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dragonlady7am having trouble focusing my eyes. like, they start going from side to side to side really fast and it's like they're moving but I'm not moving them, just what I'm looking at is moving, and if I move my head it doesn't shake and I can focus but if I stop then it wiggles again.
What I think, Watson, is that I am tired. (Answer: No shit, Sherlock!)
It was a nutty day. I went in at noon, and got out at... 8:45.
It was dead until maybe 3 when suddenly there was a huge rush. Stephanie from Uno's (a little 4' 0" chatterbox cashier) walked by, getting off her break, and said, "Man alive there's this huge line of people coming through security and I bet you guys are gonna be totally swamped! I'm gonna go make a bunch of pizzas!" (We sell pizzas, she makes them.)
"Sure," I said, not really believing her.
Three hours later I paused to take a drink of water. I had been running without a stop. The chief manager had come and had been working the registers of me and the other bartender, just to try to catch up with all the people. The dishwasher had broken and we were washing glasses by hand. I had a table of 15 sit down and ask for separate checks. It was madness. And consistently, the kitchen kept sending chicken wings when we ordered chicken fingers. (I pointed out to the manager: "See the order slip? Chicken wing, med. Below that, chicken fing, medium. Could you read the difference at a distance in poor light?" This is why, at Local Bar, they were called, "Fingers" and "Wings" -- don't look the same, do they?)
I stopped, finally, and took this drink of water because I'd been so thirsty and overstressed I'd gnawed my lips raw. I drank a 20-oz cup, refilled it, drank another one, refilled it, and drank half of it. Then I began to clean off my register, which had receipts and money just thrown at it.
Then there was another rush. This was a shorter rush, and didn't require managerial assistance, but the other bartender and I were rush rush rush on top speed for another half an hour.
When I finally went to cash out, I had every possible kind of void, mis-ring, error, and what-have-you for the cash office lady. But. But, this is important. Listen up.
Once I took off everything that had been rung incorrectly (or had come incorrectly from the kitchen so I'd had to rering it as something else)...
And once I counted out my bank...
I wasn't even off.
The cash office lady was astonished when I read off my total. "Sure, I think that's close," she said, and glanced down at the paper. "Whoa. That's completely right," she corrected herself, looking up at me wide-eyed.
So not only did I not make a single error in dealing with the customers (sometimes the kitchen sent the wrong thing. but I never ordered the wrong thing), but I didn't make a single error in my cash handling.
(I'm usually off by $2-3 or so-- just rounding up giving people change on their $5.26 beer (who is going to bother giving back 74 cents? You give 'em 3 quarters and they usually leave 'em as a tip.) and the like.
Man, I'm a good bartender.
Also, I made an average of $23.35 an hour today including tips, salary, and overtime. (before taxes.)
You know, it feels good to be competent, to work hard, and to make reasonable money. I've been trying to explain to Dave that i don't feel this job is a bad one, a stopgap one. It's not my ideal, no, but really... it's a lot more satisfying than Little Software Company Of Horrors. (Page back two years in this journal to learn about them. Holy shit, it's been two years. It feels like yesterday that I overheard the CEO having a temper tantrum.) Think about it. I make drinks, which is a sort of 3-year-old with chemistry-set kind of fun. I get money thrown at me. And I chatter to people. So far there have only been a minimal number of creeps. And people tell me stories. (An ex-Marine who spent a year of his tour in Iceland had some interesting observations on military history, today, and was totally psyched that I knew all about Iwo Jima, Antietam, and the Somme.)
So this job has a lot of bullshit and terrible unpredictability, but I am enjoying it more after 3 months than most of my jobs so far. And, I can write instead of being unable to stand to look at my computer. Which is good, because i have no other hobbies.
And,
Oh-- I just wanted to point out what a good, honest person I am, too.
As I was cleaning off my register and figuring out what was what amidst the wreck after the rushes were over, there were a number of open checks. Many, the receipt was there and they just hadn't been closed out. One, for $42, was just open. I thought a moment. That was the boy with the iBook and the picky girlfriend who had sat for three hours at the far table. I knew they'd given me money. They'd handed me cash. i was sure. They weren't the skipping-out type. So that gnawed at me a little while.
I gathered up the loose change all over the back of my counter, and put it neatly into my tip jar.
In my tip jar there was wad. $45, all wrapped up together-- two twenties and a five.
Who would leave a $40 tip?
Nobody.
I realized I must've put the cash on the register, meaning to ring it through in a moment (since it wasn't urgent because they didn't need change), and the manager, seeing cash, must've stuffed it into my tip jar.
Moment of ethical dilemma: Pretend I hadn't figured it out, and make $45 more? Or figure it out and ring the money through?
I admit I considered it. I could say those damn kids had just walked out on their tab. I'd get in a little trouble, maybe, but not a lot. Not like this happens all the time. And I'd have $45 more in cash.
But I decided not to. I am so getting out of Purgatory early.
And...
In entirely other news, Dave, concerned about the fish, went out and bought him antibiotics and has put him on a treatment. Al is already perking up and looking better. Dave is so good. (Dave, when feeding the fish, often says, "here fooshie fooshie" and for some reason the way he says it makes me giggle.)
