Blah, Blah, Blah

Genius Waitress, Indeed

2011-12-04T20:12:00.002-06:00

I humbly reprint the following, which a bartender I work with printed and posted in our wait area. Oh, how true it sounds! And if it's not, I want it to be. I think Still Life with Woodpecker is at the top of my reading list. Thank you, Tom Robbins.

Genius Waitress

Of the genius waitress, I now sing.

Of hidden knowledge, buried ambition, and secret
sonnets scribbled on cocktail napkins; of aching
arches, ranting cooks, condescending patrons, and eyes
diverted from ancient Greece to ancient grease; of
burns and pinches and savvy and spunk; of a uniquely
American woman living a uniquely American compromise,
I sing. I sing of the genius waitress.

Okay, okay, she's probably not really a genius. But
she is well-educated. She has a degree in Sanskrit,
ethnoastronomy, Icelandic musicology, or something
equally valued in contemporary marketplace. Even if
she could find work in her chosen field, it wouldn't
pay beans--so she slings them instead. (The genuis
waitress is not to be confused with the
aspiring-actress waitress, so prevalent in Manhattan
and Los Angeles and so different from her sister in
temperament and I.Q.)

As a type, the genius waitress is sweet and sassy,
funny and smart; young, underestimated, fatalistic,
weary, cheery (not happy, cheerful: there's a
difference and she understands it), a tad bohemian,
often borderline alcoholic, frequently pretty (though
her hair reeks of kitchen and bar); as independent as
a cave bear (though ever hopeful of "true love") and,
above all, genuine.

Covertly sentimental, she fusses over toddlers and old
folks, yet only fear of unemployment prevents her from
handing an obnoxious customer his testicles with his
bill.

She doesn't mind a little good-natured flirting, and
if you flirt with verve and wit, she may flirt back.
Never, however, never try to impress her with your
resume. Her tolerance for pretentious Yuppies ends
with her shift, sometimes earlier. She reads men like
a menu and always knows when she's being offered
leftovers or an artificially inflated souffle.

Should you ever be lucky enough to be taken home by
her to that studio apartment with the jerry-built
bookshelves and Frida Kahlo posters, you will discover
that whereas in the public dining room she is merely
as proficient as she needs to be, in the private
bedroom she is blue gourmet virtuoso. Five stars and
counting! Afterward, you can discuss chaos theory or
the triple aspects of the mother goddess in universal
art forms--while you massage her swollen feet.

Eventually, she leaves food service for graduate
school or marriage; but unless she wins a grant or a
fair divorce settlement, chances are she'll be back, a
few years down the line, reciting the daily specials
with her own special mixture of warmth and ennui.

Erudite emissary of eggs over easy, polymath purveyor
of polenta and prawns, articulate angel of apple pie,
the genius waitress is on duty right now in hundreds
of U.S. restaurants, smile at the ready, sauce on the
side. So brush up on your Schopenhauer, place your
order--and tip, mister, tip. She deserves a break
today.

Of her, I sing.

Tom Robbins
Playboy, 1991

Angels Among Us

2011-02-04T23:37:00.006-06:00

I am one of those people who believe in things like angels, and God, and miracles. I am always astounded by those who don't believe because, as evidenced on Tuesday night, there are most definitely angels sent to help us when we need it most.

My Tuesday started with my usual cup of coffee, surfing the web, and my iTunes soothing me. I heard a train whistle blow from inside my brick-sided fortress, which was a little unusual but welcome since those train whistles are little hellos from my departed father. I always smile a little when I hear a train. Having arrived back in the town in which I belong less than a month ago, I took that train sound as nothing but glad tidings from my dad.

When I went out into the cold to brush off the new snow from my car about an hour later, another train whistle blew. This one had a foreboding echo to it. It actually stopped me mid swipe to tilt my head, look upward, and silently question my daddy about what he was trying to say to me. A small chill ran through me, and there was an honest fear in my heart. I shook it off because I had to get to my first job of the day.

I muddled through my day at the school, then got to my second job on time. I was uneasy because of the blizzard forecast, and hoped that I would get done before the roads got too bad to get home. As is usually the case when you are hoping to catch a break, I ended up being at work very late. However, I was determined that I could make it home to sleep in my own bed. I had to! I had not had a day off in two weeks, and was sure the storm would shut everything down for Wednesday, ensuring my well-earned day at home. I'd even taken a roast from the freezer Tuesday morning in preparation for my wondrous day without work!

When my work was finally done, I bundled up to face the fierce wind and snow, trudged through it to my car, and brushed the considerable build-up from my car. As I backed out of the lot, the car dragged. I made it to the exit before I was completely stuck. Ugh! This could not be happening! Giving up, I went back in to announce my defeat. A co-worker with more optimism than I popped up and nearly shouted, "Let's go get you out!"

After more than a half hour, he did get me out and facing in the right direction! The normally bustling avenue had little traffic, so he parked me with hazards flashing to let me take the wheel. His final words to me were, "Just get in that lane and stay in it all the way home!" God bless him; I had given up.

In-town was that snowy leftover slop that the plows don't quite get pushed aside. Truthfully, it sucked, and I wasn't sure I wouldn't get stuck just trying to get going at stoplights. Arriving at the interstate area, the road suddenly cleared. Snow was blowing across the road, but it was bare concrete. "Piece of cake!" I thought to myself. 35 mph was going to rock the ride home!

And then that changed. Traffic departed in the next town's exits like rats jumping a sinking ship. That chat I'd had with a co-worker earlier about the ideal situation being able to have a leader in this kind of weather seemed to be a real fantasy. "Even better if he takes your exit," I had laughed! The truck I had gotten behind survived the first few exits and I was grateful for every mile I had with his tail lights to follow. The sudden drifts were known because I saw the snow he kicked up. The minor white-outs were no problem because his tail lights were my guide. Every mile with this truck was a comfort. I drove uneasily waiting for the impending blinker. Every car we passed that was in the ditch brought back that train whistle from the morning. Was that the message my father had for me? Was he trying to let me know he knew I would be needing his comfort while I sat freezing in a ditch under five feet of drifting snow? I shrugged off the thought and concentrated on those tail lights.

When we'd passed every exit that came before mine, I realized that I would have this angel's lights to guide my way to my own exit. Thank God for sending this man to drive us through this ferocious storm. So many times in those long slow miles I had given thanks for this truck. The driver was amazing. At one point, I was sure he was drifting to the right and would end up in the ditch. I steered my own car to the left, only to hit the grooves on the left side that warns of the ditch if you don't right yourself. I could not believe it!! I followed my angel without question after that.

He guided us between cars in the ditch, complete white-outs, drifts...keeping us at the right speed without getting stuck. There were only a few times the white-outs were so bad that I lost his tail lights. In those moments, I knew how much worse his drive was than mine. I am not sure I would have been okay without this truck in front of me. Getting on the road at the peak of the blizzard was not my best decision, but I am stubborn, and I wanted to be home for my day off. Staying at a friend's house was not what I wanted to do. Silly, stupid, stubborn girl!

I slowed down to try to make my first (usual) exit, but was unsure about it even before I got to it. One of the cars we passed had taken an exit that was drifted at least six feet and was stopped dead in its tracks. That scared me. I slowed down, but chose not to take my normal exit. My angel truck got ahead of me, and was out of sight for about a mile. I caught up, and found that comfort of his tail lights once again for my last few miles. My fear of missing my exit was an impending doom as my guide drove us closer to it. That car I saw that hit the wall of drift loomed large in my mind!

When you are driving in blizzard conditions, time and space are messed up. I thought for a second that I had actually missed my exit. Dread filled me. Just as my mind was coming to grips with the possibility that I would be stuck all night driving this highway, I saw my guiding angel's blinker come on--for MY exit! I exhaled heavily while sending up yet another prayer of thanks. I watched him maneuver the off-ramp, paying careful attention to how much snow was kicking up behind him. It was plowed and passable. We both made a right turn, me quite a ways behind him due to my trepidation of the exit ramp.

Town roads of my little community were fine. I breathed almost a full inhale for the first time in over an hour. The man who miraculously got me close enough to walk home took a left two blocks from my own home. I watched him try to get through the unplowed side street as I continued straight and said a tearful prayer of thanks for his stellar driving abilities to get us to where we were.

There's a whole 'nother story about actually getting into my house, but that's for another time. I slept in my own bed the night the worst blizzard in decades hit the Midwest, after driving in the worst portion of it. I thought about putting an ad on craigslist to thank this angel. I have tried to think of a fitting thank you gift, and trying to drive down that street to find this Godsent truck that kept me so safe in the worst conditions I have faced as a driver. My mouth actually got dry during the drive. The kind of dry you get when you are scared and nervous. And more than once, there were tears of gratitude for my buddy ahead of me. If we never meet, I shall never forget him.

Thank God for keeping His eye on all of us. Thank God for this man who was out in a blizzard that nobody should have been out in, at the same time that I was. Thank God this man lives where I live.

Kind sir with the amazing driving ability? Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. You are my hero.

The Last to Know

2010-04-21T12:00:00.003-05:00

It's no secret that I've been on the mend of a herniated disk for most of the last year. In my quest to heal thyself, upon my discharge of all formal physical therapy and spine specialist appointments I asked each of my providers if the complementary medicine offering of a personalized yoga plan would be a beneficial excursion for me. Both agreed that I could benefit from a yoga program.

And so it was, with great hope, that I toddled off one early Monday morning to meet a yoga guru who would spend an hour and a half of one-on-one time personalizing a program that could cure me of my PT boredom. The concept of not having to sit in a yoga class with 20 other people, trying to keep up and understand was appealing. The idea of having someone who would evaluate my needs and create a program designed to strengthen my weaknesses was delightful. The thought of a yoga expert focusing on my needs excited me.

Upon arrival I told him what had led me to him. I explained the disk issues, the arthritis and bone spurs in my neck, the bicipital tendonitis that brought excruciating pain. I expounded on the long road back to getting the strength back in my left arm, and how work continually worked against what I was trying to mend. I admitted that I knew nothing about yoga but thought the process could be good for me. I gave credit to my neighbor who had assured me that yoga was an amazing back-strengthening exercise. Yes, this was the right path for me!

The appraisal of my body came next. I climbed onto the massage table while he palpitated my shoulders and spine. He asked about my diet, bad habits, lifestyle. We began to experiment with some breathing techniques. Apparently, I did quite well. And, the only other bit of good news came at this point in the day too. "Your feet are pretty good for a server." Nice. Good to know. Those expensive shoes and extra care I give my feet is paying off.

Servers operate in a "flight or fight" mode during work. Okay, I knew this. The bad news? My body is always in this mode. What? I never relax. Really?

We spent the next hour in a room across the hall trying out stretches, positions, breathing. I am hopelessly tense (at the core) and need to let go. I am "almost trying to get back in the fetal position" with my tense, curling body posture. I pant. I have created misalignments that my body have built calcium to support. I will need to work very hard to undo these deficiencies in my ability to relax.

Meh.

I think worse than finding this out was the reaction of those around me. I called my best friend to tell her what the yoga guy told me. "You needed a yoga guru to tell you that?" I told my boyfriend what the man said. "Okay, but we already knew that." I informed my mother of this horrible news. "Yeah, but that's not news."

How come everyone else knew this? I thought I relaxed sometimes. When I told the yoga guy that I slept well (because I thought this proved I did relax), he practically yelled, "You're exhausted!" Oh. I can't believe that I did not know that I never relax.

I can tell you that having this information has not relaxed me one bit. Now that I am home from vacation, I will begin the long process of learning how to breathe, how to relax, how to stretch those tight muscles that are ready to snap. Sure....piece of cake. I just wish I wasn't the last to know.

Wear It Well

2010-01-02T12:07:00.002-06:00

I don't know why people have cosmetic surgery. Of course, I don't know why people are so stuck on STUFF, either. But everyone should watch this video, and listen to Bob Sima's wise words about those lines on our faces. What a beautiful story a million words could never tell!

Those lines are badges. I would not trade one line, one scar, one memory of what those marks on my face represent. Wear them well. Be proud that you have made it to where you are now. Enjoy this video, and this amazing message.

I've Heard of Such Things

2010-01-01T14:06:00.004-06:00

New Year's Eve is a server nightmare night. Trust me; it is. I have a tale of two (actually three) tables to share.

My 10-top needed separates. They ordered the cheapest entrees on our special menu for the evening. They hemmed and hawwed about simple decisions or questions for me. I wanted to scream. We have the option to auto-grat (automatically add the tip) to parties of eight or more. I never do, but I did with this group. They were just that lame. Ie: "Can you add booze to the hot chocolate?" Ummm, yeah. People have been doing that for years. Pick something for the bar to add to your hot chocolate.

When I handed out the bills, I made sure each person knew that the tip was included in the total. It went something like this on each end of the table, loud enough for all to hear, because I'm not that server who tries to trick you into tipping twice by not telling you I've added it: "I've included the gratuity so you don't need to worry about it." And yet, two people added a gratuity as though one had never been included. I guess not everyone knows that a gratuity is a tip.

[sigh]

But, there was a shiny bright spot to make the big bad table fade out of view! A server in a neighboring section met me at the point of sale computers and informed me, "My table right there wants to pay for your table right here." Now, this happens. Or a round is bought for a table. It's fun to be the bearer of GOOD news! My table, a young couple with an adorable little boy was just about done. After giving them a box to wrap their leftovers, they told me they were ready for their check. "Ah. Well, there's a Santa here who wants to buy your dinner," I told them gleefully. They looked confused, so I pointed at my coworker's table and said, "Them!" They still looked confused. "Which one??" I pointed again and said those three people at that table. They shook their heads, and left.

Later in the evening, I asked the server of the other table, "Did they know that couple at my table? They seemed confused by your table buying them dinner."

"Oh, no. That man just told me that they wanted to buy that family's dinner. When I asked him if they knew them, he said no, that they just picked someone out to buy dinner for."

How unbelievably cool is that? What is really funny is that I don't know what prompted me to tell them that there was a Santa in the house who wanted to buy their dinner. Normally, I would just say that the table over there wanted to buy them a drink, or had picked up their tab. But I chose to use the word Santa. How did I know? Well, I didn't, but he was like Santa to me too because the couple tipped me 20%, and so did Santa!

Happy New Year!

The List is Growing

2009-12-03T21:24:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago I had to purchase a Theracane. This is not a walking stick, rather a trigger point massage device for my knotted shoulders. I highly recommend this for anyone who lives alone and needs to massage those hard-to-reach places on his back. However, in trying to find a place to keep this candy cane shaped device, I started to notice how much old people stuff I have laying around. It prompted me to make a list. Why I feel the need to share it is another question entirely, but here goes!

$500 Pronex traction unit (complete with carrying bag and 15/30 degree ramp thingy)!
Theracane
Vicodin
Flexiril
Lodine
Lidocaine patches
Neck pillow for travel
Elastic bands for PT exercises
Biofreeze
Heating Pad
Makeshift Stool in the living room for my newest exercise
Ice Packs in the Freezer
Numerous Printouts for Exercise Directives

I regularly drive to PT on my days off. I indulge in a massage once a month that feels more like extra work on my shoulder than anything really relaxing. I avoid the pills I made sure I stocked up on while the prescription was still valid, remembering the first awful weeks of this injury and my doctor's unwillingness to prescribe anything for the pain. I do PT every single day unless I'm working a 12 hour double shift. I do my traction each night, happy that it relaxes my back enough to make me tired, even. Occasionally, I do use the Lidocaine patches because they are absolutely amazing for taking the pain away.

It all feels kind of "old people"-ish to me. I know my job is exacerbating the issues in my shoulders, but I don't have a big choice at this point. The insurance is so good that it almost makes the injury worth it. I feel confident that I will overcome this in time. But some of the new products on my list I will carry with me forever. I try to view the compilation of things related to my herniated disk as learning tools. I understand a lot more about my work habits now and think I can manage the job action by being smart about how I use my physical self in carrying out those tasks.

I suppose another way to look at my list of injury paraphernalia is that they are tools in my recovery. I should be glad I have gotten the greatest care available. And I am. I have a whole 'nother post working about my amazing spine doctor. Favorite doctor ever, bar none!

So here's thanks for a wonderful care team, great insurance, a superb collection of old people stuff.... and a body that is healing.

I Love My Job!

2009-10-17T10:24:00.007-05:00

I work at a place that revolves around the Badgers. Mostly football, but we see business improve during the college semesters, then die off for the summer when school is not in session. Barry Alvarez dines with us sometimes (very snobby). Bret Bielema comes in sometimes (seems to be the womanizer they say he is). Heck, I've even seen Mark Tauscher at work. But last night topped all of those sports heroes. What made it even better is that this time I got to wait on the star. That's right; I waited on Bob Harlan.

I have always thought Harlan was a class act who furthered the storied franchise of the Green Bay Packers as much as anyone who has ever put his passion into this team. He came in with his wife and they waited for what was obviously a child and his or her spouse. They were patient in the rush that kept me from getting their drinks for a few minutes. For those who are dying to know, Brandy Manhatten-extra sweet vermouth. Hers was a regular Brandy Manhatten. They made me explain a 'fish boil' (which she did have) to the young girl who joined them with the young man. The Harlans ate Madison's Best Fish Fry because as Madeline said, "Oh, I want what everyone comes in for!" The young man had the Perch Fry.

The funny part of this encounter was that on my first approach, I saw those sparkly pale blue eyes and happy face of Bob Harlan and thought, "This is somebody famous. Who is he? I know this guy." That thought stayed with me the entire meal. It's like when you can't think of the name of the famous actor who played in that one film!?! It drove me nuts, but I was busy enough not to be whining about it to my coworkers. Only when the woman asked for the check ahead of schedule, and handed me her credit card did I get the clue I needed. Madeline Marlan? Another look gave me that "Aha!" moment I was waiting for....Madeline HARLAN. "Oh. My. God!"

"I'm waiting on Bob Harlan!" I blurted to my boss who was bartending. "Yeah, he's here," he said very calmly. "Oh my God! I AM WAITING ON HIM!!"

I was very cool and collected on the drop-off, and went about my usual protocol. "This one is for you, and please leave this one for me." It is also my practice to stop back quickly to retrieve the slip and my pen. I stood in the back gushing to anyone nearby that I had just waited on Bob Harlan. Most of the responses went something like this: "Who's Bob Harlan?" All agreed that it was very cool that I ended up with the family since I could appreciate the presence of the former Packer CEO more than anyone else there. As time ticked by, I kept thinking of my best friend, who is fighting cancer and appreciates every single moment in life. She would positively KILL me if I did not jump on the opportunity to say something (ANYTHING!) to Mr. Bob Harlan. I mustered up my courage in light of the new information I had about this table I had just spent the last hour trying to identify, and made the walk back to pick up the slip and my pen.

When I arrived at the table, the two men had their heads huddled, talking. I picked up the slip, thanked Mrs. Harlan, then stood for a moment. When Bob Harlan realized my presence and looked my way, I said in very metered emotion: "I'm sorry, but I have to tell you that I spent the entire meal trying to figure out why I recognize you. I kept thinking, 'Who is this guy? Why do I know him?' and I finally realized who you are." At this point I extended my hand to shake his, and he graciously produced what I then saw was a diamond-studded G-ringed hand to meet my handshake. "I want you to know that I really loved it when you were with the team, and I really, really, REALLY miss you up there. REEEAAAALLLLY miss you."

He was genuinely touched and thanked me for my words. He is such a man of grace and humility. If I loved him before, I'm bowled over 100x more now. This easily goes down as my best moment as a server. And I've been doing this for 25+ years. Wow. All I can say is....WOW!

And yes, they tipped well. Almost 25%.

This is Not New!

2009-07-21T12:23:00.002-05:00

The following article tells about "new" research that proves how very small children can learn foreign languages easily. While I give kudos to the new understanding on how we might incorporate this into teaching older students, I am disappointed that more exposure has not been given to this solid, and very old news.

You see, I learned about this method over two decades ago when I was in college learning how to be an English teacher. It's well-documented that babies can learn two languages as they learn to talk. I vividly recall my professor telling us about a family who taught their baby just this way. The mother spoke in one language; the father in another every single time they spoke to the baby. That baby had the valuable skill of speaking two languages before he could even walk. And we knew back then that learning a foreign language becomes much more difficult after the age of seven, too! Why? Why don't we teach this to first graders instead of hormone-filled teenagers?

Let this be your public service announcement for today. Parents with babies: Teach them now!

Unraveling how children become bilingual so easily
AP

By LAURAN NEERGAARD, AP Medical Writer Lauran Neergaard, Ap Medical Writer – Tue Jul 21, 3:08 am ET

WASHINGTON – The best time to learn a foreign language: Between birth and age 7. Missed that window?

New research is showing just how children's brains can become bilingual so easily, findings that scientists hope eventually could help the rest of us learn a new language a bit easier.

"We think the magic that kids apply to this learning situation, some of the principles, can be imported into learning programs for adults," says Dr. Patricia Kuhl of the University of Washington, who is part of an international team now trying to turn those lessons into more teachable technology.

Each language uses a unique set of sounds. Scientists now know babies are born with the ability to distinguish all of them, but that ability starts weakening even before they start talking, by the first birthday.

Kuhl offers an example: Japanese doesn't distinguish between the "L" and "R" sounds of English — "rake" and "lake" would sound the same. Her team proved that a 7-month-old in Tokyo and a 7-month-old in Seattle respond equally well to those different sounds. But by 11 months, the Japanese infant had lost a lot of that ability.

Time out — how do you test a baby? By tracking eye gaze. Make a fun toy appear on one side or the other whenever there's a particular sound. The baby quickly learns to look on that side whenever he or she hears a brand-new but similar sound. Noninvasive brain scans document how the brain is processing and imprinting language.

Mastering your dominant language gets in the way of learning a second, less familiar one, Kuhl's research suggests. The brain tunes out sounds that don't fit.

"You're building a brain architecture that's a perfect fit for Japanese or English or French," whatever is native, Kuhl explains — or, if you're a lucky baby, a brain with two sets of neural circuits dedicated to two languages.

It's remarkable that babies being raised bilingual — by simply speaking to them in two languages — can learn both in the time it takes most babies to learn one. On average, monolingual and bilingual babies start talking around age 1 and can say about 50 words by 18 months.

Italian researchers wondered why there wasn't a delay, and reported this month in the journal Science that being bilingual seems to make the brain more flexible.

The researchers tested 44 12-month-olds to see how they recognized three-syllable patterns — nonsense words, just to test sound learning. Sure enough, gaze-tracking showed the bilingual babies learned two kinds of patterns at the same time — like lo-ba-lo or lo-lo-ba — while the one-language babies learned only one, concluded Agnes Melinda Kovacs of Italy's International School for Advanced Studies.

While new language learning is easiest by age 7, the ability markedly declines after puberty.

"We're seeing the brain as more plastic and ready to create new circuits before than after puberty," Kuhl says. As an adult, "it's a totally different process. You won't learn it in the same way. You won't become (as good as) a native speaker."

Yet a soon-to-be-released survey from the Center for Applied Linguistics, a nonprofit organization that researches language issues, shows U.S. elementary schools cut back on foreign language instruction over the last decade. About a quarter of public elementary schools were teaching foreign languages in 1997, but just 15 percent last year, say preliminary results posted on the center's Web site.

What might help people who missed their childhood window? Baby brains need personal interaction to soak in a new language — TV or CDs alone don't work. So researchers are improving the technology that adults tend to use for language learning, to make it more social and possibly tap brain circuitry that tots would use.

Recall that Japanese "L" and "R" difficulty? Kuhl and scientists at Tokyo Denki University and the University of Minnesota helped develop a computer language program that pictures people speaking in "motherese," the slow exaggeration of sounds that parents use with babies.

Japanese college students who'd had little exposure to spoken English underwent 12 sessions listening to exaggerated "Ls" and "Rs" while watching the computerized instructor's face pronounce English words. Brain scans — a hair dryer-looking device called MEG, for magnetoencephalography — that measure millisecond-by-millisecond activity showed the students could better distinguish between those alien English sounds. And they pronounced them better, too, the team reported in the journal NeuroImage.

"It's our very first, preliminary crude attempt but the gains were phenomenal," says Kuhl.

But she'd rather see parents follow biology and expose youngsters early. If you speak a second language, speak it at home. Or find a play group or caregiver where your child can hear another language regularly.

"You'll be surprised," Kuhl says. "They do seem to pick it up like sponges."

Lunchables

2009-01-07T22:41:00.002-06:00

When girls get together for lunch, you know it's going to be a gabfest of the highest order. It's not like a business lunch, or a lunch date, or even the quick lunch that girls who work together might share. It is an event to be anticipated, and finally enjoyed upon its arrival. Just this sort of treasure occurred today for me and one other friend.

The woman with whom I shared lunch with today has done so many kind things for me that I insisted upon buying the food today. And when the lunch is set up to catch her up on the astounding events that have made your steps lighter and your heart more hopeful, well then I think it's mandatory that you feed the poor girl.

I suggested Chinese, and she agreed. I picked it up to bring home so that we could enjoy some private time without interruption or distraction from our intended intent conversation. And so it was that we sat at the kitchen table, me starving, she saying she was not that hungry. Her blue eyes were lit with curiosity and the smile said she knew something good was going on with me. As I picked at my rice and she ate voraciously, I tried to contain my story to some kind of chronology and sense. But that's not how it went. I fluttered from one thing to the next while she grew to understand just how surprising my life had become.

She knew when to impose her thoughts, when to listen, and when to assure that the wings I have kept tucked under me are still in perfect working order. She took my compliments to her through the course of the telling graciously. She poked fun at me when I needed that. She did all of this while the weight of her own world sat heavily on her shoulders. Friends like this cannot be bought. Lunches as fabulous as that won't be happened upon. And the encouragement that is given in those precious times of friendship cannot be replaced. A friend who celebrates with you even as her own world wobbles forward is a rare gift.

