So in addition to my job at D---'s, I have a job at Subway. I enjoy working at Subway because there's generally no customer complaining because they watch you make their food right in front of them. "And oil and vinegar. More vinegar. Uhm... can I have just a little more vinegar?"
The most entertaining days we have are when we amuse ourselves and mess with the customers. The other day the owner worked next to me during lunch (we make a kind of assembly line) and sang all of the vegetables as he put them on each sandwich. It's a fun Subway to come to, let me tell you.
But anyways. The other day I had to work the cash register. There's practically no one in the store, and this little old lady shuffles in and makes her way to the register. Mind you, you're supposed to begin ordering your sandwich at the other end of the counter where the sign hanging above it reads "place order here." People seem to miss the sign a lot. And by people, I mean mostly little old ladies. So she comes up holding a card, and tells me she wants two foot long sandwiches and she wants to get one free. Well don't we all want to get free food. So she shows me the card, which is just a business card that tells what our special is for the day. Subway has a special every day where the 6" version of that day's sandwich is only $2.99 -- $3.17 with tax. Every day is a different sandwich. So I tell her that she doesn't really have a coupon, she just has an ad that tells what today's special is. And she insists that she wants two foot long sandwiches and she wants one free. So I tell her again that what she keeps trying to show me is not a coupon, but an ad. She keeps telling me, like I'M the one that's not understanding, that she wants TWO foot long sandwiches, and with the card, she gets one free! I realized that at this point I had just stopped and stared at her because I couldn't believe we were still having this conversation. So the kid I work with comes over, noticing that I'm about finished trying to get through to this customer, and asks what's up. She explains to him the foot long deal, and he takes her down to the other end of the counter and serves up the sandwiches. He tells her they aren't $2.99 and she won't get one free. She orders anyway. He makes her sandwiches exactly as she would like, he wraps them up, passes them down to me, and I present them to her at the cash register. I ring up the two foot long sandwiches and it comes to something like $13. Which she pays. Phew, she's finally leaving. I give her her change, and then I realize she's not leaving.
She says " I was supposed to get one of those free."
"No -- because you didn't have a coupon."
"Well my husband came in and ordered two foot long sandwiches and he got one free!"
"He must have had a coupon."
"Yes -- he had this!" (proceeds to show me the special-of-the-day card)
"No, that's not a coupon."
"Oh... So did I get today's special?"
"No, because you didn't order that sandwich, and you ordered foot long sandwiches."
"Well what is the special?"
"It's only good for a 6" sandwich."
"Aren't foot longs just 2 6" sandwiches?"
"Yes."
"So why didn't I get the special?!"
"Because it was cheaper to charge you for one foot long sandwich instead of 2 6" specials." (BESIDES THE FACT THAT YOU DIDN'T EVEN ORDER THE RIGHT SANDWICH TO GET TODAY'S SPECIAL!)
This is the point where she looks at me like I'm stupid, makes the old lady face that says -- kids these days -- and waves her hand at me in the old lady way that says -- you're not making any sense and I'm done trying to get through to you. And walks out the door.
I stifle a laugh as I look up at the mid-twenties aged guys who were standing in line behind her watching this whole conversation play out, who are also trying not to laugh, and say "Hi! What kind of sandwich are you having today?"
Us
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
For the safety of my job, I have decided to take the full name of the restaurant out of these blogs.
If D---'s ever reads this, I'm sure someone will get fired over the next little story I have to tell you.
At work yesterday, the dishwasher didn't show up. He's a kid about my age, tall, skinny as heck, and he looks about 16. He shuffles around quietly doing his job. Since he wasn't there, the manager on shift called one of the other dishwashers and had him come in for a while. He's probably mid 30s, big guy, football player type. He came to the restaurant and hung around for a while because just after he got there, the dishwasher kid showed up. But anyways. So he walks back into the kitchen and talks to everyone because he's been working there forever, and apparently everyone knows him. I mind my business by the register for a while and I seat a table for one of the servers who is nowhere to be found. So I go searching for her through the kitchen and the back of the restaurant by the back door and the manager's office. I round the corner and there sits the called-in dishwasher, half naked in the middle of the little space back there by the ice machine. He's got his shirt off, his lovely beer belly hanging out, and one of the cooks is buzzing his head. Yes. The cook was giving the dishwasher a hair cut in the back of the kitchen. It wasn't right where they cook the food, but it was within 5 feet of food prep areas and stored food. I didn't say anything, but I had to think that this couldn't be within D----'s food prep regulations. Doesn't it make you feel good to know that your food was made right after the cook buzzed some guy's head?
"You found a hair in your food? You should've seen the guy at the next table over! His pancake was furry!"
So -- if anyone needs a haircut -- apparently the swing shift cook at D----'s is giving them for free in the back room. Walk-ins welcome.
