And we'll never be royals.

Ladies and gentleman, my serving days are over. I am a restaurant manager.

Did you just raise an eyebrow? I sure did. In fact, when I opened my mouth to suggest they hire me as the new recruit, the voice inside my head was shouting, "Shut the hell up! What are you doing? You have zero qualifications or experience. There's not even a karaoke night."

Still, as I like to say: if you went to Northwestern, you can do whatever you want. So, here I am doing it.

OK, the job is not as glamorous as I would like it to sound. Essentially, I keep the place from burning down and entertain wealthy New Yorkers with jokes about wine and kids-these-days before they have a chance to scoff at their scallops. On paper it says "Assisatant", and I even took a pay cut (though I managed to negotiate far above the initial offer. My former agent would be proud.) However, if I'm going to stuff 100 pictures of my face into envelopes to land on the desks of new agents' interns in the hopes that I will one day sing another 16 bars, I might as well set the goddamn tray down and pour a glass of wine.

And I think I have a lot of potential in this field.

Potential. That's a word best reserved for funerals.

I figure if I'm going to be famous before I'm thirty, I could open a restaurant for my forties. I've always been a good multitasker.

The hostess asked if I had a nose job because my bone structure is so flawless. I think we'll keep her.

Looking forward to the new karaoke night,

TJB: Making It