Will the hookups at work ever cease?
Seriously, people.
I took almost 2 weeks off after dad passed, which is totally fine with me and all other parties concerned (it better be!).
In those 10 sweet, family filled, stress causing, ulcer activating days, there was one firing, one assault, one lesbian hookup (to please the boys, apparently) one post-assault adulterous hookup, one on-going inter company hookup, countless fights and more and more drama.
I work in a pornographic Junior High, I swear.
"Where's Grandma's Cane?" has become my new mantra in referring to myself in these situations. I am a mere 2-5 years older than these people, but decades more mature, apparently. I'm wildly over it. How hard is it to understand a few key principles of life?
-Screwing around on your husband (or at least trying to) is a bad idea.
-Pulling a gun on someone is a bad idea. Even worse idea if you're both on the clock.
-Humping two coworkers and lying about it to both of them is a bad idea.
-Lying in general is a bad idea.
-Engaging in homosexual activity can be fun and harmless, but will cause lots of drama and gossip if done at a company party.
-Telling your coworker that she's "no fun" when she doesn't want to party because her father just died is a really, really bad idea.
-Assuming that the close friend of someone you have wronged in a terrible, unforgivable way will not tell said person of your attempts to continue wronging them is really just fucking retarded.
I work with sociopathic children. Mostly. I do love some of my coworkers.....but they're all over 30. Interesting.
My sister finally left. She will be leaving the state tomorrow, but she's out of my hair for now, thank god. Alone time is very much needed at the moment.
Oh, and Insomnia? Knock it the fuck off, thanks.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Thunder in the distance
T's car decided to shuffle off this mortal coil this week.
He is not happy.
My mother has decided to move here for the winter.
I am not happy.
(she's not planning on living with me, thank god)
I have returned to work.
I am so fucking over it.
My acrylic nails have a)chipped b)lifted and c)stained this week. Son of a whore. My thumb is now encased in a lovely mix of super glue and wood glue. Gives it a 'boogerish' sheen, actually. sexy.
I am really, really tired. If my sister wakes me up at the crack of stupid tomorrow, I am going to stab someone.
And.....thats about it.
He is not happy.
My mother has decided to move here for the winter.
I am not happy.
(she's not planning on living with me, thank god)
I have returned to work.
I am so fucking over it.
My acrylic nails have a)chipped b)lifted and c)stained this week. Son of a whore. My thumb is now encased in a lovely mix of super glue and wood glue. Gives it a 'boogerish' sheen, actually. sexy.
I am really, really tired. If my sister wakes me up at the crack of stupid tomorrow, I am going to stab someone.
And.....thats about it.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Chapter Two
Is going to be short.
See, we have four adults living in a small 2 bedroom condo at the moment. Sometimes 5. (me and my 3 sisters, and T, periodically). One of my sisters wakes up at the "crack of stupid", one gets up to pee/smoke approximately 3596 times per night, and the other is deaf in one ear and sleeps through it all.
I am the insomniac, who stays up until ungodly hours and sleeps in. Most of the time.
Yesterday and today were the first days since dad passed that I was up after 9am.
Crack of stupid sister is up at 4 or 5. Watching TV, working out. Smoking/peeing sister is, well, up and smoking or peeing all the time, but up for good about 6. Deaf sister is up by 7 or eight. This means that there are 3 women, up, drinking coffee, eating breakfast, watching Ellen, smoking and rifling around the condo by eight am at the latest.
This sounds totally humane unless you went to bed at about 3:30.
I shouldn't complain. Having them here, as stressful and aggravating as is can be, is nice. We haven't all been together in ten years.
All in all, I am handling dad's death better than I thought I would in a lot of ways, and really really poorly in others. He was the center of my attention for so long that without him here I feel kind of lost. I got so used to getting up every morning and him sitting in the kitchen, pouring him his coffee (two sugars!)and us reading the paper together before I went to work. I get up now, and he's not there. Just a blank spot--No one sits in the kitchen anymore. I don't have to worry about him anymore....But I miss him. The banter, the swearing, the laughing, the half-fighting sometimes....I worried about him constantly, and I worried about him up until the doctor pronounced him dead.
My voice was the only sound he would respond to.
His last words were spoken to me, and he was assuaging my worry. It was the most coherent thing he had said at all in hours, and the longest period of time he had been conscious. He knew I was there, he knew I gave a shit. He knew I was worried, but not that I was afraid.
