I would love to start this off with saying that I’m usually a patient man and that I wouldn’t normally be upset by something so trivial, but that would make me a liar. A very impatient liar. I pride myself on the fact that I have patience for 40-50 hours per week; whatever the work week requires. But once I leave, it’s like taking off a bra; the act that was kept up nice and tight all hangs out.
Marisa asked me to pick a place to go out to dinner for my birthday on Friday night. To me, what would make my night would be to not have to make any choices about where we eat because that’s generally my job most days we go out, because after a week of work, neither of us want to make decisions.
I ended up choosing some southern cafe type place because at work that day, it was fried chicken day. I had to feed all my patients fried chicken, and then go back to the lunch room and and eat my baked chicken and rice with broccoli. So, I decided for my birthday I wanted some fried chicken. Even had myself some potato cracklin’s whatever the fuck that is.
Fast forward to sitting down and waiting 15 minutes for someone to come over to us. The girl who comes over to us asks me what I would like to drink. So, because I didn’t have a drink menu, I just said “I’ll take an IPA.”
The woman looks at me like I’m child who can’t make a decision, and says, “anyone in particular?”
Of course, I’d like one in particular but should I just start guessing all of the beers I’ve ever had too see if you might have it? I just looked at her until she realized we didn’t have menus and she finally says, “of course we didn’t give you a menu…” and she began listing off the beers.
The waitress finally brought over a drink menu for my wife and brought the beer I asked for. We ordered our food and Marisa ordered a drink. Then the manager comes to the table and she asks us if anyone’s been over to see us yet.
Has anyone been over to see us yet?! We’ve been here for 25 minutes, if you were going to come over and ask that question, you should’ve done it 15 minutes ago. It’s crazy to think that she thought I would’ve waited at my table for 25 minutes without getting up and leaving. That’s the patience thing though, it’s 7pm so I’m fresh out of it. But I’m really working on it.
So, I put a really big smile on my face and looked at my wife, “see, I’m really trying, but I don’t know if my patience will allow me to live down south the rest of my life.”
Within about 4 minutes of ordering the food it came out. I really hate that because it makes me think they have a big vat of fried chicken back there and they throw it in a warmer. I don’t want warmed up leftovers for dinner and maybe that’s a little uppity, but I microwave about 7 meals a week because of work and if I’m paying $20 bucks for fried chicken I want it to be fresh.
My wife didn’t think it was bad, she rated the whole experience a 6.5, maybe I was a little harsher because I said 3.5.
But please let me fucking explain. Another manager came over right before the food came out and this guy wasn’t just ANY manager. He was the “guest services” manager. He came over to ask if he could take the empty plates from the biscuits. It wasn’t just like the normal let me grab these, though. He made a whole thing about taking the plates. He said you’re welcome before we even said thank you. I’m not giving ANYONE a post-you’re welcome, thank you. Don’t be so presumptuous to think that you need thank yous for grabbing two little appetizer plates as you walk by.
He wants to know how we’re doing so far and this was before Marisa even got her drink. I didn’t even know how to answer. He asked, “how is your experience?” We had barely had an experience yet. We hadn’t got food and Marisa didn’t even have a drink. I just looked at him with a blank face and let Marisa answer. The fucking food came out before Marisa even had something to drink. What kind of backwards ass shit?
Moral of the story is that I didn’t get visibly upset. I kept my dignity, which trust me, I don’t always do. I just fucking observe these problems for my own enjoyment. At least I try. My wife thinks I revel in problems, specifically because I get to freak out a little bit.
When we were driving to our wedding, we got a flat tire on the way. As we’re sitting on the side of the road, while the attractive female tow truck driver was loading up our car, she looks at me and says, “you’re loving this aren’t you?”
You’re damn right I am because wherever I go, the stories seem to follow. I can’t escape this shit. This is my life. My “shit happens” life. I looked back at lover and said, “smile, cause shit happens.”