The longboards are coming out of their closets, get ready Olympia. And you're not allowed to ride on the sidewalk either Mr. Bike Cop.

    You know, it just occurred to me that for the most part, I toss salads for a living. Puns and dirty jokes aside, I find it to be pretty sad.
    I don't really know much about our customers. The few that talk to me on the open kitchen treat me more like an exhibit at a museum than a cook, or a person, even.
    "Great job, guys!" proclaims a cheery old man. His hair is grayed and slightly balding, his glasses are small. Nothing about him is distinguishable from the dozens of other old men who came before him. Without even thinking, I smile and wave.
    He's probably the same guy who complained about his Olympia oysters being too small. His ceaser dressing was too salty. Ten ounces of ice cream wasn't enough for his blackberry cobbler.
    Fuck. It's no use, really. I don't claim to be a good cook, not by a long shot. My knowledge of food is jumbled and slim, at best. Instead of trying to teach the server or customer, I go for the faster route: remaking the problem order. To try and teach them, my breath would be wasted. The customer wants food, the server wants tips and I just want them both to get the hell out of the restaurant.
    "Order up!" Oh, great.
    "Table 135 didn't get enough avocado or egg on their Hawaiian Cobb, could I get some more?"
    Sure, it costs us a lot. But I take a handful of each and randomly arrange them on a bread plate.
    "Thanks a bunch!" The server disappears as quickly as he appeared. Hopefully he can appease the customer in time. An offer to the gods.
    But before I have time to be displeased with my job, the timer beeps. Another melting cake. I hope it's for Christine Gregoire again, I'll stab it on purpose.