I Wanna Be Your Hero

A news article was sent to me praising the actions of a waiter in Atlanta, Georgia who saved the life of a man who was choking on a fucking quesadilla. There is even video of the event. According to the choking victim, "I think I just took a really big bite and forgot to chew." Uh, okay. Forgot to chew? That might be something he wants to work on for future eating times, but thank God for his waiter Matthew McConnell who had learned the Heimlich at the training for the restaurant. Let's all give it up to Matthew. He's a hero. I wrote about this before when I saw a guy choking in my restaurant once and I didn't know what the hell to do. Thankfully, he wasn't in my station so I didn't feel any real responsibility for the poor guy. Another customer jumped up and saved his life. It was all very dramatic and inspired me to sign up for a class in CPR and shit. However, if I remember correctly, the class was happening on the same night as the season finale for Designing Women, so I skipped it. Anhoo, back to our hero, Matthew! Of course he is downplaying the whole "hero" moniker as any modest hero would, but I would be basking all over that hero worship shit. And yes, I am a bit jealous that no one has ever called me their hero.

Shouldn't I be considered a hero for all the lives I have saved too? Maybe I didn't pull a piece of quesadilla from someones windpipe, but I have had my moments. What about the time that lady sent her food back three times because the steak was undercooked and then she had the nerve to tell me at the end she wasn't really hungry anyway? I wanted to strangle that bitch. But I didn't. Life saved. What about when that kid left his scooter in my way and I tripped over it (on purpose to prove a point)? I could have killed that kid for endangering my life, but I didn't. Another life saved. And finally, what about all those people who get great service and then leave me a 5% tip? That is grounds for manslaughter, but I have never done it. Countless lives saved. I am practically a goddamn fucking superhero when you look at it that way. Sure, this guy Matthew gave the Heimlich and saved one lousy life. I, on the other hand, with restraint and patience have managed to save at least one life every day. I am a hero too, world. Just a different kind of hero. In the immortal words of songstress Enrigue Iglesiais:

I can be you hero baby
I can kiss away the pain
I will stand by you forever
You can take my breath away

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pick up my cape from the dry cleaners. I got some 1000 Island dressing on it the other night when this lady changed her mind about her salad. She told me she wanted a 1000 Island but when I got to her table she swore that she said Ranch. She didn't. I tossed the salad into the garbage and got the dressing all over me. I was pissed off and wanted to punch her unconscious. But I didn't. Yet another life saved. It just doesn't end for me with the fucking life-saving.


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Do NOT Leave Crap in My Station

This is a re-post with some added thoughts. I'm tired today so it's totally half-assed. Sorry.

I am moved to write because today some lady threw her baby into a mega-stroller and rolled it into my station. The baby looked like it was a few weeks old and I don't know why the fuck anyone would drag their weeks old baby to eat at my place, but she did. Actually I should say her nanny did. Mother just talked on the phone and took cell phone pictures of it. Maybe she was Grandmother. Bitch looked old. First thing: "Can you turn down the music? The baby is asleep." Whatever. Point of story is when they left. I went to clear the table and there was a tiny diaper rolled into a ball that was sitting with the dirty dishes and used napkins. Like I won't notice a fucking dirty diaper. So I have decided to make a list of things to not leave at your table:

• dirty fucking goddamn diapers
  
• snot rags
  
• babies or children of any age unless they are cool with becoming my cleaning lady.
  
• trash from other restaurants like a Starbucks cup
  
• hair pieces, wigs, falls, barrettes or pony-tail holders
  
• magazines that I don't want to read like Time or Ladies Home Journal. US Weekly or People is fine.
  
• crappy cell phones. The new iPhone is fine. Just don't come back looking for it.
  
