Better than hell

In the past few days, my job has become infinitely more tolerable. When I caught myself cursing the blisters on my feet and bitching about my crappy cheapo tables, I realized a valuable point. When you start the "woe is me" routine about the mundane, things must not be too bad after all.

I'm selling martinis with premium vodka at 12.50$ apiece, I'm turning glasses of water into 6$ Perriers and the Holy Owners now gaze at me with slightly less disdain.

I don't even bother talking to the Waitress Goddesses because they are too busy stressing out about being maintaining their holiness. Besides, I still have not been given any reason to consider them part of the human race. Until then, I am more than happy to ignore their prescence unless absolutely necessary.

The only nagging concern I have is the fact that I am being encouraged to wear short skirts. That would be no problem if only I didn't have to squat down to the low coffee tables to deliver drinks. I have recurring nightmares about customers complimenting on my thong du jour.

Or to ensure myself some comic relief to get me out of a crotch-flashing crisis, I could push martinis that are the same colour as my underwear.

Wish me good tips and cute customers tonight... and pray for no indecent exposure.