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Monday, February 28, 2011

Waiter in Training

Training for a new restaurant job sucks ass. It just does. Especially when you have been a hash-slinging waitress for as long as I have. I feel like I have been waiting tables since the dark ages. I distinctly remember working at a restaurant where we had to milk the cows and then churn the butter for our opening sidework. Closing sidework involved filling the ketchup bottles, sweeping the bathroom and then clearing the restaurant of all the people who had died that day of the Black Plague. You ain't waited tables until you have done it during the Black Plague. Not easy. I remember training for Bennigan's and how intense it was. The manager told me that the Bennigan's training program was known throughout the country and once I had it on my resume, I would be able to get a waiting job anywhere. And what's really funny is that I was actually impressed by that hot air statement and had it on my resume for a while under special skills: Bennigan's training program. Pathetic. Back in those days, I was so eager to please that I actually memorized every single ingredient on the menu. At the time, I was living with my Grandma (not this one) and she would quiz me every night. My Grandma knew that damn Bennigan's menu better than I did. She could have been one fine waitress up there, but she was all busy being my Grandma and making me pies.

A few years ago, I was being trained at a restaurant here in the city. My trainer was a fetus. I know I had aprons older than he was, but I still had to follow him for three days to "learn the ropes." He gave me such useful tips as:
  • When a customer orders coffee, you should ask them if they want milk or cream with it so you don't have to make two trips.
  • If someone orders a hamburger, ask them how they like it cooked.
  • Always say thank you.
What gems those are. I patted the fetus waiter on the head, asked for a floor plan with the table numbers and pushed his toddler ass out of my way. At my new job, my trainer thankfully quickly realized that I knew what I was doing. After about ten minutes when he saw that I had already made coffee and knew the fancy Aloha computer system, he let me on my own. By the end of the first night, he had let me take his station, take orders, run food, close the checks and bus the tables. He had a sweet easy night because I did it all and he got all the tips. But whatever. The manager saw that only one day of "trailing" was needed and I was already on the schedule.

I guess there are pluses to having eons of experience, one being I can get through training quicker and start putting tips in my pocket sooner. The downside of all that experience is the sore knees, the closet full of food-stained dark shirts and the fact that when I sweat I smell like a goddamn fajita even though I haven't served fucking fajitas since the mid-90's. Ah, well. The good with the bad I suppose.



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Sunday, February 27, 2011

One Stinky Lady at Table 3

In keeping with my pledge to refer to certain customers as characters from 1970's and 1980's television shows, I would like to discuss one "Mary Ann" who comes in on a regular basis. I refer to her as Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, not because she is cute and perky and from Kansas and has a subtle beauty that makes men want her more than that whore of movie Star, Ginger Grant. I call her Mary Ann because she smells like what I imagine Mary Ann to smell like after three years on an island without a shower or soap. Or maybe she smells like one of her coconut cream pies that have sat in the sun for too long and it went bad so she tried to make it smell better by farting on it and that didn't work so she threw some monkey poop on it and that didn't work so she just gave up and went to my station and sat at table three.

I don't know why this woman smells so bad. The first time I got a whiff of her, I wasn't sure what the smell was. Perhaps some errant rat that had eaten poison and died under a booth or a homeless man who had taken a nap in the lighting booth. After several passes of the table, I narrowed down the odor to this regular. It's like a mixture of body odor, skunk and frustration. When I leaned over to ask her what she would like for her second drink, I was punched in the face by her breath. You know what a piece of dental floss smells like after a good tough round of flossing out roast beef and broccoli? That dental floss smells like a a Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds compared to the stench that comes out of her mouth. I swear to God, it smells so bad that flies even avoid it. Imagine a fly sitting on a pile of dog shit on 6th Avenue:

Boy this dog poo sure does smell bad, but I don't mind. I'm a fly. I love poo, garbage and germs. The stinkier the better, bring it on. I'm a fly, ain't nuthin' gonna breaka my stride, nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin'... (the fly flies away and gets into the airstream of Mary Ann's breath) Oh, my God, what the hell is that stench? This is awful, I can't take it. (The fly pulls out a tiny revolver from his tiny coat pocket and blows his tiny brains out.)

When I see Mary Ann come in, I immediately start sending out vibes that she sits anywhere except my station. Since there are only two of us at work, I have a 50/50 chance of breathing in her funk. When she sits elsewhere, it's like winning the lottery. Except I don't win a million dollars, I just win the right to breathe. And in my book, that's worth a good chunk of coconut cream pie.



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Saturday, February 26, 2011

Who Really Gives A Crap?

Sometimes it's not easy to think of something to write about and then lo and behold, I look in my inbox and someone has sent me a story that cries out for my spin on it. I have written about pubic hair in food, jizz in food and now a new topic: poop in food. The story is from 2008, but it still needs to be discussed. Apparently, some customer in Sydney, Australia once accused a chef of putting doody all up in a bowl of ice cream and then serving it to her table. The article does not say what flavor the ice cream was, but I am going to go out on a dark colored limb and say it was chocolate mocha with caramel swirl and dingleberry delight. According to the vast amount of research I did (I read this article), the patron complained that the music was too loud and they couldn't hear a televised football game, or rugby or kangaroo soccer, or whatever the fuck they call it, so they complained. Next thing they knew, some bitch had a mouthful of dirty diaper rejects. "The stench went through my nostrils, I retched and spat it into the napkin," said the poop-eating whore. Now, I wasn't there and I have absolutely no idea what really happened, but it seems highly unlikely that a cook is going to go through the trouble to squeeze out some business just because someone complained about the noise level of the music. First off, I have never met a cook who gave a shit (hee, hee...gave a shit...) about what was happening in the front of the house. Secondly, wouldn't it be way more trouble than it's worth to take a squat on a bowl of ice cream? I mean, he wouldn't do it right there in the kitchen in front of everyone and I can't imagine that he would actually bother to scoop out ice cream and then carry the dish all the way to the bathroom to release his bowels on it. And what about the patron lady of scat? When she looked at her glass dish of ice cream, did she not notice that something about it wasn't quite right? Again, I have never seen crap mixed into ice cream, but I think it would look odd. Maybe the flies buzzing around it, the smell or the kernels of corn would be a dead giveaway. But what do I know? I don't know shit.

So who is telling the truth? The customers said that the restaurant offered them $5,000 in hush money but the restaurant said they wanted a million. The staff was willing to take DNA tests to prove that the poop wasn't theirs. But that doesn't mean shit either because the poop could have belonged to a koala bear, a dingo or some other Australian inhabitant that refused to submit to DNA testing. Or it was possibly the poop of the customer herself and she as looking for a way to cash in on her own excrement. Since the story is over two years old, I can't find any follow up to it, so I am not sure what happened. So I shall assume:

The DNA tests came back and confirmed that the ice cream did in fact have a helping heaping of hot poo in it but it did not match the DNA of the restaurant employees. The woman refused to submit to DNA testing and the case was dropped with no monies changing hands. The restaurant went on to great success with a new ad campaign that said "Eat Here. We Don't Crap in Your Ice Cream, Mate. G'day." The chef created a new sundae called "Fudge Packed" that won the coveted Golden Spoon of Down Under Award for best new dessert. The customer went on to find money and fame in a video that went viral. It was called Two Girls, One Cup. (I will not link to that video, but Google it if you really wanna know.) She was most recently seen in front of the Sydney Opera House sitting on a portable toilet and calling it an art exhibit. While Men at Work blasted in the background, she held a cardboard sign that said "I Will Poop for a Vegemite Sandwich."



