The Kid, the Bitch and the Waffle

I know the kid at table eight is trouble the moment he rolls into the restaurant in his fancy stroller. His shifty eyes give him away and I can tell that he has plans to ruin my night. He shoots me a crusty with his big blue eyes and I shoot him one right back with my bloodshot ones. We already have an understanding: "I don't like you and you don't like me."

"Mark my words," I say to the bartender. "That asshole baby is going to knock over his glass of water, I guarantee it." 

The bartender ignores me because he is sick of my possibly imagined personal vendettas with every toddler who sits in my station.

I greet the table and I see that the kid already has a small Ziplock bag of Cheerios sitting before him. With pure deliberation, he reaches into the bag and retrieves one solitary Cheerio. He makes eye contact with me and I watch him drop the multi-grain goodness onto the floor.

"I want chocolate milk," he tells his mother.

"We don't have chocolate milk," I inform her. I grin slightly and shift my eyes to the little boy.

"How about regular milk?" I suggest, knowing that regular is a poor substitute for chocolate.

"Just water for him, thanks," Mom says.

I return with a small plastic cup half full of water and place it before the child.

"Be careful, sweetie. Don't spill it," the mother tells her son.

He pulls the cup closer to him while looking at me, his eyes narrow and the left side of his upper lip curled into a devilish smile. We both know it is only a matter of time before water is spilled and I am cleaning it up.

I recite the dinner specials and this is when the little boy informs his mother that he will be having waffles. It's dinner time and we don't even have waffles on Sunday brunch, but this kid thinks he's gonna get a waffle out of me? I wouldn't find a waffle for this brat for any reason in the world. He can go home and have a frozen one but not on my watch and not in my station.

"Sweetie, they don't have waffles. How about a burger?"

"Waffles."

"How about pasta?"

Waffles!"

"How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"

"We don't have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," I interrupt.

"WAFFLES!!" screams the boy while throwing his hands up in disgust and anguish consequently knocking over the cup of water in the process.

Instinctively, I pull the bar towel from my apron and catch the water before it it drips onto the the mother's lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the little devil cross his arms with smug satisfaction and I look at the bartender to make sure he sees that my prediction has come true. He seems to not care that I am in my personal hell with a three year old child.

"I'm so sorry," says the mother. "That was an accident."

Two of us know it was no accident.

"Waffles," he says again, this time with a hint of self-satisfaction.

The mother decides that she will order him the closest thing that we have to waffle, which is our special of the day, zucchini pancakes. I don't know what world she is living in thinking that a kid is going to be satisfied with sauteed shredded vegetables as a substitute for waffle deliciousness. The toddler looks at me as if he has won the game. He thinks he beat me because he's getting pancakes after I told him we don't have waffles. I eagerly ring in the order looking forward to the disappointment that is sure to come. I put a rush on it.

Six minutes later, I am back at the table with the plate of zucchini pancake that has a big dollop of sour cream on top of it. I place it in front of the little boy. "Here you go! Pancakes just for you. Yummy yummy yummy!"

He eyes the sour cream on top. "Is that ice cream?" he asks with excitement. I back away to see how the question will be answered.

"Well, it's not really ice cream, but it is sour cream," says the mom with an air of desperation. "I guess it's sorta like ice cream, wouldn't you say so?" she asks me.

I stare into the little boy's face and lie. "It's totally like ice cream. I can hardly tell the difference."

I am about to watch this kid take a huge bite of zucchini pancakes with sour cream when he is expecting regular pancakes with ice cream and I am quivering with excitement to see how supremely pissed off he is going to be. His mother puts a big bite of non-pancake onto the fork and zooms it towards his mouth. Inside it goes and I see realization dawning over the face of the child. His eyes show his disgust and I can see that he is about to spit it out and throw a fit. And then, he looks at me with eyes of steely reserve. It's as if he does not want to give me the satisfaction of knowing that he hates his dinner. He knows that if he spits it out, I win. Slowly and with great difficulty, he swallows the zucchini and sour cream. His eyes are watering and his lips are pursed. Through gritted teeth, he mumbles out the words "yummy, yummy, yummy."

"You like it??" says the mother? "You like those pancakes?"

"Yeah, how's that ice cream?" I ask. "You like that ice cream? I'm gonna go get you some more!"

I retrieve a ramekin full of sour cream and dump it onto his plate. His mother continues to feed him the pancake that I know he hates and he continues to eat it in order to prove that he is right. In my mind, the game is over and I am the victor.

Twenty-five minutes later, they are gone. I go to the table to clear it off and underneath the booth I see a pile of Cheerios. Not just a few Cheerios, but a whole Ziplock baggie's worth of Cheerios. They have been ground up into a powder that is going to require me to get on my knees and sweep up. Maybe I didn't win the epic battle between us. He has the last word I suppose since he is gone and I am still here cleaning up after him. Knowing that he ate a whole plate of nasty-ass zucchini pancakes when he wanted waffles makes the cleaning easier but I must admit he was a good challenger. Maybe I am not the victor after all, but neither is he. Perhaps it is a draw.

The battle is not over, kid. I will will win the next time. I guarantee it.

Portions of this blog post may have been fictionally enhanced.

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Yeah, I Hate Happy Kids Too. So What?

Children all over the world are the same. Whether in a Queens restaurant or at an outdoor cafe in Paris, they find a way to crawl under my skin and nestle there like an unwanted splinter from a centuries-old wooden banister that may or may not have been used by Quasimodo. The child doesn't have to be in a restaurant to do their number on me.

While riding the world famous Eurostar on my way back to London from Paris, I am sitting across the aisle from a happy little girl of about two years old. The train ride is two hours and twenty minutes which doesn't seem that long until you consider that it will be followed by an almost eight hour flight back to the States. My day of travel is just beginning. The child across from me has dark curly hair, not unlike the freshly sprouted of pubes of a teenage werewolf and she speaks a language I am not familiar with. I do not recognize it to be French. Her mother is of Asian descent and her father appears to be from one of those vague Eastern European countries that excels at producing gold medal winning gymnasts and superintendents of buildings in New York City. The little girl has the beginning of a very successful uni-brown and her voice is husky and deep as if she needs to clear her throat of a colony of frogs that took residence amongst her tonsils. She is laughing, cooing and talking with the occasional foray into a gleeful scream. She is a very happy child and she does not shut up the entire train ride.

"Well, a least she wasn't crying," some would say. I'm not so sure about that.

When a child cries, most parents do their best to get them to stop. When a child repeatedly screams with laughter, most parents see no reason to stop them despite the fact that the person across the aisle from them has blood dripping from his eardrums. Mixed with her Brenda Vacarro-like vocal cords, it is unbearable. This little girl has a future doing Harvey Firestein impersonations. She sounds like Suzanne Pleshette after gargling with a glass of Bea Arthur. She needs a Ricola or a throat transplant, whichever is easier to find halfway between Paris and London. "Wheeee," she coughs out as she walks past me for the fifteenth time, this time with her backpack, I assume to be full of unused Throat Coat Tea. I look at her pigtails and flash a fake smile so her parents will have no idea that I am typing about their offspring at this very moment.

