Saturday night was a night of servitude.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to last Saturday night and the annual Pretentious Private School Fund Raiser.
I’ve got my black pants ready, my white button-down shirt (starched to a deep-fried, crackly crunch), my thick socks. I haven’t quite decided what to do with my hair yet – I’m thinking a hairnet says "I've brought you food, and it's hair-free!" – and I have located my black belt and black shoes.
Banquet servers in the house!
Yes, that’s me, holding a heavy tray of smoke-infused-cheese-berry-garden-lizard croquettes. Would you care for one? They're fresh! Don’t forget your napkin!
It’s cash, okay? It’s cash.
And once that cash is in-hand, my fellow servers and I generally go out. We look mighty spiffy showing up at the bar in our black-and-white glory. We tip heavy and we throw our server “gang signs” out to the crowds, a saucy palm-up-holding-an-invisible-tray gesture that says "I got yer dinner right here".
Have you been served, baby?
Ack. We kid no one. We are clearly exhausted, clearly fresh off some fairly demeaning job where men in tight jackets (Look! It still fits!) look at everyone but their wives and women in taste-defying backless dresses point their silicone breasts at each other and dismissively gesture for us to take away the “butler-served appetizers”.
We mock them behind their backs. HA! We laugh at your five-bedroom/four-bath homes and your Escalades! We scoff at your Jimmy Choo shoes and your artfully tossed hair!
Well, okay. We laugh at their ostentatious displays of wealth, but we envy their shoes and their bank accounts.
I worked for cash Saturday night.
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