AUTOMATIC TOILETS

THE AUTOMATIC TOILET

A large generic Rx Co is owned by a Middle Eastern firm in Jerusalem. Wonder who’s name(s) lay’s at the bottom of all the dba’s.

Coffee prices will rise at least a $1/lb…wtf is Columbia doing? Smoking??

The point of these future commodities will be explained in the saga called: THE AUTOMATIC TOILET.

Ladies be careful, men beware when you sit down to write a short letter.

Public bathrooms and other large complex’s are opting for the automatic toilet. This has absolutely nothing to do with what comes automatically when one sits on the throne.

Some insane man (for only a man would come up with this; ask ANY woman) invented a toilet that SHOULD flush when you’re “done.”

I can just imagine the testing that went on with this concept. The thoughts of pee cam’s taken to the level of pooh cam’s crossed my mind. UGH

If HIS invention worked, all would be right with the world, and I most likely be typing about something entirely different. The vast stretch of Lake Michigan I’m looking at out of the window perhaps.

However, having been interviewed regarding the 8th BEST BATHROOM IN THE WORLD by the Travel Channel none the less, (those that know me, have viewed this comedic show…and NO, I DID NOT PEE in it lol) I feel compelled to type a short commentary on the topic of AUTOMATIC TOILETS.

Now, from what I can gather thru vast and lengthy research on the internet regarding this, (again, those that know me understand my NEED to not only examine the layers of an onion, but to put them carefully bit by bit into a Petri dish...is that where Rob got his name from? – yet another story--) there is this devise that apparently should kick in and flush when one stands up.

Should.

Were that it was so simple.

But no, we as humans of the LET’S DO SOMETHING ELSE CLUB (flcharter member); a break off radical subsidiary of THE GROUP OF THEY (they say, they do, they should….) could not leave well enough alone.

It wasn’t good enough as the tail enders of the baby boomers to do what our mother’s taught us at a very young age. Wipe, stand up, flush. (hold this thought please)

“Noooooooo,” she says like John Belushi. They’ve gotta mess with it. Automation. Technology taken to it’s highest.

I wonder if the man who invented this devise did so while performing algebraic logarithms on a lap top while sitting on the throne. He must have had Mexican the night before, and coffee is just kicking in.

That or he was just too lazy to turn around and flush. I wonder about these “types.”

That, or he suffered from continual BOREDOM as do I.

Personally, (in the past now of course as these devises ARE EVERYWHERE!!!) I would simply turn around and use my left foot to flush. Hey, I needed the exercise. I stopped doing that when caught downtown on a rainy summer day and my left sandal went down the loo while performing my calisthenics. (YES I AM GUILTY OF THROWING A SHOE IN THE ROAD!!! Now just what was I going to do with the other shoe??? Sssshh…don’t tell anyone!!)

“Well, shit,” I mumbled as I watched my left sandal rotate clockwise with shit.

Yet another thought has occurred to me. If the toilet in North America flushes in a clockwise motion, if one is down under in NZ or Australia, does it flush COUNTER CLICKWISE?

EEEEEKS, with all the magnetic theories brought up by Nikola Tesla, Admiral Byrd and the Bermuda Triangle!!!!

(I just BET, that you’re either dashing off to see if the swirl of the disposing water spins clockwise or counter clock wise RIGHT NOW, or at least will LOOK and think about this in the near future….)

Well, THAT, or contacting someone you know from down under to do JUST that and report back to you. (confession: I have. They don’t even bother to question my stange requests….)

Now however, I find that I am not even NEARLY through with my business when the toilet is flushing constantly.

Now, here is where I get really creepy. I talk to the damned thing. Like it can hear me. Like a guy talking to the car when it won’t start, and why do they always say “..come on baby, start, start!” Oh, get a tootsie pop, listen to baaaaad music, shave your head and pretend to be Kojack!!! WHO’S YOUR BABY???

Ha. I say, “Shit, give me a minute, I know you’re in a hurry to turn the toilet over to someone else, I understand the concept of REAL ESTATE, and you’re probably measuring the flushes, (AND I really don’t want to know what else you’re measuring like a fast food outlet with 2 drive thru windows….) but man…I’m just not done yet!!”

Does it listen?

“Noooooooo….,” she says like John Belushi. It just continues to flush. And flush and flush. (I wonder what their water bill is…) Whoooosh. Now all of that air whooshing about gives somewhat of a BREEZY experience, and if I were so inclined to GET OFF in the breeze I just might consider it.

