You're Doing THE MOST!

The theme for this work week was: YOU'RE DOING THE MOST!  (An expression commonly heard on the campus of Howard University, said to bring attention to the fact that someone is going above and beyond the norm... usually in a slightly manic way.).  My last three days at work were perfect examples of DOING THE MOST:

SUNDAY

So, I went to my friend's graduation party, meaning to get there at about 5 so I could stay for 2 hours and not just breeze in and breeze out, however I started driving south on the road upon which I was supposed to be driving north.  I arrived about 6-ish and had to leave about 7-ish to get to work, leaving me no time to change before or after getting to work.  What was a girl to do?  Why... drive through the city whilst changing from a breezy blouse, shorts and flip flops into 2 tight tank tops, leggings, and ballet flats, of course!  At one point, I was weaving through traffic in a blouse and a thong.  Clearly, I was DOING THE MOST.

Once I got to work, it was pretty uneventful.  The highlight of my evening was my two BFBFs coming in and making it rain in my tip bucket.  Actually, just them coming in.  I really love getting visits from friends.  Shout out to one of my girlies from HU who came through as well.

Of course, because the night began in a "doing the most" kinda way, it had to end much the same.  People call up the club with some dumb ass questions.  Someone called up the club at close asking what time we closed.  When I responded, "we're closed now," the heif was like, "why?"  Fuckumean?  We're closed because it's 2 am on Monday morning!  Don't you have anything to do with your life?  The rest of the world does.  Why are you trying to throw money at naked people at 2 am Monday morning?  Wouldn't you rather be asleep?  I would.  You're DOING THE MOST!

MONDAY - THURSDAY 

I was in New York, my adopted city (DC will always, always be my heart!), watching my nieces.  (Honestly, they watch themselves, I was just there to make sure they didn't accidentally burn my sister's apartment down... and give them money.).  Had a good time: laughed until I cried with my sister, strolled around Union Square sipping Jamba Juice with the nieces, signed the lease to my AMAZING apartment, had dinner in Harlem with one of the Boyos, picked up the keys to my AMAZING apartment, went into SuperNikki mode and created a floor plan complete with alternate furnishing options for my AMAZING apartment... yeah... I was DOING THE MOST. 

FRIDAY

I left New York on the 11:30 BoltBus.  I knew I should've taken the 9:00 bus, but I wanted to give myself time for my sister's flight back to NY to be delayed, delaying my rising-early-and-being-functional-in-the-morning process.  I should've just suffered through the 9:00 because someone decided to DO THE MOST and get into an accident on I-95 (I really hope they're okay) and mess up traffic such that I didn't get back to DC until 5 pm instead of 4, and my father and I still had to pick up my mother from her work-job, so it was 6:45 by the time I got home and I still had to change and do my hair for work... and make it out of the house by 7 pm.

I didn't make it out by 7 pm, but I did look fly breezing out of the door.

There's never a truly dull day at The Club, but Friday was just full of DOING THE MOST experiences:

When you go out, you should probably try not to get so drunk that before 10 pm, you're falling asleep in the strip club, have taken your shoes off, drunkenly shuffle across the nasty ass floor with your bare feet and go into the nasty ass bathroom and throw up all over the place.  You're DOING THE MOST, in the worst way.

I've got to say, street hustlers and "thuggish" types as compared to my usual dating regimen of professional and college guys are so much more earnest in their approach.  Not that they're going to get a date (hell, my number) out of me anyway, but I do appreciate seeing how much someone means it when they try to get at me.  I'm the absolute last female you want to approach sideways; though I absolutely HATE to, I can play games very well, and I read between the lines better than 99.9% of dudes, even if they wrote the damn book themselves.  I've got very little patience for bullshit in all of its various forms; I keep it simple, honest and straight-forward, and I expect the same... otherwise, no dice.

This one Latino dude was staring at me really intensely when I made his drink.  His friend nodded in my direction, "we don't even like Hispanic girls.  We like Black girls."

