Tidbits for Christmas

This is going up one day later than I'd planned for it to be published, but I'm too lazy to go correct the time errors like "today" or "yesterday." Deal with it, huh? ;)

There's so many loose little stories cranking through my head these days that it was time to dust off the Tidbits album and jot an entry. Without further adieu, enjoy my fodder...

Something happened today that would be difficult to relate to you if we were sitting across from one another (unless it was 2am and the setting was a local bar after a whole lot of alcoholic lube)! I now know with certainty that I do indeed have a guardian angel! You know how we all laugh at people who traipse through a restaurant with a piece of toilet paper trailing on their foot? I had the opportunity to compound that tenfold today, but as I said, my guardian angel had my back.

I ran out to do some last minute grocery shopping for the salad fest I'm bringing to the table tomorrow. Upon my arrival back at my house, I dropped the bags of produce on my counter. I looked down at the floor and saw the kitty bowls still sitting on the floor where I'd left them. I thought, "I need to pick those up." Then I went to bathroom since the coffee I'd overindulged in earlier was threatening to blow up my bladder.

Now this is where it gets interesting. Back in the kitchen, I sorted the canned cat food I bought and put it away. I placed the various vegetables I'd purchased in the crisper. When I turned around and looked at the pet bowls still on the floor, I saw the addition of a pair of pink panties. How did those get to be laying among the leftovers from kitty brunch? After a brief denial phase, I thought hard about the jeans I was wearing. Yes, I wore those underwear the day I last wore the jeans that were on now. Oh! My! God!

Of course I wondered if they had been hanging out of the back of the jeans while I was out. That wouldn't matter since my coat never came off. Were they perhaps hanging out of a leg of the jeans? I can see it now...other shoppers whispering to one another to look at the girl with the Fuschia pink bikinis hanging out from the cuff of her pant leg, dangling on her black shoes. Oh my. While I was slightly worried about anyone having actually seen the sloppy decor of my hurried dressing, I was more relieved that they hadn't actually fallen out of wherever they came from while I was actually under the fluorescent lights of the grocery.

Onward and upward. Thank Gawd for small favors. :p

I'd like to take a moment to say thank you to a person who gave me a great big hug of love today. When someone thanks you for infusing them with the Christmas spirit by your example and your love, that's cool. I don't feel especially inspiring, but if my acceptance and sharing my Christmas traditions have made you happy, then I am joyous. You are lovely, CS and I love you forever. Merry! Merry!

Speaking of traditions.... molasses cookies! Holy cow, I've had more requests and kudos for my molasses cookies this year than ever! I started making them about 4 years ago, and they are catching on as my signature Christmas cookie. If you love molasses cookies, jot this recipe down and make a double batch! I take no credit for the greatness of the cookies, as they are hard as hell to screw up, but it's a recipe worth sharing. The recipe comes from a memorial cookbook for a young woman who was killed in a car accident. I knew her from my hometown. My mother gave me the cookbook with a wonderful inscription that reminds me of "how very much you are loved."

The secret for making these extra yummy is to add a little extra of the spices to really jazz 'em up!!

Spicy Molasses Cookies

1 1/2 c melted shortening
2 c sugar
2 eggs
1/2 c molasses (Brier Rabbit is better than Grandma's)!!
4 c sifted flour
4 tsp baking soda
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp salt
1 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground ginger
sugar

Combine melted shortening with 2 cups of sugar. Beat until blended. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually stir in molasses. Stir together remaining dry ingredients, and add to the molasses mixture. Mix well. Chill dough in the refrigerator 8 hours or overnight. Shape dough into balls the size of a walnut. Roll each in sugar. Place on ungreased cookie sheet 2 inches apart. Bake in a 375 degree oven for 8-10 minutes, or until done. Let cool slightly on baking sheets. Remove from baking sheets and cool on wire racks. Makes about 8 dozen.

One word: YUMMY!! :) Go make 'em! They are good anytime of the year, but I never seem to actually make them any other time than Christmas.

The last week at work was party-laden, for sure! Whew. We had a construction company who always books their party with us. They run an open bar for their employees and there is a block of rooms rented to keep those who shouldn't drive, safely tucked away for the night. They eat well too. But this year, the guy came in with a chip on his shoulder which is totally ridiculous, given that he has a habit of being a slow payer. In fact, when August rolled around and they hadn't paid for last year's party, a lawsuit was threatened to make them pay up. And the guy has the nerve to march in and get haughty about anything this year? Oh boy. It started with his dissatisfaction with his reservation time. It's funny that several of our managers heard the owner give the man an 8:30 reservation since it was our busiest party night of the Christmas season, but the man threw a fit at the hostess station and insisted that the reservation was for 7:30. Ummmm, no!

We rushed a very friendly, great (and I mean GREAT!) tipping group out of what we call 'the wing' to accomodate the asshole and his employees, and enlisted every free hand to clear and reset the tables to expedite the seating time. They were bitchy from the moment they sat down. Lori and I did what we could to appease the beast, but it was a futile battle since they had already decided that they would be as antagonistic as possible for the duration of their festivities. Yeah, there's the Christmas spirit I was looking to find. My cohort in service didn't grasp the urgency of getting the dinner order and followed protocol of gleaning a drink order first. As a result, I took 16 of the 22 people. I just wanted to feed them and get them out. Ugh.

They "one-drinked" us to death, sending us back to the bar as soon as we'd returned to deliver the previous beverage. They complained that it was too hot. Then they complained that it was too cold. They gave us dirty looks because we weren't fast enough, or ass-kissing enough, or disheveled enough by their attempts to piss us off. They were the quintessential asshole diners that every server wants to kick in the ass. And I kept wondering what kind of person has the balls to treat an entire restaurant's staff like they are worthless---when you don't even pay your bill!! The really funny part is that my restaurant still lets him bill out the night's charges. Is that considered enabling?

While I only walked out the door with $30.00 in my pocket that night, I was ecstatic by the huge tip that nice party added on to the mail out bill. Then I was relieved that management had the class to add a tip to the bill that went out to the obnoxious construction crew, and pay it out before they got paid. That's alright, you know?

Life is good. It's holiday time, which means that I can sit around and be lazy on not feel guilty. May we all kick back and enjoy some family time! Merry Christmas to all!

Ho! Ho! Ho!

This week has been a polar opposite to last week's rush of getting things done before my very own Santa Claus came to town. We are at the end of the trip now, with a flight out of Chicago awaiting him tomorrow. My love/hate relationship with airports veers to the loathing side as we approach tomorrow's impending departure. I like the arrivals oh so much more! But having the preparation rush over, and the relaxing week in, makes me reflective about the last few weeks, before I push to the end of the Christmas celebrations.

Work has been strange; some nights crazily crowded but tip-deprived, others steady and tip-wealthy. Still others have been downright slow and tortuous, not only to the psyche, but the wallet too. It seems for awhile there, there was always another envelope to contribute to something for someone. There was an envelope for a gift for the owners, another for our dining room manager, yet another for our compadre who just had major surgery. When you find another cause awaiting donation everytime you walk through the door, you begin to hope the holidays will simply end. But we scored big for our immediate supervisor who manages our schedule and dining operations! We managed to get her the one thing she truly wanted, but wouldn't splurge for on her own. One of our servers works part-time at Land's End, so attaining the coat Julie wanted was a piece of cake. It's also very cool that we didn't just get her something ho-hum because it's tradition to get the management a gift this time of year! She was blown away and we were tickled to see her so pleased. We'll see how she does with her responsibility for choosing something equally as wonderful for our owners. ;)

We had a cookie exchange last week, too. Not so many showed up, but we had fun! I wasn't sure I'd go since I had the airport pick-up the day before, but I managed to be up, feeling like I wanted to do lunch with the gals and contribute some molasses cookies to the mix. I got to tell my horror story from the travel day of my guy too. It truly was one of those Murphy tales. Santa's day began with his oversleeping, then traffic delaying the departure from home. A layover flight was canceled because there weren't enough passengers. The upshot was a 1am pick-up instead of a 4pm pick-up. The crowning jewel on the day was the surprise (which wasn't such a surprise) of the lost luggage that required a stop at 1:30am in the Lost Luggage Office. It was delivered via FedEx a day and a half later. But even with the arrival home at 6am, I made the noon cookie exchange and lunch!

When I told the girls that I was waking up my visitor when I got home so we could go get a tree, I got a great gift. One of my co-workers is in the Christmas tree business. She's also in the good deed business. When she heard I didn't have a tree yet, she almost leaped out of her chair. "You don't have a tree yet?!? You HAVE to come over and take one from me!" Turns out, she had a few extra that she'd been trying to give away. I followed her home and we loaded one in my sleigh. It's a perfectly sheared Fraser since her husband's company is our largest Christmas tree exporter. I wouldn't be surprised if some of you readers have trees that come from the same place mine did. It really seems lately, that it's not what you know, but who you know that brings great rewards. Heck, I'll take that.

