One For the History Books

So, while I was away from work, I missed some very interesting shit.

But I have witnessed a HISTORY MAKING MOMENT since my return, dear readers. All 4 of you.

Vomiting Grandpa.

Oh yes, you read that correctly. Vomiting Grandpa.

Something like this has only happened ONCE in 12 years--and it was not even close to the same scale. (the restaurant I work for has been around since the early sixties, but the employee who has been there the longest has been there just over 12 years, so that is where we take our history lessons. So there.)

The first story went something like this.......

A local 'celebrity', of the time, it being the mid-nineties, (she was a real estate agent. And a 'Celebrity'. Do you see what I'm saying about where I live?) was meeting with a retired member of the NBA team for the city closest to us. He was interested in purchasing a home here, and she, by God, was going to sell it to him. Well, they meet. He is a kind, polite man who poses for pictures with the servers, compliments and tips the kitchen personally, and who was about to be horrified beyond his wildest dreams.

See, Local Celebrity Real Estate Agent is nervous. So she has a cocktail. And then another. Now, they are sitting in a bar, so this is alright. And another. And another. (you see where this is going.) In the middle of her show-stopping, career-making dinner with a REAL celebrity, this woman proceeds to vomit directly into the heater. (Oh, and did I mention it was February?) Vomit. Everything she has inside her, shoved out with the force of her desire to sell that home--into the heater.

The retired NBA player? He stood up, took his coat and walked out. Didn't say a word.

The Real Estate agent? She moved to another state.

And now....To Vomiting Grandpa.

Earlier this week, just before the dinner service/Happy hour (Aside:Fuck off, Happy Hour. I really, really hate you, with everything I have inside of me. I could give a shit that business is up 35% from last year--I hate you.) changing of the watch (Read:Changing of the watch equals more servers arrive. Like anyone gets to work a half shift! Ha! I worked 13.5 hours yesterday!), a disheveled, grossly overweight man walks in. He had been in a few hours before, and had ordered several shots of Jose Cuervo gold with a Pale Ale back. (yuck.) He didn't drink enough to appear intoxicated, and several hours had elapsed since his departure, so no one thought anything of serving him again. Only this time, he has his two year old grandson with him.

Let me paint the picture for you. This man would have fit in perfectly in the town where my mother lives. (everyone but the kind soul who reads this from New York understands.) He is wearing stained sweatpants, a torn and similarly stained tshirt, falling apart sneakers. His grey hair is uncombed and dirty, his beard is equally as unruly and is stained yellow in parts. Yummy.

The child is adorable, but a brat. The kind of brat that has been made a brat by being raised by parents who were raised by this man described above. Neglect, alcoholism, no boundaries, etc. And he is two. (Now, I understand that just because people are wearing dirty clothes and don't wash their hair that they may very well be excellent parents. I know several people that fit this description that are fabulous parents. However, let me finish the story and you will understand why and how I came to make that judgement.)

As this dynamic duo arrive, so does our new LEAST favorite server, B, who happens to be a guy. (Lots of Parenthesis this post. Anyway, this guy is super nice and really fun, but he's totally lazy and only took this job because he wants to be an actor and thinks that all actors were at one time waiters, so.....yeah. Makes sense to me. Wait.....No.)I announce to him that it is his table, goddamn it, as he normally comes to work and sings for at least an hour while doing nothing else but occupy space, and this way, well, he's doing SOMETHING.

Thank you, sweet golden fleece diapered baby Jesus, for letting him take this table.

I have a table, as well, and they are the only other people in the restaurant. They are a very sweet retired couple on vacation--total perfect grandparent types. They are on the opposing end of the floor, facing this man.

Vomiting Grandpa is actively taking part in a parenting strategy I like to call "Barking". He sits, never moving, while his grandchild runs rampant through the restaurant, screaming, yelling, damaging things, going behind the bar (!!). Instead of getting up and speaking with the child about how we stay in our seats while in a restaurant, that this is not the playground, that he could be seriously hurt here, that one of us could be seriously hurt were we to be carrying a tray and trip over him, he sits there like a toad and alternately swears/yells/snaps his fingers at the child.

Nice.

