This Is Why I'm LIke This: The Best Jobs To Deal With People At Their Worst. Restaurants

  This is not a very long post as one time I wrote a play about working in a restaurant, and I pretty well saturated the issues. Things have not changed in 20 years as near as I can tell, based on my time as a customer and the stories I hear from my rides.

  The Patriarchy Is Alive And Well
   The last time I worked in a bar/restaurant was over 20 years ago. I worked for an aggressively sexist Greek who believed only men could bartend and attractive women should wait tables. It never occurred to him that he was wrong, and with a few exceptions--me included---nobody rocked his boat. His business, his rules. He was generous in other ways, he always sold Girl Scout cookies for the local troop, and every holiday each employee received a free turkey for their dinner. There was a lot of  shrugging and "He's Greek " when the misogyny reared, but I've never agreed with that excuse, any more than "Boys will be boys" is an acceptable excuse for any behavior.  You aren't in Greece and your behavior can be unlearned.  The catch is you have to want to unlearn it. I had a ride last week who was lamenting that her bar manager wouldn't promote her to bartender, despite her years of experience, because she's female. It's 2019, dude, really? I shared my story with her and she said "Ya, he's Spanish. Why are they like that?"  Because those who can change the situation are just shrugging and saying "He's Spanish", that's why. This behavior needs to be unlearned, and it continues because it is allowed to do so.
   I was fortunate in my last gig to have a bartender who was not tolerant of any sexual harassment from customers. I watched him physically throw a man out the front door when the guy grabbed my butt. That sort of crap seems to have slowed down as owners learned that they can't keep anyone employed if they allow it, and as women started slapping the hell out of the offenders. Nobody wants to have to do that, and in this climate I suppose you'd get sued for assault. We've managed to get customers to change, but not managers.

  Liars, Cheaters, Runners and Generally Crappy People
   All restaurants struggle with people who make up stories in order to get something for free. From blaming wait staff for poor behavior, to claiming their food was wrong to pulling a dine and dash. I remember when I was younger working in a high end spot that hated all high school dances for that reason. Every dance, they'd have a dine and dash, no matter how closely they watched the table. Unless you can sacrifice a waiter and a busser to follow the kids to the bathroom, you're at risk. This behavior has not changed, and when these people get older, they become more advanced with their schemes. Like ordering an $800 bottle of champagne, and then claiming the waitress got it wrong when the bill arrives.
  There was one late night at my last gig, I had a table of five women out for girls' night. One of the women was rude to me every time I came over and I couldn't figure out what I had done. Her friends watched her behave poorly and said nothing. They were within eye line and earshot of the bar, and received stellar service. At the end of the night, the nasty woman paid and wrote a long diatribe on the back of the credit card receipt, which contained no tip. She said I was rude, I had commented on her clothes and hair and that they waited too long for their drinks. As I said, they were right next to the bar. When I showed the bartender the note, which I took personally and felt attacked over, he shook his head and said "I heard them talking, kryssi. You look like the woman her husband left her for. You were doomed when they walked in."
  "But her friends didn't even try to make it up by leaving cash or even attempting to be kind."
  "Why would they? They're bitches. Nothing you could have done."
  It took him a bit to talk me down, but as I said, they were right next to the bar and he had heard the entire evening unfold. I have to pay my rent. You didn't tip me because your husband left you? How does that help your situation? And shame on your friends, who knew good and damned well what you were doing, for not stepping up or saying something or leaving a $20 under a drink glass. Generally, when the person paying doesn't understand tipping, some functioning soul at the table quietly leaves cash for the server as an apology. Not these women.

    Laundry List
   A drunk guy who throws up in his beer, and thinking no one is watching, drinks it.
   Breakups. Why are you doing this in public? It's worse, not better.
   Rotten kids who cannot manage to behave for ten minutes even at their mom's birthday dinner, and the useless dads who offer no help at all.
   Smarmy guys trying to seduce  and impress a woman with their flashy watches and capped teeth. Both parties at the table are sad to watch. It's like a car accident and you can't take your eyes off of it.
   The sober friend trying to get the obnoxious drunk friend out of  the bar before punches fly or the police arrive. God Bless You, Sober Friend, I hope this is the last time you go out with this loser.
   Wait staff going through medical issues but unable to take the night off because they need the money. Covering for these people is an example of People At Their Best. The fact that they could not call in sick without losing their pay or their job: People At Their Worst. Management needs to be better about this. In my experience, if you can get a gig with people willing to cover for you, hang on to it. People are selfish. When you show your selfish petty pig face, you are at your worst.
   Wait staff sneaking a sandwich to the homeless guy out back.

    There is no need to go on, this is old territory. You got it.

This Is Why I'm Like This: The Best Jobs To Deal With People At Their Worst. Today we are talking about shared ride drivers

  All jobs are a challenge, of course, but jobs that deal with the public are their own unique brand of hell. Not all people are terrible all of the time, but in certain circumstances, you get to see all of the spectrum, from the kind and grateful to the manipulative and accusatory to "What century is this?" Experiences here are from jobs I have worked, but not all the stories are mine. Those that are not have been altered but carry the same moral. Today it is the shared ride driving gig.