And speaking of who you know... a few days ago Tom Bodett left a comment on my last blog. It's silly, but that comment made me grin like a little kid. Tom Bodett, the Motel 6 guy who leaves the light on...that's him! He left me a comment, read some of my blog! That's a gift in itself. I guess the reason it's cool is because some of my online friends and I have had a running joke about meeting at the Motel 6. We love Tom Bodett because he'll "leave a light on..." and we like to pretend we know him personally. And, in real life, we used to stay at a little Motel 6 when I visited my boyfriend. (We quit staying there after a guy was caught in the room next door to the one we used to stay in with a girl's body in his suitcase. Apparently, he had been taking her from motel to motel in that bag. Ewww. No offense to Motel 6 or Tom Bodett though. After all, that was the place where he was finally apprehended, which might be bad for business, but it kind of makes them heroes, doesn't it?)! And anyway, Tom Bodett didn't make that happen by leaving the light on. He's got a great blog that is worth checking out, so go read it! http://www.bodett.com/blog/index.htm

Thank you for stopping by, Tom Bodett. :)

So Christmas is zooming up on us!! Ready or not, here it comes! I'm ready. I'm calm. What I'm really looking forward to is the new year. This has been a tough year, truth be told. I feel a little squirmy to get away from it. I know it's just one day blending into the next, but I need to feel like I am moving forward to a new place. I wrote about it in my Christmas letter, mentioned it to friends and family to try to hold myself accountable. "Writing more regularly is my beginning point. In the next few months while it’s cold outside, I hope to start churning out some really marketable stuff. Time will tell, but I’ve made a promise to myself to get beyond the ‘getting by’ status of my life and reach higher. I just need more."

I just need more.

I bet in the next weeks my blog becomes pensive. Writing is the sorting belt for all that passes through one's mind. How do we find that place where we are happy with who we are and what we do? I'm not sure, but I will journey into 2007 in search of the satisfaction that I'm reaching my full potential.

Meantime, I'm gonna enjoy the rest of this Christmas season. In fact, I celebrate December 22nd like a Sun Goddess. We will offically be past the shortest day of the year. Now that makes my heart happy. :) God bless your holiday and your new year.

Tis The Season

December has arrived, and with it comes all those sneaky little holiday missions. Work heats up with company Christmas parties, my family negotiates schedules to choose the day we will share a holiday meal together, and the mercury on the thermometer drops so the white stuff can fly. Yes, it's a busy time.

It seems that the past weekend many people chose a tree. I saw a big, beautiful, full tree on a snowmobile trailer that spilled over the edges of it with its gloriousness. I would love to see that tree when it arrives home and gets decorated. That man is going to get a prize gift from his wife this year when she sees him unload that! I'm waiting to do my tree. My best friend will arrive and stay the week before Christmas since there's a free flight to use by December 20th. It's my not-so-secret joy to have a man who doesn't get flustered by my insistence that we move it, spin it, cut one more branch, tilt it, rearrange it one more time. I knew when I met him that putting up a Christmas tree with him would be wonderful. A man who pulls out his laptop to check his Streets and Trips only minutes into being lost, and waits patiently in traffic must be disguised as a saint of Christmas trees. And he is. I will wait for him to get here so we can weave another memory into our friendship.

There's the killer molasses cookies to make, the to-die-for almond cookies to bake. I want to decorate the house, all but the tree. I power shopped Monday and am already over budget with a few gifts left to garner. What can I say? It's the Santa in me. I want my chores to be done early, though I have to admit that this to-do list I have is one I relish. I don't like that Christmas is so commercial, but I do love giving gifts. I also love making good food and decorating the house with my cherished Christmas things.

The restaurant where I work does a fair amount of holiday entertaining, too. It's good and it's bad. Since regular diners see the parking lot so full, they are inclined to think it will be a 2-hour wait and choose another restaurant, so that's not good. We run our butts off some nights for parties who get to choose their own tip amount, and some choose poorly. Saturday night was like that. We had a 40 sectioned into a "U" around the fireplace. The host wanted his guests to have anything they wanted, open bar, appetizers, dessert, everything. Other waitresses assured us this guy was a great tipper! When he paid the bill (and raved about everything being perfect), he left roughly a 12% tip. When a party like this takes up most of three waitresses section, leaving them each with one or two tables besides the party, it can cramp your style to get just $30.00 for the first few hours of your work shift. Ugh. I think if Lee hadn't gotten us all so excited by saying he was such a generous tipper, we wouldn't have been quite as disappointed.

I had a local couple stop in for dinner. They got good service and tipped more than I think they usually would, to my delight. But as sometimes happens, the best part of their visit wasn't the tip, it was the comment my hostess came back to give me after they'd left. "They said you were the best waitress they've ever had, anywhere! What did you do for them?" I laughed and told her I couldn't tell her. In reality, I think they said that because they were impressed that I kept their water glasses filled when they were slugging down water. I simply did what good servers do: bring the things the customer needs when he needs it, and take away what the customer doesn't need when he's done with it. Good waiting is really that simple. Well, kind of. You still need to anticipate needs. I like to arrive with a doggie bag when I know they are done, but want to take the rest home. I wrap food for people, rather than just throwing doggie bags on the table. Diners love to be pampered, and whenever possible, I spoil them with that one insignificant detail of placing their food in a take out container. They love it. Apparently, the Timm's loved it too. I'll carry that compliment a long time.

I'm finishing up some major projects at home as we head into the holiday season too. I've been refinishing the kitchen cupboards, a long and arduous job. I'd been avoiding the area by the sink since it has approximately one zillion corners tucked into the six half-shelves and window frame there. It is with great pride, joy, and relief that I can report that I have finally completed this beast! You see, I needed to have it done before I could do my holiday decorating. I won't put out my favorite Christmas heirlooms amidst the flurry of dust this chore creates. This gives me the green (and red) lights to forge ahead on decorating my house! I love my Christmas stuff and can hardly wait to see it all again. The Christmas music is already in the cd player. Let the games begin!

Yep, it's a busy season! My blogging has become rusty, and my writing seems a bit banal lately. I'm plodding through this not-so-creative time by being a workhorse in the home, and planning some very nice surprises for those dearest to me. Perhaps the few who read here will understand this. Comes a time when sitting at a computer doesn't cut it, you just need to get hands-on in your life and go do! I believe the physical activity is my battle against the winter blah's I've been fighting so hard. Christmas is a time for celebration. We celebrate family and the birth of Jesus. We celebrate friends. We celebrate our traditions that help us remember who we are and where we came from. We celebrate with cookies, and gifts, and music. I hope the season is full of whatever celebrations touch your hearts. What I hope, is that you slow down enough to enjoy the parts that make the whole and remember the real reason we do all this silly stuff.

Merry Christmas!

The Ant Story

I've been writing blogs and dismissing them before I finish. It's pathetic that I haven't been able to string enough coherent thoughts together to get a decent blog published lately. While talking to a friend of mine a few days ago, the ant story came up. She was chuckling about her boyfriend teasing her that she doesn't kill bugs, and I laughed with her. For the most part, I'm like that too. The exceptions are spiders, centipedes that get into my living space, and now--ants. Here's why. (This is for you, T)!

Last summer must have produced ideal conditions for the big black ants around here. The soil is sandy around here and I see a fair amount of anthills around the house. Ants don't bother me. Usually. I mean, they are the Superman of the insect world. Have you ever seen them dragging things bigger than themselves across the floor? They even carry the dead back to the nest! Ants have amazing little colonies that are quite complex, if you ever care to read more about them. In short, they are wonderfully coherent survivors.

But I digress. Ants are also a nuisance when they arrive in droves into your house, which is what happened to me this past summer. It was like my hardwood floors were their superhighways. I put up with it for awhile. Then their numbers increased and I knew it was time to get the Terro. I carefully set up little feeding stations near the shoulders of their highways and waited for them to disappear. But they didn't disappear; they only diminished in numbers. That was actually okay with me, since a few weary travelers didn't bother me so much. That is until the night one crossed the line.

I'd gotten home from work late one hot summer night. I fired up the computer to read at some sites I enjoy and check out who was on Yahoo Messenger. I had just gotten my browsers, email, and Yahoo open when I felt an irritation on my hip/butt/leg area. (Think of how your mom looked when she had her hands on her hips, looking at you disappointingly when you'd done something wrong. Where her index finger was positioned is where this 'something' was). I brushed at my billowy shorts pajamas, thinking it was just a nerve or skin irritation. I felt something on me then. I was afraid it might be a spider so I reached under and tried to brush it off without looking. Now, as I was doing this, the ant began biting me.

