feeling like the underdog

In honor of my birthday, I'm posting a rant that I wrote in early February, 2007...

Dear Lizzie B.,

You fuckin' pissed me off tonight.

When I first saw you many months ago, I thought you were amazing! So accomplished! So articulate! So well read! So beautiful! And you play on my team! Welcome aboard!

But your maneuver of the celebrity-author-handler equivalent of cock-blocking was inexcusable. You seemed so incredibly phony and unlikable when I was initiating a conversation with S-L P as I was reflecting on her previous visit to Powell's reading from her not-a-play novel, complete with guitar and accompanying songs. You whisked her away while I was in mid-sentence, completely disregarding that my conversation with her mattered a great deal to me and might have even mattered to her, as well. All the while, you smiled that fakey pasted on grin, decked out in your white wool coat, trying to look pure, pristine and untouchable. I don't really admire you anymore, for the record. I don't care if you're so young to be holding such a prestigious position in the Portland cultural scene. I don't care if you've published your writing in literary journals. I don't care if I'm the only one who doesn't think you're no longer all that great.

Signed,
bk

and, at the same time,

Dear S-L P,

I wanted to talk to you tonight. I really did. But I was feeling shy and unworthy of attending a reception in your honor in a fancy-pants post office lobby with supersized portraits of Dubya and Dick looking down on me while I consume the complimentary chocolate chip cookies not-from-a-box and wine that doesn't suck at all.

And it's not that I really had anything that compelling to say to you or any burning question about what it's like to be a writer or how did it feel to win a Pulitzer Prize or - wow - what was is like to take a writing class from James Baldwin? I just wanted you to keep talking.

And I don't even fully understand why you couldn't keep talking as long as you were on the stage and the people were listening and enjoying themselves. I mean, what was up with them flashing that blue light at you, trying to hurry you up? Hurry up for what??? It's not as though there would be a late night cabaret or anything and they needed to make way for that. You were happy talking to us and we were happy listening to you talk to us and answer random questions, even ones from young and naive writers-to-be who are seeking a panacea for writer's block.

So what would have happened if you had ignored the blue light and just kept on talking? Perhaps it could have been the literary equivalent to the old Portland story about Prince showing up at the Roseland theatre at the conclusion of some show or another and then playing until 2am. Were the blue-light blinkers telling him 'no'? Of course they weren't.

At the beginning of the lecture, when you were introduced by mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named, we learned that you entertain even your most far-out ideas and breathe life into them to see what they hold. Would it have been such a far-out idea to just keep talking?

Perhaps the reception at the funky post office had a limitation on the hours permissible for using that space? After all, it is a government facility and there were two bonafide police officers guarding the chocolate chip cookies. And I would have been perfectly content listening to you talk at the reception but, the young man in the hat (who I gather is the aspiring writer with writer's block) seemed to have a great deal to discuss with you.

And by the time we were close enough to say hello, mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named caught the eye of my friend, Kara, who works with her. Kara had just been talking about how mean-lady is kinda icy and phoney. But I was able to squeeze in a friendly hello and you so warmly returned my greeting. What I was starting to say, before you were so rudely whisked away in the middle of my sentence, was just that I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture /songs/personable book-signing event at Powell's some time ago and your warmth and clear interest in the individuals in your captive audience were so impactful - I have such fond memories of that event.

Here is, in particular, what I wanted to say to you about that event: The way you read your characters from your book and then pulled out your guitar and sang songs from the book and then every single person in that audience obediently nabbed a copy of your novel and stood in line for a moment of your time and perhaps a signature in their new book. The fact that you spent time actually saying hello and speaking to every single person in that line was so kind and generous - I'm certain that I'm not the only one who looks back fondly on that reading for that exact same reason. I left that reading feeling really fantastic.I couldn't believe that, while signing our books, you asked us questions about ourselves - that you seemed to care who we were as individuals. I appreciated that.

And that, even though tonight's event was much larger and less intimate, your warmth, humor and approachability still emanated through your anecdotes and reflections.

That was really all. I know it wasn't important or insightful or brilliant, but I just wanted to express my appreciation. You're a wonderful artist and storyteller and a beautiful woman - inside and out. Please continue to visit Portland regularly!

With warmth and admiration,
bk

Exes and Whys

It's common knowledge in the lesbian community that lesbians often stay connected to their exes - some even remain best friends after splitting up. Apparently this happens less frequently in the hetero community but, alas, it still happens.

Writing this epic tale of the rise and fall of one of my former relationships has gotten me thinking about exes and my connections to them (or lack of, in some cases) and the corresponding whys. Now, for those exes who are regular readers of my blog (methinks there are three, maybe four...), worry not, as there will not be any bean spillage about you (pseudonym or no). Unless there becomes a delightful and non-incriminatory tale to spin, in which case I would only do so with your expressed permission.

I can sort my exes into three distinct categories:

• the friends (this has something of a wide range, as not all of whom I have regular contact with, but our most recent [and potentially future] interactions could definitely be construed as friendly)
• the foes (I think there are only two in this category - obviously Amaris is one; maybe someday I'll tell you about the other one - 'tis not a pretty story)
  
• the estranged/disappeared (one of whom I'm sad to have lost touch with [my fault for having a nervous breakdown, then losing stuff, then moving to another state, then having an unlisted phone number] - he's a wonderful person and I adored his family...perhaps someday I'll put my mad librarian skillz to work and see what turns up in a search for BP)

Funny thing is, I do have more exes as friends now than when I was masquerading as a straight girl (or a reasonable facsimile). Why is this?? Is it because I am older and I have more exes from which to choose? mebbe. Is it because, as a lesbian, I feel mega-pressure to be nicey nice with the exes? nah.

'Tis weird, though, eh?

Above the Law

I was at the height of maximum busy-ness when a 40/50-something couple with a child of about seven sat up at my bar. Now, I don't claim to know what the law is everywhere else, but in Oregon, folks must be age 21 or over to sit at a bar. Sometimes bars that are attached to restaurants have a seating area with tables where minors may sit and for the sole purpose of food consumption (the law's words, not mine) and our restaurant is one of those places. However, all of my tables were full and I had three bar stools available, so they just bellied on up.

I'm sure the look on my face was priceless when I turned around to see a second-grader seated at the bar, but then I nicely told dad that I was sorry, but the young man was not permitted to sit at the bar, as per Oregon law. Dude then gestures back to the kitchen and said, "well, he said we could."

This should have been the first red flag that something was not quite right. I asked him who told him that and he said the chef had. (Insert red flag number two) Okay, this just keeps getting weirder because I know for certain that the chef knows the rules. So I nicely tell the man that
I'm sorry that he was told that and the chef must be misinformed. I let him know that I'd be happy to pour them a couple of drinks that they may carry to the lobby and consume there. Seeming to completely ignore the fact that I need that kid off the barstool -STAT- dude tells me that they just want to get a quick dinner, as they are on their way somewhere.

Okay, this hits something of a nerve***, as I have a HUGE prob with folks who come into busy restaurants at 7:30pm and want to have a QUICK dinner. That said, I told these persistant (red flag numero 3) folks that, again, I was really sorry, but I could not serve them dinner at the bar as long as the child was with them. Then, dude tells me that the servers are backed up in the restaurant, but the kitchen isn't too busy so he doesn't see why they can't get a fast dinner. Alright, despite the fact that this is red flag #4, where is he getting this information and why does he know something like this???

Clearly, this was the part of the night in which my brain was malfunctioning, as customers just don't say that sort of thing and I should have realized right then and there that something needed to click. Dude's wife then pointed to an empty table in between the bar and the restaurant and asked if they could sit there. I informed them that there was no server for that table. They asked if I could wait on them at that table and I told them that there would be no way I'd be able to give them the sort of service they deserved (which, at this point, when I say "they deserved," I'm meaning something completely different than what they are presuming I'm meaning). Plus, they clearly wanted preferential treatment (yoohoo! Bad Kitty! it's me, red flag number five!) and I didn't have much confidence that they could be taken care of as quickly as they wanted without the needs of others going unmet.

Dude looks at me and, in a disgruntled voice, says "fine, we'll just go somewhere else then."

Okay by me. One less thing for me to worry about. Or so I thought. I go to chef and try to confirm that he does, indeed, understand the law regarding minors at the bar. He snaps at me and tells me he knows. Clearly, he's fucking busy, despite the kitchen forecast I'd received from rude-dad-at-bar.

