Ugh, I hate when the server has been told to squat to take orders. You’re not about to do gymnastics, it doesn’t cause me pain to look up at you, it can be condescending, and you’re a human being with the right to stand fully upright. Stand tall; I’m not your owner and you don’t have to call me ‘massa’ either.
Don’t touch me. We are not friends and I didn’t go pawing you, after all.
Flair doesn’t impress me. It makes me think you’re a bit dim if one or more of your buttons says something idiotic, which they invariably do. They are the clothing equivalent of being stuck in traffic behind a car with a dumbass bumpersticker. Wear the flower if you like, just know that I don’t tip because you’re good at accessorizing.
Please spare me the five minute monologue on the scrumptious scampi. I know it’s scrumptious, that’s why I chose this restaurant, doy. Just tell me about any specials, but never more than three. The manager should have a long list of specials printed up so you don’t have to go through a recitation the length of Gone with the Wind. I’m not going to remember even half of what you said anyway.
Don’t doodle on anything. You’re not five and indulging your inner child to such a degree isn’t attractive. Don’t give me candy. I’m not five either, and Mom always said not to take candy from strangers anyway.
Call me Ms. Ashes, using my first name is too familiar and almost no one calls me by it anyway. It’ll just point out how much you and I aren’t friends. Also, I’m at that age where I don’t want to be called ma’m, but that’s preferable to using my first name.
How did I increase my tips? I did good job waiting and had a politely cheerful disposition.