Middle Aged Waitress....

The beginning... Of the end...

2010-06-05T12:38:00.002-04:00

So sorry dear fans, it has been a while!
I find it funny how after working in a less than fantabulous job for the better part of a year things can suddenly take a turn for the much worse. Just when you think that maybe you have a handle on the pure and unbridled insanity something happens to push you over the edge of reason! (or, if you look at it logically BACK onto the edge of reason.)

I plan to devote my next few posts to the reality that you probably have already guessed: The undoing of the middleaged waitress....

What was it that pushed me over the edge? Here is how my end began...

I had come to accept that bad days were not just an occasional nasty surprise at Captain Rig's, they were the predictable norm.
Since finding my little group of friends, things had become tolerable and occasionally pleasant. Let's remember- tolerable/pleasant is relative. As much as you might find that the company of a few good peeps makes things better there are always the variables (or non-variables) that make life a hellacious undertaking!!
Rather alarmingly another plague of doom that was circulating the building, despite thorough hand washing and zero physical contact among the staff we were all falling prey to it. This was no ordinary little sniffle- this was full blown- knock you on your ass- send you to the Doctor- wishing to die- insanity. The real kicker was that this restaurantitis bug gave its lucky recipients a solid 5-7 days off. One by one we dropped like flies (fortunately not all at once or there would have been nobody home to sling pasta and overpriced martinis!)
I had it and then got another round of it... And then rather horrifyingly another. BAD news! All of my work friends got it and were sick as dogs. We all sympathized with one another (over the phone from our respective death beds) while swigging codeine laced cough syrup and knocking back rounds of antibiotics.
I had the luck of being the only decent person there while the rest of "them" (work friends) all had it at once. This was a troubling time for me, as I had grown used to the feeling that somebody was there who might have a brain/ounce of humanity/sense of humor/good story to break up the boredom with. The sudden and lengthy removal of my safety net of friends was alarming, and I realized that as bad as things were at CR's for the first few weeks- this was far worse.
Business was slow. Things were mind bendingly boring. Tempers were flaring. And I was ALONE.
Captain Rig was on a rampage of hate, steamrolling over anyone or anything in his path. Luckily, Jan and Amber left me be- at this point realizing that making my life miserable was a waste of their time. However, whether I was laboriously dragging thru horrifically dull tasks to pass the time, or hiding out in the employees restroom sneakily texting I was feeling quite sad and unfortunate. (on top of being alone, sad and bored out of my freaking mind I was still most definitely sick. Which really was NOT boosting my morale!)
During this period of time it occurred to me that there was no way I could keep up the madness should a friendly face or two not return to make things a bit more tolerable. Making poor money, and having to scrub walls, sanitize the bar and clean drains for $3.63 an hour is bad enough with an entourage to watch your back... and completely appalling without one.
Luckily, the plague ran it's course and one by one, my friends trickled back in (weak and creaky from days of high fevers and epic doom.)
Sadly though, this was the beginning of the end.
Stay tuned...

They are everywhere!!!

2010-05-08T15:30:00.004-04:00

I recently got a text from the NNG while she was at her "real" job that said:

NNG: I totally saw Captain Rigatoni at a seminar today! I have to tell you all about it. URGGGHHH!

MAW: You saw C-Rig!? The Horror! I want details!

NNG: Yes. It was pretty horrible.

MAW: I'm messaging you on Facebook becasue it is easier and I have a lot to say!

MAW on FB: You saw the C-Riggers today, no shit? I want details. Did he/she/they talk to you? Was this a seminar about how to have clowns ruin your business??!!

NNG on FB: Yes so I saw the C-Rig's! uggghhh....
My boss and the payroll woman and I went to this seminar on......get this......LABOR LAWS!!!!!
While I was getting ready I was thinking to myself "I wonder if I'll see.....no way, what the heck do they care about labor laws..." so the thought was fleeting.. THEN we get there and we walk in and my coworkers go use the ladies room (i know i'm getting very specific) so I get stuck picking seats. I pick the front row on the side (cause if i wanted to sit where I would normally sit in the back corner I probably would have fallen asleep and I don't think they would be very happy with me)
I'm sitting and my coworkers come back, and I glance towards the doorway and BUM BUM BUM!!!!!!!!!!!! In comes sista C-rig! Hahahaha Bobbi totally came it and I literally almost threw up. I didn't really make eye contact, I actually shuffled in my bag so i could have time to make a plan.
I looked back over and we slightly made eye contact (i did not even smile) and she, of course, sat in the front row right in the middle. I could have died...
I strategically placed my chair directly next to my boss so i didn't have to look over and cringe. Finally the seminar starts, and of course Bobbi looks all professional and whips out a notebook and is taking notes, (meanwhile you know what she's really writing) how to screw all my employees, and the men in the room? or....how to be the most passive aggressive person in the world!! So all of a sudden C-RIG HIMSELF comes through the door, and sits in the way back. I wanted to get up and be like...ok where's Ashton....I'm being punk'd right???? No, i wasn't dreaming they were both there.
So eventually there's a break and I'm thinking what if she comes over here? Do I punch her? Could I cuss her out in front of my new boss and the department of labor? To make a long story semi long we never spoke, but I did make sure to walk right in front of her so she could see me. I was talking and she was sitting in the front row and i walked right past her to talk to the woman who was in charge of the seminar....I kinda stood sideways so she could see my face and i could see her out of the corner of my eye and oddly, she was sitting there while everyone else had left. I was like "oh my god she's waiting to talk to me" thank goodness my boss and the pr lady are talkers so we kept talking and asking questions and then I walked around got my bag kept talking and then finally she got up and walked over to C-Rig and some other guy and they left!!
But all throughout the seminar i wanted to be like "so it is ILLEGAL to tip out the kitchen" or "so it is ILLEGAL to force someone to pay for broken items and lost checks" i have a list of things that you can make deductions for and those are not on it!!! ughhh...yes...so that is that....awful...

MAW on the FB: WOW. OK.
Item one: According to my HWF C-Rig had their hearing with the Labor Board yesterday. Hence, their appearence at this seminar was probably to do a bit of last minute prep.

Item two: Also according to HWF, at the hearing C-Rig was told to sit down and be quiet, and to let Bobbi do the talking as he was digging himself a deep hole.

Item three: Despite this, C-Rig is apparently very pleased with how their hearing went. Because they lie and have no concience.

My thoughts on your horrifying situation: I would expect that Bobbi was more shocked to see you then you were to see her. She thinks that when people are not at the blessed C-Rig they curl up and die a slow death, probably alone, to be discovered weeks later by the landlord looking for his late rent..... I love the fact that Bobbi and C-Rig were both there but did not sit together. WTF? You guys are RELATED- sit together for christsakes! Was Bobbi all dressed up or in her frumpy-dumpster "workout" clothes? Did C-Rig stand up and interrupt the speaker, declaring himself to be king of the world?

I wish I had been there. The whole thing sounds too awesome to be real (but I know it is!) I feel bad for you though, breathing the air in the general vicinity of the C-Rig-ers is rather poisinous.

Thanks for filling me in. I LOVE it.

Play on, Playah's

2010-04-26T08:05:00.006-04:00

A helpful chapter, reviewing the Cast of Characters:

There are a lot of players in my twisted little world and it's easy to get confused. (especially for me, since all names have been changed for obvious reasons.) So here's a helpful guide to who's who in the world of Catain Rig's house of pain. Enjoy, and then continue reading with a more in depth understanding of the lovely peeps that I am (ahem) blessed to work with.

The Good:
Middleagedwaitress: That's me, y'all! Obviously one of the good guys, I make it my daily mission to bring Logic & Reason into the world on insanity. Or, if nothing else a bit of humor and reality?

The NNG: She is actually the Reason to my Logic (don't question the wisdom on this one.) A great girl with a big heart and a tendency to laugh just as loud as I do. She shares with me a profound dislike for everything about C-Rig's which is smart in every way. (NNG: Newest-New-Girl. for about 5 minutes, but the name stuck in my head!)

The HWF: Why, oh WHY do both of my best friends not have real names? Oh I remember- because I though that they would both be smart enough to get the frick out stat- therefore not needing real names... Anywhoo, as you all know the HWF definitely plays for the "good" team and is deeply committed to getting Jan fired. This is a lofty goal but he has a devious card to play (and we'll see if it ever happens.) Anyway, my HWF is by BWF and we have each others backs. (HWF: Human Work Friend. Came from something the HWF said about the Head Harpies being some sort of odd, non-human creatures. Long story.)

Marissa: One of the first good people to get hired (and to stick areound!) after I began my reign of terror. She is a sweet girl, a terrific waitress and an (unreasonably) hard worker- and has the second worst luck of anybody I have ever met. She is the apple of Capt Rig's eye (ewww!) but she doesn't let the fame go to her head and she continues to feel moderate hatred for all the Head Harpies.

The Neutral:
The Youth of America: A smattering of kids, all of whom have short lived careers at C-Rig's due to their globe hopping tendencies. They are too young and innocent to take much stock in the horror that we witness, and they still have the cocky attitude that all 22 year olds seem to possess. They can be amusing at times but are mostly annoying, hung-over and proud of their sex lives.

Waiter Dan: There is a Waiter Dan and a Kitchen Dan, This can be confusing... Waiter Dan is very good at his job and could have made the "good" list except for his feelings that Jan makes the business run well. This is a horribly misinformed statement so despite his ability to fix problems without making a federal case out it them, and his amazing stories about banana tree escapades he is stuck on my "neutral" list.

The Bad/Ugly:
Captain Rigatoni- The owner, "head chef" and self proclaimed Master of the Universe. A very bad man.

Bobbi Rigatoni- C-Rig's sister. A first class beeyotch and the Queen of Passive Agrestiva. My dislike from her is profound.

Mama Rigatoni- The mother. Somehow managed to raise some effed up children but is a fairly cool lady. I can not overlook her dreadful offspring though- so "Bad" list it is!

JAN- The head troll, boss of everyone (as in none) the person who brought douchebag back into my vocab and somebody who I make fun of due to her hideousness. The #1 enemy of my HWF- who she would be wise to treat a bit better...

The Man Slave- Jan's lubby-dubby. C-Rig's tickle fight partner. Does not possess a man card, or an ounce of the smart.

Ashley- Ewwwww. Dreadful in every way. Has attitude of a supermodel (without the looks) and the strange compulsion to talk in a baby voice which creeps me to the max. I dislike her more than I dislike Jan- but I am one of the few that feels this way (well. I think that the NNG agrees)

Gina- No words. Luckily she is on a schedule that keep us apart 99% of the time or she might be my least favorite. She has a heart filled with hate and is bad in practically every way.

The Now Extinct but terrible in past tense:

The Nemesis- Except for Jan she was HWF's least favorite person. She had the IQ of a stump and the motivation of a rock. She was pretty great.

Karen- HORRIBLE times a million and bat shit crazy. As bad, if not worse then Jan. I declared a National Holiday on the day she was fired.

The Tattletale: Self Explanatory

The Flighty Waitress: Irresponsible times a million and had the smarts to rival the Nemesis. Was fired because she decided to stay home one day and get drunk. But was not smart enough to stay home, proceeded to go out and about and get busted by Ashley (who- no kidding- then RAN to the restaurant, on her DAY OFF to tattle on her. Maybe Ashley should have been the Tattletale?)

Shrek- Too cool for words. A gynormous close talker and mouth breather. Ewww.

And there we have it. A glossary of the bizzare players both past and present. You can see how lucky I am!

The Thong Police

2010-04-23T07:09:00.004-04:00

Ashley had been lying dormant for a while, or at least as dormant as any of the axis-of-evil members can lie.

Evidently, keeping quiet had lost it's charm and appeal for her because she came out with vengeance and a high level of mouthiness during a Friday evening shift.

I might have previously mentioned that while Ashley pictures herself as a lean, bodacious supermodel that simply is not the case. While she might not carry the heft of Jan she is a portly soul, and has enough rolls to fill a basket. None of these things stop her from being exceptionally critical of the physical stature of others (she might not run... but she does run her mouth!)

For whatever reason she became agitated by the fact then in the kitchen on occasion when one (or several) of the girls leans over to get something their shirt hikes up and there might be a momentary flashing-of-the-thong. THE HORROR!! The sensible approach would be to say "your showing too much skin there, pussycat doll wannabe!" But as we all know, the sensible approach is the road less traveled at Captain Rig's.

I witnessed Ashley not walking, but literally running (while gasping for air, I'm sure) to tattletale to Bobbi, Momma Rigatoni and anybody who would listen. She went ON and ON about it in a rather bizarre, but quite passionate way! I had not realized how deep her desire was to be the leader of the thong cops of America.
Sidling up to me she whined "You know... I just can not figure out why all of these BIG girls will not buy cloths that FIT! Maybe if they actually bought pants that would button then we wouldn't always be seeing their underwear... I know it must be really hard to have to buy a size 16 instead of 14 but they might look a little better." I studied her figure intently and came to the conclusion that she had deemed her pants to be well fitting, since her muffin top was only jumbo sized. (and then I went to beat my head bloody against a wall, as hearing her berate everyone in sight was downright painfull.)

Suddenly, we were all summoned to the kitchen for a Very Important Meeting. Mama Rigatoni gathered us all around and said "when you girls are in here bending over and we can see your THONGS I wave to the boys and point down your PANTS!" (lucky you guys, way to get an eyeful of coin slot!) Continuing on she said "From now on everybody has to wear pants that FIT, shirts that are LONG and NO MORE THONGS!" As people dispersed she made a point to tell all of us "girls" that she planned to line us up at the end of the night and (wait for it....) have us all bend over- so that she could check on the thong escapage. OH. MY. GAWD! This middleaged waitress don't bend over for nobody- you had better believe it.

Several of the girls, including the poor NNG were very embarrassed by this encounter and outraged at Ashley's false sense of self-pride/worth/beauty. Not to be stopped, Ashley continued to steamroll on all evening blathering on and on about unacceptable thongage, poorly fitting pants and her own slim figure. It was all very strange. Stranger still, was how she chased the NNG around all night trying to talk to her about the incident. Being rather offended by the whole mess (hmmmm, why might that be?) the NNG grew more and more pissed off. I was waiting for a fistfight... It never happened...

I was pleased that Mama Rig forgot about the promised Bending-Over because that might have been a bit too much for me to take. I was pleased to know though, that I'm not a grownup enough girl to be able to choose the knickers that I might wear what with thongs being banned and all. So, high waisted granny panties it is. I wonder how everyone will feel when they get an eyeful of those sexy things!
(Editors note: can't do it. I don't even own a pair of high waisted granny-pants. but whatev- it's a great visual!)

Why bad tippers cost us money and should be shot. (just kidding.)

2010-04-20T07:23:00.004-04:00

This is a post dedicated to Anonymous, from Mass who left a comment on my "Adventures in Fairly Poor Service" blog. (she/he will know why!)

Going home exhausted and broke at the end of a long restaurant shift filed with poor tippers is a rough story. It happens to all of us, and the uninitiated will say "Get a REAL JOB!" or "You waitresses don't have to claim any of your tips so it's still like working under the table!"

While I have no pleasant response for answer one I am going to try to shed some light on answer #2.

Why bad tippers cost servers money at the end of the day:

We'll make this easy. (almost) everything in this day & age is computerized and almost everyone pays with a credit card. Therefore, "Hiding" money/tips from your restaurant is almost impossible and rather frowned upon.

So, say on any given night you make $500 in sales and hit the jackpot with 20% tippers. You have $100 in your pocket. "Sweet" you say to yourself, "A decent night!"

WAIT. That's not all for you, clever server.

Let's hand off 10% to the service bar (those drinks come from somebody, no?) And then throw another 5-10% at your bus-person (if you are blessed to have one.) At some restaurants there are more people on the tip out list- food expeditors, coffee prep people- essentially, anyone who is not paid minimum wage can be "tipped out."

So, you tip out your people and you are down 10-20%. BUT- all your sales were in credit cards so even if you wanted to say that you left with $85 you could not. You have to claim the whole lump of $100- and get taxed on it.

Which brings us to an evening of bad tippers and what happens then. Say you make $500 in sales, and one table leaves you $0 due to their profound dislike of Italian food (your fault!) then you get a few more tables who tip in the 12-15% range. You finish up the evening with $60. You still have to tip out all your helpers- and then things get a bit tricky. It will show in the "books" that you made $500 in sales. If you "claim" that you only left with $45 that is going to raise eyebrows both from your boss in the backroom and the IRS. (one's boss will usually expect to see a server claim 15-18% of their total sales. and WILL say something if the total consistently looks low.) So once again, you "claim" the full amount- knowing that even at $60 your tips are possibly going to raise some eyebrows.

Back in the good old days a 15% tip was considered the norm to reward good service.

THIS IS NO LONGER THE CASE (go ahead and flame me. I really don't care! Badasssss!!)

20% rewards good service and is also pleasantly easy to factor into your bill! YAY for the "easy" button!!

15%- honestly means that something was lacking. Slow service (not always the servers fault- but sometimes) forgotten items,

Less than 15 percent means that there was a major problem.

As a server I consistently tip much higher than 20%, as a sign of solidarity in a cruel, unfortunate world. If things are complete crap I'll still usually leave close to 18%- because I consider that to be bad!

This is not a post meant to be snooty. However, being that I am a lifelong server and it IS HARD WORK I feel that perhaps I can help my fellow restaurant employees by throwing out handy tidbits of info. I'm cool like that.

(and BTW. I have a REAL job. OH, and BTW again? Serving is a REAL job which requires a very specialized skill set, high energy and endless patience.)

OH! Almost forgot. For those of you who think that we take home a paycheck at the end of the week- WELL, we do. If being paid 3.63 an hour (before taxes) counts for anything. So... I'm just sayin'.

The Key to my FAME!

2010-04-19T07:26:00.003-04:00

I see that I ruffled some feathers with my last post!
Since being a tad offendive is clearly going to be the key to my fame and success I have compiled a list of excellent topics for an upcoming blog post. Perhaps I should take a poll on which to choose?!

1: Canadians: Humans, or Aliens??

2: Gluten Allergies: A LIE to get attention!! Just eat the damn WHEAT!

3: People with children: Leave them home or drown them in the river! (the kids, that is- or yourselves if you choose to allow them to run amock.)

4: Christmas decorations/Christmas in general: Brainwashing at its finest...

BWA-HAHA! I can feel my fame skyrocketing!
(and really, if you don't understand that I'm kidding then please see topic #3 and consider doing the same!)

Canadians. Wine-O-s. Singing Brooms? Ahh, a day in my life..

2010-04-15T18:34:00.003-04:00

Dear Canadians. I am sure deep down inside you are all lovely people. BUT! (and before I offend all of y'alls- I am NOT racist about anyone. There just happen to be a group of people out there who waitresses really dread and sadly, our friends from the North fall into this category. So no hate for the middleaged waitress, ok?) I have posted about them and their never ending shenanigans and terrible tipping skills before and my feelings (and their behavior) has not changed.
I'm sure that all of you Canadians are very nice people, and I know that you play a good game of hockey. But please learn to behave and tip!

I had a very long night of Canadian-itis recently. Table after table of $150+ check totals and $8 tips had me crying in my soup. Or cursing rather loudly and threatening to shoot myself in both feet so that I could just go home, damnit!
One table in particular had me gnashing my teeth and reminding myself to shut my fricking mouth... They ran me ragged... Their children were demanding and petulant and they refused to speak English except to boss me around. (and they could speak English. It was annoying.)

At the same time in the adjacent table I had a 2-top who were clearly from the Very Big City that is known to produce A-Holes. No offence. However, these two decided to break the stereotype and start off with full blown fabulocity. Perhaps it was because I had the table of truly offensive northerners that made them seem rather tolerable- but this 2-top started out full of promise. they ordered wine (had to get the HWF's wine key, obviously) They ordered apps and warned me that they were going to have a nice, leisurely meal. This sounded like an ideal plan because not only was it early and I had to be there- so I might as well be busy- but my Rude table was keeping me so busy that I had me big old hands pretty darn full.

By the time that the Rude table was ready to get a move on the Man in the friendly 2-top had drank his way right thru the bottle of wine. Needless to say, things at their table were starting to take a turn for the worse- or at least a turn for the strange.

As the Rude table left they demanded to see their bill again to "check the breakdown.. because it seemed really HIGH." Ok, no problem, here you go DOUCHEBAG! They studied the bill with a microscope and found it to be correct, much to their dismay. Since it was my fault that they ate and drank so much they punished me with a four cent tip and got the frick out.

After they left Mister wine-o had lots to say about them. "Soooo" he drawled rather tipsily "they think that their shit don't stink, now don't they?" Not wanting to spark some sort of insane debate, or to appear rude I just laughed them off. But he persisted "Tell us what you really thought of them, because we thought that they were first class assholes." "Well." I said tactfully "They were a bit needy but it isn't something that I haven't dealt with 100 times before...." This was not a good enough answer and he persisted in pestering me to spill my real feelings on the matter. (which I would not do. but I did get him to order more wine, knowing that his wife was DDing his drunkass home.)

Much time had elapsed at this point and they were my only table left so, much to my chagrin, I had very little excuse to hide from them. More fine had further loosened Mr. Wine-o's tongue and he prattled on endlessly. (this is why I hated bartending and never wish to do it again- escape is challenging. and at a table like this- you are suddenly the bartender, therapist and best friend EVER!) As they prepared to take their leave I was asked one more question "In the Disney movie with the lion and the princess, is there a singing broom?" Lion. Princess. Singing Broom? WTF? Thinking hard I said "Beauty and the Beast you mean? Are you thinking of the singing candelabra?" He was not convinced and spent 10 lawyerly minutes asking me if I had reasonable doubt that there was NOT a singing broom in Beauty and the Beast. The whole situation unnerved me a bit and I started second guessing myself and could not say with 100% certainty that there was no damn stupid singing BROOM! (anybody? have the answer?)

In the end all the ridonculocity paid off because they left me a gargantuan tip- but it was all around odd.
And I'd love to know if there is a singing broom in the movie about the lion and the princess....

ONE perfect day...

2010-04-12T07:02:00.001-04:00

I can hear the gasps as you all recoil in shock. Yes, I said it. A "perfect Day" at Captain Rigatoni's!

We must remember that perfection is relative; what might seem perfect in a normal workplace is never, ever going to happen at Captain Rig's House Of Pain so we must take whatever bone life throws us.

To achieve the day of perfection there is a key ingredient: the elimination of almost 100% of the staff. This includes the obvious players: Capt Rig himself, Jan, Her Man Slave, Bobbi, Ashley, Gina and pretty much any new people who declare retarded things like "Where is Captain Rig today? Things just aren't the same without him!!" VOM DOT COM bitches- don't say ridiculous things like THAT if you wish to live in my little world.

The perfect day would be rather overcast because who wants to be inside on a nice day (I'm getting picky here but am actually setting the scene for the "perfect day that WAS") On the "perfect day that was" it was cool and cloudy out.. The perfect day would also be a weekday, because the head-honchos are always there on the weekend (and the "day that was" was a Monday- rock on!)

I arrived at my own personal hell to find that things were going to be fan-freaking-tastic! On the schedule in big, obvious letters were my Fab self, my HWF, the NNG (who was slightly less new at that point) Marissa and (sadly) the HWF's nemesis before she got fired for running her mouth. Bobbi was there but was in a magnanimous mood because she had just fired several people and that get's her feeling all powerful and kind of... high. Yipes!

Since The Nemesis was good for garbage I proclaimed myself to be the Boss, the queen of The Kitchen and the master of Everyones Domain. Watch out suckers, there was a new sheriff in town! No doubt about it: I spent the night hollering at everyone to dry silverware, to not be idiot douchebags and I generally tried to morph into a little hybrid of Jan & Gina. I kid, I kid!

Somehow even without Jan there to micromanage our every move we got things done! It was busy enough to keep us all moving right along and- GASP- by some stroke of luck everything got taken care of (including, rather shockingly, the CUSTOMERS) and nobody felt like killing anybody else because we all were nice to one another. We were a happy group of people and to add to the joy I hollered "THIS is the BEST DAY EVER" approximately every .2 seconds. I like to make my feelings known to the world.
The good feelings and happy mood must have rubbed off on my customers because I made an absurd amount of money for a Monday. A two top left me a 110% tip which had me literally bouncing off the walls in joy and ecstacy! (I'm really annoying when I get too happy. Oh well!)

The whole night was the bombdiggity and it was determined that if every day on the job was like that we would all work there forever with smiles on our faces and springs in our steps. High fives were exchanged for jobs well done. We all patted one another on the backs for being a team of rock stars who do not need to pillage and plunder in order to take care of business. None of us missed the Head Harpies even one little bit (maybe the Nemesis did. She did not enjoy working with a kitchen full of happy "new" people. Poor her!)

It was no shock to any of us when things returned to their hateful norm the very next shift. The good thing was we all had memories of the one and only perfect day ever to make things a little bit better. Like I mentioned, in a crazy crummy place like Capt Rig's you take what you can get, make lemons out of lemonade and appreciate the luck that is getting ONE great day.

And then there were four....

2010-04-09T07:04:00.003-04:00

When you are a new girl (or guy) at Captain Rig's House Of Pain the pride and joy of being the newest member of the awesome-o team lasts about one hour. Not only because you realize that you are working in the worst place ever but because that is how quickly they hire people.

I was the newest girl for two days. Then after the new-new girls quit the following week I was the newest new girl all over again... This went on for quite some time until the Tattletale and Marissa were hired and decided to stick around for a bit.

Right around Christmas time a New-New Girl was hired in a rather unusual way. Marissa had been waiting on her and her fiancee and had taken a shine to her- had brought her not just an application but Bobbi herself to give an on the spot interview. She was hired straightaway (clearly I had no chance to warn her about the sloppy mess she was about to get herself into) and she arrived at my favorite place on earth just after New Year's.

I had reached the point of paying very little attention to the new hires. I had seen so many come and go with such predictability that I felt it was not worth my time and effort to even learn their names. I loved my newfound, bitter attitude. I found that it really suited my personality and gave me a whole new lease on life. I saw myself morphing into a mini-Jan, trundling about screaming "DOUCHEBAG" and bossing everyone to death. Lucky for me, I had a firm grip on reality and my HWF to be snide to- both of which saved me from continuing on a clear path to destruction.

Anywhoo. On the NNG's 1st day there, she had the best luck ever and was assigned to help my fabulous self in the infamous lettuce department. Despite my initial horror over the mass production of chopping lettuce (and my continued terror of being drowned in the sink) lettuce had become my favorite job and I was a freaking rock star at it. Marketable skill right there, not to mention an impressive line item on ones resume. She seemed like a quiet, timid little soul and I was not convinced that Marissa had had the right idea about her. And then.... She started to say funny stuff. And I discovered that not only was she a bit eccentric but we also shared the same views on letting our dogs sleep in bed with us (and that is more critical than having our poor husbands sleep with us. Sorry boyzzz.) This was clearly enough to build a friendship on and so we damn well did.

I said to my HWF later that day "I think there might be 4 of us now...." Which did in fact prove to be the case.

It did indeed, for that particular moment......

Coworkerdependancy....

2010-04-07T07:54:00.002-04:00

Coworkerdependancy: A situation where ones enjoyment of work (or lack thereof) is based on the proximity of ones favorite coworker and their ever ready wine key.

I am a hostile beast who tends to repel people in the same manner that raid discourages wasps from coming to visit. So I have no friends what so ever.

OK. Not entirely true! However, at Captain Rigatoni's House Of Pain the thought of actually developing a proper (not to mention pleasant) friendship with anyone is a bleak prospect. Make a friend? They get fired the next day. (or we have a very important meeting in which we are forbidden to make friends.) Get all chummy with somebody? And you walk in on them talking smack to Jan about your skills/looks/temperament. HEY-OH! Nice.

The absolute and unarguable situation at Capt Rigs is this: if you do not have somebody who has your freaking back- and who you can also share moments of eye rolling sarcasm with- then you will just curl up and die from despair and mental anguish.

I remember at all of my jobs having a good work friend. You find somebody who has similar geek-like qualities, no bad feelings about making fun of everyone who acts like an idiot and POOF the next thing you know you are speaking in your own secret language and scampering off to the walk in cooler to gossip like a couple of school girls.

