Goign to lunch, I watched--er, ogled--the waiter for our table on Wednesday when we went out to eat for the leaving of our Worker IV. So I wasn't subtle. Missy, one chair over, asks for a pen, which some sadistic bastard handed over. Then she asked for my phone number. For the waiter.
It gets better.
After making a fool of myself promsing blood for her not to, I turned away to chat up some friends. The next time I turn around Hot Waiter is blushing and wandering away wiht a shell-shocked look on his face. Missy and my supervisor were pimping me out. No, literally, I was offered up like a tenderloin at the table. I have no words.
Their excuse so far is that my stress level needs to be reduced and getting laid can only help. I'ts not that I'm arguing the point. At this point, a small nuclear explosion would lower my stress level, and hell, maybe a quickie behind the bar would have helped. But still. It's not something you want to think about your supervisor doing. Worse is when L asked for my phone number, as she has a friend she wants me to meet. It's like the Get Jenn Laid Society has called a meeting.
Seriously, y'all, I can deal with being lonely. But I cannot deal with trying to date someone and fitting them into my life at whatever random corner they could go.
On the other hand, there's a new restaurant I can never, ever go back to again. Though God, he was pretty. I mean, just--whoa. Pretty. I comfort myself with fantasies that he's a total ass who eats babies in his spare time and doesn't respect the environment and sometimes beats up media fans in his spare time.