Update On Tucker

Please, if you are sending an e-mail to the humane society, cc it to me at sexyserverbabe@sbcglobal.net. All e-mails sent will be forewarded to Jo who is giving them to her attorney to use.

My friend M did this already, and he recieved a response:

Thank you for your email. Since the HSBC is working to bring this to a happy conclusion for all parties and is working with attorneys from all parties,I cannot comment in the details of the case.
Best wishes.
Karel I. Minor
Executive Director
Humane Society of Berks County
Berks County's Leader In Animal Welfare
1801 N. 11th StreetReading, PA 19604
Phone: 610-921-2348 ext. 10
Fax: 610-921-5833

I say we all start sending correspondance directly to Ms. Minor in the hopes that she gets this message.

Best wishes to you all,

Waitress

Still In Need

I was writing a post (I'll post it tomorrow) when I got this follow up e-mail from Jo. I think her lost dog takes precidence over the regular drama of the titty-bar. First and foremost, I would like to thank everyone who has commented, and please keep the emails coming. You can find the email address on my first "A friend in need" post. Many of you have mentioned going to the media, I think that's a great idea, if anyone out there has media ties or knows anyone, please foreward this e-mail to them. As an animal lover, we should all try to band together and help Jo and her family get their dog back (who has three puppies, by the way)...

This is her e-mail:


Our BC(border collie), "Tucker" jumped our fenced yard on 10/13/06. We searched *location deleted* in two cars for the following two days. We included a photo & phone #'s on the fliers which we put in mailboxes and posted in grocery stores, feed mills, and restaurants. Monday, Oct. 16Th, at 9 am I filed reports with every animal agency in my area, including *location deleted* SPCA, The Berks Humane society, and the Animal rescue league, and the *location deleted* animal control warden. We continued to look locally on our own.

I was called by the humane society of berks at approximately 4:50 pm on Monday the 16Th, at that time I was told NO male border collies had been turned in to them that weekend, but I was welcome to come personally and look through the on sight kennel. I did indeed go to the BCHS (berks county humane society), where I was "assisted" by DAMON MARCH, who is a director at the shelter. Mr March corroborated that there had been no dogs matching my dogs description or photos. I later found out this was untrue. I returned to the BCHS every day there after to look for my dog, and to inquire at the desk for any possible info.

Thursday (10/19) evening a neighbor gave us a lead on the dogs where abouts, and we then pursued this to yet another neighbor who had taken Tucker to the BCHS facility, not knowing that he was a neighbors dog. I called these people and they were ever so helpful in giving me case info that they were supplied by the BCHS when they dropped Tucker off (10/13). by the time we got this information, the BCHS had closed for the day. DAMON MARCH was the staff member that they had worked with.

Friday morning (10/20) I was at the BCHS when they opened for business at 10 am. I was told DAMON MARCH would not be in until 11 am. and resolution couldn't be had without him, as he is the Director. As I was walking out, I looked inside a window and there was Mr March, in his office, where I was told he was not, only seconds before. I collected myself, and returned back into the HS building, were I waited my turn (again) and asked for Mr March, who had been PEEKING out from the staff offices. He finally came out and after much haggling over who said what , Mr March said he would call the ADOPTIVE family that has my dog, to ask them if they would return the dog, they in turn asked for 24 hours to decide, claiming they had "bonded" with Tucker in the 4 days he was in their care.

Saturday (10/21) I called Mr March to inquire as the decision of the adoptive family. He said they declined to return the dog to us.

my problem is that first, my report had absolutely no bearing on the potential adoption, which was no less than a 2 hour time period for the BCHS to check their LOST DOG book.
My second problem is I was consistently lied to about my dog ever even having been there. never mind that I was lied to about Mr March's presence on Friday....

Had Mr March admitted his error on Monday night (10/16), and done the right and humane thing, i would not require your help.

I desperately want my dog back. He, like most BC's is high maintenance, requiring much activity and exercises. I have devoted the last 4 years to my animals, including the buying of a small farm so as to have the space required to have my cattle dog & border collies live happily and healthy. My children play a special role in Tucker's life, and they are in complete despair over his MIA status, and the situation that has followed.I have offered to pay whatever costs the foster family have incurred in regards to Tucker (except legal fees), IE the adoption fees & spay/vet check, and have gone as far as offering up Tucker's son, Thomas, which I would really rather not do. I have tried to appeal to the fosterfamily, through Damon March. But I have no idea how this was posed to them or if it was posed to them at all. I have to take his word, which I know to be unworthy of my trust.

I'm pleading. Please, if you have any compassion, please help in the return Tucker, who is far more than a pet to us. I do sincerely wish the other family the best in finding another dog that is as loving and gentle as Tucker is, and I would have gladly help them find just such a dog, had they not disreguarded my families bonds with this dog.

I am/was forced to hire an attorney to litigate this matter, I do NOT want money, I want the humane society to have some protocol or policy enacted to save others from having to go through what we are going through. I simply want our dog back home, with his family of three years, all he has ever known.

Mr March and Mr Minor have defamed me as a "bad owner" for not having my dogs microchipped, and claimed in several e-mails that I did NOT look for my dog, which I take great offense to. We searched locally, not 20 miles away in a city that we have very little to do with. Either way, they were notified and disreguarded the lost report & went through with an adoption for a pure bred healthy dog that belonged to my family without concern, then lied about it.
I will include my attorneys information with this letter.

Thank you,
Jo

A Friend In Need

One of my most loyal readers/commenters has been MIA for a few weeks. I recieved this e-mail today, and thought I would share it with everyone in case anyone out there had any ideas for her. I myself have one dog, my parents have two and nine cats, my granparents have pets...we're a big bunch of pet lovers, so any ideas will be appreciated. Either leave them as a comment or send them to sexyserverbabe@sbcglobal.net

This is her e-mail in it's original form:

Sorry I havent been checking your blog, my life has taken a dreadfull turn. As a dog lover, you may be able to help, if you want to. let me explain.... My border collie (AKA Doggy Daddy) Tucker jumped out of our fenced yard on 10/13, on 10/16 the Humane society adopted him outno less than 2 hours AFTER being notified by me of his MIA status. I am filing suit tomorow against them. They refuse to return my dog, who came in healthy, shiny/groomed and well cared for....they said he was "highly adoptable"...they are breed selecting, which isnt humane at all. I have begged, I've written letters, so have my children, trying desperately to appeal to the decency of the foster family, to no avail. My lawyer has had the misfortune of dealing with these folks, and by his own admission (the director of humane society) this was all one big mistake. one which no one there is willing to fix.

