Today was. . .harrowing. I worked at Carrburritos all day and Lackey (my favorite burrito-maker) and I listened to Manowar for almost six hours straight and he cooperated every time I made him listen to my favorite part in each song, which was nice of him.
So what’s so bad about that? Well it wasn’t the coworkers or the music, for sure. I’ll tell you what it was. First, let me show you a picture of *exactly* what I looked like today, because that’s pertinent:
1. Shitty-looking ripped-up band t-shirt
2. Incongruent tattoos hanging out all over
3. Hair a hot mess
4. Permanent scowl
5. Marlboro Red burning, waiting for me outside on the patio
I give you this list so that that stupid meanie-face featured in my story can have a little credit too. I know that I do not appear to be the most well-groomed, professional, amiable person in any room. But I’m fucking nice. I’m nice to people and I’m nice to their kids.
However. When this woman came to eat today accompanied by her four little girls (and one on the way, for god’s sakes, why can’t you stop!?) ages 0-4 and decided that they all had to sit at the bar right next to the register, I sort of started to panic.
Everything was fine until Mommy started asking her girls, in a loud, overenuciated tone, things like, “MADELEINE DOES THIS RESTAURANT REMIND YOU AT ALL OF THE NAPA VALLEY?” and her precious little girls started responding by grabbing things off the bar and throwing them on the floor and screaming at the top of their lungs, apropos of nothing, that’s when the cold sweats started.
But I am master at tuning things out. Until:
One of the little girls pointed at me and asked, “Mommy what does she have drawn all over her?”
And Mommy says, real loudly, “Those are tattoos, Cupcake.”
And Cupcake says, “How do I get one?”
And Mommy says, “You DON’T, Honey, you NEVER DO. They are BAD.”
Cupcake stops hurling toothpicks long enough to internalize this and asks, “Well can I ask Daddy?”
And Mommy looks at me very sternly and says, pointedly, “No, Cupcake. Daddy is at WORK. He has a REAL JOB and works MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY so he cannot ANSWER you because he is at his JOB.”
Now, Billy, I almost orphaned these four sweet little monsters but instead of resigning myself to a lifetime jail sentence and bringing Lackey down with me, I thought better of it and leaned over the counter, extracted the toothpick holder from Cupcake’s grimy, grubby little fingers, and said, “Tattoos are for DEGENERATES only, Cupcake. Can you say ‘Degenerate?'”
The guy at the next table started choking on his Chipotle salsa while Cupcake and I learned our new word together. Then, wordlessly and with a very deliberate lack of eye contact, I grabbed two to-go boxes and handed them to Mommy. She took the hint, thankfully.
Billy. I am part owner of a successful bar in town. I make extra money painting murals for area businesses. I have two college degrees, I went to welding school, and I play in two bands. I’m not a loser. I understand that I am doing myself no favors in the professional community by dressing like shit and talking like a sailor. But I absolutely ADORE Carrburritos and I want to work there until the day I die, which, thanks to my cute little Marlboro Red habit, will probably be sooner rather than later.
So what gives? Does your internal make-up chemically change once you start breeding? Or what? Does it turn you into a haughty bitch? Seems like it.
But why judge people? What good can come of it?
Whatever. Talk to you later.