Day ninety one: street cheese

I've worked in Downtown Winnipeg for the better part of a decade and just when I think I've seen it all something amazing happens. Today it was the offer to purchase what I have now dubbed: Street Cheese.


I don't need to tell you how delicious and revered cheese is nor do I need to tell that it's not cheap. What I do need to fill you in on, unless you're already in the know, is that cheese theft is at an all time high.


Some guy walked into the New Shop this morning offering to sell us some blocks of cheese for cheap. Being the cheese connoisseur I consider myself to be I immediately recognized the packaging and had come to the conclusion that this guy had stolen some bricks of marble from Safeway. 


Over the years I've had people on the street try to sell me drugs, clothes, bus tickets, booze, etc. but never have I had anyone try to sell me stolen cheese. 


Obviously his generous offer was declined for legal reasons. I don't consider myself a lawyer, per se, but I do watch a lot of crime dramas -- Law and Order, Law and Order SVU, Law and Order Criminal Intent, Criminal Minds, NYPD Blue, 21 Jump Street, Hawaii 5-0, Matlock, Murder She Wrote, CSI, CSI Miami, 24, Cold Case, Sue Thomas F-B-Eye...  


and purchasing stolen merchandise is against the law and I'm almost positive health inspectors frown on the idea of Street Cheese. 


A friend of mine who is a loss prevention officer at Safeway says that cheese is one of the most sought after items to steal. Cheese and razor blades and I can understand why. Like I said before cheese isn't cheap and razor blades are even more expensive. This is why I don't shave my legs all the time (the cost of razor blades, not cheese). Actually, it's because I'm lazy and it's the winter. 


Street Cheese, it's a living. 

Day ninety: free refills

I was always under the impression that the rules of free refills at a restaurant are common knowledge but, once again, I have been proven otherwise. 


Generally speaking, if you order a coffee or a soda, it's safe to assume that you can have all the refills you want. This is of course in reference to fountain beverages and not canned drinks. There are some places, however, that do charge for refills on fountain beverages. Take for instance the Pony Corral. This particular restaurant charges their customers for refills on soda but on the bright side the Pony Corral is disgusting so by avoiding dining at that establishment it's safe to assume the injustice that is pay-per-glass soda is equally as avoidable. 


Wonders never cease when it comes to the expectations of strangers. Tonight, an older gentleman and I use that term as loosely as one can, was upset when he found out that he would be charged for each individual tea bag he used. He was bothered so much that he threatened to "never come back." Sometimes it's just easier to give someone a free tea bag in order to avoid being read the Riot Act over some dried out leaves. 


But expecting free tea bags is like expecting free refills on apple juice. I wish I could give out free refills on juice, especially apple juice because it is delicious and the most thirst quenching of all the juices, but I can't.

My job is to bring out the food, not to establish prices and/or the rules of refills. Those tasks are above my pay grade and the sooner a table can recognize my position in the grand scheme of (insert real name here) the faster we're all just going to get along. 

When someone threatens to "never come back" my response is always the same: an indifferent "ok." What do I care if you never come back? Answer: I don't. Furthermore, if a person has such an awful experience they vow never to return, chances are he or she or they won't be missed. 

Day eighty nine: fast food

Between my two jobs I rarely have the time or the energy to cook for myself anymore. I haven't been grocery shopping in ages and I haven't yet come across a recipe that calls for chick peas, jam and Bisquick (the contents of my cupboard and/or fridge). 

Tonight I rolled up to the Burger King drive-thru for a delicious Whopper with cheese meal. I got Coke Zero to drink so it totally balances out. 

Burger King is the most delicious of all fast food in my opinion and they have coupons all the time. McDonalds is gross. If the Burger King and Ronald McDonald got into a fight, you know that the Burger King would win because he's got  

What awful drive thru food lacks in true sustenance, it makes up for in free condiments. I haven't paid for ketchup in months. 

Sure I will suffer, dearly, the consquences for eating a Whopper over the next couple of days with gut rot, self loathing and the assorted ailments that are associated with such but if, for whatever reason, I find myself needing Zesty Dipping Sauce or honey mustard in a pinch, I'm all set. 

The key to getting fresh fast food is to make modifications to the burger. Yes, I like a Whopper the way it is but if I'm going to clog my arteries an bring myself one step closer to adult diabetes - by way of food - I'm going to make sure my grub is hot and fresh. It's as simple as asking for extra lettuce or for the cheese to be placed directly on the bun. This ensures a freshly made burger at no extra cost.

