Thanks for the note!

I'm glad you wish me a happy new year. I appreciate the sentiment. I'd appreciate it more if it came with even a ten percent tip.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Sweet!

I wasn't really looking forward to my shift tonight--to be honest, I'm on the rag and all I want to do is sit at home with a book and a movie. But I just pulled up the schedule for tonight, and I'm pleased to say there's not a single person working tonight I don't love! That always makes it so much better.

(Well, I can't see who the manager, second hostess, or expo is, but all the servers and the bartender are my buddies, so even if we have Idiot Expo and Brainless II I'll be happy!)

Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

I thought I'd go to work a little early on Tuesday and have a leisurely start to my shift, beginning with a snack of some fried cheese and some conversation with my coworkers. To that end I left my house forty minutes before I was due in. I was in a good mood. I had some good music on (I'm still listening to The Killers' "Read My Mind" semi-obsessively), it was a sunny day, life was good.

The last stoplight before turning in to our complex's parking lot always takes forever--there's no left arrow, and it's on main street. While I was sitting there waiting, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, so I pulled it out. I had a voicemail, and a text. The missed call was from work, which didn't concern me too much until I looked at the text from a friend of mine. It said, "You know you're scheduled at four right?"

I blinked at it several times. It was 4:10, twenty minutes before I was actually supposed to be there--as far as I knew. Still waiting for a break in traffic, I listened to my voicemail. Big surprise, an aggravated Lapdog calling to bitch me out about being late. I started swearing. I wrote my schedule on my whiteboard and double-checked it--something was obviously wrong.

As such, when I pulled in, I didn't run in with arms waving and panic written across my face. The girl who texted me was sympathetic, but told me she had to go and I was the only person scheduled at four. Crap. So I clocked in--or I tried to. Our computers are tied to the scheduling system, which won't let you clock in more than two minutes early or two minutes late without a manger scan. Around that time Lapdog came stomping out of the kitchen and gave me a look of pure evil--then went to continue around the bar.

"Oh Lapdog!" I called. He spun around, doing his best "vengeful deity" impression, ready to deliver a thorough tongue-lashing for my audacity--to speak! when I was late! I gave him my sweetest smile and said, "The computer says I'm not scheduled until four thirty."

"What computer?" He was was still trying to salvage his scorn.

"The one I'm standing at, moron," I wanted to say, but continued being sweetness and light. "Well, this one, and the scheduling."

"Well, I'm just going by what the chart says!" He gestured at the daily staffing chart, which is usually printed but that day was hand-written because of a printer problem. Then he wandered off, still muttering dubiously.

Meanwhile, the day bartender (who was also pissed that I was "late") stomped by and informed me on her way out the door that there was a table waiting to be greeting. While I was taking care of them (and an odd bunch they were, if your facial features look like a man's you shouldn't have short hair and wear baggy coveralls. I'm just saying. Earrings aren't enough to distinguish your gender, lady.), the evening bartender pulled out her iPhone and checked the online scheduling program.

Sure enough, I was scheduled at 4:30! Apparently whoever wrote out the chart, upon noticing they had a half hour with no servers scheduled, decided to just assign me the earlier time. Guess who was left out of that decision?

It was quite satisfying when Lapdog had to swallow his bile and admit he was wrong.

Merry Christmas and a Happy Fuck Off.

Everybody at the restaurant knows Shrimp Man. He's been coming in for ages, and for the longest time would only ever order shrimp glazed in this nasty freaking sauce we used to have. Our branch of the company stopped carrying the sauce, actually, but GM kept ordering it specifically for this dude for three years. Then corporate axed it completely--and I for one was hoping he'd just quit coming after that, he was so angry about it. No such luck.

My last shift before Christmas, I once again had the dreaded three table section. Table one was sat when I arrived. In fact, they were finished eating when I arrived. It was a couple and their baby, and they had already paid, and yet they were just sitting. The baby was awake; they weren't talking to each other; they were just sitting, looking in opposite directions. It was a little odd.

I got a family of four at table two, and then something horrible happened. Shrimp Man and his son came in, and as usual sat themselves--at my table three. Because naturally two guys need a six person booth, right? I was furious, because now I was essentially down to a one table section. Shrimp Man (who I've written about before, dammit, and can't remember when) always sits forever.

When I saw them sit down, I stomped back to the kitchen and got Shrimp Guy his Pepsi with light ice. Then I got his son his iced tea with an extra glass of ice. They said they would have the usual, so I rattled it all off and they were suitably impressed.

