Dr. Phil ♥'s The Bitchy Waiter

After almost three years of anonymity, today is the day that many people are finally going to put a face to the name of The Bitchy Waiter and it's all thanks to a six foot four inch hunka hunka burnin' love named Dr. Phil McGraw. I am on his show today. It's a little weird that people might see me at work tomorrow and be scared of me but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for my main squeeze, Dr. Phil. Maybe you came to this blog after you saw me on his show and you liked the pearls of wisdom that dripped from my mouth as I was trying to edumacate this woman:


To you newcomers, I say "welcome." (And why does she say "processed chicken" like it's a bad thing? Colonel Sanders is rolling over in his grave of chicken beaks, partially hydrogenated poultry ass and breading every time she says that.) Many of you come to The Bitchy Waiter every day because you clearly enjoy wasting the time of your employer and you would rather read this than do whatever it is you are supposed to be doing on your computer. To you, I say "Welcome back. And get back to work."

Before anyone comments about what I look like (I'm looking at you, Anonymous), please allow me to beat you to that punch. It has already been brought to my attention that I look like one or more of the following: Carrot Top, Justin Guarini, Kenny G., Sammy Hagar, Larry Fine, Gene Wilder, Sideshow Bob and the love child of Charro and a Q-Tip. If you have any new dopelgängers for me, feel free to post them.

So yes, I am a waiter, and maybe a little bit of a bitchy one, but I can assure you that I am simply saying what most servers are thinking: I hate your kids in my station, I don't want to give you separate checks and I don't give a rat's ass if you say you're allergic to mushrooms when it's obvious that you just don't like them. I will put a lemon in your Diet Coke because that is God's will and it doesn't bother me one bit that the fruit is dirtier than the bottoms of Britney Spears's feet after she takes a leak at a gas station. Also, if you are about to post a comment that says something to the effect of, "if you don't like waiting tables, then why don't you go to college and get a real job," that too has already been covered here and here, so I'm good.

I am glad you are here and I hope you will bookmark this page and come back every now and again. I try to write in a way so that everyone will relate to what I am talking about, not just those who work or have worked in the restaurant industry. My posts usually have something to do with food or waiting tables but sometimes I will throw a curve ball and write something that will make you step back and think about your own life in a new way. Or at least that's what I try to do. I think this post about my Grandma will do that for you and if it doesn't you must be some kind of a non-feeling robot/alien/Nicole Kidman creature.

Being on the Dr. Phil show was a great experience and if nothing else, maybe it will get a few more people to:

• Follow me on Twitter
• Like me on Facebook
• Vote for me to be on a Times Square billboard
  
• Buy priceless jewelry that will be passed on to their children
• Just say how much they hate/love me

The above links should give you a pretty good idea of my needy yet lovable personality. Thank you for visiting and tomorrow it will be back to the bitching. (But seriously, what is that lady's issue with processed chicken?)

love,
BW

Today is September 11th

This post is atypical of what I usually write about, but seeing it's an event that cannot be ignored, I have to mention it. Today is the tenth anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center, otherwise known as 9/11. Those of us in New York City are stuck between a rock and a hard place regarding this day. Of course we must pay our respects to those who were lost but this is something that has been in the news every single day since then. Not a day has gone by that it was not mentioned on a newscast. It's tough to listen to all the time yet for some reason I can't ever turn the channel even though I would like to stop hearing about it. And then I feel guilty for thinking that. Am I alone in feeling that?

I was off work on September 11th, 2001, sleeping late. The phone rang several times that morning and I ignored it, but after the third or forth call, I dragged myself out of bed to see who was calling me. After I listened to the first message on my answering machine, I pulled back the kitchen curtain in my Brooklyn apartment and could see that one of the towers was on fire. It was one of the things that sold me on that apartment, the view of the World Trade Center. I moved into it straight from Texas and to have an iconic view like that really meant something to me. Like everyone else in the country, I turned on the television and watched the events unfold. From my window, I watched both towers fall as I stood in my kitchen unable to wrap my brain around what was happening.

Outside, neighbors were gathering and the smell of smoke had already made it all the way across the river. Ash and scraps of office paper floated in the air littering the streets with what may have been something very important just an hour before. I picked up a piece of paper and saw it was from the desk of a man I of course didn't know, but I held on to it thinking I should try to get it back to him somehow. Eventually, it was obvious that there would be no way to retrieve all the pieces of paper that were singed and burned and now flying across Brooklyn. I threw away the one scrap I had held on to, but have since wondered if his family would have liked to have had it.

I didn't lose anyone personally in those attacks so it was easy to distance myself from it at first. But as days passed, it was clear that we were all in this together. At The Brooklyn Marriott, where I worked at the time, someone lost his mother-in-law. They never found her. The next day when I went back to work, I heard stories from my co-workers who witnessed the throngs of people escaping Manhattan by walking over the Brooklyn Bridge which the hotel was at the foot of. People poured into the hotel as a safe place after getting off the bridge and away from the unbelievable happenings in lower downtown.

Within a couple of days, people started hanging flyers up with pictures of their loved ones who they were unable to locate. Two blocks from my apartment, a house was plastered with pictures of a pretty blond woman who had lived there and was missing. Her flyer was everywhere. Walking thorough my neighborhood, more and more flyers were posted of happy smiling faces who were at at the wrong place at the wrong time. To me, that was the saddest thing; all those people looking for their husbands, wives, sons and daughters when deep down inside they had to have known they would never see them again. It was torturous for me and I didn't even know them.

