7 People Servers Hate

Working in the restaurant industry has taught me several life lessons:

free soup and bread counts as a diet, rent money is only a double shift away, and people that go out to eat are the worst kind of people.

I’m a waitress and I have been for about three years now. I know many people that have been serving tables for far longer than I have and I just think to myself

“how have you survived this long?”

And I don’t mean financially…I definitely mean mentally.

If you haven’t worked as a server or you haven’t had a friend that constantly bitches about their serving job after a long shift, then you haven’t met the different kinds of people that go out to eat. Restaurants are where stereotypes come alive and servers and bartenders loathe each and every one of them for different reasons. Let’s meet them, shall we?

1. The Hurried Girl:
She’s in her early thirties and she’s meeting her friends for lunch. The two friends that she’s meeting are already at the restaurant and they’ve been sipping their Sangria at your table which is designed for six people while she’s running a little late. Finally, after stopping by the table three or four times to see if she’s arrived, she finally makes an appearance. You begin to approach her and open your mouth to say “Hi, my name is [whatever your name is]. What can I get you to drink?” but of course, she cuts you off by saying, “Look, I’m in a really big hurry.”

Oh, are you? I’m sure you’re in a hurry because you’re late as fuck and you came to a restaurant notorious for having an excessive wait time. She will then proceed to order before her friends and insists that you place the order before anyone elses’. After her small salad with the dressing on the side arrives, she will quickly finish it and then SIT THERE AND WAIT FOR HER FRIENDS TO FINISH. Excuse me, but didn’t you just tell me that you were in a hurry? These people only say they’re in a hurry in order to insure that the service is fast. Let me tell you a little somethin’ somethin’, Hurried Girl:

First things first, I don’t want you here any longer than needed so I’m not going to prolong this process. I want you to eat, enjoy yourself, tip me, and then leave. Painless and fun.

Second, if you want speedy service where no one bothers you, go to a fast food restaurant.

2. The Uniformed:
I work at a restaurant that is well-known for its disgustingly over-sized menu. It’s not uncommon for people to have questions or ask for recommendations. I went through almost two weeks of training and menu classes to prepare for people to ask these questions. I get it. Trust me. I want my guests to get what they want and know what they’re getting because there’s nothing more frustrating than having someone not liking what they get and sending it back and ruining my life. So, please don’t hesitate to ask your server questions. Unless you are the Uninformed. Now, this person is typically middle-aged or border-line old. They begin by saying, “Yeah, I have a couple of questions.” A couple of questions turns into a ten minute conversation going over every single item on the menu.

“What’s good?”
“Tell me about this.”
“Have you ever had this?”

You politely answer their questions but it reaches a point where you don’t even have the answers anymore. I’m sorry, ma’am but I don’t know how many grams of sugar are in our desserts. Your other tables are needing refills but all you can offer them at the moment is an apologetic look over your shoulder. After answering every question this person can possibly think of, they smile and thank you for your time and say “I just need another minute.” And you happily oblige because now you can help out your other tables. But when you return and ask the Uninformed what they would like, do you know what they order 98% of the time? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING YOU EXPLAINED OR RECOMMENDED. The bitch will almost always get something ridiculous like soup and salad. I….I just…middle finger to you, beesh.

3. Mr. Needy:
This one is self explanatory. He’s the guy that needs something EVERY time you go to the table. Now, as a waitress, you learn to anticipate things people might need. They ordered a steak? You prep a steak knife. They ordered french fries? Grab some ketchup. But Mr. Needy cannot be anticipated or prepared for. He needs things that don’t make any sense. Oh, you ordered a steak but you need ranch dressing? Okay, yeah I’ll be right back. Sure, I’ll grab you another basket of bread because silly of me to think that the two previous ones weren’t enough. Uh huh, I’d love to refill your sweet tea that you just chugged before I even finished taking your order. Also, I would be delighted to make over thirty trips back and forth from your table to opposite ends of the Earth because you LIE TO ME every time I go to your table. “Is there anything else I can get for you, SIR?” “No, I think I’m good. Oh wait…” NO FUCK YOU BECAUSE YOU SAID THAT YOU DIDN’T NEED ANYTHING ELSE AND NOW YOU’RE LYING.


I really don’t mind getting people what they want but I don’t understand why they can’t just tell me everything they need so that way I can do it all at once and not dehydrate from running around like a crazy person. Sigh…also, these people almost always tip absolute shit so it’s never worth going through the trouble they put you through. Mr. Needy can suck a dick.

