Waitressing: CIX: An Oldie But A Goodie

I didn’t start writing about waitressing in the Hamptons until after nearly a full summer of craziness had passed. I’m not entirely sure what prompted this memory to resurface, but on the floor this past week I had an “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot about that” moment and now I will share it with you.

A group of young kids—tweens, I guess we’re calling them now?—came in to eat. Burgers for everyone. They paid and left and, to their credit, they gave me maybe five or seven dollars as a tip on a sixty dollar check. Hey, progress right?

A little later one of the kids comes back and says something quiet to the manager. The manager looks at the kid and shakes his head, then comes over to me. “He’s asking for the tip back because he doesn’t have enough money to go to the movies.”

I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t that much money, so of course I gave it to my manager to give to him—despite my cold, dead heart, I remember being young and not understanding what a budget meant. It irked me a little that this kid was wearing a Blue&Cream sweatshirt that retailed for $100, but oh well. Kids are kids regardless of the amount of their trust funds.

My manager said something to him and he nodded his head and ran out the door clutching the crumpled bills in his hand.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I told him that it’s not okay to do things like this. That he got lucky because you’re nice, but that he’d better tell his parents what happened.”

“Good,” I said. And then I forgot all about it until this past week when I had a table of teenagers who inspired the previous post about not leaving a tip in change.

Waitressing: CVII: Hot Water With Lemon II

Waitressing: CVI: Hot Water With Lemon

The woman says, “I’d like hot water with lemon.”

I ask, “Hot water with just lemon?”

The woman says, “Just lemon.”

We make eye contact. I nod. “Great,” I say. “I’ll be right back with your drink.”

I boil the water. I pour it into the pot. I place a cup on a plate with a side of lemons. I bring it to the table.

The woman looks at it for a minute. “I wanted honey,” she says.

Waitressing: CV: You Know It’s Sunday When…

1. A woman with a non-communicative husband and two hyper children explains to me that everyone has gluten allergies and asks if we have gluten-free pasta? No. Do we have soy milk? No. Do we have almond milk? No.

2. A three-top. Two women order diet cokes. The man asks for “coke zero.” I mentally roll my eyes. From The Huffington Post

And while Diet Coke has been a leading sugar-free soft drink since it was first released in 1982, it came to light that young adult males shied away from this beverage — identifying diet cola as a woman’s drink. The company’s answer to that predicament came in 2005 — in the form of a shiny black can — with the release of Coca-Cola Zero.

While Diet Coke was created with its own flavor profile and not as a sugar-free version of the original, Coca-Cola Zero aims to taste just like the “real Coke flavor.” Despite their polar opposite advertising campaigns, the contents and nutritional information of the two sugar-free colas is nearly identical.

IN SUMMARY: It is a real toss up. There is not one artificially-sweetened Coca-Cola beverage that outshines the other. So how do people choose between one or the other? It is either a matter of personal taste, or maybe the marketing campaigns will influence their choice.

Baaaaaaa. You’re all sheep.

Waitressing: CIII: Let’s Play A Game…

What’s worse than waitressing on a busy Friday night?

Waitressing on a busy Friday night with an untreated UTI. Holy shit, that sucked. 

What’s worse than treating a UTI?

Not having health insurance and treating a UTI. Bye-bye $70. Hello orange pee.

I Live In…A Pool House

Leah’s family is coming to the house for Memorial Day. Did I mention before that there’s a pool? There’s a pool. With a pool house. It was not winterized which is why I moved into the main house, but Tuesday and Wednesday I lugged all my stuff across the yard and into the pool house. I feel like that guy from the OC…Ben? I never actually watched that show…which I think makes me a bad teenager, but we also didn’t get the channel it was on. Our house in Vermont had one of those old school fork antennae on the roof—you know, a crosshatch of metal? We could watch PBS, ABC. NBC, and CBS. That was it. Thus my love of Are Your Being Served?, Fawlty Towers, and Mystery! with Diana Rigg. Everything I learned about cooking I learned from Julia Child, and everything I know about building Shaker-style furniture I learned from watching The New Yankee Workshop.

I digress. So I moved my belonging across the way, and now I have a mini-fridge and a microwave which means I can make coffee in the morning without having to interact with anyone.

I am not a morning person.

