All because of a little kindness

Today I waited on this couple from Little Rock. Right away, they told me they were on vacation, and a friend of theirs had highly recommended our restaurant. So right away, Alison Hamm turned on the charm.

As I was telling them about the restaurant's focus on local, organic products and recycling, I realized they were both giving me their full attention. It kind of threw me off my game a little bit. Kind of sad that people paying attention to me when I'm waiting on them unnerves me, but hey, it doesn't happen as often as you might think.

I recommended some food and beers, and the man took my advice and ordered an Alpha King. The woman got an iced tea. For some reason, this truly delighted me. As I continued to check on them throughout their meal, they were both so damn NICE to me, I felt compelled to tell them all these things about myself. (I never feel compelled to tell customers things about myself.) I caught myself telling them how I went to school at IU and loved the Upland Brewery, how I had lived in Indiana for practically my whole life but had never been to the Indy 500, and how I'd just moved back home from Chicago.

The whole time they nodded, smiled, and made friendly banter back. I swear, if they'd invited me, I would have plopped down in that booth and told them my life story. I was beginning to feel a bit ridiculous. It's not like any of my other customers were rude or unfriendly today. But something about this particular couple just warmed my little waitress heart.

When I gave them their check, the woman thanked me, and told me how nice I was. She then told me, "You're very pretty, too," like she'd been debating whether or not to say it, but actually meant it. She smiled a big, genuine smile at me.

I smiled back and said, "Thank you." And I really meant it. As I walked back to the kitchen with their dirty plates, I felt a little bit of the weight that's been on my heart since I moved back lift. All because of a little kindness.

Then I promptly slammed into the kitchen manager and dropped a knife on the floor.

First Impressions.

It's been a week of first impressions.

Monday I started a new serving gig, which means the kitties and I will be able to continue to eat and have a roof over our heads. WHEW.

Then Tuesday I took my Broke Ass to the Tribune Tower to get my photo taken for the RedEye Broke Ass project. (Damn, that building is amazing.) Obviously this is all an effort to get my book deal/full-time editorial gig, but I felt a little guilty going in the day after my first training shift at the bar. (Not that guilty though.) The thing is, I've got enough perspective right now to appreciate this new serving gig for what it is—a JOB. That's more than many people have right now, so it would be ridiculous if I didn't value it. 

Today was my third shift at the bar. I was annoyed with myself the moment I woke up today, because I stayed out too late the night before, overslept, and felt (and looked) like crap. Not the best version of myself to go in to a new job. When am I going to learn? Not only am I the "new girl" in a still relatively foreign environment, I am the new girl who is a space cadet, and not a very friendly one at that, because I'm exhausted.

Uggh. I don't know what my fellow employees think of me at this point, but after the lunch shift was over and I took my break (I was working a double), I immediately went to Dunkin Donuts and gulped down a coffee. Hoorah for caffeine, because when I finally got to take tables during the dinner shift, I felt like a more accurate version of myself. (I smiled at people. Some of them smiled back.)

My first impressions of the new job are overall pretty positive, so I can only hope that I've made a halfway decent impression on all these co-workers and managers I've just acquired. If my last job taught me anything, it's that when I'm intimidated or nervous, it comes across to other people (ahem, like my managers) as me being snobby, conceited, or negative (insert other bad adjective here). And that blows. Because even though it shouldn't really matter, I still wish I could have somehow shown my previous boss that my "dirty looks" and "bad attitude" was really just me, intimidated, nervous, and sensitive as all hell. 

I want to make a good first impression this time. But I'm willing to make a good second (and third, or tenth) impression if that's what I have to do. I learned my lesson. If your boss doesn't like you—or thinks you don't like her, so in turn begins to loathe you—work can be pretty damn miserable. No thank you. I'm done with that portion of the Ali show.

It's a fresh start. And it's nervewracking and tough and wonderful.

When Enough is Enough. (But not quite the way you thought it would be.)

Yesterday I quit my job.

It’s something I’ve been thinking about, planning out, daydreaming for months and months. But as with so many things, quitting my job didn’t go quite the way I’d been thinking and planning and daydreaming.

Since I first started waiting tables last August, I’ve missed my job at Indiana University. I have applied for job after job at various universities in Chicago; at Borders; at random companies I wasn’t even sure I liked, but that would give me the title of “writer” or “editor” should I be hired. I’ve gone to interviews and waited for callbacks that never came. I’ve juggled my waitressing job with poorly paid or unpaid internships, waiting for that fantastic moment when that internship would turn into a full-time, paid position, and I could make a victorious phone call to my dad, to my grandma, to my brother, to anyone who would listen.