4. The Verbal Tipper:
These people are great. They are so nice and they compliment you every time you do something for them. I love serving them. They make you feel so good about yourself. They engage in conversation and they remember your name and politely ask for things and try not to be too much trouble. They’re the perfect table, really.

“Where’s your manager? I want to tell him to give you a raise!”
“You’ve been so great, Marki. We really appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”
“You’re the best!”

And then you give them the bill and they leave you ABSOLUTE GARBAGE. And don’t come running to me saying “money isn’t everything” or some shit like that because when you’re a waitress it IS everything. This is how I pay my bills. And I can’t put your compliments in a box and mail it to the leasing office. Your kind words and lovely thoughts don’t put food on the table. So if you’ve got something nice to say to your server, say it and then pay up. My friendship is available but it’s not free so if you’re looking for a free friend go talk to a homeless man under a bridge. But he’ll probably want money from you too so looks like you’re screwed.

5. Grandma:
Fuck Grandma. I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. Fuck. Grandma. She’s a bitch and she thinks the world revolves around her. She’s basically an older and smellier version of Mr. Needy. She’s rude as hell and treats you like a slave she probably once had when she lived on a plantation. She’s old and crusty and she always orders unsweetened ice tea and demands you bring her Sweet-n-Low as if I wasn’t going to already bring it. Or even better, she will order a glass of water and ask for a bowl of lemons and a bunch of Splenda so she can make her own cheap-ass lemonade.

Grandma will sit there with her bridge club and belittle you until you start wishing you had the opportunity to pull the plug on her or smother her with a pillow. She will eat her SOUP AND SALAD (fucking always……) like a damn bird, picking and spitting as she talks to her life long friends. It should never take two hours to eat a damn side salad. DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

I mainly believe Grandma is so rude to young waitresses because she’s jealous of our youth because we’re young and spry and she’s already lived her life and she’s all dried up now. SORRY BITCH.

She’ll complain about ridiculous things like “This clam chowder is too spicy.” or “Can you bring me SOFTENED butter, this butter is too cold.”

All of this for a $2 tip on a $30 check. Oh, and she always pays in cash and ALWAYS needs change. I fucking hate you, Grandma.

6. The Saints:
I’m talking religion here. Now, I have many friends that are religious and most of them know that I’m not about that life and I don’t care about it and I don’t want to hear about it. And the reason we’re friends is because they respect that and don’t shove their beliefs down my throat and I do the same by not making fun of them or shitting on their beliefs. We just avoid the topic because we’ll never agree. So, with that being said, I’m sorry to offend anyone but you also need to be aware that you’re not the only one being offended.

Religious freedom? Sure, go ahead. Pray at the table. Do your thing. I will admit I always feel awkward when I go up to my table and ask how everything is tasting and I’ve totally interrupted the prayer but that’s just because that seems like a private thing that I don’t want to intrude on. But I quietly step away and let them finish. These people are typically really nice. I mean, they’re almost always Christians so they should be nice…but what really bothers me is when in lieu of a tip, I’m left with a little piece of paper telling me what I can do to get into Heaven.

I know people that have received notes that have said “you’ll get your tip in Heaven” and “I give God 10%, why should you get 20%?”


I’m sure these people have great intentions and are just trying to do “the work of the Lord” or ~whatever~, but I find it offensive and inappropriate at my workplace. I don’t want you to write “Jesus Loves You!” on my credit card receipt. I think the reason it pisses me off so bad besides the fact that they leave the shittiest tips known to man is that I know that if I were to go into a restaurant and write my beliefs on the credit card receipt I would DEFINITELY offend someone.

If someone looked at a receipt and it said “Hail Satan!” or “Praise Allah!” or “Have a Gay Day!” they would be offended as FUCK. It would be deemed inappropriate and offensive because IT IS. Why is Jesus any different? There’s a time and a place and it’s not at a restaurant.

7. Campers:
These are the people that sit at your table after they’ve finished eating and they’ve paid their bill. They will sit at your table and just talk for sometimes hours. It’s ridiculous. It reaches a point where you have completely bussed the table and reset it and they’re still there. And there’s nothing you can do. After you’ve asked them if there is anything else you can do for them and they’ve said no, you’re pretty much just playing the waiting game. A restaurant is not a campsite. It’s not a Starbucks. It’s not a fucking living room. You’ve paid your bill and I understand that. You have paid money to be here. But you paid for food, which you ate, and a drink, which you drank, and service which you received. The experience is over. SO GO AWAY. You’re preventing me from getting another table so I can make money. Just go sit on a bench and talk. Go inside the mall. Just GO. Please~~~~

Okay, ya’ll. I know I’ve laid a lot on you and bitched a lot about my job but don’t forget that with the bad there is always the good. I actually like my job most days and have a lot of fun. Being a server is a great way to make money quickly, it just gets irritating just like any other job.

