Be Nice To Your Waitress

Okay I’ll be honest. Since getting back from Fiji… I have been waiting tables. I haven’t dry-cleaned my pant suit yet. In fact, I cut my pant suit into mini shorts and a rock and roll pin striped vest, sung at an open mic night and THEN waited tables.

I am by no means fancy. I have pens in my hair, dunlop volleys on my feet and blue mascara. Okay the blue mascara is a bit ‘Jenny from the Block’ but it makes me feel like a mermaid so what. We don’t wear aprons and we don’t say ma’am. But we are friendly and we will get your kids a tissue and pick them up if they are crying.

I did have one customer who said, “Hey aren’t you that model? I think I’ve worked with you before.”

I swallowed my free sourdough down quickly and smiled.

It’s certainly not glamourous. But it’s good. It’s good and it’s calm and it’s flexible and there are the loveliest of people prancing around the floor with you. Delivering dip boards and zucchini flowers.

Then you get the one.

The one person.

This one person who fancies herself a bit special. Yes, it is sad, but the one mean person in the restaurant, usually comes with breasts. (The men are just happy to be fed.) You can spot them by their pout, their clicking, their eye-rolls, their ‘I don’t like this wine it’s obviously not from the chatttteeauuuuu de fleur de la plaaaage la blah blah’, their lack of bread intake, and non-exsistent tips.

Being a waitress you get to witness a lot of different people. You get to witness a lot of different people on dates believe it or not. A lot of people trying to impress one and other. And the woman of whom I just described, is more often than not, on some sort of a first date.

Let me tell you ladies, as this has happened a few times, these displays of ‘I had better oysters in Italy’,’Where is that girl with our champagne’, and ‘I can’t believe they still even make jeans’…………..Do not work.

They usually result in your date making eyes…… at …well…the waitress. Because they are embarrassed. By you.

It’s sad but true.

All of us delivering your chicken salad know it. It’s a thing. We joke about it. So now I want you to know it too. Because we have no use for your date’s digits on the back of the receipt docket. We have our men. (They are the unemployed musicians with mustaches rolling smokes on the curb)

So here is the message ladies.

Be nice to your waitress. Otherwise you come across as an uptight aristocrat with lipstick on your teeth.

And that aint sexy babe.

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