Over and over again, we hear the words "never forget" in regards to 9/11. Never forget the people, right? Never forget how quickly things can change? Never forget that we are at the mercy of someone who may want to cause us harm? Yes, let's never forget those things, but there is something else I always want to remember about the weeks following 9/11. New York City became a quiet and respectful city. Sitting on the subway, you could look into the eyes of a perfect stranger and know that you shared something with them. People were kind to each other and helpful. "Please" and "thank you" were common and patience was suddenly a virtue everyone had. Cars weren't honking and people weren't yelling. Everyone was sharing the same quiet city together. We all knew that the togetherness would fade away eventually and it was so gradual that it's impossible to say when it was no longer there. But for a while, all of New York City was a family. I wish we could remember that. Out of all the horrible things that happened that day, that was the one positive that came out of it. It reminded us that we are all here together sharing this planet. And we all need to lean on each other and help one another. Give your subway seat to the old lady. Stick your tongue out at a kid in the grocery store to make him laugh. Tell your friends how much they mean to you. These are the things that happened in New York City after 9/11 that I wish people would remember.

I didn't talk to my mom that day until late in the afternoon. Friends had called to check on me as did my grandma and brothers, but not my mom. When I finally talked to her, I asked if she was worried about me. "Nah," she said. "I knew it was your day off and I couldn't imagine that you got up early to go to the World Trade Center. I figured you were safe and sound and sleeping late." Of course she was right. Who knows you better than your mom? "I knew you were okay," she said. Ten days later I got on an airplane to go see my family in Texas. I hadn't cried about 9/11 other than a few tears here and there, but when I got off the plane and saw my mom, I sobbed like a baby. I held her tight and suddenly I was so thankful to be alive. So maybe that's what we should never forget: we are alive and it's our job to appreciate every single minute of our days. That is the lesson we should learn from the 2,985 people who died ten years ago.

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And this a gentle reminder that I will be on the Dr. Phil show tomorrow, September 12.

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Bitchy Waiter on Dr. Phil, 9/12/11

Surely you all must know by now that a few weeks ago, I was jetted out to the City of Angels to be on an episode of Dr. Phil. They were doing a show called "Brat Ban" and asked me to come and stand behind my opinion about children being banned from certain restaurants. In my mind, they got wind of this blog post and liked my sense of humor and writing style. In truth, they probably reached out to every other waiter/blogger and I was the only one needy and ego-driven enough to appear. We all know that Dr. Phil was birthed from the loins of Oprah herself so being a guest on his show was as close as I would ever get to being on the Oprah show, so I latched on to the opportunity. Once the producers agreed to let me use a fake ass name and mention my blog at least once, I was even more excited about it. So I did it. The time has come for the episode to air.

Monday September 12 is the day. Check your local listings here.

A producer called me yesterday and said that it was last minute but it was happening. According to some press releases, September 12th is Dr. Phil's 10th season premiere and he is supposed to be interviewing George and Cindy Anthony about a murder trial. Clearly, I need to have the channel on something other than HGTV and Food Network, because I didn't know who they were. However, according to producers, Monday's show will now be about bratty children instead, and that's where I come in. So set your DVR's and Tivo's if you want to see the Bitchy Waiter make his first national television appearance. Yes, I was booed a couple of times but it was worth it to hear Dr. Phil actually refer to me as Bitchy Waiter. And no, I will not be wearing a bag over my head or have a pixelated blob over my face. Instead, I washed my hair, curled my eyelashes and ironed a shirt. I hope you will tune in. I did not feel a lot of love at that show. Apparently, the studio audience loved their children more than me but their "boos" and "hisses" filled my hollow heart with joy and I ate it up.

It was a great experience. The trip was fun, the hotel was nice and it makes for a great story. I met some other great people including blogger Jennifer who writes Perfectly Disheveled. It's kind of a mommy blog but some of you might want to check her out.

Set those DVR's, people. Monday September 12th on Dr. Phil, you will finally hear my nasal voice and see the bird's nest I call my hair. Here is the preview from You Tube. And yes, that is me bitching about chicken fingers and peanut butter and jelly.




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How To Treat Your Server

I hope you will enjoy this article that I wrote for wikiHow about how to treat a server in a restaurant. This article needs to be seen by the world. Share the hell out of it.









How to Treat Your Server in a Restaurant
from wikiHow - The How to Manual That You Can Edit

Everyone loves to eat out in a restaurant, but sometimes people forget how to treat that person who takes care of them while they are there. This article will let you know how your server wants and deserves to be treated.

Steps

1. When your server approaches your table, give him your full attention. This means put down your stupid cell phone and take out your ear phones. Smile and wait for the server to speak to you first. He is in charge of this situation.
   
2. The server will probably make some banal comment like, "How are you today?" Please know he does not really care, he is just trying to initiate some conversation so that he can develop a rapport with you. It is imperative that you respond to the server when he makes this conversation. If you simply say something like, "Gimme a water with a lemon" he will think you are rude.
   
3. The server will announce the specials. Please try to pay attention to them so he doesn't have to say them again in three minutes. After this dialogue, he will ask you what you would like to drink. If you don't know yet and need more time, just say so. Don't hem and haw while you make him stand there watching you strain your brain trying to decide if you want a Cosmopolitan or a Diet Coke. And do not say, "What do you have?" All restaurants have the same basic beverages; water, soda, juice, coffee and usually a bar. Figure it out.
   