I manned up and got my own subscription to NetFlix. I’d still been using Billy’s, but it was time for the bad habit to end.

Tuesday after the move I got into bed and watched The Seven Year Itch and What’s New Pussycat? and also How To Steal A Million. I think I’m in love with Peter O’Toole, despite it being, like, fifty years too late for us.

Seriously, that face. Any man who can look sexy and flare his nostrils is okay by me. Also: blue eyes.

Then, on Wednesday Sarah called me and was like, “You need to go out.”

The pool house comes with a surround sound system built in, with the option of turning on or off the outside speakers. I put on Tragic Kingdom and danced around in my underwear getting ready. It’s this delicate balance: on the one hand, I don’t go out all that much so I want to get at least a little gussied up. On the other hand, it’s the Hamptons on an off-season Wednesday night and I don’t want to look like a freak with a face full of spackle and a sequined shirt, or anything. Meaning that, most people do not dress up to go out to the Tavern or Rowdy Hall or wherever on an off-season Wednesday night.

Not that I own a sequined shirt…

I decided on skinny black pants, my favorite tank-top printed with toucans, an off-the-shoulder slouchy purple sweatshirt, and black booties. Some hoops in my ears and a few rings and I figured I looked like any other hipster skulking around Williamsburg. Not too much or too little, but juuuuust right.

“It’s AAAALLLL you’re fault / I screen my PHOOOOONE CALLLLS!”

I’m have a terrible singing voice and I love vintage No Doubt.

I met Sarah at the Tavern and we sat at a table on the bar side by the window.

“Did you know,” she began, “that Aaron Carter is playing at the Talkhouse on the 28th?”

“No! How much are tickets?” I asked.

“Only thirty dollars. And he’s playing after Memorial Day weekend. That can’t be good.” She laughed.

“Oh we definitely need to go. I don’t even know what his music sounds like these days. Do you think it’s still teenage pop stuff?”

“I have no clue. Let me look it up on my phone,” she said.

“Ahh…don’t do that! I hate when people watch videos and play music and stuff on speakerphone in public,” I said.

“El, it’s so loud in here, it’s not like it will matter.” Sarah was pouting.

“I know, but I complain about it all the time and I’ll feel like a total hypocrite…plus we actually know people here,” I argued.

“Ugh, fine. You complain about everything, though,” she said.

“It’s just part of my natural charm,” and I smiled extra sweetly.

Sarah’s eyes got wide all of a sudden. “What? Did I shock you?” I joked. When she didn’t respond I looked over my shoulder. Jake and Dell were standing in the entrance to the bar looking around. Before I could stop her, Sarah began waving her arms.

“Jake! Dell! Over here!” She patted the empty chair next to her. “Come sit with us.”

I could feel myself begin to blush. Shit! Did I actually have a crush on Jake? Why else would my face get heated? I ran a hand nervously through my hair and scooted over to make room. Jake took the seat next to me and his leg brushed mine under the table. Like a spaz, I dropped my purse that I had been moving off the chair. Sarah rolled her eyes at me and Jake bent down to pick it up. Did he just wink at me? He winked at me when he handed me the bag.

Jake winked at me.

Sarah’s an unnaturally bubbly person and she quickly took over the conversation, asking the guys about work and Memorial Day plans. I stared at my plate and tried to think of interesting things I could talk about, but every time Jake’s leg would bump mine my mind went blank.

“Wouldn’t that be fun, El?” Sarah kicked me under the table.

“Huh?” I said, mentally shaking myself.

“You and Sarah should come to our barbeque on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend,” said Jake. He was smiling at me. Oh god, he has a dimple on his left cheek.

“Yeah!” I said brightly. Then I remembered I had to work the opening shift. “I wouldn’t be done until four-ish…”

“That’s okay—we don’t start until three anyway. Just come over whenever you can.” Sarah practically squealed.

“Oh, it’s going to be so much fun!” she said.

So that’s the story of how I’m going to Jake’s Memorial Day BBQ. And also the story of how Jake has a dimple. And the story of how Jake makes me blush. And, possibly, the story of how I’m getting over Billy.

The End.

For now.

Waitressing: CI: Waldorf Salad & Russian Dressing

Presented without comment:

Last night I had a woman say to me, “Does anyone ever tell you that you look like that girl from Flashdance? No, that’s not the movie I mean. It’s a dancing movie? Um…”

I do an internal eye roll. “You mean Dirty Dancing?” I ask.

