Wow! This kind of stuff doesn't happen where I live. I mean, it's not like we are uninhabited here, but we don't get these kind of women where I work. Well, at least I'd never seen one like her until the other night. Up until now, the best giggle we've had was the transvestite who came in and used the women's restroom.
The story begins last week when a pretty 40-ish blond came in alone. She was sat in my section and ordered a steak. Unlike most people who come in sans company, she took her time over dinner and lingered with a cup of coffee after her meal. When I tried to deliver her check to her, the two gentlemen at the table next to her almost tackled me for the book which held her total. I relinquished the tab to them, handed the woman her mint, and said quietly, "The gentleman at that table picked up your dinner."
She joined them over a cup of coffee, freeing up my table so I busied myself with my other customers. I thought it was a sweet gesture for someone to pick up a pretty lady's dinner check. We do occasionally witness these kind acts, so no big deal.
No big deal, that is, until the other night. I was the closing server and the night seemed to be winding down early. My hostess dashed my hopes of an early out when she told me there was a 2-top in the bar who still wanted to eat. Oh well, it's all part of the business. It still sucks when you haven't had a table for an hour and the late lingering types meander in ten minutes before closing.
After my hostess told me about the two at the bar, another waitress informed me of the bad news. After she told me, a bartender who was in the kitchen told me yet again that I'd be getting a table. I snapped, "You are the third person who's told me that. Thanks!" Trying to smooth the waters, she launched into the interesting story behind the diners who were coming in. Seems a man and a woman who were sitting several bar stools apart began talking, then hitting it off. Apparently, HE insisted that she let him buy her dinner in the dining room. (We serve a nice array of food in the bar too, but not the pricey stuff of the dining room menu). After Nina told me the story of the late twosome, I rolled my eyes and made a face.
The man came into the dining room first. He insisted the hostess put him at the table next to the one she had chosen. "Sure, no problem," she cooed through an irritated grimace. I poured water for both places and asked the man if I could get him anything to drink while he waited for his dinner partner. He declined and said she'd be right in, she'd just stopped at the restroom. Very good. I left the empty dining room and waited in the kitchen.
When SHE walked in, my eyebrows went up. The SHE was the same woman from last week who had gotten her dinner bought from a man she'd just met and started talking to during her evening out. I see a pattern developing here. I'm not saying I'm blind to how women use their femininity to get things from men, nor am I naive enough to think that this is the highest degree of deception that women will use to get what they want from men. But this is not the stuff of my work atmosphere. In twelve years, this is the brashest form of using I've witnessed by a woman. As I like to say, she's a real piece of art. (Work of art + Piece of work = piece of art)! ;)
After five minutes of peeking through the kitchen window, they finally looked ready to order. The man, who I dubbed "the cheeseball" because of his dorky ways and slight lisp, coupled with his overly sure demeanor that was totally fake, ordered first. (Way to be a gentleman and show your manners). After writing down his choices, I turned to the vixen and asked sweetly, "And what would you like tonight?" To my astonishment, she answered smoothly, "Well, I came up here on a mission tonight. [big pause] I'll have the lobster."
Now folks, my reaction (inside) was the stuff of jaw-dropping awe. The last time anything made me stop in my tracks like that was my first visit to Lambeau Field, and that was a long time ago. I'm quick on my feet and have a comeback for almost any insult, awkward situation, or moment in need of levity. This floored me. However, I simply smiled and asked calmly, "Would you like the large or small lobster?" Her answer of a small lobster tail was only a little redeeming. She was here on a mission, after all.
Whew. I gotta tell ya. It was hard to wait on those two diners. He talked a whole bunch more than her, and she sat blithely letting him ramble. They stayed a long time, him chattering while she smirked effortlessly at him. When they'd finished and had a glass of wine, they realized they may be keeping me. I was polite, told them to take their time, but they were kind enough to ask for the check, saying they'd go back to the bar. He left a great tip--I'm sure that was part of the impressing her scheme. I don't really care why he did it, I'm just glad he did.
I guess in the end everyone was happy. I got a great tip (maybe she did too?) and she got a tail (and maybe he did too?)!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Breakfast Club
With the holidays behind us, and the multiple offers for eggnog and Tom and Jerry's from cheery friends (followed by multiple refusals of said hot drinks by me), I'm moved to tell the story of how I came to detest the nutmeg-laced concoctions. And no, it was not because I had too many when I was away at college that first year! The reason I don't like these horrible holiday toddies is a right I began earning as a child.
