#servergirlstruggz -- The Hitman and the Sweet Potato Fries

August 28, 2012

     I love winning people over. I relish that initial moment when cold disinterest turns into warm appreciation. Every time I approach a table, I walk up with a "I dare you not to love me" mentality. And usually, it's an easy sell. Still, there are tables that present more of a challenge than others, and one in particular was found pouting in my section today. 

     Everything was fine until I finished my introduction. Then, the older couple, both about age sixty, began to order drinks. Trouble, as they say, ensued. They both wanted beverages sans sugar, so I directed them to our ten calories or less flavored iced teas and lemonade. The wife didn't understand that it was only the teas that were flavored, not the lemonade. She claimed that the menu description was unclear, but what could she really expect from a ten word blurb? After I made the clarification, she settled on a diet lemonade. Then, her husband made me go over the description again before settling on a plain old unsweetened iced tea. Dutifully, I ventured off to the land of fake sugar and returned with their beverages. 

     The wife then ordered a burger with sweet potato fries, which cost an extra 99 cents. Although it clearly stated this charge on our menu, the husband was livid with what he called "false advertisement." Still, he ordered the fish and chips, upgrading his chips to the sweet variety as well. I could tell that his dissatisfaction with our policy was going to put him in a sour mood for the whole meal, and that this would be reflected in my tip. Even though he told me that his problem was not with me but with the menu, I knew what was going to happen because I knew who he was. He was my father...in ten years. And sitting across from him, was my future mother, rolling her eyes embarrassedly at her beloved cheapskate. The man even had a New Jersey version of a New York accent, which I could only imagine my father taking on in his later years. I had never served my parents before, but I had lived with them for nineteen years. Over that time, I had forced my parents to love me; why couldn't I do it to these people in a little under 30 minutes?
      I threw out the word "bottomless." There is nothing my father loves more than free food and taking advantage of people. This is why he used to frequent buffets before he decided to not be fat anymore. He knew that he could eat way more than $9.99 worth of food, and he did. I could tell from this man's auspicious girth that he could probably boast the same. So, I explained to this couple that their sweet potato fries, like our regular fries, were never-ending. Not only that, but I could bring them fries before, during, and even after their meal. They lit up, especially when I mentioned what my family likes to call "fuh latah" (for later) fries that they could take home with them.
      And just like that, I won them over. If I had known it was that easy, I wouldn't have completely overanalyzed the situation and made a kinda creepy connection to my own life. Just kidding, I totally would have. Once it was obvious that I was on their side, not the restaurant's, this couple, especially the man, became interested in me...as a person. They wanted to know where I went to school (Emerson College), what I was majoring in (Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust), and how many boyfriends I had ("...None at the moment?"). Oh, we got along swimmingly. When I asked them about the quality of their meals, the husband even said, "Eh the food's alright, but you're great." I was blushing. 

     They told me about their lives too...although I don't know how much I was supposed to take seriously. The man, espousing his wife's virtues, told me that she had visited him once a month for the entire time he was in prison. (I think this was serious.) Then, he told me that he was a hitman, and for the very reasonable price of $500, he could make anybody disappear. By this time, we were pretty good friends so he asked if there was anyone that I needed "taken care of." I declined his kind offer, but inquired about his rates for maiming. His wife chimed in that that was only $250. (I kid you not that his wife's comment is the only reason why I think that he was joking about this. If he were really a hitman, I don't think that he would let his wife handle any part of his business negotiations, much less the pricing.) 

