Planes sometimes crash

I just recently learned that someone I know has been diagnosed with some form of Leukemia. It's sad, to be sure, particularly considering how young Avion is. However, I've never really liked her all that much. She's rather unkind to her on-again/off-again girlfriend and speaks to her condescendingly. One time she broke up with her, stating to Whitney that she wanted, instead, to be with someone who is her intellectual equal. Ouch. I honestly don't know why Whitney puts up with it and told her just as much. We were becoming pretty close friends until Avion told Whitney to stop hanging out with me and, sadly, Whitney complied.

And, since that time, Avion's been nothing but haughty and arrogant toward me as well. Her air of superiority has been an enormous turnoff and I've avoided opportunities to share in her company even though we know some of the same people and run in similar circles. Seems that most people I know who know Avion don't really care for her much and some even seem afraid of her in a way. But now that she's sick, people who know her and know of her mostly only show concern for her. I have to wonder whether it's Avion they're really concerned about or if it's more of a reflection on how they feel about Whitney, who is very well liked. People won't really talk about it and are more so talking around it. Why are they afraid?

But I understand the reluctance to speak frankly about Avion as a person, as the person we have known her to be, as it feels so cruel to dislike someone who is dying more rapidly than they should be. So do I now just forget about her cruelty and how she has hurt my friend? Do I toss aside her rudeness and arrogance? Does severe illness erase those things? Does she get a clean slate because she's sick?

As much as the thriving Buddhist wannabe in me wants to forgive Avion and have compassion for her because I feel like it's what I'm supposed to do - because it's the right thing to do, if I'm being completely honest with myself - and I am, I'm just not there. I have pity for Avion, as I'm sure that her failing health has been humbling and challenging to her, but I still just don't trust her.

And maybe that says more about me than it does about her.

Ode to Opus

Sadly, I lost another canine friend today (see also this post). Opus was an awesome and happy beagle with the softest ears in the history of the universe. I liked that he didn't piss my cats off and that he didn't realize that he wasn't a very big dog. His clear bent for adventure was evident in his many escapes from the backyard on 34th Street and the many friends he'd accumulated throughout the neighborhood. Everyone knew Opus. I'm still embarassed that I'd presumed that Beth had named him Opus because she enjoyed classical music, rather than as an homage to Bloom County. On the few occasions when I was temporarily in charge of walking Opus, we had wonderful conversations in which we discussed the nuances of the various aromas we encountered along the way. Okay, I admit it, I couldn't actually smell a damn thing, but it seemed really important to him to compare and contrast the various aromas from one yard to the next, one block to the next, one tree to the next, so I just went along with it. Opus, I apologize for faking it.

I hope you will forgive me. I shall overnight you an assortment of the finest biscuits to doggie afterlife immediately.

The Tipping Point

The next time you're considering deliberately withholding a gratuity from your waiter -or intentionally leaving less than 15%- I ask you to think about a few things first before you embark on this drastic maneuver.

First of all, if you are considering leaving anywhere between 0-14%, there must have been something that went wrong or was not handled well or was not to your liking...Are you certain that whatever has upset you is, indeed, your waiter's fault? Because if not, it's truly unjust to reduce her/his income for something that was completely beyond her/his control. For example, if s/he was incredibly busy and running around, but you think that your food took a long time, it probably wasn't your server's fault. Think about it. Waiters don't make the food, waiters pay attention to what you ordered and communicate that to the kitchen. After that point, it's out of their hands and if the food takes awhile, that most likely = kitchen's fault, not waiter's fault, so don't dock the waiter's pay for that. If they're super busy, then they're very likely doing their best and isn't that good enough? What about when you're really busy at work doing whatever it is that you do and suddenly you find yourself with more work than usual, do you think it's fair when people get upset with you for not being as fast as you usually are? Of course not. Would it be fair to dock your pay if all of your work is not getting done as quickly as usual due to an increase in business (or someone calling in sick and you have to pick up their slack?)? No, of course not. So don't do that to your waiter. They don't deserve it any more than you do. And remember, waiters have to pay taxes on their tips whether they make them or not. That's right. The IRS presumes that waiters are making tips on every table and waiters are expected to pay taxes on a certain percentage of their net sales regardless of how much they actually made. Bear in mind, too, that waiters are required to distribute a portion of their tips to other workers (many of whom never pay taxes on their tips, but that's another rant altogether): bussers, hosts, bartenders, sommelier, expediter, kitchen, etc. These folks expect their due cut (and are entitled to it) no matter what percentage of tips the waiter has accrued.

And what if the service really is lousy and it really is the server's fault? (i.e. you saw your food sitting in the service window while your waiter chatted away with the hostess, all the while oblivious to your cooling food slowly becoming less appetizing while you sat...) Well, this is why restaurants have managers and owners and you should speak to them and let them know what went wrong. Merely leaving a crappy tip will not effectively communicate anything and will certainly not incite a behavioral change on the waiter's behalf.

And remember: if you can't afford to tip, then you can't afford to dine out.

Yay me!

You are Louis Althusser! You tried to bring
together structuralism, Marxism, and Lacanian
psychoanalysis. Your brilliant analysis of
ideology and the state is still widely
influential. You murdered your wife, were put
in a sanitarium, and lived the last decade of
your life alone before dying in 1990.


What 20th Century Theorist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

hail to the mighty kitty!!! or, I couldn't be a bad kitty unless I were a kitty first, right?

You Are A: Kitten!

Cute as can be, kittens are playful, mischevious, and ever-curious. Like you, kittens hate getting wet. Kittens are often loving, but are known to scratch or bite when annoyed. These adorable animals are the most popular pets in the United States--37% of American households have at least one cat. Whether it is your gentle purr or your disarming appearance, you make a wonderful kitten.

You were almost a: Monkey or a Bear Cub
You are least like a: Lamb or a DucklingWhat Cute Animal Are You?

Go ahead and take the test! You know you want to...

Can I just say...

that the word FAMILIAR has only one 'R' in it? And it's at the end.

Check, please!

