Skeetza Hut Time!

So I no longer work at FVS now. After being written up three times during the course of my month's employment and not being told about ANY of them until my last day, I had had enough of the pretty abusive behaviour that Tom was displaying toward me. Sooooo I went out and got myself a new job that I'm starting today. This probably means a change of name is in order for my blog, but eh. I'll get around to it.

Also, potential new boyfriend.

Craziest Customer EVER.

Yesterday I was at my job at FVS, selling fishes and doing what I do best (which happens to be...selling fishes...) It was a pretty good day so far, with not much work to be done and me feeling much better after a nasty bout of food poisoning the previous day after going to lunch with my friends. Then HE came.
First, he asked about steamer clams. We don't have any right now, and I pray to God we never do again, because I hate those little spitting bastards. They freak me out. I told him we wouldn't have any until the end of the week, even though I had no idea. The seafood manager doesn't tell me anything.
He went away for a while, then came back and requested two lobsters. We have a sale on lobsters under 1.5 pounds, for $9.99 a pound. Kay. I got him his lobsters and he started talking to them. Not like, "oh man, I'm sorry, you're gonna die and get in my belly" but actual, real, conversation. Like he expected them to talk back to him. I was getting uneasy at this point, but it got worse. He turned to me and started talking about how Catholics can't eat lobsters or something. I joked that I was Jewish so that's not a problem to me. (I totally am, too. I converted. Just saying.) OH GOD. He went off about the Illuminati and how there are places in the universe that we can't see but the Japanese have a filter or some shit, at this point I wasn't really paying attention. I just went "huh. That's interesting. Well then." I quickly boxed up his lobsters and got him the hell out of there.
He ended up returning the lobsters because somehow he misunderstood the sign saying it was $9.99 A POUND. He thought it was $9.99 for the whole thing. Jesus Christ.


[deleted my last post. It was pretty pathetic. Life happens, y'know, and we're kinda not dating anymore.]

FLASHBACK! How Not To Make Friends

how not to make friends.

"The Sandwich Shop, this is Artist, how may I help you?" I chirped, pen in hand. An order was placed for pick-up, and I did everything by the book, and informed my caller that it would take about half an hour to forty-five minutes to create the seemingly millions of sandwiches she was intent on consuming. She never thanked me and hung up the phone, and I thought nothing of it.
Of course, nothing went as planned.
We experienced an enormous rush suddenly, the line reaching almost out the door. I placed the pick up slip on the line, hoping that someone would see it and take care of it as I hurried to feed the masses. Unfortunately, I didn't make its presence known well enough, and it sat neglected as hungry customer after hungry customer sped by. Twenty-five to thirty minutes passed and I stared at the slip, realising I had to make it. I began to do so, thinking the customer would understand, as there had been a mob packing the restaurant. As I prepared a panini, I saw a woman glaring down at me from the register, the look of death on her face. I finished her food and she began to screech.
"YOU TOLD ME TWENTY MINUTES!"
I jumped about three feet in the air, as did Rosario, Harmony and Nina. Nina consulted my slip and frowned.
"I don't think so, ma'am. This says thirty minutes to forty-five."
"THAT'S NOT WHAT I WAS TOLD. I'VE JUST SEEN PEOPLE COMING THROUGH AND COMING THROUGH, AND IF CALLING AHEAD IS NOT ENOUGH TO GET YOUR FOOD FIRST, THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE SAID THAT ON THE PHONE!"
I got over my shock and took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry this happened, ma'am." I wasn't sorry in the slightest.
"I WANT A FREE SANDWICH!"
That was it. I looked her square in the eye and shook my head. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't have the authorisation to give you free food without a manager's approval, and we don't have any managers here right now."
"Nina could--" Harmony whispered. I ignored her.
"THEN YOU ALL WILL PAY FOR IT!"
"Ma'am, it appears we made you a whole turkey sub by accident. We will give you that instead of the half you ordered," Nina said, coming to my rescue. She had a look of no-nonsense on her face, and I would have quaked if I was that customer.
"THIS IS DISGRACEFUL!"
"You've made that clear. Have a nice day, ma'am."
The customer left and I went in the back to sob. I had never been spoken to like that in my life. Rosario and Nina came back to give me hugs and that was my initiation to the world of food.

