Praise the sweet Lord Jesus; I'm no longer a Bartender slash Golf Ball Girl! I got a call last week from a lady I used to work with who started a marketing/communications company. Business has been going well and she wanted me to come in for a little interview to talk about a coordinating position. I walked into the interview feeling confident and left an hour and a half later feeling the same way I do after a really good first date: I was giddy, couldn't stop smiling, told my friends it was "The One!" and was envisioning our perfect future together. The next day I got a call asking if I was interested in the postion. Because "YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS I AM" might be a wee bit too forthcoming, I said yes. And just Iike that I was hired.

I'm excited about this turn of events for a bevy of reasons, (money! i can work from anywhere! yay!!) the most exciting being that I don't have to be a Bartender Slash Golf Ball Girl anymore. And I'm not going to lie to you, if I hadn't quit I'm pretty positive I would have been fired within a few weeks. Why you may ask? Because I am without question the World's Worst Bartender Slash Golf Ball Girl. Here's why:

I'm not actually a Bartender. Nor do I really know what my job title was. This is slightly problematic for obvious reasons.

I'm slow-moving and easily distracted. If I wanted to run around I would join a gym, a-thank you very much. I handpicked this job because I thought it would allow me maximum slack-assery with minimal effort. I'm sorry you have to get back to the office and want to hit one more bucket of balls, but I have a text message to get back to. That takes precedence. And I'm going to write it at my own pace. Yes, my pace is that of a sea turtle, but that's how I roll. And it wasn't my idea to put multiple TV's in the bar! Do you have any idea how distracting Judge Judy is on mute? DO YOU?!

People are stupid. The things that come out of people's mouths make me wish I could perform a vasectomy. Because my mind is always on auto sarcasm, it's incredibly hard to stop myself from cracking wise-ass comments while dealing with a customer. Then there's always this really awkward delay between their question and my response because I've yet to master constructing said wise-ass comment in my head while simultaneously saying something polite to their face.

Sometimes I just don't feel like talking. Many people a day come in alone, order a drink and expect you to entertain them. This isn't a date buddy, I'm not going to bend over backwards to carry on a conversation with you. I'm exhausted! Sometimes I just can't converse anymore. Call a friend. Christ.

But seriously,some of the people that came into the driving range were hilarious, and I thank them for providing me with entertainment and great stories to tell my friends!

GOODBYE DRIVING RANGE... NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN REAL WORLD!!

APA