Sometimes, I like to just sit around and daydream about potential future titles of my potential future memoir. Like, Title-titles and chapter titles. And I dreamt up a particularly brilliant option at 7 Monday morning while sitting double parked as alternate side parking (slash the bane of my existence, slash why don't I EVER bring a book, slash OR coffee...hashtag Gross) crept into effect:
"Broke, But the Gorilla Tape Had to Go."
Granted, the idea seemed rather obvious, looking in the back seat and noticing that both windows were still off the track, still had not fixed themselves, and were held up rather precariously and increasingly ineffectively by said Gorilla Tape. But, it felt right. It felt apt, as if it could be an awesome metaphor for...something, I don't know. Everything, all the things.
Maybe.
Blargh. Guys! This is a prime example of what my Writing-life looks like, rather, what it's begun to look like. Things happen to me, all sorts of ideas and creative fodder pops into my brain and I think YEAHHHHH!!!! WRITE ABOUT ITTTTTT!!!! And I don't. Largely just because I honestly--honestly!--haven't had the time.
(Sidebar: Someday, I will happily discuss with you exactly what the past 6 months have looked like. The half-marathon, the new job, the BABY-BIRTHINGthatwasnotmine, the vacation, the class with Kathleen Turner KATHLEEN TURRRRNERRR!!!!, the commercial shooting, the web-series, the ministering, sooooo many things. ...Someday.)
Sometimes, however, I think writing can just feel scary.
And with THAT, let us segue into one of the best nights of my professional life which, just to give you a hint, had nothing to do with acting. Well, my acting, anyway.
Backstory: A little over four years ago, I was sitting in an airport in Kansas City waiting for an NYC-bound flight and, as per, people-watching. If you have never been in the Kansas City International (I mean, they have GOT to be using that term loosely) Airport, it feels pretty much empty pretty much all of the time. And so, I'm sitting at my gate with only two other people, this couple.
They are the most fascinating two people I have ever seen.
They had to be somewhere in their late 50s/early 60s and they had clearly gone out of their way to uber-closely resemble Elvis and Priscilla Presley. I mean, he kinda looked like a bespectacled-version of Elvis that had just left a rodeo, but still, their hair was just so, his tan was just so, his sneer was just so, her plastic surgeried face was just so. It was odd, you know, and completely amazing.
But even stranger still was their behavior. The three of us sat at this gate by ourselves for no less than 45 minutes, and I watched them (albeit creepily, I've no doubt) having this increasingly intense conversation with each other. However, they were having this conversation entirely through their teeth, never moving, and never even looking at one another; they continually stared out the windows, scanning the tarmac.
Who the shit are these people?! I thought. They were too outrageous to not be real, too strange, too theatrical, and I knew that I had to figure them out.
I knew that I had to write about them.
Once I was home, I sat down and just started writing all stream-of-consciously just to kind of see what I could see about them. It didn't take me all that long to draft up an intense character breakdown of the pair, and it didn't take me long to have Waiting for Godot pop into my head, and it didn't take me long after that to decide that I needed to write a play.
And so, I did. And I wrote it feverishly and excitedly. The words just poured out and the story just kept growing and I thought UGGGGGGGH, yesssssssss!!!! I knew that I was creating something new and different, and weird, but it was Mine! This little nugget was completely Mine, and it felt completely amazing.
And then, I finished it.
Aaaand I hated it.
I HAAAATED it.
This doesn't GO anywhere! This dialogue doesn't sound real, nothing's really happening to these people, and I sound like I'm trying too hard. I hate it, Nope!, I hate it.
And I was devoid of ideas. So, I saved the file, upturned my coffee table with a FUCK this, I can't write a play!!, and walked away.
For four years.
Fast forward to a month and a half ago. I'm at work folding napkins all Zen-like when my sweet sweet lady friend Ashley approaches me with this genius idea.
"So. I'm gonna host a night of One Acts in August, and we want all of the pieces to be written by people who aren't known writers. Like, directors and actors who happen to write things."
A celebration of new work in the best of possible ways. My brain started to buzz.
I LOVE it! I love it.
"Right?!" It sounded so exciting. "You write, right?"
NO. ...The word just kind of ran out of me, so I, naturally, felt the need to qualify it as I tend to over-qualify all the things all the times.
Well, OK, no. I wrote a thing once, a play, but it was...terrible. I seriously feel like if you asked me to write anything else, I could absolutely do it, but just, I don't, I don't think that I'm a playwright.
And she just nodded, said "OK!" and that was that.
...Except that wasn't that, because she reapproached me five minutes later and said, "What was your play about?"
And so I instinctively told her. And it felt so foreign to talk about it. I hadn't discussed it with anyone in eons, hardly anyone in my New York-life even knew that it existed. I started to get anxious.
But all my friend said was, "Yup!" (...What?!)
Um, yeah. It's silly. Because it was silly! Because I'd already written it off as a thing that I couldn't do, an idea that could never ever work. I couldn't believe that I was even talking about it, let alone that someone sounded even pseudo-interested in it.
And my sweet friend just smiled. "Angela. Maybe you take a second look at it. At your play. I don't know." And walked away.
