I don’t know if everyone is having a “High Fidelity” moment or what. I don’t know if it’s really that I just get under people’s skin. I don’t know if it’s my fault or theirs.

I wasn’t always in the right. I know I haven’t always been perfect. But I know I was very good to people too.

And I’ve never really been a bad person; just like I don’t think they have been.

I don’t always understand everything. I don’t always say or do the right things.

But I don’t know where all this is coming from.

All I’m left with is a sour taste in my mouth. I think they call this bittersweet.

Last year, I played an April Fool’s Day joke on a friend and it backfired. It got too serious and others got too upset. I swore not to play a joke on this friend again.

This year, five days before April 1, he tried to get me back and it backfired. It got too serious and others got too upset. And he swore not to play a joke on me again.

It’s not a joke when someone gets really upset.

It’s not a joke when someone’s livelihood or very life is threatened.

It’s not a joke when real-life occurrences are used against a person.

It’s not a joke when more than the target is affected.

April Fool’s Day has officially come to a close. And I, for one, am glad.

I’m going to take a vacation. A real vacation. An entire week off from Saturday to Saturday. And I’m going somewhere.

When you work a bunch of jobs and don’t have a lot of money, taking vacation doesn’t happen very often. Most of the time, I take vacation from one job so I can work another. But this year, I’m actually taking a vacation.

Imagine me on the back of a Harley for 14 hours barreling our way to South Carolina. Now, once we get there, it’s condo on a beach for 7 days. Not bad. But the 14 hours I’m worried about. But I’m excited. I’ve never done it before and I want to.

But the best part of this vacation is that I’m going with someone I haven’t really vacationed with before and I just can’t wait to spend this kind of idle time with him.

So recently I started bartending at the restaurant as well as serving. My observations so far:

1) I don’t think I’m making as much money. We transfer alcohol tabs to the servers when people drink before their meal. We’re a restaurant … not a bar. I haven’t received my first paycheck yet for my bartending stints … and yes, I get paid more an hour … but I wonder if it’s going to be financially worthwhile for me.

2) I haven’t bartended in 7 or 8 months. I’ve forgotten how to make some drinks. And I have to learn quickly.

3) The servers think the bartenders make as much in tips as them. SO wrong. But they think this to a point where they think they should only have to tip out on bar sales and not 10% of their total tips like they do now. I’m keeping records of my bartending tips in a notebook and I’m making sure they know what’s what.

4) The restaurant is going smoke-free after St. Patrick’s Day and, even though I’m a smoker, I’m glad. Smoking is only allowed in the bar area right now but the place is small. I had four people blowing smoke at me at the bar tonight and I was choking.

5) The bartenders run the show, which is kind of why I’m in training. The bartenders keep track of food orders, hand out tickets, obviously make all drinks, ring up every ticket, cut the servers when necessary, etc. The owners hope to actually take some time off and I’ve been tagged to run the place when they’re gone. Leave it to me to become an assistant manager type after only two months on the job.

6) I’m anal retentive behind the bar. Beer bottles must face label out when putting them down in front of customers. Wine pours must be even. Shaker pours must be accurate to the final drops. Glasses must be cleaned immediately. Bar area has to be wiped down in between customers as soon as someone gets up. Ashtrays must be empty all the time. At a down time tonight, I found myself polishing wine glasses. I am SO anal.

7) I suck at opening wine bottles. And I have to learn how to do it while holding the bottle and using the correct servers’ corkscrew/knife tool. Right now, I have my own personal emergency corkscrew I use when we’re busy because I KNOW I can open wine with that. I think I’m going to host a wine party at my house just so I can open a dozen bottles of wine in one night.

I hope this bartending/running the place gig is worth it financially cuz I enjoy it.

That’s right folks! I had a customer last night who upped the mussel-eating record on all-you-can-eat mussel night!

The old record was 9 bowls and the new one is (drum roll please)

………………………. ELEVEN BOWLS!

If you figure there are about 15 mussels per bowl, this guy ate around 165 of the slippery little suckers.

The restaurant was buzzing about his feat but one customer at the bar said it didn’t count because the guy wasn’t using bread to sop up the sauce and eating a roll with every bowl. “It’s like entering a hot dog eating contest and not eating the buns!” he said.

I disagree. The record is about the bowls of mussels eaten. Not how much bread you consumed, if you drank all the sauce in the bowl, or whether you had beer or wine with your mussels. How else are we gonna count it?

I stand firm on the new record being 11. So there.

If there’s one thing I can’t stand is someone who can’t show professional respect. Love me or hate me; but if you have to work with me, show a little freakin’ respect. Don’t talk to me with an attitude like you know more than me about everything.

For instance, don’t begin the conversation in an antagonistic way. Don’t say, “You DO know that … ” and then state the freakin’ obvious. Because you might as well be tacking the phrase “or are you an idiot?” on to the end of your question. Honey, I’ve been in the business longer and I DO know that. Chances are, I’m asking you to check on something just in case so no mistakes are made.

No, don’t attack me for doing my job. If my job is to check your work and I pose a question about a potential problem, don’t tell me not to do that just because you don’t want to answer questions about it from someone else. Instead, you could approach me and say, “I see what you mean, but really it won’t be a problem.” End of conversation.

I guess maybe it wouldn’t bother me so much but I’m really tired of watching everyone around me get applauded for everything they do every day. You finished a project? YAY FOR YOU. It’s your JOB. Why should you get applauded for doing your job? You get PAID because you do your job. I don’t get applauded for everything I do on a weekly basis. And no, I’m not jealous. I don’t deserve to be applauded for it and don’t want to be. But I HATE sitting in meetings and hearing how someone finished a project so let’s all applaud because they DID THEIR JOB. There was nothing outstanding about what they did. They did this same project every year and sometimes more than once a year. What was so damn special about this one? Nothing. But it got done. So let’s all applaud.

