Do you ever have those days when you simply cannot remember which day of the week it is? Please say yes. I have them all of the time. This weekend has been horrible. On Friday, someone asked me a question about if I had been in church or not the past Sunday; I got what I’m sure was a strange thinking/horror stricken look on my face as I asked, “wait, what was Sunday?” I really had no idea it was Friday. Today I’m on track, though, since we’re on a fresh schedule sheet for the week. (You know it’s summer when you start to keep track of time via your job.) This was probably at least partially due to the fact that my grandmother was living in my room over the weekend, meaning that I was sleeping on a couch. This wouldn’t bother me except that this couch is in a room right off the kitchen which doesn’t have a door, so on top of sleeping on a lumpy couch, I had to fight my brother to stop watching TV so I could go to bed, bat the cat away from my head at four in the morning, and then be woken up in five minute increments from six until I finally dragged myself off the couch by my noisy brother and father banging every possible cupboard and opening squeaky doors. I also don’t do well when I can’t have some peaceful solitude every day, which became impossible. By this morning, I was so frazzled that I felt like bursting into tears, but instead had to hop out of my car to go into work. Luckily, I have a hilarious boss, friends for coworkers, and some quiet intervals with just me and the dishes.
Work, as I predicted, is once again full of drama, but I think the only safe bit to post came up today. I was in the dining room (along with a coworker that I will refer to as The German, even though he isn’t German) when a man came in with a young woman who looked like she might be his daughter or some such relation. This is normal—nothing to think twice about German starts to take their order, but doesn’t seem to hear what the man asked for. Rather than write “the man” for this whole story, I’ll call him “Psycho”—you might understand this in a minute. Anyway, German didn’t hear, so he asks “what?” Sure, he could have said “pardon” or “excuse me, I didn’t quite get that,” but there wasn’t anything off about his tone; he simply didn’t hear. Psycho speaks a bit louder:
“I want a black raspberry, medium, on a plate.”
German and I were sort of in shock at that last part. I mean, we get some insanely bizarre requests all of the time, but never before have we heard of someone ordering their ice cream on a plate. I could understand it if were for a dog, but it wasn’t. German, still confused over this boggling order, asks him what he said. Again. This time Psycho basically shouted it at him, with hand motions. With a likely bewildered look on my face, I swept out of the dining room to carry out his order, all the while thinking something along the lines of “what a psycho jerk.”
Okay, that might not seem like a weird order to those of you have never had a job like this, but let me assure you, it’s weird. That along with the snapping at German has earned him the title of “Ice-Cream-On-A-Plate Nazi.” Or something like that.
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