Trials and Tribulations

There have recently been several small events at the restaurant that on their own, don’t entirely seem to be that bad.  Though all together, I feel a little miserable.  I know, I know—I have no right to complain. I do have a job, after all.  But that doesn’t mean that I can’t have my moments of slight gloominess.

First, I keep dropping things; namely, bottles of ketchup.  It isn’t really helping me make any friends, as no one likes to step over (or clean) shattered glass bottles and copious amounts of ketchup.  It’s not easy to pick up and the surrounding area always smells funny afterward.

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Furthermore, I work with a bunch of douche bags. I apologize, it’s not very lady-like to call anyone a douche bag, but I don’t believe there is a more appropriate name to refer to these spoiled, entitled, cocky idiots.  When I call to the dish-boy to say that the twenty ounce glass rack is full and a waiter puts on an overly girl voice to mimic my words, I am not a happy girl.  Nor do I like to be referred to as “bro” or “dude.”  And I certainly don’t appreciate it when they fake me out by pretending to trip me as I carry a tray up the steps.  The worst part is that everyone adores this particular band of boys, and thus I have no one at work to properly commiserate with.  I’ll surely be outted if I confide in anyone.

And finally, apparently it’s a crime to make friends with a cook.  I fear that the one person I like seeing at work will no longer recognize our mutual acquaintance, since I’m fairly certain I heard the other cooks say, “oh, look, your girlfriend is here,” before running out the alley door last night.  Sigh.  

Those are just a few quick anecdotes from spring break.  I didn’t even delve into the dropping-spaghetti-on-the-veal story, or how I spent an entire evening listening to waiters tell me how “no way, dude, you’ve got marinara sauce on your boob.” 

Happy break, everyone—I hope you had a better time than I did.