Your Favorite Libyan-American Princess

A Mormon and a Hood Rat Walk Into a Bar...

2009-05-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna go one step beyond giving this photo the the ever so popular "throwing up in my mouth" rating. This is puke in your nasal cavity and sinus tissue caliber, the kind of puke that you can still taste and smell when you breathe retroactivally (I learned that term at a wine tasting) several hours later. The combination of Lil' Kim's cheekbones, bad wig, and hand proximity to Derek Hough's crotch is disturbing to me. Her shoes are kinda hot, though.

Spicing it Up a Bit...

2009-05-04T00:12:00.000-07:00

Since I inspire an average of ZERO comments on my blog postings I have come to the following conclusion: either A) no one (besides Gina) reads this on the regs or B) I am just really boring. Whatever the case may be, I feel the need to step it up a bit. Just this once I am going to offer you full entry (sort of) into the soft folds of my inner sanctuary, aka, the boudoir.

Now, just because I am not currently entertaining any gentlemen callers (by choice, natch), does not mean that things are dullsville in between the sheets.

Okay. I'm lying. Things are a little tame. I sleep nightly with the Times crossword and a bowl of Whole Foods Morning O's nearby (If that isn't the best name for a cereal then I don't know what is. It would be awesome if they named their generic All-Bran cereal Morning Wood). See, ever since I arrived in LA, I haven't been sleeping so good. I typically wake up between 5 or 6 times a night and sometimes can't get back to sleep for an hour. So, I do my puzzle, munch on some easily digestable carbs, or ...drum role please...

Get lost in a tastefully illustrated manual on Tantric sex. Yup. Just because I'm not having my own "Morning O's" doesn't mean I've forgotten about the healing properties of some good ol' S-E-X. Actually, the woman whose apartment I am subletting right now is healer/reiki practitioner/yoga head who travels to Asia to lose herself in the esoteric spiritual realms. And she's a freak. I mean in a good, kind of enviable way. Her apartment has an overtly sexual vibe thanks to lots of "tasteful" nudie pics, soft lighting, nuanced textiles, and books on sex that are in within arms reach from the bed.

I once had a boyfriend give me a book on Taoist Sexual Practices and I was totally into it until I got to the chapter that instructed me to purchase a three inch wide marble egg and practice retaining it in my vagina. That, and the fact that my partner couldn't hold up his end of the bargain which was IN-jaculating instead of E-jaculating, meaning he was never supposed to, um, release any fluids.

But since I'm always open to new things, I figured it might benefit me to become familiar with the whole tantric system. It is rather difficult to understand let alone put into practice (with a one nite stand, heh) but I thought I might share with you the ten most fascinating/odd/confusing principles of tantric sex:

1.) The breasts on a women are supposed to have the same powerful sexual energy as a man's penis.

2.) It is recommended that a woman inserts the penis while it is still flaccid.

3.) Women are supposed to remain as still and motionless as possible during coitus.

4.) The vagina is a secondary organ to the breasts.

5.) Clitoral and G-spot orgasms are supposed to be AVOIDED.

6.) Friction of any sort deadens the vagina.

7.) Climaxing of any sort should NOT be the goal of sex.

8.) "Plugging in"(sex with a limp dick), is ideal for the generation of a superior, ecstatic female orgasm.

9.) Male or female ejaculation is not good for either party.

10.) This type of sex is supposed to be transformational on a soul level.

I'm not sure I'm buying this tantric stuff. How about you guys? Anyone? Besides Gina. (But don't stop commenting, G. I need you.)

I feel bad.

2009-04-24T12:15:00.000-07:00

I was just in Rite-Aid and I walked up to a girl to ask where the Q-Tips were and she was all, "Um, I don't work here," while giving me a "how dare you think I work at Rite-Aid!" look. Not that I can blame her. It's one thing if you're at Urban Outfitters or Nordstrom and someone asks if you work there, cause that's kind of complimentary. But Rite-Aid? Not really. Embarrassed, I walked to the next aisle where I found an old lady in full pharmacy regalia, and after I confirmed that she had a name tag on, whispered "which aisle are the Q-Tips in," so that the irate girl in the previous aisle couldn't hear.

In my defense, the girl I offended had a whole bunch of keys dangling out of her pocket like all store managers seem to, she had on a grey, too big polo-style shirt, and had her hair in a messy ponytail. So it was an honest mistake, right?

Unsolicited World Judgement #99

2009-04-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

Grown ups (people over the age of 23) should not illuminate their bedrooms/apartments with Christmas lights. Sure, it's cool in college, having that room that everyone can quickly recognize from the street, but as an adult, it just ain't classy. Tree lights are for trees people. And in December/January only.

I'm SO 3008!

2009-04-24T08:48:00.000-07:00

That's right, y'all. Me and my girl Fergie Ferg are on that same futuristic wavelength. That's why I haven't been blogging. I've been like, totally post-verbal these days. Or at least that's what I've been telling myself to try to rationalize being too lazy to write anything.

But you know what? It's kind of true. Ever since I got to LA, the same usual things don't turn me on. The NYT Crossword Puzzle? Boring. Other peoples' blogs? Self important AND boring. Journal writing? Soporific. Transcribing whole pages of Proust line by line? Even that doesn't get me hot anymore!

What does? I thought you'd never ask! How about spending hours at a time in front of a 10x magnifying mirror where I pluck out every last stray hair on my brow line and bludgeon poor defensless mini-pimples until they look like full blown herpes sores? Yup! I proclaimed jihad on every insurgent folllicle and rogue pore on my face...and I have the battle scars to prove it! Welcome to LA people. Be pretty or go home!

