Okay. Not sure what is up with the job "situation" over here, but since moving here I've had THE WORST luck starting these absolutely ridiculous jobs. My first job-beverage cart girl on a deserted golf course due to it being the "off season"... picture making $17 for a 9 hour shift with pervy grandpas hitting on me all day. Next up waiting tables for the twin of Farzad, an Iranian nutjob who loves to demean women, I'm the only server not in rehab-and apparently Old Calypso is the #1 restaurant in Delray Beach for folks over 85 yr old, served an average of 4 walker-needers a day. (not that there's anything wrong with this, but come on its depressing as hell when the servers have a going bet on who can wait on the most walkers in a day) The only high point in this two week experience was a 75 year ole gramma who took pity on me after me saying I had no friends yet, she gave me her number to "hang out"-gotta love it, and get this, she didn't even call me! Ouch. I'm getting stood up by 75 yr old grammies. Dang it.
Ahhhh, it gets better... I finally snag an interview with potential, a hip, classy Italian restaurant in the heart of Mizner Park (the ultra-expensive place to see and be seen in Boca)... I dress to the nines, black everything, splurged-put me into the red on a new outfit, classy as hell, I'm desperate at this point, sick of ramen and cereal every nite, this ones gotta work out, right? Hmmmm, I had overlooked that with every hip, classy Italian restaurant there comes a wannabe mafioso manager, hairy chest hairs peeping out of their too tight black t's and gold chains completing their outfits, not bad in itself, however this was a special kind of a-hole. He hit on me no less than 5 times during the interview and ended by saying he'd call me after 10pm if I "got the job as a hostess-your hot, you'll bring people at the door in" so much for trying to dress to the nines, I am so disgusted at this point, I need to go to the restaurant next door after the interview just to decompress all the come-on lines I just deflected with a stiff martini. Asking the bartender about the joint next door, he laughs and says that its "owned by the mafia". Holy $#@&! (side note, the interviewer has rang me up- and hung up when I obviously don't answer-23 times since the interview----ummm.... creeeeeeepy) Enter in Chilies..... A special kind of hell, I just would like to say, please don't ever eat there again,and this used to be one of my favorite quicky restaurants... Trust me. I had a slithery lil oxycodone addict training me, I could barely keep up with his twitches and tweeks, dirty fingernails and greasy hair. I kept thinking, "there is nooo way I just left Maui for this life, this can NOT be it". I lasted two 8 hr days of "I have a coupon for this" and slippery kitchen tile flooring (of which I almost fell and broke something no less than 10 times during my shift and if that happened at this point in my poor as hell no insurance existence I'd really be no bueno). Had to make decisions last nite after that special shift, and at 3am this morning amidst lengthy discussions with my South Park Cartman imitating, Hilton Head living,love him more than live itself friend Shaun, decided to blow this popsicle stand. I can't wait. Florida you have done your job. Once again just like the cruise ship, the dream was to do it, not to have it be some amazing mind blowing wonderful experience. I did it, and mind blowing it was not. I am slowly ticking off states where I "don't" want to live, now on to the next adventure, where "do" I want to end up????
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