So I have these regular customers, Harry and Mary, who come in to the restaurant about 4-6 times per month, order the exact same extremely modified drinks and the exact same extremely modified food. Never any salad and they barely touch their water. They typically tip about 30% and gave me a $50 "bonus" at Christmas-time. Their generosity is marked by a game that we play upon arrival of the check in which Harry always asks the total and I always say, "I'm not sure. Let's take a look" and then announce the total aloud. Harry then pulls out a wad of large bills and proceeds to make certain that I am aware of his generosity. The first time this happened, I felt uncomfortable and awkward about the situation (although I'm relatively certain that he didn't intend for me to feel this way).

In my many years in the restaurant industry, it has always been my preference to be discreet about the financial exchange and the acceptance of gratuities. One of my least favorite scenarios is the one in which I am about to drop the check in the middle of the table and my check-bearing hand is literally mauled as each guest claws at my hand, forgetting that there is a human attached. Sometimes I yank my hand out of that mess and let the check presenter fall where it may while the feist-fest continues (do they have any idea how ridiculous they look, clawing away at the check presenter like frumpy housewives vying for the very last Cabbage Patch doll?); other times I pull my hand away with the presenter still in my grasp and inform them that I shall return when they have resolved their dispute (this option is generally my preference when I am injured in the process of attempting to leave the check...yes, really). What I really would like to do is say, "Look. I am relatively certain that none of you REALLY wants to pay this tab, that what you really are after here is the notoriety of being the one to pick up the tab - that oneupmanship that will enable you to feel superior over these other guys in suits. Who are you trying to impress? Each other? Yourself? Me? Impress each other by being gentlemanlike when dining out. Impress yourself by knowing that you are being sincere and treating others with respect (yes, this includes me and my mauled hand). And do not, under any circumstances, involve me in determining who will pick up the tab.

And when you do pay, please place the cash or credit card on top of or sticking out the top of the check presenter. Do not place your credit card under the check, as I can not see it there and will not pick up your check and run the card that I can not see. Do not tuck it all inside the presenter and then close the book and leave it in the exact same spot where I left it - I am not as likely to conclude that you are ready to pay when you do this (remember, we are looking for subtle hints that YOU are ready: the check presenter has moved, there is money or a credit card on top or sticking out the top of it, the check presenter is at the edge of the table, that sort of thing). Do not be upset when I stop by and check inside the check presenter to see if you have indeed done any of the aforementioned things I've advised against, as there are so many people who do not understand the value of a subtle hint and expect me to utilize x-ray vision that I do not have to ascertain that they are ready to pay. And please, whatever you do, do not take the check presenter and hold it in your lap (I will very likely bring a new check to you as I will conclude that I have lost my mind thinking I'd dropped a check that appears to be nowhere on the table - this messes with me psychologically and is, thus, cruel). Finally, do not pick up your check presenter and carry it up to the host podium. Do you see a cash register up there? No? Good, then don't bring your check there. The hosts are the people who greet you and seat you. They do not get to take your money unless you see a cash register sitting in front of them. Get with the program, folks. When you are at Denny's and the like, you take your check up front to the cash register, if there is no cash register, you will only look like an idiot walking all over the place with your bill. That, and you might get me in trouble because you did not listen to me when I thanked you and said that I'd take care of that whenever you are ready. C'mon folks, it's not rocket science.

The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat

I was tending bar the other night and had the TV on the Food Network. I can have whatever channel I want on the TV whenever I am tending bar and have found that when I have the Food Network on, and they are showing the making of some tasty-looking dish, I tend to have higher food sales. But, because I get bored pretty easily with television, I tend to switch it around a bit: CNN, Nick at Night, Seinfeld episodes, Oregon Public Broadcasting, some bizarre Korean game show I found once, old movies, Jeopardy or Who Wants to be a Millionaire, Animal Planet, The Travel Channel, The History Channel, and I tend to only tune in to the sports channels under one of the following conditions: 1) the Olympics are on, 2) there is some hot women’s sporting event on, 3) ESPN is running the bartending championships (yes, somehow, that is considered a sport), 4) the world series/March Madness/NBA championships or some other MAJOR event is on, or 5) a customer nicely requests it. Yet, even though we are not a sports bar by any stretch of the imagination, people seem to expect sports to be on a bar television. In fact, one of our owners (the one who is rarely ever there) insists that we always have sports on the TV.

But do you know what happens when some random football game is on the telly? Well, I’ll tell you. What happens is that most of the men are utterly captivated by it and most of the women who are there with men are bored and irritated because the men aren’t paying any attention to what they are saying. I know, it sounds like a cliche, but it’s true (remember, we’re in the suburbs, so factor that in). Women who are there with other women are engaged in conversation with one another, typically, and tend to not even notice what is on the television. But, since it pains me to see women sitting idly and looking around as if they are bored while their male companions are riveted by each play on the screen, I tend not to have sports on so as not to have my female clientele feeling alienated.

But, still, it is what people inexplicably expect.

So I had the Food Network on and this guy sits up at my bar. I’m in the middle of assembling a take-out order for someone who is waiting, so I say hello to the guy and tell him I’ll be right with him. His acknowledgement in return is “any chance of changing the channel to sports?”

Lovely. I see where this is going (see aforementioned comment regarding the expectation of sports to be on a bar TV regardless).

“Is there a particular game you wanted to watch?” I ask him, even though I already know the answer.

“Nah, just so long as it’s sports,” he says – almost verbatim with my prediction. “I don’t even care if it’s bowling.”

“So let me get this straight,” I venture, dipping my foot into what could be very precariously unwise water, “you want me to turn the channel to sports, but you don’t even care what sport it is or who is playing it, so long as it is sports and not anything else?” (I so do not get this).

He confirms that what I say is correct and I finish up what I’m doing, ask him what he’d like to drink and offer him a dinner menu (hey, business first, right?). After mixing his cocktail, I grab the remote control and turn it to ESPN. I don’t even recall what the featured event was, but it made the guy happy. He then asked me if I was watching the Food Network (and proceeded to inform me that I could change it back after he left…no, pal, I can change it back right now if I please because I’m the one with the remote control and you’re the one who better leave me a decent tip for succumbing to your viewing whims or I’ll remember you and not change the channel next time). I let out a little laugh and told him that no, I wasn’t watching the Food Network, that I was working. He told me that he’d never been into a bar before where they had the Food Network on the TV. So? He allows me to continue a sassy, but friendly banter with him and to treat his request as a ridiculous one. He’s a good sport so I’ll change the channel for him next time he comes in.

