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?



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.

Another ridiculous poodle that roams the earth.

This picture needs no words.  Simply amazing. 

At this point I don’t know what this poodle has to do with being a Palm Beach waitress, but just appreciate it for all it’s glory.

Another hot blog. Check it.

Check out this blog and it’s funky stank.  It is written by another astounding aspiring West Palm Beach journalist.

Click here to check out “Hey I like Your Afro” by Mitzi.