Colorado. Runner. Yogi. Fucking hilarious, like, 17% of the time.

tip your waitresses. their feet hurt.

I had my fingers crossed that waiting tables would be like people say riding a bike is, even though riding  a bike isn't really like people say riding a bike is. In other, clearer words - I had hoped that I would fall back into the patterns I learned long long ago, and that getting drinks and food out and making witty banter would be second nature.

In truth, it was more third nature. That nature that's in there somewhere, but you have to beat your first and second natures into submission for it to come out.

I may have called a male customer an arrogant bastard while delivering his Arrogant Bastard. That was definitely my first nature, and fortunately, I think he interpreted it as flirting.

I most definitely spent all night referring to my tables by not just the wrong numbers, but numbers that don't exist in the context of the restaurant. Like when I insisted that table 45 needed their gluten free pizza and had four food runners looking desperately for table 45's ticket (the tables only go up to 44). Meanwhile, table 34 waited. Patiently, mostly. I don't know which of my natures added 11 to the table numbers, but I need that one to pipe the fuck down.

Truly, if those are the worst things that happened (and other than me sending a table's meatballs back to the kitchen because I thought they'd already received them, they were), I did ok. I'll get better, but there were no spills, or massive breakdowns, or deserted tables.

That is, if my damn feet ever recover.

*Yes, this is my pasta pot. Don't worry, if you ever come over for pasta I'll use a completely different pasta pot**. It may look exactly the same, but my feet will never have been in it. Promise.

**If the idea of feet in a pasta pot bothers you, you may want to turn down any future invitations for pasta.

a vagina full of dirt, part II

Day 721