Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Vagina Warrior
On a personal note…
My boyfriend and I each have a teenaged son. We took both them and their respective girlfriends to a local college production of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues.
If you get a chance to see this outrageous show with its positive feminist message, take everyone you know! We got our tickets for $5 each and were treated to a full evening of entertainment. Not only that, but the girls (not having been raised by us), had never before been exposed to this type of progressive feminism and they had an awesome time!
I was a little worried about them being embarrassed – the show is not in any way pornographic, but it does feature some frank discussion of explicit material.
One monologue is dedicated to reclaiming the “C word” and the Vagina Warrior who performs it urges the audience, “Come on, say it with me! C***! C***! C***! You can say it! It’s OK! C***!”
It’s funny and silly and empowering in a way that’s difficult to understand unless you’ve seen your sons screaming the word in a dark theater full of women laughing and crying at the same time. It’s even better when their girlfriends are doing the same thing. It’s the best thing in the world when they go from that to complete stillness and silence so they can hear the statistics about violence against women in the following monologue.
When we left the theater, they were all eating chocolate vagina popsicles and wearing the lapel pins I bought for them. The boys got “Made in Vagina” and the girls got “Vagina Warrior.”
In the parking lot, my son said to me, “Mom that was really awesome. I just wish they would have said all that sad stuff at the beginning and then switched to the funny stuff in the second half, cuz I’m still thinking about it. I didn’t know all that bad stuff happened so much.”
It took me a minute to respond because I had a huge lump in my throat. “Well son, I guess they think no one would come back after intermission if all they talked about was the sad stuff in the first half. The idea is that we’ll think about both. We’ll be both entertained and horrified and we won’t forget.”
He stopped right in the parking lot to give me a big hug and thanked me for taking him. Then his girlfriend hugged me. Then my boyfriend’s son hugged me and his girlfriend hugged me. In the car on the way home, the boys sang songs from the show. Mainly Storm Large’s rendition of “My Vagina is 8 Miles Wide.”
And you really can’t ask for more than that, can you? And I didn’t really think there would be much more, but I got it anyway.
I logged on to FaceBook the next day and the kids were all writing comments about it. I’m paraphrasing here, but my son’s girlfriend said,
“Why do we indulge in so much hatred and negativity? Why do we shun those we don’t understand just because they aren’t like us? Be it color, religion, or sex/sexual orientation, I won’t judge you! I am a vagina warrior!”
Vagina Warrior n. – someone who has suffered or witnessed violence, grieved it, transformed it, and then does extraordinary work to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else in their community.
My boyfriend and I each have a teenaged son. We took both them and their respective girlfriends to a local college production of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues.
If you get a chance to see this outrageous show with its positive feminist message, take everyone you know! We got our tickets for $5 each and were treated to a full evening of entertainment. Not only that, but the girls (not having been raised by us), had never before been exposed to this type of progressive feminism and they had an awesome time!
I was a little worried about them being embarrassed – the show is not in any way pornographic, but it does feature some frank discussion of explicit material.
One monologue is dedicated to reclaiming the “C word” and the Vagina Warrior who performs it urges the audience, “Come on, say it with me! C***! C***! C***! You can say it! It’s OK! C***!”
It’s funny and silly and empowering in a way that’s difficult to understand unless you’ve seen your sons screaming the word in a dark theater full of women laughing and crying at the same time. It’s even better when their girlfriends are doing the same thing. It’s the best thing in the world when they go from that to complete stillness and silence so they can hear the statistics about violence against women in the following monologue.
When we left the theater, they were all eating chocolate vagina popsicles and wearing the lapel pins I bought for them. The boys got “Made in Vagina” and the girls got “Vagina Warrior.”
In the parking lot, my son said to me, “Mom that was really awesome. I just wish they would have said all that sad stuff at the beginning and then switched to the funny stuff in the second half, cuz I’m still thinking about it. I didn’t know all that bad stuff happened so much.”
It took me a minute to respond because I had a huge lump in my throat. “Well son, I guess they think no one would come back after intermission if all they talked about was the sad stuff in the first half. The idea is that we’ll think about both. We’ll be both entertained and horrified and we won’t forget.”
He stopped right in the parking lot to give me a big hug and thanked me for taking him. Then his girlfriend hugged me. Then my boyfriend’s son hugged me and his girlfriend hugged me. In the car on the way home, the boys sang songs from the show. Mainly Storm Large’s rendition of “My Vagina is 8 Miles Wide.”
And you really can’t ask for more than that, can you? And I didn’t really think there would be much more, but I got it anyway.
I logged on to FaceBook the next day and the kids were all writing comments about it. I’m paraphrasing here, but my son’s girlfriend said,
“Why do we indulge in so much hatred and negativity? Why do we shun those we don’t understand just because they aren’t like us? Be it color, religion, or sex/sexual orientation, I won’t judge you! I am a vagina warrior!”
Vagina Warrior n. – someone who has suffered or witnessed violence, grieved it, transformed it, and then does extraordinary work to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else in their community.
Working for You is Like Non-Consensual Anal
The boss is having a little trouble with his food cost and he’s pretty sure the servers are entirely responsible for this. Not because he thinks we’re giving shit away for free. Not because he thinks we’re ringing orders improperly. Not because he thinks the cooks are making us personal meals on the sly.
