To continue a facebook thought...

I am an actor.  Singing, acting, dancing--that's what I do.  It's what fulfills me, it's where my light shines brightest, blah blah blah, insert cliche' here.  When I am NOT earning my bread and butter through aforementioned vocation, I am lucky enough to have a job at a very swank Italian restaurant in New York City, just across the street from Carnegie Hall.  

The podium stand has a big, plaster boob over it.  A pair of them, actually.  And they're so big, you can actually see the hole in the middle of the nipple.  Classy.

I digress.

Through working at this restaurant, I have met and work with some AMAZING people.  I served Ringo Starr and Elvis Costello my first night of training.  My colleagues at the restaurant are varied and eccentric people, most of whom I look forward to seeing as I begin my shifts.

Working in such a fine dining establishment occasionally brings with it a level of clientele that is not always...versed in the way to treat other human beings with dignity and respect.  Money, power and influence DO NOT a good human make.  This is not a new lesson.  We've heard it a million times.  And that's where this entry is headed.

As luck would have it, I scored doubles on both days this weekend.  I have a SUBSTANTIAL amount of cash money going into the bank a little later today.  But, with this incredibly easy green comes a little hassle, as with any wage earned.  

Last night I'm working section 6, and the gem of this station's crown is table 30.  You can fit up to 10 people semi-comfortably on table 30.  Parties of eight or more carry an automatic gratuity of 18%.  On some of the bills I get in my place, that's mucho dinero.  Well, last night, this table of seven *sigh* comes in and we're having a very nice time until this one guy starts SNAPPING his FINGERS at me.  

This did not go well with Ed Bullard's son.   

I'd already turned to leave the table when I turn back slowly, one eyebrow cocked, and ask incredulously if someone had snapped their fingers at me.  At first, I thought it was the host, a ruddy, round man that seemed relatively jolly upon first meeting.  I turned the fiery glare on this obviously ignorant individual, ready to rain down the Austin Creek Missionary Baptist hellfire and brimstone.  Cue nervous laughter from the host.  Then, MY MANAGER actually points to the real culprit and said, "It wasn't him.  It was THIS GUY."  

I love my manager.  I think he was actually waiting for the sparks to fly, not realizing just how dangerous this situation was near to being.  

Then the host squirms in his seat and asks me to forgive his colleague, that he's from Belgium.  Got it.  They make orgasmic chocolate and some of the deadliest assault weapons in the world but nobody thought to enlighten this obviously cultured group of people about what is and is not acceptable in society.  

Sure.

At the end of their meal, the tab was RIDICULOUS and the host only left 12% gratuity.  Sure, he got an under-the-breath curse of impotence and flatulence, but I still felt pretty good about the whole thing.  When retelling the story to some of my friends at the restaurant, one fella offered this adage that I'd never heard but have adopted as my new facebook status and words to live by:

"I may be the world's servant but I am nobody's BITCH."