I can’t remember the last time I was this upset – this FRUSTRATED and ANGRY. I had a really hard time sleeping last night because my mind was racing, going over everything that happened and getting more and more pissed off. And even today, I am still upset. It may sound stupid, and you may think I am overreacting, but I have a tendency to take things like this very seriously. Especially when I feel personally attacked, as I do in this situation. So enough of the prelude, here is what happened.
As you all know, I have been at RL for just over four months now. And I enjoy it. Really I do. But honestly? I am frickin’ exhausted. I am pushing 40 and working over 60 hours a week, 20 plus on my feet running around. But I deal. Because, well, I want/need the money, and I am good at serving. I know this because I am told so by my guests and by my managers. Well, some of the managers, at least. In any case, I have no problem working the hours if the money is there, and Lexie has been a real trooper through the whole transition. Although that, too, has been hard. It’s actually part of the reason for the whole puppy thing, sort of a “keep her busy” project when summer starts. ANYWAY.
On several occasions, I have been in situations where I either have a table finishing or leaving, and no other tables at all. Which means that I hadn’t been “sat” in a while, since my most recent table is ready to leave. When this happens, it is usually a bit later in the evening, or if not, ridiculously slow. So I tend to do my “sidework,” clean off my tables, and look forward to getting home to Lexie. And then: I get sat. And almost immediately after I have greeted this new table, I get told that I am “cut” – which means the hostesses won’t be seating me any more and I am finished for the night – that is, when this new table has eaten, paid, and left. This burns the HELL out of me, and I have told the managers as much on several occasions. For those of you not in the service industry, let me explain why.
Servers do get paid an hourly rate, but their major income is from tips. The hourly rate for servers is currently $3.90 an hour. And The Man takes taxes out of both your hourly wage AND what your tip calculation is, based on your sales for the night. Besides this, servers have to “tip out” both the busboy and the bartender, 10% of your alcohol sales to the bar, and a minimum of $3 to the busboy, generally more if they are extra helpful. So when you have one table at the end of your shift, and no others, you will probably be on the clock for at least another hour – waiting for one tip which generally is about $5 - $7, out of which you may have to tip the bar (if they are drinking) and honestly? My time is worth more than $5 an hour. Especially if it is during the week and I have been working since 8:30 am and have a daughter to get home to. But besides complaining to the managers, there isn’t much you can do. Which REALLY sucks. And? I am not the only server this happens to, and certainly not the only one irritated (to put it lightly) by the whole thing.
So last night is incredibly slow. But even so, I manage to get five tables sat pretty much one after the other – only it is two singles and three deuces. (Even though at RL it is pretty much FORBIDDEN for a server to have more than 3 tables at a time – remember that fact.) All small checks. And due to a mixup with a new server, I end up taking a table that was supposed to be hers – only they had been sitting there for like ten minutes. I do my best to schmooze them and yet? $4 on a $60 check. Yes, dear readers, BAD tip night. Which happens – whatever. So my last two tables are finishing up, one pays and leaves, the other asks for containers for their leftovers. By now it is about 8:30, and we close at 10:00. Not much happening on a Tuesday night. When I come back with the containers, I notice that the hostess is leading an old man to my station. ONE DAMN OLD MAN who has a newspaper, no less. And here I am, sidework done, finishing up my last table at 8:30 on a Tuesday night. I can feel the flushing start in my face, but I calm myself and walk up to the manager in front and ask, “Ok, Matt? Why did they just seat me a single when I have no other tables? I mean, am I going to be cut now and be stuck with just this one guy?”
Matt was a bit flustered – he’s a young guy. “Well, um, I mean, you’re not cut yet… but yeah, probably really soon…”
“Ok, so why seat me a single? I really don’t want to hang around for another hour or two waiting for ONE GUY. Besides, this is the third single I’ve had tonight, and I’ve made no money whatsoever.”
“Yeah, well… see, your station was the most accommodating, so we had to seat it…”
At this point, another server, Jim (bless his heart) jumps in and says, “I’ll take him, dasi.”