I have to give MAD props to my HWF for becoming no doubt, hands freaking down my best work friend. THANK HEAVENS! I need to borrow a wine key? No prob. I need to borrow that wine key FIVE times in one night??! Pssssh, no problem again. Do we share mutual disdain for Jan, her Man Slave and most people including all of management? Hells YES. Have we managed to assist one another in the saving of what is left of our sanity so that we can go home at the end of the day like somewhat normal- well adjusted people?? Maybe?... (I kid. Definately.)

Friends are good to have. Completely underrated in today's society of questionable loyalty and bus throwing-under. Does it warm the insides of my bitter stone-cold heart to know that I have a BF there to give the side eye to when Captain Rig has an "I'm Great" meeting, or when Gina runs thru the dining room criticizing everything and everyone? (or when Captain Rig entertains an entire room of Republicans, all spewing their Republican views?) MmmmHmmmm.

I don't want to turn this into a sappy diatribe on the meaning of true friendship in a harsh, uncaring world of idiots. Well, maybe I want to but I'm not so good at wrapping my head/typing fingers around all that sappy junk (just ask the middleaged Huz!)

But really people, when one works in a place where insanity and hatred is the norm it makes you appreciate your friend/s just a tiny bit more. Or a crap ton more, if you are me.

So here's to you, HWF. Rock on with your bad self, and cheers to our shared hatred of all the BS and the folding of millions of napkins. Good job having my back when things get especially ridiculous and absurd (would that be everyday? YES.) And clearly, I have your back too... And finally thank you times a million for saving/helping my sanity, for enabling me to open many, many bottles of wine and for being a helluva good person.

My adventure in fairly poor service.

2010-03-30T07:38:00.001-04:00

I was thoroughly spent after my attempts to be the very best waitress in the universe. I was exhausted from the strain of repeating 19 specials a dozen times a night, fed up with figuring out what the house wine of the day was, and just plain fed up with giving 100% to be rewarded with 20%. BAH!

My plan for recovery? Spend one blissful Friday night being a horrible server. Evidently I exaggerate because on my laziest day I still do a damn good job and nobody goes home hungry and crying. My actual plan was to read ZERO specials, give ZERO extra effort, tell NO funny stories and be rather... Beige. Watch out world, I thought brazenly to myself at 3:59 on a Friday afternoon, HERE comes mediocrity!

I did not disappoint. Instead of running bread to my tables I wandered over with it when I felt good and ready. If I felt the need to reapply chapstick or run to the ladies room I did so, regardless. I made up outrageous names for the house wines "tonight we have.... billowing ferns shiraz!" (to which one lady replied "I have had that before and it is wonderful!" PFFT!!) I didn't feel like finding a new tiramisu when one ran out so I simply omitted it from my list of dessert specials. I pretended that the cappuccino machine was broken (and luckily nobody else used it during this period of time!!)

By the end of the evening I had not broken a sweat and was in a blissful state of calm and relative relaxation. It was quite lovely and a very unusual feeling, to be honest.

And how did this little experiment work out for me? FREAKING FANTABULOUSLY!!!! I made a CRAP ton of cash- averaging 25% per table and really hitting the mother load on a 14 top who loved the new and improved me.
Sadly, being this much of a slacker on a regular basis would draw a fair amount of attention to me which I would like to avoid. So despite the fact that being a BIG slacker pays off big time I will have to avoid it as a rule.

A side note: unlike my last lazy experiment I was a diva superstar all night in the kitchen, running food, drying silverware, singing and dancing. All of my coworkers must have thought that I had been bitten by the helpful good employee bug... If they only knew...

DEATH. Has entered the building....

2010-03-28T14:25:00.002-04:00

"Death.... Has just entered the building..." my HWF said ominously as he, waiter Dan and I stood by the wait station.

"What. WHAT?" I asked, a bit perplexed. "Just watch" they both suggested, so I turned my eyes to the front of the building. A new girl walked in the door and made her way towards us. Actually, "made her way" is generous- rather, she moped and shuffled her way down the hall. Her mouth pouted petulantly and her heavily shadowed eyes were sorrowfully cast to the ground. She walked with the air of someone who has suffered greatly, and had known horrible troubles. She was clearly VERY sad (in a way that is clearly NOT sad, so nobody get too worried ok?)

I watched with a mixture of horror, intense amusement and honest shock that she managed to even get hired as she came closer to us. She was clearly attempting to sneak by the three of us without attracting attention but she was messing with the wrong group. "HELLO" said waiter Dan with the kind of intense cheerfulness that he can pull off (that I can not) "How are YOU?" She turned her eyes towards us in the manner of a deer in the headlights, literally squeaked and ran off. I fell down laughing "Are you SERIOUS!" I guffawed "NO WAY.... that is the best thing I have seen in YEARS!" They both assured me that not only were they 100% serious but so was this new girl, and that they were positive that I would enjoy her company.

I decided to get to know her so I asked her what her name was. She told me, with big pouty lips and an extra dose of sadness in her eyes. I was delighted to find that she had a very unusual name which meant "To build up to or reach a point of great intensity, force, or volume." Since she spoke in such a mousy little whisper I was a tad skeptical that this was a fitting name. I asked for details, wishing to know if it was a family name or just a bit of misfortune. AND SHE SAID (in mournful tones, growing more depressed my the second) "My parents had me pegged from the moment I was born..... They knew exactly what my personality would be like...." To which I enthusiastically thumped the reservation book and declared "Fantastic!"

She crept around all night, jumping at noises and freaking out at the crazy busy pace at which we all moved (it was a Monday. It was dead... Poor kid.) One of the other servers said to her "Hi." and she said (get ready) "Hi. Like I told you." WHaaaaaaaaat??

She was fully awesome and I was looking forward to watching the continued insanity- I was very curious to see what her level of nuts-o was! My attempts to help her out were met with such bizarre levels of crazy that I gave up quickly and took enjoyment in watching the train wreck. Sadly, during her next shift the powers that be had had enough of her pouting and inability to speak above a whisper and let her go. So sad... So surprising...

RIP, Fallen Friends

2010-03-22T07:26:00.004-04:00

I'm not so morbid as to write about actual dead coworkers. But: the cold hard fact of a job at Captain Rig's is that at any moment you could get fired. Or just get tired of the nonsense and quit. Blaze of glory!! Here is our roll call...

1- So, so many new people who walk thru the door filled with hope and innocence. A rough count of the people who have left before making it thru training: 9 And people who have made it thru training to quit about 1 Saturday shift in: 5

2- Total number of people with names like strippers to quit: 2 (much to my amusement and dismay.) I expect this total to climb to 3 shortly as pole dancer #3 walked in last night.

3: Youth of America: 4 (1 quit outright. 2 politely gave notice. 1 was fired after making the biggest mistake ever.)

4: The bad people: 4
-Karen (will need to find otherways to make $ to pay for much needed dental work.)
-The Nemesis (of my HWF)
-The Tattletale (good riddance)
-the Flighty Waitress (lots of drama here!)

5: 1 cook. BIG blaze of glory! Awesome!!!

6: 3 hostesses. Complete turnover of the front desk.

7: 3 random bus-people. Very confusing, as "we don't HAVE bus-people!"

8: I'm editing this hours later to add someone VERY important! Shrek! The big, bumbling be-speckled close talker who oddly lasted about 5 weeks. Egads.... And sadly, the very nice lady who helped me get thru my first few horrific shifts (she got a better job..)

Holy Crap! So in my 7 months there 33 people have been in-and-out- that is really astonishing. If only Ashley, Jan and Gina were on the list. I can only hope they are soon to follow! (haha, I'm labeling this under Avoidence of Work becasue getting fired or quitting is definately avoiding work!)

My Adventure in Excellent Service: Part 2

2010-03-17T07:52:00.000-04:00

.....My evening continued.

After the Emo Princess fiasco I considered throwing in the towel and finishing up my night in a sub par state of angst. However, I had challenged myself to dole out the very Best Service Possible so I slapped myself a bit and carried on.

I got a table of "VIP's" so no check, but a bit of calculation proved that a 22% tip had been left (good, but if you get all that food for free this middleaged lady thinks that a few more bucks could be thrown down!)

Then I was seated with a John Locke (pre-smoke monster fiasco) lookalike and his buxom female friend. They were some odd ducks, let me tell you! He kept saying things like "I'd like you to bring me a Caprese salad- and I'll PAY for it!" Damn straight you will, bucko! I knocked their socks off with my fantastic waitressing abilities and I was rather disappointed to discover that they had left me a stingy 17% tip. Not really able to figure out why they had been such cheap little peeps I shook it off and got to back to it. Their table was placed in a manner that required that I pass it every time I went to another one of my tables. After a few passes by John Locke asked for more coffee, and when I retuned handed me a clump of folded bills. Hmmmm! Five more bucks (much better!) Another pass by their table resulted in another handful of wrinkly little dollar bills (this was a game that I encouraged, and could get used to! Tip me multiple times, bring it on!!) After all was said and done I had earned a solid 30-ish percent on them which made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. And justified, since they had been rather full of themselves.

My final table for the evening started out just fine and dandy. A two top, obviously an old married couple who simply wanted to get down to the business of eating with no falderal. The husband had some problems getting the dish he wanted for dinner formed into words and out of his mouth. Pointing to the menu I helpfully inquired if the dish in question was the one I was guiding him to? Looking closely at the menu he confirmed that was indeed what he wanted: a formidable stack of italian meats and eggplant, smothered in layers of gooey cheese and blanketed with marinara. I delivered said items to the table promptly and everyone looked pleased as punch. Returning a moment later to confirm the gastronomic ecstasy they indicated boundless pleasure in their dinner choices. I returned once more with water and everyone was still as happy as a clam (really? how happy IS a clam? they have very small brains... or no brains at all?) When plate clearing time came around I was pleased to see that the dinners had been eaten down to the last morsel- more happy customers! I picked up the plates and the man said "Was that.... Chicken Marsala that I ordered?" Looking at him in a bit of shock I said no, it was the Magical House Specialty as he had requested. "Well" he replied bitterly "that is not what I wanted at all and I don't even know what was IN IT." I rattled off the list of ingredients, thinking at the very least the absence of both chicken and marsala sauce might have made him aware of his error. "NEVER" he muttered "would I eat EGGPLANT." "Well" I replied thoughtfully "there is a great deal of eggplant in what you just ate so perhaps you have found a new favorite since you CLEARLY enjoyed it?" "You know" he said in hostile tones "I should get this meal for free since it was your mistake..." "HA. HA. HA." I laughed brightly, wishing to deliver a swift kick to his face. I got their check. I comped one of their beers, which brought the bill to exactly what it would have been if he had received what he wanted. I examined his licked clean plate for any signs that he did not enjoy his dinner, and found none. I was not at all surprised to discover that they left me a 0% tip on a $55 check. Surprised, no, a little teensy bit pissed off? MmmHmmm. I asked you if said item was what you wanted, you said yes. I checked on you not one but THREE times to see if all was well, you said yes... You ate the WHOLE frigging thing..

COME ON PEOPLE!!!

At the end of the night, it all balanced out. I averaged an even 20% due to Captain Douchswizzle and his inability to differentiate marinara from marsala. And good times were had by all.

My Adventure in Excellent Service: Part 1

2010-03-11T15:49:00.001-05:00

Quiet times had once again descended upon the restaurant. And by quiet, I actually mean extremely DEAD.

Needing to do something to amuse myself I declared boldly (to no one in particular) that I would become dedicated to the pursuit of giving the most excellent service known to man. I would lay it on so thick that people would be handing me 100% tips without even thinking about it. I would become insanely wealthy and quit. In actuality, I was just curious to see that if stepping up my game a bit might actually have any consequence. (being that I consistently average 22-25% minimum- which is pretty good.) Being that my patience with Captain Rig's was wearing thin I decided that a one day trial of Excellent service was about all I could handle. After that I would go back to by old ways of spitting in peoples soup and screaming "WHATCHA WANT" to take an order.

(I also decided that if I were to find myself laden with Canadians that all bets were off.)

The night in question was slow enough to guarantee that I would be able to perform my act of Excellent waiting- and that the kitchen would not be too busy to be slow and screw me all up. Things progressed nicely and I found that although people were astonished to listen to me recite by memory the 17 specials, and were pleased to have instant water refills, immediate crumb wipe-age and absurdly detailed descriptions of the desserts my tips stayed put in my same 22-25% range.

Part of the way thru the night I was seated with a mother/teen daughter combo. This is not always the most promising situation but my Mom and I enjoy dining together on a regular basis and always appreciate good service (and tip accordingly, obvi.) So I brought my infamous "A Game" to this table and regaled them with my knowledge of San Manzano Tomatoes, attended to their every request with a flourish and a smile and was altogether delightful. Typically little teen girls like me, because I am not so old as to be an uncool parental authority figure. This girl however was deeply imbedded in some sort of emo subculture and was clearly very sad and depressed about her 13 year old life. She moped about, shaking her hair over her face and brooding over Twilight and death (I don't know. I'm just guessing!) After to attending to them like some kind of freaking superhero waitress I went over to clear their plates and to offer them an excellent homemade (at some others home) dessert. The Mom said to me after I dished out the tempting offer of a luscious tiramisu "You know.... There is something about your voice that REALLY bothers me.... Maybe it is just because you are SO loud!" Horrified and deeply offended I looked at her, agog. Thinking back on every interaction I had with them I realized that I most certainly had not been loud, brash or anything but extra nurturing and friendly. My hackles were up! Biting back all kinds of inappropriate things I plastered on my biggest, toothiest grin and said "I'm so sorry that you were offended by mo tone or volume. I must make sure that when I talk that even people who are listening to their ipods can hear me...." (with a sideways look at the princess of the ear buds, who scowled at me and buried herself deeper into the banquette.) Clearing their plates away the Mom continued "The little princess did not like her dinner but didn't want me to say anything." Looking at the offending dish I discovered that as inedible as it had been most of it was gone. "I'm sorry to hear that" I said dryly "What seems to have been the problem?" I was addressing the emo princess but she wanted nothing to do with me, and she turned up the volume on her ipod while rolling her eyes in disgust at the incompetence of adults. (at this age, if I had acted like this i would have been sent to sit in the car. Oh, after having my ipod ripped from my person, my hat removed from my head and my bad attitude washed off my face. but we don't discipline our children in these times...) "Oh nothing...." sighed the indulgant Mom "she just didn't like it...." Knowing that I had no chance for a good tip at this table I calmly reached out and removed a bud from emo princess ear "Hey" I said with the utmost friendliness "If you don't like your dinner and you don't tell me.... There is NOTHING that I can do about it! So... You just remember that for next time, ok?" Gently replacing her ear but I gave her a hearty pat on the shoulder (to piss her off? or because I wanted to slap her sour expression off her face? I'm not telling...)

I delivered the check for the table, now speaking to them in the very most hushed of whispers while looking in the other direction (passive aggression, anyone? with a side of fries?) I did not care because I know it was a lost cause and I figured if I wasn't going to make bank then I better have a laugh. Upon picking up the check I was genuinely shocked to fine a tip over 20%. Go figure!

To be continued...... Will I have more drama on the night of good service? Will I end up making any cash? Wait and see!

Inside the head of a MAD MAN!

2010-03-09T16:08:00.002-05:00

Captain Rigatoni was most disturbed.

Sitting in his lair (aka:office) he twisted his large, gold rings around his twinkie like fingers while ruminating over recent events. He was not sure what had him so on edge... But something did and he fully intended to do something about it!

Leaping up from his chair, in the way that only an unfit angry man can he strode to the kitchen filled with agitation. Suddenly, something caught his eye though a crack in the door. Intently he peered out and was disgusted and baffled to see that his staff of clowns had parked out in the back lot. AH-HAH! THIS must be the reason for his discontent, he thought to himself, his STUPID staff was doing things all the wrong way AGAIN! GOD, were they EVER on their A Game? Would he ever be able to get a moments rest, what with having to babysit the lot of them 24/7?!

"HEY YOU!" he shouted angrily to the first waitress he saw, pleased to have found someone so quickly on whom to vent his anger "WHAT are you all doing parking out there? WHY would you do such a thing." "Well" calmly replied the waitress "We are parking there because you told us to." "WHAT?!" he cried, eyeing this small, middleaged waitress with extreme displeasure "I NEVAH would have told you to do such a thing! NEVAH! Now answer me again: WHY are yous parking out there." Annoyingly unphased by his attempt at intimidation she sighed a little and with the kind of calm patience that made him want to kill someone she said "Well.... We are parking there because you told us to do so." This was not going the way he had planned at all. She was making him look like an idiot in front of everyone with her terrible, disrespectful lies! Luckily, at this moment in walked his Mama. He knew that for sure, she would have his back and save the day! Then he could kick that middleaged waitress right out the backdoor where she belonged with her insolent, ignorant LIES! "MAMA" he said "This here waitress is tellin' me that I told all of them to park out back. I did no such thing so what's she playin' at?" Looking at him with resignation his Mama said "Well Rigatoni, you did tell them to park out there." At this point Captain Rig was seeing red and could not believe the betrayal from his own MOTHAH!! From the distance he thought he heard the sounds of self-satisfied laughter (which made his blood boil) but there was nobody else in the kitchen at that point.

Right at that moment into the kitchen trundled Jan, dragging by his ear her faithful man slave. The man slave was a well trained employee of Captain Rig's and was Jan's poopsy-woopsy. She loved the way that he sucked up to the Captain in a way that was terribly disturbing to the normal idiots working there. She loved the way he massaged her rolls of fat after the hard hours she put in on the job. Oh she just loved everything about her man slave, especially the way that she could throw him at Captain Rigatoni to cheer him up, collecting tons of brownie points in the process. The Captain was delighted to see the man slave and jumped right over to where he was standing. With his fat finger he poked the MS in the ribs, causing him to giggle and nervously jump around. "You like working with these idiots" chortled the Captain, poking and tickling at the MS who continued to jump nervously from foot to foot, giggling all the while "you like what I have to put up with around here, DONTCHA!!" Agreeing with his every word while slobbering delightedly at the attention the MS nervously dodged the ever more violent pokes that the Captain was giving him. Tiring of their little game the Captain finished up the bizarre interaction by putting the MS in a headlock and mussing with his hair. "You go now" he bellowed "I know I can count on you to do a good job!" Running away as quickly as possibly the MS went to hide once again in Jan's formidable shadow, while trying to master the art of basic English.

This robust moment of bullying had helped the Captain to clear his head but had also exhausted him. To his office he went, shaking his head and muttering obscenities to all the cooks as he past them by. Couldn't leave them for a second, he mused to himself, because they'd be trying to put him out of business. Once back in his office he realized that he had some mail on his desk! Delighted, he pounced on it like a fat kid pounces on cake. Unwrapping the biggest package first he was giddy to discover that he had been mailed an Award Of Excellence. He, the master of the universe was finally being given the credit that he deserved! Never one to pass up an opportunity to shamelessly indulge in public self promotion he immediately summoned the entire staff to the kitchen. "STAFF" he said in his most preachy, big-news-is-coming voice "I have won the most important award in all the land." I wanted to tell you all this so that you know how powerful and wonderful I am. AND I wanted to tell you that this is what happens when EVERYONE does that job that they are supposed to do and EVERYONE is on their A GAME!!!" Not noticing the baffled and bemused expressions from most of his staff (with the exception of Jan and her MS who were jumping up and down, hyperventilating from excitement and high blood pressure) he solemnly led a round of applause and retreated to the depths of the restaurant to polish his new plaque.

And the moral of this story is: (we should all have a Man Slave) Just kidding! The real moral is that when one wins an award, of any caliber, the supposed slacking and ineptitude of the staff is momentarily forgotten.

Cakes, Cleavers and Car Trouble. Or: I'm BACK!

2010-03-06T15:26:00.001-05:00

I was on route to Captain Rigatoni's not too long ago, all shiny and well dressed (as usual) running punctually on time (as usual) and with a smile on my face and a freaking song in my heart (aren't I just the picture of perfection!) When I heard a pop.... I pulled my car over and sure enough, I had the very most flat of flat tires. I was not too bothered by this as I was raised to be an independent and clever woman, one who does not need any stinking AAA. I got my jack, and my winter coat. I dug out my tire iron and the spare tire. I got to work. Much to my dismay the lug nuts would NOT BUDGE! Inwardly cursing my mechanic for tightening the little buggers with the air wrench thing I realized that I would have to call for some serious help (AKA my poor put upon Dad. The middleaged Huz was at work.) The entire situation proved to be challenging (it was cold. my phone service was questionable. My Dad was very hard to locate.) But to make a veeeery long story short and reasonable the tire got changed. Being that I am a gifted and responsible employee of Captain Rig's most Magical Bistro I got on the hop and drove like a lunatic to arrive a mere 37 minutes late.

As I made my walk of shame into the restaurant I noticed that I was feeling a touch unwell. Thinking back on my day I remembered that I was running on no lunch, and that the cold weather and tire changing nonsense had put me into an icky state of low bloodsugar-itis. I am a scrawny little thing, who needs to be fed every hour on the hour to keep the hypoglycemia at bay. If I miss a meal, watch out... Not only do I get crabby but I get clammy, shaky and eventually just fall down and pass out, or become disgustingly nauseated. That's where I was at upon my arrival and I was rather hopeful that I would be able to snag some juice and crackers before being called into service.

As soon as I walked in Marissa and my Human Work Friend jumped on me. "You're just in time" they said with barely disguised disgust "We are being summoned to the kitchen for a Very Important Meeting!" Now, when one is summoned for a VIM one absolutely does not stop for a life saving smackerel of something. Looking longingly at the basket of bread, I woozily made my way into the kitchen and propped myself up against the salad cooler (and was promptly admonished for leaning on the salad cooler...)

Captain Rig crashed into the kitchen, very much in I-Just-Swallowed-A-Beehive mode. Faaaaaaaantastic. Glaring around at us in a tizzy he started in (and I knew we were in for a long one.) He reached into the dessert cooler and produced half of a cake, which had had something of an accident and had essentially slid off of itself earlier in the week. (we had been allowed by his majesty to eat some of said cake on that particular day- it was very good and we were all secretly glad that it had structurally failed.) Anyway, I digress. He pointed at the cake with a large meat cleaver and demanded the cooks to tell him why it had not been turned into some other type of dessert and sold. None of them happen to own a magic wand that transforms failed desserts into Ace Of Cakes like masterpieces so they were unable to answer his question. This displeased Capt Rig immensely which encouraged him to spend at least 15 minutes repeating the same question over and over again "WHY THE EFF DID YOU CLOWNS NOT MAKE THIS CAKE INTO SOMETHING THAT WE COULD SELL? WHY THE EFF DO I PAY YOU? WHY ARE YOU ALL SUCH IDIOTS?" This went on for long enough to put me into a stupor, one which was not even relatively pleasant. At this point I had reached the cold sweats and shaking part of my desperate need for food and was wondering what my punishment would be if I passed out and fell upon the floor.

Just as I had decided that vomiting on my shoes was the thing to do I was horrified to hear Captain Rig shout my name (he knows my name. mental note to legally change name as soon as possible) I shook my head in a weak attempt to revive and asked him to please repeat. He pointed and glared at the red faced cook behind the line and then he pointed at me. "SHOULD I" he intoned, slowly so that I would be sure to understand "FEEL SORRY. FOR THESE IDIOTS.... WHO WASTE! MY! MONEY! And EFFIN! RUIN! MY! BUSINESS!" I peered over at at the cook, who looked inches away from tears. I could feel the stares of Marissa and my Human Work Friend on the back of my head as they collectively held their breaths. In my hypoglycemic state I had a clear vision of what would happen if I said "Yes. You should feel sorry for them because you emasculate and demean then in a way that is unprofessional and unacceptable." I imagined how red faced and bug eyed Captain Rigatoni would get and how he would gesture wildly to the door and order me to GET! THE! EFF! OUT! I pictured myself high fiving the cook, grabbing my bag and shouting "Don't let the door hit me in the ass on my way out" or some such ridiculous nonsense. "Hey" hollered Capt Rig (in reality) "WELL, SHOULD I????" I looked at the cook, who looked back and from behind Captain Rig's back gave the tiniest shake of his head. "HEY!" shouted Capt Rig, fed up with my meandering nonsense "ANSWER ME!" "Welllll" I said, valiantly trying to see a loophole "I suppose that you wouldn't need to feel sorry for anyone who.... wastes your money.." And there was a huge sigh of relief from everyone around me who gave a crap. Not entirely satisfied with my answer Cap Rig jumped over to the sad looking cake and stabbed his meat cleaver into it. "WASTING MY MONEY, FOOLS" he ranted, stabbing and cutting in a manic frenzy "NONE OF YOU ARE ON YOUR A GAME!!! YOU DO A TERRIBLE JOB! GONNA RUIN MY BUSINESS!" After a few moments of ranting, hacking and frothing he was spent, and thankfully retreated to the dark, dank recesses of his office.

I RAN and had some juice. Revived. Shook my head in dismay.... And wrapped up the chaotic night by having an amusing conversation with Marissa and my HWF about what exactly they pictured me doing during the stand off with Captain Rig. Evidently they imagined me doing something startlingly similar to my groggy daydream.

This set off a several day tirade from His Highness about what a terrible job all of us do (pretty normal) about how we are never on our "A Game" (same message, dfferent phrase) and of course the standard stuff about being idiots, clowns, etc. Stay tuned to find out how long this rant lasted, or what it might take to snap a crazy man out of his madness....

I'm Still Here!

2010-03-05T07:36:00.001-05:00

All of you out there on the internet probably think that finally I did something so bad at work that I fell into the infamous 7th circle of hell trap door.
Alas, it is not nearly as exciting as that. Just when I began to get back on my feet from Restaurantitis round 1, I was hit again with Epic Sick round 2. ARGH, the violation!
Anywhoo, thru my codine induced fog I have not been able to write, speak, or waitress with much skill or talent. But fear not friends, I'll be back this weekend with tales of horror from the Happiest Place on Earth! Whoot!

Resturantitis. The plague of DOOM.

2010-02-22T07:53:00.000-05:00

Restaurantitis: A plague of epic proportion, possibly contracted at said place of employment and most certainly vile enough to prevent one from functioning at a normal level.

Yes my friends, as I mentioned a week or so ago I was struck down by the horrible anthrax like bubonic bug that is restaurantitis. Hence, the lack of blogging as of late as I have been so crippled by congestion that my thought process has slowed to a turtle like shuffle.

After 5 days of laying low, moaning and taking large doses of sudafed I deemed myself non-contagious and bravely went back to Captain Rigatoni's to kick some ass.

Guess who got her ass kicked?...... I got thru the sidework portion of the day in grand style, despite not being able to hear anything whatsoever due to my completely blocked ears. I tried to look on the bright side- not hearing means being somewhat immune to the high decibel level of screaming. In reality, not hearing makes it very difficult to take orders, or to hear what sorts of food need to be brought to what table.

As the evening progressed I noticed that the air in the restaurant had turned into the consistency of pudding. I found that it was a great struggle to move thru the jello-air, or to breathe properly. "Suck it up!" I told myself sternly "thick air has never stopped you before!!" Slowly swimming my way into the kitchen I heard the chefs call for someone to run food to table 47 so I grabbed it and headed on out. Only to find that table 47 had nobody at it. Struggling to get enough oxygen into my addled brain I heaved back into the kitchen. "Table 47" I gasped "has nobody at it." "TWENTY SEVEN!!!" hollered the impatient expeditor "I SAID TWEEEEEENTY SEVEN." Armed with the correct table number I labored my way over to table 27 only to find that they were already eating. I could not believe my eyes... I felt that I was rapidly nearing the end of my rope, and that a freak out was imminent when the Tattletale grabbed the food from me with a curt "the party at 27 moved to 29. They should have told you that." Completely exhausted form the walking back and forth, and the considerable confusion, I tried to remember what on earth I had to do next.... Check on my own tables. I tediously made my way over to my side of the restaurant when out of the blue the whole floor tilted to the left. And then to the right. Grabbing table 26 to stabilize I broke into a cold, nauseated sweat. Looking around cautiously so as to not disturb my equilibrium any more I confirmed that the earthquake had only happened in my brain. Tiptoeing along as the floor continued to buckle around me I finally reached the security of the wait station where I was able to prop myself up against the counter. My human work friend walked by and looked at me with a significant level of parental concern. "I'm not gonna make it" I moaned into my palms, sick frustrated tears oozing out of my eyes "I JUST. CAN'T DO IT" "Have you asked Bobbi if you can leave?" my HWF asked logically. "No way" I moaned, all sweaty and shaky "She's gonna yelll at meeeee" "PFFFFFT" said my HWF "You're a mess, I'm going to go and tell her." As the world continued to tremble around me and my eyes continued to leak in extreme frustration the Tattletale came upon me. "What's wrong with YOU??" she asked indignantly. "I'm SICK and the floor is TIPPING and I need a minute to cry by MYSELF!!" I said crabbily. "Are you going to throw up?" she asked nervously. "YES" I said "ON YOU." (I had no intention of vomiting, but it made her go away.)