Confession

2009-04-16T11:52:00.000-07:00

For the past five days I have been snuggling with a cat. A cat named Sydney. I have been talking babytalk to her and letting her sit on my lap. I feel really awkward about this but I have to come clean. Thank you. Hahaha...she's wrapped herself in my bathrobe. Oh, God...what has happened to me?

Somebody Get This Woman On E-Harmony, Stat!

2009-04-08T19:27:00.001-07:00

NYT published this offensive article today. What's next? Doggie kama sutra classes? Doggie colonic irrigation? Mommy and pooch baking classes where they prepare fois gras and sauternes doggie treats? Gross. Look where the dog's "member" is in relation to the woman's pubic mound. This is just wrong and it is making me not want to be a member of the human race.

Did I Call It or What?

2009-03-29T20:38:00.000-07:00

THIS WAS ON THE FRONT COVER OF THE NEW YORK POST TODAY!!!

See? My Stripper Index was au courant, and published a good two and a half weeks before this article: AXED GALS TAKE POLE POSITIONS Who's the scoop reporter now?

Why My Boyfriend Dumped Me (and why you may too)

2009-03-29T20:25:00.000-07:00

I came out of the closet a couple of weeks ago about something that I have been holding deep inside for about 10 years now...

I don't like dogs.

I know...about half of you have already minimized this tab and are in the process of deleting me as your friend on facebook while simultaneously erasing my number from your telephone. But I just can't keep this to myself anymore. The little crotch sniffing, yapping shits annoy me.

Okay, okay, I'll admit it. Puppies are cute. Baby anythings are cute. Baby people, baby chimps, even baby eggplant and baby romaine lettuce. I can (and do) walk by puppies and the part of me that is genetically programmed to like anything even remotely resembling a baby (like dwarfs or frozen turkeys), smiles inside.

But DOGS, those stinky four legged things that bark all night until the early morning, frighten small children, and defecate wherever they want, whenever they want; those are the things I can't stand. Here's why:

1. They are intrusive.
It seems that every single time I go to a dog lover's house to visit, the dog is all up in my business before I: a) have both feet through the doorway, b)greet the HUMANS that I came to see, or c) take off my coat, put down my purse, etc. Aside from the fact that the dog started barking already 30 seconds before I even hit the doorbell, once he sees me, I'm getting sniffed, licked, jumped on, nipped, clawed. And it never fails that the owners response is, "Oh, he likes you. He's just so excited to meet a new friend." Bullshit. Your dog is untrained with no manners, and I'm starting to evaluate whether or not we can continue to be friends. A few years ago I went to a co-worker's house where I was accosted by THREE dogs, and I still have scars on the back of my thigh from being clawed by her basset hound. She wanted to be my friend sooooo bad, this lady. It never happened. But, not all dogs inflict this kind of physical pain on guests when they walk in the door; some just violate you by ramming their noses and mouths into your crotch, the intensity of which is increased when you are a menstruating woman. If a human did this to you, they would be put in jail. Why should a dog be allowed to?

2. They constantly want attention.
Even if I brush the dog off so I can get a cocktail or put down my purse and the 12 pack that I brought to your BBQ; within seconds of my sitting down, your dog has dropped a saliva saturated tennis ball into my lap. My response? To pick that thing up and throw it as far away as possible while reaching in my purse for a handi-wipe. Which is, of course, the worst move possible. Because now Fido has darted off into the brush of your yard to find said tennis ball and within two minutes has dropped it onto my lap yet again. This will go on until I throw the tennis ball into the garbage, which I can only do if you and other dog loving people are too drunk to notice. Often I have to wait until it's dark.

3. They are dirty.
Besides the shedding, the fleas, and the fact that you have to follow them around to pick up their poop, dogs roll around, step in, and lick EVERYTHING. And then their owners snuggle them, french kiss them, and even let them sleep in their beds. How often do people wash their dogs? On average about once every two months. Would you let a person who didn't shower in eight weeks sleep in your bed? Probably not. Therefore, I have no sympathy for you when you tell me that you have ringworm for the third time this year or when you tell me that you are lonely and you need your dog to keep you company. Here's a tip: Maybe if you would stop tonguing down your dog in public, stop letting him sleep in your bed, and put him away when guests come over, you might have better luck procuring some lasting HUMAN companionship.

Oh Yes She Did!

2009-03-26T08:32:00.000-07:00

Okay...apparently the desire to pose scantily clad isn't just a fleeting whimsy emblematic of early twenties immaturity. *Big disappointed sigh.* I was sincerely hoping that my characteristic Sarah vanity would wear off as I age so that I can be a content old woman who bakes all day and wears mu-mus around the house. I guess I will just have resign myself to the fact that I will be that 60 something year old body builder lady at the gym who buys herself new breasts as a retirement gift and volunteers to spot teenage boys on the bench press, inviting them home after for a "protein shake." Awesome.

The Latest Ingenue to Voluntarity Objectify Herself Is...

2009-03-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

Emmy Rossum! Yep. Turns out it's not enough to be a veteran of the Metropolitan Opera by the age of 14 and beat out every other actress in Hollywood to snag the lead role in the screen adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera at age 18. Nope. She had to get all Kim Kardashian on us, and pose practically nude in Details magazine because, well, because that seems to be the thing that all young girls seem to do.

Glad to see it wasn't just me. I'll save you the unsavory details, but at age 23, cruel poverty had me taking my clothes off for money, an excuse I've been peddling for a while now...but maybe, possibly, could it be that I actually enjoyed it?

