Laura, you bitch! We never played volleyball!

But I did get a $40 tip tonight on a $92 check! ^.^

Hasta la byebye!

Thanksgiving always seems to sneak up on me. I see it coming, I know very well it will be here, but when it's due to arrive I turn away and let it catch me by surprise. This year it's a bit more strange, because Thanksgiving does not mean a vacation, but rather more work. At Pappadeaux, business has been steadily picking up, which means that the weeknights are more lucrative and the weekends more chatoic. At the college, we're moving slowly towards final exams, which will probably send small flocks seeking economics tutoring my way. I must say, I'm not enjoying it.

An unpleasant proportion of the students that I get at the college have done little or no reading on the subject they have trouble with, which leads me to want to punch them in the face. My job is essentially to build on a foundation laid by the professor and the book, not to build the fucking foundation. This seemed to be clear to me and some of my students, but then again I also thought that the 15% tipping rule for good service was universal.

Oh!--before I ramble on a little more, I must crow! I made my first 50% tip on Sunday morning: $20 on a $40 check. First one of the day, too. I actually made more money on the slower Sunday lunch shift working fewer hours than I did the night previous. How resplendent is that? Very resplendent, I say!

Sadly, I'm not certain that green pastures await me at Pappadeaux any longer. As I was explaining to one of my colleagues, I am much more of a finesse server than a speed server. (Yes, this goes for most other things as well.) I struggle when I'm dealing with too many people, and I am less interested in making money and more interested in being liked than most. If I had the choice between waiting one large table and probably making $20 or one small table and probably making $10, I'd probably go for the latter because I'm exponentially more likely to screw up with the large table, which would probably drop my tip, leave the guests unimpressed and leave me demoralized, whereas the small table would probably go the opposite way. As these holidays come in, smaller tables will be fewer, and the precious moments of lull that I thrive on will be filled by very quick turnaround times. Plus I have to go to school. If at all possible, I'd like to get out of those job just after Christmas. I think that would give me enough time to chillax just a bit before heading back into the jungle that is higher education.

And now I'd better sleep. I have work tomorrow. My fellow waiters would be excited at the prospect of making some money. I'm praying for a comparatively slow night. Hasta la byebye.

P.S. Soccer game on Monday went 3-0 by forfeit again; another scrimmage yielded a result of something like a 10-1 loss. We can't pass worth shit.

P.P.S. That's four in a row now, bitches.

I never really enjoy the Sunday morning turnaround. Ever since I got out on the floor at Pappadeaux, I've worked Saturday nights and Sunday mornings, so every seven days I have a regular pattern of leaving, sleeping, returning. It's especially unpleasant when you had a bad Saturday night like I just had, where I was twice triple-sat, and nearly lost my mind as three tables that needed similar things overwhelmed my ability to putter about and do my job. I almost cried when one of the waiters took the last three loaves of bread from the bread oven. I'd put those loaves and more in myself, with one of them designated for a table that had been waiting a very, very long time for their bread--I already brought out their salads and entrees but they still wanted some. I begged the waiter to just give me one, but he insisted he had people to take care of too. As true as that probably was, I needed it more.

And now, Cantay must eat. And go to work. I'll be seeing you bitches on the other side. Hasta la byebye.

P.S. Three straight posts with a post script!

Waiting tables is hard, tiresome work. It really makes you appreciate the effort that some people must expend to get their wage. Usually I work four days out of the week at Pappadeaux, but this week I'm doing five. That's still less than what I'd need if I were using this job as a means of support, but I struggle to imagine how I could endure doing anymore. Eric was right: doing some sort of blue collar work is pretty important when you're young, especially if you're reasonably affluent.

On a niftier note, guess what the score in the soccer game on Monday was! Three nil! Three frakking nil! We're the three, they're the nil! Granted, this score is due in large part to the fact that the opposing team just didn't show up, but we'll take the W and the +3 goal differential to next week, baby. We went ahead and scrimmaged against an amalgam of players from other teams and had our asses absolutely handed to us, partly because most of us weren't wearing cleats (the game was played indoors on turf) and partly because we'd never played with each other before. I'm considering going out to Cypress College tomorrow morning, where they apparently play some pick-up soccer. I did, after all, buy cleats on Wednesday. I might as well try them out.

I also went to the dentist today. Three cavities. I actually already knew about them, but this just confirmed that they, indeed, did not magically disappear. I ought to floss more.