• body odor
  
• junk mail or any other crap that came out of your bag that you cleaned out while waiting for your food
  
• your phone number (this applies to ugly people only)
  
• apple cores, banana peels or the shells of sunflower seeds
  
• used gum that you leave on the side of the plate so I have to scrape it off
  
• gum of any kind
  
• pennies
• newspapers
• false teeth, dentures, partials or a gold tooth that you will come back for the next day and then be all surprised that i don't know where the hell it is.
• your "to-go" food that I didn't want to wrap up but I did anyway even though it was like one fucking french fry

What else can we add to this list? I wanna see a lot of comments, ladies and gents.


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What Evil Lurks Among Us?

There are many dangers lurking in a restaurant. Something as simple as a melted ice cube on a tile floor can be almost deadly if it makes contact with the wrong kind of shoe. Or what about all those open flames in the kitchen just trying to light your apron on fire when you're back there trying to graze some free french fries? Or have you ever had the misfortune of the steam from a cappuccino machine shoot at you with its missile-like force and scald your arms? I tell you, it's a right crying shame that most of us don't get health insurance from our restaurant jobs seeing that we practically work in a combat zone. But the most dangerous thing in all the restaurant is an inanimate object that sits there just waiting for its chance to stab you with its steely point. It's the dreaded ticket spike. That bitch patiently waits until you stab a drink order as you are having a conversation with the bartender and BOOM! The side of your finger hits that damn spike and you have a cut for days that will only grow more irritated every time you pick up a lemon. How many times has this happened to you? Or is it only me because I am too often drinking at work and my depth perception is off causing me to misjudge where my hand is in relation to the pointy stabby sticky dagger spike? Hmm, I may be on to something there.

I propose we forbid these weapons in restaurants from this moment on. Why must our dupes be so violently stabbed when we are done with them? Why can't they be lovingly placed inside a glass? Or why can't they be gently tossed into a velvet-lined box? Must we beget violence by mortally wounding these poor innocent dupe checks by impaling them on a metal pole? They have served their purpose well and we repay them by puncturing them. And then every once in a while, our palm gets a piece of the bayonet action too. It's that damn spike. I think it's hungry for victims. It wants blood but it settles for paper, and when it sees its opportunity to get some waiter plasma it's gonna go for it. It's like a vampire bat; a steel vampire bat that sits on the bar covered in bar tickets.

Again, this may only be a problem for me and my drunk self. I think the next time I am at work, I will pay close attention to the spike and my cocktail intake. If I can make it through the night without a cocktail and that in turn results in a night of not drawing blood from the ticket spike, I will know the problem rests with me. The more I think about it, the more I think that I may be the only one who has ever been pierced by the evil bitch spike. I am, aren't I? This isn't really a problem for you, is it? Oh God, I'm a drunk bitch who stabs himself with the ticket spike. I think I need help.

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The Laziest Girl in Town

Have you ever heard of that song called "The Laziest Girl in Town?" It's a classic that has been sung by everyone from Nina Simone to Marlene Dietrich to Dolly Parton. (I'm not sure that Dolly ever sang that song, but she totally should.) Anhoo, I think I used to work with the laziest girl in town, but we didn't call her that. We called her bitch. For the purposes of this blog, and because I heart 70's sitcoms, I will refer to her as "Joanie Cunningham" from Happy Days. Not because Joanie was lazy on that show, but because she was a snort pig and so was this lazy ass bitch I worked with.

I have not seen Joanie for years, but she still gets on my nerves. We worked together for about a year and a half and every day it was the same tired shit. She would schlep in about five minutes late and always have the same excuse, "I had subway issues." Bitch, we all have subway issues. It's called the MTA. Even though no one liked Joanie, she always had to give everyone a hug or a kiss hello and goodbye. I was always like, "I just saw you last night, I don't need to hug you good morning." She'd do it anyway because she never got that I was so fucking serious about that. After she'd spend about five minutes taking her coat off and then another five to go to the bathroom, she'd come up to someone and say, "What do you want me to do?" Every day. I dunno, how about the same thing we do every goddamn day to open the restaurant? Make some coffee? Get some ketchups? Read the opening sidework sheet and figure it out? And if she came in at night, she'd ask the same thing even though she knew damn well we had to clean 50 votive candle holders and put new candles in them. If you didn't tell her exactly what to do, she would just do something like prepare straws. Or straighten the pile of bev naps. God she got on my fucking nerves.

