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Who let the samurai warrior into the ballroom?

I don’t know if I have posted this one beofore.  If I have- enjoy again.

If I have not- eat it up.

xo xo

I have seen famous singers, 80’s rock bands, and circ de solei performances.  I have seen firework displays, naked women painted gold (sick), and live art painted on stage.  The entertainment at the parties I am working always doubles as my entertainment for the evening, and that is one perk of being a Palm Beach waitress.  However, no entertainment act excites me more when they bring in the … traditional Japanese drummers.

Boom ba da boom boom boom ba da boom.

Can you hear them now?  Probably not, and you probably think I am a dork for trying to write out their deep, soul vibrating sounds, but just go with it.

It is called taiko drumming, and is truly amazing.

They fill the stage with huge drums, and of course a massive gong.   The drummers all dress in traditional Japanese clothing, but sometimes I wonder if they are just wearing a bathrobe from target.  The taiko group comes to the hotel all the time, basically whenever someone orders a lot of sushi for a reception they feel it is appropriate to have such drumming played in the background.  I have no complaints.

Most of the drummers are Japanese, but there always is the one little blond girl that always leaves me wondering how she got involved in such an extracurricular activity?  And also leaves me jealous because instead of beating out all of life’s frustrations on a massive drum while wearing pajamas, I am standing in one spot for four hours offering champagne that I am not allowed to drink.

But yet, the best part of the drumming ceremony is not the blond girl, nor the loud deafening beats.  The best part is the Samurai warrior that comes free of charge with every performance.

A man, a random, strange man dresses in traditional Samurai garb lurks through the ballroom, massive sword and all, in complete stealth.

He has a helmet that flaps over his ears, and a fu man chu moustache that resembles Hulk Hogan’s, but of course not platinum blond, rather it’s black and much more stringy.  His thick armor hangs over his shoulders and around his waist.  The best part, he even wears those ninja turtle toe type socks that they wear in Japan with those weird wooden flip flop shoes.  Amazing oh ninja turtle sock man, you look absolutely amazing.

Now this warrior takes his job very seriously, coming up to you and staring you straight in the eye, holding his sword up like he is about to cut your arm off, and his lips quivering in anger.  Hopefully the anger part is acting, and not his true pent up aggression towards his job, because he is holding a weapon, and things could get feisty.

Anways, with the Samari warrior in our midst I knew tonight was going to be a lovely evening.  The guest start to pour in, and the sushi is flying off the plates, and a couple conveniently into my mouth behind the closed doors of the kitchen.  Oops.  The room is abuzz with excitement, chatter, and Palm Beach gossip. 

About a half hour into the reception the drummers take their places, and begin their rhythmic banging, the beats vibrating the glasses I was carrying on my silver tray.

One particular woman in attendance at this party had already taken about 5 of my champagnes I had been assigned to pass out for the evening.  Her lips were bigger than Goldie Hawn’s, and her hair a few shades lighter blonde.  The skin on her face was stretched so tight it looked like the casing of a hot dog.  Her dress was a floor length yellow number, that had more rhinestones than my high school dance costumes.  The woman was Palm Beach fierce.  She was talking so loud out of her fat hot pink painted lips, I could almost hear her clearly over the loud drumming.  She was making huge motions with her arms, a little of her champagne spilling out of her glass with each syllable.  She seemed oblivious to everything else except the little crowd she was entertaining with her stories and loud laughter.

The Samurai warrior suddenly appears next to me. 

“Hello!” I say to him, in a very friendly tone, having seen him at several parties before.  He looks at me and grunts.  Man this guy never breaks character.

He too has spotted the bright yellow canary Palm Beacher chirping in the middle of the crowd.  He studies her for a minute as if planning a war strategy of attack.  His hand slowly and steadily reaches for his machete like sword, his eyes never leaving the woman in the annoying yellow dress.

He rears up his sword back over his shoulder, putting it at the perfect angle to decapitate someone at any moment.  I am frightened.

The samurai begins his quiet slow steps over to toward the loud woman, each ninja turtle foot gingerly placed in front of the other with careful precision.  This man, was on a mission.

The warrior gets within inches of the loud woman, her back turned to him she is completely unaware of the man with a nasty fo man chu breathing down her neck. His slow, deep careful breaths slightly flutter the woman’s massive diamond chandelier earrings.