Not everyone is such a good sport about it, though. Some are outright demanding and sometimes they aren’t even out of middle school. Yep, that’s right. I recently had a nine-year-old boy tell me to change it to the football game (I had CNN on at the time) and he even followed up his demand with, “sports bars should always have sports on the TV.”

“That’s true,” I confirmed for the self-absorbed tyke, “but this isn’t a sports bar, it’s just a bar.” Unfortunately, our bar allows minors at the tables for dining and restricts them only from sitting at the bar stools. I continue working while the kid cuts away from his table of all-elementary-school kids to the neighboring table where their parents are doing their best to ignore their offspring and rats me out to his dad. The dad then approaches me to explain that the kids (let’s just say that they were not using their indoor voices) would be more “focused” if football were on the TV. Given that the volume of kidnoise was giving me a headache (and that somehow I’m hearing focused=quieter), I said ok and changed the channel. Suddenly, it was as if these boy children were in the stadium with the other screaming fans – they got even louder, those kids!

And it got me thinking back to when I was a kid and there was something I noticed that I didn’t like or wished was different and I only learned to deal with my displeasure of the situation. Never did I learn that I had a voice and that my opinions mattered enough to create change. Is this the product of a new generation or a different style of parenting? Does it serve the kids well to be raised feeling as though they can object and change will occur as a result? Or is it better for kids to learn that they can’t change/control everything and that the world does not revolve around them and that sometimes you need to learn to deal with what you are dealt?

one. two. three. jump!

The other night, my boss’ recently-come-of-age son, B, was bellied up to my bar drinking margaritas, for lack of anything better to do. B is an odd bird. A very odd bird. And not in the cool, interesting, artsy way either. B has horrendous social skills and an ill sense of boundaries. He is also unaware of the physical space he consumes and when he invades the physical space of others. At 21, he still lives at home with “Ma” and “Pa” (yes, he really calls them that), works part-time at the family business and has no aspirations to do otherwise. In other words, he is a little on the green side and, while curious about the world in which he lives, there is a lot out there that he just doesn’t get.

While I already knew this about B, this became even more clear as he attempted to converse with me on the subject of strippers. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I am very much in favor of the sex industry and firmly believe that women who make a living stripping and such are simply working a job and deserve not to be judged or labeled or presumed about. In my earlier days, I would frequent the neighborhood strip club for a beer after work before heading home. I don’t go so frequently now, but only because of time/money/school and not because of some sort of moral opposition.

Like most American males, B was taken, by his father, to a strip club on his 21st birthday. Naturally, he had a ball and proceeded to spend subsequent evenings at similar clubs. Pretty normal stuff. Imagine my surprise, then, when, upon telling me that his best friend used to strip for four years (this, I already knew), he tells me how much this saddens him because it’s so disturbing to imagine her stripping across the street from where he would shop at the Target with his grandparents. I told him that I wasn’t too clear on what was disturbing about that and asked him how it was any different from if she’d been working at the Burger King across the street (except that she would have made less money at the Burger King).

B proceeded to “explain” to me that women strip because they are “forced into it” and that they “come from bad families” and that if they could take a different job, they would. Wow. What a crock of shit. At this point, I wasn’t certain that this was a conversation I could/should have with him. How can he go into their bars and watch them dance and then regard them as second class citizens with all of these assumptions about their families and their job/intellectual skills? How quick I was to become the angry feminist!

I asked B if he ever considered that perhaps women strip for a living because they want to? Or that perhaps they are paying their own way through school and stripping enables them to make the most amount of money in the least amount of hours worked? Or that they simply enjoy it? I surmise that women strip for quite a variety of reasons, including some not so savory explanations (to attend to a fierce drug habit, because they come from a screwed up family). I just don’t understand the moral backlash against strippers, as I see them as merely doing a job like anyone else. Is it because they are seductive? And isn’t that part of “their job”? It is part of my job to be friendly to folks I might not otherwise give the time of day. And maybe sometimes I may use charm and flirtatiousness to increase my gratuities – does that make me morally bankrupt? Or just a savvy bartender/businesswoman? If I went to watch a stripper dance and she was being all surly and “just going through the motions,” I might conclude that she was not doing her job well (unless I found her surliness and robotic behavior to be appealing, entertaining or somehow engaging). I just long for a time when women will be able to do with their bodies as they see fit and not be judged or construed to be lacking morals, common sense, intellect, personal freedom or otherwise.

Come again???

I've found that there are some people in our lives who ask us the same things again and again. Why is this? Are they not paying any attention to the responses the first time (or the second or the third, etc.)? Have they no other topics they can discuss with us? For how long will this continue? Should I say something? Would it seem rude if I did? Or do I just go on, answering their question for the zillionth time with the same response I always give them and marvel as their expression appears as though they are hearing the information for the first time?

Conversely, there are people who pay such careful attention that they catch me off guard with their retention of the things I have told them. Alison, who I work with, is one of those people. The other day when I told her that I spent the day helping my ex-husband move, she said, "Again? Didn't you just help him move?" Wow! That was about nine or ten months ago! And I'm certain I only mentioned it once in one of those "what are you doing this weekend?" conversations we sometimes have at work. I'm impressed with her ability to remember the insignificant details of the stories I tell. Does she remember things so well with everyone? She probably does - she works with the public a lot and I'm certain she hears many stories.

But of those who seem to fail to remember anything they are told...should I be offended? I usually am, just as I am impressed with those who remember what I have told them. Or should I just let it go and chalk it up to them being overwhelmed or having better, more important things to remember?

ode to Doris (for my dear grandmother, who left the earth on this day)

When people in the family have told me that I’m “just like Grandma,” I know that what they’re often referring to are the... shall we say?... more challenging aspects of Grandma’s personality. That’s fine by me, as I know that I also take after my Grandmother in other, more flattering ways.

