I’m thinking about writing a blog called: Dear Stabby. Here’s how it would work:
I would copy and paste a question and reply from a Dear Abby column (or make one up) on my blog. I’d post the most saccharin sweetest and over the top nicest replies from the very vanilla Ms. Abigail Van Buren (AKA Dear Abby).
Then… I would re-answer her reply as ‘Dear Stabby’. Stabby’s a guy with a persona that is a cross between Archie Bunker, the father from: Shit my Father says, and Andy Rooney …. but waaaay more politically incorrect. He’s basically a dirty old curmudgeon with absolutely no social graces, says whatever comes to mind, and yes, he probably lives in a trailer.
So here goes. BTW, this sample from Dear Abby below is actually a real email a woman sent me two days ago from on line dating service. She wanted to know my opinion on dating. How flipping crazy is that? Really, not kidding, I just changed it from Dear David to Dear Abby. Enjoy:
I’ve met a few guys on an online dating service. One I felt some attraction for but thought it might be best to take some time to get to know him. After a few dates we went from hugs to kisses, but sadly there was nothing there for me. My question is simple should I have tried kissing earlier? I feel a tad bad for him and I don’t know what to do next time I see him. What should I do Dear Abby??
Kisses (are not always sweeter than wine)
Perhaps you shouldn’t have kissed him if you thought you weren’t attracted to him. But sadly it’s too late now. Kissing earlier or later doesn’t matter. You need to follow your heart and this time your heart is telling you he just isn’t the one. Don’t worry I’m sure you’ll find your Prince Charming soon.
I think It would be very nice of you to talk to him next time you see him and tell him how you feel. Hopefully the conversation will go well and you’ll make a new friend.
Good luck sweetie,
Now for what everyone really wants to read: the Dear Stabby reply:
You fucking kissed and hugged the dude a bunch a times?? Whaddya think he’s going to think about that. ? Like any other red blooded Amercian male, he’s thinking he’s going to get laid . He’s probably had blue balls for a week just thinking about it. You have any idea what blue balls are like? Huh? Do ya? Well do yah?
So like if you don’t like him no more you gotta make up for the kissing and hugging too soon shit. Go see him, give him a quickie BJ, then ask him for a loan so you can buy some crank and get an abortion. He probably won’t bother you no more after that
Sent from my iPad
Yesterday I applied online for a managers job at Starbucks in beautiful downtown Santa Rosa, CA. Applying on line means I also have to take their virtual managers qualification test. A managers on line qualification test … whoda thunkit? I hate tests. I always get nervous at tests. The first question on the test made me ill. I logged off the site and vomited. Then I thought while I was hurling … why not write a blog?
So here goes …..
I work at a restaurant. Last week I was “demoted” from my exciting $15 an hour host or assistant manager or floor manager or manager (the owner of the restaurant has introduced me to our guests using all of those titles, so I never know who I am, which might explain my schitzo personality lately). Getting demoted was actually a good thing because who the hell wants to be a restaurant manager for $15 an hour when I can be making minimum wage PLUS TIPS.
OOOOOoooooooOOOOOohh – way to go Dave – bring in those big bucks.
I am a lousy waiter because I am pushing 6 0 and I can’t remember the specials or the soups when I go to a table and they ask me: “What are the specials and what are today’s soups?” I fake it by saying: “We might have just sold the last soup, let me check with the chef, I’ll be right back.” Of course no one else is in the restaurant and these are the first customers of the evening, so I suppose I am not fooling anyone. The chef tells me in minute detail about the two soups and when I get to the table I can only remember one of the soups.Ah, the life of Napa Valleys worst waiter.
Yesterday I went to take an order for a table of three realizing too late that when I got there I had forgotten my notepad and I now I had to memorize everything they ordered including appetizers, main courses, wines by the glass, and who ordered extra mushrooms and what kind of cheeses they want on each burger (cheddar, blue and I can’t remember the last cheese varietal but I’m sure its not cottage).
