"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: