Tagged: catering

Big Truck Badass.

I have a shameful confession, internet.

Driving A Big Van Around Makes Me Feel Like A Badass. 

This story-that-isn’t-a-story all started today when I was catering a big event for the University That Shall Not Be Named. It’s graduation weekend here in Westeros, and I’m working approximately 43,890 hours (okay, like 19) setting up all the super boozy receptions for the wittle 2013’s.

Because there are so many events this weekend, my catering company had to rent a few MASSIVE Penske’s to fit all the food for events that range from 50 to 2000 people. I was only doing an event today that hosted about 150, but all the normal sized vans were gone, so I got to take out a medium massive van.

I don’t know if it’s pure Napoleon complex, or the challenge of steering the thing, or machismo (reasons why I’m single #36 – I use the term machismo to describe myself) or what, but I LOVE driving the Penske. When I pull up to some little lowrider Prius or a tricked-out ’94 Volvo, I just look over at the other driver and think to myself, vroom vroom, biznatch. 

Also fabulous? Driving pretty much wherever I want. I have started many a shift by chasing hapless college students down the narrow sideways in the university. I even invented a game called How Close Can I Get To This Guy With The Earphones Before He Notices Me (pro tip – very close).

Today I got to back out of a sideway into the middle of a busy intersection with a van full of food AND NO ONE SAID SQUAT TO ME. They just sat there in their inferior modes of transportation silently praying that I wasn’t going to hit them with the ass of my 16 foot truck.

Obviously I didn’t.

Because I’m a badass. 

Pictured - Incentive to park as close as possible to location. Including sometimes on the grass.

Pictured – Incentive to park as close as possible to location. Including sometimes on the grass.

I love/hate catering.

I just got off a long catering shift, internet, so I’m going to keep it short and sweet.

I have a serious love-hate relationship with catering.


Things I love:

The feeling of accomplishment when you pack wayyy too many things into a teeny-tiny van.

I'm pretty good at Tetris. Why do you ask?

I’m pretty good at Tetris. Why do you ask?

Interacting with awesome people.

Seeing a variety of cool locations.

My awesome, awesome coworkers.

The fast paced environment.

When clients are genuinely grateful for our work.


Things I dislike about catering:

Being treated like I’m either invisible or like I’m scum.

The assumption that I’m catering because I’m uneducated and because I don’t have other options.


Long hours.

Taking out the trash.

Trying to keep my white shirt white. Really? Make me put on a white shirt to pour this red wine? Okayyy….


I feel like catering gives you a different perspective on people – specifically, how people treat others and why it’s important. It’s funny how the littlest nuance can change how a client perceives my service – from eye contact, to whether or not our fingers touch as I hold out their wine. It’s also funny how you can almost never tell who’s going to be a jackass before they open their mouths.

I guess the moral of the story here is yes, the catering staff do notice if you can’t take the extra two steps to throw out your plate, yes, it’s annoying when you order a wine and resume your conversation and make me stand there like an idiot waiting for you to notice me, and yes, a simple smile really can change my entire day.

The Mental Breakdown- Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday part 2.

This is a followup to yesterday’s post, which was written in quite the haphazardly, slapdash fashion. If you haven’t read it yet, I suggest you do that first, to avoid confusion.


…catering headquarters. I was, for obvious reasons, in a bit of a state at that point, and there wasn’t anyone left except for one poor kitchen boy, who took one look at me and got the hell out of my way. I realized I was going to be late for this meeting I had to go to, so I threw things back where they belonged, reparked the stupid, honking big van, and sprinted to my car.

I definitely sped down to the studio. I think if I passed any cops they could probably sense the crazy that was happening in my car, so they got out of my way.

Got to the studio, 5 minutes late. Varenka unlocked the door for me and let me in and I run into the room and sit against the wall.

