Pest Control

I arrived at work today with my favorite new drink from Caribou Coffee- a large sparkling peach black tea- to find the pest control guy awaiting me. Not only was the normal dude there, but I was lucky enough to be allotted TWO pest control guys on this very special of days. (To be clear, it is not because my restaurant is overrun with bugs, but because the old guy is letting go of some of his responsibility.) I was momentarily distracted as I wondered what possessed people to become pest control personnel in the first place, before I let them in to go about their buggy rounds.

I began my work day with my mind wandering about pest guys and bugs and traps before I unintentionally came up with the most outstanding of ideas. There should be a pest control company for PEOPLE!

Sure, the traps would have to be live traps, so as not to have any type of homicide law suits on one’s hands, and instead of fumigating said humanic pests, perhaps only tranquelizing. But think about it!

Everyone has that one really annoying person at work who is very loud, and who unremittingly will voice their opinions without being asked for them. They usually are quite vocal about following the rules, and are quick to point out those who are failing to do so. Generally, this pesty person is so busy pointed out everyone else’s transgressions that they have little time to complete whatever work it is they are getting paid to do. Wouldn’t it be lovely if you could just call up your designated Homosapien Pest Control team and have them come out to tranquelize your little problem?

Too, the noisy, rude people you sometimes see in stores who are ranting endlessly that they have been wronged in some shopping botheration? Not a problem! Just activate the newest app on your Iphone 7 and watch that loser be carted away to a padded room until they’ve calmed down enough to realize that they were blowing shit out of proportion.

The live traps would be solely for the unintelligent of our human races, the people who are annoying because of their complete lack of brain cells. Perhaps boxes could be set up around various street corners, filled with sparkly things or copious amounts of money- something to lure the brain dead inside. Announcements could be made ahead of time, letting people know that said boxes were traps for the non-bright of our species. That way, there could be no wrongful deaths and/or entrapments, since people were warned. What to do with these dumb dumbs once they have been captured is still an issue.
Whatever the case, I must say that this idea must be further developed.

Boozehound

Who doesn’t need a drink

after the Big Boss shows up

at work?

Luckily,

the liquor store is located

across the street.

How many times have I

looked longingly through the finger-smeared windows

during a crapper shift and thought

how much better work would be

if flasks were mandatory?

I sit for seven long minutes

trying to cross the street in my

yellow truck;

Finally,

I’m wandering aimfully

through the wine aisle,

choosing my poison based on

how many proof the label advertises.

I’ve noticed the strongest alcohols

have ugly labels,

so I make a point to buy a

bottle of wine sporting

Norma Jean.

 

As The People Sleep

The downside to working

the night shift:

The only people awake when you get off

are drunks, insomniacs, vampires,

and you.

Sleep would come

Unbidden,

If I bothered to lie down for a short second,

but being left alone for the weekend,

and wound up from unsatisfying work

leaves me awakened and

buzzed on exhaustion.

So I

partake in Alone Time Behavior.

Bad teen comedies are my guilty pleasure,

and I wonder inanely if your newly done

self pedicure looks as good as the girl’s on

the T.V.

Before you know it,

it’s 4 AM,

and you’ve got less than three hours before you

have to pretend

you’re a Church Person.

Just enough time to

masturbate.

 

Apply Now!

And I have.

I find it a little disconcerting when I’ve taken to applying  for jobs on my days off as a Pizza Slut. Can job apply-ery be considered a hobby? I believe so, especially when I can recite from memory the exact start and end dates of my last FOUR jobs. (My Rockstar was slightly impressed at that feat.)

It’s not that I despise my current job- ok, that’s a lie. So I despise my current job, but not for the reasons one may perhaps think. It’s true that the lack of tipping going on is at an all time high, and it’s also true that despite the fact that I told my boss last week that I’m no longer in charge, I still seem to be the only one who knows what the fuck is going on there. But if you were to ask me why it is I so desperately seek new employment, I would tell you it is because I wish to have a job that I shower at BEFORE I go to work, not after.

I remember now the reason I so had come to hate my old restaurant job. It is because the stench of grease and sustenance never fully washes away in the cleansing waters of the bath. I loofah (is that a verb?) like crazy, and yet I find myself sniffing my pits wondering if I stink as bad as I think I do.