I'm asking for anyone who has loved a dog to write in to www.berkshumane.org
and if you feel compelled to use your legal beagle stuff, my attorney is willing to look at whatever you may send him in reguards to this case. There is no legal precedent for this situation. so there are few guide lines for the judge.
if your interested, e-mail me, or IM me if u see me on. We also set up a an escrow account for Tucker's suit. I will put that info at the end of this note.

Thanks,
Jo

Tucker Fundc/o Eric Winter, Esq.Law offices
Roland & Schlegel
p.o.box 902
Reading, Pa. 19603-0902

FYI

I have enabled comment moderation. You haven't been banned, and you can still comment, but it takes a while for the comments to post now.

The comment moderation is for my benefit, so I don't have to go back and delete comments.

The "whore" comments have started getting out of hand, as are the ethnically offensive ones.

For the rest of you, please know that I read all of your comments and thoroughly enjoy them. Please don't stop commenting.

I will turn off comment moderation when the person with the offensive comments stops.

Best of luck to you all,
Waitress

If the Shoe Hits

Last Friday night was a good night for me. Everywhere I turned there was another regular of mine, ready and willing to do some shots and have a nice, calm evening. Even the management was having a good time, the dancers were all in good moods, and life was good in the Strip Club.

Or so I thought.

I was taking a Makers and Water to a friend of mine when I heard a "Smack" come from my left. I looked over at stage two where Miranda was dancing and saw her squatting in front of a young guy at her stage.

I set the Makers and Water on the table and hurried over to the other side of the room. I wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but I had a gut feeling that something wasn't right.

I was walking up to where she was when she took her shoe off, put it in her right hand, reached back, and slapped this guy across the face with nine inches of platform plastic.

Then she got up, went back to the pole, and continued dancing. The guy didn't move.

Now, I have no fucking idea what is going on at this point. Maybe he pissed her off? Maybe she knows him? Maybe this guy has a fetish and likes to be slapped around with stripper shoes? The guy is still sitting in his chair, doesn't look angry, so I don't know what to think.

I mean, if you got slapped with a stripper shoe, would you just sit there?

Miranda finally stops spinning and notices I'm there.

"This motherfucker needs to leave. Now." She pointed at the guy at her stage, who raises his hands in a "what" gesture.

Ok, looks like we can rule out the fetish answer.

I look around and see CEO sitting at a table by the bar. I send one of the dancers to go get him and stand guard by Miranda's stage, just in case.

CEO comes and escorts the guy out of the building as Miranda's set ends. I walk over to the catwalk to find out what the fuck just happened.

"Oh my God, Waitress," she said, putting her booty shorts on, "that motherfucker pissed me off."

"I know, honey," I reply, trying to untwist her top and put it on over her head.

"And the really fucked up thing," she started, tying the bikini top behind her back, "was that I hit him three times before anyone came up to get him out. Three. Times. What the hell were they doing?"

Her question was legitimate, to a point. However, in a club with fifty girls, hundreds of customers, and four floor guys/managers/DJ's, sometimes things slip your grasp. I had the utmost faith in Miranda's ability to handle her own, though.

I sent her to the dressing room to calm down and headed to the bar to get her a shot. Out of the corner of my eye I see Raymond and Pierce rapidly head to the dressing room after Miranda.

I walk into the dressing room with a shot of tequila in one hand and a Jager Bomb in the other and see Miranda getting dressed. ("Getting Dressed" as in putting on her regular clothes to go home.)

"Here, Waitress," she said, tossing her purse in my direction. "I need you to go put that somewhere, fast." She was hurridly trying to put her jeans on and pull her hair up at the same time. "That idiot called the cops on me, and now I have to go."

"You're leaving?"

"No, I'm going to go sit out there with a customer until they leave," she said, throwing her clothes in her locker and slamming it shut.

I took Miranda's purse and put it in the office for safe-keeping. She headed back on to the floor, looking like a customer and not a dancer, and took a seat with one of our regulars in the back.

About ten minutes later, Raymond came back inside.

"Hey, waitress," he said, "is Miranda still here?"

"Yeah," I pointed, "she's sitting over there."

"Tell her to go get dressed again and go back on the floor," he winked at me, letting me know all was ok.

I gave the good news to Miranda and headed back to Raymond to find out what happened.

"That guy was an idiot," he said.

"Well, I gathered that, but what happened?"

"He tried to put his hands on her while she was onstage. Then after we kicked him out he called the cops, trying to claim assault."

"Oh, I see."

"That's not all," Raymond said. "The cops laughed it off and told him to go home. After he left, he ran his car into the ditch. Now he's on his way to jail."

I laughed, imagining this guy. Almost pitiful enough to feel badly for him.

Almost.

Moral of the story: don't touch the dancers. More on that moral tomorrow kiddies!

Update

Thank you to everyone for their wonderful advice. The response was overwhelming, and I really appreciate all of it...

Except for whatever asshole keeps popping in with the comment "everyone who works in a strip club is a whore." Seriously, get a new line, I've had to delete it like seven times.

Someone in a previous comment was curious as to what went down between Monique and Duke. I asked around tonight and this is what I know:

While Monique was back in VIP with Purity, Monica, and Chris; she was called to the stage for her set. She decided she was making more money in VIP than she would onstage, so she ignored her call to duty.

That pissed Duke off. Here's why, for those of you "not in the know."

There is a list in the DJ booth of all dancers in the order they arrived and signed in. The girls are called to stage to perform their sets in that order, so after a while the girls know approximately when they're going up. Therefore, it makes it easier for them to know when they have time to sit down, do a lap dance, etcetera before going on stage to perform.

When a dancer does not go up for her set, the DJ has to call the next girl on the list. There's no telling where this girl is, or what she's doing; considering she figured she had approximately 9 minutes before she was supposed to go up. Meanwhile, customers are stuck staring at an empty stage, wondering what is going on.

That is why Duke went to find Monique, to figure out where she was and why she was no longer on stage. As it is with any good dramatic incident, one argument turned into another and ended up with both of them in the dressing room going round for round.

Now there's a sign on the mirror warning the girls if they're late for their set it's a five dollar fine.

No one was late tonight!

October Rain

For some time now I have been feeling an impending shift in my life. Something is pulling at me, it may be the onsight of graduation or the soon to be engagement/marriage to Boyfriend; but something is churning and I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not.

Let me explain.

The plan was always the same. Graduate from State U, join the Peace Corps for two years, return to America with some perspective that can only come from extended time in a third world country being thankful for clean water. Go to grad school (Northeastern is my number one choice, after that it's Columbia and NYU, respectively) for a JD/MSW-- law degree and masters in social work. After that, go work for a Non-profit organization somewhere in NY, think ACLU, JDL, you get the picture. After my career and before retirement I wanted to start a motivational community outreach program for the benefit of underprivileged children in urban areas. Think "Boys and Girls club" but more in your face.

Then I met Boyfriend. Slowly, things started to change.

Gone first was the idea of the Peace Corps. Boyfriend has Type 1 juvenile onset diabetes, and is unable to join the Peace Corps, the Military; hell, he can't even go on a reality show. Second thing to go was the idea of grad school in New England. You don't work while you're in law school, and while I could live in the dorm's or some other form of University provided housing, Boyfriend would have to uproot his life and career to (try) and make it on the other side of the country. Finally, the notion of moving to NY to practice was gone as well. We have a huge pit-bull and they need room, a yard, space to run around in. I don't think having a 110lb machine of a dog in Manhattan is really a good idea.

This poses the next question: babies. Should I have babies? Do I even want babies? I like to think I do, but when would I have time? If I graduate from State U and go directly to Law School, I'll graduate (finally) when I'm 30. Putting in 2 years wherever I work (assuming I get hired right out of Law School) makes me 32 before I try and take maternity leave.

I don't want to be 50 when my children graduate High School.

Everything is just so confusing right now. Is the notion of love more important than personal career choices. If I take the career path am I going to regret it later on? If I take the family path, am I going to resent Boyfriend, and possibly my children, later on?

What am I supposed to do!!!

Is everything this confusing???

Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like they are barely hanging on to the kite strings of life, desperately attempting to anticipate the changing wind; and yet falling short every time?

Is it possible to "have it all"?

Do I even want it all?

Sorry to bother everyone with this, I just thought maybe I could gain some more perspective if I put this out there.

Best of luck to you all,

Waitress

Waitress Is Sick

Sorry about the lack of posts, guys, but I've been sick as hell the past two days. I think there's something wrong with my throat bc it hurts to swallow. (Let's not make that dirty, shall we?)

I'm going to go crawl back in bed now and eat some more throat spray.

Best of luck to you all!

Waitress

Missed It By One Day

Part Four:

I put the twenty in Monique's shirt and searched for something to say.

"Umm," I stammered, "it's from Monica and Chris."

"That bitch just got in my face and screamed at me!" Monique was still shaking.

"Yeah, I saw that. What the fuck happened?"

"I don't fucking know," Monique sighed. "Purity and I were back there doing a double lap dance on Chris, when Monica started freaking the fuck out. Then Duke came back there and started yelling at me in front of customers, and that's when all that shit happened." She looked around the club. "I just don't know what's going on."

Just then, Duke approached.

"Monique," he yelled, "go to the dressing room. Now!"

Monique turned and headed to the dressing room and Duke followed shortly behind. I headed up to the bar to get a drink, God knows I needed one-- or four.

There was a guy about my age (from what I could tell) standing at the bar when I approached and I smiled and made random conversation. It turns out we go to the same school, and the chat quickly turned to majors and interests.

"I'm a criminology major," he said.

"That's impossible," I replied. "State U doesn't offer a criminology major."

"Yes they do," he insisted.

"No. No they don't. They have a criminology concentration, not a major. You have to be a sociology major and concentrate on criminology."

"Well, that's what I meant," he retorted. "But it doesn't really matter because when I graduate I'm going to law school."

"So am I," I responded.

"Oh yeah? Are you going to Central U's law school?"

"No, if I go to law school here it'll probably be Northwest U's program," I answered, downing a Jager Bomb.

"Why Northwest U? Central U's is ranked higher."

I sighed. Strike two, I thought to myself. "Actually that's not true. Central U's law school is in the top of the second tier of law schools. Northwest U is ranked in the top tier. It's in the bottom two-thirds, but it's in the top tier."

"Are you sure?" He raised his chin, looking down at me, puzzled.

"Yes. I am absolutely positive," I replied.

"Well," he said, "I'm going to have to look into that. Because women don't know what the hell they're talking about."

You've got to be kidding me, I thought, staring this poor excuse for a man down with a glare that could shake Mt. Everest.

"Hey," he said, emitting uncomfortable laughter, "I was just seeing if you had a sense of humor."

I turned from the bar and headed into the dressing room. I wanted to go hide in the bathroom and have a smoke without anyone talking to me. I was getting close to my wits end. I didn't get very far.

As soon as I entered the dressing room I could hear the screaming. Monique and Duke were still having it out, in a most loud way. Pierce and another dancer were standing on the sidelines, watching the festivities with pointed amusement. I turned on my heels and headed out of the dressing room, praying for a moments peace.

I had barely made it around the corner when Monique stormed out of the dressing room, followed quickly by Duke. Around the bar they stalked, each throwing remarks back to the other. Then they headed back into the dressing room, apparently for round two. Right behind them was CEO, who had called Elvis in to DJ so he could go sort out the inter-employee drama. Apparently he got it all straightened out because soon after, Duke headed out to the parking lot and Monique back on the floor.

"What the fuck is going on," Savannah asked, leaning on the bar while she smoked a cigarette.

"I don't even fucking want to know," I replied, in between rearranging my drinks on my tray. Suddenly I felt pressure on my left side.

There was a very drunk, very little Hispanic man on my left. For some reason, he wanted to be shoulder to shoulder with me, and I was in no mood for physical contact. I took a step to my right and Little Latino man leaned with me. I took another step, and he leaned further, knees never bending. I took one final step which put me right up against the person on my right, and Little Latino man was still attached to me at the shoulder. That was when I felt a hand reach into my back pocket where I kept my money.

I turned to my right, breaking the connection between me and the man on my right. I looked up at him, and it was crazy crackead man, Mr. Wannabe Ghetto Gangsta.

"What the fuck are you doing!?!" I yelled at him, accusation dripping in my tone.

"Uh, I don't know?" He replied, a slight smirk on his mouth, which was full of fake gold.

