Fuck me, I'm tired.

I picked up a temp job, so today was my eighth day in a row of work. And I have another 14 ahead of me. I'll post when I can, but most nights I can hardly see straight to get home.

Finally, a complaint about the right person.

CL's boss came in today, and spent the entire day following her around the restaurant, watching. We were all mystified. But after he left, CL started running her mouth to everybody who would listen. Turns out that a customer had the audacity to write to corporate and complain because they witnessed her standing at the end of the bar slamming things around, yelling, and swearing.

How dare they.

This is not an allergy attack.

(Managed to tether Internet through my phone, hooray! Have some negativity! ;) )

Tonight at work I was standing on a bench, wrestling with the retarded fucking excuse for blinds that our store has, when Nick interrupted me.

“Do the fajitas have mushrooms in them?”
I looked down and saw him and his table staring expectantly up at me. “Nope, no mushrooms.”
The biker-looking guy at the table promptly snapped, “I just ate two of them!” He then reached across the table and started stabbing at the fajita veggies, searching for mushrooms. His wife just sat there staring at Nick.
“Well, they're not supposed to have mushrooms.” I said pleasantly.
“Should I get HotPants?” Nick asked. I looked at him quizzically. “They said she's allergic.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Yeah, get HotPants.”

From then on, it was just a fucking circus. The couple insisted that there had been mushrooms in the fajitas – yet conveniently, they had already eaten all of them. The woman made a big show of holding her head in her hands as if upset, running to the bathroom with her hand clapped over her mouth, pacing up and down the aisle nervously, and even retching in the bathroom – with the stall door open – a few times. Meanwhile Nick is worried, HotPants is digging out the customer injury forms, and I'm laughing my ass off at the woman's over-acting.

It was just stupid on so many levels. First of all, if you're “deathly allergic” to something, you don't just forget that. Anybody who actually has a severe, life-threatening allergy to a common ingredient fucking asks if it's in every item. Even if it's stupid. If she were really allergic to mushrooms, she'd be asking if the fucking lemonade came in to contact with mushrooms – let alone sauteéd vegetables! Secondly, when you have an allergy like that, you carry an epipen and you whip it out to be ready for use at a moment's notice. Thirdly, severe allergies manifest as swelling, hives, closing air ways, etc. This chick had no visible symptoms and could obviously breathe just fine.

But of course, the real clincher came when I heard her tell HotPants, “I don't think we should have to pay. It's not fair to us.”

Allergy my ass.

Lack of Internet.

Had a power surge or something on Tuesday and it apparently fried my modem. I can post from my phone like now, but it takes forever.

And I'd probably just write something redundant and negative anyway. ;)

Your uppance will come.

One of the more annoying FNGs is … well … she's a go-go dancer. And not the classy kind, the naked-but-for-boots kind. I would have no problem for that if she weren't also a raging bitch. The first sign of this was when she approached one of the hostesses and asked what she was eating.
“It's chicken alfredo.”
Go-Go Girl poked the hostess in the stomach and said, “That's going to make you fat.” and then walked away. This was the first day she'd ever worked with that particular hostess. I pretty much just try to avoid her because I mostly want to slap her skinny ass to the ground.

I don't know what I did to my knee a few days ago, but it's been hurting like a sonofabitch. I've spent three days limping around the restaurant, calling every morning to request a section close to the kitchen, and basically trying not to cry every time I took a step. So imagine my irritation when I arrived at work tonight to find that I had the hardest section to work, and the one the absolute farthest from the kitchen: the goddamn motherfucking evil bitch patio. And unfortunately for me, I came in the last of everyone so I couldn't get any other station. I was irritated at CL for putting me out there, but I was even more annoyed when I found out that originally, Go-Go Girl had the patio.


The same hostess who I mentioned earlier told me that Go-Go Girl went to CL and said, “I don't want the patio. It's too far to walk. I'm not doing it.” And CL, having not worked with me the last few days and not knowing about my knee, decided to give the whiny little bitch my section just outside the kitchen door. Go-Go Girl, however, had worked with me and knew all about my sore knee.

I'm not going to be stalking her every move to get revenge or anything, but at some point she's going to need something. And when she does, I'm going to remember that because of her selfish bitchy little ass, I spent tonight in knee-crunching agony.

Yes, I should burn in hell.

