If the average person is put in a scenario where there are many clean tables and a few dirty tables, the average person would choose to sit at one of the clean tables. Unfortunately, the average person doesn't venture into my work often. The person who does wander into my work actually chooses to sit at the dirty table. Mind boggling, I know.
When there are dirty tables, I see them. I'm aware. I've observed the room a few times in the past 10 minutes believe it or not. The reason I didn't clean them yet is because I'm currently doing something that I feel is more important. (Something more important than cleaning one dirty table when there are 11 other clean tables.)
But because you're so polite and important to me, when you yell from across the room "'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, our table's dirty!"--I drop my broom and dustpan in the middle of the floor and run hurriedly over to the sanitizer bucket and then quickly over to your emergency because you're obviously mentally unstable for choosing a dirty table to sit at and frankly I'm scared of what you might do next.
Sometimes when I'm on my break I'll sink into this state of deep frightening thought...or maybe it's depression, I'm not really sure. That's besides the point, but I'll sit and wonder, "Who raised you?" Then I quickly snap out of it because that's actually one question I don't care to ever learn the answer to.
Any who, as I clean your table you will proceed to point out every dirty spot and ask me to wipe the crumbs off the chair (which I do with my hand, it's very hard) and then you ask me to dry the table since it's wet because you chose to sit at the one dirty table in the entire bar area.
Congratulations. I haven't even taken your drink order and I all ready hate you.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Hitting on Your Server
I could not feel any less attractive, anywhere on this planet, than I do when I'm at work. Sure I walk into my shift happy and clean, well put together. But 30 minutes into my shift I look like I was in the middle of a food fight at an elementary school cafeteria.
My black polo has a little bit of everyone's food on it somewhere. Ranch, BBQ, salsa--you name the sauce, it most likely ends up on my shirt by the end of the night. My apron becomes a towel for my sticky fingers out of laziness. My jeans become splattered with dirty water from the dish area. My skin starts glowing from sweat and oil. My hair smells like fajitas. It's not a good look.
This won't stop certain men. They're animals. They have heightened sense of smell, poor verbal skills and a creepy sense of touch. Instead of looking like a wreck to these men, I look like food--I look good, it's sick and twisted.
Keep in mind though, I am being paid minimum wage to be nice to you. I'm smiling because I find it increases my tip average. I'm acting enthusiastic because I need to pay my bills. But don't mistake my kind gestures for wanting to bear your children. In my head I've probably killed you five times all ready because of how many refills I've had to bring you in the first five minutes of you being seated.
But who knows, maybe I am having child bearing thoughts...
Well this thought is abruptly ended when I pick up the credit card slip and you tipped me $2 on your $30 bill. I'm currently a struggling college student. Unless you're really interesting and great, which you're probably not, I'd rather be poor and struggling alone.
I don't think I've been called "hot" since 8th grade, and no I do not want to party with you. And if I did want to party I don't have trouble finding them.
O.K. maybe they're not all animals...
Oh wait...
My black polo has a little bit of everyone's food on it somewhere. Ranch, BBQ, salsa--you name the sauce, it most likely ends up on my shirt by the end of the night. My apron becomes a towel for my sticky fingers out of laziness. My jeans become splattered with dirty water from the dish area. My skin starts glowing from sweat and oil. My hair smells like fajitas. It's not a good look.
This won't stop certain men. They're animals. They have heightened sense of smell, poor verbal skills and a creepy sense of touch. Instead of looking like a wreck to these men, I look like food--I look good, it's sick and twisted.
Keep in mind though, I am being paid minimum wage to be nice to you. I'm smiling because I find it increases my tip average. I'm acting enthusiastic because I need to pay my bills. But don't mistake my kind gestures for wanting to bear your children. In my head I've probably killed you five times all ready because of how many refills I've had to bring you in the first five minutes of you being seated.
But who knows, maybe I am having child bearing thoughts...
Well this thought is abruptly ended when I pick up the credit card slip and you tipped me $2 on your $30 bill. I'm currently a struggling college student. Unless you're really interesting and great, which you're probably not, I'd rather be poor and struggling alone.
I don't think I've been called "hot" since 8th grade, and no I do not want to party with you. And if I did want to party I don't have trouble finding them.
O.K. maybe they're not all animals...
Oh wait...
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