Just the Tip(s)

I am no longer a restaurant manager.

I didn't get fired. I don't think. But I also didn't really quit.

Well, I kind of quit. My coworkers have chosen to describe it as "demoting" myself back to being a server, which is mildly offensive and illogical - my "demoted" salary has increased $100-$200 per week.

That's shocking, right? You would think an increase of responsibility would come with a significant pay raise. I've learned from my PR/Marketing days that this is rarely the case. At least, not in the beginning. It's called paying your dues or you are pretty but have zero qualifications. Actors: think of it like Non-Equity theatre (which I never had to do but heard it was terrible for the rest of you).

Remember the next time you ask to speak to a manager at a restaurant, they are making very little in comparison to the waiter's dignity you just disregarded. Really consider your bitch level before you expect anyone to sympathize.

I'll miss the job. I was good at it. I won't say great at it, because I don't think I was. Mostly I didn't have the mental capacity or patience for learning to be great at it. But I learned an awful lot. For instance, one boss taught me that just because you can be really good at something doesn't mean you should do it. Again, I was not fired.

I would say the most important lesson I learned, which I wish I had learned before 25, is that we really do get only one life. I want that to sound more morbid and less uplifting. Thanks.

I was trying to live two lives. During the day/night/times-I-was-getting-paid, I was this really cool/hip fine-dining career schmoozer who pretended to know what I was doing and sometimes ordered napkins (and only once in an emergency on my last day) waiting for guests to comment on my cheekbones so I could buy them a drink. During the times I wasn't getting paid, I was a writer/actor/singer/dancer. All the time, I was broke.

So, instead of continuing to dream about getting fired or worrying about a baked fish taking longer than expected and continuing to pretend that I had any business running a restaurant at 24, I did everyone a favor and pulled the plug before 25. Was it a quarter life crisis? No. I know this because I have no intentions of living to 100, and I had a quarter life crisis YEARS ago. The piercing didn't last and I almost declared a Gender Studies double major.

Teachers of artists are known for saying, "If you can imagine yourself doing something else, do something else. Life will be much easier."

I can finally say at 25, after having been A LOT of things for what my mom thinks were very short periods of time, I can't imagine myself doing anything else. Not now. Maybe never. Sometimes boys.

Would you like fries with that,

TJB: Making It

And we'll never be royals.

Ladies and gentleman, my serving days are over. I am a restaurant manager.

Did you just raise an eyebrow? I sure did. In fact, when I opened my mouth to suggest they hire me as the new recruit, the voice inside my head was shouting, "Shut the hell up! What are you doing? You have zero qualifications or experience. There's not even a karaoke night."

Still, as I like to say: if you went to Northwestern, you can do whatever you want. So, here I am doing it.

OK, the job is not as glamorous as I would like it to sound. Essentially, I keep the place from burning down and entertain wealthy New Yorkers with jokes about wine and kids-these-days before they have a chance to scoff at their scallops. On paper it says "Assisatant", and I even took a pay cut (though I managed to negotiate far above the initial offer. My former agent would be proud.) However, if I'm going to stuff 100 pictures of my face into envelopes to land on the desks of new agents' interns in the hopes that I will one day sing another 16 bars, I might as well set the goddamn tray down and pour a glass of wine.

And I think I have a lot of potential in this field.

Potential. That's a word best reserved for funerals.

I figure if I'm going to be famous before I'm thirty, I could open a restaurant for my forties. I've always been a good multitasker.

The hostess asked if I had a nose job because my bone structure is so flawless. I think we'll keep her.

Looking forward to the new karaoke night,

TJB: Making It

Somewhere between your ovaries and my boredom.

Any job will be soul crushing if you're the one swinging the hammer. The I'm-an-actor joke has, and probably always will be, "So where do you wait tables?" Fortunately, it's a job that allows actors to use their skills daily...

because we hate your guts and have to pretend we don't, which is harder than pretending breaking out into song is a natural occurrence.

Yeah? You need lots of lemons for that water? Oh, I won't forget. I'll be thinking about your lemons until I get that free bread you're surprised wasn't waiting on the table when you arrived (though you're the only one out of 100 tonight who asked) before I take back your salad because the six drops of dressing weren't on the side. I'd hate for you to not be in control of your own calorie intake and lettuce saturation. Everything was wonderful? Oh, thank you. I'll use the 15% you left me on my next student loan payment. I hope that $11.73 didn't max out your Amex Black Card. I'm sure that's why you didn't bump it up to 12. The rounded total will look better on your bank statement anyway. And thanks for filling out both receipts for me. I just needed one, and it's only 2013, so I'm sure you accidentally filled out "Customer Copy" but then thought that "Merchant Copy" looked pretty official. Having both will help solidify that 15% tip while I watch you sit at the table for the next hour sipping that lemon water.

However, outside of the theater, dining is where people come to enjoy themselves. Since I like to entertain people, and since my inbox is void of any opportunity to do so, I might as well pour some wine while I wait.

Every now and then, you meet somebody amazing. And by "amazing", I mean somebody who was on Sex and the City. Yes, as if my blog had made a reservation, Anthony Marentino (a snarky gay icon) sat at my table. Not once, not twice, but thrice in one week.

Though every rainbow colored fiber in my body was fangirling, I managed to remain attentive but aloof. We chatted, we joked, we even touched, but not once did I squeal. Sadly, he is married (to a well known Broadway actor that you may not know unless you're super gay like me.) By the third dinner, I was even meeting the family. Well, his sister, but if Mom's not dead I'm sure we'll meet soon. I mean, we're practically fine-dining dating.

When he left, he held my hand and thanked me for everything, assuring me we would be together again soon.

The lady who had been sitting at the table next to him flagged me over and whispered,

Lady: Was he-
Me: *with a knowing smirk* Yes. He was. That was him. He's a regular, he's here all the time. Great guy.
Lady: *with a confused grimace* ...was he having the fish of the day?
Me: Oh...yes...the grilled black sea bass...
Lady: I'll have that.

She tipped 15%

Legends in our own minds,

TJB: Making It