And that's the enlightening bit I'm going to have to leave off on, as I must now go pick my little sisters up from school! Hurray! Hasta la byebye!

P.S. Of course I talk a lot. As a waiter you have to make sure everything is exactly as you perceive it, lest you take the wrong order and cause all sorts of problems.

I'm so tired right now--sometimes it feels like the good tired where you can just relax and bask in the glory of your own fatigue, but at this moment it feels like the bad tired where everything you want to do happens at about half speed and takes twice as much energy.

Yesterday's practice never happened, and that sort of set a trend of unsavory events over the past two days. I showed up at 8 AM at a field about two minutes from Pappadeaux (which is in turn 20 minutes from my house when the traffic isn't around). I was the only one there but for local joggers, who were doing their morning routines and at one point watching my right front tire driving up on to curb as I tried to execute a u-turn for which I'd estimated too much space. I called the guy who organized this whole thing and he told me he would be there in a second and to just wait on the field.

I was wearing the green basketball shorts that I stole from Eric, nasty-ass brown all-purpose shoes, and a short-sleeved t-shirt under a long-sleeved t-shirt under a thin white hoodie to try to keep out the surprisingly chill and windy air. It wasn't particularly good at keeping it out, but thankfully the organizer dude (name: Cesar) showed up rather quickly, and he brought his ball. We kicked it around a little bit while he called other people and I warmed up enough not to feel miserable. As it turned out, however, Cesar could get ahold of no one. His hypothesis, which later proved correct, was that the fuckasses who make up the remainder of the team and the coaches had gotten smashed last night and were too hungover to bother coming out to practice.

And so I drove dejectedly home. It was 9:30 when I got back, and I went straight up to my room. Not to sleep, mind you; I played Civilization 4. I was too pissed off to sleep. Sadly, I missed breakfast because of my self-appointed cloistering, and that never helps matters either. I had work (at Pappadeaux, of course--yay driving!) at 4:00, so I tried to give myself plenty of time to get there by leaving at 3:20. Of course, I had the distinct pleasure of running into the worst traffic ever to found on a Saturday afternoon, including on the feeder at Gessner Rd, which is where I traditionally get off the freeway and immediately get to the right lane to get into Pappadeaux. This time there were cars in my way. Evil cars. Getting into the middle lane wasn't too bad, but as I tried to get into the right lane, signalling my little signal until it damn near burnt itself out, every motorist decided to make it their personal mission not to let me get by them in the lovely stop-and-go of the afternoon. It wasn't just depraved indifference, I must make clear, it was sadistic assholery. No sooner would one car move forward than another one would get in my way after excessive accelerator slamming. Only after I guilted some guy who fucked me over twice before was I able to get into the right lane just before the last entrance to the parking lot passed me by.

I was late for work, but so was just about everyone else, so it wasn't a problem. Indeed, my shift started out pretty nicely with a couple of friendly tables right away. I took care of them, they gave me money, and all was well. And then I got another couple of tables! The people there were really nice too, but there was a problem. The folks at the second table had no qualms whatsoever about deciding they're ready to order, and then keeping me there for a full five minutes as they discussed amongst themselves and with me what they actually wanted to order.

"What would you recommend? The soft-shell crab, or the--well let's see... something with shrimp in it. How about this shrimp creole, what's in that?"

"Well, it's sauteed shrimp which we stick in a tomato-based sauce with okra and celery and onions and stuff like that."

"Oh. Is it any good?"

"Well, I've never had the chance to try it, but I've heard it's pretty good."

The lady points right at where it says "served with white rice". "What does it come with?"

"Umm... white rice, ma'am. Would you--"

"Okay, what about this shrimp etouf--etouf--this shrimp etoufee?"

"The shrimp etoufee is some sauteed shrimp in a roux-based sauce; sort of the same idea as the creole, just a different base."

"Okay. I think I'll take the shrimp creole, then."

"Yes ma'am, one shrimp creole."

"Oh! You know what, now I'm not sure. I'm so sorry, I must be confusing you."

I wasn't confused, but I was anxious to greet the guests who just sat at my open table. "No, it's all right. What were you thinking, ma'am."

"Well, is the soft shell crab any good?"

"Sad to say I haven't tried that either, ma'am. But as I understand it's a matter of taste. If you like soft shell crab, you'll like ours, if you don't, you won't."

