Drugs are Fun Until They Eat Your Brains

On Thursday, I slipped on an icy patch and twisted my foot, tearing the ligaments on the lateral side of my right foot. No big deal--except that I woke up Friday morning in extreme pain (and I have a very high pain tolerance) and unable to walk. Did the whole checkup thing, got a few x-rays, received the ligament diagnosis, and left with a pair of crutches and a codeine prescription.

On Saturday, I learned the hard way that I am allergic to codeine. I spent the night convulsing in Joe's arms, unable to breathe. My skin was cold, and I had episodes of uncontrollable shaking, scaring the crap out of my boyfriend and myself. He begged me to let him take me to the hospital; I begged him not to do it. I won; he consulted my mother (a nurse) who came out to his farm and got me. She dug out medical books and consulted no fewer than three doctors. I was officially diagnosed as having overdosed (on exactly one Tylenol 3).

By Sunday, I had a wicked headache, a terrible rash, my throat had swelled shut, and my face was puffier than that of a garage rocker who'd tangled with Jack White.

I spent the next four days in a bizarre stasis, drugged on diphenhydramine hydrochloride to combat the allergic reaction. Mass quantities of Benadryl are very fun. I drugged my way through school, succumbing only on Monday and going home sick. Thursday was my first no-drug day, and I went back to work for the first time since last Tuesday.

It's been that kind of week.

In other news, Joe and I are still completely in love.

Waits Don't Make Minimum Without You

Joe and I were discussing the Server's Nightmare: getting stiffed.

It never happens to him. He's been working at Corporate Pizza Joint for a year now, and he faces the dreaded empty tabletop once a month, maximum. He's a great waiter, no doubt about that, with an easy demeanor, a wicked sense of humor, and a stack of comment cards other wait-staff would kill for (and trust me, even people who aren't his girlfriend would cop to that).

I can't really compete with Joe; I lack the natural charm. I do all right, though. I broke the $50 mark months before he did ($50 in one night, that is--took him till Christmas Eve). I get some crazy-good comment cards, especially when my favorite manager is working. I consistently make tips in the $4-5 range. I'll never outdo my dear boyfriend, but I hold my own.

Lately, though, we've both been noticing the same thing: tips are at extremes. Post-Christmas, the trend has very much been either a buck or fivers. I myself have had a disproportionately huge number of $6 tips, which earn you extra points in Server World, as it indicates that the customer liked you enough to fish out the extra dollar.

Unfortunately, I've also been taking the brunt of the stiffs.

There's nothing worse when you're wait. Going back to bus that table and realizing that all your sweetness and wit was for naught--it pisses you off. Glancing at the credit card receipt and sighing at the blank "Tip:" row isn't fun. Joe gets stiffed about once a month. I get it about once a week.

I fucking hate teenaged girls. I explained this to my coworkers very simply: 75% of my stiffs come from teen girls. Most teen girls tip, but the proportion is far lower in that demographic than any other. I'd guess that about 1 in 4 of teen girls don't tip me. Tonight I got stiffed twice (twice!), and both times, teen girls were the culprits.

One of the cooks mused that they're "girls whose parents pay for college, girls who don't know what it is to need a job."

Joe, however, seemed dumbfounded by my confusion, declaring, "You're competition."

"What?"

"Come on. You're competition. Teenage girls don't tip pretty teenage girls, especially if they're in groups that include teenage guys." (Those who noted the "pretty," say it with me: Aww. Fucking brownnoser. Eh, I suppose he is talking to his girlfriend.)

I pondered. "So do teenage guys stiff you?"

"Oh, yeah," he admitted. "Teenage guys never tip me." He paused. "When they're with guys. The nice thing, though, is that teenage guys don't tend to go to Corporate Pizza Joint. They eat cheaper. Teenage guys only come to Corporate Pizza Joint if they're on dates, and then they tip to impress."

"That's true."

"Yeah, it's the whole 'I can take care of them, so clearly, I can take care of you' complex. Very animalistic. If I was eating somewhere with you, I'd tip better than if I were alone."

I agreed that I would do the same. His point on teen guys not coming to the Joint was quite valid, as well; it's very much a girls-required establishment for the college/high school crowd.

Here's the catch, though, waitresses: guys on dates don't tip us better. A generous tip to a girl who chattered in their general direction might be misconstrued by their insecure girlfriends, and so waitresses get screwed over yet again.

Waiters, go die.

Double Awww

Sunday night...

He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him.

We meant it.

Monday night...

He introduced me to his favorite teachers, and then we drove to his house. We talked, we kissed, we talked some more. Some friends of his came over, and the experience made him sad.

He held me for the longest time. I held him for the longest time.

The experience of not having to even speak to a person and not having to touch him...just wanting to touch in the most careful, gentle, innocent way possible--an arm here, an ankle there, a head on a shoulder. The overwhelming freedom of wanting only one thing in the world: to be near him.

He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him.

We meant it.

Awww

Tonight I went to Corporate Pizza Joint and left my boyfriend a $13 tip.

State of the Union: sweet, to quote Napoleon Dynamite, which he bought me for Christmas. I'm "dear" and "darling" and "honey" now. We talk about God and literature and existentialism and crabby managers and tomorrow.

He says, "I think I like you too much."

I say, "You can't just leave that hanging there, Joseph."

He says, "Cather...'Don't love it so well, Clark, or it may be taken from you.'"

I can only whispersing, "My love must be a kind of blind love. I can't see anyone but you. Are the stars out tonight? I don't know if it's cloudy or bright, 'cos I only have eyes for you. The moon may be high, but I can't see a thing in the sky, 'cos I only have eyes for you, dear. I don't know if we're in a garden or on a crowded avenue. You are here, and so am I. Maybe millions of people go by, but they all disappear from view, 'cos I only have eyes for you."

He whispersings along to the parts he knows. I lean up and kiss him.

He touches my fingers.

Things are quiet.

That is what this is like.