As we ended our lunch with a hurried goodbye because of appointments I had to keep, we promised to catch up even more very soon. I'm thrilled to know that it thrilled her for me. And I'm happy to have friends like this to invite over for such warm sharing. Thank you, friend. Thank you.

I'm Workin' Here

2008-10-04T11:59:00.001-05:00

Years ago, I had a friend who had a Blue Tick Hound dog. Max was a worker dog. My friend lived on a busy street, and when he heard something in the yard, he was "on the job." He would frantically run to the window, eyes ablaze with duty to guard his home. Annie would announce with great glee what was going through Max's mind as he executed this diligent behavior: "I'm workin' here!!"

Life on the avenue is pretty lively. Keeping up with all the shenanigans of the daily grind is difficult. Snippets seem to be the most I can muster. A little laughter goes a long way when you are in the weeds as a server.

Last night, my friend "Shawn" was in the section next to me. I saw him at the peak of the crunch time balancing an ungodly amount of sundries on his arm and hands. Why everyone I work with is so against using a tray is beyond me. I use a tray all the time because my hands are small and I cannot balance even two water glasses in my palm, much less the three or four glasses I see others balancing in one palm while carrying bread plates in the other. Nope, I'll use a cocktail tray, thank you. I raise an eyebrow at Shawn as he scurries on his way with his carnival collection on his person. As I'm doing my own dance of appeasement to my diners, I hear his large table being positively gleeful. I think to myself that it's weird that they are acting so surprised about a birthday cake that they clearly ordered. Did they forget that they ordered the surprise for the birthday girl?

I continue on my mission. A few minutes later, I have to go over by our coffee station for something. That's when I see it. The small birthday cake that was thawed during the course of the diners' meal for its debut is laying upside down on the floor, smooshed out from underneath its plastic plate. I suddenly understand the shouts of delight I heard a few minutes ago. Shawn is in the back of the house, performing the tedious job of unfreezing another birthday cake with short, half power spurts in the microwave. Too long or too high of heat and he will have a melty mess. Still, those other tables he has are waiting for something while he fixes this mistake that is surely costing him in dollars. I had to laugh. In fact, it was just what I needed in the midst of the crazy night we were having. Good stuff, that.

Last week was bizarre. My best friend from the northwoods--the one who died unexpectedly--is always on my mind. I think about her daughter who I have not seen since I left the northwoods shortly after Alissa's death. I think about how my life would be different, if not for her early departure from this world. I struggle with the fact that her husband and I do not get along, and that is what prevents me from seeing her beautiful daughter. Last week, coming from the back room to the hostess station, looking to the booths that run along the front of the restaurant, I see a man who looks like Alissa's husband. I'm thinking that's pretty weird, when I hear him say my name. I go over to a lukewarm hello. The surprise of it all made him call my name, but the reality of chatting is a little tense. Add to the mix that he's on a date. Of course, I'm looking at the woman to see how many Alissa-like features she has. There are many. Todd recently moved back to the area to be near his ailing father. I knew that, but never thought I'd see him where I work.

The crazy part of the whole encounter is that I was utterly lost in trying to remember his first marriage daughters' names to ask about them! Ugh. And I was so uncomfortable at interrupting a date that I could not piece together any of the questions I really wanted to ask. Bleh. He asked about a girl who worked there. Yes, she still works here. Talking to her a few days later was wild. She knew him, knew about his wife dying, talked about their common friends. It was strange to answer her question about what happened to his wife. This is a different world, not that world. The two finding a connection felt surreal and took me back to all those empty feelings I felt when she died.

Several weeks ago, another blast from the past collided with my new life at the place on the avenue. Two women, one man, and an older couple sat in my section on a busy Friday night. They ate, drank, and were merry. When they were finished, the patriarch took the check. Coming back with his credit card and receipt, I glanced at the name. It's good customer service to address the patron by his or her name when they pay with a credit card, and I do it as often as I can. My eyes can't always pick up the name in the dim light of the restaurant, but it was serendipitous that I looked this time. The name on the card instantly clicked with the face of the man I took the card from moments before.

Arriving at the table with his card, I held it before me, looked him square in the eye, and said, "I know you. [pause] You worked with my dad. [pause] And my grandpa."

He looked astonished for only a moment before asking me, "Are you a (insert maiden name here)??" I smiled and said I was. Instant smiles all the way around. This was a family whose house I remember being at the day my father died. We caught up as much as we could in the hurried time I had to give them. Justin said something that made me sad, but somehow comforted too. He got a wistful look for a moment, then said, "I think about your dad sometimes. It's a shame what he did." For those who don't know, my dad's death certificate claims suicide. It is sad that he's not here. It's also comforting to know that Justin, a man my dad saw every work day has given thought to my dad and the family he left behind. They do keep up with my mom with Christmas letters and occasional phone calls, but I have not seen these people since I was very small.

I could not wait to tell my mom about the chance encounter. When I did relay the story, she assured me that they had to have been delighted to see me, and was sure that they would be back to see me again. When I told her what Justin said, she told me that he really thought of my dad like another son. Even though Justin is not that much older than my parents, he was the more mature type and took my dad under his wing. My mom said he took my dad's death very hard. I would love to sit down one on one with Justin to ask some hard questions that have never been answered. How amazing to see him again so by chance! It made me tingle to know that he spent so much time with the dad I have missed so much.

Yes, worlds do collide.

Two weeks ago, on a football Sunday, I wore my #4 Jets jersey under specific approval from the boss. I got a disapproving look from the manager on duty when I came through the door. I told him to lay off because this was owner-approved and if he had a problem he needed to go talk to said owner of the restaurant. I got a few snide remarks that were masked as questions of interest about my jersey. I wore it proudly. Then a drunk woman crammed into an overpopulated booth of friends stepped over my personal boundary. As I stood at the end of the table to take the order, she felt it was okay to 1) grab my shirt above my hip 2) shake it back and forth 3) give me a pathetic look, and 4) condescendingly tell me, "Oh honey, let it go." First of all, do NOT touch me. Secondly, take the attitude elsewhere--and do not tell me how to feel about Brett Favre.

I will just say that she is lucky that I am a professional, and her food was not tampered with. Others would not have been so polite. That's all on that.

Oh yeah. I'm workin' here.

The House Blew Up

2008-09-30T10:54:00.001-05:00

I want to text my landlord and tell him, "Your house blew up. Call me." Or maybe I should tell him it blew away, or burned down. He won't respond to phone calls. He won't reply to emails that ask for his confirmation that he's gotten them. He doesn't answer notes left with the rent check.

Ever since I made the complaint about the maintenance man's inappropriate behavior, not only on the professional (professional-ha!) level, but personal level, my landlord has evaporated into thin air. He used to be an awesome guy who took care of every little thing. Now I can't get an affirmative that the furnace repairs from the flood have, indeed, been completed. I don't know if he cares that the kitchen sink and bathtub drains are slow. He hasn't replaced the filter on the sink for my drinking water. I fear the water spots on the ceilings from the roof leaking will be there until I move.

I don't know what else to do. There is absolutely NO response to any question, big or small. My lease is up. I'm wondering if I'm going to be getting the equivalent of a pink slip in my mailbox this week when he picks up the rent check. I'm peeved by the behavior. My last landlord threw me out in a fit of craziness that had no explanation, except some imbalance that turned her into the Jekyll and Hyde. My fear of the same happening again is understandable. However, I am a phenomenal renter. My rent is always on time, and I take care of my rental property as though it's my own. Wisconsin has "at-will" employment, and tenancy when there is no lease. This means a landlord can give a renter 30 days to vacate. If this happens, I will be devastated.

Meanwhile, I'm forced to deal with the infidel for repairs to my home. I think DSMM (DipShit Maintenance Man) knows not to pick up the phone when I call him, for I've been lucky in getting his voicemail. In return, I don't pick up my phone when it reads "Idiot" calling. Actually, it reads "idiot" since I didn't think he was worthy of a capital "I."

When DPMM hooked up my new (used) dryer after the flood, he must have done a half-assed job. The dryer was letting a lot of moisture into the basement. I didn't understand this. Until last week. Last week, I noticed the air vent hose flapping away at the back of the dryer. It was probably loose, and took a few months to come off completely. I had asked for notice when the DSMM would be entering the premises. I got none when he came in to fix the dryer. And yes, I am angry about this. At least he left the premises locked. Does this mean he got at least part of the memo?

Still, enduring his lame ethics and shoddy workmanship is annoying. It took three visits for him to hook up the washer correctly after he used my faucet to power wash the basement. (Yeah, I'll pay that water bill. Don't give me a credit on my rent for the water that went through my drain or got used to clean the entire basement).

I know in the scheme of big world problems, these are peanuts. Even so, this is my "Gool" and he's wrecking it. Hell, they are both wrecking it. I am loathe to call the Landlord-Tenant Agency, but I may have to if things don't change. I am looking for input on this matter. My work friends were quick to jump on the litigation path. As offended as I am by the behaviors of both the maintenance man and the landlord, I do not want to travel that route. I'm not sure if I should be scanning the rentals, or if my tenancy is safe here. The unknown is not fun. I have friends that admire the amount of moving I've done. "You little wanderer, you." I don't relish moving. And I truly love this place. If I have to move, I don't know where I'll land.

Maybe I'll try that text message to see if there's a response. "House gone. Plz call."

I did my laundry after I wrote this blog. Now that the hose is hooked up properly to the dryer, it's loose (off) at the top where it hooks into the metal shoot that takes the humid air outside. I left idiot a message. [sigh]

Happy Kittehs on a Lazy Sunday Morning

2008-09-21T11:46:00.004-05:00

Grammar Lesson for Friday, September 12

2008-09-12T13:06:00.001-05:00

I know. I know. It's mostly me. And it's mostly because I have always been a complete nerd about grammar, and spelling, and all things neat and organized. I'm a detail person, and yes, it is a curse. And no, I don't want you to pick apart all those commas and try to decide if that last sentence was a run-on, or if this one is, for that matter.

Okay. All kidding aside, I was aghast at a sign I read at a corporate chain restaurant in its drive-thru. ITS drive-thru. Do you see the proper form there? Apparently, Culver's does not have this information within its corporate offices. (Yes, I used the correct form AGAIN). I wish I'd had my camera. Their drive-thru has a sign that tells you that their food is: "worth it's wait for the freshness."

Herein lies the lesson. It's equals "it is." The apostrophe tells us that it is two words. It's two words. It is.

Its equals possession. "Worth its wait." Who owns the wait? The food and its freshness. The food is fresh. Thus we wait. It's worth its wait because it's (it is) fresh. Get it? The way the sign reads now means: Worth it is wait for the freshness. Does that make any sense? No. No, it does not.

I know I should get a life, but that hasn't been working out for me. It's my lot in life to be its own worst enemy.

Join me next time when we discuss the difference between then and than.

The Bandit

2008-09-05T11:26:00.001-05:00

Sometimes, all you have is the visual evidence of a misdeed to try to piece together what happened. Figuring out who (or what!) did it can be downright taxing. The story that follows is just one of those incidents.

I do some work for a woman who has several health issues that keep her from rigorous physical activity. We have been cleaning out her old farmhouse where she still has belongings. When we go over, she is the SWAT team who forges ahead to get rid of spider webs and peruse for any ugly bugs before I start packing. I'm still twitchy the whole time we are in this year-long unoccupied house. It's been bug-bombed once, and her uncle checks in weekly there, but you have to believe that the bugs have had free reign to do what they want and to make themselves at home.

We tackled her library the other day. I stood on a small footstool and reached for several books at a time from a top shelf that I couldn't see completely. I dusted them off and stacked them while she sorted and put them in boxes I provided. When one box would fill, I would take it away and bring another. This went on for about an hour and a half until we ran out of appropriate-sized boxes. Every time I went to the back room to get another one, she would tell me that there were more upstairs. I continued to ignore this information because I did not want to travel up to the dreaded second level where the bugs really had the place to themselves! But, because of her great wealth of books, I was finally forced to admit that we needed those boxes that loomed upstairs.

I opened the door to the steep, narrow steps and sucked in a deep breath while I stared it down. "I can do this," I mentally pumped myself. I stepped through the doorway with a duster waving wildly in front of me to knock down any cobwebs I might discover on my upward journey. My eyes were alert and moving quickly to every area I was passing and coming up to, while I made bold strides to get to the boxes in the spare room.

Reaching the top of the stairs, I stopped, stunned. I called down to her, "Did you have your son over here when he was visiting?" She assured me she had not. I took in the scene in the hallway, aghast at what might have happened.

"Why?" she called up to me.

"Well, there's stuffed animals all over the place. It looks like a massacre, and there's one ripped in half over by the bedroom."

"WHAT? There must have been a mouse!" she cried. I assured her I did not think a mouse did this. She got her oxygen tubing and came up. We stared at the scene before us in confusion.

"What if it was a raccoon?" I gulped.

"Well, let's pack these stuffed animals back into that hamper and take them with us." she decided. So we began to pick up the animals and put them in the mesh basket that housed them before the invasion. As we did so, I started finding the eye buttons on the floor. What the hell? It suddenly came to me! A squirrel must have thought he'd found a mother lode of nuts tucked safely up in this attic. We started laughing, envisioning the entrepreneurial squirrel plucking eyeballs and trying to munch on them, only to find that they did not taste good! We could see him discarding the eyeball, grabbing another stuffed animal, plucking the eye out, finding more disappointment, and repeating the scenario. Perhaps this frustration at so many great-looking foodstuffs that really weren't was what brought him to the eventual ripping in half of the poor little brown teddy bear we saw by the bedroom. So sad.

We covered up the chewed hole in the wall with a heavy box of books, but you know those crafty squirrels always find a way to get what they want. In the end, we got the boxes we needed to finish the library. I only had one (wispy) spider crawl across my hand. And it's one more step in my therapy to lose some of this fear of the creepy crawly things that should not scare me like they do. And who knows? Maybe cleaning out the upstairs will bring a whole new fear while I tread lightly around Skippy the Squirrel who loves to steal the eyes from unsuspecting stuffed animals.

Spiderpalooza

2008-09-04T12:15:00.000-05:00

It's well-documented that I am deathly afraid of creepy crawly things. I have no less than four sprays in my house to combat these abominations of nature. This is not a creepy crawly story though. It is a pretty funny foray into my last few days.

Last week, I killed a spider in the bathroom. Several days ago, I killed two spiders in the kitchen--one in the morning (the mommy), and one in the evening (the daddy). Little itty bitty babies began appearing in the areas where I killed these parent spiders. Huh. Fortunately, I'm not afraid of the teeny ones that you can squish with your finger.

So the squishing commenced. They wispily crawled across my stove and I mushed them instantly. In the bathroom, they littered the angled ceiling. When they were within reach, I crushed them. The other night, I noticed one coming down a tiny strand of webbing he created, so I got him too. Squish-Squash-Mush-Crush. Gone, gone, gone.

Thank goodness, once again, that these babies are not scary. Coming from the bathroom to resume my reading on the internet, I sat in my desk chair and got comfortable. A minute later, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. A teeny spider baby is rappelling his way down my hair and onto my keyboard. Ew. I squish him. When will it end? How many frigging babies do spiders have? I would look it up, but I can't see scary eight-legged pictures coming up in lightning fast speed on my screen. I'll just keep squashing them as fast as they keep appearing, I guess.

This festival of babies and mamas and papas comes in on the heels of a very traumatizing day last week when I had to call my neighbor (who is as afraid of them as I am) over to kill a centipede that was on the wall above my bed. The possibility of losing that monster in my BEDROOM was more than I could handle. She is my hero now. And I am scanning every wall, floor, and ceiling in every room before my foot takes the next step forward more than ever. Fall is here. They want in. I'm afraid the spiderpalooza has just begun. I better keep those sprays handy.

On The Record

2008-08-28T13:43:00.000-05:00

I am sitting at my computer with this really cool "vinyl to cd" record player that you hook up to your computer. It's DN's. She bought it to convert her own vinyl, but kept others in mind when purchasing it. It will surely make the rounds of her family and friends. But for now, it's mine to play with, learn about, work the bugs out of....

I'm enjoying this blast into the past. I finally set this thing up after hearing "Blister in the Sun" by the Violent Femmes (no, they are not violent, nor are they femmes) on Charlie FM, not once, but twice in the last week. . I specifically got determined to learn this machine after remembering how much I love, love, love this album. I'm listening to it now, and ohhhhh, the college days memories this is bringing back. I used to have a cassette walkman blasting while I traipsed the campus. This music was often the beat to which I climbed the hill at UW-Eau Claire.

I so love this album. It is spectacular. It is extraordinary. It reminds me of Erik, who introduced me to this off the wall, beautiful music. I saw them live on my campus (for cheap!) in their hey day. I would not have thought then, nor now, that this music would be something I love so much, but it truly is! Here is a sample song, which is not, by the way, safe at work--or for children.

Several Updates

2008-08-26T10:22:00.003-05:00

Rather than editing each blog individually, here is some new information to keep all apprised of breaking developments in the previous several blog entries.

It has been pointed out to me by a "reliable source" that Eve, Eve the Apple Thieve could not be the elderly neighbor, as she is not well enough to toddle over and steal the fruit of her neighbor's lawns. I have also been told that if she did, a pie would, indeed, appear. This means I have to to watch the walkers. I am also willing to bet that the apples she found on the ground were earwig-infested and unedible. The joke is on her, eh?

(Yes, Osh, you can freeze apples, but they are only good for baking).

We had another bug incident with Mrs. Kisses. It was almost the exact scenario as last time except I arrived at the scene of the crime as she was licking her lips this time. I hope that she passes this phase quickly. Momma doesn't like bugs.

Sunday morning at work brought my first blowout with Pam (formerly known as The Skank). Let me preface the story with the news that we are still speaking to one another, and it's really no big deal. Breakfast was abnormal this week. You could have shot a cannon through the place at 9:00am, which is not typical at all. By 10:30am, all hell had broken loose, so much so that the kitchen was taking 45 minutes to get breakfast out. This is a restaurant nightmare!

Fast forward to a synchronized pick up of orders between me and Pam. I was taking my last plate when she announced, "That's mine!" The usual "no, it's not, yes it is" ensued. In the end, she won. I was hot about it because I knew it went with my gentleman's prime rib breakfast, but what could I do? The kitchen hopped on getting me the food I needed, but I still had to deliver his wife's breakfast and his prime without its sides. I assured him it would be out shortly. I also apologized profusely. Several minutes later, I saw Pam coming back to the kitchen with her large tray of food empty, except for one plate. One very familiar looking plate.

When we reached the kitchen, safely behind the scenes of the angry breakfasters, she tried to give me the plate, saying, "This isn't mine." YA THINK?? I informed her, at that point, that I did not want that plate of food now that she had paraded it through the dining room and it was cold. She kept shoving the plate at me saying, "It's not mine though." I was as frustrated as everyone trying to get the food out and I lost it.

"You were so hell-bent on taking that fucking plate when I told you it was mine!!"

She didn't have anything to say. The boss was walking by as this exchange was taking place. I saw a smile spread across his face as I went to bat for my tables.

The new breakfast was getting done about then, so I took the fresh plate to my patron. A few minutes later when I checked on them, his wife told me she wanted his breakfast comped. I agreed, and went to print the ticket to take it to a manager to void off of it. You can only imagine my surprise when his prime rib breakfast wasn't on the ticket!!

Whoops!

However, I had a lot of screwy things going on with my tickets. I would punch things in that would not print out at the bar. And how could my plate be right from the kitchen if I had not punched it in? Murphy was having some fun on the avenue Sunday morning. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!

And those are your updates for today!!

I'll Take a Twist with That

2008-08-23T00:25:00.000-05:00

The new job is going well. Business is picking up as the heartbeat of the city begins to beat steadily to the drum of the UW marching band back in town. I'm not used to the upside down "busy time" that is the norm here in a college town, and starts as the weather cools off but cools off when the mercury goes up. Nope, I'm used to the resort swell in the summer and the staples that get us through the rest of the year. While it's refreshing to be making better money as the summer ends, it's downright annoying dealing with some of the people who have such power over how my evening plays out. I'm talking about the co-worker pool. Some of my first impressions were right on, but a few of them have done a loopty loop of the 180 degree variety.

For starters, remember The Skank? Guess what? She likes me. She really, really likes me. I'm guessing she's one of those Banshee types that feels the need to puff up her feathers so the new person understands that this is her territory, and you can't have any. What I've found in most cases at the place on the avenue is that everyone pretty much likes me. I have heard from almost every single person there, "You are a good worker." The veterans, the servers I work with in the back dining room, the boss, the new girls. "You are a good worker." I don't fill the ice and stay until all of the cleaning is done to make friends though. This is how I approach my job. If everyone just did his job, the whole process would be smooth as old scotch. As the new girl, I do bite my tongue to avoid the lecture about how they could all be doing their work like I do mine and we'd all benefit. Nope. I'm responsible for me and how I perform. I'm not changing the world serving food, but at least I can sleep well at night knowing I did my work to the best of my ability. I guess that impressed "The Skank" (who we shouldn't call that anymore)! The funniest part of the becoming friends with her is that we have a lot of common threads that tie us to one another. Who knew? Maybe the most hysterical part of our similarities is the constant confusion among our tables. Her tables stop me when I am going by to request drinks or more rolls. "I'm not your waitress," I said the first few times it happened. It happened again on Friday night. I knew exactly who their waitress was this time, and assured the gentleman that I would get "Pam" (her new 'not real' name).

That's funny stuff if you ask me. I was so prepared to just hate her and avoid her. She actually seemed to seek me out as the weeks passed. This is one gal I'm glad I was wrong about. It's a lot easier working with people you actually enjoy talking to during the side work portion of your evening.

And then there's the bane of my existence at the place on the avenue. Picture Norm's (from Cheers) head, Chris Farley's body, and Dan Dierdorf's personality all rolled up into one fat, stupid, annoying man. Think of the laziest person you ever worked with who grated on your last nerve because they were so inept at doing what needed to be done. That guy who just chats with people with no regard to a timely completion of the task at hand. This is the man from whom I have to wait impatiently for drinks, the return of my change on the check, or the credit card receipt. At the end of the night, when I'm weary and want to clear my paperwork (something that would take me three minutes if I could do it myself), and get out the door for the commute home I spend 20 minutes begging him to run a report, give me my credit card slips, pay me out on my tips.

Last night, HE messed up one of my tickets but couldn't even figure out that he had reopened it and rung it up wrong. He made like it was my fault because he couldn't understand that separate tickets at the same table might actually be almost exact to one another. That added 10 minutes to my already 20 minute checkout time.

Tonight, he was busy chatting it up about fantasy football with a bud at the bar and couldn't get his fat ass working on drinks or the accumulating checks he needed to ring up. When I got impatient with him, he lashed out at me telling me he could only do one thing at a time. (Too bad he couldn't put selling drinks at the top of that list while he was punched in, huh?) When I pointed out that I'd been waiting 10 minutes for two glasses of wine, he said, "Contrary to what you might believe, you are not the only waitress here." Not being one to back down, I pointed out that he seemed to have plenty of time to talk fantasy football while I waited.

It wasn't pretty. Still, I heard him telling MY joke that I told the boss to his customers as I was heading out tonight.

The sunny, perky blond who bartends is a girl I used to have on my banquet team when I supervised at a country club. She cried when I left, telling me I was the best boss she ever had. She pulled me aside after the spat and told me if I needed something and Beast Boy (that's a good name for him, and one I won't have to change) was giving me problems to just come down to her end for it. HA! She guards me like a labrador. Smile.

If you take away the headbutting issues as a funny tale to tell, there's really a simple explanation. Oddly, it parallels the Brett Favre/Ted Thompson debaucle. You see, the boss likes me a lot. This Beast Boy knows this because the boss is pretty vocal about employees he thinks are great. Mr. Inept must feel threatened by my efficiency. I know one of the things the big boss noticed about me is that I am speedy about picking up my drinks. Lazy Ass can't keep up with my pace because he is too busy being, well, lazy. This is a real threat to that male ego crap that goes on. Much like Ted Thompson, Beast Boy can't stand that there is a star in his midst who is taking away any of his [perceived] glory. He can kiss my ass because my expectations aren't going down anytime soon. I'll be the one running backwards up the hill while he huffs and puffs, telling him that he can make it. You can do it, Beast Boy. Mix up that martini. I've got the olive.

He's so lame. He actually comes through the open end of the bar with food for his customers, yelling at those of us standing there waiting for drinks, etc, "MOVE!" Nice tact there, pal. There's not a couth bone in his body. The man couldn't spell the word polite, much less exercise its meaning. He costs that place so much in lost revenue, I don't know why the boss wants him to stay so badly. Between the lag time in getting drinks out, and the extra time we are punched in waiting for him to wield his power over us, it's a ridiculous amount of monetary loss. Perhaps in time, me and the Favre-lovin' boss will have a conversation about beasts and budgets.

Meanwhile, things are good. It's the natural evolution to understand and adapt to your surroundings. I got a call from a resume I flung out about six months ago. I went in to talk to the lady, and even did a 3-hour orientation last week. She went on vacation after that. I regret to be informing her, upon her return, that I was being stupid about taking a part-time job that had no guarantee of being better, for a job that is becoming pretty darn reliable. And reliable is something that has been sorely amiss in my life here in the last year. I'm staying put to make sure the Beast doesn't rest on his laurels. Besides, my boss said we can wear #4 Jets jerseys on game day if we want to. Why would I leave an idyllic job like that?

Eve Takes a Bite

2008-08-22T12:42:00.000-05:00

So I get up this morning and feed the kittehs, make my coffee, and head to the living room to fire up the computer and stereo. I never close my windows or my shades at night because the cool air makes it nice in here. Can you imagine my surprise when I get over to my double windows and see somebody in my yard?

