"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.