Do Ya Wanna Makeup?

When I was living in California, J and I worked in the same establishment for a little while (not how we first met, but it was where we reconnected and got together). There was a woman, Jane, who worked there at the time (she was maybe a secretary of some sort?) who sold Mary Kay cosmetics on the side.

One day she came up to J and said, "You're a really pretty girl, but your skin could use some help - I have just the product for you."

J, being much smarter than this peddler of crappy cosmetics, did not take Jane up on her offer. And if I'm going to be perfectly catty (and I am), Jane wasn't so easy on the eyes and it would behoove her to worry more about her own skin than to make subtle jabs at others in order to increase her net income.

Flash forward a couple of years when we're newly in Portland and I'm working at the small neighborhood restaurant where I presently work. I'm working lunches and I have a regular group of 16 who comes in every Wednesday(it's a networking group - so they are all about shameless self-promotion to one another and, occasionally, me) . Most people were pretty friendly to me and appreciated when I went the extra mile for them (such as knowing who drinks the same drink every time and having it waiting for them when they arrive, amongst other nice touches). I remembered all of their names pretty rapidly and would refer to each one by name and do whatever I could to make them happy. Since it was such a large group, I was permitted to add an automatic 18% gratuity to the tab - I also printed out a separate check for each person, even though the restaurant wouldn't typically do that for such a large group. Some of the folks threw me an extra dollar or two on top of that, which I thought was really thoughtful and was much appreciated. One man, Dale, would even peer pressure everyone into throwing me a little extra at Christmas time. Nice guy, Dale.

This was more than three years ago and only one out of the 16 remains a regular customer (although, in all fairness, not all of them lived in close vicinity of the restaurant). Well, one of the women in the group, Maryanne, sold Arbonne beauty products and was very eager to make some cash off of me. Being smart enough to know that I didn't plan on waiting tables at lunch my entire life (this was, of course, before I was admitted to UW), she attempted to recruit me into selling Arbonne as a representative under her guidance. For those of you who don't know, Arbonne is a multilevel marketing structure, not unlike Amway (think pyramid, think trickledown). They claim that all of their products are "100% natural" and comprised of botanical ingredients - I've heard through the grapevine that this is not so, although I can't say for certain. Maryanne showered me with compliments about my customer service skills, how personable I was and so on. I told her I'd think about it, although I had absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. Hell, she was a regular customer and I wanted to maintain a good rapport.

One day, she gifts me with a host of Arbonne samples of skin care products, including one anti-aging serum that she claimed was practically magic. Since I was perfectly happy with what I was using at the time (Lancome or something, I think) and wasn't in the market for a change, I set the samples aside figuring I would use them when I finished off my current product. When Maryanne saw me the following week, she raved about how great my skin looked (note: I hadn't even broken the seal on any of the Arbonne products). Even though I already knew that she was just feeding me fake compliments to hook me in, this confirmed it. I told her thank you and went on with my (honest) business.

She began to pressure me into ordered product (which was expensive, but no more so that what I typically use). I figured that since she was a longtime regular customer and I'd made some dough off of her, I'd throw her an order. I think I tried to get a sunscreen and maybe a bath gel (two things I needed anyway) and she upsold me into a couple of skincare products (what is it with these people and the damn skincare products?) by promising a discount. I succumbed (no, I'm not usually this easy).

She had me fill out an order form, which included a request for my phone number. I told her that I don't usually give that out and, since she saw me weekly, did that really matter? Oh no, they needed that! She gave me some reason (what if there is a problem with the order??? or something) and I wrote it in, but reminded her that I really value my privacy and don't usually give it out.

(You see where this is going, don't you?)

Not long after I received my order, I was accepted into my current graduate program at UW and, as a result, had to stop working lunches in order to have my days free for school (and blogging!). I announced to this group on my last Wednesday that I would no longer be working days and that someone else would be taking care of them in the future. I told them why and several folks congratulated me and gave me an extra large tip that day (Maryanne stuck with the tacked-on 18%). I told them I'd be working evenings and to come in and see me. Since then, I've only seen Geoff, who has come into the bar, but mostly gets take-out.

Within a couple of weeks, I received a phone call from Maryanne. Not recognizing the name on the caller ID (and thinking it might be one of my daughter's friends), I answered the phone. It was Maryanne wanting to know how I liked my products and would I be interested in ordering more? I said thanks, but no thanks - I was good.

Not long after her phone call, I receive an Arbonne catalog in the mail with an enthusiastic note saying that she misses seeing me at the restaurant. I skim the catalog that is littered with testimonies from successful Arbonne reps and what I recall as a very tan, very blonde executive type with a message of encouragement.

