Well, I'm in a bad mood.

So this would be a good time to write up that story, huh? I've found it's difficult to write my blog posts when I'm in a good mood -- because the good moods are never caused by work!

So last night was kind of a shitty night anyway. People were just impatient. Not too long after first cuts, I had a table of an elderly couple and their son on the patio. I thought they'd be a great table, they were smiling and happy and ordered big expensive drinks.

I delivered their food and asked if they needed anything else, having already brought them extra napkins and sauces in anticipation. They seemed thrilled with their food and said it was great, so I thought I could nip into the bathroom because my bladder was about to rupture.

Well, I came out a couple minutes later and Porn Star stopped me. "Your dude on the patio threw his ribs at me and said they were burnt, the kitchen's making him new ones."
"Shit. Okay, does he need new sides?"
"No, he kept his sides."

I went into the kitchen and was greeted with a glare from Lapdog. Apparently burnt ribs are my fault, rather than the cooks'. He asked if the guy still had his sides, and I said yes, and hustled out to the patio with new ribs.

Well, surprise surprise, the guy didn't actually have his sides. I apologized for the mis-communication and said I'd be right back. Naturally, I got to the kitchen and they didn't have any fucking fries cooked. They hadn't even dropped them. So I got his cole slaw, and I ran back out to the patio. I figured he'd be annoyed, but holy shit.

I placed the cole slaw on the table. "They're just cooking fresh fries for you, sir, they'll be ready s--"
"WHY THE HELL WOULDN'T THEY BE READY NOW!" he sprayed spit all over me as he yelled.
I was flabbergasted. "They're making fresh ones, I thought you'd prefer that."
I can't really articulate what all he said next. It was a blur of half-finished sentences about half-cooked fries, burnt ribs, bullshit, and I don't even know what else. At one point he scooted his chair back and started to stand up, making fists, like he was going to get in my face! He culminated the whole rant by yelling "Take the damn ribs!" and shoving the plate into my stomach so hard I really thought I'd have a bruise. Then he threw a ramekin of barbecue sauce onto the plate, splashing me with it. I was literally stunned motionless and speechless. Then he ripped the plate out of my hands, yelling "Put my goddamn ribs down!"

I didn't say another word. I just stomped away, ripping open the patio door, saying probably loud enough for them to hear, "I do NOT get paid enough for this!" By the time I reached the manager's office, I was in tears.
"Lapdog, you have to go talk to this angry old asshole on the patio."
He blinked at me.
"He's swearing at me, throwing things at me, spitting on me -- I'm not fucking dealing with him anymore."
Lapdog heaved a huge sigh and got up. I explained what happened as we went to the front of the house. As he went out to the table, I could see the old man's wife had gotten up and was rubbing his back, soothing him.

Lapdog came back several minutes later, bitching and moaning about having to comp so much food -- he took forty dollars off of their bill! What the fuck ever! But at that point I decided I wasn't going to let them know he'd upset me, so I delivered their bill professionally -- not making eye contact with the old asshole -- and when they were ready I cashed them out. I guess the old lady felt bad because she left me ten bucks, which is ten bucks more than I was expecting!

I can let a lot of things roll right off my back; I have a pretty thick skin. But that old bastard just crossed the line. Swearing doesn't offend me on its own, but combined with spitting, throwing things, jamming plates into my abdomen, and acting as if you're going to physically confront me? Fuck that. Fuck it hard. And fuck Lapdog too for bowing and scraping to someone who talked to his employee that way!

Not a real entry.

Someone was indeed a cockface, as I predicted. I wrote it down so I don't forget -- although this is one I don't think I will! -- because I've been mildly sick all week and don't have the energy to write it all out. But I haven't forgotten you! And as always, people suck.

I keep sitting down to write, honestly.

But then I start pondering my job and it's so distasteful, I just give up. Usually bitching about things here is my release valve, but I've been so distracted and happy lately that honestly I haven't felt the need to bitch! Plus most of my shifts have just turned into a smear of unimportant, hectic details. I don't think I can remember one specific thing, positive or negative, from my last four shifts.

Don't worry, I'm sure somebody will be a raging cockface soon enough!

Not gonna happen.

I waited on a charming old bat tonight.