Five minutes later, his heart stopped.
I didn't tell him I loved him.
I didn't say goodnight before he went to bed.
I did, however, tell him to go back to sleep. He told me he didn't hurt, no, not at all, but he was so sleepy. I told him it was ok, and to sleep.
He didn't wake up.
Now I am faced with the task of accepting my new life, a life lived for myself. The care of my parents is no longer my main priority (as much as my mother doesn't think so). The idea that I can finish college, get married, move, buy a car.....without once having to think "but what about my (insert responsibility here)"....totally weird. It's going to take time.
Just like getting used to the kitchen being empty. To reading the paper alone. It's just going to take time.
See, we have four adults living in a small 2 bedroom condo at the moment. Sometimes 5. (me and my 3 sisters, and T, periodically). One of my sisters wakes up at the "crack of stupid", one gets up to pee/smoke approximately 3596 times per night, and the other is deaf in one ear and sleeps through it all.
I am the insomniac, who stays up until ungodly hours and sleeps in. Most of the time.
Yesterday and today were the first days since dad passed that I was up after 9am.
Crack of stupid sister is up at 4 or 5. Watching TV, working out. Smoking/peeing sister is, well, up and smoking or peeing all the time, but up for good about 6. Deaf sister is up by 7 or eight. This means that there are 3 women, up, drinking coffee, eating breakfast, watching Ellen, smoking and rifling around the condo by eight am at the latest.
This sounds totally humane unless you went to bed at about 3:30.
I shouldn't complain. Having them here, as stressful and aggravating as is can be, is nice. We haven't all been together in ten years.
All in all, I am handling dad's death better than I thought I would in a lot of ways, and really really poorly in others. He was the center of my attention for so long that without him here I feel kind of lost. I got so used to getting up every morning and him sitting in the kitchen, pouring him his coffee (two sugars!)and us reading the paper together before I went to work. I get up now, and he's not there. Just a blank spot--No one sits in the kitchen anymore. I don't have to worry about him anymore....But I miss him. The banter, the swearing, the laughing, the half-fighting sometimes....I worried about him constantly, and I worried about him up until the doctor pronounced him dead.
My voice was the only sound he would respond to.
His last words were spoken to me, and he was assuaging my worry. It was the most coherent thing he had said at all in hours, and the longest period of time he had been conscious. He knew I was there, he knew I gave a shit. He knew I was worried, but not that I was afraid.
Five minutes later, his heart stopped.
I didn't tell him I loved him.
I didn't say goodnight before he went to bed.
I did, however, tell him to go back to sleep. He told me he didn't hurt, no, not at all, but he was so sleepy. I told him it was ok, and to sleep.
He didn't wake up.
Now I am faced with the task of accepting my new life, a life lived for myself. The care of my parents is no longer my main priority (as much as my mother doesn't think so). The idea that I can finish college, get married, move, buy a car.....without once having to think "but what about my (insert responsibility here)"....totally weird. It's going to take time.
Just like getting used to the kitchen being empty. To reading the paper alone. It's just going to take time.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Finality of the Situation
My father passed away at 6:34 Tuesday morning.
It was sudden.
It was painless.
He was not alone.
None of these things really make me feel any better about it.
All I know now is that he isn't sick anymore. He doesn't hurt anymore. He knows how much I love him, and how he changed my life, for better or worse.
I suppose that's all that matters, now.
Give them hell, Dad.
It was sudden.
It was painless.
He was not alone.
None of these things really make me feel any better about it.
All I know now is that he isn't sick anymore. He doesn't hurt anymore. He knows how much I love him, and how he changed my life, for better or worse.
I suppose that's all that matters, now.
Give them hell, Dad.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Of Doctors, Dingbats and Distance
First off, a short note to my father's primary care physician:
With that said, I will explain.
This man has, at least twice, attempted to kill my father. Not conciously, of course, but has done so. He prescribed a medication that had terrible side effects, which he did not warn my father about, nor did he appear to have any knowledge of them when my FATHER WAS NEARLY HOSPITALIZED WITH THOSE VERY SIDE EFFECTS. I researched all the medication he was taking and figured out what was wrong. ME! What the hell do I know about medicine, assclown? Do your fucking JOB!
