Momnesia

I met Scott's parents last night at the Mellow Mushroom for dinner. I was nervous enough to start crying before we left. Parents never like me. In fact, that was a huge reason why John - a guy I dated for 4 and 1/2 years - and I broke up. His parents didn't believe that I was "the right kind of person," no matter how hard I tried to please them. I've long since given up trying to be the "right kind of person," and I just put on my waitress face and muddle through as best I can, trying to be the best myself that I can be.

It worked. Scott's parents love me. Wow. I have them fooled. I think what worked was that I embarrassed their otherwise unflappable son.

Scott: Yeah, so we were hanging out downtown and we went to the Discotheque and -
Miss Patsy (his mother): You went to a strip bar?
Scott: It was on a lark, you know, and -
Me: "On a lark?" What are you - 210 years old?
Scott (sneering at me): It was just on a whim, and -
Me: Oh, please. You went to see naked people.
Scott (ears reddening): No, I -
Me: Someone said: "Naked people," you went, "Hrr?" (mimicking ears pricking up), and led the parade down Broad Street.

I hum the ubiquitous circus song and mime a band leader marching with a whats-that-pole-thing-called? in his hand. His parents crack up, and he lowers his head and smiles a little. His face is beet red. It's a cheap ploy, teasing their oldest beloved son in order to win their favor, and for a moment I feel... inauthentic. But then I realize that I would have teased him about it anyway, no matter the company, and I pat him on the back in what I hope is an affectionate, loving way. He's so good natured that it kills me.

I am trying to type a letter on the new laptop they've given me to use at the gardens, but the keyboard is so tiny! I keep hitting three or four keys at the same time, and I'm beginning to feel like Animal from the Muppets - or like I have only one Giant Finger to type with. I might as well be typing with my forehead. I growl in frustration and begin backspacing for the 425th time when the Executive Director walks up.

Scott and I went to his grandparents' house for his grandfather's 80-something-eth birthday. They are adorable. His grandmother is hell on wheels. I think they are super cool.

Scott: I have to warn you - before you decide to spend the rest of your life with me - that this (points to his grandfather) is what I'm going to look like when I'm in my 80s.
Me: Really?
Grandfather: I'm looking good.
Me: I know! (To Grandmother:) You'd better watch out! (To Scott:) You might want to hold me back!

His grandparents crack up. I hope I haven't offended his grandmother - that she's not just laughing along trying to be polite. But later, as we're leaving, they invite me back.

We're lying in bed - do we ever leave? - and Scott is smoking. Smoking! My eyes are closed, but I can smell it.

Me (without opening my eyes): You're going to burn down my apartment.
Scott (exasperated): No, I'm not.
Ash falls onto the bed. Scott ("Oh, shit.") frantically brushes it off the sheet.
Me: I think I need to get renter's insurance.
Scott: You don't need renter's insurance.
Me: You're going to burn my apartment down.
Scott: Besides, I'm going to quit these things.
Me: Before or after you burn down my apartment?
Scott (chuckling): Before.

So you are going to burn down my apartment?

This is a story about how I can make any bad situation EVEN WORSE NO KIDDING DO NOT COME TO ME FOR COMFORT. You will only suffer more.

My friend, Lance, died this week. His wife, Sarah, has been taking it hard. I wanted to be there for her at the memorial service. Scott picked me up at 11 a.m., one hour before the service. We had a quick two-shot-of-courage at Applebee's (Thanks, Rico!) before heading to the funeral home. We have 10 minutes to get there.

Long ago, in a restaurant far away...

Carol and I are bartending. We have a friendly, rivalrous banter going on. It keeps us occupied, mentally, while working. I love Carol to death. Today, the beer cooler is broken. It annoys our guests, but they're good-natured about it.

Guest: Can I get another warm beer?
Just then, Carol walks up from the back with beers for restocking. She hands him one as I laugh at his question.
Carol: There you go. Much fresher than anything she'll give you.
Me: Right. Thanks, Carol.
The guest takes a sip and grins.
Guest: Colder, too.
Me: That's because she chipped it out of her icy heart.
The guest chokes on his beer. Carol whirls around.
Carol: What?!
Me (innocently): Nothing!

The phone rings.

Scott: You're beautiful.

Talking about my nephew, who Marvin hasn't seen for a couple of years...



Me: Yeah, so he's a little crackhead 6-year-old.
Marvin: Wow, he's six, now?
Me: Yep.
Marvin: I bet he's tall.
Me: He is!
Marvin: I bet he's taller than I am.
Me: Marvin, he's six. We're not feeding him human growth hormone sandwiches.

Me (groggily): Hello?

Me: Hello?

