No Mean Feet

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Those familiar with the affects of your arse not touching a seat for eight hours, will understand the ordeal of Waitress Foot. Since my days of high heels are over, and I opt for the daintiness of a flat shoe with a cardboard sole (anything too heavy makes me look like a golf club – please see previous blog on my 32-egg-cup chest…), I have developed the following symptoms:

  1. As I remove my shoes, the smell of my feet burns my eyes.
  2. My nails are battered, yellow and require an electric power-tool to clip them.
  3. My ankles feel like they are going to snap; which makes me walk like I’ve done a big shit.
  4. My heels feel like acid-laced pokers have been drilled into them and the skin on them resembles a crusty bread roll. But I love my job, and will not be defeated by my vulnerable feet. They need to man-up!

For those that share my pain, or are looking to perfect their feet or to buff up the minging feet of their husbands/wives etc., I have some absolute gems of saviour solutions that I am delighted to share with you. This blog is the first in a series of four blogs endorsing the magic of Posh Brats: the result of a genius lady from America, Brittany Harper De Staedtler, whom I stumbled across whilst looking to banish teenage spots that I should have been rid of 20 years earlier. Her organic and very affordable products gave me cheeks like a baby’s bottom and so I knew that she could transform my rotten feet, before the neighbours logged complaints with environmental health.

Just to clarify, I am no sucker for products – I have always used a budget baby wipe to remove my make-up, olive oil to moisturise and ripped my fingernails off instead of filing them – all for speed and money-saving. But Posh Brats have me as an avid fan. No ego, made with love, have been amazing for my little boy’s eczema and have transformed him into almost being addicted to washing his hair. Brittany has absolutely (toe)nailed her craft.

I treated my feet to Rosemary, Peppermint & Pumice Foot Scrub and Foot Rescue: Lavender, Basil & Lemongrass Foot & Heel Balm:

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The first of these is a thick scrub which smells as good as the feeling of love. Putting it onto my feet is like relieving extreme hunger with Nutella cheesecake. Add a little water, rub, rinse and eat your dinner off your feet. They are super clean and smooth!

Then there’s the balm: a grainy oily balm which, aside from having an ‘I mean business’ stature, again smells like a little piece of heaven. It’s easily addictive. You know when you catch a child tasting something they shouldn’t, like cat litter, and they say “I just really wanted to try it”? Well I feel the same urge to eat some of this foot cream.

The affects: whether it’s the divine smell, magical powers, or both, your body becomes so heavy within 5 minutes of application that you could fall asleep even if your feet were set on fire. I can barely walk after using it – it’s like the last few moments before you go under anaesthetic. Amazing. I have been able to work long weekend shifts, interspersed with running 7 miles, and my feet forgive me because they get to bathe in the joy of their new fertiliser.

Gentlemen: looking for lovely gift for your wife or girlfriend? Ladies: got a friend’s birthday? Sick of a waitress friend complaining about her rancid feet? Or perhaps your fella has feet that make you gag? This is your answer; simply gorgeous, and with very classy, vintage packaging. Put the designer body cream down.

I am a week in and I am already optimistic I will be a front-runner for anklet model castings; fighting off 18 year old with my new flawless feet.

You can buy online from www.poshbrats.com, or pop into the Macclesfield Bathery (the shop is a stone’s throw from beautiful hills, country restaurants and only 1hr 43 from London – and it rocks!).

Please like/share/retweet the Millionaire Waitress Facebook/Twitter post of this blog to be in with a chance to win a £10 Poshbrats voucher.

This is no mean feet.

Keeping A Breast of Social Media.

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A busy night working the floors of a bustling Italian restaurant and I struck up conversation with a table of customers. I deemed them a likely crowd to pitch our Valentine’s competition to; where freebies were available for those willing to share their romantic mishaps on social media. One of the customers informed me she has 150k followers on Twitter – to which my ears pricked up and I was keen to absorb her networking skills.

The conversation went like this:

Me: ‘How do you get 150,000 Twitter followers?’

Customer: ‘Get your tits out.’

Me: *looks down at non-existent chest and acknowledges that it’s probably a lost cause.