The kitchen's been over-cooking steaks 99% of the time the last couple of weeks. And 99% of that 99% of the time, it goes like this:

“This is medium, it was supposed to be rare!”
“I'm so sorry, I'll have them cook you a new one right away.” I say in my best chipper waitress voice, whisking the offending plate.
“Thank you.”

But not this time. This time it was …
“This streak is medium, it was supposed to be rare!”
“I'm so sorry, I'll have them cook you a new one right away.” I reached for the plate and began to pick it up.
“What?” The woman grabbed the edges of the plate and slammed it back down on the table. “You're just going to take my whole dinner?” she asked with a sneer.
I blinked at her. “I like to make sure you get fresh new sides in this situation, ma'am. But I'll leave it if you'd like.”

She didn't answer, just glared at me and started stabbing at her potatoes with a knife. She muttered under her breath every time I was at the table for the rest of their meal. Whatever.

A very special rant.

I first heard about Fiverr.com through Regretsy. One of the more awesome fiverr gigs is this guy, who I happily gave $5 to swear and rant. I think I love him.

Wait .. I … but …. what?

Tonight was hell. Hell. My section was like a goddamn daycare. Children everywhere. Cranky customers bitching about things that weren't my fault. Not even worth writing about except for the fact that all of them were piled on me at once. I was ready to cry. I'd agreed to close for my Work Wife, but after dealing with rude assholes all night I just wanted to walk out the side door and never come back.

Then I felt like I got a lucky break: a couple in their late twenties with a smaller but polite child. They made eye contact, they said please and thank you. They ordered drinks and an appetizer, and answered all my questions. After taking their order I went back to the kitchen and said, “Finally! A table that doesn't suck!”

You see where this is going, right?

The 'nice' people got their food as I was taking an order at a rather more obnoxious, large table full of small children. I got a drink refill for someone, entered the big table's simple order, and went over to the nice people.

“How is you dinner so far?”
The man, who had both elbows on his table and was stabbing at his food, glowered up at me. “I need to see the manager.”
I smiled and said right away, having no idea what could be wrong. I guessed maybe there was something about the food that had pissed him off so much he didn't want to tell me, so I didn't particularly worry when I sent PSM to the table.

Five minutes later, PSM came back. “He's upset because he says you rolled your eyes in disgust at him.”
I think my mouth literally fell open. “I did not!”
“Well, he says you did.” PSM shrugged. “Maybe you didn't realize it, you did it just now.”
“But I knew I was doing it! And there was no reason I would have, they didn't do anything to irritate me or anything!”

PSM said not to worry too much about it, but I was so stressed out from the whole night's ridiculous idiocy that after he walked away I started to crack. Someone asked if I was okay and I burst into tears and a tirade about how much people piss me off. I ran through everything I could think of – was my contact lens bothering me? No. Did I look up to think when they asked me a question? No, they didn't ask me any questions. Did they say or do anything to irritate me that I might have rolled my eyes at? No. I was out of ideas.

But after I calmed down, I made a round of my tables, and then went to the 'nice' people. I had carefully planned what I was going to say; I know better than to deny something like that. I also waited until Kelly was at the next table and would hear the whole thing, which I was glad of later.
“Sir, my manager said you saw me roll my eyes at you and I just wanted to let you know it wasn't intentional.”
“Whatever.” the guy snapped and threw his fork down. “I don't even want to talk about it.”
“Well, I apologize.” I started to back up. “It wasn't directed at you.”
“You know what, I saw you do it twice, so--” he started flipping his hand at me to go away, so I did. A few minutes later, I saw PSM at the table again, with the guy clearly bitching about something new.

Turns out, the guy was complaining again because I apologized. According to him it was rude and “nervy”. Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck complains about an apology? Oh, wait – somebody who works in the restaurant business and knows exactly what to say to get free shit.

People and their goddamn bread!

(Fell asleep before I posted this last night. Fuck me, I hate double shifts.)

I don't know how people who work at restaurants with complimentary bread handle it. We don't do that, and people already piss me off! We do have garlic breadsticks we serve with our pasta dishes, and people can order them with other things if they'd like. Invariably, when someone asks for a breadstick, I have to clarify first that they aren't free, fuckers. This isn't an Italian restaurant. You're not family when you're here, either.

