Friday.

In my previous life, Friday never meant that much to me. In fact, it actually meant I would be working harder than during the week days.

That's the life of a restaurant worker.

My very first job was in a restaurant at the age of 12. (Yes, 12.) I wanted to work so desperately. I always saw how hard my parents worked, my dad with his own business and my mom as a waitress, and I wanted that too. I wanted my own money and wanted to see what it was like, so my parents allowed me to try it out at a young age, probably thinking I would come running home screaming, "NEVER AGAIN!!!!1".

Lucky for them, I did like it and I did enjoy making my own money.

It was at this little place called Italian Villa and the year was 1988. I was a dishwasher for $5 an hour, cash. (Yes, a dishwasher. And no, I didn't have a dish washing machine, I actually washed the dishes by hand.)

Since it was an Italian restaurant, you can only imagine the red sauce and cheese on these disgusting plates. Plate after plate, stacked on top of one another, glued together by dried cheese and sauce. Good lord, I can still remember how I smelled after standing in that kitchen for 6-7 hours. I would come home soaking wet and so exhausted. It was awful...but somehow liberating.

Strangely enough, this is where my love for the restaurant business began. I worked in restaurants from that point on until I was 28, (except for a 4 year period from '92-'96 when I worked for Target). There was just something about the energy of a restaurant that I loved. I thrived on the chaos of a busy night. I lived for that adrenaline. This might all sound ridiculous but this is all true. The restaurant business can get in your blood.

My longest running restaurant gig was with a small 'mom and pop' called Luna's, here in Venice. I started Luna's in January of 1999. At that time, I was a social worker during the day and because a supplemental income was absolutely necessary, I sought out a high energy place where I could bank some cash.

And so I did.

For seven years I worked my ass off there, (dropping my daytime job rather quickly),...and loved every single second of it. It was there where I met my husband and some great friends, which was just an added bonus. I truly loved my job. Here I was, a 20-something with a four year Bachelor's degree, waiting on tables, making a lot of money.

I always was so embarrassed to say I was "just a waitress" when people would ask what I did for a living, like it was something to be ashamed of, but when I think back on it now, I don't fully understand why I felt that way.
I:
-had kick ass hours of 4pm-11pm
-made between $600-$1000 a week, depending on how many shifts I worked
-had a flexible schedule
-got to meet new people everyday
-didn't have to take my work home with me
-wasn't micro managed

It was a damn good job. Sure, I had the old couple that would share their slice of pizza, water with multiple lemons, who ran my ass of demanding more napkins, and complaining about the crust being tough, and yes, I had the foreigners who claimed that they don't understand what 15-18% gratuity actually is because, "they don't practice that in their country" :::bullshit:::...but I loved my job.

And Fridays...oh, Fridays. They were BUSY. I lived for my Friday night shifts. An easy $200, at least. When the rest of my friends were saying "TGIF" because they had their weekend off, I was saying "TGIF" because I was about to make some good money and still sleep in on Saturday.

As my body slowly started to show signs of hating me because of the long hours on my feet (and inevitably, my knees), I gave in and looked for a "real" job.

So here I am, a little over 5 years into my career, no more weekends, making a much more comfortable salary, benefits, etc.... and would you believe that I miss my old definition of TGIF?

Call me crazy but the restaurant business found it's way into my soul. I will probably always miss it.