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.

Not for the faint of heart

Warning: I am totally exhausted while writing this.


My job is beginning to take its toll on me. Actually, my life is beginning to take a toll. I recognise that all things going on in my life right now are at least partially my fault, but I can share the blame on a few things.

Mostly, I am just really fucking tired of my best not being good enough. I feel like everything in my life is suffering in some way, and I am powerless to stop it--that things would be better if I could just do better, but I can't. And then I start to feel guilty, because I should be able to. Can't shouldn't be an option.

For instance.

My house is a disaster. Not 'white trash' disaster, with beercan towers and dogshit on the floor, but laundry piled up, both clean and dirty, the garbage needs to go out, the floor needs to be vacuumed and mopped, so on. It's a mess.

I don't have time to clean it effectively. I work so many fucking hours that I come home exhausted and sleep late (I don't really sleep well until my father gets up in the morning, because I wake up and check on him about 385773 times a night which he would kill me if he knew) and then either dash back out the door to work or dash out to take dad to a doctors appt, dyalisis or something else. Barring that, Im dashing out to take the car to the shop, go to the grocery store, get prescriptions filled, what have you.

Then it's back to sleep, to get up and dash all over again.

I feel guilty because I should schedule my time more wisely. I should get up earlier, do chores, then dash. I should drop dad off at dyalisis, then shop and clean. Instead, Im at work or sleeping.

At work, I have fallen victim to one of the great plunders--Letting it be known that you have a good work ethic--and am being exploited. Those under me that don't have such a great work ethic do as little as possible because they know I will do it, and those above me schedule me to work rediculous hours because they know I will do it.

Aside: There is more to my job than hauling food. That's the easiest part, actually, and the part where you make extra money. The puppies (newbies) recognise this, and will take more tables than they can handle (so the service sucks) and do nothing in the way of side work so they can get the tips. This means that I spend my time NOT making extra money by taking tables, but by washing dishes, rolling silverware, stocking and running interference with the now angry customers who had substandard service. And no one tips me out for doing their share of the side work.

And I don't have the authority to make anyone stop doing this.

I have shared this with the people that do, of course. But they are also being exploited. I got into something of an argument with one of the girls at work over this. I tended bar one night with the pretense of being tipped out as the bartender is supposed to be--and when it came time for that, she said to me "I made all my own drinks on purpose. I'm not tipping you anything.". This was 1)total bullshit and 2)wildy unfair, but I didn't have the energy or authority to do anything. I tended bar for 5 hours and made 20 dollars--I could have (if tipped out by anyone other than my floor captian) made more than 5 times that much, or if I had refused to bartend, made more still. Last time I worked, I was in a position to be tending bar again. I refused. The same girl that refused to tip me because she "did it all herself" came downstairs and got all over my shit for not making her drinks--I looked her straight in the face and said,
"You can handle it. You did last time." to which she responded,

"But its your job." To which I responded,

"Jobs are something you're paid for. I didn't get paid last time, I'm not going to this time--Do it yourself. If you can't handle your tables and making drinks for them, do something different."

She stomped off and accused me of stealing money from her, but that's neither here nor there.

Where was I?

Anyway, all of my time is swallowed by work or dad. Dad gets on me about the house not being clean enough, about not getting the cars fixed, about sleeping too much and not cooking. Work gets on me for not doing everyones share, and needing Fridays off. I feel guilty because I never see my friends, or if I do its for an hour between running here or there, and I miss them and know they miss me, and I feel like I should do better. My sisters get on me for not doing enough for dad, for taking a week to go to California in September and needing their help. Everything in my life is stretched too thin and its all suffering. I take a break now and again--have drinks here, go to a concert there, but its always bathed in guilt. I am going to a concert on Sunday--I really am excited about it, and may be able to redeem myself for punching F in the chest--but am terrified to leave dad all day. I want to be able to go early, have lunch with my friends, see a movie, then have an early dinner with T's family and then go to the show and have drinks afterwards, maybe stay over.....but what will really happen is nothing like that. It will be punctuated by frantic phone calls, scheduling and so on. And I feel bad.