Women, do we ENJOY being objectified? It would seem as if we do. Just yesterday, the internet was abuzz with an article published on the Reuters website that posed the question, "Brains or Beauty: Women Still Conflicted." As much as that sounds like a headline ripped from the Onion, it is an ever poignant topic.

On a recent trip to Sephora, me and my sister Rayan were discussing how awful it must be to be a girl in high school these days. Back in our day (early 90's, yo) you got pictures taken of you for the yearbook and by your mother on your way to the prom. People didn't just go around snapping random pictures because film was expensive to buy and even more so to develop. There was no threat of photos being circulated for the whole world to see, in fact, you were lucky if your mug made it onto your best friend's bulletin board. But today, with digital cameras, camera phones, web cams, and flipflips, teenagers are snapping pictures of themselves left and right and then posting them instantly on facebook/myspace, etc... No wonder Sephora was filled with pre-teen Pussycat Dolls in training, all with over-lined and plumped up lips, mismatched foundation over pimpled skin; all wearing push up bras, Ugg boots, and sweatpants that said "PINK" on the butt. The direction that society is taking young women is undoubtedly not the one that women's liberation intended, but we can all safely bet that we'll have no end to good reality dating shows on VH1.

Getting a Leg Up on Spring Cleaning!

2009-03-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

Ahhh, yes. It's that time of year again. Back when I had my own lodgings, I looked forward to the faint stirrings of early spring; the crocuses and daffodils, the balmy days wedged in between the waning vestiges of winter, the long lines at the car wash. For those who know me personally, I'm sure it will come as no surprise that I am a Spring Cleaner. In my Michigan house I would do it all; windows, blinds, cabinets, carpets- hell, I would even scrub out my washing machine and dryer.

But now I live at home, with my Mom, the person from whom I inherited this genetic predisposition to cleaning (along with bunions, small breasts, and a host of neuroses that my sister Basma will get mad at me for if I put them on blast), so my domain consists of a bedroom and a sizable bathroom that I maintain almost effortlessly.

This Spring, without a living room to air out, I am feeling a little shortchanged. I can't shake this overwhelming urge to sanitize, evacuate, throw out, or donate to the salvation army. Problem is, I have no stuff. My car is vacuumed, my wardrobe consists of twenty or so holey and threadbare garments, and my worldly possessions would fit into the trunk of my Honda Accord.

To scratch my Spring Cleaning itch, I'm going to metaphorically clean out my head space by airing out some grievances- 5 newish and completely unrelated pet peeves that have started taking up space in my head this winter. These fall outside of the realm of my typical ones (all related to hygiene, natch) and I feel like writing about them so that I can free up some room to tempt my karma with some new ones this summer. I know what you're thinking; "you should let them all go Sarah, you cranky bitch." Not possible. I will continue to loath gum chewing, public nail clipping, and people who don't floss until the day I die. But these newer, lighter ones can go, I think.

#1 Grown Up People Bragging About Their SAT Scores.

Yep. People still do this. Just the other night, my bf comes home from work and tells me, "DB was a real douche tonight. He called me stupid and proceeded to ask me what my SAT scores were." "Are you fucking kidding me?" I said, not really in disbelief, as his boss' sociopathic narcissism is well documented. "Yeah. He was all, I got a 1560 on my SATs, Steve. What did you get?" It's not enough for this man that he has one of the Top 50 restaurants in the WORLD, that he makes every "foodie" (ugh. that word is pet peeve #31) weak in the knees, practically begging to give him a blumpkin, all for cooking exotic greens in a plastic bag. Nope, he has to demean his employees by reminding them of that time in their life when everything seemed to hinge on that four digit (if you're from Westchester) score while in the middle of a 17 hour work day in a hot kitchen with a bad case of cookie butt (it's like diaper rash-that's why there's always a box of cornstarch in the employee bathroom at a restaurant).

#2 Old People Trying To Be Technologically Useful.

Rayan generously lent me her HD video camera that she stole (practically) from Best Buy so that I could film Steve's Top Chef video last weekend. HD is the shizzle, but most editing software out there (that you can rip off the internet) is set up for traditional video cameras that film in lower resolution. So while I was having a meltdown at work trying to edit the footage and burn it to a disk, the token fat old guy in the office lurks in my doorway sucking on his caffeine free Diet Coke offering the following advice: "Well, did ya, um, google it?" (blank stare) "Is there a 1-800 number you can call?" (shaking my head, no) "What if you turn your computer off and then on again?" (face and neck redden) "What about Kinko's? ("What about Kinkos!?!?!?" I scream back) "Let me bring you the phone book," he says, scurrying off, not recognizing that my echoing his question wasn't validating its utility.

