Tortilla Flats in New York City Can Go Suck it

Isn't it a shame when something you have such fond memories of can no longer live up to the expectation that the memory has created? It makes sense I suppose. After all, our brains tend to filter out so many things that we don't need or want to remember and it leaves us with this hazy selective memory of events, people and places. About thirteen years ago, I had a surprise birthday party at this Mexican restaurant called Tortilla Flats here in New York City. I was blindfolded after I got off the train and then walked for a couple of blocks all the way to my table inside the restaurant. Once the blindfold was removed, I was greeted by ten of my closest friends and a pitcher of margaritas. It was a great surprise and a terrific birthday. So on my birthday this Sunday, I decided to revisit the restaurant and try to recreate that perfect birthday experience. Epic failure, that.

When we arrived at Tortilla Flats, it was overflowing with customers. This was not unexpected since it was the Sunday night of a three day weekend. The host was overwhelmed with a mob of people clamoring for a table and the bar was overrun with sailors from Fleet Week who were in New York City with the sole purpose of getting trashed beyond belief. Nothing says Memorial day Weekend like a sailor in his whites puking on the corner of West 12th Street. The host finally greeted us by screaming, "Yeah, there's a two-top over there. Go grab it!" Uh, okay. We squeezed past a a girl with big boobs and a tiny top and sat down. Our booth was next to the bar and as soon as we sat down, the arm of a sailor flung into our space as he leaned on a friend. "Dude, am so fucking trashed right now!" he said. Nice, sailor. The booth we were sitting at was wet and had two glasses of water on it and some plastic silverware. A grouchy looking waiter came up to us and said, "Do you need menus?" Okay, yes, we need menus. It's kind of the custom in restaurants, right? Menus? We told him that we did and he stomped off to get them. I know what he was thinking. He thought that since we didn't already have menus that we must have sat ourselves. I get it. Whatever. He brought the menus.

At this point, my partner asked him about the waters on the table. "Excuse me, but are these waters for us or are they from someone who was sitting here before us?"
"I have no idea," said the waiter. Wait, was he giving us attitude?
"We were told to sit here,"I said.
"Well, I dunno," he said with his arms crossed.
I responded. "What? We just wanted to know if this water is for us or if it's used. The table is a little wet."
"Well, I didn't put 'em there. Do you want different waters? I'll just go get you new waters." He grabbed the glasses and stomped off again.

O. Hell. No. Is this asshole giving me attitude? Look, prick, I'm sorry you're at work serving a bunch of drunk Marines on Memorial Day Weekend, but get over it. I already served a bunch of babies at brunch that morning so I too had to work when everyone else was out having a good time. You think I wanted to listen to that three year old scream and throw spoons on the floor? No, I didn't, but it's part of the job and you have to suck it up and fake that you are in a decent mood for the sake of your tables and tips. Do whatever you have to do. (In my case, it was a mimosa hidden in the side stand). And it was my fucking birthday, too. It's not like I snuck in to the restaurant two minutes before you closed. It was 8:30 and you weren't closing until 11:00. I was nothing but nice to the shitty host and I even gave you the benefit of the doubt when you snarled at me about our lack of menus, but now you're going to give me attitude about water? If you knew the water was placed there for us, then just say so, but don't tell me you "have no idea." If that water was left over from some sailor who sat there before me, I don't want to take a sip out of it and get the herpes from that hooker he picked up at Penn Station. Fuck you. We got up and left.

The host ran up to us to see what the problem was. It was now clear that the host was also a manager. "Guys, guys, what's the matter? Where are you going?"
"Your waiter is rude. We're done."
"No, no, wait. What happened? Let me fix it."
"Nope, the waiter with the dark-rimmed glasses is rude and we're going somewhere else. Don't need that. It's cool."
"Wait, wait, lemme make it up to you!"
Like I really wanted to stay there so he could put us in a different section where the asshole waiter tells another asshole waiter that we are assholes and then they spit in my birthday margarita. "Good bye," we say as we breeze on down to another Mexican restaurant.

So, Tortilla Flats? I'll always recall how fondly you treated me on my birthday 13 years ago, but maybe it's best we leave it at that. Things change, after all and it's okay. We will always have 1998 when the waiter was nice and he treated me with respect. This waiter was obviously having a bad night, but he took it out on the wrong person. The average Joe would just complain about it to his two or three friends. I am not your Average Joe. I am the Bitchy Waiter and when I complain, I get to do it to 4,532 people on Facebook, 3,875 people on Twitter and 3,031 followers on Blogger. So Tortilla Flats, you can tell that asshole server he can take a bowl of salsa and cram it up his asshole ass. He can take a burrito and choke on it. He can even take a sip out of the possibly contaminated glass of water and hope for the best. What he can't do is treat me like shit on my birthday and think I won't go home and blog about it. Fuck off. But thanks for the birthday memories in 1998. It was great. 2011? Not so much.

Tell Tortilla Flats that The Bitchy Waiter says hello by clicking by here! They'd love a few emails in their inbox, don't you think? Leave a comment if you emailed them. I'd love to know how many emails they got.

(The link to the email address was deactivated 36 hours after this post went up because it's all good now...)

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Happy Birthday To Me and Lisa Welchel

Today is an auspicious occasion. May 29th is one of the most special and reverent days of all 365 days of the year. It is on this day, a certain number of years ago, at 1:27 PM, that my mother pushed out 7 pounds and 11 ounces of bitch and ended up with a curly haired moppet destined for average. Rumor has it, when the doctor slapped my ass after birth, I slapped him right back and then asked him how he'd like his burger cooked. He handed me to a nurse who wrapped me up in an apron and placed me in a bread warmer. She gave me a sheet that had my sidework on it and the rest is history.

May 29th is a great day to be born. It always falls around Memorial Day so a three-day weekend is a pretty regular occurrence for my birthday celebration. This would be even more special if I wasn't such a lazy ass who has three day weekends all the time. It was always great to have the last day of school right around my birthday and I even graduated from high school on my 18th birthday. A few years ago, a finished college on my birthday. Yes, May 29th is a kick ass day. Don't believe me? Just ask these other people who share my birthday:

• John Hinckley, Jr.-the guy who tried to kill Ronald Reagan
• Annette Benning- one cool-ass actress lady
• LaToya Jackson- a nobody
• Bob Hope- legendary comedian (Pull out your Ouija board to ask him, because his ass is way dead)
• John F. Kennedy, Jr.- (Ask Bob Hope to ask JFK how he likes his birthday.)
• Melissa Etheridge- lesbian
• Melanie Brown- Spice Girl
• Lisa Welchel- the finest actress of The Facts of Life

May 29th is not just a day that produced amazing people, it also is quite substantial in the history of the world. Did you know that on May 29th in 1990, The Russian parliament elected Boris Yeltsin president of the Russian SFSR? Uh huh. And in 1328 Philip VI was crowned King of France. Big news! And Rhode Island and Wisconsin both became states on this date in 1790 and 1848, respectively. In sad news, this is also the day that we lost international icons Fanny Brice (1951), Harvey Korman (2008) and Dennis Hopper (2010).