Is there a full moon tonight?

Jump forward three hours to owner-man John returning from a catering gig and me asking him a favor. Owner-man John says yes to the favor, but under one condition: that from this point forward I recognize the Butts (not their real name. really, this time) and make sure they get taken care of when they come into the restaurant.

huhhhhhhh?

Owner-man John asks me if I know what they look like. Yeah, I tell him, with the Angelina Jolie lips on the wife, I'm pretty sure I'd recognize them even though I haven't seen them in a really long time. Owner-man John then informs me that it hasn't been that long, as they were sitting at my bar earlier this evening. WTF??? They called owner-man John on his mother-fucking cell phone and ratted me out for not kissing their rude MoFo asses. I now officially hate them even more.

Oh shit.

"Crap," I tell him, "I totally didn't recognize them. They didn't have their daughter with them and I didn't make the connection at all."

"Not even the lips?" owner-man John asks.

"You know, I wasn't even really looking at her. He was the one talking to me and I was looking back at him when I was talking to him. And, besides, okay it was the Butts, but they still can't sit at the bar with the kid, right?"

"Of course, I didn't expect you to let them stay at the bar, but you should have recognized them and told him that you'd try and find a table in the dining room for him."

"But John, he just came from the host stand where they were unable to accommodate him! Am I supposed to override the host and overload one of our servers?"

"In the future, I just want you to find a way to take care of them, even if it means that it takes several people doing different things for them. If I'd been here tonight, they would have been taken care of."

"Yeah, and YOU would have been the one waiting on them," I reminded owner-man John. "You know he's a total asshole," I added.

"Oh, he's a rude fuck, but he's also one of my best catering clients."

"I know. Sorry. I just treated them like I would anyone else in that situation and I should have recognized them. I'm sorry."

At this point, Ginny, who is our pastry chef, chimed in, "I can't believe he doesn't know that he can't sit at the bar with a 7 year-old kid!"

"He doesn't care," owner-man John told her.

This is true. This MoFo, Dr. Butt, is some sort of surgeon and, several years ago, he was at the airport and parked his Mercedes in the zone that is for the immediate loading and unloading of passengers only. Well, he returns to his car to find a parking enforcement officer writing him a ticket, which he refused to accept. Parking enforcement officer tries to get into power struggle with Dr. Butt, who, even then, was under the impression that the law does not apply to him. Long story short, Dr. Butt tells parking enforcement lady that he can "Bye & selll peeple likke ewe." Dr. Butt gets into his car, while parking enforcment lady stands in front of the car trying to bar his escape and force him to accept his citation, and Dr. Butt freakin' runs over parking enforcement lady. Parking enforcement lady sues for a million bucks, wins, and is no longer a parking enforcement lady. Meanwhile, million dollar lost lawsuit doesn't even put a dent in Dr. Butt's holdings and, clearly, he learns nothing from the experience.

Parking enforcement lady should have sued for eleventy gazillion million dollars.

***

1. Food can only cook so fast.
2. What about all the orders who have been put in ahead of yours? Should those folks be expected to wait even longer because you can't manage your time well? And, if so, why do you deserve to have your order bumped up ahead of everyone else's? (trust me, folks in restaurants look around and they know who got there first and they get disgruntled if someone who came in after them gets their food first)
3. Perhaps you do actually manage your time well and this was a fluke...there was an accident on the freeway or whatever. Still, if you only have time for fast food or a deli sandwich, then GET THAT. Or go somewhere that isn't busy. When you go into a busy restaurant needing to get served quickly and get out of there in a less-than-reasonable amount of time (30 minutes or less), it's not fair to the server or the kitchen, but -most of all- it's not fair to the other customers. Furthermore, you might just be screwing yourself over if you're forcing the restaurant into a situation where they will need to take shortcuts in order to adequately accommodate you.
4. If you do, despite all of the above, go into a busy restaurant with only a minimal time to be out of there well-fed and you were accommodated, frakkin' hook that server up with a good tip, because they probably bumped your needs ahead of others and they don't have to do that, but they wanted to please you. A good tip is a lovely way to say thank you.
   

Librarian Funland, Part 2

The first discussion I got up the nerve to attend turned out okay (well, aside from the tights mishap, but that is another story altogether). It was packed – the Fire Marshall would have had a tizz – it was about digital reference and I learned a thing or two.

The next discussion I went to (determining after the first that they were not so scary, after all) was scary. It was a discussion about reading suggestions for a particular population of YA (that’s Young Adult in librarianese) readers, but that is beside the point. I walked into a conference room that was sparsely populated, with a conference table at the front and nametags at each seat. The table held five shiny pitchers of cold water for the thirsty committee members assigned to the seats. The remaining 30-40 chairs, in two groups of four in each row, functioned as 'the audience.' It appeared that we would be observing their committee meeting in progress!

Wow.

Well, sometimes, things are, indeed, as they seem and this was one of those times. Yet, upon watching their committee meeting, I felt horribly out of place. What was the role of the audience? Were we permitted to ask questions? Could we have some of their precious water (for which they appeared to have at least 30 or so paper cups)? I decided to stay and watch (discussion sessions, in general, appeared to be 'come and go as you please') in hopes of learning more about the conference protocol.

And learn I did. What did I learn, you ask? Well, I learned that I know nothing about attending professional conferences for my chosen profession. As the participants (at the table, not in the audience) were talking, suddenly one of the committee members would ding a bell! The speaker would apologize and continue…why were they dinged?? Was their time up? Did they say something they shouldn’t have and, if so, what? If I were given the opportunity to speak, would I also be dinged? Were there other faux pas for which one might be dinged?

This was getting scary. I did not want to get dinged for my missteps, but how would I learn what the missteps entailed? I then realized that I was the only one who’d brought coffee along with me into the meeting…would I be dinged for that? I just really wanted to know the rules and I found myself tuning out the valuable information and worrying about the rules.

And then the bespecled man at the end of the conference table was reading aloud the comments he’d received from his teen patrons regarding the book they were discussing. He went to great lengths to point out the spelling and grammatical errors of said teen and acted befuddled at the teen’s use of slang. Please. Does this guy realize what an ass he is?

Now, I was REALLY perplexed by the rules.

When it was time to take a break, halfway through the discussion, I found that I was ogling the water pitchers. I was dying of thirst and really wanted some water. Yet, it appeared to be for the purpose of committee consumption only. Perhaps if I asked very nicely and humbly if I could just have one cup...and would they ding me if such a request were out of line? I was just shy of salivating when I considered approaching the conference table. I'd assessed each committee member's potential response for my request to partake in their icy cold beverage, based solely on the personality I'd assigned them in my head as they were conducting their discussion. The woman I'd determined to be the gentlest and the friendliest was at the back of the room, already engaged in conversation. My second choice was a 30-something man rockin' a cute fauxhawk and who had suggested recommending Fuck This Book to teens. He was nowhere in sight and I contemplated standing near his seat, eagerly awaiting his return. He was the committee member I'd decided that I'd most like to have a beer with.

Finally, I could stand it no longer and, as the break was nearly up, I approached the less-desirable left side of the table, where the asshat man sat, and I addressed the uptight middle-school librarian on his right. "Pardon me," I said to solicit her attention, "I hope this doesn't seem rude, but I notice that you have several water pitchers up here and more than enough cups for your committee...would it be possible for me to have some of your water?"

I was nervous as I waited for her to respond. She was looking at me as if I were a little bit crazy. Yikes, I suddenly worried, perhaps it was somewhere written or taught (in the newbie meeting with the no-show speaker) that participants may not approach committee members and ask to have things that are on their meeting table.

After what seemed an eternity, she shot me a "yeah, sure, go ahead," and resumed her conversation with a quiet woman who hadn't spoken during the entire meeting. She seemed more perturbed that I'd interrupted her than that I'd wanted some water.

I can't wait to attend my next conference!

Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber

So, manager-dude has reached new heights in stupidity as of late.

First of all, we recently had a wine rep visiting and trying to sell us some of his latest acquisitions, including a dessert wine. Manager-dude felt compelled to stand behind my bar and imbibe in the offerings of the gentle and kind wine rep, who also offered me tastes and solicited my opinion.

