Warning: It's another one of *those* posts...

I do not deal well with the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly fucked.

Mostly it means that I spend the majority of my time feeling as though I could burst into tears at any moment, and am one broken pencil away from being committed to the looney bin.

This afternoon, I sucked it up and went to a restaurant open call for servers. This, of course, means that the place was packed with dozens of other hopefuls who, like myself, have been scanning Craigslist for any and all possibilities for income.

I arrived 15 minutes after the time listed in the ad, waited 15 minutes while someone went and made more copies of the application, then waited for an hour and a half for an on-the-spot interview, only to be talked down to because I'd forgotten the difference between a scotch and a single malt.

First of all, I'd forgotten how fucking condescending restaurant managers can be.

Second, I waited tables in this city for three fucking years, and no customer has ever asked me that question.

"I HAVE A FUCKING MASTERS DEGREE!!" I wanted to scream. "I AM NOT A MORON!!" Moreover I wanted to look him straight in the eye and say "Look asshole, I may have been out of the game for a few years, but it's not like serving skills are something you can forget. I could wait tables in my sleep, and still do, on occasion, when plagued by a particularly wretched nightmare, and if you want me to memorize a bunch of facts about liquor give me a list and I'll come back in 45 minutes with the whole damned thing memorized, so why don't you just give me a fucking job!!"

I have a feeling that all of the above would have been counter-productive, but it's all true.

One would think that three years of NYC waitressing experience, plus three years of professional experience (which involves just as much smiling, multitasking, and ass-kissing as waiting tables), plus a goddamned Masters Degree to prove I'm not stupid, plus the maturity of 29 years of life, seven of them spent surviving in one of the most expensive cities in North America, and oh yeah did I mention the MASTERS DEGREE?? would be enough.

And one would be wrong.

He said they'd call if they "found a place for me," and I wanted to punch him in his smug little mouth.

Instead I smiled, shook his hand, and made my way to the door--being sure to straighten the chair I'd be waiting in on my way out.

How the hell is the service industry managing to stress me out when I'm not even working in it?