too legit to quit

ARgh.

I had a dream last night that Amaris found my blog and ordered me to cease and desist telling the sordid tale of the incredibly true and heartbreaking story of the demise of our relationship. I was delighted when I woke up to find that it was only a dream. So worry not, dear readers, as the tale will indeed continue in due time.

Even though I've been found out before, and it was much to my surprise, I'm not too worried about it y'all. Besides, it's all true, so it's not like I'm making shit up (I don't need to!!). I guess it's still slanderous but, like I originally said: nobody is innocent and I can't afford to get all litigous.

Because I like to "torcher" my peeps: Putting the "fun" back in dysfunctional...

In honor of the pending Christmas holiday and the fact that I will be spending it NOT with my mom (where icky nasty bad disfunction abounds), and because I am thoroughly convinced that there is good dysfunction and bad dysfunction (the good being the ones with my chosen family - aka my friends - and my work family), I present to you some fond memories from Thanksgiving last.

I annually spend Thanksgiving with my "chosen family" instead of my biological family. This is a little bit selfish, since I have biological family in town and I'd rather be with my friends and where the food is better than going to my mom's or aunt's house for the holiday.

My chosen family pretty much consists of one of my dearest friends, Kara, her partner Patrizio, her mother Ellen, three of her four siblings (Audrey, Liz and the youngest, Mateo, who comes with his wife, Liz ), some Thanksgiving orphans who are also friends, "honorary" members of the family (such as myself, my partner and my daughter) and random other friends who either have nowhere else to go or don't want to go anywhere else. The total guest count is always somewhere in the twenties and everyone contributes to the meal (all are good cooks and none cut corners or buy pre-fab or store-made items), the fixins are predominantly vegetarian (about a third or so of the crowd doesn't eat meat), but with the requisite organically fed and conscientiously raised turkey as the star of the show.

This year, we brought: homemade bloody mary mix (with extra garlic) & the pepper vodka & garnish for said cocktail (garnish consisted of five inch wooden skewers speared with olive, hearts of palm, grape tomato and a spear of celery for stirring), carrot ginger soup (vegetarian, but not vegan), roasted beet salad with goat cheese and toasted pecans and topped with a balsamic reduction, and a dessert that disappears rapidly every year: a chocolate bourbon pecan pie. We also brought two bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau and plenty of games.

While I thoroughly enjoy the genre of family dysfunction, particularly in literature and film, I must admit to feeling partial to a certain flavor of dysfunction in my presence (let's just call it "good dysfunction") and avoiding the sort of dysfunction often found at the functions at my mother's house (we'll call this one "bad dysfunction"). Now, it could just be that these two types of dysfunction are actually one in the same and I have more teflon when I am in the company of someone else's family, as opposed to immersed in the dysfunction of my own family, in which it all feels so personal and harmful.

Regardless, allow me to share with you some of the dysfunctional highlights from this year's event:

• Botox - Outed at Last! Kara's sister, Liz, had previously confessed to her sisters and mother that she is regularly submitting to Botox injections (Liz is the middle child of the five, yet appears to be the oldest) as an attempt to curb her visible aging. Needless to say, the family is somewhat appalled and consider Liz vain. However, neither Mateo nor Liz's friend, Nathaniel, was aware of this indulgence until a somewhat lit Kara cattily outed Liz at the dinner table, just after Liz called her "ugly." Mateo stood, aghast, begging his sister to say it isn't so. After the initial shock from Mateo and Nathaniel subsided, Liz blew it all off in a "so what" sort of manner and poured herself another glass of wine.

• Liz (the sister-in-law, as opposed to Liz the sister) brought her mother, Marge, who was visiting from Alaska. Both Liz and Marge are deathly allergic to cats and Kara sequestered her new kitten, LuLu, and cleaned especially well for their benefit (this was, of course, something of a big deal as it was requested to Kara that the kitten be relocated to another house entirely in order for them to avoid an allergic outbreak). As we were going around the table proclaiming what we were thankful for, mother Ellen, a very political and left-leaning woman, lauds the "takeover of the Democrats" and stands and cheers. The rest of the room erupts in cheers and a raised glass. Except for Marge, who looks mortified at the taboo subject of politics being raised at the Thanksgiving table. She does not applaud. She does not raise her glass. Her sour expression speaks volumes and you can feel her discomfort.
  

• But that's not all! At some point during the giving of thanks, it is mentioned that there is gratitude that Ellen never married any of her less-than-desirable boyfriends of yore. Kara mentions her shock and awe when Ellen's boyfriend at the time bestowed upon her as a gift for her 21st birthday a "1/4 lb. bag of weed." Laughter erupts from the table and, again, poor Marge is horrified. One can practically read the thought bubble over her head proclaiming, "what kind of family have I allowed my precious daughter to marry into?" Shortly after this incident, Marge pulls the oh-look-at-the-time card and exits the festivities without even tasting the dessert. No doubt, she was thoroughly convinced that the frosted brownies were laced with hashish.
  

