Well that was a goddamn waste of my time.

(Wrote this a few days ago and forgot to post it.)

I went to work for two hours today, from four to six. Then I was sent home, because they'd assigned me the bloody patio. On an overcast, windy day. So I had two tables out there, three inside I managed to sneak before the other servers arrived, and that was it. Luckily CL was in a good mood, and PSM was too, because at six when I hadn't had a table in an hour they let me go home. So I took my $25 and left. For two hours' time, and probably only an hour of work, that's not bad. But overall, for a Saturday? Fucking ridiculous.

Where the fuck did our business go? Week before last, I cleared $400. Last week, $230. This week, with two shifts to go, I have made $167. What in bloody blue blazes is going on? I probably won't hit even $300 again this week! Where the hell did all our customers go!

(Yes, I did just say “bloody blue blazes.” I don't know. I picked it up in a book somewhere. I could've said what in the name of Jesus H. bloody motherfucking Christ on a broken pogo stick but I didn't want to offend anyone. HA!)

A message from the restaurant gods.

And I think that message is “Hahaha, FUCK YOU!”

I went in to work feeling happy and chipper. I'd had a few days off, I'd gotten a haircut, and I was feeling cuter than usual. I had a decent section, and we were relatively busy. We had a wait for about three hours, actually, and everybody else was pretty much drowning in money.

I left with 35 bucks, because I got $3 on $57, $2 on $42, $1 on $37, $0 on $22, $2 on $30 from a table that stayed three hours, and one other absolutely atrocious one I can't remember now. The rest of my tips were ten percent. Why? Who the fuck knows? It was just my turn it get fucked, I guess, because all the white trash, old, teenaged, Mexican, coupon-bearing crotch-spawn overloaded bitchy motherfuckers got put in my section.

(Sorry for the racism, ageism, and other -isms in the last sentence. I don't profile when it comes to anything but tips, but anybody who waits tables for five minutes will tell you that those are the groups most likely to fuck you over.)

I actually left in tears because I was so angry. I did not fuck up once the entire evening, not so much as a forgotten side of ranch, and for that I made $35 on $550 in sales? Which freaking loa did I piss off? Do I need to sacrifice a chicken or some shit?

Oh yeah. Mother's Day.

It was a bitch. I worked 14 hours straight without a break -- and not because it was busy. It was no busier than an average Sunday, but we naturally had twice the number of people on the floor as usual. And since HotPants and Lapdog were the opening/mid managers, nobody could sit down, EVER. I got there at 11:30 and finally got to sit down for more than 30 seconds at 9.

I foolishly swapped my Saturday night shift for a Sunday lunch, thinking with the holiday I'd make much better money. HA! Not only was it not busy, people were fucking douchehounds. 10% all goddamn day. Guess that's better than one of the other girls, who got stiffed about five times during lunch. During dinner I started to do better, got a fistful of $10 tips, one $20, generally twenty percent.

At the end of the day, I walked with $153 (that's after tipping out the night bartender, shit I just realized I didn't tip the day ones, and buying two meals). Not bad for a regular Sunday with a break, but for Mother's Day, working open to close? Fucking pathetic. (I miss my first restaurant, that had a big buffet on Mother's Day and Easter. $500 days there. Too bad it closed.)

After last year's fun folks (though that day started out AWESOME) and this year's, I'm putting a reminder in my phone calendar to request the day off next year.

Sick of the midget sections.

I am seriously fucking sick of the teeny tiny sections. Four tables, okay, I can handle that. I'd rather have five or six, but I can live with four. It's a decent size. If I get one table of campers, I still have three others to rotate. But three fucking tables? Really? It's insulting to a server of my experience. Strangely enough, I don't go to work to not make money.

I had one of those sections tonight. On a Thursday night with a full lobby and a wait list, it is absolutely fucking ridiculous for every server in the place to be wandering around bored.

My first table was Salmon Guy. FML. Once he and his son finally left, I got sat with two old ladies who really just made me want to stab them. For one thing, they would not speak the fuck up. I was standing directly under a speaker, so consequently I couldn't hear half of what they were saying. One of them kept going on and on and on and on about ladybugs and some thing about the spots on their backs being spirits or some shit – my fault for having ladybug buttons on my shirt, I guess.

They sat for two hours, sharing an entree (awesome), sipping wine, and talking to me about ladybugs every time I walked by. After two hours of this shit, they finally left. Oh wait, no their didn't. They inched around the restaurant looking at all the pictures on the wall. I hate it when people do that, because I feel like I can't clean their table or pick up their book until they're out of the door. In this case, I'm glad I did wait, because if they'd still been in the building I might have lost my job.