Do you ever have those moments where you’ve been running around all day and you just stop and sit down and all the sudden all you want to do is go to sleep? That’s kind of what was happening to me, but I’d had three cups of coffee at work (it’s free! Yay!) and so I had exhaustion jitters. I was semi-falling asleep against the wall, but I couldn’t get my hands and feet to stop jerking. It wasn’t so much like I couldn’t sit still as that my extremities were twitching. During this semi-serious conversation about changing your life. We’ve all been there, right?

I’m pretty sure at this point I may actually be dying, but I pick up the packet of paper I’m given and flip through it in an attempt to look like I’m paying any sort of attention. I seriously couldn’t tell you what we talked about if my life depended on it. I think cucumbers were involved? I don’t know.

The meeting ends. Sprint home. Get changed. I actually had time to play through one song before I headed down to the gig. I also realized I hadn’t eaten in about 8 (9? 10?) hours, so I slammed a Lean Cuisine (Santa Fe rice and beans, nummers). Then I realized it was Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday and she told me to look cute and wear heels, so I rechanged into a dramatically less comfortable outfit, ran to my car, and sprinted (sped) downtown.

So I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I sort-of play in a band aka a duet aka my friend who is in an actual, real band lets me sing with him sometimes. I play the ukulele, because I am a giant cliché. My friend (let’s call him Captain Apollo) basically has to coddle and cosset me into doing this, because I apparently have no problem talking to giant groups of people, but I would rather pull out my toenails than sing in front of people in public places.

Captain Apollo talks me through soundcheck, and we get everything set-up and then I go drink what is rapidly becoming my regular pre-show order of a Labatt Blue and a shot of Jameo.

At this point my friends show up with Scarlett O’Hara, and I realize that I’ve neglected to properly prepare them for the atmosphere that is this bar (let’s call it the Battlestar). So they walk into the Battlestar and they’re all prettied up and Varenka is wearing actual, real live pants which is an extremely rare event for her, and we’ve all got heels on and whatnot, and this is one of those divey-er types of dive bars where the average clientele have knuckle tattoos and you’re almost encouraged to draw obscene things on the wall. It’s bit of a surreal moment, and they’re all looking a bit deer-in-headlightsy, even Rory, who rocks a poker face like no one else I’ve ever met.

However, I have no time to comfort them because just like that Captain Apollo is summoning me to the stage. I play my 7 song set-list, which went pretty okay, and get off the stage, and the girls are raring to get out of the Battlestar, like, yesterday. So we rush out of there.

We wander around for a bit and end up in my least favorite bar in town, which is apparently pretty heated on a Thursday because It Is Bumping.

And that’s when I just lose my head.

I think I’ve done a pretty decent job at explaining how Thursday was just a bit of a shit-show for me thus far. So imagine, if you will, coming fresh from the day I’ve had with barely any time to sit down, let alone take my foot off the gas pedal, and getting immediately thrown into a club packed full of sweaty strangers who are trying to rub up on you and chat you up and buy you drinks. It was not pretty. Varenka and Scarlett ended up getting tequila shots which I did not partake in as I was driving, and they seemed to be immediately okay with the situation. I backed myself up against the wall and clung to my Red Bull vodka for dear life.

I think I lasted about twenty minutes before I had to get out of there, internet. I was about to have a breakdown that would rival any toddler you know. Imagine a five-year old just had to pick up all her toys and eat brussel sprouts for dinner and then her brother gets a bigger slice of cake than she does. That was me. I was tired, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, emotional and I. Just. Couldn’t.

I lit outta there like a race horse on speed, people.

Moral of the story?

There is none.

The Mental Breakdown- Scarlett O’Hara’s Birthday part 1.

Okay internet. I have no time to write a blog today. So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m giving myself exactly twenty minutes to write, and at the end I’m cutting it off, no matter where I end up. If there’s story left over, I’ll finish it tomorrow. Here goes nothing.