She returns to her seat and burps a few times, each burp having the inexplicable sound of a rhinoceros trying to clear its throat while under water. It hurts to hear it and I look over to make sure she hasn't just coughed up a piece of James Earl Jones' leftover vocal cord. She hasn't. She laughs at her belch. Her mother tells the girl something and the little girl repeats it. And then burps again and laughs a throaty laugh that reminds me of Elizabeth Ashley after smoking two packs of Camels.

I have twenty minutes left of my train ride and I am thrilled when I see the family get off at Ebbsfleet instead of staying on the train all the way to London. The train is quiet at last and I relish the silence knowing that once I get on the plane in just three short hours, I run the risk of experiencing it all over again.

Yes, kids are the same all over the world and no matter what language they are whining in, they get on my nerves. I understand that traveling with children can be very stressful for parents which is why I would never ever say anything to someone. I suck it up and deal with it knowing that at least my time with the kid is temporary. But it does give me great pleasure to write a blog post about them and know that maybe someday the parent might see it and think, "Hmmm, I think he's talking about my kid." If your kid is about two years old and has a voice like sandpaper and you were on the Eurostar on September 27, 2012, yes I am talking about you and I hated your little girl. Make her drink some honey and shut the hell up.



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The Baby Speaks

Hi, peoples, I am that 14-month old baby who sat in your station last night. I didn't feel like napping this morning so I crawled my diaper-wearing ass over to my my mom's laptop to kill some time playing Angry Birds and fucking up my Mommy's winning steak on Words With Friends. (Sorry, Mommy, but I just played CAT and left the triple word score open where your sister can now play AXED with the X getting the triple word two times. I know it's mean of me, but that's what you get for giving me a bite of apple last night when it should have been abundantly clear that I was screaming for a fucking Oreo.) Anyways, my mom left open a page called The Bitchy Waiter and I started reading it and I have one to thing to say about this Bitchy Waiter person: what an asshole.

First off, I don't even know why my Mommy would be reading this blog. She's not a waitress. (Note to self: remind Mommy that I want my apple sauce served in a bowl next time and not a coffee cup and tell her she needs to wash her apron. It's filthy with food stains, cat hair and baby vomit.) After reading a few months worth of blog posts from this guy, it seems like he has something against me. Me, being a baby. I had to respond, so I hacked into his blog account and here I am. Hi. I'm a baby.

Yes, I make a mess when I go to a restaurant, get over it. I barely have any motor skills to begin with but you're gonna flip your shit just because I spill a few Cheerios on the floor? It's your job to sweep that floor anyway, so what's the big deal? What do you want me to do, get a broom and sweep it up? I'm still trying to understand this whole potty training thing and you expect me to handle a broom? Not gonna happen. Besides, I don't even want the Cheerios. I have been begging for Cap'n Crunch for like six months now but every time we leave the house, Mommy makes sure we have an enormous baggie filled with Cheerios. I keep thinking that if I just throw them on the floor, she will get that I don't like them. Sorry that by throwing them on the floor, you feel like you have extra work to do. Cry me a fucking river, waiter. Go get me some damn crayons.

Another thing: stop carrying big heavy trays right over my head. Uh, hello? My skull is not fully formed yet and if you drop a skillet of fajitas on it, you could seriously damage me. Not to mention, it might stain my new onsie that I just got as a gift from some lady who works with my Daddy. Wouldn't it make more sense to serve food around me rather than over me? Okay, wait. I just realized that most of the time my Mommy and Daddy place me at the head of the table and in the aisle so I guess I can see how that would make it difficult for you. I will talk to them about that and when I say "talk to them" I mean "cry" and usually when I cry they just give me a bottle so I don't really expect there to be any change, so whatever.

And about that time my diaper was changed in a booth? I was totally against that. I wanted to go do it in the bathroom or even in the car, but my Mommy thought it would be no big deal. No big deal to her. Do you think I like having my beanie wienie all out and about right next to a couple of women sharing a Caesar salad? It was humiliating. I screamed and yelled and cried and I even peed all over the booth in protest but she kept right on changing me. Yes, I peed in the booth and no we didn't clean it up. Please, if my Mommy can't be bothered to pick up a few Cheerios off the floor, do you really think she's going to mop up a puddle of urine? It's your job to mop anyway, right?

I also would like to discuss breastfeeding in a restaurant. Who cares? If my Mommy is going to eat at a table then I want to eat at a table too. I know that her boobies are a little veiny right now and maybe it's not the most fun thing for you to look at when you're trying to refill a water glass but that's how it goes. Maybe you think it would be better for her to take me into the bathroom but I really don't want to eat while she is sitting on the toilet. She does that at home way too often and when I am out in a restaurant I want it to feel like it's a special occasion. Besides, the time that I have to suckle my Mommy is limited and I will not be able to do it forever. It is something I will probably only get to do for like five or six more years and I want to take advantage of it as often as I can. So whether it be at home while we are watching Real Housewives or while we are on the Q32 bus or in your station at the restaurant, that is some real Mommy and Me time right there, so I'm not gonna apologize for it. I will, however,  apologize for that one time she fed me at the grocery store and then forgot to put her milk makers back in her blouse and she finished her grocery shopping that way. Upside? The guy at the deli counter gave us our Boar's Head turkey for free that day. Score!

Okay, I better wrap this up. My nap time will be over soon and I still need to add some shit to our Fresh Direct order. (Oreos, Cap'n Crunch, peanut butter...) Mommy will be coming in here to check on me any minute unless she had an extra glass of Franzia, in which case I have an extra half hour. In conclusion, I want to tell Bitchy Waiter and all you other servers to chill the fuck out with all the "I hate babies" bullshit. You were a babies once too, you know. We're doing the best we can. If you don't like us, then deal with our parents. They're the ones who make the decisions. Well, we make some decisions. For instance, I just now decided that I am going to take a dump as I type this last paragraph. I understand that I could crawl over to the bathroom and sit on the My Little Poopy Pony toilet, but I'm gonna be a baby for as long as I can. It's what we babies do. The next time I go to a restaurant, I promise not to throw Cheerios onto the floor if you promise to stop rolling your eyes every time you see my stroller. Okay, my dump is finished. (When did I have corn?) Hopefully, Mommy is done with her Franzia break because I'm gonna start crying now so she can come clean me up.

Bye bye, bitches.



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No, Your Baby is Not Starving

Oh, entitled parents, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways, you self-absorbed time suckers who think that the world revolves around you and your precocious brat who won't shut the hell up even for one second.

Last week, a five top came in; four adults and one diaper-wearing, needy one year old human who required a high chair. I go to greet them at the front door.