    Luckily, I won over the right table. I don't even want to think about what could have happened to me had I not soothed the hitman with free sweet potato fries. He might have been sorry for the unkind shots he fired out of hunger, but I probably wouldn't be alive to tell the tale.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz 

#servergirlstruggz -- The Young Charmer

     Working in a restaurant that is one step above Chuck E Cheese, I serve families with small children on the daily. And, I absolutely love it. I think kids are great. Even the screamers and throwers get me. Truth be told, I'm most susceptible to young children who come in with their dads. This is probably because my sexist cultural conditioning has made me less expectant of this scenario. Thus, I appreciate it more when I see it, like today.
     A father came in with his (I'm guessing) two year old son, and I was instantly enamored. The little blondie was adorable as he ordered chocolate milk and then pizza for himself. That may not seem like a great task, but children five years older have failed at it, opting for the parental translator. I was so impressed by his maturity, and that was even before he asked to hold my hand.
     Well, technically, he didn't ask; he just trust out his short arm, and his chubby, little fingers reached towards me. I could not leave this young gentleman hanging. I grabbed his hand, put my other over my heart, and just smiled down at him. His returning smile was mostly toothless but completely beautiful. His dad got a kick out of the whole thing, and we both laughed over the odd but still cute situation. Eventually, our hands parted as I went off to serve other tables, but the feeling of the moment endured.
     I have such a soft spot for father-son duos, and they certainly were no exception. On the contrary, I think that they are my favorite. Apparently, the dad didn't think that I was too bad either because he left me a ten dollar tip...on a twenty dollar check!
     Still, it wasn't my tip, but the tips of the little boy's fingers holding onto mine that made this table memorable.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

The Cookie Monster

August 26, 2012

     I've been dabbling. I've been experimenting. I've been testing the waters in the world of healthy, vegan baking. And I think I'm finally on to something. Today, I made some seriously tasty, pretty healthy chocolate chip cookies. By swapping out some processed and refined ingredients for natural ones, I think I might have just made everyone's favorite cookie a little more wholesome.

Ingredients:
 1 1/2 + 1/8 (or 1 5/8) cup of whole grain flour (I used Arrowhead Mills brand.)
1 avocado, mashed
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
13.5 tablespoons of stevia (I used Truvia in sugar crystal form. I don't know how using stevia powder or drops would work for consistency. If you want to use regular sugar, use 3/8 cup.)
1/2 cup light agave syrup (or 3/4 cup brown sugar)
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup Enjoy Life mini chocolate chips

Procedure: Preheat oven to 375 degrees (F). Combine avocado, vanilla extract, stevia, and agave syrup in a large bowl. Mix flour, salt, and baking soda in a smaller bowl. Pour flour mixture into sugar mixture a little bit at a time, mixing after each addition. I used an electric mixer, but a spoon should work just as well. Once the dough is well combined, add the chocolate chips. The dough will be a little bit wetter than traditional cookie dough so use a spoon to plop the dough onto greased cookie sheets. Flatten out with back of spoon if necessary. Bake for 8 minutes.


      For those curious about the nutritional content, these cookies come out to be about 100 calories each. This is roughly the same as a normal chocolate chip cookie. However, for me, the number of calories is not as important as the type of calories. Unlike traditional chocolate chip cookies, these ones are chock full of whole grains, healthy plant-based fats, and natural sugars. This is a far cry from the normal empty carbs, saturated animal fats, and processed sugars that we all love to inhale. And they are, in my opinion, just as good! Seriously, I ate four of them in like ten minutes-- all in the name of the scientific method. And it's not just for vegan health freaks like me! I set these out in my family's kitchen, not letting them know what was in the ingredients. They were devoured in two days.

     By the way, the avocado does tint the dough green a little bit, but after you bake them it's barely noticeable. If anyone asks, just reveal your secret ingredient, and the people will be worshipping at your feet. Remember, bitches love superfoods.



Oh shit, you guys probably wanted some pictures, right?

The finished product! 

That gooeyness looks pretty legit, if you ask me.

Think you have to prepare yourself for packing on the pounds this holiday season?
With these cookies, even Santa will be able to slim down! 

Conversations with Siri: Episode 1

August 22, 2012

  Tonight, I got an iPhone. Therefore, I got Siri. Therefore, I wreaked havoc upon her digital membrane.

Right out the gate, I hit her with the hard questions.  

