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After graduating from UCLA at the end of summer quarter, I worked at a few different odd jobs and was basically out of sorts, a BA in art history was not ‘useful’ for any particular job. I lived at home with little money and was reluctant to pursue further study in art history as its only end seemed to be college teaching and 
I was not eager to jump back into that pond. In early fall a placement agency found me a job at a local printing company doing odd jobs - mostly paste-up. I grew to hate it, it was a very small business and I made no friends there - the only other employee being a Chinese press operator who spoke no English. I used to go home for lunch since it was only a few minutes away. I grew so upset with my situation that at one point I was in tears and decided to just quit. It was seemingly hopeless—then I came up with an idea of taking a solo car trip, hooking up with college friends and relatives who were spread across the country. I had a VW which I filled with painting supplies and clothing, a pillow and blanket, and Styrofoam cooler and with a few funds scratched together took off the beginning of November not returning to CA until late December. 
I returned to the holiday hub-bub of a large festive family and continued to avoid reality well into January. I shifted around looking for jobs –finding temporary work at a flower shop for a few, weeks prior to Valentine’s Day. The smell of cut flowers all day long and my wrinkly fingers constantly wet from soaking blooms will stay with me forever - now each time I enter a florist, the smells conjure up that happy time. Sitting at the taco stand across the street from the shop, I mulled over job prospects with the other girls and I decided to try waitressing – an entry level job with no requirements. I worked at Bob’s Big Boy for about a year – spending my free time swimming, 
visiting college friends, driving down to Oceanside to my parent’s beach house, making art and applying to Graduate schools. Oh yes, and for the month of May, running a booth on the weekends at the Agoura Renaissance Faire.
I was persuaded to apply for a booth by my sister and our cousin both of whom were heavily into the medieval J R Tolkien stuff- I was not a fan of the Hobbit, nor of prancing around in medieval garb - 
though I had embroidered my jeans a few years before and did like Renaissance art, Shakespeare, and all things Tudor. They applied and got me to send one in also – (hoping for a booth- which meant more of their friends and them could get into the faire for fr
ee and have a hangout there).
Applying to the Renaissance Faire was an entertaining diversion after sending applications and slides off to universities. In my proposal, I laid it on thick - giving them exactly what they were looking for. I did get OK’ed for a booth and since Chris and Anne hadn’t - they signed on as ‘workers’. The application process must have been in March because the first meeting for staking out the perimeters of the booths was April 3.
My little sister loved Bob's Big Boy hamburgers and when I was a waitress there, I would occasionally bring one home for her after work. Waking her up by waving a warm juicy burger under her nose brought a groggy joyful sigh – even if it was 2am. I reme
mber my first day on the job and my panic at having to take orders when every table in my section filled at the same time. Nothing makes or breaks your ability to maintain your cool under pressure like waiting tables at a family restaurant. It should be required training for all military personnel. Coffee shops serve the whole gamut of humanity, early evening brings old couples and young families, while late night the place becomes the last stop for after hours workers, dates, and partiers looking to sober up. Single men sat at the counter, ordering the same meal night after night, engaging in what little conversations they could with the patient smiling girl paid to be on the other side. One regular used to stutter and work up the courage to finally blurt out “wwwwwhaaat’s good tonite?” and after I proffered a few ideas, settled on his usual ‘medium tip with blue cheese on the salad’. He never ordered anything else, but always asked his question, working up something close to a conversation. Another counter regular was the spitting image of the horror film star, Vincent Price. He was always smiling and chatty and went to the Sav-on drugstore after his dinner and got a nickel ice cream cone - he loved the idea that you could still get an ice cream cone for a nickel. Wouldn’t it be funny if it really was Vincent Price, getting his dinner at Bob’s Big Boy and having a nickel ice cream cone afterwards, how weird would that be? The busboys were all from Mexico and whether they had legitimate paperwork or not was a grey area that no one bothered to discuss. Most, if not all of them were married and lived frugally, sending the bulk of their money back home. Our group (about 6 or so) lived in a ramshackle house just behind the restaurant. Jesus was gaunt and serious, all business. Felipe, in his 60s, was a cheery tiny man. I remember him constantly laughing and talking rapidly in Spanish (which I spoke not a word) his eyes lit up and hands waved describing the plot of his favorite movie, Godzilla. Santiago was young and handsome, an industrious worker who spent his free time and money going to the Forum in LA hoping to be a boxer. He was always sighing in my presence and exclaiming ‘Corazon!’ until finally I gave in and stopped by their home after closing for a visit. They were all very hard working; warm, decent guys and I had absolutely no qualms about being at their house after hours. I did have uneasiness about working at the restaurant and going home at nights to a nice house up on the hill with a swimming pool while many of my co-workers lived in make-ends-meet conditions. That is the dilemma of an entry level job for someone with little experience in anything other than babysitting and doing homework. Later, while in graduate school, I extended my job repertoire by becoming a motel maid. A 
wonderfully relaxing and mindless job - a vacation compared to waitressing, but then it paid way less. I almost feel sorry for those who have never had a nickel and dime job at some point in their lives, it is an experience which pays with a reality check whose value cannot be measured in dollars. On the rare occasions that I eat out, I leave my tip, visualizing the staff in the back room smoking, drinking sodas, complaining about rude customers and evil supervisors, strategizing how to placate aggressive cooks who sabotaged their orders for amusement, telling jokes, making their plans for the future. After doing my time at Bob’s Big Boy, this battle-scarred savvy waitress is ready to tackle whatever comes to sit at her table.
Looking over the weekly newsletters and updates sent by the Faire organizers, 
I am impressed with their thoroughness – which is what made for their tremendous success at the venue. It was a kind of Hippie Disneyland where you could go dressed as Snow White or Mickey Mouse and be part of the park. Costumed revelers wandered the grounds turkey legs in hand ‘pritheeing’ and ‘forsoothing’, wearing the 60’s garb that already had medieval overtones, strumming 
lutes and blowing on flutes. Every weekend I tossed off my Big Boy apron and hat and donned a laced up vest, long skirt and bonnet created by my sister Chris - my medieval toga were just another work uniform to me. I carved out image after image onto wooden blocks during the week - teaching my ‘staff’ how to print them with wooden spoons. The booth was a yurt-like structure with billowing colored lining material attached to the framework for shade and a ‘festive’ look. 
Southern California was hot and dry day most of the year, so there was no need for weatherproofing against rainstorms like here in the Midwest where I live now. The Faire was situated on the grounds of the old Paramount Ranch movie set, where cowboys and Indians had chased each other on horseback since silent film days. You parked along a highway and walked over a hill into the locale - thus keeping all the nasty twentieth century vehicles out of view. My first day on the site I took in 
a load of two by fours and a few friends to help me dig and plant the essential center post – connecting it to a circle of smaller posts fanning out from it so that it was self supporting – all those years of building forts as a kid had paid off. We used brightly colored lining material for the roof sections and the walls -with one wall built out of plywood (disguised of course) to hang framed art on. I scrounged much of the lumber and other materials using old pallets and whatever other scrap wood I could find - keeping expenses down to a minimum. Chris even remembers us driving around the canyons collecting dried twigs to weave together for a rustic ‘wattle’ look on one side. Gunny sacks tacked on the other side of cross timbered railings easily 
created cheap walls. My wares - being paper - were strung on lines every which way like festive banners. We were ready for business.
