Posted: August 24th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Food service manual., Weird ways to be a womanly woman of womanity, Weird ways to fail at men. | No Comments »
No…they have curses. No…they wear purses. NO!!! They read about my trip to the mall! My coworker who is male and takes food to people and sets it in front of them told me that I should stop writing blogs that were so focused on women. So, I’m here to tell him two words right now in front of the Internet and everybody: ‘anorexic vagina.’ Now shut-up and find out what happened to me when I bought a crop-top.
I just have to share this because I’ve had a trying experience in the world of commerce…or a trying few experiences. It all began with the want of a crop-top. I noticed that I needed one for incentive to groom my happy trail (manly enough?). Unforrtunately, H&M Ventura is putting me through layer upon layer of failure. After I returned home with my Croppy, I discovered that the security tag had been left on my shirt. This means that both the employee who rang me up and the security system that’s supposed to alarm when that shit leaves the store forgot to do their jobs. When I took it back in, I didn’t make a big to-do about finding the receipt because the crop-top fiasco was a secondary reason for my trip to the mall, and I just wanted to get the damn security thing taken off…I mean it was their fault it was still on right? You would think. So I go in to get it removed yesterday, and the cashier asks me for my receipt. I don’t have it because I’m not returning or exchanging the damn shirt and she’s like, ‘well we have no way to prove that you bought it.’ Let me tell you why I think this is so stupid: I still leave with the shirt. They are basically accusing me of stealing a twelve dollar shirt and then coming back into the store with the stolen item to ask them to help me steal it. Since they have no outright evidence that I stole the shirt, I’m just in crop-top purgatory where I have this item that I can’t wear because it’s going to set off alarms everywhere but guess what I was thinking I would just wear it with the security tag still on and make-believe like I’m a thug.
Except I found the receipt when I got home, so I’m going to go in there Pretty Woman style today like when Julia Roberts moted that Rodeo Dr. shop girl who wouldn’t help her buy fancy clothes. I’m going to mote H&M for sloppy service, having defunct security alarms, accusing me of theft and almost making me into a poser of a clothing stealer.
I’ll be like, “hey are you the store who wouldn’t take this tag off this shirt for me?”
And they’ll be all, “I don’t know. Probably. We have crop tops. Do you have the receipt?”
And I’ll stick the receipt in their faces and rub their noses in it and be all, “You have internet, right? Check out stupeh.com where I just moted you. Big mistake! Huge!”
I also purchased a pair of work shoes from the comfort shoe store. Remember when I went on and on about farmville’s ugly sandals? Well I have bad news for everyone who ever believed that I cared about what I slide my feet into. Well you know I’m a double waitress, right? So I had to get these shoes based on the fact that I’m on my feet for extended periods of time, and they are starting to feel numb by the end of my double shifts. I know this is no consolation for what I’m about to show you. I bought orthopedic slip-ons.
Ha hahahahahaha. Oh the butterfly. How’s that for female centric?
I don’t know, man. They feel good, and my pantleg will be covering most of them. And by the way, no one’s going to be looking at my feet because hubba hubba.
Posted: July 26th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Food service manual. | Tags: 2nd perspective, Crazy, funny, morning stuff, waiting tables | 2 Comments »
I warmed it with my wild flames of misplaced anger
Hey, you Food-Eaters sitting there with menus in front of you about to order eggs. See those little symbols all over the page? Remember around kindergarten and first grade when they taught you how to interpret those symbols and recognise them as words? That was a great skill to learn, and you can use it for making my life easier. All you have to do is read the menu. No. I’m lying. Don’t just read the menu, but interpret the information and be an efficient customer for the good of all mankind. See, the thing about breakfast is that it gives you many options. You have to choose what kind of potatoes you’d like or whether you want fruit. It’s possible you might have to choose an egg style. Eggs are very stylish. I prefer over medium unless I’m not having toast or potatoes. What do you prefer? Can you figure it out before I come to the table, please? This is all a big deal because of volume. If I had five tables and had to hold your hand through every breakfast choice that lay before you that wouldn’t really bother me, but can you imagine having to repeat this fifty times in one morning: “how would you like your eggs? would you like hash browns, sauteed potatoes, au gratin, fruit, beans, sliced tomatoes, or cottage cheese? Would you like toast, muffin, biscuit, sweet potato biscuit, or tortillas?” Can you please anticipate that you are going to have to make these choices and not make me go through all your options?. Also, can you talk to your spawn about what they are going to eat before I get to the table? I really don’t need to see your family dynamics, and on that note, why is your kid afraid of me? Did you teach him not to talk to strangers? That one backfired on you didn’t it? Maybe instead of that, you should have taught him how to drink out of a glass so that I don’t have to kill the earth with your request for a cup with a lid on it. Why are you making that face at me? What is your problem anyways, don’t you have eggs at home? Maybe if you’re going to make that shitty face, you should be making it at your home-eggs, Holmes.
