According to the dictionary, a tip is “a small present of money given directly to someone for performing a service or menial task; gratuity.”

I’ve worked and slaved in the food service industry on and off for 10 years. I know what it’s like to meet ridiculous demands from ignorant patrons — like ordering several drinks that contain ONLY 4 ice cubes. So with a section full of hungry people, I’m trying to scoop out single ice cubes with a huge shovel. (Trust me, it’s not easy. And REALLY annoying when you’re in a rush.)

And after my award-winning service and a (phony) smile, I cannot tell you the rage I’d feel once I looked at the check, only to discover a bare-bones next-to-nothing tip.

(Note: Due to those painful memories, I always give 20%.)

Back to the definition of tip — it is meant to be given after receiving a service– you tip the bellhop, the valet, the stripper, or any other profession in which people are taking care of you.

Scanning my $1.99 Vitamin Water, however, does NOT warrant a tip.

Tip jars are like herpes. They are popping up everywhere I go these days.

The most recent culprits? Starbucks and 711.

Let me express why the tip jar at Starbucks annoys me.

My friend was going through the drive-thru, and the employee literally held the tip jar out the window when taking his money. I could see if he got some crazy-ass grande three-pump non-fat skinny extra hot freshly ground triple cream latte, but all he got was a regular coffee. You get a cup, hold it under the spout, pull the lever, and put on the lid.

Does 10 seconds of effort count as a service?

Likewise, at the 711 next to my apartment, there is a tip jar. I have to laugh every time I see it. Especially because the “service” there is the WORST! There’s always a line. That’s because one employee is usually having a phone conversation with her friend (for all to hear) about her two-timing boyfriend, while the other moves like every bone in her body is broken. When it takes 8 minutes to get one drink that I go and get myself, that ain’t good service in my book.

Although, I am pretty involved in that woman’s relationship saga, as a result.

Perhaps I’ll put this in the tip jar: “If he keeps cheating on you, he doesn’t love you. Leave him and find a new guy so you can be happy and do your job.”

I think that’s better than 20%.

Some young guy calls out to us across the street.

“Hey, are you guys from here?”

He looked lost, I nodded, he approached. Now up close and a little too personal, he looked a little white-trashy, but whatever. I don’t judge.

What happened next is such a waste of time that I would feel like an asshole making you read it in detail. So here’s the gist:

This skinny white guy who looks like the dude I just saw on an episode of “Intervention” (he was a meth-head) hands me a police report, a map, and a scrap sheet of paper with trains and times on it.

Guy: “Yeah, um, my mom told me to ask someone who lives here, that you could help me. I just got this police report, someone stole my bag, and I’m lost and…”

Me: “Ok. Where do you need to go?”

Guy: “That’s what I’m telling you. I just have to get on this train and the police said some guy took my license and everything and that I have to show this piece of paper to people and all I need is to get home to my mom because she said people are nice and… (something inaudible)…and I’m a nice guy and…”

Me: “Umm.. I don’t have any money, if that’s what you’re asking.”

This guy stops his rambling and takes a beat and looks at me like I had just called his momma fat. He snatches the barrage of papers out of my hand and calls me some really awesome names. And as he walks away, he turns and adds this line for all pedestrians to hear:

“You’re friend is hotter than you, anyway!”

Ouch. Not only was I sucked into feeling compassion for what I thought was a lost tourist when he was really a homeless crackhead, but I got insulted in the process.

-Time wasted trying to help a crackhead posing as a lost person: 4.35 minutes
-Time wasted discussing this tactic with (hotter) friend: 20 minutes
-Getting your self-esteem destroyed by a homeless crackpot: Priceless

Way to go, clever crackhead. I give you props for your cleverness. And your biting wit.

I have a feeling you’re on your way to the top of the trash heap.

However, for every three people who recognize the greatness that is Me, there is one person I really, really piss off. I’ve managed to avoid that here at Tame the Bear, mostly because my email isn’t posted anywhere on this site.

So you can imagine my surprise when I got a nasty email from someone about one of my articles here. My initial thought was “What, our comments section isn’t good enough for you?”, followed immediately by “If this guy felt compelled to click my profile, then my blog, then my email, and then rip me a new one, I must’ve really pissed him off”.

I was going to respond to the email, and just call it a day, but I think sharing it with the masses is much more fun. I will do this guy a solid and not post his email. He can thank me later.

The email reads:

The only reason you hate on rich people so much is that you arent one of them. Id be pissed too if I was some fat angry dike. If you hate america so much leave and live with the terrorists

Yes, that was the entirety of it (not edited for spelling or punctuation). And I feel compelled to respond to it one issue at a time.

1. You’re right, I’m not rich. That does, in fact, piss me off on occasion. Rich people don’t piss me off, them wasting good money on stupid shit and then giving the rest of us financial advice does.

2. I’m not sure where the idea that I’m pissed off all the time came from. I’m actually a generally happy person, but I refuse to sprinkle sugar on bullshit and call it candy. Sue me.

3. Just because I was a women’s studies minor in college does not mean I am a dyke. Plus, it was college. It was a confusing time and I was experimenting and I’m told that’s completely normal, stop judging me!