Just for the record, I’m not taking any more attitude. If you give it to me, you’re getting it back.

And you’re not getting any applause from me unless you deserve it. Do something extraordinary. Overcome a huge obstacle. Get an award. Do something – ANYTHING – more than just doing your job. Then maybe I’ll clap for you again.

I will admit that I’m not a big PDA person. And I’m not talking about personal digital assistants. Of course, I don’t have one of those either. But that’s not what this is about.

Public displays of affection, in my opinion, should be limited to discreet hand-holding and pecks on the cheek and/or mouth. At no time do I want to see tongue, breast-grabbing, straddling or grinding. And I especially don’t want to see it in a place where people take their meals.

But such was the case this past Valentine’s Day night. I volunteered to work because A) I need the money and B) I think V-Day is a stupid Hallmark holiday. (Besides, my birthday is a few days before it and that’s all the celebrating I need in a week.)  Anyway, I was lucky enough to serve the Makeout Couple for a couple hours that evening.

She was a woman in I would guess her early 40s who dressed all trendy. She wore a leopard coat over a tight black revealing blouse, a short black miniskirt over fishnet stockings and black leather fuck me boots. She topped it off with her short two-tone hair and carried a red leather bag big enough to carry a bowling ball in.

He appeared to be older than her; probably in his late 40s or even early 50s. He dressed more conservatively in a gray suit with no tie. His shoes were expensive but non-descript. He wore wire-rim glasses and was balding. I never caught his name but he called her Anna.

They requested a small table in the back corner of the restaurant. This isn’t unusual because many people want to keep away from the bar noise and smoke. I sat them in the back as they requested under a wall of low-lit lanterns on the wall. But by the time I came back with their water, they had moved themselves to another corner table away from the wall lights. They wanted it darker they said.

They were nice enough through the entirety of their meal. They ordered several special V-Day martinis and several courses.  So I was trying my best to keep them happy because I knew it would be a big ticket.

But they made it difficult to approach the table because every time I tried, they were lip-locked. And you could tell there was tongue involved. I’m talking about movie kiss. The hands on the back of the head, swallow your face, five solid minutes without breathing movie kiss. And people in the restaurant were talking about it and watching without abandon.

There was even one time when I wanted to take them their entrees and she was sitting on his lap facing him and doing the movie kiss. And there was definite grinding. I hoped she was wearing pantyhose and not just thigh-high stockings and made a mental note to sanitize the chair at the end of the night.

Now I realize it was V-Day but they managed to make everyone in the restaurant uncomfortable. The co-owner was about five minutes away from asking them to leave but they left of their own accord not too long after the lap grind.

I was kind of disgusted by the entire scene. Yet, at the same time, there might be someone who could say I was being hypocritical because there was this one time in a bar … Wait. Forget it. You don’t get to hear that story.

Meet Mariah who’s been dubbed “The Pickle Girl” because she’s deathly afraid of pickles.

She appears on Maury in this YouTube video and he makes her go to a pickle factory where she collapses on the floor screaming.

It’s even better because she’s a waitress and forces her customers to get their own pickles if they order them.

Is there such a thing as pickle phobia?

See Pickle Girl here.

Over a decade ago, I used to live in New Orleans. For a period of weeks, I was homeless with no car. (Who knew you couldn’t trust sub-letters over the Internet or that you had to be 23 to rent a car in Louisiana? Ah, but I was just a stupid 21-year-old back then.)

Anyway, I relied on the southern hospitality of others and for two glorious weeks I stayed in a beautiful Victorian on Magazine Street. The only rent I paid while the owner was away on vacation was to walk her little dog, which the housekeeper hated.

But Betty the housekeeper was the absolute best. I worked second shift and she’d wait up for me to make me dinner and watch Letterman with me on the tiny kitchen television. Her cooking was outstanding … if you liked fried food.

Fried chicken, fried okra, fried pork, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, fried everything. But it was all delicious even if it was very bad for you.

Funny, thinking back on it, the one thing I really couldn’t get enough of was Betty’s fried dill pickles. Now those were outstanding.

What’s the significance do you think of that memory and my newly — if not involuntarily — adopted nickname?

Once a week, the restaurant has an all-you-can-eat mussel night, which happens to be on one of my regular work nights. This special brings out all kinds. But it’s a good money-making night and I’ve become less and less disgusted by the idea of mussels. In fact, I might even try them one night.

One of the fun parts of mussel night is the ongoing unofficial contest. There are about 15 mussels in a bowl and customers are constantly trying to outdo each other on how many bowls they can eat. Three weeks ago, the record was six bowls.

Then two weeks ago, a tall, long-haired brunette, not necessarily unattractive but easily in her forties, was joined by a dumpier looking woman of presumedly about the same age at a booth near the front of the restaurant. They ordered two bowls of mussels and a bottle of wine. The brunette was heavily made up and very soft-spoken but oh, how she could eat. One bowl, two, three, four. We servers were pretty impressed.

This night, they weren’t in my section but I had served them before. And a couple of us had our suspicions about the odd couple. And this night, as the brunette dug into her fifth and then her sixth bowl of mussels, our suspicions were confirmed.

The brunette told the server that she was really a man. And the dumpier looking woman used to be his wife. But they still lived together and, by day, he was a he and, by night, she was a she.

This really isn’t that uncommon or surprising in this day and age. What was surprising though was that she/he broke the mussel record by devouring nine bowls in one sitting.

That record still stands today; probably because I haven’t seen the odd couple in the restaurant since that night.