I thought, and I hoped, that the day I quit this job, it would be because of a new opportunity.

Instead, I’ve quit my job, yet again, without a real idea of what’s to come in the future. Only this time I’m not moving to a new city. Here I am. Now what?

Magical Moments Waiting Tables: The 6 out of 10 Edition

Thank God for the absolutely ridiculous customers at Logan. If it weren’t for them, I might have to go another day oblivious that I’m a 6 out of 10.

Yes, this is what the middle aged man I was waiting on this evening informed me after we had the following interaction:

“What’s up with these fingers, Alison?” (By that he meant the chicken fingers. Obviously.)

“Umm, I’m not sure…uhh, what?”

“They’re weird. Look at them. They’re weird.”

“Well, we use a black bean breading for them, so they’re a little different from standard chicken fingers.”

“You should have told me that! Why wouldn’t you tell someone that? It’s not on the menu!”

At this point, his friend says, “Actually, it was on the menu.” But this doesn’t stop him.

“Alison, what are you going to do about this? I cannot eat these. You should have told me. What do you think this will do to your tip? What am I gonna do about this?"

Negligence and work and such

My poor, poor blog. It just looks sad and rejected lately, doesn't it? Well, hopefully you all haven't given up on me. The negligence is (mostly) due to my crazy work schedule as of late. There have been so many magical moments waiting tables lately that I really should be sharing! Plus, it's gotten a little crazier lately because I, yet again, have taken on another internship. Except this time I refuse to call it an internship. I'm working part-time for The Media Consortium, which so far has been a great experience.

Not only is it about five minutes away from my apartment, it is also around the corner from my local Starbucks AND...my Thai restaurant. (Yes, my Thai restaurant, Anong.) And, even better, they actually treat me like a human being! I get to do real work! Hoorah!

So, please forgive me for neglecting the rainbow chronicles. Hopefully I'll get used to working two jobs again soon, and can find more time for the important things. Like blogging.

Magical Moments Waiting Tables: ‘Never Trust a Drunk Man Playing Golden Tee’ Edition

Tonight, if you plan on getting shitfaced at your local bar and inappropriately flirting with your waitress to the point of her considering calling the authorities, here’s a little advice for you:

Remember to sign your credit card slip. Remember to add in the tip. Try not to drop a twenty on the ground as you storm out of the bar, stumbling into barstools.

My new buddy John forgot to do this last night. Guess who added in her own tip and pocketed the twenty. Yep, that’s me. The girl wearing “ninja” shoes who is “pretty, but would look better in purple than that gray shirt.”

John, who started playing the Golden Tee at about 4 p.m. yesterday while consuming approximately 10 Stella’s and four Crown on the rocks over the course of the evening, started off pretty harmless. Weird, and a bit of creep, telling me he was going to buy me heels because I kept sneaking up on him in my “ninja” shoes —but nothing too disturbing. Just your average borderline sexual harasser.

Not surprisingly, though, once he added whiskey to the mix, he started upping his creepy factor:

LAY OFF ME, I'M STARVING! (More Magical Moments Waiting Tables)

Although I’ve more or less adjusted to my erratic hours at my job over the last year—working until 1 a.m. Saturday nights, then going back at 9:30 the next morning, working at 5 p.m. the next day, you get the picture—one aspect I simply can’t adjust to is the inevitable bizarre eating schedule that goes with it.

Not only do I now eat dinner anywhere from 4 p.m. to midnight, I also routinely work the last half of my shift with my stomach growling and my head aching because I haven’t eaten anything in over six hours. Yep, waitresses are supposed to be robots. No eating during your shift. Of course, there are the lucky days when our manager lets us share some food or eat some soup, but normally, if you’re paying attention, you’ll see servers sneaking pieces of bread or begging the cooks for some extra fries or chips. My go to is pickles. Why, I don’t know, but it helps the hunger pains more. I also enjoy the amused look Luis or Antonio get when I plead, “Can I get some pickles, por favor, corazon?” (If I'm lucky, they're in a good mood, and say, "Anything for you!" and hand me a plate piled with pickles. If I'm not so lucky, well, clearly I don't get my pickles.)

The other night was a particularly painful one for me—not only was I effing starving, but for almost two hours, I only had one table. Maybe you’re thinking, that’s a perfect time to eat at work! Why wouldn’t you be able to eat right then? You’re standing right next to a kitchen!

