Monday, 17 October 2011
You make my job hell. There is not a single other person in the restaurant that thinks that there's anything wrong with my work. Even the big boss says I do a great job.
YOU, however, you barely-English-speaking asshole, somehow feel the need to nitpick at any tiny little mistake I make. You constantly make me do things you could easily do yourself, especially when I'm already busy. Then five minutes later you ask why my first task isn't done. Do I look like fucking Shiva to you? I only have two hands. You need a lassi? Make that shit yourself, lazy.
How DARE you say there's "something wrong with my brain"? I have mild ADHD. It doesn't mean I have zero brain capacity. No, I'm not so great at math, but at least I know how to fucking spell. A pepper is a "chili". "Chilly" means it's slightly cold, you dumb fuck. Learn English before you attempt to write it, please.
How DARE you say I "don't take my job seriously". Talking on the phone when customers need to be seated is fucking ridiculous. One time I found you OUTSIDE on the cell with a full house. "I have important calls to take." BULLSHIT. Important is your mom or dad in the hospital. Important is your child running a 102 degree fever. Important is your house on fire. IMPORTANT IS NOT MAKING AN APPOINTMENT TO GET YOUR A/C FIXED, DOUCHEBAG.
How DARE you ask me about my sex life, ask me to elaborate on what I do when my boyfriend isn't there? You think I'm going to tell you how I masturbate, you weirdo pervert? I do NOT want to hear about you having sex with your whale of a wife. You only married her so you could come to America anyways.
OH! and 10 minutes to have lunch? Let me tell you a bit about the American justice system. If I work over 4 hours, I get a thirty minute lunch break BY LAW. I happen to work TEN hours a day, so while you're eating your fucking food, I'm clearing tabled because you'll yell at me if they aren't done when I leave! "I always eat my lunch at 2:30." Well, I always eat mine at 1:30 PM, but not when I have work to get done. I'm not a lazy FUCK like some people. It's 1:30 AM and all Ive had since 8 AM this previous morning was a fucking egg. A single fucking hard-boiled egg while you ate your delicious lunch right in front of me.
Yes, I was 15 minutes late today. THAT DOESN'T EXCUSE YOU FROM DOING YOUR JOB. Even if I am late, that doesn't mean you should be sitting on your ass not starting on the giant mess from lunch. When I get there I'll help. What the fuck do you mean, "OH, you were 15 minutes late and now you expect me to help clean?!" IT'S YOUR FUCKING JOB! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU GET PAID FOR?!
Oh, and by the way, it's not a "rash" on my face, as your so rudely pointed out in front of everyone in the restaurant. It's ACNE. What, no one in India gets acne? I guess you're all perfect?
Really, they should just pay me for your job and mine. I have to pick up all your slack anyway.
And THAT, asshole, is why I said "FUCK YOU", walked out, and left you with three huge tables to care for. I do it every day since you're such a slack-ass. Get a taste of your own medicine, dick.
I didn't really quit, but this makes me happy.
Monday, 10 October 2011
Here's PerpetuallyStonedGirl back with another post after WHA...how long?
For those of you who don't know (which is all of you because I haven't posted in so long) I have now entered into a most satisfying field of work that invoves catering to your dining needs!
That's right, I'm a waitress. :/
I work at an Indian restaurant in the Deep South. If that alone doesn't give you an idea of what my daily difficulties might consist of then I don't know what will. I have all the regular problems of the serving population combined with a mixture of cultural and language barriers. Also, at the risk of sounding prejudiced, have you ever DEALT with Indian people? They were raised in a completely different way that is extremely hard to mesh with an American mindset, unless you're discussing capitalism, which they are MASTERS of. Sometimes it actually depresses me to see people who come from India, a place even they will freely admit is not the cleanest or most well-developed country in the world, and become such business owners and entrepreneurs. Meanwhile I, the American, the person who should be the shining epitome of capitalism in all it's glory, am clearing their dishes and asking if they'd like dessert. Then I remember that that's the entire point of America, you can be as successful (or unsuccessful) as you want to be. And I don't care to work hard enough to make myself as successful as they are.
At any rate, I digress. The point of this post is not for you to read about my lack of motivation.
The point of this post is to provide all you fine diners out there with a basic format on restaurant etiquette. Although this may seem like common sense to many of us, flagrant violations of this rule are are large contributing factors to the amount of money in my pot dealer's pocket. And, so, I present:
thingsIthinkaboutwhenhigh's Guide to NOT Pissing Off Your Servers
(and thus guaranteeing that your food is safe to eat when it gets to your table).
Lesson One: Listen to Me When I'm Speaking
Let's start our series at the beginning, when you walk in the door.
