Life Lesson #24: Say My Name, Bitch!

I showed up at the wrong restaurant on my first day of work. Twice. This led me to be forty minutes late. Again - on my first day of employment.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

Back in January, H.F.T. and I went out to the Hamptons to try and get jobs for the summer. I know; January? Well, the early bird catches the worm, people.

We hit up a whole bunch of places; applying for waitressing and bartending jobs anywhere we thought they might have us. A few months later, I got a call on my cell phone. It was from Mike, the head bartender/manager of a place I could have sworn was Restaurant A.

This should have been my first clue that I would not be employed at Restaurant A in the near future since of all the places H.F.T. and I went to, Restaurant A was in fact, not one of them.

It is, however, owned by the same guys of another place we did go to. So as I sat at my desk at my nine-to-fiver, trying to talk to Mike quietly so as to not be overheard by my current boss who was still unaware of my future plans of getting the hell out of here, I simply thought, Oh, this is cool. I’ve managed to score a bartending gig right by our share house. This is going to kick ass.

Fast-forward to Memorial Weekend, and I made a mental note to stop by Restaurant A at some point to introduce myself before my first day a week later.

Well, that never happened. Perfect frying weather, way too much partying, plus a general lack of care, had the weekend come and go without so much as a drive-by. I figured I’d just show up early the next Monday and all would be good.

And so I did. By about fifteen minutes. To a restaurant that was closed (hello, clue number two). So, I sat myself down at the outside bar and waited.

Ten after, and still not a soul to be found. So I called Mike and left a message.

“Hi! It’s Penny. It’s a little after four and I’m sitting outside the restaurant. I’m guessing I’m early? Give me a call back and let me know when you’ll be here. See you soon!”

A few minutes went by and my phone started ringing.

“Hi! Penny – you’re way early! I said 5:30. What time did you get there?”

“Oh! Woops – I thought you had said four.”

“Okay, well, I won’t be there for a bit, so why don’t you just come back at five then?”

Easy enough, as Restaurant A really is right around the block from the house. I went back, made myself a cup of coffee and flipped through a magazine.

Five o’clock. In the parking lot of Restaurant A. Still, no one in sight. What the f, man?

I killed a few minutes walking around. Even though it was a bit overcast, the place is really nice and right on the water.

This could be a great moneymaker. I hope I get to work the outside bar. I wonder if I’m going­ -

FUCK. This is NOT right. Shit. I totally don’t work here.

I pulled out my phone and left Mike another message.

“Hi, Mike? It’s Penny again. A little after five now. I’m getting the feeling I’m at the wrong place. If you could just call me back with the correct address? That would be great. Thanks.”

I got in my car and sat for a moment.

This is not right. Where am I supposed to be? I swear he said Restaurant A. Why didn’t he call me from the restaurant, not his friggin’ cell phone? Then maybe I could figure out where the hell I should be right now.

Wait a minute.

OH MY GOD.

I so do not work here. I totally work at Restaurant B.

As if someone suddenly took a leaf blower to the clutter of empty vodka bottles and sleepless nights piled up in front of the door to Memories from a Few Months Ago, I remember meeting Mike and talking to him as I filled out an application back in January. At Restaurant B. Not A.

So I sped my way over to the correct establishment, 180-ed it into the parking lot, hung my head in shame, and ran in at 5:40.

Suffice to say, my fellow employees wonder just how dumb I am. I think that’s why they made me do three days of training when most people only have to do two. However, no matter how ridiculous the situation I got myself into may make people believe me to be, I know my name. Very well, in fact.

And it’s not Gwennie.

Yet that’s what one damn waitress, Bobbie, has decided to call me, regardless of how many times I correct her or she hears me introduce myself or when she hands me my paycheck with my name clearly written RIGHT ON THE FRONT.

Because she’s one of those women that are born with a tray in hand, a pen stuck in their over processed, messy hair and has worked at that place for more years than I’ve been alive, I’m the only person who corrects her.

When I see Bobbie, I often envision taking the cash register and chucking it at her. There are many reasons for this:

1. The whole name thing. Come on already. You hear me introduce myself about fifty times a shift to everyone sitting at the bar. They all get my name right – why can’t you?

2. She made me wear a fucking company t-shirt. As a bartender, I’m supposed to wear what I want. I come in one day, she’s got a problem with what I’m wearing, and the next thing I know I’ve got on a heinous blue fake button-down shirt three sizes too big. Luckily, the owner wasn’t having that and the shirt was only worn twice. But yea, I’m still pissed.