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Friday, February 25, 2011

Thou Shall Not Blog (Just Kidding)

You may recall that I was hoping to start a new job soon. Well, I did a few of weeks ago and I am being very careful about blogging because we certainly don't need a repeat of my last firing situation. That place was a cluster fuck and by the way, after I was fired, I received a mass email to the staff saying that their new policy was that no one was allowed to Facebook, Tweet or blog about the people or events at the restaurant. To all those people I worked with at that shit show: you're welcome. And Holly Hobbie, if you're reading this, you really did need to pull that stick out of your ass. Anyhoo, I did start a new job but I am not going to say exactly when I started and I will be very vague about specifics. In other words, if Katy Perry comes in to the new job, I will not be talking about her specifically. It would be something like " a pop star who kissed a girl and she liked it." That way no one would know who I was talking about.

At my new job, things are so far so good. When I was given my rules and guidelines the first thing I did was see if there was a specific bylaw about blogging. I saw this:

Employees wanting to share their own personal opinions on the Internet are not allowed to do so while using company computers.

Score! So as long as I used my own computer, I could write whatever I wanted to write. Joy! Rapture! Celebration! Fireworks! But then I saw this:

Speaking, publishing or submitting by either electronic or printed means statements that are untrue, malicious or confidential about the company, its guests, co-workers or managers is prohibited.

Ouch. So there it is. How to get around that? So as long as they are true (Holly Hobbie really was a bitch) and not malicious (I think of the things I said about Lispy Gay Manager to be more constructive than malicious) and not confidential (it was no secret that restaurant was bat shit crazy despite the accolades being heaped upon it.) I can write what I want. The trick is to do it in a way that people I work with won't recognize their own work situation, in the off chance that one of the 25 people who read this blog is at my new job with me. I have made a list of rules for myself to follow that hopefully will keep me from getting fired if they hear that I am the Bitchy Waiter:

  • I will not tell one single soul I work with that I blog.
  • I will not friend any of them on Facebook and simply say I don't use it.
  • When something blogworthy happens (and it will) I will not write about it for two weeks so it can be erased from the cache of co-workers memories.
  • If someone is holding up a picture of me in the New York Post, I will light myself on fire in order to turn attention away from the photo.
  • When the restaurants starts to get a lot of press, I will not allow myself to link my blog to every single article, even though it will be very tempting and so easy to do.
  • I will come up with new code names for managers and co-workers and they will all be based on television characters from the 1970's and 80's. (I can't wait to write my first post about Mrs. Garret from The Facts of Life.)
  • If something too good to be true happens and one or all of these rules must be forsaken, so be it.
Wish me luck...




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Thursday, February 24, 2011

I Confess: I Am a Pig

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Why is it that every time I go to Texas, I fall back into my old habit of eating whatever I want and drinking gravy? Muscle memory takes over and my brain thinks it's actually okay to eat bean dip for dinner. Seriously, one night I ate Tostitos and bean dip for dinner. And I enjoyed it too. Blame it on my mom who has Cameo cookies and iced tea for breakfast I suppose. Within thirty minutes of being on Texas soil, my shiny silver rental car drove through a Whatburger. I swear to God I had nothing to do with it. The GPS and the cruise control conspired against my healthy eating habits and force fed me a number seven combo. One day while in Texas, I had a McDonald's McFlurry for lunch. I didn't even know what a freakin' McFlurry was, but I was introduced to it by my niece who recommenced I get the Oreo McFlurry. I did and now I worship at the altar of McFlurry. True, it was a blatant rip-off of the Dairy Queen Blizzard, but I cared not. I ate it for lunch and I felt fine about it. One morning, I drove past my arch nemesis, Chick-Fil-A who I blogged about quite unflatteringly a few weeks ago. As I sat in the Target parking lot trying to decide if I should give them my hard-earned gay dollars, I thought, "what would Jesus do?" And I decided that Jesus would forgive and forget and drive his sandal wearin' ass over for some chicken. And so I did. And it was good. And the lady at the drive thru window didn't seem like a total homophobe at all. She was right nice and friendly.

These four days in Texas saw me consume more Coca-Cola than I normally do in three weeks. I had it for breakfast, lunch dinner and snacks. One morning after brushing my teeth I almost rinsed with it, but thought better and used Country Time Lemonade instead, for that fresh, minty, sugary feel. Someone made chocolate chip cookies and I had about ten of those in one sitting. I drank Coors Light and Michelob Ultra instead of cosmos and I drank these out of cans. Cans, I tell you. Cans that were in coozies. When I was at the airport to come back to reality, I scanned the food court for one last food extravagance. I only had thirty minutes until boarding and my eyes fell upon Schlotzky's Sandwiches. I literally ran to the counter to place my order. I heard my flight being boarded but all I cared about was that ham and cheese on the sourdough bread so I ignored the plea for all customers for flight 351 to go to gate 18. I got my sandwich and inhaled it, along with a Coke and salt and vinegar potato chips. As I waddled over to my gate, I picked some shredded lettuce out of my teeth and patted my belly. Texas was very good to me. My digestive track? Not so much. But I was okay with it. I made myself comfortable in my seat and buckled my seat belt low and tight around my waist and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up only minutes away from New York. When I got out of the airport, the cold air slapped my face and jolted me back to reality. My time in Texas was good on so many levels. I was melancholy but content. Empty but full. Sad but happy. Later, while on the 7 train only three stops from home, two subway performers came into the car and danced. I didn't give them any money because I don't do that, but I knew I was home again. The fast food, the Cokes and my family were all back in Texas. I miss them. My family, I mean, not the fast food. I miss my family. Okay, and I kinda miss Whataburger too.



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Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Don't Make Me Throw a Penny at You

This story happened years and years ago, but it's a goody. I was working in this tourist trap in Times Square in New York City where food was way overpriced but tourists came anyway because it was familiar. Let's just say it was hypothetically called Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh Ave. It was the lunch rush and in my station were three secretary bitches who were happy to have someone to boss around for a change. They ordered their usual salads with everything on the side but extra everything and lemons for the waters and separate checks and anything else that screams "we are bitches." It was a busy Wednesday where everyone in the restaurant had tickets to see Cats or Phantom of the Opera or anything else that screams "we are tourists." After a while the three secretary bitches called me over and asked me if their food was ready. I gave them my standard reply: "I guess not because if it was ready it would be here." Dumb bitches. They didn't like my attitude. Hmmm, can't imagine why. Their food came out and they complained about a variety of things. I don't recall what exactly but it was probably the usual: the bread is not warm enough, the Diet Coke is flat, no one wants to sleep with us because we are big fat snort pigs. I threw their check down and went on with ignoring my other tables. When they got up to leave they left money on the table to pay for the check and when I saw it I knew what to expect. Exact change, no tip. But then I saw my tip: one penny in the bottom of a glass of water. I fished it out and scoured the room looking for the whores. They were already gone, so I ran downstairs out to 49th Street and looked both ways. I had to decide whether to go left or right. I decided to the right and ran down the street, penny in hand. About halfway to Sixth Avenue I saw them. After knocking a couple of tourists out of the way, I went to the head secretary bitch and tapped her on the shoulder. "You forgot something at your table," I said. "Oh, I did? What?" "This," I said and I flicked the penny at her. Suddenly everything was in slow motion. I watched the copper coin twirl through the air as her face recoiled in terror. The penny hit her right tit and bounced to the sidewalk. I turned around and walked back to the restaurant giddy with pride. She was right behind me. I could practically feel her hot honey mustard breath on the back of my neck.

