A Big Ol' Recap #1

Ardmore, PA
This was the king of Petcos. Because of its location in the affluent Pennsylvania region known as the Main Line, this Petco was run more like a department store rather than a glorified pet shop. It consistently garnered the most sales in the region. For all the establishment's obvious advantages, it was home to the weirdest customers ever to walk the earth.

• Let me preface this by saying I believe myself to be a very open-minded and unbiased individual. I relish the idea of shattering hateful stereotypes, yet stereotypes in general fascinate me--there's some comfort in knowing you're not alone. Where do stereotypes come from? Do people know when they're following one? Do I adhere to any? Anyway, customers at this Petco had more stereotypes than Disney's Epcot. For fear of appearing intolerant, I'll leave it at this: a Jewish man was forcibly teaching his son the value of coupons. 
• A very elderly woman dressed head to toe in faux fur was confused and screaming ridiculous commands in the middle of the store. 
• I had no idea there were so many Hasidic Jews in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. 
• A sketchy foreign woman with no purse carried her money and credit cards under her shirt in her bra. When she took a credit card out, her boob came with it. She didn't seem to notice or care.
  
• For some reason, this Petco was constantly the approximate temperature of an ice box and as I was unprepared for this, I was freezing on Friday. Try as I might to appear warm, my cold misery was incredibly evident:
• Man (in a creepy voice)- "Want to know how I know you're cold?"
• Me (quickly becoming increasingly self conscious that he's talking about what is commonly referred to as smuggling peas, headlights are on, turkeys are done, highbeams, or erect nipples.)- "How....?"
• Man (suddenly quite scholarly)- "I can see your goosebumps. The hair on your arms is standing up. You know what that's called? It's called piloERECTION."
  
• Me (exhausted from getting creeped out, then relieved, then enlightened, then creeped out again)- "Thank you."
• There was a Panera Bread right next door. I know what you're thinking, "AWESOME!" and you're half right. I was thrilled to order an amazingly satisfying meal from enthusiastic workers for three days straight, but I was also terrified about the kind of trouble PPL would find herself in with the world wide web at her disposal. After yet another wonderful Panera lunch break, I came back to the store to find my partner smirking devilishly and typing on the computer. Turns out she was having a Facebook chat conversation of questionable morality with a 32-year-old she's never met before. Due to this chat, she had me take a picture of her with her cell phone so she could send it to this stranger (not the first time I've done this for her).
• At the very end of Sunday's shift at Petco, a female customer mistook me for a Petco employee. Upon realizing her dire mistake, she complimented my eyes. Then my face. Then my entire everything. She told me I looked like Karen Allen and Denise Richards (only she called her "that woman I never liked who was married to Charlie Sheen"). Somehow the conversation turned to how she's a germaphobe and won't go near any of her sick friends and then she stressed the importance of hand-washing this time of year. She took up 20 minutes of my time.
• On Friday, I talked a man into letting us photograph his dog. On Saturday, he brought his dog back for a session but then couldn't decide on a photo so he said he'd come back after he deliberated at home. On Sunday, he approached me, quickly flashed a USB flash drive and a wad of cash from his breast pocket, and said, "I want to make a deal with you and your partner." A grown man tried to bribe me for photographs of his dog.
  

"Hey, girl..."

I'd hate to see my partner's phone bill. PPL makes at least twenty calls per day, each one starting with one of these phrases:

• "Hey, girl..."
• "Hey, bitch!"
• "Hey, baby."
• "Hey, Holly-Bolly!" (That's her greeting for our supervisor.)

On Fridays we arrive at the weekend's Petco venue at 11am and on Saturdays and Sundays, 9am. Usually, by the time I arrive punctually (and PPL arrives late), I have received three to five phone calls from her with various questions:

• "What's the address of the Petco?"
• "I just plugged the address into my GPS and it's not coming up. What should I do?"
• "Do you know if there's a Sun National Bank near the Petco? How about a TD Bank?"
• "Can you call me back once your paycheck is direct deposited into your account?"
• "I think I'm on the wrong road...there's a lot of construction around here and I think I've been on it too long. Where is the Petco again?"
• "Do you think there's a Taco Bell near by?"

On a happier note, my favorite thing about this job is Petco's consistently close proximity to Chipotle chains. I spend my weekends packing on pounds with delicious soft shell barbacoa tacos, and the rest of the week working it off at the diner by running away from dirty old men's lecherous looks.

Cue Stereotypical Early 20s Existential Crisis...

I've realized that both my jobs are perpetuating our society's downward spiral. After a lot of thought (probably too much thought) I've narrowed my jobs' evil contributions down to gluttony and materialism. I know there's nothing I can do; we have to work with what we are given, and so I am forced to profit from America's desire for stuff. 

There are about five "healthy" options in the diner's entire menu and so few people want them I don't even know where these meals are in the computer database I use to place orders. Diners are known for providing quick and greasy food, so I'm sure most dieters and members of the health conscious community steer clear of these establishments all together, but still, some things people order are just absurd. Sometimes I'm impressed by the creativity people use to turn a healthy meal into a delicious explosion of calories. You would be astounded by the amount of people I've witnessed struggling to squeeze themselves into diner booths and on several occasions I've had to try to tactfully advise customers to change tables for the sake of their own comfort. The looks on the faces of these people are incredibly heartbreaking, but my feelings for them become torn when they still order a chicken cheesesteak with extra provolone cheese and mayonnaise...but don't forget the diet Pepsi!