“Yes!” The woman is very excited. “You look like Jennifer Grey.”

“Haha, yeah I get that all the time,” I say. Which is a lie. But I know what she’s getting at: I have a big nose. Thanks lady! At least I’m not the one married to a guy who requests a “large glass of ice cold milk” to accompany his fettuccine alfredo.

Did you know that the Waldorf salad was first created sometime between 1893 and 1896 at the Waldorf Hotel in NYC? Oscar Tschirky, the maître d’hôtel, is generally credited with the recipe which includes apples, mayonnaise, raisins and, in later iterations, walnuts.

Woman: I’ll have a Waldorf salad.

Me: Excuse me? What kind of salad?

Woman: (holding open the menu and reading down our list of salads.) The Waldorf salad.

Me: I’m so sorry, but we don’t have a Waldorf salad on the menu.

Woman: Oh, well, I’ll just have the Rucola salad then.

I understand that sometimes people have a hard time reading the menus in the dim light, especially older people whose eyesight might not be all that, but this was baffling because the woman had clearly read the salad list well enough that she was able to ask specifically for the Rucola (as opposed to naming some other random, but common salad like a Caesar). So she knew we had Rucola but did not connect the absence of a Waldorf salad with the idea that we don’t serve Waldorf salads. Bizarre.

Fun fact: Russian dressing was invented in Nashua, New Hampshire sometime in the 1910s. Today it is a combination of mayonnaise, ketchup, and, depending, horseradish, pimentos, and spices. Sometimes it is a blend of tartar sauce and ketchup.

In the past month I’ve had more people ask me for Russian dressing than have asked during the entire time I’ve been a waitress at my restaurant (a long time). We don’t have Russian dressing. I tell them this. “Well, do you you have mayonnaise and ketchup?” they ask. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll take a side of mayonnaise and ketchup and a small bowl to mix them in.”

If it’s slow enough, I’ll ask the kitchen to do it. But when we’re busy, I bring them exactly what they ask for and watch in disgusted fascination as they swirl together gloppy mayo and sweet ketchup and dump the concoction all over their Asian tofu salad. It’s sickening.

Waitressing: C: A Brief Prayer For Mother’s Day

May all the children be silent and still. May all the fathers behave with complete appropriateness. May all the mothers be kind and sweet. May the kitchen run smoothly, and the runners run smoothly, and the floor run smoothly. May your book overfloweth with tips. If anyone asks, just tell them your mother is dead* and that should get you at least a sympathy 30%.

Amen

*And if your mother really is dead, apologies. Mother’s Day has got to really suck.

Waitressing: XCIX: An Update

Okay, now that everything’s all said and done with, I can spill the beans: I was in NYC working at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute Ball. This entailed sticking 40,000 roses into that green foamy stuff used for flower arrangements, among other monotonous and menial tasks. It was pretty awesome to walk through the Egyptian wing by myself at 1AM in the morning, though. The Met was super strict about anything leaking to the press before the event, which is why I didn’t post about it. I worked 51.5 hours between 8AM Saturday morning and 8PM Tuesday night.

I came back from the City on Wednesday and spent Thursday in recovery/doing laundry, which seems to be the sum of what I do with myself when I’m not at work. It was really good to work that hard because I didn’t have time to think about Billy, which I’ve been doing less of these days anyway. There’s still this rawness whenever my mind strays towards feelings of loneliness because I can trace it back to him, but I’m doing my best not to give him too much power over my mood.

And yes, he did hook up with that girl he was close-talking. I had a Carrie Underwood moment when I found out and seriously contemplated slashing all four tires, but it’s his business. Still unconfirmed if he was with her while we were together, but would that makes things so much worse? Or better? It all kind of sucks.

Speaking of things that suck: eating disorders. I’m not talking about the strict definitions of anorexia or bulimia, but that grey-ish area of a love-hate relationship with food that I feel like most women and girls experience.

It becomes more and more common as the summer people find their way to my restaurant to clear a table and have a plate of food that’s been cut up into little pieces and pushed around, but not actually eaten. A woman in my section last night actually brought a scale with her and weighed her entire meal, salad and entreé. And for the fish she ordered, she did away with the delicious sides and asked the kitchen to do it with steamed spinach. What is the point even?