Their bill for their two hour stay came to $20.15. The original tip written in was three dollars. Then that was scratched out, and two dollars was written in it's place. Two dollars, for two hours taking up my 1/3 of my tables. A six-seater booth, to be precise. During the entire dinner rush. The entire time we had a wait, their weird old asses were taking up my table. And for this I got two bucks.

But wait! I also got a note on the top of the receipt saying, “Nice to meet you ladybug lady!” and next to that a little sketched ladybug. Fuck you. It was not nice to meet you, because you cost me money with your camping bullshit.

That table was basically cursed. I just realized that my third table there also camped out, but at least it was after cut, when I had a six table section, and I got a decent tip.

Meanwhile I had white trash, teenagers, teenage white trash with their baby, a woman who was pissed her daughter's daiquiris were $6 each, hillbillies who ate their bites of steak off their knives, and another table that was angry their food wasn't half-priced (It wasn't on the half-priced menu, you dumb bitches, so don't fucking argue with me). I think you can imagine how well they tipped me.

I was just plain angry tonight because of all this. At one point I dropped a stack of to-go boxes, and instead of picking them up I stomped the shit out of them. Felt good!

Thanks for nothing.

I haven't made much the last couple of weeks, but that's largely been a result of slow business. St. Patrick's Day night was particularly bad -- we're just not the place people go for their green beer. Most of the tips have been average -- I haven't had a stellar one in a while. But of course, there are always the people who have to be utter douchebags.

Yeah, kind of like this.

The first, it was no surprise to get no tip. A couple, barely 21; he was your typical jock type. She was average looking (not a slam, I'm average looking), but trying really hard to look like a hot chick. She was so thin her cheekbones were jutting through her skin and her eyes were bulging. She was tanned an unnatural orange-ish color, and her hair was bleached nearly white, then carefully styled to look like it was casually loose and messy. She was wearing way too much dark eyeliner and mascara, and her lipstick was a completely wrong shade for her skin. And she had the attitude you would expect to go along with all this -- she sent a Long Island back because "it doesn't taste anything like a Long Island!" I don't know where you've been drinking, little girl, but that is a fucking Long Island. I replaced it with her requested double screwdriver, and the rest of their meal was smooth (well, his meal, she wasn't eating. Surprise!). His card paid, but the handwriting on the slip looked distinctly feminine, and I was totally unsurprised to receive exactly nothing for a tip.

At the same time I had an average family of five. Three teenaged daughters, driving their two parents crazy. Typical for my restaurant. The mother did most of the talking, but they were all polite and nice enough. Their food came out quickly, they told me everything as great. One of the girls dropped her cell phone under the table and crawled underneath to retrieve it, complaining about how dark it was. Yes, under the table. But instead of pointing out we don't light the gum-riddled underside of tables, I offered my cell phone with the flashlight app to help her out. Mom thought that was sweet. They didn't have dessert; the girl with the phone hadn't eaten any of her $13 meal and asked for a box. When I came back with the box, the dad handed me $90 and said they didn't need change. Their bill was $86.45. Fuck. You. I got a bit of satisfaction from throwing away the daughter's uneaten, forgotten meal.

Then there were the $5 on $65 people -- and they got a free steak because they complained about it after eating it. And tonight's $7 on $76 for absolutely waiting on four people hand and foot for two hours during the dinner rush. I could go on but it just gets depressing.

That's not a flag.

My last table tonight should actually have gone to my closing coworker. I had taken two tables, then she got one; then while I was in the bathroom, a three came in. She greeted them and got their drinks, then sat another table (two middle-aged regulars) and informed me she was taking the second table! I tried to point out that they should be mine, but both tables could hear me so I gave up.

And it's no wonder she didn't want the table of three. They were late teens/early twenties, two girls and a guy. The guy looks slobby and had big bushy hair. Both the girls were in oversized hoodies and stocking caps. Yeah, they were gangsta. The real bitch at the table also had a hoop piercing in the center of her bottom lip. That's never a good sign -- in my book it's an official Bad Omen.

They took forever to decide what they wanted; when they finally ordered, the guy ordered a beer. Well, I got their food in, but I forgot the beer. I was sitting at a table on the other side of the bar, where I could see them and monitor their drink levels and still see in to the kitchen for their food. When it came out I took it to them right away, got them the two things they asked for, and then got the beer Lip Piercing reminded me I forgot about. I apologized, and the guy said "it's okay." Lip Piercing stared at me as if I were dog shit, including staring obviously at my gut. I mentally shrugged, asked how things were, and started cleaning my section -- which was on the other side of a waist-height rail from them, so I was always in eyesight and earshot.

