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| Two thoughts: computers and eighteen wheelers. Don't lie; I know this was the topic you've been waiting for, and you won't be disappointed. It is a subject that is sure to mystify, empower, subvert, crackle, and kick.
Firstly, let's talk about computers. Computers and I have a fickle relationship. I need them, I long for them, and I love them. So how come they all hate me?
When I touch the keyboard, it is likely the keys will fall off.
If I think about playing music, my speakers explode.
I might have an important document to print. Of course, the printer immediately refuses to actually do the only thing it is good for.
My computer will randomly turn itself off, erase important data, close internet windows, and purposely does not recognize internet connections.
I've tried technical support, Best Buy's geek squad, sending it off, downloading new drivers, erasing the hard drive and backing it up, doing system restore, screaming, and eating my feelings of anger. It never works. EVER. I've gotten new computers, I've used a friend's, I've gone to libraries specifically to log online - all with the same result. Every computer I touch turns to pure crap in a box.
This last time, my speakers went on strike, my keyboard disintegrated into a mass of alphabet soup minus the actual soup part, and the internet went to hell. I've been contemplating purchasing a new laptop, but when I logged on to another computer and it decided to freeze, I decided that maybe I should purhase a new me instead. I've given up on assuming the computer is at fault - I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in my genetic code that I am destined to fail at relationships with computers.
In other interesting news, I left home at 6:20 this morning in order to drive the three and a half hours in order to get to college class on time, and I noticed something. Let me just begin this subject by saying that I loathe all things that are related to eighteen wheelers. Wheels, trucks, hats, the number eighteen, moustaches - all of it. They always seem to try and search me out, however, just so they can spray my windshield with rocks and make all kinds of indentations in the glass so that I cannot see more than a foot in front of me.
Usually, when I'm behind an eighteen wheeler and cannot get around them, it's a bad day. I immediately go into grumpy mode and start internally spouting mild angry words like "dangit", "dumb old truck", and "butthead". I know, I'm fierce. Don't mess with me.
Anyway, I was behind an eighteen wheeler, but instead of staring at the usual number that tells you to call if the trucker is behaving inapproriately, I was bestowed with the gift of a picture. And not just any picture. Some crazy woman was on the back apparently representing a grocery store somehow, and it said, "Thank you for your family".
Genius. Pure genius. Initially, I got behind the trucker grumbling about getting rocks shovelled my way via the eighteen freaking tires, but when I read "Thank you for your family", I was a little taken aback. As the drive wore on, I began to really like that picture (it was colorful!) and feel almost gracious toward the truck and the trucker. You're thanking ME for MY family? Why, how kind. It's not every day that someone thanks me for something I couldn't even help, and you know, we don't even shop at your grocery store. Yet still, there you are, advertising on the back of trucks and thanking ME. How thoughtful.
Rocks flying at windshields? Frumpy truckers honking? Being in the blindspot of an eighteen wheeler and practically getting smashing into the railing? It's all worth it when you are appreciated by a picture on a truck.
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| I have never been concerned with the pigmentation of my skin. I have never had to be.
I distinctly remember being in a social work class my freshman year and comprehending, for the first time, that racism was still prevalent. Race was simply a concept I read about in history textbooks and heard about on Martin Luther King Jr. day.
In light of our recent Presidential election, I am appalled. Ignorance is rearing its ugly head everywhere. Reports of assassination plans based solely on skin color, nooses in trees, and graffiti claiming that “blacks” are evil sound almost surreal, as if they are from the news reports of fifty years ago. Sadly, these instances are from today’s world.
Yes, I realize we have come a long way. However, we cannot remain stagnant and satisfied. Do not simply stick your head in the sand as I did and pretend that hatred is not still pervasive.
Few consider the fact that there is no proof that racial differences exist, biologically speaking. Genetic studies have repeatedly attempted to discover genetic indications that inherent distinctions between races are biological, but there is no such evidence.
Unfortunately, although our conception of race does not biologically "exist", it still is apparent and real. It is real because we have made it real. To point to this research and say that race is not a valid entity that affects others is to negate the experiences of those who have suffered at the hands of racism everywhere. Still, it is disconcerting that we construct labels based on appearance as indications of innate flaws and characteristics.
People often say, "I see no color". I applaud the effort to be accepting, but this statement also denies the heartbreaking experiences that others have worked so hard to surmount. When we “refuse to see color”, we refuse to give credence to circumstances that have shaped and haunted so many lives.
One principle of the social work code of ethics is the “dignity and worth of a person”. A person deprived of validation of who they are because of the shade of skin they were born with is not a person shown that they are worthy and dignified just as they are.
Let me be the first to confess that I am guilty of generalizing a group of people because of physical attributes. However, I hope that, as a social worker and an American, I can help others overcome a solipsistic mindset and move towards a philosophy of love, understanding, and acceptance.
I believe that change will take time and that we have to take it day by day. Change is a frightening, deliberate process that comes gradually, but it is a necessity nevertheless. My hope is that we can defeat hatred and show the world that we believe in the dignity and worth of each person.
With your help, visions of change can become a reality.
Change is needed. Change is coming. Change can start with you and me.
This I believe.
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| I dedicate this next heartfelt post to all of my devoted readers (myself).
Before this summer, the last time I was effectively trained to do something was to properly use the toilet facilities when I was 2. My dad often tells horror stories of me plus the yard minus decency, but that's another blog post entirely.
In all honesty, I was apprehensive before being trained to be a server because, let's face it, no one wants to be the sucker who doesn't know anything. Well kids, I was that sucker. Hopefully, I was grape-flavored with gum in the middle, because that's my favorite. Luckily, I didn't get a person that likes to play practical jokes on new employees when I first began training.
I actually enjoyed the training process, but I did not really appreciate the fact that I was expected to constantly be on my trainer's heels. Often, they would forget that they were even training me and go into "server" mode (which entails making 30 drinks, punching in 21 orders, cleaning up the kitchen, running food for other people, sweeping their section, and taking off their Superman or Wonder Woman cape so the guests think they're normal) thereby leaving me to bask in their glow.
The process of training taught me many important things. I'll make another list.
-Stereotypes are not only encouraged, but are pretty much a rule. If you walk in with a group of high school kids, you're expected to tip poorly. There have been knock-down, drag-out fights to avoid being sat with this type of group. Sadly, the reason that stereotypes are so prevalent in the restaurant business is because they're often perpetuated by the very group they tend to be about.
-It is a must to see the movie "Waiting". I think I was the only server who was not called to the restaurant business because of this very movie. Apparently, it inspired a movement of server hopefuls, and they stampeded all restaurants so that they could be just like the movie characters. If I wanted to model my life after a movie, it would be "The Garfield Christmas". What's wrong with lazing around all day, insulting everyone within sight, kicking enemies off of tables, and eating lasagna? Just a regular old day at Katie's house. I'm telling you, Garfield has it made. Plus, he's orange.
-It is required that you reference the popular YouTube video "Old Greg" at least once a day in order to get in good graces with management. I don't know how many times I said "Do you love me?" in a sinister voice (while squinting) to a frenzied manager in order to alleviate possible tension about a mistake I made. Drop 20 plates of food that were ready to go to a table? Whisper "What about the boat times?" lovingly in a manager's ear, and he or she will be in the kitchen making more food in negative 80 seconds. Accidentally stab a customer in the face with a utensil? Simply yell, "I'M OLD GREG!", and the manager immediately gets angry at the customer for having his restaurant's knife stuck in their face. Old Greg is the equivalent to magic in the restaurant industry.
-You should never tell ANYONE your name. I forget this nifty tidbit, and made the mistake of telling a table my name for about a month. Congratulations, me. I had just given each table a new weapon in their arsenal of degradation and anger. "KATIE!" was screamed at the restaurant so many times that I'm surprised other servers didn't go to bed at night chanting my name. One man even thought it would be funny to pretend he forget my name, and called me an assortment of K names. When those ran out, he selfishly used up more of the alphabet with his unnecessary silliness. When he finally got around to calling me Bartholomew, enough was enough. I was ready to stuff my nicely starched uniform up his left nostril. A tip for all of you diners out there - if your server isn't laughing when you're trying to be funny, you're probably about to get slapped. In fact, save us the trouble. Slap yourself.
-It is possible to forget your name. As one of my favorite servers found out, when you're nervous, you tend to jumble up your thoughts and words. In her case, it went a little something like this.
"Welcome to _____! My name is. . . uuhh, my name is... my name is...uh, what can I get you to drink?"
I halfway expected for Eminem to bust out with a new and improved restaurant version of his hit song, "Slim Shady". Needless to say, this story made tears run down my face from gut shaking laughter. Another server's plight is often the source of my humor. I guess I shouldn't laugh, though. I once asked a table how their onion rings were doing.
-Dropping things is common. Not only is it common, but it's expected. There is even a loving chant shouted mercilessly by the cooks and dishwashing staff when a server drops something. The appropriate time to begin the chant is not immediately after an item is dropped, but after he or she realizes the gravity of what just happened and wants to crawl into a hole and be poked in the face repeatedly. It's a simple chant, and the next time someone you know drops anything, I suggest you yell "1! 2! 3! EL STUPID!" for your own enjoyment and benefit. Then run.
-Restaurant sing-a-longs in the kitchen, complete with dancing, are essential for success. High School Musical 1,2, and 3, eat your heart out. We not only had high school students, but we had college students, managers, mothers, fathers, bilingual people, and to top it off, we were horrible singers and dancers. It was not rare for guests to be shocked by a badly, but enthusiastically, done rendition of "I Had The Time of My Life" that echoed throughout the restaurant. Before becoming a server, I thought that business actually took place in restaurant kitchens. NOT SO. I have never wanted more to try out for American Idol with a group of untalented singers and dancers in my life. If your server is often smiling, this is probably why. He or she is recalling the kitchen staff's inspiring version of "I Like Big Butts" or "God Save The Queen". I need to stop typing this, because I'm itching for a sing-a-long, and I'm tempted to go look for a kitchen crew to fulfill my singing and dancing needs.
