This guy has a job for me. I don't know him. Okay, in all fairness, I don't know any of the people who send mail to my spam folder. But this guy is persistent about this job he claims to have for me. And I have two jobs already so I don't need another.
My greatest spam collector is my Yahoo email address. I thought I'd opted out of that whole tracking gig where they claim to monitor your internet activity for the purpose of bringing you offers that will appeal to you. Apparently, unchecking and opting out does not deter the spammers from knowing exactly what you need. Then again, maybe it does. Let's review the content of my spam, shall we?
In preparation for writing this, I've saved the spam of the weekend. It may be more zesty than weekday spam... I don't know as I haven't conducted that survey yet.
6-Sex emails trying to direct me to sexy websites
8-Viagra/other sexual stimulation drug come on's
19-Meet singles emails (including christian, over 30, over 50, black, local, and "match found")
16-Debt elimination choices
35-Ways to make money, work from home, be rich scams
9-Pet medication bargains
3-Credit card offers
18-Health offers (including a fair amount of Ephedra offers)
7-Auto loan or car valuation emails
10-Online university/education opportunities
7-Slot secrets
5-Ink deals
4-Starbucks gift cards
24-Miscellaneous offers (including photo contests, home mortgages, Craftmatic adjustable beds, psychic readings, movie tickets, and messages from ebay members I've never solicited).
Now that's 171 offers I can't refuse, people. Wow. I have to admit that looking at that list of spam, my life sucks if that's what they've targeted me to be interested in. Darnit. I wanted to believe that I was already sexy, interesting, wealthy, and educated. Guess it isn't so.
It's doubly disappointing given that today is my birthday. At 41, I'm not perfect. I thought I would be by now. If I was everything I hoped to be wouldn't my spam list look something like this?
48-Offers of modeling
11-Marriage proposals
6-Beggars for money
8-Book agent propositions
3-Auto dealerships offering free cars
7-Free tickets to Vegas
4-Television agencies asking for my face on their commercials
1-Infomercial offer
Oh well. Maybe in my next life.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
And Furthermore...
I've taken a lot of ribbing at work for my antics described in my last post. I'm good-natured about it, so it doesn't bother me. And it was great that last night the same company hosted another paid programming dinner that I DIDN'T HAVE TO WORK. Whoo! It didn't surprise me at all to see the servers who did work it getting frustrated by the ravenous wolf behavior of the seminar attendees. Sorry, but at this point in the tourist (read: burnout) season, all I can think about that is better them than me. Oh well.
In discussing what was obviously poor restaurant behavior by these scoundrels with no tact, a recurring theme does arise, however. I don't remember who said it (probably a server), but you have to wonder what would possess someone to treat a server poorly. Think about it. This person is going to be handling your food! This person will have your plate in their hands behind walls that you can't see through, doing who knows what to it if you've chosen to be an asshole. Do diners really think it's a good idea to be messing with that person?
Now I have to admit that I've never really done anything dastardly to anyone's food. There have been times I might have liked to do something grisly to the condescending idiot who thought I was nothing more than his bitch, but no, I never have harmed anyone's meal. Still, there are times we servers let our imaginations run away with us. What might a pissed off server do to a patron's food? Hmmm. Most of the "stories" I've heard involve bodily fluids or boogers. I couldn't do that even to my worst customer, but I bet there are plenty who could. All I can say is I'm glad I'm in the industry and know my manners so I don't have to worry about any extra sauce appearing in my mashed potatoes.
