June 25, 2012
I didn't think that the game needed to go into overtime. The job was definitely winning. The job was kicking my ass, actually. In the fortieth hour, I was serving a party of seven and two parties of three-- all out on the patio. No one called a time out for wind interference. Instead, I played straight through, and ended up with twenty percent tips all around. So maybe I pulled out a come from behind win? Still, the game wasn't over yet, as there was still the matter of the silverware toss...and oh my God, I wish I was better at sports metaphors.
What I'm trying to say is that I worked forty-one hours this week. And I'm probably going to do the same next week. I will have metaphorical (and physical) shin splints by the end of it, but don't worry, I'll just wrap my ice packs in wads of cash. I'll elevate my legs on my stacks of money. I'll dry my sweat on one dollar bills. (Actually, I might want to use twenties for that...I don't know where those single dollars have been.)
Right now, I'm barely above water boy status, but practice makes perfect. And even if I never get awarded MVP, I might just learn how to avoid getting blitzed. That's got to be worth a participation trophy, at the very least.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
#servergirlstruggz- That One Time I Accidentally Aided and Abetted Prostitution
June 24, 2012
As a writer, I try not to judge a book by cover, mostly because I know that any books that I'd write would most likely have janky looking covers. However, as a human being, I make assumptions based on others' appearances like I'm being paid to scrutinize instead of serve. Tonight was no exception. Now, I'm used to being the awkward third wheel on dates that are unfortunately forced to dine in my section. However, I never tricycled with a mob boss sugar daddy and his baby until tonight. Obviously, I don't know for sure if he was her sugar daddy; he could have been her father or her awkwardly close uncle. However, I was convinced by his bulk and her age that some exchange was being made over the barbecue chicken wrap. Picture this: a fifty-sixty year old man, Italian-looking, balding, melonoma tan, sagging, complete with a forgettable face. Sitting across from him was a tanned, bleach blonde twenty-something mascara whore. (The term "mascara whore" should not be taken as a slur because it takes one to know one. Wink.) The disparity of physical attractiveness between them was almost laughable if it hadn't been so perplexing.
Although their relationship could have been totally innocent and platonic, I doubted that he was paying for her dinner without getting something in return. I mean, come on, it's rare to get fed without putting out in normal relationships. I was sure that this girl would be tasting something less savory than barbecue sauce later that night. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to catch any of their personal conversation to verify my conjecture. As a good server, I make myself scarce once all necessary interaction is over so as not to ruin my guests' romance. As I said in a previous post, I sincerely do my best to get all of my customers laid.
It was not until I was taking their payment (cash of course) that I realized that I might technically be an accomplice to some form of prostitution. Food for sex (or sexual favors or..."quality time"...or whatever the kids are calling it these days) is a blurry kind of prostitution. No actual money was exchanged, but that wrap cost about ten bucks. The poor girl; she probably thought that her looks would have deserved a night at the ritzy Italian restaurant across the way. Oh well, at least he didn't take her to the Subway next door.
Upon reflection, I'm pretty sure I accidentally helped fill her stomach and his pants. I'm not proud of my part in this imaginary small town prostitution ring, but at least I was not the pimp that set it up. I was the cashier, nothing more, and I'll go to my grave claiming innocence and ignorance.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
As a writer, I try not to judge a book by cover, mostly because I know that any books that I'd write would most likely have janky looking covers. However, as a human being, I make assumptions based on others' appearances like I'm being paid to scrutinize instead of serve. Tonight was no exception. Now, I'm used to being the awkward third wheel on dates that are unfortunately forced to dine in my section. However, I never tricycled with a mob boss sugar daddy and his baby until tonight. Obviously, I don't know for sure if he was her sugar daddy; he could have been her father or her awkwardly close uncle. However, I was convinced by his bulk and her age that some exchange was being made over the barbecue chicken wrap. Picture this: a fifty-sixty year old man, Italian-looking, balding, melonoma tan, sagging, complete with a forgettable face. Sitting across from him was a tanned, bleach blonde twenty-something mascara whore. (The term "mascara whore" should not be taken as a slur because it takes one to know one. Wink.) The disparity of physical attractiveness between them was almost laughable if it hadn't been so perplexing.
Although their relationship could have been totally innocent and platonic, I doubted that he was paying for her dinner without getting something in return. I mean, come on, it's rare to get fed without putting out in normal relationships. I was sure that this girl would be tasting something less savory than barbecue sauce later that night. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to catch any of their personal conversation to verify my conjecture. As a good server, I make myself scarce once all necessary interaction is over so as not to ruin my guests' romance. As I said in a previous post, I sincerely do my best to get all of my customers laid.
It was not until I was taking their payment (cash of course) that I realized that I might technically be an accomplice to some form of prostitution. Food for sex (or sexual favors or..."quality time"...or whatever the kids are calling it these days) is a blurry kind of prostitution. No actual money was exchanged, but that wrap cost about ten bucks. The poor girl; she probably thought that her looks would have deserved a night at the ritzy Italian restaurant across the way. Oh well, at least he didn't take her to the Subway next door.
Upon reflection, I'm pretty sure I accidentally helped fill her stomach and his pants. I'm not proud of my part in this imaginary small town prostitution ring, but at least I was not the pimp that set it up. I was the cashier, nothing more, and I'll go to my grave claiming innocence and ignorance.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Monday, June 25, 2012
#servergirlstruggz - The Third Wheel
June 22, 2012
I love and hate Friday and Saturday nights. I love them because around seven p.m., the line is usually out the door, tables turn over quickly, and the tips just pour in. It's a great time to make money, if you don't have a life, which, at the moment, I don't. However, despite the increased financial potential of weekend evenings, I hate working these nights because they are both, inevitably, date night. It's not even that I'm #bitter (although, let's be honest, I totally am), it's that no one wants to be the awkward third wheel, especially on a first date. However, as a server, I am reluctantly and repeatedly forced into this position.
My tricycle role was made even more awkward tonight when I was serving a middle-aged couple. Usually, I love middle-aged couples because I assume that they're married and that this is their special date night. For a hopeless romantic like myself, I think it's really sweet and cute to witness married people who still want to be seen together in public. That, to me, seems like eternal love. So, when I sauntered merrily (because as a waitress, I don't walk; I either lean, sprint, or saunter) over to this couple, I thought that I was in for a run of the mill married date. I placed the cardboard coasters advertising our strawberry lemonade on the table and launched into my standard introduction. I had barely gotten through saying my name when the man asked me if I could get his date to "pucker up" for him, referencing the use of that word on our coasters. (It's something to do with the sweet and sour balance of our lemonade. I don't know for sure because I've never cared enough to read them.) It was at that moment that I realized that this wasn't any ordinary date. Oh, how I was right. I quickly learned that not only was this couple not married, but that they weren't even in a relationship yet. And already, I had been put on the spot with the man's unusual request.
Never have I been more thankful for my ability to talk and smile my way out of anything. Grinning and laughing, I told him that it was up to her, but that I would do everything in my limited power as their server to help him seal the deal. He then went on to say that if it happened, it would be their first kiss. The woman, slightly upset that he was only telling their waitress half of their life story, then stated (for the record) that they had known each other for years. Now, as adorably awkward as these dual admissions were, I really just wanted to take their order and take my leave. Thankfully, after this elongated introduction, they finally told me what they wanted to eat and drink, the only parts of their lives I didn't know about by this point.
Keeping up my personable nature, I had a few more joking interactions with them as I dropped off their drinks and food. However, for the most part, I made myself scarce. I do this as a courtesy to all of my lovebirds, as well as a sanity saver for myself. Still, this couple was different for me. I actually...cared about them. From the brief time we spent together, despite how uncomfortable it had made me, I decided that I liked them. From the creeping I did on their table, I saw that he was making her laugh. He was winning her over. She had had him from the get go. They were good for each other. As I picked up the check, I told them that I was rooting for them. I said it jokingly, but behind my sweet laughter was a real note of sincerity. I really hoped that, by the end of the night, she treated him like strawberry lemonade.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
I love and hate Friday and Saturday nights. I love them because around seven p.m., the line is usually out the door, tables turn over quickly, and the tips just pour in. It's a great time to make money, if you don't have a life, which, at the moment, I don't. However, despite the increased financial potential of weekend evenings, I hate working these nights because they are both, inevitably, date night. It's not even that I'm #bitter (although, let's be honest, I totally am), it's that no one wants to be the awkward third wheel, especially on a first date. However, as a server, I am reluctantly and repeatedly forced into this position.
My tricycle role was made even more awkward tonight when I was serving a middle-aged couple. Usually, I love middle-aged couples because I assume that they're married and that this is their special date night. For a hopeless romantic like myself, I think it's really sweet and cute to witness married people who still want to be seen together in public. That, to me, seems like eternal love. So, when I sauntered merrily (because as a waitress, I don't walk; I either lean, sprint, or saunter) over to this couple, I thought that I was in for a run of the mill married date. I placed the cardboard coasters advertising our strawberry lemonade on the table and launched into my standard introduction. I had barely gotten through saying my name when the man asked me if I could get his date to "pucker up" for him, referencing the use of that word on our coasters. (It's something to do with the sweet and sour balance of our lemonade. I don't know for sure because I've never cared enough to read them.) It was at that moment that I realized that this wasn't any ordinary date. Oh, how I was right. I quickly learned that not only was this couple not married, but that they weren't even in a relationship yet. And already, I had been put on the spot with the man's unusual request.
Never have I been more thankful for my ability to talk and smile my way out of anything. Grinning and laughing, I told him that it was up to her, but that I would do everything in my limited power as their server to help him seal the deal. He then went on to say that if it happened, it would be their first kiss. The woman, slightly upset that he was only telling their waitress half of their life story, then stated (for the record) that they had known each other for years. Now, as adorably awkward as these dual admissions were, I really just wanted to take their order and take my leave. Thankfully, after this elongated introduction, they finally told me what they wanted to eat and drink, the only parts of their lives I didn't know about by this point.
Keeping up my personable nature, I had a few more joking interactions with them as I dropped off their drinks and food. However, for the most part, I made myself scarce. I do this as a courtesy to all of my lovebirds, as well as a sanity saver for myself. Still, this couple was different for me. I actually...cared about them. From the brief time we spent together, despite how uncomfortable it had made me, I decided that I liked them. From the creeping I did on their table, I saw that he was making her laugh. He was winning her over. She had had him from the get go. They were good for each other. As I picked up the check, I told them that I was rooting for them. I said it jokingly, but behind my sweet laughter was a real note of sincerity. I really hoped that, by the end of the night, she treated him like strawberry lemonade.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Sunday, June 24, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- It's not you, It's my Tip
June 21, 2012
Getting a bad tip is like getting dumped. You almost never see it coming. You're left wondering, "What did I do wrong? What could I have done better? WHY DIDN'T THEY LOVE ME?" Luckily for me, this doesn't happen too often, but when it does (like today), it's like a suckerpunch to the gut. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt when they don't tip me properly (i.e. 20%) because I figure that they don't know how important tips are to a server. They don't realize that our minimum wage is about two dollars per hour, so tips are our lifeblood. I know that I was ignorant of this until I became a server, so I try not to blame the actual people but their lack of knowledge. I also do my best not to take a bad tip personally, although, for a self-sabotaging narcissist comme moi, that's easier said than done. I try to comfort myself by imagining that the bad tippers treat all of the commoners this way, and that I was just the latest in their string of miserliness. Additionally, I recognize the toll that the economic downturn has taken, and that we're all tightening our belts and purse strings. I really try to be understanding and see the customers' point of view, but sometimes, it isn't enough to reconcile my performance with their judgment.