"Hello, how are you tonight? Table for five?"

"My baby is starving. I need bread," snapped the mother.

Really? That's how we're going to start our evening together, by you completely ignoring the (fake ass) pleasantries I am offering you? Is it my fault that you, as a mother, failed to bring a goddamn Ziploc baggie of Goldfish to nourish your child during the long trip from you apartment down the street all the way to the restaurant?

What I said: Alright, let me go get some bread for you and then I can pull some tables together for your party to sit down.

What I thought: I'm sorry, but is your baby from some drought stricken country in Africa and he hasn't had clean water in days? Is your child one of the 15 million who will die of hunger this year? Is he part of the 50% of all children under five years of age in South Asia and one third of those in sub-Saharan Africa who are are malnourished? Is he one out of the eight children in the United States under the age of twelve who goes to bed hungry every night? Or is it that he's just a little fussy and now you regret throwing away that banana that he didn't want twenty minutes ago?

I return with the basket of emergency rations and begin to drag two tables together so they can sit down and eat their dinner now that I have practically saved the life of a child who, had it not been for me, would have surely expired. The group sits down and I notice that the child has taken one bite of bread and is now interested in the battery operated candle that is sitting on the table. Starvation averted! Score one for the war against hunger.

"We have a few specials tonight I can tell you about very quickly. Our soup tonight is a chilled corn soup with a cream base. The corn is grilled and it has a red pepper garnish. Our appetizer of the night is-"

"I'm sorry," mother interrupts. "Can I go ahead and place his order for mac and cheese? He's really hungry. But no bacon in it.""

I look down at the "really hungry" baby who is mouthing the plastic candle. Right, we don't want that baby to eat bacon but by all means let him lick that candle that has remnants of Windex, dust and every germ known to mankind.

"I will do it right this second." I stop pouring water for everyone and firmly set the metal pitcher on the table and leave them to again do my part to solve world hunger, one baby at a time.

"Please rush. This baby is starving," I type on the order so that that the cooks knows how utterly important it is to get the food right away. I head to the kitchen deciding to wait there until I can return with the sustenance before doing anything else for the table. Six minutes later, the mac and cheese is ready and I go to the table.

"Sorry I didn't get a chance to finish pouring water but I know how important it is to get food to a starving baby so I stayed in the kitchen until it was ready." I pick up the pitcher and continue pouring. "So anyway, our appetizer of the night is a roasted beet salad with goat cheese and balsamic dressing..."

Five minutes and two bites of mac and cheese later, the kid is wandering around the restaurant with its mother. Turns out he wasn't starving after all. It was just another case of an entitled parent thinking that their child deserved special treatment because no other child in the world can be as important as their own. Snap out of it lady. If you're fortunate enough to be able to afford to eat out at a restaurant, you're child is not starving. He's lucky. Most of us who are reading this are lucky.

I hate entitled parents.




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Bad Parenting Caught on Facebook

Some of my favorite posts to write are based on photos and news stories that people send in to me. Today's blog post is in thanks to Katharine who sent this awesome photo of a child caught in the act of making me hate her. Katharine herself is pretty awesome and if you need proof, check her out in the fabulously funny improve comedy show Naked in a Fishbowl. Anyhoo, on to the picture.

It comes from a blog called STFU, Parents which is kinda right up my alley. In the photo, we see an adorable little bundle of annoying expressing her creative side by scribbling all over the fucking wall at a restaurant. The mom thought is was so cute that she snapped a picture of it and then sent it to her Facebook page with the caption "She thought the wall was boring so she added a little color." She followed that insipid remark with the ubiquitous "lol." Okay mom-named-Karina, prepare for a thrashing from The Bitchy Waiter:

Who the hell do you think is going to clean that mess up, you horrible excuse for a parent, the Crayola Elves? Unless there is some fucking bleach in that Dora the Explorer cup and you plan on using it to remove your daughter's artistic interpretation of "Lunch With Lazy Mom" then you you need to put the camera down and explain to your daughter that this is not how children behave while at Denny's or IHOP or wherever the hell you went. Meanwhile, the waitress is probably standing behind you shooting you the crusty evil eye and giving the signal to Bubba the fry cook that it is okay if he wants to flip your pancakes with the broom and add some "special sauce" to your syrup. Your waitress hates you. I also see a few Equal packets laying there on the table which means there are at least five or six of them on the floor under the booth, because a sugar caddy is the perfect play thing for a two-year old, right? If your daughter found the wall to be boring, maybe you should have told her, "I know it's not as fancy as the wall paper we have back home in the double-wide, sweetie, but you just sit your butt down and wait for the food to get here." You do not encourage her to vandalize. I don't know the name of your daughter, but I am going to go with something like Tiffany Lynn. You are setting Tiffany Lynn up for a future of bitch. Anyone who allows their children to do whatever they want is going to soon realize they have raised a spoiled little brat who thinks she can get away with anything. Invariably, this will lead to a road of pole dancing and a six week contract with 16 and Pregnant. If your daughter was bored, I am sure there were other things you could have done rather than letting her draw on the fucking wall. I am not a parent and I just pulled these suggestions out of thin air, but what about these great ideas:

• give her a book to read
• let her color on a piece of paper
• tell her a story
• pour some NyQuil® in her sippy cup. (Again, I am not a parent. This may or may not be a good idea, but to me it sounds great.)
• play the quiet game
• let her play with whatever is in your purse. (Good parents would first remove their weed, vibrators, make up, condoms and flasks.)
• put her in her crate
• give her your iPad
  
• just fucking tell her she's not at home so she needs to sit her ass down and behave herself.

Karina, I hope you will keep these points in mind the next time you take little Tiffany Lynn out to eat. It may be helpful if you print this out. That way, when you have a hankering for the Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n' Fruity your waitress won't have to spend an extra fifteen minutes scrubbing crayon scribbles off the wall. And one more thing Karina: you suck at parenting.

If you agree that Karina showed some shitty ass judgement, please leave a comment and/or share this.

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The First Asshole Baby of 2012

2012 wasn't even twenty-four hours old before I encountered the first demon spawn of the new year. I was at a New Year's Day party nursing my hangover with a glass or two of prosecco. The gathering was one for adults, I assumed, but lo and behold through the doors came a couple with child in tow; an adorable little boy of about two or three. I thought back to the resolution that I made earlier that morning: If a baby is in my station I will not immediately assume it's an asshole. I will wait three minutes before I determine its asshole-ness. I set the stopwatch on my phone for three minutes to pass before I determined if the child was an asshole or not and then I remembered that the baby was not in my station. Therefore, it was alright to deem it an asshole only twenty seconds into my time with it.

