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Vodka… lemonade. Amiright??

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You know I am. So, how do we make it happen?

Well, first you have someone email you and say, “Hey blogger, we were wondering if you’d like to review one of our products…”

And you be all, “Thanks, I’m not really into reviewing stuff right now, I’m very busy and important.”

So then they say, “Oh, okay, I’ll just send this FREE BOTTLE OF CHERRY VODKA to someone else then!”

And then YOU go “ZOMG, please excuse my evil twin sister who just said that, because YES and also PLEASE.”

Then a week later this bad boy shows up on your doorstep:

And you’re all, “Heyooooo party in a glass FTW!!”

So, I let my dormant inner bartender takeover. As it’s been 928 degrees here in DC all week (give or take), I couldn’t think of anything more refreshing than some cherry (vodka) lemonade. And because I am a giver, and also because the people who sent me this lovely vodka would like me to, I’m going to share it with you.

Probably The Most Refreshing Drink Ever Recipe

Fill pint glass with ice. Add:

• 2.5 oz of Pucker Cherry Vodka
• 1 squeezed fresh lime
• 1 squeezed lemon wedge
• 2 strawberries cut into fourths or so
• 5 oz lemonade (pink or yellow – I like yellow so the sour contrasts with the sweet)

Shake well, then pour directly into face. (Also be 21. I feel like I should probably throw that in here somewhere.)

I didn’t have any on hand, but I think a couple sprigs of mint in this would be phenomenal too.

Got any other ideas for this delicious stuff? I still have half a bottle… (best one gets to drink it with me)!

P.S. I set up a fancy new profesh site over at rachaelgking.com. Would love your two cents on the design, content, all that jazz, as I’m still tweaking to make it perfect! If you’re interested in social media opines and general digital marketing info, feel free to subscribe too.

Mama said share.

We all know I am not your average girl.

I am far, far too weird for that.

But looking around at the crowd of almost 20 people I somehow managed to get to the Royal Palace (read: one of the dirtiest strip clubs in D.C.) all the way from our innocent (enough) happy hour in Adams Morgan, I had to wonder.

Is it me?

You see, I end up at strip clubs… a lot. “A lot” being every couple months or so. And every single time, I have someone with me who’s Never Been.

I, apparently, have an affinity for taking their Strip Club V-Cards. And Friday? I took at least five. (Six? Seven?)

And it’s not that I’m ashamed or anything- if anything, I’m proud every time I manage to get a newbie out to see their first dancers. Argue with me if you want, but I think a few hours at a titty bar can be a great time… and it’s guaranteed to be a good story.

I’m sorry, but boobs? Are fun. Even if you don’t swing that way (and I don’t… despite my Facebook that says Maxie and I are engaged. But SO WHAT IF I DID), they’re called ‘funbags’ for a reason, people.

But still, this is one of my stranger habits, I think. Maybe it’s because I had such a great experience when my co-bartenders in Chapel Thrill took MY strip club V-card… the infamous porn star Jenna Haze (NSFW!) was in town for a one night show at the actually-quite-classy Dollhouse in Raleigh, and of course all the guys were hellbent on going.

And I’m not one to turn down a challenge.

Jenna put on a fabulous show- of course it helped that the club is insanely nice, and the boys were pouring booze down us girls’ throats in a desperate attempt to see us do something we’d regret.

Unfortunately for them, we all behaved ourselves, but Miss Haze WAS kind enough to take a risqué picture with us (NSFW! Like, at ALL!), and overall, it was a blast.

So, I’m not sure where this impulse comes from. I suspect it has something to do with the twisted enjoyment I take in pushing others outside of their comfort zones (no surprise there).

And anyway, no one’s complained yet…

Mama said share.

Alternative Title: Even My Bartenders Want to Share Their TMI Stories With Me.

(I would have saved this for TMI Thursday, but I’ve got another one that’s just too good…)

After last Saturday’s debauchery, Deutlich, Maxie and I woke up Sunday morning with one thing on our mind. Okay, two things: GREASY FOOD, and perhaps (definitely) some hair of the dog. We headed up to U Street to find any open place with food and a bar. We walked into the first spot we saw, took one look at the bartender, and stooled up.

