Miracle of Miracles

Ever have one of those blasts from the past that take you by surprise? Maybe your brain filed something away a very long time ago and then something happens that opens up that compartment and you are flooded with memories. It's weird when it happens. The brain is funny that way. I got an email today from someone and she wanted to let me know that someone we knew had died last week. His name was Lee. I met Lee when I was about twelve years old doing a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof in Victoria, Texas. He played Motel the tailor and I loved watching him sing "Miracle of Miracles." He was seven years older than me but to a twelve year old, nineteen is a total grown up, no doubt about it. The last time I saw him was in 1984 when he directed me in Annie. (I was the dog catcher.) We were never really friends seeing he was so much older than me. I moved away from Victoria to pursue my acting career and the next thing you know almost thirty years have passed and I find out he died at the age of 51.

So what does this have to do with The Bitchy Waiter? I'll tell you. When I did my first community theater production, I knew I had found what I wanted to do with my life. I saw people like Lee and Cynthia and Mike and Mr. Trowbridge and realized, "Hey, they're grown ups and they get to play? This is cool, I wanna do this when I grow up." I continued doing community theater and when I graduated high school I went to college to get a degree in theater. Yes, it is possible to have a degree and wait tables. When it came time to move to New York City, I needed a job that would pay me good money in a short amount of time and give me the flexibility to audition and do shows and pursue my real dream. Waiting tables is a means to an end. I have heard this a lot in my life:


The reason I don't get another job is because this is what I do. I wait tables and when I get a show, I go do it. If I was a teacher, I can't imagine the school district being cool with me saying, "So hey, I got this show and I'm going to Maryland for six weeks. I'll see you then. The students will be fine." And I write about it because I like writing and if my words can make people laugh or smile or think, then maybe I am making a difference in someone's day in some small way.

When I heard that Lee died, I thought back to the summer of 1980 and how much all those adults in Fiddler inspired me. I watched Lee sing every night. Cynthia was so funny as Yente and when that girl who played Chava cried as her father walked away disowning her for marrying outside their faith, I was so blown away by the fact that she could cry real tears. That production shaped my whole life and Lee was a huge part of it. I can't imagine that any of them ever think of that 12 year old boy who didn't have any lines in that play they did thirty years ago, but little do they know, I think of them. They made me want to be an actor.

And that is why I don't get another job. I already have one. I am an actor. And a writer. Thank you Lee and I hope wherever you are, you are singing;

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles-
God took the tailor by the hand
Turned him around and- miracle of miracles-
Led him to the promised land.

Follow your dreams, people. Even if it means you have to wait tables to do it.

(By the way, the lady who told me to get another job is named Kate and she is actually very sweet. Just sayin'.)



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Take this Tantrum and Shove It

Since so many people are up in arms about the behavior of certain children in restaurants, why not continue the conversation? Dr. Phil polled the audience on his show yesterday and asked the following question:



If your child was throwing a tantrum in a restaurant, what would you do?

1. Calmly ask them to settle down, 4%
   
2. Ignore the tantrum, 1%
   
3. Take the child out of the restaurant, 72%
   
4. Firmly tell your child to stop, 23%
   

According to the results of the delusional people in his audience that day, 72% of them said they would take their child out of the restaurant. I call complete and total bullshit. Anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant, eaten in a restaurant, driven by a restaurant or heard of a restaurant knows that not that many people actually do that. These people answered that poll in the way they think they should answer it. They know what they should do, but what they actually do is a different story. It's like when I am on the subway and have a nice cushy seat. When I see an old one-legged blind lady carrying ten bags of groceries I have two options:

What I should do- get up and gingerly escort the poor dear to my seat and then get off with her at her stop and make sure she hobbles home safely and then give her my cell phone number to call me if she ever needs a loaf of bread or someone to change a light bulb.

or

What I actually do- turn up the music on my iPod, close my eyes and pretend to be asleep.

The people in that audience only said that to make themselves look better because the three-piece pantsuit they bought for the show for 20% off at Chico's wasn't enough to disguise their ugly child-rearing habits. There is no way that many people do that when their kids make a scene in a restaurant. What usually happens is a lot of empty threats that the kid knows will never happen. "Billy, if you don't stop throwing bread at the waiter right this second, I am going to take away your (insert name of popular toy here) and you will not get any dessert and when we get home I will hit your behind with a whoopin' stick and then, um...I will..uh, lemme see, I will...what was I saying? Oh never mind, you go right ahead, sweetie and do what ever it was you were doing. I'm a lazy parent and don't give a shit about anyone but myself. I want another bite of fried chicken." It's true and we all know it.