Why is this child here? There are thirty audits ranging from 25 to 50 years old at this party and there is one person who is clearly not the drinking age. Maybe the parents wanted to spend the first day of the new year with their child, but I certainly didn't. I decided I would pour myself another glass of prosecco and ignore the hell out of it. Easier said than done. It let out a piercing scream when someone tickled it. "He's been cooped up in the car for a few hours today'" laughed Dad. "He has a lot of energy to burn." Oh, then by all means bring it to a party then, that's freakin' perfect. No, no, don't take it to a park or something. Take it to a party where more than half the room needs mellow because they threw up the night before from ringing in the new year. This child was terrifying. I thought I had already seen the most disgusting thing I would possibly see all year when I watched a woman kiss a taxidermied Dick Clark at 12:01 but that was topped when I saw the kid put a cherry tomato in his mouth and then decide he didn't like it and spit it out and place it right back with the others. I knew it was going to do that as soon as I saw it pick up the tomato. "That's a pretty big bite there," I said to it. "Maybe you shouldn't put the whole thing in your mouth." It ignored me and crammed it into its mouth. "Just don't fucking choke on it, alright?" I thought as I scanned the room for its parents in case there was a need for the Heimlich.

Eventually, someone started to play with the child and got it all riled up. I continued to ignore it as much as I could. Suddenly, and without warning, the child ran towards me with his arms over his head. Was he going to hug me? Was he sensing I didn't like him and he wanted to win me over with affection? Was he going to shower me with kisses? No. He threw a coaster at me and then ran away screaming. Adorable. It was then confirmed I truly hated him.

I never once interacted with him and about two ungodly hours later he was still running and screaming and laughing all to the delight of absolutely no one. I sat in my chair and carried on the conversation with my friends when I heard the pounding of little feet coming at me. I turned just in time to see the kid hit my leg and run away to his mother who laughed, because it's just so fucking funny when your kid hits a stranger He did it again. She laughed again. He came at me a third time but this time I put my hand up and said, "No! More!" He did it anyway. I picked up the cheese knife and prepared for the fourth time. Either Mom saw I wasn't a kid person or she saw that I was now armed with a weapon because she kept him close from then on.

Eventually, the kid wound down. Maybe he was tired from all the running around or maybe that vodka I had slipped into his glass of Juicy Juice was finally starting to take affect, I dunno. Right when he was becoming tolerable is when the parents thought it was time to go home. It was almost like they were saying, "Well, he's done annoying you all, so our mission is complete." They wrapped the kid up in a coat and carried it out. The room breathed a collective sigh of "get me another drink." Only eighteen hours into 2012 and I had already had my nerves frazzled by a child. What was in store for me when I drag my ass back to work tomorrow? More annoying babies with parents who resolved for 2012 to let their kids be free spirits? Probably. Just remember: If a baby is in my station I will not immediately assume it's an asshole. I will wait three minutes before I determine its asshole-ness.

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Rice Tragedy at Table 16

Maybe kids have been playing it good for Santa the last few weeks, because I haven't had any horrible children to deal with. But re-reading this posts reminds me that now that Christmas is over and the Elf on the Shelf is gone, kids will be back to their horrible ways any minute now.

Obviously, any post having to do with children really touches some nerves. I'm referring to the post about children being banned at a restaurant which received over forty comments and 1,500 hits. There were some good points made on both sides of the argument. I was almost convinced that maybe a restaurant didn't have the right to ban children but then a couple showed up to work last night with their two-year old son. Thank you, couple, for reminding me why I bow down to the greatness of any restaurant owner/manager who says, "Take your kid and shove it."

The lovely young family were very kind and polite. Without any hesitation, they ordered a glass of wine, a beer, some calamari and two roasted chicken breasts. They did not order for their son. I assumed that were going to let him eat off of their plates. I wish. As soon as I dropped off the chicken, they asked for their check because they said they didn't know how long the kid was going to remain being so calm. "I totally understand, I said. As I printed their check, I thought about how conscientious they were being. They wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if he started to act a fool and I really appreciated it. They gobbled down their chicken and bolted out surprisingly fast. I thanked them as they breezed past me at the bar and I headed back to clear the table. What was waiting for me was a shocking mess.

I thought the parents were both humans but I now realize they must have been made of grains, for they had produced a spawn made of white rice. The kid had left piles of rice all over the place. I didn't even serve them rice. Is rice the new Cheerios? There was enough rice on the floor to make a dozen California rolls. It looked like a rice ball had exploded. Or maybe a rice and bean burrito, hold the beans, had thrown up. It looked like the monkey cage at the zoo. When I was kid, I went to the Houston Zoo once and saw a monkey taking his own crap and throwing it all over the place. Was this kid pooping out rice and doing his best chimpanzee impersonation? There was rice everywhere. On the table, in the booth on both sides, on the floor, under the table next to the booth. There was probably some on the ceiling but I refused to let myself look up to see because then I would be responsible for cleaning it. No wonder they left the restaurant so fast. They were ashamed of the Terror of Rice that was happening at table 16.

I went to get the broom and dustpan and started sweeping it all up. Have you ever tried to sweep up cooked rice? It doesn't sweep. It sticks to the floor and the broom and just moves from one spot to another refusing to go into the dustpan. The table next to Rice Hell gave me a look that said one of two things: "I'm sorry you have to clean up after that messy kid" or "I'm sorry about your whole life choice situation." One of the women at the sympathetic booth was very pregnant and it was hard for me to not tell her something like "You'd better not become one of these kind of hateful parents who let their kids do whatever they fucking want in a restaurant." (By the way, when Preggo ordered her hamburger she made sure to to tell me three times that it needed to be very well done because she was pregnant. As if I care why she wants her burger well done. And as if I couldn't tell she was pregnant. I think elephants gestate for less time than this woman. Her baby's arm was practically hanging out of her vagina trying to grab a french fry.)

Mr. and Mrs. Rice Paddy had a check that was $63.00 and they left me a $12 tip which was right at 20%. However, when I have to get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels, I expect more than 20%, people. My knees are weak and it takes a lot of effort to get on them. (And no I am not talking about when I get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels to give a blow job. That is 30%, thank you very much.) Cleaning up enough rice to feed a Chinese family of four deserves at least a 25% tip and also a "really sorry about the mess" acknowledgment. So ban children under the age of six? Bring it on.

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The Story of the Sad Man at Table 16

On my first day back to waiting tables after three weeks of no apron, I was welcomed back to work by one of my regulars. It was a family of four; mom, dad and two horribly misbehaving children who are holy terrors of evil. Seriously, they were my first table. What a way to start my foray back into the land of serving. When they come into the restaurant, it's like a hurricane made love to a tornado and then birthed an earthquake that came popping out of a volcano followed by a mudslide placenta. It's a disaster. As they scan the restaurant for a table, any customers sitting next to empty ones cower in fear that they will be the ones forced to finish their meal next to the band of brats. The family chose a booth. In my station. And so it began.

