I really hate having to write titles for these things . . .

For a while there, I was in a slump at the restaurant. The hostesses seemed to seat me with nothing but two tops of old people and large parties consisting mostly of children. High maintenance but low checks. A lot of two dollar tips. I would get excited every time I saw guests over four feet tall with a full head of non-gray hair being led to one of my tables. Maybe, I would think, maybe they’ll order the ribeye and dessert and the kitchen won’t screw anything up.

All hope for a decent tip would leave, however, as soon as I stepped up to the table and the complaints began – why did they have to wait so long for a table? Why didn’t we have anything other than vegetable soup today? Why is their silverware dirty (spotty)? The answer to all of these questions was apparently that I am a bad server and screwed everything up. At least that’s what they told me through the tip they did not leave.

But I’d had enough. I’d had enough of the ass-kissing and unnecessary apologizing all in order to maybe squeeze out fifteen percent from these ungrateful bastards (Why is it taking them so long to recook that meal you dropped? It isn’t my fault that your server ran into my kid while he was chasing his brother around the dining room!). No more, I thought. No more will I smile politely while guests complain about stupid shit. No more will I answer their stupid questions as if they are perfectly valid. No more will I have to ask each and every guest in a party of seven the exact same thing because none of them are paying attention. No more.

Some examples:

Guest: I need more napkins!
Me: Sorry. One per customer. Perhaps you should have worn long sleeves today.
Result: Laughter and 20% tip. (I brought them more napkins obviously)

Guest: (after I knocked over a glass of water and broke it at the table behind them) Guess you have a case of the dropsies!
Me: Am I gonna have to cut you?
Result: Laughter. Man’s wife pats me on the arm. 23% tip.

Guest: I’d like a peach cobbler for dessert.
Me: I’m sorry, but we’re out.
Guest: That’s ridiculous! I came in here just for that.
Me: I’m very sorry.
Guest: I just can’t believe this. How could you run out?
Me: I’m not sure. I only ate seven of them before I came on shift.
Result: Guest stares at me for a moment, then laughs and calls me ‘cheeky.’ 30% tip and tells the manager I did an awesome job.

Guest: (looking around a full and very busy dining room) Why did it take so long for us to get a table?
Me: (as other servers and bussers fly past me in both directions) The Redskins’ game is on and we were all watching in back. Now can we make this quick? Half time is almost over.
Guest: Yeah, well what’s the score?
Result: 25% tip

Guest: My god! Did they have to kill the cow before cooking my steak?
Me: Yes, actually. We had one tied up out back, but some neighborhood kids keep letting it loose. Don't worry though, we had a couple of dishwashers chase it down. Your steak should be out as soon as we get some clean plates to serve it on.
Result: Everyone else at the table laughs. When I bring the steak, the guest asks what the cow's name was. I tell him "Patience." More laughter. 20% and a verbal tip (I used that to buy smokes on the way home)

For the past two weeks I’ve just been myself – my bitchy, sarcastic self – and it’s changed everything. I’d been holding back before, not saying what was on my mind, not becoming incredulous when someone asked why the food for their party of fifteen wasn’t already on the table when they ordered a whole ten minutes ago, apologizing for things that were beyond my control. I’m still not verbalizing every thought that comes into my head. I try to refrain from using the words ‘bitch’ or ‘alpha male jackass’ when standing at a table. But otherwise, I’ve pretty much let loose.

And I’ve been averaging about twenty-five percent every night. Sometimes more.

Go figure.

N-O. How do you pronounce that again?

One of the bittersweet joys of living so far away from family and being too poor to travel is that I get to spend my holidays alone. Just me and the kid doing whatever we want. No splitting time between my mother’s family and my father’s before rushing the kid over to his own father’s house. No family bickering. No going out of my way to accommodate everyone else’s timelines and putting up with their little eccentricities. Just peace. And quiet. And time for silent reverence.

Ahhh.

So I was getting pretty excited about Thanksgiving. The university gives us Friday off and we only work a half day on Wednesday, so I was looking forward to a four and a half day weekend. Of course, I can’t afford to take the time off from the restaurant, but still, only working one job is a vacation. And since my availability doesn’t include Thursdays (or Saturdays – I have to have one day to do housework and grocery shopping), I’ve been looking forward to the extra full day of rest for months now.

Since we weren’t planning to go to Iowa to see family, and our kitchen is much too small for me to be preparing a big feast, I thought I’d take the kid out to dinner, overtip the poor server who had to work the holiday, then go home and spend the rest of the day playing video games and watching holiday movies while further stuffing ourselves on a few well-chosen snacks.

Exciting? No. Just what I want and need? Completely.

But it was not to be. Several weeks ago, a friend of ours invited us over for a T-Day dinner. I thanked her and said that it sounded nice, but I did not say yes. I also didn’t say no. Then a couple weeks ago, she called to ask if my son could babysit and in the course of our conversation, brought up Thanksgiving dinner. It quickly became clear that by not declining the invitation, I had accepted.

I couldn’t back out at that point, so definite plans were made. This is the same friend who gave me a place to stay this summer while I was apartment hunting, and the same friend who took me to the beach for some much needed rest. And while I don’t feel an obligation to accept her invitation, I also don’t want them to feel that I don’t care enough about them to spend the holiday with them, especially when (as most people might see it) I have nothing better to do.

And they only live ten minutes away. I figured the kid and I could still sleep in a little, get in a movie or some festive zombie-killing on the X-Box, hang out, cook and dine with my friends, and still have a few hours of down time in the evening.

This also was not to be.

