Friday nights, when most teenagers are partying, vegging out, or cramming for exams, I work at my father's family-owned Italian restaurant. I am a waitress for the elderly who migrate in herds at a leisurely pace. And for young couples on an uncomfortable first date. And for the middle-aged sports fans who come in for Coors Light and hot wings while they watch baseball or football on the big screen.
I approach each table wearing a baseball jersey, white apron, high ponytail, and plastered-on smile. “Is there anything else I can get you folks?” I ask after I bring them their appetizers. The answer is always, “Yes, can we have more ranch dressing?” Finish the one I just gave you first. Geez, so American – drowning everything in ranch. “Sure, I'll be right back!
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