Adeney has made money aside from his initial investment portfolio since his retirement in , through the blog and other sources of income, but he maintains that none of this additional money was ever necessary to fund his family's normal expenses. The website includes an active internet forum for discussion of personal finance matters outside of the blog's comment threads. People who read the Mr. Money Mustache blog and subscribe to its philosophy are known as "Mustachians. Readers of the blog gather in person regularly at so-called "Mustachian Meetups" around the world to share experiences and tips on how to live a livestyle conducive to wealth building, early retirement, happiness, and environmentalism.
The blog's topics often include: . From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Money Mustache Type of site. Money Mustache's retirement sort of plan". The New Yorker. Alexa Internet. Retrieved 20 August Colorado Resident Database. Retrieved 21 August Money Mustache, the man who retired at 30". The Washington Post. Retrieved 17 September A few people in suits and dresses milled around outside the front door.
It was five minutes until the dining room opened for business, and usually there were a few tables worth of people waiting to bust the doors down and commence their fine dining experience. The first diners of the day always had a hurried immediacy to them, engulfing their basket of rolls and polishing off their beverages as if they had been waiting for weeks. And boy were they cranky if you didn't refill their ice teas and coffees before they were halfway finished.
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Boy did they let you know when they needed more bread and butter. Candy pulled up in her little Honda Civic just as I was cleaning the very last window. Candy was the opening waitress, and had signed her fair share of EDFs. She was late. I saw her spring from the car with her hair confused, her white shirt halfway buttoned, the cigarette hanging from her lips one drag away from the filter.
Spatz unlocked the front door to let the extravagant loiterers into the Peachy Burroughs Terrace , and the line of customers spilling into the dining room blocked my view. Spatz sat three tables. He flashed the same pained smile while explaining the daily specials and soup that he did while extolling the virtues of proper dining etiquette to trainees, or pointing out someone's failure to perform within the expected parameters.
His smile made Spatz look like he suffered from a painful and extended constipation. Because Candy wasn't ready to take tables yet, Mr. Spatz pulled Andrew out of the bar and made him take drink orders from these people. Andrew the bartender was big in every way. He had at one time been an offensive lineman at some collegiate level, and now was bald as an onion and unpredictably emotional.
He was known to throw bar patron's tips back at them at high velocity when they left him coins and break down into hysterics while watching college football. Today Andrew was smiling huge, each of his teeth many inches wide. Andrew never remembered my name. Charlie I told him. Yeah, Charlie. Will you take some bread out?
His smile faded and he gave me a dark look like take the bread or else. So I took the bread. Some people have no sense of humor. Cirilo dropped the water.
I dropped the bread. Andrew walked out from the cocktail lounge with a tray full of martinis and cocktails, and also a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Appetizers, anyone want appetizers? One table ordered the crab cakes. Another table ordered the artichoke picata.
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The last table just wanted to sip on their champagne for a while. A group of three people walked in the front door and stood next to the Please wait to be seated sign. Since Mr. Spatz was nowhere to be seen, I took the initiative. It was a younger couple with an older man. The couple wore matching tennis outfits that made them look like some freaky combination of sibling and spouse, with feathered blond hair and sparkling teeth. The older man wore a blue blazer with a tiny insignia like a coat of arms on one side and a white captain's hat, as if he had sailed to Peachy Burroughs in his yacht, even though the nearest marina was about two hundred miles away.
I gave them some menus. Cirilo dropped some water. I dropped some bread. We stood around in the rear of the dining room with our hands clasped together behind our backs like we'd been trained to do, waiting for something to happen. After a minute or so Mr. Spatz stormed in from the kitchen. His hair was gone. I hadn't even known that Mr.
Spatz wore a hairpiece. Without it he looked diminished, frail, a mere stick figure compared to his former self. He turned to face Cirilo and me.
The fury wrinkling his extended forehead and the glint in his eyes gave me the urge to drop to the ground and go fetal to protect my vital organs. You are no longer on probation. You are fired. You can pick up your final paycheck tomorrow morning. Spatz looked down at his suit, ever so slightly ruffled by whatever force of nature had removed his toupee. He pulled on the bottom of his silvery jacket, sweeping a hand over its surface in an attempt to smooth over any discrepancies. Spatz was accustomed to making discrepancies disappear with a wave of his hand. He looked back at Cirilo and me.
Neither of us had moved.
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We both stared at Mr. Spatz with our mouths hanging open.
Spatz' eyes pointed quickly up toward his forehead, as if he could inspect his hair though the top of his head. Then he returned his gaze to me, as cold and hard as an ice cube. He told Cirilo to follow him, and the two of them left me standing alone next to the two-way door to the kitchen. As Spatz walked past me I noticed that one side of his face was red, a slightly swollen discoloration about the size of an open hand. I wanted to throw a tantrum. I wanted to scream Fuck You Asshole at Mr. I wanted to tell him that bussing tables was the worst job I'd ever had, and I'd had some horrible jobs.
I'd cleaned stables. I'd cleaned toilets. I'd worked the graveyard shift at an all night donut shop. I'd done horrible things and this had been the most horrible, the king of all royally screwed up occupations. I wanted to rip my stupid vest off and throw it into Spatz' stupid face. I did none of those things. I walked through the door into the kitchen and past the cooks and the lazy-eyed dishwasher. I walked up the stairs to the employee break room, taking one slow step at a time and unbuttoning my vest as I went.
As I reached the top of the stairs I removed my vest and crumpled it into a wad of material. I had visions of slamming it down in the trashcan in the employee break room.
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