What isn’t fair is that ass-out-tits-out doesn’t always get me that extra buck in the tip jar, if it did, the male bartenders in their cargo shorts and Polos wouldn’t be making a dime. Sorry my tits weren’t popping out from beneath my button up, but my skirt was so short I had to perfect the art of squatting–legs angled towards the cooler doors, to grab a beer without flashing my panty preference to the closest drunk twenty-something leaning over the bar. “Well,” I said, turning to look at him, not before noticing the three or four customers at the end of the bar within earshot of this insult, “since it’s my first night shift, I guess I do.” I hadn’t poured ten beers before my boss strolled up to the bar and said, “Do you always dress like a Lumberjack for your night shifts?” I had worn this outfit before it seemed appropriate for the geographic location-Northern Idaho, a town full of logging men and college kids. I picked out my typical jean skirt and boots (it was winter) and an aqua and gray, flannel, plaid button up shirt. The first night shift I ever worked I was covering for another female bartender (who never minded playing “the game”) so she could play in a dart tournament. I looked forward to football season when I could wear a college jersey on Saturday’s and an NFL jersey on Sundays. I most often wore a jean skirt and some sort of tank top, alternating between cute tennis shoes and boots depending on the season. I wasn’t allowed to wear jeans, but I was working at a bar, and business casual seemed inappropriate, if not pointless. Having to choose my outfit each day, a different outfit, that fits the criterion is exhausting. I work in a restaurant, you can’t wear dirty clothes and ripped jeans, but nice is considered more of a synonym for sexy. Unlike my male counterparts, I’m allowed to wear what I want to work each shift, instead of being forced to wear a logoed collared shirt and khakis. Because I’m a female bartender at a pool hall and sports bar that’s open for brunch. Why? Because I’m a bartender at a pool hall and sports bar that’s open for brunch. I’m washing my face, re-masking it with mascara and blush, spraying my hair with dry shampoo-a god send from the toiletry universe-to hide the oil, and stumbling into my closet, which emits the only light illuminating my pre-dawn world, to lean against the framing and decide what to wear. I’m tired and fuzzy from a typical Friday night. Or the award-winning 2010 film, The Fighter, where Amy Adams plays a sassy bartender with a bad attitude, in cut-off shorts and a low-cut belly-shirt. Think Coyote Ugly, the popular 2000 movie about a young aspiring singer who moves to NYC and seeks employment at a female-ran bar of scantily-clad bartenders who tease the patrons and dance on the bar when serving drinks. This mentality is represented in popular culture. A wear less, make more mentality that men don’t have to abide by, and this idea that women aren’t as capable at pouring a beer and mixing liquors. There’s a game in the hospitality world, especially in the world of cocktails and beer, that women are encouraged to participate in. Which bartender would you rather have? Which one will earn the bar more money? “B” sees said regular, shouts his name and slides his Bud Light to the end of the bar while flashing a smile and asking NEXT? You order a gin and tonic and she says, “Do you want a lime with that?” NEXT. You order a gin and tonic and she hears vodka. “A” has been talking to a regular at the end of the bar for ten minutes, failing to notice the growing line at the other end. She’s wearing black pants, wacky tennis shoes, and a company-logoed ribbed tank top, standard cut. Bartender B has a more athletic, I’ll kick-your-ass-if-you-cross me, kind of body with medium-long hair. She’s wearing a tight, low-cut tank top, short-shorts and cowboy boots. Bartender A is attractive in the medium-long hair, big tits, and tiny waist kind of way. I’ll give you two bartenders: They’re both similar in that they are two females, twenty-somethings, and attractive.
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