So here's my idea on how to remedy the misunderstanding between patron and server. Because I feel like I'm constantly being graded on my personality, my intelligence, my efficiency, and my ability to speed walk without looking stupid, I'd love to be able to grade my customers as well. Your order was really complicated- B+. You didn't say thank you when I gave you any of your three drink refills- C-. You thought you knew the menu better than I did- C. You sat at my table forever, even after closing the check- D. You wanted seven different separate checks- B. You were under the age of eighteen- F. You guys were actually super fun and ordered a ton of drinks- A++. Of course, I can vent all I want on the internet, but this process, although therapeutic, lacks the cathartic aspect that direct interaction would have.
A tip has immediate repercussions, not only on my bank account but also on my self esteem. Like I said, getting a bad tip is like getting dumped because you start to question everything about yourself. You thought that you seemed personable and sweet, but maybe you were just annoyingly perky and too eager to please. You got their drink orders quickly enough, but they did seem to be twiddling their thumbs waiting for their appetizer. You had to be prompted for one refill, even though the rest of the time guest hydration was your top priority. You did everything perfectly, but that still didn't seem to merit anything more than a 10% tip. You never know how things will play (and pay) out until the game is already over. You've either hit a home run or struck out completely. And you were playing catcher.
The unpredictability of tips just comes with the server territory. However, while I'm listlessly claiming my kingdom of laminate tables, I always hope that my tenants are those with deep pockets and generous fingers.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Getting a bad tip is like getting dumped. You almost never see it coming. You're left wondering, "What did I do wrong? What could I have done better? WHY DIDN'T THEY LOVE ME?" Luckily for me, this doesn't happen too often, but when it does (like today), it's like a suckerpunch to the gut. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt when they don't tip me properly (i.e. 20%) because I figure that they don't know how important tips are to a server. They don't realize that our minimum wage is about two dollars per hour, so tips are our lifeblood. I know that I was ignorant of this until I became a server, so I try not to blame the actual people but their lack of knowledge. I also do my best not to take a bad tip personally, although, for a self-sabotaging narcissist comme moi, that's easier said than done. I try to comfort myself by imagining that the bad tippers treat all of the commoners this way, and that I was just the latest in their string of miserliness. Additionally, I recognize the toll that the economic downturn has taken, and that we're all tightening our belts and purse strings. I really try to be understanding and see the customers' point of view, but sometimes, it isn't enough to reconcile my performance with their judgment.
So here's my idea on how to remedy the misunderstanding between patron and server. Because I feel like I'm constantly being graded on my personality, my intelligence, my efficiency, and my ability to speed walk without looking stupid, I'd love to be able to grade my customers as well. Your order was really complicated- B+. You didn't say thank you when I gave you any of your three drink refills- C-. You thought you knew the menu better than I did- C. You sat at my table forever, even after closing the check- D. You wanted seven different separate checks- B. You were under the age of eighteen- F. You guys were actually super fun and ordered a ton of drinks- A++. Of course, I can vent all I want on the internet, but this process, although therapeutic, lacks the cathartic aspect that direct interaction would have.
A tip has immediate repercussions, not only on my bank account but also on my self esteem. Like I said, getting a bad tip is like getting dumped because you start to question everything about yourself. You thought that you seemed personable and sweet, but maybe you were just annoyingly perky and too eager to please. You got their drink orders quickly enough, but they did seem to be twiddling their thumbs waiting for their appetizer. You had to be prompted for one refill, even though the rest of the time guest hydration was your top priority. You did everything perfectly, but that still didn't seem to merit anything more than a 10% tip. You never know how things will play (and pay) out until the game is already over. You've either hit a home run or struck out completely. And you were playing catcher.
The unpredictability of tips just comes with the server territory. However, while I'm listlessly claiming my kingdom of laminate tables, I always hope that my tenants are those with deep pockets and generous fingers.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Why We Can't Have Nice Things: A Brief History
1996: I was convinced that it was a slide. To my three-year-old self, that was the only obvious explanation for the long, flat rectangle lying against our couch. I believed that it was an indoor slide, and even when my parents told me that it was not, I figured that they were lying to keep it a surprise for me. Even at the tender age of three, I psychoanalyzed like none other. I climbed onto the couch, positioned myself at the top of my new toy, and began to slide. For one glorious second I felt the freedom of controlled gravity...and then I felt it crack. Apparently, my baby fat was too much for the glass curio case, the true identity of my slide. My parents, especially my dad, were beside themselves when they saw the imprint I had made on his expensive rectangle. If I remember correctly, I believe that I was yelled at for a few minutes, but otherwise waddled off freely.
1998: It happened during a Dollar Store outing. I was with my mother and the semi-recent invader, my sister. She was two, I was five, and our mother had her hands full with the both of us and whatever George Washington approved junk she was buying. I don't know how in the world of China-made plastic I found actual China (probably more like porcelain), but I did, and I broke it. My latest victim was a small bell with an Irish four leaf clover on it. Interestingly, I did not break the bell itself, just the inside part that made it more than an oddly shaped paperweight. I don't remember exactly how I was able to accomplish this, but my sister has assured me that I was playing it when I wasn't supposed to. I am sure that, at the time, I had convinced myself and everybody else that I could enjoy this bell without muting it forever. Of course, I was wrong, and my mother was out one dollar. I do not recall if I was given a "time out" when we got home, probably because I have blocked out my memory of every time I was isolated to the Pink Stairs of Doom. However, I know that we kept the bell, useless as it was, and it's lying somewhere around our house, even today.
2005: A veterinarian's pets should be house trained, but ours aren't. By the time I was twelve, I had already lost count of the amount of accidents staining our pink carpets. On one day that would forever go down in Geller history, I walked downstairs to find a very large accident in our dining room. Unlike other accidents, this one would not be fixed with a simple clean-up. In an act of true brilliance, I ran upstairs to get the Clorox 2. We were out of the bleach for colors. Thus, in an act of true idiocy, I grabbed the regular Clorox bleach. I did not really understand how bleach worked at the time, so my thought process was as follows: Even though bleach is for whites, not colors, if I pour it on the pink carpet, the color will stay because it's stationary not sloshing around in a washing machine. I sincerely thought that this was how bleach worked. It only became apparent to me, a few hours later, that I was very, very wrong. Not only were there two huge patches of white on the pink carpet, but some of the fibers within this patches had completely eroded. My mother was upset by my stupidity, until I explained to her my intentions and my reasoning. Thankfully, this good deed did go unpunished. The immediate solution to this eyesore was strategically placing a rug over it. A few years later, my family took final care of the problem by replacing our pink carpets with hardwood floors. Our new floors now look much nicer than our dingy carpets, and I'm pretty sure that my mishap actually increased the value of our house. My parents have yet to thank me officially for prompting them to this home improvement, but I'm sure that I will feel their gratitude in my inheritance.
2010: I think that the worst thing about this one is that I did it twice. My garage door and I did not see eye to eye. Or rather, my eyes did not see that the garage door was still closed. That's right, I backed into my garage door. I was seventeen and had had my license for less than a year. Some days, I still wonder how I passed what I considered to be the most difficult of all exams. The first time, I was leaving for school, and I was late. Thinking that I had already opened the garage door, I began to back up. The sudden scraping sound alerted me that I done something wrong. Luckily, there wasn't any real damage done to the door, so I was still able to get it up, get my car out, and get my ass to school on time. The second time, the garage door was less resilient. I think I caught it off guard, because after the first time, I think it really trusted me that I would not do it again. This time, the incident occurred in the afternoon, and again I was late. Technically, it was not I but my sister who was making the both of us late to dance class. Already stressed out and angry at her for being unprepared, I was distracted by my own resentment as I began backing up. This time, I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. The garage door was severely deformed, and we were going to be more late than ever. I attempted to get the garage door to lift up, but it was to no avail. The door just made a wheezing, dying sound, and I got the hint to stop pressing the button. With some strategic maneuvering, I was able to get the car out of the garage through a different garage door, so we did arrive at dance class basically on time. When my father found out, he was none too pleased with me, or my sister. Of course, since I was the one driving, I did get the brunt of the blame. In a few weeks, the garage door was replaced, but my car and I were quarantined to the driveway. Our identification as persona non grata has continued to the present, and my car still stands outside the garage door today.
1998: It happened during a Dollar Store outing. I was with my mother and the semi-recent invader, my sister. She was two, I was five, and our mother had her hands full with the both of us and whatever George Washington approved junk she was buying. I don't know how in the world of China-made plastic I found actual China (probably more like porcelain), but I did, and I broke it. My latest victim was a small bell with an Irish four leaf clover on it. Interestingly, I did not break the bell itself, just the inside part that made it more than an oddly shaped paperweight. I don't remember exactly how I was able to accomplish this, but my sister has assured me that I was playing it when I wasn't supposed to. I am sure that, at the time, I had convinced myself and everybody else that I could enjoy this bell without muting it forever. Of course, I was wrong, and my mother was out one dollar. I do not recall if I was given a "time out" when we got home, probably because I have blocked out my memory of every time I was isolated to the Pink Stairs of Doom. However, I know that we kept the bell, useless as it was, and it's lying somewhere around our house, even today.
2005: A veterinarian's pets should be house trained, but ours aren't. By the time I was twelve, I had already lost count of the amount of accidents staining our pink carpets. On one day that would forever go down in Geller history, I walked downstairs to find a very large accident in our dining room. Unlike other accidents, this one would not be fixed with a simple clean-up. In an act of true brilliance, I ran upstairs to get the Clorox 2. We were out of the bleach for colors. Thus, in an act of true idiocy, I grabbed the regular Clorox bleach. I did not really understand how bleach worked at the time, so my thought process was as follows: Even though bleach is for whites, not colors, if I pour it on the pink carpet, the color will stay because it's stationary not sloshing around in a washing machine. I sincerely thought that this was how bleach worked. It only became apparent to me, a few hours later, that I was very, very wrong. Not only were there two huge patches of white on the pink carpet, but some of the fibers within this patches had completely eroded. My mother was upset by my stupidity, until I explained to her my intentions and my reasoning. Thankfully, this good deed did go unpunished. The immediate solution to this eyesore was strategically placing a rug over it. A few years later, my family took final care of the problem by replacing our pink carpets with hardwood floors. Our new floors now look much nicer than our dingy carpets, and I'm pretty sure that my mishap actually increased the value of our house. My parents have yet to thank me officially for prompting them to this home improvement, but I'm sure that I will feel their gratitude in my inheritance.
