Overpaid and Unapologetic

I’m confused: Can someone tell me who the most important university system stakeholders are? Students, right?
Wrong.

According to the Sept. 4 Atlanta Journal-Constitution article “No recession in college pay,” the number of staff members in the University System of Georgia that make six-figure salaries increased 30 percent between 2007 and 2010, and employees who make at least $200,000 rose 46 percent.

As students, we constantly hear the sad violin stories about USG budget cuts, but for what?

The USG has increased its spending from $5.4 billion in 2007 to a projected $7 billion for 2011 — according to the article — and found that the solution to their spending issue is to jack up tuition and fees. This is not working for me — no — this isn’t working for us.

Why in the hell are we supporting the USG’s compulsive spending habit? Of course, colleges and universities want the cream of the crop in administrators and professors, but the fear of losing them to schools that may pay more should not be resolved by increased salaries — there are other options.

Lower the tenure eligibility age for well-qualified professors. Make a shorter probationary period before an employee is offered a permanent job contract. Offer sound insurance benefits to complement their current salaries.

Why isn’t the USG breaking its neck to keep the best and brightest students in the system? Let's not forget that UGA tuition is on the rise and has increased by 50 percent since 2008, as the article points out.

If it wasn’t for us, there would not be a need for a university system in the state of Georgia. Along with taxpayers, we help pay university employee salaries.

What bothers me the most is how these administrators and professors seem to take the pay raises without any consideration for the increased costs it has for the students who make their jobs relevant. They can sleep well at night while we’re up late scrambling to fit in homework and papers after working minimum wage job shifts to offset the unfair charges posted to our student accounts every semester.

You have to be as pissed as I am. I’m listening.

The mistakes are coming! The mistakes are coming!

I don't understand why politicians have such a difficult time admitting that they are wrong. They are not gods among men; they are still human and as such, they are just as capable of making mistakes and saying something that isn't quite factual. It's one thing to be wrong; it's a completely different matter to refuse to admit it.

Take Sarah Palin and her Paul Revere gaffe a couple of months ago. Getting one's history mixed up can be a bit embarrassing, but it's not unheard of. If Palin had just admitted her mistake and said what she actually meant, it probably would have been something for liberals to mock for a little while, but at least she would be able to show that she was willing to confront her errors and fix them. Instead she decided to stand by her obviously wrong statement, which unfortunately makes her appear stubborn.

Palin's unwillingness to admit that she was wrong also makes her look extremely arrogant, especially when historians began correcting her mistake. Despite the input of many scholars to the contrary, Palin refused to back off her statement, instead suggesting that these academics, who have dedicated their lives to the study of history, didn't know Paul Revere quite as well as old Mama Grizzly.

Members from all over the political spectrum are guilty of this behavior, and quite honestly, I am fed up with it. People learn from their mistakes, and by refusing to admit that they make them, politicians are essentially saying that they have nothing left to learn. In this era, when we are learning new things about ourselves and the world around us every day, it seems rather foolish to pretend that one is perfect and incapable of error. Am I right?

As the Chicken Fries...

“My pleasure.”

If you’ve ever been inside a Chick-Fil-A restaurant or thanked me for holding doors open as you entered a room, you’ve heard these words countless times. “It’s my pleasure” has been my mantra for the past five years of my life. Two weeks ago, however, I ended my time as a Chick-Fi-Lady. Upon reflection of my waffle fry days, I realized CFA has taught me two invaluable life lessons.

Firstly, word choice matters.

Management had a right, as dictated in my contract, to dock my pay if someone reported I failed to respond to a “thank you” with “my pleasure.”  I hated replacing “Can I get you a refill?” with “May I refresh your beverage?” You should’ve seen the look management threw at me when I unthinkingly responded to a refill request with, “Can you take your top off, please?”

Though the differences may seem subtle or silly at times, the response in a guest’s face was not to be denied. They beamed at every unconventional phrase.

Secondly, never judge a customer by his car.

My fellow team members and I would play a game to see if we could guess a guest’s appearance and order based on the vehicle we saw pull up to the drive-thru speaker box. Mini-vans that showed up on the car cam were immediate cues for groans and exasperated sighs. We’d begin mentally preparing ourselves for an overly complicated order we wouldn’t be able to hear over screaming children. They’ll need ketchup. Lots of ketchup.

