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Hello everyone.

Are you ready to help me?


Let's make the GIGGLES echo!

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away, right here in the USA, there was a small town known as "Stupidville." 

A  quaint and cozy little community that is noted for having the largest transient population in the nation.

Although people from all over the globe visit this unique location by the masses year-round, only a few will admit that it is actually their home. 

I, however, take pride in being a resident and aspire to be Mayor someday. But for now, I will just go on my merry way working in the ONLY eatery in town, where I have been happily employed for what seems like forever.

Oh, the stories I could tell...

For 15 years, Carol Ann has been employed at the Diner. She started working for the family when the restaurant was downtown and followed them when they relocated. Known as the local spot, the Diner serves many people worldwide. Strangers stop in regularly, and the regulars come in daily, sometimes even more than once a day. They come in during the early morning for coffee or breakfast on their way out, and then they'd stop back for a quick lunch or to get a take-out dinner for later. Some would even be back for dinner if we didn't close at 2 pm every day.

It's hard not to get personal with your customers when you see them daily. They come in and sit in the same booth they order if you even let them speak the same food every day. They want the exact beverage and all the same little extras that only a season Services understand, like only grape jelly, sugar-free syrup, no lettuce on the plate, etcetera etcetera etcetera.

Sure, it's all comfy cozy when you are part of the pack, but good luck when you are a newcomer. Mom & Pop diners will eat you. I don't care how much experience you have in the hospitality industry. Working in corporate restaurants is one thing, but slinging hash in a neighborhood hot spot is a whole other story. Especially when you are the first person to be hired at the establishment in over 20 years - for any position, that's a lot of pressure to shine. It was hard enough being a "YANKEE," working for and with all authentic southern. I swear, some days, I thought I would get hung up merely because of the way I said "cawfee."

Luckily for me, Carol Ann was also a Jersey girl. Oddly enough, she came from right where I grew up. Excellent, here we were, in South Nowheresville, and we both came from the same town in North nowheresville. What are the odds of that? Immediately we had tons to talk about. We figured out that we had mutual friends, shopped at the same stores, ate at the same restaurants, and even lived less than 10 miles away from one other. Yet we never met in the twenty-plus years we both lived up there. Too weird. 

On the other hand, it was great for me because now I have a new hometown friend and an ally at the Diner. Just like a big sister. I was now confident that Carol Ann would protect me from them Southern bitches. 

And so it began, my lifelong sentence at the Diner.


According to the regulars at the diner, I have been a resident of “Stupidville” since my first shift, when all heard me ask, “Does anyone want some coffee?” 


”CAWFEE!” (as they say I say) immediately screams to the locals, “She's a Yankee!”


Yes, my home-grown Jersey accent is hard to miss. And, to these good old boys, the morning regulars, it didn't matter that I had already lived in Florida for nearly 20 years. To them, that just made me a "Damn Yankee."


So what is a damn Yankee? I've been told too many times that a "Good little Yankee" visits and eventually goes home. But a "Damn Yankees" never leaves." 


So, I guess that confirmed that I was indeed a “Damn Yankee” because I had no intention of ever moving back north. They were just going to have to deal with me, and despite first impressions, once these guys realized I could actually get their order right regardless of how I "talked," most of them quickly grew fond of me.


That didn't mean they stopped picking on me. They nicknamed me Chatty Cathy and crazy waitress, but I've been called worse. I like to believe they were always called in the most accurate yet loving manner. I would be the last to say that I was not a chatterbox. I myself kid around about it all the time. When I stop talking for even a moment, I get hiccups. So I believe it's medically necessary for me to talk all the time. Lucky for me, people find my strange little ways somehow appealing. No matter how sarcastic or sometimes annoying I can be (to some), the cute factor has always shined through, and I've somehow always managed to come away without getting my scrawny butt kicked. Because for a little lady, I have a huge mouth!