When I got back inside, I headed straight to the bathroom to hide out because I knew I was about to be in big trouble. After a few minutes of crouching in a stall, a co-worker found me and said that my manager needed to see me right away. I slinked into her office ready to be berated. My manager shut the door and turned around to look at me. I was surprised to see that she had a huge smile on her face. She told me that even though the bitches were in fact bitches and they deserved to have a penny thrown at them, what I did was wrong and she was going to have to suspend me for three days so that all of my co-workers knew that throwing pennies at customers was not acceptable behavior for our fine dining establishment. Houlihan's. On 49th and Seventh. Hypothetically. I understood my punishment but wished I had thrown a roll of pennies at the bitch instead of just one.

My response to being suspended for three days? "Okay, cool. Can I cash out now because it looks like I have a three day weekend ahead of me." After my three days off, I returned to work as a legend. A hero. I penny-throwing hero legend.




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Tuesday, February 22, 2011

It's National Margarita Day!!

I have pulled myself out of my self-imposed break to alert you to an important fact: today is National Margarita Day, y'all. I know this because it is on Facebook, therefore it must be true. Thankfully for me, I am currently in Texas where Margaritas pour freely from the tap. Seriously, here in Texas, restaurants don't bring you water when you sit down, they just hand you a pitcher of Margarita. People wash their hair in Margaritas, dogs drink Margaritas out of their bowls and I once went through a car wash where the final rinse was with Rose's Lime Juice. Since today is such an auspicious occasion, it is our duty to go out and get drunk. We do not want to disappoint whoever it was that created this day, so get out there and order one for lunch. Or if you're like me, for breakfast.

In other news, being in Texas has reminded me how much fucking roadkill there is here. Driving into town yesterday to hit the Target for some emergency nail polish, I came across six different dead skunks on the road. How many damn skunks are there that six of them die in one night just while crossing one four-mile stretch of road? Crazy. I also have seen a dead deer, an o'possum and a cat. I guess it is the equivalent of being in New York City and seeing a half rotted rat laying in the tracks of the A train. Sigh, I miss New York City.

Anyhoo, back to tequila and this wonderful day that allows us to whisper sweet nothings into the ear of Margarita. Whether yours is frozen, on the rocks, straight up, with salt, without salt, strawberry, raspberry, mango, original or bacon, get one today. And don't feel like you need to wait until your work day is over. If possible, have it at work. Or at home. In bed. Or on the couch. Or at a bar. Or a club. Or a movie. Wherever, you are and whatever you do today, have a Margarita. It's almost as important as paying your taxes. It might actually be more important.
Happy National Margarita Day.


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Frazzled But Happy Stay-At-Home Mom

Taking a break, so please don't be bored to death by this tired piece of crap:

Heavens to Betsy, I cannot believe how many weeks have passed by since I have had a moment to sit down and write. I guess with all the craziness of the holidays, time has just flown by and here it is already the middle of January. But Spring is only a few weeks away, LOL!! When I last wrote, it was all about my Turkey Day and what a gobble gobble joy it was. But Christmas came and went and it was filled with so much joy and love that my face hurt from smiling for so many days. Of course the kiddos loved it and hubby bought me a new vacuum cleaner! (You were listening, dearest darling husband that I love oh so much!) I spent all day on the 26th of December vacuuming every floor in the house and I even cleaned the drapes and upholstery too. It was so much fun! I wanted the house to be clean clean clean for our New Year's Eve party. Can you believe we had a party? I decided to have a celebration since my baby brother was in town for the holidays. He is such a dear. His name is Bryan and he works in a restaurant. The kids were so excited to see their favorite uncle. I must admit that I was surprised that Bryan left his home so near Christmas because he loves that holiday so much. (Remind me to post pictures of his Department 56 Original Snow Village sometime. It's amazing.) But his new roommate Sam had a business trip in a neighboring town and they decided to visit us as well. We only have one guest bedroom, but Bryan said that he didn't mind sharing the room with Sam. I felt awful that one of them had to sleep on the floor but they seemed okay with it. I think they must have been uncomfortable though because I heard moaning all night coming from the room. That floor must have been so hard! Or maybe it was their little schnauzer, Tranny, that was howling, I can't be sure. Anyhoo, the next day they seemed refreshed and happy so I guess it wasn't too crowded in there for the three of them.

Bryan told the kids that they could call Sam "Uncle Sam" which made me laugh. Uncle Sam! Isn't that funny? That brother of mine is so sweet and he brought presents for the kids too. He gave Suzy Loo a limited edition vintage Barbie doll and Billy Boo a limited edition Ken doll. I told him he spent too much money, but he assured me that they just came from his personal collection and he was trying to make room in his home since Sam moved in. (It must be crowded over there too, because he only has a one bedroom apartment. Sam must have to sleep on the couch, poor thing.)

Our party was a huge success. It was me, hubby, the kids, Bryan, Sam and hubby's secretary. Since we don't normally stay up very late, we celebrated London's New Year which was five hours earlier than ours. That way I could still be in bed by 9:00. I had two glasses of sparkling apple cider and I don't care what the bottle says, I swear to goodness that I was bit tipsy! When I went to bed with the kids, Hubby was driving his secretary home and Bryan and his roommate were going to another party they heard about that was happening in an abandoned warehouse down by the piers.

The next morning I shook off my apple cider hangover and was surprised to see none of them were home yet. Looks like 2011 was off to a bad start. Hubby got a flat tire and had to spend the night at his secretary's house. Bryan and Sam eventually made it home via a nice man they met named Meat. They said they drank too many Cosmos and Meat took care of them all night long at his place called The Dungeon. (Where do they come up with these names for housing complexes these days?) They both seemed exhausted and the poor dears could barely stand up straight. If I didn't know any better I 'd think they had been horseback riding all night long because they were both a little bowlegged. They must have really danced last night! They borrowed $200 dollars from my cookie jar to thank Meat for his services (I guess Meat towed their car home for them) and he went on his way.

Looks like 2011 is full of excitement already! LOL!!!




Monday, February 21, 2011

What's White and Sticky and in a Napkin?

Taking a little break, so please enjoy this nasty ass spooge story. Thanks and sorry.

