I don’t post all too often on this blog anymore. Part of that, I think, is that I’m not as angry as I once was. I’ve come to a point where I’ve mostly accepted that people will be who they are. And to expect anything more of them, while admirable, isn’t necessarily reasonable. Because, if anything, we know that reason isn’t a gift that all men share.
That being said, it’s a fun place for venting. Because sometimes, you have to laugh at the cards you’re dealt. And if you can’t learn to laugh at them, they’ll break you down.
Like when it’s 95 degrees outside, and someone tells me the room is too cold. Asks me to turn off the air. When it’s 95 degrees. When they can clearly see the beads of sweat upon my upper brow. I have a fucking sweat mustache. Do you know what that’s like? Your blatant disregard for literally everyone else in the world is funny. It’s so funny that I’m going to laugh my way to the thermostat and pretend to turn it off. Click click push push button pressed, there you go. Air’s off. (I faked it).
You know what’s also funny? Scooping bagels. I know I’ve talked about this before—I’m sure I’ve mentioned it a time or two. But I can’t get over it. You want a bagel, but you don’t want the bread inside the bagel. You literally just want a bagel shell. So, you want me to take my fingers (gloved, of course—I love you too much to give you my germs) and scoop the dough from the bagel. One of these days, I’ll take the dough and squeeze it into a little ball and throw it at your head—just to knock some sense into it. You want me to cut your crusts off as well? (better not ask that question, they may say yes).
Also, birthdays. This whole tradition of making a waitress sing happy birthday to your husband, who is a perfect stranger, is kind of weird. It’s weirder when you don’t sing, and I’m left doing some sort of awkward solo while every other table in my station watches. And then, I don’t know your name, so when it gets to that part, I just hover awkwardly on the “to” note, and stretch it out really far, until you pitch in with “Jim,” or some other generic name like that. And to the lady who asked me to sing Happy Anniversary to her and her husband? I’m so happy you guys are still together. I hope you’re in it for the long run. But there’s no anniversary song. I’m not going to make one up for you. Quite honestly, I just don’t have time for that. Be reasonable.
But, in all fairness, you guys do make me laugh. It’s a kind of sad laugh, like *sigh* humanity. Like, is this real life? What a time to be alive. But, it’s laughter. It’s laughter when you ask for Ranch, Bleu Cheese, Thousand Island, and Balsamic. (Balsamic because you’re on a diet and watching your figure). It’s laughter when you want your toast buttered *lightly*. I don’t even know what that means. Toast comes with butter or without. I can’t lightly butter. That’s not a thing because the butter gets immediately melted into the hot toast and I can’t tell how much is really on there. I’m not a chemist. Anyone who tells you otherwise is just lying.
It’s laughter when you order your chicken noodle soup with no chicken because you’re a vegetarian. But it’s chicken broth? That’s okay, you say. Just no meat. And when you want me to cut your eclair into four pieces? Have you ever seen what happens to a custard filled pastry when you try and cut it in half? It’s like a crime scene. I’m laughing in the back as custard oozes out from every orifice. And when I bring it back to you, it looks dismembered. I warned you, though. In all fairness, I warned you. Do it anyway, you said. And now this eclair tastes like regret.
I’m not certain it’s a good thing. I don’t know if I’m just becoming jaded or what. This behavior doesn’t shock me anymore. I feel like it should. But I’m passed that. Eight years in the restaurant industry and you can do your damnedest but all I’ll do is laugh it off. Because, at the end of the day, we people are an eclectic bunch. Unpredictable, unusual, and always worth a few good laughs.