FLASHBACK! The Salad Nazi

I've decided that since I'm entirely too busy right now to do any proper posts, I'm gonna do some flashbacks from when I worked at The Sandwich Shop. To the two people who read this blog: enjoy!

Today, as I was beginning the end of my shift at the Sandwich Shop, a young man from the college came in. He was strikingly handsome, and I shot him my best "I make-a da sammiches" smile, with my usual cheery, "I can help you whenever you're ready."
Oh dear Lord. I had no idea what I was in for.
"Yeah, I'll get a Chicken Caesar Salad," he said in a soft voice, gazing at me with doe-like, innocent eyes.
"Everything on that?" I asked sunnily, reaching for a grilled chicken for chopping-and-nuking.
"Yeah."
I breezed into the back, took out a salad container and lovingly shredded the enormous romaine leaves that were, for some reason, left whore, and arranged them so that they lay on the plastic in a pleasing manner. I then returned to the line and sliced cucumbers and arranged them artfully on the lettuce. Since Parmesan cheese goes on our Caesar salad, I reached into the cooler, pulled out the Parmesan, and shook that thing like it owed me money.
"STTTTTOOOOPPPPP!" he screeched, grabbing the countertop.
"What?" I asked, alarmed. My chicken beeped at me.
"Is that cheese? I'm allergic to cheese."
I stared at him, uncomprehending. It is a common known fact that Caesar salads have a good amount of cheese in them, in the salad and in the dressing. "All right, sir," I replied, a little shaken. I took the offending salad up in my hands sadly. "I'll make you a new one."
"Sorry," he grunted.
That bastard isn't sorry at all, I thought crankily to myself. My fake smile fell and I probably looked the pissed-off bitch I was. "It's all right, sir," I muttered, taking away my perfect Caesar and placing it in the cooler. My supervisor saw the whole thing and began speaking to him as I ripped more Romaine into a plastic container, not caring if it was a complete salad or not. I then savagely chopped cucumbers and threw them in there.
"Is it all right if I put croutons in there?" I asked. He smirked and laughed with his buddies then nodded. I put a cup full of croutons in. I then fetched the rapidly cooling chicken from the microwave and placed it in the container.
"Wait."
I looked up, loathing burning in my eyes. "Yes, sir?"
"Can you cut it up more and distribute it around the salad?"
This made me angry. "Of course, sir." I grabbed the chicken, diced it into tiny pieces, and tossed it evenly around the salad. "Is there anything else you'd like, sir?"
"She don't like me nomore," he giggled to his friends.
How astute, I thought sourly.
"Yeah, I want some broccoli and carrots."
"We don't have either or those, sir."
He looked shocked. "What do you have?"
"Everything you see here." I gestured to the line, which he could see clearly from his vantage point. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a few minutes, then said, "Tomatoes."
I chopped two tomatoes and shoved them in the box. "Anything else?"
"No."
"Go on down to the register and she'll take care of you there."
Down at the register, my supervisor informed him that our Caesar dressing is 50% Romano cheese. He told her that was just fine, and asked for extra, please. I went to the back to avoid punching him.

First Weekend at FVS

As many of you know, this is Memorial Day weekend. As a result, many people are buying clams. As an aside, what the hell is with people and clams? Seriously, they're disgusting, especially steamers, because they spit all over you and look like mini penises. Ew.

Day One was pretty easy. I had a trainer who we shall call Nick. Nick's slightly older than me and VERY easy on the eyes, plus he's completely awesome and we talked about horror movies and music all night. It was completely dead in the seafood department, with only one person requesting a dinner and otherwise people didn't really buy much, so there wasn't anything to restock. We ended up just standing around talking for most of the time, which was cool. I work with Nick tomorrow. Yayyyy!