Grandma was always very proud of my academic achievements – yet she contributed to some of my successes there as well. When I was in high school and had to read George Orwell’s “1984” for my Honors English class and was struggling with writing a corresponding essay, my grandmother (an avid reader) read the book overnight so that she could assist me with writing my paper the following day.

Speaking of reading, I have many fond memories of my grandmother reading to me when I was very young. So often, Grandma would take me to the library and let me select as many books as I could carry. I was always in awe with the tall stack of hardbound books that she would check out. In fact, Grandma claimed that she helped me obtain my first library card when I could barely write my own name. I so loved going to the library with my grandma and this experience has had a profound impact on my use of the public library throughout my life, on my continuing education, and on my choice of career. I am nearly halfway finished with my Master’s degree in Library Science so that I can later become a librarian (which is what I always secretly wanted my grandmother to become).

expecting and predicting

Currently, I know four women who are pregnant. So, I thought it would be fun to log my predictions for the anticipated gender of each child-to-be. Then I figured, while I'm at it, I shall take a stab at the due dates as well (although I must confess that my track record on due dates is not nearly so good as my track record with gender)(Recent correct predictions on gender: Angie (3 times), Sarah, Lisa, Lori). Will my excellent streak continue? Or will I be wrong every time. Stay tuned as I will update as I obtain confirmation of any of my predictions:

Susan will have a GIRL and will deliver on SEPT. 7, 2005
Lisa will have a BOY and will deliver on SEPT. 4, 2005
Dana will have a BOY and will deliver on OCT. 26, 2005
Liz will have a BOY and will deliver on NOV. 11, 2005

While I'm at it, I also predict that Anna will become pregnant within the next year.

sometimes you score a goal, sometimes you're a national champ

Tonight was one of those nights at work that I will refer to again and again in the near and distant future. I went into the situation with some dread, fearing that catering a celebratory party for an ice hockey team (which I later learned was comprised of 9- and 10-year-olds) celebrating their national victory would prove tedious, loud, tiresome and, as our dishwasher would say, “mucho trabajo.” Turns out much of my prediction was correct. In about three and a half hours of tending bar I poured: 30 glasses of wine, 41 beers, 59 cocktails, and over 200 Shirley Temples (yes, that required nearly three full bottles of grenadine). The victorious youngsters were drinking like fish (and boasting about their consumption, as well) and their parents were hardly any different.

The kids were running around, yelling and screaming, blowing out candles, rough housing and making huge messes of their food. A homely girl in an outfit of pale pink was securing the attention of various boys by hitting and kicking them. A curly-headed girl who couldn’t have been a day over five slugged down four kiddie cocktails alone and seemed to be enjoying a fantastic sugar high before the inevitable crash left her sullen and disagreeable. Two preschoolers were egged on by older kids (and adults) to kiss one another.

I overheard many shallow conversations while the parents of these celebratory tweens numbed themselves to the playground sounds that emanated throughout the banquet hall. Grown men allowed their insecurities to be revealed as they, too, pined for attention in unconstructive ways. The coach became disgruntled with me when I asked him to please not reach behind the bar to grab what he was wanting.

Truly, in every way, it seemed no different from whenever any other event celebrating a child’s milestone is held in our facilities.

Enter Grandma C, the hostess of this event, whose grandson was the star player of the winning team. Grandma C was a very kind and accommodating woman, or so it seemed at first. So many hostesses seem sweet and accommodating at first and then Presto! Change-O! They magically transform into Bridezilla. Not so with Grandma C. She remained friendly throughout the duration of the party. She even complimented us on our work. Uh oh. The verbal tip. Sometimes that’s a very bad sign. Sometimes folks feel that if they shower you with kind words about your efforts, they don’t have to tip as much. But when Grandma C was presented with the tab, she asked my co-worker, Whitney, how the tip was distributed. Whitney explained to her that we are required to give a (larger-than-you-would-think) portion to the kitchen as well as to a busser who helped us out and then she and I split the remainder evenly. Grandma C asked permission to write personal checks to Whitney and I in order to give us each a bonus tip. Whitney said “sure” and left Grandma C to her check-writing. Delighted to know that we were receiving a side tip, we continued about our cleaning.

Much to our delight and surprise, Grandma C saw fit to tip us an additional $200. EACH. Suddenly I knew how it felt to be the national champion. This may be the closest I'll ever come to winning the lottery.

sleepy in Seattle

I frequently drive back and forth from Portland to Seattle, where I attend graduate school. Often, I'll stay the night in a hotel so that I can arrive the night before my class and not have to feel rushed in the morning. Last weekend, I spent the night in a hotel near the airport, rather than one near the university. The deal that I found on Sidestep was just too good to pass up and I liked the idea of my drive ending a half an hour sooner than it would if I drove all the way to the university.

Besides, the last time I drove up, I stayed in my favorite inn in the U-District and arrived a little bit later than I'd anticipated. As a result, I woke up the night innkeeper upon arrival and he was pretty disgruntled with me for doing so. At first, I felt badly about this. I hate to be awakened any more than the next guy and will duly explain this to anyone who phones my house before 9am. But, wait a minute...He's at work and he is there to do a job, right? And his job is to be the night innkeeper, right? So now I'm thinking that if getting a decent and uninterrupted night's sleep is part of his typical work shift (during which he is presumably being paid), then I'm suddenly not feeling so bad that I woke him up. After all, do I ever get to sleep at work? Let me see here...um, nope, I don't. Do most people get to sleep at work? Nope again. So at this point I have no sympathy for this groggy innkeeper as I inform him that, in the future, I shall stay elsewhere. But wait a minute...now he gets his uninterrupted night of sleep and I am inconvenienced by staying somewhere more expensive and less ideally located. That hardly seems fair.

So I stayed near the airport last time and, as I was checking out, I inquired of the clerk as to the whereabouts of the nearest Starbucks. I know. I know. All these years of listening to me bitch about Starbucks and here I am pining for one. Let me explain: I'm needing coffee (badly) and I refuse to drink any of that Folger's crap which automatically rules out several places where coffee is available. I want decent coffee. I want espresso. But I completely recognize that hoping for something akin to Stumptown, Vivace, or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf is way too much to ask and I know that I could likely chance it with some local rendition of an espresso cafe and maybe hit the jackpot, maybe end up with something along the lines of acidic sludge (or, worse yet, coffee-flavored water). But with Starbucks, I know what to expect. No surprises.

