Got Me Workin Day and Night

So, let me begin by saying that although I work a hard job, I'm glad for it because it allows me to live in relative comfort without having to ask my parents for money... and that's really all I want.  It would be understandable if I did; I'm still a student-- but I don't want to.  And it's not even about my pride; it's more of a, "I don't want to be another line item on a list of burdens," thing.  Plus, you get to regulate what you spend it on when you earned it.  No one gets to ask me questions about what I'm spending my money on, including...

Sewing classes!  (I had my first one yesterday before work.).  There's a place RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM ME that offers sewing and knitting classes and I'm currently enrolled in beginners sewing.  I didn't want to come into Parsons that far behind, so I decided to find some sewing classes and lower my learning curve.  The BEST thing about this place: the owner offered to let it be my "home away from home" while I'm at Parsons... letting me use the fabric, the mannequins, cut and drape fabric, use their library (and they themselves) as a resource...  I'm SO thankful.  AND it's a non-profit that uses donated fabrics to sew clothing for women who are living in shelters after fleeing domestic abuse situations.  All-in-all: greatness.

So that's why I put up with THIS:

Every Bar Has A Drunkie

When you work in a place where it's part of your hustle to get people to buy you shots and bottles of beer, if you don't have some modicum of self-control... you're going to get drunk.  And usually, the people for which this is a problem don't even know how DRUNK they're acting.  They maintain: "yeah, I can take whatever-whatever for the whole night and be fine!"  ...No, sweetie, you're not fine.  You're drunk.  My boss had to take this girl aside and tell her to stop drinking, that her sales had dipped significantly, and that she had to take a break.  Not a good look.

Quirks and Jerks

Some customers have fun quirks, and some are jerks.  We'll examine a few:

Quirks:  The customer who nicknamed me Jameson after he discovered that that's the only thing I really like to take shots of.  I like that so much I just might use that as my bartending name instead of Nikki.  It's cool!

Jerks:  The guy who said to me, "te amo!  Te amo!  $500!"  ("I love you!  I love you!  $500!).  First of all, if you love me that much, the least you could do is offer to pay my full rent amount, which is $716.  It's more acceptable to pay off my worries for the month though, which will run you about $1,200.  Second of all, I am not a prostitute.  Third of all, if you have to pay for sex, something that is abundant for free, you need to reevaluate your life.  Jerk.  And just for that, you get the  Sleazeball Skeeza of the Night award.

Quirks:  The artistic guy who came in and sketched all of us.  It was cool.  (They weren't really detailed sketches or anything... no resemblance to be found; otherwise I would've demanded that security confiscate the papers, lol).

Jerks:  Those pesky Domincan dudes, Los Chicos Guapos, who came back in with a friend in order to get at me.  This fool said something to me in Spanish that I didn't understand, so I turned to his friend and said, "what did he say?"  His friend translated, "we're fucking tonight."  ...Excuse me?  I didn't get that memo.  And I certainly didn't agree to that.  I shook my head, "no, no, no."  Then the other friend kept asking me for my number and I just finally had to say, "look.  I don't speak Spanish; he doesn't speak English.  What does he need my number for?"  To which he replies, "call a hotel."  OH-MY-FREAKIN-GAWD: NOOOOOOOOOOO.  How many freakin times do I have to freakin say NO!?  After they figured out they wouldn't be getting any from me, they left.  Ugh... Sleazeball Skeezas.

Quirks:  My Slovakian friend who, after asking my name and what it meant (peace), said, "that's fitting because men feel at peace when they look into your face."  Aw!  That's sweet!  Corny, but sweet!  Now, he started to get a little jerkish when he got drunk, he got a little too touchy-feely (don't play with my hair please), but I gave him a pass.

The BEST Customers EVER

With all of that being said, there are the type of customers that I really, really like to serve.  Yes, they are the ones who spend the most money, but they're also the ones that have the most fun.  These guys were dancing around, singing, rapping along to the music, laughing... having a good time.  Bartending can feel like you're a hostess at the best party ever (or like another guest if you really get into it) when you've got customers like that.  I feel like they must have spent over like $250 in the bar (I mean, one of the guys tipped me with a $20 bill for starters), and they stayed until close, dancing and clapping to Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.  It was fun.  I didn't even feel like I was working.

ASIDE:  And from what I can tell so far: something else I've discovered is that it's not native New Yorkers who harbor disdain for other, smaller cities... it's the transplant New Yorkers who seem to think that nowhere else is worth anything.  And I think I've discovered why the New York accent is so nasal.  Since I moved here, I've been having problems adjusting to the air quality.  I literally feel like I can't breathe some days it's so bad.  I end up talking through my nose.  I sound just like a native New Yorker.  Bingo!  Theory: the nasal New York accent is caused by all the crap in the air that stops up your nose.

