I haven’t written much of anything in years. Not a blog. Not a post on Facebook.
Getting a degree wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. That magical piece of paper, my diploma, was supposed to open doors like the Golden Ticket in Charlie’s Chocolate Factory. It was supposed to be a leg up. It wasn’t anything of the sort.
After college, I stayed in the restaurants while I looked for work. Eventually was fired from the last bar I’d written about because I refused to be a wench, cleaning up colossal messes after holiday parties I did not partake in by myself. This moment forced me into the job market, searching desperately for anything that my skills applied to. Here is where I tell you majoring in Communications was a very bad idea.
I worked for a marketing firm for one week. I find it hard to say marketing firm as the group, Jacob James, hired in kids off the street to go door-to-door, B2B in my case and pedal either T-Mobile accounts or get people to switch over to Direct Energy as their alternative gas supplier. I shadowed a girl for a week, didn’t make the cut because forcing people’s hands in business was not my thing. I was literally dumped off at a McDonalds on her route and had to find a way home- the company did not pay me a penny for the time worked.
Eventually I caught a break and got a position as a call center representative for the gas company and in a year, made it out of that department into another role where I currently do work.
Nothing is glamorous; life is check-to-check.
I was accompanied through much of this time by a boyfriend, of now five years together. And just now have confirmed suspicions that he is not who I thought- living a double life, a wife at home who had rarely seen him in the last half decade.
Needless to say, life throws you curveballs. Lemons. What have you.
It’s what you make of it.
I don’t know where I’ll go from here, and frankly I’m all but quite lost.
In a job that I hate, with no one to greet me at home. Life was much easier pretending to care about what customers wanted to eat for the evening, as I sit here now thinking I haven’t eaten in days.
It was easier being surrounded by fake people than those who can truly hurt you.
The Waiting Game has now become my life.
The Good.
The Bad...
And the Ugly.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Monday, August 17, 2015
Let's Be Honest
It's been awhile, once again.I am plagued with the truth. The reality. I am a twenty-seven year-old female, and as we all like to say, "not getting any younger". My resume indicates that I have worked at many different customer service establishments, whether it be retail, salon services, or restaurants. I have taken longer than necessary to complete a mere four-year degree, my Bachelor of Arts in Communication. What did this shit-your-pants, overly-expensive piece of paper guarantee me? Absolutely nothing.
College does not prepare you for what happens after you hit that glorious milestone of walking across the stage and shaking the uncomfortably sweaty palm of the dean himself. It fails to mention this unbearable and hellish purgatory of interminable waiting and mindless searching you will be faced with, dealing with one door after another either shut, or worse, with no one to answer your knock.
Graduating did not guarantee me a job, much less a fighting chance in the massive pool of other applicants vying for similar positions. My resume shows others that I have had consistent work experience since I was much younger. That I am disciplined. That I can multitask between school and work. That I am willing to learn. That I can adapt. I did not have the opportunity to access a non-existent college fund that allowed
me to attend a prestigious
university of my choice (and let's be honest- didn't have the grades to back it), and furthermore to become a shoe-in at mommy or daddy's law firm. While living on my own, and digging myself out of a self-induced hole, I knew I could not afford to work for free, so scratch any internship-- behind the bar I resided.
Inching closer to six months post graduation, I have to figure out a way to deal with the repayment of loans, doomed to wait tables because any possible leads I had, people who said, "Send me your cover letter and resume," were really nothing but hot air. Hot air that dissipates, much like my hopes in finding an employer to accept my skill set. Although frustrated, I've failed and found myself back at the drawing board countless times, searching for Square One.
I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, staying at a restaurant I am growing to dislike more and more each day. Life is too short to be miserable.
Let me be clear. I am a bartender on paper. Nothing more, nothing less.
You ask, on paper? Yes, on paper. That is my work title. So what do you envision? A girl, behind the bar, pouring drinks. Smiling like an idiot. Serving food. Maintaining tasks. Teamwork.
Ah, but I am much more. I have just grown old of the revolving door and serious lack of growth potential.
My goal is to ride it out. Let it be.
But really,
let's be honest.
When you have been treading water vigorously for quite a while, you become excruciatingly exhausted. The point where your muscles burn, your lungs feel weighted and crushed before you dare to choose to give up. To let your head slip beneath the surface. I'm at that point. I want out. While the service industry has been good, there comes a time where all good things must come to an end.
But that is just it-- where I become painfully aware of the rock and that hard place.
There is no Plan B.
-- Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
www.oakland.edu
www.burntorangereport.com
www.991thewhale.com
www.3000newswire.blogs.com
www.udayavani.com
Monday, June 1, 2015
The "S" Word
There's always "that special guest" every once in awhile that makes your shift just a little more memorable. That particular night was this past Sunday.
She had come in earlier that afternoon. The White Rabbit is actually closed on the weekend from 3:00-5:00pm, allowing the workers a long enough break to flip over the kitchen stock and execute the necessary sidework.
Our worker, Ali, set down what she was doing, and greeted the woman, apologizing for the inconvenience but inviting her to return at 5:00. The woman had nothing short of a dozen questions before she left. Patiently, Ali answered each query before the woman left.
Hours later, the same woman returns. Lucky me, she sits at the bar. I warmly greet her, and offer a food and drink menu, awaiting her request.
...But then she starts, "I was here earlier. I came all the way from Dearborn, and I need to tell you, your worker in the blue is very rude."
Those are always my favorite icebreakers with guests. I in turn apologized and heard out her side of the story... Not that I hadn't already seen and heard the entire exchange earlier. I thanked her for coming back in to dine with us, and continued on to take what I already had a gut-feeling about, the single-handedly most obnoxious drink order I have ever encountered. I spent the next few minutes hurriedly running to the basement several times to check our stock.
Finally, muddling every piece of fruit we had to offer, I shook up her cocktail. Our guest then puts in her order. Minutes drag by as I'm listening to her rant on about professionalism in the workplace, hoping this appetizer would come out soon.
It was one of those days.
Alas. The appetizer.
The woman picks a piece of food up, sniffs it (oh yes, she did), and then proceeds to take a bite. As if
she was having an epiphany, she was suddenly aware of what she was eating. She told me to call
over the manager. I couldn't wait for this one.
Richard approaches.
She pinched a wad of food off of her plate. Holding it in the air, she exclaims, "This is a damn potato chop. I'm married to a Chaldean, and this is a Chaldean dish."
My manager has this expression on his face that reads, yes-- obviously, it is a potato chop. Your point is?She waves the little fried disc in his face. "How are you going to be Chaldean and have a Chaldean dish on your menu, and not call it by it's Chaldean name? That is an injustice to your people. You need to change the name on your menu."
Here's the deal. The restaurant is owned by Richard's wife, Ellen. Yes, they are Chaldean. A good portion of the people who come into the restaurant are friends and family of the couple, so they know what is on the menu. Everyone else? Regular, plain, boring, all-American people. Just your average Joes.
If I said "potato chop" would you know what you were eating? Chances are, no, you wouldn't. The name we use at the restaurant gives guests who are not familiar with a cultural dish a better undertanding of what they are ordering. That's all. No harm, no foul, no offense intended.
So. We go from her upset with Ali, to barking at Richard, to insinuating another manager of mine is "a little sweet, if you know what I mean".
Anything else?
Yes, I'm afraid she didn't stop there.
Two younger girls sat down beside the woman. Off in their own little world, they sipped on martinis made by yours truly, and carried on with conversations of where they had just traveled.
"Scotland was wonderful," the blonde gushed, "Best trip ever!"
The brunette beside her nodded in agreement, adding, "Georgia was amazing. We went on a haunted tour of places in the area and saw some homes that were used in the underground railroad during slavery. "
Now, I didn't mention this before because it is truly irrelevant to me who I wait on-- what color they are, how much money they make, where they come from, what they drive, who their daddy is, you name it. Everybody's money is green to me. Having said that, the woman who had been under my skin for the last hour and a half, is fully or at least part African-American.
She had whipped around in her seat, and nearly went off on the two girls who had been minding their own business until now.
"What did you just say?! I find that VERY offensive"
Mind you, so far, everything seemed to be offensive that day.
She reeled a deathlook at the girl who just returned from Georgia. "You need to watch what you say. You don't know what you're talking about and who was affected...."
Completely abashed, the girls looked at eachother lost for words. I stepped away from my bar entirely worn out from this woman, leaving the hot-headed situation to my male-counterpart coworker to defuse.
Look. I get it.
All she heard-- the only word that made her ears ring-- was the "s" word, slavery.
The girl meant nothing by it. Are people a bit numb to it? Yes. Are people also over-sensitive as well? Absolutely.
I am not going to sit here and go on about how long ago slavery was. That my daddy, nor his daddy, or the daddies before him-- did they ever own slaves. That just because I am white did "my people" ever oppress yours, nor were we born with a silver spoon in our mouths. My ancestors were indentured servants from Eastern Europe. I am only the second generation in. They had come over here with no money, and no belongings and no idea as to where they belonged in this country. My ancestors were so poor, they used flour sacks for underwear. Do not be so quick to judge when you assume someone is talking badly about a non-joking matter just because they are lighter than your own skin tone. When it comes down to it, you are very privileged yourself and there should be no room to talk. Here I am, listening to you complain, all the while I am serving your highness.
The golden moment of handing out the check came, and I gladly took payment, bidding her adieu.
All I could say was "wow". There are two lessons I took away from that exchange.
1. What I took from the girls: Be careful what you say, and who can hear you. There may be people who misconstrue your message, even if you are being decent.
2. From my guest of honor: Not everyone is out to get you. Nobody in the restaurant was attacking you, ignoring you, or defaming you or your husband's "people". That until you started bad-mouthing everyone, I gave you my best service as you are my guest, and even after then did I ask "how high" when told to jump. Just because someone had the audacity to dare use the "s" word did they use it with any racist undertones. You are sitting here in one of the wealthiest cities in Michigan, sipping on some alcohol. Just breathe.
While Sunday night was in the very least as intriguing as it also was a migraine to sit through, I cannot wait for the next dose of entertainment.