I am the waitress that will give you excellent service, always with a smile, helps you to enjoy your meal, but doesn't shut up the whole time you are in the restaurant. That's me. It's been said that I am the perfect hostess because all I ever do is walk around talking to everyone. Yet somehow, as a server, I always have a full section, and I always bring home a full apron. Plus, I never run out of things to talk about. Again, lucky for me, people find me energetic and entertaining. The fact that I am the size of a 13-year-old girl also has probably played a critical factor in why I have not yet been slapped around over the years. It's not because I didn't deserve it or that others would not have found pleasure in doing it. It's merely because it wouldn't make them look good beating up little old me.


I can't help it when my mommy hat is not on. Despite my petite-flower-like exterior, I have a mouth like a drunken sailor. What can I do? I can only work with what I was given; unfortunately, I grew up around many bad examples. But it sure makes things awfully fun, and if by chance I end up making myself look stupid, well, then it's a good thing I live in Stupidville.


Let’s not kid ourselves. I don’t live there all alone.


Old Man Dave would have to be the oddest man I ever met, yet he is hands down my dearest memory of a regular customer and forever friend. (Although I did not serve him in “The Diner,” he was one of my regulars at a prior work establishment.)


David was in his mid-60s when I met him. A native Floridian, he used to kid around about graduating from Princeton, but he really meant that he graduated from Princeton Elementary School in Winter Park, Florida. A man of fabulous stories, he shared many personal accounts of historical events with me that my Yankee-self would have never known. He lived in Central Florida before the Mouse came to town. He watched as D.O.T officers busted truckers coming from North Florida to bring supplies to build Interstate Highway 4. Back when orange groves and swamp land occupied the landscape, anyone with a souped-up car could race in the Daytona 500, which took place directly on the sand oceanside in Daytona Beach.


A fascinating man, who had already lived a lifetime of adventures, somehow ended up my new best buddy, a family friend, and a gentleman my oldest daughter fondly remembered as “Uncle Dave.”


Dave came into the diner one day. A master mechanic, he was dressed in brown Dixie. A short-sleeve button-down shirt with matching shorts, almost like a UPS delivery man would wear. The off part about his outfit – the attention-getter – was that he was also wearing a pair of black, thigh-high, lady's go-go boots. WOW!


What's up with that? I thought. I'm sorry, but I must admit, at first glance, even I had difficulty not bursting out in laughter. I kept wondering when a camera crew would come in and say we were on some kind of reality TV show. But that never happened. Instead, he simply walked in and sat down at the counter, where all our regulars could get a look.


He ordered a cup of coffee and sat reading from cover to cover the morning newspaper. He did not order food and only got a few refills of coffee as I passed by. He wasn't a bother at all, and he actually seemed like a pretty nice guy once he was seated and all the customers that had watched him come in were gone. But now, nearly 2-hours later, just as our lunch rush was about to begin, he decides it's time to go. 


He neatly folded his paper – as he had never even opened it – and placed a $5 bill under his coffee cup. His spoon and napkin were both neatly tucked into the cup, but not before he thoroughly wiped down the spot he used on the counter. Then, he swung his legs around from under the countertop, and as the Stiletto heel of his shiny black boots tapped the tile floor, every eye in the house turned to get a look. The funniest part was that he didn't seem uncomfortable at all. He actually seemed quite comfortable walking across the entire dining room to get to the men's room and then back again to exit. It was as if it was his daily routine, and no stares or snickers would affect him.


It was oddly impressive. He didn't seem gay. He wasn't trying to look like a woman; he was just an older man wearing lady's shoes? Okay. He tipped well. He seemed nice enough. I'm cool with it. Chances are he won't be back anyway, I thought.


It turns out Dave was not gay, nor was he some type of cross-dresser or a man in a woman's body. On the contrary, it was because of his love for a woman that he wore the boots. You see, Old Man Dave was a proclaimed Bachelor by his own choice (he'd say) until the day he met his dream girl. It wasn't long before I met Dave that love and tragedy both struck, rocking his whole poor world.


