Well, it's finally happened...

A guest angrily referred to me as "that bitch" today.

First time that's ever happened to me! I'm so proud... :)


[ degreed waitress ]

This literally just happened....

I’m cut for the night and minding my own business, sweeping my section.

A lady walks over to me from the next section over…

Lady: Could you get me a to-go box for my son’s food?

[ I cannot see her son’s plate from here. ]
Me: Sure! Would you like a large box or a small one?

Lady: Just large enough to put his food in.

Me [ What I wanted to say] : Well, no fuckin duh, lady. Now does he have a lot of food or just a little bit?

Me [ what I actually said ] : Of course, ma’am!

I brought her a large one with a large smile.

[ degreed waitress ]

I promise I'm still alive...

What an adventure these past few months have been! What an emotional rollercoaster!

 

I apologize for not having uploaded any posts lately... I know a few followers of mine been hounding me lately for updates (Hermione and Eloise I'm looking at you!).

 

Between starting a graduate school program, moving into a brand new apartment, starting an exciting relationship with a co-worker and falling hopelessly in love, then getting dumped and having my heart ripped out of my chest while still having to see him pretty much every day at work complete with lots of drama, and injuring my hand on the clock while my managers mishandled the situation but thankfully allowed me to file workers' comp, and all sorts of other crazy adventures, this blog hasn't exactly been first on my priority list lately.



I promise to be uploading more posts soon though :-) I can happily say that my time off from posting has led to a nicely growing stockpile of stories waiting to be shared with you.

 

 

I mean, look at that hang loop! That is a niiiice hang loop!
Doesn't it just make you want to secretly slip a soup spoon through it?
Or tie a napkin flag to it?
If you jostle the shirt's wearer, just enough,
and at just the right moment, he won't even feel it.
Minutes of pure entertainment, guaranteed.
 
[ photo credit ]

I shall start with the story of "T-bone," the resident jokester of our serving staff. It is not uncommon to see a server's belt loops or shirt back loop secretly filled with soup spoons as they stand at the computer ordering their tables' food. It's always entertaining to see how long it takes for people to notice the spoons hanging there delicately.

 

 

 

Apron strings are a never ending source of entertainment as well...
....untying them...
...tying them in super-knots...
...tying them to someone else's apron strings...
...tying straws to them...
...tying napkins to them...
...tying spoons to them...
Need I say more?
 
[ photo credit:
T-bone's careful handiwork,
an inattentive server at the computer,
my phone's lovely camera,
and an absentee manager
so I didn't get caught with my phone out at work ;) ]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Or other simple, tried-and-true pranks, like asking for unnecessary favors from fellow servers... having them deliver cocktail sauce to a party eating chicken tenders, or a ranch to a table that hasn't even been sat. Confusion breeds hilarity. Or my personal favorite, T-bone once convinced a new, ditzy coworker that we serve a side of peanuts (the chopped, dessert-decorating kind) with every unsweetened iced tea. Standing by and watching these events transpire is always quite entertaining, and usually they are taken in stride by the prankees. Well 9 times out of 10, at least...

 

T-bone took his pranking to a whole new level last weekend, though.

 



Not quite, but almost!
 
[ photo credit ]



One of the tall tables in the cocktail room that night had a party of one gentleman who was, based on appearance only, generating much kitchen-gossip as he was undoubtedly a pimp. In his fifties probably, he definitely stood out in his shiny leopard print shirt, tiger-striped hat, extensive gold jewelry, and oversized fur coat. Just give him a cane and a hoe or two, and the image is complete.



He walked towards the exit where he cornered Yasmin, our exotically beautiful Panamanian new manager. He chatted her up, and from head to toe, her body language screamed "uncomfortable." She deftly retreated, uttering her friendly "Thank you for coming in tonight. Have a good evening," but not before he slipped her a little scrap of paper, asking her to call him sometime.

 

She scurried back to the back of the restaurant, and into the managers' office, and I scurried after her, barely concealing my laughter until we were out of sight.

 

I followed her into the office where I collapsed in hysterics and Yasmin threw the paper almost angrily into the trash can. The other managers laughed sympathetically as we shared the story. Joseph the manager (not to be confused with server/bartender Joseph) pulls the scrap out of the trash can once he learns of it and unravels it.  

 

"You have to call this number, Yasmin," he says, reading the words she had not read. "You have to settle this right now." He smiles slyly, and pushes the phone towards her. In leaning foward, I catch a glimpse of the pimp's "name" -- Cat Daddy --  and his phone number. And I double over in laughter all over again, not only at the ridiculous name, but also now at the realization that the phone number listed is that of our own restaurant. If Yasmin had called it, she not be contacting a pimp, but rather the host staff she oversees.

 

Turns out, T-bone had orchestrated the whole thing. "Cat Daddy" returned to his table and grinned good-naturedly as he watched as many of our servers who now knew of the situation blatantly came out to the cocktail room to see this pimp for themselves and bust out laughing unashamedly. Once Yasmin calmed down from her embarrassment, she too joined the laughter, and even admitted to both Cat Daddy and T-bone that it was a funny prank.

