The things I do for money.

I mean, Jesus. I’m so close to not being able to take it anymore.

I work as a hostess at an Outback Steakhouse (just in case you weren’t sure that I am way cool). Part of my job is to listen to stupid complaints and stupid jokes provided by a seemingly endless supply of old people. Nothing against old people. I myself look forward to becoming a well-dressed, pop culture-savvy, and sweet (yet slightly feisty) old lady someday. If all goes well, I will have an herb garden. But honestly, I promise I will never make dumb jokes at young, helpful strangers.

Here are some jokes that are not funny:

1. Hostess: “Good evening. How many do you have in your party?”
Old Person: (looks around exaggeratedly) “Seventeen. Brarharhar. I’m jus kiddin.”
Hostess: “Um okay, I guess that means two.”

2. Old Person: (looking around at tables, not realizing there is a reason they are empty, e.g. it’s five minutes before closing, or the restaurant is short-staffed) “Brawhawhaw, hope you can find me a seat.”
Hostess: “Um, I will try.”

3. Hostess: “Here’s your pager. When it goes off again, just come on up, and we’ll get you seated.”
Old Person: “Oh, it’s goin off now. That was fast. Hur hur hur. Where’s my table?”
Hostess: “That’s the demo, and I’m going to kill myself, right now, in front of you.”

4. Hostess: “Let me get that door for you because it is my job.”
Old Person: “Well, look at that, a young lady getting the door for me! Heh heh heh. Look at your puny arms compared to my rippling skin flaps.”
Hostess: “I am embarrassed at how old you are right now.”

Here are some of my favorite complaints. Thank you, Old People!

1. Old Person: “God, it’s freezin in here! Ugh, it’s freezin!”
Hostess: “Hi, how many in your party?”
Old Person: “It’s so cold! Put us in a warm spot.”
Hostess: “Okay, I saved you some furnace-side seats, right this way…..Um, no. No, I didn’t.”
Old Person: “It’s freezin!”

2. Old Person: “There’s some trash under my table, by my feet, where it’s not hurting me.”
Hostess: “I guess you are expecting me to crawl down there and get that straw wrapper.”

3. Old Person: “That seat is wet!”
Hostess: “That is because it is clean. But okay, I will walk across the restaurant and get the dirty ketchup-stained rag under the host stand, during which time, the seat will dry off like Mother Nature intended.”

4. Old Person: “We don’t have menus!”
Hostess: “Did someone seat you?”
Old Person: “No!”
Hostess: “So you just seated yourself at a table, like at a food court.”
Old Person: “How can I eat without a menu?!”

5. Old Person: “We don’t wanna sit next to that very calm and quiet baby.”
Hostess: “Okay, right this way to the No Youths Allowed section, i.e., in about two minutes, I will put a screaming baby at the table right next to you.”

Well, what would be the point of working in a steakhouse if I didn’t get to lose faith in humanity (and my golden years), one table at a time?

in this analogy, i am ashton kutcher.

Today I went on a lunch date with my friend Gael. Spent the time catching up since we haven’t seen ea. other all school year, &c., &c. Which would make this a superiorly boring blog post if she didn’t also happen to be my good friend Kaleb’s mom. This makes her more than twice my age. Oh and my friend’s MOM.

Not to say that we painted each other’s toenails or helped each other with our tampons, or any other disturbing images. Mostly: sandwiches and I told her about my classes. Big fucking whoop. But it did make me wonder why we put limits on the age differences between friends. True, it’s less controversial (less beloved, if you work for E! News) than the difference between Demi and Ashton’s ages. And admittedly less taboo than pedophilia. Still: I’ve clicked really well with two former teachers, ages 27 and 36. And Gael is awesome.

Shit. Am I just a brownnoser?

No. My feelings about these people are a little more complex than satisfaction at being able to please or entertain someone who is (omg) OLDER than I am. We’ve established that people from different backgrounds can get along great. Fuck, I’m in love with a boy who grew up on the other side of the planet and whose racial composition doesn’t match mine at all. Doesn’t seem like much of a stretch to assume that two people from different generations can be total bffs.

Man, I seriously am in love with that boy, though.

getting drunk while living at home. good for you.

So you’re home for the summer from your first year at college. You’ve grown used to stumbling blurrily into bed at four in the morning to find your roommate getting it on with that crew guy. Maybe you showed up to a couple classes still drunk from the night before. Maybe you partook in a little sexual experimentation with your best friend after one too many Franzia bombs. Totally cool.

Now, all of a sudden, you’ve got a curfew again. Even worse, you remember that most of your friends are in the Christian Alliances at their school and won’t touch the firewater. Total curveball, right? Look at you, all out of luck and whining like a spoiled white girl about how you’re stuck in your room watching old episodes of Arrested Development and feeding the fat roll around your waist (consisting mostly of Cheez-Its). Here are some tips to replace those cheesey sincrackers with some good ol’ fuck-up juice:

1. You could get an ID, but really, they are madfuckin expensive and often not that good. Instead, work in a restaurant– not too fancy, now. Make friends with the servers. They will mostly be over 21, mostly heavy drinkers (many will of course, go a few extra steps as far as drug use goes). Get them to make a detour at the liquor store if they ask for a ride home. (While you’re there, buy them a beer for their trouble.)

2. Cheap white wine will do the trick. Chilean Sauvingions for $8 a bottle, sweet Zinfandels, &c. Totally yummers! Remember, you’re working in a restaurant and you are POOR AS FUCK. Seriously, even cheapass wine usually tastes all right, whereas gross vodka tastes just grosser than I could even want to think about.

3. Keep the bottle in your room. Specifically, in the empty guitar case in your closet. Why would your mom ever go in there? She doesn’t play the guitar. And she hates your closet.

4. But if the bottle’s in your room, won’t it be all lukewarm and sour? SOLUTION: get a glass of water before you retire for the night. Shitload of ice; add some water for effect. Like you’re craving a very small amount of very cold water. It’s happened I guess. (Now you are forced to drink the water, which is a good way to get those eight glasses That Magazine told your mom about.)

5. Ta-da. Flawless, chilled, alcholtastic evening. Invite a buddy over or, hey, Arrested Development will be even funnier. Kudos, you. You did it again. Go brag about it to someone who has friends who chugthestuff and parents that believe you when you say Kathryn’s hosting a slumber party.