The next time he left my father hanging after a fall where he BROKE HIS FUCKING BACK--told him "don't do anything until I call you back", and then LEFT FOR FRANCE. My father, being the man that he is, sat there waiting for almost 12 hours(!?!?!?!) before I threatened him into going to the hospital.
However, lately, my problems with this man have been of a more personal nature. First off, he refused to call me with any appointment changes when he knows perfectly well that my father is as good with information like that as Guy Pierce was in Memento. After we missed two appointments, he called me (wow! Look at the goddamn paperwork! It says in big letters CALL THE DAUGHTER) and said (and I QUOTE!) "If you aren't responsible or mature enough to manage your father's care, then you need to look into another option."
But today, Oh. TODAY.
He called, and informed me that my fathers cumadin (cumadin, for those of you not strapped with octogenarian parents with bum tickers, is a very strong blood thinner. If taken improperly, it can cause internal hemmorrage and death. If you or I were to take it, it could easily be fatal.) levels were far, far too high. FROM LAST WEEK. (my father gives blood three times a week at dialysis. how nice of you to look at the records they fax you, dick!) and that this week they were high as well. He asked me what dosage dad has been taking.
"The same dose he was before he had his lung drained." (dad has to stop cumadin before surgery, obviously.)
"Well, what dose is that??", he responds. (Look in the goddamn chart, asshole.)
"I assume its the 2.5mg once daily.", I said.
"I thought you were his CAREGIVER!"
Now, I don't administer dad's medication. I know what he takes, why, and what dose, mostly because I get all of his prescriptions for him, but also because we are in and out of the hospital so much it is handy information to have. But when it comes time to actually take the pill, dad does it himself. I told the doctor that.
"But these levels could be fatal! He could die and you could have done something to stop it! I need to talk to him. Where is he?"
I explained that he was at dialysis. He would be back later this evening.
"He's at dialysis and you aren't there with him? What if something happens!? You're his CAREGIVER!"
If something happens while dad is dialysizing, he's SURROUNDED BY NURSES. Yes, I am his caregiver, who also happens to be his maid, taxi service, personal chef, laundress, errand girl, mechanic, date planner....oh, and HAS A MORE THAN FULL TIME JOB ON TOP OF ALL THAT! Of course I'm sitting at dialysis with dad for 15 hours a week! It's not like I don't have anything else to do besides watch him stare at a television with headphones on for 5 hours while SURROUNDED BY TRAINED MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS. No, that would cut into my loafing about whilst eating bon-bons time. Son of a bitch.
Anyway, I informed my sisters of this development and we are breaking up with this doctor. Too bad, dad. (Dad loves this man. Couldn't tell me why, but he does. Hetero crush or something.)
Lots of caps this post. Sorry. Little peeved.
Anyway.
I am so, so tired of morons. Really. No, really. Every day, more morons. Simple, normal tasks--too complex. I'm so tired of having to explain myself to my tables at work, repeat the same fucking answers to the same retardo questions over and over again.....it's getting old.
My mother purchased a motorhome in which she will now permanently reside. She's mobile, people! (She is currently living in a reformed meth-lab with a family of raccoons. They were there first.) She is, however, talking of moving to ARIZONA. Oh, sweet, merciful christ.....Please. She was talking about moving here, which would cause me to implode. seriously.
With that said, I will explain.
This man has, at least twice, attempted to kill my father. Not conciously, of course, but has done so. He prescribed a medication that had terrible side effects, which he did not warn my father about, nor did he appear to have any knowledge of them when my FATHER WAS NEARLY HOSPITALIZED WITH THOSE VERY SIDE EFFECTS. I researched all the medication he was taking and figured out what was wrong. ME! What the hell do I know about medicine, assclown? Do your fucking JOB!
The next time he left my father hanging after a fall where he BROKE HIS FUCKING BACK--told him "don't do anything until I call you back", and then LEFT FOR FRANCE. My father, being the man that he is, sat there waiting for almost 12 hours(!?!?!?!) before I threatened him into going to the hospital.
However, lately, my problems with this man have been of a more personal nature. First off, he refused to call me with any appointment changes when he knows perfectly well that my father is as good with information like that as Guy Pierce was in Memento. After we missed two appointments, he called me (wow! Look at the goddamn paperwork! It says in big letters CALL THE DAUGHTER) and said (and I QUOTE!) "If you aren't responsible or mature enough to manage your father's care, then you need to look into another option."
But today, Oh. TODAY.