If they agree to pay the sixty cents (big money), I then have to go to the kitchen, ring it in, and then wait for the cooks to toast it and send it out. Occasionally, during the dinner rush, they'll have some pre-made for a pasta dish that isn't ready, so we can use that. More often, though, I go back out to my section with a soda refill or napkins or more ranch or more ice or a third extra plate or extra croutons or drained cole slaw or whatever the fuck people want, and Mr. Bread Stick Orderer will stop me, demanding to know where the bread stick is he ordered one minute ago. When I politely explain it's being toasted, half the people understand and half get a snitty fucking attitude with me.

Once again: Not an Italian restaurant. We don't keep an oven full of these things ready at all times because guess what? We have five items out of our 100 item menu that come with a bread stick. How many do you think we really go through? Oh, but wait, you're special so let me just go change the way the restaurant works just for you.

Guess again, Beaver.

I walked into work pissed off today. Actually, I woke up that way, and it just didn't get better. Then I arrived at work at my scheduled time of 5:30. I didn't expect my section to be full; things rarely get moving that early. But, since I was already in a bad moon, I naturally walked in to a nearly full section. I had two booths and three tables. Booth 11 was empty, booth 12 had five people in it who hadn't gotten their food yet. Tables 20 and 21 were sat with a table of eight, who had waters but no real drinks and hadn't ordered yet. Critical info. Table 22 was pulled together with table 23, which was in Eager Beaver's section, for another big table.

Eager Beaver's section wasn't full, but he also had tables in the section in another section; he was taking orders at 22 and 23. I was already irritated at the whole situation, but I waited for him to come down to aisle so I could “ask” if I could take the big top at 20 and 21. When he broke away from that table he turned and stopped at table 12, and at the same time the table I was going to ask if I could take flagged me down and asked to order. They'd been sitting for at least five minutes, because despite his greed and rudeness, Beaver really can't handle many tables and he frequently over-extends himself.

So I smiled and introduced myself, found out of they needed separate checks (yes) and began taking orders. Halfway through, Beaver bounded up while I was asking one of the guests about his side dishes.
“I got ya!” Beaver cut me off, holding his notepad at the ready, clearly giving me a dismissal.
I shook my head at him and continued talking to the now-confused customer. Beaver's face clouded up and he looked like he wanted to punch me. He stood there for a minute and then stalked off, muttering and swearing under his breath.

He continued to give me dirty looks and bitch behind my back all night. He also tried take table 12 when it got re-sat, until he turned around and I was standing there watching him. I could tell from his expression he was hoping he could get their order before I realized what he was up to.

I did sort-of apologize to him later, because it was kind of a bitch move to just take a table he considered his without asking. But really? He was going to keep 4/5 of my section? It would be one thing if they table had already ordered, but general common courtesy is if no food order has been placed, the incoming server gets the table. And then any lingering guilt was dispelled when one of the hostesses told me that Beaver had switched our sections! When those four tables got sat, and the first few members of the big parties arrived and started taking up tables, Beaver looked around and my nice empty section was sitting there waiting to be filled, with me fifteen minutes away. So Beaver got out a dry erase marker and swapped our fucking sections …. and then hung out at the host stand seating every table he could in his new section.

I really do not like him. I think I've mentioned that before.

What are those flaps on the sides of your head?

Oh yeah. They're ears. They're for listening. But I know that's much too difficult. It's much easier, when asked how many people in your party, to just say, “Oh, we're going to sit in the bar.” Then, when told explicitly that the bar is not a fucking seat yourself area, of course you're going to keep gossiping with your friends, literally pushing past the server attempting to seat you.

And, of course, you'll sit somewhere that won't accommodate the number of people you have meeting you, so you'll have to dirty up more tables and inconvenience another server by moving an hour later. At which point you'll camp out with your six waters with lemon.

Dumb Question Of The Day Award

I've often thought about making a "dumb question of the day feature". The problem is that so often, it's the same stupid questions repeated over and over:

Do you have a bathroom?
Do you have lemons?
Do you have napkins?
What's the difference between boneless and bone-in wings?
Do margaritas get free refills?
Etc.

Today's was fairly benign, but it just really makes me wonder: do people ever stop to think before the open their mouths? Twice tonight I was asked the following: "What's strawberry iced tea?"

Scamming.

