There is a small twinge of excitement in my stomach. Not entirely sure why because with the shift I'm doing, I'm manning the bar at the end of the pub on my own. HOW THE EFFING EFF DOES ONE KEEP THEMSELVES AMUSED FOR FIVE HOURS IN BETWEEN SERVING DRUNKEN FOOLS AND TRASHBAGS? Seriously. After five months of catering to the every whim of three little erm, blessings, I don't quite remember what it is that people do out in the real world!
To be honest though, I'm more concerned about forgetting the security cams everywhere and getting caught picking out a wedgie or something.
|I forgot to take the obligatory selfie shot before work on Sat so I have|
lifted this from Beth's IG feed. Beth is one of mah fave beer wenches.
Ok, I may have gotten distracted while bashing out that post ... and forgotten. Awkward.
In any case, it's now Sunday, and I have lived to tell the tale of getting back to work, bitches!
Sure, my boobs were up around my neck by the time I finished and my passionate dislike for 18-22 year old hoochbags masquerading in bandaids disgusied as dresses has been reignited, but who cares? I LIVED TO TELL THE MOTHERFUCKING TALE!
If you follow me on Instagram, you'll be well acquainted with the anxiety that's been coursing through my veins this past week about leaving Abi and going to work. It's not that I don't think Ryan isn't up to the job or anything, it's that I can't leave my boobs behind. Abi, you see, is also known as the breastfed baby who does not care for your rules or the bottle you're trying to stick in her gob. You do not need a PhD in anything to know that that right there is not the ingredients for a smooth return to the workforce.
My Mama, bless her, took the two big squids for the night so Ryan could navigate the waters on his own for the first time with Abi. I'm sure he was looking forward to the one on one time with her, which has been far and few between since she is the third, and let's be honest here, ripped off child in terms of parental attention. What I think he was looking forward to even more was the fact that my work is only five minutes down the road, and yes, a mercy dash at 12am would be on the cards should the little lady care not to suckle from her new sippy cup. Fark.
I'd like to think that I made the bar my bitch for the whole five hours too. Made that shit look good. But truth be told, it was an open bar and it was humid as all hell and I was a sweaty mess. The icing on the cake however, was being told that I looked like fun when after being asked how my night was going, I replied I was tired and ready for bed. Dude, word of advice, don't waste your breath hitting on ANYONE until you've had a shower, brushed your teeth and covered up your jailhouse tats. Seriously. Once you've done that, maybe then check for a ring before doing the creepy ole suggestive eyebrow wiggle. Fark.
On the other hand, it was nice to be called "Holly" for a few hours and erm, clean up a different environment other than my own kitchen and loungeroom and bedrooms. And I'm eternally grateful that I don't have to juggle motherhood with 40-odd hours of bar work a week. That shit would be whack.
Oh, and do you know what was perhaps the most important win of the night?
I didn't pull any wedgies out on camera.
Though I did pull my breastpads out of my top in plain view before tossing them in the bin.
Classy is as classy does, right?