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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Corn on the Cob? Nope, On my Toe.

I have a corn on my right foot. It's on the pinky toe. I call it Joan Crawford because it's hard and hurtful just like she was. But it also has a soft side, much like Joan did. Joan's soft side showed up in her yearly Christmas cards. My corn's soft side shows up after I soak it in Epsom salt and hot water. I know what it's from. It's from wearing less than ideal shoes at work and cramming my wide ass foot into a narrow ass shoe and then standing for eight hours at a time. I saw it coming yet I did nothing about it. It's an old friend, this corn. Corns are like herpes. Once you get one, it never really goes away. It gets worse and then it gets better, but it's always there. Sure you can buy some corn pads and some Dr. Scholl's but maybe the only real way to get it taken care of is to either go to a podiatrist or start wearing flip flops twenty-four hours a day. In my latest dealings with my corn, I have opted for medicated pads. I don't know what the hell is on these pads. I tried to read the package once, but quite honestly, the print was too small. Between the long words and me being too lazy to go get my reading glasses which were all the way in the bedroom, I have no idea what it is I am smearing on my toe every forty-eight hours. But it seems to be working.

Corns are a hazard of the job. We servers are on our feet for hours at a time, much like a Wal-Mart greeter. I can only assume that those Wal-Mart greeters have corns all over their feet but then again most of the greeters are old so their feet are past their prime anyway. Since they work at Wal-Mart though, they can just hop, skip and limp over to aisle seven and get all the help they need. Wal-Mart has insoles, extra cushioned socks, corn pads, medicine and they even have a do-it-yourself appendage amputation kit. If the corn is really bad they can just cut the foot off and then go over to aisle two and buy a new foot using their 25% off employee discount card. We don't have that in the restaurant business. We are forced to pay full price for our corn remedies or you can do some poor white trash option like fold up a bev nap and stick it between your toes. Don't laugh. I've done it. One time at work, my cuticles were ripping every time I reached into my pocket to make change. After about ten times and the first appearance of blood, I put a piece of Scotch tape over my finger and it saved my life. Necessity is the mother of invention, they say. Or poverty is the reason I use Scotch tape and bev naps for Band-Aids. (FYI, in the winter when your hands are dry, a pat of butter from the bread station does wonders.)

Why am I writing about corns? It's because it is another thing that we servers deal with. Bad tips, snotty attitudes, messy babies, asshole managers, long hours, no benefits, slimy ice machines, sticky sugar caddies, dirty ketchup bottles, wobbly tables, incompetent co-workers, and corns. Corns. In the words of Carol Channing overheard from a stall in the bathroom, "When did I have corn?"

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Free Corned Beef Hash

We all know that restaurant managers have one thing on their minds and it’s the bottom line. Oh, wait and internet porn while sitting in the office (shout out to Enrique). So two things. But the main thing is making money for the restaurant which is why they are always on our asses about selling more desserts and top shelf liquor instead of that cheap ass McCormick shit that I drink. As previously noted, I don’t really care about that shit because I know that plenty of people are going to leave me a five dollar tip whether their bill is $25 or $30. But managers are always trying to figure out a way to make us sell more shit and one way that they do it is tempt us with a prize. Anyone else familiar with this drill?

Manager: Alright, listen up. Our special of the day is corned beef hash and I want to get rid of all of it. Whichever server can sell the most corned beef hash will get a free corned beef hash. Ya hear that? A free corn beef hash. Now let’s get out there and let's sell some corned beef hash!

Seriously? I need so much more incentive than free corned beef hash. Or a free dessert. Sometimes the prize is some promotional t-shirt that a liquor company gave the restaurant. Wow, I was wondering where in the hell I could ever find a Captain Morgan Rum t-shirt, thanks. Now if they offered a free cocktail, then maybe but usually I have one of those anyway in a paper cup next to the cappuccino machine. If the prize was a bottle of tequila, then I might be inclined to try a little harder. But if they really want to encourage me to sell extra food there are a few things they could do that would light a fire under my ass. How about whoever sells the most corned beef hash gets a paid day off? Or no sidework? Or a free pass the next time you call some bitch a bitch? How about a crisp twenty dollar bill? I will do pretty much anything for twenty bucks. I’m not proud of some of the things I have done for twenty dollars, but by God, money is money. Or maybe if I sell the most corned beef hash they can promise me that I will never have to sell corned beef hash again. That is some nasty shit. I think I don’t like it because it has such a dumb name. Who wants beef that’s been corned and then chopped into hash? What the fuck is “corned” anyway? (And in the background Carol Channing says from a bathroom stall, “When did I have corned… beef hash?”)

So what have we learned about incentives for selling contests? We have learned that the best way to encourage servers to do what managers want is for managers to put out some cold hard cash in our hands. Keep your food and drinks and corned beef cash. Take that free Patron Tequila wine opener and shove it where the agave plant don’t shine. If you want me to sell the most of something, I want money.

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