Carb Intervention

So, yesterday, I was sitting at work enjoying a delicious bagel during our morning slow time. I had slathered it with cream cheese and was minding my own business and enjoying pure carbohydrate heaven.

Then someone came and brought his fist down and crushed my bagel.

Well, not literally. But he might as well have.

One of our customers was sitting at the counter. When he noticed me sitting there devouring my bagel, he said something to me that I couldn't hear. I assumed he asked what I was eating and I gleefully held my bagel in the air and said, "Bagel!"

He shook his head slightly and came and sat down across from me. The following is the conversation as I recall it (my blood sugar levels had spiked from the bagel, see):

"Hey, you know I could get you in shape in like a month." I think he also snapped his fingers to show just how quick he could transform my fat ass slightly chubby body into something off the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.

I stared at him while I finished chewing. "But... I love carbs."

He must have expected I'd say this. "Sure, sure. Carbs are great. I love bread. You just have to avoid it. Eat lots of protein, eggs and vegetables."

I took another bite of my bagel and stared harder. "But... I don't even keep bread at home. A bagel just sounded good! And I'm not giving up my alcohol! And sometimes I just CRAVE carbs." My voice had started to take on that whiny tone I usually reserve for when I want someone to rub my back or let me see their MP3 player.

He took my admittance to experiencing carb cravings to mean I was also admitting to being an alcoholic. "There's a supplement you can get for that. It helps with the carb cravings. They use it to help alcoholics sometimes." (I cannot for the life of me remember the supplement he named.)

I asked if I could easily get said supplement at any drugstore, thinking it WOULD be nice not to lust after toast and fried potatoes. He waved his hand and said he could get me some if I needed it, and then he reiterated that it would make me crave alcohol less.

He wasn't hearing me. "I don't CRAVE alcohol. Sometimes I just want it. I'm not an alcoholic." I thought of my beloved wine that I'd consumed the night before. Mmmmm...

He wasn't buying this. "Oh, yeah? When was the last time you drank?"

Last night. "I don't remember."

"Was it last night?"

Yes. "No."

"The night before?"

No. Ha! I was telling the truth. Ish. "No. I guess the last time I drank was Saturday, at the concert." And while I was getting ready for the concert. And at dinner.

He asked how much I drank the night of the concert.

Shots of vodka and lots of beer. "Um... I don't know... maybe a beer or two? Oh, and one shot because, you know, it was a concert." Then I felt a little defensive and thought I should point out one of his vices. "Hey! You drink too!!"

He nodded. "Yep, and I can admit it. You can't."

Psh. What was this, an interrogation? A Carb Intervention? I crammed the rest of the bagel in my mouth and the conversation was over.

And before you think this person is a total asshole, let me tell you that he is one of the nicest, most laid back and genuine people I have ever met and I know he did not mean to hurt my feelings in any way, shape or form.

Plus, if he thinks I'm an alcoholic then he's an enabler because he's bought me shots before.

Still, his words irked me. I started to wonder if I was really in such bad shape that people just look at me and think, "Ugh. Alcoholic carb junkie blob face!" or something along those lines.

I get it: I've gained some weight. I don't really like exercise. And I adore desserts of any kind. And beer. I don't have a boyfriend right now and you would THINK this would make me want to be sure I look good to attract one but I actually feel just the opposite (I've become pretty apathetic about romance these days, you see).

After he left, just to spite him I ate a bag of potato chips with some pickles and ranch dressing.

That'll teach him to try and do a Carb Intervention on THIS girl.

I Think This Blog Is Really Starting To Take Off!

Why, you ask?

Well, two things have happened in the past week that have me super excited and anxious to write more.

First, it turns out that my blog is banned at Promedica for pornographic/prohibited content! That's right, one of my readers was at Promedica and was surfing the net using their WiFi and could not access When Life Keeps Handing You Lemons because, apparently, this site contains words and phrases inappropriate for the general public.

You have no idea how pleased I was with myself when I found that out. It did negate from it a little that the same reader tested my blog at Monroe Junior High School and was able to access it. Still, Promedica is a start. Besides, kids these days are desensitized to such talk.

Second: I have a hater! An anonymous hater, but a hater no less! I read somewhere that you haven't really made it till someone hates you. I know I only have 16 followers so far, but I know for a fact that my Facebook friends read, a few customers at work read and also, Anonymous Hater reads. So the followers count really isn't accurate.

Since I'm an open, sharing person I decided to answer Anonymous Hater's questions that he/she so kindly left on my post about the Eight Cent Tipper.

Here goes.