Shrimp Guy now always orders the southwestern salad. No sour cream, no southwestern ranch, no salsa; extra guacamole, extra pico de gallo, sub extra honey mustard. Maybe a side of plain unseasoned broccoli--after he tastes his son's to make sure it's okay, or something.

His son gets the mini burgers with a side of shredded lettuce (not leaf lettuce, shredded), three tomatoes, raw red onion, and mustard. His fries have to have no salt, pepper, or other seasoning, and be cooked fresh; his broccoli has to be plain.

After dinner they had a dessert, and Shrimp Guy kept telling me he needed another spoon even though they each had one. Then he said he wanted to get a $50 gift card, because then he gets a decent coupon to use later. Okay, fine. Unfortunately, he tried to pay for the gift card with the gift card, because he couldn't seem to understand he hadn't paid for the gift card yet! Just trying to get them checked out took about ten minutes, between trying to explain that, finally coaxing his Visa out of his hands to buy the gift card, then the gift card to pay for the food. At the beginning of all of this, he said he wanted a gift card envelope--and asked for it every time I was at the table trying to deal with his senility. Then I bring him the gift card envelope and he promptly says that's not what he wanted, he wanted a card holder slip that would fit in his wallet--which we don't have. Finally, finally, we get the bill squared away and then they sit for another half an hour, not talking, the son fiddling with his Crackberry, and Shrimp Guy fiddling with things in his wallet.

The younger couple had left while all this was going on, and was replaced by two middle-aged yakking twits who were waiting for four more people. They had Christmas gifts with them, which immediately told me I was screwed. And I was right. The two women finished their first drinks before a third showed up; a beer later a fourth showed up; two beers later a fifth arrived. They were there for two and a half hours total, essentially my entire first cut shift, and kept ordering drinks after I was cut. I only had a three table section, so that was 33% on my night's income being sucked up by these bitchs. At the end they left me a ten percent tip and a sack full of wrapping paper. Lovely.

I also had two more less than congenial tables once Shrimp Guy left; they were both ten percent or less on their $70+ bills. Merry Christmas to me.

Whatever your flavor of holiday ...

May it not be filled with bitches.

A case of the Mondays.

Monday night was the craziest night I've seen in a really long time. We had a wait for 2.5-3 hours, which is unusual enough for a Monday. I wasn't particularly struggling, but some of my coworkers were, and I think that was mostly a matter of luck. California Girl and Flirty Priest both had table after table of cranky fuckers--they were both ready to just punch somebody. I really lucked out; with one exception my tables were all cool, they were talking and enjoying their evening, rather than freaking out at me.

My biggest problem was that Brainless II was hosting, and did a typically idiotic thing. One of my booths had five people at it, which means a chair on the end, in the aisle. Not a big deal ... until a certain moronic hostess seats a big top right next to them. There was less than a foot of space between the two chairs, and no way to fix it. So in the middle of the rush, anybody wanting to get to the western half of the restaurant had to go alllll the way around and through the lobby (which of course was still full!). All of my tables were on the other side of that divide, so I really had to pay attention and be sure I didn't forget anything on any of my trips up there--it just took too long to make the detour.

The three cooks put up a valiant fight, and most things went out correctly and only 5-10 minutes late. But at the end of the rush things just totally crashed even with Pot Smoking Manager helping them. And thank god he was there instead of Lapdog--one of my favorite things about PSM (aside from the fact that he is fucking hilarious) is that when things go wrong, he doesn't waste time assigning blame or yelling. He just jumps in and fixes it, unlike Lapdog who apparently feels that stopping to rip people new assholes is a more efficient use of time.

Even with PSM cooking, my last three tables during the rush waited 45 minutes for their food. Strangely, none of them were really upset. One did take their food to go, but they weren't angry. I felt bad for my coworkers who had douchebags all night long. In the end, I made about double what I usually do on a Monday night. Some of that was due to the fact that one of my section buddies isn't that strong a server; she couldn't handle her six table section (especially once she had to start detouring around the whole place to get to all of her tables!), so one of her tables became unofficially mine. I was grateful for that, since one of my booths was taken up by a couple of very nice but very oblivious women who were there before we got busy and didn't leave until after the 45-minute-wait people had all eaten and left.

By the end of all this, even though it could've been worse, I felt like I'd been beaten with a very large and dirty stick. And I'd picked up a close, naturally! Tuesday night we were better prepared; we had five cooks and eight servers. Think we were busy? Hell no.

How decent people roll.

My last table last night was two women who'd spent the day doing Christmas shopping. They ordered two mega sized hurricanes and two shots of Crown Royal; then they ordered our dinner promotion that includes an appetizer, and they threw on some extra stuff. The hurricanes were $7.25 each, and the Crown shots $7 each, so even with the promotion their bill ended up being $55. At my restaurant, that's sort of a lot for two people, so I was prepared for complaints.

