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. 

Day fifty eight: sherry is alcohol enriched wine.

Brandy is distilled wine. Cognac is a type of brandy named for the region in France where it is made. Sherry is alcohol enriched wine. 


I don't have to know these things for my job(s). I have to know what kind of booze we keep in the bar and the seven, yes, seven bottles of wine we carry; three reds, three whites and a blush.    


I pseudo-helped a friend study for a wine test for work hence my new-found knowledge of fortified/distilled wine. Not only did he need to know what wines his restaurant carried but he needed to know the grape, the country and how to describe them. He needed to know the difference between brandy, cognac and sherry. He needed to know about port, catarattos and gewurztraminers. He needed to know more that I will ever have to at (insert real name here) or the New Shop. 


It took me about three minutes to memorize the wine list at (insert real name here) and about 15 seconds for the one at the New Shop: Naked Grape Shiraz and Naked Grape Sauvignon Blanc. Boom! Nailed it. 


Sure, if I had to, I could memorize all the stuff he did which was actually quite impressive, although I'd never say that to his face. 


When I was a kid my folks always had wine with dinner. I always found it weird going to a friend's house and see his or her parents drinking milk with their meal. 


I love wine. I am my mother's daughter in that regard I suppose and I am not above drinking it from a box. The best part about wine is that there is always something to learn about it, always a new bottle to try. I'm no sommelier but I can hold my own in a conversation about wine. 


I'm not as poetic in my love for it as say Virginia Madsen in the major motion picture Sideways but I know what I like. 



Wine. It's not just for breakfast anymore.

Day fifty seven: inappropriate conversations in the workplace.

Mom, it's probably a good idea you skip this one. 


I was out with a friend for coffee the other day. She was telling me about her new job and the people she works with. She couldn't believe how wildly inappropriate some of these gals were, talking about weed, on the job. 


In the restaurant business, the majority of conversations are wildly inappropriate but seem oddly normal. For example, a few of us were having a discussion on how you'd think there would be more cures for incurable STDs. Pardon me, STIs:

"I hope they find a cure for herpes, the pool of people to have unprotected sex with is getting smaller by the day."

 The key is to save it for the kitchen or at least not to speak so loudly that your tables hear. Sex, booze, drugs and gossip aren't the only thing servers, cooks and bartenders talk about but they seem to be trending topics among those in the service industry. 


I asked a server friend of mine the kinds of things that get talked about at his restaurant and this is what he told me:

Him: Mostly one night stands. I stole a girl's glasses once. 

Me: You stole them? Did you give them back?

Him: No I kept them, mine broke the same night. 

Me: And they just happened to be the same and/or close enough prescription? Talk about lucky. 

Him: Right time, right place. 

Me: That's a pretty good score. Glasses are expensive, unless you order them online from China I suppose. 

**Please note that I do not condone stealing glasses.**


Clearly, I've become desensitized to the inappropriate conversation but on the bright side,  at least I'm no so far gone I am unaware of it. 

Day fifty six: it's all in the cards.

The New Shop is the polar opposite of (insert real name here). (Insert real name here) has a children's menu and the New Shop has tarot card readers.



The New Shop has been around for decades and has changed hands a few times as far as owners go, but the tradition of tarot card readings has remained a constant.


I thought it was a goofy idea at first but they book up faster than Usain Bolt runs the 100 meter, which is really fast. Less than 10 seconds? Are you kidding me? I get winded after running half a block.


I decided to get a reading done today. I had to see first-hand what all this hullabaloo was about.


Here's my reading in a nutshell:


Did I grow up on a farm? No, but I shouldn't be surprised if I find myself going horse back riding in the next six weeks.


Everything I've been working towards, all the stepping stones I've put in order and all my "hard work" will come together in six weeks.


I am left-eye dominant and, like 15% of the population, prefer when people communicate to me through it.


I have a younger brother who isn't here. No, I have an older brother who lives in Vancouver.


I will take a trip in the next six weeks.


She talked for a while about the left eye thing and how my brother and I are the best of friends will always have a spiritual connection. That's when I realized by "not here" she meant in the physical realm. Well my brother isn't dead and sure we're pals but that's probably because he lives in another time zone.


$10 of my hard earned tips for that sage advice.


So obviously I'll get them done again.

