December 24, 2009
October 16, 2009
As predicted, this term is an absolute doozy ! We are three weeks in, and I still haven't had a chance to stop and catch my breath. I took the first month off from work to focus completely on school without distractions. I told my boss I would be back mid-October, but the way things are shaping up, if I do return to work it may only be for one sad shift a week....and hell no, it doesn't make ME sad at all.
I plan to post any interesting events that happen throughout my clinical rotations however. I mean, I realize this is a waitress blog and all, but you KNOW you'd rather read about old man testicle gunk, or my incontinent coma patient shitting on me while I was changing his bed. After all, that's real entertainment. No more "Oh, table 3 is being a bitch" or, "that asshole didn't tip..." lets get down and dirty with the stuff life is REALLY all about.
In the mean time I plan on changing the title of this blog. Also follow me on Twitter for more frequent updates (though probably still uncommon). And make sure to not go anywhere! I haven't forgotten about you. I will post when I can, and will regularly update throughout school breaks.
Also, if you've ever taken any medical courses and worked with a SimMan or a mannequin, this video is sure to have you laughing your ass off!!
September 25, 2009
This week you bared your soul. You shared the gruesome details, you admitted to crimes against society, you laughed an evil laugh, and I loved every second of it.
Secret Confession #1- One time I had to deliver a fruit tray to the main office of the county department of health. The delivery was scheduled for very early in the morning, and was located a good 30 minutes away from my house. Since my work was another 30 miles away in the opposite direction, I decided to bring the fruit tray home with me to save an hour at the crack of dawn. That morning as I sleepily loaded the fruit tray into my car, I accidentally dropped it all over the pavement... There was no time to get the ingredients, much less prepare them, so I did the only thing I could think of: I picked up all of the fruit, rinsed it off, and reassembled the platter. Yup, I served pavement fruit to the health department.
Brilliant. The shear irony of the situation would have been to much to handle. Now, lets hear from the passive aggressive antics of a pizza maker, and a cocktail waitress...
Secret Confession #2- I used to work at a place that served take-away pizza. Whenever someone was especially rude, I would slice their pizza just hard enough so it looked like it had been sliced, but not hard enough to cut through the crust. Devastating? Probably not. But the thought of those jerks making a mess of themselves trying to eat a slice on the way home always made me smile.
Secret Confessions #3-When I was a cocktail waitress at a casino, I used to do something called "arm pit straws". Whenever a person was particularly nasty and called me a bitch, I would put their straw under my arm pit while I was delivering other drinks. I would then put the straw in their drink (arm pit side up) and deliver it with a smile.
Ahh, and just the thought of you silently sabotaging those asswads makes me smile too. Thank you all for your confessions this week. Keep them coming, as I am thoroughly enjoying reading through them. It sure is nice to know you are all just as screwed up and vindictive as I am.
September 21, 2009
When hubby and I first met during the awkward prepubescent years, we were like two zit faced tweens in a Proactive commercial. We smiled at each other with metal faces as I knelt down to give him a kiss. See, I had a growth spurt before most kids my age, and was much like an amazonian walking several feet above my peers. Though it was a successful year for me and sports, it was not uncommon for me to hear shouts of "She-Man" and "Giraffe" echoing down the halls.
Like most things that happen during the ages of 11-14, we pray they stay buried and locked within the walls of our junior high, our relationship was certainly one of them. Pictures were burned to hide the evidence that I had, in fact, dated a midget.
Six years later when hubby and I ran into each other again, I was happy to see that he was no longer 4'8, but was still as thin as ever. We started dating immediately and four years later we were married. Though he was still shorter then me, this time it was only by mere inches, rather then entire feet as was the case in junior high. We were finally on level playing field. Until slowly, I began gaining the dreaded marriage weight I had heard horror stories about. While some will be quick to blame the birth control, I will admit the fault was nobodies but my own... and whole milk, and ice cream. Four months after the wedding, I was shocked when my favorite skinny jeans didn't fit anymore.
In effort to save money, the grocery shopping was down to mainly essentials, and since hubby needs high calorie food and drink to keep up his weight (lucky bastard) I found myself buying whole milk, pasta, and Pepsi. (yes, Pepsi is an essential).
Once I identified the culprit I immediately changed my shopping habits. I began buying skim milk, non-fat ice cream and Diet Pepsi for myself, while still buying high calorie foods for him. Within months I had lost most of the weight, and rejoiced as I slipped effortlessly into my favorite jeans.
One night last week I called hub, and asked if he could pick me up a Diet on his way home. When he arrived home with Coke, I threw a fit. After a four month love affair with Diet Pepsi, I felt that drinking any thing else was an abomination. Three 2-liters in two hours later, I was addicted. I began bathing in it, washing my dishes with it, and feeding it to my kitten. I filled my car, my cereal and my aquarium with it. I washed my clothes, filled the hot tub, and watered my plants with it. I dreamt of it at night, and made love to it during the day. Thank you husband for accidentally bringing it home that fateful night that changed my life. I will now fight anyone who says that Diet Pepsi is better.
And on a completely unrelated note, this is the funniest blog ever!! Go check it out, and leave some love. Adnoxious.blogspot.com
September 17, 2009
Since 90% of my year is spent with my nose deep in the books, when each school term is finished I usually have a few weeks to unwind, stay in my pj's all day, veg out and watch the episodes of all my favorite shows that I've missed. So to commemorate my finishing Gossip Girl Season 2 in less than 4 days, I have decided to feature a weekly Confession, written by you of course.