When they were done, I got their boxes and gave them a check with three subtotals. Lip Piercing still wouldn't speak, but I just figured she was a bitch. (The guy, who was the only one I'd made any mistakes on his order, said please and thank you every time he spoke to me. the entire meal.) For the next five minutes they carefully added everything up, whispering to each other and giving me furtive glances. When Lip Piercing finally spoke to me on one of my trips by, I was completely unsurprised when she said, "Um, it took you until we got our food to get his beer!" and thrust the ticket at me. My gut feeling was that they didn't have enough money to pay for their bill. As politely as I could, I said I'd get the manager. So I took the three dollar beer off an returned the ticket.

For another ten minutes, I casually walked by checking other things every two minutes. They continued dissecting the bill, whispering and talking. The guy finally got his card out and had it sitting in front of him, but Lip Piercing had a death grip on the bill. On my four trip by the table, nothing had changed; I made eye contact with Lip Piercing, who stared at me blankly. Then as I continued by, she raised the bill up in the air -- now holding a credit card too -- and waved it slowly back and forth over her head, sneering at me!

I about lost it. It had been a slow night, and I knew that I wasn't going to make as much as I needed. I was already aggravated, and this little bitch was making me want to grip her by her lip ring and drag her out of the restaurant. I may be a fat waitress, but I am not beneath the contempt of some grunge-wannabe snotsack. But somehow I swallowed my bile, and didn't snap at her, "Put it on the edge of the table, I'm not a fucking mind reader." Instead I just took the two cards -- the guy said thank you -- and ran them -- and the guy said thank you again.

They sat there another ten minutes or so, and after they left I was unsurprised to see that the guy left me 10% -- which I deserved for forgetting his beer -- on his $12 ticket, and Lip Piercing, who paid for $30 of the bill, left me ... uh, zero. She also took her receipt, which has the district manager's direct phone number and email address. I'm hoping she's just a receipt-keeper, rather than someone who's going to write to the DM and get me in trouble for forgetting a beer!

I made $45 on a seven hour closing shift. Fucking slow nights.

Oh man, that's some crap.

To understand how that title sounds, you need to watch this hilarious video.



Tonight had the potential to be a great night. I had a four table section with two booths; a lot of my friends were working; and Lapdog was in a great mood. Of course, everything went to hell. The kitchen was dragging behind, and Rehab was fucking up constantly. She was also screaming non-stop. At one point she screamed, "Fuck you all! I'm fucking done!" and stomped away untying her apron!

Where my night really went downhill, though, was when my two tables got pushed together for an eight top. To anyone out there in a book club: Friday night in a restaurant is not the appropriate place to meet. The bitches sat there, taking up half my section, for three fucking hours. They tipped me a grand total of $10. And the best part was that they all had separate tickets, and they paid one ... by one ... by one .. by one. Except for one loud-mouthed bitch, who just kept talking and talking through all of this. She kept her ticket right by her drink for the next hour and a half as they chatted away, merrily wasting my time and costing me money. Finally, at 9:30, they all got up and filed out. Want to guess who didn't leave any money for her ticket?

Fucking bitches.

I ended up leaving with a whole $30 tonight for seven hours of work. Fucking hell. I think I lost money somewhere, but have no idea when or how. I left the restaurant in tears.

I remember why I don't work trivia nights.

First table to leave after cut: came in for dinner, tolerated the noise. $4 on $45.
Second: here the entire length of trivia, more than two hours. Zero.
Third: pretty sure they'll be the same.
And that's all I've had since cut. Fuck this.

Update on the previous post.

So it turns out there's a reason for me being at work until midnight on Tuesday, but only having three tables after first cut and only making $50. And that reason is, I work with douchebags.

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!

Helmet-haired bitches and trivia still blows.

Tuesday night, I thought I might stand a chance of making some decent money, because Pot Smoking Manager was kind enough to give me the bar area for my section. I had a total of six tables--which was more than the rest of the people still on--but I still didn't make jack shit. One couple stayed the entire time and left me three bucks on a $43 ticket. Thanks a lot, fuckers. Then a couple of barely-drinking-age guys sat the entire time, they at last gave me five. A couple of teenagers came in and had two drinks and shared a sundae, and I didn't even both to look if they left a tip because I was sure I'd just be pissed off. Another couple of guys came in and stayed until midnight--keeping me there till close even though I was supposed to be off early that night--for three bucks. There was one family who left me $10, so they at least didn't suck.

The biggest offenders of the night, though, were Helmet Hair and her lanky-haired friend. I was in the kitchen when Monty came up and jammed a towel at me, saying, "You're going that way right?"

"What way?"

"Their table is dirty."

"Whose table is dirty?" I was ready to start shaking him at this point. I eventually decoded the message that a couple of bitches had sat themselves at table 12, and were complaining it was dirty. I knew they were going to be trouble immediately, and when I saw Helmet Hair I decided to make them feel like assholes--politely, of course--because I recognized her. At about sixty years old, she has very bleached hair she teases in to a big lacquered dome all the way around her head. She's the kind of woman with grotesquely long fake nails, polished beige a couple of weeks ago, who wears big ugly rings on every finger. I don't even know what color her eyes were because they were so heavily surrounded by black makeup; I vaguely remember her outfit was loud and obnoxious.

