Mamas and Chimichangas

After looking for a job for a week or two, I started to get antsy and bored. In the meantime, I decided to work as a hostess at the dumpy Mexican restaurant my sister works at, just to have something to do. She filled my imagination with sadly intriguing tales of workers with scores of illegitimate children, delightfully wacky personalities, and terrible grammar. She referred to it as being almost exactly like middle school P.E., where everyone has several children, a middle school education, and little else. The only difference is they don't run anymore and their mustaches have filled out. Some have developed an unfortunate drug addiction, which they take care of out back.

This also happens to be my favorite restaurant. The last time we ate there, the waitress called me "mama." Like this: "What can I git forya, mama?" Sometimes the older waitress is grumpy because she wears her nice tennis shoes, which hurt her feet. I like these things. They're what give this place its considerable off-beat charm.

So, I went in to interview for a part-time hostess position. They hired me as the full-time bookkeeper. As Josey said, "They were probably impressed with your ability to complete middle school while remaining childless." Because, in fact, they did ask if I was married, and then asked with baited breath if I had children. But before they could finish their sigh of relief, they grilled me on any past or present drug usage. I'm pretty sure it was the most inappropriate interview ever, and I'm not sure some of the things they asked were legal.

After they were convinced I wouldn't rack up their phone bill trying to wrangle child support out of a former boyfriend, they offered me the job. I did it for one day and then I quit. Because really. Who wants to smell like pennies and beef for minimum wage? But mostly, I'd forgotten how much I don't like working with numbers, and frankly, how bad at it I am. I did them a favor by quitting.