This week's Picture People conference call was thoroughly scathing. Territory manager was "deeply disappointed in this past weekend's performances." This weekend will likely include a surprise visit from this boss that I've never seen before, so rest assured I will be constantly on edge, dreaming anxious dreams, skipping lunch break so that I can babysit my partner, PPL, and on my best, overcompensating behavior from Friday through Sunday. Territory Manager feels that anything less than ten sessions per day in unacceptable, so from now on if we don't reach our goals each day he will call and assail our ears with more insincere business tactics and terminology. It's my opinion that Petco's contract with the Picture People is a last, dying attempt to garner more revenue--so, that being said, here's my valid, supportable question: what if my Petco only gets about ten customers per day?


I'm sorry if I offend any animal lovers, but I truly think that if you buy anything more than food, essential care items (flea medicine, etc.) and the occasional toy for your pet, you are mindlessly complying with the well-oiled machine that is the pet supply industry. Seriously, do you really need: 

• doggy rain coats,
• doggy life preservers (I do believe it's called the "doggy paddle" for a reason),
• toy mice with "realistic mouse sounds!",
• ferret t-shirts with phrases like "Grin and 'Ferret'",
• holiday pet toys (I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don't think animals follow religion or celebrate holidays),
• Bed Head, a high-end hair product company's animal equivalent, Pet Head,
  
• or professional pet portraits by the Picture People? 

"Can I get a diet water, please?"

Saturday:  
 Absolutely nothing happened at Petco. Seriously. It was Halloween, no one wanted pictures taken, and all I wanted to do was go home, become Cleopatra, and celebrate with friends.

My Halloween transformation was more drastic than I ever could have anticipated. The bar's manager selected me for a VIP costume contest--A.K.A. a rump-shaking competition involving silly guys in creative costumes and hot girls in smutty costumes. I feel bad that the manager mistook me for a hottie and in an effort to show that I'm a classy broad (as exemplified below) I chose to not take part, but I kept my invitation to the contest for written proof that I'm better than you.

Sunday:
If it was super hard for me to wake up and get going the morning after my sex, drugs, and rock n' roll-ish Halloween, it must have been nearly impossible for my Picture People partner. When she showed up about an hour late, she looked like death and I was all, "Helloooo...Halloween was yesterday, duh." PPL told me that her night was terrible because her friends that she was so excited to see "ditched me for blow" (I have to put that in quotes because I can't take myself saying "blow" seriously, but that's exactly how she put it). This is also about the time when all my suspicions about her turned out to be completely justified--she admitted she was in recovery for cocaine abuse. I'm a regular Sherlock Holmes!!

The good and bad thing about this job is that there's a lot of downtime. If you're having a bad day, like PPL obviously was, you have time to cope with and try to solve your problems because you have a partner to pick up the slack and there are lots of times when there are absolutely no costumers in the store. On this day, however, PPL took this downtime just a smidge too far by:

•  arriving an hour late,
•  falling asleep at our makeshift sales desk for twenty minutes,
• disappearing for an hour during what is supposed to be her thirty-minute lunch break,
• and admitting that the cause of her long break was that she took a nap in the backseat of her car.

Monday and Tuesday:
These were days one and two of my sheer stockings experiment at the diner. Not to toot my own fabulous horn, but I made more money than I've ever made before (besides the time my family came in and tipped me $50)--like three times more. Though I have noticed an increased amount of ocular attention in the direction of my legs, I'm sure there's no actual connection between the increased visibility of my limbs and customers' generosity, because that just seems silly...but I will continue to wear sheer black stockings for the remainder of my employment there. Today marks day three of the experiment. I will keep you posted.

This week I planned to give the diner my two weeks' notice. Don't cry; I still want to continue serving, I'd just prefer a classier, higher-paying venue. After this week's shifts though, I have mixed feelings. As previously mentioned, I've been getting better tips than ever (though I know I could get even better tips elsewhere), the past few days have brought some really great customers, and I've had people ask for my name so they can request me in the future (this may sound like a sickeningly sweet Sally Field Academy Award speech-type thing to say, but it touches me to know that they like me, they really like me). One table said I was a great waitress and assumed I had been working there forever; they also said they hoped I kept getting promoted...but really, isn't quitting and finding a better job basically a food industry promotion?

A man at my last table on Monday night supplied a few corny gems that are necessary to share:

• "Can I get a diet water, please?"
• "Could you spill me some more coffee?"
• "Would you get me the Shepherd Special? That's coffee and a piece of 'ewe'."

"I hate pretty girls. How much longer do you guys have to stay?"