He called, and informed me that my fathers cumadin (cumadin, for those of you not strapped with octogenarian parents with bum tickers, is a very strong blood thinner. If taken improperly, it can cause internal hemmorrage and death. If you or I were to take it, it could easily be fatal.) levels were far, far too high. FROM LAST WEEK. (my father gives blood three times a week at dialysis. how nice of you to look at the records they fax you, dick!) and that this week they were high as well. He asked me what dosage dad has been taking.
"The same dose he was before he had his lung drained." (dad has to stop cumadin before surgery, obviously.)
"Well, what dose is that??", he responds. (Look in the goddamn chart, asshole.)
"I assume its the 2.5mg once daily.", I said.
"I thought you were his CAREGIVER!"
Now, I don't administer dad's medication. I know what he takes, why, and what dose, mostly because I get all of his prescriptions for him, but also because we are in and out of the hospital so much it is handy information to have. But when it comes time to actually take the pill, dad does it himself. I told the doctor that.
"But these levels could be fatal! He could die and you could have done something to stop it! I need to talk to him. Where is he?"
I explained that he was at dialysis. He would be back later this evening.
"He's at dialysis and you aren't there with him? What if something happens!? You're his CAREGIVER!"
If something happens while dad is dialysizing, he's SURROUNDED BY NURSES. Yes, I am his caregiver, who also happens to be his maid, taxi service, personal chef, laundress, errand girl, mechanic, date planner....oh, and HAS A MORE THAN FULL TIME JOB ON TOP OF ALL THAT! Of course I'm sitting at dialysis with dad for 15 hours a week! It's not like I don't have anything else to do besides watch him stare at a television with headphones on for 5 hours while SURROUNDED BY TRAINED MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS. No, that would cut into my loafing about whilst eating bon-bons time. Son of a bitch.
Anyway, I informed my sisters of this development and we are breaking up with this doctor. Too bad, dad. (Dad loves this man. Couldn't tell me why, but he does. Hetero crush or something.)
Lots of caps this post. Sorry. Little peeved.
Anyway.
I am so, so tired of morons. Really. No, really. Every day, more morons. Simple, normal tasks--too complex. I'm so tired of having to explain myself to my tables at work, repeat the same fucking answers to the same retardo questions over and over again.....it's getting old.
My mother purchased a motorhome in which she will now permanently reside. She's mobile, people! (She is currently living in a reformed meth-lab with a family of raccoons. They were there first.) She is, however, talking of moving to ARIZONA. Oh, sweet, merciful christ.....Please. She was talking about moving here, which would cause me to implode. seriously.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Mid-Dash
Hey, I was supposed to get released from work at 4pm yesterday.
I got home about 9:30.
Know what today is?
My day 'off'.
I'm leaving for work in twenty minutes.
Damn. But the paycheck will rock.
(and at least I got to sleep in for an extra hour--we like that.)
I got home about 9:30.
Know what today is?
My day 'off'.
I'm leaving for work in twenty minutes.
Damn. But the paycheck will rock.
(and at least I got to sleep in for an extra hour--we like that.)
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The Return
I don't know that I have mentioned before my all-time least favorite customer at work.
The Lemon Lady.
The Lemon Lady, and her 'Handler', as I call her, used to frequent our restaurant twice a week or so. This is common in parts of the world populated mostly by retirees who have managed to alienate their children somehow--They hire an aide, who then takes them out on the town to attempt to alienate strangers. Lucrative business, that.
Anyway. Whenever the Lemon Lady and Handler would arrive (usually right after we opened) there would be much scrambling around and '123 NOT IT' going on--No one wanted to wait on her. She is a mean spirited, high maitenence, never pleased customer who rarely tips anything. Her handler is rude and barely speaks english. (I can't begrudge her the rudeness--look at what she does for a living! I would hate my life as well.)
The Lemon Lady was given her name by the fact that she demands lare quantities of lemon wedges with her meal, water, salad, french fries, air, and anything else we may have to offer her. So vast was her lemon usage that we had to start charging her for lemons--After the random freeze in California last year when all the citrus crops died and fruit of that genre was rediculously expensive especially. This made her already cantankerous demeanor even worse, and she stopped coming to our restaurant.
No one was sad.
Last week I mentioned her, and how we hadn't seen her for several months.
'Maybe she died', volunteered my co-worker. (Eternal optimist, can't you tell?)