Day eighty eight: back to the grind

I should have looked more closely at my itinerary. For whatever reason my understanding of military time went straight out the window and when I saw 22:30 hours as my arrival time I thought it meant 10:30 am.


I thought I would have an entire day to myself before going back to working doubles. What a fool I am.


I had some time to kill because my plane was late leaving Vancouver and the plane to take me home was late arriving in Calgary. These things happen and when they do you make the best of the situation -- grab a bite to eat and look for a spot to get some wi-fi.


Let me just say this, the Calgary Airport has stricter firewalls set up than a high school computer lab. I was denied access to perezhilton.com because the Calgary Airport Authority deemed it to be inappropriate. Really Calgary Airport Authority? Since when are you the authority on anything other than the Calgary Airport? And while we're on the subject, why are you limiting my internet access 15 minutes at a time? How am I supposed to distract myself from the little girl throwing a temper tantrum at the table to my right and the server telling the table to my left a story about her cat? 


I'm going on record here and saying that the service at the Calgary Airport Chili's by gate 18 has the worst service ever. I didn't even want to leave a tip for my server but I couldn't bring myself to teach her a lesson by stiffing her because:

1. She is probably too stupid to realize she's a bad server
2. As a server, I can't bring myself to do something like that

Instead, I tipped her and I have decided to set a goal for myself -- be a better server than the brain dead gal at the Calgary Aiport Chili's.

I have decided to set a goal for myself -- be a better server than the brain dead gal at the Calgary Aiport Chili's. So far it's been working out awesome. I haven't told a story about my cat once. 


It would appear I'm not the only one who feels this way about Chili's: 

Day eighty six: to strive, to seek, to find.

There's one place I always go when I'm in Vancouver: the White Spot. Sure, there's a Triple O sign on every corner and I'm not sure if it's for the food or for the memories but it just doesn't seem like a trip to the West Coast without stopping in for lunch. The White Spot reminds me of all the times I sat in the drive-in parking lot in my uncle Tom's car, waiting for servers to bring out long, skinny trays of burgers and Coca-Colas while having some laughs. 

My uncle Tom died almost six years ago. It was July 11, 2005 when my mom and I ventured out for a day of exploration. My folks had moved to St. John's, Newfoundland several months earlier and it was the first time I went out to visit. I had just dipped my feet in the Atlantic Ocean for the first and only time in my life when my mom realized she had forgotten her cell phone at home. We stopped at the house to pick it up before going on a whale watching tour that would inevitably lead to my Screeching-in. A quick press of the message button on the machine changed everything.

"Marcia, it's Marguerite. Please call me." 

It was as if she knew based on that message, that half-sentence. It's a funny thing when that happens -- that feeling you get when something awful strikes. My dad came home from work to tell my mom that her 56 year old brother had died. 

In less than 48 hours I had flown from Winnipeg to Toronto to St. John's back to Toronto until finally landing in Vancouver. My mom and I stepped off the plane with hearts so heavy it felt like they'd never be the same again. All I can remember is the sinking feeling of walking into my uncle's home wanting to be anywhere else in the world at that very moment hoping it was some morbid practical joke. 

Like Christmases before there is a missing piece and just as empty as I felt then I still do now. I look around his office, missing him and I remember how grateful and blessed I truly am to spend even just four days with the people I love the most. 

Day eighty five: Christmas hissy fits

I don't know what it is about spending time with my family but it's almost as if I regress into my childhood self.


For the past month I've been dropping not so subtle hints about what I want for Christmas: a new Blackberry Bold. My poor phone is on it's last leg: it's been put through every sort of torture short of waterboarding.  


So when I opened up an adapter for an iPhone this morning, imagine my disappointment that it wasn't a Blackberry accessory. Let me point out that I know I am a brat, a spoiled one at that but it gets even worse when I'm with my family. 


Instead of being an adult and thanking my parents for getting me a thoughtful gift I instead said "I don't want this. I want a Blackberry." 


What a brat! As soon as that came out of my mouth I wanted to take it back. I've never been one to think before I speak, that's something I've been working on for the past 26 years. 


 I'd like to say it's because I'm so run down from working everyday all day at two different jobs and putting on a smiling face and a good attitude that finally the bad behaviour had no choice but to come out but I don't have an excuse for the way I behave.


What I should have done was ask if they'd be offended if I exchanged it for a Blackberry at my uncle's Rogers store and boom! Christmas sans hissy fit. Instead I was a brat, went to my room, had a little cry because I felt like such a jerk and like many Christmases before my mom came to save the day and make me feel better for being such a brat while at the same time telling me to smarten up. 


