My Adventures in Minimum Wageland. Part 1 of ____

Okay, let me start off by saying that college student life is not synonymous with glory. It isn't all well and good that I decided to spend 4 to however many years of my life in an institution far away from the people that love me and whom are legally and ethically bound to support me (and far from the place of my dreams *where there are no hard times *aka Nowhere Real). Well, I just HAD to get that special one-of-a-kind taste at freedom. Well, to go to college (and to put off a real job), one has to work the shittiest, most degrading jobs imaginable. I don't want to go all classist on you, but seriously: Being raised as a lower middle class daughter of a blue-collar worker doesn't exactly open you up to privileges of the higher classes. Just sayin'.
Anyway, so I have decided to go the "easy route" and work summers, breaks and holidays. This also includes the years I've spent before moving to East Jesus Nowhere--College Campus.
So: this blog post is about my previous employment history---which is probably as intimate as one could get. Sure, I can wax poetic about my sex life to just about any old joe, but when it comes to my employment history, I usually require a paid dinner and a bottle of wine before I give up the old job ghost.
1. My first job.
Ponderosa.
Yes. I served medium-rare meat to a lucky audience of truckers, ass-pinchers, d-bags and the garden-variety slime balls. Not to mention the people who seemed to have holey pants (because they never tipped).
Usually the Sunday crowd was a little more tolerable, but still. You never can tell about the churchy types. I am one of those types. Point made.
Best part: Hotties love to wait tables. Ladies know: we go to restaurants because hotties wait tables. Beautiful men, moving large tables and lifting trays full of good looking food. Yeah. nice.

The worst part about Ponderosa was the pies. Here's an secret from the industry: they cook the pies in the oven and to let them cool, they stick them on the top of the oven. Why? Beats me. There are many many empty tables free of pies. I am not even a pie person. Set. the. pies. on. the. open. tables. I am not one hundred feet tall. I am 5 foot 2. I cannot reach them, nor do I want to reach them. Who is even putting the pies on the ovens, that's what I'd like to know. Who are these 100 foot people setting pies nearest to the ceiling? It seems to me, they will always have jobs, because no one else can set pies in unreachable places like they can.

2. Second job. The second job was the worst job I have ever had. The Pasta House Co. It was basically the same as the first job, except more pretentious bitches. The curves on their noses were just blatant indicators of their unwarranted self-importance. The worst part: I am already THE most awkward person on the planet. Once I get around popular people, I am even more awkward. Especially around high school age: there are only two types of people: the winners and then the awkward kids. Philosophical fact: The awkward kids have more fun now, I have discovered. 16 years old wasn't the best years for popularity in my world.
3. A local coffee shop.
No one came into the store for hours---then I got laid off. Sometimes, I would think about making a sandwich board saying things like: "it's hot inside the cup, coffee has feelings" or "we welcome you and your beret." But, no such luck---no sandwich board and no business for the local bistro. Laid off.
4. It was a long time coming, but an out-of-work 17 year old girl had to make money somehow.
So, I decided to apply to......yes, the White Castle. Lesson learned: be nice to fast food workers.
First day: Clumsiest person ever born: Could not work the television which played tapes to ironically teach me how to work the machines. I'm not a machine person. If I can work the microwave, it has been a good day.
Next day: Broke a spatula. <----not my fault---it was only made of plastic and probably a prayer. Same day: I burned ALL TEN OF MY FINGERS.

Third day, I BURNED ALL TEN OF MY FINGERS AGAIN. Then, I got my retribution: with my fingers still throbbing, I told a coworker that I thought this job was only so-so. Long story short: the boss heard and told me I should rethink the W.C. I was upset, but only because it would be on my permanent job record that I worked for a place that burned its employees daily.
5. The regional craft, linen and fake floral store. "They have stores all throughout the Midwest!!"
This one actually suited me. I didn't care for fake garden flowers, and I didn't have time for crafts, so I assumed the cashier position: I was a cashier and then I got "promoted" to Customer Service, then to a supervisor position / counted money.
I hated cashiering. My fellow cashiers were great---I just hated the lines of eager, all shopped-out customers. As a cashier, I was a robot. Cashiers are robots. That doesn't really work for my personality or my patience.
I was especially cranky one day when this self-indulgent ho bag came into my line fussing about prices and crafts. You know you need to chill the hell down when you are fighting about small wooden craft projects. IT'S JUST CRAFTS, IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY. Then, she had a large item under her cart, and refused to pick it up. Here's where I knew that the class system existed. She had money, and I was the one who scanned her precious purchases wearing a collared orange t-shirt and a misspelled name tag. So, as a reactionary measure: I came around the cart and.......whipped her with my hand-held scanner cord.
Ftttchhhhhh!!
I did what I had to do: I whipped her in the head.
There was no damage physically. But, she'll think twice before jib jabbing about crafts to a 17 year old cranky cashier (especially when she is armed with a corded scan gun).

There is more to come:
I worked for an after-school program, Victoria's Secret, a dormitory desk, Dollar General, a college big-wig and the library (my current / fabulous job).