on the bottom looking up...

so, here she is,the grand mistress in one of her fried pickles.

last night I cried on the cookline.

for those of you in the industry...the eternal struggle of front of the house vs back of the house culminated in 300 smacks worth of food voids in an 800 dollar hour.

it was war. and war is never pretty.

so I went home to change out of my heels and cuteness and get on my battle gear.

while walking backing to work I see half of my waitstaff hotboxing in a car.

they offered me the pipe, to diffuse the horror of being caught,and I declined,pretending not to see them.

now, technically I should have fired them.

but considering the amount of coke the bartenders are furiously snorting at any given time-I decided to live and let live.

though cokeheads are much more productive.

nothing like a bartender with nostrils like a magarita glass.

I walked in the kitchen and sent everyone home but my kiss the cook cook.

then cried.

like a baby.

while making fish and chips.

which is pathetic on a level I can't even define.

I am a pro-union, pro-worker, who has been promoted to management.

that is like a jew moving up in the nazi party.

I am a sheep in wolfs' clothing and it is an uncomfortable fit.