At that restaurant, we were allowed to wear whatever we wanted and one day Joanie thought it was a good idea to wear black Spandex pants. Very few people can pull off Spandex pants and I have never seen a snort pig who was able to do it. Joanie failed miserably at the Spandex just as she failed to understand what it meant to carry an empty bus tub to the dishroom. When she walked in with the Spandex, we all looked at each other and prayed that she was going to be changing into something more appropriate and less frightening. Because she was the laziest gal in town, she did not change. I suspect that the only reason she had them on in the first place was because she was too lazy to do laundry and this was all that was left in her closet. The pants were screaming for help. I saw her bend over (a feat in and of itself) and the fabric stretched so thin that I could see the white panties underneath it. When she stood back up, a good portion of the Spandex was now permanently wedged inside her ass cheeks. It was a really special look and I am sure her tables really appreciated it.

Another thing Joanie did that annoyed me to no end was complain about everything. You may think this is the pot calling the kettle black, but believe it or not, I very rarely complain at work. That's what this blog is for. But Joanie would complain that it was too slow and then as soon as her station was full she would whine that it was too busy. She'd complain that it was too hot but never do anything like go adjust the thermostat. She'd complain that she was too fat as she stuffed fries, olives, cherries and anything else that she could eat for free into her face. With each passing french fry, the Spandex begged for mercy.

I left that job before Joanie did. On my last day, she gave me the obligatory hug and told me to keep in touch. She never knew that she got on my nerves. She must have been pretty clueless or maybe the Spandex had cut of the circulation to her brain and she was unable to to recognize that my eyes were rolling every time she was within two feet of me. I wonder if she's still a waitress. I doubt it. It take s a special person to be a waitress for longer than a couple of years. It requires someone who is willing to work hard and have some kind of brain. Joanie had neither of those attributes. But she did have some black Spandex pants. And that's somethin', right?

And by the way, you can hear my latest podcast right here.

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The Clean and Melodramatic Lemon

It has been said in the past that some of the fruit in restaurants may not be as clean as it should be. Or clean at all. Particularly lemons which come out of the box, onto the cutting board and then into your drink. Those lemons are covered with the fingerprints of every migrant worker from Southern California and beyond. I have written about that before, here. But I want to retract part of that statement and say that sometimes lemons are supremely sterile and sanitized. It does happen, but sometimes it's an accident.

At my job, we don't have someone who washes our dishes. We put the glasses in a rack and carry them downstairs to the dishwasher and run them ourselves. Since it's just a cocktail place, it's not that big of a deal. I dumped a glass into the rack and saw a lemon wedge fall into the bottom of the rack and assumed that it fell through the cracks and into the bus tub below. When I carried the rack downstairs, I noticed that the lemon wedge was still at the bottom of the rack when I put the glasses in the dishwasher. "Oh well, it'll fall out in the wash cycle," I theorized and pressed the start button. A few minutes later when I was unloading the hot, clean glassware, I noticed that the lemon wedge was still there. It had survived the wash cycle and was now the cleanest fruit in the place, with the exception of a couple of performers who are pretty fruity and probably pretty clean. But it was definitely the cleanest lemon in the place. I could have reached down into the rack to pick up the lemon and toss it into the trash can, but I decided to leave it there and started refilling the rack with more dirty glasses. Again, it went through the dishwasher and the lemon persisted. Throughout the night, that damn lemon wedge went through the dishwasher at least seven or eight times and it just kept on hanging' on. This is what I imagine the lemon wedge to be saying and you should pretend that it is being performed by Meryl Streep ala Sophie's Choice or Scarlett O'Hara in her big "I'll never go hungry again" moment in Gone With the Wind:

