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Know how I keep mentioning how much I loathe my job? How it wears on me, the gossip, the in fighting, the drama? The seemingly bottomless immaturity?

I got a promotion.

No, excuse me, a "promotion". Air quotes, as it were. No increase in pay. No real benefit, at all, really. But I got a title. Sigh.

I got this title because no one wants to work banquets, because no one makes money on banquets anymore since the gratuity policy has been changed. Management is proposing a new banquet gratuity policy, wherein people with titles are required to be at both restaurants at all times to facilitate the implementation of the new policies.

Therefore, as the current title holder at the other restaurant wishes to have a life.....I come in. I am currently the holder of this title one day a week at the restaurant I normally work in, and now will be firmly clasping this title to my chest 3 out of the four days I work.

Fucking kill me.

I didn't really get asked if I wanted this title. The options were me or the girl that hasn't read a book since the third grade--Management went with me, thereby going against all patterns in their decision making history up to this point.

Pretty much what happened was I was told that I was going to do this so that everyone can make more money. Not me, however. I cannot get an increase in pay, even though the other holders of this title did. No, I will not be given the same responsibilities that they have--so I will continue to make minimum wage. (Plus tips.) I'm the relief pitcher. The lesser of 24 evils. The most competent incompetent in the house, as it were. Someone needs to do this, so that everyone else will be happy, so that the bitching will cease.

And under the bus I go.

Can you tell I'm not thrilled? I mean, a job is a job. But I hate the other restaurant. I don't want to waltz in there, and have the girls that have been there for so long resent the fact that I now hold this title and they don't. Whatever.

I'm in it for the benefits package. Shhh, don't tell. :)

Not really worth the wait

Yeah, so I was away from the computer for about ten days.

No really good reason. Staying with T. There is no internet there. Working too much. No internet there, either.

I just ate almost half of a container of coolwhip with a spoon for dinner.

Disgusted? I am.

The "ladies" (I use that term loosely) I work with have invited me (ME! GRANDMA!) out to the bar tonight. I think I may go, just to assuage some of the rumors that have been going around work. But I can't help but think they have nebulous plans.

Will I ever trust people again? Mah.

All I really want to do is sleep and watch COPS. And eat more coolwhip. (Still gross.)

Depressin' and Stressin'

Happy Not Halloween.

I worked, in costume, as the "Ghost of the restaurant where I work Past"--I wore my old work uniform that everyone hated.

No one got it that didn't work for the company a year ago.

Whatever.

Work is becoming more arduous as time passes. But that's any job, isn't it?

The in-fighting, the gossip, the not being able to trust anyone, the high school mentality. I hate it. Really. Being stabbed in the back just because you are there is not good.

On my day to be "in charge" (not that I get paid any more to do this, of course, like all the other 'in charge' people) I worked a double shift, and we got HOSED we were so busy during happy hour. My least favorite employee is supposed to be coming in to cover the shift of my favorite employee at 5 pm.

She didn't show until almost 6:30.

When she did, I had not opened the upstairs section of the restaurant nor had I been able to send the lunch crew home, because that would entail leaving one server alone in a bar FULL of people. Not acceptable.

Now, this person, who is my least favorite....She really, really is my least favorite. She is a bitch. Really. Like, this is not my humble opinion--she's a bitch. Two faced. Openly admits to talking shit behind people's backs, because she can. Refuses to adhere to any work ethic on days when I'm in charge--because it's me. (Granted, she has been there longer than I. But still. It's not like I'm marching around barking orders at people. If shit goes down, it's my ass. That's pretty much it.) I don't love it.

Anyway, she rolls in, and in front of the restaurant manager, pulls me aside and says, "I need to leave early. {policy states that the first one in the door is the first one out--Me.} I'm sick, I have class tomorrow, and I'm leaving at eight. I don't care if you work upstairs or down, but I am leaving."

To which I responded?

"Least Favorite? I have ten tables. I don't give a shit where you work--just get your ass in the game. There are six people upstairs waiting to be seated--either get up there and take care of them or take my ten tables. But do it now."

She then stands there for ten minutes, doing nothing.

Finally, she says to me, "Did you decide where you wanted to work?"

I nearly killed her.

"Just go upstairs!"

Things slow down rapidly after happy hour ends. I send the lunch crew home, after nearly weeping at them for how wonderful they are. I get the other server squared away and caught up, and then made an executive decision.

I walk upstairs, to least favorite.

She's sitting in the wait station, on the phone.

I start talking to her, even though she is obviously busy. Ha, ha.

"Hey, since you're so sick, go home."

"What?"

