A Serious Shortage of Boobage

While working at the sports bar/restaurant/bowling alley (we'll call it 'Zips'), I became pretty good friends with the manager, Kristin. Kristin was a pretty together gal, good-looks, friendly, and smart. Her only shortcoming was her Neanderthal fiance. Many times we would close the place and when everyone else was gone, we would practice mixing new drinks on each other (Not literally 'on' each other). We'd sit at the bar, drink, and talk, and generally wind down and have a good time until we had to leave. Those are some of the good times I miss about the industry (back in the day when it was okay to drink on the house and socialize with management).

The seasons rolled around to very early spring and Kristin announced that she was leaving to go work at the Country Club (which her uncle owned) just north of town as the Dining Room Manager. And she wanted me to go with her. I had worked for Zip's for almost a year and had finally gained the highly-coveted day-time bartender role. Only to lose it to the owner's mistress. Or, more correctly, to her tits. I couldn't argue too much, since most of the lunch patrons were assembly-line guys who would rather see her low-cut tank tops than my shapely legs behind the bar. No matter that she thought Rob Roy was the guy throwing darts across the room, or her register was continually $20-$50 short each shift. Hey, she had HEALTHY boobage. My exile back to the dining room was not mourned by the regulars, but was a sharp knife in the back to my ego. The writing was on the wall, and it was not love letters to me.

While the Country Club was ramping up, I cut my hours at Zip's as the weather improved, until I was full-time at the Club. Bye-bye shorts and polos, hello tux shirts and bow ties. Now, this was a different world. And I felt strangely at home.

Side-note: Spell check had no problems with the word 'boobage'. Interesting.