He thinks we’re taking home food in our purses.
The servers keep their purses on a shelf in full view of the surveillance camera. Or at least, we used to. Now we’re not allowed to keep our purses in the pantry. It’s been suggested we leave them at home, put them in the break room, or lock them in our cars. Not only that, but we can’t keep anything of a personal nature in the pantry at all anymore. No cell phones, no keys, and no beverages.
Here’s what I’m thinking:
What if I lock my purse in my car and put my keys in the break room where we don’t have a surveillance camera? And what if another employee then takes my keys outside and steals my purse out of my car? Or what if they slip a roofie into my unsupervised beverage and then make me steal my own purse?
It doesn’t matter. The point is this is a completely stupid fucking idea. I don’t tell you to leave your asshole wallet in the break room and I don’t want you telling me to put my purse in an unsecure location. What about my bank cards? Ibuprofen? Cold medicine because I have to work when I’m sick?
WHAT ABOUT TAMPONS??!!?? I’m seriously supposed to go to my car to get a tampon in my “free time?”
Not only that, but if the point is to prevent me from putting steaks in my purse, why would you have me move it closer to the walk-in coolers and further from the surveillance camera?
Did your mother have any children that lived?
And do you really think I should just trust my personal belongings to the kitchen employees who do the prep work at a table right outside the break room door? I love me some hard-working Mexicans but passing a background check with a fake name doesn’t entitle you to free access to my check book.
UPDATE: I actually wrote this several weeks ago but I was too pissed to elaborate. Any attempt at discussing an alternative with my GM went nowhere. He would not consider installing lockers in the break room or allowing the servers to keep their purses in the pantry but submit to voluntary purse searches upon leaving the premises. We all started hiding our purses under a bench seat close to the ordering system in the dining room.
He continued to attempt to borrow from the servers the type of items we routinely keep in our purses – like cold medicine and Ibuprofen because the cheap asshole never buys his own. Once he was trying to call a server in to cover a shift and she wouldn’t answer so he asked me to text her from my phone… which I’m not allowed to bring in the building. Dumbass.
And then… Divine Justice sent directly from above.
My GM had his car broken into in our parking lot.
They did not steal his purse because as far as I know, he doesn’t carry one.
But they stole a bunch of other shit.
He stopped talking to us about purses and we started keeping them on the shelf under the surveillance camera again.
I wish I had thought of breaking into his car. I would have done it 3 months ago.
He thinks we’re taking home food in our purses.
The servers keep their purses on a shelf in full view of the surveillance camera. Or at least, we used to. Now we’re not allowed to keep our purses in the pantry. It’s been suggested we leave them at home, put them in the break room, or lock them in our cars. Not only that, but we can’t keep anything of a personal nature in the pantry at all anymore. No cell phones, no keys, and no beverages.
Here’s what I’m thinking:
What if I lock my purse in my car and put my keys in the break room where we don’t have a surveillance camera? And what if another employee then takes my keys outside and steals my purse out of my car? Or what if they slip a roofie into my unsupervised beverage and then make me steal my own purse?
It doesn’t matter. The point is this is a completely stupid fucking idea. I don’t tell you to leave your asshole wallet in the break room and I don’t want you telling me to put my purse in an unsecure location. What about my bank cards? Ibuprofen? Cold medicine because I have to work when I’m sick?
WHAT ABOUT TAMPONS??!!?? I’m seriously supposed to go to my car to get a tampon in my “free time?”
Not only that, but if the point is to prevent me from putting steaks in my purse, why would you have me move it closer to the walk-in coolers and further from the surveillance camera?
Did your mother have any children that lived?
And do you really think I should just trust my personal belongings to the kitchen employees who do the prep work at a table right outside the break room door? I love me some hard-working Mexicans but passing a background check with a fake name doesn’t entitle you to free access to my check book.
UPDATE: I actually wrote this several weeks ago but I was too pissed to elaborate. Any attempt at discussing an alternative with my GM went nowhere. He would not consider installing lockers in the break room or allowing the servers to keep their purses in the pantry but submit to voluntary purse searches upon leaving the premises. We all started hiding our purses under a bench seat close to the ordering system in the dining room.
He continued to attempt to borrow from the servers the type of items we routinely keep in our purses – like cold medicine and Ibuprofen because the cheap asshole never buys his own. Once he was trying to call a server in to cover a shift and she wouldn’t answer so he asked me to text her from my phone… which I’m not allowed to bring in the building. Dumbass.
And then… Divine Justice sent directly from above.
My GM had his car broken into in our parking lot.
They did not steal his purse because as far as I know, he doesn’t carry one.
But they stole a bunch of other shit.
He stopped talking to us about purses and we started keeping them on the shelf under the surveillance camera again.
I wish I had thought of breaking into his car. I would have done it 3 months ago.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Server Dreams
I don’t have server dreams all the time. It mostly happens when I’ve been working too many double shifts.
I dream about getting the refills out to my tables a lot. Usually there is a mob of servers lined up at the pop machine and when it’s my turn, the Coke runs out and I have to go change it. I dream about arguing with the cooks and not being able to find stuff I need.
