Back In Black... No Really... I'm Burnt.

So, I returned from Miami on Sunday... chilled at my parents' place until Monday evening, when I arrived back in New York, minus (-) my phone charger and an unspecified amount of my checking account, plus (+) a skin cancer-worthy tan and some lessons learned:

-If it doesn't feel right, it isn't right. Alright, so I already knew this one, but intuition is one of those "easily-ignored-because-they're-so-abstract" things. The trip to Miami was for my high school best friend's birthday, and when it was planned, it included four people: me, her, and two of her other besties (one of whom is also one of mine). Eventually, more people were added... people I either didn't know, didn't really care too much for, or hadn't talked to in ages. I didn't really feel right going; I had a feeling I wasn't going to be able to enjoy myself, but I went anyway because it was for my friend's birthday. Lesson rephrased: don't commit yourself to something you know you can't actually do in the interest of keeping up appearances. My line of thinking went something like this: if I don't go, I'm a bad friend AND I'll look petty and immature because I'm not going because I don't want to be around the other guests.

But you know what? I've discovered that real maturity is making decisions based upon what you know you're capable of, and real friendship isn't based upon appearances. I would've better served my friend by coming down to MD to see her off for her trip/welcome her back and giving her a gift then. Instead, I was visibly Miserable-In-Miami and felt like I'd essentially wasted my money on a vacation that wasn't very relaxing at all.

I knew I wasn't going to enjoy the trip before we even took off. When, in the airport, my high school bestie introduced her college bestie to one of the girls I didn't know with, "and this is my best friend, ____," and didn't even bother to introduce me. And then said girl I didn't know copped an attitude with me when I questioned her suggestion that we take shots on the plane. Bad omens.

Do you know how frustrating it is to try to be nice to and sociable with someone who does nothing but stare at you? (Except when she wasn't around her core group... when she was outnumbered by "the original trip people" she was fine). ...And for the record, the reason I've even been on-the-outs with this person (none of which matters anymore), was firstly because I was angry at her and couldn't fake politeness, and secondly because she wrote me a highly contradictory apology which I couldn't accept for all of its contradictions and hurtful insinuations. I don't know what reason she has to stare at me. To not flip out at rude-ass, pretentious little bitches (TWO of them!) who can't at least do the fake "we're all girlfriends!" thing? To feel like a freaking camper, shuttled into group activities that I had nothing to do with? To have plans made and NO ONE tells you what the hell is going on? I just didn't have a good time. Thus, I have learned:

-Do what YOU want. Alright, so you've got to take other people into account sometimes, but you can't be of any good use to anyone else if you're not happy. It shows. My other friend told me that, "the best day I've had so far on this trip is the day I spent by myself." And you know? I wish I'd spent a day waking up early and eating breakfast by myself, going swimming and tanning on the beach by myself, going back to eat and read my book by myself, then maybe take a nap and meeting up with everyone else later. If I'd felt like I'd had some modicum of control or choice in the whole trip, I think it wouldn't have been so bad for me. To the extent that you're able, always make sure what you're doing is what you want... otherwise you'll be bitter.

It wasn't all bad, though... I enjoyed playing volleyball in the water with 3 cute Italian guys. (Which has cemented my decision to go to Italy next summer). The water was nice. There were some good moments. I've also learned that wine makes me EXTREMELY giggly (or maybe just the fact that I drank a whole bottle?). I picked up an addiction to a television show called Bones (I just watched three straight episodes tonight, in fact). I learned some valuable lessons, the last of which being:

If I ever want to get my mother to affect a pained, worried expression and moan, "oh, my poor baby doesn't know how to take care of herself!" all I have to do is get a sunburn.

...Yes, she actually did say that in response to me getting a sunburn. My mom's a special lady. I love her.

My Gameplan for This Week:

-Figure out how I'm going to pay for fashion school.

-Finish this marketing package for my producer friend.

-Finish this business plan and case for donations for my family's non-profit.

-Go to my sewing class and figure out exactly how I'm going to volunteer there.

-Go to The Hamptons with an unspecified group of people in an unspecified location by an unspecified means of transportation and have a completely undignified amount of fun!

Sayonara Sunday

That's right, I'm saying goodnight and goodbye to the bikini bar.  (I'm horribly fickle, I know.).  Reasons why:

1.  I can't hide my attitude problem with my boss.  I refuse to be ordered around like a dog.  I'm just not doing it, and I don't respect anyone who does it to me.  You tell me, "go talk to them," and I will answer, "alright, already!"  I know it's rude.  I know I'm the employee here.  But I don't consider that a real job and I'm not going to defer to such behavior.  Accordingly, my boss doesn't like me.

ASIDE: I don't know when I got like this, but I'm a lot less close-lipped than I used to be.  I used to take everything with a smile, but now I'm more "nice when I deem the cause worthy".  I... I... I think I'm becoming a bitch.  (Only when it's deserved, of course!).

