Half an hour into the shift, Ronda was feeling better about things. The initial 'Holy shit, Ronda Rousey is working as a waitress' reactions were behind her, at least with the night's first set of customers, and the food orders had been placed for all of her tables. Everything was going surprisingly well, or so she thought until she walked into the kitchen. It was a hive of activity, with people rushing around everywhere and multiple voices talking at once. Even so, she had no doubt that everyone knew what they were doing. Organised chaos was the phrase that sprang to mind.

"Ronda!" the head chef said heatedly as soon as he saw her. Ronda realised she should have known his name, but she didn't. Seth had handled hiring the senior staff and then left Jack to do the rest. The man with no name walked over, brandishing a ticket that had printed out from the ordering system. "You've put an order in without filling in the table number."

"What makes you think I did it?" she snapped back, defiantly standing with her hands on her hips. Being questioned by others had never been something that she'd been able to easily accept.

The head chef handed her the ticket, pointing out where her name was printed at the top as the server. "That was my first clue. Now go find out what table it's for, please. We can't waste time with things like this when we're this busy."

"Sorry," she mumbled, looking at the list of items and trying to remember which of her tables had ordered them. Luckily, she was able to remember which people the order belonged to, but not which table number theirs was. "I know who it is, but..." she let her voice trail off as she looked back up because the head chef was already back at work.

"Excuse me!" one of the other waitresses said, brushing past her as she carried two plates towards the door.

Ronda felt her fists clenching. The urge to snap at someone was almost too much to take. Closing her eyes for a second, she took a deep breath and forced herself to get on with the job. Finding out which table the ticket belonged to was the top priority. She hurried back out into the dining area, almost colliding with another waitress who was going in the opposite direction.

"Excuse me, can we get more drinks?" an elderly man at one of her tables asked as she hurried past his table.

"Be right with you," Ronda said, more politely than she had expected to manage. She walked past the table that the messed up order belong to, making a mental note of the number, then rushed back to the kitchen.

"Twelve," she announced proudly, holding the ticket out to the head chef.

He took it without thanking her and gestured to two plates of food on the hot plate. "Take those out to table eight, please."

"Yes, sir," Ronda growled under her breath, feeling her blood starting to boil again. Being rushed around like this wasn't something that she was cut out for, especially after so many years away from this kind of work. She snatched up the plates and make her way back to the dining area.

"I've got shrimp and lobster dumplings," she smiled when she approached the table. "And I've got a jumbo crab cake." She was met with blank expressions from the middle aged businessman and his wife.

"That's not our order," the woman said, smiling awkwardly.

"Sorry," Ronda blushed. She turned and headed back in the direction of the kitchen, feeling like she had reached the end of her rope.

"You told me the wrong fucking table," she shouted at the head chef after barging through the kitchen door. "You're making me look fucking stupid out there!"

Giving her an ice cold look for a second, the chef checked the ticket and the plates she was holding. "Shrimp and lobster dumplings and jumbo crab cake, table eight," he read aloud.

"You said table nine!" Ronda barked at him, ready to start throwing fists. The reaction she got took her by surprise. If she had known more about how a good head chef took pride in ruling his kitchen and delivering efficient service, she might have toned down her attitude a little. She soon found out that he didn't give a damn that she actually owned the place, now that she was supposed to be working there.

"I said eight!" he roared at her, waving the ticket in her face. "Look there, it says fucking eight! Why would I say nine when it says eight! Get your thumb out of your ass! You're making a fucking mess and letting everyone down!"

"Sorry," Ronda muttered, taken aback by the outburst.

"Table eight! Move!" the chef yelled in her face, pointing at the door.

Chastened, Ronda scuttled out of the kitchen and delivered the food to the correct table, apologising to the customers for the wait.

"We're still waiting on our appetisers," a man said from the next table over. Ronda had noticed both him and his friend putting beer away at quite a rate, and she could hear the effects in his voice. A drunk giving it attitude was the last thing she needed.

"I'll check on them for you now," she told him, forcing another smile.

"Some time tonight would be good," he patronised behind her back as she walked away, plenty loud enough for her to hear.

"Keep your cool, Ronda," she told herself as she made her way to the kitchen again.

"Ronda," Jack hissed, stepping in front of her. "Can you stop walking around looking like you're ready to kill someone? Service with a smile, alright?"

She wanted to say fuck it, and walk out right then and there, but she knew she would be letting everyone else down if she did that. These people worked in these conditions all the time. God only knew how, but they did. Her pride wouldn't let her throw the towel in. It would make her seem weaker than the others. That couldn't happen. "Smile more. Got it," she nodded.