But back to happy talk. Today is my birthday. Tonight I will be celebrating at a Mexican restaurant and drinking margaritas until there is the very real possibility that tequila will come out of my nose. In other words, pretty much like any other day of the week for me. On Monday, I am having a huge blowout in Central Park and by "huge" I mean about six people, some chicken salad sandwiches and lemonade spiked with vodka. As you go through your day today, please take a moment to send out good thoughts to me and my special lady, Lisa Welchel.

Have a great day! And thank you for being so awesome.


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Big Ben, Where Are You?

My heart sank a few night ago when I saw one of our regulars lumbering into the restaurant an hour and fifteen minutes before we closed. He's notorious for staying way past his welcome and the very sight of him made me realize that an early night was now out of the question. He plopped his gloobber globber ass onto the bar stool and ordered his first drink of the night. When he came in, the restaurant only had a couple of people in it, so chances were good that sidework could begin and we could waltz out of there within minutes after closing time. With this guy at the bar, it was unheard of. He runs his mouth to anyone who will listen and our manager/owner encourages it by actually asking him open-ended questions like "What's new?" and "How are you?" This is not the kind of person you ask any question to unless the answer is yes or no. Thankfully, I don't have to deal with him since he only sits at the bar, but I still feel the consequences since he won't close his check until long after closing time. I don't comprehend a few things in this situation. It truly baffles me that he has no issue nursing his drink for an hour after we close as we servers stand around with our arms crossed with nothing to do. What confuses me even more is why the manager/owner allows him to continue ordering drinks thirty of forty minutes after we close. "Well, we have to take care of our regulars," he tells me. I get that, Mr. Owner, but I don't own this restaurant, you do. You are the one who has chosen to be at the restaurant six days a week from 10:30 AM until midnight. You have no life. Well, except for your wife and kids who I guess don't even know you. I, however, do have a life and it does not revolve around your restaurant. I work there part-time and can't wait to get the fuck out. If you want to take care of your regulars, do it, but I don't see why I have to stay at work for an hour after my last table has left and my sidework is done just so you can "take care" of this piece of shit.

Piece of Shit continued rambling on about nothing important. The bartender begrudgingly listened to him because he was simply trapped behind the bar. Piece of Shit takes that as interest when we all know it's obligation. He then began talking about his trip to London that I don't think anyone asked about. He was one step away from pulling out a projector and giving us a freaking slide show. All I could think of was I wish that Big Ben was there and ring out that it was time for him to go the fuck home. I have never been to London, so I can't judge what he was saying, so I put it to you, readers. Piece of Shit said that London is the coldest place he has ever been. He said that the damp air seeps into your bones and the chill is impossible to get rid of. In fact, he told us that this is where the phrase "bone cold" came from. Really? Londoners, is this true? Do tell. He also said that every house in London is always cold, because none of then have good heating systems. I guess he went to every fucking house and checked this factoid out himself. He went on to say that the only place that is ever warm are the pubs and that is why people are always there. Really? I had no idea that when I go to London, I will be perpetually cold unless I am sitting in a pub. "Oh yes, I could not shake the chill. It was in my bones." I looked at his 350 pound frame and wondered when was the last time his bones felt anything at all other than excruciating exhaustion.

At 11:56 PM, almost an hour after we had closed, he finally paid his check. At last, we could run our paperwork and I could get out of there. He left a $12 tip, so after we pooled and divided it up, four dollars of that was all mine. The bartender was stuck, but I wasn't. Piece of Shit said goodbye to me as I left and I mumbled out a fond fuckwad farewell to his fat ass. Who knows how much longer he stayed. Last week he stayed until 12:45 AM, almost two hours after we closed. Manager/owner really needs to grow a pair and tell him he doesn't have to go home, but he can't stay there. Do people have no concept of anyone but themselves? I really don't get it. And I really hate this guy.

So tell, me Brits: are you cold?

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Secret Agent, Man

I have friend in town who is a world renowned mixologist. She is big time. She has been on The Today Show, Martha Stewart and was even a judge on Iron Chef. Major enough for you? Uh huh. She writes books too. Check 'em out. We used to work at Houlihan's together and she parlayed her bartending job into a whole exciting career that takes her around the country. I parlayed my Houlihan's career into sitting at a computer and complaining. Anyhoo, Kim was in town and she took me out last night. Unlike me, she knows where the cool, hip, trendy, in-the-know spots are so I hopped onto her coattails and away we went.

Have you ever heard of those speakeasy bars that are all the rage? Here in New York City, I have heard about them but never been to one. They don't advertise and you have to know where it is and how to get in. Of course Kim knew where one was and how to get into it. Imagine, if you will, that we are two secret agents who are in desperate need of a cocktail, but it's prohibition so all the bars are in secret hideaways. Kim led the way and I stayed close to her heels. When we got to the corner of So-and So and What's-it Called, she pulled out her phone and made a call. "Do you have room for two people, the name's Kim. Ten minutes? Thanks." She hung up and looked around to make sure no one was listening to her conversation. "Can't be too careful, you know?" I nodded. "You go that way and I'll go this way and I'll meet you on the other end of the block. If you sense that anyone is following you, abort. Do you hear me? Abort. You are to step into the nearest Starbuck's and wait until you are sure the coast is clear. Now, go. GO!"

The anticipation was killing me. Was I really going to get into one of the city's premier secret bars? "Kim?" I asked. "Will I be able to get an Apple Martini there?" Kim laughed at me and shook her head. "Bitchy, you will be able to get whatever you want, but please do not order an Apple Martini. I have a reputation to uphold." She darted off into the traffic just missing being hit by a cab and flew down the street, her trench coat flapping in the wind. Moments later when we were reunited at the other end of the block, she made a gesture with her head that said "follow me." We stepped into a hot dog restaurant. Dozens of twenty-somethings were crowded into booths and sipping sodas. Confused, I said, "This is it? I don't get it." Kim rolled her eyes at me and slid into a phone booth. I crammed in behind her. I felt like we were Maxwell Smart and Agent 99. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. "It's Kim." At that moment, the back wall of the phone booth slid open and we were ushered into a completely different room and environment. The phone booth wall slid back into place and we were in!

We were given two seats at the dimly lit bar and handed menus. The bartender was nattily dressed in a vest and tie and behind Kim was a huge stuffed grizzly bear that had seen better days. The menu of cocktails was like nothing I have ever seen. No Cosmopolitans or Mojitos in this place. The ingredients were all things I had never heard of. I chose something called a Shark because it had aged rum and blue curacao in it. It had other spices too and a couple of things I wasn't sure about, but I trusted my bartender when he said, "You'll love it." I watched him make it with care. The liquor and fresh lemon juice was shaken for over a minute and then poured over crushed ice. To my delight, he garnished it with a lemon slice and a pink paper umbrella. It's like he knew I was going to be there. It was heavenly. Kim's drink was too. Don't ask me what it was, because I was in a fog at this point. All I recall was that it had tequila and egg whites in it that came from a farm fresh brown egg and it was topped with a cardamom foam. I know. Crazy.