Until then, it's all in a day's work.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Keep Calm - www.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk
Potato Chop Tutorial- www.youtube.com
S Word - www.archive.burlingtonfreepress.com
Ralph Said Fudge - www.pleasecutthecrap.com
Your People - www.etsy.com
She had come in earlier that afternoon. The White Rabbit is actually closed on the weekend from 3:00-5:00pm, allowing the workers a long enough break to flip over the kitchen stock and execute the necessary sidework.
Our worker, Ali, set down what she was doing, and greeted the woman, apologizing for the inconvenience but inviting her to return at 5:00. The woman had nothing short of a dozen questions before she left. Patiently, Ali answered each query before the woman left.
Hours later, the same woman returns. Lucky me, she sits at the bar. I warmly greet her, and offer a food and drink menu, awaiting her request.
...But then she starts, "I was here earlier. I came all the way from Dearborn, and I need to tell you, your worker in the blue is very rude."
Those are always my favorite icebreakers with guests. I in turn apologized and heard out her side of the story... Not that I hadn't already seen and heard the entire exchange earlier. I thanked her for coming back in to dine with us, and continued on to take what I already had a gut-feeling about, the single-handedly most obnoxious drink order I have ever encountered. I spent the next few minutes hurriedly running to the basement several times to check our stock.
Finally, muddling every piece of fruit we had to offer, I shook up her cocktail. Our guest then puts in her order. Minutes drag by as I'm listening to her rant on about professionalism in the workplace, hoping this appetizer would come out soon.
It was one of those days.
Alas. The appetizer.
The woman picks a piece of food up, sniffs it (oh yes, she did), and then proceeds to take a bite. As if
she was having an epiphany, she was suddenly aware of what she was eating. She told me to call
over the manager. I couldn't wait for this one.
Richard approaches.
She pinched a wad of food off of her plate. Holding it in the air, she exclaims, "This is a damn potato chop. I'm married to a Chaldean, and this is a Chaldean dish."
My manager has this expression on his face that reads, yes-- obviously, it is a potato chop. Your point is?She waves the little fried disc in his face. "How are you going to be Chaldean and have a Chaldean dish on your menu, and not call it by it's Chaldean name? That is an injustice to your people. You need to change the name on your menu."
Here's the deal. The restaurant is owned by Richard's wife, Ellen. Yes, they are Chaldean. A good portion of the people who come into the restaurant are friends and family of the couple, so they know what is on the menu. Everyone else? Regular, plain, boring, all-American people. Just your average Joes.
If I said "potato chop" would you know what you were eating? Chances are, no, you wouldn't. The name we use at the restaurant gives guests who are not familiar with a cultural dish a better undertanding of what they are ordering. That's all. No harm, no foul, no offense intended.
So. We go from her upset with Ali, to barking at Richard, to insinuating another manager of mine is "a little sweet, if you know what I mean".
Anything else?
Yes, I'm afraid she didn't stop there.
Two younger girls sat down beside the woman. Off in their own little world, they sipped on martinis made by yours truly, and carried on with conversations of where they had just traveled.
"Scotland was wonderful," the blonde gushed, "Best trip ever!"
The brunette beside her nodded in agreement, adding, "Georgia was amazing. We went on a haunted tour of places in the area and saw some homes that were used in the underground railroad during slavery. "
Now, I didn't mention this before because it is truly irrelevant to me who I wait on-- what color they are, how much money they make, where they come from, what they drive, who their daddy is, you name it. Everybody's money is green to me. Having said that, the woman who had been under my skin for the last hour and a half, is fully or at least part African-American.
She had whipped around in her seat, and nearly went off on the two girls who had been minding their own business until now.
"What did you just say?! I find that VERY offensive"
Mind you, so far, everything seemed to be offensive that day.
She reeled a deathlook at the girl who just returned from Georgia. "You need to watch what you say. You don't know what you're talking about and who was affected...."
Completely abashed, the girls looked at eachother lost for words. I stepped away from my bar entirely worn out from this woman, leaving the hot-headed situation to my male-counterpart coworker to defuse.
Look. I get it.
All she heard-- the only word that made her ears ring-- was the "s" word, slavery.
The girl meant nothing by it. Are people a bit numb to it? Yes. Are people also over-sensitive as well? Absolutely.
I am not going to sit here and go on about how long ago slavery was. That my daddy, nor his daddy, or the daddies before him-- did they ever own slaves. That just because I am white did "my people" ever oppress yours, nor were we born with a silver spoon in our mouths. My ancestors were indentured servants from Eastern Europe. I am only the second generation in. They had come over here with no money, and no belongings and no idea as to where they belonged in this country. My ancestors were so poor, they used flour sacks for underwear. Do not be so quick to judge when you assume someone is talking badly about a non-joking matter just because they are lighter than your own skin tone. When it comes down to it, you are very privileged yourself and there should be no room to talk. Here I am, listening to you complain, all the while I am serving your highness.
The golden moment of handing out the check came, and I gladly took payment, bidding her adieu.
All I could say was "wow". There are two lessons I took away from that exchange.
1. What I took from the girls: Be careful what you say, and who can hear you. There may be people who misconstrue your message, even if you are being decent.
2. From my guest of honor: Not everyone is out to get you. Nobody in the restaurant was attacking you, ignoring you, or defaming you or your husband's "people". That until you started bad-mouthing everyone, I gave you my best service as you are my guest, and even after then did I ask "how high" when told to jump. Just because someone had the audacity to dare use the "s" word did they use it with any racist undertones. You are sitting here in one of the wealthiest cities in Michigan, sipping on some alcohol. Just breathe.
While Sunday night was in the very least as intriguing as it also was a migraine to sit through, I cannot wait for the next dose of entertainment.
Until then, it's all in a day's work.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Keep Calm - www.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk
Potato Chop Tutorial- www.youtube.com
S Word - www.archive.burlingtonfreepress.com
Ralph Said Fudge - www.pleasecutthecrap.com
Your People - www.etsy.com
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Who I Am
It's easy-- all too easy-- to immerse yourself in an environment different than what you are accustomed to, and in time gradually lose yourself. You lose your social identity and gain traits, practices, and beliefs of those around you. You assimilate and become just another face in the enormous crowd milling around you, melding in with the next.
Yet there are times that violently jerk you out of your skewed, pseudo-reality and remind you that this of which you have surrounded yourself with... isn't who you are at all. Like awakening out of a sweat-inducing nightmare, you open your eyes and realize the actual truth, and in knowing so, you are saved.
With that, let me tell you I have played this game. A pawn at best, I've shifted around the board, dodging the coup de grace from "friends" and enemies alike, trying to hold my place to the best of my ability.
I recently found myself pinned in a booth at a coney after work one evening-- clustered by familiar people whom had closed out the bars downtown prior to needing their fourth meal. I was offered money to go home with one of them. $500...whatever I wanted... $800.
"Come home with me," he incessantly begged, grabbing at my face.
What shocked me is that not less than a month ago I had been a guest in his home, accompanied by my current, and potentially my last boyfriend. He had already been introduced to my future of which I am invested in... I reminded the man of this.
Scoffing, he griped about my boyfriend's profession, an honorable one at that. Shaking a disheveled head and contorted face at the confusion to my adamant response, he replied that I would never be taken care of-- but what does that mean? With money? When you leave this world, you leave with nothing. What is money if there is no love...
Insulted and angered, I left that night and stewed. The thought that the horrific ideology of others in this insidious society which everything-- and everyone-- has a price was both alarming and offensive. It was catching spit to the face. Excuses (from others) that he was drunk were to of no effect to me, and do not rectify the situation. As we all know, alcohol lowers inhibition and the true character rears its ugly head.
This was my realization. I am better than that. I deserve better than that. The last few years of running amuck in a crowd that prides itself on wealth and vanity won't get me anywhere, and was an egregious error on my behalf for ever doing so. What do I have to offer in a group such as that? I cannot even bring myself to think... I only devalue myself by continuing to be devalued by others. This isn't me.
I've always had a tendency to be savoir-faire. To do what it took to be accepted, and get ahead. To be agreeable. To be liked. To say what others wanted to hear. To adapt and make do of any given situation. There comes a time though, when adapting only hurts you and hinders individuality. It goes against your beliefs, your feelings and everything you stand for. This behavior, the pomp and circumstance of an elitist crowd, was never a part of me which defined me-- I was raised better than that, but it is one of the broken fragments of my past that I need to put to rest and in doing so, move forward,.
I am happy to have found work, albeit temporary, until I can segue into a career. I am happy to have a family that supports me as I continue to better myself, and I am proud to be with someone who loves me for who I am.
I can't be bought-- not with money, purses nor red-bottomed shoes. None of your colorful, silken shirts will ever win me over, Gatsby. I'm not a friend for when it is only convenient.
And to you? I am just your bartender, with a brighter future than you could ever imagine.
-- Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Money- www.passedupstrange.blogspot.com - getty images
Assimilation- www.loosenessofassociation.com
Ecard- www.steffieshare.wordpress.com
Great Gatsby- www.pinterest.com
Yet there are times that violently jerk you out of your skewed, pseudo-reality and remind you that this of which you have surrounded yourself with... isn't who you are at all. Like awakening out of a sweat-inducing nightmare, you open your eyes and realize the actual truth, and in knowing so, you are saved.
With that, let me tell you I have played this game. A pawn at best, I've shifted around the board, dodging the coup de grace from "friends" and enemies alike, trying to hold my place to the best of my ability.
I recently found myself pinned in a booth at a coney after work one evening-- clustered by familiar people whom had closed out the bars downtown prior to needing their fourth meal. I was offered money to go home with one of them. $500...whatever I wanted... $800.
"Come home with me," he incessantly begged, grabbing at my face.
What shocked me is that not less than a month ago I had been a guest in his home, accompanied by my current, and potentially my last boyfriend. He had already been introduced to my future of which I am invested in... I reminded the man of this.
Scoffing, he griped about my boyfriend's profession, an honorable one at that. Shaking a disheveled head and contorted face at the confusion to my adamant response, he replied that I would never be taken care of-- but what does that mean? With money? When you leave this world, you leave with nothing. What is money if there is no love...