The other night at the restaurant, the assistant GM sidled up to me (yes, he really did sidle).

AGM: I’m only asking you this because I have to . . .
Me: You want me to work Thanksgiving.
AGM: (slumping down by leaning on the counter to make himself smaller than me) We could really use you.
Me: You know, I used to like you.
AGM: (batting his pretty blond eyelashes) You can handle the traffic. We need the experience on the floor.
Me: I’m liking you less and less right now.
AGM: You could work morning or evening. It would really help us out.
Me: I don’t like you at all.
AGM: (puts his head on his arm and looks up at me)
Me: (in my head) Fuuuuuuuck!
AGM: The shifts are eight to two or two to ten.
Me: Is the morning busy?
AGM: (stands up straight now that he has what he wants) We’re on a wait by eight-thirty.
Me: You suck. (calling after him as he walks away) I mean that. I really can't stand you!

I need the money. Fucking money.

And I figured it wouldn’t be so bad. I have a few extra hours on Wednesday between leaving the university early and my shift at the restaurant when the kid and I can hang out. I’ll go in to the restaurant and make (I hope) some great money on Thursday and still make it to dinner at my friend’s house, then I’ll have until Friday at five to do whatever I want. Plus my usual Saturday.

So I talked to my friend a little while ago to finalize some plans for me to pick up a bed she is giving me (see, how could I turn down her invitation?). And I told her that I would have to work until mid-afternoon on Thursday, but that the kid and I would be there for dinner. No big deal, she said. She even offered to pick the kid up early so I could come straight to her house from work if I wanted. Oh, and by the way, she had some bad news.

It seems her six year old daughter (adorable) came home from school last night and declared herself a vegetarian. Eating animals is cruel. And because eating animals is cruel, she forbade her parents from cooking up and serving an already dead turkey. And because my friends are very progressive and always support their daughters in whatever their endeavors, we will not be having turkey on Thanksgiving. We will be having no meat of any kind.

Again – Fuck!

So, to recap:

dhf’s original Turkey-Day plans:
-Go out for drinks with work friends after Wednesday night’s shift because I have the next day off.
-Sleep in because I have the day off.
-Watch parades on television with the kid.
-Go out to dinner.
-Come home and eat junk food and play video games with the kid.
-Maybe go to a movie (Beowulf in 3-D at the IMAX!)


dhf’s modified Turkey-Day plans:
-Maybe have one drink after Wednesday night’s shift, depending on how early we get out because I have to be at work by eight in the morning.
-Serve pre- and post-church guests in the a.m. and lucky non-cooking bastards in the early afternoon. Hope they compensate me well for working on a holiday so they don’t have to.
-Head to my friends’ house for a lovely holiday dinner.
-Go to a movie or go home and eat junk food and kill zombies with the kid.

dhf’s final next-Thursday plans:
-Go out for too many drinks regardless of time after Wednesday night’s shift because I have to be at work early in the morning and then have a meatless Thanksgiving dinner, so why does it matter if I’m hung over.
-Drag myself out of bed and head to work where I will run my ass off for ungrateful customers who will probably bring in their kids who have likely been gorging on sweets all morning and will be hopped up on sugar, running around our restaurant with cousins they haven’t seen all year and are sooo excited to be hanging out with. Know that I’ll probably get stiffed thirty percent of the time. Two, maybe three dollars on the rest of the tables.
-Go to my friends’ house and eat vegetables and potato dishes.
-Skip the movie because I’m too hung over from the previous night’s drinking.
-Kill a shit-load of zombies because I am full of much bitterness over not being able to say no to people and spent the day doing something other than what I wanted.

Letters to my 'guests'

To the divorced dad who brought his children in for dinner:

I was standing at another table when the hostess sat you, and as soon as I finished taking their order, I greeted you. I could tell you did not think this was fast enough. I could tell by the way you tapped your polished leather shoes impatiently until I turned around. I also greeted your children who couldn’t be bothered to look up from their notebook drawings – your daughter’s of a home with two children and a mother in front of it, your son’s of a similar house on fire – long enough to acknowledge my presence or that they had been spoken to. I came right back with the tea you ordered for yourself, and nothing for your children because you bought them sodas which they brought into the restaurant. I smiled while I waited for you to decide what to eat, even though I had other tables to greet, even though you told me you were ready and seemed annoyed when I politely suggested I come back in a few moments. I only tell you this because you weren’t looking at me while you barked your order at me. And I wanted you to know. And when you told me to bring you a plate of biscuits, then as an afterthought said, “That comes with it” almost as a question, but not quite, I told you it didn’t, but I would hook you up. I did not do this because you are entitled to bread. I did it to be nice. And when I brought you the bread, and you said “the kids need some waters” – still not looking me in the eye – and put your arms behind your head, making sure to shake your shiny gold watch behind your head as you stretched and your son picked up the orange crayon to add accent to his flames, I did not “accidentally” drop the plate of bread in your lap. This too I did to be nice. And when I brought the children their water, and offered to top off your glass of tea, I understood that you were too busy staring off into nothingness to acknowledge that you had been asked a question, so I refilled it anyway. And when I brought your food out, including an extra plate so your children could split a meal, and they couldn’t be bothered to move their crayons and notebooks to make room for the plates of food and you said nothing, I only laughed and commented on how we needed to make bigger tables. And when you growled at me to “put that down over there!” even though I could not reach “over there” because your son had chosen that moment to lean across the table and throw the orange slice garnish on the ground at my feet, I did not knock him in the head with the plate, and teach him about being aware of his surroundings as I reached over him. Because I’m nice like that. And later, as I rushed down the aisle with another table’s tray of food and you stretched your foot into the aisle, almost tripping me, I did not scuff your expensive shoes. Even though I wanted to. And after you left, and I came back to bus your table, and I saw the untouched water glasses, the outside soda bottles, the pieces of wet pancake on the table and the floor, and the dollar fifty tip you left me on a twenty dollar tab, I wondered why it took your wife so long to leave your sorry ass.