We have an apple tree that ripens early. Last year I kind of missed the peak of apple season because they were almost done when I arrived. Mind you, this is my apple tree. I specifically asked the landlord when I came to look at the place if the apple tree was "ours" or the neighbor's. It's really the mark of where "our" property ends and theirs begins. I went out there earlier in the week and grabbed a whole bunch of them. They attract those earwigs, who burrow into them, making them unfit to eat so I wanted to get them before they infested the crop. I froze about four bags of apples for pies or crisps later in the fall.

There's still more on the tree. They drop almost daily. My neighbor downstairs who shares "our" tree may want some so I am being considerate not to take them all. And I've offered some to my neighbor on the other side of me if she wants some for herself or family. They are great to eat as is. And I really am determined not to let the earwigs have them this year like they did last year.

When I saw the sweet old lady who lives on that side of the yard coming from the garage side of my property, I had to do a double take before I hit the stereo "on" button. "What is she doing in my yard??" I watched from my upstairs perch with her oblivious to my keen eye. She proceeded to pick up apples that had fallen overnight, and take her booty back to her house. She had a small brown square thing in one hand too, which I could not identify, but whatever it was, she got from near my garage. Maybe it was a bird's nest? I don't know, but this is pretty brash behavior for a woman I've never even seen.

I don't really mind sharing "our" apples, and I'll give her the fact that her husband has to mow under some of the tree branches from their side of the lawn. But, wouldn't you pop over and say, "Hey, I'm gonna take a few apples for a pie. Is that cool?" She wasn't even taking them from her side of the lawn; she was squarely in my yard! I used to like these people. They are quite elderly, but still together, apparently healthy (healthy enough to take a morning walk in their neighbor's yard to steal apples!), and continue to take care of their sizable home independently.

She disappeared under the considerable branches of the tree and the hedges in her own yard, so I wasn't able to confirm that it was the woman next door. Was a morning walker so tempted by the apple that she had to have a bite? This is Eve all over again. What kind of curses will we be forced to endure by this forbidden fruit thief? Whoever it was may have started a whole new set of sins, that I, at the very least, will have to deal with.

Damn the luck!

Nano Therapy

2008-08-19T14:22:00.001-05:00

At Least She Ate It

2008-08-13T14:47:00.003-05:00

I thought I was ready to talk about the Packers, but it turns out I'm still feeling pretty pissed off and betrayed. So, to get back into the blog swing, I present you with a cute, cuddly kitty story. Or not.

Mrs. Kisses has developed a diva syndrome. She is mad. She's the youngest. The only girl. The only fat one in the family. I think she's developed some issues because of some perceived injustices to her fragile ego. She doesn't eat wet food, so when I feed the old guys I don't even do a dish for her anymore. If she does happen to wander into the kitchen at breakfast time, I sometimes give her a few bites in a bowl of her own. She licks it, and walks away. Not interested in the food, but there's always the test of how much the momma loves her. She vies for the spot that Punkin has occupied for 15 years next to me in the bed. Yes, I shoo her away and pat my hand to a more appropriate place for her to lay her fat ass when we sleep. She usually concedes, but there are problems if Punkie is late to bed.

Are these valid gripes for the chubby one? I don't know, but she has certainly come up with plenty of tactics to combat these horrible actions. She uses some mean intimidation on the boys. They "play" but she bites--hard. She chases them. She kind of stalks them. Last night Punkie was doing that cat walk where they walk real slow and look straight ahead, hoping that the offending creature doesn't see them sidling away. It was kind of funny, but really pretty sad seeing him trying to get away from her. It made me wonder what she pulls when I'm not here. Mister Moo had a little knot of fur in the middle of his back. I was brushing it out when Mrs. Kisses noticed that Mister Moo was getting some attention with the brush. I alternated my efforts, but Mister Moo just ran away because he (apparently) didn't want to face the wrath of Misses Pisses in the aftermath of the attention he was receiving.

She's a bitch! Who knew?

So, today she must have thought she found the perfect way to leap into first place with the Momma. Mind you, she has NEVER brought me anything as the leader of the den. Punkie brings me toy mouses all the time. Mister Moo treads lightly around the outskirts of being part of the family, choosing to sleep on the floor in front of the couch instead of actually making the leap of faith to vie for a cozy spot on the couch. Mrs. Kisses chooses the best place and makes it her own. She generally acts like the Garfield cat around here. But, today! The door was propped open for the kitties to enjoy some inside-outside freedom on my day off, as usual. Sitting at the computer on the other side of the house, I heard a strange mewing. Punkie was in his favorite spot, Mister Moo was sprawled out in front of the stereo speakers like he usually is...Mrs. Kisses is making those noises??

I walked back to the hallway to see if a strange cat had entered through the open door. Mrs. Kisses was sitting in the middle of the hallway, standing proudly over something I couldn't see at the bottom of the stairs by the bathroom door. "Oh God, what do you have?" I asked her fearfully. She looked at me proudly. I carefully leaned over the steps to see what kind of horror she had brought in. It was a substantial little thing. I couldn't really see what it was, except I saw that it had wings and a heaving little blackish body. My first guess was a hummingbird, though I had no idea how she might have caught one! I went back to turn the hall light on for a better look. When I came back and looked, I could see it was something weird. Fatter than a dragonfly with shorter wings, but definitely not a hummingbird. (Whew)!!

I went to get my camera, which was plugged into the computer for some picture transfers. Of course it wouldn't turn on! I tried to get a picture of the weird bug that beast of a feline brought in to present to me, but the camera would not turn on! I stood there fighting with the camera, pleading it to turn on so I could capture Mrs. Kisses moment of glory--to no avail. Meanwhile, she ate the bug.

At least I didn't have to try to flick it out the door.

The Dad Day

2008-08-01T11:15:00.001-05:00

I'm having kind of an unproductive week with the circus around Lambeau bringing me down. I'm infuriated over the front office of the Green Bay Packers. I'm bewildered by the amount of what is apparently ego and pride that is preventing the return of Brett Favre to the Packers. It's all very consuming if you let it be. And I let it be. In the midst of that all-consuming frustration and anger, I forgot a very important date yesterday.

It's not like five years ago when a big shooting star marked this day for me after an evening with my girlfriends who happily toasted with me. Nope, yesterday was all about listening to sports radio, ranting via this blog, and getting to work on time. After work, I got a call from my ex-husband. He didn't waste any time telling me his bad news. His dad, who he had a strained relationship with, died last night. We knew it would happen soon, so it wasn't really a big shock, but it is still a stark reality when it does happen.

Pa, as we called him, was always pretty good to me, even if he wasn't stellar with his son. We kept in touch after the divorce, just as I keep in touch with my ex-husband. I seldom burn any bridges, so it's not uncommon for me to remain part of that family. I still have their last name, and I still consider them to be part of my family. I'm sad to hear of the news of Milton's passing, but I realize that Pa had a very long life. We even chuckled a little during the short conversation since we both know that Pa escaped death several times. He battled colon cancer, and won. He survived a car crash that killed his wife. He had two hip replacements as a result of that crash, and has walked with a rod in his leg since then. I'm sure he used up a few other lives in the years before I knew him. There's the stories of him driving home (moons ago, of course) after being at the bar when a cop would pull him over and tell him that he shouldn't be driving. The cop would give him a ride home to make sure he made it safely. LOL, it's not that way anymore, is it?

So next week, I will assume the role of the wife of Dean once more, and be part of the family who will honor the patriarch. I'll survive the pseudo pleasantries with the sister I loathe. I'll banter with the youngest brother of my ex-husband with whom we always spent so much time. Perhaps his ex-wife will attend too--it's just that kind of family.

It was several hours after this phone call bearing the news of my father-in-law's death that I realized what July 31st also means to me! It was my dad's birthday yesterday. I can't believe it slipped from my memory. There are so many dates around this time of the year. Next Thursday is the anniversary of his death. Monday is the anniversary of my parents' wedding.

It occurred to me how odd it is that one dad died on another dad's birthday. Life is like that, I guess. And it happens in the midst of the other perceived dramas that play out in our mundane lives. Next week will bring a focus on dads again. It's good to remember where we came from and where we've been. For that, I thank those dads who have been in my life. I honor you today, tomorrow, next week, and forever.

Rest in peace, Pa. Rest in peace, Daddy.

Packer Management: My Rant

2008-07-31T11:23:00.001-05:00

There's a hostage situation going on inside the walls of Lambeau Field that needs to be addressed. Facts from the last few days are emerging that must be presented to the Packer faithful. The thin (very thin) veil of cheerleading that the Packer brass has been showing the public has been revealed as complete fraud. I am outraged, to put it mildly, by the actions of those in charge of my team.

Let's recap how this situation has evolved. Brett Favre retired. He changed his mind. They welcomed him back, but he rescinded his un-retirement. Packers moved on with Aaron Rodgers. Fast forward several months, Brett changes his mind again. Okay--I get it. Brett waffled a bit. It happens. I wish it didn't, but it did. On the table now, we have Brett Favre wanting to return to his team. Packers tell its fans that Brett would be welcomed back into training camp. Here's the catch! Favre can come back to Green Bay, join the training camp, but he's told he will NOT be a starter and he will not be allowed to have an impact by actually playing. Management figures this will shut up the quarterback, make him stay home. When this doesn't deter the QB, Thompson makes a call and asks Favre to stay home a few days until they can get this figured out. [This means "give us a few days to get a trade in place so you don't actually show up, even though we are saying you are welcome here]. When a trade isn't working out to Thompson's liking, the Packers send the new CEO, Mark Murphy down to talk to Favre and his agent. This puts a very bright spotlight on the true intention of the Packers. Oh yes it does.

Let's look closely at this latest development. No matter what newspapers or sports shows are reporting about this trip to Hattiesburg by Murphy, any fool knows why the Packer president would go there. The Packers clearly do not want to see Brett Favre in Green Bay. It doesn't matter if they offered Favre 20 million to stay home, or if they are sucking it up to try a trade within the NFC North division, or if they are still saying they will not release him. No, none of those details really matter. What does count is the continued bullshit hard line the management keeps spouting about Brett Favre being welcome to come back, then doing every single thing it can to ensure that does not happen.

Fans should be outraged by their Green Bay Packers! What planets aligned to make the fans in Wisconsin so complacent about this? For myself, I am still bewildered and a little dizzy by the facts that are being brought to light on this fiasco. I feel small. What can one person do, right? Maybe there are some things we can do as fans. Let's think about this. Where can we make management hurt? We can boycott merchandise. We can choose not to go to games. If we do go to games, we can abstain from buying anything while we are at Lambeau. We can call the Packers!

920-569-7500

We can fax the Packers!

Administration: 920.569.7301

Public Relations: 920.569.7201

We can even write to them!

P.O. Box 10628
Green Bay, WI 54307-0628

Go to http://savebrett.net and sign the petition. Read the articles. Do the things they suggest to make our voices heard.

DO IT! Let's inundate them and let our voices be heard. What they are doing is absurd. This is positively wrong in every way. Brett Favre is the face of the Packers. He has been their bread and butter for a long, long time, and this is how they are repaying him? Why are they taking this stand against him??? I do not understand this. While Brett made some poor decisions about his retirement, we know that at least Brett makes his decisions from the heart. Why is there "Favre Watch" every year? Why does the media create a circus every year about his retirement? If he doesn't announce his retirement, why can't we assume he is going to play? Who in the hell decided that every year we have to wait and watch to see if Favre is going to retire? And why do we need to pressure him? If the Packers and the media would let him take his time off, I bet Brett Favre would recoup and come back without fanfare. GEEZ! Conversely, the Packer management team has consistently said one thing, but behind the scenes has fervently tried to ensure that the crap they are spouting publicly does NOT happen. What kind of bizzarro world are they living in? What kind of twilight zone have they dragged us into? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING??

This is not right. I am queasy over my beloved team. I told a friend of mine a couple of days ago that these outsiders who do not understand Wisconsin football are making decisions that are embarrassing and infuriating. I may boycott the Packers. I may be forced to become a NY Jets, or Minnesota Vikings, or Kiln, Mississippi fan if the Packers can't take their foot out of their mouth and get this thing right. Believe me, I have no expectation that the maestro of this mess, Ted Thompson, is going to back down any time soon. However, I can wish him all the bad luck in the world so that down the road, we can run him out of town on the high horse he came in on. He deserves nothing less than impeachment. Shame on Ted for his inability to understand. Shame on Mark Murphy for climbing on for the ride. And shame on Mike McCarthy for forgetting that the NFL is about competition, and getting the best athlete for the job in the starting position. And while I'm at it, shame on Goodell for accommodating the Packer's shoddy behavior by holding off on reinstatement.

This behavior is unforgivable. My faith is shattered. It's a sad, sad day that could forever change the Packer organization's place in its fans lives. The corporate bullshit and playground bullies that have emerged are going to ruin this team. Good for them. They've earned every slander and bad thing that comes their way. We will not forget how they have handled this. I call bullshit. Loudly.

Going to Lambeau

2008-07-28T09:47:00.000-05:00

I was privvy to attend the shareholder's meeting last week. I have to say that it's rather fun having this faux importance in the Green Bay Packers organization. Several futile attempts to have a companion attend with me were foiled by powers higher than me, so I traveled the road to Lambeau solo. The good part is that I went about my day at my own pace. The bad part is that I felt a little foolish traipsing among the other shareholders with me, myself, and I. Still...

Arriving at the stadium is always thrilling, game day or no game day. Lambeau is an amazing site. The building is gorgeous, the field is hallowed. The bleachers are stark hard metal. The names on the wall surrounding the bowl are icons in the National Football League and heroes to the Green Bay Packers. Being at Lambeau always brings a somber, joyful, stirring feeling in my soul. Thursday, that feeling was complicated by the latest Brett Favre conundrum. Not knowing how this scenario will play out is excruciating. Not knowing exactly how I feel about all the parties involved (and their crazy behaviors that make NO sense) muddied the usual giddy respect I feel when I approach the grandeur that is my football team's home.

We were given programs upon our entry through the gates. Mostly these programs had the fiscal information that they wanted us to see spread across two glossy 8x11 1/2 pages. There was a schedule for the day and a brief thank you with a lot of color and splash on the front and back covers. It's a festive 'state of the union' meeting. The Packer brass paraded out across Lambeau Field from the tunnel that usually brings us our game day heroes, and walked stoically to a tented stage with a lone podium. New president, Mark Murphy, made some opening remarks beginning by addressing the Favre situation without really saying anything. It sounded like this to me: "We know it's a sensitive blah blah blah and we want to find a compromise that pleases blah blah blah so we hope that you'll remain patient blah blah blah because we don't know wtf we're doing blah blah blah."

Yeah. That was it. Nice try at putting our hearts to rest about it. Let me just briefly say this. No matter what has happened in the last six months, what Brett Favre has given to and done for the Green Bay Packers in the last seventeen years should NOT be passed off as reason for even thinking trade. As shareholders, we were given the mission statement of the team and the goals of the franchise. They strive to re-sign their own players. (Then do it). They promise to make every attempt to win world championships by every move that they make. (WHO gives you the best chance to achieve that again?)!!

I am sickened by the prospect of an announcement this week that tells me Brett Favre has been traded to another NFL team. It's not right. Favre is the face of the Packers. Favre in another uniform is unthinkable; I don't care if it's a team we never play. If Favre is throwing a football, it should be for Green Bay. And yes! I am angry with Brett Favre. I am tired of Ted Thompson. Set it aside. And how about Mike McCarthy? Who does he want quarterbacking his next attempt at a SuperBowl? I don't even want to hear about how Aaron Rodgers is the man. He's not the man. He's not. You can't go to Lambeau and not feel all of this stuff swirling in the air. It was disconcerting, for sure.

The meeting progressed with Thompson (who indeed did get boo's, then a few standers who wanted to ovate him to make it up to him). Pffft. You could see on Thompson's face that he knew he was in trouble with some of the shareholders. He just walked taller and acted tougher. He's not backing down or going away. Damn. I saw a guy as the meeting started who wore a t-shirt claiming, "I'd rather have Favre than Thompson." Me too, buddy. Me too.

Mike McCarthy spoke. He was very Mike McCarthy-ish. Did you know the man cannot pronounce "the?" "Da team is working hard to prepare for da season ahead of us." Based on his acquiescence to Ted's demands, I'm beginning to think McCarthy needs a handler.

We then got the parade of directors giving their reports. Jason Wied is a card. Time actually flew. Around 11:30am, the meeting finally ended. Citgo commercials for game days were then filmed. Look for me to be raising my hand, saying, "Aye" when those gas station ads air on gameday.

I spent the next three hours roaming around a closed Lambeau Field. A tailgate party, the Hall of Fame (see that post below), a trip to the Packer Pro Shop for some stockholder-only merchandise (I got 10% off when I used my Packer checking debit card-woot), and general aimless wandering. I was trying to breathe in the wonder that is this great stadium. Still, I have to admit, there is a lonesome feeling being there with no Favre-who-wants-to-play on the horizon there.

When I left, hungry and a little sad, I turned around to take one last look at the stadium. It was my fervent hope that the God that Ted Thompson assured us the Packers' organization prays to in all things, would grant this place the grace to resolve the differences and bring our iconic quarterback to the place he belongs. If He doesn't, there will be hole in the world that shakes my faith in the green and gold. There were so many 'hold back the tears' moments in my day there, and I find that those tearful moments continue as the legend of Favre becomes tarnished by his own misdeeds.

There's a blue day coming. Lambeau as we once knew it is going to be forever changed by these ugly days ahead. I knew it on Thursday, and I feel it more today. Sometimes being a Packer fan isn't easy. Thank goodness for the boys of Summer to take ourselves away.

Amazing Hall of Fame

2008-07-25T13:01:00.001-05:00

And PLUS THERE'S THIS!!! This is a banner Packer Day!!! Celebrate!!!!

http://www.nfl.com/news/story?id=09000d5d809817f1&template=without-video&confirm=true&campaign=email_NL0725

Karma, Baby!

2008-07-16T10:56:00.000-05:00

You reap what you sow, right? I'm not into Buddhism or anything, but I do think we all get paybacks for our deeds. I don't know who or what controls these rewards and punishments, but very often, these happen justly. I know it happened Sunday to a cranky woman I am forced to deal with often these days.

The woman who ran the place I work at now with her husband for many years is a widow. Her son runs the place. She still comes in to wield her power and find a purpose to get up, I suppose. I really don't have a problem with this. Except. Except, she feels the need to nitpick good employees who aren't doing anything wrong. Case in point: We are in the dining room and I am preparing water glasses at the wait station for my table of four. I'm going to get a tray to carry these glasses, but she feels the need to tell me how to do my job, just in case the previous 25 years I've been carrying trays of drinks wasn't fresh in my pea brain. "Use a tray. It looks better." No shit, Sherlock. I opt for a tray for the smallest delivery. I know it looks better. I like to look professional when I do my job, so I use a tray just about every time. It's actually easier to clear a four-top of its dinner plates without a tray, but I know how to clear and stack so it looks professional without a tray on that one. But I digress.

She was riding me like a Disney carousel on Sunday. We have two doors to the kitchen. One set is swinging saloon doors so you can see feet and head when you are going through. The other side is a solid swinging door with a window at eye level. I had a tray of five breakfasts going out. I did what I always do-I kicked the door open (not a hard kick, just enough to swing the door open long enough for me to get through it. We all do it this way). Don't you know that old witch was bent down right there below window viewing range. She shot up from her stooped position and gave me an evil look. Okay, what are you doing in front of the door on a busy Sunday morning? And why, in all of your infinite wisdom, do you not have a foot or hand extended to stop the door from hitting you? It is not rocket science to take this precaution. I have never stooped to pick up something dropped in front of a swinging door in a restaurant without taking the necessary precaution from being whacked by a door getting kicked open. Duh.

I apologized (two or three times) as she continued to glare at me. But I served those breakfast plates with a smug little smile. I also laughed on the way home. The powers that be thought she needed a swift kick in the ass, and she got it. Uh huh. Karma baby. You reap what you sow.

They're Doing it Again

2008-07-07T10:47:00.000-05:00

I have this knack for choosing products that don't stick around. I wish I had kept a list of the wonderfully fragranced items I've fallen in love with, only to have the manufacturer of said product discontinue it. Let's see, there was a great bubble bath that I loved to soak in that was probably the first time I was disappointed. There was a mascara, and several shampoo/conditioner combos that vanished. I just went on a buying frenzy for my favorite bubble bath (a new favorite one since the first favorite one is long gone!) that is being changed. Lavender chamomile is not lavender! Why are they changing it?? I have enough to take me through the winter bathing season. :)

And now the recent discovery of yet another discontinued product! Arrggghhh! Avon made a fragrance for a brief time called "Clean Cotton." I searched in vain for any bottle of this nectar. Regional representatives, local dealers, clearance catalogs, online website....to no avail. Other dealers would jump to be my hero and make calls because they were "in the loop" and sure they could find me some Clean Cotton. Never happened, folks. My rescue came in the form of a birthday gift from my mom. Yippee! "Cotton Blossoms" from Bath and Body Works was a nice replacement.

And now.

Now they quit making it. They've CHANGED it. Now it's "Sea Island Cotton" which is not the same as the original Cotton Blossoms that I cherished. The new stuff isn't awful. It's just not "my" stuff. Here's the description of the original:

# Fragrance Top Notes: Sun Dried Linen Accord, Grass, Mandarin Blossom
# Fragrance Mid Notes: Jeans Accord, Peony, Cotton
# Fragrance Base Notes: Musk, Baby Powder

Here's the new stuff:

# Fragrance Top Notes: Fresh Bright Floral Accord, Clean Cotton Accord, Drenched Air Accord, Fresh Linen Effect, Wet Green Pear, Blood Orange, Tangerine
# Fragrance Mid Notes: White Muguet, Crisp Orange Flower, Watery Cyclamen, White Freesia, Cotton Blossom Headspace, Dewy Jasmine
# Fragrance Base Notes: Clean Powder, White Musk, Sandalwood, Vanilla Absolute

You see? They added a bunch of crap to change how it smells. It's no longer the simple fragrance I loved to wear in the summer. Pssshhh. Sure, they have a few closeout items, but now I'm back to the drawing board on my long-term wear.

I guess companies could hire me to love their competitor's products to ensure that they won't be long-lasting competitors. But frankly, I'm tired of replacing my favorite blush, mascara, shampoo, fragrance, even candles. I have a real knack for this kind of thing. Sheesh. I wish I was better at something other than choosing loser products.

My Two Cents

2008-07-04T23:05:00.003-05:00

The rumor mill is churning. Brett Favre has the itch to come back and play football. No, he doesn't. Yes, he does. No, he doesn't. Scott Favre says his brother's return is a 50-50 prospect. Brett Favre texts a Mississippi newspaper to say it's all rumor. Why has he apparently been throwing a football and working out at a high school near Hattiesburg?

I can't tell you the angst this new prospect brings up in me. I don't want Brett Favre to come back. (I KNOW, right?)!!! I mean, I would love to see Brett Favre play football, but I can't bear what his return would do to my heart. He just broke my heart in March. Now he's going to mend it because he's going to miss the game? No. He's not going to fill the empty place he left when he announced his retirement. If he comes back, he's going to fill me with anger and resentment for letting me believe that he was gone, only to wave his hand and yell, "Psych!" I would question his character a little if he was that willing to push us onto that roller coaster. He can't wipe us out emotionally by retiring, then come back and ask us to click-clack our way up to the peak of the tracks again for another 100 foot drop and loopity-loop. I can't get on that ride again. I'll be so disappointed if he tricked us like that.

It's not just the the issue of how us fans will feel if he comes back. I don't want him to come back and be just okay. I don't want him to be a second string quarterback. I don't want him to get hurt on the field and have to leave the game under those circumstances. I don't want him to become a wannabe. And most of all, I don't want to see Brett Favre in colors that are not Packer's. If Favre plays for another team, that will be the biggest slap in the face I could imagine.

I understand that it is anyone's right to change his/her mind. I could possibly forgive the hurried or unclear decision he made back in March after a grueling season that ended in great disappointment. I understand the dynamics of all that is going on here. I really do. There's such a multi-layered set of circumstances to be picked through and mulled over. I have to tell you though, it's killing me.

Perhaps the most unsettling part of this equation is the team leaders of this great quarterback's glory. I'll go so far as to narrow it down to just Ted Thompson since his thin veil of support for Favre is so sheer that he may as well be naked. Ted Thompson wanted Brett Favre gone years ago. Yes, I believe this. Thompson has been biding the time to see Brett leave. There's reports about Favre "needing to be needed." There's rumors of behind-the-scenes discussions where Ted slaps Brett on the back and chortles with him about both their tenures at Lombardi Avenue. Blah, blah, blah! [Fictional scenario there]! Ted has done a poor job of welcoming the man who brought national attention back on the Packers. Maybe Ted doesn't care about the far-reaching popularity of the Packers because the local fans support them just dandy. What Ted fails to realize is that he is dissing the man that so many fans have come to love like he is part of their families. Brett Favre is everyman. Brett Favre is down-to-earth, lovable, human, tragic, fun, exciting. Brett Favre is the epitome of good football. Shame on Ted for contributing to this mess in such a large way.

If it's true that Favre wants to return to the National Football League, then it's up to Ted Thompson to make one of three decisions: 1) "Welcome" Brett back to the Packers. 2) Trade Brett. 3) Release Brett.

That's not a pretty equation no matter how you add it up! There's a 12 million dollar differential to contend with if Brett comes back. The Packers have spent that salary cap money. They've also been grooming the Big Mouth Rodgers (who is not making any strides on winning fans over to his camp with his cocky comments). Given Rodgers egotistical attitude, I think I'd like Brett Favre at the helm again, thank you. I do hope that if the Packers turn Brett down (which seems to be what has happened), that Brett Favre has the sense (and I do believe he does) to stay retired and let this rumor die.