Insulted and angered, I left that night and stewed. The thought that the horrific ideology of others in this insidious society which everything-- and everyone-- has a price was both alarming and offensive. It was catching spit to the face. Excuses (from others) that he was drunk were to of no effect to me, and do not rectify the situation. As we all know, alcohol lowers inhibition and the true character rears its ugly head.
This was my realization. I am better than that. I deserve better than that. The last few years of running amuck in a crowd that prides itself on wealth and vanity won't get me anywhere, and was an egregious error on my behalf for ever doing so. What do I have to offer in a group such as that? I cannot even bring myself to think... I only devalue myself by continuing to be devalued by others. This isn't me.
I've always had a tendency to be savoir-faire. To do what it took to be accepted, and get ahead. To be agreeable. To be liked. To say what others wanted to hear. To adapt and make do of any given situation. There comes a time though, when adapting only hurts you and hinders individuality. It goes against your beliefs, your feelings and everything you stand for. This behavior, the pomp and circumstance of an elitist crowd, was never a part of me which defined me-- I was raised better than that, but it is one of the broken fragments of my past that I need to put to rest and in doing so, move forward,.
I am happy to have found work, albeit temporary, until I can segue into a career. I am happy to have a family that supports me as I continue to better myself, and I am proud to be with someone who loves me for who I am.
I can't be bought-- not with money, purses nor red-bottomed shoes. None of your colorful, silken shirts will ever win me over, Gatsby. I'm not a friend for when it is only convenient.
And to you? I am just your bartender, with a brighter future than you could ever imagine.
-- Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Money- www.passedupstrange.blogspot.com - getty images
Assimilation- www.loosenessofassociation.com
Ecard- www.steffieshare.wordpress.com
Great Gatsby- www.pinterest.com
Monday, January 26, 2015
So, A Guy Walks into the Bar...
That's how all good stories start, right?
On a more serious note, today he walks into the bar weary, worn and chilled from being outside too long, improperly bundled for the bitter Michigan weather. I ask the man if he needs any help. His eyes lit up for a moment and then shamefully lowered back down. Reluctantly, he looks out the window to the bus stop and then reproachfully back to me. A bus fare was all he wishes. A bus fare to take him home, out of the cold.
Without hesitation, I turn to my tip jar and pull out a few crinkled up singles. Just a few dollars, something I put towards an eighteen-syllable, unnecessarily-priced gourmet cup of coffee on the regular anyway. A couple of dollars is what I toss away vainly, burn up, or consume without any care in the world on a very regular basis. What was a few dollars to me?
The man thanks me and then rushes out of the door into the miserably low temperatures to catch his bus-- almost missing the stop because he couldn't say thank you enough. I didn't mind helping out, and I am grateful he chose to stop at my place of employment as opposed to any other. I know he may not have been treated in the same fashion. Not everyone else would have taken as kindly to being implored generosity, obligated to show mercy in a society that doesn't always approve of helping others. We say we do, sure, but when faced with a moment of stepping up, many of us sit on the sidelines hoping for someone else to be the first to take action, to be the first to raise their hand in a class full of peers.
The ban on panhandling in the particular city I live and work in was lifted not long ago. You see the young guy on the corner of Maple heading into the downtown by the grocery store...you see the paraplegic outside of a few businesses. Do you walk by, hoping with baited breath to dodge an uncomfortable eye contact? Do you make up an excuse as if to say, "sorry, all I have is my debit card"? Do you just avoid the entire situation altogether and cross the street?
The man today reminds me of a woman once before coming into the fancy-pants coffee shop I frequent. Her very presence disrupted the Stepford community, shocking them so. This bubble I live in is so cloistered, so sheltered, tucked away safely in their affluence that the in-the-face encounter with issues like poverty and homelessness are earth-shattering concepts that don't exist in their reality. Some guests were appalled at the gall of the woman to come in, an intruder, asking for food. She was tired, hungry and clearly hurting. In a matter of seconds after she was shooed from the premise, the highly disgruntled customers exchanged uneasy glances and returned to their smart tablets, their iProducts, or whatever else they had going on in their lives that was more important. No one had moved. After buying an extra breakfast sandwich, I left the shop to look for the woman. She was no where to be found, and I had balked. Moreover, I was disappointed for not acting sooner.
The man from this afternoon offered me a chance to do good, and I took it. I think there are many times we are faced with being the bigger person in a number of circumstances, and we instead base our actions on what we believe others will think. That to me is only cowardice. We are not without reason but nonetheless skeptical of those in need, and cynics towards if we alone can have any impact. Do good. Help others. Give back. Disregard the opinions of small-minded people. There may be a day you too will need help. You will also hope there is someone there to catch you when you fall...even if it is a complete stranger with a few bucks to spare.
Everything comes full circle.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit-
Smart Bus- www.archive.freep.com
Spare Change- www.thrivedetroit.net
Natalie Sewell MT quote- www.needhelpandinspiration.wordpress.com
On a more serious note, today he walks into the bar weary, worn and chilled from being outside too long, improperly bundled for the bitter Michigan weather. I ask the man if he needs any help. His eyes lit up for a moment and then shamefully lowered back down. Reluctantly, he looks out the window to the bus stop and then reproachfully back to me. A bus fare was all he wishes. A bus fare to take him home, out of the cold.
Without hesitation, I turn to my tip jar and pull out a few crinkled up singles. Just a few dollars, something I put towards an eighteen-syllable, unnecessarily-priced gourmet cup of coffee on the regular anyway. A couple of dollars is what I toss away vainly, burn up, or consume without any care in the world on a very regular basis. What was a few dollars to me?
The man thanks me and then rushes out of the door into the miserably low temperatures to catch his bus-- almost missing the stop because he couldn't say thank you enough. I didn't mind helping out, and I am grateful he chose to stop at my place of employment as opposed to any other. I know he may not have been treated in the same fashion. Not everyone else would have taken as kindly to being implored generosity, obligated to show mercy in a society that doesn't always approve of helping others. We say we do, sure, but when faced with a moment of stepping up, many of us sit on the sidelines hoping for someone else to be the first to take action, to be the first to raise their hand in a class full of peers.
The ban on panhandling in the particular city I live and work in was lifted not long ago. You see the young guy on the corner of Maple heading into the downtown by the grocery store...you see the paraplegic outside of a few businesses. Do you walk by, hoping with baited breath to dodge an uncomfortable eye contact? Do you make up an excuse as if to say, "sorry, all I have is my debit card"? Do you just avoid the entire situation altogether and cross the street?
The man today reminds me of a woman once before coming into the fancy-pants coffee shop I frequent. Her very presence disrupted the Stepford community, shocking them so. This bubble I live in is so cloistered, so sheltered, tucked away safely in their affluence that the in-the-face encounter with issues like poverty and homelessness are earth-shattering concepts that don't exist in their reality. Some guests were appalled at the gall of the woman to come in, an intruder, asking for food. She was tired, hungry and clearly hurting. In a matter of seconds after she was shooed from the premise, the highly disgruntled customers exchanged uneasy glances and returned to their smart tablets, their iProducts, or whatever else they had going on in their lives that was more important. No one had moved. After buying an extra breakfast sandwich, I left the shop to look for the woman. She was no where to be found, and I had balked. Moreover, I was disappointed for not acting sooner.
The man from this afternoon offered me a chance to do good, and I took it. I think there are many times we are faced with being the bigger person in a number of circumstances, and we instead base our actions on what we believe others will think. That to me is only cowardice. We are not without reason but nonetheless skeptical of those in need, and cynics towards if we alone can have any impact. Do good. Help others. Give back. Disregard the opinions of small-minded people. There may be a day you too will need help. You will also hope there is someone there to catch you when you fall...even if it is a complete stranger with a few bucks to spare.
Everything comes full circle.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit-
Smart Bus- www.archive.freep.com
Spare Change- www.thrivedetroit.net
Natalie Sewell MT quote- www.needhelpandinspiration.wordpress.com
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Smell the Flowers
I wanted to write something funny today, a sort of comic relief. Something lighthearted, pointing out the idiosyncrasies of my regulars. Anything at all, but that's not where my mind is at this moment.
This week I almost lost my younger brother. The strong, healthy boy who never gets sick suddenly became profoundly ill-- ill to the point that if he had decided to forego seeking medical help and had chosen to sleep off his pain instead, he would not have woken up.
I tried my hardest to recall the last meaningful conversation he and I shared...and shamefully, I couldn't. We had both become so engrossed in living our separate lives. We had grown up, and in growing up-- apart.
It hit me that in just a fleeting moment, I would not have had him in my life. It hit me that I'm also not as close with him as we were growing up. The sudden realization made me sick...that I simply do not tell him enough how much I love him.
We live our lives in a constant rush. A race to make money-- to get ahead. We break our backs to achieve our grand scheme of success. More often times than not, it is one very skewed ideology of success we are after in the first place.
We spend years of burying our heads in the pages of books to obtain a paper that we are told, promises us a better future. We work because we have to; it is what responsible adults do, even if this means working at a job we don't love which then leaves us empty and unfulfilled. We entrap ourselves in some semblance of a social circle. Congregate at the same watering holes with all of the usual suspects. This is the monotony of our lives we grow accustomed to. A cycle we have become familiar with. A steadily beating drum that allows us to march forward, yet not always onward in progress. We even at times become lost in the madness.
Regretfully, we do not take the time to stop and smell the flowers-- the same ones we have been unwittingly passing by all along. So call up your family. Say hello to your siblings. Yes, even the ones you may not get along with. Hug your parents. Don't be afraid to return to your roots.
It is a fact of life; no one lives forever. But wouldn't it be a shame if you did not appreciate the beauty of a life until it was too late?
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Kids on a dock- www.elyresorts.com
Stop and Smell the Flowers- www.mikeblockerspeaks.com
This week I almost lost my younger brother. The strong, healthy boy who never gets sick suddenly became profoundly ill-- ill to the point that if he had decided to forego seeking medical help and had chosen to sleep off his pain instead, he would not have woken up.
