FINALLY! Someone Hired Me!

So, if you follow my life via the Interwebs at all, you already know my big news. And by the Interwebs of course I mean Facebook updates, tweets and twoots, and LinkedIn. And of course, if you're following my tweets, you know by now it's all a blatant ploy to bring you back to the Rainbow chronicles. That, and to quote Seinfeld, apparently.

WHAT IN THE HELL WAS I ACTUALLY TALKING ABOUT?

Oh, right. My big news!

This Tuesday, I started a job. A job that does not require I ask: "chips, fries, or veggies?" A job that is not, in fact, really just an unpaid internship. (For more on that dreadful experience, revisit this post, I implore you.) I am officially an associate writer for Groupon, which, go figure, is apparently the fastest growing company, ever. (Forbes said it, so it's gotta be true.)

You can get a really good sense of the company from the Forbes article, so I'll just fill you in on a couple other highlights not mentioned in said article:

1. The number of computers/humans on the 6th floor is both terrifying and awesome. And that's comparing it to the editorial department, where I am, which is home to at least a couple hundred.

2. There is a never-ending supply of coffee, tea, and cocoa (fuck yeah! cocoa!) everywhere you turn. And Keurig coffee makers, which I'd never actually used, or in fact seen, in real life. Plus, today, I discovered free Diet Dr. Pepper and Gatorade. FREE. I'm going to be so fucking productive! (I might still be on a caffeine high.)

3. Everyone I've met so far is talented, smart, and friendly. And most of them are funny. No joke. It's like Wonderland for a geek like me.

I'll leave you with that. It's awesome. I've only been there three days, and I've already been writing, a lot.

When I found out I'd been hired last week, I was so overwhelmed and thrilled, I didn't know what to do with myself. It was the middle of the day, and I was alone, cause, you know, most other adults were at work. I couldn't stop grinning. I may or may not have told my cats the news.

Will You Ever Forgive Me?

Yikes. Apparently I've started a new trend on the Rainbow Chronicles that involves me only posting on Mondays. And only about music. I swear my brain is not totally devoid of all thoughts except this. I swear it. I know you've all been crying and screaming at your computer screens:

"Where are the poetry slams?! The awesomely awkward adventures?! The magical moments waiting tables?!

AND WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO SUNDAY SWAYZE FEST?!!!!!"

Am I right? I knew it. Don't fret, my darlings. I have not forgotten you. More poetry slams are in the works. I am still always, always, awesomely awkward. Living in Knightstown just doesn't seem to warrant the awkward adventures that being in Chicago did. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that when I'm not at work, I'm hanging out in my childhood bedroom, having long debates with my cats? I mean ... WHAT? I don't talk to my cats. That would be weird. And speaking of work, I had to sign a "social media contract," which essentially means I'm no longer allowed to document my current magical moments waiting tables. Sigh. I will say this: There have been plenty this summer. PLENTY.

As for Swayze fest ... well, it's just been too hard. Although my brother Tom and I are still planning our North and South marathon, which might actually happen one of these days.

Two other major excuses for not blogging: I've been working on a submission for an essay contest, and my brother Jay got married this past weekend. In other words, I am unable to concentrate on more than two things at once.

I'm not quite yet ready to work on my entry for the Writer's Digest Short Short Story competition this year, so maybe I'll actually blog consistently for a bit.

Maybe. I'm not making any promises.

Hey, customer! Try on my apron, and then complain.

Any one who has worked in the service industry gets it: It’s tough waiting tables. But if you have common sense, or any compassion, as a customer, you should realize that as well.

Not only do servers make minimum wage (and that’s minimum wage for servers, a whopping $4.85 here in Chicago), we don’t get benefits. We completely rely on gratuity.

I’ve heard people say that any idiot can wait on a table, but I’ve worked side-by-side with otherwise smart, competent people who can’t do it. They get overwhelmed. They forget who needed another Bud Light and who asked for a side of ranch. Or they crumble when an angry customer yells at them because his burger wasn’t cooked exactly right, or her vodka tonic doesn’t have an extra lime in it. And people do yell at you. People will be mean. They won’t say please or thank you. They won’t make eye contact with you. Even worse, they’ll look right through you.

As a server, I’ve been yelled at, cursed at, and treated like a complete piece of crap. I’ve had to jump out of the way of a drunken woman vomiting. I’ve been grabbed by a stranger and kissed on the mouth. (And those two incidents happened during the same shift.) I’ve been asked inappropriate questions, ogled, and hit on the ass. I’ve been warned to “be careful walking to my car” after my shift. I’ve mopped up a kid’s vomit without so much as a “thank you” from his parents.

And when many nights, you head home with your feet and back aching, and less than 100 bucks in your pocket, this is quite a lot to take. I think it would be a lot to take if I made $1,000 every night.

Yet, still, I work my ass off to keep a smile on my face, to say “thank you,” to get people’s food and drinks ordered correctly and quickly, and to bite my tongue when I’m insulted or mistreated. Don’t forget: the customer is always right.

So when I read an article like this one, a piece by David Sax in the New York Times, it makes me furious. An excerpt: