The Horror.

I've been a bad blogger. I admit it. It's just that the holiday season has taken my muse and treated her like Becky in that Kenny Rogers classic 'The Coward of the County'. That is as delicately as I can put it. What passes for clientele at the midpriced family friendly chain restaurant I work at has shown us their even less attractive side of late, what with all the rush and bother of deliberating between Nascar or wrestling pajamas at the Wal Mart across the street and their failure to anticipate just how long they were going to have to wait for a table on nights when they and their entire extended clan decide to descend upon us at the same time without bothering to let us know the magnitude of the invasion we would have to endure by making a simple phone call on the way. My muse lies, violated and dazed in a quiet corner of my subconscious wondering how long she can remain undetected by the nargles and assorted creatures from the Dungeons & Dragons Monster Manual that roam freely down there. I have nothing at all to say.

Except.

People that eat country fried steak are what is wrong with the world. 

Gratuitous Nature

I keep thinking a tipping guide is in order, but it seems redundant. I think anyone conscientious enough to worry about such things is already sophisticated enough to know how to tip properly and most of the people that are the 'problem children' can't read and certainly don't use 'The Google'. So I shan't bother with that; instead, dear reader, I will provide a tipping guide for the servers reading this. As in, here is the correct mentality as regards our bread and butter...

A very common mistake many less experienced servers make is imagining a correlation between the quality of the dining experience they facilitated for the customer and the amount of money they receive for their trouble.
Let me save you some time and a bit of dignity:

The mechanism by which you get money in return for a job well done is the same as the one in which the Tooth Fairy gives you money for a great big molar: fictional. As in, IT DOES NOT EXIST.

He's actually a pretty good tipper

People's tipping behaviour is derived from their respective personality types much more than any action on the part of the server. Countless studies back this up. Each person has a magic number that ties into their concepts of empathy and  general amiability. Some people are really nice. Really nice people are not going to penalise you for things that are obviously beyond your control, such as what items are on the menu and how much they cost, or if there is a pubic hair in their tiramisu. A nice person isn't going to look for an excuse to stiff you. If you get a great tip from a nice person, don't go getting a big head and for god's sake don't go bragging about it to the other servers. It's bad manners. And your ass might get jumped in the parking lot.

Likewise, a raging asshole is not going to be generous with their money. There are dickweeds out there who put their cigarette butts in the Salvation Army collection bucket and swerve to hit kittens. And unfortunately for us, these bastards also go out to eat. Don't bother trying to win them over or think that you can wow them into being kind to you and don't go analysing the paltry tip they gave you or try to critique yourself. Their stinginess is a character flaw that has NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. Don't bother trying to flirt, guilt or bend over backwards accommodating somebody's ridiculous peculiarity, like counting the ice cubes you put in their glass (yes there are crazy bitches that specify ice cube quantities, I wish that were a joke but it isn't) for a tip. Anybody that wouldn't be ashamed to demand that of you should be institutionalised, not catered to. I firmly believe that if we would all just stop spoiling them they would just get over themselves eventually. Or not, but either way man- dignity. You just can't put a price on that. But if you can, you belong in the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, not a restaurant.

no the OTHER whorehouse...

The Zen Buddhists have the perfect attitude, for waiting tables and everything else besides:

Desires and expectations are the sources of disappointment. Don’t cling to them. Do your work, walk your way.

You! Out of the GENE POOL!!

I think we can all agree that the food allergy thing has gotten completely out of hand. The other day I sold some food to a soccer mom that was given the thankless task of getting food for some kid (not hers, she was quick to point out) that had a 'protein allergy'. She was terrified of giving that poor little bastard the meal that would be his last. She finally decided to give him a big bag of steamed, unseasoned broccoli just to be safe. Personally, I think the kid's mom should be slapped for saddling this poor woman with that responsibility. The food allergy people are like that. They place the onus on us, the people who serve the food, to not kill them. I'm dead serious- I have had this many times and I'm sure you have too- "There aren't any (insert offending food item here) in this salad are there?" they chide "because I don't want to die...." Um. First of all, if I knew that if I ate an onion, or a piece of an onion I would go into anaphylaxis and die, I would not eat out. That is obvious. Here is the less obvious way of looking at this:


DISCLAIMER
If you or someone you know has a food allergy just stop reading now. Also if you are a sensitive type. Go watch Touched By An Angel reruns or kitten videos or whatever it is you people do.

