Entitled Parents, This Is For You:

It may seem lately that the blog should change its name to "I Hate Babies," but I just can't help it. Maybe it's time I come clean and fully admit that it's the parents I hate. I mean, what did babies ever do to me other than give me the occasional stink eye? I am trying to retrain my brain into knowing that it's the entitled parents who let their spawn become the center of the world.

I went to the green market this morning looking for something to make for dinner tonight. I always hear about how cool and wonderful a Farmer's Market is, but the one in my neighborhood sucks. All they ever have is fresh vegetables and fruits that come right from the farm and jars of honey and jams and shit. I have yet to see anyone selling anything remotely useful like chicken mole enchiladas, fresh tequila or Pizza Rolls. As I was making my way down the sidewalk, I noticed the people ahead of me were parting to make way for someone. "Is it a big foodie celebrity like Rachael Ray?" I wondered. "I certainly hope so, because now I can tell her what a cheap ho she is." I walked ahead to see what was going on and it was none other than some stupid ass Dad pushing his toddlers in a double-wide stroller being completely oblivious to how people were accommodating him. The stroller was huge. It's like when he went to Babies "R" Us they asked him he'd like to "super size" it and he was so used to saying yes at McDonald's, he agreed to it and ended up with a stroller almost as big as his ass. He was probably on his way to a restaurant so he could park it between his table and the server. A few years ago, I took a picture of some ladies at my job who set up their own Stroller Wall. When I first posted the picture on my blog over two years ago, I took the time to black out their faces and made the picture very small, but now I don't care:


Bitches. What is it with these strollers, can someone explain it to me? Is it a status symbol that I just don't get? Is it a way for parents to show how much money they have to spend on their children? Please tell me.

A friend called me yesterday and asked me to please write a blog post about entitled parents. Laura is a mom of two kids ages 6 and 3. I know them well, because I took care of the six year old for almost a year when she was a baby. (Yes, I was a "manny."). She called me and said she was somewhere waiting for the cab that she had ordered. It was pouring down rain and she had the foresight to call ahead for one. She did not have her kids with her. When the car arrived, a woman came up and tried to take it. Laura explained that this was the car she had called for, but what did the lady have to say about that? "Well, do you mind if I take it? I have two kids." So having two kids in your possession allows you to steal a cab from someone? In my experience some parents think it also allows them to:

• cut in line at the bank
• get their food out faster in a restaurant
• cut in line at the grocery store
• eat food in a grocery store before paying for it
• cut in line at a movie theater
• take up three extra seats on the goddamn 7 train so their fucking diaper bag has a seat while I stand
• cut in line at the bus stop
• have free reign at a department store as their kids play under the racks of clothes
• cut in line at the department store
• and about a million other things

I am over it. Laura probably let the lady take the cab because she is nice that way. You know my ass would have given that bitch a "sorry-your-kids-are getting-all-wet" look and hopped in the cab and been on my way. But that's just me: bitchy.

A word to entitled parents: get over yourself. They're kids. No big deal. You aren't the first person to bring a life into the world. Little Johnny and Suzie are the center of your world, not ours. Yours. And stop bashing processed chicken, what did it ever do to you?


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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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Another Annoying Kid Story

Every time a child does something in my station that melts my heart a little bit, leave it to another child who will be a raging asshole and turn my heart harder than Paula Deen's arteries. Honestly, I don't hate the kids, it's their parents that I want to beat in the face with a pillowcase filled with salt and pepper shakers. Four top and one child. They roll in with the stroller and head right for the best booth in the restaurant; you know, the one next to the patio so they can park that fucking stroller right next to the door so that I have to walk around it every single time I need to go outside to tables 21 to 28. Real convenient. I watched them settle in and was surprised to see that they realized that the stroller was in the way, so they moved it to in front of the bathroom door. Yeah, that's better. The four adults sat down, but left the baby in the stroller over by the bathroom. I could understand if it was asleep, but this kid was full on awake and looking around like, "Why the fuck y'all bitches got me parked over here by the mother fucking toilet, yo?" I approached the table and quickly recognized an accent that told me they were from Europe; French or Danish or something. I remembered a news event from a several years ago where a couple from Denmark got into some hot water for leaving their baby in a stroller on the sidewalk while they ate inside at a Dallas BBQ restaurant. It was a cultural difference but the mother ended up suing the city and blah blah blah. I think the real crime in that situation was that someone was actually eating at Dallas BBQ's. That should be a life sentence of irritable bowel syndrome with no chance of parole.

