Chronicles of trading in Corporate America for a waitress's apron during my very own quarter-life crisis.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Oh, Great -- Easter

I don't have warm, fuzzy feelings about Christianity.  Not even for Peeps... they make me sick.

I do sincerely wish a happy Easter to my Christian friends.  Have merry celebration with your loved ones. Or even a dirty homeless guy.  Bake a ham, even though Jesus was a Jew and probably wouldn't touch that hunk of glazed-yet-dried-out pig meat with a bed 13 feet long and six feet wide (uh... Deuteronomy 3:11, der). Whatever floats your boat.

I'm not bitter. 

I was kicked out of some form of Catholic Sunday school (CCD:  Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, key word "doctrine") at the age of... what, seven?  Thank you, and you're welcome.  One of the best things my parents ever did was to not send me back to that story-telling hour.  Or, really, story-yelling hour... heh, amirite?

Cathedral of St. Mary of the Immaculate Conception, I'm talking about you.  And that's a ridiculous name for a pretty building.  Talk about being full of yourselves.

The actual "best" things my parents did for me were to... well, get together, and whatnot... and to give me a pretty awesome sibling, get hired as teachers so they could devote themselves to public service while keeping the same hours as their school-aged kids (and stayed home during summers, which was really cool), and encourage work ethic so that I don't become a broke-as-shit waitress at 29. Oh, wait.  

They actually did teach me about work ethic and money, but I'm having some trouble figuring out why I've been so terrible with both for the last few years.  I was doing okay-ish until I was about 26.  

My favorite Bible verse, an excerpt from Ruth (1:16):  "Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge:  Thy people shall be my people."  

To me, that means loyalty to family and friends, unconditional and gracious love, enduring commitment, etc. Home is where the heart is.  Preferably with more than one bathroom.  And help those you love when they need it.  

(Yes, I am an atheist who happens to have a favorite Bible verse.  I think it's important for atheists to read the Bible, know it cover to cover, interpret it, and discuss it as a text of religious allegory.  That might be my English degree speaking.)  

I had requested off today -- in fact, my name was like the second one on the page in the "request off" book, six weeks ago -- and I didn't get it, so I'm working in a couple hours.  So now, my current and future family are having a fun weekend without me.  

As I was telling this to my friend/co-worker yesterday during our slow Saturday shift, some other waitress butted her nose in and said, "Seniority takes place with request-offs, too."  First:  I wasn't asking for your input from across the kitchen.  I was talking to my friend.  Second:  That's fucking whack, if it's true. Seniority should never, ever play a part in requesting a day off to see my family for the first time in a long time, especially considering I've worked every Sunday since I started, and the first few people to request off didn't get their wish.  Third:  Everyone knows that you get high before you come to work, Miss Nose-Butt.

Who goes to a restaurant on Easter Sunday?!  Not once, when I was a kid, did we deign to visit a TGI O'Chilibees on Easter.  Easter was usually spent at a grandmother's house (both of whom were extremely Catholic), eating a ginormous homecooked meal (yeah, lots of ham), tugging at my uncomfortable church outfit, and searching for plastic eggs in the backyard in hopes of finding an egg containing coins.  In all my memories of Easter -- dipping eggs in dye and painting them, attending standing-room only Mass, and having to wear pantyhose -- going to a restaurant doesn't come to mind.

This had better be worth it, unlike yesterday, where I made $43 during a 7.5 hour double shift.  That's not even minimum wage, guys.

Last night, I had a table of eight people (two children) who were pretty easy and semi-friendly, except for one woman, who I'll assume was not filled with the glory of Holy Week.  I asked her if she'd like for me to box up her food to take home, and with her face buried in her phone, she briefly shook her head.  She didn't even look at me.  Her husband said to her, "Why don't you say, 'no, thank you?'"  

Now, cupcake, here's a lesson on life -- and, perhaps, marriage... when your husband has to comment on your attitude and manners in public, you should try to remember how you had the maturity to get married (and have kids) to begin with.  And then work on it.

When I asked her if I could take her finished dish out of her way, she didn't even respond.  Didn't look at me, didn't say anything, didn't provide any body language.  Her husband rolled his eyes at her, took her plate, and handed it to me, and I thanked him.  

Their bill came to $50.32.  I received a fifty dollar bill, a quarter, a nickle, and a penny.  $50.31.  Not only did I have to pay a penny out of my pocket for their bill, but because I tip out based on my sales (to the hostesses, bartender), I paid almost a dollar just to serve them.  Their bill was more than I'd made the entire day.

Romans 15:1:  "We who are strong have an obligation to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves."

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