It goes without saying, but...

Damn, people are assholes.
I waited on two women tonight who seemed nice enough. One asked what our stew came over and I jokingly replied, "A bowl."
She decided to get it over pasta, which I warned her would cost extra so come check time, there would be no surprises. They agree, have their meal and dessert, everyone is happy. I drop the check, and they call me over two minutes later.
"Can you tell me why this stew is so expensive?"
"Well... it was this much to begin with, and I told you I had to add in the pasta, so there it is."
"The penne was THREE NINETY FIVE? That's outrageous!"

Now, maybe I should have specified how much I had to add for the pasta from the get-go, but I didn't want to insult them and they agreed to a higher price. They asked me once more why a side a pasta was so much.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry I don't have a better answer for you, but I don't make the prices; it's just my job to charge them."
"Well, NEVER again."
I meekly smile, apologize once more, and walk away.

They pay at the register, and somehow this meal has turned into the WORST MEAL they've ever had. The food was dry, the prices were too high, etc. etc. Mind you, they complained about none of that when I checked on them.
I go to clear the table, no tip. I check the register to see if they left it on the card, nope. The bitches stiffed me. This pissed me off more than usual.
I understand you're upset about the price, and I'm sorry for that. Maybe I should have told you up-front, maybe you should have asked. I'm sorry your food was dry. Maybe you should have told me while I was at your table and could have done something about it. But the person you're pissed at in the end is the restaurant, not me. Cheating me out of a tip doesn't hurt "the man," you still paid for your food and they're none the wiser at the end of the day. The only person you're hurting is the 22-year-old who has college tuition and car payments, who just happened to be your waitress. And that's just a downright mean thing to do.

Cunts.

DIY

Mr. Blonde and I went out to dinner last night, as young couples are wont to do. It's a really good place, I love it there, but it's a little hard to describe. There are white tablecloths, cloth napkins, and a guy designated to pour water for you when you sit down, but it's not a really upscale place. People go there in diner attire. Hard to explain, and probably irrelevant to the story, but very curious.

Anyway, we had our dinner but alas, could not finish our entrees. We requested boxes. Our server (who was a little overbearing, but I could tell she meant well) boxed up our leftovers for us at the table.
I, personally, don't like that. A) She was all up in my personal space. B) I prefer to put it in the box myself, because I am controlling and also I didn't want her all up in my personal space AND my food.
Depending on how mouthy I am feeling that day, I will usually speak up and say something like, "Oh, I prefer to do it myself." Although on the inside I am screaming, "OH MY GOD JUST LET ME DO IT AND GO AWAY."

It just got me thinking. Some of the girls at my restaurant will take plates off the table (I don't know if they ask the customer's preference first) and box it up nearby. Some people (myself included) will just place the boxes on the table and let the customer handle it.

I understand the reasoning behind this practice, you're out at our business, let us serve you, don't lift a finger, blah blah blah. But I personally just don't like it. I wish they would say, "Would you like ME to box that up for you?" instead of just thrusting your boobs in my face as you grab my plate.

Thoughts?

Am I pushy?

This story didn't happen to me, but to a coworker yesterday afternoon.
She's waiting on a single man, maybe late 50's, early 60's. He orders a salad and his dinner. For purposes of this story, remember that my place of work used to be a fast food joint, before being converted into a diner.
So he's about three quarters done his salad, and his dinner comes up so K brings it out. He says to her, "I know this used to be *fast food place,* but I wasn't expecting this fast!" in a snotty manner.
She says, "oh.. I'm sorry.. do you want me to take it back to the kitchen until you're done your salad?"
"Yes I do!" he responds.

Fine, so she lets it sit under the heat lamps for five minutes and get all.. congealed. He finishes his salad and she brings it out a second time.
"Here you go!" she says, cheerfully, because everything K does is adorable.
"You know.. you're being a little pushy. You should say, 'here,' like I HAVE to take this food."
uhm, WHAT? Did you not order it? Do you not want it? So she apologizes, although she's not sure what for, and everything else is smooth. He even leaves her a 10 dollar tip!
This was really weird, and I didn't understand it. I'm tiptoeing around my other tables at this point because I'm worried I'm being "pushy."

Any thoughts?

Maybe someone else can explain this to me..

So I'm waiting on a nice family of five in the back.

Enter: fucking crazy lady. We see her every now and again, and she is absolutely nuts. I hide when I see her in the parking lot because last time I waited on her she told me I should model and immediately segued into dentistry which turned into a horribly racist diatribe. She once told us her father died and came in with him a week later. Bitch is nuts.

So, I guess she knew someone in my party in the back and sat her crazy ass right at the table (while leaving her poor dad, who's about 120 years old, sitting at a table alone and probably had no idea where he was) for like twenty minutes. I had already taken their order, thank god. I hate trying to maneuver those situations, where people are horribly engrossed in conversation (in this case, my poor family just being talked AT) and I want to take their freaking order.

Aaaaanyway, one of the women had ordered a salad, and I somehow forgot to ask what kind of dressing she wanted. I brought out soups, salads, and bread, and said,
"I'm sorry, I had a blonde moment and forgot to ask you about the dressing on your salad! Can I get you some?"
Enter insanity incarnate. "Of course she wants dressing!"
Uhm.. okay. I return to the lady I was actually talking to, "What can I get for you?"

At the same time the poor thing says, "Italian," Crazy interrupts.
"She wants IRISH dressing!" In a I'm so cheeky kind of way, like she was making a clever joke or innuendo. Everyone was silent. I walked away and got her italian dressing.

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!"