Previously, in Stacey's life (fade from black): Stacey was sick on Monday. Chris refused to help her, but promised to stop by on Tuesday. He didn't. Stacey decided to break up with him, based on his lack of caring when she was too sick to take care of herself. We rejoin the program on Wednesday of the same week...

Let's start the new year off with a training lesson. Read and learn.

What took you so long to get our drinks?

If you ordered tea or coffee, I probably had to brew it because the other servers were having personal conversations that rendered them unable to work. If you ordered a bar drink, I probably had to wait for the bartenders to finish their personal conversations before they would make the drink. If you ordered a soda, I may have had to change the syrup. All of this assumes that there were clean glasses and ice available at the serving station. I may also have had to get those before I could make your drinks.

We’re starving: when will our food be ready?

Your well-done steaks are still going to take the requisite 20 minutes to cook. Yes, 20 minutes. Even if you didn't order something well-done, all food is cook to order... plus time for personal conversations by the line cooks.

It don’t take that long at home.

Doesn’t. And of course it does if you do it our way. First, you would begin by marinating your steaks for 72 hours. Second, you have to wait for the grill to heat up. And third, we don’t cook them ahead of time. If you want to argue, I’ll get the cook and the manager.

Why is my food cold?

It was hot when I brought it. You were too busy running your big fat mouth to eat it.

Don’t you know that you’re not supposed to charge me for my soda if I buy a bar drink?

No. I don’t know that.

A tip? Why should I be responsible for paying your salary?

You aren’t responsible for paying my salary. I’m not a salaried employee. Servers are paid $2.13 an hour for their time. Now, that isn’t your responsibility, either. But the facts of the matter are these: 1) If the restaurant industry were to pay its servers the regular minimum wage, they would not take a loss to their profits. They would pass that increase on to the consumer. 2) A more than 50% increase in hourly wages (and the taxation and accounting headaches that come with it) means at least a 30% increase in menu prices. You only pay half that in a tip. 3) If you are using a service, you should pay for it. Otherwise, go somewhere where that cost is not added in, like, say: WENDY’S.

I never tip more than $2. Why should I?

That’s a good question. Allow me to tell you: Servers are taxed at 8% on the amount they sell, not the amount they actually make in tips. So, if your bill is $100, and you leave $2, that’s only a 2% tip. That means the additional 6% has to come out of my pocket. Effectively, I’m buying a portion of your meal for you. If you could at least tip me 8% so that I break even, I’d appreciate it. Thanks so fucking much.

Why do we have to go through the hostess stand? I see empty tables over there/
Why can’t we sit at that table? It’s empty.

People, this is not a new system. But, since you seem to have been raised on Mars, allow me to explain. 1) There is what’s called a “rotation” in seating at a restaurant, so that people don’t duke it out over tables like they do parking spaces, and so that each of the servers get a fair shake at making money. 2) Not everyone has the same needs. That couple wants a table in nonsmoking because they’re meeting another person who is in a wheelchair and has a respiratory illness. That person wants a quiet corner to himself because his wife recently died. That is a party of 25, and we need to reserve tables adjacent to one another until enough tables are empty that we can seat them all at once. The hostesses, ideally, can coordinate meeting all of those needs so that everything runs smoothly. Apparently, they haven't communicated this to you.

Why is the wait so long?

Many factors can push a wait longer. The kitchen could be running slowly due to short-staffing or – usually – due to hangovers. The floor may be short-staffed of servers, so that it’s difficult to take care of everyone quickly. There could be large party taking up many tables so that we can’t seat others at those tables. Large parties also tend to want to “camp” and socialize, so we can’t turn those tables as quickly as usual. But speaking of camping, think of the last time you ate out. How long did you stay? At least an hour, probably. Did you hang out at your table and socialize afterward? Pretty fucking likely. Sometimes tables just won’t get up from their chairs and go so that we can seat you. Finally, sometimes, outside factors slow down the restaurant so that things don’t move as quickly: equipment (ice machine, dishwasher, grill) could break; employee injuries can affect service speed; demand could be unusually high. But, usually, it’s the very people complaining about the wait that screw up the wait. Is that your kid running around getting in everyone’s way? Why does that server have to say, “Excuse me” four times before someone steps aside so that she can walk through the lobby with her guests’ food? How long did you wait to order after sitting down at your table? Usually – although not always – it’s the customers who make it hard on themselves.

Why is this charge on my ticket?

Beverage – Because you ordered it, and you drank it.
Entrée/Appetizer/Dessert – Because you ordered it, and you ate it.

Can I get some bread/peanuts to go?

Yes, but I’ll have to charge you for it.

