It must be Saturday the Fourteenth.
Dec. 14th, 2002 11:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
framlingemTo quote the Beatles... I woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head... and then it all went pear-shaped. I spilled my cheerios all over the floor. I get outside to discover it's rained overnight... and remember that the Geminids peaked before dawn this morning as I lie staring up at the sky - that's okay, I see one... but I'm seeing stars anyway because I bang my head on the step.
Slip and fall, letting you see a shooting star. Good omen or bad omen?
My cd player's battery ran out and I had to listen to the morning show.
Get to work, it's seven AM, realise I still don't have my Secret Santa present for the Christmas party after work. Things rapidly go downhillm as I manage to pour the expensive vanilla-hazelnut coffee onto the floor (fortunately before my boss arrives), burning myself in the process.
Customer who ordered said coffee then berates me, loudly (what kind of person is even AT the mall two hours before anything - except the muffin place - is open?), ignoring that I'm hopping up and down trying to blow on both scalded hands at once and trying not to slip in the vanilla-scented puddle at my feet - which is doing its level best to melt through my shoes.
Get mess cleaned up before boss arrives - however, have not finished setting up all the muffin labels in the pans. The muffins won't be ready for another forty minutes, but it's the end of the world. Ever been chewed out by the Vietnamese equivalent of a little yappy dog? I don't recommend it.
The boss is actually in a good mood today. We only got lectured three times. It's a good job, the only thing is the boss. She's always THERE. She doesn't actually do anything, but hangs around (and gets in the way - we have all of thirty square feet of maneuvering space, surrounded by steaming liquids of various kinds and a slush machine that falls on the ground -scattering syrupy melted stuff - if you even brush against it), watching us. We're all quite capable of doing our jobs. We wish she'd trust us. But she makes me nervous, so I hurry, and I screw up. My stutter comes back with a vengeance. Fortunately most of our customers are quite understanding.
Others, however... a man ordered toast today. Quite simple. But I'm trying to find out if he wants white bread or brown (reasonable request, I think!) and he starts swearing at me, of course he wants white bread, estie de tabernacle, maudite de brown bread gets caught in his teeth, ma petite chienne. I do not appreciate being called a bitch, even a little one, especially at eight in the bloody morning. Then he asks me who's getting his toast, and to make sure she washes her hands. I've just spent ten minutes before he came doing dishes. My hands are spotless and sterile. They're actually less dusty than the napkins and gloves I handle the food with! So I go and put thebrown white bread into the toaster.
Then I come back and (horrors!) ask if he wants butter on it. I was unaware that one could find enough words on wanting butter on toast to fill ten minutes (I timed it). "Ben ouais, je veux de l'estie de beurre. Du maudit toast sans beurre, c'est sec de merde, tabernacle!". You have to understand that this man is well over six feet tall, and a rather imposing physical specimen. I thought for sure he was going to jump over the counter and belt me - my coworker had an eye on the security button. So I butter his toast and come back ('Who got my toast? Did she wash her hands?' 'I did, sir, and yes, I washed my hands, here's the toast.')
Then we get to go through it again with coffee... small/medium/large? Regular/strong/decaf/flavoured? I'm obviously animpressively polite, helpful young woman inquisitioner.
He pays for his coffee and toast, leaves... and comes back five minutes later, ranting about how expensive it was. $2.55 for a coffee and toast at a restaurant isn't all that bad, especially since the jams and peanut butter and stuff is free. He said he'd never come back again... I thought 'whew'.
It gets busier from then on. The line is never less than six people long... for nine hours. I don't mind most of the customers - there was one especially cute pair of guys, obviously a couple. Aww. The ones that really get me irked are the ones that say, 'Tu me donneras un muffin au son et un café.' Literal translation: 'You are going to give me a bran muffin and a coffee.' Apparently they're psychic. No manners necessary. Nooooo, not for them. Nevermind that I run around all day, am always polite, and smile at them. I'm going to give them a muffin and a coffee.
