The Color Of Hunger

It’s hot. Even with the windows open, it’s gotta be 80 somethin’ degrees in here. Eleven o’clock at night and I’m lying in bed with my Gonzaga boxers and a gray sports bra. And I’m sweating. Not the oh-it’s-rather-warm-in-here-sweaty. More like droplets-of-bodily-fluids-are-forming-kiddie-pools-in-the-crack-of-my-ass-sweaty. It’s yucky. Sticky nights being one of the ugliers of summer livin’. I’m in desperate need of a fan at this point, but too lazy and hot to get up and go get one. I wish my little space heater was capable of spitting out warm air and cold. And included a mini-mister inside of it. So not only would I be cool, but also misty. And unsweaty. Thad be nice.

Sis and I went to the air show at Fairchild AFB today. Skyfest 2010. It was awesome. Always is. The Thunderbirds never fail to amaze me. Flying that close to each other’s planes in perfect formation more than a thousand feet up in the air is mind-blowing. (It was incredibly hot out on the tarmac though. I believe the high of the day was 95 degrees. I’m burnt all down my shoulders and across my forehead. Suppose I don’t really mind much, so long as I’m getting some kind of color besides white.) All the flyboys look so damn attractive in their uniforms. All tan and clean and tall and fit. And tan. I mean, to be wearing a faded green jumpsuit with one long zipper on the front of it, and still be able to pull off sexy? God bless the military.

I’m always shocked at how many fat people show up to things like Skyfest. I guess they’re everywhere, but public events make it painfully obvious as to how overweight America really is. Obesity is almost a disease. Everywhere you look, there’s pregnant men. I had to restrain myself from asking a younger dude who was inhaling the massive burger he’d just ordered if it was a boy or a girl. This guy was prolly just shy of 30 and at least 400 pounds. At least. He had this tight black wife beater on with a pair of even tighter jean shorts. Way too tight for a figure like his. Apparently, appearance didn’t seem like too high of a priority for him. That, along with health.

When yer that big, sympathy can only get you so far in my book. I may not know the reason behind yer present health condition or what type of diabetes you currently have or how stressful yer personal living is. But I sure as shit know that ordering the largest burger on the menu with the largest basket of fries and a 32 oz. Coke isn’t listed on the “Steps To A Better Life” checklist. Especially when that food is gone in under five minutes flat.

Seriously, have you ever watched a fat person eat? It’s like witnessing a lion having its first meal after three days of not having one. (Maybe lion is too flattering here. Boar, or maybe, walrus might be more in the ballpark.)  Lift, bite, swallow, repeat. Chewing is overrated when hunger strikes this hard. It’s disgusting. And quite sad. And half the time, I don’t think they realize how poor they’re eating habits are. A Grand Slam here, pretzel at noon, two hot dogs for lunch, a couple leftover doughnuts from breakfast for dessert, buffet time an hour later, a bag of Doritos before bed. And so on and so forth. (That may be a bit of an exaggerated example, but it’s for the sake of making a point.) Eventually that shit’s gonna catch up. And when it does, it’s gonna be a lot harder to get off than it was to put on. And a lot less fun too.

Well, enough with the fat people topic. I am now officially a hostess for a fine dining restaurant at a casino/hotel. Masselow’s inside the Northern Quest Casino And Resort. I like it. It’s good. I’m considered an ‘ununiformed team member’, meaning I get to come to work in my own clothes with the only requirement being black shoes. Which is pretty sweet. The people I work with are awesome, along with all the happy customers that come in. On an average night (4pm-10), twenty to thirty people usually walk in. Include the reservations (if any), and yer up to thirty to forty. However, I’ve noticed we’re very inconsistent with this customer count number. Last Monday was miserable with a grand total of sixteen people, while Thursday was almost fifty plus without a single reservation.

I wish I got tipped though. Every other hostess in all eight restaurants of the casino has a dip in the tip pool. I’m not sure why Masselow’s doesn’t include themselves in this, but they don’t. It sucks because I know for a fact my servers are walkin’ out of there with 100+ bucks in their pocket. If not more. I haven’t figured out yet if making $8.89 without any extra incentive (besides the free meal) is worth sticking around for.

Boredom without the ability to sit down is what absolutely kills me. I’ll stand at my little podium for eight hours straight (minus a half hour lunch break) and by the time I get done, my heels are almost unbearable to walk on. It sucks. I even bought some of those gel sole thingys, the nice ones too, the Dr. Scholl’s kind. (My feet still bug me, but it does help considerably.) Usually I’ll doodle or read or surrender to newspaper sudoku. That shit’s addicting and does a damn good job of making the time go by fast. Plus, it keeps my mind off my feet.

I think the worst part of my job, worse than the boredom, worse than the sore feet, worse than not getting tipped, is the amount of ass I hafta kiss. All the big wigs come in with all their big wig buddies and look at me like I’m retarded when I put their napkins on their laps. It’s part of my job; it’s what I’m required to do. Usually the guys will do it themselves. And sometimes they don’t.

I had a businessman the other morning; all dressed up in a nice pinstriped suit and polished shoes. He pulled out his chair and set his napkin down before I had a chance to do either. “Yer doin’ my job for me, I like it!” I said this is in the friendliest way possible. I really did. He shifts his weight to the side and gives me a pity laugh before rudely saying “I wouldn’t want YER job.” It made me smile as I walked back up to the podium. Because I’m thinkin’ to myself in all honesty….likewise buddy, likewise.