So I cater part-time for a really awesome local catering place here, and two weeks ago they sent me to run a reception for the creative writing program up at the swanky university here in town. If you follow my blog you may remember me mentioning this program before- I was recently rejected from it.

Cut to this Thursday.

This is what my schedule looked like – teach a yoga class, run home, shower, run to work, cater another reception for the program I was just denied from, run back to the yoga studio for a 40 days meeting, run back home, change, run downtown, play a music gig, and then go out of my friend Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday. Oh, also write a blog post at some point. Yeesh.

As anticipated, the day went just about as well as expected. First off, I woke up to house construction drilling its way into my skull. Then we were out of non-decaf coffee Keurig cups. Great start. I ended up gerry-rigging a fillable Keurig thingy while the construction guys yelled at each other across my kitchen.

I had a crazy full noon class at the studio (14 people!!!) WHICH I TOTALLY ROCKED. So that made up for the morning.

Fast forward to the event (ten minutes on the clock, I think I can do this post in under twenty). The event coordinator, recognizing me from the previous event when we discussed my application to and excitement about the program, immediately asked if I was accepted, and I had to tell her I was not. Awkward. I set everything up and wait for the students to come in, whereupon three others I’d had the same conversation with prior, asked me the same thing (still rejected, thanks guys).

And then I get to stand there invisibly in the corner listening to people workshop their current projects and talk about literature and eat canapés and occasionally come over to get refills on their flavored seltzer water. Fab.

By the time people are filling out of there, I’m so flustered that the event coordinator mentions something to me about a reception involving the poet Lynn Emanuel and I refer to her as a dude, which probably confirms for her my rejection from Cornell because how dare I not know every poet ever and their respective genders (is what I’m thinking, because that’s how my mind works).

So then I get to packed everything up and push this ridiculously full cart up a hill through the snow to the van, and things are dropping off the stupid thing and I’m huffing and puffing and wearing a freaking skirt and flats and someone asks if I need help and I almost bite their head off because THE SITUATION WAS UNDER CONTROL (not).

And then I pack up the van and cry and have a little hissy fit for about three minutes before heading back to the


I got my first grad school rejection letter from university yesterday, and in the ultimate my-life-is-a-series-of-metaphors move, the first thing I did after reading the email was clean out the litter box, because nothing else could so perfectly encapsulate that particular shit happens kind of moment. The second thing I did was post a tragically emotional, sympathy seeking Facebook status abut it, because at heart I’m still a 15 year old girl who just got dumped on Valentine’s day. Then I told my mum, who was in her room dancing to Grease music, went and made a cup of tea, had a mini temper tantrum in my room, played the ukulele sobbing, dried my face off, and got on my computer to write this blog post, because hot damn, I got things to do.

I think the worst part is that I work for a catering company, and I have to cater an event for the program I just got rejected from tomorrow by myself. It’s a ritzy wine reception. So I get to stand there serving wine to the people in the program I really wanted to be in while they gripe about literature and exams and Randian philosophy or whatever. Which, you have to admit, is pretty high up on the unfortunate coincidences list.

I double checked my four other schools because I’d so rather just get rejected all at once, but of course they haven’t made decisions yet. So I probably get to do the whole drawn out temper tantrum situation four more times. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I don’t know. I got rejected last year from three different schools for graphic design, and I was upset, but not upset about it. I had already rationalized not getting in. I knew my portfolio wasn’t very good. I had thought it through.

This time though, in my heart-of-hearts, I was positive I was going to get into this university. So I kind feel like I just got hit in the face with a porcelain mug. It hurts pretty badly with the initial impact, and then you have to find all the sharp little pieces that got down your clothes and into your shoes, and every time you find one, you think, oh yeah, I got hit in the face with a mug. Man, I DID NOT see that one coming. 

Boo, internet. Booooooo.

Cassandra out.

The WORSER worst date I’ve ever been on.

