So yeah, I think I'm figuring out things! 

I have a lot of things on the go, and they're keeping me busy. Or at least out of trouble. That's good. But it's part of being on track. I do feel like the "track" itself is not well-defined, as in with absolute goals and micromanaged footsteps, but I do feel like things are looking up and would like to attribute it to a change in attitude. 

I was wondering about why I'd want to define it for anyone in the first place because it doesn't really matter to anyone but myself, so what difference does it make if it confuses the hell out of people or keeps them on their toes or whatever. I know where I'm going. It's with my gut. And for all the so-called paper qualifications I'm lacking for anything of elevated job status, I don't need a paper to know that I'm following something true and real. I've done a lot worse than that.

I really can't say if school is in that track or not. I hope in some ways it is. But honestly, the idea of incurring all that debt scares the hell out of me, completely independent of whether or not the music education sector is really good or dwindling. At least trade school is another option. My love of all things auto-motive really is turning out to be a passion, and not just some way of being cool, or getting daddy's approval, or any weird shit. It just is what it is.

And in figuring things out, having had much occasion to think about what it is I want, what I used to dream of, what I imagined, and what I can do with my reality, and I remember that when I was a kid, I imagined living in some urban-mixed-with-old-world studio apartment with my pet Bengal tiger and white grand piano, edges painted in gold with a red rose airbrushed on top, near the music stand side of the lid.

And for some odd reason, I never reconciled that picture with what was going on in my own life or worked on making myself be okay with it. Everything that occurred in my life after graduation was a gradual disenchantment with life in general because all I knew is that things weren't going the way I had imagined them, even to say those things compounded each other in rapid-fire succession; although I didn't know exactly what that was (just a feeling) and then purposefully grew bitter and angsty to avoid disappointment. I had my reasons.

So what? Now? I just laugh. Not really at myself or wanting to put down my former kid self or anything. And certainly not at any of the really heavy parts that caused great pain to myself or others. But at the sheer ease with which I just overlooked it. I mean, it's not hard to fathom, seeing as how I was dealing with some pretty major things right off the hop out of high school which continued far into my adult life.

It's just that I missed one tiny little detail in having known that my studio apartment with my piano was one of those memories you just put away with growing up: there was a reason I imagined things that way at that age, but there was no reason for why I had not changed it, or evolved it, or even entertained the idea that I could have a new dream.

Others? Oh yeah, for s-u-r-e! All the time! Ask me for advice and I'd work hard around every facet of your brain trying to inspire you! But myself? Nah. Nope.

So, you ask me now what that is, I don't know. It's still tricky for me to say, at least career-wise, to have a dream. My last career dream kind of flew out the window when we moved up north, because I was not willing to compromise on my education by doing something else through whatever other online programs they had up there, and because we were so far away from any institution that the older I got, the more out of the question it became to do anything that would upset the girls' lives like... leaving to go finish school.

Not only that, but my family was growing and my priorities changed. That is to say: get your frickin' head out of the clouds, out of missed opportunities, any of the "couldas and shouldas" and be a mom.

And before that, before I even lived in Canada, never mind way up north, was being a mom. I was always a mom. Being a mom was and is THE most beloved, treasured of roles I've ever been blessed or been allowed to have, but it was also the first thing I ever knew in the outside, real world. There is a whole world of raising up children to be ready for the world that I believed and avowed to engage before all else. 

My parenting style has been one about standing up against the tide, of doing everything in my power and with God's help to NOT let the "sins of the father pass onto the son", to break the cycle of pain, and never ever being an autopilot mommy. (My parents were good parents, but they had their issues, and I didn't want those passing on through to me to my girls, and thusly whatever issues I had to pass on to them, either.) Giving them the tools and teaching them how to instill their own tools, too, for the hardass world I'd already seen enough of at 22, 25, and 29 was far more important than whatever I was going through. It didn't take a genius to know that their worlds were mine. I put them on like a mantle.

But I did kind of hide behind that. I was glad to. I still would. Except I'm starting to realize what a disservice it is to them. The whole part of figuring things out has this right in there, along with my other contemplations, because I can see the possibilities of good in this new equation. I really can't reconcile me not having my daughters with me right now as a good thing. In fact, it feels very wrong. But this time, I'm not reacting out of emotions. 

I'm trying to be a grown-up.

"...got-the-job, got-the-job, yippe-yay, I-got-the-job..."

If you know the tune to "Be Our Guest" from Disney's Beauty and the Beast, well then, you can replace the "..beef ragou, cheese souffle, pie and pudding en flambe.." with the title of this post and now you've got that little jiggy tune stuck in your head. Yes, yes you do. Now it's in your head because I put it there. Now you can have it banging around on repeat in your head, just like it is mine! Because the choir was running through their Disney piece this morning, and I've had it stuck in my head all morning just like you get to suffer now, too.

Anyway.

Yes, I got the job. Judy, who I presume is in charge of all things clerical at the dealership there called me this morning and offered me the job. It was so cute. Just the way and manner of her voice, the tone of the question. That was all.

I start tomorrow.

*eeeeee!

(Now you're wondering what the next words are on that verse, arencha?

"We'll prepare and serve with flair a culinary cabaret!..."

Nyeah, I had to look them up.

job

So I interviewed for a receptionist position with the Ford dealership here. What can I say, I would love to get a job like that. I don't know where it will lead me, or how in the world's half iota it brings me in the direction of music OR any trade (maybe automotive mechanics by a long shot,) but... really I care only secondarily about that momentarily. It's my first frickin' job in two years.

