Stopped by neighborhood beachy joint Sandbar with the girls for Friday night happy hour. What I really wanted was a margarita, but as soon as I sat down I saw it, big letters on the chalk board - FREE BOOB JOB, enter to win!
Then there was the "hostess" in the bathroom with three fully stuffed and yet to be unpacked duffel bags on the floor, waiting to serve the ladies that forgot their perfume or deodorant or mascara throughout the night. Was I supposed to tip her? Why? Why is that? But feeling guilty, I rummaged through my purse in the stall anyway searching for some money, a dollar maybe, but all I had were some fresh from the ATM twenties and some change. I still remembered from my waitressing days the "if you can't fold it, hold it" rule of tipping, so I reluctantly took the special, tip-worthy towel from her and left without donating anything to her tip bowl - full of dollar bills and I'm absolutely positive that I saw some food stamps in there, too.
The night got better with my I-can-squeeze-in-just-one-more-last-birthday-blowout-celebration with the parents at Eddie's House with, what else, lobster!!
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