Thankfully, I was sent home. Luckily, once I sat down in my car the world came back to a place of stability. Happily, I was in bed, with loads of decongestants in my system by 7:30. My conclusion is that working at Captain Rig's on a normal day is bad. Working with restaurantitis is fully impossible.

Top Ten Tuesday. The sensible companion to Mental Health Monday...

2010-02-16T08:53:00.003-05:00

I am still exhausted from running around like a chicken on crack for 12,000 hours on Valentines Day. Not only that but I have been struck with a vile plauge, which is normal as I always get sick or need a root canal on or around V-Day. Ahhhh, life... Anyway, since I simply do not have the mental or physical health needed to fill you all in on the fantabulous V-Day adventures that I had (NOT) I'm gonna hit you up with this weeks list.

Top things that I have been told NOT to do. Or have been yelled at for.

-DO NOT make friends, have friends or care about your friends.

-DO NOT speak out of turn in a meeting.... Or ever perhaps.

-DO NOT ever make a unilateral decision. Always ask questions.

-DO NOT ask questions!

-DO NOT use a dirty trash bag to put the left over lettuce in at the end of the night. Really? I never would have guessed!

-DO NOT tell the truth to the guy from the Dept of Labor.

-DO NOT!! Lean on that counter....

-DO NOOOT remove your shoe

-Absolutely DO NOT purchase a tiramisu. You renegade thief!

-DO NOT forget to fill up your salt shakers unless you enjoy being called a douche bag

-DO NOT forget to restock the rubber-salad-gloves. Unless you like being called a piece of shit effing waitress. Ouch.

-DO not- Trust people who are in good moods. Unless you wish to sustain whiplash when their mood swings back to BAD.

-DO NOT- Throw away nasty lettuce. Wave your magic wand and make it USEABLE!

-DO NOT! Take care of your customers when there is silverware to dry

-According to Ashley DO NOT listen to Jan. According to Jan DO NOT listen to Ashley. I make it all ok by not listening to either of them.

-Do NOT make mistakes when bringing food to Gina's table. Even if it is your first day on the job, she will rip out your spleen and eat it in front of you for being such an ass.

-DO NOT ask Ashley how she is. Unless you want sordid details of her ongoing sexcapades.

-DO NOT break anything or make mistakes of any sort unless you wish to be beaten soundly with the handle of the vacuum cleaner

-Do NOT cross your arms. Touch your face. Touch your hair. Use your words. Have thoughts. Be smart.

-Do NOT drop 4 loaves of bread on the floor and then pick them up and use them anyway. Oops, did I just say that?

-Do not congregate in the waitstation. Stand by the hostesses. Block the hallway. Talk to one another. Unless you are "everyone but US."

-Do Not throw a jar of sauce at Jan. It will just hit the floor and make a huge mess.

-Do not question the Wisdom. Remember that we are in the presence of someone great and famous

Love Fest Oh-Ten. Here we come!

2010-02-13T15:51:00.002-05:00

Valentines Day. Just the thought of this holiday makes me cringe a little. Both from sugar shock sappy overload and the thought of the tidal wave of "happy couples" who descend upon the local restaurants. (good for my bank account. not for my mental health...)

This will be my first V-Day spent in the always loving embrace of the good people of Captain Rigatoni's. I fear that the bitter feelings from the Tattletale alone could be enough to plunge the rest of us into terrible, hate filled moods. Not being a huge fan of the holiday I rarely care much about it- other than to know that I'm going to get to see society at its finest and hopefully line my pockets with 100 dollah bills.

I remember many a V-Day at the place I used to work (and subsequently went on to develop a fairly bad feeling about the holiday in general.)

What a waitress observes on the most romantic of romantic holidays is a lot of people feeling obligated to go out and have a damn good time. Due to the pressure (and crowds) this is often just the opposite of what happens. (come on peeps there are 364 other days to tell your loved one/s that you love them. you should do this and avoid going out on freaking love fest oh-ten. unless it is to come have me wait on you, and take all your money!)

Sure, I have seen lovers-in-love, people who really do enjoy the holiday and obviously care for one another. But the depressing fact of the matter is that on any given V-Day I have waited on so many more people who hate each others guts that it's downright depressing! GAHD! Why can't I be the waitress who gets the guy about to propose with a diamond ring that he wants me to put in a champagne glass!? Because, if that were my table the fiancee to be would either swallow the ring or say no, HAH!

I love to see people who lunch with their spouse and then dinner with their lovah. In the same restaurant (and since I was working a double I was their server both times. YUCK-OH!) This was terribly troubling to me, especially as the wife got some generic gift and the lovah got all sorts of exotic things. Jeepers.

V-Day is a day to enter the walk in cooler at your own risk as you might find the sexual tension between coworkers had just become too much, and they decided to ease said tension upon the boxes of tomatoes. Nothing says romantic interlude like doing the nasty in freezing temps in with the produce!

If nothing else Valentines Day provides me with an oh-so-sappy moment to feel lucky to have a nice normal husband who I am still married to (I'm a freaking minoroty!) Looking at the epic hatred that flows between he so-called friends at Cap Rig's I am also very glad to have a group of kickass friends. Who I actually like. A lot. And do not try to stab when they are not looking....

I hope that tomorrow I make an absurd amount of money. I hope that the bitter ladies who I work with can get thru the love-dipped-day without too mane displays of hatred towards one another, or their ex-es. I hope that I DO walk into the cooler to find people gettin' it on. That would be hysterical, especially since I can NOT for the life of me figure out who would do that with WHO. I hope that I get to put a diamond ring in somebody's creme brulee. And I hope that I can get past my sarcastic feelings for this Holiday enough to brighten up somebody's dinner a little. Because when you really think about it, the world needs a little more love... And if a Hallmark Holiday and a happy waitress is what it takes to get it? Then so be it.

War Story Wednesday!

2010-02-10T07:20:00.002-05:00

I arrived at work on Monday filled with anticipation of list sharing fabulocity! (dubbed mental health Monday by yours truly..) Marissa had dropped the ball but my Human Work Friend had enthusiastically done a good deed and banged out a top 10-ish list of his own. Being that this is Wednesday and every day at Captain Rigatoni's is a war I'm giving my HWF the honor of having his top 10-ish as the WSW today! Whoot!
I tried to contain my glee and keep my "mouth" shut but I could not help commenting on several items in this list. Ahhhh, the fun times we all have...

(in no particular order.)

1- The economic/political speeches we have to endure (ED note: good call. These are torture.)

2: The public badgering and belittlement of the kitchen staff (Yep. bad news.)

3: The prevailing ANGER.

4: The restriction of our 1st amendment rights (rock on friend!)

5: Jan, Ashley, Gina

6: The distain the three of them have for each other (bwa-hahahha!)

7: The glorification of Captain Rigatoni by the 3 of them. Plus Dan. And one other nameless soul...

8: The fact that we all put up with it....

9: Filling the "premium" bottles of wine/liquor with the cheap crap

10: Yelling at us for not using common sense when clearly none of us have any, since we choose to continue working here. (this is quite possibly the best thing I have ever heard. I laughed for 10 minutes upon reading this.)

11- The overall hypocrisy.

OHH! A top 10-ish list!

2010-02-08T11:52:00.005-05:00

Important things that I have learned from working at Captain Rigatoni's Most Magical Bistro, Formerly XYZ Restaurant Italiano, this is the Middleaged waitress, how may I help you?
Editors note: The one reason that I am willing to get into the car and go happily to work today is due to the fact that Marissa and my Human work friend are making lists too. We are going to exchange, laugh (maybe cry) and then cause madness and mayhem per the norm. I like my work friends. They make that place somewhat more tolerable. Here's to you, you guys!

1: Gratuitous overuse of the eff bomb is acceptable and encouraged. Show your ignorance! Limit your vocab!

2: There is such a thing as the word "YOUS". Awesome!

3: Public displays of evisceration are great fun. Let's have everybody come in and watch as the cooks are disemboweled.

4: People in glass houses should indeed throw big, ugly stones. It is a good thing to critique everyone's ability, physical stature and mental state even if you are an overweight, inept and insane (and incompetent) individual (nice attempt at alliteration there.)

5: Since we all live in a bubble it is a good thing that nobody ever brings Dunkin Donuts cups into the kitchen. If we found out that there were other restaurants out there who knows what might happen!

6: We are supposed be dedicated to the pursuit of excellent customer service. Unless their is silverware to dry, dishes to put away, a gluten allergy to deal with, an actual problem, or a "very urgent meeting" in the kitchen which requires the attendance of the whole staff.

7: All of us are trying to put the restaurant out of business! We are all idiots! Why do they pay any of us clowns?!?

8: There are dishes and silverware in the kitchen!! Who is the douche bag that took the last of the lettuce/pie/dressing!! Start on your SIDEWORK!! Who left powdered sugar on the COUNTER!!!???

9: We are not worthy of the greatness that we see before us. Let us bow down and kiss your toe cheese and then watch as you give the cooks their daily beating for mopping the floor with the incorrect mop.

10- The bus is there to throw people under. Utilize it at will. Rinse, repeat.

11- Instead of promptly getting our work done let's spend 456 hours reading 1.2 million specials to all of our guests. Primo use of time. (have I ever read all the specials? Oh, yes. And by yes I mean NO.)

12- DO NOT talk to one another, go behind the bar, congregate in the hostess area, speak unless spoken to, (or have any thoughts or feelings) Well, if it's me, Marissa of my Human Friend you can't. Everybody else CAN.

13- Being honest and genuine is so 2008. That is simply not how we roll!

And the most important that I have learned? Do NOT under any circumstances attempt to purchase a tirimisu. That is one of the 7 deadly sins and must be avoided at all costs!!

War Story Wednesday! MAW Style....

2010-02-03T07:24:00.002-05:00

I'm going to steal WSW for myself today but I feel that is my prerogative since it is my blog, after all. I have had this story waiting in the wings for quite some time and it is time for it to be let out into the open! BWA-HAHA!

Back in the day when I was a young, innocent child I had a waitressing job in a (very) local restaurant. Not only was it known for it's questionable managerial style but it was known for bringing in a varied and somewhat seedy crowd. Clearly, a nice and wholesome place for a nubile young girl to work....

One evening I was waiting on a table of one man and his flock of three ladies. They made no attempt to hide the fact that this was most definitely a date with a one way ticket to some kinda funky bedroom action. Yikes! Anyway, I minded my own business, brought them their food and tried to stay away because their promiscuity was frightening to my impressionable young eyes. (ooooh kay. maybe I wasn't quite as naive as that. but still people, really?)

As they all languished around, pawing at one another and getting their drink on the man beckoned to me to come over. I was somewhat terrified, imagining that he was going to ask me to join in the (ahem) fun. Thankfully he just wanted to let me know that he was a psychic! And would I like a display of his powers?? I took a look around to see who would have my back if this was some sort of nasty trick. Seeing that the manager was nowhere in sight and that the bartender was getting loaded with some locals I tried to politely get the eff out. He wasn't hearing of it and told me that he was going to use his mental prowess to discover what color toenail polish I had on. Relieved that his intentions seemed pure I told him to go ahead and give it his best creepy guess.

He made a big show of closing his eyes, pretending to draw power from the universe and all kinds of wacky BS. His harem oooohd and ahhed and giggled to each other, very impressed with their boyfriend's skills. Nonplussed I eyed the spectacle with growing doubt. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and he gestured towards my clog clad feet. "PURPLE" he shouted "WITH SPARKLES!" Aghast I exclaimed that this was indeed true, and that I was duly impressed and had noted his one life skill as being legit. "Take off you shoe!" the girls exclaimed squealing in ecstasy "we want to see! we want to see that it is true!" Since there were no rules in this restaurant pertaining to the removal of one's shoe. I kicked off the clog and showed my purple hued toes to the salivating and scantily clad pussycat doll wannabees.

And then the unimaginable happened. Like a flash Mr. Creeper reached out and grabbed my foot (like, off the floor) and..... Bit it. With his teeth. My foot, in his mouth. Agog, I tottered on one foot and tried to repossess my appendage (lucky for him this happened before I developed cat like reflexes, as now I would smartly kick him in the teeth. And then in the junk.) Just when I did not things could possibly ever get any worse he stuck out his nasty tongue and licked the bottom of my foot. Which had been in a smelly, sweaty, dishwater soaked clog for no less than six hours. No really, he did! My horror was immense because not only was this a disgusting display but I have very serious issues with anyone touching my feet. I have to get a beer before I get a pedicure so that I can make a good show of trying to like the experience (I don't. But sometimes the toes have to look good!) All the girls burst out laughing as he freed my foot from his hairy hand, and jumped all over him in awe of his foot fetish. "Heeeey Baby" he crowed in delight "Howdja like THAT!" (not at all) I fled the scene in complete horror, dry heaving a little to myself as I ran to the relative safety of the wait station. I was completely repulsed, and refused to go back to the table choosing instead to have the rather inebriated bartender get them their check.

This was one of my all time worst experiences with a customer and it taught me to never take off any article of clothing upon request (like I have previously mentioned I was young. Full on Youth Of America, ya know? Very trusting, OK!!) The image I could not shake (along with that of my foot being bitten by nasty, nicotine stained teeth) was that of all the prancing ladies making out with Mr. Creeper, and him having a mouth full of dirty foot crud. Let's all say it together: EWWWWWW!

The many joys of waitressing....

2010-02-01T11:11:00.000-05:00

From time to time one gets the misfortune of being stuck with a party that is intent on being dissatisfied. They come in already disgusted with life and simply refuse to be pacified with good service (or multiple cocktails.)

I was on the receiving end of one such party the other evening and from the moment that they settled in in my section I knew they would be trouble. Luckily, it was a night that was slower than molasses in January so I had plenty of extra time to deal with their shenanigans.

Looking over the drink menu they moaned that they could just not find a bottle of wine that struck the right cord in their hardened hearts. I made a few suggestions, which are usually taken well. Not this time.... I was given a ten minute lecture on what we should have on hand, and how the selection was not up to par. (side note: as I may or may not have mentioned on previous occasions this restaurant is out in the boondocks of east bum f***. A huge wine cellar of $200+ bottles would be unjustified.) Moving on.... They were able to select a few glasses of wine based on my suggestions which honestly I was not delighted with- as I know this could come back to haunt me. (insert doom music now.)

I brought the wine. I explained the specials in minute detail. I sang a song. I told jokes. I listened intently as they criticized every item on the menu and then scolded me for creating said menu. I did not bother explaining to them that I actually have nothing to do with the birthing of the menu, as I am just a old decrepit waitress. Not pleased with the 24,896 possible choices on the menu they went on to create their own epic dinner selections. Always a wise choice in my eye, as clearly you would not want to entrust your dinner choice to the staff of trained experts paid to create tasty dishes. No, that would be quite risky.

I took their self-created order and explained that if one were to order an appetizer as entree then they would not get a "free" salad. Aghast, the lady at the table inquired how could such a thing possibly be true? Attempting to keep her from working herself into a frothing frenzy I indicated that a garden salad could be purchased for x dollars. Crisis averted! Somewhat pacified she demanded to have less of this and extra that on her salad with a dressing that I would create out of several items (not on the menu) to meet her needs.

(at this point they took the time to tell me that their wine selections were "painfully..... average" "barely....adequate.") Noticing that they were a 9/10ths thru with their drinks I concluded that average must still be quite drinkable.

After delivering the detailed, impossible and fairly ridiculous order to the kitchen and dropping their salad creations of horror off at their tables I spied on them from a corner of the wait station. They were all rather fond of moving their food around on their plates, smelling it, and grimacing. Hmmmmmm. Off to investigate I went (oh, lucky ME!!) "How are the salads?" I asked in my most happy-to-help-you-voice. "This is not what I had in mind" the lady said darkly "and the dressing is just horrendous." Well, that is what you get for asking me to combine olive oil, vinegar, ketchup, and the still beating heart of the head chef to make a special just-for-you dressing!! Keeping my thoughts to myself I dumped it into a box for her and sneakily took it off the check to save myself a major headache when the bill was dropped off..

During my check-altering moment their self-created dinner masterpieces had been brought, piping hot from the kitchen. I waited for them to take a bite and seeing that it was going to be a long process I went to check on my other tables. Returning a few moments later they still had yet to take a single forkful. I asked in everything looked ok to which they replied yes (so off I went.) Yes, you all see where this is going now dontcha?? On my return trip to their side of the restaurant I saw the lady gesturing to me with wildly swinging arms. As I neared her table she said "My food is COLD I can not eat COLD FOOD!!" Squashing the desire to tell her that if she had consumed her food in a timely fashion it would have been quite hot, I ran it back to the kitchen for a quick warm up. When I brought the (once again) steaming dish back to the table they all took quality time to lecture me on how the food was "incredibly.... average" "really.... just so-so" "not really what.... I had pictured in my head..." I was fighting a loosing battle so I just smiled, offered ground pepper and ran away as fast as I could.

Not shockingly they all declined dessert "we're really.... all set....with the so-so food...." So I dropped off their check, sweetly adding that I had removed the death-dressing salad from the total. The total of the bill was $79.13. They added $4.21 as a stunningly generous tip for the baffling total of $83.54. more than anything, I was glad to be rid of them and their slow talking criticism. Ahhhh people, you really make my job just a little more special!

War Story Wednesday

2010-01-27T09:54:00.003-05:00

Hold on to your hats blogger friends! This week I have no other than the QUEEN of the internet LiLu, from livitluvit gracing my small, simple blog with her witty and creative musings.
To say that I am excited that she is guest blogging for me is essentially the understatement of the century.
So without further ado, here it is:

Though I have long since retired from the world of restaurants and bars, I remember the trials and tribulations I endured throughout my decade in the industry like it was yesterday. I started out as a sixteen year old hosted at a suburban TGIFriday's; and yes, every cliché you can imagine about it? True.

I'd been eyeing the much larger tips servers made for some two years by the time my 18th birthday rolled around, and I started my first shift training "on the floor" the day I was legal. (Insert obligatory "barely legal" joke here.)

I was pumped, but (understandably) terrified, despite that fact that I was shadowing a good friend of mine.

The night went well; almost too well, in fact. I cavorted with customers, winning them with smiles and extra bread sticks and upselling them on booze and appetizers all the while. I was a natural.

That is, until we got seated with an 8 top.

"Just treat them like any other table," my friend and mentor coached me. "Drinks, apps, entrees. You can do this."

And so I did. Green though I was, I managed to get their drinks in record time, enter all the courses in the computer with the appropriate delay times, and was riding high by the time their soups and salads were up in the kitchen. The group had a one year old I'd been playing peek-a-boo with, and their wallets, I mean hearts, were mine.

I waltzed over to their table with three salads on one arm, proud as anything of my newly acquired "carrying" skills.

"Here we are, folks! One Italian, one Thousand Island, and finally, an olive and vineg-"

I saw it happen. I saw the ramekin of olive oil slowly, tenderly, terrifyingly, TEETER...

Before it gently slid off the edge of the bowl and upended its entire contents onto the bald little head of the toddler.

Stunned, the baby sat there with a little plastic yamaka resting on his crown, the oily yellow goop slowly dripping down his wee button nose.

And then I died.

Or, everyone uttered noises of surprise and clucking and frantically grabbed napkins and blotted while trying not to laugh because hey, if you think about it...

That's pretty damn funny.

Fortunately for me, the family was amazingly cool about it, but my mortification was complete. I hid in the kitchen until they were gone and ate my weight in Sesame Jack chicken strips to forget the pain.

I went on to be a helluva waitress, but I never forgot.

And I put the cocky away...

At least until I became a bartender.

War Story Wednesday.... Or, the WSW that wasn't.

2010-01-20T18:34:00.003-05:00

I thought that I had the best entry ever for WAS. I was so excited because it was clever and funny.... And vaguely familiar?? And after a bit of thinking was proven to be an excerpt from "Waiting" by Debra Ginsburg. Umm, Debra, if that was you who sent it to me than my apologies! How-EVAH, evidently it is time for a couple rules.

1: Original work please. Although I certainly can not police this if you are gonna scam off a book them I'm probably going to bust you.

2: No racial crapola. All peeps are occasionally bad tippers. There was a lot of this JENK in my inbox. STOPIT!

3: Hey "lousywaitress" at whatever.com. I genuinely loved your 12 emails that all said "They wuz bad tippers. They left me like, 10 cents maybe." I might just have to combine all the fabulocity of your emails to make one big wacky post. I bet you would love that! And common sense tells me that maybe you only got a smattering of change becasue you were.... lousy??

Anyway everybody- better luck next week. I did get a few good laughs but nothing that I felt ok about sticking up on my blog-o'-fantabu-lism.

Adventures with Spaghetti...

2010-01-19T16:00:00.005-05:00

At the end of a very boring evening I had this adventure:

Within minutes of closing I got a table of two, which happened to be my first table in well over an hour. It was a table of "mature" adults, obviously on a date. As I walked close to the table I was struck by a very unusual and altogether unpleasant odor. Realizing that it was heavily applied perfume radiating from my female dinner guest I attempted to place the exact scent that I was detecting. After a moments pause it occurred to me that it was the odor of a freshly cleaned porta potti, or to be more exact almost the identical smell to those little deodorizers that are placed in porta-crapper urinals. Ummmm-UM!

Breathing thru my mouth to avoid the noxious fumes I greeted my party and asked if they would like to partake in a beverage. "What do you have for beers" the boyfriend asked. Seeing that they did not have a drink menu I took a minute to recite the selection which, while not impressive is fairly lengthy. "I'll have a Bud Lite" he declared. If there is one thing that bothers me (and believe me, the there is more that one) it is when people ask for a beer recitation and then order a BUD! Howbout you just ask if we have Bud in the first place, if that is what you are going to drink? Spare me the trouble of going thru the whole shebang, you know?

When I got back to the table only girlfriend was there and she was all ready to chat me up and to become my very closest friend. She gave me a very long and boring story regarding the magnetic bracelet that she had on and how she could pick up her silverware with it. Trying to be a good sport I mentioned that she must need to be cautious when handling knives as that would be a nasty way to loose a phalange. She looked at me in complete shock and awe, and gasping, declared that she had never thought of such a thing! And oh my gosh, wasn't I just the smartest thing!! (yes.) Moving along, she asked to order an appetizer which is referred to as "toasted." She did not understand this phraseology. "Toasted" she said, flipping her menu over in confusion and looking at me with a wrinkled brow "you mean they put them in a toaster?" I explained that no, this was something that was baked or "toasted" in the oven and it was just another way of saying the same thing.... She was baffled, and said thoughtfully that the menu was very confusing indeed. Sighing, and shaking my head I left to put their order in and was intercepted by a most agitated Karen. Looking at me in an irritated was she said "The people at your table smell TERRIBLE! I am going to have to go and apologize to MY tables about the SMELL!" I agreed wholeheartedly that eau de urinal cake is not the way to go, and that if nothing else perhaps the stench would get people out of the restaurant before it got too late. Looking at my watch I noticed that it was indeed getting very late and due to the chatty Kathy nature of my table things were moving slower that molasses.

Since I knew that their apps would take a few moments I returned to stink bomb central to take the dinner order and get the show on the road. "I'll have spaghetti and meatballs" girlfriend said. "We don't have spaghetti" I said, but we do have the following pastas..." Listing them carefully I noticed her drifting into la-la land, clearly overcome by her own odor. "OK" she said dreamily "I'll have the spaghetti and meatballs." "Actually." I deadpanned "We. Don't. Have. Spaghetti. Why don't you try the angel hair with that?" "Hmmmm. OK. I'll have Spaghetti and meatballs!" "Al-righty!!" I exclaimed writing "Angel Hair and Meatballs" carefully on my pad of paper. Turning to boyfriend I asked what he might like to have on this very fine and confusing evening. "I'll have the shrimp scampi!" he drawled. Sighing mightily I explained that we did not have that item, but I would be happy to see if it could be prepared specially for him. "NONO" he said "I'll just have the spaghetti (yes, he said spaghetti) and red clam sauce." Wondering if either of them had bothered to so much as pick up the freaking menu I explained that again, that was not an item on the menu but I could check on the special order situation. Turning down my offer once again he finally agreed to have some good old fashioned manicotti. AHHHH!

All the while I had been at this table, attempting to avoid breathing in the thick cloud of epic perfume nastiness I was getting an eyeful of the table-next-door, wrapped in a full blown make out session. Which made me think of This Madness! Imagining that I was going to have to go and get the broom and poke them apart like horny dogs I told Marissa that it looked like her table was ready to leave (to get a room.) "Oh CRAP" she said "Really? Do you think that you could go over there and make them uncomfortable so they stop?" Thinking that if the eau de latrine was not making them feel icky than nothing would I prepared to stop the madness via a pitcher of very cold water thrown upon their writhing bodies. Much to my surprise the lady from my table has broken up love fest Oh-ten by stopping to chat with them (I could hear her telling them the story of the magnetic bracelet. Fun!)

Fortunately for all of us, crazy in love table included the big bad spaghetti dinners came out at this point so everybody had to go back where they belonged. I asked if there was anything else that I could get for either of them to make their dining experience more enjoyable? "I'll have a peanut" said girlfriend. I was a bit staggered, as there was absolutely nothing on the menu that I could think of that had anything to do with peanuts. "A peanut...?" I said slowly, attempting to buy myself some thinking time "Could you be a bit more specific about what you mean." "Yeah, yeah" she said, nodding helpfully "you always have a couple different kinds of peanuts? maybe two different ones." PEANUTS. BRICK WALL. I had nothing, no matter what way I twisted my brain I could not conjure a recollection of ever seeing a single peanut. I was ready to admit defeat when she perked up "I remember!" she exclaimed "I always get the PEANUT GREEEEGIO!" Ah. Pinot Grigio- gotcha!! I scampered off to get her a nice glass of peanut, and to get them more sauce for their spaghetti and to escape the fumes of perfume death. Returning to the table I asked how things were, and if they were enjoying dinner. "Don't know!" crowed the boyfriend "Haven't even tried it yet!!" Sneaking a peak at my watch I noticed that we had been closed for almost 30 minutes and this table had taken ne well over an hour to get to this point (appalling on a slow night.) Sneaking peeks at them I saw boyfriends fork hovering in the air, bite ready to try. And it hovered. And hovered. And did not move. For well over 5 minutes. Awesome! I give up!

After a time they did hurry up and eat, and then I hustled them around and forced them to pay up and get the eff out of my freaking section. As much as I love hanging about at Captain Rigatoni's it was time to leave.

The best part of the whole situation was that they wrote on a comment card about the "great spaghetti...." ummm hmmm. Some people never learn.

If you gotta problem yo, I'll solve it. Or not?

2010-01-15T07:08:00.001-05:00

As a rule I am quite a good problem solver. I can help you to jump start your car, I am not scared to help you check out funny noises in the dead of the night (well, I am. but I won't admit to it! oops, just did.) Really, I am a fairly handy person to have around when it comes to being a minor problem solver- Ms. Fixit type of gal.

One problem that I absolutely CAN NOT fix? The problem with people being bat shit crazy.

It is a well established fact in my brain that Captain Rigatoni and Bobbi Rigatoni are quite far off the deep end of anything that pertains to reality. The way that the pair of them interact with the staff, each other and their own freaking family constantly appalls me and leaves me shaking my head in dismay.

Let me set the scene for you. As is the norm on a Friday or Saturday night we were all summoned to have a big, rousing pre-shift meeting. We were actually called to the dining room for this one, which rocks my socks since it means we get to sit down!! We all gathered around, and I placed myself as far away from Capt Rig as is humanly possibly, and situated myself behind the tallest person there because invisibility is desirable.