Prior to pouring an Oregon-made (evidenced by the name of vineyard and that it said "Willamette Valley" on the label) ice wine, the kindly rep informs us (in case we didn't already know, which we should and which I did) that ice wine is made from a process involving the freezing of wine grapes before fermentation, which renders a very sweet product. After manager-dude and I both taste, he asserts to the rep, "now, all ice wines are from Iceland, right?"

I am barely able to stifle my laughter. Now, admittedly, I don't expect everyone to know that ice wine is typically a German manifestation, but Iceland???? What grows in Iceland? Certainly not wine grapes!!!

I was very embarrassed for him, particularly since the rep had just explained why it is called ice wine, and did my best to nicely point out the label (which was facing us) where it said "Willamette Valley" (and anyone who knows anything about Pacific Northwest wines knows exactly what that means!). He seemed, sadly, unfazed by this, completely oblivious to his faux pas.

Now, if he hadn't previously boasted about his wine expertise, I *may* not have thought much of this...

Furthermore, upon returning to work the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I was mortified to hear Christmas music blaring from our sound system. I felt compelled to approach manager-dude about this. I immediately learned that other employees had complained, but simply because they did not want to spend 4-14 hours a day, every day from now until Christmas, listening to Christmas music. Yet I approached him with a different, less selfish, bent. I asked him: "Do you have any idea as to the demographics of our neighborhood?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, completely perplexed.

"Um, you do realize that we are located near one of the largest synagogues in Portland and that much of our regular clientele is Jewish?"

"So," he quips back.

"So it seems it might be insulting to them or, at the very least, completely disregarding their loyal patronage and disrespectful as a result."

"I don't care."

"Well, you should - why would you want to disrespect our customers?" I ask.

"Okay, fine," his defensiveness is starting to kick in, "find me the Hanukkah station on our music service and we'll play that for awhile."

"I don't think you get it," I tell him.

"Well, how are they going to feel about the thousands of dollars worth of Christmas decorations that we are about to put up?" he quips.

"Probably slighted and marginalized."

"Fine. We'll just be all PC and put up one of those candle things, a Buddha and Kwanzaa decorations as well," he proposed, thinking himself so clever.

He continued, "If you want to be so inclusive and considerate of the diversity of our customers, why don't we just do that, huh?"

Holy cow. There is no reasoning with this clown. I re-explain to him that I wasn't aiming for political correctness or the diversity of our customers, per se, but merely considering the demographics of our existing regulars, a large amount of whom are Jewish. And that, in layman's terms, it just isn't very nice of us to shove Christmas down their throats. I inform him that I have known people, Jewish and otherwise, complain about being told "Merry Christmas" throughout the month of December every time they make grocery purchases, put gas in the car, buy a latte and whatnot.

For what it's worth, he also tried to convince me that, unless the song is about Jesus, it's not a Christmas song, it's a holiday song. Um, hello, I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, Let it Snow, The Christmas Song (aka Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire), Winter Wonderland, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Raindeer are not Christmas songs??? Sure, whatever you say, manager-dude.

He gets all huffy and then says, "Well, that's why I don't like gay pride parades."

Whoa?!?!?!? What the hell just happened? How on earth are we now discussing gay pride parades?

"And how does that relate to what we are discussing?" I inquire.

"Well, I think that's just shoving it down people's throats and I don't want to be represented by men in leather and drag queens."

Oh boy. Well I disagree with him entirely on this count, as well, but I really don't want to go there. As I'm looking at him in complete and utter disbelief, he continues.

"Why can't we just have parades with nicely dressed gay men and lesbians in pants and t-shirts holding signs (he raises his arms as if he is holding a sign) that don't offend anyone? And why do we need a parade, anyway? I just want more rights and I don't see what parades have to do with anything."

"You know, our (yes, our, he is a gay man) community owes a hell of a lot to drag queens. Do you have any idea how much we have benefited from the courage of the drag queens at Stonewall, who likely had no qualms about representing the likes of you and me?"

"I'm not talking about Stonewall, I'm talking about now."

Oh my, he really is that stupid. I shake my head and tell him that we are just going to have to agree to disagree. I just can't do this anymore. Calgon, take me away...

Enter manager-dude

So, we have a new manager-dude at work. No, I wasn't fired and I'm still *A* manager, I'm just not *THE* manager. This actually works out well for me, in a way, because I never wanted to be: full-time, salaried, babysitting the lunch staff. So owner-man, John, found someone willing to do this. Problem was, he didn't exactly give me much warning ahead of time - he's not the best communicator, but that is a whole other story.

I must say, as one who has functioned as a manager in this restaurant for the past (almost) four years, I feel like I have a pretty good pulse on the place and I know where the weak spots are and where the strengths lie. I should also confess that I have pretty high expectations of a full-time manager (probably even higher than owner-man, John) but, in all fairness, I don't expect anything more of someone in that position than I would expect of myself, should I've been willing to take on that position full-time.

That's not unreasonable, is it?

Well, manager-dude has been with us two months exactly now and he still doesn't have all of the table numbers down (there are a total of 33 tables in the restaurant and they are numbered chronologically, not by some random whim). Manager-dude has been working on an "employee manual" for us (we never had one, just some verbal general guidelines) which will include a major crackdown in what is deemed acceptable for our personal appearance. Changes he deems necessary include: our all-black clothing must always have black stitching only and no other colors present for any reason; shirts must be long-sleeved and button-down at all times (yes, even on those 98 degrees in the shade days); no visible tattoos, no non-ear piercings (will he be conducting body cavity searches or will he contract out for that?); only naturally-occurring colors of hair allowed (mine currently has a big blue fuschia chunk in front); only two earrings in each ear and only two rings on each finger (why? just why?) and I'm sure there are several equally idiotic commands that I have successfully purged from memory.

He wants us to greet customers with MUCH MORE ENTHUSIASM and ask them if they have been to our establishment before. He has been saying disparaging things about the staff, including singling some out for special mention. According to him: we are not enthusiastic enough, we do not wash our hands frequently enough, we give "Olive Garden" style service (this coming from one who once worked as a manager at Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville and passed up an opportunity to manage one of the local Hooters to work in our establishment) and he named three of us (yours truly included) as prima donnas.

The guy just doesn't seem to get it. Not all diners want their servers to be bubbly over-the-top enthusiastic - some prefer a more calm, professional, yet friendly, approach (my personal fave). We all have our own style in how we wait tables, interact with people and dress ourselves. Some of us are very very good at what we do and have been doing this for a very long time. We know our stuff and we have uncanny abilities to read our customers and know how to adjust our service accordingly. Us veterans, including the three of us who have been functioning as managers for almost four years, have been trying to help manager-dude to learn his job and to do it well. Sadly, much of our advice and direction goes unheeded, as girlfriend gets mucho defensive and doesn't even listen to what we say. He then runs around like a whipped puppy dog and makes negative references to himself. Dude, grow up. If any one of us wanted to sabotage his career as a restaurant manager, we could easily do so (it would be beyond easy to withhold useful information from him), but we are not going to do that...we don't need to, as he's shooting his own damn self in the foot.

I'm hoping that John will ixnay some of those ridiculous dress code suggestions. I mean, we've been allowed to exhibit some semblance of personal style in the four years that the restaurant has been open and my level of service and compentency is not dependent upon what color my hair happens to be or how many damn rings are on my fingers. Provided that I am clean, tidy and well-mannered, that should suffice as far as my appearance goes. If I wanted to go and work in a chain restaurant with stupid dress code rules, I'd do that.

Here's why I continue to work where I do:

1. tremendous schedule flexibility (which is important re: school)
2. I have much freedom in my personal appearance (John LOVES me and he honestly doesn't care how many tattoos I have or what color my hair is as long as I'm taking excellent care of our customers)
3. the peeps...well, the ones I work with, anyway (I truly dig some of the folks I've worked with for the past four years and I am treated with an enormous amount of respect by them - that feels good and you don't get that everywhere you go; I've known John for more than ten years and he's a great guy, even when he pisses me off, and would do anything for his most loyal employees)
4. For the most part, I am the boss of me (obviously, owner-man, John, is the boss of everyone, but he pretty much allows me to be on autopilot - which I LOVE (I have had jobs before in which a supervisor is always looking over my shoulder - HATE that...essentially, I CAN be trusted and so I prefer to be treated as such)

I been framed.