Seriously. I just posted a blog about the worst date I’d ever been on. It’s barely been two weeks since I wrote the blog.

Oh, but internet, just last night the worst date I’ve ever been on was gloriously and theatrically upstaged. It was the Emperor of worst dates. If worst dates were Disney villains, this was Scar. If worst dates were Doctor Who baddies, this was Dalek Caan. If worst dates were unfortunate situations, this date was freshly buttered toast dropped upside-down onto a fraternity floor and you’re out of bread. 

You get the picture.

I have a part-time job as a caterer for a local catering company. I get to do a lot of things for this job, but I’m generally put on the bar because I’m both over 21 and a fairly decent multi-tasker. Last night, I was working the bar for a reception at the local university. It was some big-shot symposium on sustainable architecture or something, and most of the attendees were students and grad students enrolled at the school. I get put on architecture gigs a lot for some reason, so I knew the building and a lot of the students and the professors and it was a pretty relaxed event. I got to chitchat a fair amount with the people coming in.

So this guy kept coming over and I had to open his beer bottles and whatnot, and we had a choppy conversation, but the conversations I had with people were sort of running together because I had to interact with so many people. He was kind of cute, but not really my type, and at the rate at which I had to keep opening bottles of cabernet, I really was not paying attention to what he looked like anyways.

At the end of the night, I was breaking everything down with my coworker as the remaining 5 or so people were straggling out, and he came over (let’s call him James Franco) and said to me that there was a party at a bar downtown that he was going to and his friends egged him on to ask me out to it. Usually I go out with my friends to our usual bar where we sit in the same corner and drink the same drinks on Saturdays, but heck, why not. So I said yes.

After the van was unloaded and the catering business was put to bed, I got home and called my girl Varenka and convinced her that she really needed to put pants on and be my wing-girl, so she convinced her man-toy (let’s call him Rory) to come out with us for an hour. I texted James Franco and he said he was going to the club with his friends at 10 and he’d see me there. Cool beans.

V-renks and Rory and I rolled in around 10:30. No James Franco. It was pretty dead for a Saturday in there and it was NOT our scene. It was like walking into one of those crazy posh theme bars they make fun of in sitcoms. Everything was artfully grunged and buffed and destroyed and polished and painfully hip, and there were two 40 year old virgins playing techno in the corner surrounded with so many strobe lights they both had to wear sunglasses. Yet we persevered and ordered a very overpriced round of weak cocktails with lots of fancy garnishes on them.

This dude didn’t even show up until 11:15, which you may note was over an hour late. He came solo and mistook another Asian girl as me, which was as painfully awkward as you could imagine. He shook Varenka’s and Rory’s hands and sat next to me on a very hip vegan leather couch and balanced his tiny cocktail on the very hip patina’d metal chest that was there instead of a table.

James Franco did everything wrong. Everything. Even forgetting that he was an hour late and his friends never showed up. To sum:

– Tactless Asian jokes he tried to justify by indicating amount of time spent with Asians- check.
– Lying about his age (27) – check.
– Conveniently forgetting to mention he wasn’t a student here- check.
– Telling me he was only in town for four days and that he was “looking for a good time”- check.
– Asking me where I lived and how I was getting home (!!!) – check check.
– Being boring and awkward- the most checks.

Varenka and Rory left around 11:30, and I tried – really I did try – to not hate the entire experience, but between the awful music and the awful atmosphere and the fact that he bought me a Jack and Ginger instead of a Jameo Ginger and kept inching closer to me on the awful couch, I just couldn’t do it. So I pulled the Midnight Cinderella routine, refused the company back to my car (!!!), and lit outta there like the prizewinner at the Kentucky Derby.

The clincher, I think, was the follow up text I got this morning asking if I was around to “hang out” tonight. No, James Franco. I moved to Siberia. Find some other floozy to unimpress.

That’s the last time I go out to a hipster bar with a lying, pervy architect. Ugh. Never again, internet.