My 14 year-old daughter says to me yesterday, "You know what's cool about butts?"
"Lots of things?" I say after overpondering.
"Well, true, but the coolest thing about butts is that it's the sexy part on the body that everyone has."
"True, although I'm not sure that all butts qualify as sexy."
"I guess not," she concedes, "but at least they have the potential to be."
Gawd I love this kid.
She's actually kinda mean. But that is a rant for a different day.
So I was just having a little snack-attack and decided to bust out the Pineapple Coconut Haagen Dazs that was purchased just this last week. I put a scoop and a half into a medium-sized bowl (I know, in my last post I claimed to "almost never" eat my ice cream out of a dish...here's the sitch: if said ice cream is being consumed a la carte, then it is done so with a teaspoon directly from the carton; when said ice cream is on something or with something, it goes into a dish. kthx).
I then nuked me some Dulce de Leche sauce, busted up some pecan halves, and sliced up a banana for on top. (You think this is a glamorous snack? Ask my mean mom about the time I came home from school, in the seventh grade, and cooked myself up some lobster tails with drawn butter for a snack...).
But as I'm slicing my banana for the top 'o my snack fest, I have this really vivid memory of my mom slicing bananas for the top of my cereal and how I used to marvel at how incredibly fast she'd slice that banana and how she never cut her thumb that she'd use to stop the knife with (nevermind that it was a butter knife - I was pretty wee and all I knew was knife). My mom might have done some good stuff during my childhood, but what I remember when I think of her being amazing is how supah dupah fastly she'd cut that banana and how each and every slice appeared to be the exact same width and how they'd be so perfectly evenly sprinkled across my cereal.
Man, I seriously thought my mom was a culinary genius!
But then I grew up and became kinda culinary genius-ish myself. And I am sad to report that my mom ("whatsa risotto?" "is it EYE-talian?") don't know so much about cooking stuffs.
I am also sad to report that the superfast slicing of a banana is really fucking easy.
So, I'm a major whore for expensive ice cream. Shamelessly. And when I was at the Fred Meyer the other day and I had to cruise down the frozen confection aisle on my way out (*confession*: it was grossly out of my way to cruise the frozen goodness, but oh-so-worth-it). Hooray, they had the Haagen Dazs on sale two fer $6 (although it used to be two fer $5 - nothing slips by me, when it comes to ice cream) and it'd be a shame if I walked on by without getting me some of that action.
I peruse the flavors of the mostly picked over pints. Anyone conducting research on the favored flavors of euro-ice cream of the Hawthorne district would have some seriously concrete data here. My inner researcher began to wonder what the pickings over of another, very different, Portland neighborhood would reveal.
I instantly grabbed one of my warm weather faves, Pineapple Coconut, and let it fall into my red basket. Then, for my next pint, I stood there with the freezer door open, vacillating wildly between my other faves for a second choice.
Should I get Dulce de Leche (one of my all-time favorites)?
Coffee (an oldie, but a goodie)?
Creme Brulee?
A sorbet (nah, too healthy)?
Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough (hmmm, haven't had that one in awhile)?
Chocolate Peanut Butter?
Mango?
They seemed to be out of Pistachio (freakin' hippie neighborhood)...
I pick up the yummy Dulce de Leche and throw it into my basket.
I walk maybe two feet away from the freezer and make an about face, pulling the completely fogged-up freezer door back open. I put dear Dulce de Leche back in her spot and pick up Mango, thinking it will go nicely with the Pineapple Coconut (mmmm).
I'm maybe at the end of the aisle when I decide that I might not be in a fruity mood and should have one fruited option (thus, Pineapple Coconut) and one non-fruited option (thus, not Mango). I walk my logical self back down the aisle and re-reopen the freezer door, which is still fogged up.
I stand there for what probably looks to others like a ridiculously long time to make an ice cream-related decision.
At this point I must be literally weighing the pros and cons of each and every remaining flavor that has not had a quickie tour of the innards of my red grocery basket. After what feels like about ten minutes or so, I pressure myself into making a final decision because I'm mortified with myself for taking longer to pick out ice cream than it will take to eat it.
I grab the Chocolate Chip Cookie dough, throw it into the cart and quickly powerwalk toward the checkout. Now, at this point, you'd think I'd be more concerned about PTSD at the Fred Meyer checkout (see also this post) than whether or not I'd made the right decision in my ice cream purchases.
I hesitate for the briefest moment before plunking my embarassing array of goods (ice cream, these Little Debbies Ho-Ho-like things that were supposed to be Ding Dongs, and two bags of these awesome Cheetos "natural" white cheddar puffs - nope, not stoned), thinking maybe I should go back and swap out the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream for something else.
Then I just came to my senses and paid the man and then got the hell out of there before I could change my mind again.
Flash forward to Sunday when I am touring wine country and sampling many many lovely pinot noirs with my beloved, along with Karen and Patrick. Somehow the subject of ice cream comes up and we end up talking about the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough flavor.
Flash forward to Sunday evening after wine tasting and I have a vicious hankering for something sweet. I remember the convo of earlier and head for the freezer to have myself some Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.
Wha the fuh???????
After digging at least 35% of the way into the pint (I almost NEVER eat ice cream out of dishes), I have yet to encounter anything even remotely resembling chocolate chip cookie dough. Okay, well, that's a half-lie, as I did encounter approximately four randomly placed chocolate chips. I double check the label to make sure I hadn't purchased Vanilla Chip.
Nope, label says Cookie Dough on it, plain and simple. So where's my blasted cookie dough, then? I take my ice cream consumption very seriously and this is so not funny. I set the pint down on the counter so it can get all melty-like and I can then give it a proper probing. I figure the ice cream must have melted at some point and all of those heavy globs of cookie dough must have sunk to the bottom and then the ice cream was refrozen and nobody figured I'd be the wiser.
Well, the cookie dough globules were at the bottom alright - all freakin' TWO of 'em!!! Now, if I'd wanted Vanilla ice cream with a few scattered chips and only two miniscule dollops of cookie dough then, damn it, I would have purchased that. But I did not. I purchased Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and what I got was a scanty imposter. I been robbed.
