AND SO IT BEGINS...

So, school has begun.

I’m officially ‘a student’.  Even got a card to prove it.

If I digress for just a moment: does anyone out there ever take a decent photo for their licence or ID card?  Fucken I don’t.  A supermodel I am not.  In fact, I’d like to see the photo on a supermodels licence…

Anyway, aside from the exciting realisation that I can now purchase discounted movie tickets, I’m really quite terrified.

Firstly, I spend two weeks stressing over a fucken uniform.  In my mind, I’m thinking like ‘if I don’t cry with excitement when I put this uniform on, I’ll be astounded.  It’s totally like my dream coming true.’

However, when I finally figured out what size I could possibly be (try being a fat chick purchasing clothes online – without trying anything on), I finally order these fucken things, only to receive them, and realise that they are made for fucken giants.

Not short-arse fat chicks.  Giants.

The chef pants and jacket fit me, but fuck me!  They’re literally a foot too long in the sleeve and leg!  So I’ve spent more money having them altered than they fucken cost.  AND, I’m still a harry-high-pants.  I can see that they’re going to have to go back for further alterations.

Then there is the realisation that I, who cooks in my non-air-conditioned kitchen at home, in shorts, a singlet top and sneakers, will suddenly have to get accustomed to fucken overalls.  That’s what this uniform is like: overalls.

Great.

But it’s okay.  The lame little hat, neckerchief and safety boots will make it all okay. *rolls eyes*

But I won’t complain, because this is what I asked for.  I’ll just cook myself a mug of concrete, and harden the fuck up.  I’ll cook myself a mug of concrete in my fucken ‘overalls’ that make me look like the Michelin Man.  Yep.

So I bundle along to school (minus the fucken uniform, thank fuck, cos I don’t need that for the first few days), and find myself sitting in a room with about twenty other hopefuls. 

And what a mixture we have.

From a sixteen year old kid who’s looking to start a career (but has NEVER cooked before), to a woman in her fifty’s that’s refreshing her qualifications.

It doesn’t take long to realise that the majority of the people in this room are there through Centrelink, employment agencies or for employment based training.

Myself and one other person are the only one’s physically paying for this course.

How fucken stupid am I?

I should have quit my job, gone on the dole, and Centrelink would have paid for my course! All I needed was a fucken Health Care Card.  A Health Care Card! 

Here I am, all excited about discounted movie tickets, when what I should have been aiming for was a fucken Health Care Card! 

Two grand it would have saved me! TWO GRAND!  That’s why I have to pay in fees! Most everyone else in the class room is cruisin’!! FUCK!

Dumbarse.

Michelin Man dumbarse.

So, after my first day of OH&S training, the purpose of which was to not only to induct us into the safety procedures of the school and industry, but to point out with screaming clarity for all of us, who the fucken idiots are that we need to stay away from.

Common sense is not so common after all, it would appear.

So after this OH&S crap, several ‘team building’ exercises (imagine my fingers doing the inverted comma thing), which saw me get way to close to too many strangers, and a heart attack at the volume of theory I will have to somehow do (didn’t know about that one – thanks TAFE), I drove home in hysterical tears wondering what the fuck I was thinking.

I can’t do this! I can’t work part time, study full time, run a business, a blog, a recipe website, secretarial work for the CWA, wear a fucken Michelin Man uniform AND find nearly a full extra day to do online-based study.

What the fuck was I thinking…

Charlie said it’s going to take me a few weeks to get used to it and get into a routine.

Charlie knows everything.  He is my Yoda.

I don’t have a few weeks to get into a routine, though.  I’ve got to hit the ground running, and it’s going to be hard.

So, I’ve decided that my mantra will be ‘it’s only for a year’.  I figure if I repeat this to myself long enough, I’ll fucken be able to cope.  Either that, or I’ll turn into a rambling, blithering mess, that’ll simply stumble around a commercial kitchen in the Michelan Man outfit, attempting to throw together something edible.

*sigh

Anyway, the second day of school saw us splitting into our specific training groups.  So I’m with nine other girls who want to be cooks, like me.

I’m the oldest in the group; no surprise there.  Another is a sixteen year old poppit that connect with me instantly, because I remind her of her late mother (who was also named Lee: go figure).  She reminds me of Jade, so I don’t know whether to hug her or punch her in the head.

Then I find myself sitting at the table between a woman that cannot speak English very well, and another that has a poor grasp of it, and here I am, a little slow to pick up on things sometimes, desperately needing to pay 100% attention to the trainer, but have these two birds chirping into both of my ears, cos they fucken need help.

Mental note: site in a different place next week.  Fuck.

Then we have two girls that rocked up to class hung over, and complained about being tired all day.  They’re half my age, and fucken soft, and I’m wondering how long it will take before I smack one of them.  Fucken winging Gen Y’ers.

Their performance affects my grade to a point, so my patience will go flying out the window very quickly.

Plus, I’m a grumpy, old moll that has zero tolerance for ‘young people bullshit’.

The rest of the girls are a mixture of ages, abilities and backgrounds, and looking at the collective, I know I’m going to be in store for an interesting six months. 

I’m just hoping that some of them don’t go on to the certificate III with me.  Fuck that.

However, it’s all about team work and dealing with different personalities in the kitchen.  It’s not all about me.

And it’s only for a year.

The second week will see me wearing the Michelin Man outfit for my first formal day in a commercial kitchen.  It’s not air-conditioned.  Now I would complain about this, but I’m kinda rolling with the ‘it’s good it’s not air-conditioned, because it will condition us to non AC kitchens in the future’.  Yep.  If I say it often enough, I’ll believe it.  *rolls eyes*

So, I must away now, because I have to do some online shit that will teach me how to use a knife; something I’ve only been doing for the last three-hundred years.

Wish me luck.

Peace out.