Every now and then though, you’d get the college kid who’s rolling in his mom’s mini because he’s already working two jobs to pay for his education. He’s maintaining a 4.0 and managing a girlfriend for whom he’s picking up dinner. He just wanted a number one with a coke.

I’ve learned perspective is everything. I always have a choice in how I view and react to every situation. I can make people feel special and I can appreciate that if I ever feel someone’s not worth a little extra effort, I may be missing part of a larger picture.

So, I’ve decided to employ my Chick-Fil-A cultivated conduct in all areas of my life. At work, I serve guests not customers.  When I dine out, I enjoy quick-service restaurants not fast-food joints. In response to gratitude, I do not answer with “you’re welcome.” 

It’s my pleasure every time.

The Not-So-Laborious Travels of a First Class Passenger

It's a few days after the Labor Day weekend, one of the most traveled holidays, and I'm finding myself stuck on an ethical issue rather than memories of mojitos on the beach.

My best friend, who works for Delta, and I were numbers 16 and 17 on the Labor Day weekend standby list to Miami. As we waited, besides tapping my foot, I passed the eternity-of-minutes by people-watching. Time after time, a business man or well-dressed couple would walk through what was titled the "Sky Priority" line. And every time, despite the length of the economy line, those passengers had priority. "Wait a second...that isn't fair!" I thought. Why can they skip the entire line, which now stretched down to the airport Starbucks? Because they can afford it?

The flight was leaving at 7:35 and it was already 7:25 a.m. At this point, I just wanted to get to Miami, but I'd nearly given up hope. (Though, I would have gladly offered to sit in the middle of the aisle or squeeze into the porta-potty-smelling airplane bathroom, but I'm pretty sure that's against regulations.) Then, I heard it. My name followed by my friend's name. Flustered, we stood together as the attendant hand-wrote our seat assignments on the ticket stub. Seats 4B and 4C...That's right. First class.

It was my first time visiting that forbidden, curtained-off zone except for the occasional walk-by. And it was incredible. The second I sat down, the flight attendant rushed up to ask what I would like to drink, which I'll add wasn't limited to non-alcoholic drinks (but I only know that because the guy behind me had three empty bottles of beer and a very satisfied look on his face by the time we landed). Once we were in the air, the attendant swept across the floor with a basket of free Sun Chips, Biscottis and king-size Snickers telling everyone, "Please take as many as you want. We have too many and will never be able to get rid of everything."

That's odd. In the economy section, where I normally sit, not only are alcoholic beverages pricey, but I only have the option between peanuts or pretzels. And every time I see someone ask for more, they get "the look." Why is that? I thought the days of societal class were over, but it appears they're hiding in plain sight.

While I'll admit I was quite in Heaven up at the front of the plane, something inside of me felt out of place. Do you think it's fair for customers to be treated completely differently simply because they pay more?

Nocturnal Suspicions

“Did you do it for the blood or the banana?”

This was the first thought I had coming into consciousness this morning. It didn’t mean anything; it was merely the afterbirth of my sleeping state, the little last bit of dream placenta slithering out of my subconscious and into the waking world.

I repeated the phrase several times in my head as I came to; reciting it like it was some kind of epic statement.

“Did you do it for the blood or the banana?”

For a brief moment it seemed like it meant so much, as if I were a warrior-poet standing atop the corpses of my vanquished foes, asking myself what motivated me toward my ultimate and bloody goal.

In the waking morning, however, the curtain was pulled back just to reveal how absolutely random and silly it all was, but that’s how my dreams have always been, impossibly epic and uncomfortably silly.

Every night when I sleep I wake up in worlds of wonder and insanity. Worlds populated with robot panda transsexuals and fish Popes. Worlds of beautiful mountain ranges housing philosophical flowers and and ships that ferry humans from one stage of evolution to the next.

I have also seen the heart of darkness. I have wandered endlessly through underground labyrinth laboratories, each corner promising something more terrifying then the next. I have watched bombs fall turning humans into (literal) popsicles. In my dreams, I have seen Eat Pray Love….the horror.

