Wicked long day.

For you non-New Englanders, I must apologize. I am reintroducing the word "wicked" into my vocabulary these days. As much as possible, actually. It makes me feel at home. It's not unlike how, in New York, I could say "Excuse me" to someone on the subway in such a tone that what I was really saying was "Hey, you're a [wicked] shithead." These are the little things we do to feel settled and connected to our surroundings.

Anyway, on to this post's main [inane] feature.

Today was my first double shift, meaning I worked from opening to the end of kitchen service. It was, as the title indicates, a wicked long day. My dogs were really barking (that's what real waitresses say, right?) by the time I sat down in the driver's seat of my car at 10:35pm (12 hours after I left it).

It was pretty busy day for a Wednesday, and I had quite enough to handle when, shortly after the lunch rush was tapering off, I got a huge splinter in my right index finger. It was from one of the baskets we use for serving sandwiches and whatnot. It was also my second splinter in a week (the last splinter before these two had to have been when I was, like, six). It hurt. A whole lot.

Tweezers were produced by a fellow waitress, and one of the cooks was pressed into service as an impromptu surgeon. Poor fellow. We've only just met and he found himself digging around in my index finger for a piece of wood the size of a rail tie, while I covered my eyes with my unmolested hand, yelping like a big sissy crybaby. "Just take it out!" I screeched between yelps. I sweated, whined, and felt nauseated. Mike, the cook, apologized profusely and finally removed the offending sapling.

Some hydrogen peroxide, triple antibiotic ointment, and a Snoopy BandAid later, I felt much improved. I told everyone the harrowing tale, and informed them that our long national nightmare was over before they even knew it'd begun. Everyone seemed qui te gratified that I bore the strain with such a stiff upper lip.

In other work-related news, I have a few tips to the dining public:

1) Tipping on a credit card. Granted, it's not optimal as we your servers get taxed on that money, but we don't begrudge you the convenience. However, if you're going to try to get your tab to a nice round number, I'd humbly suggest leaving a tip with a random bunch of change only if the total tip if over 20%. Otherwise, your server may well shake their fist at your back as you leave. Similary, random pocket dumpage is lame. Yesterday, I received a fistful of change, an opened perfume sample (Dior's Pure Poison), and a soda can tab. I can't pay any bills with those things, people.

2) Give a heads up before you change tables. We divide the restaurant into sections, and you may be messing with the system if you move. It's fine if you do move, just let us know. It's odd to discover that the table you were serving has mysteriously disappeared.

3) I'll make it my business to be friendly, helpful, and charming. If you do the same, I guarantee I'll be running by to check on you just to hear your voice and see your smiling face. Sounds stupid, but a little friendly rapport goes a long way to getting some top-notch service (we get treated like hell by so many other people... why don't YOU try to restore our faith in humanity?). However, if you're a moody attractive man dining solo, it's likely I'll be harassing you just to see what your Byronic deal is, so you know....

4) I've discovered that I love carding people. I feel drunk with power. So, if you look, like, under 60, you'd better have some ID. I love looking for those holograms. Also, looking at IDs is a lot like looking at license plates on a roadtrip; wicked fun.

I'm actually rather enjoying the waitressing. It's hard work, I'm not sooo great at it yet, and the rewards are too often squarely resting with people whose aim it is (or seems to be) not rewarding you very much. BUT, it's a nice place, and I have this smiling face awaiting me when I get home:

Hard to argue with that.