A couple more weeks pass and she calls again, but I don't answer this time. So she calls the next day. And the next. And the next. Same scripted voicemail each time, with the latter containing a somewhat agitated tone. Scary. I never return any of the calls. I never order any more scary Arbonne products.

I hear from owner-man John at work that the networking group doesn't come in for lunch anymore.

A couple of years have passed since my last phone call from Maryanne and I'd relegated the experience to merely a weird story that I sometimes told others when the subject was raised.

Flash forward to today when my phone rings and I pick it up, first checking the caller ID. I see the name and know that I know that name from somewhere, but where? Not long after I decide not to answer it, I remember exactly where I know that name. I listen to Maryanne's message and here is what it says:

"Hi, not sure if you remember me, but it's Maryanne - the regional rep for Arbonne Skincare (oh, I remember you, Maryanne). I just wanted to touch bases with you since we'd lost touch and tell you about some of our new products! And, if my notes are correct (she took notes on me?!?!?!), you have a daughter who is about 16 now and I just wanted to let you know that we have some products that she'll just loooooooove! They're younger products with exactly her age group in mind and I just know that she'll love them. I remember (you don't remember - it's in your "notes") that you said you were going to school and I want to see how that is going and catch up with you, see how you're doing. So, give me a call!"

Okay, my very political, activist daughter (who is 15) is currently sporting a Mohawk and pretty much uses no product at all, except for some Burt's Bees lip balm that is tinted. I GUARANTEE that she would not be amenable to Arbonne's aggressive tactics.

I'm really hoping that Maryanne acquires a clue.

Calgon take me away (unless you are made by Arbonne or Mary Kay).

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

When Disco Inferno and Hollywood go head to head

My lovely wife, J, plays on a recreation league women's indoor soccer team: DISCO INFERNO. They have a game once a week and, if I'm not working, I like to attend.

On my very first day of librarian action figure school, all students were gifted with a travel mug with the name of one of the larger student groups emblazoned across the cup: ALISS, The Association for Library and Information Science Students. While I was happy to receive any gift at all, I already had a gazillion travel mugs for coffee that I like very much and use all of the time. So, I decided that this particular go-cup (as coined from my friend, Beth, who is from N'awlins) would be used exclusively for cocktails!

I've made it a habit of making myself a cocktail to take to the soccer games, as they do serve beer there (good beer, too!), but they confine all beer drinkers to a small area which is not optimal for watching the game. Plus, who's gonna suspect I'm working on a gin and tonic out of a mug that proclaims itself to be for library students???? (Yes, I do this at movie theatres, too)

Oftentimes, I also bring my ipod or a book on cd to listen to while I am enjoying my cocktail and watching the game and I typically have a crossword puzzle or Sudoku for downtimes and intermission halftime. While I thought I was well-equipped this last Monday, I discovered that my ipod had a dead battery and I found myself relegated to the sounds of the soccer game.

How serendipitous this turned out to be!

Turned out that on my left were two kids, a girl of about six (Ashley) and a boy of about nine (Mikey), who were watching their mom, a player on the opposite team, Hollywood. On my right was Lena, whose mother is the goalie for Disco Inferno and whose daughter occasionally plays on the team, as well. Lena played some time ago and then advanced to a higher level of play. She knows all of the players' names and has that soccer lingo down pat.

Here are some highlights of my observations at Monday night's game:

Mikey (with much urgency): "behind you!! there's someone behind you!"
Me (under my gin-scented breath): file that one away under 'duh.'

When the score is tied:
Mikey: (with much feeling) "Ashley, this is inTENSE!"
Rec league, folks; we're talking rec league. Fun to watch, fun to play, not World Cup.

Mikey spies an abandoned black T-shirt on floor in between where he is sitting and where I am sitting. He picks it up. Mikey smells it, then says, "this smells like Mom."

Mikey continues to cheer on his mother's team, as if it were the World Cup final. In addition to being extraordinarily amusing, it's actually somewhat endearing.

Sister Ashley is clearly embarrassed by Mikey.
Ashley: "Mikey, you're being too loud. You're making a fool of yourself. Mom's never going to bring you to a game again."
Mikey (with a tone of authority): "I'm doing it at the appropriate times."

I must've made a double, maybe a triple, 'cause I feel great! I clap extra loudly when J's team scores a goal or prevents the other team from scoring - Mikey gives me a look.

Lena, on my right, is the soccer mom with a skilled 15 year-old in the game. She may as well be the coach understudy. "Man on!" "Way to ________ (it's amazing how many words go here)!" "Come to the corner!" "See ____________(fill in unguarded player name here)!" Chick knows her game and isn't afraid to call it. She heaps praise on her team and her players. Loudly.

Flash forward to soccer mama's baby dribbling the ball toward the goal. Chick in the red shorts on the other team shouts out: "Go Becky! You can outrun her. She's NOTHING."

Wow, vicious, I'm thinking.