I tried my hardest to recall the last meaningful conversation he and I shared...and shamefully, I couldn't. We had both become so engrossed in living our separate lives. We had grown up, and in growing up-- apart.
It hit me that in just a fleeting moment, I would not have had him in my life. It hit me that I'm also not as close with him as we were growing up. The sudden realization made me sick...that I simply do not tell him enough how much I love him.
We live our lives in a constant rush. A race to make money-- to get ahead. We break our backs to achieve our grand scheme of success. More often times than not, it is one very skewed ideology of success we are after in the first place.
We spend years of burying our heads in the pages of books to obtain a paper that we are told, promises us a better future. We work because we have to; it is what responsible adults do, even if this means working at a job we don't love which then leaves us empty and unfulfilled. We entrap ourselves in some semblance of a social circle. Congregate at the same watering holes with all of the usual suspects. This is the monotony of our lives we grow accustomed to. A cycle we have become familiar with. A steadily beating drum that allows us to march forward, yet not always onward in progress. We even at times become lost in the madness.
Regretfully, we do not take the time to stop and smell the flowers-- the same ones we have been unwittingly passing by all along. So call up your family. Say hello to your siblings. Yes, even the ones you may not get along with. Hug your parents. Don't be afraid to return to your roots.
It is a fact of life; no one lives forever. But wouldn't it be a shame if you did not appreciate the beauty of a life until it was too late?
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Kids on a dock- www.elyresorts.com
Stop and Smell the Flowers- www.mikeblockerspeaks.com
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Not Your Typical Post
I've learned, crazy enough, you can't find love in a bar. Funny, right? Douchebags prowling around til closing time, sniffing out the single and just-drunk-enough-to-make-a-bad-decision girls to wrangle home. At the same token, girls wobbling around in their sky-high stilettos are waiting for a wealthy man to cover their tab and sweep them off their feet. This has completely bastardized the tradition and idea of dating...this ideology of gold-digging vs. trophy wife mentality.
I only mention this today because I see this all too often in a city such as this. Too many couples wed for status or money. I wait on plenty who have chosen this philosophy, and honestly it leaves me a little jaded.
After I left work today, I received a text from a friend. He just got a new car...what was wrong with the old one? Absolutely nothing. He was told, I'm sure by a greasy-ass salesman, that this new car represents success. Now that he makes X amount per year, he'll now be able to use the flashy ride to help find a good woman to stay at home and take care of him.
What he said was not only frustrating, but found a very deep sense of sadness within me as well.
A man recently said something profound to me, "No matter how many rooms you have in your home, you can only be in one at a time. Nor does the size of the room matter...when you close your eyes, it's all the same." Unfortunately not many people here would agree with that statement. This city-- hell, Oakland County in general, but this city in particular-- prides itself on status, if I don't have to say it a million times. Material possessions, top-shelf products play a part in who you are. Forget having good morals and a personality. How heavy is that credit card in your pocket? Is it metal? Is it black? Jackpot. Hello, baby.
I told him, (here's my free therapy as a bartender) using status and things to reel in a woman will only find you one kind--
A gold-digging bitch. Someone you will grow to resent down the line because no one likes a leech. Someone that will never meet you halfway on anything. Probably a daddy's girl who will need to be supported in order to be fulfilled as your love is not, and never will be, enough. For she doesn't love you unconditionally, but regrettably your bank account. For better or for worse, as long as you are maintaining her wants, needs, yoga classes, botox, shopping sprees and salon appointments, she will love you. For richer or for poorer is not an option. The day that happens, she will find another man more able of supporting her.
Look instead , I told him, for someone who prides themselves on family and the basics. Who won't toss the future children at some nanny. Someone who has cleaned a damn toilet in her lifetime, because that isn't beneath her. Someone who has her own ambitions, with substance and character. A level head on her shoulders, with a sound reasoning aside from the slight ebb and flow craziness that accompanies anything with a vagina. Bottom line-- you are looking for your best friend-- not some in-the-flesh blow-up doll.
And if those qualities-- or the lack thereof-- really DO appeal to you, then I feel terribly, incredibly sorry for you. Your best luck is at the strip club.
But what do I know? I'm just a bartender.
To each their own.
Cheers.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Red bottoms- www.elitedaily.com
Odd couple- www.redorbit.com
I Ain't Sayin' She a Gold Digger- www.epicjaws.com
Titty Bar- www.nydailynews.com
I only mention this today because I see this all too often in a city such as this. Too many couples wed for status or money. I wait on plenty who have chosen this philosophy, and honestly it leaves me a little jaded.
After I left work today, I received a text from a friend. He just got a new car...what was wrong with the old one? Absolutely nothing. He was told, I'm sure by a greasy-ass salesman, that this new car represents success. Now that he makes X amount per year, he'll now be able to use the flashy ride to help find a good woman to stay at home and take care of him.
What he said was not only frustrating, but found a very deep sense of sadness within me as well.
A man recently said something profound to me, "No matter how many rooms you have in your home, you can only be in one at a time. Nor does the size of the room matter...when you close your eyes, it's all the same." Unfortunately not many people here would agree with that statement. This city-- hell, Oakland County in general, but this city in particular-- prides itself on status, if I don't have to say it a million times. Material possessions, top-shelf products play a part in who you are. Forget having good morals and a personality. How heavy is that credit card in your pocket? Is it metal? Is it black? Jackpot. Hello, baby.
I told him, (here's my free therapy as a bartender) using status and things to reel in a woman will only find you one kind--
A gold-digging bitch. Someone you will grow to resent down the line because no one likes a leech. Someone that will never meet you halfway on anything. Probably a daddy's girl who will need to be supported in order to be fulfilled as your love is not, and never will be, enough. For she doesn't love you unconditionally, but regrettably your bank account. For better or for worse, as long as you are maintaining her wants, needs, yoga classes, botox, shopping sprees and salon appointments, she will love you. For richer or for poorer is not an option. The day that happens, she will find another man more able of supporting her.
Look instead , I told him, for someone who prides themselves on family and the basics. Who won't toss the future children at some nanny. Someone who has cleaned a damn toilet in her lifetime, because that isn't beneath her. Someone who has her own ambitions, with substance and character. A level head on her shoulders, with a sound reasoning aside from the slight ebb and flow craziness that accompanies anything with a vagina. Bottom line-- you are looking for your best friend-- not some in-the-flesh blow-up doll.
And if those qualities-- or the lack thereof-- really DO appeal to you, then I feel terribly, incredibly sorry for you. Your best luck is at the strip club.
But what do I know? I'm just a bartender.
To each their own.
Cheers.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Red bottoms- www.elitedaily.com
Odd couple- www.redorbit.com
I Ain't Sayin' She a Gold Digger- www.epicjaws.com
Titty Bar- www.nydailynews.com
The Truth Hurts
When I began college, somewhere along the way I decided on a Communications degree. These days I'm considering that maybe I should have pursued a psychology degree instead. Small talk at the bar, exchanging friendly banter turns into a full out therapy session-- 86 awkward chaise, SUB heavy dose of booze.
"Bartender," I was unaware, is also code for "secret keeper of the people". Rule of thumb, if you don't want your business out there, do not make it so widely known. You find out more things than you wish you ever knew. Who's got illegal business. Who enjoys the finer offerings of the titty bars. Who dabbles in wheeling, dealing and partaking of drugs. Who's cheating on their spouse. Enough information to make your head spin, and certainly enough to ruin the lives of half the socialites.
At the end of the day, "bartending" is exhausting, leaving you with a heavy heart, and a conscience that just feels...dirty. Guilty by association. Of course, as a bartender, one is expected to listen, nod, smile, offer those two glimmering cents worth of advice and then simply let it roll off your back-- out of memory-- in one ear and out the other.
Unfortunately that is not always the case. Hearing just about everything under the sun, it can weigh on you and keep you up at night. So what is the code of conduct here? The wise man said nothing? Sometimes it makes me wonder. Is honesty the best policy?
It is well known that the "right" thing to do is most often times also the hardest, and obviously the least glamorous thing to do. You either stand idly by and watch people hurt each other, or you choose to speak up and become the villain-- even the outcast, marked with betrayal. Those who stick by you are your true friends.
Recently I was put on the spot. Word travels fast in a town so small...and I, I took the road less traveled by. Has all of that made a difference? I don't know. I know I lost a friend, potentially ruined something big for him. Only time will tell. I just know that I'm worn out from playing dumb-- because that is something I am most certainly not. I'm also not a good liar. Never was, and never will be.
Sometimes the truth hurts.
"In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway."
-- Mother Teresa
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Kid on Couch- www.adsoftheworld.com
Gossip- www.cnn.com
Buddha- www.what-buddha-said.net
"Bartender," I was unaware, is also code for "secret keeper of the people". Rule of thumb, if you don't want your business out there, do not make it so widely known. You find out more things than you wish you ever knew. Who's got illegal business. Who enjoys the finer offerings of the titty bars. Who dabbles in wheeling, dealing and partaking of drugs. Who's cheating on their spouse. Enough information to make your head spin, and certainly enough to ruin the lives of half the socialites.
At the end of the day, "bartending" is exhausting, leaving you with a heavy heart, and a conscience that just feels...dirty. Guilty by association. Of course, as a bartender, one is expected to listen, nod, smile, offer those two glimmering cents worth of advice and then simply let it roll off your back-- out of memory-- in one ear and out the other.
Unfortunately that is not always the case. Hearing just about everything under the sun, it can weigh on you and keep you up at night. So what is the code of conduct here? The wise man said nothing? Sometimes it makes me wonder. Is honesty the best policy?
It is well known that the "right" thing to do is most often times also the hardest, and obviously the least glamorous thing to do. You either stand idly by and watch people hurt each other, or you choose to speak up and become the villain-- even the outcast, marked with betrayal. Those who stick by you are your true friends.
Recently I was put on the spot. Word travels fast in a town so small...and I, I took the road less traveled by. Has all of that made a difference? I don't know. I know I lost a friend, potentially ruined something big for him. Only time will tell. I just know that I'm worn out from playing dumb-- because that is something I am most certainly not. I'm also not a good liar. Never was, and never will be.