But I tell him don’t worry about it, because he is on the other side of the restaurant. I instead approach a closing server, and ask him if he will take the table so I can go home. He is very good about it and understands completely. “Absolutely,” he says. “Why would you want to hang around for a single? I’ve got it, don’t worry.”
I thank him profusely, and finish up the rest of my work.
But then I am accosted my Matt. With a whole “You-can’t-do-that-that-was-your-table-and-you-weren’t-cut-yet-and-I-said-so-and-now-you-broke-the-rules” tirade.
I try to explain my situation, that I gave the table to a closer, which is often done by other servers, and I didn’t see the big deal.
“They’re not supposed to do that either. You weren’t cut, and since you start at 5:30, you have to stay on later to make it fair to the other servers who come in at 4:00 or who work splits.”
Ok, temper: check. Deep breath. “Matt,” I explain calmly, “as Chris (our GM) knows, I work a full-time job during the day. THAT is why I start at 5:30. I am not a kid whose only job is serving. And honestly? I get tired after about twelve hours in a row working. But that’s not the problem – I just do not want to waste my time hanging around for $3.”
More blather about “you can’t do that” and so I agreed that if I found myself in that situation again I would talk to a manager first. “Well, I have something for you before you leave tonight. Don’t leave before you see me,” he warned, and stalked off.
That “something?” A Written Warning. Which blew my mind. I told him and Zach (the other manager on duty) that I did NOT agree with this, that I thought it was unfair, and I was told that I had to sign it, but there was room for my comments. So you bet your sweet ASS I commented.
And after reading my comments, the two managers tried to rationalize and justify the write up by saying “if other servers are doing this too, we need to let them know. This isn’t just about you.” Oh, so I’M the scapegoat?? Was a Written Warning REALLY necessary?? I let them babble about guest service and hostesses needing to know who had what tables and not being fair to anyone else in the restaurant by my “misdeed.” I came back with the problems of “seating-then-cutting” and argued that the process wasn’t fair. The end result? The write-up stuck, but I think I made the managers uncomfortable with my ability to stand up for myself and not just shuffle my feet and mumble “ok, sorry, guys.”
I left with tears burning my eyes because it was so damn HUMILIATING to be treated like a grammar school kid getting a checkmark for bad behavior on their report card, especially by managers at least ten years my junior. And because I STILL don’t think it was fair. And like I said, I couldn’t sleep either, I kept tossing and turning and wondering if it all was worth it. Maybe I forego the new car and buy a used one, maybe we shine the puppy for now, and maybe I put RL in my past permanently. Maybe two jobs IS too much, and I know I DEFINITELY don’t need any more bullshit in my life.
I plan to discuss this with Chris, the GM, before my shift starts today. I have a lot of questions about Matt and Zach’s theories – such as, if they are so worried about guest dissatisfaction by having too many tables per server, why was I sat five tables? And what about when servers rotate in their sections (which they often do)? They don’t tell the managers or hostesses about that, how can they know who has what tables then? And does he really think that I am wrong about the “seat-and-cut” problem? Most importantly, does he think I am not a good server? If he can’t placate me, and make me understand why I should stay, maybe I will end my RL career. Because you know what? I have been through too much in my life to let some power trippy junior managers crush my spirit. Screw that.
Oh – and as far as the day job? Satan says we’re here till November.
Over and out.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Ok, So I'm Weak...
...but who could possible resist this little furball? No, he's not mine. But this is the kind of puppy Lexie and I are getting come June. A Keeshond. Long story on the "why's" and "wherefore's", but suffice it to say my daughter won her long standing battle for a puppy. 
I'll give you the details later. A bit busy now - but I wanted to let you all know I'm not dead, either.
I'll give you the details later. A bit busy now - but I wanted to let you all know I'm not dead, either.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Who I Am
Growing up, I often felt “not good enough.” For whatever reason, I always had a hard time being proud of who I was. I always thought people didn’t really like me, boys didn’t really think I was pretty, teachers didn’t really think I was smart. I would get a sick feeling in my stomach when I said something I thought (in retrospect) was “stupid,” or if a friend didn’t call me back after I left a message, or if anyone looked at me in a way I interpreted as disdainful.
