Helmet to helmet

I biked into work today on my little 3-speed bike.  Only it’s not little and I think the cute basket alone adds 10 minutes to my ride when there’s a strong head-wind.  And by strong I mean any sort of breeze.  Basically, I need to get in better shape.  I almost didn’t wear my helmet this morning because I was so upset by our union meeting last night, but I caved at the last minute because if there’s one thing I learned from AmeriCrap, it’s safety first. 

Union meeting.  Ugh.  As some of you know, I’ve been actively annoyed with our union situation as of late.  It’s so hard to talk about without feeling like I sound really greedy, but getting a raise once in awhile would be nice.  With our union, the basic problem is that the top folks (over 50% of our union) move further away from us at the bottom (under 20% of our union).  This is too boring and frustrating to talk about here.

But guess what?  It happened again!  I had an interview two Saturdays ago for a server position at Vin Santo, a really great, small Italian family-run restaurant in Middleton.  I thought it went really well — we laughed a lot, talked about all sorts of stuff, she gave me a menu to take home, blah blah.  She called me about five days later to tell me that she’d hired someone else, but would give me a call if that didn’t work out.  I was fine with it because, truthfully, I don’t want to make a second career out of waiting tables and she made it clear that they want someone long term.  I didn’t really know how I should handle it had I been offered the job because while I wanted it, I didn’t want to screw them over by leaving when we got a raise here (which, of course, isn’t really going to happen given the Union debacle — isn’t this such a symbiotic post?).  At Sundance, or a corporate place like that, I don’t feel that guilt.  But at a smally, family-owned restaurant where none of the chairs match and look like they may have been salvaged from Ogg Hall before the wrecking balls came, I feel more responsibility.  Ok, so my point is, when she called to tell me they went with someone else, I was mostly relieved. 

And then today I checked Craig’s List and, guess what, Vin Santo is looking for a server.

Humiliating post-pumpkin experience number 1,345,267

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.