She's constantly dragging me into the kitchen to see the way she rearranged the fridge or something, and meanwhile the kids are in the other room killing each other and the only way to get away from her is to coo over what she's done, tell her it's a wonderful idea, keep talking fast, and run. She just wants someone to reassure her she's doing the right things, but I've told her 800 times that she has the run of the kitchen and I really do not give a damn where she puts the spoons.
And she's got this horrible enthusiasm for the job, like she's just so happy to have the BEST JOB EVER!! Everything free in America! Except that the job is pretty close to menial, especially the parts she takes care of (feeding and cleanup). And she's been in the US for at least a decade, most of which was spent owning a business and two restaurants, and now she's slopping hogs, so wherefore enthusiasm? It's a difficult thing for me to walk into WORST JOB EVER and be greeted by a crowing bouncy Slavic cheerleader every day.
On a more practical note, I don't think she can count. Yesterday she made one loaf's worth of sandwiches. I took one look at the serving table and asked her what we were going to feed the rest of the kids. She didn't see the problem. Um, well, thirty sandwiches, sixty kids, is the problem. Couldn't get it through her head, even with elaborate pantomime, and she ended up running back and forth with half-assed leftovers, trying to get everyone fed: the same scramble she goes through every day. The first 30 kids through the line get an assortment of elaborately prepared treats. The other 30 get stale granola bars.
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But I still really like the way she says "grilled cheese." Glill Chiz.
Today, in the torturous staff meeting (Never punish the children - check. Cater to their every desire - gotcha.), the boss asked if we were interested in doing a Secret Santa thing within the staff. I fervently vetoed this, citing time-crunch, lack of funds, and a desire to minimize already overwhelming holiday stress, and suggested an alternate activity, such as a group lunch. My real reason, of course, was the knowledge that I would pick the boss's name and then be obligated to purchase and sneakily hide all manner of cuteness - candies and cards and smiley-face douchebags and whatever else you're supposed to buy as Secret Santa gifts. NO WAY. My good co-workers had the sense to feel the same horror and support the lunch idea, which I (and probably they) plan to skip out on at the last minute. Problem solved.
Then the Czech garbles some English around for a while and eventually makes her question clear - since we're not doing Secret Santa, will she be in trouble of she brings a small present for someone anyway?
Everybody says no, that's fine, that's up to you.
And she smiles, and says, Goot. Because Jeska, she bees so nice to me in the kitchen, I likes bees nice to her in the Christmas.
Goddammit.