And so, that was that.
And that night, I begrudgingly sat down and opened the thing up for the first time in four years. It was terrifying. I was certain that I wouldn't even remember what it sounded like and, frankly, I was ok with that; I wasn't sure that I wanted to remember what it sounded like.
...It wasn't bad.
I mean, of course it needed work, but I could actually see where to fix it. And so, I did.
Within 72 hours, I'd completed an initial round of editing, received Ashley's go-ahead (WHAT?!), and gotten a director for the piece (What what WHAAAAAT?!). And then a cast (... ... ..).
And not a lick of it made any sense to me, at all.
Over the coming weeks, I edited and cut and rewrote and cleaned-up and sharpened like a madwoman. But, the more concrete my words became, the more my fears just grew and grew and grew. Because that was the thing: I'd never been responsible for what someone else had to say before. I'd always been responsible for the acting-part, the telling of the story, I'd done that a hundred thousand times, and had gotten, you know, pseudo-decent at that. But, I'd never before been responsible for the actual story, I'd never been in charge of the blueprint and, consequently, was terrified that I was building a structure that wouldn't hold up. A structure of my words and ideas, and I truthfully didn't know if those words and ideas were solid enough. Pulling this thing together was, in all honesty, the most vulnerable thing I've done in an exceedingly long time.
And it is terrifying to be vulnerable.
However, it is humiliating to be a coward. And I tend to think that Bravery is fun. And so, I forged ahead.
I met my two actors and my director on the night of the reading. THE Night Of, as in a little more than an hour before the curtain went up. I didn't know what it would sound like, I didn't know if they would get it, I didn't know if it would come off as stupid, or trite, if I was going to look like an absolute fool, I just...I just didn't know. Anything. And it was fucking scary.
With my heart racing, the four of us sat down at these rickety tables in the back of this gloriously dimly lit bar.
So.
And I took a deep swig from my Tangerine SkinnyGirl Cape Cod, because I am nothing if not the epitome of class when under pressure.
Before we jump in into this, talk to me. Do you have any questions for me? Does anything not make sense, read a little unclear? You tell me, I'm seriously open to any and everything you got. (Fuck.)
"It's really fun."
...What?
"Yeah!"
(WHAT?!) Did. Did I give you enough to work with?
"You're kidding, right?"
"You're kidding."
(No...)
"It's. Pretty clear to me."
"Yeah. And, like, colorful."
(It's colorful?!)
"Very."
(OH SHIT, REALLY?!) Oh SHIT! Really?!
And they both just sat there grinning.
"Really."
"Yeah. I'm only sorry I couldn't tease my hair more for this. I tried."
I THINK THAT YOUR HAIR LOOKS AMAZINNNNNNG!!! It did. Shit was huge and glorious.
"OOH! One thing. Southern accents?"
YES! Yes! I love it!!
And with that, they read the thing.
And I simultaneously held my breath and giddily perma-grinned throughout the entire 15 minutes.
I can't. Tell you. How ridiculous crazy and completely humbling it is to sit by and watch two people breathe life into a story of your own creation. I can't. And these guys didn't just seemingly get the story, they trusted it. Really. They made it live, and they made it live pitch-perfectly. I mean, how did that even happen?! I will never know what I did to deserve any of that.
Shit was surreal.
And it only got surrealler when they did it for real--and KILLED it--in front of a house of almost 100 people.
If you'd asked me when I'd last attended a reading of any kind with more than 30 people in the audience, I wouldn't have been able to answer you. There were three times as many people crammed into the back of this bar to hear these one acts. On purpose. On a Monday night. All in absolute support of five new, not perfectly finessed, and damn hungry voices, and these words that they'd never publicly shared before. How risky. How fucking exciting.
How sweet and generous of this sweet sweet crowd. And absolutely terrifying.
But, man, they were with us.
And man, every actor up there GAVE it. And to stand in a room chock full of both so much stupid talent and so much crazy support is the singlemost wonderfully overwhelming thing in the whole wide world. It's beautiful. It's uplifting, and inspiring.
And truthfully? It becomes impossible to feel afraid in such an environment. Because Fear can't thrive in a place where Love rules.
It just can't.
I want to figure out a way that I can take that feeling with me all the goddamn time.
I want everyone to feel what that is. And soon. And often.
I want to give everyone that was involved in that night in any and every way--from my darling Ashley, to my fellow writers, to the actors, to the directors, to every single sweet audience member, to that glorious chick Linda running the bar--the biggest hug in the universe.
And I want to scare myself more often. Run the risk of failing, and failing better, and then surprising myself with Failure's lackthereof.
And I will.
And I will write.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
A Starving Artist Educates the Masses on: ETIQUETTE
I don't want to tell you precisely how many years I've spent working in restaurants, precisely how long it's been.
(I'm officially beginning to think that it's been too long, howevah, that's another story for another time.)
But I decided fairly early on in my "Bussin Tables and Kickin Ass"-days that grade schools across America were doing a great disservice to our young folk by not offering classes on Restaurant Etiquette. Really and truly, and there are a sundry of reasons as to why.
