Grumpy Old Man Alert:

Renovations are happening at my job so things have been a bit dusty at work lately. We aren't closing down as these changes happen so each day we show up for work, we never know what to expect. Plaster on the silverware? Whatever. Paint spilled on the carpet? Walk around it. The handrails to the stairs still tacky with the new stain? Stop right there, because that was a huge problem for an old man who bit my head off with the same ease he probably yells at kids to get off of his lawn.

There were signs all over the fucking place that said things like "Please pardon our appearance as we renovate" and "Please avoid using the handrail since it was newly painted today." The signs were clearly visible for anyone who didn't have an Occupy Cataract situation going on with their pupils. That may have been the problem with the old man. Seeing that he smelled like a bucket of moth balls with a shot of Fiber One and gentle mist of Metamucil, it would not be shocking to learn that his eyesight was a bit cloudy. I was at the foot of the stairs waiting for him to make his way down when he yelled out at me, "Goddamn, what the hell is going on with these rails?" I looked at his hands and saw they were covered in a beautiful mahogany stain that will really make the new purple color on the walls pop.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir. Some of the woodwork was stained today and it's still a bit sticky. I do apologize."

"Well, you ought to put up a goddamn sign," he croaked out at me.

"We did, sir." I pointed at a sign that was next to me.

"Well, you need to put one at the top of the stairs, not down here where it's too late." My eyes went to the sign at the top of the stairs and then I focused on the other sign at the top of the stairs. There were three signs in total.

"I'm sorry. I think there is at least one sign up there, sir-"

"Well, I didn't see it," he interrupted. He thrust his dirty hands out to emphasize his point.

"Well, I did," I said and help up my nice clean hands to emphasize my point. "The men's room is down the hall on your right hand side, sir." He grumbled something that I couldn't understand but it didn't matter because I had no intention of responding to it anyway. Seconds later, I heard the man caterwauling.

"Arrgh, I can't get this door open! Wheeze, why won't this door open??"

"That's a closet, sir. The restroom is down the hall and on your other right hand side."

He fumbled his way down the hall where I assume he washed his hands and bled his lizard. We had no other contact for the rest of the night for two reasons. Number one, he wasn't in my station. Number two, there's only room enough for one grumpy old man in that place and that grumpy old man is me.

So if you happen to show up at my job, please be aware that it might be dusty, the woodwork might be sticky and the paint on the wall may not be dried, but it's all so that we can make it nicer for our guests. However, if you get some wet paint on your coat, I won't tell you about it. It's too much effort for me. One time while waiting for the F train, I saw a sign that said "wet paint" on all the columns. There was a man who obviously did not read the sign because he had leaned against a pole and now had a green strip of paint down the side of his jacket. It was also on the side of his face. I watched him as he realized it was all over his coat but he had no idea it was all over his face as well. I debated whether or not to tell him. I mean, I knew there was nothing he could do about it, right? And if I told him, he would just spend his whole commute to work thinking about the fact that his face had green paint all over it and he would feel awkward and embarrassed, right? So I didn't tell him. The F train pulled into the station and I let him get on it thinking the only think he had to be self-conscious about was his coat having paint on it. Never mind it looked like he was doing his best Wicked Witch of the West impersonation. He sat down and I watched people look at him and think "Does he know he has paint all over his face?" I often wonder what he felt like when he showed up to work complaining about the paint on his jacket when someone was like, "Yeah, douche bag, it's all over your fucking face too."

Moral of this story? Read signs.

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Old Ladies Can Be Annoying

Everyone is born for a reason. Perhaps you were born to make a difference in the life of someone you have yet to meet or maybe your purpose in life is still being determined. Or it could be you were born simply to trap the baby-daddy in a relationship he didn't want because all he did was hook up with your mom one night at that club after she had too many Long Island Iced Teas followed by two Fuzzy Navels and a hit of poppers. Who knows? What I do know is this: the women who sat at table sixteen last week were born with the sole purpose of getting on my last fucking nerve. Mission accomplished, ladies.

Two old women came into the restaurant. I only call them that because they referred to themselves that way. They both had their hair in buns and they looked like they just popped in from the Amish flea market and needed a quick bite to eat before auditioning to be one of the little old ladies in The Producers. In truth, they were probably in their 50's, but they were the old kind of fifty-something, not the young cool hip fifty-something.

"Table for two, ladies?" I asked all chirpy and happy because that is my natural demeanor when wearing an apron.

