Assholes, assholes everywhere.

Last night is pretty much a blur; I was upset for a lot of it, aggravated for the rest. Three tables stand out, though.

The first was an older couple. The woman was looking at our lunch special menu, even though it prominently says it's only available until three. One of the options is two mini burgers.

"Well, I want mini burgers, but I don't want two!" she jabbed her finger at the menu.
"The lunch specials are only available until three, but we do have the burgers as a meal of three burgers and fries," I informed her pleasantly.
She, of course, started rolling her eyes and sighing, then told me she needed a minute. Her husband glared at me until I went away. When I returned a couple of minutes later, they both said they were ready to order. I don't even remember what her husband ordered, but I knew she was going to be a pain in the ass as soon as I turned back to her. She was still looking at the lunch menu.
"I really don't want two. (stare)"
Didn't we just cover this? I thought. "Well, we have the regular meal of three--"
"THREE?" She screeched. "Who could eat three!"
I tried to explain to her that they're fucking mini burgers. They're about one and a half inches across. She was having none of it. She started flipping her menu around, slapping her hands on the table, sighing and making those little "ugh!" noises teenage girls are so good at. "Can't I just have one?" She kept demanding. I finally just ordered the bitch a kid's meal and modified the hell out of it. Her husband glared at me the entire time they were eating, and she kept giving me this self-satisfied smirks. Yeah, good for you; you paid four times more than that two ounces of ground beef was worth.

My last table of the evening seemed nice enough. They ordered nice big meals, had a couple of drinks. Nothing went wrong, no waits or mistakes. So it really felt like a punch in the gut when they stiffed me on their $60 check. Took the time to write out "zero" on the credit slip and everything. Bitches.

The biggest asshole, though, was this fiftyish biker-looking dude who came in with his wife and daughters. I got a bad vibe off of them to begin with, I guess just because they wouldn't make eye contact when I spoke to them. I knew he was going to be a problem right away when he cut me off to demand "A margarita. A big one."

Well, that's not exactly specific. So I started to list the various options. He finally waved his hand in my face and said "Yeah, that one." Okay, whatever. His daughters ordered a milkshake and a smoothie, and as his wife was ordering he cut her off. "Don't you have a cheese and chips or something?"

"Yep, we have a spicy queso and chips." I confirmed.
"What's that?" he grunted. It took all my self-control not to say something smart-alecky. I reiterated what, you know, cheese and chips, is and he ordered that and mozzarella sticks. A few minutes later I was pouring drinks for a different table when the carside girl came up to me with a wild look on her face. Apparently this guy had totally bitched her out because his daughter's shake tasted watered down and they needed ranch. So I delivered the ranch and said the replacement drink was on the way. He grunted at me like a caveman. "Can I have a straw and my water?"

I love it when people do that--"my water" or "my ranch" or whatever, like they just own it and have every right to expect it right the fuck now even if that was the first time they asked for "their" water.

Then it was time for their dinner, and it started again. "Don't you have any bread? Don't you have any gravy? Don't you have some A1?" Everything was "fine" or "it's okay" while stabbing his food around on the plate as if dissatisfied. I finally asked CL to check on him, after being grunted at and ordered around and talked to like a dog who couldn't understand him.

When CL asked how everything was, they all started laughing. Everything she asked, the daughters giggled, the wife smirked, and the husband answered with "it's okay" and the like. CL finally asked what could be made better, and was told, "you can get me another margarita."

She verified the type--"A stellar margarita?"
"Well, I don't know if it's stellar, but a margarita."
At that point, CL came back with the same look on her face as the carside girl. "They're all a bunch of assholes!" When I took him his second margarita, which comes in a metal shaker with a separate glass, I started to pour it in to the glass as always.

"Don't do that," he snatched the shaker out of my hand. "I'll just suck it out of there."

One of the hostesses came up to me somewhere in there and asked "What the hell is wrong with the guy at twenty? Their bill ended up being $91.95, and asshole left me the change from a hundred dollar bill. Thanks, asshole.

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Somebody pressed the "blend" button.

That's how my brain feels right now. I know I have stories to tell; I've worked the last three nights. But damned if I can remember any of them, really. It's just been a crummy week. I got my first tattoo, which is awesome, but I had two exams this week which was less so. I've been feeling sick and exhausted no matter what I do. Oh, and the family dog wandered off in to the woods last week and never came home, which I found out about this week and then had to lie to my mom about.

So basically, I'm exhausted, nauseous, depressed, and really would just like to hide in my house for a few days. Five hours until I get to go to work and smile all fucking night!