                             He's just a damn cat and even he knows how dumb this is

If you are the type of person that can be murdered by a Nutter Butter AND you are dumb enough to put your life in the hands of a total stranger who gets paid $2.13 an hour then MAYBE there's a reason Mother Nature wants your ass dead. Notice how I said Mother Nature? That's because I'm not advocating eugenics here. People are way too flawed to make the 'who lives and who dies' decisions. But Nature's system is elegant and irrefutable. It got us to the top of the food chain as long as we stay out of shark infested waters and wear bear bells when hiking. But when pondering the question of what is a kid with a protein allergy made of I wonder how we as a species went from being able to put the fear into a fucking WOOLY MAMMOTH with nothing but a sharpened stick to people who can't eat bread.

"Holy shit-is that a Nutter Butter you have there? Please- anything but that!"

It is not my fault that you are genetically inferior to other humans. Do not try to imply that your deficiency is my problem and that if you die because I served you a brownie with a fragment of walnut on it your blood is on my hands. You're the one Mother Nature has put a bounty on not me. Stay home and drink protein shakes (if you're not allergic to protein anyway) and think about getting yourself sterilized before you spread your sickly DNA all over the place.

School of Hard Knocks

It's a good idea to try not to get inside the head of the people you are waiting on. If there were one piece of advice I would give a fledgling server (other than GET OUT NOW!) that would be it. That and the only equation that a server needs:
                                      quality of service ≠ good tip
 I repeat: do NOT try to get in their heads. And do not allow them to get into yours. There must be a psychic wall of separation. Once in a while you will encounter a wiseguy and challenging as it is you must maintain a professional demeanor. Take my advice, I'm not using it.

The other night I had the misfortune of waiting on a couple that was, contrary to all logic, on  a date at the Fajita Factory- possibly the least romantic venue since the pit in Silence of the Lambs.

Here it is made of Lego's. Thanks internet. And-WTF?

 But there they were, and it was one of those blokes whose solution to pattern baldness is shaving and waxing his head. That works for Bruce Willis. And only Bruce Willis. Try saying "Yippie ki yay, motherfucker!" and see if it sounds badass. It doesn't. Bruce Willis has powers other men lack, among them looking cool with a shiny bald dome head.

We at the Fajita Factory are forced to introduce ourselves and our 'zone partner' (don't you just love corporate America? So inventive!) during the greet. I do this and Ersatz Bruce Willis asks gamely (as 75% of them do) that "It takes two of you to wait on us?". After my veritable seizure of laughter and much wiping of tears of joy at his cleverness I respond, "Haven't you heard-it's the new economy. Two people have to share one job."

"Wow! You've got an answer for everything don't you? What is E=MC²?"
And so on. After some banter in which he doggedly refuses to get to the point and just order food he hits me with this beloved and well worn old saw:
 "You're really smart! Did you go to college?"

I just stare at him.

How is it possible that this Ersatz Bruce Willis doesn't understand how insulting it is to assume that because  I am waiting on him that I wouldn't have heard of the Theory of Relativity? Or that I didn't go to college. I know lots of brilliant philosophers and historians that sling pizza and beer.

"I didn't go to college actually. I hate school."

He just gapes at me. Literally.
"But...you're SO intelligent!" And I cannot stress enough to you, dear reader how thoroughly, unabashedly shocked at this fact dumbshit Ersatz Bruce Willis is. Like anyone could be educated without college (Abraham Lincoln) or that someone with a functioning mind would be waiting tables. Perhaps I should be doing something more dignified like politics or applying my laser like intellect at an office job putting cover sheets on the TPS reports?

Only 14 more years of this and I can pay off those student loans!

"What are you doing here?" he sputters.

I'm waiting for my Genius Grant from the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, that's what.

Tea Time

Friday night brings a slightly different crowd. It's the "♫ I got a li'l change in my pocket goin' jing a ling a ling ♫" crowd. That's right. Payday. Time to treat the clan to a fancy dinner at the Fajita Factory.

