Momnesia

1. If you don’t shave your underarms, check for deodorant turds in your armpits.
2. Or, don’t wear a sleeveless shirt
3. Or, never, ever, ever raise your arm from the shoulder.

Seriously, these people go out to eat like this. They ruin other diners' dinners with this crap. For some reason, the combination of armpit hair and deodorant turds makes me nauseous. If the armpit is shaved, fine. If the armpit is unshaven and turd-free, okay, too. But both: [retching noise].

Me: And do we have any questions about the menu?
450-pound-mouth-breathing-high-school-dropout-who-has-somehow-convinced-herself-that-I-am-beneath-her: What's this? (pointing precisely to the Southwest Chicken)
Me: The Southwest Chicken? Oh, it's delicious. It's a -
Cretin (pointing furiously): No, THEE-is!
Me: Oh, that's the Chopped Sirloin.
Cretin (rolling her eyes): Yes. What is it?

It's made out of fucking chicken, lady. What do you think it is?

Since my car is broken, I've been bumming rides back and forth to work. While my boyfriend is striving to win the Boyfriend of the Millenium award, he can't always be - nor should he always have to be - there for me. But a cab ride from work to home is $20, and, frankly, waitresses don't make that much. I ain't sportin' no bling-bling, know what I'm sayin'? Besides, all my money should go towards car repairs.

So I tried to bum a ride at one of the places I've been working from a girl who was going to a store in the same strip mall as my other job. I normally wouldn't ask, but I've given so many rides to people over the years that I figure someone will return the favor. I am wrong.

Me, to server (who-just-turned-18): Hey, since you're leaving anyway, do you think I could bum a ride?
Server (and-this-is-her-first-job): Well, why don't you have a car?
Me: I do. It's in the shop. I'll be happy to pay you gas money.
Server (and-her-only-bill-is-her-cellphone): Well, why can't your parents come get you?
Me (suddenly realizing to whom I am speaking): Because they live in Atlanta. You know what? Nevermind. I'll figure something out. (muttering): Anything else.
Server: Okay! Well, if you need anything, just let me know.
(???!!!)

I just started at a new restaurant, and let me tell you how demeaning it is to be trained by a 19-year-old fellow server who announces brightly that she's been "with the company" for 6 months, and is hoping for an exciting career - forever.

Trainer: Also, we don't serve our coffee on saucers here.
(I start to leave with it anyway, 'cause now it's already dirty)
Trainer: No, really, put it back.
(oooookaaaaaay...)
Trainer (stopping me again): And they only get one creamer.
Me: They'll want more.
(four years of serving and bartending taught me never to bring out only one creamer)
Trainer: Well, how do you KNOW they'll want more?
Me: Nevermind. One creamer. Got it.
Trainer: Can you remember that?
Me: Of course. (Am I cross-eyed and drooling?)

Boyfriend and I were talking about when we first met. I wasn't sure if he was asking me out as a date or not. Apparently, he wasn't. It was some weird pre-date screening process. Good thing for me that I passed, but poor Boyfriend.

Boyfriend: I thought about planning a few things to say, but decided to be spontaneous. But I remember you asked me: “So, what made you decided to become a librarian?’ And I thought to myself: ‘She put some thought into this.’
Me (slightly less embarrassed than a level that would bring on instant death): I did!
Trey: I could tell.
Me: Crap.

I had some idea in my head that I was all Barry White about it, but when have I ever accomplished that?

Trainer: ... and for tomorrow's test, you'll have to know the eight steps of bussing tables.
Me (aghast): Eight?! I thought there were just two.
Trainer (interested): And those were - ?
Me: Get the shit off the table and wipe it down.
Trainer (morbidly serious): No.

For anyone kind (or bored) enough to read my journal, let me repay you with some sage advice: Just because Krystal's is selling a bag-o-burgers for $4, does not mean that you should eat them every meal for two days.

Me (with exuberance): Hi! Welcome to (name of establishment withheld)! May I start you with a beer, or perhaps a glass of wine?
Guest (quietly, never raising his head from menu): I'll herbaschmerbanerbatwerba.
Me (with joy): I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Did you ask for herbal tea?
Guest (sighing): I said I'll habaschwabataba.
Me (with a zest for life rarely seen in humans not vying for canonization): Wow, the music is so loud. One more time, and I'll have it.
Guest (head bursting into flames): I SAID I'LL HAVE A SWEET TEA!
Me (spontaneous combustion being a daily occurance): Great! I'll be right back with that!
Guest: mmbaporchwatina

I thought of my favorite stupid customer exchange. It happened about four years ago, so it's a little out of date. But that's okay.

Me: Hi! Welcome to the (establishment name deleted, where sexual harassment is a way of life). What can I get you to drink?
Elderly Lady: I'll have a sweet tea, and he'll have unsweetened tea.
Me (returning): Here we are. Sweet tea for the lady, and unsweetened tea for the gentleman. Now, have you had a chance to review our menu?
Elderly Man: Miss, I asked for unsweetened tea.
Me: Yes, sir. (nodding and gesturing to the glass) This is unsweetened tea. Would you like to hear about our featured items?
Elderly Lady: No, honey, he wanted UNsweetened tea.
Me (confused): Yes, ma'am. And this is unsweetened tea in this glass here. Yours is sweet.
Elderly Man: Look, can I just get a glass of UNSWEETENED TEA?
Me (giving up): Sure. I'll be right back.
Elderly Lady (as I walk away): What happened to the good service we used to get?

I'm not new to serving. I've been serving and bartending for four years. I was a trainer at my last place of employment. At this restaurant, however, I am regarded as an idiot simply because I am new. Thus I get a lot of redundant directions that end with me insisting: "Yes, I've already done that. No, everything is fine."

Me, to HottieLineCook: Can I get an extra side of house dressing?
CrabbyServer (with a sigh): Look, here's your salad, here's your chicken wings, and here's the nachos. What's the problem?
Me: The salad still needs extra dressing.
CrabbyServer (rolling her eyes): Can I get an extra side of house dressing?
HottieLineCook: How many do you really need? She already called back one.
CrabbyServer (even crabbier): Why didn't you tell me that?
Me (picking up dirty plates and walking away): I'll just let you handle this.