4. After your server has taken your drink order, this is the time for you to decide what you would like to eat. Use the menu. That is what it is for. When you know what you would like, it is best to close your menu and place it on the table. This is the signal to the waiter that you are ready to order. If you leave it open he will assume you are still looking it over and will not come to your table.
   
5. When it comes time to place your food order, be audible and clear. Do not make the waiter try to decipher your mumbling. Do not point at something in the menu. Use your words. If there are children at the table, order for them. Do not say, "Tell the man what you want, sweetie."
   
6. Let the waiter decide who places their order first. He will usually start with the women and then go from there. He has a system. Do not let your whole table just yell out willy nilly what they want at the same time. This is rude and confusing and will make your serve irritated with your table. This is also the time to ask any questions you have about the food. Ten minutes later is not the time to inform him of your peanut allergy and you need to know if the Chinese Chicken Salad with Peanut Dressing has peanuts in it. it does.
   
7. Your order has been placed and your beverages are at your table. Enjoy your conversation with your friends and/or family. Your food is coming. You do not need to call your waiter over to see if it's done yet or to ask how much longer it will be. When it is ready, he will bring it to the table. Trust your server. He wants your food to get to you quickly just as much as you do. The sooner it comes out, the sooner you eat and the sooner he can turn the table over and make more money.
   
8. When your food arrives, please make sure you have what you ordered. Do not eat half of the chicken club sandwich before you realize that you ordered a burger. When the food is placed, think for a moment about what else you may need during the course of the meal. Ketchup, mayo, fresh pepper, extra napkins, more soda, water refills? These are all things that you should ask your server for now. He can get them all in one trip instead of five of them. If you make him do that, he will grow to resent you.
   
9. A good server will come back to your table in two minutes to "check back" on you to make sure everything is to your liking. This would be when you ask for your medium rare burger to be cooked more because it "has too much pink in it." Or this would be the time to tell him that french fries are "ice cold" or that you need more salad dressing because the Caesar salad has "no dressing on it whatsoever."
   
10. When it is time for him to clear the plates, let him do it. Do not try to help him by stacking them. That does not help him. He has his own method for clearing plates so let him do his job. It's nice that you want to help and all that, but don't bother. Do not say something stupid like 'Oh it was horrible" as he clears a plate that you obviously licked clean. It's a tired joke that every waiter has heard a hundred million times and it's never ever even a little bit funny at all.
    
11. He will then offer you dessert and coffee. If you want it, have it. if you don't, don't. He doesn't care either way.
    
12. When he presents you with the check, pay it. Do not argue amongst yourselves about who owes whom or who paid the last time. Do not thrust several credit cards at him saying "No take this one!" He will take whichever one touches his hand first because he does not care who pays for the check as long as it gets paid. If you want separate checks, you should have told him that at the beginning. It is now your problem. Pull out your calculator and figure it out.
    
13. Now is the time for you to compute your tip. 15-20% is expected. If you don't think that tipping is something you should be responsible for then you should eat at McDonald's or live in Europe. A good way to figure out the tip is to look at the tax and then double it. Or you can use one of those stupid smart phone apps if math is too complicated for you.
    
14. As you leave, look around your table to make sure you didn't leave any of your personal belongings. This is also a good time to see if your child left a pile of Cheerios or french fries on the floor. If you left more than a 20%, tip feel free to leave the mess. If you left 10% or less, then you need to get on your hands and knees and clean that mess up.
    

Tips

• Always say "please" and "thank you." It will make all the difference in the world.
  
• If you have a problem with the food, alert your server but keep in mind that he didn't cook it. All he did was punch some buttons on a computer and hoped that the cook would know the difference between "rare" and "well done."
  
• Remember that your server wants you to have a good time because the more you enjoy your meal, the better his tip will (should) be. He is not out to get you or make you wait longer for your food than the table next to you.
  
• If you have children, please keep them at the table. The restaurant can be a dangerous place to let a child run freely. There may be a shard of glass on the floor or maybe a food runner who is carrying a tray of hot and heavy plates won't see your child sitting in the aisle and playing with a toy.
  

Sources and Citations

• https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bitchy-Waiter/112430746683
  

Article provided by wikiHow, a wiki how-to manual. Please edit this article and find author credits at the original wikiHow article on How to Treat Your Server in a Restaurant. All content on wikiHow can be shared under a Creative Commons license.

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Get a Room, Love Birds

Lovers are very special people. They're the luckiest people in the world. Love is a beautiful, wonderful, splendid thing, we all know that. If you are lucky enough to have found it, then please accept my sincere and heartfelt congratulations from the very bottom of my heart. However, I don't want to see you tonsil diving with your lady lover while I am trying to take your order for calamari.

Two true romancers sat in my station last week and they couldn't keep their hands off of each other. It was obvious they were on a date in the beginnings of their relationship. At first I thought maybe it was first date because of the small talk I picked up while polishing silver next to their table. "So where did you grow up?" and "What do you do?" tells me they were trying to get to know each other. If it was a first date, then they must have met on pickaslut.com because she was all over him. After I cleared their plates, they put their elbows on the table and stared at each other. He looked into her eyes like they were pools of Nutella and he couldn't wait to stick his banana in them. I watched as she put both of her hands on his face and rub it back and forth. I wondered if she knew that is not how you make a guy orgasm. Then he put his hands under the table and rested them on her knees. That old trick? Please. He did it like it was just a casual place to put his hands and they just happened to be a few inches from her Lady Bug. He knew he was in like Flynn when she put her hands on top of his and moved them closer to the Golden Ticket. Everyone in my station muttered a big "get a fucking room" as she laughed at one of his jokes and tossed her hair back. It's like they both took Flirting 101 at the Learning Annex and this was their final exam. Just go down on each other already.