Captain Rig strode in, rubbing his temples in a most aggravated manner and adjusting his bluetooth headset so that we could see how busy and important he was. It is difficult to forget even for a minute that we are working with The Most Famous Person in the Land as we are all constantly reminded of that fact. "All of YOUS are trying to put me out of business!" was his statement du jour "I have never seen this place run so poorly!!" He continued on in a fairly normal (for him) way, expressing his usual level of disgust in the fact that all of us tend to tell people to eat elsewhere, scream obscenities at his guests, lock the doors and turn off the lights, and spit on peoples food right in front of them. Normal stuff, you know? I was very happy to be sitting and hiding and was inching oh-so-close to dozing off (or going to my happy daydream place. mmmmm, cozy) when the meeting took a turn for the worse. Captain Rig stood in front of the Male youth of America and pointed a chubby finger at him. "THIS is one of the big problems" he seethed "I have said from the beginning that this guy has no place in my restaurant, and no business waiting tables for me!!" THUNK! That's the sound of my chin hitting the table in a bit of shock (I quickly picked it up and resumed my hiding.) The poor MYOA had no opportunity to run for cover as he was front and center, and clearly the object of Capt Rig's attention and fury. DOOM! I watched in growing horror as Capt Rig demanded that the MYOA tell him the exact ingredients that made up several dishes on the menu. Cracking under the scrutiny the poor YOA was unable to even remember his own name, much less the amount of salt that goes into the meatballs. Stammering somewhat, but maintaining a remarkable level of cool headedness the YOA tried very hard to do the Captain's bidding (with no luck.) FURIOUS at the incompetence of his freshly minted and still untrained staff member he continued making an example of the poor guy. Stepping in, Bobbi joined in the fun and carnage. "Bobbi" said the Captain, slapping his palm to his forehead "Can you even begin to believe this guy? Why is he even working for us? WHY?" Bobbi eyed the YOA with nothing short of unbridled hatred, "DISGUSTING" she proclaimed, voice dripping with insanity "Just. Disgusting." All of my radars that detect extreme psychosis were going off hard core in my brain at this point as I continued to watch this poor kid get strung up by his toenails and publicly flogged. I snuck a peek around the room at my coworkers, wondering if my feelings of shock/disgust/pity were mirrored on their faces. Not surprisingly I noticed that Jan, Karen and Gina were looking pleased and smug, knowing that if they were called upon to recite recipes that they could do so with ease. They were practically jumping up and down saying "pick me! ask me! I'm crazy too, just like you Captain Rig!" Taking no notice of their flailing arms and eager expressions Captain Rig finished up his rant of terror. "This here is a good kid" he said somberly to YOA "but that doesn't mean that he should work here. All of yous should memorize the menu as I will be quizzing you on it, and firing the people who get it WRONG!!" As we scattered, one of the newer girls (the one who has a tendency to tattletale like a 3rd grader) announced her grand plan to make flash cards with menu items on them and diligently study them. Rolling my eyes with reckless abandon I held back the urge to slap her silly. Come ON people, you have just witnessed the execution of somebody's frigging SOUL and you prattle on about flashcards?? Sheesh, the lack of humanity of 98% of the people I work with is horrifying.

It was no great shock to me that Captain Rig maxed out my psychosis radar, and to see Bobbi so willingly jump on the beat down bandwagon was expected. How do they manage to live with themselves after so easily dishing out public humiliation? Like I mentioned before- bat shit crazy is a problem I can not fix- and the two of them are way beyond help.

A great side note- despite suffering horrible humiliation the MYOA has stuck it out and continues to work there in a manner that seems quite acceptable to my uneducated eyes. I'm not sure if I would have been able to stand continuing on after such an episode, so good for him for being such a tough guy.

War Story Wednesday!

2010-01-13T10:05:00.009-05:00

A fabulous guest post from Two Birds On A Wire
This is a good one and I can honestly say that I have never had to contend with this set of shenanigans!! Thanks to everyone for the WSW submissions- keep 'em coming!

What choo do wif my gold teef?
I worked in a larger chain restaurant for about 2 years and had many memorable moments, but this was one of the gems. It was a Saturday afternoon in the summer and the lunch hour was pretty dead. I was working upstairs in the smoking section for my shift and had only about 2 or 3 tables. One of my tables was a younger couple that was in to eat before seeing a movie across the parking lot at the movie theater. The guy was all decked out in gold chains around his neck, his pants hanging off his butt, obviously he was too cool to take his sunglasses of inside because they had been on the whole meal and his girlfriend was all dolled up with her hair recently braided, her nails recently painted a nice bright purple with little rhinestones glued on each one, and she was wearing her silver stilettos out for her afternoon date. I knew right away that they were going to be a handful, but I was not prepared for what was about to ensue. Serving them was similar to many experiences I had had before, running back and forth for countless ramekins of ranch, barbeque, and hot sauce, refilling sodas, requesting new fries because theirs were not "crispy" enough for them and expecting a less than 10% tip. They were a lot of work for two people and I was ready for them to go. Finally when I dropped off the bill and they strutted out of the restaurant I went up to the table to find a nice $2.13 tip for their $40.00 bill. Whatever. They were out of my hands. Now I had one table that was completely low maintenance so I thought I'd go visit my friend up at the bar and chat for a minute. In the middle of my conversation I hear the man from my table storming back into the restaurant and yelling "Where's my gold teef?!" He proceeded to march upstairs and grab the collar of one of our sweet bus boys who hardly knew a lick of English and yell at him about his missing gold teef. The bus boy was obviously frightened so I hurried upstairs to use my spanish skills to ask him if he found gold teeth while bussing the table. After finding out that he wasn't aware of any gold teeth I thought maybe they could have been wrapped up in a napkin and thrown in the trash. So I asked the bus boy to go grab us some gloves and we then began to dig through the trash can right there to see if we could find the gold teef. The bus boy found a napkin that was shaped strangely and opened it up to find the set of 4 gold teeth and held it out to the man. The guy said "Dude you was trying to steal my gold teef!" then ripped the teeth out of his hand and then placed them back over his normal teeth and stormed back out of the restaurant. You better believe the whole restaurant saw this scene and was just staring at me with their jaws dropped and speechless. It was quite the disgusting display but I do have to thank the man though because of his display my one remaining table felt horrible that I had to deal with his shenannigans and gave me a hefty $30 tip. I will never forget the man wif the gold teef.

How to have fun at work

2010-01-10T10:53:00.002-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night....

Actually, it was no such thing. It was a very typical weekend night of excess drama, and even more excessive lack of business. I was having a challenging time finding anything to do to occupy myself in a manner that would keep me out of the slacking spotlight. I had about given up and was seconds away from throwing my hands up in frustration and having a comfortable seat in the walk in cooler when surprise! I got a table. A very novel concept, being that I am a waitress and all...

Sadly, it was a table of old people, and while I have nothing against being/getting old it is a well known fact that senior citizens are notoriously bad tippers. They are under the misguided impression that leaving us verbal tips such as "oh honey, I bet you wish that you had gone to college now, doncha??" is payment enough. That kind of payment is always well received by me and I reciprocate by boiling their coffee, or similar. Anyway, I digress. Old people love to know the life story of their server (usually so that the much appreciated "tips" can be handed out.) They proceeded to ask me about my life and times and not really feeling like getting into the technical details of what I occupy my days with I simply replied that I was a waitress. WELL! Never have I seen so much excitement from such a small and boring word. "PAY attention Archie!" crowed the female at my table "This girl is an ACTRESS!!" As I started to reply that no, an actress I am not some wise-ass part of my brain awoke and reminded me of how very bored I was. So I gave the people what they wanted, knowing that I would never see them again and also thinking that I might as well put on a good show and really earn my 12 cent tip. I developed an excellent life story, complete with why I was now in a small town far, far away from the hustle and bustle of my Hollywood upbringings. They were overly excited at this point and I was a bit concerned that my wild tale would end in the need for paramedics, or extra oxygen. They eagerly demanded to know if they might have seen me on TV! In a movie! On Broadway! I replied sensibly that no, I was not a well known actress because I was a stunt double. Pfffffffffffft!! "A stunt double" Archie pondered "like when Julia Roberts doesn't want to show her bum?" Holding back laughter at this point (and wondering what it was that gave away my body double stature? Obviously my wildly womanly curves and supermodel appearance...) I went on the defense "NONO" I replied, "not a BODY double a STUNT double- you know, the ones who leap off tall buildings, take roundhouse kicks to the face and are regularly set on fire." They were suitably impressed, as they very well should have been. Sadly at this juncture I had to excuse myself from my outrageous meanderings and go back to my job as a waitress. However, feeling that I was really onto something good I spent the rest of my evening telling tall tales to all my tables. I am clearly a very well rounded person as I am a stunt double, a paramedic (inspired my the hyperventilating old people thank-you-very-much) and a 3rd grade teacher. I must admit that I found this to be an excellent way to occupy my time and distract me from my imploding coworkers.

So, all in all this was a win-win situation. I was amused, my guests were amused, and no harm came from any of it.

War Story Wednesday- Coming Soon

2010-01-09T14:14:00.000-05:00

Starting this month (perhaps even this week) I'll be hosting War Story Wednesday here on middleagedwaitress.
A great way for all of us on the front lines of chaos to exchange tales of horror!
Please hit me up here if you'd like to participate. Good times will be had by allllll!

In which the insanity becomes even more insane...

2010-01-03T11:21:00.004-05:00

Happy Oh-Ten everyone! We plunged into the new year at Captain Rig's with a bang (and a whimper...)

Not shockingly the arrival of the super new decade brought an unprecedented level of stress to our normally cordial and relaxed environment. New Years eve-eve did not run particularly smoothly and if you ask Jan and Karen it was all the fault of us new staffers. Idiots! Renegades!

Before I dive into the deliciously gory details of what was a truly hideous weekend I just want to pause for a moment and say one thing. I can honestly say that I have never seen such a display of absurdity by a boss in my life. Words fail me, and for those of you who know my true identity that is a rare thing. Sadly, I simply can not put into writing the level of crapola that Captain Rig brings to the table. Moving on...

New Years eve got off to a bad start right from the beginning. Tensions were running on overdrive and a delivery of critical items had not yet arrived, throwing several staff members into fits of fury. Preparing to chop up a Mt Everest sized pile of lettuce I discovered that I was missing the bags that the lettuce gets stored in. Inquiring about the whereabouts of said items was obviously the wrong thing to do "You're just going to have to START ON LETTUCE" Karen screeched at me, as her lips curled into a sneer exposing her desperate need for dental work. Looking at her it occurred to me that she had most likely suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury, rendering her incapable of being at all rational. Speaking very slowly, taking into account her extreme mental deficit I explained that I was indeed chopping lettuce but was unsure what to do with the finished product. "You'll just have to figure it OUT!!!" she screamed like a complete lunatic. Sighing in despair I retreated into the depths of the kitchen to beat my head bloody against the wall and contemplate the unjust world that I was sadly a part of. Lucky for me, within minutes the delivery man had arrived bags in hand.

As Marissa and I finished up with the 42,786 pounds of lettuce we were summoned to the kitchen by a roaring Captain Rigatoni. He and Bobbi were furious with all of us and our inability to perform even the most mundane of tasks. They were sick and tired of the incompetence and F***ing bull crap that they had to put up with. Captain Rig was especially disgusted by the fact that our idiocy had attracted the attention of the labor department. He stormed around, pointing, cursing, gesturing and hovering precariously closely to the brink of a major coronary event. And then I did it. I made the very poor decision to open my foolish mouth and make a comment on the bile that he was spewing every which way. (it was legit though, I was not being a smartass!) Hearing the sound of my voice Captain Rig whipped around, eyes bulging in horror that someone of my pathetic stature would dare to speak to his highness. Demanding to know my name, he asked if I wanted to continue working there. Much to the dismay of my brain, my mouth opened up all of its own accord and said "YES". WHAT the frick mouth?? Hush yourself!! Getting close enough to me so that I could see the pores on his nose he snarled that if I wished to continue to have the privilege of working for him that I had best zip it. He continued to rant in a manner of complete disarray and confusion for quite some time before concluding with: "Well I don't know about all of YOUS but CAPTAIN RIGATONI is going to have a damn good 2010." To which people actually applauded. After I threw up a little in my mouth and contained the urge to slap everyone in the face I unwillingly plunked my hands together a bit to blend in. AKK!

Running away in horror, trying to shake the feeling of pure insanity I was stopped by my human work friend. "So..... what did you think of THAT?" he asked me. Being that I was genuinely disgusted and furious I replied that I had never in my life seen such a display of confusion and bullshit. As we finished our whispered discussion Bobbi rounded the corner and noticing that the two of us had paused, she shouted "STAFF, STAFF there is a LOT to do and we need to GET SHIT DONE!!!" Moving along, shaking our heads at her display of insanity we proceeded to circle like moronic goldfish around the restaurant. A few moments later I noticed that a bit of snow was on the floor so I stopped to pick it up. Like a freaking cat Bobbi pounced on me again. "STAFF" she hissed "IT is time to be paying attention to our TABLES!!!" Looking at my empty section I decided that I needed to hide. Passing my human work friend I declared my intention to hide out in the bathroom for a bit of time. I took a moment in the bathroom to take deep, calming breaths and try to lower my blood pressure to a more acceptable level. I reminded myself that I was not really an idiot, contrary to popular belief. I tried to get in touch with my inner zen like qualities, even while my stupid eyes were threatening to get all cry-ish on me. Realizing that I could not shack up in the bathroom forever I shook it off, tried to keep my inner beast dormant and got the hell back to work.

Fortunately at that point things became busy and we had a nice, smooth evening. New Year's Day went well too, with a minimum of drama and ridonkulocity. Imagine THAT! We can all do our jobs... Now this isn't to say that the Head Harpies were not on a rampage of destruction but most of them kept their thoughts to themselves.

What I managed to take away from the whole long, absurd and exhausting weekend were a few tremendously helpful tips on how to run my own business. Hooray! First of all I need to really start yelling at my staff a whole lot more, with gratuitous use of the F word as well as referring to myself in the third person. Awesome-o! Secondly, I need to schedule an "I'm Great" meeting, where all I do is talk about the fabulocity that is me, name drop, pat myself on the back and in general make my staff want to commit harry carry on the spot. Thirdly, and most importantly I absolutely need to remember that the way to get my peeps in the mood to do a helluva good job for me it to use them as my own personal punching bag right before the busiest day of the year. Cool beans!! I feel that if I implement these tips I will soon be the most successful person in the world, just like Captain Rigatoni.

Where we discover that Captain Rigatoni is Nostradamus!!

2009-12-22T16:04:00.002-05:00

Meetings at the Captain's are irregular and disjointed. Some days there are no meetings, not even so much as a "today's specials are" and on other cursed days there are many.... We are all rounded up from doing whatever menial tasks we might be attending to and herded into the kitchen where we are then berated for many hours.

On a very special Friday night Captain Rigatoni decided to give us about forty minutes on his world views. At first I felt that this was a fairly major time suck, and that I would much prefer to be out polishing the floor with my toothbrush. He droned on and on for quite some time, with a few outbursts of frustration at the usual situations (INCOMPETENT!! CLOWNS!! BAH HUMBUG!) but for the most part I was struggling to pay attention due to the high level of booooring.

That was.... Until I realized that he was letting the cat out of the bag! He was letting all of us lucky people have a view of what it is really like to be as big and important as Captain Rigatoni! And what a responsibility it must be, because he is a prophet! "I knew that the bottom was going to fall out of the economy!" He declared, making me wonder if that is really possible. The economy does not really have a bottom- but those are his genius words and not the plain, dumb monosyllables of a MAW. "I SAW this coming" he said, steely eyed as he strode around the room sternly, looking each and every one of us in the eye. "I knew that it was all going to fall to pieces, LAST YEAR!! BWA-HA-HA!!" My thoughts came to a screeching halt as I digested his latest ridonkulous declaration. Last year? As in 2008? Dear Captain, I am sorry to disagree with you but the Economy has been on a downward spiral of doom since very early in 2007, if not slightly before. Looking around the room at my sheep-el coworkers all nodding in rapture I peeked over at one of the "humans" that I'm lucky to work with and gave the side-eye. Which I got right back in return, making me feel glad that there was some sanity in the room on this particular evening. At this point the Capt had really reached full throttle and was giving us a passion filled declaration about his keen Spidey-sense on how everything in the world works. "I know how it IS" he bellowed "I know how BUSINESS works, I know how STUFF runs and I know what PEOPLE are thinking!!" Thinking fast I filled my head with a large number of sarcastic thoughts to see if he would use his psychic powers to pick up on them. He did not, which really shocked me since he is a superhero and everything... Running out of time before the restaurant opened for dinner he made a dramatic conclusion to his inspirational speech "Things are going to get worse before they get better, all of yous.... You might ask how I know this? Well, I just do because I know these things. I knew that times were going to get hard and I can tell ALL of YOUS that it is going to be AT LEAST another year, or maybe two, or even THREE, or very possibly FOUR OR FIVE before things get BETTER!!" (good to cover all bases with a span of 5 years, right?) All of my coworkers, with the exception of one or two humans dropped at his feet salivating heavily. "Oh Captain Rigatoni" they panted eagerly "We are not worthy of your greatness! We are all blessed to have Nostradamus in our midst! Please, please let us lick your toe cheese and be your servants for life!!" As much as Capt Rig loves to be told how great he is he had grown weary of hanging about with his minions. Also, he had to go find the cooks and give then their daily beatings, question the wisdom of paying them and ask them why the F*** they had the audacity to use the wrong mop on the floor. Shaking his head in profound disgust at the horrible, horrible things he had to put up with he kicked aside several of the waitstaff who were still bowing at his feet, and ran off to lay down the law. Gazing after his retreating bulk with unreserved admiration the staff all murmured how lucky we were to be blessed to work with such a great and wonderful prophet. How was it that we, a bunch of renegade slackers could possibly have such a tremendous opportunity! Gosh, WE should pay to work for HIM!!!

The very best and most magical part of this story is that somehow, over the 9 hour course of that evening Cap Rig forgot that he had had this meeting with us. At 11:25 PM he demanded that we all come to the kitchen AT ONCE!!!! Where he proceeded to give a carbon copy of the same meeting... I was hoping that perhaps he would give us some alarming new thought on the future of the world, or make startling predictions for 2012 but alas... Rerun!

In which our heroine slacks off completely.

2009-12-21T07:43:00.000-05:00

I do not tend to be the kind of employee that shirks away from an extra bit of work. Good thing, since working at Captain Rig's is like indentured servitude times a million! I tucker myself right out at work, I (try) to be the hero who runs the food out of the kitchen at breakneck speed, I (attempt) to excel at being the master of the glassware and silver and I (halfheartedly) bag up to-go orders. Oh, and in my spare point two seconds of extra time I wait on tables too... Hmmmm?!

When the screaming in the kitchen reached a glass shattering level last weekend I decided it was time for a change. Since I AVOID slacking this was the perfect time to see if I could manage to do as little as humanely possible, without getting caught, and while lavishing attention on my tables of guests and making fistfuls of cash. Hooray for the lazies!

It turned out to be a pretty slow night which made this experiment fully possible. I found that as long as I stayed in motion and "looked" busy nobody thought otherwise. I doted upon my tables with the kind of attention that I normally would not have time to give. I helped out one of my fellow coworkers who got quadruple sat and was looking a bit frazzled. (knowing that since this was one of the "humans" that works there the gesture would most likely be reciprocated!) I toddled along in a state of calm, occasionally pausing to twiddle a fork around to dry in order to not appear to be a complete sloth but for the most part I dodged all forms of work.

My tables enjoyed the attention and tipped well. My coworkers were completely oblivions to my day of rest, and I fully enjoyed an evening of calm and zen like relaxation (if only!!)

The verdict: WIN!! WIN!! However, not only is slacking off daily against everything I stand for but eventually (sooner rather than later) I'll get busted. So we'll leave that as a one day-vacay that had results that were enjoyed by all. Or at least ME!

In which our Heroine learns that she will never be able to cheat a lie detector test...

2009-12-17T08:25:00.004-05:00

Crossing the threshold of my own personal hell the other evening (aka: the kitchen entrance of Captain Rigatoni's) I could hear the hollerin' coming from the back room in a big way! Realizing that this was sure to be yet another heart warming evening of cheerful pep talks, and loving pats on the back I concluded that it was the perfect opportunity to continue my social experimentation on the Captain's dime.

Before I could reflect any further on what my bold mission might be I was captured by Dan, and in a whirlwind of speed was whisked away to the dark recesses of the walk in cooler. My reaction was something of the "HEY! YO! WTH??" kind, as I do not particularly enjoy any kind of sudden kidnapping. Surrounded by buckets of pasta, "homemade" desserts and carrots, Dan delivered a stern lecture. "We have an audit going on today" he said in his very best waiting-to-be-upper-management voice "and we need to go over a few things." I was confused, and was picturing some sort of tax evasion taking place and could not see how I could possibly have any part in such a thing. Continuing on, and carefully annunciating his words lest I be confused by the weight of my mission Dan said "They are going to be asking all of us some questions today about how this restaurant is run, how you get paid and what some of our policies are." "Reeeeaaaaly?" I said, as it dawned on my that this was the Labor peeps and not the Tax goons "What's the deal?" I inquired. "Well, there are a few things that need to be said by ALL" was his firm, and clearly pronounced reply. By this time it was becoming painfully clear to me what was going on: We were going to be told to lie. And if there is something that this middle aged waitress AVOIDS it is lying. It is well known in my circle of friends that my lying skills are on par with my coordination skills meaning, NOT good. Not only is lying something that I am (somewhat) morally opposed too but I just can't be smooth about it. I tend to stammer a bit, get overly exaggerated in my hand gestures and facial expressions and get all red faced and sweaty palmed. I just can't pull it off, period! This was NOT the kind of challenging social experimantation that I was intersted in. Clearly pressed for time Dan continued with his lecture on deceit "When he asks about our tip-out policy you should know that we DO NOT nor have we EVER tipped out any staff in this restaurant besides the service bar." "You don't say" I replied with great sarcasm "Because some little part of my memory remembers something entirely different..." "Well that part of your memory needs to be turned off right now" was his sensible thought on that matter. "Also, you have NOT nor have you EVER been required to pay for anything you have broken, screwed up on or damaged." Remembering that there was a small portion of my medulla oblongata (or similar?) that needed to learn to shut it's mouth I shut mine too... "Also" he droned on "it is not our policy to ask you to pay for a "walk-out" but we do reserve the right to terminate you if you have multiple people leaving without paying." "So the other day" I mused in my out-loud voice "when my work friend was let go for one walk out.... That never happened? Am I right?" Delighted with my quick learning skills Dan exclaimed that I WAS right and that I HAD it and could scurry right along and talk to Mr. Department of Lies.

Fortunately for me, a long line of liars had formed at that point so I had a bit of time to muse over my options. I saw this as a perfect, heaven sent opportunity to expose the shady work place principles that were applied at Capt Rig's. I saw this as a delightful opportunity to avenge my fallen and unjustly fired friend. I worked myself up into a fine state of indignation over the fact that people thought that they could order me to lie and expect me too! Seeing Dan run by to polish the halo that Captain Rigatoni had given him I asked a quick question "So Dan, why is it that you had to catch us one by one and tell us what was going on? Why did we not have a meeting to talk about this? It wouldn't be becasue "management" didn't want to be (ahem) involved? You know, in case we get asked if we were told by our "bosses" to say certain things?" "Ahhh" he said, clearly agitated by my quick thinking and perception "that might be... close to correct..." As he left the kitchen he turned and semi-shouted "AND it's a BEAUTIFUL thing!!" with more than a touch of sarcasm, which led me to believe that despite all the mumbo-jumbo he was still at least partially human. With my suspicions confirmed I went to the front of the line to get down to the dirty business of exposing the corrupt state of affairs going on in the kitchen. My imagination was having a delightful time picturing the way I would describe to Mr. Labor how I had been told to lie, how we did in fact have to tip out everybody and their brother, and how we most certainly had to pay for breakage and mistakes. I was going to be a champion of the masses, a freedom fighter on the level of Gandhi, and a patriot for waitstaff everywhere. That was the case, until I saw where it was that we were going to be having out "private meeting." In the office: NO. In a nice private area of the dining room: NO. Where, you might ask... Where would we have the opportunity to have a heart to heart chat with somebody who might be able to save us from doom and slavery (and the loss of tons of our own dollars, paying for busted up plates?!?) Dead front and center, under the close surveillance of several video cameras and right next to the hostess station, where Bobbi was conveniently located. Although I'm sure that she was keeping a responsible eye on things, not eavesdropping or anything. (See! I can lie!)

My head was in a terrible state at this point and I knew that if I did not lie, as soon as I went back to the kitchen I would be shoved out the back door and kicked like a junk yard dog. I reflected upon the sorry state of my bank account, the pile of bills on my kitchen table and the lack of available jobs in my town (or any town.) I knew at that point, that there was no choice in the matter. I would HAVE to do one of the top things that I AVOID. I was going to have to lie like a rug.... And there was no way that I was going to be able to pull it off because as soon as I sat down my blood pressure went up to 180/240 and clearly a stroke was imminent. "Hello, I'm Mr. Labor" said Mr. Labor, standing to shake my clammy hand, and not reacting well to the fact that my hands felt like the hands of a LIAR!! Wiping his hands on his pants (sorry) we got on with things. "What are your tipping policies here?" he asked sternly "Do you have to tip anyone at the end of the night?" "Um, yeah, um" I said smoothly, and calmly "We have to tip the bartender and ummmm. that's it. yeah, just them" (shut up!! I shouted at myself! Stop talking!) "So just the bar?" he asked again, looking at me with a firm expression "nobody else? Not a bus person? A hostess" THE KITCHEN??" I was in full blown freak out at this time, I could see Bobbi peering at me with slanted eyes and taking notes, I could see that I was directly in the line of the cameras. I wanted to jump up and scream like a freak, and then run out the front door like a crazy person. Gathering my thoughts as best I could I stammered that no, we didn't tip anyone else, and that it was just the bar, and that yes as far as I knew it WAS mandatory to tip the bartender because I had never been told otherwise. I jambled on and on. I could not shut up the word vomit pouring from my mouth. I was red faced and sweaty like a mass murderer under the spotlight of interrogation.. The interview went on for several minutes more, I continued to stammer like a guilty convict, Bobbi continued to give me the stank eye and Mr. Labor clearly did not believe a word I had said. And then it was over, I was allowed to run like a track star back to the relative safety of the kitchen. Where, oddly enough I found most of the staff chirping in indignation about the unjust questions that had been presented to them. At that point they all believed the lies that they had been told to tell (whoa- stop the crazy train right here please so that I can get the hell OFF!)

By far, the best part of the whole adventure was to learn that some of the staff who are supposed to be on the receiving end of out tip-outs at the end of the night had never seen any of that cash. Not a dime, not once! Good to know that we are lining the pockets of management with our hard earned money- really flipping awesome.

The result of this social experiment: OK, so this one was forced upon me and was not my choice! I don't think that I would choose lying as a way to spend my evening. Anyway: EPIC fail. I am a terrible liar and also clearly have no moral fiber since I made the choice to lie (my justification that I HAD no choice is BS- you always have a choice. And I choose to keep my craptastic job.) I'm clearly going to be getting coal in my stocking this year!

Flash back: Part Two

2009-12-15T18:58:00.002-05:00

"Sigh" I said "The thing I miss about working in a smaller restaurant in an even smaller town is the regulars..." "Regulars" chirped my eager coworkers, scurrying over like cockroaches "what ever are those! We have never heard of such a phenomenon!" "Gather round my friends" I declared grandly "and I will tell you the story of some of the rare oddities of smaller establishments, the over zealous, very eccentric and somewhat wealthy REGULAR!!"

(and now we flash back, several years to another time and place.)

After working in the same place in a small community for several years you learn who is going to come in on a daily, weekly or monthly basis. You quickly learn who tips well, who chooses to tip in poorly timed advice and who is just trying out their worst pickup lines on you. (whoo-hoo! snap shizzle!) And occasionally, your patience gets tried by freakazoids who are convinced that they are wealthy and wise, magnanimous and fab. Vom-dot-com....

