I am up early today to get ready for a much-anticipated open call for a serving position. Serendipity, the historic restaurant for Frozen Hot Chocolate, is hiring and my friend tells me I should go. Long story short—the owner was a bitch. She was like the lady on the Maxine greeting cards, looks and all—hates life, so wants everyone else to be miserable. I do not get the job because “I need full commitment.” Apparently going home to see my family for Christmas is unacceptable. She hands me my resume and I leave. Old, haggard, B!
As I am walking, I venture down 5th Avenue—the most fabulous shopping Mecca in Manhattan; at least in my opinion. I aspire to one day, walk into Cavalli, Gucci, Escada, wherever, and buy anything I want. The glamorous, workingwoman is what I like to call her. I’m walking down 5th Ave. carrying my $50 Canal Street Chanel tote, thinking I’m hot stuff. After I slap myself across the face and wake up to the reality that everyone on this street knows my bag is a major fake, I start to laugh to myself. Just an FYI, there are four major staples everyone New York woman has: an LV (Louis Vuitton), a shirtdress, costume rings, and tall, flat boots. Can we say, “Daddy I need to borrow your MasterCard.” =) Just kidding.
Work is interesting tonight. A grandma wants to take a picture of me by myself. Okay. Single grandson? Let’s hope so! She is a sweetie! Think back to when you are asked to fill out paperwork. You usually fill out what’s requested, right? I mean, they wouldn’t waste ink if it weren’t necessary. So, when they ask for your social security number and yearly income, don’t look at me funny. Don’t inevitably ask, “Do we really need to fill this out?” No, it’s on their for fun—in hopes to make you laugh. It’s a simple fill-in-the-blanks game. You chose to play, so follow the damn rules!
I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE European men! Oh my goodness! There is something about their accent and jeans they wear. The jeans, let me tell you, are the most fabulous fitting, dark-washed denim I have ever seen! When they come up and talk to me, I’m in heaven. You know when they say you can be in a crowded room and not know what anyone else is saying because you are so drawn to one person? That’s what it’s like with me on a daily basis! I probably always look like I’m in la-la land. But I can’t help it. Those dark eyes, tan skin, free flowing hair, and charming personality get me every time!
A guy comes up to me tonight and says, “That’s some John Travolta statue over there. Ya’ know I worked with John Travolta? He’s a great guy…” Then, all I hear is blah, blah, blah…I also know Leo DiCaprio…blah, blah, blah…I also knew Heath Ledger…blah, blah, blah. If you supposedly work with these high-profile celebrities, why are you wearing cinched sweatpants? He tells me he has connections in journalism and asks for my number. I ask who the person is. “Just someone in the industry,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I’m a little hesitant on giving you my number. What if you’re a psycho? I don’t know.” I say to him. Then he goes off on how I need to have faith in humanity and whan, whan, whan! So, I’m supposed to give my number to a man who “knows” all these people—well, sir, that John Travolta statue you were bragging about is actually Arnold Schwarzenegger from the movie Terminator. Why am I going to believe a man who doesn’t know classic movies? You supposedly work with these people!
To make it better, a friend from work recognizes him from the train. This profusely sweaty man approaches him, telling him he should be a model and wants his contact information. My friend, drunk, gives him his card—he gets an e-mail: male foot fetishes. Hmm…can we say weirdo?! To avoid confrontation, I ask for his e-mail. He not only “doesn’t know” his e-mail address, he “only gives it to celebrities.” He says, “How am I suppose to know when I get an e-mail from an Ashley that it’s not Ashley Judd. I’m going to type my e-mail being like, ‘Hey Ash Judd, how’s it goin? And it’s really you.’” Really? Get away from me you over-stuffed Michelin paparazzi man!
Note to self: When the General Manager of your company catches you on your cell phone, make him listen as to why. Don’t let him arrogantly walk away from you and “tattle” on you to your supervisor. YOU’RE THE GENERAL MANAGER! Have the balls to tell your hourly employees yourself! Who the hell do you think you are? Obviously not a good GM—if I had a dollar for every time someone came in asked me where other restaurants are in Times Square, you wouldn’t have to pay me you English prick! Be a man, get over your shit-tastic self, and confront ME with your problem and don’t threaten my job to someone else. And p.s., I was on my phone, Googling an address for one of our guests! British bastard!