Drivers Are Like Bartenders, Priests and Therapists
   Calling a ride after a nasty breakup, sitting in the front seat weeping. We will hold your hand and help you breathe.
   Afraid you may get fired from the job you are going to because of an incident that was not your fault. Chattering away at the driver in the front seat to work through your nerves.
   You've just moved to Denver and still cannot find a job in your field of engineering, and really need the interview to which you are going to work out.
   Apologizing for the eight puppies you are transporting to the vet, who are well behaved and cute as hell, but your car broke down this morning and the vet cannot reschedule and you are so so sorry and do I know a good mechanic who is honest?
   Sitting in the back on a shared ride discussing your new diet, your workout regiment, how the neighborhood has changed and your workout regiment and your diet... then when you disembark, the other pax who was interfacing with his cell phone on a molecular level, suddenly comes to life and starts chatting about the housing market and how the neighborhood  has changed.
  And so on and so on... This is the fun part, listening to everyone's stories.

   The Good
   I'm not a chatterer when I drive, and I am unnerved when a pax (short for "the passenger") sits in the front seat. It's fine if there are three or four humans, but when it is one tiny human who casually sits up front, I feel weird. Gratefully, none of the front riders have done so because they wanted to kill me and steal my innovative and unique Subaru Crosstrek. But they have been chatty. I do prefer those who sit in the back on their cell phone and ignore me. I figured out how to hear the directions and play the radio at the same time, so there is not an awkward silence everyone is trying to combat. These people inevitably want to know if I like driving for the company, and is it my full time job? I was hesitant at first to share any personal info, and I even pulled my old waitress trick of feigning an accent and creating a fictional character. But it felt like lying when the person was in my front seat for ten minutes. So I have acquiesced to telling them I am a teacher, which usually unplugs an array of emotions and memory from the riders who have favorite teachers and wish to commiserate with our pay rate. I realize I am not bitching about how much I make, I'm just driving for the ride company, they're filling in the blanks. These people have all tipped me generously upon drop off. The first time it happened, I actually teared up. She was the tiny human in the front seat who had left her car at her friend's house (I drive this type of pick up a lot) the night before after clubbing. She is an engineer who works at the Fed Center, and makes twice what I do as a teacher at the age of 25. I'm not sure if I cried over the tip or the poor career choice that I have made. I believe these people are good, and would have tipped regardless of my sad career choice. They were kind, appreciative, chatty, and one ride three men were actually stumbling over one another trying to tell their high school teacher stories on the short ride. Their tip matched the ride cost.
    A lot of drivers hate service dogs. First, it's easy to scam a harness online and pretend your chihuahua is a service dog, which by law I have to take. If the thing pees in my car, it's game over for my day, and possibly longer depending on how quickly I can get it cleaned up. My personal experience has been with legit service dogs, and the only issue I've had was with a chihuahua/german shepard mix (right? weird little thing) that shed everywhere. I have a blanket for them so the pax doesn't feel like they have to force the animal to stay on the floor. I enjoy listening to these people, as so far the ones I've had are training their dogs. I learned all about how they sense seizures, cause that one vexes me, and the pax continued kindly and sternly "If a service dog ever comes up to you without its owner, follow it. The owner is in trouble. They're trained to get help."

  The Clueless
   Last summer the question came up in the theatre company where I was teaching regarding kids taking shared rides to and from class and rehearsal. This was a new phenomenon, and the kids were as young as 13. Because it was new, the admin had no idea if they had any say in it, but we agreed that we did not like it as teachers. We had to wait for a ride with the kids, and if it was a shared ride, we got jumpy. It was decided a note would be sent to parents requesting that they cease, as we were unsure of our rights if something happened to a child. Also, you're so busy you can't get your kid to and from rehearsal? You need to re-evaluate your life, but that's another story. As a driver, I have learned you have to be 18 years old to have an account, and it is against policy for anyone not on the account to ride. In other words, if you don't match the picture of "kryssi", I can't pick you up. These, again, are parents trying to get their kids to various events. They mean well, but the policy is clear. It was the best way around a sticky situation I suppose. So far the parents have feigned ignorance that they are breaking policy and there has been no shouting, but I think they know and they're just trying to pull something.
   Asking for phone numbers from your young female driver. Or better, taking a shared ride, which is a money saving move and I don't recommend it AT ALL, and then texting your driver after they drop you and continue to drop off the shared rider "Hey, after you drop him off come back to my place." Because you're a big spender, sure, I'd love to return to your crappy apartment.
  The term "shared ride" inside the umbrella "Shared Ride" is confusing. It means that you agree to pick up another pax en route to your location, and the ride could take longer if they need to be dropped off before you. It's kind of a mess, and frankly not worth the savings. I don't recommend it.
   Downtown has one way streets. Our app tells us which side you are on. We will navigate to you based on the side of the street. If you change sides, we cannot get you without circling the block. And if you move again, we have to circle again. I get that you're drunk, try to log this info in your brain now so you can access it later.

  The Weird
   Sometimes people are just off. Like they sit in the front seat and rummage through your glove box. When asked to stop, they rummage through the door pocket and look under the seat. What has happened in your life, honey?

  The Bad
   Anyone who pukes in your car is considered "bad" in my book, but I get that you are not aware you are going to hurl until you are in a moving vehicle. You've ruined my night, but if you were a decent human being and apologetic, it's just a risk we all take when we drive after 11 pm. You're qualified as "bad" because you cost me time and money, but you were apologetic and tipped well.
  We do not have car seats. Why would we? There is a company designed specifically for schlepping children, and I bet they use drivers with car seats. So it's rude to expect a driver to transport you and your small children without a car seat. It's against the law, you should know that. Therefore, yelling at a driver who has no car seats only sets an example for your children. Congrats. I'm sorry that your brain doesn't fire well enough for you to think ahead and write "need car seats" in the comments, or even, God Forbid, schlep the seats yourself. Your children, your responsibility. I get that it's frustrating as hell to get kids around if your car is in the shop, but I can't help you.
   Red Rocks. Ugh. Getting pax to the concert is fine, but they cannot seem to manage shared rides for return, as they shut off all the access roads. Pax have to walk to Morrison to get a ride. That's messed up. Although I did learn that when dropping someone off-we have to use the lower lot- if the pax rolls down the window and claims to be handicapped, they'll let you drop them at the top. No proof necessary. HA! I think you can park up there, maybe,and just wait for the end of the concert, I think some drivers are doing that, but there's limited space. Now they seem to be aware of the issue and I see there is a cue, like at the airport, near Red Rocks. But once those are taken, really, you're walking to Morrison for a ride home.
 
