Opulent douchebaggery.

(choice of song is almost random, although the “concentrate” part is useful to me right now…)

I’m back. It’s been a wild couple of weeks, I have to admit. A fundraising festival that broke our backs with its 600 participants, then too little time to actually recover from that event, then chicken pox. Yes, chicken pox. I’m 25 and I have a mild case of chicken pox. Twenty years too late, for that matter, but it’s still chicken pox. It’s just life’s way of saying “It’s never too late for me to come and sodomize you until you cry and beg for mercy”.

Try not to imagine me covered in red dots like in that episode of “Tom & Jerry”, it’s not that bad, at least not yet. My medical certificate says “Beginning” of the almighty chickin’ pox, but I keep my hopes up and pray that my immune system plays its part as always. But then again I got sick the wrong way. You usually get the back aches, headaches, sore throat, fatigue and nausea before you get the rash, I got it the other way around, in episodes. Day one was headache, day two was nausea, day three was back aches. Some persist, some go away swiftly. I’m forced to stay indoors anyway, and I truly and honestly don’t want to stay home sick. It’s annoying and depressing.

   “Yes, just like that.”

And that isn’t even the funniest part. I got it from a fellow waiter, who got it from his nephew. And the nephew got the entire school sick; the place looked abandoned for about a week – quite the outbreak, must say. And this particular childhood disease is very contagious, especially for children and pregnant women. And it gets worse for pregnant women, who are most likely to produce children with congenital malformations if they ever get the chicken pox during pregnancy. And since I come in contact with so many people on a daily basis, the doctor said it’s best I stay at home. I couldn’t disagree but I can honestly say that I don’t wanna I don’t wanna I don’t wanna stay at home!

Wait, I was telling you about the funniest part and I got sidetracked, as usual. They prescribe these antihistamines for the rash, Fenistil drops. The prospect says one shouldn’t drive or operate any kind of machinery while under this treatment, because the drops might cause drowsiness, sleepiness and fatigue. They should cut out the “might” from the sentence, it most certainly makes you drowsy and sleepy. I walk around like a zombie around the house, befriending my doors and checking twice whenever I type something. Like I was telling my friends the other day, I have to think and carefully look at the keyboard before writing more complicated words, including “antihistamines”… I did it again. For what it’s worth, the treatment is effective, I do get less itches, my skin is somewhat grateful. But still, I sleep so much. Too much! And too deep. I fell asleep at 21:00 last night, a friend called me around 22:00 and I was convinced that it was morning and also insisted upon the fact. We talked for about half an hour, I don’t remember a single word of the conversation and then I went out like a light. No dreams, nothing. These drops are CREEPY.

  “No shit?…”

 So I’m stuck inside the house for this week. Normally that would be nice – some time off bladibladiblah… BUT not sick. Staying at home, sick, just… just sucks. It gives me some time to rearrange the place a bit but still, it sucks.

Working in a hotel (and quite the fancy kind of hotel) puts you in contact with a lot of people on a daily basis. Some give you the chicken pox, others just give you the nausea directly. I’ve met some of the world’s greatest assholes throughout my jobs in hotels. And this job isn’t different either – except for the pay, it’s so damn good to be out of my country, you can’t even begin to imagine. Anyway!

I’ve met Satan. This stumpy 60-something-year-old lady who probably didn’t have toys while growing up. She probably worked hard or just married a rich prick, but she obviously got a taste of the good life and now she’s the nightmare of anyone in the hospitality industry. Seriously, people go pale when she comes around. And my God does she enjoy to torture and irritate people.

“Bring me a cup of warm water, not too hot, not cold either, just warm, with slices of lemon, a bottle of water – one of the large ones you keep for breakfast, not the small expensive ones! Bring me some totally skimmed milk with another cup on the side… I’ll have the large salad like that guy, with less bell pepper, less onion, less garlic, more salad and corn, the medium rare steak – what’s taking so long, a steak should be done in five minutes, your staff is incompetent… Bring me some fruit, I’m not interested in your buffet, I want cherries. I don’t care if you don’t have any, you must procure them for me… Oh I see you’ve brought me cherries. Bring me a spoon too, how am I going to eat them?! Bring me a crème brulee. Oh it’s so good, but it makes you fat, I’m on a diet. Bring me another one.”

 “And while you’re at it, bring me your still beating heart on a silver platter.”

That lady needs a waiter just for her. She makes you run, she bathes in your misery and she enjoys playing the part of the pretentious bitch. I was once taught that there are good customers and difficult customers. But once in a while, life teaches you that there are also the impossible clients. The ones you serve quickly, blatantly ignore their subtle insults and pray to the point of crying that they leave as quickly as possible. They’re not happy, no matter what you do. There will always be something wrong. If she spends five days eating at the same table and dropping hints that that’s her table, on the sixth day you will prepare that table just for her. On that same day she will walk in and choose a different table. She wants to eat outside. Double the runs for you, you unlucky prick.

I thought that this thirst for useless opulence was a trait of my own people. But then I went out and noticed that it’s spread worldwide too, just in smaller quantities. People take people for granted. And let me say something, before the drops kick in.

Your waiter is not your slave. Your waiter is a guy who gets paid to smile at you and put food on your table, pour wine in your glass and thank you for paying your bill. He is a human being, most likely ten times smarter than you are. He’s probably doing this job as a means to an end, paying for college or a better car. He’ll probably do better than you ever will. He’s your waiter, not your servant, you opulent douchebag. You should be more careful with how you treat him – it’s a general rule: Never insult your waiter, bartender or chef. You don’t want to engage in a Russian roulette of “where did he spit?”.

“My bet’s on the ravioli!”

I’m simply allergic to people who forgot where they came from. They forgot about the days when there wasn’t any dinner because they simply couldn’t afford one. They forgot about wearing the same clothes to school because they simply couldn’t afford new ones. They forgot about driving the same pile of junk to work every day, they even forgot the day it broke down and never came back to life. They forgot the blood, the sweat and the tears it took to get them where they are now. And for that reason alone I do not give a shit about them, about who they are and about what they do.

You can be a rocket scientist, acclaimed novelist or a famous whatever. If you talk down on people and graciously play the part of the pretentious prick, then you mean nothing, you are nothing and you deserve nothing. Ancient philosophy says that before you start demanding respect, you should show respect.

There’s a reason why there’s an urban myth about the waiter spiting in your drink.

  “You’re damn right I did.”


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