Last night I waited on one of those "difficult" tables. By "difficult" I mean the sort that is already whining and complaining to a manager not more than thirty seconds after they were seated. The sixty-minute wait for a table was apparently too much for them, and it resulted in an avalanche of complaints dating back to some retirement party over a year ago. Yeah, I don't know either.

Of course I found myself doing cartwheels, juggling flaming bowling pins, and singing opera tunes to keep them happy. By the end of the evening the gentleman was telling me what a wonderful, wonderful server that I was (see entry re: verbal tip, I was fully prepared for the $2 I received off of that $50 check). His inquiries turned into ones of a personal nature, asking where I went to school, what I studied, etc. When he discovered that I already had my B.A. with a major in English he congratulated me on undertaking to teach this generation how to speak and write, as teaching is no small task given the ruffians of this day and age, etc.

When I informed him that during the day I was an editor, not a teacher, he scowled and said:

"Oh, so you're one of those that's only in it for the money."

Yeah, that's right. I'm in it for the money. Which explains why I'm groveling for your two crumbled dollar bills, right? We all know rich and famous editors, right? There's one in every neighborhood, I think. Usually they're on the cover of BusinessWeek. I just wait tables to keep in touch with my blue-collar roots and all. I wanted to work in a strip club but I didn't have the breasts for it.

That guy is so on to me.