Manager-dude has, in only two months, made countless (ok, but I've counted them anyway: 23) mistakes on the schedule, some of which were not caught in time to fix them. Just to give you an idea, Whitney used to do the schedule and, in four years, made only three (3) mistakes. You get the picture. It's a pain to work around everyone's busy lives and make sure all positions are filled and that the staff is well balanced, but it ain't rocket science. After writing his first schedule, he brought it to me and asked me to look it over for errors - I found about three or four that week and pointed them out to him. For the next couple of weeks, I continued to point out errors to him...the last thing I wanted was to have a busser not show up because manager-dude had neglected to schedule one for the evening. It was in the best interest of everyone that I continue to try to assist manager-dude in mastering that muthah. And with each progressive week, he would get more and more edgy and defensive with me and then start whining about how needy everyone is with requesting certain days off. Sorry, dude, it's a restaurant, not a school/police station/doctor's office/hospital/etc. For most folks working the front of the house, this is not a career, but an end to a means. And so we have other plans.

Like me, for example. Tonight.

It was my lovely wife, J's, birthday and I had planned to wine and dine her at one of my new favorite restaurants in Portland, Nuestra Cocina (sooooo delicious!). En route to dinner, my cell phone rings, indicating that I have a new voicemail. It's Whitney and she's calling from work and wondering where I am since, according to the schedule, I was due in at 5:30pm.

What the hell?

When manager-dude posted that schedule about a week or so ago, I specifically remember him telling me that he scheduled me for only three days, as I'd requested (last week he had me scheduled for five days, which I'd specifically told him I would not be able to do once school started) and I also would have noticed if he'd scheduled me on this date since it was J's birthday and we had plans to celebrate together. I am 100% certain that I was scheduled off for Oct. 18 when that schedule was posted.

How can this be, you ask?

To my credit, this sort of thing has happened before. Manager-dude discovers errors on the schedule and fixes them on the computer, putting the updated version where the old one was posted and discarding the old one. Does he tell the people whose schedules are impacted by his changes? No he does not. He somehow magically expects us to know that, not only should we check and write down our schedule when it is posted, but we should also check it every day thereafter in the event that it has changed.

I don't think so!

That's the most crazymaking expectation I've ever heard. Is he nuts? Does he really truly believe that it is my fault that I missed my shift tonight? Let's look at the facts:

Number of times bad kitty has (in four years) missed a shift at work (including tonight): 1

Number of times (in two months) manager-dude has made mistakes on the schedule (including tonight): 24

I rest my case.

our restaurant customers say the darndest dumbest things

and here are some examples of them:

1. Customers, after entering the restaurant through the front door, ask the host(ess), who has been in the air-c0nditioned restaurant since the start of her shift, "What's the weather like on the patio?" Some of our hosts are savvy enough to inform the customer that the weather on the patio is not unlike the weather outside the front of the building, which the customer should be quite well acquainted with, seeing as how they just came from there.
   
   
2. "Is that real ice?" This is a frequently heard query regarding ice sculptures as well as a large glass sink of crushed ice holding martini glasses (which exists in the bar where I currently work)...to which I frequently can't help but reply, "Why wouldn't it be?"
   
   
3. "Do you know where the restroom is at?" OK, I hate the whole preposition at the end of a sentence, but give me a break. Of course I know where the restroom is located - I work there! C'mon, folks, don't be so silly. Ask me where it is, don't ask me if I know where it is! And please don't tack an 'at' on the end of the sentence! KThnx.
   
   
4. When they have finished their dinner and their dessert, I always ask if there is anything else I can get for them, hoping that perhaps they will order a glass of port or a nip of scotch to end their evening. At least once a month, however, someone will reply with, "a winning lottery ticket?" and the entire table will burst into laughter as if that is the funniest thing they've ever heard. I refrain from informing them that I could likely retire if I'd had a dollar for every time I'd heard that one.
   
   
5. Folks call on the phone and will ask "How busy will you be at 7 o'clock?" Gee, I dunno, let me pull out my crystal ball and check! I know, on the weekends especially, it is relatively easy to determine that we WILL be busy, just not HOW BUSY. Sure, we can look and see if there are alot of reservations, but sometimes there are a lot of walk-ins as well and sometimes not. C'mon folks, really, how we would be able to give an accurate response to that?
   
   
6. Cutomers will ask me a question about an item on the menu or whether or not we carry a certain item. After responding (with confidence!), some will look at me and say, "are you sure?" Please. If I wasn't certain, I'd say so - or I'd excuse myself to go and make certain. If you ask a question, please just accept the answer that you are given. If someone asks you a question at your job and you answer them promptly and with confidence, how would you feel if they came back with "are you sure?"
   

Hotter.

Through the course of my mucho double shiftage this past week, I ended up working some lunch waitshifts – something I pretty much never do. The lunch crowd is a different breed than the dinner crowd in many ways and the lunch regulars are in an alien class all their own. Those amongst our servers who work lunches regularly have all cataloged the various peculiarities of these regulars and are able to administer individualized service to them sans verbalized requests. Ironically, my four-year tenure at the restaurant was invisible to these lunch regulars who have never seen me before and, on more than one occasion, I was asked “are you new here?”

The three little biddies on table 14 didn’t bother asking if I was a newbie and my fellow lunch workers, Drew (who infamously dodged the butter bitch) and Sherry, who sat them there, knew that these wrinkly, diamond-deckered women were not exactly low-maintenance – they just didn’t bother to tell me so.

Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive arrived before WAY-Too-Tan, but didn’t want anything but water while they waited for their friend to arrive. A few minutes after WAY-Too-Tan arrived, I stopped by the table to see if she would like a beverage.

“She just got here! Give her a chance to look at the menu!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive ordered, almost in unison.

I told them that this was no problem and that I’d check back in a few minutes. Later, while I was inputting their order of three identical appetizers and one Caesar salad to share, I learned from Drew that this is the same thing they order every time.

Although I have excellent balance and strong arms, I can only carry three large-sized plates at a time. I’d asked the women if they wanted their salad to be served first and they said no, that they wanted it all at the same time. So I deliberately refrained from placing the salad first, so they wouldn’t think that I was disregarding their wish to have all the food simultaneously. As I’m placing an appetizer plate before each one of them, Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick pipes up, “you forgot our salad.”

“Actually, ladies, I’ll be right back with your salad – I can only carry three plates at a time.”

They said nothing and the look on Mini-Beehive’s face told me that they may or may not have believed that I really didn’t forget about their salad. I returned immediately with a solitary Caesar salad, as well as additional plates and freshly ground pepper. At this point, Mini-Beehive requests a cup of coffee black and asks me to microwave it for 15 seconds so it’ll be hot enough. As this is a frequent request of several of our elderly regulars, I often pre-heat the mug with boiling hot water before pouring the coffee in and decide that I will do this for Mini-Beehive instead of subjecting her coffee to the myriad other flavors roaming around the microwave. All of my other customers have been content with the pre-heated mugs. But not Mini-Beehive. She consumes about one-third of the coffee in the mug and when I offered a refill, she asked that I take her existing coffee and microwave it for another 15 seconds. When Drew and Sherry see me at the microwave, they laugh and remark that they forgot to warn me about her.

“Thanks guys,” I tell them, as they continue chuckling at me.

“At least they’re decent tippers,” Drew advises.

I deposit the freshly nuked coffee in front of Mini-Beehive. A minute later, I return to ensure that her coffee temperature is to her liking.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. I don’t know if that means that it’s okay, meaning just right, or if she means that it’s not what she wants and is tired of me trying to get it right and failing miserably. My guess is that it’s the latter, but also figure that if she wanted me to do something about it, she’d say so. I decide to just leave it at that. As I’m walking away from the table, I hear Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick say to Mini-Beehive, “is your coffee okay?”

“No, it’s not hot enough,” Mini-Beehive confides to her cronies. I make an about-face and return to the table.

“Would you like me to re-warm your coffee?”

“She heard you!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick proclaims, clearly mortified.

Mini-Beehive allows me to take her coffee away for another 15 second treatment and I return moments later with a cup that is steaming so much, you’d think it was on fire.

When I check back a moment later, Mini-Beehive frowns at me and tells me that her coffee is fine. Again, as I’m walking away from the table, I get the real scoop.

“It’s too hot now,” Mini-Beehive complains.

“Send it back,” WAY-Too-Tan advises.

I decide not to return to the table and hope that the natural cooling-off process will suffice for Mini-Beehive and her coffee. After clearing away all of their plates, I return with their bill.