Apparently, this needs saying.

If your filthy goddamn crotchspawn leave any of their bodily fluids for the staff to clean up, have the decency to tip for the inconvenience, not to mention the fucking biohazard! Then again, that kind of decency obviously wouldn't occur to the type of person who would let her four year old shit in the corner of the bathroom and throw shitty paper on the floor, then walk away and leave it all there.

I fucking hate the general public.

And then, sometimes, people don't suck.

(Why the daffodils? Because I like them.)

I didn't have high hopes for my shift last night. The last four Mondays have been just abysmal, and then I started out with the same damn section I'd already had twice this weekend--oh wait, no, I had four tables. Brainless had six. How is that fair? Anyway.

I was already feeling like I had a "KICK ME" sign on my back because of that. Then all three groups of people in my three six-seater tables decided to camp out. Motherfucker. I got sat all of once in the four-seater booth. Then another server got sick/hysterically upset (never did get that straight) and her section was divided between me and Dallas. So I got two more tables .... one of which already had two dudes with a beer, a glass of wine, and a tent pitched.

So I spent the first several hours of my shift aggravated and doing a lot of food running for other people. Then my tables finally left, and my tips started to roll in. And then were great. Fifteen, thirteen, eleven, and twelve bucks from my campers. I was happy. I got a couple of 15% tips over the course of the night, but mostly people were quite generous.

My best tip came from a table I wasn't expecting anything from. They looked like trailer trash, but they were very nice, and their kids were cute and polite. I just figured I wouldn't expect much, so that if it turned out they couldn't afford to tip/didn't know how to, I wouldn't be irritated. I didn't treat them any differently than any other table--I've been trailer trash in my life, after all. No stone-throwing from me.

Anyway, after they paid, I temporarily didn't have any active tables. So I sat down and dug in to my barbeque pork sandwich (yum). A few minutes later, the mother from my table kind of hesitantly comes up, carrying the checkbook.

"I didn't want to just leave this on the table," she said, opening the book to show me the twenty dollar bill tucked in with the credit card receipt. "We've been here a lot lately and service hasn't been so good, but you were really great. Thank you very much."

Totally made my night. Overall, on $440 in sales, I walked with an even $100 after tipping my bartender and having dinner. Not too shabby for a small-town Monday night.

Guess who got a raise!

Oh, come on. You didn't really think a server would get a raise, did you? Oh, no. It was Idiot Fucking Expo. Fucking six month review bullshit.

I'm officially on Idiot Expo's shit list, not that I care. I had a guest who was absolutely adamant that he not get french fries. So I rang it in that way. Surprise, surprise, it went out with fries while I was taking another order. So of course I look like an asshole to my customer (who stiffed me).

Then Idiot Expo tried to sent it out with the fries just scraped off, but salty and stuff all over the plate. I asked for a new one, quite nicely. Meanwhile, the server who delivered it was teasing me. "Oooooh, you messed up!"

I said, loudly enough for IE to hear, "No, I ordered no fries. Someone else sent it out with them."

Idiot Expo informed me that that "wasn't his job." Are you fucking kidding me? Sending food out as ordered is the fucking definition of an expo's job. I delivered the correct burger, then went to CL. I'd had enough.

"So let me ask you a silly question," I started. "If I order a burger with no fries, whose job would you say it is to send it out that way?"

She went out back, dragged him in from his unauthorized smoke break, and told him it damn well was his job. He tried to say he was just messing with me, but she told him not to do it, just to do his damn job. After he left, CL said they're interviewing people trying to replace him but haven't found anyone yet. Hopefully it won't take much longer, I'm about to brain him with an eighth pan.

Oh! I forgot I'm stupid.

Last night, for the second night in a row, I walked in to a three table section. Two of those tables were full. It was like a repeat of the night before. The last two nights, I've left with $50 and %70 respectively on fucking closing shifts. And the only reason I even made that much was because I got several 30% tips both nights. I'm trying not to get too bent out of shape about it--it happens. Everyone has bad luck sometimes, where they get that section and it's sat with squatters who start erecting like napkin huts to sleep in and hoarding melting ice cubes for the coming drought. Then when they finally move on, leaving their refuse behind, your tables are re-sat with Ma and Pa One-Foot-In-The-Grave and a couple of teenagers sharing a milkshake.

Anyway, my second table last right was two pushing-elderly couples. "Water with lemon" was a fucking epidemic last night, so I wasn't surprised when only one of them ordered anything else. When I delivered their drinks, they were still talking amongst themselves as to the best way to fleece the restaurant .... I mean, milk our promotional deals for every penny they're worth ... I mean get a good deal. No, wait, I meant the first one. They were so busy with this not a single one of them acknowledged me. So, I scooted off to greet my new table.