Because of this, I had extremely low self-esteem. Which may or may not have caused my life to take the twists and turns it ultimately did. In any case, I wound up pulling myself out of the hellhole I had been calling my life, stopped using drugs, and built a brand new life which I am very proud of. I never pulled any punches when it came to my past, because although it may not be a part of my life I am proud of, it made me who I am today. I have no problem telling people I am an addict, that I have eleven plus years clean. Obviously – or I wouldn’t be writing “TBOTE.” I feel it is a major part of who I am – the lessons learned both while I was “out there” and while I was in the recovery process are important ones. I learned to stand on my own two feet, to claim back my life under my terms, to accept help when I need it but to bust my ass to try to make things work on my own first.
It took all those years and all those experiences to make me strong, to make me accomplished, to make me mature. And yet there is still a part of me that aches when people look at me sideways, intentionally or not, still a part of me that feels that pang of insecurity when confronted with a group of people having a good time and laughing – wondering if they are laughing at me. Sometimes I can convince myself that it doesn’t matter what people think – that I know who I am, and I am a good person. Usually I manage to brush off the insecurities and realize that people like me for me, no matter what my faults are, and that nobody is perfect anyway.
And then I encounter a situation like the one last night and I feel like that stupid little girl again – wondering if I screwed up, feeling that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even though at the time I thought nothing of it, and honestly still don’t, my parents have a way of making me feel ashamed, and I hate that.
See, some of the younger guy servers were standing around discussing drugs. More specifically, cocaine and crack. Their conversation amused me. One of them was saying how once you got addicted to crack, you were never the same. You were so messed up mentally and physically, that no matter what, you would be obviously scarred for life.
“Really?” I asked, trying to suppress a grin.
“Oh, yeah! I have a friend – he is really bad, man. You can just look at him and tell. And he like lost part of his mind, too. He like can’t get a job or anything.”
“So what you’re saying is that if you are addicted to, say, crack, even if you quit, you've pretty much screwed up your whole life?” I inquired.
The other two servers nodded gravely and also explained to me that basically addicts were ruined for life, because anyone could spot them a mile away since they deteriorated physically so extremely. Plus, they killed so many brain cells, they really could barely even form coherent sentences, even after they quit. Oh, and emotionally? They couldn’t bear to socialize with people anymore, they just lived in the dark and pretty much went crazy.
Ok, so maybe it is a good thing that these twenty-somethings truly thought that addiction was that bad. But it still struck me as funny, I mean, come on!
“Ever heard of CA?” I asked nonchalantly.
Initially – a blank look. Then, “Oh, yeah! Cocaine Anonymous, right?”
I smiled sweetly. “Just over eleven years.”
The looks on their collective faces was priceless. One of them shook my hand. “Wow! You? Eleven years clean though, huh? Amazing!”
Yes, me. This thirty-something single mom working two jobs, a slightly overweight but still pretty enough woman who can string together plenty of coherent sentences, the waitress who goes straight home to her daughter after every shift instead of joining the young’uns at the bars… I am an addict. I survived the hell I lived in, and I have no problem talking about it. I mean, I don’t go around saying “Look at me! I used to smoke crack!” but if the subject comes up, I don’t shy away from it. Why should I? I am a good person who made some bad choices. And if I can help other people understand addiction, or if I can stop someone from using by sharing my experience, or if I can plant the seed of recovery into a fellow addict’s mind – well, then, yay me.
But when I got home and called my father, anxious to share my “funny story,” he cut me off.
“You didn’t tell them about you, did you?” he demanded.
The old uncertain me always wanting to please kicked into overdrive. “No, of course not,” I responded meekly, suddenly not thinking it was that funny.
“Good, because people don’t need to know. It changes how they think about you. It’s not something to talk about,” he responded.
I hung up the phone feeling guilty and ashamed. Why did I tell them? I was a bad person, and now they all knew it. I was no longer dasi the nice server, I was dasi the lowlife addict.
