Day one hundred and forty two: results

The employee review continues...


Category #3: Results


Associate meets personal and company goals established by managers. Sets personal goals and works tirelessly towards accomplishing. 


(insert real name here) 


Getting a little personal, aren't we (insert real name here)? I don't think that it's appropriate for management to be establishing "personal" goals for me nor do I think it's any of their business whether or not I "work tirelessly" towards accomplishing the ones I set for myself. I know what kind of goals I've set for myself and what I do in the hours outside of (insert real name here) is none of their business. 


For example:

• To not be in crippling debt 5 years from now
• Keep my apartment clean for more than 7 hours
• Finish the Sunday New York Times Crossword puzzle... without cheating

That all said I am open to any goals that management has for me as far as work is concerned. I call those "work goals". 

For example:

• Be more patient when select co-workers ask stupid questions
• Stop eating whipped cream from the reach in fridge
• Stop breaking plates when I get angry -- just because my dad's cousin Scott married a Greek girl and I know view myself as being Greek even though I've never met her or her family or have I seen Scott since a family reunion in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan in the early 90s, it's not OK to smash plates on the kitchen floor (hypothetically speaking of course) 

(New Shop) 


My goals here are simple. Pull off a prank to scare all of the jerks I work with that scare me -- something so terrifying that I evoke this response:




Part of me feels like I have to rate myself as DN -- Does not meet expectations, but a greater part of me knows better. My rating? Exceeds expectations! 

Day one hundred and forty one: guest driven/passionate

Employee review time continues and I am breaking down each category so when I sit down and discuss them with management, I am beyond prepared. 


Category #2: Guest driven/passionate


Associate does everything they can to ensure a "WOW" experience for our guests. Upbeat, positive, friendly and passionate about their job with guests/co-workers.


(insert real name here) 


When I go up to a table to introduce myself and tell them will be looking after them for their meal I like to let them know it "may or may not be a good thing" depending on their expectations. If they are willing to keep their expectations low, then we're off to a great start. 


To truly determine if I give a table a "WOW" experience we must look at the word "WOW" itself. 


Dictionary.com defines "wow" as: 

But since the self-evaluation has capitalized "wow" I am led to believe that what they're really asking is if I am providing the "World of Warcraft experience" and to that I have to say no, no I am not. What does a "massive multi-player online role playing game" have to do with my abilities as a server? 

If the management at (insert real name here) wants me to take this assessment seriously then they shouldn't be asking such ridiculous questions. 

While I am "upbeat, positive and friendly" I can say that I'm not passionate about World of Warcraft, I've never played it -- I'm more of a Dr. Mario kinda gal. 

Now Dr. Mario? That's a game to be passionate about. 

(New Shop)

I don't play World of Warcraft there either, but there are ghosts so I guess that's close? I can't really be sure.

My rating? Exceeds expectations regardless of these outlandish demands.  

Day one hundred and thirty eight: Ability

It's employee review time so I've decided to breakdown the self-assessment via blog post before I hand in my sheet to the bosses at (insert real name here). 


Category #1: Ability


Had the skills and knowledge to do the job. Strives to continuously improve skills in current job and through cross-training.


(insert real name here) 


The skills and knowledge to do the job? I think I've got both, sorta. 


Can I carry two glasses in one hand? Yes. At least three plates of food at a time? Yes. In the year I've worked at (insert real name here) I can only remember dropping plates twice -- once by accident and once, maybe (totally), on purpose when no one was looking. It helps if you exclaim something like "Oh shit!" or "Oops!" afterwards to avert suspicion (I assumed, based on the one time I may have done that).


The knowledge? Do I know every single ingredient that goes into each menu item? Of course I don't. But I know enough to get by and I'm quick enough on my feet that I can lie if need be. 


Strives to continuously improve skills in current job? 


The other night I carried six lemonades --SIX! -- to a table sans tray without dropping a single glass. I didn't know how to put them down and had to come up with a solution a la Adam West Batman:

If that's not continuously improving my skills I don't know what is. 