I am lemon. I was dirty but now I'm clean. Lost, but now I'm found. I shall make up for all my dirty brother and sister lemon wedges and will represent clean drink garnishes for everyone across the land. Every other lemon and lime slice that tonight went into a Cosmo or vodka/tonic was unclean, but I have suffered 182° temperatures, soap, steam, darkness and the fear of the unknown so that someday I can go into a serving of iced tea and not contaminate the side of the glass. I am clean, hear me roar. Take me, oh server, and let me rest inside a Diet Coke so that I can enhance the taste of it while not adding filth and germs. For my uncleanliness has been washed away along with the shame that I carried for being such an unclean lemon wedge. I have been sanitized. I have been sterilized. I have been Jet Dried. As God is my witness, I'll never be dirty again. (cue: orchestra music.)

At the end of the night I threw that tired soggy ass lemon wedge into the garbage can and dragged the bag of trash to the street.

(You can hear this as a podcast here.)

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Incomplete Parties Piss Me Off

You know what I hate? I mean other than babies, Holly Hobbie and bathroom attendants. I hate incomplete parties who sit in my station and act annoyed that I am trying to do my job even though they are still waiting for people. Last week, a woman was sitting alone and the show was about to start in 15 minutes. I politely asked her if she would like anything to drink. She acted like I asked her if her period was a light or heavy flow, you know, the most inappropriate thing ever. "Well, I am waiting for my guests and I don't think I want to drink alone. Come back when my party is complete." Okay, fine. She said "drink alone" as if she was going to be sucking down Bloody Mary's and bourbons all by herself in the corner of a dark room. Like I was insinuating that she must be an alcoholic who has no problem drinking alone. And often. (Oh God, I think I am describing myself...) I smiled at the old twat bag and told her I'd be back when her other three guests were there. Eventually, another old bag of bones joined her and I could see that they were trying to get my attention. But I knew she was still waiting for two more people and I was not going to that bitch again until her whole party was there. That's what she said she wanted and I aim to please dried up bitches like her. Yes, I do. I walked past their table about six or seven times, always managing to have my focus in a different direction. The show was five minutes away and still her party was incomplete. Two minutes and still only two of them. "Oh well, I guess they will just have to order after the show starts." Once the lights went down, Prune Face flagged me down. Even though her party was still incomplete, I graciously approached her table. "Well, we're ready to order now!" she said all prune-facey and bitchy. "Oh, are you? I was just waiting for the rest of your group to get here. Like you asked." I said this slowly so that she would miss the beginning of the performer's first song because I am just bitchy that way. "It's just the two of us now," she hissed. "The other people can't make it." I thought about how wise these people must be to have skipped an evening sitting with this insufferable biddy bitch from bloody hell. "Oh, in that case, what can I get for you to drink?" Of course she wanted a hot tea. What else would someone like that want? Maybe a decaf coffee with skim milk or a glass of tap water with lemon and no ice? Herbal tea it was. The other lady ordered a beer. Three minutes later I was back at her table with hot water and a box of tea choices. I set it in front of her and told her she could choose from our wide assortment of flavors, knowing full well that her cataract covered eyes would never be able to decipher the tea varieties in the soft candle light. Not my problem though. She should have fucking ordered when I asked her and she could have had all the light she needed. But the show had started and now all she had was one tiny votive candle. Poor her.

They didn't want anything else for the rest of the night which was fine by me. Was I a little bit vindictive with old lady twat ho from hell? Perhaps. But I just didn't like the way she treated me from the very beginning. She could have been so much nicer about asking me to come back to her table instead of barking orders at me like I was her servant or maid or husband. She had an attitude problem and my station ain't big enough for two people with an attitude problem. It's big enough for one person with an attitude problem: me. I hope she enjoyed her tea with lemon. By the way, when I picked out her lemon, I found the slimiest, most nasty ass lemon wedge I could find. It was the least I could do. Too bitchy? Probably. But I'm good with that.