I’ve known for a long time I talk in my sleep about work. “I have to get the orange juice out to table 12!” Recently, I’ve also taken to walking in my sleep when I’m in the weeds. My boyfriend is a light sleeper so luckily he usually wakes me up by asking me what I’m doing or where I’m going.
So last night I was in the weeds. You know the story. Attention hogs, new tables, new beverages, food dying in the window, the list goes on and on.
I was running to the pantry to make a salad I forgot to take out when I heard my boyfriend ask, “Where are you going?”
I woke abruptly and realized I was I was in our hallway and apparently on my way to our kitchen. At home. “Umm… I thought I had to make a dinner salad for work,” I replied sheepishly.
“Well,” he said calmly, “you know I like bleu cheese with extra croutons.”
I’m waiting tables in my sleep and you’re seriously ordering food from me?
The nerve.
I dream about getting the refills out to my tables a lot. Usually there is a mob of servers lined up at the pop machine and when it’s my turn, the Coke runs out and I have to go change it. I dream about arguing with the cooks and not being able to find stuff I need.
I’ve known for a long time I talk in my sleep about work. “I have to get the orange juice out to table 12!” Recently, I’ve also taken to walking in my sleep when I’m in the weeds. My boyfriend is a light sleeper so luckily he usually wakes me up by asking me what I’m doing or where I’m going.
So last night I was in the weeds. You know the story. Attention hogs, new tables, new beverages, food dying in the window, the list goes on and on.
I was running to the pantry to make a salad I forgot to take out when I heard my boyfriend ask, “Where are you going?”
I woke abruptly and realized I was I was in our hallway and apparently on my way to our kitchen. At home. “Umm… I thought I had to make a dinner salad for work,” I replied sheepishly.
“Well,” he said calmly, “you know I like bleu cheese with extra croutons.”
I’m waiting tables in my sleep and you’re seriously ordering food from me?
The nerve.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
What a Deal!
We are running a special that includes a full dinner, beverage & dessert for under $12. This amount of food would usually run closer to $17 per person and it really is a pretty great deal for the guest.
On the assumption that most people tip based on a percentage of their bill, servers do generally try to up-sell drinks and dessert, thereby increasing the amount of the check and hopefully the tip. Did I mention the servers make the desserts here?
Believe me that I know very well how rough the economy is right now. I would definitely take advantage of a special like this. I looked, and I did mention the servers make the desserts here. Servers generally make $4.35 per hour, far less than minimum wage.
With regular pricing, two people with this meal would have a check total of around $35.00. A twenty percent tip would be $7.00. With the special pricing, two people eat this amount of food and end up with a check total under $25.
If customers don’t understand tipping or don’t care about it, sometimes they think it’s cool to leave two bucks on the table (less than 10%).
This is after I’ve jostled other servers out of the way to get to the beverage station and dessert station and almost always have had to run to the back for more clean napkins, chilled plates, and chilled forks, only to bring your desserts and find that you need refills again or that you’ve changed your mind and would now like the to-go box I offered you earlier.
Generally while I’ve been heating up your fudge or your caramel or your slice of pie or hand-dipping and mixing your chocolate malt with extra whipped topping, food has come up for my other tables and new tables are being seated in my section.
Choosing to leave a dollar per person regardless of the labor or service rendered isn’t exactly fair, people. I have bills too and I don’t eat out if I can’t afford to tip.
On the assumption that most people tip based on a percentage of their bill, servers do generally try to up-sell drinks and dessert, thereby increasing the amount of the check and hopefully the tip. Did I mention the servers make the desserts here?
Believe me that I know very well how rough the economy is right now. I would definitely take advantage of a special like this. I looked, and I did mention the servers make the desserts here. Servers generally make $4.35 per hour, far less than minimum wage.
With regular pricing, two people with this meal would have a check total of around $35.00. A twenty percent tip would be $7.00. With the special pricing, two people eat this amount of food and end up with a check total under $25.
If customers don’t understand tipping or don’t care about it, sometimes they think it’s cool to leave two bucks on the table (less than 10%).
This is after I’ve jostled other servers out of the way to get to the beverage station and dessert station and almost always have had to run to the back for more clean napkins, chilled plates, and chilled forks, only to bring your desserts and find that you need refills again or that you’ve changed your mind and would now like the to-go box I offered you earlier.
Generally while I’ve been heating up your fudge or your caramel or your slice of pie or hand-dipping and mixing your chocolate malt with extra whipped topping, food has come up for my other tables and new tables are being seated in my section.
Choosing to leave a dollar per person regardless of the labor or service rendered isn’t exactly fair, people. I have bills too and I don’t eat out if I can’t afford to tip.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Dear Readers - Pages
Dear Readers,
This blog is a recent work in progress.
I’ve just enabled the “pages” aspect of my blog.
Expect to be disappointed if you check them out now.
I plan to have a full cast on there, but I have to be careful.
I want you to know these people as I know them – not actually know them.
Patience, infidels.
- Pancake Grrrl ( more GROWL than Girl…)
This blog is a recent work in progress.
I’ve just enabled the “pages” aspect of my blog.
