I won't be home for Christmas.

I've not written since I've moved. I regret that so much.

I'm a server at family restaurant now. I'm a damn good one. Anything I've ever been, I've tried to be a damn good one. I've only been there a little over four months and they've let me train three other servers. I love training. It's awful that I do. The whole time I was in school I resisted the notion of ever teaching English or Art. Maybe it's the one on one aspect that I enjoy? Maybe I just wanted to read, write, and work in the service industry.

But that's enough bragging about my lame life choices.

Today, we servers had a potluck Christmas party. We huddled around a long table in a closed dining room covered in various Tupperware containers, a feast of pastas, casseroles, chips and dip, supplementing just a bit from the salad station. I made dessert, as always. It wasn't a company Christmas party, a sparkling cocktail dress and heels affair, it was a crusty apron and non-slip shoes hit-and-run. We stuffed our faces as in between serving tables, bitching and swapping recipes. It was wonderful. We thanked one another for our contributions and said "merry Christmas" again and again.

This is the strangest Christmas yet. I won't see my family this year. Of course I'll have my sister, but it'll only feel like I'm intruding on the first Christmas she'll have with her new husband. I'll sit back with Kitty trying to get her to rip the wrapping paper on the new toys and collar I bought her, giving them their privacy. I wish I could work. I could be at the restaurant with my odd little work family in our greasy little uniforms, stealing cups of dried cranberries from the prep station, harassing one another with terrible jukebox picks, and bribing the bartender for a paper kid's cup of cheer.

I came home and cried. I only have $36.28 to show for a 7 hour day of work. I know I need to find another job, but god, I don't want to. I adore my work family.