As a member of the service industry, I see a lot of weird things, and I experience a whole range of people. The people who come into a bar at two in the morning frequently range from unnecessarily friendly to people who, if I weren’t at work, I would be driven to angry outbursts in the face of their moronic and occasionally malicious behavior. That said, I’ve noticed a few things that seem to pop up pretty frequently, and I have come to believe that many of the things that make my day worse are things that could be easily avoided if people just had a better sense of how bars and restaurants are run. So here, my dear friends, are a few pointers:

1. Order from the menu

Bars and restaurants are not stocked with an unlimited number of foods and alcohols. We have some things and not others. Don’t assume we have your favorite kind of vodka, and then get upset with your waitress when we don’t. Don’t go down the list of shitty beer you have in your head before bothering to look at the menu. Be aware of what kind of a place you’re in. Particularly at the bar I work at, we do not have Bud, Coors, Michelob, or anything with the word “lite” [sic] after it. Look at our beer menu, it’s way better than what’s in your refrigerator. Additionally, stop trying to customize your meal. We will be happy to accommodate allergies where we can, but if you just think your dish would be better if the gravy came on the side and the eggs were spicy, keep it to yourself until after you’ve at least tried it. Chefs make food with the intention of making it taste good, and they do it for a living. Respect them enough to try what they have prepared. If you still insist on customizing something, however, then Don’t Complain. You wanted the gravy on the side, now you can just live with your dry biscuits.

2. Know what you are ordering

The bar I work at has a lot of unusual cocktails and ingredients that people who generally gravitate to sports bars probably haven’t heard of. We work hard to discuss options with customers and to make sure we understand what they’re looking for in a drink before putting an order in. Even so, we still have plenty of people who walk in and order something, only to send it back because when they said “not sweet” what they actually meant was “a little sweet, maybe citrus-y or floral, but I definitely don’t want to taste any alcohol at all.” Talk to us–we usually know what we’re talking about, and if we don’t, we will happy to find out for you as long as you’re willing to be a little bit patient.

3. Don’t touch me

I don’t mean to sound like a dick, but I don’t know you, and I don’t want to touch you. A lot of men, especially men over forty (for some reason. Not sure why. maybe they’re more old-fashioned.) tend to assume that because I’m a young, not-unattractive waitress at a bar, that it is OK to get and keep my attention by grabbing my hand, or standing next to me with their hand on my back. Obviously everyone has a different level of comfort when it comes to personal space, but this makes some people, including me, incredibly uncomfortable. Think about it this way: if you wouldn’t do it to a male co-worker while in your own office in the middle of the day, I don’t want you to do it to me. Ever.

4.Remember that we are people. Just like you. No, really.

People who work in the service industry are not your mother, your babysitter, or your little sister that you can bully into getting what you want. We are adults, doing a job. And that job is not to suck up to you, befriend you, or give you free stuff; That job is: 1) to serve you food and drinks, 2) make recommendations, 3) clean up the mess when you leave, and 4) make sure you pay your bill.
If you think that you’re getting bad service, before going and taking it out on your server, ask yourself: “Is what I’m expecting within the job description provided above? Am I treating my server like I would like be treated, or is my behavior making him or her uncomfortable about approaching my table? If my mother (Scratch that. Imagine Michelle Obama. I don’t know what your mother is like.) knew how I was treating the human who is serving me, would she approve?” If you answer “No” to any of these questions, then it is your fault that you are having a bad time. No matter what the waitress or her manager says when you complain, if you tried to touch her a lot, or talked to her like she was stupid because you asked for something the bar didn’t have, then you really are the one being an ass, and you should know that Michelle Obama would be ashamed.

5. Tip me a little, even if you think I suck

I know this sounds like I’m just asking for money, but I’m really not. It is important to be aware that in most bars and restaurants, at least some of the tip you leave will go not only to the server, but also to the bartender who made you amazing drinks, and the runner who brought you delicious food. In some establishments, tip is split equally among these people, and you should take that into consideration when deciding that the people who took care of you all night deserve to only make the minimum 4.95/hour for their efforts.

6. If I look tired, it’s because I am

Now, bar-going people, I am not saying every service-worker does a good job, or that it’s always your fault if you get bad service. This is obviously not true. But give us the benefit of the doubt that most of us are working very hard and are personally invested in whether or not you have a good time. Service workers’ jobs are physically demanding and stressful because we are working while our friends and loved ones are out having fun without us. Or sleeping.  It would be cool if you didn’t add to the stress of the job by making it emotionally taxing just to interact with you.

OK, that’s it for today. For those people out there who are already considerate customers, YOU ROCK. We in the industry love you, and can’t thank you enough for your kindness and patience. Thanks for recognizing that I’m a person, just like you!

Related articles

• How To Treat Your Waitress (fsu.uloop.com)
• Why the customer is not always right; A look inside the customer/server relationship (coffeeandcursewords.wordpress.com)
• You Don’t Even Know You’re Annoying Your Waitress (badwaitress86.wordpress.com)

It never ceases to amaze me how little so many people understand of the service industry. Restaurant experiences are highlights embedded in our culture as means of celebration, romance, relaxation, and, overall, fun, yet aspects from behind the scenes largely remain a mystery. I am asked the same questions and told the same things by customers, friends, and family. I respond to these inquiries and assumptions based off my own experience working in the service industry, and by no means am I generalizing that these are the circumstances of every restaurant. However, you begin to pick up on themes after serving for a while.

“Anyone can be a server.” I’ve heard this assumption countless times. While this may be true to an extent, it does not mean that anyone should be a server. It requires time management because at any given moment, we are juggling 10 different tasks in our heads, all of which need to be completed as soon as possible. We must be able to cohesively work as a team, otherwise the restaurant would crumble to pieces. We have to consistently present an unlimited amount of energy in order to remain enthusiastic toward every customer, and move quickly and efficiently from one task to the next for the duration of the long shift. We ought to have tough skin to endure those customers that simply will not be happy, no matter how much we bend our backs attempting to make them hate us a little less. Attention to detail is important because we are expected to anticipate what the customers want before they ask. Most importantly, we need strong communication skills since that is, ultimately, our job: talking to customers. We do not have a script memorized to regurgitate to every table—rather, we must understand how to appropriately communicate with our different audiences, make them feel comfortable around us, hold a productive conversation, and know how to handle awkward situations (because those definitely happen).

“What’s your name again?” Customers have no idea how much we appreciate being called by our names!  Of course we say it when we greet a table, but how often do the customers listen and, what’s more, care? Individuals’ own names are reportedly the most important word in the world to them. People develop connections quicker, are more attentive and alert, respond with an increased positive attitude, and feel downright special when someone addresses them by name. This applies to servers, as well. I’ve noticed I am an overall better server with a customer who says my name; I do not intentionally do it, it just happens. It feels demeaning when someone calls me “Waitress”—I understand not remembering, but to have such little consideration that I also am a person with a name is flat-out disrespectful. So please, make your server’s day and receive better service at the same time by knowing his or her name, even if it means asking them to repeat it halfway through your meal. I am willing to bet your server will break out in a smile while saying it.

“Serving isn’t considered a real job.”  If working 14-hour shifts, making money to pay the bills and being held responsible for upholding a company’s reputation is not considered a “real job,” I don’t know what is. You don’t have to receive a degree for it, though the concept that it is not a good enough job to be taken seriously rubs me the wrong way. I work alongside talented, dedicated, intelligent and diligent individuals—why should they be looked down upon because they do not have a nine-to-five job? I admit, serving is not the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about a dream job, except it is refreshing to interact with new people and work in an environment that revolves around a good time.