With my biggest smile on my face, I approached the table. Helmet Hair pointed without a word at the obvious chunks on the table. "I'm so sorry your table is dirty! I don't know why the hostess would have set you here, we put the salt shaker out so everyone knows it's dirty!"

Helmet Hair admitted they had sat themselves, that they'd told the hostess they were here for trivia and were going to the bar.

"Oh," I said as I wiped crumbs away, "okay. I guess she thought you meant the bar itself! What can I get you to drink? One iced tea with lots of ice, lemon, and a straw? And a diet coke? Okay, I'll be right back with menus." I said all this as sweet as honey, but inside my head I was muttering about what a couple of bitches they were. They confirmed this when I returned with their drinks and Helmet Hair informed me they weren't eating, they were "just" going to take up a six-person booth while they tried to win money. Fuckers.

The lanky-haired one had about eleven diet coke refills (I'm not exaggerating), but other than that she was fairly inoffensive. Her husband showed up at some point and ordered a beer from the bar, telling the bartender he'd add it to the table's tab. Of course, he said nothing to me, so I had to ask Cali Girl if he'd paid her or not. He had another one later; that was the extent of their ticket.

Trivia started, and was slightly less loud and obnoxious than last week--the guy didn't crank the volume up quite so loud this time, which was nice. He still thinks he needs to yell into his microphone, though. We also had a restaurant team, although of course we couldn't win; we totally would have though, we kicked ass.

Slightly after this started, Helmet Head handed me a coupon for a free sundae. Right away, I noticed that the expiration date had been blacked out. Right, because that isn't suspicious. Also, the very first damn thing it says is "valid with purchase of entree". I politely pointed that out. She played the "Oh, really? So I can't use it? I have to buy an entree? I can't just get dessert?" as if staring at me hard enough would make me change my mind.

Now, if they'd been having a couple of bar drinks, or even some damn chips and salsa, or maybe if they hadn't been presumptive hags from the start, I might have let it slide. This is why you should be polite to your server, people. Of course, she later flagged down somebody else, who had no business taking her fucking coupon but did anyway.

The three of them sat for the entire damn length of trivia, almost three hours by the time they left. He had another beer; diet coke women continued to suck those down; Helmet Hair occasionally threw out things like "I'm going to NEED a LOT more ICE." Really, bitch? Are you going to die if you don't get some fucking ice? Is the a need like you need oxygen, or a need like you need three cans of Aquanet to stick your hair in place? Yeah, that's what I thought. I don't think "need" means what you think it means.

Needless to say, I was completely unsurprised when Helmet Hair stiffed me. The other two deigned to leave me a fucking dollar--probably pissed I charged them for both beers!

Although the entire trivia set-up wasn't as loud as last week, it still put me on edge. I felt like I do when my friends convince me to go to crowded bars--a slight flutter of no-reason panic, a tension all over my body, a general nervousness. I don't know why, it's completely stupid. I don't think it's the noise, because I'm fine at concerts. It wasn't crowded. I'm really not sure why, but it made for an uncomfortable night. I'm going to give it a few more weeks, but I don't know if I'm going to be able to hang with this. Especially since its driven away our regular Tuesday night people without really bringing in replacements.

I did get a laugh at one point though, when between trivia questions they played this:

Trivia night: now a total waste of time.

Previously, for late night, we were doing trivia ourselves. The first week CL read the questions, and the next two weeks I did it. I actually really liked reading the questions; I was looking forward to actually writing some of them. CL decided it wasn't obnoxious enough, I guess, because she hired a professional DJ company.

The first night was this week, and I was not fucking thrilled. To start with, they erected their setup at two of my tables, shrinking my section. Their setup plugs in to the television, which is nice; and then they have two giant speakers, one of which was pointed directly at another of my tables—so I was down three tables, because nobody wanted to sit three feet from this screaming speaker. The guy reading the questions yelled in to his microphone, making people jump every time he started talking; in between his over-enthused speaking they blasted top 40 songs.

Don't get me wrong, it would be a great plan for a real bar. For our little restaurant, it's total overkill. The people who were there seemed to be having fun, which I guess is what's important even if it did give me a screaming headache and even though I couldn't hear my customers to get orders. Still, I wasn't cranky, I figured it'd get better with time, I'd adjust to the noise.

When I got really pissed was when a table of regulars left, one of the three tables I got at all. These five guys come in once a week or so, are super low-maintenance, and tip about 30%. And boy, were they pissed off. They didn't like the noise; they didn't like the music; they didn't like the dimmer than usual lighting. What really set them off, though, was our drink specials.