Anonymous Hater: perhaps get a better education and get a real job? Stop complaining when you're just a waitress at how old? You like to be stereotypical and harsh?well you're a waitress...one of the lowest jobs ever...

Dear Anonymous Hater,

First of all, thank you for reading! I'm glad that you enjoyed my blog enough to take time out of your obviously busy schedule of lurking the internet and leaving comments on the work of others without admitting your identity/ masturbating to my profile picture to attempt to make me feel bad about myself for being offended at receiving an eight cent tip. You really did make my day. I apologize it took me so long to notice your heartfelt, well-thought out remarks.

Now, on to the questions. To make it easier, I will answer them one at a time. I won't correct your lack of capitalization or improper use of question marks, because that's not why we're here, now is it?

perhaps get a better education and get a real job?

I don't understand... is this a question or a suggestion? Are you speaking to the internet in general, or me specifically?

I'm going to treat it like a question for posterity's sake.

I have an Associate of Applied Business degree in Paralegal Studies and am a Certified Legal Assistant through the National Association of Legal Assistants (NALA). I do apologize that this is not good enough for you. I'm assuming you are an Ivy League professor writing from your tower above all the other lowlife, working class people as you smoke a Cuban cigar and drink the blood of endangered animals while wearing a monocle. Do you by chance own a falcon?

Also, what consitutes a "real" job? I get paid, receive a paycheck and pay my taxes... did I miss something here? Please explain in your next rant so I can better answer your inquiry. Further, are you insinuating that unless a person works at one of these "real" jobs you speak of, it's ok to not pay them?

Stop complaining when you're just a waitress at how old?

How old do you THINK I am? (Fingers crossed that you guess below 25.)

Is there an age limit for waitresses that I was not informed of? If so, there's about to be a mass overhaul in the food service industry as a lot of us will apparently be retiring...

I wish I was as smart and talented as you are. I really do. I know we don't know each other very well, but you remind me a LOT of my ex-boyfriend, Mr. Murder, so I feel very close to you. If I were still into mental and emotional abuse, I would ask you out on a date. I have a lot of free time since I'm "just a waitress." Your words gave me a female boner (I would explain what this is, but I'm fairly certain the only vagina you've seen is your mother's as she was birthing you) and frankly, I'm still a little turned on as I write this.

You like to be stereotypical and harsh?well you're a waitress...one of the lowest jobs ever...

First of all, champ, I did not say I liked being stereotypical and harsh. What sort of monster do you think I am?

Taken from my post:

Stereotypical and harsh of me? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Not really. If you can't afford to leave a tip, you shouldn't be eating out at all, White Trash Skank! I'm not waitressing simply to spend time with you and your rude, Mountain Dew swilling family- I'm trying to pay my bills!

So you see, Anonymous Hater, I never said I enjoyed being stereotypical and harsh. I simply admitted I knew I was probably being such and that I did not, in fact, give a fuck.

(Wait. Waitressing is one of the lowest jobs ever? Is it lower than hooking, because if so I think I'm gonna switch to that since I think it might pay more... unless hooking doesn't count as a "real" job, in which case I might not be paid for services rendered...)

I'm trying to think how I can make you understand... ok, how about this? How would you feel if someone came to you and wanted you to train their falcon and then, after you did, they paid you for your time in Werther's Original butterscotch toffee candies rather than money even though everyone KNOWS you should always compensate a falcon trainer monetarily AND your monocle was destroyed in the training process? I mean, yeah, you'd have the candy to enjoy when you weren't busy puffing on those cigars/ jerking off while staring at pictures of me or yourself (or both)... but at the end of the day, you KNOW you deserve more than that for your hard work training falcons.

It's a lot like that.

Have I helped you to relate at all? I hope so.

Feel free to submit more questions; I'm off to buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate my first hater!

XOXOXO Amanda aka Lowly Waitress Girl

Yes, I'm Using My Blog To Shamelessly Pimp Myself In A Contest

Click on this album, dear readers, select my photo (I'm the one holding the wine glass) and click "Like"!

Thanks!!!

I'm Giving You Eight Cents- Don't Spend It All In One Place, Now.

Actual conversation between a Dirtball Customer* and I today:

Me: How was everything?

Dirtball Customer: Oh, it was good.

(She then hands me a credit card and her bill, which was $20.92.)

Me: Would you like a copy of the receipt?

DC: Yes. And unfortunately, I can only afford eight cents.

Me: Eight cents?

DC: Yes. Eight Cents. For the gratuity.

Me: (actually, I didn't say anything right away. I just blinked at her in disbelief.) Um. We don't need to put eight cents on here.