Sometimes the truth hurts.
"In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway."
-- Mother Teresa
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Kid on Couch- www.adsoftheworld.com
Gossip- www.cnn.com
Buddha- www.what-buddha-said.net
Friday, December 5, 2014
THAT Couple
A couple waltzed into The White Rabbit, the new establishment I work at. The newest attraction is a cute, themed boutique restaurant of the hob-nobbing city which draws in multiple demographics, making me a very happy, and not to mention busy, girl behind the bar.
The couple stood at the hostess stand, heads together, pouring over a menu. After what seemed an interminable time, the hostess stomped over and slapped down the two menus on my bar counter for the two to sit, notifying me they were here for drinks and small plates. As she whipped around to walk back to her podium I caught the look on her face which only could read, 'Your problem now.'
The couple was interesting to say in the least. I refer to them as a 'Bob and Susan' couple. The woman, perhaps early thirties had dark, shoulder-length hair that was swept to one side and secured with a barrette. Her red, sweatered-turtleneck was adorned with a simple yet elegant gold necklace, and her complexion was fair. She was a silver spoon, country club loving, daddy's girl all grown up. She clearly held the guy's balls in some sort of death grip seeing as how he was catering to her, waiting for her opinion on everything before making even one decision one way or another. Some call that chivalry. To that degree? I call it spineless.
He was mid-thirties. Not a bad looking guy at all, but you could tell he was the computer geek of the bunch-- the "nice" guy. Side parted hair, glasses, argyle sweater vest. He's the push-over kind of guy who lets her pick out his outfit every morning. She was arguably the prettiest girl he would ever have a chance with, and he was whipped because of it.
You know those kinds of people you'd rather not have to talk to, but it's your job? That
would be them. I cleared my throat and placed down two bev naps, ready to go through the motions.
"Good evening you two. How is everything tonight?"
...Nothing. I got nothing. I raised my brows at the couple and proceeded. "This is our cocktail menu, and on the back of the food is our wine list in case you two are interested. Let me know if there is anything I could do for you." I stepped back and allowed the two for a minute to brainstorm.
First check back? Inconclusive.
Second check back? Inconclusive.
The girl was getting irritated. Raising her voice a few decibels, she began talking in a whirlwind of circles going a mile a minute.
"Is that what you wanted? A cocktail? I don't know if I like any of the ones that I've seen. But what about a wine? I think I'll have a wine. That sounds good to me. Or maybe I'll just get hot tea. Were you hungry? What were you looking at? Let's get an appetizer. Oh, you want the ahi tuna tartare? I've already had tuna today. Mmmmm. No. If you want it you can get it, but I'm not hungry anymore. I think I'll do the tea. Oh, no, that's right I have tea at home. There's no point in buying tea while we're out if I just have it at home anyway."
Seriously? It's a fucking drink order, not rocket science. Are you thirsty, and what are you in the mood for. Complicated, I know. I set two waters in front of the two, still deliberating.
So what do I do? I screw around by my cashwrap for a few minutes, penning out the first few lines to this blog because they are already getting on my nerves. Sensing that they have gotten quiet, I turn to look over my shoulder. Ready? No. False alarm. They have a tongue down each other's throats. Funny, I didn't realize there was a game of tonsil hockey on that evening. I may or may not have let out an audible "ugh" and frankly I don't care if it was.
I turn back to my work and in a few short, but awkwardly long, minutes they are back to sitting with their hands folded neatly in front of them, menus stacked. My signal has arrived.
"I'm so sorry to do this to you," the woman says with a halfway sneer across her face, "I just realized that we are cooking dinner on Tuesday and we need to go grocery shopping."
"On Tuesday? It's Friday," I retorted almost snorting at the horrible attempt of bullshitting a bullshitter.
"Yeah, well with the holidays we need to get it done before the market closes."
Yeahhh...there are three 24-hour groceries that are local, and mind you, it was only 5:30 on a Friday. The grocery stores were no where near closing time, and even if they were, they would still be there tomorrow and the day after that.
"Well? Happy shopping." What? Honestly, I had nothing else to say to the couple that could neither be polite nor make sense. What I wanted to say was something along the lines of 'up yours for taking up the middle two seats at my five-seater bar for absolutely nothing' but I resisted the urge.
On the way out of the restaurant, a waitress overheard the couple.
"Did you like her attitude? I didn't like her attitude."
"No, not at all, you're right. I didn't like it either."
Spectacular. Glad you tarts could finally agree on something.
-Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Follow the White Rabbit- www.hateandanger.wordpress.com
Nerd Couple- www.imgfave.com
Indecisive- www.calbuzz.com
Ecard- www.dailyedge.ie
Liar- www.playbuzz.com
Quote- www.pinterest.com
The couple stood at the hostess stand, heads together, pouring over a menu. After what seemed an interminable time, the hostess stomped over and slapped down the two menus on my bar counter for the two to sit, notifying me they were here for drinks and small plates. As she whipped around to walk back to her podium I caught the look on her face which only could read, 'Your problem now.'
The couple was interesting to say in the least. I refer to them as a 'Bob and Susan' couple. The woman, perhaps early thirties had dark, shoulder-length hair that was swept to one side and secured with a barrette. Her red, sweatered-turtleneck was adorned with a simple yet elegant gold necklace, and her complexion was fair. She was a silver spoon, country club loving, daddy's girl all grown up. She clearly held the guy's balls in some sort of death grip seeing as how he was catering to her, waiting for her opinion on everything before making even one decision one way or another. Some call that chivalry. To that degree? I call it spineless.
He was mid-thirties. Not a bad looking guy at all, but you could tell he was the computer geek of the bunch-- the "nice" guy. Side parted hair, glasses, argyle sweater vest. He's the push-over kind of guy who lets her pick out his outfit every morning. She was arguably the prettiest girl he would ever have a chance with, and he was whipped because of it.
You know those kinds of people you'd rather not have to talk to, but it's your job? That
would be them. I cleared my throat and placed down two bev naps, ready to go through the motions.
"Good evening you two. How is everything tonight?"
...Nothing. I got nothing. I raised my brows at the couple and proceeded. "This is our cocktail menu, and on the back of the food is our wine list in case you two are interested. Let me know if there is anything I could do for you." I stepped back and allowed the two for a minute to brainstorm.
First check back? Inconclusive.
Second check back? Inconclusive.
The girl was getting irritated. Raising her voice a few decibels, she began talking in a whirlwind of circles going a mile a minute.
"Is that what you wanted? A cocktail? I don't know if I like any of the ones that I've seen. But what about a wine? I think I'll have a wine. That sounds good to me. Or maybe I'll just get hot tea. Were you hungry? What were you looking at? Let's get an appetizer. Oh, you want the ahi tuna tartare? I've already had tuna today. Mmmmm. No. If you want it you can get it, but I'm not hungry anymore. I think I'll do the tea. Oh, no, that's right I have tea at home. There's no point in buying tea while we're out if I just have it at home anyway."
Seriously? It's a fucking drink order, not rocket science. Are you thirsty, and what are you in the mood for. Complicated, I know. I set two waters in front of the two, still deliberating.
So what do I do? I screw around by my cashwrap for a few minutes, penning out the first few lines to this blog because they are already getting on my nerves. Sensing that they have gotten quiet, I turn to look over my shoulder. Ready? No. False alarm. They have a tongue down each other's throats. Funny, I didn't realize there was a game of tonsil hockey on that evening. I may or may not have let out an audible "ugh" and frankly I don't care if it was.
I turn back to my work and in a few short, but awkwardly long, minutes they are back to sitting with their hands folded neatly in front of them, menus stacked. My signal has arrived.
"I'm so sorry to do this to you," the woman says with a halfway sneer across her face, "I just realized that we are cooking dinner on Tuesday and we need to go grocery shopping."
"On Tuesday? It's Friday," I retorted almost snorting at the horrible attempt of bullshitting a bullshitter.
"Yeah, well with the holidays we need to get it done before the market closes."
Yeahhh...there are three 24-hour groceries that are local, and mind you, it was only 5:30 on a Friday. The grocery stores were no where near closing time, and even if they were, they would still be there tomorrow and the day after that.
"Well? Happy shopping." What? Honestly, I had nothing else to say to the couple that could neither be polite nor make sense. What I wanted to say was something along the lines of 'up yours for taking up the middle two seats at my five-seater bar for absolutely nothing' but I resisted the urge.
On the way out of the restaurant, a waitress overheard the couple.
"Did you like her attitude? I didn't like her attitude."
"No, not at all, you're right. I didn't like it either."
Spectacular. Glad you tarts could finally agree on something.
-Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Follow the White Rabbit- www.hateandanger.wordpress.com
Nerd Couple- www.imgfave.com
Indecisive- www.calbuzz.com
Ecard- www.dailyedge.ie
Liar- www.playbuzz.com
Quote- www.pinterest.com
Cutting the Cord
Everything that glitters inevitably rusts. We regrettably toss our favorite sweatpants when the elastic decides to give. A former lover becomes a friend, or whats even less, a stranger. Family pets grow old and die. The homes we love grow too small as our family expands and we leave them, although memory-filled, behind. There are moments in our lives that often confront us with a decision of manning up, and learning to let things go.
The Valley and I had something I would consider as a toxic relationship. Like the boyfriend your mother always warned you about. I always came home frazzled after long, ungratifying and unprosperous hours only to have to return bright and early the next day, wary of the events to come that shift.
If I said The Valley brought nothing positive into my life, then I would be lying. I learned that I will not tolerate a lack of respect in or out of the workplace. I may not be a managerial position, but I am also not your lackey. I learned that accepting shady offers from the ownership to basically whore yourself out to get ahead in life is not only pitiful, but also the smartest idea to turn down. I learned that moving on sometimes is the best thing to do even though a given situation may be familiar and comfortable.
