The Beast

There comes a time in everyone's life (especially females) when paths are crossed with vile creatures. The vile creature that has recently crossed my path will herein be referred to as "The Beast".

The Beast started work at the restaurant last week. The Beast was cleverly disguised as a bubbly, girlie-girl waitress with a lot of experience. Oh, but no. Underneath that horribly fake blonde hair with lots of bling-bling in it, there resides evil. Evil that makes the devil shutter. The Beast decided that she would kiss as much ass as possible to try and "get" my job. I'm not sure why she wants it, but nonetheless, she pursues. The Beast is a money-grubbin' whore. If there were a 20-dollar bill laying on the floor, and you were in the Beast's way, she would stab you with a butter knife to get to it, I shit you not.

Thank the Lord I am not the only employee to feel this way. Apparently, I don't hide being annoyed well, and a private discussion was had on what to do about the situation. We decided to grit our teeth and bare it for now, and let life take its course. Boy, did it. The Beast let her evil out by phone call at a quarter to midnight on Saturday. I was still working, and just happen to answer. The owner witnessed the wrath of the Beast.

The call was about how she was all pissed about having to "share" her tips with me and two other employees that night, although she disguised this real reason as "I need to know exactly how much I made so that I can write it down for my taxes, and I know I made more than $75." Whatever. We don't usually have a tip-pool, but due to a large banquet party, it was the fairest route since we all busted our asses. I am in charge of the dining room and made the command decision to make an even split of the tips. You have to keep in mind here that this was her third night of work, and she was technically still in training. She is lucky she got ANYTHING. The Beast demanded copies of her tickets. (She apparently didn't look at them before she left.) She went on to tell me that when she was hired on, she was told that all servers made individual tips, and if this not how it was going to be, then she was going to have to quit. (Oh well! So sad!) She said she didn't like sharing because she is "used to making better tips than her co-workers and it would not be fair to share them". Say WHAT? Excuuuse me, but I've been waiting tables for 17 years, BITCH, and have bigger tits than you. The Beast even witnessed me making a 65$ tip on a $145 tab the other night, yet she still had the nerve to say this to me. I am the only other server there. I concluded she was pissed because she made a bee-line for the door to seat those very same good-tipping customers in her section on Saturday night. They are regulars, MY regulars. I was a little miffed to say the least. Who the hell does she think she is? She is certainly not CrazyDogMama, damn it.

The Beast also likes to show off by bringing in her own wine accessories and such and give the owner all kinds of "suggestions". It gets on my damn nerves. But, as it turns out, it gets on the owner's nerves as well. (Insert evil smiley face here). It will be interesting to see where this goes. Stay tuned.

Update

You are all so great. Thank you for all the personal emails...I wasn't really mad, I just wanted to stir the pot a little. Hehe. All of the blogs I read daily really cheer me up and keep me going. I actually feel guilty for not writing in mine. I know I am all twitchy when my favorite bloggers go on hiatus.

Jim is still on the job-hunt, but he decided to go with a staffing agency for now to just get something to keep us going. He is wanting to get out of the woodworking business, but that will of course take some time and soul-searching. In the meantime, we need stuff. Especially me. I'm a stuff-needing-girl. The greedy little bitch that I am. My close friends keep telling me to snap-the-hell-out-of-the-depression. They don't let me get away with whining a whole lot. Especially when I try to get out of working out. Picture 3 women dragging a fourth to the gym kicking and screaming holding onto a brownie while smoking. That's me.

Louie and Maggie are on serious vacation. When I come home last night, all three of them (Jim included here) are laying T-U on the floor lounging with the TV blaring. Bones laying nearby, and bags of Cheetos. That is when I go into my B-movie routine of how I am working so hard the flesh is falling off of my fingers and where's my dinner? Get-the-hell-up-before-I-kick-you!

Things are looking up, though. I am in a silly mood today and I was brought an iced mocha. Oh, the Joy.

Total Slacker

That would be me. I have watched my blog stats sail downhill the last few weeks; no doubt due to my lack of updating. Well, you know WHAT? BITE ME. No one has emailed me to ask if I'm dead, and there have been no words of encouragement. So, again, BITE ME. The depression and total pity-pot attitude I have had lately has turned to cynicism, sarcasm and anger. So, basically, I'm back to normal. But APPARENTLY you don't miss me, so BITE ME.