This feeling has grown exponentially over the years. And of course it has. I've grown older, and wiser, and less likely to deal with people's supreme bullshit, and now that I'm like an actual citizen of the city and not just some newbie getting acquainted with things and people and jobs, now that I actually know some stuff and have gotten situated and have been at my present serving job for nigh on two years...I mean, it's time, guys. It's time.
HENCEFORTH! I present to you (on behalf of both myself and the hundreds of other Starving Artist friends of mine working the same grind):
RESTAURANT ETIQUETTE: A Fairly Sweet Yet Honest Guide...Abridged. You're Welcome.
1) The correct term is "Server". Just "Server". "Waiter" or "Waitress" are fine-ish, I guess, but pretty dated. The term "Server" exists because it is there to plainly dictate what it is that we are there to do, which is Serve You.
Do not under any circumstances think that this is a less than adequate term. Do not think that you need to come up with something more politically correct/refined sounding to refer to us as. Do not ever under any circumstances think that it is ok to refer to your Server as a "Waitron". I do not know what a "Waitron" is. No one else I have spoken to has ever heard of this "Waitron", but we have all assumed that it is a reference to A) a matronly Server, B) a Server who happens to be a robot, C) a matronly robot Server, and/or D) the fact that you're a huge douche.
1B) Do I know you? Like truly know you, as in are we friends? If your answer is "No", then that means that you the Patron may not ever refer to me as "Honey". Ever.
2) Incidentally, the Server's job is simply to serve you food and drink. It is not to do the aforementioned tasks, and babysit your children. Restaurants are a public place in which multiple families and couples and business partners do their dining. It is not a daycare. It is not a place where children are entitled to sprint around, lie on the floor whilst people are moving about/Servers are carrying trays of drinks, scream at a neighboring family's table, light tablecloths on fire, generally wreak havoc.
If and/or when this happens, it is not our job to stop them. It is our job to give you, their parent, your 5th margarita while you and your yoga buddy finish discussing which preschool to apply to for early decision...whilst your kid drags that stranger's son across the floor by his ankle.
3) If the food is not precisely the way you want it, it is not your Server's fault. Your Server did not cook your meal, your Server did not plan the menu, nor did they order the produce, etc.
Is everything alright, Ma'am?
"I ordered my eggs scrambled soft."
Right.
"These are definitely scrambled well."
Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, let me get some new eggs made for you right away.
"I ASKED you for soft scrambled!"
...You did.
"SO WHY DIDN'T YOU SCRAMBLE THEM SOFT?!?!"
... ...I mean, I'm sure it was just an accident. On the kitchen's part.
"ExCUSE me?!"
I just think...
"...UGH! I don't even want this, take this off my bill, this service is completely unacceptable!"
Incorrect.
The kitchen had an oops, which is super easy to remedy, and your service had nothing to do with it. Your Server served you your eggs, with a smile. Also: you, Ma'am, are a bitch.
To bank off of this...
4) Please read your menu. Please. Do not, for example, ask for waffles just because it's a thing you want, please open your menu to see whether or not they are available, first.
If they are, that's fantastic, request away. If they are not, they cannot magically appear, the restaurant cannot run out to buy a waffle iron just for you, and that is not your Server's fault.
"Yes, I'll have a turkey burger, please."
Ohh, I'm sorry, we only have chicken burgers.
"What!? You don't have turkey burgers?!"
...We have chicken burgers.
"White meat?"
Chicken burgers, yes.
"You don't have ANY turkey burgers in the back? You can't just make a turkey burger?!"
...No.
"Well, I can't do that! What am I supposed to eat?!"
...I just don't know. As am I neither in charge of the menu, nor your crazy ass diet.
AND!
5) Only call us over to take your order if you have read your menu. Do not, for example, hastily and furiously flag us over to take your order, tell us that you're in a rush, only to then open your menu and say "Sooooooooooo...what's good here? Whatcha got? And is there, like, anything I can get a 3 year-old?"
Not nice.
This maneuver of yours will consume at least 5-10 minutes of our time. And, with 8-12 other tables in our section, we do not have that time.
Nor do we have the time to discuss your life story, discuss why you have celiac disease and why your husband is diabetic and why the sky is blue and why children shouldn't be restricted from beer gardens and why Prospect Park should restrict vendors from selling ice cream and why you'd rather die than lose access to your food co-op.
I wish we had the time to discuss these things. I do. But, I've got these 10 other tables, see? And they're all glaring at me, and they're all going to make it possible for me to leave here tonight and go buy like 2 fancy bulk bags of Malt O'Meal and some crazy artisanal Chunky Soup because WE LIKE LIVIN LARRRRRRRRRGE!!!!
...
...Don't be inconsiderate, ya jerk.
6) Think before you go out to eat. If you are, in fact, craving TexMex, don't go to Sushi Samba thinking that they can accommodate your craving. There will not be many vegan selections at a Longhorn Steakhouse. You will not be able to order a macchiato at Pizza Hut. Certain restaurants specialize in certain cuisines, and will only be so flexible in their offerings.
I cannot tell you the number of times that I have been ripped into by brunch patrons at my restaurant for not offering sprouted wheat toast, rice milk, greek yogurt, soy bacon, and sugar-free Frappucinos on our menu.
