No Money, Mo' Problems

Just another day in paradise. Slow day at work...

Gretchen* called off sick today...again. She's got this mysterious morning sickness line of bullshit that she feeds all of us. Every morning she wakes up feeling queasy, and ralphs. No specialist knows what's wrong with her... I'd say piss on a stick and get it over with, because it's turning into "the boy who cried wolf"- no one believes the tall tale anymore. And perhaps the twenty cigarettes a day aren't helping her any...

Hamlet* and I held down the fort, although with the way lunches have been going lately, we didn't really need a third server to begin with.

Here's today's issue--

 

Harleen*, behind the bar, racked up sales of over $400 before the morning rush hit on carry-outs alone, but only made $2 from tips.



Do you typically tip on carry-out? What's the going rate?

As a customer, be aware that even though the server did not wait on you as a table, they did:

-Take the time to ring in your order correctly
This can range from, "I want a chicken shwarma pita wrap. No garlic sauce. Sub Tahini, extra on the side. No onions. Extra pickles. Toasted extra well." Really? All for a sandwich.
...To the very confusing orders, "Hi...I'm not sure what chicken dishes you have." Um, sir, we have eight. " Well, I just want a chicken dish. Not too garlic-y. And some kind of soup." Yes. I will put up with your indecisiveness, can you please hold?
-Take time away from other tables to package everything up.

It can be in the middle of a rush, and your server will have to step away from what they are doing to take the time to package everything correctly. We need to make sure you get all of the proper sides, sauces, and extras. If you order soup, or a dish with a sauce, we'll take an extra minute to saran wrap these containers to prevent any spills or leaks on your travel back.
Working at a Lebanese restaurant, we also serve raw juices and fruit smoothies--
for every drink made, five minutes that need to be spent on the dining floor are being displaced.

-Go through your order and double check
We've all been there. You run to Taco Bell, late night partly because nothing else was open and partly on bad judgement. You order a crunchwrap or whatever Dorito special they have going on and some cheesy fiesta potatoes. You get home, and not only did they forget all of your sauce, but you have someone else's order. There is NOTHING worse than that when you're starving, and now you're just pissed off, plain and simple.

We know how much of a hassle it can be for a customer to discover their order was not assembled properly. I do not want to be the one who screwed up your order. In order to assure that you leave happy, and do NOT return agitated, it is our job to ensure everything is correct.

I can understand most people's perspectives (yeah, I'll throw them a buck or two), but here's the kicker: There is no such thing as a carry-out fairy that tossed all the shit you wanted into a bag, and like magic, had it ready for you on time to pick up.

We servers only wish it was that easy.
A carry-out order can take more energy to put together than it does to wait on an entire table.
Your server is still exuding effort to guarantee your meal is enjoyable.
Just because you didn't physically see it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.

Unlike a food joint that specializes in food to-go, servers do not make a minimum wage for salary. So on top of their $2.65/hr wage, tip. What's the issue?
But really. At the end of the day, a $2 tip on a carry-out order for an office that totaled several hundred dollars is just tacky. And if you were that bastard, you should be ashamed.
I'd be tempted to pull out a line from the old movie, Angels with Dirty Faces:

-LM

Photo Credit:http://shamefultypos.com
Keep the change, you filthy animal: John Gushuehttp://johngushue.typepad.com

How to Kill an Appetite

Today was another non-work day. Thank God for those.
Honestly. Every once and a while, a good break can do miracles for rejuvenation.

I spent the morning relaxing- kicked my feet up, downed a cup of coffee. Figured it was time for breakfast, lunch, brunch- whatever you may- I was hungry and it was time to eat!

Nelly's* is a small, family-style diner in Royal Oak. Perfect for the days you know it's jam-packed at the more popular restaurants. Sure, there are no mimosas at Nelly's but it wasn't exactly noon either.

I sat down with a friend, and ordered up an omelette... Somewhere amidst the flurry of texting and the void of conversation, he intitiated a discussion about what MY life plan was...what my next step after college was. And by the way, what is my major? Yes, it is undoubtedly communication...and even my friends are dubious of my path in today's professional world with such an ambiguous concentration.