I actually would really like to get some feedback on this. When you go to a bar that has two-for-one drink specials, how does that work? Does the bartender give you both drinks at once, you have one and your friend has one? Or are they both for you, and they won't serve the second one until the first is done? If you all could leave comments, I'd appreciate it, because I don't know how these things work normally.

All I know is that CL said people can't share the special. So if you and I want to drink at the same time, we both have to order a drink under our own 2-for-1. It doesn't seem unreasonable to me—the drinks are the same prices as always, they're not increased to account for the free one. So I don't see what the big deal is, but these guys were pissed. Especially one of them, whose bald scalp was turning red with anger. “Oh, so they want us to get drunk and drive? That's just great!”

I don't get paid enough to deal with the fallout from corporate idiocy, so I fetched Lapdog. He spent a few minutes talking to them, Red Scalp bitching most of that time, and then the people who would've tipped me hugely got up and left. Because corporate has flat-out stated that they're willing to sacrifice regular customers to chase this “late night” crowd.

It would have been fine if we'd still been doing trivia like we were before—a round of ten questions, then ten or twenty minutes for people to keep talking, to eat, to order more drinks. Instead we now have this non-stop onslaught of hip-hop music and a screaming DJ. Our regular Tuesday night Jehovahs are going to stop coming in, eliminating our steady Tuesday business almost entirely.

I'm considering giving up my Tuesday night closes, honestly. I was there until 12:40 at night, and I think I made sixty bucks. Not okay.

My luck was short-lived.

After having an amazing shift two Tuesdays ago, making $145, my luck took a decidedly shit turn this weekend.

Friday I was stiffed at least once (possibly twice, but I'm having a hard time remembering). I admit they had to wait an extra 2-3 minutes for me to pick up their credit card because I was taking orders at the tables on either side of them.

Saturday my first table left me 40 cents, my second to last left me 50 cents, and my last left me zero. That's right, 90 cents on about $100 in sales.

• The first table was two teenage girls--I wasn't expecting much, especially after they got shitty with me because I would let them use expired coupons to get two free desserts when that was all they ordered.
• The second-to-last table was a couple of cranky old bitches who come in fairly often; the wife accosted me and demanded "Don't you have any burgers that aren't smoked?" Um, yes. All of them, actually. I suggested maybe her bun was a little bit burned and offered to get her a new one, and she kept insisting it was the meat.
• The last one was three trampy-looking twenties bitches. I asked if they needed boxes and was told no; the next time I walked by a couple of minutes later I was snottily informed that they needed boxes. I gave them their check; five minutes later they hadn't touched it, so I asked Anna to pick up their ticket while I made a dash in to the bathroom because I couldn't hold it anymore. Sure enough, when I came out two minutes later they had grabbed Pennsyltucky and jammed cash in his hands, while bitching about how I "disappeared".

Sunday was another shitty night. I think every one of my tables needed to go change their tampons or something, everybody was so fucking bitchy! My co-workers were all saying it too. I lost it at one point after a steady stream of 5-10% tips, followed by being given eight dollars on a fucking big top's $140 ticket. I ended up in the kitchen angrily crying, throwing shit and yelling about how next week I refuse to wait on those "fucking Mexicans" anymore because this was the second week in a row they'd done this to me. No, I'm not proud of saying that.

Monday was unremarkable, I think; it seems so far away now! I know it was another night of sitting around doing nothing the last couple of hours when we once again didn't have late night customers. Tuesday ... well, Tuesday's primary bitch is worthy of her own entry.

I've had two days off now--two days of having stomach flu, isn't that splendid--and my work week begins anew tomorrow. Hopefully it'll be a bit more lucky--goddammit, I'm Irish, this is supposed to be my week!

Late night update.

It still sucks.



Okay, I'll go in to a little more detail. I've closed five of the last eight nights, and we have yet to have a single table or even bar guest come in after 10:30. Even on the much-lauded bingo night that was supposedly soooooo busy last week. So basically, it's still a waste of time. Oh well. At least I'm getting some crosswords done.

The first "late night" close.

It could have been worse. It was also the night of the "snugglebunny walkout", and like I said there Lapdog was in a good mood. That made it a lot more tolerable--I was thinking he'd be a horrible grouch all night.

Our last actual table came in about about 9:30, par for the course for a slow Monday night. There were two regular customers at the bar then; two more came in before 10:30. They all sat there nursing $1 beers for about an hour; then two left. The other two played a round of Wii bowling with me (or taught me how to play rather), then sat around nursing another couple of $1 beers and playing Wii sports until 12:30. Knowing we closed at midnight, I might add. Made a whole $54, which I promptly spent at Wal-Mart on dog food, cat food, and me food. Yippee.