DC: Oh, yeah, go ahead- it makes it easier for my husband to balance the account.

So I put an EIGHT CENT TIP on her stupid credit card. I'd like to go to her job and pay her less than what she's worth or nothing at all, but I'm convinced she doesn't have a job and probably lives off government funding so she can buy cigarettes for herself and pop for her offspring.

Stereotypical and harsh of me? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Not really. If you can't afford to leave a tip, you shouldn't be eating out at all, White Trash Skank! I'm not waitressing simply to spend time with you and your rude, Mountain Dew swilling family- I'm trying to pay my bills!

I'm just sayin'.




*Dirtball Customer- a patron who is rude/ ridiculous/trashy and has a tendency to not tip and act aloof about it. These customers, thankfully, are few and far between at my work. But they still wander in from the bowels of our town now and then simply to ruin my day and make me want to smash their faces in.

"Here's some cat food. Oh, and the lever from an armchair."

The other day, my maternal grandmother thought of me and prepared a care package of sorts for my million cats. She packed it all in a brown bag and had my aunt leave it on my back porch a few days ago while I was at work.

I arrived home and brought the bag in and peeked inside. My thoughtful grandmother had packed enough cat treats to last my herd of felines the rest of the year, as well as about twenty cans of wet cat food (note to readers: wet cat food is like blow for cats- I'd have to give them this stuff in moderation or I'd never get them to eat dry food again. Ever.).

Then I noticed something else in the bottom. It looked like a wooden cook spoon or something. Closer inspection revealed that it was not, in fact, a wooden spoon but rather the lever to a La-Z-Boy chair.

Oh, Grandma.

I knew what this was about. Grandma had presented my sister with the same exact "gift" months ago. See, my grandmother cleans for La-Z-Boy furniture two mornings a week. Apparently at some point during one of her shifts, her eyes fell on a recliner with a wooden lever and a giant light bulb went off above her head as she thought, "Golly gee, that chair lever could be used as a self-defense weapon!"

Yeah, my grandma wants her granddaughters to carry recliner levers in their cars and use them on would-be attackers. Not pepper spray, a switchblade or hairspray and a lighter (all much more my speed)... a recliner lever.

I looked at the lever, held it up in the air for a second. I swung it a few times. It was a bit short for my taste- I'd have to be really close to the attacker to inflict any damage.

I wondered how many recliners out there are missing levers because of my grandma and her proclivity to fashioning weapons out of random objects.

I called Grandma to thank her for the cat supplies. We chatted about my cats (as cat ladies tend to do) and then she said, "Did you find the other thing in the bag?"

"Yeah, I got the stick."

Grandma was pleased. "Good. I want you to put that in your car and you use that if you need to. Can you believe how heavy those things are?"

"Grandma, I don't know how effective it will be against a mugger. Plus, I have pepper spray. And not only that, no one wants to mess with me. I'm crazy."

She laughed. "Honey, I've been watching television lately and you need to be aware of your surroundings. These girls go into a gas station and the next thing you know some deviant follows them out and attacks them. And with all these TV shows showing such sick violence... television is creating rapists and criminals."

Aha. She'd been watching Dateline and Criminal Minds. I decided NOT to tell her about the date I was going on the next day with a guy I'd technically never met in person. And that he and I had openly joked that one of us was probably a serial killer, it was just a matter of figuring out whether it was him or me.

"Well... OK. I'll carry it. But I'm fine, Grandma."

The next thing she said is why my grandma is fucking amazing: "You just keep it in your car and use it if you need to. I don't care if you beat the hell out of someone, you just say you had a recliner in your car to take in for repairs and the lever fell off and was still in your car. I'll vouch for you. Then you won't get in trouble for having a concealed weapon."

This is the woman who called a BOMB THREAT into a bar years ago because my uncle, her son, got jumped while hanging out there. This is the woman who sat with me two summers ago at my aunt's campground and drank clamdiggers with me til we both were buzzed. This is the woman who came over to go swimming with me and my aunt and my friends and did not bat an eye when her precious granddaughter (me) drank too much boxed wine and decided to swim topless. At noon. On a Sunday.

Grandma and I have had our differences. But over the years, we've bridged a gap and I can tell this lady anything. We've discussed sex, marriage, drinking, life... I don't talk to her nearly as much as I should. Which is why I'm going to carry that damn chair lever in my car... or maybe in my purse... I mean, come on- would you mess with THIS?



I know I wouldn't.