To the older woman who needed to complain about something, to somebody:

You ordered roast beef with no gravy. Even though it is cooked in gravy. So I stood behind the cook while he put your portion of roast onto the grill and cooked the gravy away. I watched while he added the sides to your plate, and the moment he was finished, I brought it to your table. You might imagine my surprise when I stopped back to ask how your meal was, and you complained that it wasn’t very warm. I was almost as shocked as you were when my manager refused to comp your meal and most definitely more shocked than when you and your husband left without tipping me at all.


To the guests who come in with thirteen of your closest friends and complain to management about my service when your food does not arrive within fifteen minutes during a dinner rush on Friday night:

Go to McDonald's. Or a buffet. Or the real world. Your choice.


To the couple with the adorable little girl and the teenage son, both of whom said “please” and “thank you” and wished me a good evening as you left:

I think I love you. Please dine with us every night. Please.

Feels just like I'm walking on crumpled trash

My last three shifts at the restaurant have been with our general manager as the closer. This is never fun. Our GM is an older, grumpy white dude with no sense of humor who sucks what little joy we have at work right out of the occasion.

Our GM is obsessed with the tidiness of the restaurant. Not with the cleanliness, which would make sense because, you know, we serve food to people. No, our GM is obsessed with things being neat and orderly at all times. He walks up and down the server aisle moving trays into neat little piles and organizing stacks of napkins. I’m not kidding. But his biggest obsession seams to be the floor.

Let me just say that we sweep when there’s down time. And if one of us spills something or drops a dish, we immediately clean it up. We do this because it makes sense – no matter how busy we are, no matter how much a table is demanding bread service right that moment, we know that we cannot leave liquids or broken porcelain on the floor. It’s a safety issue. Sometimes a health code issue. But occasionally, as we are rushing through the server aisle with our trays, we drop things – straw wrappers, grill tickets, sugar packets, etc.

The GM gets irritated by this. So irritated that even during our busiest rushes, his top priority is finding someone to sweep the server aisle. Should we run some of the trays in the window before the food gets cold and we have to replate it? No, we should sweep up straw wrappers. Should we go greet the three tables the airheaded hostess just sat in our section at once? No, we should pick up those two packets of Equal that spilled out of the box.

His obsession with a tidy floor has become a joke, and no longer do any of us respond to his requests for “somebody to take a broom through here” when we have hungry, thirsty guests on the floor. It probably has something to do with the fact that just a few weeks ago, he shoved a broom in my direction despite the fact that I was already carrying a tray full of drinks and asked me to sweep the floor, and I told him, “I would, but my guests need me to do something for them. And they’re paying me more than you are.”

I don’t know why he hasn’t fired me yet.

So Friday night, realizing that none of us cared about his tidy floor, he took the broom and dustpan and swept it himself. Not without grumbling of course.

“You’re walking on trash, people!” he said, as he swept up a grill ticket. “Do you walk on trash at home? Is this how you people live?”

Most everybody ignored him or just plain didn’t hear him, as the restaurant was full of guests and we were on an hour wait, but I happened to be standing near him, making sweet tea so I could take some to my tables.

“Do you walk on trash at home?” he said to me. He even said my name. Do you walk on trash at home, dhf? As if our little question and answer would be an example for all other servers. Did you hear that? Dhf doesn't walk on trash at home. Maybe we should sweep up these crumpled napkins.

“No,” I told him. “I don't walk on trash. But I also don’t wait tables at my house, so it’s kind of a wash.”

I'm very disappointed in myself.

The coffee's probably not a safe bet, either

I’ve only dropped one tray at the restaurant. Actually, it wasn’t even a full tray – just one plate of food that slid off the corner of the tray as I pulled it out of the window. It’s amazing that I haven’t dropped more. I mean, I’m clumsy. I once fell and knocked over an end table and broke a lamp by doing nothing more than turning to face a friend who was speaking to me. Another time I tripped over the sidewalk and slammed my face into the concrete outside the library. In front of a lot of people. Who all rushed to my aid, embarrassing me even further. The worst part was I had a twenty-eight hour bus ride home ahead of me and a bad case of facial road-rash, though I'm not sure I stood out that much with the other Greyhound passengers.

Regardless, it amazes me that I am able to carry a tray full of water glasses and coffee pots and plates and soup bowls and chinchillas. Okay, scratch that last one. Just making sure you’re keeping up.

Making it through the diningroom with a fully loaded tray is pretty tough. Especially when it’s busy. Sometimes, you have ten or twelve glasses of liquid on a ten inch round tray balanced on your fingertips, and you have to make it from the kitchen to the table without spilling.

This wouldn’t be so bad if it were a straight shot, but there are always obstacles – other servers, children running around unattended, high chairs sticking out in the aisle because guests don’t listen when the hostesses tell them it isn’t safe, little old people who walk damn slow or just plain stop for no reason. Our restaurant even has these infernal rocking chairs. Which rock. And rock even harder when kids jump out of them. I can’t tell you how many servers have been taken down by the backs of these quickly abandoned rockers.

