Back when I was 18, I was the Dunkin' Donuts girl. I poured coffee for harried New Englanders eager to get a caffeine jolt late in the day. I did that dirty little job, five until midnight, five days a week for five years. I was a regular ol' workhorse. I know that because my boss, Bill, described me this way to his best friend, Mark. I'll never forget standing in the bakery when he said it. "Jessica is a workhorse." Not, "Jessica is a loyal and valued worker." Not, "I trust Jessica completely." No. "Jessica is a workhorse." And he said it with a smirk. Mark smiled. (Mark, it should be disclosed, is my second cousin. If he did more than smile, I would have punched him in the gut and tattled to our grandmother.) Considering I was a teenager who was self conscious about her weight, the last thing I wanted was to be called was a Clydesdale, if you know what I mean. In my over-active imagination, my co-workers were flirty, frisky fillies, while I was the beaten down dray horse plowing the field.Let me be frank, before that day, I actually took pride in the fact that I got the job done and did it well. But after the workhorse moniker, I wanted to quit. Seriously. I hated Bill at that moment, and, as you can tell, I'm still bitter about it eighteen years later. However, I was a workhorse, and regardless that my efforts were being mocked, I couldn't stop being one. Capable was what I was. And capable, I would continue to be.
I left Dunkin' Donuts and became a booking officer at a local police department. (Why, yes, I did go from doughnut girl to the cop shop.) If I was mocked for my industry at the restaurant, I was exploited at the PD. The problem there was that it became evident fairly quickly that if a cop wanted a job done quickly and done right, well, he called Jessica! She's that capable, conscientious little worker bee who is eager and willing to prove herself. My need to please got me so overloaded with responsibilities --from organizing the town's Open House to helping the Warrant Squad investigate felons -- that I had a mild freak out one night due to low blood sugar. I smashed my fist into a locker in the booking room after a girl tried to hook punch me. They sent me to a therapist shortly after this. "Jessica, you need to learn how to say no. Try it. Say no." Are you kidding me? Yeah, let me get right on that. Sorry, Captain, I won't help the warrant squad. Excuse me, what's that? Oh, it's part of my 'other duties as needed'? Do I want a verbal warning in my personnel file for insubordination? Umm, no? After this incident, however, I did learn the value of telling people, "I'll get to that when I can. But if its an emergency, you can speak to my sergeant about it." They never did and amazingly things still got done.
Being a workhorse in publishing is actually admired, believe it or not. Its just that you'll never get promoted or monetarily compensated for it. No, instead, you'll get threatened; reminded -- and often -- that there are at least twenty people standing right behind you who would do it better and cheaper and for longer and you should just grateful for having the job. Right. Thanks.
If I thought things would be different in TV then I would have been wrong. But, luckily, I had no expectation. After more than a decade in the work force, I've come to the keen conclusion that I am a workhorse, and workhorses are just not valued in contemporary American society. It's more important to know someone at the top and use good adjectives in your resume than it is to actually be able to complete the job that's listed in the advertisement. Give good interview, secure the job, then do just enough to not get fired. It's a Dilbert world, people. I was reminded of this today. (Because you knew this was coming from somewhere, didn't you?)
"Jessica, can you come up front?" asked the Receptionist through the intercom.
When I arrived up front, my boss was trying to place a brad into a script while his assistant just sat at her desk. Okaaay.
"I need you to cover this. Soon. But it doesn't have to be tonight," he said. Which means, he wants me to read it tomorrow and give him coverage before he leaves work tomorrow evening. Hopefully, he won't leave early. "This guy met (my boss's boss) at the 'Irena' screening and now, come to find out, this guy knows (my boss's assistant) and is hounding her about it."
Um, let me get this right: This writer was invited to our screening -- probably through my boss's assistant -- and met my boss's boss -- probably because my boss's assistant pointed him out -- and now I've got to read his bad script -- which both my boss and my boss's boss have deemed unlikely -- because my boss's assistant is being annoyed by the writer/acquaintance's persistence. Why isn't my boss's assistant reading it? Well, because regardless that the hounding is so overwhelming that she has to complain to the boss about it, the frisky filly might not get to it...so give it to the workhorse.