I am nervous so there is more almost vomiting when I get to the register to place my orders. I hate swallowing vomit?Meantime the owner is at the next computer and he is placing his order with the ease of a dick lubed with KY Jelly (I’m not good at analogies) and I am staring at the screen wondering where the hell is the “extra onions” button for my burger order for the woman at position three. I know any minute that Mr. Dickhead (the restaurant owner’s affectionate nickname his employees have given him) is going to ask me what is taking me so long to place my order and I have visions of green vile bile exploding from my mouth, ala Megan Exorcist, all over the bastard’s wanker polyester polka-dot shirt. Just then he turns to me (as I predicted) and asks me what am I doing, and oh crap how I hate swallowing puke, and I answer him by mumbling something about concentrating on my order to show what a good employee I am, which I am not, and I walk away from the computer hoping I got at least 75% of the order for table 12 correct.I didn’t.I forgot to give them ketchup and mustard for their burgers. I forgot to give them a sharp knife for the flat iron steak. I think I got the burger orders right (all the cheeses and who got fries and which fries were to be extra crispy and who ordered their burgers rare and who ordered well done) but I can’t remember who gets what – when I arrive at the table carrying three plates for the first time in my life, so I just place them in front of people hoping for the best. I notice, as I walk away, that everyone is switching plates around.After I clear the dishes from the table they order a latte and a cup of chino and some English tea to go with their one order of molten chocolate cake. What’s a chino I think to myself? I drink coffee black and have no idea what a latte is (which should make my career at Starbucks a tad bit of a challenge). I ask the buser girl to make them for me. She’s cute and skinny. Works for me.
Finally they give me their credit cards asking me to split the check up three ways. Don’t they know I flunked Algebra II in high school? But luckily the computer has a button called: “Split Check” and I allow the computer to do its thing. But naturally I enter all the information wrong into Hal and charge one credit card twice and forget to add in the tip on the other card and I have no idea how to fix my mistakes, and I’m sick of having upchuck in my mouth, so I decide to pee in my pants instead. I can’t ask Mr. Dickhead, to help me because he showed me how to fix this problem two months ago in a 4.2 second demonstration and he will ridicule me for not remembering how to fix the problem which only makes me pee in my pants more and thank goodness I’m wearing black pants and an apron.
So I ask skinny buser girl Cindy or Mindy or Mandy or whatever she is calling herself these days ( she is about 12 years old at best or I’m really getting old because everyone is looking 12 years old to me these days) to help me. Without any previous instructions from Mr. Dickhead – ever – she figures it out instantly, corrects and fixes all my mistakes (she is doing this while listening to her I-pod and I also have no idea how i-pods work) and I take the checks to the guests. They tip me 22% – 25% each even though I screwed up just about everything on their order. They said I made them laugh and that it was fun experience.
Mr. Dickhead reprimands me after my guests leave because I left a fork on the table before taking their check to them. All tables should be completely cleared before presenting the check. This is a violation of restaurant policy and is punishable by a 90 minute water-boarding in the walk in box.
Ok …. I’m going back to my virtual managers test at Starbucks dot com. But first I’m gonna brush my teeth.
Dave the Waiter
And so it begins. Job-hunting at 59. I am aware that most of the hiring people out there in job hunting-land are somewhat younger then yours truly. If you asked them about me they would all swear that I was born sometime between the Paleolithic and Paleozoic Era’s.
Or in other words: I am beginning to look older then Dick Clark.
There are many ways to mentally combat getting old. My personal preference is to deny, deny, deny. But when I look in the mirror I am reminded daily that I am withering into Geezerhood. Here is one of those reminders now (aren’t you glad you asked?):
I barely remember getting dressed in the morning, but by late afternoon, after I’ve taken 17 hits of Ginkgo Biloba, I look down and to my utter amazement I am wearing an outfit consisting of black wingtip shoes that I bought at a Des Moines, Iowa Sears & Roebuck’s store in 1989, white knee socks, lime green (more then slightly soiled) golf pants that should have been thrown away when I bought the golf shoes, a ‘can’t tuck it in even if I wanted to’ frayed pink and powder blue Hawaiian shirt and a pair of Sarah Palin designed ‘Made in Alaska’ Russian winter mink fur lined heavy duty mittens – even though it is 93 degrees outside and not a cloud in sight.