After a few minutes, little Cheery Danish got tired of listening to people dropping their kids off at the pool and started hollering to get out of the stroller. They brought her over to the high chair I had lovingly placed at the head of the table and they started to order something for her to eat. "Do the home fries have peppers in them?" they asked. I let them know that they did in fact have some diced red peppers in them but they weren't too spicy. "Do they have salt?" was their next question. Of course they have salt. It's a freakin' potato. A potato without salt is like a margarita without tequila-why the fuck bother? "Oh, can you make a batch with no salt?" What do you think? It's not like we make the home fries per order. They are made in advance and get thrown onto the plate. Hell, no we can't go make a new batch just so you can have a sodium-free Cherry Danish. I told them it was impossible but I could make sure they didn't add any additional salt to the order and they were satisfied.

Two minutes later, I see Cherry Danish wandering around the back of the restaurant while her parents and friends were oblivious to various servers and a bus boy dodging her. If they weren't careful, Cherry Danish was going to get turned into crumb cake. After a couple of near misses, the dad finally got up to hold her. He walked her around the restaurant and took her to the patio to look at the plants. Once outside though, he quit paying attention and before I knew it she was standing in front of the patio door just waiting for someone to open it and send her flying onto the cobblestone sidewalk. What is with these parents? Maybe they were from Amsterdam and totally baked but it just seemed like they had no clue that their kid was in the way and possibly going to get hurt.

I rushed their food out to them so they could hurry up and eat and move on. The little girl sat in her high chair and was pretty good for the rest of the service with the exception of a few blood-curdling screams and an annoying habit of banging a spoon on the table while her parents laughed at how adorable it was. When they left, I went to see the damage under the table and found a good portion of the home fries on the floor underneath the high chair. I swept them up and gave thanks this brunch shift was coming to an end. It's rare that I work the brunch shift and it was a good reminder of why I don't like to do it. Too many kids, not a high enough check averages and being at work at 10:30 is too damn early. I punched out and went home feeling relived that it was over but I couldn't shake the feeling that a Cherry Danish would be better if it was toasted in the oven first and then left in Denmark.

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Rice Tragedy at Table 16

Obviously, any post having to do with children really touches some nerves. I'm referring to the post about children being banned at a restaurant which received over forty comments and 1,500 hits. There were some good points made on both sides of the argument. I was almost convinced that maybe a restaurant didn't have the right to ban children but then a couple showed up to work last night with their two-year old son. Thank you, couple, for reminding me why I bow down to the greatness of any restaurant owner/manager who says, "Take your kid and shove it."

The lovely young family were very kind and polite. Without any hesitation, they ordered a glass of wine, a beer, some calamari and two roasted chicken breasts. They did not order for their son. I assumed that were going to let him eat off of their plates. I wish. As soon as I dropped off the chicken, they asked for their check because they said they didn't know how long the kid was going to remain being so calm. "I totally understand, I said. As I printed their check, I thought about how conscientious they were being. They wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if he started to act a fool and I really appreciated it. They gobbled down their chicken and bolted out surprisingly fast. I thanked them as they breezed past me at the bar and I headed back to clear the table. What was waiting for me was a shocking mess.

I thought the parents were both humans but I now realize they must have been made of grains, for they had produced a spawn made of white rice. The kid had left piles of rice all over the place. I didn't even serve them rice. Is rice the new Cheerios? There was enough rice on the floor to make a dozen California rolls. It looked like a rice ball had exploded. Or maybe a rice and bean burrito, hold the beans, had thrown up. It looked like the monkey cage at the zoo. When I was kid, I went to the Houston Zoo once and saw a monkey taking his own crap and throwing it all over the place. Was this kid pooping out rice and doing his best chimpanzee impersonation? There was rice everywhere. On the table, in the booth on both sides, on the floor, under the table next to the booth. There was probably some on the ceiling but I refused to let myself look up to see because then I would be responsible for cleaning it. No wonder they left the restaurant so fast. They were ashamed of the Terror of Rice that was happening at table 16.