After I delivered the bill, I saw them scrutinizing it, going over each line--usually a very bad sign. I was running the carpet sweeper, and as I came up the aisle I overheard one of them basically say that yeah, they ordered expensive drinks, so that was right. When they put out their credit card, they did so with a smile and a thank you. There were no grumblings, no bitching, no shady comments about "boy, those drinks sure are expensive! (STARE)".

That is how you behave when you overspend! It's nobody's fault but your own, and it's certainly not your server's fault. (I did suggest the larger sized drinks, since they said they needed alcohol, but that's only $2. They came up with the Crown shots, and the meal add-ons, themselves.) I was so relieved after the day I'd had that I snagged the manager's card and gave them a 10% discount--I told them it was the "only non-cranky customers all day" discount, which was also true.

Surely my ears deceive me!

A couple of days ago I had a younger couple who ordered steaks. They'd been sorta snotty the entire time, but when things became a problem was when I forgot to ring in the sauteed mushrooms for her steak. I realized it before their food was ready, and I rang in a secondary modification. I saw Idiot Expo pick up the ticket and look at it, then set it on his "pending" rack. I still planned on being back there to remind him, but then somebody else needed help with something and away I went.

So I see their food go out; right away I notice the lack of mushrooms. "I knew they'd forget those," I said with an aw-shucks smile. "I'll be back in a minute!" They didn't seem too bothered. Mrs. Vomit-Worthy had delivered their food and she snipped at me that it wasn't on the ticket. I loved shutting her down by telling her it was a secondary mod, because she loves to call people on that sort of thing.

I go back to the kitchen; Idiot Expo apologizes and says the mushrooms are on the grill. A minute or so passes, and Lapdog comes storming in to the kitchen. Without looking at me, he yells at Idiot Expo about the mushrooms. Idiot Expo protests that they were a secondary mod--and right away Lapdog starts giving me the evil eye and grumping and muttering.

"It was still rung in before the food was ready," I told him flatly, and ignored his bitching. Then I delivered the mushrooms--and the girl got snippy about "don't these come with gravy." Whatever. They said they were fine, and acted happy, but apparently only 5% tip happy. But they cleared out and that was great--the two of them were taking up a six seater booth.

About half an hour later, Lapdog comes up to me and says out of the blue, "It was mostly the way the guy approached me, he snapped and said 'could you maybe figure out where her mushrooms are?' Sorry, I didn't mean to come at you like that."

I think I was frozen in shock for a minute, honestly. Lapdog apologized? Really? And for something that was comparatively little? I didn't even know what to do with myself!

Listen up, you cheap fucks.

I don't care if you had a $25 gift card. Your bill was still $52. A three dollar tip is not fucking adequate. Next time just stay home, I don't want to see your miserly goddamn faces again.

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Little acts of revenge.

Piss me off, get yesterday's slightly oxidized, technically expired but still good, stale mousse.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

FML

Due to camping bitches who were here before any of the evening people were, I have a two table section. Goddamn selfish drunken white trash twats.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Oh yeah, lunch shifts suck.

I guess I just have to remind myself every once in a while. Six tables, $177 in sales. Fucking lunch specials. And I'm already cut. Super.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Rumble in the restaurant.

Because I am a nerd, this post includes a visual aid.

A couple of weeks ago, we had some really classy "customers". It was about ten on a Saturday night, and just me and the other closer were on. We'd had a serious lull in business, and suddenly people started pouring in. We had sets of two and three at all the purple squares on the left and top of the picture.

About this time a couple in their late teens/early twenties came in and sat at the red table. When the other closer, Kate, went to greet them, they told her they didn't know if they were staying. So we continued taking care of our other tables, and about ten minutes later three more people showed up. It was a husband and a wife, and then another woman who I recognized; I know I've written about her before, but I don't remember when; she's just a goddamn bitch (ETA: the first bitch here!). The three of them stood up front, glaring at the two kids at the red table, and when Kate when to seat them she heard one say into her cell phone, "Well, she's here, so I don't know if we're staying!"

Eventually, the two women sat down at the table with the youngsters. The man sat at the bar by them (the purple slash) and had a beer. He sat there nursing his beer the entire time, chatting to the bartender as if nothing was wrong. Right after the two women sat down, a young couple and their baby came in, and requested the booth to the left of them. I already had a bad feeling about this, but nothing I could really say. The young family was my table, so I got their drink order; and that's around the time shit started getting out of hand.