This was never a problem at my bookstore. Sure, old books have a distinct scent to them, but not one that gone unwashed will make you smell like an athlete’s jock strap.

And so, I decided today during my search for the perfect job that isn’t writing, I shall not lower my standards to apply at any job that causes me to break a sweat on a daily basis. (It’s disturbing how completely lazy that sounds to me.) Luckily, Barnes and Nobles is once again hiring, so that was my first application of the day. Too, I found that ULTA was hiring, and since the girls that work there are always beautiful in looks and smell, I said to myself that I must get that job! After pooh-poohing the idea of becoming a breast imager (while the concept sounds extremely interesting, I am certain there must be some sort of schooling needed there), I decided that I’ve had enough for the day.

Now I sit with fingers crossed, hoping no interviewers ask me the reason for my termination from the bookstore…

Adventures of Pizza Slut

To keep from being depressed about being the Head Pizza Slut, I have decided to compose a graphic novel based loosely on my adventures. (Minus pictures.)

Pizza Slut was all-powerful and could multitask like nobody’s business. She had the super powers of making unhappy customers satisfied, and of get the most lazy of employees to do the most disgusting of chores like scrubbing toilets and scraping crusted cheese off of pizza pans by using her secret weapons- her gargantuan boobies, which were only kept secret because of the extra safety pins she had to use in between the buttons of her managerial superhero uniform. On occasion, the buttons were unable to hold and would bust open, resulting in extra cleaning tasks being completed by those employees lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the semi-perfect cleavage. P. Slut’s only weakness was French fries. Oh, and attention given to her by anyone even remotely attractive. (Even the unattractive ones would sometimes distract her from her superhero duties.)

Anyhoo, on this particular day, P. Slut was flying around her restaurant putting proper dating labels on product and proofing dough, when she received a call from a completely unsatisfied customer.

“I am IRATE!” The customer screamed into the phone, while P.Slut tried to keep the rolling of her eyes from transmitting across the phone lines. “My pizza was made with less than the proper amount of pepperonis, and even though I ordered it easy on the pepperonis, I INSIST you make me a new one!”

P.Slut took a deep breath before she mustered up her most aquiescent customer service voice.

“I am SO sorry, ma’am, there is no excuse for such ridiculous mistakes, ESPECIALLY when you ordered it light pepperoni. My cooks OF COURSE should be able to read your mind when you order in such a way, and should surely have put the normal amount of pepperoni on your pizza. I will have them re-make it post-haste, and will fly it out to you myself.”

“Well, you had better just do that, and don’t think I’ll be giving you a tip for delivering it either. I have to buy my Pall Malls, after all.” The customer banged the phone down in P.Slut’s ear, and within moments, P.Slut was flying her super-awesome yellow Hover-Ranger to the customer’s house, Full-on pepperoni pizza in hand.

“Here you go ma’am.” P.Slut smiled politely, and bent over just enough for the woman to catch a glimpse of her super-human cleavage. The woman had been going to complain, but when she saw the most awesome boob-butt, she thought to herself that she’d better not, because there’s no telling when a woman with great tits is going to unleash a royal ass-whooping on someone who really needs it. The woman closed the door without a word, and P. Slut wiped her brow. She had once again saved her restaurant from receiving another Customer Incident Report.

The End.