I went to get the broom and dustpan and started sweeping it all up. Have you ever tried to sweep up cooked rice? It doesn't sweep. It sticks to the floor and the broom and just moves from one spot to another refusing to go into the dustpan. The table next to Rice Hell gave me a look that said one of two things: "I'm sorry you have to clean up after that messy kid" or "I'm sorry about your whole life choice situation." One of the women at the sympathetic booth was very pregnant and it was hard for me to not tell her something like "You'd better not become one of these kind of hateful parents who let their kids do whatever they fucking want in a restaurant." (By the way, when Preggo ordered her hamburger she made sure to to tell me three times that it needed to be very well done because she was pregnant. As if I care why she wants her burger well done. And as if I couldn't tell she was pregnant. I think elephants gestate for less time than this woman. Her baby's arm was practically hanging out of her vagina trying to grab a french fry.)

Mr. and Mrs. Rice Paddy had a check that was $63.00 and they left me a $12 tip which was right at 20%. However, when I have to get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels, I expect more than 20%, people. My knees are weak and it takes a lot of effort to get on them. (And no I am not talking about when I get on my knees under a table with a roll of paper towels to give a blow job. That is 30%, thank you very much.) Cleaning up enough rice to feed a Chinese family of four deserves at least a 25% tip and also a "really sorry about the mess" acknowledgment. So ban children under the age of six? Bring it on.

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Children: Stay Out of Restaurants, Please

A restaurant owner in Monroeville, Pennsylvania has come to a realization: that there are plenty of people who will flock to a restaurant if there is a guarantee there will be no kids there. At all. None. Nada. Zilch. On July 16th Mike Vuick proclaimed that kids under 6 are no longer allowed at his restaurant McDain's. Let me raise my morning mimosa to Mr. Vuick. Of course we all know why it's a good idea. A lot of horrible parents don't know how to control their offspring and therefore impose their bratty ass kids into the worlds of people who want nothing to do with children. Look, if you want to take your kid to a restaurant, fine. Just make sure the kids knows it's not at home and it can't scream and run around and draw pictures on the wall with Crayons. Mr. Vuick has the right to have a kid-free environment. He says a person's kid should be the center of their universe but they don't realize that the kid is not the center of the universe. Hear, hear! I want to embroider that on a fucking pillow.

Of course some people in Monroeville are all upset. One mom, Stephanie Kelly, thinks it's an "ignorant decision" and she feels offended and discriminated against. Guess what, Steph. One of the reasons he probably doesn't want your baby in his restaurant is because of what you are doing during the television interview. She is shown pouring a bunch of berries or Cap'n Crunch or something into a big pile in front of her kid. The kid probably gets about half of them into its mouth and the other half ends up on the floor, which is fine when you are the one cleaning it up, Steph. And what about when your one year old wants more berries but you don't have any? He cries and screams and gets all up in the business of the table next to you who may have spent an extra twenty bucks to have a babysitter keep their kid at home.

There are plenty of places where you can take your kid, lady. Most places do not have a ban on children. In fact, I bet the only restaurant in all of Monroeville that you can't take your kid to is McDain's so why not go pretty much any place else? On the flip side, what if I want to go to a restaurant where I know my meal will not be ruined by a kid sitting at the next booth playing fucking peek-a-boo with me? In Monroeville, I would have one option. So let me have it. Take your family elsewhere. Find a place that provides coloring books with the menu and you can order chicken nuggets and apple juice in sippy cups to your heart's content.

And before Anonymous jumps all over me, I know it seems unfair, but I think it's unfair that people who have made a conscious decision to not have kids in their lives are still forced to deal with them anyway. And I also know that it's not the kids I hate, it's the parents who don't know how to teach manners to their children. McDain's will be fine. If they find that business is off, they'll switch back to serving kids and the stroller brigade will once again roll strong. Stephanie will be fine too. If not McDain's, why not McDonald's? Order a Happy Meal and shut the fuck up. (Sidenote to Steph: look into a calcium supplement. You might have a slight case of the hunchback happening.)

What do you think? Is this trend to have kid-free restaurants a good thing or a bad thing? I'd love to hear your comments. Also, I have reached out to the owner of McDain's for an interview regarding how this new policy has affected his business. If I get to interview him, I will post about it. I doubt he'll respond though. I mean, look at what I do.

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Grabby McGrab Grab Baby

It's no new news in this old court that babies are not my favorite things. Sure, they're cute and people say they smell good but who hasn't seen at least one baby that was clearly hit in the head with an ugly stick? As my seventh grade teacher Mr. Trowbridge would say when encountering a less than attractive bundle of joy, "Now, that's a baby!" And speaking as one who took care of a baby for a full year, there are plenty of times when they most assuredly and most definitely do not smell anywhere close to good. If "good" was in one neighborhood, you would need to take the G train and two buses to get to the neighborhood she smelled like after a lunch of chicken nuggets and kimchi. Don't get me wrong though. I loved that baby I took care of. Still do. But sometimes she was stanky. There was a baby in my station last night. And before you say that I should hate the parents and not the baby, I know that already. It's just much more fun to say "I hate babies."

