Every morning, I sit down in front of a dismal craigslist, and click on the employment postings to explore my options in the wonderful dead-end valley I live in. This morning, amid a few “Work from home, earn $40,000/week” and “Drive my 16/yr old son around for chump change” postings, I see near ten jobs I am not qualified for. This includes, “handyman,” “dental assistant,” and “phlebotomist.” (Had to look that last one up...) So this morning I ask myself: why is it that I feel I’m overqualified for my current job?
Define overqualified, Julianne:
Dictionary.com says: having more education, training, or experience than is required for a job or position.
Check. Check. And Check.
But the problem remains, I still can’t get a job. So am I really overqualified for this position? Let’s be honest—there’s not much a degree in Creative Writing qualifies you for—except, maybe, writing poems... ugh...
I guess what it comes down to is: the clientele. At any given restaurant in any given city, no matter the age, sex, or intelligence level of the waitress encountered, the customer will assume waiting is all the waitress is qualified to do.
I am now faced with this stereotype on a daily basis. I must prove, throughout the course of the “guest’s” meal, that I am witty and smart and deserve the better portion of a tip. This obstacle isn’t always easy. Believe it or not, I’m somewhat of a softy.
Yesterday, I encountered a...um...large woman, in a Shamu sized pink tee-shirt. She greeted me—smiling—ordered her food—smiling—and sipped her tea (and refill)—smiling. It was, ultimately, the French Fries that tipped her over the edge.
“Waitress,” she snapped. She glared down through her many chins, and seemingly spoke to my unwashed pants, my just hanging on a tread apron, and my “On Sale” for $8.00 button up top. “These fries are bone-cold. How am I supposed to eat these?”
(Bite down and chew, lady.)
“I apologize, Ma’am,” I said, “I’ll be right out with new fries.”
“But don’t just microwave them,” she shouted as I turned away, “I want an actual fresh batch!”
I scurried to the back, and yelled promptly at the cooks. Two an a half minutes later, they produced possibly the greasiest, most saturated bunch of fries I’d ever seen—at least twice as much as I’d originally given her. I was reminded of that episode of the Simpsons where Homer wants to gain weight, and Bart rubs fried chicken against a wall to prove causing it to turn translucent. Well, that chicken had nothing on these fries.
“Here you are, Ma’am,” I said. Yes, I do actually talk like an eighteenth century shoe-shiner at work. “I apologize about the inconvenience.”
I turned to walk away—
“Waitress!”
—too soon.
“I said both of our plates had bone-cold fries.” An old lady sat across from her. I assumed she was the lady in pink’s mom. Feeble, shaking, and hunched over so much her back curled into a “C,” she had hardly touched her fries, let alone her burger.
“Well, there’s actually plenty of fries for the two—”
(And then it came)
“Or did you not hear me correctly,” she paused, “waitress?”
She had assumed the worst of me. To her, I was under qualified—for even this shitty job.
Unfortunately, I can’t always play the innocent victim because I know, when I go down to the local Red Lobster and the 20-something waitress greets me with a smile, I assume these three things:
1) She’s too stupid to get a real job.
2) She got knocked up when she was 15.
3) She’s a drunk, on drugs, or both.
So I guess what I’m saying is: I feel overqualified because society feels I’m under qualified—present company included. Anyway, I’m sorry to all the waitresses in my life that I assumed where stupid drunken sluts.
I can only wonder which stereotype the lady in pink had pegged me for.
Love,
Julianne
PS~ Time to go learn how to become a phlebotomist.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Ahem...
Follow this blog or you will have ten years of bad luck!
Pass it along to 10 friends and, well, you'll have more friends than me :)
Pass it along to 10 friends and, well, you'll have more friends than me :)
Starting Fresh?
