Some say moment...some say security issue.

Apparently I'm a 16 year old girl.

Let's all take a moment to channel a little Johnny Weir:

...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...vodka shot, snort of...wait.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.

Work pretty much blew chunks when I was hit with 16 people who seemed to have been misled into believing they were at Chuck E Cheese or Denny's. You know, the Denny's just past the trailer park on the left. No, not that one. The one after the third 4x4 up on blocks after you take the right past the kiddy pool with the duct taped Xs all over. Yeah, the off brown one. That Dennys..

I was in a pretty foul mood. Then I found that a table had written on their credit card slip: "Tip: Don't run with scissors." By the way assholes, The Shitty Tipper Database is a bitch.

I walked into the kitchen. I may or may not have been looking for some kind of sharp implement.

Only to find...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

A Certain Reality TV Star.

No, not Screech again. Hollywood Squares doesn't count.

I use the label, "star," very loosely. Every season after New Orleans was pretty much bad straight porn meets Jackass.

Okay, Chicago wasn't all that bad. But only because I was living in the Windy City at the time and everyone was all about RW sightings. If I remember correctly, I witnessed Chris and Aneesa's little jaunt to Circuit. Or at least the camera crew trying not to catch gay. Of course, they were walking in as I was coming home from work. Ten p.m. at Circuit will just find you side by side with all the closet underage suburban homos and guys with mesenger bags who whisper "rock," or "puff," or "skittles" under their breath.

But, I digress.

At seeing said reality tv guy, who apprently got in a fight with a police horse in Madison, I will admit to having turned into a 16 year old girl. To my credit, I kept it on the inside for the first twenty minutes or so. After that, I let it out like I was chasing the N Sync bus at my sixth concert.

Ha! As if.

The only words that escaped my lips as I attempted to fan myself with any object I could grasp, were: "Ooooh mmmmyyyy ggggoooodddd, he's soooooo hot!!!" and "Um, can't you see I'm having issues right now?" and "I. Just. Can't. Deal."

I then spent the next hour or so trying to convince the rest of the staff that he, indeed, was God's gift to everyone too broke to buy porn.

Realizing that my tables were trying to figure out if 45 minutes was too long to wait for a house salad, I walked into the kitchen and tried to pretend like he was any old schmo.

I failed.

Badly.

Shortly thereafter, I was leaning against the staff-service-only-bar-railing, fanning myself with a paper napkin and dabbing my face with a wet towel. I started to laugh until I couldn't breathe. Tears flowed. I tried to blow my nose. And gave thanks that we have to wear aprons.

Then my manager, who had been talking to said reality tv guy, came into the bar area and started hysterically laughing at me.

"Come on. I'll take your picture with him."

I channelled my inner 13 year old Japanese girl at her first Backstreet Boys concert . Then I ran away.

Then called a few dozen people. Each time, I may have said:

"Oh. My. God. You will not believe who is here eating. I'm having issues."

"What? Do you not understand how awesome this is? What's wrong with you? I'll talk to you later when you've come to your senses."

To all those people I called, I'm sorry.

I'm so embararssed right now.

Soooooo embarassed.

I so deserve every ounce of ridicule I get because of tonight.