The last day of working at The Valley, I had a special guest at the bar. His wife, Katrina, and
he were very interested in knowing about my life. Funny, I figured. I gave them a run down
of where I'm at in this clusterfuck I call my life. A bartender working all hours in order to catch up, and eventually get ahead. To one day, sign back up for school. Finish the last three classes strong, get that piece of paper and move on. The gentleman applauded my goals, and reminded me something very important-- something I had forgotten in my years of working in a "yes sir, no m'am" black-hole of a service industry (where dreams go to die) that sucks every hope and ambition you have absolutely bone dry-- That only I am in charge of my own happiness. He told me that if I wasn't truly, undeniably happy with where I was at, to do something about it, and for the better. He and his wife paid the $70 tab with $500 and left the rest for me to put towards school. That was the cushion I needed to finally uproot, re-enroll and march on.
Upon leaving work, I filled out an application elsewhere before heading home. Determined, and for the first time in a long time, focused, I sat down in front of this very computer and tapped out an email to Wulf. Leaving out things better left unsaid that would never be understood anyway, like my feelings about him and the practices of the restaurant that I do not agree with, I finally pulled the trigger after months of wanting to. This is the email which was sent:
Wulf,
For the past several years you have employed me at the restaurant, I have come to work and done well. The core staff functioned well as a team, and everyone seemed to be happy. Life at work seemed to flow.
Since January, there have been changes made to better the overall well-being of The Valley. I have done my best to power through and accept all adjustments. There are however some aspects that have manifested over time which I do not see eye-to-eye with. I could sit here and jot down bullets of my qualms, but at the end of the day it is merely a list, not a
resolution. Consequently, I am unhappy in a workplace and my income has suffered as a direct result in turn.
I have been taught that if I do not like a situation, to not sit and complain but actually do something proactive about it. As it has been said, "only you are in charge of your own happiness." My goal since joining your staff has been to save up money to return to school. Since then, I have been running in place, unable to get ahead. It is imperative that I take the next step to see this through. Ultimately, I wish to seek employment elsewhere.
I do thank you for your generosity which you have bestowed, the time you have invested in me, and allowing me to help serve your business. I do hope for your understanding on the matter. Please consider this my letter of resignation.
xx
It's no surprise to me that I never heard a work back after sending that to the old boss.
Happy trails, Wulf and company.
Shit, or get off the pot. Whatever it was, I'd reached my breaking point. I was done. It was time to cut the cord. Torii and Katrina Hunter, this is to you. For not only giving wonderful advice, but following your own as well. Life is too short to be stressed, to be miserable, to be keeping your head just above water-- Life is too short to be anything but happy, so stand up and be true to yourself.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Moving on- www.diamondindasky.com
Banksy change- www.prince2.ca
Sunshine- www.beingbaileyj.com
Quit- www.zrdavis.com
The Valley and I had something I would consider as a toxic relationship. Like the boyfriend your mother always warned you about. I always came home frazzled after long, ungratifying and unprosperous hours only to have to return bright and early the next day, wary of the events to come that shift.
If I said The Valley brought nothing positive into my life, then I would be lying. I learned that I will not tolerate a lack of respect in or out of the workplace. I may not be a managerial position, but I am also not your lackey. I learned that accepting shady offers from the ownership to basically whore yourself out to get ahead in life is not only pitiful, but also the smartest idea to turn down. I learned that moving on sometimes is the best thing to do even though a given situation may be familiar and comfortable.
The last day of working at The Valley, I had a special guest at the bar. His wife, Katrina, and
he were very interested in knowing about my life. Funny, I figured. I gave them a run down
of where I'm at in this clusterfuck I call my life. A bartender working all hours in order to catch up, and eventually get ahead. To one day, sign back up for school. Finish the last three classes strong, get that piece of paper and move on. The gentleman applauded my goals, and reminded me something very important-- something I had forgotten in my years of working in a "yes sir, no m'am" black-hole of a service industry (where dreams go to die) that sucks every hope and ambition you have absolutely bone dry-- That only I am in charge of my own happiness. He told me that if I wasn't truly, undeniably happy with where I was at, to do something about it, and for the better. He and his wife paid the $70 tab with $500 and left the rest for me to put towards school. That was the cushion I needed to finally uproot, re-enroll and march on.
Upon leaving work, I filled out an application elsewhere before heading home. Determined, and for the first time in a long time, focused, I sat down in front of this very computer and tapped out an email to Wulf. Leaving out things better left unsaid that would never be understood anyway, like my feelings about him and the practices of the restaurant that I do not agree with, I finally pulled the trigger after months of wanting to. This is the email which was sent:
Wulf,
For the past several years you have employed me at the restaurant, I have come to work and done well. The core staff functioned well as a team, and everyone seemed to be happy. Life at work seemed to flow.
Since January, there have been changes made to better the overall well-being of The Valley. I have done my best to power through and accept all adjustments. There are however some aspects that have manifested over time which I do not see eye-to-eye with. I could sit here and jot down bullets of my qualms, but at the end of the day it is merely a list, not a
resolution. Consequently, I am unhappy in a workplace and my income has suffered as a direct result in turn.
I have been taught that if I do not like a situation, to not sit and complain but actually do something proactive about it. As it has been said, "only you are in charge of your own happiness." My goal since joining your staff has been to save up money to return to school. Since then, I have been running in place, unable to get ahead. It is imperative that I take the next step to see this through. Ultimately, I wish to seek employment elsewhere.
I do thank you for your generosity which you have bestowed, the time you have invested in me, and allowing me to help serve your business. I do hope for your understanding on the matter. Please consider this my letter of resignation.
xx
It's no surprise to me that I never heard a work back after sending that to the old boss.
Happy trails, Wulf and company.
Shit, or get off the pot. Whatever it was, I'd reached my breaking point. I was done. It was time to cut the cord. Torii and Katrina Hunter, this is to you. For not only giving wonderful advice, but following your own as well. Life is too short to be stressed, to be miserable, to be keeping your head just above water-- Life is too short to be anything but happy, so stand up and be true to yourself.
--Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Moving on- www.diamondindasky.com
Banksy change- www.prince2.ca
Sunshine- www.beingbaileyj.com
Quit- www.zrdavis.com
Friday, October 3, 2014
Nickel and Diming
After sending a carryout through, I left the sanctuary of my bar for the war zone of what I know as the kitchen.
"Kitchen" at The Valley is defined as, "A place you are prone to dodging a constant barrage of foul-sounding Lebanese words, pots, pans, and Mama herself." Ridiculous.
With agility, I wrapped up my order. Hummus here. Pita there. Silverware. Pickles. Pickles, for a pregnant woman with a craving, mind you. Now, pickles at our restaurant, are like turnips. Ask and you shall receive. We don't-- I'm sorry-- we have never charged nor set a price for the item.
I take a few, a "tong-full" if you must, and place it in a carryout container. Before I could even close the box, Mama swooped in like a bat out of hell.
Furious, she was spitting out words faster than I could possibly comprehend. "What is this?!"
I blinked at her stupidly. "Uh...pickles?" Not that I had to state the obvious but apparently I did. They are the pickles you find in a shawarma wrap. If I can explain this further, they are whole pickles that came out of a can of plenty of other of pickles, which are then sliced into 7 and 8 strips lengthwise. I had put maybe 2 whole pickles in container, absolute maximum.
Mama went bat-shit. Tried grabbing the container from me. Tried dumping the pickles back into their prior home. "This is fucked up man! You charge if you want give free food! We charge!"
I had no problem with that. Problem solved. "Okay, how much am I charging her?"
"Six dollars, man!"
Are you screwing with me right now? Six whole dollars for shreds of pickles. Six dollars is what we charge people who order the olives and turnips appetizer-- which, if you eat where I work, don't order that. You have no idea whatsoever the kind of container those are kept in, and how they are stored. Uncovered most of the time for their shelf-life...and by "shelf-life" I mean, we do not throw anything away.
What do I do? I grab more pickles and throw them in the box. If I am charging someone six bucks for a measly few pickles, you better bet your ass they will get enough to call it six dollars' worth.
Something told me, maybe it was Mama's reaction, that putting more into the box was the wrong move. I had added an accelerant to the fire. She screamed and ran. She ran, right to Wulf. Just my luck.
This had been the second time in a week that Mama had pulled this kind of stunt. Mama didn't get her way, the alligator tears come out, I get pulled aside and talked to. Again. Rinse, cycle, repeat.
Princess Serena pulled me aside to talk to me the first instance. This time, it was the group as a whole.She eyed each and every one of us, little soldiers in her army...little minions, a small force to be reckoned with as without us, the restaurant could not function.
"You all know how Mama is. She's older. She works hard. She's over-sensitive."
I don't give a damn. Over-sensitive, my ass. I have to put up with being constantly called out for trivial matters-- things that shouldn't matter. Thrown under the bus yet again. I'm tired of it. If Mama is the reason why workers constantly quit, why we can't keep new hires, is unsanitary time after time...don't you think you should reassess her? I didn't learn much in my math classes over the years, but I do understand there being a common denominator, and she is one. Fix it. Do something about it.
What was the solution to the problem? We will now be charging guests... for everything. You want another ramekin of ketchup because the first one was only 3/4 full? I'm sorry, there will be a fee for that. You want more pita? More lettuce leaves? Any lettuce leaves because pita already came with it? Fee with that too. You'd like a few measly pickles? We'll charge you 2 dollars for a measly six slices. A few skimpy jalapenos added to that skewer? 3 dollars. I'm sorry, you would like a refill for the coca-cola you had because it was loaded with ice? We don't have a refill charge but we will more than happily charge you for an entire second glass.
I hope guests have a problem with this. I actually hope they make a commotion over it. Sure, it's a charge here and there, but things add up. Everything does-- everything but this nonsense. It just doesn't make sense to irritate people-- regulars-- who have been supporting the restaurant for years upon years over a second ramekin of sauce, a leaf of lettuce, a dollop of hummus. Who shit in your Wheaties?
Save up your silver, ladies and gentlemen, you are about to be nickel and dimed.
--Malia Etienette
"Kitchen" at The Valley is defined as, "A place you are prone to dodging a constant barrage of foul-sounding Lebanese words, pots, pans, and Mama herself." Ridiculous.