"What's your name?" the dude staring at me asked.  I told him (my real name is Spanish [Arabic and Greek as well]), and he damn near groaned.  All of a sudden he started freestyling off my name!  I mean, I don't remember anything but the last line, which was, "you're the best."  I couldn't stop smiling after he did it though, and I gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Yeah, he was DOING THE MOST, but I thought it was cute.  And had he been my type, I would've gone for it.  I'm not the type of girl who will laugh at honesty.

I do NOT however, appreciate being referred to as "ay!  Boo-boo!" while some cigarette-smelling, scruffly-lookin' dude gets way too close for comfort and keeps asking me when we're going out.  I said, "we aren't," about four times and he still somehow suffered under the delusion that he could change my mind by using the same tactics.  Ew!  Give me my tip and go AWAY!  You're DOING THE MOST!

Then, there was this trick who thought she was special.  After paying the $5 cover she came to the bar and discovered that a rail vodka and cranberry was $7.  She bugged out her eyes and said, "I just paid a $5 cover and the drink is $7 on top of that?"

"Yep," I said.

"I've never had to pay that before."

Well, I guess today is just your lucky day then, because that's what you'll be paying today.  You're not special.  Everyone else in the club paid $5 to get in on top of their drink minimum.  Stop acting like you're some kind of VIP because you know the doorman (who has nothing to do with the bar).  You're DOING THE MOST in your little bright yellow lace halter top that was played out in 2005 when it came out.  

I also didn't much like it when my boss kept the party going a little bit longer than usual.  He does it because he's a nice guy and he wants all of his employees to make as much as they can and he likes the crowd to feel like they experienced something that wouldn't happen at another club, but I really wanted to go home.  Crowds of drunken people screaming, "keep the lights off!" at 3 am isn't cool when you've got to drive 25 miles home, dead tired.  DOING THE MOST!

SATURDAY

Saturday was just a continuous stream of one-liners:

Two guys were ordering their drinks, talking about their relationship issues with their respective girlfriends.    The one guy told his friend that his girlfriend had threatened to cheat on him with his best friend.  He told his friend that he replied to her with, "go ahead; knock yourself out.  At least I know where he's been."  DOING THE MOST!

This one guy, PERPETRATING, wearing a Howard University tee shirt, decided to pay to get into the club using a counterfeit $10 bill.  DOING THE MOST.  It wasn't obvious in dim lighting to someone not paying close attention, but once you got it in the light, everything about that dollar was wrong: the paper, the ink, the fact that there was no watermark...  It was spotted and he was kicked out, however, I still had to go through all the $20s in the register because before he was kicked out, he'd paid for some liq with a $20.

I already posted an entry about What Not to Wear to the Strip Club, however, I hadn't seen the worst at that point.  The worst is: dingy basketball shorts worn over slightly exposed boxers paired with an equally dingy cutoff smedium tee and fresh (?) Nikes, accessorized with an exposed nasty, jiggling, quivering beer gut.  Absolutely gross.  DOING THE MOST.

And finally, the customer who asked me, "is that all your hair?"  I nodded in reply and he reached out to feel for tracks.  Amazed that I hadn't been lying, he went over to my manager and asked, "where did you find her?"  ...Like I'm some rare breed.  DOING THE MOST!

QUOTES OF THE WEEKEND:

(1)  "You know what's funny?  That drink you made me didn't taste strong, but then when I stood up and went outside I started feelin' it."

The man turned to my boss.  "You need to hold on to that one."

"I'm trying to," my boss replied.  (And he is; even though I'm moving to New York, he still want to keep me on call when I'm down in DC and get me certified as a manager.).

(2)  *My boss after a little person walks in the club*  "What's he doing in here?  Aint no toys in here!"

SO wrong, but honestly, when I saw him at the door, at first glance I thought he was like 7... and I did wonder to myself why someone brought their kid to the strip club.  =(

PS... follow me on Twitter for real-time updates as to what's going on behind the bar at: MixmasterNikki

Sometimes I Think I'm Superwoman

So, I was feeling fine, perfectly normal.  I thought I could act like I was perfectly normal and go about all my normal activities without any problem.  I forgot that I am not perfectly normal; I have an air bubble pressed up against my liver that is slowly (very slowly) being absorbed by my body.  When I move a little too much/a little too vigorously, this air bubble moves, puts pressure on random internal organs, and causes me pain and discomfort.  Which is not normal.