But then I started to get angry. Angry at my dad for making me feel that way, and angry at myself for letting him. I called my mom to vent.
“But honey, there are some things you just shouldn’t discuss,” she said gently. “You know, people don’t need to know everything.”
“But mom! It’s ME. A part of MY life. And I may not be proud of it, but I’m certainly not ashamed,” I explained, wanting her to understand.
But she didn’t.
“Yes, well, we certainly aren’t ashamed of you, but it’s just not something you should really discuss with people.”
So sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. They are ashamed. And even though I have made great strides in my life, even though I beat my addiction and clawed my way into a better life for myself and my daughter, we just "won’t discuss it." Because nice families and good people don’t have addictions.
Well guess what? I DO. And I know I am a good person. And I am NOT ashamed of who I am. I have regrets, but I don’t dwell on them. I have moved forward, and I will continue to do so. I will talk about my history and answer peoples’ questions, and some people may judge me for it, but I don’t care. I refuse to hide who I am to please society or my parents.
I am dasi, and I am an addict. Deal with it.
Because of this, I had extremely low self-esteem. Which may or may not have caused my life to take the twists and turns it ultimately did. In any case, I wound up pulling myself out of the hellhole I had been calling my life, stopped using drugs, and built a brand new life which I am very proud of. I never pulled any punches when it came to my past, because although it may not be a part of my life I am proud of, it made me who I am today. I have no problem telling people I am an addict, that I have eleven plus years clean. Obviously – or I wouldn’t be writing “TBOTE.” I feel it is a major part of who I am – the lessons learned both while I was “out there” and while I was in the recovery process are important ones. I learned to stand on my own two feet, to claim back my life under my terms, to accept help when I need it but to bust my ass to try to make things work on my own first.
It took all those years and all those experiences to make me strong, to make me accomplished, to make me mature. And yet there is still a part of me that aches when people look at me sideways, intentionally or not, still a part of me that feels that pang of insecurity when confronted with a group of people having a good time and laughing – wondering if they are laughing at me. Sometimes I can convince myself that it doesn’t matter what people think – that I know who I am, and I am a good person. Usually I manage to brush off the insecurities and realize that people like me for me, no matter what my faults are, and that nobody is perfect anyway.
And then I encounter a situation like the one last night and I feel like that stupid little girl again – wondering if I screwed up, feeling that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even though at the time I thought nothing of it, and honestly still don’t, my parents have a way of making me feel ashamed, and I hate that.
See, some of the younger guy servers were standing around discussing drugs. More specifically, cocaine and crack. Their conversation amused me. One of them was saying how once you got addicted to crack, you were never the same. You were so messed up mentally and physically, that no matter what, you would be obviously scarred for life.
“Really?” I asked, trying to suppress a grin.
“Oh, yeah! I have a friend – he is really bad, man. You can just look at him and tell. And he like lost part of his mind, too. He like can’t get a job or anything.”
“So what you’re saying is that if you are addicted to, say, crack, even if you quit, you've pretty much screwed up your whole life?” I inquired.
The other two servers nodded gravely and also explained to me that basically addicts were ruined for life, because anyone could spot them a mile away since they deteriorated physically so extremely. Plus, they killed so many brain cells, they really could barely even form coherent sentences, even after they quit. Oh, and emotionally? They couldn’t bear to socialize with people anymore, they just lived in the dark and pretty much went crazy.
Ok, so maybe it is a good thing that these twenty-somethings truly thought that addiction was that bad. But it still struck me as funny, I mean, come on!
“Ever heard of CA?” I asked nonchalantly.
Initially – a blank look. Then, “Oh, yeah! Cocaine Anonymous, right?”
I smiled sweetly. “Just over eleven years.”
The looks on their collective faces was priceless. One of them shook my hand. “Wow! You? Eleven years clean though, huh? Amazing!”