I wasn't surprised they didn't want any dessert because everyone in that restaurant knew what was for dessert and it wasn't going to be a Vanilla Beam Creme Brulee, that's for sure. I printed out their check and the total was $68.59, which when rounded up is a the number of love. How appropriate for this couple who were sexually assaulting each other in public. They threw money down and left in a flash, presumably to one of their apartments, the La Quinta down the street, or the bed bug infested mattress that was wrapped in plastic and discarded across the street. I have a feeling they were not choosy. Or picky. What is the word I am looking for to describe these two...horny, that's it.

I carefully approached their table to clear it, making sure there were no errant bodily fluids that may have prematurely made an appearance. Everything seemed fine. About fifteen minutes later, the restaurant shook when a loud boom of thunder and lightening shot across the sky. Or a least, we assumed it was thunder and lightening. It's possible that our lovebirds finally made the ultimate connection that they had started at the most romantic place on earth: table 11.

Another Annoying Kid Story

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

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

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

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

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Non-Smokers Have Rights Too

I don't smoke cigarettes. Never have, never will. Growing up, my dad always smoked and it was the first thing I would smell in the morning when my alarm would go off, his cigarette smoke as he sat in the kitchen reading the newspaper, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. Nowadays, he would never consider smoking inside the house but back then no one seemed to think much about it. It was sorta the way that we thought it was perfectly fine to sunbathe with baby oil and throw litter outside our car windows as we drove down the highway. Ah, it was a simple world back then. Over the years, I have been in a couple of plays that required me to smoke cigarettes but it was always so disgusting that it never made me want to consider continuing the habit after closing night. Nope, cigarettes are not something I ever wanted to take up until last last night when I noticed that the bartender got to take four or five cigarette breaks during the course of our five hour shift while I was stuck inside working.

Surely I am not the only one who notices this reverse discrimination. Yes, smokers have been delegated to one square foot where they are allowed to puff and it has to be so many feet from the building entrance and then they are not allowed to throw their butts on the ground, (Speaking of butts...) but they do get to leave their jobs several times a day to do it. It's not fair for those of us with clean lungs, longer life expectancy and more spending money. Observe:

Smoker: Hey boss, I'm gonna go out to the sidewalk and have a quick cigarette break for a few minutes and I'll be right back, okay?
Boss: Okay.


Non-smoker: Hey boss, I'm gonna go out to the sidewalk for a few minutes and I'll be right back, okay?
Boss: Are you gonna smoke a cigarette?
Non-smoker: No, I don't smoke so I'm just gonna pace back and forth.
Boss: Get your ass back to work.

You know it's true. Smokers have this unspoken permission to run out for a quick smoke break any time they want and while they're out there they get to other things that we non-smokers are not allowed to do at our jobs like talk on the phone or look at a magazine. Man.smokers have all the fun. Maybe people allow them to do it because they feel sorry for the chain of addiction that is wrapped around the smoker's lungs and they know that for every cigarette they smoke that person is losing eleven minutes of their lives. But I want my four or five mini breaks a day, goddamn it. I knew this guy once who was from Hungary. He told me that every man there had to serve in the army as a teenager and he soon realized that the smokers in the army got several sanctioned breaks throughout the day. So what did he do? He bought a pack of cigarettes and started to smoke. Actually, he would simply light a cigarette and hold it just to get away from whatever the others were doing. It was the army in Hungary so who the hell knows what that was. Push ups? Breaking rocks? Eating goulash? The point is that even in the Hungarian army, smokers got to take breaks that non-smokers didn't.

It's time that we non-smokers stood up for our rights! The next time you are at work and you see one of your filthy addicted co-workers going out to suck on a cancer stick for five minutes, I say go with them. (Do not stand too close to them though because you don't want any of that nasty ass second-hand smoke to get into your beautiful pure lungs.) If a person goes out to smoke once an hour during a five hour shift, that totals about twenty-five minutes of free time they get that non-smokers don't. Never mind that by smoking five cigarettes they have shaved off almost an hour of their life, we are talking about short term benefits here. We deserve those cigarette breaks too and we don't have to smoke to get 'em. Starting tomorrow, any time someone goes out for a "quick puff," I'm going too. I'm going to buy me some of those candy cigarettes though because smoking is not cool. I just want to be lazy.

Does anyone else see this happen at their job? I want to know. I also want you to CLICK HERE to vote to get me on a billboard in Times Square. Easy with no sign up or registration. Just a click.

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Asshole in Times Square

In my never-ending attempt to gain fame, fortune and a new pair of shoes that don't come from Payless, I have come across a new contest that could help satisfy my craving for attention. About Me is a new website that lets us do more of the same shit we all do on Facebook, Twitter, Google+, You Tube, Tumblr, Flickr, Vimeo, Wordpress, Blogger and Friendster: promote ourselves. However, About Me is having a contest to choose someone to be on a billboard in Times Square and of course I want to win it.