As servers, we are used to getting our hands dirty. Whether it is reaching into that nasty ass bus tub to get a fork because table 18 needs one right away and you'd rather get a dirty one right here and wash it than walk all the way to the dish room or cleaning the fucking ketchup bottles, our hands are constantly filthy. Thankfully, we all wash them continuously so that our hands are clean and sanitized when we handle the bread for our customers. (That's funny.) Anyhoo, I was re-setting my station the other day and going through the room picking up all the trash off the tables so they could be wiped down. The usual was there; bev naps, straw wrappers, cocktail sippy straw thingies, etc. I was just making a sweep grabbing it all with my hands when I picked up a napkin that was sopping wet. The napkin was balled up and inside it was some wet sticky substance that oozed through my finger and got all up in my joory. My mind raced:

Oh shit, what the fuck is in this napkin? Did somebody just blow their nose and leave the Kleenex here and now their snot is all in my hand? This better not be fucking snot. I will be so pissed off if I look down and see a fucking booger hanging off my ring. Or spooge. Do not tell me someone just spooged all up in a bev nap and now I am holding it. I do not get paid enough to hold spooge in my hand. I get $4.65 an hour and spooge-holding definitely requires at least $7.00 an hour. And it's sticky too. Oh shit, it's spooge. I know it's spooge. I have the spooge of a stranger in my hand. Okay, I'm gonna look down and see what it is. Here I go. Oh God! It's white! And creamy! And sticky. It is so totally spooge. Goddammit, who the fuck leaves spooge in a bev nap? That's it, I quit. If I am gonna be a spooge catcher I may as well place an ad on craigslist and get paid the big bucks. I can see the ad now: "let me catch your spooge in my hand and you pay me seven dollars." Yuck. Gross. I am gonna throw up. I am so totally going to throw up. This is nastier than a soggy biscuit. It's spooge. Spoooooooge!

As I started to pass out from anger, frustration and disgust, I noticed a coffee cup on the table and remembered what the lady at the table had ordered. She had an Irish Coffee. With whipped cream. Apparently, she didn't want the whipped cream so she scooped it off and placed it on the napkin that was now in my hand. "Oh, it's whipped cream. Never mind."





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Sunday, February 20, 2011

This Law Suit is a Hot Mess

Taking a break for a few days, so this is a tired ass repeat. Thanks. And sorry.

I read this week that a couple in Cleveland, TN is suing a restaurant called Steak 'n Shake as well as the waiter because they were given some hot sauce that was too spicy for their 14 year old son. After he ate it, he had a severe reaction including hives, difficulty breathing, inflammation of his digestive system, mouth and throat and several other "I'm-a-pussy" related symptoms. He is also suffering permanent damage. They drove his ass right to the hospital and and one year later they are suing for compensatory damages of $10,000 and punitive damages of $50,000.

The hot sauce was called Mega Death and it turns out that it wasn't a product that the restaurant officially served. Either the waiter was just trying to go above and beyond by serving his guests something he thought they would like or he was just a rude ass waiter who wanted to prank these bitches. I go with the latter. The family had probably been annoying him all day by asking for stupid shit like extra ice and lemons so they could make their own lemonade. Or maybe they wanted the Chinese Chicken salad but instead of peanut dressing they wanted Ranch and instead of chicken they wanted steak. And leave off the peanuts. And no lettuce but substitute it for a baked potato. By the time the kid asked for some hot sauce for his goddamn chili, the waiter was like "yeah, I got some hot sauce for you." I must admit I have imagined taking a crying baby's bottle and dipping the nipple into Tabasco so I can kinda see where this waiter is coming from. Was it right of him to do it solely because he was being a prick? Absolutely not. Is it funny as yell? Absolutely yes.

Let's look at the responsibility of the family though, shall we? If you ask for hot sauce and one comes to your table that is unfamiliar to you, maybe it would be a good idea to look at the label. This label says that it's called Mega Death. And it has a skull hanging off of it. It says it's hotter than 500 jalapeno peppers. That might be a clue that you don't want to just pour it into your chili all willy nilly. But the kid did and now they want some money because their son is "permanently damaged." By hot sauce. How is someone permanently damaged by hot sauce? And as a 14 year old, I think he should have been able to read a label himself. He's in high school, right? I know our education system is not what it should be, but most 14 year olds can read, can't they? And if they say he was hospitalized do they mean more than just a trip to the emergency room? The father is a pastor of a church so it would be easy to assume that he would turn the other cheek or forgive the waiter for his ways, but in this day and age it's much easier to call 1-800-SUE-THEM. Surely when this case is settled out of court, Mr. Pastor will be donating all of his settlement to the collection plate. Uh huh. Right.

According to reports, the waiter no longer works at Steak 'n Shake which must be a terrible blow to his ego. Working at a place called Steak 'n Shake has got to be so fulfilling. It's right up there with working at Houlihan's, Pizzeria Uno's and The Black Eyed Pea. Hopefully, this waiter will not be held responsible. They asked for hot sauce, he brought them hot sauce, case closed. Regardless of the fact that the boy's esophagus closed up tighter than Carl Paladino's sphincter muscle at gay pride parade, the waiter only did what he was asked to do.






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Saturday, February 19, 2011

Rita on the Rocks. No Salt.

My grandma was born in 1922. Her parents named her Rita. I told her once that every time I took an order for a Margarita, I wrote her name down on my pad because that was the abbreviation. She thought that was the funniest thing. "Yeah," I told her. "Sometimes I write down your name ten or eleven times in one day." She loved that story. My Mamo is one cool lady. I never knew her to have a job but I know that she did have her own dress shop sometime in the 50's. There is a picture of her leaning against the sign. She's gorgeous in it. Her hair is dark and wavy and she is shielding her eyes from the sun. The sign simply says "Rita's Dress Shop." I always thought it was so cool that she had a store. I always wanted to know more about it but of all the times I talked to her, that was one of the things that never came up. Mamo Rita died yesterday and my chance to hear about her dress shop went with her.

I have a lot of food memories with Mamo. Her and my Papo used to take me and my brothers to Kips Big Boy every time we went to see them. It's funny that I don't remember what I ever ate, but I remember how excited we were to go there. When we would get out of the car the first thing we would do would be to run over to the Kips Big Boy Statue that was in front of the restaurant. We always had our picture taken in front of it and damned if I know where one single copy of any of those pictures are now. When I was at her house, it was like my own little Mexican restaurant. She would custom make whatever I wanted and I always wanted the same thing: tortillas. I would sit in the kitchen and marvel at how quickly she could make them from scratch. She would roll them out into a perfect circle and throw them on the skillet. She never used tongs to flip them; just her hands. She would reach into the pan and grab the edge of the tortilla and flip it and when it was done take it again and toss it onto a plate covered with a used piece of aluminum foil that she had pulled from her drawer. Sometimes she would make refried beans for them or a scrambled egg or maybe I would just eat them with butter and sugar. "Aye, mijo, how can you eat so many tortillas?" she would wonder. I could eat as many as she could make. "Aye, mijo, you put too much salt on your eggs, your blood pressure is going to go up. No salt. No salt." I loved salt and I would add more to my eggs just because it was funny to see her get so exasperated over a few sprinkles. She tried to teach me how to make them once when I was about 19. Of course she didn't have any measurements so it was all "about this much" and "about that much" and when I tried to make them on my own, they were a colossal failure. I couldn't even get them to be round. It's sad to think of all the things that we lose when someone dies. We don't just lose the person, but we lose the future with them too. No more tortillas in Mamo's kitchen when I go to Texas. When I ate the last one over 12 moths ago, did I relish it enough? I doubt it.

Another food memory I have with Mamo is how she always had ice cream sandwiches in her freezer. When I would stay with her, I would love to swim in the pool of her apartment complex and then come into the air conditioning and watch cartoons while laying on a towel in the living room. And eating ice cream sandwiches. "Can I have another one, Mamo?" "If you want another one you go right ahead," she'd say. "But aren't you cold? How can you be all wet and eat ice cream?" I'd run to the freezer and grab another and plop down on my stomach and rest my head on my elbows. "Aye, mijo, don't eat like that. You can't digest your food if you're on your belly. Rollover." I'd roll my eyes. And then roll over.