As soon as they sat down, mom and dad grabbed all the electric candles from surrounding tables so the kids had something to play with. I've discussed it before, but I think it's really poor parental judgement to let children play with electric candles. Their immature and mushy brains may not recognize the difference the next time they go to a restaurant that has real candles with flames. It is a recipe for disaster if you ask me, but nobody asked me and I am certainly not one to give unsolicited advice. But I'm right, right? How is a three year old supposed to know that some candles are for playing with and some candles aren't? Anyhoo, the kids were throwing the candles around, banging their cups on the table, screaming like howler monkeys in heat trying to cough up hairballs, dropping crap on the floor, and in general being a public nuisance and a big fat pain in my little ass. And then I caught a look of the father's eyes. They were glazed over with saddness. His second cup of coffee had done nothing to make him more alert and the situation seemed to be a desperate one for him. For me, this was going to last thirty minutes tops, but Dad was looking at the next 18 years of his life and it was depressing the hell out of him. I took a class in mind reading at the Learning Annex a few years ago. Madame Buluga taught me a few things so I delved into his thoughts and this is what I read:

Damn, this night sucks. I wonder if anyone would notice if I said I was going to the bathroom and instead just got on the 7 train to Grand Central and hopped a train and never came back. I have about $1200 worth of credit on my Master Card and I could get as far away as possible. Maybe change my name and get a haircut and grow a beard so no one will recognize me. I could get a nice simple job as a stocker on the overnight shift at a Wal-Mart in Topeka and live happily ever after. These kids are crazy. Why don't they behave? Oh, wait I know why; because all I do is ignore them and they have no concept of how to behave in public, that's why. And look at my wife. She looks just as pissed off as I am. Maybe she'd like to come with me to Topeka? Naah, then who'd take care of the kids? I'll leave her too, whatever. God dammit, why didn't I wear a condom three years ago? I had them. I was just too caught up in the moment to get it from the night stand. She was even telling me to put one on and I was all, "It's okay girl, I love you. Let's make a baby together." Famous last words, that's for sure. And then again two years later. She was telling me to put a goddamn rubber on and I was all, 'It's okay, baby. I love you so much. Let's give Jr. a little brother or sister. Lemme just do that for you. I wanna make another baby, baby." God, what a load of shit. If I don't get on the 7 train tonight and escape this hell, I will go get a fucking vasectomy right after we leave this restaurant. I will pay the check and go over to Snips R Us and get that shit taken care of. No more kids. And even then, I will never not wear a condom again. Ever. These kids are awful. "Hate" is a really strong word but "despise" might work. I despise my kids. Hey look at our waiter. Didn't I see him on Dr. Phil? Look at how friendly he is to his tables and so professional. His hair is amazing too. I wish I was him, not a care in the world I bet. His life is perfect. Mine sucks. You know who is hot? That chick from The View, what's her name? The red head? Joy Behar, I think. She's hot. Man, I'd love to show up at her place with some Fig Newtons and-

I lost the train of thought when he was hit on the side of his head by a coloring book that his daughter threw at him but it was just as well because I really didn't want to see where he was going with that Joy Behar thought. I gave them the check and they rounded up the kids and headed home. Hopefully he followed through on his plan to get his old boys dried out. It would be a service to himself, his wife, the restaurant industry and the world if he could assure us that he will bring no more screeching howler monkeys into existence. They come to the restaurant once a week and I'm almost willing to chip in for it. I really don't like them. They give me a headache, which is what the wife should say the next time he wants to make a baby with her.



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Entitled Parents, This Is For You:

It may seem lately that the blog should change its name to "I Hate Babies," but I just can't help it. Maybe it's time I come clean and fully admit that it's the parents I hate. I mean, what did babies ever do to me other than give me the occasional stink eye? I am trying to retrain my brain into knowing that it's the entitled parents who let their spawn become the center of the world.

I went to the green market this morning looking for something to make for dinner tonight. I always hear about how cool and wonderful a Farmer's Market is, but the one in my neighborhood sucks. All they ever have is fresh vegetables and fruits that come right from the farm and jars of honey and jams and shit. I have yet to see anyone selling anything remotely useful like chicken mole enchiladas, fresh tequila or Pizza Rolls. As I was making my way down the sidewalk, I noticed the people ahead of me were parting to make way for someone. "Is it a big foodie celebrity like Rachael Ray?" I wondered. "I certainly hope so, because now I can tell her what a cheap ho she is." I walked ahead to see what was going on and it was none other than some stupid ass Dad pushing his toddlers in a double-wide stroller being completely oblivious to how people were accommodating him. The stroller was huge. It's like when he went to Babies "R" Us they asked him he'd like to "super size" it and he was so used to saying yes at McDonald's, he agreed to it and ended up with a stroller almost as big as his ass. He was probably on his way to a restaurant so he could park it between his table and the server. A few years ago, I took a picture of some ladies at my job who set up their own Stroller Wall. When I first posted the picture on my blog over two years ago, I took the time to black out their faces and made the picture very small, but now I don't care:


Bitches. What is it with these strollers, can someone explain it to me? Is it a status symbol that I just don't get? Is it a way for parents to show how much money they have to spend on their children? Please tell me.

A friend called me yesterday and asked me to please write a blog post about entitled parents. Laura is a mom of two kids ages 6 and 3. I know them well, because I took care of the six year old for almost a year when she was a baby. (Yes, I was a "manny."). She called me and said she was somewhere waiting for the cab that she had ordered. It was pouring down rain and she had the foresight to call ahead for one. She did not have her kids with her. When the car arrived, a woman came up and tried to take it. Laura explained that this was the car she had called for, but what did the lady have to say about that? "Well, do you mind if I take it? I have two kids." So having two kids in your possession allows you to steal a cab from someone? In my experience some parents think it also allows them to:

• cut in line at the bank
• get their food out faster in a restaurant
• cut in line at the grocery store
• eat food in a grocery store before paying for it
• cut in line at a movie theater
• take up three extra seats on the goddamn 7 train so their fucking diaper bag has a seat while I stand
• cut in line at the bus stop
• have free reign at a department store as their kids play under the racks of clothes
• cut in line at the department store
• and about a million other things

I am over it. Laura probably let the lady take the cab because she is nice that way. You know my ass would have given that bitch a "sorry-your-kids-are getting-all-wet" look and hopped in the cab and been on my way. But that's just me: bitchy.

A word to entitled parents: get over yourself. They're kids. No big deal. You aren't the first person to bring a life into the world. Little Johnny and Suzie are the center of your world, not ours. Yours. And stop bashing processed chicken, what did it ever do to you?


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Take this Tantrum and Shove It

Since so many people are up in arms about the behavior of certain children in restaurants, why not continue the conversation? Dr. Phil polled the audience on his show yesterday and asked the following question:



If your child was throwing a tantrum in a restaurant, what would you do?

