…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.

I have been MIA for awhile. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve been doing grand, important things, but that would be a big lie. The truth is, I moved to a new apartment and haven’t been able to afford internet yet. Well, there is that… and the fact that I have very little spare time between work and school. Still, if Julia from MoodSwingsinMedSchool can handle updating her blog while in the middle of fires, boyfriends, horses, broken cars, new cats, and (of course) med school, I should be able to do the same. So. Here is me updating my blog. 🙂

Now, if I had remembered to bring my laptop to school today, I would have posted several funny stories that I have been collecting. Unfortunately, I forgot it, and since it is now raining, I am much too lazy to drag it down to my new internet spot. Where is my new internet spot? Well, there is a lovely little internet cafe right on the corner, less than half a block from my apartment, and I usually meander down there to fulfill my googling needs.

I’m sure this place has a different name, but I call it the Gay Porn Internet Cafe. I figure that’s a pretty appropriate name, seeing as how all of the walls are tastefully decorated with very artistic gay porn. I mean, this is some classy, stuff. Each of the photographs are for sale, and range somewhere in the $100 to $200 dollar range. There isn’t any actual direct nudity that is shown… it’s all in profile, or simply the backsides of attractive males, all reclined or posing in artsy, black and white settings. For gay porn, it couldn’t be more tasteful

If I was a gay male, I’d probably buy one. They are that good.

Unfortunately, I am *not* a gay male, and I find the cafe’s art exhibit a little distracting, if not disturbing. In fact, as I am typing out this blog RIGHT NOW, I am doing everything within my power to train my eyes to ignore the photo of the crouching, naked heiny of a very attractive male that is hung right over my computer screen. From previous times when I have been unable to ignore him, I can tell you that he has very nice legs and is in very good shape, and that he appears to be on some sort of park bench.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I found myself naked on a park bench, I would not be posing. I would be desperately hunting for my clothes, and wondering if I was dreaming. In fact, I probably would be dreaming, and right about the time I would realize I was naked, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles would show up and mock me. I know this because I had a very embarrassing nightmare about this once. I kid you not.

Still, this man seems very at ease with his whole situation, much more so than I. In addition to being more than a little disturbed by my environment, I am also the only non-gay person who seems to frequent this location. When I rented my apartment a couple of months ago I didn’t realize I was moving into what is un-officially known as Long Beach’s “Gay Ghetto”. Since I can’t afford very much for rent, I had to compromise between safety and finances, and this is the best area that I can afford. Apparently I make the same amount of money as most of Long Beach’s lower-class gay population. Isn’t that comforting? I’m not sure what that says about me, but I do know that I saw my first Transvestite in the wild the other day. He/She/It was lounging outside of my local Rite Aid in a formal evening gown. It was very surreal.

So, there you go. I know that’s not much of an update, but if I can manage to take a momentary escape from my ADD and actually remember to bring my laptop to school tommorrow, I promise all of you a much better post.

As for me, I’m off to go eat dinner, in a totally porn-free environment.