2010: I think that the worst thing about this one is that I did it twice. My garage door and I did not see eye to eye. Or rather, my eyes did not see that the garage door was still closed. That's right, I backed into my garage door. I was seventeen and had had my license for less than a year. Some days, I still wonder how I passed what I considered to be the most difficult of all exams. The first time, I was leaving for school, and I was late. Thinking that I had already opened the garage door, I began to back up. The sudden scraping sound alerted me that I done something wrong. Luckily, there wasn't any real damage done to the door, so I was still able to get it up, get my car out, and get my ass to school on time. The second time, the garage door was less resilient. I think I caught it off guard, because after the first time, I think it really trusted me that I would not do it again. This time, the incident occurred in the afternoon, and again I was late. Technically, it was not I but my sister who was making the both of us late to dance class. Already stressed out and angry at her for being unprepared, I was distracted by my own resentment as I began backing up. This time, I didn't realize what was happening until it was too late. The garage door was severely deformed, and we were going to be more late than ever. I attempted to get the garage door to lift up, but it was to no avail. The door just made a wheezing, dying sound, and I got the hint to stop pressing the button. With some strategic maneuvering, I was able to get the car out of the garage through a different garage door, so we did arrive at dance class basically on time. When my father found out, he was none too pleased with me, or my sister. Of course, since I was the one driving, I did get the brunt of the blame. In a few weeks, the garage door was replaced, but my car and I were quarantined to the driveway. Our identification as persona non grata has continued to the present, and my car still stands outside the garage door today.
Byte Me: Day 7
Media Fast Log
Day 7- June 21, 2012
The word of the day was "exhaustion." After a fun and friendship-filled night with my Pali High pals, I was not looking forward to going to work at nine a.m. Luckily, I was only working one job today, and it was the more stationary of the two. I've learned to appreciate little successes like this. I got done work at noon, and ravenously drove home. By twelve-thirty, I was skyping with my best friend from college and eating everything in the kitchen. Not to flaunt my own domesticity, but I made a really delicious pesto, spinach, tomato, and mushroom grilled cheese sandwich. It really hit the gaping spot that was my stomach.
I spent the afternoon skyping and eating with this lovely lady, whose (awesome) blog I will be plugging here. We talked about everything, like we usually do, from boys to writing to school to breaking down and analyzing each of our own foibles that make us the fabulous messes that we are. Eventually, however, our video chat came to an end because...well, it was really hot out and I wanted to go swimming. I enjoyed the late afternoon by the pool, alternating between reading, swimming, and napping. My mom too was relaxing at our own personal poolside resort, accompanied by her good friend Dr. Phil. What I mean by this is that his show was on the TV in our gazebo so that my mother could listen to it while lounging by our manmade lagoon. I did not protest my mom's choice of media because I figured that if I asked her to the show off, that would violate the "antisocial" part of my media fast ground rule. Therefore, I let the balding countryman counsel a warring mother and daughter-in-law without overt contempt. Actually, I was proud of my awareness and detachment from the on-screen situation. I think that this experience will help make me become more selective of the media in which I become invested.
Around five, I was given dinner-making duty while my mom picked my sister up from her summer job. As the only vegetarian in the house, it made perfect sense to put me on fried chicken cooking duty. This later resulted in my mother eating two wings when she had asked for a breast and a thigh. Clearly, over the past five years, I have forgotten what a chicken looks like. However, I was able to distinguish two thighs for my sister, signifying that I have not lost all of my previous carnivore knowledge. I also made mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli (empty carbs and fiber, just saying), which were also pretty good.
After dinner, the Geller girls reconvened on the patio. My sister and I quizzed each other with Brain Quest trivia meant for nine to ten year olds. We got most of them right, but we also got some of them wrong. At around eight, some of my high school friends came over to swim and watch Casper the Friendly Ghost. No joke, this was the much awaited and much anticipated entertainment for the evening. Again, the reason why I had no opposition to this media infiltration was because of the "antisocial" rule. We swam for about an hour or so, and then I made everyone milkshakes with ice cream from the local parlor. They didn't bring all the boys to the yard, but I guess they were good enough to make the people who were already here stay long enough for the movie. There was a piece of canvas wrigged up on one of the walls of our house, upon which we projected the movie. It was really nice being able to watch a movie outside in the warm summer air. Although I started to fall asleep towards the end of the movie, I found this shared media experience really enjoyable.
By the time everything had been taken inside and everyone had bidden adieu, it was a little bit past midnight. My fast was officially over. I could binge on media as much as I wanted. Knowing this, I chose to sleep inside. My Facebook notifications, unseen tweets, and unpinned pins could wait. Making that decision was surprisingly new for me. I chose myself over my media, and, once I had done it, I couldn't believe that it had taken me this long.
Day 7- June 21, 2012
The word of the day was "exhaustion." After a fun and friendship-filled night with my Pali High pals, I was not looking forward to going to work at nine a.m. Luckily, I was only working one job today, and it was the more stationary of the two. I've learned to appreciate little successes like this. I got done work at noon, and ravenously drove home. By twelve-thirty, I was skyping with my best friend from college and eating everything in the kitchen. Not to flaunt my own domesticity, but I made a really delicious pesto, spinach, tomato, and mushroom grilled cheese sandwich. It really hit the gaping spot that was my stomach.
I spent the afternoon skyping and eating with this lovely lady, whose (awesome) blog I will be plugging here. We talked about everything, like we usually do, from boys to writing to school to breaking down and analyzing each of our own foibles that make us the fabulous messes that we are. Eventually, however, our video chat came to an end because...well, it was really hot out and I wanted to go swimming. I enjoyed the late afternoon by the pool, alternating between reading, swimming, and napping. My mom too was relaxing at our own personal poolside resort, accompanied by her good friend Dr. Phil. What I mean by this is that his show was on the TV in our gazebo so that my mother could listen to it while lounging by our manmade lagoon. I did not protest my mom's choice of media because I figured that if I asked her to the show off, that would violate the "antisocial" part of my media fast ground rule. Therefore, I let the balding countryman counsel a warring mother and daughter-in-law without overt contempt. Actually, I was proud of my awareness and detachment from the on-screen situation. I think that this experience will help make me become more selective of the media in which I become invested.
Around five, I was given dinner-making duty while my mom picked my sister up from her summer job. As the only vegetarian in the house, it made perfect sense to put me on fried chicken cooking duty. This later resulted in my mother eating two wings when she had asked for a breast and a thigh. Clearly, over the past five years, I have forgotten what a chicken looks like. However, I was able to distinguish two thighs for my sister, signifying that I have not lost all of my previous carnivore knowledge. I also made mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli (empty carbs and fiber, just saying), which were also pretty good.
After dinner, the Geller girls reconvened on the patio. My sister and I quizzed each other with Brain Quest trivia meant for nine to ten year olds. We got most of them right, but we also got some of them wrong. At around eight, some of my high school friends came over to swim and watch Casper the Friendly Ghost. No joke, this was the much awaited and much anticipated entertainment for the evening. Again, the reason why I had no opposition to this media infiltration was because of the "antisocial" rule. We swam for about an hour or so, and then I made everyone milkshakes with ice cream from the local parlor. They didn't bring all the boys to the yard, but I guess they were good enough to make the people who were already here stay long enough for the movie. There was a piece of canvas wrigged up on one of the walls of our house, upon which we projected the movie. It was really nice being able to watch a movie outside in the warm summer air. Although I started to fall asleep towards the end of the movie, I found this shared media experience really enjoyable.
By the time everything had been taken inside and everyone had bidden adieu, it was a little bit past midnight. My fast was officially over. I could binge on media as much as I wanted. Knowing this, I chose to sleep inside. My Facebook notifications, unseen tweets, and unpinned pins could wait. Making that decision was surprisingly new for me. I chose myself over my media, and, once I had done it, I couldn't believe that it had taken me this long.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Byte Me: Day 6
Media Fast Log
Day 6- June 20, 2012
I officially turned nineteen and a half today. I celebrated my half-birthday by treating it like every other day. I woke up, ate a bowl of cereal, and chatted with my mom while sitting outside by our pool. I had to go to work at eleven-forty-five a.m., but until then I was able to spend my morning tanning outside. My mom was lying out beside me, and we had another good mother-daughter talk. After this morning, I realized that I don't nearly talk to my mom enough. She's a really great lady when she isn't mad at me for leaving dishes in the sink, but I sometimes forget how loving and understanding of a person she is. I've been working so much lately that whenever I talk to her I'm usually exhausted and irritated, so our most recent conversations haven't been the most pleasant. However, today, we really did have a good talk. It was just a little thing, a little change in my normal routine, but it made me happy.
Around eleven, I started getting ready for work. It takes me about twenty minutes to drive to my job, so I allotted myself twenty minutes to physically prepare myself for the shift ahead. Luckily, my shift only lasted until two p.m. today so I was home by two-twenty. I worked out (at a normal time!) for forty-five minutes and then cooled off with a dip in my pool. My mom, after running errands that morning, had returned to her station on the left lounge chair. I accompanied her on the right and spent the next three hours intermittently swimming and relaxing. On rare occasions, I do actually get to enjoy my life.
Around five, I went inside and showered because I needed to get ready to go to my friend's birthday party. I was really excited because I finally had a night off from work and plans with which to fill my rare instance of free time. Before I went to the party, however, I stopped off at my sister's softball game. After watching the game winning double play(?), I drove to my friend's house in the backwoods of northeastern Pennsylvania. Now, when I say backwoods, I mean way back in the freaking woods. I was driving (speeding) on narrow, rocky roads, hoping that no one else had the bright idea to cross my crooked and careless path. To put my bad driving into context, I was late. If I have to drive anywhere, I'm pretty much always five to ten minutes late. This tendency has become even worse since going to school in Boston where I walk everywhere or blame my lateness on the unreliability of the T. Anyway, I was driving recklessly through the detour-laden boondocks of PA, but I eventually made it to my friend's house.
Once there, I was very excited to see all my friends who I have forsaken in the past two months for my job. The party was really fun, and totally media free. I spent the entire time simply reconnecting with old friends, and I couldn't have asked for a better way to spend an evening. Tomorrow will be my seventh (and last) day of media fasting, but I have a feeling that this personal experiment will impact me longer than this week. Through this experience, I feel like I've learned a lot about myself, my life, and the other people in it. I think that I am seeing certain things clearly for the first time. I do not think that I will be so willing to give up this clarity for the mindless comfort of distraction even after this is all over. I don't know how my relationship with media will continue tomorrow or the day after that, but I cannot wait to find out.
Around eleven, I started getting ready for work. It takes me about twenty minutes to drive to my job, so I allotted myself twenty minutes to physically prepare myself for the shift ahead. Luckily, my shift only lasted until two p.m. today so I was home by two-twenty. I worked out (at a normal time!) for forty-five minutes and then cooled off with a dip in my pool. My mom, after running errands that morning, had returned to her station on the left lounge chair. I accompanied her on the right and spent the next three hours intermittently swimming and relaxing. On rare occasions, I do actually get to enjoy my life.
Around five, I went inside and showered because I needed to get ready to go to my friend's birthday party. I was really excited because I finally had a night off from work and plans with which to fill my rare instance of free time. Before I went to the party, however, I stopped off at my sister's softball game. After watching the game winning double play(?), I drove to my friend's house in the backwoods of northeastern Pennsylvania. Now, when I say backwoods, I mean way back in the freaking woods. I was driving (speeding) on narrow, rocky roads, hoping that no one else had the bright idea to cross my crooked and careless path. To put my bad driving into context, I was late. If I have to drive anywhere, I'm pretty much always five to ten minutes late. This tendency has become even worse since going to school in Boston where I walk everywhere or blame my lateness on the unreliability of the T. Anyway, I was driving recklessly through the detour-laden boondocks of PA, but I eventually made it to my friend's house.