I can assure you that this most dissatisfied consumer will be contacting Haagen Dazs brass - stat - and informing them of the errors of their cheapass ways. Should I tell them that I have never ever stumbled upon such a calamity when indulging in Ben & Jerry's? Nah, I'll use that as a last resort after I give them an opportunity to make good.
Between tax refunds and birthday money, I'm prepping for something of a mini-shopping spree and, consulting my virtual wishlist:
iPod
digital camera
KitchenAid mixer
dutch oven
scanner
I decide to do some online searches for KitchenAid mixers to see if I can get a cheap one if I'm willing to have an ugly color (read pale pink). I then realize that there's no way in hell I'd buy a pale pink KitchenAid mixer - I'd have flashbacks of my Barbie-overload childhood to be sure. Then I see an awesome lime green one that I want most of all and it would look fabulous in my kitchen, which has white tile, stainless steel fridge, black counter-top appliances (coffee maker, grinder, espresso machine, convection oven) and paprika walls (yes, the color is really called "paprika" - it's a Miller Devine shade).
Anyway, I'm on Amazon comparing some prices and I realize that my search for "KitchenAid mixer" somehow turned up several non-mixer items, but that there are links available in categories such as: "all KitchenAid," "coffee and espresso," "mixers" and I click on "mixers."
And do you know what happens???
I get a page of recomendations of a couple of Bauhaus cds, a Joy Division cd, and a Tones on Tail cd - all of which I already own.
I even replicated the search thinking that I must've done something wrong or inadvertently hit a button, link or key that caused the snafu...But got the same results again.
Talk about randomness.
May 11 was the one-year anniversary of the death of my dear maternal grandmother (see also this post) and as I was speaking to my biodad (not to be confused with my dad, who is my dad - he raised me, taught me, helped me through school, has been emotionally supportive when I needed it most, helped me become me - he has done everything a father should do and so much more, but he was not the one to initially create me...hmm, I see my future Father's Day post here) on the telephone, he told me that his mother (who was, I think, 93 years old) was not doing so well and he believes her to be near the end.
Instantly, I thought to myself that it would be so bizarre if she passed on this day, the exact same day one year later than my maternal grandmother...but I did not utter that thought aloud, as it seemed inappropriate and somehow morbid. Instead, I offered words of support and assurance to my biodad (who I have really only known for about two and half years but, again, this is the subject of another post). I reminded him that she has lived a long, wonderful and happy life and is fortunate that she is still rather healthy and not in pain. He expressed regret that she never really got to know me and I was touched by this - it felt very kind and warm, hearing this.
This conversation reminded me of how important it is to value the people around us who really matter and to tell them that they are loved. I made a point of telling my wonderful wife and fabulous daughter how loved they are and how much I treasure them both. I vowed to myself that I will spend the summer devoting much quality time to those I love the most and that I will let my loved ones know how wonderful I think they are.
I have some regrets that I had some friction with my grandmother a few months before she passed away (I regrettably refer you to this post ) and am happy that I put that behind me and spent some quality time with her before she was gone.
Later that day, I learned that my paternal grandmother passed away earlier in the day. Yes, the exact same day (albeit one year later) that my maternal grandmother had passed away. So, to Dorothy, who I did not know very well at all, I remember you with warmth and love in my heart and may you rest in peace.
*A Grasshopper is a nasty drink that my grandmother used to concoct in the blender around Christmastime. On the day she died, last year, I bought all of the ingredients for this libation and proceeded to whip up a batch in her honor.
Grasshopper
1 1/2 oz. Green Creme de Menthe
3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao
3 oz. half-and-half
Combine in blender with about one cup of ice. Blend until smooth and then pour into a parfait or margarita glass. Enjoy, if possible. (Note: does not glow in the dark).
I got carded at dinner tonight!!
Silly waitress. She looked at my driver's license for a LONG time, too. Was she high? I mean, I know that I don't look my age, but I certainly don't look like I'm under 21, for Pete's sake! 31 maybe, but not 21...
A friend of mine whose name I ought not mention says that I should join the "Minus Ten Club" in which all participants lie about their age, subtracting ten years from the real number. Eh, sure, why the hell not?
Yay for 30!
It is the end of the term right now, which means much time being spent doing MAJOR PROJECTS for both of my classes (those would be: LIS 537 "Construction of Indexing Languages" and LIS 580 "Management for Information Professionals") and not as much time doing really fun stuff like reading, keeping up on American Idol news, utilizing the gift certificates I received for my birthday, consuming libations with friends, cooking, bloggin', perfecting my Portland urban walking tour, going to the farmer's market, building my cd tower annex, painting the rest of our house, making Kombucha, washing my car, learning sign language and more Spanish, talking J into letting us get Netflix, shopping for super cool stuff on Etsy and yoga.
Alas, "Construction of Indexing Languages" is not as easy as it sounds and "Management for Information Professionals" is, indeed, as boring as it sounds (no, wait, even more so). Both classes involve ginormous group projects that have been the focus of the entire term. I HATE group projects! Invariably, there is always one member of the group who is a major slacker (as is the case in one of my groups) and there is always someone who is way too serious and creates stressful energy where it could be fun (as is the case in my other group). The lack of cohesion in both groups gets me down and I just want to do all of the work myself and not have to rely on other people.
Right now, the success or failure of one of the ginormous projects is dependent upon the least dependable group member(let's call her Cathy).
This is causing me to lose sleep and have aches in my tummy and my head. What if she doesn't come through? Should the rest of the group conspire to put a "plan B" in place? Should we just make stuff up and hope that the professor does not fact-check? I don't know Cathy that well and am not one hundred percent certain if this is her typical M.O.or if we just caught her on a bad term or something. She keeps making excuses as to why she hasn't done things and the rest of us have been picking up the slack (well, in all honesty, Heather's been doing most of the work - that girl should change her middle name to "Initiative"! Ooh, wait, I do not know Heather's middle name -although it seems as though she has told me this already- maybe it IS Initiative!?!?!).
