State of Things

This afternoon I took a big step in trying to improve my work situation, or to at least clarify if being royally screwed on a daily basis is legit in the business world. Turns out getting screwed over is TOTALLY legit and that administration has to start believing that the economy is improving before my salary ever will.

Any hope of curbing my daily urge to call in sick was crushed within 30 minutes. Instead, I was handed a flyer for three free sessions of therapy to help deal with stress at work and the number of a recruiter to help me find another job. Gracias for the help…kind of.

“Rude. Seh-cuuurity.”

Before I get to the ride, consider this the relatively short line to get into the actual seat.

I had a terrible day at the pub thanks to a very rude table.  If I was “Bon Qui Qui”, then getting rid of them would be as easy as calling “seh-cuuurity”.  Instead, my eyes watered and I almost cried.  Rude.

I woke up from the past few days events already teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown.  I was hoping for a smooth brunch shift, but trying to serve people is kind of like a crap shoot—you never know who or how nice your next table will be.  This specific group of people will go down as one of the worst tables I’ve ever had in the service industry.  It also made me wonder if having a second job is worth the crap (more specifically caca del toro) I have to put up with no matter how sporadic that feces may be.

It began with one of the ladies ordering a mimosa with no orange juice, i.e. she only wanted champagne.  Our brunch special is for 50¢ mimosas and inventory/alcohol costs do not allow for a full glass of champagne at that price.  Despite knowing this, I went to the bartender and asked if he would do it anyway.  He says, “Nope.  Can’t.  I’ve been told not to.”

“Alright, man, I’ll tell ‘em.”  I dread the walk back to the table for good reason.  I expect a tantrum and am not disappointed.  All three adults, two women and one man, join in on the complaining.  “We come here every weekend, and she always gets it like that.”

“She can’t have the orange juice because the acid and sugar upsets her stomach.”

“Ugh, they always do this for me.  I don’t understand why they will not do it today.”

“I apologize ma’am, but I asked the bartender and he said he cannot.  Is there something else I can get for you to drink?”

Obviously annoyed she snaps, “No.  I guess I will be having water, rather than the drink I actually want.”

“Okay, ma’am.  I’ll be right back with your water.”

Then the other woman asks for a full bottle of champagne instead and to put it on a separate bill that she will personally take care of.  Anything that gets me away from dealing with them is fine by me.  I run off to ring in the bottle.  The bartender asks, “We’re they upset?”

“Uh, yeah.  Pretty safe bet they were more than upset.”

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In the sea of green, there was lonely “J”.

Saint Patrick’s Day was filled with puke, pervs, the pub, plenty of people, and I survived it all.  Barely.

From women offering to expose themselves for free beer to men wishing I would inspect under their kilt and everything in between, I can definitely say that March 17th, 2009 was not a boring day.

The day began by waking up at 6:30 am and preparing to get as much done as possible in the lab.  My next six hours were spent frantically trying to purify and check my Polymerase Chain Reaction product in order to make Thursday and Friday a little less hectic.  It was still a bit of a spastic scene as I tried to pipette up and down as rapidly as my thumb could bend.  All that effort allowed me to make it out of the lab 45 minutes later than expected, putting me back at the house around 1:15 pm.  Close to 2 pm a manager from the pub called to say things were starting to pick up, and I was more than welcome to come in early.  Seeing as how I procrastinate with almost everything, that gave me about an hour to get “tip-ready”, put together an outfit, and pack all necessary supplies.  From the process of trying to rush around my disaster area of a room I acquired several bruises, a few scrapes, and was able to sweat the majority of my make-up off.  Not the best start.  And, I had to settle on a simple “Jessica thinks tipping is HOT!” for my jars.  Not very creative, but point made.

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