Are you a waitress, a pizza delivery driver, a barista, a grocery store checker, a nurse, or a retail salesman? If you work in any from of customer service and have ever fucked with a customer unbeknownst to them, please share it here. Tell me your deepest darkest secrets. Tell me about the time you spit on a pizza, or the time you ate food from a patrons plate after removing it from their table. Tell me about pouring Visine into someones drink, or giving that hot guy a discount on sharp Cheddar at the store. I want the gruesome details! And don't worry, It'll remain anonymous unless you request otherwise.
To begin this new feature on Confessions of a Part Time Waitress, I will start by sharing a secret of my own.
When I was 16 I worked at Little Caesars Pizza. On many occasions during my delivery's I would sneakily eat a bread stick out of the bag. Since each bag came with 8, I figured nobody would ever find out. To this day I don't know if anyone did.
Now its your turn. Just type it into the box on your left!
September 10, 2009
September 9, 2009
I think I need to change my blog title to Confessions of the Occasional Waitress. Or maybe 5 Hours a Week Waitress, or possibly I Hate my Dead End Job and Can't Wait to Quit as Soon as I'm Done With School....What do you think? Sounds pretty catchy eh?
Last week was our "unofficial" anniversary weekend. We headed North to watch our favorite band play a show, and then camped for 5 days on the beach. We had so much fun, and dreaded the thought of coming home and heading back to work. Funny thing is, we're home and I still have 5 more days off. See, I'm quite possibly the least of my employers concern right now. When I was first hired I told my manager that I would have complete availability. 7 days a week, any shift, doubles, triples, anything. Then once I started, I found out I had been accepted into the Nursing Program, and that the next two years of my life would be a complete shit storm of homework, clinicals, and HESI's. So, imagine the managers surprise when they learned they completely wasted their time training me when I would only be available to work one, maybe two shifts a week. Oh well, I guess that's the gamble. So now they just don't schedule me. And to be honest, I'm not complaining. The less I work the happier I am.
Next weekend is our "official" anniversary and we have another weekend getaway planned. Then just days after we get back Fall term starts and I wont even have enough time to scratch my own ass let alone work a shift at the steakhouse.
September 3, 2009
Several months ago, The Hooters Girl challenged her readers to officially "Follow" her blog, and that who ever became the one hundredth follower would be featured on a Blog Share post.
As I have reached 85 followers of my own, I would like to present the same challenge to you. The one hundredth follower of my blog will receive a full post dedicated to them, (and the blog/journal or site of their choosing), and a link on my page under Favorites.
I would also like to add that in doing so, you will be guaranteeing much additional traffic towards your blog.
So, what do ya say?
Post by G.H. at 12:45 AM
September 1, 2009
Last night was my first day back from my bullshit suspension. Though I walked in feeling completely awkward and uncomfortable, both mangers did a good job pretending nothing happened, while whispers of "I thought she was fired," and "I hear she's been stealing for months" were overheard from fellow employees throughout the night.
It was a remarkably uneventful shift, spent avoiding confrontation of any sort. It was ridiculously slow, and we were asked to start small cleaning projects. I opted to roll hundreds and hundreds of silverware, as it beats the hell out of scrubbing crusted cheese, and layers of spilled sauce under the salad bar.
I think it may be the law anyway, but my steakhouse is what you might consider an equal opportunity employer. This usually means non-biased hiring towards sex, race, or religion. However we have often hired mentally handicapped people as well. Now, please don't leave nasty comments because I will have none of it. My Aunt had down syndrome, and I have a soft spot in my heart for the mentally challenged. I do not, however, think that they belong working in a stressful position like those offered at a restaurant. Our newest hired busser is handicapped. He is very friendly, and does what he is told, problem is it takes him 5 times as long to get it done, and he forgets important parts of each task, which usually takes someone else to clean up, or sort out.
Last night, I thought I would teach him to roll silverware, and smiled as his eyes filled with joy at learning the new skill. We spent about ten minutes together rolling silverware, when he was asked to empty all the trash cans. He returned from the job to continue with silverware, and was completely drenched with sweat. I assumed he had washed his hands, so we continued rolling. We made small talk until I caught him wiping drips of sweat from his forehead with his bare hands. At first I was unsure of what to tell him, so I just watched as he scratched his nose, rubbed his sweaty neck, and returned his hands to silverware rolling. I gagged a bit, and then I reminded him that anytime he touched his face he needed to wash his hands. He nodded agreeably, and took off to do so.
While he was gone, Manager C (the one to suspend me) walked by with her manager meal, said she would be in the office eating dinner if anyone needed her, and reached forward to grab the nearest silverware.
Of course she grabbed the one Busser had just snotted, and sweat all over. And of course I didn't tell her. I just snickered to myself, and told her to enjoy her meal.
August 29, 2009
Last Monday during a closing shift an old friend of mine sent me a text saying that she was in town and wanted to see me. I told her I was working, but that she could come in and hang out for a bit, so she came, and brought with her another very close friend that I hadn't seen in a few months.
I casually asked them if they wanted something to drink, while flashing them the "of course I won't charge you" smile. One had a Pepsi while the other had a raspberry lemonade. As many of you are probably aware, to have food made, or a bar drink poured you must ring it into the computer because the kitchen/bartender cannot make anything unless they have a ticket. There are only a few things that servers have complete control over, and fountain drinks are one of them. It is because of this, that I didn't charge my friends for their drinks.