A couple in their more senior years were regulars on the local restaurant circuit in the village that I used to work in. They would make their presence known every two weeks or so, and would wreak havoc on the order of our system. The reason for this? They would randomly pick a few favorite, and hand out bills of a certain denomination (which, if you were basically willing to bend over to their bizarreness would be worth it.)This would inevitable lead to massive gridlock at their table as employees tried to get a chunk o' change, and would essentially slow down the inner workings of the whole place. They had a few blessed favs that they would hunt down and pay off regardless of their level of suck-up-edness but for the rest of us (them) it was a contest of epic proportions. Who could entertain them the best?!? Regale them with fine fairy tales?!? Do back flips and cartwheels while lit on fire!! You get the picture, the whole staff would rush to their table to parade around their finest party trick. Being that I am a somewhat sarcastic and slightly acidic SOB I refused to take any part in this ass kissing madness and just did my mofo of a job. However, these peeps were tricky buggers and decided on one fine evening to put my mad skills to the test.

These people were a strange study of contrasts. They were old. Yes, I said it- perhaps it's not PC but they were!! The female member of this jaunty pair would regularly wear jeans built for a 16 year old nymph with her stomach support granny panties clearly showing above the waistline, by a subtle 6 to 8 inches. Sexxxxxxy. The gentleman of the relationship would always wear a dapper little suit, and would skeeve over the young male members of the staff. (I've got something in my front pocket for yoouuuuu, why don't you reach in my front pocket and see what it IS!!) So yes, married but gay-ish, old but dressed young: A very fine pair all around wouldn't you say?

On my day of reckoning with them I went thru our usual banter; Mr. Creeper: "Oh little Danny isn't in tonight! What a shaaaaame, I had a little something for him!" Me: "No he has the night off and is spending it at the female strip club." (in my in the head voice.) On this particular evening Ms Control Undies had a very important question for me. "Where ever is that glorious painting" she inquired in her faux brit accent breathy little girl voice "Do you know the one?" she stage whispered , looking at me with her bright blue lined, mascara running weepy eyes. Looking around the room I saw all the paintings in their homes, looking the same as they had for lo those many years. "I don't know what painting you mean" I said "Perhaps you could describe it for me?" "Hmmmmm" she trilled vacantly "It was a lovely little picture, full of pretty ponies and precious monkeys!!" Thinking that this painting was depicting my worst nightmare I said that I simply didn't know where it was. Irked, that his dead sexy 17 year old bus boy wasn't there to play hide the banana with him Mr. Creeper gave me the side-eye. "No??" he said thru his nose "You reaaally don't know that poppish little painting....?? It has been hiding in this wee little room for soooooo many years..." **sigh** I said "Let me ask the manager!" Who, obviously did not know what on earth they were talking about but scampered like a meth addict over to their table to try to get her cut of the daily payout. At this point a line had formed at the table and while I admired my fellow coworkers bringing their A games to table 28 I reflected that perhaps the couple might forget about the lost art. No such luck, 240 years later when I finally made my way back to their table they had both whipped themselves into a frenetic state about the crisis of the painting. Near tears, Ms Control Briefs had one more desperate plea "Are you sure you don't know where it is" she implored "It would so warm my heart to see it again (sniffle) it was so merry, with the monkies PRAHN-CING and DAHN-CING all about!!" "Prancing and dancing monkys?" I said in my super helpful-est voice "merry circus ponies? Nope, have never seen it and don't know where it is." "Hmmmmmm" faux-britted Mr. Creeper "It would mean a nice bitty-wittie bonus for you if you could find it!!" I looked at him. He looked at me. Keep in mind, that at this moment I had 6 other tables who all wanted my attention just as much as they did. Keep in mind, that he thought that he could BUY me and my fracking SOUL!! Calmly, I replied as only one who has never seen credit-card debt can: "No, I have never, ever seen a painting such as that in here." DUM, DUM, DUMMMMM!!! And off I went. Later that evening when they took their leave Mr. Creeper sneakily passed me a rolled up bill. Shocked that despite my Braveheart style declaration of freedom I had still made it into the million dollar club I unrolled the bill. To find a sweet $5 spot.... Awesome. I was so cheesed off my the whole incident that I promptly gave it to the bus kid to go and buy herself some candy with. The charming couple would continue to grace us with their presence on a regular basis until the time of my departure some years later. Although they always tipped well, I never did make the millionaires club- nor did I want to.

Finishing my tale I surveyed my awestruck coworkers who were gathered around me like fat kids around cake. "Tell us more, tell us more" they all cried expectantly. "No my friends" I declared "I must save more tales from normal times for another day, but remember..... No amount of money is worth the price of your SOUL!!!!"

And if you really believe that I ever told my current coworkers any kind of story than y'all are a buncha suckahs....

Many excellent adventures

2009-12-14T17:03:00.000-05:00

Obviously the best way to spread the Holiday cheer is to violently scream obscenities at your employees at 10 minute intervals. I mean, DUH everyone knows THAT!

The stress of the Holidays has been taking a toll on Capt Rig, although it appears to have left his vocal cords intact. What a shame, what a shame.

To keep my sanity intact I embarked upon a stealthy adventure to amuse myself. OH EMM GEE people, hang onto your hats!

Adventure number one: I avoid boring my coworkers to death with stories of my life. They do not do the same for me, and due to the fact that I am an excellent listener regularly regale me with cringeworthy stories of their boot-knocking escapades, yawn-inducing tales of their children's school work and tedious tales from the front lines of post divorce dating. Yaaaaawn, yo, YAWN! Anywhoo, I decided it would be profoundly amusing to prattle on endlessly about my fav pet and his recent bout of disease. Complete with pics of the grossness and detailed descriptions of the whole situation. Rock on with my bad self!!

Conclusion of this experiment: Nobody is interested in hearing about other peeps business and I am a much better listener than most. Maybe I have to stop that? As soon as my story reached the really boring parts people just walked on off. Which empowers me to do the same the next time I'm stuck in a corner hearing about things that make me want to puke all down my front. HAH!

Adventure number two: I avoid talking about the middle aged huz at work. Everybody knows that I am part of an uber magical union and therefore am strictly off limits. Everybody else really loves to yap on and on about their ex-husbands, their current boyfriends, or their episodes of ultra creepy stalking. Awesome! Time to join in on the fun and expose the huz as the rascally renegade that he is. Wha-ha-ha!

The conversation one evening turned towards the general incompetence of men in general, something that all of us smokin' hot ladies can certainly relate to. I was all ready to raise my fists and man bash when my conscience caught up to me, and I got all guilty feeling in my heart. Listening to the hair raising chlamydia chaos talk that my coworkers were bringing to the table I realized that I had nothin'. They all turned to me expectantly and I said (weakly) that the huz is really, really bad at doing laundry and also quite poor at putting dishes in the dishwasher. BAD HIM! They all looked at me like I had two heads, and since I had pretty much taken the hate out of the convo we all dispersed.

Conclusion of this experiment: I'll bitch with my bitches, and not with my coworkers. Epic FAIL!

So as long as the Captain continues on in his full on asshat rage, I will continue to conduct odd social experiments on his dime.

Got to do something to save the sanity, no?

One strike! You're OUTTA HERE!

2009-12-13T16:40:00.000-05:00

Upon my arrival to work the other evening I quickly noticed an absence in our midst. Where was my work friend, the female youth of America?

I went on a manhunt (lady hunt? missing waitress hunt? poisonous person hunt? whatev!) I looked in the cooler and by the gelato freezer, I looked in the wait station and by the bar, I looked out the window and under a chair (I looked FREAKING EVERYWHERE!) So I looked at the schedule and it was as thought she had never been born. No sign of her anywhere! DOOM!

There was nobody to ask because they were all out back chugging on their hatorade, so I rustled around feeling confused. After a time I tracked down Marissa and said WTF? In hushed tones over the roar of the salad spinner she explained to me that there had been a MAJOR problem the previous Saturday. Evidently my WF had been the maker of the worst thing in the world: A MISTAKE. She had had a very particular couple of guests and had problems with several parts of their order. Bottom line, it was a situation that could happen to anyone at any time. Despite her best efforts she was unable to make them feel ok about the situation and they left in a very unhappy huff. She came in for work the following day to find that without notice, a warning or phone call she had been taken off the schedule (but oddly enough, only for 2 days.) After her 2 days were up, and after many unsuccessful attempts to schedule a meeting of the minds with Bobbi the Boss she went back on in. To make a very long story short she was fired- but had to literally drag it out of them that that was the case..... Good to know that it's one strike and you're out around here!

A blast from the past. Well, like 5 years ago.

2009-12-10T12:08:00.003-05:00

I found this is the archives. It's an oldie but goodie.

Seriously, I have been schlepping food for 5 years and grow exhausted from it. I am tired of food, I am tired of watching people eat, I am tired of the constant noise in restaurants (clinking, clanking, yelling, breaking glass and exhaust fans- which I seriously think are rendering me partially deaf...)

I can quite often come up with humerous stories from the food service front lines- but today I'm telling the tale of the Harpie.

The Harpie is a 70+ year old lady who comes in most Sunday nights with her brow beaten husband. I will attempt to meet them at the door and am ususlly (no kidding) pushed aside by her as she charges in to her favorite table. God forbid that table 7 is occupied- God Forbid. I tried to offer them a different table one night and she grabbed my arm, dug in with her nails and shrieked "We're SITTING THEEEERE." Right you are, off you go. After they are seated I politely introduce myself and offer up a tasty beverage. This is met with "WE ARE NOT DEAF. DO NOT SPEAK IN THAT TONE." Okaay. I lower my voice to a hushed whisper, explain the specials and excuse myself. Every Sunday the Harpie orders sirloin, medium with a baked potato and a salad with bleu cheese. One time, long long ago she got a steak that was closer to medium rare. She has never forgotten that fateful day,despite the fact that she has consumed 2,300 steaks cooked to a perfect medium since then. I go to the table and inquire in my most silent whisper what they would like to have for dinner then I jump back (you'll see why.) "Sirloin" she barks, "Cooked MEDIUM." "Come closer" she says (as I cringe) and like a flash she reaches out and grabs my arm, nails digging in. "It must be done the way I LIKE it" she snarls "OR" (and at this point her beady little eyes narrow to slits and her voice lowers to a hiss) "I will send it back, I will NOT PAY and I won't come back" Oh, if only I could be so lucky I think to myself as I break free and dash to the other side of the table to take the husbands order. I put the order in and run to the kitchen and beg them to please, please send the steak out the second it reaches the right temp. Then I examine my war wounds and contemplate what sort of workplace compensation I can get for nasty-nail scratches. Typically at this point everything goes well, the steak is good, she temporarily forgets that she harbors an unprecedented level of hate for me and I am granted a moments peace. Until that is, the check has to come out...... Always, always without fail there is an item on the check that the Harpie has an issue with. My reflexes at this time have quickened to the point of being able to avoid her freakishly fast arm grabbing routine but I am usually subjected to a verbal beat down. I offer to get the manager, the husband at this point interjects, looks at the bill and reminds Harpie that she did in fact order, eat and enjoy the SIRLOIN and therefore must pay for it. GAHHHHHD, I think as I flee the scene of the disaster about $1 richer for all my troubles.

There are plenty of perfectly nice people who come in to make up for this wretched little woman, but it's the bad ones that you remember to avoid.

My word of wisdom for today is to treat your server nicely, we work very hard and are smart people (much to the dismay of many!!) So be nice people, please and thank you. XXOO MAW

In which our heroine has a wonderful dream....

2009-12-03T07:34:00.003-05:00

I had the best dream ever last night. I wish that I could have plugged a USB into my brain and had the whole thing magically appear on here before it started to fade into the dark passages of my brain. Anyway, here is what I remember.
For one reason or another Captain Rig had been forced out of business. My dream-brain told me that it was becasue he was such a meanie, and also becasue karma is a beeyotch. He had been forced to take up a new and somewhat less illustrious career selling italian food out of the back of a truck at fairs. So in a nutshell, he was a carnie. Along with Mama Rigatoni and Bobbi Rigatoni. It might have been the best dream I have ever had (and it was way cooler in my head than it is here. You all know how that goes.)

A very special Holiday Edition....

2009-11-26T05:52:00.000-05:00

Wouldn't it me nice if during this oh-so special time of year all of us at Captain Rigaton's developed warm, fuzzy and tolerent feelings towards the world? Read on to see how we all mose certainly do not.....

Christmas arrived early and with a bang at Captain Rigatoni's. All thru the pre-Thanksgiving week we turned that place into a huge, gaudily decorated Christmas Nightmare. My astute observation as we neared the end of the madness was it appeared that Santa Claus had thrown up Holiday spirit everywhere. Being that I refuse to decorate my house, despise all things tchotchke, and have a deep dislike for teddy bears dressed as the three wise men this has been a trying time for me.
It is not mystery that I am in the best physical (and mental) shape of anyone there. This does not usually turn out to be a good thing for me, as I am sent on multiple missions to haul around objects which are larger than myself. When it came time to string the 22,000 feet of garland Jan climbed the step ladder once and in a state of near cardiac arrest declared that it was to be my new favorite job. Let's all pause and count the ways I'm lucky!

Business has continued to be fairly slow, and at the very least being responsible for the creation of the most vomitous Christmas ever keeps the boredom at bay. And, for spying on people being the designated step-ladder wrangler has its advantages.
As I was struggling to heave a dinosaur sized reindeer onto a rafter above my head a piercing screech shattered the silence. Curious, I paused mid-lift and peered down thru the masses of garland, tinsel and reindeer legs. In came a family and several very ornery children. Much to my chagrin, they were placed in very close proximity to my step ladder. Much to the chagrin of all the other patrons in the restaurant, we soon discovered that even the farthest corner of the building was too close.
These kids were fully out of control. The shrieks of hysteria grew louder by the minute and from my excellent vantage point I could see pasta flying in every direction. I thanked my lucky stars that they were seated in an area with easy to mop floors! I was reminded of a child that used to come into the last restaurant I worked in; the aptly named (by us) Rice Baby. It doesn't take too much imagination to figure out how she earned that dubious distinction. She would destroy that place, there would be rice in places that you didn't know rice could get into. It was a bad scene of epic disaster- and to add insult to injury her parents would leave a 12 cent tip and moan in ecstasy about how darling she was. Oh puuuuh-lease!!

The parents of the super-lung-capacity screamers were completely oblivious to the decibel level that their precious little pumpkins were achieving. Also, nobody was taking appropriate parental control over the frantic running thru the aisles of the restaurant. I was becoming concerned that the little sweet munchkins were going to run into my ladder and knock it over, which would have given me just cause to beat them soundly.

I was sensing a different family dynamic and from Spy-central USA I figured out that the men were together as were the ladies. I am a super open minded person and that does not bother me in the least. But Mom's and Dad's- y'all still need to grow a set and take control of your offspring. Even though I am a super relaxed marry-whoever kinda gal it seems some of my coworkers are not- and since the tension due to the noise level was already so high there were definate grumblings from a few people. A few rude comments later and I was smacking people with salad tongs to get them to knock it off- I mean REALLY, show a little kindness!!

By the end of the meal there was pasta, gelato, bread, sauce and who knows what else all over the surrounding area. Waste had been laid to Captain Rigatoni's and there was no end in sight. The server responsible for this table of incredible insanity was on the brink of loosing his cool. He had been grabbed, spat on and smacked and had only just been able to dodge a flung juice cup. "Get them out of here" I declared "They are ON CRACK!!!" "I KNOW" he moaned in despair "I have never seen such a thing. I frigging HATE kids!!" I told him that he did not, he just was a hater of crack babies and parents who won't control them.

Finally they left and as their screams faded the hostess pranced in, all a flutter and a tizzy because she had inside info. "You know those kids that were just here?" she stage whispered "No, WHAT KIDS." I deadpanned. Rolling her eyes she continued "I overheard a long conversation that the Mom's and Dad's were having and all of the kids are adopted. And their biological parents are METH addicts!!!" By this time several other servers had sidled over to catch the gossip of the day. "Holy Crap" was my reply, as I congratulated myself on being fairly accurate with my "crack baby" appraisal "That's a lot to take on!" The server who dealt with that mess was so put out by the whole debacle that he had worked himself up into a fine state. Throwing his hands into the air he declared that he had reached his limit and could be found outside smoking crack. I mean cigarettes.
It took several of us a bit of time to clean the crack baby table and surrounding area. I think that this really goes to show that even during the Holiday season, when all of is are (supposed) to be feeling magnanimous please do not bring your messy meth freak children out and let them cause death and destruction. I might get coal in my stocking for feeling that way but I'm willing to risk it!

Youth Of America: Part 2, Where we sing about Troll Tolls

2009-11-25T11:04:00.002-05:00

**Note: This episode of MAW is not going to seem very funny if you do not watch It's Always Sunny (especially last season.) You have been warned**

During my time at Captain Rig's the number of funny things that have happened are so small that I can count them on one hand. With one finger (and you know which one, ohhhh snap!) The arrival of the youth of America has not changed that much, or I didn't think so until a few nights ago....

Recently, Karen has taken over the title of the Axis Of Evil in our little world. This is an amazing feat as the trifecta of Bobbi/Ashley/Jan were all well in the running. However, Karen truly is a vile woman with no soul. More on her antics another time.... Anyway, as she spews her vile bile all over us (word vomit, ok?) I think sarcastic things in my head and am so glad that she is not a mind reader!! Essentially, any chance to give her a hard time id very much looked forward to- and almost impossible to find. (and unlike Jan- giving her trouble does not get her to lighten up. it makes her mad!)

It was a slow night, which is the norm at this time of year. It gives me plenty of time to think about how lucky I am that I do not have a bubble over my head that all my thoughts pop into. Boredom makes everyone crabby, and as I observe their grouchiness I run a bit of inner commentary- not always polite. As I made my way to the server station to help Random Male Youth Of America learn how to make a cappuccino Karen stepped out and blocked my path. She was in an unusually jovial mood, and this was her way of having a laugh. "No entry" she declared "until you pay the toll." "Hmmmm" I mused aloud "Would that be a TROLL TOLL Karen?" RMYOA's head snapped up in interest at the change in events. Piping in he said "Yep. You have to PAY the Troll Toll, to get into the boy's (long pause) SOUL?!!" Snapping my fingers solemnly, I continued in severe monotone and with a stern expression "You have to pay the TROLL TOLL to GET IN." At this point we were both snapping along in rhythm, and reaching the end of our tune, we firmly declared in unison "TROLL TOLL" Completely baffled and looking rather gob smacked Karen declared us both to be certifiably insane, and retarded. To her retreating back I said "It's ok that you don't get it Karen, it's NATURE, shit HAPPENS there's nothing you can do!" I heard a little humming from the RMYOA which sounded suspiciously like a mention of karate and friendship for everyone.... We mentally high fived each other, and continued with the day like nothing ever happened. Freaking. Awesome.

Youth Of America, Part 1

2009-11-21T08:41:00.000-05:00

At Captain Rigatoni's I am indeed a middleagedwaitress in the sense that my age accurately represents the median of the employees (but median-aged-waitress does not have the same cheerful ring to it..) There are the crusty old codgers along with a rather sudden appearance of the Youth Of America.

I have befriended one of these innocent young things, in the hopes of corrupting her youthful mind. Just kidding, it's more along the lines of "the new people have to stick together." Spending time at work with her makes me reminisce about my younger days. (which is not something that I long for wistfully, believe me.) I wonder fairly often, if she is actually as innocent, naive and hopeful as she seems or am I just jaded, flawed and old? Psssssh- we're certainly going with the first choice on this! Poor girl, she in under the terribly misguided impression that the world can be changed if she speaks up. She is still basking in the youthful glow of hope, that her words can change a nation. Or in our case, the kitchen. Sadly, what she does not see is that by saying what is on her mind she is being labled as a "complainer and troublemaker" and her stock is going down in the eyes of the management. I have gently attempted to guide her in a different direction, one that I call "shut the f%%&&** UP!!" as sadly, one "BAD SEED" makes life a bit tricky for the rest of us. Don't get me wrong- she is right in what she is speaking up about. However, in CR's twisted system the mention that something might not be quite right is a huge offence. (which is the #1 sign of a dysfunctional company, according to my sources.)

This gal and I "hang out" at work- meaning that we fold many thousands of napkins, slice forty billion croutons and speak in hushed tones in code about our magical work experiences.

The trouble with this little arrangement is that when Bobbi sees us together she imagines that we are creating a force against her. A Dumbledore's Army, if you will. DUN, DUN, DUN, DUNNNNNNN!!!!! (that's doom music.) Bobbi thinks that instead of chatting about our houses, pets and husbands/boyfriends we are probably talking about overtaking her evil empire (which we clearly are.)

All of this insanity came to a head the other evening when abruptly, at 8:45 (on a Friday night) the Youth Of America was cut- and so was I. I was baffled, to say the least because to cut people that late on a Friday is unheard of. Fortunately, one of the other new girls (who is old like yours truly) snagged me and dragged me into the walk in cooler. "You have to hear this" she said- nervously looking around for any signs of ears on the walls "You, and the rest of the YOA are being POISONED against this place by your work friend- according to Bobbi." "WHAT" I screeched indignantly, "WTF???" "No, seriously" she continued with gravity "You have to watch your back." "Hmmm" I sniffed" with irritation "I am clearly going to have to find a remedy for this poison....."

In real life, a situation like this would make me want to really create some sort of force against crazy unstable Bobbi, and slowly take over her Empire of Hate. But, I know better. If she continues to think that we are all doing the Devil's work she will systematically cut our shifts until all of us are forced to quit. So, I dished out a bug ration of (skewed) reason to the YOA and persuaded them to keep the complaining to a minimum.

Stay tuned to see if my advice fell upon deaf ears....

Wait, did I take a wrong turn and end up back in third grade?

2009-11-20T07:02:00.001-05:00

Never ever, have I ever worked in a place where the staff has their behinds so firmly planted in high school. I'm simply not the kind of middleagedwaitress that sneaks around like a creeper, listening to peoples innocent convos, reading all sorts of things into them and then ZOOM scampering off to the manager to tattle. Why, you might ask? Why not jump on the bandwagon of tattle tailing mania since it seems to be the cool thing to do? Hmmm, because I am not 7 years old perhaps.

I had the audacity the other evening to suggest the fact that I had other things going on in my life outside of Captain Rig's (gasp!) The setting was a lighthearted chat about vacations (what are those?) and how if the opportunity arose to take one I would jump, no LEAP at the chance. "Well" snipped my coworker "You couldn't go then, or then, or then because you'd have to be here." Looking at her out of the corner of my eye with a fairly high level of amusement/disgust at her unyielding dedication to our fab job I suggested that I could probably manage to get over the terrible guilt, especially if there were palm trees and cocktails involved. My tone was clearly one of jest, and her expression was clearly one of horror in the fact that I could so betray my loving and tender employers in such an appalling fashion. She literally scuttled off to promptly tell Bobbi that I was a slacker, sub par employee and that I shouldn't be there. HAH!!

Basically, everywhere you turn at Good Old CR's there is somebody stabbing somebody else in the back. It's par for the course and I have become fairly good at ignoring everyone else's drams. Or at least getting a bit of amusement out of it.

Stay tuned for my next episode of tales from the world of insanity to see what happens when, against my will, I become a victim of the drama llama!

Gosh, I don't know if I can count that dang high!

2009-11-13T15:09:00.002-05:00

You can tell a lot about a person by what they want to drink. I feel that after spending 42,000 years on the front lines of the chaos I'm a pretty good judge of what sort of beverage might suit your needs. Chardonnay and White Zin remain the highest selling items for the ladies, Cosmos have fallen out of style in the past few years but are still pretty popular as are most combos of vodka/citrus whatev/cranberry. Yuck. For the men I can usually guess that you'll have "what's on tap" (um, the ONE beer??) or a one-mix mixed drink. Age plays a part in this as well, with those crazy youngsters wanting margaritas of one sort or another, and the more mature crowd wanting the old standbys like gibson's, and your run of the mill gin-martini-up-olives-side-ice.
I decided from an early age that if I were ever to have the misfortune of dating a boy who drank purple hooters or sex on the beaches I would kick him to the curb. Thank heavens on our first date the middle aged huz drank a sensible beer!!
Men trying to impress their dates will often ask for wine using ridiculous and misunderstood terminology. I love this very much and try to hang around to listen to their insane wine-expert speak. It's typically something fantastic like this: "Oh, this chardonnay is so very smooth. It hits you with butter in the front of the palate and rose petals and unicorn breath in the back. There are also lingering hints of leprechaun's gold and bricks." Yes, just like that! Always good for a laugh.
I had a table of two the other evening who informed me that they were from the Very Big City and wanted some Seriously Good Service. Oh No! I struggled to pull my frumpy dumpy country bumpkin head from my bum in order to perform to their high standards. Inwardly rolling my eyes I took their drink order, taking into account the door knob sized diamond that the maybe 23 year old female wore, and the AARP card carrying boyfriend/fiance. Not that there is anything wrong with that, seriously. I digress. After raving about the amazing liquor selection that Capt Rig's has (which is oh, so wrong. There is not one bottle of high or mid end scotch or whiskey, the best rum is Captain Morgan's, There is no good vodka or gin- you get the pic) the female ordered a Hypnotic martini. OMG, like totally!!!! I brought it to her and she was all "OMG, this is so nasty." I said "OMG, no kidding! hypnotic tastes like gum!!!" (in my head.) Her fix was to add more hypnotic, but there was none to be found. So I consoled her with some sort of cosmo made from extra fruity infused vodka, and lots of pink juice and garnishes. She was veryvery excited and told me so, using all sort of tricky to understand (for my country bumpkin ears) words such as "LIKE" "TOTALLY" "OMG" and "HEHEHE." Her Fiancee then decided that he wanted one too (kick to the curb) and he explained to me very slowly (so that I could understand his technical city-speak) that he wanted extra pink garnishes and a side of rocks. Barely able to hold this impossible directive in my head I scampered off to get him a tampon and to take his man card once and for all.
These cute little people continued drinking ridiculous things in various shades of pink and purple, and continued to speak to me like I was an Appalachian hillbilly. Which was awesome. When the check finally was ready to be picked up I had had about enough of their shenanigans, and when I was asked to give them change for a large bill I said (oh dear) that I simply didn't know if I could count so dang high. And I kid you not, Mr. AARP gave me a calculator. It just about killed me when they left me a really big tip- not sure if they felt bad or thought i needed the money to take care of my inbred starving babies. We'll never know...
And the moral of the story is: Hypnotic is not high class, coming from "the big city" does not automatically make you high class, and treating your server like she is 50% retarded is also not high class. Let that be a lesson to you all!

Excellent Jan-isms

2009-11-04T07:14:00.000-05:00

As the months pass on, I have grown oddly fond of Jan. To be sure, she is a cold hearted snake and certainly not the most friendly or personable individual but she is quite honest about this. She also has the ability to say things that are so painfully obvious that they make me laugh hysterically, after I slap her for being suck an epic dork. I have some fine examples prepared for your amusement...

The scene: The end of the night at the restaurant. Time for me to clean up the salad station! Uh-Oh, I am not able to find the kind of bag that I usually put the lettuce in. Time to find Jan!!
Me: "Jan, I can not find the normal lettuce bags. Shall I take a trash bag from over by the dish washing station?"
Jan: "Yes. BUT IT CAN'T be a DIRTY Bag! The lettuce can NOT go in a dirty BAG!!!!"
Me: Feigning complete ignorance "It can't?? Really??" (slaps Jan upside the head) "DUH!!" "I am not 50% retarded. I know that lettuce can not go in a DIRTY bag..."

The scene: The beginning of the night. The chairs need cleaning.
Jan: "You know that when I said that the chairs need to be cleaned it means the WHOLE CHAIR, RIGHT??"
Me: (puts on the worlds dumbest expression, complete with slack-jaw and big wide eyes.) "Nooooooo, they dooooooo?"
Jan: (getting quite worked up) YES, I mean the BACKS, the BOTTOMS, THE LA-DE-DA BLAH, BLAH BLAHRGH."
Me: (interrupting ranting.) "JAN, NO CRAP!" Calm Yourself!!"
Jan: "Don't make me hurt you"
Me: "You couldn't even if you tried....."