This weekend's Picture People gig brought me to a dying Petco on a busy commercial highway in Montgomeryville, Pennsylvania. Last week, the staff at the dying Petco in Willow Grove assured us that customers were plentiful, nicer, and looser with their money in Montgomeryville--you know that old saying, "the fur is always softer in the other Petco." This pet store was anything but prosperous, so needless to say, my days there weren't fruitful.
Friday:
No one showed much interest in pet portraits (surprise!) and we had one photography session all day. It involved 3 huge dogs--I snagged the customer, I took the pictures, I made the sale...did I mention I have a partner? 
At the end of the night, while we were packing up, the manager's 18-weeks-pregnant daughter came over with a coworker from her job next door for a smoking break (I know). Her coworker, Abe--he was dressed like Abraham Lincoln--asked for my name and said I looked familiar, so I told him that I get that all the time (which is absolutely true). He asked what our purpose was there and what the photo packages were, talked about all his many animals, said it was nice to meet us, and left to go smoke some more with the pregnant girl. The door had barely closed behind Abe when the manager, Beth, ran up to me and this is what followed:

Beth (gruff voice, abrasive tone)- "Yeah, so he's interested."
Me (fully aware of what was meant but completely opposed to admitting it)- "Oh! He wants a portrait?"
Beth- "No. He's interested in you. Ugh, God, does this happen everywhere you go? I hate pretty girls; you make me look bad. So, what's your deal? Are you seeing someone? Care to mess around on the side if you are?"
Me (knowing full well I have two more days to spend here and trying to diffuse the situation)- "Oh, how nice of him...!"
Beth- "He's super tall and works next door with my daughter!"
Me (wondering why she's telling me things I just saw with my own eyes...)- "Where do they work?"
Beth- "Oh my god, are those your real eyelashes? Ugh, when are you guys leaving? I hate pretty girls. They work at 6th Avenue Electronics. You could get a free television out of this...oh, and he drives a Mini Cooper."
Me (packing up my photography equipment at record speed)- "If I ever move out here to Montgomeryville, it's nice to know I have someone."

"Where's the coleslaw? I get coleslaw with this. Can I get some coleslaw?"

I have a few quick rants that are anything but eloquent. Ignore them, respond to them, learn from them; do what you will.

• Who actually likes coleslaw? Where did this disgusting food come from? Is it one of those foods that people of a certain generation like, their children don't like, but then their grandchildren do like? When I remember to supply it, customers don't eat it. When I forget to supply it, they come at me like I forgot to supply them with oxygen.
  
• Who doesn't eat their pickle?! Worse yet..who takes a bite of their pickle and leaves the rest on the plate? Can't you just finish it and stop tempting me to pick off your plate? Do you know how often this happens? A piece of me dies when I see a poor helpless wasted pickle abandoned on a plate. Eat your pickle or donate it to someone who likes them.
  
• During my shifts, most people get meals that include a basket of really nice bread (I know this because we servers slice the bread and I've sampled more than my fair share). Why wouldn't you touch the bread? It's so good. I swear I didn't do anything to it. It's so so good.
• Why do so many of the waitresses tease and entice the kitchen staff? Are these girls that hard-up for male attention? For instance, I saw DGA proudly showing Abdul a picture of her in a revealing Halloween costume and he was begging her to come into work wearing it. Maybe you had to be there, but ew.
• I don't think I can accurately describe the fury and frustration felt when one's silverware, hidden and waiting to be wrapped, is taken--nay, stolen--but I'll try. It's like you found out you were adopted, had your first born child kidnapped, got stuck in a traffic jam for 3 hours, forgot to study for a huge test, and got dumped by your true love...all at once. It's happened to me twice so far, and I've never quite gotten over it. Both times I felt like crying, screaming, and challenging the unknown thief to a duel (Why not? I had nothing else to live for at those moments). What hurts the most is the fact that my name was written, large and beautifully, on a piece of paper in plain sight with my concealed utensils. This could only mean someone saw my name and thought, "That bitch deserves to have to scrounge around for more silverware like a dirty, homeless dog desperately searching for scraps of food."

"She's hitting on you again!"

It's been over a month, and I finally feel like I've totally gotten the hang of this waitressing thing. New and old girls alike come to me with questions, I have a very smooth relationship with the kitchen crew (and I didn't even need to learn filthy Spanish sayings in order to do so!), and I can wait tables, complete my side work, AND wrap silverware pretty much simultaneously, allowing me to leave much earlier than I ever used to. I've still never tried the food though and I don't intend to.


Yesterday, I was blessed with a table of older men who were stopping by after losing all their money in Atlantic City. They were a fun bunch, though they all forgot their glasses so I had to read the entire menu to them and they had questions about EVERY entree and (since I don't eat the food) I had no answers. *When asked if any meal is good, my generic answer is always "The portions are large, everything smells great, and you can't go wrong when the main ingredients are garlic and onion."* By the end of this table's meal, they were getting feisty. The oldest man kept telling the second oldest man that I was hitting on him and when I handed them the check, they provided me with one of the best pick-up lines ever: "We're not from around here...could you leave your number on the bill so we can call you for directions if we get lost?" For once, my lack of sense of direction and my inability to find my way out of a paper bag came in handy and I was able to truthfully evade this table's silly, light-hearted advances. As they left, they handed me their bill and payment, including my tip, and said "You got the last of our Mohicans"--they tipped me fifty percent! Why can't I get more flirty older men who get my strange sense of humor?


