a server's sermon

To everyone who has ever, or will ever dine in a restaurant,

This is my simple plea. Take a deep breath, and realize that it’s JUST. FOOD. Before you decide to misdirect your rage, remember that the person serving you is… A person. A person that doesn’t cook the food, so when you decide to eat a busy restaurant on your lunch break when you only have 20 minutes and order a well done burger, you shouldn’t throw a shitfit because it doesn’t come out in five minutes. If you are operating under those time constraints, kindly point yourself in the direction of the nearest McDonalds. It’s called fast food for a reason.

Be cognizant of the fact that most servers make less than minimum wage, and that because of taxes frequently receive paychecks with $0.00 on them. We are living 100% of the tips you leave us, so when you decided to leave us $8.00 on a $150.00 check, it will absolutely ruin our night. Also, servers have to give a certain percentage of tips to bussers, foodrunners, and bartenders… at my restaurant this is 30% of my tips in a night. You aren’t just shafting me when you decide to skimp. The days of tipping ten percent are long gone, especially in the most expensive city in the country. Fifteen is actually not all that great. Twenty percent is the norm. Think of the extra few dollars as one less double cappuccino at Starbucks and one more subway ride for your starving artist server. If you don’t have the money to tip, you don’t have the money to be going out to eat. Stay at home.

And on that note, you aren’t at home, so why do you think you can just march right by the sign that says “please wait to be seated”, plop yourself down, and then proceed to invent new menu items? Simple modifications and food allergies are completely acceptable and understandable, but you can’t honestly tell me that you can’t find one item on the whole menu that suits your liking as is. Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t need to get the salmon sides with the tuna entrée, and add a fried egg to your burger, and get half BBQ and half Buffalo wings, and you certainly don’t have to act like your server is personally insulting you when they inform you that the kitchen can’t grant your bizarre request. Ask nicely, and I’ll do my best, but if you live your life at that level of high maintenance, I pity the people around you.

Lastly, and most importantly, just try a little patience. Things happen all the time in a restaurant that are out of your server’s control and that might impede the speed of your service. Before you decide to berate a twentysomething recent college graduate and scream profanities in her face over the speed your to go order is being processed ( an order that she neither took, entered in to the computer, or cooked….or even spoke to you about for that matter) consider this:

She is someone’s daughter. She’s not waiting tables because she doesn’t have the mental capacity to do more with her life, she’s merely doing it to survive so she can pursue a career she is passionate about, unlike you who clearly hates your job and has to take your anger out on waitresses. Maybe she is up to her ears in debt from her conservatory education, struggling to make ends meet, and hates working in said restaurant as much as you hate your unfulfilling day job so the last thing she needs is your rage dumped on her. And finally, like I said before, it is just. freaking. food. It’s not cancer. It’s not divorce. It’s not bankruptcy. It’s fucking fish and chips, and it’s not worth acting like an unimaginable bastard about. Consider yourself lucky that you have the luxury and the money to go out and be waited on, and save your anger for something that really matters, and lay off your poor server. Think of your service as a privilege, not a right.

Cordially,

Melissa Kay Farmer

always been a shoe made for the city

I have always been so perplexed by the fact that I often times find myself too exhausted to sleep. Long, exhausting days empty my proverbial bucket to the point where my complete lack of energy makes a silence in my head that causes all of my less than pleasant musings to jarringly echo against my skull. I find myself so thoughtful and introspective, yet too tired to deal with the repercussions of said state of mind. So I stare blankly at my computer screen.

Blink. Blink. Blink. How cliché to be hypnotized by my cursor. Blah.

Sometimes nothing is an amazing feeling. Like the absolute nothing I feel when I think about certain people is my favorite feeling in the world, or at least a welcome change to searing heartache, or gut wrenching anger.

Nothing is also much less threatening than ….feelings. Those kind. The kind that have previously been the start of a meteoric rise followed by a clumsy, desperate tumble down a rocky hill. You find yourself at the bottom, covered in bumps and bruises that will eventually heal, but their lasting impressions will inevitably make you think twice before you start up the next incline.

Blah blah blah, it’s all about the climb, thanks Miley.

You don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to admit just how actually feel, somewhere underneath all of the cynicism and brassy demeanor. You hate that the conversations you are having with yourself and everyone else are so cliché. You hate how cliché it is to call yourself out on being cliché, and find it endless annoying that you can’t find a more creative way to express yourself.

Love is amorphous being, an amoebic little bastard. Every experience, every person, every radiant moment, every crushing downfall, every unexpected variable changes your personal definition of this crazy little thing called love that Freddy Mercury just couldn’t handle. So how can we ever be sure of what we are feeling and how best to carry on?

Cue deep sigh. We can’t. I knooooooow. You just have to jump… eventually. If you’re going to make a mistake, make a big one.

I will jump. I promise. Just don’t shove me.