I had a table last night deserving of some extra attention (if you know what I mean). It was during the rush and I had gone over to greet them. They insisted that they were ready to order and commanded my presence to take the order. Fine, I thought, at least they are ready and it won't take long. WRONG! There were six of them. They needed three separate checks. (I will write a whole blog about separate checks another time. For now, all you need to know is that separate checks are a pain in the ass). The first man to order was having a birthday which means if he could show me ID, his meal would be free. We go through the wallet procedure where he digs for it, fumbles through for the ID, presents it to me, I verify, tell him happy birthday, and commence to get his order. Easy, if a little more time-consuming than I can afford at the moment. It may have been his birthday, but his wife took the cake. She ordered from the lighter side--quarter chicken. And since she's apparently as cheap as they come (not frugal--cheap!), she wondered if getting all white would cost extra. I confirmed that it would, and she immediately poo-pooed the thought. Oy. Potato choices took another minute. Then dressing choice gave her a chance to showcase her bargain basement soul again. Yes, roquefort dressing is extra. "No, no. Then give me the tomato basil. I always love your tomato basil." Sure you do ma'am. Can you afford an extra $.75 to get a dressing you like since we are comping your husband's $17.00 steak? Guess not. I took great pleasure in the birthday boy's eye-rolling at his wife's total lack of class.
Finally, on to the next couple. We do another dance with potato choice, as she just can't really make up her mind. Yeah, this is the table who said they ready! to order when I tried to slip away to get that big table's order out to them. Ugh. The lady's husband senses my impatience, and sails through his order process. Bravo! He's been paying attention to my listing the choices that were coming to him. Five minutes into this order-taking festival, I'm finally to the last couple. I stare down the next lady, wondering how long it will take to get her order that she was so ready to give. She needs to hear the potato choices again. Picking just one dressing is too hard, so she orders up two--on the side! Of course. Her husband has been paying attention, as well. He does a commendable job of informing me of his choice of entree, potato, and dressing. Great! I gather up the menus and hightail it back to pick up that order. Luckily, it was the 14-top I'm sharing with Cathy, and it took a few minutes to put the order together in the kitchen. Whew. I'm not late. I put up salads for the six-top, call back the items I need to, and grab a cart. In spite of the idiotic ordering, my rhythm is still intact. I won't have to spit in that woman's sweet potato after all.
I'm just kidding. I would not do that. But can you see why some people make us want to goober up? Some days I think I've done this job so long that nothing bothers me, but others I feel like I'm just too cranky and cynical about people to continue. In truth, there are a million great customers we come across in our serving hours. It's that one table that can just crank your whole night askew. I'm going to remember the 12-top who looked like they were going to need about five separate checks, but put it on one check, and left 20% because then I can face my next section of diners with a positive attitude about the good of our fellow eaters.
In discussing what was obviously poor restaurant behavior by these scoundrels with no tact, a recurring theme does arise, however. I don't remember who said it (probably a server), but you have to wonder what would possess someone to treat a server poorly. Think about it. This person is going to be handling your food! This person will have your plate in their hands behind walls that you can't see through, doing who knows what to it if you've chosen to be an asshole. Do diners really think it's a good idea to be messing with that person?
Now I have to admit that I've never really done anything dastardly to anyone's food. There have been times I might have liked to do something grisly to the condescending idiot who thought I was nothing more than his bitch, but no, I never have harmed anyone's meal. Still, there are times we servers let our imaginations run away with us. What might a pissed off server do to a patron's food? Hmmm. Most of the "stories" I've heard involve bodily fluids or boogers. I couldn't do that even to my worst customer, but I bet there are plenty who could. All I can say is I'm glad I'm in the industry and know my manners so I don't have to worry about any extra sauce appearing in my mashed potatoes.
