Items up for discussion: the wondrous movie Hocus Pocus and a little game I like to play called What Would This Be In Barbie World?
1. I have long harbored an obsession for the delightful film Hocus Pocus. If you are familiar with this movie, you will recall the scene in which Max and Allison try to sneak open Winnie's magic book of spells when Binx isn't paying attention. When Binx discovers them, he jumps atop the book (he's in cat form at this point) to close it and berates them for trying to meddle with powerful magic. His direct quote, I do believe, is as follows:
"No! Nothing good can come of that book."
This is accompanied by a paw swipe in the vicinity of Max and Allison's faces. The extraordinary thing about this moment of dialogue and gesture is that while Binx speaks in a very forceful tone, emphasizing the word "no," his paw swipe is at a leisurely pace. My friend Sarah and I discovered this and immediately tried to replicate this odd combination of harsh, fast words and a lazy paw swipe. Let me tell you: it is difficult. It took much practice to even begin to approach mastery. I am fairly confident, however, that I can now perform this difficult task.
All of this came to fruition during a recent rehearsal, in which Mari, my choreographer, called me out for speaking very quickly and loudly in our most recent piece whilst moving my arms far too slowly. This was not the effect she wanted--she wanted my tone and speed of voice to be matched by a frantic port de bras--but this moment was actually one of personal pride. I had succeeded! My mastery of slow-cat-paw-swipes and an accompanying angry voice had infiltrated my other gestures and speech. This, this is to have succeeded, my friends. And I wanted to share this with you.
2. When my sisters and I were younger, we had a ridiculous amount of Barbies--something like thirty. (About a third of them, give or take, lived in a perpetual state of nakedness. We also had only one Ken; every year, we'd stage a big ball for the Barbies in which Ken got to choose his new wife for the coming year. This never struck any of us as odd. Or completely chauvinistic. Or stupid. This...worries me. Retroactively.) Naturally, I was obsessed with Barbies. I found myself, as a child, constantly observing objects and wondering what they'd be like in Barbie World. That is, what they'd be if they were something Barbie owned or used. For example: at my grammar school, whenever we had a good rain, a very, very large puddle would form near the portable classrooms--sometimes it got so large that it became difficult to jump over. To me, this was Barbie's Lake. I imagined it as a woodsy retreat at which Barbie might take a dip, perhaps swinging off a nearby vine into a refreshingly cool body of water. (There were no tiny vines, however, near these large puddles. In real life, I mean.)
Disturbingly enough, this game has continued into my adult life. I bought some delicious chocolate-mint candy canes last week, and as I selected one from the cookie jar in our apartment, I found myself imagining it as a Christmas staff for Barbie--perhaps carried by one of the Wise Men in a Barbie living nativity scene.
This...cannot be normal. A of all, I'm twenty-three years old. It's time to stop thinking in Barbie terms. B of all, a Christmas staff? Seriously? That's the best I can come up with for the candy cane? I've lost my touch. Sorry to say.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
New Awkward and Embarrassing Things. Terrif.
So. Two items of note have occurred in the recent past at work. At the restaurant, I mean. Both are somewhat humorous, and the latter is my own extraspecial combo of Quite Awkward and Horribly Embarrassing. (Big surprise, I know. Huge.) Here we are, folks. (Folks? Why did I just type that? A of all, I have about three followers on this here thing. So using the plural form of any noun referring to my readership is ridiculous and, frankly, dishonest. Also, I just used the word readership. Redundantly dishonest, Rachel. Going for the gold here. B of all, I don't ever use the word "folks" in conversation. I don't refer to people as "folks." Because that's folksy. (Hardy har har.) (Parentheses within parentheses--the world is exploding!) Ah, well. Back to the stories.)
1. When I came into the restaurant last Wednesday, Fio informed me that an ipod had been left behind the bar the night before--he told me this in case anyone called, looking for said ipod. (Sometimes the servers and bartenders like to play DJ and hook up their ipods to the sound system. Clara, another server, had found this one and taken it home with her, for safekeeping. She was working again that night, so she planned on just bringing it along with her.) I absorbed this information and proceeded with getting the restaurant ready. Minutes later, Fio asked me if it happened to be MY ipod. I told him no--I'd never, never, ever use my ipod as ambient bar music at our restaurant, mainly because of my music selection--and then asked him why he thought it might be mine. He told me that Clara was going through the ipod's music and had noticed that there were a lot of showtunes. She and Fio had deduced, then, that it was mine.
