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. ^.^