...Just A Chick with her Puppet..


Wednesday, December 23, 2009

One Month

Tomorrow will be exactly a month that I've been unemployed

I lie, kind of. I took a job on the complete other side of town days after my quasi-fire but it didn't work out. Why you ask? Because I am not the kind of person who can work at a bar inside a pizza shop that doesn't get anyone but tweens and random homeless people who watch the TV's from outside (in the snow). I spent approximately 150 hours there and made about that it tips. It was horrbile so I quit.

Since then I've been applying for jobs online (because theirs a blizzard out there) and working on my manuscript. Yes. I want to be an actual writer someday.

But for now, I will vent to you, the world wide web.

I'm completely and uttely unenthusiastic about finding a job. Only looking because I have to pay my rent and ConEd is not my friend. But I'm realizing that I don't really want to serve or bartend no more. Maybe manage? Stablility? So not sure.

My plan B...more like plan A is to win the lotto though. And I'm not going to lie, I'm doing well. I'm uplike fifteen dollars. Yeah, not much but it's something.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Maybe Santa will bring me a Job. That I like. And I won't quit. And that will pay my bills. And get my mother off my back. That's all. Is that too much to ask?

Sincerly and Cheerfully yours,


Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Today I got fired

So today I went to work....and got fired.

Not because of something I did. No. But because of the inadequate management running my now-past job. It doesn't matter that I have been at the restaurant longer than all the present managers.It doesn't matter that I am one of the slim the trainers for the so called NEW STAFF (more correctly known now as the REPLACEMENTS)
Most important, it apparently doesn't matter to consult the owner/chef in the decision as twenty minutes after I emptied my locker I was left a very concerned voicemail as to when I will be back.

When I will be back? Ugh, to get all pass due cash and paycheck, this week, maybe, why. I called her back. My chef was very concerned as she was not involved in the decision and offered me my job back, kind of. I respectfully said I would LOVE to work for HER but not for them and said we would speak in person later.

I got fired today

Because I wouldn't sign a piece of paper depicting (the managers depiction) of what happened during lunch shift. What happened? Easy. The managers sat a VVVVVIP (apparently) and never told me. Soon I figure out (bc i'm that good) and take care of everything, service to the Tee. Except I didn't know how VIP they were and dropped the check- a check that was already HEAVILY discounted. Without opening the checkbook the host of the party states "I'm not sure we're suppose to have a check...." Stunned at the audacity of some people I took the checkbook and said "I'm so sorry, let me go check on that." And walked away.

I then checked with Chef and confirmed they do not receive a check. I told Chef what I did and tried my hardest to rectify the situation...by going to the table and saying I made a mistake and that they were right and to have an amazing afternoon; they laughed and said its okay. They left a few minutes later, leaving $30 in cash on the table.

I went on break. Came back for dinner shift. Set the entire dinner shift up and then was asked to go into the managers office. Behind closed doors I was bombarded by two managers (who have the total experience at the restaurant of one month together) that I did not follow protocol and that I should know better and to top it off, that they had told me about the VIP and no check. Bullshit. God damn, fucken poppy cock. Liars.

I refused to sign the paper that said I knew not to drop the check. Manager, who I will now openly call DouchePack said "then I have no choice and this choice has not come lightly and this choice to let you go, its not my choice." Ugh, its totally your choice DouchePack.
Standing my ground I looked both him and the silent one who I couldn't really understand anyhow and said if I don't leave this room right now I will say things I will regret. Then I walked out, cleaned my locker out and left.

I'm now home, looking on Criagslist for jobs...loving the idea that I'm going to be off Thanksgiving and really not caring that I'm jobless is the worse economic time since the Depression. Hahaha...