This is noteworthy for a couple of reasons. First of all, this case of mistaken-ipod-identity meant that the people I work with at the restaurant had begun to associate me with musical theatre music. People: this is a big deal. I dream of being The Musical Theatre Laureate Of The World--a position that does not yet exist--and sitting atop a mountain, which people will climb in order to ask me musical theatre trivia questions. Or any questions concerning musical theatre, really. I would be more than happy to share my opinions. Or stories. Or other bombasticity. (Not actually a word, but it should be. So there.) This situation pleased me immensely. I love being thought of as the-girl-who-listens-to-nothing-but-showtunes-and-has-an-ipod-full-of-them-and-is-unhealthily-obsessed-with-all-things-musical-theatre. The second reason this is worth mentioning is that even though I was absolutely certain that I had not used my showtunes-laden ipod to entertain the masses at the restaurant, I was so flattered by the musical theatre association that I actually went to check my purse, just to make sure the recently-found ipod wasn't mine. (It wasn't.)
2. This past weekend, I worked a very busy brunch that often left us servers scrambling to get silverware to our tables before their food came up. I was delivering some roll-ups to an outdoor cafe table (oh, yes) that wasn't actually in my section but needed silverware quickly, as their food was about to be brought out. As I set the roll-ups down on the edge of the table, I noticed that one of the women sitting at this table had a bangin' color nail polish on. Excitedly, I asked her what color she had on. (I was pretty sure it was an OPI, but I wasn't positive.) She glanced at her fingernails and told me that it was, indeed, an OPI color--Commander in Chic, specifically. Thinking our conversation had reached its end, she proceeded to reach for the roll-ups at the end of the table. I, however, assumed that she could only be extending her hand in my direction so that I could fervently grasp it in my own and examine her nail color up close and personally. (Duh. Upper East Side women just loooove it when rando girls grab their hands.)
Unfortunately, I didn't realize my rude mistake until I already had her fingers in my hand. She, naturally, attempted to retract her hand from my greedy little paws, but I was already too far into this awkwardness to just give up and relent. My brain, stupid dumbass that it is, told me to just go for it--just hold her hand like you don't notice that she's desperately trying to pull it away! Just be cool. Be suave. You got this, yo. I'm sure you can guess that I couldn't pull this off. Not even a little bit. She only tried harder to pull her hand away from mine, and I only continued to grasp it more tightly. This terribly embarrassing situation ended with me lamely saying something along the lines of, "Oh. Nice. I like it." She then removed her hand for real. And I slunk away to the safe haven of the kitchen, where I was free to marvel at my constantly-increasing level of social awkardness in peace.
1. When I came into the restaurant last Wednesday, Fio informed me that an ipod had been left behind the bar the night before--he told me this in case anyone called, looking for said ipod. (Sometimes the servers and bartenders like to play DJ and hook up their ipods to the sound system. Clara, another server, had found this one and taken it home with her, for safekeeping. She was working again that night, so she planned on just bringing it along with her.) I absorbed this information and proceeded with getting the restaurant ready. Minutes later, Fio asked me if it happened to be MY ipod. I told him no--I'd never, never, ever use my ipod as ambient bar music at our restaurant, mainly because of my music selection--and then asked him why he thought it might be mine. He told me that Clara was going through the ipod's music and had noticed that there were a lot of showtunes. She and Fio had deduced, then, that it was mine.
This is noteworthy for a couple of reasons. First of all, this case of mistaken-ipod-identity meant that the people I work with at the restaurant had begun to associate me with musical theatre music. People: this is a big deal. I dream of being The Musical Theatre Laureate Of The World--a position that does not yet exist--and sitting atop a mountain, which people will climb in order to ask me musical theatre trivia questions. Or any questions concerning musical theatre, really. I would be more than happy to share my opinions. Or stories. Or other bombasticity. (Not actually a word, but it should be. So there.) This situation pleased me immensely. I love being thought of as the-girl-who-listens-to-nothing-but-showtunes-and-has-an-ipod-full-of-them-and-is-unhealthily-obsessed-with-all-things-musical-theatre. The second reason this is worth mentioning is that even though I was absolutely certain that I had not used my showtunes-laden ipod to entertain the masses at the restaurant, I was so flattered by the musical theatre association that I actually went to check my purse, just to make sure the recently-found ipod wasn't mine. (It wasn't.)