Believe it or not (I'm walking on air) it would not be the first time I have been on a billboard in Times Square. I speak the truth. About four years ago, I came across an add on Craigslist that was looking for people who were willing to have their butts photographed for an ad campaign for a new toilet. I submitted for it and was called in to do a test shoot for a hundred bucks. I thought it would be totally weird and creepy but it ended up being just a little bit weird and creepy. At the studio were two women and two men who were going to shoot my ass. They gave me a robe and pointed to a little room where I was to go change. Once undressed, I was escorted to the camera area. They had arranged it so that there was cardboard surrounding every thing except where my butt would be seen and they told me whenever I was ready, I could disrobe. "Am I really doing this? Is this crazy? Is this going to end up on a website for people obsessed with average asses?" I dropped the robe and mentally prepared. The photographer gave me two pieces of direction; bring your legs a little closer together and don't clench. "Great," I thought. "That was his way of saying I can see your balls and you look like you're holding in a fart." I did as I was told and three minutes later we were done. I looked at the shots and I was pleasantly surprised that my ass looked kinda nice. I'd never seen a picture of it. They paid me with five crisp twenty dollar bills and told me they would let me know if they would be using the image.

Three weeks later, the call came that I never expected to get. They picked my butt. I would be paid an additional $500 and my ass, along with a few other average assholes, would be on a website for Toto Washlet and also a print campaign. See the picture above? Yep, I am number three, five and six. The print campaign tuned out to be a Times Square billboard. Yes, my ass was in Times Square but not without controversy. The billboard was directly over a church who believed it was inappropriate. They took the matter to court to have it removed and it ended up in the news a lot. My butt was famous. Eventually, a big black bar was painted over the asses in the ad, but there is still evidence of what it looked like before the censorship. Click here to see the ad in Times Square. That's mine on the corner with the blue background. Famous, my ass.

But now I want to be on a Times Square Billboard again but not naked. If you click here, you can then vote for my profile to move me into the twenty finalists. Is it ridiculous and self-serving and altogether silly? Yes. Yes, it is. And I thank you for understanding. It's simple. One click, no registration. Click here and vote. Thanks.

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Dear Bitchy Waiter

Time for another installment of Dear Bitchy. I dug into the mailbag and found this question that perhaps I can shed some light on. You can email me here if you have a question that needs attention. Or you can just say hello. That's nice too.

Dear Bitchy Waiter,

Not too long ago I arranged for a dinner at a local restaurant because my brother and his fiancee were moving to California. It was very small and just a group of friends, no family. Two of our good friends are sisters and they brought a friend (table of 6 now). When our friends arrived they ordered drinks and were carded. They made a big ordeal, and it was their fault. They left their IDs at home. It was very embarrassing to the other people at the table. They kept on and on, and were verbally harassing the waiter and manager (who both spoke little English). I love hanging out with them, but they act like crap sometimes. One is also positive that if a restaurant expected her to provide the server with a "tip" than they should have put it in the price of the plate.

Help! How can I eat with my friends who are tacky non-tippers.

PS- The evening the 6 of us were eating, I picked up the tab and tipped got the hell out of there. Oddly, they all stayed and just ordered at the bar of the restaurant the rest of the night.

signed,
Rachel

Dear Rachel,
First off, let me applaud you for letting these two sister friends remain a part of your life because clearly they are annoying, needy, cheap and totally lame-o. I want to know why the two of them thought it was alright to bring along a friend of theirs to this farewell dinner for your brother. Did this third wheel know your brother or did she just sniff out a free meal and tagged along because she was tired of eating Alpo and Top Ramen in her efficiency basement apartment? I vote for the latter. Your two friends shouldn't have brought her along. That is the first thing wrong with the situation, but they did so what can you do? And then they complained that they were carded and they didn't have their ID's? Super annoying, but don't be embarrassed. The server wasn't annoyed with you, trust me. As for the sister who thinks a tip should be added to the price of the food, I call bullshit. She would be the first one to complain that her corn dog platter with tater tots cost too much money. That's just an excuse she uses to justify her evil penny-pinching, cheap-ass-whore ways.

The solution is simple. Do not eat out with these people ever again unless you are comfortable dining at Burger King, White Castle, Wendy's, Taco Bell or KFC. If you love hanging out with them in certain situations, do it only then. I assume you are referring to the times you go to the discount movie theater or the Dollar Store, right? Or maybe the BOGO sale at Payless? And I bet they always want you to drive because they don't want to use their gas and when you go to their house they never turn on the A/C because it's "bad for the environment" which is code for "I'm too cheap to pay the electricity bill." It shouldn't be too hard to exclude them from dining out with you. The next time you see them at their weekly garage sale or bi-monthly Tupperware party and they ask why it's been so long since you've all gone to dinner together, you can say this: "I've just been trying to eat at home more often in order to save a little money. Surely your cheap ass can understand that, right, bitch?" No harm done.

On behalf of your server that night, thank you for picking up the tab. If those tight skanks sat at the bar for the rest of the night and didn't tip, I'm sure they will not be welcomed the next time they drag their carcasses in. By the way, if they didn't have their ID's, how did they manage to get served? Lemme guess...blow jobs, right?

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter



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Old People (occasionally) Warm My Heart

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

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

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

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



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R.I.P. to Chef Tommie

There is a sadness in my restaurant this week because we lost someone very special to us. He has gone to a better place. My normally dark soul (stole that from Bravo TV's The A-List) is a little darker today because of the grief that is filtering through my liver and quite honestly my liver is happy to filter something other than tequila, vodka and Rose's Lime Juice. Our restaurant lost a chef last week and I will miss him dearly. I do not mean he was taken to that big walk-in refrigerator in the sky. The greasy finger of death did not reach out and touch him inappropriately. God did not call all his chil'ren home. Tommie got his ass fired.