  Worse
   What about the fact that it is my car, my own personal property that I am using to make a living, and therefore I have the right to refuse a ride or kick anyone out for any reason are you not getting? Now, I need to make money, so I'm not going to kick you out because I don't like the way you look. But I can if I feel uncomfortable, or if you truly reek of pot and BO to the point that I think my upholstery won't recover, or you keep changing your drop off point. I don't have to pick you up if you don't match the picture, as there is a scam out there now with people stealing rides...sigh. If there's a business intended to help people, there are people who will find a way to exploit it.
   "Worse": hurling in the car, is when you are obnoxious, and then you throw up all over yourself and the car and the floor and the door and the closed window, and then demand to end the ride. Then upon leaving the car, from the opposite door because you don't want to be near your own mess, you look at your driver and say "It's not that bad." You've just ended that driver's night, they have to go off line and clean out their car. Some of these people are career drivers, this kind of an incident on a high volume weekend night, can set them back over $200 in expected pay. And then you get bent when the company charges your account for the cleaning. Your driver is not the one who is wrong in this scenario, you are. And you have gone from "bad" to "worse" because you were rude.
   Calling for a ride from a remote location, like the middle of the woods, and then not meeting the driver in the nearby parking lot. Then texting them after they leave demanding to know why they left. We Don't Come Looking For You. Ever. You come to us, sweetie. I will be damned if I'm getting out of my car on the outskirts of Evergreen at 11 pm to wander the woods calling your name.
   Drunk frat boys who scream in your car and spit when they talk.
   Men who think it's OK to talk about objectifying women (I am being kind with my phrasing) in your car, and then call you a bitch when you kick them out. My car, Ass Gnome, my rules, my rights. And I will write a report, because the company supports me. So There.
   Scamming. I'm not sure how this is happening, but somehow people are getting into the car who are not the scheduled pax. They get a ride for a few blocks before the driver figures it out---usually they try to change their destination verbally, that's a good sign. They have to change it on the app. If you can't, it's because you are not the scheduled passenger. I also heard that there was a debit card scam of some kind, but I can't muster any sympathy for a driver who gives their pax their personal debit card number. That one can't be real, can it?

  And there you have the first installment of The Best Jobs To Deal With People At Their Worst. Tune in next time for "Restaurant Work".