2. This past weekend, I worked a very busy brunch that often left us servers scrambling to get silverware to our tables before their food came up. I was delivering some roll-ups to an outdoor cafe table (oh, yes) that wasn't actually in my section but needed silverware quickly, as their food was about to be brought out. As I set the roll-ups down on the edge of the table, I noticed that one of the women sitting at this table had a bangin' color nail polish on. Excitedly, I asked her what color she had on. (I was pretty sure it was an OPI, but I wasn't positive.) She glanced at her fingernails and told me that it was, indeed, an OPI color--Commander in Chic, specifically. Thinking our conversation had reached its end, she proceeded to reach for the roll-ups at the end of the table. I, however, assumed that she could only be extending her hand in my direction so that I could fervently grasp it in my own and examine her nail color up close and personally. (Duh. Upper East Side women just loooove it when rando girls grab their hands.)
Unfortunately, I didn't realize my rude mistake until I already had her fingers in my hand. She, naturally, attempted to retract her hand from my greedy little paws, but I was already too far into this awkwardness to just give up and relent. My brain, stupid dumbass that it is, told me to just go for it--just hold her hand like you don't notice that she's desperately trying to pull it away! Just be cool. Be suave. You got this, yo. I'm sure you can guess that I couldn't pull this off. Not even a little bit. She only tried harder to pull her hand away from mine, and I only continued to grasp it more tightly. This terribly embarrassing situation ended with me lamely saying something along the lines of, "Oh. Nice. I like it." She then removed her hand for real. And I slunk away to the safe haven of the kitchen, where I was free to marvel at my constantly-increasing level of social awkardness in peace.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
New York is driving me mad. In the insane sense of the word, that is.
New York is making me weirder. Seriously. All joking aside. (And I think we're all aware that I am a weird-ass person to begin with.) (But really, it's just because I'm interesting. Not weird. Just interesting.) I think this new and unimproved level of weirdo is because I am surrounded by legitimately crazy people here, and this lulls me into a false sense of security. That is, I feel secure that my recently developed oddities aren't anything to worry about, since I'm not dancing suggestively--without the aid of musical accompaniment--to my own reflection in the subway car or applying Shade Of Whore lipstick WELL above my natural lipline--we're talking a full half-inch here--just to pick up some shampoo from the Duane Reade. (Both of those are real, actual instances that I have witnessed. Oh, yes. The crazies are out and about on the Upper East Side, my friends.) (My bloggers? My bloggees? My peeps-who-have-mistakenly-stumbled-upon-this-blog-and-have-now-decided-to-immediately-navigate-away-from-this-page?)
But yeah. New York City + Being A Waitress = Crazy Rachel. Today, at work, this very pretty girl and highly handsome man walked into the restaurant and requested one of our small booths in the back corner. Two seconds after I'd sat them, Fio leaned across the bar and whispered into my ear, "That is one VERY attractive couple. I'll...take their babies."
Now, this in itself is a creepy statement. Very creepy. Instead of being appalled, however, like any other normal person, I immediately and heartily concurred. Fio and I then proceeded to refer to this couple (out of earshot, of course) as Beautiful Couple and alert all people sitting at the bar of their hotness, even going so far as to persuade them to take an unnecessary trip to the bathroom to check out Beautiful Couple for themselves. Make believers out of them, you see. Encourage them to imagine their nonexistent Beautiful Children. Tell them to go back and take a second look when they returned even the least bit skeptical.
Do you see this? This is weird. Way weirder than I've ever been. And I didn't even stop to consider how weird this is until I got home today and reviewed the weirdo stuff I'd said and done in the grocery on the way home from work.
This is where the shit really gets weird. For real. Tonight, in the grocery, I happened to pass the aisle of chocolate bars. Naturally, this warranted immediate perusal. Chocolate is not a purchase to be taken lightly. My eyes alighted upon a large Toblerone bar and stopped there. I wasn't hungry enough for an entire Toblerone, but I grabbed it anyway, sure that I could find some way to force it all down. After tossing it into my grocery basket, I saw that there were also smaller, cuter versions of the Toblerone--maybe a third of the large-sized one. This was the perfectly-sized chocolatey snack I was searching for! Aloud, and without forethought, I squealed loudly and said in that ridiculous voice people use only when talking to babies and dogs: "Ooooooooh! BABY Toblerone!"
Really, Rachel? You're using the baby voice to talk to chocolate bars? Aloud? In a grocery store? In full view of other people? What's happening to you?
I then saw a chocolate bar wrapper that promised peanut butter nougat. Of course, this was something that required my full attention, so I eagerly plucked it from the display. Unfortunately, I almost immediately saw that this was actually a peanut-butter-and-jelly chocolate bar. (Now, for those of you who know me well, you will remember that I am not a fan of the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Sandwiches of peanut butter and jelly are easily the most delicious thing in the world, but when these two heavenly substances are adulterated and disgustingly smushed together between two slices of bread, I vomit involuntarily a little bit inside my mouth. I like to eat my slice of bread with peanut butter thickly spread upon it, and then I like to follow this up with a jelly-encumbered slice of bread. Delish. Smacking my lips as I type this, I am.) The idea of this chocolate bar, then, was utterly revolting to me. I threw down the chocolate bar and began actually backing away from the chocolate bar display, muttering "Nhh-mm. Nhh-mm." over and over again. Aloud. In full hearing of the other grocery store patrons.