• After dinner, the remaining guests engaged in a lively game of Celebrity Password. Now, one of the problems of playing games with Kara and her family is that they can get really competetive. It's almost as if they are under the impression that there might be a giant cash prize awaiting the winner - things can get a little intense. And since Celebrity Password is played in teams, we typically do not allow family members or significant others (unless they are newly dating) to be on the same team. Audrey had brought her new beau, Alphonse, who was blending in well so far with this group. However, since Alphonse was not born in the U.S., his knowledge of American pop culture was not quite up to par for playing Celebrity Password. We explained the rules to him and he was in - a good sport, indeed. However, when it was his turn to give clues, he found that he didn't always know the people he was supposed to describe. This was driving the Botoxed Liz, who was on his team, batty and she wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it. Although Alphonse tried to describe several different names ranging from polititians to pop stars to historical figures to sports figures to local celebs, he was only able to get his team to guess one correctly. When his turn to give clues came around again, Liz, clearly in an attempt to offer support, says to Alphonse: "C'Mon, you can get more than one right this time!"

• And there was also the moment during the drumroll part, just before dinner was served, when Patrizio was moving all swiftly and shit all about the kitchen like a whirling dervish or something and he opens up the oven and somehow the shelf was not secure and he goes to pull out Audrey's root vegetable hoo-ha and the shelf got all diagonally topsy turvey and the roasted potatoes that someone else made (maybe Liz?) did a little flippity flip and landed in the root vegetable hoo-ha (hey! you got your root veggies in my potatoes! well you got your potatoes in my root veggies! let's make a candy bar! ok.). Suffice to say, the original chefs of the dishes getting all comboed up were not the least bit pleased about this fusion. Dudes, have another bloody mary, it coulda been SO much worse!
  

• Lastly, there was the tipsy Ellen walking around with her dry vermouth on the rocks while the rest of us were having vodka martinis (the logical follow-up to bloody marys) and talking about how she loooooooooooves dry vermouth and it's been so long since she's enjoyed just a simple dry vermouth on the rocks. Ah the memories, she tells us. In fact, she continues, she used to drink vermouth when she was preggers with Mateo, then she'd go and throw up so it wouldn't hurt him. Mateo's facial response to this was priceless.
  

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 5

Part A: Ta-Ta exotica

While the film budget for interesting, yet predictable, mainstream film is in the black due to housing the cast and crew in a quasi-luxury hotel and filming overseas, it is time to move the operation to the city of Lost Angels and start dropping some serious cash. Amaris is now the master of her domain in her editing suite situated on a well-known Hollywood production lot. Only she no longer has the aide of local islanders working for the illusion of a salary and a boost to their resume.

Part B: Welcome to Los Angeles, Population: 3 gazillion people and 6 gazillion cars

Amaris must hire two assistants and find a place to live temporarily, until post-production is complete. Moving the production to L.A. means no hotel and no per diem. But, no biggie. Amaris lived in L.A. prior to moving to Portland to be with me and had many connections there - she arranges to live in the guest rooms of several of her friends for one-week intervals and has a three-week span in which she is house-sitting for a friend who is out of town working on a film. Housing arrangements in place, she sets out to hire assistant editors to aide her in keeping her editing room in tip-top shape and all editing operations running smoothly and on schedule. After interviewing several candidates, she is frustrated that none of them meet her expectations. She needs to hire two assistants - stat - and has no prospective candidates.

Quelle horreur!

Part C: Blame Canada

After frenzied efforts and much networking, she is nearer a solution. She learns that her dear friend, A-J, who lives in Portland, is in L.A. on holiday. A-J was, at the time, a working artist/photographer and freelance events promoter. A-J also had experience as an assistant editor. Boom! He was hired. A-J began work immediately and Amaris continued to pursue some leads to obtain an additional assistant. Another editor friend of hers, Kurt, recommended an assistant he'd worked with recently on a film that had shown at the Sundance Film Festival. Her name was Hester and she was, in addition to highly recommended, available and experienced. She aspired to be an editor someday and was eager for this opportunity. Because Amaris was on the verge of falling behind schedule, Hester was hired immediately to help Amaris and A-J on this interesting, yet predictable, mainstream film.

Amaris was flying home to Portland on the weekends, but was spending long hours each weekday to stay on schedule preparing a preliminary cut for the director. Due to the extreme work load and long hours (totally common in the film industry), she and A-J and Hester took all three meals together. Suffice to say, tempers would occasionally flare - usually between A-J and Hester, who quickly grew to dislike one another.

Amaris would typically phone me in the evenings to catch up and ask about life in Portland. She seldom had much to report beyond the status of the film and its proximity to completion. She didn't really have time to go places and do fun things... it was pretty much all work, all the time. When she told me that A-J and Hester weren't getting along, I had to wonder about this Hester chick. EVERYONE gets along with A-J! He's charming, witty, fun to be around and brilliant. What's not to love? Besides, his Dutch accent was somehow simultaneously amusing and dreamy. I liked A-J and liked hanging out with him when he was in Portland. I asked Amaris about Hester.