If you’ve worked in the restaurant industry, I hope you related to this. And if you never have worked in the restaurant industry, I hope you have learned something today.

Always tip your server and always be kind because you never know. One day you might need a serving job and you’ll get one and you’ll start hating everyone just like we do.

Bye, beeshes.



Lipstick: A Love Affair

Lipstick: A Love Affair

I was decently impressed with myself for coming up with the title “Lipstuck” for my blog because it sums up my life by combining the two words that apply to me the most: lipstick and stuck. Stuck applies because I’m … Continue reading

How to Spend Father’s Day Without a Father

It’s a little after midnight so Father’s Day is finally over but I figured I would go ahead and make a post regarding this “holiday”. I tried to write something last night but everything I wrote ended up sounding either depressing, insensitive or just plain psychotic.

So I’m going to take you all through a Father’s Day spent with a fatherless family.

I spent the majority of my day at work. I’m a waitress and sometimes I’m overwhelmed by how passionate I am about my job…

Sunday is the worst day of the week to work for me because I’m normally too tired to function. I’m too cranky to want to refill Grandma’s decaf coffee and then awkwardly avoid your table while you pray over your pancakes. All of this to be left a 10% tip stuffed inside a pamphlet explaining exactly what I must do in order to get into Heaven.

I just…I just can’t with Sundays.

And with it being Father’s Day I got to deal with teenagers paying for their fathers’ meals and leaving me NOTHING. UGH. DID YOUR FATHER’S NOT TEACH YOU ANYTHING? Since I grew up without a father, maybe I’m oblivious to the teachings of dads but I thought tipping your waitress was one of the major fatherly lessons? No? Well, it fucking should be.

So I’m at work and I put lipstick on which means I actually woke up with enough time to put effort into my appearance. I’ve been kind of lazy when it comes to doing my makeup for when I go to work because I really don’t care anymore if anyone finds me attractive because at this point I just want to go to work and then go home and nap forever. The first thing one of my managers said to me when I walked in the door this morning was “Marki, I’m proud of you. You’ve managed to do your makeup every day this week.” Kthanxbye.

I go through my shift and I smile and avoid the awkward “How’s your father’s day?” question that always comes with this holiday.

“Oh it’s great! I’m going to go drink a beer at my dad’s grave later and then smoke a cigar at my stepdad’s grave after that.”

I’m kidding. I would never say that to someone…although my mood fluctuates throughout the day and I can only smile and nod so many times in order to make other people feel comfortable. I mean, why should the fact that every male figure in my life has kicked the bucket make anyone feel uncomfortable? I’m the one with the dead dads, okay. I’m the one that’s uncomfortable. But there’s a certain “dead parent social etiquette” one must follow.

I get off of work and head over to my sister and brother-in-law’s condo to get ready for the season finale of Game of Thrones (!!!!!!!!!!!). It’s a Sunday ritual. They live right next to my mom so I make my family rounds and eat a home cooked meal and spend some time with my family.

I get to their house and am immediately greeted by their two massive pitbulls. I have to fight my way to the couch and basically sit there and let them smother me before I can lay down and take a nap before the show starts. I check my phone and talk to my other sister for a few minutes. She struggles with Father’s Day a little more than I do because she was far older than I was when Dad died so she remembers him very clearly. I find myself feeling more sad about not having a Dad rather than not having MY dad, if that makes sense? I just don’t remember him that well.

Finally, I fall asleep until my sister gets home from work and I have to resurrect myself from the couch. To get food. Because let’s face it: I’m twenty years old and I live on my own…not much is going into this stomach except for a few margaritas and chocolate ice cream.

I politely go through the motions of asking my sister how her day had been and if she was thrilled to be home and blah blah blah but all I can think is “what are you going to cook and when are you going to start?” So I ask.

The bitch has nothing planned for dinner. My heart hurts just thinking back on the moment I realized I wasn’t getting a home cooked meal. I die a little inside each time I miss an opportunity to eat my sister’s food. She’s a damn good cook.

I pitch a little fit and decide to go see my mom because my mother never fails to feed me when times get tough.

I stroll on up to her condo and say hello. First off, she’s wearing a skirt pulled up to her chest in order to make some sort of strapless dress??? No, Mom. That’s not how it works.