Tommie had only worked with us for about two months, but he was the new head chef and instantly earned my respect when he decided to make Smores Sundaes one night ten minutes before closing much to the chagrin of our manager/owner. That may have been the beginning of his end. You see, Tommie did what he liked. My boss is a bit of a control freak so anyone who has bold ideas and a big personality are subject to firing. I conceal my personality since I don't want to be fired because I am too lazy too find another job. And you can be certain that no one knows I write this blog either. I almost told Tommie about it, but now he's gone and I can't. Such is life.

Tommie had language skills much like myself; every other word out of his mouth was "fuck." My boss does not curse and whenever Tommie dropped the F-bomb, I could see Boss Man cringe with uncomfortableness. But since Boss Man has testicles the size of chick peas, he never told Tommie that he needed him to tone down the language. Instead, he found it easier to sweat and shuffle his feet when Tommie said something like, "I made the most amazing mother fucking special today with some fucking sweet ass spare ribs that are gonna make you cum." One time he told me that the only thing he likes to eat more than food is his wife's pussy. "Man, I could eat that shit all motherfucking day and never get tired of it, Jesus Christ." I laughed. My boss cleared his throat and had a silent mini stroke. Oh, yeah, we have an open kitchen too, by the way. I knew that eventually something would have to be said to Tommie, but I wondered if my boss would ever have the guts to do it.

I guess he didn't because when I showed up to work last week, Tommie was gone. My boss could have taken him downstairs and simply said, "I love your outgoing personality and I wish I was more like you, but do you think you could refrain from the cursing while the restaurant is open?" That would not have been that hard to do and Tommie would have said, "No fucking problem, dude. Abso-fucking-lutely." Instead Boss Man probably sent him and email telling him he was fired and then emptied out his locker for him, placed it at the bar and hid in the office until he knew Tommie had come to get it. According to the rumor mill, Tommie was fired for "being too loud" and "looking at girls." It sounds like Tommie should have just been sent to the principal's office instead

The fact is Tommie is gone. I never knew his last name and I never got to tell him how much he meant to me. Or that I write this blog. If any of you know a guy named Tommie who has a hyphenated Japanese last name and he is saying something like, "My last job was cool but my fucking boss had a teeny wienie Vienna Sausage and English Pea balls between his legs" that's my Tommie. Tell him I said hello and have him email me. I miss my Tommie. He was a good man who liked to cook, liked to laugh and liked to eat but he liked eating out his wife even more. Fare thee well, Tommie. And who the hell is going to make mother fucking Smores Sundaes for me now?

(Sorry for the delay in posting. Between Hurricane Irene and my vacation, time got the best of me. -BW)

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Rock Me Like A Hurricane

In case you live under a pile of dirty sugar caddies, you probably have heard that New York City is bracing itself for Hurricane Irene that will cunt punch us Saturday night and all day Sunday. Everyone I know has made sure that their liquor cabinet is stocked and their Igloo cooler is full of ice. Other than batteries, tuna fish, crackers and candles, what more does one need? Thankfully, my boss had the foresight to close the restaurant today and tomorrow. I guess he knew that no one is going to fight 75 mph winds just for a tired ass plate of tilapia. Our mayor also shut down the entire New York City mass transit system meaning that no one could get to work even if they wanted to. True, I only live two blocks away from my job, but whatever. It is surprising that my boss decided to close the place since he is usually so desperate for a few extra dollars that he'll stay open late for two losers who come in one minute before closing even if all they want is one drink apiece. Sadly, not all restaurant managers have come to their senses. A friend of mine had as her Facebook status the following: I have to go to work in this hurricane since my restaurant is in denial...

To that restaurant owner, I say this:

What the hell, dude? Maybe you didn't hear, but New York City is having a direct hit of a freaking monster hurricane. This has not happened since before the Revolutionary War. (Not sure about that date but I do know it was a long time ago.) But you need to sell three more tacos tonight so you're good with making your employees come to work in a fucking hurricane? I bet you plan on having delivery open too, right? Because everyone knows how prudent it is to be on a bicycle when the wind is blowing shit sideways. No one is going to come to your restaurant tonight. The news media has made sure that we buy every loaf of bread and gallon of milk within a 125 mile radius so nobody wants to go out to eat tonight. We all have plans to make dried fruit sandwiches and cocktails by the light of our candles. Since you insist on being open during the worst natural disaster to hit the Big Apple since Rudy Giuliani, let me offer you some suggestions of what to do with your time since there will be no fucking customers:

• Take this time to pull your head out of your ass.
• Take every menu and clean it with a toothbrush so when your restaurant floods, at least you'll know your menus were clean when they flowed into the East River.
• When the storm hits, step into the walk-in cooler for safety but first alert your servers so they will know to barricade the door with a chair so your ass can stay in there while they swim back to their apartments.
• Clean out the candle holders because you aren't going to have any fucking electricity and you're gonna want nice clean votives when you need some fucking light to see your empty fucking restaurant.
  
• Ask your servers to save the liquor by putting it some place safe like their backpacks and purses.
• Have a sing-along of Dexys Midnight Runner's song "Come On Eileen" but just change it to "Irene" because it's close enough and that song is way better than "Rock Me Like A Hurricane" by the Scorpions.
  
• Play a game of Truth or Dare with your employees and when they dare you to go to the roof and hold a metal spatula into the air, just do it. I dare ya.
• Use the time to scrape all the gum from underneath the tables and then you can use it for the special of the day on Monday since all of your food is going to go bad when you lose your fucking power because of the hurricane.
  
• Grow some balls.