This Is Why I'm Like This: Lyft

  I have concluded that Lyft causes me too much anxiety.
  This is not shocking to anyone who knows me.
   All you have to know is that it's completely online. On your phone. Technology. 100%.
   The Gargoyle.
   No humans.
   The only human interaction...wait, I'm getting ahead.
   Last summer I thought I'd look into Lyft and Uber. I heard it was easy money, your own hours, All Of The Things. But I couldn't manage the application, and when the photo of my registration would not upload to my email from my phone so that I could download it onto my laptop and upload it to the open application on my laptop, I stopped. That was enough. I had already battled the gargoyle to wrestle my teaching certification renewal the previous summer, and I was still exhausted. I had to get someone at the CDE on the phone and yell at them, only to have them tell me I had to do it online. They would not allow any snail mail, faxes or, God Forbid, humans occupying their lobby. Which was not a veiled threat. Some poor government employee had to sit on the phone with me and Gerber baby walk me through the entire thing. We all needed a summer vacation after that summer vacation. Lyft was intended for extra money and not worth another episode of Kryssi Vs. The Gargoyle. Besides, there are no humans to call at Lyft, and I was stymied. It's entirely run by robots.
   On Saturday, after much self wrestling over technology and how I am not anybody's bitch, I sat in my chair by the window, laptop open, application open, all of my documents photographed and ready to go. Then my registration would not upload to my email and I started talking to myself. After a few minutes, Harper, who was in the other chair and who is usually both immune to and annoyed by my continuous technological travesties, walked over to me and just took my phone. Usually she ignores me and spits "Why don't you just ask me to help?" Not this time, this time she said "You have to do it from the app," and proceeded to finish my application. Apparently she had reached her threshold as well. In seconds. This is where I remind you that, technically, it took me a year to finish the application. And, technically,I did not finish it, my daughter did.
  Now, don't get ahead and start wondering how OH HOW is kryssi, who cannot manage her voicemail, let alone an app, going to function on nothing but an app? With no humans. Hold on, I'll get there.
   Using google maps, which I have managed to figure out recently, I located the Lyft inspection location. Much to my chagrin, it shares a building with a pub. Now that's a terrible idea, isn't it? Drive for Lyft, stop by the pub. Had Jim come with me to the inspection, this would be a different story, ending with "So we have a new pub". When I entered the building, I was shocked that there were human beings. None of whom were over the age of 25. but human beings. I signed into the kiosk, even though I was the only one there and the humans could see me with their eyeballs, and waited for someone to say my name.  I was told to fill out the thing and go sit in my car with the hazards on. They could have told me that when I entered by looking at me, but no, I had to put my name in the kiosk so they could read it off of the screen.
   Really?
   So I go to my car.
   I have no idea where the hazards are.
   I text Jim and Harper asking about the location of my hazards. I get out the owner's manual. Harp sends me a pic of the hazards on her Subaru, as the button is in the same place. I turn on the hazards.     The sheet they gave me says "Turn on your lights."
   I have automatic lights, "daytime running lights", whatever. I can control them?
   Owner's manual.
   The 20 something "mechanic" comes out and asks me to flip  my lights. I tell him they are on. He asks me to flip the high beams.
   I turn on the windshield wipers.
  This is going well. I should not be trusted to shuffle people to and fro across town in my vehicle.
  He writes down my VIN number, because I was supposed to but I don't know where that is.Also when he asked me, I could neither hear him or read his lips over the windshield wipers. I push the brakes when asked--I know where they are---and he hands me the clipboard, telling me to fill in my license plate number. His look suggests that if I cannot locate my license plate to record the number, it'd be best if I just leave and go no further. Perhaps walk over to the pub and call it a day.
   I return inside to the weird people who don't look at other people with the clipboard and am sent to the "classroom" to see the nurse practitioner. I question her authenticity as her stethoscope looks like one the girls had when they were little, and this tiny woman is maybe 13 years old. Seriously. She's a sprite. Adorable, but not an adult human and not a nurse. She asks me questions I could clearly lie about, takes my blood pressure and marks me as healthy enough to shuffle people to and fro across town in my vehicle.
   My final stop is a young man who makes sure I've taken photos of my health paper and inspection and loaded them into the app. When I struggle because my buttons don't all work, or I can't work them, he helps me and then sits me in front of a ten minute video intended to train and prepare me to shuffle people to and fro across town in my vehicle.
   I watch a video of two millennials gushing at the virtues of Lyft and "demonstrating" the use of the app. Which means they assume you know what they are talking about and they just pose around the pictures. I do not know what they are talking about, and am more vexed than I was before I started.  Steering wheel? How do I know if there is a ride? How do I accept it? What if I don't want to?
   I am dismissed by the young man after being handed two pink "LYFT" stickers and told where to place them on my car, which he does with more care than any other instruction I have been given. I guess people who can manage apps don't comprehend "Put the sticker in the lower right-the passenger side-corner of your windshield. It's the law," he demonstrates on a diagram."Good luck," he says before turning to his colleague to continue their conversation about what happened Somewhere Trendy last night.
   I get home, actually feeling accomplished. I did it, I did a thing. I tap on the app.
   It tells me my inspection did not go through. It is expired.
   Confused, I send the photo again. How is it expired? I just did it twenty minutes ago and the guy uploaded it for me, there is no room for kryssi error here. Two hours later, when it still isn't approved, I go and retrieve the paper from my glove box.
   The judgey young man who silently mocked my inability to know how to turn on my own car lights, the Lyft inspection "mechanic", wrote down my inspection date as 7-14-9.
   I LAUGHED SO HARD I PEED.
   Finally, the next morning my inspection was "approved". The robots decided that he clearly meant "19" instead of "9" and allowed my application to be approved.
   All that I have to do now is plunk in my checking account information so they can pay me. I am paid from space, or the cloud, or eharmony or wherever. Now...which number is the routing number...
   And thus, by and by, All The Things are loaded and checked off and YOU ARE NOW READY TO DRIVE.
  Great. How do I do that?
  Harper had to walk me through a tutorial, as you click on the app, and then the wheel, and then things start to ding. What if I don't want to give them a ride? What if I don't know where they are? What if I don't know where they're going? Harper is more patient than I have ever known her to be. She is now more experienced than I, as she's been driving a few days.
   Well,  the things is you don't know where they're going, only where there are. I need so much information to function. I need to know where I'm picking you up and where I'm taking you before I even accept the ride, but that's not a thing.This information caused me to lose a night's sleep. What? What if I don't want to go to the airport today? I hate Aurora, I'm not going to Aurora. What...Harper patiently repeats herself: "You just follow the directions to them, and then to where they are going with no idea of where they are going until you are on your way there." No sleep that night worrying about this lack of information. How do people function like this?
    I make a choice this morning at 7 am. Am I going to be Lyft's bitch? No, I am not. I will do this, even if I have a panic attack and die and kill everyone in the process.
    I get up and open the app, and tap the steering wheel. Someone named "Allison's" face fills the screen with SHARED RIDE in pink and a blue line running under the post. I have no idea what's going on. When the blue line finishes, I'm told  by text I had 90 seconds to accept the ride, and if I don't want to I should tap the "X". I don't recall seeing an "X", so I panic and turn off my phone and go back to sleep.
   But wait, if I tapped the wheel I'm still on even if I turned off my phone, right?
   Right.
   Back on. Click off wheel. Breathe.
   Ok, so don't click it until you're in the car. Got it.
   I am going to do this. I get in the car, fill the gas tank, take a breath, open the app and tap the wheel.
   Nothing happens.
   Nobody needs a ride. I guess. Am I supposed to shop somehow? I'll just drive around I guess and see if it dings....DING!
    Chris' face comes up two blocks away. I tap "accept" and my radio turns off. I have plugged my phone into my car charger and the directions are now the boss of my car stereo. I follow the verbal directions---I've been practicing with google maps!---to his house. He emerges, gets in the back and I click "picked up Chris". The map to where were are going comes up, but my phone is in my lap so I can't look down to see where we're headed. So I follow the voice from Alameda to C470 to I 70. Now, I was just going to drive a bit before going to my 9am King Soopers training. It's 7.30 am, and the only reason you would go from Lakewood to I 70 is to go to the airport. This is where my brain goes, forgetting that I get on I 70 to go to work at the warehouse, but that's by the airport. This is who I have become, I live in a west suburb and work in a south suburb and I don't leave my bubble to get on I 25 unless it's to go downtown, and I 70 only goes west so I can leave town. There is no valid reason anyone would travel from a west suburb on I 70 east unless they are going to the airport.
    I stop breathing.
    It's fine, if he's going to the airport I'll just miss King Soopers training, maybe I don't want to work there, anyway.
   I try to glimpse my phone---there is a reason drivers have those dash clasps for their phones--and I see "13 miles". OK, not going to the airport. Cool
   Chris asks me to lower the back window a bit, even with the A/C on full the morning sun is a lot on his face.
    I take him to his exit, Pecos, and then the woman voicing my directions suddenly decides to stop speaking. Do I turn right or left? She won't tell me, and my phone is in my lap, I can't look. I say "She's not going to tell me, I guess, do I go right or left?"
 "Right."
  We drive two blocks, then Chris says "Actually, can you drop me off right here, at the coffee shop?"
  I pull over abruptly, as he's told me to stop as we are passing the coffee shop...clearly I've failed already, he can't get out soon enough, he doesn't even want me to take him all the way to work. It's because there was no music, I don't know how to play the radio with the directions going. I have already failed on my first ride.
   I look at the cute coffee shop, very trendy with a mural painted on the outside.There's a whole neighborhood back here, and apparently Chris' job is here as well. How is there anything of value between west and the airport? Who the hell am I? I used to know all the neighborhoods, worked all the funky theatres---in Houston I lived in an artist's warehouse, for God's sake.  Who Am I??!!! In the midst of my historical inventory and impending mental break, my phone dings again as he gets out and I tell him to have a good day. I pull around the corner to see that "Another ride has been added to your queue."
  What? Huh? I did not say yes, or swipe, or push a blue button, or submit to eharmony, what do you mean it's been added?
  I have 45 minutes to get back to Lakewood for my other job, I can't possibly take another ride unless they are also going to the King Soopers training center. Which I would not know, because where they are going is not displayed.
   I panic and start poking at the screen. Somehow I get to an "X" that says "Decline" and I do so.          Then it wants to know why. 
   None of the listed choices are "Because I have no idea what the hell I am doing and I need to get to my other job."
    I choose "It's too far." I think ahead enough to swipe my steering wheel icon OFF before turning off my phone, turning on my radio and heading back to Lakewood. First I have to navigate the Pecos/I 25 roundabout, why do we have these in Colorado, we are not Paris! When I get to the KS parking lot, I click on my Lyft dashboard to see my 35 minute adventure netted me $16.80. No tip.
   But OK, that's OK, because I DID IT. I did not sleep last night because of this bullshit, and I did it. I won. I worked with a robot. I did not cry. I did not wreck my car, and more importantly, I did not pull over and call a hard to find Lyft phone number and demand to speak to a human being.
   I may even do it again.
   First lesson: clear a few hours. Thinking you're going to just take people before you go to work is incorrect. They can make you keep driving by adding to your que without your permission.
   Scene.
 

