You probably think I'm just another self-absorbent writer sitting in a coffee shop in SoHo, sipping on a chai latte, sporting a cigarette behind my ear, and wearing wingtip shoes. I don't blame you. The title Untitled Memoirsis kind of pretentious and definitely gives off that kind of vibe. But if you have assumed those things about me, you've made an ass out of you, not me.
I'm currently sitting on a couch at 86 Woodlawn Avenue, Saratoga Springs, NY 12866 eating out of a jar of bread and butter pickles with a plastic fork and wearing Boys' sweatpants that I got on clearance at Walmart. I also don't know where or what SoHo is.
But regardless of your perceptions of me, I already know that I hate you. I don't hate you because you're fat. You're fat because I hate you.
However, I'll actually like you for a brief period of time because you're taking the time to read Untitled Memoirs. And since I'm semi-liking you, I might as well explain to you a few things to make your reading experience a smooth one!
The tales that follow are from the time I spent during the summer of 2013 working at a hotel in Saratoga Springs. My job? Tending to the breakfast buffet. More specifically, I cooked most of the food. By cooked I mean I took it out of the freezer and threw it in the oven. I was also responsible for things like brewing coffee, creating bowls of berries, making oatmeal, making bread trays and pastry trays, and pretty much doing everything involving food. At the end of breakfast, I had to clean all the pots and pans and wrap the food or throw it out and wash all the equipment from the dining room. I swear I'm not being a drama queen when I say that it was a lot of fucking work.
Now, the worker in the kitchen was accompanied by at least one other person, usually two, who floated around the dining room pretending to work. What did those people do? Come in and take whatever food I had made and put it out in the dining room.
"Katie I need coffee."
"Katie I need berries."
"Katie I need waffle mix."
You get the picture. I was their food bitch.
So yes, essentially they did nothing while I did everything. One time I did my job and both of their jobs in the same amount of time it took them to do their job. For those keeping score at home, that's three jobs in the time of one.
At this point you're thinking "How on earth could the experience of working in a kitchen for a breakfast buffet be interesting?" Well, it wasn't necessarily the buffet work that inspired me to write, but rather it was the people I encountered. They were truly one of a kind. They were truly interesting. They were truly numb-nuts. They acted like they should get a Purple Heart for the way they stocked the cereal boxes.
Anybody with half a brain and a glass eye could have done this job.
I do have one favor to ask of you as you read these memoirs. I ask that you keep in mind what I was wearing at work.
At first I was excited because I was told the uniforms were from Land's End, which is not far off from L.L. Bean, which I often wear. However, even I couldn't make these uniforms look good.
The shirts looked like the ones my mom used to wear when she was a teacher. Not that those shirts were bad or anything; they're just not flattering on a girl in her twenties trying to make it big in a big city. My boss was also an asshole and never ordered shirts in my size, so I was left with whatever I found in the storage closet. This meant size 16 shirts. I know I have big biceps and all from GTL'ing, but even my arms are far below the average American obesity level. The pants sucked too. They absolutely sucked. They were ultra-high wasted. In order to prevent my pants from falling down, I had to pull them up above my bellybutton. And while this did prevent my pants from falling down, it also prevented me from bending at the waste. Anytime I dropped something I had to channel my inner elderly mode and lower myself down using something, like a counter, to support myself. It didn't help that I was wearing old woman shoes. This entire ensemble was accented with an apron that added to my fashion angst.
This summer I felt like all the guests' eyes were looking upon me with fashion disdain, which made the job that much worse. I'm usually the type of person that doesn't care what they look like or what they're wearing. In the grand scheme of Skidmore, my outfits look pretty normal and I could give a fuck what people think about my clothing. In fact, there has only been one other time my entire life when I have felt as out of place as I did in my breakfast buffet attendant uniform:
In the sixth grade I went to a Halloween party dressed as a soldier from the Civil War but when I got there everyone else was dressed like Avril Lavigne.Overall, this job sucked and I hated it 95.4% of the time. But that other 4.6% of the time it was mesmerizing. The people I worked with were nice, for the most part, but they were the type of people you would expect to work at a breakfast buffet. For example, the time I suggested putting the berries in the fridge so they wouldn't get moldy, they just about nominated me for a Nobel Peace Prize.
This job wasn't some easy cakewalk. Working in a kitchen is dangerous. There are knives, wet floors, spilled milk and crying fat ladies. I also sliced more strawberries than I had ever seen in my entire life combined, and I've attended strawberry festivals. And one time I almost died. Or I think I almost died.
Without telling me, one of my coworkers had doused the sinks in a volatile cleaning fluid. I unknowingly used the water and such to wash some pans and then immediately made some bread trays and then I myself ate an apple, all while wearing the same gloves that had come into contact with the chemicals. When my coworker finally informed me that not only had I possibly just poisoned several guests, I had also poisoned myself, I waited on edge for days thinking people, including myself, were going to start dropping like flies.
This was actually the second time in my life I thought I had poisoned myself to death. When I was about four, my family stopped at a Friendly's in Massachusetts and I naturally went outside to roll around in the grass.
Reminiscing about my close call years later.
One of my brothers pointed out that there was a sign on it saying the grass had just been sprayed with chemicals. I ran inside and frantically splashed water on myself, thinking it was going to be the last "bath" I ever took. I put on a brave face and decided to hide from my parents the sad truth that their youngest child was dying. I then had to sit in the car for four hours very upset because I was not only dying, but also because my last meal had been a Monster Mash Sundae and not a hot dog from my favorite hot dog stand.
Anyways, both of those times I was proven wrong and I am in fact still alive. However, I hope the sink situation pointed out to you one, very important thing that makes Untitled Memoirs so special: my coworkers made for a very interesting summer.
In the following stories/chapters/posts, you will read the following titles in whatever order I decide to post them:
1)Fat Tammy
2)It's All Fun & Games Until Your Car Goes up in Flames in the Walmart Parking Lot.
3)Dear Bossman
4)I'd Rather Suffer a Severe Burn Than Talk to You
5)Normal People? Normal People.
6)Top 10 Favorite Patrons
7)EpicLogue
Most names were changed and I have also withheld the name of the hotel. I really, really hope you do not enjoy reading about my adventures.
Memory conquered.
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