Honestly why do I do this to myself

When you wait tables, you're really subjected to all sorts of people. People who ask the real questions. People who are at their intellectual peak and know what they want out of life. And all of them leave that at the door of every restaurant they enter, so I get questions like this:

"What's the difference between the lobster roll and the double-size lobster roll?"

"Are the oysters in the oyster taco cooked?"

"Are the clams from the raw bar raw?"

"Are the baked oysters cooked?"

I appreciate tables that know how they want their meal ordered and clearly tell me how and when they want their food.

"We'd like the calamari and a dozen oysters and a stuffed clam and the shrimp appetizer."
"Okay, is there any order you'd like that in?"
"As it comes out."
"Well, I have to tell the kitchen what order I want, otherwise it will all come out at the same time. So do you have a preference?"
"As it comes out."

And sometimes I get serve people that defy all expectations that I have for them, and really get me to question the tenuous grasp I have on my understanding of humanity.

"I was here the other day and I had this wonderful stuffed clam, it was about $8, about this big..."
I point to it on the menu. "This?"
"Yes, that!"
"So would you like one?"
"No."


Allergies
AKA It's My Job To Keep You From Dying Please Don't Make It Difficult Or I Might Cry

It says on our menu, and most other menus that I have ever encountered, that you need to tell your server if someone in your party has an allergy of any kind. And, of course, as individuals concerned about their health, people always comply, which is why I never have to deal with scenarios like this:

"We'll have two orders of mussels."
Ten minutes after ordering the mussels, which are served swimming in gluten sauce, the same person who ordered flags me down.
"Oh, I should tell you that I have a gluten allergy."
Okay guess it's time for me to panic and run to tell the kitchen that your appetizer they've already started cooking can't be served.

A separate table orders a bunch of appetizers. After they've been served, I come by to check on them and someone asks me,
"Does this have gluten in it?"
Yes. Yes it does have gluten.
They order their entrees and the same person asks for ceasar, minus the croutons so I have to ask. Do you have a gluten allergy?
"Yeah, I do."
Their life flashes before my eyes as I try to contain my rage and utter confusion over why they waited until now to tell me and imagine all the things crashing and burning in the not-so-distant world where they accidentally ate gluten because of something I served and everybody dying because of it.

And then there's the people who just don't seem to give a crap.

"I have a gluten allergy."
Okay, so I'll make sure to tell the kitchen. Thank you for telling me.
"My wife will have the crab cake, and I'll take this gluten free appetizer, please."
Sure thing. You got it.
Here you go, here's the crab cake and this separate gluten free dish guaranteed to not make you sick.
And then I watch in horror as the wife hands her allergic spouse her crab cake and he begins eating it.
Sir...sir, you know that has gluten in it, right?
"Yeah, it's fine."
I faint away on the spot, horrified such nonchalance in the face of easily avoidable danger.

Pride In My Work

Every table of people is different. Some want to be left alone and treat you like some sort of lower class hired help, some need constant attention and still treat you like lower class hired help, sometimes you're just invisible, and others want entertainment and human interaction. They'll joke with you, flirt, tell you about their lives, or, in most cases, ask about your life. You learn to form a standard story to feed to people, and interesting things happen when, due to human nature, the barrage of questions deviate from what you're used to answering.

They always start off the same, asking for your name, where you're from, what you're doing with your life. And since this one particular group of people were nice right at the beginning, I had no problem in being open with them. We talked every time I went to the table, so slowly my life story started to come out.

I told them where I'm from, what I went to school for, what I'm doing waiting tables instead of working a 'real job'. And then they got to the age-old question of "how'd you get here?"

Before I could answer, one of the men suggested: Boyfriend?

In my innocence and with a stunning lack of foresight, I quickly corrected without a second thought. Girlfriend. Meaning, of course, my female roommate that I've been friends with since college.

Suddenly the conversation changed.

"Oh, and this is such a good supportive place for you to be."

"Good for you."

"You know, we have a friend in Asheville who lives there with her partner, that's a pretty accepting community too."

And it didn't help when I mentioned that my girlfriend roommate and I are staying with her parents. They were even more excited about that, look at their waitress and her girlfriend living their lives like regular people! If they had been nice before, they were even nicer after the talk about my imaginary girlfriend, so excited about having a gay waitress, even going so far to leave a very generous tip and making sure to tell me goodbye as they left.

And that, my friends, is how I accidentally made four senior citizens think I'm gay.

Brief snippets from a day at work

Me: Hi how are you guys doing today?
Lady: I'll have iced tea.

Me: Hi how are you guys doing today?
Lady with four menus laid out on the table in front of me: There's going to be four of us, I'm waiting on some people.

Man 1: Yeah, what do you have on tap?
Me: Well, we have a lot, so the drink menu is right here, they're all listed on the last page.
Man 2, who is sitting directly across from Man 1: What beers do you have on tap?

Me: How's everything tasting?
Man: Napkins.

Me: How's everything tasting?
Lady: Can we get bread?

Man: Yeah, um, we'll order two oysters to start.
I bring two oysters on the half shell. The people at the table look confused.
Man: Oh I meant two dozen, my bad.