The thing about my family is that we tend to sluff off the bad stuff. We don't hold grudges.  I spoke too soon. For whatever reason Big Bro and my little cousin had a bit of a falling out and they have yet to patch that up. 


It's like Carrie Fisher said "resentment is the poison you swallow hoping hoping the other person will die."

So did my Christmas wish come true? Yes. The new Blackberry is en route:



But what's even better than a totally awesome phone and not having to work is that I got a reminder of how lucky I am to be able to call these people my family.

Day eighty three: I hate to fly

Last night my mom called and demanded that I be at the airport two hours early for my domestic flight from Winnipeg to Vancouver. This means she wanted me to be at the Winnipeg James Armstrong Richardson International Airport at five a.m. to fly out at seven bells. 

Clearly I told her I’d be there at that time but in reality I tossed some dirty laundry in a duffle bag, snagged my laptop and called at cab to come get me at 5:30. The cab ride took longer than it did to check my bags  -- it took the Tim Hortons workers more time to toast my cheese bagel than it did for me to go through security.

Better safe than sorry I suppose.

I hate to fly. I know the miracle of flight is nothing to scoff at but I can’t stress enough how much I hate to fly. I go for the aisle seat because I like to be able to control when I can get up and go to the bathroom. I don’t want to climb over someone in the event I need to use the most uncomfortable washroom in existence. Especially when their tray is down, forget about it!

I dread having to sit beside a stranger. I never get to sit beside the hunky dreamboat I saw in the terminal, it’s always the least desirable person who smells like a dirty gym sock, or worse, a baby. I already get pseudo nauseous from the re-circulated airplane air as it is; I loathe the idea of breathing in vile body odour on top of it.

At Christmas time, a baby or two on board is bound to happen. These poor babies, who are incapable of understanding air pressure, probably think their heads are going to explode. I’m 26 years old and sometimes I think my head is going to explode on the airplane. I don’t pretend to know the science of flight.

So does it annoy me when I’m trying to take a snooze on my 7 am flight to the coast that some little tyke is wailing like a banshee – a baby banshee even? Yes, of course it bothers me. But I get it. It’s not their fault. It’s their parents’ fault for bringing them on a plane in the first place. There should be a 12 and over policy on airplanes. Not only is it more pleasant for the other passengers but it’s also a safety precaution. Babies and small children are notorious for bringing contraband on airplanes. If I can’t bring a bottle of water through security, why should they be able to bring a bottle?

Don’t even get me started on Westjet’s new pay-per-view movie policy. $7 for an in-flight movie?! Are you kidding me Westjet? Talk about ridiculous. 

The thought of Christmas with the fam is the only thing that kept me going.  

Day eighty two: return of the split shift

Today I’m working a split shift at (insert real name here). I haven’t worked a split shift in ages, not including the days I work at both restaurants.

Normally, I’d have a nosh and read the paper or a book but today I’m catching up on some unfinished work while I abstain from eating (insert real name here) food. It’s not a soon-to-be New Year’s resolution but yet another opportunity to make bank on some unsuspecting co-workers. 

Several servers are giving up (insert real name here) food and while willpower has its merits, money speaks volumes.  The guidelines are simple:

·      Don’t eat (insert real name here) food

·      Get money

When someone cracks and eats grub from the restaurant $5 goes into the pot until there is one server standing – he or she gets the cash and it starts all over again.

If it were up to me I’d keep a chart to truly hone in on everyone’s food shame.

It’s been three days and I feel like that kid from Wife Swap who loses his mind when his bacon is threatened.

Maybe it’s that not that extreme but he does make some valid points about bacon. 

One gal is already out. And I’m counting on the honour system to keep the rest, myself included, in line. 

Day eighty one: justice has prevailed.

I was en route home tonight after a long day of serving tables when I got a call from my big brother. I'm not the only one in the family who is in the restaurant industry. Big Bro is a chef in British Columbia. He moved to Alberta the day after I turned 18 to work at the Chateau Lake Louise as a cook while also attending culinary school in Calgary -- a natural progression after working for a couple years a cook at Hooters.


Big Bro has since done very well for himself and is now some sort of an in-charge chef for a corporate restaurant in Vancouver. Right now he is living in Whistler for a few months while he oversees the opening of new restaurant. His job doesn't allow him the luxuries of getting holidays off so he won't be with the family for Christmas. I feel as if my mother is going to murder him for not being there on Christmas day.


Tonight, on my way home from a closing shift at (insert real name here), Big Bro called me with some news: he had finally come clean to my parents, who were on speaker phone with some of the family,  about the Poster Incident.