"I just can't believe it. What kind of restaurant doesn't serve cage-free quail eggs for brunch these days?"
...You know, restaurants specializing in pizza and Cajun cuisine. Our restaurant. So. There's that.
**7) (The asterisks are denoting that this is an extra special note so please, dear sweet jesus, take care to read this, imprint the words in your brain and grapple it to your soul with hoops of steel).
If you do not have enough money to leave a decent tip, you do not have enough money to go out to eat. Period.
Let's say you need a new pair of jeans, right? You walk into a store, and go "Hey. So, I know these jeans are $70, but I only have $55 on me, soooooo...That's cool, right? We have a deal? GreatOKbyeeeeeeeeeee."
No.
Consider the tip a part of the overall cost. Not a voluntary thing, not some chump change to leave just to do your Server a favor, but an actual part of the bill. And when I say "Tip", we're not talking 10% of the bill, we're talking 18% bare minimum, ideally 20%.
Now. Before anyone starts to freak out and say "WHAT THE SHITFUCK?! A bit hefty, don't you think?! What's that all about?!"
Here's what it's all about:
The average Server makes (...wait for it...) $3-$5/hour.
...
...Correct.
Henceforth, if you leave your Server a $10 tip on top of your $170 dinner bill, you are ensuring that your Server can purchase a roll of toilet paper tonight, but not pay rent. It is helpful to be able to wipe your own ass in a clean-ish way, however, it is more helpful if you have a place in which to wipe it.
8) If you see your Server running around like a crazy person, that means that they are busy. Very. It does not mean that they are making a point to ignore you, that you are not a priority, or that you have been completely forgotten. Plain and simply, they are busy, and your ass needs to practice some patience. (That's a goddamn virtue, it is!)
It is in no way helpful when you, the Patron, flag them over and say:
"Um. WHERE'S our food?"
"Um. HelLO! More water?"
"Um. More napkins?"
"Um. Can you get my daughter a different coloring book? She hates the first 3 you've given her."
As if we were a negligent douche for not being on top of these things sooner. Please trust that if you see us running--literally running--around the restaurant that we are getting to you and your needs. Be patient. And calm the fuck down.
9) Incidentally, hand gestures to get your Server's attention suck. Waving, snapping your fingers, drawing a check sign in the air, all of those things suck. They are demeaning, and they suck. We are not servants, we are Servers, and I assure you that there is a difference.
10) Do not speak to your Server as if they were completely imbecilic. It's mean. I don't know if you've seen the movie Waiting, but there are things that Servers can do to your food before it arrives to your table; the more of an asshole you are, the more we are enticed to do these things.
Also, the likelihood is that your Server is the opposite of imbecilic. The likelihood is that your Server is actually pretty educated.
I don't know a single person whose life-long career goal is SERVER EXTRAORDINAIRE!!!! (If you do, you should probably kiss that person's feet because they are most likely a saint. A goddamn saint, I tell you.) Every single person I know is a Server simply because they haven't gotten to where they ultimately want to be professionally. Yet. They have not given up hope, they are steadily working towards something better and are, in the meantime, serving you your chicken parm in an effort to pay the bills.
Your Server might be your higher-up at your advertising firm within the next 7 years.
Your Server might write the next great American novel.
Your Server might write the next great "Fuck You"-ballad about what an atrocious asshole you were for blatantly staring at her tits all dinner long in front of your wife and kids. And won't you feel like a shmuck.
Your Server might be your wife's divorce attorney in 2 years. And won't you feel like a shmuck.
Your Server might simply be a Starving Artist who auditions her ass off throughout the week and works her ass off throughout the absolute duration of the weekend, every weekend, in a tremendous effort to both get by and (hopefully) get ahead. A Starving Artist who is completely aware that life is not all about serving up some jambalaya, rather that that jambalaya is simply a means to an end. A hopeful end, a better end.
But, who knows.
...
GUH! Point is (and believe me, I could go on): for crying out loud, behave yourself when dining out! Be patient, be kind, be considerate, rein your children in, take your head out of your ass, get a hold of yourself and Dont. Be. A douche.
And tell your friends.
...And be sure to tip your Waitron.
(I'm officially beginning to think that it's been too long, howevah, that's another story for another time.)
But I decided fairly early on in my "Bussin Tables and Kickin Ass"-days that grade schools across America were doing a great disservice to our young folk by not offering classes on Restaurant Etiquette. Really and truly, and there are a sundry of reasons as to why.
This feeling has grown exponentially over the years. And of course it has. I've grown older, and wiser, and less likely to deal with people's supreme bullshit, and now that I'm like an actual citizen of the city and not just some newbie getting acquainted with things and people and jobs, now that I actually know some stuff and have gotten situated and have been at my present serving job for nigh on two years...I mean, it's time, guys. It's time.
HENCEFORTH! I present to you (on behalf of both myself and the hundreds of other Starving Artist friends of mine working the same grind):
RESTAURANT ETIQUETTE: A Fairly Sweet Yet Honest Guide...Abridged. You're Welcome.
