the royal lunchlady

(From New Year’s Day, 2012)

Mouth: 2011.

Head: !@#$%^&*()

Mouth: It went well.

Head: I don't remember most of it.

Mouth: Met new friends.

Head: I also slept in my own vomit.

Mouth: Saw new places.

Head: On a mental level, 50% of my time was spent in Westeros, 20% in Middle Earth, 20% in District 12, and 10% in an alcohol-induced stupor.

Mouth: I can't wait to start working on my resolutions!

Head: Resolution 1- Get incepted.  Resolution 2- Get incepted by Jospeh-Gordon Levitt.  Resolution 3- Marry Jospeh-Goron Levitt.

Mouth: And I did so well in school this semester!

Head: ...I went to school?

Mouth: Next semester is going to be the best EVER! I can't wait to go back to campus.

Head: Jesus. I've never seen so many idiots converge on one place like that. It's like the Walking Dead. Only less cool and a lot more inconsequential eyewear.

Mouth: And college fashion, oh my god! Who DIDN'T love this year's obsession with completely inconsequential eyewear?  

Head: It's like there was a mass invasion of Hoboken's Salvation Armies. I died a little this year. That shit does NOT look good on anyone.

Mouth: I mean, Justin Bieber wears them. So they've got to be cool.

Head: I am revoking my mouth's speaking priveleges after that comment.

Mouth: But...

Head: Bitch, clamp it. Anyway. Since it's a new year and I've been doing a lot of obligatory shit, I've decided 2012 is going to be the year where I just say and do whatever I want. Because of the JOKES. THINK OF ALL THE JOKES. My fourth resolution is final. After I wed the beautiful JGL, I will move to not only abolish non-perscription glasses, but to burn the world's supply of wool townhats. Moreover, I will no longer stand for practically illiterate politicians in ill-cut suits. The Onion will be required reading for grades K-12. Pogs will be America's past time once more and I VOW TO BRING BACK THE DURHAM WINGS YOUR WAY. BECAUSE NO CLASS SHOULD GO WITHOUT THEIR MONICA LEWINSKY WRAPS, NO TOMATO.  

All I wanted to do today was write. I wanted to find an sweet little place to sit and write something awful that would later make me want to punch myself in the face, but it’s okay because it’s the #NewYorkLife.

Ok so real talk...I wanted to take Instagram pictures that would <i>imply</i> I was writing. And that I was super happy. I was really investing in making everything appear FINE today, as opposed to the reality of not having a place to live, or having no money in my bank account, or that my catering job treated me like Peruvian pack mule and paid me like one too (in free food), or I found out my boyfriend wasn’t actually my boyfriend just another dude who “thought we were having fun”. 

And so, being one of the worst New Yorkers in recorded history, I googled “best places to write in NYC”.

Don’t ever do this. Especially if it lands you on any webpage related to CNN. CNN is a Newsroomy table of middle-aged white men who’ve invested too much in their dickhole hipster offspring and have silver-spooned them all the way to Brooklyn.

“The 10 Best NYC Cafes, Coffee Shops For Getting Work Done” should’ve been titled  “Hunger Games: Brooklyn Coffee Edition”. This article had listed three places in Manhattan. Being completely ignorant and, well, lazy...I figured that Manhattan was a corporate wasteland of Starbucks and Dunkins, so I had no choice but the schlep to Brooklyn. Since my X chromosomes flare up when it comes to asking for directions, I spent three hours downtown just looking for the L train. By the time I got to this godforsaken borough, it was almost 4 p.m. Natural Insta-lighting was waning, I had to hurry.

I came out of the train station to what appeared to be the remains of a nuclear war. On a map it’s called “Bushwick”. 

 There were just rows and rows of decaying warehouses protected by barbed-wire fences, bony dogs hobbled down the streets, unleashed and ownerless. I recall everything having this sad gray color to it, but I’m melodramatic so it was probably fine. Nonetheless all the buildings looked the same. Nothing was numbered. There were no distinguishing marks. It was totally unclear as to how I was supposed to find this place. 

