Monty Python’s “Medical Love Song”

While I won’t waste your time writing out the lyrics to this epic love ballad here, I will  post a link if you feel like wasting time later (and that way you can’t blame me because I clearly gave you a choice):

This (without all the VD) is what my body is singing to me right this very minute. It’s very romantic. (Except again, I will repeat for emphasis, without all the VD.) (Or penises.)

So we’ve already gone over my dental trauma. Wisdom teeth, 30 kajillion cavities, and now they’ve gone and only filled the ones on the left side so the molars are too big and keep giving me a headache. Plus, my blood test for diabetes came back negative, so I have no idea what caused me to go from 0-30 in a year and a half.

But enough about gross things like teeth and mouths.

Yesterday, for no reason whatsoever, my left foot just up and stopped working. Well, it stopped wanting me to be able to work it. So it stabbed me in the fascia and now I can’t bear weight. I had two shifts today at two different restaurants with a 10-minute walk between them that turned into an 18-minute hobble. I am 22 years old. Why is my body treating me like a 90-year-old??

So, in conclusion, best Valentine’s day ever? I think so. Pardon me, I’m going to go sleep until Family Day.



(and as a post script, shouldn’t Valentine’s day be, oh, about 9 months before Family Day, instead of six days?)

The Bestaurant

That was the basest pun I have ever written. You now as reader get to make the choice whether to be awed by its majesty or stop reading right now because I’m obviously the worst person ever.

Now that that’s overwith, I’d like to elaborate on my nomination for the Bestaurant. It’s the place I work now – a restaurant aptly named “93 Harbord” – and it is quite easily the best place I’ve ever worked. (Except for that one time I worked for the CBC, that job was cushy as hell. What other national broadcasting station will give a 15 year old her own office??)

Anyway, now that my days as Maeby Bluth Funke are over, I’m working off my little tootsies at a restaurant curiously no longer titled Cafe Metaforia. It’s a Middle Eastern/Moroccan restaurant owned by a jovial, charming man who likes to sit down with his guests over a plate of dessert that he made himself and has offered on the house to people he likes (and sometimes people he just likes the look of). I’m working right now as a hostess/bartender, as training to become a full-time server, and even so my tipout has often been higher than the tips I was making at my old bar. My boss is there every single day, in the kitchen and out on the floor, and it’s pretty much a guarantee that he will have a conversation with every single person in the restaurant by the time he leaves. His personality, his business acumen, and not to mention his delicious menu are the reason there are so many repeat customers – I’ve even seen return visitors in the two weeks I’ve worked.

But I have to say the number one reason why this is the best place ever is the free food that front of house staff are given at the end of the night – a night which, by the way, is over by midnight at the latest. Kitchen staff always prepare too much food when the restaurant opens, which means by close, the servers and I are treated to couscous, rice, or quinoa piled high with tagine, kebabs, biryani, or whatever melange the staff has simmering still by the time the guests have left. Sure beats half priced cheeseburger springrolls at Joe’s.

Gung hey fat choi!

Tomorrow is Chinese New Year. So my half-Chinese, half-Irish family is celebrating in the traditional manner of our people: going to a Mexican restaurant.

Happy Year of the Dragon! Next year’s my year.

Another poignant life vignette.

Tonight at work:

Coworker (gay): Wow, there sure are a lot of gay guys in here tonight. I wonder why?

Me: Maybe there’s something in the air…

Coworker: Pot pourri.

Family values

I’m just gonna take a half second to do something I didn’t really want to do here, but tonight was just chock full of crap and I know everyone around me was all like “why does Kate look like she’s going to punch a kitten?” So I’ll tell you why I looked like I was going to punch a kitten. Even a baby soft one.

I’m not going to post a rant about tipping your waitress. Not even that mild. Oh no. I would only punch an ugly animal if it had been as mild as not tipping. Nor is it even about dining and dashing, though it is a little about that. This post is going to be a rant about dining and dashing in front of your thirteen year old son on your wife’s birthday.

So if it wasn’t obvious from the paragraph above, I don’t work in the finest of dining establishments. That’s cool. I work in a sports bar, and normally, I love it. I love the customers, especially the regulars, I love the atmosphere, the girls I work with, the fun we all have… it is such a fun environment in which to work. But sometimes, because it isn’t fine dining, we get some customers who are just plain rude. In both senses of the word; in the archaic sense, as in, crude and unformed – undeveloped – uncultured – but also in the modern sense, as in, NO manners.

Tonight, I had a table of three people – a man, woman and their young son – come in and sit at the largest booth which can fit 6. I didn’t even balk at that, which normally I do, because seriously people are you so important that you cannot sit at a booth for 4 people. I DIGRESS. They ordered two plates of chicken fingers, and a 14-oz Certified Angus ribeye. I was my usual bubbly self – not too overbearing, but still around when they needed me – and in fact, the woman realised she had ordered the wrong sauce for her chicken fingers so I exchanged them and all was happiness and light. The man had commented several times to several different people about the fact that it was his wife’s birthday, so I opened the dessert menu for them and told the woman to choose which one she wanted, because birthday desserts are on the house. She chose one, I made it, it was discounted, all was well. The man asked me to bring him the bill.

Their bill came to $85 and I signed an enthusiastic “Thanks! Happy birthday! -Kate” on top before placing the bill on the table, letting them know they could take their time paying, and walking away to check on my other tables. Maybe five minutes elapsed when I walked back to the table. The family had left, taking the bill with them, with only $55 accounted for. It took me a second to realise that the bill (with the accurate tab written on it) was missing – taken, no doubt, to throw me off the scent, so that hopefully I wouldn’t realise that I’d been shorted $30. I ran outside to see if I could catch up to them, but a crowd of smokers on the front step told me they had trundled into a car and taken off, stat.


What a fantastic lesson to teach your son. Hey, kid, let’s live outside our means and then deprive some minimum-wage schmuck of her pay! Remember – if you take the bill with you, she won’t notice until it’s too late.

This event (clearly) dragged me down for the rest of my shift, and I can’t apologise enough to the tables and staff that sensed that. Thankfully I have wonderful managers who covered the rest of the missing tab and let me go home somewhat earlier than normal. This is a sad, strange case; but veteran servers have told me that you never can expect which tables are shifty and which ones are honest. I’m glad the majority are honest, but I suppose tonight I learned where tomorrow’s generation of dine-and-dashers came from.

Perils of waitressing (at a sports bar)

  • Soccer hooligans
    • with snare drums
    • with vuvuzelas
    • with babies
  • Football hooligans
  • Hockey openers/playoff season
  • Pretty much any major sporting event
    • except anything MLB (sorry, it’s true)
  • Darts (thank god we don’t have any)
  • Pool cues
  • Pool balls
  • Most other balls
  • $7.99 mini-pitcher night
  • After-work sports teams
  • After-school sports teams
  • Public washrooms
  • Getting the wing sauce wrong (hasn’t happened to me… knock on wood)
    • because wings are expensive and we don’t get a discount
  • Butt-grabs (mostly by other waitresses but still surprising)
  • Shoes. Oh god, shoes.
    • and spider veins
  • The lactose-intolerant
  • Apparent year-long patio season
  • Spandex

In no particular order.