“You can’t wait to go out and party every night.” There are stereotypes about servers that place negative images on the job, especially about being partiers who drink too much and thrive off drugs. Yes, there are those individuals that exist in the restaurant industry, like there are at any other job. There also are the employees who work hard to support their families, pull all-nighters after work to study for upcoming exams, and have other jobs bright and early the next day. I recently dropped the bill for my last table of the evening while they were finishing their dessert and as I walked away, I overheard one customer say, “She must be impatient to go out tonight.” Perhaps I gave them their bill a little early, though I was actually stressed about completing two final research projects due the following morning, and I could not help but be offended I was judged in that manner due to my occupation. However, one of the first rules we learn in the service industry is that the customer is always right—even when they’re wrong. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I have had to bite my tongue, take a deep breath, and walk away.

 “Do you have a boyfriend?” Heads up, the answer will be “Yes” every time, no matter whether there is truth to it. It is the best method to avoid a guaranteed awkward conversation, which almost always leads to a lower tip. It is flattering to hear, but I am not looking for a relationship with a customer while I am at work, and trying to charm me when I have a full section is just not going to happen. In addition, it is funny when guys leave their phone numbers on the receipt (partially because we must turn all receipts in to our manager at the end of the shift) and tip poorly, not specify which of the six guys at the table he was, or make no attempt to reach out to me, like finding out my name, over the course of the last two hours. No one is that attractive. 

“The food took too long.” Believe it or not, we do not cook your food and, therefore, we are not personally responsible for the amount of time it takes to go from being inputted on the computer to coming up ready at the expo line. I can go to the kitchen and tell the chefs to hurry up as much as I want, but it is not going to make them prepare it any faster when they have a dozen other food tickets (in fact, impatience is an effective way to make them less inclined to quicken their cooking pace). We know and understand that customers are hungry when they sit down at a restaurant, yet it is impolite to verbally attack and blame us, especially when you make it even worse with a tip giving the middle finger.

 “You get to leave right after your last table.” I wish!  We do not get to leave after our last table exits the building, or after we clean our stations, or after we polish glass and silverware. We do not even get to leave after we spend 30 minutes rolling silverware (last week, a customer was shocked when I informed him that is our responsibility—he had been under the impression for 20 years that restaurants get premade roll-ups delivered). We are allowed to clock out after we complete our checkout, give support staff their tips, and check in with the manager. I consider myself lucky if I am out of the restaurant 30 minutes after my last table leaves because usually it is an hour. You can imagine how much employees learn about each other as they roll silverware.

“15 percent is standard for tipping.” Um, no. If I receive a 15 percent tip, then I assume I provided poor service to the table. We make just over $4 an hour in Colorado and we tip our support staff about one-third of our tips from the shift. For most of us in the business, we live month-to-month and every dollar is important for us to eat more than our restaurant’s delicious yet unhealthy food and pay our rent in this beautiful but overpriced city. We strive for more than 20 percent tips, especially with tables we feel we made a connection with. There is nothing that will brighten a server’s day more than an unexpectedly high tip, but I doubt I need to tell anyone that.

 “Are you always this happy?” There is a stage performance quality to serving and I’ve become aware that my public speaking skills have improved from needing to speak to tables where all eyes are on me. Positive attitudes are a key ingredient for any business, yet our attitudes influence our co-workers, the customers’ experiences, and the restaurant’s reputation. Wearing a smile is the most effective approach to receive better tips—and yes, there are certainly those days where smiling is the last thing we want to do. We will tell customers we are good when we are not because it is our duty to provide the customers with the experiences they pay for. However, remember that we are people, too, and if your server is not glowing with happiness, there may be an external issue in his or her life outside the walls of the restaurant. For the most part though, we are that happy—and it is our goal to make our customers even happier.

Last night was one of the most horrible work dreams I’ve had in a long time. And the worst part was that I couldn’t wake myself up! I’ve gotten pretty good about being able to snap myself awake in the middle of a workmare, but this one dragged on and on like the opening scene of Moulin Rouge.

It started off like many of them do: the hostess filled my section with ten tables, all of them at once and scattered about the restaurant. They were all small tables, but each group ordered enough food to feed 10-15 people. Despite being stuck at each table for 20 minutes, I got the drinks out and the orders taken without a problem.

But things started getting weird when I went to turn the tickets in. There was no room on the wheel for my orders, because each peg had a book stuck under it. And I mean BIG books like the World Almanac, a geography textbook, an encyclopedia, etc. For some reason this didn’t even strike me as odd. I just plucked a book down, hung up my tickets and yelled into the kitchen:

“These are actual orders! You might wanna make them!”

I spun the ticket wheel around, only to have every ticket fly off and scatter across the service area. As the hostess helped me pick them up, I realized that none of them had prices. Time was ticking, and I still didn’t have my salads turned in! My hands were trembling as I filled in the prices and put the tickets back in order. I went to hang them back up amongst the books on the wheel… all the prices were missing again! I tore at my own hair.

“I don’t have time for this shit! Why don’t we have a damn computer?!”

I flung the wheel around and ran to the other window to turn in my enormous salad order. Every salad had a different dressing. Then there were the ones with no this, extra that, light dressing on this one, dressing on the side on the other, half of one kind and half of another, exactly three tomatoes on the upper left side, and every other flippin’ salad scenario imaginable. Out of all of it, I absolutely needed two large Italian salads. (For some reason, these were the most important, and I felt like the Earth might open up and swallow me if I didn’t get them out first).

I walked away to refill drinks while I waited for the salad guy to do his lettuce-flinging thing. When I came back… no salads. I looked through the window to see the salad guy jamming out to his headphones. I took one of the bowls off the stack and slammed down in the window. He plucked out his earbuds and glared at me.

“Will your brain overload if you try to listen to music and, I don’t know, do some work at the same time?” I asked.

The salad guy mumbled something under his breath as he stuck the headphones back in his waxy ears.

“And don’t forget those two large Italians,” I shouted as I ran off to deliver appetizers to my round table.

When I came back… still no salads!

As usual, I was really starting to get pissed. And I mean grab-the-salad-guy-by-his-ginger-hair-and-hold-his-face-down-in-the-fryer pissed. I stood with my arms crossed, and projected the most hateful glare I could muster at the bridge of his thick glasses. With a nervous chuckle, he finally started putting salads up… one at a time. I took each salad as he made it, and slammed it down loudly on the salad liners in front of me. The louder I got, the more he chuckled.

After what seemed like twenty minutes, I finally got everything except the two large Italians. My food was starting to come up, but I couldn’t take it to the table until I got these two stupid salads out!

“And the two large Italians?!” I tried to shout over his music.

My anger was no match for the headphones. He just stared at me and bobbed his head to the music. I’d finally had enough. I grabbed a stack of clean bowls out of the cooler, and slammed them down on the floor. The sound of smashing china on tile brought the restaurant to a stand-still.

My boss ran over to the window.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” he screamed.

“This damn ginger won’t make my salads!”

“That doesn’t give you the right to break my shit! You’re not the only employee in the building.”

The other servers had started crowding around to watch the show.

“I’ve been asking for these two salads for at least twenty minutes! I can’t take the food out ‘til I get them on the table!”

“They’ll come up when they come up,” he argued back, “you can’t go around smashing my property just because you’re irritated.”