But I’m really not even thinking about that, as I just want to LEAVE my business and not start any, NOR take it with me!!! (And, come to think of it, why do people always say, “I’m gonna take a dump/piss.” I always LEAVE one. I don’t want to take any of that anywhere, unless of course I have a Dr.’s appointment in the morning.)

“One of these days…,” she says like Ralph Cramden….I will get to the bottom of this automatic toilet thing and write the inventor a letter, or attach this in an email to him.

Now getting back to that thought I asked you to hold…(and thank you so much for holding it too!)

On the travel channel show, they also had a toilet that had a blow dryer installed under the lid. Must be great for those who don’t shave, don’t ya think??? So much for Brazilian Wax…

Which leads me to the phone conversations I once piped through in a chat room I used to frequent, as I phoned numerous 4 star hotels and resorts asking to be put through to housekeeping inquiring as to the proper protocol of what to wipe with after using the bidet. I only resorted to phoning them, as major plumber instigators such as Kohler didn’t have a clue. But THAT, is another story. In essence, NO ONE in housekeeping HAD A CLUE.

SOOOOO, while taking care of a hose job on a bidet, what IS ONE TO DO??? Just stand up, adjust one’s skirt or pants with dribbles of water all over???

And cautiously walk away, pretending NOT to even have been there???

IF, one is supposed to use toilet paper after the bidet, wouldn’t just a simple toilet and mama’s training suffice? And if that were so, why are all bidet’s placed OUT OF REACH of the toilet paper located ironically NEXT to the toilet?

Mmmmmm…….

In conclusion, what does the futures have to do with generic drug companies and coffee beans from Columbia??

Well, I think that coffee and bathroom visits are pretty self explanatory. But as far as the generic drug companies are concerned, I just thought that I would toss that in cos I read it, and ironically has a lot to do with the side effects of a bladder control pill, which is diareahea. Watch the commercials!!!

Drinking coffee in the morning and having it KICK IN, is self explanatory. Taking a pill to stop something, and yet it kick starts something else is another thing, WELL, I guess it all “DEPENDS.”

YET….are they investors of the automatic flushing toilet as well as
bidets? Even silent????

I’m not THAT bored to do a dunn and bradstreet or hoovers dot com to figure that one out.

Italian Wanna Be

I knew almost from the start that I would be the resident slave. I should have listened to myself and split from week one.
All parties where kept such a secret that the CIA would have been proud. Of course that was a no brainer to figure out within the first two weeks, as the head waiter and manager Steve, who continually pointed out that he was the head waiter and manager, got all of the parties.
More like from what I saw, he stood around and made others work his parties while he kept all the tips. That, and actually took of course the larger and better station while actually doing a party, narrowing down the playing field towards me having a 3 table station.
Which was rarely seated before 7pm.
And I was scheduled to show up at 4.
To do all of the side work for opening, including side work for his parties.
So for three hours or so before I even got a table, I was busy cutting Lettuce, opening the BOH Salad bar, plates, straws, Coffee, Butters, Olive Oil containers, Salad plates, Dressings, Tomatoes, Lemons, Salt and Pepper shakers, Cheese and Oregano containers, paper napkins, wiping down silverware, rolling silverware into cloth napkins, the list went on. And believe me, one person, ME, doing all of the opening side work, it did sometimes take 3 hours.
The other two ding a lings stood around and ate food, drank endless amounts of Soda and chatted. On occasion I would find them reading books, doing cross word puzzle’s while sitting at the back of the restaurant.
Many times AFTER opening, I was then asked to clean. Windows, blinds, chair slats, bathroom…..
Once, on New Years Eve while rolling 3 bus pans of silverware, the phone gal was getting Liquor out of the back room, when I had stopped her.
“The Boss told me that there are some Champagne splits back there,” I said.
“Splits?” she asked.
“Little bottles of Champagne. Maybe take a few out and I’ll sell them.”
“We can’t sell those,” she replied.
“Why not?” I asked. “I already talked to him, and he said it would be great to get rid of them.”
“We can’t sell those bottles of Champagne. It’s not wine,” she explained. “It’s hard Liquor.”
“Ummm,” I began, “Champagne IS Wine, SPARKLING WINE.”
“No it’s not,” she confirmed.
“It was invented in France by Monks. For Kings. It’s Wine.”
“Oh you don’t know anything about Wine. Champagne is NOT wine,” she stated as she walked away.
I sat there stunned at her intelligence wondering where I had been for the past 25 years waiting on tables.