When I came back, the four of them were still talking, but it seemed to be general chatter. So, I asked if they'd made any decisions about dinner. The bitch on the left looked up at me, held up her menu, and made this flourishing gesture with her hand. "Yeeee--eeeesssssss." she said, like a thirteen year old girl when asked if she did her homework. Then she stared at me as if waiting for something. I don't know what it was; I just asked what she wanted.

So she ordered, then her husband. Then I got the other woman's order, and I was just asking her husband what he'd like when the first woman interrupted me. She started waving at me, arm thrust out as far as possible, like she was waving at somebody across the room. "Hellll-looooooooo!" I blinked at her. "We both like the steak and salad!" she gestured at the woman across from her.

I fought not to say, "Okay." and make her feel stupid, because she just kept looking at me! When I wasn't immediately forthcoming with some sort of appropriate butt-kissing, she started stuttering and stammering. I don't know what she expected me to say. The other woman finally asked if they could have another plate. But they all talked to me as if I were a dog that just couldn't quite understand.

Throughout their meal, they ignored me. I really hate it when I stand at a table trying to check on them and they act like I'm invisible. The only time they acknowledged me without me just plain interrupting them was when the less-rude woman asked for more dressing for the salad they were sharing. Immediately after that, of course, the other woman, who had so much food packed in her face she looked like a chipmunk, starting frantically flapping her hands and rolling her eyes at me. She kept making this little round gesture with her fingers, so I finally guessed she was asking me for the same dressing her friend had just asked for. Then the woman who'd originally asked me for dressing asked for it again, despite the fact I hadn't even taken a step away from the table yet!

And again, when they wanted boxes, they felt the need to tell me three times that they wanted two extra dressings to take home. I managed not to tell them I have ears and don't need to be told repeatedly, but I think it still showed on my face.

Perhaps the weirdest thing was that the "hellloooooo!" chick kept winking at me every time she spoke.

Another bad omen.

A mullet-shaped hairdo, comprised of tiny, tight little poodle ringlets. Gah!

I have stories to tell, hoping to type some up tomorrow. Right now I'm going to spend quality time looking at the inside of my eyelids!

Wait, shit costs money?

One of my least favorite tables on Valentine's Day was a mere table of two. The wife was polite, but not warm or friendly; the husband was rude from the start. He wouldn't make eye contact with me, or even speak directly to me! The woman had to order for him, because he just plain wouldn't answer.

Someone else delivered their food as I was taking another order; I checked on them right afterward. The man was slumped over his plate, stuffing steak in his mouth and scowling. The wife said her ribs were cold, so I took them back and right away rang in a new order on the fly. Then I told Idiot Expo, "I need a new order of ribs on the fly, it's a recook."

Idiot Expo got all shitty with me. "You ring in more on the fly food than any other server!"

"Well, you fuck up more than any expo, so what?" I was in no mood for his shit.

"I don't, I keep this kitchen running smooth." he said with that particular kind of arrogance only a 20 year old male possesses. Whatever.

Several minutes later, I deliver the new ribs. She says they're fine, but she still didn't really eat them. Again, whatever. Pot Smoking Manager comped off both orders, so she ate for free. I explained that as I dropped off their ticket, but I wasn't entirely surprised when the called me back over.

See, like so many corporate restaurants now, we have one of those annoying-ass specials where people get a complete meal for a set price--an appetizer, two meals, and a dessert for $25, that sort of thing. They had ordered that special, and were pissed off that their bill was still about twenty bucks. Well, they'd ordered a couple of soft drinks too. So when you add up the remaining meal, the app, and the dessert (the cost is split between the items), plus the two drinks, plus tax, yeah, that's what it ends up as! They just didn't get it.

The first thing the guy said to me was, "Well that just doesn't make sense! It's supposed to be $25, you took off almost half, how is it so much!" So I explained how the total cost is divided between the items, and pointed out that they had two drinks, and where the tax was. He still said it didn't add up. So I offered to get them a calculator if they wanted to re-check it .... at which point he said he'd already added it, and it was right, but "it just doesn't make sense". He continued to bitch and moan and was so angry I just went and got PSM to talk to them. I don't get paid enough to deal with idiot fuckers like that. Especially not for their dollar tip.

Apologies.

