Dear Patron:

Good evening! I will be your server tonight. Our specials today are the lobster bisque and the vegetable pot roast. But before you order, a few quick things I wanted to get straight before we continue:

Although I am but a humble server, I am neither deaf, dumb, nor blind. There is no need to snap your fingers, flail your arms, or engage in small arms fire to receive my attention. Doing so reveals yourself as a snob and buffoon among both the staff and other patrons, and vastly increases your chances of discovering pubic hair in your salad.

On the other hand, don’t ignore me, either. Spare just a few seconds from menu gazing and make eye contact with me; perhaps even smile. Despite our menial income and our fish-platter odor, we are people, too, and deserve more respect than you’d give your laptop. Don’t bother feigning friendliness with the hostess, however. Hostesses are evil and, more often than not, subhuman.

Despite my perky breasts and sunny, almost flirty disposition, for the love of god, NEVER, EVER touch me. Do not pat my shoulder, squeeze my leg, or caress my arm. I don’t want anything to do with you physically, and in all likelihood, I find you repulsive. I am not a stripper.

Know what you ordered. You’re the one who looks like a moron when you get a plate full of cooked cow parts and cry “But I’m a vegetarian.” If you’re not sure what is in a menu item, ask.  I enjoy condescendingly explaining our menu to unsophisticated hicks such as you.

Exclaiming to me that you “work in the industry” does not foster some sort of kinship between us. Our dishwasher, Leonard, has been “in the industry” for 25 years, and he smells like the rotting contents of a garbage disposal. Get over yourself.

You do not own me simply because my livelihood is based on tips. Server does not mean servant.

Now what can I get for you tonight?

Dear Server:

I will be your guest tonight! But before I order, I want to run a couple things past you:

While I’m impressed with your ability to remain cheerful and upbeat with me despite the clear odor of the rotting contents of a garbage disposal emanating from the kitchen, I would appreciate a little more care put into the condition of your uniform. Hey, Tide ain’t cheap, but perhaps a more frequent wash would reduce the crusted medley of menu items affixed to your clothing. Yum.

No, Mindi-with-an-I, I’ve never been to your restaurant before. But I just told you I had. There’s nothing worse than getting the first-timer treatment at an eatery that boasts some sort of gimmick as its main attraction. I feel like a newborn at a grandma convention. If I want to be confused and talked to like a baby, I’ll call a politician. Just gimme the menu, and I’ll tell you what to bring me, OK?

I do notice it could be described as a tad chilly in the dining room, so I’m sympathetic if the reason for you and your colleagues’ huddling near the server station and chatting away mindlessly is to utilize each other’s body heat for warmth. However, my coffee cup is empty and there’s a black hair in my salad. Would you mind not completely ignoring me between the time you take my order and the time you drop off my check – you know, the one with the smiley-face doodle, a lame attempt at veiling your negligence throughout the evening?

While I almost always leave at least 20 percent tip on the bill – I used to be in the industry – if you find yourself with 10, it’s not because I’m a cheap old bastard. It’s because your uniform is covered in the dried remains of last week’s special, you spent more time gossiping and texting your boyfriend than removing the intentionally placed hair from my side dish and, for good measure, your purple hair and Dennis Rodman-level tattoo sleeve is a little much for Denny’s.