Problem is, Cathy is our lifeline to our contact "mentor" who will review our management project and offer her professional opinion. But Cathy doesn't respond to emails, then Mentor is supposedly on vacation (a two-week one, of course), then Cathy is sick, and now it's the minimal email response again. I wonder what would happen if another member of the group were to contact Mentor...What would happen if we did that and Mentor had no idea what we were talking about? What if Cathy hasn't done ANY of the things she said she'd do and the rest of us are sitting here waiting for her to do her part in interviewing Mentor and it's not gonna happen? I sorta just wish I could fire Cathy - I know that sounds cruel, but -hell- it's a management class and we can't manage our project with her ineptitude.
In all fairness, she needs to be spoken to, just like a "problem employee" would be...Ugh. I don't want to be the one to have to do that, but it's not exactly fair to have anyone else do it just because I don't like to. And while I know that Heather is as frustrated with Cathy as I am, I'm not sure that Lita, our other group member, is as frustrated with Cathy as we are. I feel like I'm on the show Survivor and I'm creating alliances and wanting someone else voted off of the island.
So, should Heather and I approach Lita with our concerns and see how she feels about Cathy and, provided that she shares our frustrations, approach Cathy as a group? What if Lita feels differently? And how much more leighway should Cathy be given before we take action?
Have I mentioned that I hate group projects?
June 7th can not come soon enough.
For sale: one teen
Brainy, but spacey; will occasionally do chores if asked; remarkable eye-rolling skillz; can go from exuberant to mad/sad/bad in less than two seconds; likes animals (but none of the responsibilities that come along with having one); will consider all offers on some days.
I hadn’t really forgotten to get my mom a Mother’s Day gift; I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. And never mind that it was 10am ON Mother’s Day – I wasn’t going to her house until around 4pm anyway.
So I run to the Fred Meyer to pick up some vegetables to grill that evening at my mom’s – since my daughter, K, is a vegequarium* and I guarantee that the non-meat offerings will be minimal and carb-heavy, rather than fruit/vegetable heavy.
As I start to drive past the garden center, I notice all of the lovely fuchsia plants hanging from the eaves. My mom loves those and I get her one every year, so I make a note to self to stop by there after picking up my groceries and pick out a nice fuchsia plant for Mom.
With about $20 worth of grillable vegetables filling two plastic grocery bags, I roam the aisles of the garden center comparing each and every fuchsia plant so that I can give my Mom the best one there. I narrow it down to two: one of the purple and white color scheme and the other is purple and fuchsia. I decide that they call ‘em fuchsias for a reason and opt for the purple and fuchsia combo. I head toward the makeshift cashier area and stand behind a tall older gentleman with a shopping cart, who is being assisted by the cashier. I put the heavy and awkward fuchsia plant down on my left side, but continue to hold my two bags of groceries on my right.
After about five minutes, the older gentleman in front of me begins to steer his cart away back into the garden center and I realize that I should be standing on the other side of the makeshift cashier stand in order for the cashier to ring me up. I pick up my fuchsia plant and begin to walk toward the counter. But before I can do so, a man of 60 or so hanging onto his last smidgeon of hairline and what appears to be his teen daughter step in front of me with their purchase. When I notice that the cashier is helping them first, I decide to speak up for myself.
“Um, excuse me, am I invisible?”
“No, you’re a pushy bitch.” Receding Hairline clearly has an issue with women standing up for themselves.
“I was waiting in line long before you got here,” I asserted.
“No, you were standing over there,” he gestures to where I was originally standing, “and the line is supposed to be here,” he moves his pointing finger to indicate the spot about a foot and a half from where I was actually standing. Then he adds, “deal with it.”
Now, I have been on both sides of this equation and my experience has pretty much always been that when someone accidentally takes cuts and it’s pointed out to them, they apologize and gracefully allow the person who’d been waiting to go ahead. This has happened to me when I’ve spoken up before and it’s happened when I was oblivious to someone waiting before me. I was really astonished that this guy was not only determined to be helped first, but was calling me names and chewing me out. I just had to speak up.
“I feel really sorry for your wife.” Oh-oh, did I just say that out loud? I must’ve because all of a sudden, Receding Hairline was in my face.
“You know what you are?” clearly this was a rhetorical question, “You are a fucking cunt!”
Holy shit. The wife pity comment must’ve really hit home. I can’t believe he just called me that. I didn’t want this clown to escalate any further and, clearly, it doesn’t take much.
“Get away from me with your filthy mouth.”
He continued with his colorful expletives. Man, I must’ve hit the jackpot – the wife must really hate him and he knows it.
“Can’t you see there are children around here?” Still, the guy wouldn’t stop. I raised my voice at least one decibel.
“Shut up and get away from me. NOW.”
I don’t know if I caught him off-guard with my raised voice or if he just ran out of expletives to sling at me, but he finally turned around and stomped off. His teen daughter was already in the parking lot waiting for him. Was she embarrassed? Or does she think that this is how one resolves a conflict? The sad thing is that I really did feel sorry for this guy’s wife! Imagine being married to someone who can’t admit to being wrong, considers women who stand up for themselves to be pushy bitches, and is rather quick to spew a string of expletives at anyone who calls him on his rudeness…
I was a little bit addled after this. Not how I imagined my Mother’s Day to begin. Perhaps next year I’ll get my mother something different for Mother’s Day.
*Vegequarium = One who is pretty much a vegetarian, but also eats fish. K was in preschool when she decided to become a vegetarian because her best pal, Fritz, was a vegetarian and she didn’t want to hurt animals. Shortly after this decision was made, we asked her what she wanted for dinner one night and she said, “sushi”! I asked her if she’d decided not to be a vegetarian after all and she looked at me quizzically. I reminded her that sushi is fish, which could be considered an animal. She thought about this for a minute and then said, “since I love sushi, I guess I’ll be a vegequarium then.”
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???
So I'm almost officially 40 (5/9/06 at 1:14pm) and, so far, it doesn't hurt a bit. I thought 30 would hurt and it didn't, but 30's not old and, well, 40's kinda old. Oh well, I don't feel old yet and that's what really matters, right?
