New beginnings?
Things with Brian are much, much, MUCH better. I've been trying as hard as I can to see things from his point of view, to be the best girlfriend I can possibly be, and to constantly display, in small ways as well as overt ones, just how much I love him. We haven't fought since I posted the last entry, actually -- we've had nothing but clear, open, honest communication, and that feels so good. I feel very, very lucky.
Next order of business: I quit my job. It sounds unexpected, but believe me, I couldn't wait to get out of there. When I started, I couldn't believe my luck at landing the job, but after being there only a few weeks it started to eat away at my soul. (Ok, so that's a bit dramatic, but.) The reasons why:
1. For starters, servers are allowed no more than three tables in their section, simply for the fact that we have SO MUCH stupid shit to do -- responsibilities that don't normally fall upon servers in any other restaurant -- that taking any more than that would be impossible. This, of course, limited the flow of cash, and I missed the days at Cheesecake Factory where I had six or seven tables in my section.
2. The dress code for female servers was as follows: skintight, low-cut black v-neck shirt displaying the maximum amount of cleavage possible without actually being topless; black miniskirt that ended at least six inches above the knee; black pantyhose; and last, but certainly not least, high-heeled shoes no lower than two inches in height. If any of you have ever waited tables, you'll sympathize with me on this. Asking a server to work in two inch heels is the stupidest, most asinine, abusive rule I've ever endured at a place of employment. It was commonplace to walk into the locker room and find a fellow female server huddled on the floor, crying in pain. As a result of this, my feet, which were pretty and dainty before, are mangled and misshapen, and painful even on the days when I'm not wearing heels.
3. Thanks to the afore-mentioned dress code, I have been groped by every single member of the kitchen staff at least once. They seemed to all be of the mind that any girl in a short skirt was fair game. What's more, when I brushed their hands away and shouted at them -- in Spanish, no less, so that they'd definitely understand -- they'd chuckle and shake their heads, only to come back and try the same damn thing the following night. The day before my last shift, one of the prep cooks actually propositioned me; he heard me complain to a coworker about the lack of money to be made in the slow season, and he came up to me later and told me that if I needed money, he'd pay me to have sex with him. Management never really seemed to give two shits about the rampant sexual harassment, though I brought it up frequently.
4. Management there was severely lacking. There was Kerry, the Killer Bitch from Hell, who would flat-out ignore you if she was in too bad of a mood to actually do any work (which was most nights). And April -- I had at least a shred of respect for her, until she stood up in the pre-shift meeting one night and proclaimed that she would no longer be helping servers at all. "I'm not going to refill coffees at table twelve; I'm not going to help you clear your six-top; I'm not going to help run food. I'm a manager -- I got out of serving for a reason." Hearing that made me so mad, I was surprised flames didn't start shooting out of my ears. I've had some fucked up restaurant managers in my day, but not one of them has ever been on such a power trip that they felt they were above helping everyone else out. Restaurant work is about teamwork -- period. Any half-decent manager will, for the good of the restaurant, jump in and see what he or she can help with if the servers all seem ridiculously busy. Management at this particular restaurant was full of self-important, arrogant elitists, and it drove me insane.
5. When I was hired, I was told by the GM that getting good sections and good shifts depended not on veteranship, but solely on merit. I came to find that this was a huge load of bullshit. On a slow night, the hosts are instructed to seat certain servers first -- the servers that are veterans, that have been there for years. Last week, I had five shifts. Three of them, I went in, hung around, and did a lot of side work, only to receive absolutely NO tables in my section, while the sections of the veteran servers were full. Last Monday, I got one table and made $15, while Beth, who has been there for two years, got a total of eleven tables and made $300.
6. And a lot of other bullshit that I don't feel like going into, but suffice it to say I'm so fucking thrilled to never be going back there again.
I was searching for jobs, but I'd planned on giving notice when I got hired somewhere else. I received two job offers on Saturday -- one at a steakhouse, very corporate, quite similar to the place I was already at, and the other at an upscale family-owned Italian restaurant. I accepted the job at the Italian restaurant and was all set to give notice at work. That evening, I was running late getting ready for my shift, and I called to let management know I might be a few minutes behind. My mind was obviously elsewhere, though, because when I spoke to Kerry, I couldn't stop the words from coming out: "I'm never coming back again." It felt SO good.