1) The correct term is "Server". Just "Server". "Waiter" or "Waitress" are fine-ish, I guess, but pretty dated. The term "Server" exists because it is there to plainly dictate what it is that we are there to do, which is Serve You.
Do not under any circumstances think that this is a less than adequate term. Do not think that you need to come up with something more politically correct/refined sounding to refer to us as. Do not ever under any circumstances think that it is ok to refer to your Server as a "Waitron". I do not know what a "Waitron" is. No one else I have spoken to has ever heard of this "Waitron", but we have all assumed that it is a reference to A) a matronly Server, B) a Server who happens to be a robot, C) a matronly robot Server, and/or D) the fact that you're a huge douche.
1B) Do I know you? Like truly know you, as in are we friends? If your answer is "No", then that means that you the Patron may not ever refer to me as "Honey". Ever.
2) Incidentally, the Server's job is simply to serve you food and drink. It is not to do the aforementioned tasks, and babysit your children. Restaurants are a public place in which multiple families and couples and business partners do their dining. It is not a daycare. It is not a place where children are entitled to sprint around, lie on the floor whilst people are moving about/Servers are carrying trays of drinks, scream at a neighboring family's table, light tablecloths on fire, generally wreak havoc.
If and/or when this happens, it is not our job to stop them. It is our job to give you, their parent, your 5th margarita while you and your yoga buddy finish discussing which preschool to apply to for early decision...whilst your kid drags that stranger's son across the floor by his ankle.
3) If the food is not precisely the way you want it, it is not your Server's fault. Your Server did not cook your meal, your Server did not plan the menu, nor did they order the produce, etc.
Is everything alright, Ma'am?
"I ordered my eggs scrambled soft."
Right.
"These are definitely scrambled well."
Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, let me get some new eggs made for you right away.
"I ASKED you for soft scrambled!"
...You did.
"SO WHY DIDN'T YOU SCRAMBLE THEM SOFT?!?!"
... ...I mean, I'm sure it was just an accident. On the kitchen's part.
"ExCUSE me?!"
I just think...
"...UGH! I don't even want this, take this off my bill, this service is completely unacceptable!"
Incorrect.
The kitchen had an oops, which is super easy to remedy, and your service had nothing to do with it. Your Server served you your eggs, with a smile. Also: you, Ma'am, are a bitch.
To bank off of this...
4) Please read your menu. Please. Do not, for example, ask for waffles just because it's a thing you want, please open your menu to see whether or not they are available, first.
If they are, that's fantastic, request away. If they are not, they cannot magically appear, the restaurant cannot run out to buy a waffle iron just for you, and that is not your Server's fault.
"Yes, I'll have a turkey burger, please."
Ohh, I'm sorry, we only have chicken burgers.
"What!? You don't have turkey burgers?!"
...We have chicken burgers.
"White meat?"
Chicken burgers, yes.
"You don't have ANY turkey burgers in the back? You can't just make a turkey burger?!"
...No.
"Well, I can't do that! What am I supposed to eat?!"
...I just don't know. As am I neither in charge of the menu, nor your crazy ass diet.
AND!
5) Only call us over to take your order if you have read your menu. Do not, for example, hastily and furiously flag us over to take your order, tell us that you're in a rush, only to then open your menu and say "Sooooooooooo...what's good here? Whatcha got? And is there, like, anything I can get a 3 year-old?"
Not nice.
This maneuver of yours will consume at least 5-10 minutes of our time. And, with 8-12 other tables in our section, we do not have that time.
Nor do we have the time to discuss your life story, discuss why you have celiac disease and why your husband is diabetic and why the sky is blue and why children shouldn't be restricted from beer gardens and why Prospect Park should restrict vendors from selling ice cream and why you'd rather die than lose access to your food co-op.
I wish we had the time to discuss these things. I do. But, I've got these 10 other tables, see? And they're all glaring at me, and they're all going to make it possible for me to leave here tonight and go buy like 2 fancy bulk bags of Malt O'Meal and some crazy artisanal Chunky Soup because WE LIKE LIVIN LARRRRRRRRRGE!!!!
...
...Don't be inconsiderate, ya jerk.
6) Think before you go out to eat. If you are, in fact, craving TexMex, don't go to Sushi Samba thinking that they can accommodate your craving. There will not be many vegan selections at a Longhorn Steakhouse. You will not be able to order a macchiato at Pizza Hut. Certain restaurants specialize in certain cuisines, and will only be so flexible in their offerings.
I cannot tell you the number of times that I have been ripped into by brunch patrons at my restaurant for not offering sprouted wheat toast, rice milk, greek yogurt, soy bacon, and sugar-free Frappucinos on our menu.
"I just can't believe it. What kind of restaurant doesn't serve cage-free quail eggs for brunch these days?"
...You know, restaurants specializing in pizza and Cajun cuisine. Our restaurant. So. There's that.
**7) (The asterisks are denoting that this is an extra special note so please, dear sweet jesus, take care to read this, imprint the words in your brain and grapple it to your soul with hoops of steel).
If you do not have enough money to leave a decent tip, you do not have enough money to go out to eat. Period.
Let's say you need a new pair of jeans, right? You walk into a store, and go "Hey. So, I know these jeans are $70, but I only have $55 on me, soooooo...That's cool, right? We have a deal? GreatOKbyeeeeeeeeeee."
