Tales from the Hunt

I spent the entirety of last night on Craigslist, responding to postings.

I got one hit back from this Latin club within an hour of sending them my shizzle.  They wanted an interview today.

Between my "of indeterminate and curiously mixed heritage" looks and the general pretty-hot-and-tempting nature of my bartending photos, I think that's what got me such a rapid hit back... because it definitely couldn't have been my skimp resume.

I woke this morning (later than I meant to) and did more Craigslist stuff, and then I got ready to skiddadle and go to my interview.  An hour away.

I would prefer to work somewhere closer to my apartment or my school, but beggars can't be choosy.  And although I'm currently living off of money from my trust fund, I don't want to keep doing that.  I'd like it to remain there as a cushion.  So!  Off I went into the pouring rain to hop on a train in hope of the gain... of a job.  (I never was that good at rhyming.).  

Smart Nikki remembered to bring her resume and photo selection as well as my mixology certificate (not that it actually means much).

Stupid Nikki forgot to bring the number I was supposed to call to be let into the building.  Luckily, Stupid Nikki has great friends whom I can trust to go into my email account for me and find vital information.  Lucky Nikki.

So, I go into the club and there's like 6 young Latina women practicing for a beauty pageant or something.  The guy directing them across the floor is SO flamboyant.  Cross-culturally, the dynamic of the small-town beauty pageant/fashion show/hair show is the same.  Lots of young women with stars and dollar signs in their eyes and some guy in some combination of silk, leather and spandex with a slight lisp showing them how to strut in heels.  I love universality.

I'm met by the bar manager, who gives me a rapid interview.

As she scanned over my resume, her eyebrows rose, "Oh, you went to bartending school, good good.  ...So how much experience you have?"

I thought about lying on my resume, but you can't lie about years of behind-the-bar experience when you're OBVIOUSLY only 21.  And I wasn't about to say 6 months; hell no!  "Well, I've been bartending unofficially since I was seventeen," I laughed easily.

"Well, I'll put down 5 years then," she smiled back.

Score!

She took a look at my photo selection.  "Wow.  Beautiful.  Very nice.  Yeah, I remember these pictures."

Yep.  I look pretty killa-killa in a bikini, yo!

Score!  I took a memorable photo!

We talked a little more about the club and what my requirements would be.  I made sure to tell her I speak Spanish.  (I wasn't lying.  I speak enough Spanish to get by.  We just have to keep it to the present or past tense.  And speak mas despacio and use simple words and phrases, por favor.).  

It's all the way uptown (or I'll be in the Bronx location), but l don't mind that right now.  I just want to make money.  Plus!  If I get hired by this club I'll get to practice my Spanish (and probably learn some creative phrases, lol) and learn some new dances.  I can sacrifice an hour of time for cultural enlightenment.  If they want to train me, I'll find out by the end of the week.

In the meantime:

Going for another interview in Queens tomorrow.  Randomly stopping by two Brooklyn bars as well.  Still all over Craigslist.

hustleBABYhustle.

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.  =)

Back in a Flash! (No Pun Intended)

I was out with one of my best friends, eating at Olive Garden, shopping at Victoria's Secret, when I got The Call/Text.  I thought Sunday was my last official day of work at The Club, but, because my boss had a family emergency, I got called in to work on Monday as well.  Most people would probably be beyond annoyed that their place of work called them after business hours while they were out enjoying themselves to see if they could come into work on a day that's not on your schedule, the day after you had your "last day."  ...But my job is kinda different.

For one, I really feel like I'm a part of a family, and even though I'm one of those people that will always, always answer, "yes," when someone asks me for help if I can, I'd do it anyway just because I feel like I'm part of something bigger than me.  (OR I just get emotionally attached to people and places really easily.).  So anyway, I rolled to work and got there at about 11 pm wearing my favorite day dress, and let me just say... I wish I'd been working Mondays all year because Amateur Night is effing HILARIOUS!

Stage Virgins

It's really easy to tell who's an amateur and who isn't.  No matter how bold a woman is, it's one thing to be mentally ready to dance around and take off your clothes; it's quite another to actually do it.  You've got to be completely comfortable and confident.  You've got to believe that everyone in that room wants you, will do anything for you, and thinks you look amazing no matter what you're doing.  Any little insecurity results in hesitation, stiffness and indecision.

These two amateurs tried to do a routine together, but it was so horribly timed and disorganized.  Afterwards, my boss told one of them:

"You and your friend's little routine was a little awkward, but you looked good up there.  Just work on it a little bit.  You got the job."