I grabbed another bowl out of the cooler. I looked my boss dead in the eyes as I shattered it against the tile floor. His eyes grew wide with a glare that almost steamed up his glasses.

“Stop breaking my dishes! Everything’s not just about you!”

That’s when I jumped up on the bowl cooler, and started climbing through the salad window. I was determined to get my hands around someone’s neck! I felt hands on my arms and ankles trying to pull me back. Steph, Sandi and Samantha pulled me down out of the window.

“I just need two large salads so I can take my damn food out!!!” I screamed.

“Guys,” Sandi pleaded through the window, “will you PLEASE put up his salads before he sets the building on fire?”

At that, they FINALLY came up. I snatched up the salads and stormed to my table, whose food had already been brought out by another server.

“I am SO, SO, SO sorry,” I chanted, (my usual anthem when things go wrong in a dream) “I’ve been up there SCREAMING for these salads. I even tried to go through the window.”

The women at the table were surprisingly nice.

“It’s O.K. The other server told us what was going on,” said one, smiling warmly.

“I’ll take some pepper on mine,” said the other.

And the nightmare just kept going! I started to grind pepper over the lettuce when the bottom of the grinder fell out. A huge pile of whole pepper corns and broken metal parts emptied onto the salad.

All I could do was stare. My head felt like it was going to explode. I don’t think I’ve ever come so close to crying in my sleep… I actually felt tears well up in my eyes in the dream!

Thankfully this table was really cool. My customer busted out laughing. She placed her hand over mine.

“Honey, the food is here anyway. Just don’t worry about the salad. But I would like more coffee when you have a minute.”

I apologized again, and sped away. The other servers were actually trying to help me in this dream, and were busy running food and refills to my other tables. The busser was still busy cleaning up the bowls I had smashed in my ginger-fueled rage. I grabbed the coffee and tea, then ran back to the table.

I was so flustered at this point that I filled all the coffee cups with iced tea, and all the tea glasses with hot coffee. The glasses started bursting on the table. One of them shattered right in front of a child who was reaching over his drink for a slice of garlic bread.

“Guys, I’m so sorry! I’ll get that cleaned up right now!”

I felt tears welling up in my eyes again. What the hell is going on??!! I screamed in my head.

I jogged away from the table to find towels and a buss boy. I didn’t make it far before someone grabbed my arm.

“Sir, we were just wondering how much longer our food is gonna take.”

I looked down at my pocket… where I still had their ticket.

“When is this bullshit gonna stop?” I said under my breath. Then to them, “Five minutes, tops. I promise.”

I ran to the kitchen and threw the ticket up on the wheel.

“Guys, I held this ticket. I really need it rushed!”

The cooks were all standing around reading the books that were on the ticket wheel earlier in the dream. I slammed my hand down on the bell.

“Guys??!! Hello?!”

No one looked up. I swiped the bell out of the window. I heard it clang somewhere in the kitchen. Still no one acknowledged me. I forced back a panicked scream and started to storm away.

I immediately slammed into Samantha, who grabbed my shoulders and looked me dead in the eyes.

“Josh,” she said sternly, “WAKE UP!”

And I finally did.

Last night I made the cashier cry. I was having a really bad night — the kind that I can only have in one of my work nightmares — and was about to blow my top. My section was full, the kitchen wasn’t making any of my orders, and I kept breaking dishes and spilling crap all over the restaurant. I was sent over the edge when someone asked for a bowl of soup (something we practically have to fist fight the cooks to get). I decided it was finally the night to say, “eff this shit!” and throw in my greasy apron.

I stormed over to the cashier and snapped my fingers in her face.

“Print my credit card tips,” I demanded, “I’m out.”

She nodded her head and reached for the credit card machine. Before she could punch in my server number, a customer came up and tossed his ticket on the counter.

“Let me ring him out first,” she said.

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at the fat man in the Hawaiian shirt as she rang up his ticket. Just when she handed him his change, a family came up to the counter. I transferred my glare to the mom when she asked Kelsey to split the ticket. My head felt like a boiler about to explode.

“Kelsey, I REALLY need my tips. I have to leave RIGHT NOW.”

“Give me a sec.”

The cashier’s line kept growing, and so did my impatience. My leg was shaking wildly with a half nervous/half angry tick. I was almost to the point of breaking down and going back to my tables, but I was dead set on walking out. I needed my tips right that second, or I was going to end up plastering that stupid fake smile on my face and going back into the dining room.

“Kelsey, I’m serious…”

“Just let me ring these people up real quick,” she snapped.

I puffed up my chest and huffed through clenched teeth. The line was stretching out into the dining room. This is bullshit, I thought, I’m never gonna get out of here!

That’s when the phone rang.

“Can you put them on hold,” Kelsey asked.

I picked up the receiver and slammed it back down.

“Print my credit card tips NOW!”

Kelsey’s jaw dropped. She froze with her fingers still poised over the buttons of the cash register. She stared at me for a long moment over the rims of her glasses. Then her face seemed to break, and collapsed into a mass of sobs and tears.

She shoved me out of the way, and disappeared through the metal doors that lead to the hallway behind the ovens. My face dropped into my hand. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Go after her!” called one of the female customers.

“Yeah,” answered another woman in line, “I need to pay so I can get outta here!”

I wanted to tell that woman what a bitch she was, but I didn’t have time. I realized I was about to get fired instead of walking out, and wanted to leave on my own terms. (Wait… that’s not much better).

Anyway, I ran through the kitchen and out the back door. I found Kelsey sobbing uncontrollably into the back wall of the restaurant. She wouldn’t take her face out of the crook of her arm to look at me.

“I’m so, so, so sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’m just having a bad night, and I wanna walk out of here before I change my mind.”

Before Kelsey could answer, her boyfriend (one of the cooks) slammed through the back door.

“What the hell is your problem?!” he demanded.

“I am such an asshole. I am SO sorry,” I pleaded.

I don’t remember everything he said, but I woke up to him going off on me for making a girl cry in public.

This is what happens when you don’t have a computer system…

I really hate it when people complain about minor problems with their meal. For example, when people complain that I forgot to leave the olives off their salad, or they won’t drink their water because they asked for no ice and I (by habit of making 10 millions drinks a night) accidentally put ice in it anyway. I always want to scream “at least you have money to go out to a nice restaurant to eat,” or “at least you know where your next meal is coming from!” I especially get mad when people get picky over their glass of water. I just want to throw it on them, break the glass over their head and scream, “at least you live somewhere where you can drink a glass of water that doesn’t have shit floating in it!!!”

Ungrateful bastards like these are the ones who inspired last nights dream. I was waiting on a young couple who were out on a date. They ordered a large deluxe pizza without black olives, light on the sauce, and two Italian salads.

Everything was going fine until the pizza came out. When I put it on the table, the couple immediately gave me a sour look.

“Is everything O.K.?” I asked.

“We asked for the pizza with no olives,” said the girl with a snooty look on her face.

I looked down at the pizza, then at my ticket. I had written “no olives” on the ticket, but the kitchen had put them on anyway. I showed her the ticket and explained what happened.

“I can have them rush you a new pizza if you’d like. It’ll take about 8 minutes.”

The girl huffed. She looked at her boyfriend for an answer, but he was too busy glaring at me.

“Well, we really would have liked for you to do it right the first time,” he said.

“Sir,” I explained calmly, “I did write it down correctly, they just made it wrong in the kitchen. But I can have a new pizza made immediately.”

“We don’t wanna wait,” said the boyfriend impatiently.