Good luck to all those in the path of the storm. Sorry to Catharine who has to go to work. Be safe, be careful, be drunk.

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The 411 on the #2

In an ongoing effort to keep this blog classy, today I have chosen a topic of discussion that will elevate our forum to a new level of taste and decorum: poop. It is certainly not the first time I have discussed this. How can we forget the unfortunate mishap of poop in the trash can or the story of the poopy diaper left at the table? Both good stories, indeed, but let us delve deeper into the dark brown mystery of pooing in public.

Last week, I had a moment that made me question every life choice I have ever made. It happened when I went into the bathroom to blow out the candles and close up for the night. When I opened the door, a wall of odor knocked me down and raped my olfactory system. That smell tied me up, gagged me, and had its unprotected way with my nose. Someone had way too many lentils in their diet and used our restaurant bathroom to release the hounds of hell from their bowels into our toilet. I don't know about you, but I need optimum conditions for doing a number two anywhere else but my own home. There is a whole formula that goes into account before I decide if it is worth pooping in a public restroom: how badly do I need to go, what are the consequences of holding it, how clean is the bathroom, is it a single use bathroom, what type of toilet paper is there, what is the likelihood of people knocking on the door and most importantly, will the smell seep out of the bathroom and let others know what I was doing in there? I know we all poop, but I still find it easier to pretend that we all don't.

I hate cleaning the bathroom at my job. When it comes time for that, a simple sweep with a dry broom is about as far as I am willing to go. My cheap ass manager won't spring for liners for the trash cans, so when it's time to empty them, there is always the chance of a runaway tampon popping out to say hello. It's not easy to empty a trash can without actually touching it, but I have managed to do it with the use of multiple paper towel and good balance. One time the trash can rubbed up against my shirt and I just about fainted right there. The only thing that kept me from fainting was knowing that if I did, I would then end up actually touching the floor with my face. Seeing that I don't even like my shoes to touch the bathroom floor, my face touching it is not an option.

But there I was last week surrounded by the smell of hell. It was like a skunk made love to a rotten egg and then rolled around in Jennifer Lopez Live Eau de Parfum Spray. I bolted out of the bathroom and looked for the offender. I suspected the cook but the dishwasher looked mighty guilty too. I took a deep breath and went back in to fill the soap dispenser and make sure there were paper towels. Once out of the bathroom, I released the breath and prepared to go back in. I took another deep breath and grabbed the candle and trash can. This process was repeated three times making me hyperventilate and wish that I was anything in the world other than a waiter who had to do a goddamn bathroom check at the end of the night.

I suppose some people can do a number two any time and anywhere and if it means they do it in a restaurant, then so be it. I'm just not programmed for that. At my other job, I work with a guy who has no issue with it whatsoever. On my first day there, I walked into the bathroom where I found him standing next to the stall with his pants unbuttoned and his hands on his hips. "Bad news, dude. The toilet's clogged and I just took a huge dump." "Oh, okay," I said. "It's nice to meet you."

What a shitty job I have sometimes. And by the way, does anyone else hate this commercial for Angel Soft where the guy keeps yelling to his wife that they're all out of toilet paper? "Can you toss me a roll?" he asks repeatedly. You know what, dude? How about you keep the extra toilet paper in the bathroom instead of asking your wife to keep throwing it at you. Or better yet, go get it your fucking self, lazy ass. And also on the subject of toilet paper commercials, I am sick of seeing those goddamn Charmin bears who always have toilet paper dingle berries hanging off their asses. Hey ad execs: bears may shit in the woods but they don't use toilet paper and everyone I know thinks those commercials are disgusting. Stop it.

And this concludes my classy and elegant discussion about poo.

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Cater Waiters Unite

I don't know this band and I am not shamelessly promoting my own video (for once) but someone sent it to me and it needed to be shared. I have done my time as a cater waiter and this video epitomizes how we feel sometimes when we are walking around a crowded room with a plate of nasty ass slimy shrimp that nobody wants. People poke and prod you and have no respect. I'm talking to you, Connie Chung. I wanna poke you back.


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Earthquakes and Hurricanes

I don't know if you have heard, but the end of the world is on its way. No, I am not talking about the rapture that was supposed to happen last May, I am talking about the other definitive signs. First off, there is a freakin' hurricane heading to New York City. That shit never happens and I just canceled my Cape Cod vacation thanks to Hurricane Irene. The only other Irene I ever knew was a friend of my Grandma's about a hundred years ago. I guess anything and everything named Irene is a fucking bitch on wheels, is that it? My apologies if your name is Irene and you are a nice lady, but I doubt it.

The second sure sign that the end is near was that we had an earthquake in New York City on Tuesday. I did not feel it. Friends of mine did, but not me. When it happened, I was sitting in a park reading the newspaper. No, I was not too drunk to feel the earth move under my feet, it was just so minor here that is was pretty much a non-event. This was my first earthquake and I expected more from it. After all, I saw the movie Earthquake in 1974 so I know all about seismic tremors. My mom took me to see it with her friend Doris when I was seven years old. I have since asked her why she took her child to see such a scary movie. Her reply? "Did I take you to see that? Hmm, I don't remember that all, I guess I couldn't find a babysitter." Well, I remember because it gave me nightmares. How can any seven year old child forget that scene where all those people plummet to their death in an elevator? It was so realistic to me as a child; even that corny animated blood splatter that filled the screen. When I got to work after the earthquake, I expected to see bottles of liquor oozing life onto the floor and parts of the ceiling dangling above overturned tables and chairs. Instead, I saw that we were out of regular coffee so it was going to be all decaf all the time that night. My experience with the earthquake is pretty much summed up in this video:



But now we have Hurricane Irene to deal with. Not only will it wreak havoc with our lives, for those of us in the restaurant world, it's going to hurt us in our pocketbook too. I mean, how many people are going to want to go out to eat this weekend during a hurricane?

