Hosting vs. Slave Labor

Gas prices are causing me to age.  What?  What are you saying?  I’m saying I’m in my mid-twenties and when talking about gas prices I can say: “I remember the days when gas was…”  I shouldn’t have to say that!  I shouldn’t be old enough for a trip down memory lane – reminiscing about the price of a tank of fuel.

Much to my dismay, I hosted yesterday.  (Have I mentioned I loathe hosting with a fiery passion that is unparalleled by anything else in my life?)  Hosting is bitch-work and on a Sunday hosting is slave labor.  Hosting a Sunday might give me a half a tank of gas.  This time, hosting gave me a quarter of a tank of gas.  A quarter!  I feel my life spiraling downward, the need to purchase a large object immediately just so I can live in the box afterward…  The need to “go green” not because I care about the environment (I do, a little, I’m not a complete asshat) but because I can’t afford to exist in this modern society that is devouring my soul.  Hosting, gas prices, Sunday – where am I, some uncharted circle of hell?

What I also don’t need is the popular jock, fresh out of high school strutting around telling me what to do.  As much as I just adore that, as much as I care about how you go out and get drunk every night and party like a townie in the boondocks, I don’t want you nagging at me like a mother hen because I (apathetic, as I am) am screwing with the art of hosting.  The delicate art that requires a subtle skill and technique, a focus and zen that is beyond my comprehension.  I don’t know how you do it, sir, you are a master of minimum wage.  I will also add at this point that the hosting I’m talking about because we have a ridiculous amount of hosts on during Sundays is bussing.  That’s right.  That is the work I’m referring to.  How I managed to scrape by in life without the busboy host, I might never know.  It gives me nightmares when I think of all the time I’ve lost.  You are my light and savior.  Really.  No sarcasm intended…