It all started at the wedding in Pennsylvania where, as expected I was the only gay, single, and fabulous guest in attendance, which made me rethink my choice of three piece suit and sparkly bow tie. At the after party I was offered a cigarette by one of the guests and in my moment of weakness I accepted. But that's only one cigarette you say! Then I was back in chicago and outside with coworkers when I realized I was the only one not smoking. I had no choice but to bum one. Then I joined in on at least three other smoking excursions. Then, during a week of not eating anything but carrots and tic tacs after one of the bartenders told me I was putting on weight I had two lemon drop martinis which normally would have been quickly absorbed by my excessive carb-laden diet but settled into my stomach where they took control of the part of my brain that makes me want to smoke. Before I knew it my nicotine loving chickens had come home to roost and brought with them a pack of Pall Mall light 100's. I was ashamed and appalled. This was worse than that time I went on a bender in college and was seen wearing the same outfit two days in a row, which was really only bad because the outfit was a sparkly reindeer sweater with lime green skinny jeans. Everyone would know my dirty secret. My months of trying to rebuild my reputation as a muscle gay with excellent nutritional habits and a wildly unpopular blog had all come crashing down.
I wrapped the pack of cigarettes in a plastic bag dropped it in a bowl of water and stuck it in the freezer. My therapist had once recommended I do this with my credit card so I would have to wait for it to thaw before making any purchases. Unfortunately my therapist failed to note that shopping for me is breathing and like a shark if I stop for even a moment I'll die. This way if I wanted the cigarettes I would have to wait an hour for it to thaw and after an hour I probably wouldn't want them any more. This method was brilliant. It worked perfectly. It worked perfectly until 8am next morning when I realized that though a block of ice may take about an hour to completely thaw a pot of water only takes a few minutes to boil, thus negating the whole cigarettes in ice thing.
Fine, I thought, I would only smoke in the morning before work. And then I added one after work to relive stress. Then another on my 30 minute break at work. Then next week I added another two during my fifteen minute breaks. Then I gave myself another freebie to smoke throughout the day whenever I felt like it. Before I knew it I was back to being a full time card carrying smoker. I had fallen off the wagon, only it wasn't just the smoking wagon. I had fallen of every wagon I got on. I was the one wagon mate in oregon trail that fell off, got dysentery, couldn't shoot a buffalo or ford the river and ultimately died of exhaustion. I failed at swimming, finding a boyfriend, not smoking, becoming a published bravolebrity with my own spin off, opening my own mens store, finincing my high end pizza concept, and taking a trip to london to shop the the original burberry. I even failed at brushing Gucci, he's got more mats that a yoga class. I feel like a failure. A handsome insanely unpopular staple of the blogosphere but a failure nonetheless.
I was too ashamed to write about my dissent back into smokerdom. Actually, I was mostly too busy drowning my sorrows in peppermint mochas and knitting a merino wool sweater at the nearest Starbucks. But I'm sure shame had something to do with it too.
And naturally, I went from dissent in the lung department to discount in the shoe department.
I simply couldn't resist the double soled Prada brogues any longer.
When you live in a city like Chicago it's not uncommon to run into people from your past you were trying to avoid. Statistically, this occurrence will only happen when you have the flu, are wearing sweat pants, and have a food stain on your sweatshirt. So it came as a pleasant surprise when I happened to look fabulous the night I ran into my ex--shoe guy. My shoe guy and I have had a long on again off again relationship that started the first time I tried on that pair of Ferragamo driving loafers. Ever since then I was hooked, and it was my first relationship where I always seemed to be the one throwing my card down. Nevertheless it was a mutually beneficial arrangement, my feet have never looked better and I can always be trusted to clear out his back stock of Prada. We went through a rocky period during my last break up when I insisted my ex return the Choos I got him as a gift. Since he reneged on our relationship I thought it was only fair that those one thousand buckos make a round trip into my bank account. And since I was going through an expensive break up and moving into a new place I may have also returned a pair of tuxedo shoes that I never got to wear. It hadn't occured to me that those two purchases amounted to a pretty big commission that may have also gone the way of my relationship. However, we reconciled when I was back on my feet, and back in a new pair of toggle loafers.
When you live in a city like Chicago it's not uncommon to run into people from your past you were trying to avoid. Statistically, this occurrence will only happen when you have the flu, are wearing sweat pants, and have a food stain on your sweatshirt. So it came as a pleasant surprise when I happened to look fabulous the night I ran into my ex--shoe guy. My shoe guy and I have had a long on again off again relationship that started the first time I tried on that pair of Ferragamo driving loafers. Ever since then I was hooked, and it was my first relationship where I always seemed to be the one throwing my card down. Nevertheless it was a mutually beneficial arrangement, my feet have never looked better and I can always be trusted to clear out his back stock of Prada. We went through a rocky period during my last break up when I insisted my ex return the Choos I got him as a gift. Since he reneged on our relationship I thought it was only fair that those one thousand buckos make a round trip into my bank account. And since I was going through an expensive break up and moving into a new place I may have also returned a pair of tuxedo shoes that I never got to wear. It hadn't occured to me that those two purchases amounted to a pretty big commission that may have also gone the way of my relationship. However, we reconciled when I was back on my feet, and back in a new pair of toggle loafers.