Part D: Type-3 Cryabetes

"She's alright. She seems, on a personal level, a little emotionally immature and conflicted, but, professionally, I have no complaints - she knows her job and does it well."

"Conflicted?" I ask.

"Well, you know. She just doesn't seem to know what she wants and is sometimes mopey and sometimes really chipper. I'm not sure what to make of it. You're going to laugh at this, but I think she might be a dyke and not know it yet."

I laughed. It seemed like Amaris arrived at this conclusion frequently. "And what makes you think that? Is it the googly-eyed way she looks at you when she comes to you with a question?"

"No, it's nothing concrete that I've observed, just something I sense," she explained.

"Is she cute? Is she smart?" (I knew what Amaris was attracted to).

"She's okay, I guess." To me, this meant that she wasn't cute at all and that Amaris was probably being polite, most likely because she felt sorry for her for whatever reason. Amaris went on, "she's pretty smart, though, and knows a lot about music, which is kinda cool." Amaris worked in an indie record store when she was in high school. She knew a lot about all kinds of music and I learned a ton from her as a result.

"I don't have anything to worry about, do I?" I asked her, teasingly, having no idea whether or not this faceless emo gal might pose a threat.

"Not even," Amaris assured. "I'm totally happy with you and you know that. Besides, she's not even remotely my type."

We hung up the phone and I suddenly found myself very worried.

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...

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 4

Part A: Dabbling in another tax bracket

I make a fine trophy wife and rock my glamorous duds with style! I get to shop in SoHo and pay full price! I dine extravagantly! I become the proud owner of a fancy schmancy Mont Blanc pen! I score the previous season's hand-me-downs from a successful production designer!

Part B: Billions and Billions and Billions of Stars

I am meeting up with a famous director to watch a quirky mockumentary at a nearby film center; I swim in the backyard pool of a handsome young actor; I meet an Academy Award winning director and screenwriter at a baby shower; I am attending film premieres and going to dinner parties with famous directors and Hollywood stars (A-list & B-list). Some of them are even speaking to me and I am quick to compose a list in my head of which famous folks are utterly charming.

Part C: Avec Le Charmante et Avec Accomplissez L'Abruti

I'm not sure if it's wise to name names, but let's just say that one was a spot-on for a Johnny Cash impersonation, one was an Indie actress from a very famous mother who drowned many years ago, and another has nudged Parker Posey from the Indie It-Girl mountain of fame. Some others, well, not so charming. Again, I won't name names (see Chapter 1 in which I assert that I can not afford to be sued), but I'll just say that one of the least charming celebrities I ever met through Amaris has appeared on the covers of several celebrity-focused mags and tabloids recently.

I'm happy and having a fun life...Amaris is wonderful and intelligent and we enjoy our myriad adventures. Despite that our life revolves around her work, I find that I don't seem to mind much, since I find her work intriguing.

Part D: Like the Shell Game, but not

Amaris is torn between staying true to the Independent film model and remaining dedicated to the art of filmmaking versus accepting more lucrative positions on more mainstream films. Shortly after she turned down a large sum of money to edit a film starring the current governator of Cauleefawrnya, she accepted a post on a different mainstream film with a much more fascinating, albeit predictable, premise.

As much as I loved so much of my fabulous stuff, I loved art and happiness more.

I was proud of her for opting not to work with the former Mr. Olympia, and I supported her decision to take the road less moneyed. Her decision led her to a two-month stay in a somewhat exotic and very tropical southeastern locale. She saved her per diem for airline tickets for my then 6 year-old daughter, K, and I to visit for two weeks over the Christmas holiday. Hooray for world travel!!

Part E: Dusting off the passports & learning how to say thank-you in another language

Determining how to spend my time in this tropical venue was never a problem. K and I went shopping in the major metropolis nearby and also at the local open-air markets. We were subjected to death-defying taxi jaunts (and K immediately learned what was meant by the words "AirCon" on the side door of the taxi). We lounged poolside and consumed beverages decorated with umbrellas and tropical fruits (except for the hotel's "monthly special," which came with a stuffed monkey...I know, I don't get it either). K determined that her new favorite genre of food is "room service." We have Christmas dinner with a Hollywood director who bears a striking resemblance to Santa Claus.

As I return home from this luxurious vacation, I am so optimistic and feeling fantastic about my life with Amaris. Neither she nor I have absolutely any clue that our world is about to be shaken and our relationship will be put to a test like never before...

Empathic Teen - Not for Sale

So, the other morning, whilst preparing for their days of school and work respectively, my teen daughter, K, says to my lovely wife, J, "did my mom have a rough night last night?"

J looks up, bewildered. "I don't think so. Why?"

