Day 3: Part 2: When Life Gives You Lemons, Become a Bartender to Make Lemon Shots

It is 1:54am and I just got done my first “bartending” shift.  Yes, this means that the business was not a complete fraud, but if you call what I just experienced “bartending”, then Helen Keller could have been an astrophysicist and Snookie’s illegitimate crack baby WILL be President of the universe one day.  ANYONE WITH HALF A THUMB AND TWO WANDERING EYES COULD BARTEND.  But let me rewind.

Yesterday, as I’m standing on the brink of despair…or a curb on South Beach…pondering what to do with this situation, the MTV rejects decided to study instead and hope that what the management said was true – we will still meet tomorrow, take the certification test, and bartend at the Hard Rock.  Now, given the fact that this management was also just EVICTED, I didn’t put much faith in those words.  I would probably believe Star Jone’s claim that she never had surgery to stop looking like a burnt elephant before I would believe anything this management said.  Anyway, persuaded by the belief that even if it is a scam by studying I will still gain more expertise about dranks (as if I needed any more expertise…what I really need to learn is how NOT to make drinks…) I went along with my group and studied.  But when I say study, I mean this 42 year old former bartender who DOESN’T drink who also cameos as a “teacher for actors in Miami” taught my group everything that would NOT be on the bartending test.  Seriously, we were like “we just need to memorize 100 drinks…why are you teaching us where blue agave comes from and no…that is not how a blackout works amigo…it does not mean you ONLY WANT TO ORDER DARK COLORED OR BLACK DRINKS”. Seriously, if this is how sober bartenders think, I’m just going to walk to my fridge RIGHT NOW and start taking Jose to the face.  Regardless, the study session ended THANK GOD and I went home and stuffed my face with mac and cheese and *chewy* chips ahoy cookies because if I can’t drink, I can most definitely eat.

Today, after school, I made a spur of the moment decision to end this phoneless predicament once and for all.  I also didn’t think the scam management would listen to my plea to email me or send me smoke signals about what we were supposed to do about the test/Hard Rock today.  So I cruise to the nearest phone store and waste half a paycheck to buy a new phone.  Some of you might think this is irresponsible, because I’ll probably lose the phone in like 11.3 days.  And while this is normally true, the fact that I won’t be drinking for…36 more days 22 hours 17 minutes 49 seconds means I also won’t be blacking out and forgetting if I left my phone in the taxi while I tried to seduce the taxi driver (I don’t want to talk about my drunk decisions) or if I left it at the bar I was trying to sexy dance on but really probably ended up breaking.  So, I won’t be needing a new phone for at least 36 more days 22 hours 16 minutes and 38 seconds.  BOOM.

But I get my phone, and activate it to find a text from the scam management telling me to “please call back ASAP; you need to wear all black to the Hard Rock in Ft. Lauterdale by 9pm please be early”.  Naturally I call back, wanting to inquire further about such a cryptic message.  I swear to god these people are spending my $500 on coke lines and pay as you go phones, because when I immediately call back, no one answers and THEN it goes to a voicemail that says “You have tried to reach Lizita, she can’t find her phone right now so please leave a message and she will try to remember when to call you back”.  LIKE WTF MIAMI WHERE DO YOU FIND THESE PEOPLE.  I can see now why aliens would never want to visit Earth now: they can see how ugly its people are (re: KimK, Miley Cyrus, Barbara Walters) and smell their incompetence from 930343433434 miles away.

Following the text message directions to a T, I arrive at the Hard Rock which is 45 minutes away at 8:55pm sharp.  Dressed in super tight gay dark jeans and a v-neck that used to fit when I worked out more, I looked passable if I was working in a gay mining club in West Virginia.  Unfortunately, this standard of attire was not quitteeeeee up to snuff here in Miami…if I was a girl, wearing a skirt that covers maybeeeee my upper thigh cellulite would suffice, but if I was a guy, I needed the Chinese-tats-barely-covered-up-by-an-extra-small-T-with-no-ass outfit.  Luckily I have a small tattoo of my dead dogs (RIP CHASE AND BAILEY), but that was hidden by my ginormous wrist.  So yeah. I looked stupid.  (And tomorrow I will start my gym regimen again!!!! SO LONGGGG DORITO BOXES TACO BELL).

When I arrive in my outfit that would have made Perez Hilton have that heart attack we all have longed for, I wait with Project MTV for 45 minutes until the management shows up.  FORTY FIVE MINUTES I COULD HAVE WATCHED OLIVIA POPE AND BLOGGED IN 45 MINUTES.  We don’t take any test, and instead we split up into groups so a different group is behind the bar for 30 minutes before switching.  Fine.  We can all split the goddamn tips – I just want to start making some drannnnks.

3 hours later.


We helped MAYBE 5 customers.  There were 12 of us there, and at the end of the night, we each received $19 in tips, not including the $2 we had to tip our barback who must have stolen Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak before work, because I never saw him a goddamn time.  What makes matters worse (and yes, they get worse) is that the scam management tipped us $200 to split BEFORE WE EVEN STARTED.  That means, right away, we were all guaranteed to take home AT LEAST $17.  akdslfhd;f34308qopha;fkdfd;lfd;cnd;ldlaf


I WAS ALMOST THIS ANGRY.  And my girlfriends know how much I love boobs.  When a gay man is drunk, they are like the mecca of the universe (until of course 3am when McDonalds/Taco Bell/Checkers/my roommates’ food takes over).

I actually went to the casino right next door, was like fuck it, I’m about to make some lemon shots from these rotten lemons life has squeezed for me so far.  And of course, I put $10 in the slot and accidentally press the $10 credit, and of course, I.lost.


So, because I will end on a good note today, at least it’s not TOTALLY a scam and later *tonight* I will be bartending in South Beach where we are pretty much guaranteed to make *more* money. But that’s like guaranteeing that Ashlee Simpson will never perform on SNL again.  YOU CAN’T REPEAT ROCK BOTTOM.

And if you are like me and love bad news too, I’d suggest: re-reading these first 3 blogs, then picture me at 2:27a.m. with a #6 (medium!!!! 🙂 ) from McDonald’s surrounding me, and a cigarette tucked into my ear.  And then think of Melissa McCarthy naked.

HAPPY BAD NEWS! NIGHT LOVAAAAHS Until tomorrow xoxoxoxoxo


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