I about fell over when the clerk replied that there were NO STARBUCKS IN THE VICINITY.

"You're joking," I deadpanned.

"No, I think the nearest one is at the Tacoma Mall." She was dead serious.

So here I am, in the vicinity of the SEATTLE airport and no Starbucks nearby. Something is very wrong with this picture.

I raise my glass to Dorothy Parker...

Just read this quote, attributed to the witty, and often scathing, Dorothy Parker:

"Heterosexuality is not normal. It's just common."

Clink!

un-namaste

I glared at the guest yoga teacher today. Bad, bad yogi - very un-namaste of me. What's even worse is that I got caught, although it's bad and disrespectful either way. Let me back up a sec...

Upon arriving at class just a teensy bit late (seriously, like three minutes, tops) and encountering a locked front door, I proceeded to head for the back door where I saw my friend, Whitney, making her entrance.

"Ooh! ooh! Hold the door, Whitney!" I yelled quietly in her direction. My pleas fell on deaf ears as the heavy door and my lunging, tired body failed to connect. I rapped three times on the door, possibly a little bit louder than I'd originally intended or hoped for. A startled Whitney, no doubt reeling from a triple loud door rap echoing in her right ear, opens the door to my shamed face, while I take in the scene of the yoga studio...a scene that includes a teacher who is not Dana standing at the head of the class and watching what is now feeling like an amateur Three Stooges sketch.

I utter what is likely an unintelligible, yet sincere, apology for my tardiness and disruption. Now here is where I back up yet again. I have mentioned to Dana before that if I arrive late, I choose to turn around and walk home rather than going to the back and knocking on the door. She was astonished to hear this and asked why I would do such a thing. I explained to her (briefly, of course) that it just feels far too disruptive and disrespectful to her, as well as to the other students, if I enter class in this manner. And that then I feel badly about taking up more than my fair share of space. Dana was most sympathetic and understanding as she asked that I please feel welcome to proceed into the class if I arrive late and to rest assured that there would be no hard feelings. She even put her hands in anjali mudra while saying please - a gesture of extreme respect and gratitude in the yoga community. How could I say no to that?

As it turned out, Dana was participating in the class, as if she were a student, and I planted myself three mats down from her. She smiled at me, but I was not yet ready for her warmth, as I was far too busy fighting the regrets that were emerging in my mind. I was debating as to whether I should've slept in and come to the 9am class instead. I was wondering who this guy was at the head of our class and I was not in a headspace to let him in. Admittedly, I don't do so well with change and I especially appreciate being forewarned of change for maximum ability to cope on my behalf.

But what if this fellow didn't have the same warm and understanding approach to late students as did Dana? What if he is now angry at me? Does he think I'm disrespectful? Is he wishing I weren't there? Does he even care?

I attempted to gauge the answers to all of these questions and so much more while I conducted the warm-up gestures, already feeling confined by my shrunken space all the way at the end of the row (this is what I deserve for arriving late, I told myself) and next to a confident and skilled yogi who seemed to require some of my socially-determined personal space. I slunk back and chose not to compete spatially with the woman with the perky ponytail. But then I found that I could not see the teacher as perky ponytail was now occupying my visual space as well.

I was thoroughly convinced that this was the universe's way of informing me that I did not belong in that class today. So I am in my already-cramped space on the end, now in the corner, and craning my neck to see past perky ponytail. The teacher observes that I am inconvenienced and instructs me to step forward into what is now perky ponytail's space (despite that it rests above my mat).

And that is when it happened. I actually glared at him. And he saw me do it. Bad, bad, so very very bad. At this point I'm a tad cross, as I know that I will not be able to successfully execute his think-outside-of-the-box (yoga mat=box) gestures and not collide (yes, literally) with perky ponytail. So I step forward to observe his instruction, perma-glare stuck on my cross face, and then take a defiant step backward into my corner where at least what space I do have is my own. As he guides us through the next series of gestures, he says,"blahblahblah your left side blahblahblah place your hands blahblahblah," and then came the words of one who is genuinely warm and understanding, "or if you don't want to, you don't have to."

After class, Whitney said to me that this slightly different approach to yoga caused her to realize how inflexible she was.

"Me, too," I told her.

"Oh my god, you are so not inflexible. You could totally do those gestures," she asserted.

"Not inflexible in the body," I declared, "up here," I said, pointer finger tapping gently above the tip of my ear.

happy holidays?

My lovely wife completely digs on the holidays. Me, not so much. I'm certain I can attribute my lack of enthusiasm for all days send-a-card-worthy to my many years of working in the restaurant industry and having to contend with the fact that I'd be working on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day and sometimes my birthday (as it falls on Mother's Day every six years). Thus, rather than bitching, moaning, and whining about my obligation to my employer, I decided some time ago that if I didn't care about the holidays, I wouldn't so much mind working during them. This tactic proved quite effective and, while I haven't been required to work Thanksgiving or Christmas since my days as a waiter and bartender long ago at the Heathman Hotel, I'm still expected to serve the hungry and thirsty masses on all of the other aforementioned holidays. Although I still never really look forward to working on these days, so infamously known in the restaurant industry as "amateur nights," I soldier forward nonetheless.

But, as I mentioned before, J loves the holidays. I'm not sure why, but she really really looks forward to them and enjoys making special plans to commemorate the day right down to a special meal and gifts commensurate with the theme of that particular holiday. She gets angry when I make fun of the holidays, particularly the ones I refer to as "Hallmark Holidays," such as Valentine's Day. There's no reason in my mind why we need to feel compelled to dine out exactly on February 14 and exchange tired roses and red-wrapped boxes of chocolates to prove our love to one another.

