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.
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