As she walked into the kitchen, she cautioned herself to take a more respectful tone with the chefs, too. They were also busting their asses, and she wasn't making it easier by screwing up. "Table seven are asking how long for their appetisers," she said to one of the sous-chefs.

The young woman glanced at the tickets, which were arranged in some kind of system that Ronda couldn't understand. "Five minutes," was the verdict.

Making her way back to table seven, Ronda was hailed once more by the elderly gentleman who wanted to order more drinks. "Excuse me?" he asked, raising his hand.

"One moment, sir," she said apologetically, then walked over to the two drunks who were waiting on their appetisers. "I checked with the chefs for you. Your food will be ready in five minutes."

"We'll be lucky to get it by Christmas at this rate," the man who had previously spoken to her complained in a very derogatory manner, clearly showing off in front of his friend.

That was it for Ronda. She was prepared to take being rushed off her feet; she was prepared to take customers firing requests at her while she was busy; she was even prepared to be ordered around and sworn at by the head chef, but she was not going to be spoken to like a piece of shit by a customer. That was too much to take. "I suggest you watch your mouth," she angrily told the offender. "You might be a customer here, but that doesn't give you the right to speak to people like crap. Have you got that?"

All around the dining area, heads had turned in her direction. Those who knew who she was were showing particular interest, intrigued by what might happen to the person who had pissed Ronda Rousey off. "Put him in an armbar," someone called out, drawing some laughter from a few other people. It was a tempting idea.

"I think you'd better get your manager over here, sister," the man said with a smarmy grin, clearly expecting to land her right in trouble. Little did he know, she actually owned the place.

Ronda was about to fire back at the customer once more, but Jack arrived, as if from nowhere. "Excuse me," he said politely to the customer, then lead Ronda away by the arm until they were out of earshot of all of the customers. "What are you doing, Ronda?" he asked, exasperated.

"He was giving me attitude and trying to make me look stupid," she protested. "I'm not going stand there and take that shit."

"No, you're not," Jack said firmly. "And you're not going to stand there making a spectacle of yourself in front of customers, either. I asked you to come in and help us out, not make things harder for everyone. I need you to go and swap over with Katie in the kitchen, please."

Ronda felt her mouth fall open again. "You're asking me to go work in the kitchen?"

"Yes I am," Jack said deadpan. "I'm trying to run your restaurant for you, Ronda. Maybe you could stop being part of the problem and start being part of the solution? I can't have someone causing a scene out here, and I need someone working in the kitchen, so would you just go, please?"

Again, Ronda found herself fighting the impulse to give him a mouthful of abuse and then walk out, but as before, she realised that he was just trying to do his best to get through the shift, and she was making it harder than it needed to be, again. "Fine. I'll be a part of the solution then," she told him, and trudged off towards the kitchen, hoping that the customers hadn't been paying attention to the little altercation. Some hope. There was total silence in the dining area.

When Ronda walked into the kitchen, there was only one person in there who was wearing the wait staff uniform, so it was obvious who Katie was. She was currently cleaning one of the food prep areas. Ronda waited a moment until she was done, then walked over to the young woman. "Katie?"

"Oh, hey, Ronda," Katie stammered, looking starstruck.

"We're swapping over," Ronda informed her. "You need to go take over my tables, please. Maybe speak to Jack first. There's an old guy and his wife who want to order drinks."

"Uh, sure," Katie said eagerly, then headed for the door.

"What's going on?" the head chef demanded, clearly annoyed at being distracted by Ronda once more.

"Jack asked me to work in here now," Ronda told him. "Apparently I was being more of a hindrance out there, so I'm taking over from Katie. What do you need me to do?"

"Make your way through that lot," he told her, pointing over at a large sink which had a massive stack of dirty plates and cutlery piled up beside it.

"Washing dishes?" Ronda whined, now certain that her day couldn't possibly get worse. "How is there not a dishwasher in here?"

"There is. It's already full and running. I've asked for a second one to be put in, but Jack thinks it's okay to have a waitress do dishes when we're really busy. Maybe you could do something about that at some point? For right now, I need you to get on with what's there."

"Right," Ronda mumbled, determined to kill Seth if he had been asked about getting a second dishwasher put in and had said no. As she walked over to the pile of dirty items beside the sink, it seemed to grow like some kind of hideous, filthy monster. There was so much of it, it was ridiculous, and that was before anyone was finished with their main courses.

