A Day in the Life of a Server (excerpt from my memoir)

I started working for a well known bar and grill restaurant whose uniforms resembled a cross between a soccer referee and a circus performer.  Stripes are supposedly slimming, but I never felt attractive donning the black, red and white monstrosity.  I suppose the circus get-up was appropriate considering the employees and customers made you feel like you were in a big top performance.

            Servers are a unique breed.  They are a mixture of people with Peter Pan syndrome, gay men, lifers and college students.  And then there was me- who never quite fit in.  I was just this lost soul trying to find myself and using this as a pit stop.

            My first day I was informed that in addition to serving delicious hot wings, I would also be  gracing customers' with hearing my vocal chords.  For those of you that have been to restaurants and think it looks like fun to dance and sing while you are at work, you are sadly mistaken.   Let me paint a picture for you so you can understand.

            It’s a crazy Friday night and I’m at a table “trying” to take an order.   Out of the corner of my eye I see that the hostess has double sat me.  Yikes, I’ll just bang this order out and swing by the other tables, I think.

            The family in front of me has other plans.   They have asked so many questions I’m convinced they think they are on a game show and will be rewarded for their behavior.  Does the soda have free refills?   Does the cheeseburger come with fries?   What exactly is in the barbeque sauce?  Does it have a kick to it or is it like normal sauce?   Is there seasoning on the steak?  How much does it cost to add a salad?  Does the salad have croutons on it?  Where’s the bathroom?  The questions were becoming a blur and my new tables were starting to do the “look around” for the server.   I try to brush them off gently.  “It looks like you might need some more time, I’ll give you a few more minutes.”   As I say this, I start to turn but the mother interjects.  “No, we’re ready.  Kelsie, you go first.”

            Kelsie is probably about fourteen with frizzy hair and wild eyes.  She has been studying the menu intensely through this whole process like she is preparing for a calculus exam.  She breathes a long sigh and then looks up at me through some wisps of hair.  “I’m soooo confused.”

            Through clenched teeth, I try to ask patiently what she is confused about.  I can already sense it.  She is looking at our pick two menu which is an entrée and either a dessert or appetizer for ten dollars.  That’s all there is to it.  I swear.  But people want to make it more complicated.  They will order an entrée, appetizer and dessert.  Let’s see-that’s three things.  Try again.  They will order two entrees.  Nope- still wrong.  Or my favorite- they will order two entrees, two appetizers and two desserts.   And then they will be pissed when you make a light-hearted joke that that would be a great deal but no, that’s not right either.

            Kelsie looks at me with her wild eyes.  “I don’t get this,” she said.  Her face is getting red and she looks like she is about to have a panic attack.   Meanwhile, her brother has picked up a knife and is stabbing the remains of a mozzarella stick that was leftover on the appetizer plate.  He has not said much at this point and seems to be taking greater pleasure than normal in the stabbing motions.  I can’t take it at this point.  I tell neurotic family that I have to grabs drinks for another table and will be right back.

            I dash over to my first new table hoping that it will be smooth sailing.  It’s not.  They are foreigners which means it will take me twice as long because I will be repeating everything.  Well, at least I can take their drink orders quick.  I plaster on my fake smile and ask what they would like to drink.  The first guy looks up at me and says, “I would like salty lemon water.”

            “Oh, you mean lemonade,” I said as I jotted it down.

            The guy shakes his head vehemently.  “No, no.  Not lemonade.  Salty lemon water.”

            At this point, I’m stumped.   Maybe in India they serve this delicious drink but not in America.  I decide to pretend I know what he’s talking about.   “Oh, yes.  I’ll be right back with that.”

            As I run to the kitchen, I swoop by table 65 to collect my tip.  Wait- this can’t possibly be right.  I count it again.  They left me a $1.50 on an eighty dollar bill??!!  As I stand there contemplating what is wrong with mankind, I hear the familiar yelling.  “I need birthday singers for table 40 on the double!”   Oh, did you forget about the birthday singing from earlier?  Yeah- I’m not in the mood to do it right now either…

And the Obnoxious Co-Worker Award goes to....

Cast your vote now.   Who do you think should receive the most obnoxious co-worker award?

Sally:  Sally and I worked together at a local bank.   Her favorite make-up was the orange foundation that she caked on in layers.  It got everywhere-on her clothes, on the money and all over her keyboard.  In the year that we worked together, she only had three outfits that she wore- one of which was a form fitting black dress that showed off her belly that resembled a seven month pregnant woman.    She cackled and snorted when she laughed and chomped her gum loudly as she waited on customers.   She was single.

Marvin:  Marvin was a real class act.   He volunteered to raise money for a charity at work, but then told everyone he was only doing it because the volunteers got a free meal.   He also insisted on getting reimbursed for the two dollars he spent on day old donuts when we went to a conference.   The same trip he wouldn’t let me ride in the front seat even though I get sick in the back seat on long trips.   He was also single.

Darren:  Darren was a real character.   He made it clear that women were second in command at his house.  He also had a picture to back it up.   A picture of his wife vacuuming- with a look of death on her face.   He also ate the most disgusting lunches.  One time I witnessed him eat a cold can of peas and a raw onion like an apple.  He then poured the pea juice in a cup and had that for his drink.    Somehow he was married.

Rules for Running into an X

Even though I’ve been happily married for eight years, running into an ex-boyfriend is about as much fun as having my eyeballs poked with toothpicks. Anyone that has ripped my heart out and then cooked it on their George Foreman grill is not enjoyable to see. And almost without doubt the following rules always seem to play out.

1)       When you see the aforementioned boyfriend you will always look your worst.  This can include any of the following: looking like a sweaty rag because you just came from your Zumba class, having a zit on your face the size of a personal pan pizza or looking like you haven’t bathed in a week because you just came from a massage.

2)      You will always be alone.  You will never be with your new hot boyfriend or husband.  You are generally not even with friends so you can at least laugh and pretend that life is awesome.  (Well, you can still try to laugh and pretend that life is awesome but you will just look like a crazy person.)

3)      It will always be the most awkward situation possible.  Ex: I had been married to my husband for about a year when I discovered that my sister-n-law’s first cousin was my ex-boyfriend.  Weird thing # 2- His ex-wife happened to date my husband in high school. Awkward thing # 3- I got to have a chance meeting with my ex at his grandmother’s funeral when I decided to stop by to pay respects to my sister-n-law.

Now-if you are one of the lucky ones that have been able to run into your X with your sexy look-alike Matthew McConaughey boyfriend while looking like you walked off the Victoria’s Secret runaway, consider yourself blessed!