As hazardous as the diningroom is, it is nothing compared to the server aisle. Ours runs the length of the restaurant, spanning everything from the dishroom and bussing station at one end, to prep and the breakroom at the other. The grill hood (where the cooks tray up the food to be served) is in the middle of the server aisle. Opposite the grill hood is the salad cooler, salad dressing station and juice machines. Beside the grill hood are the bread stations and soup stations. And at each end of the aisle are the long counters that hold the tea and soda and coffee and hot chocolate stations.

And the aisle itself is four feet wide. If that.

On a busy day, there are ten or more servers, two managers, a couple of bussers, a server assistant, and a few more random employees all fighting for space in this aisle. Imagine carrying a tray loaded with food or beverages through there while moving as fast as you can without running because you have four tables on the floor and everybody needs a refill. Now. Right now (Damnit, where is this waitress with my sweet tea!). Sometimes I think of it in terms of football, like being a linebacker and having to pivot and turn and swivel in order to avoid the other players while trying not to drop the ball.

Last night, for example, was insanely busy, and there we were short-staffed. The dish room was backed up, the server aisle was a mess, even the grill was a little backed up, and we all had more tables than we could comfortably handle. It was three hours of chaos. Still I managed to make it through the night without dropping a thing. I was the only one.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad for a shift to be over, and I was ready to just hop in the car and get home. When I started the car though, I realized I needed to get gas, so I stopped at the BP across the street and while the car was filling I went inside to grab some caffeine. Another woman reached the door just a moment before I did and she held it open for me and we exchanged smiles and I thanked her as I walked inside. I was thinking about how nice that was, such a small thing really, but such a change after a night of angry customers and the resulting short fuses of my co-workers. I was thinking this as I opened the cooler and picked out a bottle of cola.

And as I closed the cooler door, the soda bottle slipped from my hand. And it burst. Sugary, sticky liquid exploded and fizzed out all over the floor and my pants and the pants of the woman who had just been considerate enough to hold the door for me.

The woman was very sweet about the whole thing, as was the store clerk who had to clean up the soda spilled all over the floor and splashed up the cooler doors. He even refused to let me pay for the bottle I dropped.

I was mortified.

I apologized like crazy and even joked that I had made it all night at work without dropping a tray, but couldn’t seem to handle a sealed plastic bottle.

The clerk laughed and asked me where did I work. I told him and he said maybe he’d request me next time he came in. Then he said, “I just won’t order the soup.” And he and the woman laughed.

Not funny. Not funny at all.

Abandonment issues

Uhhm, so, I almost got myself fired last night.

Okay, so the story’s not all that exciting, but here it is anyway.

I had a four table section in the second dining room and, because we were short staffed, an eight table section in smoking. Being Monday night, it wasn’t exceptionally busy, but we got a decent crowd in for dinner. I already had a couple tables down when the hostess seated a seven top in the smoking section. Mostly kids.

Yes, some people think it’s cool to sit with their kids in the smoking section. But that's not today’s rant.

Since there were five small children at the table, I asked the hostess not to seat me again for a few minutes because the presence of small children at the table generally adds two minutes per child to the ordering time:

Mom: (to kid) What would you like to drink?
Kid: I want Coke.
Mom: No Coke. How about chocolate milk?
Kid: I hate chocolate milk.
Mom: Please sit back down in your chair.
Kid: I want Coke!
Mom: I’m not ordering you soda. It’s almost bed time.
Kid: Coke!
Mom: You can have chocolate milk.
Kid: Co. Ca. Cola!
Mom: Let go of your sister’s hair. Chocolate milk or nothing.
Kid: Fine!
Mom: (to me, standing patiently beside the table) He’ll have chocolate milk.

Repeat scenario once per child.

(Here's where it gets boring. But it's called a set-up. Like the long, boring parts in sci-fi shows, where you're just picking up clues and backstory and waiting for the action.)

After I finally got the drink order for the seven top, I swung back by my other section to check on my guests and discovered that the hostess had sat me anyway. And not once, but twice. I picked up the drink orders for the new tables, being informed by one that someone else would be joining them, and headed into the kitchen for the drinks. I asked another server to drop off coffees and sweet teas in the second dining room while I went back to the seven top with bread and their drinks and got their order.

Before I put the order in, I stopped back in the second dining room, dropped off a couple checks, and checked on the two tables just sat. One wasn’t ready to order. The other was still waiting for their guest.

I put the seven top's order in and came back to the dining room where the third guest had finally joined her party. I greeted her, got her drink order, and since they weren’t ready to order food yet, I told them I’d be back. I took the order from my other table (who was ready) and put it in before coming back with the drink and finally getting the order from the three top. I came back out to the dining room with pitchers and coffee pots, refilled all my guests (including the three top) in the second, brought boxes for people who were getting ready to leave, and then went to my tables in smoking, where I had been sat again.

They gave me a drink order, asked about the soup and specials and for bread, but weren’t ready to order. They were ready when I came back, so I took their order and left to put it in. As soon as I was finished, the seven top’s food was ready in the window. I gathered all their requested condiments, asked for a couple followers, and took the food to their table. They needed more napkins and some extra dressings, which I brought right away.

When I came back into the kitchen, someone else was walking out the door with one of my trays – for the two top – but the three top wasn’t up yet, and since this was the first moment since refilling drinks I’d had, I started setting up a plate of bread to take to the three top. Just then my manager came back and said that the three top “requested your presence.”