I hoped that she hadn't died. As much as she was a HUGE pain in the ass, she was probably that way because she was lonely and scorned, right? She was mean and demanding because life had screwed her somehow, and we should cut her some slack.
Today, that all changed.
Shortly after we had opened, in walks the lemon lady and her handler. They take a table on the deck, (which suprised the shit out of me, as this is a woman that once yelled, really YELLED at me for the sun being out last winter) and I realize that I am alone in the restaurant. My coworkers have deserted me, and therefore damned me to serving the old blister.
I walk out to the table. Greet, menu, silverware and water them. Lemon lady looks at me and says
"What is your fish special today?"
"Well, in the fish and chips, today the fish is cod." (I didn't want to even tell her we don't offer specials anymore. I would rather have stabbed myself in the eye with my pen.)
"I want that."
Shit, that was easy! Normally it's a ten minute fight to get her to order something. Hell, maybe the old scab is on new medication or something. Huh.
The handler orders a salad, and I ask if they would like something besides water to drink.
"Maybe she want the wine," says the Handler. I look to the Lemon Lady. She glowers up at me, her rhumey eyes narrowing.
"You know, every time I eat here, I swear I'm never coming back. And look at me now." Even the handler was shocked at that one. I couldn't have cared less. I have so much shit going on right now, this woman being a bitch was a walk in the park.
"I'll take that as a 'no' on the wine order, then." And I walked off.
Suddenly, the restaurant is filled to capacity. FULL. Standing room only. There are two servers, including myself, on the floor. We are slammed, and running. Not good.
The food arrives, and I take it to the Lemon Lady's table. She is now surrounded by other people, who are looking at her food. (Aside: Dear Woman Who Stopped Me While I Was Carrying a 30 Pound Tray of Food to Ogle It And Demand That I Tell You What Everything Is: Go fuck yourself sideways, you dumb bitch. Read the fucking menu.) I drop off the salad for the handler, and the fish and chips for the Lemon Lady.
"What the hell is this?", she says, jabbing a knotted finger at the coleslaw.
"Coleslaw, ma'am."
"And this? What the hell is this?"
"Tartar Sauce, ma'am."
"I don't want any goddamn tartar sauce! I want LEMON! Are you stupid? I want LEMON!"
I point out that there are seven lemon wedges on her plate. That, as far as I am concerned, is LEMON. Less than five wedges, lowercase letters. More than five? LEMON!
All the surrounding tables are now staring at us. All the world's a stage and all that.
"I will bring you some more lemon, ma'am."
"You better! I hate this restaurant! And you! I hate you!!!"
I really, really, really wanted to say,
"Really? I hate you too."
But I didn't. I smiled, dropped a check at another table, and retrieved more LEMON! Oh, and I charged her for it.
Then I left her the fuck alone. Screw you, bitch. At least we know you won't get scurvy.
Time for the check, now. I am really running by this time. Sweating, out of breath, running to take care of all my tables. (We don't have sections at my restaurant. So you get tables on the deck, in the bar, by the windows--it's not a huge joint, but it makes for some good footwork. Oh, and the kitchen is up two flights of stairs. Hooray!)
I bring her her check. Did I give her the local discount? Yes. Did I make sure not to over charge her? Yes.
Wait a minute.
"What the hell is this? A side of fruit? I didn't order a side of fruit!"
"Ma'am, those are your lemons. (LEMONS!) Remember, when you have four whole lemons worth of wedges, we have to charge you."
"Who decided that?"
"Our executive chef, ma'am. I believe he spoke to you about this one of the last times you were in."
"Your executive chef is a bastard!"
Silence wrapped itelf around the deck. Everyone stopped eating and looked at her. She realized it, too, and was embarrassed.
She paid.
And tipped a whopping three dollars.
The Lemon Lady.
The Lemon Lady, and her 'Handler', as I call her, used to frequent our restaurant twice a week or so. This is common in parts of the world populated mostly by retirees who have managed to alienate their children somehow--They hire an aide, who then takes them out on the town to attempt to alienate strangers. Lucrative business, that.
Anyway. Whenever the Lemon Lady and Handler would arrive (usually right after we opened) there would be much scrambling around and '123 NOT IT' going on--No one wanted to wait on her. She is a mean spirited, high maitenence, never pleased customer who rarely tips anything. Her handler is rude and barely speaks english. (I can't begrudge her the rudeness--look at what she does for a living! I would hate my life as well.)
