Work on Friday wasn't the most exciting of evenings. No one fell down the stairs. No one was unusually rude or ridiculous. But I did receive an interesting prop. One of my first tables was a family of four. Really nice. Just out for a quick meal. When they left I cleared the table and found that they had left a red carpet swatch. Interesting. This could be fun.
Me- "I had a table of lesbians and they were hitting on me all night. And then they left me this piece of carpet as a tip."
Gullible Co- Worker- "Are you serious?"
Me- "Ya! Isn't that crazy?"
Gullible Co-Worker goes and tells the rest of the staff. Me laughs. Carpet licking jokes ensue for duration of evening.
Speaking of red carpets, my brother has discovered our family's claim to fame and where our love of single malts(aka alcoholism) has come from. Apparently we are responsible for introducing Scotch to the rest of the world. You can thank me later.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
The Head Bleeds A Lot
Usually when I talk about work it's to complain. Of course. Conflict is the basis to any story; so is drama. Especially when there is blood involved.
I walked into work on Friday with barely enough time to fix my tie and I was already being sat. I wondered if folks hadn't gained enough weight over the holidays because it was just as busy as any weekend over the last month. No worries though, it's all good for the pocket book. Or as my dad used to say "all the more for me." (And he was talking about food so it's doubly fitting.)
All my tables sat within seconds of one another so I was basically slammed. In. The. Weeds. And what better way to get out than by complete distraction. Like say, a man falling down the 14 stairs that lead to the washroom. It's a loud sound. Quite distinct. Not as much a sack of potatoes as maybe a pillow case full of prime rib with a watermelon-hitting-the-pavement finish. I looked to see the man flat out at the bottom of the stairs with a slowly expanding pool of blood around his head. Holy shit.
"Someone call 911!" I screamed, maybe even twice.
I ran (carefully of course) down to help the guy, who was already trying to get up. I urged him not to and put my cloth to his blood soaked head; a cloth that is usually for carrying hot plates. "Gosh, I hope it's not dirty", I thought. But it's not like I'm usually armed with an arsenal of sterile pads so I told myself to stop worrying about it. I moved on...to the idea that he could die in my hands. People die from falls all the time and this guy was bleeding A LOT. Ok. So that wasn't the case here. Thank God.
In the mean time two other staff had joined me along with the manager. Suddenly I remembered that I had tables and that I had been in the weeds. So where was I now? With blood on my hands. Someone else's blood on my hands. Shit. There was a lot of blood everywhere. And I had been lucky enough not to get any on my clothes. The other staff relieved me of my head-holding duties and I went to wash my hands and arms. 4 times.
And I went back to the weeds.
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I guess I work well under stress. I was quite impressed with myself. But I just can't get that image of the pooling blood and the weight of his head out of my mind. I hope he's ok.
I walked into work on Friday with barely enough time to fix my tie and I was already being sat. I wondered if folks hadn't gained enough weight over the holidays because it was just as busy as any weekend over the last month. No worries though, it's all good for the pocket book. Or as my dad used to say "all the more for me." (And he was talking about food so it's doubly fitting.)
All my tables sat within seconds of one another so I was basically slammed. In. The. Weeds. And what better way to get out than by complete distraction. Like say, a man falling down the 14 stairs that lead to the washroom. It's a loud sound. Quite distinct. Not as much a sack of potatoes as maybe a pillow case full of prime rib with a watermelon-hitting-the-pavement finish. I looked to see the man flat out at the bottom of the stairs with a slowly expanding pool of blood around his head. Holy shit.
"Someone call 911!" I screamed, maybe even twice.
I ran (carefully of course) down to help the guy, who was already trying to get up. I urged him not to and put my cloth to his blood soaked head; a cloth that is usually for carrying hot plates. "Gosh, I hope it's not dirty", I thought. But it's not like I'm usually armed with an arsenal of sterile pads so I told myself to stop worrying about it. I moved on...to the idea that he could die in my hands. People die from falls all the time and this guy was bleeding A LOT. Ok. So that wasn't the case here. Thank God.
In the mean time two other staff had joined me along with the manager. Suddenly I remembered that I had tables and that I had been in the weeds. So where was I now? With blood on my hands. Someone else's blood on my hands. Shit. There was a lot of blood everywhere. And I had been lucky enough not to get any on my clothes. The other staff relieved me of my head-holding duties and I went to wash my hands and arms. 4 times.
And I went back to the weeds.
The rest of the night went off without a hitch. I guess I work well under stress. I was quite impressed with myself. But I just can't get that image of the pooling blood and the weight of his head out of my mind. I hope he's ok.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Same Old Shit
Yesterday marked my return to the fabulous world of those who serve tables in restaurants. And it's now been solidified. I'm sick of it. For precisely half of my life and my entire working career I have had my hand in the service industry. I have been masterfully planning my escape and last night put a staple in it. So it's bitter sweet. The sheer loathing of being there is actually wicked motivation to just get the fuck out. What's my plan you ask? Well, being 56% bipolar, I have a ton of interests to combat my sudden bouts of complete boredom. My ultimate goal is to be a food writer/editor for a major food magazine. So I'm going back to finish University with a degree in English. In the mean time, my kids are still really young and to avoid the insane costs of daycare I'm forced to work nights. But I cannot keep on serving tables for the next 5 years. Instead, I'm finishing my grade 10 with the Royal Conservatory for piano so that I can start teaching. It's not imperative that I have the grade 10 to teach, I just think it's important for a teacher to know as much as possible and to always be learning. Somewhere in between I'm also going to culinary school. I was accepted about 6 years ago and ditched that for a job managing the kitchen in a steak house. In my mind food writer should be as versed as possible in both. And who knows, maybe I won't get a job for a mag at all. Maybe I can toss my theatre training in there too and be the next Rachael Ray but far less annoying...and hotter. Much hotter. Especially after I hire Chuck Norris as a personal trainer with all the money I'm making with my bipolar empire. MUAWWW HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAA!
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