And it will work beautifully with my schedule as an accompanist at one of the local high schools I'm playing at here. Mornings at the high school, afternoons at the dealership. With a shot of luck, I could start putting away money, if for nothing else to start slamming back debts and the whole being behind on just about phucking near everything.

It would be lovely to start doing that, anyway, as I know that playing catch-up in this economy, yes, even Saskatchewanian economy (maybe it's just cost of living smacking us harder than anticipated,) will be a slow and possibly painful process. I am okay with slow. Slow is better than dead stop. Just like when you're in rush hour traffic? Ya know? Because every fractional turn of the tire is another inch under your wheels.

At any rate, the job sounds cool. I'd get to be the girl who you see at the desk, taking calls, writing down messages, operating fax machines and pumping data into the computer; but of course I would be soooooo smooth, doing it all with a flick of my wrist and a bubblegum smack-chomp, layers of mascara and hootchy mama shirts.

Or maybe just tackling the guy walking down the hall because he's some random criminal coming to steal my purse and turkey sandwich from the break room.

  

Okay, okay. Yeah. The hell. Rii-i-iight. It's still a lot better than this:

Which I used to do. Except with tacos.

Seriously, what's in this job for me is respect. Self-respect, respect of what I'd be trying to accomplish, respect from coworkers, ideally. It's a pitch fork of hay in the barn. It's the first step on a path that contains goals. It's getting to do something new. Meet new people. Meet more people. Get exposure to the automotive side of my interests. Office job. Bringing in some flippin' cheddar, yo.

And the interview went well. I don't feel like I nailed it, but I don't feel like I royally screwed it up, either. I got a real sense of what I would be doing, where it could go, and that I would not be left out to dry. I perceived a real sense of teamwork gets done around there, that I won't have time to be bored. I answered their questions honestly and to the best of my ability. What I did not do was just say what I thought was the right thing. A new thing in my books at least. The one lady asked me if the phone number on my resume was the one I could be reached at. I said yes. The two interviewers shook my hand. I handed them my references and they thanked me for coming in. I'll hear from them within the week or so. 

I truly hope so.

Souffrance

What is suffering? What do we know about suffering? Why do we suffer? Why can some of us deal with it and some of us not?

Well I don't have the answers. I don't know any more than any psychologist. And quite honestly I believe that at least half of psychologists have barely the same or worse ability to deal with their crap than the rest of us--talk about the blind leading the blind! Not all of them, but enough. Don’t get me wrong, psychologists and psychiatrists are also human beings who are no less prone to life full of hardships and the struggle that comes with us trying to heal from them (or not—some just don’t live by their own wisdom) and they are a valuable asset for the least and the most of us, but it is rather hard to stomach getting help from those who cannot help themselves. I would know. On two accounts. 1) Receiving advice from those with personal, massively scarred history that was still bleeding OR could not even begin to draw from any relatable prior experience; 2) giving advice when I was struggling with my own inner toils. In the end, I still believe in the healing their profession brings and studies in that field to date which bring a scientific method to overcoming our personal wounds.

Anyway, I don’t have the answers, but I have done a lot of thinking about it. In these past 7 months, with my daughters living over 2,000 miles away, it has been its own kind of hell and I've had lots of time to think about the decisions I've made that brought me here (to this point in my life, to this particular location on the map, everything.) No mother has ever been as upset in the world as I have been for having to apply theory to reality: understanding that children need the freedom to make choices, giving them that choice, and having to follow through--allowing their choice to stand. The pain of their absence re-roots itself like a knife in the soul every single time they experience something I can't be there for. And though all things in life change and will change, especially as the cycle of life renews itself, it must be stated that sometimes there are just no other ways out.

That being said, it is not them I blame. No way, not for one singular, tradable moment in the world. I blame myself in adequate measure. I blame myself primarily for letting my own life get to a point that I felt like leaving drop, stock, and barrel--with them--was the very last but only, critically singular option there was. I also put fault with a few other things, other situations, and yes, some people in equally adequate measure, adequate to mean ample but not overdone. But this is not about that blame. This entry isn't even about what I can and cannot control, or how hard it has been to stay the course without having been able to fully explain these things that have taken me years to come to. It's about suffering. Everyone suffers, even if not continuously.

And what suffering brings.

Is it supposed to bring something? Interesting thought, isn't it.

Generally, yes. It is. Suffering was designed for something, and not just to make us feel like crap and emotionally paralyzed. If we go back to the first account of human suffering, we could take Adam and Eve in the bible, when God kicked them out of Eden and told Adam he'd have to sweat and work his butt off to bring home the bread ("till the land") and to Eve she'd have to experience pains in childbirth. Immediately, obtaining food and bearing children, things that God was just going to give them for nothing, were to become the rewards for the hardship.

But Adam and Eve didn't get away with such a clean break. They had to learn how to make clothes, take care of their children, one of whom ended up killing the other, and surely a great number of other things that we could read in the book of Genesis in the bible, or only speculate on as their lives unrolled until they died. Through their choice to disobey, they came to know suffering.

But God did not abandon them. Through their choices, they lost paradise, they had to suffer, but they were not alone. Their creator was still there with them, manifesting Himself with them, speaking to them, and giving them morsels of relief, companionship, and establishing an order.

The NON-depressing part of this new routine Adam and Eve came to know, of what we now know as the daily grind, is that because of this first stupid oops, a plan of hope which was set to unfold was engaged. Yes, even with evolution of man or creation and the thousands of theories to befall or explain our existence on this planet—all human explanations, mind you—there was suffering (suffering to get what we needed and then what we wanted), but just as instantly there was hope in being told (by God himself, through prophetic persons, and later by Jesus himself) that a saviour was coming. A new hope to be relieved of our suffering. Even people who didn't believe it or thought the news of some promised man to come ('future king', 'saviour of the world', or other such terms so foreign on the tongues of secular or pagan crowds) was far-fetched were aware that Jesus was someone people believed in; and were no less prone to suffering than anyone else.