My naturally perky demeanor gets in the way of sense sometimes.

So "Swag Surfin" comes on in The Club and I start swag surfin behind the bar because I love that song.  It reminds me of the absolutely amazing time I had after graduation at Love with all of my friends. 

After Swag Surfin, I found myself in an immense amount of pain and I had to sit down and start taking long breaks between working.  And then I had to leave and go home early =(  You know I've got a problem when I leave work early; I love making money too much to just pass it up like that.  And we only had an hour left!  But I was starting to get annoyed with people, so I doubt I would've picked up that many more tips anyway...

Annoying Quotes of the Night:

(1)  I ask a guy what he wants and he replies: "those coconuts in a glass."

"Excuse me?" I arched an eyebrow.

"Those coconuts in a glass."  Sensing that I was not amused by his wit, he backtracked.  "I'm just joking."

(2)  Then, when I was sitting off to the side, obviously in pain, some loud-mouthed female customer motioned over to me, *smile.*

I shook my head sadly, giving a little half-smile.  The universal indication for: this is not a good night, and plastering a fake smile on my face is about the last thing I want to do.

"Wake up!" she hollered over to me.

This was too much.  I went over to her.  "See... I ruptured one of my internal organs and I've got a huge bubble of air pressed up against my liver right now."

"Well fart, girl, fart!"

Ignorant bitch; I don't have gas!  The problem is that the bubble of air is NOT enclosed in a system and I have to wait until my cells absorb it.  

Before I Ruined My Night, It Was Fun Though...

We had a luau-themed party for one of the dancer's birthday.  The club looked really nice.  And I donned a bikini top, lei, short and a hula skirt for the occasion.  I looked really nice =)

And we had all-you-can-eat food.  It was bomb!  Soul food, Thai food, Caribbean food... all of it.  All you can eat.  Yums.

And!  My crush was there =)  I mean, it probably won't come to anything at all, given that I'm moving, but I still just like looking at him while he's here.  I actually didn't tell him I liked him until we were both partying at a club after graduation, and my slightly intoxicated self just leaned over and said, "before we never see each other again, I just have to tell you that I think you're really attractive.  And smart."  And he said, "we'll see each other again," and whipped out his celly.  And we have seen each other since, but again... I'm moving.  Next lifetime, maybe?

PS... I wonder if this can be considered flirting (with someone else, although if My Crush had said it, I would've said the same thing!):

I pour someone's coke in their chaser glass and their Jack in the accompanying shot glass.

"Do you want it mixed?" I asked.

He nodded, then looked at the almost full chaser glass.  "It won't fit," he told me.

"Yes it will."  

I poured, and voila!  Lo and behold, the shot fit in the almost-full glass.

"I've got experience with this type of thing," I winked.

PPS...  I'm going to need Dallas to stop touching me when he tips me.  He reached out to put $3 in my bikini top.  I immediately folded my arms over my chest.  "Uh-uh.  Nope.  Put it in my hand or the bucket."

He continued to reach out in the direction of my breasts with the money.

"My hand or the bucket!" I held my hand out.

He reached for the waistband of my skirt.  He stuffed one dollar on my hip, another slightly more inwards, to which I opened my mouth to reply, "hey!  You're getting a little too close there!"  And another nearer to above my ass.  "Oka-ay..." I said.  He smiled a lecherous old man smile and walked away.  Shudder.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

I think my favorite quote of the night though, was again, from my boss.  I think I have one of the only jobs where your boss can look at you and say:

"You got young titties."

And it's not sexual harassment.  I laughed and replied:

"That's what my mom says."

I'm Going Places

Least of which being my relocation to New York.

I didn't mean that I'm physically going places though; I mean that I've got plans.  I see myself doing some big things... one of which being owning a strip joint.  I started writing a business plan for one a while back and I've recently picked up interest in it again.  Working at the club has really made me realize what's capable.

Strip clubs aren't bad places to hang out and chill, actually.  My father agrees with me.