And let's discuss the 1% who thought it was okay to ignore the situation. What in the fuckity fuck kind of solution is that? It was edited out of the show, but I told Dr. Phil what I felt about that 1%. "Excuse me, Dr. Phil. There are about 200 people in this audience so that means there are at least two people in this room who think it's okay to let their kid act like that in a restaurant. I want to know who they are and hear an explanation." He ignored me just like those parents ignore their devil spawns, but it was a valid comment I made. I really would have liked to hear someone justify their reasoning behind that decision making process. I can hear it now. "Well, you see, Dr Phil, my child is very special and I like him to make his own decisions about his behavior. You see, I think it will only help him mature faster and not be so dependent on his parents later in life. And also, I do not ever give him processed chicken because he is only worthy of steak that comes from cows that grazed in fields of four-leaf clovers in the light of the silvery moon. That's right, yes, uh huh." Bullshit.

And let me just add, that it is not the waiters job to go to another table and ask the kid to be quiet. As soon as I do that, I get the whole "Don't tell me how to raise my child" speech. I don't want that speech. I already know how to raise children: you put a big pile of food in the bowl next to some water and leave some wee wee pads in the corner and call it a day, right? Or is that how to raise a dog? I always get those two confused.



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Dr. Phil ♥'s The Bitchy Waiter

After almost three years of anonymity, today is the day that many people are finally going to put a face to the name of The Bitchy Waiter and it's all thanks to a six foot four inch hunka hunka burnin' love named Dr. Phil McGraw. I am on his show today. It's a little weird that people might see me at work tomorrow and be scared of me but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make for my main squeeze, Dr. Phil. Maybe you came to this blog after you saw me on his show and you liked the pearls of wisdom that dripped from my mouth as I was trying to edumacate this woman:


To you newcomers, I say "welcome." (And why does she say "processed chicken" like it's a bad thing? Colonel Sanders is rolling over in his grave of chicken beaks, partially hydrogenated poultry ass and breading every time she says that.) Many of you come to The Bitchy Waiter every day because you clearly enjoy wasting the time of your employer and you would rather read this than do whatever it is you are supposed to be doing on your computer. To you, I say "Welcome back. And get back to work."

Before anyone comments about what I look like (I'm looking at you, Anonymous), please allow me to beat you to that punch. It has already been brought to my attention that I look like one or more of the following: Carrot Top, Justin Guarini, Kenny G., Sammy Hagar, Larry Fine, Gene Wilder, Sideshow Bob and the love child of Charro and a Q-Tip. If you have any new dopelgängers for me, feel free to post them.

So yes, I am a waiter, and maybe a little bit of a bitchy one, but I can assure you that I am simply saying what most servers are thinking: I hate your kids in my station, I don't want to give you separate checks and I don't give a rat's ass if you say you're allergic to mushrooms when it's obvious that you just don't like them. I will put a lemon in your Diet Coke because that is God's will and it doesn't bother me one bit that the fruit is dirtier than the bottoms of Britney Spears's feet after she takes a leak at a gas station. Also, if you are about to post a comment that says something to the effect of, "if you don't like waiting tables, then why don't you go to college and get a real job," that too has already been covered here and here, so I'm good.

I am glad you are here and I hope you will bookmark this page and come back every now and again. I try to write in a way so that everyone will relate to what I am talking about, not just those who work or have worked in the restaurant industry. My posts usually have something to do with food or waiting tables but sometimes I will throw a curve ball and write something that will make you step back and think about your own life in a new way. Or at least that's what I try to do. I think this post about my Grandma will do that for you and if it doesn't you must be some kind of a non-feeling robot/alien/Nicole Kidman creature.

Being on the Dr. Phil show was a great experience and if nothing else, maybe it will get a few more people to:

• Follow me on Twitter
• Like me on Facebook
• Vote for me to be on a Times Square billboard
  
• Buy priceless jewelry that will be passed on to their children
• Just say how much they hate/love me

The above links should give you a pretty good idea of my needy yet lovable personality. Thank you for visiting and tomorrow it will be back to the bitching. (But seriously, what is that lady's issue with processed chicken?)

love,
BW

Bitchy Waiter on Dr. Phil, 9/12/11

Surely you all must know by now that a few weeks ago, I was jetted out to the City of Angels to be on an episode of Dr. Phil. They were doing a show called "Brat Ban" and asked me to come and stand behind my opinion about children being banned from certain restaurants. In my mind, they got wind of this blog post and liked my sense of humor and writing style. In truth, they probably reached out to every other waiter/blogger and I was the only one needy and ego-driven enough to appear. We all know that Dr. Phil was birthed from the loins of Oprah herself so being a guest on his show was as close as I would ever get to being on the Oprah show, so I latched on to the opportunity. Once the producers agreed to let me use a fake ass name and mention my blog at least once, I was even more excited about it. So I did it. The time has come for the episode to air.