Hi everyone! I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I haven't been able to keep up with my comments like I usually do--both leaving them elsewhere and replying to them here. School is absolutely kicking my ass, and with working 30-40 hours too I'm falling behind. I'm trying to keep my posting regular, although I know that's dropped off a bit too. I'm starting to think I may have bitten off more than I can comfortable chew with three upper-division classes ....

Anyway, I am still reading as many other blogs as I can, and all your comments here just warm my cranky little heart. Thank you all, and stories to come!

Way to waste labor!

Oh, the stupid. It maketh my head hurt.

Valentine's Day was not the raging clusterfuck CL was anticipating. We were absolutely insanely over-staffed. We had three hosts, two expo, two bartenders, three fucking to-go people, nine servers, five managers (all four of ours plus the district manager, wtf?), and I don't even know how many cooks.

Now, I understand it's V Day. And last year, we had five hours in a row of $1000+ sales/hour (which for our restaurant size and pricing is slammin'). But, uh, here's the thing ... last year it was on a Saturday. Apparently when making the schedule, that crucial little difference didn't cross anybody's minds. We really were not any busier than a regular Sunday night! Maybe a smidge. But we had about ten extra people, and it was just ridiculous. I understand preparing; but the problem is that they didn't make cuts when it became apparent we weren't going to get slaughtered.

The three to-go girls? There until 7:30. The two expos? Both there until 8:30. CL and Lapdog thankfully left at around 6. The district manager didn't leave until 7, which was just lovely and stressful. The second bartender was released at 8; the third host at 8; the second host at 8:30. The first round of server cuts didn't come until 8:30 either.

It just seems like they could've planned it just a little bit better. Maybe instead of nine servers, or our regular six, go with seven and a couple of easily cut food runners. Etc. But no, can't do that! Everybody panic!

Goddamn liars.

A couple of minutes after I got to work, another server came rushing up to me. She said she'd greeted "my" tables and gotten their order and was transferring them to me. Turns out the hosts had sat my section about fifteen minutes before I got there, and nobody noticed. Splendid.

Still, those two tables ended up being just peachy keen and nice as can be. It was a third table, who'd been sat while my coworker was filling me in, who was the problem. They had an attitude from the beginning; they kept giving me "what, are you stupid?" looks every time I asked them a question. They were total white trash--a couple of about twenty or so, in huge baggy jeans and huge baggy shirts with super classy logos on them. And they had a kid of about two.

They didn't finish their first sodas before they got their food; they hadn't finished them when I checked back, or when I got her more salad dressing. I then got a little distracted dealing with Idiot Expo and the steak re-cook (see previous post, which I wrote on my phone while waiting for my dinner later on). When I'd returned the steak to the kitchen, I did a lap; Trashy and Trashy's Bitch and Trashies' Crotch Spawn all had half-full drinks and were still eating. I greeted another table, went to the kitchen, retrieved said steak, retrieved a box for another table, retrieved drinks for the new one.

Then I delivered all those things, and that's when I saw The Trash glaring at me. They were doing that peculiar sort of chin-in-hand, eye-rolling, contemptuous glare that always makes me want to remove somebody's septum with a fork. I ignored it and asked about dessert. They declined; I asked if they wanted refills, now that their drinks were empty, and they said yes. So I left their bill and went to fetch them a box and drinks. My new table still wasn't ready to order. I came back with the box, and Trashy's Bitch and her Spawn weren't at the table. Trashy was sitting there, staring at the spread of shredded napkins and macaroni on the table, probably contemplating how much happier his life would be if he'd used a condom.

My new table still wasn't ready to order; my two others were ready to cash out. Well, one was; the other was insisting on getting a senior discount on top of the 25% they got for their wait. So I had to go get Pot Smoking Manager, get him to discount it, take another copy to them, go cash out the other table, come back, pick up their check, run it, and return it. Somewhere in there Trashy's Bitch and Spawn came back, and they all sat there looking unhappy, the check sitting on the table untouched.

As I'm closing out Discount People's ticket, I see The Trash stop Bitter Divorced Man. He was still talking to them as I approached with Discount People's credit slips; I greeted my new table, then went to get the order from my other new table, who had finally made up their minds. Then I turned around, and saw that The Trash didn't have a bill. I thought I'd had a blonde moment, so I double-checked that I'd dropped it off. They just said "YEAH" with no explanation. Alright then.