In a society where a breast-feeding woman is apparently not permitted to be shown on a Facebook photo, I am confused by the boobs that shout “Hi there! Hello! Here I am, look at me!” in a photo being deserving of the praise from what will undoubtedly reach a quarter of a million online followers. Aside from the ‘when are boobs OK?’ debate, why does this kind of creativity wipe the floor with a lot of Musicians, Painters, Writers, Photographers etc. when it comes to online support? Many long-standing artists have a tenth of that online following.

I think that naked photos can be very beautiful, but if that was the source of the appreciation then the photographers would have equally impressive online-follower statistics. People are maybe just less interested in art than they are their crotch.

All credit to the achievement; I would love to have that much of a following and I wish I, quite literally, had the balls to do it.

I am taken back to the reality of my pregnancy chest – which at its greatest exceeded 40G (which, to those unfamiliar with boob measurements, is the size of Kanye West’s head…) and realise I have potentially walked passed a goldmine. The Tag-line ‘Hannah’s Baps’ could have fed nicely into my catering job and I would be free from the pain of the tax credits system (please see my earlier blog, ‘Friends with Benefits’, to feel this pain).

Perhaps there is a place at work for the introduction of a Hooters-style uniform? Perhaps I should start serving the food on the naked body of a local page 3 lovely? Or perhaps I should just acknowledge that there is room for success online for the flat-chested community.  I certainly hope so – once labour was done and dusted, my hefty rack shrunk rapidly: from B-cup, to A-cup, to….egg-cup.

I just need to write harder, and stand up straighter. Come to think if it, there’s an abundance of chicken fillets out the back of the restaurant…

Having just recently set up social media platforms, I now see this as something of a social experiment: can I get to 150,000 Twitter followers, or do boobs beat creating writing…?

Do tits beat wit?

Should the term ‘working for tips’ become ‘working for tits’?

Or am I just making a tit out of myself…?

Either way, I remain several bra sizes away from the success of the loud-and-proud bap-sharing lady; though I strive not to let my determination become as deflated as my chest.

Shelf Stacker

I couldn’t let Valentine’s day passby without a piece on seeing the day through whilst being on the shelf. Comfortably located well-out of reach on the top shelf. As my four year old reminded me this week ‘Mummy, I’m your man’.

In the same way that hen-dos frequently smack of ‘forced-fun’ (I wish I had shares in referee whistles…), Valentine’s day has an air of forced-romance. There’s pressure to ensure that you look VERY happy together to the outside world, not least to restaurant staff and neighbouring diners, perhaps with an air of ‘competitive romancing’ between couples.

I’m genuinely looking forward to working Valentine’s day and hope it proves a warm and fluffy day of loveliness. But will the pressure of the day result in the same outcome as New Year’s Eve – where people have such high expectations for a night which repeatedly ends in chairs being thrown, people snogging someone outside of their relationship and family-feuds that see blood-splatters reaching the ceiling of hosting venues?

I fear my sadness of the Tuesday morning sweeping session; seeing a series of strewn rose heads and the odd wedding ring getting scooped into my dustpan. With the regular backing track of Mariah, 10cc and Roxette, I am not confident that I won’t end up crying in a ball of tears under table three; clutching onto a disguarded wedding ring.

As a big believer in the law of attraction, I feel responsibility to turn my viewpoint to one of optimism and joy – if I visualise a sea of effortlessly blissful couples and proposals over plates of little Pazzerotti parcels, then this will come true.

And when it comes to my own set-up, I may be a wine-shelf-stacker,  I may be happily on the shelf, but I must remain open-minded to any worthy gent who offers to stack my shelf.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Friends with Benefits

Benefits photo.pngHesitant as to whether I could return to writing with a potty-mouth, now that I am a mother and on the stretch to 40, I find a green the light in the form of a guest priest at the local church who talked of burying his kids under the patio, and his wife getting her kit off in Rome… to on-going applause. Great, I’m back in my comfort zone.

If you’re licking your lips reading the title of this and expecting a piece on casual sex then prepare to be disappointed: this is a blog on the UK benefits system for single parents, AKA ‘Over 30 with a mortgage? Tough shit’.