I jumped up and brushed harder at the ant. It would not brush off of me! And its bite continued to get more ferocious with each swat downward. By this time, I was getting rather alarmed at the pain it was inflicting and its steadfast refusal to get off of me. In a panic, I ripped the loose pajama shorts off, and really got a clean shot at whisking this thing off of me. Nothing. By this time, I was shouting obscenities at the the ant who had attached itself to my skin. "Get the fuck off of me!" "What the hell?" "OUCH!" "You son-of-a-bitch!" All the while, the little bastard's grip on me tightened. I finally realized that I was going to have to pluck this ant out of my skin like you would a tick. I calmed myself and grabbed it with my thumb and forefinger, giving it an almighty yank to release the pain it was inflicting upon me.

When I got the assailant out of my skin, I threw it as hard as I could across the room! I'm not kidding, I heard it hit the wall. When I wound up to launch him, I screamed again, "Get the fuck off of me!" That tough insect was still squirming when I went to look at him. I vengefully whacked him about ten times with a shoe. Having released its tiny teeth from my flesh, my senses began to come back. I realized I was standing in the middle of my spare bedroom in the middle of the night with the windows and shades thrown open, naked from the waist down! Whoops! I quickly put the shorts back on and listened for any hysterical laughter that might be coming from the night. Nothing. I did wonder if my neighbor, who is my landlady and friend, was out with her dog. It was pretty late though, and I thought the odds of her being out there were pretty slim. I figured my little tirade was probably going to go into the books as one only me and the ant would know about.

I was wrong.

I was telling my neighbor the story of my ant escapade the next day when she got a funny look on her face. "Ohhhhhhhh," she said. She explained that she had been out back with Taffy when she heard these God-awful screams coming from the bedroom. She further went on to say that she got very quiet and told the dog she thought they better go in their own house then. Apparently they snuck back into their abode while my trauma was playing out. She said she'd heard the "Get the fuck off of me!" and wasn't sure if I had a guy over or what. Wait. She heard me yelling in distress, wasn't sure if there was a man in the house, and chose to slink off to her own safety zone? Very not cool.

So I know now that I should not call on the neighbor if the going gets tough. I'm thankful that it was only an assault by a .000002 ounce ant, and not a 225 lb man I was fighting off that night. That little bugger did leave a red welt though. If I had called the cops, I would have had plenty of evidence to prove what had occurred at the scene of the crime... A dent in the wall where I had successfully deterred my assailant, skin particles in the deceased's mouth, the mark it left on me....

Pity the ant that decides to use my house for his foibles this Spring. In retrospect, I think it may have been worth the pain and suffering I endured for the laughfest the neighbor and I had when we pieced the whole story together. Still, I'm stocking up on ant poison. It's only funny once.

Places I've Been

It's Thanksgiving! I love the family-ness of the holiday, and the fact that it's about love and blessings, eating good and watching football, spending time and not being obliged to find a perfect gift for everyone you know. I'm happy to be "home for the holidays" too.

Two years ago, I was hosting Thanksgiving in the 60+ degree California weather. And even though the forecast for the Midwest is calling for above 50 degrees, it feels totally right to be here with that weather prediction. A friend was chastising me for noticing that being in California on a too-warm Thanksgiving was different than being in Wisconsin on an above average weather day. All I could say is that it's just different being here. The contrast is that I'll be in my mother's kitchen, helping her mash potatoes and stirring the gravy. I'm grateful for my mom in ways I can't express.

Home is where the heart is--trite and true (tried and true?) if I do say so myself. Part of my heart stayed in California when I left, but my traditions are here. It's not like my family does anything spectacular for the holidays, but there's a comfort in the routine that we've adopted in that big ol' farmhouse with our big ol' crazy mixed-up family. We are like a bunch of misfits who have found a way to celebrate our differences and enjoy each other's individual backgrounds. There's not one of us who hasn't suffered the loss of an immediate family member. I have three step-brothers, one real brother, and two step-cousins cum step-sisters, a stepfather, and my mother. We are the Millennium Brady Bunch. It's hard to describe how we all fit in as a family!?! From my vantage point in the family, we've collectively lost two fathers, a mother, a sister, a brother, and six grandparents. I'd like to think we've learned to accept the blessings of each other at holiday time. Having a family to reunite with is a good road for all of us to travel. There is a comfort in the familiar faces that come back to join in the prayer led by my dad before each meal we share during the holidays.

While today is the typical Thanksgiving I've grown used to, there are other Turkey Day memories that have wandered to the front of my mind. I spent one year making my traditional Thanksgiving meal for hunters who wanted my husband's restaurant to be open for the holiday. That was interesting. I really didn't need to get up so early to start that meal, but old habits die hard and I found myself among the industrial grade appliances at 6:00 a.m. that morning. I worried and fretted about the preparations for those who are not family, but save for a few minor flubs, that meal was a hit. I hope it's a good memory in their bank of Thanksgivings.

A few Thanksgivings later, after the restaurant was sold, I made a feast at home for some hunting friends who are like family. Trying to be helpful, Jake offered to make the gravy. What?? Oh no, my friend. The gravy is just too important to pass it on to someone who has never done it. I did take the moment to show him how you make good gravy. "Stir fast and pour slow," my mom always said. It works, and he learned fast, and we made a great gravy that day. Glory be to my birthday twin, Jake. I love you like my own brother.

The year after that Thanksgiving, I skipped making the big meal and traveled home to ensconce myself in the kind of day I'm heading for today. The next year I didn't cook either, but I had a turkey in the freezer for a dinner later, like December or January. Little did I know when I bought that turkey that I would prepare it as a mourning dinner. My best friend died before Christmas that year. Her mom and dad, husband and daughter needed friends. I thought a get-together over a good meal would lift all of our spirits, so I invited them over for this. Her 5-year old daughter came and spent the day with me, cooking (well, mostly playing in pie dough). That little girl had some astounding statements that day. That's why that day goes into my Thanksgiving memory bank: Nothing makes you realize your blessings like witnessing a little girl's newfound understanding that her mom won't be reading her anymore bedtime stories. Today I give thanks for years I knew Alissa and pray for Lauren.

Thanksgiving--turned around it reads "giving thanks." The Pilgrims celebrated the harvest, made a feast of the bountiful food that the earth had produced with their hands. It's cool that we still do this, isn't it? I mean, Christmas isn't about Christ anymore. Easter isn't about the Resurrection anymore. Memorial Day and Labor Day have no meaning to most, except it's a long weekend. We've lost a lot of our holiday awe. Thanksgiving stands proudly as a day for joining with those we care about to enjoy a fantastic meal. We are blessed to be able to choose the foods we want to prepare in abundance for those we love the most. We are lucky to be in the greatest country in the entire world! No matter the disappointments, we have much to give thanks for today.

I need to pick up dinner rolls. My crabby mother is feeling pushed and shoved from a too-busy week, and is peeved that her house isn't decorated. I just assured her that we don't come over to see her house. I need to get that green bean casserole put together too. I know when I come through the door and ask how everyone is, my step-dad will get that silly look on his face and tell me that my mother has been eating crab salad this morning. It'll be good to be home, and by the time we are putting spoons in the hand painted bowls filled with potatoes, dressing, corn, and yams, my mother will be smiling and relaxed.

"Callie Elizabeth"

"Callie Elizabeth." He crowed it over and over as we prepared for the Saturday night crowd. I heard him tell the hostess. Then I heard him tell the salad maker. Then, when I was ducking into the storeroom for a pad of paper, he said it to me: "Callie Elizabeth." On cue, I asked who that was. "My new cousin's name," he beamed. I smiled and nodded, trying to be excited for him, but babies aren't my thing. And hearing the story five more times before I could disappear into the abyss of diners made it that much more annoying.

Gary (*not his real name) reminds me of Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man when he keeps spouting, "Wopner at 4, Wopner at 4!" When his mother vacationed in Hawaii, God forbid an hour went by without us hearing that his mother was in Hawaii with her new husband. I feel obligated to appease the child in him that wants the attention of his big news. And I usually give him the questions he hopes the person who landed within conversation distance will ask of him. He can yammer on with little encouragement, and I know that work is the highlight of his day. What's the harm of listening to him while I chop lettuce or fill bowls with individual creamers?

But there's another side to this childish creature who has found a niche in our kitchen. When it's his turn to close, he will lock the back door early, ON PURPOSE, just so he can tell us waitresses that he's locked it and we'll need to exit through the lobby. And he shuts the lights off before we are done in the dining room only because he sees there's no customers left, therefore, no reason for the lights to be on. We routinely go back over and turn on some overhead dimmer switches so we can finish our work out there. He loves to be in charge! He's earnest about it. It is a responsibility with his name in capital letters. He savors the moment when he can walk out to the bar and tell the bartenders that the kitchen is closed--no more pizzas or bar chicken.