My favorite table this evening was a family of paint chip eaters that took exception to our methods of brewing sweet tea. If you are reading this and you don't live in the Deep South you may be fortunate enough to be unaware of the unique importance of sweet tea in the Holy Trinity of the South. One day I'll get around to chronicling this. Actually, I can do this right now. It goes like this:

"Every knee shall bow"

                

  

Jesus Christ/Johnny Van Zant

Elvis drinks this in heaven with General Lee

   


 Wow that was easier than I      thought.










 The conversation went like this:

Bubba: "I want something else to drink. Your sweet tea is nasty."

Me: "Oh? Is there something wrong with it?"

Bubba: "It's nasty."

Me: "I haven't had any complaints about it tonight."

Bubba: "It tastes nasty."

Me: "Hm. Well, I can get you something else, but I'm wondering if there's something wrong with it so I can    troubleshoot it. How does it taste?"

Bubba: "Nasty."

Me: "Is there another adjective you might be able to use to describe it?"

Bubba stares at me. I am beginning to get used to being stared at by my tables now.

Bubba: "Taste it. It tastes nasty."

Me: "It wouldn't help if I tasted it, I don't ever drink the stuff. I wouldn't know what it's supposed to taste like."

I may as well have said I only drink the blood of orange kittens. More staring. And why does he just keep saying nasty??

Bubba: "Do ya'll put bakin' soda in it?"

Me: "No."

Bubba: "Ya'll need to put bakin' soda in it. That makes it taste good. It...makes...it..uhh."

Bubba has gone and used up all his words.

Me: "It neutralizes some of the tannic acid and makes it less bitter?"
I'm honestly trying to help here.

Bubba's cousin declares: "It just ain't sweet enough!"


There you have it: the definition of 'nasty'.

Have A Drink On Me

Sometimes the sheer animal stupidity of people is too much to let pass without comment.

Last night I was waiting on a table of assorted hayseeds who were gathered together at the Fajita Factory for what I can only assume was a mini family reunion/pre incestuous group sex dinner. They obviously didn't get out much, and judging by the number of offspring present apparently didn't get the memo that people that devoid of any positive attributes should limit their reproduction to...say...zero.
After a chaotic dinner in which the senior hayseed mysteriously found it necessary to inform me repeatedly that he was 'from Georgia' they settled in for a marathon conversation about banjos and Nascar or whatever.
I was sweeping the appalling mess of nacho chips, goldfish crackers and powdered baby formula packets (only the finest chemical cocktails for the infants in the 'Burbs; Jesus doesn't like to see women nursing babies, it's pornographic) when Pa did the unthinkable. He came and found me with an urgency that would suggest the table was on fire. I hate it when they come looking for you. The absolute worst is when they wander into  the kitchen. The only time it's acceptable for some customer to wander into the kitchen is to inform everyone there was a zombie army gathering out in the parking lot, or a demon dog backing a nerdy accountant into the window.

"Ok. Who brought the dog?"

Not because they need more honey mustard. Anyway, here is the script of what happened next:

Pa: "Din't you  see me waving at you? I was doing this."(pantomimes very dramatic waving)

Remember this is the same guy that told me like 4 times he was from Georgia. For some reason.

Me: "Um, no actually. This sweeping is some difficult stuff that requires razor sharp focus and all of my mental ability."

Pa: "She needs you." (points to the table)

When I get to the table she is quite perturbed and snaps at me
Ma: "Can I git more drink?"
This is not really a question, and the tone would be more appropriate if she were saying something like 'I just kilt yer best hog, Hatfield!'

I look at the table and point to a full, frosty glass of coke sitting right in front of her next to her empty glass.
Me: "How about right there? Is that one going to work for you?"

She stares at it for a second and (I swear to God this is all true) says, pointing to Cletus "that's his." Except his is pronounced 'hee-is'.

Me: " No, he is drinking a Diet Coke. That is your Coke."
She is really incensed about my dogged refusal to be the one in the wrong here. Apparently.
Refusing to give it up she turns on Cletus.
Ma: "Is that yer drink rat theyur?"
Cletus: "Yeah."
Ma: "Are yew drankin' Diet Coke?"
Cletus (getting uncomfortable now) " Uh huh."

She looks at me. I look at her. She says, angrily, "Well I din't know yew brought a new one. You din't say nothin'."
Me: "Right. Usually I have this bell I ring when I bring drinks and I announce it like (ringing invisible bell) 'Hear Ye, Hear Ye, I bring a new drink for Milady'. But I left it at home today. Sorry about that."
They're all staring at me now. I think they're actually wondering if I do have a bell, and if it's shiny.