I work in a town known for their oysters, we get them fresh every day and, as it says on the menu, local.
Man: Are your oysters really local?

Me: Can I see your ID?
Man: *hands me his credit card*

Woman with the menu directly in front of her: What fish do you have?

Man: *stops me as I'm passing by on my way to another table* Do you have bread?
Me: Yeah.
Man: Thanks.
Um okay I guess that means I should get you some bread

Lady as I walk up to the table: Well, last time I didn't know and I almost died so I'll ask.
Me: You have questions about the menu?
Lady: Is the fish fried with shellfish?
Me: Yes, the fish is fried in the same oil as the oysters and clams.
Lady: I'm allergic to those, but I'm sure it'll be fine, can I have that please?

Lady after witnessing me carry a heavy tray full of food up a flight of stairs: Wow, do you have to bring everything up the stairs yourself?

Man: What's your favorite thing on the menu?
Me: The tuna.
Man: Is it really or are you just saying that?

Lady: I had this strawberry mojito the other day that was absolutely fantastic, do you have anything like that?
Me: No, we just have regular mojitos but I could talk to the bartender and see if we can make one for you if you want?
Lady: Oh yes, that would be so great, thank you!
So after going to the kitchen to get strawberries, explaining what I want to the bar, and getting them to make a special drink...
Lady: Oh, I don't like this at all can I get something else instead?

Child: I'd like a margarita, please.
Me: Can I see your ID?
Child: Oh, I don't have it.
Lady: I'm their mother, I promise they're 21 can't you just get them their margarita?
Me, a server who likes not being fired: No, I cannot.

Me: Hi, my name is AC.
Lady: That's a boy's name.
Me, clearly a girl: Okay.

Update

So I began this blog with the intention to chronicle the shenanigans I got into as I bumbled my way into adulthood, and to put a humorous spin on whatever those shenanigans were. As it turns out, there is little funny about buying a car, paying taxes, and getting insurance policies straightened out. Going to the doctor isn't very amusing when you have to sit naked on a bench  for a stranger while dressed in a paper dress and answer very personal questions about yourself.

Instead, I think that, with my super infrequent updates, I'll switch over to things that happen with my job, because that's something interesting. Waiting tables brings quite a bit of variety and curious situations into my life so I might as well share it on the world wide web, and I have virtually a virtually endless source of content to share.

It should, at the least, be interesting.

School is good for you, kids

When I was a kid, I discovered that you could drop out of school at sixteen. This was wonderful news for me. An oasis in the desert, if you will. My ultimate goal in life was to stop school at sixteen (because it was useless anyway), get a job, get a place to live, get married, and live happily ever after.

When sixteen rolled around, I acknowledged that I was far too immature to accomplish such a feat, grudgingly admitted that I enjoyed school a bit, and continued my education.

My next plan in life was to stop school for a year after high school, work and earn money, and then go to school. That plan was a bust when I couldn't find a job (partially due to the fact that I applied to very few places, but I wasn't exactly the most job-searching-savvy person around).

So I went to school. Applied to two places, got accepted to both, earned scholarships for both. But one school was prettier, smaller, and farther away from home than the other, so that was where I went.

While I was there, I again tried to get jobs. My first was on the campus housekeeping team. That lasted one semester after nearly falling asleep in my Monday and Wednesday classes because of the early hours I had to keep for work. I switched to working in the biology lab and picked up some tutoring jobs along the way.

My first summer in school I couldn't find a job (yet again due to my horrible job-finding skills), and my second summer was nearly the same, except for one place: the college cafeteria. I worked that job, thinking I'd keep it for the summer and school year and find something better the next summer.

The next summer rolled around and I still had no job. I worked at the cafeteria. The following summer ended up the same way. Job at the cafeteria, with a few others thrown in for variety and spare cash. After graduation, still unable to find a job, and planning to move across the country soon anyway, I continued my glorious career in the school food-place and managed to find some compassionate soul who also hired me to work in their food-place. I was on my way to becoming food-place queen. It also turns out that it's easier to get a job if you have a degree. People want their servers and busboys to be oddly well-educated.

Two and a half years later, after a succession of food-place jobs, I came to a revelation while clearing my millionth table that day at the current food job. The revelation was this:

If I have to clean one more table, I will transform into a howling King Kong of rage and flip every table in this building.

So, howling King Kong of rage that I am, I quietly went through the rest of my shift and aggressively wanted to quit. So tomorrow I'm quitting. And then I will move on to my next food-place job because I already have it lined up and it turns out tourists will give you lots of money if you smile at them and bring them alcohol.

The point is, though, that I have never been happier over a decision that sixteen year old me made. Seriously, I made some terrible decisions at sixteen. I had horrible taste in everything. If I were to write a letter to myself at that age, it would go something like this: "Stay in school. You suck."

But because now that I have a college education, I'm Hireable by people because if I made it through school, surely that means I can be trained. So now I can make money. Which I can use to pay for more school and be broke forever so I can get a better job, because I want some letters after my name, and there's relatively few people with letters after their name clearing tables for a living.