Here's the thing; I've never liked breakfast. Even when I was say, five I forewent breakfast in favor of a quick dressing and a dash out the door to go roust my best girlfriend for the day's fun. It was natural, then, that when school started and my mom wanted to make sure I had something in my little tummy, I resisted. Somehow we got the point where she quit arguing with me about the breakfast matter. Only she didn't let it just die. No, she quit arguing, but began slapping a peanut butter and jelly toast sandwich in my hand on the way out the door.
Until I was about 11, we lived in the city. I went out the back door and down the driveway to get to the sidewalk. Most days, that PBJ toast landed in the neighbor lady's basement window well. It was less than 20 steps I had to carry the offending food! I assume some squirrel or dog came to rely on my mother's lovingly made breakfast of champs that I so disdainfully tossed aside each morning, but I'll never really know what actually happened to those after I garbaged them. All I know is that I never saw a pile of them creeping over the metal of the window well.
When we moved to the country, this tradition continued. We rode a bus, so my mom would slap the sandwich into my hand on my way to wait for the bus. Well, I guess she must have watched out the window a lot without my knowing it. I mean, I was careful about when and where I launched the sandwich in case she was looking! I waited until I was around the curve of our driveway with the granary blocking her view to my pitch. I guess the fact that I wasn't happily munching on this tasty morsel gave me away.
In retrospect, I wish I'd done a better job of hiding the fact that I didn't eat these while I was waiting for the bus. All those years of being the wily one caught up to me because my mom is pretty clever too. (After what? Only five years of making sandwiches for the area strays)! So her next idea was born. Her next solution is what turned me against nutmeg forever. Remember, this was way before raw eggs were thought to be a taboo consumption. I would wake up every morning to a glass of farm fresh milk that had a raw egg whipped into it. I guess she thought a little nutmeg sprinkled on top would make it more palatable. It didn't. Really, it didn't.
I was cornered! After years of winning the breakfast wars, she had plotted and won! I was not allowed to leave until the glass of egg, milk, and nutmeg was in my gut. How could this happen? I drank the slimy spiced breakfast drink each morning with a disgust that I find just writing about it now brings the expression to my face again. I think you know the look. It's that look you reserve for scrutinizing really ugly bugs that you can't quite wrap your brain around. It's that expression that appears when your best friend peels back a sleeve to show you the disgusting wound garnered from some horrible accident with a piece of sheet metal or something equally disturbing. Yeah, that look.
And so it was that each morning I would face the large glass of nutrition that my mother had made for me, sitting on the counter. Sometimes she would watch me drink it, standing smugly, watching in victorious mode. But I got good at slamming the thing, then wiping my mouth like a man who had just downed a whole beer to impress his friends. I rinsed the glass with a frown then dashed to the bathroom to brush my teeth to put it behind me.
I'm still not a breakfast person. I like donuts, PopTarts, Toaster Strudels if I'm eating before 10:00am. What I really like is cake or cookies for breakfast. In fact, I had a Tollhouse bar for breakfast a few minutes ago. Normally, I'd probably be inclined to say, "Don't tell my mom," but a few years ago when I was home visiting she slipped and actually divulged some insider information that an enemy should never have. She actually said these words: "The best thing about being a grown-up is that if you want to have cake for breakfast, you can." Whoa! I don't think she actually said it to throw the power drink era in my face, rather a truce that breakfast can be nontraditional. I know that parents can't tell their high school kids that they sometimes eat Devils Food for breakfast. But the fact remains that sometimes they do eat chocolate cake at 7:00am.
If the worst scar I got from my childhood is a distaste for nutmeg, I'd say I did okay. Truthfully, my mom taught me some pretty good eating habits. I know the value of eating in the morning, but I still just don't like it. And while I never resorted to the milk and egg drink with my step-kids, I'm wise enough to know that's because they never refused my insistence of the bowl of cereal I poured for them. There's no telling what tactics I might have employed on their behalf had they fought me. They'll probably never know how lucky they are to have played by my rules.
Have a Tom and Jerry for me. I'll be in the corner with a Christmas cookie and a hot chocolate.