“Yeah,” finished the girlfriend, “we’ll just pick them off.”

I had done everything I could to make it right. I wished them a good meal and went about waiting on my other tables. I came back with soda refills to find the two of them picking the olives off the pizza, and dropping them casually on the floor.

“Excuse me,” I asked, “what are you guys doing?”

“Picking the olives off our pizza,” said the girlfriend sarcastically.

I knelt down and started picking the sauce-covered olives off the carpet.

“Ma’am, I offered to replace the pizza for you. You don’t have to make a mess all over the floor because of a mistake.”

“Well, maybe you should have done it right the first time,” she said, then dropped an olive slice at my feet.

I stood and walked away from the table without saying anything. After a few steps, I looked down at the olive slices in my hand. A smile crept across my face as an idea rolled through my head.

I turned around, and started chucking the olives at the couple’s table. A few of them bounced off the back of the girlfriend’s head before they noticed what was going on.

“What the hell, dude?!” screamed the boyfriend.

I responded by pelting him in the face with a saucy olive slice.

I woke up when he jumped up from the table and ran after me. (I wish I could get away with some shit like that in real life)!

Update: I had this dream a couple weeks ago, but this actually happened in my town today:

http://www.kake.com/home/headlines/Wrong-Fast-Food-Order-Leads-To-West-Wichita-Standoff-186177152.html

People like this do exist. There is no reason to act like a raging idiot over a food order. Mistakes happen, and they can always be fixed. And, again, at least you have money to go out to eat. There are people in your own town who will sleep on a cold park bench tonight with an empty belly. Count your blessings, and be happy you even have food on your plate.

I didn’t actually dream about work last night, but I did dream about telling someone about a dream that I had about work. (Now things are getting several levels deep, and I’m starting to feel like a slightly more attractive version of Leonardo DiCaprio in Inception).

In the actual dream, I was at a prom event that was being hosted at a bar. Everyone there had missed their high school prom, and was using this as a chance to recapture the lost moment from their childhoods. (Now that they were a little older, had gotten a lot of work done and could actually get a date). There were a lot of people there from my high school. One girl stopped me to compliment me on my blog, which she had happened upon a few weeks before.

“So, do you always dream about work?” she asked.

“Way too much,” I answered, “just last night I dreamt that a customer forgot their wallet and had to run down to the ATM. Awhile later, they came back with a giant leather bag. He hands this bag to me as he explains that his account is empty and he can’t pay his check…”

“So, what was in the bag?”

“Well, he disappears through the door, leaving me with this bag. I open it up and reach inside for what I think is gonna be cash… and pull out an iguana.”

“An iguana…” she said, then took a long swig of her drink.

“No joke.” I chuckled, “like you could actually pay your tab with that, right?”

She stared at me blankly for a long moment. Her face was frozen in one of those “I should act interested, but I’m really just confused” looks. Then finally,

“Well, it was great to see you! You look amazing.”

She walked away chugging down the rest of her drink.

This is where things took a really weird turn that didn’t have anything to do with work, so I’ll spare you the rest.

The only problem is that every time I walk away from a table, I hear snickering. I don’t really notice it the first couple of times. After all, I don’t have time to catch every joke that goes back and forth across every table. But when it keeps happening, I start to wonder if all of my customers are in on something I’m not. I continue working, but grow more and more irritated as every table I stop at does the same thing. I take a drink order and walk away toward the drink station. Again with the snickering.

Now I’m pissed. I just got this table! I think to myself. How are they already in on the joke? What the hell is everyone laughing at?! I slam four glasses on the counter, stab the ice scoop into the bin and throw ice toward the glasses. Some of the ice cubes scatter across the counter and onto the floor. I kick them under the cabinet as I slosh tea into the glasses. I stomp over to the table and let tea splash out as I slam the glasses down in the center. I don’t even count the straws as I grab them out of my apron pocket and toss them across the table. The four older customers look up at me, holding back ornery smiles. I stomp away. They bust out laughing.

Finally, I snap.

“Why the hell is everyone laughing at me?!” I scream. That’s when one customer, tears of laughter floating in her eyes, points toward my crotch and asks, “did you forget something before you left for work today?”

I look down. I came to work wearing only my apron.

Last night I had the dream where you get a couple of tables back-to-back, but you can’t get to any of them because you absolutely cannot figure out how to make a drink order. Usually when I have this dream, I’m holding the glass in one hand and the ice scoop full of ice in the other, but I just can’t remember how to put the ice in the glass. Other times, other servers keep stealing my drinks, dumping them out as I make them, or even knocking the glasses off the counter.

Last night was a little different. I got a five top, a three top and a two top all in a row.

They all ordered iced tea. Easy! I thought. But for some reason, I couldn’t remember how to make a glass of tea! The first time I tried, I forgot to put ice in all of them. The second time, I remembered the ice, but by the time I got the lemon slices on the glasses, all of the ice had melted. I started over, this time putting in extra ice so it wouldn’t melt. Then, none of the lemon slices would go on the glasses! I kept dropping them on the floor or breaking them in half. At this point, I remember thinking to myself, Shit! I’m having that dream again. Wake up, dude!

Soon, the other servers were crowding behind me waiting to use the drink station.

“Come on! We have tables, too, you know!” yelled Kristyn.

“What the hell is your problem?” barked Priscilla.

While I was dealing with the tea fiasco, the hostess seated me three more times. I panicked. I have to figure this out! Think! Think!

Finally, I snapped out of it. Ice! Tea! Lemon! Spoon! Done! I loaded the teas triumphantly onto the tray. Just as I was about to pick it up, Kristyn came by and grabbed it.

“Thank you so much,” she said, “I’m just so far behind!”

She disappeared into the dining room. I turned around to scream various obscenities at her, only to find my customers staring at me through the lattice work that separates the dining room and the drink station. They peered through the gaps in the lattice, all talking over each other.

“This guy needs to be fired.”

“When can we place our order, sir? We have somewhere to be.”

“He can’t even make a glass of tea. Seriously?”

“Where do they find these people?”

And that’s when I wake up.

The sky rips apart, bleeding sepia from the gashes. The ground trembles beneath my feet as I dart down the crumbling asphalt. Just get to the woods, I think to myself. They can’t move through the tree roots. Just get to the woods. The sound of car alarms and breaking glass pierces my ears. Chunks of pavement fall away from under my heels as I run.

I stop to look back.

There they are.

Giant alien sandworms. Some strange cross between Tremors and Beetlejuice, but ten times as massive. I watch as a woman stumbles down the upturned chunks of asphalt. A sandworm rises up out of the street behind her. Four stories above, his gaping mouth stretches open to reveal a slithering mass of hissing snakes, weaving between row after row of machete-like fangs. The woman cries out. As the sandworm crashes down, she dives behind an upturned car for cover. I throw my hands over my ears against the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass. Blood and jagged cubes of window glass spray over me. I watch as the tail of the sandworm disappears back into the Earth, leaving a deep crater where the woman and the car had just been.

Another sandworm breaks through the pavement and twists up out of the ground. His mouth opens wide, ready to close on me. I turn on my heel and barrel towards the line of trees just a few yards ahead.

The sandworm strikes. He misses by a hair. As he drills back into the ground behind me, the Earth rises up in broken chunks and throws me forward. I land mid-somersault, and tumble down the hill into the trees at the edge of the woods.

Like a cat, I roll over onto my feet and keep running. I can still feel the ground quaking beneath me. I keep running, slapping branches out of my way and hurtling over fallen logs. I force myself not to look back. Just run. Just keep going. 

