Confessions of a Cokehead

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

Insufficient Income

During my second visit with Ida, I was asked to provide Income Verification so I rummaged through the drawer at home and snatched up my most recent pay-stub. As I looked it over, I realized that on paper I looked pathetic. Almost as if I'd be better off holding a sign on the side of the road, begging for change and fishing my dinner out of a garbage can. Because everyone knows that waiters and waitresses aren't paid shit for hourly, in hopes to earn enough in tips to make up for it.

I slid the pay-stub over to Ida, and watched as she snickered and rolled her eyes.

Ida: "$130 in two weeks? You'll never be approved for the loan."

Once again I reminded her that was not including tips, and she asked me why the tips were not accounted for on the pay stub. I went on to explain to her that at my restaurant it was only mandatory to claim 8% of our total sales as tips to be taxed, and the rest we get to keep free and clear as there is no way for the restaurant or the government to track any more than that amount. She then told me to pencil in my monthly income via tips, but that she doubted they would accept it as income, and I might have to go else where for the loan. She said she would call when she heard back and that it wouldn't take more then 24 hours. Three days later I still hadn't heard from her, so husband and decided we would use another option to buy the car. As we entered the bank together to make a withdrawal, I spotted Ida. I tried my best to avoid her as we waited in line, but she approached us rather dramatically.

Ida: "They declined you the loan. Insufficient Income. I knew they wouldn't accept it!"
She shouted.
The entire line at the bank turned towards us, and raised their eyebrows. Thanks for letting us know privately Ida, you rude bitch.

Ida: "Yah, your income from tips doesn't count, I told you it wouldn't."

Good thing we had another plan. But that Ida sure knew how to call us out in front of everyone.

The Complaint

Being a long time veteran of the service/hospitality industry I am familiar with complaints. I see them often, and have gained the ability to predict when situations will almost certainly end in one.

The Steakhouse provides comment cards at every table, with the incentive of a free appetizer to get people's participation. Throughout the night I will receive at least a dozen, and at the end of the shift I'll read through them just before I turn them in.
Being on the receiving end of my fair share of complaints from guests, I know it is both annoying and ridiculous, and though I do not claim total innocence, I must say in my defense that often times there is little I can do when the kitchen overcooks a steak, or forgets to send an appetizer out first.
There is nothing I hate more then being berated by management, accused of God knows what and being forced to defend myself.This being said, I know what it is like to receive a complaint. And I don't like it. I dislike it so much in fact, that I have tried to not become the type of person who makes such complaints.

A few days ago I shared a story with you about a fat old hag called Ida. Well, I had another run in with Ida on Friday. She called me to tell me that the loan offer had come back and that I needed to come into the Bank with several pay stubs for income verification. Due to my overall annoyance, and lack of desire to give the old bag anymore airtime then she deserves, I will spare you all the gruesome details, but will say this: Never have I been so publicly mocked, berated, and alienated. She spoke to me as if she were royalty and I was no better then a maid. Couple that with the snarky attitude, unacceptable comments, glares and the complimentary eye rolls, and I will go on record as having officially had The Worst experience with someone working in Customer Service.
After the first experience, I though maybe Ida had a rough day. Maybe she was frustrated and took out her aggression on me. After the second experience, I realized that either she hates skinny blond girls, or she is just a self righteous, and self serving sack of horse shit that has no place working with the general public. My guess is the latter.
So after some serious reflection, I have decided to file a complaint. Now, unlike the douche tanks that complain at the steakhouse, I do not hope to gain anything by doing this and I do not have an agenda. I simply hope to accomplish one of two things. The first is to send Ida a message.
You cannot treat people like they are garbage. Sure I am in my early twenties, and working as a waitress but I deserve the same amount of respect as the lawyer in her forties pulling in 100 large a year.
And second, to inform management that one woman's actions may be costing them much in terms of business, because if anyone else received the same treatment that I did, then they would be wise to react the same way I did, and that would be to take my money, and my business elsewhere.

The Fat Old Hag

Husband and I have always functioned with one car. Our schedules worked perfectly, and we never had any problems, but he has just started a new (much better paying) job and this has drastically shifted his schedule. At first we just dealt with the inconvenience of it all, but after he was forced to show up a hour late during his second week because I got held over a bit in class, we decided it was time to invest in a new car. Yesterday we both had the day off, so we got up early, put our haggling hats on, and set out on a hunt.

After hours and hours of dealer bull shit, we found a car we both liked. Ironically the same make and model of two prior cars I have totaled. (A sign not to get it??) It was listed at a totally reasonable price, but husband got them to drop it a grand and a half, so we took the offer. It was 5:15, and we figured we had plenty of time to get to the bank. We decided to put half down, and get a loan for the rest... easy peasy.

When we got to our bank, we were met by the cold eyes of a fat old hag, lets call her Ida. Her glares burnt through the back of my skull. She made several attempts to turn towards the clock and sigh heavily, as if to say she didn't want to deal with us so close to closing. She said she would help us, but what she really meant was that she wished we would go fuck ourselves.
She asked us a series of questions, and things were going fine until her computer "allegedly" lost all of our progress around 5:45, that's when she snapped. As we were going through round two of the same questions she made it a point to add a snide little comment to everything we said, letting me know how she disapproved of my "career" at the Steakhouse. She even sorted with laughter at my estimated monthly income, and when I said "That's not including tips" I heard her mumble "like it matters" under her breath.

Now here's the thing, at the steakhouse if someone shows up 1 minute before we close, I will serve them. I may not be overjoyed about it, and I may even bitch about it to the cooks in the back, but when I am staring at the customer, I am all smiles and rainbows and unicorns because for all I fucking know, it could be a secret shopper, or a big tipper.
Looking back, I am only bothered because of the way she she judged me. How her sickeningly obese eye looked down on me with disgust because of my "career" or my income. She doesn't know me. I am a student first. Waitressing is simply getting me through, a means to an end if you will. Whatever though, I'll let her have her laughs. I'll let her go home thinking how much better off she is then me because of her fancy desk job, her business cards and her plus size ergonomic office chair, although I secretly know one day she'll be my patient, begging for her life as I put her on dialysis for fucking up her kidneys with one to many cheeseburgers.

Who will be judging who then?