When I was six or seven and Big Bro was nine or 10 we got some sweet posters at the bookfair at school. His was of a red corvette, which is odd because he never was and still isn't into cars. He was a Lego kind of kid. My poster was of a basket of kittens or something. I hate cats but I love kittens. I'm sure it's cuteness was something along the lines of these kittens going down a slide:



When we got our posters home Officer Dad told us not to take them out of the plastic because he would get some frames the next day so we could hang our new art on out bedroom walls without fear of the posters being torn.


What you need to know at this point is that time was around the time that I learned that honesty is the best policy and that telling the truth had fewer consequences than lying. 


My brother's poster had somehow been taken out of the plastic and Officer Dad was not happy. He sat us down and asked which one of us had ripped open the plastic. I looked at Big Bro waiting for him to accept the responsibility but the only thing that came out of his mouth was "not me." 


How could this be? If he didn't do it, who did? 


I racked my brain trying to think of what could have happened and offered my thoughts. Maybe Officer Dad or my mom opened the poster. Maybe there was a gust of wind and somehow it was so powerful it opened the plastic? Did we have ghosts? 


Officer Dad informed us that since he was a police officer, he knew when people were lying. I decided at that point, even though I was innocent, if I took the blame he would be proud of me for owning up to "my bad deed." 


I fessed up and Officer Dad sent me to my room for the rest of the night while Big Bro got to hang out with some friends that were coming over for dinner that night. It was the first time I could remember Big Bro throwing me under the bus. 


Nice police work Officer Dad. 


It's nice to know 20 years later, when the threat of being sent to his room for the evening was no longer on the table, Big Bro was able to clear my name. 

Day eighty: workplace injuries.

On a daily basis I injure myself more frequently than I would care to.  Ideally, I would like to injure myself not at all.

Typically I walk into walls, stub my toe, hit my wrist knuckles, slice a finger while rolling cutlery or burn my hands. I'm lucky that I have all of my appendages intact and none of my workplace flubs have included amputation yet. 

Some call it being clumsy, one of the card readers at the New Shop says it's because I'm not grounded. I think it's because I'm a bit of a spaz. If my Google search about symptoms is any indication, there's a good chance I have self diagnosed Adult ADD/ADHD. 


On a daily basis I injure myself more frequently than I would care to.  Ideally, I would like to injure myself not at all.

I got a sliver in my hand at work tonight. I’ve been trying to get it out with tweezers but I seem to be pushing it in further. I’ll probably get gangrene (it runs in the family, my great grandma had no legs.)

On the bright side since technically I got the initial injury at work, I’d be eligible for some worker’s compensation. So if my hand falls off I’m set for life, really. 

Day seventy nine: it's not what you say, it's how you say it.

It still astounds me that some people who come into restaurants can act the way they do and treat their servers like they are second-class citizens.

Take for example one table I had this evening. It started out as a group of three. They informed me they were waiting on a fourth to show up and would wait 15 minutes until ordering. In the meantime they ordered a half litre of wine (2 glasses) and a diet Pepsi for the wait. 

Lo and behold these self-proclaimed seasoned wine drinkers informed me that there was something off about their wine and that it tasted awful. So I got them a different half-litre of a different wine -- no harm, no foul. There are two different kinds of people in this world: those who go to (insert real name here), drink one of four red wines and raise a stink about it and those who realize it's (insert real name here). As I've been implying throughout this blog, (insert real name here) is not a fine dining establishment and when the "house wine" is Carlo Rossi Red -- no specific variety indicated, you're probably no going to like it if you, like these people told me adamantly three times "know a lot about wine."

That's not what put me in a mood. 


What put me in a mood was while I was taking food to another table, the wine connoisseur decided to snap his fingers and yell out for me half way across the restaurant as if to let me know the joiner had arrived. 


He snapped his fingers and beckoned me over like a dog. 


Are you effing kidding me? 


Rule number one, if you need to get your server's attention, which was unnecessary because I saw the addition to the table when I walked by with hot plates in my hands en route to some hungry and more appreciative diners, DON'T SNAP YOUR FINGERS. 


I took comfort in the fact that when I dropped off the food the woman at the table looked at me and said "what an asshole" as if she was reading my mind. 


Situations like this happen all too often. I generally have a pretty thick skin and get over it pretty quickly. 


It's the times when people I work with treat me like a lesser person that really grinds my gears. A couple days ago it was the straw that broke the camel's back. One of the other servers snapped at me and while I would normally let it roll off me like water down a duck's back, I felt my eyes welling up. 


