I must stop catering. It wasn't even a bad shift, I'm just fed up. Working sick wasn't a hot idea either, but I didn't want to cancel twice in one week. So I took too much pseudoephedrine and powered through a couple of strawberry cough drops and wobbled out onto the floor at Bimbo's mildly altered.
Which will get you a long way there, as the place is kind of surreal to begin with. There are notices in the kitchen that have been there since 1931, all signed "Mr. B" (Busboys, the candle lamps are extremely fragile. Please be careful). There are paintings on the walls of a sexy mermaid (I think the artist couldn't do hands, so the scaly lass always has her arms up and totally concealed by a cloud of red hair). Behind the bar, a tricky arrangement of mirrors lets you watch Dolfina swimming in her "bowl".
I was able to not cough directly onto the hors d'oeuvres I was serving. That counts for something, right?
I have eleven more shifts scheduled through the end of the year. The plan right now is that a) I don't take any more and b) I find some way to replace that income. A is easy; I just keep saying no until my supervisor gets the picture, or we have a talk about it, about why they're not letting me manage anymore and about how you don't let your intelligent empoyees get bored because then they start acting out (ahem). B is a little more of a trick.
Maybe Dolfina needs a backup?
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