Becoming dressed or un-dressed is a process of several stages. Articles of clothing are shed or clad upon a person's body. Eventually, every body needs to get completely naked.
Being naked is being vulnerable and fearless at the same time.
The first article to be removed, and the last put on, should always be the shirt. The shoes and socks may be removed first, if so, the shirt should be removed shortly thereafter.
A man may remain completely shirtless for any length of time and be in a state of both unclothed and ready to pop off, or go off to work. Simililary, a man may be considered partially clothed, barefoot and shirtless for indefinite periods.
There should be no unnecessary haste in removing the trousers. The pants should not come off first under almost any circumstance. The worst possible look would be a man dressed in penny loafers, with a shirt hanging half-way to nowhere. There is no place for his hands.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The Kobayashi Maru
The food servers where I work, carry pagers. An electronic tether to the kitchen. The manager assigns a pager number to each server. When the order is ready, the cook presses a button to vibrate the server's device. If an order has urgency, the cook may request the pager vibrate two or more times. Each cleanly pressed server wears this little device on their uniform.
The uniform is black slacks and shoes, and a white, long-sleeve oxford shirt, under a red apron. Inside one of these uniforms slips Megan Ballbustero, Sunday afternoon. Haven't seen this specimen in months, in gratitude to my schedule. She tried to put in an official complaint against me, then.
The pizza that I came to rue, was a deluxe, and half olives. She said which side is olives, and I played stupid or something. Which I shouldn't have done, I could have helped her a little. Her rude way of asking put me off. Then, she shot at me that I was being rude. I see now that as projection on her part, and a combination of pride and defensiveness on my part.
Forward to Sunday, and she's working someone else's shift. I knew she was around, yet I went risk-on when she shot at me with, "That's a marinara for that spaghetti."
Oh, hello, how are you. Hey. That's a little more polite. That's all I expect. I stared back at her, stone-faced, hoping she would go away. She said, "Okay?!" I managed to nod a tiny bit back at her, on the other side of the food window. She walked away, muttering under her breath.
The boss caught up with me this morning, told me that she had gone crying to them about me, again. He told me not to worry about it. I may be unbalanced to believe that, while I am running the line, that I am entitled to at least consideration. I wouldn't call it respect, that is different. The alpha male deserves respect. The beta male has to scratch and claw for it.
I told my boss that the restaurant is run by women. I regret that. When I said that, he quickly defended that his schedule would permit him more time in the restaurant, and that his wife is the patrona, and the assistant managers report to him. I believe we would find common ground on our views of the feminization of the work place, but my comment was disprectful. I wish to be as close to a zero-maintenance employee as functionally possible.
I truly like saying, 'please,' and ,'thank you,' and even, "You're Welcome." Just not when the other person won't play.
The uniform is black slacks and shoes, and a white, long-sleeve oxford shirt, under a red apron. Inside one of these uniforms slips Megan Ballbustero, Sunday afternoon. Haven't seen this specimen in months, in gratitude to my schedule. She tried to put in an official complaint against me, then.
The pizza that I came to rue, was a deluxe, and half olives. She said which side is olives, and I played stupid or something. Which I shouldn't have done, I could have helped her a little. Her rude way of asking put me off. Then, she shot at me that I was being rude. I see now that as projection on her part, and a combination of pride and defensiveness on my part.
Forward to Sunday, and she's working someone else's shift. I knew she was around, yet I went risk-on when she shot at me with, "That's a marinara for that spaghetti."
Oh, hello, how are you. Hey. That's a little more polite. That's all I expect. I stared back at her, stone-faced, hoping she would go away. She said, "Okay?!" I managed to nod a tiny bit back at her, on the other side of the food window. She walked away, muttering under her breath.
The boss caught up with me this morning, told me that she had gone crying to them about me, again. He told me not to worry about it. I may be unbalanced to believe that, while I am running the line, that I am entitled to at least consideration. I wouldn't call it respect, that is different. The alpha male deserves respect. The beta male has to scratch and claw for it.
I told my boss that the restaurant is run by women. I regret that. When I said that, he quickly defended that his schedule would permit him more time in the restaurant, and that his wife is the patrona, and the assistant managers report to him. I believe we would find common ground on our views of the feminization of the work place, but my comment was disprectful. I wish to be as close to a zero-maintenance employee as functionally possible.
I truly like saying, 'please,' and ,'thank you,' and even, "You're Welcome." Just not when the other person won't play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)