After training, finally, I could call myself a waitress. I mean, server. One time, I did introduce myself as a waiter.
Yeah, this was going to be a loooong summer. | | |
| *Disclaimer: As a third year college student, it has been ingrained in me to cite my sources, and I will do so throughout this post. However, my sources are not generally professional - they're usually from conversations with my friends through verbal or written communication. Therefore, if you see a quote followed by (Allison, 2008) or (Shelley, 1794), this dictates who said the quote and when.
Just in case you don't quite get it, here's an example.
In 2005, Allison said "Who burped on the cake?" The quote would be cited (albeit, not correctly) as follows:
"Who burped on the cake?" (Allison, 2005)
Got it? Very good. Moving along...
I still haven't quite realized the purpose of waiter/waitress orientation yet. Dictionary.com tells me that there are many definitions of the word "orientation", and to illustrate my personal experience, I'm going to go with "determining ones location in ones surroundings". After I finally figured out where the heck I was at at orientation, I was ready to begin the coveted training process. But first, a little about what I learned while I was finally being oriented:
-You must have an "awesome" uniform at all costs. This means if you have to set up a makeshift ironing board in your trunk consisting of a tire iron and a piece of plywood five minutes before you're supposed to clock in - well, hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.
-You are not a waiter or waitress. You are a politically correct "server". More accurately, you are to be a servant to the "general unwashed masses". (Allison, 2008) I personally love when people do the degrading snap-to-get-your-attention maneuver.
-People previously known as 'customers' are now known as 'guests'. It's like there's one big party at the restaurant at all times, and nobody knew about it, but HEY, you're invited. The joke is on you though, because it's a party without any positive party-like qualities, and just to kick you while you're down, you have to pay. Depending on who you are, you might also have to make a fuss about some trivial detail, as well. And if you're feeling like having a decent after-party, you might sit at the same table for three years and suck up all of your server's profits because they might not get another table the whole night because of you. Did I ever mention that I'm not a big fan of parties?
-You will make approximately $2.13 an hour plus tips. But no, wait...that's not completely right, because you have to pay two dollars of your tip so that someone else can roll 200 napkins that attempt to conceal silverware. Oh yeah, you also have to tip out a percentage of your nightly tips to the bus-boys/girls, hostesses, bartenders, the man in the alley, and Chuck Norris. Factor in the average table that gives you about $2.00 no matter how much the check is, and there you have it, folks. There were times that I had to keep mentally chanting "Temporary summer job, temporary summer job, don't kick customer, temporary summer job".
This post is getting a bit long, but apparently, I was one of the only people who even cared about the orientation process.
My best friend, Allison, however, paid about this much attention:
Me: "So, how did you like orientation?"
Allison: "They have a big wind-blowy thing in the back!!!"
Yes, yes they do. Thank you for that insight. I'm sure your future "guests" will be glad to know that you are concerned with their general happiness and well-being while dining.
Finally, I was orientalizationalized-tuted, and then the training commenced... | | |
| "So now what?"
That's the question I asked myself after decided to unceremoniously decline a job at a local restaurant. Most people look at me funny when I say that I have always wanted to be a waitress, especially when I have a few years of a prestigious college career under my belt.
I recently bought a book that immediately piqued my interest called "Waiter Rant". The author, an established waiter of many years, suggests that being a waiter or waitress is well and good as a temporary profession, and can even be fun and exciting; however, the permanent waiter or waitress is usually in a difficult place. I tend to agree. Last summer, I didn't plan on dropping out of school to pursue a full time career as a waitress for the rest of my life, but I had always daydreamed about greeting tables with enthusiasm and giving them the best service possible.
You don't have to tell me how cheesy that sounds. I'm aware.
To continue, after a day or two of rejections because of no previous waiting experience or because of the fact that I would be moving back to college after two and half months, waiting was beginning to seem like an unattainable goal.
Finally, I arrived in the restaurant that chose to take a chance on me - and everyone else, because all of the seasoned, veteran waiters were leaving for a variety of reasons. Still, I like to think that I finally won management over with my quick wit and bright smile...but who am I kidding? They were desperate.
After I secured the job, I felt like Lance Armstrong on _______ (fill in your energetic substance of choice - I think I'm going to go with caffeine). It seems a little ironic that I was more proud of the fact that I was officially a waitress than I ever have been about maintaining a 4.0 in college. I have never shaken so many hands, slapped so many people, or bragged more about anything in my short life.
As my friend Allison would say, "in my humble, yet respectable, fifth in my class opinion", I was more than ready to do this job. (Never mind the fact that I was not fifth in my class)
Little did management know all the stupidity I would bring to the table (no pun intended), all the shenanigans that erupted simply by my presence, and how much I would love and hate this job all at once.
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