He scared the crap out of me, though, because I bent to look at the fish bowls on the bookshelf and there was Gibson all white and scrawny with his fins burned off, or so I thought, and I panicked. "No," Dave said, laughing, "Gibson's right there," and pointed, and there, sure enough, was Gibson, flaring at his finger in his new style.
"What the hell?" I asked, and bent to look at the first fish again.
"A new fish," he said. "A female." Dave always kinda wanted a female betta-- they're smaller, sleeker, classier fish, bright but not as big-finned. (The male fins can look kind of raggedy.)
We haven't named her yet. She's freaking out in the martini glass, looking Gibson-onionish, but we can't name her Gibsonella or something, that'd be dumb. So I need a cool alcohol-themed name for her. She's a bit of a spitfire, really, or a psycho, we don't know which.
So... Dave and I quarrelled this morning, but I was so pleased with him over all the fish-things-- he's a good fish-daddy, better than I am as a fish-mommy-- that I'm feeling better about it. I hope he's feeling better too. i didn't manage to express myself very well, but I did make myself say that I consider our relationship very important and it's something I'm committed to, which i've been wanting to say for a while, and he didn't really answer at the time but that wasn't the point, the point is that I said what I needed to, and he can take it how he wants. I am thoroughly pleased with him as a human, and I am feeling better about my finances (they may not stay as rosy as this week, but they won't be as bad as January again) which means I'm free not to be stupid to him all the time.
I dunno. My eyes have stopped shaking side to side but that doesn't mean I'm any less tired. I gotta wind down and go to bed. I should respond to the lovely comments I got today. i don't mean to whine and kind of beg for people to be nice to me, but sometimes I have to, and I love you all when you understand and don't get too sarcastic with me. (Dave gets sarcastic when I whine. He can't help it. I've tried explaining that if he's just sympathetic and pats me on the head I'll shut up instead of crying, but he can't help the way he is any more than i can. So onto the flist falls the burden. And I love y'all for being there and putting up with it. I loves you and writes you porn. And then gets mad at you for not adoring porn, so there you have the futility of existence summed up concisely with sticky bits.)
Hopefully, what with having tomorrow to recuperate, I shall be able to a) face The Novel with equanimity, and b) post more entertaining, concise, witty, or clever things in this journal. In the meantime, thanks for giving me a reason to post all this stuff, which really does keep me sane. :)
What I think, Watson, is that I am tired. (Answer: No shit, Sherlock!)
It was a nutty day. I went in at noon, and got out at... 8:45.
It was dead until maybe 3 when suddenly there was a huge rush. Stephanie from Uno's (a little 4' 0" chatterbox cashier) walked by, getting off her break, and said, "Man alive there's this huge line of people coming through security and I bet you guys are gonna be totally swamped! I'm gonna go make a bunch of pizzas!" (We sell pizzas, she makes them.)
"Sure," I said, not really believing her.
Three hours later I paused to take a drink of water. I had been running without a stop. The chief manager had come and had been working the registers of me and the other bartender, just to try to catch up with all the people. The dishwasher had broken and we were washing glasses by hand. I had a table of 15 sit down and ask for separate checks. It was madness. And consistently, the kitchen kept sending chicken wings when we ordered chicken fingers. (I pointed out to the manager: "See the order slip? Chicken wing, med. Below that, chicken fing, medium. Could you read the difference at a distance in poor light?" This is why, at Local Bar, they were called, "Fingers" and "Wings" -- don't look the same, do they?)
I stopped, finally, and took this drink of water because I'd been so thirsty and overstressed I'd gnawed my lips raw. I drank a 20-oz cup, refilled it, drank another one, refilled it, and drank half of it. Then I began to clean off my register, which had receipts and money just thrown at it.
Then there was another rush. This was a shorter rush, and didn't require managerial assistance, but the other bartender and I were rush rush rush on top speed for another half an hour.
When I finally went to cash out, I had every possible kind of void, mis-ring, error, and what-have-you for the cash office lady. But. But, this is important. Listen up.
Once I took off everything that had been rung incorrectly (or had come incorrectly from the kitchen so I'd had to rering it as something else)...
And once I counted out my bank...
I wasn't even off.
The cash office lady was astonished when I read off my total. "Sure, I think that's close," she said, and glanced down at the paper. "Whoa. That's completely right," she corrected herself, looking up at me wide-eyed.
So not only did I not make a single error in dealing with the customers (sometimes the kitchen sent the wrong thing. but I never ordered the wrong thing), but I didn't make a single error in my cash handling.
(I'm usually off by $2-3 or so-- just rounding up giving people change on their $5.26 beer (who is going to bother giving back 74 cents? You give 'em 3 quarters and they usually leave 'em as a tip.) and the like.
Man, I'm a good bartender.
Also, I made an average of $23.35 an hour today including tips, salary, and overtime. (before taxes.)