Old Lady #1 cleared her throat and said, "Well, there are going to be three of us." Fine. No problem. I began leading her to a table but she stood still. I turned around to see what the problem was and she said, "One third of our party is not here yet." Well, I kinda figured that, Miss Pythagoras but thanks for the math lesson. Unless your friend is the Invisible Lady or you have her hiding in your back pocket, I assumed she wasn't here yet. I told them they could choose a table and sit wherever they wanted and I would bring them menus. This confused them.

They looked at each other and muttered back and forth, "Do you want to sit here or do you want to sit there or should we sit on the patio or inside? Oh my God I don't know what we should do." Old Lady #2 said, "Why don't we sit at that last booth?" to which Old Lady #1 replied, "But how will Old Lady #3 find us when she gets here if we sit all the way back there?"

Keep in mind this is a very small restaurant. It only has fourteen tables. It was ten minutes after we opened and there was no one else in the place. Unless Old Lady #3 was blind and/or retarded, she would easily find her friends.

After much discussion and thought, Old Lady #2 finally made the decision. Waking me up from my self-induced coma, she said, "We are going to sit at that back booth but if you see another woman come in who looks uncertain, that is our friend." So let me get this straight: if another old lady with her hair in a bun comes into the restaurant and tells me she is meeting two other old ladies who have their hair in buns, then she would be referring to you, is that it? Thanks. Got it.

By the time we eventually made it to table sixteen, it was time for me to color my roots again. They were so fucking slow, examining every table we passed as if it might be the one they should sit at instead. Before they sat down, Old Lady #1 said, "And who would we need to talk to in order to discuss the volume of the music? It's too loud and we want to be talk. We're old ladies and can't hear very well." Okay, you just fucking contradicted yourself, old lady. If you can't hear very well, then I should turn the music up, shouldn't I? Isn't the truth that you just don't like the Pandora 1980's music channel I created so that I could listen to the music of my youth while at work? Maybe she would have liked me to create a Pandora channel of music from her youth, but who in the hell wants to listen to an Andrew Sisters and Doris Day channel. (Okay, honestly, I would totally listen to that channel...) I agreed to turn down the music.

About ten minutes later I saw their friend come into the restaurant. Of course she immediately spied her friends and headed towards them. It was truly remarkable how she found them. It was like she was Christopher Fuckin' Columbus or something. She walked right to them like she knew where she was going. The bartender told me that she must have studied a map of the restaurant in advance or we decided she may have been equipped with a GPS because how else could she possibly have found her friends among all the empty tables and nobody else? The woman was a true super-sleuth with the nose of a bloodhound and the problem solving skills of Jessica Fletcher. It was amazing.

They stayed way too long and never said anything when I turned the music back up about fifteen minutes later. They were pretty self-sufficient after they got their food. Two of them had a glass of wine so that must have chilled them out. They were probably trashed and were going to leave the restaurant to go home and do some wild and crazy drunk old lady stuff like embroider pillows with with dirty sayings and can some peaches without sterilizing the lids first. They left me a good tip which I appreciated since they occupied my booth for so long. I will be ready for them the next time I see them. The booth will be prepped with a flare gun, some knitting needles and Pandora will be set to play the Top 40 hits of the turn of the century.

(And yes, they sat at table 16 even though there are only 14 tables in the restaurant. I don't know why there is no table 6 or 10 in the restaurant, but there isn't...)



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Old People (occasionally) Warm My Heart

Old people: you either love 'em, hate 'em or are one. There have been other blog posts about old people that painted them in a less than savory manner. Yes, old people may have a distinct smell to them but it's not their fault. (Honestly, I don't know why we smell this way. I don't even own moth balls, but I smell like I slept in a drawer full of them.) Old people may move too slowly when you are stuck behind one on a busy sidewalk on your way to work. You may resent feeling obligated to giving up your seat to one on the subway when you see a 103 year old lady who is hunched over and grasping at anything to stay upright. (Hint: sunglasses and an iPod gives the illusion that you just didn't notice her.) Old people are the fabric of our lives and don't let that pushy bitch Cotton tell you anything else.

