Grace? My ass.

Taco Tuesdays are a very happening place where I sling beans. It never ceases to amaze me what an OC scene a friggin’ Mexi food restaurant can become when, for a mere five dollar cover, one can eat endlessly at a taco bar, drink discounted margaritas and grind against some random as the DJ spins some tunes. People will wait in line for an hour and a half. At a Mexican food restaurant.

Generally on these festive evenings I work the door collecting money and distributing the ‘club’ required neon colored wrist bands. We have an entire team of Bouncers/ Security that deal with the line, checking IDs and such- so at the door our job isn’t stressful and has, in fact, become horribly entertaining to me and the other girls that I work the door with. As we are at the door we have the power to pick anyone out of the stagnant line of hopefuls waiting admittance, and deem them worthy of a fast track inside. Chicks are almost always allowed immediate admittance- as without hot chicks inside boys would have less of a desire to wait in line for an un-godly amount of time. The simple authority of determining who may or may not immediately come in is so fun, and occasionally profitable. Everything has its price.

Observing the abundance of excuses that those still in line have for why they need to get inside ‘right now’ is utterly ridiculous. I don’t care how smokin’ hot your bod is, that your friends are already inside, that you’re chilly standing outside, that you come here all the time… I have heard these things repeatedly all night long every week. I don’t care.

Watching the progression of alcohol work it’s way through the night and the crowd serves as a warning to the sober ones of how we will never act (this is generally fully forgotten after the first drink the next time we go out). The Bouncer talks about the receiving line of idiot guys that wait outside of the ladies restroom, hoping to score with random drunk chicks as they exit the powder room. We have our fair share of those guys waiting near the exit towards the end of the night, hoping that some hobbling girl in heels will drunkenly trip into their rescuing arms and go home with them. You go playa…



Unfortunately for me, I don’t need several (or any) drinks to completely lose my balance and wipe-out whenever gravity gets the best of me.

The restaurant has tiles floors throughout, to allow cleaning up pools of margaritas and beer to be as easy as possible. The floor becomes slick when wet. But this would be common sense, no? The other evening finishing up my sidework preparing to depart my shift I restocked each of the bar and server stations. Coming around the corner of the bar carrying boxes of fluorescent straws, my legs flew up in the air, a multitude of bright straws cascaded forth like a rainbow fountain and my ass landed solidly on the hard ground, a spectacle for all to see. The only thought going through my head (as I was wearing a shorter skirt) was “make sure no one sees your hoo-hah”. (No I didn’t pull a WTP- I just was overly paranoid.)

So there I sat in a puddle of water and straws. Two guys from one of my tables and a bartender rushed to my aid. Unfortunately for me my shoes were still slipping, so as they tried to lift my arms, my feet moved below me in some Wiley Coyote sort of fashion, and I begged them to just give me a second to get my footing. Through the pain (I don’t know which was bruised more, my bum or my ego) I hobbled to the closest bus station. Mind you, JP watched and witnessed the entire event unfold, but was so busy doubled over in laughter trying to not wet herself, that I had to almost push her aside to get into the bus station. At which point she and one of the other servers started pointing at my rump and laughing even harder. Looking behind be, I saw that I had crushes tortilla chips stuck to my butt. It doesn’t get better than this.

And to think my name means “full of grace”…