If you come into your local DD and ask for a Medium Lite French Vanilla and Hazelnut Iced Coffee with four Splendas and skim milk and then round it off with three more equally complex orders shot at me one by one without mercy, I may very well drop down on my knees in the middle of the slippery coffee-stained floor and blow my head off right then and there (okay, I was kidding about the last part). Never being a coffee drinker myself, I never understood that some people want their coffee a CERTAIN WAY and that if it is not that CERTAIN WAY, it simply will not do. I think of coffee as coffee. No matter how many glugs of cream and mountains of sugar you add to it, it is still spit-it-out-of-your-mouth intolerable. *sigh* How sheltered I was.
I’ll not go into specifics. Maybe another day, I’ll supply you with witty and insightful tales a la Waiter Rant and Barmaid Blog (two very well-written blogs by the way, bitching about the service industry).
Work is…well, work. It’s tiring. It’s eye-opening. It occasionally scares the shit out of me when I blank out and can’t tell a medium cup from a large and the customer is standing there thinking, “Well, this is great. My Labrador Retriever who drools into his water bowl could tell the difference.” Is it fun? To a degree, yes. Is it boring? Never. Kinda like owning a ferret, I guess.
But the best perk of having a job is that underlying feeling that I am achieving something. I have worth! Sure, I’m only worth minimum wage, but I am out there, I am paying taxes (like shaving, it’s one of the worst things about growing up), I am sipping from the cup of life (I’m pretty sure that’s from Bye Bye Birdie?), and I am (almost) a certifiable adult. Now if only I could drive…
Oh yeah, then I watched Wall-e. It was cute. The end.