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.