K gestures to the small dry-erase board that is held by an uber-strong magnet to our refrigerator and says, "last night when I went to bed, the board was blank and now it has three booze items listed."

J looks at the board, where we all typically will jot down which grocery items we have just consumed the last of, thus simplifying the shopping for whoever eventually takes on this task. In my handwriting is the following list and nothing more:

Grand Marnier
Absolut Peppar
Bushmills

J laughs and tells K that she's pretty sure that I'm simply preparing for the holidays.

I beam with pride when this tale is later retold to me - my daughter knows what Bushmills is! She is so smart!

A Pig by Any Other Name

As a waiter with a conscience, I am frequently confronted with attending to the various and sundry diet requirements and peculiarities of others and am expected to ensure that narry a tidbit nor a morsel passes into their digestive system.

Most folks with said peculiarities are quite adamant about making their dietetic/allergic/religious restrictions known and expect that they will be honored. I've encountered people who have rattled off lengthy lists of ingredients that they will not eat and those who have handed me typed lists of forbidden ingredients.

Nevermind that I am expected to have a complete understanding of : vegetarianism, veganism, macrobiotics, Atkins, South Beach Diet, gluten-free diets, lactose intolerance, and so on. This includes, but is not limited to, knowing that the pasta bolognese contains the ever so slightest bit of milk in the recipe and that I ought not serve a Hefeweizen to one with a wheat allergy. When our catering director, Anna, began working with us, I had to suggest that she may want to stop suggesting chicken saltimbocca as a potential menu item for those planning bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, as the dish contains proscuitto and many Jewish folks do not eat pork. Anna had wondered why such an otherwise popular dish was always declined for these particular occasions.

But, as Anna learned, pork is not always called pork. It might be bacon or ham or pancetta or proscuitto. And, while I'll help someone avoid this ingredient if I'm aware that it is not permitted within their belief system, when I'm not informed that they would be endangering the potential for the ultimate afterlife, there's not a whole lot I can do.

I don't personally have any food issues (I make up for it in mental/emotional issues!), but I do my best to be pretty sensitive to those who do. At the same time, I am a firm believer of advocating for oneself, particularly in situations such as this.

Enter blond 30-something man, a customer of mine from last week, who was having dinner with what I presumed to be his wife. They both ordered drinks before dining and, when I asked if they had any questions about anything on the menu, they did not and informed me that they were ready to order. The blond 30-something man ordered the mac & cheese (listed as macaroni and cheese with pancetta on the menu - a winter comfort-food favorite) and his companion ordered one of our signature pasta dishes, also containing pancetta. Either of these items could easily be made without the pancetta and neither the man nor the woman chose to ask any questions prior to ordering.

After serving their piping hot entrees, I stopped by the table once they'd had an opportunity to taste their food. Generally, this is one of the easier parts of my job, as our food is pretty good and we seldom experience food-related mishaps. I noticed that the man's mac & cheese had been pushed away from him, toward the center of the table. Sometimes this is merely an indication that folks are sharing their dishes. When I asked how their dinners were, he picked up his fork and and gently pried away a small piece of pancetta onto the tine. Holding it up so that I could get a closer look, he said, "what's this?"

"Oh, that's pancetta." Answering this question is a little bit nerve wracking because there is always a distinct possibility that I will have a problem on my hands that will require a quick fix. And that will usually entail dealing with someone who would rather have not swallowed an oinker.

"What's pancetta?" Uh oh. I see exactly where this is going.

"Pancetta is an Italian bacon." I've found this to be the most user-friendly reply to this query.

"So, it's...pork?" This guy looks really uncomfortable. I inform him that it is, indeed, pork. He tells me that it is against his religion to consume pork and he can't eat it. I ask him if I may bring him something else instead, but he declines my gesture to remedy the situation. I apologize to him for the inconvenience and he assures me that it was his own fault. While this is true, I opt not to acknowledge that, as I deem it irrelevant at the moment. It wouldn't be that difficult to take the mac & cheese off the bill and bring him a different item (even mac & cheese) that does not contain pork. And I was totally willing to do this. Sure, the guy fucked up, but he doesn't deserve to starve for it.

He insists on going without and continues to reiterate that it was his fault. Finally, I tell him that it doesn't really matter whose fault it is and that I'm happy to bring him something else. Dude continues to play martyr and I let it go. Really, what can I do at this point?

I feel bad for the man, as I see him watching his companion eat. When it comes time for the check, I choose to remove the item from the bill and, even though he's still pulling the it's-all-my-fault card, I tell him that he shouldn't have to pay for something that he isn't able to eat and it was the least I could do. He looks at me sheepishly and I then smile and tell him that if he is not happy with that option, he may wish to take it up with the manager on duty and that would be me. He smiles back at me. He then presents me with a moral dilemma.

"It's just that we don't eat pork at all. It's against our religion. I didn't know that pancetta meant pork."