Stunned as during the course of all those years, I had actually managed a few places, and dealt with Beverage purveyors. Stunned that everything I knew about DOCG, Vuevre and down to Asti Spumante was nothing but a sham.
Maybe this gal who managed the front and was in charge of the entire computer system WAS more knowledgable than I.
I guess so. Why heck, she was after all a high school senior, and here I was with years of experience, numerous cork screws and a silver plated taste au vin at home had yet A LOT TO LEARN.
Then Mr. Wiseguywannabe came into the back room and began to set the tables for a party. Unfortunately, he ALWAYS set the tables with no room at all for servers to even get by, let alone the people who will be sitting there, which meant the server would have to leave by one entrance and walk all the way around and re-enter by the other entrance just to serve the other side of the SAME table. This with plates of hot food.
I would always ask him while he did this, “Now what if a very FAT person sit’s RIGHT there. Then what?”
But he insisted his table arrangements were correct while it left a good 5 feet away from the windows, 5 feet that could have been easily used.
And of course, with such knowledge of customer bases, would still seat normal walk in’s into the booths that were in the back party room just so normal people could be in the middle of a major party with unruley kids who did nothing but run about shooting the paper off of the straws and throw food. Yup, walk in’s need this kind of entertainment.

Whenever a customer complained, they would go to Steve who did absolutely nothing, but would hide out in the kitchen just so he wouldn’t have to speak to them. He would go so far as to avoid those customers that he got the bus girl to deliver his food.
Good management strategy.
On occasion, their complaint would ease it’s way to the FOH to Mr. Wiseguywannabe who TOTALLY ignored any and all complaints. It cut into his cell phone time with all his girlfriends, or him hanging about outside with his gear head monkey friends.
On more occasions than not, either one of them would ask me to speak to the customer, or the customer would just approach me, as other people who worked there really couldn’t give a damn what the complaint was, even if it involved them being served dishes that they didn’t even order. To get something voided out involved more strategy than a chess game and was like pulling teeth.
I was yelled at by a customer who complained that $16.95 for Chicken Breast Vesuvio was an outrage when Chicken Marsala only costed $12.95.
I agreed with him. Both dishes involved the same amount of Chicken Breast, the same amount of potatoes, and in fact, if anything, the Marsala was more expensive to make as it involved Butter, Marsala, and Mushrooms, whereas the Vesuvio only involved Olive Oil, Garlic and a pinch of Oregano. But what do I know.
It didn’t seem to bother even the owner that he was loosing customers.
The owner liked to think of himself as CHEF EXTRODIANAIRE which was a joke. On a busy night he would interrupt the flow of the line and jump back there totally upsetting the timing of dishes.
Even when he didn’t jump behind the line and screw up things, as the cooks were all in fear of his loud mouth, it wasn’t unusual for an Entrée to come up long before the appetizers. FUN.
On Valentine’s Day, many customers just walked out. Without paying. They walked out as it was taking up to 2 hours just to get their food. Of course it was the server’s fault, and of course the owner would yell at the servers for this.
The stations themselves were not too important, as they rotated through the servers. Each new table that came in went to the next server in line. I was always the LAST server to be sat, and on every evening, the other servers would be seated in MY section, thus limiting the field even more. The hostess’s excuse was “they requested so and so, or so and so’s station is filled and it was their turn, or, the customer wanted that table but it isn’t your turn,” which equated to: Essie gets all the deuces of young couples who split a meal and drink only water.
Working 5 evenings a week, I always opened, and when the other servers would slither out of the joint around 9, I got to close. Which is sidework in reverse, including major cleaning and tear down. Many nights I left there BARELY being able to walk.
After a couple months of convincing myself that I was the last one on the totem pole, so I needed to “pay my due’s” so to speak, it was management’s decision to hire yet another server. The new gal quickly fell into the routine of doing absolutely nothing regarding side work.
Oh, Essie will do it.
On my last evening there, while a major party that involved well over $500 tip, which of course was called STEVE GET’S IT BUT DOES ABSOULTUELY NOTHING FOR IT, I was asked to pitch in and help bus, then clean up the disaster area of the party. Including wiping down every single silverware that had been used, and roll into new napkins. Steve, of course split quickly before anything had been done to clean up, with his tip money.
I finished my last table and checked out.
I knew that it was going to be my last night based on Easter. Most establishments are closed on that day anyways. Not this place. They’d rather drive off customers with lousy management and stay open on a major holiday for that one table that MIGHT walk in.
At this place EVERYONE needed to have the day off “to spend with their family.”
Upon questioning some of the cooks, I was informed that all the other Easter’s the place was dead. Maybe two tables the whole day AND night. But it was the owner’s day to bring his family and friends THERE to have THEIR party.
I quickly discovered upon this little secret, that I had been scheduled on what was my only request of having a day off upon hire (Sunday) that I was scheduled to work it.
Everyone else could have off to “spend time with their families,” but then again, who was I? Like I don’t have a family?
And to spend THAT day, let alone ANY day being the slave to the shit assed owner AND his loud mouthed family? I don’t think so.
When I asked the cook if the owner even tipped for his little 30 some odd people get together and he just laughed.
Anyways, getting back to the party that had left Steve well over $500 and had split, I was collecting my credit card tips.
“Aren’t you going to help close?” I was asked by yet another 21 y/o manager who was too frightened to attend to any customer complaint, but would rather smoke cigarettes outside with all his other 21 y/o friends who stopped by in their souped up cars.
“No,” I replied. “My last table left, I wiped down what could be wiped down currently.”
“But you need to totally close,” Mr. Wiseguywannabe said.
“No, I don’t,” I said. “Steve had the party, it’s his mess as well as his tip. Ask him.”
“But he left.”
“Oh well!!!” I said as I walked out of the place, “as will I.”
“But, but,” he said as he followed me out to the parking lot.
“BUT WHAT?”
“When Steve opens for lunch tomorrow there won’t be any silver ware rolled, nor salad plates, nor Olive Oils. You’re supposed to do this to close.”
“Look,” I seathed, “It was his party. His tip. He took it and ran. If he’s out of silverware that needs to be wiped down from water marks, have him run it through the dishwasher again, wipe it down and roll his own damned silverware. It was HIS PARTY that used up every last fork, knife and spoon. In the mean time, I only had 5 tables. FIVE. Besides, the only mess Steve will face tomorrow morning when he opens for lunch is his hang over. If ya need him, he’s probably over at the bar across the street having fun. Me, on the mean time will take the measely tips I made off of FIVE TABLES that I was given over the course of 7 hours and go to McDonalds, as it’s CHEAPER to eat there than here, even with the discount.”
“But tomorrow’s Easter and he won’t be here, that’s right.”
“No, he won’t. But you and the owner and YOUR family to spend FAMILY TIME together WILL BE, now won’t you?”