1. Calmly ask them to settle down, 4%
   
2. Ignore the tantrum, 1%
   
3. Take the child out of the restaurant, 72%
   
4. Firmly tell your child to stop, 23%
   

According to the results of the delusional people in his audience that day, 72% of them said they would take their child out of the restaurant. I call complete and total bullshit. Anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant, eaten in a restaurant, driven by a restaurant or heard of a restaurant knows that not that many people actually do that. These people answered that poll in the way they think they should answer it. They know what they should do, but what they actually do is a different story. It's like when I am on the subway and have a nice cushy seat. When I see an old one-legged blind lady carrying ten bags of groceries I have two options:

What I should do- get up and gingerly escort the poor dear to my seat and then get off with her at her stop and make sure she hobbles home safely and then give her my cell phone number to call me if she ever needs a loaf of bread or someone to change a light bulb.

or

What I actually do- turn up the music on my iPod, close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

The people in that audience only said that to make themselves look better because the three-piece pantsuit they bought for the show for 20% off at Chico's wasn't enough to disguise their ugly child-rearing habits. There is no way that many people do that when their kids make a scene in a restaurant. What usually happens is a lot of empty threats that the kid knows will never happen. "Billy, if you don't stop throwing bread at the waiter right this second, I am going to take away your (insert name of popular toy here) and you will not get any dessert and when we get home I will hit your behind with a whoopin' stick and then, um...I will..uh, lemme see, I will...what was I saying? Oh never mind, you go right ahead, sweetie and do what ever it was you were doing. I'm a lazy parent and don't give a shit about anyone but myself. I want another bite of fried chicken." It's true and we all know it.

And let's discuss the 1% who thought it was okay to ignore the situation. What in the fuckity fuck kind of solution is that? It was edited out of the show, but I told Dr. Phil what I felt about that 1%. "Excuse me, Dr. Phil. There are about 200 people in this audience so that means there are at least two people in this room who think it's okay to let their kid act like that in a restaurant. I want to know who they are and hear an explanation." He ignored me just like those parents ignore their devil spawns, but it was a valid comment I made. I really would have liked to hear someone justify their reasoning behind that decision making process. I can hear it now. "Well, you see, Dr Phil, my child is very special and I like him to make his own decisions about his behavior. You see, I think it will only help him mature faster and not be so dependent on his parents later in life. And also, I do not ever give him processed chicken because he is only worthy of steak that comes from cows that grazed in fields of four-leaf clovers in the light of the silvery moon. That's right, yes, uh huh." Bullshit.

And let me just add, that it is not the waiters job to go to another table and ask the kid to be quiet. As soon as I do that, I get the whole "Don't tell me how to raise my child" speech. I don't want that speech. I already know how to raise children: you put a big pile of food in the bowl next to some water and leave some wee wee pads in the corner and call it a day, right? Or is that how to raise a dog? I always get those two confused.



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Another Annoying Kid Story

Every time a child does something in my station that melts my heart a little bit, leave it to another child who will be a raging asshole and turn my heart harder than Paula Deen's arteries. Honestly, I don't hate the kids, it's their parents that I want to beat in the face with a pillowcase filled with salt and pepper shakers. Four top and one child. They roll in with the stroller and head right for the best booth in the restaurant; you know, the one next to the patio so they can park that fucking stroller right next to the door so that I have to walk around it every single time I need to go outside to tables 21 to 28. Real convenient. I watched them settle in and was surprised to see that they realized that the stroller was in the way, so they moved it to in front of the bathroom door. Yeah, that's better. The four adults sat down, but left the baby in the stroller over by the bathroom. I could understand if it was asleep, but this kid was full on awake and looking around like, "Why the fuck y'all bitches got me parked over here by the mother fucking toilet, yo?" I approached the table and quickly recognized an accent that told me they were from Europe; French or Danish or something. I remembered a news event from a several years ago where a couple from Denmark got into some hot water for leaving their baby in a stroller on the sidewalk while they ate inside at a Dallas BBQ restaurant. It was a cultural difference but the mother ended up suing the city and blah blah blah. I think the real crime in that situation was that someone was actually eating at Dallas BBQ's. That should be a life sentence of irritable bowel syndrome with no chance of parole.

After a few minutes, little Cheery Danish got tired of listening to people dropping their kids off at the pool and started hollering to get out of the stroller. They brought her over to the high chair I had lovingly placed at the head of the table and they started to order something for her to eat. "Do the home fries have peppers in them?" they asked. I let them know that they did in fact have some diced red peppers in them but they weren't too spicy. "Do they have salt?" was their next question. Of course they have salt. It's a freakin' potato. A potato without salt is like a margarita without tequila-why the fuck bother? "Oh, can you make a batch with no salt?" What do you think? It's not like we make the home fries per order. They are made in advance and get thrown onto the plate. Hell, no we can't go make a new batch just so you can have a sodium-free Cherry Danish. I told them it was impossible but I could make sure they didn't add any additional salt to the order and they were satisfied.

Two minutes later, I see Cherry Danish wandering around the back of the restaurant while her parents and friends were oblivious to various servers and a bus boy dodging her. If they weren't careful, Cherry Danish was going to get turned into crumb cake. After a couple of near misses, the dad finally got up to hold her. He walked her around the restaurant and took her to the patio to look at the plants. Once outside though, he quit paying attention and before I knew it she was standing in front of the patio door just waiting for someone to open it and send her flying onto the cobblestone sidewalk. What is with these parents? Maybe they were from Amsterdam and totally baked but it just seemed like they had no clue that their kid was in the way and possibly going to get hurt.

I rushed their food out to them so they could hurry up and eat and move on. The little girl sat in her high chair and was pretty good for the rest of the service with the exception of a few blood-curdling screams and an annoying habit of banging a spoon on the table while her parents laughed at how adorable it was. When they left, I went to see the damage under the table and found a good portion of the home fries on the floor underneath the high chair. I swept them up and gave thanks this brunch shift was coming to an end. It's rare that I work the brunch shift and it was a good reminder of why I don't like to do it. Too many kids, not a high enough check averages and being at work at 10:30 is too damn early. I punched out and went home feeling relived that it was over but I couldn't shake the feeling that a Cherry Danish would be better if it was toasted in the oven first and then left in Denmark.

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Rice Tragedy at Table 16

Obviously, any post having to do with children really touches some nerves. I'm referring to the post about children being banned at a restaurant which received over forty comments and 1,500 hits. There were some good points made on both sides of the argument. I was almost convinced that maybe a restaurant didn't have the right to ban children but then a couple showed up to work last night with their two-year old son. Thank you, couple, for reminding me why I bow down to the greatness of any restaurant owner/manager who says, "Take your kid and shove it."

The lovely young family were very kind and polite. Without any hesitation, they ordered a glass of wine, a beer, some calamari and two roasted chicken breasts. They did not order for their son. I assumed that were going to let him eat off of their plates. I wish. As soon as I dropped off the chicken, they asked for their check because they said they didn't know how long the kid was going to remain being so calm. "I totally understand, I said. As I printed their check, I thought about how conscientious they were being. They wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if he started to act a fool and I really appreciated it. They gobbled down their chicken and bolted out surprisingly fast. I thanked them as they breezed past me at the bar and I headed back to clear the table. What was waiting for me was a shocking mess.

