I Hate Belly-Dancing
By Lydia on February 8, 2008 1:05 AM| | Comments (1)
I feel I have a certain tolerance for pain. I mean, I got through withdrawl by myself fine, and I've won a game or two of "ciggarette butt" in my day. This said, today was more than I could take. Yes, I've been pleased with walking to work since my car is stuck in ice outside my house. And yes, I did agree to take this second shift at the Chez after Vertigo, you know, to be a good person, but thats all I was willing to give. I was not about to get stood up for lunch in favor of another man. I was not ready to spend 3 hours in Mez staring at the ceiling, trying to believe the disco ball wasnt silently mocking me with its party lights. I ended up reading the local cat/dog/adoption newsletter and tearing up over cat obituaries. Day like that, you'd think that Mezze, oops, I mean San Chez Cafe, would close early. Hell, on a normal day we wouldnt even be open past 3. But today was my lucky day. Today I got Laura Armenta and her last-name-spelled-backward At-Neemra dancers shaking their breasts annd condescending to take water from me. Now, I dont dislike belly dancing as a rule. Esther's friend Camille practices and its quite cool, a kind of Bedouin tribeswoman dance. I hear thats more true to the dance's roots. The Mez show is like Vegas. Sequined boob-lifters and matching jangly ass-curtains. You could just imagine them looking through the catalogue going "ooh, I love that feathered headress! lets all get them for the summer empowerment series!" Which brings me to the other thing I tend to dislike. These women have a strange neo-feminist conception of empowerment as being getting naked and shaking it. They seem to assume if youre not naked and shaking it you are trapped in man's rule. Also, they are nasty to waitresses. Anyhow, I ended up getting a few tables who stayed until 11. So, its 11:15 and I'm taking out the trash, and the door is locked, bolted and a beam resting cross it. I am struggling with the 2x4 trying to get it out and it flies up suddenly and whacks me in the chin. Its late, I'm channeling Clerks whining "I wasnt even supposed to be here today!" and now I'm standing in the dish pit crying in frustration and self-indulgence. 15 long minutes of table moving and floor-scrubbing later, I am done, and the restaurant is empty. No employees at the bar, nothing. Just me and Cindy, my manager, waiting for a ride. Upside, I didnt have to walk home.

Yessssss.... what is it with girls that think getting naked and shaking it is the new empowerment. I've been wondering this for a while now. Last I knew, that was called "Stripping," which I like just fine, in its natural habitat.