You like me, you really like me!

I had to miss work yesterday due to crappy weather and slick roads causing me to crash my car.
I'm totally fine, but unfortunately the car is not. Which is awful, because it will cause me to miss work which I need to PAY for the damn thing.

But my heart has been warmed by the barrage of texts and phone calls I received  from managers, co-workers, even cooks to make sure I was okay. It was so damn sweet, and I felt bad for the shit-talking I normally do on my job ;)

Teacher's Pet.

Let me preface by saying apologies in advance if any of this post comes off as tooting my own horn, but I promise, it's integral to the story.

I've always been a bit of a 'good girl.' (Sometimes 'good girl gone bad,' but that's a story for another time)
At work, I've always tried my best to avoid drama - come in, do my job to the best of my ability, and go home. For a while, it worked out for the best. But lately, it's been biting me in the ass.
The great thing about good work ethic is first pick in scheduling, stations, etc. I'm allowed to run the register, and usually put in charge if the manager on duty isn't around. You can get away with a little bit more if you're not running your mouth or causing problems, as long as you don't take advantage.
But then, it turns into a high-school flashback. For example, I recently picked up Thursday nights.
I was told, "Okay, when you start, you'll have station two."
Great station in the front, five small booths and a six-seater. Good amount of turn-over, but usually not enough to get stuck. Easily my favorite.
That pushes the person who WAS on station two into the back, a less desirable station. I know it's because the previous person can't handle it as well as I can, and because I'm much more help to the MOD - register, seating, to-gos, etc. I didn't ask for it, and no wasn't taken for an answer.
Now, I know this will spawn some shit-talking behind my back.
"I had that station for months, and she gets to come in and take it from me in one night!"

I know I shouldn't feel bad because I didn't do anything WRONG, but I don't like the thought of people disliking me. I've been called anywhere from cold, to conceited and stuck-up, to a brown-noser, all because I'm doing what I should be doing.

Since when did being a good worker become a bad thing?

That's not my name.

First of all, I would like to say thanks for the feedback on my last post!
Yes, I really did tell that lady to go elsewhere since she was so tense about our lack of birthday cake and my lack of interest altogether.
And Anonymous, loved your story! Check the comments on the link above for a similar anecdote.


Aaaaaanyway, on to the customer I would like to write about.
He's recently become a regular, coming in three or four times a week the past month or so. Nice enough guy, mid-60's I'd say, albeit a little smelly.
The first time I waited on him, he asked my name. I told him. He either misheard or forgot, because that is not what he calls me. It's something close enough to be an honest mistake, but not close enough to be a nickname. Think.. Michelle/Danielle.
The first couple times, I either didn't notice or was too busy to correct him, and now I feel like it's gone too far. He's been calling me the wrong name for about two weeks now.

Do I correct him? Or do I just let him look silly in front of the customers who actually know my name?

Blondie will not be bullied.

I had a table tonight of three ladies. They requested me, which made me want to crawl in a hole and die because they are obnoxious and tip like shit.

One lady must have really enjoyed hearing herself talk and not so much my responses, because she continually repeated herself. She must have asked me three times if the ribs were tender, and I responded at least three times that I personally have not had them, but have never had a complaint and they were one of our most popular menu items.
Then she asked me more stupid questions.
"How often do they change the oil they fry in? Do they use the powder to clean it? That stuff will make you sick!"
Well, lady, I don't have chef's pants on, but if you got sick and died I wouldn't cry at your funeral.
She told me three times it was her birthday. The other two ladies reiterated the fact. I continued not caring.

Now, a lot of our menu items come with dessert, a small dish of ice cream or pudding. She asked if we had birthday cake. I said no.
She told me four different times, in four different ways, that EVERY OTHER place has birthday cake.
Eventually I told her, "You should have gone somewhere else then, because we don't."

Sometimes, Blondie is very blonde.

I was a little off tonight for some reason. I forgot things, got wrong things, cut myself twice, mixed up my words, etc.
I managed to make great money for a Sunday night, but I think people just felt bad for me, or enjoyed watching me trip over myself.

The best one was while I was waiting on a man and a woman, maybe late thirties. They order dinners, and I bring out salads for them. He immediately picks the tomatoes off his to give to her.
I make some comment to the effect of, "Oh, that's how you know you're meant to be, when you like something the other doesn't so you get a little extra! I love getting my boyfriend's pickle!"
They stare at me. I realize what I said. I blush intensely until they start cracking up.
"Honey, you could have worded that a little better!" She said to me.
We share a good chuckle, and they leave a good tip.

Did he just say...?

So, last night I had a party of eight.
Seven women, one man. This man was old as shit. Like, old as caveman shit.

He was the first to arrive for their reservation. We told him he was the first to arrive, and the table was set up back there for him. He told us a strange, rambling joke. We stared at him blankly, until we realized he already told the punchline and we chuckled uncomfortably.
I said, "Okay...well.... I'll be taking care of you tonight. Why don't you head back to your table and I can grab you something to drink?"
He got uncomfortably close to me and told me water was fine.

The rest of the party arrives. Dinner goes smoothly. Separate checks, of course.
For some reason, Old Man River thought his check should have been less. I pointed out that I was, in fact, correct. He paid his bill while a co-worker and I start clearing the table.

He comes back to tell me, "Sorry about the mix-up." I say it's okay and he HUGS ME.
I squirm out from his grip and tell him to have a great night.
As he leaves I hear.. "Thank you, love you!"

And isn't it ironic..

That Sunday morning is the most unholy day to work in the restaurant business?
You'd think after a morning of being filled with the Good Word, you'd be a little cheerier to come out and have brunch with your family.
But no. People are cranky bastards who want what they want and NOW, regardless of if they see my full station I'm running around, and the tables I picked up in other stations.

Yes, the money is good. But the aching back, the aching knees, the aggravation - aren't worth it.

It's not just the customers. The servers totally lose their shit and steal stuff. We make our own toast and butter cups for pancakes/french toast, and without fail every time I made some, it would be gone when I got back.

I'll stick to my night shifts, thank you.

Blondie goes corporate?

No... she tried.

I applied at a restaurant with a few locations in the area... but didn't go back for a second interview after learning they split tips.

I'm going to keep applying though, I think I'm ready to get out of the 'family business.'

And to be honest, I'd really like to work up to bartending.

Advice? Stories?

Never disappointing.

Yep. Some... rural types came in.
More polite than they looked, everything went smoothly.

Until the six-dollar tip on the eighty-dollar tab.

Blondie gets fancy.

Well, my honey took me out to an upscale place last night to celebrate his first paycheck.
This excited me. I got to dress up, show off my cute boyfriend, and drink a nine-dollar glass of wine.
Of course, if you've been reading my blog for any amount of time, you know I'm not exactly the classiest bitch. Yes, I know what fork to use and I don't butter my bread before I break it, but I did spill water on myself and giggle like a schoolgirl when Mr. Blonde dropped his knife. Three times.
You can't take us anywhere.
But the food was incredible, the service was great, and my company was divine.

And now... I get to wait on the ritzy folks that come into my diner. Well, I had three days off, I can't be too jaded yet.