I'm sad that she's gone. But grateful that she had 88 years here. Someone I know is dealing with the immanent loss of her six year old grandson who is sick. My loss is sad, but her loss is tragic. It really keeps it in perspective. 88 years of a good life. A long happy marriage, kids, grand kids, travel and for years she got a new car every year because my Grandpa treated her like a Queen. No one loved Mamo more than Papo did. I am left with memories. The next few days will be sad, as I travel to Texas for her funeral. But when I pass Dairy Treet, I will probably stop and get a burger in her honor since it was her favorite. And every time I went home, I'd stop there and pick up two of them and go to her place and we would have lunch together. Hell, maybe I will still get two and just eat them both.

Is your grandma still alive? Call her. Tell her hello. Ask her a question that only she will have the answer to. I talked to Mamo Rita all the time. I could tell her anything at all and she would tell me things too. I didn't want to hear about her sex life after my Papo died, but she told me anyway. We would talk about Survivor and American Idol and the weather. Every new year's eve I would call her at midnight because she loved that moment of time when we all look to the future filled with hope. I didn't get to do it last December 31st because she was too sick. I will miss talking to her. And why is it now, one day too late, that I think of all the things I want to ask her? What was your wedding like? What was it like to live through the Great Depression? Why did you always name your Chihuahuas "Peanut?" But if I had one more question to ask it would be this one: can you please tell me anything and everything about Rita's Dress Shop? I really wanna know.

I will be away for a few days. I will try to post but maybe a break is order. Thanks.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter







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Friday, February 18, 2011

My Thoughts on the Toilet

Can we talk about restrooms? Specifically, public restrooms? First off, I don't know why we call them "rest" rooms since there is very little rest that happens inside one. Trying to flush a toilet with my foot and then wash my hands and escape without touching the door handle is anything but restful. And I can't tell you how many times I have been "stuck" in one because I refused to touch the doorknob and had to patiently wait until someone else came in and I was able to slip out the door as they opened it. I also really hate when people call it a public "bath" room, because there better not be any fucking bathing go on in there unless it involves a bottle of hand sanitizer and a Baby Wipe.

Anyhoo, while recently eating at Butter here in the city, I took some time to use the facilities, the little boys room, to bleed my lizard, to take a leak, what have you. Once downstairs, I found myself in a long hallway of doors and I was waiting behind another man. At the end of the hall was the gatekeeper who directed us to the appropriate door for our needs. He waved the man before me into a room on the left side and I assumed I would be offered the room on the other side of the hall, you know like the dressing rooms at The Gap. But I was told to follow the man into the same room. "Okay, I guess they aren't individual toilets in each room," I thought as I followed the stranger through the door. Once inside, I looked around to see two urinals side by side with no divider and one sink. What the hell? You put two urinals in one tiny room? We hurried to the urinals and both began to unbutton our pants in order to finish first so we didn't have to wash our hands at the same time too. I don't know about you guys, (There are like three guys who read this blog...) but I like a divider between the urinals. I don't want to feel the splish splash of this dude's urine bouncing off the porcelain and onto me. I also don't want to embarrass the poor guy who has to stand next to me when out of his peripheral vision he can see all my business. I hate making other guys feel inadequate. It's a curse, really. Just as I was finishing off, I noticed that my pee partner was already zipping his pants back up (from shame and inadequacy, no doubt) and I then realized I was going to have to wait in this tiny room while he washed his hands and I waited for my turn. Or so I thought. As it turns out, his penis must have been remarkably clean because he didn't feel the need to wash his fucking hands when he was done. Maybe his penis was impeccably clean, but the he did use his hand to flush the urinal and then that same hand went right to the door handle to let himself out. The same door handle that I would now need to touch. Fucking nasty. I zipped up, flushed and went to the sink. I had the room to myself now and as I was washing my hands for the recommended 45 seconds in warm soapy water, I wondered what I would have done if I needed to go number two. The bathroom gatekeeper didn't ask me "pee or poop?" He just assumed that I needed a urinal. What if I had kids that needed to be dropped off at the pool and I was sent to the double urinal room? Wouldn't it be uncomfortable to have to leave and go ask for a toilet? Imagine, you're in the room with your pissing buddy both staring at the urinal and you're all, "yeah dude, this urinal's not gonna work. I gots to squeeze out some business." Awkward as hell.

I left the restroom and went back to my meal still pondering what I would say to Gatekeeper if I needed to use a toilet. After I ate, I decided to go back down to revisit the toilet scenario. The man ushered me to the same room that I knew had only urinals in it. I grimaced and said to him, "Uh uh." Lowering my voice I said, "I need a toilet." I patted my belly to emphasize that this was a case where a urinal simply would not suffice. Gatekeeper gave me a knowing glance and directed me to another room. A room with a single toilet and a sink all my own. A much better situation even though I didn't need the toilet. I didn't need a urinal even really. I just wanted to him to know that sometimes a man needs a toilet. Maybe he needs to go number two or maybe he just wants to sit down and relax. I'm a real man, but I can admit that sometimes, my ass is just too lazy to stand up to pee. I hung out in my private room for a few minutes. I peed a tiny bit and flushed the toilet two times to give the illusion of really needing to be in there. I washed my hands and dried them with a paper towel that I kept wrapped around my hand to open the door. I held the door open with my foot and then tossed the paper towel into the trash can and left with an empty bladder and clean hands. And an also impeccably clean penis.




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Thursday, February 17, 2011

This Is Horrible News

This week at work I was dealt a blow that I may never recover from. My life blood was essentially drained from my veins. The teat that I suckle was pulled, nay, ripped from my lips. Someone reached into the cavity of my chest and pulled out my still-beating heart and threw it onto the floor and stepped on it as if it were a day old Dunkin' Donut that deserved no kindness. I would cry, but my eyes have leaked to the point of exhaustion and there is nothing left to weep. You have heard of the dry heaves? I'm having a serious case of dry cries. I want to cry, but there is only sawdust, Goldfish salt and resentment in my tear ducts. What horror has befallen me? Brace yourselves. Seriously, lean your ass up against a wall before you read this, because the earth shall quake and the heavens will roar with anger. At my job, management has come down with a new decree. I can hardly type this. My hands are shaking with anger, confusion and disgust. No more shift drinks. No. More. Shift. Drinks. What the hell? Don't they know that the only way I can deal with table 25 is with the promise of the sweet nectar of Kettle One after I punch out? How am I expected to not strangle table 6 if there is no glass of pinot grigio to reward me for not committing murder, assault or manslaughter? How will I numb the pain of separating the check for three ladies who each ordered the same exact thing and each gave me a credit card, yet still demanded that I create an individual check for each of them? The only way I could handle that shit was knowing that at least at the end of the night there would be a libation with my name on it. The humanity!

I understand the thought behind this. I do. It all comes down to cost and how can they be expected to give up a cocktail for the two employees a night? Okay, I don't understand it. It makes no sense to me. A happy employee is a drunk one, I always say. But I wait to drink until the end of the night when I want to pull up a bar stool and sip my martini as I commiserate with my co-workers on the night that we just shared and that we will never get back. And now I no longer have that. I still can't believe it. It seems unreal. It's like hearing that the New Adventures of Old Christine was canceled all over again. The moment that I was denied the drink from the bartender will haunt me forever.