Whilst this blog site was set out to sell the smiley end of the mind-set continuum, regardless of life’s circumstances, today brings something of a rant; albeit one which I hope will in the least trigger the odd laugh or help others studying accountancy in order to understand the tax credits system. To evidence this, in my desperation, I searched online to find out if money super hero Martin Lewis could shed any light – and found an interview in which he confirms it’s a mind field…

And there lies the irony: you need to be or have an Accountant to fill out these forms, yet those earning enough to warrant an Accountant will not qualify for the tax credit support (to clarify, working tax credits stop at £15,000 a year, according to the woman at HMRC I spoke to last week, and they start to drop when you earn more than £6,000…!).

I’m attempting mild disappointment here, (the type which you portray when your child chooses to empty every drawer in his room and then puts on as many clothes as possible to make you laugh by “being really wide”), but I fear I shall veer into thoroughly pissed off (the type that you feel when the your child refuses to get dressed for school and you have been arguing for 40 minutes over a coat).

Means-testing is fine – but why not means-test via questions such as:

Did you go bare-back to get a free house?

What is the ratio of honest days of work you have you done in your life, to days you have been physically or mentally able to work?

With scoring outcome categories such as:

Band A: ‘We feel compassion you were left for a glamour model, how much money do you need until you get back on your feet/to keep you going?’

Band B: ‘Here’s £50’

Band C: ‘On Your Bike Sunshine’

And whilst on the subject of system processes, perhaps the complex calculations could be shared with the people who actually work out what you are entitled to… Despite submitting my earnings and previously applicable childcare costs to the penny each year, I have been landed with a four-figure repayment bill in year one, a repayment in year two and have just had every penny stopped due to an apparent overpayment in childcare contributions this year.

This doesn’t take away my gratitude for the help I get (when they don’t take it back off me). It allows me to just about hang onto my mortgage. And it is a lesson to be grateful for every penny in waitressing tips and to embrace the free things in life like kicking leaves and jumping in puddles (with child…). And I don’t begrudge my position as a single parent – I get to grow all my body hair, I can watch utter crap on TV and I get to sleep in a starfish position in the middle of the bed; with no concern for any dribbling I do.

So in order to provide some form of conclusion for anyone in the similar position, from what I can gather: those renting are better to work 16 hours a week and get all bills paid for, those with mortgages are best to work at least 30 hours a week; ideally around school hours so you avoid childcare costs (all hail the existence of the Waitress role).

So whilst on one hand I’d take an unpaid best-selling author status for the satisfaction alone, I would be nothing short of ecstatic to top up my table-waiting wages with a writing advance that put me over the threshold for claiming tax credits.

Failing that, I shall start sleeping with an Accountant.

Mopping Up

My biographical lift pitch: Physiotherapist-writing-in-spare-time-turned-stay-at-home-mum-chasing-script-commission-turned-single-mother-doing-all-absorbing-office-jobs-turned-part-time-waitress.

So here I am; a thirty six year old waitress, juggling the blessing of working around my son’s school hours and potentially heading up financial shit-creek. And all I can think about is: this has got to be my calling card…!

Despite the reality of my job title triggering disappointment, if not horror, in the majority of the middle-aged middle-class society, I really enjoy it. I get to mop the floors to a musical continuum stretching from filthy rap lyrics to The Hollies, embrace the child within by making pretty patterns on Tiramisu with chocolate sauce, chat to lovely people and write a blog for the restaurant. The people are wonderful and I am paid to clean, sing, eat, make people feel welcome and promote the restaurant through my writing addiction. It’s a lovely restaurant – a second home in terms of family atmosphere and food cooked with soul. Then I get to leave and scoop up my little man from the school gates and play three hours of hide-and-seek. The pharmaceutical admin world may have paid three times more but the escape from corporate micromanagement and the chance to breathe and see more of my son is priceless – in terms of emotional wealth, I am a millionaire.

When I’m mopping, I embrace the joy of Prince Ackeem of Zumunda, in his role at McDowell’s (shame on those who do not have instant recognition of this classic film). In the mind-set that the writing commission I long for would not alter the fact that I’d still want to work as a waitress, it dawns on me that I have the answer right in front of me: a domestic total gross of $128,152,301 was the result of writing about a millionaire (albeit financial) who took pride in mopping the floors of a restaurant…

An autobiographical blog it is.

And as I search to check the availability of my blog title, I am alerted to Maud Younger – and the title feels like a fitting tribute, in addition to how I feel about the wealth outside my pocket.

I start out today with no Facebook or Twitter followers – please share/like/follow/fly planes with banners – let the mission commence…