At the ripe age of 62, Dave had met his first real love. A woman he accidentally came in contact with while working on her expensive foreign vehicle when she was down and out and not in her own neighborhood. As he tells the story, it was love at first sight. She got out of her car, and all he could see were her long legs and black go-go boots. 


After a rather long courtship, considering they were both over 50 years old and neither had ever been married, they finally set a wedding day. They started to plan a simple yet elegant ceremony followed by a small reception, mainly consisting of her family and friends.  Again, a loner for most of his life, David's parents had already passed, and other than his older sister in Texas, he was all alone.


I could only assume these were the happiest days of his life. Unfortunately, a few weeks before they were supposed to share their vows, David's beautiful and vibrant fiancé was killed in a drunk driving accident. Worse. Because the couple had not yet married, and they still lived in separate homes, officers notified her parents as her emergency contact,  which in turn, due to trauma, never relayed her accident or death until nearly two days later, when he finally contacted someone to find out why she hadn't been answering his call or returning his messages. 


In his nervous state of mind, he convinced himself that she had gotten cold feet and was avoiding him because she wanted to call off their plans. You could only imagine his shock when he was finally informed of what had happened.  


Long story short, David wore the boots to read the morning paper in public because that was his way of holding on to the moment. No, he couldn't return to the same restaurant he used to go to with her because that would just be too sad. But, somehow, he could go somewhere else in her footwear and feel like she was with him. Strange or not, I am a firm believer that if it makes you happy and it doesn't hurt anyone, go for it!


People are always going to look, laugh, comment, and criticize. Who cares? Deep down, only you can make you happy, and if you get the chance to feel better during tough times, take it. It will count – TO YOU!


I was curious about David because of what he looked like on the outside, but once I looked a little closer, it was what I couldn't see that I fell in love with. And oddly enough, after years of being friends, the only time I ever saw Dave wear the boots was when he came in occasionally to the diner to have coffee and read the daily news.


The most challenging shifts I ever had to work at the diner were the mornings I came in after Madame Boobier and before Miss Ass-a-lot. No, these are not their real names. They are just the nicknames they have been given. Unfortunately for me, “Chatty Cathy,” I am not even in the running against these two ladies.


Madame Boobier was one of the older servers at the diner. She was somewhere in her forties and very attractive for her age. She was what our older gentleman considered voluptuous. She was well endowed and had beautiful jade green eyes, so either way, it gave our male customers an excuse to stare at her. It didn’t matter. She loved every minute of it, and although she had a full-time, live-in man at home with whom she actively shared her bed every night, she felt no shame in ALWAYS being on the prowl for something bigger and better. A woman of good taste, who knew how to enjoy the finer things in life, she was an award-winning actress hiding behind a waitress apron.


However, once Miss Ass-a-lot clocked in, the spotlight quickly shifted, and this was great for me because me and Miss Bubble Butt were buddies, and I knew how to play with her. Miss Ass-a-lot was younger than me, and I was middle of the road in the age category at the diner. She was thin with long curly blond hair that always seemed to smell like sunshine. She knew about sports, hunting, mud trucks, and all the stuff guys love. She also knew all the lingo and the stats like no girl I ever knew. Why? Because she had brothers. Nonetheless, she was outward “HOT,” and she was the type of person that never complained. Honestly, she was so pleasant that sometimes I even had difficulty dealing with her overall beauty. She was young, friendly, and had a great ass. What more could anyone ask for? And that is coming from a heterosexual, happily married mother-of-two. So you can only imagine what she could do to the male population. And oh my gosh, would I work that to my benefit.


Sure, I caught a lot of slack when working with these two, especially seeing I was neither top nor bottom heavy. A simple “girl next door.” (Or so I've been told) 


But according to the good ole boys at the diner, I had the shape of a young boy. Way too skinny for their liking. “They liked their gals to have a lil meat on their bones.” I was constantly reminded. 