I thought the parents were both humans but I now realize they must have been made of grains, for they had produced a spawn made of white rice. The kid had left piles of rice all over the place. I didn't even serve them rice. Is rice the new Cheerios? There was enough rice on the floor to make a dozen California rolls. It looked like a rice ball had exploded. Or maybe a rice and bean burrito, hold the beans, had thrown up. It looked like the monkey cage at the zoo. When I was kid, I went to the Houston Zoo once and saw a monkey taking his own crap and throwing it all over the place. Was this kid pooping out rice and doing his best chimpanzee impersonation? There was rice everywhere. On the table, in the booth on both sides, on the floor, under the table next to the booth. There was probably some on the ceiling but I refused to let myself look up to see because then I would be responsible for cleaning it. No wonder they left the restaurant so fast. They were ashamed of the Terror of Rice that was happening at table 16.

I went to get the broom and dustpan and started sweeping it all up. Have you ever tried to sweep up cooked rice? It doesn't sweep. It sticks to the floor and the broom and just moves from one spot to another refusing to go into the dustpan. The table next to Rice Hell gave me a look that said one of two things: "I'm sorry you have to clean up after that messy kid" or "I'm sorry about your whole life choice situation." One of the women at the sympathetic booth was very pregnant and it was hard for me to not tell her something like "You'd better not become one of these kind of hateful parents who let their kids do whatever they fucking want in a restaurant." (By the way, when Preggo ordered her hamburger she made sure to to tell me three times that it needed to be very well done because she was pregnant. As if I care why she wants her burger well done. And as if I couldn't tell she was pregnant. I think elephants gestate for less time than this woman. Her baby's arm was practically hanging out of her vagina trying to grab a french fry.)

Mr. and Mrs. Rice Paddy had a check that was $63.00 and they left me a $12 tip which was right at 20%. However, when I have to get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels, I expect more than 20%, people. My knees are weak and it takes a lot of effort to get on them. (And no I am not talking about when I get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels to give a blow job. That is 30%, thank you very much.) Cleaning up enough rice to feed a Chinese family of four deserves at least a 25% tip and also a "really sorry about the mess" acknowledgment. So ban children under the age of six? Bring it on.

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Children: Stay Out of Restaurants, Please

A restaurant owner in Monroeville, Pennsylvania has come to a realization: that there are plenty of people who will flock to a restaurant if there is a guarantee there will be no kids there. At all. None. Nada. Zilch. On July 16th Mike Vuick proclaimed that kids under 6 are no longer allowed at his restaurant McDain's. Let me raise my morning mimosa to Mr. Vuick. Of course we all know why it's a good idea. A lot of horrible parents don't know how to control their offspring and therefore impose their bratty ass kids into the worlds of people who want nothing to do with children. Look, if you want to take your kid to a restaurant, fine. Just make sure the kids knows it's not at home and it can't scream and run around and draw pictures on the wall with Crayons. Mr. Vuick has the right to have a kid-free environment. He says a person's kid should be the center of their universe but they don't realize that the kid is not the center of the universe. Hear, hear! I want to embroider that on a fucking pillow.

Of course some people in Monroeville are all upset. One mom, Stephanie Kelly, thinks it's an "ignorant decision" and she feels offended and discriminated against. Guess what, Steph. One of the reasons he probably doesn't want your baby in his restaurant is because of what you are doing during the television interview. She is shown pouring a bunch of berries or Cap'n Crunch or something into a big pile in front of her kid. The kid probably gets about half of them into its mouth and the other half ends up on the floor, which is fine when you are the one cleaning it up, Steph. And what about when your one year old wants more berries but you don't have any? He cries and screams and gets all up in the business of the table next to you who may have spent an extra twenty bucks to have a babysitter keep their kid at home.

There are plenty of places where you can take your kid, lady. Most places do not have a ban on children. In fact, I bet the only restaurant in all of Monroeville that you can't take your kid to is McDain's so why not go pretty much any place else? On the flip side, what if I want to go to a restaurant where I know my meal will not be ruined by a kid sitting at the next booth playing fucking peek-a-boo with me? In Monroeville, I would have one option. So let me have it. Take your family elsewhere. Find a place that provides coloring books with the menu and you can order chicken nuggets and apple juice in sippy cups to your heart's content.

And before Anonymous jumps all over me, I know it seems unfair, but I think it's unfair that people who have made a conscious decision to not have kids in their lives are still forced to deal with them anyway. And I also know that it's not the kids I hate, it's the parents who don't know how to teach manners to their children. McDain's will be fine. If they find that business is off, they'll switch back to serving kids and the stroller brigade will once again roll strong. Stephanie will be fine too. If not McDain's, why not McDonald's? Order a Happy Meal and shut the fuck up. (Sidenote to Steph: look into a calcium supplement. You might have a slight case of the hunchback happening.)

What do you think? Is this trend to have kid-free restaurants a good thing or a bad thing? I'd love to hear your comments. Also, I have reached out to the owner of McDain's for an interview regarding how this new policy has affected his business. If I get to interview him, I will post about it. I doubt he'll respond though. I mean, look at what I do.

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Grabby McGrab Grab Baby

It's no new news in this old court that babies are not my favorite things. Sure, they're cute and people say they smell good but who hasn't seen at least one baby that was clearly hit in the head with an ugly stick? As my seventh grade teacher Mr. Trowbridge would say when encountering a less than attractive bundle of joy, "Now, that's a baby!" And speaking as one who took care of a baby for a full year, there are plenty of times when they most assuredly and most definitely do not smell anywhere close to good. If "good" was in one neighborhood, you would need to take the G train and two buses to get to the neighborhood she smelled like after a lunch of chicken nuggets and kimchi. Don't get me wrong though. I loved that baby I took care of. Still do. But sometimes she was stanky. There was a baby in my station last night. And before you say that I should hate the parents and not the baby, I know that already. It's just much more fun to say "I hate babies."

The first indication that this baby and I would be having issues was when the highchair went at the end of the table and now the baby was right in front of the side stand. Anytime I needed to get a spoon, I would have to reach right behind the baby. What was wrong with this baby? Didn't it know it was in my way there? Why are babies so unaware of their spatial relationship to other people and things? Man, babies are so clueless. Every time I approached the table, it reached out to touch my hair. Granted, my hair is amazing and the baby wasn't the only one in the restaurant who wanted to touch it last night. I let the lady at booth seven touch my hair because she complimented me so highly and I liked her Louisiana accent. I also figured it would help the tip. The baby however had no accent at all and its hands were probably sticky with jelly, lollipop or poop. And babies are notoriously bad tippers. It's like they can't figure out 15% of their check. Man, babies can't do anything.

