Tunesday : Manic Monday

Manic Monday

(Nelson, Prince) Performed by The Bangles

Six o'clock already
I was just in the middle of a dream
I was kissin' Valentino
By a crystal blue Italian stream

But I can't be late
'Cause then I guess I just won't get paid
These are the days
When you wish your bed was already made

It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my funday
My I don't have to runday
It's just another manic Monday

Have to catch an early train
Got to be to work by nine
And if I had an airoplane
I still couldn't make it on time

'Cause it takes me so long
Just to figure out what I'm gonna wear
Blame it on the train
But the boss is already there

It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my funday
My I don't have to runday
It's just another manic Monday

All of the nights
Why did my lover have to pick
Last night to get down?
Doesn't it matter
That I have to feed the both of us
Employment's down

He tells me in his bedroom voice
"C'mon honey, let's go make some noise"
Time it goes so fast
(When you're having fun)

It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my funday
My I don't have to runday

It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my funday
It's just another manic Monday

I don't know why I'm uninspired to go back to shortish, episodic memories for these Tunesday posts; perhaps after a year of writing these my life seems less interesting to me and it's time to get this over with; perhaps my childhood years were the only interesting years in my memory. So, here's another overview of my high school years; this time through the jobs I held.

I was pretty much expected to get a job in high school, and as my parents never took us out to movies or restaurants or bought us new clothes or stuff, I loved the freedom and upward mobility of having money of my own -- I didn't actually resent going to work, and as every job I had turned into a jumpoff point for socialising, I much preferred being at work than being at home of an evening. 

About halfway through grade ten, a friend of a friend, Tammy, let it be known that the banquet facility she worked at -- at the El Rancho Motor Lodge -- was hiring waitresses. All my friends and I applied, and we were all hired. We wore yellow polyester dresses with a brown collar and matching brown apron (just terrible), and for the most part, we served weddings. We would arrive early, set up the tables according to the planning map, and serve (usually) three course meals, pouring water throughout, followed by coffee and tea service. Once all the tables were cleared, the guests would be asked to stand while we pushed the tables together to expand the dancefloor, and then we'd be done. Lifting one of those giant brown trays with eight plates of dinner on it was pretty hard work, but I probably preferred that to pouring the coffee -- too many people jumping around that I'd need to manouevre around; too many old ladies attempting to correct my serving etiquette (Hey Lady: you're dining at The El Rancho and I'm a kid). Speaking of etiquette: at one wedding, I was informed that the bride had been very upset to see that I had served her parents -- the people paying for the whole thing -- as the last couple at the last of my four tables. Of course, I hadn't known that that was the bride's parents, and although this was the closest I ever got to a chewing out, I would never be informed in the future of where the VIPs were in my section; it could have happened again and again for all I knew. Karmic retribution: as though I was waiting for it, I watched in bemusement as, at my own wedding, my own parents -- who had paid for the whole thing -- were the absolute last people in the reception hall to be served their dinner. Back to The El Rancho. I would totally dread the rare occasions when the bride and groom would get the cornish hens (that pretty much doubled the weight of my tray), and in the end, next to no one could finish the whole plate and it was heavy work clearing the tables, too. On rare occasions, I would work a cocktail reception (just clearing snack plates and glasses as I was too young to serve alcohol) and I remember one time working such an event for the Knights of Columbus. My friend Kevin's Dad was present at the event, and as someone I recognised, I was friendly to him -- not realising that he was drunk and gropey and slurring to his friends that he hoped I would become his son's girlfriend. Ew to the gropey. On even rarer occasions, we would work an offsite -- the food would be cooked in the hotel kitchen as usual but driven to a remote location -- and this one time (I think we were running behind because I remember a panicky atmosphere), as the buspans of Chicken Cordon Bleu were being offloaded from the catering van, four or five of them fell out onto the gravel driveway. As we had no extras, and as it would have been impossible to go back for more, the chef picked them up, brushed off the grit, and ordered, "More gravy on these ones". I told my parents that story and Dad thought it was hilarious: for years after he would look at the roast beef or chicken dinner that my Mum would serve him and say, "I think we need more gravy on these ones". And he'd laugh and laugh. As I said before, we knew the guys who played in a popular wedding band, and quite a few times when they played at The El Rancho, me and my friends would change out of our uniforms and join the reception; drinking freely from the open bar if there was one. But even when they weren't playing, once our shifts were over, we'd rarely go home; working together was always just the launching pad for hanging out together, most often just cruising the strip. As much as I did like being a banquet waitress, the shifts depended on events being booked, and after about a year, we all wanted more hours than they could provide. It was time to move on.