At first, the classy people at that red booth were just quietly arguing. And then it escalated. They were yelling at each other, and swearing. "After all the shit you've pulled .... how am I supposed to fucking believe you .... are you telling the truth or making a lie!" (no, I didn't leave a word out, that's exactly what she said) "I've done everything you want, what do I have to do for you to forgive me?" "Well I thought you were going to fucking shape up!" There was slapping of the table, and standing up and stalking away and coming back to swear some more; it was just fucking ridiculous!

The entire place could hear them--which is why the visual aid, so you can see how they couldn't have sat somewhere more obnoxious for this--and they were being just plain nasty to each other. What I gathered was that the girl had been caught having sex with her boyfriend, and when her parents got upset she took off and was living with him. They spent about half an hour yelling and swearing at each other--and ignoring any attempts by staff to interrupt and take drink orders in an attempt to get them to shut up and simmer down.

Bitter Divorced Man was sitting at a booth just across the aisle from them, talking to his parents; since he wasn't saying anything, me and Kate didn't really know what to do. My young family looked uncomfortable, so I asked them if they'd like to move; that's what the arrow is, they moved to a booth. Of course, they could still hear the crazy bitches yelling! A ten top came in (the long blue box), and another set of five people (the round table on the right); these people were still arguing, gesturing wildly, throwing out swear words often and generally being a nuisance. And they still hadn't ordered anything.

The blue booth in the bottom left was my table, and as they finished their meal they asked me whose table those people were. I wasn't sure what to say; if I said they were mine, I'd get an earful; if I said they were Kate's, they might complain about her. So I told them they weren't anybody's yet, as they hadn't ordered. They were not happy; the husband said "If the manager doesn't get rid of them I'm going to be very upset with him!" They complained to me, and I promised to talk to the manager; I was glad they spoke up, because I hoped it would prod him in to action.

So I interrupted his talk with his parents; once we were in the kitchen Kate and I explained how I'd had a table move, and another complain, and they were being very unpleasant. And Bitter Divorced Man totally shrugged it off! He said they were being loud, but "not vulgar", and he calmly went in to the office. Goddammit. My table that had complained was ready to pay; as I took their cash, they complained again, and I told them I'd just finished talking to the manager. I thought that would be the end of it, as they were already standing and told me they didn't need change.

Oh no. Apparently complaining to me twice wasn't enough; they went to the bartender and ripped her head off before they left. While I was seating a six top on the far side of the classy bitches (no where else to put them!), the bartender went to the manager again, and this time he came out and talked to the people. It was sort of hilarious; you could tell from his posture and his rigid expression that he really didn't want to do it. Too bad he's the fucking manager, right?

So he asked the people to quiet down and order something, or leave. They told him they were going to order, and after that they were a bit quieter. They did order, too--one goddamn iced tea. After about an hour of making everybody in the joint uncomfortable, they left.

What I want to know is this: who the fuck goes out in public to have a fight? The kids knew the others were coming--they'd asked for a big table and six menus. The parents may have not know they'd be there, but then they stayed. When did it become appropriate to have obscenity-laced arguments in a family restaurant? And when did it become okay to hang out in a business without ordering anything (because they clearly weren't going to)? Isn't that called loitering?

Disgusting olden times.

So Bitchy Waiter has a post up now about disgusting ketchup practices, and it reminded me of a ketchup story from my first restaurant.

My current restaurant uses red plastic ketchup bottles that can't even be opened, and have a little rubber value. If somebody were really determined, they could probably force something in to it, but they're fairly sanitary. When they get low, we toss them and that's that. We also don't marry the steak sauces, thank goodness--or the Tabasco. I worked at Perkins years ago, and we had to marry the Tabasco there by shaking the sauce in to a disposable ramekin and then using it as a funnel to pour it in to the other bottle. Think about the tiny little opening in those bottles and imagine how long that takes. (That's the only job I've ever quit without notice, because they just pushed me too hard. I should write about that sometime.)

Anyway, I don't see disgusting ketchup issues any more, but my first restaurant was a different story. We had short, squat glass bottles of Heinz ketchup there, which customers were always squealing over--"It's so cute!"--before stealing them. They were wide mouthed bottles, so we didn't have the nasty knife-inserting suction breaking crap going on, but people still found a way to be disgusting. The nastiest thing ever was when a young mother and father were there with their 18 month old baby. The baby was fixated on the ketchup bottle, so they gave it to him and let him slobber all over the lid.