So he came. This light of the world, prince-of-peace fellow came into the world. And he suffered. He suffered so bad—more than any other person in the entire world because it was physical and emotional torture of literally, all ages—for the sake of every person in the entire world to have existed or would exist, whether they accepted him or not, giving every single human soul all the chances they could handle in their lifetimes to choose (or not to choose) to make heaven their final destination—an infinite afterlife with a loving, majestic god, his loving son, the spirit that unites them, all the angels and saints, Mary, Queen of Heaven (just to name a few), loved ones, with experience of love so full and brilliant, it encapsulates the soul, saturating a soul with the kind of bliss it could not contain. (Imagine that high school crush falling in love with you, a major epiphany in your life, a warm towel after a shower, the glee of going to your favourite musician’s concert, and the sun in your eyes altogether in one heap of emotion times a billion, I’m guessing.)

In that ultimate price, ultimate suffering, and ultimate redemption, humanity was given multiple chances to make that choice on their own, multiple choices of right or wrong, to screw up, to get it right, to learn, to grow, but every single time a choice that was completely and totally his or her own until death. He suffered for us as a human, among us in our very corporal humanity, so that if we ever chose to come to him, to see him in our lives, to invite him into our hearts, or even just to open ourselves to the hope of his message (which you can’t argue was pretty damned convincing and loving) for even ONE second, we could never accuse him of not understanding us.

At the very least, Jesus was so central a figure in history that we measure time according his existence on earth. B.C., or, before Christ. All of us humans, only on this side of the A.D. fence, know what life is like on this side of the fence--since the days of Christ. Whether we are Buddhists, Christians, Taoists, Catholics, Muslims, protestants, the hardest core atheists, agnostics, white witches, satanic followers, extremists, diplomats, peacemakers, scientists, fanatics, communist, socialist, democratic, common man, simple, however instrinsic, intelligent, bright, handicapped with disability, whatever country, whatever creed, whatever race, we ALL measure time in A.D.

We only know the values that came from life after Jesus was on earth, every generation imbedding their own take on the next generation, based on what they were taught, since the dawn of time and of the days of Christ, regardless of faith, in spite of or in connection with any given moral set. His existence has created more controversy over beliefs and system of choice than any other figure in all of history or time, even to say that the ancient religions prior to Christ were also affected in some way after Christ because they are not all practiced in their purest forms today, if there is such a thing.

Confucius in all of his wisdom still doesn’t quite stir up the kind of animation that Jesus did. There were far less divisions of basic faith systems before Christ than after (generally derivative of Christianity) and all matters of creed and belief were changed in some way, even for those who could say their beliefs were not changed because no one in all of history has sparked so much debate and reflection as this one man. Whatever calendar we measure by, whatever inaccuracies are in those calendars (Gregorian, Julian, Aztec, Chinese, etc.), whatever variances in the time line created by Before Christ and everything Anno Domini, it is all still measured by that point in history, and when we have to work together as a world, we still arrange meetings, conferences, summits, roundtables by the calendar, the calculator, and the clock that was configured A.D.

God knew this.

But he gave us the choice. To believe as we choose, to be inspired by the precepts of others or swayed by fallacies, to discern between them, to ignore them altogether, to pretend like none of it matters or choose nothing at all. He gave us the choice between right and wrong and with that, the right to choose the same thing over and over again, to stop choosing, even the choice to reject or accept his very proof of love for us (an only son, the only truly pure thing he had to give who was the only soul capable of taking on the literal weight of the world for the stains of many.) He gave us all the choice to accept love, too, a concept evermore declining in the world’s society, the choice to accept mercy, compassion, loyalty, holiness, and devotion, even in a world today where consolation, touch, emotion, and vulnerability have been tragically abused. He gave us all the choice-making freedom we could handle from the very first day. And he did it for a love of a people he created, even those that would reject Him or “just” break his laws.

He did not grandstand Adam and Eve on the day of their sin, with his almighty power, to make them feel scorned and shameful, nor did he damn them. He asked them one simple question, which he already knew the answer to, and which implied accountability as much as truth. “How did you know you were naked?” The consequence of their choice to eat the apple was immediate awareness of their bodies and subsequently to hide themselves and to explain to God why they were hiding. God was teaching them this accountability, which any parent might recognize as the root of the lesson, but he did it with love.

Their self-consciousness was not to be the only consequence of a seemingly harmless act, but also their removal from Eden and engagement with suffering and the suffering for the rest of humanity. Suffering became the price we would pay for our disobedience, not just one time but repeatedly over time, not just individual but also communally, and not just for Adam and Eve's mistake but also for our own.

However, it was not without recompense. We would eventually learn that it was not the punishment of a wrathful entity, but part of the plan of a loving god—the way it had to be so that humans could come to appreciate Our Father for his love and forgiveness. (How much more do we appreciate good days because we have bad days?) God himself promised aid and protection all throughout the history of the bible as long as we remained devoted to him, but in our freedom to choose—free will—humanity chose repeatedly to concern themselves with themselves, rather than God, and so therefore were defeated or chastised or ignored by God.