I polish it every night.

You dropped a bomb on me.

Today I helped  out a young co-worker by cashing out an old man that placed a carryout order. His change was ten  dollars and rather than give him a ten spot I gave him a five and five ones. For some reason this really, really chapped his ass and he did not hesitate to tell me so. He stared disconsolately at the bills in his hand and mumbled an old fart monologue for a bit. Gradually, intelligible words began to emerge and he wanted to know why I had to give him so many small bills. I chirpily (that's totally a word- chirpily. Like a perky little sparrow) replied "So you can give this young man here a tip, of course!"

He found this outrageous. He stared at me, steely eyed and spat out, " That's what I figured. I know what you're doing!"
He was on to me! Nonplussed I just smiled sweetly and said,"Well he has to make a living doesn't he?"
Wrong answer again! And now he starts to get really ugly and says,"If this is what he's doing for a living then he's screwed anyway."

Still refusing to let this old bastard get under my skin I say, still smiling, "Well he's young, he's still  got time."
To which he sneers back, "So what's your excuse?"

Just like that, he drops the bomb. And the little sparrow is gone.

Another Mother's Day

So I may be a bit late in getting around to commenting on the recent Mother's Day fiasco in Dining Out Land, but if I were the proactive type I probably wouldn't be stuck in Restaurant Hell either so...

Here's a list of things your Mom doesn't want for Mother's Day unless she is a Cenobite from the movie Hellraiser. If you don't know what I'm talking about go put Hellraiser on your Netflix queue this instant. It's a heartwarming classic about a lovelorn lady trying to reconnect with the love of her life. And there are Cenobites. They look like this:

Chocolates? You shouldn't have!

anyway here it is:  6 Things Your Mom DOESN'T want for Mother's Day

1. She doesn't want you to show her you love her by making your server's life a living hell. You cannot make up for years of being an ungrateful and horrid child by bullying your waitress into 'spoiling' your mom. This means that when you are treating mom by taking her out to a restaurant on the second busiest day of the year for the restaurant industry along with every other bastard in America that a table isn't going to grow out of the firmament for her, the chefs aren't going to stop cooking everyone else's food so they can cook your mom's food first and they are not going to give you your own concierge to ensure that your mom gets everything she wants instantly. She knows this. And so should you.

2. She doesn't want to get something expensive from the menu. You will only embarrass her if you try to goad her into letting you treat her with something extravagant that she wouldn't normally order. There is no way you can possibly atone for all the years of  deprivation she has suffered because of you so don't bother trying to reverse the order of things that you established years ago. She is a bona fide martyr now. If she wants to suffer through soup and a sandwich you just have to swallow the guilt. Try washing it down with a nice sauvignon blanc. It complements the taste of regret nicely.

3. She doesn't want you and your siblings to fight over the bill. The more adamant you are about trying to pay the less worthy a son you probably were. Everyone knows this.

4.She doesn't want you to get tanked so you can deal with your siblings or your dad. If you must, you're supposed to show up early and hit the bar before everyone else gets there. That way she can pretend your slurred speech is because you're tired from all the hard work you've been doing and not have to stare at a pile of empty Bud Light bottles on the table that serve as a testament to how dysfunctional your family actually is.

5. She doesn't want to eat at the restaurant you picked. She wants to eat at a restaurant you've never heard of because it's a restaurant that little old ladies like, one you wouldn't be caught dead in, unless you have a Golden Girls fetish. But since you don't really know your mom as a person, just as a caretaking unit, you wouldn't know that. And by the way, just to blow your mind, she has a dildo. Yup. You're welcome.


But most importantly:

6. She doesn't want you to act like you care about her once a year because Hallmark or Teleflora needs to move some product.

if you give this to your mom when you're a  kid you're adorable. If you give this to her when you're an adult you're a serial killer.

Soul Food

Here is a scenario for you:

You get a table. It's two middle aged men. When you go to greet them they turn two pairs of glassy sheep eyes upon you and say, with total sincerity, "We are going to pray for you! What would you like us to pray about?"

Yup.If you are fortunate enough to live anywhere on Earth that is not the epicenter of the shiniest part of the Buckle of the Bible Belt then this sounds like a bad joke. I am not so fortunate, and it happens all the time here. 