I went to the kitchen to ring in food and my new table's bar drinks; BDM pulled me aside and that point and told me how The Trash had complained. They told him they waited forever and people ignored them, that I was "inattentive" and didn't look at them when I walked by, that they didn't get their refills until after they were done eating (well, yeah, you dumb fucking hillbillies, you don't generally get refills until you finish the first fill!), blah blah blah. I told BDM that wasn't accurate; he said "I'm just giving you their perspective." I countered with, "Well, their perspective is full of crap." He didn't like that.

That's all he told me. He didn't mention giving them a discount; he didn't mention taking them a new ticket. I discovered they'd gotten a discount by accident, when I was trying to select the table next to them. I was slightly weeded by this point, due to being taken aside and lectured after getting sat again; but I checked if they had a card or cash out as I was going by, and then didn't. I got more drinks, more ranch, etc., for my other tables, and as I was headed to my section I saw that The Trash were gone. Of course, there was no money on the table, and I almost hoped they'd done a dine-and-dash so BDM would see they were trash.

Then I saw Trashy's Bitch slumped against the front door, blocking anyone else from getting in and out, with a grip around her Spawn's forearm to try to control the shrieking thing. She was grinding her teeth and rolling her eyes and generally looked like somebody had tried to steal her child or something--wait, she'd probably be less upset by that.

"Did he take your bill somewhere?" I asked politely.
"Yeah," she snapped, with another death glare/eye roll. "To the bar."
So I scuttled down there, but the bartender had already given him change. "Thanks, Laura." I smiled at her, and completely ignored Trashy. I'd decided he could go fuck himself even before I knew for certain that they'd left exactly $9.12--their bill after getting $25 taken off.

It threw me off for a good hour or so, because I kept going over it in my mind, trying to figure out if I'd actually messed up. Maybe I could've gotten them refills even though they had soda left, but that's the only thing--it's not like they'd sucked them down right away and been waiting. They were just white trash ignoramus discount-seeking asshat high school dropout doucehounds.

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Oh, Idiot Expo!

Don't argue with me. It doesn't matter if you think the steak is medium rare instead of rare like I said. Nobody cares what you think. It just needs to be medium well. So shut the fuck up and give it to the grill cook.
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Non-verbal and verbal communication.

There are certain things, as a customer in a restaurant, that you're not obligated to respond to. It's polite, for instance, to respond to your server's polite smile as he/she walks by to check on you. But you don't have to respond. If you see your server's eye twitch when you order something, you don't have to ask about it--although you probably should.

Other things, however, you need to respond to. Nonverbal things that require a response are things like your server stopping at the table. Shut the fuck up and answer my question, okay? You can continue bitching about your neighbor in a second.

The appropriate respond when your server speaks to you? A goddamn answer. I had these two women last night, one of my last tables. I delivered their food and asked if they would like anything else. One told me she'd like another beer in a few minute--hers was still half full. I smiled and said okay, anything else when I come back with that? Nope.

So I sat down and had a couple bites of my dinner, then rang in her beer when I saw from across the restaurant that it was getting low. When I got back to the table, maybe four minutes had elapsed.

"How is everything?" I asked as I set her beer down. I could see they hadn't eaten much, if at all, but they'd been talking to I assumed that was why.
"Well," said one of them, starting with the attitude. "We don't know, do we! We need some ranch, two sides of ranch, and two plates, and we need water!"
I blinked at her, said I'd be right back, and muttered under my breath the entire way to the kitchen: "Maybe you should've fucking spoken up when I asked you twice if you wanted anything else, bitch. Who the fuck sits there not eating because they don't have enough ranch, they already had some, Miss Thing should watch her fucking attitude or they can have two sides of my foot up their ass." Yeah, I get pissy when little just-turned-21 girls get snotty with me.

They didn't use the plates. They didn't use the extra ranch, only the one that was on their goddamn plates to begin with. And only one of them drank any water. Am I surprised? Ha!

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Is it bad ...

That I've only been here an hour and I'm already counting down to close?

Six more hours ...
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I do not like you.

ETA: I changed the title of this post this morning, because it was a tiny bit harsh. I was extra cranky last night over something else! I really should save that level of vitriol for the truly bad people. Middle Finger Cat stays though, as he's hilarious!

I got a table of three tonight that always seems to find something to complain about. I got a bad feeling when I greeted them, but I shrugged it off--my back was killing me, to the point where I was taking tiny little baby steps and couldn't lean over (and naturally I had the station farthest from the kitchen). I wasn't as sharp as I should have been because of the constant stabbing pain, which I guess is how I somehow managed not to put their order in. I honestly thought that I had; I even checked on it--I thought. Turns out I kept pulling up the table next to them and I don't know why.