This example should tell me something dontchathink?
So, yea, I am slowly realizing I have officially entered the realm of Geezerhood (queue up Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture). Therefore I’ve decided to do what every other 59-year old slightly balding, little Buddha bellied, gray – haired man would do to prepare for a job interview: buy copious amounts of anti-aging creams, research “Hairclub for Men” commercials till 4:00 AM, practice sucking in my stomach, and looking up on the Internet how to improve your resume writing skills.
Basically all the resume improving courses out there teach you to lie as much as possible. Its okay to tell the interviewer:
“Yes, I graduated from Yale with Obama – why do you ask?”
Then change the subject as fast as you can
Getting back to Geezerhood –
I know as much about anti wrinkle aging spot remover creams as I know about Astrophysics. So, I went down to Walmarts and bought out all the creams on isle 7 and for the next three weeks I put everything on my face that didn’t burn. I now look 58. Obviously, the stuff works!
To prepare for the interviews, I also wrote a gaggle of new resumes. I now have 2,512 resumes for any possible job opportunity I may be remotely qualified for (I have a resume for: Barefoot Bison Biters in Baltimore just in case an opportunity in Northern California for Bison Biters should ever turn up). Along with my 16, 947 cover letters I’m set to go. Job interviewers … here I come!
This is when reality begins. I actually have to GO on interviews. In the past I’ve interviewed many perspective employees when I owned my own business. However, being on the receiving end of an interview is another matter entirely.
Well, Dave ‘ol boy, let’s not sugar coat it. Tell ‘em the truth. Being an interviewer is cool – being the interview-eee pretty much sucks.
I’ve gone on several interviews since my forced retirement from Mr. Poopy Head’s restaurant. Stay tuned for a few examples coming your way in my next blog.
Dave the Geezer
I know what you’re all thinking, well, at least one or two of you. Where has Mr. Hyperbole been? What happened to Napa Valley’s worst waiter? Where are those super models he spoke about?
Huh? Huh? Huh?????
We’ll get to those items in a moment, but first let’s talk about the wonderful and exciting world of Internet dating.
It has been almost two years since I returned from living in Mendoza, Argentina with my ex fiancée’ the Bolivian Bombshell, A/K/A: “The Most Jealous Human Being on the Planet Earth.”
Since my return to California, sans Bolivian Bombshell, I am no longer forced to see heart-warming Chicks Flicks (am I the only guy who hates Sandra Bullock?) so that I can watch Reservoir Dogs and Rocky I, II, III, IV, and VI on DVD. Why you ask, don’t I have to suffer through Chick Flicks anymore? Because our hero doesn’t have a gal pal, a significant other, a NSA babe-o-rama, a cougar (that would be interesting considering I’m pushing 60). No one. Zero. Zilch Nada! Time to get out there Dude!
So I did what every decaying decrepit old codger would do … I hung out at the Catholic School for Wayward Girls playground … um, just kidding.
I actually went hoping to possibly meet a nice woman the old fashion way. I gazed down the isles at our local supermarkets, pretended to read intellectual books at the library, quaffed beers at the corner bar, signed up to be a member at the Lotus Blossom Young Woman’s Japanese Book Society (I wore a kimono to be incognito), bought veggies at all the local farmers markets, attended a few Napa Valley PTA meetings (which was similar to Wedding Crashers considering I don’t have any young children in school), hung out at Sierra ski lodges (bought a fake cast and tried to smoke a pipe), played bingo at the church (looking for a cougar?) joined hiking clubs, and visited several cemeteries (don’t ask). But the bottom line, I just couldn’t strike up the nerve to ask anyone out on a date. Therefore I only had one alternative left:
I decided to sign up for Match dot com. Or, as I like to call it: Match dot comedy. I wrote a profile, put up a few pictures and paid my fee. I guess I wrote a funny profile. It certainly couldn’t have been my recent pictures (1997 pictures are recent aren’t they?) that attracted over 4,000 responses within the first 4 days (or was that 4 responses in 4,000 days?).