This Is Why I'm Like This: King Soopers

  10 July 2019

  At this point, I've lost all understanding and, likely, control of what is happening.
  I went in today to sign new hire paperwork at King Soopers as a Customer Service employee. Aggressively part time, but still.
  I'll give you a second.
  I have been hired to work a desk entirely dedicated to customer service.
  I suppose I am hopeful I can tell people they are stupid without fear of admonishment from administration or parents.
  Or maybe I just want to solve, solvable problems. What a concept.
  You need your propane refilled? Done.
   Lottery Ticket? Done.
   Pay your Excel bill? Done.
   Buy Ren Fair tickets?My pleasure.
   Maybe I've just been so abused and devalued that I just crave being able to provide a tangible, objective service to people.
   Too much?
   OK, so maybe I'm just not smart enough to teach or be in theatre any more. Is that better?
   After  a month of assembly line work, standing in one place, building and packing one thing, I have a new perspective.
   Unfortunately, I am still unsure what that perspective means, but I feel better so I know I have one.
   The cost of living in Colorado has increased 3.1% this year. My raise as a teacher is .2%.
  A general manager at King Soopers makes a comparable salary to mine, and they also participate in profit sharing and tax bonus'.
   A store manager of a Barnes and Noble will make the same salary as I do.
   There is no judgement here, just facts.
   OOOH, Project Manager, I can do that. Same salary.
   Never mind, I'm going to apply for that. Talk to you later.

   Twenty minutes later I'm back.
   What the actual hell is going on out there? Glassdoor? LinkedIn? If you don't fill out each box according to the pre prescribed description it won't let you move on. Nothing I have done, ever, has fit a pre prescribed description box guys, and I promise I'm the most innovative job candidate you could get today but...oh well.
   Also, just so you know I am not down with taking the music out of Mulan. I'm not spending my money to see that shit.