Anyway, I had a lovely party over the weekend for all of my friends to celebrate my aging fabulousness and, since some of my friends were unable to make it due to distance and illness and blasted homework, I thought I'd recreate some of the festivities here so they can attend vicariously. And, I suppose, those of you who did attend and wish to relive it, can do so as well! And those of you who don't know me and read my blog because, well, I don't know why you do, but I welcome you regardless, you can attend my virtual party as well.
The theme of the party was: come as what you wanted to be when you grew up (when you were little). I was a movie star attending the Academy Awards, J was a gas station attendant, Kira was a writer, Anthony was a magician, Galen was a pilot and so was Patrick, Karen was I Dream of Jeannie, Dennis was a philosopher, Dad and Jan were a cowboy and cowgirl respectively, Max was Wonder Woman, Jen was Strawberry Shortcake, Kristen was a construction worker, Julie was a punk rocker, Michael was a professor, Pat was a nuclear physicist, Damion was Daisy Duke, Diana was Madonna, the other Damien was a chef, Heather was supposed to be a gypsy but then showed up as a librarian, Sarah was perfect, Gregory couldn't come but dressed up as a Solid Gold Dancer at home, Whitney said she was coming as a tree and then didn't dress up, and several others didn't dress up 'cause they were shy or party poopers or whatever. Well, I'll give Laurie and Erique a break since they came directly from the airport and had been travelling all week - I'm just glad they came!
The party was held in a wonderful party room in a local Portland restaurant that had a fireplace, leather couches, comfy chairs adjacent to a bar, several cocktail tables for your dining pleasure (table tops were sprinkled with a variety of Hershey's kisses - including the yummy carmel ones!), and a big plasma screen tv on which we showed David Bowie videos and Brady Bunch reruns. We brought our own cds to play for the party and here is some of what we played:
Speaking of cds, we gave out a party favor to each and every guest (and some of the restaurant employees, too!) that was a compilation cd with one song from every year I've been alive. We named it "DJ Bad Kitty's Picks of a Lifetime" and here's what is on it:
1966: I Want You by Bob Dylan
1967: Happy Together by The Turtles
1968: Dear Prudence by The Beatles
1969: The Boxer by Simon & Garfunkel
1970: Cracklin' Rosie by Neil Diamond
1971: Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves by
1972: Walk on the Wild Side by Lou Reed
1973: Daniel by Elton John
1974: Band on the Run by Paul McCartney and Wings
1975: Fame by David Bowie
1976: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen
1977: Strawberry Letter 23 by The Brothes Johnson
1978: Take a Chance on Me by Abba
1979: A Message to You, Rudy by The Specials
1980: Love Will Tear Us Apart by The Joy Division
1981: Radio Free
1982: More Than This by Roxy Music
1983: Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat
1984: Song to the Siren by This Mortal Coil
1985: Kiss Me on the Bus by The Replacements
1986: Real Wild Child by Iggy Pop
1987: Ahead by Wire
1988: Birthday by The Sugarcubes
1989: Here Comes Your Man by The Pixies
1990:Cuts You Up by Peter Murphy
1991: Until the End of the World by U2
1992: The Drowners by Suede
1993: Noel, Jonah and Me by The Spinanes
1994: Sour Times by Portishead
1995: Thirty Three by Smashing Pumpkins
1996: Is That All There Is? by John Parish and PJ Harvey
1997: Sleep on the Left Side by Cornershop
1998: Waltz #2 by Elliott Smith
1999:
2000: Good Fortune by PJ Harvey
2001: Mad World by Gary Jules
2002: Slow Burn by David Bowie
2003: The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by The Postal Service
2004: Run by Snow Patrol
2005: We Both Go Down Together by The Decemberists
2006: Twin Cinema by The New Pornographers
and the following Bonus Tracks (cause there was extra room that I didn't want to go to waste):
Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie
Thursday by Morphine
New Career in a New Town by David Bowie
Supernova by Liz Phair
Cannonball by Damien Rice
If She Wants Me by Belle & Sebastian
The Killing Jar by Siouxsie & the Banshees
Ball of Confusion by Love & Rockets
Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett
Tears Run Rings by Marc Almond
The food was awesome and looked beautiful! We had: cold tarragon poached salmon with an aioli dipping sauce, eggplant stuffed with goat cheese, an Isreali cous cous salad with kalamatas and roasted red bell peppers, a caprese salad, hot curried oysters, a gorgeous fresh fruit platter with tons of BERRIES, miniature spanakopita triangles, and an assortment of six or seven fabulous cheeses that included a Stilton with mango that was so delicious. And the cake, which we got from Polly's Cakes was to die for!!! It was the coolest looking cake ever...essentially if Dr. Seuss and the Mad Hatter got together and had a baby and it was a cake, it would be my birthday cake! Polly's Cakes have been featured on The Food Network and in several food magazines of note. Polly was very kind and down to earth and very easy to work with. Most importantly, the cake was delicious! One layer was chocolate cake with chocolate mousse filling and the other was a passionfruit-coconut cake with a coconut cream filling.
There were two games that we had going and people seemed to enjoy them both, even though some dubbed one of the games as "too hard." One was a photo board that J put together of a bunch of pictures of me over the years and ten of the pics had a post-it with a letter on it and folks were asked to put those ten in chronological order. And, nope, my dad didn't win this one (maybe it was too hard after all) - my friend, Heather, did! Her winning strategy was to gauge by the fashions above all else.
The other game was a quiz about me. It had 20 questions and the winner got 11 right! Here's the quiz:
If Bad Kitty were to go through the McDonald’s drive-thru, what sort of condiment would she want for her fries?
a) Ranch dressing
b) ketchup
c) mayonnaise
d) are you nuts? Bad Kitty wouldn’t be caught dead at the McDonald’s drive-thru!
How many tattoos does Bad Kitty have?_______ Tiebreaker: What are they and where are they located?