The first indication that this baby and I would be having issues was when the highchair went at the end of the table and now the baby was right in front of the side stand. Anytime I needed to get a spoon, I would have to reach right behind the baby. What was wrong with this baby? Didn't it know it was in my way there? Why are babies so unaware of their spatial relationship to other people and things? Man, babies are so clueless. Every time I approached the table, it reached out to touch my hair. Granted, my hair is amazing and the baby wasn't the only one in the restaurant who wanted to touch it last night. I let the lady at booth seven touch my hair because she complimented me so highly and I liked her Louisiana accent. I also figured it would help the tip. The baby however had no accent at all and its hands were probably sticky with jelly, lollipop or poop. And babies are notoriously bad tippers. It's like they can't figure out 15% of their check. Man, babies can't do anything.

Halfway through the meal, the baby knocked over a glass of water. It spilled all over the table and onto the mom and then the floor. Why did I bother giving the baby a plastic cup with a lid if it was determined to use a full sized glass of water anyway? Man, babies have shitty motor skills and coordination. The mom never even got up even though she had just had water poured all over her lap. She didn't even flinch. She must be used to her baby always spilling crap all over her. As I was trying to clean it up, she didn't budge an inch. I got down on my hands and knees with some paper towels and soaked up as much as I could since she was too unconcerned to even move her chair over two inches. Meanwhile, baby got a handful of my locks and wouldn't let go. "Oh, look, she likes your hair," said Lazy Mom. I smiled and thought about how everyone likes my hair. It doesn't make your baby a child genius or anything. Get over it. When it became clear that this water was as cleaned up as it was going to get, I gave up. I would let the hardwood floors do the rest of the work for me. Soak it up, hardwood. I did not take them another glass of water because that greedy baby would probably just grab at it and toss it to the floor in another attempt to get at my precious follicles. Not gonna fall for that, baby.

They gave me a good tip and the baby waved at me as they left the restaurant. On second glance, the baby was kinda cute with her little stubby fingers and her hair pulled into a barely-there ponytail. On the table was a red crayon that had rolled underneath the plate. I picked it up and ran out to the sidewalk to catch them. "You left something on your table your baby might want." The baby reached out to grab at the crayon and the mother told me thank you. "Bye-bye, baby," I said. "Have a good night." She cooed out something that I couldn't understand. I rolled my eyes. Man, babies have terrible verbal skills.

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Children Are Annoying Around the World

It is about 12° below "my ass is freezing" and all I want to do today is sit under a blanket and sleep. So please enjoy this repeat post from last year while I thaw out.

I may have found my new hero. Someone sent me a story (holla out to Bonnie) about a something that happened somewhere called Hallifax West Yorkshire in England-land. The link is at the bottom of the page but here is the gist of it written in a much more entertaining way and with much worse grammar.

Some family went to the grand opening of a Mexican restaurant and brought with them, as parents are apt to do, their two-year old child, Molly. Jeez, do parents have to take their kids everywhere? It's so annoying. The parents were obviously pretty stupid because they were going to a Mexican restaurant. In England. What the fuck is that? Chicken enchiladas with a side of scone? And English Breakfast margaritas? Whatever. I guess the restaurant was really slammed, or as they say in the Queen's English, "bartle bagged." (I totally made that up.) The family had to wait a long time for their food and I guess (say this with a Cockney accent) the lit'le tyke got a might impatient waitin' for 'er food and threw a bit o' a 'issy fit. (You can stop with the Cockney accent. You're really bad at it.) The article doesn't say exactly what Molly did other than get a bit "moany" and "grumbly" but I am pretty sure I know how she behaved. She wanted to wander around the restaurant and get in people's way and annoy other people who do not have kids. When her "mum" made her sit down, Molly began to scream at the top of her lungs and throw sugar packets and bread pudding spoons all over the fucking place. When the dad threatened to spank her arse, she cried until the food finally arrived making the waiter and every table around her hate dear sweet adorable Molly.