Suddenly, the ground stops trembling. I slow to a stop. With my hands on my knees, I pant for breath. I wait for the ground to start shaking again. Wait for the earth to open up beneath me, and deliver me into the jagged jaws of Death.

My heart thuds against my chest. I close my eyes and wait.

Nothing.

Then, the sound of a breaking stick startles me. My head shoots to the right.

There, beneath an old tree with a braided trunk and twisted branches, sits a two-top table from work. An older couple sits quietly by the light of a single taper candle. Their menus are folded neatly at the edge of the table; their silverware rolls crossed on top. They glance around in every direction, patiently waiting for their server to notice them.

“Oh, my God!” I scream. “How long have you been sitting there?!”

My heart jumps into my throat. I rush over to the table, pulling my pen and ticket book out of my apron (which has magically appeared, along with my clean uniform and tie).

“I am SO sorry! I had no idea you were sitting here,” I explain. “Has anyone taken your drink order?!”

And that’s when I usually wake up.

It just goes to show that there’s nothing more terrifying than realizing you’ve let a table go unnoticed. Not even man-eating, alien sandworms.

The Uruguayan government will boost service exports beyond tourism and logistics. The government’s measures will focus on improving four sectors: institutions, human rights, the regulatory framework, and Uruguay’s technological infrastructure.

The economy minister, Fernando Lorenzo, announced the initiative Sept. 14th in an exhaustive presentation organized by his office and the Uruguay XXI institute.

In an environment where international demand changes are creating big export fluctuations and tourism in Uruguay has been negatively affected by currency restrictions in Argentina and the crisis in the developed world, the government is exploring new possibilities for stimulating economic growth in Uruguay.

Lorenzo argued that “ignorance” produced an “under evaluation of these processes”. He suggested that the numbers Uruguay’s central bank attributed to the sector in its balance of payments data underestimated the activity in the sector. “We expects some surprises” he said.

Lorenzo reported that a review of total service exports (estimated at $2.57 billion USD in 2010) found that “these figures represented an underestimate of practically $650 million USD”, a difference that “is essentially explained by the exclusion of nontraditional services” (those that don’t fall under tourism or logistics).

Uruguay’s central bank estimated non-traditional exports totaled $587 million but the Economy ministry corrected the total to $1.05 million USD.

The biggest part of these services are called “global”, which includes financial advising, business services (like call centers), audiovisual production, among others. Added to these are financial, commercial and telecommunication services.

If you added tourism and logistics, total service exports reached $3.2 billion USD this year.

In 2011 the number reached $4.2 billon and non-traditional services totaled $1.3 billion, close to 2.5% of GDP.

Plans to boost the future

“In the process of internationalizing this group of sectors linked to services there is going to be a lot of opportunities for economic and social progress in our country”, said Lorenzo. He added that the government is ” beginning to understand” the phenomenon and is ready to support it, now that the development of these services “is a trend that we can’t be left out of” and because Uruguay has several advantages in developing the industry.

Among the advantages Lorenzo listed were, Uruguay’s geographic location and time zone (in between the United States and Europe), the country’s human resource capacity, its competitive cost, its technological infrastructure and its cultural affinity with the principal demand markets.

The government has decided to focus on boosting four sectors: professional process services, information technology and communication, the health and pharmaceutical industry, logistics chain coordination.

Whats more, the government has decided to create specialized development organizations. Already underway is an observatory to identify aspects to prioritize and “end our ignorance”. The government is also creating a “post-investment unit” to facilitate the increased investment in the sector.

The Economy minister also said in his presentation that service exports have preformed better than goods in the latest international economic crisis. According to data he presented service exports have contracted 10% this year whereas exports of goods haven fallen 23% and non-traditional services were especially resistant since: “there was practically no contraction”.

This Uruguay Business Reports news article is a translation of a news story by Marcela Dobal that appeared in the Uruguayan newspaper El Pais. The original news story, in Spanish, is available here. Uruguay Business Reports translation by Donovan Carberry.

Here’s what happened:

Bar 1:
.A guy (friend of a friend) talks to my roommate and myself about teaching him how to dance, we talk to him for a minute or two then a cute girl barges in between us and him.
.Some time later, same girl stares at me while walking (at this point I thought she was part of the group of friends of a friend) so I smile back. She walks past and elbows me in the back.
.Same girl approaches my boyfriend with guy from situation 1 and asks if she knows him- he responds with he thinks so and they (the guy and my boyfriend) start talking, while the girl keeps telling me she “wants to fit in” because we were all wearing plaid. (Hey, don’t judge, it was a country band…) The guy leaves and the girl and my boyfriend start talking, a few minutes in he grabs my hand and says my girlfriend is right here and pulls me in; then explains to me that she asked if he was looking for anyone because she’s single.
.As we’re leaving,the SAME GIRL dumps her drink on my shoe when I walk past.

My thoughts, okay, whatever, girls are catty–it’s what they do. Over it… Plus, she was pretty drunk and I like to consider that an excuse when I do stupid things, so I’ll allow other people to do the same. Unnecessary? Yes. Rude? Yes. Worth ruining my night? Nah. Besides, we were leaving and headed to:

Bar 2:
We walk in to meet a handful of my boyfriend’s friends, who are regulars-and without them, we wouldn’t step foot in this dump- aside from their string cheese, they have nothing to offer. Regardless, where the herd goes, we go. So, we walk in, order, tip, and share some delicious string cheese and I notice half way through our snacks that some Kate Gosslin-esque middle ager with a 1-sleeve shirt on (I hate 1 sleeve shirts, but to each their own) is glaring at me consistently. One time-okay, two times- whatever; but anything more than that is enough to say something… With that theory, I tell my roommate and after the “don’t look now” time frame passed, she looked and it was still going on. The boyfriend wants in on the action so we tell him what we’re talking about and he says “that’s one of the owners, or the owners wife or something… but whoever she is, don’t piss her off.” I did nothing to piss her off, but I took the warning. Seconds later, a booming “LAST CALL“ comes from her direction. Everyone looks around in confusion because it’s 115 and bars close at 230, and continues on with their Saturday night. “LAST CALL DRINK UP AND GET THE FUCK OUT.” “Last call doesn’t mean ‘get out’ it means ‘get one more’” says one friend, others order another drink. I chime in: “I’ve worked at bars for almost 7 years and I’ve never gotten to close nor been to a bar that closes early on daylight savings time, but whatever I’m just going to finish my beer.”  
Here’s where it gets out of hand:
The woman approaches the light switch and starts flickering the lights on and off while screaming to get out, and the majority of the bar has more than one full drink in front of them and aren’t in any hurry to finish them– but they’re regulars. She then throws a quarter at one of our friends (who’s a regular) subtly hinting that it’s apparently time to go. My boyfriend starts insisting that I leave my beer and go home before there’s any trouble. He then tells me I’m probably next in the change-throwing bombs that are occurring. So I do, kicking and screaming the whole way.