ORDERING PIZZA

Dialing a phone number.
“ThankyouforcallingINSERTPIZZAPLACEHEREcanihelpyou?” says a young valley girl accent rapid fire.
“Uh yeah,” I reply tired from the heat of this summer and an A/C unit that died, “I’d like to order a pizza, my son works for you, his name is Andrew, I’m his mother, and he’s one of your delivery dudes.”
“Yeswehaveandrewworkinghere,” she replies.
“I know,” I laugh, “he’s my son.”
I wait a beat and don’t hear anything.
“Uh, you still there?” I ask.
“Yes,” she replies as I hear gum smacking.
“Well, I would like a medium Sausage and Green Pepper Pizza, thin Crust,” I reply.
“That’llbeamediumthincrustCheeseandSausageandGreenPepperPizza????”
“Well,” I interject very slowly, “don’t ALL your Pizza’s come with Cheese?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll take one of those,” I state as I swipe the sweat across my brow as I stand directly in front of one of two fan’s that everyone is claiming as MINE MINE MINE, or IT’S YOUR FAULT THE AIR CONDITIONER BROKE.
(yes, I wait until the middle of the summer during a heat wave and put the kibosh on an central air conditioner unit. I mean, why do this in the middle of winter??!!??)
She repeats the order again very quickly then says, “Canyouholdonforasecond?” before waiting for my response.
I mean, what if I couldn’t hold on, or wouldn’t hold on? Then what?
She came back on the line, “OK, you can get Andrew’s discount.”
“OH GOODIE!!!” I laugh.
“Buthecan’tdeliveritrightawayashe’sout onarun.”
“That’s OK.”
“CanIhaveyouraddress?” she asks.
“What?”
“Can I have your address?”
I laugh loudly now. “Well, sheesh, Andrew KNOWS where I live!!!”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “that’s right. So what name should I put this under?”
“Uhhhhh….MOM?”

IN THE BEGINNING....

I began in this business, in 1986 due to a fight I had with my husband.

At that time I had two children ages 7 and 3. The house was usually cleaned by 10:30 so I was twiddling my thumbs for most of the rest of the day, cleaning sticky fingers and scraping Play-Do out of the carpet.

This was in the day before computers, and the kids were getting tired of me lugging them to the library, as again, in those days things like Barnes and Noble did not exist. Gratefully so, as I probably would have spent a mint. I know since the advent of PC’s, software, and grand book stores I have.

I don’t remember what the fight was about, however all I do remember was saying, “That’s it! I’m leaving for a bit. YOU take care of the kids!”