Eager Beaver seems to always be rolling in cash.. He drives 20+ miles to work …. in a Hummer. He goes out drinking and runs up huge bar tabs. He's always bragging about how much he makes and waving his cash around. Some of it might be the fact that he's a blatant table thief, especially when it comes to the patio – if it's not assigned to only one person, then every time a table gets sat out there he is right the fuck on it. I don't like him, so I've kind of bitchily figured he's been stealing. But in the last couple of weeks several other people have told me they suspect he's stealing as well.

I wish I had proof. But all I have is other peoples' unsubstantiated word. AA said she's pretty sure she's seen him double-charge people when they're fighting over the ticket – if one person approaches him away from the table hands him cash, and another does the same with a card, he'll pocket the cash and run the credit card. Cat-Eyes thinks he's cheating on his upselling scores by always ringing in drinks that count, regardless of what the people ordered. If they were the same price that wouldn't be an issue, but if that's what he's doing, he's over-charging customers.

I think he's playing every stealing server's favorite game, and playing with soda counts. Corporate thinks they've stymied that with the new computer system, but …. not so much. I don't want to go into too many specifics, but I can think of at least two ways to very easily pocket money off of cash tickets. I don't know that Eager Beaver's been around long enough to have figured out those tricks, though.

And of course, the managers aren't always very careful with their cards, so there's the possibility he's applying discounts to cash tickets for his own benefit. I've noticed that PSM has been a lot more tight-fisted with his card when Eager Beaver is around, but he's never liked him. I don't think Lapdog does either; HotPants I'm not sure of. CL loves him, of course.

If he is stealing, I'm sure it's a combination of all of the above. If he can comp one meal a shift, senior discount another couple, pocket the cash from four or five sodas, over-charge people who tip on percentage, steal three or four tables from other people, and really luck out and have people who double-pay …. well, it all adds up. Someone might eventually catch him if he keeps it up, but I'm hoping I'll “stumble” across some evidence sooner rather than later. I really don't like him.

Suddenly obnoxious.

There are a couple of regulars, Julie and Lenny, who I've written about before. They've been coming in for ten years now, but lately their visits have been less frequent. The other day, I found out why: it seems that Julie told Chrissy that “they” (meaning she) didn't want to come in anymore because Cali Girl – who never even waits on them, being a bartender – laughs too loudly.

Prime assholery.

This last week, the restaurant has just been awash in fuckfaces. And it's not just me, all my coworkers are saying the same thing. It's just instance after instance of stupid shit. Mine have mostly been in the form of shitty attitudes and equally shitty tips, but some of my coworkers have had some hilarious bullshit. Here are just a few examples.

AA, for instance, had a table that was giving their kid sips of their sangrias. She didn't say anything to them about that, figuring it was their choice. At the end of the meal they asked her for to-go cups, and she smilingly agreed and said she'd bring them full fresh sodas to-go.

“No!” The woman snapped. “We just want the cups!”
AA thought that was strange, so she covertly watched them …. and sure enough, the woman poured their sangrias into the to-go cups! AA went to get Lapdog right away, and he promptly confiscated the cups and told them that was illegal. Naturally, AA got stiffed.


The next day AA approached a new table and said. “What would you like to drink?”
“What's that supposed to mean?” They snapped at her.


Another server, K, was having a super friendly chat with her table. They'd been bonding over kids; the table had ordered a lot of stuff and had a big tab. She thought for sure she was going to get a big fat tip.

“Where did you get that hair clip? It's adorable!” her customer asked.
K touched her metallic flower clip. “Oh, I got it at Wal-Mart!”
The woman's face darkened and she began to scowl. ”Wal-Mart? You shop at Wal-Mart?”
Taken aback, K just sort of nodded.
“I can't believe you support that evil corporation! I can't believe you give them your money!” The woman slapped her credit card down and shoved it at K with a glare. No tip.


Barbie was serving a table of normal-seeming folks, but when they left, she discovered that instead of a tip, they had left her a note on a beverage napkin. It read: “THE 'MUSIC' WAS TOO LOUD ALSO THE 'MUSIC' IS NOT MUSIC BUT ANNOYING NOISE”.
If you're so bothered by Top 40 music, why the fuck would you go to a ChilirobinTGIlbackabee's kind of place?


