"I'm thirsty. I'm Thirsty. Moooom, I am sooooooo thirsty!"
The child was thirsty. He was sitting in a shopping cart about 100 feet from where I was working, and about fifty feet from the water fountain, from which his mother could easily draw him a free cup of water, were she not an idiot.
This went on for about ten minutes, after which I assume she finally broke out of her haze and hydrated him. Next thing I know, they are ten feet away, and he is crabbing again. Now, I realize that this is not the kid's fault, because he's about six, and it is past dinner time and probably nearing bedtime, and his mother is taking forfuckingever to grocery shop. I continue to ignore them as best I can, and then I look up and find the child, without his mother, rummaging in the cheese display. Before I can say or do anything, she meanders over, gazing stupidly at both the child and the cheese.
"Yes, that's cheese. But I can't have this so let's go back over there."
"But look at this-"
"I know honey, but mommy can't have cheese, so let's-"
She is interrupted by a loud pop, similar to the sound a Christmas Cracker makes.
"I didn't do anything. I don't know how that happened," said the child, looking up at his mother with absolute innocence.
"I know you didn't honey. Let's give that to the lady." She hands me what used to be a package of local herbed goat cheese.
"I didn't do anything. I don't know what happened!"
"I know honey. It's not your fault."
And she was right, in a way.

When asked if I would like to participate in the Secret Santa exchange at the Local Grocery, I did not hesitate before saying "Hell NO" in the politest way possible. I never heard another thing about it, until the other day. Carol is a sub in my department, and since two of my co-workers were on vacation, we had a few shifts together. Carol was also smart enough to avoid the Secret Santa Trap, but she works quite closely with several people who were not. It turns out that The girl who organized this exchange didn't get her gift. There was some confusion, and West Coast Karen actually felt bad and bought her something to make her feel better. A couple weeks passed, and then The Organizer finally received her belated gift, in the form of whichever version of the bible Born Again Christians subscribe to. There are two problems with this: First, this renders the "secret" part completely moot, since she obviously got it from the only Saved participant; and second, it's not Secret Fucking Jesus.
Poor Organizer. Oh well, that'll teach her.

Current temp: 2 degrees, feels like -19. The high today? 3.

I got out of bed earlier than I had to in order to drive the b.h. to class. He was nice enough to go out and start the car to get it warm. I proceeded to make a wrong turn, because I was confused about where he was going, and it took more than twice as long to get him there as it should have. He might have gotten there faster by walking. Then I came home to find that one of the dogs had thrown up on the couch. Fortunately it mostly landed on things that I could put immediately into the wash machine, but still...
I hope this is not indicative of the kind of day I am about to have.

On Tuesday I showed up at work to find that the basement had flooded* and that we would not be opening the lounge. The live music was canceled, and there was a nice mildewy odor permeating the lower floor of the restaurant, which is where the bar is located. So, that was a nice start to my day. Anyway, I was the only person who was available to wait on any customers until the dining room opened upstairs. My first two customers were women, both of them were alone, and both were very nice and easy to wait on. They were obviously busy, one of them had paperwork and the other had a book, and so I got their orders and pretty much buggered off to leave them in peace. About fifteen minutes later, two women came in with a baby that couldn't have been two years old yet. Despite the fact that the lounge was closed and had obviously flooded, and despite the fact that the only place to sit was at the bar, where the stools are very high and where there is a damn bar and where you wouldn't want to put a baby if you had half a brain, they sat at the bar. With the baby. As soon as they put her in the chair she was yawning and rubbing her eyes. It was obviously nearing her bedtime. These women were, I figured out, the mother and the babysitter. They ordered food and cocktails, and proceeded to take up what limited space I had with a child who was soon yelping and bothering the other customers and act like it was perfectly natural.
I know that I am not the most kid-friendly person in the world, but I don't mind serving them when it is appropriate. And honestly, if we were the only open restaurant and they just needed something to eat, I would have understood. But to sit a kid in a completely unsafe chair at a bar when she is obviously tired and then feed her clam chowder (which was so hot she started screaming when she took a bite) and Caesar salad and let her scream in a room full of people who are trying to relax and enjoy a meal is just plain rude. All of the waitstaff were giving me looks of pity when I went upstairs to get some bread. I wanted to die. Actually, I wanted the women to die. But I didn't say anything. And I think maybe I should have. If anybody has a suggestion about what I might say (other than the expletives that immediately came to mind) in that situation is welcome to say so. Personally I feel that it is a manager's job to address guests whose behavior is affecting other guests, but none chose to come to my aid.
in other news, we had a meeting last week at the Local Restaurant with, among some other important people, the Director of Operations, during which Too Loud Trixie made a complete ass of herself and embarrassed everyone into a mortified silence. I used to think she was just a terrifyingly stupid redneck, but now I believe she is certifiably insane, or at least a sociopath. And hopefully she has just gotten herself fired. We'll see. The behavior in that meeting was bad enough, but she followed it up by talking about where to buy some pot in front of the 15 year-old daughter of one of our managers. I'll keep you posted. My fingers are crossed.