This whole situation makes my stomach queasy. Leave it to Brett Favre to spice it up! I love the man, but I have some sincere reservations about his return to football. I guess what it comes down to is that I will feel like he was playing with my emotions when he retired. I'm sticking to my gut instinct. Yep, I'm going out on a limb against what every other sports reporter seems to know already, and saying Brett Favre isn't taking any snaps this year. Know why I say that? I say that because Brett Favre is a stand-up guy and he's gonna stick to his guns. (Gunslingers do that). If I'm wrong, Brett Favre isn't the man I thought he was.

Did She Really Just Say That?

2008-07-02T14:49:00.002-05:00

I ran to the Dollar Store for paper towels today. While I waited five minutes for the new cashier to check out the five items the lady ahead of me had, I was entertained by the lady's unruly children who were sticking their hands up the bubble gum machine, whining about wanting a quarter, and unsticking push pins holding up ads on the cork board. Oh, the joy.

When the slow woman attending the cash register finally started ringing up my three items, I was a little worn by the previous few minutes of waiting and watching such lame behavior. When the rocket scientist announced my total, "$9.76" I handed her my twenty dollar bill, and said, "Oh, just wait, I have a penny."

TO WHICH SHE REPLIED, "Oh, I already rang it up. I don't know how to go backwards on this."

What? It was all I could do to ask her if she knew how to add a penny to twenty-four cents to give me back a quarter with my ten dollar bill in change. She actually paused the transaction to ask me if that was okay. What? If it's not okay she's going to call a manager over to start the transaction over again?!?

Man! I expect this kind of blundering with cash from high school kids who have had computers, calculators, and adding machines do all of their arithmetic, but not from a woman my own age! I get that she is new. I get that she was nervous. I don't get how your brain freezes up so much that you can't realize that a penny added to twenty-four cents would give a customer back a quarter. And I don't believe that giving a customer change other than what is rung up is against the rules. It's a small town dollar store, for crying out loud. Plus, I've had other cashiers there give me quarters when I handed them a penny belatedly in the transaction.

I'm disappointed.

Ten Things to Smile About

2008-07-02T11:49:00.002-05:00

1. Last night was a complete bust at work. The saving smile is that the best server ever took us out for pizza. It was rewarding to be invited out. The college kids at corporate half-heartedly invited me out a few times, but they never meant it.

2. I have a date for dinner tonight--with my family. We have become a strong family over the last few years, and I'm glad that we are making time to break bread together. We have had a very difficult '08 with life-changing events. Supporting my mom is important. I'm grateful to have these plans.

3. The music on the radio and in my cd player lifts my mood daily. My stereo is virtually always on. I don't know where I'd be without my music. Thank you to all the great musicians who fill my world with happiness.

4. I got my inheritance! I shopped carefully and am now the owner of a 32" LCD television. Having a tv that works so great is a blessing. I even hooked up my stereo speakers to the new tv. It's not a home theater, but it's nice. It feels like a great luxury has been bestowed upon me. A small gift of cash will be given to my mom tonight, too. The rest of the money is going into a money market to be my safety net for panic time when it looks like I can't make ends meet. How nice to have that cushion.

5. My mechanic finally scheduled the repair for my parking lot bumps from the winter. How cool is it that the gal who hit me left a note and her insurance company is covering this repair? I can't wait to have an unblemished car again!

6. It's summer! The windows are thrown open and a beautiful floral scent wafts through with each breeze. This is something I will never take for granted. Thank you to my landlord and all of my neighbors for planting such wonderful flowers.

7. I am shipping an autographed Packer football to my best friend who is stressing over her new manager position. She just moved there 10 months ago to escape a bad marriage and make a fresh start. Starting over is hard. This gift from home will make her smile. And that makes me smile.

8. My kitties are all happy (and healthy again, thanks to a wallet-zapping visit to the vet). But having them wandering around the house happily is a joy to me. I love my kitteh babies.

9. I got my tickets to the Packer Stockholder's meeting! I've always 'said' I was going to go, but this year I really am going to go. I'll have a free Packer Hall of Fame tour and an opportunity to buy some stockholder-only Packer merchandise. And I get to go to Lambeau Field and fill my heart with all things Packer. YAY!

10. The trains are back!! How I've missed the affirming whistle of a train. I don't think the trains are all running, but I hear train whistles.

Life is good. Life....is....good.

The Change is Back!

2008-06-29T10:13:00.000-05:00

I am the consummate frugal one. I buy most of my clothes from 50-85% off racks or the Goodwill/St Vincent De Paul stores. I love shoes and jeans, especially because they are worn in and ready to wear! I buy my groceries according to what's on sale, and don't buy what's too expensive. I routinely keep my eye out on every gas station from here to work to choose the cheapest gas at any given time. (They really change a lot, and no one gas station is really always the lowest). I use coupons when I can. I have saver cards for several grocery stores and other retailers I frequent. And I stock up on items when they are on sale so I'm good to go when I run out so there's no overpaying for those shampoos and hand creams. I also save my change in a big old gallon Carlos Rossi wine jug that I got from an Easter celebration eons ago when my father-in-law brought the wine.

Working for corporate requires that we tow the line in many facets of our business. The one area where they were lax was rounding up or down on dollar amounts. I think this is because at corporate, we are required to provide our own bank. A reading at the end of the night tells us what to remit to the banker. What we have left after that is what we made for our shift. The result of this procedure is that most of my coworkers give their customers a rounded up amount of change, since they carry no change. I was also trained to round up for over fifty cents and down for under fifty cents when turning in my remittance to the banker. Being the detail person I am, this always bothered me, but it's the way we do it there. This left no treat for the wine jug.

The new place has us take our tickets with payment to our bartender to cash out. Sometimes people say, "Keep the change." The change is back! It's such a silly thing, but it makes me happy. Consider this. Filling the Rossi jug netted me and my ex an added $400 for our Bahama vacation. I went para-sailing and we had several outings away from our all-inclusive resort with this extra money. I've turned in my jug of change for extra Christmas cash. I left the ex-boyfriend $225 and had that much myself to put toward my long trip home when leaving California. The change has provided for some much needed cash in low times when I'm barely squeaking by, and has given me extra spending money when I vacationed. The green gallon holds about $500 when full. It takes me about a year to fill. That's a nice little treasure. You can see why I'm so excited that the change is back! Working as a waitress usually means lots of dollar bills and quarters, dimes, nickels. It's funny to me that corporate even took away that little joy. Proof positive that I'm not cut out for that way of serving. Give me the old, give me the traditional.

There was another nice change last night. The boss was finishing his shift as the evening was starting. Waiting at the bar for some drinks, he was standing next to the service station. He looked at me and said these words:

"I watched you last week, and I wanted to tell you that you really do a nice job. Your tableside manner is really great. You're very conscientious about filling waters and taking plates--taking good care of your customers. I really appreciate that." I told him thank you, and that I've been doing this a long time, and I try to treat my tables like I'd like to be treated, blah, blah, blah. He continued with, "Yeah, that shows. You're very good at this." I was feeling pretty good at that point. Before he left he asked me if I worked tomorrow (this morning). As I started to say no, he said, "Oh, no you're not on Sundays. I'll take care of that for you." Sundays are one of the best days at the new place. :) I'm impressed that he noticed I'm not on the schedule and that he thinks enough of me to want me on the "good" days. The change is back!

Centipede in a House

2008-06-26T12:14:00.003-05:00

Yesterday a centipede came zigzagging its way across my wall by my computer. These things freak me out! The only bug worse than a centipede is a hairy spider. But apparently, the wet weather has even the moisture-loving creepies moving upward. It takes everything out of me to remove these things from my home. I'm so scared of them, in fact, that I whined to my landlord about them. He brought me some spray that he thought would take care of the issue.

When this thing appeared, I ran for the new and improved spray from the landlord. I climbed up on my desk chair, got stable, aimed, and sprayed. It ran faster. I sprayed furiously. It finally dropped onto the radiator, but ran off of it into the corner and fell onto the carpet where I couldn't see it since I would have had to crawl under my desk to view it. I stood on the chair, shaking and cussing the bad luck. What was I gonna do now?

Before I could figure out an answer, it came screaming out of the corner toward my chair like a bat out of hell. I sprayed it some more. It finally stopped moving next to my chair. I crept gingerly out of my chair, away from the creature and went to the kitchen to get another spray. I just didn't trust that this thing was dead. After a good dousing with one of my own killer sprays, I went in search of something to scoop up the body. I peered into cupboards with my mind reeling. A cookie sheet? A spatula and a big tall see-through glass? A bowl? A magazine card and an ashtray?

Standing at the kitchen table with a spoon and small plate, still twitching from the fear of it all, I looked over to the spot of the death. The centipede was GONE!!! OMG!! Where did it go?? It was racing toward the couch. I actually had to move the couch so it couldn't get under there and completely keep me off of my luxury sofa for another month. I got the Windex and sprayed it with that. I got the cheapo spray I got from the Dollar Store and sprayed it with that. I sprayed it again with the stuff from the landlord. I stood above the monster and watched to see if it was twitching, or breathing, or plotting its next escape. Holy shit.

Finally, I decided that I wanted to know if it was really dead. I got a deli container with a lid. After about four tries, I got the body shoved into the container with the lid. I secured the lid and carried it away from my body to the garbage area. I gingerly set it on the floor where it couldn't scare me every time I walked into the kitchen. After awhile, I got to thinking that I really wouldn't know if it had moved without marking the spot on the container where it currently resided. Picking it back up carefully, I took a marker and put a line on either side of the giant bug thing. Having done that, I thought it looked pretty plain so I drew it its very own little house, complete with a chimney (but no smoke coming out of it). I think the fumes of the combined sprays along with the heat of the day yesterday had me a little woozy.

I think I'll keep the little house container and use it as a cemetery for the others who think they want to live here. Maybe I should put up a warning sign for them too.

Beware of Owner with Multiple Spray Bottles

Please don't let anymore of those scary things invade my living room. ACK!

Married!

2008-06-24T10:45:00.003-05:00

Editorial note: For those who don't know, I went on a few dates with the man who does maintenance for my landlord. It came to light a few weeks ago that he may, in fact, be married. Last night I got my confirmation. Here's the blog where I talked about dating him and dealing with him again.
http://packergurlsez.blogspot.com/2008/06/maintenance-man-and-mermaid.html]

The verdict is in, soap opera fans! I got this email from Downstairs Neighbor last night.

"[Landlord] was here and delivered your new dryer = DPMM rang my doorbell and asked if they could take dryer through my garage.. But the big news is that when I went out to direct DPMM - there was a woman sitting on the steps so I said Hey -DPMM said this is my wife [Head in Ass] _ I said Nice to meet you and that was the end of our conversation. She went to DPMM's car - DPMM and I talked about the basement - [Landlord] arrived with the dryer - They unloaded and everyone left.. So what do you think about that??? OH wronged one..

Oh wow.

This man is a snake. Somehow, I really thought there was going to end up being some separation or other valid reason for him to think he could date somebody and not get found out in a town of less than 5,000. Unbelievable. You know what they say about paybacks? This loser has some real bad karma coming his way. Does he even know?? He is dumber than I gave him credit for--that's all I can say about this right now.

Settling

2008-06-23T10:55:00.001-05:00

When I started my new job last week, it felt a little like settling, yet again! After a week of serving under my belt, it feels more like I'm settling into a routine that could be pretty good. It's not like it was a fantastic week with tons of money being made, but taking into account that this is the slowest time of the year, this could be a nice gig.

When we last saw our heroine, she was struggling with the low paying nights and figuring out how to approach the scheduling masters she has to appease. An awkward ten minute chat with Fluffers netted an acquiescence by your normally intimidating serving hero. See, Fluffers has the dilemma of being down three servers so there are major gaps in the schedule. She needs the mighty Suz to fill in and kick ass, take names, sling hash to the customers. I have an idea for that schedule. Quit overstaffing and let us make some money!

Saturday night was slow, but it still made for a decent night. I got to meet my nemesis. I thought she was going to be cool. She's not. She's defensive and likes to point out the obvious while not actually doing those things she expects you to do. I have struggled with what to name her. In trying to describe her, I told one friend this: "You know how they say someone looks like 40 miles of bad highway? Well, she looks like 60 miles of bad highway." Then, while telling my friend who got me into this job about her over a cigarette out back, he said this: "She runs into people all the time and then tells them they need to watch where they're going. She's okay though. You'll get used to her."

I don't want to get used to her.

"She comes off bitchy, but she's really not." Pause. "She is skanky though," he said, wrinkling up his nose. That's the word!! She is skanky! For now, I'm going to skip my stories of woe with her. I'll monitor her attitude and record every transgression for a later blog. Let's just say, she had me shaking with anger, and she will not be forgiven easily. My buddy confirmed that she is a bad server. She's been there for years, and still has never been moved over to the front dining room. Girls who started in December are already promoted to the front dining room. Remember this information about Skanky when I talk about her again.

Sunday brought a carnival of fun. I was scheduled for my final training shift to learn the breakfast routine, which, by the way, is HUGE on Sundays. I woke up before my alarm. Amazing. I arrived to work on time, thanks in large part to the joyful surprise of finding most of the stoplights blinking yellow in the early Sunday a.m. I made exactly one stop in over four miles of avenue traffic lights. I was in a good mood about that when I arrived five minutes early.

The boss (the owner) greeted me after I'd punched in. I told him not to take it personally if I wasn't chatty, as I am not much of a morning person. He gave me a hearty, "Get some coffee!" with a cheerful note in his voice. A few minutes later he told me I might have to take a few tables. I thought that was cool, since I can make more money actually waiting on people than I can following someone on a training wage. That 'take a few tables' turned into 'here's your section, I'll try not to slam you.' Whee.

By 9:30 am we were starting to fill up. Before I could blink, it was lunch time. I hit a few snags, but overall the morning went okay. There were some very good things happening yesterday. My last table (which is always so important because it is your lasting impression of your shift) was a pair of friends--older women who had Bloody Mary's, coffee and the 2-egg breakfast combo. Each had a bill of about $10 or $12 bucks. I netted an $8 tip. That is a happy ending to a hectic morning shift. Staying to be an actual server and not a trainee meant I'd just stay through the day for my second shift instead of going home between shifts as I had planned. That saves $8 in gas. Perhaps the best thing that happened yesterday was something that has a bigger better chance at netting me a lasting income. The boss bartends on Sundays. I had some drinking tables yesterday morning so I kept him working. Everyone knows that a happy boss is a boss who sees his employees making him money. Drinks are money-makers in the foodservice industry. And, we were a bit understaffed since I was just a trainee and became a weak link. But the boss didn't think so. And one of the gals who likes me told me just what the boss was saying. Apparently, he was impressed with me. He told people, "She's never even worked a breakfast and she's getting killed--and keeping up!" He likes my pace. He likes my style. Very cool.

And so we go. Change is so difficult. I am adjusting to the place on the avenue so well that I think I could actually get up early every Sunday to live to tell the tale of the $100 breakfast shift. The new schedule comes out Wednesday. I got the distinct feeling from Fluffers last night that I am getting preferential treatment. We'll see if my 10-minute awkward conversation left an impression on her. I'm hoping good work ethic nets good work nights. I have a feeling it will. Especially if the boss looks over her shoulder while she puts the pencil to paper.

A Question For the Masses

2008-06-19T13:05:00.000-05:00

Or, the five of you who read my blog! :p

It's acutely obvious that the new job is not panning out as well as I'd hoped. I've given a whole lot of thought to the situation as it stands before me. Meander through my thoughts for a moment, if you will.

The best parts of the new job:

It will most certainly get better.
I've already got the highly sought-after Friday night shift. (Next week)!
Last night was better than Monday and Tuesday, though still not up to my minimum needed green.
The atmosphere jives with what I know and can thrive in.

The worst parts of the new job:

The extra miles on a stoplight laden avenue. (I have to leave early, and withstand the traffic annoyance).
Everyone is in by 4:30 and nobody leaves until at least 9:00, no matter how slow it is.
It's not gonna pay my bills right now, which is not a luxury I can enjoy.
There's certain to be early weekend shifts. (Bah! No 5:30am alarm for me)!!

My dilemma then, is how to create a schedule that nets me the best of corporate with the best of the new place? I need to get specific with both of my schedulers, without alienating either of them. There's always a 'favorite' factor when they sit down to jot out a schedule. I'm treading thin ice here to make sure I don't get shafted on one or both of the schedules.

Fluffers is in need of servers. Her staff is down one for a life-threatening injury, and another one in a week and a half for a move out of town. Theoretically, anything I can help her with is a boon to her. Realistically, she may relegate me to cruddy shifts if I protest the already cruddy shifts I don't want to work. Then there's the corporate scheduling. There's an abundance of servers right now, so he doesn't need to give me anything if he doesn't want to. He did follow my suggestion for this week's schedule, but gave me a cruddy opening shift for my one night request. Are you starting to see the thin line?

What I think I need to do is give each one of them a block of the week that I can work for each of them. The conflict in that is having a day off. If I tell corporate I can work Mon-Wed and Fluffers that I can work Thur-Sun, you know I won't have any nights off. Do I delegate my own day off and give them my availability according to that? Will they both be peeved and give me two nights out of the nights I'm available to them? Is there an easy answer to any of this? Can anybody offer a sage word of advice?

And the Party Never Ends

2008-06-18T11:19:00.000-05:00

Last night at work was another financial train wreck. I'm talking monumental crash here. I can't drive in for what I'm making. Something has to change. Sitting outside at 6:45 last night with one table that was paid up, I contemplated my sad state of financial affairs. I could not, for the life of me, figure out how I've managed to downgrade my job status yet again. By the time I set the cruise for the ride home, I was near tears. I don't want to talk about my tumultuous job carousel right now.

I will tell you that my landlord received two very similar emails regarding one dipshit maintenance man. It should yield a very interesting outcome. I would love to hear what the landlord says to DSMM when he calls him to berate him for his mishandling of the home he owns and two women occupy. I think I'm overly excited about this because it is the one lashing out I can see bearing some satisfaction. [insert evil laugh here]

The basement woes continue. I went down this morning to do a load of laundry in what I thought was my still functional washer. Turns out DSMM used my hot water to do the power washing. Of course he didn't bother to reconnect the hot water hose. When I screwed the hose back on, it leaked. Another try netted the same result. I believe the rubber washer is missing. He probably power washed that puppy right down my drain. Need I say more? I won't. I won't do it.

The window remains wide open for critters to wander into the basement. The incomplete clean up remains. There is no dryer. The washer doesn't function. The road goes on forever....

The Band Played On

2008-06-17T09:29:00.001-05:00

Last night was my first solo shift at the place on the avenue. I was so pleased when the tables started coming in early. Not like last week during training when the first two hours were void of any real business. I was thinking, "Wow! Mondays kick-start early!" Then these guys in green vests started getting in our way, coming through the kitchen door, stopping in the office off the kitchen proper. (Does every kitchen in every restaurant have an office off to the side? I swear they do)!

When I figured out, and remembered from last week's training, that Mondays are band nights, I began to see why the customers were all senior citizens. And why the dining room was full by 5:45 pm. I was also feeling pretty lucky to have the front row seats for my tables. Surely they must be 'out and about' kind of people who would understand the protocol of tipping fat for such wonderful entertainment. Err, right?

Here's how it went down for Night Number One. I got four tables before 6:00 pm. They ate salads, burgers, light fare. Then, they sat with their sodas and coffee until 8:00 pm. We cleaned up the kitchen and completed our side work, chatted among ourselves. I made myself busy by expediting for those who actually got new tables during the second set. I cleared and wiped some tables since we didn't have a busboy. I followed protocol and asked Fluffers if I could go have a cigarette when my tables were all paid and there weren't any unbussed tables in the dining room. I enjoyed a cup of soup and roll before the tear-down began. (Soup and a roll is our one freebie. We don't get much of a discount on food otherwise. I've never worked anywhere that staff didn't get a half-price or at least 25% off of food. This is a major disappointment since their food looks positively delicious). Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The clock moved, but slowly. Surprisingly, the night did get over with pretty fast, given the fact that all of my tables were seated before 6:00 and I didn't punch out until 9:30. I attribute that to the newness of the experience.

I had two ho-hum tables; just the usual older couple. I managed to order the wrong half salad for one woman, and hit the wrong booze for one man's martini. I had the single guy in a wheelchair who is a regular. He doesn't tip, so I shouldn't feel bad according to the other waitresses. The ninja on the staff bolstered me with, "You don't get a tip, but you get good kharma from giving him good service!" Ohhhh-kay.

Then there was the star table. An older woman sat down and waited for her two friends. When I asked if there would be three of them, she told me she wasn't sure. It might be two, or it might be three. "It depends on if Delores brings Leona." In the end, it was a four-top. The table saver looked to be about 75-80. She was actually 92. Bright and beautiful, I complimented her on her youthful looks when she revealed her true age. I love these discoveries about the elderly. Even so, she wasn't my favorite at the table. The woman with the freckles and shoulder-length white hair won my affection. When I asked her what she'd like to drink, she pulled me in and told me to put it all on one bill and give it to her. Coolness. She ate as a vegetarian, drank a glass of wine, and was the only one at the table to indulge in pie and ice cream for dessert. She impressed me with her zest for enjoying the moment! She was sweet, complimentary for the great service, and just bubbly. She made me think she was someone I would like to have been friends with in our twenties. When she paid the bill ($59.06), she told me to put $10.00 on for a tip. When I brought the slip back, she handed me $2.00 and told me she realized she didn't tell me to put enough on, "so, here's two more dollars...you were terrific!" I knew I liked her for a reason. For those who are not aware, senior citizens rarely tip 20%, which is the standard if you are very pleased with your service. (Does this mean that senior citizens are rarely very satisfied?)??

The star table enjoyed the band immensely. It seemed the entire dining room did, actually. Toes were tapping, hands were keeping time on the table, and occasionally hands were clapping with the beat. Our Monday night felt like a Sunday afternoon on a patio table in New Orleans. I have to admit that I really liked the old time live music with the brass blasting out those jazzy tunes, the guest woman singer who sang like June Carter Cash in her last years, the aged wise vocals of men who may have fought for our freedoms in their younger days. It made for a better Monday. Everyone left a little happier than when they'd arrived for the efforts of a group of men who enjoy this little gig they scored for every Monday of the summer. I'm not sure if the audience or the band was more grateful for the evening that had just passed when it was all over. It was sweet, and American, and wholesome. And while it did not net me an evening worth my time monetarily, it was still a fascinating first night at the traditional place on the avenue.

Not being busy with tables afforded me the opportunity to scope out the cast of characters in more depth. The queen bee of the hive emerged last night. I had not worked with her in my training. One learns quickly to stay out of her way. 22 years on the job allows her to be bitchy, I guess. Genuine smiles from her probably stopped at least a decade ago. I won't be engaging her in any outside conversation. The gay man who thinks he is the best server ever is really just a bloated ego who tries to avoid work. The rest of the serving gang is pretty fun. They blend into a jovial entourage who will step in and help when necessary, and crack a joke when you need to hear one.

Hopefully, the tantalizing Tuesday specials will bring in a better crowd that makes the eight bucks I spend in gas getting there worth it. I can chalk up last night as more training, but if the money doesn't start coming in, I'm gonna need Fluffers to tell my landlord why I don't have the rent. I have to admit that I was a little stressed thinking that I would have made more at corporate last night. The scheduling nightmare that is occurring because I can't pin down any definite nights with my new hostess is frightening. I had to let six nights go unscheduled at corporate since I don't know what Fluffers has in mind. Does she know that nobody else is paying my bills, except me? I'm out on a limb that I have no business being on. The rest of this week will be very entertaining (in a sarcastic way). I'm going to think GREEN all week and hope for the best. There's always the chance that I can pick up a shift at corporate on my "day off." (I think "day off" is a term that is leaving my vocabulary).

It's tough to be calm in the storm of this job shuffle. The stress is making me tired. I come home, eat a late simple meal, and crash before midnight. I am never asleep before midnight! Until now. Now, I fall asleep on the couch and can't drag myself to bed when I wake up at 3:00 am because I'm too tired to walk that far. So I roll over and fall fast asleep again.

Someday I'm gonna figure out what it all means. Until then, the band plays on....

Cracking Up!

2008-06-14T13:47:00.000-05:00

I went to do a few errands last night. When I got to the corner, where there's a big house, there were a bunch of kids playing in the open yard. Only a few trees and bushes inhabit this yard. I looked to my left to see almost all of the children running toward the corner. One girl hid behind a bush closer to the house. As my gaze went from the frolicking kids to her in her hiding spot, she looked at me with big eyes and put her finger to her closed lips. I guess she thought my knowledge of her whereabouts was a threat! It tickled me all the way to the store that her instinct told her to keep her cover and warn passersby not to give up her stellar spot where nobody would find her!

I'm also cracking up over MM (Maintenance Man/Married Man). What a jackass. He took my dryer from the basement last night. Mind you, I was home with the tv on and open windows. There were lights on, and he walked past my garage and had to have seen my car in there. Did he come up and tell me when I could expect a new dryer? No, he did not. Hell hath no fury like Little Man Rejected. I considered calling him and being civil to ask when I'd be getting a new dryer, and to show him how modern humanity works, then decided that I wouldn't want to waste my time on such a puny person.

This morning my downstairs neighbor called me to vent. MM is coming over tomorrow to power wash the basements. Apparently, he was planning on using muriatic acid to clean up the bacteria and mold down there. Since he needed to use my neighbor's basement to take my dryer out, he talked to her. It was in this passing conversation that he mentioned the overkill of his plans for our basements. Clearly, a simple bleach solution is all that is needed. The downstairs neighbor (DN) has respiratory issues, so this announcement obviously concerned her. Upon my recommendation, she researched the properties and pitfalls of muriatic acid. Turns out, this could be pretty deadly to her compromised lungs.