If D---'s ever reads this, I'm sure someone will get fired over the next little story I have to tell you.
At work yesterday, the dishwasher didn't show up. He's a kid about my age, tall, skinny as heck, and he looks about 16. He shuffles around quietly doing his job. Since he wasn't there, the manager on shift called one of the other dishwashers and had him come in for a while. He's probably mid 30s, big guy, football player type. He came to the restaurant and hung around for a while because just after he got there, the dishwasher kid showed up. But anyways. So he walks back into the kitchen and talks to everyone because he's been working there forever, and apparently everyone knows him. I mind my business by the register for a while and I seat a table for one of the servers who is nowhere to be found. So I go searching for her through the kitchen and the back of the restaurant by the back door and the manager's office. I round the corner and there sits the called-in dishwasher, half naked in the middle of the little space back there by the ice machine. He's got his shirt off, his lovely beer belly hanging out, and one of the cooks is buzzing his head. Yes. The cook was giving the dishwasher a hair cut in the back of the kitchen. It wasn't right where they cook the food, but it was within 5 feet of food prep areas and stored food. I didn't say anything, but I had to think that this couldn't be within D----'s food prep regulations. Doesn't it make you feel good to know that your food was made right after the cook buzzed some guy's head?
"You found a hair in your food? You should've seen the guy at the next table over! His pancake was furry!"
So -- if anyone needs a haircut -- apparently the swing shift cook at D----'s is giving them for free in the back room. Walk-ins welcome.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Hello everyone!
Michael's blog mention of me has increased my profile views by nearly 20%. I am now up to a shattering 44 views. I know. I'm practically famous. I always tell my mom that she has to keep all the old wallpaper patterns after she rips them down so that someday the house can be returned to the way it looked when Megan Dickerson lived here. Velvet rope and all. People will wonder "ooh! I wonder what's behind that door!" Which will be stairs to the basement which will still be chock-full of all the crap it houses now, probably with a few new additions. "And this is the computer Megan began her career on with a blog..." A resounding "oooh" from the tour group.
So I've been working at D---'s and I come home with stories about work pretty much every day. My dad says I should write them down and publish it someday. I don't think they're that interesting, but they are somewhat entertaining. The story that prompted this publishing comment is from yesterday morning. I worked a double at Denny's yesterday hostessing. One of the other hostesses wanted the day off, so she needed me to cover for her. Stupid me, I thought it sounded like a good idea -- make some more money, ya know, proceed on the path to becoming rich and famous. I always think of my job at D----'s as the job I'll talk about on Jay Leno when he asks me what crappy jobs I had growing up before I started making tons of money.
But anyways. My story. It was a busy morning at D----'s -- well, for me, compared to swing shift (5-9pm) when I usually work. I was supposed to have another girl hostessing with me, but she had to serve (no, not time, though that's not too far-fetched) at the last minute because it got busy. So I finally get a minute to breathe, probably around 1:00pm. And I'm standing up at the front of the restaurant by the register just minding my business, and this man comes up and asks if I have a rag or something. And I interrupt him "oh of course!" and grab a rag and walk over to his table to see a lovely display of child vomit all over the table, the booth and the culprit himself. How one child can make that big of a mess, is beyond me. Maybe I should ask Mollie -- she has a babysitting horror story that tops all. And that one time when I was probably 8 or so when a girl from church slept over and then threw up popcorn and chocolate pudding ALL over the bathroom in the middle of the night. But once again -- someone else, namely my mom, cleaned that up, not me. In my defense, I'm not a complete wuss! I've changed nasty diapers that have been worn so long there's literal crap oozing onto the kid's back and down his legs. I've cleaned up dog throw up. But man, this was something else. I was so unprepared. Maybe it was because I round the corner all innocent Denny's employee, rag in hand, ready to be the helpful hostess they hired me to be, to come to their rescue to clean up the spilled soda or whatever it is, only to be hit with the undeniable stench of child vomit. *shudder* It was the kind of smell that your nose finds so offensive it can't help but try to find somewhere to hide. And I stand there for a second, stunned. The little kid is standing on the booth looking up at his dad who is standing right next to me. The mom is standing there lying to herself, the kid, and everyone around, telling him "honey! it's okay! don't worry!", I'm assuming to try to avoid a full out temper tantrum. Probably because if he started crying and screaming, she wasn't going to touch him to calm him down or drag him out of the restaurant. So I put the rag on the booth and start to slide it around to clean up the mess. My mistake. I disturbed it. I made it angry. And I try to smile at the customers so they don't feel so bad, and they don't hate Denny's, when really I'm thinking "exactly how many pancakes were in this kid?!!!" immediately followed by "I hate my job, I hate my job, I hate my job." The father asks me for a bag. I go get him a plastic D----'s bag we put carry-out orders in. He puts the boy's soggy shirt in it, and I smile at the thought of a throw-up covered shirt as your carry-out order. Straight from D----'s to you. (A la Camelot Inn) And then I catch a whiff of it, and quickly seal my mouth shut again. I retreat back to my station at the front of the restaurant, leaving the server and the dishwasher (who came up with the brilliant idea that the guy who's in charge of producing clean dishes is also the man wiping bodily fluids off the floor?!) to clean it up. Later that day, a couple of girls come in, and the manager seats them at the throw up table which is, by now, all cleaned up. Although I have to wonder if they didn't think "what is that terrible smell?!" when they sat down. And as I clean the table next to them, I think... if only they knew.