3.1. Fat and ugly? Really? I’m smart, I don’t have to be pretty.

Now the part of this that really got to me for some reason was the implication that I hate America. I do not, in fact, hate America. Any country that allows me, by law, the right to be an opinionated asshole is the greatest country on Earth. Am I happy about the way things were going? No. But that’s the beauty of it.

But hating America simply because I’m pissed off about the economy? That’s a stretch.

Instead of a written reaction, I’ll let Russell Brand handle the issue for me. If you don’t feel like watching the entire thing, jump ahead to the six minute mark. (NSFW language).

I think that sums it up pretty well.

Yesterday morning I found one of those articles.

The entire article which I won’t link here because it took all morning for the hives to go away, is based around the fact that our society is materialistic and individualistic at the same time. This is not new or exciting.

It then goes on to give you advice on how to stand out from others, and project your “personal prestige” (I am not making this up).

Some of their suggestions?

Tailor your home to the image you want to project. A fan of the nightlife? A downtown loft could work. Maybe a home in the suburbs is better to relax in. They then go on to suggest saunas, indoor pools and tennis courts.

Find a car that sets you apart, they say. A car that no one can ignore when you drive past in it. Their suggestions? Rolls Royce, or a Ferrari. I am not kidding.

Then they really drive it home with the suggestion that you collect original pieces of artwork from notable artists. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of the art world, and I absolutely believe in investing in quality pieces from local up and coming artists. But famous artists? That’s going to cost.

And then it occurred to me. All of this costs a shitload of money. A home with a tennis court? A Ferrari? Your own collection of Dali?

Have you lost your goddamn minds?!

♦ ♦ ♦

People are being laid off all over the place, and this pretentious dick is suggesting buying multi-million dollar works of art to show the rest of the world that you’re powerful?

Their idea is that it takes power to get power. So it’s OK to spend lavishly, as the right people will notice you.

I don’t know, call me crazy, but isn’t that how we got into this hot mess in the first place?

Here’s the deal, as plain and simple as I can make it. You want people to think you’re powerful and capable? Do your job, and do it well. Don’t miss opportunities to network, and always go the extra mile to get what you want.

And stop buying crap you don’t need to impress people who don’t matter.

To the guy who wrote the original article? I might not have a power symbol to show you, but I have a hand gesture you might be familiar with.

“Are you tired of living paycheck to paycheck? Tired of struggling make ends meet? Sick of struggling to put food on the table? Change all that!”

This is the perfect job! Right up until I realized that it was a job for a strip club.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking what people have to do for a living. If you want to take advantage of men stupid enough to throw their wallets at you because you took off your bra, more power to you. However, something about the ad really bothered me.

They are just shy of claiming that the only way for a woman to be financially independent is to take her clothes off. Really, recession? Really? Are we finally at the point that being in various stages of nudity is the only viable option for young females?

It’s not even the blatant exploitation that bothers me the most. What bothers me most is the fact that it leaves out a massive part of the population. People like me.

No one is going to pay me to take my clothes off. Ever. (Which makes that Octo Mom porn thing bug me. I mean the woman has 809 kids, it’s like throwing one of those little golf pencils into an Olympic sized swimming pool at this point).

Where are the ads asking for women who look better with clothes ON to do what they do? Find me a job that advertises good cash money for me to sit around and argue with people. Or point out flaws in people’s logic. Or brutally make fun of people.

Until that job exists, I demand they stop airing these ridiculous commercials. It’s simply unfair to those of us who are totally willing to exploit ourselves, but refuse to do so without a shirt on.

I sat quietly (fine, quietly for me) when the stock market crashed. When unemployment rates skyrocketed, I said nothing. When the real estate market went belly up, I kept my mouth shut for the most part.

But I have had enough.

I just read an article about how the recession is making us fat. It’s bad enough that it’s making us all unemployed, broke and in some cases grumpy, but does it have to make us unattractive?!

Turns out that fewer people are keeping up with their gym memberships. More of us are turning to junk food and dollar menus because they’re cheap. There’s more and more turning to comfort foods in front of the TV, and less going out and spending money (and calories).

There are a few things that America is known for. A strong economy is one of them. Since that obviously isn’t going to happen any time soon, we have to step up our game in other areas. Despite the fact that we are lazy, we are still obsessed with superficial bullshit. I for one will not stand for the economy ruining what little right we have to be elitist jerks left.

Screw you economy. Screw. You.

I get it. I really do. You were doing the awesome thing by taking your daughter grocery shopping. I couldn’t help but notice that her hair was recently highlighted. A cute little bob cut, with some adorable highlights. Obviously done by someone who gets paid a lot. If you could float me her number that would be great.

I also noticed her shoes. Jimmy Choos. I noticed this because there are two things I’m good at spotting from a mile away: designer shoes and snotty brats who deserve to be punched in the face. Her Seven jeans were cute.

But what really got me was when she grabbed your coat (Great nails by the way, gorgeous) and proceeded to scream at you to stop buying her pizza. She then punctuated this statement by stomping her (really cute I might add) heels and huffing away.