I had to give myself a time out and remember that it's (insert real name here). Who cares if someone is being a bitch? I'm not going to let it get the best of me but rather remember that it's not what you say, it's how you say it and continue to be pleasant to the people I work with. 


Now the trick is to do the same outside of work. 

Day seventy eight: I love soup.

To be perfectly honest, aside from the tips, my favourite part about working at a restaurant(s) is how readily available soup is.

At any given moment I can have soup, which I recently discovered is my favourite food replacing sandwiches as my number one and bumping pizza down to the bronze.

Soup is such an underrated meal. I remember a time when this fine city was a treasure trove of soup eateries. Actually, I think it was just a few Soup Pierres that have since met their untimely demise and gone the way of the bagel shop which brings to question: when did people stop going to bagel places? 

My guess is right around the time coffee places started popping up on every corner. Say what you will, Winnipeggers love Tim Hortons. 

At (insert real name here) the soup is consistent. There isn't much variety, which is fine, people like what they like and I'm on board as long as it's cheese and broccoli. At the New Shop, there is a different soup everyday -- bisques, chowers you name it.



Now a someone who has been eating soup since the 80s, I fancy myself a pro but I've learned a very important lesson: don't tell the chef it needs more salt. This can result in having soup tasting privileges taken away which may or may not, but totally did, happen to me. 


Tasting the soup is a privilege, not a right. 

Day seventy seven: grape.

I’m looking forward to the new year when Winnipeg gets so cold there's no reason to go outside unless it's mandatory say for going to work or building forts; both activities that require snow pants. 

After New Years the restaurant business slows down considerably which I'm looking forward to as far as getting some rest goes. I'm not looking forward to how little money I'll be making. 

So I'm making lemonade, so to speak, and keeping my eye on the prize: quality time in my pajamas. The cozy factor goes up considerably when I throw in a robe and the piece, or pieces, of clothing that ties it all together: my slipper socks. They’re called Vamps and they’re from Newfoundland and they're awesome. If I could compare the comfort of my slipper socks to anything I’d say they’re like walking on clouds but better. They’re like walking on the faces of angels, baby angels which everyone knows are the softest kinds of angels.  

Until that time arrives I will have no choice but to balance two jobs with an insanely busy social calendar but with great party power, comes great party power responsibilities. This means my mornings start with my post party ritual: purple Gatorade and 2 Advil Liquid Gels. 


Purple, or grape, is the best and only acceptable sports drink flavour as far as I'm concerned. Every other flavour tastes like poison. Now I don't know what poison tastes like per se but I did eat a mushroom growing in my backyard when I was six and that had some poisonous-like effects as a result. 


If there's one thing I know, it's that grape and/or purple flavour is the best:

                           

Day seventy four: the best $2 I've ever spent!

Maybe it's because I am living off of my tips or maybe it's because I'm getting weary in my old age or maybe it's because I've become a bitter hag but I find myself becoming more and more annoyed when I go out to bars in Winnipeg.


I went to a birthday party at Dylan O'Connors Irish Pub on Pembina Highway. $12 to get in the door! $2 to check my coat, $10 for cover. Immediately I thought about the bottle of wine I could be enjoying in the comfort of my own home for that $12 (perhaps even a magnum of the cheap stuff!). 


Almost instantly, my nasal passage was attacked with an overwhelming smell of Axe Body Spray. My eyes were the next to go: deep v-neck Ed Hardy shirts and fedoras everywhere.


Don't get me wrong, I've spent my fair share of evenings at Winnipeg bars. When I was 18, my friends and I spent Friday, Saturday and Monday nights at The 'A'. (May it rest in peace) A couple years later, it was the Lid, formerly known at the Palladium. And now if I go anywhere is usually the Red Cactus on Corydon Ave. 


I still maintain that the Lid was the best bar in Winnipeg, EVER. Cheap drinks, so-so music but cheap drinks. It has since been turned into a banquet room for reasons I will never know and I've been mourning it's departure for a couple years now. 


After a few beers, my crew and I made our way through the sea of hair extensions, sequins covered tank tops and spray tans back into the real world. 


Obviously we stopped for some food on the way home at Subway on Osborne Street and the night was saved. I tossed a couple bucks in the tip jar with blatant disregard for a sign that read: 

                  We will do a back flip for tips of $2 or more. For realz. 