My plan for today's shift (since the Phillies are playing tonight and the diner will be slow) was to experiment by wearing sheer black stockings to see if I get better tips, but alas, my only pair had a big hole (Mom, when you read this, know that I need more sheer black stockings. And I didn't get a chance to do the dishes before work. And the money from the check I cashed is on the sofa.). Damn you, Phillies, for taking away my customers. Oh, and GO PHILLIES!

"Chin down, tilt your head, shoulders back, hands together, feet back...smile!"

I'm embarking on a new and exciting chapter of my life, while still pathetically clinging to the old and boring parts. Weeks ago, the gods smiled upon me in the form of a Craigslist job advertisement for a "mobile photographer;" I applied, I interviewed, I conquered. As it turned out, the job was for a fledgling unit of the photography company, the Picture People, whose sole purpose was taking animal portraits at Petcos all over the country. The company placed me (along with several new-hires from the northeast) in a nice hotel in Glen Burnie, Maryland--a suburb of Baltimore, full of bowling alleys and liquor stores with entertaining names like "Liquor Fair." For three days, a very learned and likable trainer, TJ, threw out oodles of details, procedures, and simulations. This mobile photography unit is a new venture for the Picture People so it's still rather unorganized and chaotic. The constant flow of new information made me feel lightheaded and tired, and, to top it all off, I had to spend over eight hours a day--usually cooped up in a hotel conference room--with twenty other trainees who were all chain smokers. Don't let my complaining fool you though, I had a great time. I had a king-size bed, a plasma tv, and premium movie channels all to myself (yes, my hotel room was ballin'!), there was a Qdoba just down the street, I got full pay for all these hours of torturous education, and I got along super swimmingly with TJ, my supervisor, and my teammate (though eight hours a day with these cigarette addicts was more than enough). Out of everyone I know, I never ever imagined that I would be the one to go on a full-fledged business trip.

Upon returning home I was greeted with the first Facebook friend request I've had in, what seems like, ages (I actually never saw said friend request, as my BFF/personal assistant logged on my account and accepted it while I was at a bar living up my diner-free Saturday night by playing the role of designated driver). This new Facebook friend was someone I had never heard of, but he included a little greeting stating that he knew TJ, TJ said I was cool, and TJ said we should talk. After his request was accepted, he wrote the same thing on my wall for all the Facebook world to see (gasp!). I have a few questions about this: 

• WAS THIS AN ATTEMPT AT A SET-UP?!
• Is it just me, or was this completely unprofessional on TJ's part?
• Did I seem desperately single while training in Maryland?
• Have I reached that accepted age where I'm supposed to always be paired with someone?
  
• Was my comment about being "doomed to end up a crazy cat lady" mistaken as a cry for help?

My teammate, PPL, is young, nice, and fun with a definite wild side, and on the job we balance each other well. That being said, I think she's a recovering drug addict. I'll tell you why:

• she went to art school,
• she graduated from college, yet takes classes of some sort on certain mornings,
• she attends meetings certain evenings,
• from what she's told me, these meetings appear to have attendants with questionable moral fiber,
• she has to take drug tests occasionally,
• and, last but not least, she asked me how much money I would require for my urine.

This past weekend was the first Petco gig of the quarter (like my business vocabulary?!), and it was quite an experience. The days were long and mostly boring: I stand by the door, tell people we're there taking pet portraits, people either get excited or weirded out, and we go from there. I don't have much conclusive evidence yet, but I'm fairly certain PPL scares away a majority of our customers with her strange, robotic, fragmented sales approach: "Wanna bring your pet back? For a portrait? We're here til 6?". Our set was situated right next to the cat adoption display, so basically everyone that approached it was guaranteed to be a weirder cat person than the last. With a serious, almost tearful look, a woman referred to one cat as "magical." A couple who I sold a bunch of photographs to was written up for beating their dog in the parking lot. Many people walked into the store thinking they had walked into a different store--one such man asked me for glue. I saw a mom strolling leisurely outside the store with her son who was dress head to toe as the Grim Reaper. My territory manager wanted us to get thirty photo sessions Friday through Sunday; we had a total of seven. Ah, the world of retail with it's excessively lofty goals.

"This one is good girl. You should marry her."

I truly try to appreciate everyone at the diner. Each and every character that works there is completely different but somehow (for the most part) it all comes together to make the establishment run properly. Okay, now that that sugary sweetness is out of the way, lemme break it down for you, in order of preconceived "importance."

Management:
Like I've said before, I've never experienced the angry side of Mean Boss, though I've heard a great deal of horror stories and I've seen a little. Recently, after being witness to a passionate expression of displeasure over wasted paper napkins, I came to the realization that the Greek language is actually what makes the bosses so intimidating. Anything unfamiliar, like a foreign tongue, can seem frightening (especially to me with my overwhelming ignorance of any language besides English or French), but Greek seems to have such an abrasive sound and nagging inflection. For all I know, the managers could be talking about how beautiful the sky is today, but they sound like they are cursing everyone within earshot. I have, however, learned the proper pronunciation of "gyro," and with this new found knowledge, I enhance the vocabulary of others every chance I get.

