11:43 a.m. - Wake up in a panic, remembering that I've once again forgotten to purchase/rent/slap together a mandatory Halloween costume for work, which begins at 5 p.m.
11:44 a.m. - Go back to sleep.
1:30 p.m. - Wake up. Make myself a PBJ, a pot of coffee, and a glass of wine.
1:32 p.m. - Decide to go as a server from my previous job at California Pizza Kitchen (the fact that it's wrinkled and splattered with Thai sauce and cheap merlot is part of the get-up).
1:35 p.m. - Make a pitcher of strong margaritas (mama's taking a Lyft to work tonight).
4:55 p.m. - Eat an expensive brownie once I'm alerted that my Lyft has arrived.
5:15 p.m. - Arrive at work a scooch late. Sneak in a scotch. Scoff at the accusation that I seem "screwed up."
5:20 p.m. - To my delight, my section has been - and remains - empty. Halloween is one of our least busy nights of the year.
5:32 p.m. - Retreat to the restroom to take a swig from my flask (the strong margaritas - a splash of fresh lime juice, a splash of slaughtered jalapenos, a splash of agave nectar, a splash of crushed ice, and a rent's worth of tequila).
5:45 p.m. - Ask the hostess about her costume. "I'm, uhm, like a sexy 'Phoebe from FRIENDS?'" she tells me. She has on a skimpy bikini, with a stuffed cat, and a small toy guitar. I summon the strength to hate her even more.
6:28 p.m. - Still no tables. Brownie and margaritas are both still serving their purposes.
6:35 p.m. - Order small steak nachos. Claim they were made incorrectly. Void the ticket and eat the "error."
7:15 p.m. - First table. Two sad secretary types in generic witch and 80s girl costumes. They don't dare be friendly or warm, only cautiously polite. They split a happy hour tamale plate and two house margaritas. The total comes to $17.85 or something and they leave $2.15 as a tip.
7:57 p.m - Two grating little entitled teenaged female shits, not even pretending to be in costume, come up directly to me as I'm talking to my table and say "Trick or treat" while indifferently placing garbage bags in front of me. They are not even customers at the restaurant. My exact words are "Go fuck yourselves."
8:30 p.m. - The owner, dressed as Indiana Jones but with none of the details correct, asks me how many tables I've served. "One," I answer curtly, as if it is the greatest inconvenience that could ever befall me (BECAUSE IT IS). He smirks and walks off. "Clean every salt shaker," he says once his back is to me. I alert Lyft that I am ready for a ride home.
8:31 p.m. - After cleaning at least one salt shaker, I inform that owner that I'm ready to love. "Hot plans?" he asks inappropriately. "No there's just nowhere else on Earth I'd rather be than here, that's all," I say. "Oh well I loved your witch costume, Happy Halloween!" he says.
9:05 p.m. - I arrive home to find the basket of candy I'd left for any trick-or-treaters completely empty. I eat a dinner of Buttferfinger minis and the remainder of my margarita reserves.