…about a sick cocktail waitress. Really. It’s about as un-sexy as it gets.
The bar I work at is anything but classy, and as such, we attract ANYTHING but classy clientèle. A lot of the guys who come into the bar are looking for the stereotypical, trash-talking cocktail waitress to shoot the breeze with. As far as I can tell, they’re looking for something along the lines of this:
I don’t do that.
I don’t do the heels.
I don’t do the dress.
I don’t do the sexy, pursed little lips.
Heck, sometimes I don’t even do the combed hair.
Nothing about the above picture resembles me in the slightest. While the other girls are trotting around in halter tops and cute little belly-baring shirts, I am safely bundled up in a long-sleeved Walmart sweater and a pair of black corduroy pants.
In fact, this is pretty much what I look like at work:
The only thing that is surprising about the whole scenario is that I find myself shocked when I don’t make the same tips that everybody else does. I mean, I give *excellent* service. I am Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to drink refills. I take food orders promptly and deliver that same food piping-hot. I constantly refill waters. I am polite, and well-spoken, efficient, hard-working, and ALWAYS surprised when my excellent waitress skills fail to bring in the big tips that the other girls get.
Now, to make matters even worse, I seem to have contracted the Bubonic Plague. I’m serious. I’ve had a hoarse, penetrating cough that’s been defeating me for almost two weeks. I’ve never had a cough like this before. It sounds like some sort of cross between the backfire of an old car and a death-rattle, and it leaves me with headaches. To make matters even worse, in between the bouts of deep, soul-wrenching explosions of coughing, I keep a constant, dry, useless HACK of a cough that serves no purpose other than to annoy everyone, including me. It’s pathetic. I sound like a lazy cat, trying unsuccessfully to expel a hairball.
The other day, I coughed so hard that I wet my pants a little bit.
Yes, that’s right. I peed my pants while coughing.
This is really not helping my Sexy Cocktail Waitress image. It’s not like I had a lot of sexy to work with in the first place., and this is really destroying whatever chance I had. I mean, I’m really starting to feel sorry for the people I’m serving. By the end of my shift I’m exhausted, and I’m dragging myself unsteadily from table to table like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead. I can’t IMAGINE why people order anything from me, much less food. Who in the their right mind would want someone like me getting near ANYTHING that they are about to ingest? Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I’m no germ-a-phobe. In fact, if anything, I tend to err on the side of not being germ-conscious enough. Still, I can’t help but be faintly disgusted by the people who ignore my red, rheumy eyes and moist snifflings, and order their Superbowl Platter over the sounds of my explosive hacking.
Really, people. If I can’t stop coughing long enough to ask if you want extra ranch with that, what makes you think I’m going to be able to avoid coughing while I’m delivering your food? I’ll do my best to turn my head and cough away from your food, but.. you know. There’s that *spray* factor, and if my hands are full I can’t cover my mouth. Eww.
You KNOW you all just grossed out looking at that picture up there. I know I did. Like I said, there’s nothing sexy about a sick cocktail waitress.