I took their order, and rang in their food. I sat and chatted for a bit while they ate, then I collected their money for the bill, and then hugged them as they left.
About ten minutes later, I made a stupid mistake on a new order and needed a manager to void off an item. We laughed about how I was a total bonehead, always making silly mistakes when she looked at me and said...
"You know, you're only a real bone-head if you forgot to charge your friends for their drinks."
Oh shit...Panic mode kicked in, so what did I do?
I looked my manager straight in the eye, and lied. Completely forgetting that she had the ability to open up a closed tickets to see exactly what was rung in.
I told her I hadn't charged them because I paid for them myself, So she smiled sweetly and dropped the subject.
I spent the next 3 days stressed out that she knew the truth, or that I would get fired.
Thursday evening I headed into work for another closing shift. When I arrived I noticed my name was not on the seating chart, so I fearfully approached the managers office. When I got there I was asked to sit so that we could have a "chat."
Manager C informed me that she had checked my nightly report and found no sign of my friends drinks. She reminded me that stealing was grounds for termination, and she asked me once again if I had meant to charge my friends.
I had two choices. I could either admit that I purposely gave my friends free drinks, then lied about it, and face certain termination, Or lie again and say that I intended to charge them, but must have forgotten, look like a total airhead, but still have a job.
Can you guess what I did?
I lied again. I said that I must have spaced it, but that I meant to ring it in. I apologized for my ignorance, and whipped out a $10 to pay for the drinks.
I was then scolded for making stupid mistakes, and suspended for 2 days.
So, I am not proud of the situation. If anything, I am embarrassed. I feel and looked like a total idiot, and It is all my fault. I deserve to be fired. But now that all is said and done, and we are moving forward, I have to ask my readers and fellow servers a question. Feel free to leave comments anonymously if you prefer nobody find out, but please, I would like as much feedback as possible.
Have you ever hooked up a friend? Have you ever slipped them a freebie while you were working, just because it was easy, and you wouldn't get away with it? Was giving them a free drink OK, but only crossing the line because I lied about it?
Please be honest... I was.
August 24, 2009
One Saturday Elvira was keeled over in the bar holding her stomach in excruciating pain. She was sent home early because eventually she couldn't even hold herself upright. She called in sick the next three shifts. Nobody knew what the hell was going on, so on her fourth missed shift Manager C told her she needed a doctors note. Upon visiting the doctor she learned she had cholesterol gallstones, and would need a Cholecystectomy (gallbladder removal).
Prior to the surgery, she had some lab work done, as is a common practice. She had a tox screen, a UA, and a CBC. After reviewing the results, the doctor warned Elvira about the dangers of her particular habits. To which she replied "It's my life, I will do what I want."
Classy Elvira, classy.
Post surgery Elvira was in a recovery consultation. She was once again urged to discontinue all drug, tobacco, and alcohol usage, as these could dramatically effect her rehabilitation. She once again irresponsibly declined.
As their meeting was drawing to a close, he quickly wrote her a prescription for 1000mg Ibuprofen. She immediately announced that she wanted something stronger, to which he replied that she would not be in much pain, and that anything stronger then the ibuprofen could possibly do more damage to her digestive system.
Frantically she tried again, demanding that she absolutely HAD to have something stronger for the pain. Leaning back in his chair, he removed his glasses, and said...
"You're clearly an alcoholic, you reek of stale pot, and your uncontrollable jitters and grumpiness would suggest that the last two days without a cigarette have been anything but delightful. I will NOT be giving you anything stronger. You really think its wise to get addicted to another substance?"
Kudos on your bed-side manners Dr. House, I'm sure you wont be to surprised to find out she's working on a case to sue your honest ass. I know I wasn't.
August 18, 2009
While working my clinical hours I encounter a vast assortment of people. I have learned to detest the human body and all of the filthy and disgusting things it is capable of. I have also learned to detest most humans for all of the awful and harming things they are capable of doing to themselves and others. It is not uncommon for me to help suture up a stab victim, or to scrub asphalt out of a drunk driver, who just killed three people in a head on collision.
One afternoon my charge nurse and I entered an isolated room. After suiting up with gowns, gloves and masks, I asked for some information on the patient. He had AIDS, and was coughing up blood. The man was young, in his 40's. He laid curled in the fetal position, clutching his stomach as he violently coughed while simultaneously shitting himself.
Several weeks after the incident hubby and I were watching some good ol' Dane Cook in his Rough Around the Edges tour, when the bit came on about a website where you could find out if any sexual predators lived in your neighborhood, so for fun we decided to check it out. Within 2 miles of our house, there were 20 registered sex offenders, and under each name there was a picture, and a list of sexual felony "stats", like a rapist baseball card. This would have been a good time for us to log out, and forget everything we had seen, but we decided to check each picture to see if we recognized anyone.
And then I saw him. My AIDS patient. Staring into the camera with his cold eyes.
I was horrified. Not only did he live just up the street from us, but he also had 4 counts of child sodomization. My heart immediately broke for the young children that this monster had brutalized, raped, and then gave AIDS to.
For the record, if you read my blog and think that I seem a bit cold, withdrawn, and detached from society, this is why. The exasperation and hopelessness I feel towards mankind is because of shit like this.
August 15, 2009
Elvira is scandalous. The more I work with her, the more I feel the need to come home and disinfect everything I own. It started subtly. A naughty comment here, a blow job in the walk-in there. Before I knew it she was describing to me vivid sex-dreams in intimate details.