Sunday, October 18, 2009

The End of a Horrible Week

Yesterday I taught older, richer professionals how to bake rice pudding. I taught a doctor and two sisters. One of the sisters was constantly trying to get free medical advice from the doctor while her sister kept saying “Sally, shut up. You don’t do that in real life. That’s only on TV.”
What the real kicker is that our chef is still out of town and Line Cook that is totally unprepared to be in charge had a panic attacked that turned into a full on seizure right at the beginning of Elderly Cooking 101. I, thinking it was one of the guests, gathered my group back up so that we could start boiling the rice. I didn’t realize it was Line Cook until our dish was already in its ice bath.
My server also decided not to show and my manager had a family emergency right after noon time. So after cooking with the elderlies I had to serve them the five course meal they prepared. And food-run it. And bus the table. In a chef assemble. I was hot, sweaty and smelled our old food by the end. And get this, only got $80. Was getting up at 6AM and it wad over at 4 PM worth it?
Oh. Then I had to work dinner where my eight-top and ten-top didn’t show and I had only three tables all night and got out at midnight.
It wasn’t even a two bill day.

The Beginning of a Horrible Week

Has Season started yet? I thought that Season in NYC meant oodles and oodles of money. I’m broke for Heaven’s sake. I need Season to come.
I clocked in at 60+ hours this week, with a good chunk of it in the kitchen. My chef had a family emergency and asked me to help out. At first I was in awe and scared. I’m not a cook. I’m a-wanna-be stay at home mom who pretends (quite well) that I bake and cook dinner for amazing Boyfriend.
Well apparently pretending has its perks because I can actually cook now. But not for the masses. I’m a front of the house kind of gal. I like to describe the food someone else cooked up. My chef assures me that I’ll be fine and can call if I need anything.
Ok the first day was last Sunday. Chef had me fill in at a food festival. I went with one of my cooks and server friend of mine. It began at 7 AM. We were setting up our booth when the cooks next to us started taking Patron shots. My cook and server felt the Jameson would be a good chaser and maybe some mimosas minus the OJ. I stared at them in awe and fear for what would follow.
What did follow was hours and hours of heavy drinking and serving food. Talking about food and drinking more. Smoking bud on the docks and cigarettes in the back (employee only) areas. Taking pisses in portable potties. Drinking more. So much bubbly.
At the beginning of the second session our server started to wobble. Then started to curse at the other cook. Then I kicked him off the booth, stepping up for absent chef and trying my hardest to not curse back at him in front of the guests. He left grudgingly but returned about ten minutes later, escorted by security.
Witnessing this scene my cook, who is not from this country and doesn’t really understand why guards would be escorting a drunk lad out, tries to argue with them. I pull him back to serve the food, throw the server his bag and say goodnight. Then went to get us some help.
Got the help, continued to have the longest day of my life and go home. Saved servers job by claiming emergency and all is well.
With little to no sleep (thanks to crazy Connie from upstairs!) I went to work, served tables all day (lunch and dinner shift) and made a total of $33.
Finally slept. Still broke.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

The Shower

Today I’ve felt like the joke in a TV sitcom. It all started at 6AM when I woke up to the unsettling feeling that I drank to much vino the night prior. As I stumbled to the bathroom I tripped on every article of clothing and shoes I own and found my winter coat crumpled in the corner of the bathroom.
Flashes of last night begin to come back as I look into the toilet bowl of food prior. I worked and went home. I went home because I needed to shower.
No. I was on my way home when C called and then I ended up at her place. I had a big boy Bass and smoked a bowl. Then I went home.
No. We went to were her boyfriend serves. Across town. Dining District. There I had three kinds of cured meats (one was duck salami!), cheese, gnocchi, bread, butter, more bread, dessert, so much wine. Then I went home.
No. L called and we walked the ten or so blocks (drunk off our asses) to the bar where her man works. More wine. But then I went home.
Kind of. I apparently talked to boy from work for 2 minutes and 55 seconds; Boyfriend for 10 minutes and new mommy K for 4 minutes.
I don’t remember anything else except that I forgot to get cola and was dying this morning without it.
I flushed the toilet and went back to bed, still unwashed. I awoke four hours later to the water being off for maintenance. Don’t worry Super explains, it will be back on around 7 tonight.

