There Are Two Types Of People In This World…

Serving food to complete strangers isn’t exactly the easiest job in the world. If you haven’t noticed, food is kind of a big deal to literally everyone on the planet. It’s fucking food. We eat it to survive and it’s fricken delicious. It’s nerve-wracking, complicated, and to be honest, it can suck. I’ve worked in the food service industry for 15 years – half of my life, and I’ve pretty much experienced it all. All the way from degrading ass-grabs, to vicious words of cruelty due to circumstances beyond my control. If you want an amazing experience at the restaurant or diner of your choice, here’s a few tips on what not to do or say to the one who handles your food.

– Talk to us like a human being.
We’re people. We like to smile, and say hi, and have someone say something back that makes fricken sense. For example, if I say “Hi, how are we doing tonight?” and you say “Diet Pepsi, thanks.”, that’s like going on a date and while introducing each other, you immediately blurt out “future husband, baby daddy please.”
It’s just fucking weird, k? Not to mention rude. I’m not saying sit there and talk to me about your great aunt’s weird spreading rash, because oversharing is definitely a no-no as well. But if we make an effort to say hello, its only polite to say it back.


– Pick up after yourself, and your demon spawn.
Napkins full of ketchup behind the condiment caddy, mixed with empty creamers and bent straws. Chewed up only-God-knows-what stuck to the side of a cup thats filled with some sort of half food – half liquid concoction, which is also trickled over every square inch of the table. Gum stuck to the place mat. Broken crayons scattered all over the floor, with ripped up paper strewn around like confetti. Napkins scrunched up as far as the eye can see – which is like a super fun little game to us. Is it poo? Is it mucus? Maybe it’s food that you decided through half-swallow that it wasn’t yummy. Who knows. All we DO know is, is that if you leave your table like this, then we assume you are a complete slob everywhere else. The kind that leaves half-eaten burgers jammed in a cup, dishes undone with garbage piling up around you like a hoarder. Yes. That person.
I’m not saying wipe the table and make sure everything sparkles, but at least put your mound of napkins in a pile of sorts. You would think some of these things are common sense, but a lot of people don’t care. “It’s their job, let them deal with it.”
No, washing off your child’s spit and wiping up their spilled milkshake is NOT our job.. But if we want someone else to sit in our section, we do it, all the while cursing out your whole family’s bloodline.

– Wait to be seated, unless directed otherwise.
The other night while working, I came back to my station after making a salad for a customer and came upon 2 people sitting at a dirty table. They looked at me in disgust, pointing to their table that hadn’t been wiped up yet. “Um, it’s dirty. Do you mind?”
Do I mind? Mind what? Mind the fact that you weren’t seated by an employee, and that you’re somehow upset the table hasn’t been cleared while I’m in the back making a salad? Weird. Because in that case, yes I do mind. You, my dear, are not the only one in the restaurant. But coincidentally, I am the only one in my section. So, please be patient. It just makes things easier for all of us. Seriously, though…


– Don’t eat the whole thing, then say you want it taken back/a refund.
…… No, really, I swear people still do this. So, you eat more than half of it, or even 3/4s of it, and want a refund? It doesn’t work that way. It’s pretty shady, and not to mention, a waste of my time. Because usually when I don’t like something, I know that in about – oh, one to two bites. Tops.


– Not Tipping Whatsoever. Seriously? Are you new?
We make our living off of tips, because I don’t know about you but I can’t really support my children and myself on $150 paycheck every week. We don’t make minimum wage like the rest of the population – we make considerably less than most. Some nights are great, some nights suck. But running around constantly, smiling, getting them everything they want to just get it shoved in your ass at the end of the night really has an effect on people. Especially if we’re in the weeds, busier than all shit, and someone ups and leaves with a big middle finger in the air. It gets to me, definitely. What did I do wrong? It was the ranch, wasn’t it? FUCK.
A few little FML quips: A Server’s Edition.
When I’m carrying your extremely hot plates because I thought I could handle it, and you kinda just look at me and don’t move anything.


When I mess up and get distracted and forget all about your table so instead of looking like a douche, I pretend it was someone else fault and ask “Oh hey, no one has helped you yet? Let me.”


Anyways, like I said – its not hard to not suck. Just be good to your server, and act like a decent human being. That’s all.

End rant. I definitely needed to get that off my chest, people. Especially since I go in to work tonight for an 8 hour shift, all by myself…. Wish me luck, I’ll need it.


The People of Walmart, ain’t got shit on me.

Icharacteram constantly on the go, lately. If not for running small errands with the kids, for JHubbs, or with his mother, it seems like I am never ever allowed down time.