 People in her group obviously see the man behind the loud woman, but ignore him, most likely as curious as I was about what he was about to do.

The warrior puts his face up right behind the woman’s ear, lifts his sword over his head and lets out a loud, frightening war cry.

“RAAAHAHHAHHAHAHAHAH,” is how I can best dictate to you the ridiculous growl that escaped past his lips.  Sound it out.

The loud yellow dress Palm Beacher screams bloody murder, her champagne glass flies up into the air, the sticky liquid raining down 8 nearby guest.

She whips around as fast as lighting, and is face to face with  samurai attacker, his sword still drawn, and she faints.

Yes, she faints.

She is flat on the floor, in a puddle of champagne and embarrassment.

The warrior lowers his arms, looks around with his sly samurai eyes, puts his sword back in position, and takes his careful steps away out of the ballroom, never breaking character, never speaking a word.

Mission accomplished.

I now realize why this man does what he does.

He must love his job.

Please, please don’t put your poodle in a stroller. Please.

I would like to take this time to address something that has been weighing heavily on my heart for several months now. 


OK America, it is time to get a grip. 

Look at your dog.  Look at him.  He has four legs, yes four.  That is two more legs than 98% of human being have. (If you are in that 2% category of having 4 legs, please contact me immediately.)  Four legs means your dog has twice as many legs that need to be walked, and twice as much energy that needs to be shimmied out. 

I see people all the time walking around not just Palm Beach but even West Palm Beach, with their fluffy little pooch being wheeled down the sidewalk. 

WHY! Give me a reason for why a dog stroller makes any sense and I will bake you a batch of cookies. 


Lets look at some examples: 

Example A:  The overly caffeinated, white pant wearing dog stroller toting woman.  This is the most common example of the dog stroller catastrophe.

This woman gets four extra creepy points for the fact that her mutt of choice is a poodle

Please refer to my previous posts to learn about my detest of dogs that have afros where there should be NO afro. 

Example B: This one I like to call the double batch of fun.  Although I can’t really picture this janky metal cage stroller being wheeled down Worth Ave, I could picture some crazy cat woman wearing a MuMu hauling it down Okeechobee Boulevard. 

Look at that cat. Look at it.  The second you open that cage you know she is about to pounce on your face and scratch off your mustache, until you regret ever adopting her from the pound.  Do NOT put a dog in a stroller, and even more so, never a feline.  



Example C:  

This one I like to call ‘what the heck’ stroller. 

Seriously, what is going on here.  First of all, who turned Mary Poppin’s magical bag into a dog stroller, and second, WHAT are they feeding those YORKIES!?  Either that is the smallest baby in the entire world, or those dogs are on steroids. 




Now, beautiful people of Palm Beach, and the West side for that matter, PLEASE reconsider before buying such a ridiculous contraption. Little Fro Fro the dog not only enjoys walking, his entire LIFE revolves around those precious moments out in the fresh air where he can frolic in the sun.  NO MORE DOG STROLLERS!

however, on a sensitive note, if your looks like this,  

you are very well entitled to putting him in a stroller. 

That little handicap dog is a precious lamb of God and deserves a stroller made out of solid gold.  

But painting your dogs fingernails, remains completely unacceptable in all circumstances.





And finally, to conclude todays post I thought I would share this little treat with you.  While googling ‘dog with wheelchair, this photo popped up.  This is by far the most TERRIFYING photograph I have EVER SEEN!!! 


Cream, Sugar, or Pee?

You know when you are at a party, and there is always ‘that guy.’ His name is Matt, or Brian, or Zak with a K.                                                      His tie is dedicated to his favorite college sports team, and most likely a clip on.  His face is red and sweaty from all the alcohol pumping through his cheeseburger clogged veins.  He talks so loudly and so close to your ear that your eardrums buzz afterwards like you just attend a KISS concert.  And, the most defining characteristic is that you are 96% sure that at any moment is about to upchuck the 24 bud lights he has downed in the past 2 hours.

This guy, was invited to tonight’s event.

It was a wedding, of course.  Weddings are about the only time where ex-college frat boys show up at the hotel, and, with the help of the open bar, create complete chaos.  For example, at the very top of the hotel sits two tall towers, that are visible from miles away.  Upon one sits an American flag, the other a flag with the hotel’s crest on it.  One fine, drunken evening one of these out of control party boys literally scaled up the tower and stole the hotels flag.  The hotel was not too happy about this, however I was internally cheering him on the whole time.  You get that flag, oh drunk man, you get it.  Hang that in your one bedroom apartment in Ohio, yes, hang it.  You make me proud.