ME: Whew, this night is tough. I am really looking forward to that shift drink tonight.
TOM: Oh...yeah...about that...
ME: What, Tom? What is it?
TOM: Well, uh, we met with the owners and uh...
ME: Tom, what are you saying? Spit it out, man. What is it?
TOM: We aren't allowed to have shift drinks anymore.
ME: What? Nooooooooooooo! You can't be serious. This is wrong. So wrong. On so many levels.
(I collapse and begin crying and pounding my fists on the floor.)
TOM: You can still have sodas.
ME: Really, Tom? A soda? A soda? I'm supposed to drown my sorrows in a goddamn Sierra Mist? This isn't over, Tom. Not by a long shot. I will have my shift drink again. Even if I have to carry my own goddamn flask in here, I will be drunk at work. (I sob uncontrollably. I shake. I convulse. I throw up. I shart a little bit in my underwear.)
TOM: (after ten minutes) Are you gonna go to table 4 or stay in the fetal position all night?
ME: Oh, I already did. Two jack and cokes, please.





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Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Put a Spork In It

You know I love it when I can put a customer in his place. Like when they are arguing that the menu says one thing when I know good and well that it says something else. Nothing is more fun than letting some douche hat paint himself into a corner and then smacking him upside the head with a cold dose of reality when I tell him what he is saying is wrong. How fun is it when someone complains that their sandwich has onions on it and "it should say that on the menu" and then we get to point to the menu that says "served with onions." The customer always makes that face that always make laugh. Do this and you will know what I mean. (No, seriously, do it.) Scowl your eyebrows, flare your nostrils, purse your lips and inhale through your nose all at the same time. Did you do it? It's the look that says, "Oh my God, I am so embarrassed and I need to shut the fuck up." Someone sent me a little story recently (holla, Chris C.) and it made me happy. Read this:

(At a Red Lobster In Macon, Georgia) A few months ago at work I had a grown man ask me for "plastic culinary" and when I stared at him with a puzzled look on my face he laughed (a deep pretentious laugh), looked around at the ladies sitting at the table, smiled like an asshole and said, "You know, a plastic knife, spoon, and fork? Culinary. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have expected you to know that." I just smiled and said, "I believe the word you're trying to embarrass me with is 'cutlery' - 'culinary' is used in relation to cooking or a kitchen and not the utensils."


Oh, how I wish I could have been there when that man did "the look" because you know he did it in an extra hard way. He was all trying to be impressive with his use of an SAT word that had four syllables in it and ended up looking like a Taco Supreme Ass Hole. Like he thinks that the waiter couldn't possibly know what "culinary" or "cutlery" is. And why the hell did he want plastic fucking utensils anyway? He's at Red fucking Lobster. Isn't the all-you-can-eat shrimp plastic enough? Is he one of those assholes who always ask for a cup of hot water so he can wash his silverware in it before it enters his precious germ-free pie hole? I can just see the guy now, in his JC Penney tie on his lunch break from his cubicle where he answers the phone for Georgia Power and Electric. Or maybe he was the boss and he took his secretary and assistant out to lunch for Appreciation Day at the Red Lobster because the TGIFriday's was too crowded. I hope he eventually got his plastic cutlery and as he tried to break into that lobster tail with his plastic knife, I hope it snapped in two and sent melted butter all over his pleated Dockers leaving a stain right at the crotch so it looked like he went to the bathroom and did a little dribble.

People like that piss me off. I'd like to tell him where he can put that plastic utensil. Hey buddy, spork off.







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Monday, February 14, 2011

Valentine's Day Advice for Men

Today is the day we think it's okay to eat sixteen ounces of chocolate from Walgreen's. It's February 14th and Valentine's Day. Thankfully, I am not working in a restaurant this evening so I will not have to look at all the couples who are goo-goo ga-ga over each other as they share a plate of cheese fries. Instead, I will be at a restaurant all goo-goo ga-ga and sharing a pitcher of Margaritas with that special someone. There may be food involved as well, but there will definitely be tequila. I will keep this brief because I am ready to get my VD on, but I wanted to share a few thoughts about this day. Some pointers, if you will, for the two or three guys who read this blog:
  • Do not buy your roses at the deli.
  • There are other flowers other than roses. Your girlfriend might appreciate a bit of thinking outside the box. A dozen long-stemmed roses are so traditional and so very fucking done.
  • Do not buy any flowers that have baby's breath in them. If they are in the bouquet you bought at the Stop and Shop, take that shit outta there. It's tacky and makes the flowers look even cheaper than they probably were.
  • One single rose is not romantic. It's lame. If it lights up, you are especially lame.
  • A bigger Valentine card does not mean you are more romantic. No girl wants that big huge card that they have to lug around all day. It will get thrown away. Trust me. Simple is better. And write something on it. More than a sentence. It will take you far.
  • No stuffed animals. She doesn't want another stuffed teddy bear that says "I love you beary much."
  • You don't have to buy that big ass heart-shaped box of chocolate. Try something like an upscale chocolate place (Kees, Leonidas, or Godiva in a pinch) and just choose four or five truffles that are unique and delicious. Like a passion fruit truffle or a raspberry one. Your girlfriend doesn't want a hundred pieces of chocolate that will make her ask you later if you think she looks fat.
  • Hold her hand. Be nice. Say you love her.
  • Tell her how cool The Bitchy Waiter is.
Alright. And scene. Off for Margaritas. Happy Valentine's Day!




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Sunday, February 13, 2011

Don't Touch Me

I was touched inappropriately at work last night and I am not talking in a good way. It was a very busy night and I was making the rounds to my tables as they were sat for the big show. What people don't realize is if they are not ready when I get to their table, then I will not be able to make it back to them again until I round out my whole station. Sorry, that's how it works. Table 4 wasn't ready for drinks but they did know that they wanted some cheese plate action and some mixed nuts. I took the drink orders for the tables around them and went to the computer to send that shit. I went back to my station and as I was at table 22X, I felt the tell tale sign of someone who his hand chopped off, because table 4 was pulling at my shirt. I turned around and said, "I'll be right with you, sir." My inner monologue was little different:
Oh hell no, you did not just tug at my shirt you sorry ass bucket of 1000 Island Dressing. Do you not see me standing here having a conversation with this other bitch at table 22X? Do you seriously think it is okay to touch my back and feel all up on me without even getting to know my name first or takin' my ass over to the Red Lobster for alls you can eat shrimps and lobster? Get your hand all up off of me. I do not care that you are all in a hurry now to order your stupid ass Rubytini because when I was just up at your table your ass couldn't even be bothered to hardly make eye contact with me but now you're all ready so I'm supposed to drop this bitch at table 22X and hop right over to you? Uh uh. I don't think so. Get your filthy paws off my silky drawers and you best be keepin' your hands to yourself for the rest of the night. I will run over to the sidestand and find the nastiest dullest steak knife I can find and you will see what it feel like to be a double amputee when I hack those hands right of your arms and leave you with nothing but a couple of stumpy ass nubs, you sorry ass bitch.
I smiled at table 4 and carried on with table 22X. When table 22X was done, do you think I went to table 4? Nope. I moved on to someone who hadn't molested me. Eventually, I made it back to table 4. "Okay, what can I get for you tonight? " I looked at their bowl of mixed nuts, half gone, and knew they were probably dying of thirst. The man who had made physical contact with my body mumbled something. "I'm sorry, sir, what was that?"