Now, come on. Was the candy bar going to jump out of my hand, unwrap itself, and cram its little disgusting chocolatey-peanut-buttery-and-jellied body into my mouth? Did I really need to alert the entire grocery of my hatred for the combination of the tastes of peanut butter and jelly? Did I actually have to toss the candy bar away from my person and quickly back away, shaking my head back and forth and mumbling like a lunatic?
I. Am. Going. Crazy. And I blame you, New York. I blame you entirely.
But yeah. New York City + Being A Waitress = Crazy Rachel. Today, at work, this very pretty girl and highly handsome man walked into the restaurant and requested one of our small booths in the back corner. Two seconds after I'd sat them, Fio leaned across the bar and whispered into my ear, "That is one VERY attractive couple. I'll...take their babies."
Now, this in itself is a creepy statement. Very creepy. Instead of being appalled, however, like any other normal person, I immediately and heartily concurred. Fio and I then proceeded to refer to this couple (out of earshot, of course) as Beautiful Couple and alert all people sitting at the bar of their hotness, even going so far as to persuade them to take an unnecessary trip to the bathroom to check out Beautiful Couple for themselves. Make believers out of them, you see. Encourage them to imagine their nonexistent Beautiful Children. Tell them to go back and take a second look when they returned even the least bit skeptical.
Do you see this? This is weird. Way weirder than I've ever been. And I didn't even stop to consider how weird this is until I got home today and reviewed the weirdo stuff I'd said and done in the grocery on the way home from work.
This is where the shit really gets weird. For real. Tonight, in the grocery, I happened to pass the aisle of chocolate bars. Naturally, this warranted immediate perusal. Chocolate is not a purchase to be taken lightly. My eyes alighted upon a large Toblerone bar and stopped there. I wasn't hungry enough for an entire Toblerone, but I grabbed it anyway, sure that I could find some way to force it all down. After tossing it into my grocery basket, I saw that there were also smaller, cuter versions of the Toblerone--maybe a third of the large-sized one. This was the perfectly-sized chocolatey snack I was searching for! Aloud, and without forethought, I squealed loudly and said in that ridiculous voice people use only when talking to babies and dogs: "Ooooooooh! BABY Toblerone!"
Really, Rachel? You're using the baby voice to talk to chocolate bars? Aloud? In a grocery store? In full view of other people? What's happening to you?
I then saw a chocolate bar wrapper that promised peanut butter nougat. Of course, this was something that required my full attention, so I eagerly plucked it from the display. Unfortunately, I almost immediately saw that this was actually a peanut-butter-and-jelly chocolate bar. (Now, for those of you who know me well, you will remember that I am not a fan of the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Sandwiches of peanut butter and jelly are easily the most delicious thing in the world, but when these two heavenly substances are adulterated and disgustingly smushed together between two slices of bread, I vomit involuntarily a little bit inside my mouth. I like to eat my slice of bread with peanut butter thickly spread upon it, and then I like to follow this up with a jelly-encumbered slice of bread. Delish. Smacking my lips as I type this, I am.) The idea of this chocolate bar, then, was utterly revolting to me. I threw down the chocolate bar and began actually backing away from the chocolate bar display, muttering "Nhh-mm. Nhh-mm." over and over again. Aloud. In full hearing of the other grocery store patrons.
Now, come on. Was the candy bar going to jump out of my hand, unwrap itself, and cram its little disgusting chocolatey-peanut-buttery-and-jellied body into my mouth? Did I really need to alert the entire grocery of my hatred for the combination of the tastes of peanut butter and jelly? Did I actually have to toss the candy bar away from my person and quickly back away, shaking my head back and forth and mumbling like a lunatic?
I. Am. Going. Crazy. And I blame you, New York. I blame you entirely.
Monday, November 8, 2010
I will never work Marathon Sunday again. If I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill. (Well, I won't kill someone. But maybe I would inflict bodily harm.)
This, I fear, will be a depressing post. Though I shall try my darnedest to make it into one of humor. (Spoiler alert: I do something stupid/embarrassing at work. Shocker, I know.) But here goes.