She was in her 50s; a female silver fox, if you will. The silver Sharon Stone cut was accentuated by her white and black earrings, which matched her awesome black and white Kanye shades. This woman was undeniably cool.

Halfway through my spicy Bloody Mary with Guinness in the mix (see? COOL), the conversation inevitably turned to all things urination. Maxie fought determinedly for the side of “One Must Never Pee Outdoors, Ever” while Deutlich and I threw our weight behind “Shit’s Gonna Happen, Literally.” When Silver Sharon looked our way, I was afraid she was going to tell us to pipe down- there were children behind us, after all.

How wrong I was.

“There’s but one time I had to pee outdoors,” she informs us sagely, peering over the tops of her super sweet shades. “I was eight months pregnant and out to here.” She mimes a watermelon, and we nod in acknowledgement of her precarious position.

“My husband and I were driving home, and all of a sudden I knew I couldn’t hold it for one more second. I had him pull over at an orange juice store, and ran inside.” We all nod as though ‘orange juice stores’ are as common as WalMart, and she continues.

“The owners looked at my enormous belly, and told me the restroom was not for public use,” she remembers indignantly. We, of course, scoff with disdain at their utter rudeness and The Humanity! of it all.

“I pleaded with them- said I’d buy 10 GALLONS of juice if only they’d let me pee!- but they threw me out,” she tells us, as we inch towards the edge of our seats. “I was about to burst. There was nothing to do but hike into the woods. My husband helped me trek wayyyy out, so that no one could possibly see…”

We realize that we have forgotten to breathe, such is the tension. “What happened?” We ask, like children being told the dragon has just scaled the Pretty Princess’ wall.

“The very moment I pulled my pants down, a swarm of mosquitos attacked my lilly white ass. I had over a hundred bites, and could barely move to get away. I tried, but I fell over into the brush.”

“Ooooohhh,” we breathe out, feeling her pain. We all involuntarily clench.

“Then I wake up the next day, and what do I find?”

“What?” We chorus. How could this get any worse??

“POISON OAK,” she thunders, and gestures elegantly to her special no-no place. “EVERYWHERE!!!”

“NO!” We gasp in horror, and where our behinds were clenched, we are now feeling our girly bits to make sure they are still there… and poison-less.

“YES!” She leans back, glad to have thrilled us with her tale. And thrilled we are, as she refills our adult beverages, and heads outside to smoke a cigarette.

I’d need one too, after reliving that experience.

And THAT, my friends, is why I ALWAYS sit at the bar. They are back there for a reason, my dears… trust.

Mama said share.

Last week, I was at The Gibson with some uber fabulous ladies, when the conversation turned to the subject of being able to read people solely based on how they present and carry themselves.

This is, without trying to toot my own horn, something I’m pretty damn good at. It’s sort of unavoidable, honestly, after working in restaurants for as long as I have, and particularly because of bartending. Spending a decade in a job where your income depends solely upon your ability to read people means you can’t help but learn to notice their signals and nuances. Analyzing the decisions that people make when they choose how to dress, how to present themselves, how to walk, how to stand, how to approach, how to hit on, whether to hit on… every tiny little itty bitty thing that you do tells me a dozen things about the person that you are. (More details from a past bartending post here.)

It’s a bartender’s favorite game; someone enters, perhaps a couple, a group, a single- doesn’t matter- and we have a quick huddle and take bets on What Their Story Is.

“He’s a traveling (married) business man, meeting someone from Craigslist.”

“Third date, she started dating him for the money, but she’s almost decided it’s not worth it.”

“They should have gotten divorced a year ago… they’ll probably pull the trigger in a couple months.”

“Back from Iraq. Beers are on us. One of the girls, go flirt with that boy. He’s earned it.”

“Blind date… he does this professionally. He’ll have her in bed tonight and she’ll never hear from him again.”

“Closeted frat boys. One girl and one boy double team them and show off the eye candy. A free round of jagerbombs and we’ll have every last penny from their pockets.”