With the suffering and resurrection of Jesus, a new order of love, life, suffering and forgiveness came into effect and we could put our suffering to different use. Even if Adam and Eve, the tree, and the serpent are all just primeval analogies for the way man began and simply give us a general base of morale, there is still a more powerful being than us who taught the first lesson in responsible decision-making and that consequence always follows choice. In the plan he designed, the plan he created with love out of love because He is Love, he gave us choice because, in love, it was to be all the sweeter when the subjects he loved chose to love him back.

By far, the worst day in the history of the world.

I just had one of THE worst days of work on record. EVER! Well, almost ever. It pretty much ties in there with tipping a rock truck fully loaded across the main dam, anyway. I think I want to die. Pretty close, anyway. Or at least disappear. Into a small, dark, secluded hole where no one can find me. Among making monumentally regressive mistakes at work these past two weeks and getting called out on having my head up my ass (and being insulted about it, to boot), I practically destroyed the second computer, phone, a tray of rolled cutlery, and place mats as I lost control of an entire tray of drinks. And not just the small drink trays—but a PILE of filled glasses on the large food trays! ALL over. Bam. Like that. Massive tide of beverages cascaded down in a crashing deluge of liquid, ne’er to be saved.

I was the opening supervisor, madly dashing around a nearly full restaurant, alone, while a team of badminton players sat down at three booths in a row. I was doing pretty well considering the circumstances. Everything timed right, plates coming out of the kitchen on time. I was borderline panicked, but I was covering guests adequately, and reminding myself to breathe. I made the fateful decision to get the team’s drinks in one trip. I was right there. It made sense. Save your steps, I heard myself say. Hey, this is some inspired idea! Let’s get a BIG tray, put all the glasses on it, and make one big saving trip. If only I’d listened to that little cry from far within, “no! Don’t do it!” If only I’d heeded the sense to trade a little added inconvenience for the nonsense of putting fifteen filled glasses on a tray that I would be carrying with one hand... if only I had just thought a little further ahead...

But it was not to be. Down they all went, all the cups, all the juice, chocolate milk, water, iced tea, and pop. Down, down, down. Soaking the entire tray of cutlery, splashing the computer, dowsing the phone, leaking and dripping down the sides of things, ruining an entire stack of placemats, oozing onto cable cords, down the sides of the fridge, behind the fridge, under the fridge. A scream of sheer terror curdled deep within me that I could not release. And as my little spinning world came to an irreversible stop, I pulled myself up and tipped my head up just enough to see customers standing at the till...

As the pace of the morning compelled me to move forward, a deeper part of me went somewhere else. I shook nervously, I lurched into Cope Mode, I resolutely went through the motions of being a waitress out of sheer will, and became quietly manic while I tried in vain to clean up the mess and continue with service around me.

Then my boss came in.

And found the phone and the computer in the state they were in. Back in the kitchen he was looking at me funny, picking at his pants, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny in a wry kind of way, but I told him what happened. He said he knew. And then with this changed look in his eye, I knew something more was ever so seriously wrong. He asked me what he should do about it. Facetiously. What little recovery I had been able to manage from the incident itself now washed itself away completely and a number stood wretchedly between us, so stark and so jagged that it will probably forever more mark a searing scar on whatever working professionalism I ever worked for the achieve in this place. Twelve hundred dollars. That’s not a paycheck dock. That is a serious offense. A federal crime.

And now I am left wondering what to do. I finished the day with nary a word or glance between either of us and did my day cash-out quietly, trying desperately to slip out unnoticed. I just want to die. I still, as of this entry, have not processed all of angles of this. The fact of the matter is, both of my bosses are far more different than me and I could not, in all of a thousand or million years, begin to understand how this is going to unfold from here on out. I am just really, really sorry.

But you know what? It's okay. It really is.

Not to the point that what whoever it was in whatever realm did what he/she/it/they did.

But to the point that it's done. Over with. And that that person can move along, move forward, and take the lesson part of it to heart, evolve the spirit, resolve to avoid doing it again, and feel better knowing (remembering) that a future point in time is the fading of the mistake. You don't have to have people like you, it's okay. Or if it wasn't that, it doesn't have to be everlasting regret/pain/sorrow. Just... learn. Learn the lesson. Figure out what it is. Find what it is. Be sad as you need to, but don't dwell. If it's anger that ails you, face what is making you angry. Make resolve with it. Make resolve by admitting what needs to be admitted to yourself or others, by learning how to see what makes you feel unsettled, by looking at the resources around you to help see yourself in a removed light, by experiencing the terrifying turn-around that comes with trying to change and the successful peace that comes after the cycle is completed. Understand that all things growing require some kind of painful metamorphosis--life was designed that way--but find rest and peace that all these things were meant for you to have. All these things were meant for you to find, for you to learn, for you to embrace, for you to grow. Find comfort in the end result. Keep hope as a candle flame to whatever darkness is hurting/plaguing you and remember that it is only God above that gives these things to you, for it is He Who created the mustard seed, which is tiny and deceivingly insignificant, but whose seed bears and produces the most enormous tree. Even the seed of a soul-less tree must break in the ground to grow. How much more must we, humans, intricate, beautiful and complex, break the same way in order to grow?

May peace be with you.

Creepers and peepers and people who like to meddle

You know. I'm really disappointed. I really, really am. You know? You know who you are. Whoever it was who had the time, SPENT the time... trying to... what? Get something? Get somewhere? Do something? By doing... what, exactly? I mean, really. Thank God I can laugh about it now, but really--who are you? WHO? Who would go and waste the time and money on a stamp, spend the energy to concertedly mail a legal-sized envelope without a return address? What kind of person does that? Don't you realize that you won't get credit for looking good when you don't sign your name? I don't get it. It's just so... I don't know the word for it. What an ignobly ballsy thing to do.