"Okay. Do you think it would be too much food if I ordered that and the shrimp creole?"

"I honestly don't know--it depends on how much you can take. Chances are you'd be good with just one of those."

"All right. You know what? Get me the soft shell crab. I think I'd like to try it."

"So nix the shrimp creole?"

"Ummm.... yes."

"Okay. How many would you like to have?"

"Oh..." she looked at the menu for a while, "Two."

"Okay, two soft shell crabs for you, ma'am."

And then I only had to take two more orders! Yay!

They ultimately ended up tipping well, and the other table that just sat down was all right, so there was no crisis. Not there. (Just to note, though, that man was apparently worth $175 million; one of the hosts knew him and apparently named their baby daughter. Rich people aren't obligated to tip more. Unless they fuck you up.)

But there certainly was a crisis later! After all three of the tables I had in the previous situation had left, I got a new one. At this new one were four people, including a nice lady who apparently worked as a waiter somewhere long ago. I was telling her about the horrific incident with the people who wouldn't shut up, and she was sympathizing and everything. I brought them their drinks and went back and got some bread, ready to take their orders if they were ready to give them. And they were. At least according to them. As it turned out, they were as ready (or possibly less) than the rich folks earlier. This would have been all right if they were my only table. Unfortunately, right as they started, both of my tables were simultaneously occupied. We talked about white rice with pico de gallo and I tried to be attentive, but I was too busy being shocked at the irony of the situation and trying to speed things along. I was so bogged down when they finally released me that another waiter had to come over and take the orders for one of my tables while I handled the other one. What fun it was when I learned that talking too fucking much with the busy waiter is apparently a contagious disease! They did it too!

That night I walked away with much too little tip for all the work that I did. The three tables I described above tipped at about 11%, 7%, and 9%. One of them was within their rights, but two of them were ingrates.

I worked today, too, and I didn't make very much money again. But that story is much less thrilling, and can be condensed to: some people just don't tip well.

So now I can look forward to hitting the much-needed sack and playing soccer tomorrow. Because, despite the lack of practice, our first game is still Monday. And even if I'm not the best goalie on the team, I'd better damn well get the start--especially if I'm not the best goalie on the team! Bwahahaha! Payback! Now with self-embarrassment!

I'll make sure to let you know about how the game went, and maybe even regale you with some tales of tutoring! Boy won't that be fun! Until then, chiquitos, hasta la byebye.

P.S. Of course I'm up for volleyball at Thanksgiving, you talentless hack of a woman, you. ^.^

My God. ):

For some reason that doesn't quite come to mind, I decided it would be fun to look over the last couple of posts I made to Hasta la Byebye. I have never been so disgusted with my writing. It was just shocking to see the sort of drivel I'd put out over the past couple of months. I actually regressed, people, and it's horrifying.

This probably means I should make an effort to blog more often. I can't recall writing very much of anything aside from my UT essays over the last few months, so I have to guess that my poor brain is atrophying.

And that means more fun for all of you! (When you come, of course.)

Did I mention that one rather striking flaw in my writing is the unnecessary use of parentheses? Blegh, says I.

Now, just to throw in a dab of content: I'm going to play soccer tomorrow! Yes, I signed up for an inter-Pappadeaux soccer league, and our first practice is tomorrow. I'm very excited because I get to leave home at the crack of dawn wearing green basketball shorts (which I'd stolen from Eric long ago) and nasty-ass brown all-purpose shoes to show off my mediocre goalkeeping and downright poor ball-handling skills. Hopefully what I lack in skill I can make up for with speed and loud, distracting noises. Seriously, nothing confuses a player more than sprinting up to them, stopping just short of plowing them over, and yelling, "Gibu!" Worked every time in my Indoor Soccer class at GW.

I do hope that I don't embarrass myself out there. And I hope that the $25 we have to pay is going to be worth it. Our first game is Monday. I'll post an update as to my playing status before then. And even though I have very little playing experience and I'm in terrible shape, I'm really excited. My life is dreadfully short on play. It will be really nice just to play again.

Until next time! Hasta la byebye!

Sigh.

My girlfriend is 1,208 miles away (according to Continental Airlines), Linc Chafee lost to Sheldon Whitehouse on November 7th and it's very fucking difficult to decide where I should be next semester. It all builds into a nice melancholy.