I feel bad for not being as fun as I used to be. For making my friends feel like they aren't important when they are. For leaving dad alone all day, for being on the phone when I should be redeeming myself to the lovely and bruised family members I may never see again.

If I'm at work, I feel guilty for not being at home. When I'm at home, I feel guilty for not being at work. If I'm not at work or at home, I feel guilty for not cleaning my house.

All I want to do is make dad sign those fucking papers to get the home health care people to come, and I can't. I want to sleep for 48 hours. I want to have fun without feeling bad.

I need to go to bed--I have to work a 16 hour day tomorrow.

A Note to Co-Workers, Water-Debate and Antici............pation

None of my coworkers know that this blog exsists. This is a good thing.

Because the first part of this post is dedicated to some of them. Most. Not all.

Dear Co-Workers;

As many of you know, I don't like to be involved in other people's business. I don't like drama, or being a part of it. I love all of you, and your company. Spending time with you is fun, and makes me love my job.

However.

Please stop having sex. With eachother. Please. If you cannot do this, please stop having sex in places that I frequent or may happen upon while or immediatly after carnal activities have taken place.

Yes, we are a good looking lot. Yes, it's summer, a time of love, freedom and play.

It is not time to defile the storage room.

Thank you for your time and consideration in this matter;
Pipsqueaker

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

I love me some fizzy water. San Pellegrino, to be specific. But in a pinch, or when I am feeling cheap, I will deviate. Club soda, Talking Rain, the others. But none is so good as San Pellegrino.

I was at a large grocery store today, and decided to try a new brand. Apollinaris. Sounds greek, yummy, and fizzy.

It sucks.

I bought a gallon of it.

Goddamnit.

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

Harry Potter on Saturday. I may die before then. One of the girls I work with cried just thinking about it.

Oh, yes.

angry tummies, breakups and how not to greet a foreigner

Did you know that viruses can mutate? I knew this, but I am currently living proof of it.

Did you also know that the flu sucks major league ass? That having to work a job where you sweat and run and are basically hot for 13 hours, but aren't allowed to look that way, REALLY SUCKS when you have a 102 degree fever?

Who would have thought?

Everyone at my job came down with the stomach flu at once, with the exception of about 6 people, myself included. If one were to see it on film...

The Staff Stomach Flu, a Film in Three Parts, by Pipsqueaker

Part One:Ignore the Problem and it Will Go Away

(fade from black)

Six waitresses standing behind bar, talking amoungst themselves. Bon Jovi plays in background.

*A GREAT CRASH*

The waitresses look around, confused. Bon Jovi continues to play.

*VOMITING AND GROANING FROM OFF CAMERA*

The waitresses look around, confused. Bon Jovi CD skips.

(fade to black)

*end, part one*

Yes, well, everyone had it, and those of us that didn't, well, we didn't know. It was like Jr. High--the cool kids know what's happening in the 'Hip' circles and do it before the rest of the peons can even think about it, only this time, instead of off the shoulder Hypercolor Tshirts and spiral perms its aggresive progectile vomiting. More like Jr. High than I origionally thought, but that's neither here nor there.

What I'm saying is we didn't know that anyone was sick, or just how sick they were. We also didn't know that we'd been exposed.

Staff Stomach Flu, Part 2:Bad News Delivered

(fade from black)

Three waitresses from previous scene are sitting at a picnic table, surrounded by dumpsters and cardboard boxes, smoking. One new waitress and one cook stand with them, talking.

COOK:"Seriously, I vomited for 10 hours. Well, more like 2. But I dry heaved for 8."

NEW WAITRESS:"I threw up through the entire 'Harry Potter' movie."

Three previous waitresses look horrified, mouths agape and silent.

(fade to black)

We were all walking on eggshells, waiting for that fateful gag. The moment when our fates would be sealed--the ten hour stomach upheaval would begin, and we would be powerless to stop it. (Because if the love of Harry Potter can't stop the vomit....what can?) Prayers were said. Vitamins consumed. Hands washed raw.

