In my continuing series of first impressions of the people at my new job, let us focus our attention on another manager that we shall refer to as "Linda Evans." Not because she looks like the pristine flower Krystle Carrington from the hit television show of the '80's, Dynasty, but because I always wanted a poodle named Krystle Carrington and this lady might be as close as I ever get. On my second day at work, I was standing near the bar when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was her. "Hi, I'm Linda Evans and I'm a manager. I need you (pause) to tuck your shirt in." I quickly apologized and did as I was told only to look up and see that she had vanished. Really? That's how you're going to introduce yourself to a new employee? I had seen her for two days already and thought she was host because she never said one word to me. And before you think I was being slobby or disrespectful about leaving my shirttails untucked let me inform you that I reached that decision very carefully. I noticed that most of the women did not have their shirts tucked in and none of the bartenders did including the guys. So I felt more comfortable with mine untucked as well. All it ever does is come untucked anyway whenever I reach up to a high shelf, bend over to pick up some crap off the floor or fall to my knees asking "Why God? Why? Why didn't I want to grow up to be a doctor?" Linda Evans had nothing else to say to me that day. But I watched her. And I questioned why it was me that had to have my shirt tucked in? And who was she to make that style-based decision? This chick has a nose ring, a lip piercing, was wearing tight black stretch pants and tacky ass Uggs looking boots with a fur vest? Really? My shirt was what was inappropriate? Okay, Linda Evans.
Linda Evans has not said much else to me. I had to discuss my schedule with her because she wrote it out completely ignoring the fact that I told them I could only work part-time because I have another job and a life. She scheduled me all over the fucking week with conflicts up my ass. She told me to email her and she would take care of it. Thirty-six hours have passed since I sent the email and still no word. I will not be there on Tuesday, Linda Evans. The only other time she has approached me was last night. I accidentally shut a cabinet hard too hard and it made a little bit of noise. She rushed over to me and told me I needed to be quiet. Now it was 9:00 on a Saturday night, we were packed, you could barely hear yourself think, but she told me that I shut the cabinet too loud. Why not go over to the ten top at table 14 who are on their fifth bottle of wine and ask them to bring it down a decibel or two? They have been screaming their heads off but the cabinet door I shut is what is too loud. Linda Evans clearly has a need to tell people what to do. And get this: I think I am old enough to be her father. I kinda hate her for that reason alone. I want to send some Alexis Carrington Colby over to this chica and slap the shit out of her.
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