Yep, he's smug about his minor authority. And lest anyone feel sorry for the big kid who has a slight mental handicap, behold the following air of egotism!! On a night that was particularly busy and ragged, one of the owners (who is also the head chef) made sure he let everyone know what a great job they had done through the course of the evening. Gary stopped to chat with the owner who was relaxing with a beer at the bar. As Gary walked away, the owner said, "Hey, by the way, you did a great job tonight!" Without skipping a beat, Gary turned to look at the owner and said, "Yeah, I know."

Oh man. You gotta love a kid like that, huh? Just one of the cast of characters I meet up when I walk through the door and behind the curtain of what really happens where your food is prepared. "Callie Elizabeth." I heard it all over the kitchen tonight. If anyone left without knowing this kid has a new cousin they just weren't paying attention. I hope I don't have any dreams about this Callie kid tonight.

Getting Back on Track

It's been so long since I was on a regular blog schedule that I feel all discombobulated about what to write. And as every writer knows, the longer you procrastinate the harder it gets to regain your focus. So with absolutely no forethought, I present my grab bag of thoughts on this Friday before Thanksgiving.

Yesterday my internet went down for most of the day. This little annoyance was doubly aggravating to me given the fact that I've been searching for a new ISP. I have called my phone company (who provides my DSL, as well) several times in recent months to attempt to lower my billl by taking unused features off of my phone line. My phone is mainly installed to provide me the escape of my online folly. Yeah, I use it once in awhile for the few local calls I need to make, but my cell phone is my main source of phonery.

But I digress. Somewhere in my cluttered mind I realized that I was paying too much (even with all the stripping down I've done) for my phone. In checking around the net, I found I could save a cool $25.00 a month with a national provider. A gal at work told me they had said company and they loved the service! When I called the nationally-recognized phone company, I learned that the company I have right now is actually regulated. As far as I can tell, regulated means that a company is given carte blanche to own certain parts of every city in which they offer service. In other words, they control my online service and I can't do anything about it.

Don't believe me? Let's review what I've checked into, shall we? No national ISP's will work on my street with DSL service. I can get dial-up until the cows come home. (I don't want to downgrade to dial-up). No cable companies offer internet in my area. Satellite internet is on my short list of people I won't deal with. Oh, it's a long story as to why, so I'm going to ask you to trust that the shoddy treatment from the past is reason enough not to go down that road. Wild Blue (the dedicated satellite internet of its own) is over-the-moon expensive!

So when the provider had outages in my area yesterday, you can imagine my rancor. After executing all of the "fix" options on the window displayed in my browser by the ISP, I called them. After no less than five minutes of waiting, and five minutes of giving information that the woman couldn't seem to understand, I was finally informed of these regional problems that the technicians were working on as we spoke. I'm sure I was on the list of cranky callers she dealt with yesterday. They were on my shit list before they dropped the ball yesterday. Now I'm just plain pissed at them. I haven't given up my search for a new ISP, but I'm dejected about the possibilities. Maybe I'll move come spring; I have been here for over a year. (Note to readers who don't understand: I have moved almost every two years for the last decade)! :p

Another thing that has been derailing me is the time change. I just hate the early darkness, the cold that greets you when you walk outdoors, the gray days that string themselves together. I want sunshine and green and warmth! I notice the lack of drive in myself every year about this time. I'm working hard to find a cure for this annual disruption of my body rhythm, but it seems inevitable that I will go through this phase of sleeping nine hours every night and requiring an afternoon nap. Please don't tell the people who think I am a boundless bundle of energy and production.

Not everything is blah and oy in my world though. Thanksgiving is the best holiday of the year for me! I love that Thanksgiving is simply about being together. Think about it. As great as Christmas is, the whole gift-giving thing has put a spin never meant to be as the focal point on a holiday that is deeply sacred to Christians. Giving thanks on Thanksgiving is all that is required of you! Just show up at your mom's house with your casserole, pie, hors d'oeuvres, whatever it is you always bring to the table, so to speak. Maybe you just bring the new grandbaby, or the dog who is like a member of the family. Or perhaps you are the host to your family and friends on the best Thursday of the year. In that case, you will rise early and begin preparations for the dear ones who will arrive later to enjoy your home, your company, your meal. There's a lot of joy in welcoming folks into your home for a great feast.

Yeah. I love Thanksgiving. I'll probably do a whole blog next week on the holiday so I'll shut up for now.

Work has been interesting. I could probably do a whole blog on it too, but I won't. We had a business consultant review our restaurant and its workings for about six weeks. The results are in, and oddly enough, he listened to a lot of our suggestions from the survey he made us complete. I can only surmise that what many of us pointed out were things this business consultant also noted. Hmmm. Ya think the owners might have listened to us instead and saved a bundle on what this man told them? A few things from my own answers that are coming to fruition: supervisors beyond the "trinity" we currently have are being implemented, POS (point of sale computers for those who don't know the term), small training seminars in our products, plus a few other techniques that were no-brainers.

Sure, they'd rather listen to some outsider who thinks he knows their business. It's annoying. Or maybe I'm annoyed that my expertise hasn't been called upon? I've got around 12 years in at this place. I moved away, moved all over, and moved back, and they welcomed me back when I called looking for a job. Classic case of not burning your bridges, that. I used to do bookwork--including weekly deposits, bartending, hotel check-ins/check-outs, waitressing, and lots of other jobs before I left. They even asked me to be a manager at one point. And now? Apparently my status is that of a one year employee again.

Ah, I must be thinking too much again. Maybe when winter really sets in, my brain will get numb or freeze. For now, I'll just keep plodding through the days that seem to tax me so much. Even my writing is strained. Or rusty. There's a film over too much in my life. Pass the Windex, it's time to spruce up the view. There's always next time...and the next blog should be better.

Post Secret

If you look to left of this post you will see a list titled Blogs I Love. The third one down says Post Secret, right? You should visit that site every Sunday when Frank Warren puts up about 20 new anonymous secrets that have been mailed in on postcards. If I remember correctly, he started with a batch of like 200 postcards that he left in coffee shops and other places. When those postcards ran out, people made their own and kept sending them! It seems the idea is a wildly popular way to release your secrets.

Today I had the pleasure of seeing his traveling exhibit which is at my alma mater university. When I read the secrets on Sunday and saw that postcards would be on display so near to me, I knew I'd go. The internet has certainly brought vivid images close, but I wanted to see these secrets in their physical manifestations! I have to say that the exhibit did not disappoint.

For those unfamiliar with the site (get thee to the link I've provided), the secrets that folks want to find release from vary in extremes. Some of them are hysterical. Some of them are more sad than you want to be for a stranger. Some pierce your heart because you could have written them yourself. Some are odd. Others are crazy bizarre! I guarantee if you read the Post Secret blog, you'll wish there were more. Yes, it's that kind of a read each Sunday. I look forward to it, sometimes cheating to peek in late Saturday night to find the new postcards are awaiting the nation's morning coffee. I swear, it's better than the newspaper.

The postcards I got to see today were wonderful. Some I've seen online, but most of them were new. It was great to see some from the website in person, but because I devour these things like Raisinettes, I loved seeing all the new private thoughts made public. My mouth turned up in a smile over many, and I laughed out loud once. My heart ached for the people whose secrets were so devastating. I rolled my eyes more than once. I found the one that my hand could have written, and I lingered over it.

One postcard came with $.12 due. Apparently, Frank paid the twelve cents because it was on display! Some are elaborate with the secret owner's artwork. Yet others are postcards that have been bought, then written over in longhand. Some people type and tape their words on to assure their anonymity. Several appeared to be family pictures, most with a bar through at least some identifying part of the person so they wouldn't be recognized. Some are a mix of all of the above.

All I'm saying is it's a very human experience. It reminds us that even in our differences, our emotions fall along the same fault lines. Experts say that forgiving someone via a letter is very healthy. I'm sure that the folks who send in secrets experience great relief in the letting go process of sending away their classified information. And hey, Frank Warren is capitalizing in a big way from this service! Good on him for taking a leap on a crazy experiment with 200 postcards and hitting an American nerve! It's great fun, as well as thought-provoking, to read the secrets at Post Secret. And I wouldn't steer you wrong, so go take a peek!

(Travel) Tidbits #4

Going on vacation is such a production! With all the planning, packing, driving, flying, laying over, picking up, hauling, situating, sightseeing, repacking, hurrying up, etc, etc it's no wonder we don't do it very often. As if that's not enough, you have to find: someone to take care of your pets, someone to cover your shifts at work, someone who wants to spend vacation time with you, someone who wants to look at your pictures...

It's exhausting to put it all in place.

