bitterwaitress

 

It’s a dreary day in Brooklyn, and I like it. I should be at a therapy sessions but they decided that my insurance ran out and I decided that my patience ran out. My patience has been running out a lot lately - shame I have no more therapy left to address that. Maybe I’ll have to start being honest with people again, which is a hideous thing. For them.

I’m back at the Starbucks, poaching internet off Connecticut Muffin across the street. The association of Connecticut with muffins is a baffling one to me. But anyway. And I am looking snooty. I am a Cupertino wet dream, listening to my iPod, typing on a new MacBook, iPhone at my side. And to top it off, since I really needed to feel good about myself today, wearing the DUKE hoodie.

I’m also sitting across the street, it has dawned upon me, from the apartment where my friend Brendan lived and and where he and I partied like rock stars. Several each. I have done things in that space that would break most of you in half. Then he moved to LA. Then I joined him (platonically no less). The six months that followed were practically out of that James Frey book, which is one my mind since there is someone sitting outside who is a dead ringer for him. I’d love to go into greater detail, but who knows whose reading the blog these days. Things I write and that are written about me find themselves into the stragest places. I expect Brendan to emerge at any moment.

What’s new on the waiting front you ask?(Why is this ass pontificating on coffee and drugs anyway?) Well, I’m coming to realize that great waitresses are born, not made. I’m going to keep re-visiting this. You can make a server, but the extreme athlete version of the food service pro is as rare as a Venus Williams of a Tiger Woods. Except white, since I can categorically say this remains a largely racist business (lots of black celebrity chefs on the Food Network, right?)

So what it is that breeds the great waitresses? A little bit of mania? Co-dependence? Fear of commitment? Very low or very high self-esteem? Maybe I could figure that out if I could afford the $150 they want from me for 45 minutes of therapy.Or maybe the great waitresses just know how to read people - the aloof, the lonely, the happy, the extravagant, the fearful. And the snooty. And nobody likes the snooty. Even in coffee shops.