3. She yells out her order before it comes through the ticker of the service bar. The whole point of the ticker is so the waitstaff doesn’t scream their orders across a crowded bar I’m already handling on my own. So when you ask me for a bottle of Chardonnay, fuck off. I’ll get to it when it comes out my printer.

4. Even when she’s been a wretched pain in my ass all day, she still thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to ask, “Gwenniee, do you have a cigarette I can borrow?” Nope. Never have. Never will.

5. I’m sorry but the woman is ugly. She wears horrible capri khakis that ride up her large, flat ass and emphasize her ridiculous penguin-waddle. Her voice sounds like my worst nightmare. She always looks like she either took in way too much sun or just drank a bottle of Pinot all by her lonesome.

6. About that Pinot. I use to be a fan of the wine. Not anymore. Because I have to hear her say, “Gwennieee, can I get another Pinoooot?” every seven minutes. YOU’LL GET IT WHEN IT COMES THROUGH THE TICKER WOMAN.

7. She jumps in on my conversations from the other side of the room. Do I yell from behind the bar “Oh, yea, the drive from Manhattan is soooo long, Bobbieee” at one of her tables across the restaurant? No. But she’s got no problem talking about all sorts of stuff she probably doesn’t know a freakin' thing about in the first place.

8. After she dirties up my bar, leaving cans of whipped cream and straw wrappers all over the damn place, she has the balls to say, “Gwennieeeee, you’re doing a great job, but you have to keep your bar cleaner sweetie.”

9. Did I mention my name is NOT GWENNIE??

Honestly, I could go on. But what’s the point?

Life Lesson # 24: I have my shining moments when it comes to doing stupid things. This week is a perfect case in point. But honestly, who doesn’t? I think it kind of keeps me in check. I may think I'm a smart girl who went to a great college, but the reality is I can be pretty dumb at times.

But I swear, this woman better start getting my name right. Or I'm going to clean the bar with her face.

Life Lesson #23: Oh Cabana boy! Why don’t you come rub some lotion on my back? And don’t forget, I need those TP reports first thing tomorrow!

I wish there was a way to turn Sunday poolside lounging into an actual paying job. Or even better yet, make it into a career. Leisure Expert, or something of the sorts. That would be amazing.

I would kick some serious ass at my job. The corporate ladder would be my bitch.

My dad has always said that you should discover what it is that you love to do and find a way to get paid for it. Well, I’m kind of in love with our summer share pool. And I’m trying very hard to get this to work for me in a moneymaking sense.

I never really used to be a pool lover. I always fell on the beach bum side of the fence.

Ever since I can remember, my parents would take my brothers and I to Jones Beach on summer Saturdays. While we pretty much grew up in Westchester, they refused to join any sort of country or pool club that most families of this fine county belonged to. I guess it’s a Bronx thing; if Jones Beach was good enough for them when they lived in the borough, it would remain so when they moved up the line.

There was nothing more exciting than hearing the garage door signal my dad had returned from the deli with cold cut sandwiches and Doritos (please, let it be Cool Ranch this week). My mom would put them into a cooler with plums or peaches, watermelon, cookies, several Heinekens for my dad, and a giant jug of either pink lemonade or iced tea for the rest of us. This would get packed into the trunk of the car, along with our giant beach blanket, towels to dry off with, reclining chairs for my parents, my mom’s tote filled with sunscreens, lip balms, tissues, plastic cups and sweatshirts, and last, but definitely not least, another massive bag filled with miscellaneous pails, shovels, Star Wars figurines, WWF dolls made of solid rubber (Andre the Giant, King Kong Bundy, Iron Sheik, George 'the Animal' Steel, and of course, Hulk Hogan), mini water guns, and every once in awhile, a random Barbie I had helped to escape from my room and join her wrestling heroes for a crazy day in the sun.

We’d pile into the car and make the hour (hopefully) drive out to Long Island. By the time we reached the Jones Beach tollbooths, I could be found in the middle back seat, bouncing with excitement and the desperate need to pee. If luck was on our side, we’d be able to pull right into Field 6 (my dad’s favorite due to the shortest walk from the parking lot to the actual sand), although that was pretty rare. After a few circles around though, the old man always managed to get us into his desired field, regardless of any LOT FULL signs or orange cones meant to block you from entering.

Fifteen minutes later, this kid was in heaven. A rented umbrella would be swiveled into the sand, declaring the ten by ten section of beach ours for the next six or so hours. The spot would be covered with our plethora of stuff, sand and toys and towels a giant mess in only moments. The day would be spent at a dizzying speed as we ran from the water, to the sand, to our treasure of toys, to chase down the guy selling ice cream, back to the car (Andre the Giant and Iron Sheik had a nasty habit of escaping the bag and hiding in the darkest corner of the trunk), to the blanket, to the giant hole my dad would shovel for us, back to the water, to our towels, into our parents chairs when they went for a walk, back to the hole now covered with the blanket, to the chairs now in the hole, to the sand, and back to the water before our mom could stop us.