The scene: The gellato cooler, prior to opening.
Jan: (working frantically to remedy the mistake that my fully incompetent self has left her poor weary hands to deal with.)
Me: (in head) "Ummm. Hmmm. Where's the fire?" (in out-loud voice) "Jan why are you taking all of the gellato out of the cooler."
Jan: "Because you put in all the WRONG GELLATO!!!! xx**##@@
Me: (confused to the max) "How can that be? I took it out of the freezer like always!"
Jan: "It should be coning out of THE OTHER FREEZER!!!"
Me: "What other freezer. I had no idea there was another freezer."
Jan: "Well you should have asked."
Me: "Why on earth would I have asked that? I had no reason to think that there would ever be more than one gellato freezer!"
Jan: "Well, you should have KNOWN!"
Me: (massages temples with exaggerated motion of irritation.) "OK Jan. No problem. I will just read your mind and continue to learn my osmosis...."
Jan: "I'm going to kill you"
Me: "I might kill you first."
Jan: "You can't! You would already be dead!"
Me: "No, I'd just be faking to trick you."
Jan: "AHHHHRGH!"

The scene: Busy busy night. Many things to do.
Jan: "YOU HAVE TO DRY THE SILVERWARE!"
Me: "I just dried 4 racks of silver, put away 5 racks of glasses, ran food, took care of my tables and still have enough energy to give you trouble."
Jan: "Well. How cone I didn't see you doing any of that?"
Me: "Hmmm. Just because you didn't see it happen doesn't mean it didn't. And maybe because you are hard of sight? Or because I'm unusually fast and clever?"
Jan: Takes a swipe at me which I easily dodge...

The final scene: The VERY end of the night. We are all leaving. As we walk out Jan makes the horrific discovery that one salt shaker is missing several grains of salt. Unable to contain her disgust at the laziness and inability of her coworkers she goes into full blown ranting.
Jan: "I had better not get that section tomorrow!!! All of you are going to catch hell from me!!!" ....and as she exits the building her voice reaches a raspy fever pitch.... "YOU.... ARE.... ALLLLL..... DOUCHE BAGS!!!!" she screams into the night.
ME: walking with coworker, laughing hysterically. "Well, that just about says it, doesn't it?"

I AM: The chosen one. For today....

2009-10-29T11:49:00.003-04:00

I am being left alone.
I have been allowed to take parties bigger than 4 (ahhmazing...)
Perhaps I am invisible? Awesome....

Ohhhh, Canada!

2009-10-20T07:10:00.001-04:00

Oh, Canada! The many wonderful things you bring us: snaggletoothed hockey players, questionable beer (Molson anyone??), the expression "dooontcha knooo" and Shania Twain (right? I'm pretty sure.) I like you Canada, I like that you have superrad healthcare, the law that people can booze it up at 18 and the fact that you measure your roads in kilometers, which confuses the bejeebers out of me. I must confess though, you have sent me some really atrocious tippers during the past few weeks. That gives you a terrible, terrible reputation (at least in my little world.)

I was inundated with a Canadian estrogenfest during my last shift. While this proved to be an excellent distraction from The Flighty Waitresses's lamentations about her prom night dumpster babies, I was not altogether delighted to see their perky Canadian faces. I knew that this table was going to burden me with requests for bloody mary's made with clamato juice, create complex orders, nickel and dime me to death and then ask for split checks. Which I would refuse to do because I don't have to and I'm not a complete nincompoop.

Sure enough, they all ask for water with lemon "and a couple containers of sugar, eh?" (homemade lemonade! what a splendid idea!) and Bloody Mary's with the bizzaro Clamato juice, which we do not have because it is disgusting. When I brought them their ingredients for their self created drink of choice one of them bumped me and all the waters cascaded down the tray and into my ample bosom. Better than of the floor. Attempting to heroically stabilize my tray I commented that I was clearly a pro to have made such an amazing save. And then..... The same lady bumped me AGAIN (and I had moved! she had the flying elbows of terror!!) My luck had run out and a glass went flying to the floor with an earsplitting crash. They all rolled their eyes at my horrific incompetence which I thought was a bit rude since I had been crashed into, not once but twice. Since I'm a helluva good sport I laughed off the rudeness and invasion of my personal space and cleaned up the big glassy mess. Very pleased to say that I only lost 2 or 3 fingers in the process!

After a lengthy explanation on my part regarding the rules and regulations of splitting entrees "it is a $6 charge to share an entree. No, I have to charge you even if you eat from the same plate. No, I do not make the rules around here. No, we still do not have any clamatto...." they ordered and off I went. These ladies really did not want to pay for their food (and who does really? but if it's all that bad maybe scamper on off to the Mickey D's??) some ordered apps as entrees, perfectly acceptable and something that I have done before- and then sneakily shared their neighbors food. In my Very Smart Brain this is no big deal- go ahead and share, live it up! have a good time! But in Capt Rig's world this kind of behavior is on par with first degree murder and is not to be tolerated. I had to intercept Jan many times so that she would not go over there and bust them (me, actually because she would have thought I was in on the food sharing conspiracy.)

In the end, they finished up pretty happy and were ready to leave. They were ready to leave NOW, or maybe yesterday. BUT they wanted me to divide their check, to split some of the prices of the entrees in 1/3's, and to give them my best song and dance routine while I was at it, all while balancing a plate of food on my nose in the manner of a trained seal. ME: "Not gonna happen, cheapskates." (it does say right on the menu that we DO NOT split checks, and it is honestly frowned upon because so many mistakes can happen what with the archaic check system that is implemented there.) I also have many years of knowledge under my belt and know that even if I painstakingly split up the check they would only leave me twelve cents so it's not worth my time and trouble. (this is how bitter waitresses are created- we all start out so hopeful and innocent only to have our dreams of world domination dashed by large parties of foreigners!) All was fairly well in the end, because I did not split the check I got the bill to the lickety-split and they skedaddled, leaving me closer to forty cents than twelve. Lucky me! I planned to head right out for a major vacation with all the sweet moolah that they had so kindly left for me...

Oh Canada. Whatever are we going to do with you?

Knife..... Behind you.

2009-10-18T12:39:00.002-04:00

Just a few words of wisdom from out middleaged heroine today:
Interesting how a few little words can take on a whole new meaning in the right situation. In the literal sense, "knife behind you" means something exceptionally obvious "I'm passing behind you with an enormous meat cleaver and I do not wish for you to suddenly spin around and catch it between the shoulder blades." Given a different set of circumstances you can see "knife behind you" in a whole new way. I definitely feel that there are a lot of knives behind me on any given day in Hell's Kitchen. The harpies spend a lot of time sharpening their collection of santokus in order to be ready to pounce at any given moment. One must develop eyes in the back of their head, or equip themselves with a rearview mirror in order to stay out of harms way.... I have no such mirror, so I will have to work on my back-vision.
It pleased me to see the lot of them all pulling (figurative) knives on one another the other evening and leaving me out of the mess. I needed a quiet evening to recover after the "f-ing POS lazy waitress" incident, as that took a bit of the spring out of my step. To get thru my next shift I amused myself by pretending that I could not see or hear anyone else. For a couple hours I also imagined that I had absolutely no need to speak to anyone (and was a bit alarmed when I discovered that it took two hours for a real need to speak to present itself!) These things, paired with the fact that all of the lovely ladies who I work with had turned on each other made things tolerable, if not enjoyable.
Much to my dismay Ashley had taken a shine to me again (whiplash! arrrrrgh!) and filled me in on all the disturbing details of her dysfunctional ex-relationships and her blooming new love life. Ewwwww. Now, I am not a prude and am always intrigued to hear the tales of love (and other things) if it happens to be an actual friend of mine doing the story telling. I might have mentioned before that Ashley is not, NOT my BFF and to get the sordid details of her most recent conquest, in HD level detail is a bit more than this middleaged waitress can tolerate. I am still trying to erase some of her more vivid comments from my imagination, not that her details left much for my imagination to elaborate on. Oh dear! I must admit, that I am torn between what I like less: Mean, spiteful "knife behind you" Ashley, or broken hearted but lovestruck and sex-starved Ashley. Ick.
Once again, Jan proved to me that she is nothing if not honest. "Knife behind you" she rasped, as she trundled past me in the kitchen "and I might just stick it in you." Um-hmmm, I appriciate that level of brutal honesty. At least I know where I stand (or shouldn't stand, perhaps?)
Anyway, I continue on in an attempt to preserve my last shreds of dignity and fricking self respect. I am hoping to develop the superhero skills to avoid knives in the dark, although I think bringing in my own collection of freshly sharpened deboning knives might be my best bet... (watch out ladies. knife behind YOU! hahahah!)
(ps from author, I am really not scary enough to bring knives anywhere in reality. I'm pretty friendly as a rule. I don't want cops banging at my door....)

The world is a Vampire. And not the sexy kind.

2009-10-15T12:21:00.000-04:00

All of you cool kids from my middleaged generation know what I mean from my blog title today. Essentially, that the world (AKA my life & times at Capt Rig's) is draining the life blood/soul/will to live from me and that soon I will walk among you as one of the undead. Sadly, I am not making reference to having a fleet of heart-throbby Bill Compton's or Edward Cullen's prancing their immortal selves around making everything all sexy. (which is too bad really, either of them would distract me nicely from the Evil people I work with.)
Very bad night at Capt Rig's last night. My head is in a very bad, dark place right now.....
I had previously written quite a long post about the events of last evening. It was bitter, verbose and thoroughly detailed the interactions and exchanges that happened thru the course of the evening. But I erased it, due to the fact that it was just TMI and I do not want to bore my readers (I also do not want you to think that I am a pathetic looser for tolerating this crap. Which I am not, I am not a quitter though and I have dedication and tenacity. Suuuuuure...)
So here you go.

Dear Staff at Captain Rigatoni's,
Why does it feel to me, every time I step in the door as though I have gone in a time machine back to High school? Is it because you are all petty backstabbing little people with no regard for each others feelings? I think this is quite accurate. You might not like me, because I refuse to engage in petty conversations with you about how the other staff members look, smell, walk and talk. But I do not care. I can still look at myself in the mirror and know that I did not bad mouth anyone because of things that they simply can not help. Also, I know that you most certainly talk about me the same way when I am not listening because you do it to each other, even the people you declare your undying friendship to. This is not nice way to act, young ladies, and what goes around comes around.
Why, when we run out of something earth changing like liners for the bread baskets can you not simply ask for more? Why (Bobbi) must you steamroll into the kitchen and call me a "fucking piece of shit waitress" and also call me lazy? Is that a nice way to speak to someone, especially someone who is much smarter and kinder and clearly cuter than you? I look at your skinny stilettos and consider kicking them and watching you take a nasty tumble. That would be very bad for you, so watch yo' mouth when you talk to me suckah....
Why, when you do not take the time to tell me how you want something done (Ashley) and it still comes out looking just the same way that it does every single day must you run around telling all the other servers that it looks like shit? Either show me exactly how you want it done, or please kindly shut up about it. I do not have time to listen to you ranting about my idiocy when you have put zero effort into making sure things are done to your high standards. Also Ashley, please start lifting some weights or similar if you insist upon being so critical of everyone else's physique. I hate to tell you, but you are painfully far from being a Maxim cover girl. Gosh.
Ashley and Jan, you two are normally such nice people that I was shocked to overhear you talking smack about me behind my back. You tried pretty hard to cover your ample behinds when I walked in like stealth but it was too late. Perhaps it was not enough that I was carrying a rack of glasses, two checks, a bag of takeout food and a stack of plates out when I last left the kitchen. I'm sorry that you think I am not working hard enough at removing things from the kitchen, I'll really buckle down and get right on that. I might need an extra arm, but I am sure I have one in my closet at home.
And table 27. I honestly am sorry that a $10 bill fell on the floor when I got you your change. But, you let me know and I was actually able to find it (and if I had not, I would have given you a $10 out of my tips- obviously.) You were so happy with the rest of your meal, and since I fixed things for you so quickly why did you stiff me and leave me no tip? I was not trying to steal your money. I was not trying to steal your husband or your first born child. I am sorry that you are asshats.
I'm sorry Staff at Capt Rigs, but you can not push me out and force me to quit. You are messing with the wrong lady. Yes, you are making me very unhappy but I am not going to let all of you know that and I am NOT going to let you bulldoze me out the door. So screw all of you.
Love and hugs,
Middleagedwaitress

Please take your meds. Please do not be a close talker and a space invader!

2009-10-13T10:25:00.003-04:00

Sometimes working with Capt Rig and Co reminds me of how one might feel if one had an Aunt who was completely off her rocker. Unlike when you have a cuckoo parent or spouse, an Aunt (or similar) you would only have to deal with occasionally and you'd feel ok about avoiding her at times because maybe she'd have a spouse to deal with her unpredictable shenanigans. However, you would still see her from time to time and would move around her with great trepidation, unsure if she was going to hug you and give you a cookie, or punch you in the face and then kick at your unconscious body. Yikes!
Not only is Capt Rig really insane and unpredictable, in the manner of an enraged ticking time bomb but the staff is pretty bipolar as well. It is a daily question, "Am I going to be everyone's BFF today? Or are they all going to be pretending that they can not see me? Or is it going to be let's all criticize and berate the new-girl day?" This level of inconsistency tends to make one slightly on edge. And when I say slightly on edge I mean seconds away from having a complete coronary. This past weekend was a prime example of waving goodbye to a group of people who passionately hate your guts, and to go back the next day and to be welcomed with loving arms. Oh man-it's a whole lotta crazy.
In other news....
The new girl who I have been referring to as Shrek got sick of the madness and quit on Saturday. I was hoping that she might have taken a stand and left in the middle of a huge dinner rush. Thinking about the chaos that would have created was amusing to me for a moment, until I learned that she had simply given her notice. Boooooring! Poor Shrek, I hate to be a critical mean beeyotch but she was truly horrendous. Not only was she very bad waitress, and a person with very questionable taste in professional waitressing attire but she was well on her way to becoming (ahem) "An Enforcer." I was pouring myself a sensible coffee the other evening in a strofoam cup designed for just that purpose. She snuck up behind me, heavily mouth breathing. "HEY" she panted "WHAT" I said with an unseen eye roll. "You are going to get in big trouble for having that cup out here. We are not allowed to have those OUT HERE." "I know we are not allowed to have cups in the dining room" I replied with exaggerated patience "But I can not move the coffee to the kitchen with my mind so I must bring the cup to the pot." "Well whatever" she said, pushing her thick glasses up her nose with great disgust in my inability to comprehend the gravity of the situation "but seriously, you're going to be in big trouble." "I'll take my chances" I declared as I attempted to edge past her enormous bulk. Later that evening I was greeting a table when I felt eyes boring a hole in the back of my head. Peeking out of the corner of my eye I saw Shrek (actually I saw the peaks of her pointy frizzy hairdo in the edge of my peripheral vision.) As I recommended some drink choices I heard the heavy mouth breathing draw closer and closer. The hairs on the back of my neck definitely started to stand on end. As I prepared to walk away from the table I could feel her sweaty presence within inches of my back and I was not pleased with her intrusion upon my personal space. "Shrek" I declared to her in my Giving-A-1st-Grader-A-Talking-To voice "I Need for you to NOT be so CLOSE to me when I'm at a table. Or anytime, to be honest with you." "Oh Gosh" she simpered "I was just standing there to see if you needed anything." (Calm, deep breaths. Remember, it is bad karma to be rotten to someone who clearly can not help herself.) Very calmly and patiently, I explained to Shrek that I did need something, and that was for her to please remember that a waitress needs her freaking personal space, and does NOT need to be panted upon.
My kind and patient advice was all for naught though, since Captain Rig made her life so hellacious that she had to quit. The day after she gave her notice she came back for another round of torture. Capt Rig was expediting on the line, which is so scary that it gives me the cold sweats and heart palpitations. I have to remind myself, as I feel the panic setting in that he is just a person. A very scary person. And that I need to not let him scare the bejeebers out of me, because I am BIG and TOUGH! RAWWWWR! If I had given my notice I would have stayed as far from that line as possible- but not Shrek. Being totally clueless (poor thing) she stepped right up and called back the food for a big party. Completely and utterly wrong. There was a gigantic pause in the kitchen as we all collectively held our breaths and waited for the ax to fall. Capt Rig's eyes bulged, he took a huge breath and prepared to eat her alive. And then..... He exhaled. "F**K it" He declared "I'm in a good mood today and I'm not going to let any of yous bring me down." And indeed he was- instead of screaming at us at the end of the night he told us all to get a pastrami sandwich at a deli he had discovered earlier in the day. It was completely insane, and a prime example of the epic mood swings that each day at Capt Rig's delivers.

In which our Heroine screws up. And introduces you to some of her favorite people....

2009-10-11T12:52:00.002-04:00

There is no motivator as great as a Holiday weekend to get Captain Rig all up in a fine fury. His rage had been building for a couple weeks, and the blatant incompetence of his staff of clowns had just become too much for him to handle. We all know the drill by now- "WHY do I pay ANY of you F***ING IDIOOOOOT CLOWNS!!!" What are all of YOUS thinking??? All of YOUS are ruining my business- CAPTAIN RIG isn't doing anything wrong but all of YOUS ARE!!!" The constant reference to himself in the third person plus his lack of discrimination of the popular word "YOUS" made for some very interesting rants. There was an epic issue with the bread. Yes people, the bread. On a busy night when the bread baker is running late and the bread doesn't come out of the oven until 15 minutes before opening it is tempting to start slicing it up while it is still warm. We're talking about 1,000 slices of bread that need to be butchered (along with a few fingers) before that special little task is completed. With this in mind one of the newer staff members went for it and started slicing away, gingerly attempting to protect the warm bread from breaking. Well, this caused an atomic bomb of fury to go off in the kitchen. We were all summoned, and lectured for many many minutes about the level of idiocy that this particular person showed with the premature slicing. We were all kindly, and lovingly reminded that the restaurant would continue to run fine without all of us and that if we did not start shaping up we were going to be asked to ship out. And if we continued to MAKE HORRIBLE waste of Capt Rig's amazing product that we could go and F**K ourselves (all said in loving tones. clearly.) When some of the bread had cooled sufficiently to insure that I would not have any of my fingers chopped off for bad behavior, I rescued it from it's hostile home in the kitchen and stuck it in a basket to bring to the waitress station. As I arrived at my destination the unthinkable happened: The basket broke. All 5 loaves fell to their doom. NOOOOOOO!!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!! I actually anticipated that Hell's Minions would rapidly descend upon me and poke me with those little pitchforks that Devils are known to have. When nothing happened I made a very reasonable decision that the 5 second rule clearly applied in this situation and that I was going to take my chances that the ever-present surveillance camera had missed my accident. I dusted those loaves off and rebasketed them. (and I continue to nervously await my fate. Will an instant replay of camera #7 at 4:11 on Friday seal my fate?? We shall seeeeeee....)
Mistakes, horrible fate deciding accidents and Hell's Kitchen fury out of the way I continue to see some interesting character development from my fellow staff members. It is critical to note that I am the lone survivor from the first round of post summer hiring's. Why is this, we all might ask. Am I certifiably insane? A masochist? Secretly in love with Captain Rigatoni (oh, GOD. I'd rather be alone and celibate FOREVER, so we can rule that one out) Or am I just a glutton for severe and constant punishment? Beats me, but I know that I continue going in several days a week in hopes that I can just do my freaking job and not get in big huge trouble for having my drying rag (It's NOT A RAG, it's a TOWEL) in back of my hip bone instead of in front. Gosh.
My coworkers, (along with the fact that the "rules" change every 48 hours whether they need to be changed or not) are what make this job horrendous. Oops, I mean enlightening and meaningful. Ok, ok in all fairness there are one or maybe two people who have a heart that is not made from rotten apples, but they are few and far between. And soon going back to their homeland (read on, friends.) Let's take a moment to talk about the players in this dirty little game called survival of the fittest (and YES. I am FIT.)

JAN: Ahh Jan, how I love you. Your patience, your willingness to kindly show me the ropes and to gently tell me how I could improve my evil ways. You are the wind beneath my wings, Jan. You inspire me to greatness, make me long to have a Grand Canyon sized chip on my shoulder, and you help me to become the best I can be.
Shall we all take a moment to gag? As I have already mentioned Jan is second to Capt Rig in the competition to be the Axis of Evil. She is rude, crude and loves to tell you how much of an idiot you are and how wrong you are. She is pretty much a beeyotch, and that's that.
One good thing about our sweet and lovely Jan. She is an honestly rotten person- she actually admits that she is horrible and does not try to play her bitchiness off as being "nice." she is also very consistent in her level of awfulness, and there is never a doubt that she will act nasty. I enjoy giving her a hard time and watching her get all wound up about it. "F**K off, middleaged waitress" she will tell me. And oddly, she says it in a way that kinda warms my heart (and I'm not kidding, which proves that I am quickly sliding off the deep end! ahhh!) Jan is one of the group of divorced, and angry 40-something year olds who are in a deep rage over the failure in their relationships. This is too bad. and so not my prob.

Ashley: A very bad person who tries to come off as the "sweet one." Ashley, let me let you in on a tiny little secret- you are NOT fooling anyone. Just because you don't yell as loud as Jan, just because you are slightly less trollish ion your appearance, just because YOU passively-aggressively try to play off your cutting comments- just because YOU don't hit the freak out button quite as hard- does not make you a nice person. If our little pal Ash was not BFF's with Bobbi, Capt Rig's sister she would probably try to compete for the Axis of Evil award too. But she tries to play the nice card because of the "friend" status. The nicest thing about Ashley is that you can be her best new girlfriend one day, and her biggest enemy the next. This might bum me out if A: I actually wanted her to be my friend, or B: if I gave a shit. Which I do not. Ashley is not divorced, but has recently ended an off again on again many year relationship. She is very angry and bitter about this and will tell anyone willing to listen all about it. Lucky them.

Julio: One of the few male members of the staff. Also one of the only nice ones. Julio comes to the US for a few months every year, to support his family in Columbia. He is fracking fabulous, and one of the few people who seems to have a grasp on reality. His English is not the best- but he fully understands what everyone around him is saying. When he gets sick of listening to Jan's endless snarking he runs away crying "no comprende! no comprende!" He regularly announces that everyone working at Capt Rigs is "crazy garbage" which is a remarkably accurate assessment. His tables are quite taken with his broken English and he makes boatloads of cash. Sadly, he is leaving us to return to his Fam in just a few days. Which means there will possibly be zero normal people left in Hell's Kitchen. Awesome.

Gina: so I'm in the kitchen with Gina the other evening when the call goes out to run an onion soup. She calls the order back (and when you "call it" you "CALL IT", like in 6th grade when you would "call" dibs on the cutest boy.) since she called it I did not, and went about my business. "HEY" she snipped at me "YOU really should have taken that SOUP." I pointed out to her that SHE had called it, and that it is strictly forbidden to steal someone's "called item." That threw her on her fanny for a moment, and I watched as she struggled to find her words. "WELL" she bitched "If you had called it I would not have had too." (no shat.) I was baffled/bemused by her line of thinking and pointed out that when someone calls back an order instantly it is challenging for someone else to do the same. At this point she had no leg to stand on and was very sad to have lost an argument. That pretty much sums up her personality. She is in the cool-kids-club of 40 something divorcees who are very, very angry, and are dealing with all sorts of child support/custody problems. **sigh** I hope that crap isn't contagious.

And finally for today....

Dan: Dan seems to be a pretty good person. He is in his own part of the cool kids club which we will refer to as amicably divorced with shared custody. He is a plethora of information and seems to be hesitant to chuck people under the bus.
He is what those of us in the industry refer to as a lifer, or a pro-server (meaning that not only does he not claim to have a higher ambition but he also takes serving very seriously- like VERY SERIOUSLY.) I admit that Dan is one of the best servers that I have seen in action, but I can not listen to him without having the urge to crack up. You can tell that he is trying to make an art form out of table waiting- he has the hand gestures, the waiterly accent, the correct pronunciation, he is super into it. And because I am a card carrying member of the ass-hats club I constantly have the urge to make fun of him. (which he would NOT take kindly too.) HOWever, I am so appreciative that he is not a royal raging miserable cow like the rest of THEM that I'll try to keep my teasing thoughts to myself.

So, there are a few of the key members of Capt Rig's restaurant of insanity. In the past the people I have worked with have played a small part in what might make an evening interesting. Here, they ARE what makes the evening interesting....

Give me your money, not your love. (Or your life story..)

2009-10-09T09:06:00.001-04:00

Working in a big gigantic restaurant like Captain Rigatoni's definitely allows one to see a huge melting pot of customers. Unlike where I used to work, where 90% of business was driven by locals at Capt Rig's 99% of business is made up of tourists.
This is a rather interesting dynamic, and certainly brings a lot of variety and non English speaking people to the table (haha). Here's the thing about tourists though- either they are out and about having the time of their lives and throwing cash around like it is their job, or they are really cross because their vacation is costing them so much so they hold on to every dollar as tight as possible. This brings me to a very good point- if you can't afford to tip (or claim to not know how **ahem** French Canadians) stay home and have a cup of Ramen!
At work the other evening I had a good variety of people, all in different moods and situations. Things started off poorly, with a table of 4 non english speakers. "No English" they declared as I told them the specials "No French" I replied, sighing sadly to myself. Things went fine, they pointed at what they wanted (they read English? I don't know) and gestured vigorously for more water and pretty much ran me around. As expected, they left me something like an 8% tip, and I'm sure that they felt that was going to pay my 2 mortgages just fine and dandy. The good thing about the foreigners is that they do not demand too much of my time, at least from a conversational perspective. Some of the more local tourists love to tell me about their kids, grandkids, travels, psychic friends, medical maladies, horrible divorces, you name it- it's fair game to tell the waitress. If I'm really bored on a slow night I quite enjoy these little exchanges. However! If I am running around in a full house of starving people I do not have time to hear about Grammas run in with the hostile postal worker.... After spending serious bonding time at a table, sympathizing and offering an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on I really think it would be acceptable to add a few bucks onto my tip. Seriously, I do not need your love but I DO need your money! Show me the love with a few $20 bills y'all and I'll be more than happy to listen to you talk about your granddaughters cat's hernia operation or about the run around that your evil ex husband is giving you! But, when I spend the evening being your shrink, BFF, and partner in crime to stiff me with a 12% tip is offensive.
There are the tables that you know you are fighting a loosing battle with even before they order their drinks. Very Angry Women make up some of these customers, and Couples Who Are Fighting make up the rest (we have already touched on the Non English Speakers, so I won't bring them up again.) Very Angry Women are ticked off at their waitress before they even lay their eyes on her. They might be slightly less angry with a charming waiter- or not, depending on how mad at their cheating Ex-es they are.... Nothing you do for VAW is right, the wine list will be sadly lacking their favorite brand of White Zinfandel, the table they are at will be too small, too large, or too dark, you will be unable to fulfill their insane requests for specificaly prepared foods (containing ingredients that the restaurant does not even stock.) They will snip and snap at the waitress, make underhanded snide remarks and complain predictably about the temp of the food (too cold! too hot! it was hot when I started eating but it is COLD NOW!!) They will not be pacified in any way and will leave a 10% tip, a big mess, and the feeling of hatred in their servers heart. Couples Who Are Fighting are something like a ticking time bomb. They come in all pissed off at one another, and manage to make the life of their waitress uncomfortable at best. Usually nothing on the menu looks good to these people, a direct result of the fact that nothing in their relationship looks good either. If the wife (or girlfriend) is mad at the husband (or boyfriend) she will almost definitely become defensive if the husband speaks to the waitress at all. "Leave that poor girl alone" she will hiss, when he has the gall to ask about the soup of the day. (but to be honest, I have seen some in-trouble husbands attempt to flirt with the waitress, which results in justified fury.) They will bicker passive aggressively throughout the meal "you don't even LIKE salmon" "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I LIKE!!" and will leave angrily before dessert but after leaving a suitably poor tip. To match the poor quality of their looooove.
It is a ton of fun to get all of those bad tippers together in one place and to get them all seated in your section during the same evening. Throw in the guy who sends back beer #1 "too warm" then beer #2 "too cold" and you might be left feeling that the world has gone insane!

In which the tides begin to turn...