Yesterday, I had the worst day I've ever had at the restaurant, climaxing with me, wedged in a corner, crying silently as I stood directly behind the restaurant's owner. Life was stupid-awful yesterday, frankly.
I was tapped to work Marathon Sunday, the day of the New York City Marathon, at the restaurant, a day which was predicted to be pretty busy for us, albeit mostly at the bar. Only two servers were waitressing--myself and Jen. We've both been working at the restaurant for a good while, and we knew that making money probably wouldn't be in the forecast for us. The manager had taken all of the tables out of the inside of the restaurant, anticipating a large bar crowd that would want to mingle and use the dining room space.
Things started off rather slowly. Jen and I got to eat some delicious breakfast (I had oatmeal, if you must know. With cinnamon and bananas and walnuts. Delish, I tell you.) and leisurely take care of a a few tables. The booths--we have six of them--were occasionally occupied, and neither of us even needed the busser to run our food, really. As the bar started to fill up, though, the crowd began spreading to the booth area and then even to some of the dining room. It took some circuitous planning to get to our tables, but it wasn't impossible. When more people began wanting to sit down and eat, the busboy brought in some of the cafe tables from outside (damn those cafe tables, I tell you!). (I like to tell you things.) Which was a bit hard to navigate, what with the crowd getting larger and also drunker by the minute.
Now would be a good time for me to point out that I don't like people. As you surely know by now, I am socially awkward and become nervous when confronted with people I'm meeting for the first time. (So, yes. Waitressing is the single most terrible job I could have possibly picked. You are correct.) Being amongst large crowds of people, then, is akin to putting me and my super-hairy arms in a room with a bunch of beautiful hairless-armed girls who were never teased as a child for resembling a chimpanzee. It causes me great, great anxiety. This is a large part of why I hate Mardi Gras: many obnoxiously drunk people do not a fun scene make. For me.
So anyway. The crowd started getting out of control around by, say, 1:30. I had to work till 4, and I was literally counting down the minutes at this point. Jen and I would exchange pleasantries every time we had to wait for drinks at the bar, since we had ample time, as all three of the bartenders had their hands quite full juggling not only the crowd but our table drink requests. We joked about how frustrated our tables were getting with the wait for drinks, and how it was becoming more and more difficult to get to and fro the kitchen and our tables with food. The busboy had long ago been swallowed by the needs of the bar, so we no longer had a food runner. And it wasn't too much fun carving a path to our tables through drunkies who obviously thought they had dancing skills that required quite a large berth.
By two pm or so, though, the situation had gotten out of control. The bar was so incredibly full of people that I actually had to fight my way through hordes of people to make it to any of the following: the bar, the kitchen, or my tables outside. (We'd long ago stopped seating folks inside, as there was absolutely no place for us to put them. People were jammed against the booth openings, if they weren't already shoving themselves inside.) Whenever I managed to get through to the bar to put in an order on the POS or wait for drinks, I could feel several people pressing up against my back, either hoping to catch one of the bartenders' attention or else just smushed there because of the ever-growing crowd.
Now I was panic-stricken. I couldn't find our manager to tell him that I could no longer get to my tables outside. Each and every time I needed to move anywhere in the restaurant, I had to physically push people out of the way, yelling out "Excuse me! I need to get through!" as I went. (This was difficult for me at first. I am taciturn by nature. Within a few trips, however, I was just screaming. The DJ had the music up ridiculously loud, and I couldn't even hear my own voice yelling for people to move.) Unfortunately, all of the tables outside ended up being large parties--I had a table of five, ten, and eleven at one point. Because it was taking me between five and ten minutes to push through from any point in the restaurant to the outdoors (we're talking about travelling a fifteen-foot distance), I tried to consolidate my trips. But carrying eleven drink orders on a tray is hard enough in a reasonably empty restaurant. Pushing through this pulsing crowd with a huge tray of drinks was--all exaggeration aside--almost impossible. It was also scary. I was terrified of dropping drinks and scattering shards of glass all over the floor, and I had to take several deep breaths as I was shoving my way through in order to keep myself together. My chest hurt. It felt tight. When things got truly awful, I man-handled my way back to the kitchen (the day's safe haven, really) and did a few quick breathing exercises. Unfortunately, my manager also happened to be back in the kitchen when I did this. He now thinks I am crazy. Because I was taking very large, heaving breaths and counting aloud. With my eyes closed. And my hands clasped tightly in front of me. Oh, Rachel.
But as bad as things were at this point, I knew that if I could just push through until four o'clock, I'd be golden. I knew that things couldn't get any worse. I told myself that I could deal with hordes of drunk people for just an hour and a half or so more. Ninety minutes more of stupidity, and then I'm done. I could do it. Right?