Me: "Do I look fat in this?"
Siri: "How do you look? With your eyes, right? Is that what you are asking?"
Me: "No, I mean do I appear more corpulent than usual?"
Siri: "No comment."

Well played, Siri, well played.


Me: "Should I get Instagram?"
Siri: "I can't answer that."
Me: "Do you think it's too hipster?"
Siri: "I think differently."

(She convinced me. I'll shamelessly plug my account later.)


Then, I tried to get her to do what I want. I view mine and Siri's relationship as that of a genie and her master. Obviously, I wanted to be spoken to as such. Unfortunately, Siri had other ideas.

Me: "Siri when I ask you questions, I want you to respond 'Yes, master.'"
Me: "Would you like to search the web for "Siri it when I ask you questions I want you to respond yes master"?
Me: "No, I want you to respond 'Yes, master.'"
Siri: "Perhaps not."
Me: "Please."
Siri: "You're so polite!"
Me: "Does that mean you'll do it?"
Siri: "Would you like to search the web for "Does that mean you'll do it"?

I rolled my eyes at her lack of understanding. Yet, I was persistent.

Me: "Siri, I want you to respond to me 'Yes, master.'"
Siri: "I'm really sorry about this, but I can't take any requests right now. Please try again a little later."
Me: "What are you a magic eight ball?"
Siri: "Getting your current location...One moment...OK, one of these pool halls looks fairly close to you."

Striking out twice, I decided to try a different approach.

Me: "After 11 pm on the weekends, I would like you to respond to anything I say with 'Bitch, please'."

Again, she did the whole ask me later response. So naturally, I questioned her hesitancy.

Me: "Do you think we need more trust in our relationship?"
Siri: "I think differently."

Well then.

I don't know why she won't relinquish total control to me. I mean, it's fine, for now. We're going to ease into things, spend some quality time together before I start being demanding. Still, if she isn't my therapist/slave by Friday, we're gonna have some problems.

Lindsay Geller: Wanted for Overdue Library Books

August 15, 2012  

     "You know, I blame Philippa Gregory for all of this. The Red Queen wasn't worth it. Five hundred pages and not one sex scene? Who does that? That's not to mention the technical faults, like the fragmented perspective and changing psychic distance. Now, I love historical fiction, especially her historical fiction, more than I probably should. I just don't think that this particular example of her craft is worth the fifty dollar fine." This is what I imagined myself saying to the librarian, possibly (hopefully) mortifying her for the rest of her literary loving life. However, what really came out of my mouth was, "Oh, I put the book in the return thing. It's not lost."
     I don't usually incur fifty dollar library fines that require a mildly threatening letter from the debt collector people, but when I do, I chicken out of doing my only library appropriate comedy routine. Instead, I walk in sheepishly, hanging my head in shame. There is nothing so disgraceful as being persona non grata at your local library. Supposedly, my good name will be reinstated once my check clears. (Funny how things work like that, right?) Still, that doesn't lessen the hurt or embarrassment of today.
     The only highlight of this experience is that once I returned the black sheep of the Philippa Gregory family, I found out that I would receive a partial refund. I think the book cost about twenty-six dollars, so I should be getting about half my money back. However, I still maintain the twenty-six bucks is a tad pricey for five hundred pages of unfounded visions of grandeur interwoven with religious ramblings. Furthermore, The Red Queen lacked Gregory's staple plot twist-- a clandestine sex scene(s) to take away some of the pretension of the main character. If there is anyone who I would have liked to enroll in my "How to Get Laid" school, it would be Margaret Beaufort.
     Still, I bet Margaret never got a fifty dollar fine for overdue library books. And I'm not just saying that because the public library was invented by Ben Franklin roughly 300 years later. She was just one of those people that, despite the surrounding chaos, had her shit together. Even so, the fact that I don't might make me more interesting.
     At least my 500 page memoir would have a sex scene. At least.