And then there are those women who say, “Oh, but I shouldn’t,” as they stuff fries in their mouths. I feel for them, I really do. Not only are they grasping at youth (evidenced by their wrinkle-free foreheads and look of perpetual surprise), but also at thinness.

I’m looking forward to an old age where I can say, “Fuck it,” and eat entire bags of chocolate covered pretzels without guilt. It’s hard for me to imagine being in my mid-sixties and still restricting my food intake. I know metabolism slows down and blah blah Type 2 diabetes blah blah. I’m not talking about living on a diet of McDonald’s once I become eligible for AARP. What I’m talking about is being able to go out to a restaurant without a scale, without worry about what I consume, without feeling the need to explain myself to my server, of all people, “Oh, but I really shouldn’t. I’m trying to eat healthy. I’m trying not to eat carbs. I shouldn’t have that—the cream makes it too fatty.”

I find it ironic that most of the time I am treated with casual indifference, but when it comes to women ordering something especially rich, or asking for the dessert menu, or explaining why they did not eat 3/4 of the food on their plate, suddenly I become an ally. I am there to commiserate with them. “Yes, I totally understand. I will take these fries away because you lack self control.” I am there to assure them that they’re not doing anything terrible. “Why not have dessert? After all, you only picked at your iceberg lettuce salad for dinner.”

I’ve never had what I consider an eating disorder. I’ve never starved myself or thrown up my food after a binge. But I’ve tried to do both. I spent many nights during high school curled up in my bed willing myself to be skinny, crying because I was not. And now I find myself surrounded by food for the past however-many years. For sure my weight’s fluctuated—with each new restaurant I’ve begun to work at, I do my best to eat my way through the menu so I can give honest recommendations. And when I’m unhappy, hey, a large tub of ice cream just happens to be in the freezer.

I suppose I have what most women and girls have: disordered eating. So even while I critique these women in my head—not for their size, but for their inability to let go of appearances and enjoy food for one night—I completely understand. I am there to commiserate with them because I get it. Even that lady with the scale. For all that I find it ludicrous that she is so committed to this pursuit of some kind of perfection—whether it’s a weight, a size, a portion, an idea of health—that she must weigh her food even in a restaurant, I am sympathetic. I cannot remember the last time I ate something without thinking, “How many calories? How many carbs? How much fiber? If I eat this now, I cannot eat later. Will this make me bloated?” And so on and so forth.

Waitressing: XCVIII: Good Night My Sweet Little Pepper

Tonight was unexpected. It’s 12:26 AM and I just got home and I’m writing this now before it loses its freshness. The world is populated by freaks, in case you didn’t know.

Last Monday was totally dead. This Monday was the opposite. In the middle of the first crush, I had a two-top of extremely tight-skinned middle-aged women. I’m talking SHINY, like I could see myself in their taught foreheads. “How is the swordfish prepared? Are the vegetables steamed? They’re not cooked in butter, are they? I need to eat clean, so if the kitchen could just steam them, that would be great. There’s not too much salt, is there? Can you ask them to put no salt on it? And is it possible for them to not use oil at all? I don’t want anything with too much oil.” After I explained that, yes, some oil must be used to cook the fish otherwise it would stick to the grill, the woman ultimately ordered one of our salads without cheese and without dressing, but with a side of lemon. I just pray she doesn’t have daughters so her eating disorder will not be foisted upon the next generation.

THEN I had one of my favorite things happen with a different table: “Tell me about the venison.” I tell him. “Tell me about the cut of lamb.” I tell him. “Tell me about the scallops.” I tell him. “I think I’ll just have the chicken.” Go die somewhere cold and miserable.

Finally, the shit-can of a night concludes with the weirdest table. I mean OUT THERE. This a link. Click on it and you will experience a weirdness similar to what I was privy to tonight. So, a table of two older men. WASTED. I mean, every time I, or Erin, or any other woman got within ten feet of the table one of the guys would throw up his arms and yell, “WHY DON’T YOU COME HERE MORE OFTEN?”