Next I sifted through the tens of thousands of emails I received from beautiful young women from all over the world. It was a difficult decision but I finally emailed someone.
Her name was Sally. She was extremely beautiful and quite smart . She returned my email asking her to contact me with a cute little note of her own. We texted back and forth and set up a time to meet later that week. I was excited. But I admit I do get a little nervous about dating.
For you squeamish stop reading now!
Being a tad nervous, I got a pimple. Yes I said a pimple. I’m 59 years old and I haven’t had a pimple since, oh like, the 9th grade. This was no ordinary pimple. This pimple was something out of a Rob Zombie movie. The Zeppelin was located on the side of my nose and it grew so fast and enormous that it blocked 83% of the vision in my left eye.
I had a date that evening with the lovely Ms. Sally and I have a pimple the size of Cleveland on my snout. I didn’t want to back out because of a pimple (she’d never believe me) so I placed several hundred band- aids on my nose and off I went to a local restaurant for my date with Sally. She was waiting for me in a booth and when I approached her I said to myself:
“If there is a God please let this be Sally.”
Sally looked exactly like her picture only better: long golden silky blonde hair to her lower back, sea blue eyes, a creamy olive complexion, and Angelina Jolie lips. I, on the other hand, had 270 band-aids on my nose.
I joined her at the table and she (pretended) not to notice my ubiquitous new appendage. We talked. We laughed. We immediately liked each other. We shared wine. We picked from each other plates. We held hands. I was in love. LOVE I tell you!!! She asked me to remove my band-aids. She wanted to see my face. I removed the band-aids (took 20 minutes). She did not scream.
Stop reading now! If you insist on continuing- do so at your own risk …
She softly took my hand holding it like one would hold a baby canary inhaling it’s first new breath of life. She snuggled close to me and whispered and cooed into my ear. She said not to worry about my silly pimple. She kissed my lower lip. Later she admitted to me that she was the heiress to Von Grothensteinberg petroleum fortune and all of her billions would be my billions someday. She nibbled at my ear lobe and told me she wanted to have children with me. We were to elope the next day and then fly in her private jet to her estate on the French Riviera to tell her joyous parents and the world about our wonderful and blissful relationship.
I TOLD ALL OF YOU TO STOP READING NOW. You were warned!
Then ,just like a romantic passage from Tender is the Night, she again brushed her sweet warm lips against mine and peered into my eyes and told me she loved me. A single tear rolled down my cheek when all of a sudden the damn pimple exploded. Mt Vesuvius erupted. Puss splattered all over the restaurant completely drenching five waitresses and two busboys.
I never saw her again. Go figure.
Um, next week I’ll tell you how come I am not Napa Valley’s worst waiter any more and more about those super models. Maybe.
I waited on five tables last Sunday evening. To my astonishment I made only one computer entry mistake (as opposed to my usual 6 or 7). Also, during the course of the evening, I managed to bring the correct silverware to everyone (I’m very proud I brought a soup spoon to the person eating soup at table 5 seat 3 … knowing where seat 3 at table 5 is a step forward for Napa Valley’s Worst Waiter).
Shortly before closing time , two people, (a man and a woman) walk into the restaurant asking for Mr. Poopyhead (his real name not revealed to protect the not so innocent). Asking for Mr. PH can mean only one thing:
They are probably one of the 412 Possible Investor Couples (PIC) involved in the restaurant.
I’m not exactly sure how Mr. PH got 511 investors (the number seems to keep growing – somewhat like bacteria in syphilis). I mean, if you’ve been following this Blog it would be a mystery to you too how Mr. PH got 957 investors dontcha think?
I escorted them to their table mentioning that Mr. PH wasn’t in. Mr. PIC said nothing and she grunted something in Slovak, (or so it seemed). She sneered and they sat down at a table. I gave them menus and a wine list, then left to attend to the NICE people sitting in the restaurant.