But the gag never came.

(As an aside, I hate to vomit. Hate it. Will do anything in my power NOT to vomit. The idea of getting the stomach flu and having to lay in a crumpled heap on my bathroom floor, waiting it out, made me want to die a little. Also, I was terrified of infecting and therefore potenitally killing my father. But not having to work would have been nice.)

No, instead of the gag came what I like to call "Drive-By Stomach". You're happily going about your day, when BAM--All of a sudden you're hot, clammy, sweating, terribly nauseous--you can taste the bile and acid in the back of your throat, your mouth watering...You think, 'oh, crap, I need to go throw up', and just as quickly....BAM--you're fine again. Badly shaken, a little lightheaded, but alright.

This, combined with a 102 degree fever and marathon sleeping, was my weekend.

Staff Stomach Flu, Part 3:Deep Thoughts, Closing Arguments

(fade from black)

A sweaty, feverish red-head lays in her bed, blankets twisted around her. You can hear her stomach gurgling and whining as she lays there, not moving, her eyes fixed on one point on the celing.

ME: "Son of a bitch."

(fade to black)

Anyway, I feel better now. Still really tired, still a little 'iffy' on food, but better. Finally.

(are you all figuring out that I'm a little low on post-worthy happenings?)

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

The fact that we live in a world where things like this are appropriate makes me want to start carrying a flame-thrower.

Wasn't this enough??????



Seriously. They're being paid 20 million dollars, EACH, to YET AGAIN dress like crazy hookers, assault innocent bystanders and make ears bleed across the world.

Let's just hope they don't come to my restaurant.

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

So, I had the pleasure of meeting some of T's family who had come to visit from Italy. Very, very nice people.

I was the token dumb american. Sigh.

One of them spoke english. Most of the adults in T's family (with the exception of his father, who says EYE-talian instead of Italian....sigh) speak italian, so there was a lot of translating going on for those of us, like me, who know only how to say "I don't like it" and "Hello, beautiful" in Italian. (I learned the word for "pain", though, which is really ironic when I finish the story)

In America, when you meet someone for the first time, or see them after a while, it is good manners to shake their hand. In Italy, you kiss them on each cheek.

I am a moron.

I meet these people, who shake my hand and then kiss me. They were well armed in "Moronic Bastard", it seems.

Their daughter was off with T's sisters watching a movie, so I didn't meet her until much later. There was much talking, eating, and photo taking.

Then the girls arrive back from the movie. I am introduced to F, the beautiful 15 year old daughter who speaks no english at all. She walks straight towards me, to kiss me, and I extend my hand at her to shake her hand and....

I punch her in the chest.

Lots of laughing, me turning bright red, then kissing her, doing the uncomfortable "please don't hit me" dance, and then we left.

Sigh.

If only I had known......Mi dispiace.

Confidentiality agreements and "I showed my ass to a stranger" or, the most surreal moment of my adult life

Yeah.

So, a 'big deal' celebrity is getting married at my place of work sometime in the future.

I am working this wedding, and had to sign a confidentiality agreement stating that I will 1)Not disclose the time or date of the ceremony or 2)the identity of any members of the guest list.

lets just say--

it could be interesting. And I stand to make a whole. lot. of. money.

So I signed it. Apparently, if the paparazzi or a huge crowd appears, the company I work for gets sued and not paid for the wedding.

This is a HUGE WEDDING.

I'm not even supposed to say this much. Oh well. but when it's over....oh, there will be details. Juicy, hilarious details, that I'm sure will involve me making an ass in front of really, really important people.

My boss, whom I adore, said to me:

"I'm not worried about you going ga-ga over the famous people--I'm worried about you flipping them a lot of shit. I know you."

And she's never heard about the time I met the Wu-Tang Clan.

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

So I was coerced into getting a (gasp!) Brazilian wax yesterday.