Bad Kitty drinks:
a) scotch
b) bourbon
c) gin
d) beer
e) yes
Where, other than
a) Seattle
b) Eugene
c) San Francisco
d) Los Angeles
Name one of Bad Kitty’s favorite flavors of ice cream (include brand):
What cheesy pop-culture tv show does Bad Kitty actually enjoy watching?
a) The OC
b) Family Guy
c) American Idol
d) That 70s Show
What get-rich-quick scheme did Bad Kitty consider when she was an undergrad?
a) selling her eggs
b) robbing a bank
c) Amway
d) Taking all of her books to Powell’s and selling them
Bad Kitty has met all but one of the following famous people. Which one has she never met?
a) Luke Perry
b) Courtney Love
c) Tom Selleck
d) Joaquin Phoenix
e) Ellen DeGeneres
What is Bad Kitty’s favorite color?
a) Royal blue
b) orange
c) green
d) magenta
Bad Kitty’s favorite strip-club in Portland is:
a) The Acropolis
b) The Dolphin
c) Sassy’s
d) Magic Garden
When in Vegas, Bad Kitty’s favorite table game is:
a) blackjack
b) roulette
c) craps
d) poker
Bad Kitty’s favorite “guilty pleasure” singer from her childhood is:
a) David Cassidy
b) Jim Croce
c) Don McLean
d) John Denver
One of Bad Kitty’s favorite writers is:
a) Iris Murdoch
b) John Steinbeck
c) Virginia Woolf
d) Anton Chekov
Bad Kitty’s favorite Broadway show is:
a) Oklahoma
b) A Chorus Line
c) 42nd Street
d) The Producers
Bad Kitty’s daughter was conceived via what combination:
a) Fellini films and a fine chianti
b) Andy Warhol films and tequila
c) Peter Greenaway films and gin martinis
d) David Lynch films and microbeer
Bad Kitty met her partner:
a) at a bowling alley
b) through a personals ad
c) at work
d) at a lesbian bar
Bad Kitty has worked at all but one of the following Portland restaurants:
a) The Heathman Hotel
b) Pazzo
c) Paparazzi
d) The airport Sheraton
e) The Chart House
f) Saucebox
g) Wild Abandon
Which of the following is Bad Kitty’s favorite Grateful Dead song?
a) Sugar Magnolia
b) Casey Jones
c) Truckin’
d) None of the above. There is only one Garcia she loves to hear sing and it's not Jerry!
Bad Kitty has fallen prey to all of the following fashion fads except:
a) leg warmers
b) 80s “sun” lightened big permed hair
c) Acid washed jeans
d) Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” girl look
e) Ray Ban sunglasses
Bad Kitty loves all of the following kitties except:
a) Hello
b) Patience Phillips (Catwoman)
c) Mortimer
d) Josie
So thanks for coming to my party! Happy Birthday to Me!
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.
OK, so we sort of invented this American Idol drinking game...and I say sort of because I find it really hard to believe that nobody else has thought of this yet and I'm sure that somebody has, I just haven't necessarily stumbled upon it. So, if it turns out that somebody else thought of this exact game way before we did, then fine, take credit - I'm cool with that.
And here's how it goes: While watching American Idol, take one drink any time any of the following occur:
Remember that episode of Friends - the one with the freebie list? And Ross was going to laminate his freebie list and, before he did, he removed Isabella Rosellini from it because she was too international. But then Isabella showed up at Central Perk and Ross put his foot in his mouth and told her that she used to be on his freebie list but that he'd removed her from it and put Dorothy Hamill there instead (note to Ross: what the hell were you thinking???).
Although I know that this term originated pre-Friends because I remember discussing it with others prior to the airing of that particular episode in the autumn of 1996, I do not know the exact origin of the term (and Wikipedia credits Friends with the coining of the term). Anyone know where/how it started?
Well, without further ado - and to keep me honest - I am, essentially, "laminating" my freebie list by posting it on my blog. Alas, the following are "the five celebrities that, should the opportunity present itself, I get to have sex with without causing any hurt or damage to my current relationship."
Freebie List:
1. Kate Moennig
2. Fairuza Balk
3. Johnny Depp
4. Two-way tie: Constantine Maroulis & David Bowie circa The Berlin Trilogy
5. Three-way (tee-hee) Tie: Angelina Jolie, Jodie Foster & Jenny Shimizu
OK, now I realize that I have two people listed in slot number four and three (ahem) in slot number five. I know that that's sorta like cheating, but here's the deal: since David Bowie circa The Berlin Trilogy doesn't really exist anymore (unless I figure out how to time-travel), then that opportunity wouldn't really ever arise anyway. Which pretty much leaves Constantine Maroulis flying solo in spot number four. And as for slot number five, well, I can think of reasons to keep or lose each one of them (none of which are because they are too international, though), so yeah, here's how that will have to work: that number five slot will be honored on a first-come, first-serve basis, as it's the only fair way to select just one.
Edited to add: Hey, don't tease me about the Jodie Foster thing! That's sorta leftover from my teen years when she used to be kinda butch! And she's still hot! And smart! And mysterious! Plus, I saw her in person one time on the Warner lot when she was working on Home For the Holidays and she was perfectly, fabulously adorable! That moment cemented her spot on my freebie list for life.
As some people know, and others who don't know would never guess, I'm something of an American Idol junkie. I'm not a superdiehard fan who has watched every season, but close enough to be made fun of.
In fact, I am quite guilty of making fun of J when she and Kira were watching early on in Season 2. But one day that all changed and then I had to make up excuses to be in the room while AI was on so that I could watch and hear Clay Aiken. (And it's ok if you are now thinking what a big 'ole dork I must be - I'll accept that). Finally, I just came out and admitted that I loved the guy and that I'm a sucker for certain "Adult Contemporary" music (i.e. Harry Connick, Jr., etc.).
But, still, I tried to downplay my love for all things Clay and would act mortified if anyone referred to me as a Claymate. But it was all totally fake. I must say, though, that I wish that Clay would just come on out and admit to being a big homo - he would be most welcome into our big 'ole rainbow-flag-wavin' family.
