So I’m in my restaurant last night and a customer overhears me talking with a co-worker.

Me: “Yea, I’ve got to get rid of this piano at my new house. It cost me and my new roommate about a grand…you think I could get anything for it?”
Lucy: “Probably. I’d sell it on Craig’s List if I were y…”
Customer: “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. I really need a piano. Would you mind telling me a little about it?”

I give the dude the specifications of the piano and he seemed pretty excited to come and pick it up. He even offered me a few hundred over what I was going to ask for.

So I make Mistake #1. I give him my address.

He comes this afternoon with a group of three other dudes all ready to pick up the piano. I don’t know about the rest of you, but for some reason, whenever I have someone at my house, I feel the need to be really, really nice to them. So nice that it fringes on awkward.

Me: “Hey, you need a glass of water or anything?”
Plumber: “No, I’m good.”
Me: “Do I need to turn my music down? Is it bothering you?”
Plumber: “You’re good.”
Me: “I’m taking the trash out? You need anything?”
Plumber: “Excuse me?”
Me: “…”
Plumber: “…”
Me: “Sorry.”
Plumber: “…”

So the guys come in and per my usual awkwardness, I offer them all lemonade. Yea, lemonade. I’m a regular fruit cake.

They get the piano in the back of their truck, the guy hands me a check and they go on their merry way.

Not five minutes later, I get on my laptop to check my email and I’ve got this in my inbox:

It’s so small, I’ll transcribe it here:

It’s the guys that just got your piano! The three guys thought you were hott so we’re driving home now and they told me to email you from my phone. we’re gonna have a pool party later tonight if u want to come!

I guess it was the lemonade that convinced them that I was the kind of guy who’d be into a huge, gay orgy.

There’s a certain undefinable brokenness that comes with being 50-year-old woman, in my opinion.

It’s at this point you’ve realized that the difference between a hot 40-year-old and a “was-hot-when-she-was-40-but-now-is-a-50-year-old” getting with a boy of 22 is the difference between “frickin’ awesome” and “I have to get up early in the morning.”

Maybe that’s the reason for all the fake breasts I see in St. Augustine, but I digress.

A woman, not a day younger than 50, was sitting in my section. She had been sipping wine at the bar with her girlfriends and was, to say the least, a bit tipsy.

When I was clearing her and her friends dishes, she leaned in and asked me:

“How old are you?”

Me: “Twenty-two, ma’am.”
Her: “Don’t call me ‘ma’am’.”
Me: (Gulp.)
Her: “Let me ask you something, Ryan. If I were to give you a hundred dollars for your birthday, would you be happy.”

Me, always being one on the lookout for crazy women who hand out hundreds like candy, eagerly said, “Yes” with a smile.

Big mistake.

Her: “Twenty-two, huh? The things I would do to you if you were just a little older.
Me: (Gulp. Again.)

And with that, her friends came back and they left the restaurant. But not before winking at me and waving bye.

She left her number. If anyone wants to bang a desperate, post-menopausal, 50-year-old woman who probably has a leather wallet for a vagina, shoot me an email. I’ll be glad to send it your way.

If it’s not Christians, it’s somebody else.

I was serving a group of Muslims one night (what a group of Muslims were doing 1. in St. Augustine and 2. eating sushi is beyond me) and when I went to get their plates, they ask politely for the check.

Me: “Here you all are. Have a nice night.”
Husband: “Oh, no…it is you for which we wish the nice night.”
Me: (like a schoolgirl) “Oh, you…thanks again. See you all later.”

Inside was the check with no tip. Not one red cent. On a $42 bill, they left zero money. Instead of cash, what do you think they left?

An encouraging note about the good ol’ Lord of Abraham!

Scribbled on a scrap of paper were the words: “May Allah look favorably on you these coming summer months and may He reign down riches from the heavens above.”

I don’t want riches from “the heavens above.” I want them from “your wallet” in “your pocket.”

To all aspiring waiters, hosts and busboys: Do not, under any circumstances, grow a beard.

And I’m not talking about the I-just-woke-up look that Carson Daly pulled off so effortlessly on TRL many moons ago. I’m talking about the Zakk Wylde, grow-it-to-show-it wonderment that is a beard.

In my years as a waiter, I’ve found that customers react in a variety of ways to you when you have a nice head of hair…well…just south of your head.

Reaction #1: They blame every, single hair of food on you and your Jew-beard.

Woman: “There is a hair in my chicken dinner! I demand a refund!”
Me: “Ma’am, calm down. Where is the hair?”
Woman: “Right there! I demand a manager over here.”

(Upon examining the hair on her plate.)

Me: “Umm…ma’am…I don’t think that hair’s from my beard.”
Woman: “It is! “It is! I demand retribution.”
Me: “Well, ma’am, I demand to know why you think a six-inch, blond strand of hair is from my black beard.”
Woman: “…”
Me: “Would you like a to-go box?”

Reaction #2: They will want to offer you pot. Lots and lots of pot.
For example,

Customer: “Hey, do you smoke?”
Me: “No. Why? Do I smell like sm…”
Customer: “You’ve uh…never smoked before?”
Me: “No. I’ve never smoked. Seriously. Do I smell?”

(Other customers leave at the table)

Customer: “Listen. I’m gonna be real with you. Me and my husband are from out of town and we don’t have any on us.”
Me: “Any wh…oh. Okay. No, I don’t have any.”
Customer: “Really? You’ve never smoked?”
Me: “Yea. Why?”
Customer: “Well…you work in a restaurant. Plus, you look like you smoke.”

Reaction #3: Other beard-havers think you’re their buddy.

This is my absolute least-favorite. The guys’ll be all buddy-buddy with you and treat you like some long-lost frickin’ brother until the check comes. Now that he’s successfully taken up most of your time asking such enlightening questions such as “What shampoo do you use?” “Do you condition that thing?” and “Do you think a beard pick with a black fist on the end of the handle is sweet or what?” he’ll tip you 8% and walk out. Oh yea, like he didn’t just have a twenty-minute conversation about the pros and cons of growing out the sideburns of a beard so as to emphasize their prominence on your face.

Jerk.