Mind you, we know all this by the time you sit down at the bar. When you open your mouth, it’s just a matter of validation for us. Sure, we’re wrong sometimes, but not often. And after 30 seconds of actually talking to you, we’ve got you COMPLETELY figured out.

I’ve said before how much I love to people watch. While talking about this all with the girls last week, I mentioned that I’ve long since known that if I could have a super power, it would be some sort of handheld device that allowed me to point it at people and have all their stats, information, and life story pop up. You know, so I could check if my assumptions were right. Wouldn’t that be FASCINATING? Yeah, I thought so.

Because whether I’m 100% right, or whether I’m completely surprised… I just freaking love this game.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: People are fascinating animals.

Sidenote: Hilarious Snuggie post here! Ultimate Battle: The Snuggie vs. Slanket vs. Freedom Blanket vs. Blankoat

Mama said share.

Ed. note: I have a super special and scrumptious surprise for y’all tomorrow, so make sure you stop by. BECAUSE I SAID SO!!!! xoxo

I normally don’t take it upon myself to do restaurant reviews; I generally like to leave that stuff to the experts. But I had an experience last week that I just have to share… because it was officially Amazing with a capital A.

You all know how B and I spent our Valentine’s Day. But we had also decided it would be nice to go out for dinner last week as well, especially since it was Restaurant Week, and because neither of us can remember the last time the two of us actually treated ourselves to a real meal out, you know, with silverware and everything.

So we decided on the District ChopHouse, since B had been before and said it was the perfect atmosphere; classy, yet laid-back without being too stuffy. So last Thursday, gussied up in my hot-ass boots and wind-swept hair, we made our way to the ChopHouse. Upon hearing our name, the host promptly picked up two menus and seated us in the coziest booth in the place, overlooking the center of the restaurant. This was already beginning well.

You see, B and I are sort of jaded when it comes to our restaurant experiences, as we’ve had terrible luck with service the whole time we’ve been dating. Now, I know that a large portion of this can be explained by the fact that I spent a decade working in restaurants as a host, server, bartender, in the kitchen- you name it, I’ve done it. So, while I understand the hardships of the job better than most, I also know exactly how easy it is to give relatively decent service. I’m not asking for you to crumb my table and push my chair in; just to be there when we need you and more importantly, to NOT be there when we don’t.

I think our experience can best be summed up by an open letter to our server.

Dear Robert, you were perfect.

You had perfect timing, and you gave us the perfect amount of attention. We were given water immediately. You could tell we were cool when we quickly discarded the Restaurant Week menu in favor of a bacon-wrapped filet and the Porterhouse. You recommended the perfect wine, easily and without pointing to the most expensive thing on the menu (although the entire drink menu was extremely reasonably priced). You brought us piping hot corn bread. The spinach dip came with toasted pita, complete with grill marks. The steaks were the perfect shade of bloody while maintaining that gorgeous outer crust that is so hard to achieve.

The atmosphere was fun and lovely- the lack of sound carrying despite the sky high ceilings was nice, (although Ol’ Blue Eyes was crooning and I could hardly hear him, but I forgive you). Your bussers kept our water full, our empty plates cleared, and were totally Casper about it- friendly ghosts.

We chatted a bit to show you our appreciation, and you’re also a totally cool guy. It wasn’t enough for us, so we grabbed the manager on the way out to express our gratitude for the entire experience. Even though we saw him coming a mile away with that black button down shirt and silver tie, he quickly melted our hearts when we realized he was near tears from the stress of Restaurant Week, and we had just given this man an extremely necessary breath of fresh air.

“I just really needed to hear that,” he choked out. “This week- it’s so hard, on me, on the staff.”

“I know, I know,” I tried to soothe him without actually patting him on the back, “I’ve been there.”

We showered him with as many compliments as we could, and I resisted my urge to hug him goodbye as the friendly hostess bid us adieu.

So thank you, Robert, and the District ChopHouse, for giving us the most perfect (unofficial) Valentine’s Day ever. I can honestly say that I wouldn’t have changed a single detail about the experience, and that you made two new regulars that night. We will be back.

Love,

LiLu

I also had a fabulous brunch yesterday at Marvin with my girlies as well- maybe I’m on a roll? Where else have you been recently that knocked your socks off? Cause I’m kicking ass and taking names, as far as awesome restaurants go.