Monday September 12 is the day. Check your local listings here.

A producer called me yesterday and said that it was last minute but it was happening. According to some press releases, September 12th is Dr. Phil's 10th season premiere and he is supposed to be interviewing George and Cindy Anthony about a murder trial. Clearly, I need to have the channel on something other than HGTV and Food Network, because I didn't know who they were. However, according to producers, Monday's show will now be about bratty children instead, and that's where I come in. So set your DVR's and Tivo's if you want to see the Bitchy Waiter make his first national television appearance. Yes, I was booed a couple of times but it was worth it to hear Dr. Phil actually refer to me as Bitchy Waiter. And no, I will not be wearing a bag over my head or have a pixelated blob over my face. Instead, I washed my hair, curled my eyelashes and ironed a shirt. I hope you will tune in. I did not feel a lot of love at that show. Apparently, the studio audience loved their children more than me but their "boos" and "hisses" filled my hollow heart with joy and I ate it up.

It was a great experience. The trip was fun, the hotel was nice and it makes for a great story. I met some other great people including blogger Jennifer who writes Perfectly Disheveled. It's kind of a mommy blog but some of you might want to check her out.

Set those DVR's, people. Monday September 12th on Dr. Phil, you will finally hear my nasal voice and see the bird's nest I call my hair. Here is the preview from You Tube. And yes, that is me bitching about chicken fingers and peanut butter and jelly.




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Swimmin' Pools, Movie Stars

The flight from New York to Los Angeles is a long one even under the best of circumstances. Normally, I am one of the few people who can actually enjoy their time on an airplane. I find the time to be completely devoid of responsibility. It's six hours where you are free to waste your time sleeping and watching bad movies. When you factor in that I was on the flight because someone else was paying for it so I could go on national television and talk about being The Bitchy Waiter, you'd think I was in Heaven at 34,000 feet. Not this flight.



The flight was a full one with not open free seat. Since I didn't buy the ticket myself and had no say in my seat assignment, I ended up smack dab in the middle of the plane. No window or aisle seat for me, thanks. Two rows in front of me was a baby who wanted his presence known. This adorable crotch dumpling (thank you for the word, reader) cried for half of the flight. It was not a little whimper and sniff kind of cry. It sounded like there was a circumcision happening in aisle 33 seat B. I kept wondering when I would see a doctor throw the foreskin into the bag of trash that the flight attendant had as she walked down the aisle. I looked at the plastic bag my American Airlines blanket had been in and wondered if the baby would like to play with it despite the warning on it that said "this bag is not a toy."

To the left of me was a man I envied because he told me was taking an Ambien and a muscle relaxer. He did just that. Then he put in earphones and blew up his little neck pillow and drifted off to slumber land for the entire flight. I considered asking for an Ambien but the only thing I had to barter with was a granola bar and half empty bottle of water. Thankfully, he didn't snore and had he left his bag within easy access, I would have pilfered through it trying to find some peace and quiet in the form of a pill..



To the right of me was a very large man who looked like he had just come from doing extra work on Yentl. Oy. He poured himself into his seat and his odor drifted into my seat along with a portion of his extra body mass. You know what your gym shorts smell like after you do cardio and you maybe had just had a bowel movement where some baby wipes would have been helpful but you didn't have any so you settle for "clean enough" but who cares since you're going to the gym anyway? I wish he smelled that good. Something about layers and layers of black wool being worn on a hot muggy day creates an odor that is very special indeed. Add to that a big gray beard that goes to your chest and holds onto sweat the way I hold onto a margarita glass and you have a really miserable seat mate. And why does he not realize that the arm rest is for both of us to share? Of course he fell asleep almost instantly after having three phone conversations as we taxied down the runway. When he got up once to go the bathroom he returned with whatever stench had been living in the toilet. He fell asleep again but this time he made sure to face me so his foul breath could come in my direction as he snored. I was holding on to a fart for about two hours but eventually let it go in a futile attempt to freshen the air.

When I finally landed in The City of Angels, my driver was waiting to take me to my hotel. I checked in at midnight and ignored the idea of beauty sleep and called a friend to come get me. We ate at some 24 hour diner called Mel's. With my love for Flo, how could I not? We spent the late hours walking down the Hollywood Walk of Fame looking for the stars of Florence Henderson, Polly Holiday and Shirley Hemphill. When I found Ann B. Davis' star, I knew I had made it. I was in Hollywood! Dr. Phil was waiting for me, so I forced myself to get some sleep in preparation for the next day where I would go on national television and proclaim my hatred of children in my station. So what, I only had three hours of sleep? Surely, Dr. Phil's people would have some concealer to cover the bags under my eyes.

Stay tuned to hear more about my Hollywood adventure.