    UGH

 
 

This Is Why I'm Like This: Rob Lowe Won

  So as I returned to St. Elmo's Fire in a previous blog, I realized that  Rob Lowe won the Brat Pack Competition. I'm not sure he knew it was a competition, but he is the only member of that group who is still  functioning as a working actor. I am leaving Robert Downey, Jr. out of the "Brat Pack", as he was generationally there, yes, and in a John Hughes movie, sure. He was also in the quintessential movie version of one of my fave novels during that era, Less Than Zero, in which he pretty much played himself. Nevertheless, he had his own issues and was not really associated with the "Pack". Therefore, he cannot be considered a competitor. Also, if he was, then he would win. Clearly.
   I think of Molly Ringwald, Andrew McCarthy, Emilio Esteves, Rob Lowe, Demi Moore, Judd Nelson, Anthony Michael Hall and Ally Sheedy as the "Pack". I think that's pretty fair, as their films did cross one another and because it's my blog and I say so.
   Also, to be clear, I never fan girled Rob. Again, he was almost too pretty to look at directly and I found that upsetting. When I saw him at the DCPA I honestly can tell you more about his shoes than his face. I hear a line from Amadeus when these types are paraded in front of us. "Only talent interests a woman of taste." So I, honestly, dismissed Rob in favor of Val Kilmer, who frankly hits all the below listed markers as well as possessing major talent for the craft. Rob's talent has never knocked me out, but he has improved because he is tenacious. I will always applaud growth. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
   How did Rob win?
   As I have read both of his books and attended a live speaking engagement, I think I can say that, in my professional opinion, he's just a better actor. I know, hold on, hear me out. In film I separate "actors", "directors" , "writers"  and "celebrities" because to me, real craftsmen live in theatre. So they get to be  called "Theatre Kids", which is a high honor. The highest honor of "Master Craftsman" is reserved for those who cross into both: Gary Oldman, Helen Mirrien, Bryan Cranston. I don't have a matching category for film actors, so Rob has to live in his category of actor.To me a great actor---or a true "Theatre Kid" --is someone who is brave, willing to stretch themselves, in love with the craft, tenacious as fuck and has an understanding of who they are.
   Rob Lowe has taken serious roles as well as silly roles---I loved The Grinder and was truly disappointed when it was cancelled--with equal relish. He just wants to work. It's like he's not in it for celebrity or money, he just loves the work. Huh. What a concept? He's willing to be ugly as well as ridiculous---did you see the Liberace movie with Michael Douglas? Did you even know that was Rob Lowe playing the plastic surgeon? Brave. And willing to stretch himself, literally, look at those eyebrows. (Go ahead, look it up. I'll wait.)
    It helps his case that he played my all time favorite Stephen King character Nick Andros in The Stand. In his book Love Life he talks of seeking out an acting coach to help him with the role, and being open and allowing someone to push him in a direction that was completely foreign to him. All in the name of getting the character right. Brave and willing to stretch himself. Not many with an existing career and looks so stellar he blocks out the sun, would be so bold.
   In both of his books, he explores his upbringing and gives insight into how determined he was to be an actor. Not having anyone willing to give him rides, he had to bus it for hours to get to auditions. He is kind in his remembrances of roles lost (he blew his knee at Footloose auditions) and when he was treated poorly due to his "celebrity" status (The West Wing). He understands where others are coming from, and even when they are clearly just rotten ass gnomes, he keeps moving forward. These stories, as well as those about being on set and learning from other actors and the funnier/sad ones of parties and rehab, all tell the reader that this man knows who he is. It was a rough journey, but he has arrived and it's fine. When I saw him at the DCPA (shout out to Jim for buying us tickets, I know he did not really want to go), some idiot woman yelled out "You're pretty!" Without breaking stride he smiled and said "Yes. I know," and continued to tell his stories. Which is why I was there, to hear his stories. Unfortunately I think I was in the minority, I think many just wanted to look at the beautiful freak. His quick response shut down anyone else who thought they may need to yell at him, and the rest of the evening was a lovely journey. He began with an old 80's poster of himself, shirtless, on the screen and then asked "Where were my parents? Why was this allowed to happen?" There was a huge laugh and grateful guffaws from the patient husbands who were now going to listen to him.I love his stories and his voice, and had read one book before seeing him, and immediately purchased the second after seeing him. His voice is that great.
  He packed the theatre.
  Judd Nelson did not pack the theatre. Just sayin'.
  He still works, regularly. He even had his own show for a bit with his sons where they explored urban legends. The man allowed them to air footage of him hurling off the deck of a ship as his sons stood by and snickered. Brave, again.
  And on any given day, if you watch TV, you can see him pitching Atkins snack bars, letting us in on his dieting secret.
  He's still present. He's still working. He has a family that loves him. He writes. People buy the books he writes. He's managed to remain kind and centered and generous throughout and can still bitch slap anyone who is attending his one man storytelling evening just because he's pretty.
   He knows.

This Is Why I'm Like This: St. Elmo's Fire

  Many years ago, when I thought I could be a journalist, I wrote some movie reviews. Even in such reviews, I could not manage to stick with the facts. Reviews are about opinion, which is great. But I also struggle with staying on track.

St. Elmo's Fire 1985

  The first thing you have to get past is the fact that you've seen these guys before, playing versions of these characters in other films, sometimes with one another. They're impossibly attractive and seem to have the money, after college, for fabulous apartments and trendy clothes.

  The second thing you have to get past is the casting choice of Rob Lowe as the "bad boy", and Judd Nelson as the young republican. Is he republican? He's a politician. And he is not any less of a bad boy than Rob, he's just dressed better. He's actually more of a jerk than anything.

  The third thing, of course, is that Rob Lowe is too attractive. He's hard to look at, it's like looking at the sun. It's almost embarrassing. I think he needs to work on that.

  Now that we have that out of the way, let's talk about the movie itself.