“Hi, Mom. I’m hungry plz feed me.”

She replies by telling me that she’s making steaks and I’m like HELL YEAH LET’S GO. But then she informs me that she’s not making them for a while so I had to settle for a chicken salad sandwich which I happily had as a pre-steak snack.

I go into her bedroom and talk to her for a few minutes. She asks how I’m doing and I ask the same and we’re both so dramatic that we don’t believe each other when we both say we’re doing fine. She goes onto saying that I’m too skinny and my hair is so long and pretty and then offers me money that I don’t accept because I know she doesn’t really have any to actually give me. Then her phone rings and she talks on the phone while I sit and play with our dog I grew up with. He’s a little rat dog named Thor. He rules.

After she had been on the phone for fifteen minutes I began to get irritated because she’s always bitching at me because I don’t call or visit her enough yet here I am eating a sandwich and wanting attention. So I make some sort of gesture and tell her to get off the phone.

“I have to go. My daughter is here.”

I’m assuming whoever was on the phone asked how old I was and my mother, oh so politely replied, “Oh hell, I don’t know. 19 or 20? Is it too late for an abortion?”

My mom has my favorite kind of sense of humor: quick witted and politically incorrect.

She gets off the phone and tells me to come back up after my show to retrieve my steak and baked potato (!!!!!!!!)

I return back to my sister’s house and watch an awesome episode of GoT. My sister, Charli, is sitting at the kitchen table eating and playing on her phone because she doesn’t really like GoT because she was raised in a barn and doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life. I take this opportunity to text her from across the room and tell her that she smells bad which results in her getting up and trying to hit me. We’re very close.

After the episode I go back up to my mom’s to eat dinner and I sit there and listen to her boyfriend talk about…I don’t even know. I basically just sit there and count the minutes until he stops talking. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy. I just don’t understand anything he’s talking about and it’s really exhausting trying to keep up.

My mom comes out with some sort of milky concoction which she later informs me is her take on a “White Russian” which basically consists of .01% milk and the rest is just straight up FIRE. I took a sip and almost fell out of my chair.

“Damn, Mom, it’s 10:00 at night! Are we shooting for a nice alcohol induced coma to help us go to sleep?” to which she responds “If you can’t drink with the big dogs then get out.” Lol.

I sit and eat my food that ~my mommy~ made for me and I sit and listen to her talk about nothing of importance and just think about how lucky I am to have her. She lost the love of her life and still manages to feed me whenever I whine which is pretty damn often. She makes me laugh harder than anyone I know, granted most of her jokes are morbid as hell and usually leave me questioning her sanity. As the years go by and Father’s Day comes and goes, I find myself being less and less sad about the fact that my dads are dead because really I have nothing to really compare it to. I can’t remember my life before my dad died so really it’s nothing out of the ordinary for me.

Sometimes I get sad and even a little jealous looking at the Instagram pictures of girls with their dads and reading paragraphs of how lucky they are to have such a strong and supportive male figure in their lives but then again, they probably all have just as many daddy issues as I do.

But while they’re making memories and Facebooking pictures, I’m out searching for love in all the wrong places just trying to desperately fill the void that living without a father has left me with…

I hope you all had a great day and to those of you who share my fatherless experience I hope you had fun in some sort of way.

Bye, beeshes.


Tinder’d: It Could Happen to You

Now is the time to be alive. We have unlimited access to all sorts of information just by getting on our phones or computers. I can tell you the capital of Fiji in a matter of seconds (Siri just informed me it’s Suva with a population of 88, 271). I’m an internetaholic. If I’m not on my phone, I’m on my laptop. I don’t know what it is but ever since I got my laptop, I’ve been glued to it. I know there are a lot of mixed opinions about my generation being too dependent on technology but I think I’m better off being addicted to tumblr rather than crack cocaine, but then again, I’ve never tried crack cocaine so maybe I don’t know what I’m missing.

There’s a buzz going around the social media world. It’s a little app called Tinder. I know you’ve heard about it because it’s funny and depressing and a little frightening. Basically, it’s a “dating” app that you download onto your phone and it matches you with people in your area. It’s anonymous until you and another person have both “liked” each other and then you are notified and you have the option of messaging each other. Cute idea, right?


First off, I’m not going to defend why I downloaded this app. I could sit here and try and tell you that I downloaded it because I think it’s funny and I like to laugh at everyone on there. I could tell you that I like it when people tell me I’m pretty and they want to do me or that I truly feel like I could meet my soulmate via Tinder. Believe what you will.