Yes, me. This thirty-something single mom working two jobs, a slightly overweight but still pretty enough woman who can string together plenty of coherent sentences, the waitress who goes straight home to her daughter after every shift instead of joining the young’uns at the bars… I am an addict. I survived the hell I lived in, and I have no problem talking about it. I mean, I don’t go around saying “Look at me! I used to smoke crack!” but if the subject comes up, I don’t shy away from it. Why should I? I am a good person who made some bad choices. And if I can help other people understand addiction, or if I can stop someone from using by sharing my experience, or if I can plant the seed of recovery into a fellow addict’s mind – well, then, yay me.
But when I got home and called my father, anxious to share my “funny story,” he cut me off.
“You didn’t tell them about you, did you?” he demanded.
The old uncertain me always wanting to please kicked into overdrive. “No, of course not,” I responded meekly, suddenly not thinking it was that funny.
“Good, because people don’t need to know. It changes how they think about you. It’s not something to talk about,” he responded.
I hung up the phone feeling guilty and ashamed. Why did I tell them? I was a bad person, and now they all knew it. I was no longer dasi the nice server, I was dasi the lowlife addict.
But then I started to get angry. Angry at my dad for making me feel that way, and angry at myself for letting him. I called my mom to vent.
“But honey, there are some things you just shouldn’t discuss,” she said gently. “You know, people don’t need to know everything.”
“But mom! It’s ME. A part of MY life. And I may not be proud of it, but I’m certainly not ashamed,” I explained, wanting her to understand.
But she didn’t.
“Yes, well, we certainly aren’t ashamed of you, but it’s just not something you should really discuss with people.”
So sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. They are ashamed. And even though I have made great strides in my life, even though I beat my addiction and clawed my way into a better life for myself and my daughter, we just "won’t discuss it." Because nice families and good people don’t have addictions.
Well guess what? I DO. And I know I am a good person. And I am NOT ashamed of who I am. I have regrets, but I don’t dwell on them. I have moved forward, and I will continue to do so. I will talk about my history and answer peoples’ questions, and some people may judge me for it, but I don’t care. I refuse to hide who I am to please society or my parents.
I am dasi, and I am an addict. Deal with it.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Don't Mess With Mother Nature
So, ummm… yeah. Apparently it wasn’t enough that fellow bloggers as well as friends in the real world and even my own daughter said I’d be crazy to go to the wake – Mother Nature has made it virtually impossible for me to go anyway.
I think Someone wants me to just leave the past in the past… But you’re right, Hope, it would’ve made a good blog! If I make it home from work in this blinding snow I’ll just snuggle with my daughter (if she’ll let me, she is a pre-teen, after all), eat frozen pizza while watching mindless tv and be grateful for what my life is now.
Rest in Peace, though, Mrs. B, I’m sure Kevin kept you pretty un-peaceful for most of your life, so you’ve earned it…
I think Someone wants me to just leave the past in the past… But you’re right, Hope, it would’ve made a good blog! If I make it home from work in this blinding snow I’ll just snuggle with my daughter (if she’ll let me, she is a pre-teen, after all), eat frozen pizza while watching mindless tv and be grateful for what my life is now.
Rest in Peace, though, Mrs. B, I’m sure Kevin kept you pretty un-peaceful for most of your life, so you’ve earned it…
Monday, February 12, 2007
Old Ghosts
Do I even have the right to ask for help in cyberspace? I mean, since I have been so out of touch with writing and commenting? I hope you guys are still around, because I need advice. And I don’t want to ask anyone here in my real world, because I’m pretty sure I’d know their answers. Which isn’t to say I don’t value the opinions of my family and friends, but I think some of them might “mean well” and be a little too close to the situation to give an unbiased response.
See, quirky person that I am, I read the obituaries pretty much on a daily basis when I get to work. Mainly because if I ever see my own name in there, I am DEFINITELY going home and taking the day off. But I also look for names that I recognize, of old friends, neighbors, teachers, etc. Today I saw a name I recognized.
It was Kevin’s mother.