As for working towards improving my skills through cross-training, sometimes I get to make drinks in the bar. It looks a little something like this:

Eat your heart out Tom Cruise! 


My rating? Exceeds expectations, obviously.

Day one hundred and thirty seven: employee reviews

The thing about working at a corporate chain like (insert real name here) is that there are certain expectations the company has of its employees and how those employees conduct themselves at the restaurant. 


Today I got a sheet to fill out simply called "Associates Expected Behaviors - self assessment"


The instructions on how to fill it out are simple: 

Use the performance standards (listed on the sheet) in the performance rating outline to identify the most appropriate rating for each behavior. Include any comments or examples that support your rating.

There are  three rating levels:

1. E - exceeds expectations
2. M - meets expectations
3. DN - does not meet expectations

It doesn't say whose expectations are to be met and while most people would assume they are that of the management staff and the company, I have chosen to fill it out according to my expectations. 

There are 11 categories to comment on which, as you can imagine, has given me a lot to ponder. So before I hand in my sheet I've decided to give each category some serious thought. 


The categories are:

• ability
• guest driven/passionate
• results
• team player
• initiative
• cooperation
• integrity
• stamina
• reliability
• grooming standards/appearance
• fun

And what better forum to work out my answers than to post them on the internet via this blog. And because the New Shop doesn't have employee reviews or paperwork to fill out regarding my work performance I'm thinking, what the hell? Why not self-assess my performance there according to (insert real name here) standards too. 


This is going to be fun. Stay tuned. 

Day one hundred and thirty five: Champagne comes from Champagne

Champagne comes from Champagne, everything else is sparkling wine.

Sometimes, at the New Shop, the higher-ups get great ideas on how to bring in new clientele. The latest idea? A Valentine's Day couples dinner. 

It's a good idea, in theory, but a money pit in reality. None of the advertising had a phone number or address for the New Shop on it so reservations relied heavily on the foot traffic that passed the store front.  


A three course dinner for two including wine? $50?! Per couple?! What a deal! For the diner that is. 


My only real issue of the evening was the "event" advertising. The posters didn't list our phone number or address and, along with the three course meal, promised champagne.


Champagne is sparkling wine from the the Champagne region of France. One of my pet peeves is when someone refers to sparkling wine as such but oddly enough I have no issue when someone refers to non-Kleenex tissue as Kleenex or generic cotton swabs as Q-tips. 


We didn't buy champagne at the New Shop to give away for free, that would be ludicrous for a little place like ours. 


We doled out glasses of La Scala Spumante, a cheapie sparkling wine from the Calona Vineyard in Kelowna, British Columbia... I think. 


I was worried that I'd have to defend the New Shop and it's "champagne" but it turns out when you're giving people hooch with their grub they don't really care or know that what they're drinking is dangerously close to a bottle of Baby Duck. 


It's a good thing the night went smoothly. Would I consider it a success? Sure. I made a few bucks and got to finish the rest of the sparkling wine. In these scenarios I tend to be driven by how much wine I get to consume once all of the tables leave. It sure makes clean up seem less tedious. 

Day one hundred and thirty two: our father...

It happens more than you might think. I'm talking about tables that say grace before they eat their meals.


I've never been a religious person. The extent of religion in my life has been saying the Lord's Prayer in elementary school which I think that got the kibosh in the early nineties. After that my exposure to Jesus and such was my dad's copy of Jesus Christ Superstar, 




a preview of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ




and Kevin Smith's Dogma 




It makes sense to me that the people who say grace before their meals do so in a restaurant. If you say it at home, why wouldn't you say it at (insert real name here)? 


My issue with the grace saying is that I never know what to do when half of the table's food is out and I'm holding onto the other plates mid-prayer. I feel like Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights when he doesn't know what to do with his hands during an interview.



Sometimes I don't even realize that I'm interrupting grace and by then it's too late. And for that matter, if all the food isn't on the table does that make it less blessed than the plate I'm waiting to set down? 