Once there, I was very excited to see all my friends who I have forsaken in the past two months for my job. The party was really fun, and totally media free. I spent the entire time simply reconnecting with old friends, and I couldn't have asked for a better way to spend an evening. Tomorrow will be my seventh (and last) day of media fasting, but I have a feeling that this personal experiment will impact me longer than this week. Through this experience, I feel like I've learned a lot about myself, my life, and the other people in it. I think that I am seeing certain things clearly for the first time. I do not think that I will be so willing to give up this clarity for the mindless comfort of distraction even after this is all over. I don't know how my relationship with media will continue tomorrow or the day after that, but I cannot wait to find out.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Byte Me: Day 5
Media Fast Log
Day 5- June 19, 2012
My morning began at seven a.m. with a mini earthquake. My phone was vibrating incessantly until I turned off the alarm I had set to make sure I made it to my first job on time. When I'm not working at my high class burger joint, I do clerical work at a local veterinary clinic. I usually work from nine to noon, but because I had to be at the restaurant by eleven-thirty, I arrived at my first job an hour early. From seven to seven-forty a.m., I ate breakfast and got ready without any media. Then, I worked at the clinic from eight to eleven. The only media I encountered at this job was the radio playing a country station softly in my supervisor's work room. For the most part, I was able to ignore this small amount of media, mostly because I am not a huge fan of country music.
Then, at eleven, I drove to my other job, changed in my car, and then began waitressing at eleven-thirty. Today, I noticed the pervasiveness of media in our patrons' personal and social lives as a couple of tables brought either ipads or laptops into the restaurant. I would like to clarify that these were not business people out for a working lunch, but families or groups of friends who just couldn't seem to part with their electronic friends as well. One table in particular was that of my boss's family, who I happened to be serving. The majority of the table was media free, but one of his sons was completely immersed in his handheld DS. Not only were his eyes distracted by the bright colors on the screen, but his ears were also spoken for by an expensive looking pair of headphones. Serving him was like serving a deaf-blind-mute, and I was thankful that all he ordered was a simple kid's meal and didn't need any drink refills. Honestly, though, this kid was not even there for this family luncheon. Even when I came over, ten birthday singers in tow, to celebrate my manager's other son's birthday, he remained isolated. Poor guy missed out on eating the giant and delicious looking mudd pie in favor of getting to the next level. I don't know if I can stress this enough so let me just repeat: He missed out on EATING CHOCOLATELY GOODNESS because of media. Granted, the mudd pie is about 1368 calories (I looked it up) so it's certainly not the healthiest choice, but, I mean, come on. I watched this kid miss out on life, as it stood right in front of him, begging to be ogled and gobbled. I guess the brightness of his screen must have blinded him, because I don't think that he could see it.
At two p.m., I was able to go on break so I went home for about two hours before I had to be at work for the night shift at four-fifteen. By this time I was starving, so over the next two hours I ate a lot to make up for my hours of empty stomach and to prepare for the night to come. It was during this time that I made a minor breach in my fast because I watched the season finale of Girls, the new HBO TV show by Lena Dunham. I consumed a seriously large amount of hummus and pita bread while watching that show, which proves that whole fact that you shouldn't eat while watching TV because you eat more than you should because of the (you guessed it) distraction. I wasn't proud of myself for doing this, but at least I have stayed off all of my social media completely. I also haven't listened to the radio in my car at all, even when I was driving home from work late at night and all I want to do is unwind with some tunes. I've learned that silence can be relaxing too. I know that that seems like a simple conjecture, but I think that a lot of us have forgotten it.
Silence scares us now, and we seek to fill it with pointless words, melodies, sounds. We don't view silence as the great comforter but the great predator. I think we have this idea that silence signifies danger because of horror movies or something, but we forget that it isn't the silence but the short bouts of suspenseful background music that should really worse us. You hear that playing behind you in your real life, and I give you full permission to run. However, I've never heard of a murderer making the extra effort to bring an iPod dock to a potential crime scene, so the media version of real life horror is inaccurate. Wow, what a digression that was. At any rate, I watched the TV show because I hadn't watched any TV that day and I knew that the only other time I was going to watch TV would be later tonight when I worked out so I gave myself a pass just this one time.
I was back at work by four-fifteen on the dot, and was held captive there until ten p.m. When I got home at ten-thirty, I immediately began my workout, all the while watching the new episode of Pretty Little Liars. (It was intense.) I hate to admit it, but PLL is one of my favorite TV shows. Even though I know how ridiculous it is, I just can't get enough of it. This is an example of a media addiction in my life from which it is too late to save me. I have been sucked in and will be a devout fan of this show until the liars discover the identity of Allison's killer and A. For those of you who understood neither of those references, congratulations on avoiding the blackhole that is the PLL fandom. After I finished working out, I made myself a chocolate strawberry-banana smoothie, as usual. (The addiction that I have to these things is not one that I am ashamed of or worry about.) Then, I wrote my blog post for Byte Me: Day 4.
I took breaks from my writing to text with my best friend whom I hadn't talked to in three days because she was visiting all her high school friends, and I didn't want to disturb her from real human contact. However, I was really happy that she texted me because I had missed her so much. Say what you want about the fragmentation of identity through technology, it's probably true, but I really did feel a strong connection to her while we were texting. Obviously, it wasn't the same as our multi-hour talks via skype that we have every Thursday, but it was enough of a connection to successfully continue our friendship. She was asking me for advice because her life had recently been derailed with a very interesting plot twist. (Her life is a Dan Brown novel; mine's a Lifetime movie. This is why we're friends.) I don't know why I seem to be the go to person for advice, because if I was any good at giving or taking my own advice, my life wouldn't be the hot mess that it is. I could explain farther, but maybe I just want to force my readers to read the rest of my blog to see if you can put the pieces together. Challenge accepted?
At any rate, I counseled her until about one-thirty a.m. when I literally could not keep my eyes open a moment longer. I gave her one last suggestion and then said I was going to sleep, knowing full well that there was time to talk about it and figure out a solution tomorrow.
Byte Me: Day 4
Media Fast Log
Day 4 - June 19, 2012
Day 4 - June 19, 2012
Another day, another dollar, another double shift-- all free of media. I started the fourth day of my media fast with a green smoothie breakfast and a nice chat with my mom. Together, we made the grocery list because our kitchen became a veritable ghost town over the busy, dance recital-filled weekend. Then, as she went shopping, I cleaned the counter and loaded the dishwasher. I also found some time this morning for my blog. My next action may shock some readers, but let me explain. I went on Facebook. However, I went on Facebook with the express intention to message a friend who was working on Fast Media, Media Fast with me about promoting my blog posts on the Facebook page. If anyone is still with me after that meta-sentence, I think you will agree that I have not broken my fast in this instance. I had almost thirty notifications, and I ignored them all. Of course, I was tempted to check them because I was pretty sure that one of my friends had posted some pictures from a recent trip to the beach, but I abstained. I think that a really big part of the reason why I was able to stay strong as I clicked through the valley of temptation was because I knew that if I did I would have to admit to my readers (whoever you may or may not be).
Dr. Cooper wrote about keeping a daily journal while media fasting, but that did not keep me motivated like this blog has. I think that the public aspect of this blog willed me to continue with my fast because I didn't want to disappoint you guys. For some reason, I have a really big aversion to disappointing people. When I have others invested in me, no matter how great or small, I feel more of an obligation than if it were just me and my cheering section of one. So, what this whole digression comes down to is that I want to thank you guys for (metaphorically) being there for me in my darkest (minus the glow of the computer screen) of hours.
At any rate, I went to work at noon, performing my diligent waitress duties until two p.m. when I went on break. I was supposed to be back at work for the night shift at four so I took this time to run a few errands and eat lunch. I ate good ole fashioned PB & J with a co-worker, listening politely to her relationship problems and offering what advice I could. I'm probably one of the last people who should be giving relationship advice since I know how to get good guys, but not how to keep them, but that's another post for another day. (I may or may not be a commitaphobe. I like to attribute all my relationship problems to bad timing.) At any rate, I worked from four until about nine, which, believe it or not, I considered getting out of work pretty early.
When I got home, I worked out for thirty minutes while watching Bridesmaids. This is one of my favorite movies, but I did stopped watching it after I finished working out because I did not want to distract myself longer than was necessary. After working out, I made dinner for myself around eleven p.m., which has become my new dinner time since I started my job. Seeing as I stay awake until one or two a.m. writing anyway, the timeline is about the same as for a normal person. However, tonight, instead of writing, I did some yoga to stretch myself out from my cardio and then promptly went to sleep. Knowing that I had to wake up at seven a.m. the next morning to get to my other job by eight a.m., I was all too happy to collapse into bed at twelve-thirty a.m. I had no time nor energy to blog about my media free day, which is why I'm doing it now. As I write this, I have now survived five days without media (!), and I gleaned some insights from today which I will muse upon and share in my next post.
Monday, June 18, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- Don't Cry Over Spilled Iced Tea
June 18, 2012
I'm actually surprised that this didn't happen sooner. It was only a matter of time before my lack of coordination and depth perception did some actual damage. That's right, everyone, I spilled my first drink on someone. My unsuspecting victim was a thirteen year old boy out with his older (and douchier) brother. Iced tea was my weapon of choice, and the greatest irony of this whole situation was that the iced tea wasn't even for him. While grabbing the first drinks for my recently sat party of six, I noticed that the two guys needed refills. Having faith in my newly enhanced arm muscles, I figured that I would enlarge two tips with one tray by dropping off two more Cokes at the boys' table before proceeding to the bar to pick up the rest of the other party's drinks. It was midst transfer from tray to table that the glass of Coke knocked the glass of iced tea all over the younger brother. Apologizing profusely to the kitchen and back, I quickly grabbed some paper towels to soak up the Great Iced Tea Flood of 2012. All the while, I was worried about my other table (who would inevitably have a bigger bill and give me a better tip) and how they were holding up without their beverages. After the spill was eradicated and the younger boy was drying nicely, I rushed off to the bar, grabbed my other drinks, and successfully delivered them to my larger table.
After taking care of that table, as well as a mother and a daughter, I thought that everything was fine with the two boys. It was all iced tea under the bridge. That is, until I dropped off their check and was asked if they could have a discount because of the spilling incident. The reasoning the older brother wanted a discount was that he had to take the younger boy home so that he could get a new pair of shorts before they went to the movies. He assured me that it would be "chill" if he couldn't get a discount, but that he would really like one. At first, I thought he was joking, but when I brought up that interpretation of his request, I discovered that he was "dead serious." Reluctantly, I got my manager and explained the situation. He gave the guys a ten dollar discount on their twenty-five dollar bill, which the older brother appraised as "baller."
