Category Archives: Palm Beach Crazy

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.









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.

Celeb Sightings: These blasts from the past are sure to tickle your fancy.

There is a foofy poofy golf event that went on at the hotel over the weekend, called The ADT Skills Challenge.  Doesn’t that just send shivers of excitement down your spine? Blah.  For some that may seem like an amazing weekend of fine dining and golf playing bliss.  For me all I can think about is how one time while parking in a designated and required employee parking space, a golf ball came whirling through the air and dented my Toyota, only to have the golf ball hitter yell at me for picking up his ball, off the hood of my car.

Golfer “Thats my ball!”

Me  “This is my car.”


That dent still lives there proud and strong.  The hotel pretends like they will pay for it, sending out a security guard to take notes and pics.  Lies.  Golf ball lies.

So besides my bitterness over white plastic round objects, the golf tournament is good for one thing.


OK all you Perez Hilton fans, add my name to your blogroll because I am about to blow you away with the amazing celeb sightings encountered only mere hours ago.

Was it the infamous Brangelina duo? with their 87 kids tucked in Angelina’s oversized Hermès Birkin bag?



Remember the show…Fresh Prince of Bell Air?  Who could forget that crab.  Art, true art.

OMG did you I Will Smith?



Remeber the Fresh Prince’s annoying short and chubby cousin?

BINGO!  We have a Carlton sighting on our hands.


And who could forget this little diddy!

And yes ladies, he did whip that dance out on the dance floor, and yes I did faint in lust.


Sighting number 2.

So….remember Seinfield?

Did I see Jerry himself?

No. Better.

Remember Mr. Peterman, Elaine’s extremely awkward boss? 

Yes, there he was in all his white-haired glory.

I don’t even know his name… but I do know his fame. Whoot!

Can you say sexy?

And yes ladies, this IS the current host of Family Feud,  a show I know ALL of you readers out there ti-vo on a daily basis.


Alright so how is that for A-list celeb sightings on the grand island of Palm Beach?

Don’t you all be jealous now of these amazing encounters.

Loves it and Loves you.

Palm Beach Waitress Halloween Special: Only on the island do things like this happen.

 It was Halloween time, the autumn air was crisp and cool, and colored leaves scattered across the ground. Ok who am I kidding we live in a tropical sauna. The palm trees were bursting with coconuts that have the potential to fall and smash a Lamborghini, the air was still 85 degrees and just humid enough to make my chi-straightened hair curl again, and there were no colored leaves … anywhere.

My friend Coco was asked if she would be a waitress at a private party separate from the hotel. Another server used to work for a woman living on the island, so she recruited a few co-workers to be the woman’s slave for the night.

So Coco gets in her beat up old Plymouth, swings by City Place to pick up Tony, a guy who was also a server recruit for the night, and they putt their butts to the island.

Tony is tall and lanky, with a big adams apple and an addiction to UV rays.. His sun burned nose is always freckled and a pealing just a bit. He has a southern surfer way of talking, and loves kegs of beer. He is not in college but basically fits the stereotype mold of college boy, except has more time to party without class getting in the way.

They turn east on Clark Ave and a couple houses down there it sat, a massive mansion that our dorm room could fit into 50 times. The stare in amazement for a moment, and then step out to begin their nightly endeavor.

See for all us mainlanders, we just gawk at these beautiful houses when we go to the beach, or drive past and show them to our mom when she comes and visits. They are like a mysterious wilderness for us. Big, foreign, and never been entered. Coco and Tony got a glimpse into the forbidden world of the Palm Beach rich. Jealous.

You may remember me telling you about Coco from a previous story, where she somehow managed to get more free makeup than if she modeled for Cover Girl. Coco is that friend that we all have where luck literally sometimes falls onto their lap. As she went to this party on the island, we all sat back in West Palm eating reduced fat Cheez-it’s and laughing at Youtube videos, all the while fantasizing about her Palm Beach endeavors and how we wish we too were on the island in a mansion, even if it’s only to pick up dirty napkins after wealthy people.

They walk inside and are greeted by the hostess. Remember, this is a Halloween party, so naturally you must where a slutty outfit. Cough. The lady hands Coco a tiny little sexy bumble bee costume, you know the one that every girl on Clematis wears Halloween night, thinking it’s original when really it is just degrading. Cough. The lady, who clearly already had been drinking the magic juice, says “Put this on it’s cute! Oh and you can keep it.” Coco looks at her, looks around, then throws the thing over her t-shirt and jeans.

This is why she is my friend, because she rocked the bumble bee over her jeans. That bee costume resurfaced again of course, jeans included, as we all made our way to Fright Night at the South Florida Fair Grounds. Appropriate, a bumble bee being chased by Freddy Krugers with a fake chain-saw. Appropriate.

So Coco and Tony start making the rounds, passing out brie cheese and grapes, or glasses of champagne. Everyone was in their dressed in their costume finest, some of them looking like they walked out of Rachel’s Steakhouse. (A topless little steak joint in West Palm. I swear honey, I go there for the fine dining, they have the best steak around. Just like Hooters across the street has the best wings.) LIES.

Anyways, the night wraps up, and it is about time to go. Coco and her bee butt walk up to the hostess and begin the awkward “Hey there, heading out… where is my money?” run around. The lady by this time has more alcohol in her system than when David Hasselhoff tried to eat a hamburger.

She gives them two white envelopes, kisses Coco on the cheek and Tony a little too close to his mouth. The pair walk out, Coco’s glittery wings blowing in the ocean breeze. They pile back into the junker car and tear open their envelopes. They worked about five hours, so they were expecting around one hundred bucks. They reach in and pull out five crisp $100 bills.