Erin and I had been trading tables all night—she took some that I didn’t want to deal with and I did the same for her, which is how I came to be waiting on these two drunk men who I would conservatively estimate to be in their mid-60s. On top of which, they were super nerdy. I mean, turtlenecks. In April. I know it’s cold out, but come on. And tweed jackets with leather elbow patches. AND they were talking about the most esoteric shit like Derrida and Laccanian theory and Neitzsche and then back to the Nicks and the NBA Playoffs. I basically yelled at them until they ordered food. “WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO EAT?” “WHY DON’T YOU COME HERE MORE OFTEN?” “FISH AND CHIPS?” “Sure.”

We close at 10. It was 10:30 when they were finished eating. They’d been sitting in the restaurant since 9:15. Erin and I had a bunch of silverware to polish, but at 10:45, these two were the only table in the restaurant, they were drunk and disorderly, and hitting on all the women, including myself and Erin, and I had reached my limit. I marched over with the check. “Gentlemen, can I get you anything else this evening?” They barely acknowledged me and continued arguing about who is the better painter: de Kooning or Pollack. “Great. Here’s your bill.” And I drop it on the table from a height of about a foot or so. It made a satisfying smack when it hit.

I go back into the kitchen to finish polishing, and when we’re done and I check on them, the bill is in the same place, and the men are in the same position still arguing. I go over and clear all the glasses. “Can I get you change—oh, nope not yet.” I had reached for the bill in the hopes that they would, um, GET THE HINT and pay. To their credit, they did take out their wallets and put them on the table, but then they regained the thread of their conversation and were lost once more in an intellectual and drunken haze of modernist painters. I walked over again and stood there, hand on hip, and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but it would be great if you could pay so we can go home.” Neither of them made eye contact with me. Both continued talking, but one took out some cash and the other, who had received a phone call as I was speaking, fumbled with his wallet, got lost in whomever he was speaking to and I watched as his hand stilled. My body filled with rage and I coughed loudly and scooted the check presenter towards him with my finger. He finally got his card out of it’s holder, and I took their payment and was done with them.

Or so I thought.

Erin and I are sitting doing the money. Keep in mind the only people in the restaurant are those two goons and then everyone at the bar. One of the men comes over and starts talking to Erin. She answers brusquely and tries not to make eye contact. The other man comes over and the two men begin talking to each other, which is fine because that means they’re leaving us alone, but Erin and I are sitting in an empty dining room—these men could literally not be standing any closer to us. There was less than six inches of space between where I was sitting and one of the guys was standing. An empty restaurant. They’re those assholes who sit right behind you in a vacant theater. And they were still trying to one-up each other with artistic knowledge—who knew more about Rothko, Duchamp, whomever. Erin and I finished the money and went and sat at the bar and those two stayed there talking for another ten minutes.

They FINALLY made their way to the door, but then they stood in the doorway—the door is open, just for a visual, and cold air is coming into the restaurant—for several minutes discussing something AND THEN ONE OF THEM CAME BACK INTO THE BAR AND STOOD BEHIND ERIN AND I AND SQUEEZED OUR SIDES. HE TOUCHED US. I EVEN SAID OUT LOUD, “OH MY GOD HE’S TOUCHING ME. WHY IS HE TOUCHING ME?” To which Pete, the bartender, burst out laughing.

“You beautiful women. I would like to buy these girls another round. Whatchyou gettin’ up to these days laydeeeze?”

“Work,” replied Erin.

“He’s touching me again,” I said. Because he was. His hands were on my shoulders squeezing. I looked straight ahead. “Why is he still touching me? I’m not okay with this.” Dell, sitting to my left, was cracking up. I didn’t feel unsafe, just supremely pissed. Where the fuck do guys get off thinking this kind of shit is okay? Oh, but he’s just a batty old man, where’s the harm? Fuck you, I’ll tell you where the harm is: I don’t like it. It’s not in my job description. And it makes me uncomfortable. End of story.

The man threw some money on the bar, squeezed my side one last time and said to Erin, “Good night beautiful.” To me he said, “Good night my sweet little pepper.” And then, finally, he left.

Waitressing: XCVI: Almost The Worst Thing That Has Ever Happened To Me In A Restaurant

It was a lovely Saturday morning. The temperature finally got laid or something and was beginning to warm up. Summer traffic meandered through Amagansett. Mary’s Marvelous was packed with women and their over-sized handbags. I sat outside for a couple hours working on my base layer of freckles. And then.

And then.