But we earn those chores, dammit. I worked hard all summer to merit the right to jump on the hamster wheel of travel. And so I've done it. I've been home for four days and I think I'm almost back into the routine of being here again. Talk about jetlag. I have what the ENT calls "motion sensitivity" so my travels on planes, trains, and automobiles often end up with a nice case of vertigo. The best way to explain how I feel after a lot of travel is to have you imagine walking through the Fun House at a carnival where the floor moves up and down as you try to walk through upright. That's my world after travel. Sometimes, (like this time) I'm lucky and I only get the slight light-headed wooziness for a few days. The floor has been steady and solid this go-round.

I probably sound ungrateful for a vacation. I'm not ungrateful. I enjoyed some warm California sun and saw some really cool places during my visit. I had good company. I ate well. I even got a little tan. But if I'm honest, I was confronted with demons from my past that won't quit howling at my door. Much like traipsing the steep paths of Yosemite National Park, my footing is challenged. I need some maps, some good hiking boots, maybe a GPS for my heart. I think the jetlag I'm experiencing is not from being in an airplane, rather from the whirlwind of moving so many times in the last decade trying to find a place where I belong. There's some pensive pondering taking place, and I desperately wish to rein it in so I can be comfortable with who I am.

At least the microcosm of the airport was entertaining. I found it interesting that the computers you can pay to access in the terminal of an airport fetch a buck for every four minutes. A tidy profit, eh? I'm always appalled that the food courts in the airport are allowed to charge you almost double for a quarter-pounder just because you are stuck there at their mercy. I call bullshit! God help you if you want a cocktail during a layover.

The security screening is always a jolly time too. I didn't once make it through a checkpoint without having someone dig through my duffle bag while I watched. Once it was oddly laid out sheets of Sudafed and Benadryl, another time a bottle of water, another time no known reason to dig through my bag. I didn't know you couldn't have lighters in checked luggage, so I handed that over to the man I saw digging through the bag ahead of mine upon my first departure. "Let me save you some time," I said to him as I unzipped the compartment and relenquished my new green Bic. And when I opened my checked luggage when I got home I found a nice little card from the TSA saying my bag had been physically inspected. I think it's funny that they put the card in there now. They know you are gonna see that it's not packed the way you did it, don't they? It's like the card should read, "Uhhh, yeah, we looked at your dirty underwear and souvenirs but we were unable to put things back so you wouldn't know we rifled your suitcase. Sorry."

Travelling is a world all its own. One of my favorite pastimes while waiting in airports is to take in the fashion show around me. Man, some people totally overdress. Who are they meeting on their destination end? Other people look like they rolled outta bed, picked up their bag, and got a ride to the airport. And there's the mandatory business guy traveller--always in a suit and always carrying a laptop. Me, I always go casual comfortable. I have to admit that I stress a little about dressing for travel though. It's not because I'm worried about how others will view me, it's because I am usually going from a cold place to a warm place or vice versa. I want to hop off the plane ready for my weather, but if I do that, there's going to be discomfort in my temperature when I leave. As with everything in my life, I strive for that in-between that will allow me to be temperately satisfied.

I feel sorry for parents who travel with little kids. It's hard enough to drag your own stuff through the obstacle course that is an airport, much less yours and your kids' belongings. And kids, for the most part, don't travel well. I recall how drained I feel after long lines and too many people. Parenting is a tough job on a day with no travel, so hats off to those who get their families to their destinations!

Standing outside of the Denver terminal to suck in some nicotene, I stood watching intently the shuttles, taxis, personal pick-ups of the arrivals area. Sooo interesting to see people catching their rides!! A TSA official who was finishing her cigarette looked at me quizzically and asked if I was waiting for a personal pick-up or if I needed help finding my shuttle. Oops. I didn't mean to look that intently on the scene before me. I explained that I was on a layover and just getting a smoke. A Sheryl Crow look-alike, a group of excited girlfriends, a guy who thought I might know where his shuttle would be, two women, one dressed casually with pumps and the other dressed nicely with tennis shoes, and many others entertained a portion of my time in the chilly, shaded underpass that is the arrivals area.

Back in the terminal awaiting the last leg of my air travel, an old man and woman waited in the same gate area as mine. He was smitten with her, wrapping his arm around her as he showed her off to his new friend. She was coy back at him, tilting her head and offering her cheek for a peck. Hurried travellers jogged to a gate that was closing, weary people trudged in to find a seat to wait, others milled impatiently. A young girl sat on the ledge of the window that overlooks the tarmac explaining to a concerned party on the other end that she'd be back in January for her birthday, but only for a few days. Tears filled her eyes with the reply of the party on the other end, and she walked away. She clung to the phone and the person to whom she spoke, pacing the area looking teary-eyed until our flight boarded. Another man with a hooded sweatshirt jacket, work boots, an orange baseball cap, and oddly, a laptop, bantered with a man several rows away from him. An eclectic group of people sported brand new World Champion Cardinal redwear. Many people put their noses in books to pass the time. Some people scarfed down fast food while they waited. Almost everyone checked his or her cellphone and used it.

Yep. Travelling is interesting. I'm always reminded how insanely different we are when confronted with such a diverse population as maneuvers through the maze of airports. If you travel, take some time to watch the drama around you. Two-hour layovers are not nearly enough time to take it all in. Oh, and make sure your socks don't have holes in them because you will be throwing your shoes into the tub at the conveyer belt of the security checkpoint.

Play a Train Song!

One of my favorite artists has this great story about this old guy who used to sit in the audience heckling bands for a train song. Ol' Skip would sit in a haze of Southern Comfort and smoke, yelling, "Play a train song!" Apparently, any band who's anybody knows a train song. Trains have always been a definitive reminder of who my dad was. Today I’m sharing my experience of going to visit my dad’s grave for the first time since I stood at it holding my mother's hand as a 4-year old. This is not so much sad as it is a collection of thoughts that remain with me as I exit the experience. Without further adieu, here is my poignant experience from this summer.

Today was historic for me. I know it won’t seem like it to most people, but today was a day I’ve waited for 35 years. I visited my dad today. His name was Thomas, called Tom by most. He died exactly 3 weeks before my 5^th birthday and one week after his 28th birthday. And my mom tells me the start of kindergarten and a birthday just before that kept the absence of my father from being a big deal to my childish brain. It’s funny. I have a handful of memories of my dad…and not one of them is a bad memory. He was a fun guy, though not around a lot. He worked hard, and I believe he played hard too. That dieselly smell from trains always reminds me of how he smelled when he came home from his day down at the roundhouse being a mechanic on trains. While most people complain because they have to wait for a train, I savor the moment, revelling in the clickety-clack of the cars on the track. It is my reminder from my dad that we should all slow down and smell the roses (or the diesel, for me)!

Sometimes he’d come home in the middle of the night still dressed in his train mechanic’s clothes, a little tipsy, and he’d call up the stairs for me and my brother to come down. He’d brought us ice cream!! Joy! I’m sure my mom gave him hell for that, but he’d insist on waking us up. And hey, what was the harm, we weren’t in school yet. ;) I can also remember a few times going down to the roundhouse with my mom. When we arrived and the door swung open to go in, I’d dash in ahead of my mom, see my big strong daddy, and run unabashed up to him. He always received me with open arms and swung me up for a hug. I have a vague recollection of my dad grinning broadly and the other guys smiling happily.

Good memories. Every last memory of my dad is a good one. I suppose that is the gift a daughter inherits in return for the heartbreak of not having that dad to chase off bad boys, ground her for coming home late, walk her down the aisle... And the memories are vivid. I’m thankful for the recollections. My older brother died 8 years after my father, and my younger brother was only 4 months old when his dad left this world. My mom doesn’t talk about him, so all I have is what is in my head. Yeah, I’m grateful.

I’ve wanted to visit my dad’s grave for a very long time. I asked my mother quite awhile ago where the cemetery was. I looked for it, thought I’d found it, and hunted the whole cemetery down only to be disappointed by the lack of a grave with my father’s name on it. Years passed with the thought still in my mind. My mom is funny about some stuff though, and talking about my dad has never been an open forum, so asking again was a precarious proposition. Sure, I wanted to see it, visit it, memorialize him, but I’m also very sure that we don’t need a public marker to visit in order to honor dads or brothers, moms or friends. I’m a believer in the everyday signs those who pass can and do give us to let us know they see what we are doing.

A case in point is about five years ago when I’d gone to see John Edwards (the famous psychic who connects with loved ones from the other side…and what he does is real folks—I shit you not). Anyway, I didn’t get a reading, but I know the reason I didn’t is because I’m not the kind of person who needs a reading to connect with loved ones on the other side, and there were many more needy people there than I. I was okay with the experience because it really is magical to witness the messages sent to people. On my way home, I had a great message from my dad anyway! Driving along the interstate well into the night, some radio call-in show had a guy raving about his daughters, “Blah, blah, blah…but I love them so much, and they are my whole world. So many people take so much for granted, so can you play a song for my beautiful daughters?” As the Joe Cocker song, “You Are So Beautiful” began to play, my one true sign as an enlightened adult who is aware of signs made a brilliant entrance. A shooting star so long and bright you couldn’t miss it shot across the black sky. I was moved to tears to hear that song and realize the shooting star came at that exact moment.