“I want a salad before my dinner. Before. I want an iceberg salad. You have iceberg, don't you? If you don't Albertson's is right there!” she stabbed her wrinkly finger out the window at the grocery store in our shopping plaza. At first I started to laugh – then to choke when I realized the bitch was serious. I told her as mildly as possible that we did indeed have iceberg lettuce, and absolutely did not tell her to reel in her liver-spotted claw and go buy her fucking iceberg salad herself, Albertson's is right there.

He couldn't possibly be drunk!

A couple of my favorite customers were in with a group of their friends the other night, but I wasn't taking tables so couldn't wait on them. Instead, they got stuck with Eager Beaver – who they think is an arrogant cock, but who they usually have fun with anyway. I went over to say hello and one of them asked me for a refill because Beaver was ignoring them. I figured he was busy and didn't think too much of it – he likes to take on more tables than he can handle.

“Thank you. He's walked right by us a bunch of times and never even came back to get her order,” she gestured at her friend. “He's acting really weird.”
After asking if her friend still wanted to order (no), I asked how he was acting weird. They told me he was saying things that didn't make sense, slurring his words, and squinting at them. They also said they'd seen him trip a couple of time.

The wheels in my head started turning. Beaver is always desperate to get off work and start pounding down the beers, and he'd been working a straight-through double shift. When I went to fetch another thing for his customers, I made sure to get close enough to him to sniff … and I'm pretty sure I smelled booze on his breath. I didn't want to accuse him of anything, but when I went back to his table I asked if they wanted to talk to the manager. I knew it wouldn't do much, since CL was the manager on duty, but I fetched her when they asked.

Her response? “Oh, he's been here all day, he couldn't be drunk!” She also threw a couple of dessert coupons at them. And that was the end of that. Can you even imagine the shit that would rain down on me if a customer accused me of being drunk?

Back to work ....

Well, the giant scary wedding cake is done, and I have to resume my usual slaving for tips. Felt weird going back in to work after being gone so long, but apparently I didn't miss much. Oh, except the Anti-Me got fired .... apparently she told a customer we serve organic locally grown beef. Very strange.

P.S. If anybody is curious and wants pictures of said cake, email me at slightlycranky at hotmail.com. It's a little too distinctive to just post out in the open, not many of this type of cake come up on a google search - and not to brag or anything, but none of them have the kind of detail of mine. :)

Vacation, baby!

Not that I'm going anywhere, but at least I'm not working. Well, at the hellhole, anyway. Took time off to make a giant scary wedding cake. I do have a few stories to write up, but I'm trying to just forget that place isn't a smoking crater in the ground yet. Stay tuned!

Courtesy of Regretsy.

This post with the explanation is here, but basically Regretsy's Great And Terrible Webmaster asked for people to send her "facts" to confuse idiots with. This one might be my favorite.

Floating along.

My workplace really can ruin almost any good mood. I've continued to start my work days happy and grinning, and then the bastards just grind me down over the course of the evening. The $3 tip on $44 for 2.5 hours of serving someone was a personal favorite. Then there was the table who refused to tell me anything was wrong and instead stopped every other server walking by. And CL's latest retarded lecture (apparently, I go to the bathroom too much).

But for once .... it's just not keeping me down! Yeah, I'll get irritated and grumbly, but after about five minutes I've got a smile on my face again. Great for me .... not so great for blogging! Without the irritable sarcasm what have I left?

Never a dull moment.

I had plenty of customers that would usually have irritated me, tonight. Nothing fazed me though, and my tips were pretty damned good; amazing what six inches will do. Yeah, I just said that.

We did have a pretty spectacular scene toward the end of the night, though. This big guy got up and then dropped to the floor like he'd been pole-axed. He lay there for a while and said he'd be fine, that his blood sugar was low, then finally got up, headed to the bathroom -- and freaking passed out, dropped to the floor, and shit himself.

The paramedics were called and he was taken to the hospital. I happened to be walking by early on when he was just laying on the floor, and his wife assured me he was fine. "He took his insulin and then the food took too long to get here," she said. Uhhh .... why would you do that before even getting your food?

(ETA: A couple of people in the comments have said that's not correct and many diabetics inject before meals. So now I kind of feel like an asshole and have changed the post a bit.)