So a blonde walks into a bar...

Or maybe she was a brunette. Or even a redhead. Whatever.

I'm writing this story while I'm at work because it seems this happens quite often. And in defense to blonds everywhere, no, it's not just the opening of a bad joke.

An old coworker of mine and I were talking on the phone the other day, reminiscing about the good - and ridiculously stupid - old days at our (sometimes) disdainful home away from home: Chili's Grill and Bar in Loveland, Colorado. I worked there for five years during the time I was in Colorado, and I can honestly say I miss it. Sure, it was corporate. Sure, some of the policy was stupid and lame and made me want to poke myself in the eye. And, as in any restaurant, sometimes the clientele were evil and obnoxious enough to make serial killers of us all. But that company took care of its employees. What's more, the employees were the tightest family I was ever privileged enough to be a part of. We all had each others backs, and treachery amongst us was not taken too lightly.

Anyway, for those of you who don't know, Chili's can probably be likened most to the restaurant in the (often overrated) comedic film "Waiting," and we even compared members of our own staff to characters in the movie (I was the bitchy one that would trash talk her tables behind their backs). And we are famous - really, famous - for two things:

1) First and foremost, our Baby-Back Ribs (like Fat Bastard sings in "Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me")

and

2) Running a close second, our Boneless Buffalo Wings, those little spicy boneless hot wings that people like to drown in Ranch Dressing.

As I was saying, my friend and I were reminiscing and commiserating together about some fun times we had at the old Chili's, and she asked me: "What about the time the lady sent back her Boneless Buffalo Wings because they were made of chicken?"

There was a short pause, as I tried to process what she just said. "What?"

"You weren't there for that? Really?"

"No," I said, stifling laughter. "I think I would have remembered that one."

Evidently, according to my friend, the woman ordered the Boneless Buffalo Wings, and when they arrived, took a couple bites, and then sent for the server.

The server arrived. "Yes ma'am? Is there a problem?"

"Yes," she said firmly, gesturing to her food. "This is chicken."

The server, failing to see the error of his ways, blinks. "Yes. Yes it is."

"Yeah, well, I ordered the Boneless Buffalo Wings."

Oh yeah. She was for real.

Though the story may have had some minor embellishments in the ways of emphasizing on syllables and the like, I assure you that it is true. Some people might say, "Yeah, but who knows? It could have been a really easy mistake to have made." Well, let's just have a look at the menu, shall we?

Pretty straight forward, isn't it? "Chicken" is, what... the second word in the description? But no, this lady thought she was ordering buffalo. I think we have a winner here, folks - oh, wait, someone else may have beaten you to the punch...

Just kidding. Kind of.

But enough celeb-bashing; I think that something seriously needs to be done about this. As in, people need to try to be a little more attentive to detail. Luckily for Chili's, they're a multi-billion dollar corporation, so if a guest has a complaint or an issue with the food they have ordered (whether or not it was because they just don't have a clue), Chili's can take the fall without it hurting them monetarily.

If this is a smaller, independently-owned restaurant, however, an eight-dollar entree/appetizer, thanks to the ignorance of either the server, or the guest, or both, could end up hurting them in the end. And some of these places will make the waiters pay for comped food out of their own pockets. Can you think of anything you'd rather spend $8 than a half-eaten sandwich someone sent back because it had onions on it and they don't eat onions even though the menu clearly said the stupid sandwich had onions on it?!?!

We're not mind readers. We're just waiters and waitresses; starving actors and writers and college students struggling to stay afloat in an economy that is less than favorable so we can pay our outrageously expensive rent and buy bulk-packages of Ramen noodles, eggs, and peanut butter (we'd love to have a tuna fish sandwich, but frankly, we can't afford it). So when you order tofu on that salad instead of chicken, with the dressing on the side, and then you pick through it and get your spit all over it before you call the server over to say "This has bacon on it. I don't eat meat. Can you make me a new one?" Do us all a favor:

READ THE %#&%$& MENU.

It will make us happy (-er), and it will make you not look like a moron.

(Peace)

A Public Service Announcement

To 99.9% of the men in Los Angeles:

Please leave me alone.

I am attractive. I realize this. I hope that in my unabashed admission of this you do not find me to be a conceded bitch. But it is true. I am tall, thin, and I don't need to wear tons of make-up in an attempt to make myself more beautiful. In fact, most of the time I strive to make myself as plain and ordinary as possible.

And yet, you don't give up. On the contrary, your tenacity is overwhelming, even exhausting. I am at my wits end. No matter where I go, no matter what I do, the simple fact is I can't even walk to 7-11 to buy a six pack without getting hit on.

Now, I know most women would be delighted by this. Most likely, the female of the species' general hatred for me just doubled within the last two sentences. I guess the vile disdain I have for most men comes not from the simplicity of the action itself, but rather from the way you go about doing it. To illustrate my point, I will give you a scenario.

Exhibit A: I am walking either to or from the subway station on my way to or from work. We'll say it's about 9 P.M. You and your buddies are walking ahead of me, in a pack, hogging up the whole damn sidewalk. It is a well-known fact that I walk fast, so eventually, in your attempt to look undeniably "gangsta" and walk at a snail's pace, I am going to catch up to you.

When this happens, I know you're going to give me the once over. I know it. Hey, you're a guy. And it's human nature to stare at other people anyway. But do so discretely, please. And don't choose this as the time to ask questions, like "Where's the bud at?"

WTF?!?! Really? Do I look like I know "where the bud's at?" First of all, the grammatical structure of that sentence is, for lack of a better term, completely jacked. Secondly, I rarely smoke. And I would never EVER smoke (or do anything else) with you, Creepy-Guy-I-Hardly-Know.

So when I don't answer you simply for the fact that A) I DON'T CARE, and B) YOU ARE CREEPY, in an attempt to nurse your wounded manhood and elicit some kind of response from me, it's not really going to help you out if you yell, "Damn girl, you got ass! You got ass!"

True story. I was there.

I know what you're thinking: "Well, maybe you shouldn't walk around in that skimpy little top and that mini-skirt with your derriere hanging out for all the world to see, you dime-store floozie!" (Please refer to Paragraph 2, Sentence 6. Thank you.)

Alas, if one is looking for Mr. Right, it seems that Los Angeles is hardly the place to find him. And all the nice, educated, good-looking ones are already taken. I guess I'm too picky; I mean, I know I have ridiculously high standards (I don't like to "settle" for anything, least of all my men), but the dichotomy that exists here is frustrating beyond. I mean, either someone is really good-looking, and a total idiot, or they are really nice and funny and smart and wouldn't buy you a Rufie-Colada at the local club, but you look at them and think, "you know, I just can't see myself ever sleeping with you."

Sad? Yes. Cruel? Absolutely. But it's the truth. And I may sound shallow, but, well... At least I'm honest. I don't want to waste your time, and I sure as hell don't want to waste mine.

So maybe someone else can solve this puzzle: why do guys think acting like a total moron will get them chicks? Or why do some women find that attractive? Furthermore, why do women seem to flock to the men who treat them like crap?

Perhaps I can liken this to the age-old question, "Just how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?"

The world may never know.