"You don't know?! You don't know!! I'll tell you what you don't know, asshole." I was cut off when I felt a presence behind me. Figuring it was a bouncer come to rescue me I spun-- and came face to face with Chad. My own personal rescue man.

That was when I realized I was in some twisted version of "The Wizard of Oz." I was sandwiched between the three of them, Leaning Latino Tin-Man, Ghetto Gangsta Scarecrow, Creepy Cowardly Lion, and me, unsure if I was Dorothy or the Wicked Witch. Instantly I was claustrophobic.

I pushed myself thru the three of them, no easy task mind you, and headed behind the bar. There I hid, whimpering.

Great, I thought to myself, I'm fucking Toto.

Luckily, I didn't have to hide for too long. Boyfriend walked in a few minutes later, and I immediately ran to hide on him. I turned the corner of the bar to join him, but someone had beat me to it.

There, sitting next to my boyfriend, attempting to strike up a conversation, was none other than Crazy Crackhead man. And not far behind him? Chad.

"Jesus CHRIST when is this going to stop!" I screamed, turning for the bar as boyfriend shot me a look of confusion.

"Hey, Waitress, you ok?" Chad asked, blocking my path to the bar.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" I dodged him, heading up to the bar when someone punched me in the ass. Yes, punched me. In the ass.

It was our Little Latino Tin-Man friend. I'm not sure if he was attempting to grab my ass, or just over swinging his tiny drunk arms, but I didn't care by that point.

I turned around to head outside when I was stopped by Toby, a guy that used to work for us as a DJ, before he got fired for being a complete tool.

"Hey, waitress," he said, "hook me up with a Bud Light."

I just looked at him.

"Ok, then put it on CEO's tab," he said, trying to look pitiful.

"Look Toby, I am not in the mood for your shit right now, and I'm not going to get you a fucking beer, Ok? You want one, go fucking get one, but leave me the hell alone!"

Crazy Crackhead and Chad were no longer sitting by my boyfriend so I headed over to his table, crawling in his lap and burying my head in his neck.

"Get me out of here," I moaned, muffling my sounds in his stubble. "I am throwing up drama!"

"What happened, honey?"

I started to tell him but then stopped.

"Fuck it," I said, "read my blog."

Missed It By One Day

Part three: NOTE: Sandra and Tracy have been changed to "Monica" and "Chris"

I plastered a fake smile on my face and headed over to Monica and Chris' table to get take their order and their credit card. A little back story before we proceed, shall we?

Monica and Chris have been together for years. They're not married, which I assume is more because of Chris and less because of Monica. Chris is very, very well off, and Monica is the closest I've ever seen to a trophy wife. Perfectly coiffed blonde hair, perky (and fake) breasts, always in style wardrobe, Chanel earrings, eight carat canary diamond ring on her right hand, a slight speed dependency, and completely fucking nuts.

They started coming in about two years ago, back when I was still slinging drinks behind the bar and not serving them up at the tables. I noticed her immediately at the bar, she has that commanding presence that comes with money. To prove my point further she requested three hundred dollars in five dollar bills, not a usual request at my bar. They're big drinkers, big spenders, and big tippers. I always get slipped a bill when they leave, regardless of whether I'm serving them or not. Usually that's enough for me to take their drama with a grain of salt. Usually.

I knew when I saw them there was going to be trouble. One of the other customers in the bar was a girl named Cris. (Don't get confused here, because it's going to get worse. We have Monica and Chris who are together and Cris the girl.) Cris the girl used to "hang out" with Monica and Chris.

Did I forget to mention that Monica and Chris like to bring other women into their relationship? Well, they do, and usually it follows this type of blueprint. For a little while, things will be just peachy, but then something dramatic will happen and Monica will decide that she hates this bitch and she's going to kill her if she ever comes near her or Chris again. I did mention that she's a little nuts, right?

I made it over to the table and gave Monica a kiss on the cheek.

"Hey honey, how are you?"

"I'm fucking freaking out right now. I need a drink," she said, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

"No problem, you want your regular?"

"Yeah, and bring Chris his as well."

I took their credit card and headed up to the bar. I came back with the drinks and Monica motioned me over.

"That bitch Cris is in here," she said, pointing to the other side of the bar.

"Yeah, I know," I replied, setting her drink in front of her.

"Well, make sure she knows that if she comes near my table I'll fucking kill her." At this point one of my dancers had made it over and was sitting down. "Bring her something to drink," Monica said, motioning to the dancers, "and bring me another one. I need to get drunk."

"No problem."

I went back to the bar and ordered the requested drinks. Presently at the table were Monica and Chris, Monique (a dancer) and Cris the girl was somewhere wandering in the club. I told you it was going to get confusing.

I brought Monica and Monique's drinks, set them down at the table and noticed that Chris was gone. In his place was some random crackhead I had never seen before.

"Hey, Monica," I whispered, leaning down to her, "do you know this guy?"

"No, I have no idea who he is."

"Would you like me to make him leave your table?"

"Yes," she answered, "please do that."

I walked up to Pierce who was standing by the front door and told him what was going on. He walked over to deal with random crackhead and I made another round of drinks. While I was standing at the bar, paying for my drinks, Pierce approached me.

"Hey, Monica said she didn't mind him sitting there."

"That's weird," I said, "but ok."

I dropped off the next round of drinks and went back over to Monica and Chris' table. Monique was gone and Monica was sitting with the random crackhead.

"Waitress," Monica started, "I thought I asked you to make this guy leave!"

"I tried, Monica, but you told Peirce that you didn't mind him sitting there," I explained, flabbergasted.

"Well, I've changed my mind. And tell Moniqe to stay the fuck away from my table. If she wants to go hug up on Cris that's fine, but I don't put up with that shit."

I turned and saw Monique talking to the table where Cris was sitting-- Cris the girl, not Chris her boyfriend. He was still nowhere to be found.

"Ok Monica," I sighed, "I'll get right on it."

I told CEO what was going on with random crackhead, but at this point, he was sick of dealing with Monica as well. His response: "Tell her to take care of it her damn self if she's so opinionated." I couldn't argue with that logic.

I made another round of orders and was standing at the service bar when Monique walked up to me.

"I don't think Monica likes me," she said, peering over at her table.

"It's not that she doesn't like you, she just doesn't like Cris anymore, so when you were talking to Cris she got offended," I replied, rubbing my temples with my fingers. It had already been a long night, and it was barely halfway over.