"If you are as sick as you say you are, and as exhausted with your other job--I appreciate you being willing to cover for Favorite, but Other Server and I have it under control. Just go. I will take your table."

"I don't want you to be mad at me! But, you know, you do owe me, after all."

Thank god I didn't have anything sharp near me.

"Just. Go. Home."

So she did. Twenty minutes later.

She was on the clock for less than thirty minutes. WHY EVEN SHOW THE FUCK UP????

Sigh.

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There are aspects of my life that I don't discuss on the blog. Hell, I don't really discuss them, period. But especially not on the blog. And these things are really, really bad right now. And so I am stressed and depressed.

Sorry for that little teaser.

Retarded....er.

Is the word my coworker used to describe the act of being stoned.

Anyone who has smoked pot knows this is a rather apt description.

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I was talking to a friend of mine last night, who every time I talk to her one of us winds up peeing from laughing so hard (such gems as "Cute girls don't eat pussy!" are the culprits), and she came up with a statement that made me choke from laughing.

I told her about how sometimes I find myself saying and/or doing things (usually at work and out of frustration--story to follow) that I know are wildly inappropriate, but I just can't stop myself.

Her response?

"Most people call that being drunk."

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So I was at work, and it was slow. Really, really slow. Like, I haven't had a table in hours kind of slow.

Two middle aged women come in, and sit down. I give them menus, water, and silverware. Take drink orders. Deliver accordingly.

Enough time passes that it is appropriate for me to ask them if they were ready to order, which they were. Sorta.

One woman points to an item on the menu, which has the word "Chicken" in the title. She points to it, and says, "This doesn't have meat in it, does it?", to which I responded, "Chicken."

"No! No, see? Here underneath (she points to the description portion of the menu), it doesn't say anything about meat."

"Chicken, ma'am. There's chicken in the Chicken Appetizer."

She argues some more, totally unwilling to admit and/or notice that she is using the word "chicken" while talking to me.

Suddenly, I explode.

"CHICKEN!", I bark. "THERE'S CHICKEN IN THE CHICKEN APPETIZER!"

The two women look at me like I have just admitted to being a Nazi sympathizer.

I realize my error. I know I need to do something to cover my ass.

I laugh. A forced, half maniacal laugh.

They laugh with me. And order the chicken appetizer.

Note to the public as a whole:

When eating in a restuarant.....

READ THE FUCKING MENU! This isn't a MENSA exam! Third grade reading level required! Please! Your server will begin to bleed in her brain if she has to explain something WRITTEN IN FRONT OF YOU again, and again, and again, and again......

Got Wood? Or, Reasons I Wish I Was a Dude

I am cheap. Hopelessly, tirelessly cheap. I loves me a bargain.....almost to my own detriment. I will go without something seemingly necessary to the rest of the planet to save myself a dime (and yet I smoke....Hrm, there's $100 a month or so I could be saving) and will not complain.

I have electric baseboard heat here at Chez Laundry. This was acceptable when my father was alive, as he required instant, constant heat. Damn the expense, as he would say. We had a wood burning stove as back up for when the power went out (All freaking winter here) and for 'ambiance'.

Since my father has died, I have fully embraced the "fuck the electric company" attitude. I sit in the dark more often than not, and run only necessary equipment all the time. Computer, refrigerator, water heater. Things like this.

I purchased 1/2 a cord of wood from a coworkers husband a few days ago, and had it delivered.

Side bar! I am well versed in wood. When I was living in close proximity to my mother, every freaking weekend my buddy and I would go out in thigh deep snow and cut down trees, then cut them into rounds, then haul the rounds, then split and stack the rounds, then burn them, and then the next weekend.....you see a pattern forming here. I have pretty much nothing but resentment in my heart for cutting firewood, and the idea of having it delivered, ready to stack, to my home, seemed like an extravagance.

So the wood is delivered. I am tickled beyond belief. My coworkers husband? Not so much. See, there is a flight of stairs that needs to be traversed to get to my "wood stacking area", also known as the empty spot by my front door/exterior closet. (used by my neighbors as a patio/storage for barbecue. Fuck that noise! Wood, baby!) I see no problem hauling wood up a flight of stairs to fill a closet. Granted, I had spent that entire morning emptying the closet of last years remnants of wood, stacking and sorting it...without gloves. (I'm so fucking brilliant sometimes. Really. I went to get gloves before J arrived with more wood, however. Logic.)

Anyway, J devises a plan involving planks of wood, pieces of kindling and a wheelbarrow with a hole in it for the wood movement. It works, and I am doubly tickled. (It doesn't take much, you see.)