Dinner and a Show?

So the other night Boyfriend, Phriend and I went to dinner. I decided on one of our favorite LES spots; an extra small, only about nine tables fusion place. We also know the chef/owner so no doubt it would be an amazing meal.
Boyfriend and I enter the packed (so happy I made reservation!) restaurant and wait for Phriend to arrive to be seated. While we waited I saw that there was only one waitress, delightful woman who gives great service. Only two guys behind the open kitchen and one guy playing host/take out/runner/busser and helping Waitress out.
We sit, order quickly since we know the food and receive our wine and water. Minutes later our food begins to come out; all shared with no rhyme or rhythm to their arrival. I was happy; the two dishes I really, really wanted came out first. Everything was amazing; the wine, the food and especially the conversation.
That ended abruptly when I heard my name proceeded by a loud, nasally shriek. I turned around to see this large nose, too much black eyeliner, Sideshow Bob hairdo, fake tan girl that I vaguely remember from camp over a decade ago. She used to make fun of me, constantly. My boyfriend then turns around and says “hello AnnoyingGirl.” She then shrikes again, screams Boyfriends full name, turns to her much too thin and extremely drunk with an equally bad fake tan girlfriend and screams “This is why I’m writing a Book!!”
At this point new food had arrived at our table so both Boyfriend and I turn back to Phriend who is just staring at the freak show AnnoyingGirl in awe. The audacity of some people he mutters into his plate of deep fried pork belly and sticky rice. I shake my head and laugh and begin to pour the second bottle of wine.
More food arrives and the last table of the night is sat. Four extremely tall Europeans, I think Swedes. Waitress takes them to the table directly behind us, next to AnnoyingGirl. All is well for about a second longer until AnnoyingGirl starts screaming at one of the lady Swedes claiming their drunk asses had knocked her wine and water all over her new Prada bag and brand new Blackberry.
Everyone in the restaurant turns around; 20 or so people. AnnoyingGirl continues to tirade the Swedish woman as they are little children who got into the paint cans. Accusing them of being drunk and demanding CASH immediately for the items they ruined.
The Swedes begin to think they’ve done something wrong, being that they haven’t ate at this establishment before and start to leave when an Asian woman sitting in the front table swoops in like Wonder Woman and tells them to sit back down. She then turns to AnnoyingGirl, tells her to get up, gather her things and get the hell out of this restaurant. She even offered to pay her tab so that she’d leave. AnnoyingGirl grudgingly gathered her things (everyone wants a free dinner, right?), cursing the entire way through the restaurant, screaming that they weren’t even done and that her belongings are destroyed and free food won’t fix her phone.
As she walks by and I catch a glimpse of her outfit- way too short cut off jeans with a fitted black button down exposing her massive boobs and gut accompanied with black knee length boots with a five inch heel, I realized that Karma really does exist. That the Mean Girls are eventually shown theirs and that hopefully it is always just as sweet as watching a damp Prada bag on the arm of a bitch being escorted out by two large Asian men.
Real dessert soon arrived and the tarts couldn’t have tasted any better.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Already Missed

So Roommate is leaving in less than a week. I’ve known this for months but it’s actually happening. He is about to embark on his first (of several) fourteen months tour in the Middle East and I fretting if the next time I see him is in Hell. I told him if that happens I will so kick his ass in front of every resident of the Underworld. Hades has my back.

He’s in the navy and I asked him to send me letters through bottles in the ocean. It brought up an interesting argument: If you found a pre stamped and addressed letter in a bottle on the beach would you send it? Would you read it?

I said I would totally send it after I read it. Roommate said he wouldn’t even touch that shit. I think the government has brain washed him. Not completely but a little. He said he will not send me messages in a bottle. Shucks.