So I finally realize how I fucked up, and get their food in on the fly, and get Pot Smoking Manager on the case. I also told them it was my fault, and apologized. They got their food less than ten minutes later, told me everything was great, ordered a second round of drinks. PSM comped all their food, of course; they only had to pay for their alcohol. When they put out their cash I said I'd be right back with their change, and got the man paying said they didn't need change. I hadn't looked at the amount, so I thought I might be getting a tip. And I did, technically. I'd rather I didn't; they left a forty two cent "tip". To me, that's more insulting than nothing at all.

I was a first cut, and when my last two tables paid I sat down for about ten minutes. When I stood up, mentally ready to hobble around doing my sidework .... my back didn't hurt! I was amazed! I wanted to dance and sing and skip around. So the night ended well after all!

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Pen dilemma!

A few weeks ago we had to hand out and collect e-mail list cards to our tables. This, of course, gave cutomers double the chances to steal my goddamn pens! And steal them they did. So I stopped at Office Max tonight to replenish, and found myself baffled. It shouldn't be so hard to pick out pens!



But I'm strangely a little less cranky when I have pens I like to take orders with, which is why for a few months I was carrying "me" pens in one pocket and "those bastards" pens in the other. Unfortunately, my $2 purple pens were popular with my coworkers and any time I left one by my crossword it vanished. Plus, the ink ran out fairly quickly.



So I vetoed those. But I wanted clicky pens--I hate getting pen marks all over my hands when I reach in to my pockets. And I wanted ones that write smoothly, I hate pointy pens that tear my paper. And I wanted colors but I don't like orange and green pens. Why? Uh, I don't know, just don't. And I prefer blue to black. And I like pens that feel smooth outside, without textured plastic or anything odd like that.



Yeah, I'm stupidly picky about pens. I ended up with two four packs of roller ball pens in red, blue, black, and purple. Let's see how long it takes for bitches to steal them.

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Psycho hosebeast!

My poor friend L. Last night was her first night at work since she was basically demoted. She'd had people offer her shifts in the last week or so, but she was really nervous about coming back--not to mention angry and hurt. She and Chicken Little used to kind of be friends, actually, so all this has really been stressful for her.

Anyway, it figures on her first night back she gets a total bitch. This woman and her husband ordered wine and an appetizer, and said they wanted to "enjoy them". Well, L., being a good server, checked back from time to time, when she brought a second glass of wine, when she cleared their appetizer plates away, etc. Finally she heard the woman tell her husband, "You know what I want, you can order for me." So L. stopped and asked if they were ready to order.

The bitch's head about exploded. She started yelling--literally--at L., telling her she was a waitress for 40 years and she would never treat a customer the way L. was treating them. She demanded the check, and then she continued to yell about how L. was so rude, and she was going to "report" her, etc. etc. The husband was totally quiet this whole time, he just started guzzling his wine! L. came back to the kitchen and told Lapdog the story--thanking her lucky stars CL wasn't working, I'm sure. Lapdog finished expediting the order he was on before heading out there.

In the meantime, this woman had gotten up from her table and was accosting the customers at the tables around her! I couldn't hear what she was saying, because I was taking care of my tables on the other side of the restaurant, but I saw her getting in peoples' faces. L. said she was demanding that the other customers agree with her that L. was a terrible server, and so rude, and such a bitch! Apparently one of them men she wouldn't leave alone finally said, "GET AWAY FROM ME."

Eventually, Psycho Hosebeast migrated toward the door, clutching the book with her check in it. L. tried to follow her and grab it, but another table stopped her and asked to talk to the manager--to tell him that the woman was crazy, that L. was the best server they'd ever had, that she'd better not get in trouble because that woman was just crazy!

Psycho had reached the host stand; she jammed the black book at Wannabe and told her to "Take this to that BITCH who was waiting on us!" Lapdog bought their appetizer and wine just so to try to stop the bitch from calling and complaining later; and also so that she wouldn't have a corporate survey slip to take with her! The other tables in L.'s section stood up for her, which is great; then they started joking with her. The man who told Psycho to get away from him responded to one of her questions with, "Are you supposed to be talking to me?" before starting to laugh.

Of course, L. was super stressed out about it, because she knows CL is looking for a reason to fire her. I asked Lapdog if he was going to document this so if the woman called back L. wouldn't be in trouble; he assured us he'd explain the situation if it came up, so hopefully L. is safe.

I'm glad I didn't have any nutcases in my section tonight--the first few hours I was there I was hobbling around, walking like I had a stick up my ass. Carrying a single plate was almost intolerable. Then something kind of popped and released in my back and it got better--not perfect, but better. Which was good, since I was a closer!

