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.

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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

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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.

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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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Day 2: Part 1: When Life Gives You Lemons, Become a Bartender to Make Lemon Shots

Wazzup rude boiz and girls,

Since I last blagged (obvi the past tense of wrote here), I thought my life was falling apart mainly because I kept losing my phones due to alcoholic tendencies.  Well, today I realized I might be ruining my life due to myself being a complete and total dumbass.  No seriously…Image^^that is me, albeit it with uglier hair and a wider ass. ^ needs to meet an elliptical, amiright ladies?!

Anyway, here is what prompted these nagging questions:  In my stress of deciding to find a summer job, I turned to Craigslist – the ultimate website of pedophiles, stolen iPhones (hey, maybe mine is somewhere there, being sold for 400 pesos!?!?), and bazillions of real, authentic job postings…or so I thought.  One in particular struck my eye:  “SoBe Bartenders – take a $100 class and become a bartender in the party city of the world!”  Doesn’t that sound good? Almost too good to be true?  Like seriously, I just take a simple class for $100 and I can work at Liv or Mansion and charge some poor chic’s unborn child for a drink?  Holllaaaaaa.  I promptly jumped in my beat up leased Toyota Corolla (’12…keepin it soooo classay) and hurried to 1234 Washington Ave, South Beach, Miami.

As soon as I walk in, I feel the sand beneath my toes.  Not even joking.  The small two room business was modeled after a freakin tiki hut.  Some Bob Marley ripoff band was playing in the background, and Christmas lights decorated the place like my old fraternity had just used the joint for a Christmas/Easter party.  The only thing missing in the room was the smell of alcohol…my finely tuned nose immediately honed in on the imposing faint queef smell of water and food coloring posing in hundreds of liquor bottles.  But what the hell – there was some quasi cute guy sitting in the desk, probably thinking “who the fuck is this jew and what does he want with my liquor!?!?”  (he was only 1/3 correct).

I introduce myself, babbling on about how I ‘need a good summer job’ and ‘I love meeting people’ and ‘I’ve always wanted to bartend in SoBe’.  To him, I just became a bunch of $$$$$$$ dolla dolla billz.  Which is why he quickly asked me if I had the registration fee – $100.  Naturally I beam at him and exclaim “why of course sir!  I’m just so happy this class is affordable – as a [job that pays less than Honey Boo Boo can count to], I can’t afford much more!”  In hindsight, the look of disgust/horror/$$$$$$ dolla dolla billz in his eyes should have clued me in to sign #1 that this mighhhhtttt not be legit.  Nevertheless, as he tried to explain to me that the class actually costs $495 after a $300 discount I’m sure he invented to lure me back in, all I could think about how cute his face was (not his body!!!!) and how it might be worth it if I can make this money back in a week working on SoBe, where half coked out bartenders can make $2000 in tips in a NIGHT just for opening up some gross bottle of Ciroc for a flash in the pan rapper *cough cough 2chainz*.  So, I was like, what the hell….I’ll just dip into raid my enormous meager savings and pay him.  In 2 weeks I’ll be a bartender and making so much money Rihanna would have to write the sequel version to “Pour it Up” in memory of me.

So for 6 days, T-Fri and the following T, I worked 7 hours and then sat from 6-10pm learning the ins and outs of bartending in sobe.  Except they sounded eerily familiar to how bartending in college was, sans the fact that people actually..had $$$$ dolla dolla billz.  It didn’t help that the people in my class a) must have never ordered a freakin drink in their life or b) were so perpetually fucked up on sobe drugs that their short and long term memories were completely malfunctioned so they thought a rum and coke was something the Romans snorted before war.  I WAS SURROUNDED BY MTV REALITY SHOW REJECTS.  But whatever…that $2000 was a mere weeks away, and I thought that my vast knowledge of alcohol would impress the teacher and he would hire me away to be a bartender with him and then propose and then id be rich and then…..never mind completely jk.

Then today happens.  After fighting the insane traffic to get into Sobe and inhaling 4 cigs in the process, I smelled enough of cancer and looked like a homeless kretin from Israel that I knew it was going to be a bad night.  That is, until I show up and MY WHOLE ENTIRE CLASS OF MTV REJECTS IS SITTING ON THE CURB yakking about how there was no class tonight because “the business was evicted today”.  I’m not even fucking joking.  Yesterday, our cute faced ugly body teacher was telling us Wednesday would be the night of “mixology – I’ll bring in ingredients and make everyone drinks while showing how bartending is a beautiful mix of creativity and drugs”.  What he should have said is Wednesday will be the night “your plans of being a rich brat in Sobe this summer comes crashing down as you realize in 7 seconds that I swindled you $595 and made your life even more pathetic than you thought possible”.

Naturally my reaction is to light up another cigarette and contemplate whether the better choice now would be to jump in front of the next taxi promoting Madonna, the naked womens’ clubs, and sue those dirty whores for breaking, not caressing, my bones OR turn around and drive home amid a faceful of tears and beg my parents to help me out this summer because I got swindled on Craigslist.  However, I didn’t choose either.

Stay tuned – as tomorrow we will find out if my choice (AND THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE PART OF THE ENDING BLOG THAT MAKES YOU WANT TO READ MORE TOMORROW) is smart, or if I am actually missing a few brain cells from 6 years of amazing partying. Until tomorrow lovvaaaaahs.