $191 for five hours' "work"), I'm kind of rolling in it. But even more important than the money is the fact that, at last, I have what I think we can safely term a "real job." Tremendous responsibility, no one to hold my hand, no one to look to for help. Instead, a position where everyone else depends on me for expertise that I, and I alone, possess. I am the only one who can do this. I can't ask for help. People ask me for help. It can get crushingly busy at time, between the people at the bar, the drink orders coming in from the servers and the fucking delivery orders, which I alone take. When there's a crisis, I have to solve it. It's real work, real responsibility. Especially at the end. I'm responsible for all the paperwork, which is a nightmare of disordered credit card receipts, z-tags, overrings, cash and so forth. I fuck that up (if, for instance, I neglect to batch out), the restaurant can lose all the credit card transactions for the night, and I can lose a job. But I'm so good at it now that last night, I blew through the whole operation in about half an hour. At the beginning it was the source of immeasurable dread, because it involves an acute awareness of numbers and cash flying left and right. There has to be $153 in the register. If everything is done right, those $153 should just fall into place. You fuck up anywhere along the line, and it's coming out of your pocket. I lost over $20 that way in my first week. But past four shifts, everything has been dead-on perfect. You'd think, as a Jew, I'd be more at home manipulating money. Nope. Those genes skipped my heemie ass.
But as for the bartending, I'm getting pretty good at that, too. It's the beginning of a career. My drinks are good, and my demeanor seems to do well. People at my bar seem to like me. They indicate this with generous tips. Also, I know my shit. There's this one guy who comes in a few nights a week, near closing. David. Total alcoholic. Quiet, though. Not obstreperous or drunken. Just usually falls asleep on his stool. Honestly. Twice out of four times he's come in lately. Apparently happens all the time. But he's good enough for conversation when he's awake. Of course, what does a bartender talk to an alcoholic about? Right. So the other night, I'm telling him about my top shelf, extolling in particular the virtues of my scotches and explaining their several provenances, and he says, "Man, you really know your stuff."
As a very underage, first-time bartender, I have to say, to be told by a career alcoholic that I really know my stuff...well...I just don't know what could be more encouraging. I was thrilled. I do know my stuff. I also have to taste everything. Part of the job description, you know. Usually I'll just pour myself a half-finger of something and sip it surreptitiously behind the bar. But the new manager, when he's not being a total asshole, is totally cool with my indulging behind the bar. In moderation, of course. But I can make myself a furtive drink or two. Makes him tolerable. Lord knows I make him a few every night. Drunk bitch. He's a pain in the ass. I liked the old manager. Pity he left. And no, I haven't had further interaction with the owner. He hasn't been by lately (kinehora, knock wood).
I'm tired. Just saw Caroline, or Change with the folks. Good script, great acting, mostly ghastly music. Disneyized, misplaced gospel. Liked Assassins way better. Tomorrow I have more mouth surgery. More novocaine and numbness. Fucking groovy. So sick of periodontal peril. Will spend most of tomorrow evening with a coldpack pressed to the side of my face I can't feel anyhow. So drop by and laugh at my misery. Misery is funny. I love misery.
Okay, so maybe it's not utter misery. I really, really like Nitrous Oxide. It's the only drug I'll do. It almost makes the part where they jam a syringe through the roof of your mouth before they administer the novocaine contained in said syringe, well, worthwhile. Almost. Frankly, I wouldn't mind skipping that part.. Maybe it's because I told the anesthesiologist that I hated orthodontists, to which he replied, "Hey, my wife's an orthodontist." Then JAM. That fucking hurt. But after that it was lovely. I was conducting the music coming through the tinny speakers. It was the Four Seasons.
Bedtime. Hope y'all are enjoying your office jobs. Workaday sad sacks. Nine to five? Me? Never again. Yaharr, me mateys, yo ho.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Just in case anyone's interested...
WEST END - Jul-19-2004
called in
West End Bar looking for female bartenders for all shifts. 113th and Broadway.
Call Ben 917-563-1369 to set up interviews.
Go for it, wenches!
called in
West End Bar looking for female bartenders for all shifts. 113th and Broadway.
Call Ben 917-563-1369 to set up interviews.
Go for it, wenches!
 |  |
 | |
 | |
 | |
| Graphic Design Job |
