On “Womanhood”

I wouldn’t have believed it, if it hadn’t happened to me.

At the Italian Shitter yesterday, the host asked me to pick up table 403, because they asked for a “woman waitress.”

“A WOMAN WAITRESS?!?!” I responded, befuddled at this antiquated turn of phrase. A woman waitress. Sheesh.

They were a perfectly nice older couple who liked to chat and left a good tip. No problems. But I wondered why they specifically requested a “woman waitress.” I pushed with all my might to get the 60-something swingers set thoughts out of my head, and was left only with the common perception that women are the “gentler sex.”

Anyone who knows me is spitting their chosen imbibery onto the monitor at the thought of this axiom being applied to yours truly. This sweet little old couple had no way of knowing that behind the pixie cut lies a sick, perverse, warped mind whose blog username pokes fun at the mentally disabled. They had no knowledge of my many tattoos. They knew nothing of the arsenal of dead baby jokes that lies in wait in the dark recesses of my headspace. They just knew that I was a woman (and, of course, a — waitress *shudder*), and therefore I was more likely to be friendly, warm, and smiling than my male counterparts.

Interesting.

Or was it that their generation reserved positions of servitude for women, and thought it unfit for a man to retrieve things and take orders like a silly, chipper little dog?

Then I wondered this: my restaurant currently employs a transgendered server who lives life as a woman; what would my friendly little old couple have thought of Kamille?

What do we think, intelligent collective?

I’m ba-aaaack!

Yeah, that’s right. I’m done crying in my beer and am back at the goodie-baking. This happy little monkey to the left is apple cinnamon oatmeal bread, and I dare say that it’s not a sin to eat it for breakfast! There’s only 1/2 cup of brown sugar in the whole 9-inch loaf; everything else is GOOD for you! I’m a genius, I know.

So, in all seriousness, thank you, each and every one of you who listened to my emotional barfing over the past week. Thank you for the kind words, thank you for the encouragement, and thank you for just being there. This couldn’t have really happened at a worse time, but, to quote a friend of mine, one does one’s best. For those of you who know J, please keep him in your thoughts. He’s a wonderful guy, and I’d love to see him ’round these parts (and ’round RP as well), but something tells me that won’t happen. You guys are the best. I’m so glad to know that I have the love and support of so many fantastic people, whether I’ve met them or not!

Rant

I promise, I’ll get back to being funny really soon. But I just have to unload some shit first. Bear with me. I am a girl, after all.

I’m a weirdo. I’ve never seen A Christmas Story. I’d much rather read a book than watch TV. I’m a classically trained opera singer who’d sooner be swilling bourbon and screaming the blues than be twittering away onstage at The Met.

I don’t know how to date. I have no fucking idea what to do. I did the whole laid-back, chill, be with someone for the company and hope it turns into the love of your life thing, and I ended it because it didn’t. That was the longest relationship of my life, by a LONG SHOT, and it never made it past the knock-on-the-door-when-you-come-over stage. I chose to be alone rather than be taken and unfulfilled.

And here I am, on my first Friday night as a single woman in nine months, sitting in front of a computer screen.

Why, you ask?

Because I’m terrified.

PETRIFIED, truthfully.

I have no idea what to do. I don’t even know where to begin. I always freak guys out because I’m so ballsy and straight-forward, and I don’t really do the “play up to their egos” thing. I mean, what the fuck is that, really? Men have treated me like shit most of my life, and while I don’t play the victim anymore, I’m not about to act all submissive and fragile just so they’re not scared of me. I have a HUGE personality, and I pretty much steamroll most people I meet without ever intending to do so. I’m strong and I’m smart and I’m funny and a lot of people can’t keep up with me. A lot of people just don’t GET me, and they certainly can’t begin to HANDLE me.

But goddammit, I’m scared.

What if the next 15 years of dating end up like the previous 15 years, if not worse? What if I fall right back into the old pattern of unrequited yearning for men who adore me as a friend, but just don’t see me as their “type?” What if I’m (gulp) alone for the rest of my life because I just don’t know how to go about this dating thing?!?!?

What if staying with someone who isn’t right for you really IS better than being alone?

What if all this fucking crying never stops, and I grow old and tired and bitter?

Goddamn. I need a drink.

More than that, I need to be screeching my lungs out into a microphone because that’s how I need to get this shit out of my system. I’m a musician, and I haven’t touched my piano in at least 6 months. I haven’t wanted to play.

And I don’t want to play this stupid dating game, either. I just don’t understand it.

/rant

A True Thanksgiving

This is not at all how I envisioned Thanksgiving 2007.

It was great, better than great, actually. I spent the day with my friends the As, eating delicacies far surpassing that of any Thanksgiving in years past: roast duck, cranberry-orange relish, wild and basmati rice pilaf with orange and green lentils, green bean salad with goat cheese and fennel with a dijon mustard vinaigrette, The World’s Best Stuffing, country ham, yeast rolls, duck fat gravy, and homemade apple pie for dessert, all accompanied by spectacular wines. It was beyond delicious, and I am so much more than satiated. I am so grateful for being taken in as family by these wonderful people whom I met a mere ten months ago.

So, why do this year’s festivities differ so greatly from my initial vision for late November of 2007?

Oh dear, where to begin.

This time last year, I was freaking the fuck out about a 25-year-old boy who seemed completey into me, but who cut and run before I could even use up the small block of Grana Pedano I bought the first time I cooked him dinner. My life circumstances, my job status, those people whom I call my friends… My god. I never, in a gabillion years, could have envisioned the drastic changes that would befall yours truly from Thanksgiving 2006 to the present day.