He took a harder look at her.  "Are you pregnant?"  She shook her head.  "Just had a baby... about... 3 months ago?"  She nodded.  "Get started doing some sit ups; you gotta lose that baby fat.  And we'll talk about some breast implants."  

Also... costume choice.   Lingerie is not an appropriate stripping costume.  It just looks weird for you to be wearing Victoria's Secret on the stage; Frederick's of Hollywood, maybe.  And if you're going to wear lingerie, don't wear church shoes with it!  Strip club = stripper shoes.  Church = church shoes.  Ecclesiastes 3... there's a time and place for everything.  ...I guess I did get kinda hypocritical there by bringing the Bible into my blog about stripping and alcohol... =)

As my boss got on the mic, hyping up the crowd, introducing the dancers, he was sure to throw in:

"I stand outside of high schools, recruiting.  If your daughter's over the age of 18, I'll be outside of her high school."  

He said he was just joking later.

...And Then There Was She-Rah.

We all looked up as she took the stage.  She was wearing a red PVC body suit and a lot of honey blonde weave and a lot of fire-engine red lipstick matching her costume.  She looked at the crowd mischievously, with a playfully cocky tilt of her head; playful like rough games without any rules.

"She looks like a dominatrix," my manager pointed.

And when the music dropped, she proved her right.  I thought I'd seen it all when she did a handstand into backbend into a split on top of the other girl...  But then she PICKED the other girl up, FLIPPED her over (spread eagled, in the air), SPANKED her, LICKED her ass and simulated various other sexual acts on her body.

"What the hell!?" I covered my mouth.

Most of the men in the crowd, in stead of being turned on, seemed to be a little scared.  

"I told you she was crazy," my manager shook her head.

Later on that night as my boss was changing out people's singles, we joked about what we'd seen.

"Crazy people strong as a mothafucka," he laughed.

Final Words

I wish the bar sat up higher so I could've seen everything going on on stage because even with the little bit I did manage to see, it kept me laughing all night long.  If you're able to go to amateur night at a strip club, I would highly recommend it.  Even if the dancing is bad, you'll be highly entertained.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

My boss to a customer:

"Yeah!  Beat that ass with that money!"

LMAO.

Until We Meet Again

So, yesterday was my last day (kind of) at work.  I say "kind of" because I'll be back.  I have to come back to DC every 6 weeks for my braces, and I'll be back some random weekends, so whenever I'm back, I'm going to work on either Friday or Saturday.  I made out pretty good on my last day: $131 with no one in the club and a business card I will actually use!  It was a pretty slow night, but I appreciated it... it's nice to have a lazy Sunday evening.  But accompanying lazy music is not necessary...

Heartbreak at the Strip Club

Before the DJ gets to the club, customers must feed the jukebox in order to keep the music going.  Customers usually pick a mix of 2Pac, Biggie, Luda, Jay-Z, Beyonce, Gucci Mane and Three 6 Mafia with some others thrown in.  Today, I guess someone was feeling the pain because their woman left them or something because they definitely selected some slow, dragging, depressing ballad, "What Have I Done With My Life."  My manager and I looked at each other and cracked up.  

"This is just depressing," I shook my head.

"Turn that mess off!" she hollered over to the doorman.

How are you supposed to enjoy yourself to depressing music?  How are the strippers supposed to dance to that?  The song was promptly turned off and Gorilla Zoe was promptly turned on.

 Lookin' Good Can Get You in Trouble

As I'm engaged in the process of packing for my Big Move, I've got very little of my clothing available to wear, so I had to leave the house in my little red dress I've had since high school.  My father looked at me as I was leaving and said, "that's kind of short, isn't it?"

"It's the last red thing I have in my closet," I shrugged.

"You have to wear red?"

I nodded.

"Be careful," he sighed.

Truth.  It wasn't my customers who couldn't handle it, though, it was Dallas, the barback.  As I sat on the stool behind the bar, texting away on my phone, setting up my plans to move my stuff, he came over to me shaking his head.

"You look so good, I'm gonna have to take you home with me."

Ew.  Double Ew.  I smiled thinly and shook my head.  "No, sir."

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle.  I'll treat you like the queen you are."

Ew!  EW!!!  I shook my head again.  Then, later, he actually touched my knee and said, "I'll give those nice legs a good massage."

GET AWAY FROM ME!  GROSSGROSSGROSS!!!

What is it with nasty old men?  Why do they think young, pretty girls want anything to do with them?  Why do they let such nastiness come out of their mouths?  Speaking of which...