I had a table last night deserving of some extra attention (if you know what I mean). It was during the rush and I had gone over to greet them. They insisted that they were ready to order and commanded my presence to take the order. Fine, I thought, at least they are ready and it won't take long. WRONG! There were six of them. They needed three separate checks. (I will write a whole blog about separate checks another time. For now, all you need to know is that separate checks are a pain in the ass). The first man to order was having a birthday which means if he could show me ID, his meal would be free. We go through the wallet procedure where he digs for it, fumbles through for the ID, presents it to me, I verify, tell him happy birthday, and commence to get his order. Easy, if a little more time-consuming than I can afford at the moment. It may have been his birthday, but his wife took the cake. She ordered from the lighter side--quarter chicken. And since she's apparently as cheap as they come (not frugal--cheap!), she wondered if getting all white would cost extra. I confirmed that it would, and she immediately poo-pooed the thought. Oy. Potato choices took another minute. Then dressing choice gave her a chance to showcase her bargain basement soul again. Yes, roquefort dressing is extra. "No, no. Then give me the tomato basil. I always love your tomato basil." Sure you do ma'am. Can you afford an extra $.75 to get a dressing you like since we are comping your husband's $17.00 steak? Guess not. I took great pleasure in the birthday boy's eye-rolling at his wife's total lack of class.
Finally, on to the next couple. We do another dance with potato choice, as she just can't really make up her mind. Yeah, this is the table who said they ready! to order when I tried to slip away to get that big table's order out to them. Ugh. The lady's husband senses my impatience, and sails through his order process. Bravo! He's been paying attention to my listing the choices that were coming to him. Five minutes into this order-taking festival, I'm finally to the last couple. I stare down the next lady, wondering how long it will take to get her order that she was so ready to give. She needs to hear the potato choices again. Picking just one dressing is too hard, so she orders up two--on the side! Of course. Her husband has been paying attention, as well. He does a commendable job of informing me of his choice of entree, potato, and dressing. Great! I gather up the menus and hightail it back to pick up that order. Luckily, it was the 14-top I'm sharing with Cathy, and it took a few minutes to put the order together in the kitchen. Whew. I'm not late. I put up salads for the six-top, call back the items I need to, and grab a cart. In spite of the idiotic ordering, my rhythm is still intact. I won't have to spit in that woman's sweet potato after all.
I'm just kidding. I would not do that. But can you see why some people make us want to goober up? Some days I think I've done this job so long that nothing bothers me, but others I feel like I'm just too cranky and cynical about people to continue. In truth, there are a million great customers we come across in our serving hours. It's that one table that can just crank your whole night askew. I'm going to remember the 12-top who looked like they were going to need about five separate checks, but put it on one check, and left 20% because then I can face my next section of diners with a positive attitude about the good of our fellow eaters.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Half Caf-Decaf?
I did something today that I have never done in over 20 years of waiting tables.
Let's see, to understand the level of my temper that incited this ghastly act I may need to give some background on the festivities that occur on Tuesdays where I work. We've had tour busses that come through around noon, eat a family style meal, and head out the door. The waitstaff (usually just two of us) is responsible for setting up, salads, etc, etc... After the banquet, we clear, clean, organize, and then set the dining room for the evening shift. It's been a good gig--in and out, no messing around, no meetings, no dragging out the day so we have to find mundane chores to while our time while they yammer amongst themselves. And the tips have been very good for these forays, which is why I've continued to sign up for them all summer. Well, that and Tuesdays are my day off. I have felt compelled to take these hours while they are available since wintertime is never quite as wealthy in the tip department.
So we have a groove with these luncheons which has been working pretty well. Sometimes we have two parties, spaced about a half hour apart. (They never work that way though since someone is always early)! Today, however, we had one usual bus tour, a group of lady golfers off the menu, and this "Invest All of Your Money with Us and We Will Pay for a Family Style Lunch for You and Any Other Freeloader You Bring" meeting thrown in to the mix. Well, the first thing that threw off the rhythm is that they were arriving as we were arriving to set up. Not a good thing. We handled it though, because we are professionals who do good work. Okay. The Entitled (entitled to lunch and as much bitching as they can get in for their free meal as possible) crowd was covered for the next hour and a half, at least.
We moved through the rest of our set-ups without problem. Well, the bus tour was a half an hour early, but who counts that? The lady golfers went off without a hitch (thank God, since one of them is a former owner of the place). The Entitled Ones' leader gave me the thumbs up to go for lunch and we were off on the final leg of our luncheon journey. Ohhh, were we off... On the race we wish we'd never heard the gun go off for.