Mama said share.

Last Friday, I was fortunate enough to have a couple drinky-poos with the ever lovely and talented Katherine of Who Invented Roses. Since both of us had neglected to eat lunch due to insanely busy and stressful work days, the 2.5 beers we each had hit us like a rock. A very wonderful, drunkity-drunk rock.

Remembering that we still had to “get home” without “getting hit by a car”, we attempted to close out our tabs at the now extremely busy Mackey’s. The flustered bartender closed out about five tabs at once, which should have been my first clue, but noooo. I drained my last swig, signed my $6 tab, put my BoA card in my purse, and left.

Since this was Weekend on the Couch ot Nine, I didn’t pull out my wallet again until Monday morning for a much needed coffee. And then at lunch for a much unwanted-but-necessary salad courtesy of Fat February. And then on Tuesday for some breakfast… and a few hours later for some lunch.

“Denied,” the cafeteria man said, handing the card back to me as though it was an envelope full of anthrax.

Impossible, I thought. This is one of the few times of the month I actually have money in there; got paid, rent check hasn’t gone through… he tried again.

“DENIED,” he said with disdain as a particle of his spittle flew directly into my eye. I gave him a credit card and slunk away to the library to check my account balance. Everything looked normal, except that I had been WAY overcharged at the bar last Friday. I pulled my card out, and finally, after five freakin’ days, noticed that IT HAD SOMEONE ELSE’S NAME ON IT. As in, not my card. Not my card at all. Frantic, I searched my company’s database for the gentleman’s name, hoping there’d been a simple mix up at the coffee stand that morning. No luck. Now about an 8 on the “Totally Freaking Out” scale, I googled his slightly unusual name, thinking there was a chance in hell… Boom. One hit. (Google, I swear I’m getting you one of those fancy $5 cards for Valentine’s Day this year. I might even put a ten spot in it. You don’t know.)

He was an architect on Connecticut Ave, about five blocks away. I called the company’s number and was talking to him within minutes.

Yes, he had only noticed the switch himself that very morning. He had gone to a BoA in Maryland and turned in my card, and cancelled his own. He had been at Mackey’s last Friday, and realized that they had charged me for his $60 bill as well as my $6 one. He would be more than happy to meet me in 15 minutes on his lunch break, and pay me the difference.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I met him in front of Mackey’s, ironically enough. I gave him his card, apologized for not noticing sooner, and he handed me $52, which he “hoped was all right, as he owed me $51.81 for his bar tab” (minus the coffees and such I had since purchased with his).

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I told him that honestly, it was the bar’s mistake for mixing up our debit cards (though I’m not saying it never happened to me when I bartended…), and I had printed out my bank statement with the charges and would be happy to go in with him and explain the mistake if he’d like. He kindly waved me off, clearly of the mind that it was money he had meant to spend anyway. We shook hands and went on our way.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, Mister. You just took good samaritan to a Whole. New. LEVEL.

Dear Universe:

Inherently, I knew when I said “karma’s a bitch“, what I meant was that karma will give you back whatever you deserve, good OR bad. And look, I know I can be a little… evil, sometimes But when it comes to the Big Things in Life, the really important things that determine whether you are a good person or not, I honestly think I do pretty darn well. And you could have screwed me with this whole ATM card thing, you really could have. Yesterday could have been a lot more HEART ATTACK inducing, rather than just an annoying, and a short trip during my lunch break. Sure, I don’t have a debit card for a few days, but my bank account hasn’t been emptied out the day before my rent check was going to be processed.

So thanks, Universe, for proving me RIGHT for once. ‘Preesh, seriously. And can I just say this shade of white is dazzling on you? The snow is such a lovely touch. You are so lovely! No, YOU are. YOU are!

Thanks much… and I promise to try and pay it forward.

XOXO,

LiLu

Mama said share.

Gah. So… tired… longest… weekend… ever…

But it’s DONE. It’s finally over. We’re in. Everything is moved in from both apartments (I’ve got GUNS), every last piece of furniture arranged, every last item of clothing hung (which took as long as it did to watch the entire third season of Arrested Development… yeah, I might have too many clothes). The only thing I have left to organize is… yes, you nailed it (that’s what she said)… my shoes. Ah well, that should only take a few hours days. No biggie.