Anyway, so Matt Brian Zak with a K was at this party, in all his glory.  Early in the reception I noticed him, as he kept perusing past my tables to the open bar, each trip his steps became more stumbled,  his voice became louder and more slurred.  The light reflected off of his overly gelled hair, and his face was red as a tomato in his boozy happiness.

Somewhere between the 14th and 15th trip back to the bar, Matt Brian Zak with a K heard a tune that struck his fancy, and he meandered his way to the dance floor and whipped out the ultimate dance move of all time – you guessed it- the worm.  Oh the worm, how I loath you.  Perhaps at the 7th grade dance when we were first introduced, I enjoyed your silliness and felt slightly impressed by your complicated movements.  But now, 49 parties later, it is far past the time of your retirement. Now, when ‘that guy’ decides to flop back and forth on the dance floor atop of his round beer filled belly, I cringe in the awkwardness of the situation.  Oh worm dance, please, please go away … forever.

But the guy did the worm, proud and strong.  At one point he tipped a little too far forward, and smacked his face on the granite floor, but nay, this did not stop his epic dance moment.  He flopped around like a dead fish for a solid two minutes, until finally the DJ changed the track and the worming stopped.  The entire ballroom breathed a sigh of relief.

As ‘that guy’ brushed off the floor dust off of his navy blue suit coat, he made his way back to the bar for another barley pop, which he promptly chugged.  Apparently all that awkward dancing really builds up a thirst.

7 beers later, after all the courses have been served and coffee was being passed, ‘that guy’ meanders his way out of the ballroom, and down the hallway.  Perhaps he was about to ‘break the seal’, a party term my New Jersey friends taught me.  Oh New Jersey, I can always count on you for the proper party lingo.

15 minutes go buy, and the party boy is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he fell asleep in the elevator, or fell off the sea wall into the ocean? I hope not the latter.

Most of my guests had dispersed at this time, so I mosey back into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes, and a need for a diet coke.  The kitchen was empty, except for a cluster of dirty glasses that needed to be taken down to the basement.  I was about to enter into the cooler to satisfy my craving for artificial sweeteners and caffeine, when I heard a rustle from the small back corner room where we store the coffee pots.  Perhaps it was the ghost of Palm Beach past?  As an avid watcher of Ghost Hunters on the SyFy channel, I have always been disappointed by the lack of supernatural activity that goes on in this massive, extremely old hotel.  I mean come on people, not even one ghost story to be told?  I guess all the spirits are as freaked out by the socialites as I am.

Putting on my bravery tuxedo, I head back into the room to investigate the mystery noise.  Was it a fellow server indulging in a left over dinner?  Was it a massive jungle rat who made his way inside through the air vent? Nay, nay it was neither.  There, surrounded by the shelves of coffee pots, sat ‘that guy.’

The worm dancing drunk ex frat boy had passed out in our back room, a beer glass still resting in his hand.  Oh my, how awkward.

“Ah, sir?” I call out gently to him.  No response.

“Sir?” I say again as I begin to shake his shoulder.  He awakens, looks around confused, and then eventually focuses on my face.

“Hey (burp, gargle gargle) baby,” he mutters out, his breath reeking of cigarette smoke.  I shudder in disgust.

“Sir, you are in our coffee pot room, you can’t be in here,” I tell him.

He begins laughing at me as if I was just told the best joke of all time.

“Haha funny, but seriously, you need to get out of here before my supervisor finds you and calls security.”

That seemed to sober him up on fraction of a percent, just enough for him to work his way up to his feet.  I guided him to the elevator, asked him what floor and pressed 3 like he instructed, and wished him a good night as the elevator doors closed.  God speed oh drunken mess, I hope you at least make it out of the elevator before passing out again.

I returned back into the kitchen, downed that diet coke, and went back into the ballroom to finish cleaning up before Gary let us all go home again.

I went right home straight to bed, exhausted from my shift and not looking forward to the next one which started in approximately 8 hours.  I was working breakfast, always an easy shift, except for the ungodly hour you have to wake up to get there. 