Day fifty five: cleanliness is next to godliness.

A clean uniform is necessary to make a good impression on a table which is why I wash my work clothes every now and then.


Wednesdays are my laundry day as per the laundry schedule on my floor between the hours of 4 PM and 8 PM.


Imagine my surprise when someone took it upon his or herself to put in a load at 4:05 just moments before I walked in to get mine done. What the fun? Naturally, I dumped my laundry bag on the ground, marched back into my apartment and crafted a note:

I know what you're thinking "great penmanship (insert my real name here)." 


I put the note on the washer, went back to my apartment and stared out the peep hole for 20 minutes. Sure the passive aggressive note would suffice but I felt as if catching the perp (that's crime drama lingo for perpetrator) would be more satisfying.


The laundry/evil doer was the lady who just moved in down the hall last month. It really grinds my gears because she's already done this to me. I explained to her then just as I had done today that she can't do her laundry whenever she pleases. There is a series of check and balances that lets us live harmoniously and when you screw with the laundry schedule nothing good can come of it.


She then told me she was going out and that I could just put her stuff in the dryer when it was done in the wash, then put the dry clothes on a table so she could come get them when she got home.


So I said, "No. I'm not going to do your laundry. Are you for real? I'm going to take your clothes out of the washing machine and put them on the table and you can rewash the funk smell out of them when the laundry room is open."


Laundry etiquette:

1. Don't touch my laundry and I won't touch yours. 
2. Don't do your laundry during my scheduled time. 

Moral of the story: I forgot to wash my work clothes. 

Day fifty two: dextromethorphan hydrobromide, you're my only friend.

I have a cold. 

I don't call in sick for work unless I'm deathly ill. Cold? Go to work. Hungover? Go to work. Pink eye? Go to work and let them tell me to go home. 

The thing about pink eye is that it can get you out of anything. Why? Because essentially, it's poop in your eye and that skeeves people out. 

If I really wanted to get out of work I'd give myself pink eye. Sure there would be a long standoff between me and my reflection in the mirror while I stand in my bathroom psyching myself up enough to do it but I'm sure after the first few times the shame goes away. 

To combat my cold I'm drinking generic Neo Citran. 

I don't really know if it does anything other than give me a slight buzz so naturally I've doubled the dose and paired it with some expired Coldfx. 


I had a boss once tell me that all I need to flush out a cold was the hot lemon relief of Neo Citran and a couple shots of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum. He was right. Not only is it a delicious holiday beverage but it'll knock the sick out of you. 


The only booze I have is some old beer from a barbecue two summers ago called Gulden Draak. I think it's imported. Something tells me it doesn't have the healing powers of hooch so I will just have to settle with the generic hot powdery lemon water.

Day fifty: pens.

Pens. Pens are precious to a a server. We use them to write down orders (in theory) and give them to tables to sign credit card slips. Those are basically the only two functions pens serve for a server but they are important nonetheless.


I usually find myself pocketing a pen when one is in proximity not unlike that of a lighter. Truth be told I  think all of my pens and lighters have had previous owners.


I snagged a great pen the other day. It's no four colour clickie pen but it was a doozy.



Click once and the ink filled tip emerges from it's soft grip chamber. Click twice and that soft grip lights up like a free-gift-with-purchase keychain-flashlight from the beer vendor.


It was amazing. So amazing that I abandoned my "finders keepers" mentality and asked around in hopes of finding it's rightful owner. No one claimed it so thus began our short-lived time together.


I showed everyone my killer pen, sometimes twice until one afternoon another server, we'll call her "Jerk Face" said it was her pen. I told her I was keeping it because the statue of limitations on pens had expired and it was too awesome to give up. Surprisingly Jerk Face let me keep it because normally she'd be a jerk face (hense the nickname) and snatch it back.


It was too good to be true.


Just a few short days later my general manager would ask me for my pen and like a fool I gave her my prized possession. She has since NOT returned said pen and in fact taunts me with it everyday. She says she's keeping it forever and even takes it home each night.


I want my effing pen back.

Day forty nine: downtown.

I love Downtown Winnipeg. There was a point in my life when I was working, going to school and living Downtown. So many great things happen Downtown. 