DN called the landlord, knowing that calling cranky-ass MM would not be fruitful. Unfortunately, the landlord is in Iowa providing disaster relief so he asked DN to call the blustery one with directives from the landlord to use bleach. My DN did just that, only to get a tirade of reasons that muriatic acid is okay to use. (He doesn't even don a mask when he uses it)! Whoopity-Doo! All that proves is that he's a dumbass. DN was very polite and tried to deflect the blame on herself, yet she still got a deluge of comments made to make her feel like she was stupid. In the end, he finally just said, "Whatever," and hung up on her.

Why I am cracking up over this? Well, "Mister Idiot/My Brain Quit Developing When I Was Eight Years-Old" has pissed me off, and I am working on getting him his just desserts. He will soon learn that you reap what you sow. Yes, I am going to become the snivelly tattle-tale he will abhor. And just to set the record straight, this has little to do with the married and dating part of who he is, and everything to do with his ill behavior as the maintenance man in a house he gets paid to fix. When he came through the shared entry way last night with his own keys, helped himself to my basement, then went out the other basement exit, he neglected to lock the shared entry way upon his departure. This entrance has a shared hallway that leads directly into each of our living rooms. I understand we aren't living in downtown Milwaukee, but there is a certain expectation that you will leave locked doors locked, and notify the residents when you are coming into their living spaces. I would venture to guess that my landlord will not take kindly to his residents complaining about his maintenance man's poor behavior.

I just have to laugh at MM's inept social skills. The man possesses not an ounce of couth. There's a lot of water here causing damage. In MM's case, it's going to be hot water.

Upon Taking a New Job

2008-06-13T10:26:00.000-05:00

In sharp contrast to the corporate training I completed last September that took three weeks, I fast-forwarded through this new restaurant's training in three days. They make you wear your own polo shirt until you complete the training, then hand you their logo-ed polo shirt if you actually finish. I received my diploma shirt last night at punch-out.

There was no liquor test, table number test, menu test, training exit interview, blah, blah, blah. Man, it's just serving food. Take a chill pill, corporate. I like the relaxed atmosphere at the new place. I like that the gals who trained me saw little need to micromanage the instruction of a seasoned waitress. I enjoyed the parade of regulars who inhabited the tables; this means there will be business even when the events of the city are slow. I am thrilled that most of the customers are 20% tippers. I am ecstatic that half of what I am forced to tip out at corporate is what is expected here. There are many positive aspects about the place on the avenue.

There also some down sides. Most notable is the added drive time in traffic. I hate city driving. It annoys me. For the chance to double my income, I will make the drive and try not to let myself get frustrated by the red light waiting. I disapprove of the salad-making process at the new place. Why would you not make salads ahead and have them ready? Making salads during the rush doesn't seem like the most efficient use of waitstaff energy. Nevermind that there's no counter space to make them once you ice-bath all of your salad products. Oh well. If this is the worst thing I have to deal with, things will be okay.

The cast of characters at the place on the avenue is pure gold. There's the dining room manager whose name is appropriate for a pet. Let's call her Fluffers. Fluffers has been a fixture in this place for decades, and most of the waitstaff rolls theirs eyes when she speaks. Pretty normal behavior, so I think I'll fit in. The gal who trained me the first two nights might be seen on a women's wrestling show, and the third night trainer was a newly crowned legal drinker who could be a beauty pageant winner. A waitress I hadn't met yet came in crying to tell the manager she had to take a leave of absence for a pretty major spinal problem. Another girl came to work shouting with glee as she entered the back kitchen door. "I got the job! I got the job!" Sounded like a job that could free her from the chains of serving at almost $20 an hour. Several gay men serve there, and a complete cast of others who have day jobs and families. The kitchen guys are laid back. A Spanish guy, an Asian man, and a couple of tall white dudes It is, by all industry standards, a normal restaurant crew.

There's an odd feeling I wasn't expecting in this job change. I feel a twinge of sadness about wriggling away from the corporate home I found. I thought about that for awhile last night. I believe some of that comes from the innate camaraderie that develops in the restaurant business. No matter the differences, we all understand the hell we go through behind the scenes. Diners don't know about the demands we make to ensure that they get what they want, the obstacle courses that exist in the kitchens behind the beautiful dining rooms they frequent, or the aches we live with after carrying those heavy trays that transport those delicious dinners they devour. I'm not complaining because I know every job has its own pitfalls. The knots in my shoulders will be there forever. The typist's carpal tunnel will affect all aspects of chores that require hand movement, the assembly line worker deals with leg cramps and clots from long hours of standing in one place. Servers have commonality that ties us together from the repeated nights of fast-paced service. I'll miss the shared existence with those kids who have never worked another kitchen. But, in truth, they don't know how much better it can be.

I am both delighted and befuddled by another realization as I move over to the supper club atmosphere that suits me better. I actually learned something from corporate. Yep, I have a few new tricks. It's hard to believe that I did learn something new, but I sure did. I would tell you what I learned, but I don't divulge that information. Secrets of the trade, if you will. Sometimes when you go out, you get a waitress who just knows what you need, and takes really great care of you. The whole night seems better because you scored a great server. That's the server I want to be--every single time. So, disclosing my secrets would take away the magic of that perfect night out, wouldn't it? You don't want to know how the magician made the impossible happen. I don't want to disillusion you, either. ;)

The job that was supposed to be three nights a week has netted me six shifts for my first week. This poses somewhat of a problem since the corporate job is still in full-swing too. Whoops. This is what happens when Fluffer has a couple of servers gone and you tell her to schedule you for whatever she needs. It's also what happens when two schedules are done on different schedules. One starts on a Thursday while the other one starts on a Sunday. The crossover makes for a very confused double-booked waitress. I think I may be working 10 days in a row for a couple of weeks until this settles into a routine. Better to have more work than I need than not enough, right?

Stay tuned to see how my adventures at the place on the avenue proceed!

You Think You Know Somebody

2008-06-06T14:22:00.001-05:00

I was recently contacted by a money-finder person. She told me that she thought I was due some unclaimed insurance money through my grandparents on my dad's side. Being the frugal sleuth that I am, I immediately thought that if this was for real, and it was really money that was coming to me, I could do this without her taking 20% of my money for doing a little legwork. Legwork, I can do!

I investigated the matter with the information the easy money lady gave me on my contract. A few well-placed phone calls put me in touch with the state treasury who has this unclaimed fund. Paperwork was mailed to me, and discussions with my brother were underway to complete the necessary steps to getting this free money. I've done the hard part, and we are turning in our packet of proof that we are who we say we are next week.

I have to say that it's definitely awesome to get this little windfall. Financial matters for me and brother have been tough for awhile, so we are tickled to be getting this treasure. It's enough to make you blink, but not enough to be a real big deal. The bonus to this is that we both thought the amount the money-finder had on our contracts was the total, (which would net us each a quarter of that) not the amount due us. Turns out, that amount is the total amount due us! My aunt gets half, and me and my brother split my deceased dad's portion. This is where the equation of how this came to pass gets interesting.

My brother and I are in line for the inheritance solely because my dad died before his parents. I don't understand exactly why it works this way, but had my dad died AFTER his parents, this money would be my mom's. (I think we should give my mom a little bit, but I haven't talked to my brother about this yet). Now, I was under the impression that this insurance money was a policy that my grandparents had taken out for their children--my dad and his sister. Yesterday, while trying to fill out the proof of heirship form, I got a little confused. I have to fill this out because there was no will. My aunt confirmed this when I talked to her. She also seemed baffled by where this policy came from since she was the one who cleaned out the apartment after my grandmother died. No policy existed and no key to a safety deposit box surfaced. (More on this later). I called the Unclaimed Property Office to ask exactly what was expected on this form. Normally, you get a snitty woman who acts like you are bothering her. Yesterday, I got a very nice man who replied with, "Gooood question" when I asked if I needed to fill out two proof of heirship forms since it looked like there were two policies, one for each grandparent. (It turns out, I need to prove I'm my dad's daughter, so I only need to fill out one proof of heirship).

The nice man and I had a conversation about the policy after he brought up my claim number and looked at the specifics. We had to chronicle the death order, which is how I found out exactly why I'm in line for this instead of my mother. Then I told him that I was under the impression that this was a policy the grandparents had taken out for their children. This is when he corrected that notion. He informed me that this was a policy that was taken out for my grandmother, with my grandfather as the beneficiary. Oh my. And nobody knew about this policy! Oh, oh, oh! My grandpa took out a little insurance because he was sure his frail tiny wife would die before him. Shocking. In reality, my granddad passed away first. My grandmother only lived eight months more than him, like you hear so often with two people who have been married so long. But indeed, she outlived him. My guess is that she knew nothing of the policy. This also explains why my aunt never encountered any evidence of this in her finalizing of their estate.

I don't think any less of my grandfather for having this policy without my grandmother's knowledge. On the contrary, it tickles my funny bone that he secretly took this out thinking that he'd surely outlive her and might enjoy a little cash in his loss. It's been a very nostalgic trip to encounter this money and get a glimpse of my family history. Poring over the death certificates makes me sad. My dad's death certificate makes me especially lonely. Amended to add the cause of death as suicide a week after it was filled out, it makes me wonder all over again what actually went through his mind. Was it suicide? Why does a daddy who had so much fun with his little kids kill himself? Did he kill himself or was it an error in judgment? Very interesting to ponder for this daughter.

Meanwhile, it's given me a better understanding of the folks who love family genealogy. I've sat and stared at those death certificates, reading my grandparents' mother's names, dates, causes, social security numbers, and times of death. It's old school. It's my family. It's a human life summed up on one document. Cool. And my grandpa had some secrets we just didn't know about. I wonder what other secrets those three people whose DNA runs through my blood had. We'll never know, but this has been a satisfying little journey into the past with the bonus of a very nice payoff.

Roller Coaster Ride

2008-06-06T11:08:00.000-05:00

I had an interview yesterday for what appeared to be a job I could really dig. It still could be.

I showed up exactly on time for my interview amidst stormy weather, wearing a pair of smart looking slacks and a nice white sleeveless shirt. I had a resume in hand because I always think it shows your attention to detail after sending one electronically. The interviewers have always already printed it off, but I think they like that I thought of bringing another. At least, that's what I tell myself.

I met the Food & Beverage Director who got me a cup of coffee and said we'd sit at the corner pub table to talk. Then she said she wanted to get her executive chef to take part in the interview. That was very different.

We did the usual interview with the questions about my experience. We ran the scenario questions ("What would you do if two of your servers were going at it during a busy dinner service on a Friday night?"), and we chatted about the job description. The only unusual thing about this interview was having the chef driving the conversation. It got me to thinking about why he would have such a large part in deciding this position. After some thought, I have to think that between them they decided that the person who manages banquets has to understand the importance the kitchen (who MAKES the food) has in making an event successful.

I have to say, I think I was doing well with the chef. When we got to the end of the interview, and the "Do you have any questions for us?" section of the exam came up, I asked what we were talking about for 'salary' as listed in their ad. They couldn't give me an answer! What? I got a vague reply about it depending on the candidate. Understand, this is a position they have not had a need for in the past, so it is a new job. While I understand the new growth of a young golf course that is trying to expand, I also do not understand how they couldn't have a salary range in mind or why they would not be willing to share that information with the candidate. Not good.

And so the interview ended. I was the first person to come in, so I have to wait until Monday or Tuesday to find out my score. In typical 'rain or shine' fashion, in the interim between my call for an interview and the actual interview, I got another call from a friend who works at a restaurant that I've wanted to work at for a long time now. I got the shoe-in hire by his word on my reputation. Well, well...what to do?

Here's what I did. Based on advice from my best friend, I went in to talk to Fluffy without mentioning the other possible gig. Yeah, that's what they call hiring manager. (Anybody local know the restaurant? Don't name it if you do. I like the anonymous factor when I talk about my job on my blog). Fluffy told me that she could give me like three shifts a week for now, but that it would be more in the fall when the college kids take off again. And that is when the real big bucks get laid down there.

I'm penciled in for training on Tuesday and Wednesday. Oh boy. I am mulling the two options before me. Much will depend on the call I get from the golf course on Monday or Tuesday. I will be needing a salary figure when that call comes in if I'm the winning candidate. In essence, I have three days to sit and stew over these options, then I will have to be quick on my feet to make a split-second decision. I drift to one, then the other as the favorite, but truthfully, neither feels exactly right. I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that changing jobs is never easy. I know the ins and outs of each position; it's the unknown factors of the assistant job that make me indecisive.

In time, this will play out how it's going to play out. I think the restaurant job will pay better than where I'm at now, so it's probably something I need to give a chance. It's difficult because I'd still have to stay where I'm at a few nights a week until I work my way up the ladder of the new restaurant. It's all quite daunting. Stay tuned to find out where I am next week!

The Maintenance Man and the Mermaid

2008-06-04T11:52:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was a mermaid who lived in a beautiful historic house in a little town in the Midwest. She enjoyed her sunny abode and found solace from the disappointments of life there. Then she dated a man who maintained her house and missed the peace that once permeated her world. The fairy tale you are about to read chronicles how she found that mesmerizing calm again.

My quote-unquote boyfriend is a constant source of disappointment. He doesn't read my blog, in spite of my giving him the link numerous times, so I can say whatever I want to about him. I can also tell the story about the dates I had in December that didn't work out at all when I was trying so hard to move on. Ugh! Said date has resurfaced again now that the weather is nice. He's the maintenance man where I live. Ugh! Why did I agree to go out with someone I'd have to deal with when it didn't work out?? Ugh! I'm stupid, that's why! But it's a funny story, so listen up and laugh with me!

The dates were "okay" but really only served to highlight the things I really missed about the quote-unquote boyfriend who I get along with so well (in spite of his shortcomings). Maintenance Man (let's call him Jake) is all about the "Me, My, Mine" in conversation. Everything is a contest to prove his is better, bigger, more important, and when it's not, it's self-effacing comments about how he doesn't measure up. (OMG! I have a hundred sentences ending in prepositions already. I'm no English teacher)! So, anyway, when the relationship is obviously not working for me (after a whopping three dates), he gets the hint and quits calling. I'm baffled, because I know he's interested, but also relieved, because I'm not. None of it matters because I'm too busy stressing over the immediate concerns of paying my bills, missing the quote-unquote boyfriend, and why I can't just say goodbye to a relationship that isn't living up to what I want.

Then the weather gets nice. There's lawn to mow. There's spring projects that require him to be here again. UGH! Now I'm being haunted by my poor choices--yet again! (I'm good at poor choices, despite the appearance of intelligence when you meet me). I digress. A few weeks ago, the downstairs tenant put in our request for some sticks to hold up the windows now that it's warm enough to want the windows open. Last week, the maintenance man (we'll call him Jake) calls me to ask how many I need. Duh. How many windows are there in this house you've been maintaining for years? I guess math is not his strong suit. Or, wait. You think he wanted an excuse to call me? He left five sticks after that call, supposedly because he didn't have enough wood (don't even start with the innuendos there), but promised he'd get the rest soon.

Fast forward to yesterday. As I'm leaving for work, I can hear the maintenance man (shall we call him Jake?) and the downstairs tenant talking on her porch that I have to walk by to leave. Great. I was hoping he could just check my entrance window that I can't open on his own. Oh noooo, no he cannot. He hears me coming and I can hear him beelining it to the door to end the conversation and catch me before my escape can happen. Damn, almost.

Him: "Hey, I was just coming up to check that window! You got 10 minutes?"
Me: "No. I'm going to work. Just go ahead and check it."
Him: "Well, I'm gonna be back. You work every night this week?"
Me: "Every night except Wednesday."
Him: "Oh! That's when I was coming back!" (How convenient)!
Me: "Okay. See ya."
Him: "Hey. How many sticks do you still need?"
Me: [Rolling my eyes] "Well, ya gave me five. I still need six."
Him: "Okay. Well, like three short ones and three long ones, right?"
Me: "Whatever you have is fine."

I make my exit, knowing he's watching me leave. The desperate look of him wanting to rekindle something that never lit disgusts me. UGH!

I don't really care about having to deal with him. It's really rather comical. He knows his place again, and it's not in my heart. He's the maintenance man we call Jake. My home is my own, and he just fixes things. Those five months of not seeing him gave me back my privacy. I'm able to laugh about the stupidity of trying to date the guy who fixes the stuff that goes wrong here. Lesson learned. I'm better on my own, and I don't have to feel embarrassed by something that happened (what seems like) ages ago.

The mermaid has a job interview tomorrow and she is happy and calm once again in her haven of sunshine.

The Job Carousel

2008-05-28T12:48:00.000-05:00

To make my point (and prove that I am not sitting by idly), let me tell you about my morning.

I scour the want ads in several different places on the web every single day. Last night I was up way too late as usual, and reading the help wanted ads. I watched a 20-minute video on a get rich scheme that promised vacations and a grand lifestyle. I just couldn't buy into that. I did bookmark some other jobs for another perusal this morning. As of 11:30am, Wednesday, May 28, 2008, here are the jobs I applied for:

Assistant Bar Manager--basically an Assistant Food and Beverage Director at a country club. (I've done this)!!

Independent Collection Contractor--"deliver notifications on behalf of collectors for several different companies." No collecting of the debt, just notifying. Serious cash, the ad says. I'm into serious cash.... I wonder if I'd be into serious anger?

Assistant Manager--A construction cleaning company is looking for someone to organize and be a taskmaster. This I could do!

Report Editor--A private investigation company is looking for someone to edit their findings. Sounds juicy. It's probably more akin to editing a dictionary.

See? I'm OUT there! One of those jobs is a 7:30am start, another is probably more than I can handle, and the other two are probably bogus, but if you don't ask, you don't get answers.

I still want to work for the chocolatier. Sadly, she hasn't called me back. It's back to the overstaffed restaurant for another shift, I guess.

I Hate My Job

2008-05-27T13:56:00.000-05:00

Maybe I should say I hate my employer. I try very hard not to name the corporation that I work for on this blog. Those who know, please respect that wish in any comment posts. I've worked the foodservice industry for almost 25 years, and I like it. Well, mostly, I like it. This latest stint really has me seething.

First of all, corporate chains are not my gig. I thought I might dislike some of the policy that goes into this kind of restaurant, but as it turns out, I HATE pretty much everything that goes into this kind of restaurant. It doesn't matter if a policy works or not, we have to abide the rule that comes down from headquarters. Things like server check-ins (not really a bad thing) to buddy systems (a very bad thing) that are supposed to make us more efficient so we can schedule less servers, thereby making everyone more money. HA! Last time I checked, we used to have 17 servers on a Saturday, and now we are up to 19 servers on a Saturday. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Another big disillusion is that I was so excited to work for a restaurant that actually offered up health insurance to a lowly waitress. Well, that's another smoke and mirrors tactic. You see, the open enrollment period is in January. The rules are that you have to get 25 hours a week to qualify. With the gross overstaffing that is required by corporate, nobody gets 25 hours a week. At least not in January when there's barely enough business to keep those who want to work five nights a week at that many nights. I think it's pretty sad that you can drive a 50-mile roundtrip to work five nights a week, make next to nothing so you can fret about making your rent, AND not make the minimum requirement to secure yourself a little bit of piece of mind for your health. That's a trick, boy.

In addition to the corporate bullshit one endures with a restaurant such as this, I have the added bonus of a boss who has no clue about being a manager. The guy has a good heart and is personable, no doubt. However, his scheduling skills are quite lacking, and his organizational skills are nonexistent. I will not even begin to rant about his inability to control his staff. Instead, let me give you a sample workweek.

Wed: 3:15 (Open)
Thurs: 4:45
Fri: 5:30 (Close)
Sat: 4:30 (Close)
Sun: 11:15 (Open and Double Shift)
Mon: 5:30 (Close)
Tues: 4:45

Yes, that's seven in a row. Three closing shifts, in spite of the fact that with 30 servers on staff (four closers needed seven nights a week equaling 28 closing shifts for the week), I get three closing shifts. Can I mention that two of those closing shifts are late weekend closing shifts? Can I point out that after getting home after midnight on Saturday night that I am required to be back for a double shift before noon on a Sunday? Would it be whiny to point out that the Sunday shift netted me $22 and an early cut at 3pm?

I came home and slept. Discouraged? You bet. Sick of making no money? Certainly. Wanting out? Abso-fucking-lute-ly!!

In spite of all of these beefs, I have one that grinds me more than any of these. Oh yes I do... The wonderful world that I work in pays the entire front of house staff next to nothing. Know why? Because the servers have a 3% tipshare taken out of their tips before they get them. That's right, the entire front of house staff gets paid from the chunk that gets taken from my hide. I wouldn't even care if I was making any money. The sad part is that a customer who comes in and thinks leaving his server 15% is doing his part for our bottom line is actually only leaving that server a crappy 12% tip. Of course, I can't explain this to my tables, but I really wish I could. Furthermore, it's come to my attention that a restaurant is not allowed (by federal law) to take more than 15% of what you make for other front of house workers. (They are not allowed to take ANY of what you make for back of house staff, so if you work somewhere that's doing that, get on the phone to a local labor agency)! As it turns out, my restaurant is taking about 20% of what I make. Complaining would be futile since the whole tip issue is such a volatile subject in restaurants. I could see corporate pointing the finger back about how servers don't claim everything they make when they are clearly supposed to claim it all.

I need to get out of this position. And while I am venting like a volcano here, do not think that I have not tried to get out of this restaurant. I am churning out resumes like pamphlets in the doctor's office. I am interviewing, calling, sending emails with resumes attached. I have looked in areas outside of my chosen field and I have chastised myself endlessly for not falling back on my teaching degree. I cannot imagine being tied to a school schedule, and apparently am more content hobbling along on this wage than tying myself to a teaching life.

The saddest part of this disaster I call my career is that the current job is affecting my job interviews. My interview last Thursday started on a bad note. "Tell me your favorite thing about working at xxxxxxx." I'm an honest individual with an up front attitude. I had to tell her that there was nothing I liked about it at this point. Of course, I backed it up with nuggets that she found appalling. I assured her I didn't want this to be a session bashing my current employer, but I haven't heard back from her, and I'm sure this is the reason.

I thought this would be the month I found that job that would fulfill me. Or at least the job that would make my bills not seem like a mountain I have to exert every last muscle in my body to get over the top of every month when they arrive. I really love so much about my life that it's disheartening to feel so fed up with the part that is such a major portion of your daily existence.

I know that it will not always be like this. I'm sure that there are bigger and better things out there for me. I just have to find them. Anybody got a map?

Making the Bed

2008-05-20T10:04:00.003-05:00

It happens every time there is a sheet change in my house. The rotund Mrs. Kisses absolutely must help make the bed. It starts when I begin removing the old bedding. She jumps up, looks coyly at me and begins acting like a flirty teenage girl. I pull sheets out from under her and she whines. Then she sashays around on the mattress pad, looking completely satisfied with her fat self. I tell her again and again that I'm making the bed and she is in the way, but she ignores my chastising.

When I start the "fwapping" of opening the sheets across the bed, she rolls on her back and looks happy. As the parachute of cotton lands on her, she whimpers again, but doesn't move. As I tuck the corners in and the sheet forms to her beloved mattress pad, she panics and wants out. Her head pops out from under the last open end, then she runs to the part that is flat and clean on the mattress. We begin it all again on the top sheet. I remind her that I'm trying to make the bed while she plays her tent game with the clean sheets.

When we get to the blanket and comforter that just need to be pulled back up, she watches from the pillow area until I get close to the top. She swishes around, peering under to see if there's room for her to dart underneath before I yank the blankets taut again. As I finish the bed with the pillows, she lies in the middle of the completed project looking like a queen. So self-satisfied!

I wish I had gotten a picture of her sassy self!

If anyone wants a beautiful new baby, let me know. A friend of mine has rescued a batch that will be ready very soon. I think she will even deliver to the area! Go look here: http://shaken-but.blogspot.com

Sweetness

2008-05-14T12:56:00.000-05:00

I spent the last two nights acting like I was 16 years old. I don't regret a minute of it, either. So many happy thoughts run through your mind when you meet Johnny Depp, yet the words don't come easily. It's too difficult to sum it all up in mere sentences; the emotion is a little indescribable.

Here's something that did finally settle into my heart as I observed the gracious Mr. Depp with his fans. When he is shaking your hand, he is all yours. His eyes see you, and he hears what you say to him. He is very sincere with his fans, and makes them know that he appreciates them. That's cool all by itself. But there's even more to this gentle man. When he takes your hand to shake it, he instinctively puts his other hand over yours. He really takes in the experience of greeting his fans. When his hands were closed over mine, I looked him in the eye and told him thank you. He replied with, "Ohhh, thank you! It makes a girl want to swoon.

It took me awhile to find the right word to describe him, but here's what I finally got. He imparts you with this calm peace in his presence. Odd how in a frantic five second exchange with hundreds of others waiting to get their own moment, Johnny is able to leave you with such a refreshing peaceful feeling. Wow. He just amazes me.

Without further ado, let me show you my beautiful up close pictures. (The kind folks over at Deppography will probably want that second one in their eyelash thread)!!

Photo Op

2008-04-30T23:41:00.001-05:00

That is MY photo. I don't care if anyone takes it, uses it, publishes it. (Well, I do, but....) I took it. It's on my camera. That is Johnny Depp and he was in my town. It makes me smile just thinking about it. The movie Public Enemies kicked off its filming in my little bitty town. What a festive, exhausting week it was! Fun? Yes. Depleting? Oh yes. Chasing film-makers and movie stars is very hard work!

Because I have other things to blog about, I really need to be brief in my sharing of my prize photo (which is a nothing photo in comparison to some I've seen by other lucky fans). Let me assure anyone who has even a little bit of admiration for Johnny Depp that any respect you have for him is well-founded.