Someone somewhere in some... (*hand circle-wave motion)... far off land (within this community, I much assume) found it their calling to print an entry I had written some months ago and mail it to my bosses. Oh yeah. It was mailed in a big brown envelope with no return address and marked "CONFIDENTIAL" on it. The entry, for the record, was one that recounted *shall we say* a 'story' of waitressing and my own monstrous lacking to process more understanding for people's bitchiness. Since realizing I was somewhat of a control freak (*see previous entry,) a MEGA amount of moments and accounts in and of my life have fallen into place and made SO much sense as to why I get SO worked up about things I cannot do anything about. Basically, I realized why I chose to get so impassioned about things (see: 'temperamentally intense-due-to-control issues') that I have absolutely zero control over. I.e. people's thoughts, responses, feelings, reactions, etc.

Anyway, the entry was a little raw, but nothing extreme and with absolutely zero reference to specific names, places, locations, people. Yet, I was approached and asked about it because it showed up in their mail; and the only kind of person to have sent it would have been someone who

a) knew the website (knew how to find it or SUPER coincidentally came across it)
b) knew who I was--enough to know to associate me with my place of work
c) knew where I worked
d) had purpose in sending it or d2) was petty/malicious


It really doesn't matter. Essentially, I've learned 2 very important lessons in all of this, following the lesson in being a control freak. (Probably more, but in the interest of time, I'll keep it down to two.)

1) There is no reason on earth to get that worked up about anything in the service industry. Really. People can be retarded, true, but who of us is exempt from being retarded? And there is certainly nothing that warrants the kind of ventage that was that entry. True. Especially in regards to the very public forum in which it was written and the potential for damage that it was and that it got dragged into my workplace. (Which, is, to whoever you are, SUPER uncool.) So, basic note to self: don't put such extreme anger into an entry, even when trying to be funny.

2) That people are still going to f*** people over even if they've never been mean to them a day in their lives. I try real hard to get along with everyone and NOT because I care if people like me--it is because I enjoy the challenge of getting a smile out of even the most difficult customer. (And why is that?? Because I believe that every single person is a human waiting to be loved and I thrive on the energy that comes from their smiles.) Sure I've spouted my hasty, heated words and I am FAR from perfect (and my mission to make people smile has its limits), but I generally go out of my way (until severely provoked otherwise) to make someone feel good about themselves. But people still aren't going to care.



In the end, it's just the basic principles on the playground being violated and luckily, I don't have time for it, nor do my bosses. I hope that whoever it was that read that blog and printed it out at least has read my other blogs and taken the time to enjoy them because anything less just means their mission was in vain.

Dos and Don'ts

First of all, I like my job.

Second, I came home tonight after a crappy night at the job to an immaculate, sparkling, clean-smelling, freshly polished, completely detailed, tidied, organized, pristinely arranged, and overall LOVELY house. It was like Mrs. Butterworth, Aunt Jemima, and Mr. Clean all came to my house and professionally detailed every nook and cranny. It was amazing. I was absolutely astonished and in love and.. a little bit turned on. I don't think our house has been that clean, that fresh, that polished in, well... I don't want to say...

I mean, it's not as though we don't clean our house. Eww. Gross. It's that the different areas are rarely, if ever, completed simultaneously. One week it's the floors, another week might be dusting, another something else, hell usually laundry, constantly a cycle to tackle the most pressing duty at the time; and then when company comes, we usually do a pressure-cooker jam of cleaning. But we haven't done them all at once probably since before I had my rock-crushing job. Oh God no. Do you think we have time for that?

Anyway, since everyone is away (and I mean everyone,) since no one likes us, since everyone else is in places like Florida (no word of a lie--THREE seperate families we know are there now) and Jamaica (yeah, mon) for Spring Break and our girls are livin' it up on their own down south with the grands, Kyle and I have been living like empty nested retirees with nothing better to do than, well... the things we are doing. (*Hee hee hee.) One of them being plans to clean whilst the girls were away just because we could without them getting underfoot, interupting, making it worse, or complaining.

But I, being the true procrastinator that I am, have been putting it off, but Kyle was the super good guy and did it all. ALL. Man I love that man. I just don't know how to thank him. Well, I can think of a few ways, but those are really not for this forum methinks. I don't know why he did it, I won't question it (even though I do--every woman needs a man like him and not many will get one,) but I am still astonished by the job and amazed by that man. Baby, if you're reading this, you know, after we're done, um, you know, well, I love you.

That being said and having given credit to the man I love being the awesomest husband on earth, I am jumping tracks. I now give you...

The Do's and Don'ts of Eating Out:
The harrowing tales of waitressing

DO NOT...
Flag your waitress down disrespectfully

Act as if your waitress is only waiting on you

Touch your waitress

Bark at your waitress

Roll your eyes at your waitress

Let your kids play with everything in sight (KEEP CONTROL OF YOUR KIDS)

Let your kids scream at the waitress

Let your kids roll their eyes at the waitress

Pretend that you're at home and that Rover will eat what you drop on the floor

Let your kids run loose. AT ALL.

Paint pictures with ketchup, jelly, syrup, or any OTHER kind of substance on your table.

Open your creamers only a little. Tell me, have YOU ever had a cream pop open on you? In your pocket? Down your pants?

Be a slob




MORE DO NOTS...




DO NOT
Treat your waitress as though she is beneathe you.
Treat your waitress as though her only job in life is to serve you
Forget that your waitress is human


DO...
Remember that you are going out to eat, that it is a treat, that eating out means not cooking, and that you are doing this so that someone else can clean up the mess.