Sometimes I forget what it's like to be appreciative of a $2 tip. There was once a time, while shucking lattes and other assorted over-prices coffee creations at a Starbucks, that I was elated to even get 50 cents. I make a point of always giving a buck or two when I see a tip jar full on knowing that not everyone does. 


I told the Subway guys, after they regaled a story of two drunk girls kissing, that a backflip was not necessary but they insisted. Naturally, I pulled out my camera phone. Even if buddy didn't nail it, at least I get a clip of the attempt:

***Disclaimer: The video you are about to see contains foul language that is not suitable for children or my mom.***

That $2 backflip was nothing short of amazing! 

Day seventy two: baby it's cold outside

Tonight I walked home from (insert real name here). It doesn't take that long and a little physical activity can't hurt. The reason this was a stupid move is because, now, I can't feel my legs. I wear a skirt and tights to work. There's nothing like a modest knee-length skirt to get the tips pouring in. I wish.


The transit system in Winnipeg could use some improvements but overall it's pretty good as far as transit systems go. I don't really have a basis of comparison but it gets me when I need to go.


Rather than wait  40 minutes for a loser cruiser at (insert real name here) I figured I might as well hoof 'er the 30 minutes.


Never again. Minus 33 in tights and a skirt? The CBC plays made for TV movies about people who don't dress for the weather and and up freezing to death, I should have known better.


From now on I'm going to wear my snow pants? Ski pants? Snow pants everywhere.


Snow pants sounds better to me. It's not like I'm going skiing anytime soon a la Hal Johnson and Joanne Mcleod:



Just because I have no intention of doing winter activites it doesn't mean I can't dress for the weather.

Day seventy one: let the countdown begin!

I love Christmas and this year I get to spend it with my whole family. This doesn't happen too often seeing as how we're spread out from coast-to-coast. By spread out I mean everyone lives in British Columbia except for my parents who are in Newfoundland and me, by myself, here in Winnipeg.

I am SO excited to spend five-ish days away from the wind chill with all of my family at the same time. It's been years since the last time we were all together, let alone at Christmas time. I'm equally excited for some days off that I haven't had in some time. Between the two restaurants I work seven days a week. 

The past couple of years I've had to forego the traditional (insert my real last name here) Christmas. For as long I can remember Christmas Eve was spent in a mad fury of last minute present wrapping and watching Christmas movies.

There was never a shortage of Christmas movies in the (insert my real last name here) household:

• It's a Wonderful Life
• The Bishop's Wife (Later to be remade in 1996 as the Preacher's Wife starring Whitney Houston and Denzel)
• A Christmas Carol (The version starring Alastair Sim)
• Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
• How the Grinch Stole Christmas
• A Christmas Story ("Be sure to drink your Ovaltine? Son of a bitch!" -Ralphie)

This goes on. My absolute all time favourite has to be White Christmas starring Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen:

It's the kind of movie that makes you forget that Bing allegedly hit his children and fills you with Christmas cheer. 


Let's get real here for a moment. The thing that I'm most excited about is PRESENTS! Sure Christmas is about celebrating with friends and family and being with those you love but it's mostly about the presents. 


This year I'm stepping it up a notch. Instead of adding my name to the gifts my parents bought for everyone, I'm going to cross their names out and write my own in. It seems only fair. 


12 more days until I'm out of here, can't wait. 

Day seventy: other servers serving.

It's nice to be able to go out and have someone else wait on me for a change. As much as I'd like to be high maintenance and have my server running around the way my tables have had me do lately, I don't see any point in perpetuating the bad diner cycle. That, and I'd feel bad. I already have enough on my plate to feel bad about, I don't need to add "rude to Olive Garden server" to the list. 

Naturally, we sat at the bar to pass the time while we endured the standard 20-minute Olive Garden wait for a table. I don't know what it is about that place but you have to camp out at the doors like a bargain shopper waiting to get his hands on the half-priced flat-screen TV on Boxing Day if you want a table right away.  

My lunch mate and former roommate asked the bartender for his suggestion of "what's good to drink." 

I don't like when people ask for my opinion of what they should eat. I don't want the responsibility of picking out something a table is going to like. All I know is what I like to eat not what some stranger wants for dinner. 

You wouldn't know by looking at me but I hate all things melon. It's a useless, awful tasting fruit and just recently in Winnipeg cantaloupes have been recalled because they may be contaminated with salmonella. I can only conclude that cantaloupes and all melons are not only disgusting and ruiners of fruit salad but potentially lethal. 

Enough about gross fruit. 

The bartender suggested the "Italian Margarita." So that's what we each got. Standard margarita: Sauza, Triple Sec and here's what makes it Italian, I suppose: a shot of DiSaronno on the side. 