Hostesses: 
Young nice jailbait hotties that are very willing to help waitresses in distress. At least two are the daughters of Mean Boss and when the little clone son of Mean Boss comes in, they act as his babysitters.

These tan, well-manicured, South Jersey/South Philly-esque girls act as the welcoming, not to mention enticing, gateway to the diner. Their exact job descriptions and responsibilities are unknown to me, but I know they do a lot all over the restaurant.

We waitresses turn to the hostesses when we are in need of desserts from the bakery case. When I once complimented a hostess on her beautiful and meticulous dessert presentation, she responded by saying, "Well I should be good at it, my job is Desert Coordinator,"...I nodded and then returned to my lowly job as Sustenance Provider. 


Bar staff:
High top tables and impressive flat screen TVs aside, if you think that the sports bar portion of the establishment is in any way similar to the diner, you're dead wrong. The bar has menacing Greek overseers, perverted foreign kitchen staff (scroll down for more), and waitresses who provide patrons with greasy food...wait, that doesn't sound any different from the diner! Someone should alert the bar staff about this. 


Diner waitresses/waiters:

Every post I write is about these folks, so by now I'm sure you get the gist......but in case you haven't, I'll provide a few more recent occurrences.

• DGS2 has gone on two medications to treat her bipolar disorder.
• The late night waitresses have started to pick on DGS2, making up false accusations. Yet another reason for me to speak softly and carry a big...smile.
  
• The hostesses know not to seat black women or police officers with DGB. She walks away from tables with African American patrons because "their shit's not worth my time," and she won't go near cops because "I got in a lot of trouble when I was younger. I can feel their eyes on me. I know they're reading me."
• DGB doesn't need to work, her husband does something with mortgages. She just works to have some spending money for booze or pot. She couldn't stop snacking one day--she had the "Xanax munchies." DGB is a 29-year-old mother of 3 with missing teeth.
• DGB2 and DDD are the diner's only [on-and-off] couple. Right now they are off, but still living together, and DDD openly seeks out waitresses to rebound with. Is "waitress" his type? I told him I'm a lesbian.
  

Kitchen staff: 
Most are Mexican, two are Middle Eastern, and one is grumpy. 75 percent of the kitchen workers only know essential workplace vernacular that come out without the slightest hint of foreign accent: 

• "behind you," 
• "fork,"
• "excuse me," 
• "shit,"
• "spoon,"
• "apple sauce,"
• "fuck,"
• "knife,"
• "oh my God."  
• This phrase is their personal favorite. All of them have mastered nearly exact imitations of our voices, so this comes out more like "Ewww my Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhd." It saddens me to think that we are their main sources of the English language.
  

These guys are always asking if you'll be their girlfriend, if you have a boyfriend, and if you can take them home with you. Chiquito says "you for me" each time he does something nice for me. Jafar turns everything into a sexual joke. Abdul has been trying to set me up with Jose. When I asked Jose for a banana in order to make a sundae, he asked me what size I wanted--they don't come in sizes. I found out yesterday that Jose is married.

"Oh, Chit!"

DGD has worked at this diner for 20 years. I won't be working at this diner for 20 years. DGD is set in her ways. I'm still learning what works for me. DGD likes to constantly bestow her expansive, unwanted wisdom upon anyone with auditory senses. I know every moment in the diner is an opportunity for her to relay her experiences and I don't have to heart to tell her I could not care less about most of what she has to say.
 
DGN (who I shall now refer to as DGS2 because I've discovered her name) is bipolar. There's nothing wrong with this and she's actually one of my favorite coworkers...it just explains a lot (see previous entries). Here's a recent exchange between she and I:

• Me: "Do you have big plans for tonight?"
• DGS2: "Well, my 27 year old boyfriend just dumped me and I waited on two of my ex boyfriends today, so my plan is to go home, smoke a ton of weed, and fall asleep in my own bed. What about you?"
  
• Me: "I'll probably go home and play with my cats or something."

Don't get me wrong, Mean Boss is scary, but mostly by reputation. When he starts walking in my direction, I immediately attempt to busy myself in any way possible, so I spend a lot of my shift feeling anxious that this will be the time he decides to yell at me for something. He seems to genuinely like me though and I believe it's simply because I take the time to ask him how his day is going:

• Mean Boss (imagine a thick Greek accent): "How you doing, babe?"
• Me: "I'm good! How are you?"
• Mean Boss (now with a pleasantly surprised look on his face): "I'm good. If you good, I'm good. If you lousy, I'm lousy." 

Mean Boss noticed that DGHN's skirt was really of the short black denim variety and reprimanded her in the middle of the diner, in front of patrons. Like any waitress at this establishment, she could not take this criticism lying down and began to make a scene in the middle of the restaurant, calling out other waitresses who don't wear the provided uniform skirt and accusing Mean Boss of singling her out. This little tantrum acted as a catalyst for a great uniform reform movement, and now we all have to wear the big, frumpy skirts we had all immediately discarded upon acquisition. Everyone got pissy with Mean Boss, but really, shouldn't they have been mad at DGHN for making her small, insignificant critique have an effect on every other female worker?