I’m currently watching Army Wives on Lifetime Network and I feel for them ladies. More for the ladies who’s men are leaving and coming home rather than the cheaters and the actual whole war aspect. It’s Operation Emerging Freedom, right?

I think more than anything I’m going to miss hanging with him, texting or talking on Facebook. It’s like when someone dies. I don’t feel bad that their gone it’s just I’m going to miss the things we did. And hopefully will again…in fourteen months.

A year and two months. Ah.

Sunday Not So Funday...

What a blasé Sunday…even though it has completely and utterly sucked, give or take a few highlights

It began last night at the stroke of midnight when a guest returned from the wedding that had wrapped an hour ago (a completely non alcoholic wedding) claiming that her jewelry had been stolen out of her purse. And that it was probably one of us.

This set in a train reaction of events that included we, the servers, go through all the dirty linen bags in search of the missing jewels and eventually to the House holding our money for a hot minute until they reviewed the cameras. At this point it was close to two in the morning and I decided I’d just get the cash tomorrow (well, later today).

So I went to the train, waited a God for saken hour and eventually strolled home at three in the morning. Broker than I left.

I wake up today with the plan to go get the money, meet a girlfriend at a bar close to work and watch Sunday football. I call work at one…no answer. Two….no answer. Finally at a quarter of four I get ahold of the MOD and he says to come in, money’s here. I truck all the way downtown (in the mucky slush of old rain) only to find out that he doesn’t have the combination to the safe and that sorry I can get the money tomorrow or Tuesday, my next scheduled day. I’m like fuck.
So I call my girlfriend and say sorry, can’t make it, no cash. She’s already drunk so I figure I’m really not missing much.

I decide to trek home and drop off some things before deciding to go to the grocery store. I wanted to make Boyfriend a belated birthday dinner with the little cash I still had. I’m walking from the subway to my building when I see a police car with flashing lights. I’m like “oh great, the bitch from the 6th probably beat up one of her kids again or her man got pinched again or something of the norm uptown.

I get closer and realize it’s Teenager, a black girl from my building whose mother has become a close friend and someone I respect. I walk over to Teenager who is leaning on my car that’s parked directly in front of the building, since August 3, 2008. I don’t even look at the car, just Teenager and the cops.

"You okay?" I ask Teenager. She shrugs and the cop, Carroll, asks me if this is my car. I say, yes and ask why that matters. He then looks at me and says because of that, pointing to the windshield. I turn around and OMG. My windshield is busted in, glass everywhere and looked like bullet shots went through it. I turn back to Teenager. “You do this?!?!” I demand and Cop Carroll interrupts (again) no Mam, her brother did. And then proceeds to ask if I will be pressing charges?

Before I can even respond Teenagers Mom, I call her TiTi emerges from a gypsy cab and begins screaming at her daughter. She then assures me her son will be pay for the damages and asks if I would call off the man hunt. I agree to. Don’t need to have my own neighbors thinking I have it out for um. But now its three hours after the incident and no one can find her son. Gosh.

I did learn the whole story eventually and found out that Teenager had a boy in her mother’s apartment alone and older Brother found out. He then busted in and they all started fighting. One thing led to another and big Brother ran the sleazy boy out of the building and for some reason unbeknownst to me Brother decided to jump on the car to catch the boy and broke the windshield. He has since been hiding out, fearing I have the police on his trail.

I finally then went to the store and got all the ingredients, evening fighting for the last eight ounce ribeye steak at the Meat Counter, to make an awesome dinner, yet my ice cream melted while I waited for the cashier to void items off the person in front of me’s check. And the liquor store was closed by the time I got there. And the horrible hill that I have to walk up was completely being torn up and my carted kept getting stuck and no one let me pass them.