ETA: SkippyMom pointed out that I did say what L. supposedly did "wrong". Er ... yeah. She was checking on them too much, apparently.

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Oh, hell!

I'm supposed to work tonight, but I slipped on some ice and am currently at the doctor's office. Rather hard to serve food when you can't lean over or walk instead of hobble. Fuck my fucking life.
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Math.

(Slightly Cranky Waitress x 3 hours of sleep) + 8 hour school day - any desire to go to work + 4 shots of espresso gulped in the car on the way to work = hilarity.

I don't often drink coffee, and I don't like energy drinks. I suck down Diet Coke in probably pancreas-cancer causing quantities, but that caffeine level doesn't seem to affect me. A regular coffee from Starbucks does nothing for me, even when filled with the insane amounts of sugar required for me to enjoy it. To get any benefit from caffeine, I have to have a lot of it in a concentrated form, which is why I don't often utilize my espresso machine--I don't actually want to cultivate a serious caffeine habit.

Today, though, I knew I wasn't going to make it through my shift without some artificial energy. So I fired up The Machine and made eight shots of peppermint espresso. I chugged half of it, iced and with cream, on the way to work. The rest I took with me in case I crashed hard--Friday nights are always so long, even though I got someone to take the closing part for me. I even used a "no sidework" coupon I had, so I thought I'd be home and in bed hours and hours ago. Ha! Of course I got a table of hellion children that it took me 45 minutes to clean up afterward.

Anyway, I was a freaking nut the entire night. I think I managed to act fairly normal around my tables, but in the back was another story:

• At one point I was idly flipping my hands around and someone asked what I was doing; I promptly told her I was swimming and proceeded to breast-stroke, freestyle, and butterfly back and forth across the kitchen.
• I took a roll of printer paper, held on to the end, and threw it at a friend--who didn't catch it, and it rolled halfway across the restaurant while I scampered after it giggling madly.
• The same friend and I were dancing in the front of house at one point. I had my arms full of dishes and was headbanging.
• For the sake of this one, let's pretend my name is Jennifer. For some reason religion came up, and I said I'm a "Jenniferian" (with a muscle-man pose, I don't know why) and proceeded to lay out the tenets of my faith: thou shalt love cats, thou shalt feel free to lust after thy neighbor if he's hot enough, assorted other bullcrap.
• I remember at some point declaring that Bitter Divorced Man "will slap a bitch!"
• I kept singing/humming bits of Stephen Lynch songs at people who knew it. My friend Rachel was particularly horrified by some of the lines of "Waiting".
  
• Another time I sidled up by another friend, holding a fork. She tried not to look at me but she knew I was up to something, so eventually she did. I licked the fork. Why? I don't know. But she cracked up.
  

Basically, I was my own primary source of entertainment tonight. Go me!

With that, my friends, I'm taking the weekend off. I'm not even going to think about work again until Monday. See you then!

This is not a fucking McDonald's play place.

I don't care if the home team won or not, control your fucking crotch spawn. Being junior squirt cheerleaders does not make them as fucking special as you think!
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Nobody was fun at all tonight!

I had only six tables (I was a first cut and had campers), and they were all boring! Nobody wanted to joke with me, nobody was rude or funny or noteworthy at all. Bah! How am I supposed to maintain a blog with customers like that?

We've got some ridiculous changes about to take place. Our new vice president of our division is all about "building late night business!!!!" so we're going to be open at hour later every night starting in March. To try to bring people in, we're going to be doing shit like bingo, poker, maybe even fucking karaoke. I cannot express to you how fucking retarded this is in the town I work in, and in the restaurant I work at. I don't even want to think about it. Here's a homicidal ferret.

It makes me smile ...

When I check my webstats and see someone reading from a place I'm familiar with. Hello, person who works at the hardware store that starts with an M, in the town I grew up in! :)

Started off pissed, ended up ... disturbed.

I was supposed to close with Anna last night; she asked Dallas to close for her. I was aggravated enough by that--the girl is whiny and lazy and just plain fucking obnoxious. I was spared closing with her, though ... because Lapdog told Anna he needed to have "at least one strong server" closing. Ouch, right?

I was a bit cranky over the for a while, but I'm guessing he probably didn't mean it that way--or why would he keep scheduling me for closes? I've got four next week, for Chrissakes. So eventually I just started making jokes about--"Hey Anna, can you take water to 40 for me? Because, you know, I'm just not a strong server."