At the end of the day my goal is to not offend a group of people or to make them think I'm ignorant of others' beliefs because I'm not, I'm just awkward. 

Day one hundred and twenty six: my grandpa is only a little racist

"It don't matter what the hell..." is a typical Don (insert my real last name here)-ism. My grandpa is one of my most favourite people in the world and he's extremely diligent when it comes to making phone calls to the family. 

 (Grandpa Don: Christmas 2010)

There was a time when I talked to my grandpa at least once a week but now with my disgustingly busy work schedule weeks will go by with unreturned (on my part) phone calls. He lives in Vancouver so the time difference doesn't necessarily help but when I do get a chance to talk to gramps, he delivers the not-on-purpose laughs every time.  

What's a not-on-purpose laugh? It's when someone makes you laugh without any intention of doing so and my grandpa's not-on-purpose hilarity usually stems form his subtle racism. In this day-in-age we come to accept the little bits of racism that the older generation spews because they are a "product of their generation." I'm just happy that it doesn't come from a place of malice or hate but rather a polite ignorance to what is deemed to be politically correct. 

I try to explain to him that nowadays it's not appropriate to call Asians "chinamen" or anyone else who isn't Asian or White a "coloured fella" but it's hard to keep reminding him when I only get to visit once every couple of years. 

My favourite Grandpa Don story is when my uncle took him to get his watch fixed and the event went like this:

Repair guy: Hey! I remember you, do you remember me? 

Grandpa Don: Naw, all of you chinamen look the same.

Uncle: Don! 

Grandpa Don: Well what? We probably all look the same to him too! 

Repair guy: (nods yes)

On a day, like today, when I'm run down from having been on my feet for 13 hours and feel like a shell of my former self it's nice to hear a familiar, comforting voice like my grandpa, routing for me every step of the way. 

Day one hundred and twenty five: checking out the goods

Tonight one of the other servers at (insert real name here) walked into the kitchen and said to me "Hey (insert my real name here) go check out table 36, he's a dreamboat." 

So I did just that. No such dreamboat existed. 

I said back to her "really? I'm gonna have to disagree on that call." 

Being in front-of-house lets you do stuff that the back-of-house staff can't do, namely, scope out the goods. I challenge you to find a restaurant whose staff doesn't check out their customers and talk about them in the kitchen, as long as said customers are worth talking about. 

There are times when servers will take a lap around the restaurant just to catch a glimpse of a supposed "dreamboat" then turn around and do it again if the initial sighting wasn't good enough. If you're foxy, we're going to talk about you. 

Last year a Winnipeg writer by the name of Rheanne Marcoux put out a book called "The Last Crumb". It's a compilation of recipes and interviews of Winnipeg chefs and a damn good read whether you're part of the restaurant industry or not. 

One of the chefs interviewed, Scott Bagshaw, shared a story about time he spent working at a restaurant in Australia: 

"Being in an open kitchen does have its perks. 'We play the "would you" game,' laughs [Bagshaw], who spends most of his 14-hour shifts rubbing elbows with his sous-chef Matt. 'You know, "would you sleep with her?" type of thing. We have our inside jokes, it makes you forget you’ve been working 14 hours.'"

At the time book came out, Bagshaw was working as the head chef of a Winnipeg restaurant called Pizzaria Gusto but shortly after he was fired for the comments that had made it into Marcoux's book. 

What a load of shit. 

From what I understand the "would you" comment was the straw that broke the camel's back but to think that apotential customer would forego eating at your restaurant because the chef was vocal with his sous-chef on who he'd hit the sack with is just plain ridiculous. 

If every restaurant employee got canned when he or she scoped out a customer and proclaimed whether or not they'd, to put it gently, bone that customer, then there would be no such thing as restaurant staff. 

We all do it. Hell I did it today, at both restaurants. 

Day one hundred and twenty four: we're closed, get the eff out!

The hours of operation of a restaurant are not a suggestion for when diners can come and go, contrary to popular belief, they are posted for a reason. When you see that we are closed at 11 p.m. this doesn't mean ask for another cup of coffee and continue chatting with your friends until 11:30. 


