Sunday, December 12, 2010

Waiter Rant or, An Exericise in Vulgarity

Alright, everyone knows that waiting tables pretty much sucks, a lot of the time. This is because we have unrealistic expectations of the amount of work we must do versus how much money we get paid. This may sound familiar, because it is how EVERY job typically goes. However, ours is much more personal, because it is the various people who sit at our tables who dictate how much we make. Instead of being angry at our bosses, or some unknown higher up, we get to be angry at you, and you and you and you, because you are sitting in our booth. Sorry, but this is how it is.

I did not go to college to wait tables. I absolutely did not go to college to be belittled by dumbass people who are angry about the timing of their food. While to you, I'm sure it seems logical to yell at everyone in a restaurant uniform about your empty Mountain Dew or that side of ranch you desperately need, you fat ass. Do you have any idea how fucking ridiculous I feel when having to name every single side that comes with our burgers to every single person at your table because you are too lazy to pay attention to me the first time, or to perhaps, I don't know, read the fucking menu?

It was a busy afternoon, and I went back to the kitchen to run other server's food, because I was bored to shit. I deliver two of the largest appetizers we have to a table in the bar. I do a double take, because the table where I am supposed to take them already has burgers on it. They look at me and say, "Well there they are."
"Oh, I'm sorry, these must not have come before your meal." I say.
"No, and I sure as hell am not going to eat them now." The heinous fucking bitch says to me, her voice dripping with self-importance.
"Well... should I take them back or do you want to eat them?"
"I'm not really sure what to do here." The man, obviously uncomfortable because his woman needs something to yell at, and he's scared shitless that it's going to be him again.
"I can go talk to your server, you won't be paying for them."
"Take them away!"
Really? Really? Fucking relax. At this point I'm almost laughing because the couple are SO furious that they didn't get two dishes before their entrees, which they probably couldn't have even finished in the first place, let alone the giant 1,500 calorie burgers landing next. (We have the nutrition facts. Don't eat at our restaurant.) As I walk away, I hear, aimed at the back of my head, a series of words that not only set my blood boiling, but made me question everything about life, the universe, and everything.

"That's why they're called appetizers!!!" As if I'm the stupidest person she's ever met. Have you seen me once during the entirety of your stay at this restaurant? What makes you think I have any idea what you ordered or when? 

Bitch you probably can't even spell appetizers. What the fuck makes you so important that you feel like you can talk to me that way? What have I ever done to you? This is our first and last interaction on Earth, and this is how you would like to be represented? I honestly cannot even describe to you how infuriated I was because it was such a demeaning comment. How dare you. I know she and I will never meet again, but if you've ever done something like this to a person taking the only job available in this economy to make ends meet- HOW DARE YOU.

Today a woman said to me, "I'll take the clam chowder." I explained to her that, no we did not have clam chowder, we have clam chowder on Fridays. "Uh, YOU don't have ANY CLAM CHOWDER??!!" At this point, what would you have said? What would this accomplish? Oh yeah, I'll go check in the back and see if the kitchen accidentally made some clam chowder, even though every Thursday for the last 16 years, it's been broccoli cheddar. What you have managed to accomplish is the fact that I now will be irritated for the next 6 hours of my general lack of importance in life and I will pay zero attention to your table. Hope you didn't want another Iced Tea, because now your waitress wants to murder herself. Happy? I sure as shit am, having to wait on stupid fucking ignorant people like you on a day to day basis.

While we may be a slight blip on your day to day radar, but we are people too. Start being nicer.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The D-List

I would like to preface this story with something I told a couple friends yesterday about the incident. I honestly believe that my life is a joke, and I whole heartedly hope that everyone else finds it as funny as I do. That being said, I can't believe the, I will say it- LEGENDARY events that transpired less than 48 hours ago.

