We got new carts at work.

That's literally the most exciting thing in the whole world. Sad? No -- that's just how awesome it is.

Let me back up. I need a cart for three & a half hours per shift. Okay, that's not entirely true -- I just need it for ten minutes at the beginning and ten minutes at the end, but, without exaggeration, it's completely crucial that I have it at those times, so I hide it for three & a half hours until I need it again. Necessary? Yes. Fair? Probably not.

For the last fifteen months, finding a cart at the beginning of the shift was difficult, to say the least. I had to be crafty. Bribing, bargaining, threatening, and just downright stealing had all been standard. "I'll bring it right back when I'm done!" I've promised countless times, knowing full well that I wouldn't. Hey, don't judge me -- the service industry is a cutthroat world. I gotta step on a few toes to get what I need.

As of late, I've been trying to be more understanding. Keeping my promises, for example, and bargaining without threats. Asking nicely. Thanking. Trying to build cart credit in order to cash it in when necessary. It's very hard for me to be nice when I'm so used to being a bitch, but the chef boys and other bartenders understand the hardship of the situation, so we growl at each other in the moment but exchange a look that says, "I get that this sucks and they are filthy jerks for not providing us with the equipment we need to do the jobs that they require."

Catering is another story. The restaurant's relationship with the catering staff is much like "West Side Story." I've actually used the phrase "What are you doing on my turf?" more than once. Not only do they appear when and where they are not wanted, but they take my things. Not only do they take my things, but they take my things without any warning. They are phantom thieves! They steal things without returning them, and nobody seems to see them do it, but it's them, we know it. This is not said without evidence, believe me.

So I see these kleptomaniacs with one of our precious few carts full of my glassware and I get mad. My cart. My things. On my cart. My things on my cart being pushed around my building by some morose chump in a Star Trek uniform. Do I sigh, annoyed, and attempt to find a different cart? Fuck no. Rage overtakes me and I devise plans to a) get back at them (revenge/winning is always first) and then b) Jedi that cart. What usually happens is a cat-and-mouse game of stalking and hiding, ending in me waiting for them to go into a closet to retrieve something and hurriedly emptying the cart, making off with it before they can come back to a pile of their things on the ground while they shake their fists at the heavens and rue the day that they crossed me. Listen, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. And anyway, they started it.

Lo and behold, after fifteen months of this bullshit, someone decided to do something proactive about repairing the relationships between those employees who require carts. I will say that life is a little less exciting with a few more carts in the mix, but my blood pressure seems to be better. Perhaps this gives me an opportunity to repair some of those burned bridges, but honestly, I probably won't. They still are my sworn work enemies. I mean, you have to have something to keep things interesting.