Chels, my partner in crime, poured her amaretto in a rocks glass and squeezed her citrus in it to create the ultimate before-noon beverage. She told our server to which he responded:

"I'm going to go in the kitchen and let all of the staff know, then probably make it my Facebook status." 

That gave us a good laugh and got him a good tip. 

Day sixty nine: never trust a bird.

One of the gals at the New Shop quit. 


She's moving to Churchill for a year and it doesn't look like management is going to hire anyone to replace her but rather extend my hours. 


It's a bummer she's leaving because she's totally rad and has taken on a leadership role that affords me the luxury of zero responsibility.  


It's good news is that it means more money for me.


I have offered her some life saving tips incase she comes face to face with a Polar Bear. 

1. Always have Coca Cola on hand. Everyone knows that Polar Bears love Coca Cola. 
2. Tickle under it's ears. I highly doubt anyone has tried this approach in the midst of a polar bear attack. 
3. Play "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel from an old school boom box Lloyd Dobler style because music tames even the wildest of beasts. 

If I were her I'd be more concerned about the penguins. Sure they seem hilarious with their tap dancing and, like lobsters, they practice monogamy. But when it all boils down to it, they are birds and birds are NOT to be trusted. 


In the 10th grade my best friend LB and I skipped Mr. Altomare's Canadian Geography class to go read magazines at Assiniboine Park. Whilst en route we were distracted by a goose sitting in the middle of a parking lot. Worried the goose would be run over we tried to shoo it to safety. Unbeknownst to us she was sitting on some eggs and we had gotten too close. The dad goose zoned in on us like a fighter jet straight out of Top Gun and chased us through a parking lot. Here's a fun fact about geese, specifically the Canadian Goose, these birds can break your bones. Sure I don't have the data to back that up but I feel as if it's true. 


Since that day, birds and I have not existed harmoniously together. This is why I think the New Shop gal  should be weary of the penguins. No one ever suspects the bird...

Day sixty seven: baby monkey.

I don't have anything to say about serving or living off of my tips. This is just a hilarious video:


Props to Rena Jae from Power 97 for finding this gem! 

Day sixty six: babies.

One of my managers at (insert real name here) is pregnant. I can't believe she even comes to work. I don't think I'd be able to leave my couch if I were pregnant let alone run a restaurant. 


Babies freak me out but what freaks me out even more is unborn babies. Every time I see a pregnant lady I assume the baby is gonna bust through her belly Total Recall style, kinda like this...



... minus the hat and the cane and the song. Everybody knows babies can't sing until they are at least three months old.


The only baby I'm interested in is a food and/or beer baby, the latter, of course, also being known as a yeast baby. I have a hard enough time depending on myself and I'm a grown person. I can only imagine the frustration a baby would feel if I were responsible for its well-being. I can't even keep a house plant alive. The ones my mom bought me in February are still sitting on my balcony (I think) and have since froze to death.


The responsibility of a human life is too much for me to handle and I'm too old to have my parents raise one while I pretend I'm just its older sister. 


So will you see (insert my real name) with a baby anytime soon? Hell no. But a tip of the hat to those of you who can step up to the plate. 

Day sixty four: smarts fail, teamwork win.

This morning I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing, actually, there's no ring so much as the sound of my friend D doing a sweet impression of the Professor from Futurama saying "Good news everyone!"



The number on my call display was (insert real name here). Immediately I thought I had slept through my alarm and I was getting a "where are you call?" until my eyes focused and I saw that it was 11 a.m. - six hours before my shift started and five hours before I had planned to wake up. 


It was my general manager asking if I'd be willing to give up my serving shift to expedite food in the kitchen. All I heard was "are you ok with making $15 tonight working in the kitchen instead of the $100 you'd get serving a close shift on a Saturday night?"


What's a girl to do? 


I said yes for two reasons:


1. I didn't want to be a douche
2. I like to help out when I can


One the plus side, I got to wear my civvies (civilian clothing), I got to feel like a martyr and I made my manager say she "owes me big time." Does that mean anything? No. But, I look better in the eyes of management than the sucky babies who didn't want to come into work on their night off. 


Jerks. 


I don't feel bad for anyone who "needs a day off." I'd like a day off. I'd like to not set my alarm or plan my life around my work schedule for just one day but alas, this is a luxury I am not afforded. 

Day sixty three: are you for real?

Tonight a gal came into (insert real name here) and asked for a table for two. She sat at the booth in my section anxiously looking around for, I assume, the other person waiting to join her. Immediately I figured: internet first date. I was wrong.


