Cherry liquid is awkward. I never realized just how awkward the sticky, overly red stuff was until I had to pour half a gallon of it into a sink. By the time the jar was emptied and the actual cherries were finally accessible, I look like I had murdered about ten people. Incidentally, this is also what I wanted to do after this laborious and degrading task. The duty of cherry picking was not degrading because of my position within the restaurant to complete it, but because I could feel the little balls of "natural" sugar mocking me the entire time. The cherries were playing hard to get. They did not want to be plucked from their warm, plastic domicile and thrown into the harsh, cold metal of the dessert bar container. It was completely understandable, but I couldn't waste time humoring them. So I got creative...and a ladle.
Feeling as accomplished as that one guy who created the wheel, I deftly used my tool to scoop five, maybe even six, cherries at a time. Oh, the fun I had. Of course, in all my cherry-filled excitement, I spilled a good amount of the faux fruit juice on one of the counters. I've learned that there are two kinds of messes in my life: messes and lindsay messes. A mess is a mess. A lindsay mess is a mess that is somehow made worse by my attempt to clean it up. There is a certain square footage of the Geller household in which lindsay messes run rampant, but that's besides the point. The act of cherry transfer set off a string of (minor) lindsay messes. Luckily, I was able to clean them up before I was caught red handed. After that horrible pun, I really don't have much more to say about this incident, except that I kept up the semblance that I knew what I was doing and kept my job.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
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