I can tell you that leaving 60 quasi-interested folks sitting at dinner tables for two hours while you drone on about how great your company is will only lead to near cannibalism. It started when we went with salads and rolls. Before we could even get all of the salads served, the whining began for more rolls, coffee, water, extra napkins, extra settings, more butter. Holy shit, people! I guess when you've been promised a meal, then forced to sit through the "catch" your eyesight can get pretty nearsighted. I don't think any of those folks realized that two servers only have four hands and four legs between them.
The demanding pandemonium continued as the meal progressed without diminishing. "Are there more ribs?" "Can we get more sour cream?" "We'd like more water here!" "We need butter." And on and on and on it went. There was a particular couple who were determined that their squeaky wheel would get the grease on all of the above counts, and more! They asked for more coffee no less than three times. They needed butter. They needed ribs. They demanded more rolls. Other pockets of outrage burst forth too. Those who needed special treatment or items not included in the meal. "Yes ma'am." "No problem sir." "Sure." Nod. Smile. Keep the annoyance off of your face. Be courteous, above all.
After 45 minutes of abuse like this, I became dismayed with the human race. Why is it that when something is free we get more quibblesome? Excuse me, let me say what I mean. Why does a free lunch bring out every freeloader and el cheapo in a 50-mile radius? Grrrr! I'm a person, not a robot attending to your every whim. Maybe instead of snarling about there being no ribs, you ask the guy five people down from you to pass them? It's FAMILY STYLE, people. At home, you'd ask your son to pass the ribs. Here, you ask the gentleman who has them in front of him. Rocket science, I'm telling you.
Yeah. So you get the drift of my pasted on smile and taut nerves by this point? Man, I bust my butt to make people happy and get them every possible thing they might need for their meal when I'm working. I'm like that. I'm a perfectionist and I take it as a personal failure if you've had to ask me to refill your water glass. But you know what? Sometimes I gotta admit defeat. I was feeling pretty deflated by the kicks to my ego from these people who refused to be pleased by our efforts. And I can tell you that I've worked enough family style banquets to be able to tell you that these people were hogs on the food. We put out an abundant meal, but these people made us look like we'd shorted them of this meal they paid-wait, they didn't pay a dime for the meal. That's right.
When the male half of the noisemaking couple belittled me for another pot of coffee while we were serving dessert, I took the pot from him, finished what I was serving, and headed back to the kitchen to dutifully fill the carafe. This is when my evil side arose. We were at the end of a marathon of luncheons. There was no decaf left. I swear to you, I have never filled a decaffeinated coffee pot with regular coffee, EVER.
Until today. I hope that man is still awake.
Let's see, to understand the level of my temper that incited this ghastly act I may need to give some background on the festivities that occur on Tuesdays where I work. We've had tour busses that come through around noon, eat a family style meal, and head out the door. The waitstaff (usually just two of us) is responsible for setting up, salads, etc, etc... After the banquet, we clear, clean, organize, and then set the dining room for the evening shift. It's been a good gig--in and out, no messing around, no meetings, no dragging out the day so we have to find mundane chores to while our time while they yammer amongst themselves. And the tips have been very good for these forays, which is why I've continued to sign up for them all summer. Well, that and Tuesdays are my day off. I have felt compelled to take these hours while they are available since wintertime is never quite as wealthy in the tip department.
So we have a groove with these luncheons which has been working pretty well. Sometimes we have two parties, spaced about a half hour apart. (They never work that way though since someone is always early)! Today, however, we had one usual bus tour, a group of lady golfers off the menu, and this "Invest All of Your Money with Us and We Will Pay for a Family Style Lunch for You and Any Other Freeloader You Bring" meeting thrown in to the mix. Well, the first thing that threw off the rhythm is that they were arriving as we were arriving to set up. Not a good thing. We handled it though, because we are professionals who do good work. Okay. The Entitled (entitled to lunch and as much bitching as they can get in for their free meal as possible) crowd was covered for the next hour and a half, at least.