Easter is one of those holidays that I can pretty much take or leave. In fact, I could actually do without it. As an atheist-ish Buddhist, I can't wholly get behind the Christian sentiment of Easter and have yet to figure out what baskets and bunnies and marshmallow Peeps have to do with it all. Furthermore, why does everyone seem to go out for brunch on Easter? Needless to say, I haven't really been the model of what J had in mind when it comes to "how we should celebrate Easter." As far as I'm concerned, it's just another Sunday and should be treated as such. J, an avowed pagan, not only wants the candy-filled basket, but wants said basket hidden so that she can search relentlessly until she finds it. Partaking in this manifestation of how to do Easter just doesn't work for me, doesn't feel natural. Every year it seems we debate this and so rather than spending Easter my way (as if it were any other Sunday) or her way (as if the Easter Bunny had paid a visit), we typically spend the day arguing about how to spend the day...

This year it seems I won the argument, despite never actually having one, as we had a lovely morning enjoying our coffee and then went downtown to see a movie. At the conclusion of the emotional ringer that is Million Dollar Baby, we headed over to the Veritable Quandary for a stiff libation and a good burger and then came home and enjoyed a quiet evening playing cards. As there was no mention of the Easter Bunny or any of his/her tendencies, I thought I was finally free and clear, off the Easter hook until

this morning when J carries a package upstairs and I notice that it's decorated appropriately for the "holiday" with a basket, eggs, and even fake grass. Upon opening the package, J was delighted to find a "basket" of sweet and salty treats, Peeps and all. Without really thinking first, J then exclaims, "Oh! It was a good Easter after all." And who do we have to thank for making Easter happen in the most Easter appropriate manner??? Was it the Easter Bunny? No, it was J's Jewish (step)mother. The world works in funny ways, indeed.

Once in Awhile I Take a Shortcut...

Describe yourself using one band and song titles from that band
Created by naw5689 and taken 22159 times on bzoink!
Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band:	David Bowie
Are you male or female:	Lady Stardust
Describe yourself:	Under Pressure
How do some people feel about you:	Rebel Rebel
How do you feel about yourself:	Never Let Me Down
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend:	Queen Bitch
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:	Loving the Alien
Describe where you want to be:	A New Career in a New Town
Describe what you want to be:	Future Legend
Describe how you live:	Reality
Describe how you love:	Modern Love
Share a few words of wisdom	I'm Afraid of Americans
Create a Survey Search Surveys Go to bzoink!

To go where many notable others have gone before...

So J and I just spent a lovely weekend in Napa having mud treatments, eating some really incredible food, soaking in a jumbo-sized bathtub and, er, drinking some wine. When we arrived in the quaint little town of Calistoga, where our almost-too-good-to-be-true bed and breakfast (The Meadowlark Inn) was located, we noticed signs for "California's Old Faithful," taunting us to come and see this wonder of nature.

This confused the hell out of me, since I'd always thought that Old Faithful was in Yellowstone National Park which is not in California -- or at least the last time I visited it wasn't. But, granted, that was many years ago. So, as I pulled the Chevy Impala that National rent-a-car was trusting me with for the weekend (boy, you know that life is grand when your rent-a-car isn't as nice as your real car!) into the parking lot of our home for the weekend on the edge of the Petrified Forest, J tells me that she really wants to go and see the geyser before we leave.

I could go either way on that one. I'm not exactly a Geyser Gazer (yes, there is such a thing -- I know two actual Geyser Gazers -- and, yes, it's exactly as it sounds), but I'm not opposed to checking them out if I happen to already be where a geyser sees fit to erupt.

On our final day, Sunday, we discuss over breakfast the things we want to be sure and do before heading back to the Oakland Airport to return home. There are two items at the top of our agenda that pertain to Calistoga: find a shot glass for Kira (the only one in Calistoga that we could find said Morro Bay on it...Morro Bay???) and visit the geyser.

After following a really lousy map (why do rental car companies always have such horrible maps? is it that difficult to dispense a good map?), we pull into a mostly empty parking lot guarded by an enormous American flag and set forth toward a small building where we are met with a sign informing us that many notable people have seen the wonder of nature that is the geyser before us.

Right on cue, J turns to me and says, "I'm not gonna pay to see this thing."

We walk through the doors and I'm instantly distracted by a sleepy white cat laying amongst the geological info and paraphernalia messily scattered about. As I'm petting the cat and getting suckered in by the ticky-tacky tourist trinkets, J is handing her credit card to a boy behind a cash register that sits in front of a sign informing us that adult admissions are $8.

EACH!!!

In all fairness to "California's Old Faithful," we did score a $1-off AAA discount. This is where I started to get a really bad feeling about this stop. In all fairness to the town of Calistoga, this gift shop did have shot glasses, but they were plain clear glass with little metal crest/shield-things with itty bitty writing and something about the geyser crookedly glued on. J made a comment about the odd assortment of items in the shop and we proceeded to head out the back door where the geyser was "scheduled" to erupt in approximately 15 minutes.

As we walked a rocky path toward the clearing that housed the wonder of nature, there was a small pen to our right containing a handful of "fainting goats," as indicated by a nearby sign. We emerged onto a clearing where a Bedrock-ish pond held murky water with steam rolling across the top and a gathering of larger stones in the center that coughed out a little spew of geyser gush after about five minutes.

To our right was what looked to be a dried-up well with what appeared to be several oxidized coins at the bottom and a sign (so many signs...) ordering us to keep out. Several green plastic lawn chairs were situated around the pond and about ten other suckers, I mean tourists, wandered the grounds with an eye on "California's Old Faithful." Video and still cameras were poised, ready to photograph at any given moment the wonder of nature that was about to shock and awe. Two teenage girls to the right were being silly and talking loudly, giggling intermittently, while two women near them shushed them as if we were in the public library. Did the women fear that if we aren't all super-quiet, Old Faithful might not be so faithful after all?

Ten minutes and three or four more spews of practice geyser gush later, we all watch as the geyser reaches maybe twenty-five yards. An eight-year-old boy to my left nearly nods off while J and I stifle laughter.

No ooooohs, no ahhhhhhs, and the only shock on anyone's face was the realization that they'd just paid $8 for something they can permanently recreate in their own front yard by spending $20 at Target. As we pulled the trusty Impala out of the parking lot and onto the nearby road, we noticed another sign: "Caution: Speeding Cars."