When they got the check they noticed at the bottom of it that something had been typed in underneath the food. It said, "thankyyou littell fucker." Now even though there are some points deducted for spelling, it is clear what was being said. The check called Molly a little fucker. Bravo! Here ye here ye! My hero. This server is Queen of all Bitchy Waiters. Capital B. Capital W. Understandably, the family got in a tizzy for insulting their little precious bundle of cunt and demanded an apology and blah blah blah blah. I am sure they got the apology and probably a free order of fish n chips quesadillas too. The sad thing is the person responsible for the "offensive" remark got fired. Or "sacked" as they say they across the pond. The server was just speaking the truth. Had she lived in America maybe she could have stood behind the freedom of speech and all that crap, but seeing that she lived in jolly old England, they fired her British ass. Hopefully, that server will move on to her next position having learned something from her mistake. You can never insult the customer. What I mean is you can never insult the customer where they will find out about it. Say it in the kitchen, write on your pad, think it in your head. Do not print it on their check. Amateur.

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I'm Freakin' Sophisticated

Last night I decided to class my ass up a bit and went to a wine and cheese bar. After getting over the initial shock that a wine and cheese bar sells only wine and cheese, I went with a very delicious sounding glass of Pinot Grigio that had notes of light citrus and delicate floral aromas that were complemented by hints of tropical fruit flavors. It was also the cheapest. I sat in a leather wing back chair with my smoking jacket on enjoying the company of good friends and listening to the jazz music that played softly over head. The candles cast a pale warm glow across the room and the Christmas tree in the corner made the place feel like a second kind of home. The smell of cured meets and savory crackers filled my nose and the clinking of wine glasses was oh so comfortable. Then another sound erupted that was incongruous with the atmosphere. The sound was that of a little girl who was screaming with wonder at the Christmas tree that only moments ago had seemed so comforting. "What the hell is a little girl doing in a bar?" I hissed to a friend. I spun my head around to see where the parent of this wayward tot was and I saw her sitting at a table holding another child. Now there were two things ruining my night; a little girl and a little boy. No, this was not happening. I went to this wine bar to be sophisticated and shit, not irritated and shit. The little girl started running towards our end of the room. I quickly shot a look that I thought would effectively create an invisible wall around my friends, but this little girl crashed through my barrier and sat on the step next to us. Of course she screamed as she ran. The mother got up and rushed over to the brat. I eagerly anticipated seeing a swat on the butt or a slap on the wrist to teach this kid a lesson. But no. The mother simply said, "No, no we don't want to bother these other people, sweetie." Newsflash, Mom: too late. I'm bothered. The mother then took the little girl by both hands and spun her around while the little girl laughed. And screamed. Then the little boy wanted a turn. What the fuck is wrong with people? Do they not see I am trying to be all mature and cultured? I'm sittin' in a freakin' wine bar for cryin' out loud. Jesus H. Christ.

The parents let the kids play as they finished their glasses of wine. Meanwhile, I had blood dripping out of my ears from listening to the kids scream with laughter at whatever the fuck makes a four year old scream with laughter. More than once I saw mom get up and join in on the fun making the kids even louder. It was simply not possible for me to give them an eye that was any stinkier than the one I was giving them. After about 15 minutes, I noticed that they asked for the check. Either, it was the kids bedtime or the parents finally realized that their darling children were annoying the fuck out of everyone else in the bar. After they left, I readjusted my face from the scowl and let my eyes resolve back to their natural state of bleary and bloodshot. Finally, I could get all sophisticated. I pulled out my pipe and put my feet up on the ottoman ready to enjoy my night of being civilized. I retied my ascot and ordered my second glass of wine, but this time I didn't get the cheapest one. I got the second cheapest one. 'Cause I'm sophisticated and shit.


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Get That Shit Outta My Way

Speaking of things getting in your way, what is it with people who bring impossibly awkward items into a restaurant and then demanding that we find a place to put it while they eat? Just because someone decided to organize their life and go hog wild at The Container store does not mean that I have to store your huge plastic boxes for you while you eat in my station. "Table for two, and do you have someplace I can put this?" as they hand me bags and bags of crap from Macy's. It's New York City you know, so they can't just leave that shit in the trunk of their car. It's amazing what people will drag into a restaurant.