As I drove on, I began to question the meaning. I berated myself for believing in such coincidental things. I thought a long time on that star and that song. I said aloud, “If that is real, give me another sign so I know it’s you.” (I am a skeptic by nature, I guess). I drove silently, wondering about the validity, knowing there wouldn’t be another sign in the last hour and a half of my drive. Sheesh! What I’d forgotten was that there was a train track in a tiny town I had to travel through. By the time I’d arrived at the track, I was beyond tired, focusing furiously on the road ahead of me, and I’d forgotten the demand for proof of my father’s presence. When I crossed the track, something grabbed my attention and I looked to my left. A train sat unmoving not 50 yards down the track with its light beaming. There was an overpowering smell of diesel as though that train had been idling there for some time. What is so strange is that after so many miles of sleepy travel, that should have jolted me, but it didn’t. I looked calmly at the huge engine idling there so close to me, then realized my request had easily been handled. Guffaw one silly shooting star away, but not a train waiting for me in the middle of the night. Trains have always been a nudge from my dad. Nope, those were signs, sure as I’m sitting here.

END PART I

It was strange how I found out where my dad’s grave was. My friend whose boyfriend just died is buried in the same cemetery. Easy as pie, in relating my funeral trip to my mom, she said, “Oh, that’s where your dad is buried.” WHAT? I cannot believe I was there, and I didn’t know this information. Still, I had the information now! And, as luck would have it, I had another trip to Madison planned.

When the day arrived, my friend and I traveled to the cemetery separately since I was heading out of town right afterwards. We called it our trip to visit the Tom’s. (Her boyfriend was also named Tom). I was listening to a rock station on the way out, but they were playing crap, so I put it on an oldies station that always plays good stuff. There were a bunch of commercials, and it must have been divine intervention that kept me from changing the station in my impatience for good music. When the station resumed songs, it played a song that was special to my friend’s boyfriend who died. After that song ended and we were nearing the cemetery, a slow song started. When I realized it was Joe Cocker singing “You Are So Beautiful” I knew without question that my dad knew I was on my way. (Remember the message song from years before?) I fumbled around the car for the “Dad” wreath I’d bought just so I could hear the end of the song. After it ended, I got out and walked to Sandy and told her what had just happened. She held out her arms and exclaimed, "I have goosebumps!!"

Sandy sat at her Tom’s grave, and I wandered off toward where my mom told me my dad’s grave was. I was still wandering in the general vicinity when Sandy sauntered over to help look. The cemetery must direct people to the flat in-the-ground type of memorials because it is almost exclusively those kinds of headstones (most are metal, actually).

I had noticed in the course of my grave-gazing that many of these markers were very generic, and it made me sad to see these stark remembrances of a person’s life. It got me sort of depressed to see my dad’s bare memorial. We found his parents’ graves first, which are near, but not right next to his. I was glad to see they had a marker that was one for both of them. It held each of their names and a ribbon with flowers between them that read, “Together Forever.” It was nice. I was still anxious to find my dad’s though. I knew we were close to it, but Sandy went into the administration building to ask for a map. She came out and told me we were close to it; the lady at the desk told her it was very close to the building where we’d been looking.

Once again, it was Sandy who found our treasure. She yelled over to me, “Hey, I found it. It’s over here.” I turned to where she was, kind of excitedly, but also sort of apprehensively. Could I handle the loneliness of an old metal plaque with simply my father’s name, birth, and death on it?

As I neared her, she looked at me quizzically and asked, “Was he a train dude?” YESSSSS!!!! My spirit lifted right then and there. When I approached the site, I looked down at a beautiful dual toned metal marker that had not only my dad’s name, birth year, and death year, but also a train plaque embedded at the bottom, and entwined roses on the top curved corners. Whew. It was lovely. It had personality. I was touched that his grave showed some of who he was in this world. And since it was the second grave directly in front of the administration building, it was perhaps seen a bit more than others.

I set to work immediately putting the daisy wreath in place. I brushed off the freshly-mowed grass clippings from his marker, pulled the longer grass that crept over the sides out of reach of the mower blades that had so recently passed over it. I chatted with Sandy about my father’s passion for trains. He’d converted our very large basement into an incredible train village. Our entire basement had plywood to raise it up and create his expansive villages for his trains. It was elaborate in ways I cannot describe, but he powered the trains from a port in the very middle that held all of his controls.

Anyway, Sandy took her leave and I sat and pondered the life of the man whose name stared back at me. I thought about why he wasn’t here, and how much I’d missed not having my dad growing up. I got very sad. I got very proud. I wondered why I’d chosen to keep my married name after my divorce because I liked the sound of my ex-husband’s last name better than my dad’s. Suddenly, I wanted my father’s name back. His blood runs in my veins, and I’m sure I have traits that he had. I just don’t know which ones because I was too young to discern our similarities. I realized in those moments at my father’s grave, that I have loved my dad more than I’ve ever realized. I think I’ve squashed those feelings because I couldn’t have him here physically, but I love him, miss him, wish he’d been here so much longer than he was.

Something powerful moved me to trace my finger over the upraised letters of his name. I traced slowly. Great emotion bubbled up as I honored a man I hadn’t truly memorialized since his death. I became aware in that moment, for the first time, that I have a dad. Dad was only part of my vocabulary in a very distant way. My friends had dads, not me. It’s difficult to explain the clarity that being there brought me. I have a dad. It was the first time since I was a tiny 4-year old, that I felt sure and comforted that my dad is by my side, watching over me. I’m proud of who he was, even though I know he wasn’t perfect. In fact, his irresponsible behavior is probably what killed him. He fell asleep in a running car in our garage, and my mom found him in the morning poisoned by carbon monoxide. I don't think it was suicide as his death certificate states; I think it was poor judgment, tiredness, drunkenness. Did he overdo a belated birthday celebration with coworkers? Whatever put him in such a depleted state of mind, it was an unlucky twist of fate that cost him dearly. But then, I believe when it’s time, it’s time. Nothing was going to change that.

I thought about a lot of things as I hunched over his grave under a fully blossoming, brilliant white crab tree that day last week. I kept touching the metal, swiping at stray pieces of grass caught in the letters and numbers. I shook my head and laughed a little, asking him why he’d done that. I told him I missed him terribly growing up without him. I told him I was proud of him, and hoped that he was proud of me. And of course, I told him I was sorry it took me so long to get there. I think he understood. Hearing “the song” upon my entrance to the cemetery made it easy to know that everything was okay, and that he was glad I’d finally found him.

All is forgiven, all is well.

Being able to place a public sign of affection after 35 years was a spiritually-satisfying ceremony. I know there’s never been a “Dad” memorial laid at that grave. I feel a special new bond to my dad after doing that. I believe with my whole heart that he was there hearing every word I breathed that morning. I am calm and peaceful for having completed a journey I’ve wanted to for so many years. I’m also relieved to know where it is, exactly. I feel lucky to have a mom who put a special mark on his gravestone, knowing that someday his children would want to have that part of his personality shown to them in the last vestige of any physical proof of his existence. I am grateful for the experience last week in that cemetery overlooking the rolling hills and farmland.

Was he a train dude? Yes indeed he was.

Heh, You Don't Say

Last night I waited on a guy who turned 91 yesterday. Would you like to know what his infinite words of wisdom about life were to me? We all love those words to live by that the older lot can hand down, don't we? And I didn't ask him for his great secrets to life, he just doled them out, unsolicited.

Before I just hand out this secret o' life, I want you to meet this gentle soul who graced my world for a few moments of his birthday. He came in with his wife, who was quiet, but like him, stunningly adept and aware of her surroundings. They were joined by a son or daughter and his or her spouse. They ordered what they wanted, and when they were done, the 91-year old's wife said in her quiet manner, "I think he'd like mushrooms for his steak." I smiled and nodded, as everyone who ordered steak had declined my upsell suggestion. But a wife knows. And it was his birthday.

The birthday boy was chatty as he came into the dining room. His daughter (?) was adjusting his hearing aid as I greeted the table. As I poured water, she finished and took her seat, asking her father if that was better. Yes, but the background noise was loud. I took note and spoke more loudly so noone at the table would have to strain to hear the specials, the soup, the surprise of a free birthday dinner for Mister Ninety-One. After I'd finished my usual greeting and asked for a drink order, the gentleman piped up with, "No, we'll get drunk at home!" I laughed and nodded. He made me chuckle right away.

