I am an actress.
I am a comic.
I am a waitress.
And I have a lot to say.
So my co-workers have asked me to start a blog.
Well really - they said they that were going to start one with all the things I say - so I had to say No.
I mean you know that game telephone, right? One person says something, then the other repeats it, so on and so on. And along the way it gets all garbled and lost so the phrase "meet me at the bus stop" becomes "I wish Einstein were still alive".
So - I am blogging to rant. I am blogging to teach. I am blogging to make you laugh. I am blogging to get my friend Erin off my back already - OKAY - here's your freaking BLOG!!
I am blogging right now so I can keep myself occupied so I don't go next door and ask my neighbor what she could possibly be slamming against the wall of her apartment at 11:30 at night.
I have worked in the food service industry for years. I started at Chick-fil-A in high school. To this day I cannot eat slaw or carrot and raisin salad because of the mornings I would be hung over and have to go pack those salads into little Styrofoam containers as we set the store up for the day.
I then waited tables at Red Lobster while in college. It was there that I learned how to crack snow crab legs and that sleeping with your managers never ends up working out in your favor.
Years later in between touring theatre company jobs I worked in Ohio at a restaurant that was a converted fire house. The original fire pole was still in the middle of the dining room, and we had the pleasure of sliding down it with a cake in our hands that had a lit sparkler in it for that "special birthday". It was there that my fear of sparklers began when I set my shirt on fire halfway down the pole and then let go out of sheer panic. The Gerry rigged gymnastics mat they had concocted at the bottom caught my body. But my pride never recovered.
And DO NOT - I repeat - DO NOT light a sparkler near me. I am not a sissy girl who will scream. I will probably punch you. Not because I'm mean and horrible, but because that's just my reaction. And if you tickle me too long - I will probably punch you then too.
You know this coming in, so we should be fine.
Cut to - Los Angeles - 5 yrs later. I worked as a cocktail waitress in a strip club in downtown LA. Rough and tumble crowd. Here my punching skills really came in handy. I got to tell people to fuck off. If I didn't get a tip, I took the drink away. I learned that strippers keep Bath and Body Works in business, and that I have no business thinking I could be a stripper.
And now - while I know that my talent is on the brink of getting discovered by someone who can get me a job that PAYS - I work at a steakhouse on the Westside. No arguing about tips here. And definitely no Sun Ripened Raspberry body spray. Corporate corporate corporate. Fake smiles. Some demanding, ungrateful customers. Some amazingly wonderful customers. Lots of big personalities to work with. Crazy managers. No bussers. No food runners. The hardest waiting job I've ever had. No room for error. No room for sass. Just smiles and nods and the knowledge that I should win an Oscar for the performance I give nightly.
And tonight, after I waited on 3 BITCHY entitled little princesses at table 17 who were TERRIBLE TIPPERS - I wished really uncomfortable yeast infections on them. And I had fake conversations in my head with them where I got to tell them that while I realized they had probably never worked a day in their life, and I'm sure Mommy and Daddy pay the bill on their gold AMEX, that they should learn to be nice. And be polite. And tip your waitress. Because one day they may have to work. And they will be horrified when they remember their behavior. But in the meantime, may the ITCH be with you.
And it was then that I realized I need an outlet.
So for the remainder of my time as a waitress - PLEASE GOD LET IT END SOON - I will keep this virtual diary to remind myself of the highs and the lows.
I promise when I am ridiculously famous and successful that I will not forget my time in the service industry.
I promise to always tip 20%. Even on shitty service. Because you never know when someone is having a bad day.
And I promise that when the bitchy girls from table 17 tonight ask me for my autograph, I will remind them of how icky they were and tell them to go get a job. And that 20 percent is standard.
And to get their perfume from Sephora because only strippers wear Bath and Body Works.