When the bill came, it just said "thank you" and it had their business card in it with a phone number. They comped our drinks, because Kim is that cool. She gave me the card. "Commit this phone number to memory and then burn the evidence. When you want to come here, just call them. You're in now, Bitchy. You're in" We went to the exit, pushed a button and the wall slid open. Seconds later we were back in the bright lights of the hot dog shop. I gave Kim a hug and she disappeared into the night. "Wow," I thought. "I can't believe I know her all because we worked at that shitty ass Houlihan's." What a great night.

And no, I am not going to tell you the name of the bar. Or the hot dog place.

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I Am Superman

You have heard of Wonder Woman, Superman, Spiderman and Oprah but all those overachievers pale in comparison to the super-human waitron that I was a few night ago. There should have been a phone booth in the room for me to slip into so I could take off my regular uniform and put on a cape and mask because there was some amazing service happening up in there. I was a goddamn mother fucking superhero server. I hate to toot my own horn but toot mother fucker toot. (Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that I have absolutely no problem with tooting my own horn...)

We were short staffed so I was the only one on the floor. We had reservations for about 30 people so we figured it would be no problem for me to handle a show that size all on my own. Well, since people in this world don't know how to RSVP or make a reservation, the audience swelled to 58. That means that all fifty-eight people showed up at the same time and all of them needed their two-drink minimum during the course of a 60 minute show. And some of these people were future friends of AA because they embraced the fact that we have no maximum and guzzled down cocktail after cocktail making things even busier. Their unquenchable thirst for the booze may have been attributed to the performer they were there to see. This "singer" had some major pitch issues and seemed to enjoy changing keys in the middle of a song. I'm all for key changes, but it's usually best when done in synchronicity with the accompanying musicians. Otherwise, it sounds like a big train wreck. Remember that guy William Hung on American Idol? The singer was like him but he sounded like he had just eaten Fozzy Bear from the Muppets and Fozzy was trying to claw his way out of this guy's stomach. His music drove people to drink. It reminded me of It's a Wonderful Life when that little girl says, "every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings." But in this case, every time a sour note is hit, table 28 gets another Rubytini. Ch-ching!

I swooped in like a Dark Phantom and removed empty glasses and replaced them with full ones. Hummus and cheese plates appeared like magic thanks to my trusty sidekick, Nick the Bus Boy. People where overwhelmed with my speed, efficiency and stealth-like moves as I practically floated between tables. (Okay, that one guy at table 22 saw me drop an empty beer bottle onto the floor, but even superheros need someone to see the occasional mistake. It makes us more approachable despite our brilliance and keeps our humility in check.) One customer seemed to be flirting with me and he became my Lois Lane. "You're really busy tonight," he said. "All in a day's work, my good man, all in a day's work," I replied as I zipped off to another section to deliver four glasses of water. "My hero," he said as he clasped his hands underneath his chin and batted his eyelashes.

At the end of the hour, the tips rained down upon me. As the checks were closed, I held my breath until I could rest assured that no mistakes had been made. Nick the Bus Boy and Tom the Bartender (superhero-in-training) began cleaning the room as I organized my checks and begin to count the money. There were no problems. All credit cards matched up and all the cash that had been thrown at me was more than enough to cover the checks. I was sitting on a pile of money that would be distributed to my fellow superhero co-workers. As we looked at our three piles of tips, we dreamed about how we could best use this lofty sum. Seeing that I was feeling all superhero-ish, it was evident that my cut of the tips would go directly to Madonna to help her with her dream of opening a school in Malawi, Africa. Her speech on The Oprah Winfrey Show really moved me. Not really. I crammed that pile of money into my pocket and made plans to spend it at this cool bar called Lani Kai. This superhero needs to take off the cape and have a big fancy cocktail with an umbrella in it. That's what Superman would do, I just know it.

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Mr. Massengill, Your Table is Ready

Maybe I missed the announcement, but I think that Massengill and Summer's Eve must have had a douche convention in New York City last week because some of the participants invaded my station. The man at booth one was practically crying out for a vinegar and water cocktail with a baking soda and iodine chaser. From the moment he and his friends sat down, he copped a not-so-fresh attitude with me. He didn't like his seat and complained about it but didn't want to be moved to another table. He was one of those people who like to find something wrong but not do anything about it so that they can continue to have something to gripe about. And then he asked me one of my least favorite questions any customer can ask me: what do you got to drink? Seriously? We are a bar. You passed a bartender who was standing in front of row upon row of bottles of liquor, just tell me what you want. I patiently told him that we have a full bar so he could order whatever he would like. He paused a moment and then said, "You got grappa?"
"No, sir, I'm sorry, but we don't have grappa."
He rolled his eyes and then said, "Well, then you're not a full bar."
Was he for real? No, we don't have grappa. We also don't have ouzo, absinthe or manischewitz so choose one of our eight vodkas, four gins, four rums, three brandies, six whiskeys, nine beers or six wines and move on.
"What about champagne? You got champagne?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, what kind is it? Is it any good?"
"We have Marquis de la Tour Brut from Loire, France. Would you like a bottle?"
After snubbing his nose as if I just offered him a bottle of my piss (which he might just get if he keeps it up) he ordered a bottle. I quickly returned with four glasses and placed them on his table as the bartender put his champagne on ice. When I showed up to pop the cork (hopefully into his eyeball) he hands me a glass and says, "Can you chill these?"
I went to chill the glasses. It wasn't a completely awful thing of him to ask, it was just the way he asked it as is so often the problem. No please, thank you or eye contact necessary. A co-worker eventually took the glasses and poured for me because it was obvious that this guy was getting under my skin.

Everyone who comes into the club has a two-drink minimum. We tell them when they make their reservation, when they arrive, when we seat them, it's on the seating pass, it's on the menu, it's on the postcard that the performer gave them and I tell them when I take their order. A bottle of wine or champagne serves as four drinks so this party of four was halfway to their minimum. Throughout the show, they kept telling me they didn't want anything else. They were fine. When I printed the check, I had to put four minimum charges on at $5.00 per person. Guess who didn't like that. "Well, we didn't know we had to get two drinks per person. How are we supposed to know that? How much does a bottle count for?" He was told that a bottle is four beverages. "Well, we are four people, so that should be enough!"
"Two beverages per person, sir."
"Right, we had a bottle of champagne and there were four of us. That should be enough."
I watched his face change as he realized what he was saying was wrong. Math was not his strong suit. He had majored in douchebaggery with a minor in asshat and specialization in tool. He eventually understood that he did not meet the minimum and agreed to pay the check. With a ten percent tip.

I heard them later proudly proclaim that they were from Texas. These were my people. Why didn't they just order a six pack of Lone Star and two wine coolers and call it a day?