Let me just put it this way--This small, very pretty Asian woman is the ONLY person other than my parents to touch or see me like that in a non-medical, non-sexual setting. I was terrified.

It was fine, until she says to me, "Roll over."

What? Oh. OH.

So I do. Then she says, "I need you to hold the skin back for me." meaning, well, my ass cheeks.

I laid there on the little table, wearing a tshirt and the ridiculous terrycloth 'skirt' all hitched up around my waist, holding my butt open so she could, well, tear the hair out of me. She then says...."Oh, you aren't a hairy person! (She said this about 39485 times) This won't take a second!"

The wax takes two minutes to harden completely.

about the 45 second mark, I looked at the situation from a third-person perspective. And laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Which everyone in the salon could hear. Then the wax hardened and I stopped laughing.

Anyway, it was worth it, I guess. I still am slightly horrified, though. Really.

Deftones Drama, and 'What the Fuck?'

With the full knowledge that I may be disclosing my position on the globe to the five lovely individuals that read this (three of whom already know precisely where I live), I went to see the Deftones last night. Google it, know where I live. So there.

Anyway, went to Deftones show. And....it was....ok. Long, loud, mediocre. "Fallen" opened--lots of yelling and squealing. I was reminded of a book on tape I had as a child--"The Smurfs and the Howly Bird". Pretty much sums it up.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that Dir En Grey was the second opener (I am probably the only person at the show who didn't look up the entire playbill) and was even more surprised to find out that they 1)have a huge following even though they really don't speak much english {from japan} and 2)really aren't that great live.

Finally, Deftones. Finally. we were there for 4 hours and left early.

Chino Moreno is...the lead singer. And not all that great of a performer. Played all the songs I longed for, barring one (Change in the House of Flies) but the songs were vocally non-recognisable. Sad. Sad, sad panda. Sad.

Anyway. So there's that. Glad I went, glad I can say "I saw the deftones!" but it didn't change my life.

On to the "what the fuck?" portion of today's post.

For those of you who know me personally, this is going to be something of a recap, at first. Please bear with me.

Three + years ago, I was in college. I was also dating, rather seriously, so I thought, a man who shall remain nameless. Long story short, we fucked around on eachother (Polyamory, actually--we were both ok with it so long as the 'hearts stayed at home' or, as I now call it, 'we are deluded morons who want some ass on the side because you/me are actually an asshole') and he dumped me, BIG TIME, for the girl who he had been sleeping with who was 1)A virgin before she slept with him and 2)A very good friend of mine. Long story short(er)--No one really liked this girl in our group of friends aside from the manthing and myself, and she knew it. So she (and my roomate, long and totally different story) 'got rid' of me, by defaming my character in ways I don't really care to share or recall--but I made it out a lot poorer and with a lot less shit than when I started. The last time I spoke with the manthing, I informed him that the moment the exfriend thought he would leave her, she would get pregnant. He called me a long list of names, and we haven't spoken since.

Their child turned one last month.

Anyway, on to the interesting stuff. (Oh, aside: Manthing hated, hated, hated all christians. Was a pagan through and through, refused to allow any talk of christianity (unless it was shit talk) in his presence. Exfriend was reasonably devout in her christianity, but left that completely to be with the manthing. This is relevant.)

I return from my lovely mini-vacation in the city and check my email. Myspace, to be specific.

And this is waiting for me: (names have been changed, obviously)

"Ya so this is Exfriend. I know how you like juicy gossip and now that you and I pretty much feel the same way about Manthing I thought you might find it amusing to know that he dumped me because he's apparently been in love with his uber Christian coworker Reallyuglychick for years. And he is now a Christian himself. I'm losing my mind. Anywho thought you might get a good laugh out of that one."


...................ok.

Now, she sent this via the profile of her son. I have/had blocked all members of this crew of people from contacting me via myspace, but didn't think to do so for the kid, because, well, why would a kid have a myspace? I thought it was spam, or a coworker, or something, so I opened it. Tada!