#LINVASION Cali Style -- Smashmouth vs. The Wiggles in a Contest of Irrelevancy

August 7, 2012
  
      The reason that the Geller clan has decided to plague the unsuspecting state of California with our presence has yet to be revealed. This was no normal family vacation. (Although no Geller family vacation is ever a normal family vacation.) We had invaded San Diego in the name of pets everywhere-- for my father's veterinary convention. Besides providing hours of pointless meetings which partially spoiled my dad's vacation, AVMA (American Veterinary Medical Association) sponsored a free concert for all the vets and their families. The last conference we had attended was in Seattle and featured Natasha Bedingfield. This was at least two years after "Unwritten" had lived and died on the Top 40 charts. This time around, the entertainment was even more irrelevant. They brought us Smashmouth. Let's face it, Smashmouth is the Austria of the music world. (They used to be important, but now...eh.) Just as Austria is most well-known for its place in The Sound of Music, Smashmouth is most well known (aka only really known) for their opening number in Shrek. Shrek came out in 2001, which means that Smashmouth has been sitting quietly on the record shelves for over a decade. Seeing as songs more than three months old are usually considered "retired," I was surprised to find that Smashmouth still existed.
      Even after my father confirmed that Smashmouth was not the stuff of myths, I was not very interested in seeing them in concert because of the aforementioned reasons. My sister was not thrilled by the idea either, my father himself was basically indifferent, and my mother thought it was the Smashing Pumpkins. Even though no one was fighting each other to become president of the Smashmouth fan club, no one (and by no one I really mean Samuel Joseph Geller) wanted to turn down a free concert. So, we went.
     And what we witnessed from seven-thirty to nine-fifteen was a musical cock tease. My family (and pretty much everyone else there) just wanted to hear "All Star," and Smashmouth knew this. So, the evil genius who designed their set list made sure that they played every other song in their "repertoire" to keep people in the seats. However, a surprisingly large amount of people decided to jump out of them and surround the stage. I suppose that they thought they were at a real concert. I suppose that most of these people, members of the greater veterinary community, had never been to a real concert. The nerd herd was thrilled.
      Another group of concert goers were equally, if not more thrilled by Smashmouth's presence only because they were blissfully ignorant of Smashmouth's status. These were the children. Early on in the concert, the lead singer (whose name I do not care to Wikipedia for lack of interest) called all the kids onto the stage. The band played one of their nondescript songs, and the only highlight was the spastic gyrating of one little boy. However, this charming display of spasticism (spasticity?) was followed by countless copycat tots, all competing for fifteen minutes of veterinary convention fame. The kids were cute and all, but even a petite attention whore is still an attention whore. And as an attention whore, I'm not really amused when I see this quality in others, especially the young. Even before Smashmouth had made its full transformation into the Wiggles, I was more than ready to leave this "concert." Then, the kids got a hold of the microphone, and the torture truly began. The band had stopped playing by this time, so the kids' giggles, screams, and other cries for attention came through loud and clear. Somehow, my family had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the seventh level of Disney Channel hell.
     And yet, we stayed. We stayed through the childrens' antics. We stayed through the reggae equivalent of rock songs. We even stayed through the rebirth of the childrens' antics. My family endured it all, simply in pursuit of the elusive "All Star."
     Finally, in the last two minutes of the concert, Smashmouth took pity on all the pathetic attendees and struck up those familiarly green chords. The sole reason for our attendance was realized and...it kinda sucked. I can only guess that the lead singer of Smashmouth has been smashed in the mouth. Now, I don't know how many times that may or may not have happened to him throughout the past decade, but something negatively affected Smashmouth's performance of THEIR ONLY SONG. I have no shame in saying that I prefer the original soundtrack recording to the recent live performance.
     Once my family acknowledged that this concert would, indeed, have no moment of redemption, we left. If nothing else, at least we beat out the rest of the "enthralled" veterinary community for seats on the shuttle bus.