To which I would quickly remind them, “It was a good thing that my husband liked me just the way I was.” 


Then I’d usually add something like, “I have personality! And unlike Madame Boobier’s implants and Miss Ass-a-lot’s youthful bottom, my qualities will never sag. Which always got a  giggle - only proving my point.


Don't get me wrong. These men were laughing and playing around with me the whole time. They were still staring at my coworkers’ boobs and ass. But what can you do? Boys will be boys at any age. It just gave me ammunition. I would catch them all the time trying to look up Miss Ass-a-lot’s Daisy duke shorts while she was wiping down her tables and her back was to my row of booths. Or watch these same elderly gentlemen purposely move their coffee from one end of their table to the other end just to make Madame Boobier reach over them with the coffee pot to fill them up. They never did that when I was refilling their coffee cups. No, when I walked around the dining room heating up coffees, you could guarantee the cups would all be right near the edge of the table. 


So I'd watch them and comment on their behavior, and yes, I would totally throw them under the bus every chance I got. It was fun. Especially on those rare occasions that one of these wise guys would be silly enough to show up with anyone from the opposite sex. Oh, I’d have a blast watching them squirm, wondering if I was going to start chatting secrets. Little did they all know, I knew better than to bite the hand that helped feed me. I would never tell them their secrets were safe with me because that would ruin all the hush money they seemed to tip me after those meals. But kind of like the Vegas Oath, What happened at the diner (for the most part) stayed at the restaurant.


Final note: Together, we three made a crap load of money and had a heck of a good time while earning it.


Despite what management may believe, kitchen crews and dining room staff never really work as a "TEAM."


Although they are both paid to serve the customers, it is way too personal of an industry to ever really be professional. Whether you are working in a family-owned establishment or for a corporate chain, attitude is everywhere. It also doesn't help when you work with an egomaniac that thinks he is Superman. As a veteran server with decades of experience, I can honestly tell you that it is almost impossible not to get personal with your co-workers and customers while working in the restaurant business. It's the nature of the business. Unfortunately, sometimes you end up with an egg on your face.


Superman was the diner's best cook. He knew what he was doing during morning or evening shifts, and he did it well. He was quick and clean, and his plates always looked perfect. Unless, of course, you managed to piss him off. Then he was just as good at screwing up your orders as he was at getting them right. This was something I had learned the hard way after years of ALMOST pushing it too far.


One morning, Superman was opening the diner with Carol Ann as an opening server. But as he unlocked the restaurant doors, Carol Ann was calling in to report that she was sick and would not make it in for her shift that started 15 minutes ago. Not knowing what else to do, he called me. I was scheduled to work but not until 7:30 a.m. 


So, unintentionally Superman woke up my Prince Charming, who had just gone to bed about an hour earlier, after closing the bar where he worked. Well, I guess my husband wasn't overly friendly when he answered the phone, after what he claimed rang two thousand times. Yes, I'm sure my dear, sweet man was rude, and he probably did shout at Superman before stomping off to get me, cursing the entire time, just loud enough so you could hear him all the way to the restaurant. Should I really be blamed? Who knows? I know that by the time I got the phone in my hand, there was no one on the other end. There was just a loud buzzing noise from being disconnected. So, after my husband briefly relayed a message of grunts and huffs, I finally checked the caller ID and hit recall.


"Are you on your way?" The voice that answered the phone at the diner snapped.


"As quick as I can," I tried to answer before he hung up on me.


Lovely, I am not even one foot on the floor awake yet, and I already have my husband and my breakfast cook bitching at me. "/Oh yeah, it's going to be a dreamy day," I said to myself as I slowly stretched my way up and out of bed.


I knew a GOOD DAY was just wishful thinking, but if it could get me through the day...