Yeah, speeding to get the hell out of this tourist trap, I thought.

ode to Ulysses

I just learned that a canine friend of mine has passed on. Ulysses was an awesome and obedient dog who was good at catching flying popcorn kernals mid-air and understood the value of Prada. He was gentle and patient with me upon learning that I'm not exactly a dog person and kinda afraid of dogs. He liked to watch "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" and I think he even knew some of the answers. He only slobbered on my backpack twice (but it came off). So I raise my glass to the recently departed Ulysses -- may doggy afterlife be everything you could ever wish for and more!

burn, baby, burn

On Saturday night, fortunately toward the end of my shift, I had the misfortune of picking up a plate that had been sitting on a burner.

Yes, on a burner.

I then proceeded to let out a "blood curdling" (my boss' words) stream of expletives that could be heard on table 28, quite possibly even table 28 in the restaurant across the street. I then rushed to the sink, basking in the comfort that was the ice cold water cascading over my throbbing, injured thumb. I yelled out to whoever would listen, "Will somebody please get me an Advil?" and requested that the remainder of my hot food somehow find its way out to the appropriate tables.

Meanwhile, my customers at my tables, being the not-so-very-understanding-creatures-that-they-were, became disgruntled at not seeing me in the vicinity tending to their immediate whims for at least seven minutes (hey, I understand, seven minutes can seem like an awfully long time when you want another martini).

To one table, I attempted to explain the discrepency, using phrases such as third-degree burn and severely injured. They then informed me that I "shouldn't tell people about that" because I'm "doing a fine job, despite the injury" and "you can't tell." Not exactly the sypathetic response I was hoping for. Despite having the fortitude of a mail carrier and carrying on with my duties through the injured-waiter-equivalent of sleet and snow, this table of seniors apparently never forgave me for my seven-minute absence and left a mere 12% gratuity as a token of their appreciation.

Now, three days later, my thumb still is completely numb and the skin has a reptilian feel and appearance. My doctor says it will heal (slowly) on its own and there is nothing I can do to facilitate that. And I can't help but wonder, if any of my impatient-with-me customers had injured themselves at work and had to take less than ten minutes away from their duties to tend to their injuries, would their customers be disgruntled with them and would their pay be docked? I'm thinking no. [/pity party]

In other, more positive, news, I am proud to say that I have joined the ranks of thousands (millions?) of other lesbian-Americans and am now the proud owner of a Subaru Outback. It's a 2002 model, shiny blue with charcoal grey interior and tinted windows, and only 38,000 miles. This car has road trip written all over it and I can't wait to take her on one -- even if it is just to Seattle and back again ad nauseum. Bottom line, all of my whining and bitching about how much I hated that Saturn has come to an immediate halt as the Saturn is no longer my problem.

My favorite Saturn-as-trade-in line: (upon the explanation that I am getting money toward the purchase of the new Subaru and the Saturn taken off of my hands) Kira: "is that legal?"

No zzzzzzzz and Sleater-Kinney sushi

I love insomnia. Actually, I don't love it, per se, but I do suspect that it is something akin to Linus and that damn blanket for me. Sometimes I just can not, for the life of me, make sleep happen. It just simply won't. Now is one of those times. Oddly, I think that the wandery, racing thoughts have something to do with it. Last night, for example, I was laying there thinking, amongst other things, "damn it, what the hell is Jerud's middle name?" And it was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't quite access it. Then it came to me. Burton. His middle name is Burton. And it's not that I really needed to know that, nor was I planning on using that information for anything, I just couldn't shut my mind down because I didn't know the answer to the question. I know what you're thinking. . . it's no wonder I can't sleep since there are so many questions that I don't know the answer to. Yeah, I know.

The other night, Kira and I got to go out for sushi. Not that that is so unusual, really, but this time we had actual reasons. I was feeling under the weather -ok, like total crap- and, despite my very good intentions of making the really yummy mac and cheese from Noble Rot, I just couldn't do it. Plus I was craving miso - or a good chicken matzoh ball soup, but that is a whole other rant. The other reason was to honor Kira's kick assedness on her project for her language arts class in which, on four separate categories with a possible five points each, she received six points for three of the categories and five on the other. Kira's awesome. So we're sitting there in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne (yes, we drove...I'm sick, remember?) drowning my pending ailment in soy bean curd broth and celebrating Kira's awesomeness and in walks Carrie Brownstein, guitarist for Sleater-Kinney. She's there to pick up some take out and, while looking quite adorable in her loose jeans and down puffy jacket, she pretty much blends in with all of the other Portlanders. Thing is, the only other time I've seen a member of Sleater-Kinney about town and not on stage was in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne about a year ago when we saw Janet Weiss, the drummer, dining there with some friends.

My newest issue of Vanity Fair arrived in yesterday's mail. The cover is their pre-Oscar pull-out showcasing ten Hollywood starlets. And with the exception of the three (3!) ethnic chicks, they are ALL BLONDS! wtf? Since I have not yet had a chance to read the accompanying article, the exact criteria for coverdom inclusion remains a mystery. Some of the celeblets are established household names (Uma Thurman and Claire Danes), whereas others are more up-and-coming (Ziyi Zhang and Sienna Miller). But why not a better balance with a brunette or two? How about Natalie Portman and Fairuza Balk? They wouldn't even have to throw out two blonds in order to squeeze the other two in - I mean, it's a pull-out cover, there's plenty-o-room! Perhaps I shall write them and address this oversight. OK, I know I never will, but I like to think that I might, that I'm inclined to.