WAY-Too-Tan attempts to hand me her credit card, but Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick reaches across the table with an interception. She slaps WAY-Too-Tan’s card out of my hand and tries to give me her credit card instead. Mini-Beehive speaks up, “no, I’m paying…take my card.”

It should go without saying that I really hate it when people fight over the check – particularly when it involves physical contact with my hands (which have been slapped and grabbed before under similar circumstances). If you genuinely want to buy someone’s meal, do it without a production: slip your credit card to your waiter when you have excused yourself from the table to go to the loo (this is what the people with class do). People who make a show of picking up the tab and who grab me/the bill/the other person’s credit card do not impress anyone – they create a situation that is uncomfortable and embarrassing for all. If you don’t see me wearing a shirt with black and white vertical stripes, then it is not part of my job to referee disputes over the bill and I have no grounds on which to determine whose credit card I should accept. A couple of times, I thought I had the perfect solution of taking all of the cards being offered to me and splitting the check, but nobody was happy when I did this – especially me when they left me crappy tips for not doing it the way they wanted.

Rant-O-Rama

I returned from my lovely vacation earlier this week to be confronted with the following:

*a teen daughter needing four teeth extracted (a three-hour process, it turns out) and, subsequently, a diet of pablum - essentially.

*an employee at work who unexpectedly had an internship turn into a full-time position and put in her two weeks' notice, but stating that she was going to get as many of her shifts covered as possible...not such a big deal, except that she didn't get ANY of her shifts covered and then no-showed, thus putting a managerial schmuck like myself in the position of begging some of our otherwise overworked souls to pick up yet another extra shift and the ones I couldn't fill fell into my schedule. This meant double shifts for me this past week. Yes, plural.

*a partner who was enrolled in a week-long graduate course covering a quarter's worth of information; suffice to say, I got to do everything she typically does around the house, in addition to what I typically do, in addition to the double shifts and the healing daughter relegated to only consume pureed nourishment.

I've barely had two minutes for myself, save for some downtime spent working crossword and sudoku puzzles in between shifts at work. But I did have an opportunity to laugh this week.

I was pulling out of a parking structure downtown into rush-hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Well, trying to anyway. Despite inching out bit by bit, nobody would let me in. Grrr. I rolled my window down and smiled at the oncoming traffic, as sometimes this actually works (usually with men). Finally, a friendly-looking businessman slows down and gestures me over. I wave to him as a thanks and pull in behind one of the many cars that did not allow me to exit the garage. Then I noticed the bumper sticker on the back of this car. It said "Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty." Apparently this does not include allowing the occasional vehicle to go ahead of you. I had to laugh. Then it occurred to me, perhaps my laughter during an otherwise cranky day/week was the senseless act of beauty they were bestowing upon me.

Nah, probably not.

Curses! Mother’s Day!

I hadn’t really forgotten to get my mom a Mother’s Day gift; I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. And never mind that it was 10am ON Mother’s Day – I wasn’t going to her house until around 4pm anyway.

So I run to the Fred Meyer to pick up some vegetables to grill that evening at my mom’s – since my daughter, K, is a vegequarium* and I guarantee that the non-meat offerings will be minimal and carb-heavy, rather than fruit/vegetable heavy.

As I start to drive past the garden center, I notice all of the lovely fuchsia plants hanging from the eaves. My mom loves those and I get her one every year, so I make a note to self to stop by there after picking up my groceries and pick out a nice fuchsia plant for Mom.

With about $20 worth of grillable vegetables filling two plastic grocery bags, I roam the aisles of the garden center comparing each and every fuchsia plant so that I can give my Mom the best one there. I narrow it down to two: one of the purple and white color scheme and the other is purple and fuchsia. I decide that they call ‘em fuchsias for a reason and opt for the purple and fuchsia combo. I head toward the makeshift cashier area and stand behind a tall older gentleman with a shopping cart, who is being assisted by the cashier. I put the heavy and awkward fuchsia plant down on my left side, but continue to hold my two bags of groceries on my right.

After about five minutes, the older gentleman in front of me begins to steer his cart away back into the garden center and I realize that I should be standing on the other side of the makeshift cashier stand in order for the cashier to ring me up. I pick up my fuchsia plant and begin to walk toward the counter. But before I can do so, a man of 60 or so hanging onto his last smidgeon of hairline and what appears to be his teen daughter step in front of me with their purchase. When I notice that the cashier is helping them first, I decide to speak up for myself.

“Um, excuse me, am I invisible?”

“No, you’re a pushy bitch.” Receding Hairline clearly has an issue with women standing up for themselves.

“I was waiting in line long before you got here,” I asserted.

“No, you were standing over there,” he gestures to where I was originally standing, “and the line is supposed to be here,” he moves his pointing finger to indicate the spot about a foot and a half from where I was actually standing. Then he adds, “deal with it.”

Now, I have been on both sides of this equation and my experience has pretty much always been that when someone accidentally takes cuts and it’s pointed out to them, they apologize and gracefully allow the person who’d been waiting to go ahead. This has happened to me when I’ve spoken up before and it’s happened when I was oblivious to someone waiting before me. I was really astonished that this guy was not only determined to be helped first, but was calling me names and chewing me out. I just had to speak up.

“I feel really sorry for your wife.” Oh-oh, did I just say that out loud? I must’ve because all of a sudden, Receding Hairline was in my face.

“You know what you are?” clearly this was a rhetorical question, “You are a fucking cunt!”

Holy shit. The wife pity comment must’ve really hit home. I can’t believe he just called me that. I didn’t want this clown to escalate any further and, clearly, it doesn’t take much.

“Get away from me with your filthy mouth.”

He continued with his colorful expletives. Man, I must’ve hit the jackpot – the wife must really hate him and he knows it.

“Can’t you see there are children around here?” Still, the guy wouldn’t stop. I raised my voice at least one decibel.

“Shut up and get away from me. NOW.”

I don’t know if I caught him off-guard with my raised voice or if he just ran out of expletives to sling at me, but he finally turned around and stomped off. His teen daughter was already in the parking lot waiting for him. Was she embarrassed? Or does she think that this is how one resolves a conflict? The sad thing is that I really did feel sorry for this guy’s wife! Imagine being married to someone who can’t admit to being wrong, considers women who stand up for themselves to be pushy bitches, and is rather quick to spew a string of expletives at anyone who calls him on his rudeness…

I was a little bit addled after this. Not how I imagined my Mother’s Day to begin. Perhaps next year I’ll get my mother something different for Mother’s Day.





*Vegequarium = One who is pretty much a vegetarian, but also eats fish. K was in preschool when she decided to become a vegetarian because her best pal, Fritz, was a vegetarian and she didn’t want to hurt animals. Shortly after this decision was made, we asked her what she wanted for dinner one night and she said, “sushi”! I asked her if she’d decided not to be a vegetarian after all and she looked at me quizzically. I reminded her that sushi is fish, which could be considered an animal. She thought about this for a minute and then said, “since I love sushi, I guess I’ll be a vegequarium then.”

Another form of getting mooned...

Driving home tonight I saw the most gorgeous huge full moon...and then it all made sense.

It was a weird night tonight at work - and not just in my section, either. Although I arrived at 4pm, ready to go, I didn't get my first table until 6:05pm and then we got hit.

Hard.

Within about 10-12 minutes, my entire section was full. Luckily, the first table knew what they wanted so I could get their order in right away, before the onslaught. The entire place was filling rapidly and our timid hostess was having difficulty asking folks to wait 5-10 minutes so that she could pace the waiters a little bit. A 20-top came in and was seated in the lower part of the dining room, adjacent to my section. Jason was going to take them, but asked me to take a couple of tables in his section so that he could manage the large group well. This put me at eight tables, with a ninth coming in 30 minutes. I was a pro and felt confident about picking up the slack. I appreciate that Jason had the good sense to know his limits.

I should have known that table 12 would not be smooth sailing when they asked me for water with no ice. I prefer my water this way, too, although I don't make a point of ordering it like this in restaurants. It's uncanny to me how often there is a direct correlation between those who order water with no ice and those who are high maintenance/demanding/difficult to deal with for whatever reason. Simply. Un. Canny.

And these three women at table 12, each representing a different generation, were no exception. Almost as if on cue with the sort of antics I might expect from such a table, the woman representing the middle generation (who got a B+ in assertiveness training at the local community college) says to me, "I know you're really busy, but is it going to take a long time to get our food after we order it?"