The Concept of Caring

I had a talk with an employee the other day, and it was brought to my attention that the fact that I “don’t care about my job may have a negative affect on my employees.”
Now, to be fair, he was only quoting me about the “not caring” part. Because since I have been in my powerless position of power as Head Pizza Slut, the fact that I get none of the benefits to do all the work has made me somewhat of an underachiever as far as making my store “all it can be”. I believe my exact words were something along the lines of- “If my boss had found somebody better than me, he probably would have replaced me by now.”
It’s true, this is a terrible attitude to have, but after numerous conversations with my Boss With the Gorgeous Blue Eyes, he has confessed that he would rather have my half-assery as a faux general manager with my full amazing personality and specific set of job skills, than a manager giving his complete dedication with half as much personality and less multi-tasking ability than I. (At least until June) In other words, I don’t completely suck. Hence, I have come to the conclusion that I needn’t strain myself, as I will be getting paid the same amount of dollars despite my performance.
While there are those who may balk at such an attitude, I must point out that I have been begging for a demotion for the last six months- ever since I realized that I could have the same amount of pay with a quarter of the responsibility by just being a plain old server. So when my co-worker told me he may have to call my boss about my attitude, I said, “Please do.”
I decided long ago that in order to be the “manager” that I “should” be, I would have to work 80 hours a week for at least six months to ensure that everyone was trained and performing their duties to my satisfaction. While I have the work ethic to support such a commitment, I do not have the desire- at least not for pizza. Put me in a bookstore, or a shoe store, and I will gladly “care” enough to want to be there 700 hours a week. Hell, I wouldn’t even need any other employees in that case.
When I made this confession to my boss back then, and explained that my efforts would best be used elsewhere, he understood. Yet he has failed to replace me with someone more “caring”. And so, I am convinced he is resigned to my position on the matter.
In the end, I have composed a list of things more worthy of my caring efforts than giving away free pizza to unsatisfied customers: (because I have to give them free food, even when I KNOW that shit wasn’t fucked up)
1. Finishing my book(s)- I know it’s getting annoying that you all haven’t had a chance to run out and buy my best-selling novel that hasn’t been finished yet.
2. My family- ‘Twould be lovely to take my Rockstar’s Daughter to the zoo or for he and I to start the band we’ve wanted to for the last THREE YEARS….
3. Bloggery- because, after all, I have fans and shit.
4. Exercising- or baking cupcakes. (I lean toward the latter)
5. Becoming amazingly and ridiculously famous- I’m sure this would come with the publishing of my book(s).

P.S. To be clear, another employee has pointed out that I’m “the worst boss ever. For the company, that is. I’m great for the employees.”

Blue Cheese Money Shot

While I am quite adept at multi-tasking in a restaurant setting better than nearly anyone, I do not deny that I come with an accident-prone edge. To put it mildly, I am a giant klutz. If I had a dime for every time I’ve produced a bruise from running my ass into the corner edge of a table or counter while at work, I’d have… well, I’d have alotta dimes. Too, I am very good at spilling things.
That brings me to the story of the day.
Though I was a bit upset that tonight was not a busy night for making tips, I did not mind the idea of going home early because of the slow business. I was switching over the salad bar, intent on rapidly finishing my server duties and departing before a party of 15 children or a hockey team came in, when the gallon of blue cheese dressing slipped out of my hand and proceeded to explode (yes, explode) over the cooler. When I say “over the cooler”, what I really mean is over the cooler, floor and walls, two carts of lidded dough that sat in the explosive’s path, and all over me.
A driver opened the cooler door right at that exact moment and said, “Sparkle, who’d you get excited?”
It is true, as disgusting as it sounds, the cooler did in fact look as though a mass orgy had just been conducted within. I took a picture to share with friends, intent with using the punchline, “This is what happens with the boys work with me.” As I mopped up the gooey white mess from the floors, the walls, the carts, and my hair, the only thing I could be thankful for was the fact that the shit didn’t get in my eye.

Depressing

I can’t decide which is more depressing:

The fact that it’s payday, and I can pay my rent and truck payments and have just enough money left over to get gas for the next two weeks so I can get to work, or the fact that I’m actually considering going out to the corner by work where the resident homeless guy stands with his sign and asking him for tips on how to appear pitiful…

Stress Outlet

It’s happened.
I have become like everyone else.
To quote Inigo Montoya- “Let me sum up.”
I have always prided myself on the fact that I do not outwardly stress about things. While stressed women everywhere are going around being grumpy bitches who lash out at unassuming spouses, and retail associates, and Pizza Sluts, I have always (mostly) remained calm and sensible. (I think) Sadly, due to circumstances beyond my control, I seem to be melting into one of those terrible harpies.
While I cannot deny that being the head Pizza Slut has immensely helped to pay off the $2800 I owed to Victoria’s Secret, the bullshit that comes along with it has worn thin what little sanity I possessed initially.
Add to that the fact that my Ex (and every other person of child-bearing age) is having a baby, and that it’s been almost a month since Christmas and I have yet to give my friend Delightful her Christmas present, and my beloved brother keeps calling me and I haven’t energy to have a four-hour-long phone conversation with him, and my Rockstar’s Daughter decided to freak out at me this morning because I told her to brush her teeth….
*breathbreathbreathbreath*
My once-curly hair has become an outlet for my stress. True, having bleached it in order to dye it a beautiful Little Mermaid-esque color probably didn’t help, but in the last week, it’s become ‘Fro Nation up in here. And not the good kinda ‘fro. Imagine luminous red flames being smothered by the foam of a powerful fire extinguisher, and you have perfectly imagined the coiffure that sits upon my head. My hair is simply relaying to the world exactly what I’m feeling in my over-thinking head and my exhausted heart. So the question is, if I shave it all off, will the stress go away?