Halfway through the meal, the baby knocked over a glass of water. It spilled all over the table and onto the mom and then the floor. Why did I bother giving the baby a plastic cup with a lid if it was determined to use a full sized glass of water anyway? Man, babies have shitty motor skills and coordination. The mom never even got up even though she had just had water poured all over her lap. She didn't even flinch. She must be used to her baby always spilling crap all over her. As I was trying to clean it up, she didn't budge an inch. I got down on my hands and knees with some paper towels and soaked up as much as I could since she was too unconcerned to even move her chair over two inches. Meanwhile, baby got a handful of my locks and wouldn't let go. "Oh, look, she likes your hair," said Lazy Mom. I smiled and thought about how everyone likes my hair. It doesn't make your baby a child genius or anything. Get over it. When it became clear that this water was as cleaned up as it was going to get, I gave up. I would let the hardwood floors do the rest of the work for me. Soak it up, hardwood. I did not take them another glass of water because that greedy baby would probably just grab at it and toss it to the floor in another attempt to get at my precious follicles. Not gonna fall for that, baby.

They gave me a good tip and the baby waved at me as they left the restaurant. On second glance, the baby was kinda cute with her little stubby fingers and her hair pulled into a barely-there ponytail. On the table was a red crayon that had rolled underneath the plate. I picked it up and ran out to the sidewalk to catch them. "You left something on your table your baby might want." The baby reached out to grab at the crayon and the mother told me thank you. "Bye-bye, baby," I said. "Have a good night." She cooed out something that I couldn't understand. I rolled my eyes. Man, babies have terrible verbal skills.

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Children Are Annoying Around the World

It is about 12° below "my ass is freezing" and all I want to do today is sit under a blanket and sleep. So please enjoy this repeat post from last year while I thaw out.

I may have found my new hero. Someone sent me a story (holla out to Bonnie) about a something that happened somewhere called Hallifax West Yorkshire in England-land. The link is at the bottom of the page but here is the gist of it written in a much more entertaining way and with much worse grammar.

Some family went to the grand opening of a Mexican restaurant and brought with them, as parents are apt to do, their two-year old child, Molly. Jeez, do parents have to take their kids everywhere? It's so annoying. The parents were obviously pretty stupid because they were going to a Mexican restaurant. In England. What the fuck is that? Chicken enchiladas with a side of scone? And English Breakfast margaritas? Whatever. I guess the restaurant was really slammed, or as they say in the Queen's English, "bartle bagged." (I totally made that up.) The family had to wait a long time for their food and I guess (say this with a Cockney accent) the lit'le tyke got a might impatient waitin' for 'er food and threw a bit o' a 'issy fit. (You can stop with the Cockney accent. You're really bad at it.) The article doesn't say exactly what Molly did other than get a bit "moany" and "grumbly" but I am pretty sure I know how she behaved. She wanted to wander around the restaurant and get in people's way and annoy other people who do not have kids. When her "mum" made her sit down, Molly began to scream at the top of her lungs and throw sugar packets and bread pudding spoons all over the fucking place. When the dad threatened to spank her arse, she cried until the food finally arrived making the waiter and every table around her hate dear sweet adorable Molly.

When they got the check they noticed at the bottom of it that something had been typed in underneath the food. It said, "thankyyou littell fucker." Now even though there are some points deducted for spelling, it is clear what was being said. The check called Molly a little fucker. Bravo! Here ye here ye! My hero. This server is Queen of all Bitchy Waiters. Capital B. Capital W. Understandably, the family got in a tizzy for insulting their little precious bundle of cunt and demanded an apology and blah blah blah blah. I am sure they got the apology and probably a free order of fish n chips quesadillas too. The sad thing is the person responsible for the "offensive" remark got fired. Or "sacked" as they say they across the pond. The server was just speaking the truth. Had she lived in America maybe she could have stood behind the freedom of speech and all that crap, but seeing that she lived in jolly old England, they fired her British ass. Hopefully, that server will move on to her next position having learned something from her mistake. You can never insult the customer. What I mean is you can never insult the customer where they will find out about it. Say it in the kitchen, write on your pad, think it in your head. Do not print it on their check. Amateur.

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I'm Freakin' Sophisticated

Last night I decided to class my ass up a bit and went to a wine and cheese bar. After getting over the initial shock that a wine and cheese bar sells only wine and cheese, I went with a very delicious sounding glass of Pinot Grigio that had notes of light citrus and delicate floral aromas that were complemented by hints of tropical fruit flavors. It was also the cheapest. I sat in a leather wing back chair with my smoking jacket on enjoying the company of good friends and listening to the jazz music that played softly over head. The candles cast a pale warm glow across the room and the Christmas tree in the corner made the place feel like a second kind of home. The smell of cured meets and savory crackers filled my nose and the clinking of wine glasses was oh so comfortable. Then another sound erupted that was incongruous with the atmosphere. The sound was that of a little girl who was screaming with wonder at the Christmas tree that only moments ago had seemed so comforting. "What the hell is a little girl doing in a bar?" I hissed to a friend. I spun my head around to see where the parent of this wayward tot was and I saw her sitting at a table holding another child. Now there were two things ruining my night; a little girl and a little boy. No, this was not happening. I went to this wine bar to be sophisticated and shit, not irritated and shit. The little girl started running towards our end of the room. I quickly shot a look that I thought would effectively create an invisible wall around my friends, but this little girl crashed through my barrier and sat on the step next to us. Of course she screamed as she ran. The mother got up and rushed over to the brat. I eagerly anticipated seeing a swat on the butt or a slap on the wrist to teach this kid a lesson. But no. The mother simply said, "No, no we don't want to bother these other people, sweetie." Newsflash, Mom: too late. I'm bothered. The mother then took the little girl by both hands and spun her around while the little girl laughed. And screamed. Then the little boy wanted a turn. What the fuck is wrong with people? Do they not see I am trying to be all mature and cultured? I'm sittin' in a freakin' wine bar for cryin' out loud. Jesus H. Christ.

The parents let the kids play as they finished their glasses of wine. Meanwhile, I had blood dripping out of my ears from listening to the kids scream with laughter at whatever the fuck makes a four year old scream with laughter. More than once I saw mom get up and join in on the fun making the kids even louder. It was simply not possible for me to give them an eye that was any stinkier than the one I was giving them. After about 15 minutes, I noticed that they asked for the check. Either, it was the kids bedtime or the parents finally realized that their darling children were annoying the fuck out of everyone else in the bar. After they left, I readjusted my face from the scowl and let my eyes resolve back to their natural state of bleary and bloodshot. Finally, I could get all sophisticated. I pulled out my pipe and put my feet up on the ottoman ready to enjoy my night of being civilized. I retied my ascot and ordered my second glass of wine, but this time I didn't get the cheapest one. I got the second cheapest one. 'Cause I'm sophisticated and shit.


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