Would you go into a bank five minutes before closing to set up some RRSPs? No, you wouldn't. So why would anyone go into a restaurant 10 minutes before closing and order a steak? This happens far too often.


Most times when someone walks through the door, roughly within the last 30 minutes before we close, the staff will let the potential table know that we are closing soon and that we've already done last call.



Whatever happened to Semisonic? I only actually know their song "Closing Time" but it was a really good song that I've included in several mixed CDs. But enough about late 90s alternative rock bands. 


There are times when some people ignore the '30 minutes' 'til close' warning and sit down for some grub. Fair enough. We can have your food out to you in no time but it is extremely annoying. I don't know why but I always grin and bear it hoping that the table will recognize that they are staying after hours and leave me a fat tip for the inconvenience but that never happens. 


It's like going into a clothing store at the very end of the night, unfolding all of the shirts and not purchasing a thing. It's creating unnecessary work for not just the server but everyone who works there. 


The cooks have to put off cleaning the grills, fryers and broilers and the dishwasher has to wait for the rest of the dishes to wash. The managers have to wait longer to take the servers' cash and the servers have to wait to do their front-of-house cleaning all because a couple of selfish-jerk diners have a hankering for some (insert real name here) eats. We've been busting our asses all night and all any of us would like to do is get our chores done so we can call it quits and get the rock out. 


Thinking of going to a restaurant right before they close? DON'T DO IT. 

Day one hundred and twenty two: I was just trying to help

Apparently I've stepped on some toes. 


The New Shop is Winnipeg's oldest, operating restaurant. It opened in 1918 originally as a confectionary and has had several owners since. 


When I started in November there were a few things I took note of that needed to change to give the place a bit of a boost, more pizzaz, if you will. The problem? I was new and far be it from me to waltz in and tell anyone how to run their business. 


Just recently, I took it upon myself to redo the menus because, to be frank, they looked ridiculous. Someone went overboard with the serif font and borders:

I know what it's like to be married to a font, my personal favourite is Bookman Old Style,  but the Monotype Corsiva just had to take a hike. The menus looked like they were made in 1992 and printed via a dot matrix printer.  

I mustered up all the design knowledge that hadn't quite yet eluded me from first-year Electronic Publishing: Layout and Design and with what may or may not be a bootleg copy of Adobe InDesign, to put an end to the eyesore that was the old menu. 


I'd like to think that the way a menu looks speaks volumes about the food it describes. If a menu looks like a big ol' mess then why would anything sound remotely appetizing. 


Here's what I came up with:

Now is it the greatest menu design ever? Of course not. Does it look better than that doily we had before? I'd say so. Was everyone really impressed? Nope. 

When I got the proofs printed it was like everyone in the building had a great idea on how to improve my design so I told them to "suck it"... with my mind.

I didn't take into consideration that I'd be hurting some feelings by re-doing the brutal menu and being so vocal about what an impediment it was on the restaurant but sometimes you've gotta be ruthless in this business.  

Day one hundred and eighteen: this never gets old.

I don't know and I don't care how the other residents of West Broadway/ Wolseley feel about the new Subway that just opened up on the corner of Sherbrook Street and Westminster Avenue, but I am trilled. 

I still have yet to do a lick of grocery shopping and there's not much, I assume, that one can make with Bisquick, paprika and a tin of Vienna Sausage. 

Let me be clear when I tell you that the only reason I have canned cocktail wieners in my cupboard is strictly due to the fact that it's some sort of Newfoundland thing so my mom, I mean Santa, put them in everyone's stocking at Christmas. And really, what's a Christmas without canned meat, am I right? 

That all said, a Subway within walking distance is a welcomed commodity as far as I'm concerned. At least it will ensure that I get fed from time to time. How I manage to have a sink full of dishes everyday with a fridge full of condiments and no food, I will never know. 