I'm going to keep a tally of how many guests come in after our normal close time on the nights I work. First night: zero. Then again, it was the very first night, so I guess we couldn't expect much, right?

Idiocy commences in t - 33 hours.

I get to close tonight, and I'm sort of looking forward to it--if only because it will be the last close before Mr. Idiot VP's new "late night" approach kicks in. See, this guy really likes to waste money "build late night business". We've got all sorts of stupidity in the works as we stay open an hour later every night. Stupid shit like bingo, Guitar Hero tournaments, and all sorts of idiotic drink specials. To that end, they've set up sponsorships from beer companies and gotten us a freaking Jägermeister tap machine. To imagine how out of place that is, plop it in the middle of a place that has a "kids eat free night". Why? Why?

I've run some (admittedly flawed) calculations on this crap. I don't know how much electricity, gas for the grills, etc. adds to the total, but let's say they keep on a cook, a dishwasher, a server, and a bartender an extra hour every night. That's about another $30 in labor a day. We'll ignore any extra cost, such as the loss on liquor from doing $1 beers, etc.

In my restaurant management class I took a couple of years ago, I learned that the average restaurant makes about ten cents of profit on the dollar. That means that to cover the extra labor for that hour, the restaurant would need to do an extra $300 in sales that hour. We're usually lucky to do $100 in sales per hour after nine! And even if all this gimicky crap pulls in some extra people, it's still not going to work out like the want--especially with $1 beers and $3 appetizer specials.

If a couple of guys come in to play Guitar Hero and nurse two beers each and order some hot wings, that's going to give them a grand total bill of, um, $7. Whoohoo! Seventy cents to the restaurant! And probably, what, a dollar to their server? Bullshit. Do they really think we're going to get forty groups of people in there for this? Or let's get really crazy and say the guys have four beers each and three appetizers, for a bill of $20 (we'll round up). Now the restaurant and the server both get two dollars! Oh yeah! Swimming pools and movie stars, bitches.

CL keeps talking about how she went to a different chain restaurant in the next town over, and how their game night was just a huge success!!! Yeah ... about that? Different chain restaurant atmosphere with a proper bar, in a college town. Then she starts talking about how there's nothing to do in our town after a certain time, yada yada. Even the local bars, real bars, close at the same time we do now. Think there might be a reason for that?

It's not that I don't want this to work. If it doesn't CL gets fired and god knows who they'd bring in--at least I know how she works. And the net effect of this extra hour every night is that I can't work more than five shifts unless I give up some of my closes, which I can't afford to do. So I'd like to make some damn money at it. I just don't see how it'll work.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe "Pin The Tail On The Donkey Thursdays" at Local Chain Restaurant will be the next big thing. Maybe I'll be eating my words in a few months. Stay tuned.

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.

Sometimes, people get to me.

Monday (or was it Tuesday? I forget.) wasn't a good night for me. I had an excellent section--five round tables around the bar, four of which are high-top tables. I tend to get better tips in that section (I have a theory on why, if you want to know.), so I was excited.

We weren't having a super busy night, but it was slightly hectic. That was not helped by the fact that Lapdog was stomping around like a thundercloud. For first few tables were cheap, ten percent tippers and campers. Still, I was trying to maintain my mood, but it didn't work.

First, there were three teenagers. I knew I was screwed when I offered them dessert and they asked for the bill first to see if they had enough money. Their bill was $40.

Next to them was an older couple with their daughter and son-in-law. They were pleasant enough, but the old man asked for the bill and I just had a bad feeling. Their bill was $56.

Two tables down was a family of four. They demanded to get the special price on appetizers, even though it was after the cut-off time; they claimed they had been waiting to be seated since before the cut-off. Freaking liars, that table had been open for twenty minutes before then. Anyway, Bitter Divorced Man acquiesced and gave them the discount. So this family ordered four appetizers, and then a full meal each! And then the parents ordered a full-size dessert. I try not to judge, but hello, gluttony. Their bill was $65.

Right next to them was a table of people who just screamed "white trash"! We're talking missing teeth, Skoal cans, Larry the Cable Guy t-shirts, etc. One of them had ordered a cheeseburger; apparently, he'd never had a burger with real cheese on it, because when they got their food his wife asked me "what's wrong with his burger?" Well, nothing was wrong with it--it just had real cheese on it, and the cheese had been melted under the broiler, so it looked a little translucent. As real cheese does when it's melted.

I sort of stuttered, because I was harried and didn't know what to say. The man ripped a chunk off the burger, jammed it in his mouth, and immediately started bitching. "No, that's awful!" So I offered to get him a new one, but he just kept ranting. "If I could make better at home, I'm not eating it! This is like cardboard!" Again, I asked if he wanted another one. "That's not meat and potatoes as I know it!" What? Finally he handed me the oh-so-offensive burger and asked to see a menu.