So what is the appropriate response to this mind boggling question?

a) You can talk to God? Seriously? Awesome! Ask him where I put my car keys."

b) Tell him to make all the stupid people sterile please.

c) Please tell the Easter Bunny to stop bringing me those little coin things. They taste like lard.

d) Pray for me to get a real job so I don't have to deal with lunatics like you.

e) Dude, if God is as ineffable and omnipotent as you guys are always saying then you could just think to him in your mind. Therefore we both know that all this holy roller shit is just for show so we can all be impressed at how pious you are, which means you are probably using religion as a means of misdirection to obfuscate how utterly corrupt your soul actually is.

 

f) wow I can't believe I've made it to f. Maybe I should have gone with bullet points?

g) Don't bother. Wise men made Him up thousands of years ago to frighten the weak minded into behaving. You may as well pray to Santa Claus to bring me a pony.

All these things run through my mind while they patiently stare at me, holding hands over the table like they're at a seance. Grown men. 

I usually say something to the effect of, "Hey man, you know what? I'm good. I'm just happy to be alive."

"He'll have the mahi mahi."

Amen to that.

The Last Straw

I apologise for the puns. I believe it's what psychologists call a 'coping mechanism'.
Here's a scenario for you: It's a busy dinner shift and you are serving a tray of drinks to a large party of people. On one hand is a tray on which there are eight precariously balanced glasses of  assorted beverages. Your other hand is passing out these beverages to the table.  In addition to the dexterity this requires there is the added challenge of shoehorning yourself between these people  to place the drinks on the table without spilling them since they will inevitably stare dumbly at you like farm animals and offer  no assistance. As soon as the first drink touches the table one of these creatures will bleat out something about a straw.

"Can I have a straw?"

There is no reason they shouldn't be able to grasp the idea that it is a physical impossibility for you to simultaneously hand out a mess of drinks and straws. Check it out- it doesn't even occur to them. The logistics of how things get in their mouth is of no concern to them. It's up to you to make it happen. Now. Drinking out of a glass is just too slow. That shit needs to get in their mouth and they need a goddamn tool for that.

Holy crap, the Chinese have invented the Perfect Waiter!

How did we used to drink before straws? Conventional wisdom dictates that straws are useful because they reduce the contact between your teeth and the compounds in soft drinks that want to turn your teeth into mini marshmallows. But that kind of begs the question that if phosphoric acid and high fructose corn syrup are so destructive for your teeth that they shouldn't even touch them then maybe you should not be ingesting soft drinks at all, much less demanding a device to help you guzzle them down even faster.

What I'm curious about is if you were able to perform that miracle, i.e., if you had a vestigial third hand that grew out of your chest and this weird little appendage snaked its way out of your shirt and handed them the straw with the drink would they be impressed or horrified? Or would they even notice?

"Who had the sweet tea?"

Can I take your odor?

Sorry for the delay in new posts, dear reader. I have been unwell due to the unrelenting assault on my sinuses. You may assume, logically, that I'm referring to pollen. Nope. Pollen is a natural part of our world, a nuisance to be sure, but something your senses can cope with. I'm talking about people. Smelly, smelly people. Old ladies specifically. For some reason I seem to be the preferred server for dried up old widows that have marinated in Sweet Honesty perfume their entire lives. I have the nose of a bloodhound and this is my personal Hell. I'm not a princess type- I can handle skunk spray, dead possums and Port-a-Potties cooking in the summer sun. But I would rather breathe in the crusty fallout wafting from the patchouli scented dreadlocks of a whole horde of Umphreys McGee fans than endure one more woman that smells like the entire staff of the Moonlight Bunny Ranch. One thing you will notice about these old biddies is that they are never accompanied by men. FACT. They are always eating with other women, usually other not quite as old ladies who are mysteriously immune to their +5 crippling eau de parfum attack. How, you may ask? It's simple: just like in the horror stories vampires always have a Renfield, a human that does their bidding but is unaffected by their creepy magic, these fragrant she-ghouls have human sidekicks. They are apprentices who have sold their souls to Mary Kay in order to learn the Dark Secrets of the Sisterhood. I have noticed that the Smelly Ones always eat very little, usually soup and a whole mess of crackers. That's because they don't get their sustenance from food. They get it from the bodies of their many dead husbands, whose dessicated carcasses swing  lazily from the rafters in the attic amongst  piles of old  romance novels and dusty Nativity ornaments.

