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!