Day Two and Day Three were pretty much the same. I worked with Seafood Manager Tom, who is very unhygienic, and basically I bagged, tagged and displayed clams. For about 8 hours in between the two days. Boo. I don't have many stories really, so far, but there's more to come.

Parking, and What the Hell is Swai?

I'm the blogger formally known as The Sandwich Artist. I'm going to bring my old posts up here in hopes that someone finds them funny - there's only two, as I became entirely too busy to post, then was fired. Then hired by someone else, and fired. Then hired by someone else and quit. I had a busy year last year, but of course that leads to plenty of stories.

I'm currently living in a tiny town somewhat near to The City, and it suits me much better than the last hellhole I lived in. I can't help but chuckle at the classic small-town-ness of it, and the locals are charming in their little ways. It's summer now, and the students are gone (YESSSSSS) which led to me immediately becoming employed as soon as I got here at a job that I start tomorrow. Selling fish. It should be interesting, to say the least. The customers that I've seen shopping in the store (which I give the name Fresh Veg 'n' Stuff, or FVS) certainly put their best foot forward when I went in to be interviewed - at the deli counter, a woman would take her purchases of lunch meat, open them, give them a sniff, then very carefully re-seal the package, staring at me the entire time as if daring me to contradict her special way of shopping.

Today's wall of text begins with my new house, and the woman who lives across the street. To give you an idea of the scene, picture a two-story house on a quiet-ish road, the front porch filled with potted plants. Next to that there is a two-car parking space, and on the other side is a decrepit old garage that is currently filled with a broken Gazelle and my father's car. It's early evening, about seven o'clock or so, and the lady across the street is having a party, as only a septuagenarian can - with lots and lots of elderly people.

Our neighbour, who shall be referred to as Shiva, is an active old lady who owns a small grocery store on Main Street, catering to well-off college professors, professionals, retirees, and the usual hemp-wearing hippy. (But only if they have money.) Earlier that day I was with my best and beautiful friend Zain, and we stopped in there for some spritzers. I got black cherry, Zain got mango. I paid for mine with two one-dollar bills, and because my mother is well-known to the store, I wasn't given the usual snobbish looks. However, Zain was. She never carries cash with her, and attempted to pay with her debit card. The woman at the cash register stared at her for a moment, prompting a startled Zain to say, "What?"

"We don't usually take debit cards with so small a purchase," the other woman replied, looking down her old wrinkled nose at my poor friend, who looked rather alarmed. However, the transaction was made and we left swiftly, bitching about it for the better part of an hour. When we were thirsty later on, we went down to FVS which took her debit card without complaint. Damn right.

Anyway, Shiva and her shindig. Dad and I are sitting on our lovely porch, sipping wine and water respectively, when an old woman in an expensive car pulls into our driveway. We stare at her, wondering if she's lost (and prompting Dad saying quietly, "Have you come to visit? Shall we call you Granny?") and instead of rolling down her window or stepping out of her car, she whips out her cell phone and makes a call. For the better part of half an hour, she sits there, happily bullshitting to her daughter, while we make remarks that we hope she can hear, devolving into me saying "Why won't she get the fuck off our property? Should I go talk to her? Should you? If she's parking here, I'll have her ass towed, see if I won't." Eventually, the old biddy gets out of her car and Dad asks, "Can I help you?"

"Oh, I was just talking to my daughter. I'm going over to Shiva's, she said I could park here."

Excuse me? Is Shiva our landlady now? Does she own our parking space? Last I knew, our rent checks went to a very nice lady in Manhattan, not Shiva. Dad builds himself up in his Britishness and very politely says, "I'm sorry, but that's not Shiva's decision to make."

"Oh. Well can I park here?"

"No."

"Oh. I'm sorry that distresses you so much," the old pensioner says, her tone getting a little lofty for my taste. Before I can tell her off for trying to talk down to my father, whom I respect more than anyone in the world besides my mother, she gets back into her Lexus and pulls across the street to Shiva's, who greets her and shoots a look at us. Bitch.

Has anyone heard of the fish swai? Apparently we sell it and I have no idea what it is.