What blew me away was the fact that you followed her. And apologized. For buying your spoiled, stupid daughter the wrong groceries.

I wanted to slap the taste out of her mouth.

With the economy the way it is, and the prices of everything going up, your spoiled little sweetheart is throwing a hissyfit in the middle of Dominicks. Really? Seriously?

First of all, she was over 21 years old. I figured this out when she chastised you for not buying the right beer. She claimed next time she’d pick it out herself. Might I suggest next time you make her buy it herself? Maybe then she’d shut the hell up.

I understand that you’re a Mom doing what Mom’s do. I get it. But if I can offer one piece of unsolicited advice: buy her nothing but pizza. For the next month. If she wants anything else, let her buy it herself out of her designer clothes allowance.

That ought to shut her up. It might not bother you, but it bothers the rest of us who are stuck listening to her crap while buying our own groceries.

Kisses,
Clare

I have a feeling my apartment building managers are stuck in a time-capsule, completely unaware that there is a recession.

That’s my only explanation for them repeatedly and incessantly asking me to buy my apartment.

At least twice a week I get a phone call on my answering machine:

“Hey, this is Annoying John from the leasing office. Just wondering if you’ve thought about buying. We have a lot of great incentives we can offer you! Give me a call in the office so we can discuss.”

Yeah, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about what a nice life I’d have if I could dish out 200 G’s to buy my dream apartment. That would also mean I could afford a car, a dog, a wardrobe, an Hermes bag, Cristal, blow… the list goes on and on.

Does that mean I can do it? Uhh, that’d be a NO. Apparently, Annoying John doesn’t seem to remember that I am LATE paying my rent every month. Usually that’s a sign someone doesn’t have Jay-Z’s lifestyle.

Oh, but they are persistent little f*ckers. When I don’t return the phone calls, they slip ads under my door, showing how much cheaper their prices are compared to others in the city.

♦ ♦ ♦

Well, last week I had enough. The amount of trees they’re killing and ink they’re wasting printing out these fancy picture-filled price sheets finally got to me. So, I responded.

I wrote on the back of their overly eye-catching promotional ad and slipped it under their office door. It said,

Dear Leasing Agents,

I would like to make you an offer on my apartment. How does $176.89 sound? That was the amount of my last paycheck, so right now it’s 100% of my profits. I feel that is a substantial offer. If you disagree, please refrain from calling me. Especially on Saturday mornings. Thanks!

Your Loyal Renter,
Dana DeLorenzo

I have to admit– I don’t usually do stuff like that. But after telling them 100 times that I’m NOT INTERESTED, their persistence made me lose it. (I wish they were that adamant about fixing the elevator, or getting the laundry room dryers to actually dry clothes.)

Needless to say, it worked. I haven’t heard from them since.

So I’d like to thank the recession for forcing me to grow some cojones.

Feels kinda nice, actually.

But I have read the single most upsetting article since this entire thing started.

Single mothers struggling to feed their offspring? Boring. Some minority working 3 crappy jobs to pay the mortgage? Eh. Someone else lost their home? Big deal. The rich are no longer as rich? Holy shit, that’s news!

An actual caption from one of the pictures is “Facebook founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg was the world’s youngest billionaire last year. This year he’s simply a young multimillionaire.”

I cry a tear for him. It must be heartbreaking to be only a multimillionaire. There’s an entire list of people who are no longer billionaires, and the sob stories that go with them.

And I’m here to go on record and say, screw those guys, every last one of them. With a tire iron.

You have millions in the bank. Millions. More than I will see in an entire lifetime of working my ass off. And you have the stones to whine and complain? Seriously. If I see any of them, I’m going to kick them right in the no-no place. Then they might have a valid reason to complain about something, but probably not because they still have freaking millions of dollars.

When’s the last time they had to bum money off of their parents to pay a bill? Is Com Ed threatening to shut off their power because they can’t afford to pay the bill? When’s the last time they chose between rent and medicine their insurance won’t cover? Are they sitting in their one bedroom apartments eating Ramen noodles in their underwear watching TV that doesn’t even have basic cable? When’s the last time they had to pray the gas in their tank made it to the next payday?

That’s what I thought.

Now quit your bitching and complaining, you big bunch of sissies.

And to the people who thought that the rich being less rich was newsworthy? I hope you get stuck writing for the Weekly World News.

One day, I dialed the wrong number in making a regular business phone call, and received this greeting:

“Y’all just f*ck-ed up and called mutha-f*cking-ing Daddy Hillhouse. Call your bitch who is a bitch, she best not be the bitch who playin’ my boy, you bitch.”

E: (chuckling) “For real?”

Daddy H: “You betta wipe that bullshit grin off yer face nigga’ or I’m gonna dial 187 on yer ass.”

E: (silent)

Ok, so I made up the “187″ part.

But I thought Daddy Hillhouse might be instrumental in helping the taxpayers recover the trillions we’ve now lent out.

In reading some recent headlines, I thought some street justice by Daddy Hillhouse might hasten the economic recovery process.

A.I.G. handing out $165 million in bonuses after accepting $173 BILLION in taxpayer dollars?

Go do what you do best, Daddy.