Here's the thing; I've never liked breakfast. Even when I was say, five I forewent breakfast in favor of a quick dressing and a dash out the door to go roust my best girlfriend for the day's fun. It was natural, then, that when school started and my mom wanted to make sure I had something in my little tummy, I resisted. Somehow we got the point where she quit arguing with me about the breakfast matter. Only she didn't let it just die. No, she quit arguing, but began slapping a peanut butter and jelly toast sandwich in my hand on the way out the door.
Until I was about 11, we lived in the city. I went out the back door and down the driveway to get to the sidewalk. Most days, that PBJ toast landed in the neighbor lady's basement window well. It was less than 20 steps I had to carry the offending food! I assume some squirrel or dog came to rely on my mother's lovingly made breakfast of champs that I so disdainfully tossed aside each morning, but I'll never really know what actually happened to those after I garbaged them. All I know is that I never saw a pile of them creeping over the metal of the window well.
When we moved to the country, this tradition continued. We rode a bus, so my mom would slap the sandwich into my hand on my way to wait for the bus. Well, I guess she must have watched out the window a lot without my knowing it. I mean, I was careful about when and where I launched the sandwich in case she was looking! I waited until I was around the curve of our driveway with the granary blocking her view to my pitch. I guess the fact that I wasn't happily munching on this tasty morsel gave me away.
In retrospect, I wish I'd done a better job of hiding the fact that I didn't eat these while I was waiting for the bus. All those years of being the wily one caught up to me because my mom is pretty clever too. (After what? Only five years of making sandwiches for the area strays)! So her next idea was born. Her next solution is what turned me against nutmeg forever. Remember, this was way before raw eggs were thought to be a taboo consumption. I would wake up every morning to a glass of farm fresh milk that had a raw egg whipped into it. I guess she thought a little nutmeg sprinkled on top would make it more palatable. It didn't. Really, it didn't.
I was cornered! After years of winning the breakfast wars, she had plotted and won! I was not allowed to leave until the glass of egg, milk, and nutmeg was in my gut. How could this happen? I drank the slimy spiced breakfast drink each morning with a disgust that I find just writing about it now brings the expression to my face again. I think you know the look. It's that look you reserve for scrutinizing really ugly bugs that you can't quite wrap your brain around. It's that expression that appears when your best friend peels back a sleeve to show you the disgusting wound garnered from some horrible accident with a piece of sheet metal or something equally disturbing. Yeah, that look.
And so it was that each morning I would face the large glass of nutrition that my mother had made for me, sitting on the counter. Sometimes she would watch me drink it, standing smugly, watching in victorious mode. But I got good at slamming the thing, then wiping my mouth like a man who had just downed a whole beer to impress his friends. I rinsed the glass with a frown then dashed to the bathroom to brush my teeth to put it behind me.
I'm still not a breakfast person. I like donuts, PopTarts, Toaster Strudels if I'm eating before 10:00am. What I really like is cake or cookies for breakfast. In fact, I had a Tollhouse bar for breakfast a few minutes ago. Normally, I'd probably be inclined to say, "Don't tell my mom," but a few years ago when I was home visiting she slipped and actually divulged some insider information that an enemy should never have. She actually said these words: "The best thing about being a grown-up is that if you want to have cake for breakfast, you can." Whoa! I don't think she actually said it to throw the power drink era in my face, rather a truce that breakfast can be nontraditional. I know that parents can't tell their high school kids that they sometimes eat Devils Food for breakfast. But the fact remains that sometimes they do eat chocolate cake at 7:00am.
If the worst scar I got from my childhood is a distaste for nutmeg, I'd say I did okay. Truthfully, my mom taught me some pretty good eating habits. I know the value of eating in the morning, but I still just don't like it. And while I never resorted to the milk and egg drink with my step-kids, I'm wise enough to know that's because they never refused my insistence of the bowl of cereal I poured for them. There's no telling what tactics I might have employed on their behalf had they fought me. They'll probably never know how lucky they are to have played by my rules.
Have a Tom and Jerry for me. I'll be in the corner with a Christmas cookie and a hot chocolate.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Resolutions
I always make the same New Year's Resolution. It's a no-brainer and simple to keep. Repeat it with me folks: "I resolve this year not to make any New Year's Resolutions."
Voila! Done deal.
You know why I cop the 'just say no' attitude? It's because I can't keep any of those grand life changes I used to resolve to follow from the moment I woke up to the Rose Parade on New Year's Day. But more than that, it was sort of pointed out on a forum I frequent why we shouldn't even attempt those empty promises. I didn't actually have it ballooned so succinctly as this gal did, but I wholeheartedly agree. There is a short answer to why we shouldn't lie to ourselves on New Year's. (But you know you'll never get a short answer from me, right)?