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A Message From that Rapture Guy:

Dear World:

Harold Camping here! I hope you had a great weekend. Heard any good jokes lately? LOL. Well, what can I say? Oops! I know, I know. I was adamant about the world ending on Saturday and this time I was even more sure about it than I was in 1994, but I must have been mistaken with my mathematical equations. I blame it on the free calculator I got from Costco when I opened up a credit card account there. I owe you all an apology, but my sincerest apologies go to my followers who quit their jobs and spent their life savings in order to spread the word. Sorry. :) And to that guy who spent $140,000 of his own money for the New York City subway and bus advertising campaign, you rock! Thank you for your support, but I never asked you to do that, did I? It was simply out of the goodness of your heart and you will be reimbursed for it. However, I can't pay you back in dollars. Instead, I will put in a special shout out to God on your behalf. You're welcome! :) And please make sure you keep in touch, because I know you will want to help me out again when I plan for the next doomsday. Right now I am thinking some time in 2017, but by then I will be 95 years old. Depending on my health, I may have to bump it up a few years. Stay tuned!

Some of you may be wondering why I didn't issue a press release sooner; like on May 21st at 6:05 PM perhaps. You might think I was too embarrassed to show my face but that is simply not the case. (I made a rhyme!) I had a very busy Sunday. Most of the day I spent on the phone with my credit card company. I needed to reverse several thousand dollars of charges I had made on my account over the last month. Truth be told, I really didn't expect to be around to pay the bill when it showed up so I had to return a few items. Golly, I sure will miss that hot tub. I also had to go to the grocery store, water my plants and retrieve my pets that I had let loose in the woods. By the time I got all that done, I was plum tuckered out.

As for the thousands and thousands of dollars that you have all donated to my cause, I want to say thank you. It was really sweet of you to do that. I never ever in a million billion trillion gazillion years expected people to donate to my church. And this whole Rapture thing I can guarantee was absolutely 100% not a publicity stunt to fill my coffers with more gold. (Hey, maybe I don't need to return that hot tub! :) Just kidding! LOL!) Rest assured that all of that money will be used for something very very important. I have narrowed it down to three possibilities: I will either use it to build a school in Africa, feed the homeless or I might just let it sit in the bank and collect interest until I die at which time it will be bequeathed to my dog Noah, providing I ever find him in the woods.

Finally, I want to promise to you that the next time I predict a doomsday, it will definitely happen. And I don't mean like probably happen or more than likely happen, it's really gonna happen. And I mean that, because if I didn't mean it then that would make me a false prophet. And false prophets are bad. (False profits are bad too, LOL! So again, I am so so totally sorry about the whole mix up. Don't hate me, okay? Jesus loves you.

xo,
Harold Camping

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A Revelation!

Today is May 22, 2011. It looks like we all survived The Rapture yesterday. It was supposed to occur at 6:00 PM in New York City and I had a shift scheduled for 7:00. Since I always put 100% of my faith in 89 year old crazy evangelists, I totally assumed that I would not have to go to work last night. By 6:30, it seemed like I better get my ass in gear and iron my uniform. And when I say "iron" I mean, pull it out of the dirty clothes hamper and smooth it out after scraping all the dried food off of it. I was totally rushed and barely got to work on time. Thanks a lot, Rapture. You totally suck. When I got there, I was told that our head chef didn't show up for work, so I was to be prepared for a clusterfuck of an evening. My first thought was that he had been taken unto the bosom of Christ, but it turns out that he is sorta a loser and probably just got too drunk to bother with employment. A real pro. My station was already sat. My first table had two of the brattiest children I have ever seen. Another table had a two senior citizens who immediately ordered hot teas and my other table asked for separate checks before I even said hello. "Maybe the Rapture did occur, " I thought. "Is this is my own personal hell?" When one of the kids threw his sippy cup onto the floor spilling his milk all over the fucking place I was pretty certain that this was in fact Hades. This was no ordinary brat. This was the spawn of the devil sitting at booth number seven and it was my eternal destiny to constantly pick up crap off the floor after he continually throws it there.

The kitchen was slower than Abe Vigoda trying to get an erection and it was a constant battle to get a dessert out of there without it taking more than 15 minutes. And this was a slow night. It seemed like a Tuesday shift, not a Saturday. Perhaps people had really expected Judgement Day and that is why no one came into the restaurant last night. Had people barricaded themselves in their bunkers and basements and just stayed there all night? Had the rain from the afternoon kept people from wanting to venture out into the evening? Possibly, but my guess is that everyone stayed home to watch Pretty in Pink that was on Nickelodeon last night. How can you resist the temptation of Molly Ringwald and Jon Cryer (in his pre-Two and a Half Men days).

The evening plodded on without any major disruptions other than slow kitchen times. I had one table of four ask me to please leave a pitcher of water on the table because they were all heavy drinkers. Of water. I acquiesced because I aim to please. It was also going to be easier than filling water glasses every thirty seconds. All of a sudden Moe takes it off the table and chastises me because it "looks bad." Moe is not my boss. He is not a manager. He is a waiter, just like me. I always ignore him but last night I actually stood up to him. "They want it there, Moe. They drink a lot of water." I said.
"Well, you should just keep filling it up then."
"They want it there, Moe."
"But it looks bad."
"Moe. Listen to me. They asked for a pitcher of water for the table and I gave it to them. If that's what they want, they can have it."
"But-"
"Leave. The. Pitcher. Moe. Done. Got it?"

Moe sculked off and I patted myself on the back for finally letting this guy know he needs to keep out of my face. It was my on little rapturous redemption. So maybe God didn't come down and swoop folks up to Heaven with him, but in my own little world, there was a revelation. It felt nice to let my balls out a bit. For ten weeks, I have been the "new guy" and didn't want to ruffle the feathers of the people who have been there for years. But last night, I stood my ground and maybe Moe will now leave me the fuck alone. It may not be the end of the world but it's quite possibly a new beginning.

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Caught Up in The Bitchy Rapture

Seeing that today is the day of rapture and some of us will be taken into the loving bosom of the Lord Jesus Christ our savior in Heaven, I must acknowledge this historic moment. This could very well be the last post I ever write. If the predictions are true, on May 21st at 6:00 PM (in your time zone) the world will begin to quake and it is the beginning of the end. This, according to 89 year old Harold Camping who is the founder of Family Radio. The saved Christian souls will ascend to heaven, including those dead and buried. All others will remain as the Earth falls into fiery chaos. I can only assume that I will be one left in the fiery chaos since, you know, I'm a bitch and all that. It sucks because it's just one week until my birthday too. Total bummer. So I thought I could give you a few pointers on how to prepare for the rapture and judgement day:

• Go out to eat tonight and leave your waiter a huge tip. Just max out your credit card. If the bill is $47 and you have $1689 left of credit on your account, you should leave the waiter $1689. Your generosity may score you some bonus points and get you into Heaven.
• Stock up on sun screen. We will still have five months before the world ends and I suspect it'll be pretty warm with all the fire and brimstone and shit.
  