We moved through the rest of our set-ups without problem. Well, the bus tour was a half an hour early, but who counts that? The lady golfers went off without a hitch (thank God, since one of them is a former owner of the place). The Entitled Ones' leader gave me the thumbs up to go for lunch and we were off on the final leg of our luncheon journey. Ohhh, were we off... On the race we wish we'd never heard the gun go off for.
I can tell you that leaving 60 quasi-interested folks sitting at dinner tables for two hours while you drone on about how great your company is will only lead to near cannibalism. It started when we went with salads and rolls. Before we could even get all of the salads served, the whining began for more rolls, coffee, water, extra napkins, extra settings, more butter. Holy shit, people! I guess when you've been promised a meal, then forced to sit through the "catch" your eyesight can get pretty nearsighted. I don't think any of those folks realized that two servers only have four hands and four legs between them.
The demanding pandemonium continued as the meal progressed without diminishing. "Are there more ribs?" "Can we get more sour cream?" "We'd like more water here!" "We need butter." And on and on and on it went. There was a particular couple who were determined that their squeaky wheel would get the grease on all of the above counts, and more! They asked for more coffee no less than three times. They needed butter. They needed ribs. They demanded more rolls. Other pockets of outrage burst forth too. Those who needed special treatment or items not included in the meal. "Yes ma'am." "No problem sir." "Sure." Nod. Smile. Keep the annoyance off of your face. Be courteous, above all.
After 45 minutes of abuse like this, I became dismayed with the human race. Why is it that when something is free we get more quibblesome? Excuse me, let me say what I mean. Why does a free lunch bring out every freeloader and el cheapo in a 50-mile radius? Grrrr! I'm a person, not a robot attending to your every whim. Maybe instead of snarling about there being no ribs, you ask the guy five people down from you to pass them? It's FAMILY STYLE, people. At home, you'd ask your son to pass the ribs. Here, you ask the gentleman who has them in front of him. Rocket science, I'm telling you.
Yeah. So you get the drift of my pasted on smile and taut nerves by this point? Man, I bust my butt to make people happy and get them every possible thing they might need for their meal when I'm working. I'm like that. I'm a perfectionist and I take it as a personal failure if you've had to ask me to refill your water glass. But you know what? Sometimes I gotta admit defeat. I was feeling pretty deflated by the kicks to my ego from these people who refused to be pleased by our efforts. And I can tell you that I've worked enough family style banquets to be able to tell you that these people were hogs on the food. We put out an abundant meal, but these people made us look like we'd shorted them of this meal they paid-wait, they didn't pay a dime for the meal. That's right.
When the male half of the noisemaking couple belittled me for another pot of coffee while we were serving dessert, I took the pot from him, finished what I was serving, and headed back to the kitchen to dutifully fill the carafe. This is when my evil side arose. We were at the end of a marathon of luncheons. There was no decaf left. I swear to you, I have never filled a decaffeinated coffee pot with regular coffee, EVER.
Until today. I hope that man is still awake.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Oh No I Didn't!!
I've been contemplating an end-of-the-summer blog about all of the silly people I've come across in my waitressing hours this summer, but oddly I've gotten very good at removing those irritating people from my distress. Oh sure, we always remember the humdingers who REALLY got our dander up, but most float away into the abyss because I deem them unworthy of taking years off of my life by stressing me out for more than the actual time I have to look at their smug faces.
But a waitress nightmare happened last night, and I thought some of you might actually want to laugh at me for a change. So here goes.
