One time...

I cut myself pitting an avocado and bled all over someone's sandwich. I told him I was going to get somebody else to take care of his order and he simply asked, "How long will that take?" Meanwhile I cradled my hand as blood pooled on the floor.

Jane Adams, you are a bitch

Wow.   This is amazing. It pisses me off in so many ways.

I understand why the restaurant is so concerned with its image but give me a break. This woman walked out on her $14 tab. Plain and simple. Any of you who have worked in a restaurant know that if a customer dines and dashes, your manager will literally kick your ass out the door to chase them down the street.  And in some places the server will get stuck paying the tab out of his or her pocket. It is simply not acceptable for a grown-up (especially a “celebrity”) to eat at a restaurant and not pay. OK, so you “left your wallet in your car.” Go get it and come right back. Have one of your entourage or your driver or your fellow actors who have nothing but time and money bring you $20.  Don’t think because you’re on a TV show, you don’t have to pay for the food you eat.

This also brings up some really interesting questions about how free those who deal with the public are to speak about their jobs. Would it be OK for Jon-Barrett Ingels to tweet about the same thing if it were a non-famous customer? It’s not like he was even making it up; it did happen. And he wasn’t completely negative about it; he complimented her acting for chrissakes! Servers by trade deal all day with people who have delusions of grandeur, so why is it such a crime to point it out when it happens? The bitch should be thanking him for putting her on the radar (who the hell is this woman anyway? I’ve never even heard of her or her show).

I just feel horrible that he got fired for this. I know there are millions of worse injustices in the world, but this one just really upsets me. It’s not enough that you get walked on all day, but when you try to express yourself in order to deal with your crappy job, you get fired for it. I hope Jane Adams is happy that her absentmindedness (or maybe just cheapness) and her bitchy little tirade cost someone the ability to make a living.

Coffee Shop Crushes

I could go on for days about the psychological and social aspects of the customer-server relationship. In fact, I think I literally do go on for days about it in the SMBHBD print zine...which has just been restocked at Microcosm by the way, if you'd like to order one.

There's a great zine called Coffee Shop Crushes, which might be out of print now, where people pour their hearts out about the baristas they've obsessed over and how they've (usually) embarrassed themselves trying to express it. The common theme seems to be that coffee shop crushes are better left to the imagination. To force one into a relationship hardly ever works and the result is usually a) humiliation b) awkwardness and c) having to find a new coffee shop. It's just kind of funny how people are so intrigued by their servers and baristas (it goes the other way too, but that's an entirely different subject).

Unfortunately, I've lived it. My last boyfriend, whom I dated for three years, started out as one of my regular customers (he later also became a coworker - again an entirely different subject). He wooed me by ordering carrot juice every day and sitting for an hour trying to talk to me about music. Always a sucker for a guy who actually recognizes that I actually know quite a bit about music, I finally gave in and hung out with him outside of work. Three years later, cut to me crying on Christmas Day while hauling home the presents my mom bought for him and finding out that instead of skipping my family Christmas to catch up on sleep, he had skipped my family Christmas to go to the bar - with another girl. Granted, this could happen in any relationship, but I think the early dynamics of our server-customer relationship had something to do with it.

There are some customers who use their local coffee shop, restaurant or bar as a dating pool. Once I went out on a date with a different customer (who it turned out was already sleeping with another customer who was a friend of mine) and he spent the entire time trying to get me drunk and talking about how smart he was. He was so smart that after I left him sitting at the table and walked out, he would still come to my workplace, set up shop for a couple hours and try to talk to me. And would come in when I was not working and ask my coworkers for my work schedule.

The point is, I really don't think the customer-server relationship can ever work. Friends, maybe. Drinking buddies, yes. But the conditions are not ideal for anything meaningful because the dynamics are already so fucked up.

I'm mostly writing this for all the lonely middle-aged guys out there who think that barista at Starbucks who remembered your drink or the waitress at Applebee's who gave you a free side of ranch has some sort of attachment to you. I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but she does not. Just please don't even go there for everyone's sake.

The lost art of being effectively charming

There are basically two types of male servers: those who are aloof but good at their jobs, and those who feel compelled to act silly or (I hate this word) charming. Think this. The first type are pretty forgettable but the second type make my skin crawl. The ones who saunter up to you and your grandma with a drawn-out "Hellooooo, laaaadieeees. How are we this fine evening?" A sly little wink here, perhaps a crazy flip of the ketchup bottle. Flirts with grandma a little bit, makes her feel like she's 40 again. You know the type. He probably won't even write down your order because he's just that good. He might even (wow!) sit down at your table while you give him your order. What a crazy guy! These are the kind of servers all the other servers hate because they kiss so much ass. Every normal server has a more-than-healthy level of cynicism but these guys are the type that are always upbeat, try to speak Spanish with the dishwashers and defend the customer when you bitch about one. Rest assured the rest of the kitchen and the waitstaff are all rolling their eyes at this douche.

I. hate. those. servers. But you know they need tips, so more power to them I guess.

What I hate even more is when the people with whom I am dining (most likely my boss or relatives) buy into that crap and think the dude really likes them or something. It's just uncomfortable for everyone, especially if you've been on both sides of the interaction before.