  The title is taken from a nautical term, for an electrical discharge that appears briefly on a ship or airplane during a storm. I am sure this is meant to illustrate the storm of facing real life after college, but I am unsure what the electrical discharge is meant to be in the film . It seems more a definition of the careers these people are having, brief and high powered but not sustainable. The acting equivalent of a one hit wonder, a shooting star, whatever. I'm sure time will tell, but to me, the title references the actors, not the characters.  Their post college struggling in the real world seems to stem from their inability to appreciate that they have jobs immediately after college, great apartments and expensive trendy clothes. So instead they make up their own drama: Alec (Judd Nelson) seems to suddenly be a philandering jerk. I'm not sure if he was like this in college, but his girlfriend Leslie (Ally Sheedy) is an idiot if that is the case. Why did she stay with him if he's like this? Kevin ( Andrew McCarthy) has been carrying a torch for Leslie for years, as all struggling writers do so they have motivation to smoke a lot and write. He also looks like every writer stereotype, who also look like every film noir detective. What is that all about? At least his apartment seems realistic as a writer, it's messy and small. Kirby (Emilio Estevez) is cursed with being named after a vacuum, and in turn is obsessed with an intern he met for five seconds,Dale (Andie McDowell) who is not used to moving much on film since she's a model. He's a waiter who wants to go to law school and works at the central bar called...St. Elmo's Fire. Because the film title makes no sense, they named the bar the same to represent the gathering place of the friends who then outgrow it...sure, which still does not line up with the idea of an electrical discharge during a storm. Is the bar the electrical discharge, attracting only young college kids whose futures are bright?

  Jules ( Demi Moore) has a lot of hair and money, daddy issues and a serious problem managing said money. Which prompts the next "St. Elmo's Fire Moment", when Billy (Rob Lowe), has to break into her apartment when she breaks down and explains the meaning of the nautical term, whilst using hair spray and a lighter to demonstrate. I have no idea what his story and demonstration has to do with her dead "Step Monster" or inability to manage money, but OK. Nothing has been cleared up for me.

  Poor Mare Winningham (who plays Wendy) is not only not part of the "Brat Pack", but weirdly the only one of the group with a job that pays poorly in social work. She has a thing for Billy---you can't have this movie without everyone pining for someone--who has a baby with his ex girlfriend but can't seem to stop playing the saxophone long enough to hold a job. I'm  unsure what other issues he may have, as Rob Lowe is beautiful and hard to look at, making it difficult to follow his story line. I think he's a mechanic. The costume looks like the one he wore in The Outsiders.

  As I am approximately the age of these people, and have seen their other movies, I feel left out of some private joke. Other people are loving this movie, understanding the story and struggle in a way that escapes me. It looks a lot like an MTV video --especially the scene with Lowe and Moore, the curtains blowing through her empty apartment while Rob lights the hairspray on fire, I couldn't help but hear "Total Eclipse of the Heart" in my head---with all the flash and cinematography but the same amount of soul. I don't connect to any of the characters or stories, and the performances do nothing to enlighten the paper thin dialogue.

   Or, it is a brilliant representation of my generation: trendy clothes, great videos and no soul.

  Wow. Now I'm depressed.

  It's fine, I'll watch MTV and feel better in no time.


  So here I am, in 2019. I've read both of Rob Lowe's books and saw him speak at the DCPA, and just now he was doing an Atkins commercial. I have no idea what has happened to anyone else in that cast, to be honest. I found this in a satchel in the garage, I don't think it was ever printed, since it was just a typed page and I don't recall writing a movie review for the UCD Advocate. In fact, I suspect this was written for my Journalism class as a rough draft, as there are no grading marks. My voice hasn't changed much, and I cleaned up some of the wretched transitions, but the core is still there. That movie represents everything that was wrong with the 80's. Also, I didn't understand it because I was paying my own way through school, working full time at B. Dalton Bookseller and managing to pay rent on the condo I shared with Jim and another roommate. My experience did not match those who got to go to college and live on campus and emerge with a great career. Maybe that was it. I don't sound nearly as bitter as I know I was. Maybe that was my attempt at being a "journalist". I dunno man....I hope you enjoyed it.

This Is Why I'm Like This: Postcards From The Warehouse

  I am the only white woman of a certain age in this warehouse. There are two other women of not color, but younger than I. The rest are male or Latina or Vietnamese or African American or a mixture of many. It makes everyone treat me a bit differently, which is really OK, but at first I assumed they all hated me. Nope, they just thought I was a spy.

  Considering I'm blogging about them, they aren't wrong.

  On the line I am with L, K and A, and sometimes "Neck Tattoo", who is not consistently in attendance. My first two days, didn't have my headphones and had to listen to K's music as for some reason, he also does not have headphones. I don't know why. He has one of those Twinkie shaped speakers. I am still unsure of what, exactly, he is listening to. Sometimes it sounds like comedians, sometimes it's rap and on more than one occasion, based on the volume and timber of the speaker and the boisterous audience, I thought there was a revolution being planned. I turned around at one point, as I thought I recognized the voice, and K immediately turned it down. "Is this too offensive? I can turn it off." I smiled, I was just wondering what the hell it was, not suggesting he turn it off. It happened again the next day, when I turned around to see what was holding up the line behind me and he repeated his thesis. "If this is too inappropriate, I can turn it off." I smiled and said "Dude, I teach high school, you can't offend me."
  Turns out, this is not accurate. After two weeks--even with my headphones in I hear strains of "N" words and "F" bombs---I'm not so much offended as I am over it. I've never heard such sexism, misogyny, and anger that seems to be disguised as rap/stand up or whatever. K loves it and frequently responds to the Twinkie box with a "Ya, that's right" or repeating a phrase. Clearly he is not upset by the sexism, misogyny or vulgarity. He's about 24 years old, so I suppose it's just my age. But I'm on his line, so I'm not going to be a jerk about whatever gets him through eight hours of monotony.

