working overtime

[dragonlady7]

Since they instituted a mandatory half-hour unpaid break for the bartenders, it's pretty much meant that I never get overtime. I used to wind up staying a few minutes past 7 every couple of nights, but now that the end time is 7:30, for about six weeks now I've been getting out right around on time. It's how I manage to be scheduled 40 hours a week and never get above 37.
But the last three days I've worked, I've been at least half an hour late getting out every night. Because it has been crazystupidbusy repeatedly. And you know, I think I'm going to whine, just for a second, that I am heartily sick of running around crazily like a crazy thing. In the depths of the slow season I will try to remember to read this entry and reflect upon what a fool I am. But I am tired. I did not arrive home last night until after nine o'clock. There was bad weather and eternal fuctitude of the flights, and the bar filled up abruptly with about six dozen people, and I was kept running around, and it was after 8 by the time my last table (four guys with a $140 tab) finally cashed out.

I was working with the one woman who bartends who just never washes dishes. The seniormost waitress was on her case about the dishes, pointing out how I was doing them all (I am very efficient about doing dishes, so I tend to plow through giant piles of dirty glasses in record time-- which doesn't mean I actually have time, I just tend to have the lowest breaking point). She was defensive, etc., and meanwhile, the entire behind-the-bar area was covered in dirty glasses. I was washing glasses as well as tending to my ten tables, and as a consequence was in a tremendous hurry, and she's chirping merrily and condescendingly at me "Slow down!" as I speed by (I wasn't running, I just walk very fast). And I had to pour four Buds, and she wanted to pour one, and got in line, and then just took one of the ones I'd already filled and chirped, "Thanks!" "Fuck you," I answered, and she cheerfully ignored me.
I did several loads, and while putting away a beer glass, I dropped it. It bounced twice, and then broke, and the bartender and a couple of customers were laughing about it. I picked it up-- it had only cracked into two places, and spun around to put it into the garbage can. The bartender was standing leaning on the bar, and as I approached (at speed, as I was doing everything at speed) put her hand over the garbage can. I cannot imagine what would possess someone to do that. And so I thwacked her in the back of the hand with the broken glass, breaking the skin and drawing blood. She was shocked, as was I, and angry, and immediately rounded on me for being too hasty with broken glass.
"Well," I said, near my breaking point, "I am sorry, but someone has to do the dishes, and it seems not to be you!"
She was indignant, but I notice shut up and didn't blame me anymore. It helps that the senior cocktail waitress, when she came back behind the bar and saw the bartender's injury, immediately and without prompting quipped "Well hon, maybe if you did some dishes once in a while," which amuses me immensely. I'm going to tell that story to people who done wronged me.

Urgh, it is only my Tuesday and I don't want to go. I should call in sick tomorrow. Except I get, like, no sick days. And they'll hate me.
I know I owe like six people e-mails, too. Gah! I need a pause button for the rest of my life so that I have time to spend the vast majority of my life at work without falling behind on my social engagements.

Comments

[kkatowll.livejournal.com]

ooooo, can I have a pause button too? I could sooo use one.