My adult life can be described as a trek through a series of restaurants. I cannot distinguish one year from the next until I figure out where I was working at the time. At this point I tell people I've been a waitress for twenty years. I say this as I swish my long blonde ponytail at them and give them my best Malibu Barbie smile, so they know of course that some form of exaggeration is involved. I am over forty and have been waiting tables, tending bar, and now, managing for at least twenty years. If you throw in three years of part-time hostess and cashier work before that, you get twenty four or five - I can't remember. This is as much higher math I ever required until my son reached fifth grade. However, I am confident in its accuracy. By the time anyone actually reads this, my total official table service years will probably have reached and exceeded twenty. I will be an embittered, disappointed single woman pushing forty, having watched my cute years swirl down the john. Some of my more vicious co-workers would say that's the current description. Screw them; this is my book. Write your own pathetic memoirs.
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