The Worst Story in the History of Stories

During Labor Day weekend, before things got really busy, a woman, 60ish, rushed in the café and asked if she could use the restroom.  Bagheera and I were at the counter rolling silverware when she rushed back out and snarled that we were out of paper towels.  She grabbed a handful of napkins out of the dispenser on the table and went back in the restroom.

Bagheera went to get paper towels while I continued to roll silverware.  I saw Bagheera walk down the hallway, knock on the door, and go in for about a minute.  Then she came hauling ass out of the hallway into the dining room, carrying a trash bag.  She hauled ass past me and said, “Please put a new trash bag in the bathroom.  I have to go home.”  Then the restroom woman stormed out of the café.

I stood there and wondered WTF?!  It was morning during Labor Day weekend, the busiest weekend of the year in Meeteetse, ravening hordes of people would be busting the door down, and WTF?!  I’m ALONE?!  What the fucking fuck?!

A few minutes later Bagheera’s oldest son showed up to help me and he told me why his mom came home puking and was now laying down with a cold towel on her face.  When she went in the restroom to stock the paper towels she dropped the keys in the trash.  Since she had just cleaned the restrooms and emptied the trash she stuck her hand in the little swinging door on the top of the trash can and right into a Depends full of warm runny shit.  The worst part was the woman who dropped the Depends in the trash stood right behind Bagheera and let her stick her hand in it. 

Things would have turned out differently if I had been in Bagheera’s shoes.

It was hours before I saw Bagheera again and she was green for the rest of the day.  There was also some random gagging.

I took over restroom duties not long after that and at first I asked myself:  Who does this shit?  I kept finding gum in the urinal…until I loudly mentioned to, well, everyone in the bar, that the person who fishes the gum out of the urinal is the same person who patties their hamburgers.  Now I find a lot less of a mess.  I seldom find tobacco on the walls or paper towels on the floor, because everyone knows they will get an ass chewing.   

Fear is an excellent motivator.


I’ve Fallen Back to Earth

Shame on me for being gone so long.  I checked the email connected to this account and saw a whole lot of messages from people wondering what’s up.  Thank you for thinking of me.

My friend Michele was here from New York for two and a half months.  I give blogging a rest during that time so we can spend time together.  We went to the BBQ and Blue Grass Festival, visited Old Trail Town in Cody, ate so much sushi I’m surprised I don’t have mercury poisoning, grew a pumpkin patch (that the deer ate), and argued a lot.  What can you expect from two bossy women going through menopause? 

After she left I spent some time thinking about this blog.  I didn’t know if I wanted to go in a different direction because I spend more time cooking than waiting tables, and my interaction with idiots is limited.  But then, I looked at my co-workers and realized they are always worth writing about (not than any of you would believe the stories because these people are freeze dried wackaloons).  Then there are my neighbours who are the biggest mess of redneck inbreeding I’ve ever seen.  It seems as if I don’t have to look for crazy, crazy always finds me, so the blog will continue in the same vein.

While away I did manage to finish some projects: 

  • My mini-garden was nice.  The tomatoes and peppers were very sweet and tasty, but the flowers and herbs baked in the heat.  Next year I’ll give them more shade.
  • I built new steps for the front of my deck.  While I like having booby-traps around my property, I don’t like a lawsuit when some religious goon falls down my steps.
  • I fenced my front yard.  Now all my yard is fenced.  More or less.
  • I built an enclosure for my wood pile.  No more snowy wood or wood frozen to the ground. 

And I wasted some time:

  • I watched all 3 seasons of ‘Justified’.  I love me some Raylan Givens, but I love Boyd Crowder more.  “Fire in the hole!”
  • I watched both seasons of ‘The Killing’ and cried when I learned who killed Rosie Larsen.
  • I’m currently addicted to Sons of Anarchy, but I think they should call it ‘The Deadwood Reunion’.  I swear the majority of the ‘Deadwood’ cast landed on that show. 
  • I crocheted 5 bubble totes (pictures coming soon) and a really awesome shawl.
  • I discovered Pinterest.  Talk about a time suck.

