It's Just a Job

(Snapping of fingers) "Miss! MISS! Excuse me, MISS!"
This is usually how I am summoned by a table that is not my own. I politely turn around, squelching any retorts that instantly come to mind. What follows is something along the lines of "Where is our food? We've been waiting forty five minutes for our meal."
First of all, I am not your waitress. I have no idea where your food is, because quite frankly, I get paid $2.13 an hour to watch my four table section. And that, thank God, does not include your table. Second, you most likely have not been here longer than twenty minutes waiting for your food. You see, we have a secret weapon in the back. Along with your order, there is a timer telling us little minded waiters how long it has been, to the second, since we keyed in your order.

I'm a firm believer in the fact that a person's true character shines through the way they treat people in the customer service industry. I've had tables that blurt out their drink orders before I can get my name out, refuse to even look me in the eye, and one disturbing lady who dropped the f-bomb on me after her appetizer took a few extra minutes one Sunday afternoon. What these low-lifes don't realize is that many of us are just using this job as a means to an end. We are working our way through college so that someday we can have a better life than sweeping up cracker crumbs. Hell, I might even be your boss. Ha, wouldn't that be some karma. Show us a little respect, and it will go a long way. For example, when a table remembers my name, I am instantly gratified. So thank you to those who listen to me, treat me as their equal rather than their servant, and of course, those who tip well.

Now, I'm going to hop in my bed and watch my DVR'd Dawson's Creek. =)

Hey Y'all...

As I begin typing my first post, my head stays turned towards the door of my room. Even though it is midnight, my mom is dozing on the couch, and I fear she will wake to find me spilling my secrets. At a time when many are crawling under their down comforters, I am prepping myself for a night of pointless "real conversations". Every night is the same. A game of hide and seek for adults. After six to eight hours straight of waitressing on my feet, I wait anxiously in my room until my dad has gone to sleep, and she decides it is safe to pursue me. She'll want to talk and blackmail me for deeds done in months past. I usually end up hiding out in the bathroom, sleeping with my cotton robe as a blanket for few minutes until she threatens to unscrew the doorknob. She doesn't harm me physically usually, but her words are enough to leave bruises that will take years to heal. I am weary. So sick of being called a "selfish, conniving bitch". I don't even want to have anything to do with my own mom anymore, and that breaks my heart.

Shit. She's up. The night begins...