Mr. Depp, as he seems delighted to be called, is a wonderful man. He is beautiful on the outside, but he is even more amazing on the inside. He regularly makes time for meet and greets, even after grueling hours of filming. He's done midnight meet and greets because fans were still waiting. He's done early morning meet and greets after long nights of filming. He's greeted fans in cold miserable weather. He is remarkable in his devotion to giving back to the fans who wait patiently for just a glimpse. And he gives them so much more than they ever expected.

Here's the thing I really want to share about my photo. Johnny Depp is a very private man. His body guard, Jerry, comes out to tell the crowd the rules about being respectful several times before Johnny actually appears. I was fortunate enough to be directly across from the driveway where he walked out to the crowd. What I saw when Johnny Depp appeared was a man who is shy, and even a little apprehensive of a large crowd. I also saw a man who was delighted to be loved by so many and seemed eager to allow some photo opportunities. The moment he appeared was magical, and the crowd was hushed. He is very low-key and quiet, but he is very gentle and kind.

Words really don't describe the once-in-a-lifetime thrill of seeing, up close, one of my all-time favorite actors. He is phenomenally good-looking. He is amazingly generous with his time. He is always amiable to standing crowds during filming; waving and smiling, nodding and tipping his 1930's style fedora. How incredible! I have enjoyed Johnny Depp since the Gilbert Grape days and the "Bennie and Joon" movie. (I missed the 21 Jump Street start).

Bottom line: I did not know the true wonder of Hollywood until it came to my neighborhood (literally)! I have newfound respect for all that is behind-the-scenes of movie making. Wow. Just wow. Michael Mann is methodical and seemingly brilliant. I cannot wait for this movie to arrive in July of 2009! Thank you to the scouts who directed the movie here. We are forever grateful to be part of such a wonderful project, in whatever small way we could.

Overheard

2008-03-25T15:07:00.003-05:00

I filled up my tank today, got some milk and bananas, and was leaving. The gas station has a PA system whereby they let you know that you are set to pump gas after selecting payment method, grade of fuel, etc. Well, I'm glad it's a nice day and I had the window down because I got to hear the following: "Pump 8, we are having problems with that pump, blah, blah, blah..... I can turn you on right now."

I wonder what the man said when he went in to pay?

I'm remiss in my blog, folks. I had a brush with fame last week. I can't see daylight, but I want to blog about it. Stay tuned....

"What You See is What You Get."

2008-03-07T23:08:00.000-06:00

What you see is what you get. Those words came out of Brett Favre's mouth during his farewell press conference. I love that about him. "I thought about wearing a suit, I really did." hehe...that's our QB! Sorry. That was our QB. My tv had a ticker tape running along the bottom with little snippets of information: My favorite was the one that said, "Favre had a lifelong contract with the Packers." Tell me when the last time you heard of a professional athlete having a LIFELONG contract with his team. Man, I can't believe how many tears I've cried over this event. Really, I thought I'd shed a few sentimental tears. I didn't know I would be weeping over sports writers' articles and crying during Brett's farewell press conference and getting choked up watching his Top 10 plays and.... crying now.

And I've been more realistic and accepting of this news since it broke than most of the people I know. Still, hearing it from the man himself brings a finality, a reality. I loved that he got weepy. If he'd have flown up here to announce that he was leaving us without emotion, I would feel ripped off. Had he sauntered in, made his speech, and gone, I would've felt used, like we meant nothing in the scheme of his career...his life. I've never met Brett Favre, but I feel like I know his character. Being true to himself is important. His tears today were important. Non-Packer fans have told me that Brett Favre is a big baby. He's not. He's a real man. He's leaving something he's known his whole life. There will be no football practice, no meetings, no Sunday games. This is huge. This is emotional. I'm so glad he shared that part of retirement with us in his press conference to say goodbye. No wonder he's my hero.

I don't want him to go. I don't. I never want him to go. But I understand why he is going. I am happy for him that he can finally kick back and enjoy a normal life!! He's earned this a thousand times over, given the football fans more than they could have hoped for, ever. What a joy to watch...a blessing to call our own. I stand in awe of him. I have said in other blogs that it is not just what Brett Favre does on the football field that makes him a great hero. He truly is what you see and what you get. I love that he's going out on his own terms--on top. May whatever he sees in the rearview mirror bring a smile and whatever he sees through the front windshield be joyful. He deserves a rich, blessed retirement.

I have a feeling these weepy tears that are sneaking up on me will continue for awhile. I'm tough...I'll get through the disappointment just like the rest of the Packer Nation has to do. However, Brett Favre carved out a piece of everyone's heart with his emotional, wild, brilliant, crazy, fun antics as a Green Bay Packer. It's not likely that we are going to forget these years, ever. In fact, some of my coworkers have never really known another Packer quarterback. Wow. On Tuesday one of the guys at work walked in with his #4 Atlanta jersey on. Another coworker complimented him on his attire. The guy with the jersey said, "Dude! I laid in bed all day watching ESPN!" On my way to work on Tuesday night, a guy pulled up next to me at a stoplight. I looked over at him, and knew he noticed my Packer license plate. His look said, "I'm so sorry, you must be hurting a great deal right now. Me too." I have to guess that my look back said, "I know. What are ya gonna do?" I'm not sure people who don't live here understand all of this, but that's okay. Call us crazy.

It's tough to say goodbye to Brett Favre, Iron Man. If I was allowed one minute to tell him anything I wanted to, I don't know what I'd say. "Thank you" is the only thing that comes to mind. Anything I might come up with would be inadequate to express the great emotion I feel about his role in our community, the Packer organization, my life. He remains my hero. I would want to assure him that his records aren't what people will remember about him. The fun he brought to the game of football is hard to describe, impossible to replace. He is one of a kind. I take my hat off to him for the great career and wish him, Deanna, and their families a wealth of love and happiness. Thank you for allowing us to laugh with you, cry with you, cheer with you. We will applaud your place in our history forever. Goodbye, Brett. You will be missed at Lambeau, but not forgotten.

We Love Brett Favre

2008-03-04T11:48:00.002-06:00

Thanks to southernmiss2010 for this oldie but goodie tribute... There's nothing more I can think of to say right now. I'm very sad.

What I've Found

2008-02-23T00:58:00.002-06:00

My days are tiring. Struggling to make ends meets is just hard on a person. What I've always known, and recently again found to be the truly important thing in life is this: You have to find something every single day to smile about. You have to be happy with your surroundings, your interests, your loves.

And this is the part where I could lose two of my three readers... One of the "funnest" things I do is watch American Idol. I know it's a little over the top. I know it can get pretty stupid. But I like it, ya know? (It fills up that time while we're all waiting to find out what Brett's gonna do about being a Packer)!! I went all crazy for Taylor Hicks early on and derived great, monumental satisfaction when he won the whole damn thing. Since then, I've watched with a certain detachment. It's just too draining to put so much of yourself into another person's success. I don't regret the hours I dialed relentlessly; I'm just not doing it again.

Having said that, I gotta say this. I watched all of the auditions, and watched this first week of the Top 24. It took a few days for this epiphany to set in, but there's an amazing young talent in this year's pool. He completely escaped my radar through Hollywood Week! Enjoy, if you will, the Texas boy who has given me my smile today. He's a dark horse in the competition, but he's a worthy contender, and I believe he is going to be shining in the weeks to come.

Course, maybe I'm just lost in a daydream....but what a day to be Jason Castro starring as the dayyyyyyyyy dreamin' boyyyyyyyyy!

How Murphy Lost to the Horseshoe

2008-01-26T23:37:00.000-06:00

Everyone knows about Murphy, right? He's the guy who makes sure that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. He's been hanging out by my side for so long that he appears as my shadow! He's put forth a mighty game plan; I'll give 'im that... Let me explain.

My ever-faithful computer acquired a hitch in its giddy-up just after Thanksgiving. I tried to avert the impending doom by beseeching my computer savvy friends about what might be happening with the gaggle of wires inside the HP box next to my desk--to no avail. It died a fairly ugly death. And because my finances are so depleted because of my cruddy job, I couldn't just go out and "pick up a new one." The fact that the Christmas season was approaching did not help my panic over money. How the hell was I supposed to make it all happen? I secured a small loan from my best friend for a computer and decided the little shopping I would do would be put on my one and only credit card. What I didn't know is that there was a force stronger than Murphy working on my behalf.

Several of my online friends (who I actually know from our bi-annual get-togethers over the last few years) told me about a guy they knew who had some cheap computers. After much phoning about what I could afford, they said they'd take care of choosing the correct computer and get it shipped to me. Woohoo! Finally a break! As it turns out, the group of guys I moderate several forums with (which includes the guys I mentioned) decided to take up a collection and GIVE me a computer for Christmas. Isn't that fantastic?! Yes it is. But that's not all they did. Since the donations were so generous, they had extra money. A lot of extra money. I don't know why everyone didn't just reduce their pledges, but they didn't. Instead, they immediately jumped to, "What else can we get her?" So, they got me an iPod nano and a money order that covered my Christmas gifts so I wouldn't have to put them on my credit card!

Now, I could tell you I was blown away by this amazing generosity (because I was blown away by this amazing generosity). Telling you that, however, could never describe the way this group of exceptional men changed my sadness and worry into joy and belief. Yes Virginia (Suz), there IS a Santa Claus. And he is this group of brothers you were lucky enough to find on the internet. I cried for days at the selfless act of the surprise these guys put together for me. When I sit down at my desk to play online, or work on my website, or spruce up my almost lost resume, or jot a note to a friend, well--I know how I got here. It makes me smile every time because I know I have truly awesome friends who cared enough to get me back to them. They are beyond wonderful, and I love them.

As if that wasn't a big enough shove to get Murphy out the door, I encountered even more good luck! My best friend won a jackpot tinkering at the casino on a day off. A BIG jackpot!! Because she too, knows the struggle I've had with my job that just isn't cutting it, I received a care package in the mail with a hefty amount of cash included among the luxury bath items. Wow! Thanks to her, coming up with my rent will not be difficult. These things happen to other people, not me. Confused, but grateful, I take these gifts humbly.

After such a stellar couple of weeks, I was settling into the fact that I really do have great friends. I was busy counting my blessings among the days of working as hard as I could to pay my bills. Then the third horseshoe fell from the sky via a phone call from my best friend after the Giants beat the Cowboys. Ms. Jackpot bought us tickets to the NFC Championship game!! Oh yes she did!! We actually crossed that one off the bucket list. It was the third coldest game in NFL history, a terrible ending to an exciting game that featured four lead changes, but we witnessed it firsthand. Incredible. It would've been nicer if we had actually won that game (which we had so many chances to do), but going to Lambeau Field, EVER, is a phenomenal event. She flew in for a whirlwind weekend, extending the fairy tale that has been my existence the last month. Truly exceptional series of events.

I can't help but wonder if the Packer's loss is somehow the end of this karmic ride for me, too. Did we freeze out all the warm karma in the -24 degree wind chill last Sunday? Has my karma been squandered, leaving no room for a job upgrade? (Tongue-in-cheek here, folks. I'm not really ungrateful)! I actually made a comment wondering if I had used up all my good karma with these latest good fortunes. A friend told me, quite sincerely, that he felt I had been screwed out of so many good things for so long that this was just a small catch up of what I was due. Awwwww.

What will February bring? I'm not sure. But at least my rent is paid and I can play online with my great buddies. I have a resume again. My spirits are better than they have been at this point in our winters than they have been in a long time. I am lucky. I am loved. I will overcome these financial issues. To my amazing friends: Thank you. You mean the world to me. To Murphy: You can't win. Go home.

"Kathleen's Geraniums"

2007-11-12T12:04:00.000-06:00

So many odd little things are creeping into my days.

I've been financially stressed lately. I think I've not made a secret about that. My very best friend and cheerleader, who just moved thousands of miles from here, sent me a gift card to go find something great for my new home. That simple act of kindness brought tears to my eyes when I opened the letter from Seattle.

I had two thoughts for this unexpected gift of decoration. I wanted to get either a swag to go over my mirror in my bedroom, or a wonderful print in a nice frame for one of my big tall walls. Since it was a substantial gift card, I opted for Choice Two. I searched the racks of prints on several occasions, carving out time between my two jobs. I refused to make a hurried choice, as I don't often splurge on nice stuff. Finally, on the third trip, I knew I had enough time and poring over of the selection available to make my choice.

Every time I had looked, one artist's paintings captured my attention. It wasn't that I was looking for her paintings, rather I'd see a picture I liked, and it was always by this same woman--Carol Rowan. I finally settled on "Kathleen's Geraniums." Choosing a frame is a whole 'nother story that I won't bore you with...just know that I could not get the frame I wanted or the matting I wanted. I settled on a workable frame and no mat, knowing I can change those things later when I'm back on my feet and find the perfect matches.

This story actually begins here! I was so excited by having this art project in front of me that I actually sat on my living room floor at midnight after a double shift. I just had to see this put together. As I was putting the print into its frame, I thought to myself that I should look at the tag on the wrapping one last time to make sure I knew who the artist was and what the name of the print was. I cannot tell you why it clicked in my head when I looked at the plastic sticker in that particular moment, but a light bulb went off.

Carol Rowan. Carol Rowan? Could this be the artist I think it could be? I immediately dropped the project at hand and walked (quickly) to the computer. A Google of Carol Rowan brought back astounding news. "Carol Rowan works and lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where she transforms her surroundings into luminous portraits of color and light. ..."

My heart skipped a beat and I stared at the screen slack-jawed. I have been to this woman's house and she has fed me dinner. On Sunday Dinner night, reserved for family and friends. It's a tradition. She is a wonderful hostess, amazing cook, and has one of the warmest, most inviting homes I have ever been in.

How, you ask? This is Aunt Carol. My former best friend's Aunt Carol. She took me to Family Dinner one October evening long ago. We had a wonderful autumn dinner with pumpkin soup and other scrumptious food. I've always remembered and cherished that evening. Aunt Carol stood at the stove, laughing and chatting with the small group who had gathered to feast upon her cheer and warmth. Her cozy living room with a fireplace and so many wonderful paintings on the wall kept me entertained while I listened to the banter from the dining room and kitchen. One could be comfortable here for many days. She is quite a remarkable woman.

And I bought one of her paintings, completely oblivious to it being her! Remarkable, in and of itself, don't you think? Her paintings exhibit warmth and cheer; they are feel-good flowers and scenes in which you want to be surrounded. Go look, really!

http://www.prints.com/art.php/Carol_Rowan/?artist_id=2696&page=1-6 (Sorry, I cannot get this to be a clickable link).

Thank you, Aunt Carol. For dinner and conversation so long ago. And for making my kitchen a warmer, more beautiful place.

A Walk in the Neighborhood

2007-11-02T11:09:00.000-05:00

No words necessary...

So This is How We Do It?

2007-11-02T01:42:00.000-05:00

"Wanna play?" Kyle asked, sensing the interest I had in the blackjack game that was passing the time as we stood around a tray on a tray jack in the kitchen as the doors opened without customers. "Hell yeah, I have quarters," I answered, reaching in my pocket for a portion of the pittance I've been hording. Cheap fun! And somehow, in this wild parallel universe I've mistakenly planted myself in, I felt at ease with these two twenty-something young men who each had a turn training me when I took this job six weeks ago. Not only was it an easy camaraderie, it felt good, really good, to be standing with these guys, playing a card game for quarters.

I've been a stressed out loner these last weeks. Feeling like I belonged, was one of the gang for a few minutes, was a healing experience today in an otherwise complicated and messy life. Thank God for a cheap trip to the mechanic. Thank God for a few moments of feeling like maybe I am likeable. And thank God one more day of this current hell is over. At least there were a few blessings to be found.

Talking to a friend yesterday, she told me that my ability to make enough money to pay my bills never crossed her mind, never entered any equation either of us thought might be hard about this move for me. But it has become the overwhelming factor that chokes me every moment of every day while I struggle through another minimally-sat section at not one, but two restaurants now. So, that's two strikes, right? Friends and family assure me (daily) that I'll be okay, that this is just a phase, that things will even out. Yes, they probably will. Let's face it, at this point, it can't get much worse. There's still an underlying doubt that ping-pongs itself every minute of every day in my mind. Have I lost my ability to make an educated judgment about a restaurant's ability to make money? Am I so stupid (or old??) that I can't grasp what I should be doing to save myself from this quandary I've engulfed myself in, albeit unintentionally? Unintentionally. Ha. Who would intentionally position herself into two consecutive jobs that cannot sustain her modest lifestyle? And this is the crux of the matter: What the hell am I doing? Am I too old? Am I too cocky with 25 years experience? Do I not understand you have to start at the bottom?

No. I don't know anybody in the restaurant business who would be happy with $8-10 an hour average in nice restaurants. I've chosen nice places; really, I have. And still, I've chosen unwisely. One place gives managers sections (with booths!) while I earn a whole four tables (no booths) for my lunch shift efforts. The manager, of course, shows up from the office with an apron on at straight up noon after the opening duties have been finished, then disappears without doing any of the after lunch side work. Of course. I was promised a certain amount each week when I explained my current situation and the need for more customers...more money. Four shifts this week haven't touched a third of that. And managers are getting better sections than me. Say hello to my little friend Murphy.

To say that I am disappointed and frustrated wouldn't quite do my emotions the justice they deserve. I have a valid fear. I have bills to make. Count among my blessings the great manager at my first mistake (which is actually better than my second mistake) who is willing to give me my hours back. Uh-huh. I knew not burning bridges was a good choice. And it proves that I still have a shred of intelligence buried somewhere and left intact. Even so, maybe it's time for me to suck it up and find that 9-5 job that doesn't have the Russian Roulette factor where you never know what you'll make.

I don't have any answers these days. All I can do is be thankful for a car that still runs and doesn't seem to be in imminent danger of leaving me stranded. Find some glory in shagging a couple of wannabe's out of a few bucks in quarters. Let there be joy in the arriving home to a place whose rent is paid for at least this month. What lies ahead is a mystery. Gifts come from nowhere.

A friend trying to cheer me up said this: "I am so sorry for your bad luck on your jobs, but for some reason I think there is music in the air! No not the concerts in Oshkosh, but a special position coming up. You'll know when you hear it."

Please let it be so!

Menu Choices

2007-10-11T22:41:00.000-05:00

The parking lot was full. A misty rain spritzed me as I walked to the door. Attentively, I looked for clues to this restaurant's character. There was a cheerful hum among the guests in the crowded foyer. A plain, teen-aged girl with straight hair stood at the podium. (She reminded me of myself 30 years ago). Behind her was the quarterback of the business. You could see it on this woman. She had jet black hair, shortly coiffed, dressed smartly, and carried that air of authority. This was the woman who had the knowledge and the power to make things happen in this Italian restaurant. Yes, this was going to be an interesting meal.

While the parties ahead of me were seated, I took the opportunity to use the bathroom. Not upscale, but clean, and I noted that the motion-sensored towel dispenser fed a generous amount of toweling for drying your hands. I like that. No reason to be stingy with the toweling so your guests have to stand there and wave their hands at the machine to get enough to actually dry their hands. Good start. Now back to that busy waiting area.

I had to wait another minute or two, but the dark-haired Italian woman seated me then, and assured me that Mackenzie would be with me in just a few minutes. Indeed, she was. She was pleasant, not overbearing in her service, and left me alone without ignoring my dining needs. Very nice. The service staff wore khaki pants/skirts/shorts with forest green polos and white shoes. Interesting. I could see that the management was relaxed about the bottom half of the uniform. If it was khaki-colored, it counted. I like that in a management.

There were four servers and one bartender in a very small bar. There was a smoking and nonsmoking side. Rare, these days. There was no busperson, but I noticed the stringy-haired hostess and the efficient woman were very helpful in clearing and readying tables. The boss lady also took food out to tables, and helped where needed. Very put together woman. I saw in her the ability to manage and multitask with a smile on her face. She appeared to me to be seasoned and professional. I liked her. So did the servers.

I enjoyed that there was a high counter the chefs worked behind. They'd set up finished plates for servers to whisk away to hungry customers. No kitchen doors or corners to plot and navigate your way through to your waiting table. I like that, as well. If one was keeping score, one might say I liked how this place felt. It was buzzing with a dinner hour crowd with minimum staff who worked well together. Very nice. I'd grade it a B, overall.

When I finished my meal, it was the managing woman who asked if needed my leftovers boxed up. She coolly let my server know that I was ready for a box. My server appeared, wrapped my food, and brought my check promptly after my dessert refusal. After I paid, I took my time getting my coat back on so that I could watch the workings a little longer. When I did exit, the goddess who was probably the owner was busy cutting focaccia bread, but she still sent me out the door with a "thank you." Extremely well executed. Bravo!

I don't know if this will be the restaurant that replaces the poor choice I made when I moved a month ago, but I do know I like how they operate a whole lot more than the way my chain restaurant does. I hate that I can't make enough money in a place that I trained for three weeks at before I ever got on the floor. I hate that 5% of my sales go to tip share for people who aren't taking care of me. I hate that I work harder than any of the servers there and they are half my age. Who should be running circles around whom? I hate that I'm scrambling in my new life. Most of all, I hate that I don't have enough confidence in my understanding of restaurants to know if what I pick next will net enough business and tips to pay my bills. Strap yourselves in readers: There's a crisis and I'm back to the blah, blah, blah!

Blessings and Bitches

2007-07-28T08:51:00.001-05:00

I had to do some errands the other day. I saw a Kentucky Fried Chicken and thought it was the perfect lunch stop. Fast, easy, and good-tasting. When I walked in and saw several people waiting for to pick up their food, it made me a little nervous about how fast this would be. After all, they weren't all that busy, yet two people were waiting to order, and two more were waiting for food to be put on a tray so they could eat.

I haven't had KFC for awhile so I shook off my trepidation and put myself behind the folks waiting to order. It wasn't all that bad of a wait time to order, but the food waiters were stacking up to the left. All this waiting gave me plenty of time to read (over and over and over) the sign that hung under the menu behind the counter. "The Colonel's Promise: To serve the best food with the fastest, friendliest service." Uh-huh.

I waited about 10 minutes while a large black woman painstakingly fulfilled each order that her counterpart put through the computer. She'd get one item, look back to a board above her that we couldn't see, then do it again until an order was finally complete. She would then trudge over to the counter and put the finished tray on it without so much as a word to anyone. Luckily, we were all watching her and knew just when she was working on our own lunch orders. The place was getting busier, so it was great to be that far ahead in the fulfillment process.

I ate my lunch quietly, keeping an eye on the progress at the counter. I was inwardly giggling at the sign the corporate gurus thought would be every customer's quality assurance guarantee. There wasn't anything friendly or fast about the staff here. And the food was up to snuff of what the Colonel would want, but somehow it was a little disappointing after such a long wait. Part of the charm is the "fast" part of the promise, isn't it?

Just as I was finishing my lunch, the obvious happened. Someone's *I've Waited Long Enough* meter went sky high, and the plodding putter-togetherer behind the counter got blasted. "I've been waiting forever and you just gave them their order before mine. I ordered before them. What is taking so long for my order here?" The lady who was working so diligently and painfully slowly snapped then. I swear, people, that was all the lady waiting for her food said. The woman behind the counter said, "Quit being a bitch. I didn't know your order was first." This began the shoutfest that ensued. The customer was called a fucking bitch in the next rebuttle yell. And then the drive-thru gal had to come over to try to calm the tempers. The customer was explaining what happened when the black chick jumped in to call her some more names, to which the customer replied, "Why don't you shut up? I'm trying to tell her what happened!"

I was finished with lunch by this time. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the whole place focus in on these three women, and chuckled to myself as I left. It was gonna happen with the turtle pace that was slowing everyone's day down. I wondered if I should have jotted down that 800 number at the bottom of the Colonel's Promise sign so I could make sure this restaurant was checked for that quality guarantee. I wonder if that slow woman still works there?

In the blessings department, I have to tell you three readers that I am moving. It falls more under the "hidden blessings" category though. My landlady (who used to be a friend) freaked out earlier this month. She told me on the first that she'd like me to stay here as long as I want to because I take really good care of the place. Two days later she was standing in my kitchen screaming about having 30 days to vacate. Alrighty then. I've decided to take a month or so to decide what I want to do. I think my time in this town may be over. I'm working on some exciting things that could change my outlook, and have kept the perspective on this move as one of a blessing, not a disaster.

While it's true that I like to plan things and be completely prepared for major changes, I'm thankful that I have a great place to land while I transition and research my next move. Belongings in storage is not a fun prospect, but this too shall pass. Meanwhile, the blessings and the bitches seem to even each other out.

Keen Observations

2007-06-24T01:27:00.000-05:00

Let's face it. We all go through midlife crises. (That's the plural of crisis, right)? I'm doing it full-throttle, oh yes I am. Some days just seem more indecisive than others. I have a host of issues on the table as I venture into this summer season that I love so much. I believe--yes I do--that if this was winter, I might actually be depressed by all that is on my mind. But with bright sunny skies to greet me, warm breezes floating through windows that stay open day and night, and a schedule that allows me to enjoy those warm summer days, how can I be unhappy?

I was chatting with a longtime friend a few weeks ago. He was telling me about a girl he used to love. They had to split apart so she could go far away to care for an ailing mother. A series of miscommunication and bad timing cost them the relationship that might have been. While he'd wondered about her for years, he had moved on with his life, and is happily married with a child now. The same kind of odd fate that had ripped them apart brought them together briefly not long ago. He was trying to relate the feelings that talking to her again evoked. He is without regret, yet there's a sad overtone to finally knowing what happened to the girl he once loved. I think knowing she is sad, knowing she is missing him, understanding that she would like to return to the love they once shared, is a bullet wound that carries a pain we must endure once the gun has been shot.