I spent the day innocently working a lunch shift in the bar. While working, a man sits down at the bar and has a couple beers. We have a few polite exchanges. Finishing my shift, I decide to occupy the seat next to him and have a quick dinner and post-work drink. Now, normally I would think someone like him was a douche. The 'tan' in the North West is a dead giveaway for out-of-towners or people who spray tan. He was entirely too tan, his teeth too white, and his gloves had the tips of the fingers cut off. However, conversation proves pretty interesting, and he displays a surprising lack of doucheness. We chat about various things, but the one thing I notice is that he is extremely vague about what kind of work he does- "I was working in Italy..." "One time I had a job in Bulgaria..." These sort of open ended phrases that leave me feeling like he did something important or high paying. We get about 2 beers in (him at maybe 5), he leaves for the bathroom, and my friend Leslie comes up to me. "Do you know who you're talking to?"
"No... why?" We had just shaken hands and introduced ourselves. In the interest of not getting him into any trouble, and because while questionable, I do still cling to some of my morals- I am changing his name. Just imagine any generic D-List celebrity, if you can think of any.
"That's fucking generic celebrity name!!!"
"Who's that?" She goes on to explain the various things he has done with his life, and other coworkers chime in on stuff, all of which are too old for me to have any memory of. Because he's 40 something. And I'm 20 something. There's a brief to-do about the situation unfolding and servers scatter away from me as he returns to his seat. "Well, I guess it's on." I think to myself. I try to remain cool headed- I usually get so star struck I one time met Sean Astin on an airplane and to this day I can't remember what we talked about. Yes, I was sober. We continue talking and it's apparent that he has taken some sort of odd interest in me. It dawns on me that at around beer number 3, my max limit for 'intoxication level before blackout meter' is quickly approaching. Little things start happening, like the fact that every time I go to the bathroom there is another beer waiting behind my half full beer. I look at the beer, look at him, and he says to me, "This night could be legendary."

And it was.

I spent a total of probably close to 6 hours having a really fun conversation and learning about the different acting jobs he's had, traveling, writing, and gushing about my newly purchased drum set. My new celebrity friend orders a plate of nachos, and he delicately (sarcasm) picks at them while still wearing his fingerless gloves. At one point he offered a server changing the music $100 dollars to play a song that had just been unintentionally skipped. Where did he get all this money? I mean, he's famous and has a short list of credentials, but to have that kind of money to throw around? I guess fame pays more than I thought. I wish I had just blatantly asked him for money, he probably would have given me some.

At the fifth beer the night no longer had an unpredictable ending.

In real life, this would never have been something I would have done. And by real life, I mean I would have never hooked up with an older, married father of two. But I had to- this was generic celebrity name. I did it for Rock Bottom. I did it for Portland.  I did it for females everywhere who grew up in the 1990's. Never in a million years would I think that I was hot enough for a celebrity. Although, I guess if you're kind of a washed out actor with an apparent drinking and moral problem, I might be just about as good as anything, unshaven legs and all. The night gets splotchy, but my EPIC story remains the same. Apparently this whore is good enough for the D-List. At about 2:30am, I take my leave from Generic A-List Hotel to a taxi. But not without a goodbye gift to myself of a tiny glass bottle of vodka from the mini bar. He tells me he will pay for my cab, and asks me "Is $40 enough? $60?" Now, my house is a mere $12 cab ride away, and I pause for a moment to think about this offer. Hmm. Morals only slightly intact, "$40 should be fine." In retrospect, I don't think there would have been anything wrong with taking another $20 from him, but you live and learn.

The next morning, I recall what events took place the night before, and promptly Google search generic celebrity name because I still literally have no idea who he is. And am immediately embarrassed when I read his list of work on IMDB. However, Youtubing him has proved absolutely hilarious when I discovered his line of generic fast food chain commercials. I also realize that one of my earrings is now inhabiting the floor of his hotel room, and I've got a nasty cold, to boot. A slight bit of shameful solace that he now has to film his generic TV pilot probably sick. So I get to walk away with $20, a bottle of vodka, and a LEGENDARY story, where as he now has to film sick, a few dollars short, and the knowledge that he just cheated on his wife. I would like to reiterate- at the beginning of the beers I had zero foresight to where the night would go. I would never intentionally hook up with someone knowing they were married. But this was generic celebrity name, and like I said- I had to.

And that kids, is how I get to say for the rest of my life that I hooked up with generic celebrity name, I story that I will most likely tell my children one day as I order that third martini. I never thought I would be one of those girls that chase fame, but when the opportunity presented itself...


Thursday, December 2, 2010

Adventures in Singleton

Hold on to your butts, people. This girl has a date.