While the Subway employee's at my neighborhood sandwich shop are alright, there will never be a replacement for the Subway guys in Osborne Village. They're much more personable and they do backflips for tips... still. 

The backflipping Subway guy told me he's movie store locations to Carmen so naturally I had to get my fill of backflips while I still could. 

The thing is, I would have tipped regardless. 

Here's hoping the Sandwich Artists in my neck of the woods start practicing. 

Day one hundred and twelve: I have two VCRs.

I need a vacation.


I can't remember the last time I went grocery shopping or did laundry (other than my work clothes). My apartment looks like a house straight out of Hoarders.


I work every day -- no weekend to kick back and relax or get anything done for myself. I feel unhealthy, both physically and mentally and I'm fed up. I want to quit my jobs, hit rock bottom instead of dangerously hovering above it.


There are simple things I have neglected to do for myself because I spend the better part of my day with plates in my arms. I've had a bed frame sitting on my bedroom floor since New Year's Eve that has yet to be put together. To be fair, it was a bed frame I happened upon. I wasn't in the market for a new bed frame nor had I allotted time to put it together.


Now that I think about it, the majority of my furniture has been "gently used." My coffee table is second-hand from the same fella who gave me the bed frame. My couches look like they belong in the lobby of a Country Inn and Suites circa 1993 but I was more than happy to take the near perfect condition living room accessories off a different friend's hands.


My most favourite previously owned item, however, is my TV. Who needs high definition or LCD technology when you can have the finest tube machinery Panasonic has (had) to offer? I don't want to brag but m TV has a built in VCR and FM radio:

My TV gets turned on an average of once every two or three months. Lately I find that when I am home that time is spent doing one of two things: sleeping or getting ready for work. 

I need a vacation even if that means an afternoon off in my apartment to sit back on my used couch and watch a video on one of two functional VCRs I own -- to be fair, one is a combination DVD/VHS player. 

I need a vacation or I am going to snap.  

Day one hundred and eight: dietary needs.

I get easily annoyed when tables ask me questions that can be easily answered if the person just took a moment to read the menu.

Today, at (insert real name here), two women at two different tables asked me if there were any desserts not on the dessert menu. 

My response to them both was: 

“If you’re asking me if we have secret desserts then I’m afraid my answer is: no, no we don’t have any secret desserts not listed in the dessert menu. Now, if you’re asking me if we have other desserts that aren’t a secret but not listed on the dessert menu then my answer is also, no.”

One woman was just unhappy with the selection while the other was looking for a lactose free option. 

We just started making gluten-free options on our menu. Can we tackle one dietary need at a time?

I’m sorry you’re lactose intolerant and that has put an impediment on enjoying the finer things in life. It truly is a bummer because cheese is delicious. At some point in your life, you might be so lucky as to have a lactose free option when it comes to a tasty treat at the end of your meal but for now, surrender the fantasy. And while you’re at it, stop wasting my time.


Maybe I'm bitter because I'm not the type of gal who orders dessert when I go out to eat. I don't really see the point when there are so many more options of delicious things to mow down on, why waste the room on apple crisp?

Day one hundred and six: regulars vs. stalkers

I've been at (insert real name here) long enough to have a nice little following of regulars. I enjoy serving familiar faces that come in from time to time, especially the ones that tip well. I like to think that it's because I've got charisma which is, if I may quote Pauly Shore in the great film Son in Law, "a special quality of leadership that captures the popular imagination and inspires allegiance and devotion."

Being charismatic has it's downside though. I seem to have made a good impression on an older gentleman who now shows up to (insert real name here) everyday to see if I'm working. At first it was harmless, just a lonely old fella who was looking for someone to talk to. Now it's gotten to the point I feel ill when I answer the phone at work and he's on the other end telling me "not to worry" and that he'll "be there soon." 


Generally he talks about London, England and I nod and smile because I have nothing to add to the conversation. He'll sit at one of my tables for hours and he smells like French Onion soup before he even orders French Onion Soup. Worst of all, he only ever tips me a dollar. 