In a nutshell: If something is important enough to change about our lives, we should do it when we notice it's important enough to change. Shouldn't we? Yes, we should. Why do we wait until we are struggling with writing checks properly to make these significant changes? We wait until it's cold and blustery outside, with the forecast of the same for the next three months to make this almighty effort to improve ourselves. I suppose we need something to focus on while we struggle through the short days, long nights, bone-chilling cold. I mean, we could drink beer or eat ice cream and watch fluffy movies, but we need something to feel good about during this closed in time. It's a new year so it makes sense that we want a new us.
I like improving myself as much as the next guy, but I don't buy into following a rule about when to do it. Instead, I make longterm goals of things I hope to accomplish in the ensuing year. Maybe that's the softer (weaker?) resolution. Maybe it's just a loser attitude for people like me who don't want to exert the energy to actually quit smoking, or start running, or eat more salad. I don't care though because this method works for me.
Maybe the secret to a good New Year's resolution is making the same one every year until you conquer it. I don't know though, I like to kind of sidle up to the idea and mull it before I commit to the change. And I haaaate failing! I admit, I'm stubborn and I hate change, even if it is for the better. I'm the old dog who doesn't want to learn new tricks. I'm comfortable in my own ways and habits. My guy makes the same resolution every year. He quits smoking. It appears he's on a successful track this year so maybe there is something to this New Year's business.
I guess for me, the lofty kind of fuzzy goal-setting works best. This year's list is pretty short, really. I want to write more and find a way to feel more solid about taking care of myself. Mostly, that means I want to be comfortable knowing I have enough money to pay my bills with a job that offers (or pays enough money to purchase) benefits like health insurance. I need to get centered on these things, but I don't need a calendar to tell me to get my butt in gear.
Whatever works, eh? I guess the differences in people is what makes life interesting. I'd love to hear what my three readers resolved for this year! Whatcha got, people? ;)
Voila! Done deal.
You know why I cop the 'just say no' attitude? It's because I can't keep any of those grand life changes I used to resolve to follow from the moment I woke up to the Rose Parade on New Year's Day. But more than that, it was sort of pointed out on a forum I frequent why we shouldn't even attempt those empty promises. I didn't actually have it ballooned so succinctly as this gal did, but I wholeheartedly agree. There is a short answer to why we shouldn't lie to ourselves on New Year's. (But you know you'll never get a short answer from me, right)?
In a nutshell: If something is important enough to change about our lives, we should do it when we notice it's important enough to change. Shouldn't we? Yes, we should. Why do we wait until we are struggling with writing checks properly to make these significant changes? We wait until it's cold and blustery outside, with the forecast of the same for the next three months to make this almighty effort to improve ourselves. I suppose we need something to focus on while we struggle through the short days, long nights, bone-chilling cold. I mean, we could drink beer or eat ice cream and watch fluffy movies, but we need something to feel good about during this closed in time. It's a new year so it makes sense that we want a new us.
I like improving myself as much as the next guy, but I don't buy into following a rule about when to do it. Instead, I make longterm goals of things I hope to accomplish in the ensuing year. Maybe that's the softer (weaker?) resolution. Maybe it's just a loser attitude for people like me who don't want to exert the energy to actually quit smoking, or start running, or eat more salad. I don't care though because this method works for me.
Maybe the secret to a good New Year's resolution is making the same one every year until you conquer it. I don't know though, I like to kind of sidle up to the idea and mull it before I commit to the change. And I haaaate failing! I admit, I'm stubborn and I hate change, even if it is for the better. I'm the old dog who doesn't want to learn new tricks. I'm comfortable in my own ways and habits. My guy makes the same resolution every year. He quits smoking. It appears he's on a successful track this year so maybe there is something to this New Year's business.
I guess for me, the lofty kind of fuzzy goal-setting works best. This year's list is pretty short, really. I want to write more and find a way to feel more solid about taking care of myself. Mostly, that means I want to be comfortable knowing I have enough money to pay my bills with a job that offers (or pays enough money to purchase) benefits like health insurance. I need to get centered on these things, but I don't need a calendar to tell me to get my butt in gear.
Whatever works, eh? I guess the differences in people is what makes life interesting. I'd love to hear what my three readers resolved for this year! Whatcha got, people? ;)
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