Careless.

"They were careless people, Tom and Daisy-- they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made..." F. Scott Fitzgerald



This is the exact quote that sparked into my head as I heard the screech of metal upon metal collide.  This quote also unfortunately describes a good portion of the population of the city I reside and am employed in.

Whether they actually reside here or elsewhere, work in the area, or have somehow managed to make an expensive place like Buckingham their regular hangout, it's those reeking of an heir of entitlement that act as such...the "who do you think you are's" and "how dare you's" with a touch of the "do you know who I am's" and my personal favorite, "the owner and I are friends".

 And yes, I do say this because of the fact that we encounter people like this daily-- Now this isn't the whole of this city, absolutely not, but it does represent a good part. Good enough that certain behaviors, attitudes and personas are no longer surprising, but expected to come with the package.

Women, who drop their own wine glass and then offer up their heeled foot for you to wipe it as if we offered a shoe shining service on top of just the food and beverage. 



Confronted with a soiled shoe, dangling mid-air in your face, the lady looks down upon you as though she is Christ and you are her Mary Magdalene...minus the gratitude and adoration.


All you can think is "excuse me?" while the look on your face properly says, "eat shit."

Bitchy girls who wear skirts so high you can see their crotch from the front, who shit all over guys who do approach them, and then just look desperate while the ones they're after fail to strike while the iron's hot because their wallet-sniffing can be sensed a mile away.  ("Haven't you heard?," said Daisy to Gatsby, "Rich girls don't marry poor boys." FSF...a mantra to learn in this city)

Misbehaved and ill-disciplined children who will have a mind-shattering and humorously rude awakening of how society really works when reality hits in the future.

And men who... don't even get me started. 


I watched the young boy climb out of his newer-model, shiny luxury vehicle and examine the truck of the blue-collar worker all banged up...and then dreadfully turn to see the crunched up passenger door of his own as his hands instinctively clapped to his mouth.  All because he didn't want to wait for the car in front of him to hook a left at the light. 


Careless.

But nothing a credit card can't fix...gloss over...erase such a nagging mark from existence. Money always has its way.  With money comes power, priveledge and apparently today, the right of way.



I observe the face of the worker from afar. Aged and distraught.  I know, as another worker, where this is coming from.  The worry and stress of taking on yet another bill, unexpectedly when you're already tapped out and bled dry.



I can empathise-- and I do, as I sit down on the bench from which I'm writing this account-- watching the worker offer up his information to the unphased policeman as if he was offering up the last ten dollars to his name.

I consider my day so far, and what I've been dealing with lately...and I take a deep breath. 
Today isn't so bad.  There is always someone else out there who is having a harder time than you.  So you might not hold all the poker chips, just learn to play the best hand that you were dealt.  Folding isn't an option at this particular table.  There are always the positives in life.  Find them.

<3
Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Daisy & Tom:  www.theauburngirl.style.it
Suited Child: www.memegenerator.net
Love Lifted Me: www.jeromepolitzer.com
Fender Bender: www.autos.ca.msn.com
Black Amex: www.uniquconsulting.com
Grumpy Old Ken 3/2011: www.grumpyoldken.blogspot.com

The "Buckingham Bubble"

I finally did it.
I moved out.

Yeah, you're thinking, big deal.
Well it is one.  I'm 25, still not done as far as education, working to live...walking a fine line between struggling and comfortable.  It has been a huge step in the right direction towards being independent and self-sufficient.
Obviously I'm closer to work... my boss seems to love this.
"Oh, must be nice," he'd say in a thick Lebanese accent, "that must mean you can work all doubles next week, yes?"  Well, way for shooting myself in the foot on that one.

I could practically-- if weather permits (thank you Michigan)-- walk myself to work if I wanted.
Yes, this was partially the reason for moving to the city.



Throughout the move-- the packing up of the cars, the back-and-forth trips, here again, back again,
hauling heavy boxes up a staircase, strapping mattresses and boxsprings to the roof of a car, unpacking and organizing, putting those damn non-English instructional 3000 piece IKEA dressers together, sweating on one of the last "nice weather" days of the year-- my family was there for me.
No bitching. No asking "but do I have to"?  They called all plans off for the day in order to be there.
 
After all of the grief I have given my parents over the years-- and I mean absolute shit-- there they were, pouring out their heart and their soul along with their pockets so I could comfortably move in.  I was not an easy child to raise... for reasons unknown, too complicated to even explain, I was super insubordinate, unbelievably headstrong and defiant as I grew up. 

After all the slammed doors, "I-hate-you's", and picked arguments, the empty threats to run away as a youngster...the lost sleep as I'd rudely come home late and disturb their sleep, the horribly failed chores, having to fall on my ass to learn the hard way, that fucking swear cup I'd have to fill from when I was younger, and even the ruts of trouble I find myself in to this day.