So we haul. We stack. We carry. I absolutely destroy my fake nails. DESTROY. It was Black-Metal screaming DESTRUCTION. Seriously.

At about the half way mark, I have to pee. I inform J of this, and leave him outside with a cup of coffee and a promise that I will be right back.

I go into the bathroom, admire my destroyed hands, and pee.

And realize that I have started my period. And all the supplies as such are in the other bathroom. With much swearing, I get up, go to the other bathroom, obtain the materials, change my underwear, take care of business.

Walk back outside to J, who is kind of staring off into space. I'm sure he thought I was vomiting or had my intestines fall out because I was gone for so long.

We finish.

J leaves.

I go back inside, after admiring my beautiful wood pile and GINORMOUS pile of cedar kindling (oh, cedar kindling, how I would marry you if I could), and wash my mangled hands.

Then I began thinking.....

Guys don't have to worry about shit like that! They don't have to think about breaking their nails while out in the nature! Don't have to have tampons in their trucks, just in case!

I am such a tomboy in some ways. I resent my period in ways I can't really articulate. But how fitting is it that my tomboy ass would have to hit the pause button while stacking firewood to go deal with her period. Sigh.

TMI? Probably.

I went and had my nails fixed today. I look like a porn star again. (at least my hands do--my tits aren't big enough for porn.) (Welcome, porn googlers!) I told my friend of my wood tribulations, and he said, straight faced, of course, "Too bad the little asian ladies at the salon can't fix your period for you too, huh?"

I thought it was funny. And I love my ladies at the salon. But I would love them more if they could do that, too.

The Smell of Unwashed Human

My hours have been slashed at work. SLASHED. This is a nice reprieve from the 60+ hours I was working any given week a month ago, but it's slightly confusing to have all this time all of a sudden. And no money.

Typically, when I have days off and I am a busy person, my days off are spent filled with just as much hustle and bustle as the rest of the time.

Not so at the moment. I lay on my couch, watching Ninja Warrior on G4 (have you seen this show? So, so rediculous. Cheaters is another favorite.), drinking coffee and....not bathing. Just laying around. After running my ass off for so long making sure that everything was taken care of for everyone else, to have time to myself....It means that not a whole hell of a lot is getting done. Eating, bathing, cleaning, laundry, nothing. A lot of loafing.

Kind of embarrassing when people come over, however.

I made jambalaya last night, with great success. Considering I had never made it before and didn't really have a recipe, I doubt that any cajuns would approve, but us yankees liked it quite a bit. Gets filed under the "There's five pounds of meat in this. Not counting the shrimp. Eat Hearty.".

Well, Super Troopers is calling from the other room.

Father Logic

I have switched to menthol cigarettes.

My father always told me that if it is hot outside or you are sick, you switch to menthols. Don't quit, for chrissakes, just menthol it.

Anyone that knew my father knows that this is dad logic. This is the same man that came up with "It's 5pm in England. Screw the tea, I want some bourbon!" (we live on the west coast. You do the time zone math.) Anyway, so menthols it is.

I'm really getting tired of being sick. I know that I have been sick for so long (like, oh, since dad died!) because of emotional and physical exhaustion...I get the hint. I'm over it. Really. Now I am coughing like my mother (I'm sure the menthols aren't contributing to that at all) and my throat hurts. Most of the people that I know that have this cold have had it for about a month. It just.....hangs.....on. I don't love it.

I hate it when the people whose blogs I read don't repost often enough for my reading pleasure. And yet I do the same thing. Sorry, everyone. Double standards for everyone! Hooray!

I slept last night without Ambien. Apparently drinking a pot of coffee does the same thing to my body as a sleeping pill. (I am SO NORMAL.)

Work is fine. Not making crap for money, as it has been totally slow. Aggravating as usual, however, what with all the in talking and back stabbing and dramadramadrama. This job makes me feel SO OLD. But the money is so, so worth it. I'm not making crap at the moment, like, a third of what I was three months ago, and it's still the best paying job I have ever had. Oh, yes, baby.

The F&B Christmas party is being planned. My manager was telling me about one that she planned for another company, where she had people sign up for karaoke months in advance, so that the "I don't want to go first!" fear didn't matter--it became a game of one-up-man-ship. When the fateful day came, everyone got totally wasted and they began randomly calling people from the list--but there was a surprise.

They did it Gong Show Style. Kitchen staff were drunkenly Gonging the executive chef, waitstaff gonging the accounting department--everyone wasted and nobody caring.

This can only end in tragedy in my company, but it is hilarious to imagine. Especially if you know the people I work with/for.