Thou Shall Not Blog (Just Kidding)

You may recall that I was hoping to start a new job soon. Well, I did a few of weeks ago and I am being very careful about blogging because we certainly don't need a repeat of my last firing situation. That place was a cluster fuck and by the way, after I was fired, I received a mass email to the staff saying that their new policy was that no one was allowed to Facebook, Tweet or blog about the people or events at the restaurant. To all those people I worked with at that shit show: you're welcome. And Holly Hobbie, if you're reading this, you really did need to pull that stick out of your ass. Anyhoo, I did start a new job but I am not going to say exactly when I started and I will be very vague about specifics. In other words, if Katy Perry comes in to the new job, I will not be talking about her specifically. It would be something like " a pop star who kissed a girl and she liked it." That way no one would know who I was talking about.

At my new job, things are so far so good. When I was given my rules and guidelines the first thing I did was see if there was a specific bylaw about blogging. I saw this:

Employees wanting to share their own personal opinions on the Internet are not allowed to do so while using company computers.

Score! So as long as I used my own computer, I could write whatever I wanted to write. Joy! Rapture! Celebration! Fireworks! But then I saw this:

Speaking, publishing or submitting by either electronic or printed means statements that are untrue, malicious or confidential about the company, its guests, co-workers or managers is prohibited.

Ouch. So there it is. How to get around that? So as long as they are true (Holly Hobbie really was a bitch) and not malicious (I think of the things I said about Lispy Gay Manager to be more constructive than malicious) and not confidential (it was no secret that restaurant was bat shit crazy despite the accolades being heaped upon it.) I can write what I want. The trick is to do it in a way that people I work with won't recognize their own work situation, in the off chance that one of the 25 people who read this blog is at my new job with me. I have made a list of rules for myself to follow that hopefully will keep me from getting fired if they hear that I am the Bitchy Waiter:

• I will not tell one single soul I work with that I blog.
• I will not friend any of them on Facebook and simply say I don't use it.
• When something blogworthy happens (and it will) I will not write about it for two weeks so it can be erased from the cache of co-workers memories.
• If someone is holding up a picture of me in the New York Post, I will light myself on fire in order to turn attention away from the photo.
• When the restaurants starts to get a lot of press, I will not allow myself to link my blog to every single article, even though it will be very tempting and so easy to do.
• I will come up with new code names for managers and co-workers and they will all be based on television characters from the 1970's and 80's. (I can't wait to write my first post about Mrs. Garret from The Facts of Life.)
• If something too good to be true happens and one or all of these rules must be forsaken, so be it.
  

Wish me luck...


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Can You Hear Me Now?

At the new job, there is absolutely no fucking communication between management and staff. All of the managers have their heads so far up their asses that they must not have a signal for their Blackberries, because they never respond to emails even though they initially told me that "email is the best way for us to all stay connected." Email is only as good as the person who opens the fucking emails, twats.

The schedule went up with a few conflicts for me because no one ever bothered to ask about my life. At the initial interview I told Holly Hobby about my other job and that I could only work certain days. "Sure. No problem. We love people who are willing to take only a few shifts a week so that maybe they'll be able to pick up extra shifts when we need it." Clearly, she did not know who she was talking to. Me pick up extra shifts? That's funny, Holly Hobby. At the first day of orientation, they gave us the spiel about our required five days of training and after we had completed those, they would let us know if we would be invited to stay on as a member of the team. (Finally, I could be on a team. Take that, all you assholes from junior high who chose me last to be on the kickball team.) I assumed that at that discussion they would also speak to us about our availability since they have a set schedule and I have a life outside their restaurant. That didn't happen. The schedule just went up willy nilly with me all over the place. After a couple of attempts, manager Linda Evans finally emailed me back saying she would send out an email to get the shift covered and "no worries." Great. I do not have to worry about it because to me, that is what "no worries" means. But I knew that today when I was supposed to be at work, there was going to be a communication breakdown and whichever manager was working would have no idea why I wasn't showing up. Supposed to be there at noon. At 12:15, my cell phone rang which I didn't answer because I was in the shower. Thirty seconds later the home phone rings and this is what I hear from the bathroom:

Uh, hi, Bitchy Waiter? Thith ith Lithpy Gay Manager? And I thee that you're on the thhedule for today? But I don't thee you here? Tho can you call me ath thoon ath you get thith methage? Thankth.

