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.