• Discard any plans you had for your Halloween costume because the world will be done on October 21st and you probably won't need a costume in hell.
• Go to iTunes or YouTube and download Blondie's "Rapture" or Anita Baker's "Caught Up in the Rapture" because I am pretty sure if you are playing one of those songs when God comes down, you get a "Get Out of Hell Free" card.
• Since my birthday is May 29th, you should just go ahead and click here to give me my present now.
• When you see that guy in the subway tunnel between the 7 train and the F train who screams about the Bible, just tell him, "Hey, can you save me a seat tomorrow?"
• Go see Bridesmaids because I heard it's really funny and I have a feeling it won't be as funny on Sunday when you are surrounded by demons, devils and flames. Who knows, though. That Kristen Wiig is one funny lady and her humor may be funny enough to put Armageddon in its place.
  
• Call this place to make sure your pets are taken care of. Apparently, all dogs don't go to Heaven and you need to make arrangements or Fluffy and Fido are gonna be wandering around down here all alone.
• Make sure you take some Dramamine, because if you are one of the lucky few to ascend to Heaven, I suspect that it will be a long flight with much turbulence. I would also suggest taking some granola bars because I don't think a meal is offered. Cocktails and other beverages may be available but as always, exact change is appreciated.
• You might want to get your hair done because if you end up in Heaven, you want to look nice when you meet St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. If you don't go to Heaven, you should be able to get an appointment at any salon after Saturday because so many of them are owned and operated by the gays and they are total sinners who will never get into Heaven no matter how hard they try.
• Just go ahead and tell your boss, "Fuck off, asshole. Go to Hell!" See what happens.
• If you were planning on doing laundry this weekend, don't bother.
  
• Ask your Jewish friends if they can water your plants for you when you are taken up and they are left behind for being non-believers in Jesus Christ.
• If you are meek, prepare to inherit the earth. Congratulations!
• Place your "Honk If You Love Jesus" bumper sticker on your front door so God knows where to find you.
• You don't want to show up to Heaven empty handed. It's rude. Might I recommend Rapture® by Victoria's Secret? Jesus' mom will appreciate the thought.
  
• When you go out tonight, drink as many margaritas as you want because your hangover won't matter tomorrow. You can either ask God for an aspirin when you get to his place or you can just sleep it off. Chances are good that you won't have to go to work tomorrow because the world will need a couple of days to adjust to everything. I would think by Monday or Tuesday the trains in New York City will be running again with occasional delays. You might be able to go to work late on Monday too. Just use the old "Sorry, I was caught up in the rapture" excuse. It works every time.

Good luck everyone. And good bye. Or see you later. Or see you tomorrow. Whatever. God Bless.

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The Case of the Missing Shoes

It started out like every other Sunday evening shift at the club. The coffee was brewing and I was nursing my hangover with a cold glass of seltzer. The host told my co-worker that a performer from the night before had inexplicably tossed her shoes into the trash can and he thought Lo might wanna try them on seeing that Lo likes shoes and he happened to know they were her size. Of course, Lo wanted to try them on. She looked at the shoes that had been retrieved from the dressing room trash can and saw that they looked barely worn. A closer inspection by shoe aficionado Lo told us that these were some Italian shoes by a designer named Vera somebody or other. Like a scene from Cinderella, they slid onto her foot perfectly and Lo walked around the bar modeling her new found designer shoes.
"Why in the hell would someone throw away perfectly good shoes like this?" wondered Lo.
"Who knows," the host replied. "Maybe she just bought them for her performance and she realized they were uncomfortable and didn't want then anymore once the show was over."
"Well her loss is my gain!" Lo so loved her new shoes.
The first show went off without a hitch. Lo had begrudgingly changed back into her sensible work shoes and we served our customers with glee and satisfaction. We had about 45 minutes before we needed to be ready for the next show so we used the time to go grab some lunch. As I was eating my chicken burrito from Chipotle, the host came running down the stairs. Out of breath, he whispers to me, "Where's Lo???"
"She went to that salad place down the street."
"Where's her bag??"
"I dunno, I guess she has it with her. Why?"
"The performer for the second show is upstairs and she wants to know if we have seen her shoes! Call Lo! Tell her to get those shoes here pronto." He ran back upstairs and moments later I saw the performer come down the stairs heading to the dressing room. She was looking around for something and I pretended not to notice. She could look all she wants, but her shoes were at Just Salads right now and might even be on the feet of waitress that is soon to be very disappointed. I took another bite of my burrito and shrugged.

About five minutes later the host came down the stairs holding the missing shoes. I watched him go to the dressing room and I heard a woman's voice say, "Well, where were they?" The host answered, "I found them in the coat closet. Don't know how they got there." Following an awkward laugh, he came out of the dressing room wiping his brow, smiling and went back upstairs. One minute later, Lo comes down the stairs with a salad and sad look on her face. "My shoes are gone. That sucks."

So how did the shoes end up in the trash can in the first place? All we can assume is that the woman who went into the dressing room the night before threw away the shoes of the performer who had gone before her. We don't know why and we can't be certain. All we know for sure is that it was lucky the shoes weren't covered in hummus and leftover spinach dip. It was lucky that the host even spotted them in the trash can and it was lucky that they fit Lo or else they would have gone right back into said trash can.

The performer exited her dressing room, Lo's shoes securely on her feet, and did her show. The rest of the evening was fine but I am pretty sure I saw Lo eying those shoes with envy a couple of times.

The moral of the story: if you ever leave your shoes somewhere, don't assume that they didn't get worn by a waitress and then put into her bag and carried three blocks away so the waitress could eat lunch at Just Salads. It's unlikely, but it could happen.

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Don't Make Me Club You With a Pepper Mill

You may have read my response to customer suggestions about what they think should happen in restaurants to make their dining experience more pleasurable. Most of the suggestions were idiotic and proof positive that the customer is most certainly not always right. One of the ideas has really stuck in my craw and I need to discuss it further because quite frankly my craw is tired of having things stuck in it. The suggestion comes from Ellen who farted out this thought when she was sticking a Q-Tip too far into her ear canal:

Why is it that a pepper mill must be brought and administered? For a few hundred bucks, why can a restaurant not just set one out at each table?

Does she think that pepper mills grow on trees? Does she have any idea how expensive that would be? She honestly thinks that a few hundred bucks will cover the cost of supplying every table with its own private pepper mill? At the end of the day, half of those bitches would be gone because customers have notoriously sticky fingers and I'm not just talking about what they got on their hands from the sugar caddy that I never wiped clean from Sunday brunch when that baby covered it in syrup and played with it. Women like Ellen would be stuffing those pepper mills into their purses, bags and any other orifice just so they could get home and have a fancy new pepper mill that was complimentary. I can see it now. Every morning when it is time to reset the tables, half of the pepper mills would be missing. It's hard enough to maintain creamers in a restaurant without them disappearing so I can only imagine what pepper mills would be like. They would fly outta that place like hotcakes.