They were a lovely table, causing no problems whatsoever. Me and the other waitresses were not taxed at all on this quiet evening, and as it turned out this table would be my last of the night. With the boon of a Packer win and the suggestion from last night that if the Packers won, "we have to celebrate and have 20 drinks" the plan was to sit and relish our win, enjoy our friendships. And so it would be. But not before I learned the lesson of life from this man who has seen it all in over 90 years on this earth.

The old gent allowed the ladies to order first, maybe so he could steal the show by being last. When I got next to him for optimal hearing and conversation, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "If there's anything you want to know about being 90, you just ask me." I smiled at him and told him I would think about that opportunity. After he ordered his food, he spoke again about his age. I guess when you're 91, time is running short so you don't hesitate to speak your mind. I should have been thinking of some question I wanted a sage answer to instead of asking what sort of salad dressing the man would like.

It is sort of like somone saying to you, "If you could ask God "One Question" what would it be? No one is ready for a challenge like that. I mean, I should have had some unbelievable question for the man who offered to give an answer to any question I had about making it to 91-years old. I had nothing. I felt sort of shallow, not having something prepared for this moment of great revealing... And he could hear just fine. It wasn't like I'd have had to shout my question and hope he'd hear it. He answered each meal preparation question easily, not like an old fogey who needs a question repeated louder and louder until you are shouting your question at him. He was a-okay in the hearing and cognizance departments, in spite of all the fuss early on.

When the order was done, he looked at me and conveyed a serious demeanor. "Look here," he said, "there ain't nothing great about 90. Do stuff while you're young enough to do it because when you get to 90, there ain't nothin'." He looked only half-satisfied with that tidbit of insider information, so he continued, "And I haven't done anything to get here. I just put one foot in front of the other my whole life. There's no secret to being 90."

I felt sort of sad by that admission to the secrets of life. But he didn't seem like one of those sad old men. Hell, he still had a very lovely wife who as much there as he was. I don't know that many 90-year olds who still have their spouses here on this earth. I bet if it hadn't been an historic day (birthdays after 75 are historic, right?), he'd have been more jolly than he was. I bet on a normal Thursday he is the happiest guy in the world to be living with a woman who I'll wager has been his wife for more than 50 years!

He made me think, though. He still had a sparkle in his eye, despite his gloomy prediction that there is nothing going on when you are 91. Life is what we make it. I think that guy must have a pretty good attitude to be in such great mental and physical shape. I don't know the heartbreaks and hell he's been through in his life, but I sure would have loved to sit down with him and let him tell me some stories about the road to yesterday's birthday. He was cool, and my birthday wish for him is that he finds the excitement that makes him leap out of bed in the mornings, happy to be here another day.

Tidbits #3

This has been the week before vacation week. And we all know how those are. They go by too quickly in regard to getting ready, but far too slowly in awaiting the departure day. Still, I've gotten most of what I needed to get done, so it's going well. And truthfully, I don't go on hiatus until Wednesday so there's still time to finish those other 'To-Do' chores.

My pre-vacation ahhhhhh for the week was tanning for the first time since early spring when the temperature didn't get above 50 degrees. I'm not really tanning to acclimate myself to a beach or anything, it's more for looking good. I hate looking pasty, but I truly derive greater benefits from laying under those hot lights of the tanning bed. I get my much-needed sunlight vitamin. I have a great distaste for those individuals who bronze themselves like they've been on vacation for two weeks in mid-January, so you will never see me overly tan, but I do like the extra boost of color come those frigid months. Yes, a tanning bed is a cheap luxury I allow myself in the bleak confines of winter in Wisconsin.

I had a very funny experience this week. I had gone out to the front steps to "save" the potted flowers I had from the harsh weather. There were blooms on it, and I thought if brought it into my unheated entryway it would bloom and last a few more weeks. It's a big pot. There's been a few spiders in it over the summer. I am deathly afraid of spiders and will turn into a gyrating, screaming mess if one gets on me. So I checked it over before heaving it up to carry it around the house. Once I was relatively sure it was clear of spiders, I maneuvered it up, but away from my body. I turned around to take it quickly, in case there was a spider I didn't see who wouldn't enjoy the ride, rising within the plant. Directly after turning around to walk away from the front steps, I tripped on a little stump that has been there since the day I moved in. The big pot of flowers I had in my hands flew forward and immediately flipped upside down. I fell forward with absolutely no grace. Fortunately, I didn't hurt myself and noone witnessed my idiocy. The flowers were a little worse for the wear, but they have bloomed in spite of their momentary unpotting.

I picked up a few extra shifts this week to make up for the ones I had to give away next week. People are really something, ya know? I had a table of five who had a birthday in the group. The birthday gal was a sweet 80-year old who had no idea she could get dinner on us since it was her birthday. Now, I'm not obligated to relate this information when unknowing people walk through the door and start discussing their birthdays at the table, but because I'm a nice person, I usually do tell them. Her i.d. proved she was indeed a birthday girl, so I took her meal off of the bill. As so often is the case with these free birthday meals, the tip stunk. I got 5% of the pre-free meal bill's total. As a server, all you can do is shake your head and wonder what is wrong with these people. But then, I'm of the mind that if someone else is buying, my server is gonna love his/her tip because that's what I do when I'm out. How insane is it to leave a $3.00 tip when you've just gotten a $14.00 meal free?

Usually we are just glad to see the cheap diners who pull this undertipping stunt leave. These folks tried to do just that, but ran into some car trouble. They came back in looking for some help in the way of a ride home. I have no idea why the car wouldn't start, but apparently jumper cables or using a cell phone to call a tow truck wasn't an option for them?? No less than three of my coworkers stepped up to the plate to offer a ride for these shitty tippers. I felt bad for them, but I was still a little peeved that this grandmother's kids/grandkids had all but shut me out from a tip (my wage!) after some really great service. They got home in an Audi that one of our more affluently-married waitresses drives. The whole incident made me wonder even more about these people. Are they so inept at their lives that getting the car started and/or fixed didn't cross their minds? Like I said, I don't know what was wrong with their car. It just seems to me that asking for a ride should have been lower on the list of options.

Things that make you go, "Hmmmmm!"

I'm vacationing soon and not sure I will post anything. Likely, I will not. I plan on putting up the thought-provoking piece that was published before I go because that should give you something to chew on for the week of my absence. I'm sure that spending time in the airports of America will give me some material to write about upon my return. The rest of today will be devoted to football, laundry, then work again. Thank goodness our bye week is over! Spending the day in Chicago sure made the bye week easier to handle. Now back to our regularly scheduled football debacles....

Mister Moo's Neighborhood

A few people have asked how Mister Moo is doing, and I'm inclined to give him a blog all his own to explain. Let me assure all of those interested that Mister Moo is more than fine these days. In fact, I might describe him as downright silly! Yes, he's been giddy with life, as if he knows he escaped a death sentence. No kidding, folks, he is a firestorm of energy and life. And it thrills me everytime I see him enjoying his great world!

My heart is still all mushy where the little moo cow is concerned. I look at him and can't help but be grateful to see his little masked face staring happily back at me. He seems thankful too. I can't explain it. He just seems to understand that the horrible day he experienced was an evil necessity to restoring his good health. His fur is short, but filling in over the scar. He likes it when I pet him there too. I believe it's healing and is possibly just a bit itchy. The scar that remains is a testament to his bravery. What a trooper!

If we back up just a little, this started as the tiniest bump on his neck. I commissioned my neighbor who is a farmgirl to look at the spot. I so clearly remember her saying, "You've got nothing to worry about there." A few weeks passed with the little bump becoming just the eensiest bit larger, and Mister Moo becoming just a little bit less comfortable with anyone messing with it. I finally called the vet when the hard little callous wouldn't go away.

I really thought we'd just be zipping in to have a piece of a burr removed from under his skin by a lancing procedure. When Dr. G looked at the bump and palpated it, she looked confused. She drew some cells from it, a procedure that didn't seem to faze Mister Moo in the least. When she came back from the lab area after examining the slide, she knelt down to peer at Mister Moo who was cowering under a chair in the exam room. When she said, "those are some pretty unhappy cells," my heart fell.

She assured me that it was not a foreign object causing this lump, and that it would need to be surgically removed. And because of Mister Moo's age, he would need bloodwork to be sure he was healthy enough to undergo surgery. Thankfully, the tests she took that day all came back fine. Surgery was scheduled for the morning after a double shift for me (of course)! I got up early to have him to the vet by 7am. I had two offers from great people to take him so I could get ready for my day job without the added burden of a 50-mile roundtrip before my day began, but I couldn't convince myself that this was an acceptable mode of transporting my little dude to the scariest day of our lives together. So I forewent sleep and talked him into partaking in a prayer with me on the way down.