"Well, she called me over! What was I supposed to do?" Monique whined, pouting.

"I don't know darlin, but I have to take these drinks."

When I made it back to Monica's table (Chris was still gone), Monique was sitting with her arm around Monica, talking to her.

"Waitress," Monica started, "will you go get Chris and tell him that I would like him to come back to the table?"

"Sure, Monica," I answered. "Where is he?"

"He's getting a lap dance. I just really need his support right now," she shook her head and tried her best to appear pitiful.

I walked back to the lap dance room and saw no sign of Chris. I checked in the other room, still no Chris, but I did see Max getting a lap dance from Kismit. He smiled and waved from between her thighs. I smiled in return.

I finally found Chris in VIP with Purity, another dancer. They were sitting on the couches, talking.

"Hey, Chris," I started, "sorry to interrupt but Monica wanted you to come back to the table."

"I'm not doing anything wrong back here," he replied.

"I know, it's not about you, she just said she wanted you to be there with her." I was not about to get into the middle of all this drama, so I was keeping my reasoning very vague.

"Well, we're not done with our lap dance yet, so why don't you tell her to come back here."

"Ok," I sighed, feeling more like a baby-sitter than a waitress, "I'm on it."

I walked back out to the main room and to Monica's table.

"Well," she said, "where is he?"

"Um, he's in VIP and he wants you to join him there."

Monica was none too happy about this answer; but she got up and headed back in that direction. Monique followed.

A few minutes later I went back to check on them. VIP is not in my section, so I tabbed them out and turned them over to Esmerelda, explaining the situation to her. I, thankfully, went back to waiting my tables.

About ten minutes later while I was standing at a table by the front door, Monica came stalking up to me.

"Here," she said, putting a twenty dollar bill in my shirt. "Give this to Monique and tell her to stay the fuck away from me and Chris."

Before I could respond Chris and Monique emerged from VIP and joined the two of us. Chris pulled a stack of money out of his pocket and turned to Monique.

"How much do I owe you, honey," he said, counting out bills.

Monica saw this interaction and moved in between the two of them, pushing Chris away from Monique and yanking the money from his hands.

"We already fucking paid her," she screamed. "I already fucking took care of that whore." Monica turned to Monique and got in her face, screaming something intelligible. I motioned for Pierce, mouthing the word "drama" and he headed over as Chris attempted to get Monica out the front door.

I still had the twenty in my shirt, not sure about how to proceed as Monica and Chris headed out the front, Monica screaming about how she was "never coming back again."

I turned to face Monique, pulling the twenty out of my shirt and handing it to her.

"Here," I said, "this is for you."

"What the fuck is that?" Monique's face was red, obviously shaken up from the events that just transpired. Unfortunately, her drama was nowhere close to being over.

To be continued...

Missed It By One Day

Part two:

As excited as I was to see Max and Mia, I was quite disenchanted to see Chad. Not that I was surprised, however-- for the last year Chad has become quite the regular in our fine establishment, and has decided that the rules no longer apply to him. I had a clue he would turn out like this the first time I met him.

It was New Years, this year when I first met Chad. He's a large man, stands about 6'4 and to call him robust would be a compliment. He was sitting at a table with "Kismet," one of my dancers on New Years Eve, drinking a Michelob Ultra the first time I laid eyes on him. He was normal, or so I believed, nothing out of the ordinary really, until Kismet had her first dramatic incident in her dancing career.

Kismet had been dancing for maybe a week, total. She was a student at Private University (or PU for short) and needed the extra cash. She had, unfortunately, forgotten the cardinal rule of stripping: get the money up front. Not surprisingly, after a lap dance with random young fraternity boy, she was denied her pay. Fraternity boy said he already gave it to her, Kismit said otherwise; and as usual, there was nothing we could do about it.

When I walked past his table, Chad called me over.

"Hey, did Kismet ever get her money?"

"What are you talking about?" At this point, I hadn't heard of the incident yet.

"That fucker over there," Chad said, pointing to a young man in a white baseball cap turned around backwards. "He owes her money for his lap dance."

"Well, then why doesn't she go get it?" And why the hell are you involved in this? I was thinking to myself.

"She's in the back, upset," Chad said, "but if I have to go over there and kick his ass, I swear I will." He scowled and crossed his arms around his massive chest.

At this point I figured I had this guys number. Heavy guy, alone on New Years, probably deeply insecure. Domineering mother, maybe absent father, "savior" complex, and potential stalker.

"Look darlin," I said, squatting at the table, "if Kismet is going to make it in this business she has to grow a tougher skin about these things." Chad started to interrupt but I barreled on. "Yes it sucks that she's out twenty bucks, and yes, I'm sure she's upset about the whole situation, but these things happen and it's not up to you to go around kicking random guys asses for girls you don't even know."

Chad was quiet, but still pissed; every now and then stealing menacing looks at the offending fraternity boy.

The next weekend Chad was back, and so it was the weekend after that, the weekend after that, and so on and so forth until present time.

Over time Chad had elevated himself from "customer" status to a fixture in the club; rubbing elbows with management and other staff, and beginning to assume that certain rules no longer applied to him. This is a common occurrence in a certain type of man regarding strip clubs.

Three weeks ago Chad came in and decided to take a seat on the side of the bar, where we don't allow customers to sit. The seats on the side of the bar are directly next to the dressing room door, and if you're sitting there you have a perfect view inside the dressing room whenever someone opens the door. Chad knew this, but again, assumed that since he was now a "regular," these rules didn't apply to him.

Raymond was sitting at a table by the front door when he motioned for me to come over.

"Hey," he said, pointing to the bar, "tell Chad to move for me, he's not supposed to be sitting there."

"No problem," I replied, and headed off to complete my task.

"Hey Chad," I said, approaching him, "would you please move to another side of the bar or maybe a table?"

"Why?" He turned to look at me, perplexed.

"Because customers aren't supposed to sit here, you know that."

Chad looked across the bar to where Raymond was sitting, and started to scowl. He got up out of the chair and stalked over to a round table in the corner, plopped down, and crossed his arms across his chest again; exactly the way he did when Kismet had her drama.

He was still looking sour ten minutes later when I decided to find out what was bothering him.

"What's wrong?" I lit a cigarette and sat down at the table.

"Fucking Raymond. He knows I can't sit at these tables and now he's just being an asshole about it!" Chad's face started to turn red, anger radiating off his body.