I had a lovely family of five get seated in my section. A mom and dad, son, someone's mother and I think someone's sister. I recognized the couple as folks who come up every summer for a vacation. The lady is very pretty, but very much NOT taken with herself. I remembered her and liked her again immediately. As a group, they were very polite, and patient with the fact that I was busy (an 8-top's food was coming out and a 2-top and 4-top had been seated within seconds of each other a few minutes before they came in).
Things were going very smoothly with them, and their food came out in a timely manner, looking perfect. Great, now I can get that 8-top cleared and get their separate checks done! The usual flurry of requests for sundries needed to go with the meal ensued... another milk for the kid, an extra napkin for granny, and (Oh!God!No!) mustard for the lady.
Well, it's been the bane of our existence this summer not having mustard bottled up. The restaurant I work in is big (big enough that one poorly filled mustard bottle ain't gonna cut it), and if we are lucky, there is perhaps one bottle of almost empty mustard way back behind the hot fudge, parmesan, and salad bowls in the cooler. I trek off on my mission for the needed items as they begin their meal. Nope, no mustard in there. I resort to my usual plan when this occurs. A busgirl grabs the gallon jar of mustard from the walk-in cooler while I get a spoon and a small (plastic) ramekin. I push some mustard into it, grab the milk and some napkins and head back to their table. (I GOTTA check on those 2 tables in the back and make sure everything is okay)!!
Zip! Zip! Here's your napkins, the glass of milk, and here's your... WHOOPS! That sonofabitch flew out of my hand and toward the nice lady at about a hundred miles an hour.
Noooooooooo!
It's like those slow motion movies where you can see the thing you don't want to happen happening in a movement that is like single frame action. And yet, you are unable to stop the dreaded motion. So yes. The mustard did fling itself across her breast and onto the arm of her (not making this up) white embroidered shirt. It's like the Southwest commercial where I'm standing there and some invisible announcer is asking me if I want to get away. Hell yes, I want to get away. I want to take a 4 second step back, and hold onto that puppy a little tighter as I set it down.
Mustard. It never comes out. I'm apologizing as profusely as I can, looking sheepish over the accident, and she's cooing at me that it's okay, it's okay... I run for a clean cloth soaked in seltzer because really, if anything is gonna help it not set and make it possible to come out, it will be seltzer. I throw some napkins at her to blot it until I can get back from the bar with the wonder soda. I give her that. I bring her a dry cloth to blot it dry when she's done. Her family is eating happily around our efforts. I continue to apologize (profusely!) and she continues to assure me that is is absolutely no big deal. What a trooper. On the breast of another less assured woman, this could have been a true disaster. I am relieved by her casual attitude about the mishap, but embarrassed nonetheless.
At one point when she was finally enjoying (??) her dinner, she took off the ornate shirt and had on just her tank top type shirt. Unfortunately, it was cool enough in the restaurant that she needed to don the mustard splashed shirt again before the meal was over. Ugh. A marked woman, to be sure.
When the meal was over and the check was requested, I'd taken off any extras I had control to remove from the check, then got my hostess to comp the appetizers. If I could have, I would have made the whole check disappear. I was truly that embarrassed. As we ended our time together, the mustard-tattooed lady assured me that this sort of thing happened to her all the time. I was able to laugh and quip that it was her fault then. I asked her why she wasn't wearing mustard yellow on a day that the Packers played anyway. She was amused and continued smiling. Amazing woman.
These are the kinds of people I want to remember. I don't want to remember the guy who hassled me the entire time he was in my presence, demanding my full attention because he thought he was more important than the 20 other people in my dining care at the time. The guy who "bragged" that he was from California and his guests had just returned from Thailand, but ordered the iced tea because it had free refills and soda didn't. The guy, who, left a whopping 10 percent on his $50 tab.
The guy whose wife got slimed with mustard left 20 percent and THANKED me when he left. There really are some swell folks still out there.
But a waitress nightmare happened last night, and I thought some of you might actually want to laugh at me for a change. So here goes.
