the bitter waiter

The impractical joker

On one unfortunate Cinco de Mayo, I shouldered the burden of serving an aspiring comedian and his posse of unwed mother-strippers.

I greeted the table, only to have him interrupt with a drunken: 

"Hey HEY hey!!!"

"May I bring you all anything to drink?" I asked.

"It's CINCO DA MAYO, hold da MAY-O, BWHAHAHAHA" he exclaimed.  Lord knows how many painkillers and paint fumes came together to construct that sentence.

I can only describe our budding entertainer as a mix between SNL's Keenan Thompson and every crazy beggar who's ever harassed you on the streets.  

"Yes, it IS Cinco de Mayo," I continued.  "And may I bring you all anything to..."

"Lighten up, man!" he said.  "You so serious!"

I offered the same weak smile I give to someone who offers unsolicited advice or tells me I look like David Cassidy.  

"Drinks?"

"Aiiiiight.  We're gonna do TRES MARGO-RITAS.  Double...no TRIPLE, the tequila, BWHAHAHAHA!!!"

Is it wise for someone I presume to be homeless to mix prescription pills with copious amounts of alcohol?

"Would you like those blended or on the rocks?"

Mr. Crazy mulled this over as if I'd inquired about the meaning of life or the best Hollywood intersection for purchasing a Yugoslavian prostitute.

"Which is better?" he asked after two minutes of introspection.

"I prefer on the rocks." 

"AWWWWWW, that's how you roll, huh?  On the rocks?  Like Rocky, on the rocks?  Are you a boxer?  BWHAHAHAHA!!"

"Yes.  I'll be right back with your drinks."

I returned with the margo-ritas.  To my dismay, the hookers at the table were encouraging Mr. Crazy by fervently laughing at his jokes. 

"Is everyone ready to order?" I asked.

"IS EVERYONE READY TO ORDER?" Crazy repeated.  I assumed he was checking on the hookers to see if they were ready.  

"What may I get for you?" I asked.

"WHAT MAY I GET FOR YOU?" Crazy said.  Ah yes.  The mimic game, the old standby in any good comedian's bag of tricks, especially if that comedian is four years old.

I stood there like a statue as Crazy cackled.

"Should I come back later?" I asked.

"SHOULD I COME BACK LATER?"

"Nothing I say is funny." I said.

"NOTHING I SAY IS FUNNY..."

And with that I walked away.  Naturally, I left them alone for a good ten minutes.  And when I returned, they were gone.  The drinks were still on the table but Crazy and company had flown the coop.

I looked around to see if their retreat had been recent.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crazy peering from around a corner, covering his mouth to conceal his laughter.

He walked toward the table with his harem of fleas.  

"WE GOT YOU GOOD MAN!  YOU THOUGHT WE DINED AND DASHED, BWHAHAHA!"

I was not amused.

"Yes, how clever of you," I said.  "From now on I'll need a set of keys or a credit card if you're going to continue sitting here.  And by the way, because it's Cinco de Mayo, you're only allowed to sit at a table for 90 minutes.  You've been here for almost an hour.  It's time to order."

"OHHHHHHH dude!  I get it.  Now YOU'RE trying to fuck with us!  90 minutes, hahahaha that's a good one."

"Riiiiiight," I said.

Once they hit the 89 minute mark, I informed the manager, who told Crazy & co. that their time was up, that they'd need to find an open mic night in Van Nuys, Reseda, or any other spot in the valley that would accommodate his ill sense of humor.

Crazy left a piled of crumpled bills as payment ($3 tip on a $40 bill), as well as an invitation to watch him perform stand-up at some venue in Orange County.

Anyone want to go?

A fine whine

Last week I waited on two sisters, both dead ringers for the Olsen twins (except dumber, blonder and exponentially heavier).

In addition to sharing a Fanta-colored spray tan, as well as a hair stylist who never met a bottle of peroxide he didn't like, they both spoke in the same whiney tone of voice.

(Actually, "whiney" doesn't do it justice.  Imagine a girl of 25 imitating a five-year-old by talking through her nose.  Mix in several pauses, "like"s and "uhm"s, and you have a recipe for my contempt)

"Ladies, may I bring you anything to drink?"