The next morning, I woke to Florida sunshine, and parrots screeching outside my bedroom window.  Yes, we actually do have a flock of parrots that fly around the West Palm Beach and Palm Beach area.  They are small, green, and extremely loud, but still cute.  They actually have created a nest back at the hotel, and every night around sunset make their way back to the ocean lawn where they roost, screeching at the top of their little bird lungs. Conveniently, their nest is perched right next to where the outdoor wedding ceremonies are held.  The parrots always manage to arrive just as couples are saying their vows against a sunset filled sky.  Their squawking is extremely distracting, and to me, extremely hilarious.  When planning your wedding, you don’t often think of it being crashed by a flock of parrots, but hey, at least it makes a good story.

Anways, Kyle and I put our Toyota into the employee parking lot, our Tuxedo’s still smelling funky from last night’s event.

We run into Gary just as we were clocking in.

“You two! Wake up you happy couple, and go upstairs and get the coffee ready,” he ordered, his demanding loud voice reminding me of the flock of parrots.

We trudge upstairs to the kitchen, and back into the coffee pot room where Mr. Drunk Face had passed out the night before.  The pots were still festively disheveled from where he had passed out.  Kyle and I straightened them out a bit, and picked up a couple pots to take over to the coffee station to be filed.

“Hey,” Kyle said, his face quizzical as he was scrambling to hold all of his coffee pots with one arm. “This pot still has coffee in it I think.  I hate when people don’t empty them ..” he grumbled. 

We walked over the the coffee station and set the pots down.  He takes the one with the liquid in it over the sink to rinse it out, as I begin filling up a pot.

“Oh, oh my gosh… SICK” I hear Kyle yell out, and I heard a clang as he dropped the pot into the stainless steel sink.

“What!  Moldy coffee?” I ask, half not caring.

“Get over here, this is sick, oh man I am going to puke,” He said.

I am now intrigued.

I walk over, and open the lid to the coffee pot which had landed upright.

Instead of black, cold coffee, the pot is half filled with a dark yellow, salty smelling liquid.

You guessed it, PEE.




I gagged and drew my hand back dramatically, knocking over the pot. The sticky liquid of death spill out everywhere, a bit splashed up onto my jacket.

“That freaking drunk guy!” I yelled out.  Kyle looked confused.

“I found him in there last night, he must have peed in that pot before passing out. This is unbelievable.”

Kyle, being the brave, amazing husband he is (he is the one that always kills renegade cockroaches in our apartment) wrapped his hand in paper towels like cotton candy, and picked up the heavy, silver pot.

Listen, I don’t care if that pot was made out of solid diamonds, it must NEVER be used again.  We chucked it into the recycling, and covered it up with the towels so nobody spots it and thinks it got thrown out as a mistake.

Then Kyle and I washed our hands 50 times, with the same precision I have learned from watching Grey’s Anatomy. (Best show ever.)  I then doused on so much anti bacterial gel that my hands stung.  

The remainder of my shift I felt disgusting, I felt dirty.  Although I scrubbed and scrubbed the tiny fleck of urine that made it onto my jacket, I still felt like every time I walked fast a wave of pee smell made it to my nose. SICK.

I didn’t see the drunk guy that morning. I am sure he was either sleeping off a huge hangover, or had already checked out of the hotel.  If I would have saw him, I would have offered him a cup of coffee, and asked if he would like cream sugar, or pee with it.  But, judging from his inebriation, I am sure he would not even recognize me, nor remember peeing in a coffee pot smack in the heart of one of the most classy hotels in the world.  But, I would have loved to remind him.









Book It.

Oh faithful PBwaitress readers and comrades,

Do not be faint hearted over my lack of posts in the past few months.

Rather, take heart. For I have been using all my creative energies to formulate this little blog into a future New York Times best selling BOOK, packed with more stories, more laughs, and more Palm Beach adventures.

With that said, if you are a literary agent or a publisher, let’s be best friends, and get this piece of literary art on the shelves at Barnes and Noble.

Cheers to you, cheers to chasing dreams, and cheers to vowing never to be a fat office girl.

-The Palm Beach Waitress.

PS-  Peruse through old stories, and I hope you will find something that tickles your fancy.  I love you.


“Hava nagila

Hava nagila

 Hava nagila vi nis’mecha”

Now to you that may sound like Ewok language, but to me that is the sound of a good time. Palm Beach has a high Jewish population, and the majority of the weddings celebrated at the hotel are of Jewish tradition. That song, Hava Nagila, kicks of the reception into a night of pure bliss.