This is a loaded question if there ever was one. Naturally, she wants me to say "no, of course not" or maybe she thinks that, for whatever reason, I'll have the kitchen bump their order to the front because they seem to think that they deserve to eat sooner than the other 65-70 folks who came in the door at almost the exact same time.

There's no way in hell I'm telling them that it isn't likely to take very long. First of all, I have no idea what they intend to order and that will be a primary factor as to how quickly their order is ready. Any one of them orders anything even closely resembling a well-done steak and it's going to be awhile.

I glance over at the large party and notice that Jason has finished taking their order. The woman who is representing the older generation notices my glance. I look at her. She is facing me, but her eyes are all googly and going every which direction and I don't know where to look so I look at her nose.

"That's just horrible - why did you put those people there? They should be in a private room!"

Translated, this means that the large party is being too loud and it's bugging her. I opt to ignore her assertion since I'm certain that it'd be unwise to look at her nose and say, "What the hell do you expect me to do about it?" Her words are angry and it doesn't seem to occur to her that if these 20 folks were in the configuration of five tables of four, and making the same amount of noise, it probably wouldn't bother her. I try to focus on Middle Generation, as she is still waiting for a response from me.

"We're doing our best and - " I'm cut off in the middle of my response to her.

"Oh I know that." She's getting impatient with me.

So, let me get this straight. She knows we're busy. She knows we're doing our best. She is likely well aware that they haven't even hinted to me what they intend to order...and, yet, I'm expected to give her an accurate, yet optimistic, quote on the ETA of their dinners? Knowing full well that this is the perfect time to use the maybe-I-should-be-in-law-school-instead-of-librarian-school phrasing, I walk into her blatant trap.

"Well, it appears that this large group has already ordered and your order will likely follow theirs."

"I asked you a simple question. Can't you just answer it?" Oh jeez, now she's getting all indignant with me. This is never good.

"Ma'am, I did answer your question as honestly as possible. As soon as I take your order, I will give it to the kitchen and then it is out of my hands."

Middle Generation turns to the other two for their input.

"Well, what do you want to do?"

The woman representing Generation X, presumably her daughter, wants to stay and Old Crazy Eyes says something unintelligible. Middle Generation decides that they will, indeed, stay and I'm delighted when they order a salad course before their entrees so their entrees won't seem like they are taking a long time, even if they do. When, six to seven minutes later, I'm setting their soup and salads before them, Old Crazy Eyes turns to me and says, "Good girl! Now that's a good girl!" while her eyes go every which way.

I hate it when elderly people say this to me. I find it so condescending and inappropriate. I'm forty years old and I'm doing my job. And while I don't quite look forty (thankfully), a simple "thank you" will suffice nicely. Interestingly, this was one of the tables that Jason forfeited to me.

There are a lot of crazies in the restaurant tonight, though. A gentleman at one of my tables asked me if the government was eavesdropping on their conversation at the table, I was asked what a calzone was (Kellie Pickler, is that you??), I had someone order a glass of red wine with a splash of cranberry juice, and I had a woman from a table that wasn't even mine grab my arm as I was walking by, with another table's plates of food in my hands, and say, "I want to see what's on your neck" because she was apparently intrigued with one of my tattoos.

While it's true that I can request that the kitchen bump an order up ahead of others, to do so would mean that others will have to wait even longer for their food. And this is not a favor whose welcome I want to wear out, so I use it sparingly and am granted the request every time by our wonderful kitchen staff (who, yes, receives a cut of my tips). If they were regulars, and friendly or good tippers (or, better yet, both!), I'll consider asking this of a busy kitchen. But under these circumstances, I took my chances. As it turned out, they only waited about five minutes after finishing their salads before their entrees arrived. On a busy night, that's golden and I hope they were content with it.

When they were finished and I'd boxed up the uneaten solitary ravioli for table 12, I thanked them as I dropped the check and told them that I would take care of it whenever they were ready.

I kept a close watch and walked by their table, even though it was out of my way, several times to see if they were ready to pay. I suppose I shouldn't have been the least bit surprised when they got up from the table, check in hand, but with no sign of money or credit card on the check tray. I was able to intercept them before they got to the cash register that they seemed to think was stationed near the door and isn't (I don't work at Denny's!).

It all made so much more sense. And I remember thinking to myself, is it a full moon tonight or something???

quenching the thirst of the holy elite

When I used to wait tables and tend bar at Le Glamour Hotel, we had more than our fair share of -shall we say- high society patrons. Many were well behaved and generous, thus making my work all the more worthwhile. However, it was the not-so-well-behaved of the financially elite who could ruin a night in no time flat.

Sometimes, serving several of these folks back-to-back could nearly send a poor waitron over the edge. The phrase "desparate times call for desparate measures" comes immediately to mind as I recall one especially condescending matron who came into the lounge with her well-heeled entourage late one busy holiday eve.

Whenever the symphony would let out, our lounge would go from empty to completely full in just over five minutes flat. And, since guests were not seated by a host, there was virtually no pacing involved in the filling of the tables - I would essentially be sat ten tables pretty much simultaneously. Unfortunately, those placing their derrieres in my section seemed to be completely oblivious of this fact. Worse still, nearly every single one of them would order a Spanish Coffee, which was one of the most time-consuming drinks to make. The trick for me, at this point, would be to get a few of my orders in to the bartender -pronto!- before the other servers' orders came in, so that at least a few of my tables would receive timely service. Nine times out of ten, though, this would backfire as I'd show up at my first-sat table just as their asses were hitting the leather of the chairs, eager to accommodate their beveragely wishes and they'd have a zillion questions to ask of me...or they'd hem and haw a bit, at which point I'd offer to come back so as not to rush them and they'd say "no, stay, we're ready to order!" with desparation in their voices as if they knew that if I left, it could easily be ten minutes before they saw me again. So I'd stay, only to be subjected to "hmmm, well, let me see....I think maybe....oh, tell me a little more about this chardonnay..."

Meanwhile, my section is suddenly full and I am beginning to feel eyes boring into the back of my head. I rattle off a "little more about the chardonnay" while I take a quick scan of the room and seek out patrons who are known to tip well while remaining on the low maintanence side - they are the ones who will see me first. Although, in all honesty, if it were to come down to a mediocre tipper who treats me well and does not attempt to monopolize my time at the expense of others and a good tipper who is rude and demanding, I'm most likely to visit the mediocre tipper first: good behavior trumps good tips, for the most part, in my book.

A couple of the hemmers/hawers ask me for ice water and I seize that opportunity to escape their table, telling them that I'm going to get their ice water while the others decide. I make a quick stop at a table of regulars on my way back to the kitchen - they have the same thing every time and are nice folks who tip well - their order will be the first one in. I then gather enough ice waters for all of the hemmers/hawers because, invariably, if I return to the table with exactly the number of ice waters equalling the number of those who requested them, the power of suggestion will unleash itself and everyone else will want one - I'm better off bringing water to someone who doesn't really want it and saving myself the trip, as time is still key here.

I try to squeeze in an order here, an order there, and gently let people know that I'll be right with them. Really, the best way to handle zero to full in no time flat is to take orders in at least two trips. I've seen neophyte servers start at one end of their section and just start taking orders and then put all the orders into the computer and then wait and wait and wait for all of their drinks to be made because every single one of their orders was submitted last, behind every other server. Then their drinks are all up at once and they panic because it's too much all at once. Poor Lambchop almost had a panic attack one time with just this scenario.

I get my section a little bit better paced and things are calming down. The first table served pays and leaves and I bus their table quickly in hopes of another turn there. I'm making my way through my section offering another round to those who qualify. Thankfully, not everyone drinks at the same rate. The hemmers/hawers can't simply order another round of drinks - they all need to ask a bunch of questions and keep me sequestered at their table until they're good and ready to let me go. I dutifully answer their questions and try to keep things moving in a forward direction. After all, I have hot drinks coming up for some of my lower maintenance tables and I wish to deliver them promptly. I escape with their order just in time.

As I'm delivering their second round, an elegantly dressed 40-something society woman at the hemmer/hawer table slurs to me that she'd asked me for an ice water. Ew boy, somebody hit the bar during intermission at the symphony! I look at the table where each guest has a sweating glass of ice water, most of them barely touched, sitting before them.

"This one is yours," I say, gesturing to the glass that, if it were a snake it would've hissed at her to lay off the sauce. She then looks at the glass, then at me. With an ultra-stern expression on her face (this was before the popularity that is Botox), she condescendingly instructs to me that this (she then points to the glass for emphasis) is not ice water.

