Mayor Quimby looks better than this guy.
How can days be so slow when everything else seems to happen so fast? Three hours of work can be years (especially when you only get two tables and leave without enough for a half-price meal or people leave $1 because their food took so long or 32cents because they are high school pieces of shit). Yet months have gone by without my noticing. Did anyone else realize there wasn't a December this year? I remember Thanksgiving--too dry turkey, too sweet sweet potatoes. And then there was New Years.
When I took this job I thought Ok, two weeks. I don't even have to learn the menu. I'll have a "real job" in two weeks. Somehow this has turned into three months. Today, as I race to the bar in search of real cream as opposed to "this powdered crap" for a woman who hopes she "doesn't sound like a bitch" (she does). I put the bar rag (towel) on top of the garbage can, slighty right of middle. It's folded in a rectangle, as the servers have been instructed to do (numerous times!). Mr. Owner Guy says "Now, is that neat?" I have a table of 7 to get back to, cream to get for the bitch, a couple who wants their change. I bite my lip to keep from telling him what I really feel about his fucking bar rag, ahem, towel.
All day: I think your table wants a refill. I think your table wants to order. I think your table wants to pay. You missed a spot on that table. In actuality: I had just asked if they wanted refill. They said no. They said they needed a few more minutes to look over the menu. They paid with checks and didn't need change. This guy is running for mayor of this town.
Where was I going with this? Measures of time. Six days until I have someone with whom I may share conversations about the following: shoes, boys, pink champagne, hair styles. Seven days until I have someone to talk to about: GAP, teaching styles, reasons not to use newly purchased vibrators. Nine days until my thesis is expected to be finished. Six weeks until I can bring Sebastian home. (We've given him a name; there's no use pretending we're not taking the little chocolate version of Emerson.) Ten weeks until the beginnings of my tulips start to pop out of the ground.
When I took this job I thought Ok, two weeks. I don't even have to learn the menu. I'll have a "real job" in two weeks. Somehow this has turned into three months. Today, as I race to the bar in search of real cream as opposed to "this powdered crap" for a woman who hopes she "doesn't sound like a bitch" (she does). I put the bar rag (towel) on top of the garbage can, slighty right of middle. It's folded in a rectangle, as the servers have been instructed to do (numerous times!). Mr. Owner Guy says "Now, is that neat?" I have a table of 7 to get back to, cream to get for the bitch, a couple who wants their change. I bite my lip to keep from telling him what I really feel about his fucking bar rag, ahem, towel.
All day: I think your table wants a refill. I think your table wants to order. I think your table wants to pay. You missed a spot on that table. In actuality: I had just asked if they wanted refill. They said no. They said they needed a few more minutes to look over the menu. They paid with checks and didn't need change. This guy is running for mayor of this town.
Where was I going with this? Measures of time. Six days until I have someone with whom I may share conversations about the following: shoes, boys, pink champagne, hair styles. Seven days until I have someone to talk to about: GAP, teaching styles, reasons not to use newly purchased vibrators. Nine days until my thesis is expected to be finished. Six weeks until I can bring Sebastian home. (We've given him a name; there's no use pretending we're not taking the little chocolate version of Emerson.) Ten weeks until the beginnings of my tulips start to pop out of the ground.
posted by KC in Katoland at 8:39 PM
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