Chickadee in the red shorts should check out roller derby. Natch, soccer mama hears this, looks over to the bench and glares roller-derby-bound girl's way. I join her in the glarefest just because. I'm good at glaring and that comment was rude and uncalled for.

Teammate nudges roller-derby-bound girl in the arm and glares, as well. R-D-B girl gestures over and shows her teammate, "that's her mom."

Lena, the soccer mama makes snarky comment about how some people get whiny when their team is losing.

This is one of the best games ever.

I need to pee and I want to be where I can see the goal better, now that the teams have switched sides, but I just can't bring myself to leave this spot. This is pure comedy.

Ipod shmypod.

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.
   

I'm not ignoring you. I just hate you.

The other morning I woke up, after hitting the snooze on my alarm eleventy gazillion times, and proceeded to go about my morning routine to prepare for a day at the Internship from Hell (which, by the way, has gotten much worse than what has been described here). I'm drinking my delicious French Roast coffee, reading the newspaper and checking my email. Same as always.

When I was taking my breakfast dishes to the sink, I noticed that the dishwasher was full of clean dishes, so I emptied it and then put the few dirty dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. I then proceeded to wipe down the counter, which morphed into pulling out the spray cleanser, moving each and every counter-top appliance, then vigorously cleaning the entire counter.

A thorough cleansing of the counter led to the microwave getting the star treatment makeover and each and every cupboard being wiped down until I noticed that the floor was in need of sweeping and mopping. After cleaning the kitchen floor to a state beyond pristine, I noticed the clock. A fair amount of time had passed since I'd finished my breakfast and I should've walked into the library over an hour ago.

Oh crap.

I stood there and fretted for a bit and then sampled various excuses in my head to explain my tardiness/absence. I was sick/had an appointment/had a family emergency/got into a car accident/etc. I feared using any of these excuses lest I jinx myself and have the inevitable karma-kickback occur. As I was pondering my escape, I noticed that the living room was in need of dusting.

My newly-dust-free living room also needed to be vacuumed and not just in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am way, but really thoroughly and by moving every single item of furniture to clear away the underneath debris. I then proceeded to painstakingly vacuum every speck of dust from each and every stair leading to the upstairs portion of our townhouse. I windexed every glass surface, making every mirror sparkle and rendering nary a smudge on the tv, coffee table, china cabinet or on any of our hanging art. I wiped the dust off of the tops of the molding throughout the house and wiped down each and every faceplate of each and every lightswitch.

What the hell was happening here?

I looked at the clock and, noticed that it was in the middle of the afternoon. I felt a panic attack coming on and tried to consider my options. What should I say to them? I knew that if I emailed them, it would look cowardly and as if I were lying. I could call but, at this late in the afternoon, what on earth would I say? And would they really believe me? I hadn't planned on bailing for the day...I. Just. Didn't. Go.

I called my lovely wife, who suggested I call - and the sooner, the better. I told her I didn't think I could do it and that I had to leave for work soon and I still didn't know how I was going to handle the situation.

Despite feeling anxious and freaked out about my options and the ramifications of no-showing at my dreaded internship, I felt oddly calm and content at the same time. I couldn't really identify if what I'd experienced earlier in the day had been a full-blown anxiety attack or some sort of manic episode or something different altogether. What I did know was that I just couldn't leave the house and kept feeling compelled to clean (and to do so with a Martha Stewart-like standard). It was as if I was not able to leave the house at my own free will and a magnetic force was keeping me rooted.

I went to work later that afternoon feeling great and wishing I could blow off the remaining week of the internship. I'd figure out later how I would weasle out of my unexplained absence.

You Decide:

So my lovely wife and I had an interesting conversation in the car today.

We had just entered the freeway and the lane that we were in was about to become an exit-only lane. When we merged onto the freeway, the traffic was moving, but we could see that it was bumper-to-bumper not too far ahead of us. Rather than attemping to merge as soon as she could (and where traffic was lighter, with gaps between the vehicles), she proceeded to remain in the right lane and drove as far as she could in that lane before merging over.

I told her that her Southern California upbringing was showing and she claimed that the maneuver was just an example of her superior merging skills. I further explained to her that where we live, in Portland, Oregon, that is considered rude and obnoxious and that she should have merged upon entering the freeway, that her "cutting" up ahead was an example of her inability to wait her turn and asked her what would happen if everyone cut up ahead on the right and then cut over like she did. She says that everyone does do this and that what she did was not illegal. I agreed that it was not illegal, but reasserted that it was obnoxious.

We eventually agreed to disagree, but bandied about the idea of asking others what they think. Anyone care to weigh in on this one?

who's the bad kitty now?

Last day of vacation and we're pretty ready to be home. We're tired, we're hot, we're grouchy and we all want to sleep in our own beds, for a change.

