was thinkin today in the aft. how lovely it is to just serve men. the day’s so different from the night. most tend to have this unwritten rule for a three beer maximum. many sit alone at a table. some order lunch. almost all stare blankly at a television. but there are no complaints. minimum requirements and maximum tips. i’ve had an ungodly slew of horrible women lately. lookin round at the dozen tables solely occupied by men, i wish i were back in the day when women weren’t allowed in pubs. no stupid questions. no wondering about a cocktail menu, no enquiries about impossible maritinis. “this one tastes too boozy.” no fish & chips w/ an overdressed ceaser salad and a diet coke. like the diet cola’s gonna even out the calories of the deep fried dish. all these no's equal many complaints. so as i'm smiling and probably over appreciating these men—i realize. if i were in the old school times, i’d be a ‘fallen’ woman, slingin' beers. a blasphemy. a whore. and if i didn't work here, i surely wouldn't be allowed in. i rethink the whole serving men only thing cuz i’m a woman w/ few complaints that enjoys having a plain old beer, not a martini, at a pub.
