I was thinking that I had a fairly typical day today. Nothing out of the ordinary to report. And then I thought, hmmm? I wonder if other people’s days are filled with any of the following activities: tussles with vodka spigots (the spigot won, but, in the interest of my already fragile self-esteem, we’ll call it a draw), broken glass in the giant ice bin (not once, but twice— both times requiring melting and refilling), an ongoing war with what I am beginning to suspect is the entire fruit fly population of North America (you can go ahead and put a big, fat “W” in the fruit fly column), and the epically important debate concerning ketchup relocation (also ongoing; currently at a Mexican impasse).
We make a concoction of pineapple-infused vodka in a giant glass canister that is outfitted with the most ineffective brass spigot I have ever seen. Forget “righty tighty/lefty loosey”; it’s more like get a wrench and jiggle until the vodka drips out. And I do mean drips. This is why we transfer it into smaller containers. For ease of use. Most of the time, to be honest, I just pour it out of the top, even though this method is both cumbersome and frowned upon. Because it weighs twenty pounds. Because it’s glass. Because I have no patience and won’t ask for assistance. Because it requires six bottles of vodka and three pineapples to fill the foolish thing. Because shattering it on the tile floor is very messy and very costly. I know this because I’ve done it before. Twice. So, today I was using the “drip” method. I was being a good girl. Mainly because the managers were sitting at one of the bar tables and I really didn’t want to have to hear about it. Of course, I still wasted quite a bit of product because all three containers that needed filling overflowed due to operator error. Mine. I simply forgot I was filling them. Three times.
In my defense, this forgetfulness was a direct result of coworkers on two separate occasions precariously balancing dirty bar glasses on the shelf adjacent to the enormous ice bin. I still don’t know if it was the same idiot twice or two different idiots. I wonder if they would do this at home. No matter. Either way, their stupidity resulted in two glasses being broken near the ice, which required yours truly to melt twelve bucketfuls of ice and refill the bin with twelve bucketfuls of ice. This activity is both time-consuming and labor-intensive. Did I mention that I had to do this twice?
The only good thing about this whole process is that I used the opportunity to give the area a damn good cleaning. I was already on a bit of a tear with the cleaning. Because of the fruit flies. Because I hate them. Because I want every last one of them to die a slow and painful death. All efforts to rid the bar area of these horrible pests have, thus far, been unsuccessful. All you need are two survivors with the right “equipment”, if you know what I mean, to copulate and BOOM!, you’re back to square one. It’s a wonder, given how difficult they are to exterminate, that temperate climate dwellers don’t spend their days walking through swarms of them on a daily basis. They don’t survive Winter temperatures. I’ve suggested freezing the bar. I’m told that the logistics of this are problematic. I am longing for the cold snap that will usher in the end of fruit fly season. Also, I’m excited to wear my short chocolate brown Uggs with my cute new cords.
Normally I don’t go in for corduroy; I didn’t set out to buy them. I happened upon them. Serendipitiously. They were abandoned in the dressing room that I used on a recent shopping excursion. I was shopping for other pants. Work pants. This trip became necessary when, a few weeks ago, I was asked to move the ketchup to a new location. In the course of doing so, I somehow managed to get grease all over my pants, which I was unable to remove no matter how many different “fool-proof” methods for doing so can be found on the Word Wide Web. So, I needed new pants. I don’t like clothes shopping to begin with. I hate shopping for work clothes. Hate it! But I had no choice and, on the bright side, managed to find the cute cords. So, maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Well, that’s what I told myself, anyway.
Here’s what wasn’t a blessing of any kind, disguised or otherwise: coming in to find that the “ketchup relocation” didn’t take. I know what you’re thinking. Big deal. I’m not going to bore you with a step-by-step, blow-by-blow description of what it entails to change the location of anything in a corporate kitchen. Suffice it to say that electronic label making is involved. And it has to be done piecemeal, between waiting on tables and all that that entails. So, it’s a bit of a production. Really.
The worst part, aside from ruining my pants, which I’m continuing to put a positive spin on, is that my boss, who had left before the ketchup project had been completed and, I guess, failed to note my progress, decided that I never did it to begin with. Snarky comments were made. Okay, mostly they were made by me and, to be fair, some of them may have been unrelated to ketchup. Still, the ketchup bullshit was the catalyst. In the end I pointed out the new labels and I got the coworker who had taken it upon herself to undo my work to fess up. This same coworker was supposed to move them back to where I put them, where our boss has decided they go. But she didn’t. And I knew she wouldn’t. Because she doesn’t like them there. Boo fucking hoo!
Guess who had to move them back? Yup. I did. Again. Two days after moving them for the second time, didn’t I come in to find them returned to their old location? Yes! Yes I flippin’ did! Once again I was forced to enter into a dialogue about ketchup. I told my boss that I was not moving them again. That it was her job, not mine, to deal with my difficult coworker. She never did. So, the ketchups remained in their old location. Until today. Today my boss decided that “we” would move the ketchups. Guess how much ketchup-related work she did? We’ll see how long they stay there. It’s the last time I will have anything to do with moving them, though. The very last time. Because I do not care where the hell the idiotic ketchups are kept. I really do not.
Yeah. Today was pretty typical. Not perfect, though. On a day where my customers managed not to drive me round the bend, I still had to contend with poorly constructed equipment, pesky flying insects, and cruddy coworkers. I wonder what tomorrow will bring? Might I at least hope to find that the ketchups are enjoying their new home? I’m not going to bet on it.