Being a natural-born tracker (idiot), I wandered. Knocked on some walls, navigated using the sun, licked some dirt, pillaged for food. I eventually found it, hiding behind a scary iron door. No signs, just a bench at the foot of the stairs. Sitting on it were three dudes wearing incredibly tight black jeans, cut off at the knee. Three stained t-shirts, three wool hats. That was sign enough, I think. I went inside. 

 So...apparently the person who wrote this article defines “good” as such: it must be an hour away from everything else. It must not indicate in any way that it sells products for human consumption. It must have space for several tables, but only provide two. 

If it has air conditioning it is no longer “good”, it is out of the club...even if they crack a window on a 90 degree day. It must not take credit cards and, most imperatively, it MUST be filled with morons in cut-off jeans who are willing to pay six fucking dollars for a shot of coffee. 

Maybe I need a Brooklyn spirit guide. Maybe we just need to inform the people who live here that it’s okay to decide between pants and shorts. And not having signs for your business? Avant garde, Brooklyn. You really showed me. But next time, don’t try so hard to not impress me.

For now I will be in Harlem, where the people are crazy and loud and they’re cool with it.

Mr. Alfred G. Pony Glass

0003 Street Street

West Egg, Long Island Sound

Long Island, New York

Dear Mr. Pony Glass,

Sincerest greetings from the team here at The HarHar Halibut Hut. We sure do hope you’re having a grade-A Icelandic day! This letter is being sent out today with the understanding that your last visit with us was not 100% satisfactory, and according to our records there were several complaints cited. We here at The HarHar Halibut Hut are just torn to pieces about it. By that, I mean we find your anger funny. We are literally laughing ourselves to pieces. Janet can’t find her right asscheek, it’s the best thing that’s happened since the new bread warmer.

Let’s see here…sorry, I’ve been using your paperwork to line my birdcage, it’s hard to see past the little turds…ah. Yes…your first accusation was that The Hut uses “frozen horse shit” instead of fresh fish.

First of all, let me compliment you on your command of the English language. You are, in fact, a wizard of words. 

Second, this establishment is called The HarHar Halibut Hut. Not The HarHar Halibut Chateau or The HarHar Halibut Trattoria or any other name that would insinuate we don’t use plastic flatware. Sir, in case you have recently suffered a brain aneurysm, we’d like to remind you that we are located in a strip mall between a FedEx Express and a bass pro shop. Not only is our fish frozen, it’s been frozen since 1975. And does it matter? No. Because we deep fry it and serve it with mayonnaise- flavored relish. That is actually on the menu, asterisked at the bottom. 

Next I would like to address your concerns about our wine selection. For the convenience of our psychologically sound patrons, we have organized our wine list into three easy-to-choose options: Red, White, or Franzia. Because the Hut keeps it American. And the fact that you don’t appreciate our  wine axis proves you are a Neo-Nazi. The authorities have been notified. 

Lastly, I’d like to retract the apology our staff offered you on what was hopefully your last visit to The Hut.

This business is filled with several kinds of people. Some should consider medication. Others should be arrested. There are even some people who shouldn't be allowed out in the daylight. But not one of them should have to depend on people like you to pay their bills. We are human beings but you…you are experiencing the delusion that your some dystopian overlord to whom we peons serve overpriced white wine and line-caught haddock. This is not the case, sir.

And in regards to your final complaint: No one gives a fuck about pony glasses.  

Sincerely,

Kahley MacLeod

The HarHar Halibut Hut 

555 Yum Yum Under the Sun Road

Poughkeepsie, New York

P.S.-

How to Quit Your Job

(When you have no money, oodles of debt, and a semi-serious addiction to top shelf liquor.)

