Work, the Queer Edition
I think one of my managers is of the old, Berdache school and I'm a modern Two-Spirit fool.
But, I guess I shouldn't judge. I'm sure most 50-something Paiute men are extremely finnicky about dealing with over-compensating straight men and get flustered when a pretty, white boy comes into the room.
My main manager is a fan of my menial work. I actually do what's on the checklist and make sure everything is nice and shiny. In fact, I think I've weaseled my way into her good graces. She likes my last name [upon reading it, she said, "Ahhh! A real Indian name!" She's also met my mother today and was impressed by her ability to fluently speak Lakota.
Lord, it's like third grade parent/teacher conferences all over again.
Though I have to wonder. Some heterosexual gave me a two-dollar bill today. When I was counting down, the aforementioned manager said, "When I see one of those, I always call it a 'queer dollar.'"
I'm thinking about busting out the small Pride flag I brought with me down here and taking it to work on Thursday; but I don't think "queer dollar" is something that would make GLAAD queef, so I'll just continue wearing the Pride bracelet and keep it at that.
And finally, some homosexual came into the shop and bought a carton of cigarettes. I didn't wait on him, but I'm sure if I did, I would have come off as strange, goofy and mildly creepy.
See, it's such Breeder Country down here that when I talk to a customer who is even slightly queer, I get panicky and talk quickly. Basically, the scenario in my head is that I've been kidnapped from my home country and when I see anyone familiar, I get excited and try to mouth the words,
"I'm not with them!
Help me!
Take me home!"
In any case, he had that Queer smell about him.
Fresh laundry.
To be more exact, clothes that have been lightly bleached and line-dried in an arid climate. The smell of crisp, basically.
Why does every gay man in creation smell like that?
And more importantly, why don't I?!
What pheromones do I need to obtain for this smell?!
Must I always smell of Hugo Boss the rest of my life?
Oh well.
Time to eat, eatch a movie, read and crochet.
But, I guess I shouldn't judge. I'm sure most 50-something Paiute men are extremely finnicky about dealing with over-compensating straight men and get flustered when a pretty, white boy comes into the room.
My main manager is a fan of my menial work. I actually do what's on the checklist and make sure everything is nice and shiny. In fact, I think I've weaseled my way into her good graces. She likes my last name [upon reading it, she said, "Ahhh! A real Indian name!" She's also met my mother today and was impressed by her ability to fluently speak Lakota.
Lord, it's like third grade parent/teacher conferences all over again.
Though I have to wonder. Some heterosexual gave me a two-dollar bill today. When I was counting down, the aforementioned manager said, "When I see one of those, I always call it a 'queer dollar.'"
I'm thinking about busting out the small Pride flag I brought with me down here and taking it to work on Thursday; but I don't think "queer dollar" is something that would make GLAAD queef, so I'll just continue wearing the Pride bracelet and keep it at that.
And finally, some homosexual came into the shop and bought a carton of cigarettes. I didn't wait on him, but I'm sure if I did, I would have come off as strange, goofy and mildly creepy.
See, it's such Breeder Country down here that when I talk to a customer who is even slightly queer, I get panicky and talk quickly. Basically, the scenario in my head is that I've been kidnapped from my home country and when I see anyone familiar, I get excited and try to mouth the words,
"I'm not with them!
Help me!
Take me home!"
In any case, he had that Queer smell about him.
Fresh laundry.
To be more exact, clothes that have been lightly bleached and line-dried in an arid climate. The smell of crisp, basically.
Why does every gay man in creation smell like that?
And more importantly, why don't I?!
What pheromones do I need to obtain for this smell?!
Must I always smell of Hugo Boss the rest of my life?
Oh well.
Time to eat, eatch a movie, read and crochet.