Since then, and since starting this blog I have dialed back on the big shoe purchases. I was living alone, no friend or lover to split the rent and a kitty with expensive tastes in litter. It was time to put Prada on the shelf and start saving. So I turned away and didn't show up for the summer designer sale, an absence I'm sure my shoe guy noted with some level of remorse. It seemed that once and for all we had gone our separate ways. In my life I haven't had many lasting relationships, I can't even keep a therapist for more than a year, and so it was special to me that at least, through three break-ups there was always my shoe guy willing to pick me back up, and sell me ridiculously expensive loafers.
And what providence that I should run into him at the bar of Benny's chophouse the day before the men's designer clearance at Nordstrom where he just so happened to be holding a pair of brogues in my size that were about to be marked down two hundred dollars.
"My Prada? My Prada is going on sale?"
"Yes it is."
"But my shoes never go on sale. It's always the stupid Cole Haan Boots and ugly Gucci sneakers and sometimes the Varvatos, but never Prada wingtips!"
This chance occurrence, meeting like this at the bar, the sale, the shoes, everything was divine intervention telling me to go back to my old ways of smoking, drinking, and buying expensive shoes. My mother would say that this moment is more like a test to see how much we've learned. But my mother didn't have shoe ennui and a closet full of driving loafers that were inappropriate for winter weather. What I really needed were thick rugged soles. And in the tunnel vision of infatuation with these shoes I conveniently forgot any other option for winter footwear.
As I was transitioning footwear for the season, the hotel ownership was transitioning forever. We had been bought by a large corporate hotel chain. But what did it mean for the restaurant?
And what providence that I should run into him at the bar of Benny's chophouse the day before the men's designer clearance at Nordstrom where he just so happened to be holding a pair of brogues in my size that were about to be marked down two hundred dollars.
"My Prada? My Prada is going on sale?"
"Yes it is."
"But my shoes never go on sale. It's always the stupid Cole Haan Boots and ugly Gucci sneakers and sometimes the Varvatos, but never Prada wingtips!"
This chance occurrence, meeting like this at the bar, the sale, the shoes, everything was divine intervention telling me to go back to my old ways of smoking, drinking, and buying expensive shoes. My mother would say that this moment is more like a test to see how much we've learned. But my mother didn't have shoe ennui and a closet full of driving loafers that were inappropriate for winter weather. What I really needed were thick rugged soles. And in the tunnel vision of infatuation with these shoes I conveniently forgot any other option for winter footwear.
As I was transitioning footwear for the season, the hotel ownership was transitioning forever. We had been bought by a large corporate hotel chain. But what did it mean for the restaurant?
In the constellation of hotel departments there is a caste system. The people who wear suits--top floor penthouse, reservations and front desk agents--mid level lofts, housekeeping--ground floor garden unit. And the restaurant? B2, only accessible by a rickety stair case covered in fry grease. F&B is so low on the totem in hotels, we're the department of misfit toys. I can only imagine what accounting thinks of our bizarre purchasing lists: mason jars, whipped cream flavored vodka, aprons, latex gloves. For all they know we could be some wierdly themed house of burlesque for those with a very specific grotesque fetish.
And as the hotel transitions to new ownership the bacon wrapped elephant in the middle of the room on all of our minds is what does that mean for us, the sloppy misfit toys of the hotel. Luckily for us there was a regional HR director to lead the way through the underground tunnel of confusion that is rebranding as a corporate hotel.
And for a woman used to training primped and buttoned up front desk agents, I can't imagine how we looked in our makeshift uniforms, pesto stained aprons and sometimes questionable footwear choices. Currently our uniform is anything black and machine washable that doesn't have ketchup on it. Some of us have what look like hand me down chefs coats with the logo embroidered on it, some of us are wearing henleys and tee shirts, some are wearing waffle shirts and high top sneakers. We look like a depressing Benetton advertisement, or a gap campaign where everyone's wearing black.
For the most part this orientation led by the HR lady from New Jersey was pretty standard fare, bad instructional videos of how to smile at people, what to do if we see a puddle of blood borne pathogens on the ground– hands shoot up.
"Yes, you in the back with unnatural shade of eyeshadow."
"Spray it with windex?" one of the housekeepers said.
"No, call the manager."
"No, call the police."
"Call the CDC!"
"No! Call housekeeping!"
"And I spray with windex."
"I clean up tampons from bathtub one time. I use glove"
"I see walls smeared with caca one time we charge guest 50 dollars." The circle of housekeepers nod solemnly, as if they were all veterans of that war.
"So none of you have been trained in how to deal with bloodbourne pathogens? What about sharps? What if you found a syringe?"
"Call the guest to see of they want it shipped to them?"
"Depends on what's in it?"
"What? No! Who deals with your hazardous materials?"
Silence. We all looked around. A tiny woman from housekeeping raises her hand.
"Is it me?"
"What if its cow blood?"
"I think I have some of that on my apron," I said
"Is that why you smell like salmonella?"
