Karen calls 911 because I'm a pregnant cocktail waitress, and that is not allowed.

I'm a cocktail waitress. I'm seven months pregnant. No, obviously, I don't drink while pregnant or drink on the job ever.

A woman, the Karen, comes in with what I'm assuming was her husband and son and daughter and asks to be seated.

Four for lunch. We're not really a restaurant, but you do have a small apps menu with sandwiches and wings and stuff.

I give them menus and Karen says,

But wait, do you work here?

Yep, but you're pregnant. You can't work here if you're pregnant.

I work here, I don't drink here, I say with a

laugh, trying to keep the mood light. The woman looks over and says,

Have you taken any prenatal courses? Do you really think that's responsible to have your

unborn baby in here? This is where I made an error. I get defensive about anyone asserting

that I'm a bad mother, obviously. So I said, well, you've

bought your kids in here. Yes, and what kind of example do you think you're a setting for them?

I'm still collecting my thoughts at this point when they grunt and wave me away. I figure I can kiss my

tip goodbye, but hopefully that'll be the end of the discussion. As a disclaimer, all these quotes

are my best approximation of my

memory in the moment. I see them flagging down the bartender after a few minutes and figure they're

ready, so I go over as well. The Karen is asking to speak to a manager. Surprise. Now, they haven't

even got their drinks yet, so nothing above my abilities could have really gone wrong. I just ask if

there's anything I

can help them with. And her husband, Mr. Karen, says really sternly, no, just a manager. Didn't you hear

my wife? The place is too small for a manager. It's just servers and bartenders and two co-owners.

...