85 dozen doughnuts.
Somebody ordered 85 dozen doughnuts. For the next two weeks.
This is one thousand and twenty individual pieces of fried dough. This is also on top of what I normally make for the store. You remember a couple days ago when I ranted about SI and acute stress? This is that.
What's interesting is this little side drama that comes with. See, my boss doesn't want to do this order. In reality we are doing half of what the customer wants. It's a catering company and one of her customers is a refinery. Our store boss really wants to (it's a three hundred dollar order with potential to be six) and one of the gee-I-wanna-supervise ladies really REALLY wants to do it. The only other time the woman has been in this good of a mood is when we failed our sanitation audit. She will do whatever it takes to ensure this order gets done, up to and including sacrificing her days off to help, and when she's here, she talks about two subjects:
1. How much this order could bring and how happy the customer is with us (apparently it is too much work for another store. Dude. If I can manage to fry eighty-five-dozen doughnuts in one night, YOU can fry them too. And sorting them out into boxes for the customer should not be too much work. This woman is paying you three hundred dollars, which is more than you can expect to make on store doughnuts in a single day.)
2. How little confidence our boss has in her staff. Which I agree with, but I think her reluctance to do this order lies less in no confidence in staff and more in not wanting to run the logistics for making this work. We basically have to double our order for doughnut supplies, doughnuts and boxes, and arrange for help to box (and god it would be so nice if we had someone to help fry). The order WILL pay for the supply increase, so the only work for the boss is ordering the doughnuts and arranging the schedule so someone is there to help me every night.
Have I mentioned yet, that I have run out of doughnuts at some point for three weeks in a row? Yes, one time they were on a pallet in another department's freezer (as they were tonight when my helper discovered them. On the bottom no less.)
In reality, I don't care. I stopped caring at about two a.m. last night when I forgot about how my shoes don't go all the way under my pants and I dribbled hot grease through my sock. (ow) The social dynamic in my workplace is so dysfunctional, it makes my family (including my alcoholic racist aunt and alcoholic OCD racist step-father) look like a model for healthy mental development, and it just got more interesting. And for once, it's not pointed at me. So as long as I can keep up with the workload (see title of post) I can just sit back and watch the show.
Yes. I am a bitch. Not a miserable one, though. Rather pleased and self-satisfied, actually.