Dear Friends and Family,
When I left the threadbare golden cushion of the Arts, and Philanthropic worlds, I knew I was destined for greatness. Determined, I filled my humble artist's toolbox with an illegal $ublet in Chelsea, some talent, and a few cracked binder clips.
Along my journey would I face obstacles? Certainly.
Depression? Frequently.
Alcoholism? Possibly.
Near-poverty? Most constantly.
Fears aside, I knew I had to give it my all as an Artist, a Documentarian, an Activist, a Philospher, a "Maven," a Dilettante, and a Renaissance woman in order to look myself squarely in the eye, and in the mirror, for hours each morning.
Now I add a shiny new tool into my optimistic, second-hand toolbox:
The High End Cater-Waiter.
Last night, a new door in my life opened with the choral accompaniment of angels singing and plates crashing (totally not my fault). Scurrying around in my white mandarin/nehru jacket, I silently lept over Giacometti sculptures in the MoMa Sculpture Garden, juggled salmon plates, russet potatoes with garlic confit, baby lamb chops, and the occasional dirty dish. Politely smiling, I served Midwestern Lexus Car Salesmen at their annual gala where oysters went untouched and white wine sloshed across excessively tanned chests. Small bits of sirloin were snuck into my hand and nibbled while squatting in polished boys dress shoes beneath the carving station. An army of New York's hottest, brightest and most promising young "actors" and I mingled in matching cheap, stiff, white mandarin/nehru jackets, dropping terms like "sanit" and "french service".
I am a High End CaterWaiter at your service!
© Caterwaiter-NYC
When I left the threadbare golden cushion of the Arts, and Philanthropic worlds, I knew I was destined for greatness. Determined, I filled my humble artist's toolbox with an illegal $ublet in Chelsea, some talent, and a few cracked binder clips.
Along my journey would I face obstacles? Certainly.
Depression? Frequently.
Alcoholism? Possibly.
Near-poverty? Most constantly.
Fears aside, I knew I had to give it my all as an Artist, a Documentarian, an Activist, a Philospher, a "Maven," a Dilettante, and a Renaissance woman in order to look myself squarely in the eye, and in the mirror, for hours each morning.
Now I add a shiny new tool into my optimistic, second-hand toolbox:
The High End Cater-Waiter.
Last night, a new door in my life opened with the choral accompaniment of angels singing and plates crashing (totally not my fault). Scurrying around in my white mandarin/nehru jacket, I silently lept over Giacometti sculptures in the MoMa Sculpture Garden, juggled salmon plates, russet potatoes with garlic confit, baby lamb chops, and the occasional dirty dish. Politely smiling, I served Midwestern Lexus Car Salesmen at their annual gala where oysters went untouched and white wine sloshed across excessively tanned chests. Small bits of sirloin were snuck into my hand and nibbled while squatting in polished boys dress shoes beneath the carving station. An army of New York's hottest, brightest and most promising young "actors" and I mingled in matching cheap, stiff, white mandarin/nehru jackets, dropping terms like "sanit" and "french service".
I am a High End CaterWaiter at your service!
© Caterwaiter-NYC
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