(no subject)
In the wake of everything I know about myself, other people, and the world at large, I feel kind of shitty complaining about my job. My job that everyone else who has ever worked in foodservice is telling me I should get a rib removed to self-fellate, how dare I, that just doesn’t happen.
So I feel bad, a bit, complaining here. Still going to.
When I come into work after the weekend (after being forced to leave at 3:30 when my schedule says 4; no big deal, that; I get the concept of overhead and labor vs. profits, but my endless greed for 34 working hours will not go unpunished.)
And apparently Friday was such a massive shitshow that most of what I have done by 3 PM was undone and left so. And then a service came in the middle of the night to clean the grease baffle filters, they did so against everything else I had cleaned so I had to re-clean all of THAT, because they, in their cleaning process, had splattered hot brown grease all over most of what I clean before I leave. So, imagine doing everything you’re supposed to do before you leave a shift. Now imagine doing that 9 times in 30 minutes because it’s all unusable.
Then imagine a pan of zitti is being thrown out and you take a spoonful of it for yourself because you could’t afford breakfast that morning, and then having wild-steel-blue-eyed faux-Ray Liotta start to walk past, turn his head, freeze on you, and shriek “YOU CAN’T EAT OUR PROFITS!!”
I half-gargle-yell back “what profits? Upstairs made $150 total today!” and defiantly, angrily rammed the too-large spoonful into my mouth.
And superfluously, finally, imagine bending over to pick up two lids that have fallen off a shelf and having a 55-year-old Mexican man with 6 gold teeth grab your hips and dry-hump you in front of everyone, and everyone thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. You have no real dignity at this point, so you do what comes naturally, and throw whatever you have in your hands in any direction, head to your station and start crying as quietly as you possibly can. But, you know, I’m too sensitive and no fun.
My boss tells me that if I want more hours, I am welcome to take one night shift a week, an extra 3 and one-half hours, but first I have to clock out at exactly 3 PM and clock back in at 5:30. So, you know, just piddle around for 2:30 someplace, just stay away from where you work.
So, I again feel bad complaining. Things could always be worse. They could be better, too, though, and I guess wishing for that is greedy.