"Why can't you sit at these tables?" I was curious, maybe it was a comfortability thing.

"Because if I sit out here," ("out here" being the bar, I suppose), "I'll get hit hustled all night long and I can't afford that. Raymond knows that, and he knows that why I have to sit on that side of the bar. I don't come up here because I want to, I come up here to baby-sit the girls!"

Red flag, ladies and gentlemen. Red flag.

"Chad, we have people to baby-sit the girls, they're called 'employees,'" I said, beginning to get annoyed.

"Yeah, well, what the fuck ever."

At this point I left the table. Not long after that one of our dancers, Antonia, was feeling sick. She had drank too much, and apparently was going to die. She was in the dressing room, laid out on the floor, "hyperventilating" and breathing into a plastic bag. Basically, she was drunk.

She came out of the dressing room a little while later to perform her set, but felt too sick to continue and ran off stage and back to the dressing room during the first song. Chad jumped out of his chair, as if to go after her, as I just happened to be walking by.

"Chad," I admonished, "sit down!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" He sat back down and resumed his stance of glaring angrily around the bar with his arms crossed around his chest.

He's been on my shit list ever since.

Back to Saturday night. Chad didn't arrive with Max and Mia, but because he "knows" Mia, as well as you can know a dancer without knowing her real name, I suppose, he sat down at their table, along with several other dancers.

They had been drinking for about an hour, and I was at the table, dropping off a fresh round of shots, when the incident occurred.

Eve was sitting in between Max and Chad, and suddenly, Chad grabbed Eve around the head, pulled her face to his, and literally tried to stick his tongue in her mouth. Eve put both of her hands on Chad's forehead and tried to push his face away from hers. After a moment, he relented.

"Don't ever fucking do that, Chad!" Eve pointed her finger in his face. "That is a no-no!"

"Oh, what the fuck ever," Chad replied. "Go the fuck away."

Eve looked up at me, and I motioned for Pierce to come over. I had just filled him in on the drama when I turned and noticed Sandra and Tracy enter the bar.

"Oh great," I said, sighing to Pierce, "here comes more drama."

Pierce shook his head and turned to handle the last incident as I headed off to deal with Sandra and Tracy.

To be continued...

Missed It By One Day

Awwww, you guys!! Your comments are so sweet, but I guess I should have told you that none of the drama actually had anything to do with me (thank God for small miracles), I was just a passive observer! LOL!

I have decided, since all of the stories intertwine with one another, that I should write this as another "parter," but I will be including back story and such. The reason for the title is that all of these events happened on Saturday the 14th, instead of Friday the 13th. So, on with the show!

Part One:

I was expecting Saturday night to be rather slow. State U's football team had an away game in the Northern part of the State, and the Fair was in town. Needless to say, I was unprepared for the events that transpired, both physically and mentally.

It was early in the night and I was hanging out behind the bar, shooting the shit with Ellen. I noticed a gentlemen at the bar, arguing with Savannah about having to leave his credit card with her in order to run a tab. He was moderately tall, with longish curly black hair and rimless glasses. He looked rather Jewesque (you know what I mean) and was being an asshole.

"I want my credit card back," he demanded, looking at her over the top of his trendy spectacles.

"If you want to run a tab, you have to leave it here at the bar," Savannah said, trying to placate Mr. Jewboy while still attempting to serve the other patrons of the bar.

"You don't need my credit card, you already swiped it!"

"That was just an imprint of your card. I have to have it behind the bar in order to run your tab!" She was getting frustrated by this point.

"No you don't," he retorted, like some angry toddler who wants his way.

"Yes, yes I do."

I daydreamed for a moment, imagining this scenario playing out for hours like some schoolyard brawl over the tetherball. I started to giggle.

"Well, then close me out," Mr. Jewboy demanded. "I don't want to run a tab up here."

"Fine! With pleasure!" Savannah seemed relieved to be rid of him. Instead of Mr. Jewboy leaving, however, he insisted on sitting at the bar and paying for each drink individually-- with his credit card. Those of you in the industry understand how annoying that is. Every time you use your card we have to swipe it, imprint it, enter the last four digits, enter the amount, wait for it to print out, print out your copy, hand you the entire thing, wait for you to give it back, ring it into the register, and then close out the credit card receipt in the machine. It's a long, irritating process for a beer.

Mr. Jewboy decided he wanted to sit down in front of the dirty dish station, meaning every time we brought a glass back from a table, he either had to move over (not likely) or we had to twist our bodies into snake like positions in order to place the glasses where they could be reached by the bartender so they could be be washed and re-served.

This guy was becoming a pain in my ass.

Rather than be a bitch, I figured I would attempt to butter him up. Flirt with him a little, maybe put him in a better mood and help myself and Savannah out.

I waited until I had a tray of dirty glasses to bring back to the bar. I walked up next to him, balanced the tray on the edge of the bar, and started placing the glasses nearby.

"I like your hair," I said to him, looking at him with my best "don't you think I'm sexy" face.

He snorted in response while taking a swig from his cheap beer, as if it was something he heard all the time. I decided to give it one more try.

"You're a very cute yuppie-hippy," I was thinking, wireless glasses, good shoes, yet messy hair. Yuppie-hippy.

"Fuck you." He didn't even make eye contact when he said it, and he calmly took another drink from his long neck. The tray wobbled in my hand.

"Excuse me?" I was hoping, praying that maybe he said "thank you" and I just misunderstood.

He turned to look at me. "Fuck you. Now go away."

Every instinct in me said to spill the tray of drinks on this guy, blame it on an "accident," and walk off. Instead, I decided to agitate the situation further, just to see what would happen.

"That's kind of fucked up, don't you think?" I turned, facing Mr. Jewboy, wondering what would happen.

"Well, I'm not a yuppie-hippy."

"No, you're a fucking prick." With that I turned and walked away. Mr. Jewboy left after that beer.

As I made another round I saw one of my favorite customers, "Max" walk in with one of my favorite dancers, "Mia." I was very happy to see them both, Max is a great guy and one hell of a tipper (and I'm not just saying that because he reads my blog). As elated as I was to see them both, my balloon was quickly deflated when I noticed "Chad" following shortly behind them.

Chad, while once a nice guy in my book, has quickly become an annoying thorn in my side, and after Saturday night, has elevated himself to status of quasi-weirdo. His story, when we return from this commercial break.