Bottom line, the place is gorgeous. And it’s ours.

Life is already so much better. I can breathe easier. I’m comfortable in our home. My kitchen is breathtaking, and it yearns to be used. Everything is organized, everything is simple- and it feels good. It feels right.

This change has (inevitably) led me to think about my life as a whole. What other things can I streamline, or change to increase my happiness? The decision to move in together is indicative of the lifestyle I have come to crave over the past few (whirlwind) months.

I want to relax after work. I want to spend quality time with friends, and on any day of the week- not just Wednesday evenings, because I’m either working or too tired the rest of the week.

I want to cook. I want to exercise. I want to have the time and the mental (and physical) energy to focus on the things that will make me feel good about myself, that make me happy. There was a time, not so long ago, when this involved being able to catch a flight to LA at the last minute for a crazy weekend with my fabulous GBF (gay boyfriend, obvs), or going insane on Piperlime, just because I wanted to- because I could. I still want to travel, of course, but not like that anymore- escaping D.C. for a weekend because there’s nothing keeping me here. Because I actually have a lot here. A real lot. (Love your guts, all of you.)

I want to actually be done with my 9 hour day at 5:30, not starting a second one. I want to go home, and make dinner, and watch Grey’s or ANTM with my girls. I want to go to the occasional (cheap) happy hour, whenever my friends happen to be going. I don’t want to be on the other side of the bar anymore.

I want to be like everyone else.

I’ve been doing the restaurant thing for the better part of a decade now, and I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. I’ve learned more from those years than any schooling or other job could ever hope to teach me. But it’s time. From now on, the only drinks I’ll be slinging will be in the comfort of my own home (or at a good friend’s, if the mood strikes and they’re super lucky and/or buy me the shoes I’m coveting at the time and can no longer afford. Wink!).

While contemplating my impending resignation from the world of hospitality, I wondered aloud, “I wonder if I’ll ever be able sit in a bar or restaurant and just enjoy myself, without noticing every little detail about the place, the employees, the things that need to be done…”

My wise friend Restaurant Refugee smiled at me, a bit sadly, I believe, and assured me, “Oh honey… no, no you won’t. Not ever.”

I hope he’s right… because honestly, I don’t ever want to forget.

Mama said share.

I’ve been having really strange chest pains lately. My heart often feels as though someone has it in a vice, or has taken two of the muscles and is continually tying them in a knot. A boy scout-approved knot.

Actually, I’ve experienced symptoms like this on and off for years, but I used to think it was associated with a few certain extracurricular activities I subjected my body to (and I’m sure it was). BUT, those activities are no longer a part of my life, and yet the pain remains. In fact, it’s becoming more severe each day.

Of course, I immediately assumed the obvious: I was dying.

It would be a slow and agonizing death, during which I would be refused the necessary heart transplant based on my aforementioned life choices. I would die, young and tragically, punished for the compromising path I had chosen.

As I said, I’ve always noticed the contracting, vice-like pain gripping my heart in sudden bursts was associated (logically enough) with a leisure interest of questionable nature and thus, I suppose, easier to ignore. I guess I always figured that when I stopped, it would go away. However, I am no longer engaging in said health-threatening activities, and lately, the strangling pains have not only returned, they are more potent than ever.

Visions of a devastating heart attack (you know, rather than the un-devastating kind) ending my short, self-absorbed life danced in my mind’s eye. Finally, I made an appointment for a physical (the first I would have had in over five years)… and promptly missed it. (Subconscious avoidance, perhaps? Almost definitely.) Now a full-blown issue of steadily strengthening denial, I let the rest of the summer drift by, the monkey only gently tapping on my back- ya know, just to say “Oh hai, why ur heart asploding?”

Then, I realized how much I truly hated my job- both of them. Each shift at the bar made Russian Roulette sound like a more and more attractive alternative to slinging mojitos and “Strong Islands” for the ungrateful masses. Finally, I quit (or at least found a new place that didn’t seem quite so soul-crushing), and it felt great… until I realized how poor that made me.