Don't forget the crackers.

Why we drink

 66YWA3RSBXXX

Completely drained by a Kids Eat Free dinner shift, I only have the energy to relay an actual conversation with a table this evening:

A family of nine, Ma, Pa, Grandpa, Auntie and a passel of young 'uns which included a little girl around 4 years old that was a ruddy little butterball ordering dinner. After a starter of cheese fries each of them ordered fried chicken and substituted their vegetables for a double helping of cheese fries with extra ranch dressing. It was at this time that I began to suspect the cause of their collective obesity...

Grandpa decides he wants fajitas, to the clan's consternation.

Me: "How do you feel about guacamole?"

Paw: "Huh what?"

Me: "Are you a fan of guacamole?"

Paw: "Naw."

Me: "Would you like something in place of guacamole, more pico de gallo or sour cream perhaps?"

Paw. "Jest give it to me normal."

Me: "It comes with sour cream, pico, mixed cheese and guacamole. If you don't like guacamole we will  double up on one of the other things. Which of them would you like?"

Paw: "Jest make it like it comes."

Me: "I need you to tell me what you would like it to come with."

Paw: "I want it normal. Do it like normal."

Me: "It is up to you, sir to determine what normal is. What. Would. You. Like. With. Your. Fajita?"

Paw looks around the table at his slack jawed kin. He is beginning to regret deviating from the fried chicken option. "I want it like how you make it."

This goes on for some time until I am forced to make an executive decision: "You appear to be big  fans of cheese. How about cheese? A lot of cheese?"

It turned out he didn't want "none of that other stuff" after all.

Valentine's Day is rubbish

Too soon?

It's that time of year again, gentle readers when I go on my perpetual Valentine's Day rant. For those of you currently in the throes of a dizzy romance, just read on and shake your head at how jaded I am. Then come back to it in about a year and a half. That's right. Because romance is rubbish and Valentine's Day is the high holy day of nauseating delusion and of course, marketing. If the jewelry store ads were honest they would say "Compensate your wife for putting up with you for another year! A tennis bracelet is cheaper than divorce!"
Or perhaps, "Get a necklace for your girlfriend this Valentine's Day and she may go down on you! Sure it would be cheaper and more of a sure thing to go to the Happy Fortunes Health Spa but that will make you feel dirty inside."

That's the ugly truth. Not that Ugly Truth. Even the presence of Gerard Butler couldn't persuade me to endure that movie, yet another comedy that uses irreverent 'guy humour' and sex as the bait on a barbed hook of what is obviously a chick flick. However, the picture says it all. The truth is that love, that breathless, passionate whirlwind that feels like a family of chipmunks in your gut, that kind of love is a myth. What?! Yes indeed. As far as Mother Nature is concerned, we are meat puppets she moves around with hormones in order to ensure a constant supply of  more little meat puppets and so on. Eventually she will probably change her game plan in light of how messy we have made the place but for now it's the mating game all the way. And the chief puppet string in all this is oxytocin. It's this hormone that makes us go on the crazy love bender. It engenders feelings of elation and suppresses cortisol, the stress hormone that we restaurant people are junkies for. It makes us feel safe and all tingly inside. It makes us feel in love. What produces oxytocin, you may ask. Well let's just say there's a lot of it going around at the Happy Fortunes Health Spa. Blowjobs. Yep. And all that good stuff. Orgasms are nothing but oxytocin generators and when you're trippin' on that stuff you feel just like Bella in a meadow with Edward, frozen in a moment of endless adoration. But, like sparkly vegetarian emo vampires, this feeling is fictional.

"How could this EVER get old?"

 Of course it feels authentic while you're experiencing it. The Flower Children in the '60's really believed the Age of Aquarius was upon us and the Nuwabians believe in the Spell of Kingu. Seriously, Google it. The point is that the use of drugs persist in our society because they work. Love is just another of these chemical compounds. It looks like this:

Mmmm.That's good lovin'.

"Do you do anything special for birthdays?"

