Braums and the hell of my first job... a true account.

I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use. ~Galileo Galilei

I am out of steam on my religious ranting. I am also taking a break from my political bantering. Who cares?

Today I think I will lighten up and give you a bit of background on myself, yet again. Let's talk jobs.

My first job was as an ice cream scooper. It sounded fun and easy. In my romanticized version... I would serve up yummy treats to cute little kiddies and everyone would be happy and thrilled. Not so much.

I doll myself up real cute- in all the latest fashion- and head out to my interview. I am delightful, charismatic, and I get the job! Wow, that was easy! Now, I am given a huge chart of recipes I am to "memorize". Huh? I thought this was ice cream! This is on the actual day I was hired and 3 days before my actual start date. Not exactly what I had pictured but how hard can ice cream be? I go home and cram for my first day of ice cream scooping bliss... Gee, this sucks. In my daydream...I had pictured myself scooping delicious treats in some cute little number... you know all pastel and charming. Something any scooper would be happy to wear- and look good on the job too! Surprise- no, they prefer brown, polyester, Wranglers. But, but... these are hideous and trashy looking.... WHY?Now remember, I am a hot little teenage chick who DOES NOT WEAR OLD MAN PANTS! Are they joking? This is back when the tight legged guess jeans were all the rage. I cannot be seen in public in these stupid bell bottom, geekster, pants!!!! This job is not going well and I haven't even started yet.

My first day on the actual job, feeling like the biggest dork in the world in my brown stirrup pants ( I just couldn't bring myself to do the Wrangler thing- I refuse!) and a tucked in, button down, white shirt (You should NEVER tuck anything into stirrup pants under ANY circumstance!)- OMG, I take on the recipe test and find my nerves have erased every crammed fact right out of my dorky polyester nightmare filled head. I am truly preoccupied with these ridiculous pants as they are showing me how to "square dip" the ice cream. We must be VERY careful not to give too big a scoop, you know. After we expend every last morsel of strength we have trying to dip this granite hard ice cream- then we joyfully weigh each scoop until we have the perfect magic weight. -Not too much! ( Do you have any idea how lame it is to weigh scoops of ice cream in front of customers? They assure me once I have worked there a little while I will be able to dip without weighing...GREAT. Now the super slow, idiot, new girl, in the horrendous outfit is weighing our ice cream scoops...) This ice cream/brain surgery is starting to be REALLY crappy. Now think about having no labels on the darn ice cream cartons... great. Now with my scoop weighing, super slow service, pant preoccupation, I get to try and guess which ice cream carton to "square dip" from. I missed more than once with my guesses...God, please just strike me dead in these ridiculous pants!!!! By the end of day 1 I am ready to bawl and never come back.

Day 2: Same retarded pants... Now it is time to try out the super dangerous, cut your fingers off, spray malt all over you, malt machine... And do you think I am thrilled yet? "Be sure to keep your hands here on the metal cup holder part lest you be rushed to the hospital with a blood pulp where your hand used to be- oh, and never-ever touch the blade to the side of the cup... it will shred like butter and spray malt all over your slow, style-less, can't figure out the ice cream flavor, idiot, self." (I added the name calling part but I really am now picturing my totally stupid pants- drenched in malt and my own blood.) AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

What in the hell sort of torture chamber is this????

I am standing, in a daze. I am desperately seeking my chance to bolt for the door... Surely there must be a simpler job... By the end of this day I do bawl all the way home...miraculously free of bloody pulp hands and malt spewed britches. (Luckily, nobody ordered a malt from me!!!!)

Day 3: I am now explained that my "learning" period is over and any food order I screw up now is directly subtracted from my check... Hmm... why am I here again? Today the gig is up ole girl! Today we try out "The Recipes!!!" Today you run the front ALONE-GULP. Long story short, there are 10, yes 10, fresh squeezed limes in a cherry limeade from Braums. After it takes me a year to squeeze 10 limes I then proceed over to the syrup squirting device- safer than the malt machine but... again not marked- just like the ice cream cartons. WHY THE HELL CAN'T SOMEBODY JUST BUY A LABELING MACHINE AROUND HERE!?!?!??!!? There are 2 syrup squirting apparatus... And in my head....

Oh God... what is in the wrong one???? I can't remember. I am
looking- I AM PRAYING- trying to figure out the color of the syrup
before I put the squeeze on it. I am now sticking my eyeball into the end of the
tube...Oh these stupid pants- this guy is really getting pissed... I mean, how
long can it take to make his cherry limeade? I wonder if he is
looking at these goofy pants and thinking I am some sort of dementia patient...
I gotta choose one. Hmm, who can I ask? Is there anyone here to ask? WHY WOULD
EVERY SINGLE PERSON LEAVE THE NEW GIRL ALONE - RUNNING THE FRONT? Hello?
Okay, just pick one... left or right? Right- okay, I am going for
it.... here I go- Oh Damn! CHOCOLATE!?!??!?!?!?
Now, congratulations. You just made a delicious chocolate limeade. Yum.
Guess whose check that is coming out of. Guess who is pissed that you are going
to be another year squeezing 10 limes. Guess who never makes their 4th day at
work at Braums.

My portrayal of the narcism over the ridiculous pant issue is absolutely dead on. My description of overwhelming nerves at the thought of people WATCHING me as I have no clue what I am doing... dead on. My inner fear and self fulfilling prophecy of being an complete dufus- absolute. The more you pile on the pressure the goofier I get.

I burned the pants...My next job was as a daycare worker. Now I am paid to act goofy and play with kids. WAYYYYY more my style! I LOVED it! Ah, a happy ending