Monday Night Reasons I Like My Job #1

This weekly column stuff is neat. If only I could come up with catchier titles.

I like my job because of one manager. She does not take shit. She will not let the girls be lazy, or the customers be assholes. A lot of the girls won't work with her because they think she's 'mean,' but they are pussies.
For instance, I had a table of crotchety old people. You know, the ones that are mad because they're fucking old as shit and you still have many years ahead of you. Years without canes, pill routines, and smelling like old.
They interrupted me when I was speaking, spoke to me as if I were beneath them, etc. They were very specific about their ice cream having whipped cream and a cherry, with an unspoken "if you can handle that."
I told our manager they were assholes and I was going to tell them we were out of cherries (we weren't). She shrugged and said "Make sure they can't see them in the pie case when they walk out."


It's the little passive-aggressive things that get me through the day.

Blondie's Sunday Night Pet Peeve #2

"I'd like scrambled eggs with bacon, please."
"Okay, what kind of toast would you like?"
"Oh, just regular toast."

No. We only have irregular toast here.

A little bit of Blondie's background.

I've been working as a server since I was 16, and have been at my current job for 4 years.
It's a sweet little family-owned diner on the East Coast, and I do mean diner.
Handwritten checks, massive servings of food for low prices, and less than 15 servers, about half of which only work one to three days a week.

Some pros and cons to this: No corporate bullshit like 'the customer is always right' and 'turn and burn.' Sure, we are there to make the customers happy, but I feel it's not as unfair as some of the horror stories I've heard from chain restaurants.
However, we seem to breed spoiled regulars because some of our waitresses have unique (read: they don't give a fuck or they kiss ass so much you'd think L'Oreal came out with a chocolate lipstick) service. Customers who need specific coffee cups, certain things on certain plates, this split that way and that split this way, expect a free dessert because someone forgot to charge and no one corrected it for three years, etc.

Now, I'm all for giving great service and giving my customers all I can, but all our "regulars" are demanding, self-important, and shitty tippers. Why do we have to kiss their ass because they are "regulars?" They often don't request me because when I hear "Oh, so-and-so does it this way for us." I tell them, "Whoops, I guess I'll have to remember for next time!" and walk away. There is rarely a next time.

I don't care what anybody says..

It's fucking hard being a girl, and it's hard being a female server.
You spend a week ready to cry or lash out at co-workers and customers. You're not sure why.
Then, you wake up in the morning (decidedly NOT feeling like P-diddy), and realize you got your period. Now you have to spend this shift hobbling around, trying to take orders without holding your tummy, and trying to lift trays without breaking your back.

It can't be just me. Thank god I have today and tomorrow off so I can get all doped up, cuddle with the cat, and sleep the rest of this hellish time of month away.


TMI? Fuck you, I'm PMSing.

Blondie's Sunday Night Pet Peeve #1

Okay, I caved already and decided to start a regular column. Introducing: my Sunday Pet Peeves. Maybe I'll come up with a snappier name.

Tonight: We are not freaking McDonald's.
Do not order your burger with ketchup. It is on the table, you can do it your own damn self.
Do not order your burger with mayo and ketchup. I will give you the mayo, the ketchup is on the table, and you can do it your own damn self.
Do not order your burger with pickles. We do not have sliced pickles and I will not slice them for you.
Also, the ketchup is on the table and you can do it your own damn self.

Ew.

I have written about the truckers before, and how I despise them.

This is why:
One time, I had a table of four of them. The biggest, fattest, oldest, nastiest-ass motherfucker of them all had jokes. You know, "Scotch and soda" when I ask them for their drink (we don't serve alcohol and everyone knows it), "food," or "your phone number" when I ask them what I can get for them, so on and so on. After I managed to squeeze an order out amongst the jokes and inappropriate flirting, I go to move on to the next.
He interrupted me. He asked me, "Do you fool around?"

WHAT. I was so shocked, so disgusted that this Casanova thought a waitress probably 30 years younger than he would have anything to do with him. And to say something so blatant, disrespectful, and just gross. Sorry, honey, my daddy issues aren't that bad. I couldn't even respond. I ignored him completely and moved on. I barely spoke to them for the rest of the meal.

I told my boss. She said, "Well, did they leave you a good tip?"
They had, almost 20 dollars.
She responded, "Well, then, what's the problem?"
The PROBLEM is that he basically harassed me. I felt disgusted. I wanted to take a shower.
The best she could give me was to suck it up, and enjoy my tip.

Happy St Patrick's Day!

Get drunk, have fun, and please tip your server very well. They've got a rough night ahead of them.

Please, let me finish.

People, when your server is speaking - it's not for our health. Sometimes it may be because we like to hear ourselves speak for our own entertainment, but I PROMISE you I know what I'm doing. I will answer any and all questions you may have, probably before you ask me, if you just shut the fuck up and listen to me.

All night tonight:
"What can I get you to dri-"
"What kind of soup do you have today?"

"I'll be right back to take your or-"
"Don't you have any bigger glasses? Mom, do you want to order soup?"
(I liked this one because the mom said "Let her go! She'll be back!")

"Are you guys doing ok-"
"Can I get this to go?"

"Do you need a bo-"
"Doesn't this come with dessert?"


Seriously. Seriously, guys. Come on. I will tend to your needs.
On a similar note, I hate when I'm putting food down and people say "Can I have a refill?"
I want to say, "Yes, but I'm taking your food with me while I get it."

I am pleased.

The last two nights have been very good to me. If only I could take my money to the bank instead of the bar, I'd be happier in the mornings.