No.
Consider the tip a part of the overall cost. Not a voluntary thing, not some chump change to leave just to do your Server a favor, but an actual part of the bill. And when I say "Tip", we're not talking 10% of the bill, we're talking 18% bare minimum, ideally 20%.
Now. Before anyone starts to freak out and say "WHAT THE SHITFUCK?! A bit hefty, don't you think?! What's that all about?!"
Here's what it's all about:
The average Server makes (...wait for it...) $3-$5/hour.
...
...Correct.
Henceforth, if you leave your Server a $10 tip on top of your $170 dinner bill, you are ensuring that your Server can purchase a roll of toilet paper tonight, but not pay rent. It is helpful to be able to wipe your own ass in a clean-ish way, however, it is more helpful if you have a place in which to wipe it.
8) If you see your Server running around like a crazy person, that means that they are busy. Very. It does not mean that they are making a point to ignore you, that you are not a priority, or that you have been completely forgotten. Plain and simply, they are busy, and your ass needs to practice some patience. (That's a goddamn virtue, it is!)
It is in no way helpful when you, the Patron, flag them over and say:
"Um. WHERE'S our food?"
"Um. HelLO! More water?"
"Um. More napkins?"
"Um. Can you get my daughter a different coloring book? She hates the first 3 you've given her."
As if we were a negligent douche for not being on top of these things sooner. Please trust that if you see us running--literally running--around the restaurant that we are getting to you and your needs. Be patient. And calm the fuck down.
9) Incidentally, hand gestures to get your Server's attention suck. Waving, snapping your fingers, drawing a check sign in the air, all of those things suck. They are demeaning, and they suck. We are not servants, we are Servers, and I assure you that there is a difference.
10) Do not speak to your Server as if they were completely imbecilic. It's mean. I don't know if you've seen the movie Waiting, but there are things that Servers can do to your food before it arrives to your table; the more of an asshole you are, the more we are enticed to do these things.
Also, the likelihood is that your Server is the opposite of imbecilic. The likelihood is that your Server is actually pretty educated.
I don't know a single person whose life-long career goal is SERVER EXTRAORDINAIRE!!!! (If you do, you should probably kiss that person's feet because they are most likely a saint. A goddamn saint, I tell you.) Every single person I know is a Server simply because they haven't gotten to where they ultimately want to be professionally. Yet. They have not given up hope, they are steadily working towards something better and are, in the meantime, serving you your chicken parm in an effort to pay the bills.
Your Server might be your higher-up at your advertising firm within the next 7 years.
Your Server might write the next great American novel.
Your Server might write the next great "Fuck You"-ballad about what an atrocious asshole you were for blatantly staring at her tits all dinner long in front of your wife and kids. And won't you feel like a shmuck.
Your Server might be your wife's divorce attorney in 2 years. And won't you feel like a shmuck.
Your Server might simply be a Starving Artist who auditions her ass off throughout the week and works her ass off throughout the absolute duration of the weekend, every weekend, in a tremendous effort to both get by and (hopefully) get ahead. A Starving Artist who is completely aware that life is not all about serving up some jambalaya, rather that that jambalaya is simply a means to an end. A hopeful end, a better end.
But, who knows.
...
GUH! Point is (and believe me, I could go on): for crying out loud, behave yourself when dining out! Be patient, be kind, be considerate, rein your children in, take your head out of your ass, get a hold of yourself and Dont. Be. A douche.
And tell your friends.
...And be sure to tip your Waitron.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
A Starving Artist Taking Turns
So, I know multiple people whom have begun their thirties in fairly dramatic fashion.
One of my best friends was arrested ten minutes before actually turning 30. Whilst driving home. Not knowing that there were bunches of folks waiting in her apartment to surprise her.
Another friend of mine rang in her 30th birthday in London. At a legit rave. With her parents.
Numerous friends of mine turned 30 and got engaged, cradled their newborn instead of a bottle of bubbly, got promoted, got demoted, got more schwasted than they'd been in years in an effort to give their 21st birthday a run for its money.
And one of my dearest friends got treated to a 13-course Chef's Pairing/Wine Tasting at Le Bernardin. Like ya do. (GIRRRRRRL, YOU FANCY!!!)
I had begun to think that I had escaped the dramatic entrance into my thirties and, truthfully, I was feeling pretty ok about that.
...
I finally got my meeting with a legit agent the Friday after turning the Big Dirty. Finally. After years and years of wanting to just click with someone and spark their interest and be able to walk in the door of their office, it was actually happening.
I was. Ecstatic.
I had signed up for yet another workshop-meet-and-greet kinda deal, only this time, with an agent that I knew one of my friends was already signed with (which, FYI, is an incredibly smart and pseudo-necessary move in the pursuit of a legit agent).
I walked in, and killed my scene. (Hell yes, I did.)
She smiled, said nice things, I most likely got kinda flushed, and we started chatting. And lo and behold, one of the other two agents in her office was a sweet gal I went to undergrad with.
I had NO idea. None. And damn, that felt serendipitous.