Magical Moments Waiting Tables: The Lesbian Sprinter Edition

Oh, my job. Just when I think people can no longer astound me with their bad manners and inappropriate behavior, a new customer teaches me a lesson. This week was a particularly educational one. The bad behavior started at the beginning of the week, when a middle aged couple got blitzed off of our Oktoberfest drafts at 4 in the afternoon and then began making out and going to second base at the table. But that was nothing—mildly inappropriate at the most, compared to what would happen Friday afternoon.

Let me preface this by saying: Don’t call your waitress ‘sweetheart’ after you demand six drinks for you and your five other friends who haven’t even arrived yet. In fact, don’t call your waitress sweetheart, ever! Especially if your waitress is me. I don’t like it. It makes me angry. I’m not your sweetheart. You call me sweetheart, and I’ll probably still smile at you, but you better believe I’m thinking about smacking you with your menu.

So, after I begrudgingly put in his order for double Stoli’s on the rocks—“Easy ice, splash of Rose’s Lime, sweetheart”—his friends arrive. They’re all military guys, accompanied by one tiny blonde woman who looks rather terrified. (After her fifth Captain and diet Coke, she was decidedly less nervous.)

They are loud and rude. And they all bark at me: “Plates. Wings. Heineken. Lemonade. Lemonade’s sour. Hennessy.”

You get the idea.

Because I’m already growling under my breath before I even take their food order, I decide maybe I should adjust my attitude a little bit. Only one of the guys was actually in uniform, but judging from all of the “Citizen Soldier” t-shirts at the table, I knew it was a safe bet that they were all in the Guard. I decided to make nice.

Thoughts on My Invisibility

Thank Jesus I can't find a job in my field, because now that I've been waiting tables for some time, I've had a revelation: I have a super power.

I'm INVISIBLE.

Not only that, apparently when I speak, I can hear myself, but customers can't! It's magic.

Seriously, people, didn't your momma teach you any manners? You most certainly didn't have my Aunt Linda around, who scolded me every time I asked for another helping of Kraft Mac and Cheese without saying 'please' when I was a kid.

Please, please, when you go to a restaurant, and your friendly server comes to the table, will you acknowledge his or her existence? Last night I almost fell over the first time someone made eye contact with me and--gasp--smiled.

I got to the point last night where I was contemplating pulling a Clark Griswold when my tables left: "Kiss my ass. Kiss his ass. Kiss your ass. Happy Hanukkah."

So if you really want to break a young woman's spirit on a Saturday night, come sit at one of my tables, refuse to make eye contact with me or respond to my questions, and never by any means say please or thank you.

I mean, give me a break people. It's Saturday night, I'm making $4.85 an hour and I'm wearing an apron. You're drinking beer and eating nachos. Acknowledge me!

More Magical Moments Waiting Tables

Part 1: Creepy Customers 1 and 2

Last night was a doozy. A real, effing doozy. I could begin by telling you that one of my customers got hit by a car, rolled off of it, then hopped up and continued running down the street after a tow truck, but that wouldn’t really be fair.

So let’s start at the beginning, with Creepy Customers 1 and 2.

I was inwardly groaning and outwardly rolling my eyes at Rachel when I realized it was my turn to wait on these two guys that walked in. As I hovered behind them with menus as they danced around the table trying to decide who would sit in the booth seat and who would take the chair, I knew I was going to be in for a treat. After what seemed like three hours, they sat down.

I began my spiel: “Hey guys, how you doing? Want something to drink?”

CC 1, looking at CC 2: “Well, hmm...what do you think? Are you having a beer? If you’re having a beer, I’m having a beer...”

CC 2, looking at me, then frantically back at the menu: “Umm...”

Me, fake smile plastered on my face: “I’ll just give you a minute.” *scurries away*

Back at the table...

CC 1: “What’s your name?” (As a general rule, when a middle-aged man I’m waiting on asks for my name, that means he’s going to say it every time I come to the table, every chance he can get. He’ll say it so many times I will want to punch him in the face at the sound of my own name.)

Me, fake smiles galore: “Alison.”

CC1: “Alison, tell us about your beer specials.”

Uggh. I hate when people make me do my job. I especially hate when they command that I do or tell them something.