My only complaint: the cooks!
Why do they have to argue when they make an order wrong? I assume there is some confusion since we use handwritten checks/dupes but you would think they would understand my handwriting after four years. I hate when I pick up a sandwich on rye and say "this is supposed to be on wheat bread," and they fight with me until I dig up the ticket and shove it in their face, pointing at "on wheat." Then they grumble.
We've also got a little issue with random crankiness. The cooks generally like me. I'm not too difficult unless I have to put my bitch face on. But when I say 'Thanks, boo" or "You're the best," at least acknowledge my presence.

My favorite question.

More often than you would think, the future members of Mensa that I wait on regularly ask me, "What exactly is the difference between the baked crab cakes and the fried crab cakes?" "How are broiled flounder and fried flounder different?" and similar inquiries.

I still have yet to come up with a better response than a blank stare and "One is..... baked? And the other is... fried?" Which probably makes me look like even more of an retard than they, because that question truly breaks my brain.

Server dreams.

Everyone has written about them, most servers have had them. I, until recently, had done neither.

Last night, I had my first server dream that I can recall. I know you probably don't want to hear about it (dreams are like photo albums - if you're not in them, you don't care), but it's my freaking blog and I will write what I goddamn well please.

In my dream, I had a table of three. Mom, dad, teenage daughter. They were celebrating something or some shit. Mom wanted iced tea, and dad wanted iced tea NO LEMON, a glass of water with two lemons on opposite sides of the glass - I remember that very clearly. Daughter doesn't know what she wants.
I go to get the drinks for mom and dad, but for some reason almost all of our lemons are rotten, so I decide to give mom the one good lemon I can find, and give dad two limes for his water (which is weird because we don't even have limes, and who, besides my own father, wants a lime in their water?).
I go to drop them off, intending to explain the citrus switch, but they are engrossed in conversation and ignore me. When I go back to the table to take an order, dad is going NUTS over how great this water is, so I let it slide.
Then they order. One person at a time, one item at a time, having me fetch things one. at a. time. And as they order, they spend five minutes explaining why they picked every single thing. It's like fucking Slumdog Millionaire up in this bitch. It gets to the point that I am literally sitting with them listening to their stories.
Meanwhile, the diner gets busy. I'm being sat and sat and no one is reprimanding me for spending all my time with this family and ignoring the rest of my tables.

That's all I remember. I wonder what it means?

Violation.

One time, I waited on a table of two truckers. Truckers drive me nuts. They are rude, inappropriate, and normally bad tippers to boot.
As I'm taking their order (well done steaks, taters and gravy, obviously), the one closer to me reaches his grimy-ass paw over, touches my apron and peeks in the pocket! Customers, don't touch your waitress. It's creepy.
So I made the appropriate shocked face, and said "Sir, WHAT are you doing?! There's nothing in there for you!"
They start giggling to themselves, and he says "Oh, I'm trying to find the money!"
I raise an eyebrow and tell him, "No, YOU have the money that will go in that pocket. I repeat, there is nothing in there for you."

Weirdos!

Disappointing.

Last night, I was bored to tears for about two hours.
But then... something amazing happened. The hillbilly bastards I always have to wait on came in and it wasn't my turn.


They are so bad, so very very bad, that it put me in an awesome mood for the rest of the night. I was killing the fuck out of my tables with oodles of kindness. I was smiling, laughing at the jokes I've heard a million times, and being generally pleasant and sunny. I had one family that had never eaten with us before. They asked for my advice, took my suggestions, and at the end of the meal the little boy gave me a thumbs up and said "This diner is awesome!"
No, that is not a recap of a cheesy-ass commercial. THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED.

But then... as I go to count my money and bus out for the night... forty fucking dollars on a six-hour shift. Pathetic.

and now for something completely different.

Instead of complaining today, (my attempt to be more cheerful at work went better than expected... although it did not seem to help tips), I want to write about my some of my favorite regulars. These are the ones that we fight over when we see them walk in the door. I wish they came in every day, but I'm sure they couldn't afford to - as you'll soon see why.

These are the 'twenty dollar people.'
A middle-aged couple, completely normal looking, comes in, sit down, and we all attack the turn sheet to see who gets to take them.
Their lucky waitress gets their drink order. She brings over their sodas and gets their food order... usually prime ribs, pork chops, etc.
Before she turns to go to the kitchen, he will hand her twenty dollars and say 'that's for you.'
Obviously, they receive excellent service every time.
AND they still leave a twenty percent tip at the end of the meal as well. Girls have been known to walk away from that table with almost $30 dollars for practically no work. They are easy, they aren't demanding, and they GIVE YOU TWENTY FREAKING DOLLARS BEFORE YOU EVEN PUT THEIR ORDER IN.
These people need an infomercial. They are goddamn brilliant. They need to go on the Wendy Williams Show.
"Let me tell you the one simple habit that changed my life, Wendy.

...I tip my waitress....... before I eat."


No more guesswork on how much effort to put in the table. No more kicking the salad bar or punching the busboy in frustration. It's a beautiful concept.

well.

Tonight, I would like to look back on the only complaint about my serving I have ever received in six years. It baffles me to this day.
Table of two guys, having breakfast. I treat them as I would any other table: "how are you today? More coffee? Have a good one!" Etc.
I guess these people couldn't see the thinly veiled hatred I have for 95% of my customers (my 'more coffee?' loosely translates to 'suck one.'), because when the hostess asked how everything was, they said 'fine... but our waitress was too nice.'

Read it again. TOO NICE. and they left me ten percent. What a bunch of weirdo cocksuckers.