After all the teeth I've kicked in and the gray hairs I've been responsible for...

Here they were, freely giving themselves when they didn't have to.
Maybe it only took a quarter of a century, but I see it.  I couldn't have been blessed with better parents. I love them.

Some would say they were just happy to get me the hell out of the house.
Others would explain it as unconditional love.

I sit back, and I look around at a new, not-yet-familiar surrounding that I am now calling home.
Home, a modest place in a city of snooties.  An envied address in the "009", the land of yoga pants and luxury SUVs, of Starbucks sipping, brand name rocking, physically maintained women rushing to their hair and nail appointments down the block. 

No, of course I will never let this area mold and define me. It's funny and even somewhat ironic, moving into the city whose residents I scrutinize and calculate. We'll have to see how this goes.


One foot in front of the other.

One day at a time.

This is me, learning to walk on my own.
 
-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Moving Day- www.fanart.tv
Autodest Labs Moving Day- www.labs.blogs.com
Snow Storm...- www.earthobservatory.nasa.gov
When Good Kids Run Away- www.parents-are-people-too.com
Reflection on the Poem "Footprints"- www.ronedmondson.com

Crumbsnatchers

Rugrats.
Tots.
Little terrors.
Minor...major headaches.

They're your kids.

Now let me rewind this just a bit and preface this post by saying, if you have children you may be offended by this post.  Know that I don't give a damn.  I'm sure you've taken your children out once or twice and threatened to take them home if they don't shape up.  And if this moment hasn't happened yet, as you say to yourself, "Oh, never would I have to with my little angels," oh...that moment-- it's coming.

And if you can truly, honestly say that your children are well behaved in public at all times because you have put the fear of God in their little heads, then this is a snapshot of those other cabbage patch kids that have given us servers grief during our shifts... how a disaster can be averted, and how to create a wonderful dining experience for all.

Manners are a godsend.  Seriously.  I can't tell you how appreciative I am of parents who remind their children the please's and the thank you's and the may I's.  It's a breath of fresh air. 

As servers, we are paid pretty much by our guests to take orders and serve food.  This does NOT mean that we take orders from your snotty, ill-mannered child.  No server likes it when your child snaps, "Go get me a" and "Where is my"....and you as a parent thinks its cute.
The sound of that is like nails on a chalkboard.

Not only do we dislike being bossed around by your five-year-old, we are also not your babysitter.  We should not have to collect and wait with your three-year-old that you left behind as your entire group has exited the restaurant and is already down by the crosswalk.  Headcount anyone?

These are the parents who aren't active in the supervision of their children.  These are the parents too concerned with finding the bottom of their sangria than wondering where their spawn got off to.  These are the kids who serve as minor speedbumps in the aisleway for a server.  In hauling a heavy tray overhead, we don't look down at our feet while we hustle to deliver the hot-food-hot and cold-food-cold.  If your child is down, running amuck near our knees, they are getting taken out.  Their bottoms belong in a seat, not in the way of the workers.

We love when you bring a goodie-bag of coloring supplies.  We don't love when you allow your child to color in all of our menu's.  Ask kindly, and we will provide plain white coloring paper for your child to express his creativity with instead.



Everyone loves a good song...which is why we provide music overhead to establish the dining ambiance.  If your child would like to contribute to the music with his or her golden pipes, we appreciate if you remove your child until the tantrum settles down.  Yes, we all know what self-soothing is.  This method is however ineffective in a restaurant setting.  Unlike a church, we do not offer a "cry room", yet we do have a lobby way towards the entry.  Go sit down.  Go for a walk outside.  Please be mindful of everyone else surrounding you that is trying to hold a conversation, or is struggling to top your child's screams in order for the server to hear their order.
 
If your child needs to use the restroom, please accompany him or her.  You have no idea the state we have discovered the bathoom to be in after your little one has wrecked it.  Water on mirrors higher than even I can reach,  half a roll of the economy-size toiletpaper stuffed into and clogging a toilet, and puddles literally everywhere.  No, Dane Cook, it wasn't a wet dog, it was someone's unsupervised child.  And yes, there has been shit on the floor.  I don't even want to go into how this could have taken place.

Some kids are picky, we understand.  Growing up, my younger brother refused all food except bread, cheese and hot dogs.  This is why we have a children's menu.  We have items like a children's cheeseburger, pizza, buttered noodles, hot dog, chicken fingers and fries....