2009-09-28T11:12:00.001-04:00

It was a blessed and magical time at the restaurant. Captain Rig for whatever reason had decided to be rather reclusive and spend some quality time in his office. His absence lightened the mood in the kitchen considerably. The cooks, who I thought of as beaten drones actually showed some personality and senses of humor. Most of the servers spent the side work time chatting and having a laugh instead of being stressed to the M-A-X. Not to give the wrong impression here, Capt Rig world make his authority known several times a night on no uncertain terms. The cooks were lined up and publicly berated for making the salad dressing pink (mysterious) and for burning the meatloaf (unfortunate.) The servers turned on them in an instant, proclaiming that they would NEVER make mistakes and wouldn't DREAM of being such irresponsible f**kwits. Keeping my thought to myself, I considered how swiftly the tables could turn and we could be the ones getting strung up and beaten.
Another interesting development had taken place as well. There were now several new girls on staff. Any by several, I mean myself, two other experienced sassy servers and a gargantuan spectacled Shrek. Oh dear. Bonding together as only new, slightly overwhelmed staff can the 3 of us formed a tentative alliance. Swearing to have each others backs thru the good times and bad we kept a close eye on each other and tried to keep each other from befalling the wrath of Capt Rig. Shrek, on the other hand is simply dreadful. She is a close talker, a space invader and loves to butt in on conversations. She also stands at the end of her section and watches her customers eat which is creepy,and would make me uncomfortable. I could forgive her gigantic thick glasses and her messy scrunchie tied hair if she was fun, or a really terrific waitress but honestly she's just all around bad. It's a sad sight. My hope is that perhaps the 3 of us who are new, cool and do not have solar system sized chips on our shoulders can keep our heads above water and perhaps teach some people manners. We have decided that using please and thank you loudly might be a good start, since those little words do not make regular appearances in the kitchen. "THANK YOU" I shouted at the cook last night "THE FOOD LOOKS GOOD." "You're welcome?" he said, looking at me like I was fully insane. "COULD YOU PLEASE RUN THE SILVERWARE" I asked the dishwasher "WE ARE OUT, THANK YOU" See, it's really not hard.
The tides might be turning in my favor with the head harpies as well. Ashley has decided that she is going to be my new BFF, something that makes me recoil in horror. However, she is very good friends with Bobbi the manager/owner so it is in my best interest to listen intently to her romance-gone-wrong stories and to smile and non (but not agree, or disagree) when she gripes about every person who works in the restaurant. Jan continues to run around being a big old bag but I am at the end of my rope with her shenanigans and have started to break out the sarcasm with her. Usually I save the sass for my friends. The more I like you the more likely I am to banter on with you and give you a hard time. I feel that I am wasting perfectly good cutting remarks on her but it is getting her to back off and pick on someone her own size. Most of my responses to her crabby little questions go a little like this: "why did I leave that in the sink? for you to take care of, obviously." "why did I do so and so? clearly to try to make you mad." That's just the tip of the iceberg (an iceberg. Like Jan's heart.) I had fully intended for my motto at work to be "keep your mouth shut and your head down" but that wasn't cutting it. Ever since I declared full blown war on Jan and her craptastic attitude everyone has been treating me more like the goddess that I am (thank you, thank you.)
So bring it on people. You might think you can mess with me because I'm small and middleaged but I'm up for it. And I fully intend to take this place over, kick some booty, reign terror over Capt Rig and give Shrek a makeover.

Winners never quit

2009-09-21T18:39:00.001-04:00

And quitters never win.
BUT, quitters can leave with their pride and sanity intact.
However, winners never quit without a fail safe plan B.
Taking into account the mental toll that Captain Rigatoni was taking on me I headed out (once again) into the world to job hunt. Also taking into account the all important "Plan B" I kept quiet about this turn of events and kept waiting tables, and not making pizzas (heaven help me.) Being that I already maintain a full time job, plus working a hair raising number of hours at Capt Rig's my time to hunt for Future Job of Huge $$$ was limited.
Being that I am a bit on the (ahem) "organized" side I made a list of restaurants that I might want to work at, listing their pros and cons. Obviously I broke out a serious spreadsheet to do this and had intricate details listed like the distance from my house, road quality in winter, possibility of having to work dreaded night cocktail shifts (or lunch) and tourist potential. Yes, I am a very fun girl.
List in hand I started to make some serious phone calls. And immediately hit a huge brick wall. Nobody was hiring! Not for dinner, not for lunch, not for nothin'... As is often the case the very last phone call I made yielded some interesting results: "We are going to be looking for a new waitress starting tomorrow" I was told "So call back at 3:30 to set up an interview." Which I did.
Several days later I dressed in my best going for an interview attire. One of the perks of being a middle aged waitress is that one has had the time to accumulate many suitable outfits for such an occasion, unlike when one is 17 and has to scrounge around for a shirt that fully covers ones midriff.... As my luck would have it the first thing I noticed upon stepping into potential restaurant of employment was that all of the staff were dressed in the hippest of waitressing attire. Oops, I could have worn my cutest outfit and fit right in. The restaurant itself was a beautiful space, and rather unexpected for the area of the world that it is located in. It was fresh and edgy, with a look that can only be described as retro chic. As I filled out the untraditional application: "We do things a little differently around here" I was told by the manager, I watched the staff interact with one another. A pair of male employees in their mid twenties stood behind the bar, debating the merits of vodka mixed with lemonade. As the manager came in she greeted them enthusiastically. "Hey boys" she purred, batting her heavily mascaraed eyes "how are you?" "Hey baby" they cried in unison "soooo much better now that you are here!" As I tried to figure out exactly what they were looking for on this mysterious job app I was able to see more staff trickle in. The girls who arrived first were young, hip and looked as thought they had just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. Everyone discussed their weekends, bantered flirtatiously with one another and pranced around, delighted to be young and attractive. Clearly, unlike at Capt Rigs where hatred runs rampant everyone at this restaurant loves each other (and maybe in that special way. if you know what I mean.) Looking at my old, crusty middle aged waitress self and reflecting on my many geeky qualities I came to the realization that no matter how qualified I was, I was not going to get hired here. I completed the interview very well, attempting to emphasize my skills and downplay my lack of model like stature and untrendy haircut. "We're all really close here, like a family" the manager mentioned to me "how do you think you will deal with that?" I replied that I tend to get along well with people and play nicely with others, and tried not to think about what kind of family would have that level of sexual tension.
Interview complete she let me know that the interview process was going to take at least a week and that I could expect to hear from her. "Umm hmmm" I thought to myself "to tell me that you have hired a six foot tall Brazilian model who works on the side as an exotic dancer." In my out loud voice I thanked her for her time and said any number of super professional sounding things.
So, the search continues. As do my fun evenings at Captain Rigatonis.

In which the young grasshopper is allowed to spread her wings. ...

2009-09-20T15:49:00.003-04:00

And one should remember that nobody likes grasshoppers and they often get swatted or sprayed with Raid. Anyway, I digress.
I was assigned to take an easy section of tables with less "training" time than I had anticipated. Evidently, Jan felt much the same way. "You're taking TABLES?? ALREADY??" she snorted in disgust. "Well" I replied, thoughtfully furrowing my brow "that is what one normally does. as. a. waitress." Looking at me with a mixture of surprise at my ability to shut her up and displeasure at the same, she bustled off to criticize people and smoke butts.
It is always a relief to get a couple of quiet shifts in where you only have to deal with few tables before the madness of a weekend. It was also an enormous relief to get out of the kitchen away from Captain Rigatonis fury and terror. I felt fortunate that I had been assigned to tables quickly more to be able to avoid the kitchen than for any other reason. Sad.
Nice quiet days behind me I entered into my first weekend with mixed feelings. Capt Rig had been in a good mood, due to the fact that some of his products had made their way successfully into the retail market. To see Capt Rig in a good mood is not much better than seeing him in a bad mood. Furthermore his mood swings will give you severe whiplash with the sudden turns they take so it's best not to take much stock in his happy moments. I was not feeling 100% in my ability to quickly create cannolis, make up multiple espressos or God Forbid make a pizza. That pizza oven is the bane of my existence and I dread the day when I arrive to see it fired up. As luck would have it, my first busy shift was one without the cringeworth addition of dough tossing so all was well.
As soon as the restaurant opened things became busy and shortly full blown madness had descended upon us. I was set up in a section that could only handle tables of two, something that in any normal situation would be easy as pie for me. As it was, it was all I could do to manage to get my tables taken care of without becoming hopelessly buried. Every waitress has an inner monologue that they run in their heads when they start to get in the weeds. Many just run thru the kitchen screaming "F**K!!! F**K!!!!" which is entirely expected and appropriate on a busy night. Since a busy night at Capt Rigs is so far above and beyond the busy of a normal restaurant the expletives are flying left and right. As I was running around, struggling to keep my head above water I was talking myself down from the brink: "OK, OK" I would think soothingly to myself "You only have 2 tops. this is easy for you. you have your shit together. you have your ducks in a row. oh crap, table 34 wants a cappuccino. table 33 wants a check and I can't get to the register. uh-oh they are calling for food runners. ok. take a deep breath. you can do this. you only have 2 tops. oh shit I have to make an appetizer and table 31 wants their check too. and I still can't get to the register. deep breath, everything is fine, put on a big happy (fake) smile and suck it up you idiot..." And that's how it goes pretty much all night. And one wonders why waitresses have to drink lots of beer when they get home at the end of their shift!
Captain Rigatoni was content to stay in his lair (aka, office) for most of the evening only coming out to question the following: Why do I pay any of you clowns? What is between your ears!!?? Clearly not a brain.... What the f**k are you doing you f***ing idiot?!!" So all in all a very restrained evening for Capt Rig, perhaps he remembered to take his meds? I often wonder what he does in his office other than watch the live feed coming from the surveillance cameras. I mulled over the possibilities that he drinks, or hits a punching bag, or maybe listens to anger management CD's (unlikely) I bet he has some creepy little habit like dressing up a cat in a baby outfit and pushing it around in a perambulator, or something equally icky and out of character. Honestly, I hope to never find out!
As luck would have it there was another new server on as well, who had been there for exactly 3 more days than I had. It's nicer not being the only new person in any situation so I claimed her as my new friend. I asked her how she was doing at the beginning of the night and she replied with great and surprising confidence that not only was she doing great but she had it all figured out. I was impressed as I most certainly do not have the 1.2 billion oddities of that place figured out- but I decided that I might be a bit slower than some. As the evening went on I watched as her confidence crumbled and she was reduced to a shaking, sobbing mess. As she stood trembling over the cash register, completely and hopelessly buried under her absurd workload I asked if I could help. "I need a f***ing cigarette and maybe a new job" she cried "I can't handle it, I'm in way, way over my head." As I patted her back and handed her a Kleenex she was reminded that crying in the kitchen is against the rules and that if she has time to cry she needs to be running faster (or something of the sort.) Remarkably, she got it together and lasted the night, finishing up in good spirits and with a big handful of cash. As we vacuumed the floors later in the evening she mulled over her first really busy day and pondered if it was going to work out for her. She was saying in her outloud voice many of the things that had been running thru my own head in a fairly steady way for a while. However, there is an unwritten waitressing rule that most people take pretty seriously. That rule is that you don't crack up in front of coworkers, or express doubts about your abilities. Any show of vulnerability is all it takes for the vultures to swoop down and pick you to pieces (look out for the head harpies!) or at the very least see you as the weakest link. So as much as I sympathized with her I was hesitant to share my own concerns feeling that they were better kept in the grumpy place in my head.
At any rate, I survived my first busy shift more or less intact. It might not have been fun or pretty but I did not loose any fingers on the bread knives, drown in the lettuce sink or get locked in a walk in freezer. And I plan to turn up (although with great hesitation) for my next shift. We'll see if I can say the same for the other new girl.

Adventures in sidework

2009-09-16T06:45:00.000-04:00

After spending more quality time at Captain Rigatoni's I came to realize why the waitstaff regularly came to blows over the side work. The list is long, the work is challenging if not downright scary and it takes the better part of the evening to accomplish. One of the most dreaded jobs is preparing the lettuce for the salads. In all honesty, I might desire this job as it takes you deep into the belly of the restaurant away from the critical eyes of Capt Rig and the scathing remarks of the Head Harpies.

Upon my arrival one fine evening Mr Waiter #1 welcomed me with the following: "You are going to learn how to prep the lettuce tonight" "Well, sounds both technical and challenging" I said with maybe a hint of sarcasm. Looking at me quizzically over his glasses he said "Well, you must understand that there is a very specific way it needs to be done!" Rolling my eyes on the inside I said "Really? I am so surprised to learn that. Who would have thought?" (or something of the sort, as my patience was growing thin towards the absurdity of the situations.) Heading into the deep dark passageways of the kitchen I discovered that though lettuce prep is by no means rocket science it is a bit of a challenge for several reasons. (Sorry Mr Waiter #1, but the prep of lettuce is something that I have been doing for many millennia and the fact that we can wear kevlar gloves at this restaurant takes most of the danger out of it.) Which is good- as I loose fingers on a regular basis thanks to my questionable cutting abilities. What makes the salad prep a bit treacherous here is the use of a gynormous salad spinner, a huge green monster of a thing mounted decidedly above my head. After you dump heaps of greens in it and smack the on switch with a fry basket (if you are me. if everything in life is 8 feet above eye level) it takes off with an airplane engine like roar and shakes the whole building. Very worrying!! The removal of the dry greens is tricky as well, as standing on chairs is forbidden (might fall) so I have to stand on tip toe and wiggle the beast out of it's home with the tip of my finger and catch it smoothly before it goes all over everything. This is accomplished while leaning perilously over an industrial sized sink filled with water and lettuce- drowning is certain should you loose your balance. Now really, these people know how to put the "A" in adventure.... The most adventurous part of this task is the cautious and sneaky disposal of lettuce that is far past its prime. Essentially, we are supposed to use up everything and not throw anything in the hopper. If one comes across a leaf, or God forbid a whole BAG of brown lettuce you must casually walk by a trash can, drop it in like stealth and the run like your life depends on it. And if possible, sling something else on top of it so that what you have left does not resemble waste. Lettuce prep is a job that can easily take up an hour of your time and in my eyes, it is a blissful way to hide out back and think bitter thoughts.

The ultimate battle of the day always comes at closing time as the waitstaff fights bitterly about who can stay and vacuum and who can be sent home. This fight reaches a fever pitch if there are lingering diners at tables who are holding up the process. The rule is that everyone has to stay and help but this rarely happens. I have seen servers pay off other servers to do their section, cry sudden and urgent illness, or just cry. It is such obvious torture to stay that extra hour or so that it really seems wise to make vacuuming a part of the next days opening side work and save everyone the fight/sobbing in the corner/sudden hysterics.

The theory that the waitstaff should do the jobs of many reflects very clearly in both the opening and closing side work. It is critical to remember, that a server makes a horrible hourly wage (just a tad over $3 an hour) and so extremely cheap labor can be obtained by having us do so many different things. The bathrooms are cleaned by us, floors are mopped and rugs are vacuumed, saving them the cost of having a cleaning person (or, have one of the "paid" cooks do the kitchen floor.) I have mentioned before that putting away the dishes is our job, saving them the cost of paying another dishwasher, or having the lone dishwasher put in extra hours. They save the cost of an additional prep cook by having us do much of the food prep that is typically assigned to the lower ranking chefs. We clean our own tables, reset them in addition to making our own salads and desserts something that bus people do in all other restaurants that I worked it. Being something of a business person myself, I understand the theory of having fewer people on the payroll, but at what cost to the customers? Obviously the mental health of the staff is suffering greatly but when you have 1.2 million menial tasks to do the diners are the ones that will have to wait for their cake, or check and that ticks them off- resulting in terrible tips. AHHHH! So the moral of the story is that in the end, nobody wins. But what do I know, as I'm just a middle aged waitress....

In which mistakes are made that change the course of history...

2009-09-07T06:06:00.000-04:00

At the end of a long week, at the end of an even longer day I sat for a moment in my car and groaned. Resting my head for a moment on the steering wheel, and successfully fighting off the urge to beat my brow while screaming I reflected on the events of the evening.

Armed with positive feelings I had marched happily into the kitchen and pleasantly greeted my coworkers. Looking at me like I was speaking in moroccan wearing nothing but a shower cap they ignored my greeting and went right on their merry little ways. Determined not to be shaken by the animosity so early in the evening I went to find out what I could do. Happily, I found that I could help one of the few normal waitresses set the dining room straight. As we washed chairs she gave me a few hushed bits of advice. "Jan, Gina and Ashley think that they are the bosses of everyone" she whispered "but in reality, the only people you need to listen to are Captain Rigatoni, his Mother and Bobbi." Mulling over this tidbit of info I wondered how not listening to Jan in particular was going to work out for everyone. Not well, was my conclusion. Her ears must have been ringing because at that moment Jan trundled onto the scene to mutter loudly about our inept ability to properly wash chairs and then go off on a furious tirade at the hostess about the evenings floor plan. Sighing to myself I remembered that my inner poise and many zen like qualities were sure to get me thru the night in a state of calm.

My state of calm lasted until 3:55, when on schedule Capt Rig had his first meltdown of the evening. Deviating from his normal schedule he kept at it all night long. I had been assigned to stand in the kitchen and learn what the food looked like, and deliver it to the appropriate tables. By the time the dinner rush rolled around I had lost all sense of inner poise and wanted to run as fast as possible into the labyrinth of the restaurant passageways and hide in the gelato cooler. The tension was so thick that you could barely see thru it, Capt Rig was in a terrible state, and one could barely hear over his shouts of fury. Keeping all of the various dishes straight was a very tricky job as so many look very similar. Garnishing the plates properly is a matter of life and death, and heaven help you if you send an entree out without it's little parsley friend. And heaven help you if you slip up, and add a garnish to something you should not. My nerves were on high alert as I attempted to appropriately garnish the plates, rest their boiling hot little fannies on my arms and run them to the dining room while suffering third degree burns. All of this being done, with the bulging eyes of Capt Rig watching my every move.... While waiting for a plate of pesto to make it's way to me Jan stormed into the kitchen and shouted "HEY new girl, when you are not carrying food you have to be drying silverware." OK, off I went (hoping very much to hide in the dish station all night.) No such luck as within 2 seconds the cry went out for food runners "I have a rigatoni alfredo, a chicken broccoli and pesto with a side of veg for table 20!!" the cook droned. I repeated the order, as is required, garnished nervously and ran off to table 20 while watching the skin burn off my appendages. Coming back into the kitchen moments later I was greeted with an uproar "WHERE ARE MY VEGGIES" screamed Gina "Oh shit" replied the cook "The new girl took them" WHAT IN THE F**K WOULD SHE HAVE DONE THAT FOR, GOOD GOD??!!" screamed Gina in a complete rage. Sure enough, this attracted the attention of Capt Rig. Thundering out from behind the prep counter he demanded to know what was going on. (wait for it... THUMP. oops, that's me getting thrown under the bus..) "The NEW girl" fumed Gina "TOOK. MY. VEG." Deciding that there was nowhere to hide in I went to meet my doom. "Yes, it was me" I declared "I misheard the ticket order, and took those veggies right out. It was completely my fault and I'm very sorry." Standing there feeling like a complete ass for apologising so abashedly for making a side dish accident I awaited certain death. Things were suddenly very quiet. Looking at me Capt Rig took a deep breath "Okay. No problem." I glanced around nervously waiting for the trap door to hell to open up and swallow me whole. Gina, who evidently was wishing for an epic beat down to happen sourly snipped to me "well. let's make sure that mistakes like that don't happen again." My relief in escaping the fury of Capt Rig was painfully short lived as each and every server took it upon themselves to tell me that avoiding the wrath would be a short lived situation. Gina, obviously very mad at me for ruining her life and stealing her veggies made sure to loudly tell everyone to check their tables to make sure they were getting the correct food. Jan, never one to be nice continued to scream at me to dry the silverware, even if I was already drying it. The cook, who had given me the veggies and HAD been reamed a new one by Capt Rig for the horrible mistake took great satisfaction in giving me looks of death all night long, while reading the tickets so fast that I could hardly understand them. Just when I thought that my feelings of jarred nerves and horror couldn't get much worse Capt Rig ramped up the fury a few notches. Noticing that more sauce than he considers to be acceptable was going onto a plate of ravioli he freaked out at one of the cooks. "WHY WOULD YOU F***ING DO THAT YOU CLOWN?" he ranted "WHY DO I PAY TO TO BE SUCH A POINTLESS MORON!!??" And then he started smacking him. I waited for a full blown fist fight to begin and was a bit horrified when it never happened. A little voice in my head asked me what sort of grown ass man lets a big bully smack him around? Before logic could reply that NONE would, Gina and Jen both screamed towards me to DRY the SILVERWARE FASTER!!! Oh good grief, if this had bee a normal restaurant I would have taken a moment in dry storage to gather my nerves or perhaps shed a hysterical tear. In this case with my every move being in some way recorded I just continued to dry silverware as fast as possible while feeling like an uneducated 15 year old who is being punished.

When it was time for me to leave I took a moment to remind Bobbi that I was going to be out of town taking a blissful break from the madness of her restaurant for the better part of a week. I was curious to know when she expected that my training would be over and when might I be allowed to take a small section of tables. "Oh I really can't say" she purred "You still have A LOT of training to do." Which meant more shifts from hell making what boiled down to zero dollars.

Sitting in my car, later that night (or, early the next morning depending on how you look at it) I genuinely felt a bit shattered. The tension, the screaming and the backstabbing will take a lot out of a middle aged waitress, even one who has fairly thick skin. I concluded that I would need to make the most out of my time off and decide if the trauma was worth any amount of money. As I count down the days until my next shift I am still undecided...

In which all names are changed for obvious reasons...

2009-09-06T14:53:00.001-04:00

Arriving at NASA (oops, I mean the restaurant) on my second evening I was filled with trepidation. I had been told that my duty for the night was to shadow a server named Jan, who I assumed was the head waitress. Observing her the night before had lead me to believe that if not the head waitress, she certainly was the head harpie. Her temper was short as her stature and she was very quick to fly off the handle at the drop of a hat.
Reminding myself that this was not my first rodeo by any means I gave myself a shake and headed into the lions den. Jan was clearly not thrilled to have a newbie on her tail all night long. She drilled me about what I had learned the previous evening with the flighty waitress. Not satisfied with my answers she snipped "Well, last night was a huge waste of your time because not only is the flighty waitress an idiot but she's on drugs." "Nice" I thought to myself, accuse people of illegal activities.. Thinking back to my previous evening of training I could not think of any reason to think that the flighty waitress was on drugs.
We plowed forward with the staggering quantity of side work that this particular restaurant has the wait staff tend to. Since this is not my first time around the block I have a good outlook on side work. It can be an organized and rather fun time to ease into an evening of food and chaos. Here, it is a way to prep for the drama and hatred that you are going to be witnessing for the remainder of the evening. These people like to take the claws out early! As I was filling parm shakers (a job that it took 4 people to decide that I was qualified to do) I listened in to the chatter in the kitchen. As servers would come and go the conversation would transition from how so and so hated so and so, to how the server who just left was a waste of space, to how nobody liked anyone (evidently this is ok converstaion to have recorded on the kitchen audio system. HMM.). I mulled over how as much as I was not planning to make life long friends it was a bit alarming to see this level of animosity. My thoughts were cut short by the 3:55 flip out of Captain Rigatoni. He hurtled into the kitchen like a tsunami with high blood pressure and extreme anger issues. "WHAT TIME IS IT???" he ranted "WHY IS THIS PLACE A F***ING DUMP? WHY DO I PAY ANY OF YOU???" As his rant continued I looked around the immaculate kitchen and honestly wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Out of all the places I have worked this was the cleanest, most organized kitchen that I had ever seen so his anger over the mess was baffling.

As the evening progressed I was educated in the way that checks need to be handled. This is a restaurant that operates under the outdated and archaic method of hand writing tickets. In my experience this is a one way street to incorrectly ordered food, lost tickets and general chaos. However, I am a quick learner and felt that I was swiftly getting a handle on the finer details of the method. I was rapidly learning to use the prehistoric cash register and feeling pretty proud of my skills until I was interrupted by Gina, another server who I assumed was pretty high on the food chain. "I don't know if Jan bothered telling you" she snarled "but half the prices on the register are incorrect and if you don't remember to punch them in by hand you pay the difference." My world came crashing down as I realized that out of the 40+ items pre-programmed into the register I would have to be remembering to ring in completely different, and mysterious (and ever changing from the sounds of things) prices.
Jan took me around the restaurant in between serving everyone's food to let me know about what our duties were during the night. "As you know we do all the salad, bread and table prep at the start of the night" she squawked "in addition to that we make about half our own appetizers and we prepare all of the desserts to order." "When we have pizza as a special we make and bake that and prepare all the toppings" (at this point my notes started getting a bit shaky.) Trundling thru the restaurant, muttering criticisms of the other servers under her breath she continued "We get all the fruit and gelato for the frozen drinks, we make our own cappuccinos and coffee beverages." Spinning around to face me she continued "We bus our own tables and put away all the dishes and you NEVER, EVER leave that kitchen empty handed!!!" Lecture out of her system she continued on with some of her most heartfelt thoughts "I have OCD and everything about this place drives me insane... I often dream of blowing away every single person who works here because all of them are pointless idiots and I hate them... God, I hate them...." Noticing what must of been an expression of terror mixed horror on my face she laughed hysterically and said "But that's my problem not yours right?"

I spent the reminder of the evening keeping my head down trying to stay out of trouble. It was not an extremely encouraging situation to be shown how to do something and then to have it shown to me a completely different way by the next person to cross the threshold (and to be told by each that their was was the only correct way to do it and not to question the wisdom.) However, I managed to avoid breaking anything, getting too badly in the way, or catching the eye of Capt Rig.
As expected, at 7:30 Captain Rigatoni had another epic meltdown, there was shouting, swearing, getting into peoples faces, and from the looks of things another step was made towards a major coronary. I was not as bothered by this outburst as I had already borne witness to one earlier in the day.

While leaving I was asked by one of the servers how I was faring. I had to think about my reply carefully, as not only was I not exactly sure how I was doing but I knew that whatever I said was going right back to the kitchen. I replied that I thought I was learning the ropes as well as could be expected. She encouraged me to stick it out, as she had felt very insecure for her first couple weeks there but had adjusted and had been there for 7 years. Armed with this encouraging statement I tried to shake off the strangeness of the evening and develop positive feelings for my next shift.

Current time: where our heroine considers her escape plans

2009-09-05T12:53:00.005-04:00

Standing in the kitchen I looked around, and seriously considered dashing out the back door never to be seen again. I was in a precarious position, trapped between two waitresses having an epic cat fight and blocked in from the other side by the owner/manager/chef (who we will call Captain Rigatoni) tearing into one of the cooks. Far to my left hand side one of the other waitress burst into tears upon realising than an error she had made on a check the previous day was going to cost her over $175. I heard glass shattering from behind the line which distracted Captain Rigatoni. "WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT" he screamed, red face darkening to purple as the veins bulged in his forehead. "It was the olive oil decanter" whispered one of the cooks "my elbow hit it and I'm very, very sorry Captain Rigatoni." "THAT BOTTLE HAS BEEN IN THIS RESTAURANT FOR SIX YEARS" Capt Rig screeched with escalating fury "NEVER, NEVER IN MY LIFE HAVE I BROKEN A BOTTLE OF OIL, HOW CAN YOU BE SO STUPID YOU CLOWN???!!!" This rant continued for several moments more as did the enraged waitress debate over side work. Noticing that most employees were continuing to work as though this was a normal everyday event I concluded that making a mad dash for freedom was not critical to my safety, although it might be a wise choice for my mental health.

It had already been a long evening when the screaming in the kitchen started. I had not bargained for a first day mostly consumed by lists of things not to do. The flighty waitress that I had been assigned to train with thoroughly enjoyed lecturing me on the art of staying out of trouble. Her bottom line? Impossible to do. Standing in one the wait stations she fiddled with the coffee machine to appear busy while giving me a long list of dont's. "First of all" she declared "NEVER stand with your hands on your hips. NEVER cross your arms or rest your chin on your hand. And NEVER, EVER lean on ANYTHING." Another waitress made her way in to join us and jumped right on the "don't" bandwagon. Like crows cawing "DON'T DON'T" they jabbered away manically: "Don't EVER touch your face" And NEVER touch your hair" "Don't break anything because then you will have to buy it" "And whatever you do, don't remove your SHOE." Slightly amused I asked what might possess me to remove my shoe. They launched into a long and trying tale of how once a server removed his shoe in the wait station to fix his sock and the floor opened up under him and he fell into the seventh circle of hell. Pondering all that I had been warned against I asked an obvious question. "Who is watching us, and what will happen to me if I slip up and brush my hair from my face?" Cautiously, they both looked up and gestured towards the ceiling "THEY are watching us because there are cameras everywhere" the flighty waitress whispered. "And in the kitchen, they have us all on audio and they can hear everything!!" "So whatever you do" they both droned on "do not say anything about anyone and don't think that you are safe to relax anywhere." "And if you slip up" cautioned another waitress as she walked in "you will be called into the office and reprimanded. Capt Rigatoni will really let you have it." I wondered at that point where I had missed my turn into a restaurant parking lot and accidentally ended up in air traffic control, NASA, or some job where huge world changing decisions were being made. All of this seemed a bit silly and intense to me but I had yet at that point seen the huge hate ball that Capt Rig carried around with him.