She wants to fuck 90% of the male employees at the steakhouse, and would probably have a go at most of the ladies to. She's been warned about making off-colored remarks because sound echos in the kitchen, and the front half of the restaurant can usually hear everything that is said, however most of the time she comes to work to drunk, hungover, or to strung out to care.
One evening this week she came to work with her arm bandaged up, and tucked safely in a sling. She said she burnt her arm pretty badly while cooking, when the always witty and clever BB said loudly,
"Right...It's probably a friction burn from your stripper pole."
Everyone laughed hysterically, and Elvira blushed as she replied,
"I wish I knew how to pole dance."
Several hours later BB and I happened to be back in the dish pit when he said,
"Seems weird thinking of her burning herself cooking. It just doesn't fit, Elvira....cooking...?!!"
To which I replied,
"Yeah...Cooking Meth maybe?"
August 10, 2009
Growing up, my oldest sister had a serious eating disorder. The knowledge of this made me feel like a pregnant hippopotamus because she was always so much thinner then I was, and nothing boosted my self esteem more then a petite, beautiful blond standing 5'9, with a perfect rack telling me she was utterly repulsive.
One Christmas she was home from college, and over a few to many margaritas she began confessing to me terrible things she had done to her friends, just to make her feel better about herself. She told me about how she would dump out her roommate's diet soda, and refill it with regular soda. She would crack the seal of her skinny friend's Splenda, replace it with regular sugar, and glue the edges back together. She would offer to cook, and use pure lard. She even made "health-shake" for her model friends using whole sticks of butter.
At the time, I had a few laughs about it. I found myself justifying her actions, I even thought of all the ways her little scheme could have benefited me in the past. Just like LiLo with the energy bars in Mean Girls, I though about all the hot girls whose bodies I could have have watched bloat up with Lard and butter, as I laughed and kept on feeding them. How their misery, and self-hatred would somehow make me feel better and help with my own validation. And then I sobered up.
I haven't thought much about my sister's shenanigans since then, I have even gained an appreciation, and have learned to be happy with myself the way that I am.
But then the other day I was at Starbucks. My Barista was a heavy set teenage boy, who stood cowering and meek, almost as if he was uncomfortable in his own skin. When I asked for a small sugar-free nonfat iced mocha, he rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath,
"Nonfat, sure...make fun of me...just like everyone else.."
I chose not to respond. There was nothing I could have done or said that would have made feel any better about himself, nor was my nonfat drink in anyway a representation of what I thought, or felt about him. So I remained silent, but I watched him closely as he made my drink. I watched as he pumped 5 squirts of REGULAR Mocha syrup into my drink, and as he
sneakily added a squirt and a half of Classic Syrup (liquid sugar).
Barista: "Nonfat Mocha..."
Taking one sip so he could see me, I scrunched my face and said,
"Are you sure this is sugar free?"
Barista: "Yes, It is..."
GH: "Uh, OK. Thanks."
Upon leaving the building I dropped the drink into the nearest trash can. Luckily I had payed with a gift card that much to my surprise still had $20 dollars remaining.
I was really annoyed by the whole ordeal, yet having to dump the drink was the least of my concerns. I was pissed that he was dishonest, that he would purposely sabotage a stranger who unintentionally offended him. I understand low self-esteem. I struggled with it all through junior high and high school. But does he honestly think that just because he is miserable, everyone else should be too? That since he is fat and unhappy, everyone else should join him in self-loathing.
We make our own happiness. We may not like our weight, our hair, or our clothes, but we shouldn't treat everyone else like shit because we are unsatisfied. We should change our attitudes, and treat people with love and respect, only then will we learn to love the person trapped underneath the extra weight, a bad hair-cut, or shabby clothes.
August 6, 2009
When asked how you would like your steak cooked, the obvious choices are rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done. Each choice has a corresponding internal temperature, and this is how a cook can tell when the steak is cooked exactly how it's ordered.
There are, however, a few other ways to order a steak. You may not be familiar with them, as I certainly was not until I began working at the Steakhouse. One of those ways is called Pittsburgh Style, also called Blue-Rare, meaning it is so rare, that it looks almost blue inside.
I seldom, if ever have anyone order their steak this way, either because they are not familiar with it, or because it is absolutely disgusting. But, either way, if it is ordered, the cooks will make it.
The other night I had a table of two. They were unhappy throughout their entire meal. Her Rum and Coke was to strong, even though it was Malibu Rum, which is like liquid candy. His salad tasted old, even though it was the first scoop out a new bag, and the dressing and croutons were hand-made that afternoon. And their bread was cold and stale, even though it was a fresh batch right out of the oven. I got the feeling early that they just wanted to complain, so I acted interested in all of their shenanigans, and nodded my head with implied concern, but had mentally tuned them out, and was in my head enjoying a Malibu Rum and Coke of my very own.
He ordered the Prime Rib, and wanted it very rare. I let him know it would be more like Medium rare, as the Prime Roast is kept in the oven all night, and the later it gets, inevitably the more it is cooked. He was annoyed, but ordered it anyways.
When I brought out their dinner, they said everything was fine, so I left them to eat. Five to ten minutes later I stopped by to see if everything was still going well, they said it was, so again I left them to eat. Only seconds after I walked away and stopped by another table, the man half stood, and began violently flailing his arms to get my attention. I shot him a "Wait your fucking turn" look, and he sat back down. When I had a moment, I returned to his table to see what had happened in the 14 seconds since he told me things were going good.
Man: "The Prime is cold."