I promise I don’t hate you, and I really want to love you. I want to love all of you in a timely manner with extra butter. I live to bring your hollandaise sauce on the side. I breath so that you may eat frittatas absent of onions or whatever food you happen to hate. I rise from my beautiful slumber because I know you want some coffee and more blue creamers, please.
Don’t want to be a server no more.
Because I have to tell you something else. I think my job is sexist against me. I’m like the world’s food-bitch. I’m a ham-steak geisha.
Yelp this, mutha-fuckas.
Posted: June 21st, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Food service manual., Short essays that prove the existence of odd | Tags: boobs, day job, funny, I have really good ideas, waiting tables | No Comments »
Maybe I'll deep condition my hair this time. Put things right.
Wouldn’t that be funny if you could time travel just one day into the future or past, but you couldn’t pick the day? Like I was imagining on the way home from all my jobs the other night, what if I wake up tomorrow and I’m transported back to Sunday (Father’s Day) morning? Wouldn’t that be a waste of a time travel day? I was thinking about what I would do differently, and all I could come up with was to remember to bring the dinner menus to the two ladies on P2 because I realized on the way home from work that I had forgotten to do that for them. Also I would not give the lady from New England such a hard time about her wacky way of ordering food. The thing is that she was going to order an omelet that she made up in her own head, and it was going to be pepperjack and onion. She asked me if I thought that would be good, and it just sounded weird to me, like it was missing ingredients, so I made a face at her. The face said that her omelet was a bad idea. But then she ordered her blueberry muffin cut in half and grilled. That was also weird to me and I told her it was an unusual request. I think if I went back in time to that day I would have been more used to people ordering grilled blueberry muffins and therefore would have taken it easy on her. I swear. Breakfast service makes me bitchier than normal.
No wonder my dad fired me. JK. No really. JKKKK. I’m serious.
My ideas are as underdeveloped as my chest. Goodbye.
Posted: May 31st, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Food service manual., It's a parent | Tags: Crazy, day job, dinner, farmville, funny, I have really good ideas, morning stuff, waiting tables | 3 Comments »
Ordering hot tea gets you bludgeoned. I'm sorry. It's just un-American.
I now believe in marrying for money. I realized this weekend that I was on some kind of drugs when I posted a blog that was kind of optimistic about being a waitress forever. After working on Memorial day, I’m ready to find a sugar daddy. I doubt that Farmville will approve of this, but I will support him if he decides to find a sugar-momma, so I just won that argument. It’s just that instead of pleasantly serving people their food and smiling, I was trying all day not to serve plates being cracked over everyone’s heads. Maybe that’s just the result of the establishment I was working at being understaffed for a holiday. I think that when restaurants under-staff, they are just slowly trying to kill their employees. The thing is that I like doing a good job. I like having customers walk away satiated and happy. Sometimes, though, that is just physically impossible. Retardedly impossible, and people don’t care. People are stupid. I would understand the anger of the food-eating people if I was chatting on my cell phone or walking around drinking mimosas and getting a massage instead of getting them their turkey bacon. The thing is that I’m making seven different kinds of champagne cocktails, refilling ten coffees in three different rooms, making and buttering their goddamn English muffins, getting a bowl of water for their goddamn dogs and carrying 27 eggs out of the kitchen ALL AT THE SAME TIME, so how about maybe relaxing and enjoying your day off? Do you see me dying? Have you noticed that I’m dead, and you all killed me with your demands? YOU PEOPLE ARE ASSHOLES! Also I’ve noticed that the people who complain to the manager are just generally unhappy people. They don’t like each other and can’t think of any way to entertain themselves or each other during the pauses and don’t realize that they mostly are a bunch of crybabies that I hate. ALSO complaining to the manager AND writing a note on your credit card slip is REALLY going to change the world. Yeah, fuckers.
