"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'."

"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. 

  

"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!).