Again, thanks for thinking of me.  I think about you all more than you know.

The Gravy Nightmare

We have two types of gravy, brown and white.  During the summer when we are overworked and understaffed we are supposed to have one type of gravy, white.  However, Speedy insists “you can’t run a restaurant with only one type of gravy” and continues to make brown gravy.  When Bagheera and I said we were getting rid of it Speedy ordered 3 cases of that shit.

I’ve told all of the bartenders that customers DO NOT get a choice of gravy.  They get what I give them, which is usually white.  The last thing I want is a ten top all ordering different potatoes and gravy.  Fuck that shit.

Is this a hard concept?

Every time I work with Foghorn Leghorn (4 nights a week) I have to tell him, “Customers don’t get a choice of gravy!  They get what I have.”  He then looks utterly confused as if it’s news to him.

I got my ass handed to me on Saturday night.  For some reason it was steak night and everybody wanted a different temperature…rare, mid rare, sort of pink, not pink but not burned, well done, well done, but very tender…I wanted to scream.  This was going on in the bar and in the restaurant.  I was ready to curl up in the fetal position by the trash can and find my Happy Place.

Then Foghorn Leghorn started the gravy choice shit.  I was polite for the first two or three tickets, then I started screaming at him.

During this madness, for reasons unknown to me, people started poking their head over the swinging doors to the kitchen and yelling their orders to Bagheera, rather than sitting down and letting her take their order. 

I lost my fucking my mind.

Then I ran out of white gravy.  I scrambled around and found a container of brown gravy from the day before.  I told Foghorn Leghorn we were now serving brown gravy and again, STOP GIVING PEOPLE A GRAVY CHOICE.

The very next ticket he brought in the kitchen was for fries with country gravy.  I wadded it up in a ball, screamed, “WE DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING WHITE GRAVY!” and threw it in his face.  He stammered that he didn’t know what “country gravy” was, which made me wonder:

  1. Does he think we have three types of gravy?
  2. Is he really that dumb?
  3. Is he trying to push me over the edge?

  Bagheera told him to get out of the kitchen.  As in now.  I was going to kill that little fucker, but I couldn’t find my knife.

Then there was some issue about cheese on the fries instead of gravy we didn’t have.  Bagheera told him to leave the kitchen and not come back until he pulled his head out of his ass.

The only smart thing he did all night was he stopped a customer from coming in the kitchen to ask for white gravy.

Every time I tried to fall asleep Saturday night, I woke up asking myself, “What the fuck is his problem with the gravy?”  I was awake until 6 in the morning.

Sunday was a slow day and Bagheera and I spent the day cleaning and relaxing.  Foghorn Leghorn spent his day off drinking in the bar.  When we closed we wandered over to the bar and right in front of several of our regular customers, Bagheera asked Foghorn Leghorn, “So…did you ever figure out the deal with the gravy?”  Everyone started laughing because apparently they could hear me yelling at him all the way over in the bar.

Foghorn Leghorn said, “We had a gravy choice until you started working here.  I just haven’t adjusted to it yet.”

I said, “I’ve been here 6 months.  How much more time do you need?”

I didn’t hear his answer over all the laughter.


Davey and the Cheeseburger Whore

Yesterday was a day that ended in ‘y’ (I’m beginning to think it should be ‘why?’) so it was time again to bring out the crazy:

  • Davey couldn’t come to work because he was having another meltdown and couldn’t get out of bed.  Betty Booze relayed this message to Bagheera 20 minutes before the bar was supposed to open.
  • Betty Booze came back to the restaurant, bawling and howling, because Davey kicked her out of the house and doesn’t want to be her boyfriend anymore.
  • Davey and the Cheeseburger Whore started drinking in the bar at around 2 in the afternoon.
  • The bartender who had to pull a double because of Davey’s “meltdown” wanted to stab him in the eye.
  • King Triton told the Cheeseburger Whore she was no longer welcome in the bar.
  • Davey told King Triton to “shove this job up your ass” and he ran off with the Cheeseburger Whore.
  • Literally, since neither of them have a vehicle.
  • Davey called King Triton to confirm the job was up his ass and whined, “You’ve been nothing but mean to me since I started working.”
  • Boo Fucking Hoo.
  • I got tired of looking at Speedy’s peach slop so I turned it into a delicious bread pudding.

