Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Shockingly, I'm Not Made Of Kevlar
I'm sure this must come as a great shock to most of you, but in real life, I'm nowhere near as big a bitch as I am on here or Litely Salted. As it turns out, that's really more of a thinly-veiled defense mechanism.
I'll give you all a minute to pick up your jaws from that unexpected bombshell.
Anyway, here's the deal: On top of my various other oddjobs, I also work as a bartender. As it turns out, if you start paying for a home and food and other shit like that, the government starts to wonder if something fishy is illegal and why they aren't taxing you for it. Hence, the cover job.
What the fuck does this have to do with anything? Well today was the equivalent of having people line up to kick you in the cojones. First, I had a customer who told me flat out that I (And I'm quoting here) "Dress like a dykey lesbian." I'm not sure if "dykey lesbians" wear turtle necks, but it's my work uniform, so I somehow doubt that going to management and saying that my outfit makes me look like Rosie O'Donnell is gonna fly with them.
Next up, I had a customer who left me a soiled napkin as a tip. No, really, a soiled napkin. When I ran out after him to ask him if there was something wrong with the service (which was basically a polite way of asking "What the fuck is your problem, you old sack of shit?") he flat out told me that I didn't deserve a tip because I had the gall (THE GALL I SAY!) to take a five minute break and read a bit.
No, really. I waited on the guy pretty much hand and foot. I cleared the table, I got him drinks and food, and I was never out of earshot from him, and he gives me a fucking soiled napkin as a tip.
After telling him to go fuck himself several times (I lost count after the ninth time), I closed up, went home and had myself a nice power-sob; basically, you bury your head in a pillow, vent for about five minutes, then come up for air. Quick and easy, and absolutely no mess whatsoever.
The point of all this? Despite the hipster lingo, the tattoos, the unusual jobs, and the constant promotion of how tough I am, I'm not bulletproof. I'm as far removed as stoically stony as humanely possible. I'm still the first one to break down at a funeral/wedding/bris, I choke up watching romantic comedies, I still get all quivery when I hear Maps, and yes, I still miss Clyde every day. I could say that I just have mood swings or that I'm having a bad day, but who am I kidding, right? I just can't get knocked down and pretend that it didn't hurt. I'm just not that strong here.