The summer after grade eleven, there was a notice in the paper that a new style family restaurant was opening soon and they were hiring for all positions. Perfect. My friends and I all applied and we all got hired at Bonanza: a fast food type steakhouse with an all-you-can-eat salad bar. I was hired as a cashier, and this was probably the best job in the place, and not just because I got to dress in my own clothes instead of the yellow and brown striped shirts and brown pants that my friends were given (just terrible). Customers would enter the foyer, and as they proceeded through cattle gating, they had the opportunity to read the menus on the walls and decide what they would order before they came around to me. I'd ask what they'd like (generally a cut of steak), I'd ask how they'd like it done, would they prefer baked potato or french fries, what would they like to drink, and depending on their order, the person beside me would get the drinks and select either side salad or huge meal salad plates and put it all on their tray. When we first opened, it was unbelievably busy, with a lineup out the door every night and I would have crazy work dreams, forever asking, "Baked potato or french fries?" In this early stage, naturally, all the cooks in the kitchen were just learning their jobs, too, and I would get panicked messages from the kitchen manager: you need to slow down at the cash register because they couldn't keep up with the rate at which the orders were spitting out of their printer. I had the only job in the place that didn't involve running around or getting dirty, and the only downside was placating customers who wanted me to go faster after waiting in line for so long. I had a lot of fun at this job: all my old friends worked with me and we made new friends, too, and had many, many parties; the managers were young and friendly; customers and staff alike treated me like I was bright and competent. The best part, though, was being out of the house most evenings; I rarely ate at home anymore, I never came directly home after a shift, and as I had been given a car, I had total freedom. I also had the money to buy myself nice clothes, I went out for lunch most days (it still seems incredible to me that I was sixteen before I had my first taco; I still remember how mild salsa burned my virgin lips), and I had a huge collection of music cassettes: I bought anything I wanted, any time I wanted it. I know this song choice (like all the songs about work that I could find) makes it sound like work is a drag, but at the risk of repeating myself, I would much rather be at work than at home through high school. I quit Bonanza when I went to work at Lilydale the summer after grade twelve -- as my parents never offered to pay for my university costs, and as I had saved exactly nothing throughout high school, I needed to make some real money by this point -- and for the first time, I worked; a chicken processing plant is a great place to learn that a job isn't necessarily fun. 

As for my own kids, Kennedy worked some tough summer jobs in high school but only held a part time job at a shoe store through the second half of grade twelve. I have no reason to believe that she found that as satisfying as my high school jobs. On the other hand, when she and Zach worked the afternoon shift at the pork plant over their first summer there, they would often go out for something to eat together afterwards, sometimes with coworkers; that's almost like it was for me. Mallory has worked at the pork plant over the summer and now has a part time job at McDonald's -- and she appears to be really enjoying it; they've certainly been nice to her. Yet, it doesn't seem to be the party central that my jobs were: naturally, she has no opportunity to cadge alcohol from wedding receptions, but Mallory also doesn't use her time out as an excuse to not come directly home afterwards. As I was never home at her age, I don't know whether I should just be happy that she likes to come home or worry that she doesn't have enough of a social life to keep her out; I do know that I like knowing where she is. I'm sure both of them would say that they needed to work because we don't buy them enough stuff, but they've hardly been as deprived as I was. As a final note, here's a curiosity of my personality: I hated that my mother would water down the shampoo she bought (and if this was to save money as I assumed, I made sure to thwart her by wasting as much of the useless stuff as possible every time I showered) and I hated that she bought Zest soap that made me itchy, but never once did I think to buy my own shampoo or soap. It wasn't until I was living on my own and buying such stuff that that occurred to me and I couldn't explain it then or now: the shampoo and soap situation drove me crazy, filled me with great bitterness, and although I had scads of spending money, I felt powerless to fix something that caused me daily stress. Somewhere in this situation lies one of my great flaws.