Nasty Old Man Strikes Again

So, Nasty Old Man came back around today.  He had a long conversation with me about my move to New York, asking if I was going to be living with my (imaginary) boyfriend.  I told him no, but that we wouldn't be living that far off from one another.

"That's good, you got your own thing going.  He has his own thing, you got your own thing.  Ooh, you're gonna be somethin' to see in about five, ten years.  You're a ripe little peach right now, but New York is gonna turn you out.  You'll learn; see, you're loyal to your man now because you're living by the code that's been instilled in you.  I'm gonna come find you in a couple of years."

He then asked me my name, which I gave.  He told me his full name as well, and coincidentally his last name is an old family name of mine.

"That's a family name," I told him.  "My grandmother hails from that family."

He blinked.  "Well, there's a lot of us around.  Were you trying to tell me something."

"Only that I might be your cousin, so you might not want to mess around with me."

We got on the topic of my family from the South and how prominent they've been in the area since the late 1800s, and he said, "oh.  So I've been pickin' with a daughter of the upper crust?  I just thought about some of the things I've said to you.  I was comin' at you real..."

"Yeah," I said.  "I'm a suburban girl.  I'm not used to that."

"No, no.  It's you suburban girls and Catholic school girls that are the nastiest, 'cause ya'll have been repressed.  Once you get on your own, you go wild."

He then advised me to be sexually liberated, but to have safe sex, and to never allow a man to dictate my decisions and to be open-minded about life.  All good advice; none of which I needed.  He has no idea who he's dealing with.  I look innocent.

"I'm gonna find you and come after you," he promised.  "You'll have to let me taste it; you owe me."

"I owe you?" I arched an eyebrow.

"Well... not owe... just... for old times' sake."

"I don't owe anyone anything," I gave my half-smile and slid him his Heineken.  

A Calling Card I WILL Use

As the next customer came up to the bar, Nasty Old Man passed behind him.  "When are you leaving?" he shouted in my direction.

"This is my last day," I replied.

He pantomimed crying and grabbed at his heart.

I rolled my eyes and shooed him away.  "He'll live," I told my next customer.

"You'll live," he corrected me.  "I don't know about him."

I laughed.

"Where are you moving to?" he asked.

"New York."

"Oh really?  My family's from Brooklyn.  I'm a Marylander, but that's where my family's from.  I'm up there all the time."

"Oh?  Know any nice clubs and such?  I'll be looking for a job soon."

"I don't, but my cousins probably do.  Here's my card, feel free to email me."

"Definitely," I nodded.  I think I actually will be using that card.  He's a visual artist, for one.  I may need his services sometime in the near future, and trust... I need to know which club areas to gravitate towards and stay away from.  

After he walked away from the bar he came back a couple of minutes later, shaking his head.  "I was so distracted by your beauty I forgot to tip you.  I was raised better than that... you are really beautiful, though."

Aw!  Smiles =)

Getting Hit On by Women as Opposed to Men

It's been my experience that, typically, women are a lot more direct and aggressive than men when they go after other women.  There was this one girl that had class with me that licked her ice cream really suggestively when she saw me in the cafeteria.  Awkward.  At the bar, this woman asked me for a Raspberry Cosmo, and after I made it (just looking at it I could tell it was good, ya'll) she took a sip and told me, "oooh!  Girl, you did the damn thing!" and winked at me.

Then, she said, "but the next time you serve me, I'm gonna need to see some ID."

"Yeah, I know I look like I'm sixteen."

"You really do.  How old are you?"

"Twenty one.  I guess I'll appreciate my young face when I'm like 35."

"Yeah, you'll look really good then. You're a cutie.  And your braces are sexy."

Eep.  I don't know how to handle advances from women yet.  I generally just pretend like I don't know what they're doing.  Men are one thing; even if they're hard-headed, once you say "no," they back off/only go after you jokingly.  Women, on the other hand, have to know: 1) I'm not into women, 2) you can't MAKE me into women, and 3) I'm not trying to get picked up at work anyway.

I'm In Love with the Dope Boys

Sorry, but drug dealers tip really well.  I'm not trying to work in the hood when I move up to NY because I know the hoods in DC; I'm unfamiliar with the different levels of hoodishness in NY, but...  When you do work in the hood, your drug-peddling customers aren't really affected by recessions, and they always buy top shelf liquor and tip well.  Anyone who spends $124 on liquor and tips me $25 is good in my books.  These Wall Street mofos better be on the same level or higher.  They make even bigger, legal money.  (Well, bigger money than the lower-level street hustlers, anyway.).

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

Me to Nasty Old Man:  "I don't owe anyone anything."

Damn straight.  I answer to my own personal code and God ONLY.

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