I assumed that my horror story of a table experience ended here, but there was a final plot twist. The guys left twenty dollars to pay their new fifteen dollar bill. They did not ask for change. They did not stiff me on my tip, which is what I had assumed would be the end result of this whole beverage blunder. Not only did the guys tip me, but they overtipped me. I was confused that someone so adamant about getting a discount would just throw down five dollars needlessly. Oh well, at least I made back half of what I am sure is being taken out of my tips. Alls well that ends well, I guess. Still, I hope that those two boys froze in the air conditioned movie theater, dry shorts and all.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
I'm actually surprised that this didn't happen sooner. It was only a matter of time before my lack of coordination and depth perception did some actual damage. That's right, everyone, I spilled my first drink on someone. My unsuspecting victim was a thirteen year old boy out with his older (and douchier) brother. Iced tea was my weapon of choice, and the greatest irony of this whole situation was that the iced tea wasn't even for him. While grabbing the first drinks for my recently sat party of six, I noticed that the two guys needed refills. Having faith in my newly enhanced arm muscles, I figured that I would enlarge two tips with one tray by dropping off two more Cokes at the boys' table before proceeding to the bar to pick up the rest of the other party's drinks. It was midst transfer from tray to table that the glass of Coke knocked the glass of iced tea all over the younger brother. Apologizing profusely to the kitchen and back, I quickly grabbed some paper towels to soak up the Great Iced Tea Flood of 2012. All the while, I was worried about my other table (who would inevitably have a bigger bill and give me a better tip) and how they were holding up without their beverages. After the spill was eradicated and the younger boy was drying nicely, I rushed off to the bar, grabbed my other drinks, and successfully delivered them to my larger table.
After taking care of that table, as well as a mother and a daughter, I thought that everything was fine with the two boys. It was all iced tea under the bridge. That is, until I dropped off their check and was asked if they could have a discount because of the spilling incident. The reasoning the older brother wanted a discount was that he had to take the younger boy home so that he could get a new pair of shorts before they went to the movies. He assured me that it would be "chill" if he couldn't get a discount, but that he would really like one. At first, I thought he was joking, but when I brought up that interpretation of his request, I discovered that he was "dead serious." Reluctantly, I got my manager and explained the situation. He gave the guys a ten dollar discount on their twenty-five dollar bill, which the older brother appraised as "baller."
I assumed that my horror story of a table experience ended here, but there was a final plot twist. The guys left twenty dollars to pay their new fifteen dollar bill. They did not ask for change. They did not stiff me on my tip, which is what I had assumed would be the end result of this whole beverage blunder. Not only did the guys tip me, but they overtipped me. I was confused that someone so adamant about getting a discount would just throw down five dollars needlessly. Oh well, at least I made back half of what I am sure is being taken out of my tips. Alls well that ends well, I guess. Still, I hope that those two boys froze in the air conditioned movie theater, dry shorts and all.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Byte Me: Day 3
Media Fast Log
Day 3- June 17, 2012
At any rate, besides the media that was forced upon me at my job, my personal rejection of it enabled me to create better connections with my co-workers. The majority of my co-workers have iPhones, which they periodically check, especially on break. Because I was not screen-gazing midst conversing, I noticed that that was the normal protocol for human interactions these days. Where was the eye contact? Who was really paying attention? When had Facebook replaced the actual face? And, the most pressing question of all, was that person on Twitter actually funnier than me? What I learned from this experience is that I don't like it when people try to split their time and attention between media and a living, breathing person. Even though I used to do it all the time, and I never meant it or saw it as a lack of respect, I think that is what it may be. Perhaps it is not a lack of respect, but a lack of appreciation. Of course, I am no longer referring just to me. I think that every person should be appreciated just for being here, making it through another day. Oh, you're still alive? Congratulations. Tell us how you got here. We'll listen; we'll pay attention. I think that we, as a society, have forgotten to truly appreciate each other's fleshy forms. This saddens me because it is when we are our most natural selves that we are our most imperfect, which is kind of beautiful. Anyway, this is what I did from 11:30 am to 10 p.m. today.
Once I got home, I made myself a chocolate strawberry-banana smoothie for dinner and ate some of my vegan cookie dough while writing this blog post. Then, I texted with my friend for a little bit as she was in need of advice, and who better to give good advice than someone who doesn't take it? All the while, I was reading Tom Cooper's book Fast Media, Media Fast, and planning out tweets for its twitter, @fastmedia-mediafast. I encourage my readers to follow this twitter if they want to learn more about media fasting (and also just because I could use some more followers!), and to check out the book's Facebook page. They're both pretty good resources for information about the book and media fasting in general, if I do say so myself.
Well, now that the shameless plug is over, it is on to Day 4 of my media fast. I'm really excited for tomorrow because this will mark the longest amount of time I have lived without media, and I already feel really accomplished for making it this far.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- The Bad Influence
June 16, 2012
When I'm asked for a recommendation, it's usually for a burger not a strip club that is eighteen plus. Ironically, because of my vegetarianism (yeah, let's go with that), I am much more helpful with the latter. When I'm asked for a burger recommendation, I hum and haw for a few seconds before admitting my meat-eating ignorance. However, when some recently graduated high school seniors come to me, desperate for a way to start their adult lives off with a bang, I am ready to go. I'm sure these guys expected me to blush and giggle nervously when they even mentioned the word "strip club." However, I'm not that kind of girl. I'm the kind of girl that immediately rattles off the name of the local strip club, as well as its more commonly used nickname ("The Shitty Titty"), along with some clear and concise directions on how to get there from the restaurant.
The only thing that a girl like me lacked was knowledge on their age admittance policy. Luckily, the guys were not discouraged by my inability to ensure that their voyeurism would be satisfied. After a quick Google search on an iPhone, one of the guys found the number and promptly called them. It was not my idea for the boy to begin his query with "Is this the Shitty Titty?" but I certainly didn't condemn him for his creative introduction. He was promptly hung up on. Still not discouraged, he called back and used the same opening. This time, a girl picked up. When told the nickname of her place of work, she responded, "That's not nice!" (I like to think that she was offended because she thought that her titties were under personal attack.) I guess the guy kept her on the line long enough despite his verbal toll on her self esteem, because he somehow was able to gather that The Shitty Titty was a twenty-one plus strip club.
All that effort, and I couldn't even get my guys a lap dance. What kind of waitress was I if I couldn't give my guests the impression of getting laid? I felt bad that my guys wouldn't be able to see any titties, as shitty as they may be, but a server can only do so much. This wasn't Hooters, and I was, by this time, officially bro-y with the guys anyway. I had done my best to aid their adolescent libidos; and I had to be happy that if they couldn't shove the change I had given them into a G-string, at least they could still spend it on alcohol.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
When I'm asked for a recommendation, it's usually for a burger not a strip club that is eighteen plus. Ironically, because of my vegetarianism (yeah, let's go with that), I am much more helpful with the latter. When I'm asked for a burger recommendation, I hum and haw for a few seconds before admitting my meat-eating ignorance. However, when some recently graduated high school seniors come to me, desperate for a way to start their adult lives off with a bang, I am ready to go. I'm sure these guys expected me to blush and giggle nervously when they even mentioned the word "strip club." However, I'm not that kind of girl. I'm the kind of girl that immediately rattles off the name of the local strip club, as well as its more commonly used nickname ("The Shitty Titty"), along with some clear and concise directions on how to get there from the restaurant.
The only thing that a girl like me lacked was knowledge on their age admittance policy. Luckily, the guys were not discouraged by my inability to ensure that their voyeurism would be satisfied. After a quick Google search on an iPhone, one of the guys found the number and promptly called them. It was not my idea for the boy to begin his query with "Is this the Shitty Titty?" but I certainly didn't condemn him for his creative introduction. He was promptly hung up on. Still not discouraged, he called back and used the same opening. This time, a girl picked up. When told the nickname of her place of work, she responded, "That's not nice!" (I like to think that she was offended because she thought that her titties were under personal attack.) I guess the guy kept her on the line long enough despite his verbal toll on her self esteem, because he somehow was able to gather that The Shitty Titty was a twenty-one plus strip club.
All that effort, and I couldn't even get my guys a lap dance. What kind of waitress was I if I couldn't give my guests the impression of getting laid? I felt bad that my guys wouldn't be able to see any titties, as shitty as they may be, but a server can only do so much. This wasn't Hooters, and I was, by this time, officially bro-y with the guys anyway. I had done my best to aid their adolescent libidos; and I had to be happy that if they couldn't shove the change I had given them into a G-string, at least they could still spend it on alcohol.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Byte Me: Day 2
Media Fast Log
Day 2- June 16, 2012
Let's have a talk about productivity and irony. I've been working on two articles for This Dish Is Vegetarian for the past two weeks, but it all it took was one media-free morning to finally finish them. After eating my breakfast of cereal, all I did was sit in my bed and write. I did not leave my fluffy workstation until I had written, edited, rewritten, and proofread both of my articles. This took about two hours, and by the end of it, I felt more accomplished and fulfilled than I had in weeks. All that time, all I had to do was actually sit down and write, and I was done. I think that the greatest obstacle of the modern tortured artist is to stay tortured. With all our media, it is so easy to be distracted from what truly disturbs us and what we would like to change with our art. All of these distractions take away our inspiration. We have forfeited the right to scream in exchange for the right to view. I was only able to have this realization after I separated myself from my distractions and remembered what was really important to me. I couldn't believe how easily I had forgotten.
Anyway, after I finished my two pieces and e-mailed my editor, I did yoga for about forty minutes. By this time, it was around noon and I wanted to make my favorite healthy, vegan chocolate chip cookie dough and eat lunch before I had to leave for work at my high class burger joint. After making the cookie dough, which is basically made of the same ingredients as oatmeal(!), I mixed into the ice cream I make out of frozen bananas. Then, I ate a fair amount of it because it's a guilt-free alternative to regular cookie dough ice cream along with a green smoothie. Being the health freak that I am, I really enjoyed my lunch. I was the only one home at the time, and usually when that happens, I eat with the TV on so that I feel less lonely. It's kind of messed up that I crave company from a glowing, talking box, but this is a common phenomenon. For some reason, the modern human detests and fears quiet, and I am no exception. However, I forced myself to indulge in the silence and my meal yesterday, and found it to be peaceful. I actually focused on the full taste of what I was eating for once, and it made a difference. I was there for this experience, small and insignificant as it was.
After eating, I cleaned all the dishes I had used in my baking. I even decided to be a good samaritan in my family and empty the dishwasher. In doing so, I created one of my trademark lindsay messes. It happened like this: I was trying to put away some glasses that simply did not want to fit onto their designated shelf. I begged and pleaded with them, but no dice. Whilst trying to force them to fit, I knocked the shelf above this one and sent a wine glass flying over my head and crashing onto my kitchen floor. Then, in my attempt to clean up my first lindsay mess I created another lindsay mess by breaking my vacuum. As it turns out, you're not supposed to use the hose function of the vacuum to pick up glass. Who knew? Apparently, everyone except for me. So without media in my life, I've been able to break the twice the things in half the time. My efficiency is off the charts. Of course, I am only kidding. My intentions were wholeheartedly good in this matter. I was trying to help out my family before being asked, and when I messed up, I did my best to take care of it. Donna Reed I am not, but you can't blame a girl for trying.
After I took care of this debacle, I rushed--I mean drove carefully and totally within the speed limit-- to the outdoor shopping center where the restaurant I work at is located. I was there forty minutes early because I wanted to quickly paint a plate for my father at Color Me Mine. My dad collects English huntscene plates, so I wanted to make him one of my own as a gag gift for father's day. My paintbrush flew as in only half an hour I created a masterpiece on par with that of a pretty talented five-year-old. By this time it was almost four, so I ran to work where I was then held captive until 12:45 a.m. In case anyone is still left wondering, I do have about three days in the same space of time that normal people have about one. When I finally got home, about one a.m., I ate a chocolate strawberry-banana smoothie and some steamed edamame. Exhausted as I was, I watched a half an hour of Hey Arnold! to unwind and remember my childhood. I allowed myself one hour of TV per day when I exercised, but at this point, just existing was work out enough. Then, I started a blog post about my night at work which I was too exhausted to finish but will be posting soon. Finally, I fell into bed around two a.m. and slept peacefully in my completely dark and silent room.
