Friday, September 7, 2012

Unemployed - Part 1

I have been a waitress for more than eleven years.  Sure, it has its share of drawbacks, but the nice thing about being a good server is that no matter what life throws at you, you can rest assured that there will always be job options for you because restaurants are always looking to hire experienced, talented servers to improve their business.

Or so I thought.

Before we even moved here, I did my homework.  I researched area restaurants and took notes about their style, average meal price, how far of a drive it would be, and their hours of operation.  I perused websites to look at menu options and reviews from previous diners.  I even checked into the directions from Google Maps to see if I would have to drive on goofy streets or if these places were right off main roads.  Yup, I am that Type A anal retentive freak that drives you crazy at Starbucks because her order takes 2 minutes just to spit out.  Born this way, baby.

I came up with a list of six restaurants I wanted to apply at and I wrote them out in a notebook in the order of proximity to our house.  In a single day, I drove around and applied to…..most of them.  While I do have a couple places that I’m hopeful will work out, I just can’t resist telling you about one of the establishments that was thankfully not my cup of tea.

The reviews were positive:

Don’t judge a book by its cover!  I drove by this place for years before finally stopping in and I wasn’t sorry.  The breakfast was excellent and the service delightful.  A great stop for a weekend breakfast or for comfort food any day of the week.

We were looking for somewhere to enjoy the game without being too much of a dive bar, and Fuzzy’s fit the bill!  We enjoyed our pitcher of beer and burgers and were pleasantly surprised by the quality of the food.  Will definitely be back!

And so on and so on.  All good stuff here, people.  I figured it was worth a look.

I pulled in the parking lot and immediately understood the “don’t judge a book by its cover” review.  It really didn’t look like much from the outside, but I know that can be deceiving.  In fact, the restaurant I had worked at and loved for more than 6 years is very misleading from the exterior.  I walked inside to give it a shot.

Big mistake. 

As I crossed over to the bar area to request an application, the group of middle aged men seated there were immediately considering my…..ummm….qualifications for the job.  It became pretty clear why that would be important when I noticed the uniform the bartender was wearing: skin tight red T-shirt cut so low it was leaving little to the imagination, teeny little short shorts, and the slogan “Body by Fuzzy’s” written across her breast.  Oh boy.  Not one to be rude, I proceeded to sit down and fill out the application despite my misgivings.  In the ten minutes I was there, I heard the F-Bomb four times, three of which were out of a waitress’s mouth.  The fourth time it was uttered by a guy named Steve-O who was sitting next to me at the bar.  Steve-O was wearing a neon orange Harley shirt with the sleeves cut off and had a beard braided down to his chest.  His black bandanna said “Bad Ass” on it and he was very interested in knowing all about me and where I was applying.  He wished me all the best, saying “I hope you F-ing get the job.  You’d be great here!”  Thanks, Steve-O.  What really took the cake was when a man on the other side of the bar was trying to access the Wifi with his laptop and was having trouble connecting.  He asked the waitress (who had used the F-Bomb several times) what the password was and she replied, “It’s our phone number.”  Internet Dude tried again to connect, but to no avail.  When he expressed his frustration to F-Bomb Waitress, she once again insisted that he use their phone number.  Internet Dude struggled again until a fellow patron suggested he make sure to put the area code first.  Huzzah!  Victory for Internet Dude!  He turns back to F-Bomb Waitress and says, “You didn’t tell me I needed to use your area code.”  F-Bomb Waitress cocks her hip, sets down her glass and promptly makes a sweeping gesture to her nearly completely exposed bosom and proclaims, “Here’s MY area code!”

I gotta go.

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