"If I would have known it was going to take so long for you to come back I would have just ordered the first time you were here, " he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry. It got really busy. But I'm here now. What would you like?" Again, my inner monologue was a bit different.
Uh huh, maybe you will be ready to order a little faster next time, you miserable sad sack pity fuck. Maybe you learned a lesson tonight. Just because you're the customer doesn't necessarily mean you run the goddamn timetable around here. I got a freakin' system and you better learn it. When I come up to take your order, you better be ready to tell me what you want because you might have to wait a whole ten fucking minutes before you can order your sorry ass cup of coffee or tap water with no ice and extra lemon. And maybe the next time you'll think twice before touching your server because if you have even half a brain inside that big over sized head of yours, you may realize that maybe that's why I took my sweet ass time to get back to your table. Don't fucking touch me unless your cool with me copping a feel of your wife's tits. Strangers don't touch strangers unless you're crowded onto the 6 train, you're in the backroom of a bar on the Lower East Side or you just met on craigslist.
I got the table their drinks. We were fine from then on. I think he read my mind a little bit. Cocksmack.




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Saturday, February 12, 2011

The Comeback (To Work)

I have been released from the hounds of fury who hath come upon me and swaddled me in their sickness and filth. After three days of a stomach virus the clouds have broken allowing the rays of healthy sunshine to fall down on me. And if I have to look at another goddamn fucking Saltine cracker I will go insane. I was sick, but now I'm well. The best part of being couch-ridden was that I finished watching The Comeback which is a brilliant piece of television. If you don't know what it is, please educate yourself and love it as I do. And when Lisa Kudrow threw up while dressed as a cupcake, it took me right back to three days ago when I too was throwing up. Except I wasn't dressed as a cupcake. I was dressed as a bowl of banana pudding. Don't ask.

Anyhoo, I am going back to work tonight and I feel at about 85%. It ain't no fun to be at work when you don't feel good which is ironic really since it ain't no fun to be at work when you do feel good. Sad, that. But I will be there tonight. And when someone orders a white chocolate martini, I will pretend that it does not remind me of what I was blowing out of my nose yesterday. And when I serve a bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, I will ignore the smell that makes me queasy just thinking about it now. Seriously, since being sick, my sense of smell is on hyper-drive. I almost had to throw away some white lilies that were brightening up my kitchen because the smell was so nauseatingly sweet. Never fear horticulturists; I simply moved them onto the piano in the drawing room next to the solarium so my olfactory glands could take a chill pill. The most difficult thing about being a waiter when sick is that there is always the fear that a snot drop will be released from your nose at any time.

"Hello, hello, hello! Can I get you anything to drink (sniff) tonight? Pay no mind to the mucus slowly descending onto my upper lip. You see, I had a little touch of the stomach flu or a cold thingy and I'm just getting over it. But I feel better today, I really do." And then as soon as I get to the sidestand, I blow my nose on a bev nap but who really has time to wash your hands after every single time you blow your nose? It's annoying. The nose drip, I mean, not the had-washing. Or lack thereof. Whatever.

Work will be interesting tonight. And sad because I will probably fore go my shift drink which should really say something as to how sick I was. If a vodka martini does not sound appealing then you know my body is all fucked up and shit. But I will be there with a smile plastered on my gaunt face. My pants will be loose because of the weight that as fallen off of me over the last couple of days. How will my apron even stay on? My arms will barely have the strength to hold the tray of cocktails because my body is lacking sustenance. Two days of crackers and Sprite does not a strong body make. But for the sake of my customers (and my empty wallet) I will be there. Ready to serve. I am waiter, hear me whine.




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Friday, February 11, 2011

Fuck Cupid

Valentine's weekend has arrived, so dust of your single red roses and chocolate candy in the heart box. I have been invited to participate in a Valentine's Day Round Robin of bloggers where we each write about this oh so special holiday and then share the links with each other. I hope you will take a moment to read some of these other fine bloggers to see what they think about Valentine's day. My post is below. It's called Fuck Cupid. Because, I'm sweet that way.



Fuck Cupid

Valentine's Day is upon us and that means it's time to come up with the most romantic and unique gesture of love to show that special someone that you really care. That is, of course, if you are actually in a relationship. If you are single, then Valentine's Day is basically a reminder that you are alone and no one loves you. It's a weird little holiday we have. If you aren't in a relationship when Valentine's Day comes around, you wish you were and if you are in a relationship on Valentine's day, then there is a butt load of pressure to do the right thing.

I remember back in college when I never dated, when February 14th would roll around I would be consumed with depression. So one year I decided that I would just sit in my dorm room and watch television and treat myself to a pizza. I called up Domino's to place my order and began my night of celebrating myself. (Masturbation.) When the pizza arrived, I opened the box to see the most disgusting thing that could be delivered to a lonely person on Valentine's Day. The pizza was shaped like a goddamn fucking heart. It was a slap in the face to me who wanted to forget that everyone I knew was out with their boyfriend or their girlfriend. On the box was scrawled "Happy Valentine's Day!" but it may as have well said, "What kind of sad loser spends Valentine's Day alone in your dorm room? You suck." I cried. I ate my pizza. I masturbated. I cried again. Happy Valentine's Day.

Years later when I was partnered and we had celebrated many Valentine's Days, we made the decision to not really acknowledge that day anymore. No more gifts or flowers or chocolates. Just dinner if we felt like it. One night we had tickets to a show so we wanted to go to our favorite Italian restaurant before. It was a Tuesday night so we were surprised to see how crowded it was. We sat down and were given the menu which was much more expensive than it was the last time we had eaten there. The menu was all prix fixe and came with a bottle of wine. "What happened? Why is it so expensive now?" we wanted to know. We were told it was Valentine's Day so they had created a special menu for us. Bull fucking shit. We didn't even know it was February 14th. We promptly left because there was no way I was going to pay twice as much for the pasta on that day than I would have on the day before. Cupid can go fuck himself.

I think most of us have a love/hate relationship with Valentine's Day. We all know it's a day that was created by Hallmark and flower companies to boost sales in a slow time of year. If you have a girlfriend, you have to make sure you get her a card, a gift, some chocolates, a diamond and some flowers. It ain't easy. So I say if you're single on Valentine's day, live it up. Be happy that you don't have all the expectations of those folks who are part of a couple. When you see that little naked Cupid baby floating by with his wings and bow and arrow, I say get your can of Raid and spray the hell out of that bitch until he chokes on fumes. Valentine's Day can suck it.




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Thursday, February 10, 2011

I Wish I Was on vacation

This is a re-post. I am sick. Like I have the fever and the vomiting and all that lovely crap. So I dragged myself from the couch and took a break from eating Saltines and drinking Sprite to copy and paste this old blog. That's how much you mean to me, readers. Okay, back to bed...