While waiting on the other diners, I continued to watch the PIC and noticed they were still looking at their dinner menus. Another few minutes go by and they are looking at the wine list. Finally I go over there to see if I can help them pick out a wine. When I arrive the PIC woman looks at me in sheer contempt that I am even breathing let alone talking to her and says as icily as humanly possible:
“Can we finally order something to drink?”
This comment sets off a chain reaction in your humble narrator:
FEAR followed by almost throwing up!
Ye gads, I have done something wrong. They are PIC for the restaurant and that means they are going to Email, Fax, Snail Mail, Text, Federal Express, Pony Express, Wire Tap, Telephone, Two Cans and a String and Telegram Mr. PH when they get home to crucify my very existence. It is inevitable. No matter what I do from now on for the PIC it won’t matter. They will contact him and complain.
They order two different glasses of wine. I am praying I can remember them while I am in a Scotty “Captain we need more power” Warp Speed # nine panic mode. Incidentally, panic stimulates a condition I have called tinnitus (an extremely high-pitched ringing in the ears – honest I really have this condition). I am not sure I heard her correctly due to the supersonic wheeee going on inside my brain, so I ask her to repeat her order. She gives me a look that could freeze a warm Meg Ryan grin. Her blank silent stare shouts to me:
“How can you possibly not remember one glass of wine you stupid little twerp pee-on waiter you?”
I tell her about the ringing in my ears and … oh shoot … that was the wrong thing to say too. She looks at me like I’m nuts. She disdainfully repeats her order and I am good to go. I say to myself:
“Just walk over to the register Dave and place their order in the computer and try not to screw it up. Walk away from the table Dave. Walk away from the table. Collect yourself Dave, do the Michael Jackson Moon Walk away from the table. Escape. Run. Go now.”
But NoooooOOOooooOOOoo … they are ready to order their meal. I reach into my apron for my notebook and pen to write everything down. Oh God no tell me this isn’t happening to me … I left my notepad and pen at another table. They are not in my pocket.
More panic accompanied by louder supersonic missile noises screaming in my ears. I am at the age where I can’t remember breakfast let alone a dinner order for two people. I was in theater years ago having a few leading roles and could easily remember long soliloquies. Now I can’t remember the plot of a movie immediately after I watch the movie.
I take their order without trusted notepad and pen. I hear Mr. PIC order quite clearly. Got it. It’s locked into my brain. However Ms. PIC scares the living eeeby jeebies out of me and all I hear are spitting Slovak grunts (or so it seems). I thank them for their orders and run to the computer as fast as I can so that I can order everything while it is still fresh in my mind (including Slovak grunts).
Needless to say (but I will) I screw it up. I accidentally added grilled onions to Ms. PIC’s burger and she didn’t order them. Oh Gawd what have I done???? Certainly US policy in Afghanistan can’t be this bad. When Ms. PIC is served her burger by our pleasant and very friendly bus person, she is appalled there is a humongous grilled onion on her bun. I think she would have been more okay if a cockroach was there instead. I try and make amends but its not happening. She can’t wait to get home and call Mr. PH.
Eventually I give them the check and joke that I will never give her grilled onions on her burger ever again. She doesn’t laugh. I am doomed. I’ve had three days off anticipating what Mr. PH is going to say to me when I walk into the restaurant tonight. I’m sure it will be something like:
“Hi Dave. How are you and WHAT THE HELL HAPENED ON SUNDAY NIGHT WITH MR AND MRS. PIC I’m going to kill you?????????”
Oh you might be wondering about the Napa Valley’s Worst Waiter Meets the Super Models? I’ll save that story for another blog.
It’s Thursday. I walk into the restaurant and say hello to Mr. PH. He greets me with a warm and friendly hello (he’s not all bad all the time btw). Without looking up from the computer (no small talk with Mr. PH) he asks me:
“Do you know what to do??”
I’m there all of seven seconds and already I feel encroaching AVS gurgling in my throat.