Due to this, I don't expect to come to your table with your child eating a slice of pizza from the pizzeria down the street because your child doesn't like "our food".  Unacceptable, and you as a parent are not setting a good example.  I shouldn't be the one to point it out.  Seeing as how we offer kid's pizza, your child can either order off of our menu or go hungry-- not be catered to-- since it is also a health code violation to bring in outside food and beverage.
We also don't like finding cheerios, chex mix, and goldfish stomped on underneath the table for us to pick up as if we just played a game of 52 Pick Up.  If you plan on bringing snacks, please keep them on the table.
So now you know why some servers grind and grit their teeth when they see a ten-top consisting of only two adults being sat in their section.

We are not your crossing guards, bathroom attendants, babysitters, whipping boys, or maids.

We are the waitstaff.

Learn it.  Live it. Love it.

With that said, may I take your order?


-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"Holidays for the Littlest Angels"- www.womanaroundtown.com
"Help Getting Organized"- www.getbuttonedup.com
"Lost Child"- www.kidsvancouver.com
"Arts Heavy Preschool Helps Children"- www.bumblebeesrus.com
Crying Children- www.gweem.net
"Picky Eater: Age 5 and Beyond"- www.sheknows.com
"11 Thoughts and Strategies for Dealing with Picky Eaters"- www.parentables.howstuffworks.com

On Proving People Wrong

Waiting tables, day in and day out, can turn a person into a really mean sonofabitch...the kind of person that even if every seat in an establishment was occupied except for the one next to him, I'd opt to remain standing.

You always wonder why the guy behind the bar is such a grouch.  "What's up his ass?" is the typical thought most people have.  It's years of having other customers shit in his Wheaties, that's what.


I hate to admit this, but it's 100% true, after serving in several establishments in different cities with different demographics, there are stereotypes that emerge-- and I know it's not nice, but I am only being honest.  This is true for what we believe you will order, how you will treat us, to how you tip.

What I'd like to talk about is the tipping.  Yes, money does make the world go round.  It also pays my bills.  Even I am guilty of getting a certain table, and cringing because I know (intuition perhaps) I won't receive more than ten percent if I'm LUCKY, because hell the stereotype says..... Don't sit there, behind your computer and shake your head saying, "Oh no, not me. Never would I..." because then you would be a horrible liar as well. We're all guilty of it, and you're right. It's nothing to be proud of.


I have worked at places where certain tables get nicknamed.  A sampling of the names I've heard are "Fifties Diners," "Penny Pinchers," "Monday's," and "Canadians." The rest aren't so nice.



Yes, we know it's horribly cruel and absolutely not fair to the individual, but when one particular group only perpetuates the stereotype we servers can't help but keep it to a generalization.



A week ago I had a table and...as most of my stories do start--  I knew I'd have my tuckus ran, and boy did I ever.  Five different appetizers.  Multiple rounds of drinks.  Several main dishes. Dessert. Coffees.
The tab rounded up nearly to three hundred.  Of course, any server at this point knew they'd walk with sixty before tip out on that table (if their service was stellar).  I was hoping for fifteen, maybe eighteen percent.  Sure, I'm lowballing myself but I'd rather be mildly surprised than be sorely disappointed.

What was the tip? Twenty-five dollars even.
You do the math.  I'm no whiz, but I would say I was shorted there just a bit.



The first things to reel through my mind were, "Was I that bad? Did I forget something?  Was I neglectful?  Was it the food they disliked?"

There's a million and one things that could have gone wrong, and we don't like to immediately do it, but sometimes we jump to the foolproof and clearly-obvious-because-we're-just-judgemental-assholes, "It's because they're foreign" or "It's because they're X."



I quickly put an end to my poutiness and sulking, realizing I still had four other tables that needed to be checked on because where I lost money on one, I had money to make on another.

Low and behold.



A call came in several days later with a woman on the other end asking for me.  She was concerned, mentioning I had waited on her earlier that week.  She continued on to explain the wonderful service I had given her, her husband and friend, and how absolutely awful she felt when her credit statement had shown the tip her husband left was less that satisfactory.  This guest apologized again and again, asserting that I was supposed to have received 25%, not the measly $25.

Blown away, I thanked her for calling and that her phonecall back was enough.  It isn't everyday that someone calls in to admit a mistake.  Two days later she left a small note at our front hostess stand, thanking me once again and hoping to have me as a server in the nearby future.  Enclosed in the sealed envelope was an additional $60.



Rarely.

I repeat, rarely does that ever happen.  Shocked, it just reminded me that stereotypes are a bunch of bull.  No person should be preconceived as guilty for someone else's shortcomings.  Additionally, not every shorted tip was done purposefully. Accidents, just as a server could screw up an order, happen.  She not only went out of her way to apologize, but also corrected and even overcompensated for the mishap.