Once their food came out, they opened the nasty sticky ketchup bottle ... and then gave it to the kid. The kid spent the rest of their meal drinking ketchup right out of the bottle and drooling in to it. When they were finished, they put the lid back on the bottle and left. They didn't warn the server or do anything to stop the bottle from being put back on the shelf and served to someone else.

Luckily, their server told us all so we knew to discard that bottle of drool soup. From that day on when I used ketchup at work, I broke the seal on a new bottle.

Dear church people,

Sharing two appetizers between eight people does not entitle you to two of my tables for two hours and counting. Kindly fuck off.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Two finals down ...

Two more to go. Sorry for the lack of posts, but I'm working eight shifts between Thursday and Tuesday, so I'm sure somebody will do something to piss me off!

Nothing funny happened tonight.

I made $40, so it could have been worse, but it was so boring. So enjoy this instead!

Wretchedly pathetic.

At 7:30 on a Saturday I should be going crazy. We don't even have a wait, and two out of my three tables are camped out so hard I think they're going to have to be removed with a prying bar. Bitches and their Chardonnay, man.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

You ready to go home?

(The image has nothing to do with the entry, it's just one of the first pictures that came up on an image search for "bastard conductor" and I thought it was hilarious!)

I gave up my shift last Tuesday because I was sick, so I fortunately wasn't stuck there until one in the morning like my friends--because a group of ten or more showed up late and sat forever. We close at eleven, and they sat in the restaurant until 12:40. The ringleader is their orchestra conductor, who comes in by himself two or three times a week. He then sits for two or more hours writing music in one of our booths, and tips two dollars. He speaks to all the employees as if we're servants, and never says please or thank you. It's quite aggravating, especially during the dinner rush.

Unfortunately for my friends, Lapdog was managing the night this group came in and stayed forever. Despite him being a big asshole to employees, he won't ever say anything to customers like that, not matter how long they stay or how ridiculous it gets to be.

Tuesday this week found me closing, and it hadn't been a very remarkable night. We were all looking forward to getting out early, and then three small tables came in about half an hour before close. And then, fifteen minutes before close, two more came in. When my coworker, Anna, went to seat them, they told her they would wait up front for the rest of their "big group"--they didn't know how big.

Me, Anna, and the bartender all just looked at each other and slumped in defeat. Anna went to tell Chicken Little that those people were back, and that's when the unexpected happened: CL went up to the group, which was four people now, and had a little chat with them. She told them the cooks left at eleven, so they had ten minutes to order, and if somebody hadn't shown up yet they couldn't order. Then she told then they needed to be out by 11:45, that an hour was plenty of time to eat and talk, and we couldn't be kept there any longer.

I could've just hugged her. I didn't even have to wait on the jerks--it was Anna's turn to take the next table--but I wasn't going to run off and leave my friends with them. I still had two tables even if I'd wanted!

The jerks ended up being ten in number; they each had a couple of beers, and they shared all of three appetizers. Closing time came and we locked the doors; we still had the jerks and two other tables. The jerks ordered another round of beers after we made a point of locking the doors, and were really pretty rude about it. At 11:15 one of my tables left, leaving us with the jerks and two other two tops. At 11:25 another table left; at that point we turned off the music. The jerks were oblivious.

At about 11:30, they all paid their separate ticket, and two of the ten left. Ten minutes later, three more left. At 11:45 we unplugged the festive Christmas lights strewn about the place, and two more took the hint and departed. That left Mr. Bastard Conductor and two of his friends. At midnight, an hour after closing, our last two-top left and we started turning off lights. CL didn't come out and force them out because she still had some paperwork she was finishing, but the other three of us got out our purses and coats and sat at the unofficial staff table grumbling.

At this point all the televisions were off, and the music; the Christmas lights were unplugged; all the lights were turned off except for over their table, over ours, and the host area. Finally, at 12:15 Bastard Conductor looks up, points across the bar at us and yells, "You ready to go home?"

We all just looked at each other, none of us trusting ourselves to speak at first. Anna finally says, "Yep, whenever you are."

He turns back to his two friends with a chuckle, and they sit for five more minutes. At that point, CL comes out from the back in her coat and with all her things to go. I think she knew they were still there, but when she came out of the kitchen her back was to them and she said loudly to us, "You guys ready to go?"

At that point, Bastard Conductor puts on his coat, gets up, and leaves. Oh wait, not really. He does those things, but it takes another five minutes because they keep stopping to talk. They weren't even out the door when we swooped down on the table, cleared it off, and got everything back in order for the morning. Even CL was swearing about how rude they are, and how if they come in and she's not here we're allowed to be pushy to get them out of these even though the other managers are pansies and won't do it.

So after closing at 11, we all finally left at 12:25.

