So I have to deliver 75 tins of baklava to a customer of our church’s holiday pastry sale.
The customer? The Olympic Garden, the “World Famous Adult Cabaret”
With a name like Olympic Garden, you just know it’s owned by a Greek.
I called them this morning to confirm delivery and, frankly, find out how I could avoid actually going IN the main facility. I was hoping that they had administrative offices somewhere else. Unfortunately, every question that I thought to ask ended up having really euphemistic tones:
“Do you have a back entrance available?”
“Do you have a service entrance?”
“Do you do business upstairs or down?”
I’ll save you the rest, but trust me, they got steadily creepier.
Update:
So I went to the strip club with my two cousins. We waltzed in the door at 11 am and went right up to the bouncer? host? Maître D’? at the front.
So picture me, the massive pregnant woman, holding a little toddler girl, traipsing into Disney’s Greek Boobyland with two of my cousins. The poor guy’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “Hi. I’m Jen from St. John’s Greek Orthodox Church-
Oh shit, he thinks, we’re being raided by Christian fundies.
-And I need to speak to J-- about delivering-
Crap, she’s trying to deliver bibles to the dancers, isn’t she? Why does this have to happen on my shift?
-pastries to the office.
Should I call security? Wait, I AM security.
“Um…….okay. But you really, REALLY need to wait outside, ma’am.”
“It’s really cold out there. Can I wait by the door?”
Accessing spotty knowledge of zoning laws as they apply to strip clubs housing pregnant women and children…accessing…accessing….
“No. I’m sorry. Please, you REALLY need to be outside.”
So the boys hefted several hundred pounds of baklava up several flights of stairs while the office staff entertained Bean. They were very kind. They showed me pictures of their grandchildren and of their favorite strippers. It was a very odd half of an hour.
She has learned the word mine.
Life is not the same.