A few years ago when those Razor scooters were all the rage, one set of parents thought it was okay that their kid ride one into the restaurant. Seriously? Does this look like a fucking park? Leave that shit at home. Of course they sat at a booth and then left the damn thing sticking out so we had to walk around it every time we passed their table on a a busy Saturday brunch. After about the 525,600th time I had avoided it, I decided they needed to know that the scooter was in the way in a big way. I was going to intentionally trip over it. After years of stage combat classes and learning how to do pratfalls and physical comedy, I figured that knowledge should be put to use. I told my friend Bill to watch me as I headed towards the booth. Timed perfectly, my right foot "accidentally" caught the back end of the scooter and I fell to the floor all dramatic and shit making the scooter fall over as well and make a loud crashing sound. As I hit the ground, I looked at Bill who was standing behind the bar. He bent down behind it to conceal his laughter. "Oh my goodness, "I said loudly as I brushed myself off. "That scooter is in the way a bit, huh?" The entire restaurant was quiet at this point and every diner looked at the family and silently judged the parents who let their kid bring a fucking scooter into the restaurant in the first place. Immediately, the dad apologized to me and then reprimanded the kid for leaving the scooter in the aisle. The kid felt like shit. The parents were mortified. Bill was laughing. And because I am professional faller downer, I was fine. That table left me a huge tip. Falling down totally made my day that Saturday. So much fun. The big tip was just the icing on the cake.


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Screaming Children Will NOT Be Tolerated!

We all know how I feel about babies in restaurants. It's not that I hate babies. Really, I don't. I just want parents to control them when they are in restaurants (and movie theaters, planes, subways, grocery stores, bars, liquor stores, porn shops and the world in general.) I have never been mean to a child when I am at work and even when I am eating out and there is some adorable tot playing peek-a-boo over the booth behind me, I will tolerate it. But a restaurant in North Carolina finally put up the sign that we have been wanting to make ourselves for years. "Screaming children will not be tolerated!" I say bravo to the owner of Olde Salty's for standing up and making her restaurant a place that she wants to be in. You know that sign stirred up all kinds of controversy when they taped that shit to the door. The stroller moms probably formed a brigade and rolled down the street chanting "Just because my baby cries, doesn't mean I can't have fries!" They pelted the manager with baby wipes and formula bottles while the whole time the babies were thinking, "I don't even give a shit, let's go to fucking Chuck E. Cheese and call it a day." According to the owner of the restaurant, business has never been better. Of course! There is a whole demographic out there who will flock to a place if they know that their eardrums won't burst when Junior wants another cracker.

People who don't have kids don't necessarily want to be around them. It's a fact. Many of us have made the conscious decision to be childless because we would rather spend our money on vacations, dinners, cocktails and electronics than new shoes every six months, school supplies, college educations and whatever else a child might need, like food. One time I worked with a woman who told me that I was selfish for not having children. She actually got mad at me that I was old enough to have children, in a relationship and still didn't want to have kids. To me it seems more selfish to have a kid when you don't really want it. If I can't take it to the kennel or throw down a wee wee pad for it when I go out of town, then no thank you. She was shocked. Keep in mind this "shock" was coming from someone who was pregnant with her third baby and she didn't even realize she was with child until she was 7 months along. Wow, there's an attentive mother for you.

I may rant too often about kids in my station, but it's my blog and I can rant if I want to. Lately, there have been a lot of Anonymous haters who get on here and complain about what an ass I am. To them I say this: the blog is called The Bitchy Waiter. The title should give you a general idea about what the blog will be about. If this is not your cup of (not hot enough, herbal) tea, then maybe you should find a blog that is more up your alley. If this is not up your alley, then shove it up your ass. Okay?

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For Amos (A.K.A. I Hate Kids)

While having one of the best meals of my entire vacation, I was visually assaulted by the horrific sight of a booth that was crammed with unruly children. The picture that you see is an actual photo of these awful beasts. I was going to draw one of those black lines across their eyes to protect their identity, but I couldn't figure out how to get Photo Shop to work and I decided that I didn't fucking care anyway. This family deserves to be seen so that waiters across the land can steer clear of these people if they ever venture into their section.

I was in a great restaurant in San Francisco enjoying good food, good cocktails and better company when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little girl wandering around the restaurant with a napkin on her head. She thought she was playing Princess Fiona or some shit by prancing around but really she was just in the mother fucking way. The server who was tolerating this table was also my server and his name was Amos. I promised him that I would write about these brats and I truly hope he sees it. (Amos, if you read this, give me a sign.) These three little girls were all over the place. The mother had her head resting in her hands as if she had given up on the whole "living a happy life" thing and the father was just as removed. He looked like he had mentally checked out of the situation right after he realized that he had three daughters and estrogen would be ruling his household for the rest of his life. The three girls were loud and irritating to everyone around them. My favorite part of their performance was when they each decided that chopsticks would be fun to use as musical instruments and serenaded the whole restaurant with a rousing rendition of every one's favorite song, "We Want to Ruin Your Meal."