The three tables I was talking about before were ready to pay; as I scuttled back and forth cashing them out I could hear this guy still bitching! "That beef was terrible, blah blah blah." Every time I passed them, he was complaining. Bitter Divorced Man was attending to him, so at least I didn't have him hollering me as I closed out my other tables.

I ran another server's food to a table next; and the woman at that table promptly started complaining that her boneless wings had the wrong sauce on them. They did not. These two sauces are totally different colors, smell totally different, and I know the damn difference. I politely told her it was the right sauce--it always has red pepper flakes in it, she just hadn't noticed (although I didn't say that). She ate a tiny piece of one and started making a hideous face and flipping out. So I took them back to the kitchen, told Lapdog and the woman's server what the "problem" was. Then I took a piece of chicken she hadn't touched and ate it. Yep, goddamn it, it was the right sauce. I hate it when people act like I'm stupid or lying to them.

Two of my three tables that had cashed out were gone; I went to pick up their books, and found that "meat and potatoes" man was still fucking complaining! At this point, I was just really irritated. Then the old man with the $56 bill handed me a four dollar tip. Then I opened the other two books and said $1 on $40 and $5 on $65. And that guy was still complaining. I got a little overwhelmed at that point, asked someone else to watch my station, and went in to the bathroom before I started crying. I do that when I'm frustrated, and I hate it. But $1 on $40, $4 on $56, $5 on $65, ten percent the rest of the night, and expecting nothing from the bitching man just undid me for a few minutes.

Then I wiped my eyes, pulled myself together, and went back to work. Burger man didn't order anything else; they left, and surprisingly left me $8 on $35. Then the old man at the next table was getting ready to leave, and he stopped me.

"What was that man's problem?"
"Oh, he wasn't satisfied with his burger," I shrugged.
The old man laughed and smiled at me. "Oh well, I guess you get all kinds, huh?"
I just agreed, because he was a nice clueless elderly man. But I so badly wanted to say, "Sure do, like old men who tip $4 on a $56 ticket."

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No way, there's a world around us?

The last two nights we've had an early rush and then fuck all after nine o'clock. I closed both nights; last night we had everything done twenty minutes before close. All we'd've had to do was lock the door and flip the light switches. We would have been out of there at 11:02.

Except, of course, douchebags had to come in. There's this family that comes in at least once a week on a random night, and the earliest I've ever seen them is 10:40. The daughter is a whining, screaming brat; the mother is just sort of .... off, somehow. The dad looks like he wants to be a Sopranos extra, with the shorts and belt and polos. They're just strange all the way around.

They know damn well what time we close, because they've watched us lock the doors plenty of times. Yet they come in, shortly before close, and act like they're doing us a favor. If they do dessert, they order it after close. If it's just the parents, they sit and snuggle and kiss and giggle to each other. I once waited until quarter after midnight for these assholes to leave. Last night, they left "early", only forty minutes after close.

If I was annoyed then, there are no words for how pissed I was tonight. Tonight business died even earlier than usual. Cali Girl and I had 99% of our closing work done by twenty till ten, more than an hour before close. We'd even pulled the booths along the southern wall out so that the morning crew could vacuum behind them. That left us five small booths, three large, and ten other tables open.

We knew we might get another table or two, and that was fine. We got one, a table of three, which was Cali's. And then, two hoity-toity looking women walked in. The bartender went to greet and seat them. They told her there would be eight of them, and then they absolutely refused to sit in the bar area, where we could accommodate a larger group just fine. They insisted that they had to sit at the low long tables, on the closed side of the restaurant! Plenty of tables open, and they make us move the heavy booths back against the wall, and pull the long tables out. I was infuriated.

I pushed two booths back against the wall, making juuuuust enough room for their table to fit in to a sort of nook. I could walk back and forth just fine, so I left the rest. I hope they felt like assholes sitting there in the obviously closed area of the restaurant.

The first two to arrive couldn't decide what they wanted to drink. On the first trip, one of the bitches informs me there are more people coming. Really? I never would have guessed! I made two trips back, only to be met with blank stares. On the third trip, they started bitching about how the drink prices aren't listed on the menu. The bitchiest of the two says something like, "I can't believe the prices aren't listed on here! Don't you think that's so rude? Why aren't they listed?"

I fought not to roll my eyes. "I think it's because alcohol prices change depending on what contracts we can get, and it's too expensive to re-print the menus all the time." Yeah, I was totally bullshitting.

"Well!" she snaps. "They they should print it with $7 to $9!"

"Maybe," I try to pacify her. "I'm not sure why they do it, corporate doesn't confide in me." I said it with a smile, not at all sarcastically.