I went over and asked her if she wanted something to drink, she looked at me with a facial expression that could only say "shit is about to go down." She ordered a glass of red wine and I brought it out to her. A couple minutes later her dinner companion arrived. I walked over to ask gal #2 if I could bring her out a drink while the two looked out the menu only to be greeted with streaming tears. Awkward. I could only make out a bit of the conversation but it went something like this:


Gal #2: Are you really doing this at (insert real name here).


Gal #1: weird silence face


Me: I'll give you two a minute to look at the menu.


The ladies were breaking up at (insert real name here).




Now, I'm not the most tactful person when it comes to a break up but I know you don't do at a (insert real name here). You don't do it at any restaurant for that matter. 


I once had a boyfriend write me a letter about our relationship that still to this day makes me cringe when I read it. (It's pure gold so clearly I kept it.) He even ended it with a poem:

My love is strong but I can't show it

My heart is full but no one knows it

My life's affected by all you do

My pain and love are oh so true

It's plain and simple...

I need you!

Naturally I stopped talking to him and played the avoidance game until he got the hint. That was six years ago and I haven't seen or talked to him since. At least I didn't break up with him at an (insert real name here). Technically, we're still together. 


To be fair, he snuck the note in a copy of season one of Chappelle's  Show which was a really good show but it's not going to make me love you. I was too second-hand embarrassed for him to even face him again. 

I guess it couldn't have been too bad of a break up between the ladies because they stayed to eat dinner but they both cried the entire time. It was the most awkward 45 minutes of my serving life.

My advice: 

If you do decide to break up with someone at a restaurant don't stay and eat. It's gross watching someone shovel food into his or her mouth while tears are streaming down their face and their nose is running. 

Day sixty two: thank you for being a friend.

Instead of staying in on my night off to clean my apartment and thus restore some sanity and peace of mind to my busy life, I instead went over to a friend's (Hobo Speed) place. Hobo got the nickname, as legend has it, from her brother. He saw a picture of a short homeless looking person who bared what he decided were similar qualities to his sister and the rest is history. At least I think that’s what happened.

I can expect a few things when I go over for a visit: laughs, good conversation, and a meal. Without fail, every time I go over to her place Hobo feeds me. It’s nice to be fed but it’s even nicer when I’m so busy I can’t be bothered to cook for myself.  

Hobo and I always have a good time and I think she likes having me over because I always fill the ice cube tray up when I use the last cube. I have good house guest manners which disguise the fact that I am a lazy slob. Sure I'll make the bed when I stay at a hotel even though I know the housekeeper is going to come and do it for me but rarely do I make my own bed when I know no one but myself will make it. 

When I was in the eighth grade I went over to this girl’s house for her birthday. We all went up to hangout in her bedroom as I assume most 13-year-old girls did at junior high birthday parties. On her bedroom floor was a used Q-tip and half a pretzel. There were other things I’m sure but all I could focus on were those two things. I was beyond grossed out and still am to this day. I never want someone to feel about me the way I did about her that day.

Since when is it okay to have a used Q-tip and a half eaten pretzel is plain view on your bedroom floor? Answer: never. It is never okay. It’s extra not okay when you have people over to witness it. It’s double gross; two times the grossness.

At least I am aware of how much of a slob I am and being able to be a slob in the privacy of my own home is one of the fringe benefits of living alone. I am in no rush to clean up after myself all the time.

I have great friends and it’s not just because they feed me.

Day sixty: man, am I tired.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to work two serving jobs (me) is wrong. It's not a good idea. It's the worst idea. Actually, the worst idea is sticking your tongue to a metal pole in the winter; serving at two restaurants is a close second.

This working thing is for suckers. It's not the first time I've had two jobs, in fact there was a time when I had three jobs and went to school. The thing about serving that makes it more tiring than other gigs is that you have to be nice to people all the time. Being nice can be draining. Having to grin and bear it when a table is rude or obnoxious can be tough for a person like me because, more often than not, I can't keep my mouth shut 90% of the time. I can't help myself. I blame it on being the youngest child. 


Sometimes a table won't even be rude to me but rather to each other which puts me in an awkward position. Today a mother called her daughter a "little piggy" in front of me because the girl ordered a salad before her meal. The poor gal just went red then looked down at the table. She must have been about 10 or 11 and on her way to developing a poor body image and eventually an eating disorder thanks to her own mother. 


I walked away a little stunned - too shocked to say anything and glad that my parents have never called me names let alone in front of a stranger.