What did we used to do to celebrate birthdays before our culture became a giant satire of itself? Perhaps in the old days when we all owned one pair of shoes that we only wore to church and walked around barefoot the rest of the time the birthday was something that passed without much incident, or maybe we would get a reprieve from having to milk the cow. If we were among the elite we may have a ball thrown in our honour and a boar would be roasted, musicians assembled while we minuet the night away like some Jane Austen story, ladies gathered around the Waterford crystal punchbowl giggling elegantly. Oh, and we would give the peasants the day off.

And what about now, in modern times? How do we commemorate the anniversary of the birth of our friends and family? If we really want to show them the depth of our esteem we will stop at a grocery store and get a cake off the shelf. It will be either yellow cake that tastes like freezer burn and plastic or chocolate cake that tastes like freezer burn and chicory. It will be frosted with stuff that came from a bag of powder that was re hydrated and coloured with food dyes that have been banned in most European countries (what do they know about science, stupid Europeans) and tastes like cotton candy and methamphetamine. If you're lucky you will be able to get the lady in the bakery to personalise it for you. If you're really lucky, none of her seething hatred about her subsistence wages and lack of a decent company insurance plan will be psychically telegraphed into the cake and curse you and all your friends that eat it. And don't forget the candles!

But there's something even worse than that paltry scenario.Yes, it's the restaurant birthday. That is the absolute nadir of the birthday repertoire, the lamest of the lame. These idiots get so excited about it and aren't ashamed to show it. When you go to greet a table and one of them gets that mischievous twinkle in their eye, you know what's coming. But just like a bad dream, you can't get away. "Do you do anything special for birthdays?" they enquire with a girlish giggle.

Here's what you want to say, what your soul is screaming to reply but like in the nightmare the words just won't come out:

 "Oh sure, we are forced, like literally forced to go and draft several other employees to drop what they're doing, no matter how busy and come over here to you, a party of complete strangers that we now despise to atonally and listlessly recite a trite and disingenuous litany that contains empty words of goodwill when in fact we would love nothing more than for all of you to drop dead right now."

"Great! Do you have cake?"  

Why would you want to broadcast to an entire restaurant of people the fact that you are such a pathetic friend/relative/spouse that you were too lazy to stop at the Wal Mart bakery and now have to demand a free slice of stale tasteless cake at a chain restaurant? You are making a spectacle of someone that tradition dictates you should be celebrating. It only makes sense if the birthday boy/girl is under ten years old, and if they are, that makes you an even bigger pile of shit for dragging them out for dinner when if you had any class you would throw them an actual party at home, or rent out the Champagne Room at Chuck E Cheese. Are we supposed to drag out a pony, all arrayed in equine finery for them to ride around the restaurant?

"It's a living."

 Perhaps some balloon animals

That is EXACTLY what it looks like

...or this guy?

"You have to sleep sometime!"

This video says it all:

I.F.H. MONDAY'S from Nick Swardson

Small children in restaurants

Have you ever been working a crazy shift where your cortisol levels were up there in Top Gun mode and you were balancing twelve theoretical plates on top of  twelve metaphorical sticks while walking a tightrope of hypothetical fire and you go to a table with a minute window in which to take their order, only to have everything skid to a screeching halt while some snotnosed child is given the opportunity to 'tell the nice lady/gentlemen what you want, honey'? Time slows down. Everything stops. You glance anxiously around at your 19 other tables that need drinks, their check, napkins, dessert, ice, more lemons for their ghetto lemonade and of course, more  ranch dressing. The clock is ticking and everyone's attention is directed to this kid, this little tyrant who won't take his eyes off his Gameboy (I'm calling them Gameboys forever, I don't care. DSi, DsLite, PsP whatever.They will always be Gameboys) and rather than stepping into the role of 'The Decider' the inept parent will make you wait, internally chronicling the 92 things you could be doing while this benumbed and distracted child mumbles something inaudible or giggles and bangs his head on the table. This is the sound of money going down the drain:
"What do you want to eat Billy?"

He'll have the mahi mahi

"*mumble mumble*"
"Do you want a corn dog?"
"Macaroni!"
"They don't have macaroni, honey."
"MACARONI!"
"Do you want pizza?"
"Macaroni pizza!"
"Get off the floor Billy. Do you want a burger?"
"I like Pokemon!"
"How about a burger? Get him a burger."
"I want ice cream.I want ice cream!Ice cream!"
Harried server: "It comes with one side item. Which would you like?"
"MACARONI!"
And so on.