Expect to be disappointed if you check them out now.
I plan to have a full cast on there, but I have to be careful.
I want you to know these people as I know them – not actually know them.
Patience, infidels.
- Pancake Grrrl ( more GROWL than Girl…)
Waitress “C” Threw up in the Trash Can Next to Me
I’m not kidding.
C was so sick and trying to make it through a shift that she tossed her cookies in a trash can right next to me. What was going around?
H1N1, that’s what.
Another server had to rush her child to the emergency room the previous week. The manager on duty asked her if she could try to cover her shift while she was en route to the hospital. Her boy is only six years old and he has so much damage to his lungs that he will be a permanent asthmatic for all of his days….
There is no sympathy among the management at our restaurant.
You had better be here.
They don’t care if you could infect every person in this city.
They don’t care if you need to take care of a sick child.
They don’t care if you have a fever.
They don’t care if you have time or are well enough to make the required phone calls to cover your shift.
Recall we don’t get paid for sick time.
They don’t care.
When C threw up in the trash can next to me.
I offered to do her side-work and roll her silverware.
The MOD said, “I need you on the floor. She can do it.”
They really, really don’t care.
C was so sick and trying to make it through a shift that she tossed her cookies in a trash can right next to me. What was going around?
H1N1, that’s what.
Another server had to rush her child to the emergency room the previous week. The manager on duty asked her if she could try to cover her shift while she was en route to the hospital. Her boy is only six years old and he has so much damage to his lungs that he will be a permanent asthmatic for all of his days….
There is no sympathy among the management at our restaurant.
You had better be here.
They don’t care if you could infect every person in this city.
They don’t care if you need to take care of a sick child.
They don’t care if you have a fever.
They don’t care if you have time or are well enough to make the required phone calls to cover your shift.
Recall we don’t get paid for sick time.
They don’t care.
When C threw up in the trash can next to me.
I offered to do her side-work and roll her silverware.
The MOD said, “I need you on the floor. She can do it.”
They really, really don’t care.
DON’T POINT YOUR GODAMN FINGER AT ME!
You know, this kind of shit happens all the time with the right (wrong) type of individual. I really, really don’t appreciate it when I’m almost done with a very long shift with my shiftless GM. And yet…
When I have all of my side work done and all I have to do is take care of a few late afternoon tables and wait for my relief to come in, it should be easy. And yet…
Someone always has to fuck it up, don’t they?
There is a certain breed of individual out there. Maybe they have been burned by other servers. Maybe the scars are still healing. Maybe it’s permanent. Like permanent brain damage, an affliction they will never be free of.
Last table of the day. They look normal. Good hygiene, average clothing, middle-aged. It should be fine. It begins so normally.
They want a Coke and an iced tea with no lemon. I thought the gentleman emphasized the NO lemon a little more than necessary, but I forgive him. We don’t know each other yet. He has no idea if I understand simple instructions. I know I’m getting a little tired, kinda winding down towards the end of my shift. Maybe I need to work on looking like I’m really paying attention, even though this is a simple request. Maybe he has some kind of citrus allergy and he just wants me to know it’s important.
I bring their beverages and ask if they are ready to place their order.
The lady begins, but she is so hesitant to ask for what she wants, I have trouble at first understanding what she is so worried about. It turns out she wants to substitute crispy chicken instead of grilled chicken on a sandwich. “Um, well, I was just wondering…if I could ask you…would it be alright…could I have…”
It takes so long to get it out; I’m completely relieved to tell her yes.
I turn to the gentleman, naturally assuming his order will be easy. It’s the law of averages and it works for me all the time. If one half of the couple is timid and has a difficult time ordering, the other half is authoritative and succinct, which is basically easy for me. Tell me what you want, I will bring it to you exactly as you require.
And that is how he started out – right before he took it to crazy town (CT).
CT: I’ll have the Patty Melt, well done, with fries.
Me: You got it! Patty Melt, well done, with fries. I’ll get that started for you!
CT: Hold on.
Me: (half turned to leave) Yes?
CT: I want that Patty Melt WELL DONE!
Me: Ok, no problem! Well done on the Patty Melt! (turning to leave again)
CT: NO!
I MEAN IT!
I WANT MY PATTY MELT WELL DONE!
NOT PINK!
NOT MEDIUM!
WELL DONE!
I WANT MY PATTY MELT WELL DONE!
I WANT IT COOKED ALL THE WAY THROUGH!
NO PINK!!!
He’s red-faced, pointing his finger at me, shaking it in my face as though I’m a naughty puppy that shit on the floor.
Me: Yes, sir. I know what well done means. I’ll take care of it. (I’m trying to keep my reply short and simple and I’m hoping to Christ he’ll calm the fuck down.)
It works.
CT: Ok, well, alright but, the last two places I ordered well done at, it came out medium.
Me: I’ll make sure the cook knows. It’ll be fine, I promise.
And it was.
I told my favorite Mexican the “well done guy” was crazy. I shook my finger at him and re-enacted the whole bullshit drama with him. He pretended to come after me to kill me with a kitchen knife. “No!” I cried, “At least kill him FIRST!” We laughed our asses off and I hope Crazy Town heard us making fun of him.