Later on, I had a table of two. The guy had showed up first, and ordered own primo, most expensive margarita. When his friend finally showed up, I suggested one for her, too, and she ordered one. She ordered a meal off our super annoying dieter's menu; I went to take care of my other tables. A few minutes later, I saw Lapdog chatting with them. As I walked to the kitchen with some plates he stopped me.

"They'd never heard about [Horrid Diet Margarita]," he said. "Why didn't you tell them about it?"

I fought not to roll my eyes. "Well, I thought we were focusing on the [most expensive drink on the menu] right now."

"Naw, we're focusing on all them!" he then laughed, and put his arm around my shoulders, and gave me an affectionate shake. "Help me out here!"

I was so startled I didn't know what to do! He was touching me! And being ... I don't know, like a normal person instead of a big jackass. WTF? I kind of laughed and continued to the kitchen; he followed me, saying (very nicely) that I needed to remember to tell people about that nasty drink.

"I thought the [premium drink] would be an easier sell, because he already had one." I pointed out. I didn't mention there's a $2 price difference as well.

Lapdog was actually quiet for a moment then! "You might have a point there. But tell people about it anyway when they order those low-cal things. "

(This next part maybe requires a bit of description. Lapdog's nickname among the staff used to be Lumbergh, as in "Office Space". He doesn't talk like him, but there is a startling physical resemblance -- not to the actor, really, but that character. It's strong enough that a friend of mine who doesn't even work with me took this picture, cut out Lumbergh, and pasted it in to a picture of my workplace--then added my restaurant's logo to his shirt and mug!)

The rest of the night passed at a slow crawl--I had a decent number of tables, but I really didn't feel like being there so it seemed to last forever. We had a couple of tables hanging out after close, but they were Anna's, so I was in the back attempting to scrape old soup off the expo line. We had the classic rock station on, so I'm scrubbing along to "Whole Lotta Love", restraining myself from singing because you can really only sing to that song loudly.

Which is exactly what Lapdog came around the corner doing. Okay, so he was singing, no big deal ... except he very rarely sings. Also, it was at about 4:48 in to the song. And let's be honest, nobody wants to hear their boss groaning about that. Especially not if he looks like Lumbergh.

Bad omens 2

-Neck tattoos

-A big curly silver nose ring dripping out of one or both nostrils

-Long hair curled and moussed into those greasy, shiny, crunchy, stiff waves

-"Is water free?"

-Teardrop tattoos

There are hungry kids in Africa, you know!

It drives me nuts when people waste food for stupid reasons. If you're not hungry and you don't like leftovers, that's fine. If you don't like it, okay. But some people I just want to take their plate and dump it over their stupid heads.

A perfect example is a gentleman who came in a couple of weeks ago with his wife. They seemed perfectly pleasant, if ancient. I was pouring drinks when someone took their food out, and was about to carry said drinks out when the host radioed the manager saying that my old guy was throwing a fit and I'd better get out there.

"Does this look plate look grungy to you?" he asked me, his eyes bulging out.

I leaned over to inspect it, immediately worried. I didn't see anything, except ... "Oh, looks there was just a splash of sauce there."

"Well, I'd hate to think you'd serve food this way!" At this point his eyes looked like they were going to pop out from between his livid red lids. I was sort of surprised and blinked at him. "Look at this! There's no reason there should be any sauce! Not unless the poured it from up here!" He held his hand as high in the air as he could.

"I can get you a new one," I said, still failing to see what the problem was. Anybody with a brain could see a sauce-slathered noodle had slid along the edge of the plate, and that it was the same fucking sauce that had splashed on the edge of the plate.

"I'm not eating this, this plate is dirty." He was nearly yelling now. I kept offering to get a new one, and he kept bitching--and stabbing at the food and mixing it up. Finally, I just picked up the plate and said I'd get a new one, because I was tired of him not answering me. He very sarcastically said, "Oh, THANK YOU."

We couldn't just put it on another clean plate--he'd stirred it up so he would know if we did that, I'm pretty sure, and since the plate was "dirty" he'd have thrown a fit. So because the edges of his plate weren't perfectly spotless, we had to throw away his food and cook an entirely new meal for him.

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Excellent!

I'm closing tonight with Cali, Pot Smoking Manager, and my favorite bartender. Couldn't get much more perfect!

ETA: Okay, it would have been better if we'd had some damn business! $36 on a fucking close, it was ridiculous!
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Okay, one quick story before bed!

One of my coworkers today had a table ask what her name was.

"My name is Cindy," she said. It's not an unusual question, after all.

"Oh. Well, can we call you April?"

WHAT?