What can he possibly mean by asking me:
“Do you know what to do??”
What’s not to know? It’s a typical November Napa Valley Thursday evening – which means it’s slow and we have all of six reservations. I’ve been employed as the restaurant manager for three months. I’ve got the routine down:
Come in. Look around. See if there is anything I will be blamed for not doing last night that I might be able to fix while Mr. PH is still on the computer. Look at the reservation list. Try and conjure a countenance depicting massive quantities of (bogus) enthusiasm, Look busy… and. and and, and, and …. oh shoot … all I can think is – what could I possibly have forgotten this time to make him ask me:
“Do you know what to do?”
Naturally, I go into panic mode. I rattle what is left in my brains trying to think what I should know what it is I have to do, so that I won’t have to ask him what I am suppose to be doing, so that he won’t ridicule me for not knowing what it is I am suppose to do, thereby avoiding his patented Darth Vader Death Stare, that surely I will get after I’ve asked him what it is I’m suppose to know what to do, knowing full well that when I see the Darth Vader Death Stare, it will undoubtedly bring about my over the top silly L.A. teenage blond bimbo stare, (think: duh) and yes I know I am the King of run-on sentences so friggn shoot me.
Oh what the hell. I give up. I’m doomed anyway. No matter what I say it will be the wrong answer. I’ll just straight out ask him what am I suppose to know what to do. The consequences can’t be any worse then the 90-minute water boarding I got last week for violating manager rule # 3856.
“Um, what do you mean – do I know what to do?” I ask.
“You are familiar with the opening waiter duties aren’t you?
“Why, um, am I a waiter tonight?
Oh crap!!!!!!!! Wrong answer. This induces the Darth Vader Death Stare from Mr. PH that is so intense and evil, it causes my left eye to gyrate wildly ‘ala Petey in The Little Rascals. I’m hyperventilating. Was it on yesterday’s schedule? Did I miss it while trying to look busy last night?
“Yes” he says as he motions for me to walk over to the bar to look at the schedule. Yep, big as life there it is – my name in the appropriate box clearly showing that I am scheduled to be a waiter this evening. Of course if you look closely, you can also clearly see that I was scheduled to be the manager tonight, but that entry was now crossed off. Gee I wonder how that happened?
Ok whatever. I’m the waiter tonight. No biggie.
Then I think: Holy Batmobile – I will have to work with Mr. PH all night because Amanda, the new manager, doesn’t start till tomorrow. I’d rather have root canal then work all night with Mr. PH. Actually; I honestly would rather have two root canals each filled with liquid cane sugar and then crowned with rusty barbed wire then have to work a whole night with Mr. PH.
I look again at the schedule and to my surprise I see that Amanda is working tonight. Mr. PH will be gone in less then an hour. I am saved. Suddenly I get religion and start shouting:
“Thank You Jesus -Thank you Jesus!”
Before he goes home, Mr. PH introduces me to Amanda. Amanda is a sweetie and she doesn’t make me feel like I am the worst waiter in all of the Napa Valley. She is supportive and helpful. And nice! Yea Amanda!
I wait on five tables tonight and much to my amazement, I do not make a single mistake. In fact, one of the guests I served tonight sent a text to Mr. PH stating what a great meal he had and also mentioning what a fun and personable waiter I was. He even mentioned me by name!
Hey, maybe this waiter gig might not be so bad. Stay tuned.
Dave the Waiter
Yesterday I was still the kinda sorta manager at the restaurant. The person replacing me doesn’t start until Friday.
When I walked into the restaurant last night, Mr. Poopyhead says hello. Then he immediately asks to talk to me. That can only mean one thing – impending:
Horrible 2012-Mayan-esq DooOOOoooOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOooM!
Mr. PH’s request to chat with me is similar to the feeling that comes over a teenage boy caught throwing a rotten tomato against the blackboard in U.S. History I Class and being sent down to the pot-marked ashen-faced Ichabod Crane look-a-like mean as sin Vice Principal of Discipline’s office.