Day 2- June 16, 2012
Let's have a talk about productivity and irony. I've been working on two articles for This Dish Is Vegetarian for the past two weeks, but it all it took was one media-free morning to finally finish them. After eating my breakfast of cereal, all I did was sit in my bed and write. I did not leave my fluffy workstation until I had written, edited, rewritten, and proofread both of my articles. This took about two hours, and by the end of it, I felt more accomplished and fulfilled than I had in weeks. All that time, all I had to do was actually sit down and write, and I was done. I think that the greatest obstacle of the modern tortured artist is to stay tortured. With all our media, it is so easy to be distracted from what truly disturbs us and what we would like to change with our art. All of these distractions take away our inspiration. We have forfeited the right to scream in exchange for the right to view. I was only able to have this realization after I separated myself from my distractions and remembered what was really important to me. I couldn't believe how easily I had forgotten.
Anyway, after I finished my two pieces and e-mailed my editor, I did yoga for about forty minutes. By this time, it was around noon and I wanted to make my favorite healthy, vegan chocolate chip cookie dough and eat lunch before I had to leave for work at my high class burger joint. After making the cookie dough, which is basically made of the same ingredients as oatmeal(!), I mixed into the ice cream I make out of frozen bananas. Then, I ate a fair amount of it because it's a guilt-free alternative to regular cookie dough ice cream along with a green smoothie. Being the health freak that I am, I really enjoyed my lunch. I was the only one home at the time, and usually when that happens, I eat with the TV on so that I feel less lonely. It's kind of messed up that I crave company from a glowing, talking box, but this is a common phenomenon. For some reason, the modern human detests and fears quiet, and I am no exception. However, I forced myself to indulge in the silence and my meal yesterday, and found it to be peaceful. I actually focused on the full taste of what I was eating for once, and it made a difference. I was there for this experience, small and insignificant as it was.
After eating, I cleaned all the dishes I had used in my baking. I even decided to be a good samaritan in my family and empty the dishwasher. In doing so, I created one of my trademark lindsay messes. It happened like this: I was trying to put away some glasses that simply did not want to fit onto their designated shelf. I begged and pleaded with them, but no dice. Whilst trying to force them to fit, I knocked the shelf above this one and sent a wine glass flying over my head and crashing onto my kitchen floor. Then, in my attempt to clean up my first lindsay mess I created another lindsay mess by breaking my vacuum. As it turns out, you're not supposed to use the hose function of the vacuum to pick up glass. Who knew? Apparently, everyone except for me. So without media in my life, I've been able to break the twice the things in half the time. My efficiency is off the charts. Of course, I am only kidding. My intentions were wholeheartedly good in this matter. I was trying to help out my family before being asked, and when I messed up, I did my best to take care of it. Donna Reed I am not, but you can't blame a girl for trying.
After I took care of this debacle, I rushed--I mean drove carefully and totally within the speed limit-- to the outdoor shopping center where the restaurant I work at is located. I was there forty minutes early because I wanted to quickly paint a plate for my father at Color Me Mine. My dad collects English huntscene plates, so I wanted to make him one of my own as a gag gift for father's day. My paintbrush flew as in only half an hour I created a masterpiece on par with that of a pretty talented five-year-old. By this time it was almost four, so I ran to work where I was then held captive until 12:45 a.m. In case anyone is still left wondering, I do have about three days in the same space of time that normal people have about one. When I finally got home, about one a.m., I ate a chocolate strawberry-banana smoothie and some steamed edamame. Exhausted as I was, I watched a half an hour of Hey Arnold! to unwind and remember my childhood. I allowed myself one hour of TV per day when I exercised, but at this point, just existing was work out enough. Then, I started a blog post about my night at work which I was too exhausted to finish but will be posting soon. Finally, I fell into bed around two a.m. and slept peacefully in my completely dark and silent room.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
It's That Time of the Year-- Follow My Blog
<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3802642/lindsay-geller?claim=tdhuc23qh7h">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>
This is me begging for followers. It'd be super cool if someone, somewhere wanted to follow my blog on bloglovin.com. Just saying.
This is me begging for followers. It'd be super cool if someone, somewhere wanted to follow my blog on bloglovin.com. Just saying.
Byte Me: One Girl's Journey into Media Fasting
Day 1- June 15, 2012
The Context: A media fast is like a food fast, except you abstain from consuming media, i.e. television shows, movies, social media websites, radio, books, etc. There is an entire book written on this subject by Emerson College professor Tom Cooper called Fast Media, Media Fast. I manage the Twitter campaign for this book, and ironic as that may sound, this job is actually conducive to media fasting because it is about producing media rather than consuming it. Therefore, because of my role in this project, I have been asked to media fast. I've tried media fasting before. This is either my third or fourth attempt. I haven't been strong enough to continue for more than a few days before, but I am resolved to complete a one week media fast this time. The reason that I'm doing this now, and taking it so seriously, is because I have tasks in my life that I would like to complete that are perpetually put off because of how much time I waste on media.
The Goals:
The Context: A media fast is like a food fast, except you abstain from consuming media, i.e. television shows, movies, social media websites, radio, books, etc. There is an entire book written on this subject by Emerson College professor Tom Cooper called Fast Media, Media Fast. I manage the Twitter campaign for this book, and ironic as that may sound, this job is actually conducive to media fasting because it is about producing media rather than consuming it. Therefore, because of my role in this project, I have been asked to media fast. I've tried media fasting before. This is either my third or fourth attempt. I haven't been strong enough to continue for more than a few days before, but I am resolved to complete a one week media fast this time. The reason that I'm doing this now, and taking it so seriously, is because I have tasks in my life that I would like to complete that are perpetually put off because of how much time I waste on media.
The Goals:
- To clean my room and car, and keep them clean
- To write more-- magazine articles, short stories, blog posts
- To find new ways to unwind after work
- To spend more time outside when I'm not at work
- To paint more quotes onto the walls of my room
- To read more (books are the only form of media that I am keeping)
- To think of and then post more goals as I become aware of them
The Rules:
- All internet social media is gone. That means no Pinterest, no Twitter, and especially no Facebook. With regards to Twitter: tweeting is acceptable, but twittering (reading other people's tweets) is not.
- I am allotted one hour of TV media per day, and this is only because I need to be distracted by TV while I work out or I will not be able to push through it. This is my one weakness which I am indulging.
- No radio. Not even in the car. Not even in hour-long traffic.
- Books are acceptable because it is the only form of media of which I do not believe I consume enough. Also, because I am a writer, books serve more than an entertainment purpose for me, which separates them from other forms of media.
The Ground Rule: I will fast from media only when it is practical and not anti-social. (I stole this from Tom Cooper himself, but it's a good rule, right?)
The First Day:
I started out this morning by jump starting my metabolism with a granola bar before I began my cardio workout. Partaking in my one compromise of my media fast, I watched one hour of the Hatfields & McCoys History Channel special while running on my elliptical. (I'm a historical fiction nerd so I really enjoyed this program.) I wanted to finish watching the three-part program, but instead, I just paused it when I concluded my workout and went on with my life. I made a chocolate strawberry-banana smoothie for myself for breakfast, and, because I was not allowed to watch TV while I ate, went outside to my backyard patio. There, I consumed my breakfast in sunshine. Interestingly, my sister came out to join me, and we had a nice conversation about whatever. It didn't really matter because I was just happy that we were talking to each other and it wasn't about who had borrowed whose clothes last.
Then, she had to leave, so I went back inside to drop my cup in the sink and change into a bathing suit. It was really sunny today, and I hardly ever get to just lay out and relax by my pool because I work so much so I wanted to take full advantage of this day. I also brought Fast Media, Media Fast outside with me so I could read more of it and find quotes to tweet. However, it was so sunny out that I couldn't really see that well and gave up reading it after a couple of pages. I had also brought my laptop out with me so that I could work on an article for This Dish Is Vegetarian but I could not finish working on that either because the sun was just so bright. Not that I entirely minded the fire ball's beat down because it gave me a chance to just lay down and think for a little while. I don't ever really do this, except for right before I'm about to go to sleep. At some point, I got up and ate some cereal for second breakfast/lunch and then reconvened my poolside meditation.
I did this for about an hour, but a mind like mine cannot stay idle for long. I have this compulsive need to always be doing something, and today was no exception. So I embarked on my first media fast task: cleaning my room and car. (I also took a shower at this point in my day, just so everyone knows.) Usually, I would put on music to listen to while I cleaned but, in accordance to my media fast, I did not. In about an hour or so, both my room and car were clean, and this made me feel a lot better about life in general.
I was planning on meeting some old dance friends at 5:15 to get dinner before we all went to that year's dance recital, so I began getting ready after my room and car were clean. I take a long time to get ready, and I'd rather not detail the exact amount of time, but let's just say that this task occupied me for a while. At 4:45, I left my house and went to the bank before meeting my friends. I spent much more time at the ATM than is necessary for a normal person, but if by three paragraphs into this you haven't realized that I am not a normal person, you need to read closer. At any rate, I met up with my friends and was occupied by them and the dance recital until 10:30 pm. Then, I drove my sister and myself home, where I then finished writing a blog post, worked on a possible magazine article, and worked on another magazine article that was due yesterday. So I'm accomplishing my task to write more, and this blog post is further proof of this achievement. Unfortunately, I know (already) that this post is not the finest example of my writing, but the fact that I'm writing at all makes me feel happy and fulfilled. So, all in all, a pretty good first day of media fasting. I don't really feel any withdrawal symptoms, and I'm even looking forward to tomorrow.
Friday, June 15, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- Popping Cherries
Cherry liquid is awkward. I never realized just how awkward the sticky, overly red stuff was until I had to pour half a gallon of it into a sink. By the time the jar was emptied and the actual cherries were finally accessible, I look like I had murdered about ten people. Incidentally, this is also what I wanted to do after this laborious and degrading task. The duty of cherry picking was not degrading because of my position within the restaurant to complete it, but because I could feel the little balls of "natural" sugar mocking me the entire time. The cherries were playing hard to get. They did not want to be plucked from their warm, plastic domicile and thrown into the harsh, cold metal of the dessert bar container. It was completely understandable, but I couldn't waste time humoring them. So I got creative...and a ladle.
