Is it me, or have people just started to suck a lot lately? Maybe I’m just upset because my post-collegiate life isn’t everything I hoped it would be, or maybe I’m projecting my fear of reaching the mid-20s onto unsuspecting people who have no connection to my life whatsoever, or maybe I’m just bitter because they get to enjoy fine, quality seafood and I get to stand around for ten hours, covered in ketchup and clam juice, sweating like Rosie O’Donnell when she wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes she’s just a big, scary lesbian with little to no fame at all. Whatever the reason is, I’ve noticed an influx of baby-boomers and the slightly younger yuppie generation who really just, honest to blog, suck at life.
When you go out to eat, you’re basically saying to the world, I really don’t feel like cooking tonight, I want to treat myself to a nice meal and just enjoy my evening. Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that imply you should be in a good mood? Shouldn’t you be projecting an air of happiness to the world? So why is it that every other person or couple that comes into the restaurant I work in seem to have the worst case of hemorrhoids ever. They walk in like their anus is bleeding and I have the magic cream and some latex gloves. Oh here, let my rub that on there for you. How’s that feel? Oh nay nay, my little maggots, that is not my job.
I have the lucky task to showing these muff-chomping ingrates to their table, and then, the real fun begins. It starts out like any normal relationship, with a pleasant greeting, a smile, and usually a slight tilt of the head. “Hi, how are you?” If they respond and then ask how I am doing in return, it’s usually a good sign. Of course, working in the heart of a tourist town, getting any sort of acknowledgement of my humanity is slim, at best. People are too wrapped up in their own pathetic, dreary lives to even realize that when you go out to eat, you’re actually going to someone else’s office. Once we’ve established how many are in there party, and they’ve debated for a good twenty minutes on whether or not they want to eat outside, and then another thirteen minutes on in the sun or in the shade, I offer them whatever table I have available.
Then comes the first fight in our relationship. It’s awkward and weird, and you’re not really sure how far to push the boundaries. You try to keep it civil and polite because you’re really not trying to be mean, you’re just trying to explain that you’re doing all you can and you really do care about them and their well-being. But do they acknowledge that? Of course not. Apparently the whole world revolves around them and their crunchy hair (hi, yeah, the 80s are gone and they were ridiculous while they were here, that’s why Vh1 made a nine hour special solely dedicated to mocking the stupidity of their fashion trends and hairstyles). This table isn’t the one that they picked out on their three second stroll to the hostess podium. Explaining why I don’t have that particular table available even when it’s empty and all set up is a tricky thing. Basically, when I’m telling you it’s not available, it means I just sat three tables in that server’s section and I’m trying to give them a break. Hey, genius, there’s a reason I didn’t put you at that table, think about it. I know it hurts and you can’t really juggle walking AND thinking at the same time, god forbid we throw in a little gum chewing and a hair flip, but sit in the stupid chair, take the damn menu and leave me alone.
Once they’ve finally settled in and I’ve explained, slowly and with small words, that the specials are on their table and the wine list is in the back of their menus, my job should be done. I should just head back to my podium, mark down which table they finally ended up at, and then wait for the next group of teet-suckling jerkoffs to show up. But no. Oh no. After waiting all of about twenty-seven seconds, they decide its too cold to sit outside, they’d like to move inside, but not near the windows because it will be too sunny, and not near the door because It will be too breezy, but not around the corner away from the breeze and the door because there’s no view. Ok. Look around, although we make awesome use of the space by cramming as many tables as we can, its not a very large restaurant. You tell me, given your criteria, where you think you should sit, because no matter where I put you, you’re going to point out at least four other tables that you think would be better, and then we’re just going to have to repeat the first fight all over again. And then, for the nine millionth time, I’m going to have to explain to the intellectually incapable that they can’t give me their drink orders because I’m not their server. I’m the hostess, I’m the chick who tries to tell you where to sit. Your server is the one wearing all black and carrying a tray of waters towards your table. Talk to them about getting a box o’ wine on over to your table right quick. If you pay careful attention, you’ll notice the annoyed roll of my eyes as I walk away, and you’ll hear my apologizy to the waitstaff for giving you to them, and finished with a mutter of something about you probably being from Connecticut.
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