T minus 4 hours until this day is over. I’m hoping for redemption.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

The Rapist

The rapist from my hood was caught the other day. Ignorant mother fcuker voluntarily gave up his DNA and the great men and women in blue took a freaken fortnight to pick his ass up. More or less giving him the opportunity to swipe a couple of more i-Pods and sexual batter the diverse women of the Upper UWS.
I was sitting with one of the Khaki Short boys from the block and Roommate discussing how absurd the whole mess was. I mean for the last six weeks there have been pictures of this hooded Spaniard plastered everywhere from the brownstone hand rails to the bodega store fronts to behind the cashier at Duane Reade. When the reports came out last week that he rapped a women by going through the fire escape I tapped the flyer facing outward to inform him I’d catch his ass.
From the minute I saw the flyer I wanted to catch that god for saken rapist. Yes, for good measure but more for the twelve G’s the NYPD promised to fork over for the arrest and conviction of the son of a bitch.
I had a plan and everything, and even took action for five nights. Myself, accompanied with two of the Khaki Short boys (think common day Soc’s but Dominican); one about twenty feet in front, one about fifteen feet in back of me. I even had a butterfly knife, ready and waiting.
We walked for what seemed hours while I pranced around in knitted stockings, sandals, a flowy yet tight fitting black skirt, a tank top showing the goods and my Chinatown special Chanel Bag. I also had a borrowed i-Pod and my Blackberry texting while we walked the perimeter we believe the Rapist would be lurking.
Nada. Zilch. So we gave up, me secretly hoping that I would be approached late one night when I was on my way home. I’ve even done my make up and hair for the past weeks to lure the ass out of hiding.
But now he’s caught and I had nothing to do with it. A small blurb in Monday’s paper reading “Uptown Rapist Caught.” Nothing about the women he assaulted, that he didn’t have a M.O. and just rapped about anything from the aging Dominican women to the Asian in her twenties. And nothing about the twelve G’s.
Only that he was only 21 and had voluntarily gave up his DNA two weeks ago. Poppycock.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Armed Services

I live with two wonderful men.

One is my boyfriend and the other is one of my best friends from college who has since joined the Armed Services. We rent Roommate our extra room (yeah, we have an extra room in NYC) so that he will always have somewhere and friends to come home to. Roommate also moved into this apartment with me before Boyfriend so both our names are on the lease; not Boyfriend

But now the Services want him to cancel all bank accounts, all contracts and leases and disconnect his phone. He even has to get a new computer that is “safe” and doesn’t have Facebook.

Ok. I can figure this out.

I call my leasing office and tell them the situation but get this: we have a rent stabilized lease and if Roommate needs to be taken off then my lease won’t be stabilized and they can charge me
whatever they want.

Shit. I’m going to have to move. I’m broke I can’t move.

I tell them that and then began telling them that he is leaving on a special assignment - he’s going to break down the war in the Middle East. “Well, why didn’t you say that? I’ll talk to legal ASAP” the agent says.

Really? It was that easy.

That was a week ago, haven’t heard anything yet, but since been assured that I’ll get the new lease, solo name and with an abridged price because they realize the price is too much for “little old me.” Which is pretty stellar.

But get this now, the Services need to see a current lease with Roommates name to prove he is not homeless. WHAT THE FUCK? We do not have a current lease because of YOU now (which is honestly driving me bananas and causing my fifth, sixth and seventh gray hair) because you asses needed him off everything.

I just don’t get the Armed Services at all.

Sunday Evening

Its 6 o’clock on Sunday night and I have just received my schedule, thru a third party for the upcoming week. And that I have to be there at eight in the morning tomorrow. I’m also drunk because the JETS beat the Pats for the first time in over five years!!
I don’t work Mondays. I haven’t since college when I realized Mondays were the slowest dinner shifts of the weeks. Understandably speaking, people have spent a lot of money over the weekend and they feel they should hang at home after the inevitable Monday meetings at the office. So why am I scheduled tomorrow? A double.
Its not like I have anything to do. Except find a new job, which I’m not really keen on doing anyhow. But still. A fcuken double on a Monday. There’s got to be a good reason for this.
I also don’t have a day off until Sunday. But no other doubles. Instead I have lunch one day than dinner the next than lunch the day after and so forth. This will only ensure that I will not sleep this week. Oh, and it’s the boyfriends birthday this week and I have no idea what to do for him or the income to make it happen. A-fcuken-mazing.