When the sun would just about hit the top of the horizon, my brothers and I would shake the sand from our feet, wrap ourselves in the blanket and pass out in the back seat, only to wake up as we pulled into the driveway.

Years after I was too old to run around half-naked, bits of chips mixed with sand still on my lips as I screamed at the top of my lungs “BARBIE IS GOING TO MAKE A POOPIE IN THE OCEAN!!” (yea, even then I was out of line and got a huge kick out of making others highly uncomfortable), we’d still take frequent trips to the beach. And I still loved it. I still do. And almost any day of the week, beach wins over pool.

But I’ve got to admit; the pool ain’t so bad either. Especially on a Sunday.

I figure that if I’m going to attempt to pursue this sure-to-be highly coveted occupation as Leisure Expert, specializing in Pools, I should really start fine-tuning the necessary skills, which I of course have been seriously contemplating over here.

The capacity to spend several hours doing not much of anything, without special attention to little, if any, detail of one’s clothing and/or proper pool attire.

Proactive nature in regards to bringing key food ingredients to the deck, including such items as chips, water, Gatorades and/or Vitamin Water, flavored ices and bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches.

The ability to reassess the previous night’s activities in a relatively un-chronological, erratic manner, with bouts of hysteria and uncontrollable laughter.

Little, if any, fears of getting extremely cold and wet in the pool as a necessary means to an end (of a vicious hangover). Note that minimum submersion time is five minutes, but can easily be up to sixty at a time.

Life Lesson # 23: So I'm having some difficulty figuring out what the hell I'm going to do when I move. But maybe I should open up my eyes to the possiblity that, well, anything is possible. Like Papa John said, you've got to love what you do or you're going to hate life.

So Leisure Expert might be pushing it a bit. Then again, maybe not. There's Dirty Jobs and a whole television channel devoted to food. Why not a book on the 100 Best Sunday Funday activities? Or a television show following me around from pool party to pool party, mingling with people to find out what they're all about and just how they wound up floating with me on a noodle on a lazy Sunday afternoon?

If that doesn't work - I could always go back to the beach. That is my first love after all. How about starting an Olympics for the largest sand pit or the search for the wackiest lifeguard out there?

I'm thinking big people. I already quit my real job. At this point, I really have nothing to lose.

Life Lesson #22: I'm a man who discovered the wheel and built the Eiffel Tower out of metal and brawn! But sometimes, I just want to dance.

“Seriously, those guys love Man Love!”

Madonna made this bold statement at about nine a.m. Sunday morning. While she was probably still intoxicated (it was declared during one of those conversations you have with your friends when you wake up for about twenty minutes after a late night, only to fall back asleep for several more hours once you realize you’re incapable of saying anything coherent and it hurts to even lift your head for a second), I’d venture to say she is correct.

I’d like to define Man Love as the many ways in which guys demonstrate affection towards one another. Of course, the hug-with-simultaneous-back-pat falls into this. As does the ass-smack of many a sports team. And the sophomoric goosing that, sadly, still seems an appropriate form of messing with your friends in public.

As of late, some more complex forms have developed amongst the male population. Maybe because of our more tolerant world. Maybe because once they’ve shared a few shots, guys feel closer to each other. Or maybe because they realize their fears of all things ‘gay’ are completely idiotic.

Whatever the reason, Man Love was all the rage this week. Beginning in the form of advice.

Westchester and I went out to lunch on Saturday with a few guys in our summer share house. After one of our male companions managed to mess up his shorts with a Gorbachev grease stain, he quelled his own agitation by announcing he was still going to wear them out later that night.

“Hey, it’s manly. It’s a stain!”

I raised one eyebrow quizzically and shook my head. No, not manly, but slobbish, for sure. I thought in the best interest of all, I would tell him so. But before I could open my mouth, the two other guys quickly jumped in.

“No way you can wear those out. It’s a huge stain, man!”

Followed by another genius observation.

“No chick is going to go home with you with that.”

Agreed.

But our friend was still hesitant to cave.

“Come on, really? It’s just a stain. It makes me look like a Man’s Man.”

I had to break my silence.

“It’s a hamburger stain, not a grease stain from a truck or something! No one is going to mistake you for a hot mechanic tonight. Just a guy who’s too lazy to clean his pants.”

