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!
Monday, April 30, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
The Matriarch
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.
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.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Change is Good
"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.
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.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Winter Hiatus
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.
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.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Football: Hallowed Be Thy Name
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!
Thursday, February 15, 2007
V is for Victory
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.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
I Got a New Job!
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.
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.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Dinner... and a Blog
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 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?)!
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Breakfast Club
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.
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.
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