An Unpopular Opinion

So of course, what everyone is talking about now is the Steve McNair murder-suicide case.  And I work at a bar... our job is to be social and talk.  At the end of the night, as we were counting up our tips, one of the bartenders raised a point that would probably be an unpopular opinion:

"They keep saying that girl was crazy, but you know, I don't think so.  Have you ever had your heart broken, I mean... really... broken.  Like you thought this person loved you, thought you were going to grow together, be together, thought you were going to have his kids, thought he loved you...  And then they break your heart.  You'd feel like takin' 'em out to."

I thought about it.  Yes, I've had my heart broken really, really badly.  I felt like taking myself out just because it hurt so much and I didn't know how to get it to stop hurting.  (It's an odd and horrible feeling... like wanting to jump outside of your skin because everything hurts and you can't take a pill for it, you can't put a bandaid on it, you can't take a shot... you just want everything to stop because you feel so empty and sick and there's no end in sight.).  I felt like making him hurt so bad he'd feel like he was losing his mind.  I wanted him to feel nothing but pain, just like I felt pain...  

But the dividing line between crazy and sane is feeling all of those things, being able to put life in perspective, and not doing anything destructive.  

And The Hunt Commences.

Ah-giggidy-giggidy-alright!

I'm all moved in to my New York apartment (mostly).  The only furniture I've got in my bedroom is... a bed and a lamp.  The fridge is skimp and we've got two ottomans as chairs for our beautiful dining room table... but other than that =)  Even though the move-in process was SO whack!  I swear, my life HAS to take some kind of random turn on a daily basis...  Otherwise it just wouldn't be my life.

FROM THE BEGINNING:

My father was supposed to come with me to pick up my U-Haul on Thursday (otherwise how was I going to bring my car back home?), but he had a meeting, so I called my friend DjG, who always, always comes through in a pinch.  Seriously, no matter what I've needed from him, if he can find a way to make it happen, he makes it happen.  Unfortunately, U-Haul is not so reliable.  The computer system went down at the dealer I picked the U-Haul up from, so it took the man an HOUR to give me my U-Haul.  I feel like I should've gotten an emotional hardship discount, but whatever.  I was patient and well-mannered despite the serious fuckery to my evening plans.  DjG drove the U-Haul to my house for me (because I'm a punk) and I drove him to his afterwards in my smaller, more manageable Honda.  Then I had to pick my dad up from the Metro station.  Then I arrived an hour and a half late to dinner with the BFBFs.

You know what true friends do after you arrive an hour and a half late to dinner the day before you move 200 miles away?  They have your plate of food sitting there for you, buy you a drink, and promise to come over and help you pack.  Thus making the stress from your day completely melt away.  So the-en, after helping me pack and load in the cold, dark 1 am rain, (while doing crazy things like turning my chain belt into a leash...) they left and I went to sleep, only to wake up a 7 am so I could be on my way at 9.

Another friend of mine drove the U-Haul to NY for me (because again, I am a punk when it comes to driving large vehicles; I think I've been scarred by driving the herky-jerky bucket that was my dad's Rodeo [think: driving a mechanical bull]) and on the way we got a ticket for driving too slow in the left lane.  The cop got all aggressive and started spouting nonsense like, "you said you're coming from Maryland and those are Arizona tags, do you know why those are there?"  (Uh... no... this is a RENTED U-Haul).  "You're causing a traffic hazard driving that slow in the left lane.  And then when I tried to signal you over to the right, you slowed down even more."  (Wouldn't you slow down if you thought a cop was trying to pull you over?  And are U-Hauls supposed to speed down the freeway in the rain?  It's a speed LIMIT, not a speed MINIMUM).  And he wouldn't let my friend get an word in edgewise.  And when he wasn't talking, he wasn't listening; he was scanning the interior of the U-Haul with his soulless gray-blue eyes trying to gauge whether or not he could write another ticket for anything.  Ugh... but after that, we made it to NY in pretty good time.

SO THEN:

I proudly go to open the door to my apartment and I find that it's already open.  I hear voices inside.  What the...?  I walk in and the place is a complete and utter mess!  The place is covered in drywall powder and there are food cartons and cups just sitting out.  There's even a chair just sitting in the middle of my room!  Excuse me; I thought my lease started June 1.  We signed a contract saying all the work needed to make the apartment ready for move-in would be done by JUNE 1.