Just for the record, I have a major thing for Constantine Maroulis as well. Although it's very different than the major thing I had/have for Clay. Clay, I just love his singing and there are certain songs that he sings that just give me chills (Solitaire, This is the Night, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Unchained Melody...actually, his Mack the Knife was good, too). The guy has pipes, ya know? But Constantine is a different experience altogether - completely visceral...all over. His AI rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody was genius and unstoppable and his retro Partridge Family homage of I Think I Love You was completely meltworthy. This guy is completely sexy AND he can sing. I am eagerly awaiting his solo works.
This season, though, it's all about Elliott Yamin. And, just for the record here, my fascination with him is more akin to my Clay-adoration -- strictly musical. Although, in addition to having a lovely voice, there is something else about Elliott that I just love. He just comes across as this down-to-earth, very humble and likeable guy. He seems honest and sincere, without being sappy. He's the AI5 contestant I'd most like to sit down and have a beer with (especially in a karaoke bar so he can sing!). Paris Bennett was my early-on fave, when she was singing Billie Holliday tunes during her audition. But she doesn't really wow me unless she's doing the sort of older jazz classics, such as "These Foolish Things" last week.
And the contestant I most love to hate? Well that'd be mink-in-residence Kellie Pickler. Can this girl get any dumber? No? I didn't think so.
So last week was houseguest-O-rama 'round here and that's a-ok by me 'cause they were all good houseguests (this includes my fabulous dad, who is a regular reader of my blog)!
My classmate, Gregory, was visiting from one of my favorite red states and, even though he's visited Portland before, he wanted to learn Portland better and do some semi-touristy things on this visit.
No problemo.
After a delicious meal at my favorite place to wait an hour for a breakfast table, The Tin Shed, we shopped on Hawthorne for a bit (including a visit to the store called Greg's because duh!) and then went downtown for the mini-version of my urban Portland walking tour (there's a mini, regular, and extreme version).
We parked smartly, then looked at The Governor Hotel architecture, which I think looks like Transformers-Robots-in-Disguise at the top of the building (mouse over "The Governor Hotel" and click on the link and you can see for yourself - they have some good pics on their website). From there we walked to Pioneer Courthouse Square, also known as Portland's living room.
Now, this is where things got interesting.
I was dying to show Gregory the amphitheatre at the northwest corner of the square, where you can stand on a small circle of metal and speak aloud, facing north, and just like magic your voice is seemingly amplified, but only within the sphere of the little circle where you are standing! To those standing just two or three feet away, your voice sounds completely normal! I don't know how this works or why it works, but I LOVE it!!! And every out-of-towner I've shown it to has found it rather fascinating as well.
Gregory, J and I take a few steps away and are laughing and talking while I'm pointing out other features of the square. Then, seemingly from nowhere, he emerges in his kelly-green glory and tips his hat to us. It is Eduardo and he works for the Portland Oregon Visitors' Association Sidewalk Ambassadors. Interestingly, their Info-Patrol logo utilizes a lowercase "i" with a curlique, not unlike the logo for my school, The Information School at the University of Washington. Gregory notes aloud that Eduardo is sporting our school logo.
Eduardo cheerfully offers his assistance and J and I mention that we live here and are showing our friend, Gregory, the sights. Eduardo makes small talk with Gregory and is clearly very interested in every word Gregory has to say. Gregory mentions that it would be nice to have a big map of the entire city, not just the puny walking maps of downtown that they hand out at Powell's. Eduardo opens his messenger bag that is chock-full of every type of tourist map one could possibly imagine and inquires as to whether or not Gregory is interested in any of them. Gregory holds his ground and does not succumb to Eduardo's temptations. Eduardo is not the least bit put off by Gregory's refusal of his goods and, instead, confides to Gregory the not-so-secret nickname that the Sidewalk Ambassadors have dubbed the good map, the "Mama Jama." Eduardo tells Gregory where he can obtain said Mama Jama, tips his hat to us and bids us farewell.
Suddenly he is gone as mysteriously as he arrived.
Approximately two point five seconds later, we notice Eduardo running toward us at top speed. J and I inform Gregory that he is clearly being cruised. Gregory spouts some nonsense about Eduardo doing his job. Yeah, right. J and I stifle laughter and enjoy our front-row seats of this show.
Eduardo magically reappears and gifts Gregory with the Mama Jama in his hand. If his eyes twinkle any more, he may find himself employed as the top of the ginormous Christmas tree that Pioneer Square displays each December. Eduardo slips us a card with his number on it - number 9, after The Beatles' song, and because 17 was already taken. The card asks us to rate his performance and he mocks the terminology stating that it seems like maybe he should do a song and dance. We all but dare him to. At this point, there is no doubt in my mind that Eduardo wants Gregory to rate another of his "performances" and I am marvelling at Gregory's suavitude. I've seen this happen to him before.
I ask Eduardo if he has any recommendations of any downtown sights not to be missed. He mentions the Chinese Gardens, which we don't have time for, and happy hour at the Portland City Grill. We tell Eduardo that we were already planning on going to Portland City Grill for happy hour and that we'll be there around 4:30 that afternoon.
Another tip of the hat and Eduardo magically disappears again. We continue our mini walking tour through the square and over to The Portland Building and the Portlandia statue. The Portland Building is a controversial Michael Graves design from the early 1980s - long before his teapots and toasters started to appear on the shelves at Target. Portlandia is the second largest hammered copper statue ever built - second only to the Statue of Liberty.
Plunked on the viewing bench in front of Portlandia, the three of us opened up the Mama Jama and noted various points of interest on the map. J and I were the "Mapgals" holding the corners taut while Gregory studied the grid of Portland.
Next stop: Powell's Books. Gregory went speed-shopping through the store and acquired about a dozen books in thirty minutes flat.
True to our word and with 4:30 rapidly approaching, we walked down to the Portland City Grill to brave the happy hour crowd and hope for a table. As we nestled in to the large, comfortable booth that was easily the worst seat in the house with regard to the view, we decided that we were lucky to have a table at all. Just as we are settling in with our drinks and contemplating our food order, who should mysteriously pop from around the corner?
EDUARDO!!
