Tag Archives: After 11:30

Pride and Prejudice

Here’s the honest, harsh truth.

Working fast food is humble, degrading work. You have no personality, no individuality, and very little value, if you can get someone to be honest with you.
You’re not part of a specialized team, in which each member serves a specific and vital purpose. You are a worker drone. Fast food kitchens have stations and assigned duties, for which they need the most compatible option. All you are is a place holder.
Of course, no one thinks about that. They come in and they make friends and they pour their heart and soul into this job, making 8 and something an hour.
People invest in this job and you can tell who does and who doesn’t.
People get good and they make impressions.
Some customers appreciate that, and will smile reassuringly when you can’t fight a yawn anymore, or they’ll slip you three bucks because they’ve been there and know that three dollars means you eat tonight.
Some people will even write in on the ridiculous internet survey and tell the entire store how cool they think you are.

But not everyone is like that.
There are people who are fortunate enough to never had to have worked fast food.
There are people who just don’t care.
These are the customers we dread and can do nothing about, because if we act on our frustrations, these people will complain and we will be forced to give them more of what they want and they still wont be gone.

With this to think about, I present to you five rules of fast food restaurants.

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When It Hit the Fan. . .

Hey look, Laura’s blogging! That must mean a person did a thing at work!


So around ten tonight (tonight being a relative term) a coworker of mine got off work. As is often the habit of people here, he decided to get food and eat it here before leaving. A few minutes after the end of his shift, he walked back in from outside and gathered an audience to tell a story.

He’d gone outside to get his wallet from his car, and had seen an older woman full-out running towards the door. Not thinking too much of it, he came in the front door to see the door to the women’s bathroom (directly adjacent to the front door) closing with a small child already hauling their britches down, door still open.

Innocent giggles were had at the idea of bared cheeks, and we went on about our work. About 20 minutes later, the manager running the floor turned up and picked me to clean bathrooms.
While gathering the supplies, the person who’d just relieved me from the front cash register approached.

“Hey,” he said. “Why is my cleaning bucket on the counter?”

“I think you’ll find that’s my bucket,” I replied.

“I’m sorry, but it’s mine. Right now this whole area is mine. See those cups? Mine. See this drawer? Are your initials on it? No? Mine.”

The whole exchange was light-hearted enough, but not really liking someone can do wonders to kill a mood.

I retreated, letting him win.

The men’s bathroom was cleaned with no remarkable happenings, and then I went to the women’s.
Up till then, I’d completely forgotten the recently-told story.
I walked into the bathroom to be hit with a wall of stench with which I am all too familiar.

Fecal matter was spattered on the floor. It was on the front of the bowl. It had sprayed across the back and over the seat. I stood and stared at it briefly, sprayed it down with my cleaning solution, and beat a strategic retreat.

Walking back into the kitchen, all I was hoping for was that Jeremy, the storytelling-coworker, was still here.
I found him in the break room.

“So, Jeremy,” I said, setting my cleaning supplies on the table. “You know that story you were telling about that kid?”


“And how they were rushing to get their pants down?”


“I was just in the women’s.”

*choking noise* “Oh no.” *starts laughing*

“Do you want to guess what color it was?”

At this point, he had stopped eating and was nearly out of his chair laughing.
Another coworker walked up at this point and asked about the laughter, so I retold the story. I got to the point where I posed the question: “Guess what I found in there?” and someone passing the break table eagerly shouted the fitting expletive.
“Actually,” I said. “Yes. Also on the floor.”

When I walked back up towards the front register and the door leading to the toxic bathroom, I found the coworker I didn’t particularly like doing not very much.

“You know how we were talking about how front cash is your responsibility?” I said, in my most charismatic voice.

“Yeah,” he said, giving me a suspicious look.

“Well, you know bathrooms is part of that, right?” I proffered the cleaning spray and paper towels. “I’ll watch your drawer.”

With a sigh, he took the supplies, smirked at me, and turned and set them down behind him.

“I’ll get to them,” he said.

“Like, soon?” I asked. Pranks aside, the bathroom really did need to be cleaned before someone went in there and came to complain.

“Yeah, I gotcha.”

“…so, before another person goes to the bathrooms, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I was determined not to surrender this one, so I leaned on the counter, folded my arms, and stared him down.

“…you’re just gonna wait there until I go, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

*sigh* “Alright. Fine.”

He grabbed the supplies and left. Immediately, I turned and hurried back to the break room.
Jeremy doesn’t trust me when he sees me smile like that, and immediately frowned at me when I returned to the break room.