Mister, are you fucking crazy?
I don’t know how you treat the women in your personal life, but we don’t know each other. I’m not your wife, or your mother, or most of all, you daughter. In fact, you don’t know me at all.
I could be anyone.
Remember that.
When I have all of my side work done and all I have to do is take care of a few late afternoon tables and wait for my relief to come in, it should be easy. And yet…
Someone always has to fuck it up, don’t they?
There is a certain breed of individual out there. Maybe they have been burned by other servers. Maybe the scars are still healing. Maybe it’s permanent. Like permanent brain damage, an affliction they will never be free of.
Last table of the day. They look normal. Good hygiene, average clothing, middle-aged. It should be fine. It begins so normally.
They want a Coke and an iced tea with no lemon. I thought the gentleman emphasized the NO lemon a little more than necessary, but I forgive him. We don’t know each other yet. He has no idea if I understand simple instructions. I know I’m getting a little tired, kinda winding down towards the end of my shift. Maybe I need to work on looking like I’m really paying attention, even though this is a simple request. Maybe he has some kind of citrus allergy and he just wants me to know it’s important.
I bring their beverages and ask if they are ready to place their order.
The lady begins, but she is so hesitant to ask for what she wants, I have trouble at first understanding what she is so worried about. It turns out she wants to substitute crispy chicken instead of grilled chicken on a sandwich. “Um, well, I was just wondering…if I could ask you…would it be alright…could I have…”
It takes so long to get it out; I’m completely relieved to tell her yes.
I turn to the gentleman, naturally assuming his order will be easy. It’s the law of averages and it works for me all the time. If one half of the couple is timid and has a difficult time ordering, the other half is authoritative and succinct, which is basically easy for me. Tell me what you want, I will bring it to you exactly as you require.
And that is how he started out – right before he took it to crazy town (CT).
CT: I’ll have the Patty Melt, well done, with fries.
Me: You got it! Patty Melt, well done, with fries. I’ll get that started for you!
CT: Hold on.
Me: (half turned to leave) Yes?
CT: I want that Patty Melt WELL DONE!
Me: Ok, no problem! Well done on the Patty Melt! (turning to leave again)
CT: NO!
I MEAN IT!
I WANT MY PATTY MELT WELL DONE!
NOT PINK!
NOT MEDIUM!
WELL DONE!
I WANT MY PATTY MELT WELL DONE!
I WANT IT COOKED ALL THE WAY THROUGH!
NO PINK!!!
He’s red-faced, pointing his finger at me, shaking it in my face as though I’m a naughty puppy that shit on the floor.
Me: Yes, sir. I know what well done means. I’ll take care of it. (I’m trying to keep my reply short and simple and I’m hoping to Christ he’ll calm the fuck down.)
It works.
CT: Ok, well, alright but, the last two places I ordered well done at, it came out medium.
Me: I’ll make sure the cook knows. It’ll be fine, I promise.
And it was.
I told my favorite Mexican the “well done guy” was crazy. I shook my finger at him and re-enacted the whole bullshit drama with him. He pretended to come after me to kill me with a kitchen knife. “No!” I cried, “At least kill him FIRST!” We laughed our asses off and I hope Crazy Town heard us making fun of him.
Mister, are you fucking crazy?
I don’t know how you treat the women in your personal life, but we don’t know each other. I’m not your wife, or your mother, or most of all, you daughter. In fact, you don’t know me at all.
I could be anyone.
Remember that.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Update for Your Kid Belongs in a Psych Ward
Oh man, this is so awesome. Father of the Year is a regular customer now!
I wrote about this Twat-Waffle in my first post ever. To briefly recap, he ate a wet turkey sandwich and talked on the phone while his kid threw a full on screaming temper tantrum under the table. See my earlier posts for the full story – this guy is a real piece of work!
He came in with his kids again last night and it went pretty much like last time. Except his crazy kid was so loud, he actually got up and sat at a different table so he could hear his phone conversation. Who does this? His daughter used the opportunity to eat a bunch of jelly packets and squirt the tiny buckets of coffee creamer all over the window by their booth.
Anyway, it was dinner time and we were busy. I told him we needed the table for other guests and made sure the host seated that one next. Why did I say that if it wasn’t actually true? I guess it seems rude for me to tell an asshole like this the truth.
Hey, ASSHOLE.
This isn’t your house. We don’t like you or your kid. You suck at eating out and you’re a shitty tipper. We’re not babysitters. Every guest in the dining room hates your guts. I hope one of them is calling Child Protective Services on you right now. When your daughter ends up in prison later, it will probably be the first time anyone ever made her follow a rule. If she wasn’t so positively scary, I would offer her a free kitten just to fuck with you. You can’t leave a crazy bitch like that unattended in the dining room. You are clearly not the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, so your call can wait until your child is under control. Hang up the goddamn phone and take care of your own kids.
GET OUT & DON’T COME BACK. EVER.
Ahhhh... the relief of getting it out of my system!
I wrote about this Twat-Waffle in my first post ever. To briefly recap, he ate a wet turkey sandwich and talked on the phone while his kid threw a full on screaming temper tantrum under the table. See my earlier posts for the full story – this guy is a real piece of work!