I also fell madly in love and began planning the rest of my life… wonderful, right? Yes, of course, except that our impulsive decision to move in together, coupled with the complete and total lack of my roommates’ cooperation to replace me (seriously? Demanding a friend to move in, rather than using Craigslist like every other 20-something in a major US city? I had over 100 girls answer an ad in less then 24 hours. SURELY one of them would have made a much, much better roommate than me??) meant that I was also faced with the possibility of having to pay 2 rents for the month of September. I stopped buying shoes, getting manicures, and taking cabs. The monkey began to beat more persistently, and sleep was made impossible by his shrieks.

Finally, I ALSO came to terms with the fact that I, in no way, want to become a commercial real estate broker. It is my father’s wet dream, because it is basically a guarantee that I would never have to worry about finances… but I just can’t stomach it. The selling of my soul, the two years of cold calls, the utter tedium and idiocy of the coworkers I would be subjected to for more than half of my waking life… I. Just. Can’t. It just sounds a little too much like my very own, cute little personal hell.

Which makes it so much more glaringly obvious that I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK I WANT TO DO WITH THE REST OF MY LIFE.

And so… maybe, just maybe, these little heart attacks are the result of stress? A little anxiety, perhaps? And not that, at the age of 24, I am going to die of a massive coronary because I had a little bit too much funsies in college?

Well played, life. Well played.

Ironically enough, I know that everything is close to coming together. I quit the bar I hated. I AM moving in with the man I love, into a breathtaking apartment, and I couldn’t be more excited about it. I can find another day job that doesn’t make me want to stick an entire box of staples in my eye, one by one, rather than converse with the people around me. (Except for you, Turducken!) My roommates actually have found a couple of prospects, and are both optimistic that they will be able to replace me before October 1st- and even if they don’t, ultimately, I will be okay.

I just want to know that I am going to end up like this (you know, old and FABulous):

And not like this:

(You know.. dead.)

Mama said share.

It’s official- I made it through my last night at The Faceless Glorified Applebees, with the help and encouragement of these two lovely and extremely entertaining ladies (and also, one adoramable gay boy whom we clutched to our collective bosom when he got stood up last night. Don’t worry, Not Nathan, he doesn’t deserve a hottie like you! Just keep some fierce-ass women by your side and you’ll be fine).

Bottom line, I am free.

I am also effing tired (3am bedtimes do not agree with me). And it’s Friday. Therefore, I am lazy. Which means it’s picture time!

Sooooo, I talk a lot of crap about what a shoe whore I am. I figured y’all have been very well behaved, putting up with my endless schmoopiness and bitching about my jobs and all, so I’d go ahead and prove it to you. (While simultaneously exposing what a complete and total slob I am- you’re not alone, Lem.) That little nugget’s a freebie. Enjoy…

Happy weekend!

Mama said share.

If all goes as planned, tonight should be my last shift at (Faceless Glorified Applebees) as a bartender. Or as anything, for that matter. I really can’t see myself ever setting foot in the place, voluntarily, ever again.

I. Am. So. STOKED.

(This is me. Although I might be slightly less sausage-y.)

It’s been a little over a year… not all of it was bad. When I was working with Tuesday Boozeday, it was great, actually. But she left me to move on to greener pastures (i.e., got promoted at her day job and no longer had to slave away at two jobs like the rest of us), and things changed. The clientele got worse. The management got more controlling. The bartenders I worked with, though good people, were often questionable in their actual skills. During a typical shift, I would estimate that I did about two thirds of the work.

Still, it’s always an odd feeling to walk into a place of employment for the last time. Never again will I frantically fight my way through the masses in Gallery Place, desperately trying to make it in the door AND change my work clothes in the half an hour between jobs. I may be busting my ass to get somewhere after work, but it will be somewhere else.

A change of scenery will be extremely refreshing, but what I’m REALLY looking forward to are the couple of weeks I’ll have off from a second job. I can’t remember the last time I only had one job… it is going to be heaven.

Here’s to escaping (part of) my corporate hell…

Mama said share.