Nevermind that we ALMOST RAN OUT OF GAS on our last leg of the roadtrip...

We pull up in front of our still newish-to-us townhouse and we're all delighted to see our Edward Scissorhands-ish abode. J was talking about how much she missed our kitties and how she was looking forward to seeing them. She jumped out of the car and ran to our front door. I tried to grab a couple of random items, figuring it'd be less to lug in later.

The smiles of excitement on our faces, as our key was unlocking our front door, turned to utter disgust as we stepped into our home and took a big whiff of the hot, muggy, cat-urine infested air.

What the fuh...?

Our cats had sitters and were well fed and paid attention to while we were away but, somehow, this was not sufficient for them and they were angry. They were pissed. They pissed!

All over our dining room carpet.

And our living room carpet.

And our kitchen wood laminate flooring.

It was utterly disgusting. They'd never done this before.

We busted out the Nature's Miracle. We lit scented candles. We opened the windows and turned up the fans. After a few hours of cleaning and wiping down surfaces, our home smelled like Pineapple Cilantro candle. AND cat pee.

We'd been considering tearing up our carpet and installing wood laminate flooring on the entire downstairs living area, but that was to be next year's home improvement project. Should we consider doing that now? Or just borrow a friend's carpet shampooer? Or call a professional cleaner for the carpets?

We opted for the latter and selected a gay-friendly, environmentally-conscious carpet cleaning service to do the job. Karen found the concept of gay-friendly carpet cleaning to be a hoot, but hey, I don't want negative angry energy directed at me in my home, so we use gay-friendly services whenever possible. Besides, this way the money that we pay them won't later be used against us politically.

Well, the carpet cleaners came yesterday and -even though it smelled 100% better when our carpets were saturated with their nontoxic chemicals- the smell came back as soon as the carpets dried. Turns out that the angry urine invasion was pretty pervasive, plummetting deep below the carpet surface and through the pad underneath, then onto (into?) the sub-floor. This is a larger problem, we are told. This will require a tearing up of the carpet, discarding the pad beneath it, painting the affected area with a product called "KILLZ" (something every aspiring Buddhist should use, no doubt), then re-covering the floor. It looks like our wood laminate remodel will be happening much sooner than we'd originally intended.

In the meantime, the enviro-friendly carpet folks gave me some volcanic ash to sprinkle around and then vacuum up after several hours. Yes, volcanic ash. Who knows if this will help rid our home of the odor in the meantime. I do not understand at all how volcanic ash of all things will be plucking each and every odor particle from the air and taking it away forever.

We shall see.

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.

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.

The Arab Boy With the Strap-On

I have only one question to pose of the super tall couple who pushed their way past me at the Belle & Sebastian concert last night. They know who they are...the man looked more like a fellow you'd see at a Hootie and the Blowfish show: a veritable frat brother with a neck as wide as his head and the woman had one of those very protruding chins and a nose that looks like the tip piece was added on hastily as an afterthought. I felt a little bit sorry for her because her boyfriend smelled like sour milk. But what I want to know from them is this:

When you arrive at the concert later and feel entitled to shove your way past other people in order to stand in front of them, do you do so because:
a) you paid more for your ticket than they did
b) you're better than they are
c) you're completely oblivious to the fact that this is rude

I'm just wondering because you folks were very tall and arrived after The New Pornographers had concluded their set. I, on the other hand, am not tall and my girlfriend is even less so. We arrived very early (30-45 minutes before the show started) so that we could stand close to the stage and see well. We intentionally surveyed the crowd upon our arrival and stood behind the other not-so-tall people already there. We planned ahead - way ahead - to ensure that we'd be able to see the show. And then you shove past us an hour and a half later and plunk your tall selves right in front of the short folk. Why?

Fortunately, however, having my view of the stage partially obscured by a foul-smelling frat brother was only a minor dent in what was otherwise a very good time. I was very impressed with Belle & Sebastian's live show and thoroughly enjoyed the ongoing banter between Stuart Murdoch and Stevie Jackson. The large ensemble made beautiful music and Stuart's fluid dancing was fun to watch as well. My only complaint is that I wish they would have done more from Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant, which is actually my favorite opus of theirs (I know, I know) - although their latest release The Life Pursuit is quite excellent and may get to become my favorite after I listen to it about ten more times. Still, one of my favorite live shows ever. Thanks to David and Dave for taking us!!!

David and Dave were here on a propaganda tour to persuade Dave to someday maybe hopefully wish to move to Portland and I'm pleased to report that it worked! I was happy to have finally met Dave and especially liked him because, like me, he pretends to be Canadian.

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.

Check, please!

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

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

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

The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat

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

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

But, still, it is what people inexplicably expect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

un-namaste

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Me, too," I told her.

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

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