Oh. My. Gosh. That is more money then we make in two weeks work! This is our car payment two times over. This is ridiculous, this is Palm Beach. So they both do a little happy scream, then a happy little car restricted dance. They couldn’t believe their luck (although I can, Coco has magical luck farts coming out of her all the time.)

 So after their screams and celebrations, Tony suddenly gets really quiet, and really serious. He looks slowly over at Coco, and stammers,

“Want to make out.”

 Coco blinks, her $500 still fresh in her hand. She looks at it, she looks at the mansion, then she looks at sunburned Tony. She blinks again, and says


With that she puts the crap car into reverse, drives back over the bridge to the mainland, drops of Tony and drives back to her dirty apartment.

Singlehandedly the most awkward yet perfect ending to the most awkward and perfect night, on Palm Beach.

More poodle bliss.


This is a little something for you dozens of people who come to my sight via googling poodle, ugly poodle, or weird poodle.  Who knew I would get such traffic from you poodle lovers and haters!  Here is my update to the Palm Beach poodle madness.

I was in Publix the other day on the Island, fresh from the beach, covered in sand and smeared mascara and looking way sub par to the Palm Beach ladies who put on their finest for a trip to the grocery store.

Side note to this side note about poodles …. the Palm Beach Publix has valet parking.  The parking lot literally is 20 feet long.  Why would you valet?

Anyways, I was in there purchasing hot dogs for an upcoming camping adventure to St. Augustine (balla!).  Then, as I veered out of aisle 5 I came face to face with a massive. white. gigantic. poodle.

Visual aid:



 Oh my goodness I just about dropped my mystery meat sticks encased in synthetic cellulose casings.  These giant poodles freak me out, and who let this big fluff puff into Publix?

Then I saw.  The precious old man who had this cotton candy dog on a leash had also taken the time to put on a “Service Dog” vest on it.

Service dog?  Really? Really?

Service dogs are labs or German shepherds … but not fluffy afro puff poodles!  What service exactly could this poodle provide?  Could he sing you Tina Turner songs when you feel like you needed a big hair tune to dance to?

 Please note this resemblance.

Anyways, the old Palm Beach man and his massive poodle were so adorable and precious, but so ridiculous at the same time.    Although I highly doubt that his poodle companion was a trained service dog, I don’t doubt that the little old man loved that fluff enough to take it into the grocery store.  I should have fed it a hot dog.  Onward soldiers!

Weird watch: Just because you live on an island doesn’t mean it’s not weird: Food.

 I have seen some weird food in my days serving. It never ceases to amaze me how a slimy fatty liver or something that is cut out of a fish can be considered a delicacy. This is a little section that discusses 3 foods I think are absolutely disgusting, but still cost more than a week of groceries.

1. Caviar.

I love how at parties I will carry around trays of something absolutely delicious, such as a mini Cuban sandwich. Everyone will turn their noses at the sight of a tiny smear of butter and cheese. Then I will bring around a huge tub of forest green, stinky caviar. (When I serve it I almost want to speak in a British accent … it just seems appropriate.) So I offer the tub of gooed fish eggs, and everyone actually begins to acknowledge that I am a human being and start oohing and ahing over this mass of undeveloped minnows. ‘Oh caviar! How lovely. I adore Caviar” Yadda yadda yadda .,.. you probably actually hate it but you can’t let Nancy sitting at your right think that you aren’t made of all class. So the caviar always sells.

But I was researching the fish that the eggs actually come out of, and it was quite… disgusting. I wonder if people would be so excited about the ‘delicacy’ if I served it wearing a T-shirt with this image on it. Muahaha:


Sick. You realize you are eating the eggs of a fish that sports a moustache tackier that Hulk Hogan’s. Honestly it doesn’t taste that good.

2. Foie Gras.

For all you people not accustomed to fine dining I will translate foie gras for you. It is is French for ‘fat liver.’ They take a duck and stuff it until it is resembles Michael Moore in Supersize Me. Then, they slap the slimy slab right on the plate and top it with whatever they feel like. At the hotel, we often serve it topped with …ready for this ….brace yourself…. peanut butter and jelly. I just threw up a little typing that. Say WhAt? PB&J over a slice of obese DUCK LIVER? Lets just say that is a far stretch from the PB&J my mom would pack me back in the good old days. At what point in life do we stop wanting peanut butter and jelly on delicious white wonder bread and instead turn to fatty duck liver? This is the worst part. They stuff tubes down the goose’s throats and don’t let them move just so their liver gets fatty enough to be enjoyed on a cracker.

 Example A:


Now pair that with this:


Are you hungry yet?

 3. The Oyster.

Ah seafood. I know oysters are not that fancy schmancy or even that gross. Many people like them. However slurping down something that has the consistency of a slimly lymph node does is not appealing to me, especially when it smells like a marina. But this is why I added the oyster to the list of foods I won’t eat no matter how dignified I become.

A lovely gentleman, who works at the hotel bussing dishes down into the dishwashing room, told me this tale of oyster horror. Since he gets to encounter all the left over food (and trust me there always is enough to feed every homeless person in Florida), he endulges here and there. He told me that he loved oysters, and whenever a raw bar would come through he would eat a couple. Then…(cue dramatic and frightening music) …one day he crack opened the shell…and he found a worm. This worm had by itself consumed the entire oyster before any human even had a chance. A WORM. That is just wrong on so many levels.

All right kids, there you go. Take this as a lesson on how to truly eat with class and dignity at a high society event. Pass on the fish eggs and parasite ridden oysters, and say yes to the hummus platter and fried cheese. Onward soldiers!