If you are alone: there is no reason you should be on the phone by the time I arrive at the front to greet-and-seat you. I understand that because of your lonely existence and need for social validation you feel the need to constantly and obviously be in touch with someone either by talking loudly into your iPhone or being so engrossed in your emails from your shiny new iPad that you can't hear me speaking to you. Still, just TRY to pull yourself away from your technological soul-mate just long enough for me to get you into a damn seat.
If you are with a group: Of course, you haven't seen each other in FOREVER. I can see that it's been AGES (even though you were all here just last week). Still, let's try to keep the questions about Little Billy's stomach flu or the grandkids' trip to Disney World to a minimum before we get to the table. That way, all of you can focus on finding your way to the table I'm directing you to instead of everyone laughing for twenty minute's at Uncle Stan's bad joke then turning around to ask irritably where I want you to sit. Realistically, there are only two tables in this restaurant big enough for you and your extended family and I don't really give a shit which one you sit at. The restaurant is empty anyways.
Okay, so, we've made it to the table safe and sound. You have your menu and I'm ready to take your drink order. There IS a method to this.
If you are alone: As evidenced by the large yellow sign outside that reads "WE NOW SERVE BEER AND WINE", we serve beer and wine. NO, we do not serve liquor. Do you see a bar in here?
Please LOOK for the beer/wine list before you ask me what kinds we have. You cannot possibly expect me to reel them all off and you remember the choices. We have regular beer and wine. Do you see a selection of wine brands? That's because we only have one brand. It's Yellow Tail. If you ask me what kind we have and I say Yellow Tail and you reply, "Oh, that's fine," I will know that you actually know nothing about wine and only asked so you could look like you knew what you were talking about. Stop being pretentious.
If you want soda, just ask for that from the beginning. You knew you weren't paying for anything more expensive than a Diet Coke, so just say so instead of making me list the choices and pretending you don't like them.
If you are with a group: LET ME GO AROUND THE TABLE. Do NOT just shout out drink orders randomly. Yes, I will remember what drinks to bring, but I will NOT know who screamed for what and I will ASK you who wanted what when I get to the table. It will take me 5 solid minutes to get your attention because you're all so fascinated with catching up with each other. When I do, without fail, you will all look at me like I'm stupid and you will have invariably have forgotten who wanted what, as though the person who wanted Sprite couldn't possibly remember that they were wanting Sprite TWO MINUTES AGO. I will be left with an errant drink that no one will claim and it will only be after I've taken it back, poured it out, and made the trip back that someone will say, "EXCUSE ME, can you get me a Sprite?!" (The Sprite in question, of course, being the one I just threw out.)
Now is NOT the time to:
-try to give me your entree order. I'm getting to that.
-ask me questions about the menu. I will address that when I come for your entree order.
-try and chat me up. I'm busy.
Now IS the time to:
-inform me of any allergies you or your children have. I don't want to be responsible for your kid's anaphylactic shock after I deliver a cashew curry then put a lid on his cup.
-present me with any coupons you have. Don't wait until I have the check already written up.
-order your appetizer. I can place the order while I'm getting your drinks.
-let me know if you want separate tabs.
Drinks all delivered, appetizers on the way. Time to order your entrees.
If you are alone: There are only two reasons that you should not know what you want by now. This is your first time eating with us/eating Indian food, in which case I am more than happy to assist you by explaining the menu and recommending some items. OR you've been making out with your iPhone like you were when you came in the door. I have no sympathy for you in this case. I will either stand there and passively-aggressively shame you into ordering something quickly or ask you if you need more time and get back to you when I can, which could take some time depending on how busy we are. I don't care if you get upset about how long it takes. I'm upset about how long it took you to make a decision. I'm working. You were just chatting to your sister about your last vacation in the Bahamas.
If you are with a group: Make sure everyone knows what they want. If you need more time, just tell me. That's fine. I work here. I'm not going anywhere. Don't make me stand around wasting my time while Great-Aunt Enid decides if the curry will be too spicy for her. Speaking of too-this or too-that, now is not the time for a million special substitutions. One or two is fine but take your gluten-free-no-cream-no-butter-less-oil-less-salt-add-peas-no-spinach shit on somewhere else. Also, order for your children. Just tell me they want chicken nuggets, don't force them to tell me. I already know they're not going to eat anything else.
I have your food. Same rules apply to everyone.
Now is the time to make sure everything is what you ordered. Do not eat half of the goat curry before you tell me you ordered chicken tikka masala. If Timmy had fries with his nuggets and I didn't bring them, tell me now. Whatever else you might need with your meal: TELL ME NOW. I will get it all in one trip and you can start eating and I can wash my hands of you for at least 30 minutes.
I will come back to check on you in 5 minutes. If there's something you need that you didn't notice, you got it, tell me now. I'm about to start ignoring you until you start looking full so get my attention while you can.
Everyone's favorite time. Let's settle your bill!