Anyway, he orders a coke for the child (coke????He's two! ARGH! Why not give him a cigarette and a miller high life while you're at it??) and yet another shot of Jose and a Pale ale.

The barking and drinking continues. He orders food for himself the child, who is now being babysat by two servers. His food is delivered, the child returned, and they eat.

I walk to my table, and clear a plate. As I am walking back, I look at his table. Suddenly, it looks like the man is spitting his food out onto his plate....(this happens more than one would think, actually)....Wait, no, that's not spit...Oh, Jesus, did that man just puke? Oh, GOD! He barfed! On his plate! Not a lot, but....Yep, that's vomit.

I put the plate down, trying mightily to quell the urge to vomit as well and wipe the look of abject horror off my face. I walk into the break room, where the other servers are.

"B, the man at your table just vomited into his plate."

"WHAT?" is the collective reply of everyone else.

"He barfed. On his plate. He fucking puked!"

"Is he ok?", asks the lead server.

"I don't know! I didn't stop to look! He barfed! I saw him do it!"

It is about this time that we hear the "UUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHAAAAAAAA........splat" of him vomiting for real.

All over himself, the table, the floor. The vomit is creeping slowly towards the child.

Now, I cannot HANDLE vomit. I can if I have to, if someone is in dire need and I love them, small children, etc., but I seriously could not handle this. Tequila, beer, cheeseburger, french fry vomit.

C, another server and I, are standing in the pass way between the bar and the restaurant, trying not to gag. B goes over, pulls the child, who is now yelling "Mess! Mess! Mess!", away from the table and rivulets of his grandfather's vomit, and begins to mop up the mess. The man makes no explanations or apologies. Does not go to the bathroom to clean up. Just sits there and watches this happen.

I realize I have to get the check to my table. I also realize that in order to do this, I will have to walk past the vomit fountain, and will then vomit myself. I look back towards my table, and they make eye contact. They are equally horrified.

The kitchen has now been notified of this "explosion" of events, and bring down rubber gloves and commercial grade cleaners. And laughter. The entire staff of the restaurant (aside from those of us gagging or cleaning) are now silently rolling with laughter in the break room. Tears are being shed from the laughter.

I didn't think it was that funny.

Anyway, I get the check and take it to my table. I thank them for their patience.

"Sweetie, DON'T worry about it!"

The man collects his grandchild and leaves. AND DOESN'T TIP A CENT.

B now has to pull the table out and mop up the rest of the vomit. While he is doing so, THE VOMITING GRANDPA COMES BACK.

And what does he do, you ask? Apologise? Leave money?

Orders another shot and beer. And a cheeseburger, to go.

He is denied the sale of alcohol. No argument, however.

******************************************************

You think this story is over, don't you?

Later that night, he went to the other restaurant, which is 'Fine Dining'. Also, carpeted.

He drank and vomited there as well. From what I hear he asked for another shot and a towel--due to the vomit.

******************************************************

Still not done.

The next day, Vomiting Grandpa returned (!?!?!?!)with his grandson and his wife, who I assume is Vomiting Grandma, but they didn't get that far.

The executive chef, General Manager and Restaurant Manager happened to be in a meeting at another table when he walked in. One of the servers flagged them down and informed them of just who these people were.....

Vomiting Grandma says to her server, "I'm going to be bad! I'll have a shot of Jose Cuervo!", and was denied the sale of alcohol. The three managers walk over.

"Why? Is it because of the kid?", she said, jerking her thumb towards her grandson.

"No, ma'am, it's due to the two incidents we had on property yesterday with your husband. We are unable to serve you alcohol at either location."

"What? What the fuck happened?", she sneers.

"I got sick." Mumbles Vomiting Grandpa.

And you know what? They left. LEFT, because they couldn't drink. All the while, the grandson is crying that he is hungry for breakfast. It was two in the afternoon.

***************************************************************

Now, I ask you, was I judging these people too harshly? Was I wrong when I thought they were bad parents, role models, and guardians for that child? Who acts like that in front of a child aside from my mother? Who doesn't feed a two year old until late afternoon, and then only feeds them fried food and soda to keep them quiet while they get shitfaced?

Jesus.

On the Hook

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)