When did adults decide that being in charge was too much hassle? Do these people let the kids decide what time they want to go to bed (never) and what they wear to school ( Darth Vader helmet and pajamas) or if they would rather go outside and play or stay in and play XBox (why play football when you can play Madden 11)? I hope not, but they actually might. A kid that still hides under the table at restaurants is not sophisticated enough to make dietary decisions for himself.

I blame Charles Dickens. Yup. Before his cornball little stories, children had a position on the social scale above farm animals but firmly beneath adults. Any adults, not just their parents. People had kids because they were organic sources of free labor who took care of you in your old age. They were quiet and respectful and were content with a cup and ball or a hoop. They got to run around and play until they were about eight years old before they were forced into a  life of hard labor that was mercifully cut short by diphtheria. Then Dickens laid a colossal guilt trip on everyone with that Christmas Carol and Little Nell business. Fast forward to 150 years later and the little bastards are running the show.This is a classic case of the lunatics taking over the asylum.

ranch tsunami

In the aftermath of a brutal double at the Fajita Factory, it occurs to me that my job would be infinitely easier if my uniform had the following upgrade:...

I'm only doing this until I finish my degree in comparative Armenian literature.

...except instead of shots of Red Headed Slut like in the picture it was a big ole' tank of ranch dressing. Seriously. Just about everything on our menu is just a vehicle for, or thing to dip in or slather ranch dressing on. Which is pretty gross just on principle but gets truly disgusting when you realize just how heart stoppingly unhealthy it actually is. 2 fluid ounces, a typical ramekin is an artery clogging 38% of your recommended daily fat intake, 20% of saturated fat and 15% of your daily sodium. That should make you want to go fondle a defibrillator right now. Hell, we should mount those on our backs just for good measure. Maybe we could work it into the hostesses' uniform. I was up until recently blissfully unaware just how nasty the ranch lovin' could get. It isn't uncommon for one person to ask for a small bowl of it with their battered and fried beast. 

I used to wonder where ranch dressing got its name, but now I believe that its called ranch because if you eat it all the time you become a hulking smelly herd creature like the cattle that live on...yes. You get it. Ranches.  Hey, for those long shifts you could strap on this number:

Who wants some?

I'm not saying the Satanic stuff doesn't taste good. You could toss a week old roadkilled possum in it and it would make it palatable but that is precisely why it is so evil. There are lots of things that are gratifying to the senses that are just plain wrong, for example unprotected sex with strangers. That sort of thing has become stigmatized because now we know about things like syphilis and other worse afflictions. Not that long ago it was commonplace for respectable gentlemen to frequent brothels. If you look into it, almost all of the Impressionist painters (except for Claude Monet, the lamb!)  had some venereal disease or another, probably from the same skanky hooker. But these days our fear of a slow and painful death has taken a lot of the glamor out of prostitution unless you're a governor or senator. Now that we know about dietary science it's time for ranch dressing to take its ride off into the sunset of history as well. You know it's gotten out of hand when they have these at weddings:

Yep. Exactly what it looks like.This couldn't be more pornographic if it was fountain of jizz.

the manifesto

This is my first announcement. I started this blog so my brothers and sisters can have a place of their own to kvetch, philosophize and share their experiences in this sordid business that pays our bills. I think of it as group therapy, and Gods know we need it. Gods, you say? That's right, because I don't care what religion you are (or aren't) what gender you are or are into or any of that. We are all in this together, a giant fraternity of intelligent individuals who for various reasons don't fit into the 9 to 5 workforce. It can be demeaning to wait on folks and the general lack of respect we endure doesn't help. Some people think they're better than us because we are servers. Some men confuse us females with their girlfriends because of their fucked up views on women, and somewhere there is a gnarly cougar hitting on a waiter young enough to be her son, and he's going along with it because he needs the money. Who is taking advantage of who in this scenario? The answer is: nobody. We all benefit from it, even though it can be less glamorous than sucking the shit out of a port-a-potty sometimes. This is not a place for angry rants. Ok, this is not a place just for angry rants. Those, while cathartic aren't productive. Let us try to learn from experience, and find ways to enjoy the waiting game.You don't have to be a server to relate to this. Retail wage slaves suffer the same kind of idiots as us and they don't even get tips to ease the pain. Just in case you've never seen the Twilight Zone episode that gave my blog its name, here ya go: