Today, I’ve got PB from Back in the Day (B in the D even) coming at you loud and angry from 2012. She’ll be taking over my blog as a guest poster here and there. I’m sponsoring myself. Ha. Would ya look at that. This post is sponsored by the Ghost of Dayna Past. How seasonal of me.
So, once upon a large helping of my life, I was a waitress. And let me not mince any of the words and just tell you that it sucked the unwashed bum of every camper at the KOA.
Here’s me on the lap of a sailor, downtown during Fleet Week in 2009. I have very few photos of me in my various prison garbs – that is not an accident. And yes, we do that for tips, boys. Don’t take it personally. Also, don’t get so drunk you walk on your $80 tab like this faceless young lad. My manager made me pay for that, Homeslice.
The money? It was phenomenal. Why do you think I’d consistently return to a job year after year, time after time when life hauled back and bitch slapped me? In May of 2011 I graduated with a BA in Social Science and History (stop laughing) and thought I’d escaped a life of aproned servitude. But then, as you’ll remember, I was laid off from my big girl job, and I was faced with the option of being penniless, or going back to waitressing. I made the obvious selection: PENNILESS. Anything has got to be better than going back there.
I’m not going back and you can’t make me, Life! So instead, I suffered through months at a minimum wage cash register. The job was super easy and often times even fun. Which is a good thing because that’s all the fun I got to have on $247.65 per week.
Waitressing at a fine dining establishment can garner you that kind of scratch on a good night shift. Do you see the conundrum of which I speak? Do you see, it, people!?
I failed to resist that siren song, try as I swear I did. Dollar signs a’calling, I ended up tying myself right back into that sauce-flecked apron. I’d routinely hide in the bathroom and type these furious letters to no one in my iPhone notepad app. Here is PB from B in the D with one of those very letters:
Hello good people of the blog. I come to you as a translucent figure in my nighty from October 2012. This was typed in the dimly lit bathroom stall of a fine dining purveyor of pasta. It was my very first night back in the biz, and what a warm welcome it was.
A little PSA to commemorate tying myself back into a server’s apron tonight:
1.) When you refer to me as “our waitress” (as in “our waitress can clear that, honey, leave it”) I sort of get all giddy imagining dumping this coffee on your head. And in your husband’s lap. You two clearly don’t need to be reproducing.
2.) You may feel that you are entitled to demand that I cut up your appetizer for you at your table, however, you, Madam, are an adult and have just requested that another adult cut up your food. In front of your friends. And you and your $5 martini have to live with that.
3.) 15% is not a good tip. That’s just the way it is, there’s no way around it. Unless I was rude to you, you don’t get to feel all warm and fuzzy about yourself and your truly awful tip.