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.