At my restaurant, we have four pepper mills. I never suggest freshly ground pepper because quite frankly I feel that the way the food comes from the kitchen is the way the chef intended it to be and it does not need any additional seasoning. No not really, I'm just too lazy to go get the pepper mill and walk all the way back to the table. If a customer wants fresh pepper, they will have to specifically ask me for it. One of our pepper mills is about two feet high. I assume it's that big so that women like Ellen can't discreetly drop it into her shopping bag and go home with it. It's gigantic. Last week as I was administering pepper onto a plate of tilapia to an annoying customer, I let my mind wander and I imagined clubbing him over the head with it. It's seriously big enough to do some damage over a skull. All of a sudden I was playing my own game of Clue, but instead of Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick, it was The Bitchy Waiter at table 7 with a the pepper mill.

So, no, Ellen. Restaurants are not going to start giving every table their own personal pepper mill just because you thought it was a good idea. Thanks for your suggestion, though. If you see Ellen anywhere, make sure you tell her that her idea was stupid. How will you know it's Ellen? You can't miss her. She'll be the one who asks for extra bread only to put it into the Ziplock baggie in her purse. She will be the one who never leaves a sugar caddy without pilfering every Sweet and Low and Splenda first. She's the one who eats three fourths of her burger and then tells you it was over cooked and she wants it off her bill. She's the one who asks for the early Bird Special even though you don't have an early Bird Special at your restaurant. She's the one who asks for a new bottle of ketchup that hasn't been opened. She's the one who asks for an extra miniature bottle of maple syrup even though she hasn't finished her first one. She's the one who will try to stuff a pepper mill up her pie hole if it means that she can sneak it out of the restaurant without having to pay for it. You know the type? That's our Ellen. If you see her, club her over the head with a pepper grinder.

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Albert Einstein ♥'s The Bitchy Waiter

It was a simple task that needed to be done. A napkin had fallen underneath booth number 15 and it did not belong there. I sat down in the booth and then leaned myself onto my back thinking I could then reach underneath the seat to get the offending piece of garbage. Nope, not quite able to reach it. I pulled my tired aging body up and then did what I didn't want to do in the first place. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled under the table to get to the goddamn napkin. Once under the table, discarded gum mere inches away from my naturally curly hair, I had a flash of my life. It was almost like an out-of-body experience. Or was it an "outer" body experience? Whatever. Either way, it seemed like I was seeing myself from another perspective. It was as if I had floated above my physical body and could look down and see the reality of my situation. Maybe I was only under the table for about twenty seconds, but my mind filled with thoughts and ideas:

• Am I really a middle aged man sitting on the floor of a restaurant that only hours before I had mopped?
• Maybe I should go back to school and get my teaching credentials.
  
• What path has led me to this? Oh, I know what path it was. It was the "I'm gonna move to New York City and be a famous actor" path. Remember that fork in the road about 15 years ago? You took the wrong turn.
• I really need to quit "trying" to write a book and actually do it.
• Hey, remember that time you were proud to be a waiter?
• Hey, this would be a good blog post.
• Hey, a french fry.
• That baby at the next table thinks I'm having a good time under here.
  
• I wonder if there are any boogers on the underside of this table and if not, there's about to be because I've got one in my left nostril that has been needing to come out for about ten minutes.
• I should have just left this napkin under here and made Moe get it. He sucks.
  
• Would anyone notice if I took a nap under here? I mean, other than that baby?
• At least I can't hear that douche tool at the bar yapping away about Toddlers and Tiaras.
• The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side.
• The blood is rushing to my head from being on my knees like this. I need a drink.

And then all of a sudden, Albert Einstein came to me in a vision and said, "Bitchy Waiter, you know what insanity is? It's doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Do you understand what I am telling you? I nodded to him that I did indeed understand. "You have to change your own life because no one else is going to do it for you, do you understand, Bitchy Waiter?" I nodded again. "And finally," he said, "can you please get me some coffee? And make sure it's hot. And fresh. Make it decaf. With half and half. And Splenda." The apparition faded away and I pulled myself out from under the table.

"But wait, Mr. Einstein! Tell me more! What should I do? And where do you want me to take your coffee?" But Albert Einstein was gone. I brushed myself off and tossed the napkin into the trash can. I looked at the baby at the next table and said, "Be a doctor, kid." I went on with my night but felt a determination to change my life and quit talking about the things I was going to do, but actually do them. Right after I emptied out the trash cans in the restrooms.

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Fire at Table 20

The topic of candles has come up before on this blog, most notably when some lady caught her hair on fire after she got too close to her birthday cupcake with a candle in it. Still makes me laugh. Read it here. When you work with dozens and dozens of candles night after night, a fire is inevitable and it happened once again a couple of weeks ago. Sadly, it was not hair that burned because that is the funniest event in the world right after old ladies falling off of bicycles and babies projectile vomiting on their parents.

As I was taking orders on my side of the room, I was overcome with the smell of something rank. It took me a moment to realize it was not the regular at table 35 who is rumored to have a vagina similar to the insides of a pumpkin. Something was burning. I grabbed my cell phone, put it in video mode and scanned the room in the hope that I would see someone covered in ash and patting their hair. I saw nothing. At the service bar, I was told that another server had caught a basket of chips on fire. At the club, we serve some light snacks like cheese and crackers and chips and salsa. The basket of chips is lined with a paper napkin because we like to keep it classy up in there. I guess she had positioned the basket too close to the candle and the whole thing went up in flames. Why did I miss seeing that? Since I didn't actually see it happen, I can only assume that it happened like this:

The waitress smiles at table 20 and puts their food order down. "Here you are. An order of chips and and freshly made salsa. Please do enjoy your evening and do not hesitate to let let me know if there is anything I can do for you to make your time with us more enjoyable." As she begins to walk away, she notices that the basket of chips is a smidgen too close to the candle so she reaches over to pull it to safety. As she does so, the flame from the candle leaps to the paper napkin and quickly engulfs it in fiery inferno. Knowing that she only has seconds before the napkin lights the wicker basket on fire as well, the waitress grabs the basket and puts it back on the tray. The customer begins to scream with fear because she has had a severe case of arsonphobia ever since she was ten years old when she caught her elementary school on fire after she lit an errant bottle rocket one fourth of July. She begins to panic and our waitress has to decide whether to help her guest or deal with the fire. She looks to the panicked customer's husband for help only to see him paralyzed with fear and mumbling about a fire safety class he took as a Boy Scout in 1979. At this point Smokey the Bear, who is on a blind date with someone he met on Manhunt.com, gets up from booth 1 and pulls a fire extinguisher out of his back pack. He uses the P.A.S.S. sysytem (pull, aim, squeeze, sweep) and gets the fire under control. By now, the woman has passed out and our waitress is now giving her mouth to mouth resuscitation which is a bonus for the waitress because the customer is kinda hot and the waitress is bi-curious. Her husband notices his wife making out with the waitress and immediately snaps back to reality and says, "Oh, so now you're into a threesome?" The woman comes to and the waitress asks her is she's alright and if she'd like a cigarette. Smokey the Bear goes to get a roll of paper towels to clean up the mess from the fire extinguisher and the husband follows him to ask him if he's into role-playing. After everything is cleaned up and the husband has exchanged phone numbers with Smokey, the show begins only five minutes later than planned.