Leaving him, signing the papers, and giving my daytime phone number to the vet officials at the desk was beyond horrible. I had grave misgivings leaving him there. I was positive something awful was going to happen to him as they were operating. I'm not kidding when I tell you that I wished it was me who needed the surgery that day. I gave the "I know we aren't supposed to have cell phones" speech to all of my classes that day so I wouldn't have to deal with the chastising that would come with the ringing of my phone should my worst fear be realized. I ended every speech that day with, "Trust me, I don't want my phone to ring." Thank God, it never did.

I was still panicked driving back to pick him up after school. I was sure they would just give me the bad news when I arrived to retrieve Mister Moo. "I'm sorry, we lost him on the table." I'd be leaning against the high counter sobbing while they asked if I wanted them to cremate him... When I was getting out of my car to go in, I was sure the woman behind the counter had an "uh-oh" look on her face when she saw me. I didn't so much request my cat as I asked, "I'm here for Mister Moo?" The woman looked sentimentally at me and said, "Oh, Mister Moo." She walked to the back, but I wasn't sure if she was coming back with my cat or the vet who would tell me the horrid details of how he died.

When I saw her carrying my pet carrier with a black and white face peering out, I breathed for the first time that day. "You're so silly!" I thought to myself. Then, as I was cooing at him and reassuring him that we would go home now, he turned his head. It was all I could do to hold in an audible gasp when I got my first look at the wound. It actually looked like they had tried to saw his head off. I am not kidding about this!

It was very difficult to look at the surgical incision Dr. G put into him. She popped out to the front while I was paying my bill so I took the opportunity to ask her (I swear I even sounded calm!) how it had gone. She said it was a very deep and strange little tumor, but that she'd gotten it all. Good. She also told me that for a moment during the surgery, she thought I'd been right after all and there was a foreign object under his skin. Apparently this small bump had a stick-like stem in it that was buried deep into his shoulder blade. I listened intently to all she had to say. Interestingly, the $15.00 worth of pain meds that I'd opted for was actually given in the form of a shot while he was still under so I wouldn't have to try to jam any pills down his throat during his recuperation. Rock on solid there! They all gave him glowing reviews for being a perfect patient too. "We didn't even know he was here," they raved!

The last detail was to find out how long we'd have to wait for the results of the biopsy. A week to ten days was the answer. Ugh! It seemed like an awfully long time to wait for a biopsy, but there was no choice in the matter.

And so we left. They warned me that he might not be hungry for awhile, but my little guy wanted food the moment he was freed from his plastic prison with a handle. Of course I acquiesced. He drank water for a long time too. They said he may cough for a few days from the intubation of the anesthesia tube down his throat, but he never did. He was a brave soul in every way as he recovered. The saddest part of bringing him home was the shunning he received from the brother and sister who were not excited about his 'funny smell' and weird wound. I really think they perceived him to be the weak link. Others have told me this is normal behavior for animals, but I still scolded the two who rebuffed him so nastily. Poor Mister Moo just wanted to nuzzle Punkie and be welcomed home, but Punkin would have none of it. I think they still resent Mister Moo's odd scar and extra attention, but they have mostly accepted him back into the family.

Of course you all know by now that it wasn't cancer. We found out only five days after the surgery. Dr. G left a message on my answering machine that told me right away that Mister Moo's odd tumor had many strange results, but no cancer. She even surmised that it might have been a foreign object, after all. I could have called her back to find out more, but the Big C was definitively not present, and that is all that mattered to me. I should have had one last opportunity to see her for suture removal, but I did that myself to make it easier on Mister Moo. So the day we left the veterinarian clinic and the sun came out for the first time in days was the beginning of putting that day behind us.

For the most part, we are back on track. And as I've said, Mister Moo is very energetic and happy again (though he never lost his verve, even under the heavy sedation of that 3-day painkiller they injected into him). Mister Moo has always been laid back. He's the calming force in my life at home. His stoic demeanor during the ordeal that put me into such a panic speaks volumes about his character. I love watching him resuming his napping activities, his flagrant pushing of the water bowl to get the water spilled so he can lap it from the floor instead of the deep pool that lies in the bowl, and his usual greeting me at the door. Life is good in Mister Moo's neighborhood.

Tidbits #2

This week's winner for most annoying event goes to the lazy asshole at the hardware store who couldn't get off his duff to come over and actually help a customer. I'm standing in the plumbing aisle looking at these $10 kits for faucets thinking, "I was just figuring on buying a washer for the leaky faucet." As I'm pondering this and letting my eyes scan the entire wall for just washers, a kid from the yard walks by and asks if I need help. When I explain my confusion, he tells me that he's not familiar, but will get someone who can help me. Now, six feet from me I can hear this kid telling the wizard sitting on a stool behind a counter what I'm looking for. Rather than get up from his comfy perch, he just yells over to me that I'll need to know my faucet brand, then I can just use the chart by the stacked drawers full of washers. I quite seriously considered yelling back to him, "Are you fat???"

Let's just say that I won't be going in there again anytime soon. I'm going back to the friendly little corner hardware store that has the oldtimers and less convenient parking, thankyouverymuch.

My guilt trip for the week happened on Wednesday afternoon when my mom stopped by to say hello and pick up a dinner treat I made for her and my stepdad. Bear in mind that my mom sometimes get information she really shouldn't have courtesy of a coworker of mine at the restaurant who also moonlights as a housekeeper at my mom's workplace at a retreat center. And it's really not a secret that I'm trying to write more these days. But let me digress just a little and tell you that despite what I told you in a previous blog, I've been rather careful about who has the url to my meanderings. I have not shared it with anyone I work with because that would take away my freedom to rant and rail against "my" establishment and those housed therein. I have not given it to friends who might pick and poke at my embellishment tactics because, well....I wouldn't be able to ad lib like I do sometimes without someone calling me on the table for not presenting just the facts ma'am. And I sure as hell am not sharing it with my family, for if I did, I would feel awkward and aware of every small thing I divulge about my stupid life.

So when my mother asked me if I was sending my writing to anyone these days, I glazed over it with a "I'm just trying to write more regularly right now." But there was a look. It swept across her face for one brief second while she absorbed the blow of my not sharing my grave visit publication with her. I'll admit it made me a little sad for a moment. Only for a moment though, because the wave of guilt over the lying by omission that crashed over me after that made me step up and gasp for air. I immediately went about printing off my "Oh Marley" post for her to take along with the homemade grape jelly, beef stew, baking powder biscuits, and Tollhouse bars. Anything to avert the discussion of me being published! I guess it seems harsh that I've chosen not to share my published piece with my mom. Maybe it is. However, discussion about my father has never been an open forum, and I confront some of those demons in my journey to my father. I don't want to bare that much of myself to the woman who gave me life. I don't want her to have to accept that I know why my father died in our garage three weeks before my fifth birthday. And I don't want her to misconstrue my words about her.

So it's complicated, you see? And she's my hero so I can't disappoint her. I think if she "heard" the story from me it would hurt her. I'm guilty as charged, but only because I'm trying to protect her and me, and our relationship. And hey, ya know what? Maybe I'm being a little selfish too because I don't want to share my dad with her. I guess it doesn't matter. It was a deluxe guilt trip, complete with first class accomodations here in my head.

I had a great compliment this week when someone shared with me that another person asked him to describe me. He said he'd like my opinion on how he did. He told the person that I was "a big person in a little body." I think I like that.

I had a kind deed done unto me by a couple who waited and watched as I put air in my tires at the gas station. The wind blew one of the little caps away because I didn't hang onto it while I struggled with the hose, pressure guage, and awkward position of the tire stem. Though I did a quick search of the area, I couldn't find it. I pulled over to fill up my car and as I was getting out, the woman from the minivan came over and presented me with the little black cap, proudly announcing, "We found it!" I laughed and gave her a nod of appreciation. It's nice that strangers still help strangers sometimes, isn't it?

I watched the movie "Flight 93" this week. It was poignant. The movie makers did a great job of putting us in those seats with the passengers. I think it's good to reflect on the precariousness of our existence. I realized that the one person I would probably want to call is someone I wouldn't be able to call if I didn't have my cell phonebook available. How pathetic. I will memorize that number by the end of the weekend. We need to be more aware that the current goodbye we are delivering may well be the last goodbye we get.

I watched people greeting arrivals a few months ago at an airport. I was appalled at the disregard I witnessed. Obvious couples grunted and glanced at one another, almost angrily. If I ever get that indifferent to the people I claim to love more than anyone, please shoot me. How sad it made me to watch these families coming back together with such disinterest in one another.

I'm taking Sunday for a day away with friends! House of Blues and Chicago style pizza are on the agenda. It's a good way to start the week, don't you think?