To Days Gone By

I miss the days I spent surrounded by a plethora of beautiful used books waiting to be re-boughten.

I miss stashing yet another book I couldn’t afford underneath the counter, and re-adjusting the books that were already there when the entire pile threatened to tumble down around my feet. Instead, I now only stash endless amounts of pizza in my gut, which I’m sure will have a crippling effect on my digestive system at some point.

I miss the thrill of a customer bringing in the books their child is outgrown, and I miss the feeling of sheepishness that would come over me when I realized said books were titles I could never live without, despite the fact that I am a mature adult. (Most of the time.)

I miss the customers who would stop in just to visit with me- the older blonde woman who raved about my shoes to her sickly husband; Dino, who always called me Sweety; and even the son of the Alzheimer’s man, who had the gall to leave me to babysit his ailing father. Now, no one raves about my outfits, because who would have anything nice to say about a grease-stained manager shirt that refuses to stay buttoned at my breast, no matter how many times I safety pin it?

I miss being able to wear my collection of adorably awesome shoes every single day. Instead, I now must don my hideous black non-slip work shoes.

I miss going to work and being left to my own devices. Now, I have a health inspector looking over my shoulder at every turn.

I miss having a chance to read all the books I would never buy, (as if there really is such a thing). Instead, I get to read applications of people applying for delivery drivers and servers, and I remain unimpressed when they have no previous experience and use their parents as references.

I miss the occassional stop I would make to the Pretzel Maker, where I would purchase deliciously-fresh pretzel bites. Now, I generally get to eat the non-fresh pizza of customers who forgot to pick up their orders.

I miss smelling nice. Because no matter how much perfume I spray on myself, there is always the underlying smell of D’odour du Pepperoni.

I miss arranging books in such a way that will catch one’s eye. I now get to arrange the freezer in such a way that will keep the frozen pizza dough from tumbling out every time one opens the door.

Does anybody own a bookstore that they need a Sparklebumps in?

Diary of a Pizza Slut

Dear, Diary,

Last night was my first night of closing at my new place of business, the pizza joint. Depite the fact that it’s been almost two years since I was last a waitress, I managed to refrain from dumping a tray-ful of pop on a table of customers, and didn’t screw up any orders. No, it is NOT hard to bring people food and refill their beverages, so it still astonishes me when I go out to eat and get horrid service. Really?! I realize that discussing with your co-workers the latest haircut Justin Beaver is sporting is pertinent knowledge to obtain, but when I have sucked down 2 refills of Diet Coke and need another to wash down the leftover dinners of my Beloveds, you best get your little college-student petutie at my service if you want a tip!

Anyhoo, there were a few things last night that are common restauraunt knowledge that I had forgotten:

The main one being that I am completely accident- prone.

While folding pizza boxes, I managed to slice my hand open with cardboard. I would have much preferred being stabbed in the eyeball with a dirty fork which would then become infected so that my brains seep out my eye socket. The cut happens to be on my hand right where the children lines are, so if I happen to go to a palm reader this week, I will not even be able to get an accurate reading.

Secondly, I was reminded that things fresh out of the oven tend to be a tad warm. This became glaringly apparent when my boss Frenchy dropped a pile of pizza pan thingys, and I stooped to pick them up. With every fiber of my being, I restrained myself from shrieking, “THOSE ARE FUCKIN’ HOT!!!!!” I will not be maing any lewd hand gestures at women this week, as my index and middle fingers on my left hand will be stiff from the scar tissue that will be forming.

The third and final thing I was reminded of was that men cannot aim their little pee-pees directly into a urinal. Instead they tend to point them about three inches short of the desired spot (directly at the floor) as evidenced by the puddle of piss I got to mop up.

One new thing I learned was that answering the phone was just as scary as I anticipated.

There is supplied a little prompt sheet to assist you in answering the phones, saying such things as:

Thank you for calling ________

My name is ________

Would you like to hear our specials?

It, however, tells you nothing about what you should say when the archaic stone-age computer won’t let you type in the order, or what to say when the stoner you’re talking to orders something that’s not on the menu. It was longest phone conversation of my life that only lasted a minute.

On the other hand, Diary, I was thrilled to make enough in tips to fill the 100 gallon gas tank on my POS car. XOXO