I can’t wait to see what today brings.

Today’s Deadly Sin: Envy

More than a month ago Speedy Gonzales and I got into a big assed fight and I haven’t spoken to her since.  Speedy is 74 years old, looks 55 and acts like she’s 12.  She’s this little bity speck of a Mexican woman whom I’ve known all my life.  That means I know she’s a backstabbing child, but it doesn’t make things any better.

During the fight she called me lazy and a liar and told me I could kiss her ass…all because she thinks Bagheera likes me more. 


I know I’m neither lazy nor a liar, but it pissed me off that she was willing to be such a freaking child.  “Bagheera used to spend time with me, now she spends all her time with you.”  Waa, boo hoo.  (I’m not making this up.)  She twisted every conversation I had with her into “Holly thinks she’s in charge.”  News flash:  I’m barely in charge of myself and I certainly don’t want to be in charge of the hot mess that is the restaurant.  Furthermore, don’t put your issues off on me.  So, I quit talking to her.  If I refuse to acknowledge her existence, she can’t gossip and lie about what I said.

When Eeyore got the boot, we were without a pie maker, so I stepped in.  Prior to this, my idea of a cream pie was flavoured instant pudding in a pie shell with Cool Whip on top.  Fruit pies came out of a can.  I’ve spent the last month looking up pie recipes and thanks to my friend Michele I have a killer pie crust recipe (it’s called Great Value rolled out pie crusts).  My coconut cream pie is heavenly.  The strawberry rhubarb is awesome.  I made a Pepsi cake that sold out in less than a day.  A slice of Key Lime pie makes you think you are sitting in Miami.  I’ve learned how to make the pie crusts beautiful with different patterns on the edges and tops. 

I’ve put a lot of effort into this and it’s paying off.  People are stopping in for dessert in the afternoons.  People are buying desserts to go.  We are even selling desserts in the bar.  The bartenders are dumbfounded because they are serving pie and beer.  That never used to happen.  Best of all, the profit margin is insane and knowing this, King Triton bought a little glass front cooler to showcase my pies.  Well, also because he thinks I’m awesome.

So naturally Speedy has to horn in on my action.  All the attention I’m getting has turned her green with envy.  It doesn’t look good on her.  She made a peach pie (with filling from a can) with a homemade crust that was so thick and burned we had to toss it.  Today she made a peach cobbler (with filling from a can) that looks like a glop of pie filling on a  plate.  I knew we had to use up the pie filling Eeyore ordered, and I had planned to make a crazy crust peach pie that is truly awesome, but hell no.  Let’s make some sloppy shit instead.

Maybe I’m being childish about this.  Maybe I should let her continue to make her shitty desserts and keep my mouth shut.  I don’t want anyone confusing my desserts with hers, though. 

No, I think I get to be childish about this, dammit.

Do The Hustle!

Last Sunday there was some kerfluffle in the bar (imagine that) involving some bikers.  Apparently, some of the men wanted to “mess up” one of the women and the next thing I knew she was in the kitchen (WHY?!) sitting on the floor by the dishwasher, snotting and bawling.

What is it about the kitchen?  Why does it turn into the bullshit overflow from the bar?  The problems are created over there, why can’t they stay over there?

Since I’m full of sympathy for dumbass biker chicks, I knelt beside her, gave her a hug, let her cry on my shoulder and offered to buy her a shot. 

Yeah, not really. 

I glared at her and said, “You can’t be here.  Your problems are self created.  Get out.”

