Why yes, I am superwoman.

Despite having a very expensive bachelor's degree in journalism hanging on the wall (and taking an automatic payment out of my bank account on the 3rd of every month), I still have not been able to find a job doing what I love to do, and at the same time making more than I currently am as a waitress. Fuck you, Alcoholic High School Guidance Counselor, for leading me to believe that print journalism was a wise and noble career choice. Looking back, I think he just told me what I wanted to hear to get me out of the office so a certain classmate of mine, his "teacher's aid", could come in and suck his whiskey-tainted penis. Actually, I'm pretty sure that's the case.

So basically, thanks to fellatio, I'm a waitress with no viable career options. No wonder I hate giving head so much.

Anyway, I really shouldn't talk down about the notion of being a food server. All things considered, it's not a bad job. I work part-time hours and still pull down, easily, $20,000 a year (which in a cheap cost-of-living market like mine, really isn't that bad). I work maybe a max of 4-5 hours a shift, I have cash at the end of the day that I hardly report to the federal government, and most of the people I work with are pretty cool. And I gorge myself on high-end Italian food on a regular basis. I really can't complain.

I'm a regular over at The Bitter Waitress forums, and after being there several months I've decided we are among the hardest working, most respect-deserving breed of people I know. So I say this to you, Mr. Hypothetical Businessman Who Thinks I Don't Work For My Money: go straight to hell. I am Super Waitress...

While others sit behind their computers in their cubicles, I'm running my ass off. I start my shift off already tired and pukey (thanks pregnancy!), and within a short period of time I am in charge of the well-being and happiness of four tables of people. Given at least four people at each table, usually, that's 16 human beings whose fate lies in my hands. And I know what's going on at each and every table, and am multitasking accordingly to make sure they stay happy -- and oh yes, if you're at one of my tables, you are, and will remain, happy. Table A needs refills, I'm already filling them at the drink station. Table B needs more bread, I'm picking it up between the drink station and my tables. Table C needs their orders taken, which I will do after I drop all this off, and Table D is ready to have their credit card run and to cash out, which I will grab after Table C's order is taken since Table D is pretty content to sit and sip on their coffee and chat for a few minutes.

All the while, I'm busting ass to get these people wined, dined, fed, and the hell out of my section so the next round of people can come sit and I can make as much money off of as many tables as I can without making them feel rushed, without their food looking or tasting like shit, and while being as cute and perky as humanly possible (despite waves of nausea -- thanks Baby!) because if I show even the slightest sign of weakness, grumpiness, nausea, tiredness, or just a hair off of the standard Crack-Addled Happiness, "OH MY GOD I LOVE MY JOB!" -- my income suffers. If you're having a shitty day, you still make the same amount of money. I don't get to have bad days.

As you look down your nose at servers, asking us questions like, "What's your REAL job?" and "What are you doing when you aren't serving?" -- um, this IS my real job and after I'm done serving I'm going to go home, do the laundry, and probably start dinner -- realize that most of us, in my restaurant at least, are college educated. We're writers, photographers, musicians, journalists, and... well, whatever philosophy majors do. We're dreamers, schemers, lovers (often with each other, we are a horny, repressed bunch), smokers, drinkers, thinkers and and so, SO much more than SERVERS.

After work, I get in my car, my feet and calves swollen and sore, my legs exhausted, and a little bit of alfredo sauce in my hair and osso buco sauce staining my shirt, and a few second degree burns on my fingers, and I drive home to my husband and my dog and I get a back rub from him while I rub my belly and talk to our unborn daughter. My apron sits in a crumpled mess on the couch, a shed superficial layer of who I am, and it will sit there unattended and unnoticed until tomorrow, when I get to do it all over again.

I would say 95% of the people I wait on are alright kinda folks. But for the rest, remember this when you sit down at your table and are greeted by a smile -- sometimes sincere and usually tired -- and remember we're people too. In fact... we're freaking amazing.