GH: "Of course it is, its been out here on your table for ten minutes"
Man: "No, I mean it was cold when you brought it out to me. "
GH: What I said- "Oh I'm sorry can I get you a new piece?" What I meant- "Then why the hell did you tell me twice that everything was fine?"
Man: "Yes, I want a new piece...could you make it RARE this time please. If you knew better you wouldn't mess with me"
GH: "I'll see what I can do"
Upon returning to the kitchen I was informed we were 86 Prime, as the last piece had just been sold. My manager told me to offer to heat it up, give him a Rib-Eye, or a piece of dessert on the house.
He said I would ruin the Medium Rare if I heated it up, he hated Rib-eye (even though Rib-eye IS Prime Rib) and he had no appetite for dessert. And then he just stared at me....for minutes....without saying anything. My manager saw what was going on from across the floor and came to my rescue. She finally got him to speak. He said he would take the Rib-Eye but wanted it Blue Rare, charred for only 45 seconds on each side. So that's exactly what he got.
A few minutes later, I was introducing myself to a new table when the man stood and yelled my name across the restaurant. I ignored him at first but after three consecutive yells, I looked back and said "Wait your turn Sir!"
This asshole was challenging me and I was not in the mood, so I put on my game face and went back to his table.
Man: "This Rib-eye is awful. It's colder then the Prime. Don't you guys know how to serve a properly heated steak. What the hell is wrong with you."
GH: "Well sir, before the steak was put on the grill it was in the fridge, which is somewhere around 35 degrees. We did as you asked and only grilled the steak for 45 seconds each side, and last time I checked, a minute and a half is certainly not enough time to bring up the temperature of something so cold. If you wanted a warm steak, you should have asked for Well Done, because Blue-Rare is cold by definition. Now you can enjoy this steak the way you ordered it, or I can microwave it for you. Those are your only options.
The man looked dumbfounded, as if I had just shot him in the neck with a metaphorical stun gun. Swallowing his pride, he puffed up his chest and demanded to talk to a manager. So I waved one over, and listened as he implored her to comp his entire meal. He played every card in the book, and even threatened to tell his "Gun Club" buddies how terrible he had been treated if he was not compensated somehow. She said she would not be comping any of his meal, and then she asked him to kindly Fuck off.
I was so elated. People will do anything for a free meal, and apparently my manager wasn't in the mood to be fucked with either. A few minutes later she went out for a smoke, and I followed her to thank her for not letting him get away with such tomfoolery's. She had had it up to her ears with doucherockets for the night, and started ranting. Right at the point of "What an asshole!!I hope him and his damn gun club friends never set foot in this Restaurant again," the man walked around the corner to his car. He looked back towards her, and half joking, half serious she said,
"Goodnight Sir, you're sure lucky we don't spit in peoples food here."
August 2, 2009
After having nearly two weeks off the only thing that sounded worse to me than working, was to die slowly by having red-hot iron rods inserted into my anus. But such is life.
I dug my still dirty work shirt out of the laundry and forced myself to put it on, while nearly gagging at the stale grease stench, I made a mental note to buy a new work shirt.
I was pretty bored the majority of the evening, and tried to keep myself busy while going through the motions and spouting off random bits of information like a robot on auto-pilot. And then I received my first big-top of the evening. An elderly man asked to pick up the tab, so I kept my eye on him and made sure to give him a little extra attention. When his Medium Rare Rib-eye came out Rare I wasted no time bringing it back to the kitchen for a quick fix.
Elderly man: "Don't overcook it...just throw it on the grill for a minute"
GH: "Absolutely sir."
Man: "I'm serious...if you bring it back Medium I'm walking out."
GH: "I'll watch the clock myself sir, you have nothing to worry about."
Two minutes, and a perfect Medium Rare later, I returned to the table and watched as the elderly man morphed into a fit of unnecessary rage.
Man: "God Damn It!! I said Medium Rare, not Medium...I told you...I knew they would overcook it!!! Who is back there cooking? It's some stupid white guy? Get the Mexicans...they know how to cook it right... * Mumbles* Fucking whiteys....always fucking up my steak."
GH: "Sir, this is a family restaurant, please lower your voice. I can get a manager if you would like."
Man: "Get me the stupid white cook. He needs cooking lessons."
After ten more minutes of degrading ramblings the man was finally asked to leave. I found it humorous that before he left he asked for a to-go box for his steak.
I'm sure I'll get shit for saying this, but I couldn't shake the feeling of racial stereotyping. If the man had screamed that a "fucking Mexican ruined his steak" he would have been publicly crucified. Why is it such a crime against society to so much as mumble a racial slur against an African American, an Asian, or an Indian, but have free range at Whitey? It just doesn't make sense to me.
July 23, 2009
LA is depressing. How can anyone live with the traffic and smog? The family is successfully annoying the hell out of each other, and I have officially begun counting down the days till we get back. I haven't been online for over a week, how did I survive 17 years without the internet? I miss you all, I miss my bed, I miss my sanity. Keep me in your thoughts, or prayers, or meditations, or whatever religious pratices you do, or do not participate in cause the next 3 days might be the end me of. Sent via text
Post by G.H. at 9:08 PM
July 17, 2009
Just a little heads up, I'll be in LA for the next week for a family reunion with the in-laws and won't have the time/patience or internet access to post. But I promise, with these nut jobs I will have plenty to write about when I return.
Also, on a side note, I am a nursing student, not an English major, and unless I'm turning in my most recent Pharmacology Case study, I do not care about grammar.