When I left work last Wednesday because of the hole in one of my organs, I happened to leave my new cellphone charger there.  (Reminder: the initial incident happened while I was looking for my original cellphone charger, which I have since found... in my overnight bag, which is where I thought I put it in the first place.).  My dad went to go get it for me when I was in the hospital on Thursday.  When he came back, he told me:

"That club where you work; it's like a real center of the community.  I see what you mean about it having potential.  It's not a bad place to just go chill out."

And that's what I think Boss Man isn't capitalizing on enough.  The Club has been a part of the community for 30 years.  It's got a homey, relaxed, unpretentious feel to it, and levels of seating that allow you to spend some time laughing with friends or get down by the stage and spend some time throwin dollas.  The club allows you to bring in/order in your own food.  It's got a live DJ/MC that keeps everything interactive and fun.  It's got one of the sweetest, sexiest bartenders in the city (wink).  It's got naked women.  It's got that vibe.

What I like about The Club, and strip clubs in general, are that they allow you to be you without any sugar coating.  They're a place where you can be as out of control or as under control as you want to be.  If people can strut around naked, why can't you just relax?

So yeah... I've got ideas.

Wink wink.

Time On My Hands

Since I'm an invalid for at least another day, I have decided to make myself useful.

As you can probably tell by the new picture... I've had a lot of time on my hands; time I've used to make some strides.

Just like I was a couple of months ago, fresh out of bartending school, I'm going to plunge into another market (NYC) for bartenders with just a little bit of experience and a big smile under my belt.  Everyday something happens that makes me glad I went to business school; yesterday it was this:

If you're short on experience, be as professional and memorable as you can.  

I already have a pretty snazzy bartending resume, a photo selection (I need more current and varied photos though), and apply to jobs with a cover letter already, but I didn't have any business cards, though I've been meaning to make them for THE LONGEST time.  I was supposed to have a stack with me when I bartended my friend's Grown & Sexy party (GREAT party, btw... we did it big w/a chocolate fountain and strawberries, yo!) the day before Valentine's Day...

Anyway.  So, I Googled "bartending business cards" to see what other people were doing.  I already knew I wanted one with my photo on there; this can be a very superficial profession... and if they like your look, that's like 50+ points worth of experience.  I saw this one site that offered to turn your picture into a cartoon and put it behind a bar.  Loved it.  Decided I could do it my damn self on Photoshop (I had to YouTube "How to cartoon yourself using Photoshop"), print them out on card stock and cut them at my local FedExKinkos.  (See my new profile picture of me holding my 2nd favorite whiskey?  Yeah... Jack used to be my man, but I gotta go with Bushmills now.  I LOVE IRISH WHISKEY!).  I'm also going to put one of my specialty recipes on the back with "and plenty more where that came from" at the bottom.  Ooh!  And my card is vertical instead of horizontal.  Subtle creativity =)

So, yeah... I've also started going over more drinks in my bartender books because popular drinks vary from region to region.  Like, you'll probably only hear a Bone Crusher ordered in the DC area because the bartender who came up with it worked here.  I gotta figure out what the most common NY drinks are.  The customers at the bar where I've been working are pretty consistent: Long Island, Long Beach, Bone Crusher, H2O, Apple Martini, Martini, Patron Margarita, Cuervo Margarita, Rusty Nail, Mai Tai, Zombie, Singapore Sling, French Connection, Blue Motorcycle, Sex on the Beach.  

Sometimes I get flirty and tell male customers I'm going to test their manliness by giving them a 3Wise Men (Jose, Jack, Johnny + Gingerale).  Seriously, anyone that can drink that without gagging... you got it.  I don't mind the Jack and Johnny; I'm a whiskey drinker, but tequila... blech!  GAG!

And eventually, I'm going to find someone to PIMP MY BLOG!  (Or do it myself, although I hate doing things that aren't my specialty when it saves more time for someone to do it for me.).  It's 'bout to get interactive up in this piece.

By the way... follow me on Twitter if you aren't already: @MixmasterNikki.  I usually frequently update whatever's going on behind the bar when I'm working.