"Sorry for saying you stole my boxes and sorry for almost hitting you with the door."

Generally accepted rules of decency and codes of conduct are thrown out the window in the process of getting one's job done. I like to think the abrasive phrases commonly heard throughout my shifts at the diner can be translated into courtesies, for example: 
"I'm behind you. Out of my way or I will run you down," = "Pardon me."
The rules of the road, such as staying to the right when maneuvering around the restaurant, are completely ignored. It's been hard for me to cope with this strange form of walking around with a constant killer instinct. No matter where I walk or stand, I'm always in someone's way.

From the start, I've been very impressed with most of the servers' professional attitudes, but one thing I'll never understand is how everyone takes everything that happens on the job so personally. For the most part, they can put personal drama aside to provide quick and attentive service, but for some reason, they go to pieces over everything else. The girls cry over arguments with the kitchen workers, are terrified of bosses, and are regularly at odds with other waitresses. Maybe this is where I'm going wrong; I can take any criticism from coworkers because I see most of it as constructive, but I feel so guilty and sad if I perceive that a customer is less than pleased with something.


Honestly, my tables have all been pretty boring...nice people, but not much to tell. 75% of the time if a male is present when I ask if they'd like the check, the response is joke that goes something along the lines of "No, not really..would you taking care of that?" or the ever-popular "You can just put that bill right into the shredder."


Everyone, both customers and coworkers, asks me questions about alcohol. Does this mean I look like a drunk or a nightlife sophisticate? Two elderly women at a table that wasn't even under my jurisdiction called me over to grill me with questions about margaritas. Apparently it was the (slightly) younger woman's first margarita ever and it had been given to her in a pint glass, when she had expected a beautiful display. I kept her company and explained the ins and outs of the drink while her waitress obtained a prettier glass from the bar. It's beyond why this 80-year-old chose the diner for her first margarita. As I walked away after she got her new, more elegant (martini) glass, she called to me, "Oooh sweetie! I like it!"

"Once you've been here [20 years], you'll know all the tricks."

It's official. There's no way of putting this modestly: I am the Diner Princess. I swear I've done nothing but be myself at this job and it has gotten me everywhere. It's nothing at all extraordinary about me, but rather an overall negative attitude exhibited by 90% of my coworkers (again, the tough times most of them have seen in their relatively short lifetimes cannot be overlooked). Smiles are rare sights, cheery outlooks are practically extinct. 

•  At my last shift, as I ran around in search of silverware to hide in a miser-like manner, an older waitress grabbed me and showed me a hidden Mecca of utensils, all for me. All that ran through my mind was, "Okay.....what do you want from me?" but she seemed to have completely genuine intentions, so I kept thanking her and telling her she was my fairy godmother. She probably gave me the hard-earned silverware of her sworn enemy.
  
• My luck appeared to have failed me after securing my treasure trove of forks, knives, and spoons. DGG, eager leave her shift as soon as possible, asked me to serve a large table for her. She tried to tempt me by explaining that she already provided their drinks and took their orders, I would just have to serve them and tend to their needs after that. Call me crazy, but as a new girl, even the prospect of keeping this large table's tip didn't sound too inviting--it was a lot to take on so soon. Never one to complain at work, I quickly took the table as my own and suppressed my fears of slipping on the wet floor while awkwardly carrying a heavy tray the size of an inner-tube (Did I mention they mop the floors every day as I'm arriving at 4?! This is how my life will end.) Anyway, the point here is that ultimately this incident resulted entirely in my favor: I didn't fall, I gained experience, I got the big table's tip, and, most importantly, when the manager saw me taking on such a large table that obviously wasn't meant to be mine, he was angry with the pushy waitress who made me take it but impressed with me. 
• DGC helped me wrap over half my silverware that night so I could leave early.
  
• When I make a mistake or have a question, the manager laughs at me, nicely corrects my error, and says he loves me.
• All my coworkers are so incredibly willing to demonstrate and explain anything to help smooth my assimilation into diner world. Sometimes this information comes out as a sort of annoying know-it-all expertise commentary that makes me want to jab them with my hard-earned silverware, but I know they are just taking advantage of an infrequent opportunity to pass on wisdom.
  
• When the mean manager seats people in my section, he gently taps me on the back and calmly tells me how many he just seated so that I may get their waters, followed by a term of endearment.

Not much out of the ordinary happened during my most recent shift. 

• I had nice tables that mostly consisted of travelers. Travelers are always blown away by our decked-out diner; I try to encourage their thoughts as if I haven't heard the same things from everyone else but what I really want to say is, "Come on, this is South Jersey..there's a place just like this 5 minutes away and another one 10 minutes away."  
• The nice manager asked how old I was, if I was married, and if I had kids. I said "23. No. Probably never." He said to let him know when I was ready to start a family. I have so many thrilling life prospects it's really not even fair to the rest of the world.
• DGR (who blew my mind one day by announcing she was a mere 44 years old when I swore that by the looks of her she pushing 60) was involved in an incident report. Her boyfriend came barging into the diner and threatened to beat up the managers. Cops came to the rescue. DGR then had to wait on a drunk who was impossibly demanding, extremely confused, poorly dressed, and only wanted to eat lobster. 