Chances are you've met me. I am a waitress—or server. Whatever you want to call me, I'm still your bitch for the hour to hour and a half that you pop a squat at my table. So today, this day, I meet you. But don't feel special—not even for a half a second. I meet hundreds of new people on a daily basis. I smile. "I'm a professional," I comment as you stumble through a complicated order. You laugh. I'm funny—you think I'm funny but I have used this line on 75% of my tables, getting a laugh—and a larger tip—each and every time. I bring you drinks, and soups, and entrees, and drinks again. You smile and thank me. Comment on how nice and on top of things I am. When you want a side of mayo, though, you flag down the other blonde waitress in the restaurant, thinking she is me. It's ok. I get it all the time. In fact, I've been mistaken for nearly all the other female servers in my restaurant. In reality, it doesn’t matter if we're white, black, Latina, deaf, blind, wear glasses, have one arm... whatever... the truth is, you don't give two shits about me. Chances are, if I bring you an extra Pepsi without you having to ask, you'll give me a 20% tip. Well, let's be honest, I don't care about you either. I'm only here for the 20% tip. But I have an excuse right? I shouldn't be here. I'm better than this. It's only a matter of time before I've moved on—before you serve me. But I have been saying that for years. In fact, I took all the right steps to not be in this position. I was an honors student who took a part time job at a pizza joint because, “I wanted extra money.” I was a college student who waited tables because, “It’s the perfect job while I’m in college.” So what went wrong? Two years have passed since I walked the lawn to retrieve my College Degree and I’m in the same place I was when I graduated high school?
So what the hell did go wrong?
1) I was born in the eighties.
Now you think I’m crazy, but you honestly don’t think that the year you were born a shapes your success in life? Is a coincidence that Bill Gates came of age when computers were transitioning from sci-fi to reality and is now the richest man in the world? The same can be said of Howard Hughes. My birth year, 1984, guaranteed that I graduate college at the exact moment that the bubble popped. But how was I supposed to know this? I merely took all the right steps and graduated within four years.
But the economy will come back. I know it. But what I also know is that when it does bounce back, all those laid off professionals with years of experience will be hired before I will. Let’s be honest, large gaps of unemployment on a resume looks sloppy—but I refuse, with every piece of my B.A., that I will not list waitressing as job experience. So where does that leave me?
Interviewer: What have you been doing for the past two years?
Julianne: Smiling and batting her eyes. Writing a blog…but only just recently.
Anyway, 1984 turned out to be worse that Orwell predicted.
2) Soccer Moms
Sometime during these wonderful 1980’s all the soccer moms formed a military coop. They stormed the White House and insisted to President Reagan, that all children are created equal, and thus should be treated as such. This resulted in the false sense of uniqueness that every person born since 1980 feels. We were not “first place” or “last place” children anymore, we were “participation children.” We were congratulated on mediocrity and given trophies to forever commemorate our ability to place 7th in a group of 10.
Of course, I cannot limit the blame to soccer moms. Teachers, parents, coaches—everyone deserves a piece of the pie. These traitors insisted that each and every child was special, unique, and destined for greatness. But, of course, if everyone is special, then no body is right? It’s novel to think that your child will be the next president, but it’s also a crime to pass that notion of a noble self purpose on to your spawned generation. I was reassured my entire life that I would pretty much own the world if I went to college. Twenty-two years of disillusionment has only assured me that I’m pretty much average, just like every one else. A degree doesn’t set me apart, it lumps me into one of the most monotonous group of people, some of which have earned their degrees—gasp—online.
3) Lastly, Counselors
This is an all inclusive category. All counselors, from Junior High through college are guilty of this crime. Since I could recall, I was fed the notion that it doesn’t matter what your degree is in, as long as you have one.
The result?
B.A. in Creative Writing
The evidence that anything else is better than what I hold?
All of my friends have real jobs, while I use my B.A. to begin a blog, in a time when blogs have officially begun to go out of style—thank you Twitter.
And now I’m laying it out there. This is the truth—the honest truth—of how much being an overqualified waitress can eat away at your dreams, and how I need to learn how to deal with reality.
Until next time,
Julianne
PS~ Check out my prior blog, posted no more than a month after graduating college. It’s somewhat comical and naïve at the same time.
So what the hell did go wrong?
1) I was born in the eighties.