I used to think that if one proved oneself capable and efficient, an employer would value that and give one greater opportunities. You know. To get promoted. To get ahead. She's good, she's capable, she has the ability to go far in this company! We value her and her work ethic! However. That's not the way it works, does it? As my therapist used to say, No. Instead, what happens is the workhorse gets all the, well, work, while the frisky filly gets the opportunities. Why? People have all sorts of answers to that question, but I personally think it comes down to respect. People don't respect the guy who shines their shoes, picks up their garbage, or does the menial job they don't want to do themselves. Like reading bad scripts. It needs to be done, obviously, just not by the sexy people. The sexy people are too busy doing other, more sexy things. (I never know what, but they are always too busy doing it to make their own copies.) And, let's be honest, one would never hook up their Arabian to a plow, would they? No. But a Clydesdale is just made for plow pulling, now isn't it? It gets the job done. It's capable, sturdy, efficient. It's a workhorse. We appreciate the job the Clydesdale does, we just don't respect him for it.
I left Dunkin' Donuts and became a booking officer at a local police department. (Why, yes, I did go from doughnut girl to the cop shop.) If I was mocked for my industry at the restaurant, I was exploited at the PD. The problem there was that it became evident fairly quickly that if a cop wanted a job done quickly and done right, well, he called Jessica! She's that capable, conscientious little worker bee who is eager and willing to prove herself. My need to please got me so overloaded with responsibilities --from organizing the town's Open House to helping the Warrant Squad investigate felons -- that I had a mild freak out one night due to low blood sugar. I smashed my fist into a locker in the booking room after a girl tried to hook punch me. They sent me to a therapist shortly after this. "Jessica, you need to learn how to say no. Try it. Say no." Are you kidding me? Yeah, let me get right on that. Sorry, Captain, I won't help the warrant squad. Excuse me, what's that? Oh, it's part of my 'other duties as needed'? Do I want a verbal warning in my personnel file for insubordination? Umm, no? After this incident, however, I did learn the value of telling people, "I'll get to that when I can. But if its an emergency, you can speak to my sergeant about it." They never did and amazingly things still got done.
Being a workhorse in publishing is actually admired, believe it or not. Its just that you'll never get promoted or monetarily compensated for it. No, instead, you'll get threatened; reminded -- and often -- that there are at least twenty people standing right behind you who would do it better and cheaper and for longer and you should just grateful for having the job. Right. Thanks.
If I thought things would be different in TV then I would have been wrong. But, luckily, I had no expectation. After more than a decade in the work force, I've come to the keen conclusion that I am a workhorse, and workhorses are just not valued in contemporary American society. It's more important to know someone at the top and use good adjectives in your resume than it is to actually be able to complete the job that's listed in the advertisement. Give good interview, secure the job, then do just enough to not get fired. It's a Dilbert world, people. I was reminded of this today. (Because you knew this was coming from somewhere, didn't you?)
"Jessica, can you come up front?" asked the Receptionist through the intercom.
When I arrived up front, my boss was trying to place a brad into a script while his assistant just sat at her desk. Okaaay.
"I need you to cover this. Soon. But it doesn't have to be tonight," he said. Which means, he wants me to read it tomorrow and give him coverage before he leaves work tomorrow evening. Hopefully, he won't leave early. "This guy met (my boss's boss) at the 'Irena' screening and now, come to find out, this guy knows (my boss's assistant) and is hounding her about it."
Um, let me get this right: This writer was invited to our screening -- probably through my boss's assistant -- and met my boss's boss -- probably because my boss's assistant pointed him out -- and now I've got to read his bad script -- which both my boss and my boss's boss have deemed unlikely -- because my boss's assistant is being annoyed by the writer/acquaintance's persistence. Why isn't my boss's assistant reading it? Well, because regardless that the hounding is so overwhelming that she has to complain to the boss about it, the frisky filly might not get to it...so give it to the workhorse.
I used to think that if one proved oneself capable and efficient, an employer would value that and give one greater opportunities. You know. To get promoted. To get ahead. She's good, she's capable, she has the ability to go far in this company! We value her and her work ethic! However. That's not the way it works, does it? As my therapist used to say, No. Instead, what happens is the workhorse gets all the, well, work, while the frisky filly gets the opportunities. Why? People have all sorts of answers to that question, but I personally think it comes down to respect. People don't respect the guy who shines their shoes, picks up their garbage, or does the menial job they don't want to do themselves. Like reading bad scripts. It needs to be done, obviously, just not by the sexy people. The sexy people are too busy doing other, more sexy things. (I never know what, but they are always too busy doing it to make their own copies.) And, let's be honest, one would never hook up their Arabian to a plow, would they? No. But a Clydesdale is just made for plow pulling, now isn't it? It gets the job done. It's capable, sturdy, efficient. It's a workhorse. We appreciate the job the Clydesdale does, we just don't respect him for it.
While I resisted it back when I was 18, I'm just now coming to irrefutable conclusion that I am a Clydesdale. And while the frisky fillies will fail upward to become CEOs, the best I can hope for is stay healthy and not get shot in the field.
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