Duh. You complete moron. Of course things were going to get worse, you dumbass.
I think things started to implode when that eleven-top's food came up. I can only carry three plates at a time, and this is a precarious situation in the first place. This meant four trips to and fro the kitchen. Through that awful, awful crowd. It was so very miserable. All I could do was hold onto the plates as tightly as possible and scream and push my way through the crowd to the side doors leading outside. Four times. And it took me at least five minutes each time. When I brought the first three plates out, one of the girls sitting at the table asked for extra ketchup, salt, and pepper. By the time I finally brought those out to her, on my now fifth trip, at least half of the table was finished eating. This table's frustration with me was indeed palpable. On my last food trip out there, I apologized profusely for the delay, citing the ridiculous crowd inside, but because it was relatively quiet outside the restaurant--as compared to the can't-hear-yourself-scream environment inside--I'm sure it was hard for the table to sympathize. One dude called me to his side and told me that the lettuce was bad.
"I just wanted you to be aware of this," he snippily said. "It looks brown and wilted. This is not good. They shouldn't serve this. Just so you know."
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Nonononono. I could feel tears start to well up in my eyes. Immediately, I made some excuse to the table and hurried back to the doors to push myself through the throbbing mass. I knew that I couldn't let them see me cry, even though I had to return as quickly as possible to their table with a requested three more waters and a Brooklyn Brown beer.
I have never cried at work before. Never. People have tipped me terribly, fussed at me, yelled at me, and I have been overwhelmed with the number of tables I've been in charge of at once, but I have prided myself on never crying. I learned early on that the compartmentalization of emotions is a necessary evil in the waitressing world. I'd probably have no self-esteem left at this point if I'd let it truly get to me every time someone was upset with me while I'm working.
This was too much for me to handle, though. I was doing my best to keep my tears from spilling over as I fought my way back to the service bar to get those four drinks, but the thought of returning through all of these people with a tray full of drinks was so very, very disheartening. I managed to eventually make my way to the ice bucket, where I loaded up three glasses with ice on my tray and prepared to fight the final two feet to the actual bar to request the beer and pour the waters from the soda fountain gun. I know that it sounds ridiculous to say that I needed to "fight" my way through two feet of space, but it is the truth. At least three or four people were jostling in front of me at the bar, including the restaurant owner, who'd come in today to help out with the craziness.
And then suddenly, I literally could not move. I was jammed on three sides by what felt like a multitude of people, and it was all I could do not to spill my tray of ice-filled glasses as my left shoulder was forced into the ice-bucket corner. I was wedged in and I could not actually move. I was there for probably about ten minutes. Unable to move. Of course, I just started sobbing. There was absolutely nothing I could do, and I just knew that that damn outside table was cursing me for not returning with their drinks. The owner turned around at some point and observed my babyishness. He must've felt sorry for me, because he leaned down to me and yelled into my ear that he'd fight for a place for me at the bar as soon as the dude in front of him got his drink order. I just nodded and tried to cry less noticeably. (Brilliant response there, Rach.) Another waitress, Jules, who'd come in early for the evening shift, eventually sidled up next to me and tried making a joke about the stupid crowd until she noticed I was crying. A lot. She immediately assessed the situation, saw that I'd reached my breaking point, and went about making magic happen. She grabbed a water bottle that we used to refill waters at the tables and filled my ice glasses. She then took the tray from me and took off for the outside table. This left only the Brooklyn Brown for me to procure. Once I'd been cleared a space at the bar, Melissa, one of the bartenders, saw me crying and got me the beer as quickly as she could. I still had to fight my way through the crowd again, but this time it was only with one drink.
It would probably be a nice ending to this story if I could say that the day at least ended well. Alas, it did not. I had to deal with computer issues which wouldn't let me correctly process a big gift certificate, one of the guest bartenders accidentally fell halfway down the stairs behind the bar (very nearly injuring himself seriously), and I cried at least two more times that I had to fight my way through that crowd of people. I felt like a complete failure as a waitress. Ew. I was a complete failure as a waitress, actually. Truly an awful day.
I suppose there is humor somewhere in this, though. I must've looked like a bewildered orphan child, wedged in that corner, drinks in hand, tears coursing down my face. Amidst a crowd full of happy, dancing, drunk people. That was probably quite the humorous image, I'm sure. So nice that the restaurant owner got to see my meltdown in action, too. Lovely, really.
I have to go back to work tomorrow. I know it won't be at all like Sunday, but I'm still scared. Yuck.