2.  The customers get on my nerves.  After I reply, "no, I'm a bartender, not a prostitute," after you ask me to go with you tonight, do not ask me, "why not?"  ...Excuse me?  These perverts.

ASIDE:  I feel like I've got a pretty good handle on who I am and who I'm not; where I belong and where I don't.  I can chill in an environment I don't belong in for a minute, but I know it's not the place for me.  I feel like as long as you know who you are, it doesn't matter where you are, you can't get lost.

So, for all my family members who may be out there, reading all of my crazy tales: don't worry about me.  Of course, I don't know everything about who I am, but I know who I'm not.

3.  I made my rent money!  Consequently, I have no further use for that place.

4.  Boss Man took me off schedule (because he doesn't like me), which works perfectly for me because I didn't want to come back next week anyway.  Hel-lo free time!

This other bar wants to hire me to dance (salsa, merengue, etc.) with customers and bartend, but I want to work at a club, where the main focus isn't the bar.  It's more my speed.

I like really fast-paced places where I can keep my conversations with customers short and sweet, where I'm always moving so the night goes by quickly, where I don't have to work 5 frickin days a week.  ...Where there isn't a chance for customers to get perverted with me.  

So... bigger clubs, here I come.  I've got some NYC bartending experience under my belt: my resume has had its butt shots.  Let's go.

Before I left the bikini bar, I had the proper send off though.  We gave a Cablevision customer service rep (I actually think he might've been one of the ones I got loud and indignant with... whoops), the night of his life: five girls dancing for him at once.  He tipped us $20 each.  And another guy tipped me $20 just because I looked Dominican and he said I would fit right in in his country.  

Again: RENT MADE!

CHILL TIME shall commence once again.  Time to make a list of dance clubs and concert halls, etc.

I'm living in NYC: life comes at you fast.

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.  

So... I Got (Another) Job...

That's right.  Only Nikki could find a job after looking for two weeks, quit that job after one night, and find another a week later.

This one is a little further out, but you know what, I can deal with that because my payout (tips + commission) adds up to about $750 a week.  That's rent made in one week.  That's bills paid in two weeks.  That's savings and spending money while I'm in school.  Hell, I can even pay some of my tuition outright.  That's having my days completely free.  (That's having absolutely no weekends what-so-ever.).

Okay, so it's a bikini bar, but it's not sleazy.  It was a critic's choice star winner in NY Magazine.  Though... I do think working in the strip club was good preparation for this jont.  It's not located in the hood; the area was relatively clean and it's a short, well-lit walk past well-kept apartment buildings to the subway stop.  The manager was professional, thorough, and straight-forward.  The only issue I have is that he wants my hair straight =(

Apparently, I got the interview due to chance.

I sent my resume and picture in on Craigslist; they were hot pictures: me in my bikini, my curly hair rioting wild all around my face.  At the end of my interview the bar owner said, "usually if a girl sends me her picture and her hair's not done, I just delete it, but-- and I'm sure you've heard this before-- you're a very attractive young woman, and I could tell from your picture you've got this magnetic personality."

So he took a second chance on a curly-headed black girl from DC and sent me an email requesting an interview and I hopped on the train and made my way to his bar.  The interview went well; he explained all of the rules to me and then got on me about the hair thing... Sigh.

The Loud Black Girl in me wanted to roll my neck and say, "my hair does look good; it is done.  Forgive me if I don't follow the European standard of beauty in that regard!"  However... $750 a week and my rent won't disappear like the interest from my trust fund will.

So, I agree to straighten my hair or wear a wig and he asks me to change into my bikini and do the walk-and-turn for him, which I do.  ...You know I had to Catwalk It Out, right?  Yeah, buddy.

(Now I know you must be thinking "but wait... didn't you just walk out of another bar where you were wearing actual clothes and not just a bikini?"  This is true, however, you've got to add context.  This bar is a themed bar where I'm not just the only one half-naked and it's more professional and the customers speak English, which adds to my whole comfort level... and I'm making $750 a week... not $25 a night.).  

So, I got the job... and I would've worked tonight except that I wanted one last night of peace and I needed time to get my hair "done".

I also like that the owner has no illusions about his bar.  He said, "it's tough to make a buck, you know?  This is a place to work and build up some experience before you move on to bigger and better."  And that's my plan.  I can't sustain earning a fashion degree with working five nights a week from 8 pm - 5 am.  But during the summer, I can definitely sustain for that $750 a week.  Definitely.

I think I'll bartend at this place under the name Nikki Danes (from Nikki Dana), or Nikki D.  Likey?  =)

I feel really blessed.  There's a non-profit DIRECTLY across the street from me where I'm getting discounted sewing lessons and the owner offered to be my "secret weapon" and "safe haven" while I'm at Parsons.  I've got my family.  I've got great friends back home and here in New York.  I've got... the usual distractions a girl's just got to have ;-)  I'm in one of the best damn fashion programs in the world!  (Though, I still don't have cable, internet, or phone service for the third day in a row... damn Cablevision.).

I feel great!  Now... to straighten my hair =/

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.  =)