The First and Last Time I Will Ever Shovel Snow

Because my dad was a bit of prankster like I am…he decided to leave this universe smack fucking dab in the middle of November exactly 6 years ago to the week…and shortly before a major snowstorm…as a matter of fact, I got picked up at the airport and went straight to the Cleveland Clinic wearing Jeans, T-shirt and Ugg boots…as the heart doctor was leading me down the corridor, without hesitation or looking back, he quipped “Oh, I didn’t think they would sell Ugg boots in sunny California"…ohhhh, someone thinks they are being cute and snarky...but clearly didn’t realize who he was dealing with:

Yours truly: Clearly they don’t teach the history of Ugg boots in medical school...they were originally “created” in Southern California…thank god my Dad doesn’t need a sheepskin transplant. 
Even though the Clinic did everything they could to save my Dad, Dave finally decided to say “fuck it, I always liked the view from the top”.

Fast forward about 3 weeks later when my Mother returned to work after Thanksgiving:

The aforementioned storm decided to hit, and I thought I would perform my daughterly duty and do something about all the snow in the driveway before Louise got home…I put on my North Face ski jacket I preciously used only to look cute in Mammoth or Big Bear, but now it is going to get used for its intended purpose...or so I thought...I went into the garage to grab the snow blower and get to work…until I noticed there was no button simply marked “start”…WHAT THE FUCK? Of course I called my best friend of 39 years and asked her how to start a snow blower and the conversation was over this quickly:

Yours Truly: Umm, how do you start a snow blower?
AO: Well, it’s similar to a lawn mower…oh wait; you have never used a lawn mower in your life

YT: Right, thanks. Call you later. 

Ok, well at least there was a shovel…that should work, I will just take a break every 3 minutes. 

To help with visuals, imagine the Brady Bunch house but with an attached garage:

I opened the garage door and looked down to see snow almost up to my knees…I hadn’t seen that much white powder since the last Playboy Mansion party. I started to hyperventilate and immediately went into survival mode…my first thought was “how do they handle these type of emergencies in movies?” Two things came to mind 1) They eat each other 2) They drink whiskey. Good thing my Dad has a bar. I shut the garage door, walked into the house and went straight to the “Crown” and drank 4 shots…I was feeling warm and fuzzy and decided it was time to face the white fuckery waiting for me, mocking me.

I went back out ready to take on the world one shovel stroke at a time…which lasted all about 25 seconds before I was horrified that the snow didn’t want to jump ship from the metal plate…this shit was just way too much work, there has to be an easier way. I took my buzzed ass back into the house, took off my boots and marched into the kitchen looking for my solution…which of course I found between “Shake n’ Bake” and generic “Mac n’ Cheese"…Nonstick cooking spray. I sprayed the shovel and went to town (although all my mother had was butter flavored so the snow turned yellow, which I found a bit disturbing and amusing at the same time)…I felt nothing for about 20 minutes until I got a little dizzy and saw visions of Sugar Plum Fairies. I stopped for a moment to get my bearings, and all of a sudden I looked up and saw what was the like equivalent of Black Hawk Down coming down the street…a snow plow. 
I flagged him down as if I was seconds away from buzzards plucking out my eyes, and saw the look of “how much money do you have?” on his face…before he could say a word, I offered up Chicken (my cat) explaining that the street value is somewhere around $500 and that he could have my diamond earrings even though I wasn’t sure they were real because I also suspected the boyfriend that gave then to might be gay. Mr. Snow Plow man flashed a grin (albeit a missing teeth grin) and told me he would just “send a bill”…I thought for sure we would I murdered before the New Year. 

But alas, I am alive...Chicken is still here, my mother has a regular plow service…and I am still not sure if my earrings are real.

Pt2: Black Olives on a Pizza Can Fuck Up Someone’s Day…And You Will Pay for It.

If you are just taking a quick peek at my page, let me get you caught up: I moved back from LA to Cleveland when my Dad passed away, and the past several years have been nothing short of an adventure…think “Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events”, but with bad dates, immigration issues, a semi hairless cat and a really bad job as a waitress…

But for now, let’s continue with: Kimberly's Adventures in Wonderland…Falling Down the Rabbit  Ass Hole 

Pt2: Black Olives on a Pizza Can Fuck Up Someone’s Day…And You Will Pay for It.

So my first week of serving started in July. To be honest, I felt a sense of pride receiving an apron and a “check book thingy” that held my carefully resourced pieces of paper used to write down orders…because I just couldn’t bring myself to carry a green “order pad” (a la Mel’s Diner)…at the “famous Italian eatery” we had to bring our own paper, amongst putting up with other shit I am going to talk about.

Shoes were another issue…of course I needed black, so I ran out and bought the most appropriate shoes for my first waitressing job… cute black Puma’s…because if I was going to fill a coffee cup, I was going to look god damn good doing it…that lasted about 2 days and 12 times of almost falling on my ass to realize I was a complete asshole, and settled on something a little more “server friendly”. Of course I kept the shoes in the back closet of the restaurant and changed going to and fro.