I spilled my passion, (in retrospect) sounding unsure of myself because hell...I could sense a drop of judgement in my listener.  Private Investigation?  How will I market?  How will I support myself? How can I ensure clientel? Frankly, they admitted, the job is a "niche"- defined to be a distinct segment of a market, something boutique...in other words, unreliable.



I did actually have a plan for how I would get to where I wanted to be...but now it just sounds futile. The seed of doubt has been planted and my well has been poisoned. Was this what I really wanted? Is the means to an end worth all the struggle?

I've always kept waitressing on the table as my stepping stone. My financial foundation for a time while my schedule is constantly changing with odd course schedules.

I looked at our waitress-- a few years older than I, stout, and very Plain Jane.
She probably has a child or two at home.
Am I doomed to the vicious cycle of waitressing that she is trapped in?
This blackhole, a vortex we refer to as waitressing, drowns more people than it allows to keep afloat.  The only person who can save you is you.



It's hard to have goals or dreams when others step on them.
It's hard to believe in yourself when no one else does.
Of course, that wasn't my only route I was thinking of going with my major.
I do have another plan... but why share it now? I felt ridiculous.

I know my friend was only being honest...brutally honest, which isn't what I always want to hear. Albeit harsh, it may be the best advice for me....something I should take the time to consider. The intention at hand was to see where I would be in five, ten, twenty years down the road. The significance was that I do succeed.

But hell, if we all knew where we intended to be, we would be there already-- not stuck in some unnecessary limbo of taking orders on the daily like myself. This is life, and I happen to take it one day at a time and just be thankful that I have tomorrow.

Whether that small window of dialogue took place out of curiousity, care or concern, it struck a chord inside me.  It hit home, when maybe I shouldn't have let it.

There are definitely times (like this time) when I wish life was much more black and white.
Right now, I'm caught up in a whole slew of gray.
Time will only tell if I take the infamously beaten path...or choose the path less traveled by.
 

Although literally quite filling, that diner meal left me feeling more empty than before.

-LM


Photo Credit:
"Hopeless" by Curtains on Spirit www.glogster.com

"Trapped" by http://raido-ehwaz.deviantart.com

www.youreatopia.com

Turning the Tables...

 

Every so often I like a glass (or two) of wine.
On the rare occasion, I might light up a cigar with the guys.
Every once in a blue moon- yes- I actually prefer to be waited on versus waiting.

I could talk about fine dining, bottle service and hors d'oeuvres all day long--  half-shell oysters on ice, and a thick, juicy filet cooked to the perfect degree of rare that I absolutely love.

                                              

But who am I kidding? Those dinners are far and few in between for me. And yes, for the record, I am one of those assholes who takes pictures of my food.

As a server, I typically work most evenings. Sunday dinners are reserved for family. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'm trapped within the confines of Oakland University and usually forget about having to eat altogether.

If I'm going to be eating later on at night, and the golden arches haven't managed to sway me, there's always Leo's Coney Island.  What is this, you say?  Why, it's free entertainment of course! Probably not the healthiest, but hey, death is inevitable. You might as well live while you can.

                      

Four Reasons I Wouldn't Work at a Coney... Ever:

1. Horribly Rotten Hours
Sometimes I complain about my hours, and then I look at the girls who work here. I can definitely say that I am not at all jealous of the shifts they have to work.

2. Drunk Fucks
There is an undeniable witching hour at Leo's just after the bars close down. Leo's becomes
overrun by sloppy alcoholics who just got off the hot mess express and will more than likely be riding the struggle bus the following morning.

How can you tell someone is indeed a drunk fuck? Beligerence. Rudeness. Off-color
conversation topics. They might not be high, but they've got the munchies. Their level of
invinciblity goes up as they conjure these monstrous balls of steel, big enough to convince
themselves they can pick a fight with just about any other customer in the joint for any reason
imaginable.

I would like to thank "liquid courage" for the amazing brawls I've witnessed as a bystander.
And THIS guy...

                      

3. Shitty Tippers
First of all, the food at any given coney is dirt cheap. Any sober person would say, "hey, 20% on 5 is all of a dollar. Here ya go." The really awesome guests would drop down another buck or two. Unfortunately, that isn't the case at a dirt cheap place to eat which serves highly intoxicated guests. The average tip is whatever "change" is on the tab, or even better- the coins rolling around aimlessly in the bottom of a purse.

