Now, I'm not asking for 20% here. Even though I would totally deserve it because as a waitress I kick ass, but I really don't expect too many people to shell out that much for someone to bring them wings and a couple refills. I don't even think I give 20%. But 15%? Generally, unless she/he is a complete moron and can't comprehend the difficult world of food service. Really people, when your total is $40 and I brought you countless refills and even put cherries in your Sprite and brought you appetizers and desserts, $2 is not enough. Do you realize that you have just given me a 5% tip? Do you understand that the government taxes me on 9% automatically, whether you give it to me or not? Therefore, by leaving me a 5% tip I have actually lost money by waiting on you? Not to mention that while I'm busting my ass to help you, the other server just got a table of businessmen, all drinking beer and eating wings, who will end up leaving her $20.
And thank you to the young guys in suits and ties who insisted that I reprint your ticket so you can have proof that you gave me a tip because your company pays for it and you want to "make sure I'm earning a living." Thank you for leaving my 9% even though your company is paying for it. I'm sure the folks in billing will be happy to know you're a cheap ass.

I need to finish my thesis and get a real job again. I need to do this very, very soon.

P.S. Old people, I like you. I enjoy your stories, honestly, and the way you ask for warm water and jelly (free tea), but you need to leave a tip. Or go to McDonalds.

I hate my life.

P.S. Never work for a place that brings in its own group of trainers and makes you memorize how much cheese is in each of its menu items.

It's too early to be "that time of the sememster." The time when everything starts crumbling and friendships, or any kind of relationship for that matter, aren't enough to pull you up. Here is where I would link to, well, pretty much everyone, if I knew how. And I'm there too. But not really. Am I even allowed to think in terms of semesters anymore?

I would sit in class a lot and listen to people discuss what my professors deemed fine literature. I would hear them read their papers that were supposed to have insightful ideas and probing questions but were really more like drawn out summaries of the story we'd all read. How insightful that you noticed Edna killed herself in the end because the pressures of being a woman in that society were too difficult. I didn't catch that. But anyway, I would wonder how these people would end up with the same degree as me and likely, as things are heading, with a better job than me. And then I would hear from people, the ones that smoked too much pot and didn't do their homework and couldn't spell to save their lives, that they were planning to head back to grad school in a couple years. Like it's just the thing to do. Like it was either this or taking up knitting or stamp collecting (which I have actually decided is not too terrible a hobby. Those with stamps that are not American flags, hook me up). And though it maybe shouldn't, the whole idea of that kills me. Do they think it's easy? Cuz it's not. It's hard. And it makes it even harder to leave, I think.

The other night I sat crying because my triangle has been demolished. You see, I had this triangle of people I could count on, people that were by my side as I watched my grandma be buried. At least one was there to see me through break ups and failed tests and my grandpa being buried. But it's been demolished. My brother was married, had a baby. And he moved five hours away. He likely has problems worse than mine, anyway. My second point, my best friend since, hmm, I think it was when we were both crossing guards in fifth grade. We made it through her moving to PA and back and away and back. But I got drunk and said horrible things, and she said horrible things about me while sober. And I realized it only worked with us because when we were together we still acted like fifth graders. And she didn't know who I am now, and I have no clue who she is. So I don't feel badly about breaking up with her. I can't.

I'm left with a point from my triangle and, thankfully, I was smart enough to marry him. Hopefully that's some assurance that he'll stick around for a while.

And I don't want to appear ungrateful for all the wonderful people I've met here. I hate reading when other people say they're missing things when clearly I'm there to help, or try. Does this make sense? Like X, you should have linked to my site, because we don't talk. And maybe you'll feel better giving me a solid kick in the asshole. But that's just a branch anyway. You know who you are, and if not, I'm doing a bad job of being a good friend. Somebody told me that once. Maybe that's why we're not friends anymore. Maybe a simple "ditto" in X's comments would have done the trick.

Wow, I'm an ass for taking this long.

I blogged on August 27 at 9:30am. This was before checking my phone, realizing it had been on silent, and seeing that my oldest brother had called. Twice. My mom called just after this revelation. "Have you talked to Andy lately?" "Umm, no." "Oh, well you should give him a call." Conversations like this end in two ways--tragically or fantastically. Seeing as my brother called the night before to wish me happy birthday and to let me know his wife who is 8 months pregnant was in the hospital having contractions, I assumed it was good news. "Well, I don't want to spoil the surprise, but will you drive up there with me today?" This meant 5 hours in the car with my mom. And 5 more hours the next day. "Sure, Mom." "Can we take your car? It takes less gas."

Then I called my oldest brother Andy. "Saw you called, what's up?" Had to act surprised. He likes surprises. They had a baby girl. The day after my birthday. Hours after my birthday. "She couldn't have hurried it up a little?" I ask. But that's okay because we'll have our own birthdays and I'll likely remember hers being that it's the day after mine.

Mom and I made it up there and I got to hold a baby less than 24 hours old. How fantastic is that? I was a little annoyed that my weekend would be mostly spent in a car, but it was a cool feeling to be able to see her right away. Ellen Kathryn. Nice that her middle name happens to be my name (you know, the Casey is a nickname). And they spelled it the same (though my brother somehow managed to throw an "e" in it when writing it into her baby book. I'm ignoring the fact that her aunt also spells her name that way, as does her best friend from college. They really got lucky on that one--they can tell everyone the same story. She had long, thick, black hair. Definitely not my brother's hair. Not Sween hair at all. Particularly because that baby likely had more hair on her head than my brother's had for years. Mom read Ellen her first story. I got her to sing. It's good to have new faces in this family. Our numbers were dwindling for too long.

It's been more than four years since I've waitressed. In between I've (practically) gotten a master's, I've taught college English, I've gotten married, bought a house (and a trailer). And I've turned in a circle, one that keeps going because I can't see an end. And maybe the money will be good. So good that I'll forget that I'm not getting health insurance, a 401K. That I have to use my smile and my feet far more than my brain. Maybe it will be that good.

So yesterday I threw myself a bit of a pity party and moped around the house most of the day. That is, until I bought a case of beer and started smoking menthols. Then Preston (you know, the guy who streaked my wedding) offered me a waitressing job at the new BW3's, for which he is assistant manager and in charge of hiring. At this point the idea of a sure thing kind of job would be good for the self esteem, but working for P? I'm not really sure I'm even capable of taking directions from a guy I've seen naked more times than *too early for clever analogy here*. And the bastard ate all my soup. My boy's homemade soup. I gave him a pouty face and he made me soup. He's a good boy.

And that was yesterday. Today the party is over. I'm making coffee, strong coffee. I will sit at my computer for the morning hours, and I will be productive. I will work diligently morning and night to finish my thesis. I'll pretend it's homework. I miss homework. This afternoon will be filled with such wonderful goals as filling out an application at B-dubs, taking a typing test at Express, applying to be a legal secretary, and various other jobs that won't give me benefits and won't require I have one degree, let alone two. But that will be okay, because it will give me two things I need right now: 1)It will get me out of the house and 2) it will give me money. Not good money but more than I have at the moment. If I work hard enough, I might be able to afford the gas it took to drive me to work. YES! (Insert Smith arm-with-closed-fist-to-chest move here.)