Hilarious Anger

So apparently I’m VERY funny when I’m angry.

This became apparent the other night while I was at work. All I have to say is, I’m so happy that my irritation is entertainment for my co-worker(s).

As you all know, I  now get to make my living working as a Pizza Slut. While I am almost the newest employee, there are several others that work at my place of employment that were hired just days or weeks before I was. Though serving is perhaps not as difficult as some of the other jobs, I would say that I am slightly ahead of some of my fellow newer employees in the area of executing what needs to be done without creating a clusterfuck.

The other night, it was exceptionally busy, as one would expect a pizza joint to be on a Friday night. Since the cooks that were working are both in the process of being trained in as shift managers, (and still learning how to cook without creating many delicious mistakes that we benefit from) things were not going quite as smoothly as everyone would hope. During the chaos, I realized that one of my tables had not yet received their yum-yum chessy breadsticks. When I asked the trainee manager about them, her flustered self stated, “Well, they’ve been done for 20 minutes and you never said anything about them.”

A little pizza kitchen info: there is a little computer screen conveniently placed directly at the finishing end of the pizza oven. Said screen is a beneficial tool that lists (in order) what goes out and where it goes, etc. While this screen is a bit confusing at first, there is really no reason why anyone who has passed 4th grade reading cannot comprehend what is posted on this lovely computer.

That being said, it is the responsiblity of the person cutting and sending out the pizzas to let the servers know when something is up. As I had not received any notice that my cheesy breadsticks were up, I did not find myself at fault that they had not been sent out- especially since they were still sitting in the pan they had been cooked in, and NOT put in a basket appropriate for customers. So when my little 18-yr-old trainee manager snottily mentioned my breadsticks, I simply said, “Well, it doesn’t really make any sense to bitch about it now. I couldn’t exactly dish them up when you were standing in my way, could I? Just give me my damn breadsticks.”

I admit, this is probably not the correct response to give someone who will one day be in charge of me, but I take offense when someone bitches at me when she can’t do her job. Anyhoo, my boss Frenchy was standing there and witnessed the entire exchange, to which he responded later with, “Wow, I’ve never seen that side of you before! That was, wow.”

Here is a little fact that you may not know- I am truly one of the nicest people you will ever meet, and I come complete with smiles which I dish out at an alarmingly accelerated rate. However, I can turn psycho bitch in under 3 seconds when I am hassled unnecessarily. And just to point out, I was just stating a fact.

When I pointed this out to Frenchy, he said, “Yes, well she needed to be put in her place, and you did that. It was just funny.”

In fact, my ire was so amusing, the episode was mentioned by Frenchy to the next shift manager who came in, who replied, “Good for her. I woulda fuckin’ blew a gasket.” I love the people I work with.

P.S. Little 18-yr-old got a talking to about her attitude.

Thought #17

I think this is #17 anyway. I am too lazy to look.

I was just wondering if the woman (or man, it was up in the air) that I waited on last night had one of those McDonald’s coolers inserted into her (his?) body… because it was a bit disturbing to watch her (him?) suck down 9, I repeat 9!!!!!, refills of fruit punch. I  also wonder if that had anything to do with the putrid odor that was being emitted from the booth she was sitting in. After  she left.

It’s Turkey Day!!!!!!!

One of the benefits of living in Sparkleland is the experience of Turkey Day. No, I do not mean the 4th Thursday of November which is America’s excuse at political correctness. I mean the random day throughout the year when I decide to make an ENTIRE Thanksgiving-like feast, and proceed to share it with… no one except the people I live with.

The tradition of Turkey Day started when I came up with the brilliant idea of seeing whether or not I could complete the task of preparing almost every dish associated with Thanksgiving, at one time. This occurred a couple years ago in March  and is best  forgotten really. I found that I was not, at that time, ready to host any family holidays. I was unaware that one must give a 25 lb. turkey sufficient time to thaw (as in 3 or 4 days), instead I tried cooking it after letting it unfreeze for about 2 hours. Needless to say, the bloody frozen innard part of my bird was not appropriate for eating. As for the rest of the dinner? The stuffing was dry, the gravy was lumpy and greasy, the green bean hotdish was runny, and I burnt the brown-and-serve rolls.I  remember that day and cringe- after waiting 7 hours for the turkey to be done (which never happened), all I had to feed my Beloveds was a mountain of mashed potatoes. As my Rockstar put it, “That was kind of a disaster.”

Last year, Turkey Day fell on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I realize this doesn’t make alot of sense, since copious amounts of turkey were to be eaten the next day. My Rockstar amiably went along with it, despite the past wretched experience, because he knew that I really wanted to try again. Luckily, I spent numerous hours researching turkey cooking, and the resulting affect was surprisingly edible. However, I did end up throwing half the bird away when I couldn’t figure out how to carve it efficiently.

Turkey Day falls on today this year simply because my 20 lb. birdy I picked up wasn’t thawed out yesterday. Unless you have prepared a store-bought turkey before, you cannot understand the disgusting thrill of sticking your hand up a mammoth bird’s ass and pulling out all that nasty grossness that only Swedish people eat. (giblets and such) Since I had the assistance of my Rockstar’s Daughter in preparing Bob for baking before school today, (yes, I name my turkeys)  I was bombarded with squeals of “He’s pooping!” and “That’s DEEEE-GUSTING!”  as I was pulling the slimy conveniently- prepared gravy packet out of Bob’s rectum. (which Bob greatly appreciated, having done a little Turkey Jig in celebration)

Of course, it would make sense to prepare my Bob in a similiar fashion as last year, since Josie (last year’s turkey) turned out so well, but I have never really been one to do things that are sensible. Instead, I cruised online to find turkey baking instructions, and settled on some that require NO water in the pan. I hope Bob doesn’t dry out. After cutting the all-natural plastic cuffs that held Bob’s legs together, (oops) I re-tied them together with flower wire. (How handy of me). I guess we’ll find out if this year’s Turkey Day is a bust in 7 hours….