March 15, 2002
Frick A See
Me: "People are funny."
Quasi-Supervisor Dean: "People are full of shit."
Now that my supervisor verified it, I am officially allowed to endorse and believe in it. You know, more so than before.
Tonight was a strange night. I had to watch Dean run the register the first half of the night, then pretend to be halfway competent at it the second half of the evening. I only made about a hundred mistakes. It isn't that it's hard, just that you have to learn where the buttons are and pick up speed with repitition.
I also hate handling money. It makes me nervous. Especially with the nine thousand Argosy cameras on me at all times and my flaky supervisor Teresa smiling in that I'm-really-judging-you-so-don't-mess-up-if-you-want-to-keep-your-job sort of way.
Nerve wracking, to say the least.
I got out from behind the register a few times and was delighted to be bouncing about on the marble floors, grinning my heart out to ungrateful customers. Don't get me wrong, some of them can be really and surprisingly cordial. There is just an overwhelming majority who get pissed if they can't get a window table that is right next to the buffet and without smoke. I can't count the times that the answer to my question of 'smoking or non?' comes back as 'close to the food.'
Why don't you just pull a fucking chair right up next to the prime rib, you lazy bastards?
If only I could be so frank at work. People are immensely rude to me when I am all sugar and kindness to them. I forgot that when you work in a restaurant you become a slave.
Not even for eight fucking fifty. Sorry.
Which reminds me, tip your damn waitress. She works harder than you think. And if you have a problem with your food, know that it isn't her. It's the kitchen. Stiffing the waitress is a capital offense in my book. She makes two fifty an hour. Don't be the asshole that leaves a dollar.
Because you can sure as shit bet we'll be saying bad things about you when you leave.
Wicked, wicked laughter...
Speaking of sausages, why, why, why do I care even the smallest amount where Will the Strange-and-Slightly-Cute Line Server is? I've been warned. I've spoken with him in passing enough to assume that he is not too bright. I've been warned again. I've seen him without the funny hat and know that the top of his dark hair is bleached. I've been warned yet again.
So why do I fucking care? What is the matter with me? I refuse to indulge in having a crush on a goofy line server. He isn't all that cute. He seems like a moron. And my aunt says he is a psychopath.
I have great taste in boys, huh?
Maybe Owen the I-Speak-Five-Languages-and-Work-Three-Jobs bus boy will talk to me this weekend. I am thinking he would be best suited to Kelsi, but have yet to think of a scenario wherein I can introduce the two.
Especially since my aunt is trying desperately to bring the two of us together.
As though I, in my dashing Argosy uniform, could bring any man to his knees.
Or even his elbows.
astera at 12:02 a.m.