It makes me wonder what things I might regret as I get older. I believe I have plenty of losses that I could regret if I so chose to regret. But I'm like E, I refuse to reenact an old love affair that obviously can't work for me now. Ha. It doesn't mean I don't do the same thing he did until a few weeks ago. I wonder what ever happened to the Mark's I knew in college (two guys named Mark?)!! I truly loved three guys in college, but the timing wasn't right. We might have made beautiful families together. Then again, we might be fighting over custody weekends and holidays.

I don't know. When I say to my friends, "I'm not where I thought I'd be at this point in my life" they all point out that none of us are where we thought we'd be. "Who is?" they scream at me. Well, probably none of us. And I'm not whining because I have a plethora of blessings I embrace each day. I do miss the fact that I never had kids. (More circumstantial happenings...) I have days when I truly miss my ex. (I also have days that I'm so relieved I'm not with him)! I wish my job offered benefits or a 401k. I wish I had health care. I wish I had a more steady paycheck instead of two combined jobs that are not 'for sure' in the amount earned. I worry about my elderly years. I don't have children who will care for me, but I wasn't shallow enough to buy into the American Dream of having kids for the sake of having kids, even after I knew I was setting myself up to become a ward of the state who would likely be tossed into a low-grade facility at age 75. Is it any wonder I throw out the crass, "I know, I'm trying as hard as I can" in answer to the redundant chastising about how that cigarette I'm lighting up will kill me? Sometimes I just tell the scolder that it's really my only vice and without it, I'd be perfect. ;)

Seriously though, where are we supposed to draw the line between happily doing okay and not even close? Is it bad that I sit online and chat with friends (or sometimes just read) while I have a few 'wind down' cocktails? Am I an alcoholic for doing that? Because I have to say...there's a whole lot of other bigger issues I'd like to address and clean up in my life before I worry about smoking and drinking. I'm the most moderate person I know. I'm also my own best critic, so if you think you need to tell me about how I'm fucking up, you can save your nicotene-free breath on that spiel. I already know, thank you.

I know that I want more. I know that I'm capable of more. I know that I have some decisions to make very soon. What I don't know is what I'll decide. In the interim of moving forward, I've decided that whatever is coming is an adventure and an opportunity, not a thing to be dreaded. I admit, that kind of thinking is a little outside of the box for me, but I'm up for it. I believe the palette in front of me is offering up some colors I haven't seen before. I've been mulling my life long enough. I have a clear understanding of my past. I concede the failures and believe that I am better equipped now to make solid decisions for the second half of my life than I have ever been. I'll wake up tomorrow with the sun glinting through the shades beckoning me to partake in the day that is waiting. And you can bet your ass that I'm all over that!

Giggity! Giggity! Giggity! ;)

Tidbits from the Last Week of May

2007-06-01T01:26:00.000-05:00

So many little things crept into this week that I felt it was time for a mixed bag blog. In no particular order, here are the things that tickled, touched, or tormented me this week.

I was shopping the other day and found myself next to an older gentleman in the dairy section. We seemed to be ambling at the same pace through the variety of milk products and rounded the outskirts of the area together. I stopped to get some margarine when an elderly woman walked up to him carrying a can of something from somewhere else in the store. As she approached him, her voice lifted like that of a newlywed and she cooed at him, "There you are, baby. I thought you might be getting milk." I glanced over and was astonished to see this elderly couple coming back together among the eggs and cheese in such a tender way. The woman's kindness to a man who has surely been her mate for decades touched me. I hope we can all remember that even a five minute separation gives us the opportunity to let our best friend know that we are happy to see them again.

I waited on two 10-year olds who wanted to be "grown-up" and not eat with their parents. The parents sat across the dining room in another server's section, so the girls were on their own. When I approached the table the girls squirmed with delight at the prospect of being served like adults. They ordered kiddie cocktails and mozzarella sticks for an appetizer. They clearly wanted to make this an evening to remember and take full advantage of milking the experience. Hey, no problems there, I found it cute.

It was cute until I stood at the table for a full minute waiting for the miniature blond to get off of her cell phone. When she ignored me and kept talking to the person who was supposed to go to the movie gallery to rent her and her cohort some movies for later, I walked away. Trust me, it was hard not to fly into a tirade, but I held my composure. I walked into the kitchen and vented about being blown off by a ten-year old on a cell phone, exclaiming, "That's a first!" I hope it's a last too. It was downright humiliating and degrading. Parents are really teaching their children to be restaurant snobs early these days, aren't they? I can't even comment on this further, or it will turn into a full-blown blog of its own. Wow.

The tree and grass pollen has been atrocious this year, especially if you care how your car looks. Grrr. I have a new car that I would like to look lovely every second of the day. It's not gonna happen. I took it to the car wash one afternoon, and parked it smartly in my driveway, just a-gleamin' in the sun, only to see another film of the yellow pollen on it three hours later. I officially give up. Someone please ask the pollen gods to ease up, huh?

My sweetheart, who is never grumpy, was the biggest crab on the planet the other night. This was a complete role reversal for me to try to buoy him up and out of the bad mood that found him. It might also be a good reminder that I could knock that crap off anytime too because maybe cheering me up shouldn't be a full-time job. Point taken. And yet I've been just drained and out of it this week. I can barely find the energy to get anything accomplished. I made a comment at work the other day about not being recovered from the holiday weekend yet. Someone said, "Yeah, and you won't be until about September." Yep, let the tourist season begin. And may the grumpy season be gone.

A friend and I had an interesting discussion last week. I was bemoaning the fact that I seem to be taking after my grandmother with thinning hair. She's a bit younger than me, but she got it! Her reply is priceless. "I know," she said, "when I was younger I used to see the hair in the drain and think, 'how much hair do I have and now I see it and think how much hair am I losing?'"

The spiders have been behaving lately. The ants are moving in. It's humid, which I consider spider weather, but they've left me mostly to my home sweet home. And I haven't had to spray that darned stuff around the house, either. I am getting out the Terro though. I killed an ant tonight that had it been a spider, I would have been terrorized to swat. Yes, it was that big. If that family of ants moves in, I'm moving out. Yikes!

I'm working on a blog about the drama at work, but I'm not sure I will post it. It's so whiny. I would like to be hopeful and uplifting in my words to my two or three readers, but I know I'm not, so look for a post about some drama at work going up soon! ;) And enjoy the end of your week, friends!

I'm Ranting Here

2007-05-18T23:19:00.000-05:00

Work sucked tonight! It's not that the tips were awful or the night was extremely long. Work just sucked. It might be the allergies that have been kicking my ass have finally gotten to me. Sure, I thought on Monday...I could get through a day or two of feeling under the weather because the trees were furiously blooming, but now I'm just tired of feeling so non-functioning. And work sucked because of it.

I noticed right away that I was on the rampage. The slicer was a beast on tomatoes and onions, and the tomatoes were little so there were way too many of them to slice. I was behind after sparring with the slicing equipment and the hostess had people waiting in the hall so she wanted to open the doors early. To be totally honest, the issues at work have been escalating because of a few bad apples who are rotting the good apples' good attitudes. This alone makes work suck. Then again, in the spirit of honesty, I do love my job.

What do you get when you mix one part allergy with one part PMS and one part annoyance at the workplace? I'll tell you what you get. You get one crabby waitress. My first table needed time to look at the menu which was cool by me. However, when they were finally ready to order (and subsequently througout the meal), the woman felt compelled to explain every detail of why she needed to relay each message she gave me. Example: "I'd like it if you could bring us two more sour creams. I didn't get one [she said no when I asked if she wanted one in the ordering phase]and he shared some of his with me, but now we're out and I think we'd like a little extra in addition to the one I didn't get, so....if I could get two..." All she needed to say was, "Could you bring us two sour creams?" But nope. Everytime I dealt with her it was all about her snivelling. Whatever.

Shortly after that while I was ringing in an order at the POS (which is near our Friday night fish and chicken buffet), a woman leaned in and asked, "Will they be bringing out more chicken?" Boy howdy, I wanted to say, "I'm sorry! We've exceeded our alotted amount of Friday Night Chicken and it's only 6:15pm!" I could have added, "there's a lot of fish though, so dig in!" What possesses people to ask such stupid questions? Obviously, what she wanted to know was how long she would have to wait for more chicken. Why didn't she just ask that?

My night continued on the path of aggravation when my section cleared out simultaneously and my hostess brought me two 4-tops and a 2-top within minutes of each other. By the time I got to the third seated table and tried to greet them and introduce myself, the woman had a sour face and blurted, "We are ready to order." Her tone infuriated me. I guess she was under that customer assumption that us servers are in the back eating Bon-Bons, even though it appears that our twin is dashing to the bar for drinks and serving salads that were punched in and sent by some ghost of a server that they can't see. I held back a snarl and informed the woman in my most neutral tone that I was working as fast as I could, "whatwouldyoulike?"

I skipped the extra pleasantries with most of my tables. Honestly, I didn't smile all that much. And believe it or not, it had less to do with my grumpy mood and more to do with the chapped upper lip and nose area that I've developed because of the excessive nose-blowing that's gone on. As luck (or stupidity) would have it, I left one of about seven tubes of lip balm I have scattered in coat pockets and my purse, car, etc in the pocket of the coat I wore earlier today. I went to work without lip balm!!! Nary a soul had anything until the late busgirl came in and finally had some to share. I actually started smiling more after that, I'm pretty sure. I've used that stuff four times writing this, just to give you an idea of how naked I was at work without anything to moisten that dry upper lip. I thought I might die.

The night went pretty fast and I'm glad to be home. I'm still a tad jealous that my best work friend got the first table in my section after I was cut and they had tenderloin and lobster. I guess when you go in crabby, you better find a way to sigh and laugh it off by the time that happens to you. I took solace and joy in my after work cigarette, meal, and cocktail while the closing girls slaved away. I've got a lot of nights ahead of me this week. You bet your ass I'm basking in an early night off.

Did I remember to take Table #18's extra rolls to them? Eh, who cares?!

Spider Returns

2007-05-17T20:57:00.000-05:00

No, that's not a typo. I did mean "Spider Returns." Anyone who knows me knows that I'm pretty brash and bold, unafraid of hardly anything. Anything, that is, except spiders. I am the quintessential Little Miss Muffet. In other words, spiders scare the shit out of me.

My fear of spiders has actually decreased as I've gotten older, but I think that's only because I've had to be brave since I've lived alone a fair amount of my adult years. I've vowed to myself that I won't let a spider ruin my happy home. That being said, I have to admit to a few idiosyncratic tendencies. When I was little I put my shoes on and a big spider ran across my foot. Now I tap out my shoes before my feet enter them. Every time. Even in the winter. One time I took a shower and made the mistake of leaving my clothes on the floor and a spider was amongst them when I picked them up after my shower. Now, not only do I hang my clothes on a towel hook, I also shake out my towel before I dry myself after a shower. I've heard tales of spiders (and worse) in sleeping bags and beds, so I usually take a peek under the covers to see if there's any crawly things where I intend to lay down.

I have acquired some new habits recently. If I was not so scared of surfing pages where ugly, scary spiders pop in on my screen, I would search for the kind of spider that has made my home his home. Hell, we're not talking about one or two of these, I'm saying this sonofabitch brought every brother and lazy-assed ex father-in-law he ever had, plus every baby spider bearing female spider he could entice over with him. Damn! These things are appearing everywhere.

First I'd just see one or two skittering about on the ceiling while I was watching tv. This is okay, as long as they don't skitter above my head or over the furniture I'm sitting on. (You never know when they are going to lose that grip and have gravity beat them)! If one of them came down the wall far enough that I could get a clean shot with my "spider-killing shoe" then I'd run and get "the shoe" and kill the SOB. Really, not a big deal to kill a vagrant spider that is below shoulder level once in awhile. Do not expect me to hold my composure when I have "the shoe" in my hand and I'm on a chair trying to kill a spider on the ceiling. And don't ever give me shit because I can't take a whack at a spider on the wall that is above my head even though I can easily reach "the shoe" above my head and mark the wall with the spider's guts. I can't do it. And I won't even go into the inner hysterics I endure if the spider that's ruining my day is large and hairy. Suffice it to say that I will have trouble crawling into bed to sleep at the end of a day that involves a hairy spider. But I digress.

Like I said, the spiders that moved in were sporadically visible at first. Then (after the scouts came back unharmed I'm assuming), they started showing up everywhere! I'd open a cupboard and one would race up the inside of it. I'd take a bath and one would hover above me, ruining any chance of relaxation I was hoping to gain from my lavender bubbles. They'd appear from under the ledge of the counter while I was working in the kitchen. One morning I lifted the lid to pour water into the coffee maker and one darted around. I thought for sure coffee was going to be delayed while the scuba team tried to revive the kid, but his track abilities kicked in and he made a dash across the top of the machine and landed on the counter where I easily squashed him. Coffee was on time.

The spiders like to relax in the spot where the wall meets the ceiling, knowing damn well I can't get a shoe wedged in that space to take their lives. Except I did it anyway. A few got away shy a few legs, but I'm pretty sure they died or got smacked down later. (I'd like to think those ants that were attacking me last year might have had a hearty meal of him)! I had one of those spiders come flying out of the microwave one day. What in the hell happened to my little fairy tale house? These guys were threatening my existence here. I'd have a friend over for drinks after work, only to be mesmerized by the two dancing spiders having a prom all their own on the wall behind my chatty friend. "The shoe" came out, she sat still, and prom was over.

I went ballistic on these creepy crawlers about a week ago. I swept the whole house clear of spider webs and waited for the mad scramble. It worked. I think my best day was seven spider kills. I had gleaned the custom of scouring each room as I walked into it from the previous onslaught of spider bugaloo, so I was on double red high alert after the web-sweep. Finally, it seemed I had chased the few survivors to another abode. That is, until this morning when I went to feed my cats, and one popped up from under the ledge of the counter. I grabbed "the shoe" with a heavy heart and took him out without flinching.

I have one weapon left in my arsenal. It's a big jug of spider poison that will get sprayed around the outside of the house and in the corners inside the house. If they persist after that, I may get a holster made for "the shoe" and wear it to bed. I'm gonna change the last line of that nursery rhyme too:

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet
Eating her curds and whey,
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her
So Miss Muffet blew him away

It's Always Something

2007-04-30T13:02:00.000-05:00

I don't know what it is with me lately. I'm in a blue funk which doesn't make sense. The weather is gorgeous, I have cool new wheels to take me on even the most mundane errand, all my bills are paid, and my health (except for a few allergy symptoms) is great. It has just been impossible for me to get motivated these last four or five days.

Well, the health being great might not be that true. Working Saturday night, that swoop move with one of my early trays alerted me to a definite lower back pull. How did that happen?? I swear, I don't recall any movement that produced that effect. Nevertheless, I opted for a cart for most of the rest of the evening. And yesterday's standstill on any work production at home seems to have alleviated that "old people walk" I adopted upon my first waking and walking moments. Today I'll tackle the storm windows that usually cause that very same sensation upon completion. I'm going to try to lift the windows differently to protect my aging back this year!

Actually I have to score a 6 foot ladder from a pal before I can begin today's festivities. See, my neighbor and landlady has taken a petty stance on my use of her things so I won't be strolling next door and opening up her shed to use that conveniently located ladder I'd like to use. The story of how I came to be afraid to use anything of hers is a weary tale that I'd rather not repeat on the world wide web. Can we suffice it to say that her stuff is fairly old and she's in this dream world where she thinks my doing a friend and coworker's uniform with mine is taking advantage of the laundry facilities in the basement? I haven't spoken to my former friend/current landlady for over a month since her tirade on my laundering favors. A single girl who has to rummage for enough clothes to do a load of laundry should not offer a friend who has the same uniform the kindness of a shared agitation. Lesson learned.

In addition to needing a ladder for storm windows, I guess I'm going to be needing a new lawn mower. I'd use the one the landlady left in my shed, but last year the bolt on one of the wheels kept loosening up. I'm afraid if I use it and the bolt breaks, I'll hear the echo of the laundry fiasco. "I'm not replacing that lawn mower because you are cutting your grass every six days!" ("I'm not replacing that washer and dryer because you are doing everyone's laundry.") I should probably only be cutting the grass once a month like her. Ugh. I have to bite my tongue so I don't let loose a tangent of the way that the appliances and other things in this house are old and ready for replacement whether I use them once or a hundred times. I have to shake my head and shut up about the way I've seen her 'take care' of things.

Then there's the whole awkward peeking out the window to make sure I'm not going to run into her before I even open my door to step outside. Oh yeah. That's how I want to spend my summer in The House of Old Shit. I'm verklempt. I like it here, even if the appliances and antique efficiency of the furnace do cost more. The rent is low enough to make this a pretty good deal. It's close to work, friends, family. I'm still deciphering my goals, but I'm pretty sure this is not my final destination. This was the bridge to my coming back from living on the West Coast and finding myself back here in the Midwest. I don't want to stand still on that bridge and watch the swirling water below anymore. I need a plan.

I've become dispassionate about fixing things up around here. I was all set to paint the kitchen after a long arduous process of refacing the kitchen cabinets, but I've lost my verve to do so now. Adding to the mix of mixed up emotions is the funniest thing that happened when my former landlady called me to tell me that the upper half of the Victorian house I rented before I left the Midwest was currently vacant. She didn't know where I was at with "things" and just thought maybe I'd be interested. She explained that they loved me like family and if I wanted the place there would be no security deposit required. See, that's the kind of renter I am. I've never rented a house without painting, refinishing, improving something! I wondered if Sandy's call about the vacancy was divine intervention or some cruel trick by the devil. In the end, I had to pass on the offer. It wouldn't be good for me to try to hurry up this process of getting back down that way. And we are gearing up on the best time of the year at work. I guess I need to ride out the summer and look into the next phase while I make some money to afford that plan.

Maybe my lazy attitude comes from the indecision over what the hell I'm even doing. I'm not even close to where I thought I'd be when I was in my hopeful 20's. I hobbled through a failing marriage for the better part of my 30's. You damn sure know that I want to make more of my 40's. It's always something. I hope I find that something sometime soon.

Why is it now that I've secured the ladder from my friend, washed my car, and actually eaten lunch so that I'm ready for an afternoon of work that the clouds have rolled in and the hail has started? Oh, and one more question. Why is that when you have a tv dinner with corn, no matter how hard you try, at least one kernel always ends up in the potatoes? I hate when that happens!

The Matriarch

2007-04-24T11:14:00.000-05:00

It’s a funny thing about death. Dying affords the dead more respect than at any other time in their lives. I don’t understand why that’s true, but I know it is. We haven’t had a family Christmas that garnered every member of the family’s presence for several years. And our Brady Bunch gang can’t set aside their individual lives to honor our parents’ wedding anniversary, even though we all stood up for the blessed event. Nobody’s birthday is important enough to command attendance by all. But when funeral arrangements for a matriarch are made, children and grandchildren and great grandchildren rearrange their schedules to be in the little church where the parents and a daughter were married, where other beloved family members were honored in death, and where we have spent so many Sunday mornings, Christmas Eves, and Easter mornings.

Miss Blanche, as the pastor insisted on calling my grandmother throughout the memorial, died in her sleep at the hospital only days before she was scheduled to move into an assisted living facility. I don’t believe she wanted to live that way, and if you push me on the matter, I will tell you that I believe she willed herself to die. She was a strong and independent woman whose health and balance was failing. She couldn’t live at home anymore, at 86. Truthfully, I think she lived an ideal life. It’s not that it was a perfect life, a pain-free life, but it was a full life. And she had what most of us pray for in her passing; that age old wish for a quiet dying in our sleep. (As an aside, I’ve always thought my luck at never being in a hospital is going to bring me a horrible death where limbs and maybe even a head get ripped off).

The last time I saw my grandmother, she was in the hospital recovering from a blood infection and pneumonia. She had fallen and hurt her leg prior to the hospitalization, too. Her door was closed when I arrived, so I knocked lightly. A nurse answered, “yes” as though I should I come in. The sight that greeted me is one I could live without. They had changed her bed, and were in the process of getting her back in bed. My gram was not a large lady, but her muscles were weak and she was of no help in maneuvering her frame at that point. Because of this, the nurses employed a hammock type lift to move and hold her while they remade the bed. As they swung the hammock on a crane (as it were), she wailed like a child with every movement. I don’t know what was causing her pain, but I wished the nurse would have answered, ‘We just need a minute’ to my tapping at the door.

I busied myself looking at the flowers and photos that other family had left for her during the awkward lapse of time that it took to situate her. After they settled her into her bed again, they told her she had a visitor. She was immediately happy to see me and I was grateful she knew who I was, for I had been warned that she was quite dehydrated and “out of it” and may not welcome me. Her voice was scarce, teeth removed, and conversing was difficult at best. But we did manage a coherent conversation in snippet phases. She was worried about her cats and knew I would sympathize with that. I tried to be reassuring and calming since she seemed so out of her element there, but as I looked at her scrawny shoulders and sunken face, I marveled at how it seemed like I didn’t even know this woman. She looked so unlike herself! Her demeanor was not that of the brash, almost cranky woman I’ve come to know. So strange to see her this way…

She was tired and needed to rest, but I guess somewhere in her clouded thoughts she did not want to be rude. She finally looked at me with big doe eyes and blurted, “You need to get to bed now!” I stifled a giggle, and managed an only slightly amused look on my face. “Oh! Okay." I said with a tickle. I leaned in and kissed her cheek, told her to listen to the doctors, and said that I’d be in to see her again later in the week. As fate would have it, I caught a cold and didn’t want to visit her while ill so that was the last time I saw her.

However, I think my gram would be pleased (was pleased!) to know that her passing brought every last one of her immediate family to one place to say goodbye to her. I mentally checked off the list of star alignments and worlds that had to collide to force this unprecedented event. The roll call was impressive. The wayward child who left his family in the lurch and watched his own parents take care of them was present, for what I assume was a desire to try to make peace with his mother. The granddaughter who lost both of her own parents too early in life hopped a jet to prove that there is some shred of her heart left where her mother’s mother still matters. The grandchildren she took in at different times for different reasons came to shed a tear for the best part of a family that they’ve ever known. The three loyal grandsons, the step-grandchildren, the nieces, and the favorite son who hadn’t slept all week in the terror of laying his mother to rest—all of them were present for the final goodbye to the woman who was the glue of the family for so many years.

And while the occasion was somber, I still found my overwhelming emotion to be that of wonder. I watched the people I’ve prayed with, laughed with, fought with, and called “family” for the last two decades carry themselves through this event in their own ways. I sat pensively in the front row of the church as the congregation was dismissed from the back to the front to pay its individual last respects to the white-haired woman lain out before us. To explain the strange configurations of our family is daunting. The nieces who claimed my stepfather as their guardian growing up, the man who is their half-brother who called his grandmother “Ma” and the cousins who lived without the father, lost their mother, and leaned further on their father’s mother in their time of need: these are just a few of the results of fate and the crazy world in which we live. It’s confusing, I know. Watching each family pass through for a final goodbye was heartbreaking, yes, but also incredibly wondrous. Six degrees of separation… our family has certainly broken approximately 180 degrees of separation. I can’t say how we all came to be a family, but I know its casting director had to think a lot harder about this conglomeration than he did about the Brady Bunch.

The mother and grandmother, friend and aunt was at rest. The family was in angst. All showed up. All made the effort to be kind to one another. That’s no small feat in my family. Death commands the attention, if only for a moment, of even the hardest hearts. Rest in peace, Gram…we will miss you.

Change is Good

2007-04-20T13:28:00.001-05:00

"Change is good" is apparently the slogan for the new '07 Nissan Altima. The commercial begins with a nice-looking chick driving her friends (who are in the back seat) in her new Altima. She's pointing out all the great features of her new ride, and the friends are duly impressed. She slows down to a waiting man, who is the dorkiest thing you've ever seen. "AND THERE'S MY MAN!!" she cries to her friends. The friends exchange looks like they cannot believe this is her boyfriend. After all, her tastes seemed pretty refined only a moment ago. When the boyfriend gets in, he's a totally different person--a very handsome man who looks confident and happy. The announcer says, "Change is good."

This makes me giggle because, well, I just bought a Nissan Altima. And I can assure you, change is good! I didn't get an '07 model, I got a used '02, but the change from my '97 Dodge Avenger with 175,000 miles on it is GOOD! This car is beautiful, probably the prettiest car I've ever owned. It's a sage green metallic color with lots of new technology I've never had in a car of mine. It has two trip odometers, distance to empty, mpg monitor, and other really fun stuff. It's got radio and cruise controls on the steering wheel (which really makes you rethink how you hold the wheel, let me tell you)! I splurged and had a sunroof put in. I felt a little spoiled doing that, but I am soooo glad I had it done! It's a beautiful sunroof. I've only had one other car that had one, and it was also after factory and just a pop-up. This is power and it's simply wonderful. Now all I need is a reason for a good old-fashioned road trip to really get to know my car!

Another change that was good this week is my substitute teaching experience. In March I long-termed for a woman who had a baby. The classes were undisciplined, destroying school property, leaving the room without permission, swearing uncontrollably...a complete nightmare. The week after that, I took a class for a guy who had knee surgery. His class was worse than the new mom's class! He allows the kids to eat in his classroom (which is carpeted) in order to become "friends" with them and ensure that they "like" him. I call bullshit. It's district policy to allow only water in clear bottles in the classroom. They leave wrappers, soda cans, sticky sucker sticks, spills on the desk, and crunchy snacks on the floor to be stepped on and ground into the carpet. One day of this and I became the food police, abolishing any and all munching while I was there. "But Mr. Casey lets us...." I'm not Mr. Casey, now am I?

I had students walk out on me because I took their snacks, kids who wrote on desks about how much of a bitch I am, girls who called me a bitch as they walked away from my "no" answer to their request to go to the bathroom. (Another school policy is that they use the restroom between classes and not during). Talk about having to choose your battles. The day I'm allowing students to grumble, "Bitch!" as they walk away from me is the day I need to rethink using my teaching license as a substitute teacher.