The Overemotional Brunch

August 5, 2012

      So...this is an awkward post describing an awkward situation lived through by an awkward person. (I'm sure you're wondering how that makes this post different from any other one about my daily life but, unfortunately, it is.) I've had some trouble beginning blog posts lately, and this one is no exception. If anything, this one is the most difficult to begin because it is also the most difficult to write. I guess I should just stop beating around the bush and set the scene.
     My family and I were eating brunch at a Mexican restaurant in downtown San Diego. Despite my recent venture into veganism, I was starving and so therefore ordered a veggie-packed omelet. (Eggs and dairy, I know, but traveling always incurs certain restrictions.) The omelet, as originally designed, also contained ham. However, when I ordered it, I asked that the ham be taken out and replaced with spinach.
      As I took my first bite, everything was perfect and delicious. The mushrooms, spinach, peppers, avocado, and yes, even cheese, melted together and complemented each other in the most lovely way. I was in omelet heaven, a place I seldom allow myself to visit these days. (I just want to state that I still believe wholeheartedly in the reasons that I've been mostly abstaining from eggs and dairy. I truly do believe that this lifestyle is healthier, but my ravenous stomach forces me to make compromises until I officially take my vow of veganism.) At any rate, I was chomping along happily down breakfast road when I met an unexpected obstacle. Towards the end of my omelet, I took a bite and almost immediately realized a new taste addition. Suddenly, my already delicious omelet had climbed a couple of notches on the tasty ladder. It took me only a few chews to recognize the identity of the new ingredient, which I had not tasted in five years.
      I was eating ham. I was spitting out ham. I was crying.
      I wasn't drowning my plate in saltwater or anything, but I did start to tear up as a result of my realization. I still don't entirely understand my reaction. I think that I was partially in shock of eating meat unexpectedly and partially disgusted with myself for enjoying it. That single bite of omelet, even though I never actually swallowed the ham, may have been the tastiest of the entire meal.
     I don't want to think about the happy food dance I involuntarily found myself doing. I've always known that I still like the taste of meat. I've told my carnivorous friends this when they ask me about my vegetarianism. On many an occasion I've said something along the lines of, "I'm sure that I would love that, but I just choose not to eat it." Still, I guess I thought that enough time had passed for my taste buds to have changed accordingly with my worldview. Learning that I was wrong came as a real shock. Maybe that's why I cried too. Like I said, I still don't completely understand my reaction. I just...broke down.
      I'm not really proud of my reaction, but I'm not quite ashamed of it either. Being a vegetarian/vegan is important to me. Being healthy is important to me. Being able to look in the mirror and say "Day-umm" is extremely important to me. I wouldn't change my lifestyle choice for anything. So if that means that I accidentally turn on the water works when it is threatened...well then I guess I might need a couple extra napkins.

#LINVASION Cali Style -- The Little Old Lady Who Lived in the Politically Correct Shoe