Why? It’s all-you-can-eat!

So, eat it.

But, I’m too full.

So, you can’t eat it?

No.

Well, there you go. You’ve eaten all you can eat.

Can you take this off my ticket? I didn’t like it/I couldn’t finish it.

If you didn't like it, then why did you eat it? I asked you three times if everything was okay, and if I could get you anything. You said: “Everything is fine.” So, no. I can’t take this off your ticket. If you can't finish it, then take it home. You're the one who ate his weight in bread.

Will you take a check?

Will you get real?

I can’t afford this. What happens if I don’t pay?

You see that cop over there? He’ll arrest you.

For what?!

For theft by taking. And, hopefully, stupidity, cheapness, and generally being an asshole.

You seem pretty smart; why didn’t you ever go to college?

Thanks so much; I did. The market took a hit after 9/11, the area is economically depressed, and I work 75 hours a week so that makes job hunting kind of a hobby, and not the singular goal in my life.

Me (pulling my car up to the Jiffy Lube): Hi! I just need an oil change today.
Mechanic (nodding): Does Jan still work there?
Me (looking around to see if he's talking to me): What?
Mechanic (pointing to my work t-shirt): Does Jan still work there?
Me (smiling): Of course. She's been there for years.
Mechanic (taking my keys): Does Desiree still work there?
Me: Um... oh, yeah. She does.
Mechanic (filling out the form): Does Daniel still work there?
Me (shrugging): Which Daniel?
Mechanic (pausing to look at me): Daniel.
Me: Which Daniel?
Mechanic (looking at me like I'm stupid): DANIEL Daniel.
Me (giving up because I want my car in a hurry): Oh. THAT Daniel. No.
Mechanic: He doesn't?
Me: No.
Mechanic: You sure?
Me (Good lord. No, I'm not sure): Pretty sure...
Mechanic: How sure?
Me (0% sure): 87% sure?
Mechanic (stopping to look at my face. He thinks I'm fucking with him. I think it's the other way around): 87 %... That's not very sure.
Me (getting annoyed. Did he quit taking math in the third grade?): It's mostly sure.
Mechanic (shaking his head): It's pretty sure.

There is a moment of silence. I can't figure out: 1) how this conversation got started; 2) why it continues; 3) how to get out of it.

Me (I also want my car in one piece): Well, sorry I can't more certain. I haven't seen him around for awhile though.
Mechanic (suspiciously): Well, maybe you're just working different times.
Me (Geez, I didn't realize you were dating): Maybe so. How long have you known Daniel?
Mechanic (shrugging and giving the keys to another mechanic): I don't know him. Just curious.

???!!!

Boyfriend and I broke up (which is why I haven't posted in a while, because he reads this blog) over what he thinks is sex but is really his lack of physicality. I'm not really attracted to him anyway - not physically. The problem is that the mental attraction was strong enough to override the lack.

Reed: Have you talked to (ex-boyfriend)?
Me (scoffing): No way.
Reed: I thought you were cool with this. You've only dated half of Augusta since you broke up.
Me (laughing): I'm fine with it. It's not as though I hadn't been thinking about breaking up with him for a while.
Reed: So what's wrong?
Me: He wrote me this e-mail detailing how I should conduct myself now that we're not dating.
Reed (incredulous): What?!
Me: I know! About how I can't talk about certain things with him, and how I shouldn't do certain things...
Reed: That's stupid.
Me: I know. He tried to make some joke in the middle about President Bush and a spelling bee, but the whole thing was tense and weird and pissed me off. He said not to write back if I was in the mood to fight - which is apparently only his prerogative - but I wasn't until he wrote that shit.
Reed: Was he always that way?
Me: What way?
Reed: Immature.
Me: I don't think he'd see it that way, but sort of. I think he lived with his parents for too long, and he's still figuring out how to be an adult. He's kind of a big crybaby.
Reed: And gay.
Me (snicker): Possibly. You would know!

I attended the Travelin' Gypsy All-night Birthday Party for a friend of mine. I spent the entire evening putting out fires and trying not to put myself out into traffic. At some point, the birthday boy and I spent about an hour outside a late-night bar half screaming at each other because he was running around acting the fool. He's like a two-year-old. I always want to smack him upside the head and say, "Use your words!" He did, at one point, use his words to say, "I don't have any friends," which apparently meant that I was getting full-body frostbite for absolutely nothing. The next day, I wrote a one-act play about it. Here is a sample of the dramatic monologue I perform at the climax of the action.

An excerpt from "Jesus Christ, Will Everyone Please Just Shut the Hell Up?"

No, Katie, Mike really does love you.

I think you've had enough to drink, Tommy.