Amos came up to the table to gauge our cocktail situation. "Is everything alright here?" he said.

As I slurped down the last of my first drink, I slurred to him, "We are good, but how are you? How's that table over there treatin' ya?" Being the professional that he was, he answered with a smile. "Oh, they're fine. No worries." I looked at Amos with a deep look of understanding and said, "I'm a waiter. You can tell me the truth." Amos sighed and said through gritted teeth and forced grin, "They're a pleasure." But he said the word "pleasure" as if it meant that he was getting a homemade tattoo with a needle, a candle and a ballpoint pen. I felt for Amos, I really did. It seemed so unfair that I was on vacation and not having to deal with little twats like them while he was slaving away at work. But then I remembered that I didn't really know Amos and asked him to brink me cocktail number two.

As soon as the table of terror left, there was a collective sigh amongst the section because finally we could all enjoy our meal without the screeching of misbehaved children and the deafening silence of their inattentive parents. I looked over at the booth and saw the requisite pile of food and napkins thrown on the floor and watched Amos as he got down on his hands and knees to clean it up. Again, I felt a little guilty that I was away from the world of service while others carried on in my place. And then I ordered cocktail number three. Amos, you rock,

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I Hate Kids, Part 525,600

I am on vacation so you are forced to read this old tired summer rerun of a post. If I can pull myself away from the cocktails, I will write something new. In the meantime, this is all there is. My apologies.

The Bitchy Waiter

I may have found my new hero. Someone sent me a story (holla out to Bonnie) about a something that happened somewhere called Hallifax West Yorkshire in England-land. The link is at the bottom of the page but here is the gist of it written in a much more entertaining way and with much worse grammar.

Some family went to the grand opening of a Mexican restaurant and brought with them, as parents are apt to do, their two-year old child, Molly. Jeez, do parents have to take their kids everywhere? It's so annoying. The parents were obviously pretty stupid because they were going to a Mexican restaurant. In England. What the fuck is that? Chicken enchiladas with a side of scone? And English Breakfast margaritas? Whatever. I guess the restaurant was really slammed, or as they say in the Queen's English, "bartle bagged." (I totally made that up.) The family had to wait a long time for their food and I guess (say this with a Cockney accent) the lit'le tyke got a might impatient waitin' for 'er food and threw a bit o' a 'issy fit. (You can stop with the Cockney accent. You're really bad at it.) The article doesn't say exactly what Molly did other than get a bit "moany" and "grumbly" but I am pretty sure I know how she behaved. She wanted to wander around the restaurant and get in people's way and annoy other people who do not have kids. When her "mum" made her sit down, Molly began to scream at the top of her lungs and throw sugar packets and bread pudding spoons all over the fucking place. When the dad threatened to spank her arse, she cried until the food finally arrived making the waiter and every table around her hate dear sweet adorable Molly.

When they got the check they noticed at the bottom of it that something had been typed in underneath the food. It said, "thankyyou littell fucker." Now even though there are some points deducted for spelling, it is clear what was being said. The check called Molly a little fucker. Bravo! Hear ye hear ye! My hero. This server is Queen of all Bitchy Waiters. Capital B. Capital W. Understandably, the family got in a tizzy for insulting their little precious bundle of cunt and demanded an apology and blah blah blah blah. I am sure they got the apology and probably a free order of fish n chips quesadillas too. The sad thing is the person responsible for the "offensive" remark got fired. Or "sacked" as they say they across the pond. The server was just speaking the truth. Had she lived in America maybe she could have stood behind the freedom of speech and all that crap, but seeing that she lived in jolly old England, they fired her British ass. Hopefully, that server will move on to her next position having learned something from her mistake. You can never insult the customer. What I mean is you can never insult the customer where they will find out about it. Say it in the kitchen, write on your pad, think it in your head. Do not print it on their check. Amateur.