Kevin from TBOTE - Kevin who I loved (and probably still do in a way) for the almost five years we were together. Kevin who made me laugh and who made me cry. I haven’t seen him in over ten years, but you don’t forget someone like Kevin. Everything we went through together gave us a bond that although eroded over time is still there…
This woman could have been my mother-in-law, had things gone differently. I remember her fondly, she liked me – and told me I was much better for her son than any of the other “bimbos” he dated. She was a spunky Irish woman who baked soda bread and made corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day, and smoked and drank like it was going out of style. But even so, she loved her family fiercely, and always told it like it was. She was a real piece of work.
The Irish Catholic in my blood tells me it is only proper to go to the wake, since I knew her well (even though it was so long ago) – anyone who is an Irish Catholic knows that even if you just recognize a person’s name, you go to their wake. It’s a no-brainer. Irish Catholics probably spend about one-quarter of their lives attending wakes and funerals, it’s just the way we are.
Besides, I want to see Kevin.
I want to see him, even though my stomach is churning as I type and I actually feel lightheaded. My life has done a 180 since I last saw him, and I’m hoping his has as well. I want to look him in the eye one more time and say a sober goodbye. Part of me is terrified that he is my “trigger,” that one moment with him could catapult my life right back to where it was ten years ago, but the logical part of me knows that won’t happen. I am older, stronger, and wiser. I have a life, a job and a daughter. Too much to ever lose.
I would be lying if I said I had no feelings for him anymore. Because I do. He loved me, and I loved him, and despite the hell we went through, we also had some really good times. He took care of me the best he knew how, and I am grateful for that. At the end, it wasn’t him I left, the Kevin I knew had been ravaged alive by drugs and alcohol. My Kevin was gone. And maybe I want to see him to find out if any of my Kevin has returned. And maybe if I do see him, and he hasn’t changed, my heart will break a little more but I will be able to lock the door on that chapter of my life.
In any case, the wake is tomorrow. And as fate would have it, I am not scheduled to work at RL. Which means I can go. But should I?
See, quirky person that I am, I read the obituaries pretty much on a daily basis when I get to work. Mainly because if I ever see my own name in there, I am DEFINITELY going home and taking the day off. But I also look for names that I recognize, of old friends, neighbors, teachers, etc. Today I saw a name I recognized.
It was Kevin’s mother.
Kevin from TBOTE - Kevin who I loved (and probably still do in a way) for the almost five years we were together. Kevin who made me laugh and who made me cry. I haven’t seen him in over ten years, but you don’t forget someone like Kevin. Everything we went through together gave us a bond that although eroded over time is still there…
This woman could have been my mother-in-law, had things gone differently. I remember her fondly, she liked me – and told me I was much better for her son than any of the other “bimbos” he dated. She was a spunky Irish woman who baked soda bread and made corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day, and smoked and drank like it was going out of style. But even so, she loved her family fiercely, and always told it like it was. She was a real piece of work.
The Irish Catholic in my blood tells me it is only proper to go to the wake, since I knew her well (even though it was so long ago) – anyone who is an Irish Catholic knows that even if you just recognize a person’s name, you go to their wake. It’s a no-brainer. Irish Catholics probably spend about one-quarter of their lives attending wakes and funerals, it’s just the way we are.
Besides, I want to see Kevin.
I want to see him, even though my stomach is churning as I type and I actually feel lightheaded. My life has done a 180 since I last saw him, and I’m hoping his has as well. I want to look him in the eye one more time and say a sober goodbye. Part of me is terrified that he is my “trigger,” that one moment with him could catapult my life right back to where it was ten years ago, but the logical part of me knows that won’t happen. I am older, stronger, and wiser. I have a life, a job and a daughter. Too much to ever lose.
I would be lying if I said I had no feelings for him anymore. Because I do. He loved me, and I loved him, and despite the hell we went through, we also had some really good times. He took care of me the best he knew how, and I am grateful for that. At the end, it wasn’t him I left, the Kevin I knew had been ravaged alive by drugs and alcohol. My Kevin was gone. And maybe I want to see him to find out if any of my Kevin has returned. And maybe if I do see him, and he hasn’t changed, my heart will break a little more but I will be able to lock the door on that chapter of my life.
In any case, the wake is tomorrow. And as fate would have it, I am not scheduled to work at RL. Which means I can go. But should I?
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