The restaurant opened at 5:00 yesterday and at 5:10, two senior citizens came in for the early-bird special even though we don't have an early-bird special. They looked like they had been married for about 150 years, give or take a decade. I imagine that their honeymoon was bathed in candle light since Thomas Edison was still a baby then and had not yet invented the light bulb. I told them they could sit anywhere they wanted seeing that we had just opened and every table was available. They chose a table on the patio that was as far away from the entrance as possible so they started walking to it as I grabbed a couple of menus and began following them. Thirty minutes later they got to table 28. The man walked way ahead of his wife who was moving slower than a drunk snail on quaaludes with jet lag after just waking up from a ten hour nap. "How rude," I thought. "He can't even wait for his wife?" But after he got to the table he came back to help her and I realized he was just inspecting the floor to make sure there was nothing that was going to trip her and send her out for an emergency hip replacement. There is one step down to get to the patio and he took her elbow and gently escorted her down it and then he pulled her seat out for her and helped her sit down. "I am seeing some real gentlemanly behavior all up in here," thought I.

When it was time to take the order, he did all the talking because he was the man and that's how things worked. They had their calamari and one glass of wine that they shared and then they enjoyed their two entrees. When it came time to offer dessert, I spoke to the husband because I could see that he was the one who wore the pants and that's the way she liked it. After the specials were told, she told him and then he told me that she didn't want any. He ordered a piece of chocolate cake. "Alright, one piece of chocolate cake coming right up but I'm going to bring you two forks because I know you're gonna want some," I said as I pointed to the woman. She laughed and shook her head. The dessert made it to the table and by the time I got over to check on them, the woman was eating a bite of the cake. Two minutes later when I went to clear the plate, it had moved directly in front of the woman who was scraping every last little crumb of chocolately goodness onto her fork. I crossed my arms and looked at her. "Uh huh, so look who the plate ends up in front of; the person who didn't want any dessert. It was good, wasn't it?" Her eyes lit up and she smiled the sweetest smile. She pushed the empty plate towards the center of the table and said, "I couldn't resist. Thank you for bringing the extra fork." I removed the plate and said. "It was my pleasure." And you know what? It really was my pleasure. I think they had a wonderful dining experience and I made them laugh. Those two seniors were my first table of the day, but by far the friendliest one of the week.

He helped his wife up from the table and they shuffled their way out of the restaurant, arms interlocked with one another. They left me a 15% tip which was perfectly wonderful with me. The love they showed for each other put me in such a good mood that the percentage didn't really matter. Sometimes even I, the Bitchy Waiter, can forgo the tip if I get something else out of serving someone. From them, I got that love lasts and relationships can work. They gave me hope that when I am an old lady (in about five years) I will still be going out to dinner with my husband and having a good time. I can't, however, imagine sharing one glass of wine. That'll never happen. Maybe share a bottle of wine, but one glass? That's crazy talk. These old people were sweet, but maybe a little bit senile to think that was okay to do.



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Old People: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Remember Shit

Over the course of time while working at one place, you get accustomed to seeing some of the same faces over and over again. These regulars are sometimes welcome sights and sometimes not so much. Admittedly, I am not the best at remembering people who sit in my station more than once. It's not that I don't have the ability to recall that Suzie Side Of Mayo sat in my station two weeks ago, it's more that I just don't give a shit. Eventually though I will recognize if someone's a regular. On the other hand, I certainly don't expect customers to remember me. Most of the time.

A few weeks ago I had a couple come in that I knew from another job. The man and his wife are really old and somewhat famous. He's a songwriter who wrote some really big hits for Frank Sinatra and wrote a couple of Broadway shows. I met them about five years ago when I was doing a revival of one of his shows and got to know him then. He was at rehearsal with me everyday for three weeks and then watched every performance for two weeks after we opened. When I saw them come in, I went up to say hello. Seeing that he's 91 years old, I didn't expect him or his wife to remember me. His wife must be about his age but she doesn't look a day over 106. Her face is pulled so tight that she makes Joan Rivers look like a fresh clean daisy. Seriously, her lips are practically above her eyebrows now. I reintroduced myself and saw the flicker of recognition come into their eyes as they placed me from their past. It was sorta like a light bulb went off and they should know what that looks like because I'm pretty sure they were close personal friends of Thomas Edison. They were very happy to see me and raved about how great I was in the play. They went on to say that I stole the show and that I should have been the lead because I sing like an angel. (They may or may not have said that last little bit, but they did remember me.)