Now you think I’m crazy, but you honestly don’t think that the year you were born a shapes your success in life? Is a coincidence that Bill Gates came of age when computers were transitioning from sci-fi to reality and is now the richest man in the world? The same can be said of Howard Hughes. My birth year, 1984, guaranteed that I graduate college at the exact moment that the bubble popped. But how was I supposed to know this? I merely took all the right steps and graduated within four years.
But the economy will come back. I know it. But what I also know is that when it does bounce back, all those laid off professionals with years of experience will be hired before I will. Let’s be honest, large gaps of unemployment on a resume looks sloppy—but I refuse, with every piece of my B.A., that I will not list waitressing as job experience. So where does that leave me?
Interviewer: What have you been doing for the past two years?
Julianne: Smiling and batting her eyes. Writing a blog…but only just recently.
Anyway, 1984 turned out to be worse that Orwell predicted.
2) Soccer Moms
Sometime during these wonderful 1980’s all the soccer moms formed a military coop. They stormed the White House and insisted to President Reagan, that all children are created equal, and thus should be treated as such. This resulted in the false sense of uniqueness that every person born since 1980 feels. We were not “first place” or “last place” children anymore, we were “participation children.” We were congratulated on mediocrity and given trophies to forever commemorate our ability to place 7th in a group of 10.
Of course, I cannot limit the blame to soccer moms. Teachers, parents, coaches—everyone deserves a piece of the pie. These traitors insisted that each and every child was special, unique, and destined for greatness. But, of course, if everyone is special, then no body is right? It’s novel to think that your child will be the next president, but it’s also a crime to pass that notion of a noble self purpose on to your spawned generation. I was reassured my entire life that I would pretty much own the world if I went to college. Twenty-two years of disillusionment has only assured me that I’m pretty much average, just like every one else. A degree doesn’t set me apart, it lumps me into one of the most monotonous group of people, some of which have earned their degrees—gasp—online.
3) Lastly, Counselors
This is an all inclusive category. All counselors, from Junior High through college are guilty of this crime. Since I could recall, I was fed the notion that it doesn’t matter what your degree is in, as long as you have one.
The result?
B.A. in Creative Writing
The evidence that anything else is better than what I hold?
All of my friends have real jobs, while I use my B.A. to begin a blog, in a time when blogs have officially begun to go out of style—thank you Twitter.
And now I’m laying it out there. This is the truth—the honest truth—of how much being an overqualified waitress can eat away at your dreams, and how I need to learn how to deal with reality.
Until next time,
Julianne
PS~ Check out my prior blog, posted no more than a month after graduating college. It’s somewhat comical and naïve at the same time.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Does a degree equal dollar signs anymore?
And now for an introduction.
I am Julianne, I just graduated college and am looking for a job. And I have realized something in the time it took me to walk across the stage and shake my dean's hand until the time it took for my snail mail school to send my my degree.
A Bachelor's isn't worth shit anymore.
I am twenty two years old and I still live at home. My room decor consists of charcoal portraits that I drew of celebrities because sometimes, let's face it, I have nothing else better to do. But if you're actually interested, check 'em out at www.myspace.com/artbyjuels. That's right. I have a myspace account. My car is consistently dirty, smeared in dusty pollen that seems to be prevalent at all times of the year. Rain or shine. My check engine light has been on for almost three months and there is a small red light emanating off my dashboard that looks like a person getting smacked in the face by an airbag. I don't know what this light means.
I also have a boxer that I'm pretty sure is either gay, or autistic, or a sci-fi combination of both.
But what is most depressing about my life as of late is I cannot, for the life of me, find a job. I am not completely unqualified, though, to fulfill my dreams of starting a career. I have a degree in Creative Writing, (with that oh so important minor in English) and yet, despite my best efforts, I am still a waitress. Better yet, I am a Chili-head. As in I serve people their baby back- baby back- baby back ribs. (Barbecue sauce.)
Does that make me sound pathetic?