#3 Those Retarded 100 Calorie Packs

I was online at the Bed Bath and Beyond (my personal heaven) when I looked down to see if there were any fun mints to buy. Actually, this is the perfect time for me to insert a mini pet peeve (Why is it so hard to find mints made with good old fashioned SUGAR? I would much rather have no teeth than have seizures/cancer from overconsumption of aspartame, sucralose, acesulfame K, saccharin, and whatever new fake sugar just got invented.)
Anyways, looking down, I saw 100 Calorie Packs of Sour Patch Kids, Mike and Ikes, Milk Duds, and a host of other junk foods that people on diets just shouldn't be eating. WTF? I thought it was just Nabisco perpetrating this scam...but now candy? And, GASP, COOL RANCH DORITOS? What, are there like eight chips in the bag? The sad thing is that people are actually buying this stuff. Besides the fact that the packaging is environmentally irresponsible (because we need more shit to put in landfills), the snacks cost on average, TWICE as much for HALF the volume you get in the regular sized container. And who, praytell, decided that 100 Calories is a "safe" amount for anyone to have in a snack? Let me guess, Weight Watchers? Seriously, I could go on about this for days. Women, you don't need a corporation to tell you what, when, and how much you can eat. Just because something is pre-portioned and is only 100 calories doesn't make it good for you. Oreo cakesters? Oreo Chips? Oreo Candy Bites? Who knew there were so many permutations of the Oreo? A friend told me that she eats them because 100 calories is two points on Weight Watchers. "It works," she says. "Yeah. When you're on it!" I said back. "It's just a diet, like any other. You go on, you're skinny. You go off, you're fat." "But, I need it. I have no self control," she said. "Dude," I said, as she ate her second 100 calorie pack of "Right Bite Fudge Stripe" cookies, "those things are engineered to make you lose control." My friend licked the inside of the wrapper. "That's all I can eat today," she said sadly. "I skipped dinner so I could eat those." The person at Nabisco who created this marketing scam is a genius though. By preying on women's desperation they found a way to sell half the product at twice the cost. As if it's not bad enough that we only make 0.67 cents to every man's dollar, this diet conspiracy is making sure that it only goes half as far. And who can we thank for this additional wallet fuck? The media, the food industry, the medical community, and the government all for being complicit in making the practice of "dieting," as it's related to food control, a normal and essential activity. To quote the food genius Michael Pollan, "We have a national eating disorder." The 100 Calorie Packs are a testament to that.

#4 Kites

Why is it that whenever there is a kite around, there is a crying child and/or a cursing adult somewhere nearby? Because kites aren't fun, and they haven't been since, oh, maybe the first World's Fair. Doesn't it make sense why people use the phrase "go fly a kite" in the same context and with the same verbal inflection as the phrase "go fuck yourself"? While fucking yourself isn't the least fun activity out there, it's meant to be insulting, hence so is the notion of flying a kite. I was at the park just the other day and I saw four kites, one in the hands of a screaming toddler, one in the hands of a young Dad with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth as he tried to push out a splinter that he got from the kite frame, one caught in a tree, and another one in a wire trash basket. Kids and parents alike don't have the time or patience to manage this temperamental past time, and that's why kites have been relegated to being crammed into odds and ends bins at dollar stores. And that's where they should stay.

#5 Overuse and Wrongful Usage of the Word Surreal.

I know. This is just me being a nit-picking vocabulary snob. I happened to read two interviews of reality TV show winners, Hosea from Top Chef, and that girl Melissa who got dumped by that Bachelor and ended up on Dancing With The Stars. Both of them said that their experiences were "surreal." Okay, it is true that in most conventional dictionaries, you will see the word dream-like in the definition of the word surreal. But the true meaning of the word is used in reference to the artistic movement which is based on dreams, but is meant to represent objects or experiences that are oddly juxtaposed, disorienting, idiosyncratic, difficult to comprehend, disturbing psychologically, and abstruse. I would agree that Melissa's pre-DWTS experience could be somehow construed as surreal based on the horrific outcome of her stint on the Bachelor,but she was using the word to describe the positive and exciting development that was her being invited to join what my mother deems "the best show on television". And Hosea? Oh, he just sucks. I'm still so mad at him winning. I'm sure he's a nice guy and all, but he had no real talent and should have gotten kicked off the show in the first half of the season. Winning Top Chef isn't "surreal," dude, okay? It's like, totally awesome. So why don't you, like, go back to your seafood restaurant in Colorado where you, like, buy all you seafood frozen and pre-fabricated cause you, like, can't even fillet a fish?

Ahhh. Much better. Mental Spring Cleaning is not as fun as losing myself in a bucket of bleach water, but that should get me through the next few months till I actually have a place of my own. I recommend the exercise to all of you though. What are your most recent pet peeves? I need to know that I'm not the only one this curmudgeony and easily ruffled.

The Stripper Index

2009-03-11T11:12:00.000-07:00

You may have heard of the "Lipstick Index", a financial barometer that economists often reference when discussing spending habits in an economic downturn. It basically indicates that during a recession, sales of lipstick and other cosmetics go up while sales of other retail items go down. This serves as formal evidence that while we women can begrudgingly stop buying shoes for a little while, we absolutely cannot walk by a Sephora without picking up a new Juicy Tubes. This is well documented. It happened to me the other day. But it was for mascara. And I needed it.

Now, I'm not an economist, but I was so tickled by this user friendly economic tool that I started to think of other things that improve when the economy starts to sputter like my boyfriend when he eats too much Sriracha sauce. All kinds of articles have been published as of recent, spouting Pollyanna-like anecdotes about how the economy has been forcing people to appreciate the things in life that cost no money at all. Yawn.

While I believe that "the best things in life are free" as much as I do the tooth fairy, I will agree that you don't need a ton of money to have a good time. But that's not what this post is about. What I wanted to determine was what other things improve when the health of the economy declines.

And the first thing that came to mind was STRIP CLUBS. Now, this is not to say that conditions improve for the strippers themselves, because they don't. I actually read recently that New York City strippers have been flocking to Washington DC because no one here in the city has any money to snap into their g-strings. Ballers (and Sting), it would seem, are not enough to keep the queens of these jiggle joints happy. While this economy is a bummer for those ladies who can no longer afford their thousand dollar hair extentions and lofts in Tribeca, it's a boon for the average man who will find that nowadays, the variety and volume of strippers is on the rise.