Feeling as accomplished as that one guy who created the wheel, I deftly used my tool to scoop five, maybe even six, cherries at a time. Oh, the fun I had. Of course, in all my cherry-filled excitement, I spilled a good amount of the faux fruit juice on one of the counters. I've learned that there are two kinds of messes in my life: messes and lindsay messes. A mess is a mess. A lindsay mess is a mess that is somehow made worse by my attempt to clean it up. There is a certain square footage of the Geller household in which lindsay messes run rampant, but that's besides the point. The act of cherry transfer set off a string of (minor) lindsay messes. Luckily, I was able to clean them up before I was caught red handed. After that horrible pun, I really don't have much more to say about this incident, except that I kept up the semblance that I knew what I was doing and kept my job.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Feeling as accomplished as that one guy who created the wheel, I deftly used my tool to scoop five, maybe even six, cherries at a time. Oh, the fun I had. Of course, in all my cherry-filled excitement, I spilled a good amount of the faux fruit juice on one of the counters. I've learned that there are two kinds of messes in my life: messes and lindsay messes. A mess is a mess. A lindsay mess is a mess that is somehow made worse by my attempt to clean it up. There is a certain square footage of the Geller household in which lindsay messes run rampant, but that's besides the point. The act of cherry transfer set off a string of (minor) lindsay messes. Luckily, I was able to clean them up before I was caught red handed. After that horrible pun, I really don't have much more to say about this incident, except that I kept up the semblance that I knew what I was doing and kept my job.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Thursday, June 14, 2012
#firstworkpains -- The Divine Fax Machine
When I'm not afflicted by #servergirlstruggz, it's probably because I'm at my other job. I do clerical work at a local veterinary clinic, which is how I found myself at the mercy of a fax machine and a Christian radio station. (No offense to anyone who is Christian or enjoys Christian radio stations; they're just not my thing. They're somebody's thing, just not mine.) The fax machine and I were doing a bit. I was the straight man, innocently feeding my papers into its holder, and it was the funny man, employing physical comedy every time it spit out my earnest attempts at mid-90s communication.
I must have been on my fourth or fifth attempt with the same paper when I heard it. It was soft and slow at first, but clearly began to crescendo. The sound was coming from one of the two cubicles on either side of the fax machine. I was immediately taken aback by...singing. One of the women working in the cubicles was singing along to what I guessed was one of her favorite Christian songs. Honestly, I felt super awkward just standing there while she professed her love for Jesus via sing along. However, I respected her right to her faith and her music, and pretended that I wasn't there to witness such a personal moment.
I thought that was the end of this spirit session, until the other woman began singing as well. There was no communication between the two to start a choir right in the middle of the office. They both just started singing to themselves. I guess that this says something nice about faith, but I just felt trapped in some awkwardly religious episode of The Twilight Zone. To make matters worse, the fax machine still wasn't working.
That's when it dawned on me. The fax machine was God, punishing me for my numerous (although super fun and hilarious) sins. This was my personal version of Hell, and the fax machine knew it. I was sucker punched--oof-- right in the lack of morals! Luckily for me, my visit to the seventh circle of hell was quickly ended by my need to rush off to my second job. In comparison to the religious rock out, #servergirlstruggz seemed almost routine. Speaking of which, my next post is coming soon, explaining the way cherries can turn any unsuspecting server into a serial killer.
I must have been on my fourth or fifth attempt with the same paper when I heard it. It was soft and slow at first, but clearly began to crescendo. The sound was coming from one of the two cubicles on either side of the fax machine. I was immediately taken aback by...singing. One of the women working in the cubicles was singing along to what I guessed was one of her favorite Christian songs. Honestly, I felt super awkward just standing there while she professed her love for Jesus via sing along. However, I respected her right to her faith and her music, and pretended that I wasn't there to witness such a personal moment.
I thought that was the end of this spirit session, until the other woman began singing as well. There was no communication between the two to start a choir right in the middle of the office. They both just started singing to themselves. I guess that this says something nice about faith, but I just felt trapped in some awkwardly religious episode of The Twilight Zone. To make matters worse, the fax machine still wasn't working.
That's when it dawned on me. The fax machine was God, punishing me for my numerous (although super fun and hilarious) sins. This was my personal version of Hell, and the fax machine knew it. I was sucker punched--oof-- right in the lack of morals! Luckily for me, my visit to the seventh circle of hell was quickly ended by my need to rush off to my second job. In comparison to the religious rock out, #servergirlstruggz seemed almost routine. Speaking of which, my next post is coming soon, explaining the way cherries can turn any unsuspecting server into a serial killer.
How To Make Bank at Your Sister's Dance Recital
Step 1: Have an ipad.
Step 2: Have no problem taking advantage of cameraless rookie moms who offer to pay you twenty dollars to film their daughters' dance
Step 3: Take the twenty dollars, all the while talking about how you're a horrible person but still without any intention of giving the money back
And there you have it, folks. That was my night at the opera.
Step 2: Have no problem taking advantage of cameraless rookie moms who offer to pay you twenty dollars to film their daughters' dance
Step 3: Take the twenty dollars, all the while talking about how you're a horrible person but still without any intention of giving the money back
And there you have it, folks. That was my night at the opera.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- Opa!
June 12, 2012
Somewhere between being double sat and extra drink refills, I was officially initiated into the greater restaurant worker community. I broke a plate. And it wasn't even like I was trying to do a balancing or juggling act with these plates; I was just wiping them dry before presenting them alongside an appetizer to my party of five. The app had been sitting in the expo window (meaning that it was done) for at least five minutes while I had been running around, stuffing the faces of my two other tables. So when one of my co-workers gave me my appetizer to deliver to my third table, I wanted to get it out there as quickly as possible. Cue the awkwardly wet plates and my compulsive need to clean them. I had tried, my first few days working there, to deliver wet plates alongside apps, hoping no one would notice. Inevitably, they did, forcing me to scurry back to the kitchen, extolling apologies and "I had no idea"s all the way. Therefore, I had learned that to save time (and increase my tip), it was better to bring them out dry in the first place. Simple logic, I know, but not everyone at my place of work subscribes to it.
At any rate, this is what I was frantically doing when on the VERY LAST PLATE, I dropped it mid-wipe. The sound of the crash was, to me, deafening. I think I might have said a half-hearted "Opa!" to take the edge off the situation, but I was freaking humiliated. The new girl messed up...again. I'm pretty sure that everyone is getting tired of my ridiculous ineptness, and not even my little girl charm can make up for my lack of coordination. One of the bussers and the manager (kill me) quickly took care of the fragile situation, but their efficient cleanup did not make me feel any better about my newly deflated sense of self worth. Still, there was no time to waste worrying about spilled porcelain. I retrieved another plate, successfully polished it to a bone dry shine, and whisked it, its friends, and the appetizer to my eagerly awaiting table. We were received with cheers, huzzahs, and a petition to make me queen. (I preferred the role of princess so nothing ever came of the proposition.) After gingerly placing the plates on the table, each customer quickly grabbed one, almost fighting each other for the chance to caress the silky smooth surface first. Well, maybe they weren't that ecstatic over the plates. They barely even acknowledged their presence. However, it is my opinion that the silent heros often do the most good. It's a reckless, thankless job being a plate, but someone's gotta do it.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Somewhere between being double sat and extra drink refills, I was officially initiated into the greater restaurant worker community. I broke a plate. And it wasn't even like I was trying to do a balancing or juggling act with these plates; I was just wiping them dry before presenting them alongside an appetizer to my party of five. The app had been sitting in the expo window (meaning that it was done) for at least five minutes while I had been running around, stuffing the faces of my two other tables. So when one of my co-workers gave me my appetizer to deliver to my third table, I wanted to get it out there as quickly as possible. Cue the awkwardly wet plates and my compulsive need to clean them. I had tried, my first few days working there, to deliver wet plates alongside apps, hoping no one would notice. Inevitably, they did, forcing me to scurry back to the kitchen, extolling apologies and "I had no idea"s all the way. Therefore, I had learned that to save time (and increase my tip), it was better to bring them out dry in the first place. Simple logic, I know, but not everyone at my place of work subscribes to it.
At any rate, this is what I was frantically doing when on the VERY LAST PLATE, I dropped it mid-wipe. The sound of the crash was, to me, deafening. I think I might have said a half-hearted "Opa!" to take the edge off the situation, but I was freaking humiliated. The new girl messed up...again. I'm pretty sure that everyone is getting tired of my ridiculous ineptness, and not even my little girl charm can make up for my lack of coordination. One of the bussers and the manager (kill me) quickly took care of the fragile situation, but their efficient cleanup did not make me feel any better about my newly deflated sense of self worth. Still, there was no time to waste worrying about spilled porcelain. I retrieved another plate, successfully polished it to a bone dry shine, and whisked it, its friends, and the appetizer to my eagerly awaiting table. We were received with cheers, huzzahs, and a petition to make me queen. (I preferred the role of princess so nothing ever came of the proposition.) After gingerly placing the plates on the table, each customer quickly grabbed one, almost fighting each other for the chance to caress the silky smooth surface first. Well, maybe they weren't that ecstatic over the plates. They barely even acknowledged their presence. However, it is my opinion that the silent heros often do the most good. It's a reckless, thankless job being a plate, but someone's gotta do it.
These dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
#servergirlstruggz -- My Defiled Sanctuary
June 12, 2012
So, this didn't happen to me while I was work but it is a continuation of the "Call Me Maybe" situation from the last post. I could probably categorize this moment under normal #lindsaystruggz, also commonly referred to as my life, but it's here for the sake of clarity. At any rate, I was walking out of the sanctuary of any nerd girl (from rural Pennsylvania and lacks other options), Barnes and Noble, when I saw him. Not the guy who asked me out via check, but the friend who had been with him when he made the ballsy, albeit ill-fated, move. It was raining, and right before I was able to open and shrink underneath my umbrella, our eyes met for a damning second. I knew, and he knew, and we both knew that the other knew. My first and only thought was: "Dive! Dive! Dive!" Apparently, when I become flustered, I react like a submarine.
The only bright side to this situation is that I looked like a total mess when I was "spotted." I wasn't wearing any make-up and my hair was pulled back in a bumpy, knotty ponytail. This is what I look like when I'm not trying to use the halo effect as part of my money making scheme. Hopefully, as I slid soggily into my car, a text was sent. If I'm lucky, it might have said something like: "Just saw that server girl you asked out. She's not as cute as we originally thought. You really dodged a bullet there."
The plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
So, this didn't happen to me while I was work but it is a continuation of the "Call Me Maybe" situation from the last post. I could probably categorize this moment under normal #lindsaystruggz, also commonly referred to as my life, but it's here for the sake of clarity. At any rate, I was walking out of the sanctuary of any nerd girl (from rural Pennsylvania and lacks other options), Barnes and Noble, when I saw him. Not the guy who asked me out via check, but the friend who had been with him when he made the ballsy, albeit ill-fated, move. It was raining, and right before I was able to open and shrink underneath my umbrella, our eyes met for a damning second. I knew, and he knew, and we both knew that the other knew. My first and only thought was: "Dive! Dive! Dive!" Apparently, when I become flustered, I react like a submarine.
The only bright side to this situation is that I looked like a total mess when I was "spotted." I wasn't wearing any make-up and my hair was pulled back in a bumpy, knotty ponytail. This is what I look like when I'm not trying to use the halo effect as part of my money making scheme. Hopefully, as I slid soggily into my car, a text was sent. If I'm lucky, it might have said something like: "Just saw that server girl you asked out. She's not as cute as we originally thought. You really dodged a bullet there."
The plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
Monday, June 11, 2012
#servergirlstruggz -- Call Me Maybe
June 10, 2012
Today, I got asked out via check. I thought this awkwardly romantic shit only happened in movies, but apparently, that is what my life has become. My immediate reaction upon finding the folded up receipt (as well as the 30% tip) was one of mild shock and horror. I didn't deal well with the unsolicited affection. I wasn't looking for a relationship, or even just a date. I was leaving in three months for a semester abroad in Europe, and I had just recently been forced out of a relationship because of an expiration date. I was still hung up on him. I wasn't looking for anyone else when I already kinda sorta had (but didn't have) the person I wanted. Already damaged goods, I could not, and therefore would not, do that to my heart again. Even a self-saboteur like myself knows her limits.