We? Our? I swear he didn't include his companion in his earlier proclamation of no pork. I would have spoken up if he had and reminded her that her dish also contained pancetta. Oh crap. I'd only five minutes prior cleared away her very empty plate. She ate every bit, probably assuming it was something else. Do I speak up and say something at this point? Do I bring her some syrup of ipecac?

I'm torn and I choose not to say anything. I feel a little awful about this, but he seemed so traumatized earlier and I really didn't want to ruin their night. I don't know if they were Jewish or Hindu or Buddhist or some other sect that does not consume pork and, not being fully versed in the minutae of religions of the world, I have no idea what the ramifications are for such consumption. Is the penalty less stern when the pork is consumed unknowingly?

I was an enabler of sin.

I didn't sleep so well that night.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 3

Part A: You've got mail!

In no time at all, Amaris and I become flirty pen pals of sorts. I find that I can't wait to get home from work and check my email for a charming and witty missive from her asking me random questions about myself and telling me interesting factoids about her life. Turns out she is a film editor and has worked on some pretty cool projects. I play it cool and try to keep the star-struckedness to something of a minimum.

I do my best to ask her intelligent and thought provoking questions about the film industry so that she'll find me worthy of discussing such things. I ask her what is the difference between a movie and a film. I still remember the answer: Speed is a movie and The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant is a film. More of an example than an explanation, but I didn't care. I was having online flirtiness and I knew for certain that it wasn't someone's grandfather with whom I was carrying on such a fun banter.

This went on for months, during which she made another visit to Portland (to make good on that raincheck for a blind date with me) and, later, I flew down to L.A. to check out her world. We had a great time together and I liked her friends and her taste in music and restaurants.

Part B: Enter the U-Haul

We learn that we have a great deal in common (movies/films! music! Volvos!) and that we both love Portland. We each rack up some more frequent flier miles over the summer and then decide to move in together into a fabulous turn-of-the century home in the artsy and cultured Irvington neighborhood of NE Portland in the fall.

Part C: In Which Life Seems Grand

Life seems grand.

Even Jackie seems happy for us - or at least happy that Amaris is living in Portland. We decorate our home, take walks in our neighborhood, and listen to NPR in the morning before I go to school.

Eventually, though, as a freelance film editor, Amaris needs to work and the liklihood of landing such a job in Portland was relatively slim. So she'd have to take off to wherever the filming/editing took her: New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Seattle, etc. She even edited a film in Portland! Sometimes she'd be gone less than a month and, other times, she'd be gone for three or four months or so. No matter, though. I was a student at the time and relished the quiet that her absences left behind. We stayed in touch via email whenever she was away, so as not to rack up costly phone bills, and we'd occasionally send one another little "care packages" to help bridge the gap of the miles between us.

I honestly thought it couldn't get any better.

Until...

Deal or No Deal

Okay, I've gotten suckered into watching this show and I actually enjoy it, although I have no idea why - it's essentially roulette with pretty girls and suitcases. The contestants don't need to be clever or well-schooled, just lucky. It's not as easy to "play along" as, say, Jeopardy! or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? But, not unlike some of the other cheesy programs I have come to enjoy, Deal or No Deal is just that much more enjoyable accompanied by the following drinking game:

• take a drink whenever Howie Mandel says "hello" when he answers the phone
• take a drink whenever Howie Mandel uses the name of the "model" when requesting that she open a suitcase
• take a drink whenever a contestant insists that the million dollars is inside the suitcase they have selected at the start of their game
• take a drink whenever any of the "models" say something
• take a drink whenever the contestant has an especially animated outburst (defining this can be left to your own discretion, but you may wish to consider fainting, falling down, jumping, funny catchphrases, tears, etc.)
• take a drink whenever the contestant's onstage support network of three begs the contestant to take the deal and the contestant does the opposite

Feel free to add your own additional accompaniments to this game in the comments section!

Whamma Damma Mammogramma

One of the delights of turning 40, I recently learned, is that is the magical age when those in the medical profession become interested in your boobs. VERY interested in your boobs.

I'd been dreading today since I made my appointment for my first ever mammogram (or just "mam" as the x-ray tech affectionally called it) sometime last August. I'd been putting it off since the first time my doctor brought it up earlier this year. Succumbing to a boob-squishing machine just didn't sound all that appealing. Yet, I knew it needed to be done.

Upon making the appointment, I was instructed to arrive free of perfume, powder or deoderant. I didn't ask why, though, as I figured they had good reasons for such requests. A thought occurred to me and I paused a moment before venturing to ask the woman at the appointment counter about it.

"This might seem like an odd question," I started in, "but I have a pierced nipple and would like to know if I'll need to remove my jewelry for the mammogram" (I wasn't yet aquainted with its nickname).