Today wasn’t any different. For some reason I let my fiance rope me into going to The Anti-Drug Warehouse with him (and when I say somehow, it’s because this assface cannot keep his eyes open to drive. I do not want to be widowed before married.) to keep him company. Apparently being there 3 days a week, 2 hours a day, isn’t enough.

Now, like all men, he claims that they messed up the time on his appointment, and instead of it being 9:20 in the mother effing AM, it was 10:40 – which is a slightly more humane time.

He said, “It’s just a doctor’s appointment, babe. I’ll be in and out in about 5-10 mins, babe. No one will even see you, babe.” Which, honestly, usually happens. This doctor is no joke. A ‘wam, bam, thank you ma’am’ kinda guy. So, I woke up, grabbed my purse and a cup of coffee, then out the door I went with him like the amazing fiance I am.

Which brings us here.

Since he’s been sleep deprived due to being the bread winner and working from 4-6 AM, he fell asleep within minutes, while I sat there in disbelief at my predicament.

  • My hair? All over the damn place.
  • Makeup? Non-existent. Well, wait, I lied – left over eyeliner was rubbed furiously around every inch of my face during my coma-like slumber, making me look like a cracked out racoon.
  • Clothes? PJ’s, red flanneled, and completely unflattering in every aspect.
  • Bra? HA. Bra’s are for people who actually have chesticles. I, for one, do not.

So, naturally, I hid in the car while he snored and sputtered, trying to crawl into the glove box before anyone could witness this catastrophe.

WHY the Hell didn’t I just throw on a bra? A shirt that wasn’t a 3xl? Perhaps even a pair of ACTUAL pants? I mean, I could be on “The People of Walmart” at this point, and everyone would’ve just nodded as they scrolled through the horrific pictures.

Whatever, right? At least I didn’t have to go in the building. I can just wait it out, and when he was done, we’d be on our merry way back home where I apparently belong.

Until it happened.

I had to fucking pee.

But THIS wasn’t just a normal, ‘oh jeez, I gotta pee – eh, I’ll wait.”

This was like “If I don’t go now, I’m gonna piss myself”, kinda problem. In a panic, my mind raced with ways I could get in and out of the building without anyone seeing me. I imagined myself flipping through the air and into open windows, dashing down the halls with my shirt over my face, and being victorious, I saw myself sitting in the women’s bathroom with a cigarette lit, and a smug little smile on my unwashed face.

So what did I do?

I stayed in the car, like any mildly ridiculous woman-child would do. I held onto my ‘dignity’ (if that’s what you wish to call it) for one more day, and vowed never to leave the house without at least a bra on.

Lesson learned.

My life is just like a soap opera filmed in a psychiatric ward.

I’ve always wondered what my ratings would be like if I had my own reality TV show. A few years ago, it would have been a mix of Intervention, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and small clips of Scared Straight.

Now, it would be a category 5 hurricane of Modern Family, Awkward, and The Walking Dead. (TWD would just be me while shuffling to the kitchen at 5am for coffee. Its unnatural.)

Between JHubbs and I, we have 4 chit’lins – ages ranging from 6 to 8. Not only do we have all of them every other weekend, but I have mine (little booger man) as much as possible, and hes allowed to have his son, Con-man, usually every weekend.

Did I forget to mention we live with his parents while we get back on our feet?

Have you ever locked yourself in the bathroom claiming to have a belly ache/explosive “machine-gun-shits” just to get a minute of peace? You have. Don’t fib.

“Okay kids! Time to play ‘Don’t move, don’t speak and stare at the TV while Misty has a smoke before she rips out her hair and writes her last will and testament!'” It usually works.. Until someone starts tattling that someone else spoke, moved, or my favorite – breathed.

It can be hectic, messy, and just plain crazy while all of the wee ones run the house. We have 2 sensitive boys, one tattle-tale, and a cuddle monster who desperately needs your attention. So, when we have Princess, little c-bug, Con-man, and little booger man all together, we try our best to give them as much attention as each one deserves, while trying to ignore the pleas of the other kids complaining that we didn’t see what they were yelling for us to witness 38 times.


/Face palm

One thing we do need to work on is sleeping arrangements. Like I said, we are staying with the ‘rents while we save some much needed cash, so we have very limited space. We try not to have them all sleep in the same bed, because it’s only a matter of time until the sleep-over mutates into “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours”.

I refuse to let this happen. Keep your little man parts in your pants, and the same goes to you, little lady. No peek-a-boo shows going on HERE. /glare of death

My family life is definitely handing me lemons lately, and instead of making lemonade, I somehow messed up the recipe and made myself a ‘Fuck-My-Life” latte.

I’m thinking the dash of self-pity is where I went wrong. Next time, definitely substituting it with a pinch of Suck-It-Up-Sally.

Recipes can be fickle.