Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Dough.

Boy do I never want to see a bag of flour again . . .

Like I explained to my friends on Saturday evening as we convened for our weekly yoga class, I’ve had my fair share of experience in the world of work, but never have I ever had to work this hard EVER to get paid. Ever.

I don’t think I even put any thought into what a job like this entailed before I decided (years ago, mind you) that I wanted to try it out. My mother worked at this same place for about 16 years . . . after one week I have no idea how she did it. Part of it probably has to do with the fact that I have more dough land experience than her. She claims she only learned to make dough when she became a supervisor (some 10 years after working there)  and she was short staffed and had no choice but to do it.

How unfortunate for me then.

My first day wasn’t that bad, I barely did much. Just write up the times the dough was made and oil pans and basic stuff like that. But from my second day when the real dough master came out to work the task was significantly harder. She put me through my paces, in a way that didn’t seem that demanding at the time but looking back at it, it was a lot.

Things always went smoothly from 8 to up until I took my lunch break, most times at 12.30 or 1pm (which lasts for half an hour . . . HALF AN HOUR D:). Once you sit down after having been on your feet for so long all the pain washes over you and you just can’t get back up PLUS you just ate so the itis slips in. When I got home from work all I could do was sleep in preparation for another long, boring day of making dough. Thankfully, not alone.

The worst day was of course on Saturday. A small part of me knew that something terrible would happen to me when I rolled out of bed at 5am on a Saturday to go to work (as if waking up at 5am on a Saturday isn’t already criminal in itself). I get to work and I do my count, I sweep the area, I mop the area and sanitize all the equipment and the tables. The next thing I know it’s 8.30, I’m dropping the first batch of dough and I’m all alone on a SATURDAY at the restaurant.

Me . . . All alone in dough land (on easily the busiest day of the week) making all the dough.

What. Madness.

It could have been worse. I could have been on the night shift all by lonesome making dough on Saturday. Now that would have been something else.

With the help of my supervisor I got through the first two batches. After that I was alone. The restaurant was open and she had bigger fish to fry than a trainee all alone in dough land. Welp.

Somehow I managed to make it through to one o’clock when the stand in dough master came in . . . Finally. He was supposed to be there for 12 but at least he made it. Thank God he made it. After he got there I just planted my butt on the nearest stool and listened to the machines whiz and wonder what I was doing with my life.

After just one week of working there I’ve just about had enough but I can’t quit now. The journey has just begun, however unfortunate that is. I can’t explain to you the relief I felt when the clock hit four on Saturday and I walked out the door. I had survived a week in dough land. A week of painfully demanding work. Every day I looked around at all the other employees and wondered “How the hell do you do this everyday?” and thanked God that I don’t have to do this for the rest of my life. Just for this summer. Just with Brazil 2014 in mind. It will be worth it.

Besides that evening my friend told me that she had visited the establishment but she had no idea that I was working there, when I asked her about the pizza she was all like “Oh it was nice and fluffy! You know sometimes the dough is all raw.” I might be a dough master after all.

Up next: The ‘make table’. Wish me luck.

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