I had a lovely family of five get seated in my section. A mom and dad, son, someone's mother and I think someone's sister. I recognized the couple as folks who come up every summer for a vacation. The lady is very pretty, but very much NOT taken with herself. I remembered her and liked her again immediately. As a group, they were very polite, and patient with the fact that I was busy (an 8-top's food was coming out and a 2-top and 4-top had been seated within seconds of each other a few minutes before they came in).
Things were going very smoothly with them, and their food came out in a timely manner, looking perfect. Great, now I can get that 8-top cleared and get their separate checks done! The usual flurry of requests for sundries needed to go with the meal ensued... another milk for the kid, an extra napkin for granny, and (Oh!God!No!) mustard for the lady.
Well, it's been the bane of our existence this summer not having mustard bottled up. The restaurant I work in is big (big enough that one poorly filled mustard bottle ain't gonna cut it), and if we are lucky, there is perhaps one bottle of almost empty mustard way back behind the hot fudge, parmesan, and salad bowls in the cooler. I trek off on my mission for the needed items as they begin their meal. Nope, no mustard in there. I resort to my usual plan when this occurs. A busgirl grabs the gallon jar of mustard from the walk-in cooler while I get a spoon and a small (plastic) ramekin. I push some mustard into it, grab the milk and some napkins and head back to their table. (I GOTTA check on those 2 tables in the back and make sure everything is okay)!!
Zip! Zip! Here's your napkins, the glass of milk, and here's your... WHOOPS! That sonofabitch flew out of my hand and toward the nice lady at about a hundred miles an hour.
Noooooooooo!
It's like those slow motion movies where you can see the thing you don't want to happen happening in a movement that is like single frame action. And yet, you are unable to stop the dreaded motion. So yes. The mustard did fling itself across her breast and onto the arm of her (not making this up) white embroidered shirt. It's like the Southwest commercial where I'm standing there and some invisible announcer is asking me if I want to get away. Hell yes, I want to get away. I want to take a 4 second step back, and hold onto that puppy a little tighter as I set it down.
Mustard. It never comes out. I'm apologizing as profusely as I can, looking sheepish over the accident, and she's cooing at me that it's okay, it's okay... I run for a clean cloth soaked in seltzer because really, if anything is gonna help it not set and make it possible to come out, it will be seltzer. I throw some napkins at her to blot it until I can get back from the bar with the wonder soda. I give her that. I bring her a dry cloth to blot it dry when she's done. Her family is eating happily around our efforts. I continue to apologize (profusely!) and she continues to assure me that is is absolutely no big deal. What a trooper. On the breast of another less assured woman, this could have been a true disaster. I am relieved by her casual attitude about the mishap, but embarrassed nonetheless.
At one point when she was finally enjoying (??) her dinner, she took off the ornate shirt and had on just her tank top type shirt. Unfortunately, it was cool enough in the restaurant that she needed to don the mustard splashed shirt again before the meal was over. Ugh. A marked woman, to be sure.
When the meal was over and the check was requested, I'd taken off any extras I had control to remove from the check, then got my hostess to comp the appetizers. If I could have, I would have made the whole check disappear. I was truly that embarrassed. As we ended our time together, the mustard-tattooed lady assured me that this sort of thing happened to her all the time. I was able to laugh and quip that it was her fault then. I asked her why she wasn't wearing mustard yellow on a day that the Packers played anyway. She was amused and continued smiling. Amazing woman.
These are the kinds of people I want to remember. I don't want to remember the guy who hassled me the entire time he was in my presence, demanding my full attention because he thought he was more important than the 20 other people in my dining care at the time. The guy who "bragged" that he was from California and his guests had just returned from Thailand, but ordered the iced tea because it had free refills and soda didn't. The guy, who, left a whopping 10 percent on his $50 tab.
The guy whose wife got slimed with mustard left 20 percent and THANKED me when he left. There really are some swell folks still out there.
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