  I have thus far listened to : Every Christopher Titus album, Tina Fey's Bossypants, "Confessions" with Jimmy Fallon and a variety of guests, two Kathleen Madigan shows, Kevin Hart "Let Me Explain" as well as anything else I can find of his (I've listened to the white water raft story at least four times, I love it) Steve Martin's "Wild and Crazy Guy", several Tiny Fey and Amy Poehler interviews, all Duran Duran videos,  Guns and Roses, Bon Jovi, Beastie Boys and a smattering of smaller stand up posts, as that seems to be what I enjoy most.  If King Soopers does not hire me as a stock boy tomorrow -fingers crossed-next week I intend to listen to John Cleese's memoir. All in all, to sum up: I'm Whitey (thanks Christopher for allowing me to call myself out like this),

  Part of the line gig is to cut down cardboard boxes to be used inside other cardboard boxes. This is done in a very precise way and A had to demonstrate it for me. I don't agree with his anal approach to exacto knifing off the flaps first, then cutting the box into rectangles. I believe you can achieve this by putting the whole box on the giant paper cutter and hacking through it. NOTE these people have no idea I have a recent scar on my hand from the miniature version of this thing in my copy room. Just as I question their choice to give me an exacto, I question their choice to let me cut the boxes. Let me be clear, I was shown how to do it correctly. A was painfully slow and deliberate in his demonstration. I just don't want to do it that way. So when it needed to be done, and A and L and K were all deep in their own headphones/twinkie shouting, I sashayed myself over to the massive, rusted, farm equipment paper cutter and proceeded to do it my way.
  I folded the box in half and began to hack through the cardboard, feeling like a butcher in Jersey who is agitated after he's had to pay off the protection guys. I was humming along to my boys "SABOTAGE!"
  Within a minute, L was at my side, smiling that huge beautiful smile of hers. She reached for the rusty blade slowly, like taking a ...blade from a crazy person and said  "Let me do it, OK?"
  "I'm fine, I got it, why won't you let me play?"
  She continued to smile, as a good leader will, and shook her head. "I got this."
  "Why do you hate me?" I laughed and stomped back to my place on the line.
  It is exchanges like these that explain why I will never be allowed anywhere near a forklift.

  K does these awesome ballet stretches throughout the day, and even though I can read an analog clock, he tells me every day when it's break time. I appreciate his desire to make sure I get my breaks, but I wonder if he thinks I'm "special".

  They let me have a drill on occasion, and I get to drill in four teeny tiny microscopic screws seven thousand times. When I started doing it, L said to listen for the stripping sound on the screw, that is how you know it's in all the way. I disagree, but again, she's the boss. So I screw them in until I can hear the screw stripping. K stopped me and said "You're stripping the screw, you don't have to do that." Again...not my circus, not my monkeys, not my screws. Thankfully, I can get them all the way in without stripping the screw, and nobody has given me any notes on my performance.

  I did have to be shown how to pack the single brackets. I'd been building and packing the triple brackets, and had not packed the single ones. So I began doing it the way we do the triple ones, and L appeared at my side with her big smile. I took out my headphones and said "I'm doing it wrong, huh?" She smiled and showed me how to pack 50 of them in the box and walked away. Whatever she's listening to on her headphones requires that she respond occasionally. At first I thought she was on the phone, but who's on the phone for eight hours? I realized she's listening to something she agrees with, and needs to reaffirm her support. But sometimes I still think she's on the phone.

  A speaks limited English and is so shy he can barely function. On his breaks, he sits back in the boxes and takes a nap. I like him a lot, but there is little opportunity to chat on the line, and I seem like a pushy teacher when I do talk to them, because I'm always asking about their lives. I found out K dropped out of massage therapy school because he couldn't afford it, and L is engaged to B across the aisle in printing. There are a few couples in the warehouse and they take their breaks together and it makes me stupid happy. Two young ladies bring their leftovers, and they may just be roommates but I like to believe they are a couple. They only speak Spanish to one another, though, and I don't so I can't eavesdrop. The Vietnamese ladies in production fill the giant jugs of wonderful smelling Fiji soaps and lotions, and bring food in Tupperware that looks wonderful. The shipping supervisor, who also oversees the whole warehouse, has a Kevin Hart thing going for him in many ways: he is African American, he is funny, he is positive and upbeat and he is short. He high fives me every day and tells jokes and in general, is someone I would call a "leader", not a "boss".

  I am not long for this gig, as I am hoping to get hired part time at Barnes and Noble or King Soopers down the street. Something much closer to home that I can do during the school year. But I really don't hate it. These people are just trying to make it on $12 an hour. Which is impossible, as we all know, but they are collectively positive, friendly and nowhere near as mean and bitchy as I am. And I have a career, guys. I may not like it, but I have one. I have a home and two cars and I work these gigs to help my kids pay off their student loans because they are working shitty $12 an hour jobs or for a small business owner who is not scheduling them enough,trying to live their lives.

 So in conclusion, all in all, to sum up: I am not above working anywhere in the name of helping my girls with their bills. And I have stopped bitching about teaching. That is what the warehouse was for, instead of paying for therapy, I got paid to figure it out on my own.

  Scene.