Monthly Archives: November 2009

The most un-romantic engagement in Palm Beach history.

I was standing out side of a bustling party, watching a coat rack with a single coat on it.  I had been there for an hour.  First of all, we are in South Florida, practically in Cuba for that matter.   Why, oh why, do we have a coat rack.  Second of all, am I really getting paid for this?  Let me check … I am.

The owner of that single coat was inside the ballroom, attending the most ridiculous birthday party of all time.  The room was decorated floor to ceiling in sparkling rhinestone covered fabric.  There were fifteen disco balls spinning over the dance floor, and the flowers probably cost more than a semester of college tuition.  It was amazing, it was glorious, it was breathtaking, and it was all for some 30 something year olds birthday.  It wasn’t even a significant birthday like 40 or 50, just…30 somthing.  I can only imagine what her birthday was like when she turned 21.

So I was standing there tapping my loafer covered toes to the beat of the band, when a man comes falling out of the doorway.

He just about face plants when he caught his balance, and somehow manages to focus on me.   This man was more drunk than your Aunt Lisa on Christmas right after her dog FoFo died.  RIP FoFo.

Anyways, his red glassy eyes met mine and he slurs out ‘Which way to the Ocean?”

“East,” I replied. 

“Huh?” he farts out of his mouth.

“It’s this way sir,” I reply, and 5 star gestured with my hand toward the Atlantic.

He wobbles his way back into the party and yells ‘Tina!’

Emerges a blond, with shoes so tall they would make a midget look average height.

He leans all of his weight on her, and they make their way outside.

Oh man… he is going out their to hurl.  Sick.

I look around for a supervisor, or a mop, something to take care of this vomit catastrophe that was about to erupt.

I didn’t see anyone or anything, so I just continued my job of standing and existing. Sigh.

Then, the drunk man and his arm candy return from outside.

I look for traces of puke on his tuxedo … but instead something sparkly catches my eye.

An engagement ring.

Mr. Alcoholic Anonymous had stumbled out to the ocean side … to propose.


Not exactly every girls dream, that when the man dips to one knee he topples over and dry heaves.

But, nonetheless, she looked happy.

Drunk McGee stumbles over to me and shoves Tina’s hand under my nose, smelling of whisky.

‘Look…  burp…what I did!” he gargles out.

“Ohhh…. ahh… ” I exclaim.  “Congratulations!” I mutter, trying not to burst out laughing.

I can’t believe this just happened.  I would have offered them a complimentary bottle of champagne … but I thought … mmm… maybe not.

This is the end of this story, and the beginning of a long, drunken marriage.


Bush sisters and 500 chopsticks.

Last night I worked a rehearsal dinner for a huge wedding.  Our boss has been talking about this wedding for over a year, so basically put on your best pair of K-mart non slip fake leather grandma loafers… it’s time to bring the big guns.

I looked at the run down for the evening … dinner from 7:00 – 9:00, beets and goat cheese, short ribs, and fruit sundaes for dinner. But then at the bottom I notice the ‘service note’ for the evening. It read


Ok so either someone had a hand cramp and didn’t click spell check, or this was a TRIPLE VIP event.

VVVIP.  Hmm… what do I have to do in my life to surpass the status of VIP and move onward to VVVIP.  At this point if I ever even got an IP I would feel accomplished.

So there were 3 V’s, and 300 people heading our way.

I went into our main ballroom to rally up some silverware.  A lovely little Turkish co-worker comes up to me and whispers in her broken english, “Bush daughter, Barbara. Right there in big poof blue dress.”

What?  Is this little Turkey bundle of joy trying to tell me that little Barbara Bush was in our midst … indeed she was.

I zeroed in on who I though Barbara Bush was, however turns out someone else decided to done a blue poof dress as well, so for ten minutes I was one eyeballing another chick with brown hair who I thought used to roam the White House.  Nope, not Barbara.

Now, as a journalist one would think that I would be familiar with the former president’s daughter, however I wasn’t.  Nobody really was actually.  While I do think I could pick Chelsea Clinton out of a crowd, Barbara Bush Jr. has slipped through my radar.

But eventually I got my brown haired blue dress women straightened out, and there she was.  President Bush’s daughter.  fascinating.  Not really.

One particularly liberal server friend of mine told me that after he dropped Barbara’s plate of ribs down in front of her, he was going to whisper ‘Your Dad stunk as President.  Would you like sauce with those ribs?”