This lady came in the other day and she's always a little bit of a pain in the ass. Just because she's a semi-regular, she thinks that she deserves special treatment. You know the type. As soon as she sat down she said she wanted something special to make her feel like she was on a tropical vacation. I hate when people say stupid shit like that. I wanted to suggest that she put on an ugly one piece bathing suit with a ruffle and then get a sunburn while listening to Tom Jones on her Walkman because I figured that's what she usually did when on a tropical vacation. Instead, I simply asked her what she would like to drink. She thought long and hard about this oh so complicated question. Suddenly her eyes lit up as she realized what drink would satisfy this tropical craving she was trying to fill. I couldn't wait for her to ask for a Pina Colada or Banana Daiquiri so I could tell her we don't have a blender. And then she asked for something that is so completely incongruous with tropical that I thought she was kidding. "Can I have a Frangelico and coffee?" She said it all whispery and shit with this snarky grin like it was so so daring of her to order this wild and crazy drink. What the fuck kind of tropical vacation does this bitch go on that she sits on a beach and drinks coffee? Is it a beach in Antarctica? Is she retarded? Then she altered her order a bit and requested iced coffee which made it a teeny bit more understandable. "And can you put some whipped cream on it so it really seems fancy?" Yeah, lady. Every drink I have ever had while on the beach had whipped cream on it and it made me think it was fancy, will do. I put about six inches worth of whipped cream on her drink because I knew it would make her wet her panties when she saw it. If I would have had one of those little paper umbrellas I would have stuck that in it too, but no such luck. Instead, I did one of those tricks you do with the paper of a straw to make it look like it was a flower. She squealed with pleasure when she saw it. This lady really needs a life. Or a vacation. But she loved me. Bitch loves her some Bitchy Waiter.




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Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Possibly the Most Disgusting Thing You'll Ever Read

Last month at a New Mexico grocery store called the Sunflower Market, a woman got a free tasting sample that had something in it that she had not bargained for. An employee, Anthony Garcia, was handing out samples of delicious and good-for-you Greek yogurt and the woman was offered a taste. She immediately spit it out because she said it "tasted like sperm." Yes, this woman knew what sperm tasted like and she spit that shit out onto the floor. She called the police, the sample was tested and the Greek yogurt came back positive for grade A pasteurized skim milk, live action yogurt cultures and a hot load of man juice. Hey, folks, I don't make this shit up. It's real. What in the hell is wrong with Anthony Garcia? According to his boss, they weren't even scheduled to be giving out free samples that day so at least we have to give him an A for effort-for exceeding expectations and being a real self-starter. But he self-started right into a cup of yogurt and then served it to some lady. Dude. Not cool. If you want someone to swallow, you definitely need to try a different approach; maybe some sweet nothings in her ear or a single red rose after dinner at Red Lobster will make her want to go that extra mile for you, but slipping it into yogurt at the grocery store? Not gonna work.

The employee was arrested because he had some other warrants out for his arrest too. He sounds like a real prize. The victim, in a (poorly) written statement said “I spit it out on the floor many times cuz I was upset.” The woman recalled that when she talked to the manager, “she told me was a Greek yoghurt. People love it has lot of protein on it.” I guess Anthony was just doing his part to add a bit more protein but Anthony: we like to be warned before we are going to swallow. It's common courtesy. Am I right or am I right? The woman's boyfriend was later heard muttering, "yeah, she won't swallow for me either..."

Meanwhile, how the hell am I ever supposed to feel comfortable eating my way through Costco again being scared that there is jizz in everything? There is a time and a place for semen and it ain't at Costco. Once Anthony gets to jail, he'll have plenty of time to offer his free samples to all his cellmates. He'll be real popular I bet.



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We Have a Winner!

After literally minutes and minutes of tabulating the dozens of votes, a winner has been determined for the International Pity-Bait Day. Striking just the right chord of ambiguity, humor and pity, the winning comment received 30% of the vote. And the winner is:

"Why do they feel so lumpy?"

Congratulations to Donna Reed on being the first ever Master Pity Baiter. Her comment received the most votes but it was a close race squeaking by with only 3% more votes than the runner up. Donna Reed, you should be proud. You are a pathetic pity-baiter! Donna Reed also writes a blog that you should go check out, My Dirty Kitchen Floor: Pages of a Dubiously Pissed Off Housewife.

Here are how the votes turned out:

30%- Why do they feel so lumpy?
27%- And then there are the bed bugs...
17%- I feel so guilty feeding my pets non-organic, but I can't afford anything else.
14%- Carnie Wilson did it and I know that deep, deep, deep, down... I have it in me too...
12%- I wish Oprah would respond to my letters...She would know what to do.

Thank you to the other finalists for trying so hard but you're just not quite pitiful enough. No one is as pathetic as Donna Reed! Donna Reed, you will be contacted so that you can give us your address in order for your prizes (that's right, plural!) to be mailed to you. They will be coming to you from around the country! (One from New York City and one from Portland, Oregon.) Be on the look out for an original one of kind, created just for you Bitchy Waiter necklace and a framed citation stating that you have been honored with the title of Master Pity-Baiter, 2011.

Thanks to everyone who played along with this silly time suck of a game. I truly need a life. I truly do.

Click here to see her prize and order one for yourself!

Monday, February 7, 2011

Hello Sir...Or Madam...Or...Uh...

Remember that character from Saturday Night Live that was named Pat? No one was ever sure if it was a guy or a girl and every sketch was about people trying to decipher the clues of sexuality? Well, he was in my station this week. I'm sorry. She was in my station. It was in my station? I went up to table 24 ready to take an order. I hadn't made eye contact yet because I feel that when you do that it only encourages customers to talk to you and we certainly don't want that now, do we? My head down looking at my pad, I said, "Hello there, do you know what I can get for your sir?" I stammered on the word "sir" because I noticed long willowy fingers and perfectly shaped nails. "Sir" turned into "sssso I can get it for you right now." I assumed it was a man since every other customer that night was a man who had come to see the singing debut of a bartender/dick dancer here in New York City. The room was full of older gay men and I thought table 24 was too. Or was it. I looked at the shoes which were clunky snow boots that could belong to a man or a woman. The shirt was plaid flannel which could belong to a lesbian or a hipster from Williamsburg. I was confused. Maybe it would become obvious when the order was placed. A beer without a glass= man. A fruity martini= gay man.

He spoke. She spoke. They spoke? "Can I please have a cup of hot tea with milk and honey?" The voice was high pitched but I am pretty sure there was an Adam's Apple bobbing around the neck. Hot tea could be man, woman or anything. All I knew was this check was going to suck because a hot tea is the cheapest thing on the menu. I went to get the hot tea and stopped by the host stand to look at the reservation book. Maybe I could see a name. I needed to know, not just for my own curious nature, but "sir" or "ma'am" naturally comes from my mouth being raised in the South. I needed to know. The reservation book said Clay. Ah ha, a man! Oh wait, that's the last name. Damn. I went back with the hot tea and set it on the table. He/she drank with the pinky extended not helping me at all because this was a room full of gay men. Pinkies were waving all over the place like amber waves of grain. By the time I took the second hot tea to table 24, I had given up. The check was paid with cash so no credit card to study the name.

After the show, I saw him/her go downstairs toward the bathroom. If I had time, I would have followed just to see which room he/she went to. No time though. Moments later I saw my good friend Vague Clay coming up the stairs. I looked at the crotch looking for a bulge, a panty line, a tampon string-anything that would clue me in. Nothing. The customer left the club with me confused. The mystery shall remain unsolved. I look forward to the next time the dick dancer does another show. Clay will likely be right back in the front row again and next time I have a plan. I will simply drop the hot tea into the lap of Clay and when I am patting the crotch dry, I will subtly slip my hand into the pants and see what I find. Maybe a penis. Maybe a puss. Maybe something in between. It really doesn't matter either way. I'm just a nosy bitch that's all.



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