"No, that's the fish I ate from the employee dining room."
"I've never seen fish that color before, was it puce?"
"No more yellow like an old hard boiled egg yolk."
"That was fish?"
Clearly, this hr lady had her work cut out for her. Luckly, she was armed with shoddy low budget instructional videos from the eighties.
We watched several videos throughout our reaclimation to working for a "real" hotel. The last of which was a short motivational video with needlessly depressing music and and autistic grocery store bagger. Due to the downtrodden music we all though the bagger was going to die at the end, only after touching the lives of all the shoppers. Then we came to find that he simply inspired his coworkers to work harder and is still alive. Then the film was over. Having been a student of film, writing, and sad endings I was furious.
"Wait, he doesn't die at the end?" The HR lady shook her head. Of all the horrible things I've been through since I started working here--the recession, leopard print jeans, three Twilight films--that was pretty much the worst. I will never get those five and a half minutes of my life back."
And from emotional roller coaster to financial tilt-a-whirl.
Due to an accounting error with the new paycheck processing center none of our tips were deducted from our paychecks. So, for the first time in our careers as servers our paychecks looked like a normal salary. Let me take a moment to explain how server paychecks work. Most servers make around four dollars an out, a nominal salary intended for simply eating up the taxes we pay on our tips. I'm sure there is some complex mathematical equation the IRS uses to determine what tipped professionals should be taxed out of their paycheck, but I like to believe their process looks something like this:
So imagine our surprise when our paycheck was three to four, to ten times the size of our normal checks. One of the servers actually left work and ran, not walked, ran to the bank to deposit the check before the hotel could call backsies. This error was caught immediately and taken out of subsequent paychecks, but it did serve as an ominous warning of the financial irregularities to come. The next few months will be up and down. Some nights I might walk with twenty five dollars, other nights three hundred. And as the fiscal cliff looms over Washington a much steeper cliff looms over the service industry, the two month stretch where none of us make any money. Forget taxes, we'd have to make taxable income first.
This is why I've decided to not buy presents for anyone this year, except the maybe three people that bought me things for my birthday. My reasoning: by ignoring my birthday and failing to shower me with lavish gifts I was not disappointed by my friends but inspired to show the same neglect toward their holiday shopping. Therefore everyone is getting hand drawn peruvian themed alpaca cards in place of anything with actual monetary value. And as for my family? I've decided that they have no choice but to love me either way so I'm not buying them presents this year. A week with me in their presence is present enough. And if my present presentation of myself at Christmas isn't enough there's plenty of JoAnn Fabrics stationary with alpaca drawings to go around.
Happy Holidays!
"Wait, he doesn't die at the end?" The HR lady shook her head. Of all the horrible things I've been through since I started working here--the recession, leopard print jeans, three Twilight films--that was pretty much the worst. I will never get those five and a half minutes of my life back."
And from emotional roller coaster to financial tilt-a-whirl.
Due to an accounting error with the new paycheck processing center none of our tips were deducted from our paychecks. So, for the first time in our careers as servers our paychecks looked like a normal salary. Let me take a moment to explain how server paychecks work. Most servers make around four dollars an out, a nominal salary intended for simply eating up the taxes we pay on our tips. I'm sure there is some complex mathematical equation the IRS uses to determine what tipped professionals should be taxed out of their paycheck, but I like to believe their process looks something like this:
Because when I look at my paystub it looks like the mangled carcass left behind by hyenas with only the barest morsels of meat and grizzle left behind. They basically take everything we make in tips out of our already pathetic hourly wage. Which is why if you don't leave a tip when you dine in a restaurant the staff takes a camera phone image of you and adds it to their black book of naughty diners which is sent on a weekly basis to the bureau of cheapness where the identities are logged into an elaborate system and bank account information forwarded to sudanese hackers who will take all of the money out of your account, use it to buy guns and child prostitutes, and then send you and letter full of either anthrax or corn starch, whatever is cheaper in the black market there.
So imagine our surprise when our paycheck was three to four, to ten times the size of our normal checks. One of the servers actually left work and ran, not walked, ran to the bank to deposit the check before the hotel could call backsies. This error was caught immediately and taken out of subsequent paychecks, but it did serve as an ominous warning of the financial irregularities to come. The next few months will be up and down. Some nights I might walk with twenty five dollars, other nights three hundred. And as the fiscal cliff looms over Washington a much steeper cliff looms over the service industry, the two month stretch where none of us make any money. Forget taxes, we'd have to make taxable income first.
This is why I've decided to not buy presents for anyone this year, except the maybe three people that bought me things for my birthday. My reasoning: by ignoring my birthday and failing to shower me with lavish gifts I was not disappointed by my friends but inspired to show the same neglect toward their holiday shopping. Therefore everyone is getting hand drawn peruvian themed alpaca cards in place of anything with actual monetary value. And as for my family? I've decided that they have no choice but to love me either way so I'm not buying them presents this year. A week with me in their presence is present enough. And if my present presentation of myself at Christmas isn't enough there's plenty of JoAnn Fabrics stationary with alpaca drawings to go around.
Happy Holidays!
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