Michael's blog mention of me has increased my profile views by nearly 20%. I am now up to a shattering 44 views. I know. I'm practically famous. I always tell my mom that she has to keep all the old wallpaper patterns after she rips them down so that someday the house can be returned to the way it looked when Megan Dickerson lived here. Velvet rope and all. People will wonder "ooh! I wonder what's behind that door!" Which will be stairs to the basement which will still be chock-full of all the crap it houses now, probably with a few new additions. "And this is the computer Megan began her career on with a blog..." A resounding "oooh" from the tour group.
So I've been working at D---'s and I come home with stories about work pretty much every day. My dad says I should write them down and publish it someday. I don't think they're that interesting, but they are somewhat entertaining. The story that prompted this publishing comment is from yesterday morning. I worked a double at Denny's yesterday hostessing. One of the other hostesses wanted the day off, so she needed me to cover for her. Stupid me, I thought it sounded like a good idea -- make some more money, ya know, proceed on the path to becoming rich and famous. I always think of my job at D----'s as the job I'll talk about on Jay Leno when he asks me what crappy jobs I had growing up before I started making tons of money.
But anyways. My story. It was a busy morning at D----'s -- well, for me, compared to swing shift (5-9pm) when I usually work. I was supposed to have another girl hostessing with me, but she had to serve (no, not time, though that's not too far-fetched) at the last minute because it got busy. So I finally get a minute to breathe, probably around 1:00pm. And I'm standing up at the front of the restaurant by the register just minding my business, and this man comes up and asks if I have a rag or something. And I interrupt him "oh of course!" and grab a rag and walk over to his table to see a lovely display of child vomit all over the table, the booth and the culprit himself. How one child can make that big of a mess, is beyond me. Maybe I should ask Mollie -- she has a babysitting horror story that tops all. And that one time when I was probably 8 or so when a girl from church slept over and then threw up popcorn and chocolate pudding ALL over the bathroom in the middle of the night. But once again -- someone else, namely my mom, cleaned that up, not me. In my defense, I'm not a complete wuss! I've changed nasty diapers that have been worn so long there's literal crap oozing onto the kid's back and down his legs. I've cleaned up dog throw up. But man, this was something else. I was so unprepared. Maybe it was because I round the corner all innocent Denny's employee, rag in hand, ready to be the helpful hostess they hired me to be, to come to their rescue to clean up the spilled soda or whatever it is, only to be hit with the undeniable stench of child vomit. *shudder* It was the kind of smell that your nose finds so offensive it can't help but try to find somewhere to hide. And I stand there for a second, stunned. The little kid is standing on the booth looking up at his dad who is standing right next to me. The mom is standing there lying to herself, the kid, and everyone around, telling him "honey! it's okay! don't worry!", I'm assuming to try to avoid a full out temper tantrum. Probably because if he started crying and screaming, she wasn't going to touch him to calm him down or drag him out of the restaurant. So I put the rag on the booth and start to slide it around to clean up the mess. My mistake. I disturbed it. I made it angry. And I try to smile at the customers so they don't feel so bad, and they don't hate Denny's, when really I'm thinking "exactly how many pancakes were in this kid?!!!" immediately followed by "I hate my job, I hate my job, I hate my job." The father asks me for a bag. I go get him a plastic D----'s bag we put carry-out orders in. He puts the boy's soggy shirt in it, and I smile at the thought of a throw-up covered shirt as your carry-out order. Straight from D----'s to you. (A la Camelot Inn) And then I catch a whiff of it, and quickly seal my mouth shut again. I retreat back to my station at the front of the restaurant, leaving the server and the dishwasher (who came up with the brilliant idea that the guy who's in charge of producing clean dishes is also the man wiping bodily fluids off the floor?!) to clean it up. Later that day, a couple of girls come in, and the manager seats them at the throw up table which is, by now, all cleaned up. Although I have to wonder if they didn't think "what is that terrible smell?!" when they sat down. And as I clean the table next to them, I think... if only they knew.
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