Yes, Mike, Katie really does love you.

No, Jonathan, Cherie really does love you... well, okay, maybe you shouldn't have slept with Rebecca. No, wait, come back, I'm sorry!

I think you've had enough to drink, Tommy.

Okay, random bar person, you need to get your hand off my ass. Wait: what’s your name? Hey, Brian.

No, Tommy, don't hit him. No, Brian, don't hit Tommy.

Hey, new hottie at work, how are you? No, Tommy, don't hit the new guy.

Here, Jonathan have a Kleenex. You need to tell Cherie how you feel. Well, she's already not speaking to you, how much worse could it get? No, wait, come back, I'm sorry!

No, Katie, don't leave. Mike really does love you."

Boyfriend won’t come get my bug. I have a bug the size of Wisconsin on my couch. I think it has ties to al-Qaeda, but he doesn’t care that this bug threatens our national security – or, at least, my personal security.

In abnormal psychology, we were often asked to evaluate the behavior of a videotaped subject. The members of the class would give their opinions on what the behaviors signified, if anything. I am convinced that there is a whole universe, somewhere, where the stars have been replaced entirely by psychological diagnoses which have no merit whatsoever, besides getting their "discoverer's" name in the DSM. Chief among these, in my mind, are the "personality disorders," which are not recognized as having bio-chemical, genetic, or traumatic origins. They are defined as an inflexible pattern of inner experience and outward behavior that deviates significantly from the expectations of one's culture. They often (but not always) result in unpleasant experiences, and may cause psychological, social, or occupational pain. Mostly, however, they cause pain, discomfort, or irritation to people other than those experiencing them. Finally, according to the DSM, it is possible to have more than on personality disorder, or "just a touch" of one.

Me (to professor): So, it's not like these are classified as mental illnesses, is that correct?
Professor: Yes, that's correct.
Me: And, this behavior isn't caused by a correctable chemical imbalance, or a traumatic experience in someone's life, or by bad genes?
Professor: Yes, that's correct.
Me: And, the disorders aren't the same across cultures, like depression, psychopathology, or schizophrenia?
Professor (with a look of "Aren't I patient?" on his face): No, they aren't.
Me: And, usually, the people themselves don't receive the brunt of their personality disorder? I mean, the people around them are the ones disturbed by it?
Professor (now he has a cautious look on his face): Yes. What are you getting at?
Me: Well, is it possible that what we have here is just a list of 10 different ways that people can act like jerks?

The entire class turns to look at me. A couple of people grin. Most of them roll their eyes. One guy is asleep. The professor pauses for a moment and looks around the class.

Professor: Yes, that's certainly possible. Can anyone else think of another explanation?

No one raises their hand. In their defense, this particular professor is extremely intimidating. It took several weeks before I had the courage to speak up in class. But now he can't shut me up. I raise my hand.

Professor: I think we've heard your theory, Stacey.
Me (feeling retarded): No, I have another one.
Professor (deciding that he would have to indulge me before I will shut up): Okay.
Me: Well, it occurs to me that these classify about all the people in my high school who were outcasts (ha ha. Like me. Look up Borderline Personality Disorder). The onset for a diagnosis to be rendered is adolescence. This sounds like social ineptitude.
Professor (looking at me like I have two heads): Then why classify these behaviors as a disorder?
Me (suddenly much less sure of myself, but still with the verbal diarrhea): Because conformity is encouraged in school. Students who can't get along are considered "troubled," and a lot of these behaviors are attention-getters. Dramatics, histrionics - I mean, what is a conduct disorder? Who decides what conduct is an actual "disorder," and what conduct is just "disorderly?"
Guy across the room: That's just semantics.
Me (okay, now I'm pissed): I don't think so. A disorder carries the stigma of an illness, of being sick or unbalanced. Acting "disorderly," that's just breaking some relatively harmless policies.
Girl in my row of desks: Oh, so bringing a gun to school is relatively harmless?
Me (Did I SAY that?!): No, nor is using hyperbole to make an argument. They're both stupid, and neither is condusive to addressing the real issue. Which was, I believe, whether or not these behaviors should be in the DSM in the first place.
Same girl (scoffing, probably because she doesn't know what "hyperbole" means): You can't just take things out of the DSM.
Dee, who sits right behind me: They did it with homosexuality.
Hyper-religious Man, who thinks that if he can relate something to a biblical quote, he's made a good point.: Yeah, and that IS a disorder.

There's a moment of silence in the classroom. I, personally, can't believe he thinks that. Well, I can, but it's just alien to me. Dee snickers suddenly.

Dee: Well, since it really only bothers OTHER people, it's just a personality disorder.