People like her make me grateful, and also tell me to hit the brakes on making groups of X such a lump sum.  There are other cultures, races, countries that simply do not see eye-to-eye on the matter of tipping or dining ettiquette in general, and that's just the way the world works.  You're not going to win them all.  This isn't a race. I need to slow down, appreciate people for who they are, and never assume.  Yes, we all do know what they say about that, thank you cliches.



And THANK YOU, "Mrs. I" for more than what you should have left.
For proving me wrong, and teaching me a lesson on goodness.
You are an honest person and truly, deeply appreciated.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
Armed and Angry: www.imfdb.org/wiki/My_Name_is_Earl
"It's Not Obama's Fault You're a Jerk": www.patheos.com
"Tipping Archives": www.madamenoire.com
"Prize Giveaway Tee": www.mindfieldlive.com
Tips Article: www.grownsoul.com
The Giving Tree Cover: www.allisoncherrybooks.com
"Give Thanks Every Day": www.greatist.com
Stereotyping picture: www.madamenoire.com

MINE

Always the most exhiliarating moment for a server... and least favorite moment for the dining guests.... dropping off the check.


It's the time when we are one step away from bidding you and your lovely guests adieu, forget us worrying about if you even tip the full twenty percent or not. Sometimes we are just happy to be getting rid of one more table, sending you out the door, parting ways-- especially if yours is the one with the child who smashed all of their food under the table, if you were uneccesarily rude, or if you ran our asses off when we could have done ten trips in one.



Last night I had a table, who in the middle of my opening spiel, cut me off to tell me, "Before you get any further, let me tell you that we will not tolerate the shitty service we just received over at the last place we were at.  You better have a personality."

Well. I do, and at that exact moment it was about to flip into "bitch mode"...if my words and actions didn't have any weight on my job, I would quipped, "Before you cut me off again, let me tell you that I hope you aren't as hoity and demanding as my last guests."


At that instant, I wished nothing more than to drop off the check-- for the waters-- and tell them to kick rocks.

She was looking up at me with a flash in her eyes, and yet somehow still looking down her nose at me. The woman was mid-to-late-thirties and very well..."maintained" I suppose.  I glanced down at her hands and saw no wedding ring.  No surprise there; if she was willing to snap at a complete stranger the way she just did to me, she probably took a hot dump on anyone she ever dated and sent them running for the hills. It's the instantly recognizable case of crazy woman syndome (yes, we're all a little crazy, some definitely more than others), but I believe I've seen this before:





So instead of satisfying my growing frustration, I killed her with kindness. Kissed her ass a bit.

On the other half of the restaurant, my coworker Britney* was dealing with a much different table. Super nice until Britney approached with the check. 

At The Valley, it is simply policy that we set down the check at the front of the table when service is through unless someone requests to receive it over the rest of the guests.  This part of the policy is the "first come, first serve". 


As Britney presented the check, two of the guests dove for an interception while the book was still aloft in mid-air, Britney's hand still attached to it. Like savage beasts fighting over prey, all civility goes out the window.



This, as servers look at it, is just plain rude.  We come to work to serve food and drinks, not to be mauled and assaulted by guests leaping for ownership of the check. 

Not only that, but then we have to shoulder the hard feelings by those who wanted to pay but lost out to another guest.  Don't fling your shit at me you monkey, look at your friend who snatched the bill out of your hands because you paid last time. 



Where is your grace, where is the class?!
When Britney complained to me, I remembered a time a gentleman nearly took my thumb off as it was stuck in the checkbook.  Plain hostile.

As my mother always put it, when you go out to a restaurant it as though you are eating in someone else's house.  Use your manners. Be polite.  This is The Valley, not a barnyard. This rule of thumb should be in effect from the second you walk in to the time that you leave.  As a server, it is my responsibility to be kind and courteous at all times no matter how unpleasant those I serve may be to me.  As a guest, even though you are being served and are to be having a wonderful experience, it is a two-way road.  We don't care how much money you throw at us (even though money is the root of all evil), it is not worth us having our teeth kicked in.

Golden Rule.  You got it.

-Malia Etienette

Photo Credit:
"The Last Pastrami": www.windsorstar.com
Dropping off Check: www.capitaladvancesolutions.com
"Is Taylor Swift that Crazy Ex-Girlfriend?": www.thetrendguys.com
"Lifestyle- Daily ISO Los Angeles": www.dailyiso.com
"Holy Smokes!...": www.cavemancircus.com
"Bitch Mode": www.someecards.com
Monkey: http://degrassitv.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/monkey.jpg?w=540
"Lioness Attacks": http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.1084701.1337980698!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/gallery_635/lioness-attacks.jpg
"It's Your Birthday": www.someecards.com