# We are not a Mexican Restaurant - (Adult Language)



## Stephanie Jones (Mar 7, 2011)

"Why are you taking Tylenol Multisymptom Nighttime Formula at eight o'clock in the morning Stephanie?"
 	"Well mother, I'm coughing, sneezing, have a runny nose and would rather not be awake right now, so I'd say it takes care of my multisymptoms."
"Right."
 I grab my keys, offer a false toothy smile to my judgmental mother and leave for work. It's not that I hate being awake, I just hate being awake and summoned from table to table and being asked to fetch things. I am a server, which is often confused with servant. Pulling into the parking lot, I take a long drag of my cigarette and pitch it into the middle of the lot. I do this nearly every morning. Sometimes I am assigned parking lot sweeping duty and instead of wandering around aimlessly, I flick them to give myself something to do later. I like to call it thinking ahead.
 The smell of gently heated vomit and orange juice greet me at the employee entrance. Disgruntled employees are meandering about silently fighting for the easiest task to claim as their contribution to the restaurant opening. There are many things that go into "opening" a non-Mexican, Mexican named eatery. I am on-time, which means that I have only a few things to choose from to contribute. The sentinel fruit fly’s guarding the employee lockers part and allow me to choose the least rusted locker available. Awesome, the locker without a bottom is open! Looking around, I notice two things coffee and tea has been started, which means the coveted Zen like side-work of cutting lemons is already taken and second, some vulture like eyes are boring holes into my neck. Great, its a nameless kitchen personnel, "Why you ain't say hello to me this morning?" Racking my brain for a time stamp of a single morning in which I DID want to say hello, I offered a tight corporate smile and headed out onto the floor.
My options: turn all the chairs down off of the tables, open the patio and place tablecloths on the tables despite the unforgivable temperature, portioning salsa was not an option because that would place me in the lions den of unanswered questions concerning morning greetings or help portion out salad dressing. In reality I could go sweep up my cigarettes, but its cold and I like a few to collect before tackling parking lot duty.
Our dressing tastes good, however if you ever watch it being made or have the pleasure of portioning 500 tiny cups for guests, it looses its appeal. I decide to lid cups of dressing and find it slightly pleasurable. The music today is classic rock, which means that our GM is in the building. You can generally tell which manager is there based on the overhead music. "Stroke me Stroke me!" Is playing, and I find myself lidding like an overheating machine. Fuck yes, stroke me, at nine in the morning with congealed ranch dressing or chunky blue cheese.
Sometimes when I am opening I like to check up on employee moral and engage in small talk. Mentally checking to see which of my coworkers is most likely to have a complete spectacle filled mental breakdown later in the shift. I have had two and like to think, in retrospect that I really gave it my all in the second breakdown, whereas I was just not as filled with emotion in the first. I suppose I was just getting my feet wet. Our only seven-foot tall coworker has taken it upon himself to change the music to sports announcers, because he is secretly trying to clamor up the We are not a Mexican Restaurant Corporate ladder. Granted we are a sports bar, but we have the next twelve hours to listen to balding excitable old men talk about football players, who are in fact, just millionaires in tights, why can't we listen to some tunes to help ease the next hour of waiting for a table to come in?
Somehow there is a rip in the time space continuum and its time for line-up. Line up is when management sugar coats their disdain for inheriting a bunch of step kids he never wanted, followed by an enthusiastic beer of the month description and finally, our token homosexual (as endearing as it is) tries to lead the staff in a group huddle, "GO TEAM WE ARE NOT A MEXICAN RESTAURANT!" I used to join in, until I realized that the building has an ominous echo and two people do not constitute a team.
We have a fad going on at the restaurant right now, its called Murphy’s Law Oil. It is technically a soap infused oil or something to that effect, but management has gone ape-shit for it. We have been instructed to scrub down the same section of tables for over a month now. I was out for a week and when I came back a sprightly employee named Sasha had used the Murphy’s Law Oil to its fullest potential. She had successfully rubbed off dirt on all the baseboards, even the dirt under the finish! She received a verbal high five from management, who I'm certain, hadn't even noticed the ash color of all the baseboards. Murphy's Law Oil isn't super bad, but women who are pregnant or nursing shouldn't use it. I suppose it isn't caustic or anything, but I do get a slight high when the ENTIRE restaurant has worked together to rub down every surface.
Nearly every morning is like this, we all meander about after being reminded of our propensity to be daft in lineup and then, like the fruit flies stand sentinel awaiting a table of ungrateful commanders of our earnings. Not all tables are bad, but there are more bad ones than good. My manager once told me that waiting tables is all about the average. I often wonder if he was referencing the average number of drinks I need at the end of the shift to make my soul feel better. I constantly remind myself that I work there because of the staff, not the tips.
A geriatric woman with what seems to resemble a metal spine and her descendant are at the host stand. Apparently we are open. The woman walks slowly across the room, with the amount of metal spiraling her body I am reminded of Edward Scissor hands. I wonder if she was manufactured at the same place he was manufactured. "Hey, Jones, you're sat.”
It’s important to mention the various golden cogs in the well-greased wheel of We are not a Mexican Restaurant. The management staff proudly sport golden nametags with their first and last names etched in charcoal, along with their specific rank in the hierarchy of the organization. Our mascot, if one could call it that, is a drumstick, with stringy arms, puffy white gloves, beady eyes and a Cheshire grin, eating a drumstick and waving. This is surprisingly left off of their nametags. The overall unease and confusion among the staff as to the meaning of the logo/ mascot has been wrangled down to the companies open support of cannibalism and endorsement of cutthroat tactics to serve the best possible meal and customer service available, no matter what the cost of it’s minions dignity, poise or religious standards. If you are unsatisfied, we will not only apologize for not being swami mind readers, but we’ll shuffle you about to another location for another team of supple unknowing staff members for you to feast off of. If you have a problem with your order, it is not only our fault, but it’s also the fault of your server for not asking enough qualifying questions. 

