It dawned on me this morning that I have to find a summer job. My professorly* skills are applicable and therefore exchangeable for cash only nine months out of the year, which leaves me in the most unfortunate position of having to break the most solemn vow I ever made to myself: I SHALL NOT WAIT ON ANOTHER TABLE.
Particularly bitter corollaries to this vow included
I SHALL NOT FOLD ANOTHER WHITE NAPKIN INTO A BOAT, A FAN, THE SMALL OF A WOMAN'S BACK, OR ANY OTHER INANIMATE OBJECT OR PERVERSE GEOMETRIC SHAPE THAT THE GM DREAMS ABOUT THE NIGHT BEFORE.
I SHALL NOT POLISH ANOTHER PIECE OF SILVERWARE THAT COSTS MORE THAN THE GRADUATE SCHOOL EDUCATION I WAS FINANCING.
I SHALL NOT SERVE LAMB TO THE NEW YORK TIMES FOOD CRITIC (and I do mean THE as in THEEEEEEE New York Times Food Critic) WHO ORDERED, ummmm, BRANZINO?
I SHALL NOT AGAIN NARROWLY ESCAPE MY OWN DEATH AT THE HANDS OF AN IRATE** CHEF OVER A STUPID LITTLE LAMB PROBLEM.
I SHALL NOT SPEND 95 MINUTES MAKING AN EXTRA FROTHY EXTRA EXTRA HOT HALF CAF HALF DECAF CAPPUCCINO WHICH INCREASES MY TIP BY ABOUT 10 CENTS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PRE THEATER DINNER RUSH BECAUSE Hey lady, This is Manhattan and freaking Starbucks is across the street. TWICE.
*Yes. Guilty. I made this word up and yet, you knew exactly what I meant...
**The phrase "irate chef" is admittedly a little redundant. Chefs, by nature, are irate, which explains why they are so good at using sharp knives, tossing smallish, helpless animals into ovens or boiling pots of water, and throwing root vegetables and heirloom tomatoes at your head.
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