Work goes on like that until four (I get to leave an hour ahead of the others, because I was there at seven and they can't legally give me longer days without paying me time and a half), upon which I dash upstairs to Reitman's and buy three pairs of Winnie the Pooh socks for my Santa present, shower, and am back at the mall by five to pick up the other girls (being the only one with a license and car) to go out.
Dinner is fine. Nothing bad happens. But then we decide to go bowling. We get to the alley, wait in line for twenty minutes... and discover that all seventy-six lanes are booked. Even the ones with nobody playing on them. If we reserve now, we can have one for half an hour in two hour's time. Apparently one needs to preplan if one is going to be impulsive on a Saturday. Needless to say... bowling is out.
Never mind, right? There's pool tables upstairs, out of the bar area. They're for adults only, but I'm eighteen (even if Rox and Steph aren't), so my ID should do us. Not like we're drinking or anything. I get tokens. I put tokens in little slide-thingy. Slide thingy goes in perfectly... and sticks. Much cursing (in three different dialects of two different languages... we're a talented bunch.. plus we learned a few new epithets from the toast man) later, it comes out again. Sans tokens. Typical. We chorus 'It's Saturday the Fourteenth!', and I traipse back downstairs to the desk and wait in line for fifteen minutes.
"'Scuse me, your pool table ate my money."
"Huh?"
"Your pool table, I put three tokens in, and didn't get any balls."
"Go back up and wait, I'll send someone."
So I do. It takes ten minutes, but the guy is there. He asks for ID - I've never been carded before, so I hand him my card with a little panache (so sue me - I've not been able to do that yet, and I wanted to). My companions, however, don't have any. But the guy's nice, says he'll let it go provided I take all responsibility for stuff and we don't drink. Fair enough. THEN, he tells me I have to get the balls at the front desk. That's right, the same one that told me my table was malfunctioning. Blah.
I go downstairs again (this is visit #3 to the desk) and ask for balls. He asks for ID, I give it to him. He asks a whole bunch of questions... then tells me that all four tables the (empty except for us and two guys) pool area has been reserved for the night.
Argh.
We give up, and I spend forty minutes driving my friends home. But I get to come back home along the river road, which is so pretty at night. Although I have to admit to thinking 'with my luck, I'll fall in and sink.'
And my Secret Santa present was an X-wing simulator for my PC. I plan to kick much Imperial butt - I wonder if I'll be in Rogue Squadron?
Em
Slip and fall, letting you see a shooting star. Good omen or bad omen?
My cd player's battery ran out and I had to listen to the morning show.
Get to work, it's seven AM, realise I still don't have my Secret Santa present for the Christmas party after work. Things rapidly go downhillm as I manage to pour the expensive vanilla-hazelnut coffee onto the floor (fortunately before my boss arrives), burning myself in the process.
Customer who ordered said coffee then berates me, loudly (what kind of person is even AT the mall two hours before anything - except the muffin place - is open?), ignoring that I'm hopping up and down trying to blow on both scalded hands at once and trying not to slip in the vanilla-scented puddle at my feet - which is doing its level best to melt through my shoes.
Get mess cleaned up before boss arrives - however, have not finished setting up all the muffin labels in the pans. The muffins won't be ready for another forty minutes, but it's the end of the world. Ever been chewed out by the Vietnamese equivalent of a little yappy dog? I don't recommend it.
The boss is actually in a good mood today. We only got lectured three times. It's a good job, the only thing is the boss. She's always THERE. She doesn't actually do anything, but hangs around (and gets in the way - we have all of thirty square feet of maneuvering space, surrounded by steaming liquids of various kinds and a slush machine that falls on the ground -scattering syrupy melted stuff - if you even brush against it), watching us. We're all quite capable of doing our jobs. We wish she'd trust us. But she makes me nervous, so I hurry, and I screw up. My stutter comes back with a vengeance. Fortunately most of our customers are quite understanding.