Doom. I am doomed.
As Mr. PH begins his chat with me, something about a schedule and how I did it all wrong, I have trouble concentrating on his words. I only see lips flapping in the air while I listen to Frank Sinatra crooning in the background on the restaurant’s music system. My brain is apparently in defense mechanism mode, as it wafts in and out of reality trying to prevent me from experiencing my reoccurring hallucination of seeing a giant fork stuck in Mr. PH’s foot. Thinking of a giant fork stuck in his foot for some reason has a Zen-like calming effect on me. I don’t know why.
Mr. PH is continuing to talk, and my giant fork in foot vision is fading, so I need to focus – focus – FOCUS on what he is trying to tell me! Pay attention Dave, this could be serious, after all you could get demoted again – if is possible to get any lower in the restaurant’s food chain – pun intended. As my head starts to clear, I realize Mr. PH is discussing something we did together last Sunday.
Ah, I remember now. Last Sunday Mr. PH told me to make out a next weeks waiter and buser schedule. He told me to do this right before he marched off to fire one of our waiters for violating waiter rule #6,253 from section 14 found on paragraph three in our bi-weekly updated employee handbook.
As he goose-stepped away to fire the waiter, he looked at me and pointed to a piece of paper on the bar. This paper, written in his chicken scratch, (which would make any prescription writing Doctor proud) is apparently next weeks waiter schedule and I am to enter it into the computer. I can’t read most of his writing but lo and behold – one item does catch my attention:
Amanda: Restaurant Manager -works Monday Tuesday Friday Saturday and Sunday
My name no longer says “Manager.” It says waiter.
Hmmmm. I’m not a rocket scientist but this does raise an eyebrow considering this is news to me!!!!!!!!!.
The restaurant gets busy and a few hours go by before we can continue with translating his Rosetta Stone of waiter schedules. So for two hours I am wondering what is going on. Who is Amanda and … oh please God please make her nice and cute and skinny (they don’t call me Shallow Dave for nothing you know). Finally Mr. PH and I work on the schedule again and when we finish he nonchalantly says:
“… oh by the way, I hired a new manager and you are now the waiter – except for Wednesday and Thursday on her nights off.”
Let’s look up in the dictionary the word “insensitive”
Whoa it says: See Mr. Poopyhead!
That was how Sunday night ended up. Mr. PH finally went home and I stayed to close the restaurant wondering aloud if I’m crazy or what.
You may be asking (or not) what did Mr. PH want to talk to me about immediately last night? Apparently there was a mistake made on the schedule I printed up. You know, the schedule he wrote and I copied into the computer and then printed it. But this error was not Mr. PH’s fault.
No waaaaaaaaay! Of course not!
It was my fault, he tells me, for not catching the (his) error because that is what a good manager would have done.
Oye vey es mere.
Friday will be my 1st first night as a full time waiter. I have never taken a party with more then four people at a table. I have never waited on more then two tables at time. Saturday we are busy and I already have a party of eight and two parties of six and my section has ten tables in it.
This weekend could get …. oh who am I kidding …. this weekend will get ugly. Stay tuned.
Dave the Waiter
I work at a restaurant. Last week I was “demoted” from my exciting $15 an hour host – or – assistant manager – or – floor manager – or – manager (the owner of the restaurant has introduced me to our guests using all of those titles, so I never know who I am, which might explain my schitzo personality lately) to being a part-time waiter. Getting demoted was actually a good thing because who the hell wants to be a restaurant manager for $15 an hour when I can be making minimum wage plus tips!
Waaay to bring in the BIG BUCKS Dave! It’s hard to believe that only a few years ago I was making over 100K + a year. Damn the economy!
I am a lousy waiter because I am pushing Six O and I can’t remember the specials or the soups when I go to a table and they ask me:
“What are the specials and what are today’s soups?”
I fake it by saying:
“We might have just sold the last soup, let me check with the chef, I’ll be right back.”