Sort of.

The bartender and Anna had gone and started their cars because they're a couple of wimps and can't deal with the cold. They'd done this at about midnight, so the had nice toasty vehicles with no ice on the windows, and they skedaddled immediately. CL had started her car while we were cleaning off the jerks' table, so she was almost ready to go too. I had to scrape the ice off my windows--turned out that was a good thing, because as I was getting in my car, I saw CL hurry back in to the restaurant.

Now we live in a fairly safe little town, and it was a well-lit area. Still, it was 12:30 in the morning, there was nobody else around, and I just didn't feel right leaving until she came out and got back in her car. She was parked right by the employee entrance, so I pulled up a few yards away, locked my door, and pulled out my new faerie porn book.

After about five minutes she finally came out, but she waved at me to come over. Something had happened to the lock on the door, and the key was just turning and turning without the bolt popping out. Then it would suddenly pop out--but there was some snow and ice down at the bottom of the door so that it wasn't closing entirely tightly, so the bolt would graze the door jamb and stop moving. After five minutes, we finally got the door to lock--after I threw all my weight against it from the outside and she turned the key a whole lot and eventually the bolt popped out. She ran to the front of the building and came out the door there.

As she was approaching her car, I was trying to get my car door open. Apparently the lock was still half-way engaged or something, and I was locked out of my car in the cold. I was just started to swear when CL jumped back out of her car and said she couldn't find her purse--so she had to unlock the door we'd spent so long locking and go back in. As she was running inside, I was wondering what the fuck I was going to go, and I was so pissed off, and so angry, and so desperate to get home, that I was about to put my fist through Fahrfugkugel's window.

And then I remembered that I'd gone to Wal-Mart the night before, and after unloading my groceries I hadn't re-locked the hatchback. Halle-fucking-llujah. So I was able to crawl in the back, and over the back seat, and get the door unlocked. Then I went in to help CL find her purse; then we wrestled with the door all over again; and then, finally, finally, we left.

The restaurant closes at 11; I got home at 1:15. Not my favorite night.

Slap a bitch, part 2.

My whole work week was just full of people who were begging for a slap. Seriously, do people not know how to speak politely to others anymore? Oh wait, that's a stupid question. Bastard coated bastards with bastard filling and all.

First up, Sarcastic Witch. The matriarch of a family of five, she looked like a stuck-up snob right away. Her style was very early-90s soccer mom--slacks, turtleneck, small fake gold earrings, thoroughly average dyed hair color. They had five people jammed in to a four person booth because they didn't want to wait or sit at a regular table, so they were all grumpy and uncomfortable anyway. Besides Sarcastic Witch, there was her husband, two sons, and a daughter. When I greeted them, nobody but SW spoke--and she only made a "mmm" noise at me. She then proceeded to order everybody's drinks for them--which usually means five waters would've been in order, but I guess I lucked out this time.

"I'll have iced tea, he'll have pepsi, he'll have tea, and they're going to have a chocolate shake." She said the last while indicating her two youngest kids. That's exactly how she said it: a chocolate shake. So I politely clarified--"Would you like just one, or one each?"

SW snorts. "Yeah, just one. We just want one. Bring two straws, I'm going to make them share. Of course we want two!"

Well, maybe you should learn to say what you mean then, huh bitch?

Next up: Stupid Sarcastic Bitch. Another matriarch of another family, six this time, but at least in an appropriately-sized booth. Seemed nice and normal enough, if a little too wrapped up in their own conversations to focus on ordering. They placed their entire order at one time, six entrees and an appetizer; naturally, I made sure the appetizer goes out first. I was pouring drinks when it came up, and Bitter Divorced Manager ran it. He came back sort of smirking. Apparently, he'd set the appetizer in the center, politely set a side plate in front of everyone at the table, and then asked if they'd like anything else right now.

Stupid Sarcastic Bitch raises her eyebrow at him, cocks her head to the side, and says, "Um, the rest of the meal?" while slowly waving her hands back and forth to indicate everyone else at the table. I guess the appetizer was only for her?

Not even at work and I want to stab someone.

I'm at the store deli, buying some delicious smoked gouda. And the woman next to me is being so fucking rude! The guy helping her speaks perfect English, although with an accent, and she is just getting ridiculously frustrated with him. He asked her if she wanted the Boar's Head or the store brand, and she heaved a huge sigh and says, "NO! I said half a pound of blah blah blah." so he repeats his question and she gets more snotty. The third time she looks over at me with this "can you believe this?" expression on her face.

So I repeated what he had asked her. I hope my tone made her realize she was being a bitch.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

See all those people up there? You're making them wait.