Though, right now, I think the single thing that distresses me most is my general lethargy. I was in Washington from the 1st through the 6th and I had a nice vacation, but when I got back I had to rely solely on my renewed energy to carry me through two days of tutoring and waiting tables. I was dead--somehow I was dead. Chances are that most (or all) of my feeling of death can be explained by me jumping back into a routine after having been away for a little while, but even still it was quite unpleasant, and the effects yet linger.

Yesterday I didn't shower, and I smelled rather putrid. The day before, I forgot to brush my teeth before I ran off to work, and so I tutored four students while going through a good amount of cinnamon-flavored Dentyne, and scampered off to a nearby Wal-Mart to buy a toothbrush and some toothpaste so I wouldn't disgust the fine people at Pappadeaux. And the most productive thing I've done since I've been back (other than working) has been to catch up on The Economist and start on "It Can't Happen Here" (both of which I did while working).

Normally this sort of funk isn't too bothersome, as it's bound to happen from time to time. But it's extremely unpleasant when I'm in such a funk and in a transitional period as I am now. That feeling that there's so much that you should be doing to prepare, the assertion that you probably can't do much right now anyway, so stop worrying. They don't cancel each other out like you'd hope. They manage to team up to create a sort of apprehensive anxiety.

Writing about it does help, though. If for no other reason than that I feel like I'm doing something. I can almost feel the happy-go-lucky Cantay coming back to his own as I speak. Still, however, I am worrying about how this will all play out in the near and distant future. And I'm not one to worry; it doesn't suit me in the least.

I think right now I just need to do the best I can to vegetate. And maybe one day I'll come up with a better solution for this kind of feeling.

Anyway, that's all for today folks! Thanks for tuning to this edition of Hasta la Byebye! And God save us from Democrats Without Policies! Hasta la byebye!

I fly out to Washington at 9:25 AM!

But before I do that, I'd like to make a small amount of political commentary, just because I feel like it, bitches. It's about my boy Linc Chafee, who trails Democratic challenger Sheldon Whitehouse in the Rhode Island senate race.

Now, you might be wondering exactly why Linc's my boy--sure, the fellow has a liberal-maverick streak, but he's facing a challenger made of Democratic goodness!

Well, it's simple: opposition moderates (especially those who mostly live on the other side of the arbitrary party lines) are much, much more valuable than someone who is equally agreeable but of my party (and I say "my party" very loosely--the way that the Democrats in general have been conducting this whole opposition thing is absolutely dreadful and embarrassing, and I am only somewhat more loath to vote for someone with an (R) than someone with a (D) these days). The only thing Chafee does that's annoying is consistently voting for Republican leaders in the Senate, and that is hardly as important as the sorts of magical things he can do from the inside of the Republican party. I'm hoping with all my heart that idiots like Santorum and Voinovich are booted out of office while the super team of Linc Chafee and Arlen Specter work together to change the Republicans from the inside.

Seriously. (Eric should draw a cartoon of this super team also. How about it?)

Now, of course, if you're a Rhode Islander who supports Mr. Whitehouse's views (on things like... Iraq, I guess? it's sort of vague), you're more than entitled to vote for him. But come on. How can you not love Linc Chafee? How can you not love any man who votes his conscience and screams pragmatic liberalism from the rooftops? (Or quietly hands out pencils asking for people to vote for him--whichever.)

Hasta la Byebye officially endorses Mr. Lincoln Chafee! Hurray!

By the way, I did that early-voting thing last Friday. I don't think any ballot initiatives were on there except for some Katy ISD school bonds issue, but I'm pretty sure there were supposed to be more. And seriously, do we have the shittiest candidates for governor or what? We can choose from the jackass son-of-a-bitch Republican who has continued the tradition of mismanagement, the stiff-as-a-board and extremely unappealing Democrat who inspires fear in the heart of no one, the comedian who might crack funny jokes but has the attention span of a gnat and policy ideas hardly much better, or the populist fuckwit who's trying to sell herself as a tough, uniting grandmotherly force instead of showing off her true penchant for mindlessness. Jesus!

And apparently most of the Republican people things are running unopposed unless libertarians suddenly count as opposition (ba-dum-pish). That's okay, though. I voted for those libertarians. Especially the judges--that's a no-brainer in Texas.

That's all for this edition of Hasta la Byebye. It's time for me to pack. But don't you stray too far, as more political commentary is sure to follow!

Hasta la byebye!