That’s it. I’m officially buried. I’m deep in the weeds.
I’m even behind in making my list of things that need to be done. I can’t remember my old phone numbers or the names of ex-girlfriends (I really miss ol’ what’s her face) but I remember being in the weeds with playback clarity. At the Village Inn in Sebring the weeds meant ranch dressing spilled all over my burgundy polyester vest and dropping someone’s re-cooked steak on the dirty rubber kitchen mats and kicking it down the line (I ran it through the dishwasher so don’t go calling the 1986 Health Department.) At Howard Johnson’s the weeds meant cramming the spoon down into the blender to speed up the cursed homemade milkshake process, and just grinding stainless steel or aluminum shavings into the shake. I would give them an extra cherry to make up for that. At the Shanghai Restaurant we were never really in the weeds because everyone was happy to be there and if they weren’t Alice would throw them out or hit them with a towel. I walked out on the Mill after a week spent in the weeds and all of you who remember that cesspool fondly should have been there to take the garbage out with me.
I could go on, but I’m not even into the 90’s yet and there were many other restaurants to follow.
The only way out of the weeds is to ask for help and cut some corners.
It is time to turn and burn. Mingo- get those kids over here to mow my lawn. I’ll get started on the corner-cutting.