Thoughts: what. the. fuck.?!? First off, the service industry is in my blood; aunts, uncles, grandparents, parents, and myself are generations deep in how to treat customers. It’s the main thing we know. And from her perspective, you actually have NEW people in your dumpy little bar that could potentially get other people to go there, drumming up new business and keeping you in your fancy, 1-sleeved “hip” shirts with your out of date but not-so-cheap hairstyle and manicured nails; why on earth would you want to make them go away? From the bartender’s perspective: she instantly remembered me from the last time I was in there and knows that not only do I over-tip, but I’m quiet and polite; and most importantly, I diffuse the riff-raff from my boyfriend and his friends who are not usually the quietest or calmest of drinkers. You could see in her eyes she was sorry and just doing what she was told. From my  roommate’s perspective: well, she’s never going there again… And may not ever attempt dive-y bars with me again…. From my boyfriend’s perspective: he was trying to “prevent any trouble,” which still isn’t quite making sense to me.. But I suppose he does know that woman better than I, and perhaps the menopausal maniac is just that crazy. He also probably doesn’t want any problems for himself- because he goes there, best not to be associated with such a trouble-maker like me…
But what about my perspective? I’m shocked and appalled that a business owner would act that way. I’m also pissed that I was forced to leave when no one else was. I’m curious to know what exactly else she would have done– would she have honestly started throwing change at me? Would she have come over and actually said something to my face, or tried to remove me? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was drinking my beer just like every one else. I didn’t even order another at last call-I could have… Should I have just walked out to avoid an argument with the boy? Maybe. But it’s hard when you’re stubborn and the phrase “I didn’t do anything wrong” is repeating over and over in your head.

So now, here we are. 2 days later, and I’m still not over it. I’m still almost equally as angry as I was Saturday night.

A couple of days ago I had a router/modem fail and found myself combing the aisles of a computer parts store. Once I got hold of everything I needed I made my way to the front counter, where I was greeted by a quick succession of glances from three employees, seemingly annoyed that their chit-chat might be cut short. It turns out I was wrong, they couldn’t have been worried about me interrupting their conversation because they kept on talking. The two cashiers were escalating a dispute over money that had been taken out of the register, apparently without approval from the manager. The manager must have walked up to the counter to help settle the dispute but managed only to make the situation worse. The most frustrating part of the whole ordeal is that I only had a few items to buy, and no one, not the cashiers nor the manager, voluntarily stop talking in order to serve me. This is one of those situations where you wish there was a bell on the counter that you could smack repeatedly until someone rushed over. I wasn’t so lucky.

More shopping was planned for the next day. Hoping to pick up a few wants and needs I visited a Target. It didn’t take me long to grab the items I came for, and within a few minutes I was on my way up to the check out lanes. I hesitated walking up to one of the open lanes; yesterday’s computer store debacle was still fresh in my memory. Today my cashier was a multi-tasker. This careless middle-aged man proceeded to manhandle all of my items, throwing each one across the scanner, and arguing with the cashier two lanes over about who was going on break next. Not until he had clumsily scanned every item did he speak a word to me. His only statement throughout the ordeal was “debit or credit.” something that didn’t even need saying, since the LCD screen on the credit card reader asks the same exact question. I’m not even quite sure he looked at me more than once.

I often see these statistics that paint America as a service industry powerhouse, but when I end up in the middle of situations like these I start to wonder if those numbers are correct. It’s a very unfortunate thing that so many businesses allow their employees to work without any consideration of customer service. Of course, not every barrel is full of bad apples. Later that day I went to a local mall, hoping to find a new purse. I ended up at Coach, where I was greeted with smiles and welcoming words. Throughout my entire time there I was offered help by employees who seemed anxious to satisfy every customer. When it was time to make my purchase a fully attentive clerk guided me through the transaction, politely conversing with me while carefully handling my newly purchased items. Today I received an email from Coach, personally thanking me for my purchase. That’s the kind of service America should be built on.

If you’ve been blessed with good customer service, send a virtual thank you with the We&Co app.

An article about boarding passengers at airports highlights the difficulty in working in the service industry. However as annoying as customers can be, we still have to say “Please” to them.

Airplanes… expensive on the ground

If you are interested in the latest developments in Science & Technology, but do not consider yourself a “scientist” you should check out the excellent Science & Technology section of The Economist. An article “Please be seated: A faster way of boarding planes could save time and money” (Sep 3rd 2011) brings to light research done by Dr. Jason Steffen on how to get passengers onto a plane more quickly.

The rationale behind this is quite logical. Planes are said to be making money when they are in the sky flying people from one place to another. It is estimated that for every minute that a plane is on the ground the airline loses $30. Saving 5 to 10 minutes during boarding time could be very useful for an industry that has operating margins of 3-4%.

A new way of boarding

Dr. Steffen’s basic idea is the following. Passengers should be made to board according to their seat allocation. Alternatively spaced window seat passengers (1A, 3A, 5A, etc.) would be boarded first. They would be followed by the remaining window seat passengers (2A, 4A, 6A etc.). Then the middle seats would be filled (1B, 3B, 5B etc.) following the same logic. Still with me? Finally the aisle seat passengers would get on. This all sounds great in theory. Unfortunately, for once, this is an example of research that is great in the laboratory, but would be hard to put into practice.

Anyone who has ever travelled by plane knows just what a messy business it becomes when it is time to board 300 passengers into a space that is the equivalent of 5 medium-sized city apartments. Passengers (the author of this article included!) are notoriously undisciplined and would simply not respect or understand this rather too elaborate system.

Certain passengers, such as families with young children expect to board first. Air France once made me wait twenty minutes at the gate with my 2-year-old son in my arms while they board all the other passengers. Yes, ALL of them! Like most neurotic parents the “son” part was the sensitive issue for me. Had I been alone I wouldn’t have minded. 12 years on I’m still telling the story. You see, customers can bear a grudge… and for a long time.

Boarding…military style

As well as the privileged queue jumpers, there are also the hangers about until the last possible moment (done that as well!) and the people who just try to get in a bit of last-minute shopping lest they arrive home empty-handed. The list could go on and on. Dr. Steffen, an astrophysicist, has forgotten that the laws of nature are somewhat easier to discipline than customers! In fact, the only way to make the system operational would be to employ a sergeant major to shout and scream discipline and submission into passengers at boarding time.

“Stand up straight, 25B, you horrible little man.”

They could then march them onto the plane in military fashion. This is a spectacle that many overworked and abused airline staff would love (perhaps even deserve) to watch. It would certainly take the pressure off them and give them something to chuckle about. However, this may not have a positive effect on long-term repeat business for the company. Geoffrey Carr, Science Editor for The Economist has already pointed out to me that the system is, at the very least, worth trying. He’s right, course. I can’t help thinking though, that a few well-seasoned travellers will be watching on with a wry smile on their face.

Hell is other people

Everyone who has travelled by plane, train or car will understand the Jean Paul Sartre dictum that “Hell is other people.” In the service industry hell can simply be the customers the company is trying to serve. Air travel with all the stress involved seems to bring the worst out in people. Passengers can be ill-disciplined, annoying, forgetful, erratic, egotistical, full of bad faith etc. etc. etc. However, employees just have to deal with this. In fact, it is because they are all of these that the service industry exists. As annoying as clients are, employees are eternally condemned to being nice to those people who pay their salaries. And they have to say “Please”!  Airlines may be flying their customers through the heavens, but they are just going to have to put up with the hell that those same customers can inflict on them.

I would be very interested in your best service / worst service stories. Alternatively, your best customer / worst customer story. These are often even more entertaining!