 

It's the little things that make this job worthwhile sometimes :)

 

 

[ degreed waitress ]

Exciting news!

To the few of you who care,
 
I have launched a Confessions of a Degreed Waitress Tumblr account.
 
Y'all should totally check it out.... or better yet, follow me!



Here's my first post:



When people find out I've been waiting tables with a college degree for two years

 


[ degreed waitress ]

No, honey, that's not what I mean.

That awkward moment when you tell your GM that you haven't applied to that corporate job you were interested in just quite yet,

because you should be hearing back any day now from the graduate school program you applied to,

and it would require moving 300 miles away in less than two months,

...and she somehow still believes you'll be coming back to work for her after you're done with school.




[ photo credit ]
 


[ degreed waitress ]





A(ballsy)broad

Once again, I had the what are you doing with your life? conversation with my guests.

Oh, joy.

They kept asking me questions between bites (it was somehow less awkward than it sounds, I promise), but unlike any other conversation on this topic that I've ever had with a guest, I never felt judged for my employment choice or demeaned in any way. This middle-aged married couple seemed legitimately interested in getting to know me. It was weird, well, at first, anyways.

We talked about my International Business degree. We talked about my love for traveling the world, acquiring new languages, and building cross-cultural relationships. We talked about my indecisiveness, my uncertainties. But most importantly, we talked about her life.

The two seated in front of me shared my international interests. The wife especially had vastly out-traveled me, thanks mainly to this story: At age 21, she was a single mother with a one-year-old daughter and an overwhelming urge to travel the world.  And what did she do?

She traveled the world.

Yup. With no plans and no goals, a young woman left all friends, family, and familiarity behind to travel extensively throughout Europe and Asia for the first time. For nearly a year. With an infant.

Why can't I find the balls to do that?

I mean, seriously. Why am I still here? I'm 23, educated, single, no kids, relatively little debt, and in a job that I can easily (and most days, gladly) leave. My wanderlust was my main reason for choosing the International Business major. My only positive academic memories from elementary and middle school are from my Spanish and Latin classes because I loved learning languages so much. My soul's sole craving right now is just to be a traveler.

Not a tourist, mind you. A traveler. There is a difference.

A traveler. My imagination soars into wild creativity building scenario after fantastic scenario. My gut clenches around what feels like a thousand butterflies. My heart leaps, racing over each Olympic hurdle of a rib.

I become a whole new person when I travel. I become bold, where I am normally cautious. I become an adrenaline junkie, where I am normally apprehensive. I become serene, where I am normally feisty. I become spirited, where I am normally lazy. I become conscientious of my surroundings, where I am normally inattentive. I become the better version of myself.

And yet, I'm still here. I find a way to talk myself out of it, every time -- How will I afford it? What will I do while I'm there -- will I just travel on my own, or will I seek out a job while there, or enroll in a service immersion program? How long would I stay? What would I do when I get back? Where would I even go? Would I be safe? What if I got lonely traveling by myself? What about all the friends I would miss? How would my mother get any sleep at night? blah blah blah... -- And then I take the easy road yet again -- the highway to my hellhole of a restaurant job -- and I am disappointed in myself for talking myself out of going, every time.

Why can't I find the balls to do that?

The question still rings in my head. Every time I look at table 114. Every time someone mentions traveling. Every time a guest/coworker/friend/parent asks me what I want to do next in life.

Why can't I find the balls to do that?

Why am I holding myself back from the one thing I want most?

Maybe one day, I'll just go.


[ degreed waitress ]

Christmas tips rock my Christmas socks!



[ photo credit ]

I was certainly not excited about having to work on Christmas Eve, but luckily our restaurant was closed on the 25th itself, and was closing early (at 9pm) on the 24th. 

 

I did not work Christmas Eve last year, so I had no idea of what to expect from the night... 

 

Would it be busy with large parties?  Would it be busy early on, before people went out for their real plans?  Would it be completely dead the entire night because, well, it's a holiday, and people are at home spending quality time with their loved ones and some home-cooked treasures like they should be? 

 

(Hint: it's never that one.)

 

 

[ photo credit ]

 

 

I entered the restaurant and stopped at the host stand to discover my fate for the evening:  Stuck in Dining Room, in the Shift Lead section.  Stuck with merely three tables.  Stuck closing the place down, literally--on top of taking all of the last tables of the night, the Shift Lead is tasked with pretty much a solid hour of extra cleaning in the process of closing down the kitchen.  Stuck with the anticipation of a normal Monday night Shift Lead fare--maybe a good 60 buckaroos.  Meh.  Not amused.

 

 

 

After over thirty minutes of waiting for a party to arrive in my section, Table 24 is finally sat.  One lady, waiting for her sister.  Who takes twenty minutes to arrive.  More standing around and waiting.  Oddly enough, as they walked to the table, Lady #1 asked the hostess if anyone had some lotion.  Luckily for her, I happen to be known for my lotion... 

