Yuck Acceptance

About a week ago I made the decision to step up work again for the summer. Working for pay only once a week has hacked large chunks out of my tiny nest egg. Also, as I've stepped out of my weird, ill fitting depression, I finally feel ready to interact with the People again.

Last year I took the summer off. I was going to do the same this year, but Life kind of has a way of shifting one's original course. The unceremonious firing which happened at the beginning of this year, the one which did not include a gold watch, left me unpreparedly without a regular wad of cash in my George Costanza wallet. But as I'm not crazy about work, as a concept, it really didn't matter. I'd saved nothing, but as I was going to take the summer off anyway, what's a few months earlier? I would just live leaner. I don't really need that much.

Cat food, certainly. We here at Love and Comraderie H.Q. get quite surly when our blood sugar drops. Silica cat litter crystals to reduce the el stinko factor from my loved one's hind quarters. Lilies, orchids and rosemary plants to feed our souls. Food. Pay rent. Cocktails. Cigarettes. Looking at this list makes me think my dear friend Fergus knows me so well. This is lean for me. Lean is proving to be rather costly. Time to engage the course change again.

I never thought the words: "Fuck it, I don't care; I'm just going to make as much money as I can this summer," would come out of my mouth. But they had. I have a tendency to inordinately care for a place so much so that my heart and soul is deeply entrenched in it. When something happens, like it had at my last place of employ, there's a piece of me that remains there. I suspect I placed this personal belonging in a cubby somewhere, but I forgot where. I can't afford to do that anymore. If there was one lesson I learned last year, and there were many, the nasty one that remained was: Business is Business.

Sigh.
I'll readjust.

In the last few years I'd done work blitzes. I'd work like mad, taking all the shifts they wanted to give me until I mentally and physically exhausted myself. I believe work blitzes are good for people. Work like stink for a portion of the year and then take another portion off for oneself. Do nothing. Nothing isn't really nothing. It's hanging out with friends, skipping off to patios with 60 SPF just in case you have too much to drink and pass out in the sun, riding bikes and other hooky playing events. This formula seems to work for me.

It's time to go back.
Create a resumé.
Done.
Pound pavement.
Ugh.
Target choice establishments.
Four.

I vehemently hate looking for a job. Mostly I hate dropping off my resumé, asking to see the manager. Hate, hate, hate. Eventually I end up saying, "Hi. Could I leave my resumé here for anyone who might not have anything to read in the washroom?"

Out of the four, I heat sought one specific place which resides in one of Toronto's historic areas. It is zoned pedestrian, though I have done birds of prey circles with my bike in there.

Fatty was an assistant manager at the Courthouse, the place where we'd met, that place I'd said, "Fuck you. Fuck this place. I'm out of here," to the General Manager on the night of Blackout 2003. Lying in bed the other morning he slipped on a mock managerial tone asking, "What do you think you can contribute to our organisation?"

You'd think after slinging food at and on people for 20 years would be sufficient. Most people who have been doing service for as long as I have think that doing time is good enough. I don't. I believe I'm good though. I'm only good because I earnestly care about food, drink and mostly about taking care of people.

An Interview with The Comrade
Thursday March 31, 2005
2:20pm
Arrives 10 minutes early after having walked to new potential. That is what I'm talking about.
Tick tock. They make her wait.
She caresses the rough hewn 60' bar and drools a little.
A bald man in his 30's, donning club shirt, most appreciated by Ginos, approaches with a smile and extended hand.
She returns the smile; says "hello".
Bald man's smile fades. He looks sideways at her and says, "Oh, God."
Shit.
We've met.
I've served him before.

The Comrade: Please tell me I was nice to you.
No answer.
The Comrade: Okay... Um... Well... could you please refresh my memory? Where did we meet?

2 weeks ago at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, my one night a week place of employ. He came in with a bunch of new Monday night regulars of the male, grunting cook varietal; my favourite. Collectively they are an overdose of testosterone coupled with sexual frustration. They are lovers of the brown liquors who beat the crap out of each other then black, blue and a bit bloody, they go off to see the Sideshow Strippers down the street. The Sideshow Strip Club has a designated smoking room where the lads like to sit. It is the C-section section. Mommies grinding for pablum. Occasionally, if one was born under a lucky sign, one can catch a special act which features a midget and a goth girl.

He hardly said anything to me when I'd met him 2 weeks ago.
I noticed tiny stolen glances he'd occasionally dart my way, then embarrassedly looking away quickly afterwards.
Oh... what's that? A slight crush on The Comrade?
This will be a C-A-K-E-W-A-L-K.

We walk towards a beautifully minimalist canteen style area where the furniture has been made entirely of reclaimed antique wood from the original prerestored structure. When I sit on the bench my feet don't touch the floor. The Comrade is 5'9". Her feet always touch the floor.

The Comrade: [swinging her feet] This is fantastic! I feel like I'm 5 years old!

Both swinging now, the 2 us look like a couple of marionettes under the table.

Bald man with the striped shirt as seen at clubs that play House music: My name is Fabio, by the way.
The Comrade: Of course it is.
Fabio: [reading the resumé] So, tell me about yourself.

I hate this question.
I've been in this industry for 2 decades.
It's not that I find the question insulting; I just don't find it very interesting.

In my favour:
I am friendly with the ex-executive chef who is now in the midst of court proceedings induced by an "improper" termination.
I am old friends with the sous chef.
He's seen me work and liked what he saw.

As much as I hate the process of finding work, I really enjoy casual interviewing. Lots of laughs, a fair bit of swearing, a smidge of gossip and at the end my absolute favourite part is the sweet sentence, prefaced first with a slamming of an opened right hand directly onto harvest table:

"I'm hiring you on the spot!"
Atta boy.

I don't start for a month, which is just fine. For weeks I'd been steeping in a vat of yuck. On my glorious walk home, after being handed the reins of a new gorgeous bar, the sun was shining. It was so mild I only had a light spring coat on, a favourite. Before putting it on I had to brush dust off the shoulders which had gathered from months of sitting in an open closet. Hello old friend. Walking in the sunlight I felt so happy. So lucky. New job. Best friend is my ex-husband. The other best friend is my new lover. Cat Comrade at 100%, optimal health. If the universal design is to feel yuck for a few weeks, just so I can feel this good, I accept the yuck.