As we register our shock and awe at his appearance, Eduardo gestures with excitement and sends a plate of calamari flying out of a waiter's hands. The plate lands with a thud and a crack and calamari goes scattering in every which direction under the barstools and between the high-heeled feet of the building's office workers enjoying a post-workday libation.
Eduardo is clearly mortified. We invite him to join us and he repeats that he was just popping in to see if we made it for happy hour. Talk about follow-through! His hat is removed to signify that he is on a break and he mentions that he must return to work shortly. With that, Eduardo then re-donned his hat, tipped his hat with a gentle nod of his head and -poof!- he was gone.
Much to our surprise, Eduardo did not magically appear anywhere else.
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.
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.
I arrived in an inexplicably good mood. It was Friday night, I was prepared to be busy, I was ready to make some money.
When I first arrive to the restaurant for my shift, I have something of a ritual - a routine that keeps me on track and ready for the onslaught, whatever that may entail. I check the dry-erase board to update myself on what we are out of, which seafood is starring in the seafood salad that eve, and find out what the soup of the day happens to be.
Then I do some fact checking.
If the board declares that our soup is presently green split pea with ham but, when I open the lid of the soup vat, it more closely resembles clam chowder, then I must do some editing as well. When this is the case, I then taste the soup (ok, yeah, sometimes I taste the soup even when it does resemble what it's rumored to be...quality control, you know?). I let my tastebuds determine the flavor and then I seek out assistance from the kitchen staff to confirm my assumptions. Often, I must inquire of several different folks in checkered pants before I find one who is able to name that soup. It doesn't end there, though. I also find out if the soup contains any meat or any dairy and, if so, how much and what kind. Trust me, I think I've met every "food issue" on the planet.
As I leave the kitchen feeling pretty well-informed about what is coming out of the kitchen doors, I head to the host podium to scan that night's reservations and learn more about what will be coming through the front doors.
"Maaaaaaaaammmmm."
I believe I am being summoned. Being called "ma'am" isn't such a horrible thing (oh, I've been called worse), but something in the voice just had this certain...I dunno...hint of desperation or something. So instead of reviewing that night's reservations, I head to table 27 (which "belongs" to the closing lunch server, Drew, for the record) and find myself face-to-face with a woman in her late 60s/early 70s sporting the most disgruntled look on her face. Uh-oh, this is not the picture of a happy camper. And whatever has her so upset is about to become my problem.
"May I help you?" I offer, with some reluctance that - hopefully - remains undetected.
"Can I get some butter that isn't hard?" the woman barks - more of a demand than a question.
"Actually, all of our butter is hard like that - we keep it refridgerated. I'm sorry."
People make this request on occasion and are typically understanding when I explain the situation to them. If I have the time and I like the people, I will show them my trick of placing the ramekin of hard butter on top of an unlidded teapot - this will soften butter in about ten minutes, but something told me not to go there this time.
"Well, then bring me some more butter," the Charmer on table 27 demanded.
"Sure, no problem."
I began to count my blessings that she wasn't my table and that my interaction with her would be only temporary. I return with another ramekin containing one pat of butter and placed it next to the ramekin already on her table that held a half pat of butter still. The Charmer looks at the ramekin with disdain.
"That's all you brought me?"
This is a trap. I can tell. Refusing to fall for such an obvious set-up, I sidestep the bait.
"Would you like me to bring you some more?" I offer politely.
"Well, I just don't understand why you bring it to me in these little bits!"
For the record, "these little bits" consisted of single tablespoon-sized squares of solid fat. The Charmer's face was reddening - she was actually getting really angry about this!
"Honestly? We don't want to waste it. So we're happy to bring you more if you intend to use it, but think it foolish and wasteful to bring a lot at each request."
I knew that I was playing Russian Roulette here. Sometimes it works in your favor to explain the rationale to a customer and sometimes not. It's about a fifty/fifty shot, but it's so gratifying when, upon explaining the whys of something that doesn't make sense to someone, they get it and calm down. I should have known that I'd be playing with fire to try to make sense of anything to the Charmer.
"Ohhhhhhh, you don't want to WASTE any of it, huh? Well, in that case, forget it. I don't want it."
And the Academy Award for best meltdown over butter goes to...The Charmer!!!!! [raging applause]
The Charmer jerks her head to the left, refusing to look in my direction, as if to punctuate her retracted request. I want to laugh out loud, but I don't. As I'm walking away from the table, the oh boy from inside my head somehow is uttered audibly from my mouth. Out of prinicple and professionalism, I hope the Charmer didn't hear me.
I return to the kitchen, fill a ramekin with as much butter as will fit, and return to table 27 where Charmer, who sees me approaching with about 1/3 cup of butter, turns her head away again, refusing to watch me honoring her initial request. Knowing it won't make any difference at this point, I politely inform her that if she needs more, just to let me know. I notice that she has since acquired a dining companion and a walker.
As luck would have it, Drew needs me to take over table 27 so he can get off the clock and run errands before his dinner shift begins. Somehow I knew this would happen. After the Charmer's grievances regarding her takeout order, I was thoroughly convinced that the Charmer just liked to hear herself when she becomes exasperated. There was no amount of kindness or additional service to appease this woman. I watched them from afar while I conducted my opening sidework and ventured near table 27 only when necessary. At my offer of a bag for her to-go boxes (into which she'd placed all of the butter I'd brought her), the Charmer grabbed the plastic bag out of my hand saying, "give me that," while handing me the guest check presenter and saying, "you take this."
After scraping every dust bunny from my wallet to make change for her hundred dollar bill on her $30 tab, I approached the table with a smile (yay! they're leaving soon!), told them thank you and placed the change tray on the table. As I was about to make a mad dash as far away from this toxic woman as possible, she says to me, but without really looking at me, "Help him with his coat. He can't get his arm into the hole."
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo my mind and body are screaming.