While sending a text message (probably to her sister), #1 asked:

"Uhm, what kinds of, like, strawberry margaritas do you.........have?"

I gave her my best "Awwwww, you're mildly retarded" smile and replied:

"What...kinds of strawberry margaritas??  Uhmm...strawberry?"

"Yeah, but like, what kinds of strawberry........?"

"Garden?"

#2 chimed in, and thank God, because she cleared up matters by asking:

"Are they, like, slushy strawberries or.........like....uhm...."

(No, you rocket scientist, they're magical strawberries with hats that giggle and dance and run from the Purple Pieman)

"Do you girls mean a blended strawberry margarita versus a strawberry margarita on the rocks?"

"We want it, like, slushy. Like a slushy."

"Do you want a pitcher?"

The girls looked at each other as if I'd just asked if I could urinate in their purses.  

"Uhmmm...a picture of what?"

"A pit-cher.  For your slushies."

"Oh-my-gah I toooooootally thought he said picture!"

"Oh-my-gah ME...too!!" chimed in #2

"Hahahaha!"

"Hahahaha!"

"Hahahaha do you want a f*cking pitcher or not?" 

The two ordered a pitcher, a "melted cheese thingy" and "the thingy with cheese and 'check-en' inside a tortillia."

The food came, as did my unbearable migraine from listening to them speak, and the girls sat for literally 15 minutes before eating.  They were too busy texting.

Thus, when I walked by 15 minutes later, #1 waived her hand in the air and said, "Excuse me, waiter?"

(Diners, just a tip, should you ever want to inspire your server to poison your food, call him or her "waiter")

"Uhm...like...this food is cold."

"Yes.  That's because it's been sitting there for 15 minutes."

"Can you, like....uhm.....put it in the microwave?"

"We don't have a microwave."

#2 sensed her chance to display her unparalleled skills of logic and reasoning

"Uhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...then, like, how do you melt the cheese?"

"I believe the radical thinkers of our time call it a stove.  We also utilize what's called 'an oven.'"

"Oh...uhm...also...there's not enough check-en in this check-en quesadilla."

"I can charge you for an extra side of chicken."

"But like...we shouldn't be charged 'cause, like, look at this check-en. Uhhhh."

She lifted the top layer of the quesadilla to reveal a full breast of chicken, the standard amount.

"See, like, there's the cheese and...then the check-en."

(Wow, thank you Julia Child for your unmatched ability to describe culinary delicacies)

"Sorry.  That's the normal amount of chicken.  Would you like to order an additional side?"

"Uhhh.  No.  I mean.  Well.  Uhhhm.  Ugh...like....can we....we need a box."

"So...do you want me to heat up the food or do you want me to bring a box?"

"Uhm...yeah."

I brought out boxes.  They asked for the bill, which I promptly set on the table.

The girls studied the bill as if it were the itinerary of a sorority scavenger hunt.  Money was carefully pulled out of designer knock-off billfolds.  And I knew I was royally screwed when pennies and nickels came out, as well.

They exited, and I rushed to the table to ensure that they'd at least paid the entire bill.  They left $5 too little (meaning I'd actually have the pleasure of paying for a portion of their meal instead of receiving a tip).

I chased them to the parking lot.  It took me 10 minutes to explain why the money they left didn't equal the total of the bill.  I used charts, diagrams, a calculator and even an abacus.  They vehemently disagreed but paid the additional $5.

Upon returning to my section, I found that the table once occupied by the twins had now been sat with six young blondes.  But we'll save that story for next time.

He said she said

I recently waited on a loud, white trash couple from either some small town in West Virginia or an unchartered cavernous colony in the Appalachians.  Their function, as a couple, was to reiterate everything the other one had just said to me.

"THE SONGS IS TOO LOUD IN HEERE!"

"HE SAYS THE SONGS IS TOO LOUD IN HEERE!"

Followed by:

"AISLE HAVE THE CHEECKEN FA-HEEEETAS."

"HE SAID HEEL HAVE THE CHEECKEN FA-HEEEETAS."

At first I thought they were either yanking my chain or high on home-made crystal meth, but I soon realized they were just as dumb as a box of rocks.  

"And would either of you two (Flintstones) care for anything to drink?"

"HUH?"

"HUH?"