Saturday night, I was just utterly thrilled to see I had a three table section. Yeah, fuck you, managers. Actually, I shouldn't say that--it may have been a vote of confidence. It's always hard to say if that section is a big middle finger because of it being three tables, or if it's because I can handle three six-seater booths if they get jammed to maximum capacity (can fit nine people, if there's a chair on the end and a few kids). It's one of those sections that can really, really pay off--or really, really not.

I thought I was headed for the second option when a man and his very young daughter sat down to wait for three other people. They ordered drinks, and then they waited. And waited. And waited. During the absolute peak dinner rush, they waited for half an hour for the rest of their party. Finally they arrived, and to my horror it was two adults and four more children. So I had three adults and five children under the age of ten crammed in to this booth. Never a good sign.

An even worse sign? The ordered two appetizers, one kid's meal, and one steak. That's it. That's all. And then after they ate, they stayed. And stayed. I ran a detail report when they were walking out the door; from the time they ordered food to the time they left was exactly 100 minutes. Two hours and fifteen minutes they monopolized my table. Now, they did tip me 30% on their pitifully small bill--but $9 for two hours plus? If they would've arrived at once and left at once, I could've run at least one more table through there in that time, like another one of the six tops waiting up front, and at least doubled my money.

It also raised my hackles that the kids got bored and made a carpet of crap underneath the table--chips, chunks of chicken fingers, ripped up napkins, sugar packets, etc. If you can't keep an eye on all your rugrats when you go out to dinner, maybe you should stay home, huh?

Bitches, bitches everywhere and nobody to punch.

Bitch #1:

An older couple who were short with me the entire time. The wife sent her steak back because there was a piece of connective tissue in it--you know, like meat sometimes has--and it "just turned [her] off it". Of course, she'd told me everything was fine, and didn't complain until Lapdog stopped by the table. Fabulous. I was heading up to my station when he stomped by with her steak, and when I was refilling her coffee she asked if "he" had told me about her steak. When I said no, she sort of harrumphed. $2 tip.

Bitches #2 and #3:

Three old biddies at a table--never a good sign. They waited for ten minutes for a fourth to show up before finally ordering--salads, naturally. Two ordered smaller versions, one didn't. They were about halfway through their dinner when bitch #2 crooks her finger at me and asks "Don't you have some bread sticks or something?" I told her we have focaccia bread sticks, knowing she wasn't going to know what focaccia was. She sort of stared at me and then asked for two of them, one for her and one for the quietest of the three. This was the middle of the rush, people everywhere, full lobby, etc. I spent the next few minutes refilling drinks, etc., and then bitch #2 stares glaring a hole through the back of my head while I'm talking to another table. When I approached her, she sniffed and said something like, "Forgot our breadsticks, huh?"

I smiled politely and explained that they were being toasted--we're not the fucking Olive Garden, we don't keep bread fresh in case some random old hag wants it. Her response? "Well, you can go check on it now, can't you!" -- paired with a dismissive flip of her wrist. So I got her the fucking breadsticks, which weren't toasted on one side, because fuck her. When I came back with them, she demands a box. Bitch #3 stares into my soul and says "I meant to order the small one!" I asked if she'd like a box, and she sighs dramatically and sort of flutters her hands. "Oh, I suppose. I really just meant to order the small one!" (STARE)

I love when people do that: "I'll stare at you until you DO MY BIDDING!" Ha! Yeah, let me just give you half your salad for free because you ordered the wrong thing. While they were putting their stuff in boxes, I asked if they wanted dessert. They all said no, but then Bitch #3 says, "Oh, are you sure you two don't want something? They have those little ones! Why don't you ask us again in about fifteen minutes?"

Because you're taking up a third of my section, the entire lobby is full, and I'm tired of looking at your cheap old asses, that's why.

Bitch #4:

Had a penis, but was still a bitch. "I'll have the steak with seafood topping," he says, followed by something that sounds like "with onions". I quickly repeated that, because it's unusual--"With onions?" Bitch #4 nodded and said "and mashed potatoes". Alrighty then.

So imagine my surprise when Lapdog passes me, carrying this guy's steak which I was about to go check on. Bitch #4 insisted he didn't order onions, and threw a fit and wanted an entire new steak. Lapdog naturally didn't believe me when I told him I repeated the order--making him Bitch #5 for the evening--and made a bunch of passive fucking comments. Another server was having an issue, and he says to her (while looking at me), "Just make sure you get the guest what they ordered." Of course, any time I'd look directly at him, he'd look away. Pansy ass pansy.