I tell them some BS about our Skinny Dip beer special, knowing that unlike most tables, who will shrug and say, ok, I’ll take that, they’re going to ask me specific, annoying questions. Long story short, after a ridiculously long conversation where I have now forgotten everything I was supposed to be getting for my other customers, they take the damn beers.

Back at the table, CC1, who apparently does all the talking for his friend, delights me with a story about how they’re not too hungry, so they want to split the Cobb salad. We don’t have a Cobb salad.

Me: “So, you’d like to split the chicken chopped salad? What kind of dressing would you like?”

CC 1, chuckling: “Oh, Alison, that’s right, the CHOPPED salad. Hmm… Alison, why don’t you tell us about your salad dressings, Alison, AlisonAlisonAlisonAlison?”

Me: QUIT SAYING MY DAMN NAME!

Wait, I just screamed, err, said that in my mind. I told them the dressings.

After another debate, CC 2 decides he wants to try two of the dressings! How magical! I tell them no problem, and ignore them until I deliver their salads. When I bring them their unimpressive salads, they act like I’ve just given them a golden ticket. I’ve never seen two grown men so damn excited over a salad. CC 1 actually said, “Oh, Alison, this is perfect. This is so wonderful of you, Alison. This looks fantastic, Alison.”

Uh huh.

Just when I think I’m done with these goofballs, I hear it: my fucking name.

“Excuse me, Alison?” (May I just say CC 1 said this when I was across the patio, talking to another table.)

I nod at him in acknowledgement and attempt to take the rest of my other customer’s order.

“ALISON?”

Sweet Jesus. I get back over to this table, fighting the urge to scream, “WHAT?!” and smile at CC 1. CC 2 is staring into his salad.

CC 1 stands up—STANDS UP! Where the hell am I?! —-and gets uncomfortably close to my face. “Alison, you’re not going to believe this. You are going to write about this in your journal tonight. In your journal! My friend here … he wants… *chuckles* … he wants to try your ranch AND blue cheese!”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I fight back all normal human reaction to this interaction, and simply say, “Sure, no problem!” and sprint from the table as quickly as possible.

Then, I’m not sure if it was cause they were getting full, or what, but their weirdness calmed down a bit. That was pretty much it for that fun experience.

But then the night got even weirder.

Part 2: Car Crashes, Rumple Minze, and Angry Hippies

So around the time I’m delivering the ranch and blue cheese to CC 2, I get a new table. Three people—two guys and one girl—just having some beers. Seems harmless, although the one white hippie with dreads smells like he just came out of a dumpster. They’re drinking, having a good time, talking to Rachel at length about her tattoos or something, then next thing I know I come back to the table and smelly hippie looks murderous.

“Everything okay, guys?”

Smelly hippie proceeds to tell me that they just found out a friend of theirs died. Automatically, I assume they want their check so they can get the hell out of there, but no, they want to take shots of Rumple Minze in his memory. Because I feel horribly uncomfortable and sorry for them at the same time, I offer to give them the shots on the house.

Smelly hippie argues that he doesn’t want free shots, he just wants me to take one with them. I tell him thanks, but no thanks, partially because the thought of Rumple Minze at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday makes me want to die, partially because the thought of Rumple Minze at any time makes me want to die.

I come back with the shots. “I’m really sorry about your friend. These are on us.”

Smelly’s response: “I cannot believe you’re not going to take a shot with us in honor of our friend. That’s messed up.”

Take your free shot, you fucking smelly ass, is what I’m thinking, but I’m a little afraid that this is one dreadlocked white man who is not a peace-loving individual. Luckily his friends thanked me at that moment so I could run away.

A few minutes later, someone in the bar screams, I hear tires squealing, and see him sprinting out of the bar, dreadlocks flying, beer gut bouncing. Everyone in the bar starts yelling that some dude got hit by a car.

I missed the actual car crash. But it turns out that the woman at my table—yeah, not a dude, people—saw her car getting towed from across the street and started sprinting after the tow truck, getting body slammed by a car in the process.

So what did she do? She jumped up and continued to run after the tow truck. I’ll spare you the rest of the silliness that followed, but let’s just say when my customer returned, minus his friend who had just run into oncoming traffic (the third person just disappeared around this time), he was pretty unhappy about being stuck with the bill. So unhappy, in fact, that it led him to tell me to “be careful walking to my car tonight.”

Of course I immediately determined that I was about to get raped and/or murdered by this dude tonight, so I ran to my manager and told him what happened. Apparently when Mike went outside to talk to him he apologized, said he didn’t mean anything by it, shook his hand and said, “I’m Crash, by the way.”