Familiarize yourself with restaurant policy by asking questions politely. Especially if you
frequent one or more eateries.

Remember that you are a guest there, not a king/queen

Ask questions about your bill if you need to

Tip your waitress. Don't be a cheapskate. If you can't afford an appropriate tip, then don't go out.

Joke with your waitress

Smile

Remember that a little respect goes a long way and even though you will be tipping her for her service, that does not give you the right to treat her like a dog for your two dollars. If you remember that a little respect goes a long way, you are more likely to get a more pleasant reaction and far better service in the long run. Especially if you are a repeat patron.
---------------------

I wanted to make this funny, but I just couldn't. Nothing sets me on fire faster than degradation. I won't have it and no one--no one--deserves to be treated that way, I don't care what angle, creed, culture, or mood you come from. Not that anyone who reads this would ever treat their waitress poorly (and thusly, the ones who NEED to read these rules will probably never see them), but I really had to get this off my chest.

You know who some of the worst diners are? Don't even think about it. I'll tell you right here and now. The church people. More specifically, the religious ones. I know! I would have never thought it, either. But guess what... they are.

They come rushing in, all but pushing and shoving to make room for the others coming to join them; and it's like these people use their religion as a crutch, an exemption, or an excuse to behave badly or in a way less concerned with Christ himself than to be socially acceptable or even superior in some martyrish, otherwise socially inept way. They're part of a group, any group, and all groups mean strength in numbers, don't they? So they all come in with a like mind and don't have to behave or be aware, even if they're known in some other capacity without this herd, because they are in a group of people associated with some kind of piety.

I really don't mean to judge. I am just surprised to have been 'suddenly' made aware of this. I mean, I always try and see the other sides of it, see their side, their angle, other angles, other sides, let it go on the principle of not being a judge of any kind, but it's like the behavior just kept coming and coming...



The Catholics.

I would normally, sort of, kind of, in this public setting, belong to this group. I go to this church (when I'm not working ON THE SABBATH), I pray the prayers at Mass with these people, I say amen to the same things they do. But this day, just as many others prior, they all flock in to a big table. They do not rearrange the tables, but the leading lady, the dominant prayer task force leader, prayer initiator extraordinaire to be reckoned with, beckons and assigns all fellow parishoners to the table she has chosen.

I do not wait on this table. It is not in my section. But I bring them their food as a favor to another server. I have barely sat the last plate down when DomiPraytrix demands they all say grace, like a mother to forgetful children. Every other woman at the table is older than her, but they all set down their forks, stop what they are doing, and bow their heads.

I am stuck. I don't have to stay there, but I feel it too awkward to leave as they all know me and I figure maybe it would be okay to stand there in prayer with them. I am not normally this testimonious. I prefer to keep my faith quiet. But I stay. They say "amen", I say "amen", I smile nervously and huff a laugh, hoping for a smile or two for having joined them, but get nothing, and walk away feeling somehow cheapened by it all. Whether it was me or any other waitress, could they have NOT waited until said waitress left to start saying their prayer?



The Lutherans
(or so I'm assuming from the corresponding pastor to have joined them later)

They move tables, but they don't just connect them end-to-end, as the most appropriate way to be disrespectful goes. They join them perpendicularly, so as to form an "L" shape, seating a wheelchaired woman in the crook of the "L" and threatening to block the aisle with chairs from the other side. I make this discovery in near-sheer horror coming off my 15 minute break.

I hate going on breaks on Sunday because of this very thing. I leave and hell always breaks lose, though it doesn't break lose because I'm gone. It's just on-going hell loosening. This is just the usual hell loosening when the swells of people come, orders continue to be sent back to the kitchen, cooks' tempers flaring, customers barking, the remaining patient and kind customers being the only ones who truly deserve our attention.

I take stock of The "L". I cannot get out of taking this table. The other girls laugh in hearty understanding and also in "ha, ha, this one's yours." I take a breath. It's the last time I remember to breathe for a while. I approach the "L", I stand at the corner, I look everyone in the eyes, assess the drinks situation, brace my notepad, lift my pen.

The mother orders for her three children, the grandmother orders for herself, and the three other adults left take their sweetass time ordering with menus open. I offer to give them more time, but the mother orders for herself. The grandmother can't hear what the sides are for her meal. I am using all my diaphragm to project my voice. The noise is boisterous and unrestrained. The kids blurt out things and are generally rude. We all get through the order, I punch it in, bring more drinks (becase you know, one just isn't enough for each of the three kids) and actually get past The "L" to pour coffee and make a round of it.

The pastor joins. I recognize her from the Lutheran church. She is a little odd, but most pastors are, so I think nothing of it. She is joined by a man of about the same age and same oddity. THEY pull table #3 up to The "L" and extend the leg of the "L".

I am stunned. WHO would do this? Who would allow it? Who.... would ever think this was okay? I am an instant blowfish of anger, but no one sees and so I continue because no one cares about this rudeness. I make them scoot the table over less than six inches because they are starting to block traffic and I am on an anger/power trip. I am hoping someone comes over and tells me they can't do that.

Nothing.

My puffer deflates. Mainly because I have no choice. I regain my humanity. I take the newcomers' orders. But not without some getting some snide comment about the hollandaise sauce that I just, quite frankly, don't get.

I walk away feeling like their odd behavior was meant to be smoothly humourous. But it's not. It's weird. It's stupid. It doesn't even make sense. Especially when it took them sooooo long to close their menus. It is particularly disconcerting for a gal like me who usually gets the odd little reasons people do a million odd things. I also walk away wondering what in the hell just happened and why people who become men and women of the cloth somehow become licensed to keep behaving in their poorly developed social skills, as though they are superior in their retarded differences.