Um, okay, it's not? I'm thinking somebody also forgot to take her medication tonight. Where on earth do I go with this one? I really don't want to argue with this woman, but she just told me that ice water is not ice water and clearly wants me to do something about it. Something is very wrong with this picture and it's my job to figure out how to fix it without pissing anyone off. And, unfortunately for me, alcoholic society matrons can be a little bit touchy in times such as these.

Society matron interprets my brief silence and rapid contemplating as complete and utter cluelessness. She picks up the glass in question, holds it up and, raising her slurred words a notch higher, says sternly, "Do you see any ice here???"

The funny thing is that there IS ice in the glass and it's even making a clinking sound as she shakes the glass at me! At least now I know what she wants so I say, "Okay, why don't I take that water and get you some more ice."

As I'm reaching for the glass, she yanks it away, splashing water on the table and continues to hold it with a death-grip.

"No, a fresh glass of ice water. I don't want this glass," she says of the receptacle she is refusing me.

"Sure, okay," the words from my mouth say, while the bubble over my head says, "crazy bitch."

I go back to the kitchen and pull out the rack that holds the clean water glasses. It's empty. Oh crap. I ask the bartender for a bucket glass, all the while thinking that this woman is the type who will flip if I bring her ice water if a different type of glass than before (which also happens to be different from everyone else's at the table). The bartender tells me to hang on and I notice that he has about a dozen or so tickets lined up, all coffee drinks and espressos. Crap, crap, crap. As I'm looking around and trying to think fast, I see the round tray of glassware from the table I'd just recently bussed. My blood still boiling over the humiliation of being yelled at in the middle of my section, I grab a dirty water glass off of the tray and fill it with ice and water. My heart's pounding fast because, even though I've been pushed to the boiling point before by a customer, I'd never done anything quite like this. In fact, such things had never even occurred to me. But I knew that if I didn't get back to Society Matron soon with a new glass of ice water, there'd be more humiliation in store for me and I didn't deserve that. Nor did I have time for it.

I found that once the glass was safely on her table and out of my hands, the pleased look on her face erased any bit of guilt I was feeling. She was happy now, damn it, and -in a way- that was what really mattered. I really wanted to have a cherry on my sundae, so I strolled by the table and asked Society Matron how this glass of ice water was working out for her.

"It's perrrrrfect," she slurred.

Space. The final frontier. To boldly go where no man has gone before and should never go again...

To the pregnant, balding man wearing an orange fleece vest at the Adrienne Rich reading on 20 March, 2006:

Do you have any idea how much space you consume? Your heavy breathing should be reserved for your more intimate moments and your overly audible "Hmmmmmm," "Mmmmmmm," "Oh," "Yeah," and "Wow" at the conclusion of each and every poem read aloud by Ms. Rich does not need to be heard by the person three rows back and five people over. Do you have any idea how intrusive it is to be so very vocal when you are in a crowd of mostly women listening quietly? Were you feeling dwarfed by the 15:1 ratio of women to men in the audience? Did it make you uncomfortable to be in the minority? Did you feel threatened? Were you wanting others to view you as a "sensitive man" and perceive you as one who is identifying with the works being read? Because I can assure you that your bodily outbursts painted you as something quite the opposite: Ironically, the precise patriarchal form that the uber-feminist Rich personifies in her prose. If you really stand behind what Rich proclaims, please, do so with respect to your fellow feminists and think twice about what you emit from your body and how far it travels; then consider whether or not those around you likely wish to share in these emissions.

the perils of hard butter

I arrived in an inexplicably good mood. It was Friday night, I was prepared to be busy, I was ready to make some money.

When I first arrive to the restaurant for my shift, I have something of a ritual - a routine that keeps me on track and ready for the onslaught, whatever that may entail. I check the dry-erase board to update myself on what we are out of, which seafood is starring in the seafood salad that eve, and find out what the soup of the day happens to be.

Then I do some fact checking.

If the board declares that our soup is presently green split pea with ham but, when I open the lid of the soup vat, it more closely resembles clam chowder, then I must do some editing as well. When this is the case, I then taste the soup (ok, yeah, sometimes I taste the soup even when it does resemble what it's rumored to be...quality control, you know?). I let my tastebuds determine the flavor and then I seek out assistance from the kitchen staff to confirm my assumptions. Often, I must inquire of several different folks in checkered pants before I find one who is able to name that soup. It doesn't end there, though. I also find out if the soup contains any meat or any dairy and, if so, how much and what kind. Trust me, I think I've met every "food issue" on the planet.

As I leave the kitchen feeling pretty well-informed about what is coming out of the kitchen doors, I head to the host podium to scan that night's reservations and learn more about what will be coming through the front doors.

"Maaaaaaaaammmmm."

I believe I am being summoned. Being called "ma'am" isn't such a horrible thing (oh, I've been called worse), but something in the voice just had this certain...I dunno...hint of desperation or something. So instead of reviewing that night's reservations, I head to table 27 (which "belongs" to the closing lunch server, Drew, for the record) and find myself face-to-face with a woman in her late 60s/early 70s sporting the most disgruntled look on her face. Uh-oh, this is not the picture of a happy camper. And whatever has her so upset is about to become my problem.

"May I help you?" I offer, with some reluctance that - hopefully - remains undetected.

"Can I get some butter that isn't hard?" the woman barks - more of a demand than a question.

"Actually, all of our butter is hard like that - we keep it refridgerated. I'm sorry."

People make this request on occasion and are typically understanding when I explain the situation to them. If I have the time and I like the people, I will show them my trick of placing the ramekin of hard butter on top of an unlidded teapot - this will soften butter in about ten minutes, but something told me not to go there this time.

"Well, then bring me some more butter," the Charmer on table 27 demanded.

"Sure, no problem."

I began to count my blessings that she wasn't my table and that my interaction with her would be only temporary. I return with another ramekin containing one pat of butter and placed it next to the ramekin already on her table that held a half pat of butter still. The Charmer looks at the ramekin with disdain.

"That's all you brought me?"

This is a trap. I can tell. Refusing to fall for such an obvious set-up, I sidestep the bait.

"Would you like me to bring you some more?" I offer politely.

"Well, I just don't understand why you bring it to me in these little bits!"

For the record, "these little bits" consisted of single tablespoon-sized squares of solid fat. The Charmer's face was reddening - she was actually getting really angry about this!

"Honestly? We don't want to waste it. So we're happy to bring you more if you intend to use it, but think it foolish and wasteful to bring a lot at each request."

I knew that I was playing Russian Roulette here. Sometimes it works in your favor to explain the rationale to a customer and sometimes not. It's about a fifty/fifty shot, but it's so gratifying when, upon explaining the whys of something that doesn't make sense to someone, they get it and calm down. I should have known that I'd be playing with fire to try to make sense of anything to the Charmer.

"Ohhhhhhh, you don't want to WASTE any of it, huh? Well, in that case, forget it. I don't want it."

And the Academy Award for best meltdown over butter goes to...The Charmer!!!!! [raging applause]

The Charmer jerks her head to the left, refusing to look in my direction, as if to punctuate her retracted request. I want to laugh out loud, but I don't. As I'm walking away from the table, the oh boy from inside my head somehow is uttered audibly from my mouth. Out of prinicple and professionalism, I hope the Charmer didn't hear me.

I return to the kitchen, fill a ramekin with as much butter as will fit, and return to table 27 where Charmer, who sees me approaching with about 1/3 cup of butter, turns her head away again, refusing to watch me honoring her initial request. Knowing it won't make any difference at this point, I politely inform her that if she needs more, just to let me know. I notice that she has since acquired a dining companion and a walker.

As luck would have it, Drew needs me to take over table 27 so he can get off the clock and run errands before his dinner shift begins. Somehow I knew this would happen. After the Charmer's grievances regarding her takeout order, I was thoroughly convinced that the Charmer just liked to hear herself when she becomes exasperated. There was no amount of kindness or additional service to appease this woman. I watched them from afar while I conducted my opening sidework and ventured near table 27 only when necessary. At my offer of a bag for her to-go boxes (into which she'd placed all of the butter I'd brought her), the Charmer grabbed the plastic bag out of my hand saying, "give me that," while handing me the guest check presenter and saying, "you take this."