Bewildered, I walked towards where the voices were coming from and found the super and the landlord.

"Er... hi; I'm the new tenant here.  I was supposed to move into the apartment today..." I began.

"Which apartment?" the landlord asked.

"This one."

"So what the problem is?"

I blinked.  "Well, the place is a mess!"

"What you mean 'mess'?"

THAT is only the beginning of what I mean "mess," Sir.

So then, I asked him what to do about it and he told me to call the super.

"Wasn't that the super standing next to you?" I asked.

"No, no.  It's another one."  

So he gives me the other super's number and leaves.  I call it and the guy is like, "I'll call you back."  Never does.  The super I know comes upstairs and is like, "yeah, we're closed.  The Jewish Sabbath starts at 2 pm on Friday, and when he's shut down, we're all shut down.  You won't be able to reach him until 9 am on Sunday."

My eyes bugged out.  "So I can't get anyone to clean this place until then?  What am I supposed to do with a full U-Haul full of stuff sitting outside?"

He was sympathetic, but his hands were tied.  The cute guys (mmm, dreads) from across the hall witnessed my struggle and helped me bring my things into the ONLY untarnished room in the apartment.

I called my father, described the situation, and he called my landlord and subtly threatened legal action if the place weren't cleaned and ready for me to move into by the end of the day.

I texted my ex (who lives down the street... great, right?) about my problems; he called and I vented about the state of my apartment.  He offered to come by and take pictures of its hellish condition, giving me documented evidence that any nicks and scratches upon my move-in were not caused by me and my boxes.  So, there I am, about to see my ex for the first time since November when I drunkenly railed at him (actually I think every time I've railed at him, I've been drunk...), dressed in beat-up old lime green sneakers, ratty old sweats and a figure-obscuring tee with my hair pulled back in a bun, emphasizing my generally angry/stressed/helpless appearance.  Not that he cares what I look like, but I'm a pretty darn attractive female and I do have some pride, meaning: I hate looking busted.

He arrives, takes pictures.  

A clean-up crew arrives.  Ha!  Sabbath my ass... threaten legal action and I get a clean up crew in my place; office closed until Sunday at 9 am or not!

My friend has to catch the bus back to B'More, and since again, I'm a punk, my ex drives the U-Haul to the nearest drop-off for me and permits me to change and take a shower at his place since there's a crew of guys in my apartment and I have to be at my orientation at Parsons (I'm a fashion design student) in thirty minutes.  Obviously, that's not going to happen, but I go anyway.  And once I'm there and hear everything the students and professors are saying...

I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.  I couldn't be happier with my decision to go to business school first and THEN fashion school.  I couldn't be happier that I got into Parsons.  I couldn't be happier that I'm living in New York (although I really miss the sweet smell of the air in Maryland because the air up here is wreaking havoc on my respiratory system and is making my hair do some CRAZY things).  I just feel like things in my life are falling into place exactly the way they should and I'm excited to see #whatcomesnext.  (Follow me on Twitter @MixmasterNikki).  I'm anxious for Life.

So What DOES Come Next?

Well, I've finished revamping my bartending resume, I've designed and printed my business cards myself, and someone is coming by on Monday to take pictures of me for my photo selection.  I've done internet research and asked my friends about the hot spots in New York (but not too hot... things that are trendy really annoy me.  If I have to work the "hipster" crowd, I think I might shoot myself in the face from pretentious asshat overload).  I'll be responding to Craigslist gigs and job postings.  I will make at least $2,000 a month.  (Yes, that's living pretty close to the edge, but once I've got some experience and such, I expect I'll be able to pull in between $3K and $4K).  Not that I saw much of it because I was paying bills, but working in the hood in DC, I pulled in roughly $1 - $1.5K, taking home only $75 - $100 a week and between $80 and $160 home a night.  

I'll make it.  

I'm gonna be your favorite NYC bartender and, eventually, an amazing, award-winning fashion designer.  =)

I Have to Count? ...By Myself?!

