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Wednesday, May 27, 2009

seriously.

Dear Drunk Waitress--


I understand that you were just trying to help.

I get that, I really do.

But when we first walked into the restaurant and you were standing there looking like a soccer mom with a purse slung over your shoulder, a blue t-shirt, jean shorts that managed to survive the eighties, a pair of sensible crocs, and not an apron in sight, we didn't know how to take you. And then when you opened your mouth and gave us some slurred instructions to just "sit oer there," my friend looked at me and asked me if maybe you were our friend Amos' mom.

Not that we think his mom is habitually drunk. Or looks like a soccer mom. Actually, we have heard she is a dancer and is quite lovely, but still--Amos was closest to you when we stepped into the restaurant and then you bossed us around with such a strange familiarity that we figured you must be somebody's relative.

We were confused.

We thought we had seen the last of you once we were seated, but no. You never did feel the need to don an apron or anything official like that, but at least you were honest with us. I mean, you pretended to take down our orders for a while but finally you just gave it to us straight and said, I am wasted. I mean really wasted. Can you tell?

And we appreciated your honesty.

We were trying to be gentle and so as kindly as I could, I asked you, Are you supposed to be working tonight?

When you told us that you weren't officially on the clock, and that you were just trying to help, things became a little clearer.

But not much.

Because the simple fact of the matter was that you weren't helping. Not when you awkwardly sidled up to three different men in our party in an effort to make them dance with you; not when you took away my soy sauce before I was done with it; and certainly not when you confessed to Brandon that you are in love with a man but it's hard because you get hit on all the time.

So maybe the next time you want to help, get good and sober before attempting to give that intended help. And I don't know, maybe put on an apron or something; sometimes looking the part really helps you to get the feel for the job.

And maybe even if you do suspect someone might be gay, you could repress the urge to out and out ask them since you know, it's not exactly an appropriate setting for questions about sexuality.

And it isn't exactly any of your business.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Patron

14 comments:

Jenna Latshaw said...

sounds like a hideous night!

Jessica Latshaw said...

she was crazy cakes.

And she probably doesn't remember any of it.

jason said...

...and you probably still tipped her well.

Jessica Latshaw said...

I don't even know if she got any tips at all.

We did have an official waitress other than her.

But whoever got the tip--yes, we tipped well;-)

jason said...

Actually... there's a chance she didn't work there at all, right? Could she have just been drunk and crazy?

Jessica Latshaw said...

Well she definitely did because the owner saw her and didn't say a thing.

Which was another bizare part of the night, actually.

peaj said...

"This life", indeed.

Much different from my life. You have many more adventures!

Mom said...

Yeah....I agree with PJ; this kind of stuff doesn't happen to me in my life. 'Course I work very hard not to have any adventures at all. But it's fun to read about your adventures!

kathiek said...

Bizarro!

John said...

She asked you if you were a lesbian, didn't she?

Jessica Latshaw said...

surprisingly, she did not...;-)

Karenkool said...

I bet it was the restaurant owner's sister or something! No one wanted to rile her up by making her leave. Hilarious!

Natalie said...

I think it's reading about your life on tour that makes living my life in suburbia that much more interesting.

Never a dull moment!

Jessica Latshaw said...

Exactly right, Natalie--I firmly believe that whether you are a grandma in Nebraska or working in the West Wing life is filled with idiosyncrasies and exchanges with other people and therefore totally interesting!!!