COMING UP NEXT:

(1)  My big plans.

(2)  My dad's first trip to my job.

(3)  Some character studies: Silly Girl, Accent and Tambourine.

My Life Is Random Wherever I Go

I don't just have drama behind the bar; oh, no!  No, I've got to have a dramatic life no matter the setting.

So, I started feeling a little queasy at work Sunday night, and Monday morning at about 4 am while I was desperately searching for my cell phone charger so I could charge my phone before I hopped on the Boltbus at 7:30 am to go to NY to search for an apartment with my girls, it happened.

Out of nowhere, I suffered a severe, sharp, stabbing pain in my stomach, radiating up my spine, around my ribs and up to my shoulders.  I dropped to the floor, hissing, face screwed up like I would burst into anguished tears any second (except I never see the point of crying because of physical pain, so I always stop myself before the first tear rolls with some deep breathing and streams of curse words best left unsaid).  Thinking I could just rest it away, I curled up on the couch in my family room, knowing I had to wake up in 2 hours to be on the subway in 3 hours to be on that bus at 7:30.  I woke up 3 hours later... still in pain.

However, I'm a determined (delusional) sort, and I'm made of tougher stuff than to just call the doctor at the first sign of trouble!  So, I got online and bought myself an Amtrak ticket for 10:30 so I could meet my friends, as planned, and commence the hunt for the GREATEST APARTMENT EVER (Not to exceed rent payments of $2250 in total)!!!

I've got to give myself credit; I walked around New York on an empty stomach with tightness in my belly and the sensation of a 10-pound weight dragging on each of my shoulders for five hours before I finally said, "Guys.  I can't walk anymore.  I can't make it."

Tuesday hits.  I feel a little better, but not really... I do some reading on the internet.  (All praise be to the internet.).  I come to the conclusion that I might just have really bad gas (ew!) and referred pain in my shoulders.  (Referred pain is when something is wrong in one area of your body, but it hurts in a completely different area.).  Took some Gas-X pills.  

Wednesday: the pills did nothing.  I call my doctor (finally; I'm SO stubborn!).  The good doctor cannot see me until the 18th.  I will probably be dead by then if it's something serious, and if it's not serious, I'll be on a plane to Vegas.  No dice.  I go to work, because even though I'm in pain... I need that money.  Once at work, it becomes clear that I cannot stay there.  I call the nurse hotline on my insurance to ask for advice.  She tells me to take two Aleeve and call my doctor in the morning.  Again: no dice.  ER it is!!

I go to the ER; it is now midnight, Thursday morning.  My community ER is closed until 8 am.  I go home.  8 am arrives and it's off to my community's ER again!  

(Shout out to the great nurses and doctors there... however... Dr. You-Sound-Just-Like-My-Finance-Professor wasn't listening well...).

I told this man all of my symptoms/ailments multiple times and made sure to tell him that although the pain was all in my shoulders, it hurt really badly if I leaned forward more than 45 degrees and if I were to lie down and move positions, I would hear and feel something sloshing around near my stomach, where it definitely shouldn't be.  He then proceeded to order a chest x-ray, CT scan and blood tests.

So... I was shot full of iodine (which puts a metallic taste in your mouth, makes you nauseous, and makes your body feel like it's on fire and you've just peed yourself) and strapped (okay, not strapped... I was there of my own free will) to a table where a laser got to know me pretty well.

At this point, my precious, tiny little veins had been stabbed 3+ times (I say 3+ because one of the nurses couldn't find a good vein in my arm, so she took one from the back of my hand, but still managed to insert the needle crooked and had to wiggle it around.  Pain!).

The chest CT scan shows that everything is normal around my lungs (I could've told you that, Doc!), but I've got a huge bubble of air outside of my stomach, just chillin' under my diaphragm. Gettin jiggy with my liver.  That usually happens when you've ruptured an organ.  Great.

So... I'm off to another hospital where Dr. Uncle (not biological, but he's family all the same) is a member of the system (although his office is offsite).  

When I am first admitted, there is a man in the room with me gushing blood.  His girlfriend has hit him over the head with a glass bowl.