And, the next week, said sweet gal emailed me to set up an appointment to meet with her team.
I ran home with a new old pair of green jeans in tow (just because) and squealed like a maniac to a boy and a dog all freaking night. ALL night. I was peeing my pants. Really. (Not really. Metaphorically? I guess?). I didn't want to set myself up too hard with any grand super amazing expectations, but I KNEW. I knewww that this was going to be a good thing.
I did.
Two and a half weeks later, we finally met that Friday, the Friday post Dirty.
And I wasn't nervous, I wasn't jittery, I didn't doubt a thing, I just knew.
And we just sat there and talked, just talked, for an hour. It wasn't weird, it wasn't awkward, we didn't even sort of have a shortage of things to say: there was New York, there was acting, there was professional connections, there was cleaning up resumes...there was undergrad, there was shoes--cute ones and Crocs, there was Judy Greer, and Arrested Development, and the necessity of coffee, and our collective complete lack of computer related knowhow. It was just so fun.
Honestly. It was fun.
And they said that I was "delightful", and I giggled like an idiot. And they said that I "certainly seemed like I had (my) stuff together", and I blushed...again. And they said they'd have to have a meeting to "talk about (me) behind my back", and I said that that was fine, because of course it was.
Of COURSE it was!
Because I walked away from that meeting feeling like I'd made friends in that room. I walked away knowing that that was the beginning of a sweet relationship and, goddammit, it felt great. And refreshing. And like a huge relief but, more than anything, just...nice.
Nice.
And overdue.
...
The holidays come, and they go.
And everyone takes their time during the holidays, and they should, so I didn't fret over not having heard anything in two weeks. Rather, I simply did my part and briefly rolled away from my Christmas danish to email a Hello and Happy New Year...and immediately rolled back to resume working on my holiday pudge. And I felt great about it. (All of it.)
...
It is now January 2nd. The holidays have given up on themselves, and I awake to an email.
It is the sweet gal. And her email is sweet. And it is kind.
And it is not at all what I want to hear.
"We feel you conflict with a few of our women, so it won't be going further at this time together."
Oh.
She says things are shifting around at the office, that's she's happy that we reconnected and "Please contact me again around March."
And there it was, my dramatic entrance: 30, and rejected. Ring the bells, Y'all.
People say not to bother getting heartbroken over things that are completely out of your hands and beyond your control. "Why worry about it? Don't worry about it! There's nothing you could have done about it, so why be sad?!"
So. That's bullshit, right? Kinda?
I fucking wanted it. When people get the opposite of things that they want (slash, for better or worse, think that they deserve), it is a sad moment.
Clark Griswold gets a subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club as opposed to a Christmas bonus.
Ralphie Parker gets a C+ instead of an A+! (+! +! +! +! +!...).
Elle Woods gets broken up with instead of proposed to.
I think that I'm going to join an agency, hitch up with some awesome new advocates for my career, and not only am I sadly mistaken, I am told that they already have someone like me.
It is both a tragic stereotype and absolute truism of the actor that we continually fight against being seen as "ordinary", "inauthentic", "done". We want to think that we're unique. That we're a new, refreshing thing. That we are extraordinary, and a thing that you long to have.
Finding out just how many "Yous" exist in the world is a shock to the system.
Hearing that at least one other pseudo-You exists in the family of a really appealing agency just smarts.
A lot.
And I sat back feeling like a douche. Like a teary-eyed douche. An angry, confused, teary-eyed douche, while my boyfriend turned away from playing Call of Duty to grab my hand, because he's the nicest and has, unfortunately, had to deal with me being an emotional douche what feels like quite a lot as of late.
Because I'm 30. 'Member that time I turned 30? I 'member that time....
"You will get an agent, Angela."
I hope so.
"You will."
When though?
"Well..."
When?
"... ...I don't know."
And that When-question has very quickly become old, and more important.
And I'm not giving up on it, because that'd be dumb, and I'm too stubborn. And I stubbornly feel like I have something to give.
But. I'm anxious. I am anxious, dammit. I would like to know when it's going to be "My Turn", and if there's a thing that I need to do to bring about "My Turn".
Maybe that's just reconnecting with these ladies in March. And I will.
Maybe that's just shaking hands that I haven't shaken yet. And I will.
...Maybe that's sending out baskets of cookies and/or Edible Arrangements and/or singing telegrams to every agent in the New York City-area. I don't know.
I don't know what it is, but I've got to do it.
One of my best friends was arrested ten minutes before actually turning 30. Whilst driving home. Not knowing that there were bunches of folks waiting in her apartment to surprise her.
Another friend of mine rang in her 30th birthday in London. At a legit rave. With her parents.
Numerous friends of mine turned 30 and got engaged, cradled their newborn instead of a bottle of bubbly, got promoted, got demoted, got more schwasted than they'd been in years in an effort to give their 21st birthday a run for its money.
And one of my dearest friends got treated to a 13-course Chef's Pairing/Wine Tasting at Le Bernardin. Like ya do. (GIRRRRRRL, YOU FANCY!!!)
I had begun to think that I had escaped the dramatic entrance into my thirties and, truthfully, I was feeling pretty ok about that.