Sad to say, by the time I got to the diner, there were already several of the early morning regulars waiting for me to let them in and get them on their way. Great, I thought. Nothing was set up. I had to brew coffee and iced tea. Set the tables and stock all the stuff for the service area. Carol Ann did all the little side tasks every morning before I clocked in. All the things I usually made sure we were still full when I left, but apparently, everyone was not as diligent as I am, and now I knew why Carol Ann fussed all the time about the closing girls. Again, not me because I only work the middle shifts. To top it all off, within seconds of me walking in, I already had five eager and hungry gentlemen seated and waiting for me to grab the food that my Super-Man of a cook had already prepared. Yup, I hadn't even taken their order yet. How? From his memory. Because, unlike me, he's used to cooking these guys' food five days a week, and just like Carol Ann, he KNOWS what they all EAT, DRINK and DRIVE, making this the perfect opportunity for him to mess with me. Which he did. 


 He sat back in the kitchen smirk,ing at me through the pickup window separating the kitchen from the waitress service area, like the cat that just ate the canary. He'd watch and quietly wait for me to walk away before he would magically throw another plate up in the window. Then he'd keep ringing the bell for me to come back to pick up my order. Then he would tell me (with a stupid smirk on his face) what table it was for, just loud enough so that the customers could hear to ensure they would get their chance to mess with me.


Fine, I thought. I can deal. I'll manage just fine. I was going to do my very best and not let him get to me. I was going to stay focused. Keep my pace and paste a big old cheerleader smile on my face. I refuse to let him get inside my head. I did nothing to deserve this crap, and I definitely wasn't going to give in to his immature behavior. I came in like a good girl when he called and asked. Why was he so mean? "Focus on your customers and their orders. No talking through the window. Get through this shift. All will be fine." I kept repeating to myself.


Which I did. I made it through my entire shift and then some. I was very proud of myself for my outstanding professionalism. I actually managed to work my whole 8-hour shift without saying one negative word. Not too Superman or any of my other co-workers as they came in throughout the day to work their shifts. This was very unusual for me because I usually would have complained to everyone who came in the doors about what a jerk my cook was. But today, I just wasn't in the mood. It wouldn't be a friendly game if I chose to play. So for once, I decided just to pass.


Until, of course, I officially clocked out. Then I walked right up to him on the line in the kitchen in front of everyone and told him,  "You are such an ASSHOLE!"


To which he quickly replied, "No worse than the one you're married to."


And that was that. He smiled his Clark Kent grin, and we were friends again. Or so I thought. Until I walked out back to the parking lot to find my nice, clean, and reasonably new Jeep Grand Cherokee decorated with a huge food smiley face. He had so creatively used two sunny side up eggs for the eyes, droopy uncooked bacon for the mouth, and to add a little color, he used mustard to draw the circle around it - all over my windshield. Nice. Just what I needed to end my perfect day. Sure this would have been funny if it had been done to one of my meathead coworkers. But to me? To my car? After my day? It just wasn't funny. It wasn't funny at all! I guess to Superman, though, it was justice served because he knew I wouldn't be the one who washed my car. No, he knew it would be my husband's job to scrub all that off.


It wouldn't have been a big deal to me had Superman been nicer, but instead, payback always suck!


When I first started working at the diner, lucky for me, Kissy was on vacation. Once every year, he and his family would travel as far north as they'd ever been - Jacksonville, Florida - to participate in some kind of crazy big flea market/antique fair. It was the only seven days of the year he ever missed work unless, on the rare occasion, someone died.


Titled "Head Dishwasher," mainly because he was the only full-time dishwasher, Kissy was best known as the Boss Lady's "pet."


A native of Florida, Kissy was a true Southern cracker. As backwoods as they come, he was also as clever as a fox, as strong as an ox, and as loyal as a little boy's puppy. The Boss Lady loved him with all her heart and treated him like he was family. She was also the only one at the diner that could calm him down once he got into one of his moods. Every once in a while, for absolutely no reason, Kissy would snap. It could be towards a co-worker or customer. It could be with the service guy dropping off the soda delivery or the produce man asking where to put the case of tomatoes. You never knew what would trigger him. But, everyone at the diner knew how to fix it lickety-split. Just call Boss Lady.