"How that broad gonna do me like this?  Shit.  Ah!  Fuck, my head!  My head!  Man, but let it be me who hit her with a damn glass bowl and had her bleedin all over the place!  Wouldn't be no questions.  I'da been arrested on site, cops woulda beat me up some more.  That broad... they wait for her parents to get there to take the baby and THEN they take me to the hospital.  You see how they do men?  Ah!  Fuck!  My head..."

I get blood drawn... again.  Get more x-rays.  I have to drink like a liter (okay, a pint 1/2) of this nasty ass "Berry Smoothie"...it is NOT a smoothie; it's used to highlight where holes might be when you get a CT scan.  I get an abdominal CT scan and go back to my room where I wait... and wait...

Watch the news.  Watch Celtics v. Magic.  Wonder how much blood I've lost.  Fantasize about bustin outta the joint, finding the cafeteria and stealing some food.  Wait.  Ignore the guy who keeps winking at me from around my curtain.  (I'm in the ER with a catheter stuck in my arm!  I'm ill!  Why are you trying to come on to me!?)

Finally, word comes.  "You've got a perforation in your belly."

I kept trying to clarify whether she meant stomach or intestines, but she kept saying belly.  I AM NOT A FIVE YEAR OLD!

By the time I'm ready to leave, I've been shot up with antibiotics, told I've got a perforation in my intestine, and that I can't work for five days or go to Vegas =(

Peachy.

I called my manager to tell her that I wouldn't be able to work for five days because I've got a freaking HOLE in my intestine and you know what she said, "you're kidding me."  She then gave a sigh and said, "okay, I'll text HNIC."  She's just blown because I was supposed to take her shift on Saturday.  Well EXCUSE ME!  I didn't poke a hole through my own intestine!  I want to go to Vegas!  I've already paid $483 in non-refundable money towards the damn trip!  I'm sorry my health problems are ruining YOUR life!  Bitch.

Grr.

Guess Who's Back?

*Waves sheepishly*

I apologize for the delay in your regularly scheduled programming, however: life's been busy.  I am now a graduate (with honors, in Honors) of Howard University School of Business and I have an absolutely amazing apartment in NY just waiting for me to move into.  I'm all partied and traveled out!  Hopefully I'll be able to handle Vegas next week and then NY again the week after that.  Travel much?  

Anyway, I'm back to give ya'll the run down on the happenings at The Club!

FRIDAY, MAY 1: Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!

It seems my boss has finally picked up on the fact that the interior of the club needs to be redone.  New floors, new walls, electronic cash registers... the works.  He called all the waitresses and bartenders into the back room to discuss new cleaning habits and practices at the club.  He maintained that no longer would Mumbles and the other men of the cleanup crew be responsible for the bar and the tables because they were too old to do a good job.  And that Grandame would still be welcome at the club, he loved her, but she had to go... "it's been 26 years of Grandame, but she can't handle the work now, it's time to let her go."  

It's been 30 years of the club; it's time to bring it up to date.

Sometimes I think family-owned businesses, black ones in particular, are a little too attached to "The Good Ol' Days."  I hope I never get like that.  I always want to live in the moment, never yearning for the past.  Never getting too comfortable with "the way it is."

SUNDAY, MAY 3:  I Don't Need Your Money That Badly.

Nasty Old Man came back to the bar, still trying to get at me.  I've noticed that he only tips $1.  I'm getting tired of hearing his Nasty Old Man mouth, so I decided to stop being nice.  Your $1 is not going to buy you my patience.  $20 might.

"What can I get for you?" I asked.

"You.  In a glass," he replied.

I rolled my eyes.  "Do you know how many times I've heard that?"

"From me?"

"No.  Just in general.  You need to get a new line," I said with a hard edge to my voice while keeping a sweet smile.

He looked surprised.

"You said I'm probably as baaaad as you are; I'm showing you."

"That's okay, I want it," he winked.

Ugh.  GO AWAY!  He also offered the new waitress $400 to defecate and urinate on him.  That just took him from Nasty Old Man to Triflin-Ass Nasty Old Man.