I loosely pantomimed drinking, or servicing a caveman, and their faces lit up with recognition.

"DAH-ET COKE."

"DAH-ET COKE."

Their appetizer, a doomed plate of steak nachos, lasted about 30 seconds.  I watched in terror as they devoured the greasy dish like blind cannibals in an emergency room.

And then came the main sacrifice, an order of chicken faheeeetas.  To which the less hairy of the two said:

"NUH UH, HE ORDERED CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"YEAH, I SAYS CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"No.  You both said chicken fajitas."

"NUH UH, HE SAYS CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"YEAH, I SAYS CHEECKEN KWAYSA-DELIA."

"So, let's be clear.  You want two tortillas, filled with chicken and cheese.  A quesadilla.  Not the fajitas?"

"NO, I'S WANT THE CHEECKEN IN A TORTILIA WITH CHEESE AND THE GREEN STUFF."

"You want a chicken taco?"

No blank canvas or piece of sheet paper could have conveyed an emptier look.  Two of them, to be precise.

"Or do you want a chicken tamale?"

Crickets.  Blank stares.  Drooling.

"Or a chicken enchilada?"

"WHEEL JUST EAT THIS CHEECKEN THANG."

"YEAH WHEEL JUST EAT THIS CHEECKEN THANG."

The two studied the hot skillet and its various components as if it were an exhibit from "The World of Tomorrow."  After a few minutes, they figured out how to consume the dish, sans silverware (or napkins).  

Soon after, I dropped the bill.  Imagine my surprise when he pulled out not only a wallet (instead of a hobo bag on a stick) but a CREDIT CARD.  And it wasn't stolen or declined!  

I could scarcely make out the amount of the tip because the credit card receipt was covered in grease.  

The two slowly (very, very slowly) walked out of the restaurant, his hairy arm around her hairy neck.

 

Long distance dining

Call me old-fashioned, but I think it's supremely rude when customers talk on cell phones while I'm trying to take their order.  Nothing makes me turn my back to a table and storm off quite like the gesture of an index finger in my face, telling me to wait while this person finishes a call.

The other day I waited on a plump pair of douche bags with hair everywhere but their heads.  They walked into the restaurant, ignored the hostess, and sat themselves in my section.  

For two reasons, I did not make an effort to greet them.  First, my co-workers and I have an unspoken rule about self-seaters.  Namely, we ignore them until they put two and two together and realize that the person up front, the one in all black, with menus in hand, seating people at tables, is the person with whom they should have spoken.

Second, they were both on their cell phones.  They spoke in some Middle Eastern language, simultaneously spitting on one another as they competed to see who could raise his voice higher while telling his shrouded wife what to prepare for dinner.

As self-seaters are oft to do, they eventually waived their ape-like arms in the air to attract my attention...while still on their cell phones.

"Yes?" I said with one eyebrow raised as I approached.

I stood there for five seconds as they continued their conversations, both giving me the index finger.  I walked back to the server station a few feet away and pretended to watch the TV behind the bar.

30 seconds later, they flagged me down again.

"Yes?" I said with one eyebrow raised.

"KEH KEH KEH KEH," one of them said into his phone, which I translated to mean, "My servant has finally arrived to take my drink order and pluck my shoulder hair.  Woman you will wait with your hand in boiling water while I humiliate him."

"TWO PATRON SHOTS CHILLED EXTRA LIMES CHEESE KESSA-DEEYA CHICKEN EMPANADAS STEAK FAJITA."

And with that, he resumed his phone call.

"Small or large?" I inquired.

"KEH KEH KEH KEH" (translation: "This servant is really haggling with me over the price of three mules.  Woman you will now pour that boiling water all over your head while I make this servant tap dance.")

"WHAT?"

"Your 'kessa-deeya.' Small or large?"

The two men conferred with each other, discussing the appetizer size and plotting my ransom price.

"LARGE."

He once again resumed his phone call.

"How would you like your steak cooked?"

"KEH KEH KEH KEH" (translation: "Woman if you've ever bore me any girls, pour the boiling water on them as well while I punch this meddling servant in the balls.")

"MEDIUM WELL."

This time I waited several seconds while he continued the phone call.

"Which two sides would you like?"