(So here's the "action." No flying or bolts of lightning flying out of anyone's hand. No bending time - though that would have been helpful)

At this point, it had been at most, at the very, very most, fifteen minutes since I had taken that table’s order (and I refilled their drinks once after the order went in). Here is the conversation:

Woman who came in last: Where have you been?
Me: (setting down bread and plates on the table) Uhm, I’m sorry, ma’am, I have a large part-
Woman: (interrupting) You’ve left us sitting here for thirty minutes.
Me: I’m sorry, ma’am. But it hasn’t been thirty-
Woman: We had to get someone else to refill our drinks.
Me: I do apologize, ma’am. I have several other tables and a large par-
Woman: (interrupting, again, and gesturing toward the manager who is standing at the next table over) He told us you were at a large party.
Me: Yes, ma’am. Their food came up and I was-
Woman: Well, you just walked away and left us.
Me: Ma’am, I had food to bring out and another –
Woman: You didn’t even come back to refill our drinks for over thirty minutes.
Me: I do apologize, but I just took your order fifteen –
Woman: Are you telling me it hasn’t been over thirty minutes?
Woman’s father: I think she is.
Me: (trying to change the subject) Ma’am your food should be up any –
Woman: Are you going to tell me it hasn’t been thirty minutes?
Woman's father: Of course she is.
Me: Ma'am, I have five other tables, including a party of sev-
Woman: I don't know what you were doing, but it shouldn't take you thirty minutes.
Me: Ma’am, I apologize if it seemed like I was gone -
Woman: It was thirty minutes.
Me: I apologize. Can I bring you -
Woman: Are you going to continue telling me it hasn’t been thirty minutes?
Me: Are you going to continue to be rude to me?

Yep.

There it was.

She said, “Excuse me?!” And I walked away before I said something really stupid. Or threw lightning at her. She turned around and grabbed the manager who was still at the table beside them.

In the kitchen, I checked their ticket time. It had been seventeen minutes since I put it in.

When the manager came back, I apologized to him and asked told him I understood he was probably going to send me home.

“Hell no,” he said. “I heard everything. She was being a bitch.”

I calmed myself down, checked on my smoking tables, and came back to the window, where the three top’s food had just come up. I got it ready and ran it out to them.

And I apologized. I didn’t say I was sorry (because I wasn’t), but that I apologized. I asked them if they needed anything else. Perhaps some refills (because for the third time in twenty minutes they had sucked down twenty ounces of liquid). Then I dropped off their check. Showing the time they ordered.

I brought back refills, asked them how everything was, and apologized again. The woman said thank you and for the rest of their meal, they were all extremely polite.

At the end of their meal, I brought them to go boxes and welcomed them to join us again.

The manager said he would back me up if they decided to complain, but they tipped me eighteen percent. So I don't think they will.

Still, I felt bad about it all night. I mean, she was wrong, but I never lose my cool with a guest. And I have had some awful guests. I didn’t understand why I reacted that way. The rest of my tables were doing fine. I wasn’t in the weeds. I was having a pretty good night. I wasn’t anywhere near the end of my rope or the last straw or whatever.

I just suddenly couldn’t take this woman being so incredibly demeaning.

Why, yes, Mr. Bundy, I would love to get into your van

After our dinner rush, I stood in the break room talking to a couple of other servers, when one of them stood on a chair and very excitedly started telling me about how her latest crush is going. Because there were other people around, and her crush is one of our co-workers, she was speaking in code. And this was on top of her already shortened and overly enthusiastic speech. When she left the break room, another server shook his head and commented that she was crazy.

She must have heard him as she walked away because later, as we were cleaning up the restaurant, she asked me if I thought she was indeed crazy.

“Yes,” I told her. “But I find that your insanity is one of your most endearing traits.”

And I meant it. I admit, when she first started working, I found her a little off-putting. She is loud. She has an odd laugh. And she laughs a lot. At her own jokes. Which aren’t funny. And aren’t jokes. She’s also nice. Like really nice. Like insanely, over-the-top, unnecessarily polite.

But we’ve worked together a few months now and after many smoke breaks together and a couple of drinks after work, I’ve discovered that I really like her.

She isn’t afraid to say what she thinks or feels. She has a really unique laugh. She laughs at her own unfunny jokes and I find this very charming (probably because I do this too). And she’s nice – would do anything for anybody (except watch your tables while we’re in the middle of a dinner rush).

And several times over the past few weeks, we’ve hung out in her car and smoked and talked before I headed home to the kid. I think I have a new friend.

Anyway, this got me thinking about first impressions. Mostly, how mine turn out never to be right. And by this, I mean I thought Mike Vick was a real sweetheart, right up until he asked if I wanted to meet his dogs.

Some examples of my (wrong) first impressions:

When I was thirteen, a new family moved into the house across the street from us. I was playing football with a group of neighborhood boys (tackle football – I kicked ass) in the church yard across the street, and the new kid emerged from his house and asked if he could join in. He said his name was “Daniel.” He was gangly and awkward and sucked at football. I didn’t like him at all. After his father called him in for dinner, I joined the other boys in making fun of him.

Reality – He turned out to be really, really funny. Also very smart (I think these go hand-in-hand). He liked the same corny movies I did and read the same books. He turned out to be my best friend all through school. He was my date for senior prom. And even though we never dated (and he is madly in love with another friend of mine), my mother still refers to him as the one that got away. Oh, and his name isn’t Daniel, though it’s close.