  

"We were blessed to have you in our lives today."

While days 5 and 6 were full of small random oddities, they were still very much positive experiences. I dislike this constant ominous anxiety I feel as I wait for the axe (angry boss or disgruntled diner patron) to drop (yell at me and bring me to tears, either publicly or privately, with only my thin shreds of dignity to comfort me).  But enough about my puny feelings...

I don't think I mentioned much, if anything, about the wrapping of silverware. This is a time-honored tradition in which, during his or her shift, members of the wait staff must fight to the death to procure a large amount of knives, forks, and spoons and then wrap and secure enough sets of silverware to fill a large bin. This occurrence typically involves some form of covert operation to appropriate utensils; alliances are forged, friendships are shattered, and powerful enemies are made. Experts believe this event's origins can be traced back to the ancient Olympic games, and considering that the restaurant owned by a Greek family, I'm inclined to agree.  

As per usual in my life, if I walk around without a smile on my face, it is instantly assumed that something is wrong. Since I can't always be smiling, and my face is guilty of openly displaying a boundless spectrum of feelings, I hear a lot of "Are you okay?" and "Is everything going alright?"...I even hear it from the scary, intimidating Greek owner, who becomes as mild as a lamb around me, adding "babe" to the end of each sentence.   

My relationship with the kitchen staff seems comparable to mob relations I've seen in mafia movies. When I need silverware for wrapping, I got a guy for that. So far, I like to think I've taken the high road when it comes to acquiring utensils, I just go straight to the source: one of the dishwashers. When I need more of something and I can't find it, I got a guy for that. Who knows where everything is better than a busboy? Indeed, the language barrier is troublesome, but we've worked out a form of sign language that seems to be working quite swimmingly.  

In a coworker bonding session, DGN (code for "Diner Girl Newbie," as she was hired when I was, knows my name, but I have no idea what hers is) told tales ripe with relationship woe. She's moved in with every boyfriend she's had. She walked in on her last boyfriend with another guy, threw up, then decided to become a lesbian, but now she's with Chad so she's bisexual. She works another full-time job that sounds pretty important, but took this job to pay for all of her various fines. She's 20. I told her that her life fascinates me.  

The urge to use diner vernacular is becoming nearly unavoidable. As I approach a new table, I'm overwhelmed with the temptation to say "What can I get yous?"...providing there's more than one person, of course.


I got one of the best groups a newbie could ask for, desiring fairly simple orders and, most importantly, laughing at everything I said. One of them only wanted coffee, defending his choice by saying he didn't want to be a "rollie-pollie holy roller," and that's when it hit me: you would swear they had just huffed laughing gas, but it turns out they were just Christians. Because of my genuinely happy nature, they concluded that I must have the spirit of the Lord in me and asked what my exact faith was. I answered their question by saying I chose to be nondenominational. They said "Good, as long as you're not a Muslim."

"Wait...you work here for fun?"

After my 4th shift, I've realized it's best to talk as little as possible about myself. I'm not like my coworkers; compared to most of them, I have lived the life of a fairytale princess. Very little happened that needs any sort of explanation, so I'll make a list:

• I was in charge of 3 tables (movin' on up!).
• My shift was 6 hours, but my section only saw action 3 times.
• DGS was hired back and told me her completely guilt-free side of the story. I've come to the conclusion that she was in the wrong for placing a racist stereotype on the table before she even met them and that the table was at fault for simply being comprised of rude people who just happened to be black, causing the incident to explode into a race issue.
• DGS asked me to grab a drink with her after work. I was intrigued. What on earth would we talk about? It didn't happen.
  
• DGC suggested I help her study for her GED. At first I thought she meant GRE, then I remembered where I was.
• DGC told me she had boy troubles. She asked if she should get back together with her ex who beat her, had a baby with another girl while they were still together, and "ruined my life." Hmm...where...to...begin...?
  
• I listened to DGC and DGS discuss and share contact information about their Ed Hardy dealers and the Ed Hardy merchandise for which they have dire needs.
  
• My tables left me extremely generous tips--especially this adorable couple that tipped me $15 for their $45 bill. I felt vindicated knowing that when it comes to restaurant patrons, there's no racial template--people's characters just come in different flavors, no matter what they look like. 
 

"Tonight, You've Puzzled Me."

Ever the academic, I go to free trivia night at a bar. I take pride in expanding my already insanely vast intellect, and the first place $50 gift card ain't bad either. Though most people my age go to bars to find a temporary or permanent mate, I don't go to trivia to impress--I go to trivia to win.