Mark Thomas

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1) People who come down to the desk looking for ice empty handed:

 -First of all I work for a hotel where each room is like its own little modular apartment. They are all outside access, and all of them come with full kitchens. This does include an ice maker in the freezer.  This fact is clearly posted in the amenities brochure in the room.  But I’m gonna get past the fact that nobody can open up the damn brochure before they start bothering me for a minute.  What really irks me is that they come down to the desk – empty handed – and ask if I can get them some ice. REALLY?! Empty-handed?! Do you want to see how much you can carry in your hands or should I just try to fill your pockets??? Come on now people! Show a modicum of intelligence. You have a FULL kitchen at your disposal, complete with pots and pans and buckets and even a nifty little ice container that goes underneath your ice maker in the freezer! And yet, without fail I get 10 to 15 empty-handed patrons a night looking for ice.  Now I know the people who stay here cannot be that stupid. It’s just not possible. It has to be laziness on their parts – they are just too damn lazy to even form a thought.  So, to punish them for this laziness I have taken to subtly mocking their intelligence.  Now when I get asked for ice I smile all super-sweetly and say “Sure, and what would you like me to put it in?” Then, while hiding my growing glee, I watch them start fumbling around looking for something they can pretend they brought with them to get ice. It’s beautiful.  At least until they give up the facade of looking for an imaginary ice bin and say, “Well don’t you have something I can put it in?” Then my annoyances start anew, because unlike popular conception I do not just have a massive stack of ice buckets behind the desk. In fact I have none. So instead of you walking the 10 feet back to your room to get a ice bucket I have to hunt around drawers and find some bag suitable for you to carry ice back to your room. If I had to do this once or twice a night it wouldn’t be so bad. But 10 or more…with my phones ringing off the hook?…and a growing line of impatient guests…and you can see why I hate you.

People make me laugh. People make me cry.

This event is rather recent.

At my Dunks, we close at seven every night, which means that at quarter of, we turn off the espresso machine so by the time that we’re ready to leave, it’s been cleaned. (there’s a pill sequence to cleaning it but it’s somewhat boring).

So at 6:45 the espresso machine is off, which means no lattes or turbo shots, no cappuccinos, and no vanilla chais.

However, our schedule does not seem to meet the worlds needs.

BEEP that’s the sound that our door makes when someone enters or leaves, nothing special just BEEP. And with the BEEP came in an older woman. This woman was probably in her late forties, maybe early fifties, she was tall, had a blue fleece sweater and a hat saying Duxebury Fire.

“Hi, may I help you?”

“Yeah, uh give me a vanilla chai.”

She knew it was coming, she could sense it.

“Don’t tell me your       “

“We actually can’t make vanilla chai right now, we’re closing soon and we turn off our espresso machine at quarter of.”

She gave me a blank stare, then an angry one. Her eyes gave the warning that she was about to grab a gift card and slice my throat. I reacted quickly in fear.

“There’s another Dunkin Donuts down the street at the gas station, they’re open later than us.”

“No.. No! I just came from that direction, it’s not on my way!” she said as she hurried out of the store.

“Thanks a lot you SONS OF  BITCHES!”

That, is a text-book description of an addict.

Can someone explain this to me: how does not getting a hot drink deserve the reaction of you getting fired for something you didn’t do?

I didn’t know what to say. I said “excuse me?” the same way my mother says to me when she’s trying to make a point and be scary but trying to do it in code… that’s all I said.

Now, there’s a 20% chance that I will see that woman again. There’s a 15% chance that she’ll call my store manager and complain. There’s a 74% chance that this whole situation will occur again within a week.

And yes, I know that the numbers don’t add up, but nothing ever makes sense at Dunkin Donuts.

“What was that all about?” francis said.

“… that woman needs psychological help.”

oh joy.

My mother always hated winter, i don’t fully understand why because she never had to do much. It was always either me or my brother who were shoveling the driveway and walkway while the wind was blowing a cold air as sharp as needles into my cheek, all the while she was inside sipping tea or coco reading her books.

I always loved winter, I love the fact that christmas is right around the corner (and with my disfunctional family it’s just all the more cheery,) I love the promise of frosted cookies and the smell of pine.

What do I hate?

Well… it all starts in Autumn.

“When are you guys going to get that pumpkin stuff?”

“In October, it’s seasonal.”

“Why don’t you have it now?”

“It’s August.”

I don’t own any calanders, no weekly planners, no organized system of saving dates and times. However, I have become a pro at telling when the seasons change. I can’t tell because I’ve noticed a slight change in temperature and weather patterns, or the new migration of the birds, I tell by the donuts and munchkins in the workplace.

What does the following remind you of?

Chocolate frosted donut with yellow, blue, and white sprinkles.

     -spring showers donut

Red donut with red, green, and white sprinkles.

     -decorate the table donut

Green donut with red, green, and white sprinkles.

     -sprinkle the joy donut

I didn’t know this when i started, but people love pumpkin flavored coffee. They become addicted to it. Last year, when december came around (a time of giving and holiday cheer) so did the symptoms of withdrawl.

I need a large ice coffee, two creams and pumpkin swirl.

I’m sorry we don’t have pumpkin swirl anymore, we have caramel swirl, mocha       

What do you mean you don’t have pumpkin swirl?

It’s seasonal, each season we get a new flavor, we’ve switched to pepermint mocha.

I don’t want fucking mocha.

She then proceded to rip my head off and storm out of the room.

It takes about three weeks for people to calm down… it’s the same for people that are detoxing.

This year was a double whammy.

Not only did the dunkin gods grace me with their gift of the pumpkin donuts and muffins, but also placed their frickin gingerbread muffin, donut, and cookie on the shelves.

Most of the products that come out of the dunkin donuts bakery i don’t trust… i’ve seen them being made, and i didn’t see one recognizable ingredient. But the gingerbread cookie is something just out of this world, it really is a bakery feat.

The awful masterminds behind the pastries at dunks decided that they would create a new twist on the classic cookie. They took an innocent gingerbread man, made him tast like cardboard and break the teeth of young children.

… well, it hasn’t broken any teeth yet, but soon it will.

4-23-12

Last night I had a dream that Kristyn and I were the only servers who showed up for work. The restaurant started filling up fast, but every time a table came in, Miquela (the hostess) would put them in Kristyn’s section. When I asked why she kept skipping me, she told me that everyone had requested Kristyn. I was a little irritated, but it wasn’t long before her half of the restaurant filled up. I should start getting some tables now, I thought.

People were pouring through the doors. Miquela sat me a couple tables back-to-back. As I walked to my first table, pen and ticket book armed and ready, Kristyn intercepted me.

“That table asked for me. Is it O.K. if I take them?”

She didn’t even give me a chance to answer before she ran off to get their drink order. I let out a deep sigh through clenched teeth, trying not to get angry in front of the customers. I walked up to the next table.

“Hi, how are you folks this evening?”

They stared up at me blankly.

“Uhm…” said the woman at the table, “we had asked for Kristyn.”

I shook my head and chuckled. Not one of those chuckles that you let out when you think something is funny, but one of the ones you let out to keep from going postal.

“Whatever,” I snapped.

I stomped over to the hostess station and tapped Miquela on the shoulder.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“Here,” she said, shoving a set of menus and silverware toward me, “take these people.”

I grabbed the menus, took a deep breath and forced a smile. The group in the lobby seemed nice enough.

“Hi, how many tonight?” I asked.

The tall, older woman in the group leant over the counter and whispered, “do you think we could get a table in Kristyn’s section?”

I finally lost it. I slammed the menus down on the counter. The silverware rolls slid off the menus and unrolled onto the floor.

“You know what? Why don’t we just change the name of the restaurant to ‘Kristyn’s Place?!’ How does that sound?!”