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I Drank Five Mojitos

I went out to dinner the other day and found myself in a Cuban restaurant. I don't know much about that country other than they make cigars, Fidel Castro lives there and they make a damn good sandwich, but as of Monday, their food owns my heart. Let me explain. Some friends and I went out to do a quick errand and we thought we should grab a quick bite afterwards. Six hours, 21 Mojitos and three Negro Modelos later, we stumbled our asses out of the restaurant praising all things Cuba. If I would have seen Fidel Castro at that moment, I probably would have given him a high five, a hug and a hummer. (Is he still alive? If not, I take back the hummer offer...that's gross.)

The restaurant was called Madera and it's in Long Island City, Queens. My friends and I arrived moments after they opened and plopped our thirsty selves at the bar. The sign that said $6 Mojitos is what lured us in. Seriously, I can't think of many places that I will not venture into if it promises me a $6 Mojito. I think even if the Army recruited that way, I'd consider signing up: The Army. Be All You Can Be with $6 Mojitos. Anyhoo, our bartender was named Carolina (pronounced Car-o-leen'-a) and she was nothing short of perfection. She whipped us up the tastiest Mojitos and had a smile the whole time she did it. I loved that she used raw sugar in it instead of simple syrup, because the occasional piece of sugar that came up through the straw was like winning a prize. Loved it. I watched her make the drinks and was impressed with her professionalism. I mean she used tongs and not her fingers to pick up the limes and mint. That's a pro. When I asked her how long she had had this job, she said, "It's not my job, it's my profession." I swoon with jealousy at someone who can say that and truly mean it. And Carolina meant it. She recommended items on the menu and told us what she thought was the best and what she thought was lacking. We all hate it when a server says "everything is delicious" because we know it's not true. When I almost ordered the chicken croquettes, Carolina told me that there are things she thinks are better but didn't say they were bad. She was just honest. I like her more and more every minute. I ordered the pallomillia steak sandwich and it was just as good as my Goddess Bartender said it would be. The chimichurri sauce tasted like it had come from Heaven after sliding down a rainbow and landed on a piece of bread. A friend ordered lechon asado con mojo criolla, which was slow roasted pork that was supposed to melt in your mouth. That pork done melted on the fork. So good. We finished our meal with fried ice cream because if a place has that on the menu, I am going to order it. It's fried ice cream. Duh.

But back to Carolina. She wiped down her bar constantly and never failed to be ready to make us another drink. And then she did something that ensured her place in my tiny black heart forever: she gave us our fourth round for free. I don't know what celebratory customs there are in Cuba, but if I did, I would have done it. Instead I just giggled like a little girl and clapped my hand together over and over as I bounced in my seat. I think it's so smart when a bartender picks up a round. She's investing in her customers and making us want to come back. We were so happy that we were given a free fourth round, that we ordered a fifth. Well played, Carolina.

I told her about this blog and I hope she reads it. I even gave her a copy of my New York Post article because I just happened to have one in my pocket. If you read this, Carolina, give me a sign! Another shout out to Kizzie who was working the floor and was just as sweet as my Mojito was. You should go to Madera and check it out. You will not be disappointed. And no, I did not get paid to write this. I just loved it. Carolina did one last thing that made me know she is a pro. As we we left, she told my Brit friend, "Cheers." Once again, she shows she knows how to gauge a guest and make them feel at home. It was the icing on the big Mojito cake. (Note to self: Google a Mojito cake recipe). A great night of food, rum, good service, rum, good friends and rum.

