Life Lesson #24: Say My Name, Bitch!

I showed up at the wrong restaurant on my first day of work. Twice. This led me to be forty minutes late. Again - on my first day of employment.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

Back in January, H.F.T. and I went out to the Hamptons to try and get jobs for the summer. I know; January? Well, the early bird catches the worm, people.

We hit up a whole bunch of places; applying for waitressing and bartending jobs anywhere we thought they might have us. A few months later, I got a call on my cell phone. It was from Mike, the head bartender/manager of a place I could have sworn was Restaurant A.

This should have been my first clue that I would not be employed at Restaurant A in the near future since of all the places H.F.T. and I went to, Restaurant A was in fact, not one of them.

It is, however, owned by the same guys of another place we did go to. So as I sat at my desk at my nine-to-fiver, trying to talk to Mike quietly so as to not be overheard by my current boss who was still unaware of my future plans of getting the hell out of here, I simply thought, Oh, this is cool. I’ve managed to score a bartending gig right by our share house. This is going to kick ass.

Fast-forward to Memorial Weekend, and I made a mental note to stop by Restaurant A at some point to introduce myself before my first day a week later.

Well, that never happened. Perfect frying weather, way too much partying, plus a general lack of care, had the weekend come and go without so much as a drive-by. I figured I’d just show up early the next Monday and all would be good.

And so I did. By about fifteen minutes. To a restaurant that was closed (hello, clue number two). So, I sat myself down at the outside bar and waited.

Ten after, and still not a soul to be found. So I called Mike and left a message.

“Hi! It’s Penny. It’s a little after four and I’m sitting outside the restaurant. I’m guessing I’m early? Give me a call back and let me know when you’ll be here. See you soon!”

A few minutes went by and my phone started ringing.

“Hi! Penny – you’re way early! I said 5:30. What time did you get there?”

“Oh! Woops – I thought you had said four.”

“Okay, well, I won’t be there for a bit, so why don’t you just come back at five then?”

Easy enough, as Restaurant A really is right around the block from the house. I went back, made myself a cup of coffee and flipped through a magazine.

Five o’clock. In the parking lot of Restaurant A. Still, no one in sight. What the f, man?

I killed a few minutes walking around. Even though it was a bit overcast, the place is really nice and right on the water.

This could be a great moneymaker. I hope I get to work the outside bar. I wonder if I’m going­ -

FUCK. This is NOT right. Shit. I totally don’t work here.

I pulled out my phone and left Mike another message.

“Hi, Mike? It’s Penny again. A little after five now. I’m getting the feeling I’m at the wrong place. If you could just call me back with the correct address? That would be great. Thanks.”

I got in my car and sat for a moment.

This is not right. Where am I supposed to be? I swear he said Restaurant A. Why didn’t he call me from the restaurant, not his friggin’ cell phone? Then maybe I could figure out where the hell I should be right now.

Wait a minute.

OH MY GOD.

I so do not work here. I totally work at Restaurant B.

As if someone suddenly took a leaf blower to the clutter of empty vodka bottles and sleepless nights piled up in front of the door to Memories from a Few Months Ago, I remember meeting Mike and talking to him as I filled out an application back in January. At Restaurant B. Not A.

So I sped my way over to the correct establishment, 180-ed it into the parking lot, hung my head in shame, and ran in at 5:40.

Suffice to say, my fellow employees wonder just how dumb I am. I think that’s why they made me do three days of training when most people only have to do two. However, no matter how ridiculous the situation I got myself into may make people believe me to be, I know my name. Very well, in fact.

And it’s not Gwennie.

Yet that’s what one damn waitress, Bobbie, has decided to call me, regardless of how many times I correct her or she hears me introduce myself or when she hands me my paycheck with my name clearly written RIGHT ON THE FRONT.

Because she’s one of those women that are born with a tray in hand, a pen stuck in their over processed, messy hair and has worked at that place for more years than I’ve been alive, I’m the only person who corrects her.

When I see Bobbie, I often envision taking the cash register and chucking it at her. There are many reasons for this:

1. The whole name thing. Come on already. You hear me introduce myself about fifty times a shift to everyone sitting at the bar. They all get my name right – why can’t you?

2. She made me wear a fucking company t-shirt. As a bartender, I’m supposed to wear what I want. I come in one day, she’s got a problem with what I’m wearing, and the next thing I know I’ve got on a heinous blue fake button-down shirt three sizes too big. Luckily, the owner wasn’t having that and the shirt was only worn twice. But yea, I’m still pissed.

3. She yells out her order before it comes through the ticker of the service bar. The whole point of the ticker is so the waitstaff doesn’t scream their orders across a crowded bar I’m already handling on my own. So when you ask me for a bottle of Chardonnay, fuck off. I’ll get to it when it comes out my printer.

4. Even when she’s been a wretched pain in my ass all day, she still thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to ask, “Gwenniee, do you have a cigarette I can borrow?” Nope. Never have. Never will.

5. I’m sorry but the woman is ugly. She wears horrible capri khakis that ride up her large, flat ass and emphasize her ridiculous penguin-waddle. Her voice sounds like my worst nightmare. She always looks like she either took in way too much sun or just drank a bottle of Pinot all by her lonesome.

6. About that Pinot. I use to be a fan of the wine. Not anymore. Because I have to hear her say, “Gwennieee, can I get another Pinoooot?” every seven minutes. YOU’LL GET IT WHEN IT COMES THROUGH THE TICKER WOMAN.

7. She jumps in on my conversations from the other side of the room. Do I yell from behind the bar “Oh, yea, the drive from Manhattan is soooo long, Bobbieee” at one of her tables across the restaurant? No. But she’s got no problem talking about all sorts of stuff she probably doesn’t know a freakin' thing about in the first place.

8. After she dirties up my bar, leaving cans of whipped cream and straw wrappers all over the damn place, she has the balls to say, “Gwennieeeee, you’re doing a great job, but you have to keep your bar cleaner sweetie.”

9. Did I mention my name is NOT GWENNIE??

Honestly, I could go on. But what’s the point?

Life Lesson # 24: I have my shining moments when it comes to doing stupid things. This week is a perfect case in point. But honestly, who doesn’t? I think it kind of keeps me in check. I may think I'm a smart girl who went to a great college, but the reality is I can be pretty dumb at times.

But I swear, this woman better start getting my name right. Or I'm going to clean the bar with her face.