                       

                                                             Case in point.
I could never work at a coney. I would be shaking turds down for a proper tip, left and right.
4. (Other) Attitudinal Waitresses
Add all of these components together and what do you get? Yep. Exactly who I want handling
my food. The only smiles I've seen on the girls at that establishment is when they're punching out
for the night.


Speaking of attitudinal waitresses, a manager had given me the personal cell number of the owner to relay an experience with Pia* who had waited on me. Boy, she was a treat. He wanted her fired.

As weird as it sounds, for sardonic as I can be, I'm not naturally an ill-wisher-- unless you're a certain ex-boyfriend or two of mine, then the story is different.

It's a pretty universal statement- Do unto others as you would want done unto you.

-LM

Everlast

A punching bag- that’s what this girl seems to be. Like a speedbag, she keeps coming back for more of the relentless jabs.

Having a dud of a guest is one thing.  As the worker, you have to tolerate them for all of an hour as they are also the one tipping you. Having a dud of a coworker is another story.  You can’t escape the situation so you might as well try your best to chin up and deal.

Her name is Gretchen*- the one person who ever says something completely off-color enough to make an entire room of people fall silent upon entering—pin-drop silent.

 

The sound of her voice. Simply that raspy, “Hey guys!” that you’d hear float through the kitchen after her 14^th cigarette break of the shift. It makes your muscles instinctively tighten ever so slightly, and your face helplessly cringes.

You grit your teeth as soon as you become shrouded in that cloud of stale Marlboro Reds doused in hopes to camouflage with tacky and overbearing floral perfume potent enough to make a grown man nauseous.

 It’s like hearing a very inappropriate joke come out of a five-year-old’s mouth, and trying not to laugh because you know you’re only encouraging wrongful behavior. Hearing the word, “hand job”, repeated over and over again is not what I look forward to on my lunch shift, much less Gretchen’s SEXplicit stories of spending the weekend at a Motel 6 with her boyfriend. I would rather choke down Fifty Shades of Grey, cover-to-cover, if given the option. Her sense of humor is a handshake from someone who just blew their nose- you just don’t accept it.

As Gretchen is sitting there, making up yet another excuse to leave our lunch shift early, insults roll through my head- and then I suddenly become painfully aware of what I’m thinking.

My Lunchbox Days.

It brings me back to those red, white and navy plaid jumpers and Doc Marten Mary Janes. My experience in a Catholic grade school was nothing to be envied. Every day brought on another form of ridicule, another new way of understanding why I was not “good” enough to be friends with those from wealthier families.

The lunch room was assigned seating which meant I could not escape the glares from Dana and Danielle. “Bologna?!” They would squeal and start to make gagging noises. “Don’t you know what is in that? I would die if my parents packed my lunch the way yours do. That’s disgusting. Don’t eat that in front of me. I might get sick.” Upset, I could feel my face grow hotter. The tears splashed down, hot and salty, into my brown bag sandwich.  After that day, I began holing myself up in the bathroom- the only sanctuary at that school.



Day after day. Week after week. A seven year period from when it had first transpired. You think I would have learned something from that prison sentence created in Catholic school. “Love thy neighbor as thou love thyself.” Bullshit. I was sick of being stepped on. Being bullied was a tough pill to swallow—to understand at a young age that not everyone was going to like you, for reasons beyond your own control. And that was just a part of life.


Since then, it’s been a constant battle with my conscience.
Forever ago I was the person in Gretchen’s shoes. I’ve apparently come to be the bully.
Neither is a very good position to be in.

But when I look at Gretchen, insecure and unsure of herself, I see a ten year old me, struggling and alone.

Since when did I become the one, armed with a bundle of sticks and stones, poised and ready to take aim?
When did I adopt this idiot mantra, “If you can’t beat them, join them," and undergo the
metamorphosis to become this Mean Girl?

I sigh, shake my head, and continue cutting the lemons- sour, like myself.