I drove about aimlessly for a while, then decided to stop in a restaurant for a bite to eat and a glass of wine to cool down.

I got to talking to the bartender about the help wanted sign, asking if it was for a hostess position.

At that point of my thinking, I agreed with myself that I needed SOMETHING to do that didn't involve Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers and Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches. My adult contact was with the soap, “All My Children.”

The job was for a waitress, and I guess they were desperate, as I was hired on the spot, even though I said I had no training as a waitress.

“That’s OK,” the manager said, “we will train you.”

Sheri was the waitress who trained me, and for approximately ten years we were best friends. She was 5 years younger than me, something she always pointed out.

We had worked at several restaurants together throughout that time frame, and when we weren't working together we would talk on the phone daily at 9 a.m. over coffee, uninterrupted as our kids were in school.

Occasionally we would have a girls night out, just sitting and chatting till all hours at various other establishments.

Once I treated her to an Ambassador East vacation with Pump Room delights.

While she remained in her choice of only waiting on tables, I moved on to management. In a pinch, I could always call on her to be a fill in waitress if I needed one wherever it was I happened to be working.

She was smart on her toes, and very outspoken. Her style of waiting on tables was to be bluntly honest. “I have NO idea of what that is, do you?” she’d ask the customers regarding a dish they were trying to order with strange Franco-Italian names. “I’m only here to help Anne.”

They loved her, and even after she left, many still requested her.

“You should have SEEN the tips I made when I was pregnant!” she would laugh. “Almost makes me want to put a pillow in my pants now!”

While she would help me out in a pinch, she preferred her own customer base where she was working.

Customer bases are a life saver. It’s like a waitress’s Roll-a-Dex.

Some customers actually LOVE and follow a server from place to place. It’s like a family type of deal. Birthday and Christmas presents are exchanged. I believe customers follow their favorite servers because of the familiarity, and liking their style. It’s a boost of confidence on both levels.

For several years, working together or not, I would always drive to pick her up (as she had epilepsy and could not drive) and we would dash off to a restaurant in the town we lived in that had the new fangled cable TV.

Every night, the bartender and the usual crowd would say, “Oh they’re here,” as the bartender would turn on THAT GIRL with Marlo Thomas. It was understood by our repeated presence that for one hour the cable was ours.



I am sure that most if not all thought we were the biggest dorks, and we probably were. The way we looked at it was, after long and hectic nights of major rushes, it was nice to watch an old TV show with homespun values, comedy, and with someone much more attractive than Lucy. It took the edge off.

Throughout the years I've gotten to know several regular customers who followed me from restaurant to restaurant. I have always told them that I am ROTTEN on remembering names, and as a fluke it began with them making up nicknames for themselves, even when they made reservations.

They know my name, which really is all that matters. Familiarity with customers, and they with you is a welcome pat on the back, especially in this business where most customers treat you like a servant.

No Wait, I'll Take What She Has....

Working in a fast food EMPORIUM is totally different than fine dining.
Yesterday, while standing next to a new trainee on an antiquated computer system, he motioned me over.

Working on a computer that is from the DOS era doesn’t help. It’s not POS as most establishments. Therefore if someone changes an order, even for something as simple as “adding cheese” one has to scroll up and totally erase the order and start from scratch.

“I’ll take what she had,” a young man in a ratty t-shirt mumbled as he approached the register.

“Who’s that?” asked Miller the new trainee.

Wrong question. How could anyone know what SHE ate, let alone this teenage boy standing in front of his register.

Now there was no way in a packed house of a million and one ways to order a simple sandwich could anyone figure out what “she had” as “she” had finished her meal.

I had noticed the table they all were sitting in, amongst throngs of other tables, most being our regulars that work in the area and dine here, as well as many more of teenagers who had a half day of high school before summer break.

After I had completed several orders, I stepped over to Miller’s register as I saw him having difficulty with this particular customer, and motioned the teenage young lad over to my register.

The line was getting longer, and I figured I could enter his meal faster than a newbie struggling with a DOS register.

Having been trained on DOS in the mid 80’s, and being able to let alone read hyper text transfer protocal and mark up language code, I considered showing up for work with Tylenol in my pocket. Instead I opted for gum, feeling like Flo from the "Alice" TV show.

I asked, “Do you know what she ate?”

He looked over to the table of his friends, trying to figure it out. The process of him turning his head and gazing over twenty feet away seemed to take place in slow motion. Something as simple as asking HER what it was she was eating never crossed the large domain of his mind.

“Well,” I interrupted his revere & confusion about the meaning of life I asked, “what would YOU want?”