That was my Tuesday.

Update: Awkwardness Averted, Sorta

Enough people have asked me about the awkward text message I promised was in the future after my run-in on the El Wednesday morning that I feel obliged to give you an update. First off, if you’re wondering if I still went on that date, I’m going to need you to smack yourself across the face. Hard. Clearly I did not go on this date. Are you fucking kidding me? Does “I’m going to go stand down there now” ring any bells?

Okay, now that we’ve got that part cleared up, here’s another fun fact from Wednesday. So, before THAT GUY practically sprinted away from me on the El platform, he asked me if I had to work that night. My answer was yes. And yes, he knows where I work. He may or may not frequent the bar. Get off my back.

(Side note: THAT GUY is now his official name, as I’m either changing his name in my phone to THAT GUY or deleting it completely).

Fast forward to many hours later. I’m now at work and slightly buzzed from the shots of Jameson Rachel and friends forced me to take with them. (By forced I mean asked politely if I wanted to take shots with them, obviously. Or did I suggest the shots? Mwahaha. Umm, just kidding. I am a responsible young budding journalist. I would never take shots of whiskey while at work.)

ANYWAY. So I’m doing whatever it is I do when waiting tables and I happen to look toward the door just as...THAT GUY walks in. He sits at the bar for a few minutes while I consult with everyone what I should do in this situation. I heard enough “let him come to you” suggestions that I pretend I’m busier than I really am and actually pay attention to my tables. But after a few more minutes, he still hasn’t approached me, and I’m really irritated. What the hell is THAT GUY doing?

Just as I start to head over to him, he leaps up from the bar and scurries out. Now, I don’t know if he saw me or not, but still: LAME. At this point I have every intention of just blowing him off completely, which ordinarily I would never do, but good god, this behavior deserves a blow off. I assume he’s not going to contact me either after these displays of weird social behavior. But then:

Last night around 6ish I get a text from him. “we still on for drinks?”

Umm, NO, you weirdo. I reply: “sorry, something came up.”

By something, I meant I’d rather hang out with my cats all night, every night, than go out with you. Ever.

Just another example of why I told my father I've given up on dating. Although in retrospect I'm pretty sure he interpreted that as, "I'm a lesbian, Dad."


*Spencer, I dropped that F-bomb specifically in honor of you becoming a follower. Was it necessary? Always.

Magical Moments Waiting Tables

Last night was a magical one at Logan Bar and Grill. Simply magical. I am still astounded on a regular basis by the silly, silly things men will say to waitresses.

Here are some of the gems from last night:

Silly Customer: “You know, you’re kind of cute. But you look like a good girl—you know, the kind that would love to talk to my mom about baking. I bet you’re one of those good girls.”

Me: “Uh huh.”

Silly Customer: “So where does a good girl like you go to have fun?”

Me: “Mostly I just stay home, knitting, baking and reading the Bible, thinking about how much I’d like to meet your mom.”

This is the point where I pretend I am very busy and important and scurry away. May I just add that this conversation occurred shortly after this man whined to me that his Grey Goose Pear and cranberry cocktail (“with two limes, please, sweetheart”) was too weak.

A) Don’t call me sweetheart. B) Don’t drink that. Ever. C) Shut up and drink your damn cocktail.

Luckily, we ran out of his precious pear vodka after his second cocktail, and his friend had his fill of pear ciders, so they asked for their tab. Thus ensued the next fun exchange:

Silly Customer, who we'll now call GG Pear and Cran Fool: “I hope you put your number on our check so we can go out sometime.”

Me: “Yeah, but it’s for your mom.”

GG Pear and Cran Fool: “You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart. Can I ask you something?”

UGGH. NOW WHAT. I nod and pray that this guy will give me his effing money as quickly as possible.

“What’s your favorite pizza topping?”

Do I really need to go on? Apparently he “read” somewhere that this was a great pickup line. Then, to make my night even more exciting, he went outside to have a smoke, and told two other guys I was waiting on to ask me that question as well. They did. Then they asked me to describe myself in one sentence. UGGH. I don’t need a sentence, just two words:

“Not interested.”

Later on, a guy who'd been sitting at the bar came up to me and said, “Do you find me attractive?”

HA! Now that one is just funny. After I busted out laughing, he said, “I think you’re pretty attractive, but I guess I’d better tell you that I live with my girlfriend. I think we should start out by being honest.”

This is my life.