Today a man handed me a pamphlet from the Church of Scientology; which, by the way (fun fact alert); is a legitimate word as far as spellcheck is concerned on Microsoft Word but (fun fact alert #2) not on Facebook chat.

I truly appreciated that the man could recognize the same star power and charisma in me as that of Tom Cruise or John Travolta and Kelly Preston. But then I saw him starting to pass out the pamphlets to everyone who passed him on the street. 

There's a part in Dave Chappelle's Block Party, about 26 minutes into the unrated version, where a super crazy lady tells Chappelle:

“My life isn’t as young as perhaps I may look but I intend to live until to probably about 400. As I am also a witch but a good witch and I only want happiness for mankind not to create chaos and to be angry at everyone but to be happy around them. That is my aim in life to give happiness to the world. “

This is what I imagine the logic of Scientology to be except with more lazers.

That took me 15 minutes to transcribe; I would be a terrible court stenographer.

Day forty seven: haunted restaurant.

To save a couple bucks I've mostly been staying in or watching movies (and inevitably falling asleep drooling and snoring) with friends. I'm lucky that I don't have more than a 10 minute walk to visit said friends, at least the ones that live near me. The only issue I have is that walking in my neighborhood after dark freaks me out because I feel through my excessive viewing of the Law and Order and all of the franchises I have worked myself into a state of paranoia. 


Lately, I've become extra spooked because I found out the New Shop is (allegedly) haunted. I have to do some investigating to fully understand just how haunted it is. I don't get scared of the ghosts when I'm working because I am only there in the day time and everyone knows ghosts like the dark. 


I don’t know if I believe in ghosts per se but I am freaked out by the supernatural and other worldly. I think this stems from when my mom told me in the third grade that I am NOT allowed to play with a Ouili board or bring one into our house. She said that using a Ouija Board is the same as inviting the devil into your home.

So clearly, I used one at my friend’s house, we’ll call that friend Brittney. Brittney was the weirdo friend who lived with her Hungarian grandparents. Her grandparents didn’t necessarily have a firm grasp of what is appropriate for a child to be exposed to and at what age.

Brittney's grandma rented us Hellraiser when we were in the 4^th grade. Or it was probably more like Hellraiser 3 or 4. This probably has something to do with why I can’t watch scary movies. 

I draw the line at mid-90s psychological thrillers starring Morgan Freeman and/or Denzel (Washington). I feel as if I can just call Denzel Washington Denzel because I grew up in a generation that did.

Fact: Denzel is brilliant in the Bone Collector. You should see the Bone Collector because it is totally a really good movie. 

Moral of the story, Brittney’s grandma made totally awesome sugar cookies all the time so am I upset that I can’t bring myself to watch the Saw franchise? No. Those  cookies were totally worth my innocence.

Whoa. The candle holder on my table just exploded. 

My first thoughts: Did I drop my wine glass? Is it still in my hand?

My rational mind says it’s because the wick was still burning after there was no more wax so the glass holder exploded from the heat but my corrupted Ouija Board Hellraiser 7 mind says it’s a ghost that followed me home front the new restaurant.

Day forty: another job.

Because I'm a glutton for punishment I got another serving job at a little restaurant downtown. This New Shop is a far departure from (insert real name here). 


When I started at (insert real name here) I had five days of training before I was able to go off on my own to serve the masses. At the New Shop I was trained for roughly an hour before I was thrown into the lunch rush. 


With limited, actually zero menu knowledge, I was serving tables. I find that when I am put into a situation like that, my best chance is to jump right in and hope for the best. I had some very understanding tables and made a few bucks. 


My logic is that if I'm living off my my tips I might as well get another job to I can make more tips even if it means that I will be working split shifts everyday and that my hours just got a lot longer. 

Day thirty nine: wardrobe malfunction part two

Since I ripped my pants yesterday I have reverted back to wearing a skirt while working at (insert real name here). Since no leg is allowed and 1950s skirt length rules apply, I wear tights and aim for skirt length to reach, roughly, down to my knee. 


Today because it was so freakishly warm in Winnipeg and my non-ipod ipod, a Samsung mp3 player and sometimes Sony Discman, was fully charged, I walked to work.


I like to think that Winnipeggers take advantage of uncharacteristically warm days in the late, almost winter, fall.