Turning the faucet on, she began to fill the huge sink with water, adding a large squirt of washing up liquid from the industrial-sized bottle that had been standing on the window ledge. The fact that the window had frosted glass was at least a small comfort, as no one in the parking lot would be able to get a picture of her washing dishes. That was the last thing she wanted going out all over social media. The shame would scar her for life.

The next problem was how to go about washing the dishes. She certainly wasn't going to do it with her wedding ring on, that was for damned sure. And she wasn't keen on taking it off and leaving it on the window ledge. What if she took her eyes off it for a moment and someone had it away? It was obvious to anyone that it was worth a fortune. Besides, she decided, getting her hands covered in other people's leftover food was hardly top of her bucket list either. One of the sous-chefs came walking towards her, heading for the hot plate with two meals that were ready to go out. "Hey, are there any gloves anywhere?" she asked him, praying for a positive response.

"Yeah. Cleaning supplies are in those cupboards," he told her, pointing.

"Thank fuck for that," Ronda muttered to herself as she walked over to the cupboards in question. Opening them up, she saw row after row of cleaning products stacked on the shelves, and in the corner, several pairs of purple rubber gloves.

"Please don't let anyone see me like this," she whined to herself as she pulled on a pair of the gloves, happy that they were at least the right size for her small hands. The sink was now almost full with water, so she quickly turned the faucet off. She had used too much washing up liquid, she realised. What else could go wrong? She was even making a mess of washing dishes. Sighing, she got to work, starting with the cutlery.

"I have to be the most miserable person in the world right now," she complained a couple of minutes later, to no one in particular.

The same sous-chef was walking past her again as she said it, heading back to the hot plate. "There's nothing to be of ashamed of about hard work," he told her, not impressed at all by her dramatics or her complaints.

The words hit Ronda like a punch in the stomach. What hurt the most was that he was right. It struck her at that moment just how much her lifestyle had changed her over the years. There had been a time when she had been living in her car and working three jobs to try and save money to scrape together a deposit to rent an apartment. Hard work had been no stranger to her then, and she hadn't spent the whole time complaining about it. What right did she have to act like washing dishes at her own restaurant was beneath her now? None, that was the answer.

Then another image came to her. There was a mural in Venice Beach, painted on a wall. It had been done a couple of years earlier by a brilliant local street artist who wanted to celebrate the success of Ronda Rousey, the local girl. Underneath the amazing picture was the caption: Never forget where you came from.

That was exactly what she had done herself. She had forgotten that she was just an ordinary girl who had gotten lucky to make the big time. It wasn't right that she walked around thinking she was better somehow than the people who worked at the restaurant, or that their jobs were things that she shouldn't have to do. There was no humiliation in washing dishes; it was good, hard graft that needed to be done. The therapist she had seen about her narcissistic tendencies and defiance of authority would not have been happy at all if she had witnessed tonight's performance so far.

Knowing that she had let herself down in front of the people she employed, Ronda told herself to try and make amends as best she could. The only way to do that was to get her head down and work, without even a word of complaint. Not only were these dishes going to get washed, they were going to get washed properly, and quickly.

"I'm done," she announced when she stacked the last plate in the drainer next to the sink some time later. She had no idea how long it had taken her to work her way through the huge stack, as she had gotten lost in the work. Surprisingly, or not, it was the best she had felt the whole night.

"Two mains here for table eighteen!" she heard the female sous-chef call out behind her.

Turning around, Ronda saw there was no waitress there ready to take them. "I'll take them," Ronda said, pulling off her gloves and tossing them onto one of the nearby work surfaces.

"Thanks," the woman smiled, genuinely. "Table eighteen, okay?"

"Got it," Ronda nodded.

"Goodnight, and thanks for coming," Jack said as he escorted the last two customers of the night out of the door. After locking it behind them, he turned around to address the wait staff, including Ronda. "Well, that's the hard part done, guys. Well done tonight. It wasn't easy being down on numbers like that, but we pulled it off with barely any complaints. You all did a great job."

Feeling proud, Ronda knew that she was included in the praise. After getting her head in the game in the kitchen, she had gone back to waiting tables and had done a much better job of it than her first attempt. It was all about the mindset. Instead of focusing on the negatives, she had focused on the satisfaction that came from seeing customers happy. Aside from making money, that was the biggest reason to open a restaurant. She also hoped that she had belatedly given her staff a good impression; that the boss wasn't afraid to come in and get her hands dirty if needed, figuratively at least.