Day 17 of No Days Off

It is the aftermath of V-D. (Valentine's Day for all you warm and fuzzy freaks out there.).Holy Crap-O-Rama. The restaurant I work at was sold to a new owner last December and this was the first REALLY CRAZY night we've had. My body aches this morning, and I swear I'm getting varicose veins. Gross. Anyway, I have 5 more days until I finally have a day off. What will I do that day, you ask? SLEEP. EAT. SLEEP. REPEAT.

Louie is being really sweet and loving and cute and fuzzy. I'm wondering what the hell is going on in that little doggie brain of his. I'm waiting for the bomb to drop.

As if you don't already pity me.

Let me tell you about my day yesterday. It was going along just fine, la la la. THEN, I decided to try and figure out my own taxes before I go to the tax guy, so that I will know whether or not I can do it myself next year, or if I'm a complete retard. So, I just basically copied my taxes from last year, filling in the new numbers and complying with the new laws. (Love the new deduct-all-your-sales-tax thing.) Before I started, I thought I'd probably get around $1500 back per usual, give or take a few hundred. WRONG. I get back NOTHING. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. This is the year I needed a return. Jim has no job. There is no food in the refrigerator. I can't go anywhere or do anything. I owe everyone I know money. My hair is turning brown. THE HORROR. Enter bad mood.

THEN I went to the Post office on my lunch break and my "YOUR ENGINE IS GOING TO BLOW UP" light on my car's dashboard turned on. Super. Perfect. I called a mechanic, and he told me to go make sure I had my gas cap screwed on tight. (Apparently, he thought I was an idiot. A common mistake.) Yes, the stupid gas cap is on, fool. So, I had to get the car in right away. Long story short, I wrote a check for about $350 dollars that my bank account doesn't have. Yeah, that's right. Bad mood turning to panic.

After that, it was time to go to kickboxing. After writing the rubber check, I had developed a major migraine. Since it was only 4:30, and kickboxing wasn't until 7:30, I figured I could just go take a nap in between. I didn't get all the way home before I needed to stop driving and LAY DOWN. HEAD NOT GOOD. GOING TO PUKE. I parked in the grocery store parking lot across the street from the gym to rest. Of course, the place I decided to park just happened to be the next hang out for the local dumb-ass kids who have nothing else to do but hang out in the grocery store parking lot. Loud thumping music. Loud stupid kids. Crazydogmama pissed. I moved the car to a different spot, all the while my head is pounding so hard I can't even see. I am thinking at this point that kickboxing probably isn't a good idea tonight. (duh, ya think?) I start to cry. Not a little whimper or two, but BAWLING so hard that my face puffs up, snot is running out my nose and my mascara is running down into my bra. I have no Kleenex mind you, and my headache is getting worse with the pathetic wailing.

My cell phone rings. It's my kickboxing buddy calling to see if I'm still going. I sound like a train wreck, and she asks me what the hell is going on and where I am. She comes and picks me up and takes me to one of our other kickboxing friend's house. Since I am a big loser this evening, everyone decides we are not going to kickboxing. They give me a drink. It is Dr. Pepper and Malibu rum. I am in no mood to argue. Don't ask. They give me headache drugs. Much better. I still looked really pretty, though, with raccoon-face.

Today has been "I gotta find money to put in the bank" day. So far, I've come up with 170$. Only 180$ to go!

Are you realizing my whole "February" issue yet??

I hate February.

Anyone who knows me, knows I hate February. Most of the *really* bad things that have ever happened to me, have happened in February. (I have big issues with Valentine's Day especially, but we're not talking about that.) I basically just hold my breath all month waiting for a bomb to drop. This year, however, I am optimistic for the first time since I was 16. So many icky things happened in January this year that I think I may skate through February unscathed. Maybe. You see, January is usually a great month for me, but not this year. Maybe it is taking February's place. It might as well, there is weirdness everywhere, and I mean weirdness. Are any of you experiencing weirdness too?? Dreams, feelings, people doing and saying bizarre things, etc. There is a guy at work that tiptoes down the hallway. He is not trying to be funny. It's that weirdness I'm telling you about. Yesterday, I saw a guy walking down the street with a wig on crooked. A normal, suburban street. I am living in the twilight zone. Either that, or I need to chill on reading all those freak-ass articles on the internet about aliens and Bigfoot.