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Shove a Pancake in My Mouth

Get out the Aunt Jemima and powdered sugar, because today is National Fucking Pancake Day, bitches. You know I am all about National Pancake Day since my whole life revolves around an icon of pancakes. And speaking of Aunt Jemima, have you noticed that she looks a lot like Oprah lately? I guess the Mammy character seemed a bit un-PC so they Oprah-ized her. Anyhoo, IHOP created this day in 2006 so it is a tradition that is literally years in the making. Five of them. The day benefits Children's Miracle Network Hospitals® which raises funds for 170 children's hospitals across North America. If you go into IHOP on Tuesday, March 1, 2011, 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. they will serve your fat ass a free short stack. In return, you are asked to make a donation. It says only one short stack per customer, but I assume that means at each location. There is no reason that you can't drive from IHOP to IHOP eating your way across the country. How many miles can one drive in a 15 hour period? I would think you should be able to get to at least ten different IHOPS and chow down on the free pancakes. Never mind that gas is $3.50 a gallon, we are talking free fucking pancakes here, ladies.

Why if I had an unlimited supply of free pancakes, I could spend my day sitting on my pancake couch watching the Food Network while eating pancakes. After a carb overload, I would place my head on my pancake pillow and fall asleep dreaming of rivers of maple syrup. Floating down the syrup river would be a waffle rowboat with oars made out of sticks of butter. I would be in that boat trying to paddle, but I would end up eating my butter oars instead. As the boat drifts to the crest of a waterfall, I would jump from the boat and grab hold of a bacon tree and climb to safety as the boat slowly careened over the fall and into a pool of sticky sweet syrup. Now in the tree of pork product, I would have a nibble of the salty pig until I was ready to switch back to sweet fluffy pancakes. I take a bite of pancake that is served by Oprah who is dressed like Aunt Jemimah. Oprah would say to me, "Bitchy Waiter, you know putting me in this costume is verging on racial stereotypes, right?" And I would say to her, "Yes, Oprah, I do. But this is just a pancake-induced dream so please go melt me some butter for my next batch of pancakes. And by the way, you should have won an Oscar for The Color Purple." Oprah laughs and says, "Honey child, you know you got that right." She goes off to melt butter, read a book and slap Gayle on the ass. Ahh, pancakes. I dream of pancakes. I can no longer tell if I am dreaming or if I am awake. The pancake feast has corroded my brain and my ears are filled with sticky syrup and my hands are greasy with butter. Life is good.

So, really, if you are near an IHOP today, you should take advantage of the free pancakes. It is your duty as a pancake-lovin', Bitchy Waiter-readin' American. And I also think this is a good post to share, tweet and shout out because pancakes are not just my icon. They're a way of life.

amend: I have been told that the actual Pancake Day is next Tuesday, March 8, but that IHOP wanted to get a jump on it so they proclaimed it a week early. Whatever. Go eat a fucking pancake.


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Waiter in Training

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

A few years ago, I was being trained at a restaurant here in the city. My trainer was a fetus. I know I had aprons older than he was, but I still had to follow him for three days to "learn the ropes." He gave me such useful tips as:

• When a customer orders coffee, you should ask them if they want milk or cream with it so you don't have to make two trips.
• If someone orders a hamburger, ask them how they like it cooked.
• Always say thank you.

What gems those are. I patted the fetus waiter on the head, asked for a floor plan with the table numbers and pushed his toddler ass out of my way. At my new job, my trainer thankfully quickly realized that I knew what I was doing. After about ten minutes when he saw that I had already made coffee and knew the fancy Aloha computer system, he let me on my own. By the end of the first night, he had let me take his station, take orders, run food, close the checks and bus the tables. He had a sweet easy night because I did it all and he got all the tips. But whatever. The manager saw that only one day of "trailing" was needed and I was already on the schedule.

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

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One Stinky Lady at Table 3

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

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

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

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

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Who Really Gives A Crap?

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

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

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

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Thou Shall Not Blog (Just Kidding)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck...


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I Confess: I Am a Pig

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

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

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

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Don't Make Me Throw a Penny at You

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

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

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


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It's National Margarita Day!!

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

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

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


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Frazzled But Happy Stay-At-Home Mom

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

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

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

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

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

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




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What's White and Sticky and in a Napkin?

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

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

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

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


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This Law Suit is a Hot Mess

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

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

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

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

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


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Rita on the Rocks. No Salt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter



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My Thoughts on the Toilet

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

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

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

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