T-Pain just popped up on my Itunes shuffle, and I’m pretty sure it’s a sign. In his song, “Bartender,” T-Pain has broken up with his girlfriend and heads to a club. Long story short, he spots the bartender, she makes them drinks to drink, they then drunk ‘em (got drunk) and now he knows she thinks he’s cool. And the rest is history. So simple! As T-Pain says himself, of the 200 other fine ladies in the joint, he found none of them hot. So what is it about the bartender that outright caught his eye, and as us girls well know, the eye of most men in any bar or club? There’s just something about that chick who holds the liquor that makes the heads turn. Gee whiz, if phone numbers were currency, bartending school would cost almost as much as my theatrical bachelors degree.

Thank you, T-Pain, for you have shown me the light. If dating is my game, then I am in serious need of a new day job. You see, I signed up for this waitressing gig for one reason and one reason only: That phone number on the napkin I had heard tales of…. the lone diner who falls for the catastrophe waitress as they meet under the table over some spilled coffee… the legends of fame and fortune that await if I could only get discovered!! Well guess what— none of that’s happened. Instead I sling frittatas to the wealthy hungover brunch set. The majority of my patrons are ladies who lunch, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that cranky trophy wives don’t want your phone number on their napkin or cheese on their veggie burger.

Where did I go wrong?! My mom is beside herself. How will I meet that handsome architect with the trust fund and the dominant genes to father my above average spawn?! I tell her not to worry, meanwhile biting my already hacked fingernails to the rhythm of the espresso grinder.

I’d like to follow T-Pain’s fine example and become a bartender, but I have absolutely no patience for the “parts” measurement system as well as an inability to resist the temptation of blue cheese olives. So that rules out that easy option. I guess I have no choice but to sit here on my couch with “Bartender” on loop and commence my mental “hot-job” hunt.

Keeping with the club environment and all of its lowered inhibitions, I came up with coat check girl. I could handle that. Pros of this job: slipping your phone number into that hottie’s Northface fleece while he jams to Of Montreal at the Metro. Con: Trapped in a small box woozy with the musk of winter wear while some creepo insists you’d look better in his coat, or his coat would look better on the floor, or is it you in his coat on the floor? Well anyway, you get the nightmarish gist.

As faraway as possible from the stuffy, overcrowded club awaits my next option… ski lift worker girl! Yes it’s cold and snowsuits will never be sexy, but if anyone has been skiing or boarding, there is something alluring about that Aussie ski instructor whose bearded smile lights up any beginner lesson. And I figure if I’m the only girl punching tickets in the snow, all the more options for me! Though I did hear once from a girlfriend who went out to Colorado for the winter that “The odds are good, but the goods are odd” Hmmm…

Ok, then. Howabout this: The song, “Most Beautiful Girl” from Flight of the Conchords claims “You’re so beautiful, you could be a waitress.” Well, so far no cigar. Let’s look at the next verse line for further guidance. “You’re so beautiful, you could be an air hostess in the 60s” Done and done. Cute outfits, playful banter and some mild sexism. Now if only I could time travel. I’d like to say that the allure of the air hostess lives on in today’s 757s, but have you seen the Southwest khakis lately? And, no, I don’t think HootersAir actually exists.

Exhausted of options, sick of T-Pain, and too asymmetrical to find work as a part-time model (third verse line from “Most Beautiful Girl”) I suppose I have no choice but to stick out this waitressing job, and wait to wait on that under-tipping businessman. If only!

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