Also I must tell you about the bar experience that also made me need to be rich. Its called just wanting to play a game of pool with your homies. I know I suck at pool and am not trying to show anyone up or “run” the pool table, but when none of me or your friends have a pool table at home, we sometimes have to deal with people at the bar. There’s something about some dopey 21 year-old in a fedora and flip-flops being the next in line with his quarters at the table which makes winning actually feel like losing. Pool bar is annoying in that way. The other way that pool bar is annoying is when a blonde Alicia Silverstone looking girl comes up every ten minutes to say that she is next in this really high-pitched blonde voice, acts indignant that someone else is playing, and then disappears for another 20 minutes while you hope that maybe something bad happens to her while she’s at the other end of the bar.
I think that the problem of being a waitress and the problem of annoying bar people can be doubly solved by a large sum of money. I think I find this large sum of money by selling myself to a wealthy landowner, and I also think that people shouldn’t be so judgmental about selling your soul for money. FOR REAL. Is it really compromising my ‘morals’ if I enter into a contract with some rich old guy so that I can have a pool table and a pool? Aren’t I compromising myself by serving people even when they are rude to me. I think that rudeness is immoral and would not retrieve things for assholes if I weren’t being paid money to do it. The fact that I apologize for things when I’m not sorry and say ‘of course’ when I’d rather find their cars and key them in the parking lot makes me a liar. Everyone in the hospitality business is a liar, and lying is wrong. I also think that playing pool with a 21-year-old in flip flops who constantly pounds the pool-stick on the ground like he’s the Thor the god of thunder is immoral, but I did it anyways because I put my hard-earned 75 cents in that table and I wanted to stretch my dollar. Holler. I’m already compromising my morals, and I’m still poor. Why not compromise my morals and make some real money off of it? Anna Smith did it, and she’s awesome. She got to make that great reality show after, so we could all see how not crazy she is. I want to show everyone how not crazy I am, too!
Fuck it. Let me know if you guys meet any rich bachelors or bachelorettes.
Posted: May 4th, 2011 | Author: Stupeh | Filed under: Food service manual., I'm not going to lie | Tags: day job, morning stuff, waiting tables | 2 Comments »
I only have eggs for you
First of all, my cat threw up a hairball last night. Secondly, it’s still there. Finally, I am leaving him. Who needs cats?
Anyways, this isn’t about him. This is about how amazing my job is, and how I’m going to make you all jealous of me and my job right now. I’m a waitress, and if I had any musical training (mom’s fault that I don’t), I would write 12 songs about it. I would write an album and make enough money to stop being a waitress, and then I would write an album about how much I miss being a waitress. That wouldn’t sell as well, though, so I would have to become a waitress again to support my yoga habit. For now, I just recently got a waitressing job to support my waitressing habit. The only thing that could improve this waitressing fantasy life I’m living is if people would stop talking to me about stuff and start asking me for sides of ranch all the time everyday.
I realized that I may live the rest of my life without anyone ever wanting to pay me to do anything besides get them food, and you know how I feel about that? Totally ‘meh.’ I don’t even care anymore. I get to walk around and ask people if they want some bread. How nice am I? They give me cash to do it, so how nice are they? It’s like stripping only instead of taking off my clothes, I’m taking off my not wanting to retrieve things. Not a big sacrifice really. People act like it’s not a real job because you get janky hours, and usually don’t get benefits, but I’m getting ready to go to the beach on a Wednesday morning so WAH. Who’s the sucker now, deskers?