Thanks, Grandma. This will come in handy should I ever find myself about to be stuffed in the trunk of some dude's car. Or stuffing some dude in the trunk of MY car.

Apparently My Death Will Be a Result of Blood Poisoning, NOT Liver Failure or Murder...

There's a reason I'm sitting here updating my blog with a bottle of Smirnoff Raspberry Vodka sitting next to me. I've had it up to HERE with creepers. All creepers can go fuck themselves immediately. I hate you with every fiber of my being, creepers of the world.

Normally I don't mind Saturdays at work. We generally have a fun crew working and most of the customers are our Saturday regulars and they're all pleasant.

Normally.

Generally.

A creeper has infiltrated our regular patrons and today he single-handedly suceeded in pissing me off and ruining the rest of my shift. It was all downhill after Mr. Creeper showed up.

He always sits at the counter. Always. He sits at the counter near the waitress station and he bugs the ever living FUCK out of us while we work. When he first started showing up a month or so ago, we all tried being polite and laughing at his stupid ass jokes. It started to wear thin when he would make comments to my co-workers, including gems such as, "I love watching you walk across the room" or "I love watching you shake the chocolate milk" or, my personal favorite: when asked if she could get him anything else, Mr. Creeper said to my co-worker, "You could get up and dance on the table."

Sick. He's taking total advantage of the position we, as servers, are in. We're supposed to smile, laugh at his stupid bullshit remarks and act like it's perfectly fine to make comments laced with sexual innuendos? Fuck that.

So, back to my story. The morning started out completely pleasant. I got to work with Mama Kimmy by myself for an hour, our boss was in a good mood and the other girls scheduled to come in were ones that I love dearly.

Then Mr. Creeper came waltzing in. I'll skip past all the word vomit that spewed from his mouth and go directly to the point. Mama Kimmy wrote on my arm with her purple pen (ironically, she did it because I made her wait on Mr. Creeper).

She did not stab me.

It did not break the skin.

She barely applied pressure.

It was a fucking pen mark.

Mr. Creeper immediately developed this insane fixation on the ink mark on my arm. Being used to him zeroing in on things about me in a fucked up attempt to connect us on another level besides customer/waitress, I brushed it off (he does it to all the girls- "Oh, come here. You have a [piece of lint/hair/etc] right there" or "Your hair is just a little out of place right there" - I don't know how else to describe it but it isn't normal and I don't like it).

"Hon, I'm concerned about that hole in your arm. Let me see it."

I glanced at the faint pen mark on my arm. No puncture hole, no gaping wound. "No, it's nothing. It's just pen. It's fine."

Five minutes later, he made a grab for my arm. "I'm concerned you have ink poisoning."

I stared at him and said, "It's FINE. It didn't break the skin. I'm FINE." To prove my point, I went over to the sink and washed the ink off of my arm. "There's no hole. It's fine."

A few minutes later, he made another grab for my arm. I was, at this point, highly annoyed- I don't appreciate strangers touching me and I was busy trying to work. He held out his hand and demanded to see my arm. "There's a hole in your arm."

That was IT. I said, "There's NOT a hole, I'm FINE and you're starting to make me mad."

Mr. Creeper did not like my response one bit. "Well, FINE! I hope you get blood poisoning and lockjaw. I hope you DIE from blood poisoning." He was actually serious.

At this point, two thoughts were going through my head: 1) I wish UnBoyfriend was sitting here at the counter having breakfast so he could hear this and maybe put Mr. Creeper's head through a wall and 2) I'm gonna slap this fucker off his stool if I don't get away from him like, NOW.

Thought Number One bothered me because I don't like relying on some boy to rescue me and for me to even think of such a thing was just so... damsel in distress-y. Not my style. Still, it did flash through my mind because I'm pretty confident UnBoyfriend wouldn't like some creepy asshole trying to grab at my arm and wishing death on me.

Thought Number Two was a really, really good idea because I was literally ready to kick this dude's balls up into his throat. I said, "Oh, THAT'S nice" and walked into the back of the restaurant. Meanwhile, my co-workers were defending me and shaming Mr. Creeper for wishing such a thing. He ended up leaving right away, pissed off.

The rest of my day, thanks to Captain Fuckface, was just SHIT. I spilled a pitcher of water on myself. My boss got mad at me for not writing my name on my tickets (I rarely ever do- oops), a table didn't tip me because their pancakes were "cold" (they weren't) and my beloved Hoda disappeared into thin air and left the rest of us to die.

Ok, not die. But suffer. Well, except for me, because I was (and apparently still am) slowly dying of blood poisoning anyway.