To be continued...

Oh Sweet Jesus

Dear Readers, I am fairly certain you are all aware that I am a Jew, and so you must realize the dire situation at hand for me to utter the words "Oh Sweet Jesus."

I am throwing up drama. The smell of it is permeated into my clothes. I have the urge to take a shower and scrub my body raw while crying "I feel dirty" over and over again like some quasi-assault victim from the Lifetime Movie Network.

(Boyfriend would like to interject here and ask why a station that focuses on "empowering women" only plays movies where they get beat up all the time? I personally think the LMN is soft-core porn for pedophiles and sexual predators...but that's another story.)

I have been at my club for three years now. In 1094 and 3/4 days (give or take for leap year) I can't remember ever dealing with this much drama at once.

I have yet to decide how to write about it. A lot of the happenstances involved regulars that I need to give you back story about, so I may just do it post by post rather than try to do another three (or four) parter. I'll let you know, whatever the case it will be started tomorrow.

If you'll excuse me, I need to go cry in the shower.

Best of luck to you all!
Waitress

Crazy Wheelchair Man

Saturday night started off, as usual, moderately slow. Our other waitress, "Esmerelda," called in, her daughter was sick and her babysitter bailed. It's got to be tough to be a single mom these days.

Our hostess, "Queenie" was taking over her section. I was in the back, getting my ass kicked in a game of pool, when the early crowd started filing in. I looked up from nearly missing sinking the eight ball (I was aiming for the fourteen) and saw an older man in a wheelchair come in, followed by a large man in an even larger cowboy hat. Queenie already got their first round, so I continued on with getting massacred at pool.

A very short time later (Glen is really good at pool, and he spares me no exception) I made my first round around the club, starting at Wheelchair man's table.

"Hi, can I get your guys another round?" I pointed to the empty glasses in front of them.

"Well, hell yeah you can!" The Cowboy was loud, and I got the feeling he was used to being in charge. "I'll take another crown and water, and for this pretty lady," he leaned over to my dancer, Celestial and took her order, "she'll have a Shirley temple. Go ahead and bring him another one of whatever he was drinking." He pointed to the guy in the wheelchair.

I leaned down until I was eye level with him, and he mouthed "cape cod."

"Ok, a cape cod, crown and water, and a Shirley temple. Anything else?"

"Bring me a shot of Patron, as well. And bring this fucker one too." Cowboy pointed to Wheelchair man.

"Coming up!"

I brought the drinks back, set them on the table, and was waiting for Cowboy to pay me when I felt a hand reach up my thigh and cup me on my hoo-ha. A quick glance revealed Wheelchair man as the culprit. I grabbed his hand and moved it away as Cowboy started to laugh.

"Hah hah! You gotta watch out for him, he's a feisty one!"

"Yes, I can see that," I mused. Cowboy handed me some money and I left the table.

When I came back by the shot glasses were empty, used lime wedges creating sticky pools on the table. I reached down to pick them up when Wheelchair man grabbed my wrist, quite firmly, and took the empty shot glass out of my hand. I let him keep it.

After making another round I noticed that Wheelchair man was no longer at the table. Cowboy was sitting on pervert row at stage one, hooting as Celestial danced. I glanced around the club and noticed Wheelchair man making donuts by the shower stage, bumping into tables and other patrons.

Queenie approached him, trying to get him to stop, when he took off and headed into the shower stage. She followed, and as she did, he spun around and hit her with his wheelchair, causing his shoe to come off. She bent down to pick up the shoe and attempted to put it back on his foot. Every time she would try, he would either reverse the wheelchair or slam it into her. Finally she gave up and just handed him his shoe.

Meanwhile, at stage one, Cowboy was craning his neck in the "where's my waitress" stance, so I headed to where he was.

"Can I get you another Crown and water?" I reached for the ashtray so I could dump it into the napkin I held in my hand.

"Don't fucking interrupt me when I'm watching this beautiful woman dance!" He held his empty glass up, still staring at the stage. "Now, bring me---"

I walked away, leaving him in mid-order. If you don't want me to interrupt you, that's fine. But that means I'm not going to wait on you, either.

I headed back to the bar and ran into Queenie, recounting her exploits as Titty Bar Nurse, when I noticed Wheelchair man head for the back.

"Looks like he's off again!" I laughed, pointing to the VIP section where Wheelchair man was headed.

"Oh, God, what's he up to now." Queenie sighed and chased after him. A few minutes later I saw her making a b-line for Glen, who was at the food bar.

It wasn't long after that when Glen had a quick conversation with Cowboy, and both Cowboy and Wheelchair man left the building.

"What happened?" I asked Queenie, once she had made it back to the bar.

"He peed in VIP!" She was in shock, her mouth agape.

"Oh, you're kidding!" I stifled a laugh. "Are you sure it wasn't an accident?"

"No, he had his penis in his hands and he was peeing in VIP!!! I'm not cleaning that up, you know." She put her hands on her hips, trying very difficult to appear dominant, aside from her tiny frame.

"We'll get one of the guys to do it," I said, still laughing, as I walked off to wait the rest of my tables.

Cast and Crew

So, I don't know if anyone has noticed lately, but the names have changed concerning my co-workers. I went around the bar last week and asked everyone what their pseudonym should be. The responses were quite amusing. So, without further adieu, I'd like to introduce you to the people who make up your friendly neighborhood titty-bar!

Raymond. Raymond (formerly known as "Boss," took his name from the show "everybody loves Raymond." He stands approximately 6'3, and is a hulking Italian breed of man. Personally, I wanted to call him "Donnie V" or "Luca Bratsi" but hey, whatever he wants!

Captain Egghead Orgazmo: Formerly known as "Manager," he originally wanted to be called simply captain orgazmo, but realized Captain Egghead Orgazmo was CEO, for short.

Duke: Formerly "DJ," he decided on his name while high on pain killers from a toothache!

Elvis: I haven't written about him yet, he's our other DJ who works during the week.

Glen: Our floor guy/cook (yes, we serve food). He took his name from one of the Chucky movies, don't ask me which one... I have a huge fear of dolls.

Champ: Our door guy, "Champ" is his "wrestling" name, on some game he plays.

Esmerelda: My other waitress, tiny little latina, who likes to call herself a "mexican't" because she can't speak Spanish. I wanted to call her Hamburgesa. She objected. Go figure. She and Duke are an item.