And then sometime around 1:45 I get a call from the restaurant. This is never a good thing. Ever.

“Hey, Eloise? Can you make it in by 3?” My normal in-time for the dinner shift is 3:30. Then I heard someone yelling in the background and the voice on the phone said, “Um, actually can you come in like, now?”

I doused myself in deodorant and perfume since I did not have time to shower. At least the sweat from the run had dried. I finally found parking and raced up the stairs, jammed my feet into my ratty work shoes, tied my apron on, and walked through the kitchen and on to the floor and all I saw was paper.

This is the worst thing you can see in a restaurant that uses a computer system. There were carbon credit card slips with hand written numbers and names and amounts, hand written orders on the line in the kitchen, calculators every where, and people sitting at tables with nothing in front of them just waiting for their server to manually add up the total of their food, beverages, including tax, and give it to them. This is the kind of thing I have nightmares about.

I started taking the new tables that were coming in and trying to help the other servers deal with their checks. It was awful and went on for almost two hours. I can’t even imagine was it was like for the opening waiter who’d been dealing with it since noon. We had to write everything down, add up the totals when we had a free minute, let people know that things would take just a bit longer than usual but we were doing our best, and encourage everyone to pay in cash. When the system finally started working, we had to enter ALL of our checks, whether paid in cash or credit, so there would be some kind of record of the food sold, and then manually enter the credit cards, digit by digit by digit.

I became irrationally angry, which is never a good way to feel about customers and the job in general. Every time a new table sat down I wanted to punch a wall. Every time someone needed their water refilled or an extra butter or napkin or whatever trivial thing that took a few seconds away from me trying to get my shit in order before the night shift made me want to scream. Contributing to my rage was the fact that we kept getting screwed on tips. On the carbon credit card slips, the box marked “Tips” is miniscule—and either people didn’t see it or they felt like we didn’t deserve gratuity because it took so long for them to get their bill. At five, the lunch waiter finally left without doing the money from the day shift. Dinner service had started and their was no time.

We were slammed, of course. Movie rushes and I guess there was something at Guild Hall, so just enormous waves of people the entire night. The hostess continuously weeded me with seating like a six-top, a four-top, and two two-tops all at once. I was telling the other waiters how proud I was of myself to get through it all, taking every order, without needing someone else to step in. And then I was like, “I mean, but I’m not going to call home and tell my mom about it.” Because that’s the thing about being a waitress, at least for me. I take pride in my job and I enjoy challenging nights like last night because I’m thinking the entire time—what do I need to do next, when is the food coming out, do they need more drinks, have I asked them how everything is, what order should I greet the new tables—and the shift goes quickly, but it’s not brain surgery/rocket science/world diplomacy. I don’t call home and say, “You’re gonna be so proud of me. Guess what I did last night? Managed my entire section!” Believe me, that would be like rubbing salt in the wounds caused by a $200,000 private liberal arts education.

In general, people were fine last night. Nothing outstanding, but little things became slightly amplified. Like, I had a couple tables that did the whole, “Can I have a straw?” I go back with a straw. “Can we have bread?” I go back with bread. “Can we have lemons for our water?” I go back with lemons. “Can I have an ice tea?” I go back with ice tea. Etc. Also, the kitchen did an amazing job and the food was coming out maybe two minutes slower than I guess it should? I don’t know, twenty minutes for an entreé doesn’t seem ridiculous to me but to some people—”Where is our food? We are starving.” Oh shit, my bad. You’re about to die from malnourishment, and also, YOU MUST BE BLIND IF YOU CAN’T SEE THE PACKED RESTAURANT, THE WAIT AT THE DOOR, OR THE FUCKING TIME ON YOUR FUCKING PHONE BECAUSE IF YOU COULD SEE THEN YOU WOULD KNOW YOU’VE ONLY BEEN SITTING FOR SEVENTEEN MINUTES BECAUSE THAT’S THE TIME THAT’S ON YOUR ORDER ON THE COMPUTER which is working, thank god for small miracles.

Sooo…that’s how it went. We finally sat down at 11:45. I did the lunch tips and Erin did the money from the night. I had three glasses of wine (don’t worry, I got a ride home), and when I’m done writing this I have to shower, finally, and open the restaurant for what I hope will be a relaxing lunch shift filled with polite families and well-behaved children.