black and blue
Oct. 24th, 2005 08:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7I ran into a bit of the bar that sticks out yesterday, and the end result is that one thigh up near the hip has a bruise on it that is actually black and actually blue. None of this half-assed purple bullshit. I get really spectacular bruises at Torture Bar. Not that I don't get bruises at Big Busy Bar, it's just that Torture Bar is actually purposely laid out in such a way that bits of it stick out for you to run into.
Yesterday was another ten-plus-hour day full of drama. It was fun. And then, just as I'd been cleared to leave, that God Damned Charlotte flight that had already boarded came back in and said there was something wrong with the plane so they still weren't leaving.
You know, I think I would be less resentful of being forced to stay until the last flight in your section has boarded if two conditions were met: 1) We were actually kept informed of the flight status, and 2) THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE THE FOOD HAVE TO STAY TOO. I can't even count the number of times this conversation has happened: "Man, I guess my flight's not going out any time soon. I was going to eat once I got home, but I guess that's not happening, since I'm stranded here and starving. Let me see your menu." "Umm... The kitchen's closed." "Are you fucking kidding me?" "Have some Baked Lays?"
And it's not even like we have free munchies like a lot of bars do.
But anyway. Got offered a job-- guy sitting at the bar was impressed with my chaotic aplomb in dealing with a full restaurant whilst down one server (amazing! third week in a fucking row we're short somebody) and handed me his business card. It said something about Western New York's Rib Experience or something. I confessed I hadn't heard of it, asked if it was like a cheap bbq joint I'm fond of out by the train station, he shook his head, I asked what he did there, and he explained he's a restaurant consultant who oversees the staffing and setup of restaurants but also helps improve older restaurants. I nodded politely, and went on with the conversation (he was taking this gig in Buffalo, which he implied was much lower pay than usual, because his mother is here and just had a double hip replacement; we comisserated about low pay set against people we love and what we have to choose, etc. "It's true," he said, "everyone I love is here, except one person, which is why i'm in this airport.") Mostly I was just flattered by his actual, concretely-expressed admiration of my skills. (Usually people say [and this happened several times yesterday] "Gosh you're so good" and stiff me. That's pretty much universal-- anyone who admires your skill as a server is going to condescendingly leave you five to ten percent. A compliment like that is the kiss of death.)
So I brought the card home, and told Z of the incident, and only remembered half the restaurant's name. Z stammered out the rest and said "Holy crap, take that job." Apparently the restaurant is a famous prime rib type steakhouse place frequented by high rollers, and the reason I'd never heard of it is that Z's only been there once in his life, and his family is not afraid of expensive restaurants but I guess this one's above and beyond that.
So I think I'll wait for the consultant to come back from his vacation in Manhattan (for his birthday) and maybe give him a call after all. I still have lurking in the back of my mind that I could be one of those bartenders who is a fixture in some venerable location and only works about three nights a week to make enough to get by, and then does his/her own thing the rest of the time. That would be compatible with my desire to write.
A related thought is that i'm more and more attracted to nonfiction-- I just have to become considerably more disciplined as a researcher, which is something I've little to no talent at. I do want to write a book with my sister, or at least some essays, particularly about the Iraq war and the experience of women in the military. She's said she's interested.
In other relatively unrelated news I am exhausted and banged up and can hardly walk. I hurt all over. And my hair has a big snarl in it. Like, a big old rat's nest. There was a bit of a tangle there some days ago, and I've been detangling it every time I shower and then putting my hair up and being done with it, and every time I take my hair down the tangle's still there and more impressive. I don't know how it's doing it. What it means is that I'm about a year overdue for a trim, and it's exacerbated by the dry air of the season change, but it's a huge pain in the ass and I can't get rid of it unless I spend about two hours picking it out, which is time I don't have.
Which, I know, is pretty pathetic, but right now I am unable to guess at how I'm going to get out of this bed and go into work and actually work another eight hours. I am so goddamned exhausted. This is my Friday and I wish I had the guts to just call in, but I don't-- I know they're short because all the new people who weren't getting hours (they hired three too many people for the shifts they had to fill) have quit by now, and now two regulars are out with serious illnesses (one appendix and one thrown-out back), and there's always a chance it'll be busy today and thus my non-showage will be traumatic to my co-workers. Not that any of them would extend the same courtesy to me, but hell, I only get 4 sick days (unpaid) a year now. I suppose I should save them for a time when I actually can't stand up. I can stand today, just not well.
Yesterday was another ten-plus-hour day full of drama. It was fun. And then, just as I'd been cleared to leave, that God Damned Charlotte flight that had already boarded came back in and said there was something wrong with the plane so they still weren't leaving.