CLICK HERE TO READ THE STORY EVEN THOUGH MINE IS MORE INTERESTING

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The Great White Bitchy Waiter

As I have mentioned before, I am not waiting tables right now but that certainly does not mean I can't find things to bitch about. As The Bitchy Waiter, I allow my bitchiness to spill into other areas of my life regardless of how many shifts I have that particular week. When I am a customer, I am The Bitchy Waiter and when I am pissed off about the 7 train I am The Bitchy Waiter. I bitch, therefore I am. Aristotle said that once when he picked up his toga from the dry cleaner and the wine stain was still there. I try to live my life like Aristotle because he was Greek or Roman or some shit and he invented algebra. I think. Or maybe that was Pythagoras. Maybe Aristotle was the one who diddled little boys. Whatever. The point is I like to bitch. (This is your cue, Anonymous, to comment that I need to get a real job and quit complaining.)

I was at the beach a few days ago because someone thought it was a good idea to put me in a play that was performing in a beach town in Delaware and all I have to do is sing and dance a few hours every night. It gives me my days free to do important stuff like read the Internet, blog, and sit on a towel whilst watching the crashing waves. I was meandering down the coastline being quite happy and thankful when I saw a couple of kids playing in the surf. They were having such a good time. A brother and sister I suppose. As they ran from the waves they were laughing and screaming and I imagined what they would be like if they were in my station. I pictured the mess they would leave and the attention they would need and they brought me down a peg on my contentment level. I stood there and watched them for a minute. I thought about how many times I am perfectly fine at work until a kid comes into my station and ruins my day and it made me angry. These kids were entirely too happy and I decided that they too needed to be brought down a peg. I walked towards them as they ran from the waves. When I got within earshot of them I said, "Did you hear about the great white shark?" They froze and their eyes widened but they didn't say anything. "I saw it a few minutes ago. Just be careful, alright kids? Sharks are scary." My work there was done. I continued my walk a few yards and turned around to look at the tiny tots. They were standing right where I left them and just staring out at the water but not in the water. I gave them a raised eyebrow and a smile and went my merry way. I felt better.

Kids. I hate 'em.

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I Hate Kids, Part 378

Okay, so I am not waiting tables because I am busy being a full time actor and shit, but I have spent a lot of time eating at restaurants and sitting on the other side of the menu. I took myself to breakfast this morning because I couldn't bear to start my day with another bowl of Cheerios and banana with a yogurt chaser. I found a quaint little diner that was going to satisfy my craving for eggs and toast. Yes, I could make these myself, but I wanted them to be cooked by someone else and then served by a waiter. All was well. I placed my order and sat in anticipation. And then it happened. A couple came in with their two adorable little girls and when I say "adorable," I mean "bratty spoiled crybabies who couldn't shut the fuck up."

The younger of the girls was named Megan and I know that because I heard her name about hundred and fifty fucking times within a ten minute period. She wanted bacon and french fries for breakfast and her parents drew the line on that request. However, they told her if she would eat eggs for breakfast then they would take her to get a cupcake afterwards. Seriously? "No" to the french fries but yes to the cupcake? What the fuck point is that? I say if you're on vacation let her have french fries for breakfast and then ask her to eat some fruit too. The dad was full of empty threats. As a non-parent (praise be to Jesus that my seed has not been sowed), it seems clear that threatening something with no intention to follow through on the threat means nothing to the child. When Megan wouldn't sit in the chair, the dad told her that they were going to end the vacation and go back home right then. Now we know that is not going to happen. And so did the girl. She was probably thinking, "Oh Daddy, I know you already put down a non-refundable deposit on our room and have already requested these days off from work so shut the hell up." And then a few minutes later when Megan threw her sunglasses on the floor and wouldn't pick them up, he told her if she didn't pick them up, he was going to throw them away. And what did Megan think? "Oh, Daddy, you aren't going tot throw away these perfectly good sunglasses away after you just spent $10 on them. That would be silly, you dumb fuck of a daddy." And when he threatened to make her sit on the corner, she actually said, "Oh, what corner?" He was clearly setting his daughter up for a future in prostitution.

Eventually he began treating the girl like a dog by yelling commands at her. "Megan, sit. Megan, stay." Megan did none of these things. My dog is better behaved than this little girl. At one point, I looked over at the father and he had his head in his hands. The look in his eyes was one of sadness and desperation. It was as if he couldn't believe that he only gets one vacation a year and here he was stuck on his vacation with his family. I almost felt sorry for him for a second. And then my omlette showed up. As I took my first bite of home fries I heard the father pleading one more thing from his daughter. "Megan, get your mouth off the chair."

Kids. I hate 'em.


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