A few days ago, they were back in the club and again sitting in my station. Seeing that it had only been two weeks since I last saw them I greeted them warmly and told them it was nice to see them again. I saw a tumble weed blow through his head as a cricket chirped in hers. They had no idea who I was. Again. Granted the man is older than rocks and she's had so many face lifts that her brain may now be in her shoulder blades, but I figured they would at least think I was familiar. Nope. I got their hot teas and moved on. At the end of the night after they had paid, the husband asked me where his credit card was. I told him I had given it back to him at the table but he assured me he did not have it. I found his wife in the lobby and asked her if she had it and she freaked out. "Oh my God, I don't have it. Did I lose it? Oh my God, he's gonna kill me. Oh my God, we have to find it." I half looked in the trash can and around the table knowing it wasn't going to be there. By this time, the Mrs. had a flashlight at the table and was fearing for life. I think she still lives in the 50's where the man rules the roost and he was kind enough to let her touch the credit card and now that she lost it her privileges would be revoked and she would be back to a $10 a week allowance. I quit looking because, I had already been paid and tipped.

Five minutes later, the husband burps out that he found it in his pocket. Old people. Their minds are as mushy as the Ovaltine they eat for breakfast. Gotta love 'em.

Hungry people suck

Not only do I have the joy of serving food in a restaurant, sometimes I get to do it as a cater waiter. The best thing about these gigs is that the food is what it is. There is no ordering and if they don't like what we have, they can suck my left nut instead. Last night I was serving at this low-rent holiday office party affair where their budget was obviously really shitty. I worked the same event last year and they had a full bar with a huge buffet with tons of food. This year they cut the budget in half. I am sure that today at work they were all talking about how lame the holiday party was this year. They all showed up ready to chow down and all they got was my ass passing around a plate of mini grilled cheeses and some Pepperidge Farm cookies that got cut up and thrown on a plate with a flower. They was not happy. There is always one fat bitch who will knock people over in order to get to the tray of food and I found her right away. She hovered her fat ass right next to the kitchen door so she could grab whatever was on the tray. Seriously. She put something in her mouth and started chewing it and THEN asked me what it was. Lucky for her it was food, but for all she knew it was a used up condom on a cracker. Bitch was hungry. At the end of the night she was sitting at a table (because her legs were tired of supporting her huge ass) and she let her muffin top plop over her pants. It was clearly visible because she thought it was wise to wear a halter top. In December. On the East Coast. Another bitchy waiter acted like he was being nice to her and brought her a plate full of mini-donuts that were filled with Bavarian Cream and put it right in front of her. We wanted to see how many she would shovel in her mouth. Turns out, most of them. I think the other people at the table wanted a donut too but were scared to reach out for it in case she accidentally ate their arms off. Another lady grabbed me to ask me when the "real food" was coming out. I told her that this is all the food that is coming and it is in fact "real." She went on to inform me that she had not seen any food being passed and she needed food because she was pregnant with twins and had not eaten all day. It's my problem that bitch got knocked up with twins and then failed to eat breakfast or lunch? I let her know that the food is being devoured by Hungry Hungry Hippo over there next to the kitchen door. Pregnant lady tells me "Well I guess I will just wait by the kitchen door too, then!" Too bad she didn't know there were two kitchen doors, because I went right into the kitchen and told everyone to only use the back door for the next half hour. Hopefully she did not die of starvation. Or maybe one of the twins could have just eaten the other twin for nourishment. Do we really need another set of twins in the world anyway?

Yes, the coffee is hot, bitch

I don't know what it is with old people, but I hope when I am old (in like six years from now) I don't lose my taste buds. I guess after living through the depression and having to eat boot soup and newspaper sandwiches, they just don't have the ability to taste anymore. Old people always send shit back. It's never hot enough. Yesterday this lady asked me for a cup of coffee making sure to tell me she meant hot coffee and not iced coffee. Like I am an idiot. So I got her coffee and made sure there was steam coming from it because when there is steam that means it's hot, right? Well, not when you serve it to an old dinosaur like this lady. Seriously, I think she was a first grade teacher for the caveman. She calls me over to tell me the coffee is cold. Not warm or luke-warm or even room temperature, but cold. She acted like it was one step away from being a coffee popsicle. So I smiled and resisted the temptation I had to knock her fucking false teeth out and went to get her some more coffee. OUT OF THE SAME POT. And guess what. By some miracle of miracles this coffee was much better. It must have been a magic freaking coffee pot that made it's contents change temperature by 20 degrees in a matter of two minutes. I was nice to her because old people make me sad. I just made fun of her in the side stand because she had a huge herpe on her lip that she probably picked up from blowing men for apples in 1933. "Blowjob for an apple, sir?" I can just see her. She counted out her pennies for my tip and shuffled out of my station. She should have saved the money she spent on coffee and bought some fucking Abreva for that cold sore. It was so big, I almost gave it it's own menu.