I don’t even want to think about how many it would be if we included pre-pumpkin experiences. So, in an effort to save my house from being foreclosed upon, I have tried to get a second job. Despite my legal prowess, I am paid — adjusted for inflation — just about what my mom was paid for her first post-college job at 23 in 1969 armed with only a bachelor’s degree. Not that my mom doesn’t deserve good dough, but I’m six years out of law school at this point, 33, and have serious student loans and a mortgage. Anyway, back to my Humiliating Experience. As some of you may know, I worked (very briefly) at the Sundance restaurant late last fall. Since there were very few customers, I decided it was too much of a Humiliating Experience coupled with no money and was therefore not worth my time. I quit. Since then I have been a bit more selective and was recently very excited to see a posting on Craig’s List for a serving position at Sardine — one of my fave restaurants — for brunch on Saturdays and Sundays. Seemed perfect! One of my favorite restaurant + actual customers + weekends so it won’t interfere in any way with my lawyerly duties. I stopped in a few weeks ago — closely following the instructions on the posting — but heard nothing. Since that time, it has been reposted twice. So, today I call and leave a message for the woman the posting said to contact. She calls me back promptly and asks me to stop by. I practically run down the street, giddy with the idea of the new job and the ability to more easily pay my mortgage. I arrive; we sit; we talk; I do that annoying thing where I always try to make dumb jokes during the interview; she tells me I don’t have nearly enough experience to serve; she tells me her servers are career servers with marriages and families; I try hard not to let that comment sting; she says the wine list is something her servers must know (she seems reluctant when she admits it may be something someone could learn); she expounds upon the virtues of being a “runner,” saying that a runner gets to be in the kitchen and gets to run food and doesn’t have to talk to people; upon seeing my jaw drop, she says, “I mean, I just can’t put you on the floor. But you could be a runner and work your way up.” Work my way up. I’ll be hearing those words all night as I consume copious amounts of wine.
First, I think I need the treadmill to work off this nightmare.