Am I afraid for my safety? Not really. I'm sure if I found myself in a situation where I had to fight for my life I could take him out because he's old and because I've been conditioned to escape from life threatening situations courtesy of Big Bro. 


One summer Big Bro tied my legs and arms to a lawn chair and locked me in the shed. So if creep show stalker somehow manages to capture me in order to make my skin into a lamp, I'll be prepared:



I have to give credit to the people I work with, however, when he phones they say I'm not in and if he comes in unannounced the hostesses tell him my section is full and try to get rid of him. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't but they've got my back an I truly appreciate it. 

Day one hundred and five: hives?

I’ve broken out in hives three times in as many days; the first time at (insert real name here) then at the New Shop and a third time again at (insert real name here). I don’t have any known allergies so I can only assume I’m dying. 

Now I'm not a doctor per se, but I do watch a couple medical dramas -- Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice and I have recently taken to inputting symptoms into the Symptom Checker search bar on Web MD. 

I typed in "itchy arms" and the only thing that came up was that I have Down Syndrome. 

Well this is just great. I'm already stressed out as it is working two jobs now I have to deal with having Down Syndrome? I was hoping it was just a reaction to some chemical but no such luck. 

Now I'm wondering what else my parents have hidden from me. Am I adopted? Sure I bare a sticking resemblance to my brother but that can just be a coincidence. 

My rational mind says that maybe Web MD is wrong but that would be like saying not everything on the Internet is true and I refuse to believe it. 

Maybe I can start making more tips if I tell my tables if I tell them about my impediment -- use the Down Syndrome to my advantage. 

I Web MD searched hives just to be sure and although Down Syndrome is still a possible diagnosis, it seems like a little case of dermatitis is the culprit for my itchy arms. 

Day one hundred and four: surely you can't be that stupid

I had a hissy fit today. Actually, a hissy fit doesn't accurately describe my temper tantrum. It was more like a shit fit of epic proportions.


I had a complete and utter meltdown that was kind of like this:



(minus the tears...)


The catalyst of the meltdown? Someone wasn't following the Golden Rule.


Lately I've found myself really taking to heart the bad behaviour of strangers. There was a time I'd just shake my head and move on because I didn't really care what some asshole eating at (insert real name here) had to say, but now instead of letting it roll off my back, I'm absorbing that negativity.


Today's interaction went like this:


Me: Sorry to interrupt but what can I bring you to drink?


Asshole: We're in the middle of a conversation. Surely you can't be so stupid as to not figure that out.


Me: **silence and disbelief**


I walked away a little stunned. Did that guy just call me stupid? This is when I started to get mad. I swiped my card in the POS with such vigor that it snapped in half.


My temper tantrum lasted a couple more minutes and I eventually got over myself as my co-workers looked at me as if I had six heads. After I had calmed down I felt a wave of shame wash over me. I'm disappointed in myself for letting some hack get the best of me. Maybe it's because I need some time off or maybe I'm in the wrong line of work but now I'm on a mission to not let the small stuff get to me.


What's worse than my temper tantrum is that I had the perfect opportunity to drop a life from Airplane.
How often is it that people start a sentence with "surely..." even if the rest of the phrase is to call me stupid? Opportunities like that only come around once in a lifetime:

Day one hundred and one: my feet smell.

My feet are in a perpetual state of smelling awful and that's bound to happen when one works in two restaurants, at least that's what I keep telling myself.


My feet are pretty gross to begin with. I booted off a toenail (this word grosses me out) from careless kicking whilst swimming at Rainbow Falls and then again, exactly a year later (give or take a day), I managed to destroy said toenail (gross) thanks to some brand new socks, a linoleum floor and a dining room table.


That's just my left foot.


I broke my right-index-finger-equivalent-toe when I tumbled down the stairs in a late night bathroom emergency and it still sits kinda gnarly. 


I always feel bad for the poor gal who has to deal with my feet when my girlfriends and I get pedicures. She thinks I don't see but I notice the longing looks she give the other feet, wishing she was working on them instead of the buckets of yuck attached to my legs.