You know, it feels good to be competent, to work hard, and to make reasonable money. I've been trying to explain to Dave that i don't feel this job is a bad one, a stopgap one. It's not my ideal, no, but really... it's a lot more satisfying than Little Software Company Of Horrors. (Page back two years in this journal to learn about them. Holy shit, it's been two years. It feels like yesterday that I overheard the CEO having a temper tantrum.) Think about it. I make drinks, which is a sort of 3-year-old with chemistry-set kind of fun. I get money thrown at me. And I chatter to people. So far there have only been a minimal number of creeps. And people tell me stories. (An ex-Marine who spent a year of his tour in Iceland had some interesting observations on military history, today, and was totally psyched that I knew all about Iwo Jima, Antietam, and the Somme.)
So this job has a lot of bullshit and terrible unpredictability, but I am enjoying it more after 3 months than most of my jobs so far. And, I can write instead of being unable to stand to look at my computer. Which is good, because i have no other hobbies.
And,
Oh-- I just wanted to point out what a good, honest person I am, too.
As I was cleaning off my register and figuring out what was what amidst the wreck after the rushes were over, there were a number of open checks. Many, the receipt was there and they just hadn't been closed out. One, for $42, was just open. I thought a moment. That was the boy with the iBook and the picky girlfriend who had sat for three hours at the far table. I knew they'd given me money. They'd handed me cash. i was sure. They weren't the skipping-out type. So that gnawed at me a little while.
I gathered up the loose change all over the back of my counter, and put it neatly into my tip jar.
In my tip jar there was wad. $45, all wrapped up together-- two twenties and a five.
Who would leave a $40 tip?
Nobody.
I realized I must've put the cash on the register, meaning to ring it through in a moment (since it wasn't urgent because they didn't need change), and the manager, seeing cash, must've stuffed it into my tip jar.
Moment of ethical dilemma: Pretend I hadn't figured it out, and make $45 more? Or figure it out and ring the money through?
I admit I considered it. I could say those damn kids had just walked out on their tab. I'd get in a little trouble, maybe, but not a lot. Not like this happens all the time. And I'd have $45 more in cash.
But I decided not to. I am so getting out of Purgatory early.
And...
In entirely other news, Dave, concerned about the fish, went out and bought him antibiotics and has put him on a treatment. Al is already perking up and looking better. Dave is so good. (Dave, when feeding the fish, often says, "here fooshie fooshie" and for some reason the way he says it makes me giggle.)
He scared the crap out of me, though, because I bent to look at the fish bowls on the bookshelf and there was Gibson all white and scrawny with his fins burned off, or so I thought, and I panicked. "No," Dave said, laughing, "Gibson's right there," and pointed, and there, sure enough, was Gibson, flaring at his finger in his new style.
"What the hell?" I asked, and bent to look at the first fish again.
"A new fish," he said. "A female." Dave always kinda wanted a female betta-- they're smaller, sleeker, classier fish, bright but not as big-finned. (The male fins can look kind of raggedy.)
We haven't named her yet. She's freaking out in the martini glass, looking Gibson-onionish, but we can't name her Gibsonella or something, that'd be dumb. So I need a cool alcohol-themed name for her. She's a bit of a spitfire, really, or a psycho, we don't know which.
So... Dave and I quarrelled this morning, but I was so pleased with him over all the fish-things-- he's a good fish-daddy, better than I am as a fish-mommy-- that I'm feeling better about it. I hope he's feeling better too. i didn't manage to express myself very well, but I did make myself say that I consider our relationship very important and it's something I'm committed to, which i've been wanting to say for a while, and he didn't really answer at the time but that wasn't the point, the point is that I said what I needed to, and he can take it how he wants. I am thoroughly pleased with him as a human, and I am feeling better about my finances (they may not stay as rosy as this week, but they won't be as bad as January again) which means I'm free not to be stupid to him all the time.
I dunno. My eyes have stopped shaking side to side but that doesn't mean I'm any less tired. I gotta wind down and go to bed. I should respond to the lovely comments I got today. i don't mean to whine and kind of beg for people to be nice to me, but sometimes I have to, and I love you all when you understand and don't get too sarcastic with me. (Dave gets sarcastic when I whine. He can't help it. I've tried explaining that if he's just sympathetic and pats me on the head I'll shut up instead of crying, but he can't help the way he is any more than i can. So onto the flist falls the burden. And I love y'all for being there and putting up with it. I loves you and writes you porn. And then gets mad at you for not adoring porn, so there you have the futility of existence summed up concisely with sticky bits.)
Hopefully, what with having tomorrow to recuperate, I shall be able to a) face The Novel with equanimity, and b) post more entertaining, concise, witty, or clever things in this journal. In the meantime, thanks for giving me a reason to post all this stuff, which really does keep me sane. :)
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no subject
Date: 2005-02-17 05:16 am (UTC)It's funny because of course we're not really "in touch" but I do know lots about your life and your feelings so that makes me feel close to you anyhow.
So go ahead and write, I'm happy to read.
Hopefully the tips will stay good. Remember the other bartenders said tips were terrible after Christmas. I know it's earlier than they said it would be for good tips, but maybe things are looking up.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-18 12:17 am (UTC)So unlike the Blogging Movement, I am actually just keeping a public journal, is all. This ain't Me Writing The News Independently. This is just me with a journal.