Keep busting my balls over bullshit grammar mistakes, and I'll keep making them, because (once again) I do not care about grammar.
Deal with it, or go away...your senseless attacks and irrational rants are not wanted here.
And also, last time I checked grammar never saved anyone's life, and nurses are paid substantially more then English majors anyways.
July 15, 2009
Community tradition is a big deal in my little town in the middle of nowhere. It's a time when all the under-educated mill workers change out of their Carharts and shake the sawdust from their hair, when the rednecks and backwood inbreds make their way off the set of Deliverance and rejoin society for a bit of good old fashion entertainment.
Since before I was born a Classic Car Show would take place every year in the middle of July. I grew up watching the old cars cruise downtown, while running out into the street to pick up candy the riders would throw out the windows. This was before the days of razor blades in laffy taffy, hypodermic needles filled with AIDS in caramel apples, and cyanide-laced packages of pixy stix.
Last weekend was the Annual Classic Car Show and the entire 24 thousand members of my pathetic community packed up their blankets, folding chairs, and ice-chests full of piss beer, and claimed their spots on the sidewalk to watch the festivities.
The entire 5 block section of downtown is blocked off during The Cruise to provide ample room for overpriced restored classics to show off their new chrome grills, neon under lights, NOS injections, and spinners. Seems to me they have completely missed the point of a classic, as you would have never seen those shenanigans in the 50's.
I happen to live in the downtown area, and was slightly concerned I wouldn't be allowed to drive to work during The Cruise due to road closure, but was assured by an officer on duty near my house that they would allow me through.
15 minutes before my shift I hopped in our old truck and set off for work. Now, I have been warned several times, by several different people that there is something seriously wrong with our truck, but have never had the time, or the money to do anything about it. So we do our best to keep her running, but know its only a matter of time before she dies.
I proceeded with caution as I drove through the Cruise. I tried my best to keep a low profile as I stuck out like a sore thumb between a 53' Oldsmobile Rocket and a 57' Chevrolet Bel Air.
And then it happened. The spark plugs flipped me the bird as they laid down for a nap, the transmission went on vacation with the starter, and the alternator was strung out on smack.
So there I sat, in the middle of the road. Broke down, in front of my entire community, the local news crew, a SWAT team circling ahead in a government chopper, and Jesus descending from the heavens. And there I sat for what seemed like days, with horns honking all around me, and hicks throwing empty beer cans, while an officer gently suggested that I get the fuck out of the road.
I turned the key....And nothing.
"You're ruining the show!!"
I turned the key again....nothing.
"Your truck sucks!!!"
I turned the key, said a silent prayer.....and she finally started.
"Your mother was a whore!!"
Ok, I'll admit that I was ruining the show, and my truck really does suck, but the last comment was completely unnecessary, so as I hit the gas as hard as I could, I leaned out the window and yelled...
"Yah, well your mother is your sister, you stupid inbred bastard..."
...I love this town
July 13, 2009
Several months ago, when I was still fairly new to the Steakhouse I had a run in with some very memorable guests. The night had been a crazy one, but when things started to slow down a bit, three servers and the hostess ran outside for a quick cigarette. Being the only one who doesn't smoke I inherited every table, and the whole lobby to keep an eye on.
I was busy running around when I heard the front door bang loudly against the wall, as if it was violently thrown open. Startled, I turned around and saw a large group of men walking in. They were heavily tattooed, fully clad in leather and studded belts, had full beards, and they wore sunglasses, even though it was dark and we were indoors. I assumed they were members of Hells Angels, and were just passing through our tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I greeted them with a smile, and asked if they had a reservation as we were still fairly busy and there were quite a few of them.
Biker #1 leaned in uncomfortably close and snapped "What?! We don't need a reservation. Don't you know who we are"
Unfortunately I had no idea who they were, and without missing a beat I made sure to tell him such.
"Fine!! We need a table for 15, and make it private. We don't want to be bothered." Growled Biker #1.
After taking there order, curiosity got the best of me.
GH: "Ok, so who are you guys anyways?! Are you bikers?"
Biker #1: "We aren't no piece of shit bikers! We're a band"
GH: "A band, huh?"
Biker #2: "Uhhh..Ya, a Band... and we're kind of a big deal"
(Thanks Ron Burgundy)
GH: "Uhh, ya... sure you are"
*laughs and walks away
Back in the kitchen I told everyone what had happened, and one by one they went to take a look, all returning with blank, confused looks. Apparently nobody knew who they were.
An hour and 10 pitchers of beer later, the restaurant was bombarded by high school girls. Complete with squealing, screaming, picture taking, and autograph signing, our doubts about "The band" were laid to rest, though we still had no idea who the hell they were.
When I dropped their check, they continued to insist they were a famous band. At that point, it wasn't that I didn't believe them, rather that I just didn't give a shit. These guys strut into the steakhouse, chests over-inflated with pride, and expect me to hand feed them grapes while fanning them off with palm branches because they're some super popular band, well they can have a heaping portion of Fuck off, because I don't care.
Upon leaving, Biker #1 walks up to me, and while seriously invading my personal space, he grunts "Go home and Google us. You're going to feel really stupid when you see just how popular we are." So, I did Google them when I got home. I read that they were touring with Papa Roach, Avenged Sevenfold and Hinder, none of which I give a damn about. I read that their hit song was on top of the charts, and that they had been nominated for several Grammys.
I couldn't help but laugh because none of that mattered to me.