Others, however... a man ordered toast today. Quite simple. But I'm trying to find out if he wants white bread or brown (reasonable request, I think!) and he starts swearing at me, of course he wants white bread, estie de tabernacle, maudite de brown bread gets caught in his teeth, ma petite chienne. I do not appreciate being called a bitch, even a little one, especially at eight in the bloody morning. Then he asks me who's getting his toast, and to make sure she washes her hands. I've just spent ten minutes before he came doing dishes. My hands are spotless and sterile. They're actually less dusty than the napkins and gloves I handle the food with! So I go and put the
Then I come back and (horrors!) ask if he wants butter on it. I was unaware that one could find enough words on wanting butter on toast to fill ten minutes (I timed it). "Ben ouais, je veux de l'estie de beurre. Du maudit toast sans beurre, c'est sec de merde, tabernacle!". You have to understand that this man is well over six feet tall, and a rather imposing physical specimen. I thought for sure he was going to jump over the counter and belt me - my coworker had an eye on the security button. So I butter his toast and come back ('Who got my toast? Did she wash her hands?' 'I did, sir, and yes, I washed my hands, here's the toast.')
Then we get to go through it again with coffee... small/medium/large? Regular/strong/decaf/flavoured? I'm obviously an
He pays for his coffee and toast, leaves... and comes back five minutes later, ranting about how expensive it was. $2.55 for a coffee and toast at a restaurant isn't all that bad, especially since the jams and peanut butter and stuff is free. He said he'd never come back again... I thought 'whew'.
It gets busier from then on. The line is never less than six people long... for nine hours. I don't mind most of the customers - there was one especially cute pair of guys, obviously a couple. Aww. The ones that really get me irked are the ones that say, 'Tu me donneras un muffin au son et un café.' Literal translation: 'You are going to give me a bran muffin and a coffee.' Apparently they're psychic. No manners necessary. Nooooo, not for them. Nevermind that I run around all day, am always polite, and smile at them. I'm going to give them a muffin and a coffee.
Work goes on like that until four (I get to leave an hour ahead of the others, because I was there at seven and they can't legally give me longer days without paying me time and a half), upon which I dash upstairs to Reitman's and buy three pairs of Winnie the Pooh socks for my Santa present, shower, and am back at the mall by five to pick up the other girls (being the only one with a license and car) to go out.
Dinner is fine. Nothing bad happens. But then we decide to go bowling. We get to the alley, wait in line for twenty minutes... and discover that all seventy-six lanes are booked. Even the ones with nobody playing on them. If we reserve now, we can have one for half an hour in two hour's time. Apparently one needs to preplan if one is going to be impulsive on a Saturday. Needless to say... bowling is out.
Never mind, right? There's pool tables upstairs, out of the bar area. They're for adults only, but I'm eighteen (even if Rox and Steph aren't), so my ID should do us. Not like we're drinking or anything. I get tokens. I put tokens in little slide-thingy. Slide thingy goes in perfectly... and sticks. Much cursing (in three different dialects of two different languages... we're a talented bunch.. plus we learned a few new epithets from the toast man) later, it comes out again. Sans tokens. Typical. We chorus 'It's Saturday the Fourteenth!', and I traipse back downstairs to the desk and wait in line for fifteen minutes.
"'Scuse me, your pool table ate my money."
"Huh?"
"Your pool table, I put three tokens in, and didn't get any balls."
"Go back up and wait, I'll send someone."
So I do. It takes ten minutes, but the guy is there. He asks for ID - I've never been carded before, so I hand him my card with a little panache (so sue me - I've not been able to do that yet, and I wanted to). My companions, however, don't have any. But the guy's nice, says he'll let it go provided I take all responsibility for stuff and we don't drink. Fair enough. THEN, he tells me I have to get the balls at the front desk. That's right, the same one that told me my table was malfunctioning. Blah.
I go downstairs again (this is visit #3 to the desk) and ask for balls. He asks for ID, I give it to him. He asks a whole bunch of questions... then tells me that all four tables the (empty except for us and two guys) pool area has been reserved for the night.
Argh.
We give up, and I spend forty minutes driving my friends home. But I get to come back home along the river road, which is so pretty at night. Although I have to admit to thinking 'with my luck, I'll fall in and sink.'
And my Secret Santa present was an X-wing simulator for my PC. I plan to kick much Imperial butt - I wonder if I'll be in Rogue Squadron?
Em