DO NOT tell me now that you want separate tabs. I don't remember who had what and it seems like you assholes don't either. This will just piss us all off so follow the guide and tell me when I come for your drink order.
Don't argue about who's going to pay. I'm sure you all knew who was paying when you came to dinner. I don't really care who pays as long as someone does.
Ask any questions you have about your bill BEFORE you give me your credit card. Otherwise I have to get the manager involved and, trust me, neither you nor I wants to deal with him.
Indian people only: DO NOT, in the name of all that is good and holy, argue with me about the bill! I know this is a somewhat customary thing for some of you and that it's not strange to see in India. I can appreciate that. If I ever visit India I will have no problem haggling over my bill. Seriously. But when in Rome, do as the Romans. This is the United States of America and we do not argue over fixed prices here (or most of us don't). I know I look Middle Eastern, but I'm not . Even when I summon up all the tolerance I posses (being bisexual, mixed-race, and adopted by elderly parents...I have a LOT) I cannot see this as anything but being cheapskates. Do not ask me to "call the Indian guy". He's going to tell you the same thing. So will the owner. Why do you think he didn't open a restaurant in India?!
Also, please stop sneaking into our restaurant two minutes before closing and demanding full service with a smile. They don't pay me tips. The extra $7 I get is not worth the hour of my time where I could be smoking a J to forget about what an asshole you are for doing shit like that.
So there you have it. My guide To Insuring Proper Service. What did you think TIPS stood for? I don't make tips, but for most other servers it's their only income, SO TIP YOUR DAMN SERVER THEIR PROPER AMOUNT!
Sunday, 31 October 2010
As I talked with Boyfran tonight, a subject I think of from time to time came up. It's weight, and I know we talk about that all the time. We can't seem to avoid it here on Xanga, where the front page is constantly stocked with the newest post from Healthkicker on losing weight, eating disorders, gaining weight, whatever.
One of the things I love about Boyfran is that he's never asked me to change how I look, dress, act for him. He loves me and accepts me the way I am, even if I did gain ten pounds during the last week he was here and have some issues fitting my jeans. I've lost a lot of weight in the past and I asked him tonight, jokingly, if he'd still love me if I were "fat". He started off with, "Well, if you were obese, that would obviously be a problem that I wouldn't tolerate..."
You wouldn't "tolerate" it? We're going to ignore the other issues that word presents and focus on the fact that Boyfran just basically told me he would leave me if I got too fat! My darling, my love, I thought you were beyond this. I thought what we had transcended this barrier, but I see it does not. Fear not! For I, too, have been there. My former spouse let himself go, which unfortunately led to me avoiding sex with him whenever possible, which was a large part of our many problems. When I say "let himself go", please, understand that I mean he was nearly 300 lbs. and everyone has heir limit. I still loved him, but I just couldn't deal with having him on top of me.
I started to think, though. If my being obese was a problem, why isn't the fact that I'm about 5 lbs away from being underweight bother him? Apparently, if I was "a skeleton" that would bother him, but not me being slightly underweight. I told him that it would be just as easy for me to have any kind of eating disorder as it would be to be a binge eater and I think it's a bit ridiculous that now, when I'm at the lowest weight I've ever been, I get the most compliments.
Has it become so bad? Is our society really that far gone? I wanted this to be a longer blog, I certainly have way more thoughts on the matter, but I'm exhausted and fighting of teh crud. Quite ill, really.
What does Xanga think of this subject? I'm waiting to hear from you.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Let me start off by saying, I love my boyfran. Very much. You really can't imagine. 4 years and the things we've gone through...
You know those shows you see on TV, where everyone lives a nice, pampered life in the suburbs, but they all manage to have life-changing social and emotional issues? No one is worried about how they're going to pay the rent next month, but everyone's heart is breaking? Yeah, my life was that dramatic for a while. It makes for great teenage TV material, not so much in real life. Stressful.
Anyways, we weathered the storm and now things are going well. I found out this morning that he's coming for Christmas. Ecstatic.
That's not the point of this post.
The point of this post is what happened when I went to Starbucks last night. Now, in all my other relationships I've been mostly faithful. On the couple of occasions I fucked everything up, I confessed and admitted my crimes. What I'm saying is, I definitely didn't go blind because I was in a relationship. But not not with bf. Since I've been with him I have to say I just don't notice other guys like I used to. When I do see a really cute guy, it just makes me miss him even more. Last night was different, though. For the first time, I really SAW another guy.
It was fucking freezing last night. I ran out to Starbucks because, really, who can really resist the allure of a warm, cozy coffeeshop filled with people and conversation and smelling of Pumpkin Spice Lattes on a night when it's 55 degrees with wind coming off the snow-topped mountain? I walked inside and started smiling at the immediate warmth after the biting cold and the fact that Starbucks is, indeed, a modern invention of pure genius and a wonderful place to be sometimes. I have a thing for reading Freud in the corner table. An interesting night finds a generous touch of Jameson in my biodegradable cup.