“Ummm,” he said slowly, “a combo.”

“A Beef and Sausage combo?” I slowly asked, mainly because most people order in this way thinking they are getting a “combination meal” which includes a side and a drink, as opposed to how it’s written on the menu in plain English that a Beef and Sausage combo is EXACTLY that.

“Yes.”

I punch in Beef and Sausage combo, wondering why Miller couldn’t do just that.

“Did you want any Cheese or Peppers on that?” I ask automatically, as it’s a normal question for any of our customers.

“Uh….No.”

“Ok, a Beef and Sausage combo plain,” I repeat his order and then he quickly interrupts me.

“No, I mean I want a Beef sandwich,” he says as though trying to convince himself.

At this point I think of Napoleon Dynamite. I scroll up to highlight and hit void to clear the screen, then punch in Beef sandwich.

“Okayyyy…..A Beef sandwich. Did you want any Cheese or Peppers on the Beef?” I ask as a list of choices pop up for me to maneuver through before I can go on to complete the order and accept payment.

“Wait, that’s a Beef and Sausage sandwich?”

“No, you said just a Beef sandwich,” I reply wondering if this kid was on some type of drugs. Valium comes to mind.

“I want a Beef and Sausage sandwich,” he states with conviction. He MADE a decision about his outlook on life. This is GOOD.

“Are you sure?” I ask smiling as we are always TOLD to smile and pleasant. It’s a HOP TO type of establishment, GO GO GO, almost like a football team. At times I think this corporate owned restaurant should employ robots or Stepford employees.

“Yes.”

“Ok, a Beef and Sausage sandwich,” I repeat as I scroll up, hit void and punch the order in AGAIN. The lunch line is increasing with frustrated people who are on a time limit. I consider calling someone over to the third register, and glance over to the managers and expediters who are slammed enough. I look over to Miller, and while fresh out of training, he’s flying through the orders like a pro. I decide to listen with an extra ear to his repartee with the customers, and occasionally step over to punch through any special orders so we can speed things along, keeping a log in MY mind on how to tell him to do weird things, and what to call out, etc., for later.

“That doesn’t have any Sausage on it does it?” he asks.

Having a quick brain fart as I deal with this teenager, I reply, “Well, yes, all Beef and Sausage sandwiches have BOTH Beef AND Sausage.” What a dumb question. That’s like asking if Spaghetti and Meatballs has Spaghetti in it.

“What kind of Sausage?”

“Italian Sausage.”

“Do you have any other types of Sausage?” he asks slowly, muddling about his brain as though he’s making a major decision in life like purchasing a car with a CD stereo or just an AM/FM radio.

“Well, we have a Maxwell Street Polish Sausage if you prefer. A LOT of people order that. It’s our number one seller,” I state hoping to move this guy along.

Now granted, there are some people that come here who have never dined in this establishment, however, something as simple as ordering Beef, or Italian, or Polish Sausage sandwiches is pretty much a no brainer, but I digress, as obviously this kid IS a no brainer. The thought of him being put up to confusing us at the register as a dare by his friends crossed my mind, but as I looked out over the dining room, I saw his friends beginning to get up and leave. They were not watching him, so his shenanigans was not a ruse, but rather just something inherent in his psychology.

He had a possible political career in front of him.

“I’ll take that,” he said again with conviction.

“A Polish Sausage then?”

“Yes.”

I scrolled up yet again, highlighted, voided, and entered Polish sandwich. Any Beef, or Italian Sausage or Beef and Sausage combo’s pretty much just come up and don’t need to be called out over the microphone to the kitchen. Polish Sausage sandwiches did need to be called as they are char-broiled, and took a few more minutes.

“Polish,” I call into the microphone for the kitchen to get on it.

“And a Beef,” he said.

“Did you still want a Beef sandwich?” I ask as no matter what he ordered, he seemed stuck on the Beef sandwich routine.

“Yes, the Beef and Sausage sandwich,” he replied.

“So, you want Beef with the Polish Sausage sandwich instead of the Italian Sausage?” I asked confirming, as now this would be a special order.

Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into hours, hours into days, and days into years, as he digested his yet un-eaten sandwich in his mind.

Finally after I celebrated my 80th birthday…..

“You can do that?” he asked incredibly.

“Yes, if you prefer.”

“Well does the Polish Sausage have Pork in it?”

My God, I think. “Yes,” I reply grinning at him.

“I’ll take that then.”

“Okay, just the Polish Sausage? Or the Beef with Polish Sausage on it?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“Which one what?” he asks.