Of course no one else is in the restaurant and these are the first customers of the evening, so I suppose I am not fooling anyone. The chef tells me in minute detail about the two soups and when I get to the table I can only remember the ingredients to one of the soups. I completely forgot to ask the Chef about the specials.
Sigh, this is the life of Napa Valleys worst waiter.
Yesterday I went to take an order for a table of three realizing too late when I got there that I had forgotten my notepad and I now I had to memorize everything they ordered including appetizers, main courses, wines by the glass, and who ordered extra mushrooms and what kind of cheeses they want on their burgers (cheddar, blue and I can’t remember the last varietal – but I’m sure its not cottage).
I am nervous so there is my AVS (almost vomiting syndrome – a condition I have when I get nervous) when I get to the register to place my orders. Meantime the owner is at the next computer and he is placing his order with the ease of a KY Jellyied pee pee (I’m not good at analogies) and I am staring at the screen wondering where the hell is the “extra onions” button for the burger order for the woman at position three. I know any minute that Mr. Poopyhead (the restaurant owner’s nickname his employees affectionately have bestowed on him) is going to ask me what is taking me so long to place my order and I have visions of green vile bile blasting out of my mouth, (‘ala Megan in the Exorcist) all over the wanker’s polyester pink polka-dot shirt.
Just as I find the “extra onions button” MPH turns to me and coldly asks me what am I doing, and oh crap how I hate swallowing almost puke, and I answer him by mumbling something about concentrating on my order showing what a good employee I am, which I am not, and I walk away from the computer hoping I got at least 75% of the order for table 12 correct.
I forgot to give them ketchup and mustard for their burgers. I forgot to give them a sharp knife for the steak. I think I got the burger orders right (all the correct types of cheeses, who got fries and which fries were to be extra crispy and who ordered their burgers rare and who ordered them well done). But for the life of me when I arrive at the table carrying three plates (a first for me) I can’t remember who gets what – so I just place them in front of people hoping for the best. I notice as I walk away everyone is switching plates around.
After I clear the dishes from the table, they order a latte and a cup of chino and some English tea to go with their one orders of molten chocolate cake. What’s a chino? I drink coffee black and have no idea what a chino or a latte is (which should make a future career at Starbucks a tad bit of a challenge). I ask the buser girl to make them for me. She’s cute and skinny and helpful.
Finally they give me their credit cards asking me to split the check up three ways.
DON’T THEY KNOW I FLUNKED ALGEBRA II IN HIGH SCHOOL?
But luckily the computer has a button called: “Split Check” and I allow the computer to do its thing. But naturally, I entered all the information into Hal incorrectly charging one credit card twice and forgetting to add in the tip on the other card and I have no idea how to fix my mistakes, and I’m sick of having upchuck in my mouth, so I decide to pee in my pants instead. I can’t ask MPH (Mr. Poopyhead), to help me because he showed me how to fix this problem two months ago in a 4.2 second demonstration (I blinked during the demo and subsequently missed 1/3 of it ) and he will hammer me for not remembering how to fix the problem this time which only makes me pee in my pants more and thank goodness I’m wearing black pants and an apron.
So I ask skinny buser girl Cindy or Mindy or Mandy or whatever she is calling herself these days (she is about 12 years old at best or I’m really getting old because everyone is looking 12 years old to me these days) to help me. Without any previous instructions from MPH – ever – she figures it out instantly, corrects and fixes all my mistakes (she is doing this while listening to her i-pod and I also have no idea how i-pods work) and I take the checks to the guests. They tip me about 25% each even though I screwed up just about everything on their order. They said I made them laugh and that it was fun experience. They hug me warmly as they walk out.
DH reprimands me after my guests leave because I left a fork on the table before taking their checks to them. All tables should be completely cleared before presenting the check. This is a violation # 12,758 (out of 64,916 possible violations) of restaurant policy and is punishable by a 90 minute water-boarding in the walk in box.
I’m now going to attempt to finish my on line virtual managers test for a store manager’s position at Starbucks. Tests make me nervous. I feel a bout of AVS coming on.. I’m gonna go brush my teeth.
Dave the Waiter