Of course, I didn't actually see any of this happen, it's just conjecture. In all likelihood, the waitress simply placed the flaming basket of chips onto her tray and ran it to the bar where it was thrown into the sink and doused with water. But my version is much better.

Remember, only you can prevent baskets of chips and salsa going up in flames.

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Take Your Suggestions and Shove Them

Over the past year, some guy named Bruce has been dispensing rules of wisdom over at the New York Times. Of course I blogged about it here and here. And then he wrote about some of those rules and how he has reconsidered them seeing that they were so fucking stupid. Well now he has a list of suggestions that came from people who think they know how things should run in a restaurant. And boy oh boy, do I have something to say about their ideas. Shall we begin?

• I think it’s permissible to stick a fork in the eye of a server who calls me “honey” or “sweetie” because I’m of a certain age. — Rosemary Molloy Well, guess what, Rosemary. I think I have the right to stick a fork up a puss when someone of a certain age calls me "Hey You" or "Come Here" because it's a two-way street, sweetie.
  

• Never, ever serve food over a baby/child. If you scald a newborn, there’s a chance the father will take your life. — Peter And what am I supposed to do when parents park their goddamn stroller right in front of the table and they don't have enough common sense or manners to move the bundle of joy out of my fucking way so I don't have to do that? Just happened to me two weeks ago.

• Why is it that a pepper mill must be brought and administered? For a few hundred bucks, why can a restaurant not just set one out at each table? — Ellen Is this lady serious? I have seen women cram 20 packets of Splenda in their purse just because it was there. How many goddamn pepper mills would we go through if we just left them on the table? Sorry, Ellen, that is one stupid idea. Game over, try again, dumb bitch.

• If you happen to see guests saying grace before the meal, pause for them to finish. — jiminboulder In all my years of working in restaurants, I have never seen a waiter interrupt someone saying grace. I can't imagine that ever happening. I think this person just wanted to get their name on the list so they came up with this non-existent issue. If it's a real problem, maybe they should pray about it.

• WAIT STAFF PLEASE DON’T EVER EXTEND A HAND FOR A HANDSHAKE!! This falls under the category of never touch a customer but this issue needs to be specifically addressed. It suggests a level of familiarity that is inappropriate and I have zero interest in touching the hand that is exposed to all of the dirt, germs and yuckiness of dirty plates, food etc. — michael What makes this asshat think I want to shake his fucking hand anyway? And I can guarantee that I wash my hands way more often than he does. I have zero interest in touching his hands either that may have just touched something really nasty like his face, his wife or his baby. Totally disgusting.
  
  
• Do not bite your fingernails. 
Do not scratch your crotch. 
Do not run fingers through your hair. — Major Slack Duh. No shit, Sherlock. But would it be alright if I pick my nose and wipe the booger underneath your table? Please advise because apparently you think we are total fucktards.
  
  
• Don’t take the final sales slip or payment before the guests leave. I find it outraging when a server takes the completed bill (showing my tip) before I’ve left. — Keith T. We do that because sometimes customers are too stupid to leave our copy and if they take our copy, then we won't get a tip. And in some cases, customers intentionally take both copies so they can dispute the charge knowing that we have no signed copy to show that they authorized the charge. So, yeah, that's why we do that.
  
  
• I personally prefer it when a waiter writes down orders, because it makes me feel secure in getting the order I wanted, but I was wondering … — Goran I personally prefer it when the customer just goes right up to the computer and orders the food themselves. Unfortunately, things don't always work out for us, do they? And sorry, but I don't need to write down "hamburger well done and a Coke," but I was wondering...
  
  
• My biggest pet peeve of eating out — when the waiter asks you how everything is while your mouth is full. How can you possibly answer?! I can’t help but think they do it on purpose. — ECA If that's your biggest pet peeve while dining out, you have it pretty good. And I do do it on purpose sometimes because it's fun.
  
  
• Do not play recorded music in a restaurant. I would like to talk to my dinner companion(s), not listen to music. When did it become a rule to play music in restaurants? And why? — Alex Greer Okay, Alex, just for you, no more recorded music. From now on, we will provide a live 50-piece orchestra. And for your information, it became a rule on October 21st, 1978 to play music in restaurants so that the people who work there didn't have to listen to your incessant talking to your dining companion.
  

• I had a waiter who pointed at a customer with his pencil. 
‘And what will you have?’ 
I took his apron and pencil and threw him out. — frank visakay Frank, take a chill pill. So a waiter pointed at you with a pencil and you threw something at him? And how did your waiter's saliva taste when it came back at you in your iced tea?

• And please don’t say, “Are we ready to order?” I didn’t invite you to eat with us. Also, please don’t squat down to take our order. If you wanted to be a baseball catcher, you are in the wrong business. — Trudy R. Trudy, shut the fuck up. You're going to get your grandma panties in a twist over semantics? And the baseball catcher reference is hilarious. You should totally be a comedy writer or do stand up. That's fucking golden. Ladies and gentleman, I give to you the next Roseanne Barr, Trudy R!
  

Of course all of these suggestions probably come from people who have never tied on a apron and served some food. They all sound like persnickety bitches who always think their hot tea is cold and the bread is stale. They ask for extra butter and then don't use it and they always say they're in a hurry but never are. So to them, I say fuck you. And I can't wait for you to be in my station someday so I can pick my nose, interrupt your prayer, stuff a pepper grinder in your purse for you and then turn the music up so you can't hear your dining companions. It's what I do, for I am The Bitchy Waiter.

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NFL Player Allegedly Fondles a Waitress

Sometimes it's fun to Google the word "restaurant" and see if anything good comes up that I can write about. Today when I did it, I came across a lot of articles about some football player who has been accused of sexual abuse because he allegedly slid his credit card into the bra of his waitress and while doing so, he allegedly touched her breast. Allegedly. Of course he entered a not guilty plea because no one would ever do that, right?

Albert Haynesworth is the defensive lineman for the Washington Redskins, which is allegedly a football team. I don't know exactly what a defensive lineman does, but I think he is the real big player who tries to keep the other team from scoring by tackling people. Everything I know about football came from my senior year in high school when I was the school mascot and eventually voted Most Spirited. So, yeah, that's what a defensive line man must do. Oh, and sometimes he grabs the tits of waitresses.

Now I wasn't at the W Hotel in February when this allegedly happened, but it seems very plausible. Seeing that I am not a lady, I have never been fondled by my customers. Despite my tight pants, keeping my shirt unbuttoned and putting my ass right in their face, no one ever takes me up on the offer. But I know it happens to waitresses all the time. After a few drinks, the guy gets a little grabby and flirty and maybe lets his hand linger a little longer than it should when he hands her his credit card. Allegedly, Albert "I'm Not Wearing Any" Haynes-underwear-worth slipped his credit card into her shirt and copped a feel. He probably did it like he was trying to help her:

Oh, baby, I see that your hands are full with those plates so I'm just gonna put this credit card in your pocket for you. That way, I can do you a favor, because I'm cool like that. Hey did you know I play for the NFL? Yeah, baby, I'm a superstar. So, here's my credit card. Whoa baby, your pants are so tight I don't know if I can get my big platinum credit card to fit in your tiny tight little pocket. I'll just slide it right here in your bra for you so it's close to your heart. You know I play for the NFL, right?