"I DON'T CARE, JUST BRING THE FOOD."

"Well the decision is yours, not mine.  You need to select two sides."

"WHAT ARE OPTIONS!?"

"They're listed in the menu."

"JUST GIVE US BEANS AND RICE."

"Black beans or pinto?"

"BLACK!!!!"

I once again let his resume his phone call.  And then.

"Would you like corn or flour tortillas with your fajitas?"

"BOTH!!!!!  ANY OTHER QUESTIONS?!"

I looked down at my blank notepad as if I had a server script to follow.

"No.  Thanks!"

I delivered the shots, which were promptly consumed with all the grace of a hoth.

The food arrived and sat untouched for at least five minutes while the two remained on the phone.  Finally, the more vocal of the two began his feast (while still on the phone).  The other man never once touched the food.  At no point did he veer from his phone call.

Because I sensed no objections, I dropped off their bill right after the food was delivered.  Without thoroughly examining the bill, the vocal one dropped three $20 bills and waived it in the air once he saw me.

Just as I began to bring him his change, I noticed they were getting up to leave (still on the phones), leaving 75% of their food behind.  More importantly, the man was so wrapped up in his phone call that he didn't bother waiting for his change, which amounted to a %100 tip for me.

While some of you might want to believe that he intended to be so generous, I like to think that a fool and his money soon part ways, especially when that fool can't be bothered to get off the phone while dining.

Doing Unto Others...

Last weekend I waited on a couple who clearly spent their upbringing either robbing elderly women or playing in pig slop.  The most polite thing they did was to burp into their napkins instead of the other's face.  I hated them the minute I smelled their stench, and the subsequent two hours did nothing to find them in my favor.

Every question I posed, out of sheer necessity for taking their order, was an inconvenience.

"Would you like black beans or pinto beans?"

(They exchanged a look as if I'd asked something inappropriate, and she replied,)

"UHHHHHHM...I DON'T KNOW!"

"Well, as much as I'd love to make this important decision for you...black beans or pinto beans?"

"UHMMMMMM (God why is this weird man asking me questions and writing down my answers) BLACK BEANS???"

"Fascinating.  Your order will be right out."

"OHH, WAITER?  WE GONNA NEED A CAB WHEN WE DONE!"

"I'm sure you will."

Fast forward to check time, and the total was $113.64.  The aspiring rapist (ie the male) of the two handed me $120 and told me to keep the change.

In true Bitter Waiter fashion, I separated the remaining six dollars and pennies into a makeshift fan and threw it on the table.

"Here's your change.  The cab company said your cab will be outside in five minutes."

"WE GONNA WAIT HERE TIL HE COME.  YOU TELL US WHEN HE HERE."

"I don't hang around outside hailing cabs," I replied.  "You'll need to be outside yourself.  You've tabbed out.  The restaurant is on a wait.  Bye bye."

And the two of them went outside to wait for their cab.  

And they waited.

And they waited.

And they waited.

Approximately 30 minutes later, I suppose it dawned on them that I never called their cab.  They left, presumably to steal someone else's car in an attempt to get home and watch themselves on "COPS."

 

The four most disturbing people I served yesterday

1. Fat family of five

Dad strolled in wearing a T-shirt that said "I am Fartacus." They left before ordering because our kid's menu was too "fancy" for his army of Truffle-Shufflers. Mom was clad in a style reminiscent of family church directory photos from the late '80s.

2. The Pointer Sisters

Unable to communicate in any manner other than pointing or nodding, these Asian sisters made quite the presentation while ordering. We eventually established several non-verbal clues and their meanings. One nod meant "Everything is acceptable, American servant." Two nods and a grin meant, "This rotisserie chicken is succulent, cute white waiter." And a weak smile from me meant, "I anticipate your bad tip, friends of Hello Kitty."

3. Blissfully in love couple

Trumpets echoed and doves accompanied this euphoric couple as they announced to all that their love transcended anything we mere plebeians should ever hope to experience. Doting boyfriend trumped my question of "Anything to drink?" with "Isn't she the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?"

"At this booth, yes," I replied.