Damn. That was good, Dee

Me (distributing entrees to table. Two steaks, one rack of ribs, and one Southwest Chicken): Now, do we need anything to top off the meal? Heinz 57, extra barbecue sauce, or perhaps honey mustard for your fries? I know I use a vat of it on my fries.
Stupid Bitch (looking with theatrical distaste at the chicken): What's this?! I didn't order this!
Me (laughing): Yes, ma'am, that's the Southwest Chicken you ordered. Chicken, topped with barbecue sauce, cheese, onions, bacon, and mushrooms, with a side of fries.
Stupid Bitch (shaking her head): No, that's not what I ordered.

The members of her table are eerily silent, staring at their plates. I sense that high noon was approaching, meaning, she was about to pull some crap she'd pulled somewhere before. I realized I'd probably be discounting their ticket, regardless of what happened from this point on. As a matter of principle that, frankly, I can't afford, I decide that's not going to happen this time.

Me (pulling out my notebook to check): Gosh, that's what I'd written down. What did you intend to order?
Stupid Bitch (narrowing her eyes at me): I didn't INTEND to order anything. I ORDERED the 16 oz ribeye.

I smile, but return her stare. No fucking way she ordered the 16 oz ribeye, and I'm sure it's just a coincidence that the steak is $10 more than the chicken.

Me: Really? Then I wish you'd corrected me when I called your order back and said southwest chicken.
Stupid Bitch (getting really angry and shoving the plate across the table at me): Just get me my steak.
Me (smiling and taking the plate): How would you like that cooked?
Stupid Bitch (smiling back, thinking she'd won): Well done.

I laugh. She's either going to eat that fucking chicken, or she's going to go hungry. Hell with her.

Me: That's going to take at least 20 minutes.
Stupid Bitch (mouth open): TWENTY minutes?!
Me (looking up in feigned surprise): Oh, yes. That large a steak, that well cooked, it's AT LEAST 20 minutes.
Stupid Bitch (looking around at her table mates. They're intent on their meals): I've NEVER heard of a steak taking TWENTY minutes to cook.
Me: How unusual. What side item would you like?
Stupid Bitch (realizing I don't give a crap): No, I don't want to wait 20 minutes.
Me (How long can I stall putting her order in without getting in trouble?): Like I said, it might be more. There are other orders ahead of you at this point. (A blatant lie. Recooks get first priority)
Stupid Bitch (huffing): Well, I ORDERED the steak. YOU wrote it down wrong.
Me (shrugging): My bad. What side item did you want?
Stupid Bitch: Did you hear me say that I didn't want to wait 20 minutes?
Me: Yes, but it's an unfortunate fact that I can't make the steak cook any faster. Unless you'd like us to microwave it for you.
Stupid Bitch (loudly): MICROWAVE?!

I see that her next tactic was going to be a temper tantrum, I decide to end this charade. Fuck my tip, and fuck her. I'm not as nice or philosophical a person as Waiter Rant. He's probably much smarter, and from what I read, works at a much better establishment. Yet, I digress.

Me: Those. Are. Your. Options. Now, I'll tell the kitchen to cook anything you want, any way you want it. But next time, if you'd just say the right item the first time, we won't have to play this game. Either way, I'll have to adjust your check to reflect the item you eat. If you'd like to speak to a manager, I'll be happy to have Dave come to the table. But I still need to know what it is you'd actually like to eat tonight.
Stupid Bitch: Well, I DON'T want to wait. I guess I'll just try the chicken. But I ORDERED the steak.
Me: Whatever you want. Will there be anything else?

Silence.

Me (turning to walk away): Enjoy your meals. I'll check back by in a couple of minutes.
Stupid Bitch (huffing): Uh! Now my food is cold!
Me (turning back with a smirk, seeing steam rise from the point she cut into her chicken): Like I said, we'll be happy to microwave it for you.

Stupid Bitch stabs at her plate angrily... but silently.

Me (returning): And how do we find everything?
Table, except for Stupid Bitch, says variations of "Fine."
Me (seeing that Stupid Bitch has eaten half of her chicken): And how do you like the Southwest Chicken?
Stupid Bitch (refusing to look up): It's not a steak.

I wait. There is silence.

Stupid Bitch (looks up, thinking I'm gone): It's FIIiiinnne-uh!
Me (smirking and walking away): Great! Be sure to save room for dessert, guys!

Cheap-ass fuckers should go to the Wal-Mart meat department. Incidentally, although everyone but that one lady tipped me 20%, one of the guys discretely pressed a $5 bill into my hand as they were leaving. It was nice of him, and I appreciated it, but I'd rather they kept their friend on a short leash.