Why? Because women are being laid off of work. Yep. And that means that all those hottie college cheerleaders who became pharmaceutical reps and elementary school teachers are blowing the dust off that old body glitter and remembering how to get into those full splits. And all those college girls who used to be able to take home $200 from working Monday nights at Buffalo Wild Wings are not satisfied with their minimum server wage and BBQ sauce smeared one dollar bills. I reference this quote from a local alternative newspaper: "the B Confidential gentlemen's bar is getting 10 to 15 applications a week for women prepared to do lap dances, pole dancing, stage and private shows. Normally they would get one or two inquiries."

But MORE strippers is not the only thing working in the average man's favor. Now that all the Wall Street Willies are broke and at home eating DiGiorno pizza with their angry wives and children, you Joe Plummers can undoubtedly get a lot more attention for your smaller bills. No need to come with stacks of Benjamins; you might get some love for a couple of Abes and Alex Hamiltons! And with all these educated dancers, you might get some good conversation in between dances. Hell, you might even get a hot wife out of it if you find one that hasn't crossed over to the dark side yet.

So there it is folks. You heard it here first. The "Stripper Index" dictates that during a recession the quantity, variety, and education level of exotic dancers increases.

(Note: Author has never actually been to a strip club but she does have stripper envy. She would have been one if it wasn't for her small breasts, fear of strangers' bodily fluids, and aversion to men in sweatpants. )

Ain't No Party Like A Detroit Party

2009-03-06T11:59:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine has a boutique vodka distillery in downtown Detroit. Just the other day he sent me this message via facebook:

do you have the name and number of the beverage director at MGM? i remember meeting him at that asian cheese club, but don't remember his name?

which prompted me to respond with:

Hahaha...yeah, that club was pretty lame. I don't even remember the name of it. You know what? That douche bag F&B director quit MGM and moved back to Atlantic City where he was originally from. But the Beverage Manager, Tracy Wilson you might have also met...he was the scrawny one with the bad hair. God I hated those fuckers. Thanks for making me take that trip down memory lane!

While I was originally expressing my gratitude in jest, I was later sincerely thankful for the message which prompted me to do a little Detroit internet stalking from afar; curious to see if any reminders of my brief tenure as a Michigan resident would pull any heartstrings. While I have been able to tag most my Detroit memories with "bad" labels and bury them deep in the locked garbage dumpster of my cerebral cortex with the rest of my painful childhood memories, I did find myself waxing wistful over a couple odd remembrances...
Looks pretty nice, right? This is the Ignite Lounge at the MGM Grand Casino where I used to cocktail waitress. This above photo shows how it looked before service.

This was how it looked during service:

There were lots of big women in tight clothes, with visible tattoos and intricately configured hairdos. A group of five females would come in, one would order an alcoholic beverage, the rest would either ignore me or order a coke with like, eighteen maraschino cherries in it, and then refuse to tip me after I told them that there were no free refills on their $4.00 soda (pop, they call it there). The alcoholic beverage of choice there was the Purple Rain, which is a Long Island Iced Tea with a floater of Chambord on top. I also had several requests for "Merlot and Cranberry" which is like a Cape Cod but with wine instead of vodka. This also warranted about twelve or so maraschino cherries.

On nights like that I would make about $30 in tips. What kept me going back? Well, the fact that I made $10/hr with full benefits was one reason. The other reason was that about twice a week the Poker room waitress would ask to go home and I would be her replacement; and four or five hours of serving mostly coffee, redbull, and hot chocolate (serious poker players don't drink) would make me about $250 in chips.

So yeah, at first I smiled nostalgically at the photos...then I smirked sardonically...and now I'm just plain mad. That place was a shithole. I can't even believe I worked there for one whole year. I must have done something really bad in my past life to have inherited the employment karma that has reigned over my twenties.

America: Where Nice Buns and Toes Can Be Free

2009-03-01T19:23:00.000-08:00

Friday night, I became rather intrigued (?) by Kanye West's new girlfriend Amber Rose. Are those cheeks real? Am I salivating? "I see your hiney, all red and shiny. If you don't hide it, I'm going to bite it," was the childhood song that kept popping into my head. I showed the pic to the bf and all he could muster up was, "She has a pretty face." He's a keeper, I tell you.

Saturday afternoon, I went to Rayan's apartment where she surprised me with these toe socks. She picked them up in some wacky Japanese store in Doha, Qatar (she gets around, doesn't she?) and ultimately changed my life for the better. "So free, so fresh," my little piggies exclaimed. "Thank you for finally recognizing our individuality." I am slightly (but obviously not too) ashamed to say that I wore them all weekend. The prospect of going back to regular socks is way too depressing. Thank God Rayan goes back to Qatar next week. I need them in every color.
Me, Rayan, and our 20 happy toes took a trip to Trader Jose where I picked up my long lost winter staple, the Sea Salt and Turbinado Sugar Dark Chocolate Almonds. In Michigan winters past, these little nuggets were as essential to my diet as were the nightly bottles of $3.00 5 Oaks Cabernet from Rite-Aid. Simply put, they make the world a better place to be. Sweet, salty, nutty, complex, and decadent. Hmmm... sounds a little bit like I'm describing your Favorite Libyan-American Princess, doesn't it?

the craigslist experiment: CONCLUSION

2009-02-27T13:45:00.000-08:00

Exactly 24 hours after my fake post went up, I received 394 applications. Whew. It was really overwhelming. I didn't read them all, but gave the bulk a thorough scan so that I could compile a short list of statistics to give me a better idea of what kind of candidates I'm up against.