Instead of the standard, “The Party in the Backyard Nachos for you ma’am, great.” 

It should be: 
“Ah, the Party in the Backyard Nachos, fine choice. When was the last time you hung out in your backyard? Ya’ know, since you were in your backyard yesterday, you may want to branch out a little and try our Fireplace Fajitas, it’s like bringing in the barbeque grill without all the citronella candles. I know you said, Party in the Backyard Nachos, but something tells me that you need a nice quiet evening by the Fireplace, nice and relaxing. Great. I’ll have that right out.” 

It wouldn’t be so bad, if we were better trained on how to breast feed what are technically considered adults, or if we were allotted more leverage in the realm of that tricky time consuming, yet popular The Blame Game. The corporate rules are simple and very clearly stated in the Employee Policy and Procedures Handbook: if anything wrong happens, it’s your fault. This was brought to my attention by one of our four golden cogs. Though I believe he is more of a brass or spray painted metallic yellow, he is for all intents and purposes appointed as a golden cog. His name is Melton, Melton Cylonnicus. Melton arrived about a month ago. He was dispatched from a pod at Corporate Office. Destination, We are Not a Mexican Restaurant store number 1115, to infiltrate moral, ruin months of well cultivated self-esteem, amongst peers, and generally stir the turd. 
I suppose every food palace has a trio of managerial styles producing the most productive and motivated staff possible, however, I suppose, due to the high stress level, constant contact with the public and the overwhelming sense that the onslaughts of complaints never actually ends, there is high turnover.  That is where Melton Cylonnicus excels. He not only single-handedly brought down moral 36% in three weeks, but he has increased productivity by 45%. Talk at the corporate water cooler is, he was born to do this. In all actuality, he was manufactured in a small but well funded laboratory north of the Mexican border, but let’s not split hairs. 
I took a great interest in Melton Cylonnicus when he first arrived, because I was unaware that America was that technologically advanced (at least for public use) that they were able to produce such a “being”, but apparently we are. Just last week while waiting for my cars oil change, I noticed that the soda and vending machine took not only cash or coins, but credit cards and checks, boy technology intense. Sometimes when I am staring out into the parking lot mentally tabulating my paycheck, my mind wanders into Melton Cylonnicus’ home life. I suppose if you live in a pod, it’s not the same as living in a home, but I often wonder if he has room to stretch out or if he has to get into the fetal position. As a minion, I am not allowed nor trusted to use the telephone unsupervised, so I am unable to call Corporate and snoop, but I am guessing it’s fetal position. His pants are eternally wrinkled, which screams, “fetal” and explains his perpetual crabbiness. 
One such day of musing at the host stand I intercepted the mail and of course, fingered through it, expecting something, anything to remove me from the banal existence of standing there. The mail had a few envelopes and a catalogue for office supplies. I was in the market for the purchase of 300 pens with my name and motto printed on them so I leafed through the catalogue. I was deciding between the hunter green and silver font or the red with purple font when the front door opened and a gust of wind knocked the catalogue to the floor, leaning over to pick it up it had fallen open to what seemed to be rows of humans standing military like and unsmiling. Most catalogues have humans in action shots and smiling and carrying on, but not these. I worked there for what seemed like eternity but was just shy of a year and after a while I just couldn’t take it. 