You know, I think I would be less resentful of being forced to stay until the last flight in your section has boarded if two conditions were met: 1) We were actually kept informed of the flight status, and 2) THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE THE FOOD HAVE TO STAY TOO. I can't even count the number of times this conversation has happened: "Man, I guess my flight's not going out any time soon. I was going to eat once I got home, but I guess that's not happening, since I'm stranded here and starving. Let me see your menu." "Umm... The kitchen's closed." "Are you fucking kidding me?" "Have some Baked Lays?"
And it's not even like we have free munchies like a lot of bars do.
But anyway. Got offered a job-- guy sitting at the bar was impressed with my chaotic aplomb in dealing with a full restaurant whilst down one server (amazing! third week in a fucking row we're short somebody) and handed me his business card. It said something about Western New York's Rib Experience or something. I confessed I hadn't heard of it, asked if it was like a cheap bbq joint I'm fond of out by the train station, he shook his head, I asked what he did there, and he explained he's a restaurant consultant who oversees the staffing and setup of restaurants but also helps improve older restaurants. I nodded politely, and went on with the conversation (he was taking this gig in Buffalo, which he implied was much lower pay than usual, because his mother is here and just had a double hip replacement; we comisserated about low pay set against people we love and what we have to choose, etc. "It's true," he said, "everyone I love is here, except one person, which is why i'm in this airport.") Mostly I was just flattered by his actual, concretely-expressed admiration of my skills. (Usually people say [and this happened several times yesterday] "Gosh you're so good" and stiff me. That's pretty much universal-- anyone who admires your skill as a server is going to condescendingly leave you five to ten percent. A compliment like that is the kiss of death.)
So I brought the card home, and told Z of the incident, and only remembered half the restaurant's name. Z stammered out the rest and said "Holy crap, take that job." Apparently the restaurant is a famous prime rib type steakhouse place frequented by high rollers, and the reason I'd never heard of it is that Z's only been there once in his life, and his family is not afraid of expensive restaurants but I guess this one's above and beyond that.
So I think I'll wait for the consultant to come back from his vacation in Manhattan (for his birthday) and maybe give him a call after all. I still have lurking in the back of my mind that I could be one of those bartenders who is a fixture in some venerable location and only works about three nights a week to make enough to get by, and then does his/her own thing the rest of the time. That would be compatible with my desire to write.
A related thought is that i'm more and more attracted to nonfiction-- I just have to become considerably more disciplined as a researcher, which is something I've little to no talent at. I do want to write a book with my sister, or at least some essays, particularly about the Iraq war and the experience of women in the military. She's said she's interested.
In other relatively unrelated news I am exhausted and banged up and can hardly walk. I hurt all over. And my hair has a big snarl in it. Like, a big old rat's nest. There was a bit of a tangle there some days ago, and I've been detangling it every time I shower and then putting my hair up and being done with it, and every time I take my hair down the tangle's still there and more impressive. I don't know how it's doing it. What it means is that I'm about a year overdue for a trim, and it's exacerbated by the dry air of the season change, but it's a huge pain in the ass and I can't get rid of it unless I spend about two hours picking it out, which is time I don't have.
Which, I know, is pretty pathetic, but right now I am unable to guess at how I'm going to get out of this bed and go into work and actually work another eight hours. I am so goddamned exhausted. This is my Friday and I wish I had the guts to just call in, but I don't-- I know they're short because all the new people who weren't getting hours (they hired three too many people for the shifts they had to fill) have quit by now, and now two regulars are out with serious illnesses (one appendix and one thrown-out back), and there's always a chance it'll be busy today and thus my non-showage will be traumatic to my co-workers. Not that any of them would extend the same courtesy to me, but hell, I only get 4 sick days (unpaid) a year now. I suppose I should save them for a time when I actually can't stand up. I can stand today, just not well.
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no subject
Date: 2005-10-24 02:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-24 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-25 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-25 01:05 pm (UTC)The "kiss of death" is when the customer says, "Oh you're such a good waitress" or whatever. If they comment on your excellent service, then they will most certainly not reward you for that excellent service. It has taken much of the pleasure out of being complimented. Knowing that I'm a good waitress does not pay my bills: being PAID for being a good waitress pays my bills.
And 10% is pretty fucking shitty when you've run your ass off for someone and they've ACKNOWLEDGED that you've run your ass off for them. I'm sorry. That's really shitty, and condescending, to say You are good at your job, and then to pay less than the going rate for said job. The standard is 15%. When I'm on my game I usually make nearly 20%. I like that; it means I'm making people happy. To be told I'm making someone happy, and to open the envelope and find $1.98 on a $22 tab-- those are two very contradictory messages, and I am more likely to believe the one that is in cold hard cash.
Which would mean they were lying. Which tends to open another can of worms, does it not?
This is why I detest the happy-face-sad-wallet routine with all my heart. And why I found the man giving me his business card to be such a truly touchingly sincere gesture. (He also tipped something around 40% when all was said and done. So I believe him.)