{Blog} How did it come to This?!
{LOCKED TO FRANCIS FOR OBVIOUS REASONS}
((Click for tl;dr.))
I'm starting to think that a job at McDonald's might've been... appropriate, because clearly, a certain Frenchman isn't. The first day of work was awkward enough... people were asking for dishes they, and I, couldn't properly pronounce. I have yet to find out how you properly pronounce the 'ç' but it's still very complicated and I'm tripping over my words. I spilled ice water down a man's shirt, and the woman next to him was too busy staring at my neck to notice her soiled husband. My scarf is "trashy" and "clashes with my uniform" or something, so I have to resort to pulling up my collar and wearing my tie over the adam's apple of my throat, but even that doesn't fully mask anything. The woman had the nerve to ask me if something happened. I gave her such a look that she didn't leave a tip. And to make things worse, every time I entered that kitchen to retrieve plates of gaudy, overpriced food, I nearly dropped all of it when the SOUS CHEF kept touching me. I think I did drop a plate of Sachertorte the first time he did, but we had half a cake left, so I managed to snag another piece before leaving the kitchen. And this was all at the busiest hour of the night... after spending hours at the office in my Bon Sejour work uniform playing mediator for a couple on the verge of divorce.
So now on the second day... Besides the pompous Englishman and his wife I had the utmost pleasure to serve that evening... I've heard about his habits, I've probably lived through a multitude of them and counseled many who've suffered through these habits, but that sous chef had the nerve to grab my ass. I must've slammed the heel of my penny loafers onto his toe enough times to bruise him because he was limping when he left work that night. He's also lucky to have narrowly escaped the fork I tried to stab his hand with - it landed between his third and forth fingers - but it left enough of an impression to get him to freeze in fear. The fork's tongs are bent at a ninety degree now, but I've stashed it in my apron to fix later if he tries anything more daring.
Now there has to be something illegal about sexually harassing your co-workers, so when I looked at the manual last night, I discovered that the whole thing is written in French. I wasn't about to ask the Sous Chef for help, so I called up my Aunt Catherine in her home in Paris for assistance... she wanted to hear the whole story, so I had no choice to comply... luckily for me she's flying out from Paris tomorrow morning to come pay her "favorite" nephew a little visit. Aunt Catherine acts like my mother sometimes, it's so uncanny... trying to take care of something I could easily take care of if the Sous Chef didn't personally conduct a full body search every time I came into the kitchen to see if I had brought my beloved faucet.
I come home every night absolutely exhausted. The pay might just be worth it, but I can't survive more than two weeks like this... I've already paid the landlord the amount I'm down on because some people were generous enough to leave tips, but... this has not been my week.
Fuck it. Where's my cigarettes...
Natalia, I won't marry you, but if you come back, I promise I'll pay more attention to you.
A-Alfred, is there any chance you'd want to do something...? Be-before my aunt arrives. She's... very... how should I put it... abnormal.
((D-dear god, I am never typing a blog this long again. Even though I probably will.
TL;DR - Francis sexually harassed Ivan and now Aunt Catherine is coming to visit.))
((Click for tl;dr.))
I'm starting to think that a job at McDonald's might've been... appropriate, because clearly, a certain Frenchman isn't. The first day of work was awkward enough... people were asking for dishes they, and I, couldn't properly pronounce. I have yet to find out how you properly pronounce the 'ç' but it's still very complicated and I'm tripping over my words. I spilled ice water down a man's shirt, and the woman next to him was too busy staring at my neck to notice her soiled husband. My scarf is "trashy" and "clashes with my uniform" or something, so I have to resort to pulling up my collar and wearing my tie over the adam's apple of my throat, but even that doesn't fully mask anything. The woman had the nerve to ask me if something happened. I gave her such a look that she didn't leave a tip. And to make things worse, every time I entered that kitchen to retrieve plates of gaudy, overpriced food, I nearly dropped all of it when the SOUS CHEF kept touching me. I think I did drop a plate of Sachertorte the first time he did, but we had half a cake left, so I managed to snag another piece before leaving the kitchen. And this was all at the busiest hour of the night... after spending hours at the office in my Bon Sejour work uniform playing mediator for a couple on the verge of divorce.
So now on the second day... Besides the pompous Englishman and his wife I had the utmost pleasure to serve that evening... I've heard about his habits, I've probably lived through a multitude of them and counseled many who've suffered through these habits, but that sous chef had the nerve to grab my ass. I must've slammed the heel of my penny loafers onto his toe enough times to bruise him because he was limping when he left work that night. He's also lucky to have narrowly escaped the fork I tried to stab his hand with - it landed between his third and forth fingers - but it left enough of an impression to get him to freeze in fear. The fork's tongs are bent at a ninety degree now, but I've stashed it in my apron to fix later if he tries anything more daring.
Now there has to be something illegal about sexually harassing your co-workers, so when I looked at the manual last night, I discovered that the whole thing is written in French. I wasn't about to ask the Sous Chef for help, so I called up my Aunt Catherine in her home in Paris for assistance... she wanted to hear the whole story, so I had no choice to comply... luckily for me she's flying out from Paris tomorrow morning to come pay her "favorite" nephew a little visit. Aunt Catherine acts like my mother sometimes, it's so uncanny... trying to take care of something I could easily take care of if the Sous Chef didn't personally conduct a full body search every time I came into the kitchen to see if I had brought my beloved faucet.
I come home every night absolutely exhausted. The pay might just be worth it, but I can't survive more than two weeks like this... I've already paid the landlord the amount I'm down on because some people were generous enough to leave tips, but... this has not been my week.
Fuck it. Where's my cigarettes...
Natalia, I won't marry you, but if you come back, I promise I'll pay more attention to you.
A-Alfred, is there any chance you'd want to do something...? Be-before my aunt arrives. She's... very... how should I put it... abnormal.
((D-dear god, I am never typing a blog this long again. Even though I probably will.
TL;DR - Francis sexually harassed Ivan and now Aunt Catherine is coming to visit.))