Dear whomever is running things today (sorry, the micro-management org chart on the cork board is changing too fast for me to keep up),

It is with great self-interest that I ask you to accept this letter as my official resignation from We are not a Mexican Restaurant!
My last day here will be one week from today (2/26/2010) and coincidentally the best day of my life, after which time I shall be taking a position with a Bank that doesn't require me to bend over and lube up.
As you know, for some time now I have been desiring a more challenging position so Melton could quit destroying all of my net worth and thus I feel the time has finally arrived for me to move, as the situation is not going to improve without his full frontal lobotomy. I would not be forthright if I failed to mention how much it dumbfounded me to see some of the spectacular “changes” Melton has made in recent weeks.
For example, I found it wouldn’t be so bad, if we were better trained on how to breast feed what are technically considered adults, or if we were allotted more leverage in the realm of that tricky time consuming, yet popular Blame Game. Also, it would be ill-advised to lead Line up with Melton barely sugar coating his disdain for inheriting a bunch of step kids he never wanted, followed by an equally enthusiastic beer of the month description. 
Furthermore, I have watched him squander once-valuable properties and gifts to We are not a Mexican Restaurant such as Lead servers, Lates, and organically manufactured joy, into pure disdain and disparagement, to continue this dance. I have come to realize that Melton does not seem to fully understand social media, social graces, nonverbal communication or general human interaction, in addition to how to run an effing taco truck, much less an actual, you know, million dollar business.
	Melton, I trust in your vast knowledge of policy and procedure, and constant compliance with the Better Business Bureau you are well aware when someone calls you in reference to employment, it is illegal to give me a bad recommendation. 
The most you can say to hurt me is “I prefer not to comment.” I will have friends randomly call you over the next couple of years to keep you honest, because I know you tend to be overworked. 

Thus, I am tendering my resignation as of today, effective 2/26/2010. If you would like me to sign a non-compete clause, I will be glad to do so, seeing as my new position is in a different market segment. 

Sincerely, 

Stephanie Jones


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## Phyllis (Oct 3, 2011)

My guess is you have had no comments on this because *it's so hard to read *with paragraphs smashed together into a huge block.  This would be so much easier to read if you'd skip spaces between paragraphs, since this site software doesn't recognize indenting. * I finally just copypasted it into a word program so that I could see the indents, then changed line spacing to 1.5, and that worked very well.  <--TIP FOR READERS* 

Praise:  I really love your writing style.  This is very entertaining!  Did you base this on your own server experience?
You really have a knack for narrative, always with a subtle touch of humor running through it. 

Crits:  There are a lot of grammar, structure, and punctuation errors that need fixing.  I did not take the time to note them all. 
Here are just a few to give you an idea of how much editing it needs. 

1.  The sentinel fruit fly’s guarding – the plural of _fly _is _flies,_ not _fly's, _which is the possessive form, meaning that the next word belongs to the fly.

2.  I notice two things coffee and tea has been started – needs punctuation between things and the rest of the sentence, either a colon or a dash

3.  My options: turn all the chairs down off of the tables, open the patio and place tablecloths on the tables despite the unforgivabletemperature, portioning salsa was not an option because that would place me in the lions den of unanswered questions concerning morning greetings or help portion out salad dressing. ––  My options: turn all the chairs down off of the tables, open the  patio and place tablecloths on the tables despite the unforgivable temperature,  or help  portion out salad dressing. Portioning salsa was not an option because that would place me in the  lions den of unanswered questions concerning morning greetings  It now makes sense in this order.

4. but its cold – Wrong homonym, should be _it's_ which means _it is._  You used the possessive _its,_ which means something belongs to _it._  Should read _but it's cold._

5. it looses its appeal – Correct use of_ its_ this time, but misspelling of_ loses._ I found a few other misspelled words throughout the piece. Type on a word program with spell check.  They also have grammar check.  Always use this feature!  I use MS Word, which does not have a punctutation check for long sentences, and I doubt any program could have that feature, so you must learn comma rules yourself.

I'll stop with those, but I hope you now see the need for a book on rules of proper English for writers.  Get one asap and use it.  You will so glad you did after you've mastered the rules and they come naturally to you.

Disappointed to see you have posted only two stories so far.  I'm looking forward to reading many more!


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## The Backward OX (Oct 3, 2011)

Phyllis said:


> My guess is



My guess is that you didn’t look at either the original posting date or the poster’s posting history before rushing into print. Had you done so you may have saved yourself quite a lot of work.


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## Phyllis (Oct 3, 2011)

The Backward OX said:


> My guess is that you didn’t look at either the original posting date or the poster’s posting history before rushing into print. Had you done so you may have saved yourself quite a lot of work.



I don't normally check out a poster's history before replying. Do you?  Sure, the thread was from March, but it's still here, and still open for comment.  I did not waste my time, since my comments took thought to write, so I learned.  And others who stumble on this thread may learn something as well.  Thinking and putting those thoughts down in words is never time wasted, IMHO.

Also, she is probably still subscribed to this thread and may get email about a new reply.  So she may see it.  I really liked the two pieces she posted and would like to see more of her humor.  Maybe she will return.  Worth a try.


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## victormogul (Oct 5, 2011)

I really enjoyed this story. It was very funny and I want to read more of your work.


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