OLD PEOPLE ARE SO BELLIGERENT!  So, I tried to enforce the new policy that waitresses must pay $5.50 anytime they get a fake drink, but Grandame was not having it.  When I told her, her eyes bugged out and she shook her head, saying in her cigarette-scratched voice: "I'm not paying that!"  and walked away.

How the hell are you supposed to lay down the law on a halfway senile woman old enough to be your grandmother?  

BUT I CAN LAY DOWN THE LAW ON DRUNKEN STRIPPERS!  Halfway through the night, one of the other dancers came up to me shaking her head, "The bar is cut off for Drunkie.  No more."

I gave a knowing, half-smile.  "How many has she had?"

"I don't know, but she can't have anymore."

Later on during the night, Drunkie came up to the bar to ask for a drink.

I shook my head.  "You can have water, soda, or juice."

"But I want liquor," she pouted.

"No liquor."

"But I've been drinking all night!"  

Uh... dur!  Therein lies the problem: you've been drinking all night and you can't handle your liquor.

"I can give you water, soda, or juice," I repeated.

"Nevermind," she pouted again and walked upstairs to the dressing room.

I CAN DRINK, HOWEVER!  BWAHAHA!  Someone ordered an Apple Martini and didn't have enough money to pay for it, so my manager split it with me.  And then she offered me a Cuervo Margarita.  I was definitely buzzed behind the bar, but I, unlike Drunkie, can hold my liquor.  Actually, is it a bad sign that after two drinks you can still do your job (and do it well)?  Doesn't that make me, like, a functional alcoholic or something?  =(

WEDNESDAY, MAY 6:  See No Evil, Hear No Evil

Things I Wish I Hadn't Seen:

1.  One of the dancers diddling herself on stage.  Gross.

2.  Other women's vaginas, period.  Breasts, whatever, I don't care... but I'm really tired of seeing coochie.

3.  This man who comes up to the bar flexing his muscles and dancing in the mirror.  Every time.  It's just really disturbing.

4.  A group of Ques hopping in the club.  Really?  Really.

Things I Wish I Hadn't Heard:

1.  One of the Ques trying to get at me.  I'm too young for you sir, and I don't feel bad about telling a man in his 30s that he's too old for me.  We're on different planes.  And I'm not interested in casual sex... I have a problem with people touching me when I'm not emotionally attached to them... while sober.

2.  More of my manager's issues with her ex.  Talking about what might happen isn't going to make what you want to happen come true.  Stop beating a frickin dead horse!  It's over!  Talking about it every damn day isn't going to do anyone any good, especially not me.  Stop asking other people what he might be thinking, why he did such-and-such, or what he'll end up doing.  No one knows!  He might not even know!  It's over, leave it.

SUNDAY, MAY 10:  It's A Celebration, Bitches!

So, I graduated May 9.  My managers both texted to congratulate me.  And when I went to work, Big Sis let me have a drink on the house.  Can I Holla gave me a hug.  All my customers who knew gave me congrats and advice.

Anyone who says black people, even those without an education, don't value education is deluded.  We do, it's just that some of us don't see it as a viable course of action.  That doesn't mean they don't see the value of it; they just don't see its relevance to their lives (or believe that they can go after it).  And therein lies the problem... why isn't an education relevant for some segment of our population.

*Gets off soapbox*

Four Brits walked in to celebrate their friend graduating from Howard as well.  I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from swooning at the accents.  Nothing sexier than a black man with a British accent.  Hell, all of them weren't even black... there's nothing sexier than a British accent: period.  

"May I have a Co-rooo-na?"  

Yes you may.  Would you like my number as well?  *Bats eyelashes*

Also... I'm going to miss tending bar in DC.  Of course, people aren't as nice here as they are in the south-south, but they're nicer than they are in NY.  Here, even the street thugs say please and thank you.

QUOTE OF THE WEEKEND:

My boss, while explaining the new way things were going to run at the club:

"These are your mangers.  Everyone who works behind the bar is a manager.  You've got Big Sis, Li'l Mama, Cinnamon, and... (he paused when he got to me) Madeline."

Would he stop calling me MADELINE!?!  I know he knows my name!