*hearts Z*
Jul. 15th, 2005 07:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7Last night at work I was getting ready to leave. For a departure time of 8:30 I stop taking new customers at 7:30ish, collect the bills from all of them by 7:50ish, and take my bank out by 8ish, so that I can cash out and be gone by 8:30ish. Taking my bank out (the money out of my drawer and putting it back into my metal cash box and walking down to the double-locked room to count it and deposit everything over the base $300) would be a little later, except that no less than three locations dismiss their cashiers at about 8:00 and only two people can cash out at once, and cashing out takes some cashiers a long time. (Because many of them aren't very smart, but to their credit, it's also because many of them handle a tremendous number of transactions and some of them have to do some quite complicated accounting, like for meal vouchers and Canadian currency and the like.)
At 7:50 Ubermanager shows up and helps me clear off some tables, since the porter is missing. He then takes my card from me (there's a card you have to use to open the register) and rings up a bunch of orders. For food that the kitchen informed me they were out of. And for food that I know better than to ring through less than ten minutes before the kitchen closed. The unit lead came out, holding the tickets that had printed on the kitchen printer (bearing my orders and my name): "We don't have any more wings! We don't have any more fries! I told you that! We can't do these orders!" I threw up my hands (I really did make that gesture) and pointed to Ubermanager.
"I have nothing to do with this," I said. "I don't even know who these orders are for."
...
So I got down to the cash office at 8:35 and waited for over an hour in the uncooled hallway. Motherfuckers. You don't take tables without asking the waitress, I'm sorry. Not in a venue where there's a takeout service, and also a bored bartender. No.
Also, you don't put through an order ten minutes before closing that will require the kitchen to cook for fifteen more minutes. No. That's just stupid. I saw the cook, while I was waiting to cash out, and fortunately she understood that I had nothing to do with it and was just as mad as she was. So if Ubermanager turns up in components in a Dumpster, you didn't hear nothin' about it from me.
Jeez.
And I even think the management likes me. I can't imagine what they do to the people they don't like. (Actually I sort of know.) They've got me on 11-7:00 shifts all the next two weeks. And they're good shifts, I appreciate it, but they're the worst shifts as far as trying to take the goddamn motherfucking bus is concerned. (It gets you there at either 10 or 12, and if you miss the on-the-dot 7 bus, you gotta hang out until 8:30.)
Le sigh; life is so hard.
On a more cheerful note, the senior waitress and I (who share a register two days a week under my schedule from the last six months, tho' not for the next 2 weeks at least which is a shame) were both rejoicing in no longer being the sole income earners. Her husband's back to work this month after 10 years on disability, and she doesn't care that he's earning less than she does: "Anything at all helps, and beyond $200 a month it's all extra!" So she asked what on earth I'd do now, and I said, "retire?" We kept consoling ourselves throughout the shift-- when someone left a shitty tip, or when the bartender's aggressive sales tactics stole a customer, we'd shrug and say, "Don't need it!"
I did express some worry that the quality of our service would go downhill without that extra "if I don't do well today moneywise I can't afford rent" motivation...
I got home and Z was utterly full of really fascinating-sounding ideas for the magazine, all sorts of really neat and innovative ways of improving the "synergy" (he kept using that word) between departments. Things like podcasts and the like. But he is sensible enough to know that these ideas may be farfetched, and he's going to pitch them to Webmaster, who's a friend enough now to be able to tell Z what's feasible and what's completely outside of anything the company would ever consider.
He's also got some really ambitious plans for various of the workflow-type issues the company's having (they have seven thousand fonts and no reliable system for them, for example). He's also got a kind of a plan in place for which things to work on first to earn the necessary trust he'll need from the users to implement change. (Users are always wary of change, especially change from some overambitious IT cowboy who may not understand what he's changing. At least Z knows better than to implement change the day before the magazine's deadline.)
So he's adorably competent-and-excited about that.
Should write more, should go back and catch up on flist, but am feeling somewhat fried and generally unhealthy. So I shall attempt to be back later instead. Urgh.
At 7:50 Ubermanager shows up and helps me clear off some tables, since the porter is missing. He then takes my card from me (there's a card you have to use to open the register) and rings up a bunch of orders. For food that the kitchen informed me they were out of. And for food that I know better than to ring through less than ten minutes before the kitchen closed. The unit lead came out, holding the tickets that had printed on the kitchen printer (bearing my orders and my name): "We don't have any more wings! We don't have any more fries! I told you that! We can't do these orders!" I threw up my hands (I really did make that gesture) and pointed to Ubermanager.
"I have nothing to do with this," I said. "I don't even know who these orders are for."
...
So I got down to the cash office at 8:35 and waited for over an hour in the uncooled hallway. Motherfuckers. You don't take tables without asking the waitress, I'm sorry. Not in a venue where there's a takeout service, and also a bored bartender. No.
Also, you don't put through an order ten minutes before closing that will require the kitchen to cook for fifteen more minutes. No. That's just stupid. I saw the cook, while I was waiting to cash out, and fortunately she understood that I had nothing to do with it and was just as mad as she was. So if Ubermanager turns up in components in a Dumpster, you didn't hear nothin' about it from me.
Jeez.
And I even think the management likes me. I can't imagine what they do to the people they don't like. (Actually I sort of know.) They've got me on 11-7:00 shifts all the next two weeks. And they're good shifts, I appreciate it, but they're the worst shifts as far as trying to take the goddamn motherfucking bus is concerned. (It gets you there at either 10 or 12, and if you miss the on-the-dot 7 bus, you gotta hang out until 8:30.)
Le sigh; life is so hard.
On a more cheerful note, the senior waitress and I (who share a register two days a week under my schedule from the last six months, tho' not for the next 2 weeks at least which is a shame) were both rejoicing in no longer being the sole income earners. Her husband's back to work this month after 10 years on disability, and she doesn't care that he's earning less than she does: "Anything at all helps, and beyond $200 a month it's all extra!" So she asked what on earth I'd do now, and I said, "retire?" We kept consoling ourselves throughout the shift-- when someone left a shitty tip, or when the bartender's aggressive sales tactics stole a customer, we'd shrug and say, "Don't need it!"
I did express some worry that the quality of our service would go downhill without that extra "if I don't do well today moneywise I can't afford rent" motivation...
I got home and Z was utterly full of really fascinating-sounding ideas for the magazine, all sorts of really neat and innovative ways of improving the "synergy" (he kept using that word) between departments. Things like podcasts and the like. But he is sensible enough to know that these ideas may be farfetched, and he's going to pitch them to Webmaster, who's a friend enough now to be able to tell Z what's feasible and what's completely outside of anything the company would ever consider.
He's also got some really ambitious plans for various of the workflow-type issues the company's having (they have seven thousand fonts and no reliable system for them, for example). He's also got a kind of a plan in place for which things to work on first to earn the necessary trust he'll need from the users to implement change. (Users are always wary of change, especially change from some overambitious IT cowboy who may not understand what he's changing. At least Z knows better than to implement change the day before the magazine's deadline.)
So he's adorably competent-and-excited about that.
Should write more, should go back and catch up on flist, but am feeling somewhat fried and generally unhealthy. So I shall attempt to be back later instead. Urgh.