I got resounding nods from everyone at the table. As well as continued persuasions to get him to either clean the shorts when we got back to the house or change before going out.

So Man Love, it seems, now includes imparting pearls of wisdom from one man to another. Whereas a few years ago, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had instead attempted to cock-block him by insisting the stain would help him get laid. But now, it’s not about that. It is about imparting the small bits of insight one may have to the others that don’t quite get it yet. Particularly when it comes to sex.

Man Love has also taken to the dance floor.

It used to be dancing was for women and couples. Period. A group of girls could be found at any given moment in time - at a club, a wedding reception, or a high school gym - getting their groove on. Slow the beat down a notch, you might be able to lure a few couples out there. A random brave male soul (or total creep, given the context of the situation) might be hovering around, bobbing his head or tapping his foot to indicate that, while he is nowhere near part of the vagina tribe, he is clearly observing and maybe even hoping to pull one of the group free to become part of a couple with him.

What one rarely saw was a group of guys doing this. Because they didn’t dance with each other. It just didn’t happen. They would only dance because their girlfriends begged them or their Aunty Betty was newly widowed and about to shed a tear during “What a Wonderful World”.

But Man Love is letting the man boogie.

This weekend alone, I witnessed several somewhat awkward, bizarre steps, unique to the penis tribe, that for arguments sake, will be considered “dance moves”:

The Can-Can’t (takes three or more): Arms around each other’s shoulders, a sway and jump switch off, possibly a kick of a leg at random. Can be to the beat. More often than not, it seems as if they just can’t find it.

The Lion (takes two or more): This is a term Madonna actually likes to describe for many pictures guys take in which they put their arms around each other and puff out their chests in pride. Once the flash pops, if the boys remain in this pose and start swaying, then you’ve got dancing. Which may even lead into The Can-Can’t.

The Go-Gett(h)er (takes one): This is for the truly bold. Throwing caution to the wind, this man will go up to any woman, whether she be in the midst of the vagina tribe, dancing with just one other girl friend, or shaking her ass all by her lonesome (kind of like me), and jump right in. Literally. Because The Go-Gett(h)er often includes insane-like leaping, bouncing and hopping all over the place.

Man Love is also demonstrated by the coveting of one member of a group in an affectionate, almost fatherly, sort of way.

We have a particular group of friends that we’ve known since high school. The group has grown to include some of their respective friends from college. They’ve all swapped stories, advice, and girlfriends. They’re kind of like this big, dysfunctional family, or Island of Misfits even. Which is why we love them.

Anyway, there is one kid in this group that everyone just adores. And so, they’ve taken to some displays of affection rarely seen amongst men:

Noogies (really, who does that any more?)

Kissing on the cheek (honestly)

Picking up and twirling him around (swear on my soul)

I know you probably don’t believe the above, but it’s true. And if you’re part of that group, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Life Lesson # 22: Ladies, being girly is no longer just for us anymore. While we’ve been showing each other love and affection for a lifetime, our male counterparts finally want their turn. It’s hilarious. Slightly endearing. And in a way, it may even be a sign of them growing up.

Life Lesson #21:Oh you look so beautiful tonight. Even if it is like, a bazillion degrees out.

Most of us can agree on a few telltale signs that trumpet the arrival of summer.

Clothing goes on that reveals skin we haven’t shown in months: tank tops, shorts, flip flops, bathing suits. Drastic increases in our utility bills as we crank up the air conditioning the moment we step into our homes (and tend to forget to turn off when we leave). Dining and/or drinking outside as establishments keep their outdoor seating on the sidewalks for the next few months. The steady consumption of foods cooked on a grill, corn on the cob, and frozen cocktails. And tans (or I guess burns for some of you, but I’m not too familiar with that) that diminish by Thursday under harsh neon cubicle lights, but are sure to be darkened for the Monday morning return to work.

Then there are the summer staples that are more unique to my friends and I. And for us, we couldn’t be more psyched when we realize they are finally here.

The first symptom we’ve come to embrace is what I like to call Ventriculus Crampus. This phenomenon of insanely sore stomach muscles is particularly acute from June to August. Now, this is not from any sort of physical activity, regardless of how it should be since it’s bathing suit season and all. I mean the type of pain from laughing so hard, for such extended periods, that you wake up the next morning feeling like someone took a 2 by4 to your intestinal lining. Boy do I love waking up with that sensation.