 



Apparently, washing your hands too frequently (i.e. by being in the food service industry and maintaining a safe level of cleanliness) can dry out your hands so badly that your skin becomes rough enough to catch on every fabric; your fingertips crack and split open into huge gashes; red, itchy, splotchy bumps form all across your knuckles, and your hands overall become a constant source of pain through all of your waking moments to the point that you cannot bear the thought of taking a shower without gloves on (tightly rubber-banded at the wrists, of course, so no water gets in there whatsoever), and you'd rather wipe that ranch that just spilled onto your finger off onto your apron than venture over to that torture chamber they call a sink, and God forbid someone want a lemon in her tea because those stupid lemon tongs are always missing and you just have to reach in there gingerly to pick up a lemon but no matter how hard you try, the lemon juice always gets all over your fingers--always--and you simply want to buckle over and cry, but you don't, because you're at work and you don't want to look stupid crying into this tray of teas, so you reach into the pocket of your server apron and you pull out your tube of lotion.  Cue the heavenly chorus, because this lotion is your godsend.  This lotion that was prescribed to you from a dermatologist because none of the over-the-counter creams and treatments were working, and neither were the ones from your regular doctor, so you had to go see a specialist for your hands.  And so you relish that moment of respite as you rub a generous portion of that magical potion into all the crevices of your phalanges. You exhale a euphoric sigh and look down at your relieved appendages when your brain reengages with its self-loathing:



[ photo credit ]

"Look at these hands. They're a mess.  A wretched, painful mess.  This is ridiculous.  I am actually going to a dermatologist for prescribed treatments for my hands?  Seriously?  This is what I'm doing with my life?  Ridiculous.  This restaurant isn't even worth the pain.  And it's not just the hands.  My back is out of alignment from carrying all these trays.  My legs are exhausted, and all I want to do is sit.  And stretch.  Why the hell am I still a waitress?  Why the hell am I in this hellhole of an establishment, and on Christmas Eve of all nights?..." 

 

 Er, sorry, point is, I've got some really good lotion.

 

I give the lady at 24 a good squirt of the stuff, and she instantly remarked on how great it felt (that's what she said).  Turns out she's got "contact dermatitis" like I do, except her skin is far more sensitive in that she gets allergic reactions to most lotions.  But she didn't with my lotion!  Score!  We've bonded.  We have a great dining experience, and as I return her credit card, I'm crossing fingers for a 20% tip.  These ladies become campers, the restaurant finally gets a pop, and my other tables fill up with guests to occupy me.  After about an hour, I check on them and see if they're still okay.  I guess this prompts them to move along, because they start to head out and hand me the credit card receipt: a $22 tip on a $38 check.  I was stunned and grateful, so I repeated a sincere "thank you" after I looked at it.  I mean, our restaurant almost exclusively attracts cheapskates, ghetto picky "I need, I need, I need"  ladies, all their broke friends, and the entire family who raised them with no manners.  20% tips are the opposite of how all these people like their steaks--RARE--let alone a 57% tip!





[ photo credit ]



And thus began a most fantastic night!  I'm my normal peppy self, and I'm on my A-game.  My guests are nice, AND are nice tippers: I receive lots of 20%(+), tips including a few more $20 tips; in fact, I think only one table tipped under 20%.



 

 

 

 

I was keenly aware, though, of how bad things were going for Ethan, my section buddy.  It seems as if all the tables who intended to tip their server or simply treat their server well walked right past his tables and sat down next to them in my section.  It hurt to hear that, after a night full of table troubles, a strong server left with only $48, when I had fantastic experiences with each guest and made nearly triple that. 

 

My last table of the evening was a family of 6, with kids ranging 5 to 15.  This family was easily the most entertaining family I have ever served--from the overly talkative youngest daughter with no filter, to the easily amused oldest daughter who appeared delightfully enrapt in laughter with every joke I made, to the goofball parents who patiently smiled as their little ones excitedly showed me the phone app that follows Santa around the globe. The 5-year-old shared with me that she has been undergoing treatments.  She didn't share what kind of treatments, or what they are for, though she later expressed that the inside of her elbow hurt, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a Band-Aid as if she'd had blood taken or an IV placed.  My heart ached for this little girl and her family.  Throughout their meal, I bore witness to a fantastic example of love; it is rare to encounter such a strongly bonded family, and it was quite the touching experience for me.  Heck, it's rare to encounter a family with well-mannered, polite, respectful children.  This family truly brightened my Christmas Eve.   They were so much fun that I almost didn't care how much money they left me.  At the close, the dad addressed me quietly and sincerely, saying, "You were fantastic.  Thank you."  And he handed me a 20% tip.  

 

Nights like this one rekindle my passion for serving others.  It's not just about the tips for me; it's about ensuring that my customers are truly my guests, that I can enrich their dining experience to the best of my ability.  I have facilitated birthday celebrations and wedding receptions; hurried lunch breaks and lengthy business lunches; the reunion of estranged best friends twenty years overdue, and the showering of a man's love and appreciation for his wife on Mother's Day.  Waiting tables can be a marvelously beautiful experience from time to time, and that experience can numb the pain in your hands, your lower back, your calves, and make it all worthwhile.

 

Sure, I didn't get out of there for another two hours after close, but I was certainly satisfied--and pleasantly surprised--with my evening.  A very merry Christmas Eve, indeed!

 

 

[ degreed waitress ]