Yesterday put my current position into perspective. Let me review since I’ve been away so long. I have been working in a different position lately. Let’s call this new position "Go-go Girl." So, as Go Go Girl, I have a specified set of duties. That’s cool. What irks me is that anytime someone needs something, they call me and I’m just supposed drop what I’m doing. Not easy when I have pickle juice covered gloves on. And I have a hard time going back to what I was doing. (*grr* What the dickens was I doing?!)

I’ve gotten a lot better at being the Go Go Girl, thanks to previous Go Go Girls who have taught me their tricks of the trade. Yesterday, however, I get to work and am told I am going to work in the old position (of which I was "Queen"). It threw me for a loop. I didn’t realize how accustomed I was to the fast-paced-never-stop-til-you’re-done rhythm of being a "Go Go Girl." In my old position, I’m dealing with customers, waiting (and waiting…and waiting…) on them to decide what they want to order, to find their money (or discover "oops!" they don’t have their money!), and (s…l…o…w…l…y…) count their money. Y…i…p…p…e…e…!

So, I came to work today thinking, "Wow. Being Go Go Girl isn’t all that bad!" *cough* Yeah, if only I’d thought that on a day that wasn’t a Friday. The idea might have lasted a little longer than a few hours. Gah! *Pulls out hair* This is so stressful! Today was especially bad because we were running low on product. And because I was not "Go Go Girl" yesterday, the state that my product was left in was less than ideal. Grr.

Oh, that’s not the best part. If I wasn’t before, this week has definitely earned me the honorary title of "Messiest Worker of the Decade." Every single day this week, I have exploded bags of onions–on Wednesday, the onions went down my shirt. That was nice–all my co-workers making such comments: "Do you smell onions?" "Is that a new cologne?" "Wow. Need some deodorant?" Yeah…nice. I’m not going into the messes I made with the various sauces. *shudder*

It sounds a lot funnier here, but as I’m usually rushed and harried, I’m afraid my sense of humor often fails me. Looking back really helps. Hey, I could be the modern Louisa May Alcott with stories like these.

The food fight at my Sisters’, for example. Pieces of bread hard enough to feel like shrapnel were hurled across the table. Some of them (I can’t imagine who threw them) dinging one of the boys on the forehead and again down his shirt. Then, one of those square take-out boxes from an Asian restaurant bounced off my head. In retaliation, My Evil Twin tossed the liquid contents of her glass in her brother’s face. Her brother then tried a few times to splash me without his sister knowing. I ended his attempts by imperiously and indignantly informing him that I was wearing a white shirt and how dare he be so perverted as to try and get me wet (I’m close enough with them that hurling insults back and forth is a sign of affection). My words caused a burst of laughter at which my brother-from-another-mother shrank back to glare at me in the frustrated silence of failure.

Ah yes, good times. I love my *other* family.