Tagged: when i was a waitress

when tiny people have too much power

The manager is trying to get me to bartend a mid shift on one of my days off.
“That’s one of my two days off.”
“Schedules change.”


I’m standing onstage cleaning and this guy is like, “I think I left my coat in the lap dance room,” and stops. We stare at each other for a long while. Finally I ask,
“Do I look as if I am in a position to know whether your coat is in the lap dance room?” I gesture at the actual bouncers actually standing in the lap dance room. “Do you see anyone potentially more qualified than I am who might be available to ask?”
“I just thought—”
I glower at him. “No you didn’t.”

The uncomprehending stare was a repeating feature of the night. All night! Drunk people are so fucking stupid!
I actually don’t have a leg to stand on here having been preeeeetty shwasted and wild last night—but shenanigans in a bar bathroom aren’t the same as wasting underpaid bar staff’s time.

I was clearing drinks and asked a table full of guys if I could take their empties. They stared at me blankly too.
“Has the alcohol finally rotted your brain? I swear to god, men, you’re all fucking brain damaged.”
They looked even blanker.

But actually you know I love to complain about drunk people and I also love coming to work and how clear cut it all is. It’s so super easy, do this get that reaction. It’s really soothing, especially when I’m stressed out.

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The income/employment thing is so stressful on paper. I want to look respectable and write “waitress” but they asked for net wage and that’s ultimately way below poverty line with my hours, so I’m going with independent contractor.
I get that you don’t want to surprise rent to the indigent but what if I just give you 1200 cash and we call it a deal
I’m also having this itch to get dramatic:

IMAGINE MY INCOME. It will not exist if you do not imagine it.

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someone bumped into me and beer in my tray (from too-full beers that slop over) splashed on to my chest.  I went outside to get space for a second and told a girl out there about it as I wiped (ineffectually) at my chest.

“You should go in back and just spray yourself down with a hose,” the squirrelly lookin little fella next to her offered eagerly.  You know those nerd-for-life types? not the neck-beard fedora nice guys, but nonetheless a “nice guy”?  Him. For weeks, until I finally managed to memorize his face, I would ask him if he wanted drinks and he would thank me profusely and say he was fine.  Then, on leaving, he would hunt me down, hold my upper arm, and say “I’m leaving, I just wanted to tell you to have a great night.”

I’d try to shake him off but he’d hold on, clearly expecting some kind of response.  The conversation from there went different ways and none of them were what he wanted.  He would never let go of my arm.  Finally I started telling him that unless he wanted to pay me for conversation, he had to let go because he was wasting my time. The only reason I recognize him at all is cause these encounters were so unspeakably tedious that I learned his face just to avoid it.  He would still catch me sometimes but eventually my firm insistence that he was wasting my time offended him into leaving me alone.  So that’s this guy. He comes with his own nervous laugh track.

I looked at him, deliberately blank.

“It was a joke,” he explained.

“I know.  And if it had been funny, I would have laughed.  I’ll still laugh if you pay me,” I offered.

His turn to look blank.  The dancer next to him looked deeply uncomfortable.  Whatever, new girl.  Rule number one to being a dancer: figure out who the time wasters are and don’t fucking let them suck your soul out.  Cherish your energy.  Coddle it.  Don’t fucking laugh at unfunny jokes unless they’re compensating you for the effort.

The customer on her other side, however, started chuckling appreciatively.  Encouraged in my bitchiness I kept it up.

“You can even practise on me.  I’ll tell you when your jokes start to be funny.  And until then I’ll laugh.” I demonstrated with my fake laugh, a girlish giggle men really like. “No? Maybe next time.”

so when one of the minor dancers pulled me aside, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but some people are saying you’re a bitch” I knew exactly who she meant.

“Little guy in a blue shirt?”

“He looks kinda gay?”

He doesn’t, but I knew what she meant.  ”Yeah I guess.”

“Yeah.  He says you’re a bitch.”

But another customer said I was a bad bitch, and he spent a bunch of money and tipped well so who are we really gonna take seriously here.

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nothing’s fine

I forgot to tell you about how last night after it died I talked the dj into playing Torn and me and Sex Magic freaked out and danced and sang all the words and all the baby strippers looked confused and annoyed and then the song ended and I felt really great, it was cathartic, but I looked up and the manager was glaring at me and I had to wander off and look busy. 25% of waitressing is trying to look busy even when there is NOTHING to do just so management doesn’t decide you don’t have enough to do IN GENERAL even if not at that particular moment and then tell you to go pick up trash off the porch in the dark in the rain (this was suggested to me last night, as if I work for a living wage that would make that seem worthwhile somehow)

But in that moment, singing along with my girl sex magic, I swear I felt imbruglinite