- LM

Photo Credit:
The Diplomat
“Sadaf Rahimi- New Boxing Star?”http://thediplomat.com/sport-culture/2012/03/12/sadaf-rahimi-%E2%80%93-new-boxing-star/

"Health Minds. Health Lives. How to Bully-Proof Kids"http://apa.healthyminds.blogspot.com

"Are Girls Expected to Be Nice? Or Do Mean Girls Breed Mean Girls?"www.cosmoradiowakeup.com

YOUTUBE The Friend Nobody Likeshttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0U9X-UXiR0U

 

Valentine's Schmalentine's-- Someone Grab Me a Beer

Chocolates & flowers & love notes with XO's.
Dresses & dinners, all pricey I suppose.
Desserts & lingerie, engagement rings
These are a few of my least favorite things (at least on this day).

That was assuming you've seen The Sound of Music...and if you haven't, shame on you. Let me be the first to accuse you of being un-American and uncultured.

                                                                  
Walking into The Valley, table tops were crowned with ornate roses. Deep crimsons lined the aisleway. The lighting had already been dimmed to allow the flicker of the candles to guide each guest's hand across the tiny two-top to clasp that of their date's. The overhead music was a subtle touch: french love songs. "How romantic." I audibly growled as I rolled my eyes.

Je t'adore, mon amour....

Si tu n'existes pas...


I'm not exactly sure why Americans celebrate something so artificial, so awful. Is it a reflection of how artificial and awful we have become? People say it's sweet and thoughtful, I get it. But why should people have to be reminded that they are required to show their partner how much they care on such a designated day. Valentine's Day is scripted- a perfectly choreographed dance. Where's the romance in that?

There's always this level of expectancy from the woman.  Her date is left with an odd guessing of what she'll be happy with, if its enough and then it comes down to-
Hell, if it isn't good enough, tell the impossible-to-satisfy, gold-digging bitch to walk.


                                                                   _____________

Waiting on couples this day is torture. If there was any more loving going on in the room, there would be a major baby boom this November. There's enough hormones raging in here to rival those of a Vegas pool party.

Couples who have been together for a significant period of time fall in the monotonous "this is what we do every year" routine.
New couples are still excited to post the pictures of their first V-Day together- her, dressed to kill and him, with something spilled down his shirt, smiling like a jackass.
And new daters? He's just wondering how much tonight is going to cost him before he can get it in.


Pathetic. It's what this holiday has become, really.

I'm happy, for the first time in a long time, not only am I unattached, but I have the night off on this God-awful holiday. Sitting here, eating a bowl of bolognese pasta at home with my laptop in front of me, this is heaven. The best part? I'm completely content with knowing I'm sparing someone else their time and money.

Let's be honest. The V in V-Day should stand for vodka. Find me at a bar later.

-LM

Photo Credit:
Roses: www.kareemoorepsychicmedium.com
B&W: www.bebetterguys.com
Wallpaper: www.picswalls.com

Excuse Me, Miss!?

So I would consider myself to have been raised in a pretty religious house.
Funny, right? With the way I sling the G-D's and my absolutely irresistable trucker's mouth, who would have guessed?!

Anyway, a table of eight walked into The Valley today. Just another day in paradise.
This woman has the undeniably darkest black smudge just smeared across her forehead. And when I say "smeared," I literally mean ingrained and embedded in her pores.  She'll be breaking out for days.

My first thought was, What the hell is wrong with her friends? Didn't anyone say something?
It is one of those awkward moments that caused you to say "OH" and hold your breath, all the while biting your knuckle in hopes someone else will comment before you have to.

But it hit me.

Yesterday was Fat Tuesday. You know- Paczkis. Beads. MARDI GRAS?
What follows for us Catholics?
Ash Wednesday.

Yes, that's right. Ash Wednesday. Those were ashes, and I am not only a horrible non-practicing Catholic, but an asshole as well.  The thing is, those ashes are supposed  to be drawn on in the shape of a cross- not this unrecognizable blob of "WTF" that I'm staring at, dumbfounded. But hell, I'm still laughing about it as I write this blog so smite me, Almighty One!


There's my "Blonde Moment" for the day...

Or at least for the afternoon. Now that I've confesseed to that minor blunder, I feel as though my slate is wiped clean and I just made room for error later on, if need be.

To each their own!

-LM

Photo Credit:
http://i.goldstar.com/gse_media/113/0/fat-tuesday-920.jpg?q=30&h=520&w=920

"Possibly Insane Thoughts On Ash Wednesday"
http://laughingwater.org/2012/02/23/possibly-insane-thoughts-on-ash-wednesday/