This week I left my shift at the diner and drove straight to the bar, where I swapped my waitressing clothes for more acceptable bar attire (I hoped my argyle turtleneck sweater gave off enough J.Crew-inspired sagacity to discourage other teams from signing up). Team Tenacious C was born, consisting of Chrissie, Beast, Megan and me. Apparently my choice of ensemble was working like a charm, as Beast was puzzled by my appearance, saying I looked like a mom and he wasn't sure what I was "trying to do here." Not far into the trivia game, a waitress dropped off another round of drinks from an unidentified male at the bar. Of course this mysterious gift of fresh alcohol made for a fun guessing game, though I suspect it dulled our collective brilliance and lessened our drive to win. After what I can only assume was a covert operation across enemy lines, the waitress came back to expose the mystery-drink-buyer; needless to say, we successfully did our best to avoid any eye contact once we learned his identity. When it came time to leave the bar, however, direct contact proved itself to be unavoidable, mostly because of his subtle approach of bee-lining directly toward me and tapping me on the shoulder and handing me several little sheets of paper.

Sheet 1: The only reason your table got extra drinks is because I think you might be one of the top 10 PRETTIEST girls I've ever seen in my entire life.
Sheet 2: I know that's really weird to say. Unfortunately my life has led me to the point of writing pointless notes. But I promise...I'm not as weird as it seems.
Sheet 3: If by any unbelievable chance you like (or love) the Beatles and the Phillies-my # is...
Sheet 4: Appreciate the power of your prettiness (if that is a word). You could rule the world with your smile. Seriously.

We didn't win, but I still consider the night a success. Beast didn't seem to share my feelings on the evening, again expressing his confusion: "Tonight, you've puzzled me."

"What Can I Get Yous?"

Like any other self-respecting young person with years of higher education under his/her belt, I have decided to try my hand at the food service industry (that's code for: I'm waitressing at a diner). Since strange things happen to me on a daily basis, I thought it best to create this blog from almost the very start of my serving career. There's no way I could limit this solely to the documentation of work strangeness, so do not be alarmed if I branch out to cover events of every day life. This is a catch-up entry, I hope to never write this much again.

Just a few short days ago I was officially hired at the diner/bar and an experienced waitress, DGS, was assigned to show me the ropes. She is the perfect South Jersey diner waitress. She's lived in the same house all her life, has a 20 month old baby, a deadbeat baby-daddy, a current boyfriend recently released from jail, and she's worked 10 years for the same family that owns several dining establishments in the area. She told me to make sure I always use a tray when serving customers while she herself was coarsely holding 4 water glasses in one hand, no tray in sight. She used sentence-enhancing words such as "shitty" to describe food, people, and procedures. DGS's approximate age eludes me--her drastically different life experiences lead someone so comparatively sheltered as myself to believe she could be anywhere from 25 to 74 years old. I honestly don't think I could have asked for a better person to introduce me to this world; DGS owns diner world.

Day 1:  DGS was overjoyed when she noticed a coworker's new acrylic checkerboard nails, but made sure to mention she liked last week's better--they were Burberry plaid. While DGS was complimenting this girl's checkerboard nails (which hauntingly echoed the pattern of the diner's tile floor), the girl said "My fingernails are okay...but check it out, these are SLAMMIN'!" and with that she proceeded to take off her right shoe and sock to display checkerboard toes in all their glory.

Day 2: An all-around uneventful training session until the moment I left the floor. An African-American family was seated in DGS's section, and she was pleading with the manager (who was busy trying to take me to get my uniform) to make someone else take the table because she was certain the family wouldn't tip her. This incident greatly escalated upon my departure. Apparently DGS was short with this table, rushed them along, and took their food away before they were done with it, causing them to ask to see a manager (and rightfully so). The details from here are a little fuzzy--as I gathered them via whispers--but there was yelling between DGS and the customers, then between DGS and a manager, and she was fired on the spot.

Day 3: I arrive to discover I was trained by a racist girl who was disrespectful to her superiors and won't ever be coming back. Hmm. She was a damn good waitress though; I hope she transferred her serving skills to me as her soul drifted away into that big restaurant in the sky. This could be a kind of blessing, like, if I mess up I can just remind everyone who taught me and why nothing can be my fault. After I learned this juicy piece of gossip, a coworker, DGB, offered to teach me to say "put it in my mouth" in Spanish to guarantee me a smooth relationship with the kitchen workers. I declined her tempting offer.

• My first table of the night (the first table I ever waited on alone!!!!!!!) consisted of a middle-aged man and his young daughter (possibly granddaughter). When they were finally seated he expressed how happy he was with his seat because it allowed him a prime view of all the waitresses. I tried to overlook this slightly off-color remark by saying, "Oh yeah, you can see all the action in the whole diner from here!" Toward the end of their meal, I went back to ask the little girl (Boo-Boo) what kind of ice cream she wanted with her meal but the man rejected the dessert, explaining that he drove for the Mister Softee HQ down the street and they planned on going there after dinner. At this point, the man put on the ol' Mister Softee charm, and continually told me he'd take me for a ride around AC in his ice cream truck: today (Oh man, my shift doesn't end for a while!), tomorrow (Ugh darn, I don't work tomorrow!), the next day (Silly me, I forgot to mention I'm lactose intolerant, quitting my job here, getting married, and leaving the country!).