Every guest piles onto the tiny dance floor, makes a circle and starts dancing around and around until joy is bursting out of every one of their pores. The dance floor is more hopping than a club in Daytona Beach during spring break. Trust me I know. .

The best part of this traditional dance is when the bride and the groom are lifted up into the air, they each grab a corner of a napkin, and are twirled and whirled around. I envy these brides. This looks like one of the most exhilarating, and joyous moments of their life. The most exciting dance at my wedding was when they played ‘Get low’ by Lil John and my grandma got down and dirty.

Anyways, Jewish weddings are absolutely amazing. I was setting up for the evening and quickly noticed a huppa in the ceremony room, and lots of cute little men wearing yamakas roaming the halls, so I knew that tonight would be yet another celebration of Hebrew bliss.

There ceremony came and went, glass was broken, and the bride and groom emerged into the ballroom to make sure every detail was in order for their looming celebration.

That is when I saw her, the bride. She looked beautiful, her hair was swept back, and she had beautiful antique earrings dangling from her lobes. And….she must have weighed 400 pounds.

Now nothing against women who have a little more to love, God bless them … but the thought of that chair dance immediately came to mind. What was going to happen? What….was going to happen! The chair dance is absolutely necessary to complete the Jewish festivities…the chair dance must live.

Then I saw the bride was thinking the same thing I was … as she glanced at the two chairs that were already placed near the edge of the dance floor, two chairs that were staring at her, taunting her. I saw her face go white, clearly nervous about her airborne experience that was quickly approaching.

She went to the bar and quickly consumed three glasses of champagne. Her new husband quietly tried to protest, but she would not hear it. The drinks were gulped down, and she took one more for the road just as guests were starting to pour in.

Drinks were served, food was passed, laughter and celebration filled the air. I kept one eye on the bride, and watched her shoot down 3 more glasses of bubbly right as the music began to kick it.

“Hava nagila

Hava nagila

Hava nagila vi nis’mecha”


The brides face dropped, just as everyone else’s lifted. The clapping and cheering began, and the dance floor filled. The crowd pushed the couple out in front of the stage, their chairs awaiting them. The groom plopped down on his, and the bride hesitantly sat on hers, a nervous fake smile crossed her face.

Every groomsmen in the wedding party surrounded her. The groom must have played college football, all of his friends had necks bigger than Bret Farve’s, with muscles bursting through their tight tuxedo sleeves. The groom clearly had selected his strongest, beefiest friends to be his groomsmen, knowing that this bride lifting moment was to come. I held my breath as I watched to see what would happen next.

The guests were spinning around and around, the music getting louder and louder. The groomsmen counted “one…two…THREE” and heaved the large bride into the air.

A drunken grin buzzed on her red face as she realized “I made it! I am up!” She met eyes with her groom and reached for her end of the napkin. That is when it all came loose. A meat head groomsmen tripped over a renegade high heel on the edge of the dance floor, and lost his balance.

The entire group of men supporting the bride started to sway. Hef face dropped, as did her hand from the napkin. She knew. I knew. We all knew what was about to happen.

They swayed left, they swayed right … someone tried to stand below the woman in an attempt to catch her, but we all knew he would be squished.

The bride ….was going down. She tried to grab onto the chair, onto her groom, anything! But it was inevitable. She tipped forward, arms and legs flailing. The crowd below her could not support her bootyliciuous body, and she, and about 5 guest beneath here, were flattened.

The Hava nagila slowly came to a stop. Everyone gasped, and started trying to help the bride up. But she pushed them all back, and quickly jumped to her feet. A little blood was trickling down her forehead. And a huge smile was plastered across her face. She yelled out a “WOO HOOO,” arms pumping in the air. Her cry was a little slurred.

It seemed as if the excessive champagne self medication had done it’s trick. She felt no pain from her fall, nor any embarrassment. Oh champagne, the curer of all awkward wedding moments.

And with that the band started up again, and the festivities continued for one of the most lively wedding receptions I have ever witnessed. The next morning I worked the post wedding brunch. The bride walked in, hands clasped with her glowing groom, a smile on both their face. She had a black eye, and a band-aid on her forehead. But she looked so happy, especially as she gazed lovingly at her new husband, and grabbed herself, a mimosa.