After scraping every dust bunny from my wallet to make change for her hundred dollar bill on her $30 tab, I approached the table with a smile (yay! they're leaving soon!), told them thank you and placed the change tray on the table. As I was about to make a mad dash as far away from this toxic woman as possible, she says to me, but without really looking at me, "Help him with his coat. He can't get his arm into the hole."

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo my mind and body are screaming.

But, in retrospect, Dining Companion has done nothing wrong aside from having lunch with the wicked witch of the west. He looks helpless and frustrated trying repeatedly to get his arm to coincide with his jacket pocket without success. As much as I don't want to do this, I gingerly reach for his jacket and try and scoot the armhole closer to his actual arm. Naturally this feat requires more than merely holding the jacket still. After resituating the position of his jacket on his opposite shoulder and doing something of a six-point turn, then holding the armhole still with my left hand and practically holding hands with the old man with my right, I was finally able to steer his arm into his jacket. Not sure what to do next and receiving no verbal feedback from either Charmer or D.C., I happen to notice that the walker is more than arm's length from the gentleman. Apparently desperate to end this transaction on a positive note, I gesture to the walker and ask the man, "Do you need this moved closer to you?"

Silence.

As tempted as I am to just bolt away, I don't. I repeat my question, uncertain as to whether or not D.C. is even capable of hearing me. Realizing that it's been a full eight minutes since she'd had an outburst, Charmer barks at me, "He can get that himself."

Delivering mail through snow and sleet…and volunteer?

aka, The Saga Continues...

So Friday rolls around and, still, the spot at the end of the street where the giant metal mailbox for the entire neighborhood was rooted remains empty. As I am expecting some important documents from school and want to read my new New Yorker, I decide to give our local postal branch a call to find out what gives. I am informed that “someone ran over the old mailbox” and that the new one is scheduled to be installed that very day. I am then told that the corresponding keys for the new box will be delivered directly to our doors shortly thereafter.

Then Friday night, I receive an email from Sheri, a neighbor from a couple of doors down, informing me that she was told that the keys are locked inside of the newly planted mailbox and will be distributed on Saturday, since more people are likely to be at home then.

Well, Saturday comes and Saturday goes and nobody darkens our door with any keys. Sunday is, of course, the national day of rest for those who carry the mail, so I hang out at home on Monday, expecting my doorbell to chime at any moment. I make certain that music isn’t on too loud and try to summon the arrival of a key-bearing postal worker at my doorstep using my psychic powers.

My psychic powers seem to be taking a personal day off.

I wish to take a shower and am certain that, if I do, that will be when the doorbell will ring and I will miss my opportunity to have access to my mail until…tomorrow? The next day? Whenever they get around to it?

By 4:30pm on Monday I’m beginning to, again, wonder what gives. I decide to phone my local post office once again. As I begin to explain why I am calling, the woman who answered the phone says that she will transfer me to Larry, who is handling that situation. When I explain to Larry the discrepancies between what I was told would happen and what has actually occurred, Larry tells me that “they were having difficulty getting all of the keys out” and that if I go to blankety-blank address tomorrow, I’ll be able to pick my keys up from Arnie.

Arnie does not work for the postal service. Arnie is my neighbor and is one of those distrustful-of-the-government, uber right-wing republicans. He is the one with the bumper sticker on his car described in this post. I do not trust Arnie. He hates gay people and has not been very friendly to me. While my jaw is dropping to the ground, Larry hangs up.

After mulling over my thoughts for a moment and phoning J to see if she knows if this is even legal (as I’m thinking it’s not), I decide to phone the post office again and clear this up with a supervisor. The woman who answered the phone claimed to be a supervisor when I requested to speak with a manager and, when I began to explain the problem to her, she told me that she was going to transfer me to Larry.

“But wait,” I tell her, “I thought you said that you were the supervisor.” She tells me that Larry, too, is a supervisor. Too many chiefs…not a good sign. I tell Larry that I need to clarify what he told me only moments ago.

“So, let me make sure I understand this correctly. All of the keys to all of the mailboxes in the neighborhood are being left with Arnie –my neighbor, Arnie- tomorrow?”

“That’s right,” Larry assures me.

“Is that legal???” I am unable to contain my incredulousness. Larry stammers and tells me that he doesn’t know.

“I don’t think it is and it’s not okay with me.” Larry then informs me that Arnie “volunteered” to distribute the keys since “they were having trouble getting them out.” Interesting.. I never knew that one could "volunteer" with the U.S. Postal Service and gain access to the private mail of others. I'm certain that there are many aspiring criminals who would be quite interested in this civic opportunity.

I inform Larry that I am not comfortable with them giving access to my mail without my permission to someone who does not like me and who I do not trust. I pause briefly for a deep and cleansing yoga breath and then ask Larry if he realizes how rampant identity theft is and that I'm really quite surprised that they would just give all of those keys to a complete stranger. Clearly, this sort of thing hadn’t entered anyone’s mind and Larry tells me that he can leave a note for my postal carrier to leave my key under my doormat if I am uncomfortable with Arnie distributing them. Still, it hasn’t dawned on him that it might not be such a good idea to leave access to twenty homes’ worth of mail to a random stranger who “volunteered” to take care of it.

Content with the outcome that Larry will instruct our mail carrier to leave our mailbox key under our doormat (although not fully believing that Larry will actually do this) and envisioning the awkwardness that may occur as a result of the interchange between our mail carrier and Arnie: "Well, Arnie, here are all of the keys except for one. She didn't want you having access to her mail. Thanks for helping out, Arnie, and if we ever need any more help, we'll let you know!"

I then pose to Larry one final question:

"I'm just curious. If I hadn't called you today to find out what was going on with our keys to our mailboxes, how on earth would I have known that I was to pick them up from my neighbor? Was the postal service planning on sending out some sort of memo to everyone on the street?"

And do you know what Larry told me???

"Oh, Arnie was going to take care of that."

No sooner do I hang up the phone from Larry and it rings. It’s Arnie and he has our mailbox key and can we come and pick them up from him? So, Larry the “supervisor” not only has no clue that it’s quite likely illegal to give keys to locked mailboxes to a random stranger, but – despite being the one who is “handling this situation” – he has no idea that said keys had already been distributed to said random stranger.

J then walks in the door, home from work, just in time to see the steam emerging from both my ears. She offers to take over while I drink my coffee and attempt to locate calm. Like a crazy person wandering urban streets, I’m pacing and muttering to myself…the occasional I can’t believe audible and somewhat clear.

J retrieves our key from our bigoted and unfriendly neighbor and returns home with an armload of our mail. She then phones the main postal number and registers a formal complaint. The woman graciously receiving our complaint tells us this should never have happened.

signs

Last fall, we bought a townhouse in what is pretty much the bible belt of Portland. This initially seemed harmless, as we knew that residing in what is barely still considered the city, even though it more resembles rural country land in most spots, was the only way we could afford to buy a house and still remain in Portland proper. (Having been raised in the suburbs from age nine on, the thought of living in the "official" suburbs just churns my stomach). We knew that we were leaving an area where we were in good company with regard to political and philosophical preferences and that we would be venturing into the unknown.

Given the sheer number of churches that dotted the area, it was our guess that this area was somewhat conservative and that we'd be living amongst some folks with whom we disagreed when it came time to exercise our rights each November. But, given the numbers that Portland churns out each election, it didn't seem like it could possibly be that bad...or could it?

When turning onto the street where our newly purchased home sits, the first thing one is likely to see is the bumper sticker on our neighbor's white car. It reads: One Man. One Woman. Yes on 36, a nod to a recent anti-gay marriage initiative that passed by a small margin.

A few weeks ago, an SUV-type vehicle turned on a side street a couple of blocks from where I live. It had a sticker in the back window that said: ACLU and the 'C' was turned into a hammer and sickle and then underneath that it said: Enemy of the State. While I'm not entirely certain what the hell this was supposed to mean, I was pretty sure that it wasn't good and I'd also venture to guess that the driver of this gas guzzler didn't care too much for people like me.

Then today, I was driving alongside a pickup truck that had a sticker of a confederate flag in its back window. I remember feeling somewhat shocked upon noticing this and it sort of frightened me. Who are these people? Do they really stand behind the implications of such emblems? And what do they really mean by these statements? A part of me wanted to ask the driver about it just to satisfy my curiosity, but I didn't because I'm not sure that I really wanted to know.

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.

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.

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?"