And then, I called my new boss at the Italian restaurant, who had been disappointed that I'd have to wait two weeks to start, and told them that the old place no longer needed me and I'd be available to start whenever he needed me. My first day is tomorrow.
Next order of business: I quit my job. It sounds unexpected, but believe me, I couldn't wait to get out of there. When I started, I couldn't believe my luck at landing the job, but after being there only a few weeks it started to eat away at my soul. (Ok, so that's a bit dramatic, but.) The reasons why:
1. For starters, servers are allowed no more than three tables in their section, simply for the fact that we have SO MUCH stupid shit to do -- responsibilities that don't normally fall upon servers in any other restaurant -- that taking any more than that would be impossible. This, of course, limited the flow of cash, and I missed the days at Cheesecake Factory where I had six or seven tables in my section.
2. The dress code for female servers was as follows: skintight, low-cut black v-neck shirt displaying the maximum amount of cleavage possible without actually being topless; black miniskirt that ended at least six inches above the knee; black pantyhose; and last, but certainly not least, high-heeled shoes no lower than two inches in height. If any of you have ever waited tables, you'll sympathize with me on this. Asking a server to work in two inch heels is the stupidest, most asinine, abusive rule I've ever endured at a place of employment. It was commonplace to walk into the locker room and find a fellow female server huddled on the floor, crying in pain. As a result of this, my feet, which were pretty and dainty before, are mangled and misshapen, and painful even on the days when I'm not wearing heels.
3. Thanks to the afore-mentioned dress code, I have been groped by every single member of the kitchen staff at least once. They seemed to all be of the mind that any girl in a short skirt was fair game. What's more, when I brushed their hands away and shouted at them -- in Spanish, no less, so that they'd definitely understand -- they'd chuckle and shake their heads, only to come back and try the same damn thing the following night. The day before my last shift, one of the prep cooks actually propositioned me; he heard me complain to a coworker about the lack of money to be made in the slow season, and he came up to me later and told me that if I needed money, he'd pay me to have sex with him. Management never really seemed to give two shits about the rampant sexual harassment, though I brought it up frequently.
4. Management there was severely lacking. There was Kerry, the Killer Bitch from Hell, who would flat-out ignore you if she was in too bad of a mood to actually do any work (which was most nights). And April -- I had at least a shred of respect for her, until she stood up in the pre-shift meeting one night and proclaimed that she would no longer be helping servers at all. "I'm not going to refill coffees at table twelve; I'm not going to help you clear your six-top; I'm not going to help run food. I'm a manager -- I got out of serving for a reason." Hearing that made me so mad, I was surprised flames didn't start shooting out of my ears. I've had some fucked up restaurant managers in my day, but not one of them has ever been on such a power trip that they felt they were above helping everyone else out. Restaurant work is about teamwork -- period. Any half-decent manager will, for the good of the restaurant, jump in and see what he or she can help with if the servers all seem ridiculously busy. Management at this particular restaurant was full of self-important, arrogant elitists, and it drove me insane.
5. When I was hired, I was told by the GM that getting good sections and good shifts depended not on veteranship, but solely on merit. I came to find that this was a huge load of bullshit. On a slow night, the hosts are instructed to seat certain servers first -- the servers that are veterans, that have been there for years. Last week, I had five shifts. Three of them, I went in, hung around, and did a lot of side work, only to receive absolutely NO tables in my section, while the sections of the veteran servers were full. Last Monday, I got one table and made $15, while Beth, who has been there for two years, got a total of eleven tables and made $300.
6. And a lot of other bullshit that I don't feel like going into, but suffice it to say I'm so fucking thrilled to never be going back there again.
I was searching for jobs, but I'd planned on giving notice when I got hired somewhere else. I received two job offers on Saturday -- one at a steakhouse, very corporate, quite similar to the place I was already at, and the other at an upscale family-owned Italian restaurant. I accepted the job at the Italian restaurant and was all set to give notice at work. That evening, I was running late getting ready for my shift, and I called to let management know I might be a few minutes behind. My mind was obviously elsewhere, though, because when I spoke to Kerry, I couldn't stop the words from coming out: "I'm never coming back again." It felt SO good.
And then, I called my new boss at the Italian restaurant, who had been disappointed that I'd have to wait two weeks to start, and told them that the old place no longer needed me and I'd be available to start whenever he needed me. My first day is tomorrow.