As you may have read from my last post, Thanksgiving 2010 was bound to be fun when I innocently shaved my legs in the shower that morning. However, the next morning, in a haze, I realized I may have had more than the night I bargained for, because apparently T-Day 2010 meant that I would be beaten to death with tequila shots. It was, by far,  the second worst hangover I can recall. I woke up, (at 3pm), to a message on my answering machine from a New Zealander boy who had the intention of taking me out later this week. Let's back track.

Now, I'm not usually one to give out my phone number to just any boy. Mostly because nobody ever hits on me when I'm out with my attractive girlfriends. This generally results in a sloppy, solo pity party where I become exponentially more drunk than the rest of my friends. Occasionally, (yes- occasionally, you assholes), I wake up with texts from people I do not know. This was one of those times.

The day after T-Day, at work, I felt like my organs were protesting against me, which caused my hormones to follow suit: "Kill yourself..." they whispered to me. Normally, this would have prompted an emergency room visit, but as it just so happens- the single worst hangover I have ever had, I made that 900 dollar emergency mistake only to be told that maybe next time don't drink so much. So I power through the third worst shift of my life and pass out at home. The next day, with my life no longer on the line, I decide to inquire about this mysterious boy who I vaguely remember asking me, "Can I buy you a drink" around 2am and thaaaat's about all I remember about Casanova. I decide to call the one girlfriend who usually remembers all the details, and is usually nice enough to spare the embarrassing ones.

"Tessy. Tequila and regret fornicated last night. And their baby was me."
"Well, he doesn't smoke pot." She says to me. What an odd first thing to remember, I think to myself. "Oh, and he rides a motorcycle." Ok! "Kind of... corn-fed looking." Ah, fuck. "Broad shouldered, roundish face... oh, and he has a speech impediment."

God dammit.

Well, it can't be all that bad. "Yeah, at first Lucy thought he was making fun of her." She tells me. Our friend Lucy is English. "And you kept insisting that he was from New Zealand." It was that bad.
"Are you sure? In the message I swear it sounds like an accent."
"It's a speech impediment. It got kind of weird how much you guys kept trying to convince him it wasn't, too."
Yeah, that sounds like me. Well, it wouldn't be the first time I gave someone my number and ignored them until they stopped calling. Men absolutely terrify me in the light of sobriety, so I'll just play this one like I do the rest.
But then I got a text message the next day. I don't know if this makes me a pretentious asshole (there are other reasons for that statement to be true) but bad grammar irritates the living Christ out of me. There is no reason to type 'u' instead of 'you' other than pure laziness. I don't care if it takes 10 more seconds to get your life-changing message to me, fucking type out 'you'. That combined with the numerous spelling errors and misplaced commas, I knew it was the end of our short-lived romance.

Later that week at girls night, I'm finally called out on Senor Grande. (It was my Latino version of Sex and the City reference.) "Well, I'm not sure what to do... Even his text messages say 'I have trouble speaking to humans'."
"Come on Maggie, you never go out with guys. You just meet them at bars and then chicken out when they want to see you again. You're single now, and besides- dates are fun!"
"Give me one good example of how a date is fun. You meet someone based solely on attraction and agree to go out with them sober. Then you have to painfully try and get to know someone while simultaneously trying not to pretend that the only reason you are on the date in the first place is because they've got blue eyes and dimples. Sitting through awkward, forced conversation in which you try and paint a picture of yourself, which obviously you aren't. Yeah, dates are awesome. Shoot me. If I went into a date not hiding who I was it would be Lemon Law'd. Over in 5 minutes. Besides, I'm a thousand times more charming when I'm drunk."

Cue: shocked stares from my female friends, followed by glimpses of pity that are quickly hidden to more encouraging looks. "Well what's the worst that could happen?"

What is the worst that could happen? And this is the story of how I got drunkenly convinced to call this poor boy and go on a ... gasp- date. Does this make me a terrible person for judging him so harshly, having spent maybe 5 minutes talking to him (well, remembering talking to him)? Yes it does. However, in an increasing attempt to get over the last asshole (coughDOUCHEBAGcough) who broke my heart, I suppose I have to... I don't even want to write it... meet new people.

On that note- I'm late for Happy Hour with a girlfriend, followed immediately by... ... ... the date. Well, at least it'll be a good story. Stay tuned...