Kissy had worked for the family for decades. He worked his regular hours at the diner, and he and his mom ran a thrift store owned by the diner owners. Any free time Kissy managed to find, which wasn't much, he would spend going to garage and estate sales and checking through every local advertisement for anything and everything he could find. He drove an old beat-up van that looked like a homeless person living in it, which he used to cart all the stuff he bought and sold from one place to another. Not to mention, the outside of his 30-year-old vehicle screamed WASH ME! Mainly because Kissy lived somewhere out in nowheresville.


Serious. Kissy's family had their mail delivered to a PO box within the city limits, basically because he lived where no man should reside, in an unincorporated area of the county that is not represented by modern technology, more or less the Postal Service. To get from the diner to Kissy's house, the property his family had owned since before the Civil War, is insane. First, you get to drive on a typically paved US Highway Road. Then you go on to a paved County Road before you get to a gravel road which leads to a dirt road, to a narrower dirt road that guides you to a painted rock that marks the red sand road you have to turn onto to get to Kissy's actual street. And then, you still have to drive through the woods on the sand with no signs of life and no phone service for at least another mile or so before you finally get to his property line.


Yeah. Too much for this Jersey Girl. Even as a child, I never really hung out in the woods up north, so I definitely don't see myself opting to live somewhere out in the Ocala National Forest. For real, I firmly believe that it is better to be shot in the head by a total stranger on a paved city street than be taken hostage by some crazy woodsmen to be his new pet.


So, I was hired at the diner on Kissy's first vacation day. The Mrs.hired me that morning, and because I had so much experience and availability, she basically handed me a menu and a book of guest checks and told me to try my best in section 4, which was the slowest section in the restaurant. I have been waitressing since I was a child. I just never served breakfast. It seemed easy. It was all about keeping coffee hot and getting customers in and out quickly. Early mornings were all about feeding them and getting them back on their way, so they could get to work on time.


I thought my first week of shifts went pretty well, especially seeing I never received formal training. They just threw me in, and I ran with it. Carol Ann, my new best buddy, my jersey girl, was the diner's veteran opening server, so I knew I always had someone to turn to if I needed help. Everyone seemed friendly enough. Sure they made fun of my Jersey accent, but they have been razzing Carol Anne about hers for years. I didn't mind. I've been picked on for worse by my own peeps.


So it's the first day of my second week at the diner. I entered the restaurant looking a bit frazzled, holding my apron in one hand and my purse in the other and barely holding on to either. "I almost overslept," I said to Carol Ann as I dropped my stuff down on the table at a booth the employees used. “I DON’T DO MORNINGS!” I pouted. 


I reached for a large styrofoam cup and began to concoct my new morning medicine. I poured in some chocolate milk and hot, fresh-brewed coffee before adding 5, 6, and 7 swirls of sugar. Oh, how good it is, I thought. I was never one to drink coffee, but then again, I am also not a morning person. Something had to change. Coffee seemed to work. It was free. It worked, and it was legal! What more could I ask for?


I took my first gulp, and as I did, I swung around quickly without any thought, and I twirled right into this rather large, kind of scary-looking, really hairy man. Oh my God, this poor man was now not only wearing the coffee I just tossed at him from my cup, but he was also wearing the mouthful of coffee I just spit at him when he scared the living crap out of me.


I never realized anyone was even standing behind me. How could he get so close to me without my sensing he was there? "Oh my," I said as I watched my spit dripping down his face.


Speechless and highly uncomfortable, I managed to blurt out, "I am so sorry I can't believe I just…."


Unaffected, the man wiped his face with the back of his hand and oddly licked it off. Gross! I thought, but before I could say another word, Carol Ann walked over, surveyed the mess, and said, "So Kissy, I see you met the new girl."