I think it is partially due to different groups of friends getting together and hanging out and mingling and testing the comic boundaries of the newly formed group with ridiculous comments and wild stories. I also imagine it has something to do with everyone being way too hung over and sleep deprived (from trying to cram a typical spring break binge of eating and drinking and partying into three days) that they reach that crazy, cracked-out stage when everything seems hilarious. I also have my own half-baked theory in which it’s so hot out, people start acting a little delirious and shed their usual stiff selves to reveal their inner comedian. Regardless of why, even if you can’t remember, you know you had a good night if you wake up with Ventriculus Crampus.

Next, there is the sudden need to hear every song from the Top 40 List. We expect to listen to them twice a day during the week (often during a commute to or from work, as well as a typical weekday happy hour). This is really just to keep us pumped until the weekend comes. Once Friday rolls around, we want to hear these tunes at least four times a day (first poolside, then while getting all cleaned up to go out, next during the pre-game/waiting for taxis period, and finally, when we actually make it out).

Generally speaking, I hate the radio. Morning talk makes me want to hurl large objects at small children, mostly because I’m incapable of comprehending any sort of chirpiness first thing in the morning. Well, until like ten probably. I’m just not a morning person. And then there are those idiots who call the deejays when they should be doing something productive with their lives just to announce how much they loovvvveee their station and oh my god! I can’t believe I won! (Um, why does this surprise you in any way? You called the station.). Therefore, in order to protect the lives of any small children, I usually don’t bother with FM. It just annoys the crap out of me.

But come sunny skies and beach weather, I’m a radio junkie. I need my Top 40 fix, every day. I need to hear Kelly, Shakira and Chamillionaire. I even need to sing along, though I’m pretty confident I’m tone deaf and my voice is awful. It’s hot outside, and all I want to do is roll down my car windows, turn up the volume and scream promiscuous girl, you're teasing me, you know what I want, and I got what you need at the top of my lungs.

Another staple is your face, all over the place. This is because the heat brings out the cameras. There are pictures being taken at noon on the beach, candid shots of someone desperately trying to take an afternoon nap, and those sweaty, middle-of-the-night flashes that capture us singing along to those absurd Top 40 hits we just love oh-so-much. While no one wants pictures of their pasty selves mid-February when they’re wearing seven layers of protective clothing and tend to look as if they haven’t seen daylight for ten years, even the most camera shy are all over the summer snapshots.

For a more select group of us, we take the picture thing one step further. The official confirmation that the season has arrived is when your mug makes it into the Long Island Summer magazine. We scour the giant 11 by 14, black and white pages for a familiar face, whether it is yours or that of a friend. Amongst the abyss of half-closed eyes and sloppy grins, nothing is quite as satisfying as finding your self, beaming back at you. Who cares if you’ve got a shot of Jagger halfway down your shirt and your hair is blowing in seven directions?! You’re in the magazine, baby!

And lastly, and what I’d like to think of as the greatest ritual that without, all other summer signs would be obsolete, is The Arm Pump. It brings every one of the other elements together. You’re out with your friends, the early hours of the morning have arrived, and it’s time to get your groove on. Suddenly, "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" starts blaring and you’re all going nuts, cameras flashing, shoulders shaking, bodies bouncing all over the place. Someone slips and falls, sending everyone else into a tailspin of laughter that is only stopped by the chorus coming on again.

And then it happens.

You look around and watch a sea of arms, high up in the sky, pumping away to the beat. It’s the great common denominator. It doesn’t make a difference if you can’t dance for shit. Anyone can pump his or her first high into the air.

Once it begins, The Arm Pump stays until the very last song of the night. It reaches truly epic proportions as the evening progresses. Billboard songs are only the beginning. They’re like the warm ups to get your shoulder ready for the challenges to come. The real magic lies in "City of Blinding Lights". And without a doubt, The Arm Pump was made for "Rescue Me".

You can just hear it in your head right now.

Running all my life
Running all my day
Running through the night
Seems like forever
Take me now
I'm so tired
Take me now
This time, forever

Good lord, how I heart The Arm Pump.

Life lesson #21: Who cares if this season, you’re sweating like a migrant worker running for the border? I say enjoy the summer. It only comes around once a year. And who knows if this will be your last at the shore, on the island, or by the lake.

Screw being self-conscious in minimal clothing or worrying if you’re going to be able to recover by Monday morning to become a productive citizen again. Because when it’s hot outside and you're with your friends, that is the only thing that matters. Oh, and that you’ve got a strong, free hand to snap some photos and thurst high into the night.

I’ll see you all at The Drift.

A note from Penny (and a brief apology): Forgot to tell you all I wouldn't be posting last week. In case you hadn't noticed by now. So sorry.

But I'm back. And after this week, postings will be going up on Tuesdays.

And as always, thanks so much for reading!