Now, I don't think it's funny. Ironic, yes. Funny, no. They have a child together--him doing this to her is far worse than anything they as a couple did to me. It's sad, and cruel. I'm sure there is far more to the story, but I don't care. It's been over three years since I have talked to these people, three years since I told them all I never wanted to have anything to do with them again.

This now raises the question: Why the hell would she tell me this?

Several theories:

1)Hell hath no fury.
2)Closest thing to an apology she could muster, seeing things from the other side.
3)She's as insane as we all thought.
4)She's doing everything she can to defame him--see #1--but he couldn't get much lower in my eyes.
5)I have no idea.

The strangest part? I can't message back. I'm blocked from doing so. This is fine, actually, because I really can't stomach the idea of talking to this person again. Some sins, as they say, are unforgivable. But I do feel bad. If given the opportunity, I would tell her so. I'm sorry that this happened to you. I hope that for the benefit of your child that things are alright eventually. I don't wish you any ill will--even though I probably should--and I do feel bad for this happening. You can, and will do better. I did. Good luck with life. Please don't contact me again--I am not a pawn.

Ill will or no, I have no respect for her other than as a human being and a mother. But no human being deserves to be treated like garbage.

Any thoughts?

Soldiering, mice and sleepless nights

I have not been at the computer much, lately. Have you noticed?

My father has been to the hospital twice in as many weeks, and continues the steady decline in health. He is now hooked up to oxygen 24-7, which means no more smoking in the house which means 1)I look like an asshole still smoking, period and 2)I'm really angry all the time because I have to go out in my jammies and scare the neighbors to smoke. Which I do constantly, because I'm stressed out. Hooray.

I (in a wild fit of brilliance!) Rearranged my work schedule so that I can drive my father to and from the kidney center, not realizing that I now have no free time whatsoever. Like, less than zero. Sigh.

Oh, and dad? By the way, if you could remember a few things for me that would be great. Post-its, something.

1)If you have a doctors appointment somewhere other than our house, please let me know more than 4 hours beforehand.

2)If you are being raced to the hospital via ambulance, and the nurses ask you if they can call your daughter, only tell them "I already did" if you have, in fact, done so. Telling them that you did, when actually you were humming the tune to Gilligans Island and wondering why the hell you are going to the hospital will result in your youngest progeny having a small nervous breakdown at her work and threatening one of the nurses with physical harm and/or legal action for your fuck up.

3)I love you. Really. I know we don't say that to eachother, ever, but I do, and it scares me to no end to see you so frail.

I have not been sleeping. I should be sleeping now, as I have to work tomorrow. Today. Sigh.

We have/had mice! Fuckity shit! We got rid of them thusly:

Mouse #1:

Realize there is a mouse in room.

tell T there is mouse in room.

watch T tear room apart while in underpants to find mouse.

Watch T find mouse, leap into air.

Open door to frantically smoke cigarette in pajamas.

T scares mouse outside.

Go back inside and shut door, leaving T out on stairwell in underpants with mouse.

Mouse weighs options, leaps off balcony from 2 stories up.

Mouse #2:

Next day. Dramatic steps have been taken to convince mice to leave premesis. If they have not listened, they die.

Fall blissfully asleep.

Awaken to T turning on all lights and tearing room apart while in underpants looking for mouse.

Fall blissfully asleep.

Awaken to T turning on all lights and tearing room apart while in underpants.

Fall blissfully asleep.

Awaken to T setting mousetrap.

Sit in darkness, watching T stare at spot where mousetrap is, out in darkness.

Hear SNAP of mousetrap, watch T dispose of dead mouse outside, while in underpants.

Mouse #3:
Day three. This mouse is smart, and has eaten all bait left in traps. Final mouse in house.

Rearrange traps.

Put trap next to father in kitchen. Warn him of traps presence.

Hear SNAP of trap, loud swearing from father.

Mouse in trap, but not dead. T is wearing pants this time.

Father gets oxygen tubing wrapped around now dead mouse in trap, more swearing.

Tell T to remove pants, as that seems to help the process.

T untangles father, disposes of mouse.

The end.