The woman making my appointment, thankfully, did not seem the least bit fazed by this question and informed me that she was pretty sure I could leave it in. I hoped that she was correct, as I'd much prefer to conduct such a maneuver in the privacy of my own home, rather than in a freezing cold examining room with an impatient x-ray tech standing by tapping her fingers on the x-ray machine while I fumble with the captive bead in the middle of the ring with my trembly hands and hoping it doesn't snap out and fly across the room. I really wanted to know for certain that this would not be an issue.

I received a phone call the day before my appointment reminding me not to wear perfume, powder or deoderant. I thanked the gentleman who called and opted not to follow up with him regarding my nipple piercing.

But after I hung up the phone with him, I began to feel panicky. Not about the nipple piercing, but about the fact that my soaps and hair products are all scented. Suddenly, I found that I did care why they insisted that I avoid perfume, powder or deoderant. I tried to call back, but the line was busy.

I stopped at the Kaiser clinic on my way to work and swung by the radiology department to ask them about scented bath and hair products. The woman sitting on the other side of the window was on a telephone call and her tone of voice and facial expression told me that she was well-acquainted with the caller on the other end. Without putting the caller on hold or covering the receiver with her hand, she asks if she can help me. I tell her that I can wait for her to finish with her caller, but she tells me to go ahead. Now, supposedly, Kaiser is concerned with patient confidentiality and this woman has no idea what I'm about to ask her, yet she deems it acceptable for her acquaintance on the other line to be privvy to my question. I debated leaving or insisting she put the caller on hold, simply out of principle, but opted against since my question wasn't that private.

When I asked her about the soap and such, she looked at me as though I'd asked a stupid question and informed me that, of course it's no problem to bathe with scented bath products prior to my appointment. Duh.

Guess I didn't have to worry about that anymore.

No way in hell I was going to ask Ms. Confidentiality-be-damned about the ole nipple piercing, so I left her to her phone call and continued on my way to work.

When I showed up for my appointment earlier today, free of perfume/powder/deoderant, it's safe to say that I was a tad bit nervous and anxious. I'd heard from other, already mammogrammed, women that one's breast is placed in a machine and then flattened like a pancake. Suddenly I hated pancakes and wished for my breasts to resemble grapefruits if they were going to resemble a breakfast item. I was given a sticker to place on the back of my Kaiser cared and shown to the waiting area.

When my name was called, another, elderly, woman was called at the same time. Who knew that mammograms were done as cattle calls? The other woman and I were both shown to separate dressing rooms, side-by-side, that were smaller than most public restroom stalls. The nurse who ushered us in instructed, "shirts and bras off, gowns facing forward."

Alrighty, then. I closed the curtain to my tres petite dressing room and found myself face to face with a sign which read, "You may be asked to remove your jewelry."

Lovely. The sign did not specify what kind of jewelry, but if they're looking at the boobs, it only stands to reason that what they are referring to here is boob jewelry, right?

I redress, as instructed, with the frumpy hospital gown opened to the front. Am I supposed to tie the strings together or just leave it open? Feeling somewhat chilly, I wrap the garment around my body, kimono-style. My name is then called and the tech asks me if this is my first "mam." I was impressed that she and the mammogram were so well acquainted that they had cutesy nicknames for one another. I admitted to being a newbie and waited for further instruction.

Suffice to say, even though the boob-squishing machine bore an uncanny resemblance to the devices at the junkyard that squish cars into metal cubes with it's flat panels coming together with great force, the procedure really wasn't painful as much as it was uncomfortable and awkward. Believe me, I've been around the block a time or two and this tech had me in positions I'd never been in before! As for the piercing? Let's just say that the tech had been around the block a time or two, as well.

And furthermore, let the record show that the boob-squishing machine renders nothing even remotely resembling a pancake! A thick and juicy hamburger, maybe...

I feel as though I'm now on the other side of a rite of passage of sorts. I'm now qualified to sit around and quaff martinis while chatting up other women about our "mams."

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 2

Part A: Someone's got some s'plainin' to do

I was crushed. Crushed, I tell you. Here I was, reluctantly willing to go on a blind date with a girl from L.A. and unexpectedly, after meeting me, the girl bails on the real part of the date, leaving me rather high and dry, or neither as the case was. Without even really knowing her, and after previously considering her charming, I was a little bit angry at Amaris.

I leater learned that she flew back to L.A. to do whatever it was she did there. I'd asked Jackie what gives with regard to Amaris backing out on the fun at the last minute. I asked Jackie if Amaris was just snooty and didn't think I was cute enough for her, being all shallow and from L.A. and all. Jackie assured me that it had nothing to do with me or my appearance and not to worry about it.

A few weeks later, I stumble upon the scrap of paper in which Jackie had jotted down Amaris' email address for me. I vaguely remember her suggesting I email Amaris, who was new to being online and might need some help navigating and such. I was about to throw it in the trash and then something compelled me not to.

Instead, I brought the scrap directly to my computer desk and logged onto my AOL account. I listened to the intermix of high pitched and crackly sounds as I watched the three icons on my screen change, the telltale crowd of faceless icons eventually indicating to me that I was connected with America Online.