What was most pathetic was my college graduation, really. I went to UC Riverside and in case anyone has paid attention to the news in the past month, you might recall a bomb scare. That's right. Someone threatened to bomb my college graduation. Possibly they wanted to make room for an entry level job for them self and, what the hell, all their friends, by deterring a couple hundred college graduates. Possibly they didn't think things through. Possibly they need to work desperately on their terrorist tactics. Either way, there were cops staked out around the tops of the buildings giving me the feeling that I might get sniped at any given moment and I wasn't allowed to wear my robe for fear I might be hiding an oozy underneath it.
I was completely disappointed in my graduation and essentially my entire college experience until I realized the search for a post baccalaureate job was like dipping your toes in honey and waving them in front of a bear, hoping to come out it on your feet, or with at least one foot-- on a good day.
What I am wondering at this point in my life is if I will ever find a job worth having? Or am I going to do something demeaning and worthless? Society has always told me: Go to school. Go to college. Get a degree. Get a career. Make money. So far none of that has happened. I'm at a place in my life where the world is going to fall into place for me, at least that's what I've always heard and for some reason believed. I want to write, and thus far have only ever found success in writing for non-profit online resources such as this one.
Since I'm pretty damn good at this, yet fail miserably at finding a job, I thought I'd share with the world the adventures of my interviews, phone calls, apartment hunting, etc.
In the meantime, enjoy my somewhat pathetic attempts at life.
Until my first interview,
Julianne Fulton
Writing for those who want to read
I am Julianne, I just graduated college and am looking for a job. And I have realized something in the time it took me to walk across the stage and shake my dean's hand until the time it took for my snail mail school to send my my degree.
A Bachelor's isn't worth shit anymore.
I am twenty two years old and I still live at home. My room decor consists of charcoal portraits that I drew of celebrities because sometimes, let's face it, I have nothing else better to do. But if you're actually interested, check 'em out at www.myspace.com/artbyjuels. That's right. I have a myspace account. My car is consistently dirty, smeared in dusty pollen that seems to be prevalent at all times of the year. Rain or shine. My check engine light has been on for almost three months and there is a small red light emanating off my dashboard that looks like a person getting smacked in the face by an airbag. I don't know what this light means.
I also have a boxer that I'm pretty sure is either gay, or autistic, or a sci-fi combination of both.
But what is most depressing about my life as of late is I cannot, for the life of me, find a job. I am not completely unqualified, though, to fulfill my dreams of starting a career. I have a degree in Creative Writing, (with that oh so important minor in English) and yet, despite my best efforts, I am still a waitress. Better yet, I am a Chili-head. As in I serve people their baby back- baby back- baby back ribs. (Barbecue sauce.)
Does that make me sound pathetic?
What was most pathetic was my college graduation, really. I went to UC Riverside and in case anyone has paid attention to the news in the past month, you might recall a bomb scare. That's right. Someone threatened to bomb my college graduation. Possibly they wanted to make room for an entry level job for them self and, what the hell, all their friends, by deterring a couple hundred college graduates. Possibly they didn't think things through. Possibly they need to work desperately on their terrorist tactics. Either way, there were cops staked out around the tops of the buildings giving me the feeling that I might get sniped at any given moment and I wasn't allowed to wear my robe for fear I might be hiding an oozy underneath it.
I was completely disappointed in my graduation and essentially my entire college experience until I realized the search for a post baccalaureate job was like dipping your toes in honey and waving them in front of a bear, hoping to come out it on your feet, or with at least one foot-- on a good day.
What I am wondering at this point in my life is if I will ever find a job worth having? Or am I going to do something demeaning and worthless? Society has always told me: Go to school. Go to college. Get a degree. Get a career. Make money. So far none of that has happened. I'm at a place in my life where the world is going to fall into place for me, at least that's what I've always heard and for some reason believed. I want to write, and thus far have only ever found success in writing for non-profit online resources such as this one.
Since I'm pretty damn good at this, yet fail miserably at finding a job, I thought I'd share with the world the adventures of my interviews, phone calls, apartment hunting, etc.
In the meantime, enjoy my somewhat pathetic attempts at life.
Until my first interview,
Julianne Fulton
Writing for those who want to read
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