And, if I'm honest with myself, a big reason why I was flattered but not interested was that I did not find the sender sexually attractive. I know that that makes me a shallow person, but I wasn't interested in any intellectual connection that might redeem his otherwise unappealing (t0 me) visage. A physical connection, which was much more my style at the time, was out of the question. Since that was all I wanted, and that was all he could not provide, I stuffed the incriminating paper into my checkbook, letting the blue ink burn a hole through the black vinyl.
I still haven't made a final decision on how I will extricate myself from this delicate situation. Should I just let the matter go or at least send an easy letdown text? Some advice would be very much appreciated and very seriously considered.
The dirty plates aren't the only thing that's a hot mess. #servergirlstruggz
#servergirlstruggz
This next part of my blog will feature (almost) daily posts about my life as a server at a certain high class burger joint which shall remain nameless. I hope you guys enjoy all the shenanigans that happen to me as I deliver meaty burgers and bottomless fries, because I know that I certainly won't. However, I am here to entertain, not to endure...so let's get this shit show started.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
The New Texting Rules for the 2012 Female
I hate texting. It irks me. It makes me stop associating people with their faces, forcing me to boil down their entire existence to a couple of words on a screen. However, it is a necessary evil; and I've been told that, when it comes to texting guys, I'm freaking good at it. Therefore, I've compiled a list of rules (more like guidelines) so that the modern female can achieve success when texting the modern male. My only disclaimer for these rules is that I break them. I break them when my common sense tells me that I should. Like I said, they're guidelines more than anything else. Nothing here is written in stone, it's just typed on a screen, much like the last "Kk" you just sent.
1. You CAN text him first. Cosmo and our idiot girlfriends have been telling us for centuries that initiating contact is a sign of weakness. However, after talking to guys (yes, that's right, GUYS—THE PEOPLE YOU ARE TRYING TO SEDUCE) they have told me that this unspoken role of heterosexual communication is bullshit. Girls have this irrational fear that showing any interest in a guy, at all, will annoy him. On the contrary, guys never see a girl talking to them as bothersome. Even if he isn't interested in the girl, it's still a welcome ego boost.
2. You can begin a conversation just saying “Hey.” You do not need a legitimate reason to text him. You do not need to see something that reminds you of an inside joke between the two of you. You do not need to have a question about something. Obviously, this helps with actual conversation. However, girls today think that unless they can feign/find a reason for texting their boy of choice, they lack all texting rights. If he's the right guy for you, he won't require that you have a reason to text him. He'll just be happy enough that you're texting him, and wouldn't that be nice for once?
3. Unless you're drunk or are in the honeymoon period of your relationship, you have a one emoticon per day allotment. Do not exceed this allotment unless you want to appear like an overeager puppy—in heat. An awkward combination, to say the least.
4. Be ballsy. If you think of something funny/cocky/teasingly bitchy to reply back to something he said, JUST TYPE IT. Go with your immediate reaction. Don't overanalyze it or its implications. I know you want to. I want to. I have, and then I've sent the text anyway. And let me just say that, for all the nail biting seconds I've endured while waiting for a reply, once it has come, I've never been disappointed. And another thing: if he can't handle you being you in your purest, most unadulterated form, then why are you wasting your time talking to him in the first place?
5. Do not double text. You say something, he doesn't respond, you do nothing. You do not try to flirtatiously finagle your way out of silence by a suggestive “you there?” Double texting is pathetic and desperate, and you are better than that. If he doesn't respond, then just let it go. The only exception to this rule is if you really need a definite answer about something (i.e. the time and place something is going to happen) and then you can double text because he is witholding pertinent information.
6. Not every text deserves a response. He replies “haha,” you do not need to say “yup.” You say “yup” and he will most likely not respond. Don't give him that chance.
7. Let him have the last word. This rule goes along with #4. It's a power play. By not responding/forcing him to make the last contact, you hold all the power in the next time you initiate contact. Furthermore, he'll be wondering what you were doing in the interim that was so interesting that you couldn't respond to him but now seem to have managed to find the time.
8. It is not solely your job to further the conversation. It should be a give and take. If it's not, you have a couple of options:
1. You can continue to take on the sole responsibility of “conversation futhering” and worry yourself sick about how this reflects a waning or complete lack of interest on his part.
2. You can stop trying to further the conversation and see how he reacts when you don't respond to one of his texts. If he's the right guy, or even a good guy, or even just an interested guy, he will text you again. Maybe not that night or the next day, but you will be in contact.
3. This one should only be attempted if you're sure of his feelings for you or you otherwise have nothing to lose. And let me just state that, for the record, I have tried this with success. Call him out on it. Tell him that he needs to put in as much effort into the conversation as you do. Explain to him the idea of a give and take, and make it clear that he is lacking in the give area. If he responds with something like “haha k,” dump his ass. He doesn't think you're worth more than five letters, and it's about time that you find someone who does. (I did this with a really special and important guy in my life, and although it didn't totally change his texting habits, he did ask me deliberate questions that continued the conversation.)
9. If you've got him, and you know you've got him, FORGET ABOUT THESE RULES. Be yourself. You won't him to like you, not your cellphone. Once you know he likes you, all bets are off. Do whatever you want. Like I've been saying the entire time, if he's the right guy, he'll be able to handle it and he'll love you all the more for just being you.
I hope that these rules (guidelines) were helpful. If you think I've missed any, have a perplexing text situation, or just want to talk about your life, you can comment on this post or tweet me @LGells.
Happy texting!
1. You CAN text him first. Cosmo and our idiot girlfriends have been telling us for centuries that initiating contact is a sign of weakness. However, after talking to guys (yes, that's right, GUYS—THE PEOPLE YOU ARE TRYING TO SEDUCE) they have told me that this unspoken role of heterosexual communication is bullshit. Girls have this irrational fear that showing any interest in a guy, at all, will annoy him. On the contrary, guys never see a girl talking to them as bothersome. Even if he isn't interested in the girl, it's still a welcome ego boost.
2. You can begin a conversation just saying “Hey.” You do not need a legitimate reason to text him. You do not need to see something that reminds you of an inside joke between the two of you. You do not need to have a question about something. Obviously, this helps with actual conversation. However, girls today think that unless they can feign/find a reason for texting their boy of choice, they lack all texting rights. If he's the right guy for you, he won't require that you have a reason to text him. He'll just be happy enough that you're texting him, and wouldn't that be nice for once?
3. Unless you're drunk or are in the honeymoon period of your relationship, you have a one emoticon per day allotment. Do not exceed this allotment unless you want to appear like an overeager puppy—in heat. An awkward combination, to say the least.
4. Be ballsy. If you think of something funny/cocky/teasingly bitchy to reply back to something he said, JUST TYPE IT. Go with your immediate reaction. Don't overanalyze it or its implications. I know you want to. I want to. I have, and then I've sent the text anyway. And let me just say that, for all the nail biting seconds I've endured while waiting for a reply, once it has come, I've never been disappointed. And another thing: if he can't handle you being you in your purest, most unadulterated form, then why are you wasting your time talking to him in the first place?
5. Do not double text. You say something, he doesn't respond, you do nothing. You do not try to flirtatiously finagle your way out of silence by a suggestive “you there?” Double texting is pathetic and desperate, and you are better than that. If he doesn't respond, then just let it go. The only exception to this rule is if you really need a definite answer about something (i.e. the time and place something is going to happen) and then you can double text because he is witholding pertinent information.
6. Not every text deserves a response. He replies “haha,” you do not need to say “yup.” You say “yup” and he will most likely not respond. Don't give him that chance.
7. Let him have the last word. This rule goes along with #4. It's a power play. By not responding/forcing him to make the last contact, you hold all the power in the next time you initiate contact. Furthermore, he'll be wondering what you were doing in the interim that was so interesting that you couldn't respond to him but now seem to have managed to find the time.
8. It is not solely your job to further the conversation. It should be a give and take. If it's not, you have a couple of options:
1. You can continue to take on the sole responsibility of “conversation futhering” and worry yourself sick about how this reflects a waning or complete lack of interest on his part.
2. You can stop trying to further the conversation and see how he reacts when you don't respond to one of his texts. If he's the right guy, or even a good guy, or even just an interested guy, he will text you again. Maybe not that night or the next day, but you will be in contact.
3. This one should only be attempted if you're sure of his feelings for you or you otherwise have nothing to lose. And let me just state that, for the record, I have tried this with success. Call him out on it. Tell him that he needs to put in as much effort into the conversation as you do. Explain to him the idea of a give and take, and make it clear that he is lacking in the give area. If he responds with something like “haha k,” dump his ass. He doesn't think you're worth more than five letters, and it's about time that you find someone who does. (I did this with a really special and important guy in my life, and although it didn't totally change his texting habits, he did ask me deliberate questions that continued the conversation.)
9. If you've got him, and you know you've got him, FORGET ABOUT THESE RULES. Be yourself. You won't him to like you, not your cellphone. Once you know he likes you, all bets are off. Do whatever you want. Like I've been saying the entire time, if he's the right guy, he'll be able to handle it and he'll love you all the more for just being you.
I hope that these rules (guidelines) were helpful. If you think I've missed any, have a perplexing text situation, or just want to talk about your life, you can comment on this post or tweet me @LGells.
Happy texting!
Thursday, June 7, 2012
I'm Quotable
One of the things that I've come to realize about myself is that I say/tweet some pretty messed up/interesting/funny things. So I'm just going to list them and then leave them here. Most likely, this will be in the order of most recent quotes because that's what I can best remember.
1. He needs a reality check right in the balls.
2. I am Helen Keller walking on a tightrope.
3. Last night, I had a dream where someone gave me cereal with mushrooms in it. Now, I love mushrooms but that is just not okay.
4. I could go for a modernist carrot right about now.
5. I wonder what I'm going to do once my life stops being a lifetime movie.
6. The salad dressing selection at my house sucks.
7. We'll never be happy or satisfied until...we are?
8. Sadface emoticon is not a satisfactory explanation.
9. I just want to see the pictures where he's fat!
10. Is that what those are called? Dirty pleasures?
11. Can you hand me the other Vera Bradley wallet? It's underneath the matzo.
12. No one seems to understand my wrap needs this week.
13. You shouldn't have more than one guy...unless, of course, you're us.
14. I spend half of my day being a fake person on purpose, and the other half of my day being a fake person on accident.
1. He needs a reality check right in the balls.
2. I am Helen Keller walking on a tightrope.
3. Last night, I had a dream where someone gave me cereal with mushrooms in it. Now, I love mushrooms but that is just not okay.
4. I could go for a modernist carrot right about now.
5. I wonder what I'm going to do once my life stops being a lifetime movie.
6. The salad dressing selection at my house sucks.
7. We'll never be happy or satisfied until...we are?
8. Sadface emoticon is not a satisfactory explanation.
9. I just want to see the pictures where he's fat!
10. Is that what those are called? Dirty pleasures?
11. Can you hand me the other Vera Bradley wallet? It's underneath the matzo.
12. No one seems to understand my wrap needs this week.
13. You shouldn't have more than one guy...unless, of course, you're us.
14. I spend half of my day being a fake person on purpose, and the other half of my day being a fake person on accident.
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