With agility, I wrapped up my order. Hummus here. Pita there. Silverware. Pickles. Pickles, for a pregnant woman with a craving, mind you. Now, pickles at our restaurant, are like turnips. Ask and you shall receive. We don't-- I'm sorry-- we have never charged nor set a price for the item.
I take a few, a "tong-full" if you must, and place it in a carryout container. Before I could even close the box, Mama swooped in like a bat out of hell.
Furious, she was spitting out words faster than I could possibly comprehend. "What is this?!"
I blinked at her stupidly. "Uh...pickles?" Not that I had to state the obvious but apparently I did. They are the pickles you find in a shawarma wrap. If I can explain this further, they are whole pickles that came out of a can of plenty of other of pickles, which are then sliced into 7 and 8 strips lengthwise. I had put maybe 2 whole pickles in container, absolute maximum.
Mama went bat-shit. Tried grabbing the container from me. Tried dumping the pickles back into their prior home. "This is fucked up man! You charge if you want give free food! We charge!"
I had no problem with that. Problem solved. "Okay, how much am I charging her?"
"Six dollars, man!"
Are you screwing with me right now? Six whole dollars for shreds of pickles. Six dollars is what we charge people who order the olives and turnips appetizer-- which, if you eat where I work, don't order that. You have no idea whatsoever the kind of container those are kept in, and how they are stored. Uncovered most of the time for their shelf-life...and by "shelf-life" I mean, we do not throw anything away.
What do I do? I grab more pickles and throw them in the box. If I am charging someone six bucks for a measly few pickles, you better bet your ass they will get enough to call it six dollars' worth.
Something told me, maybe it was Mama's reaction, that putting more into the box was the wrong move. I had added an accelerant to the fire. She screamed and ran. She ran, right to Wulf. Just my luck.
This had been the second time in a week that Mama had pulled this kind of stunt. Mama didn't get her way, the alligator tears come out, I get pulled aside and talked to. Again. Rinse, cycle, repeat.
Princess Serena pulled me aside to talk to me the first instance. This time, it was the group as a whole.She eyed each and every one of us, little soldiers in her army...little minions, a small force to be reckoned with as without us, the restaurant could not function.
"You all know how Mama is. She's older. She works hard. She's over-sensitive."
I don't give a damn. Over-sensitive, my ass. I have to put up with being constantly called out for trivial matters-- things that shouldn't matter. Thrown under the bus yet again. I'm tired of it. If Mama is the reason why workers constantly quit, why we can't keep new hires, is unsanitary time after time...don't you think you should reassess her? I didn't learn much in my math classes over the years, but I do understand there being a common denominator, and she is one. Fix it. Do something about it.
What was the solution to the problem? We will now be charging guests... for everything. You want another ramekin of ketchup because the first one was only 3/4 full? I'm sorry, there will be a fee for that. You want more pita? More lettuce leaves? Any lettuce leaves because pita already came with it? Fee with that too. You'd like a few measly pickles? We'll charge you 2 dollars for a measly six slices. A few skimpy jalapenos added to that skewer? 3 dollars. I'm sorry, you would like a refill for the coca-cola you had because it was loaded with ice? We don't have a refill charge but we will more than happily charge you for an entire second glass.
I hope guests have a problem with this. I actually hope they make a commotion over it. Sure, it's a charge here and there, but things add up. Everything does-- everything but this nonsense. It just doesn't make sense to irritate people-- regulars-- who have been supporting the restaurant for years upon years over a second ramekin of sauce, a leaf of lettuce, a dollop of hummus. Who shit in your Wheaties?
Save up your silver, ladies and gentlemen, you are about to be nickel and dimed.
--Malia Etienette
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
To Be, Or Not To Be Thoroughly Irritated
One hundred. Ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.
I shook the bill folder and furrowed my brow. Facing the money back around, I counted again.
One hundred. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.
(This is the point where I mouth "what the f***").
There was no mistake. Not only was there no mistake, I had been shorted forty cents.
BIG DEAL, one might think. Well it is. If everyone just goes around shorting me twenty cents here and forty cents there, I would owe more money than I should at the end of a shift. Not only that, but that's worse than working for free which I as a server technically already do due to our hourly checks being taxed out to zeros. I would be paying money to work. Oh wait, and then tipping 20% of what I should have made at the end of the night out. I'm sorry, but I'm not having any part of that nonsense.
A bit of what I would call disgruntled, I approached the ladies to see them tucking away all of the change from the twenty I broke down for them into smaller bills.
Biting at the inside of my cheek, I debated what to say as I closed in on them.
"I'm so sorry to do this ladies, but I'm still short forty cents for the tab."
They looked at me like I'd backhanded each across the face. Yes, I slapped you with a reality check. You shorted me, and I'd like the rest. Yes, I did just have the balls to come back over to your table and politely confront you. No, I did not call you a penny-pinching, Fran Dresher-sounding hag. I just want my money.
"Oh I'm SO EMBARRASSED !" the first woman feigned.
"Here, this is yours. Keep it all," the second woman chimed in, presenting a crumpled up five dollar bill from her designer purse.
And don't spend it all in one place as well, I suppose.
I felt like Rob Schnieder's bellhop character from Home Alone, holding out an extended white-gloved, finger-rubbing hand.
And the tip, ahem?
Yeah. Goodluck on that one. Go big or go home... just go home.
-Malia Etienette
I shook the bill folder and furrowed my brow. Facing the money back around, I counted again.
One hundred. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.
(This is the point where I mouth "what the f***").
There was no mistake. Not only was there no mistake, I had been shorted forty cents.
BIG DEAL, one might think. Well it is. If everyone just goes around shorting me twenty cents here and forty cents there, I would owe more money than I should at the end of a shift. Not only that, but that's worse than working for free which I as a server technically already do due to our hourly checks being taxed out to zeros. I would be paying money to work. Oh wait, and then tipping 20% of what I should have made at the end of the night out. I'm sorry, but I'm not having any part of that nonsense.
A bit of what I would call disgruntled, I approached the ladies to see them tucking away all of the change from the twenty I broke down for them into smaller bills.
Biting at the inside of my cheek, I debated what to say as I closed in on them.
"I'm so sorry to do this ladies, but I'm still short forty cents for the tab."
They looked at me like I'd backhanded each across the face. Yes, I slapped you with a reality check. You shorted me, and I'd like the rest. Yes, I did just have the balls to come back over to your table and politely confront you. No, I did not call you a penny-pinching, Fran Dresher-sounding hag. I just want my money.
"Oh I'm SO EMBARRASSED !" the first woman feigned.
"Here, this is yours. Keep it all," the second woman chimed in, presenting a crumpled up five dollar bill from her designer purse.
And don't spend it all in one place as well, I suppose.
I felt like Rob Schnieder's bellhop character from Home Alone, holding out an extended white-gloved, finger-rubbing hand.
And the tip, ahem?
Yeah. Goodluck on that one. Go big or go home... just go home.
-Malia Etienette
Monday, June 30, 2014
Cleanliness is Godliness
You can never be too clean-- especially when it comes to the kitchen.
I bet everyone is wondering where I'm going to take this topic of discussion and tie it into working at the restaurant.... keep reading :)
Earlier in the week, I tended bar. Dealt with plenty of carry-out orders since Princess Serena still needs to brush up on our menu. The whole of it.
Mama hauled out of the kitchen doors bearing two bagged meals. Chicken shawarma with garlic sauce on the right-- chicken pot pie with crushed lentil soup in the other. As I have been chastised before for opening orders at the bar to double check them, I felt the garlic and soup respectively and so I doled them out to their appropriate owners.
No more than five minutes later a call is received-- the woman whom had already hoofed it back to
work, discovered her shawarma looked an awful lot like a pot pie. Honestly, I remember how upset I would get when I used to hit up Taco Bell after the bar only to get home with an incorrect order. This woman had to go back to her job.
Knowing that the last line of defense was actually I to ensure each order's accuracy, I apologized profusely and asked for her to take more time out of her day to head back over and we would replace her meal. Afterall, shawarma is a quick and painless fix.
Here is where the situation gets sketchy;
The first woman brought back the unwanted pot pie.
I made Mama aware of the mix-up and pressed the matter that a new pot pie be made on the fly for the other customer to take home. A few minutes later, I pop my head back into the kitchen to see what looks like the same container sitting out on the counter, cooling off and waiting to be resurrected and re-served.
Assuming the worst, I peered into the trash in hopes of finding the original pot pie dumped and discarded. Nothing.
I asked Mama where the new meal was. In a moment's notice, Mama became nothing short of livid, wishing to spit in my face for insulting her so.
"Why, man? Why you say I use the same pot pie? I make it for you new, old one's gone."
I looked at her cross-eyed. Bullshit. I don't need to be a card shark to know you are full of it, and THAT to me is disgusting. I called her out and ordered another cook to fire a fresh dish, stat.
First of all-- you never know where food has gone or what it has been exposed to once it hits a table, let alone exits the building.
This isn't the White Elephant party where you can re-gift something old and unwanted.
That is just wrong and it crosses so many lines...not to mention health code...ugh.
Mama is the kind of older woman, from Lebanon, who is stuck in the old country "don't be wasteful" mindset. Throwing away good product is considered sinning, more or less.
So it's Malia 1 Mama 0. It just makes me wonder what kind of unpleasantries I miss around there...
Like the food storage for instance-- uncovered raw poultry dripping into raw red meats and open pans of greens, bloody rags left on the floor of the walk-in fridge, containers of vegetables molded over and sliced off to serve what was good, not to mention things that scuttle in the dark...
I bet it makes YOU think twice about your meal before it comes out next.
One Disgruntled Employee,
Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Mr. Clean- http://www.ispot.tv/ad/7t9m/mr-clean-magic-eraser-arm-wrestling
Carry-out- http://www.vintagesignshack.com/carry-out-food-service-magnet.html
Kitty- http://funzypics.funnypicturesutopia.com/board/pins/271/11247
Dirty Secrets- http://www.ecokaren.com/13-dirty-secrets-from-restaurant-industry-experts/
Unsanitary Storage- personally taken
I bet everyone is wondering where I'm going to take this topic of discussion and tie it into working at the restaurant.... keep reading :)
Earlier in the week, I tended bar. Dealt with plenty of carry-out orders since Princess Serena still needs to brush up on our menu. The whole of it.