1. Go to school for something you love. Engrain it into your every day life, make it something you simply can’t live without or you’ll die spontaneously of some horrific disease. Also pay a lot for it. 

2. Get a job doing the exact opposite thing. 

…Stay for however long it takes to get to step three.

3. HAVE A SILENT PSYCHOTIC BREAK WHERE YOU MIME THE DESTRUCTION OF SEVERAL DESKTOP OBJECTS INCLUDING SOLAR POWERED DAISIES, SCREAM-CRY, AND FINALLY COLLAPSE INTO A STEAMING SHAMEPUDDLE .WONDER WHERE-OH-WHERE IN THIS SINGLE POST-GRAD YEAR DID MY YOUTHFUL POTENTIAL GO?WHAT GLORIOUS SAINT ON HIGH DID I PISS OFF ENOUGH TO END UP IN THIS, CIRCLE 9 3/4 OF HELL, WHERE THE MOST DEPLORABLE OF SINNERS ARE SENT TO RUN STATUS REPORTS AND TALLY BILLING COUNTS? 

4. Quit. 

There are several variations of this last step. You can…say…brush the cubes of the faithful with lambs blood to save them from the cataclysm that will be your departure. You could improvise a musical number listing all the annoying things people do in the office, like the woman who talks in detail about her trips to the deli and the guy next to you who eats several hundred hot pockets a month. You could call Bruce Banner and let him handle it. 

All these are fantastic ideas.

Most importantly: you can’t be afraid to do it. You have a short life and there is a veritable cavalcade of tragedies and disasters just waiting to get you to death a little bit faster. Complacency isn’t happiness, friends, it’s fear in hooker makeup. It’s just gon’ screw you, and repeatedly. Real happiness means taking big fat risks. You get what you give, it’s science. Google it.  

Fifteen Reasons Why You Should NOT Kiss at Midnight. 

15. Think about Dick Clark. He has spent every New Year’s Eve since the creation of man waiting for people to pay attention to him instead of each other's faces. But alas, the public ne'er headed the warning. The man didn't die because he was 1,562 years old. He died of a broken heart.

14. The collective bodily fluids exchanged at this hour on this day could drown all the baby polar bears, like our melting ice caps. Think of the environment. 

13. In the time it would take to kiss someone, you could put back 2-5 glasses of champagne. 

12. By kissing someone at midnight, you are taking away their opportunity to drink 2-5 glasses of champagne, which I’m sure is considered domestic abuse south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

11. Your cats/dogs/siblings/other small mammals could be watching you, which will result in a lifetime of expensive therapy. My own kitty, George Emerson, is always trying to throw himself out the window. I can only assume it’s because he saw his former owners sucking each other’s faces off last year.  

10. Why would you not be having sex yet? What kind of year are you looking to have?

9. According to my Facebook feed, instead of kissing someone at midnight you should be getting engaged while simultaneously becoming pregnant. 

8. At midnight in Denmark, everyone goes around throwing plates at their friend’s doors. The more plates you have on your porch, the more popular you are. That’s kind of like kissing only way more cool and without the possibility of a communicable disease.

7. Speaking of communicable diseases, are you aware that 95% of the population has contracted infectious mononucleosis in their lifetime? 

6. If you do get mono, your mom will undoubtedly be waiting in the wings with some variant of a bridge metaphor.  

5. Have you ever not kissed someone at midnight? Because watching a room full of drunks try to slap lips together is one of the funniest things you will see all year. 

4. There’s a large demographic of bitter, lonely cat ladies (me) who are making out with a bottle of tequila and would prefer not to have a legion of happy couples making out in front of them while they weep. (still me)

3. Consider the alternatives:

          -Build a fort.

          -Ski down your stairs.

          -Clock some hours on the polar ice caps thing.

          -Dress your cat up like a Moorlock and put him in your fort.

          -Drink a glass of water.

          -Drink a glass of tequila and pretend it’s water.

2. If you have to touch each other for some reason, opt to co-flagellate instead. I could get behind co-flagellation at midnight. 

1. Katharine Heigl does it.

The Top Ten Stupidest Things People Say/Do at Restaurants Today.

There comes a time in every server’s life when it takes the literal hand of god to stop you from half-masting customers whilst on the clock. And as we delve further and further into the black hole that is the digital age, I can confidently say things are getting worse. A dear friend of mine recently alerted me to an article that recounted a restaurant’s examination of it’s security footage over ten years of business. The conclusion? Service isn’t getting worse. The customers are. And the following is some stone cold data. Brace yourself. 

10. We’re a party of (TOO LARGE TO ACCOMMODATE). Do we need a reservation? 

Look. We get it, it’s hard to coordinate large groups of people. That’s why my nonexistent wedding will consist of myself, a preacher, and hopefully a live male. But come on, use your head. This is New York City, of course you need a reservation. You need a reservation to do pretty much everything here, barring the expulsion of body fluids on sidewalks. That you can do anywhere at any time. So don’t roll up to our spot on a Friday night asking to accommodate your 20 person book club. We can’t.

9. Where’s our waitress?

We can't perform the basics of our job if you're not listening. So here are a few tips for more prompt service: Do not be on your phone, tablet, or laptop when they approach your table. We are servers, not servants. Going to a restaurant involves human interaction and technological devices should play a very, very small part in it. Let us say our spiel before you demand something. We don't have an opening monologue for fun, it's a requirement. And every time you interrupt a server, a busboy dies. Think of the busboys.

Lastly: Don't use rude hand gestures- including shooing, snapping, waving, or pointing. No one likes being treated like a blind golden retriever, especially the person handling your food. If I had you at my table and you behave like that, I would block you from my memory like my parachute pants phase. And trust me, that’s not a place you want to be. I am still sorting through those  issues and it’s been fifteen years.

8. I have a yelp check-in, a groupon, or a blood oath from the owner that gives me free beer for life.

Nobody ever reads the fine print on this stuff. More often than not, there’s a minimum spend attached to these deals, or a mandatory food purchase. But people lose it over free things not actually being free. Do you honestly think we’re going to allow you and your friends to get free beer without some sort of money-making caveat? Do you have a basic understanding of commercialism? Get it together.

7. Can we move over there?

NOPE.

6. I lost my debit card/cell phone/backpack/dignity. 

Not your server's turn to watch it, you drunken hooker. 

5. This is not NAME OF BEER/WINE/SCOTCH/OR ANY OTHER BEVERAGE THAT HAS BEEN TURNED INTO A MASTERS DEGREE. I know what NAME OF BEER/WINE/SCOTCH is. This isn’t it. I’m a DOCTOR.

Oh. Sorry. We didn't know you needed to bear witness to the extensive training we had on this exact BEER/WINE/SCOTCH you are holding in your hand. That same BEER/WINE/SCOTCH that we undoubtedly watched the bartender pour into your glass and hand it directly to us. You’re SO RIGHT. And how dare we use our fact-based knowledge, honed over years of tastings, to challenge your gut feeling on this BEER/WINE/SCOTCH. Would you like our debt paid in flesh or gold? Fuckass. 

4. Oh, but I know the owner.

So do we. So does the entire bar. So does every Happy Endings massage parlor from here to Poughkeepsie. Do you see the cast of Memoirs of a Geisha up in here asking for free Vodka Crans? NOPE.  

3. I have a gluten allergy. 

GTFOH.

2. Can you take our picture? 

No. We are servers. We are not photographers. I personally have only a slight understanding of Instagram and I am my Nana’s granddaughter: your head, no matter how hard I try, will be cut off in every shot I take. And we don’t have time to take, and retake, and RETAKE your picture until you’re happy with it. We do have FIFTEEN OTHER TABLES THAT NEED ME FOR FOOD-RELATED ISSUES. Go  figure.

1. …and we’re in a rush.