I stormed off. On my way through the aluminum door that leads to the kitchen, I snatched a pad of paper off the counter. I started scribbling the same thing on sheet after sheet before folding them in half:

WELCOME TO KRISTYN’S PLACE.

SHE’LL BE WITH YOU SHORTLY.

With my signs clenched in my hand, I stormed back through the door and out into the dining room. I put the signs on every table in the restaurant; the empty ones, the ones waiting to be cleaned, and the ones that already had Kristyn’s customers at them. As I placed the signs, people started asking me for refills, extra bread, napkins and the like.

“Ask Kristyn,” I kept repeating, “obviously I’m not good enough for you.”

Then Kristyn ran up to me, panting for breath, “Oh, my God. I’m so far behind! Could you get me a glass of Chianti?”

“Oh, hell no! If you think for one second that you’re gonna take every table in this bitch, then turn around and ask me for help, you’ve got another thing coming! I’m not gonna let you steal all my tables, then HELP you make all the money!”

I woke up in the middle of my rant, still grumbling to myself that she better tip me out.

So, finals week has finally led to the worst kind of stress dream imaginable: a combination college/work nightmare. Last night, I dreamt that my Advertising Copywriting professor bought the restaurant from my boss, and moved it to my college campus. I was busy waiting tables when she came out and asked to see me in her office.

She sat me down in a swivel chair that I noticed was falling apart, and remained quiet as she booted up her computer.

“Is everything O.K.?” I asked as she got online and started banging at the keyboard.

She turned the screen toward me and pointed, “Did you post this ad on Craigslist?!”

I leant over and read the title of the ad: LEGOS WANTED. (The night before I had this dream, I actually had put an announcement on Facebook that I needed Legos to make a short stop motion film).

“Um… yeah. Is there a problem?”

My professor slammed her palm down on the desk. “This is scandalous! Everyone in town knows it was you! What are people gonna think!?”

I chuckled nervously. “What?”

“It’s not funny! This is going to get the restaurant shut down!”

That’s when the door opened, and a guy from my Spanish class came in.

“I even have evidence,” shouted my professor, pointing at my classmate.

“He’s not even in your class,” I laughed, “he’s in my Spanish class.”

“What do you think I should do?” my teacher asked him.

“I think you should fire him,” he said in Spanish, “it’s a direct violation of the social media policy.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said my professor, “thank you.”

Now I was really getting lost. Where did the guy from my Spanish class come from? Why did he have a say in this? And since when did my Ad Copywriting professor speak Spanish? My eyes darted back and forth between the two of them as I tried to think of something to say.

“What are you staring at? Get outta my office!”

I threw my hands up in surrender, then stood and walked to the door. Just as I turned the knob, she called after me:

“By the way, you all failed your final.”

That’s when it hit me. This was too weird to be happening. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and shouted, “dude, wake up!”

And I did.

(I’ve been having these dreams for so long now that when things reach a certain level of bizarreness, I can stop the whole dream and wake myself up).

One of my favorite recurring dreams is the one where I finally go postal and trash the restaurant. I think every server imagines doing this on their last day (if they could get away with it). We’ve all thought about how good it would feel to tell our boss where to stick that cannoli, break a few dishes and then storm out. As with all my dreams, my imagination always takes the “eff this ess, I quit!” fantasy to the extreme. Again, the people in the dream are always the current restaurant staff, but the events tend to play out the same way.

I always start out getting angry with the kitchen over food taking too long or coming out screwed up. Someone in the kitchen mouths off to me when I ask about my food, and I lose. My. Shit. I shove every plate of food in the window back into the kitchen. 500 degree lasagna, Chicken Piccata, Braciole with Mushroom Sauce and two or three plates of spaghetti splatter over the cooks’ faces and down their chef coats.

Nothing can stop me now. Josh mad! Josh SMASH!!! I run through the restaurant, pulling glass racks out onto the floor and swiping everything off the counters with my arm. Dishes crash to the floor in an orchestra of plates, glasses, forks, knives and spoons. Music to my ears!

Broken china and shards of glass crunch under my shoes as I charge forward. Next I pull over the bakers’ rack. Salad dressings splatter across the floor. Styrofoam cups and plastic lids scatter about. No one even tries to stop me as I storm to the back of the restaurant, where the wine stands at attention like inmates waiting for a firing squad. I turn the back service area into a crime scene. Bottle after bottle of Merlot, Cabernet, Chianti and the dreaded Lambrusco are gleefully smashed against the tile floor. Rivers of deep red and broken glass flow around my dirty no-slip sneakers.

There’s not enough shit to break out here, I think to myself. I kick the aluminum door open, (one of those ones with the tiny plastic window that you can’t see shit through) then storm into the kitchen. No dish rack is safe. I move down the hall by the dishwasher, pulling over shelving and cackling like a madman. Plates shatter. Plastic containers bounce across the grimy tiles. Spilt silverware sings cheerfully as it cascades across the floor.

I swing around, panting, crazed, looking for more shit to break. I charge forward.

Right into my boss.

He glares down at me from seven feet above. His chest puffs up with an angry sigh, which he slowly releases as a deep growl through his flaring nostrils. As I stare up at my own reflection in his glasses, I wonder what color shirt goes best with a neck brace.

“I’m gonna have to let you go,” is all he says before I wake up.

Note: last time I had this dream was a few days ago. But this time my boss was chasing me through the restaurant. I was cackling madly as I ran away from him, trying to break as many things as I could before he caught me.

Last night I dreamt that my boss decided to update his wine list. He called us all in early so we could have a wine tasting in the back dining room. We were all shocked that he had called us in to drink on the clock, considering we had to work in less than an hour. (We were more surprised that the wine was free, which should have been my first clue that I was dreaming). Everyone was hesitant to try the wines at first. We got more comfortable as he popped open bottle after bottle of expensive blends from Italy and France, and filled our glasses faster than we could empty them.

Everyone was drunk and getting loud by the time I looked at my watch. It was an hour after opening time.

“Did anyone unlock the door?” I asked.

My boss looked down at his watch and cursed to himself. We all followed him to the front door, where a mob of people had gathered outside. Geriatrics leaning on walkers, dirty-faced kids and angry, chubby faces peered through the glass.

Just as my boss was about to slide the key into the lock, he raised his glass to the crowd outside and yelled, “sorry, folks! Private party!”

Angry rants rose up from the crowd outside.

“Wait, we’re not gonna open?” I asked.

“I’m too drunk to cook for these assholes today.”

“Well,” said Crissy, “I’m too drunk to wait on them.”

Crissy and I tapped our glasses together, then took a big swig of Pinot Noir/Shiraz blend. The crowd outside was banging on the doors and screaming obscenities. That’s when Amy pushed her way through the lobby, raised a toast to the mob and screamed,

“WE’RE CLOSED, BITCHES! GO HOME!” (Something she actually says to herself after the doors are locked on Sunday nights).

The event made national news, and we were all invited to appear on CNN to tell our story (which is where the dream took a weird turn and was no longer about work. I’ll spare you the rest).

Last night I had another combination school/work dream. (That seems to happen a lot toward the end of the semester). I dreamt that I was taking my anthropology final, but all of the questions had to do with work! I only had ten minutes to take the exam, and despite the fact that it was all multiple choice with colored pictures I couldn’t answer one question! I REALLY bombed the sections on menu prices (which I still don’t know after twelve years at the same restaurant) and hospitality (which is what again?). The worst part was that my tips for the night depended on passing the final. So much for turning on the heat…