Free-Willy's French Fries

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.