4. Wannabe celeb and her manorexic friend

Nothing screams "I'm someone" like wearing a pair of sunglasses indoors while dining. Not-Lindsay ordered in a tone that deftly mixed condescension with what must have been abdominal pain. Her anemic she-male comrade didn't look up from his Razr once and sucked iced tea like a West Hollywood bar regular. They split a salad and stayed for hours, discussing flat irons, sundresses, and someone named Chikezie.

With today being Cinco de Mayo, and yours truly working the middle of the battlefield, expect a particularly colorful entry tomorrow.

The 5 dumbest questions I've been asked all week

1. "Are you the server?"
No, bitch, Halloween came early and I decided to go as a disgruntled employee trick-or-treating at my local Mexican restaurant.

2. "Is this flavored tap water?"
Despite the typically verbose nature of my rants, I feel this particular question needs no additional commentary.

3. "Did you see the car crash outside?"
Yeah, it's weird, I have these visions of what's going on in the outside world when I'm inside a barely lit building at night.

4. "I didn't see it on the menu, but you all have calamari, right?"
Yes, we feel it would benefit our sales tremendously if we left the popular items off the menu but still offered them to our customers.

5. "My son wants a light green crayon to color his kid's menu, can you find one?"
Do I look like the fucking Reading Rainbow to you? The odds of me searching through crayon boxes at the host stand for a light green crayon aren't nearly as good as the odds of you pulling one out of your fat ass.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part four

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

4. White trash Brittany and poser cohort

You can imagine the fine clientele that my restaurant attracts on Monday evenings, when all food is 30% off. Every cliche, minority and starving lower-class family endure the almost-hour-long wait in a scene straight out of Schindler's List, all to save a couple dollars on Mexican food.

And inevitably, before I drop the check at least five people different people will ask:

"Now the discount's already added in, right?"

I assure them, with my stoic disgust, that it is. In most restaurant situations, the customer feels he/she has the upper hand. Not so on Monday nights, when I can sense the desperation and penny-pinching. I almost feed off the misery of the broke.

Last Monday, Brittany and her boyfriend/gay partner/tragic poser friend came in to split one beef burrito, two waters, and a never-ending supply of gratis chips and salsa. I could smell their bad tip coming from a mile away, as evidenced by their complete lack of manners and deodorant.

I begrudgingly refilled their waiters (to no "Thank you," of course) and made 5 or 6 trips to refill the chip basket that their dirty little hands couldn't empty quickly enough.

The total for this grand feast came to $7.57. Brittany paid using her credit card and left no tip of any sort, just a salsa smudge and the parting refrain of her Rite Aid knock-off perfume.

This is Brittany's myspace profile. Finally, you can see what I have to deal with. Notice the painfully self-proclaimed depth, the inevitable angst and loneliness, the myriad of misspelled words, and the awfully misinformed nickname "Penny Lane."

Thanks Brittany! Always remember that Taco Bell is a few miles north of my restaurant with a menu tailored much more to someone of your class, intellect and financial status.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part three

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

3. Douche bag businessman and his coked-out stripper girlfriend

Rarely do I give off the impression that I enjoy talking to the people I wait on. That's why I always find it amusing when someone insinuates that I'm being a pest by asking such personal, imposing questions as "Are you finally ready to order?" and "Any dessert or coffee?".

Last night I waited on Mr. Asshole, an imitation-brand-suit wearing big wig with all the self-importance of Thurston Howell, III. Sitting centimeters away was his prostitute girlfriend, no doubt coagulating at the thought of doing coke off Mr. Asshole's unmentionable parts in some sleazy hot tub around midnight.

Reluctantly, and after a silent prayer by the host stand, I approached the table. I stood by the table for a good 20 seconds waiting for some sort of acknowledgment. Mr. Asshole was too busy regaling his girlfriend-by-the-hour with stories of mergers, meetings, and other two syllable words that went right over her head.

"Drink?" I said with beautiful disdain.

"We're not ready to order drinks," he barked. "Come back in five."

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Asshole approached me at the server station.

"Two grey goose martinis. Very dry. No olive."

I obligingly rang in the drinks, then checked some text messages, shot the shit with our line cook, went outside to chat with the smokers, greeted a few other tables, called my mom and dad, filled out a schedule request, made a list of places to visit before I turn 30, wiped a stain off my apron, took a piss, then delivered the cocktails after naming all 50 state capitals with a co-worker.