"Let's get the place cleaned up, then we can all go home," Jack was saying, bringing his little speech to a close. He only had one more thing to add. "Thanks for helping out, Ronda. You got us out of a hole tonight and we all appreciate it. You can take off now, we've got it from here."

"No way," Ronda told him, looking around at the other women. "I don't see anyone else leaving, so I'm going nowhere. Come on girls, let's clean." The smiles she got in return made her night, and encouraged her to go on with what she wanted to say. "I know I got off to a slow start, and I was probably annoying you with my attitude, but once I got into it, I actually enjoyed myself tonight. If you're short of numbers again when I'm at home, Jack, call me and I'll come help out."

"You know I'll hold you to that," Jack warned her.

"Good, because I meant it," she told him firmly. "Now, where do you want me to clean?"

"Why don't you go help the chefs out in the kitchen," Jack suggested.

With a nod, Ronda set off to do as he'd asked. Working in the kitchen was good for her because she wanted to repeat her sentiments to the chefs anyway.

"I appreciate that," the head chef said when she had done just that. "I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier, but things get tense in the kitchen when it's busy."

"There's nothing for you to apologise for," Ronda told him. "You're very good at your job, and you were right to call me out on my shit. I listened to what you said about the dishwasher as well. You'll get a second one in here in the coming days."

"Thanks. That will help us out a lot."

Ronda nodded, then addressed the group of chefs as a whole. "You guys all did great tonight, and I'll be keeping that in mind next time we have to look at your wages."

"Thanks, boss," the sous-chef who had called her out on complaining about hard work said.

Ronda walked over and picked up the rubber gloves again, which had been left on the work surface where she had thrown them. "Okay, let's clean," she said, wanting to lead by example.

"Hey babe, how was your day?" Seth asked when he answered Ronda's phone call.

It had been late by the time she had gotten home, and even later by the time she had enjoyed a relaxing soak in the bath. She had wondered if Seth might have given up on speaking to her for the night and gone to sleep, but happily that wasn't the case. "You won't believe what I ended up doing," she told him.

"Try me," Seth said. She could hear the smile on his face, which made her smile also.

"I worked a shift at the restaurant as a waitress because Jack was short of numbers," she announced.

Seth burst out laughing. "You worked as a waitress? Really?"

"Really," she told him, feeling bad that he found the idea so funny, even though she could understand why he'd reacted that way.

"Sorry for laughing," he said, picked something up in her tone. "How did it go?"

"It went well, actually. I got off to a rough start, making a mess of things and having an argument with a customer, then Jack sent me to work in the kitchen. I ended up washing dishes."

"Sorry, but I would have paid money to see that," Seth said, laughing again. "I can just picture your face."

Ronda chuckled too. "I had some very fetching purple gloves on. The very latest fashion accessories." Then she got serious. "Honey, I realised how I was acting while I was doing those dishes. I found myself thinking about my therapy and how I was letting myself down, so I told myself to remember where I came from, and then I get my head down and really worked. Believe it or not, I actually enjoyed the hard work after that. I even stayed behind after the shift to finish the cleaning with the others."

"Well done, babe," Seth said, now serious himself. Ronda knew he wouldn't make jokes once she mentioned her therapy. He knew full well how hard she had worked to get better at dealing with her mental health issues. "I'm sure everyone appreciated what you did. I'd bet they have a lot more respect for you after tonight, seeing you get your hands dirty. That's a good connection to have with your employees. Sounds like you did a great job."

"Thanks," Ronda said, feeling content as she relaxed onto the king size bed, wishing that Seth was there with her in person. "I took a picture with all of them before we left. I'm going to put it up on Instagram and write something to thank them."

"I think that's a great idea," Seth said.

They talked for another fifteen minutes before reluctantly saying goodnight. By then, Ronda was ready to get her head down. Before she could, she needed to put the picture on Instagram of her standing with Jack, the chefs and the wait staff. Everyone was smiling. It was a very nice picture, and a great advertisement for the restaurant. That was just one of the positives to come out of the night. Not usually one to do much writing, she tried to express the message that she wanted to send, both to her employees and to her fans, in the caption:

I had the pleasure of working a shift as a waitress at The Venice Steakhouse tonight. It's been many years since I did work like that and it took me some time to get into the swing of it, but I enjoyed it. What I learned is that all of the people in this picture work their asses off night after night to make our restaurant the best steakhouse in the area, if not the country. Seeing them working so hard also helped me to remember one thing that's so important in all walks of life: Never forget where you came from.

So if you're in the area, stop by The Venice Steakhouse, tell them Ronda sent you, and leave these f'in awesome people a tip when you're done. They deserve it.