And I hoped that as they stumbled back into their tour bus they felt a little bit of humility, as they realized maybe they aren't really as big of a deal as they thought.
Now the questions remains, without consulting Google, and only having looked at them, would you have known who they were?
July 7, 2009
I don't want children. I never have, and I probably never will. I think I lack a basic maternal instincts that women swear is inherit in all of us. I get glares from people when I tell them I'm not interested in raising kids, or that I really don't like babies. Women get so offended, almost as if not wanting children is blasphemous. I rarely share my opinion for fear of being stoned to death.
Problem is, I hate taking the Pill. The hormones have made me crazy, headachy, and helped me easily pack on the marriage 20lbs that I swore I would avoid. So recently my husband and I began joking that I should just have a hysterectomy. (OK, so maybe we were only half joking, though I doubt they would even do the procedure on someone so young.)
Well, about a week ago I saw this on Cake Wrecks, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I began doing some serious research, and even made a few calls to women that I knew had the procedure done, all of them unanimously agreed that I should do nothing of the sort. They all said they felt the same at my age, but later decided they really wanted a family after all.
Nothing they said mattered. I had hysterectomy on the brain. I wanted nothing more then for my surgeon to filet my uterus into bite size pieces and remove them one by one from my abdominal cavity.
And then I had this dream.
I was lying in a hospital bed post-op. I was feeling weak, and leaned forward for a glass of water when I heard someone weeping. I looked around to identify the sound when I saw my Uterus sitting up in a chair next to me.
Uterus: "Why would you want to get rid of me? We still had so many good years left together."
GH: "It's nothing personal Uterus. I just don't want children and this was the easiest way."
Uterus: "You're going to regret this."
Suddenly my Uterus leaps forward and starts stabbing me. My ovaries start a war chant, and my fallopian tubes wrap around my neck and start choking me.
In the struggle for my life I jerk awake, and see husband laughing at me. Apparently I woke him up shouting "NO Uterus, NO!!"
Now, I've never been one to interpret dreams, but honestly, a bloodthirsty Uterus avenging its death by murdering me?! What the fuck?
Maybe for now I will leave my lady parts alone, and who knows, maybe my friends are right and eventually when I'm older I will want that family after all.
Friday morning I woke up early. Filled with anticipation I began pulling out sleeping bags, chairs, and ice chests from storage. I suddenly started to feel a bit queasy so returned to bed for a few more hours of shut eye. I woke some time later with a raging migraine, stumbling to the bathroom I was met by an unexpected visitor.
That bitch Aunt Flow couldn't have waited until after the weekend to ruin my life for the next 5 days? I marked tampons on my list of things to pick up at the store, and went about my business after taking upwards of 1,000 mg of Tylenol.
We arrived at our camp site after sweating it out for nearly 3 hours in the truck. It was a beautiful, cloudless sky, with temperatures somewhere in the 90's. We began unloading the truck when out of nowhere a flash flood tore through the campground destroying everything in its path.We took shelter in the truck for about an hour while our bags, blankets, and tents were demolished.
Within minutes the sky was blue and the sun returned. Determined to have a good time we did our best to salvage the firewood and shook the tent dry.
The rest of the evening was enjoyable, as we barbecued, drank, and enjoyed family we rarely see.
I awoke Saturday with a stiff neck and a sore throat, not to mention cramps and a blinding headache from my period. I hadn't slept well, but then again I never sleep well while camping so I got up, had a cup of coffee, and begin feeling better.
Husband and I went on a beautiful hike, and took the kayaks out on the lake. The sun's rays stung my white legs, but it felt so good.
Back at camp my father-in-law was preparing lunch, and I decided to lay down for a nap. Waking I felt worse then I did before laying down. My entire body was achy, I had a fever, my throat was raw, and I was shivering excessively even though it was hot as hell.
I had the flu. First the period, then the flood, and now the damn flu.
Husband suggested we just go home, but I didn't want to ruin the weekend for him to so I said I would try and ride it out. We didn't drive all that way to miss the fireworks either.
I spent the rest of the day puking, shivering, and trying not to move since my entire body felt bruised.
At 10pm the fireworks finally began, yet I was bundled up in my sleeping bag, with ear plugs jammed into my ears, praying for silence so the migraine might subside. After the fireworks, husband returned to find me passed out with puke in my hair, and along the side of my sleeping bag. He picked me up, put me in the car, packed up all our shit, and drove me home.
So, all together it was a pretty unsuccessful holiday weekend. One of the worst in fact. But upon reminiscing I have to laugh a bit. It was certainly unforgettable and after the hell I raised at the restaurant, quite ironic.
How was everyone else's holiday weekend? Got a story to top mine?
July 1, 2009
Due to rapid oxidation of cut fruits and vegetables, a light brownish tint often appears. This is in no way dangerous to your health, and the food item is still perfectly safe to eat.
This is a fact that I though everyone in the world was aware of. I admit it is not the most glamorous thing to look at, and the thought of eating it may even cause us to cringe, but the simple knowledge that it is a natural reaction, and completely harmless give us relief while taking a big bite. At the steakhouse we go through a lot of salad mix. It is hard to catch every piece of lettuce that has a slight discoloration, but we do try to make sure the salads we serve are presentable, and look appetizing.
During a slow evening shift this week, I had the pleasure of serving a family that had apparently been living under a rock since before the Stone Age. Loud grunts and snorts were their means of communication, as was picking lice out of each others hair, and hunting for dinner with wielded clubs.
Caveman: "Messss, S'cuse me messs"
GH: "Yes sir, how can I help you?"