He came in with his kids again last night and it went pretty much like last time. Except his crazy kid was so loud, he actually got up and sat at a different table so he could hear his phone conversation. Who does this? His daughter used the opportunity to eat a bunch of jelly packets and squirt the tiny buckets of coffee creamer all over the window by their booth.
Anyway, it was dinner time and we were busy. I told him we needed the table for other guests and made sure the host seated that one next. Why did I say that if it wasn’t actually true? I guess it seems rude for me to tell an asshole like this the truth.
Hey, ASSHOLE.
This isn’t your house. We don’t like you or your kid. You suck at eating out and you’re a shitty tipper. We’re not babysitters. Every guest in the dining room hates your guts. I hope one of them is calling Child Protective Services on you right now. When your daughter ends up in prison later, it will probably be the first time anyone ever made her follow a rule. If she wasn’t so positively scary, I would offer her a free kitten just to fuck with you. You can’t leave a crazy bitch like that unattended in the dining room. You are clearly not the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, so your call can wait until your child is under control. Hang up the goddamn phone and take care of your own kids.
GET OUT & DON’T COME BACK. EVER.
Ahhhh... the relief of getting it out of my system!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Over-Nurturing in Public
I have said before that I don’t appreciate it when you tell me you’re ready and you actually are not.
Here’s another thing I really don’t appreciate:
It seems the dynamic between older couples is a little different from what I’m comfortable with. The women want to treat their dinner experience as if they are preparing the meal themselves, at home. They want to make sure their husband (H) gets exactly what he wants and they want to be very involved with this decision, to the point where the wives (W) begin to interfere with me doing my job. It goes a little something like this…
Me: Are you ready to order?
H: I’ll have the roast beef dinner.
W: Are you sure you want the roast beef? You had that last time.
They have turkey...
H: Yes, I want the roast beef.
Me: Ok, great! You get to choose two dinner sides from this list.
H: I’ll have the rice and the green beans.
W: The rice? Are you sure? They have baked potatoes.
H: Yes, I’ll have the rice.
Me: Ok, got it! Roast beef with rice and green beans.
W: The green beans? You had green beans yesterday.
Do you want carrots? You like carrots...
H: I want the green beans.
W: Do you want a salad instead? You like the salad here.
H: I’ll have the roast beef with rice and green beans.
Me: And what would YOU like, Ma’am?
W: Are you sure you don’t want the mashed potatoes?
You like the gravy here…
Please don’t argue with your husband about his dinner choices. Believe me, if he loved you before you sat down, he will love you after he is allowed to choose his own food. You are driving me crazy and you know who you are.
Here’s another thing I really don’t appreciate:
It seems the dynamic between older couples is a little different from what I’m comfortable with. The women want to treat their dinner experience as if they are preparing the meal themselves, at home. They want to make sure their husband (H) gets exactly what he wants and they want to be very involved with this decision, to the point where the wives (W) begin to interfere with me doing my job. It goes a little something like this…
Me: Are you ready to order?
H: I’ll have the roast beef dinner.
W: Are you sure you want the roast beef? You had that last time.
They have turkey...
H: Yes, I want the roast beef.
Me: Ok, great! You get to choose two dinner sides from this list.
H: I’ll have the rice and the green beans.
W: The rice? Are you sure? They have baked potatoes.
H: Yes, I’ll have the rice.
Me: Ok, got it! Roast beef with rice and green beans.
W: The green beans? You had green beans yesterday.
Do you want carrots? You like carrots...
H: I want the green beans.
W: Do you want a salad instead? You like the salad here.
H: I’ll have the roast beef with rice and green beans.
Me: And what would YOU like, Ma’am?
W: Are you sure you don’t want the mashed potatoes?
You like the gravy here…
Please don’t argue with your husband about his dinner choices. Believe me, if he loved you before you sat down, he will love you after he is allowed to choose his own food. You are driving me crazy and you know who you are.
Please Don’t Hump the Waitress
People, I cannot emphasize this point enough: DON’T TOUCH ME.
This is my job. I don’t love you and you are not my friend. I am doing my best to maintain my professionalism and dignity and I do not want you to touch me. Do not be lured into a false sense of security by the uniform. I am an individual that you DO NOT KNOW.
That said…
We have a regular who brings her mother in every Saturday for brunch. The daughter is in her sixties, the mother in her eighties. They are both crazy as shithouse rats.
It seems the mother (M) insists on paying for the meal and then dictates to the daughter (D) what items are acceptable to order. They argue viscously over content and price and it takes about twenty goddamn minutes for them to come to terms. I have not waited on them since the day D groped me in the dining room against my will.
Let me walk you through it:
First, the nerve-wracking twenty minute decision time. I am fucking busy. If you have to ask me the price of beverages, you can’t afford them. Also, you cannot share beverages that have bottomless refills. The charge applies to each person drinking said beverage. You are welcome to order one iced tea and drink out of the same glass but I’m charging you for two on your bill. Get real. But I digress…
After much negotiation, the three of us finally settled on the chicken strip dinner with a senior discount ($8), hot water with a lemon ($0), and iced water with a lemon (also $0). They want it plated separately, which I will do because I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
They get two side choices and they want a baked potato, even though it is lunch time and baked potatoes are not technically available for another 4 hours. After much discussion and argument, I decide to microwave a potato for them myself because I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
They want to share a tiny dinner salad because they are too cheap to pay for a second one and D wants me to plate this separately as well. When I hesitate to agree, M says, “Oh, don’t worry about that. Just bring me an extra plate and I’ll split it for us.”