“Did you want ONLY the Polish Sausage sandwich OR a Beef sandwich WITH Polish Sausage?”

“The Beef and Polish Sausage sandwich,” he replies.

I talk into the microphone, “Forget the Polish, make that a Beef AND Polish TOGETHER.”

I turn back to him and ask, “Would you like Mustard and Grilled Onions on it?”

“Is that the way it comes?” he asks blindly.

“You can get it without if you like.”

“Ok,” he says.

“Well, WITH Mustard and Onions or plain?”

“Uhhh, WITH both of them,” he says.

“Make the Beef and Polish together WITH Mustard and Onions,” I say into the microphone.

“Oh, well, I don’t like Mustard or Onions.”

“Make that Beef and Polish PLAIN,” I state into the microphone, and then as a quick afterthought, I said, “sorry.”

“Ok, then just a Polish sandwich plain? Or put together with Beef?”

“No, I want what she was eating,” he mumbles as he looks around.

JUST WHAT IS THIS DRUG THAT CONFUSES A SIMPLE ORDER???!!!!???

“Forget the Beef and Polish put together,” I state into the microphone, then scroll up, highlight and void. The kitchen must hate me. Now I know I could have just rushed him along, and given him a COMBO, but if he opened the sandwich and examined it, he may return it to the counter and confuse them which would trickle back down to me and how I didn't know how to enter a simple item in the computer (ahhh DAH) and how ONE SANDWICH had to be sacrificed to the garbage bin. Let's just put it this way, it's better to be perfect and get it absolutely correct than have to deal with 2 or more managers commenting on a return (even from this teenager) and making an issue out of it. I plugged on....

“Well, could you possibly ask her what she was eating? That would help,” I state.

“Oh, well, she left,” he said as he did the slow motion move of looking over to the dining room and then back at me again. In the time it took him to do this, I could have cleaned my house and done two loads of laundry.
AND my nails.

La deee deeeee deeeee deeeeee……

“Well….mmmm….what would you like then?” I ask interrupting his Einstein approach towards life.

“I guess a Beef sandwich.”

“No Sausage whatsoever then?” (I need to confirm this COHERENT thought)

“Right, no Sausage,” he said slowly.

“Ok, then, anything put onto the Beef sandwich?” I ask as I hit Beef sandwich again and look at toppings.

“Well, like what?”

“Well, like, you can have it juicy, or with Cheese, or even with Peppers,” I say.

“How do most people have it?” he asks with a straight face.

I look at him, and decide that no, he’s not on drugs, he’s just stooo-pid.

“They order it with Cheese and Peppers.”

“I’ll take that,” he says convinced, shaking his head up and down. Yeah, yeah, that’s it.

“Did you want hot Peppers or sweet Peppers?”

“What are sweet Peppers?” he asks. “I don’t like Sugar.”

“There’s no Sugar in it. Like green Peppers, they’re mild.”

“No, I’ll try the hot Peppers on my combo,” he says.

“Wait,” I reply, “you said you didn’t want the Sausage.”

At this point Miller interjects, “Well, I think she got the Beef and Sausage Combo.”

I could have kicked him. He smiled wickedly. I could only chuckle.

“Well, I want that then if that’s what she ordered,” the teenage guy says.

“That’s what she ordered,” Miller said with a straight face.

“Then that’s what I want,” he said.

I scroll up, highlight and hit void and enter Beef and Sausage combo, thinking that THANK GOD I didn’t mention Red Sauce.

“Ok,” I say exhausted, “I’ll have them put the hot Peppers on the side then. Now, do you want this for here or to go?”

Oh my God, MORE choices!!!!

“I want to eat it.”

Ahhh DUH!!! “Yes, sir, I understand, but would you like to eat it here, or take it home with you?”

“I’m not going home.”

“Ok, then you’ll want to dine here, right?”

“Yes, I want to eat it here.”

“Okay, one Beef and Sausage COMBO, with hot Peppers on the side for here. Anything to drink, or would you like a side?”

YET more choices. At this point, I can only attest to my having to walk to work, thinking along the way that I needed more ZIP in my life, more interesting things to happen to me. I wondered if THIS was IT, and if so, WHY MEEEEEE?

“Aside?” he asked. “aside of what?”

So, he does know the difference between ASIDE and A SIDE. I laughed out loud. Maybe this was his own trumped up dare to see how far he can push the envelope with a straight face.

Being told by management to push our sides, I reply, “Our sides are soup, salad, chips, fries, or chili, with a fountain drink.”

“A water fountain?” he asks raising his eyebrows IN YET what could be even more confusion.