STATS:
69% Male 27% Female 4% Unsure.
12% went to bartending school.
20% attached a photo.
34% live in Manhattan, 26% live in Queens, 27% live in Brooklyn, 13% live in Jersey/Westchester.
40% pasted their resume into the body of the email, 60% attached it as a Word document.

Rule #1
Do not send your email from a naughty address.
This means you: YungBlkNRich@optonline.com, sooohung@gmail.com, and LatinLover69@aol.com. Email addresses are free. And you can have more than one.

Rule #2
Cut and Paste your resume into your email.
When I applied to that job at the steakhouse, I never even got a call back. Now I know why. I sent my resume and picture in separate attachments. When fielding 400 plus resumes who has time to download 240 individual resumes and additional documents? Not a busy restaurant manager who already has more than enough shit to deal with on a day to day basis. If I was the one hiring, I would automatically delete anyone who didn't make their resume readily available to my eyeballs.

Rule #3
Write something fun and unique in the subject heading.
For every fifty "Re: Bartending Position", there was one, "Dynamic and Professional Bartender for Hire!" which was a refreshing aberration from the sea of banality that my email box was drowning in. My favorite one was "Cranky French Bartender to Add Authenticity to Your Bistrot."

Rule #4
Photos are a must.
If a person had a photo in the body of their email, I found myself willing to overlook the fact that they had attached a resume, especially if he or she was good looking.

Rule #5
Spell Check is essential (duh).
I know everyone knows this, but while it's a no brainer to spell check large portions of text, it was obvious to me that not everyone reveiws the email subject box for spelling errors. I saw more than a couple: "Re: Bartebding Job", "Re: Sartender for Hire", "Re: A Chane To Join Your Team!"

Rule #6
Get a Nickname.
Bartenders are the ambassador of the establishment, "quick with a joke or to light up your smoke"; the guy you say things to like, "gimme the regular, Jim". When people think bartender, they think Ted Danson or Woody Harrelson of Cheers. Not to say that you need to be a lower-middle class white man in a flannel to bartend, but I'm just saying that if your name is multi-syllabic and has several consecutively strung consonants like "Przybylińska", maybe you want to pick out a nickname like, "Skip." Just a thought.

Rule #7
Don't let your gender be a mystery.
This is for all the Lees, Corys, Julians, Shuheis, and Xaos out there. Attach a photo, put a middle name, or allude to your sex in the subject heading of your email like, "Energetic Female Bartender Available for Hire!" Often, a manager knows if they want to add a male or female to the staff so this confusion won't work in your favor.

Rule #8
Fake an address.
Who was I kidding? Why would anyone hire a bartender who lived in Westchester when they could hire one that lives a few blocks away? Who's more likely to be late when the weather is bad? Who's easier to call in when someone else is a noshow? Who won't have a problem staying late because they don't have to make the last train? Someone close. 34% of the applicants live in Manhattan. If I was the manager, I would interview all of them first. On my next app, I'm gonna put my old 11th St. address.

Rule #9
Keep irrelevant info out of your resume.
No one cares that you taught swimming lessons to children at the Minneapolis YMCA in the summer of 94. Nor do you need to put your country of origin (where is Moldova?), that your desired salary is 100+K, or that this is just something to do because you were let go from your "real job."

Rule #10
Straighten that shit out!
Don't just copy your entire resume out of a word file and paste it without fixing the formatting . Your resume shouldn't look like a collage you made in the 7th grade with words cut out of Teen Magazine. It's unprofessional and makes you look sloppy and lazy.

I know that most of you, my readers and friends, have real jobs and will find little use for all this info, but hey, in this economy, you never know. I have a friend with a Master's Degree from Columbia who is waiting tables at a Times Square chain restaurant. But, my perpetually job hunting brothers and sisters, the ones who struggle to pay the rent so that you have time to create your art; this is for you. I can't guarantee you'll get the job, but I'm pretty sure you'll at least get an interview if you follow these ten steps.

the craigslist experiment.

2009-02-26T12:44:00.001-08:00

When I was 21 and strutted my little butt around in tightly corseted one piece denim outfits, I had the perfect job. With faux cleavage (courtesy of silicone falsies) and tons of lip gloss, I managed to take home $7oo cash for two night's work, all for simply opening beers and making shots that tasted like Jolly Ranchers.

I left that job to take an even more lucrative one, cocktail waitressing, which at the time seemed like a good idea, but in retrospect not so much.

Ever since the summer of 2000, I have been searching for that elusive bartending job. In the past 10 years I've probably applied for over fifty bartending jobs, got called back for ten, took five, lasted longer than three months at two. Of the two I stayed at, one was a restaurant and one was strictly a bar. Average take home was about $100 a shift. Not enough in my opinion to stand on my feet inhaling cigarette smoke for eight hours. (This was before the New York City smoking ban.)

Despite the fact that my most recent job search has me angling for copy writing and associate editor positions, I still scour the craigslist food/bev/hospitality section for bartending jobs on a pretty regular basis. Just last week I applied to one at an upscale steakhouse. I fit all the criteria for the job requirements: two years of bartending experience, three years of cocktail waitressing experience, five years of BOH work including two years as a sous chef and two as an executive chef. Knowledge of fine dining? Check. And I attached a photo!

I haven't heard a peep.

Then I read this blog entry written by Hannah Howard of Serious Eats:

_______________________________________________________________

I’m Not Alone

Over a wonderful bottle of Barolo, my chef friend and I discussed the grand deluge of people looking for restaurant jobs. He’s the chef of a restaurant group, so he oversees a few different spots. His sports bar needed a bartender.