Mary Lou would have to be my most memorable customer ever, simply because she brought so much to the table. She and her husband had been coming to the diner for years, but this was the first time I had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Carol Ann snickered immediately as she watched their car pull up to the front windows. Being the VETERAN server at the diner, she knew most of her customers by name and their vehicles. She generally had their beverage waiting for them at their regular booth when they entered. Greetings were all on a first-name basis, typically followed by, “Are you having your usual?” 


Which was almost always – YES! 


So, the car pulled up and parked, and an older man slowly exited the driver’s side front door. He walked around to the back of the car and grabbed a walker from the trunk. The kind of walker that has a seat built-in in case you need to rest. He dragged it to the passenger door. He opened the door, and an enormous older woman dressed in a bright pink floral house dress emerged. He popped the walker open as she struggled to get out of the car’s bucket seat. Once she was erect, the couple slowly, and I mean slowly, walked the 20-paces to our front door. Carol Ann grabbed two cups of coffee and began to set up one of MY tables. She tried not to giggle. “It’s your turn,” she laughed and gave me a little wink just as the couple finally entered the restaurant.


As Mary Lou stomped her way through the narrow entrance and passed the cash register, you could already hear people commenting about her appearance. Mainly because it was clear as day that underneath her oversized, bright pink, floral house dress, she had no undergarments on. Nasty enough, but no, it got worse. As she walked, her bright pink, floral house dress wedged further and further up her oversized rear end. So much so that it looked like it would have to be surgically removed. This was not a pretty sight for anyone, especially seeing she moved so slowly. But that was not even the worst part. No, not hardly.  


You see, when Mary Lou did finally reach “HER BOOTH,” the third booth in my row, on the far side of the building, passed SEVERAL other tables available on her way, she graciously allowed me and a good portion of our guests to see that she was not wearing panties. Because as she went to sit down, just before she attempted to squeeze herself back into a bolted-down booth, she fluffed her bright pink, floral house dress in an upward motion, which caused the entire bottom half of her dress to float up above her disgustingly obese bottom half revealing her naturally unkempt crotch. 


Oh, the pain. My eyes felt like they were literally bleeding. And, of course, now that I had unknowingly become so intimate with her, I still had to take her order somewhat professionally. Didn’t I? Unfortunately, it was my job, and despite all my co-workers being out back cracking up hysterical and already making jokes to harass me, I still had to make the most of it. Or so I thought until I approached the couple with my biggest, friendliest cheerleader smile, ready to take their order, and... BAM! Suddenly my eyes really did begin to water as the nastiest, dirtiest stench wafted up my nose. I swear the words, “Oh, my God,” accidentally escaped my lips before I could graciously turn about-face. 


“I’ll be right with you guys, okay,” I said as I ran toward the kitchen.


“Take your time,” the gentleman said, as friendly as possible. “We’re in no hurry.”


“Carol Ann,” I screamed as I kicked the swinging kitchen doors open. “Carol Ann, I NEED you!”


Carol Ann re-entered the building from the back kitchen door, where she and the other idiot were still discussing my fabulous “new friends,” still giggling with tears in her eyes.


“So I see you’ve met Mary Lou and Ralph,” She said with an ear-to-ear smile plastered over her face.


“It’s more like Mary Lou Rotten’ Crotch,” I said, holding my nose and shaking my head. 


“That was bad. Is she always like that?” I asked.  “A little heads up would have been nice.”


“Yup,” Carol Ann said. Still laughing, “I guess I could have warned you.”


“Whatever,” I said as I slowly walked back toward the dining room. “How do you deal with the smell?”


“Put a wedge of lemon under your nose for a minute before you go over to their table. It always worked for me,” she said. “Then again, I have sinus problems.”


“Ha ha,” I whispered as I walked out of the kitchen. “Just remember, paybacks suck!” 


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