I know this post isn't funny but I'm too irritated to care. Don't bother telling me I shouldn't let things like this get to me. It's not gonna help me right now. I'm tired of people operating under the mindset that waitresses are not people and that it's ok to subject them to sexual harassment and/or general rudeness.

So, again, every creeper in the world can go fuck off. I'm one step away from going batshit crazy on your stupid asses.

Dear Lucy: A Word on Boys and Education

Dear Lucy,

Now that we've established that you are, in fact, a girl and your name will be Lucy, some things have been weighing on my mind. First of all, let me say I am thrilled to no end that I will soon have a niece. You see, your Aunt Amanda is doomed to grow old childless except for about 75 or so cats (we call women like this Crazy Cat Ladies) so the arrival of a little girl she can spoil and play with and feed Pixie Stix to and then send her back home to her mother will be one of the highlights of her adult life.

That being said, I'm concerned about a few things. You're going to be gorgeous. This is inevitable. Your mother is gorgeous. Your father is hot. The odds that you will be anything less than a ten on the looks scale are slim to none. This means that when you get older, boys will chase you. This is not satisfactory to Aunt Amanda. Boys are evil, scheming beings whose sole purpose in life is to make us crazy. They hurt our feelings, they forget anniversaries and they are messy. Some of them smell bad. Some of them don't like holding jobs. Some of them smoke pot in your parents driveway.

Unacceptable, my dear niece. Totally unacceptable.

For this reason, I regret to inform you, little unborn cherub, that you will not be dating till you are 30 and I will be screening your potential suitors. By the time you reach 30, I will have likely met every kind of jackass (pardon my language- atually, never mind that- you've probably already heard that word and more since you're in your mother's belly when she drives- she's an angry little woman who has zero tolerance for stupid drivers... or other drivers in general) on the face of this earth and will be able to detect them on sight. I'm sure I will own several guns and a taser since I will be 58 (pesky weapon laws be damned!), so should any of these aforementioned jackasses have a problem with Crazy Aunt Amanda telling them to hit the road because they're just not good enough for her precious niece, her arsenal can do the rest of the talking (don't fret- I have a large backyard and shovel- they won't be missed and my lawn could use the fertilizer).

With that out of the way, let's rewind back to education. I am hoping like hell you get Aunt Amanda's brains. I'm not sure how your daddy did in school but your mother, God love her, well... she's really, really good at doing hair. And if she sees this and gets mad I have but one thing to say: "What kind of eggs do squirrels lay?"

Yeah. She asked that once. I blame myself, partially. I dropped her on her head when she was a wee lass. It was not intentional, contrary to what Grandma Linda thinks. Your mother had a giant head when she was small, see, and my five year old body simply could not compensate for how top heavy her bulbous noggin made her when she was being carried.

I didn't even get to ride in the ambulance. They left me behind, probably with a weird neighbor. Can you believe that?

Anyway. Education. Aunt Amanda needs you to do well in school. You're already going to be beautiful but you cannot coast through life on beauty alone, especially since you're going to be the CEO of your own company by the time you're 28. If you want to screw around a little in kindergarten, I'll allow it. Eat some paste. Bite a few kids. Throw blocks. Pee your pants on purpose. But from first grade on out you're gonna have to buckle down and pull straight A's.


For every A you get, Aunt Amanda will give you a kitten. I was going to say I'd give you $10 but I am sure I will be a broke cat lady so the best I can offer you is the offspring of my 75 cats- I can't watch them all the time so they're bound to reproduce (hey, how do you think YOU got here?).

I'm sorry to tell you that you'll be going to an all-girls college, if such a thing even exists when you graduate high school with honors a year ahead of schedule. Boys will only distract you and mess things up with their general sloppiness and dumbassery. Boys in college are like crackheads in a Crack Store- they just go nuts, start snorting anything they can get their hands on and urinate in public.

Translation: college boys are like retarded cavemen so we must avoid them.

If we can't place you in an all-girls college, I will simply sell a few of my cats and hire you a bodyguard. A FEMALE bodyguard- there's this really old movie called The Bodyguard and I've seen it and therefore I know what happens when the bodyguard is a male. No WAY.

I plan to write you more letters. The subject of the next one will be your mother... I have to devote an entire letter solely to this topic. You'll understand why when you read it.

Well, Lucy, I have to go pry a cat off my leather couch. You just keep growing and kicking the hell out of your mama for me, OK? Oh, and please put pressure on her bladder from time to time. I know, I know- it's a little mean but it's also very funny.

(If you have my sense of humor, you'll do it.)

Love always and forever,

Aunt Amanda