So he posted an ad for a bartender on Craigslist. An hour later, he received nearly four hundred responses from wannabe bartenders. “Really? Four hundred?” I asked, not sure if I could believe it.

“Four hundred,” he insisted. So he took down the ad and skimmed resume and after resume. “We interviewed about fifty.” That’s a lot of people wanting to tend bar. To me, an almost unimaginable number. At least, as chef friend confirmed, he found an exceedingly competent bartender.

Read the full blog here (later):
________________________________________________________________

Wow. Four hundred job applicants for one probably not all that great bartending position.

This I gotta see for myself. More for shits and giggs than anything else, I ponied up the $25.00 it costs to post a job ad on craigslist just so I could see what kind of competition I'm up against. (Click on photo to enlarge.)

In 2 hours I had only received 90 replies to the ad. Not 400 like young Hannah's chef friend did.

Hmmm. I am going to wait until tomorrow to give you guys a full breakdown of the applicants. In my first quick scan, I've seen a few resume no-no's, a couple "why didn't i think of that"s, and several snoozers. Also, only two people have attached photos. By the end of tomorrow I should be a service industry resume expert.

Foodies are embarrassing.

2009-02-24T09:00:00.000-08:00

I tagged along with my chef boyfriend to famed Woodside restaurant Sripraphai last night. It was a going away party for one of the Blue Hill cooks and the party consisted of almost thirty CIA educated chefs and their significant others. I am not bragging about the company I keep. I am a culinary grad, self ascribed anti-"foodie", and will be the first to tell you that many home cooks and non professional food enthusiasts know more about food and are better cooks than people with culinary degrees and illustrious titles like sous chef and chef de cuisine. Some of the people I was with are responsible for the terrine of sous vide lamb testicle and scallop and pig snout that you, the intrepid diner, order, but on their days off actually prefer subway sandwiches and taquitos from 7-11. Who has the better palate or more refined food sensibility? I leave the answer to that question up to you.

Culinary ability is something that has become very competitive among certain circles in society (hipsters, stay at home moms, people who work in finance). People boast about what they are cooking for dinner in their facebook status, have cooking clubs where they try to replicate restaurant meals, chili cook offs, etc. Everyone has a food blog it seems, or dreams of having their own cooking show like Anthony Bourdain. People take cameras to dinner, furtively (or not so) snapping shots of the cheese plate or the amuse, posting the photos so that we can all lust over the aged cheeses and exotic accompaniments like quince paste or pickled gooseberries.

And I'm tired of it. I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of the amateurs and I'm tired of the pros. While I could go on about chef wannabes all day, the intention of this post was shed light on how foodieness and fetishizing of other peoples cuisines makes me uncomfortable, physically and emotionally.

The chief orderer last night was the big papa of Blue Hill Stone Barns, not Dan Barber himself, but his second in command. Like a don, he stood up and swept the diminutive waitress into his enormous wingspan (he is like 6'6"), gesturing overtly with his hands, as if the lady didn't speak English, nudging and winking alternately at her and us, leaving me bemused and unsure about who the joke was on. Besides the fact that I hate when other people order for me, it especially irks me when it is done by "foodies" (a term that in my opinion needs to die a swift death, along with the term "mixologist") who treat food as a daring adventure and not something that I want to taste good and fill my belly.

I am sure that my dining compatriots were relieved to have the pressure taken off of them and had faith that a man of such highly esteemed professional stature would do a better ordering job than they would, but not this girl. As my sister and every boyfriend I've ever had can attest, I am a great orderer. Some people just have the gift. I am one of those people. But Thai food is not a nuanced cuisine. It's all fermented, acidic, spicy, sweet goodness. It's pretty hard to not order well. I certainly got my fill of fish sauce, lime, curry, basil, mint, blah, blah, blah. But what I also got was a meal that included, pigs ear, marrow, beef tongue, dried shrimp, catfish, pork sausage, calamari, chicken, and a few other dried and pulverized animals, I'm pretty sure.

And I know it's all subjective. Taste really is. It was nice to know that we were all sharing the same dishes, experiencing the same textures, feeling the same burn in our mouths last night and our anuses this morning, but I just feel like I was a victim of:

1) foodie bullying

Foodies always have to order the nasty bits, the stuff that's too hot, smells funny, and makes the server giggle when you order it. I know I didn't have to play along and eat it all, but I was hungry, and I eat alot, and I always seem to momentarily lose track of my better judgment when I am surrounded by the poor judgement trificeta (peer pressure, pinot grigio, and salty, crunchy food).

2) imbalanced male eating habits

Men don't really get down with vegetables like women do. There were no meatless curries, dishes showcasing eggplant, or tofu stews on the table last night. Men like meat, lots of it, in varying permutations and consistencies. When I dine out with ladies, someone always makes sure to order a side of greens to share, and there are always salads. I read somewhere once that unmarried men live an average of twenty years less than married men. Why? Vegetables.

