Back to the Shit Slinging

Well, I guess it’s actually pasta slinging, but so long as my income is determined by the generosity of total strangers, in my mind, it will always be shit.  Chunky, stinky, runny shit.  Brown, greenish-brown, sometimes even red.

(Where’s that damned eek emoticon when I need it?)

So yes, ’twas my first day earning money in the Golden State, and I must say that it went well.  Nice clientele, appropriate tips, no weasely comments on my tiny morsel of an accent.  I give it two days before one of my tables calls me out on the “y’all” thing.  Hey, I may be from the South, but at least I have sense enough not to wear fur-lined boots in 80-degree weather.

So, what to yap about in my first REAL blog entry?  Nothing really stood out today, other than the ever-encroaching sense of financial demise from this shitstain of an economy we’re kicking.  I applied for a second job this afternoon.  Seriously, the more I think about it, and the more my Mocha Man explains things in layman’s terms, the more I want to pack up and move to Belize or Micronesia or something.  Hell, damn near everybody speaks English in Hong Kong…  Anybody with me?   We can take over an island entirely populated by Pygmies and dub it the People’s Republic of Grits-n-Tits.

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?