I pulled the whole let me dare you thing and said “You won’t”, and of course, in fact, he really didn’t.

The night pressed on and the small wedding party dinner turned into a beach party with all the guests.

I was on passing duty, and I had my plate stacked with chocolate dipped key lime pie on a stick.  Each pie slice weighs about 6 pounds, and those six pounds go straight onto your left booty cheek after eating it.  And try as I must all night to refrain from indulging in that six pounds of lime lard, I ate one, then immediately regretted it.  But those 12 seconds of eating were the best 12 seconds of my 8 hour shift.

Anyways, as the party expanded so did the Bush family.  Cue: Jenna Bush.

Oh Jenna, with your DUI charge and recent Today Show gig.  Again, as journalist I do envy the her cuddle sessions with Al Roker, but then again I launched my reporting career graduating from a college nobody has ever heard of, while she launched hers from the White House. No big deal, it’s just the White House. (cue me pouting)

But there she was in her white dress and tall heals, and there I was with my plate of pie.  I was walking behind her staring at her blonde hair highlights and all the secrets about the nation they cover.  Then she whipped that secret holding head around and yells ‘HEY!’.

I look over my polyester shoulder, left, right. Yes, she is ‘heying’ at me.

Ah, Yes? I reply.

Do you want to play golf with this guy tomorrow?

I follow her gesture.  There stood a tall, lanky, curly-haired big Adam’s apple man looking at me as confused as I was looking at him.

In true 5 star quality serving fashion I answered with more excitement than I actually feel and say “Sure! Of course I will play golf with you!”  The tall man shrugs, Jenna whips her hair around again, and keeps chattering away seemingly unaware of the question she even asked me. 

Ah.. this is awkward.  And random.  And an ex-first daughter.  How do I handle this situation?  The most natural and un-awkward way possible. 

I offer them key lime pie on a stick.

Blink.  Blink. Sigh.

The group responds with one big ignore session.

Cue awkward turtle.

I walk back to the kitchen, with my pie plate still full, beads of condensation forming on the crunchy chocolate shell, and my loafers trying to avoid all of the Christian Louboutin pumps on the dance floor.

When I get to the back my overly hyper supervisor greets me and my friend with a “HEY!  You two, down to the office!” Complete with some huge unnecessary arm gesture.

My and my blonde bombshell friend trot our little tux bodies to the basement, expecting to get cut early. Score!

We walk into the office, only to be faced with

500 pairs of chopsticks.

Another boss of mine goes “Girls, before you go, can you peel the labels off of every single pair of these chopsticks?”

Um….excuse me?

I pick up a pair and try to get a sticker off.  About one centimeter of the label peels off, leaving a mass amount of sticky residue and paper still plastered to the side.

You have got to be kidding me.  This is going to take all night.

In my slightly spoiled upbringing and very outspoken fashion, I pleaded with everyone in the office that this job is completely unnecessary, and absolutely ridiculous.  One boss just looked at me and said ‘It’s not even worth trying.’ and left us with our massive pile of stickered chopsticks and misery.

We began. 15 min goes by, 20 min, one hour.  The rest of our team that was finishing up upstairs come down.  Alright!  Teamwork, we can knock out this ridiculous and tedious job in ten more min.  They look at our fingers, raw from trying to peel off hundreds of tiny stickers, shake their heads, and make up every excuse possible to get out of that office and leave us to our own peril.

DFKJDHFJHDKFJD.  This was the sound of my frustration at this point.  Another hour goes by, and we have about ten boxes left.  My overly excited supervisor comes down to our chopstick hell, and says ‘Your not done yet?!”

I almost jabbed a chopstick into his right eye.

He picks one up and begins trying to peel the wrapper off with his pudge fingers.

“What!  This is Ca-Ca!”  He exclaims. 

That is what were trying to explain two hours and 480 chopstick sets ago.

Alright, he says, go home.


I literally just completed the most pointless job of all time.  My dark purple manicured nails were chipped, and my thumbs were cramping in ways never before thought possible.  But I was released, and at that point it was all I cared about.  My loafers somehow led me to my car, after a long night of Jenna Bush and Chopsticks.

Whoever ate with those plastic sushi picking up devices better appreciate them and their sticker free glory.

And lets hope we didn’t slap swine flu all over them.


Just another day on the job.


17 more stories and this little blog is being turned into a book!  God willing?