Through it all I have been everybody. I have been standing atop a futuristic tower of Babel as aliens rained down. I have been a man-made robot-god, and a lonely man in a desert. I have been Wolverine, Solid Snake, John Constantine, Superman, a knight, a space warrior, a slut, an opera singer, a cook, both Mario and Luigi at the same time…the list goes on.

Fuck it.

When I wake, all of that slowly fades and again I am Zack Taylor. Everything else slides back into the abyss. Most of it is forgotten and what I can remember falls under the category of “just a dream.”

Sometimes, however, in my quieter moments (which are rare) I wonder, if only for a brief instant.

“Did I do it for the blood…or the banana?”

Keep Your Seats Everyone...

The game ain't over yet!

I'm one of those girls who is obsessed with football. I know as much about the sport as a guy (or so I'd like to think), and I wait on pins and needles every year for the season to start.

And this weekend, it happened. The Georgia football season finally started. The Bulldogs traveled to Atlanta to play in annual the Chick-Fil-A Kickoff game against the Boise State Broncos. To say I was excited about this game would be a huge understatement. Boise State, for those of you who don't pay attention to football, has been a powerhouse in the Western Athletic Conference. They went undefeated a couple of seasons in a row, but they were never invited to the BCS Championship game because their schedule wasn't considered as "difficult" as say the schedule for any SEC team.

We had a huge opportunity to prove that the SEC was the best conference in the nation and that the Broncos really weren't as good as everyone thought. Well, we failed to say the least. Honestly, by the scoreboard, I'd say we did pretty well. I mean at least it wasn't a shutout. There were some poor play-calling (ahem, Mike Bobo) and some key errors made on both defense and offense. I, however, was more disappointed by the performance of the Bulldog Nation rather than the team.

I wanted to scream at all of OUR fans who were booing OUR team. Really? You're seriously going to kick your team when they're already down? To boo them in a stadium that was clearly one-sided was embarrassing for our team. The Dawgs worked hard all summer for this game, and hey, no one is perfect.

The one thing that upset me the most was when people left the stadium early. I NEVER leave a game early. I don't care if we are up 50-7 or down 7-50; I never, ever leave a game early. I was there to cheer on my team. To support them no matter what. Whether you believe it or not, the team needs us. They need to know that we are behind them for better or worse, for richer or poorer, for winning or losing. Walking out on your team is like walking out on a friend or a significant other. You're telling that person that you've given up on them.

I will never give up on my Dawgs.

This Saturday is another chance for Georgia to step it up and show the nation that we've still got it. But what I want to see is better sportsmanship from our fans. I agree with Jeremy Dailey and what he said in the Red & Black. I'd rather see Sanford Stadium half-full with true Bulldog fans then have the stadium packed with fair-weather fans who are going to boo my beloved Dawgs and walk out early.

Get Off the Road (Please?)

Excuse me, UGA bus drivers, but can you please stop yelling at pedestrians while you’re speeding down Broad Street with an over-packed bus? That’d be awesome.

Lately it seems that the bus drivers have very little patience for people on the sidewalks. Or crossing the street. Or driving in the lane next to them. Or doing anything that contributes to traffic at all.

And I get it. I mean, if it were me behind the wheel, the horn would go off like "Little Miss Sunshine" and every bright-eyed bushy-tailed smile that rode would hear a string of curse words that slowly faded only with their exit of the bus.

Which is why I’m not employed by Campus Transit. My road rage really squashes any chance I might have had (as does my driving record). In fact, I’m that bright-eyed bushy-tailed smile that endures the yelling and fist shaking of the driver at 9 in the morning, and it’s a little unsettling.

Slamming your foot on the gas to get a 40 foot bus through the yellow light does not start the day off on a high note. Neither does coming inches from hitting a group of girls crossing the street, all the while yelling obscenities at them for walking too slowly. And every time I start to think my doctor should be on speed dial, the bus comes to a graceless break-squealing stop, and wide-eyed students are lost in a sea of flailing arms and airborne legs.

I suspect many a bruise has been contracted on the UGA buses, and I’m willing to bet that most of them could have easily been prevented with a little patience from the driver. Please tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way.