I didn't realize until half way to work that my skirt was tucked into my tights. I was a little embarrased after the fact but it was quickly overshadowed by the fact that not a single person bothered to give a little honk or tell me that my rear was on display for everyone to enjoy. 


On a side note: you're welcome West Broadway and whatever that area Southbound over the Maryland Bridge is. 

Day thirty eight: wardrobe malfunction.

I split my pants at work, which was funny for two reasons:

1. Pants splitting at work is just inherently funny
2. I was working a split shift

While I recognized the hilarity of the situation I was still bummed out because I felt a little bad about myself. It’s the same feeling you got when you wet your pants in Kindergarten. Remember peeing your pants in Kindergarten? ...me neither.

I felt what I can only imagine Janet Jackson felt like because of  her “wardrobe malfunction” during Super Bowl XXXVIII? (I don’t know Roman numerals well but I sincerely doubt anyone will call me out on it.)

Is the Janet Jackson clip still on the internet? I feel like it isn’t but I’m for sure gonna Google it. 


Boom! 


The Gods of Youtube are smiling down on this worldwide scandal reference and have pulled through, yet again, and why wouldn’t they?

If "pwned" is considered a word then it is only approprite that there still be digital documentation that Janet Jackson rocked a boob on stage during the 2004 Superbowl. I don’t make the rules, I just state the facts.

I suppose there are worse things to fear as far as the English language is concerned. What if emoticons: :) become a part of the hand-written word?

Day thirty four: my folks.

My folks live in a little town a stone's throw away from St. John's, Newfoundland called Torbay. My dad is an RCMP Superintendent and my mom is a bank manager. They up and abandoned me roughly six years ago and I've seen them just as many times since they've left. 


Working in a restaurant with unpredictable hours has cut down the number of times I talk to my mom on the phone especially because of the time change. Newfoundland is two and a half hours ahead of Winnipeg and since my mom goes to bed as soon as the sun goes down our phone calls have since dwindled down from almost everyday to a couple times a week. Good thing she's discovered the internet and email.

Here's a typical email exchange with my mom:


Hi there,

What a great weather day here today!  Can't believe we are in the middle of November.  We have a busy day tomorrow with my bank party...plus get my roots done. Dad is up to bed & I am quickly following. Dad is now playing indoor soccer....he has something sore in the back of his leg and th house smells of HEAT.  Just watched a movie, dishes & now to bed.   

love mom 

Mom, 

Dad is too tall to tall to play indoor soccer. 

H 

My dad, on the other hand likes to send me pictures of his dives. Not only is he a soccer star, which is ridiculous because his height would be better used in basketball or volleyball, but he is an avid scuba diver and he likes tea. He also sends me links or recipes or jokes. 

Here's a typical email exchange with my dad:

Yummy teas. www.davidstea.com 

There are stores near you! 

M

Dad, 

You are too old to use words like 'yummy'.

H  

Day thirty two: tricks of the trade

Every now and then I'll let it slip to a table that I'm still in school. I like to do it casually rather than blurting it out like I've heard other do. 

There's a pretty even divide of people who work at (insert real name here) that go to school and don't go to school. There's a few like me who have been doing the post secondary thing for the better part of a decade, career students if you will, kind of like Van Wilder but not at all like Van Wilder: 

Mentioning to my tables that I'm in school serves two purposes:

1. It let's them know I'm a "starving student" and, hopefully, makes me a bigger tip
2. It opens up the door to my favourite conversation topic: me. 

Cheap trick? Perhaps. More tips? Not always. But it doesn't hurt. Now before you pass judgement, let me tell you a story of a friend of mine and how he takes the art of subconscious trickery to a whole new level. For the sake of anonymity I won't tell you his name or the place he works but I will tell you a little trick he plays. 

This friend of mine, we'll call him Chet, has been a server for a few years. Every now and then Chet likes to let his table know that he is a single dad with two children. Fact of the matter is Chet still lives at home with his parents and these children he speaks of are non-existent.

Here's how he does it:

Table: Sorry for the mess. 

Chet: *Laugh* Aw this is nothing, you should see the mess my kids make. 

Boom! Instant boost in tip. Chet is also a nanny, or a man nanny... a manny. So if he has to tell a story about his "kids" he has a bevy of anecdotes all set to go. 

A tip of the hat to Chet I say.