When I was very young, I thought my father was the greatest person on the planet. He was really smart and really funny and took me to football games. It didn’t bother him that I liked to play with GI Joe (back when he was a full-sized doll and not that puny piece of plastic) rather than Barbie. In fact, he thought it was kind of cool. I thought my mother was kind of boring. She was just, you know, a mom. Like June Cleaver. Except she complained a lot while doing the housework, which I found totally unnecessary (“How in the Hell did you get spaghetti sauce on the ceiling? I told you girls not to eat in your room!”).

Reality – My father is smart and he is funny, but he’s a violent shit-hole. And irresponsible. And did I mention, a shit-hole? My mother could kick June Cleaver’s ass. And probably Ward’s (and not just because he’s dead now), but she would never kick anyone's ass because she's just too cool. I found out after my parents’ divorce that she was just quiet most of the time because my dad was too busy doing all the talking. And telling her to shut up. And I realized that my mom was really smart and really, really funny. Especially when manic. Oh, and she used to wear combat boots. What of it?


My first semester in grad school, I adopted two cats. I planned to adopt one, but when I met Mickey and Annie, they were just too sweet to pass up. Annie was kind and gentle, and her brother, Mickey, came right to the front of the cage and rubbed against my finger, then rolled over on his stomach, and though I couldn’t reach it, I knew he wanted a belly rub. He stole my heart.

Reality – Annie was sick. Her full lethargy surfaced within a year, and she had to be put to sleep. Mickey turned out to be aggressive and standoffish and the first time I rolled Mickey’s upturned belly, I pulled back a shredded hand. When I took him to the vet to be neutered, the vet laughed at me and told me the cat had already been fixed. And that, oh yeah, he was a female*. I changed her name to Mickie.


I worked the closing shift at a convenience store during my first semester of college. I had to restock the coolers and clean out the back room before I could go home each night (early morning), but I could only do this when there were no customers in the store since unattended customers tend to shoplift and/or masturbate in the bathrooms (yes, really). Every night, about an hour before close, this guy would come in and play pinball for about forty-five minutes before finally getting the hint that I had work to do and he needed to move on. I assumed he was just some lonely, creepy dude who loved pinball.

Reality – He was just some lonely, creepy stalker dude who loved pinball. Apparently, I had said something funny to him one time when he stopped in for coffee. He took this as flirting and came back the next night, and the next, and so on, hoping to continue with said flirting. Oblivious, I gritted my teeth each night when he came in because his presence in the store meant I couldn’t get my work done and get the hell out of there. One night, I took my frustration out on a cardboard display stand of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and as I tried to move the stand (by kicking it across the floor), the cardboard collapsed and candy bars spewed forth. The creepy dude helped me clean it up and a conversation ensued. His son now lives in my spare bedroom. And eats all my food.


*The Richmond SPCA sucks. That is all. Dismissed.

Let's just eat and get the hell out of here

The past few weeks at the restaurant have been pretty slow. Well, the work hasn’t been slow – the pace is still quick and the tables are filling up – it’s just the money that’s been coming in slowly. Monday night, for example, it seemed I couldn’t get more than a three dollar tip from a single table. It didn’t matter if the bill was $15 or $38.50 – the most anyone paid me for my excellent service the entire night was five bucks. And that was on a $45 tab.

And, no, I didn’t forget anyone’s entrée, nobody’s ice clinked in the bottom of an empty glass, and as far as I can recall, I didn’t, say, drop a tray of drinks in anyone's lap. Not that I didn't want to. I started to think maybe I had something hanging out of my nostrils all night or perhaps I was exuding a peculiar odor. But it’s been like this for some time now and I think I know why.

People are unhappy. I don’t know if it’s because summer is over, or because the country is at war, or if it’s because Kevin Federline was deemed a responsible parent. I’m not really sure. But the majority of the people I’ve encountered lately, at least at the restaurant, are a sad, sorry lot.

With very few exceptions, these are the two types of parties I’ve been getting:

Party one: Two or more guests sitting at the table when I arrive. I smile. I introduce myself and tell them I’ll be taking care of them today (yes, ‘taking care of’ like they’re my children or I’m a hitman). I ask if I can start them out with drinks. Sometimes they look up from their menus and grumble a hello. Mostly they mumble ‘sweet tea’ or ‘decaf’ and continue reading the menu. When I return with their drinks, they are still looking at the menus. I assume this means they still need a few minutes to look it over, but I ask anyway. They give their orders, one by one, then hand over their menus without making eye contact. Eye contact is apparently bad, which is why they were all still enraptured by the description of our country fried steak. No one at the table speaks to anyone else at the table. When I bring back bread and salads, the men at the table sit with their arms folded and are angled toward the aisle or wall, away from the other guests. They accept their bread plates in silence. Conversation is also bad. Each time I pass the table or stop to refill their drinks, I notice the absence of sound. I assume they are all deaf and mute because I can’t understand why any group of people would pay to go out to dinner if they found each other so intolerable and boring that they couldn’t at least participate in a conversation about the weather. Or football. Or Flavor of Love. Then I remember that they communicated with me. Maybe they are just conserving energy.

Party two: Before I can even open my mouth to begin my spiel, I hear one of the following: “It’s cold in here. Tell your manager to turn down the air conditioner.” “We’re starving. Bring us bread!” “Coffee. Black. And I don’t want any of that crap that’s been sitting. Brew a fresh pot.” It doesn’t get any better from here. They spend the rest of the meal barking orders at me. They speak to one another, but while I refill their sweet tea, I hear them arguing or complaining or nagging another member of the party. By the time the food comes, a full-on war has commenced and they are either whisper-yelling or just outright shouting at their children to stop talking and just eat. Twice this week alone, I have been asked for to go boxes within moments of delivering the food because having to endure one more moment with their friends and family would really send them over the edge. By the end of the meal, they resemble party number one. I wish them a good evening as they leave and am either ignored or met with a glare. I retrieve my three dollars from under their sweating water glass. They go home and kick a puppy.

