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Demonic
Possession is 9/10ths of the Flaw
What a
weird week it's been. Before anyone says, "Yeah, my week's been weird,
too", let me ask you a question. Have you ever had your garbage can
repo'd? No? Well, come shake the hand of the girl who knows what
it feels like.
I have
to pay $15 a year to lease a garbage can because the sanitation department
bought new trucks and the only cans that fit their lift are their own brand.
You can't just buy one, only rent one. Sweet, sweet Monopoly!
$15 is no big deal, nothing to starve over or even think about. In
fact, on most days I have that in my pocket if the neighbour kids aren't
stealing it. However, to pay this $15, I have to go to a part of town
I never usually travel by. It's out of the way, not near anything I
need, so I put the $15 aside to pay when I did happen to pass through there.
Wouldn't you know that they're the Mafia of Mayberry and don't take kindly
to late payments. I forgot to take out the trash on Wednesday morning
only to be awakened by the sound of voices in my backyard. There I
spotted two husky gents with flies buzzing around them looking for said
garbage can which they promptly removed upon finding, garbage and all.
Some people have their cars towed away. Some people have their houses
foreclosed on. Some people have their rent-a-center furnishings
dragged away. Not me. I get my can nicked. I'm taking it
pretty well though. I could cry, get mad or seek revenge, but nahhh.
It's actually kind of funny. I got my fucking garbage can repossessed!
To top
off not having an orderly receptacle to keep my rubbish, I've been working
the last 9 days in a row. During those 9 days I have had the dishonour
of serving the most repulsively picky person nearly every lunch hour.
We'll call her "Kathy", because that's her real name. In every job in
every State, in every Country, on every Planet there are odd folk, picky
sorts. Kathy takes the cake and I am in no way exaggerating this for
entertainment purposes. She is the Queen of the craft, the Baroness of
the Belittling, the Czarina of the Condescenders. Not only does she
create her own menu, but she does so with the delivery of a prima donna.
"THIS is how I want it and if YOU cannot make sure it is delivered as I have
asked, I WILL go elsewhere. And WHY do I have to wait to be seated?
WHY is your parking lot so small? It's absolutely ridiculous and I
blah-blah-blah-blah." To be in her presence reminds you of the medieval
serving days of yore. Keep eyes lowered. Keep eyes lowered.
Keep eyes lowered. Now back away slooooooowly, turn and run like hell
to do her biddings quickly.
This
is literally an example of what she demands. Literally.
"I
want the steak and chicken fajitas, but I want 5 tortillas and not 4.
I WILL not pay for the extra one so you let your kitchen help know that.
I need to have the veggies grilled… GRILLED. Write that down.
Make sure there are horizontal grill marks on each veggie or you'll be
taking it back. Write that down. I want extra guacamole, but not
in a large ramekin. I want the guacamole separated into two ramekins.
Do not have a lemon wedge as a garnish, because I won't use it and will send
it back. Write that down." At this point there was a long pause, so I
finished writing her fajita flim-flam down and moved on to her husband to
take his order. That was the wrong move.
"EXCUSE me! EXCUSE me!" Huff, huff and snort, snort. "I was NOT
anywhere close to being done and you interrupted me. I WILL NOT be
interrupted. Can I finish?"
Ohhh
let me tell you something. There is nothing in this world that will
set my teeth faster than having someone talk down to me. And yet, when
you're working for someone else and they can fire your ass, you have to
behave and take it. So I had to stand there and be Kathy's bitch, but
there were subtle ways I could show my displeasure. The one way to
drive her mad as a hatter is to not write anything down as she's spouting.
So, after clicking my pen a zillion times, away it went into my pocket and
the book I use to write things down in followed. I stood before her,
shoulders squared and arms crossed and smiled asking, "What else may I get
you ma'am?"
She
wanted sliced cucumbers, maraschino cherries and croutons in separate bowls
for her six year old daughter to munch on to keep her quiet until the food
arrived. She actually used the term "munch on" which grated my nerves
for some reason. Kathy added that if she saw these items on the bill,
she'd raise hell because these were items used for the soul purpose of
guaranteeing that they could eat in peace. She kept eyeing my pocket
for the pen and paper. I just smiled and nodded, staring right at her
so as not to "interrupt", though I would have loved to point out that the
child was old enough to behave or threatened to be taken to the bathroom for
"a talk" as my parents did. She wanted grilled cheese for the child,
with the crusts cut off. Smile, nod, yadda-yadda. The other
people at her table were obviously uncomfortable with her demeanor and
shifting in their seats. Tables around her were looking over their
shoulders and rolling their eyes as she spat out her coffee mid-sentence and
demanded a fresh cup in a glass NOT porcelain mug. Smile, nod, repress
the grimaces. Then as I walked away… the finger snapping.
"Excuse me! Yooohooo! Girl!" I returned to the table
smiling, with mental images of shoving horizontally grilled veggies through
her trachea with a spoon. She had "forgotten" what she wanted to say,
which I took as meaning… "You're an obedient lap dog for coming when I
beckon. Now go until you're beckoned for again."
That
was just one day. I've dealt with her at least seven times. I
was the one who had to take her order of a simple salad to the kitchen, and
hear the cooks complain because she wanted each individual item in this
salad separated on different plates and arranged around an empty plate for
her to create bite for bite. As the days went on, Kathy started joking
with her "friends" about how, "I always get this girl. She gets the
order right but is probably tired of how finicky I am." Finicky is reserved
in my vocabulary for my sister's cat who won't eat broken pieces of her cat
food. Kathy is not finicky. Kathy's a bitch. The only
reason Kathy hasn't been told this to her face yet is because Kathy's
husband is the pastor of a church. People would rather eat with her in
uncomfortable agony than lose their mansion in heaven by going off on her
like an 8-ball junkie. Personally, it's not Kathy who I want to go off
on anyway. It's her mother. I want to travel back in time, find
the mother who allowed her to behave like this and just beat her to near
death with her own penny loafer. I want to shake her til her teeth
rattle, then force her to sit in a playground with normal children snacking
on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Gooey ones with no napkins in
sight and crusts so thick they were obviously made from the ends of the
loaf.
A
month ago I chipped a molar on a steak salad at a restaurant while dining
with friends. Our waitress was busy, yet attentive and I never
mentioned it to her because I didn't want to ruin her night or cause her
grief amongst her other tables. She didn't make the salad, and she
didn't have anything to do with me not having my tooth filled properly three
years earlier. As a fellow waitress I kept quiet and tipped her 20%.
So I may have gotten my garbage can repo'd and I may have had a shitty week
dealing with the bane of humanity which is Kathy, but at least I'm a good
and decent person. I reserve my words and tantrums for the deserving
and that's why people dine with me because they like to and not because
they're afraid not to. God likes me better anyway, and I will get a
better garbage can in heaven. |
