I'm gonna chicken-fry your head.

So, for the past month while at home, I've had a job. I'm not sure why I haven't mentioned it, other than that I kind of wanted to put it out of my mind as soon as I got off of work. It's the first waitress-type job I've had, and I guess I've felt a little weird about it. Not that I think I'm better than having that sort of job, because I really don't. I just...I guess I just felt out of place a little. It's the first uniform I've ever had to wear; I'm not really sure why it bothered me. I definitely adopted a different persona while there (Southern Cajun accent, with a bit of shyness), and I still haven't quite figured out how to make that at-work personality correspond with who I consider to be me.

So maybe it all sounds like an excuse, but that's why I haven't mentioned it until now.

And so why now? Because today, on my last day of work, I completely lost my temper for the first time. I have so many stories about this job, but this last one absolutely wins the prize.

First of all, the job was waitressing, but it was waitressing at a cafeteria type place, where the customers take what they want from an assembly line, and then sit down themselves. We waitresses have assigned sections of the seating area, and get them refills of drinks, or bring them whatever additional food they might want. The tips aren't 15%, but more like $1-3 per table. The upside is that one waitress services about 18 tables at once and the turnover is pretty fast, so I was still averaging $20-30/hour, which really isn't that bad at all. I worked Monday through Thursday, from 11 until 2:30--the lunch shift.

So, with that background out of the way, I'm sure you can imagine the type of people who come to the restaurant--old couples, large families, co-workers on their lunch break, etc.

And so today, I had the pleasure of serving two middle aged ladies, one about 10 years older than the other. As they sat down, I approached their table, and did my usual greeting-spiel: "G'morning ma'am. I'm gonna be your waitress today. Here'rea couple extra napkins for y'all. Lemme take those trays out the way for you. Y'all enjoy your meal now. I'll be back to check on you, but y'all let me know if you need anything."

Yes, my grammar abounds when I'm at the Piccadilly Cafeteria.

And so as I was saying all that, the younger lady is poking at some fried piece of SOMETHING with her knife and obviously isn't paying attention to me. When I'm done and about to leave she says "Um...hello? What is this?"

"Excuse me? What is what, ma'am?"
"What is this meat? I asked for chicken."
(she's poking at something that looks more brown than white)
"I'll go ask the cook, ma'am. I'll be right back."
(I go ask the cook--it's chicken-fried steak.)
"Ma'am, it's chicken-fried steak."
"Yes, I know that now. But I wanted chicken."
"Okay, ma'am. Do you want me to exchange that for you?"
"Yes, I suppose so." (in a really pissed off voice AS THOUGH IT'S MY FAULT)
(I go get the fried chicken for her. Meanwhile, my 10 other occupied tables are beginning to look out of control. There are 3 tables I need to clean, 4 with empty drinks, and and several more that are obviously trying to get my attention. This lady is fucking with my tips.)
"What is THIS?"
"It's fried chicken, ma'am."
"I didn't want fried chicken."
Now I'm more than slightly irritated and my hands go on my hips and my voice gets high.
"I thought that's what you wanted, ma'am. I thought that's why I returned the steak."
"No, I don't want fried chicken. I want chicken-fried-chicken."

At this point I lost it. Apparently there is a difference between fried chicken and chicken-fried chicken (something to do with whether it's an actual chicken with bones in it or just a chicken patti), but I was previously unaware...not to mention that the much desired chicken-fried-chicken wasn't even being served today. Usually when I get frustrated with a customer, I just smile a little brighter and grit my teeth. But not today. It was too much with all the chicken-fried-bullshit.

"I'm sorry. I guess I just don't understand what you want. I don't understand the difference between fried chicken and chicken-fried-chicken. Both sound absolutely repulsive to me, but if you want something other than what I brought you, you should get up and go back in line and get it yourself, because I'm obviously incompetent." And then I walked away and went to help another table.

I told you I lost it. I felt like I was on Seinfeld or something with all the back and forth nonsense.

And so she got up and went through the line again, where of course they weren't serving the damn chicken-fried-chicken. She made such a fuss though that they ended up making it especially for her. Because she definitely deserved the special treatment. Stupid brace face, four-eyed bitch.

And so for the rest of the time I served them, I was molasses sweet, and I ended up getting a $2 tip despite the little explosion. I think the older lady felt bad for me. And the best part? The $2 was wrapped with a 'Find Jesus' pamphlet (not the first such handout I've gotten on the job, by the way). I wanted to tell them I am Jewish and to save their paper because I have my own beliefs that I'm comfortable with and no offense to what they believe, but it's just not me...but I didn't.

And you know why? Not because I was scared or embarrassed or anything even partially novel.

Nope, I just wanted the $2.

Because with that $2, I've now earned $848.72 this month, all of which is going directly into my bike fund. So, crazy chicken-fried-chicken lady, I thank you for helping me in my pursuit, even if I did want to stick your head in a fryer.