But Bagheera, alway a kind soul (and always someone who gets conned) wanted to give her a safe place to stay until the rest of the gang left.  My advice was to throw the bikers out of the bar and throw the chick out of the kitchen before we all got tangled up in some sort of biker gang bang.

After about 20 minutes of listening to her sob, I felt bad and chastised myself for being so mean.  I looked at the woman and realized she’s not much older than my daughter.  What if it was my own daughter sitting on some random kitchen floor, crying and afraid of being beat up by a bunch of bikers (for being a whore).  Screw that.  My daughter would never put herself in that sort of position.

Eventually the biker people left and the chick left the kitchen for the bar, where everyone felt sorry for her and started buying her drinks.  Before long she was feeling good enough to let her boobs hang out, and by the end of the night she felt good enough to go home with some guy.

Since then she’s been hustling pool and turning tricks for money.  She’s none too particular about her johns either.  She offered it to the former deputy sheriff the other night.  He hasn’t bathed since 1987, and some nights it takes everything I have not to puke on the floor when I walk by him.  He bought her a cheeseburger instead, proving that when you don’t care enough to wash up, you really don’t care about anything.

All the other Flying Ass Monkeys are in overdrive thinking they might get laid.  I find it amusing in a disgusted sort of way.  I do love a good train wreck and this one is going to be grand.

Just Another Saturday Night

I got to work a little early today and talked with Betty Booze while she made two grilled chicken salads.  She said she was leaving, so I went to dry storage to get the ingredients to make Ramen Noodle Salad.  When I came back to the kitchen, she was gone, but the white gravy container was sitting on the counter.  I figured that was her way of telling me I needed to make more.  I put the nearly empty container in the refrigerator and wrote a note on the board. 

Then I got a table of 14 people.  After I got them all set up, Bagheera came back from the corner store empty handed.  She was supposed to get vinegar for the salad. 

“Where’s the vinegar?” I asked.

“I never got out of the bar.  That damned Foghorn Leghorn.  Those people with the chicken salads wanted more blue cheese dressing and he brought them white gravy.  I think he’s drunk.”

WTF?!  Sure, if I wasn’t involved I’d think it was pretty funny, but working with a drunk isn’t funny.  How the hell do you pour thick, white pepper gravy into a portion cup without realizing that it looks nothing like blue cheese dressing?  He said the lid was blue so he thought it was blue cheese, since we used to keep the blue cheese in a container with a blue lid…yeah, a year ago and that container looks nothing like the container with the gravy.  Your argument is invalid.

At some point while I was cooking for half the town, Foghorn Leghorn came into the kitchen to get some Ranch.  Instead of putting the portion cup on the counter and filling it, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, started pouring, missed the portion cup entirely, and slopped about half a cup of dressing all over the floor. 

That was bad. 

Worse still, he grabbed one of the towels that I use for wiping counters, cutting boards, utensils, and my greasy hands, and proceeded to mop the floor with it.  If I hadn’t seen the whole thing, I would have wondered why my towel had Ranch all over it, rinsed it, and continued using it to keep my work space clean.

I started shrieking, “Out! OUt! OUT!”

Then he brought in two nearly empty, dirty ketchup bottles and asked if he could fill them.  “No.  You can go back over to the bar, dump out the old ketchup, wash the bottles and then fill them.  I don’t know how many times I have to tell you not to mix old and new.”

Foghorn Leghorn has been good for the last three weekends…since the last time he dropped a plate of food on the floor when he was drunk at work, and I told him to get his shit together or we were going to rumble.  He obviously needs a reminder that drunk at work isn’t the name of the game anymore.  After I got in Betty Booze’s face about being drunk, irresponsible and inconsiderate, she quit drinking.  Oh, yes she did.  I’m shocked.  She’s having a hard time, but she’s putting forth the effort, and I applaud her.  Her boyfriend, Davey, quit drinking, too.  So the only drunken asshole at the Cowboy is Foghorn Leghorn.  He’s also the only one who doesn’t clean.  Guess what that means?

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