It does not help that I was hungover.

I bring out the food. I've made a critical error. The grandma, who'd I'd been fighting to understand amongst the crowd, wanted fish. Not chicken. I promise to fix it, go to the kitchen for the second time in twenty minutes, and apologize profusely to the cooks, but my fuse is short and my explanation turns into incoherent rambling. My eye is twitching, non-existent bobbi pins are popping loose, steam rolls out of my ears. My boss (one of them, his wife is my other boss), the main chef, comes swooping in out of nowhere, swoops my plate out of my hand, and assures me he will fix it. I am momentarily rescued. I go back out and explain apologetically to the grandmother that her fish will be ready soon. She smiles. I almost miss it.

They don't leave a tip.


Other-denominational


Two pastors walk into a bar...

Okay, they really walk into the restaurant with another patron and sit down in K's section. K wants to trade me tables. She knows a set of customers who had just sat down in my section. I oblige. I don't mind. I find out later that one of them is allegedly the one who sticks the gum under the tables and she doesn't want to deal with them. I have only dealt with the one once or twice and been put off by his classless ignorance, but the gum-sticker is not only the other pastor, but my child's friend's dad!

I think about this every time I go around with coffee or bring them food, but I forget to check the table after they leave; and the other pastor comments on the dirtiness of my shirt with humourless blatancy and, in my opinion, absolute gall. Especially considering it wasn't all that dirty, had been clean that morning, and didn't even compare to the one I'd worn the day before, which had two days' stain on the boob. To which I respond by pausing the coffee pour, looking at him in the eyes with fire in my own, and say to him,

"How dare you!"

They don't tip, either.

Grrrrrrrrrr!!!

I mean it!

What IS it with people who feeled compelled to justify themselves or exhault themselves by commenting against another's opinion? There are contrasting opinions, surely, that urge further development of a topic and perhaps encourage interesting discussion; and then there are just juxtaposed assertions that people make to contradict what you JUST said.

Does this make them feel better? What is the angle of thought that brings them to those conclusions?

Speaker 1: Is that the one you're talking about?

Speaker 2: Yeah.

Speaker 1: (knowing full well of speaker 2's blatant feelings on the matter) I've never had a problem with her

Speaker 2: *silence*

Okay, so then it's just a matter of opinions, but there was a whole dialogue of facial expression and body language to lightly pepper the whole verbal exchange with other-meaning-ness. The order of comments would be redone as follows:

Speaker 1, eyebrows raised, curious but focused eyes, face rigid: Is that the one you're talking about?

Speaker 2, leaning in, head tilted slightly: Yeah.

Speaker 1: with former knowledge of speaker 2's blatant feelings on the matter, corners of mouth back, as in half smile or bitter taste, speaks through teeth: I've never had a problem with her. Recovers with smile.

Speaker 2: *silence*

What is really going on is that I am biting my tongue. To keep from saying exactly what, I'm not sure, but I feel so instantly terrible. I am bitten, defensive, and then puffed up just as fast, like a blowfish of post-indignation and fuming incredulousness. I mean WHO says these things? Why? I figure the answer is people who are looking to make themselves feel good and cover their own arses for the things they've said or done before. I suppose so. Reading back over those words even now, they seem unconvincing on virtual paper.

It's like an underlying jab, You cant handle HER? This reaction by a person I barely know making me feel though I am this underdeveloped thing--it tends to suggest who the real contestant for growth should be, even though every last moment and every last trial of my entire adult life has gone into refining and readjusting my perceptions so that I am very much a world-is-my-oyster kind of person.

I would maybe just chaulk this up to how I read things. I've been known in the past to read too far into things (this being a general theme for the way I've emoted throughout my life), but this really takes on a new theme. I have been very aware of my ability to stretch the meaning of a look, facial expression, posture, so I've kept them in check, but I need perspective.

To all cooks, you have my endearing heart

From the first of the morning,
To the last off the grill,
You set out the food,
ne'er to chill.

The peppers and onions,
the panfries and gravy,
and all of the food stuff
so scrumptious and savory.

You make this all happen
with a flick of the wrist,
with a pinch of green onions,
and, well, you get the gist.

From chicken sans bones
To special du jour,
Your plates come out steaming,
Your saucer's couture.

From pasta al dente
to denvers with cheese,
we only see part of
what the cook sees.

You re-do our orders,
you fix our mistakes,
you give us the job,
you do what it takes.

We know you are special,
a little whacky, too,
but it's because of your breed
and how you make do.

We take off our hats
and tip them to you
because you're our cooks
and in our own ways, we love you, too!

Tonight I was taking care of the dining room while my co-closing partner-in-crime waitress-friend, K, was covering my back with all the side chores when "SHE" comes in.

I barely notice her, I'm around and around with the coffee, getting drinks, taking orders, punching them in, covering everyone. She comes in with someone I assume to be her boyfriend. I've seen them together before. She is pregnant. Not that that matters. Except I could never roundhouse her grouchy ass if my life depended on it.

Take one: I stop at the table, ask for drinks. The snotface boyfriend straightens up and orders a chicken burger. I have my hands full. I say okay. I smile. I am still trying to commit other requests to memory and think if I could just get over to the till, set these down...

"Just plain. But with pickles."

Say what? Back up, dishes, cloth and coffee pot. "What's that?" What I mean: "what the fuck do you want NOW, you whiny, bitter, unhappy little prick?"