...
I finally got my meeting with a legit agent the Friday after turning the Big Dirty. Finally. After years and years of wanting to just click with someone and spark their interest and be able to walk in the door of their office, it was actually happening.
I was. Ecstatic.
I had signed up for yet another workshop-meet-and-greet kinda deal, only this time, with an agent that I knew one of my friends was already signed with (which, FYI, is an incredibly smart and pseudo-necessary move in the pursuit of a legit agent).
I walked in, and killed my scene. (Hell yes, I did.)
She smiled, said nice things, I most likely got kinda flushed, and we started chatting. And lo and behold, one of the other two agents in her office was a sweet gal I went to undergrad with.
I had NO idea. None. And damn, that felt serendipitous.
And, the next week, said sweet gal emailed me to set up an appointment to meet with her team.
I ran home with a new old pair of green jeans in tow (just because) and squealed like a maniac to a boy and a dog all freaking night. ALL night. I was peeing my pants. Really. (Not really. Metaphorically? I guess?). I didn't want to set myself up too hard with any grand super amazing expectations, but I KNEW. I knewww that this was going to be a good thing.
I did.
Two and a half weeks later, we finally met that Friday, the Friday post Dirty.
And I wasn't nervous, I wasn't jittery, I didn't doubt a thing, I just knew.
And we just sat there and talked, just talked, for an hour. It wasn't weird, it wasn't awkward, we didn't even sort of have a shortage of things to say: there was New York, there was acting, there was professional connections, there was cleaning up resumes...there was undergrad, there was shoes--cute ones and Crocs, there was Judy Greer, and Arrested Development, and the necessity of coffee, and our collective complete lack of computer related knowhow. It was just so fun.
Honestly. It was fun.
And they said that I was "delightful", and I giggled like an idiot. And they said that I "certainly seemed like I had (my) stuff together", and I blushed...again. And they said they'd have to have a meeting to "talk about (me) behind my back", and I said that that was fine, because of course it was.
Of COURSE it was!
Because I walked away from that meeting feeling like I'd made friends in that room. I walked away knowing that that was the beginning of a sweet relationship and, goddammit, it felt great. And refreshing. And like a huge relief but, more than anything, just...nice.
Nice.
And overdue.
...
The holidays come, and they go.
And everyone takes their time during the holidays, and they should, so I didn't fret over not having heard anything in two weeks. Rather, I simply did my part and briefly rolled away from my Christmas danish to email a Hello and Happy New Year...and immediately rolled back to resume working on my holiday pudge. And I felt great about it. (All of it.)
...
It is now January 2nd. The holidays have given up on themselves, and I awake to an email.
It is the sweet gal. And her email is sweet. And it is kind.
And it is not at all what I want to hear.
"We feel you conflict with a few of our women, so it won't be going further at this time together."
Oh.
She says things are shifting around at the office, that's she's happy that we reconnected and "Please contact me again around March."
And there it was, my dramatic entrance: 30, and rejected. Ring the bells, Y'all.
People say not to bother getting heartbroken over things that are completely out of your hands and beyond your control. "Why worry about it? Don't worry about it! There's nothing you could have done about it, so why be sad?!"
So. That's bullshit, right? Kinda?
I fucking wanted it. When people get the opposite of things that they want (slash, for better or worse, think that they deserve), it is a sad moment.
Clark Griswold gets a subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club as opposed to a Christmas bonus.
Ralphie Parker gets a C+ instead of an A+! (+! +! +! +! +!...).
Elle Woods gets broken up with instead of proposed to.
I think that I'm going to join an agency, hitch up with some awesome new advocates for my career, and not only am I sadly mistaken, I am told that they already have someone like me.
It is both a tragic stereotype and absolute truism of the actor that we continually fight against being seen as "ordinary", "inauthentic", "done". We want to think that we're unique. That we're a new, refreshing thing. That we are extraordinary, and a thing that you long to have.
Finding out just how many "Yous" exist in the world is a shock to the system.
Hearing that at least one other pseudo-You exists in the family of a really appealing agency just smarts.
A lot.
And I sat back feeling like a douche. Like a teary-eyed douche. An angry, confused, teary-eyed douche, while my boyfriend turned away from playing Call of Duty to grab my hand, because he's the nicest and has, unfortunately, had to deal with me being an emotional douche what feels like quite a lot as of late.
Because I'm 30. 'Member that time I turned 30? I 'member that time....
"You will get an agent, Angela."
I hope so.
"You will."
When though?
"Well..."
When?
"... ...I don't know."
And that When-question has very quickly become old, and more important.
And I'm not giving up on it, because that'd be dumb, and I'm too stubborn. And I stubbornly feel like I have something to give.
But. I'm anxious. I am anxious, dammit. I would like to know when it's going to be "My Turn", and if there's a thing that I need to do to bring about "My Turn".
Maybe that's just reconnecting with these ladies in March. And I will.
Maybe that's just shaking hands that I haven't shaken yet. And I will.
...Maybe that's sending out baskets of cookies and/or Edible Arrangements and/or singing telegrams to every agent in the New York City-area. I don't know.
I don't know what it is, but I've got to do it.
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