“I made Hank do it,” was all I said, and Jeremy choked on his food again.
“Does he know what happened in there?” was his first question.
“He was standing right here listening to the story,” I replied.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone heading back towards the break room. Turning, I saw Hank, a full forty seconds after heading to the bathroom. He set the cleaning supplies on the table, exhaled loudly, and frowned at me.

“No,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”

I’m not going to pretend I’m not peeved by the woman letting her kid bomb our bathroom so completely and then leave without cleaning it up OR ordering a single item, let alone telling us about it. I obviously didn’t enjoy having to clean up the poop.
But, all in all, there are few pranks that have happened so beautifully and paid off so well.

So sophisticated!!

Is it just me, or do we love to masquerade as extremely professional and dignified people? Grownups nowadays all seem to be making up adulthood as they go along, be it with pantsuits or less dramatic hair colors in an attempt to project a more ‘professional’ or ‘mature’ image. Any way you slice it, almost no one has any idea what they’re doing.

Except for that one friend whose life looks like a walking pinterest board.

We all have that friend.

My favorite way of feeling ‘adult-ish’ is by drinking coffee beverages that aren’t laden with whipped cream and sugary syrups.
I mean, I still love me some white-chocolate raspberry mocha. But if you ever see me order a caramel macchiato and then stand sedately by the pickup counter, my inner monologue is probably self-congratulation on my very mature and grownup choice.

You go, self! You drink that slightly bland coffee! Remind yourself why you tend to go for other drinks, and that you don’t really enjoy this too much! We all know you secretly like this drink, right?


Of course, I’ll be doing all this while wearing a fandom t-shirt and with a stuffed toy on my keychain.
So, I don’t know how that balances out.


I have recently moved out of my parent’s house and into the basement living space of my grandparents’ house. This is an entirely new concept for me, as always before in my life, I have always been ‘home’. Never mind spending weeks alone, I was still living and abiding in the house of my parents. For slightly longer than 18 years, that has always been the defining feature of ‘home’.

The experience of packing most of my possessions into boxes and then setting those things up in familiar-yet-entirely-different positions around my new rooms was very emotionally taxing, and it drained me for the rest of the day.
Part of the pain, as I frequently lamented to my cousin, was that the room I had just recently acquired had a window seat. I adore window seats, and have done since I was roughly five and first read about them in a book long-forgotten. I don’t know why, but perhaps simply the pure dramatic appeal is what I love. But that window seat had finally fallen into my possession, and then, just as suddenly, it fell out.

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Summer Eyes

I loved a man with summer eyes. Him I loved, he be not here. I loved him well, I loved him true. I loved him all I could.

I loved a man with summer eyes. He could see right through. Saw me through, loved me too. But now my lover dies.

For I’m a maid with winter eyes, my summer love is nought but lies.

My lover dies, my ice eyes cry. For summer’s only now a sigh. My lover sweet, with summer eyes. He be the one I go to greet.

I loved a man, it’s true, I did. I loved him well, as best I could. The best I had was not enough. He’d dead and died, the best I tried.

For I’m a maid with winter eyes. And winter’s why the summer dies.

Spicewine, Installment 1

The old house held many secrets.

They’d discovered hundreds, many of them lost again nearly as soon as they were found.

Scar and Sissy, always together, always looking. Pricilla Rosalyn, or Sissy Rose, to her friends.

Scar, or Scarlette to only her.

“Why do you have a girl’s name?” she’d asked him once as they sat in the rafters of the house, each on their own, their legs swinging in empty space.
“It’s not a girl’s name,” he’d said defensively, shifting his position to a lazy sprawl on the wide beam. “It’s my name.” Continue reading

The House

There is a house where no one lives.

Nobody wants to live there, because the eyes of it watch you in all you do. There are eyes that no one can see, the eyes that always see you.

There is a yard where nobody walks. There is no one to cut the grass in the yard, and  not a single person steps in, not even once.

Nobody steps in, because there are dead things. There are headstones, carved with dates and names, and there is flat grey dirt in front of each headstone. Nobody wants to cut through that yard, that yard with the grey dirt and the grey stone and the sharp grey grass.

In this yard that nobody cuts through, behind the house where nobody lives, there are crows, and they watch you.

There are crows because there are graves, and these crows hop along the skeletal branches of the trees next to the graves. They tilt their heads, and they watch you with their fathomless black eyes. They watch, because they know if you step in, you are in their territory.

You don’t want to be in their territory.