J is making me watch The Bachelorette. Alright, so she's not making me, but if it weren't for her, I'd probably have never known that the show existed at all. Well, except when Meredith was on, but that's 'cause she's from Portland and I like knowing about things from Portland. So I'm on the couch studying and Jillynn informs me that this season's bachelorette is Jen, who was slated to marry Andrew Firestone and who has been on the cover of People magazine almost as many times in the past year as Johnny Depp has. "That's nice, honey," I tell J, as if I really don't give a shit. But this thing is a trainwreck and I can't sit in the same room and not watch it. As an added bonus, I invented a drinking game to accompany said program:

-take one drink every time someone speaks of "taking things to the next/another level"
-take two drinks every time the word "connection" is uttered
-take three drinks every time the phrase "the most ________rose ceremony EVER" is announced

I should turn all tv shows into drinking games!

oysters, muscadet and Christmas in February

Why even bother calling it a Christmas party when it's being held in February? Why bother calling it a Christmas party when some of the attendees do not even celebrate Christmas? Is it a Christmas party because we received gifts (bonuses)? Or is it a Christmas party because that's what everyone else does? And is it my imagination or were people a little awkward around each other? How is it that, during any given shift, we will typically blather incessantly to one another, the only lulls in conversation emerging on account of more pressing (work related) tasks arising, and -yet- when we are thrown a Christmas party in February, our conversations are forced and topics elude us? Is it because of the presence of the significant others? Is it because we are not wearing black? Is it because we are eating and drinking openly and not on the sly? Or is it just because?

Nonetheless, the "Oysters and Muscadet" event at Carafe was a most welcome departure. The muscadet was crisp and tasty, albeit white, as muscadets will be. The oysters were lovely and exquisite and I could have consumed another two flights. Instead, I had the pleasure of enjoying the increasingly difficult-to-obtain fois gras, which has become the foodie equivalent of the Salem Witch Trials. While I must admit to feeling an eensy bit conflicted over the PETA vs. fois gras (and those who love it, consume it, sell it) conflict because I can so often side with the environmentally-oriented peeps when they go up against the man, I'm afraid (this time) my inner foodie gets to win this round. This means that I can relax and enjoy my fois gras with pleasure, rather than guilt. (J even tried some!!! And liked it!! Yay J!)

because "Roger" from India says so

So, the day before yesterday, my router dies a slow and painful death. Not too traumatic in the grand scheme of things, but irritating and extraordinarily inconvenient nonetheless.

After merely waiting for my wireless connection to somehow magically re-emerge (you know, as magically as it departed - is that so much to ask?), turning all of the household computers off and then back on again, unplugging and replugging all of the various and sundry cords, all to no avail, I make that dreaded call to India to attempt to explain the situation to tech support. I render a serial number and I am put on hold.

And I hold.

And I hold.

And I hold.

I check in with Damion who, in addition to his starring roles as K's dad and quirky friend/ex-husband, is something of an emergency tech support hotline, and explain to him that I have gotten nowhere. Soon, though, he departs his paying job, dons his shining armor, and gallops over.

Then Damion is on the phone with "Roger," also in India, who is instructing him to plug and unplug, but in a different order than the previous pluggings and unpluggings and this time we wait for one minute before replugging, rather than a mere ten seconds.

When "Roger" has exhausted all of his possibilities and his script has no more pages, he informs Damion that my router must be mailed off to Memphis, Tennessee, for repair and that I will be sent an operable one in exchange. I am now sans router for the duration of time it takes for said dead router to travel east and its understudy to travel west.

I am thankful that I need not send my router to India for "Roger" to inspect personally. I am also thankful for the computer-savvy extraordinaire and readily available Damion, who was paid in microbeer and overly dry bar-b-que ribs for his efforts.

This morning in yoga we worked on a "headless headstand" -- this expression never fails to amuse me.

It's what's for breakfast...

The problem with protein fruit shakes, bottled in recycleable 16 oz. plastic easy-to-hold containers, is that they so often taste chalky. Delicious in flavor, yet chalky in texture...Why is that?

is it bad to care only a little?

The last time I spoke to my grandma, she hung up on me. This was about three or so weeks ago when I was asking her to please stop attempting to convince my vegetarian daughter to eat meat and she denied ever having done so. It is likely that I will call her, possibly tonight when she is out to dinner with other family members (although I was not invited to that soiree...). This way I can leave her well wishes without having to speak to her. It's not that I'm holding a grudge. Really, I'm not. It's just that I refuse to do this anymore. They (mom, grandma, Angie) will say something hurtful to K and K will tell me. I will, in turn, explain to them that they have hurt K's feelings and that -intentional or no, it STILL hurts her feelings- I would like them to stop. They deny ever having done anything in the first place. I do not like this dance.

I still resent that my grandmother tricked me into believing that she was a kind and tolerant person. I think that she may be under the impression that I still believe this, yet whenever she fears that it is waning, she will spend just a little extra money on me to attempt to distract me. There was a time when that actually worked. I hate the evil things she says about her own daughter's husband's child and also about my sister's kids...who knows what she says about me behind my back? Well, actually, some of it has found it's way back to me: that she thinks I will "outgrow" being a dyke since it is just a phase I'm going through. Gee, grandma, what do you *really* think?

but they might be...

Every day it was the same damn story, it seemed. I postponed errands, meetings, work, life until later in the day so that I could be at home for the metal screeeech, scrape, vah-whummmp of our mail carrier's calling card. Is it there? Should I check? I'm pathetic if I go running down the stairs and filter through the booty this instant. I'll just wait. What if it is there? Am I in? Probably not...it's pretty competetive and everyone wants to be a librarian these days. But what if I am in? Who should I tell first?

This went on for what felt like an eternity. No news is good news, I tried to rationalize. After exactly two months of this odd form of torture, the University of Washington chose to let me in on their decision. As much as I was hoping for an acceptance letter, at this point any envelope with a purple logo as a return address would suffice. On this fateful day, I went through the ritual psychotic inner dialogue attempting to prepare myself for either outcome as I almost went to collect the mail two or three times before I actually had the goods in my hot little hands. When I'd finally convinced myself that I could adequately accept either outcome, I began to flip through the envelopes as I, finally, spy one the with the UW return address and it's THIN. And this is where you are entitled to a disclaimer: I'd always thought that when one is accepted, one is rewarded with the thick package with all the info you need and don't need and when one is rejected, they stuff that slap across the face into a thin envelope.

I was so mad (no, I hadn't opened it yet) that I threw that purple logoed envelope on the ground and started swearing and stomping on it.
"Take that!" my angry stomping feet seemed to say.
After about five minutes of this very adult-like response to an unopened envelope, I decided I should probably open it and "see what they had to say for themselves." I had to read the "we are pleased to inform you" part about five times before I even considered believing it.