I went directly to my mailbox and typed out a missive to Amaris. I told her that it was nice meeting her and that it was too bad that we didn't get a chance to get to know one another a little better while she was in town. I expressed some sort of sentiment indicating that I hoped it wasn't something I'd said that caused her to change her mind about going out with us that night. I further expressed that I had never been set up on a blind date before, so to get stood up on my first one felt like quite the blow.

"Blind date?????" she fires back.

Turns out she didn't know nutt'n 'bout no blind datage. What gives? you ask?

Part B, in which Amaris tells the real story behind her abrupt departure...

Well, lemme tell ya. It is revealed to me that Amaris and Jackie once had a little fling-a-ding culminating in Amaris realizing that alcohol impairs her judgment and Jackie realizing that she wants herself some more of that Amaris. No bueno. So, even though Amaris had been informed of the later gathering, she was not informed that she was being set up with me and was convinced that it was a ploy for Jackie to get her all liquored up so that she could, well, you get the picture. Since Amaris wasn't down for that, she pulled ye olde "look at the time...I gotta go" card so as not to have to spend the remainder of her evening peeling Jackie off of her.

I was but a decoy!!!

And dyke drama lives on...

A New Frock for my Blog!

My blog's been good to me, so I got her a new frock!

I've also sprung for accessories!

Now featuring TAGS!

Who's got links now? I've got links now!

je suis le mental case, part 2

Essentially, I Tremor

I have a neurological disorder called Essential Tremor. Personally, I think that is one of the stupidest names ever, but since I'm not able to change that anytime soon, I should just get over that. It's a tremor, to be sure, I have no problem with that part of it - it's the whole "Essential" bit that I just can't wrap my head around. There's really nothing "essential" about it. But I digress.

While the onset of Essential Tremor can result in a trembling or twitching impacting many different areas of the body, it is most commonly found in the hands or the face of those afflicted. The tremor is sometimes, but not always, noticeable in a resting position and is frequently seen in moving gestures, particularly those with a more precise or finely tuned sense of movement. Love espresso though I may, those demi-tasse cups are killer. Chopsticks are also difficult for me to maneuver, but I still insist on using them. And it's safe to say that I could never aspire to become a brain surgeon.

For some time, I simply thought that I drank too much coffee and left it at that. I later was able to rule out this theory when I asked my doctor about my shaky hands.

Essential Tremor is surprisingly common (more so than Parkinson's Disease), yet I had never heard of it prior to my diagnosis some ten years ago. And while many are under the impression that she had Parkinson's, Essential Tremor is actually what Katherine Hepburn was afflicted with and that caused her to tremble.

To settle the tremor, I take beta blockers (specifically Inderal) and that seems to work most of the time. Alcohol works, too, but isn't always advisable. Unfortunately, the condition seems to worsen with age and I'm pretty much maxed out on the dosage of beta blockers that I'm permitted to swallow. You see, beta blockers lower one's heart rate and blood pressure and since, in both cases, mine are already on the low side, the consumption of the beta blockers plummets my blood pressure into the alarming region.

And, still, I shake.

Not such a big deal if I were a go-go dancer or a dog washer.

The worst part of it is not so much the shaking itself - it's not as though it is painful to tremble, although it is a little bit agitating. Worse, though, is how some folks respond to me when they notice my hands trembling.

I kid you not. Peeps are downright MEAN. I have had people ask me if I am an alcoholic or a junkie or if I am jonesin' for a fix; I have had folks exaggeratingly mimic my tremble (often with an affected crazy-person expression on their face); I've had customers at work tip me less because I shake and have been the recipient of cruel career advice (i.e. "maybe you should get a job where you don't have to carry things"); I've had people nervously grab things out of my hands and I've encountered people who have just said rude and obnoxious things (in addition to those previously mentioned).

I wish it didn't bother me so much when folks say rude things or when they mimic me, but it does. I don't know why. Years ago, before I knew that I had a neurological disorder, I would cower in shame at the rude comments and mimicry. Now, I just look people directly in the eyes and tell them that I have a neurological disorder and can't help it and that I'm sorry if it makes them uncomfortable. Usually, when this happens, people will shut up already. Unless, of course, I am at work and am serving them a martini and accidentally spill it. But then I just make them a little extra to (over)compensate for what I spilled and that usually shuts them up.

The moral of this story: be nice to shaky people please!

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 1

This tale is true. All of the names have been changed because Amaris can afford to sue me and I can't afford to be sued.

Part A: I paint the background a glorious and sunny shade

About twelve years ago, while I was still an undergrad, I was working as a waiter in a super-small, neighborhoodly, all-gay-owned restaurant (it's still there, but I'm not) with four owners, all very different from one another, but all friends at the time. I was hired practically on the spot and I loved my job so much. The owners were almost all a little bit older than I, except for one, Devin, who was a little bit younger (he and I are still good friends to this day), and I got along with all of them.