And yes he really talks that way and everything is in the form of a question. I want to find a period, stuff it in his mouth and cram the perpetual question mark up his ass hole. I knew this would happen. Linda Evans didn't cover my shift for me like she said she would and now I look like the douche bag new employee who doesn't give a shit about his new job. Okay, that may be true, but I don't plan on letting it be that obvious for at least three weeks. I called back and spoke to whichever host ho picked up the phone. Lispy Gay Manager was busy so she told me she would pass on my info and he would call me back if he needed to talk to me. He didn't call back, because I read the email from Linda Evans to the Host Ho that said she was taking care of it. He knew I was right.

Later today, I received an email that went out to the whole staff about shift coverage and the correct procedure. I know that it was sent on my behalf. And you know what? I won't be there on Sunday either for the same reason: I have another job, I told you I did, you said it was okay, and Linda Evans said she'd take care of it. What a fucking joke this place is. I gave up unemployment benefits for this?


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Holly Hobbie Has a Stick Up Her Ass

You know the old saying that you never get a second chance to make a first impression? Well, such is the case with a couple of people at my new job. I have a manager who we shall refer to as Alexandria who made a very strong first impression on my first day at the job and that impression would be one of true ice queen bitch from fucking hell. What is it with restaurant managers who think they are so superior to everyone else?

So it was my first shift meeting and I am getting bombarded with all kinds of information that either I don't understand or don't give a shit about. And then Alexandria had something to say. Let me paint a picture of her so you can imagine what I have to look at. She dresses like Holly Hobbie grew up and started shopping at Anthropologie and she put on a special outfit for a Stevie Nicks concert. She wears glasses on the tip of her nose, all the better to peer over them in a condescending manner. She must have a lemon stuck up her ass, because her face is in perpetual sourpuss mode and she has a stick up there too which must have gotten there when she was trying to extract that piece of citrus fruit from her bunghole. You know what they say: when life gives you lemons, you shove it up your asshole. I don't like her. So she says, "Okay, so during opening side work this morning, someone thought they would put their iPod into our system and listen to their own music. That is not acceptable. The music that is played in here also plays in the mezzanine of our neighboring store." (We share a space with a fancy retail store.) "Not okay." Then another manager (we'll call him Lispy Gay) says, "Yeth. Now at night I thimply don't thay anything becauth the sthore ith clothed. But during the day, we abtholutely cannot do that." Now my thought was this: if you allow it at night and have never told anyone that it is not alright to do during the day, how in the hell is anyone supposed to know that vital piece of information? Then Alexandria, pulls the iPod from her crocheted vest pocket and asks who it belongs to. A server raised his hand and apologized. "Don't let it happen again," she hissed. And then she tossed the iPod across the bar and let it bounce a few times before coming to rest in front of the vilified server. She threw it. Was there a reason for that shit? It was an honest mistake and she could have broken the fucking iPod just because she wanted to toss her authority around. All of the servers said a collective "oooh" when it hit the bar. Alexandria pushed her glasses back up her nose and then readjusted in her bar stool presumably to see if it was time for the lemon to fall out of her ass hole. It's not time. And it never will be time. That lemon is there for eternity.

As I have mentioned before, I will not be telling anyone there about this blog so I can continually rake them over the coals without them knowing about it. Stay tuned for more first impressions of Lispy Gay, another bitch manager we will call Linda Evans and anyone else who gets on my fucking nerves. A new crappy job may be the best thing that could have happened for this tired ass blog.

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