Gall Bladder Removal.

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.

Rapetopia

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.

A Bucket of Lard, and a Sneaky Bastard

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..."

GH: "Thanks..."
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.

Cold by Definition

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."

Los Angeles and Other Shenanigans

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.

Working on the 4th

Husband and I have had a a 6 year tradition of going camping with both of our families for the fourth of July. We get the same spot, and have a total blast every year. This year will be the 7th time, and we began preparation in January. So when I first started at the Steakhouse, at the beginning of the year, I made sure to let them know that I needed that time off. I remember I was in my first few weeks, standing in the managers cubical. She flipped open her calendar shift book, and penciled me in. She then mentioned something along the lines of "Looks like your the first to ask for that weekend off."
I smiled with excitement.

Friday night as I was handing in my checkout, I decided that since the fourth was just a few weeks away I should check to make sure everything was still good to go.

GH: "Hey spineless manager, I just wanted to verify that I can still get the weekend of the fourth off"

Spineless manager:
(The same one that took my original request, by the way) "Ohhhh. Looks like your the fifth in line. The others must have asked for the time off before you did, sorry"
*Points down at 5 names on the book and mine at the bottom.

Now, maybe at Hooters this wouldn't be a problem because they have 30 waitresses. But my pathetic little steakhouse only has 9.

GH: "I hate to sound like a bitch, but I put in my request in January before anyone else."

Spineless Manager: "Sorry, but I have to go by the book."

I don't know what to do here. Anyone have any advice?

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?

Suggested Gratuity or Required Gratuity?

Fellow waitstaff, I request your feedback concerning a situation I found myself in last night.

At the steakhouse we are required to add 15% gratuity for parties of 8 or more. It is written on the menu, and it is told to everyone calling in to make reservations. It is not optional, and therefore is rarely an issue.

Last night when I began my shift I was told I would have a party of 20. I was immediately excited. I was scheduled to be first off, so I knew the large party plus a few additional tables may be all I would have the entire evening, and that with added gratuity I would be leaving with a nice chunk of change.
As I began setting up for the big top, I was approached by my spineless manager. She told me the lady who called in for the large party refused the added gratuity, and threatened to go elsewhere unless we made an exception. So of course my manager fearing the loss of business, complied with her wishes. She apologized to me, and said there was nothing she could do, but said that if they stiffed me, she would "make it up to me."
The excuse that was given for the gratuity refusal was that they didn't want to feel limited on the amount they could tip. Well, isn't that the dumbest thing I've ever heard. If they wanted to tip more then 15% they could easily just leave a few extra bucks on the table. I was not fooled. I know there is only one reason to refuse gratuity and that is because you have no intention of tipping.
Eventually, the 20 top turned into a 10 top and half the people didn't even order, so all the commotion was for nothing. But it left me feeling somewhat uneasy. Our policy is clearly stated on the menu. Why have rules if no one will enforce them? And would it have been better for the manager to let them take there business elsewhere, and keep her dignity knowing she didn't sell herself out? What are other restaurants policy about gratuity, and are they enforced?

Also, as the 10 top left, I couldn't help but laugh as I noticed they did in fact stiff me. And I didn't hesitate to remind my spinless manager that she definitely did "Owe me"

Eating at the Steakhouse

As I have mentioned in the past, The Steakhouse use to be my favorite restaurant in town, as well as my husbands. It was in fact the place where we went on our first date, and so over the past few years we would frequent it together on special occasions. However since I began working there, our visits became less and less. The problem being, once I begin working somewhere as a server, I feel strange and awkward coming in as a guest to eat. I feel that I am never given proper service, as the waiters and waitresses become my friends, and the novelties of special things that are now at my daily disposal lose there value and are therefore not interesting to me anymore. ( The yeast rolls and honey butter, the peanuts on the floor...and so on)
Well, last night was the hub's birthday so naturally I allowed him to pick the restaurant. He chose the steakhouse, as it's still his favorite and he hasn't gone in once since I began employment. I agreed, and so we went in to have dinner.
Dolly was our waitress, so I expected we'd be taken care of. Much to my dismay she pretended like she didn't even know us, almost as if we were first time guests. She proceeded to try and hard sell us everything from add cheese and bacon, to top shelf liquor. I was a bit annoyed throughout the meal, mostly because I know the menu, I know my options, and I did not want any thing except exactly what I ordered.
After we finished eating she came to us offering dessert. I said no, and she tried again saying "are you sure you don't even want a piece of cheesecake??" I said no thanks, and she tried one more time saying that we just had to try the chocolate cake. I was so annoyed and just wanted her to leave us the hell alone when I said "No dessert. Its my husbands birthday and we have two cakes and two gallons of ice cream at home waiting for us." She stepped back looking shocked, and said "So, nothing then?!?" I just looked at her and shook my head. How dense.

I picked up the bill and noticed she had charged me for my iced tea. Now, i'm all open for discussion on this topic, but I never charge a fellow team member for any soft drink/tea/coffee. I also noticed she had added small charges to my husbands meal for slight modifications. I thought at this point I couldn't be any more frustrated with her, until I saw her dumb smiling face walking around the corner ringing the cow bell and hollering with the entire crew coming to sing the birthday song for my husband.

I have never wanted to stiff a waitress more then I did then.

Thick and Hearty?

So, I'm not entirely sure why, but the managers decided we would stop serving the traditional A1 Steaksauce, and only use the new A1 Thick and Hearty. Assuming it was strictly a food cost decision, I figured the new stuff was probably cheaper and therefore didn't taste as good as the original. But upon tasting it, I realized quite the opposite. It truly is an identical flavor, only a slightly thicker paste.

I was so puzzled by this, as I thought it was almost ridiculous to make a product so similar to the original, but slap on a new design and give it a new name. Whatever though, its what the managers want us to serve, so it's what we'll serve.

Well tonight I had a lady order a Tri-tip. She requested A1 so I returned with the bottle, and then moved on to another table. Moments later she near stood on her seat, while frantically waving to get my attention.


Patron: "You did hear me when I asked for A1... right??!"

G.H: "Yes mam, Its right here." (pointing to obviously labeled bottle of A1)

Patron: "This is BBQ sauce"

G.H: "It is A1, its just the new Thick and Hearty."

Patron: "No it's not, it's BB.....I didn't ask for BBQ, I want my damn A1."

G.H: "I'm so sorry mam, unfortunately we don't carry the traditional A1 any more, only the thick and hearty."

Patron: "Well then bring me a to-go box, I'm taking my steak to Sizzlers."