"Honey, I don't feel like cooking tonight. What do you say we get the canoe and paddle over to the restaurant for dinner? Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Well, dear, I dunno. The wind is really strong out there, maybe we should take the sailboat."

"Oh sweetheart, you think of everything."

Yeah, not gonna happen. My suggestion to restaurant owners up and down the east coast is to have a Hurricane Special. You turn the televisions to the Weather Channel, make the cocktail of the day a $5 hurricane., take 10% all checks and see what happens. Or just accept that no one is going to come in and close up for the day. That way we can all have our own hurricane party. You fill your house with junk food, liquor, batteries and candles and get drunk off your ass. Turn on the TV and make a drinking game out of it; every time Sam Champion says "wind gusts" you take a shot.

I am off to the grocery store to stock up on food. You know that the the bread aisle is already empty and there is no milk anywhere. In the event of a natural disaster, people always buy up every loaf of bread they can get their hands on. As long as there is still vodka and tequila at the liquor store, I think I can make it through the storm. I just won't be in Provincetown and that pisses me off. I hate you, Irene. You suck.

Next stop on the End of the World Express: locusts.

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Tequila on the 16th Floor

Yesterday in New York City was one of those stellar days of weather where I can actually fool myself into believing that this really is the best city in the world. Beautiful blue skies and a light breeze with low humidity meant one thing: find a rooftop deck and get drunk. I took my ass over to the Press Lounge at Ink 48 hotel and went to the 16th floor and got my cocktail on. I ordered the Excelsior which was tequila poured over lime juice and ice with sugar and cayenne pepper garnished with a pepper dusted orange slice. Yeah, it was good, but for $16, it ought to be. The view was stunning and when I got there, the only other people on the deck were those of a movie crew who were doing some location scouting. It was all "and then Sarah Jessica could do this" and "then Sarah Jessica could do that." I assume it was Sarah Jessica Parker they were talking about but for all I know it was the Sarah Jessica Grenburg who works at the Marshalls in Rego Park Queens. The movie crew was a little distracting with all their tape measures and cameras, but one look at the Empire State Building was enough to let it not matter anymore.

After I ordered my second cocktail the deck was beginning to get more crowded. It was full of people who were there using a business Am Ex card. Seated next to us was a group who looked like they were in New York City for some dumb ass team-building workshop for their job. The group started out as one woman who seemed nice enough. She sat down on the couch and patiently waited for her friends or a server. After about five minutes she was joined by two women. One of them was all corporate America bitch with poorly highlighted hair and big clunky jewelry. As as she walked up, she asked the other one, "So how do we get a drink? I'm thirsty." The seemingly friendly and patient one answered, " I saw a waitress, but she hasn't gotten to us yet. I think we just wait." That's right, lady. You wait. But Corporate America Bitch doesn't wait. After about twenty seconds (yes, I timed it) she said, "This is taking too long," and she got up to presumably round up some service. She came back to her seat and said, "Someone told me she'd be right out." After another minute had passed, she was up again. She went right to a busser and spoke to him about getting a waitress. She came back to her seat exasperated as if she had done something really difficult. It's not the Amazing Race, honey. Relax. "Every time, I try to order something, they tell me to sit and wait. I'm thirsty." That's right, lady. You wait. Maybe she didn't see the other people pouring out of the elevator and spilling out onto the patio who also were thirsty. Maybe she was frustrated that her assistant wasn't there who would normally hop right to it when she needed something.

After an eternity, (two minutes) the waitress finally showed up to ask them what they wanted. And guess what: they didn't know yet. That's right. As is typical, these bitches who were in such a fucking hurry to order and were so incredibly thirsty had no idea what they wanted. "Oh, is there a menu? Ummm, lemme see...uh, I think I will have a, ummmm...." The waitress smiled but my x-ray waiter eyes showed me it was a fake one. "I'll have a prosecco," said one lady. "Oooh, prosecco, what's that?" said another. I rolled my eyes on behalf of the waitress who was still fake smiling.

After their drinks came, their group grew large enough to get a little too close to me; one guy sat down on the edge of the couch I was on so now his ass was a few inches away from my hand. I wanted to shove his eleven dollar Amstel Light up it, but changed my seat instead. Their incessant chatting about work and business and leadership exercises made me want to throw them off the deck and onto Eleventh Avenue sixteen floors below. Of course I wouldn't do that because most of them were way too heavy for me to be able to throw off the roof. In addition to the strength it would have taken, it would very possibly mean the end of my time on the deck.

I sucked down the last of my tequila, ate my orange wedge and stumbled to the elevator. By now the roof was full of corporate mid-level management all trying to impress one another. It was kind of disgusting and I made a mental note to always get to this deck at 3:30 to avoid all the bullshit. I took one last look at the Hudson River and New Jersey and then to the other side I glimpsed Times Square only four blocks away. It truly was a spectacular view. Even though the waitress was stuck serving big wig douche bags she at least had the view to help her through the day. And if it ever got really bad, I would suggest an Excelsior in a paper cup underneath the computer. It certainly was the highlight of my day.

(And yes, that is me on the deck with my cocktail firmly in my hand.)

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