I was going to write about a giant black bruise I somehow got between my legs, but then I thought, nah.

I also have a lovely red chest rash. But you don’t want to hear about that, either.

This is where we ate dinner:

Pretty, isn’t it?

We waited an hour for Desmond’s food, though. They forgot it. And it wasn’t busy at all. It was the hotel restaurant. I don’t think the bartender was used to waitressing.

I wasn’t much of a waitress, either. I worked two summers at Lake Sunapee Yacht Club. The first summer I spilled red wine all over this woman’s white pants.

Another time some lady looked at me and said, “Did your mother teach you that?”

I felt like saying, “Actually, my mother is dead, thanks for the reminder.” But I didn’t. Because at the time, making $12.00 an hour to somehow magically pay the bills was more important than pride.

Sad, but true.

The other waitresses weren’t nice to me. Especially Nora, the head waitress. She was supposed to train me. She did nothing to help or prep me, gave me zero direction, then watched me flounder in front of the members.

“It’s not that hard,” she commented, while I was nearly in tears.

The manager liked Derek and me, though, and made me a hostess, instead. The following year, I got to dress pretty and delegate to the waitresses. They were not pleased.

But I was.

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