So, Do You Have Like......A Phone? Are There Numbers That Reach It? I'm Drunk.

I have an undying love for waitresses. There are two kinds of women I like; waitresses and singers. If you take me to a restaurant with singing waitresses, I'll bring an engagement ring. Actually, I like rich, famous women as well. I don't currently get to meet a lot of them though. My blog is not as popular as I would like.

I've been trying to pin down this waitress business for a long time. What is it that makes me like them? My first thought is that they have the amazing ability to bring me any food I want. That's quite an attractive trait. It's like they're my own personal Food Network show. I'm like "Hey, how about today we make some hamburgers with mushrooms, swiss, and bacon?" and they're like "Yeah, that all sounds great." and I can just ignore the middle part where a bunch of old drunks are making it.

Now, I can hear an argument some may have. "Hey, pal, maybe you just like good looking women." First of all, I'm not your pal. Second of all, you, sir or madam, are a fool. Why am I not writing about women that work at the bowling alley or at Best Buy? Perhaps there are just certain kinds of people that get into the profession. Maybe they are all masochists. Maybe I'm secretly a sadistic sexual deviant that gets off on the demeaning work of waiting tables. I don't think you can keep that secret from yourself though. So, I don't think that's it. That would be a terrible plight, huh? Just some guy trying to fondle yourself at Denny's. They kick you out, you can't even get your grand slam or orgasm, or whichever term you prefer.

Truth be told, I, most times, don't even engage my waitresses at all, aside from ordering and the usual formalities. They have an edge about them, they're jittery, it's like they could lose their minds, at any moment. You know what I mean? They've been there for hours, they're irritated, their boss is a son of a bitch that doesn't give them any thanks, the cooks are all assholes that put their dicks on the food, the table of kids in the corner was high on acid and tipped them with a cool looking rock they found in the parking lot, and creepy Joe sitting behind you thinks he's 25 years younger than he is and is trying to arrange a rendezvous, using lines he picked up from his son in high school.

I feel bad for them.

That could be part of it. They work really hard, and have to put up with a lot of bullshit, to provide me with happiness. It's kind of a living metaphor. It's almost like, just for that night or that day, we're in a beautiful relationship and the give and take of food and currency is really an exchange of love and appreciation. We don't have to say anything, we're just both there doing our part, for each other and for ourselves. It's a kind of harmony, made of half-smiles and working class dreams of escape, a love you wish were real and lasting. Springsteen ought to write a song about it.

I don't know. Maybe I'm just crazy. I'd like to think that's all true, that there's some beauty in the way I feel about waitresses or the way I feel about anything, for that matter. If you can see beauty in the mundane, possibly, it's easier to see the kind of beauty that matters.

This feeling for waitresses, of course, is all voided if they look like a frankenstein, zombie, or other corpse-ish figure. That's unpleasant. You have to keep some rules....even for things you love. I don't need the crypt keeper using witty quips and throwing to clips when I'm trying to get some extra napkins.