*I read later in the paper that we narrowly missed a very large flood- town-wide, because of an enormous ice floe on the river.

"Most wars, after all, present themselves as humanitarian endeavors to help people."
-Howard Zinn

"I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot."
-J. D. Salinger

Boy, we lost Howard Zinn and J.D. Salinger in 24 hours. I hope this isn't indicative of the kind of year 2010 is going to be.

Saturday night I got to work and discovered that I didn't have a barback. My regular barback, Taylor, was out of town for the weekend, and he had told management four weeks prior, and then told them again a week later when the schedule went up with his name on it. So when Harried Manager came down at 5:30 and asked where my barback was, I snapped back at him
"I don't know, Harried Manager, where is my barback? Did you schedule one?" There followed an exchange wherein he tried to accuse Taylor of not getting his shift covered, and then me getting argumentative, then him telling me I had done the same thing when I left town, then me telling him he was full of it and that I had everything covered and he screwed it all up (which was only partially true. Too loud Trixie threw a fit because I hadn't asked her to cover the shifts, so she bullied him into taking the shifts away from the more deserving and far more talented and professional Taylor) and then I realized too late that Too loud Trixie was sitting at the bar smirking. She thoroughly enjoys it when other people are angry at each other. Thoroughly. I immediately backed off, patted Harried Manager on the shoulder and said that there was nothing for it and we would just have to roll with it.
What wound up happening was TLT had three beers and made an ass of herself with a customer, then she left after apologizing that she couldn't possibly help me out (as if I would ever want her to). The b.h. finished working in the kitchen around seven, and he came downstairs right about the time shit started to hit the fan. He asked if he could help at all and I asked if he remembered how to barback, and we ended up working behind the bar together for the first time in two years. It went very well, all things considered. It was probably the busiest Saturday night we'd had since the leafers left, and martinis were on special, so I must have made about a hundred and fifty of those, but in the end it all worked out just fine. Harried manager remembered after some reflection, that Taylor and he had in fact discussed this weekend, and that he had said not to worry since Saturdays had not been very busy lately. He said this with the proper amount of sheepishness and regret in his voice so I didn't have to bludgeon him to death with an empty Maker's Mark bottle. In the end we made a good bit of money and i didn't have to tip anyone out, so all was well.


I was at the Local grocery on Sunday when I overheard one co-worker say to the other
"I'm going to buy propane at the wahlmart."
The other responded
"Seriously?"
"Nope. I have a history of pyrotechnics in my family you know. I started my first fire when I was eight."
"You're scaring me. Are you joking?"

What followed was a story thatIi had actually already heard, but that I had forgotten and thought you might get a kick out of. The Firestarter had a lot of brothers, and no girls to hang around with when she was growing up except a couple of cousins, who were always mean to her. She tried and tried to be friends and to hang out with them whenever possible, but they would always go away to a cabin they had and she wasn't invited. She asked repeatedly to be brought to said cabin, which was not far from their home, but was a fun getaway, and they wouldn't let her. So one day when nobody was at the cabin, she went and got two cans of propane and burned it down. This at age eight. My other co-worker, not having heard this story before, was in total shock.

"Oh my god Firestarter! What happened? Did you get in trouble?"
"No. Nobody knows it was me. They still don't. I'm waiting for the right time to tell them."

I think the funniest part of this is that the Firestarter is, as far as i can tell, a stable, responsible adult. She is married and has a kid and works hard and never calls in and is totally dependable. Just don't push her, I guess. I'd like to introduce her to Too Loud Trixie. Or at least Trixie's house.

Oh, great. Somebody just pointed out another brilliant blog that I can spend my scant free time with.
Check out the one from Andy Warhol.

Last night I spent a couple of hours on the phone with a friend. We had e-mailed and texted back and forth several times earlier in the day,because he was having some relationship issues and needed a bit of perspective. The Digital Couch, I called it, and I still don't know how much good I did him.

This morning I had my once a week shift with Kay, a woman who is nearish my mom's age and an absolute joy to be around on Saturday mornings. She is very soft-spoken and always in a good mood. We usually don't say a whole lot but there is enough small talk to keep things friendly. In contrast, many of the other people who work at that hour are heard loud and clear through the early morning quiet.

Today Kay told me that she had taken yesterday off from her full-time job because it was the two-year anniversary of her husband's death. She spent time going through some of her old things and came across a box of love letters from him.

"I have to get rid of a lot of stuff," she said, a little sheepishly. "I have way too much junk in my house."
"You don't mean to say that you're going to throw away those letters?" I responded, possibly with more alarm than I should have, considering the fact that we barely know each other.
"Well, I don't know why anybody else would want to read them, and I already read them again."
"I'm pretty sure your daughters and your grandchildren would want you to save them. I mean, you can edit them if there are any embarrassing details in there, but I really hope you won't throw them away."

She seemed to think about it for a second, and then changed the subject. We continued to work, exchanging tips on restaurants and movies. As she finished her shift, she said

"You're a wise woman. I think I'm going to go home and go through those letters and see if I can't find a nicer box to put them in."

I feel an inexplicable sense of relief.