Last Page

I have this book where I jot down all the open calls for the day when I’m in the job market; which is always it seems.
Well my notebook seems to agree because I’m currently writing about a new upscale restaurant hiring on the last page. THE LAST PAGE. This is a two subject five star notebook. It should never runs out of pages.
As I look through it I notice a lot of the same places are consistently hiring, implying to me (the avid job searcher) that the place is disorganized, horribly managed, lack there of business –so people are always quitting or all the above.
I have one address jotted down four times through out the book, all different interview times and dates and now I’m wondering what the place is called. I should know right? I’ve applied like a bazillion times. But no idea and when I Google it I just get the address, no significant establishment at the lo-cal.
Moments like these put my stomach in knots. Not that I am ALWAYS looking for a job but that people and restaurants are so dispensable in this city (and economy) that I fear WHAT IF I cant get a new job. Or even worse if I’ve been tarnished by this city because of its will-to-work ways that I’ve left just a many as I’ve been invited to stay.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Day Off

My long-term live-in boyfriend is a cook here in the city and works all the time. Hence if I was to see him I have to be up (awake and sober) around three in the morning. I also have to be the mood to coddle and shower him with affection because all day he is berated my Guido or Flamboyant bosses.
It sucks.
Lately I’ve been taking a nap at ten pm and waking up at two in the morning, showering and getting dinner ready. That’s normal right?
Last night I got drunk and couldn’t wait up, instead I woke at noon to him still sleeping. I wake him in a panic, thinking the worst that he got fired and now we’re definitely going to be homeless. He says he has off then rolls back over into his normal grumpy half awake state. You have off? You have a fucken Friday off when for the last eight months it’s been Monday. And you didn’t know this, before like now??
Does this fucken ass realize I’ve quit jobs because they wouldn’t give me his day off? Or that I’ve called out sick, which we all know as a server you don’t make when you ani't there and your spending every second in NYC. Or that I have shit going on today that doesn’t involve you. Ass.
Today was one of the days I had plans. I had off and wanted to go to a couple of comedy clubs (to try out) than have drinks with my girls. But now he’s off. It’s now threeish and he’s just sitting on the couch, smoking my bud, asking me what I want to do today. I tell him and he just stares at me with eyes that say “that sounds stupid” and now I feel I should just sit with him. I’m also broke and really don’t need to go out so I’m perplexed.
He’s also stressed because his restaurant is about to be reviewed. And if you know NYC your review means everything. If you’re good people want to see how good you are; if you suck people want to see just how bad you are. I work at a place where the reviews are a mix which means people don’t trust us and don’t come back. I need a new job.
We’ve decided to order Chinese. And that I’ll pay. You know, because I'm loaded.


I can’t pay my pot dealer. Thank the heavens I don’t do YAY. It kind of sucks because I work all the time and sometimes make six bills (Its NYC) a night (legally) but because asses like Mr. Peacemaker (yes, real person whom I had the amazing experience of serving last night) don’t tip I cannot reciprocate the world.
Yes, drugs are bad. I took DARE like every other fifth grader. But I do know that if I have to serve blacks, reds, yellows, whites, whomever I’m going to need a little something to get me through it. At least for the come down after it’s over and they haven’t given me anywhere near what I believe I’m deserved.
I’m forced to drink beers in the Bodega across the street from work, out of brown bags on the steps sometimes because my counterparts and me just cannot bear to go into a bar, spend the money and then NOT tip. The fact that people have the audacity to do that amazes me. I think those people need to be hospitalized or something. COOK YOUR OWN GODDAMN FOOD THEN.
So my dealer just left. I’ve started a tab. Well several tabs. Some get paid some do not. It’s the advantage of living in a city full of dealers. Their like bars, don’t like that corner you’ll have a better on the next block. I gave him fifty five for a fifty. He understands and has now minimized my debt by some. I hoping some will just forget and keep giving me dime bags at two in the morning when I’ve come home broker than I left (you know the subway costs a pretty penny now) and they think their just helping me out…
I need as much help as humanly possible.