Bitch #6:

"These buns on my mini sandwiches are just way too soggy! I just can't eat this!" Okay, fine. I take them back; Lapdog had left by this time, leaving us with Bitter Divorced Man (which was a-okay by me), who said he'd take her sandwiches out personally. Which he did, and took them off the ticket. The woman still acted like a frigid, fake bitch the rest of the time, refusing to make eye contact with me, interrupting me when I spoke, not acknowledging me when I said thank you and wished her and her family a good evening. $2 on a $40 ticket. Thanks, bitch! Why don't you go home and wash the two cans of Aqua Net out of your Dolly Parton hairdo now?

Bitch #7 and #8:

I had a bad feeling as soon as I walked up to this table. I recognized the woman, though not her husband or her son. She's delightfully stuck-up, the kind of person who purses her lips when she speaks to you, weighs every word as if you're too stupid to understand, and ceases to acknowledge your existence the instant she's done talking to you. She also had one of those stereotypical snotty Mexican woman accents--I don't mean that in a racist way, I really just don't know how else to describe it. I wasn't expecting a tip from them, based solely on having waited on the woman before, but they still wanted for nothing.

The husband rates as Bitch #7 because of his beer. The bar was totally full--this was again during the height of the dinner rush--and so I brought him a water and told him I was just waiting for the bartender and it would be just a minute. Then I asked if they were ready to order. "No. I want my beer." I sort of blinked at him. The woman started ordering--the entire time he keeps saying "Beer, where's my beer. Beer." When I asked what he'd like for dinner--"I want my beer." I about lost it. Of course, when I did go snatch up his beer and bring it to him, he didn't even acknowledge me.

The wife is Bitch #8 because of her general attitude, and also because when I asked her what she wanted on her baked potato she said sour cream. Several minutes after she gets her dinner, and after they all they me everything is fine, Bitch #7 waves me over and his wife says, "Yeah, can't I get some BUTTER?"

What really put me over the top, though, was when after they'd eaten, when I was clearing the plates, he informs me his potato was "kind of hard". I don't think I even responded--I just sent Lapdog to talk to him, after saying "Yeah, this guy says his potato he ate every last bite of was hard, can you go talk to him? They're grumpy." So Lapdog pads up there--and hey! it's his buddy from the grocery store! he's so helpful! he sees him all the time when he goes to the store after work! what a nice guy! here, let's give him a 10% discount for being so cool!

My tip was $2 on $55--less than the discount Lapdog gave them.

There were others--I don't think I had a single non-bitchy table all night, honestly. I had eight comp tickets to turn in at the end of the night--none of them because I screwed up. But I just can't even remember the rest. Bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.

That's got to be a new record.

I hadn't been at work five minutes when I wanted to scream at Lapdog. I wasn't feeling well, in fact had been trying to get my shift covered--I've felt like crap all week, and couldn't really talk this morning. But nobody would pick up my shift, so I went--super fun!

I was supposed to be a second cut, but didn't want to stick around, so I asked somebody else if she'd take it. She said yes, and I went to change it on the chart ... and then remembered how ridiculously touchy Lapdog is about that. If the chart on the wall differs from his print-out, he will flat out ignore it and then bitch at you when you mention it. Mature, right?

So I approached him in the kitchen and asked if it was okay for me to switch cut times. He stared at me for about ten seconds, giving me the nastiest, crustiest look, as if I were something smelly .... and then he shrugged and walked away.

WTF?

You're joining the Marines? Get out of here!

No, really. Get. out. of. here.

Last Saturday night, I was closing. We were rotating tables between three people, and unfortunately for me I was up when a herd of 18-22 year old people came in. They said they had eight; I got them settled and got their drinks--one at a time, of course, because nobody could decide they wanted "just water" at the same time, naturally.

Thirty minutes later, they still hadn't ordered. I kept going by them, kept stopping and asking if they were ready, kept getting blown off. I finally got frustrated and just sat down at started eating my dinner. Then four people came in, and before I could get to the door they had joined the stalling punks. And then three more joined them. And then some left, and some different ones showed up. I ended up bringing waters, waters, more waters, and maybe three other drinks to around 16 revolving people. Three people ordered appetizers. One person ordered a martini. She left somewhere in there, leaving seven dollars on the table--luckily that was enough to cover her martini, since she hadn't bothered to ask me for a ticket.

Turns out that one of the girls was shipping out to the Marines in a few days, and her friends and family thought they'd be sneaky and party at my restaurant--without ordering anything. Bastards.

I'm fan-less! Help me!

After much debating, I've gone ahead and established a fan page on Facebook. See my sad empty box on the right? So sad.