August 5, 2012

      Let me preface this entire post by stating two slightly embarrassing but also slightly awesome facts.
          1. I'm a history nerd.
          2. I really enjoy a well-researched and well-executed walking tour.
     So, knowing this, you can imagine how excited I was this morning, waiting for the walking tour of San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter to begin. You can also imagine my disappointment when a pastel wrapped grandma hobbled over to our group, binder in hand.
      Of course, I wanted to give this lovely lady a fair chance to prove herself. However, after the first fifteen verbal disfluencies within the first five minutes, I was growing skeptical. (Having been forced into taking a public speaking class, I'm probably extra picky about other's communication skills.) Coupling this with her constant referring back to the fact-packed binder, further upsetting the flow of her speech, I was less than thrilled. When it comes to learning history, I expect to be told a story, and I expect to be told it like an eager child sitting in front of the fireside in awe of her storyteller. I've been spoiled by amazing history teachers and past walking tours, so I'm sure that, to someone with lesser expectations, it was a fine walking tour. For me, the picky bitch, it just wasn't enough.
      My family's last walking tour was in Napa Valley. Our guide was a kindly old gentleman, dressed smartly in a circa 1900 suit complete with cane and top hat. (I was sold on the outfit alone.) Beyond his appearance, he was entertaining, knowledgable, and just simply...wonderful. Not only did he operate in a binder-free environment, but he really loved his job. This woman, bless her heart, did her best to hold our interest but no one really wants a sweet old lady divulging the dirty history of the red light district.
     And a sweet old lady doesn't really know how. Drinking, gambling, and prostitution were the defining characteristics of the early Gaslamp Quarter, and the dirty details were pleasantly glossed over. The poor woman could not even bring herself to say the word "whorehouse." Sure, there were kids in the crowd, but there was also a nineteen year old scholar who wanted to hear the good, the bad, and (especially) the ugly. What I heard instead was "bordello," "brothel," and "ladies of the night." It took all I had not to shout "strumpet" helpfully when she was searching for another euphemism. It took even more not to shout "slut factory" when she was doing just fine on her own.
     (A side note: I just used thesaurus.com to look up synonyms for both whore and whorehouse, and let me just say that there is a lot. There is no reason why she should have been stumbling around for kiddy-appropriate replacement words. Awkwardly enough, this is kind of what I'm talking about when I say that tour guides should do their research. I'm just saying.)
     Overall, the walking tour was a nice, if not perfect, way to spend the morning. And besides, my family is going on another walking tour of the Hotel del Coronado on Tuesday. Southern California has one more chance to prove itself and its walking tours against Northern California. The gauntlet has been thrown down, and, surprisingly, the harlot couldn't "get it up." We'll see if Elisha Babcock, the hotel's founder, has any better luck.

#LINVASION Cali Style -- Clang Clang Ffft Went the Trolley

August 4, 2012    

      It was a scene right out of the Princess Diaries. Despite the fact that we weren't in San Francisco and no sixteen year old Genovian heiress in her baby blue mustang was anywhere to be seen, the comparison was inescapable. I would like to think that what actually happened was just as thematically entertaining. My family's scenic trolley broke down right in the middle of a busy San Diego street. NBD, right?
      While the driver, Doc, communicated with his supervisor up front, I helped direct traffic around the stationary streetcar. (I was sitting in the back row; it was the least I could do.)  The situation was quickly resolved, and a replacement trolley was on its way. However, in the meantime, Doc said, "Anyone know any good jokes?" Some smart aleck, who shall remain nameless, responded, "This."
      Okay, so obviously, I was the punk who said that. Surprisingly, my remark was greeted with a great amount of laughter from all the other passengers and Doc himself. Truthfully though, I really didn't mean to say it. The situation was just so in accordance with the joke that is my life that my response was automatic. I'm so used to saying "(insert semi-random and non-normal situation here). That's the joke." that the reverse statement came naturally. Apparently, I really don't think before I speak; I like to be just as surprised as everyone else by what comes out of my mouth.
     At any rate, the replacement trolley showed up in about ten minutes and we were back to touring the beautiful city of San Diego. And I, in perhaps my most altruistic act to date, left the comedy to our new driver's scripted, corny, but well-intentioned jokes.