3) reverse discrimination caused by foodie fetishization

This is a very delicate subject and I'm not really sure I should go here. But I am. I'm bringing race into it. Some of you can boycott my blog if you want to. I'm alright with it. Now, ordinarily I don't throw myself into the "white people" category. I'm brown, light brown, and have a chameleon like category the allows me to blend in just about everywhere I go. The party I dined with was about 85% white, there were a few Ecuadorians thrown in for good measure, and me, the lone Libyan; so the overall visual effect we gave to the busy Thai server was enough to send her into, "oh great, another large group of whities from Manhattan who read about us on chowhound" mode. I saw some laughing and pointing at us while we were all in chilipepper/fish-sauce zombie mode and well, that just made me a little uncomfortable. You should have seen the waitress's face when someone at my table asked for a glass of milk. "We no haaaave," she said, barely trying to conceal her disgust. This is all a result of what foodies have done to all good ethnic restaurants- they yelp, they chowhound, they citysearch, they write scathing reviews and dole out nob-slobbing praise, and then other foodies flock to the restaurants, act like obnoxious cognoscenti, and the servers retaliate by laughing and mocking other, less fluffed up diners. Last night, after the savory courses were over, big poppa opened up the refrigerator case that showcased a wide variety of desserts to go and started ransacking it, knocking stuff over and throwing half pint containers of jellied durian, mung bean mousse, and fermented sweet rice across the ten foot long table table, cackling while ordering the servers to bring plastic spoons. The desserts got passed around; some swooned, some cringed, and all acted like contestants on Double Dare while the servers exchanged knowing glances that my years of serving interpreted as, "just pay the tab and get the fuck out."

Coming Soon to an East Williamsburg Gym Near You!

2009-02-23T08:53:00.000-08:00

I would make a trip across the bridge to take a class like this!

Hipster Denial

2009-02-21T12:06:00.001-08:00

According to wikepedia, a hipster "is a slang term which appeared in the late 1990s and 2000's to describe young, urban middle class and upper class adults with interests in non-mainstream fashion and culture, particularly alternative music, independent rock, independent film, magazines like Vice, Clash and Adbusters..."

HIPSTERS, EMBRACE YOUR LABEL! YOU LOOK SO DAMNDED CUTE!

First of all, let us be clear on one thing. These days there is no real distinction between mainstream fashion and non-mainstream fashion. You can thank Sex in the City, Project Runway, and Lucky Magazine for that. Leggings, Ugg boots, colored skinny jeans, and kiffeyeh are worn everywhere now, by housewives and college students, everywhere from Brooklyn to Boise. Suburban soccer moms wear Christian Louboutin and buy jewelry designed by Erickson Beamon at Target. Fashion shows are no longer for watching what goes down the runway, but for who sits in the audience.

With all this fashion overexposure you hipsters have to work very hard on your look. Hipster man, I know it took a long time for you to procure those tiny, purple tourniquet style jeans. I never gave it much thought, but, yeah, it makes sense why they don't let grown men in the changing room of the Children's Place. Kudos for making three trips. When I saw you last night, I knew it was no accident how your vintage flannel peeked out oh so surreptitiously from your tattered hoodie, and that it took you a half hour to decide whether to wear your Sperry Topsiders or your embroidered Van's. And big ups for keeping it real with the facial grooming this winter; true hipsters know that full facial hair is so 2007. Despite the past few months being so frigid, you shaved daily, treating your smooth skin to a spash of Old Spice. But the piece de resistance of your whole look still has me reeling. With the way I was dressed, you weren't sure if I would "get" the missing front tooth, but you broke off a smile for me anyway.

Hipster ladies, you put my old suburban ass to shame last night. I thought I looked kinda with it, in American Apparel leggings and a shirt that I had cinched with a waist belt from Forever 21. But oh, no...when I stepped into your Greenpoint hipster bar last night, I knew the jig was up. I saw the looks you gave me as you chowed down on your Thai Curry Pot Pie and sucked back your $12 unpasteurized Belgian Ale that tasted like Nana's basement. You were dressed in Grace Jones-type blazers, with shoulder pads that could keep you safe in a Black Friday sale at Wal-Mart (as if!), and so much plastic jewelry you could have all been members of the Go-Go's. And oh, the sequins! On your hair combs, your clutch purses and your hosiery. It made me want to cop a bedazzeler off of ebay. But I am not mad at you even if you were mad that my half-assed attempt at being fashionable made me look more Katey Sagal (Peggy Bundy) than Katy Perry.

Hipsters, I am a fan! I love your roller derby and your affinity for pomade! I love the fact that you listen to Thom York and Tom Jones. I will keep your secret that you were fat and unpopular in high school if you will do just one thing for me: own up to your hipster-dom. Embrace the term like gay people embraced the term "queer" and black people took back the term "n?$$a" There is nothing wrong with being anti-establishment. There is something wrong with being so self conscious and style obsessed that you focus only on your individuality and not on the collective cultural force you have the potential to be a part of.

In the 60's, hippies emerged as a backlash to the milquetoast culture and Puritanical mores of the 1950's. They smoked grass, wore bell bottoms, had long hair, and were proudly anti-establishment. They dropped acid, practiced free love, and wove macrame plant hangers while engaging in non-violent protests. But what etched the hippie movement so indelibly in American history was the fact that they had solidarity. Hipsters do not. It is a subculture riven with judgement fueled faction and too distracted by virtual bling to unify. Hipsters rock skinny jeans, patterned legwear, vintage flannel, fake eyeglasses and keffiyeh, riding their fixed gear bikes and protesting, um, stuff that mainstream people do, like getting good jobs and moving to the suburbs and stuff. But call someone in a purple nut huggers, a tweed scarf, and a vintage motorcycle jacket a "hipster," and you are likely to get hit in the head with a ten pound bag of quinoa that they just bought at Whole Foods Union Square!

For Gina

2009-02-21T09:47:00.000-08:00

"Life ain't great now, but it's much improved." -the poet laureate of the ATL, Bubba Sparxxx