But then came Jim. Jim is a server who restored my faith in male food service workers and the fact that they can be, ahem, charming without being all fake wacky and silly to win you over. They can just be slightly insane. Jim started off normal enough, bringing us water and taking our orders. He was totally flirting, but it wasn't weird. He was being genuinely nice, not creepy or annoying at all. Apparently when I was in the restroom, he came up to my dining companion when she wasn't looking and said something in a really high-pitched voice. When she turned around, he asked if she had thought that had been a woman. She said yes, and he replied, "I hate when that happens," then walked away. WTF, that makes NO sense. Jim was pleasant, attentive and hilarious throughout the entire meal. I almost looked forward to him coming back to check on us so I could hear what crazy thing he had to say next. I felt like a 60-year-old woman at TGI Friday's.

He ended up not charging me for the extra item I ordered or my drinks, which effectively cut my bill in half. Call me grandma because I totally fell for it - and tipped him 40 percent. Good job, Jim.

What are you waiting for?

Jens Lekman started it.

When I hosted the morning show on Radio K, I would always play a song by whatever musician had a birthday that day (btw, did you know Leslie Feist and Henry Rollins share the same birthday - what does that say for astrology? Also, I have the same birthday as Jello Biafra, which is awesome).

That's how I realized that Jens Lekman is the same age as me. Well, four months older. It was right there on Wikipedia. I'll tell you what, I can pinpoint this as the exact moment when I became conscious of my mortality.

Ever since then, I've had the biggest complex about my age. Jens Lekman may be a balding, persnickety, depressed Swede (who apparently has swine flu) but he's accomplished things. He's done stuff. He's made music, toured, and people love him. I became obsessed with knowing how old people are and comparing myself. Jessica Alba's my age. Shit, she may be a dumb celebrity but she's made movies and is rich and has a baby. I don't really want any of those things, but at least she's doing something. And what if it turns out I do actually want those things? What if by the time I figure that out, it's too late?

I have an irrational seething hatred for anyone who is younger and more successful than me. People in their early and mid-20s who own houses (or even who can afford not to have a roommate), own businesses, tour with their awesome bands, are in happy relationships, follow their creative pursuits. All of the above. Obviously it's just jealousy. What have I done on the 10 years I've been out of high school (something I've been thinking about way too much since my 10-year reunion this summer)? Um, let's see.. I served a lot of food and beverages to people and cleaned up a lot of their messes, figuratively and literally. Perhaps I changed somebody's life by making them a really awesome smoothie one day. None of my many musical endeavors I've participated in since I was 14 ever got off the ground (the all-girl AC/DC cover band did play once, I think), I never have time for printmaking, barely have time to write and haven't traveled that much. I work in an office just to pay off all the school debt and wasteful spending of my early 20s. I've been trying without success for five years to save up enough money to move away from Minnesota so I don't continue to be crippled by depression every single winter. So it really pisses me off when some 23-year-old gets some great job, buys an amazing house or takes off to Europe for a year.

I think what I'm really mad at is myself. I could have done great things but I chose not to, out of fear or anxiety or self-consciousness (although to my credit, many of the young people I know who do all the things I'd like to do are from wealthy families. Just sayin'). Whenever I've pondered throwing caution to the wind and taking a huge risk, that midwestern, self-deprecating, sensible voice in my head has kicked in. You will fail. Just keep doing what you're doing. You're just a waitress (or barista or cashier or mediocre graphic designer or whatever). Is there something in the FFSW (female food service worker) mentality that makes a great server but a horrible self-motivator? Maybe people who are great at serving and anticipating the needs of others just can't really do it for themselves.

Time to grow up and get the F over it, huh?

Thank you, little fucker

I love this story so much. What dumbass trashy parents, and what stupid employees. I only wish I had thought of doing that at some point because it is pretty hilarious. Who do the parents think they are going to the media? Who the F cares? So your precious kid was whining and the employees got annoyed. It happens every day. Whaaa. Maybe it's you.

I swear, some people think the world should bow at their feet because they made the life choice to procreate. And to eat at shitty, overpriced restaurants.

Oh, bebes

School started this week and it's strange (although a huge relief) not to be going back. It was orientation last week at the University of Minnesota and while walking around I got caught in a sea of freshmen walking back to the dorms. I heard one tiny little baby nervously say to his friend, "I sure hope I picked the right career."

Part of me was really jealous. I wish I could be that young and naive again, my 20s stretching out in front of me, knowing the little choices I made at the time would make a huge impact on my adult life - and actually using that knowledge to do something. Of course I'd only go back if I knew what I know now, otherwise I'm sure 18-year-old me would still stupidly waste her 20s held back by fear, anxiety, self doubt and blind devotion. Trying to find purpose in making coffee for rich people and loving people who don't want to be loved. Finding comfort in predictable unhappiness and postponing fulfillment.

Part of me wanted to burst his bubble. Tell him that 10 years later, he's probably going to be like me - still broke, still lost and only slightly smarter - with a long resume detailing all the ways you've failed. It doesn't matter what career you pick when you're 18. You'll end up where you end up and you'll learn to be happy just to have a job. It's sad, but it really is true. A job is a job is a job. As long as you're doing something where you can make decent money by doing something you don't despise, who cares? The rest of your life is your time, and that's what you should concentrate on.