“NO!” D almost screams and then realizes the sane guests around her are staring and my mouth is hanging open in shock. She grabs my forearm and squeezes urgently, hissing, “I don’t want her touching my food.” I agree to split the salad because again, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I need to get away. I have an 8-top and three other booths that aren’t crazy and I want this over with so I can make some money.
I head away from the crazies to enter their order. It is necessary to cross the entire dining room because my section today is in the backwater. I’m almost there when I hear D yelling after me above the buzz of conversations between 100 other guests. “AND WE MIGHT ORDER DESSERT LATER!” I keep walking without turning around, as if she could be talking to someone else. Ok bitch. Like I need to know right now what you might do later. Let’s just try to get through lunch.
Lunch is a nightmare. After finally delivering their meal, which I plated separately for no extra charge, they changed their minds about a bunch of shit one item at a time.
M wants hot tea now, regardless of price. But she only wants one cup and she wants me to ask a manager if I can make an exception to the rule on their bill. I say I will and then don’t because I already know the answer and have explained bottomless beverages to this bitch 3 times since she got here.
D wants more lemons. I bring them.
Now D wants more napkins, even though they still have unused extra napkins from a previous trip to the table. I bring them.
M wants a fresh cup because her hot tea got cold sitting there. I bring a fresh cup.
M wants a glass of OJ, but she wants to order it in a child’s cup and be charged accordingly. I bring her a kid’s OJ and put a charge on her bill for an adult’s small OJ. I don’t make the rules.
M wants pancakes now, but she doesn’t want to pay for a senior’s side of cakes ($4) because “she just wants a taste.” I order her a single pancake ($1.50).
When I bring it to the table, she eyes the maple syrup disdainfully. “I only eat pancakes with applesauce.” She wants me to bring her a side of applesauce to eat on her pancake in lieu of syrup and not charge her. I bring her a side of applesauce and put it on her bill.
They argue the entire time. Every trip to the table to see if they need anything else takes me forever because they want to discuss their needs while I stand there. They are almost impossible to get away from. I hate them.
They barely eat anything. They camp at my table all the way through lunch rush. After an hour and a half, they want me to box all of their crap to go. And they each want their own boxes. I’m not doing that. We don’t even offer to box leftovers here. We just drop off the boxes and you do it yourself. Because I don’t suck, I often help my guests with this task table-side, especially my older regulars. Our plates are very heavy and if you are nice, I will help you. I’m not helping these bitches anymore. I have run out of goodwill.
I remember the scream across the dining room and ask if they have saved any room for dessert. M gives me a shrewd look, like I’m trying to trick her. “Is it FREE?” she asks me loudly. I’ve had it.
“NO,” I reply just as loudly, “DESSERT IS NOT FREE HERE. BUT IF YOU HAVE SOME KIND OF FREE DESSERT AT YOUR HOUSE, I WOULD BE HAPPY TO INVITE THE ENTIRE STAFF OVER TO YOUR PLACE. WHAT DO YOU THINK?”
She doesn’t give a fuck and she’s not embarrassed, which disappoints me.
She pays the bill and receives $6.37 in change. I already know what’s going to happen. I try not to look, but I have a fucked up calculator in my waitress brain. I know for a fact that she just put the $5 in her purse and left me $1.37 for the tip.
In the amount of time they sat at my table, I could easily have made $15 at this booth alone. That doesn’t take into account the money I’ve lost at my other tables because these crazy bitches needed so much shit, so many times.
The daughter is standing, trying to gather coats and purses and to-go boxes. I wish them an enjoyable afternoon and turn to walk away, relieved it is finally over.
I feel D grab my hips from behind, forcefully jerking my body back against hers. She wraps her arms around my waist and whisper-screams in my ear “Don’t let her see!”
She thrusts her left hand into my apron pocket, which incidentally is located directly in front of my pussy. I have no idea what just happened and I’m not sticking around to find out. I pull away from her (she is incredibly strong for a 60-year old woman), and get out of the dining room as fast as I can.
For a minute, I’m scared to check my pocket. Did an old crazy bitch just slip me her phone number? A note of apology? What could it be? It seemed so urgent.
It was $2.
You hear me, people?
That’s right.
I was just groped by an old woman for $2.
This is my job. I don’t love you and you are not my friend. I am doing my best to maintain my professionalism and dignity and I do not want you to touch me. Do not be lured into a false sense of security by the uniform. I am an individual that you DO NOT KNOW.
That said…
We have a regular who brings her mother in every Saturday for brunch. The daughter is in her sixties, the mother in her eighties. They are both crazy as shithouse rats.
It seems the mother (M) insists on paying for the meal and then dictates to the daughter (D) what items are acceptable to order. They argue viscously over content and price and it takes about twenty goddamn minutes for them to come to terms. I have not waited on them since the day D groped me in the dining room against my will.
