Does it smell like Davey Jones’ Locker in here?

It’s been a while and I don’t really remember how to start one of these gracefully, so I’m just gonna dive in and knock some of the rust off. I’ll get better.

I hope.

Here are some facts about me:

1. I’m in school.

2. While I’m in school, I’m working as a server and bartender.

3. I’m really hungry right now.


Here are some facts about where I work:

1. We serve a lot of golfers.

2. Golfers apparently like to eat fish and chips.

3. Fish and chips (Category: American) are typically served with tartar sauce.

4. I am a clumsy, awkward sort of human.

This isn’t really an interesting story at all in terms of suspense or build-up. I was removing the tartar sauce from the reach-in refrigerator. The wrong lid was on the container. I dropped the container. 4 cups of tartar sauce splashed and spilled down my front and into my shoes.

Have you ever interacted really closely (And I mean closely) with tartar sauce? Let me illustrate some points for you. Tartar sauce is chunky, thick, and smells really strongly of pickles. In short, tartar sauce somewhat resembles the stuff that your body refuses to house anymore after a long night of frat house drinking and a dinner of tuna salad with extra pickle relish.

I KNOW! It IS gross! I can’t believe I said that either! However did I come up with such a perfect analogy?!?

It was like time stopped.

…I saw the tartar sauce tub falling but was powerless to stop it.


…And then I saw it all down the front of my shirt and skirt.


….And then… I took a step backward… and felt the squish.

Imagine that this happens to you at the beginning of your workday. This means that you have to go through the rest of your day smelling like tartar sauce, which makes people come up with all kinds of theories about your personal hygiene routine.

Yep. And you know that’s what they picture, too.

Meanwhile, my “inner goddess” (to pilfer from the 50 Shades of Grey hellscape) was all

I mean, normally she’s drunk and covered in cheeto dust but she looked magnificent that day and I had to say, “You know what, bitch? You’re right.”

Meanwhile, every single person who had watched this unfold started trying to hand me paper napkins. To which I eloquently laughcryshouted, “Thank you, fellow humans! I will clean up this culinary cesspool into which I have fallen with cocktail napkins which are not at all flimsy and playing-card sized and are therefore perfectly suitable for such a task!”

When inside, that ol’ cheeto covered goddess was all,

“I’ll just use every single towel in this establishment plus ALL the soda water to clean myself up a bit even though we all know I’m about to smell like food poisoning and Long John Silver’s for the rest of the day.” Which is the same as saying, “I’m about to smell like Long John Silver’s for the rest of the day!”

To add insult to injury, I had to mop it up off the floor, too.

It has been oft’ said that there are no life lessons learned quite as dearly as those learned at the end of a mop. It has also oft’ been said that the hardest learned life lessons are those learned with wet socks. And, perhaps most oft’est of all, it has been said that I am the reason we cannot have nice things. Or tartar sauce apparently. Is it Friday yet?


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