Don’t get your panties in a twist; I am not above being seen in my chic challenged looking shoes that scream “I am one missing ethical gene away from being a stripper, so I have to work at Applebees”…but I walked to work in the summer because the “IE” (Italian eatery) was geographically close, so of course I bought proper training shoes (they will more than likely never get worn again) to take advantage of the workout possibilities. It was a golden opportunity to prove that I was ready to take on the world one lunch coupon at a time while trying to get fit.

Lunch Shift: The bowels of the schedule.

Nobody wanted to work the lunch shift because that meant you came in at 10am (IE doesn’t open until 11am) and had to fill ice bins, unroll carpets, fill cheese and red pepper shakers  and other tasks that reminded me I would make more money selling fruit on the Sepulveda entrance freeway back in LA….but I sucked it up and thought next week’s schedule would get better. Oh, yeah, speaking of the schedule…we didn’t know if we were working Sunday until the end of the night shift on Saturday…AB and BM (Asshole Boss and Battered Manager #staystrongr*ch) kept the schedule under lock and key, and the only way to get through Saturday night was to pretend I was Indian Jones working in the Temple of Doom.

Ok, back to lunch…because again, I was the only asshole who said my schedule was flexible, I was given mostly days which not only consisted of the aforementioned illegal immigrant duties, but had to endure elderly ladies who wanted to split a “house salad” and drink water or people that ordered lunch entrees…with one of the 3k “IE” coupons floating around town, which meant your average bill was $9.95…please do the tip math in your head.  The upside about the lunch shift was that I could get home earlier enough to work on my own projects…but by the time I got home, all I wanted to do was pour an antifreeze martini or huff carbon monoxide, but I knew Louise (my mom) would get pissed about a dead body messing up her carpet. 

The “Party Room”: Nothing to Party About

Because I was the new kid on the serving block, I was sequestered to work in the “party room”…which was basically an addition to the restaurant that served as an “overflow” room that got seated (or sat?) last…people hated to sit back there, but obviously when you need pizza, you NEED pizza…the one thing I learned from this walking dead experience was that when people order pizza, you need to repeat their order as if you were talking to Rain Man…if not, and you mess up the order, you will have to pay for it…mentally and physically e.g. if you accidentally hit the wrong olive button…don’t get me wrong, I am one of the pickiest eaters out there, but I will not go into a psychotic episode if you give me black instead of green olives…I will either expect you to somehow compensate my difficult ass, or if it doesn’t take too long, make a new one...the one thing I will NEVER expect is for the person serving me to have to pay for it out of their pocket, which happened often at the “IE”. 

It was an ongoing nightmare of getting day shifts, being stuck in the "party room", getting screwed over for big parties and being  nicknamed the "black sheep" of the dysfunctional "IE" family that caused me to say "go fuck yourself"...I will never figuratively suck the Italian sausage to make things better...and after making $18 during my last 51/2hr shift, I took my overpriced comfortable shoes somewhere else while pursing my daydreams.

I heard the mall is hiring elves...

Up Next: The First and Last Time I Shoveled Snow. 

Go Fuck Yourself

*This post is dedicated to servers around the world...and anyone with a shitty boss.

I haven’t posted in my "blog" for several months since I was kicked out of the UK because

 A) I was advised it’s not nice to write about ass backwards immigration laws while I am trying to get back into the country that told me to leave (fair enough since I am sure the queen is reading my blog while sipping on gin) and

B) I have been doing something I am sure all of you reading this will have a hard time comprehending: 

WAITRESSING (which appears to not even be a word according to auto correct)…and I am not talking about bottle service to Lebron James and friends in a fancy club and rolling in hundys at the end of the night…I am talking about an Italian restaurant that has been in business for over 40 years and run by an owner that likes to play a game of firing people called "Which dumb broad is next"…are you fucking kidding me? When that shit popped out of his mouth, I wanted to unleash my inner ghetto and be like "oh no you didn’t"…but because I am a classy broad, I straightened my apron and continued filling my pitcher of Ice tea dreaming about this day.

Oh, which day you ask? The glorious day of changing my voice mail to the following: "you have reached Kimberly, please leave a message and I will call you back at my earliest convenience…and if this is R**H or F***K, go fuck yourself". Why you ask? Why wouldn’t I just put in a two week notice? Oh, sit back and let’s take a journey of what It’s like slinging sausages for an ego maniac and his "manager" that is clearly suffering from "battered manager syndrome" #staystrongr*ch

Let's call our story: Kimberly's adventures in Wonderland…Falling Into The Rabbit Ass Hole.

Since being back in Cleveland because my dad decided to leave this world without a heads up, it has been quite a challenge finding my footing…albeit perfectly manicured Ferragamo loafer footing.

I have several projects going on, but because I don’t have the trust fund of one of those little rich twats of Instagram, I have to fund everything myself…so I thought “I will become a server…quick money…it can’t be that hard”. Bloody hell, fuck waterboarding…make terrorists wait on tables with more than two children. After the shit I have been through the past several months, I will now be donating annually to planned parenthood. 

And that my friends is the beginning to the story...to be continued tomorrow  with 
Chapter 2: How black olives on a pizza can truly fuck up someones day.