Mama hauled out of the kitchen doors bearing two bagged meals. Chicken shawarma with garlic sauce on the right-- chicken pot pie with crushed lentil soup in the other. As I have been chastised before for opening orders at the bar to double check them, I felt the garlic and soup respectively and so I doled them out to their appropriate owners.
No more than five minutes later a call is received-- the woman whom had already hoofed it back to
work, discovered her shawarma looked an awful lot like a pot pie. Honestly, I remember how upset I would get when I used to hit up Taco Bell after the bar only to get home with an incorrect order. This woman had to go back to her job.
Knowing that the last line of defense was actually I to ensure each order's accuracy, I apologized profusely and asked for her to take more time out of her day to head back over and we would replace her meal. Afterall, shawarma is a quick and painless fix.
Here is where the situation gets sketchy;
The first woman brought back the unwanted pot pie.
I made Mama aware of the mix-up and pressed the matter that a new pot pie be made on the fly for the other customer to take home. A few minutes later, I pop my head back into the kitchen to see what looks like the same container sitting out on the counter, cooling off and waiting to be resurrected and re-served.
Assuming the worst, I peered into the trash in hopes of finding the original pot pie dumped and discarded. Nothing.
I asked Mama where the new meal was. In a moment's notice, Mama became nothing short of livid, wishing to spit in my face for insulting her so.
"Why, man? Why you say I use the same pot pie? I make it for you new, old one's gone."
I looked at her cross-eyed. Bullshit. I don't need to be a card shark to know you are full of it, and THAT to me is disgusting. I called her out and ordered another cook to fire a fresh dish, stat.
First of all-- you never know where food has gone or what it has been exposed to once it hits a table, let alone exits the building.
This isn't the White Elephant party where you can re-gift something old and unwanted.
That is just wrong and it crosses so many lines...not to mention health code...ugh.
Mama is the kind of older woman, from Lebanon, who is stuck in the old country "don't be wasteful" mindset. Throwing away good product is considered sinning, more or less.
So it's Malia 1 Mama 0. It just makes me wonder what kind of unpleasantries I miss around there...
Like the food storage for instance-- uncovered raw poultry dripping into raw red meats and open pans of greens, bloody rags left on the floor of the walk-in fridge, containers of vegetables molded over and sliced off to serve what was good, not to mention things that scuttle in the dark...
I bet it makes YOU think twice about your meal before it comes out next.
One Disgruntled Employee,
Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Mr. Clean- http://www.ispot.tv/ad/7t9m/mr-clean-magic-eraser-arm-wrestling
Carry-out- http://www.vintagesignshack.com/carry-out-food-service-magnet.html
Kitty- http://funzypics.funnypicturesutopia.com/board/pins/271/11247
Dirty Secrets- http://www.ecokaren.com/13-dirty-secrets-from-restaurant-industry-experts/
Unsanitary Storage- personally taken
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Cashing Out
It really hits a nerve with me when a position of authority is given to someone who is undeserving of such credit... someone who is not experienced nor is willing to learn... someone who is not, nor will ever be, qualified.
I am not griping about this out of jealousy, as I would never want to be stuck in this particular person's shoes. However I at least know that given the current example, I could set the bar for the standard much more than several notches higher.
Turns out, this gutless wonder was introduced to our owner while on a date with one of Birmingham's most renowned womanizers. Let's just say she was clearly on the date for the man's money because there isn't much else appealing about him. Care to know more about the man? Look for the post "The Great Gatsby".
Serena was offered a hostessing position. Easy, right? Answer the phone. Pencil in call ahead requests in a chronological manner. Wipe fingerprints on the glass doors. Seat people. In a rotational method, let the corresponding server know. Organize menus. The trickiest part is getting the spelling correctly on all of our daily specials. Wow. Rocket science.
Somewhere along the line, her value as an asset to the team was lost in translation and reassessed by our owner. Why? Like anyone else's guess, because she is pretty and princesses should not have to work hard. Now, what we refer to as a glorified hostess, Serena is an active floor manager. To my dismay, she also has the power of creating the schedule so guess whose bar shifts went down... Ding, ding, ding, you got it.
I try. I try really, really hard to like someone. My efforts do not always avail. Sometimes, like with Kat, we bash heads but eventually come around to an understanding. We even might just become unbelievably good friends. This girl, I just do not get. At all. After being told she was to train as a server to gain a basic knowledge of our menu, to learn our customer service, to actually become physical in our sidework, our in's and out's of the trade....well, she shut her eyes, and raised her brows before opening up again to say, "I wasn't hired to serve." Just like that, she made "serving" a dirty word... An insult. A job that is looked down upon as degrading.
My point is this-- until Serena knows what we know, has worked as hard as we do, and can honestly say that "she's been there," none of us will ever take her seriously. She is not part of the team. This is not a symbiotic relationship. I am not afraind to call bullshit when I see it.
Picture this. A patient needs a liver transplant. The patient preps for the upcoming procedure, takes regimens of pills. The transplant is completed and the patient must continue taking antibiotics and anti-rejection pills so that the body does not attack the organ, fighting it off as the body would any foreign entity. If the patient does not put in the work to maintain the acceptance of the organ, the body will reject the liver and the patient will die. The Valley as a whole, is the body and Serena is the liver. If she does not put in her fair share, the team won't accept her and the whole kit and caboodle will go out the window. Simple as that.
It's sad. To have set roots down in a place. To spend more time out of every day at work than at my own home. To gain friendships between staff over the years, and in such a short period of time see everything from morale and ethics to effort go to shit and disintegrate. People who have invested years into the restaurant have become numb which is the absolute worst... because we're not even angry anymore. We won't even fight for what can't be fought over because what is the point? We are just mentally cashed out. We're done.
The worst part is, I am exhausted. Tomorrow is looking like a 14 hour work day...with the hostess with the mostest. I haven't stopped grinding my teeth from earlier. Still frustrated about the evening, I sit and pout and type away my misery... It's easy to say, "Why go back to a job you aren't fulfilled with?" Because. Beggars can't be choosers. If I had all the answers in this world, I would tell you. Today, I am sorely out of good reasons and explanations. I had promised myself this would be the last serving job I would have, and I have tried to adhere to that vow. What it all comes down to at the end of the day?
A job is a job. A grain of salt is all it is, even if it is salt in the wounds.
-Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Attila the Hun- www.motifake.com
The Help- www.magicdvdripper.com
Hate our Boss- www.rottenecards.com
I am not griping about this out of jealousy, as I would never want to be stuck in this particular person's shoes. However I at least know that given the current example, I could set the bar for the standard much more than several notches higher.
Turns out, this gutless wonder was introduced to our owner while on a date with one of Birmingham's most renowned womanizers. Let's just say she was clearly on the date for the man's money because there isn't much else appealing about him. Care to know more about the man? Look for the post "The Great Gatsby".
Serena was offered a hostessing position. Easy, right? Answer the phone. Pencil in call ahead requests in a chronological manner. Wipe fingerprints on the glass doors. Seat people. In a rotational method, let the corresponding server know. Organize menus. The trickiest part is getting the spelling correctly on all of our daily specials. Wow. Rocket science.
Somewhere along the line, her value as an asset to the team was lost in translation and reassessed by our owner. Why? Like anyone else's guess, because she is pretty and princesses should not have to work hard. Now, what we refer to as a glorified hostess, Serena is an active floor manager. To my dismay, she also has the power of creating the schedule so guess whose bar shifts went down... Ding, ding, ding, you got it.
I try. I try really, really hard to like someone. My efforts do not always avail. Sometimes, like with Kat, we bash heads but eventually come around to an understanding. We even might just become unbelievably good friends. This girl, I just do not get. At all. After being told she was to train as a server to gain a basic knowledge of our menu, to learn our customer service, to actually become physical in our sidework, our in's and out's of the trade....well, she shut her eyes, and raised her brows before opening up again to say, "I wasn't hired to serve." Just like that, she made "serving" a dirty word... An insult. A job that is looked down upon as degrading.
My point is this-- until Serena knows what we know, has worked as hard as we do, and can honestly say that "she's been there," none of us will ever take her seriously. She is not part of the team. This is not a symbiotic relationship. I am not afraind to call bullshit when I see it.
Picture this. A patient needs a liver transplant. The patient preps for the upcoming procedure, takes regimens of pills. The transplant is completed and the patient must continue taking antibiotics and anti-rejection pills so that the body does not attack the organ, fighting it off as the body would any foreign entity. If the patient does not put in the work to maintain the acceptance of the organ, the body will reject the liver and the patient will die. The Valley as a whole, is the body and Serena is the liver. If she does not put in her fair share, the team won't accept her and the whole kit and caboodle will go out the window. Simple as that.
It's sad. To have set roots down in a place. To spend more time out of every day at work than at my own home. To gain friendships between staff over the years, and in such a short period of time see everything from morale and ethics to effort go to shit and disintegrate. People who have invested years into the restaurant have become numb which is the absolute worst... because we're not even angry anymore. We won't even fight for what can't be fought over because what is the point? We are just mentally cashed out. We're done.
The worst part is, I am exhausted. Tomorrow is looking like a 14 hour work day...with the hostess with the mostest. I haven't stopped grinding my teeth from earlier. Still frustrated about the evening, I sit and pout and type away my misery... It's easy to say, "Why go back to a job you aren't fulfilled with?" Because. Beggars can't be choosers. If I had all the answers in this world, I would tell you. Today, I am sorely out of good reasons and explanations. I had promised myself this would be the last serving job I would have, and I have tried to adhere to that vow. What it all comes down to at the end of the day?
A job is a job. A grain of salt is all it is, even if it is salt in the wounds.
-Malia Etienette
Photo Credit:
Attila the Hun- www.motifake.com
The Help- www.magicdvdripper.com
Hate our Boss- www.rottenecards.com
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