Sunday Funday

Sundays are my favorite.  In my world, Sunday is a day to reflect, watch football or Game of Thrones depending on the time of year, rejuvinate for the upcoming week and dabble into the occasional bottomless mimosa.  Growing up, Sundays were like unofficial bonding days.  After church, we would stop at the bakery on the way home and then I would watch WWF and X-Men with my brothers…which I’m sure explains a lot.  I don’t know about you, but I could certainly could use a real life Gambit.  While the routine has changed, Sundays still make my heart wiggle.

It’s difficult to talk about Sundays without addressing brunch.  (Huge long sigh)  The caliber of expectations has really escalated.  The Blood Mary in particular has gone out of control.  Nowadays, if it doesn’t come with a four course meal smashed on a stick on top, people are disappointed.  Move over hotdog eating contest, brunch is well on its way to becoming an Olympic sport.  Sunday brunch, when broken down, is code for day drinking.  It’s a serious obligation.  Maybe it’s the company I keep, but I have yet to participate in Sunday brunch that doesn’t end 3 servers and a menu change later.  I sit down for brunch with a group of friends and all of a sudden the sun is setting, I’ve spent eighty-five dollars on Korbel & juice and I’ve tried facetiming every person in my family.  Sunday brunch is a commitment folks, that’s all I’m saying!

As a server, brunches are a nightmare.  So keep in mind when you sit down and order your 7 beverages of choice, your server is on the clock, most likely dealing with a hangover if they are even there yet, having to deal with everyone’s extremely particular requests.  It’s, by leaps and bounds, the neediest meal of the week.  Everyone is hangry, and I mean HANGRY.  I told a chick we didn’t have cholula and I thought she was going to turn into the Hulk and flip her table over.  Get it together!  If your preference of hot sauce is THAT big of a game changer, do like Beyoncé and keep it in your damn purse!

If I could be 100 with each of my tables I’d be like – Listen, I don’t know what you got into last night.  By the looks of you, I have a few guesses.  Frankly it’s none of my business but unfortunately you decided to show up here so now it’s become my problem.  I’m standing here filling your water for the twelfth time while you decide whether you want a triple decaf espresso which, for the etched-in-stone concrete record, MAKES NO EFFING SENSE or a Bellini when we both know you’re just going to get both anyways.  And in case there was ever any confusion, I do not ever under any circumstance want to stand here and watch you make decisions…ever.  You’re lucky I have pants on but even more lucky I’m here because 5 of my other coworkers called out for various reasons which no manager or myself believes.  Also, just so we can avoid this conversation later, contrary to popular belief, I don’t cook any of your food.  I am merely your spokesperson.  So when your over-medium eggs arrive over-hard, please don’t look at me like I’ve just declared a public vendetta against you or like I’ve deliberately gone out of my way to sabotage your life.  A- I don’t care about you that much and B- I’m way more annoyed than you are because this has now increased our level of interaction which I like to keep to a bare minimum.  Tust me when I say I want this to be quick and painless.  I don’t need anyone eyeballing me from across the room like some kind of Greek revenge goddess.  I have enough shit going on in my life and it has nothing to do with your frittata.  More coffee?

If I ever go to brunch, I expect the worst service and if it’s not, then I’ve won.  I suggest you do the same.  I don’t know what your Sunday habits are or what you look forward to most but if it were up to me, every week would be made of Sundays.  It’s my only guaranteed day off of work each week.  My one constant in this ever-spinning universe.  My day to hang with friends, explore the space and truly shine.  Merry brunching and a Sunday funday to you and yours. Xx

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