Sorry I've been gone so long, but I've been on my hustle.  The places I applied to all wanted more experience, but I kept at it and... I finally got a bar job!  Woo hoo!  Now you can expect plenty of alcohol-infused juiciness to come =)

I'm working another strip club; it's located in the 'hood rather than DC's power-district, but the money is still good.  And the dancers are better.  I swear, the girls at the (mostly) white club just sway back and forth and make faces.  The dancers at this strip club put on a show.  ...Not that I see much of it anyway; I pretty much just see the endless line of people in front of me requesting drinks.  And let me tell you, getting behind the bar "forreal" is completely different from bartending school.  I've definitely learned some real life lessons:

1.  How to count.  

It's my not-so-secret shame that I cannot count.  At all.  In fact, numbers tend to make me nervous.  When I walked behind the bar at the club I was confronted with a cash register that must date back to 1975.  There are no electronics involved in that hunk of metal.  You have to know the prices of everything off the top of your head, punch the dollar amount in using typewriter-like buttons in denominations of 10, 1, .10 and .01., and then count out the change yourself.  This presented a serious problem for me.  It's been so bad that the waitresses usually help me out by telling me the correct amount of change to give them.

The first two nights I counted up things incorrectly, but the third night I got it right.  I was so proud of myself when my boss told me, "and by the way, the money's right," after he finished counting down the drawer at the end of the night that I pumped my fist and said, "yessss!  I'm proud of myself when I can count correctly."  At this, one of the strippers replied, "we're proud of you too bitch!"  I smiled and said thank you.

2.  The only thing bartending school really gives you is drink knowledge, and even then... the bar you're working will probably have it's own way of mixing.

Apparently, the way I learned to make Zombies, Mai Tais, Blue Motorcycles, Blue Hawaiians and Apple Martinis no longer applies.  And I can only imagine what else isn't consistent.  It's hard to remember drinks when you can't write them down too, but I've been managing okay.  As well, we don't serve our shots or drinks the way I learned to either.  All of the bottles at the bar have "measured pours", meaning the spout pours out exactly one ounce of liquor and then stops.  Well, I poured it that way and the bar manager informed me that that wasn't a shot.  We fill all of our glasses to the brim; no "lip line" like how I learned in bartending school.  Whatev.

3.  Personal selling skills.

I learned at a very young age that as long as you smile real big and bright, they'll love you.  One of the strippers at work put it best: "God gave me a great smile and a great ass, and I talk so good I'll talk a hole in your pocket."  God didn't give me a great ass, but I did come away with a sparkling personality.  I'm far from innocent, but for some reason, that's how I come off no matter what I do.  And I leverage that.  I can act interested in anyone and they'll believe it.  Okay, so some customers take the "building relationships" thing a little too far (no, I will not have sex with you), but I've been able to smile my way to $12 tips on a $11.50 bill and convince unsuspecting men that they should have a double shot of Ciroc as I get into a conversation with them about its superior, ultra-smooth qualities.  (Upselling!)  And this is only in my first four days; one day I shall be a master at personal selling, coaxing tips even out of the cheapest bottled-water-drinking, no 1's-having cheapskates in the place.

4.  Never let 'em hustle you.

Like I said, I look innocent.  I talk innocent.  I've got angel-light shining from my eyes.  I've had two customers try to hustle me so far.  One tried to act like he didn't have enough to pay for the drink I'd already fixed him.  The bar manager called him on it because she heard him whisper, "watch this," to his friend.  The second one I fixed myself.  This Negro tried to confuse me by talking fast, ordering a drink, not paying for it, requesting that I give him 20 $1 bills, and then trying to walk away.  I was like, "uh... you need to pay for that Heineken."  And then he tried to act clueless, "oh?  I didn't pay for it?"  No.  You didn't.  Cough it up!

5.  The Shakin v. Trickin Asset Turnover Ratio

I'm a business student, so of course, when one of the strippers said, "man, I know this girl who turns tricks and doesn't have a car.  What the hell is that?"  I immediately thought that the 'ho lacked the business sense to price her goods and services correctly.  She went on to say, "I mean, how much are you supposed to sell it for?  Man, if I were to sell my shit, you'd have to give me some permanent money.  Some shit I can use.  You'd better buy me a house, some stock, somethin!"  This I related to the value of assets versus the revenue stream that comes from your business activities.  You can leverage assets, but revenue can only be used to buy assets... and if you aren't making enough to do that, well, you're in a pretty sorry position and you need to reevaluate your business strategy.  She then said, "I don't see why any girl would turn to trickin' any way... I make so much more just shakin' it, shakin' it, shakin' it... and I aint never had to open my legs for no man.  I mean, I guess they make their money faster, but they make less.  And what they go through..."  That's a lesson in asset turnover ratio right there; it's important to get the most out of your assets, making them generate their value as many times over as you can... but if you set the value too low, it doesn't mean anything.  Case-and-point, her last thing to say on the subject was, "and you know, a nigga will talk about you if you let him get it for $200... but let it cost him $2,000.  He aint braggin' to NOBODY!"