Monday, June 28, 2010
The problem with trying to find a job from home, though, is that there's the potential to get scammed. What's needed is a Home Based Business Directory -- oh hey, there we go. I haven't done any in-depth research on HomeBusinessBug.com, but the site is designed for business owners to advertise their at-home work opportunities. They seem to have a good list of Work from Home Articles, such as understanding the different types of businesses advertising and such. The index also shows, right there on the page, how much money is needed to get started--which has got to be helpful in weeding out blatant scams.
Then again, if I stopped waitressing I'd have nothing interesting to blog about! And I know you all don't want that!
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
"So, uh, P?" I finally managed to compose myself a few minutes later. "Do you know what homoerotic means?"
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
But, somebody a step above us on the corporate ladder decided that every restaurant needs to designate in and out doors, regardless of sense. Here's a (very clumsy) diagram of our kitchen:
Anyone with an ounce of common sense will immediately spot the problems. Like, oh, I don't know, having to traverse the entire length of the kitchen with dirty plates. Especially on a Friday night--dodging the panicking carside person, people digging in the cooler for things, waiting for computers, rolling silverware, pouring drinks, washing hands, stocking ice ... then there's the expo running up and down that area too, and the people with hot food leaving the kitchen, before you finally get to the dish area. It's fucking idiotic. At least they did insert a modicum of common sense: originally the doors were flipped, so we'd be dodging all that while carrying food! I was just waiting for somebody to get a fajita skillet to the face with that shit going on.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
"Okay, two (Fried Chicken With Sugar Dressing More Calories Than A Cheeseburger) Salads," I said very clearly. "Would either of you like some soup before dinner?"
They ignored me. Okay, whatever. Patio dwellers are usually giant pains in my ass, so I just continued on about my business. Ten minutes later, another server comes up to me with two salads and asks where they go. Grunt Man and his silent wife had said the salads weren't theirs--"we ordered pasta!"
Nothing galls me more than to have to apologize and kiss ass to the person who was actually at fault, but I did my best. They weren't satisfied, and bitched out the manager, and demanded free food and free dessert. They refused to make eye contact with me the rest of the time they were there, and they stiffed me.
Because, you know, I should be able to read minds--both when they order the wrong thing and when I repeat it and don't get corrected!
One of those douchebags decided he didn't want to take any more tables. So he told the hostess that we were down to closers--which meant only one side of the place got sat, which fucked me and Wide-eyes over completely.
I thought Lapdog's head was going to pop right the fuck off his neck when he heard that, he went off on the people involved! And then apologized to me for it, much to the disgust of Wide-eyes, who he also bitched out about something. Ha!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I have had two tables in two hours. Lapdog will not make cuts, though, because three servers are "busy"--with tables camping out for trivia. I'm spending as little time doing anything as possible, because I'm not going to be my coworkers' bitch for server wage. Especially when they don't even actually need help.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Mother's Day was quite an interesting day for me. I'd gotten up at ten the morning before, after four hours of sleep, and had a brilliant day. When the clock struck midnight in New York City, I was crossing Times Square with three Brazilians, two of whom I'd just met. We wandered a bit, ate at McDonald's, ogled Morten Harket's ass on one of their cameras, and at about 2:30 headed down in to the subway. I had taken the E line in to Manhattan, but it was re-routed so I had to take the F back to the airport. Unsure of how much the stations would have changed, I asked a friendly transit worker what stop to get off at. She told me to get off at the very last stop. Easy! So I did, and .. uh ... was not the right one. Ghetto is probably a little too harsh of a term, but it wasn't a very welcoming place at night.
I located another Metro employee, who said I needed to get off one stop earlier. So I waited for the train to come back around, wondering what I was going to catch from the particles the guy with rotting feet was shaking off his socks. Then I walked up and down the length of the train, trying to figure out where the conductor's car was, before giving up and just sitting in the car with the most people. At this point, it was 4 a.m.! My plane left at six and I still had to take the lightrail from the subway station, so I was starting to panic.
I made it to the airport in time, and even had a few minutes to charge my phone at a handy mobile charging station, before climbing in to the puddlejumper that took me to Washington D.C.. I slept in few ten minutes increments on that plane, and then again on the plane home. Then I blearily hiked to the far lot where my car was--having kind of forgotten where I'd parked, and headed home. Except I took a detour up in to the mountains to get my dog from my dad's house, then came back down and showered and went to work at four. So by the time I got to work, I'd been awake for essentially 32 hours.
I did pretty damn good, though--I was still on such a high from my trip that the exhaustion hadn't hit me yet. I had a four table section, three large booths and one small one, and overall I got some great tips. The one exception was a bunch of glaring fucking assholes, though.
When they were there, I had a seven, a five, and a six, all in a row in back-to-back booths. The flaming assholes were the five in the middle, but they did a good impression of being nice people. They never told me anything was wrong; they never gave me any impression anything was amiss. And remember, I had tables on either side of them, I was constantly in the area, constantly making eye contact etc. So imagine my surprise when I picked up their ticket and found a nice long note. Spelling, punctuation etc. all as written:
"Reasons for no tip:
1) Sat for 10 mins without silverware + napkins ... with hotwings. What are we to wipe our hands with?