My feet smell bad, and not just for a girl. My feet smell bad for a human being. This may or may not have something to do with my choice in footwear; lately I've been rocking $20 kicks from Zellers. I'm on my feet for at least six hours a day and that's only on the days I work one of my serving jobs. Most days I'm kicking around in my smelly restaurant shoes for 10 or 12 hours and all the food, drink and garbage juice I spill on my feet are bound to seep into my skin. I'm sure,in theory, I could avoid this with a proper pair of shoes but who has the time to search out a pair of shoes that don't look like orthopedic-old-people shoes that should be worn with a matching pastel pant and sweater set from Tan Jay? Not me?


Until then, it's looking like my feet will continue to smell how, what I imagine, a dead body smells or this monkey's finger:

Day ninety nine: lying to coworkers

Lying to strangers is fun but what's even more fun is lying to people I work with. Lying to people I know is more of a challenge because I'm bad at it. I get flushed and start to laugh not to mention maintaining the lie


One of the cooks at (insert real name here) quit for the second time to go up north and do some census work so it only seemed appropriate to start a rumour as to the "real" reason he was leaving -- with his permission of course. I was able to get as creative as possible since he has no plans on coming back -- I think his exact words were:

If anyone sees me walking back in at any point with a resume in my hand, please do me a favour and bludgeon me to death with the closest object at hand (or, if you are in a vehicle, accelerate rapidly into me, then back up a few times).

Rumours spread like wild fire in restaurants and it is truly amazing how gullible some people are.


I ended up telling people that the cook quit because he had one too many adult beverages with another cook one night resulting in the two fellas ending up in bed together and everything just seemed to fall into place after that. 


Let me preface this by saying that both guys knew what I was going to say and found it just as hilarious as I did and still do.




The heart wants what the heart wants. 

Day ninety seven: your credit card has been declined

When a credit card or debit card is declined, for whatever reason, I get just as embarrassed if not more than the poor schmuck who is trying to pay for his or her grub.



When those six letters pop up on the screen and flash: declined, I get ill. A series of excuses then start to fall out of the mouth of the payee (I know I have money, something must be wrong with the machine etc) then I have to 


Sometimes I like to crack a little joke to relieve the tension so I'll say something like:


"How embarrassing?! This guy (or gal) doesn't have any money!!" And then I point at him or her for everyone to see. Or I'll say "don't worry, we have enough dishes that need to be done to cover the cost of your meal."


Most of the time this results in a bout of rosacea and avoidance of eye contact and what I figure a silent vow never to return to (insert real name here) or the New Shop.  


Every time this has happened to me the diner has had another form of payment so I haven't had to go to a manager and try to figure out a solution because I can imagine this scenario is extremely awkward for everyone involved. 

Day ninety six: take my little hand

My right arm is freakishly stronger than my left arm and it’s all from serving for the last 10 months. I for sure have not even been rocking the bicep curls.


I am in no way ambidextrous so I used my predominant (right) arm for everything.

Even when I take out the garbage I throw the bags out with my right arm. I tried to switch it up and use my left arm a few times but each attempt had ended up in a tornado of food, used straws and garbage juice.

Go figure when I tell people about my rock-hard-right-bicep the immediate response is a crude masturbation joke:


                          "Hey (insert my real name here) been…"


I can’t even finish this sentence because my mom reads my blog and she already hates swearing. I can only imagine how she feels about smut talk but I will tell you it involves scraping the cheese off of a certain taco.


I digress.


I get pretty impressed when I carry a lot of plates or a bunch of glasses without a tray -- even more so, when I don’t spill anything. Have I dropped a plate of food? Totally. Have I ever made it rain on a table of old ladies? Yes, literally I have. I once spilled an entire tray of water on a group of grandmas. I felt awful. AWFUL. Good thing it was water and not glasses of something that stains, like mustard. Mustard is super hard to get out but the chance of getting something spilled on you is the chance you take when you dine out if your server isn't using his or her strong arm.