Liars and Thieves

I hate liars and thieves. Anyone who has worked in a restaurant knows that it’s easy to steal food and alcohol. But why do it when most places provide you with it? Shift meal and drinks are a common practice in my world so I’ve never grasped the idea of stealing entire bottle or raw meats.
I got fired from one of the best bartending gigs (well, at the time) that I ever had because some other bitch decided to steal and blame me. It was an outright lie and I expressed my position so adamantly that the company gave me my job back, only a different restaurant in the company.
So it all worked out, right? No. The other place sucked and was forced to quit because I made zilch and working all the time-also had to buy new clothes for the job and was not reimbursed. Asses.
Moral of the rant: If your going to steal please fess up to it because when you don’t someone else is taking the fall and well, Karma is a bitch, Jackie. J

The Verbal Tip

because people don’t care. And rent is still not paid.
I got my first verbal tip when I was nineteen working at private club in South Florida.
This guy made a reservation and asked for the best table because it was his wife’s birthday. He also wanted flowers (that we did not have) on the table. I, being assigned this table, did everything. Got the flowers, changed the linen, polished the silver; the works.
So this guy comes in dressed head to toe in Louie and his wife was probably a model. They order two glasses of Dom then a beautiful Napa Cabernet. They ordered the five course chefs tasting and everything was cooked to perfection.
After each course and glass refill the man complimented me and told me how amazing everything was. I felt confident that I would make the utility bill that night. After about three hours his bill the check totaled at $447 and some change. In my mind that it about a hundred dollar tip.
He whips out his BLACK AMERICAN EXPRESS card (It was a first for me) and I charge the card; knowing full well that it would not be declined. I presented the check, thanked them and invited them back again.
Two minutes later the man and his wife got up, leaving the check presenter on the table. I rushed over to the exit and thanked them once again. The man, I quote, said “Thank you again, darling. You did a great job tonight” smiled and left.
I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I opened the check to find that he had taken both copies of the credit card receipt*; I rushed back to the exit but the valet had already let them into their car. They were gone and I had zilch.

*Legally when a person takes both copies of the credit card receipt the establishment can only authorized it for the amount swipped.

Fcuk Um

I have started this blog, like most people, because I’m pissed.
I’m a waitress and have been for my entire working life. I live and breathe to see serve the god for saken assholes of this great nation and hope that they give me a little more than they should so I can pay rent.
It all started last year, on my birthday when Obama was elected. The next day (since I was working at private, pro Republican club in NYC) I, and about 15 others were let go “because I was part time and lack of business” Whatever.
Since then I have jumped from the ghetto club in the Bronx to the Jewish deli in Brooklyn to the Asian restaurant in SoHo; quitting or getting let go sooner than later because of lack of business. I currently have four jobs, all at completely different venues.
So it’s been a year since all the economic troubles began and people have begun going out again. Yay? No. No yay at all. Now all the assholes think that it’s cool to go out, expect four stars service and give a five percent tip. Some are even going to the lengths as to complain the upscale places, get the food they ate and drinks they drank taken off the bill and then tip on the adjusted bill, still leaving about ten percent.
What the fuck people? Don’t you realize that the service industry of NYC is funding the bottom level upward? Don’t you realize that the man who works finance needs to tip his lunch server so that she can go out and tip her bartender that evening? And then the bartender doesn’t get tipped, because he understands and he cant tip out his bar back and it’s a trickle down effect resulting in poorer service because people don’t care. And rent is still not paid.