We can all see this happening, right? So she took his ass to court and he's pleading not guilty and in a couple of weeks it will probably all get settled out of court. The waitress will walk away with a few grand and he will leave with a clean record. Again, I was not there so I can't speak about the truth. All I am is a blogger who can make up shit from here to kingdom come and then click submit and let it out into the cyber world. I do know that this kind of thing happens to waitresses all the feakin' time and maybe this waitress was fed up. Or maybe she saw an opportunity to grab a piece of the money pie and he did absolutely nothing wrong. He already rejected a deal so he is absolutely standing behind his story that he is innocent. We'll see what happens with this one. But follow it up your own damn self, because honestly I don't give a shit about football players.

What about you, female servers? Have you been inappropriately touched while at work? What do you do if it happens? Let it go? Ignore it? Dump a pot of hot coffee in his crotch? Share your story.


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The Most Annoying Customer in the World

Remember last week when I told you about the two guys who stayed at my job 45 minutes after we closed because they couldn't catch a clue even if it was covered in Velcro? They are regulars and one of them graced us with his presence again recently and I got to listen to him talk for the whole length of my shift. Yes, I am truly saying that he was there when I punched in blabbing his mouth and his engine was still running when I punched out and said goodbye. It really boggles my mind that he can talk incessantly about absolutely nothing and not ever realize that the people around him feel trapped, miserable, suicidal and brain dead. As he yammers on, you feel for his victims who innocently sat next to him at the bar and ended up being caught in his trap of conversation. They try to send signals with their eyes for rescue. Their eyes are saying things like, "Why is this guy talking to me? and "Isn't my table ready yet?" and "Can someone please shoot me?" It's really sad.

Well, I took a few notes of the things that he was boring us with recently and I thought you would want to know some of his thoughts:

• He gave a play by play description of this video about a dog. He reenacted the whole thing to some sad lady who was waiting for her friend. I saw the video on Facebook. We all saw it on Facebook. But his interpretation of it was just plain fucking annoying. Shut the fuck up.
• He gave a run down of all the zoos in New York City, including the Bronx Zoo, the Central Park zoo and the one in Brooklyn. He told us which days are best to go visit and how much they cost. He also had some thoughts about certain animals being held in captivity. He aggressively believes that polar bears should never ever under any circumstances be held in captivity. No word on how he feels about, black bears, brown bears, grizzly bears, koala bears, panda bears or the Sri Lankan Sloth bear but polar bears should for sure never ever be held in captivity. Shut the fuck up.
• He gave us a dissertation 0n the various brick oven pizzas in and around New York City. Because you, know, he's an expert on brick oven pizzas. Shut the fuck up.
• He told us the proper way to cook garlic and here's a news flash: you don't want it to get too brown. Thank you, Barefoot Fucking Contessa now shut the fuck up.
• He went into a diatribe about the royal wedding. He thinks Kate Middleton is prettier than Princess Diana was and when discussing Kate's sister Pippa he had some very strong opinions. I quote: "How dare that bitch wear a white dress!" Shut the fuck up.

When it was time for me to leave, I gave a simple prayer of thanks and escaped without ever having his words directed to me. He's like Medusa. If you look at her you turn to stone. If you look at this guy, you spend the rest of the night wishing that your feet were tied to a bag of stones that were being thrown into the East River. Death, take me away. Shut the fuck up.


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Happy Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to you all. My gift to you is this repeat post; a repeat because I will be at work serving brunch all day. The only mimosas I will today see are the ones that will be sitting on my tray. This is the original Frazzled But Happy Stay-at-Home Mom post and it seemed appropriate for the day. If you're a mom, have a great day! If you're not a mom, be happy that you don't have to spend the day with a bunch of kids. I'm not a mom, but my next five hours I will be surrounded by children and strollers. Wish me luck. I hate serving brunch on mother's day...

Oh my stars, you won't believe the day I had today, dear blog readers. First off, I awoke to the smell of coffee. That's right! My husband got up before me and made coffee and it's not even Mother's Day! (But our anniversary is coming up if a certain someone is reading this. Hee hee! LOL!) I went into the kitchen and saw my darling hubby drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper over the sink. He told me he couldn't sleep and that's why he had already gotten up and made coffee. Oh well, I thought it was for me. But he's still the bestest husband in the whole world. LOL!!. He went off to work and I set about my day.

I went to wake up Suzy Lou and she looked so cute in her Strawberry Shortcake sheets that I didn't have the heart to wake her up. She was wrapped up like a mummy and I almost laughed so hard that it would have woken her up. Lucky for me, she sleeps like a log so she didn't hear me. LOL! I took a picture of her so I will be posting it as soon as I get a chance. I went to wake up her brother Billy Boo. The little angel had thrown his Thomas the Tank blanket off the bed and he wasn't covered up at all. My goodness, I hope he wasn't cold last night. (Reminder to self: set the alarm for the middle of the night to make sure he is still covered up.) He woke up and rubbed his little eyes and asked me if he could have pancakes. And guess what! I couldn't resist! So even though today was bacon and egg day, I made him pancakes. A mother's work is never done, LOL. I still made Suzy Lou her scrambled egg whites and crispy bacon so my morning routine was a little off. It really threw me in a tizzy to be so off schedule but sometimes we moms just have to let the kids know how special they are and be wild and crazy. It's these special memories that make being a stay-at-home mom such a blessing. Praise God and all his blessings, Amen. LOL!!

The kids had a play date today and their friends Peter, Paul and Mary came over. Their mom Jenny is a doll and we love that our kids enjoy each other so much. Plus when Jenny comes over we will split a glass of White Zinfandel so we moms have our own "play date" too. Shhh! Don't tell my husband that I was drinking on the job. He might fire me!! LOL! Just kidding. He would never fire me for that. As long as I have dinner on the table when he gets home from work, he is happy. Besides, I know he reads this anyway. (Hi honey! I wuv you!)

After the play date was over, I put the kids down for a nap. I read them a story first and Billy Boo did the cutest thing. He wanted to read the story to me!! Can you believe it? So he took the book and "read" to me. It was darling! I videotaped the whole thing and I will be posting it soon so you can see for yourself how precious it was. And Suzy Lou played along and pretended that he was reading too. She is such a good big sister, isn't she?? Hugs to her. I LOVE MY KIDS!!

I spent the rest of the day doing my usual routine. Laundry, dusting, sewing, gardening, and then I capped it off with churning some homemade butter. That class I took at the Learning Annex on turn of the century homemaking is really paying off! My husband will be so pleased when he gets home and sees that yummy butter on the table! Maybe tonight we will finish off that White Zinfandel and have our own romantic evening. (hee hee!) After the dishes are washed and the kids are in bed of course.

And there you have my day, dear bloggers. I have the best life in the world. The most perfect family!! And I love that I can blog about something that really matters.

love,

The Frazzled but Happy Stay-at-Home Mom

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