But, in retrospect, Dining Companion has done nothing wrong aside from having lunch with the wicked witch of the west. He looks helpless and frustrated trying repeatedly to get his arm to coincide with his jacket pocket without success. As much as I don't want to do this, I gingerly reach for his jacket and try and scoot the armhole closer to his actual arm. Naturally this feat requires more than merely holding the jacket still. After resituating the position of his jacket on his opposite shoulder and doing something of a six-point turn, then holding the armhole still with my left hand and practically holding hands with the old man with my right, I was finally able to steer his arm into his jacket. Not sure what to do next and receiving no verbal feedback from either Charmer or D.C., I happen to notice that the walker is more than arm's length from the gentleman. Apparently desperate to end this transaction on a positive note, I gesture to the walker and ask the man, "Do you need this moved closer to you?"
Silence.
As tempted as I am to just bolt away, I don't. I repeat my question, uncertain as to whether or not D.C. is even capable of hearing me. Realizing that it's been a full eight minutes since she'd had an outburst, Charmer barks at me, "He can get that himself."
aka, The Saga Continues...
So Friday rolls around and, still, the spot at the end of the street where the giant metal mailbox for the entire neighborhood was rooted remains empty. As I am expecting some important documents from school and want to read my new New Yorker, I decide to give our local postal branch a call to find out what gives. I am informed that “someone ran over the old mailbox” and that the new one is scheduled to be installed that very day. I am then told that the corresponding keys for the new box will be delivered directly to our doors shortly thereafter.
Then Friday night, I receive an email from Sheri, a neighbor from a couple of doors down, informing me that she was told that the keys are locked inside of the newly planted mailbox and will be distributed on Saturday, since more people are likely to be at home then.
Well, Saturday comes and Saturday goes and nobody darkens our door with any keys. Sunday is, of course, the national day of rest for those who carry the mail, so I hang out at home on Monday, expecting my doorbell to chime at any moment. I make certain that music isn’t on too loud and try to summon the arrival of a key-bearing postal worker at my doorstep using my psychic powers.
My psychic powers seem to be taking a personal day off.
I wish to take a shower and am certain that, if I do, that will be when the doorbell will ring and I will miss my opportunity to have access to my mail until…tomorrow? The next day? Whenever they get around to it?
By 4:30pm on Monday I’m beginning to, again, wonder what gives. I decide to phone my local post office once again. As I begin to explain why I am calling, the woman who answered the phone says that she will transfer me to Larry, who is handling that situation. When I explain to Larry the discrepancies between what I was told would happen and what has actually occurred, Larry tells me that “they were having difficulty getting all of the keys out” and that if I go to blankety-blank address tomorrow, I’ll be able to pick my keys up from Arnie.
Arnie does not work for the postal service. Arnie is my neighbor and is one of those distrustful-of-the-government, uber right-wing republicans. He is the one with the bumper sticker on his car described in this post. I do not trust Arnie. He hates gay people and has not been very friendly to me. While my jaw is dropping to the ground, Larry hangs up.
After mulling over my thoughts for a moment and phoning J to see if she knows if this is even legal (as I’m thinking it’s not), I decide to phone the post office again and clear this up with a supervisor. The woman who answered the phone claimed to be a supervisor when I requested to speak with a manager and, when I began to explain the problem to her, she told me that she was going to transfer me to Larry.
“But wait,” I tell her, “I thought you said that you were the supervisor.” She tells me that Larry, too, is a supervisor. Too many chiefs…not a good sign. I tell Larry that I need to clarify what he told me only moments ago.
“So, let me make sure I understand this correctly. All of the keys to all of the mailboxes in the neighborhood are being left with Arnie –my neighbor, Arnie- tomorrow?”
“That’s right,” Larry assures me.
“Is that legal???” I am unable to contain my incredulousness. Larry stammers and tells me that he doesn’t know.
“I don’t think it is and it’s not okay with me.” Larry then informs me that Arnie “volunteered” to distribute the keys since “they were having trouble getting them out.” Interesting.. I never knew that one could "volunteer" with the U.S. Postal Service and gain access to the private mail of others. I'm certain that there are many aspiring criminals who would be quite interested in this civic opportunity.
I inform Larry that I am not comfortable with them giving access to my mail without my permission to someone who does not like me and who I do not trust. I pause briefly for a deep and cleansing yoga breath and then ask Larry if he realizes how rampant identity theft is and that I'm really quite surprised that they would just give all of those keys to a complete stranger. Clearly, this sort of thing hadn’t entered anyone’s mind and Larry tells me that he can leave a note for my postal carrier to leave my key under my doormat if I am uncomfortable with Arnie distributing them. Still, it hasn’t dawned on him that it might not be such a good idea to leave access to twenty homes’ worth of mail to a random stranger who “volunteered” to take care of it.
Content with the outcome that Larry will instruct our mail carrier to leave our mailbox key under our doormat (although not fully believing that Larry will actually do this) and envisioning the awkwardness that may occur as a result of the interchange between our mail carrier and Arnie: "Well, Arnie, here are all of the keys except for one. She didn't want you having access to her mail. Thanks for helping out, Arnie, and if we ever need any more help, we'll let you know!"
I then pose to Larry one final question:
"I'm just curious. If I hadn't called you today to find out what was going on with our keys to our mailboxes, how on earth would I have known that I was to pick them up from my neighbor? Was the postal service planning on sending out some sort of memo to everyone on the street?"
And do you know what Larry told me???
"Oh, Arnie was going to take care of that."
No sooner do I hang up the phone from Larry and it rings. It’s Arnie and he has our mailbox key and can we come and pick them up from him? So, Larry the “supervisor” not only has no clue that it’s quite likely illegal to give keys to locked mailboxes to a random stranger, but – despite being the one who is “handling this situation” – he has no idea that said keys had already been distributed to said random stranger.
J then walks in the door, home from work, just in time to see the steam emerging from both my ears. She offers to take over while I drink my coffee and attempt to locate calm. Like a crazy person wandering urban streets, I’m pacing and muttering to myself…the occasional I can’t believe audible and somewhat clear.
J retrieves our key from our bigoted and unfriendly neighbor and returns home with an armload of our mail. She then phones the main postal number and registers a formal complaint. The woman graciously receiving our complaint tells us this should never have happened.