Meanwhile, I went to greet what appeared to be a table of five. I was confused at first as to why one person was standing, without a chair to sit on. Thinking the hostesses were just being idiots, I quickly said I'd go get one.

“Oh, no,” the smarmy-looking father said. “We're not eating. We're just waiting here until another table opens.”
I tried, but I don't think I really managed to control my sarcasm. “So … you're just hanging out? Until another table opens?”
“Yes, we'll have five waters. With lemon.”
I looked at the lobby, where people are supposed to wait for a table. Then I looked back at them. Then I walked away because I didn't think I could control myself.

I told Lapdog not to advertise at the Asshole Convention next year.

Over and over, people disappoint me.

Every once in a while, I get it in my head that I should try harder. I should try to really connect with my guests. I should do everything I can to make their dining experience better. Tonight was one of those nights.

My first table was a young family, dad, five year old daughter, and pregnant mom. They threw out one of those random comments about her pregnancy that let me know they're attention whores – you know, instead of just saying she'd have a plain cheeseburger it had to be she'd have a plain cheeseburger because “the spicy one” would upset the baby. And because I was in the mood I was in, I took the bait. I asked when she was due, clucked my tongue sympathetically when she complained of her morning sickness, and was smiley and friendly with the five-year-old. My coworkers who witnessed this were shocked, especially when I went about my business in the kitchen with nary a mention of annoying crotchspawn.

While family #1 was eating, family #2 sat down. Mom, dad, and a kid. After I fetched their drinks, the mother asked me if we had a half-sized portion of one of our pastas. I hate that question. If we had a half-sized portion of anything, it'd be printed on the fucking menu. So I said no. Then I retracted that, because I remembered that I was trying to go above and beyond – “You know what, I can make it happen.” She just sort of looked at me. “I know computer tricks.” I said with a smile.

And I do. I order it for dinner all the time. So away to the computer I went and got the uppity bitch her half-sized, half-priced meal. I also chatted with their kid; I continued to talk to Pregnant Lady.

I got a whopping 10% …. combined.

Logic? Cannot be.

I was shocked to walk in to work last week and see there were only seven people on the floor on a Monday night. I figured somebody had to have called in sick, or a lot of people requested the day off or something – because that's the level of scheduling we used to operate at, back when I actually used to make enough money to pay my bills. But when I came in a few days later it had happened again. And again. And again. Friday I had four tables, which is an improvement over the three table sections they've been handing out on weekends. Last night I had a six table section for the first time since … shit, almost a year, since last November.

Miraculously, it seems as if cold hard logic has finally busted through CL's over-staffing panic. I think it came about in the form of an area manager bitch-slap over labor hours, but whatever the cause, I just hope it stays this way.

I don't fucking do my job.

I like to swear as much as the next person. In fact, I fucking love to fucking swear. But the next time I hear Bug say the f word, I might lose it. Because it always seems to be used in the same way: “I don't fucking (insert part of her job here).”

“I don't fucking get ice.”
“I don't fucking run hot food.”
“I don't fucking answer the phone.”
“I don't fucking take tables on the patio.”
“I don't fucking close.”
“I don't fucking do the bathrooms.”
“I don't fucking put my hair up.”
Etc.

And of course, because she's a 26-year-old stick insect who gets wasted every night despite having three kids – i.e., she's who CL wishes she was – she gets away with whatever the fuck she wants. Tonight CL flipped out at me about how there were dirty tables, food to run, ice to get, blah blah blah – things I'd been doing. Bug, who was also cut already was doing her sidework and ignoring everyone panicking around her. Not a word was said to her. Grrr.

Anyway, because I've learned to take what little bits of satisfaction I can, I was amused when she pulled another “I don't fucking” that actually hurts her. We have a wing special one night a week: 5 for $2 or 10 for $4. Apparently, Bug finds this too confusing because the last time I worked with her on that day of the week, I heard her flat-out lie and tell someone that the regular wings were a better deal.

I asked why later, and was told “I don't fucking do that. I don't fucking mess around with this 'two dollar' 'four dollar' bullshit. They can get the fucking regular wings. It's the same fucking thing.”

I just said okay and left it at that. The regular order of wings is 10 wings, and one upsell point. So if she wants to screw herself out of upsell points on every other table by not ringing in two orders of five instead, that's just fine with me. Shifts are based on upsell percentages, after all.