Letters of praise

To the administrator who is too afraid of his own employees to effectively administrate:

When my friend scheduled an appointment with you to complain about her supervisor, my former supervisor, you must have been blindsided. I mean, the supervisor had gone through seven assistants in six years, but I was there for almost three years, so it must not have been so bad. And she was often abusive in department meetings, so much so that most people, including your own boss, refused to participate in those meetings, but come on, she couldn’t be that awful. And while she may have had a reputation on campus as a legendary bitch, well, reputations are often built on rumor, not fact. So when my friend came to you, and told you how it had really been working for her, how the woman had driven me away, how she was now abusing the new assistant, how she was ruining my friend’s career with unfair and overly critical performance reviews and personal attacks, how she wandered into the office hours late each morning, reeking of beer, what were you supposed to do about it? Deal with the supervisor? Ask her to change her behavior? Tell her to check into rehab? Ask her to step down? No. Not at all.

You did what any suit would do when faced with such a problem – you offered to reassign my friend to another department. And for not sugarcoating anything, for teaching my friend a cold, hard lesson about life and telling the legendary bitch who has been making my friend’s life a living hell that my friend, herself, requested the move, well, for that, sir, I salute you.


To the couple who came into the restaurant ten minutes before close last night:

I know what you were thinking: they’re not closed yet. Oh, and look, honey! There are no other cars in the parking lot! We’ll be able to get right in, and it will be quiet and romantic, and we’ll be able to sit and talk. But I also know what you weren’t thinking: Oh, they close in ten minutes. It will take us at least ten minutes to order because I don’t know what I want – Do you know what you want? And then it will take them another ten or so to cook the food and we’ll want salads and soup and that will add another ten and then we’ll want coffee after dinner and we’ll talk about our mundane lives for at least another twenty minutes while the waitstaff cleans up the place and then glares and plots our imminent demise, possibly by food poisoning, because by the time we finally get our overstuffed asses up and pay our check we will have held them up at least an hour when, since there are no cars in the parking lot NOW, it probably means they could go home to their beds just a few minutes after closing time, so maybe we should go to the Ihop down the street. They’re open all night.

For thinking the first thing, and not the second, you are my heroes. Thank you. Come again.


To the graduate student who was the last one admitted to the program, after everyone else had turned it down, and who nevertheless thinks she is the shit:

You are my favorite. I know I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Could this be because I have only seen the others one time each, and can not distinguish one from another, so you, by default, must be the favorite? Could it be that in the two weeks since you first stepped on campus, you have visited my office no fewer than twenty-nine times, and each time you make yourself at home, dropping your book bags on my floor and sinking back into the chair on the other side of the desk, ready to hang out like we are old friends? Or could it be that you keep me on my toes, that you apparently stay up into the wee hours, thinking up new and interesting ways to ask the same question again and again and again? Could it be because you were the only one with sense enough to complain about the unlockable drawer in the fourth generation desk in the makeshift GTA office space in what was formerly a hallway, when obviously we have so much more to offer you? Perhaps it is the fact that you helped me to be a better employee by going to one of my coworkers and then another coworker and finally my boss when I did not give you the answer you wanted.

Or it could be that today, while walking down the hallway with your employment packet in my hand, I found myself unable to stifle a sneeze, and when I had to use your paperwork to block the spray, I had a secret moment of perverse joy in an otherwise crappy day. For that, I thank you. Really.

A little venting . . .

Now that I’ve been waiting tables a little while, I’ve found that you can pretty much tell what your tip will be like the moment you walk up to the table. Some people are super friendly from the moment you say hello. They joke around a little, they are polite, they ask for things as opposed to ordering you to bring them. Generally, with decent ticket times, these people don’t overtip, but they tip well. Others are busy talking to each other, or on their cellphones chatting, and seem annoyed that you have interrupted them to ask for their order. I can usually recover enough to earn a respectable tip as long as I wow them and take care of their needs without making my presence known.

Then there are the tables like I had last night. I hate to admit this, but the guests (that’s what we call them – guests – even though I would invite very few of these people to join me anywhere) are generally women. Before I even open my mouth to greet them, they are eyeing me up and down, scowling, and letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that I will not be able to meet their ridiculous expectations. Their drinks will have too much ice (or not enough), their silverware will be too spotty, they will not have enough napkins, the mashed potatoes with steam rolling off them will be too cold, they will need extra butter, etc.

The worst part about these guests is that they seem to make sport of it, of trying to knock me down. They do not want to tip, do not believe in tipping, and will go out of their way to justify tipping very little or not at all.

They start with the order.

As happened last night: two women were seated in my section while I was waiting on a large party. I refilled drinks for the party, and then I walked to the two-top to greet them. I could tell how it was going to go before I even said hello. They complained that it was too cold in the restaurant. I said I could ask them manager to turn off the ceiling fans. The first woman said, No, don’t bother. Then they complained the table was too small. I offered to have the hostess move them to another table since it was late and the restaurant was fairly empty.

No, we’re fine.

Then why complain?

Then the order – two pancake combos, both with substitutions (which we don’t do, but whatever), both with specific instructions (make the bacon extra crispy, but not burnt or I’ll send it back). Then they want biscuits and cornbread (these don’t come with pancakes, and technically I’m supposed to charge them, but again, whatever) and extra butter and jelly. I ask what kind – they don’t care.