I truly gave some long hard thought to the students of this school district. I thought I'd perhaps take my name off of this school's sub list and go to some other area schools. If nothing else, I wanted to see if the other schools were allowing such disrespect and insubordination in their schools! Holy shit! I wouldn't be going anywhere for a month and I wouldn't be able to sit if I did some of the things these kids did and said to me. When did swearing at teachers and walking out of a classroom become acceptable? I told both the principal and vice-principal I was aghast at the behaviors.

However, with the end of the school year approaching and the tourist season gearing up at the restaurant, I concluded I would let it ride for now. In the fall I will explore other school districts. The bitch is...I can walk to this high school, walk home for lunch, and go back. It's a cheap transportation day, though maybe with my new ride, I'll look at some of the farther-reaching school districts (snicker, snicker). And I subbed yesterday for a guy who I consider a casual friend. We have coaching track in common, and we used to hang out when I long-termed for a colleague who was out for almost a year and a half with cancer. His classes were well-behaved and disciplined. Some of the same kids who have been complete assholes in those other classes were angels in his room! Well, now... Yesterday's experience told me quite a bit about the other teachers. I guess I knew this, but I wondered if part of the problem in this school district was the lax discipline from the higher powers. I'm not sure that it isn't part of the problem, rather I learned that if you are a good teacher, your classroom discipline can override anything that might happen if you referred it to those inept higher powers. Kudos to Mr. B!! You rock! What a difference a day makes.

Yep. The verdict is in. Change is good.

Winter Hiatus

2007-04-14T09:23:00.000-05:00

Wow! Two months since my last post. I should be ashamed. And I am. I have lots of good excuses though; like teaching nearly everyday of March while holding down my waitress job too, researching and finally buying a new car (just this week, and I don't pick it up until Monday), being on vacation, and generally feeling those end-of-winter blahs. Yep. I have a laundry list of reasons for not writing. It's not that there weren't some great blog inspirations over the last two months, rather my brain was not in drive where the writing is concerned. I hope that Spring peeking around the corner will be the fuel that kicks my brain back into the writing mode. There's gonna be blogs, people. Even if they suck!

I have a whole list of topics jotted on a piece of scrap paper. It makes me almost feel like a creative writer type. You know, those famous writers who get great ideas and jot them on a cocktail napkin and tuck them into a coat pocket and find them the next time they put the coat on? A light bulb goes off, and they've written just enough to remind themselves what brilliant idea had flown through their mind at that particular moment. Yeah, I have a list of those. If I can't find anything entertaining to yammer about, that's my pot o' gold. I promise to dip into it if I come up empty in the next few weeks.

Meanwhile, accept my apologies. You four readers deserve so much more! I'm feeling blessed and optimistic. Winter is almost gone, life is good, I am healthy. Writings will follow.

Football: Hallowed Be Thy Name

2007-02-16T15:12:00.000-06:00

I don't talk much about my football passion, but now that there's no football I'm depressed. Somewhere down the line, I became an avid fan of the sport. I mean, I didn't grow up loving the Packers or watching college ball. But I'm totally, absolutely, devastatingly in love with football now. And no team more than the Green Bay Packers and my team's football icons.

Of course, the Pack has been more exciting with Brett Favre at the helm, sure...but I was there when it was "Majik." I remember Dickey, Brunell, Hasselbeck, Whitehurst...so mark me down as a blooming fan in the mid 1980's. I've had my favorite receivers and RB's too. Workman, Jervey, Levens, even Edgar Bennett (who coaches for the Packers now). Gimme Lofton, Ferguson, Rison, Brooks (YES!), Driver, Freeman, Schroeder, but most of all gimme DON BEEBE! He vies for my all-time favorite Packer against the omnipresent Brett Favre. I've always been a fan of Frankie "bag of donuts" Winters, Henderson, big Gilbert Brown (his Burger King burger was to die for), Doug Evans, LeRoy Butler, Ken Rutgers (I met him!), Keith Jackson, Bubba Franks, Desmond Howard, Chuck Cecil... Well, you get the idea. I love football and the men who play on my team!

So now that I've flung enough Packer names out there for you to believe that I really do love my team, let's talk a little about Brett Favre. Oh man! This guy is amazing. Us fans have been incredibly fortunate to have this guy on our team! And he's earned our trust, even when he is in the midst of a bad streak and riddled with interceptions and bad choices. We don't call for him to be taken out of the game or replaced with the guy on the bench (poor Doug Pederson). We LOVE our Favre man, and no matter what other team's fans say, I know they are jealous that we got this bad boy. Sure, sure....the debate of the day is whether he should be coming back or not, but I assure you that even the fans of the Green Bay Packers who believe Favre should hang up his pads and clear out his locker will be sorry to see him do just that. I'm happy he's playing at least one more year because I did not take advantage of being an hour and a half away from Lambeau this year. My first priority of the new year is to get me some tickets, no matter what they cost, to see the legend on the Frozen Tundra one more time before he does exit stage left.

I don't love Brett Favre just because he's a football hero. I love Brett Favre for being real, for sharing so much of himself as he's played through the pain of his life. And you all know about that stuff. What you probably don't know is that in his autobiography, he is brutally honest about his Vicoden addiction and how it overtook his life. Writing that openly about such a horrible part of your life is gutsy. I also loved the part where he saved his own life after he was in a car accident. He'd been hospitalized, then released after surgeries, etc to heal him. He went back in and demanded that they open him back up, saying he knew there was someting wrong, still. The doctors fought him and turned him away, but he was persistent, so they finally did go back in to look at his intestines. Turned out, Brett was right. He had twisted intestines that would have killed him had they not been taken care of. The man isn't perfect, and I don't put him on a pedestal. I just really like what he stands for and the way he handles himself now that he's mature. I hope he breaks every record he's close to this time around, and goes down as the all-time greatest QB who ever played the game. He's already the all-time greatest "down home boy" in my book. :)

Don Beebe is another Packer I've always admired. He got into the NFL on a quirk of fate. The scout was at his college and he got wind of it, but didn't have his running shoes with him. He went to the tryouts and scored the best 50yd dash that day--in his bare feet! He's a Godly man, and his work ethic was second to none when he was on the field. I met him once when he had a book signing (another great book). The man had arms like an ape, even though he's only like 5'9"....unbelievable fitness about him. I wish the men in the NFL today were as classy as Don Beebe was when he played.

I miss football from the time the SuperBowl is over until the preseason games start in August. Training camp serves as a great warm-up, but I'm usually so busy with the summer tourist season that I can't pay attention to it all. At least Autumn brings the pigskin back. If it didn't, I'm not sure I could endure the waning light of the shorter days that descend on us in September. To help bridge the time from now til then, a fellow avid Packer fan friend and I have decided to have a little football party on Sunday. We'll be watching the last game of the season when we whooped on Da Bears. It'll be the feel good event of the winter! At the end of the game, we'll see the teary-eyed Brett Favre and listen to the speculation about his retirement with glee in our hearts because the verdict is in. The Pack is back, and so is Brett Favre!

V is for Victory

2007-02-15T00:36:00.001-06:00

Ahhh, Valentine's Day! Normally a real bummer of a day for me, even when I'm attached. I have this thing about February, see? No matter how optimistically I go into the cold month of 28 days, it's never short enough for me. And the halfway mark is usually a heartbreaker because I always want more than I get. Today was a 10!

For me, I'm sensible enough to know that Valentine's Day is a manufactured holiday to boost those sagging gift sales that retailers live for, but I'm still enough of a romantic to wish for some grand gesture that will blow me away by the man I love. Today that happened. I had the wake-up call from 2000 miles away to tell me "Happy Valentine's Day, honey," which I totally expected. My gift to him arrived in my usual punctual fashion, so I was pleased. Then, after my shower, and a few hours before work, the jaw-dropping, "ohmygod" moment occurred when my doorbell rang. I thought it might be the DHL guy with my Barnes and Noble order. It wasn't. It gloriously was not! My local florist stood at my door proclaiming, "These are for you!" I swooned when I opened up the covered treasure. The most beautiful dozen roses I have ever seen sat on my kitchen table while my heart pounded and my head swooned. Add the fact that this particular man has had horrible past experiences with being the nice guy who gives flowers, so he's never given me flowers of any kind for any reason before. This was that quintessential grand gesture that women secretly hope they can brag about. Normally, I'm against roses in general,and especially on Valentine's Day, but today...well, today this just seems really cool.

I worked tonight too. It's a great night to be in the restaurant business. We haven't had that civilization-stopping weather, so nothing impeded our progress in wining and dining our guests. Tips were great! I did get reamed out by a woman who was peeved that so many people beat her to our dining room by 5:10. "Why do you take reservations at all then? What's the point of them?" (We only take reservations for holidays). Explaining to her that it "held" a table for her was no consolation. All I could do was apologize. When their ticket never printed in the kitchen, well, my night with them was over. The one good thing to come out of her railing at me is that my other tables tipped me extra well after seeing me survive the deluge I didn't deserve. I can live with that. ;)

The capper to my victorious day is that we've had an appetizer contest running for the last two weeks. The winner got a crisp one-hundred dollar bill. In a neck and neck race, I came out ahead. There's nothing like being rewarded with a greenback. Sweet! Maybe I'm moving out of those February blahs that have been chasing me for so long. Could it be? Might it be? Maybe this is just a one year reprieve for all the difficult February's I've endured in the last several decades. Hey. They say life begins at 40. I say let the games begin.

Hope you all had someone tell you they loved you today. And if you didn't, don't worry, someone really does love you.

I Got a New Job!

2007-02-08T10:23:00.000-06:00

Yep, I got a new job and I didn't even leave my current employer. You see, we've finally stepped into the 21st century with an updated POS system. For those of you not in the hospitality industry, that does NOT mean Piece Of Shit. No, this is what's known in the modern day as Point Of Sale. And I readily admit that this blog may only be of interest to those of you actually employed in the restaurant business. (Both of you)!!! So read on if you aren't in the business if you'd like, but accept my apologies if it bores you.

My restaurant has been doing a fantastic job of serving customers in our old fashion way for decades upon decades. The place has entertained(I bet)millions of diners in our old way of doing things, and truth be told, it ran like a well oiled machine for most of those decades. But time marches on, and we were overdue for this upgrade. And so with much grumbling, we have implemented modern technology to our pack of old dogs who don't want to learn these new tricks. I think most of the staff feels like the management put an invisible electric fence around our yard.

I confess that when the business consultant came in and asked our opinions a few months ago, I heartily begged for POS. I do not regret saying it then, nor am I disappointed that it has finally arrived to our little corner of the world. Having said that, let me tell you, it has caused great confusion and some pretty bad service to our stellar customers. Thankfully, we had plenty of support staff on during the first week of using the new system, which was a stroke of brilliance by management. We are dealing with the omissions that we knew would surface as we began to actually use the computers. A programmer can only foresee so much when putting together such an extensive system. We are handling the training of those who don't use computers in their personal lives. Wow. To my "online boys" I say thank you for teaching me so much about computers so that I have the understanding of what our new system can and cannot do. Then there's the glitchy shenanigans of a system that doesn't allow for some of the actions we wish it would carry out for us. It's been a ride.

Let me give you some examples of the fun times we've had with our new POS. We learned the hard way what happens when someone accidentally bumps a printer off. Salads will print in the chef area where salads aren't made and entree orders will print in the bar! If you try to punch in a salad dressing on the side, it will probably be understandable to the salad girls, but if you have TWO dressing, both of which need to be on the side, it will probably prompt the girls to make TWO salads with one dressing on the side and another with the salad directly on the lettuce. Yeah. Few salad orders are actually correct these days, and it's not the salad makers' faults. The kitchen has had to relearn orders because our old system of writing up tickets is a lot different that what the computer printout gives them these days. And I think our bartenders will be blind by the end of the year with the tiny writing they have to decipher in the dim lights.

We've found that we actually have to hit "exit" from some screens to get to the potato choice, the desired garnish, the tiny modification the customer has asked for on his meal. But we are learning, and things are getting easier. I admit the first time I completed an order on the screen, it immediately jumped into my head that I needed to get back to the kitchen to write up that order. When I realized I didn't have to do that, I really couldn't figure out what I needed to be doing. All of us servers have had this feeling of confusion. The most surprising consequence of having this slick program for all of the waitresses has been the way it has completely thrown off our sense of timing. That probably doesn't make sense to anyone who doesn't do this work, but there's a very intricate alarm clock in our heads that tells us when we need to be doing certain tasks. It probably looks like your server is just cruising along taking care of your needs as you dine without a thought to anything else. Kudos to your server if you think that because it's really a finely tuned symphony that plays each note in our head in a very specific timing pattern. Making the job look easy is the sign of a great waiter. Without going off on the tangent we've all heard about the validity of serving food as a "real" job, I can tell you that it's a demanding job, and one that the bubbble-headed blonde will not be able to carry out. Finding our timing has been the biggest challenge with the POS system. Who knew? The great benefit there is that we realize we actually DO have more time to spend with our customers now that we aren't doing paperwork in the kitchen. It rocks!

One other totally awesome side to our POS is that there's no longer any room for error in not adding a bar tab or an appetizer onto the bill. We used to pay for these mistakes out of pocket. We can't punch out until all of our tables are closed, so we will never miss a tip because we forgot to finalize a credit card bill. I can only imagine how easy the bookwork in the morning for the office has become! Inventory is practically done on the machine. Everyone in the building punches in on the POS, and managers can send out messages to all employees on the punch in screen. This has streamlined so many things for us. It's a wonderful tool, and I can see my coworkers beginning to enjoy the benefits.

About a week after we started the POS, we started wearing our new uniforms. 2007 is a brand new world for our restaurant. We look sharp, tickets are perfect... We're finding our rhythm. By the time our summer crunch is upon us, these old dogs will have that computer stuff down to a science. It was a stressful few weeks as we all learned to march in this new direction, but the gang is starting to see how much time this will save us all. I'm pumped about the modernizing we are exchanging for the pen and paper methods that served that place so well for so many years. We've had to work as a team to learn the new system. I hope that newfound teamwork stays as we all become proficient with our big scary changes.

Superman Returns!

2007-02-02T15:45:00.000-06:00

My hero is coming back for another season. God Bless the Packers! :)

Dinner... and a Blog

2007-01-18T22:39:00.000-06:00

Wow! This kind of stuff doesn't happen where I live. I mean, it's not like we are uninhabited here, but we don't get these kind of women where I work. Well, at least I'd never seen one like her until the other night. Up until now, the best giggle we've had was the transvestite who came in and used the women's restroom.

The story begins last week when a pretty 40-ish blond came in alone. She was sat in my section and ordered a steak. Unlike most people who come in sans company, she took her time over dinner and lingered with a cup of coffee after her meal. When I tried to deliver her check to her, the two gentlemen at the table next to her almost tackled me for the book which held her total. I relinquished the tab to them, handed the woman her mint, and said quietly, "The gentleman at that table picked up your dinner."

She joined them over a cup of coffee, freeing up my table so I busied myself with my other customers. I thought it was a sweet gesture for someone to pick up a pretty lady's dinner check. We do occasionally witness these kind acts, so no big deal.

No big deal, that is, until the other night. I was the closing server and the night seemed to be winding down early. My hostess dashed my hopes of an early out when she told me there was a 2-top in the bar who still wanted to eat. Oh well, it's all part of the business. It still sucks when you haven't had a table for an hour and the late lingering types meander in ten minutes before closing.

After my hostess told me about the two at the bar, another waitress informed me of the bad news. After she told me, a bartender who was in the kitchen told me yet again that I'd be getting a table. I snapped, "You are the third person who's told me that. Thanks!" Trying to smooth the waters, she launched into the interesting story behind the diners who were coming in. Seems a man and a woman who were sitting several bar stools apart began talking, then hitting it off. Apparently, HE insisted that she let him buy her dinner in the dining room. (We serve a nice array of food in the bar too, but not the pricey stuff of the dining room menu). After Nina told me the story of the late twosome, I rolled my eyes and made a face.

The man came into the dining room first. He insisted the hostess put him at the table next to the one she had chosen. "Sure, no problem," she cooed through an irritated grimace. I poured water for both places and asked the man if I could get him anything to drink while he waited for his dinner partner. He declined and said she'd be right in, she'd just stopped at the restroom. Very good. I left the empty dining room and waited in the kitchen.

When SHE walked in, my eyebrows went up. The SHE was the same woman from last week who had gotten her dinner bought from a man she'd just met and started talking to during her evening out. I see a pattern developing here. I'm not saying I'm blind to how women use their femininity to get things from men, nor am I naive enough to think that this is the highest degree of deception that women will use to get what they want from men. But this is not the stuff of my work atmosphere. In twelve years, this is the brashest form of using I've witnessed by a woman. As I like to say, she's a real piece of art. (Work of art + Piece of work = piece of art)! ;)

After five minutes of peeking through the kitchen window, they finally looked ready to order. The man, who I dubbed "the cheeseball" because of his dorky ways and slight lisp, coupled with his overly sure demeanor that was totally fake, ordered first. (Way to be a gentleman and show your manners). After writing down his choices, I turned to the vixen and asked sweetly, "And what would you like tonight?" To my astonishment, she answered smoothly, "Well, I came up here on a mission tonight. [big pause] I'll have the lobster."

Now folks, my reaction (inside) was the stuff of jaw-dropping awe. The last time anything made me stop in my tracks like that was my first visit to Lambeau Field, and that was a long time ago. I'm quick on my feet and have a comeback for almost any insult, awkward situation, or moment in need of levity. This floored me. However, I simply smiled and asked calmly, "Would you like the large or small lobster?" Her answer of a small lobster tail was only a little redeeming. She was here on a mission, after all.

Whew. I gotta tell ya. It was hard to wait on those two diners. He talked a whole bunch more than her, and she sat blithely letting him ramble. They stayed a long time, him chattering while she smirked effortlessly at him. When they'd finished and had a glass of wine, they realized they may be keeping me. I was polite, told them to take their time, but they were kind enough to ask for the check, saying they'd go back to the bar. He left a great tip--I'm sure that was part of the impressing her scheme. I don't really care why he did it, I'm just glad he did.

I guess in the end everyone was happy. I got a great tip (maybe she did too?) and she got a tail (and maybe he did too?)!

The Breakfast Club

2007-01-12T11:12:00.001-06:00

With the holidays behind us, and the multiple offers for eggnog and Tom and Jerry's from cheery friends (followed by multiple refusals of said hot drinks by me), I'm moved to tell the story of how I came to detest the nutmeg-laced concoctions. And no, it was not because I had too many when I was away at college that first year! The reason I don't like these horrible holiday toddies is a right I began earning as a child.

Here's the thing; I've never liked breakfast. Even when I was say, five I forewent breakfast in favor of a quick dressing and a dash out the door to go roust my best girlfriend for the day's fun. It was natural, then, that when school started and my mom wanted to make sure I had something in my little tummy, I resisted. Somehow we got the point where she quit arguing with me about the breakfast matter. Only she didn't let it just die. No, she quit arguing, but began slapping a peanut butter and jelly toast sandwich in my hand on the way out the door.

Until I was about 11, we lived in the city. I went out the back door and down the driveway to get to the sidewalk. Most days, that PBJ toast landed in the neighbor lady's basement window well. It was less than 20 steps I had to carry the offending food! I assume some squirrel or dog came to rely on my mother's lovingly made breakfast of champs that I so disdainfully tossed aside each morning, but I'll never really know what actually happened to those after I garbaged them. All I know is that I never saw a pile of them creeping over the metal of the window well.

When we moved to the country, this tradition continued. We rode a bus, so my mom would slap the sandwich into my hand on my way to wait for the bus. Well, I guess she must have watched out the window a lot without my knowing it. I mean, I was careful about when and where I launched the sandwich in case she was looking! I waited until I was around the curve of our driveway with the granary blocking her view to my pitch. I guess the fact that I wasn't happily munching on this tasty morsel gave me away.

In retrospect, I wish I'd done a better job of hiding the fact that I didn't eat these while I was waiting for the bus. All those years of being the wily one caught up to me because my mom is pretty clever too. (After what? Only five years of making sandwiches for the area strays)! So her next idea was born. Her next solution is what turned me against nutmeg forever. Remember, this was way before raw eggs were thought to be a taboo consumption. I would wake up every morning to a glass of farm fresh milk that had a raw egg whipped into it. I guess she thought a little nutmeg sprinkled on top would make it more palatable. It didn't. Really, it didn't.

I was cornered! After years of winning the breakfast wars, she had plotted and won! I was not allowed to leave until the glass of egg, milk, and nutmeg was in my gut. How could this happen? I drank the slimy spiced breakfast drink each morning with a disgust that I find just writing about it now brings the expression to my face again. I think you know the look. It's that look you reserve for scrutinizing really ugly bugs that you can't quite wrap your brain around. It's that expression that appears when your best friend peels back a sleeve to show you the disgusting wound garnered from some horrible accident with a piece of sheet metal or something equally disturbing. Yeah, that look.

And so it was that each morning I would face the large glass of nutrition that my mother had made for me, sitting on the counter. Sometimes she would watch me drink it, standing smugly, watching in victorious mode. But I got good at slamming the thing, then wiping my mouth like a man who had just downed a whole beer to impress his friends. I rinsed the glass with a frown then dashed to the bathroom to brush my teeth to put it behind me.

I'm still not a breakfast person. I like donuts, PopTarts, Toaster Strudels if I'm eating before 10:00am. What I really like is cake or cookies for breakfast. In fact, I had a Tollhouse bar for breakfast a few minutes ago. Normally, I'd probably be inclined to say, "Don't tell my mom," but a few years ago when I was home visiting she slipped and actually divulged some insider information that an enemy should never have. She actually said these words: "The best thing about being a grown-up is that if you want to have cake for breakfast, you can." Whoa! I don't think she actually said it to throw the power drink era in my face, rather a truce that breakfast can be nontraditional. I know that parents can't tell their high school kids that they sometimes eat Devils Food for breakfast. But the fact remains that sometimes they do eat chocolate cake at 7:00am.

If the worst scar I got from my childhood is a distaste for nutmeg, I'd say I did okay. Truthfully, my mom taught me some pretty good eating habits. I know the value of eating in the morning, but I still just don't like it. And while I never resorted to the milk and egg drink with my step-kids, I'm wise enough to know that's because they never refused my insistence of the bowl of cereal I poured for them. There's no telling what tactics I might have employed on their behalf had they fought me. They'll probably never know how lucky they are to have played by my rules.

Have a Tom and Jerry for me. I'll be in the corner with a Christmas cookie and a hot chocolate.

Resolutions

2007-01-08T23:36:00.001-06:00

I always make the same New Year's Resolution. It's a no-brainer and simple to keep. Repeat it with me folks: "I resolve this year not to make any New Year's Resolutions."

Voila! Done deal.

You know why I cop the 'just say no' attitude? It's because I can't keep any of those grand life changes I used to resolve to follow from the moment I woke up to the Rose Parade on New Year's Day. But more than that, it was sort of pointed out on a forum I frequent why we shouldn't even attempt those empty promises. I didn't actually have it ballooned so succinctly as this gal did, but I wholeheartedly agree. There is a short answer to why we shouldn't lie to ourselves on New Year's. (But you know you'll never get a short answer from me, right)?

In a nutshell: If something is important enough to change about our lives, we should do it when we notice it's important enough to change. Shouldn't we? Yes, we should. Why do we wait until we are struggling with writing checks properly to make these significant changes? We wait until it's cold and blustery outside, with the forecast of the same for the next three months to make this almighty effort to improve ourselves. I suppose we need something to focus on while we struggle through the short days, long nights, bone-chilling cold. I mean, we could drink beer or eat ice cream and watch fluffy movies, but we need something to feel good about during this closed in time. It's a new year so it makes sense that we want a new us.

I like improving myself as much as the next guy, but I don't buy into following a rule about when to do it. Instead, I make longterm goals of things I hope to accomplish in the ensuing year. Maybe that's the softer (weaker?) resolution. Maybe it's just a loser attitude for people like me who don't want to exert the energy to actually quit smoking, or start running, or eat more salad. I don't care though because this method works for me.

Maybe the secret to a good New Year's resolution is making the same one every year until you conquer it. I don't know though, I like to kind of sidle up to the idea and mull it before I commit to the change. And I haaaate failing! I admit, I'm stubborn and I hate change, even if it is for the better. I'm the old dog who doesn't want to learn new tricks. I'm comfortable in my own ways and habits. My guy makes the same resolution every year. He quits smoking. It appears he's on a successful track this year so maybe there is something to this New Year's business.

I guess for me, the lofty kind of fuzzy goal-setting works best. This year's list is pretty short, really. I want to write more and find a way to feel more solid about taking care of myself. Mostly, that means I want to be comfortable knowing I have enough money to pay my bills with a job that offers (or pays enough money to purchase) benefits like health insurance. I need to get centered on these things, but I don't need a calendar to tell me to get my butt in gear.

Whatever works, eh? I guess the differences in people is what makes life interesting. I'd love to hear what my three readers resolved for this year! Whatcha got, people? ;)

Tidbits for Christmas

2006-12-24T01:25:00.000-06:00

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!

2006-12-19T15:11:00.001-06:00

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

2006-12-07T10:27:00.000-06:00

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

2006-12-06T09:40:00.000-06:00

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

2006-11-23T10:59:00.000-06:00

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"

2006-11-19T00:11:00.001-06:00

"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

2006-11-17T11:53:00.000-06:00

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

2006-11-08T21:05:00.000-06:00

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

2006-11-05T11:40:00.001-06:00

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!

2006-10-24T15:21:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-23T14:35:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-22T11:24:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-18T12:45:00.000-05:00

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.