"Oh, they don't, do they?" she got all snotty and sarcastic about it, before running me to find out the prices of four different drinks. They finally ordered a sangria and a Long Island; then a third woman showed up. She, at least, knew just what she wanted. Once she had her beer and the other two had their drinks, they ordered a dessert and an appetizer. Another woman showed up and also ordered a beer.

By this time it's 10:40, twenty minutes to close. I'm fuming; Cali Girl wants to leave but feels guilty; the cooks are pissed; the bartender is ready to tear her hair out because our brain-damaged regular won't stop following her around the restaurant (even in to the kitchen) blathering; even Lapdog is irritated, and usually he's all about extracting the last drop of cash from anybody who comes in the door.

At ten minutes to close, I walked out of the kitchen to ask them pointedly if they wanted anything else before the kitchen closed. Well, Miss Bitch-About-The-Drink-Menus had finally surfaced from her Long Island long enough to want another appetizer. And instead of waiting for me to walk by, as I'd been doing every few minutes, she'd come to the bar and interrupted Lapdog's inventory counts.

Just before we were going to lock the doors, the carpet cleaners showed up. None of us knew they were coming, so me, the bartender, and Cali were suddenly scrambling around removing silverware from tables, putting chairs up on tables, etc. My table just sat there, oblivious, laughing and talking as if they were in their own private universe. For another fifteen minutes they sat, while the carpet cleaners dragged in equipment, starting turning booths on to their ends, starting moving tables, etc. They finally left when me, Cali, Lapdog, the bartender, and the two carpet cleaners were all just standing around because there was nothing we could do until they were gone.

It wasn't that late, really; but the fact that they demanded we open a closed section, ran me around, bitched at me about things not my fault, hardly ordered anything, and then camped out all combined to make me want to jam something pointy in each of their eye sockets. I personally think they didn't have eight people coming at all, they just wanted a big roomy table--because they never said anything to me about "oh, they're not coming" or "we're not going to wait for them".

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White trash and hicks.

I knew my good luck this week would come to a halt eventually; it always does. It was an exceptionally brutal crash tonight, though. The entire night was bullshit, but these two tables were the worst.

I had the fucking three table section again. In addition to being small, it's next to the bar, which is naturally noisy; there's also a speaker in your ear at every table. My first table was five people who were just as southern as could be, and couldn't appreciate those facts. The bitches wouldn't speak the fuck up. That was a problem the entire time; I kept having to ask them to repeat themselves, even after I turned down the music. Their bill came to $83, and after I delivered it I saw them all scrutinizing it line by line, looking shocked. I'd looked it over before delivering it, so I knew there was nothing wrong; but I was surprised they didn't try to argue with about it anyway. I brought them their change, making sure to give them adequate bill options for a tip, but when I saw one of the youngest (it was a mom and her four sons) picking up the change I knew I was screwed. Sure enough, $5 on $83. Fuck. You.

At the same time, I had a table of four that was being a massive pain in the ass. One of them, a woman with a thoroughly 90s hairstyle, a ripped shirt, and a loud, foul mouth, had been at the bar before squatting at one of my tables. Trashy's mother and father and her sister were with her; her mother asked a question I get occasionally from morons: "You used to have nachos, now all you have a chili cheese nachos! Why'd you get rid of your nachos?" Are you fucking kidding me? It's the same goddamn thing! They stuck another word in the name! But I had to explain that they were the same, other than there's a little more sauce with the meat rather than being just dry ground beef thrown on there. She just kept looking at me like I was stupid, no reaction, just blankly staring at me. I hate that shit.

Trashy made eye contact and said please and thank you, so I was starting to think she wasn't so bad. Her sister was perfectly polite; the only problem we had was she didn't pay attention to what she was ordering for appetizers, but she didn't blame me for it when one wasn't what she expected. Her father couldn't comprehend our "make your own sampler" sort of thing, which was frustrating. And it wasn't like Trashy's parents were elderly, we're talking maybe late fifties.

At the end of their meal, they told me they wanted three separate tickets: parents, Trashy, and sister. When I brought the tickets, though, Trashy ordered two tequila shots--and rolled her eyes when I asked which ticket to put them on. She said to put them on her parents' ticket and she'd give them the money for it, which I suppose made sense in her world. So they get their tequila, and I give them their tickets; Trashy mutters something about she wanted to pay for all the drinks, despite what she'd said five minutes earlier, but then told me it was fine. The mother paid with a card and left me $2.25 on $25. The sister also used a car, and left four dollars cash on her $35 ticket.

Trashy paid with cash, a twenty dollar bill. She got $2.14 cents back. The fucking bitch left me the fourteen cents--and another dime.

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Merry Christmas and a Happy Fuck Off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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