Every restaurant has an order of how they like things done and what are the most important things for servers to be doing. Evidently in Capt Rig's house it is OK to seriously delay taking care of "your" tables as long as you are running the hot food out as soon as it's little food fanny hits the dishes. I noticed that many servers would completely forget that tables had reordered drinks or had requested their checks in their panicking haste to remove the food from the line. I suppose that you can look at like this: the guests will never get weary of waiting for their food but will grow old and gray while hoping for a check to get dropped off. but what do I know, I'm just a waitress...

Hours later while driving home I felt as though I had run 100 miles in 90 degree weather without taking off my winter jacket. Reflecting upon my first day I decided that perhaps the screaming was a fluke, the hate between the servers was (somehow?) justified and the feeling of concern that I had about the overall bizarreness of my evening had more to do with first day jitters than anything. By the time I had reached my house most of what I had witnessed seemed something that my jangled nerves had perhaps overreacted to. Was that the case? Stay tuned to find out...

You can call your restaurant "5 Star" but that does not make it so.

2009-08-31T06:06:00.000-04:00

You can dress up your staff, you can claim to be a gourmet restaurant, but if your dressed up staff is frightfully sub par, and your product is cringingly questionable then a 5 star bistro you are not.

At the time that I became employed at the restaurant where I spent 6 years I also took a part time job in the "5 Star" (who gave these stars was quite a mystery) restaurant at a local resort. I had worked at this resort in another department a year or two before this and was having my share of suspicions about this "Bistro" before I even set foot in the door. However, the manager seemed very positive and extremely organized and the staff members that I was acquainted with said the money was insanely good so off I went, full of hope.

I should have known that things were going to be questionable on my first day of training when the Head Chef announced "The haddock is minutes away from turning. I need you all to push the haddock- it has to go." These words made me think twice about eating anything at all that came out of that kitchen, let me tell you. This was the only kitchen I ever worked in where food quality was an afterthought, at best. Huge chunks of mold were cut off fruits and veggies before they were added to recipes. Almost anything could hit the floor and still be sent out to the dining room. I won't even start with the personal hygiene of most of the cooks, as it was too nasty for me to give much thought to without feeling a bit sick.

My training was done by a girl I knew, and was a most peculiar process. It did not help that she was an inept waitress, who couldn't keep an order straight if it was laid out in front of her on a ruler... She had an air of extreme agitation and nervousness around her, which seemed to be shared by many of the other wait staff. I wasn't long in making the discovery that to get thru a shift, most of the staff used a stunning variety of uppers, downers, and various mood adjusters. It appeared to be common that most would come in either way too shifty and **ahem** teeth grindy, or a bit to mellow and spaced out. Either way, they would be quick to remedy the situation with another dose of their choice substance and be rendered fairly useless. It was a wonder that there was ever any food to send out to the customers what with the excessive snacking and munching that the cooks needed to do to offset the side affects of their "herbal remedies." They could often be found, crouching behind the dumpster in the parking lot snacking on special brownies, or they would emerge from the walk in pantry in a cloud of smoke. Nice!

Despite the extra curricular activities of most of my counterparts I managed to get trained and started to wait for the busy nights and piles of cash that I had been promised. One evening, after we had done about 110 people (with 9 servers, an expeditor, 2 bus boys, a coffee person and a 2 hostesses) one of my fellow waitresses wiped off a bead of sweat and said "WELL, there's a good shift for you!" I examined the 43 dollars that I had made and couldn't help but disagree.

Not only was I fighting a loosing battle against strung out coworkers and questionable food, but there was the problem of the Head Chef dating the Head Waitress (guess who always got her food first) and the fact that after impressing me with his skills the Manager took off, never to be seen or heard from again. By me, at any rate. Things spiraled into chaos and bedlam, with the Head Waitress taking over the scheduling and giving herself and her friends all the good shifts. There was no order in the dining room, as the hostess was having an affair with the bartender and was so busy mooning away over him that people would come in and seat themselves. The tension in the kitchen was about to reach a breaking point, as the Head Waitress, who was dating the head chef had previously been engaged to another cook who still worked there. Things were not civil between the three of them, as periodically the HW would shack up with her ex. Now, why that would cause problems is just beyond my comprehension!!

After toughing out this peculiar working environment for a couple of months I was growing weary of constantly having to dodge angry jilted lovers, huge clouds of pot smoke, and a poor schedule. I was serving a table of two lovely ladies who had ordered a very expensive filet mignon special. Checking back with them, I discovered that one wished for her food to be cooked a bit longer. Making my way into the kitchen I placed this simple request with one of the cooks. "WHAT?" he yelled in fury "THAT STEAK IS MEDIUM, THAT B***H DOESN'T KNOW JACK S**T!!!" "It needs 3 more minutes," I muttered "it's so easy, please just do it for me?" He threw the steak on the floor, and his friend picked it up. "Watch this" his friend said as he proceeded to stick the steak down his pants and do god only knows what with it. I stood there in mute horror as most of the kitchen staff hooted and whistled, encouraging this madness to continue. After hocking a vindictive loogie onto the re-plated filet he tried to pass it to me over the line "You take that out" he jeered "and see how she likes it now!" Looking at him in disgust I flat out refused to do so. The head waitress happened to be in the kitchen at this point, and glaring at me she grabbed the plate of contamination and brought it back to the poor, sweet lady who had no idea what was coming to her. I could hardly believe my eyes, and felt like I was living out a scene from a cliched waitressing film. I hung up my joke of a bistro length apron and quit.

A flash back to a mundane day on the job

2009-08-28T17:55:00.000-04:00

Let's rewind again for a moment and take a look at a "normal" day at work:

As I pull into the restaurant parking lot my cell phone jangles in my bag. Reaching for it, I notice that it is the restaurants number on my caller id. "Hello" I say, while wondering if I should just shout from the back door. "Hello? Hello Honey?" an ultra chipper voice says in my ear "Just calling because I got in a little early today so why don't you stay home for a bit." I look at my watch and see that it reads 5 minutes to the hour of my arrival. "Well" I reply with a sigh "I'm here, literally walking in at this moment and since I live 20 minutes away I'm going to stay." She replies will something slightly incoherent and signs off.

As I walk thru the back door and into the kitchen I see my BWF (best work friend) who is rolling his eyes at me. "She has been here for over an hour" he mutters over the line "And I told her to call you with enough time for you to change your plans." I peek out into the dining room and see a couple of tables occupied, which I assume are left over lunche-ers. The bus girl comes running into the kitchen, breathless. "What's the rush?" I inquire "Not much going on here as far as I can see..." "Ugh, she's already running me around" she replies nodding over her shoulder to indicate the other waitress "She'll be in to talk to you in a moment." My fellow waitress bustles into the kitchen at this point and greets me with "I already took a couple tables Honey, so I don't have any prep done but I'll be back to help you as soon as I get control of this!!" "Control of WHAT?" I hear my BWF exclaim, "There are four people out there and you are running the busser!" I start the prep work, which is never so bad when my BWF is there because we catch up on the latest episode of Lost, the things that we expect to read in the next Harry Potter book; and we occasionally think up the worst names possible, Archibald Methuselah and Adinijah Peacock seem to usually top the list.

While making salads I see a fairly big party come into the dining room and wonder how this is going to play out. Being that the other waitress already has 2 tables.... My thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of the OW (other waitress) "Honey, since I was in first I should get the first chance at the big table so I am just going to get them started, okay? still friends, right??" Now it is my turn to mutter something unintelligible, because as much as I tolerate the OW she is not exactly my pal. I tend to reserve the title of Friend for induviduals who have managed to work their way into my cold heart of stone, and I usually feel very warm and fuzzy towards these few people. I'd give them a kidney, or the last bite of pie, or spend time chatting and exchanging monosyllabic words of arrogance. I can not imagine doing any of these things with the OW so I grouchily get on with the replenishing of the ketchups and slicing of the cheesecakes.

After a bit I see another party walk in and watch as the bus girl seats them in my section. "Show Time" I announce to nobody in particular and I make my way out to the main dining room. From behind me I hear a shrill "Hiiiiiii Guyyyyyyys" and I see the OW intercepting me from across the room. As she gabs away to the new table I stand conspicuously behind her, making it well known that I am going to come straight thru her in about point two seconds. "Honeeeyyy" she burbles to me "these are my friends and I'd like to take them if you don't mind" You can have the next TWO tables that come in, still friends right??" Well, if walking back into the kitchen and plotting to kick your booty into next week means "still friends" then yes, we are best buds for life.

Time marches on. I resort to cleaning salt shakers while having a heated game of hangman with my BWF and the dishwasher. I am delighted to finally get a table, but it is the lady who orders a cup of hot water with lemon, and a side salad and leaves me a twenty five cent tip. So my joy is short lived.

One of the perks of being the first one in, as I should have been, is that on slow nights you can go home early and carry on with your real life. And as sure as the sun rises, as soon as the OW gets a bit bored she propositiones me to let her go home. "I know you were the supposed to be the first one in sweetie pie, but since I was and since I did all the prep work I think I'll just head on home, ohhhh kaaaay??" I am ready to argue but I see the bus girl making praying hands to me behind the OW's back, begging me to stay- and knowing that if I do I'll just let her go home and do her homework. "Fine, go, whatever." I say to the OW, not feeling like making a great big noisy fuss. "Off you go." And off she goes, to sit at the bar until close.

At this point I proceed to to get zero tables and give up the pretense of looking busy in favor of sitting on the kitchen floor eating croutons (not off the floor) and trying to figure out how high I'd have to jump to touch the ceiling. My BWF does it easily, the dishwasher does it after a couple tries and I get out the stepladder. Looking at the clock I realize it's 10 minutes to close and am horrified that I have not had a table in over 2 hours. I putter out to the bar and try to talk the bartender into closing up shop and heading on home like normal people. "No way lady" he declares "we might get busy yet!" We had better freaking not, I think to myself as I return to the kitchen. "Did he close?" holler the BWF and the dishwasher together. As I explain the situation, their eagerness to be done turns to disgust "We haven't had people in two hours" the dishwasher howls in agony. "Just cloooooose!" We watch the clock, tick tick tick, as the big hand moves closer and closer I hear the dreaded words "You have a two at 2" says the bartender. "NOOOOO!" screeches the dishwasher, furiously banging a soup ladle on the countertop "no! no! no!"

I make my way to table 2, ready to do a wham, bam thank you ma'am job and send them on their way, fed, happy but pretty damn quick. As I greet them I am horrified to learn that "They want to have a nice relaxing dinner, and are in no rush what so-ever." They are all cozied up on the banquette, clearly very much in love with one another and not scared to show it. "Lovely" I think to myself as I go to the bar to snag their drinks "nothing like obvious romance to really put me in a fine frame of mind at this point. Not." I take an extra moment at the bar, because in addition to a pair of cocktails they have also ordered a hard (for me) to find bottle of wine. I come up for air after rummaging around for several minutes and discover that I can not see them anymore. "Hey" I call to the bartender "did they leave? Where are they?" "I have been here the whole time that you have been under the bar" he tells me "and they are most certainly still at table 2. Feeling a bit odd, I go back to their table and discover why I can no longer see their heads over the top of the banquette. They are reclining, and for lack of a better term totally making out. I gasp audibly, as I am unaccustomed to seeing a display of soft porn at my workplace, drop their drinks (not literally) and run like the wind. I explain to the bartender what is going on and in great amusement he peeks over the bar and checks out the love fest on table 2. "Oh wow" he chuckles "it's getting worse and worse over there. I think you might need to go and tear them off each other." "OH NO" I exclaim "That is so not in my job description and you are far more intimidating than I am. You go over and mutter menacingly in your scariest baritone." Which, remarkable is exactly what he does. Amazingly, the love struck couple is in such a hurry to leave at this point (out of embarrassment or pent up **ahem** feelings for one another I'll never know) but they hightailed it a speedy way. And left me a 100% tip which made up for the bow-chicha-bow-bow in the banquette.

And speaking of what people might be like....

2009-08-25T05:55:00.001-04:00

You watched the movie "Waiting" and now think that you have a pretty good idea of what goes on in the inner workings of a restaurant, right? The drama, the catfights, the sex, the drugs, the sex, the parties, the sex and Oh My! the actual work. I hate to be the one to break it to you but in reality it doesn't quite go down that way.

A restaurant can be an intense place to work, it get hot and loud, servers tend to get very emotional about their food and take it quite personally when they feel that the kitchen is not moving fast enough. This most certainly can lead to many a screeching hair tearing fight. People bump into other people and you share a lot of personal space, which perhaps some might find sexy. Take into account though that the people you are bumping into are sweaty, covered in bleu cheese dressing and often rather short tempered (ok, ok I know that sounds like a dream come true to some of you out there but stick with me and pull your mind from the gutter.) At many restaurants the employees share a drink (or a few) after work and as we all know, alcohol makes things seem even more dramatic and intense than they might actually be. I only worked in one place where the drama and hormones ran on overdrive. There was constantly an undertone of sexual frustration coming from many of the servers (frustration because the object of their desire was married to a really big, tough guy perhaps?) I observed many casual booze fueled hookups. It was rarely safe to walk into dry storage after hours unless you wanted to see a little whatever with whoever going down on the bags of flour (ick, ick.) There were plenty of double entendres, innuendo and borderline harassment from the undesirable members of the dishwashing staff. This was definitely a place where all the cliched things about restaurant employees being over-hormonal looked to be very true.

I was honestly pleased when I gained employment at a different establishment and left all those shenanigans behind. The place that I worked in from the longest time had a very close knit group of employees none of whom had the tendency to accidentally fall into bed with one another (whoops! how did I end up here?). This created a much more fun work environment (that might be hard for some to believe, but really!) I developed an excellent friendship with one of my coworkers (who is not the coworker I subsequently married. no personal life stories from me!) We found that we had many geek qualities in common and had many magical friendship filled years. I was lucky to have a work BFF and generally got along well with everyone. But, those catfights that so many restaurant movies portray? Oh yes, I saw many of those go down. You have never seen fury until you see a waitress take the food that belongs to another waitress. The tempers flare, the gloves come off and a royal smack down over whose fried clams those were begins in full force! Usually, the cooks are able to quickly remedy a situation like this unless they end up getting blamed by the Waitress of Fury and then they get in on the yelling action too. Ahhhh a kitchen battle, nothing quite like it.

At least with your coworkers you get to know them and have a pretty good idea of what to expect from Frequent-Crying-Jag-Jean, or I'm-So-In-Love-With-The-Busboy-Betsy. Your customers on the other hand are a feisty bunch, you can never be quite sure what to expect. All of us who wear a stained apron have at one point or another, been subjected to some ridiculous behavior from people who should know better. A fine example of someone who had not yet learned to keep his naughty words inside his mouth... I was waiting on a family (let me stress that- FAMILY, Dad, wife, kids.) The Dad came in buzzed with a clear plan to get drunk. His behavior was questionable from the start, and he was full of "little jokes" and leering sloppy grins. I was fully prepared to cut him off, but didn't want to make a big deal of it on front of his fam so I bent down and said something to effect of "I'm not giving you any more booze you idiot". "You know what, umm, you know what??" he whispered at me "WHAT" I deadpanned, figuring that he was going to argue a good case for one more drink "Ummmm" he sloppily hissed "You know what would make you like, a perfect 10??? A BOOB JOB." I looked at him with a blank expression and sized up the situation. He had just remarked about the size of my ta-tas in front of his family, he was clearly not the brightest bulb in the box and was probably too tipsy to be able to calculate an appropriate tip. And thanks for the underhanded compliment, sicko, but even with size DD bosoms a perfect 10 I would not be. So sighing, I leaned down and hissed back at him "Evidently, my current breast size is quite similar to your current brain size." And walked away. While certainly not the only person to make fully inappropriate comments to me throughout my waitressing years his idiocy was the most memorable. And was laughed about and reenacted many a time in the kitchen, the bar, and to all the people I know. But where there are asshats there are also many excellent people. The numbers of great, fun and most importantly excellent tipping people I have waited on far outnumbers the bad ones. But, one tends to remember the bad ones.

2009-08-22T06:01:00.000-04:00

Step one towards the quest to make piles of sweet moolah is to ace your job interview. I remember my first restaurant interview like it was yesterday....

It was springtime in the year of 2000 and I had decided that waiting tables was the key to my financial freedom, and would hopefully provide me with another key as well. That of a new, shiny car- I was dreaming big and planning for my fabulous future. (In retrospect, I must not have been dreaming that big because the first place I applied at was well known as one of the local seedy dives.) I had put in an application and had been called back for an interview, something that I was feeling very positive about. I entered the managers office and was greeted by a thick cloud of menthol cigarette smoke, a couple cats and the strange realization that her office was decorated with "Hello Kitty" tchochkes. The manager, a woman of nondescript age and very obvious blue eyeliner asked me a few basic questions. While lighting a new cigarette with the end of the old one she proclaimed, "You know honey, I just don't think that you are what we are looking for." "Alright" I replied "I know my inexperience in the restaurant field might work against me but I have a lot of expertise in customer service in general." As I opened my mouth to speak again she cut me off "No, no (hack, hack) honey it's not something you can change, we were really hoping that you were just a bit younger." I caught a glimpse of myself in her bedazzled Hello Kitty mirror and couldn't help but think that I had slipped into a bizzaro alternate universe, where barely 20 equals geriatric. I looked fresh faced and painfully young, and was reminded that just earlier that day I had been asked if I still attended my towns local grade school.... "Younger" I stammered "Well, you are right, there is nothing I can do to turn back the clock at this point in time." "You are right dear, she rasped "We really to try to stick with the local high school girls because that is what our clients seem to prefer." Images of rampant pedophilia zipped thru my head as I stood to take my leave. Walking out thru the kitchen and dining room I noticed that the staff was extremely young, and it occurred to me that perhaps I was fighting a loosing battle against my obvious old age. Amusingly, my job search at that point continued to take some bizarre twists and I was rejected not only for being an obvious retiree, but for "Being a girl" (sorry about my chromosomes) "not having the right look" (no, I'm not platinum blonde and 5'11") and for not being able to work breakfast shifts. I finally hit on some luck when exhausted, I walked into a restaurant and in a desperate way informed the bartender that "There was NO reason NOT to hire me!!" While pounding the bar with my fist to emphasize my point. Much to my surprise he was also the owner and encouraged the manager in charge of hiring to find work for me so that I wouldn't come back and scare him again. And so began my illustrious career, and I am still reminded to this day by that particular individual of our first meeting. (he no longer owns that restaurant and sadly, is something of a disgrace but is not scared to bring up the forceful way in which I gained employment...) My time at this restaurant was rather short lived as, like I already mentioned the ownership/management left something to be desired. I got very lucky getting into restaurant #2, as I had two acquaintances working there. It was one of those situations where, if you were a random person applying off the street you never would have snagged a job. However I got lucky, made my move, did my thang and worked there for 6 years.

Fast forward almost 10 years and here we are in current time. As I ventured back out into the world of job applications and interviews that subsequently made me feel like a 15 year old uneducated school girl I reminded myself of several things. I now have years of experience, I am old, wise, mature and have no desire to party my nights away. I know how to politely talk about my strengths and I am excellent at letting people know how (on no uncertain terms) I would be an asset to their establishment. (and I kept my pounding fists to myself, sadly.) My business savvy self tells me that these are fine qualities to have but my experience thus far argues that point.

I attempted to gain employment at a local restaurant that has a specific specialty, one that I happen to be exceptionally well versed in. They were thrilled to have me call, delighted to take my resume, borderline hysterical at my vast knowledge of their product. When I made a follow up call I was told to wait to hear back from them but to be prepared to start that weekend (but wait for the call. and yes they would call me) After breaking all my rules and actually waiting for a phone call, it dawned upon me after several days that it was never going to happen. I can take a hint- they were "just not that into me." I moved on, made a few other calls and was either shocked by the rudeness at the other end of the line or encouraged by a scattered sounding host to come in and apply. After a bit more disappointment and disorganization, wasted time and frustration I was about to throw in the towel and cry uncle. At this point my eyes were telling me that if hired at many of these places I would be the senior citizen of the group. I had to start wondering if the downhill walk to 30 was going to the equivalent of a walk right out the door.... Unlike when I was barely old enough to drink and could not possibly take a person seriously when they said that I really ought to be younger- the comments of hiring "college age kids" was starting to hurt a bit. But, I'm not a quitter and wasn't quite ready to give up on a good fight just yet. And, as I walked into one of the best restaurants I know, and got hired before I could even hand over my resume I realized that it had been a good choice to stick it out. As I head back into the world of being on the wrong side of the table I start to wonder: What will these people be like?

And speaking of money...

2009-08-21T07:53:00.000-04:00

What do servers dream of.... Ahhh, the possibilities- do we dream of frolicking in a restaurant filled with daisies and cabana boys? (or girls, depending on who you are) do we dream of a magical kitchen where you snap your fingers and your tray is filled instantly with whatever your customers desire? Perhaps we do, but other than the nagging and constant nightmares that accompany a waitressing job the number one thing we dream about is making so much money that we can throw it all around and roll in it while screaming in glee. I actually did that once, but sadly- only once... Money is the number one motivator for most servers and that is the bottom line. Back in the day, when I was young and carefree my motivation for making cash was so that I could live in a totally awesome apartment and drive a super fast car. Now that I am a woman of more advanced years I wistfully dream of paying the bills, and being able to make the car payment on my very average and painfully slow Toyota.

For many it seems that the dream of cash involves making so much of it that you can move on to the career you were destined to do. You do not come across many servers who admit to being happy and satisfied, trotting about with trays of daiquiris and popcorn shrimp. It's almost taboo to confess that you wait tables because that is what you do. Case in point: Throughout my waitressing career I have always held down another job, and am self employed. For many, the fact that I waitress means that my business must be quickly sliding down the path to destruction or bankruptcy, which fortunately is not the case at all. Many customers ask "What else do you DO" (like is is shameful to be making more money than they probably do, by bringing them their dinner, right?) My reply "I own my own small business and wait tables to earn some extra money, and to enjoy time seeing all the local patrons" (suck up!) They will look at me quizzically and say something to the effect of "Boy, bet you can't wait until your business isn't suffering so that you can get OUT of THIS!!" No reply can satisfy this particular customer unless you are willing to beat your brow, and declare that you can not wait to give up a couple hundred dollars of fast earned cash, you have always dreamed of a life that involves less money.

If the majority of my table waiting life had not been in a small town where everybody knew everybody else's personal business I would have concocted a lie about my need to wait tables. There seem to be several appropriate answers to the "What else DO you DO" query. From my own coworkers I heard several excellent, and vaguely true, reasons that would get a response of sympathy and a $50 bill from the customer. "I wait tables to support myself and my deadbeat ex-boyfriends baby." (you do not. you wait tables to help put your 3 kids through private school.) "I am working on my screenplay/my novel/I plan to win a nobel peace prize." (a common one, this dream rarely works out.) "I am putting myself thru business school and my only other option was working the street corner of my town but it was already taken by a few underage girls." (OK, that's one that I always wanted to use but thought better of it.) So my basic view on the situation is that if you have a BIG dream, or are suffering grandly it is A-OK to spend your free time waiting tables. But if you are already a professional and hold down a day job it is confusing, and questionable to be waiting tables for extra cash.

What many do not know, is that if you are a good waitress, or waiter and are willing to work hard you make a good chunk of change. It is one of the only things that you can legally do, with no formal schooling that brings in that kind of cash flow. And honestly, looking out at my street corner I know that I could NOT do good business there so throwing around chowder and Cesar salad is still my best option.

2009-08-20T13:20:00.000-04:00

I crouch behind the bar, frantically attempting to replace a keg when the panicking bar tender comes back to where he belongs. "Just goooo" he moans "I just put a 4 on 21, a 3 on 8 and a 6 on 12. I survey the mayhem that has fallen upon our previously dead quite dining room and attempt to plan my next move. Hard to believe, that just 15 minutes earlier I had been having a serious test of skill with my co-workers in the kitchen trying to see how many steps it took to cross the room. Needless to say, shortly after we discovered that 41 was the number, absolute madness had overtaken our restaurant.
I quickly cross the room, drinks in hand to figure out how to best deal with the cold, hard fact that there are now over 50 people in the restaurant, who have all come in within 5 minutes of each other, a packed bar, and just me myself and I to deal with the chaos. Since "Drinks" is always the answer to that question I set myself to the task of taking and delivering 50 (oh no, we'll up the total to 60 as the door opens again) drinks before people start getting testy.
As I sprint back to the bar I realise that this is going to have to be a team effort. The sweating, trembling bar tender looks at my drink ticket and in unison we grab bottles of tequila and sour mix and start pouring. "What are you going to DO?" he hisses at me thru clenched teeth. "Triage" I declare, as I grab a shaker and start a-shaking, "that's the only way to deal with this. I have to get the most critically hungry people fed first and out of here before they kick up a huge stink." As the bar tender turns away, moaning and growing more pale by the second it becomes painfully clear that there is no "I" in team and I'm going to be running a one woman show from here on out. I run around making and delivering drinks, pausing to take appetizer orders from what appear to be the most desperately in need of sustenance. I bring baskets of bread out along with crackers and coloring books to pacify the kids. Taking dinner orders becomes my next order of business as well as the difficult decision of how to replenish drinks, deal with my new tables that have arrived and how to fend off the stink eye I'm getting from table 7 due to the insanity that is far, far beyond my control. I hear a commotion in the kitchen and step back to see what the fuss is. "86 Prime rib!" shouts the cook while flipping burgers with one hand and flipping veggies in a pan with the other. "Tell table 2 that we don't have anything on their ticket, no Prime Rib, No shrimp, No Cajun Chicken!!!" AND TELL THE BAR that we have EIGHTY SIXED those items FOR THE NIGHT!!!" Okay, having to go out and tell people that they can't have anything they want can put a waitress in a sticky place. What to do, I ponder to myself... Blame the Kitchen staff! They are always out of sight and rarely discover that they are the scapegoats of many situations. Crisis neatly averted I decide that all things being taken into consideration my next move is nothing short of revenge. Nothing good ever comes from putting in dinner orders for 60 people all at once, especially in a restaurant that can only hold 60 people but it happens. I cross my fingers for myself and sprint off again, to replenish drinks, make sure the bartender is still on his feet and tell lies that "we have NO creme brulee" tonight- because I don't have time to brulee the damn creme, thank you very much. I can hear the sounds growing louder and louder in the kitchen and I know I have only seconds until mass orders of food start piling up. As I make my way to the back of the house to organize myself as best I can, I hear a huge crack and all the lights go OUT.

As I open my eyes I realise that I am at home, in bed. Breathing a huge sigh of relief I look at the clock "3:55" it reads and I groan and strike my pillow with disgust, as I only have 5 minutes to go until the alarm goes off and with all the waitressing I have been doing, I'm anything but well rested. I reflect upon the toll that the years of waitressing have taken on my fragile psyche. That night in my dream DID happen, but many of my waitressing nightmares have more to do with not being able to find the bar, or discovering that my feet are glued to the floor and I can not get the drinks for table 6 than actual reality. It has been 2 years 6 months since I have found myself on the wrong side of a table and I must still be deeply haunted by the trauma of that time. I roll out of bed and look at my floor where I see them sitting there, the items that I had cast out of my life never to be seen or heard from again. My waitressing shoes. "Hmmm", I ponder, only a few days left until I strap those bad boys on and head back to the front lines of the food service industry. As I rub the sleep out of my eyes I try to remember why I am going back... WHY? What is possessing me to relive my waitressing nightmares. Simple answer, MONEY.