"Ready to order?" I asked as I dropped off the drinks.

"No, we'll let you know if we're hungry," he said as his girlfriend licked the rim of his martini glass.

"Actually, sir, seeing as how this is a restaurant and we're on a wait, you can't sit at the tables just for cocktails. Ready to order?"

"Quesadilla," he said.

"What kind?"

"Small."

"Not what size, what kind?"

"Chicken."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Grilled or pulled rotisserie?"

"Whichever's better, okay?"

Our rotisserie chicken is frequently manhandled by the unwashed hands of three or four Mexicans who have far more contempt for humanity than I do. Naturally, this is what I selected for the lovebirds.

After a few more rounds of grey goose, girlfriend-by-the-hour was clearing servicing Mr. Asshole underneath the table with her hands. I found every excuse I could to interrupt this exchange, each time earning more and more of Mr. Asshole's ire.

Eventually it was tab time (after three hours of hogging my section). Mr. A handed me a $50 for the $45.24 tab. I interrupted his tongue contest with a most energetic, "Can I keep the change??"

Fortunately for me, I have enough good karma in the bank that the universe loves me in spite of my service industry exploits. While clearing the remaining glasses after the happy couple left, I found that Mr. A left behind his Prada knock-off sunglasses.

I'd like to report that I took the higher road and headed straight to the lost-and-found and turned in the glasses. But I didn't. I gave them to one of the Mexicans as thanks for making the quesadilla that would no doubt interrupt the happy couple's post-dinner hot tub session.

The Five People You Meet in Hell, part two

(i.e. "The Five Dumbest People I've Waited on All Month.")

2. Patronizing single dad and his gratingly precocious daughter

In the restaurant world, parents often embody one of two types. They're either endearingly apologetic for bringing their disruptive offspring into public (meaning they tip well), or they're so self-absorbed as to think that serving their obnoxious by-product is a rare privilege.

"Oh isn't that cute! Little Gertrude spilled her 'sippy' all over the booth. Think of her fondly as you clean up after my child. Here's 10%."

One of my least favorite regulars is Mark, a perpetually single father on the prowl. The sideshow of Mark's almost vaudevillian efforts to attract women is his unbearably precocious four-year-old daughter. Picture the most annoying co-star from any episode of "Punky Brewster" or "Silver Spoons," add an eerily intentional resemblance to Shirley Temple, and you've got Mark's daughter.

I've nicknamed her Annabelle, because she looks like someone a greedy parent would prop up at a state fair with a microphone and a bucket just begging for spare change.

When Mark brings in Annabelle, he offers a running commentary on the dining experience for the sake of everyone around.

"Isn't that cute? Annabelle just used her big-girl fork!"

or

"Say, Annabelle, how do you pronounce enchilada again? Geez, listen to her adorable tongue just mangle that word. Isn't that the cutest thing you've witnessed?"

I am inevitably expected to engage in this exploitation as if I'm an extra in a Frank Capra film, just grateful to be a fly on the wall of each precious moment. Mark and Annabelle are, of course, completely unaware of my palpable contempt.

Even if I were to say, "I hope the Hezbollah kidnap your daughter," he would look at me as if I'd exclaimed "I'll take one just like her!"

A few weeks ago, while dealing with my usual dose of the Father/Daughter Tag Team of Terror, Mark brought along a date. To my extreme pleasure, Annabelle did not take kindly to the 22-year-old bleached blonde receptionist.

Though I can't stand the little shit, I respect her clear mastery of manipulating daddy. Throughout the meal, she claimed one ailment after another in a clear effort to ditch Nancy Drew and lay the foundation for years of paternal control.

"Oh angel," Mark pleaded, "Just 10 more minutes and we'll go home. Say, why don't we order the brownie sundae and let you work on that for a bit?!"

Mark made the fatal mistake of offering something that wasn't on the menu. Bright little Annabelle played his bad move like a Stradivarius.

"I DO want a brownie sundae, now! Brownie sundae, BROWNIE sundae, BROWNIE SUNDAE!"

Thus Mark escorted his ladies out of the restaurant to avoid the potential temper tantrum. Little Annabelle skipped to the door, beaming with satisfaction. And a small part of me grew to hate her a little less.