In less than five minutes, I put in their special orders, fix them drinks and bring them their bread and an assortment of jelly. Plus extra napkins.

They need more lemons. Which I bring.

And some water. Which I bring.

And they wanted strawberry jelly. Which I bring (Can't they just ask for this all at once?).

I even bring them, within ten minutes of their order, extra syrup with their pancakes and crispy bacon with hashbrowns instead of eggs and a side of grits instead of bacon.

Woman #1 puts a fork into her pancakes as I ask them if there is anything else I can bring them, and before I can even step away, she shoves the plate back at me.

These are like rubber! I won’t eat them. And she takes Woman #2’s plate and shoves it at me too.

I tell her to shove them –

Okay, I apologize and tell them I’ll have more cooked and out to them immediately. I do not argue. I do not ask her if she’s sure they’re not okay. I do not ask her friend to try them and see what she thinks. I do not even point out to her that she has yet to take a bite of the pancakes, that she hasn’t even put syrup on them, that she hasn’t done anything more than put her goddamned fork in them!

But she says it anyway.

I want to speak to a manager.

For the record, this is the point at which I, as a server, no longer care about her as a customer. I no longer care about refilling her drinks. I no longer care if she has a pleasant dining experience; I just want her to eat her damned food and drink her damned drinks and get the hell up from my table so I can get some new guests and earn more than the two dollars an hour the restaurant is paying me to put up with her bullshit. But as I posted yesterday, my mother taught me better than that. Damn my mother.

Absolutely, I tell her. And I rush into the kitchen, send a manager to the table, and get the pancakes recooked and back to her table within three minutes.

She doesn’t even thank me when I bring them back. Or when I come back to ask if this stack of pancakes (identical to the previous stack) is to her liking. Or when I bring them extra biscuits. Or drink refills. Or to go boxes. All without being asked.

And when they leave, for all my trouble, they leave no tip.

Which is what I expected when I got to the table.

Work 101. Instructor: dhf's mother. Credits: 0. Day/Time: MTWTFSS 12:01am - 12:00am

Things my mother taught me:

1. There is work to be done. Someone has to do it. You can’t count on anyone else to do it right, or at all, so you might as well do it yourself.

2. If the work is not done, it will only create more work down the road, and since #1 almost always holds true, you will be the one doing more work.

3. At any given task your co-workers will be one or all of the following:
a. Lazy
b. Incompetent
c. Absent
Therefore, it is in your best interest to help them out (ie do all the work) to avoid # 2.

4. Work that is not done will bring shame and condemnation on you and your entire family.

5. Once the work is done, there is more time for fun, and the fun will be made even more fun by the fact that you don’t have the thought of undone work hanging over your head.


Things most of my co-workers’ mothers apparently taught them:

1. Life is not about work. It is about joy, and sunshine, and gossiping about the little people, who are working. Don’t waste your time doing something someone else can do better.

2. Tasks left unfinished will be completed by the next person, who let’s face it, is probably beneath you anyway, so who cares?

3. If someone else is willing to help you out or do it for you, let them. They likely:
a. Enjoy it
b. Have nothing better to do
c. Are too stupid to know any better or do anything else
If not, they would stop.

4. You are a special person, with special gifts; do not squander your time on details and menial tasks (See #2).

5. Have fun! There will be plenty of time for work later.

Ignoring ignorance

In the evenings, because I have nothing better to do than earn money to pay the man, after my full-time job, I wait tables at a certain nationally-known family restaurant, one you'd find along most interstates. Last night while on a smoke break, I was chatting it up with a couple of the grill cooks and a manager who were also playing a game of catch with a package of napkins. Why napkins? Why not, I guess. Anyway, the manager admonished one of the grill cooks for throwing "like a girl."

I could have let it go.

I didn't. I let a lot of things go - but that's just one of those comments that really irks me. Partially because it's sexist. But more so because I am a girl, and I can throw harder and farther than most of the men I know. Granted, I hang out with non-athletic, intellectual types, but this just further proves my point - athletic ability is not tied to gender.

I digress.

My objection to the remark and subsequent demonstration of how this girl throws, led to more discussion, my use of the word misogynist (in jest), my necessary explanation of the word misogynist, and half-hearted protest from the twenty-something grill cook who claimed that he "loves women" and could not possibly be sexist, followed by more discussion. And another cigarette (because, well, it was slow in the restaurant last night and I'd already earned my $2.16 an hour making sweet tea for the bastards).

At this point a third grill cook stepped into the break area - I have no idea who was actually making the food at this point, but not my concern - and upon hearing the discussion going on said to the woman-lover that he should keep it down because "isn't someone here a . . . feminist?" The best part is that he whispered the F-word.

No wait, the best part is that the woman-lover, who was standing slightly behind me as I ashed my cigarette, shiftily pointed to me and this caused the whisperer to blush a little. Or maybe it was fear that colored his cheeks.

I am not a doormat. I am ferocious. Hear me roar.

As I said before, I hold my tongue most of the time. Especially at the restaurant, one famous for recent lawsuits involving discriminatory behavior. On one hand this makes me a bad feminist, but on the other hand, I have a fourteen year old to feed and since I don't own a farm, not even one cow, I need the extra cash. So I try my best to ignore the ignorance. I've only discussed the F-word with one or two other servers, but apparently that is enough to have it spread through the place like porn on the internet.

"See that waitress over there? She's one of those damned, hippie feminists! Can you believe it?!"

As if I am a Satanist. Or a pedophile.

I think to them, those choices are less frightening.