This was the early/mid-nineties, when computer access at home was not yet a given and America Online was still considered a hot new cool thing. Of course, I signed up, and was able to have a username that was a nine-letter word with no numbers or symbols in it - unheard of by today's standards. It didn't take long before I discovered the chat rooms and how much fun I could have in them. It had not yet occurred to me that the the seemingly hot punk-rock dyke I was chatting with could easily have been someone's grandfather. C'est la vie - I was having a good time and learning all sorts of useless information.

The owner/chef, Jackie, was a butch dyke who liked to flirt with me. I flirted right back at her because I found that, in doing so, I could obtain mini favors from her such as getting my tables' food faster than the other server (who Jackie didn't like anyway). Jackie and I also shared a common interest in that we both enjoyed stopping by the local strip club for a post-work beer, so we'd hit our friendly neighborhood titty bar together after work once in awhile.

Part B: I take the bait

One day, Jackie tells me about her friend, Amaris, who just got online and maybe I should email Amaris and show her the ropes and chat with her.

"No problemo," I tell Jackie and ask her if Amaris is cute. Jackie assures me that not only is she cute, but she's coming to town soon.

"Wait a minute...coming to town? From where?" I ask her. Jackie then tells me that Amaris lives in Los Angeles.

"Hmmm. I don't like LA. No LA girls for me, thanks," I tell Jackie she should find someone else to flirt with her friend online.

"No, you'll like her - she's really super smart," Jackie tells me. "In fact, we should all go out when she comes to town."

"I'll think about it."

Jackie gives me Amaris' email address and suggests I write her. I pretty much blow off that idea because I don't want to involve myself with someone from LA (for the record: some of my stereotypes about LA turned out to be true and some, not so much). I figured that Amaris would be snobbish and I wasn't in the mood for that.

A few weeks later, Jackie says to me, "Hey, Amaris is coming to town next week. She's coming in here to have dinner - you can wait on her- and then we'll all go out for drinks after work and maybe play pool or something."

A blind (albeit, group) date with a cute out-of-town girl? Sure, why the hell not? I tell Jackie that I'm in and start thinking about what I'll be wearing to work that night. I opt for the naughty schoolgirl look, complete with black thigh-high stockings with my Doc Marten oxfords. I learn from Jackie that Amaris works in the entertainment industry and is very cultured and very hip.

Part C: Meeting Amaris

When the fateful Friday night arrives, I'm feeling great and excited about my post-shift afterparty. I'm rockin' my naughty schoolgirl getup and I think it's working. Amaris comes into the restaurant at around 8pm and she's adorable: tall, athletic build, sort of a k.d. lang look, but with Clark Kent glasses. She has a great smile and her face is full of expression. Yeah, I can hang with her. We have a great time flirting up a storm while I'm waiting on her. She tells me to select a wine for her and then to select her dinner, as well. I'm loving this. She seems to, also.

Part D: In which I am slapped silly

As I'm serving her a trio of chocolate pave with a cardomom cream sauce for dessert, alongside a double espresso (I figure she'll need that), I bring up the subject of going out later for beer and pool. Nevermind that I don't play pool. I don't need to.

Amaris informs me that she's planning on going back to her friends' house, where she's staying, and going to sleep after dinner.

Huh???

"Soooooo, you're not going out for drinks and pool with the rest of us when we get off work?"

Amaris smiles and politely says no thanks, that she's tired and she's gonna take a raincheck this time.

Crap. Was it something I said? Things seemed to be going so well. What happened?

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?

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.

Je suis le mental case, part 1

I'm mildly agoraphobic.

I mean, I am not fearful of actual marketplaces per se, but I don't do so well in crowds or around folks who take up a great deal of emotional space. With elevators, I'm great as long as I'm the sole rider (or if I am amongst family or friends); otherwise, 'tis freaky for moi.

So I guess it's not so much the open spaces that prove alarming for me, but the people in the open spaces that I have a hard time with. Is that still agoraphobia?

Sadly, none of my phobias seem to have names and all of the phobias that DO have names don't seem so applicable to me.

Arachnophobia - nope
Xenophobia - nope
Homophobia - absolutely not
Acrophobia - no
Claustrophobia - oh, definitely. ok, nevermind.

Here are some of the other things I have a hard time with - are there names for any of these phobias?

loud noises
flourescent light/direct (non-natural) light
abandonment
dental work
fire (pyrophobia?)
change

Looking at the bright side, I should consider myself fortunate to be living in an era in which I can fearlessly blog about my phobias and not during a time in which I might have been burned at the stake or put away in a mental institution.

Yay 2006!

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?"
   

une petite update

By the way, our floors look fanfuckingtastic! Hooray for Pergo! The bad kitties have been forgiven, although we will be garnishing their allowances until the beauteous new floors are paid off.