My New Job

Long before I worked in the insurance industry, before I was a collegeprofessor, before I earned an MFA, before I published anything, before I was a stripper or a model, I was a waitress.


I waited tables for the Western Sizzlin Steakhouse. I worked there four years. My roommate, Reagan, worked there. My best friend and the first woman I loved worked there. Chantell and Kim and Tonya and Joanne and Amber worked there. My brother once worked there too.

Somewhere I have a Polaroid of myself in my steakhouse uniform, but I've already packed all my photo albums. So later . . .

The other day I told my former boss, Christi, I wished I could be a waitress again.

"Me too!" she said.

Christi currently makes over 70 thou a year and looks somewhere between a Bon Jovi groupie and a corporate tight ass. It's weird, and I love her.


"The hours are bad though," she said. "Late nights."

Okay, not easy to swing when you're a single mom. Still, I swear. Something about not sitting on my ass at a desk all day. Something about no more paperwork.

I want to kiss ass, smile, and carry heavy trays.

Listen, I was a great stripper, and I was a great waitress too. It all seems so romantic.

Lately, I've entertained the idea of returning to my old stomping grounds. Imagine returning home, and then returning to your first job.

Have you ever wanted this? Wow.

I'd walk into the Western Sizzlin Steakhouse and the manager, Greg, who'd still be there, would recognize me and say I looked great.

And then I'd say, "Thank you" before I said, "I want a job," and then he wouldn't believe me.

The Western Sizzlin Steakhouse came down two years ago and was replaced by a Chinese buffet. Devastating.

My baby brother currently works as a sushi chef, so I have an "in" there if I wanted it.

I'm nothing if not discombobulated and twisted lately: I'm emotional, anxious, hyper, exhausted.

I'm petty and petrified and pensive.

I'm weird.