As I walk up to the bar, examining huge muffins and yogurt cups and calculating what my current body weight would allow before I reached my "being a fatass" point, I notice a disheveled, blonde thing behind the counter taking an order from the guy in front of me. This man obviously took his coffee quite seriously, because he gave me a full five minutes to examine the little frazzled boy at the register.
He was everything a college-age wannabe-artist barista should be with his too-long hair and half-cocked smile that said he dealt with these types every day. Unfailingly polite with the passive-aggressive coffee freak in front of me, he gave out this easygoing charm that said he was just a nice boy who wouldn't turn down a good time if you laid it in front of him, but it had to be obvious. I felt something I haven't felt in a long time.
It took me a second to recognize it, but I was looking at someone I seriously wanted to bone.
Blue eyes and a baby's face made him innocent in his own way. Like he still thinks he's going to change the world somehow...eventually. I sauntered up to give him my order; I don't mean to be seductive, but sometimes my body just takes over. My not-inconsiderable charm hit autopilot and came on at full power. I think I may have startled him a bit. In 10 seconds he knew I wanted him to do me on the bar next to the French press and the espresso machine and make new uses for chocolate shavings.
But I have a boyfraaannnn.
"Am I a bad girlfriend? A horrible person? I can't help it, he's so CUTE! I can look, right? Just no touching! None!"
And so I stare at him standing on the counter rearranging syrup bottles and thinking about all the connotations of syrup and their erotic applications. I think it speaks volumes about my complexity of character, that I could think about dirty, coffee-related kinks and feel like a bad person at the same time. Sometimes I envy the Catholics with their confession.
So I drank my coffee and ate my fruit cup and indulged in undressing the cutie Aryan boy with my eyes for fifteen minutes or so. Then I left Starbucks and called that boy and reminded myself why I was the luckiest girl ever.
I'm still thinking of th barista today, though. About the situation anyway. Was I wrong? Does this happen to other people? Should I feel like a low-life?
So...a bit about me. Rather, a bit about my other half who will probably make regular appearances as the source of 79% of joy and agony in my life. It's VERY complicated, but it works in this strange, Ican'tfunctionwithouthim way. I live in Colorado, he lives in Alabama; that presents a lot of unique issues. I'm pretty certain his mother hates me.
We don't particularly care.
He plays video games for a living. He's really good at it. It's pretty badass. I don't play, I'm more of an MMO, RPG, retro gamer, but I've watched him get really into it and wreck people in this game. It's boss.
Meanwhile, I'm here in the cold and snow and miserable freezing my disappearing ass off. I hate Colorado. Moving here wasn't the best idea for someone like me. Spoiled Southern girls who live at home in the suburbs they grew up in shouldn't pick up and move halfway across the country with some guy they barely know three days after going broke and being dumped. Ah...the joys of marriage. I was hoping to make it at least a year. Oh, well, we can't all be perfect.
The results of my marriage? The joys of my life...
Yeah, I have a cat. I have three. I live alone with them. It doesn't make me a crazy cat lady, I'm 20, I'm sick of people saying that! Jeez, it's like a sin to like animals or something.
This is Toby, so named after the little orphan kid in Sweeney Todd, not Kunta Kinte like everyone likes to say. Toby was a ragged, little orphan kitty with a big attitude when I got him. Now he enjoys ruling over our little garden level apartment in his own haughty way. Like pissing on my $700 mattress when my boyfran came to visit. Didn't like losing his spot on the bed to some guy who just showed up out of nowhere and started hogging his mom's attention.
Fucker. I love him so much. My first kitty, I had him before my marriage. I found out my ex-husband used to beat on him. Dude's lucky I never saw him again after I found out.
This is Lillith. She's shy and doesn't like having her picture taken. Actually, she doesn't much like anyone except me. She cuddles me all day long, though, and follows me from room to room like a puppy. She even licks my face! I got her a week or two after I got married. The day after we bought her in a pet store in Georgia while visiting my parents, we put her in my car with all my possessions and drove with her running around in the backseat for 22 hours straight hauling at least 100 the whole way. Crazy trip.
This is Izzy, short for Isolde. Aloof and distant, she makes a ghost of herself most of the time. She loves us though. Worships big bro Toby and copies everything he does. My youngest, the little girl.
Yeah, it's frickin' hard, having three cats. 15 lbs of cat litter and 17 lbs of food every month. I can barely feed myself, but we make it. Still, it's shaping up to be a hard winter. What's an unemployed shopaholic to do?
It's going to be an adventure. Everything is an adventure. May as well really live my life since I have to be here anyways!