Clean Up on Aisle 42, Stat!

I’ve been cursed. It seems I have a magnetic field around me that attracts waiters and waitresses to bust out their handy-dandy push brooms and vigorously sweep the floor around me the minute I sit down in a restaurant. I’m getting worried because it really, truly is becoming a recurring distraction. And now even The Mister, who thought I was exaggerating, has come around. He thought I was being dramatic at first, and he defended the poor little $5.50-an-hour help, saying “Well, they’re just doing their job.” Then he watched the magic unfold with his very own bloodshot eyes. The last three times we’ve visited a restaurant, it has happened. And, no, wait. It’s not right when we sit down. It’s AFTER our food has been served. So there I sit, looking at him with that told-ya-so glare as clouds of dust doody land ever so gently in his iced tea and fur balls play hide and seek in his french fries.

Am I being unreasonable? And where are those little surveys they ask you to fill out to see if you enjoyed the service? Never around when I need one, that’s for sure.  I think I’ll customize my own. I’ll carry a pack of them and leave one at each restaurant where this unappetizing feat of labor occurs.  It’ll say something like:

Rate from 1 to 10: The ability of the waiters to not leave you retching after inhaling four brunette hairs.
Rate from 1 to 10: The ability of the waiters to not wipe the seat with a wet rag without drying it and expect you not to stick to the vinyl and make those embarrassing farting noises.
Rate from 1 to 10: The ability of the hostest to not zero in on the closest screaming toddler and seat you right next to him.

(Ok, so that last one has nothing to do with dirt. I just had to throw that in there. No, wait! The toddler is usually the one throwing his freakin’ cheerios, which in turn brings the waitress running with the push broom. So there’s the segue.)

My skeptical co-worker witnessed, first-hand, my story of woe the last time she and I went to lunch. Dropping her mouth in disbelief, she said, “My gawwwd, you weren’t kidding,” as she watched the waiter fumbling with his broom and dustpan in an unwieldy manner near our feet. Now she’s been cursed.

And now that I’ve mentioned this never-ending practice at restaurants (and airports…and food courts) I’m sorry to say you are now going to notice it everywhere you go. I’m so sorry. Yeah, now you’ve been cursed.

5 Comments

Filed under Fear of the Day

5 responses to “Clean Up on Aisle 42, Stat!

  1. I had to laugh when I read this…I am just happy to find a RESTAURANT after being in my village for a week–I’ll take the sweeping on the floor!! 🙂

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  2. Love the post! Also love Marjorie’s comment. On a side note, I’ve been doing some research on magnetic fields (never really believed in it) but they exist!! And. Get. This. They extend 4 feet off of you. So this sweeper girl is definitely all up in your magnetic field. I sense there is an app for measuring this field coming soon.

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  3. Marjorie Schalles

    Oh, honey? I think you may want to reassess (yes, you can pronounce that any way you wish) the caliber of restaurants at which you dine. Me, I have a rule – more than one toddler on premises – no way, thanks, I’m outta here. Bachellorette party? Hmm, no thank you – I have trouble sharing my eating space with very drunk people. If I want chaos, I will stay at home where the food is practically free. Call me a snob if you will, but life’s too short and restaurants are too expensive for such rude behavior. And screaming.

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  4. Oh my gawd…I thought I was the only one who had this problem! I actually ask the waiter/waitress to please not sweep around me while I am eating…I’ve also been known to let the manager know before I leave the place. I always get a dumfounded look like I’m asking for something totally unreasonable.

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  5. Yeah. That rag they wipe the seat with. eeeeuuuuwwwww. Where the heck has it been before? I always go home and throw my pants in the wash (with an extra rinse cycle) right after sitting on a seat that got “gross ragged” right before you sat down. That frigging rag could star in a horror movie. It would be attached to the hand of a zombie busboy. He would hold it up threateningly and people would run away, screaming in horror.

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