I’m Goin’ To Church, Dammit!

Surprising as it may seem, I grew up in church. I believe one of the many policies of becoming a member at my childhood church was that members (ha, I said member) were to be present any and all times that the church doors were open. In a Baptist church, that is every Sunday morning for Sunday School and church, Sunday evenings for worship,  and Wednesday nights for Prayer Meetings. Yes, there were other times as well when one is expected to be there, but these three were considered the most essential.

When one grows up in this environment, and is also subject to church school where Bible class is during first period, and chapel is every Wednesday, needless to say, by the time I was 18, I was kinda burnt out on God. Forgive me if you find that to be sacreligious; let me re-phrase. I was burnt out on God in the way He was presented to me. I believe it was the very first Sunday after I had moved out of my parents and gotten my own place that I suspended my church attendance. For the next seven years.

Let me be clear, God has always been with me. He was in every person who showed me noticeable kindness throughout those years, and He understood that my maniac father had just shoved to much “religion” down my throat. Patient as He is known to be, God was just waiting until I wasn’t sick of the idea of Him anymore.

Then one day, I was looking in the local newspaper, and saw an ad : Pianist Wanted. I was ecstatic at the thought that I might actually be able to get paid to do something that I loved. I called the number and discovered the church in need was that of my Grammy and Gramps and most of my Aunties. “What good luck!” I thought. “I shall be able to get paid and also to visit my dearest family members at the same time!” Upon my stellar audition, I was of course immediately offered the job.

At the time, I was just newly married. Though he said he wanted to start going to church, for the next 3 1/2 years, my hubby only attended church with me once; when I gave a fund-raising Nutcracker concert. This didn’t really bother me too much, until I was working 80 hours a week and Sundays were my only day off. Then I began to get the mindset that if he wanted to spend time with me, the least he could do was spend an hour sitting next to me while learning about God. He stated that there were always better things to do on Sunday mornings. Like sleep.

Once I had left my heathenous marriage, I vowed that I would never again marry someone who wasn’t at least willing to attend church with me, even if only sometimes. To my surprise, only two weeks after the announcement that I had left my husband, my Rockstar decided he wanted to go with me. (To impress me). While it was an interesting time trying to explain a new man two weeks after I had left the man I’d been with for 12 years, I was greatly pleased anyway.

Since then, my Rockstar has decided my church is old and boring and completely on the way to death. He attends sometimes still, but only to amuse me. It’s true, I have moved further away from the church than when I started playing, but it also is the only time that I get to see my fam, so I continue. I’ve tried explaining this to my Rockstar, but you understand how obtuse men can be at times.

I fully understand the allure of football and NASCAR on Sunday mornings, so I respect my Rockstar’s decision to opt out of church frequently. However, I do NOT respect the fact that he is ok with having a disrespectful 10 year old who has no spiritual guidance. The first Sunday after I had moved in with them, the Child begged to go to church with me, but he wouldn’t let her. Now, she whines if they come with, because it has not been instilled in her that it’s good for her.

I’m not saying I want her to grow to become a Bible-thumping wife of a preacher and to bear offspring to become spiritual minions, no. But I find nothing wrong with raising a child to “Do unto others” and all that bullshit. He’s not teaching her at home, so I think perhaps civil people at a church would be a good influence.

I don’t know if because of the way I was raised, I now find comfort in being in church on Sunday, or if it’s the fact that every person there is thrilled that I bring to them my musical talent and fashion flair- which feeds my Histrionic Monster that’s deep inside. Either way, it’s my thing, so when my Rockstar shot me a text yesterday what a beautiful day it was to not be in church, I told him to shut the fuck up and stop pissin’ me off. I guess it really is true what they teach you in Sunday school- Raise a child up in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it. They just forgot to mention what that child might do on Saturday night. 😉