“No, like a pop, or iced tea, or coffee, or lemonade.”

“I’ll take the Chili…and I guess something to drink,” he says.

“Would you like Cheese or Onions on the Chili?” I ask, thinking, yet more choices.

“Oh, I don’t like Cheese!!!” he clearly states.

Ahhhh, a young man with an abhorrent dislike of dairy.

At this point I have to YET AGAIN scroll up and void the Beef and Sausage COMBO, and delete the Cheese off of it, and begin to enter it again. I finally arrive at my Chili choices.

“So, any onions?” I ask.

“No, I didn’t order the Polish Sausage because it came with Onions,” he said, still stuck on five minutes ago.

“I will tell them to NOT put any Onions on your Chili. Here’s your cup for your drink,” I reply handing it over to him, knowing that if I don’t enter ONIONS, there will BE NO ONIONS.

“But there’s nothing in it,” he says as he actually looks INTO it. Ahhhh, the wonders of being HIGH.

“You have to go to the fountain, umm, the POP MACHINE over there, and fill it up,” I said slowly so he could understand, and pointed in the direction.

“Oh…. Okay,” he replies. The thought process of him walking over to the POP MACHINE with a cup, and HOW to do exactly that is written all over his face. One foot in front of the other….step, step, step….

“And that will be…$so much money,” I reply as he walks away. “Young man,” I say loudly, “uh…you have to pay.”

“Oh yeah,” he says as he returns to my register. He counted out singles and gave me a handful of change. Ironically it was exact change. Mmmmmm. Could this be one of those INFAMOUS mystery shoppers? Nahhhh.

“Oh, wait,” he states, “I’ll take that to go.”

“You want to take the sandwich with you?” I ask needing to be sure.

“Yes.”

I had already sent the order to the kitchen, and the expeditor was prepping it all on a tray for an in house service as opposed to packaging it up to go.

“Ok, sir, it’ll be ready in a few minutes. Here is your number, you can pick it up from that lovely gal over there,” I said handing him receipt and pointing clearly to the pick up area.

“Over there?” he asks looking a mere 7 feet away.

“Yes, over there,” I reply, “where the sign says PICK UP.”

“Ok,” he states as he meandered over to the fountain drink machine, staring into his empty cup.

“Oh, and we are hiring by the way,” I tell him.

“You are?” he asked incredibly as though a major occurrence of something simple as A THOUGHT crossed his puzzled brow. I saw the wheels churning, and the marbles lining up in his brain, pushing aside all the rocks.

Having a wicked, wicked sense of humor that so few understand, I quickly envisioned him being trained by the one and only WORST trainer that I after 25 years of restaurant experience have ever encountered. Miller laughed as he KNEW just who I was referring to.

“Yes, I think you’d be a wiz with the menu!! Enjoy your (at this point with most customers, I repeat what they ordered, be it a such and such salad, or such and such paninni, but in this case, I hesitated as I don’t think he even KNOWS what he ordered, and to him it’ll be just FOOD) Uh…enjoy your LUNCH.”

Sheeesh!!!!

Miller laughed. “If he applies, I hope YOU train him.”

“NO friggin way!!” I state. “Besides, I’m just an underling, and haven’t reached the under 21 CLUB CARRYING brown nosed crowd of becoming a TRAIN-or,” I laugh.

“You’d be a great trainer, you were patient with me and I learned a lot from you,” Miller says. “but….if he is hired, it would be nice to see Wanda the Witch who can’t train but only yell do this with him.”

“Poetic justice,” I reply, “besides, I think the application alone would confuse him. I mean, can you imagine the part on the app where it says SEX, where you have to check off if you’re male or female? He would actually ask something like WHEN, or write in virgin.”

I yell over to Stephanie, “hey, ticket number 233 is….” Now I forgot what it was, and I look at my screen. “Right, it’s TO GO”

She shook her head in acknowledgement and prepared the TO GO bag.

“Having fun yet?” asks a regular laughing as he apparently saw the last part of my interchange with the teenager.

“And so far, this with only two cups of coffee!!” I laugh.

We took more orders and I noticed that Stephanie was prepping HIS order on a tray, after talking to HIM again.

“Stephanie, I told you it was TO GO,” I yell across the aisle.

She just looked at me blankly like I was an idiot, or maybe like she had just spoken to an idiot, who knows. At any rate, she handed him the in house tray of his meal.

“Look at that,” I exclaimed to Miller as I watched the young guy leave, “he’s walking out the door with our tray, our bowl, our spoon….”

“He SAID he wanted it to go.”

“Why don’t you dash over there and stop him?” I laughed.