At that instant, I am in danger of forgetting table 6's request. Pie. Platter. No. Ice cream? No, cheese, but... gotta put these down. Just give me two seconds, please. I'll be right back.

No dice. He's not reading the dish-laden pleading in my eyes OR hands, probably because it's overlaced with sheer albeit momentary hate. In fact, he's not even looking her eyes. They look scowled and disconnected. Was he bitterly caught up in this pregnancy? Did she have him by the cranky, snotty, sour-faced balls? Has every moment in their lives been one trapped moment to another?

I don't hate anyone. I also don't care. They deserve each other for all I can tell. A match made in the respites of hell.

I say, "so you just want chicken and pickles?" This is not the strangest request I've heard. And I say in a way that means "just the chicken burger and pickles. No lettuce, tomato, or mayo."

"No. I just want---" blah, blah, blah, his voice fades. I get short.

Me: "Let me set these down 'cause otherwise I'll forget." I say this with my own trickling snotiness. I call it attitude. I walk away.

I've waited on this unhappy miserable couple before. She is usually the only female among two or more males accompanying her. Who really knows why, but I'm just sayin'... Maybe she is the cool, one-of-the-guys girls, but she is just too snotty to be cool. And they all seem as snotty as she is. So when I figure THAT just can't be, I figure the obvious opposite. I mean, she IS pregnant.

Yes, that wild snickering you hear is me.

I was warned about her the first time I waited on her. She didn't seem that bad. I've worked with worse. My mission in life is to take what seems impossible and work it over to a possibility. I walk away from the experience unscathed. I say this so you can know how much worse it gets...

I don't have time to think about how to better deal with this table. I have six other tables on the go and the coffee crowd is trickling in. They are my first stop every round I make. They'll survive. Put in all the orders, drop off my dishes, regain my brain, go around with the coffee again. I am ready, I brace myself to confirm Thorn In Ass-Man's order.

Take two: "Okay," smile, "you wanted a chicken burger with pickles?

TIAM: "Myeah-s."

Me: "Okay." Half-smile. Nod. Around I go again. Everyone is happy. It is somewhere around nine. Anyone coming in to order food is chatting and content, even the picky coffee-crowd food orders are happy.

Or at least I try to go around.

"And could I get a glass of water?" She Devil blurts out.

Hmm? Again, back up, pause, double check.

Me: "Water? Sure." Around I go. Note to self: GET WATER BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE!

I go around, put the chicken burger into the system, check on everyone, get to the back. I forget the water. Chicken burger comes out, I coffee the other male to have joined the table. I still don't bring water. Let me side note by saying this is NOT the kind of woman who is appreciative of good service in the best of moments. And this was a lesser moment for me.

I begin to make another pass of coffee, water not even on the brain, go by Miserable Bitch's and TIAM's table. As I go by, she barks at me.

"Could I GET my water?" I systematically feel bad for forgetting, then it passes. She is snippy and sneery and I feel like slapping little hoochies like this across the face at the best of times. There's no reason for that kind of attitude. Didn't your mama teach you? No? Okay, I'll do it, I'll slap your face, I'll knock you clean off your ass, b****!

I think about spitting in her water, horking a loogie in it. I go back to the kitchen to hide for a moment.

Let me back up and say that it is important to note that I have an instant temper in this very exact kind of situation. Actually, that is an understatement. I actually feel muscles in my body recoil and patience snapping like a bow string, and everything goes into some kind of Joker-like senselessness in my brain. I'm not going to go apeshit or fly into a murerous rage. It DOES make me want to start backhanding assholes. Just backhand them so hard they feel knuckle, head bobbling backward, lips hitting their teeth, their reactions stunned, maybe a little trickle of blood because obviously their mamas didn't teach them how to be good little boys and girls.

I grunt. K laughs because she knows what I am going through. I go back and get two waters. I'm thinking about which cup is hers, not wanting to fill one, not wanting to bring it to her, not WANTING... her to get her way. Her snotty, snotty way. I fill it anyway. I don't spit in it. I don't even stick my dirty, bleachy, greasy finger in it.

I bring it to her table and slam it down. I do not go by their table again. They leave and they don't tip. All I can think of is...

"Don't F*** with the people who serve you your food!" (Don't watch past the kitchen scene if you gag easy.)

Disclaimer: This does not, nor will this apply to anyone else, any other customer, anyone else I have ever waited on or will wait on. This is just for my sick, sick amusement.

New Job, coffee row

So I had to laugh today. Well I've had to laugh several days in a row. I started a new job last week waitressing at a local family restaurant.

I`ve never waitressed before.

Nothing has stood out so far in marked absurdities and I feel pretty confident in how I`ve adjusted to the new line of work (I love working with people, I`m a hard worker, and I learn fast), but so many characters have come through and I have undoubtedly been graced with a selection that could very well be labeled the "tip of the iceberg." I.e. mild.

But they`re just so funny. Some of them. And so many gums flapping! Not a surprise, just funny. Just when you think you`ve gotten it all in your head that news flies fast, your boss relays a new one over a batch of silverware and napkins that she`s rolling the silverware in. And then laughs herself because she was told on firm authority, this *authority* actually being an invested hopeful on the other side of the spectrum, and we just laugh together. Hard. For real. Are they for real?

* * *

I am still needing to be pinched. One part `cause it`s going so well. Two parts `cause there is still an element of limbo going on but I get along with all these people like we`ve known each other all along. I guess I`m waiting for the ball to drop. Either my own or someone else`s and they`ll lose it. I love this tip thing. But now comes the change and challenge of not blowing that cold, hard cash that you can put in your fists at the end of the day. The adjustment is weird. Just weird.