2) Had to finally ask other waitres for same
3) Had to wait 5 mins for water refill
4) once refill brought, no ice ... warm. Nice!
5) steaks ... no steak sauce offered. Had to ask other server
6) Tips are a privelege for good serve ... not a right."
Okay, you douchesack sucking asshat, let's look at this. You sat for 10 minutes without silverware with boneless wings? My fucking ass you did! Okay, I didn't notice you didn't have silverware--obviously the host didn't bring you any. But I didn't deliver your fucking wings, because I was taking an order two feet away from you. And you were eating said wings when I was done taking that order. That did not take ten minutes, and there's no "finally had to ask other 'waitres' for same" when I am clearly in your goddamn sight. Also, technically, those two reasons would be the same. You're just trying to make your pathetic fuckstick list look longer.
Now, it's entirely possible you waited five minutes for a water refill. What you're ignoring is again, I was in your sight that whole time, and more importantly your glass was never actually empty! And there was also ice in your glass when I refilled it with the water pitcher--pretty common practice at any restaurant, you ignorant numbnuts! Also, again, three and four would be the same "problem".
Let's review what happened with the steak sauce. I brought several plates out, with Brainless behind me. I set down the plates I was carrying and took two steps over to the bar to pick up the water pitcher since all you cheap bitches were sucking it down so fast. As I turned back around, Brainless (who had brought out the plate with the steak on it) asked you if you wanted steak sauce. Please tell me how that translates in to "no steak sauce offered. Had to ask other server".
And now, as for you grand conclusion? As it turns out, good service is a "privelege" not a right. And I will remember you, your poorly spoken wife, and your goofy looking socially inept pockmarked piebald idiot teenage children the next time you come in, so you might want to just turn back around and leave before some Orange Power degreaser finds its way in to your hot wing sauce.
(As much vitriol as I'm spewing now, I honestly didn't let it ruin my night. I'd just spent three nights in the presence of my favorite Norwegians, meeting awesome people and having the time of my life. I'm pretty sure I was happier that weekend than these fuckers will ever be in their lives!)
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
This batch of them has mostly been okay--with one glaring exception. One of them is an arrogant douchebag who thinks he's hot shit. Every time I work with him, it's just a non-stop litany of nit-picky stuff. Only instead of stating things as a rule, he has to make some asshole joke. "Hey, how big are those earrings? Yeah? That's funny, because I thought the employee handbook said earrings have to be under a half inch long."
The last time I worked with him, I was almost ready to just walk out because I was so sick of it:
"This food isn't going to run itself!" (I couldn't bite my tongue--"And these peoples' orders aren't going to take themselves either!") He said this while standing there doing nothing, of course.
"That better an important text, better be Obama or something." (to one of the cooks)
"Smile guys!" (FUCK YOU!)
"Let's make sure we're getting people the right food, we want them to have a good experience!" (No fucking way! Really?)
"Aren't glasses supposed to be full to the top with ice?" (Not if they asked for light ice, why don't you fuck off already?)
"Am I wrong here, isn't there a charge for a side of guacamole?" (No, not in this case. Again, fuck off.)
And on and on and on. My favorite, though, was when he picked up an ice cube off the floor and yelled, "Every ice cube counts, guys!"
That's when I decided he must be the bastard lovechild of Chicken Little and Lapdog.
ETA: SkippyMom's comment reminded me that after he said that, I started throwing ice everywhere when his back was turned. Floors, counters, in the cooks' window, etc. Muahahaha!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The restaurant I currently work at is one I worked at six years ago, for three months. I don't have a whole lot of specific memories of customers from then, but there was one specific table I will never forget. It was three soccer moms and their kids, between 6 and 9 years old. Two of my tables had been pulled together for them. It was during the afternoon, not the rush, so that part was fine. What wasn't so fine was the fact that the moms were at one end of the table, the kids at the other, and beyond ordering the food, the moms completely ignored their children.
At first, the four kids were just demolishing their own table. After sucking on sugar packets, sticking gum to the table, mashing macaroni on the table, squirting ketchup all over the place, ripping up every napkin they could find, make sugarwater soup on the table, and destroying all our promotional flyers ... these children got up and started grabbing things from OTHER tables to destroy. And the women sat there, chatting and laughing, paying zero attention. Not one of them said one word.
When they finally left, the kids had dirtied four tables. It took fifteen minutes or more to clean up. I had to vacuum the floor, in the middle of the day. I got $5 for my troubles. It was so bad that my only other table, a middle-aged couple, asked me, "I can't believe they let their kids act that way. Do people do that often?"
It makes me feel old to say it, but I would never, ever have been allowed to behave that way when I was a kid. My daddy would've slapped me into next week for acting that way in public--not that it would've been an option to me in the first place. I knew better.
That was the first time I'd really experienced that sort of thing (though not the last). I'd worked at a local family-owned restaurant for years, and I don't remember people there ever letting their kids get that out of control. Sure, we had some asshats sometimes, but the fact that it was small, local, and just slightly more upscale apparently kept the worst offenders away. But at nation-wide, corporate places? People don't give a fuck.