CM: "Salliddds durt"
GH: "I'm sorry, did you say the salad is dirty?"
CM: "Yuss. Look. Its bruwn...still has durt."
GH: Looking forward, and noticing a few tiny brown specks on the spine on the Romaine lettuce "Oh, sir, thats nothing to worry about it. The lettuce is just beginning to oxidize. Its perfectly safe."
CM: "Nooaa... its durrt. I wann new one. Plezz go out bak and pick somme freshh let-us from garden. Make shurre to wash let-us befor return."
Oh good Christ. Fresh lettuce? Garden? Really. "Oh sir. No problem at all, but you'll have to give me a few extra minutes out in the garden, as I also have to water the tomatoes, and compost your leftovers for next seasons harvest."
June 29, 2009
A week ago I posted about the 4th of July. Many of you commented, and shared your advice as to what I should do. Most of you said I should demand the day off (or call in sick), some of you suggested that I should quit, or threaten to quit, and one anonymous blogger said I should work it "cheerfully." (Yeah Right!!)
My spineless managers are one of my favorite topics on this blog, as they provide me with endless material. However yesterday afternoon they did something so fantastic, that I may, for a week or so, have to refrain from any manager bashing to show my regards, and gratitude for a totally selfless act.
I was buzzing around the restaurant early Saturday afternoon, mentally detached from reality in order to prepare myself for the long day ahead of me. I happen to notice that all the managers were in the office chattering about something of importance. I figured it was just business, so I ignored it as usual, when the kitchen manager burst through the doors, made direct eye contact with me and said with a smile, "You owe us big time."
I was intrigued so I decided to investigate the situation. I made my way over to the office, and poked my head in, when I saw two other managers making a sign for the front door that read "Closing early for the 4th of July. Hours 12-3."
I scrunched my face with excitement. This meant that even if I was scheduled, I would be off early enough to make it up to our camp site without missing the fireworks.
GH: "Closing early, eh?"
SM: "Ya, you lucky bastards totally owe us!"
GH: "So who is scheduled then?"
SM: "None of you. The managers are gonna work it so you don't have to"
I squealed enthusiastically, almost in disbelief.
How gloriously sacrificial. I hugged both spineless managers, and thanked them obsessively for the next 7 hours.
So, after all the stupid and spineless shit they do on a regular basis, they go and do something like this...and totally redeem themselves.
Oh, and as it turns out, I also got Friday and Sunday off. Hello three day weekend, goodbye work, sanity, and soberness.
June 27, 2009
Tonight was pure insanity. I'm not even sure why? There wasn't anything special going on, but for some unknown reason, the entire community felt that they needed to eat at the steakhouse, and also felt like being ridiculously generous and charitable. No complaints on my part, though around 8:45 pm I would have given anything to be at home, in my pj's curled up with a bowl of ice cream and a good book.
So I made a deal with the devil.
I had a reservation for a 25 top at 9pm. I was totally dreading the large party since it would take up all of my time, and put me really far behind on all my closing duties. I knew that they wouldn't be out of the restaurant until 10:30, which would mean I would be stuck there until 11 or later.
I asked everyone, with hopes that I could get someone to switch and take it. And of course nobody wanted to. I sighed, and mumbled some choice words under my breath in frustration.
When suddenly, pregnant bitches husband skips up to me and says "Hey! You still want someone to take your big top!?!"
I tell him that nothing would make me happier, and he accepts and says he'll take it, no problem. I breathed a breath of relief.
He turns to leave, but stops in his tracks. Turning back towards me with a crooked smile painted on his stupid face he says "Oh, under one condition"
I assume he'll ask me to clean his tables, take out his trash, or finish up his side work.
GH: "Sure anything, I'll do it, just take the damn table."
PBH: "Work for me tomorrow morning."
This is a perfect example of immediate gratification. The thing my mother warned me about growing up. "Having sex with your boyfriend will only feel good now, you'll regret it later." She was right, and I did. "Cheating on your math homework may get you through the assignments, but if you don't learn the material, your gonna bomb the test. " Again she was right, and I did.
Such a wise woman, that I clearly still have much to learn from.
About an hour later, as I was wiping down my last table, the reality of the situation sunk in, but it was to late. PBH was basking in the glory of his $50 tip from my big party, while I was realizing that I would be working an opening morning shift, and a closing night shift.
Post by G.H. at 12:56 AM
June 22, 2009
After an insane six hour fathers day shift, nothing was more appealing to me then crashing hard and sleeping late into the afternoon. But 8am came so quickly.
I woke up to a viciously annoying alarm. Rolled out of bed, pulled my hair back into a loose pony, wiped off my smeared eyeliner and mascara, and left for the dreaded staff meeting.
Box's of greasy doughnuts and flavored creamers awaited us, as if to soften the proverbial blow waiting to confront us.
"Things are gonna change around here" shouted one manager.
"We really need to get our asses in gear" screeched another.
After the yelling died down, the full story surfaced. Just a few days prior we received an unexpected visit from the health inspector. And, well...It wasn't a successful inspection, to say the least.
We failed...Big time.
For stupid things to. Like the bleach rags not being "fully submerged" in the bucket, and not having tongs in the lemons.
I laughed at the thought of the health inspector watching us work on a busy Friday night over a secret hidden camera. Picking fries off of the plates and dunking them in the ranch, taking a quick sip of our guests Long Island Iced tea, and throwing hot potatoes from the prep line, to the kitchen and back.