So thanks, past me. For making this life of other people's food in all likelihood temporary. I'd say I owe you one, but there's so so much you owe me instead.

Adventures at the DMV Part 2

Somehow, my most interesting stories happen at the DMV. I guess that's what happens when all sorts of people are obligated to spend a good portion of time in line. Odd things happen and you see some strange things.

But first: some background.

Over the winter, I lived in Kentucky. Now, I've learned since Washington that moving every six months is a lot of times to change your mailing address, so for now my permanent address is my mom's. Inconveniently, though, the address on my license and registration was my old address, the one I used right of college because I was foolish and so desperate to have a location separate from my family's (poor young naive child that I was), so I had to change the address on my license and car registration so my renewal and taxes wouldn't go (yet again) to my old address at the house I used to rent. Because of the marvel of the technological age, you can do that online, which I did from the comfort of my Kentucky apartment.

Fast forward a week and a half. I am in an accident on the way home from work and my car is totaled. (I started my phone call post at this time, but got distracted by guess what? Phone calls!) Between insurance and body shops and car yards, my phone got a lot of use, and so did my nerves.

Fast forward a month and a half. I've gouged out my savings to buy a new car, which is registered and waiting for me at my mom's house. All that remains for me to do is actually get the car and drive it back to my current place of residence. ...That, and a few minor details involving the car's incorrect registration and my old car's registration.

Since I don't want the good state of North Carolina to think that I own two cars, and since the accident occurred out of state, I had to take my title to the DMV to tell them that my poor car was junked, and also to correct the county listed on my registration. Because that too was wrong. And also to pay taxes on my car because I will never cease to owe the government money just for the privilege to exist.

End background.

On the day of my DMV visit, I arrive early (after finding it, because for some reason the government believes in putting offices in obscure locations), because they have a reputation for long lines which I wish to avoid, but lo and behold, there's already a line by the time I get there. So I settle into the end of the line, and I wait. Now, I like to mind my own business when I'm out in public. I don't like to talk to people, because smalltalk is kinda pointless, and it's a lot more fun to observe.

Sadly, not all people on earth share my view, so of course the scruffy old man who gets into line behind me finds that I Must Be Talked To. So he looks straight at me and says "You look like you've just lost your best friend".

Now, to be sure, I was upset over the loss of my car and my monetary funds, but I would not call my car, nor my money, my best friend. But, in the spirit of being Friendly, I gave him a weirded-out smile and said "you could say that".

Which, naturally, he took as more invitation to talk to me, so he followed that with "do you want to hear a joke?"

Of course, I wasn't sure what sort of joke I could expect from weird old grandpa man, but I was willing to try it out, and I figured I'd hear it whether I wanted to or not, so I said sure I'd love to hear a joke.

This is the joke:
An FBI agent showed up on a farmer's doorstep one day, waving a badge around and saying that they'd gotten some reports of criminal activity and he wanted to take a look around the place. The farmer said "Sure, I've got nothing to hide. Just make sure to stay out of the corn patch over there." 
The agent took offense to this and shoved the badge in the farmer's face, saying "see this badge? It means that I can go wherever I want whenever I want, and if that means I want to check out that corn patch, I will." 
The farmer shrugged and let the agent do what he wanted because he had work to do. 
Five minutes later he hears a loud scream come from the corn patch, and out comes the agent, yelling for help and chased by an angry bear. The farmer cups his hands to his mouth and yells "show him the badge! Show him the badge!" 

...I didn't find the joke that funny, but I laughed politely and then proceeded to ignore the old man.
After about two minutes, he found that this was not enough social interaction, and so he pointed to a couple at the desk in line ahead of us, and said "I betcha he's her sugar daddy." I said "oh, do you?" and he said "yeah, I know the type." I didn't know how to take that, so I think I stammered out a reply and then went back to minding my own business. He must have taken that as a sign that I wanted to be left alone, and so I was left alone by the sugar-daddy-spotting-grandpa. Maybe he wanted to impress me with his relationship-spotting skills, or maybe he wanted to become my sugar daddy, I will never know. All I know is that I accomplished my business and left as quickly as possible, to drive off in my new car before anyone else could talk to me or offer to be my sugar daddy.

How to be a successful Adult part 2

To be considered a functional member of society, one must be proficient in Phone Skills.

These include but are not limited to:
1. Making phone calls without excessive whining, or crying
2. Stating your needs clearly and concisely for effective communication
3. Being prompt in your calls for maximum efficiency

To be proficient in Phone Skills, one must not:
1. View the Phones as an Enemy
2. Have an existential dread of making Phone Calls
3. Feel like a rising tide of Death is swelling up to consume you the more you contemplate making a Phone Call

This is how I manage my phone call making:
1. Put off calling as long as possible (this is up for interpretation, but it usually entails waiting until the last possible second, possibly incurring penalties from a third party because I'm just too late in starting the communication process)
2. Stutter through the call, saying lots of "um"s and "could you repeat that" and "yeah sure I guess" because I'm bad at being decisive and authoritative
3. Make lots of groaning and screeching noises in between calls because I am bad at coping and everyone must know my distress

Do not follow my example.