Tuesday, December 6, 2011

I will no longer be smelling like a deep-fried onion: I'm employed!

Hello, my name is Sadie. You might remember me from such careers as "Wild Bill's Burgers' Scene/Emo High School Waitress", "From Lifeguard to Headguard Then Demoted Back To Lifeguard" or "Lesbian UPS Truck Driver's Package Runner". I'd like to inform you today that as of November 28th, 2011, I have hung my part-time-job hat (knock on wood, touch a screw, hold your breath while driving through a graveyard, keep your freaking umbrella closed indoors and rub that lucky rabbit's foot raw).

I'm on day 8 as AW Media's Office Manager (plug), and while I would rather impale myself into a pit of letter openers than write invoices and manage payroll - I'm beyond thrilled (THRILLED) to have this job. Not only do I plan to kick the ass of all things administrative, but I plan to do it with the swiftness of a ninja so I can wiggle my way into the pages of the magazine. I want to contribute less to the filing cabinet, and more to the final product.

In light of my recent career-switch. I'd like to take this time and dedicate this blog post as a written memorial highlighting my soul-sucking, part-time past job life. Let the pitiful hilarity ensue.

The Early Age: Wild Bill was never really that wild.
I'm sure all of my high school friends can agree that Wild Bill was about as wild as a jar of pickles. But despite his resemblance to Bill Nye the Science Guy, the man knew burgers. My most fond memory of my working stint at Wild Bill's was getting the esteemed pleasure of serving one particular gluttonous contestant of the Monster Burger Challenge. First of all, the Monster Burger Challenge was a time-sensitive competition that summoned eaters to scarf down 3 1/3lb patties and 1 whole bun in 10 minutes or less. Second of all, disgusting. If you successfully achieved the goal (of which my dear friend Cameron Gregory puked and paled in comparison. 3 times.) you got your picture on the wall (sadly, Cameron never did). As I said, the walking seventh-sin came in and asked for the Monster Burger. With fries. I brought it out to him and we started the timer. After folding each patty into quarters and soaking the bun in his glass of water, Porky the Pig managed to finish the burger and fries in 2 minutes. 

2 gargling, snorting, panting minutes. 

He then wiped off his sweatstache and asked for a dessert menu.

The Demotion Age: I should have pooped in the pool while I had the chance.
Due to the longevity of my employment as a Wendy Peffercorn stand-in with the City of Hurst at the Central Aquatics Center (RIP Skin Cells: 2004-2010), I have concocted a list of favorite daily tasks/events/pastimes that seemed to never get old despite my ending salary being $9.97 and my age of resignation being 22. The list goes as follows:
  • Babies, toddlers, children, tweens, pre-teens and foreigners never understanding that every time they take a fat dump in the pool, we have to evacuate the water for 30 minutes, giving them a self-established timeout and us an opportunity to do even less work.
  • Having a tab at the concession stand and not paying it the entire summer.
  • Asking women of all shapes, shades and sizes to wear a City of Hurst t-shirt because we can see their saucer nipples through their sheer thong bikini. 
  • That summer Cameron and I had a crush on each other. While not an impressive burger-eater, he always had those chiseled pecs and an endearing incapability to effectively serve a volleyball.
  • Playing an intense game of sand volleyball on rainy days. Also, watching Kathryn Wren do rain dances to the tune of "When The Thunder Rolls" by Garth Brooks while everyone else played volleyball.
  • Hating the Asian family of 42 that came in 30 minutes prior to closing time. Every single night.
  • Playing baseball, a sophisticated game of fencing, or jousting my arch nemesis with the Children's Pool measuring sticks.
  • My amazing, beautiful, Brazilian-like tan.
  • When patrons would clap after I heroically saved a drowning child or stereotyped adult.
  • The inservices when I was Guard of the Week.
  • The inservices when my best friend Whitley would rant about lifeguards less perfect than she.
  • The inservices when we would go down the slides naked.
  • Summers when my closest friends were my superiors.
  • The summer I was promoted.
  • The summer I was demoted.
And it all kind of went downhill from there.

The Lezbiazoic Age: What can brown do for you?
For a couple of Christmas breaks during college, I worked as a package runner for UPS. Actually, Cameron got me the job. Add "in the vocational know" to his list of qualities. Anyway, from 8am until 8pm I was running boxes (probability of the boxes being full of drugs: high) from a giant brown truck to various locations. Some of these locations included my friends' houses, some of these locations included the mall. You can imagine my 19-year-old dismay when I would catch eyes with people I knew who, unfortunately, noticed that it was indeed me sprinting through the mall, or hurdling up and down front walkways, donned in a dook-colored outfit made for a man who was shaped like a rhombus.

One Christmas, though, I had the spicy titillation of working with Gretchen Vandyke.*

*I can't remember her name, but I will work through my depression/early onset Alzheimer's and create a pseudonym for story's sake.

To sum up my lesbian UPS adventures, Gretch would often discuss her personal life with her mistress of 20 years prior. Seeking my womanly wisdom, she and I would go to lunch at any of these family-friendly locations:
  • Buffalo Wild Wings
  • Hooters
  • Chili's Too!
One particular afternoon, as we were delighting in our boneless wings, she received a "hella funny" text from one of her "dudes." Why I gave her my personal cell number I will forever wonder, but the message was instantly forwarded. A picture message! How fun. A picture message with sounds that reached the loudest decibel that could measure utter embarrassment immediately upon opening! How mortifying. It's a hazy memory, but I know the text said a variation of: "HEY EVERYONE, I LIKE GAY PORN. ALL THE TIME. EVERY DAY, Y'ALL!" And with the push of the down button, there lay a graphic picture of something to the Brokeback effect on my Nokia Brick's screen. 

Gretch wound up tipping me 100 extra dollars after my seasonal schedule ended. I wound up blocking any more forwarded texts from her hella funny dudes. 

The Dark Age: Outback and Outofmymind.
We all remember The Outback Chronicles, hmm? While I feel I was employed with that corporation for far too long, I will say I gained some sodium-laden weight, and some valuable insight from my relationship with waitressing. Such key knowledge includes:

  • Knowing just how disgusting restaurant kitchens are.
  • Understanding that butter is the main dish, and vegetables are the garnish.
  • Servers who spit in your food are real. And they are rampant.
  • If you order something that comes in multiples (fries, chips, vegetable medleys), you're likely missing 4 or 5 pieces from your plate before you even get your plate.
  • Ordering drinks that don't come straight from the fountain (excluding the bar), or ordering 2 drinks at once is a spit-worthy offense. 
  • Does your plate look immaculately displayed? Your food was probably been poked and prodded by bare, unwashed fingers. 
  • Realizing that there is at least 1000mg of sodium in everything you order.
  • If I ever catch you not tipping the appropriate amount, I will impale you into the aforementioned pit of letter openers.
  • And lastly, grasping that no matter how much you complain, you still don't matter. You're an amoeba in the restaurant world. And, again, spit-worthy. 

But I digress.