Yesterday, I had the worst day I've ever had at the restaurant, climaxing with me, wedged in a corner, crying silently as I stood directly behind the restaurant's owner. Life was stupid-awful yesterday, frankly.
I was tapped to work Marathon Sunday, the day of the New York City Marathon, at the restaurant, a day which was predicted to be pretty busy for us, albeit mostly at the bar. Only two servers were waitressing--myself and Jen. We've both been working at the restaurant for a good while, and we knew that making money probably wouldn't be in the forecast for us. The manager had taken all of the tables out of the inside of the restaurant, anticipating a large bar crowd that would want to mingle and use the dining room space.
Things started off rather slowly. Jen and I got to eat some delicious breakfast (I had oatmeal, if you must know. With cinnamon and bananas and walnuts. Delish, I tell you.) and leisurely take care of a a few tables. The booths--we have six of them--were occasionally occupied, and neither of us even needed the busser to run our food, really. As the bar started to fill up, though, the crowd began spreading to the booth area and then even to some of the dining room. It took some circuitous planning to get to our tables, but it wasn't impossible. When more people began wanting to sit down and eat, the busboy brought in some of the cafe tables from outside (damn those cafe tables, I tell you!). (I like to tell you things.) Which was a bit hard to navigate, what with the crowd getting larger and also drunker by the minute.
Now would be a good time for me to point out that I don't like people. As you surely know by now, I am socially awkward and become nervous when confronted with people I'm meeting for the first time. (So, yes. Waitressing is the single most terrible job I could have possibly picked. You are correct.) Being amongst large crowds of people, then, is akin to putting me and my super-hairy arms in a room with a bunch of beautiful hairless-armed girls who were never teased as a child for resembling a chimpanzee. It causes me great, great anxiety. This is a large part of why I hate Mardi Gras: many obnoxiously drunk people do not a fun scene make. For me.
So anyway. The crowd started getting out of control around by, say, 1:30. I had to work till 4, and I was literally counting down the minutes at this point. Jen and I would exchange pleasantries every time we had to wait for drinks at the bar, since we had ample time, as all three of the bartenders had their hands quite full juggling not only the crowd but our table drink requests. We joked about how frustrated our tables were getting with the wait for drinks, and how it was becoming more and more difficult to get to and fro the kitchen and our tables with food. The busboy had long ago been swallowed by the needs of the bar, so we no longer had a food runner. And it wasn't too much fun carving a path to our tables through drunkies who obviously thought they had dancing skills that required quite a large berth.
By two pm or so, though, the situation had gotten out of control. The bar was so incredibly full of people that I actually had to fight my way through hordes of people to make it to any of the following: the bar, the kitchen, or my tables outside. (We'd long ago stopped seating folks inside, as there was absolutely no place for us to put them. People were jammed against the booth openings, if they weren't already shoving themselves inside.) Whenever I managed to get through to the bar to put in an order on the POS or wait for drinks, I could feel several people pressing up against my back, either hoping to catch one of the bartenders' attention or else just smushed there because of the ever-growing crowd.
Now I was panic-stricken. I couldn't find our manager to tell him that I could no longer get to my tables outside. Each and every time I needed to move anywhere in the restaurant, I had to physically push people out of the way, yelling out "Excuse me! I need to get through!" as I went. (This was difficult for me at first. I am taciturn by nature. Within a few trips, however, I was just screaming. The DJ had the music up ridiculously loud, and I couldn't even hear my own voice yelling for people to move.) Unfortunately, all of the tables outside ended up being large parties--I had a table of five, ten, and eleven at one point. Because it was taking me between five and ten minutes to push through from any point in the restaurant to the outdoors (we're talking about travelling a fifteen-foot distance), I tried to consolidate my trips. But carrying eleven drink orders on a tray is hard enough in a reasonably empty restaurant. Pushing through this pulsing crowd with a huge tray of drinks was--all exaggeration aside--almost impossible. It was also scary. I was terrified of dropping drinks and scattering shards of glass all over the floor, and I had to take several deep breaths as I was shoving my way through in order to keep myself together. My chest hurt. It felt tight. When things got truly awful, I man-handled my way back to the kitchen (the day's safe haven, really) and did a few quick breathing exercises. Unfortunately, my manager also happened to be back in the kitchen when I did this. He now thinks I am crazy. Because I was taking very large, heaving breaths and counting aloud. With my eyes closed. And my hands clasped tightly in front of me. Oh, Rachel.
But as bad as things were at this point, I knew that if I could just push through until four o'clock, I'd be golden. I knew that things couldn't get any worse. I told myself that I could deal with hordes of drunk people for just an hour and a half or so more. Ninety minutes more of stupidity, and then I'm done. I could do it. Right?