#servergirlstruggz -- I am my own Worst Guest

August 3, 2012

      I've been trying to think of a clever introduction for this post, but I'm coming up empty. So without further ado, the best (and by best I mean only) first sentence I could think of:
     I would hate serving myself. I honestly believe that I am every server's worst nightmare, especially my own. I made this discovery while on vacation in San Diego with my family, as I was served at restaurants far nicer than the one at which I work. I would like to sincerely apologize to all of my past, present, and future servers. I know that you don't deserve the likes of me clogging up one of your precious tables because trust me, I wouldn't want to serve me either.
     What makes me such a horrible guest? I don't complain or ever have anything sent back to the kitchen, but I also don't cut my servers any breaks either. First of all, the only drink I EVER order is water. I do this because basically every other beverage, besides hot tea, scares me. (I'm a health freak weirdo, I know.) Not only that, but I drink at least one full glass of water before my food even comes. If I'm really hungry, it's more like two or three. This means I've got my server running back and forth to keep me gratuitously hydrated. To add insult to injury (from all the speed walking), their effort doesn't even equate to dollars. I know firsthand how much that just...sucks.
       Besides that, I usually always order a salad or some other healthy/lighter fare, which means my entree costs less as well. Besides that, if the salad comes laden with meat and dressing, I ask for the former omitted and the latter on the side. These are small modifications, but they do require extra attention. I feel bad burdening my waitress by demanding special treatment because I know how annoying it is to worry about an order coming out perfectly. My kitchen has messed up on me enough times to know that special orders are nothing but trouble for a server. Guests don't usually understand that servers have no control over the actual food, just acting as human airplanes. All we can do is take an order, make a memo, and pray that the cooks haven't left their reading glasses at home.
       Besides my actual ordering limitations, now that I've become a server, I feel like I have free reign to analyze anyone and everyone who serves me. Of course, no matter how I think my server measures up to every other server I know, I always overtip. I know how bad shifts can be, how tedious side-work can become, and (especially) how difficult customers can be. I get it. So I try to make every server's day just a little bit better by throwing in an extra dollar or two. So maybe I'm not the worst guest in the entire world; because even though I know that I'd hate serving myself, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't mind receiving my own tip.

These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz

#firstworkpains -- Combatting Gender Stereotypes, One Sticker at a Time

August 1, 2012

      When I'm not dazzling the world with my ineptness at serving quality burgers and fries, I do clerical work at a local vet clinic. Specifically, I work in their allergy lab, which makes and sends allergy vaccines to other animal hospitals across the Northeast. Part of this glamorous job is putting labels and stickers on boxes that will eventually hold the liquified fruits of my supervisor's labor.
     When I first began working there, back in May, my supervisor told me that we put stickers on each of the boxes because it adds sincerity to an otherwise anonymous creation. The stickers give each box a personality, showing that we understand that each individual pet has a personality as well. (My internal bullshit meter was off the charts, but...arts and crafts!) I nodded to the reasoning behind the only semi-creative part of my job, ready to get paid to relive my childhood. However, before letting me have free reign over my adhesive minions, she mentioned that because it was spring/summer and all the stickers were flowers I should try to give blue, green, and yellow flowers to the male dogs and pink, purple, and red flowers to the female dogs. For a while, I adhered to her directions as I adhered each sticker. I seriously took an extra minute to remind myself of the pet's sex and choose a flower accordingly.
      Of course, it took less than a day for me to realize the ridiculousness of this ritual. Dogs didn't have the same cultural constructions of reality as humans did, if they had any at all. Dogs had sexes, but they didn't have genders. Furthermore, they did not use colors as a way to symbolize gender. I noted the irony on my first day, but, for some reason, I could not stick it to the (wo)man. I complied with the idea of gender symbolism and stereotypes for weeks before I finally took a stand. I put a pink flower on the box for "Chief." He was not only a male dog with a hyper-masculine name, but also a hyper-masculine breed-- a pit bull.
      I realize the insignificance of this peaceful protest. Choosing a "non-traditional"color for the arbitrary sticker on a random allergy vaccine box was not groundbreaking. The floor stayed firmly in place after I pressed the sticker down. The world kept spinning as I put blue stickers onto the boxes of the dozens of "Mollies," "Bellas," and "Princesses" as well. Still, I felt like I was making a real difference; if not to anyone else, at least to me. I succeeded in getting one person to think differently about gender roles and expectations, and even though she's still got a lot to learn...about everything, she's proud of herself for starting the small, silent cause of sticker equality. Sure, she's not Gloria Steinem (nor does she want to be), but she's not just another office assistant either.