Let me walk you through it:
First, the nerve-wracking twenty minute decision time. I am fucking busy. If you have to ask me the price of beverages, you can’t afford them. Also, you cannot share beverages that have bottomless refills. The charge applies to each person drinking said beverage. You are welcome to order one iced tea and drink out of the same glass but I’m charging you for two on your bill. Get real. But I digress…
After much negotiation, the three of us finally settled on the chicken strip dinner with a senior discount ($8), hot water with a lemon ($0), and iced water with a lemon (also $0). They want it plated separately, which I will do because I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
They get two side choices and they want a baked potato, even though it is lunch time and baked potatoes are not technically available for another 4 hours. After much discussion and argument, I decide to microwave a potato for them myself because I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
They want to share a tiny dinner salad because they are too cheap to pay for a second one and D wants me to plate this separately as well. When I hesitate to agree, M says, “Oh, don’t worry about that. Just bring me an extra plate and I’ll split it for us.”
“NO!” D almost screams and then realizes the sane guests around her are staring and my mouth is hanging open in shock. She grabs my forearm and squeezes urgently, hissing, “I don’t want her touching my food.” I agree to split the salad because again, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I need to get away. I have an 8-top and three other booths that aren’t crazy and I want this over with so I can make some money.
I head away from the crazies to enter their order. It is necessary to cross the entire dining room because my section today is in the backwater. I’m almost there when I hear D yelling after me above the buzz of conversations between 100 other guests. “AND WE MIGHT ORDER DESSERT LATER!” I keep walking without turning around, as if she could be talking to someone else. Ok bitch. Like I need to know right now what you might do later. Let’s just try to get through lunch.
Lunch is a nightmare. After finally delivering their meal, which I plated separately for no extra charge, they changed their minds about a bunch of shit one item at a time.
M wants hot tea now, regardless of price. But she only wants one cup and she wants me to ask a manager if I can make an exception to the rule on their bill. I say I will and then don’t because I already know the answer and have explained bottomless beverages to this bitch 3 times since she got here.
D wants more lemons. I bring them.
Now D wants more napkins, even though they still have unused extra napkins from a previous trip to the table. I bring them.
M wants a fresh cup because her hot tea got cold sitting there. I bring a fresh cup.
M wants a glass of OJ, but she wants to order it in a child’s cup and be charged accordingly. I bring her a kid’s OJ and put a charge on her bill for an adult’s small OJ. I don’t make the rules.
M wants pancakes now, but she doesn’t want to pay for a senior’s side of cakes ($4) because “she just wants a taste.” I order her a single pancake ($1.50).
When I bring it to the table, she eyes the maple syrup disdainfully. “I only eat pancakes with applesauce.” She wants me to bring her a side of applesauce to eat on her pancake in lieu of syrup and not charge her. I bring her a side of applesauce and put it on her bill.
They argue the entire time. Every trip to the table to see if they need anything else takes me forever because they want to discuss their needs while I stand there. They are almost impossible to get away from. I hate them.
They barely eat anything. They camp at my table all the way through lunch rush. After an hour and a half, they want me to box all of their crap to go. And they each want their own boxes. I’m not doing that. We don’t even offer to box leftovers here. We just drop off the boxes and you do it yourself. Because I don’t suck, I often help my guests with this task table-side, especially my older regulars. Our plates are very heavy and if you are nice, I will help you. I’m not helping these bitches anymore. I have run out of goodwill.
I remember the scream across the dining room and ask if they have saved any room for dessert. M gives me a shrewd look, like I’m trying to trick her. “Is it FREE?” she asks me loudly. I’ve had it.
“NO,” I reply just as loudly, “DESSERT IS NOT FREE HERE. BUT IF YOU HAVE SOME KIND OF FREE DESSERT AT YOUR HOUSE, I WOULD BE HAPPY TO INVITE THE ENTIRE STAFF OVER TO YOUR PLACE. WHAT DO YOU THINK?”
She doesn’t give a fuck and she’s not embarrassed, which disappoints me.
She pays the bill and receives $6.37 in change. I already know what’s going to happen. I try not to look, but I have a fucked up calculator in my waitress brain. I know for a fact that she just put the $5 in her purse and left me $1.37 for the tip.
In the amount of time they sat at my table, I could easily have made $15 at this booth alone. That doesn’t take into account the money I’ve lost at my other tables because these crazy bitches needed so much shit, so many times.
The daughter is standing, trying to gather coats and purses and to-go boxes. I wish them an enjoyable afternoon and turn to walk away, relieved it is finally over.
I feel D grab my hips from behind, forcefully jerking my body back against hers. She wraps her arms around my waist and whisper-screams in my ear “Don’t let her see!”
She thrusts her left hand into my apron pocket, which incidentally is located directly in front of my pussy. I have no idea what just happened and I’m not sticking around to find out. I pull away from her (she is incredibly strong for a 60-year old woman), and get out of the dining room as fast as I can.
For a minute, I’m scared to check my pocket. Did an old crazy bitch just slip me her phone number? A note of apology? What could it be? It seemed so urgent.
It was $2.
You hear me, people?
That’s right.
I was just groped by an old woman for $2.
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