Duh. You complete moron. Of course things were going to get worse, you dumbass.
I think things started to implode when that eleven-top's food came up. I can only carry three plates at a time, and this is a precarious situation in the first place. This meant four trips to and fro the kitchen. Through that awful, awful crowd. It was so very miserable. All I could do was hold onto the plates as tightly as possible and scream and push my way through the crowd to the side doors leading outside. Four times. And it took me at least five minutes each time. When I brought the first three plates out, one of the girls sitting at the table asked for extra ketchup, salt, and pepper. By the time I finally brought those out to her, on my now fifth trip, at least half of the table was finished eating. This table's frustration with me was indeed palpable. On my last food trip out there, I apologized profusely for the delay, citing the ridiculous crowd inside, but because it was relatively quiet outside the restaurant--as compared to the can't-hear-yourself-scream environment inside--I'm sure it was hard for the table to sympathize. One dude called me to his side and told me that the lettuce was bad.
"I just wanted you to be aware of this," he snippily said. "It looks brown and wilted. This is not good. They shouldn't serve this. Just so you know."
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Nonononono. I could feel tears start to well up in my eyes. Immediately, I made some excuse to the table and hurried back to the doors to push myself through the throbbing mass. I knew that I couldn't let them see me cry, even though I had to return as quickly as possible to their table with a requested three more waters and a Brooklyn Brown beer.
I have never cried at work before. Never. People have tipped me terribly, fussed at me, yelled at me, and I have been overwhelmed with the number of tables I've been in charge of at once, but I have prided myself on never crying. I learned early on that the compartmentalization of emotions is a necessary evil in the waitressing world. I'd probably have no self-esteem left at this point if I'd let it truly get to me every time someone was upset with me while I'm working.
This was too much for me to handle, though. I was doing my best to keep my tears from spilling over as I fought my way back to the service bar to get those four drinks, but the thought of returning through all of these people with a tray full of drinks was so very, very disheartening. I managed to eventually make my way to the ice bucket, where I loaded up three glasses with ice on my tray and prepared to fight the final two feet to the actual bar to request the beer and pour the waters from the soda fountain gun. I know that it sounds ridiculous to say that I needed to "fight" my way through two feet of space, but it is the truth. At least three or four people were jostling in front of me at the bar, including the restaurant owner, who'd come in today to help out with the craziness.
And then suddenly, I literally could not move. I was jammed on three sides by what felt like a multitude of people, and it was all I could do not to spill my tray of ice-filled glasses as my left shoulder was forced into the ice-bucket corner. I was wedged in and I could not actually move. I was there for probably about ten minutes. Unable to move. Of course, I just started sobbing. There was absolutely nothing I could do, and I just knew that that damn outside table was cursing me for not returning with their drinks. The owner turned around at some point and observed my babyishness. He must've felt sorry for me, because he leaned down to me and yelled into my ear that he'd fight for a place for me at the bar as soon as the dude in front of him got his drink order. I just nodded and tried to cry less noticeably. (Brilliant response there, Rach.) Another waitress, Jules, who'd come in early for the evening shift, eventually sidled up next to me and tried making a joke about the stupid crowd until she noticed I was crying. A lot. She immediately assessed the situation, saw that I'd reached my breaking point, and went about making magic happen. She grabbed a water bottle that we used to refill waters at the tables and filled my ice glasses. She then took the tray from me and took off for the outside table. This left only the Brooklyn Brown for me to procure. Once I'd been cleared a space at the bar, Melissa, one of the bartenders, saw me crying and got me the beer as quickly as she could. I still had to fight my way through the crowd again, but this time it was only with one drink.
It would probably be a nice ending to this story if I could say that the day at least ended well. Alas, it did not. I had to deal with computer issues which wouldn't let me correctly process a big gift certificate, one of the guest bartenders accidentally fell halfway down the stairs behind the bar (very nearly injuring himself seriously), and I cried at least two more times that I had to fight my way through that crowd of people. I felt like a complete failure as a waitress. Ew. I was a complete failure as a waitress, actually. Truly an awful day.
I suppose there is humor somewhere in this, though. I must've looked like a bewildered orphan child, wedged in that corner, drinks in hand, tears coursing down my face. Amidst a crowd full of happy, dancing, drunk people. That was probably quite the humorous image, I'm sure. So nice that the restaurant owner got to see my meltdown in action, too. Lovely, really.
I have to go back to work tomorrow. I know it won't be at all like Sunday, but I'm still scared. Yuck.
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