Let me share with you some of my Tinder experiences:

“If you don’t call your group of friends the Funky Bunch I will be severely upset.”

“Nice tits. I mean smile.”

“You and I’d make some sexy babies, Marki.”

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

And here’s a real winner:

“Sorry I’m going to be a complete ass, but I’m not interested in dating. But I’d love to just go down on you for a few hours.”

………………I guess I appreciate his cut-to-the-chase attitude, but no thank you.

Anyways, you get the idea of the sort of shit that goes on this thing.

So today, like most days, I got bored and started flipping through the fellas and I’m seeing the typical pictures which consist of group fraternity photos, mirror selfies and dramatic sideshots of bearded men playing the guitar.

And then I see it.

Or rather, it sees me.

A penis.
Staring at me.

And not just any penis…a small, flaccid penis. Pubes included.

I did not invite this penis into my life. I did not ask for it to present itself to me. I did not ask for this. I did not.

I could say “there’s a time and a place” but I’m sorry…I don’t think there is a time and a place for dick pics. I don’t want to see a picture of anyone’s penis. Ever.

Sexting is a thing people do. I’m aware of this trend. I’m not against it. Sexy texts? Okay cool whatever.
Maybe it’s just me, but there is nothing visually appealing about a penis to me. I don’t want to see it on my phone. If it’s in front of me, that’s a different story. I’ll make eye contact with it. But when I’m flipping through my phone casually and a flaccid dick pops up, I’m going to be a little upset.

Now if you’re into that sort of thing and you’re texting some dude and you say “hey bby lemme see that dick” and he sends you a private photo, do your thing. Go to town. I actually received a dick pic for the first time recently and I literally didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it…like, thanks for showing me your penis, how was your day???

Maybe I’m just awkward and naïve but I just can’t with dick pics.

Moral of the story is don’t put your penis as your profile picture on a phone app. Please.

Because now instead of seeing beards and guitars, all I can see is a tiny floppy wiener. My eyes are burning and I’m afraid to pick up my phone because with shit like that, virtual STDs are going to become a reality.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by this because it’s basically an app for people to hook up with each other but I figured everyone was going to be a little more subtle about it.

Be careful out there, ya’ll.

A flaccid penis might just get you next.

Bye, beeshes.


Third Time’s a Charm?

I know what you’re thinking: Here comes Marki with another blog that she more than likely won’t keep up with…

It is true that I have started several blogs in attempts to impress the world with my uncanny ability to change the world with my words but let’s face it: I’m lazy and mildly insane.

I like to think I have something called “multiple blog disorder” (not to be confused with multiple personality disorder which is a serious condition [Watch/Read Sybil]). I find that each of my blogs displays only one aspect of my personality when really I’m ~~so much more #complex~~

For starters, my first blog, which I started awhile back was to…actually, I really don’t remember its purpose. All I remember is that it was disgustingly depressing. I mean Jesus Christ…

I’m naturally depressive. It’s something I sometimes struggle with but I also believe it has given me my charming cynicism. Either way, my depression has never and will never define me. Or my blog. Which is why I have chucked that one out of a metaphorical window.

Next, I started an anonymous sex blog. *Pauses for laughter* I won’t get into much detail about that because it was anonymous but just know that I am an official sex blogger with, might I add, over 20 followers. No paparazzi please.

Anyways, my point is that I have gone through some sad and obviously awkward stages in my writing and I only plan on getting more awkward but hopefully a little less sad.

I find I only write when I’m feeling all of the feelings and then my writing tends to be very “Dear Diary, I want to dieeee” and I really want to convey more of myself in my writing. So I guess the point of this blog is to help myself become a more well-rounded writer.

In all honesty, it’s more than likely still going to be very “Dear Diary, I want to dieeee” but hopefully with a few laughs thrown in.

I don’t know how often I’ll post or what I’ll even write about. I’ll try to keep it as painless and entertaining as possible but I make no promises.

What I do know is that I’m not on some spiritual journey that I am dying to share with my closest friends. I’m not backpacking through Europe or trying new foods or starting a fashion advice column. I’m just letting you all know upfront that most of my life consists of work, Netflix, and the occasional margarita. I’m not trying to fool anyone here.

But with that being said,  I have a feeling that the only people that are going to be reading this are those awkward kids I knew in middle school and I’m still friends with on Facebook for some reason…but either way, I appreciate any support or whatever is thrown my way.

I’ll be in touch.

Bye, beeshes.