The Lemon Lady was given her name by the fact that she demands lare quantities of lemon wedges with her meal, water, salad, french fries, air, and anything else we may have to offer her. So vast was her lemon usage that we had to start charging her for lemons--After the random freeze in California last year when all the citrus crops died and fruit of that genre was rediculously expensive especially. This made her already cantankerous demeanor even worse, and she stopped coming to our restaurant.
No one was sad.
Last week I mentioned her, and how we hadn't seen her for several months.
'Maybe she died', volunteered my co-worker. (Eternal optimist, can't you tell?)
I hoped that she hadn't died. As much as she was a HUGE pain in the ass, she was probably that way because she was lonely and scorned, right? She was mean and demanding because life had screwed her somehow, and we should cut her some slack.
Today, that all changed.
Shortly after we had opened, in walks the lemon lady and her handler. They take a table on the deck, (which suprised the shit out of me, as this is a woman that once yelled, really YELLED at me for the sun being out last winter) and I realize that I am alone in the restaurant. My coworkers have deserted me, and therefore damned me to serving the old blister.
I walk out to the table. Greet, menu, silverware and water them. Lemon lady looks at me and says
"What is your fish special today?"
"Well, in the fish and chips, today the fish is cod." (I didn't want to even tell her we don't offer specials anymore. I would rather have stabbed myself in the eye with my pen.)
"I want that."
Shit, that was easy! Normally it's a ten minute fight to get her to order something. Hell, maybe the old scab is on new medication or something. Huh.
The handler orders a salad, and I ask if they would like something besides water to drink.
"Maybe she want the wine," says the Handler. I look to the Lemon Lady. She glowers up at me, her rhumey eyes narrowing.
"You know, every time I eat here, I swear I'm never coming back. And look at me now." Even the handler was shocked at that one. I couldn't have cared less. I have so much shit going on right now, this woman being a bitch was a walk in the park.
"I'll take that as a 'no' on the wine order, then." And I walked off.
Suddenly, the restaurant is filled to capacity. FULL. Standing room only. There are two servers, including myself, on the floor. We are slammed, and running. Not good.
The food arrives, and I take it to the Lemon Lady's table. She is now surrounded by other people, who are looking at her food. (Aside: Dear Woman Who Stopped Me While I Was Carrying a 30 Pound Tray of Food to Ogle It And Demand That I Tell You What Everything Is: Go fuck yourself sideways, you dumb bitch. Read the fucking menu.) I drop off the salad for the handler, and the fish and chips for the Lemon Lady.
"What the hell is this?", she says, jabbing a knotted finger at the coleslaw.
"Coleslaw, ma'am."
"And this? What the hell is this?"
"Tartar Sauce, ma'am."
"I don't want any goddamn tartar sauce! I want LEMON! Are you stupid? I want LEMON!"
I point out that there are seven lemon wedges on her plate. That, as far as I am concerned, is LEMON. Less than five wedges, lowercase letters. More than five? LEMON!
All the surrounding tables are now staring at us. All the world's a stage and all that.
"I will bring you some more lemon, ma'am."
"You better! I hate this restaurant! And you! I hate you!!!"
I really, really, really wanted to say,
"Really? I hate you too."
But I didn't. I smiled, dropped a check at another table, and retrieved more LEMON! Oh, and I charged her for it.
Then I left her the fuck alone. Screw you, bitch. At least we know you won't get scurvy.
Time for the check, now. I am really running by this time. Sweating, out of breath, running to take care of all my tables. (We don't have sections at my restaurant. So you get tables on the deck, in the bar, by the windows--it's not a huge joint, but it makes for some good footwork. Oh, and the kitchen is up two flights of stairs. Hooray!)
I bring her her check. Did I give her the local discount? Yes. Did I make sure not to over charge her? Yes.
Wait a minute.
"What the hell is this? A side of fruit? I didn't order a side of fruit!"
"Ma'am, those are your lemons. (LEMONS!) Remember, when you have four whole lemons worth of wedges, we have to charge you."
"Who decided that?"
"Our executive chef, ma'am. I believe he spoke to you about this one of the last times you were in."
"Your executive chef is a bastard!"
Silence wrapped itelf around the deck. Everyone stopped eating and looked at her. She realized it, too, and was embarrassed.
She paid.
And tipped a whopping three dollars.
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