Queenie: Our hostess, funny name because she's 5'2 and weights maybe 1oo lbs. She and Champ are together.

Ellen: Second bartender, don't know why she likes this name. She and Pierce are together.

And there you have it Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to the strip club. I am, and always will be, your faithful Waitress.

Waitress is Exhausted

Yes. Yes I am.

I finally finished the paper last night, special thanks to Boun Appitito for helping me edit and proofread!

Tomorrow is my mid-term in Juvenile Delinquency, with more papers for my thesis due on Friday. Then I have the rest of my mid-terms next week.

I need three of me. One to study, one to write, and one to go to work.

I'll have a story for you tomorrow, I'm going to go sleep now!

Best of Luck to you all!

Waitress!

All Your Plagues are Upon Us

I'm copying (or elaborating, if you will) on my friend Subserviant Worker's blog about her experiences with Yom Kippur. For those of you who don't know, it started Sunday at sundown and continued into the following Monday. As per with tradition, Jewish people fast during this time, and break fast Monday night, eating bagels and fish (breakfast food, get it?).

I was a very bad Jewish girl this year.

I mentioned earlier about my lit review due tomorrow. (I'm taking a break from writing it to surf the internet and post this!) I went to school on Monday. Not only did I go to school, I broke fast and had a Red Bull and a chicken biscuit on the way to school.

I was bad.

Apparently, someone noticed. That night, Boyfriend and I headed out to run some errands. When we opened the truck we were greeted by a swarm of flies. Everywhere. Filling the truck and flying out at us.

Last night, there were two locusts on the windshield. Unbeknownst to us, there were also some in the cab of the truck, which proceeded to ATTACK us as we were driving down the road. One such locust went so far as to fly INSIDE Boyfriends shirt and start pinching him.

I told him if there were any frogs near the truck today we were selling it!

Back to the paper! Hope all is well with you!

Waitress.

Hell Hath No Fury

I have a regular, I'll call him "John". He's a relatively nice man, if not a little anal retentive. He comes in on the weekends, regularly, and always drinks Bud Light. Friday night was no exception.

"Hey honey," I said, smiling at John who was sitting at stage one. "Want a Bud Light?"

"You know me too well, sweetie." He winked as he said it.

"Do you want to go ahead and start a tab?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching in his wallet, "but don't run my damn card this time. Last time you ran it and then voided it. Don't run it at all. If you run it, I'm going to be pissed."

Our credit card machine is rather tricky. On the receipt for your purchase it says "the company". On your actual bank statement, however, it prints out our name. Same with the ATM, so sometimes, anonymity can be difficult.

I take the card and head up to the bar where Savannah is standing.

"Savannah, do NOT run this card. Don't even authorize it. He's going to be paying in cash at the end, and for whatever reason he doesn't want the card run." I handed the card to her. "I don't know why, maybe it's a company card?"

"That or he's hiding from his wife!" Savannah smiled, took the card, and popped the top off a beer.

I continue with waiting tables, and time passes on, as it has a tendency to do. Later on that night, I hear Manager (who wishes to be called "Captain Egghead Orgazmo", or CEO for short) make an announcement over the DJ booth.

"Would the owner of a red Harley Davidson cruiser please report to the front door."

I figured someone had double parked, and thought nothing of it. A little while later, I hear the same announcement.

"Will the owner of a red Harley Davison please come to the front!"

Curiosity (and the need for a good story) compel me to find out what the hell is going on. I walk into the front under the pretense of making a phone call (hell, some of my best stories come from eves dropping) and I see John standing at the front door, wearing leathers and looking pissed off.

"John, what the hell happened?" I cock my head to the side and look at him quizzically.

"Someone fucked up my bike."

"Holy shit! What happened?"

"Well, they kicked it over, broke my windshield, cut the wiring and ripped off my new Fiberglas headlights!" He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a carbon-fiber headlight. You could see where it had been ripped apart, and looked as if someone had beat it with a bat.

"Oh Jesus! Is your bike still outside?"

"Yeah," he said, sighing. "I swear, when I find out who did this..." Just then, his phone rang. He went to answer it as I went outside to check out the bike.

John's bike was found laying on it's right side. The windshield was broken on the left side, which means that after someone knocked it over, they kicked the windshield hard enough to not only crack it, but break some of the pieces out. The beautiful red paint job with flames was scratched up in several places, some consistent with a fall, some not. The headlights were bent off, and the wiring from the engine was cut, loose wires hanging from the bike like fringes in a bad updo. The only thing that wasn't slashed were the tires.

I went back inside and passed John on the way out. He was cussing and muttering something under his breath. I would have wished him a good night, but under the circumstances....

When I walked up to the bar, I saw my door guy (who wishes to be called "Champ") lean into my Boss (who wants to be called "Raymond" a.k.a. "Everybody loves ___").

"He said it was his wife."

Raymond's eyes widened. "No shit," he said, shaking his head.

Savannah handed me some cash from the bar.

"What's this from?" I asked, putting the money in my pocket.

"From John's tab, he came up and said 'fuck it, run the Goddamn card'."

"Well, Savannah, I guess you were right. Looks like he was hiding from his wife!" I smiled and winked at her.

"Yeah," she said, laughing. "He just wasn't doing a very good job at it!"

I Need Help!

In more ways than one....

Don't worry, I'm creating another post in another window, it will be up shortly, but here's my problem that I could use your help with.

Wednesday I have a huge 10 page lit review due using 300 pages of different articles. (In case you're wondering, it's for Research Methods and my hypothesis is that Fraternity members have more premarital sex than other students in college. I'm not trying to re-invent the wheel here. However, I have found some really interesting articles so I'm tweaking my thesis, if you will, to generalize that Fraternity membership socializes it's members to have more premarital sex, be more gender traditional, and in that sense, be more degrading towards women. No offense to frat members, I myself am a Tri-Delt...)

There I go, damn digressing again.

Here is my problem: My free trial version of Microsoft Word has expired. I've tried figuring out how to purchase it online, but it's about $250 dollars, and I think that's a bunch of crap. Since I don't want to spend all day tomorrow in the Library of State U (I do have some assimilation of a social life) I'm wondering if any of you know of any online word processing programs that could help me? Otherwise I'm going to be stuck writing it in Note Pad and e-mailing it to myself and then trying to format it early in the morning on Wednesday...

Please let me know if you know anything!

Waitress