The last three days have been unusually stressful and busy, not to mention I hate my bar so much right now it physically hurts. Some dude grabbed my ass last night, and then some short midget nerd finance fuck who was maybe barely 21 (those shots of Jameson made you look younger, not older you fucker) decided to try to be a dick and tip me 3 bucks on $106 check. Want to know what happens when dbags try to fuck Stef out of money? Three things:
One, I chase you out of the bar and embarrass you horribly in the middle of 50th Street in front of your friends by announcing to the world that you are so cheap Jewish people make jokes about YOU.
Two, I use the fact that you are too young to know to take the customer copy of the receipt with you against you. Because that $3 just turned into a $33. Wow, a 31% tip? I know I'm a great server and all, but gosh that was very generous dude! Thanks!
Three, I go after your job. If you're going to be a total cocksucker to your bartender/cocktail waitress, make very sure your higher ups aren't buds with me. Because when the dudes who basically decide whether or not to fire you are my regular customers, don't think I'll hesitate to throw you under the bus. It takes a LONG ass time to get in with the bartenders at a bar/restaurant, to a point where they buy you shit, know your name, remember your drink of choice, treat you like royalty when you have important clients, push people out for you, and in general are just more pleasant to you. Wanna know how long it takes to replace an intern who went to Georgetown and whose basic function is to get the boss lunch and get yelled at for shit higher up people in the office do but are too important to take responsibility for? One fucking click on Monster.com. I am a much more valuable commodity to your boss than you are, asshole. And I also have tits and legs. I will always, always win. "Jay, listen, I hate to ask, but were those kids that were talking to you for a bit your interns? You know me, I hate coming to you with this, but they were here all night, had more than a hundred dollar tab and they left me three dollars. I would never put this on you, I just want to know if they're "with you" so if they do come in again, I won't be a bitch to them. You always take such good care of us and I don't want to ostracize them after this if they're part of your group. If they are with you, I'll let it slide." Yeah, you think your boss that comes in 6 days a week and more often than not spends 300 dollars a day wants to be associated with intern bitches who tip the cocktail waitress who takes care of him nothing? I DON'T THINK SO. Jay then proceeded to call the asshats and rip them a new asshole. And he threw me an additional 40 bucks for my troubles.
Word to the wise. Don't ever fuck with me on a bad night. You will lose. Horribly.
But a nice little chat with Rob Thomson and Mick Kelleher (3rd base coach and 1st base coach for the NY Yankees) tonight at my bar as the Redsox lost to Texas made my week a little more bearable. One reason I do love my bar? Lots of MLB presence. Rob and Mick come in a lot, so I don't have to find excuses to go talk to them anymore. They even remember my name, even after having not been in since September of last year. So I feel special. Which is lame.
I feel even more special (good transition not really) because the book, this infamous book I have been mentioning for like, 5 months, will now be available for you to buy, read, and judge harshly (just do me a favor and bitch about it to anyone other than Amazon reviews, thanks) for $2.99 beginning on Tuesday, April 5th. If you hate it, just send hate mail to IDONTGIVEAFUCK@STEFDOESNTCARE.com. No, seriously, if you hate it, whatever, just delete it and move on with your life. Fuck.
Also, since you guys have been so patient with the fact that I've been MIA for the blog while dealing with cheap assholes, inappropriate ass touchers, and other people who seek to make my life more difficult than it needs to be, here are the funniest outtakes/bloopers from the cover photo shoot. Do enjoy.
Ok, secretly, I kind of loved this one. But in theory, it was actually a blooper. While Heather was testing for light, I was doing a terrible dance to Katy Perry.
She told me to sit still while she tested the light. I look like a child that has just been harshly reprimanded.
Prepping for everything, I was completely unaware she was even taking pictures as I chatted with my makeup artist. Pensive, non?