I’m not going to say that today was easy; it wasn’t. Last week at this time, I was looking at cute little bungalows in which J and I might possibly raise some kids; today, I constantly fought the tears and reminded myself that I made the right decision. (J, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry to shine a public light on our private matters, but it’s my blog, and I’ll say what I want; however, I AM glad that you’re reading it.) Last month at this time, I still had a full-time job in the city of my residence, at which I made a decent living; come Monday, I’ll make the 70-mile trek to a job that’s well beneath my intellectual mark, hoping beyond hope to make the rent money. Six months ago, I renewed the lease on this apartment that I adore, with the understanding that my budding relationship needed the chance to flourish in the light that close proximity would shine; now, I would give up the space and the city I love so dearly for a decent job and a social scene that’s slightly more conducive to the 30-something yes-I’m-still-single set.

God, what the hell happened?

But really, honestly, truly… my life is sooooo much better now than it was last Thanksgiving. I have a much more realistic grasp on life and love, I know so much better who I am and what I want, and above all: I have met some incredible, earth-shattering people who love me no matter what color my hair is, or how much I’ve been crying, or how long I borrow their KitchenAid.

I never could have envisioned a Thanksgiving like this.

It reiterates the fact that we just don’t know what lies ahead of us. Next year at this time, we could be riding the coattails of a Democratic president-elect who knows how to bring our troops home without enabling World War III. I could be typing this from the depths of the Alaskan wilderness, where my new husband has located a honeymoon cabin with WiFi. And it’s entirely possible that I might not even make it to see Thanksgiving 2008; any manner of catastrophes could end my sojourn on this planet prematurely.

My point is this: we, as a race of intelligent, insightful folk, get so wrapped up in what’s happening this very goddamned second that we lose sight of the big picture. We forget that we have one life. One frikkin’ life. ONE CHANCE. We get so pissed that we got a speeding ticket, or that the neighbor’s been smoking in the lobby again, or that our pork sandwich came out with mustard on it and we distinctly ordered it without mustard because we hate mustard, that we forget that at this time next year, we might not even be around to see Thanksgiving.

So, what am I thankful for, on this difficult Thanksgiving Day of 2007? I am thankful for my life, because I gave up living it in 2004 and am running on some incredible bonus miles. I am thankful for amazing friends, who love me because of who I am. I am thankful for every sunrise I witness, every purr of an adorable kitty who just wants my love and affection. I am thankful for every step that brought me where I am today, even the tear-sodden steps of late.

I am thankful for LIFE.

I hope all of you are, too.

Pain

For the past few days, I’ve thought I knew a little bit about pain.

Over the past few decades I have known a lot about pain. 

One thing I learned in this particular decade is that PAIN IS NOT A GOOD THING. 

Pain is not something I want.  And it’s definitely not something I want to inflict upon myself. 

Precisely where and when this enlightenment dawned on me, I can’t pinpoint. But I do know that I’ve been a different person since I came to understand that. 

LOVE IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN PAIN.

Can I get an amen, hollaback? 

FAIL.

It was a bad day before I got out of bed.

Then this happened.

My friends A and A were kind enough to repair my specs well enough for me to drive to work tomorrow.

*sigh*

I should have stayed in bed.

Once Upon a Midnight Hungry

There’s a magical, heartwarming ritual in which J and I partake on the weekends. They come around midnight, selling their trans fat-laden wares to the drunken, the belligerent, the grease-jonesing masses. These heroes, the local firefighters, set up their hot dog cart across the street from a dive bar we frequent; nothing sits on the beer-doused belly quite so well as a chili-cheese jalapeno dog and a steaming white trash delicacy known as the Frito Pie (more on this in a later episode). We wait every weekend night, filled to bursting with anxiety, for the Champions of Drunken Hunger Alleviation to alight upon their designated corner. They don’t always come; sometimes bad weather impedes, sometimes a post-ballgame couch-burning turns ugly. But we always hold on to that flickering glimmer of hope.

Hope prevailed last night; J noticed the giant red umbrella as I came sashaying into the bar, post-liquor promotion. We satiated our urges to thwart sobriety and heckle those with lesser taste in beer, and traipsed that sacred path to the Hot Dog Cart of Glory roughly an hour later. The collegians of our fair city are usually good-n-ripped by 1 AM, and tonight was no exception. As we stood, shivering in giddy anticipation of the bounty of dawgs and pies that awaited us, a group of fratdudes carreened past.

“Yo Houn’dog!” or Smitty, or BrownEye, I really don’t recall, “you won’ ta getcher smokes from the Firemen’s cart?” Said volunteer gentlemen chefs also pawn the requisite late-night staples: gum, condoms, Excedrin, Alka-Seltzer, and of course, cigarettes.

“Fuck dem firemen!” BigBoiieey countered to his buddy, reeling dangerously close to oncoming traffic. “Dey rip me off las’ week, charge me FyeDollah for a packasmokes! Fuck dat!!”

J and I exchanged a look, taking in the devoted firefighter behind the cart, freezing his ass off to raise some funds for the organization that will undoubtedly save the life of MadDawg when he falls asleep with a lit cigarette in his bed.

Was I this socially oblivious as a drunken college kid? Did I display such monumental ingratitude to those righteous souls kind enough to keep my clobbered ass from dying? I really don’t think so.

Or maybe I was just too fucking hammered to remember…

Turn Your Head and Cough, World.

As promised, here it is: the debut of Grits, Tits, and Oven Mitts. As I learn navigation rules, turn signals, parallel parking and whatnot of the blogosphere, things will get more complex and kick-ass around here. But since I am a mere fledgling, a tadpole swimming about in search of the tiniest morsel of knowledge and competence regarding wtf I’m doing here, it’s pretty simple at the moment.

If you don’t like that, refer to the title of this post.